#roof tie into existing porch

[blublucaps]

Traditional Porch - Porch Small elegant screened-in back porch photo with a roof extension

[doze-mag]

Covered - Deck An illustration of a sizable, traditional backyard deck with an addition to the roof

[answer2jeff]

from velcro to bunny ears — carmen berzatto.

warnings : mentions of emotional neglect ?? distant relationship from siblings. not an x reader.

a/n: i wrote this in 20 minutes please excuse me if there are any typos..

I have a feeling Carmen always had trouble with the milestones other kids his aged reached.

Mental math, riding a bike—it all came to him much slower than he was ever comfortably able to admit. Kind, but not smart. Polite, but not friendly. Creative, but not handsome. Imaginative, but not funny.

He's been this way for as long as he can remember, occasional dabbles in art and his passion for culinary being the only part of himself he could be sure would be seen as the best of the best, even if he didn't truly believe he was quite at the epitome of perfection.

Shoelaces.

Fuck, were those the bane of his existence at just 7 years old. Stupid Velcro that made a tearing sound that was similar to a bloodcurdling scream.

He'd been wearing shoes with Velcro strips, or short laces that purposefully looked tucked and didn't require tying, since he could walk.

Jesus. Carmen never even learned how to tie them. Asking anyone, even his mother, was simply too much to ask. Instead, he would insist that Velcro shoes were okay, and he wasn't too old for them.

Until Uncle Jimmy came to visit during the summer of 1998.

Mikey, barely 16, was out with friends for the weekend, possibly getting drunk on beaches and rolling joints on the roofs of parking garages. And 11 year old Natalie was celebrating her classmate, Ashley's, 12th birthday. Rollerblade hockey was the new craze. Why wait for mucky fishponds and vast lakes to solidify and freeze over in the dead of winter when you could just go across the street and bust your ass on the concrete instead?

It wasn't necessarily Carmen's idea. Cicero, being the overbearing babysitter he'd become due to Donna's negligence, couldn't handle seeing his poor little nephew cooped up in the tiny upstairs bedroom riddled with hand drawn artworks plastered on his walls. It wasn't right. Summer was for bruises and scabs that would be forgotten about with the booming sound of fireworks and taste of sugary popsicles dripping down your arms.

"Why don't you go hang out with the kids across the street, Bear?" Cicero asked him. Carmen picked his little head up from his sketch book and looked out the view of his window.

He only shrugged.

"They're playin' rollerblade hockey. Your brother Mikey fuckin' loved that, y'know? When he was your age, I mean. Give it a shot, eh? Might be nice kids."

The Raymondville's. Carmen didn't know much about that family. He didn't know they were nice, or played rollerblade hockey like his older, therefore much cooler, big brother. All he knew was that they were also older, therefore much cooler than him too.

That's all that mattered anyway. But he had this tendency to follow in his brothers footsteps. With Jimmy's rare visits and Donna's unpredictable and equally scarce moments of wanting to be an actual tender and caring mother, Mikey was the closest thing to a reliable adult he ever had. Natalie was too busy spending every moment she could out of the house until she'd come crawling back to Mom, who would only scold her for ever wanting to leave in the first place, to notice how perfectly Carmen blended into the wallpaper.

A happy house.

Rollerblade hockey sounds fine.

After a dig through the attic and rummaging through a box of old sports equipment—low and behold lied the skates. Black and turquoise. Mikey's favorite colors. The 4 wheelers were a little intimidating, but Carmen faintly remembered spending a week with Aunt Lisa and learning how to at least stroll down the sidewalk of his cousins neighborhood.

"Go on," Cicero gave a gentle push to Carmen's small and trembling shoulders, leaning back on the front porch to carefully watch his nephew try and be an active member of society from a distance. His little blonde curls blew in the evening wind, the humidity from earlier in the day still weighing them down. His hands shook vigorously which were tightly gripping a pair of Mikey's old rollerskates.

A jumble of "hi's, my name is," and "can i play's," fell out of his quiet mouth. They were met with nods from the 5 boys, easily ages 9-12, the oldest being 13. But this was only after shared glances and shrugs of discomfort were shown. The Raymondville's had never seen this fragile little kid in their lives: short and skinny. But they knew the Berzatto's. They knew cool Mikey and pretty Natalie—but not average Carmen. A breath of relief washed over Carmy, and he sat down on the fluffy and bright green grass to remove his white lace-less sneakers and shoved his feet into the slightly too big skates.

The straps snapped down easily. But those damned laces, thick and white with little black stitching, taunted him. He swallowed.

Carmen simply tucked them in, his stomach queasy at the feeling of the plastic aglet's poking his feet.

He stumbled a bit, but he secured himself as he remembered to bend his knees just a bit. It wasn't all too different from skating on the ice in mid-January. Except now it was mid-June, and every wheel could easily catch itself in the bumps and cracks of the old streets of the neighborhood that hadn't been patched in years. But alas, the laces came loose, and one had caught right in the metal bolt of the wheel and zipped right around it, knocking little Carmy off his feet and onto his bum.

Tears immediately pricked at his waterlogged eyes when he looked around just to see everyone had already started the 5th game of the day without him.

Uncle Jimmy simply sighed and beckoned his hand toward himself, shaking his head in pity rather than surprise. Carmen's shoulders shook with silent sobs as he held his skates in one skinny arm and his sneakers in the other. He couldn't even wipe the snot that pooled from his nose or the consistent tears that streamed down his cheeks and soaked his t-shirt.

"Jesus," Cicero swore under his breath, leaning forward "Nobody ever teach you how to tie your shoes, Carm?" he raised a brow, carefully taking his nephews Velcro shoes and setting them down on the porch beside him. At 7 years old, with a one sibling being 12 and the other being nearly 16, one would expect he could tie his own shoes. He couldn't tell which question was greater: how he hadn't learned through observation, or why he never just asked?

"N—no," Carmen hiccuped, wiping his eyes and taking a seat down beside his uncle. He carefully watched as Cicero went through step by step instructions of the 'bunny ear' method. The little boy was mesmerized by the simplicity of the loop Cicero wrapped around his thumb, pulling it into a tight and secure bow in such quick timing. He never forgot after that day.

Sometimes he still mumbles "wrap around the coop, push through the loop," as he ties the laces of his white Nike Cortez sneakers before going on his 3rd soul searching and ultimate sensory seeking 15 minute walk of the week.

"Bunny ears," Uncle Jimmy said to Carmy.

And 'bunny ears' he did.

tags : @lemmejustpulloutmylightsaber @sexyyounglatinoboy @febris-amatoria

[montdigital1]

How to connect a porch roof to house

How to Connect a Porch Roof to House

A well-designed porch roof can enhance your home’s architectural style while enhancing the value of your property. But attaching a porch roof to your house isn’t always straightforward.

Depending on the type of porch roof, you can choose to connect it to your house by using either a roof tie-in or sidewall connection. Here are the steps you need to take to ensure a strong, safe connection.

Preparing the House Wall

A porch roof not only adds comfort to outdoor living but also protects shoes, furniture, and other items from sun, rain, snow, or wind. It is a great addition to your home and should be well-designed and properly installed for safety and aesthetic appeal.

This process requires a thorough understanding of architectural principles, construction techniques, and regulatory building codes. To make sure that your project is completed safely and according to code, you should hire a professional.

The first step in the process is to prepare the house wall for the connection to the porch roof. This includes marking the locations of the attachment points on the house wall and ensuring that they are aligned with the studs. It is also a good idea to install blocking, which helps provide additional support for the ledger board.

Next, you should measure and cut the ledger board to the desired length. Once you have the right length, you should pre-drill holes for the lag bolts or structural screws. It is important to make sure that the holes are accurate, as any mistakes in this step can cause serious problems later on.

Installing the Ledger Board

After carefully preparing the work area, measuring and marking the attachment points on the house wall, it's time to install the ledger board. The ledger is the horizontal piece that connects to the porch roof, and it's crucial to the strength of your roof structure. Locate a position for the ledger and ensure that it's securely fastened to the house wall with lag screws or structural lag bolts. Be sure to consult local building codes and regulations, or ask a professional for specific guidelines.

Once the ledger is positioned, mark the locations where you will drive the lag screws or bolts through the house wall. Use a level to double-check that the marks are straight and aligned with the positioning of the ledger board.

Next, install the joist hangers that will secure the rafters to the ledger. The number and location of joist hangers will be determined by the design and load requirements of your porch roof. If necessary, install blocking to ensure that the joist hangers are secure. Finally, apply a waterproof sealant to the exterior of the house where the ledger is located.

Installing the Support Beam

A porch roof adds a distinctive architectural style to a home. It also protects the inhabitants from the sun's scorching heat, snow, rain, and strong winds gusts. It is important to build a durable roof that meets the structural demands of the existing house.

The first step in connecting a porch roof to the house is installing the ledger board. This is a wooden board that connects the porch to the house frame. It should be made from a sturdy and weather-resistant material, such as pressure-treated lumber. The board should be securely fastened to the studs of the house wall with lag bolts or structural screws.

After the ledger board is installed, it's time to install the support beam. The support beam should run perpendicular to the ledger board and provide additional stability to the porch roof. To ensure that the support beam is secured correctly, it's best to use joist hangers. Make sure that the joist hangers are set properly, so that they don't interfere with the positioning of the rafters. If necessary, you can add extra support to the structure by constructing diagonal braces.

Installing the Rafters

The rafters are the wooden elements that slope down from the ridge or hip of the roof. They are nailed to the support beam in an alternating pattern. Depending on the design and load requirements of your porch roof, you may need to tie it into an existing house roof. This process is called roof tie-in, and it involves seamlessly integrating new roofing materials with the existing ones.

When constructing your rafters, make sure they are of the right size. You should use a rafter template to ensure they are properly cut. If necessary, you can also install collar ties or ridge beams to add extra strength and stability to your roof structure.

Once the rafters are installed, you can proceed to apply the sheathing. Nail sheets of 1/2 inch plywood or OSB as sheathing to the rafters and check their alignment for a sturdy construction. A drip edge and roofing paper are then installed over the sheathing. Finally, asphalt shingles or another roofing material of your choice is attached to the roof. A fascia board can also be installed on the rafter tails to enclose them and serve as a base for gutters.

Installing the Sill Plate

Adding a porch roofs to your home is a rewarding project that adds value and function to the living space. However, it is important to follow proper construction techniques and materials that prioritize safety and load-bearing capacity. To avoid costly mistakes, it is best to consult a professional or have a contractor help with the process.

The first step is to prepare the house wall by removing any siding, shingles or flashing where the roof will attach. Then, measure and mark the attachment points on the wall. Finally, install the ledger board by fastening it to the wall studs using lag bolts or structural screws.

Once the ledger board is attached, you can begin installing the rafters. When laying out the rafters, it is best to use a roofing design that matches the existing roof of your house for consistency and aesthetics. To make the process go smoother, it is also a good idea to have a set of quality tools and to check that all your materials are in order before starting the job.

Read more - How to connect a porch roof to house

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Northern Exposure | Something in the Air

❄ Part 1 of the mini-series ❄

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape (series); violence, creepiness on part of our boys, predatory behaviour, Bucky’s an asshole, they’re all too lonely and too desperate, mistaken identity.

This is dark! fic and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Pairings: Sam Wilson x Reader, Steve Rogers x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader, A Bad Time x Reader

Series Synopsis: You’re a nature photographer stationed up north but the arctic isolation comes to an unexpected and unpleasant end.

Note: I started this ages ago and finally got the energy to finish, it’s four parts and provided my life doesn’t continue to fuck around I should have em all up in the next days. Also as always, cracking away at all the other fics I’ve hooked you into.

Thanks to everyone for their patience and feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

The days were short and the nights long. So far north, time seemed not to exist as you chased the fleeting sun with your lens. Your existence was only demarcated by the fortnightly delivery of supplies left at your door as you were often out pursuing an elusive snow fox or wakeful owl. The world seemed small up here and you felt like the only person left alive.

Perched up on a branch precariously, you teetered as you focused your camera at its end. It was the perfect composition, snow blurred in the background as you focus on the scratching along the bark, the remnants of some owl or smaller critter. An abstract in your series, certainly, but interesting nonetheless. Besides, your editor would be happy enough with the close up you’d captured of a reindeer, its antlers the focal point of the shot.

Content, you climbed down, barely keeping yourself from slipping entirely down the trunk to a crash landing. Back on the ground, your boots sank into the snow, halfway up your calf, and you capped the lens of your camera. You tucked it under your parka and glanced around at the sparse grey trees.

Your eyes flew up as you heard a snap in branches not far from those you stood beneath. You held your breath and listened. It might be another opportunity. The early flight of an owl. You followed the sound, your steps muffled by the snowy carpet below. But that natural silence of the arctic returned and you ended up searching for air. Not a noise.

You sighed and turned back to look at the horizon. It was growing dark and you were best to return to your little cabin before long. It would be a moonless night and without the silver guardian above, it would make a nocturnal trek even harder. As you took a step, it seemed to echo and you stopped again. Your ears perked up and you shifted your hat to hear a bit better. 

There was nothing. You frowned and turned. Only the snow and the trees against the greying sky. You shrugged off your unusual paranoia and carried on. You took the treacherous path back to your remote habitat. It was just you and your cameras; you and the north. An assignment you’d loathed at first but come to cherish. Isolation had a keen way of introducing one’s self to them.

You stepped up onto the small porch, the aluminum roofing and the tarnished and dented siding made it seem like little more than a lost shed. There was a single room inside, a small bed with a woven blanket, a wooden counter with an old basin and a stove top run on gas. The out house was further back, hard to find in a storm, but as long as you counted your steps, you rarely got lost.

You pushed through and turned the wooden latch that held the door shut. You untied your boots on the salt-stained rubber mat and left them there as you hung your damp, cold parka and shed your thick snow pants. You took off your hat and gloves and left them on the small shelf beneath the hook.

You took out a can of chili and dumped it in the small scratched pan. You lit the burner and sat on the single chair built of logs as you waited for it to warm. The wind swept up outside the shuttered windows and you shivered. You went to the small woodstove and twisted the iron handle of the door. You carefully built a fire as the smell of your dinner filled the cabin.

You left the door of the stove open to heat up the place and turned off the burner. You moved the pot onto the counter and took a bowl from the cupboard. A distant clatter sounded from outside. You frowned and kept yourself from grabbing the pot. You sighed as the noise repeated.

Several times before the wind had torn open the outhouse door and slammed it back and forth throughout the night. One time, it had been a curious bear. You hoped for the former as you shoved your feet into your boots and haphazardly pulled on your jacket. In and out. You’d secure the door and be back for your dinner before it got cold.

Outside, the sky had almost darkened entirely. You clicked on the flashlight you kept by the door and shut it behind you. You stomped down into the snow and squinted at the circle of light as you rounded the edge of the house. You neared the outhouse and sighed as you found it locked up tight. It couldn’t have been your imagination; you’d heard something.

You huffed and turned back. You swept the flashlight back and forth as you searched for a creature sneaking around or whatever item the wind had tried to carry away. There was nothing. You followed your footprints back to the house and climbed up the steps. 

The door was open and you noticed the much larger puddled footprint on the porch too late. The fire had been snuffed and the single lantern was dead. Your wrist was grabbed as you tried to angle the flashlight around the room and you were drawn inside and pinned against the door. 

A cold barrel pressed to your chin and your eyes widened. Your arm was twisted up until the flashlight blinded you and lit the unfamiliar face before you. You blinked and shook your head helplessly.

“Quite the hiding spot,” The deep voice added to the icy nip of the air.

“What--”

“Don’t try to act dumb. It might’ve worked with Wilson but not me.” He snarled and you released the flashlight as you tried to wriggle free. “Stop!”

The light fell to the floor and bounced as he wrenched your arm up and pushed the gun harder under your chin.

“I have orders to take you alive… if I can,” he sneered, “doesn’t mean I will.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you grunted as he had you on tip toes against the wall, the flash light rolled on the floor and sent shadows around the room, “I’m not… I’m not whoever you think I am.”

“Save it, Ursa,” he hissed and pulled you away from the wall, gun still taut to your skin, “0r should I say Astur.”

“No, no, it’s not me,” you pleaded, confused as he turned you away from him and angled you towards the bed, the muzzle now pressed to the back of your head. “I’m just a photographer. You’ll see. Look through my stuff. It’s just cameras and photos. It’s--”

“Shut up,” he pushed on the back of your knees with his, “on your stomach.”

You got down, barely able to see and unwilling to resist with a bullet waiting behind you. He pushed you into the mattress until you were still. He pulled back the gun and planted his knee on your back as he held you down. He holstered his firearm then pulled your arm back behind you and then the other. He used a zip tie to secure your hands there before he did the same to your ankles.

He carefully stepped back and you turned your head to watch his shadow. He didn’t bother with the flashlight as he closed the door. Then he turned and kicked the light so it cracked and the bulb died. He sat in the chair, it groaned dangerously under him.

You could see little of him as all light was gone but for the sudden glow of a screen before him. You only saw the glint of his blue eyes before he put it against his cheek. You turned onto your side and he growled.

“Don’t even think of moving,” he warned. “Hey,” he spoke into the speaker. “I just sent the coordinates. Target secured.” He listened, “by morning?”

He pulled the phone away and dimmed the screen. You could only hear the wind as he sat there and you sensed his unwavering gaze in the dark. With your jacket undone and your boots untied, you felt the draft that blew through the cabin walls. You shivered and he let out a thick breath. A snarl almost.

“I really don’t know what’s going on,” you said.

“Shut up,” he snapped.

“I mean it. You have to look. Look around, you’ll see,” you pleaded.

He snorted and didn’t move. You rolled your eyes helplessly and another chill ran through you.

“Please--”

“I already looked. When you were out climbing trees,” he intoned. “I saw the photos. Very thorough reconnaissance.”

“What? Pictures of birds and snowflakes?” You uttered. 

“You’re good. That whole innocent ploy is convincing,” you heard his boot drag over the wooden floor, “almost.”

You deflated, your wrists chafed and your teeth chattered.

“You gonna wait all night… for whoever that was?”

“I’m tired of telling you to shut up.”

“You leave me like this, I’ll freeze to death. You too.”

“I won’t,” he said, “you might.”

“You said you had orders.”

“Circumstantial,” he countered.

You exhaled deeply and bent your legs as you tried to curl into yourself. He tutted and stood, the floor creaked. The stove door whined and you heard the iron poker against the kindling. He mumbled as he relit the fire and stirred it until the biggest log caught. He rose and set aside the poker and resumed his seat. 

The fire’s amber haze limned his figure in the dark. His broad shoulders were wider than the back of the chair, his long hair poked out from beneath a wool cap, and his hand formed a tight fist on the arm. He leaned his head back and sniffed.

“There,” he said sharply, “nice and cozy.”

You wiggled on the bed, trying to get comfortable. You pulled on your wrists and ankles and only caused your hands and feet to throb. You grunted and relented, resigning yourself to lay listless atop the thin mattress.

“You’re wasting your time--”

“I’m about to shove your sock in your mouth so I suggest you shut the fuck up,” he barked.

You gulped and closed your eyes in surrender. Well, maybe his friends would realise his mistake. Or maybe they’d just add to your predicament.

❄

You didn’t really sleep, you languished. The man didn’t either. You could tell. He just watched. Frighteningly patient as the night critters made a ruckus outside. He barely even moved as you fidgeted, your shoulders sore and your legs cramping. 

Then there was a sudden change that even you felt. A heavy pair of boots climbed up onto the porch and the handle jiggled, the door stopped by the wooden latch. The man rose and crossed to the door. You heard the subtle brush of fabric and metal as he pulled out his gun. He pulled open the door slowly, at the ready, the slightly lesser dark seeping in.

“Sooner than I thought,” the man greeted his comrade. Your heart froze as another set of footfalls followed. A third man entered behind the second.

“Jesus, why are you sitting here in the dark?” The third man asked, “there a light or something?”

“She’s on the bed.” The first man grumbled. “Only a rifle hidden under there. I already disarmed it.”

The sudden electric glow of the lantern bloomed to life. Your eyes slowly adjusted as you stared at the three men. There were all big, all broad-shouldered, all stood like soldiers as they communed around the only chair. The third, the one who’d clicked the lantern on, neared you.

“She’s putting on a front, but--” the first man began and the third one raised his hand to silence him as he knelt by the bed.

He had a kind face, his brown eyes were warm, and the finely trimmed goatee lent him a sense of lightheartedness. His expression however was hard and turned to confusion then disappointment as he held the lantern close and grabbed your chin, turning your head back and forth.

“Not her,” he released you and stood, “fucking Christ, Bucky. It’s not fucking her.”

The second man snorted, “really?”

“It’s gotta be--” the first insisted, “the gun--”

“For hunting,” you said dully, “not that I do much of that. I use it to scare away the wolves.”

“Shut up.” He snarled and crossed his arms as he turned his back to you, “you’re sure?”

“I wouldn’t forget the woman who nearly slit my throat. Twice.” The other said, “and really? A single rifle? You think that’s all she’d have?”

“She has photos too. The bunker, due north. She’s got dozens.” The first insisted.

“Bunker?” You whispered.

“I’m not going to tell you to shut it again,” the man turned as he raised a hand and the blond, the one who hadn’t said much at all, caught his wrist.

“Hey,” the other man warned, “she’s innocent. She probably has no idea what she was taking pictures of.”

“Yeah, but now she knows our faces. No doubt recognizes you, pretty boy,”tThe third offered, “and idiot here assaulted her and tied her up.”

“All the way up here? Who’s she gonna tell?” The blonde returned.

“She has a radio,” The first, Bucky offered. “It’d be enough to give us away.”

“They’d believe her? If she’s been up here long, they might not.” The blonde glanced over the others shoulder, “you apologize and we can--”

“You really wanna leave another loose end?” Bucky challenged as he blocked his gaze. 

“You should’ve confirmed before you jumped,” the third huffed.

“If we’re not gonna leave her, what do we do?” The blonde asked.

They all went silent. They looked at each other and then you. Bucky raised his gun, still in hand, and the blond caught him again. He shook his head and tisked.

“Are you crazy?” He pushed his hand down, “We’re not killing her. She didn’t do anything.”

“I agree, she shouldn't die because you’re stupid,” the other chuckled.

“Well, Einstein,” Bucky snipped, “what do you suggest?”

The third man’s brows raised slowly and he tilted his head. He glanced at you again then back to his comrades. He shrugged and a grin spread across his face.

“The bunker. It’s empty. Safe.” He said quietly, “How much of a fight did she put up?”

“Enough of one,” Bucky muttered.

“She’s… not bad. She’s all alone up here. Even if someone noticed she went radio silent, it’d have to take a while,” he explained.

“What are you saying?” The blonde frowned.

“If she has the photos, if she knows where the bunker is and this moron’s blurted out some intel, I just know it,” he continued, “we can’t let her go. He’s at least right about that. So… we don’t wanna kill her, we keep her.”

“Keep her? For what?” Bucky scoffed.

The man was silent and winked at them. The blonde peeked over at you and Bucky dropped his head as he gripped his hip. 

“Come on, you guys,” he threw up his hand as the blonde shifted on his feet. “It’s fucking cold up here and it’s been awful lonely everywhere else. We’re running around with no finish line in sight and… well, I’m about to stab one of you and I’ve seen the way you,” he pointed at Bucky, “look at me. I don’t trust that.”

“You can’t mean--” the blonde muttered.

“She’s better off dead,” Bucky insisted.

“Just because you’re a monk, doesn’t mean the rest of us need to be.”

“Hmm,” the blonde tapped his toe.

“You’re not really considering this?” Bucky sneered.

“Well… why not?” He rasped, “She’s… alone and… not too bad on the eyes.”

“And I have ears!” You sat up awkwardly, “You want me to keep my mouth shut. Done. I’m up here trying to catch a few birds on a roll. I’m not here to get mixed up in whatever it is you three--” You blinked as the lantern shone in the blond’s face as the three men turned to you, “shit.”

Captain America’s eyes sparked with recognition as your head did the same. He knew you knew who he was; likely he saw that look every other day. There was no hiding it.

“I told you,” the third man chided, “that mug is hard to forget.”

“No, no, I don’t-- I won’t tell a soul. I swear. Please just whatever you’re thinking, don’t. I’m some dumb photographer they sent up here to document the snow. You really think anyone cares that much--”

“Not so much about you but those photos are pretty interesting,” Bucky neared and shoved you down and you barely kept from hitting your head on the wall, “don’t tell me you didn’t know what you were doing.”

“People go missing up here all the time. That’s why no one’s here,” the brown-eyed man said, “she’ll just be another and we’ll have a nice companion to keep us from killing each other.”

“No,” Bucky turned, “it’s my mistake. I’ll take care of it.”

“Put the gun away, Buck,” Steve Rogers ordered, “it’s not right. We can’t kill her. Even if she isn’t entirely innocent, even if you’re right about those photos. She’s better to us alive.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going along with this--”

“I’m the captain,” Steve insisted. “I’ve made up my mind and I’m giving you an order. Sam’s right. She’s more use alive. If she has information, we’ll get it out of her. And if she doesn’t well, we can find something else to do with her.”

Bucky swore and pushed his gun into his holster. He stepped away from you and shouldered past the one called Sam.

“Yes, captain,” he said dryly. 

“Sergeant,” Steve retorted and nodded to Sam, “get her up. We should leave before the sun rises.”

[heniareth]

Henlo lovely friend :3 I am nyooming into your askbox with all due speed and urgency regarding the OTP questions for Astala (my BELOVED!!) and Zevran (ALSO MY BELOVED!!). If I may enquire:

3: Do they wear the other's clothes? (Sweatshirt, bandana, necklace, etc.)

4: Which one is more protective? Who needs to be 'protected?'

57: Who's the serious one when grocery shopping and who likes to toss random things in the cart?

60 (if it's not too personal): Who pulls the other closer when they're sleeping?

You take care and enjoy yourself!! No pressure on any of this, just whatever you fancy, whenever you fancy it. Have yourself a gorgeous day!!!

Hello Plant! :D The ask you answered yesterday inspired me to sit down and answer this one apparently, because I wrote the bugger up in one go!! Never happened before XD XD You do magic with those words. Before I get into the questions, a littel prelude:

These questions make me think about a potential modern AU. Astala probably would've dropped out of school as soon as it was legal to do so and started working whatever jobs are available. Maybe cashier? Waitress is still a possibility. She'd definitely have been juggling two jobs plus a few odd bits of work to make ends meet. Then she gets fired one day and lo and behold, Duncan offers her a place with the Grey Wardens. I imagine they'd pay well, which is why Astala would take the job. Zevran is still an assassin for hire, and eschews guns in favor of knives for his assassination attempt. To kill somebody with a knife, you have to get close to them and expose yourself to harm. A gun makes people way too easy to kill. A knife attack can also be written off as a mugging gone wrong or something. The party camp turns into an empty office building where the Grey Wardens had their HQ. The group would transform it into one big apartment. Cubicles are turned into rooms (walls between several cubicles are broken down for more space). There are sofas and rugs and a fully functioning kitchen and bookshelves and plants. Rascal is still a big dog. Shale is... a robot? A person in a very cool exo-skeleton suit for someone a la Iron Man? Oh and magic still exists. After the whole thing with the Blight is over Zev and Astala would have enough money for a tiny but cozy apartment in a quiet part of town, with enough space on the balcony to fill it with plants. Please feel free to picture what scenes are described in the answers as happening in said apartment. Other alternatives are Vigil's Keep, where Astala has a tiny portion (study + room + entrance) to call her own. Or a house in Antiva with white walls and a roof with red shingles with a porch where flowering vines creep up the walls. Also in the modern AU Astala would be finishing school after the Blight and discover that studying for exams is so much better than a night shift or killing darkspawn.

And now, off to the questions!!

3. Do they wear each others' clothes? (Sweatshirt, bandana, necklace, etc.)

Yes they do! Astala does this particularly often, especially when Zevran is away, especially at night. She will wear something of his until it no longer smells like him, and then she'll pick something else. It makes the missing him a bit easier, but at the same time a bit worse because something of his is there but not he himself. She gives it back once Zevran returns, however. Most of it, anyways. One or two shirts might get lost among her things. How curious indeed XD Zevran I think would also wear things of Astala's, but it'd be because it's become a somewhat accidental habit. Maybe there's a scarf she has lent him so often it's as good as his (he did happily accept it every time she offered it of course). Or a bandana that Astala used once to tie his hair back and he finds it a year later in the pockets of the trousers he was wearing. And by that point Astala would insist he just keep it, since he's evidently using it more than she is

4. Which one is more protective? Who needs to be 'protected?'

Well now. This is quite the question 👀👀👀 They are both quite protective of each other, Astala in a more physical "I'll literally stand between you and harm" way and Zevran in a "stand aside and observe and be ready to strike if necessary" way. So during the Blight, they both do their fair share of protecting. Then of course Astala gets injured in the fight with the archdemon and just can't hold her own as well as she used to. Their roles are now inversed: Zevran is the more physical one because he can be, while Astala has to keep away from danger and can intervene only from a distance. But intervene she does, and she makes up for her lack of movement and her vulnerability with a quick and cold ruthlessness. If there's somebody an attacker could convince to stop and talk it out, it's Zevran now.

As far as being protected goes... Astala only catches glimpses of it, but Zevran works very hard behind the scenes to help her navigate Fereldan politics and later also the Antivan merchant guilds (I am playing around with the idea to have Astala give up Amaranthine and to settle close to Antiva as a merchant, at least for a time. She'd try to create a market for artisans from the Fereldan alienages in Antiva and the reverse in Ferelden, and I think she'd do pretty well). He'd suss out business practices, potential customers, do networking, all of that. And Astala would shield him from his own demons. It's hard to live with yourself when you've let yourself down so often. Astala would remind him when he's being too harsh with himself, pull him back when he's starting to slip into old patterns and habits, just be something solid around which to reorient himself and remember that he's not the kind if man who'd kill his love for the Crows anymore. So yeah. They have each others' backs pretty consistently

57: Who's the serious one when grocery shopping and who likes to toss random thing in the cart?

At the beginning of their relationship there's a very notable difference. Except when she's in a serious need for something to lift her mood, Astala will think every purchase apart from the bare necessities over thrice. Very expensive things she doesn't even look at, because they're firmly in the category of not in her budget. Zevran is much quicker at buying and wanting things if he has the coin for it, tomorrow be damned. He's mostly succesful at pulling Astala along, unless it is a veritably silly thing like a gigantic nug pillow or an outright luxury item (like the expensive kinds of jewelry or some rare foodstuff from Seheron or whathaveyou). In those cases Mistress Woolsey is a surprisingly adept negotiation partner. She will show Astala the numbers and will assure her that she can afford it and once doesn't hurt, it's an investment rather than a frivolous purchase and, if the arlessa will allow it, she will point out that the jewelry Astala already has just doesn't cut it for an occasion like the 5th anniversary of the slaying of the archdemon. I imagine Zevran learns budgeting skills rather quickly, while Astala takes a bit longer to shake off the compulsion to hoard money for emergencies. But she relaxes with age, and in their senior years they can often be seen snooping around the market for interesting knickknacks and curiosities, maybe some new food to try or something small for each other. Sometimes Zevran will play the part of the frugal husband to tease her. It's worth stopping and watching these two bicker like the old married couple they are

60. Who pulls the other closer when they're sleeping?

(Not personal, don't worry ^^ I'm okay talking about fluff, smut is where it can get a bit too personal for my liking. Depends on the question and if there's ever a particular item in an ask game i'm not comfortable talking about I'll write it in the tags when I reblog said ask game)

Zevran, I imagine. Zevran seems to be the kind of guy to briefly wake up, drape one arm around Astala, cuddle up and fall back asleep. Or he straight-up doesn't wake up and reaches for her on instinct. I already told you, but physicality is important for Zevran. I imagine pulling Astala in is an unconcious reminder that she is there. I also imagine he'd crave closeness the most when he's just come back after a time of being apart, and would thus pull her in more frequently. It helps that Astala sleeps like a log: she doesn't move much and somebody pulling her in doesn't wake her up. In fact, her sleep is too deep to pull someone closer, which is an action that requires a lot of steps done right. If she seeks out Zevran, it will be via rolling over the bed until she bumps into him, and where she bumps into him she settles. Sometimes it makes for a terribly sore neck in the morning, sometimes it even wakes Zevran up (who I headcanon to have a very light sleep due to his experience as an assassin). The only time she'll actively pull him in is when he's being restless, either because of a nightmare or because he just can't sleep. Quick movements by her side is something that will reliably wake Astala up enough to do that. And it bears mentioning that both of them are very given to sleeping close to one another (although they do change from glued to one another to wothin comfortable arm's reach over the years) except during an Antivan summer. Nobody could endure any kind of body heat during an Antivan summer

---

And that's that! I hope you enjoyed the answers and the glimpses of them both as much as I enjoyed writing them XD They are so very close to my heart. Thanks for indulging me and I hope you have the most gorgeous of days yourself!!

[bittywitches]

Gone in the Night - Pt. 1

| Schedule + Event Info | Masterlist |

Summary: Y/N and the twins are looking for a fun Halloween adventure, but it seems they’ve gotten more than they bargained for.

Warnings: Explicit Language

Word Count: 3k

A/N: It’s finally here! Hope you guys enjoy this spooky treat <3

Tags -  @brockdolan @livelaughlolobelle @grxysgxrl​ @guiltydols​

•   •   •

The house itself should have been enough of a warning.

It was an old building, the only one in the neighbourhood that hadn’t been torn down to be reconstructed into bigger houses with much less yard space. It’s grey and blackened wooden walls looked brittle. It seemed unreasonable that the house hadn’t toppled over in the late evening breeze, but it stood firm. Even so, it was uninhabitable still, as the skirting around the sides had been torn off. The front porch, however, looked like it had been torn up and out of the ground as if it were a vegetable a farmer had carelessly plucked out of his garden. The wooden support legs from the front could be seen halfway up, pulled through the earth. In Y/N’s mind it seemed only plausible for something like a tornado, maybe an earthquake to have caused that kind of damage, though she knew that wasn’t possible. While California had many earthquakes year round, usually none were great enough to cause too much damage. Plus, she had a deep feeling that this had nothing to do with unpredictable weather. That feeling made her want to puke.

The railing of the porch stood up at an awkward angle, some of the poles snapped and broken, other’s splintered. The backside, the part connected to the house and leading to the door, had sunken into the dirt, so the entire surface was tilted. Looking at it from the front, seeing the empty dark space below the base with the support beams sticking out of the ground, Y/N couldn’t help but feel like the weird positioning of the porch disturbingly resembled a mouth. She found herself leaning to the side, looking past the beams and the staircase into the empty abyss below the porch, as if waiting for something to appear. It seemed childish looking back on it later, but she was half-expecting a pair of glowing yellow eyes to materialize. But she shook her head, scolding herself, because the only thing she’d probably find under there would be a family of raccoons.

The more she stared at the house however, the more things she found that eerily resembled a face. The dirty and tinted windows at the top with their broken shutters and cracked glass felt like a pair of old eyes, watching as people passed by. There was a dormer that was conveniently placed almost directly center of those windows further down, looking like a crooked nose. She could barely see the top of the roof, but noticed missing shingles, underneath them being ashy gray squares, as if bald spots on this menacing figure. And of course, the deep and dark mouth of the porch with it’s rusty wooden teeth did nothing but send shivers up her spine.

Her sickly feeling only intensified when she realized how starkly this reminded her of 29 Neibolt street. This house, however, did not have a number; she could faintly see the markings of a number near the front door, but the metal plates had either been teared off too long ago for the contrast of the wood to show, or the degeneration of the house over time had simply just taken its effect. Either way, Y/N surely was not eager to look back under the porch now; for if she were to be faced with a sickly leper, she’d most definitely shit her pants.

“So, what’ll it be?”

Y/N and her two friends stood on the front lawn of the lean dwelling, the grass beneath them dry and crunching beneath their feet with each step they had taken. It was funny; she wasn’t really sure how they’d even ended up here in the first place. She remembered them deciding to go buy pumpkins… Grayson was eager not to put off decorating any longer. They’d piled into the car, but… had they bought the pumpkins?

“I don’t know man, these are a bit pricey.” Y/N finally looked away from the house at the sound of Ethan’s voice, only for her attention to be caught by the eager man flaunting the tickets in their face.

That’s right, tickets. This was an event of sorts. A haunted house? Something like that, she thought he had said.

“Why, but it’s a buy one get two free special, you won’t find anything else out there,” he spoke, more directly to Y/N than the twins behind her. Of course, they’d been walking down the street- but why again? Was this near the patch they were going to? Whatever the case, the man had seen them passing by, stopped them with his vivacious attitude and grand voice, barking about the great deal on these tickets.

Y/N looked at the man. He wasn’t a pleasant sight to see. His sunken and hollow eyes seemed almost skeletal, his pale skin an ashy color against the darkening sky. He was tall, unsettlingly tall for a man who looked ancient. He was around 6’1, bordering 6’2, which only freaked Y/N out even more considering he loomed over the twins, the two of whom she’d always thought herself to be quite large. The man’s lanky body parts seemed disproportionate to his narrow frame, his bony arms dangling awkwardly from his sides, his hands seeming too big for them. The wrinkled fingers of his left hand gripped firmly onto the tickets, though they did not crinkle or bend under his touch. They alone seemed to be the one thing in front of her that were crisp, clean, perfect. Almost too perfect, and it hit her in a bad way, almost as much as the outfit the old man had on.

His outfit was one you’d see a vintage carnival worker wearing, one who sat inside a ticket booth at the front of a circus, for example. He wore a stiff white dress shirt, blindingly white compared to his stale fingernails and his yellowing, stained, and chipped teeth that showed with every creepy, crooked grin. The shirt was much too large for him, however, the cuffs of the sleeves coming down to his thumbs. But it didn’t feel like it was too big; no, it felt like the man had shriveled up in his clothes, withered down into the frail man he was within the cotton. He had a crisp suit vest on top, with white and red stripes running down vertically. It too seemed weird, awkward, almost like a protective guard more than a piece of clothing. A bright red bow tie was tied at the base of his neck, matching the color of his shoes, but much of them were covered by his overly large white pants. The same pattern of colours were seen on his top hat. It had a short and flat top with a narrow brim, a pattern of red and white lines going around it.

Now, all of this Y/N could get by with. So the man was a little strange, and he was a bit eager to get rid of the tickets in his hand. What was the big deal?

But there was just something about his face that irked her. The details of his wrinkles, the spots on his forehead, the random tufts of hair from his ears and his nose, the dangling ear lobes and the non-existent eyebrows. His sunken in eyes, almost swallowed by his skin, the bags of them highlighting the yellowing whites even more. His terrible cackle, his horrifying grin. All of these things, but something deeper, some other visceral gut reaction within her told her that something was off. She just couldn’t place it.

“What do you say, my lady?” The old man garbled one more time, raising an eyebrow and giving her a toothy grin, only making her shudder once more. The man raised a frail arm towards the house, gesturing towards the door.

“A haunting experience awaits.”

Y/N’s eyes followed his arm and his gaze, settling on the tall black door resting shut. It gave her a similar vibe to the void under the porch, like something was lurking just past that thin piece of wood. It was an ebony black, a stark contrast to the greying planks of the house.  You’d expect the paint to be chipping, but it looked like a fresh coat. It actually seemed to be the one thing from the house that hadn’t been touched by age, other than…

The staircase.

God, why hadn’t she noticed the stair case?

While the porch had been ripped well out of the ground, the staircase leading up to it, the one she had leaned to look around into the darkness under there, was perfectly intact. The wood was still perfectly symmetrical, no splinters, no cracks. It had a different hue compared to the rest of the wood, it didn’t look aged, weathered, or beaten up like the rest of the house did. But how did she not notice it? She swore she looked at it when they first passed by… she’d seen a squirrel scurry across it. It hadn’t looked this new then, did it? No, it seemed blended into the rest of the house, but now… It was distinguishable. It had a presence.

It was still connected to the porch, but somehow still firmly grounded into the earth. This seemed impossible to Y/N, if it was still connected, shouldn’t it also be ripped out of the ground? Wouldn’t there be cracks in the wood from the pressure?

Apparently not. All Y/N could think was that the staircase felt like a long, winding creature. A snake or a serpent grasping onto both ends of this creepy house and the world in front of it, growing and shrinking along with it’s changes to keep it anchored to reality. To provide a pathway to what lies within.

But then again, it could just be her imagination. She had been watching a lot of scary movies recently.

She turned to look behind her at the broad twins, them in their sweaters and sweatpants, Ethan with his hands stuffed into his pockets and Grayson with his hoisted on his hips.

“Sounds like it’ll be fun.” Grayson piped in, a small smile appearing on his face. Y/N’s eyes fluttered over to Ethan’s, and he gave an encouraging nod as well.

She sighed. It was the Halloween season. What better time to get spooked? “Alright. Why not?” She replied and took two wrinkled twenty-dollar bills from the wallet she had stuffed into her back pocket, and handed it to the man, who let out a screechy giggle when he plucked it from her fingers. He placed the three white tickets into Y/N’s hand, leering at her almost maliciously all the while, making her shrivel back.

“A wonderful decision, you won’t regret it.” The man almost carelessly stuffed the money into his back pocket, then clapped his dry hands together.

“Alright folks, “ He threw his arm up in an over the top gesture, His voice seeming to magnify in volume as he did so. “Step through the Stygian door to discover what awaits. Remember-” His other hand came up to suddenly grip Y/N’s arm, his cold palm making her gasp. He drew her close to him, his crooked nose inches from hers when he gave her another foul grin.

“Time is precious.”

He released her, and she stumbled back into the two boys behind her, their arms coming up to keep her balance.

The man stepped back from them, spreading his arms out in a demonstrative gesture as he did.

“Good luck,” he cackled, stopping when his foot met the pavement of the road. He tipped his hat at them and bowed, looking up one last time so they could meet his old eyes. “And have fun escaping.”  

A sudden screech came from behind the group, causing Y/N to jump once more, and the three whipped their heads towards the house. A murder of crows squawked and cawed as they flew from the roof of the house, somehow still clear in the darkening sky. There were so many, it seemed like they were spilling out from inside the house.

Y/N let out a nervous chuckle. “Alright, you sure put a lot of effort into your effects-” she turned around.

But the man was gone.

Another shiver went down her spine. She decided to push that feeling of unease away, however, sure that it was just an act the man was putting up for extra effect.

“That guy gave me the creeps,” Ethan mumbled, and Y/N chuckled at him half-heartedly before clearing  her throat.

“Alright, come on.” She and the twins made their way towards the house.

Y/N hesitated before stepping onto the stairs, cautious of the darkness so close to her now, even more aware of the strangeness of the porch’s architecture.

But she shook her head. She wasn’t going to let a bundle of nerves stop her from having a fun Halloween experience.

She and the boys walked up the steps, the three of them irked that they didn’t hear the expected moans of the floor-boards.

Y/N took a deep breath. She grabbed the black door knob, twisted it, pushed it open, then stepped over the gap caused by the sunken porch, and into the house.

“What in the Hocus Pocus is this?” Ethan asked, getting a laugh out of her and releasing the tension in her tight shoulders.

Inside, they were greeted with a furnished living room, though it still didn’t look like anyone had lived here in decades. The paint was chipping, wallpaper was peeling, the room just felt musty and old. The walls and ceiling were a yellowy colour, with stains covering many spots. A deep maroon carpet at their feet covered the dark brown planks of the floor, and extended into the center of the room, leading to the old rustic looking couches and coffee table arranged in the middle.  A fireplace was placed at the left wall, soot covering the insides and surrounding area, much like the dust covering almost every other surface. A mounted deer rested high above the fireplace, feeling like a sort of gatekeeper for the room they had just entered. It’s dark beady eyes shouldn’t have bothered Y/N as much as they did.

“This is literally some rich dead old white guy’s house.” Grayson finished his brother’s thought, walking into the room, which was dank and dark, the window at the back of the room not helping at all since it had grown late.

“So your guys’ house in fifty years or so.” She followed him, Ethan at her heels behind her.

Ethan scoffed. “Shut up.” He walked past one of the couches, dragging his finger across the leather material only to recoil when he saw how much dust he’d picked up.

“Okay, so where do we start?” Grayson asked, squatting down beside the coffee table. “We’re probably looking for something escape-roomy. A key? A button? Switch?” He ducked his head under it, probably to see if there was anything on the underside.

“I guess so.” She walked past him towards the fireplace, the cobblestone border and burnt up kindling seeming to call at her.

Ethan headed over to a cabinet against the back wall, with some ornate frames settled atop it. Grayson, after finding nothing, got up and walked over to the opposite side of the room, stopping in front of an oak door. He tried the handle, but it was locked. He turned back towards Y/N, and nodded towards the door. “I’m assuming we’re trying to figure out how to get this thing open. To actually start this whole thing up.”

“It’s locked?” Ethan asked.

Grayson rolled his eyes. “No, I just pretended it was for shits and giggles. Yea, dick-for-brains, it’s locked.”

“Damn okay jeez,” He muttered, turning back to the cabinet. “Don’t know what’s got you all worked up.”

Grayson breathed out. “Sorry. Think I’m just a little on edge. Didn’t think I’d be this spooked already.” He turned back to the door, jiggling the handle again before letting his hand fall.

“Yea, that guy was weird…” Y/N crouched down beside the fireplace, leaning her head in to get a better look.

“He looked a million years old.” Grayson added, his voice sounding distant behind her.

“Haha, yea-” Y/N turned her head to the side to look up through the chimney, thinking there may be something hidden up there, only for her eyes to meet two beady red ones.

“Holy SHIT!” She yelled, and screamed when a pair of fluttering leather wings shot down through the chimney and into her face, making her fall on her front into the charcoal and soot of the fireplace.

“Fuck it’s a BAT!” Ethan yelled, flinching away from the spazzing creature.

“GET IT OFF!!” Y/N screeched, pushing herself up and swatting her arms around her. Grayson ran forward to try and help, but the creature swooped down and stuck it’s tiny claws into Y/N’s back pocket, grabbing the three white tickets. Before Grayson could reach it, it flew up into the air, then darted to the other side of the room.

“Are you okay??” Ethan asked, rushing towards Y/N.

“No! That was a fucking BAT-” but she and the boys were interrupted by a loud rattling sound. They turned their heads to see the oak door shaking, almost vibrating, when it finally slammed open with an enormous whooshing sound, a sudden burst of air and wind shooting through the doorway causing the door to slam against the wall, chips of the crumbling paint falling to the floor along with a cloud of dust forming when it did so. The tiny bat, somehow hovering right in front of the door, seemingly unaffected by the currents coming through, flew through the door into the darkness of the other room, still clutching the three tickets in its claws, blending into the sea of black.

The three friends blinked. Slowly, Y/N got up, doing her best to dust herself off before turning to the two brothers, the shocked expressions on their faces still apparent.

“Well,” She pressed her lips together. “I guess it’s begun.”

[thesafepesticide]

What is the difference between WASP and YELLOW JACKET? What is the difference between WASP and YELLOW JACKET? Yellow jackets are actually the common name of a particular type of wasp. Wasps from the Vespula and Dolichovespula genera are called yellow jackets in the US. Yellowjacket species are smaller than other wasps but more aggressive. They're more likely to sting than other wasps, but their stings hurt less. If yellow jackets are a kind of wasp, then why do they have a different name? Why have you heard different things about both types of wasp? Well, despite being part of the same family, wasps and yellow jackets have several important differences. Here’s what is the difference between WASP and YELLOW JACKET to make them far apart.

Difference between WASP and YELLOW JACKET:

Wasps are considered any insects in the Hymenoptera order that aren’t considered bees or ants. Whereas bees feed on flower nectar, wasps are predators that feed on other insects. At a glance, wasps and yellow jackets look and behave very similarly. Only experts could tell the species apart at a glance. To really understand the difference yellow jacket vs wasp, you have to understand what each of them are:

Wasps

The most common wasps in Michigan are the common paper wasp (Polistes fuscatus) and European paper wasp (Polistes dominulus). Wasps are inch-long, black flying insects with bright yellow markings along with their bodies. Common and European paper wasps belong to the Polistinae subfamily of wasps. Polistinae wasps are eusocial, meaning they live together in colonies. Colonies usually consist of 20 to 75 adult wasps inhabiting a single 3 to 10-inch nest. The term "paper" wasps refer to the paper-like appearance of Polistinae  wasp's colony nests. The yellow wasp builds nests by chewing wood into a paper-like pulp and then molding it. Paper wasps tend to stick their nests to existing structures such as roofing overhangs or tree branches. Colonies become most active in the late summer and early fall, which is their mating season. Paper wasps are not very aggressive, but they will defend their nest from perceived threats.

Yellow jackets

The most common yellow jackets in Michigan are the German yellow jacket (Vespula germanica), Baldfaced hornet (Dolichovespula macalata), and Eastern yellow jacket (Vespula maculifrons). Yes, the Baldfaced hornet is a yellow jacket, not a hornet (we know it isn't obvious). They're slightly smaller than paper wasps and usually measure around ½ to ¾ inches. They look very similar to wasps, with black bodies and yellow or white striped markings. Yellowjackets tend to look slightly more stocky than wasps. Like paper wasps, yellow jackets are eusocial and build their nests out of the reconstituted wood pulp. Yellowjacket colonies and nests tend to be much larger than paper wasp colonies, however. Some colonies could contain up to 15,000 individual yellow jackets. Consequently, their nests are much larger, as well. The predators feed on insects, but they're also attracted to human garbage, especially if it's sugary or protein-rich. Yellowjackets are also more aggressive than their wasp counterparts.

How can I tell them apart?

The easiest way to tell paper wasps and yellow jackets apart is to watch their behavior. Now you can easily do a paper wasp vs yellow jacket. Paper wasps are relatively non-disruptive. They build their small nests onto high structures such as overhangs, roofing, chimneys, or tree branches. Wasps focus on hunting insects, so they'll rarely approach you. If you leave wasps alone, they'll probably leave you alone. You may not even notice there's a wasp's nest near you until late summer or fall. Yellowjackets are far more disruptive. They build their nests closer to the ground in sheltered, dark nooks and crannies. They're also more attracted to garbage and human food than wasps. You'll see them gathering around sugary liquids, meat, or rotting materials. Yellowjackets range further from their nests and defend themselves more aggressively than paper wasps. Yellowjacket colonies are also  larger than paper wasp colonies. If you see a lot of wasps around your home, then those wasps are probably yellow jackets.

How can I keep both away from my home?

Never attempt to remove a wasp or yellow jacket's nest from your property yourself. Colonies may sting you a dangerous (and painful!) number of times if they perceive you as a threat. Wasps and yellow jackets both build their nests in environments where they can easily access food and shelter. If you can keep them from getting food and shelter near you, they'll find it somewhere else. Wasps build nests around nooks and crannies between walls, tree hollows, branches, siding, chimneys, and gutters. Yellowjacket nests build lower, around decks, porches, the undersides of sheds, or even bushes and trees. Seal up gaps and cracks whenever possible. Keep other building sites as exposed as possible. Tie your garbage dumpster and bins closed, and keep the garbage inside in plastic bags. Remove other insect infestations or problems proactively to keep wasps from finding food near you. Keep sharing What is the difference between WASP and YELLOW JACKET? with your friends and family members. Read More: https://thesafepesticide.com/difference-between-wasp-and-yellow-jacket/?feed_id=180&_unique_id=611376e095170

[hillbillied]

(Warning: NSFW, entirely. 18+ smut content. | Ao3 link.)

After the war's end, Andy and Eddie invite their favourite mortarman over for a visit. Eugene agrees to the visit, and some other things.

The ruin of one Eugene Sledge (by pleasure of Andrew Haldane and Edward Jones)

They discuss it at length, the two of them.

Full novel length, chapters upon chapters, with subheadings and notes in the margin. Clauses and subclauses and sub-subclauses are proposed and ratified over the course of many an afternoon. Debates rattle over dinner plates, wild hypotheticals meet very real concerns for thorough consideration. (Which might be deemed a little much for what would probably fold into under five hours of action, including the inevitable water chugging between rounds.)

Their exceptional communication skills and stable relationship certainly allow proceedings to progress without a hitch. They have always discussed their sexual endeavours at length, after all.

Being in the commonly considered ‘sexual deviant’ category of existence means even your most vanilla sex is beyond the comprehendible realms of your white picket fence neighbours. (Not that they have a white picket fence. Theirs is cast iron. And their Boston apartment comfortably on the city lines, not in the suburbs.)

They end up taking no small amount of pride in it. That they can casually discuss exactly what turns them on, slipping further into potential depravity as they open up about themselves. Usually, however, these conversations last all of half an hour before they fall into bed to test their proposed plans. That aside, the process is exactly the same.

Andy says he’d be open to watching Eddie with another man. Or sharing him with another man. Or something to the ‘another man’ effect. Eddie asks him to elaborate.

Ack Ack considers, chews his lip with half-lidded eyes. “Maybe blowing him.” He says.

“Only if ye’ hold m’ hair.” comes the reply on Eddie’s part.

“You want me in control.” Andy deduces.

His aroused smirk makes Hillbilly’s blood boil. What a smart, omniscient cunt. The greatest displeasure? He’s right. That is exactly where his lover wants him.

They chew it over from there. Negotiations last longer than necessary due to constant courtroom breaks, since the prosecution and defence keep getting turned on and needing to take the time to fuck. The most fruitful discussions are never when the topic is spontaneously brought up, but rather at least an hour after, when Eddie’s lit his post-sex cigarette and Andy’s playing with his hair.

Eventually, the green light is given. They’re eating dinner across their humble wooden kitchen table. (Hillbilly’s gravy could drown a dead rat on a plate and it would still taste divine.) They’ve settled on an agreement and want to go ahead with the idea.

“Well,” Eddie says around a mouthful of beef, “Pick your man.”

   This choice is harder than it sounds because it has to be someone they know. They’re an item, sweet and simple. A stranger might get some bright ideas about their place in this scenario. Plus, it’s 1952. Some secrets need to remain under wraps.

Another problem is that the shortlist starts with Burgie.

Eddie’s rubbing his forehead in exasperation, reclining in their frayed armchair. “We attended his weddin’, Andy.” He explains, talking to nothing short of a fool, “Ye’ was with me in the arch a’ sabres.”

That absolute fool is currently pacing across the carpet, tapping his finger against his lips.

“Is it not polite to ask regardless?” Andy muses, pausing in his motions.

He receives an aggravated grunt. Low, drawn-out, and unimpressed.

“Not Burgin, then.” The captain finally acknowledges. The name is mentally crossed from the list, though not before he points an accusing finger his lover’s way, “But you wanted it, too.”

   After a deep, longing pull from his cigarette, Eddie gives the answer they’ve been looking for.

“Sledge.” He says.

The name floats upwards with the smoke. It catches on their small porch roof; one they share with the apartment next door, divided by more iron fencing. He’s sitting on the steps, Andy leaning against the doorframe behind him.

“What about him?” The blond asks. The conversation had previously been about weeding, what to do with all the insects tearing up the captain’s petunias.

Eddie takes another drag.

“He’s our third man.”

   “I know he’s queer,” Andy asks, “Does he know he’s queer?”

‘He’ is Eugene Sledge. The name stuck, dangling over their heads constantly since they’d been stupid enough to mention it. The possibility of their fantasy scenario drifts ever closer.

“By now, yeah.” Eddie says, staring up at their bedroom ceiling. He’s playing with his chest hair, curling it around his finger, “But I bet he ain’t got his dick wet much.”

Lying beside him, Ack Ack smothers his laughter in his lover’s neck. The words ring so horribly true. He reaches up regardless and slaps Hillbilly’s peck. Right on the nipple for that extra sting. The hiss the man emits confirms an acceptable amount of pain, retribution for his mean words. (Honest words but mean nonetheless.)

If they didn’t have sweat cooling on their bodies from a good fuck, the smack would turn Eddie on.

“It’ll be good f’ him.” He suggests instead, not wanting to earn another punishment.

“You think?” Andy replies, propping himself up on his elbows.

“Yeah.” Hillbilly says, “If he’s up fer’ it.”

   Andy writes the letter.

It’s scribbled with barely pent-up excitement and the slightest tremor in his hand. The penmanship is far from pristine, the careful innuendo and wax poetic only legally veiling the message conspired within. The raw arousal motivating the ink is on full display.

He’s absolutely fucking losing it.

Watching from the doorway, Eddie shakes his head. That’s the moment he knows Andrew has been fantasising about this longer than they’ve been discussing it.

He tries to pretend he’s shocked by the realisation.

   “Why Eugene?” Andy asks.

Again, for the fifteenth time. They have, as per, already discussed the reasoning at length. Eddie’s about ready to grab the man by his sweater vest and give him a good hard slap across the cheek.

Instead, he summarises.

“’cause he’s always wanted to fuck you, Andy.” Hillbilly explains, “And I’m about t’ let him.”

   If Eugene’s smart, which he is, he won’t pass up this opportunity.

If Eugene accepts the opportunity, which he does, any nervousness he may have will be proven weaker than his excitement over the proposition.

And if his excitement is that strong, which it definitely feels like, then it’ll be all over his face when he arrives in Boston.

Andy collects him from the train station. Hands in the pockets of his pale slacks and short-sleeved shirt tucked in. He’s wearing a braided belt because it complements the look. He’s gay and he’s about to show this young man a wild time, why not make it special from the start?

He waves at the redhead who steps off the 4 o’clock train from Birmingham. It’s sunny and warm, painting that ginger hair with yellow streaks. It’s very attractive when seen without the sweat and dirt of combat or those ugly helmets crushing it flat.

Not that they haven’t seen each other several times before now. This is the first time, however, that Eugene’s wore his shirt without a tie. Today, the white of his collar is unadorned, handsome beige suit jacket left unbuttoned. Casual, familiar. No formality in sight, which is relieving.

He’s got a green carnation pinned to his lapel.

Andy has to keep his smile from splitting his cheeks. It wouldn’t be polite to wear the satisfaction of victory across the entirety of his features.

   “I should have known you’d be familiar with Wilde’s work.” Andy says, referring to the flower.

He’s driving Eddie’s blue pickup, which they have come to share the use of. Fancy cars are for rich cocksuckers and married couples who don’t have the imagination to use the truck bed. You can’t fuck beneath the stars in an estate.

“It was always my favourite.” Eugene notes. He chews on the bit of his pipe thoughtfully, “Even when I couldn’t place quite why.”

“It’s a fantastic touch.” Ack Ack compliments.

Pleasantly calm, every glance he sends across the cab radiates pride. The young man – just a man, really, but that might teeter on Andy thinking himself ‘old’ and they would be having none of that – has grown so much since ’44.

Eugene’s strong nose and dark eyes will never bleed with unbreakable confidence, for sure. But that’s a favourable trait, it keeps him far from arrogance and the unattractive features that come with it. Yet Sledge is still surer of himself than he used to be. Or perhaps he’s just learnt to hide his self-consciousness. (Really, they’re the same thing.) The only hint of nervousness is the drumming of his nails against the door, resting his elbow out the open window. A touch of trepidation for what’s coming.

Keeping the wheel steady, Andy reaches out and places a hand on his company’s thigh.

Eugene doesn’t flinch as his captain used to expect. (They both distinctly remember how a tipsy and boisterous young lady had ran a hand over Sledge’s ass at Burgin’s wedding. The redhead had jumped high enough to paint the ceiling ginger. And spilt wine all over the poor girl’s dress.)

Good. Better than good.

“I’m glad you could come, Eugene.” With a laugh, Ack Ack quickly clarifies, “It’s always a pleasure to see you, I mean that wholeheartedly.”

Pink colours Sledge’s cheeks, his smile sweet. He’s convinced it’s the truth, should have known that already. That doesn’t make it any less warming to hear.

“I’ll admit I did consider replying in a more-“ He searches for the word across the dashboard, “-reserved nature, so I could visit without fear of gettin’ cold feet.”

The hand on his thigh is reservedly placed nearer his knee. It pats him comfortingly. Andy opens his mouth to speak and assure the young man that his excited scribbles – and the excited scribbled response – are not legally binding. They can enjoy a repeat of prior visitations if desired.

Eugene beats him to the punch.

“But sittin’ here now-”

Those dark brown eyes flutter downwards. Over the steering wheel, that neat braided belt, the front of Andy’s slacks. Sledge’s tongue flashes across his lips, wetting the dry skin. His pipe hovers uselessly, forgotten as his mind drifts elsewhere.

He catches himself enough to speak. His gaze is torn slowly from the fabric over his company’s cock.

“I think I made the right decision.” He mutters. It’s quiet and a little shy, but not unsure.

The fingers on his thigh squeeze happily.

   Eddie opens the door with a grin of true happiness. The sunlight turns his curls that slightest hint of ginger, though it’s nothing on the crop of hair sliding out the passenger side of his truck.

“Eugene Sledge.” He drawls like he can’t believe his eyes, like he isn’t in on the plan. His arms are folded loosely across his chest, “M’ favourite mortarman.”

Jury might be out on that one, prior to this moment. Right now? This is absolutely his favourite mortarman.

“Hillbilly.” Eugene greets with a bashful smile.

There’s a respect lingering there that has already been dropped with Andy. Not that it didn’t take a couple of years’ effort to achieve that, too. They’re steadily working their way to Sledge dropping all pretence from the Marines, the two of them. They are so remarkably close, the title of captain and lieutenant fully thrown to the wind sometime around 1948.

That might prove to be a spanner in the works later. Andy fully planned on bringing those titles back this evening.

For now, though, he focuses on Eugene and Eddie.

“It’s good t’ see you ag’in.” The latter says.

They stand as far apart as the compact space of the porch allows. (Not much, apparently.) They both glance Andy’s way as he shuts the cast iron gate and ascends the steps. He’s carrying Eugene’s suitcase like a gentleman. Now there’s three grown men in a one-and-half-man area of entranceway.

Eddie has to huff out a laugh. He kicks the door open behind him.

“C’mon,” He says, “We’re drawin’ more attention with this tomfoolery than if I’d kissed ye’.”

   It’s a pleasure of an afternoon.

Eugene helps Eddie cook dinner. Andy had insisted on it. A strategic placement of their visitor, if he does say so himself, perfectly aligned so the two can share close quarters. Unpressured by expectations and protected by clothing for the time being. Sledge chops vegetables, unphased as Hillbilly stands behind him, chest against his back to guide his hand.

Their captain sips his tea from the kitchen table. His boys work to cook a meal for him to enjoy, at his instruction, without him lifting a finger. That victory smile returns and this time he can hide it behind his mug.

While he’s certain Eugene will be learning a few things tonight about how to draw submission from a man, there’s no outmanoeuvring a master.

   They eat, they talk. Some of it about the letter’s content and expectations for the evening. Most of it about how Alabama is and Eugene’s new job. About the petunias in the front garden and the pests that are ruining them.

Eventually, they clean their plates away. (Well, two of them do. Andy gets brought more tea.) They retire to the sitting room. It’s small and cosy. Andy takes the armchair, facing the men on the couch so he can actually finish his drink in relative peace.

Eddie sits and reclines against the arm of the sofa, head propped up by his hand. Eugene moves to sit on the other end. His company has different plans.

Hillbilly grunts. A complete and non-verbal ‘no’. Ass halfway to its destination, Sledge is off balance enough that the arm around his waist completely topples him. He’s brought down in the middle of the couch, all but in Eddie’s lap were it not for their closed legs.

They all laugh at the familiar horseplay. It’s short only a ruffle of red hair. (The lieutenant declines that, it’d be too condescending considering he plans on blowing this boy’s mind soon. And blowing him, period.)

“You gonna surprise me like that every time I sit down?” Eugene asks.

“I’m gon’ surprise ye’ a whole lot.” Eddie replies.

Andy hums approvingly into his mug. They both turn his way. It’s a good distraction; the redhead doesn’t notice Hillbilly adjusting their position. Getting comfy with the other man leaning against his chest, his hand coming to rest on Sledge’s hip. A warm hand on warm skin, separated only by thin shirt fabric. His thumb rubs small circles over the ribs he can reach.

“Let that inform tonight’s exploits,” Ack Ack muses, finished with his tea, “Whatever they may be.”

He sets the mug down on the small table to his left, beside the room’s ashtray. Eugene’s raised eyebrow begs him to explain.

Andy obliges. “Eddie can lift me quite easily.” He says, “He could probably break either of us in two. Don’t worry about playing rough.”

Behind his head, Sledge can feel the warmth of Eddie’s grin at the acute description. A strong arm is slung around his shoulder now, no longer content on his hip. The taller man’s hand is running over his chest absentmindedly, brushing his collarbone. Without any conscious effort on his part, Eugene has leant his full weight backward and against the warmth holding him.

“I have every confidence that if he wants you to stop,” Andy continues with a shrug, “He’ll stop you.”

Sledge glances to his right, head turned just enough to glimpse confirmation. At his back, he can see Hillbilly’s smile. His lips brush red hair as he speaks into the young man’s ear.

“He’s right.” is whispered against his skin, “But he’s still bein’ a bastard about it.”

“How am I being a bastard?” Andy laughs.

“Ye’ just are.” Eddie calls across the room.

They all chuckle. If they can’t have a sense of humour about this, there’s no point even attempting the deed. A little comedy won’t kill the mood and can save most faux pas.

During their bit, Eugene’s hand drifts to Hillbilly’s thigh. Testing at first, fingers ghosting over the thick denim of his jeans. Then pressing down, sliding over the fabric close to his knee. It sits there presently, finally building up the confidence to squeeze exploratively.

Those dark brown eyes glance down at his own machinations. Eddie’s hand on his chest slides across his peck, arm around Sledge’s shoulder gripping him tighter.

Andy sits back in his armchair, stretches his back. He’s convinced he can watch this forever. Or however long it takes to play out, at least.

“I want you to know,” Eugene drawls softly, his focus still on rubbing circles on Hillbilly’s thigh, “I’m not the most experienced at this.”

Politely, neither of the other men mention their knowledge of the fact. (Especially not mentioning how the fact may have played into a prior discussion.)

“Experience isn’t particularly important.” Andy says, “Attitude and a little guidance goes a long way.”

His fingers play idly with the handle of the mug at his side. Every pair of eyes are on him, yet he can’t care less. He looks like he can’t care less, cultivates the persona whilst he speaks with absolute authority.

“For example,” Ack Ack explains, “If Eddie were to keep his hands to himself for a moment…”

There’s no ‘if’ present in his tone. The hypothetical is a veiled command, upheld by the man who uttered it with crossed legs and gaze focused nonchalantly on his empty mug.

Eugene feels the rumble in Hillbilly’s chest behind him. That large hand retreats from where it had ventured over his nipple. While still leaning against the tall man, Sledge is no longer held captive in his grasp. (Not that he wanted his hostage situation to end.) Eddie even sits back, arms now slung over the back and arm of the couch, respectively. The heat of his breath disappears from the redhead’s ear.

All without so much as a raise of Andy’s voice.

“Then,” The blond continues, turning to the pair on his own cue, “You can come sit over here, and I can show you exactly what I mean.”

As Eugene stands, he uses the hand on Hillbilly’s thigh for leverage. It’s the last part of him to abandon the couch, sliding his way over to the armchair with all the grace he can muster. His steps are casual, taking their time. An impressive display, complimented by the hands casually slipped into the pockets of his slacks. Like he’s in no rush, can’t care less.

(Behind him, Eddie forces down a knowing smile. There’s no finer flattery than imitation and the young man has always been a fast learner. Copying Captain Haldane, even now, will serve him well.)

Dark eyes meet pale blue for a moment at the armchair crossroads. Andy uncrosses his legs, spreading them wide to he can lean purposefully on his knee. Eugene’s eyes wander back over the front of those beige slacks. The fabric had been just a fraction tense during their car ride. It sits taught in the living room, but it’s not for Sledge to ogle freely.

Andy reaches up and tilts the man’s chin towards his face. Eyes on mine, please.

Eugene’s smile has grown bashful under the gaze of Captain Haldane. He doesn’t reach to touch like he had with Eddie. That stare is intense. It’s too much too soon and Ack Ack can recognise that. Not a problem.

“Unlike our rude associate over there,” Andy teases, bringing some comedy back into the thickness of the air, “I’m going to ask you to sit down.”

“The rudeness was ye’ takin’ that boy off this couch before I was done with him.” Eddie remarks.

He makes no move to leave his position or rectify the offence.

“Can you believe him?” Andy mutters.

The soft-spoken, relaxed-rhetorical disguises the arms he puts around Eugene’s hips. Turning him around without meeting his eyes, acting as he had with the mug. Calm, collected, like it’s nothing of note to him. Manhandling the chuckling redhead to face away, towards Hillbilly. (Out of line with that intense stare, until further notice.)

Pausing his motions, Andy glances up at Eugene. He nods, satisfied.

He then waves his hand across his lap.

“There’s enough space for both of us.” He comments.

Sledge, no doubt picking it up from the bastard tactics continuing across the evening, frowns for a moment. His consideration is definitely not genuine.

“I think there is.” He agrees. Andy beams in response.

Eugene settles down between his legs, the armchair being fairly deep. (It isn’t a lie to say it can fit them both.) Ack Ack adjusts himself with a hum, arms around his company’s waist. Hugging him momentarily to set him just-so.

His forearms withdraw partially but leave his hands to dangle between Eugene’s legs. Noncommittally, tapping the muscles of his inner thighs as if it were the arms of the chair. He’s thinking.

“Mnn, yes.” Andy concludes, “This is much better.”

Orange hues momentarily bring Eddie’s face into sharp relief. His pale eyes are absolutely fixed on the display, flashing in the flame of his lighter. Smoke trails towards the ceiling, unnoticed. His first drag is deep, steeling himself. He scratches his crotch without shame, the denim only failing to tent due to its weight.

The two men in the armchair embrace the staring competition.

“What was I talking about before this?” Andy chuckles against Sledge’s ear.

“Attitude and guidance.” The redhead recalls.

“Right.” It comes out as another laugh.

The captain is enjoying himself and it shows. Far too much for the role he’s playing within their trio, relying on his collected vigour to operate the steering wheel.

“Well, attitude is obviously about a man’s words, his manner, his posture-” Firm hands run up over Eugene’s forearms and onto his shoulders, “Making sure your orders are followed without needing to ever threaten a punishment.”

Those fingers roll the muscles under them, relaxing Sledge’s posture. Who hums instinctively, blush returning as he shamefully enjoys the feeling of his beloved captain massaging him. Doting on him, Ack Ack’s handsome nose gently poking the soft skin behind his ear.

“Not that you should be afraid to mention punishments.” Andy mutters. His eyes trot leisurely over to Eddie before trotting leisurely to Eugene, “Rewards just work better.”

His breathing is perfectly regulated as he moves his lips to Sledge’s cheek. Suspiciously perfect, timed and regimented into slow, deliberate motions of his chest. (Without the heavy cloud of lust on the redhead’s mind, he might have deduced that the captain is reigning himself in purposefully. That his collected aura is but a façade to an equally aroused interior.)

“So,” He whispers, hot and husky against Eugene’s ear, “We could ask Eddie to take all his clothes off and say we’d whoop him if he didn’t, or-”

The sentence is punctuated by a jerk of Andy’s head, turning to face the man on the couch opposite. The motion brings cold air to the skin he’d been breathing on, making Sledge inhale sharply. As if he’d been spanked. He enjoys the sensation.

“Take your clothes off, Jones.” Ack Ack orders.

His tone is grave, terrifyingly level with just enough give to keep it below a threat. A perfect command.

“Can I finish m’ smoke first, Skipper?” Hillbilly asks. He hadn’t waited for an answer, already sitting up from where he’d been reclining and rubbing himself through his jeans. An order is an order, after all.

Andy blinks, raising his eyebrows in consideration. He chews it over but gives no answer. He turns to Eugene instead. The redhead mirrors him, both twisting in their entangled sitting position so they can face each other. Ack Ack waits for his response.

“No.” Sledge says carefully, studying the blond’s features.

Though nowhere close to the dominating tone before, Eddie relents. This isn’t a competitive match. It’s a team game and he definitely wants to continue playing. He crosses the short few paces of the room and leans towards the pair.

The other men watch as he bends before them, head bowing as he stubs his unfinished cigarette into the ashtray beside Andy’s mug. Hillbilly twists the smoke gradually, holding himself in that position, an inch lower than their seated statures.

When he straightens up, he steps back a single pace. Enough that he can move his arms freely without fearing his elbow will whack anyone’s skull as he pulls his t-shirt over his head. He tosses it away dismissively.

Andy can feel Eugene’s chest rise with elation as Eddie’s muscles are brought into the light. Just as Eugene can feel Andy’s erection twitch, against the base of his spine, when the man’s boyfriend undresses for them.

Hillbilly is smart enough to have removed his socks earlier and avoid the difficult chore of tugging them off for an audience. He can smirk freely, letting his heavy belt buckle rattle in the quiet room as he tugs it free. He looks like he’s about to drop it when Andy holds out his hand. His fingers make a come-hither gesture.

Sledge’s chest hitches a second time as the folded leather slaps against Ack Ack’s palm.

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” He says, pulling the belt into Eugene’s lap.

Eddie huffs out the ghost of a laugh. Yet he averts his eyes and scratches the front of his jeans, failing to cover the elation and arousal he takes from Andy’s simple gratitude.

“Praise goes a long way, Eugene.” The captain muses.

His hands are slipped under the man’s arms, using one to draw the belt across the palm of the other. All done in Sledge’s lap, the leather falling free to drag across the front of his slacks. Accidentally, of course.

Eddie pops the buttons of his jeans one by one. Eugene fights to draw his eyes away, finally turning to Andy. Whether brewing with confidence or just overwhelmed with lust, it doesn’t matter; he presses his face to Ack Ack’s cheek.

“It’s hard to order an officer around-” He hisses. His breathing is the opposite of Andy’s, uncomposed and erratic as he speaks, “-as an enlisted man.”

Andy sniggers quietly, nodding his agreement. The hand unclaimed by the belt retreats, fishing around in his pocket for a brief moment. It returns to Eugene’s lap in time with the fall of Hillbilly’s jeans. The tall man steps free and kicks them aside.

The removal of his underwear is paused only by his wide grin, shake of his head, and hands landing on his hips.

“Ye’ are a bastard.” He concludes, watching Andy clip a silver bar pin to the collar of Sledge’s shirt.

Two bars joined together, in fact. The insignia of a captain.

“Congratulations, Captain Sledge.” Ack Ack says, “You outrank our friend here.”

All three of them laugh, giggles that rattle their chests and set the final ghosts of tension adrift. You have to have a sense of humour in these scenarios.

“You’re very prepared.” Eugene notes. He’s smiling as he says it.

It’s an accusation rather than a compliment. The blond has to suffer a moment of all eyes on him and not in a submissive sense; in a pointed, silent judgement sense. He’s been planning this longer and more in depth than he’d admitted, even to Eddie.

Not one to let his authority slip, Andy lets his chuckle fade.

Both his hands move in unison, a precise pincer movement on the room. His right reaches down between Eugene’s legs, grabbing a handful of the man’s slacks. His fingers tug towards him, forcing a yelp from Sledge as his cock is squeezed suddenly. Ack Ack’s left hand, still holding the belt, cracks it hard against the armrest. It lets out a distinct smack that has even Eddie’s back straightening.

“Thought I told you to strip, Eddie.” Andy muses, tilting his head up to fix Hillbilly with a small, pleasant smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s being kept waiting.

His hand is moving against Sledge’s slacks as he speaks. Palming his length, feeling it already stiff and yearning under the fabric.

Eddie catches his eye briefly, cheek twitching in that familiar lustful frustration that they both know means they’ve struck oil. His thumbs hook into his underwear and pull them down. He straightens up without another word.

For the first time, Andy has to take a steadying breath. (Hillbilly probably notices, Sledge definitely doesn’t. The former’s lip curls just a touch.) With his hand kneading Eugene’s dick and his own pressed tantalisingly up against the redhead’s ass, the heat is more than even Captain Haldane can ignore. The pleasure of drinking Eddie in is exquisite, every curve of his muscles and colour of his ink, his unsheathed cock bouncing free from his waistband.

He forgets occasionally that the hill country man really can snap the two of them in half. He’s incredibly muscular, built like a brick shithouse. It’s only his height, drawing his limbs out a little lankier, that hides the weight behind his hands.

Andy huffs quietly. Short and soft and barely audible. The exhale allows him to turn back to Sledge, who’s head has tipped back, leaning on his shoulder. The redhead’s eyes remain on Eddie, watching with stricken desire as he grinds rhythmically against Ack Ack’s hand. None of his usual gentlemanly conversation will be escaping him presently.

“Do you want him to suck you off here or in the bedroom?” Andy asks. His lips press hard against the man’s ear, tilting their weight against the armrest.

Around gritted teeth, Sledge manages; “Bedroom.”

“You heard the Captain.” Ack Ack says, nodding Eddie’s way. His grip releases from Eugene’s slacks.

Hillbilly reaches out his hand. Sledge takes it enthusiastically. The taller man leads the way, squeezing his smitten follower’s fingers.

Neither of them catches how Andy exhales, a quiet ‘woah’ blowing out his cheeks as he composes himself. A glance down at his slacks reveals the smallest of droplets seeping into the fabric. He considers himself lucky he’s still hard and hasn’t come prematurely.

He wipes his brow, gets his shit together, and stands up to follow.

[mycatshuman]

The Emo Who Stole Christmas

Chapter 2: A Secret Relationship and Truths Revealed

Word Count: 3,634

Warnings: crying, misunderstandings but they are resolved, talk of past bullying, discrimination against hair color for being "unnatural", and an asshole mayor, cursing, let me know if I missed any.

Pairings: Pre-established Prinxiety and Logicality and Demus

Masterlist | Previous | Next | More Chapters

Thanks again to the wonderful @icequeenoriginal for being such a marvelous co-creator. This fic exists because of her so send her some love. 💜

❄🎅🎄❄🎅🎄❄🎅🎄❄🎅🎄❄🎅🎄❄

Emile frowned as they pulled up to their house with their dad. The house was dark and looked intimidating compared to the houses around it as they were lit up with lights of all colors and sizes. "No lights on. Your Pa must be out shopping." 

A head popped up on the roof. "Oh! Good! I'm so glad you're home!" Emile and Patton looked up to see Logan up in the roof, wrapped in a long coat as he held a strand of lights in his arms. "I can feel it, Patton!" He exclaimed. His eyes alight with determination. Emile frowned as they watched their father. "When the town asks who has the most spectacular of lights in Whoville, they're going to say, 'Mr. Logan Lou Who!!' This is the Year!!" 

Patton chuckled fondly at his husband. He glanced to the side and noticed something a bit concerning. He reached forward and lifted the object carefully. "Is this the Chandelier from our dining room!?!??!" Emile's frown deepened. They found their unease about the holidays taking root deeper. 

"Its all for the cause, Honey," Logan called out. He had to be superior, he just had to be. "Oh! Emile, Honey bee! Could you be my little helper and unscrew the lightbulb from the fridge?" Emile blinked rapidly, trying to determine if their father was in fact serious. "I somehow missed that one." 

Emile peered closer at their dad and noticed his tie tucked firmly in place and decided their father was in fact serious. Emile forced a smile onto their face as they walked inside carrying a small stack of presents. 

"Every. Single. Year." Logan muttered as they grabbed light strands and began moving them trying to set them up. "Mr. Roman May Whovier has the best lights. But not this year! This is the year I am going to defeat that prim, perfect, prissy little prince-" Logan was interrupted by the man himself. 

"Logan! Hello!" Roman called out dramatically. 

Logan looked over to see Roman in a deep holiday red Santa dress with white trim, Santa hat and matching red boots, tights, and gloves. Logan frowned. "Roman." 

Roman chuckled. "I've never seen so many fabulous holiday lights, Nerd!" Roman shouted from his spot on his front porch. He was just a little disappointed that he was stopped momentarily from his journey but couldn't help but tease his next-door neighbor. 

"I'd probably blow every single fuse if I tried to keep up with you, Roman May!"

Roman smirked and picked up a beautiful sparkling antique. It looked almost like a large heart-shaped Christmas tree ornament, though it was missing the top. Each part sparkled individually when moved. At the very end, there were large gold tassels that Roman ran his fingers through. "Isn't this darling? It's handcrafted and near 100 years old!" 

"Oh! Wow!" Logan muttered to himself, sarcastically. "I'm really impressed!"

He set it back down in its gift box carefully and turned to something covered in a sheet. "However, this is new." He turned the machine on and aimed it towards his house. Then he shot a stream of lit holiday lights up at his house and they quickly caught onto the house and strung up in a perfect line, giving his house a magazine perfect look. He walked around and blew out the smoke. He turned back to find Logan barely concealing his dropping jaw. He smirked. "Well, good night Logan!" He shot Patton an unseen sympathetic smile and snuck off with a box. 

---

Logan rushed to answer his phone as Patton came behind him with a candle. "Hello?" He asked. 

An unfamiliar voice answered, "Is your sub-zero chillibrator running?" 

"Hold on, let me check." Logan paused and listened and heard the slight hum of their refrigerator. "Yes, my sub-zero chillerator is indeed running." 

Virgil snickered, "Well then you better go catch it!" He yelled into the phone and hung up the payphone. (On the other end Patton snorted as Logan stood frozen, the dial tone blaring out from the phone speakers.) Virgil turned to Remy with a smile, "I think I broke ‘em." He chuckled. "Alright, let's go home." Virgil and Remy climbed into a trash chute. Virgil hit the side of the chute and the two of them were sucked through the chute as the lid slammed shut. As they tumbled through the tube leading up to the top of the mountain, Virgil groaned. "There has got to be a better way to do this." Soon they fell out into a pile of garbage. Virgil huffed. Then they heard rumbling from the chute. "Oh, wonderful! More trash!" Three bags fell into his lap and he rolled his eyes. He grabbed a bag as he stood up. "What is that stench?" He asked nobody. "It's absolutely fantastic!" He exclaimed sarcastically. He grabbed another bag and began dragging them behind him as he began walking home. "Come on Remy, let's go home. We can come back for the rest later." He huffed. "It's amazing just how much the Whos throw away. They really could do a lot better with recycling." 

He sighed. "But it all falls to me, as always." Remy frowned in his own cat way. His father was so depressed. And he wished he could do more to help him. 

------

Emile sighed as they looked around their room at all the holiday decorations and frowned. "Where are you Christmas?" Emile sang to themselves softly. "Why can't I find you? Why have you gone away?" Emile moved over to their window and looked out at Mountain Crumpet. "My world is changing. I'm rearranging. Does that mean Christmas changes too?" Emile sighed and moved to their desk where a letter for Santa sat unfinished. "Where are you Christmas? Do you remember? The child you used to know? You were so carefree! Now, nothing's easy. Did Christmas change? Or just me?" Emile hung their head and moved to get into bed, A fitful night ahead of them. 

----

Virgil sighed as he opened the door to his home. He set the two bags of garbage he grabbed onto a catapult and pulled the lever. The bags slammed into a blown-up poster of Mayor Anton Who. Virgil smirked. He really did not like the Mayor. He moved away and hung up his cloak on a hook. He used his homemade elevator to get to the ground floor of his cave. "The first floor, factory rejects." Virgil stepped off the platform and moved behind a screen to get changed. He pulled off the suit and pulled on sweats, a t-shirt, and his favorite hoodie. As he walked past his phone, he checked for voicemails. "Any calls?" 

"You have no new messages," the voice from his phone said. 

Virgil frowned. "Odd. Better check my outgoing." He flipped a switch and his voice with a hint of Tempest Tongue came out through the speaker. "If you utter so much as one syllable, I'll hunt you down and gut you like a fish!!!" Virgil blinked. "If you'd like to fax me, press the star key." Virgil shrugged. He ran down the stairs and jumped into his couch and picked up a bag of chips. "I don't know why I ever leave this place, Remy. I have all the company I need right here." 

Remy rolled their eyes, a strange feat for a cat but the amount of bullshit that came from Virgil's mouth, half the time Remy was so in need of an eye roll that the laws of anatomy had to be defied. Virgil opened the chip bag and stuffed them in his mouth. "Am I just eating because I'm bored?" 

"Oh, you’re bored? I can change that~" a husky voice whispered in Virgil's ear, causing him to jump a mile high. Roman grinned and came around the couch and hopped into Virgil's lap. 

"Roman!" Virgil coughed out. "Don't do that!!" 

Roman chuckled and snuggled into Virgil's neck. "But it's so fun. And you look so flustered!"

At this, Virgil's blush only went darker. "Roman!" He exclaimed, his voice an octave higher. 

Roman grinned and pressed a kiss to Virgil's neck before pulling away. "I got you something today." 

"Ro…" 

Roman huffed. "Yes, I know what you're going to say. But I really, really, want you to have this!" Roman quickly pulled out a box and set it on his lap. Virgil sighed but pulled his arms away from their place around Roman's waist. Roman pouted slightly at the loss of contact before holding his breath as Virgil pulled out the antique he had shown Logan earlier. Virgil's eyes widened as he realized how fragile the gift his love had given him. 

"Roman...this is…"

Roman bit his lip. "Do you like it?" 

Virgil gulped, wanting to look at Roman to answer but too scared to look away from the gift for fear of dropping it. "I love it...but-" 

Roman shook his head. "I didn't, as you would say, "waste any money" on it. Although, how can anything be a waste of money if it's for you~" Roman said with a wink towards Virgil. 

Virgil raised an eyebrow and smirked. "So you stole it then?" 

Roman made an offended Princey noise. "No!" He exclaimed and then calmed down. He looked down at his hands and fidgeted. "I-um…This was in my family for decades. And it was passed down to the firstborn and they are supposed to give it to the person they want to marry." 

Virgil blinked as he tried to process what exactly was happening. "Wha….are you…." Virgil blinked rapidly as he felt his eyes getting watery. "Are you? Is this a marriage proposal???" 

Roman bit his lip. "Maybe," he whispered. 

"I-" Virgil paused. "Can you take this?" He asked as he handed the gift back to Roman. Roman blinked rapidly. Is he saying no??!

Virgil picked up Roman and set him on the couch gently before running off to grab something. He came back to find Roman in the same position only with tears running down his face.  "Love??" Virgil asked and he kneeled in front of Roman. He reached forward and wiped away Roman's tears. "Why are you crying, Ro?"

"Are ...are you saying 'no'?" 

Virgil's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "No! I'm not-" Virgil groaned and facepalmed. He brought out a small box. "I'm- not." 

Roman looked down at the box and let out a gasp. He carefully set the antique down as quickly as he could. He picked up the box with trembling hands and opened it to find an extravagant ring with a blood-red ruby and gold plated band. It looked like something out of a fairytale. Tears streamed down Roman's face as he put the ring on his ring finger and launched himself at Virgil, tackling his lover to the ground. "Yes!! Of course, I'm going to marry you!!! Yes!! Yes!!! Yes!!!" Roman exclaimed as he planted kisses all over Virgil's face. 

Virgil giggled as he held onto Roman's hips to stop him from falling over. Once Roman stopped, he laid down on top of Virgil as the other's arms came up to wrap around his boyfriend-his fiance's torso. Roman sighed. "I love you, Virgil."  

Virgil smiled dreamily as he snuggled closer to Roman (if that was even possible) and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. "I love you too, Roman."

Eventually, the two moved to the bed and cuddled underneath the covers as they fell asleep to the soft hum of music. 

-------

Emile sat at their desk as they frowned. They had many questions in their curious heart. Why did the Grinch hate Christmas so much? Where did it all start? They had their Pa's blabbacorder and they had used it to gather as much information of the Grinch as they could.

Emile pressed play and was taken back to earlier that day when they stopped to talk to the elderly couple who had raised the Grinch. 

*Flashback*

"In your own words, please tell me all that you know about the Grinch." 

The couple in front Emile shared a glance, not used to being asked about their son. "Well," they started. "First, you should know we didn't name him Grinch. We named him Virgil," Remus said as he knitted a green sweater. 

"Virgil?" Emile asked. 

Damien nodded. "Yes. Virgil. Now, he came the way all the Who children come." Remus perked up about to say something only for Damien to cut him off. "On calm nights, Baby Whos drift down from the sky in their own pumersellas." 

"So that's how it works!" Emile exclaimed. 

Damien nodded and elbowed Remus to stop him from shaking his head. Remus frowned but nodded and picked up where his husband left off. "It was Christmas Eve, and a very strange wind blew that night! It was tasty!" 

Damien rolled his eyes fondly at his husband. "We were having our annual holiday get-together, while Virgil landed right at our doorstep. Nobody realized he was out there until morning came. But when we saw him, we knew right away he was special."

"How did you know?" 

"Well, his hair was the most vibrant purple we had ever seen!"

"Purple??" Emile asked. It was not a natural hair color for Whos. 

Remy's nodded! "Yeah! Very purple! And that morning, we tried to give him cookies! We came over with some cookies on a Santa plate. Then he said Santa!! His first words were Santa! And then we let him hold the plate and he took a bite out of it!!" 

Damien rolled his eyes. "It near gave me a heart attack but he didn't get hurt and he actually tried the cookie and he liked that better. After that Remus learned how to cook and made things into weird shapes and Virgil would eat it so I was very grateful for it." 

"We raised him the best we could." 

*End Flashback*

Emile paused the recording and switched to a different one, trying to listen in a different order than they had first heard them. They pressed play and they were taken back to when they first talked to their neighbor, Roman May. 

*Flashback*

"The Grinch?" Roman asked Emile. Emile nodded. Roman bit his lip. "He...was a very quiet child. I hardly remember him though. I was way too busy with my studies to socialize." A memory of Roman staring at Virgil in class dreamily flashed through Roman's mind. He bit his lip. "The class we were in was going to have an annual holiday gift exchange…"

*End Flashback*

Emile paused the recording and switched to another one. They remembered their interview with Mayor Anton Who.

*Flashback*

"The Grinch...he liked Roman. Now, Roman was my boyfriend." Emile kept their face as passive as they could, but they found it hard to believe that Roman really was the Mayor's boyfriend. "You know, I really dislike discussing this Grinch business so close to Christmas…But maybe if you hear the truth, then you can understand why…" Anton stopped and glared down at his assistant who was cleaning his shoes. "Put your back into it!" Anton turned back to Emile found it really rude of the mayor to treat his assistant so cruelly. "I took the Grinch under my wing." 

*End Flashback* 

Emile paused the recording and unpaused another one. Damien's voice came out through the recording.   

*Flashback* 

"Virgil told us that he was picked on by most of the students In his class. He told us Anton Who was picking on him the most for his crush."

Remus frowned. "He told him, 'You don't have a chance with him. You're 8 years old and you have purple hair!' It really upset Virgil." 

*End Flashback*

Emile frowned. They paused the recording and skipped to a moment they remembered in the Mayor's interview. They pressed play and the Mayor's voice came through again. "He had this…unnatural hair. It wasn't right." Emile paused the recording again. They turned back to the recording of their interview with Roman. Emile was transported back to what happened during this part of their recording. 

*Flashback*

"Did I have a crush on the Grinch??? Of course not!!!" 

Emile raised an eyebrow. "I didn't ask you that." 

Roman panicked slightly. "Right…..umm" 

*End Flashback* 

Emile stopped the recording. I think I'm on to something! They quickly pressed play on the recording with Virgil's parents. Remus's voice came through the speaker. "Virgil came home that day before his classes gift exchange and he was even more in the spirit of gift-giving than before."

"It's not that he doesn't like Christmas," Damien's voice broke in. "It's just, he doesn't like how commercialized it has become. And that whole evening, he worked on creating a gift for his crush. But the bullying from Anton made him buy cheap brown hair dye. He came home that day, just before we all moved up into the mountain-" 

"You moved up into the mountain?" That was their voice. 

"Yes," came Remus's voice. "Just until he was old enough to live on his own. But he told us that his teacher had asked if everyone had given their gift, Virgil called out that he hadn't and stepped out where he had hidden behind the coats."

"He had a bag over his head to hide his hair and the teacher told him to take it off. He did and hid behind an open book. She told him to set that down too. And then she told him to take off the hood on his hoodie. After that, everyone laughed at him. Even the teacher." 

Emile stopped the recording and switched to Roman's. "He was so upset. He ended up throwing the gift he made for me, it smashed into the wall. Then he picked up the tree and threw that as well!" Emile paused the recording as he remembered something the mayor and his assistant had said about this moment. "The anger." That was the mayor.

"The fury!" said the assistant. 

Emile frowned and pushed play on Roman's recording again. "The muscles!" A pause. "It was such a horrible day. They were so cruel to him." A barely concealed sob. "I could hardly bear it … that was the last time anyone ever saw him. The very last time." 

Emile stopped the recording. "I need to talk to Roman again," they said as they stood up and prepared to go talk to Roman again. 

-----

"Emile?" Roman asked as he opened the door. "What are you doing here? Did you forget to ask a question?"

Emile shook their head as they stepped inside and Roman closed the door. "No, I was curious." 

"About?" Roman asked as they sat down across from each other. 

"What..what do you really think about Virgil?"

Roman froze. He subconsciously played with the ring on his finger sitting beneath his gloves that he had hurriedly pulled on before answering the door. "I-" Roman bit his lip, debating with himself before he pulled off his gloves.

Emile frowned, unsure how this was relevant but paused as they noticed the ring. "Did-did the Mayor give that to you?" 

Roman sighed and shook his head no. "Virgil did. I...lied earlier. Virgil is…" Roman sighed as he got this far way dreamy look in his eyes. "Virgil is the only man I could ever love. Unlike most of the Whos in this town, Virgil sees me. Actually sees me. I'm not just some pretty face or voice. Virgil loves me for me." 

Emile's eyes widened. "So...are you saying the Grinch isn't bad??"

Roman frowned. "Grinch! Ugh! It's such a horrible name! One that Mayor Anton started. Virgil is the kindest person I have ever met. He just wants to be left alone. And he likes being our local cryptid." Roman sighed, starstruck. "Isn't he the greatest?" 

Emile smiled softly. "You really love him."

Roman nodded. "I do. We-" he looked down at his hand. "We're engaged now!" 

"Congratulations!"  

Roman smiled. "Thank you." 

"When…did you see Virgil again after that day?" 

Roman sighed. "It was sometime 8 or 9 years later. Anton had asked me to the school dance. And I was so furious with him. I would much rather go with Virgil. Plus, he had played a big part in driving him away. So right after school, I grabbed the gift Virgil had made me, I had kept it in a box all those years, and I marched up Mount Crumpit in the hopes I would be able to see where he might have gone. And then I found a door. I knocked, and his parents opened it." 

Roman paused. "I was in such a shock. And I asked to talk to Virgil and they, although suspicious, let me. And Virgil fixed the gift after I apologized for not standing up for him. After that, we just…kept in touch. I would visit him at least once every week. And eventually, after his parents moved back to town for good, we went on a date. And…” Roman smiled fondly. "The rest is history I suppose." 

Emile smiled. "I think...I might want to make him the holiday cheermeister."

Roman blinked. "Oh hun, I don't know. He has anxiety and probably won't accept." 

Emile shrugged. "It's worth a shot." 

“You’re right about that…” Roman grinned. "I'll help you convince him!" 

"Thank you!"

"You're welcome." 

Emile stood to leave only to pause before they reached the door. "Where's the gift he made you now?" 

Roman smiled softly. "Its sitting right beside my bed." Emile smiled and nodded before leaving. The Grinch wasn't bad. He wasn't even a Grinch after all. He was just a victim of bullying. As Emile walked home, he decided he was going to make the town see the real "Grinch". 

❄🎅🎄❄🎅🎄❄🎅🎄❄🎅🎄❄🎅🎄❄

Everything Taglist: @spxced-oxt @superwholocked-for-life @mirror2thespirit @aroundofapplesauce @lyditist @little-euro-girl @unicornofdarknessstuff @maryann-draws

The Emo Who Stole Christmas Taglist: @logical-princey

[rocketwerks]

English Village

3418-3450 Grove Avenue

Built, 1927

Architect, Bascom J. Rowlett

VDHR 127-0374

June 2020

Housing ahead of its time.

(Newspapers.com) — Richmond Times Dispatch, Sunday, July 10, 1927

The sales prospectus of English Village citing "...the new lifestyle ... while enjoying all the amenities, including privacy of single house living ... with an atmosphere of social respectability..." lt reads like a contemporary advertisement for carefree condominium ownership, yet the ad is over fifty years old.

(Newspapers.com) — Richmond Times Dispatch, Sunday, July 10, 1927

Incorporated April 14, 1927, English Village was designed as a cooperative community both for economy and for efficiency while at the same time maintaining a gracious lifestyle. The Village by-laws, still in force, state that "it is the purpose and object of this corporation to maintain and operate the property in English Village on a mutual and cooperative basis.&. without any profits or other gains or remuneration to the corporation, excepting assessments made as hereinafter provided necessary for the upkeep and expense of maintaining the property and providing heat and hot water to the seventeen dwellings located in English Village."

(Newspapers.com) — Richmond Times Dispatch, Sunday, July 10, 1927

This cooperative planned comity was a radical experiment in housing for Richmond as well as for the rest of the country since most of the multi-family housing constructed at the time were apartment complexes in the city or rowhouses in the suburbs.

While many different types of cooperatives in this country enlisted members at the beginning of the 20th century -- credit unions, agricultural co-ops, retail consumers, workers' productive, insurance and others -- cooperative home ownership was a fairly new concept in 1926. 

(Newspapers.com) — Richmond Times Dispatch, Sunday, July 10, 1927

At that time, articles appearing in popular periodicals extolling the merits of cooperative apartment ownership, and in 1928, an article appeared in Arts and Decoration entitled, "Cooperatives: the New Way of Buying a Home." The reasons behind cooperative homeownership, the author said, were that they were "...cheaper, more desirable, more flexible in plan... owners realized a savings in rent . . . they had a voice in management." This philosophy had already been espoused by Davis Brothers a year before in their advertisements for English Village.

(Newspapers.com) — Richmond Times Dispatch, Sunday, July 10, 1927

Unlike most of this country's housing co-ops of the 1920s which were built for the working class by industry, philanthropists, or non-profit governmental agencies, English Village was built in the fashionable Grove Avenue neighborhood for the upwardly mobile middle class by private entrepreneurs. According to an article in the real estate section of the Richmond Times Dispatch dated January 23, 1927, English Village would have all the latest modern conveniences including: separate garages; electric refrigeration; community heating; a parked entrance-way as well as "a janitor and cook service on the cooperative plan.

June 2020

Advertised by Davis Brothers as "English Architecture al; its best," the Village was designed by Rowlett, a lesser known Richmond architect, who was noted for a number of fine residences and apartment buildings in Richmond in the 1920s. Reminiscent of the Shelby Apartments of Kingsport, Tennessee, built in 1926, Rowlett's Tudor Revival mannerisms lent variety to the multi-unit complex.

June 2020

Designed for economy, efficiency, and permanency of building materials without sacrificing aesthetics, the Villas is composed of seventeen attached units two-and-a-half stories high built of brick walls, a distinctive water table, buttressing, prominent gables, and half-timbering in some of the second-story gables. The overall appearance is that, of asymmetry yet the plan is symmetrical with each half being the mirror image of the other. The plan consists of a symmetrical main block and two wings extended forward at each end of the rectangular main block. The wings are asymmetrical but mirror images of each other. 

June 2020

The off-centered doorways are capped with 'Tudor-arched lintels made of cast concrete embellished with designs of lions heads, coats of arms, grape vines, and the diaper motif. Some of the door surrounds are quoinwork of cast cement made to look like stone. The Arts and Crafts philosophy is apparent in the treatment of the doorways. 

(The English Village)

The doors are board-and-batten with stained-glass windows and wrought-iron strap hinges and thumb latch door handles and knockers. Fenestration on the first and second floors consists of a variety of window shapes and sizes; round-headed windows with leaded stained glass, small narrow rectangular leaded stained-glass windows with label moldings of cast concrete, and metal casement windows set in groups of two's and three's.

June 2020

The cornice in the second story is small and molded. The lines of the gray slate-covered hipped roof are broken by shed dormers, stepped gables, gable ends, some of which have jerkin heads, and large decorative chimney stacks. The focal point of the building is the main block which faces the central courtyard.

(VDHR) — 1983 VDHR nomination photo

The horizontal lines of the main block are interrupted by the vertical lines of the prominent central gable with second-story half-timbering and the vertical thrusting of the chimney stacks flanking either side of the gable end. The one-bay entrance porch again reflects the Arts and Crafts era with its heavily turned wooden posts with brackets and carved acorns and slate roof. Except for this rather ornate porch, Rowlett gas somewhat restrained in the use of ornamentation, but rather used quality materials for color and texture. 

June 2020

The brickwork is laid in Flemish bond with a tapestry-like pattern in the gable peaks. Cast-cement recessed panels with molded coat of arms designs are also located in the top of the gables. The gutters and downspouts are made of copper. Other uses of ornamentation include a distinctive brick beveled water table which serves, visually, to tie the units together, and brick corbelling under the eaves on the gable ends.

June 2020

The south, east, and west elevations fronting Grove Avenue present the formal side of the Villas, while the north, east, and west elevations facing the rear alley are more utilitarian and resemble the typical rear elevations of rowhouses in Richmond. The plain rectangular common brick walls of the first and second stories are laid in common bond.

June 2020

Simple hoods with brackets shelter the rear doorways. Fenestration consists of 6/6 lights with double-hung sash. Each dwelling has its own private tiny rear patio or garden area enclosed by a picket fence. "Modern refrigeration" boxes are still conveniently located near the back kitchen doors. The furnace room and four-room apartment for the custodian is located on the northwest corner on the rear of the building facing the alley. Seventeen attached brick garages with metal shed roofs are located on the north side of the concrete paved alley.

(Newspapers.com) — Richmond Times Dispatch, Sunday, July 19, 1927

The interior plan which varies slightly for each unit was designed for comfort, convenience, and efficiency and for a servantless lifestyle. One enters through an interior vestibule dimly lit by stained-glass windows. Tudor arched doorways lead from the living room to the dining room to a compact galley-type kitchen at the rear. An open stairway on one side of the living room leads to three bedrooms and a porcelain tiled bathroom upstairs. Some living rooms are equipped with corner fireplaces with cast cement Tudor styled mantels and terra cotta tiled hearths. 

(Newspapers.com)

The original mantels were left unpainted to resemble carved stone, however, most of the mantels have been painted over. The ceilings are low with coved ceilings in the hallways, living rooms and dining rooms. Party walls are constructed of cinder block with a stucco finish. The walls were originally painted a cream. The woodwork, including the two-paneled doors with glass door handles, door and window trim , stairway newel post, handrail and turned balusters, was originally stained a dark oak. The creamy walls and the lighter red oak floors were meant to contrast with the darker tones of the doors, windows, and trim.

June 2020

The original landscaping plan consisted of fir, spruce, elm, and hemlock trees combined with ornamental shrubs and lined with terra cotta patios and walkways. A water fountain graced the central courtyard. The circular drive was paved with brick. A playground was located in the northeast corner of the lot behind the buildings. Brick walls enclosed the grounds with a gateway leading to the driveway.

(The Cultural Landscape Foundation) — Charles Gillette

In 1947, the original landscaping plan was altered by Charles Gillette, a Richmond landscape architect. The fountain was removed and replaced by the present flagpole. The driveway was paved with asphalt and the playground no longer exists.

June 2020

The corporate structure and by-laws of English Village Corporation were much the same as that of Garden Homes Cooperative in Milwaukee, one of the first cooperatives in the country, built in the early 1920s. The homeowners in both cases bought shares in the corporation. Besides paying for stock, the homeowners also paid a rental sufficient to cover interest, taxes, insurance, depreciation, repairs and maintenance. But while the home ownership was collective in Milwaukee with no clear title to the property, English Village stockholders retained clear title to their individual properties similar to today s condominium ownership.

June 2020

Since its beginning in 1927, the business of English Village Corporation has been transacted at an annual meeting, or special meeting; if needed, with duly-elected officers and a board of directors managing the property. Each stockholder is assessed one-seventeenth of the total expenses for the maintenance and upkeep of the buildings and grounds.

June 2020

During the depression many of the early owners lost their homes through mortgage foreclosures. However, by 1934, the deeds indicate that all the dwellings were once again owned by families who resided there. The Robert L. Atwell family, original owners of one of the dwellings, managed to hold on to their property and still retain it to this day.

June 2020

English Village Corporation no longer contains all of its restrictive covenants, but it does retain an important one in the original by-laws which has helped maintain the architectural integrity of the building. Homeowners are restricted from making any changes to the exterior of their individual homes which would constitute a departure from and in contrast to the original architectural plan and design of the village structure as a whole. English Village, a product of the era of community consciousness, functionalism, and the Garden Cities ideal, remains an excellent example of an early 20th-century planned cooperative community. (VDHR)

June 2020

A thing of beauty is a joy forever, and that goes double for English Village, still looking good at 93 years young. That’s also true of Architecture Richmond’s write up on this unique Richmond location, a worthy read.

(English Village is part of the Atlas RVA! Project)

[jenomark]

Swallow // Part 4

○Pairing: Dom!Jaehyun x Sub!Reader (Female) ○Other Members/ Characters: Sub!Johnny + Doyoung ○Genre: smut  ○Warnings: no smut, suggestive talk, angst ○Word count: 3,927

→Summary: You accept Jaehyun’s invitation to a wedding, but as you get in the limo, you realize it’s not Jaehyun waiting for you. Will the mysterious John or the following circumstances finally make you break?

→Notes: ✨Anon Requested✨ Heyyyy 😍😍 Can I request Dom Jaehyun x Dom reader smut? Pretty, Please 💕💕

01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06

______________________________________________________________

  You didn’t wear the dress. It was an emotional decision and something that couldn’t be helped. You had tried it on, twirling in front of your mirror for a few minutes, letting the gauzy fabric make you feel like a princess. After that, you balled it up, threw it under your bed, and spent the afternoon shopping for a dress Jaehyun didn’t have a hand in choosing. You felt proud that you had taken these steps, though a secret part of you would have loved to see Jaehyun’s face when he saw you in his dress.

  The dress you picked out was plum, instead of eggplant purple. Where his dress was light and reached the floor, yours was tight against your body and stopped mid-thigh. The velvet against your skin made you feel sexy, and the off-the-shoulder detail made you feel like someone else entirely. It was unlike you to flaunt your body like this, but admittedly, you had been feeling as far removed from yourself as possible lately.

  The car arrived at 9 a.m., like Jaehyun had said. It was a stretch limo in black, with not a dent or speck of dirt anywhere in sight. The backseat was wide open in anticipation, waiting to swallow you up with it’s soft leather seats. You hovered in the doorway to your building longer than you should have, thinking about all the ways you could give up if you wanted to. All you had to do was go back inside and live your life. It should have been so simple.

  You got in the car, anyways. If anything, Jaehyun had piqued your interest with the wedding invitation. The day didn’t have to mean anything.

 “Before you say anything,” you said, closing your eyes tightly. You didn’t have the nerve to look him in the eyes.  “I didn’t wear the dress you gave me because it’s my choice what I put on my body and I get to decide who I am. The dress you chose was beautiful and it fit so well-not that I tried it on-but if I did try it on, you should know how gorgeous it was, and how much I do love it.”

  You opened your eyes. The mascara on your lashes made them stick together for a moment. When you picked out the dress, you went ahead and made a make-up and hair appointment. Though you felt very much like you were trying too hard for a man you most definitely were not dating, you had felt pretty.

“That was quite a speech.”

  Your head snapped to your left when you realized the voice that spoke did not belong to Jaehyun.

“Who are you?” you asked.

  The man beside you was classically handsome. He had brown hair parted down the middle, eyes that looked at you inquisitively, and lips that pulled up at the corners. His long legs were stretched across the floor of the limo in comfort as if he were without a care in the world. He was wearing a suit with an eggplant purple colored bow tie that perfectly matched the dress Jaehyun picked out for you.

 “I’m John,” he said. “You may have heard about me.”

  You tried very hard not to react, but your face betrayed your emotions. If John looked closely enough, he would see both the shock,  and the little way your heart broke when he said his own name.

“Briefly,” you said. “Where is Jaehyun?”

“How should I know?” John said. “I received a box in the mail with directions. Don’t you love it when our boy is secretive?”

  Biting back a retort, you smiled and looked around the limo. Jaehyun had spent a lot of money to transport you and John to Hell. When your eyes set on the sparkling champagne, you thought you ought to make the most of it. You snatched the bottle from it’s bucket of ice, along with a glass. The bottle was already popped and ready, all you had to do was pour and chug.  And chug. And chug.

“That’s a lot of champagne,” John said, watching you. “Must be one hell of a breakthrough you’re celebrating. “

  When you came up for air, you nearly gagged. Champagne was an acquired taste, one that made you more likely to chug actual gasoline. Yet, as the liquid slid down your throat, and your anxiety ebbed, it began to not taste so bad.

   The limo moved, rolling past your life in slow motion. You looked out the window, at your hands, at the empty glass of champagne, at anything but John. You were light-headed and giddy from the alcohol, but the anger in the pit of your chest was trying to scratch its way out. John didn’t try engaging in conversation with you until the city streets turned into long stretches of road seemingly leading to nowhere.

“He talks a lot about you.” John said.

“Does he?” you asked. “I’m thrilled. Tell him I said thanks.”

  John laughed. You looked at him blankly. He didn’t touch the alcohol or snacks in the limo. He barely looked at his phone. You wondered what he was thinking and what his personality was like. The mess that was your life was clearly out in the open and it seemed fair that his should be too.

“You’re more plain than I thought you would be,” he said. “By the way he talks about you, I was expecting someone a little more.... fiery.”

“I’m a Sagittarius. I have plenty of fire.” you said.

“Maybe I’m misjudging you.”

“No offense Mister Long Legs, but you don’t know me.” you said.

  John’s eyes took in every inch of your body. He raised an eyebrow and cocked his head when his gaze rested on your breasts and your thighs. There was a heat rising on your cheeks that could have been from the embarrassment of him assessing you, or the alcohol. If you were being honest with yourself, you would accept that it was something else bordering on the line of attraction.

“I know what you like,” he said. “I know what you don’t like. I know the way you smell. You’re all over him, his bed sheets, his dick.  And I know the way you taste. Our boy likes to share his work.”

“He’s not my boy.”

 You didn’t wait to see John’s response. You didn’t want to know how he felt about you, or how you tasted to him. You never wanted to meet him at all. When you asked Jaehyun about his other subs, you knew how it would make you feel. Curiosity won, but the loss was greater. The existence of John had haunted you ever since, and finally putting a face to the name made everything more complicated.

   When the limo pulled up to the wedding location, neither of you moved from your seats. You were too tipsy and too stuck in your own thoughts, and John’s attention was mostly on you despite your lack of interest in him. You could feel his eyes crawling up your skin, could practically feel that villain-like smile creeping up his mouth.

“I feel like we should talk,” he said. “While we wait.”

“There is nothing to talk about. We both fuck Jaehyun and Jaehyun fucks us. What else is there to discuss? you asked.

  John turned to his side to get a better view of you. You didn’t like that a stranger could make you feel so pathetic in your own skin. The dress, the hair, and the make-up felt juvenile with just one look from him.

“Maybe we should fuck to get this tension out of the way,” John said, smiling. “What do you say? It could be a lot of fun. I’d love to see that pretty little ass spread for me.”

  Your side of the car door opened and a hand appeared. Jaehyun’s hand. You grabbed it and let him pull you to your feet. You were so grateful that you nearly hugged him, but after seeing the look on his face, you decided against it.

“Are you drunk?” Jaehyun asked.

“No.” you said, self-consciously pulling at the hem of your dress. In your haste to get out of the car, it had ridden too far up your thigh.

“Your dress.”

   You initially accepted the look on Jaehyun’s face as annoyance at you being drunk. He liked you sober and consenting only. When Jaehyun didn’t get what he wanted, he came down with a heavier hand the next time around.  But as you looked harder at him, the way his jaw set was more like a man who felt dejected. He placed his hands on your hips and smoothed out the plum velvet fabric.

“I think she looks pretty.” John said.

  John popped his head up from the other side of the limo, rapping his knuckles on the roof. Jaehyun blinked, looked at John and turned his attention back on you. You resisted the urge to smooth the piece of hair that always fell over his forehead back into place.

“Never mind.” Jaehyun said. “You’re a little early. But that’s good.”

“Can we talk?” you asked.

“You look pretty.” Jaehyun said.

  Jaehyun took your wrist and began leading you up a small grass hill. John followed, sticking his hands in his pockets and leisurely strolling behind. When you reached the top of the hill, you could see a beautiful farmhouse painted blue-gray. Next to it was a remodeled barn painted the same color. People were milling in and out of both places, tugging at children’s hands and talking with each other. Two large white tents were set up across the lawns, one with rows of seats and a stage, the other for a reception party.  All around were pretty lattice fences with flowers intertwined throughout them.

“This is beautiful.” you said.

  Jaehyun didn’t stop to let you admire everything. He kept pulling you along beside him, his legs striding across the grass like he had somewhere more important to be. As you reached the steps of the farm house, John sidled up beside you and put his hand on the small of your back. You didn’t want him touching you, but you didn’t shrug him off either. 

   A woman in a wedding dress came out onto the porch, heading straight towards Jaehyun and his band of misfits. He met her with a kiss on the cheek, helping her down the last few steps. There wasn’t any time for you to process what was happening before he slipped his hand casually into yours like it was a completely natural thing to do. 

“Rosie, this is my girlfriend.“ Jaehyun said.

  If Rosie knew anything different, she didn’t show it. The smile on her face was bright, and when she shook your hand, she appeared genuinely happy to meet you.

“And this is my girlfriends brother, John.” Jaehyun said, gesturing to John.

  John put on more of a show. He was charming, nearly bowing in her presence. Rosie was eating up the attention and his small talk, resting her hand on her stomach as she laughed. When you felt Jaehyun’s fingers squeeze yours, you looked down at his grip on your hand. He brought his hand up to his face and brushed his lips lightly against your knuckles.

“I’m sorry you missed the ceremony,” Rosie said. “But I’m glad you’re here for the reception. Jaehyun talks so highly of you. It makes me happy to finally meet the girl who has captured his heart.”

“Me?” you asked.

  Rosie’s face fell only a fraction of a second before her smile returned. “Of course. We’ve been waiting to meet you since he told us he was dating someone a couple of months ago. His mother is always pestering him for more info, but you know him, he doesn’t talk much. My boyfriend Doyoung is the same. Oh, I meant my husband. I have to get used to saying that.”

“A couple of months?” you asked. 

“Where is this Doyoung?” John interrupted. “Probably off pinching himself because he can’t believe he married such a beautiful woman.”

  Rosie blushed and touched John’s arm. You and Jaehyun exchanged amused looks with each other. When Rosie excused herself, John asked if he had overdone it.

“Just a bit,” Jaehyun said. “Luckily, Rosie loves to be charmed by a handsome man.”

“You think I’m handsome?” John asked. “I don’t think you’ve ever called me handsome.”

“Yeah, well there is a lot Jaehyun doesn’t say.” you quipped, dropping Jaehyun’s hand. “Can we know what the fuck is going on now?”

“Keep your voice down,” Jaehyun said. “My family are floating around here somewhere.”

  At the mention of Jaehyun’s family, your heart did a back flip. He barely talked about himself, barely let you two feet into his closet or pantry, and here you were about to meet his entire family in one day. You looked over to see how John was handling it, but he seemed unphased.

“Please talk to me before any of this goes further,” you begged. “I will leave. I think it’s going to look a little bad for you if your girlfriend of a couple months leaves before the reception even begins, Jaehyun.”

  Jaehyun told John to stay and mingle while he took your hand and led you around to the back of the house where a children's swing set sat, unoccupied. He took a seat on one of the swings and motioned for you to sit next to him. He looked beaten down and exhausted already, even though the day had barely begun. 

“Why is John here?” you asked.

“I expected that question sooner. ”

“I’ve been a little busy,” you said. “Why is he here? Why am I here?”

“Why didn’t you wear the dress?” Jaehyun asked.

  You stood with your arms folded as he swung lightly. He looked so handsome sitting there with a slight pout on his face. He was wearing a black three-piece suit with the jacket button undone, and shiny black shoes that reminded you of the day you met him.

“Answer me first.” you said.

“Sit down.”

“No.”

“Please.”

  Jaehyun's voice had no fight in it. Feeling empathetic and exhausted yourself, you took a seat in the swing next to him. He didn’t jump right into conclusions, didn’t fuss with the dress issue, and you didn’t prod him. He freely talked, which felt unnatural and so right all at the same time.

“I’ve known Rosie since I was a little kid. Our parents used to think we would get married. We were always together, “ Jaehyun began. “Attached at the hip. We never felt anything for each other. She’s like my sister. I never had siblings. I had quite a lonely childhood, but Rosie made things better.”

“She doesn’t know about your other life?”

“Other life?” Jaehyun asked. “This is my life.”

“I just meant-”

“- I know what you meant. I never told her and I don’t know if she suspects. The only reason she thinks I have a girlfriend at all is because I told her I did so that she would leave me alone. She cares about me a lot and she worries. She’s kind of like my second mother.”

“Did you ever want to tell her?”

“It’s not her business. Do you talk about your sex life with your siblings?” he asked.

  You shook your head no. You started swinging to match Jaehyun’s pace. You tried imagining how he must have been when he was a little boy, how wild and brave little Jaehyun probably was, and how he couldn’t have known what kind of strong man he would be today. You were greedy for more information about his life, but you didn’t know how to keep asking for more without breaking the rules. Not his rules, but your own.

“And that’s why I’m here,” you said. “As your girlfriend.”

“Partly. There’s more to it than that.”

  You waited for him to say more, but he didn’t elaborate further. You asked again why John was there. The contempt in your voice was obvious. Jaehyun’s only explanation was that he invited him so you wouldn’t feel alone.

“Believe it or not, John is more easy going than you. I knew he would have no trouble taking the attention away from us.” Jaehyun said.

“I wish he wasn’t here.”

“Why not?”

“He asked to fuck me in the car.”

“He’s been asking to fuck you for awhile.” Jaehyun said.

  The tipsy anger from the limo felt like it was finally clawing its way out of your throat. Times were easier when you let Jaehyun spit in your mouth and fuck you raw, but the feelings growing were harder to swallow.

“Why does John know about me? You had me believing I was the only person in your life, ” you said. “That’s not fair to me.”

“I don’t have the answer you want.”

  You looked over at him, but he wouldn’t look at you. Instead, he stopped swinging and stood up. He went behind you and took the chains in his hands from the swing and gave you a light push.

“Why didn’t you wear the dress?” he asked.

“I don’t have to do everything you tell me. You said there were no rules.”

“I said not to overthink things.”

“I don’t have the answer you want.” you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

   He stopped your swing abruptly. You leaned your head back at him. You wanted to yell at him, but the way he loomed over you was very reminiscent of Dom Jaehyun. Your body missed him so much. It felt like forever since he touched you in that way.

“What are you kids doing back here?”

  You lifted your head up to see an old lady approaching you. You prayed it wasn’t his mother. You didn’t want to meet her like this, staring up at her son, and wishing for his cock in your mouth. Jaehyun greeted the woman and told her the two of you were just getting ready to head back to where the reception was starting. The timing was fortunate, as a bunch of children started running past you trying to get to the swing set.

“Who was that?” you asked, walking towards the big tents.

“I honestly have no idea,” Jaehyun said. “Rosie’s husband, Doyoung, has a lot of family.”

  It seemed like every time you both got a few feet towards the tent, someone that knew Jaehyun stopped you. You couldn’t help but feel a thrill whenever he introduced you as his girlfriend. You had to stop yourself a few times from enjoying it too much. Today, like all the other days, was only a fantasy.

  For months, Jaehyun paraded around his life calling you his girlfriend and you had no idea. His parents were probably conjuring up an image of a girl good enough for their son. They would be sorely disappointed, you thought.

  John rejoined you as you reached the tents. He had a handful of pretzels in his hand and was eating them like a dog eating from his food bowl. The more disgusted you looked, the more John did it.

“I’ll be right back. I’m going to make sure my mom is okay.” Jaehyun said.

  You watched him walk away and wished he would come back quickly. You didn’t know how you would fare on your own being around so many people and playing the role of Jaehyun’s fake girlfriend. It seemed like the population of the wedding party had doubled since you arrived, and at least to you, it was obvious you didn’t belong with any of those people.

“You seem more relaxed.” John said.

“Stop talking to me.”

  You moved across the lawn but John followed. He tried to hug you and call you sis but you shrugged him off and acted like he wasn’t there.

“Why do you hate me?” John asked. “We only just met.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“But you don’t like me, “ John said. “Because I’m Jaehyun’s.”

“Go away.”

  You approached one of the flower walls. There were so many variations of colors and types of flowers weaving in and out of the lattice. The wall must have cost a fortune and a lot of time to put together. You smiled to yourself, touching a soft rose petal. John just watched you curiously, but you weren’t bothered. The content you felt in the moment was all encompassing.

“I’m learning more about you,” John said. “For instance, you don’t like the taste of champagne, but you would rather drink it than look at me sober for too long. You love flowers. Your whole face just lit up as you leaned in to smell them.”

“What does this have to do wi-”

“-And you love Jaehyun,” John finished. “You l-o-v-e the boy. What a wonderful romantic thing to admit to yourself at a wedding.”

  You let go of the rose and walked away from him, you hair flying in the wind. You felt that your face was flushed, could feel the tightness of your skin making your features look cold. You began to feel ugly again. The good feelings that were working their way into your day were slowly fading out. You would have went back to the car if you weren’t stopped by a man.

“Hello.” he said.

  He introduced himself as Doyoung, the groom. His smile was gummy and full of happiness. He asked if you knew where his bride was. You had to tell him that you were sorry, but you didn’t know where Rosie was.

“Are you Jaehyun’s girlfriend?” Doyoung asked.

  There was a lump forming in your throat that made it hard to answer. You didn’t want to cry in front of this man on his wedding day. You had been the dampener on other people’s happiness before and it never made anyone feel good. It’s how you got so amazing at not being able to admit your true feelings.

“She is,” John said, appearing out of nowhere. “ Doyoung, I think I saw your wife going this way.”

  John led Doyoung somewhere. For a brief moment, you were grateful for his interference. You spun around and started making your way towards the limo. You could feel the breakdown coming. Jaehyun called your name before your hand could reach the door handle. You waited for him, watching him jog down the hill after you, your tears making his image blur.

“I was gone for a few minutes,” he said. “Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to be here. I didn’t ask to be here.”

“But you came. Why did you come?”

“Because I never have a choice.”

“I always gave you a choice,” Jaehyun said. “You know that. It’s important to me that everyone who enters in my life knows the choice is theirs.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“What do you mean?”

  You threw your hands up into the air. “I don’t know! I never know. Jaehyun, it was fine for awhile. You are so great, and you’ve kept me going for a long time, but I’m not sure this is right for me anymore. I’m not sure I can keep being like this with you. I’m not the best version of myself.”

  He stepped closer to you and began to reach out his hand but thought better of it. There were a million thoughts going around in your head, but you couldn’t sort them all out.

“I want out.” you said.

[theliterateape]

The Cat with the Key

By J. L. Thurston

Note from the author: I would absolutely love to claim this entire story as my creation. I do love this tale tremendously. But I was inspired to write this after reading a writing prompt on Pintrest that actually originated from a Tumblr post that was highlighted on Ladnow.com. The exact link actually does not exist, as it is quite old. I wrote this story because it is an idea that deserves to be written.

IT WAS A RAINY DAY IN BARTONSHIRE, as were most days, when Jane Alaric declared her wish to marry. Such a thing would not be so extraordinary, save for the fact that Jane was nearly thirty and was still considered the most beautiful woman any man had ever seen. She had been propositioned by dukes and lords, haughty heirs and desperate commoners alike. In Jane’s opinion, her beauty was the least interesting thing in her life, but it seemed to be all anyone cared for.

Her bloodline was a mystery, and rumors were abounding. Some said her father was the king’s sorcerer and he had purchased Jane from the Fae in exchange for his soul. Others say Jane had no family. She had simply grown from the ground in the form of a flower. Under the light of a full moon, an angel plucked the flower and it became a woman.

In the city of Allensville, they feared her. She was chased away and accused of witchcraft. She was absolved by the Cardinal of Elderbast. In all places, women seethed behind her back and glared at their husbands whenever Jane was near. It had been ten years since she had quietly settled in the village of Bartonshire. She found solace in the sleepy seaside town where there were fewer men to chase her.

Yes, beauty was something Jane had little time or patience for. It had cost much. But the life of a shut-in was not a joyful one. Her loneliness was so deep, and so bitter, and so profound that the previous summer no flowers grew in any of her gardens. Mother nature herself was demanding she find a companion.

It was a worrisome thought. Every man she’d ever met only wanted her for her beauty, and no man was worthy to learn her many secrets. It would be difficult to find a man who would protect them.

So it was on a rainy, cold, blustering day in March, that Jane announced that she would take her door key and tie it around the neck of a cat. The man who could get the key and unlock her front door would be the man she would marry.

The heavens opened, and all of Bartonshire was beneath a downpour for two solid days. No cat was seen. The third morning arrived with clear skies and Marcus the butcher spotted a glossy black cat bearing a gold key on a chain. It was just before dawn, and the cat disappeared down an alley before he could get a closer look. That night, Adam Hoss caught sight of the feline as he docked his fishing boat.

It was the fourth day that the chase began in earnest.

Stephen Warfer gathered five of his closest drinking buddies and they scoured the streets for hours. Twice they spotted the cat. The first time, the beast was sunbathing on the roof of the tannery, and by the time Stephen and his friends drew near it was long gone. The second sighting was on the wide cobblestones of Arbor Street. The gang of men drew exceedingly close as the cat stared with wise green eyes. Then, in a flash, the cat darted off, sending the men stumbling after it.

Stephen Warfer’s group was not the only band of men to rally together. And the women of Bartonshire had their fun, as well. Lucy Hoss set fox traps all over her property in the hopes of tossing the captured cat into the sea. Several other women spent the next few days tying false keys around any feline they could get their hands on. The fifth day found Bartonshire littered with key-toting kitties. The trick worked to make fools of dozens of men, as each cat was caught and each key was forced upon Jane’s front door.

Twelve years ago, Rufus had been thrown from his father’s horse, shattering his leg. The bones grew back as knotted as an oak branch.

Andrew Barge refused to chase the cat. Instead he belted serenades outside Jane’s darkened kitchen window, to the dismay of his young fiancé. Simon Dore spent every last penny he had on roses that slowly died on Jane’s steps. Efforts stooped low as Bart Thomas attempted to bribe the locksmith into opening Jane’s door. When the locksmith refused, he sat at her door for hours with his own ill-fashioned pick.

All the while, through the chasing, hollering, and scheming, as the men taunted each other’s efforts in the taverns and awoke with newfound fervor, there was one man who quietly laughed at them from the comfort of his home.

The afternoon of that legendary first day, mere hours after Jane announced her desire to marry, Rufus the painter and potter was sipping tea by his window when he spotted glittering eyes through a heavy curtain of rain. The black cat with the gold key had taken shelter under an overhanging eave of his shed. He chuckled to himself, as he thought of the game Jane had put upon the town and continued to sip his tea.

Twelve years ago, Rufus had been thrown from his father’s horse, shattering his leg. The bones grew back as knotted as an oak branch. Thus, he was not a man to go chasing after four legged critters. But as the night grew chill, and the rain refused to let up, Rufus could not help but feel sorry for the cat who had taken shelter on his property.

Before bed, he warmed a saucer of milk and limped to his front door. Clicking his tongue at the cat, he set the saucer down on his porch and went back inside. He was not surprised to find it empty the next day. Nor was he surprised to find glittering eyes looking at him in the darkness that following night. Evenings passed this way. One dry night, he sat on his porch as the cat lapped up the milk and chewed on the fish bones.

“I have to admit,” Rufus said, listening to the purr of the cat. “I felt sorry for you that first night. With every hungry man chasing you down. But I’ve heard them talk. You have them all spinning on their heads, don’t you, kitty?”

The cat blinked up at him placidly. Rufus laughed.

“Oh, yes. You aren’t one to be captured. Not in a million years.”

After a moment, the cat slinked forward and leapt into Rufus’ lap. In a soft ball of purrs, the cat settled in. Automatically, Rufus stroked her sleek black fur. The key made soft tones against the chain around her neck. He smiled, knowing that any man in town would give anything to be in his shoes at that moment. An absolute first.

Rufus stroked her, and he eyed the key. He could quite easily remove it and win the game he hadn’t been playing. According to Jane, he’d be able to marry her. But the poor woman wouldn’t want a man such as him. Broken, teetering on the brink of poverty. He only had a home because his parents left it to him. He only had coin because his hands picked up where his legs failed him.

Still…

Rufus removed the chain from the cat’s neck. The cat leapt from his lap. Just as her paws touched the wood planks of the porch, she was no longer a cat. Jane stood before him, as naked as the moon, grinning from ear to ear.

Gasping, spluttering, heart hammering, Rufus was led inside his own home so that Jane could share with him the first of her many secrets.

They were wed on a flowering spring day in April. They had three children who grew up beautiful and strong. Jane was lovely until the day she died, but she was so much more than that. She gave her secrets to her children, and her legacy continues in her bloodline. But, more importantly, she did not die lonely and bitter. She died with a full heart, asleep in the arms of her lover, who died that same night, holding in his arms the embodiment of his happiness.

[thegizka]

I See You Reflected In The Moon (fic)

 Chapter 2:  Separated

Rukia had lived nearly all of her life with Renji by her side, but unexpected developments threaten to change everything.

Read it on Ao3.

A thin layer of snow blanketed all visible surfaces, the cold night temperature crystallizing it into a glittering coat of ice.  All outside surfaces were slick, including the wooden walkways and porches of the Kuchiki estate.  During such cold spells, the family used the inner hallways, keeping the exterior doors closed as much as possible so the warmth wouldn’t be swallowed by the winter chill.

Rukia was the coziest and most comfortable that she had ever been, but she missed the cold.  She missed a lot of things, actually.  Her adoption into the Kuchiki clan was the sort of unlikely miracle the Hanging Dog orphans had dreamed of, the whisper of which some of them would disappear to pursue and probably never achieve.  She had been plucked from the lowest rungs of poverty and elevated to the highest of privilege.  She had been delivered from obscurity and given a name, a family, an identity.  It was the best of fairy tale endings, yet she felt incomplete.

She missed being surrounded by people.  The Kuchiki estate was much quieter than any part of the Soul Society she had ever been in.  Her self-made home in Hanging Dog had been messy and full of orphans.  She had done her best to take care of them and protect them until they found a better future.  She had tried to know each of them by name, whether they stayed for a few nights or the rest of their lives.  She had even formed close friendships with some of them.  She had grown to love a handful as her family.  But she learned that the longer you stay in Hanging Dog, the more goodbyes you have to say.  More and more orphans left to try surviving on their own, meaning there were less people to help find food and supplies.  Day to day life was an endless stream of worries and struggles.  Then waves of sickness swept through the district, and Rukia watched helplessly as it claimed her friends--her family--one by one.  Soon it was only her and Renji, worn down by the toil and sorrow, tired of goodbyes.  There had been nothing left for them in Hanging Dog, so they enrolled in the Soul Reaper academy.

She was glad Renji was still with her.  Or he had been.  She missed him now.  They had mourned together, had learned to move on together, had fought for this future together.  They had stuck together in the academy, aware that their tougher background could put them at a social and intellectual disadvantage.  But their experiences also gave them the advantage of exposure to fighting and survival and death.  They were quick to learn and adapt, and they eventually let their guards down enough to make friends.  Together they were healing and redefining their futures.

Rukia couldn’t help smiling to herself as she remembered all of the things they had learned, like how to sleep on a comfortable mattress, and what the moon really was.  She could still remember how smug Renji had looked when he had explained it was nothing more than a giant rock in the sky pulled through space by the earth’s gravity.  He had been fascinated by the science of it all and devoured any information he could find about it.  She had known he was diligent and smart, but their entry into the academy had allowed him to really capitalize on those skills.  If only that could help him with his kido.

She had been scared at first when they were given separate rooms in the academy dorms.  She wasn’t used to sleeping in her own space alone.  She knew Renji was only down the hallway but her first nights in the dorms had not been particularly restful.  On the third night, tired of how quiet everything was and not yet used to the comfort of the bed, she had snuck out and climbed to the roof, hoping to find some peace in the open air.

To her surprise, a familiar redhead and beat her to it.

“What are you doing here?”

Surprise flashed through Renji’s eyes, but they softened in recognition and welcome.

“I should’ve known you’d be along eventually to disturb my peace and quiet.”

“It’s the quiet that drove me out here,” she explained, climbing over the roof to settle beside him, close enough for their shoulders to brush comfortably.  “Everything is too calm here.”

He hummed in agreement.  Silence floated between them, the heavy silence of two minds preoccupied with the same thoughts but not particularly eager to share them.  It wasn’t uncomfortable, though.  Over the years they had shared numerous moonlight chats when they had difficulty sleeping.  Their talks ranged from silly to serious depending on what they sensed each other needed in the moment.  They had been sources of comfort and relief to each other as they navigated the challenges of life in Hanging Dog.  They had perhaps even come to rely on these moments as their friends and family exited their lives.  Now confronting the novelty of the Soul Reaper academy, it was comforting to find themselves still sharing in such a familiar experience.

“Well,” Renji sighed after a while, “we made it.”

“We did, though in your case, just barely.”

“I’m sorry we can’t all have raw talent like you.”

“I’m not sure that’ll be such an advantage now that we’re actually at a school with specific lessons and assignments and tests and things.  You’ll have to teach me how to properly study.”

“I know as much about school as you do.  What makes you think I know how to study?”

“Well you’re always thinking about things and learning stuff.”

“That’s much different than being told what to think about and learn.”

“They’re going to teach us to be Soul Reapers, right?  Which means fighting and working in a squad to protect and take care of people.  I know for a fact you have a lot of experience with that.”

“Yeah, I had to figure all of that out as we went along,” he reflected queity.  “Maybe if I’d had someone to teach me, I could’ve taken better care of everyone.”

Rukia’s chest tightened.  They had mourned the loss of their friends, and the ruthlessness of life in Hanging Dog had hardened them to some of the pain, but here was still an emptiness.  Sometimes she got so angry at the injustice that they two had survived such hardships and the others in their family had not.

“We did the best that we could,” she murmured, laying her head on his shoulder to both provide and seek comfort.

“A better future,” he quoted with a sigh, dropping his head to rest on hers.  “It doesn’t really feel that much better right now.”

“Well, we don’t have to scavenge for food.  We have a warm and reliable place to sleep.  We are earning enough money to live on.  We have a purpose.  And we still have each other.”  She smiled up at the waning moon.  “It’s not a perfect future, but it is one step closer, one bit better.”

Renji remained silent as his thoughts wandered.  She took the time to admire the stars--burning balls of gas, apparently, but still magical to her.  Nights of sitting awake outside had helped her map those glowing pinpoints in an effort to arrange her flickering thoughts.  But the clarity of the stars were easily hidden by clouds.  The moon, however, was harder to dim.  Her eyes were always drawn back to it.  Though it waxed and waned, she knew it was always there, always held a place in the sky, and always came back.  It was familiar like an old friend.  Like Renji.

“I do hope the next ‘better future’ has beds that I can actually sleep in.”

She giggled, and she felt a slight rumble travel through him to her as he also chuckled.  They spoke about this and that for a while, enjoying the mild weather and each others’ company, before turning in for the night.

Just as they had in Hanging Dog, they often found themselves chatting in the moonlight as they adjusted to this new life.  School hadn’t been as shocking as they had expected.  Rukia excelled in reishi control, Renji walloped people in combat, and both did well in their conventional studies.  As they grew more comfortable and felt deserving of their places in the academy, they made friends.  They grew to enjoy this new life.

And then everything was disrupted by one unexpected question.  No, it hadn’t been a question.  It was an order.

We would like to adopt you into the Kuchiki family.

There was no appropriate answer other than ‘yes’.  The noble clans never adopted--at least not the main branches--so it was unheard of that anyone would decline.  Besides, it was the ideal dream of any orphan, to be welcomed into all of the comfort and status of the highborn class.  It was the type of fairy tale twist people would die for.

But initially she had wanted to decline.  It was too good to be true.  And it made no sense.  Why her?  It couldn’t have been due to her record in the academy.  True, she excelled in kido and had been complimented on the precision of her swordplay, but Momo Hinamori had better reishi control, and Renji nearly always bested her in sparring matches.  She was in the upper tier of their class but recognizably shy of the top.

Was it a secret family tie, then?  If so, why hadn’t they found her sooner?  She had struggled alone for so long without any knowledge of her blood family beyond vague memories of stories and feelings.  Renji had at least begun life in the Soul Society with an uncle, giving him the surname Abarai before he died and left his nephew to scrape together an existence with the other Hanging Dog orphans.

Rukia didn’t know if she had ever had a last name.  It was something she wondered about during her moonlight contemplations.  The fact that she had next to nothing to tether her to an identity was secretly distressing.  She felt incomplete and unanchored.  Her friendships in Hanging Dog helped to alleviate some of that aching uncertainty, but it remained in the back of her mind.  It had never been a serious problem, though, until they were filling out registration forms before the academy entrance exams.

At the end of a long day of studying, training, and doing odd jobs for the few residents of Hanging Dog who could pay someone else for labor, she and Renji were staying up deep into the night to continue preparing for the academy.  They used others’ discarded candle stubs for light as they filled out forms for legal documents and registration.  The moon had risen well above the horizon when Rukia sat back, frowning at a blank space on the paper in front of her.

“What is it?” Renji asked, eyes still fixed to the book he was hunched over.  They had spent so much time together, they could sense the other’s mood changes by proximity.

“I don’t have a last name.”

He glanced at her.  “Yeah, so?”

She handed him the paper, tapping to indicate the trouble spot.  He studied it for a second before handing it back with a shrug.

“Just leave it blank.”

“It has one of those ‘required’ marks by it.  I can’t just leave it blank!”

“But you don’t have a last name.”

“Exactly!  I need one, but I don’t have one!”

His eyes roamed her frustrated face for a second before he turned back to his studies.  “Just make one up then.”

Rukia wanted to punch him in that moment.  Make something up???  A name carried a person’s identity.  She couldn’t just make one up!  Didn’t he understand the significance of a last name?  It tied people together, made them belong to each other, formalized a bond between them.  She could feel the desperate desire for that type of connection building inside her, combining with her fatigue and worry over the academy application until it resembled a desperate need she frantically desired to appease.  She couldn’t arbitrarily decide on a fake name, not if it was going on her official application!  She knew it would follow her for her entire career as a Soul Reaper and only serve as a constant reminder that she came from nowhere and was tied to no one.

Her frustration was palpable enough to disturb Renji’s studies.  He sat back and let out an exasperated breath, staring through their open door at the moon suspended above the ramshackle roofs of Hanging Dog.  His eyebrows were drawn together, a sure sign that he was thinking seriously about something, and for some reason, it only deepend Rukia’s sense of frustration.  He seemed much too calm to be taking her concerns seriously.

“If it’s that big of a deal to you, then just use my last name.”

“Huh?”  She was taken aback for a moment.  What was he saying?  What was he implying?

“Look, we’re family, right?”  He turned to look at her, and she saw that he was as serious as he was when they were calculating how to get enough food to feed everyone for the day.  There was no jest or ulterior motive, only calm honesty.  “We’ve promised each other we’re in this together.  Might as well make it official and share the same name.”

“You want to get married?” she screeched.

“What?  No!  No!”  He drew back from her, confusion and surprise and embarrassment coloring his cheeks red.  “I just meant you can use my last name!  Like brother and sister!  Get marr--  What the heck Rukia?!  No!”

She was laughing now, all of the previous frustration released in silly joy as she watched her best friend getting flustered.  She had figured he didn’t mean that--after all, they were incredibly young for that type of commitment, and while she loved him, she was pretty sure it wasn’t that sort of love--but he had left the opportunity open, and she always took the chance to tease him.  He could be such a dork, and she loved when she caught him off guard like this.

By the time she caught her breath and calmed her chuckling, Renji had returned to staring hard at his study material, though his eyes remained frozenly fixed on a single spot and pink skin still hinted at a blush along his cheekbones.  She just stared at him for a while, happy to have him in her life and thrilled that he would give her the gift of his name.  She was important enough to him that he was willing to formalize their bond by tying them together with his name.

So she had become an Abarai at the academy.  Of course some of their classmates had been confused and thought they were married.  Rukia always loved those moments because Renji would turn bright red and she would get to laugh and explain how they weren’t, nor were they technically related, but they had chosen to be family to each other so she had registered under his name.  It was easy to explain as a casual formality, but having been given a last name eased some of the ache at having an unknown past and unclear identity.

Yet the Kuchikis decided to take that away from her.  In its place they offered a name with more prestige and greater lineage, but it felt wrong.  She and Renji had shared the same circumstances and overcome the same obstacles together.  She wasn’t a noblewoman.  She didn’t fit the name ‘Kuchiki’, and the name didn’t fit her.  By accepting, she knew she would simply be inhabiting a role, pretending to be a sister to a man she didn’t know and a daughter to parents she would never meet.  They would be family in name only.  Perhaps she would grow to think of them as hers as they evidently intended to think of her as theirs, but she and Renji had already lived for years as a family, as each other’s siblings.  Why should she give that up for this unearned legacy?  She had survived by her own volition for so long, she would much rather continue as she had with her best friend.

But as soon as they had made their proposition, she knew that was no longer an option, and Renji’s unexpected visit only served to drive that point home.  She watched with internal horror as the excitement on his face changed to surprise, confusion, and wariness.  She watched as her new “brother” looked down his nose at her chosen brother and dismissed him without a second glance.  And she realized what she had been most worried about when they first approached her--that becoming a Kuchiki meant giving up everything that was being an Abarai.

But she couldn’t say no, and she saw in Renji’s eyes that he had already accepted she would say yes.  He congratulated her, bubbling over with the joy and excitement that she couldn’t summon for herself.  It broke her heart, but he was saying that he was happy for her and that she should embrace this new future--this better future, the sort of future their friends had died dreaming about.  He was letting her go.  He was saying goodbye.

“Thank you,” she told him, brushing past him so he wouldn’t see her tears.  There was so much more she wanted to say to this boy who had been by her side and believed in her and had been everything she had needed.  But she couldn’t tell him, couldn’t say all of the things she had thought they would have time to say because she had never expected to say goodbye to Renji.  They were meant to build a better future together.  They had promised each other they would never leave.  But she had to walk past him and through the door into life as a Kuchiki.  She was an Abarai no more.

Rukia pulled the thick, warm comforter tighter around herself.  She had adjusted to the comfort of mattresses, but her new home was still too quiet.  She would stay up late at night with her thoughts and gaze at the moon, seeking answers in its mottled surface.  Despite tonight’s cold, she had slipped outside to sit on the porch, dragging her blanket with her for warmth and a semblance of comfort.

Life in Hanging Dog had been crowded and lively.  There had always been things to do, schemes to cook up, and pranks to play.  Here, the servants did everything, ghosting through the estate and accomplishing their duties out of sight so that Rukia felt as though she were alone most of the day, even though she knew there was always someone within earshot.  The few times she had run into the staff, she couldn’t help noticing them giving her a strange look, one that shifted from familiarity to shock to careful and distant deference.In another life, she could have been one of them.  Being a servant to one of the noble clans was an enviable life for an orphan.  She wondered what they must think of her, suddenly elevated to a member of the family and their superior.  She didn’t blame them for keeping their distance.

She had thought she would see more of her new family, though.  To her, being a family meant sharing their lives and being close to each other, like she had with the Hanging Dog orphans.  She rarely saw her Kuchiki relatives.  Byakuya would usually join her for dinner, but a few days each week his Soul Reaper duties kept him working until late.  She was expected to give him a report every evening on the progression of her studies--she had private tutors covering academy lessons and the expectations of the nobility--but he only ever desired the facts.  He rarely commented on her progress, and never offered praise.  Like her teachers, he was distant, but at least he was somewhat willing to interact with her.  After an initial introduction and polite visits to other members of the Kuchiki clan, Rukia had been all but ignored by her new relatives.

She missed Renji especially in these long moments alone when she couldn’t sleep.  The formality and rigidity of this new life were isolating, and she longed for his liveliness and sincerity.  Since leaving the academy for her private lessons, she hadn’t been able to keep up on the progress of her friends.  She was being streamlined to graduate early and practically guaranteed a ranked seat in one of the Court Guard Squads.  She didn’t know when she would have the chance to see anyone again.  Would they all graduate?  Would Renji’s issues with kido hold him back?  Would he have classmates watching his back during their lessons in the field?  He had found a few friends to hang out and study with, and hopefully they would survive the trials of the academy together.

But they were out of reach for her now, as far away as the moon.  She didn’t feel like she had anyone watching her back anymore.  That was something she had given up when she gave up being an Abarai.  She was learning that being a Kuchiki meant maintaining a distance from everyone else under the guise of pride and reserve.  It was the opposite of Hanging Dog where they had shared everything.  She missed the warmth she used to feel at the word “family”.  The only thing she had left of her previous life was the moon, the constant companion of her inner thoughts.  Tonight, it had never seemed so far away.

[sascerides]

Between the Stitches - A Short Story

Every house in the village has a piece of her work. An embroidered cushion on the armchair, a tablecloth hidden in the drawer, a tea towel hanging by the oven.

She stands by the market on Sundays and sells her labour for five pounds apiece. The countless hours and years of her needle running through the cloth. Her old gnarled fingers bending the thread to her will. Every house in the village has a piece of her work but they barely see her when they buy them. Not the real her.

Hers is a magic as old as the land. Hers is the power and the mercy and the word. With a flick of the wrist, she could bring about the end of an empire. The beginning of an age. She could weave you a tidal wave, a wedding dress, the promise of a child.

Hers is a rage as old as time. But time has moved on without her.

And here she is. Standing in the local supermarket of a half-dead provincial village. Here she is, trying to get something as mundane as canned sweet corn. 

And he. He is in her way.

This man. She has seen him grow up. From a pig-coloured screaming toddler in a polo shirt to a pig-coloured stern-faced man in a suit and tie. She has known him all his life and to him she is invisible. Or at least it would seem so. Standing there with his tie-half undone, his phone to his ear and his shopping cart blocking an entire aisle.

He is in her way.

“Excuse me,” she says and he turns to look at her but he does not move. He waves his hand dismissively and he continues talking on his phone.

“I’m telling you, Todd. You’ll regret not making this investment” he says and she says “Sorry. can you move?” He looks at her and he does not know who he is looking at. A little old lady. A villager. Someone who is in his way. She who has been here since before he was born. He does not know her face.

The people of this village do not know that she has been here since before the village was built. She has been here since the first apple blossoms fell with the first autumn sun sinking in the western sea. They do not know, how could they? They do not know and they would not care.

“Sir,” she says again. And she is moments away from anger. His name could be a curse in her mouth. His fate could be crushed in her hands. But all she does is mutter under her breath. And he does not hear her whispers. He does not hear her, just like everybody else. They don't hear her whispers, they don't hear her songs. To them, she is nothing but a seamstress, and oh, she thinks, with an almost venomous satisfaction. Oh, they have no idea. They have no idea what is coming for them.

The man covers the phone with his hand and he turns to her “Can you keep quiet, please? Can’t you see? I’m in the middle of an important phone call?” and before she can say anything else he has turned away from her again. 

She wishes she could call a thunderstorm on him right here. Right here in the canned food aisle under the fluorescent lights. She wishes she could open up a sinkhole and watch him fall, fall deep beneath the floor and the village and every safety he has ever known. She wishes she could be back on her porch with her needle and her threat.

She brings forth from the cloth the legends of old. An apple tree on an island in the lake. A sword sinking deep, deep beneath the waves. The old man in the hills, the young man on the cross, the woman with her sword screaming wildly in terror or rage. She brings the flowers in the spring and the golden light of autumn. She will leave you gasping for air in the waves of blue-green thread she stitches into a sea. If she wants to, she will leave you spell-bound. Tied into the stitches of her work. If she wants to.

Some might call her wicked. Cruel. Heartless. But she has no time for the morality of man. She has been here too long for that kind of trifles.

Now, she is tired and old and all she wants is to buy her sweet corn and return to her porch. But this man. This man who, like so many men before him, has no idea of the danger he is in. This man who thinks an old woman can be dismissed. That he is the one who has any sort of power here. This man has no idea what she could do to him.

There was a time when the land was full of magic. A time when the people believed. A time when they saw and feared what she could do. A time when she was young and strong and carefree dancing through the night. Before their church bells and their bank notes and their television screens.

Now, she is old an bitter and all she feels is the chill. All she feels is their hollow voices and their empty eyes. Their feet moving in patterns they learned from when they were children. Walking like a wind-up toy from one box to the next never leaving the paths on which they were set. She has watched this village grow and age and sink into quiet desperation, shrouded in a mist.

“Sir,” she says again. “I have to ask you to move” and again he ignores her. And for a second she gathers up all the magic of the land that sleeps within her. All the rage and the anger that has dwelt in these valleys for centuries before him. Every thunder strike and every hurricane. Every evil spell that she could throw in his face. And for a second, above them, clouds are gathering and winds are starting to blow. For a second, every can and jar in the aisles around them starts to shake. For a second even this man, oblivious as he is, feels a chill in his bones and he looks at her with a sudden fear in her eyes. Then, she breathes. She counts to three and she walks over to him. She pushes him away, with her frail old arms, and she takes her corn and walks away. He shouts behind her and he curses. He has dropped his phone on the floor. He is angry but she does not turn. She does not spare him a look. 

“Sorry” she mumbles, but she does not apologise for what she did, she apologises for what she is yet to do.

Hers is a rage as old as time. And as she walks out of the supermarket she can feel it boiling. Walking past the duck pond she is clenching her fists, whipping up waves on the surface as she passes. 

At home in her living room, she lets the silence settle in. The deep silence. The old silence. Hidden underneath the traffic noise and the cawing of the crows. Underneath the whisperings of her neighbours and the echo of a shouting man in a supermarket aisle. She sits there, quietly, watching the clouds go by. Slowly, slowly whispering beneath the sounds of the village. She sits there, patiently, as the darkness fills her living room. The shadows of the longest night of the year. As the moon starts his pilgrimage across the sky.

And then. Then she begins.

She takes out her needle and her thread. Her cloth and her tiny, round glasses to help her see. She sows by moonlight in the silence of the night. Up goes her needle through cloth and night and silence. Down goes her needle through cloth and life and time. Stitch by stitch by stitch she devises a world yet to be. A fate yet to be told. A story no one in this village will tell. 

From her needle springs a landscape. White as snow and cold as death. Hills and valleys and the cliffs, beaten by the waves. From her cloth grows a village. Tiny houses with their tiny doors and chimneys full of smoke. A cross-stitch church tower shooting up between the roofs. From her gnarled old fingers, she brings forth a supermarket and a high street. A dozen tiny houses full of tiny people in suits and dresses and faces that will soon begin to scream.

She stitches long and she stitches slow. Drawing her needle carefully, pulling the thread through the fabric of existence with every single stitch she makes. Pulling tight the future and the past and the very darkness of this night. She works and she whispers and she does not stop. And by the time the moon has made his way to the top of the sky, she has stitched out a village. Complete with shops and people and cars driving down the streets. She has stitched a village, not unlike the one that she is in. Exactly like the one, she is in. And if you showed it to the villagers they would marvel at her work but none of them will ever see it.

When she has finished her village, the real work begins. She has mimicked what is. Now is the time to create what will be. Now, the real magic begins. As the moon grips his walking stick tighter and hurries on towards the dawn she brews herself another cup of coffee and picks up her needle again.

She stitches up a flower, then a flowerbed. A forest on the outskirts of town. She stitches the duck pond bigger and the waves in it wild. She stitches a tree at the village square stretching her branches over the roofs. Bigger and bigger it grows as her needle dances through the cloth. Bigger and bigger until the moon is all but blocked out by the branches. She stitches the trunk of the tree, growing strong at the movement of her hand. Roots shooting up through the cobbled stones of the high street. Piercing the supermarket floor.

There was a time when she was patient. There was a time when she was kind. Before the monks marched into the land carrying their dead god of dust and sin and sacrament. Before the men in suits with their pitiful paper gods conquered the ground. Tamed the wind herself and lay barren all that had been meadows and flowers and song. There was a time when she was young. But now, now she is old and bitter and she is done with it all.

Hers is a rage as old as time and she cannot tame it anymore. Will not tame it anymore.

In the infant hours of the morning. While the sun is a mere glimmer on the horizon. When the moon is weary and footsore and nearing the end of his journey. Every embroidered flower in the village blooms. Every vine grows tall and strong bursting through the cloth from where they grew. Bursting up from cushions and coin purses and carpets in every house on every street. Every fairy tears through the cloth that binds her and soars through the stale living room air.

And in one house. One house in particular. A house with an angry middle-aged man in a suit. A man who dropped his phone today and shouted at a little old lady. In one house hangs an embroidered picture frame over the fireplace. A silent forest scene with quiet deer grazing. Sunlight streaming in from above. It is a piece he has inherited. From his mother and her mother before her. From a woman long ago who bought it from a lady at the marketplace. A lady with old tired hands who had been in the village for longer than anyone remembered. 

In the home of an angry middle aged man, sleeping soundly on his pillow hangs a landscape. And in the infant hours of the morning, the trees in that forest start to grow. They stretch their branches like limbs after a long sleep. Their roots shoot through the frame of their quiet, happy world and run towards the floor. Their trunks grow thick and strong and on their branches, new leaves shoot out every second. As the man sleeps on his pillow, the deer leave their meadow and jump through his living room. Antlers and all. The branches of the trees work their way through his ceiling and into his bedroom. Their leaves grow strong and bold and green. And on every twig a flower blooms taking up every spare inch of the house.

In the infant hours of the morning, the home of the man in the suit ceases to be a home. Instead, it becomes a forest bursting with life. Trees breaking through his roof shooting for the moon. Bushes in every corner and hares and badgers jumping the couch. In the middle of the living room, cross-stitched deer drink calmly from a forest pond that grows with every minute.

And somewhere deep, deep in this forest, under the roots of an ancient oak. Behind worms and dirt and what seems to be a century of growth. Somewhere in a dark cavern hidden in the trees. There sleeps an angry man who shouted in the supermarket. There sleeps soundly a man who would wake to find his home overtaken by life. But this man will never wake. For this is the magic of the needlework. In the world that she creates only her creation will blossom, and she did not stitch him waking up.

Hers is a magic as old as the land. Hers is a rage as old as time. And he. He was in her way.

In the childhood hours of the morning. When the sun peaks over the horizon and the moon takes off his walking boots. When the birds wake from their slumber, she puts her needle down. On the tapestry in front of her was a village. Now it is a forest. A land full of magic and trees. Of horses running wild and fairies dancing on the hills. Where the village was is now nothing but a lake. Deep and blue and quiet.

There was a time when she would have been pleased. But she is tired and bitter and old. There was a time when she would have been proud, but pride is far behind her. Now, all she does is lay her needle on her floor and crawl into her bed. Aching fingers and tired eyes and a quiet smile on her face. As she closes her eyes and goes to sleep her spells do their work and as the sun begins his journey over the sky, every stitch of hers will come to be.

As the moon rests on the horizon glancing back for a glimpse of his bright lover on his shining steed. As darkness retreats into the morning. She closes her eyes and sleeps. And all across the village embroidered duck ponds and ocean waves and forest lakes grow pregnant with purpose and power. All across the village they overflow their frames and overflow their quiet, decent living rooms, and overflow the houses they were in.

Hers is a magic as old as time. And this is her magic. What she has foretold will be true.

Every stitch of hers will come to be. And every house in the village had a piece of her work.

Thank you for reading. You can find more stories here. 

[pecavae]

Hiraeth>> one

hiraeth

(n.) a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past.

A/N: Taehyung x Reader x Bts

Warning: Dark themes, Explicit Language, Mentions of smoking and an abusive home setting, Runaway OC

Genre: Angst

Synopsis: You’re forced to leave home, now determined to fend for yourself. A new life in your past hometown San Francisco is now your only option. Alone in the city suddenly shifts when you encounter your childhood best friend Taehyung. But it’s just like the saying goes, people change, memories don’t. Will you be the one to change Taehyung back, or will his new tempting dark life ultimately be the final straw to change you. 

You walk down the dark grimy alley way; the recent rain left the worn down asphalt wet with residue seeping through the cracks of the faded concrete. Each step you take clearly audible as splashing drops of contaminated rain get on your tattered converse - soaked through to your socks but you don't bring yourself to care. Making your way through the familiar streets you've taken ever since you were a child, you head to your house. The sound of police sirens and dogs barking aimlessly in the distance invades your ears. The cold humidy of the night was evident as a large cloud of moisture releases in front of you with each breath you take. 

Stuffing your hands further into your school uniform jacket pockets, you desperately try to gather any fraction of warmth into your frigid bones as you near your house. You open the metal fence to the front yard with a high pitched creak that has never once been bothered to oil before; and when you open the front door, the usual unwelcoming waft of old cigarettes burning enters your nostrils. Your eyes quickly find your mom in the kitchen table with her head in her hands. To any normal set of eyes, one would guess she was crying, but your mother rarely cried. A habit you had picked up on as well over the course of the years. Nearing the table, you call out to her with a knot in your stomach as you pray there are no fresh bruises, futilely covered up with patches of makeup. Her head pops up immediately, shuffling a paper into her lap away from your line of sight, but not before you catch the red lettering that read Eviction. 

"Oh hi baby, your’e home from school?" She looks up at you with chronic under eye circles as she forces a smile at you that looked a synthetic as the plastic tape holding the greater part of the house together.

 "Yeah." You simply say as you look around when you hear a familiar dry laugh coming from the living room. You see him propped up on the recliner, taking a robotic swig of his beer with one hand and a smoke in the other as he watched some show on the television - which at this point had thin green and red lines running across the center which he obviously didn't seem to mind. His croaky laugh echoed through the room once more and a shiver runs down your spine with resentment and disdain.

You look back down at your mom with a frown. "Mom why does he-" You begin grumbling but your mom quickly lifts her hand up silencing you. "Not now (y/n), I don't want to hear it, please." She gets up tiredly and heads for her bedroom and you follow silently behind her. Passing by the living he acknowledges your existence for the first time since you got there. Looking up at you with twisted amusement in his eyes and a shake of his head, as if with disappointment. "Late again I see.” He says as he runs a dry tongue across his mouth. “Maybe you should raise your kid better Evelyn." He motions towards your mother, taking yet another swig of beer. 

Your blood heats but your attention is shifted towards your mom when she squeezes your hand lightly signaling you to not react. "I'll talk to her." You give her a disappointed look and your eyes shift back to him as you let out a frustrated scoff. "Better fix that attitude before I fix it for you." He says with raised eyebrows, motioning to you with the bottle never leaving his hand. "Yeah well maybe you should fix your ass a decent job for once." You feel your mom tug at your wrist but it's too late and he gets up from his chair with his head cocked to the side. "What did you say you little shit.” He was a good foot taller than you but you are no more intimidated than a dog ready to fight. “I let you and your mom live under my roof, and this is how your’e going to act." He steps towards you but you hold your ground not faltering under his gaze. "Tom, she didn't mean it. (y/n) say you're sorry." She hisses under her breath.

"No." You yank your wrist from her grip not backing down. "It's not like you do anything around this house anyways. We've been living her for 8 years! Who do you think has to pay rent went your ass gets fired, again! because someone shows up to work drunk." You faintly register your moms insistence as she keeps calling your name. You see his eyes widen and his eyebrows deepen hearing you snap at him. "Fine! If you have a problem living here why don't you just leave." He steps towards you but your mom gets in between and you immediately start tugging on her arms not wanting her to get involved. "No Tom please, please I-I'll talk to her okay. Come on (y/n)." She grips your arms tightly pulling you. 

"Mom please! you can't keep living with this asshole." You spit through gritted teeth at him.

"(Y/N) stop it now, I mean it." 

"Leave her be Evelyn. If she wants to leave we're going to let her. She's gonna be 18 now, she wants to act like an adult, we're gonna treat her like one." He smirked shamelessly and your fiery eyes pierce right through him, feeling your face heat up as the adrenaline begins spiking through your veins. 

"Fuck you! I hope you choke on your beer you dickhead!" Taking your mom's hands in yours, you lead her into your room shutting the door behind you. You dump all of the contents in your backpack on the floor and begin shoving in clothes. "Mom listen, if we leave now, we can catch the midnight bus to the next city. We can both find a job and live on our own for a while before finding a more stable place to stay okay? I know it might be heard, but I think we can do it yeah?" You had been ranting the entire time, so when you hear no response, you turn around and find your mom sitting on the edge of the bed looking down at her hands. "Mom? Come on, what are you doing you gotta start packing your things. Here i'll help you." You reach for her hands but she makes no movement to even look up at you. Your fingertips twitch as you slowly approach her.

 "Mom?" You kneel down in front her looking up at her tear stained face. "M-Mom what's wrong?" You lift up your thumb and wipe off a fresh tear off her face. "...I can't go with you." You breathing quickens in confusion as your heart starts thumping in your rib cage. 

"What? What are you talking about of course you can...mom?" You blink several times. "I can't leave him (y/n)."  Lifting your hand palm up she places a handful of bills into your hand then closes it into a tight fist. “This was meant to be your birthday money.” She smiles painfully at you. Your eyes widen and you feel yourself start to panic. "Mom please no, don't do this, he doesn't love you, you don't love him. You deserve better!" She only looks up at you with pain in her eyes and heart wrenching smile. "Please, please...” You try steadying your voice but to no avail. “Come with me."

You begin to feel tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

She looks at you, endless tears falling down her face as she begins caressing your cheeks. "My baby...I wish your father were still alive." You hold her hand in a fist gently pressing it against the crook of your neck. "I know, I know mom me too. But we can still start our lives over again, just you and me yeah?." She shuts her eyes tight dropping her head and whispers and barely audible, "I’m sorry." 

Tom opens the door with a hard shove. "What the hell you still here for? Get out." You ignore him altogether as you look up at your mother's face one final time. "I love you. I'll come back for you, you hear me." You cup her face and make her look at you. "I'll come back." You lean up and kiss her on her forehead before standing up straight, swinging your backpack over your shoulder and facing him with raw determination in your eyes. You've wanted to tell him so many things in the past 8 years, but at that moment you realize he isn't worth a single breath as you shove past him, walking out the front door. 

The frosty air slaps your skin with a thousand knifes yet you welcome the sensation. You kick the metal fence open with a loud squeaky pang. Walking determinedly up the road yet you turn around one last time hoping with all your might that you'd see your mother catching up to you.

But you see nothing. The dim street lights as well as the front porch one that glitched ever so often lit nothing more than the bare facade of the house. No movement, no sound.

You heart ached heavily as you mouth a promise into the night. You kneel on one knee bringing your backpack down and zipping it open. Pulling out an old brown leather pilot jacket that had once belonged to your father and the only thing you had left of his. You slip your arms through, instantly feeling your body react and begin storing much needed warmth. 

You whisper a "Goodbye." And swallowed down a lump that had lodged into your throat. You walk steadily to the bus station and arrive after a couple of blocks. The empty street was all you found and you sit down on the graffiti covered bench, checking the watch on your wrist.

11:48 PM

Reaching into your thin uniform jacket's pocket underneath, you pull out the wad of cash your mother had given you, and after a moment’s hesitation you count it. $103 dollars. You take the hair tie from your wrist, neatly folding the paper bills in half and securing them with it. You return it to the pocket of your inner jacket and zip up your dad's pilot jacket. Breathing in the cold air, you feel it hit the back of your throat and you let out a huge puff of fog. 

Your mind began wondering back to your dad. He had died when you were six, and it was hard for you to understand he was even gone at first. You'd never be able to feel his beard tickle your face when you kissed him and how he'd lift you up in his arms above his head and you'd feel like you were flying. He'd come home everyday with your favorite watermelon flavored lollipop. You could still faintly recall his scent which you adored and would give anything to bury your nose in one last time; a musky wooden smell with a trace of mint. The jacket had long lost his scent but sometimes if you breathed in deep enough you'd swear you could still smell him. The day he didn't come home, you stood by the door waiting for his hand to poke through at any moment holding the lollipop when you heard your mother scream in the next room. You rushed to the room standing at the door way in a onesie and holding your favorite teddy bear, Marbles, now dangling at your feet. You saw her kneeling on the floor with a phone to her ear. It wasn't until years later she finally told you, some thug had wanted his wallet, but apparently he didn't get fast enough and shot him twice in the chest. He was taken to the hospital but was pronounced dead at arrival. 

Your mom was never the same after that. She'd become distant and reserved, even towards yoy. When you turned 10 and began to think things would get better for you and her, Tom came into the picture. He was the manager of a grocery store and you immediately disliked him. When you tried to convince your mother you had a bad feeling about him she dismissed you saying you were too young and needed time to grow on him. She married him 6 months later.

Once Tom got laid off from his manager position he turned to alcohol and could never keep a job after that, leaving my mom working two jobs just so you could make ends meet. You hated him, there wasn't a day that went by that you didn't wish for things to go back to the way they were, when your dad was still alive.

Two bright lights making you squint bring you back from your thoughts. The large bus approaches its' stop in front of you and you stand at the door. The doors swing open and you see a rather large man munching on a snickers bar looking down at you unamused. You hesitate at first but then take the few first steps onto the bus. "Where ya’ headed miss?" He says in a raspy monotoned voice.

You thought about it briefly as you had been too distracted until now to really think about where you where now going. The first city that popped into your mind was seemingly loud and clear and you look up. "San Francisco." 

The bus driver nods once and you quickly pay your fee, grateful for his lack of interest and hence lack of questions. "It'll be a couple hours." He says leaning down to grip the handle and swinging the door shut. You make your way down the isle; the bus was empty with the exception of a few, including an old thin woman with a dirty fur coat and matching hat, and a man passed out asleep snoring, wearing sunglasses. Taking a seat in the back corner you look out the window and watch the city lights pass by. You suddenly feel tired but have a funny feeling in your stomach, a mixture of pain, sadness and nervousness. Before you realized it your eyes had shut and you fell into a deep exhausted sleep.

"Miss?" You feel a large hand shake your shoulder and you force your eyes open. "This is the last stop." The round burly man leaned down smelling strongly of peanuts.

"Oh um, thank you." You mumble as you straighten your stiff neck. You grab your backpack from the seat next to you and head off the bus. You hear the squeak of the doors shut behind you and you watch the bus drive away.

It was still pretty early; you could tell by the hazy fog and the mixed hues of dark and light blue. You neared the dock, leaning into the railing and looking down at the bay. The sound of the waves lightly crashing into the rocks made you feel more calm as you breathed in the crisp air. Hearing and feeling a knowing grumble of your stomach, you look at your surroundings to see where you could get some food. 

You begin walking towards a small cafe your father used to take you to every Sunday called La Pierre when you were little. 

A few blocks from the place you turn a corner and almost crashing head first into a group of boys years older than you who were busy doing graffiti on a wall. 

You’re eyes immediately widen as a sharp gasp leaves you. Fuck. Three of them slowly surround you as they snicker. 

"Whatcha doing huh?" You move your eyes around quickly and count 4.

"Nice jacket." The tall one says tugging once at your sleeve.

"Don't touch me." A wave of laughter erupts and you try to calm your nerves.

"So she talks." One of them comments.

"So where you headed?"

"None of your business." You quickly retort.

"Oh shit my bad." He lifts both his hands up and grins mischievously.

Behind you one kneels and points at your skirt. "Is this a school uniform?" He chuckles but it comes out as more of a scoff. 

You quickly shift around and accidentally bump into one of them and he grabs your upper arms laughing. You quickly shove him off and scowl at him.

A fifth voice you couldn't see breaks out from behind the boys. "Are you dumbasses done? We don't have time for this shit." All eyes including yours turn to a honey toned boy leaned against the wall nonchalantly. He had long shaggy bangs covering his forehead and was wearing a dark hoodie and leather jacket. He had on round John Lennon sunglasses and a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth lazily. "We were just fucking around, Taehyung." Says one snorting.

"Taehyung?” Your voice small as you recall the name. “Tae?" You say louder and all five boys shift their attention back on you.

The honeyed boy leans off the wall taking off his glasses and flicking his cigarette to the ground. He walks towards you and stands in front of you leaning close to your face, really close, as his eyes study your face unamused when you see his eyes widen a fraction suddenly. "(y/n)?" Your name comes out as a whisper but the distance between your faces allows you to hear him loud and clear. His large brown eyes intensify as he examines your face and you feel yourself start to blush slightly at his fixed stare. You see his eyes soften slightly and you see a trace of a smile on his face. Your heart skips a beat and you feel a hint of relief, thankful to have found your childhood friend.

Out of the corner of your eye you see the four boys looking at each other with confused shrugs.

Yet when you look back a Taehyung his gaze had turned cold and stiff; the sudden mood shift catching you off guard.

“You shouldn’t have come back (y/n).

Your face drops and your eyebrows scrunch in confusion, “Tae I-I…”

A heavy sigh leaves from between his lips, “It’s not safe for you here anymore."

You open your mouth but can’t find the words to say to him. He looks at your face once more but you can’t read his expression. “Go home (y/n).” He turns his back to you, clinging his sunglasses on his shirt collar. "Let’s go.” He calls to the boys as they look back at you with confused interest but soon enough, they steadily begin to follow Taehyung, leaving you standing there by yourself, alone, confused - and by the empty growl of your gut- hungry.