#so until then i shall remain rosemarie

[urimaginarygirlfriend]

no one will ever know my real name. my online persona will always be marie and i will never stop being marie. she is hot and cool and pretty and everyone loves her. live laugh love rosemarie.

[tiredwitchplant]

How to Use Herbs : Rosemary

Hwello there. We have talked about rosemary and its uses in a previous post. If you haven't read it, please click here: Rosemary

Now I shall provide some spells, tonics, recipes and etc on where you can utilize it. Let us begin :)

Author's Note: From I noticed a part is usually a teaspoon. You can add more according to your needs, but I would always start with that measurement first.

Alchemist Formula for Binding:

One part benzoin gum (Saturn, binding)

One part patchouli (Saturn,binding)

One part Solomon's seal (Saturn, protective)

One part rosemary oil (Saturn, protective)

One part frankincense oil (Sun, success)

Mental Focus Magical Tea:

I part rosemary

1/2 part spearmint

1 cup of boiling water

Mix herbs in a small jar

To brew, pour 1 cup of boiling water over 1 teaspoon of the herbal blend.

Steep for 5 - 7 minute. Strain and drink.

Spells:

Remembrance for Lost Love (Heartache Healer)

6 drops of rosemary oil

3 drops of peppermint oil

1 drop of lavender oil

White candle

Add the oil to the top of the candle, one at a time, in a clockwise direction around the wick.

LIght the candle and gaze into the flame

Visualize your fond memories of the person who left your life. As you do this say, "I thank you for the time we had together, I thank you for the love we shared, I thank you for being an important part of my life. We have parted, we move on, we remember. I wish you the best life has to offer and hope you have found happiness."

Allow the candle to burn out of its own and dispose of the remaining wax away from your home or bury it in the spot you and the past partner enjoyed together.

Broom Cleansing Spell

 Use one or any combination of the following botanicals: broom, cedar,fennel, hyssop, rosemary, sage, vervain.

Arrange the botanicals and tie them to the bottom of a branch withraffia, visualizing, charging and knotting. (Any branch may be used,however an ash branch is considered particularly powerful.)

Sprinkle with salted water or any preferred purification formula.

Sweep the area.

Disassemble the broom outside, away from the cleansed space.

 Bury the components in the ground or toss them into living waters, flowing away from you.

Ghost Keep Away Spell (Boundary Line Spell)

Place three peeled cloves of garlic in a bowl, together with one handful of sea salt and one handful of fresh rosemary leaves.

Grind and mash the ingredients together.

Sprinkle them to create a boundary, as needed.

Bad Habits Bath

Add the following to a tub filled with warm water:

Essential oil of clary sage

Essential oil of frankincense

Essential oil of lavender

Essential oil of lemongrass or May Chang

Essential oil of rosemary

Enter the bath and inhale the fragrance, and accompany with affirmations and positive visualizations.

Kitchen Witch Recipes:

Super-Quick Bonus Recipe for Gwion’s Red Onion Pickle Bliss

Fills one pint-sized jar

Prep Time: 10 minutes

Cooking Time: 20 minutes, plus 30 minutes to cool in the fridge

1 medium red onion

3 tablespoons sugar

1/2 cup water

10 black peppercorns

2/3 cup white wine vinegar,

rice vinegar, or apple cider vinegar

1/4 teaspoon red pepper flakes

1 sprig rosemary

1 clove garlic, peeled and halved

Slice the onion very thinly and place it in your clean, dry jar. Set it aside.

Add the rest of the ingredients to a medium saucepan and bring to a boil until the sugar has fully dissolved. Stir carefully so you don’t break the rosemary. The sprig is in there to add flavour, and you’ll discard it before the next step.

Let the pickling mixture (the water, vinegar, and spices) cool down for about 10 minutes. Discard the sprig of rosemary and pour the remaining

ingredients into the jar of onions. Make sure all of the onions are submerged

in the picking liquid. If you have to, use a spoon to push the onions down in the jar. Seal the jar and put it in the fridge to cool. The onions are ready to eat once they are cool, about 30 minutes.

Serve them on avocado toast, burgers, salads, or just with a fork straight out of the jar. Remember to kiss your partner or partners before eating the onions out of the jar, unless they’re into pungent kisses.

Goat for a God: Roasted Goat Leg with Grape Molasses

Great for Deities: Dionysus, Pan and Thor

Serves : 6

Prep Time: 30 minutes

Cooking Time: 2 hours and 30 minutes

1 goat leg (about 3 pounds)

1/4 cup + 1 tablespoon olive oil

2 teaspoons salt

1 teaspoon cumin

2 teaspoons black pepper

4 tablespoons grape molasses

2 cloves garlic, minced

1 teaspoon coriander

2 sprigs fresh rosemary

1 cup white wine + one glass for sipping and toasting while cooking (use mead if you're cooking this for Thor)

1 bay leaf

2 large carrots, chopped into

1" chunks

1 celery root, peeled and chopped into 1" cubes

Open the bottle of white wine or mead and take a hefty drink. (This is optional but deities do like when you drink with them but they can respect if you don't partake.)

Preheat the oven to 375° F.

Liberally season the goat leg with salt and pepper.

Rub the minced garlic all over the goat leg too. If it helps, poke a few holes in the goat leg so you can get the garlic right into the meat.

Place the rosemary sprigs and bay leaf in the bottom of a large roasting pan and put the goat leg right on top. Add the carrots and celery root around the edges. Pour the olive oil all over the goat and rub it around. Coat the carrots and celery root too.

Pour the white wine around the bottom of the roasting pan.

Loosely cover with kitchen foil and put the whole pan into the oven for 2 hours.

About an hour and forty-five minutes into the cooking process, it’s time to make the glaze.

Mix the grape molasses—which is a super-condensed syrup made of grape must—in a bowl with a tablespoon of olive oil, the coriander, and the cumin. You can substitute honey for the grape molasses if for Thor.

At the two-hour mark, pull the roasting pan out of the oven and paint the goat with the grape (or honey) and spice glaze.

Pop the goat and veggies, uncovered, back into the oven for another 20 minutes or until the internal temperature reaches at least 145° F.

When you’re ready to serve this dish, scoop the veggies into a bowl (fornow) and put the goat leg on a platter. If you have access to one, get a cedar plank and serve the goat on it.

Medical Tonics and Infusions:

Infusion- An infusion is the simplest way to prepare the more delicate aerial parts of plants, especially leaves and flowers, for use as a medicine or as a revitalizing or relaxing drink. It is made in a similar way to tea, using either a single herb or a combination of herbs, and may be drunk hot or cold.

Pot Infusion

For a cup:

1 tsp (2–3 g) dried or 2 tsp (4–6 g) fresh herb (or mixture of herbs) to a cup of water

For a pot:

20 g dried herb or 30 g fresh herb (or a mixture of different herbs) to 2 cups (500 ml) of water

Warm the pot, then add the herb.

Pour in water that has just boiled, replace the lid, and infuse for 10 minutes.

Strain some of the infusion into a cup. A teaspoon of honey may be added if desired.

Storage:

Store in a covered jug in a refrigerator or cool place for up to 24 hours.

Tonic Making

Standard Quantity:

200 g dried or 300 g fresh herb chopped into small pieces to 1 quart (1 liter) alcohol—vodka of 35–40% alcohol is ideal, although rum hides the taste of bitter or unpalatable herbs

Standard Dosage:

Take 1 tsp (5 ml) 2 –3 times a day diluted in 1 tbsp plus 1 tsp (25 ml) of water or fruit juice.

Place the herb in a large, clean glass jar and pour on the alcohol, ensuring that the herb is covered. Close and label the jar.

Shake well for 1–2 minutes and store in a cool dark place for 10–14 days, shaking the jar every 1–2 days.

Set up the wine press, placing a muslin or nylon mesh bag securely inside. Pour in the mixture and collect the liquid in the jug.

Slowly close the wine press, extracting the remaining liquid from the herbs until no more drips appear. Discard the leftover herbs.

Pour the tincture into clean, dark glass bottles using a funnel. When full, stopper with a cork or screw top and label the bottles.

Storage:

Store in sterilized, dark glass bottles in a cool dark place for up to 2 years. An amber glass jar is the best option.

Sorry this post is so long @_@ But please enjoy and use wisely. Bye byes~

Sources

[nihonnojihifukainomajonoseiiki]

I came up with a love uncrossing spell that uses only candle magic, for anyone who wants to be free from a toxic ex.

This spell is designed to help break free from the emotional hold of a toxic ex, remove curses or hexes, and bring a sense of renewal and self-love.

Items required

A plate or bowl (as shown) for arranging candles

18 orange taper candles (representing cleansing and road-opening)

1 green candle (for renewal and heart healing)

1 blue candle (for peace and emotional clarity)

1 pink candle (for self-love)

Dried rose petals (for love and healing)

Protective herbs like rosemary, basil, or sage

Cleansing oils (e.g., eucalyptus, lemon, or lavender)

Matches or a lighter

A small piece of paper and a pen

Incense or a bell for ritual purification

Preparation

Before starting, purify the area with smoke from sage, palo santo, or incense. Ring a bell to dispel negative energy.

Anoint each candle with a cleansing oil, starting from the base and moving outward. Speak your intentions aloud as you do so: "These candles will remove all negativity and restore freedom and peace to love."

On a small piece of paper, write your name and the phrase: "I release all bonds, negativity, and harm from [Name]'s past love. I am free, whole, and protected."

Instructions for the spell

Place the orange candles in a circle around the edge of the plate, alternating with herbs and dried rose petals. Put the green, blue, and pink candles in the center, near the intention paper.

Start by lighting the outer orange candles in a clockwise direction, saying: "With this light, I burn away all curses, negativity, and harm. The past is undone, and the path is clear." Then, light the green candle (renewal), the blue candle (peace), and the pink candle (self-love), saying: "Healing fills this space, peace enters this heart, and love shines anew. I am free."

As the candles burn, imagine the toxic ties breaking and dissolving into smoke. Envision yourself surrounded by light, joy, and renewed love.

Say the following three times: "No bond shall hold, no shadows shall remain. Only love, light, and peace shall reign."

Allow the candles to burn completely. If that isn’t possible, extinguish them safely and relight them over the next three days until they are fully consumed.

Bury the remnants (wax, paper, and herbs) in the earth, far from your home, to symbolize releasing the past.

Thank the energies and spirits you called upon, then close your sacred space.

Aftercare

Take a cleansing bath with sea salt and rose petals to seal the energy shift.

Meditate on your self-worth and visualize a bright light surrounding you, protecting your energy.

[londonhalcyon]

Fic Writer Interview (20 Questions)

This tag game passed by twice, once in January (because apparently this post has been sitting in my drafts that long) and again several months later, so forgive me for not remembering who to tag! These questions seem fun, so if anyone wants to join, feel free to say I tagged you!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

20 at the moment, with plenty more WIPs.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

480,895 words and counting.

3. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Not counting TMW bonus content, the top 5 are:

The Mad Witch (758 kudos)

"The Scarlett Cauldron" (77 kudos)

"Fear Itself" (76 kudos)

"The Most Powerful Witch" (72 kudos)

"Piper's Best Worst Day" (57 kudos)

4. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I try to! I love engaging with my readers and other members of the fandom. Every comment always makes my whole day. Life gets busy sometimes, so I don't always have the time to respond to every single one, but I definitely see and appreciate all of them!

5. What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

Usually my fics have fairly hopeful endings, but "3 Years Ago," a pre-canon Murdered: Soul Suspect fic might fit the bill. Sometime in the future, it has the potential to be topped by "Will of the People," a Fallout 4 WIP that revolves around the Diamond City anti-ghoul riots.

6. What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending?

My Secret Santa fics, "It's Not the Fall" and "Flawed Phials," definitely have the fluffiest endings!

7. Do you write crossovers?

Nope!

8. Have you ever received hate on a fic?

I get rude or condescending comments on occasion from people who don't know how to hit the back button and/or are unfamiliar with fandom etiquette, though nothing actively malicious. The one time I received a transphobic/homophobic message in response to TMW it was private (if it was public, I would have deleted it; I don't give a platform to that kind of thing at all), and honestly I hope that person is in a better place now because they really didn't seem okay at the time. I'm fortunate that the vast majority of my readers and mutuals are such wonderfully amazing and kind people.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Yes, BUT, before you get too excited, not in The Mad Witch. Smut is by definition graphic, and TMW has a Teen rating that shall remain unchanged.

The smut scenes I've drafted so far (F/F and F/M) are for my Rosemary Reaper series (post-canon Fallout 4 WIP). Those fics will all be rated Mature, so while not overly explicit, they'll definitely be spicier than TMW. Maybe I'll share a snippet sometime if there's any demand for it.

10. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of?? I have long since deleted my Wattpad account, so my fics should only be on AO3. If anyone ever finds one of my fics elsewhere in the wild, please let me know.

11. Have you ever had a fic translated?

I have not, which is probably for the best. I would like to make some heavy edits to the beginning of TMW when I'm done with it.

12. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Not a fic, though I have co-written a short fantasy story with a friend, with him writing for one POV character and me for another. We agreed on major actions and story beats, but we each kept a major secret that we didn't reveal until after we had written our individual parts. It was a lot of fun (though we were both painfully unskilled at the time).

13. What’s your all-time favorite ship?

I don't know if I really have one. I have ships I enjoy and characters I like to pair with OCs, though nothing I feel properly obsessive over. This might be a consequence of primarily writing for video game fandoms. But I do have my default game romances: Merula in HPHM, Piper in Fallout 4, Marcurio in Skyrim, etc. I'm also a sucker for unrequited love interests, like Serana in Skyrim and Aveline in Dragon Age 2. The ANGST.

14. What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

I never want to say never because I'm currently 83,435 words into the last fic I said I would never write. But there are two fics that I'm almost certain I will never finish, which I'm kind of sad about: my post-canon Murdered: Soul Suspect longfic, A Certain Darkness, and my RWBY OC team longfic, DSRT.

I made it just shy of 200,000 words into A Certain Darkness before I had to drop it. My writing skills ended up surpassing the progress I had made, and by the time I realized how many characters, relationships, and plot points were just straight up bad, I had written myself into a corner. I do love Joy and Angel so much, a medium/ghost duo with way more homoerotic tension than my closeted teenage self ever intended. Maybe one day I'll gut the story, drop the characters into a different setting, and make it something original. One day.

DSRT ran into a similar problem, though fortunately I only ever wrote the first few chapters. I could probably reattempt it if I really wanted, but with the overwhelming number of WIPs I already have, it's hard to imagine finding the time. I do miss my team of teenage idiots: Dustin, Saul, Rosemary, and Talos. It was supposed to have a really tragic ending too, which I don't often get to write.

15. What are your writing strengths?

I often receive compliments on how human I make my characters feel, which is the highest honor anyone could give. I've been told my dialogue frequently flows smoothly too.

16. What are your writing weaknesses?

Conciseness. Why is this post so long omg.

17. What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

Do it carefully and with necessity. Maybe a character is bilingual and blends languages, so it's part of their characterization. Maybe a password or spell needs to be said in another language because it's old or pretentious. It can work, but it can also be easy to mess up. I personally avoid writing dialogue in languages I don't have a good grasp of, or I try to consult other people if I do (not Google Translate, which sucks).

There's also the matter of if the POV character even understands the language being spoken. If they don't, then I don't write the language out (unless it's a phrase the character is going to learn later on). In these instances, it makes more sense to write something like, "The man muttered a phrase in a language she didn't recognize," or "She fired off something in Spanish, the words too quick to catch."

18. What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Star Wars the Clone Wars, baby! I was like ten or eleven. Never published, but my worldbuilding for that longfic (a saga, more like) was insanely elaborate. Alas, another story for the WIP graveyard.

19. What’s a fandom/ship you haven’t written for yet but want to?

Eventually, I want to get back to my Skyrim WIP, which includes a main Dragonborn/Marcurio ship. Maybe even with a little Dragonborn/Serana infidelity on the side (which Marcurio absolutely does not deserve, the poor guy).

20. What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

I mean, I have to say The Mad Witch, don't I? That fic is where my community is, where every time I post a chapter I have a ton of people who get excited about it with me. It is the story I think about constantly, that I have spent literal years writing and daydreaming about. No matter what I've written before or will write since, this will be the defining fic in my journey as a writer.

That, and I have a special fondness for "Case by Case." I just think it's neat.

[hug-your-face]

So, I like looking at tags on reblogs :)

Thanks for the comment @bettergobackoutandfindher! It's not that I can't stand to eat lamb straight. I enjoy its, hm, shall-we-say "robust" flavor (not using the G-word) just as I enjoy duck as having more flavor than chicken.

The thing is, many folks WOULD use the G-word for lamb. So lamb is commonly prepped with a marinade or served with a sauce that has some acid in it like wine or lemon. I've known at least one restaurant to parboil their lamb in a beef broth/wine marinade prior to grilling. This partially breaks down the fatty-acid chains in the meat that are responsible for its robust flavor. Whatever gam-- uh I mean ROBUSTNESS remains then tends to harmonize well with the pinine, thymine, and limonine present in the typical (western) aromatics of rosemary, thyme, and black pepper.

So you get something that's much more interesting than beef, but not as offensi-- uh I mean OVERT as mutton. It's a nice play of complex flavors with some good umami, and is good to serve to people who usually eat beef or chicken rather than venison or game birds.

@dduane 's recipe however foregoes such silliness as "harmonizing" flavors. Instead, the Lots Of Garlic saunters right up to the Robust Lamb Flavor and growls, "YOU WANT SOME O' THIS? COME ON THEN!"

Garlic is high in compounds that either contain sulfur or quickly break down into other sulfur-containing compounds. So while the effect doesn't exactly amplify the unique flavor of the lamb, it sure as heck doesn't diminish it either. Oh and there's chilis too, just to make your taste more sensitive to what's going on.

The result is that you now have two decidedly un-beef-like flavors duking it out in your mouth, until they get in a clinch that turns into a hug, that turns into them making out passionately amidst the spilled flagons and shattered crockery.

It's not (to me anyway) in the slightest bit unpleasant -- it's actually very comforting and cozy. If lamb with lemon and rosemary and thyme is a shawl against the Fall chill in the air, then Aggressively Garlicked Lamb is a thick comforter over you as you sit in the chair by the fire.

Hope this helps! Try the lamb!

After seeing it on tumblr for years now, I finally joined the ranks of hundreds? thousands? of people who have made @dduane's Aggressively Garlicked Lamb.

It's really good! Different from other lamb dishes I've had before. Rather than disguise or lighten the, shall we say "robust" flavor of the lamb with acids, crusts, or complex herbs, the garlic simply rises up and enters a full-on cage match with the lamb. I used 2 bulbs and I could have used 3. The result is not at all subtle, but delicious and comforting. Bring the strongest Cabernet you have to the show for a savory, hearty tavern brawl in your mouth. Perfect for a cold winter night.

Honestly I'm prolly gonna have to go buy The Door Into Shadow now just to enjoy the fictional version of this real-life treat.

[maximumninjavoid]

Rewrites part the four Mining for Unobtanium

Under 18? GO AWAY. Be gone with you. Shoo.

Warnings for the BDSM and the secks. And the amatuer writing, Warning for that too. Semi beta'd by the lovely @indigosaurus who indulges me and gives me ideas and assistance.

We went for motorcycle rides, picnics with Kal, I sent him to the pub. Oooh THAT was a conversation, that was, just getting him to go.. I had to talk him into going. I knew he wanted to go. I hadn’t seen him drink since I came to stay. “ You know, it’s perfectly all right. I don’t mind one bit. And I’m not saying it as some king of a girl trap, where I say one thing, and then later we have a fake or genuine fight for you doing the thing I said to do. ” That got me the single raised eyebrow look. “ Oh, don’t. You know exactly to what I am referring. ”

“ But, the taste of alcohol.. ”

“Sugar, have you tasted cigarettes when we’ve kissed?”

“ No, I haven’t ”

“ Did you think I magically quit? ”

“I suppose not, no”

“And so then, I would imagine you would be just as considerate.”

He dithered about it for a bit. I told him not to drive if he got plastered, and to have fun. I kissed him and smacked his ass. “ Don’t look so guilty and forlorn, Cavill. I’m a big girl. I’ll be fine. ”

Hours later, a bit tipsy he returned, a little worse for the wear and was sweet and affectionate and telling me how much he missed me. His kisses were sloppier, and tasted like Guinness. I have no idea how I got him to bed. I let Kal wake him up the next morning.

In our little magic bubble, everything was lovely. Now I wanted to see what sort of a Dominant he was. Out for a walk with Kal we were discussing the previous night’s play, and he talked about how he struggled with not being in control and how he could overpower me, but didn’t. I asked him if the situations were reversed, and knowing that I could not overpower him would that make a difference? He looked taken aback, like I had slapped his face. “Henry, you know, you like it rough. Loving, but rough. And that’s built on trust. I or she or whomever would KNOW that it would remain within those limits, whatever those limits were between you. Even if they’re very far out there, still, there are boundaries. Ok, Daddy. You be in charge. I’ll try very hard to be your good girl”

My tone changed. My stance changed. My demeanor and my body language changed, and damned if he didn’t just rise right up to fill that power vacuum. It was almost like he got bigger. His eyes got bright and pupils huge, and he smiled, showing fangs. “Daddy?”

“ Would you prefer to be called by a different honorific, Sir?”

He looked at me , deep in thought.

“I meant no offense. Now that you mention it, there are other options.

My Lord? Does that suit? Would you prefer Master? Shall this girl speak of herself in the third person? Would her owner find that pleasing? ”

“ Oh you do present with a whole host of possibilities, don’t you? ”

I smiled.

“And I’m your Daddy until…..?”

I thought about that quickly. “ Forty eight hours. Starting now. ” And I ran for the house, Kal on my heels.

I wanted to get to the house before he did and hoped he wouldn’t give chase. I was going to try my best to remember what I required of those who had served me in the past, and replicate it. I tore through the door, toeing off my shoes and hanging up my jacket. I grabbed a Rosemary water from the fridge and found the appropriate glass. The house looked presentable, I ran my hands through my hair, and tilted the glass just so and started to pour. I could hear him coming up the steps. I slid to my knees ( Oh I was going to pay for THAT little flourish), sat on my heels, head down, glass above my head, balanced just so, and as he opened the door, there I was kneeling, with a well presented very chilled glass of what I knew to be his favorite beverage. I said nothing. I just waited. And I was out of practice and it fucking hurt.

“What’s this, then?”

“Welcome back, Sir. I thought you might be thirsty. ”

He took the glass and once he did, I could lower my arms. I didn’t stand.

“Shall I take your shoes first, or your coat? Forgive me but I have forgotten your preference. It won’t happen again.”

He looked at me and I thought I saw him smile. “Coat, please.”

As God is my witness, I wanted to get up smoothly, gracefully, like I did during the Renaissance. But that was long ago, and bless his heart, he didn’t laugh at me as I’m certain I was as agile as a baby giraffe. I did stand however, with no groaning, removed his coat, hung it up. “ Will there be anything else at the moment, Sir? ”

“ I have some scripts to read. ”

“Of course. Would you like those in here, or in your study? Some music while you read? And how would you prefer me? Within reach, or out of your hair, Sir?”

“ Oh, you’re good. Quite good. ”

“ If it pleases Daddy, how do the Americans say, it ain’t my first rodeo. Did you decide where you’d like me to bring your scripts? ”

Truth is, I was good. And he wasn’t going to catch me out. I was all about anticipatory service, and paying attention. I knew that he liked music when he read, and I knew very well what kind. I knew he’d want something to snack on and I knew it wasn’t cheat day. I knew this might take a chunk of the day, and I knew he’d want to play some as well.

“Here is fine. Make yourself comfortable.”

Big smile and a kiss on the cheek as I passed “ Thank you so much, Daddy. I will! ”

I gathered up his scripts, pens, notepads, post it flags, highlighters, his cell phone and a pair of my cheaters in case his eyes got tired and stripped off my clothes and folded them and put them up. I brushed my teeth quickly, fixed my hair, and came back with his things, nude. I handed him the scripts, placed the rest of the items within easy reach and put on some light jazz. I turned to face him. I looked at him coyly. “ Did you decide if you want company? ”

“Do you have anything you need to do?”

“ My focus is to make your life better and easier in any way I can, Daddy. That’s one of the things good girls do for their Daddies. ”

He knit his eyebrows together in thought, picked up a script and motioned for me to come sit by him. I put a throw from the couch on the floor and sat at his feet with my head on his knee. One hand in my hair we sat for a while, until I noticed his glass was almost empty. “ Shall I bring you another and something to nibble on? It won’t take but a minute. If you have any preferences for dinner that would be a blessing at this time….. ”. I started to rise. He looked at his watch, and said he was a little peckish, would love another rosemary water, and beef for dinner sounded lovely. I nodded, and walked backward away from him so as not to present a potentially offensive sight. I returned in a few minutes having found the beef and began defrosting it, set up my mise en place for preparing it, checked my timing, prepared a plate of trainer-approved snacks and slid those under one hand and the cold glass right beside the other. “Did you wish for me to feed you love?” He rolled his eyes at me. “ You’re daft is what you are. ”

“ If you say so, Sir, then I must be. I do love taking care of you and I do love to feel needed. If I can anticipate what you want BEFORE you have had to ask for it, well, that’s a feather in my cap, not only for me but to the people I come from. The more skills I acquire, the greater my value to an individual or a family. In addition to being a very good girl, I am trained in other capacities. Organization skills, small and large scale. Damage control, spin doctoring, cooking, party planning, I can type over 95 words a minute, am an expert at most office software except Excel, I can build a computer, but I don’t look NEARLY as good as you do doing it, I’m licensed to carry a firearm in 38 states in the US, I can provide personal security, image management, personal shopping, makeovers, defensive driving, early childhood education, I’m a licensed counselor, sober companion, well versed in small and large scale logistics, and dogs and kids adore me. ”

Henry just sat there with the tray, and his mouth open.

“ If it pleases you, Daddy, you may want to close your mouth”. I returned to my spot on the floor. Henry returned to script reading, occasionally looking askance at me, while he played with my hair and ran his fingers over my skin. I was getting ideas, but it was not my place. He said “ I had heard that there were slaves that people actually bought and sold, no, no, not that, but spotters, and trainers, and very expensive, specialized, really. ”

I looked up at him, trying very hard to *fix my face*.

“I’m terrible at time mathematics. Would you happen to know what time it is in the States, and may I make a call?”

“ Sure darling, of course you can, and it’s about nine in the morning there. ”

I got up, found my phone and hit a button on my favorites. It rang twice.

“Hello darling!”

“ Hey yourself, how are you? ”

“ Well, I’m working on the Patreon, doing podcasts, live readings every night. We’ve missed you in the Plague Players… ”

“ Oh God, I’ve missed everyone too. Please give them my love. I can’t quite get the hang of where I’m supposed to be when. How’s your Karen? ”

“She’s great, work is going really well, but I know you didn’t call this early to kibbitz”

“ I hate to ask. I need a small favor. ”

“Sure. What do you need?”

“ I have a friend, his name is Henry. I’m going to put him on the phone. Could you please explain to him that you wrote The Marketplace, and that it doesn’t actually exist? "

I wish I could have seen the look on her face when it dawned on her that she was on the phone with The White Wolf, The Butcher of Blaviken. I was more than sure he has stroked himself off to her Marketplace books more than once. I put the phone away when they were finished and went to refill Henry’s rosemary water. “If I have your leave, I’ll start dinner, Sir?” He nodded.

I went into the kitchen, humming to myself, seasoned the beef and had a delightful conversation with Kal about beef trimmings and pan drippings but he huffed at me and got up to go find his daddy when I refused to budge about scratch gravy versus jarred over his kibble. I set the table, prepped the veg, poked around the fridge for other accoutrements, happily in my element. I did love to cook, especially for other people. I made a mental note to see how my family recipes could be modified or converted to be trainer approved. I went back to check on Henry. I peered around the corner at him. Lord, he took my breath away.

If he asked, we could discuss the differences between *full time* and “just in the bedroom” , and what that meant as a top versus a Dominant. I mean, I had no doubt that he was dominant, but maybe it was more up his alley to just play, as it were. For some folks, it’s less pressure to just dabble , but I don’t think they get the full benefit of a power exchange. If he didn’t ask, well, then when the balance of power shifted back to what we had originally negotiated, we would certainly discuss it, and at length.

I turned the corner and smiled. I couldn’t help myself. He was just so beautiful. As if constructed by the Gods; they were having a really good day when they built him. I couldn’t believe my good fortune, and I questioned how blessed I was to be here, with this man, in this magical bubble.

“Did you need anything?”

“Yes, actually. I need you.”

“But of course, I live to serve.”

He smiled and I walked to the sofa, standing behind Henry. I leaned down to kiss him, inhaling deeply the scent that was uniquely him, part body wash, part musk , a bit of spice, just…Him. He reached up and grabbed a hold of me and pulled me over the sofa and onto his lap. I squealed, not being entirely comfortable off my feet and out of balance. He laughed and peppered my face with kisses.

I squirmed and kissed him back. His arms engulfed me and I nestled into the crook of his embrace. One hand trailed down my chest and toyed with my nipple. “Henry, you’re insatiable. I shudder to think of what you must have been doing while you were shooting.”

“Does it make you feel better that I was thinking about you?”

“Well of course, I’m flattered. But, there was a reason you called me in here?”

“ I wanted to try something, are you game?”

“But of course. Game and good to go.”

He stood, with his arm still around me and shucked off his bottoms, sat back down with me on his lap skin to skin. I squirmed a bit and felt his girth shift.

“Come sit on this, while I work. But you cannot move. Cockwarming. That’s what its called.”

“As you desire, Daddy, but I don’t want to wreck dinner. If my calculations are correct, I have about seventy six minutes for your experiment.” I changed position so I was straddling him and reached down to stroke his cock. I was getting wetter by the second and slipped him inside of my cunt and slowly sheathed him in the wet velvet heat.

“Now you just want me to stay right here, with you balls deep in my pussy, my head on your shoulder and you’re going to keep working, and not stand up, toss me on my back or over the arm of the sofa, and violate me like a parking meter? For seventy six minutes? Yes, Daddy.” And I kissed him right where his neck met his shoulder and he groaned.

He reached for a script and started to read. I was enjoying feeling stuffed full of him, but I had to decide if I was going to play fair or not. I could tip the odds in my favor and increase the chances I was going to get fucked so hard I wouldn’t be able to serve dinner. There was also a limit as to how long my knees would hold out. I laid my head down on his massive shoulder and closed my eyes. I concentrated on my breathing, and worked on lowering my center of gravity.

It was a thing I had learned when I was with this guy who rode motorcycles. He had several, and some of them were not exactly designed with passengers in mind. I mean, yes, there was a ‘bitch’ seat and foot pegs, but that was about it. On-ramp turns would scare the daylights out of me until I learned to lower my center of gravity and move with the bike, not against it. Eventually I was able to put my full face helmet between his shoulder blades and cat nap on the back of a Ninja with only him to hold on to at speeds close to ridiculous. You try it with a giant ping pong ball on your head. I preferred a cruiser. More comfy, especially if you have helmet to helmet communication.

I could feel Henry twitching, his cock gaining girth as well as depth. Perhaps he wanted to snap his hips, and start something…I tried a little muscle roll, internally. There was a sharp intake of air and he grabbed my ass cheek. I buried my face further into the crook of his neck and sighed.

This was going to be fun. He hadn’t turned a page, or reached for his drink. This was perhaps not as easy as he thought it would be.

I could only imagine he was focused on his dick. Working on being *good* I said nothing.

Dinner was lovely. The roast turned out perfectly, precisely mid rare, and while Henry wasn’t looking someone must have given Kal trimmings. I have no idea who that could have been.

Oh. I imagine you’re wondering about whether or not we talked about ethical ownership over dinner. We didn’t. Someone was still butt hurt that the whole cock warming thing didn’t go the way he had read about it.

When there’s no friction, even as randy of a buck as he is, one’s member won’t stay throbbing and tumescent. And if I’m not supposed to move, well, then, that’s less friction. So,it sounded good in theory, but it was not as fun as he thought, having me kind of in his way and not really getting any benefit. I could sort of sense that it wasn’t entirely what he had planned, and so, good girl that I was being, I got up, apologizing profusely for OBVIOUSLY doing something incorrectly, and laying myself face down over his lap for *correction*. We’re always at least three steps ahead of you. Don’t kid yourselves.

He placed one hand between my shoulder blades and told me to count and that other hand came down on my ass like a big meaty brick. “One, Sir”. He smacked my ass again. “Two, Sir”

I could feel him getting hard now, so I squirmed and wiggled, because, friction. He slipped his hand between my cheeks and commented about how this was getting me wet, and smacked my ass again and then fingered my cunt. “Three, Sir, I’m sorry” and I can feel my walls gripping his fingers, and I’m thinking maybe he’s not thinking about spanking me anymore.

As sure as God made little green apples, he grabs a fist full of my hair, right at the base, oh GOD THAT FEELS so good, I moaned and he practically tosses me over the arm of the sofa and jams that huge dick all the way home, one stroke. I gasped. Ok, maybe I screamed. But, not in a bad way, and he had one hand at my waist the other in my hair and I was definitely going to be walking differently Every snap of his hips shoved his cock to my cervix, and threatened to split me in two. And I kept trying to push back for more. “Oh God Daddy, please…”

“Please, what?”

Please let me cum all over your cock, Daddy"

“You’re forgiven darling, cum for Daddy.” And I came apart.

Shuddering, tears, unglued. And he roared like some animal, and I felt him pulsing ropes of his seed into me, and he collapsed on top of me like a weighted blanket with hair. This was heaven, surely.

Consciousness returned. He got up, I moved to get something to clean up with, I brought him a drink and a damp towel, because, service. I asked permission to check on dinner and popped out for a few drags of a cigarette. I plated and served dinner and returned to tell him that his dinner was ready.

There was only his place set at the table.

He gave me that eyebrow thing again.

“Assumptions, remember? It may not be my place to dine with you. What if you were having guests? What if you preferred I sit at your feet and eat only what you feed me from your hand? ”

“If I have guests?”

“Sir. If you wished it, I would cook for guests. And serve.”

“Wearing what you’re wearing now?”

“That would be your choice, and I’m not wearing anything now. I could wear only what you allow, choose or what you tell me.”

It was a bit to process. He bade me get a plate and eat with him, and we talked about the scripts, and the music I had picked and he didn’t appear to want to talk about heavier things. So we had a delightful dinner, filled with small talk. It was comfortable and I enjoyed every minute I spent in his company. He was so well versed, about so many topics.

I tried to tempt him with dessert. I should have known he would refuse. I sent him off to relax and do whatever and I did the washing up, tidied up the kitchen and asked if he wanted tea or coffee. He asked me to come sit with him, and I did. Happily. We watched a movie, cuddled on the couch, heaven. I asked to get up for a moment, he nodded.

I got upstairs before he did and turned down the bed. I fluffed his pillows and smoothed the duvet, and went back down to tell him that all was ready for him to retire, unless there was anything else. Did he want a bath? A massage? He looked at me and took my hand and said “ Come darling, let’s go to bed”

I followed him, with my hand in his, We got to the bed and I asked his permission. "What?“ ”Well, you didn’t say that this is where I sleep. If you’d prefer, I could sleep at the foot of the bed, or, if I had not earned it, then I should sleep on the floor. One never assumes. Privileges are gifts.“

” You really ARE a good girl, aren’t you? I’m never going to get to spank you again “

” Not for disobeying, no. But I am yours to do with as you see fit. If you desire to spank me, or flog me, or what have you, you don’t need a reason.“

"Well there’s my plan for tomorrow then” and he pulled me into his arms and kissed me thoroughly. We got into bed all wrapped up in each other, Kal making room for himself and safe and happy I drifted off to sleep.

I awoke the next morning melting. Between the blast furnace that was Henry and the baby bear known as Kal I swear, I was going to melt. I had to figure out how to get out from between them, one of them tightened their grip and the other one made a growly noise. I pried his arm loose and inelegantly slid out of the bottom of the bed. I headed for the shower and my morning routine, and managed not to wake either bear.

I tiptoe downstairs, made coffee and brought a cup for him and set it on the nightstand. I couldn’t help myself. I just stood there and looked at him. Committed it to memory. Tried to burn it into my brain. I thought about waking him up with a blow job, but figured Kal needed to go out . I tossed on a hoodie and jeans and took the puppy for his morning ritual.

When I got back, I took off my clothes, put them away and brought fresh coffee for His Lordship. He was in the shower, so I stepped in to wash his back.

“Good morning ! Did you sleep well?”

“Mmm yes, I did but it was odd waking up in the bed by myself”

“Oh, do tell? Hot and cold running starlets Sir?”

He laughed.“No, I was referring to Kal. And you, of course.”

“Oh, I melted. You both throw off a great deal of heat. ”

He turned and kissed me. I put my arms around his neck, and came in closer, loving the feel of his chest against mine, the hair on this chest making my nipples hard. I slid down the front of him taking him in my mouth and cupping his balls with my hand . Eagerly I began to slide my mouth up and down his member, loving the feel of him growing as I sucked. He leaned back against the tile and held my face in his hands . I looked up at him and he began to fuck my face.

Breathe through your nose, if you don’t breathe through your nose on the down stroke you’ll gag, and that’s NOT sexy. I tried to relax and take him deeper down my throat but the angle wasn’t great. I settled for wrapping my other hand around what wouldn’t fit and trying to coordinate my movements. He began thrusting faster, and I felt his muscles tense. Protein for breakfast. My favorite! I ducked out of the shower, dried myself and had a towel waiting to hand him, brought his coffee in from the bedroom, kissed his shoulder and asked what he wanted for breakfast and when. “ My God, woman, you spoil me so. I could get used to this.”

After breakfast we started playing with toys. We went through a bunch of impact toys, floggers of various weights and feels, stingy, thuddy, canes, paddles, from neck to knees I was quite marked. We did a bit with different kinds of restraint, but I admit, I’m not that great of a teacher. Bondage and restraint has never been my thing. In between toys, or implements, Henry was very sweet and caring, telling me how good I did and being very affectionate.

It was loads of fun, really. I don’t bottom that often, he’s a very apt pupil, I was so incredibly turned on. My thighs were shiny with arousal, I swear, if he’d have so much as looked at me right, I would have cum without him touching me. My cunt was throbbing and it was all I could do not to try and squeeze one off. There were a couple of bumps, I suppose. I mean, I expected them, really.

Henry really liked caning. I don’t know if it’s cultural, or a boarding school thing, but he really liked it. He probably would have loved it more if he got to push my skirt up over my hips and yank down my knickers, but he was SO enthusiastic, that I wound up with some really nasty ugly bruises a day or two later. Remember, canes, that’s deep tissue bruising, hard to see immediate results. Luckily I’m an indestructible old beast, and the wince when I sat just made me wet. Henry felt terrible, poor dear.

That wasn’t the bad one. The bad one was my four foot signal whip. It had been hand made for me, always behaved like an extension of my arm. But while I call it a toy, that’s a weapon. I mean, I have other weapons in my toy bag. Knives, scalpels, needles, but Henry was really drawn to this whip.

We negotiated. I walked him through its use, we discussed where not to strike, we talked about how that crack is the end of the whip breaking the sound barrier, and I put a brand new cracker on it, in case he broke skin. Because, no blood transfer. We aren’t fluid bonded in that way. He was doing really well, and I was really enjoying that fiery kiss of each strike. I knew I’d have some lovely marks, too. But then Gigantor leaned into one. Doesn’t really know his own strength. It’s not his fault.

But the whip did what the whip does, and opened up a three inch slice on my hip, and you could see meat. That was going to leave a Mark. Henry dropped the whip and rushed to me, taking me down from the frame we had fashioned. I was according to him a bit pale. He scooped me up and carried me to the bathroom and cleaned up the wound. I bit my lip and didn’t scream, but I knew he was going to have difficulties moving forward. I’m on bloodthinners. And I knew it wasn’t going to stop easily. He applied pressure and I told him why it wasn’t working properly and where the steri strips were in my things. He’s got great hands. He really does. Handles himself well in a crisis. Very solid.

So I’m all put back together and now he’s fussing. He’s taking care of me, while I should still be taking care of him. Haven’t let me get up, much less do anything, and he’s really being way too hard on himself for something that frankly could have happened to anyone.

“Henry. HENRY. Darling boy, STOP.”

And with that tone of voice ,he stopped, and the control was once again not his.

“ Come here, please, love”

Henry came and sat next to me.

“I’m sorry. I apologize for ‘pulling rank’ but I couldn’t get you to stop fussing. Please, love. I’m fine. I promise. I won’t ever lie to you. This is not that kind of a relationship. In fact, I’ve quite fallen for you, and that is going to hurt worse than this oops ever could. Why, you’ve stolen my heart, Cavill. And every minute that I have with you is a precious gift. Please, STOP berating yourself. Everyone, and I mean everyone had a story like this to tell. Now you have yours. It’s a rite of initiation I guess. If you meet someone down the road and they say they’re one of us, ask them for their oops story. If they don’t have one, they’ve never played.”

“ Now if I were a horrid human, I’d pout and say you should take pity on me and feed me, and then make love to me to make it all better, but I’llsettle for help me up so I can go to the bathroom and freshen up?”

I didn’t know where to start the dialogue. “There’s so much to all of this, love. If you can imagine it, there’s a niche for it. And somebody somewhere is into it. And, it may or may not be something you’re into, and that’s ok. Kink shaming is not ok. Unless you’re a paedophile. But those aren’t your people. ”

“But, I think you see now that there’s perhaps more to this than you realized. It can be more in depth, for lack of a better term, and it can be quite the responsibility. And if you take on someone who would require you to make all the decisions, who wasn’t, pro-active, or who was more bratty, misbehaving on purpose, that can get exhausting. Remind me, some day I’ll tell you that story. And, does it feed your soul to be in charge, ALL the time, or did you like it when you could come to me, and let it all go, and not have to be in charge? ”

“And then there’s your schedule, and frankly, your fame. If you go for a few months to film, are you going to take someone with you who requires that much attention, or might you need someone more….. self sufficient? If you leave them at home, are you going to have your mates check in on her? Because you won’t be able to take constant calls. Or deal with deliberate disobedience for attention. That could become a liability. You love sex. Sometimes even publicly, and if that gets out……You’re a great person, a genuinely nice guy. That’s why there’s no dirt on you, and it should stay that way. Why do you think WE don’t go anywhere? Flat out, you can’t be seen with me. I mean, there’s no explanation. And I’m Google-able. Well, I was.

Truth, dearest? You’re kind of switchy, and that’s the best of both worlds.”

Henry looked at me, then looked out the patio doors. He didn’t say anything for a while. I didn’t say anything either. The next words needed to be his. It was a great hulking bit of information I had tossed at him. He could take as much time as he needed. I reached across and took his hand, and rubbed my thumb over the back of his hand. Our eyes met. I held his gaze.

“It’s a great deal more than I anticipated. I am, however, undeterred. I can’t explain how I have come to feel the way I do about what we have started, you and I. I still think you’ve bewitched me. For right now, I just want to feel you in my arms, and not think about anything outside of this magical bubble we have here. Is that alright? ”

“Of course, Henry, of course.”

He pulled me onto his lap and I tried not to wince. Huge arms around me, enveloped in him, it was easy to believe in that bubble. He kissed my hair and I heard him say "I love you" .What was worse was I loved him too.

But this had so many flavours of bad and worse, it could have been a showstopper challenge on The Great British Baking Show….. Ready, set, Angst.

I couldn’t not think about all the hurdles. I mean, if you’re going to be responsible for another human, then you have a duty to put them first. Everybody thinks it’s all whips and chains and hand grenades and butt plugs all the time, and while that’s lovely, it’s fiction. We all have lives, and jobs, and families, and aging parents, and children, and it is really tough to be all S and M when you’ve got a small child, or heaven forfend, a baby. They can and will exhaust one, and you’d give a kidney just for a shower. Or a nap. I know how much he wants a wife, and kids. Being in this bubble doesn’t get him any closer to that dream.

I can’t really exist outside the bubble. There is no reason for me to be in his sphere of influence, and nothing I can be passed off as being. Not an assistant, spiritual advisor, dialogue coach, writer, producer, nothing. Sure, he has a production company, but I can’t have just popped up out of nowhere, no agent, nope. That would never fly. Way too much scrutiny. Which is sad, really. I have two great shows that really should be produced.

I cannot afford for anyone to make a connection between the very public life I led in the leather community and this man that I love. That can never happen. I will not be the weapon they use to eviscerate him and destroy his career. Some things, for some people, will be overlooked and downplayed. Europeans for the most part, don’t really get worked up about ‘sex scandals’. They’re very nonplussed about it, really. Maybe it’s because they put pin ups in the newspapers? But his family….. That would be horrible. And the American press would have a field day, with their we love violence, but oh no not sex…. And the Superman did WHAAAAT?? OH NO, I WAS NOT GOING TO BE HIS KRYPTONITE.

Henry’s playing something on a game system, and I’m sort of following the plot, occasionally cheering for the monsters to bite the heroes, because monsters need love too, which gets me a look from His Lordship. I’m cheeky, and can hold my own.

“ You wound me, Sir Knight. Literally. I shall be disfigured and bear the mark of The White Wolf all my days. Branded by the Witcher, why surely no other will have me now…” said with great flourish and gesture. Royal Shakespearian Hospital for Over-acting indeed.

“Just as I intended. Let all of the kingdoms know that you are mine!”

“ Super. And your girlfriend is going to turn me into an eel, and make a pie.”

“ You’re safe. I don’t think she can cook!”

And we dissolved into fits of laughter, Kal looking at us both as if we were mad.

We played, we cooked, we made love, we fucked; and for the record, there’s a difference, we read to one another, and it was glorious in the bubble. But all bubbles burst. Eventually, the phone would ring, or an email, or something. And it did. He had to go, for more work on Season two. He didn’t know how long he’d be gone, and while he was still in the UK, it wasn’t like he could commute. “Come with me. Its lovely, you’ll get to see more of the country.”

“That’s a delightful idea, Cavill, but you know I can’t, darling boy.”

He actually pouted.

“Oh, Henry, sweetheart, that’s so difficult to resist.”

“Is it working? Is your resolve weakening in any way? Would it help if I said please?”

“ You’re not playing fair at all!”

“I’m well aware. I am also willing to bribe you with countless orgasms and all the sex you can possibly handle….”

“On YOUR shooting schedule? That’s rich! How about you promise to drag your exhausted ass back to your trailer and kiss me before you pass out?”

He had the good sense to look sheepish at that one.

I took his face in my hands and looked into his impossibly deep eyes. “ You’ve worked so hard for this, and it’s a massive hit. Netflix is gaga over it, and they’re going to want you for other things. This could mean a whole host of opportunities, and I am not going to fuck that up for you.” I kissed his lips. “ I love you, Henry William Dalgliesh Cavill. I love you. I don’t know when that happened, but that changes things. I have an even bigger stake, a more noble purpose now. You, above all, darling boy. You. Above all.”

And I kissed him again.

I was going to have to figure out driving. This whole everything is on the opposite side was really screwing with me and the very thought of a left turn was almost enough so send me into a tailspin. I was willing to discuss staying in London, but not if I couldn’t get around. Assuming there would be some time between product and what ever post was needed, we might have some more time. Then there would be the press tour, and at some point I would have to get back to my own life, or create a new one. We hadn’t discussed that option. If I stayed, the longer I stayed, the more he would drag his feet about dating, and he would never find an appropriate wife that way, and I couldn’t see him letting me find one for him.

There was still the matter of I did not fit into his universe. That wasn’t a novel concept. I didn’t fit most places. It’s how I earned my blingy ass twenty seven year chip from AA. When you start out uncomfortable in your own skin, feeling alien, self medication is what one turns to in order to make that feeling more distant. What feeling? It can best described as being in a sweater, that’s two sizes too small, and itches. All the time. And you just want it to stop. Nothing makes it stop, except finding a way to disconnect yourself from your feelings. That’s where alcohol and drugs entered the picture and they were very difficult to shove off stage long after their part had been played out.

Between that and my alternative lifestyle I wasn’t willing to gamble all of Henry’s years of hard work and all of his talent on my being selfish. I couldn’t, no wouldn’t, let him do it either. I knew at the beginning that this had an expiration date, and it was coming, and there was no stopping it.

As a psychological exercise I ran through every option, even the ludicrous ones. There were one or two that were far-fetched but might let me be peripheral for a bit longer, but wasn’t that just inching off the band aid? Didn’t that just make it worse?

I could make the most of the time I had before he went back to shooting, and then vanish, like a mist. I just wouldn’t be here when he got back, and he could move on. If I stayed, that would just draw out the inevitable.

I could stay, and then set a concrete time table for my exit when the press tour began. Give him some time to work up to it. Fuck. Give ME some time to work up to it. But, then I imagine he’d call, or write, or FaceTime, and that would be a fresh hell, reopening the wound on a regular basis and neither of us would heal then.

I didn’t care if I didn’t. I’d wear my shredded heart as a badge of honor that I could share with no one. I would know. That would be enough. With my memories to keep me warm. I could be content as a smile on his face for which no-one knew the reason , or a wistful expression at something that brought up a memory he chose to keep to himself.

He wasted no time or expense locating me in the first place. At that point, I was just a curiosity, someone to teach him. Now that he said he had feelings ? To what lengths would I have to go in order to conceal myself? I don’t think I had the strength to turn him away. Screw that. I know I didn’t.

Ok, plan…. What letter am I up to now? G ? Reconstruction was an option. Medical tourism. I could run off to Southeast Asia and come back with aframe-off restoration. Like they do with classic cars……

I still don’t have a plausible cover story. Who am I to him, how did we meet, how am I a person in his universe…..even if I roll the reconstruction dice and don’t wind up on Botched, and it takes off fifteen years; on closer inspection, I would be unmasked. There are parts that cannot be turned back. Your hands, your decolletage, your neck. Skin in general. I admit, I would be lying if I said I wouldn’t love to have my tits back up where they started. They’d have to do some complex something or another. I certainly wasn’t going to have my nipples and areola disconnected and put in a jar and then hope to all the gods of Eros that they still were wired to my clit. Oh, if I lost that sensation, I’d be done.

He was so cute when he slept, and it was easy to look at him, while he slept. He made impossibly adorable noises, kind of like snuffling, but only when he slept on his stomach. Kal made similar noises. They really were a bonded pair those two. Sleep was going to elude me until I figured out this dilemma. Those sable curls came up off the pillow. One gorgeous blue eye opened. An arm reached out for me and captured me, dragging me down to the space by his side. A beefy leg thrown over me to ensure I stayed put. And a mumbled “ mmm mmm”. And I had to figure out how to walk away from this.

From him.

I tried to make the most of the time that I had left, I could hear the incessant ticking ticking ticking, but I shoved that down, hard, and faked left and right like a receiver out-running tackles. Walter Payton in his heyday would have been proud.

[tipsycad147]

Binding and Banishing 5

Ice Binding 1

Light a white candle and your favorite incense. Meditate a short while

on the problem. Invoke the Spirits of Protection for you and yours. Then

take a piece of brown paper, like from a grocery bag, on it use a lead

pencil to print and write the name of the offending person or people. If

unknown people are involved, also print and write, "and all persons unknown

that are causing harm to me!"

Cross off each line forcefully and say, forcefully,

" I freeze name(s) to be bound by this spell, unable to cause any more

harm to (name(s)! As I will, so mote it be! "

Then put a spoonful of used coffee grounds on the brown paper, fold it

small, and place it in the freezer. Leave it until the problem is

completely resolved. You may wish to  wrap a rubber band, string, twist tie, etc. to keep the coffee grounds from falling out of the paper. You can also use a ziploc bag. Be sure and burn the candle completely up. Don't  use that candle for a different purpose.

Ice Binding 2

Another way of ridding yourself of an unwanted negative influence is to write the name of the person or event at cause on a piec of paper. Concentrate on putting the negative energy into the paper. Place the piece of paper into a jar of water and put it into the freezer. Allow the paper to remain frozen in the water until all of the negative energy flow has completely stopped, then you can remove it, thaw it, and bury it in the ground.

NEW BEGINNING SPELL

Just before sunrise, go outside with some heather and a feather. Face East, light incense, and hold feather in hand while concentrating on the new day ahead as a new beginning. Say: Flight of feather, Scent of Heather Give me Cleansing With this beginning! Blow feather from hand and let the wind carry it away. Watch the sunrise and feel its rays cleansing you for the new day ahead. It is done.

PEACEFUL HOME

This spell is very good if there is a lot of turmoil or stress in the household. Do the following spell, and while doing so, remember to focus on your intent for a peaceful household. Sew a small pouch of lavender cloth. Place a small trinket in the pouch for each member of your household. Add to this a pinch each of lavender, rose and chamomile, before placing each pinch in the pouch, remember to hold it for a moment and REALLY focus, finally, add a small amethyst. Now, anoint a lavender or pink candle with peace oil(see recipes) and then light it. Sit in front of the candle and hold the pouch in your hands and whisper the following chant over it softly 3 times: Blessed Goddess, most gentle one, calm my home for me. Relieve all tension, send it far, so from stress we shall be free. Touch my family with peace and calm, and the sweetest softest bliss, Bless my home, Great Gentle Goddess, with your calming kiss. Set the pouch with the candle. Allow the candle to burn down completely. Hang the pouch in your home, preferably in the room where everyone gathers the most. Whenever tension seems to build, repeat the above chant 3 times and envision peace and tranquility radiating from the pouch and The Goddess.

Poppet Binding Spell

The purpose of this spell is to rid yourself of the negative energies of someone who is mentally or emotionally abusing you. If done properly, it will not harm the object of the spell nor will it affect his or her daily life in any way. It will simply make the person powerless to mentally or emotionally harm you.

Preform when Moon is dark

Materials:

Small cloth doll,(poppet) leave the head unstitched until you are ready to begin the ritual Needle and thread

Some personal item from the person you want to bind (fingernail clippings, hair, handwriting sample)

Black ribbon

Black candle

Cauldron or other fireproof container

Sterilized needle

Piece of parchment paper and pen or quill

One candle at each quarter (optional)

Ritual:

Call the quarters - I like to use candles at each quarter to form a circle of fire for extra protection. Light the black candle Concentrating deeply on the person you are binding, place the personal object inside the head of the doll and sew it shut.Tie the black ribbon around the poppet's head, signifying the binding of that person.

'With harm to none, my will be done

I hereby bind you (name of person)

Your words cannot harm me

Your thoughts cannot harm me

You cannot harm me'

Continue chanting this or something like it until you feel power surging through you. Visualize the person helpless to slander or verbally and mentally abuse you while you are chanting.

~ Now, to bind the spell ~

If you have a sigil or a craft name, sign it on the small piece of paper. If not, sign your own full name. If others are working the ritual with you, they too should sign the paper. With the sterilized needle, prick one of your fingers and put a small drop of blood over your signature. Again, if others are working with you, they should place a drop of blood over their signatures. (using a different needle, of course) Fold the paper, light it on fire and drop it into the cauldron (which should be on a heat-proof surface!). Meditate on the flames until the paper completely burns away. If you are working with a group, join hands at this point and feel the power surging around the circle as the spell is bound. Ground and center Release the circle. Thank the Goddess and God for their protection and power Bury the doll as far away from you as possible within the next few days.

RID OF NASTY ASTRAL SLIME

After Chakra cleansings in the evening by the ocean or a large body of water like a river or lake or pond. As the sun sets so your bad fortune will drain away. Hold a stone or object that you find and feel is appropriate and project all the nasty slimy and inky feeling you picked up from this person into it. Really focus on letting all your emotions about it as well and let them flow into the rock. When you have done this say: "I release this astral slime And all darkness which is not mine I let go of all that may have harmed My aura is bright all negativity released And I am charmed" Now throw the rock into the water preferably as the sun drops below the horizon and be conscious of its fading light taking away your bad feelings from this person. You can do this spell on then first night of the waning moon (after a full moon) for seven nights if you really feel tainted. Also Place 1/2 cup vinegar, a bunch of fresh or rosemary and 1 tablespoon of sea salt in your bath. Light a white and a blue candle. Imagine yourself surrounded by blue light, giving you positive energy. Visualize all of the negative energy and astral slime leaving your body through every pore.

SPELL BINDER

This is best used at the end of a spoken or written spell. This adds a certain boost to the releasing of energy. It also works best if you are wearing a Pentagram you have attuned to yourself. Speak these word with all the fibers of your body while releasing the spell's energy: By the Pentagram I wear, Water, Fire, Earth, and Air, Ruled by Spirit as All should be As I speak So Mote It Be!

Spell Breaking or Reversal

from Tesa on the kitchen witch list

This spell is performed to either reverse  a spell you have cast, or  to break a spell cast by another.

What you need:

Your cauldron

A black or purple candle (purple for spell reversal,  black for spell  breaking)

During the full or waning moon, place the purple or black candle  inside your cauldron. Fill your cauldron about half way with water.The candle should be at least as tall as your cauldron or slightly  taller. Focus on the task at hand- imagine the energy from the spell  you are reversing or breaking is forming before you into a large ball  of light. Imagine that the energy is now moving

toward the candle and  inhabiting it. Light the candle as you are focusing

and say, "Break the spell, break the curse, the spell which was cast

is now reversed." Now imagine the energy slowly disappearing and that it no

longer exists. Allow the candle to burn down until it fizzles out in the water. Say, "It is done." Pour the water outside in a stream or into the

ground away from your house. You can bury the candle or throw it out with

the trash.

SPELL TO RID ONESELF OF A BOTHERSOME SPIRIT

Say "What is dark be filled with light, remove this spirit from my sight." Before starting place your hand before you, and start the flow of power out of your hand and then say the words, letting the envisioned blue-white light from your power hand fill the room or house or any other place that you might be.

TO FREE A HOUSE FROM HAUNTING

"The Presence that stands Upon the stairs The unseen hands That move the chairs. The lights that play Across the wall, The stains that stay, The plates that fall, The mist , the chill, The wandering scents This gentle spell must speed them hence. At midnight, set A table neat, With cup and plate, And wine and meat, Invite the ghost To sit and feast, As any host Should urge a guest. Presently, clear The meal away, Then open the door and softly say- "Quick or dead, Thou art fed, Cease to grieve And take thy leave" Bid him depart But should he remain Be calm, take heart And feast him again.

CHARM OF THE BEAST SPELL

-- mugwort angelica 3 hairs of an imposing beast black cloth oil of frankincense or myrrh Mix the mugwort and angelica in equal parts, add to it the 3 hairs and bind together in a black cloth. Add a few drops of the oil onto the cloth. then say " He who is strong, he who is mighty Lend thine power to this charm Demons turn on your heels and run" Draw over it a pentagram and the charms of banishment. Burn the mixture to drive away the spirits that ail you. Burn it in your home or room you wish to exorcise. Bury it before your doorstep and no demon shall touch you nor enter. Wear the charm or hide it in the roof to ensure safety against any ills.

TO BANISH AN UNWELCOME ENTITY

Speak directly to the entity, or in the room most affected, saying: It is time to leave here; all is well. There is nothing here for you now, You must be gone Go now, go ~ complete your passing, Go, and with our blessing fare well. Farewell. Remove everything of the previous occupant ~ writing and photos in particular. If there is anything you wish to keep, purify it with salt or incense, saying: With this I purify you of the past Of hurt and memories Keeping only Love

https://crimsonwolfe.tripod.com/id4.html

[boneandfur]

Rosemary Lane [4]

CHAPTER FOUR

Love and scandal are the best sweeteners of tea. - Tom Jones, Henry Fielding. 

When Rosamund at last slumps down to breakfast, Woods informs her that her cousin has gone out riding with the Englishmen and the Turk, and that the ladies are at their needlework in the sitting room. 

"This is not the house party I imagined." Rosamund flops down on the chaise, opening one eye to look at Briar. "Since when do you embroider useless things, Briar?" 

Briar looks up from her sewing. Her eyes are dark with purplish shadows, as though she has not slept a wink. Well, that makes a pair of us. 

"Lisette is showing me how to embroider a rosette." Briar holds up her sampler, showing Rosamund a lumpen attempt. 

What a waste of silken thread. But she does not say it. "Where did you learn to stitch so fine, Lisette? We did not get a chance to learn much about you last night, besides the fact that you were a..." Rosamund stumbles over the words in her head, not wanting to offend. " ...a dancer."

Lisette looks up from her stitching, and Rosamund sees she is mending a hole in a fine lawn handkerchief, worn very thin in places, as though it has spent many years in and out of pockets. There is a dark stain near a clutch of blue flowers, and Lisette covers it with a fine-boned hand, looking straight at Rosamund without flinching. "Yes, in the ballet. First in Paris, and then in Vienna. And you, Briar?" 

Rosamund is taken aback at the girl's cheek. "Briar was my maid!" She slaps a hand over her mouth, and Lisette's eyebrows rise. 

"We were friends first." Briar continues working at the rosette, her mouth a set line, giving away nothing. "Grew up in Grovershire, a day's ride from here. Wherever we went, we went together, like each other's shadow." Briar picks a green floss, for the vine, and continues stitching, childish and clumsy. "So when Rosamund found out her true father was the Earl of Edgewater, I came here with her, as her maid. That was back in '16." She looks away, there is a wet gloss in her dark eyes.

Rosamund realizes that Briar is working on a man's handkerchief, and dark jealousy claws at her throat. "Yes, Briar, you were quite busy that summer, were you not?" She cannot resist the dig, and it makes her feel both guilty and satisfied, all at once. 

"Ah, the summer of '16." Lisette's voice is wistful. "When I danced in The Goose Girl."

"I thought you danced in Sun and Moon?" Rosamund stabs her needle into the fabric a little too hard, it bites her finger and she pops it into her mouth. "Or was that just some romantic embellishment?" Because of what you are. But she does not want to say it aloud. After all, aren't all cats grey in the dark? 

"When Maximilian came through Vienna in August of 1816, he was captain of a troop of mercenaries, headed to the Rus." Lisette's eyes are far away, and she sets down her needle, swept up in the memory. "'I have nothing to offer you, Lisette,' he said, 'Except my heart, and the wide, wide world.' What could I do, then, but follow him?" 

It is only because he had money. If he had been a poor man, you would have laughed in his face, Rosamund thinks, and she remembers the summer of 1816, and the look on Luke Harper's face when she told him she could not live on love, nor should any woman be expected to. She had never seen him again. "Well, your life has indeed been a fairytale, Miss Lisette."

Lisette looks up from her stitches, and there is an old sorrow in her eyes for a brief, heartrending moment, but then it is gone, and there is nothing outside but the corbies, whirling and diving in the watery light, no sound of marching boots, no fife and drum. "Never that, Lady Rosamund. Do not ever think it. Maximilian and I have chosen to be happy --" As if happiness is such a thing that can be chosen -- and Lisette looks out at the dark line of forest, beyond the windowpane, where frost etches a silvery web of fate. 

There is more to this tale, Rosamund is certain of it, but Lisette begins to stitch again, a small smile playing about her lips, she will not say more. "Where do you come from? Where is your home?"

"My home is with Maximilian. The place where I was born is no more, madam. It is just a mad dream of exiles, flung to the ends of the earth." Stitch, stitch, stitch. The impossibly small stitches mend the hole in the fabric, as if it never lay over a man's heart as he fought for something bigger than himself, half a world away -- a field strewn with corpses, men and horses falling all around him, the sky streaked red and black, and the sound of the cannons so loud that they could be heard by a girl in Brussels, tending to the wounded as the armies began to retreat. 

Rosamund does not know the tale of that little scrap of cloth, she never will. All she sees before her is a girl who has not been made to know her place, not as she and Briar have been made to, and it makes her feel a fury with the European sense of laissez-faire, that Cousin Maximilian might take a mistress and live openly with her, and no one on the Continent will bat an eye. Meanwhile, her own affair must be hidden in shadow, or else she will be an outcast, as if she is not enough of one already, held to a higher standard by the stain of her very birth. 

But Rosamund presses on. "So you have no home. Is that why you came here, to sponge off my largesse, like common thieves?" 

"Rosamund!" Briar snaps, and Rosamund feels a confused sense of hurt, as though she is the one in the wrong here. 

Lisette stands up, pinning Rosamund with her eyes, and the look in them makes Rosamund shrink back against the chaise, wanting to slink away and go to earth, like a fox who runs from the hounds. When Rosamund drops her eyes, Lisette turns on her heel, and addresses Briar. "Will you not show me around the grounds, Miss Daly? I detest being cooped up inside, and need to feel the sun upon my face." 

"Oh -- yes, of course! Let me just fetch a shawl." Briar hurriedly gathers her sewing things, and stands to go. "By your leave, Lady Rosamund." 

No, you may not have leave to go, I am not done with this conversation! But she has already gone too far, to say that would be beyond the pale, and Rosamund bites her tongue and nods, feeling as though she has not given anything at all.  

•••

"Sinclaire and I will find a tavern." Hamid rubs his hands together so gleefully that Marlcaster would think he planned for Maximilian's horse to throw a shoe, only a stone's throw away from the village. "We shall reserve a private parlor, and order something to stave off the chill." 

"I'll require a pitcher!" Maximilian calls after them, and Marlcaster thinks that Maximilian could probably drink two or three pitchers, remain upright on a horse, ride into battle in his evening wear, and still come out on top through sheer luck. Watching Maximilian saunter through the village streets, pausing to peer through the windows of a curiosity shop with his eyes lit up like a little boy's makes Marlcaster certain that it's all been luck that has brought them here, just the roll of the die. 

"Look! They have an automaton!"  Maximilian bounds inside before Marlcaster can stop him, leaving him to tie up the horses with not a small measure of irritation. It surprises him, how much inner conflict he feels, wanting and not wanting to return to Edgewater, to take Rosamund in his arms, and--

"Well?" Maximilian pokes his head around the door. "Are you coming?"

•••

The inside of the shop is cluttered on every surface with junk: tops carved with skulls, bone rattles, and a wall entirely covered in pinned butterflies; their wings lightly lifted by the breeze from the door, which sets them all to quivering, the sound like a thousand blades of grass, rustling, rustling in the cool of the morning. A clock gongs the hour somewhere in the back of the shop, and all the cuckoo clocks burst out all at once. 

Ku-ku! Ku-ku! Ku-ku!

Marlcaster flinches, nearly dropping the toy theatre he has been holding, a paper and wood replica of Shakespeare's Globe. When he looks up, a plague mask looms from the shadows, the beak long and curved, like a hook. He flinches, hand going instinctively to the pommel of his sword. 

The figure holds up two very human hands, and whips the mask off to reveal a girl, with hair like a copper coin and amber eyes, not more than nineteen or so. "Pax! Pax, sir!" She holds out a hand, Marlcaster stares at it, then back at her face. "I am Mena. Welcome to my shop, gentlemen." 

"Tremendous!" Maximilian startles them both by bursting into laughter, clapping loudly. "May I?" He plucks the mask from the Mena’s fingers, tying it around his head, and dashes off to admire his reflection in a concave mirror. 

"Will you be buying the toy theater, sir?" She has an odd accent, Marlcaster tries to place it and cannot, it belongs to everywhere and nowhere. "They are quite popular." 

Marlcaster looks down at the intricately illustrated plates, thinking of the little boy he once was, thrilled beyond belief to play for hours at producing plays for his baby step-brother, Harry. When Harry grew, he would assist Edmund, until his imagination surpassed the plays that came with the theater, and the two of them were putting on original shows for their mother and the Earl. 

A regular little Davy Garrick, his mother had called Harry. Marlcaster looks down at the toy theater, tracing a finger along the painted scenery, and then back up at the girl. He clears his throat, suddenly thick with emotion. "Yes, wrap it up." 

"And for you, sir?" The girl turns to Maximilian, who has opened the backs of one of the cuckoo clocks and looks up in faint alarm. She glides across the cluttered space, her full skirts whispering, whispering, and she stands on tiptoe to whisper something into the tall man's ear. He flushes, Marlcaster cannot quite make out what they are saying. She places something in Maximilian's hand and his face turns dark. He whirls from her, the look in his eye making Marlcaster shudder. He should not like to face down a foe on some foreign field with a look like that in their eye. 

"There is nothing here I wish to buy." Maximilian's voice is harsh, he clutches something in his fist so tightly that the bones in his hand are white. 

"Sir --" Mena moves forward, and stops. "You may like to know the history of the piece --"

"I know it," Maximilian growls. "For three days and nights, I lay on a blood-soaked field, not knowing if I should live or die, that sigil ring on the hand that lay next to mine." He prowls the edge of the tables, picking up curious things without seeming to really see them at all: a pinned fairy in a jar, an iridescent purple shell, an intricate dagger. "Was this whole shop stocked by Death's plunder, then, madam?" 

Marlcaster looks at the shop-girl, Mena, she has flattened herself to the wall, and he opens his mouth, feeling he should say something to stop Rosamund's cousin. "Lord Maximilian --" 

"He did not die on that field to have his identity stripped from him by craven thieves!" Maximilian roars, his face like thunder. With an incandescent howl of fury, he sweeps his arm across the nearest table, sending everything upon it crashing to the floor. He opens his fist, and the sigil clatters on the floor in the ringing silence. Then he pulls his hat down, and storms from the shop, the door slamming nearly off its hinges behind him. 

"I'd better go after him," Marlcaster says apologetically. "Send the bill to my club in London, Sir Edmund Marlcaster at White's, and I shall see that you are compensated for you troubles." 

Mena plucks at his sleeve as he turns to go. "I shall have the toy theater delivered to Edgewater, where you are staying, sir." 

"How did you... Never mind." As he leaves the shop, he feels eyes on him at the window, but he does not turn around. If he did, he might see that those eyes turn curiously scarlet for a moment, before the heavy curtain falls.

•••

Marlcaster finds Maximilian on the town green, his fingers tracing names on a copper plaque affixed to a simple marble obelisk. The snow is falling more heavily now, soon the whole village will be under a blanket of white. Unbidden, he thinks of the Frost Fair of '14, when Harry rode an elephant across the Thames, when he'd thought they would always be young and golden and immortal, and never know the pain of one who is taken too soon. 

"I should go back." Maximilian stands very still, his head cocked, listening. "I should not have acted so ignobly. I forgot myself." He pulls his collar up, against the chill. "That's the trouble with staying in a place for too long -- you gain a local reputation." 

"I lost a brother, too," Marlcaster says casually, offhand, as though discussing the weather. He gives Maximilian the space to compose himself, glancing up the street where smoke puffs out of the tavern's chimney. "Step-brother, I should say. His name was Harry. Died in a hunting accident. the year before he reached his majority." The old hurt again: though it happened near seven years ago, not a day goes by that he does not see Harry in a sunset, or hear his laughter as he passes children at play. "It never leaves you. I should have been the one who protected him." 

Maximilian's voice is flat, his brown eyes stripped of emotion. "I ran off from Cordonia when I was a lad of fourteen, to follow the drum of war. I was always the joke, the fool, the one who could do nothing right. Came home after the Battle of Paris in '14, to find the old man dead and my brother Duke in his place, and it was as if I'd never gone to war and made a man of myself." 

Marlcaster does not know what to say. He has never seen Paris, he has never been to war. In 1815, while Maximilian Beaumont danced at the Duchess of Richmond's ball and then fought in Quatre Bras at dawn in his evening wear, Edmund Marlcaster was frittering away the rent monies in a gaming hell in Seven Dials, and the next eve dancing the reel with a green-clad girl at a country fair. He never lay in Hell for three days beside the dead body of his elder brother, instead, he watched as his little step-brother was lowered into the ground. 

He raises a hand, as if to give comfort, and then drops it, offering Maximilian a pinch of snuff instead. 

For a long moment, there is no sound but their inhalations as they snort the snuff off the backs of their hands, then: 

"It wasn't your--" 

"And then the Corsican monster came back, and I quit the Cordonian shore to run headlong back into the only thing I knew, the only thing I was ever good at. And he followed me, to try to understand." Maximilian clenches and unclenches his fists, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, and begins to walk toward the tavern, the snow swirling around his patched military cloak. Just before the tavern door, he turns around, and his eyes are bleak as a wasteland. "So do not tell me that the fault is not mine to bear, Mr Marlcaster, sir."

[shadowsinsounds]

OUT OF CURIOSITY in crystal snow since the hunters are gone does that mean tae and koo sometimes go down to the cabin and chill there? :3 thinking of the past and all

Taehyung paused in the shadows of the pine trees a stone’s throw from the clearing, nose twitching at the fresh breeze conveying an old but familiar scent. Wicker, cedar, rosemary and basil. Lavender.

Scents that he had long forgotten, but at the first whiff, it all came rushing back. He danced on his paws, uneasy. He wanted to move forward, break through the trees, remember it all...but hesitation held him fast.

He wasn’t sure how to move forward.

An answer came in the form of a small furry black shape barreling through the undergrowth, huffing with exertion, pressing the brakes too late so that the crystal snow went flying up in a vivid spray. If Tae were in human form, he would already be grinning. As a wolf, he merely wagged his tail so hard it was a blur in the air.

Eunie, he cooed mentally, cuffing his adolescent daughter gently around the ear. How many times have I told you to check your speed when you’re sprinting through snow?

But Papa, whined Eun in response, dancing around her father, yipping, tongue lolling. You stopped running with us!

I, well...

Another small shape darted back, this one white as Eun was black. Eun! scolded Dae, her gentler voice a soothing counterpart to her twin’s more vivid excitement. 

Taehyung looked at his beautiful daughters, overwhelmed with pride. They stood as tall as his shoulders now, beautiful juveniles on the cusp of coming of age. He still missed the days when they were small enough to be picked up by the scruff of their necks.

Dae padded up to the pair with more deliberate strides, as decorous as her sister was hasty. Eun, you know Daddy asked us to give Papa a moment.

Jungkook. His mate, his alpha, the love of his life. Taehyung felt his heart could burst from the sheer joy of the thought of him. Ten years together hadn’t dulled their love.

No years would.

It’s okay, Dae. Taehyung licked along her spine. Your sister is right, I’m taking too long.

Take all the time you need, came a new voice, as another wolf joined them. One with a black coat as rich as Eun’s. An alpha, tall and strong with his head held high and proud.

His alpha. Jungkook.

Taehyung purred audibly when Jungkook walked up to nuzzle his nose against Tae’s cheek. The twins looked skyward before turning their backs in sync and moving along, groaning a simultaneous, Ugh. Gross, dads.

The mated pair chuckled, before Taehyung turned to his mate and cuddled against him with a soft sigh.

My Tae, murmured Jungkook, licking his ear, pressing in close so that their combined scents floated into the frigid air. Do you wish to do this another day?

Of course he would offer. How perfectly Jungkook.

No, protested Taehyung. No, baby, I’m okay. I need to do this. I want to do this. It’s been too long, anyway. Grandfather died nearly a year ago now.

He still felt a pang at the loss, no matter how much time had passed. After their reconciliation, they had a few happy years of visits, of laughs, of shared memories, of Sejin spoiling his great-granddaughters, before old age finally took its toll. Sejin’s family of loners-turned-pack had conveyed to him the news, on one deceptively sunny morning, that Sejin had passed away peacefully in his sleep.

They told him of the way that Sejin whispered Soomi’s name before his last breath. Tae could only hope that his grandparents were reunited again in whatever afterlife there may be. And maybe his parents were with them.

Grief was hard. But he had his alpha. And he had his daughters.

All that remained after the grief had eased were the memories. Of Sejin, of his parents, of everything that he and Jungkook had been through together, of his daughters growing up and...and the cabin. 

Soomi’s cabin.

Jungkook had asked him once, shortly before the twins were born. Asked him whether Tae ever intended to return to his grandmother’s cabin, now that the threat of the hunters had been removed. Looking back now, Tae thought that maybe the memories of the hunters, the memories of his time imprisoned in that godforsaken barn and experimented on like a lab rat, had been too fresh. He thought that the cabin, rather than serving as the memory of where he and Jungkook began their lives together, would instead give him flashbacks of Minwoo and the shots that had been fired, the line that had been crossed that day.

But enough time had passed that he had lately begun to wonder. Wonder if he and Jungkook could one day visit the spot where it all began.

When Taehyung woke that morning with a strange instinctive urge to see his old home, he ran with it. Timidly asked Jungkook to join him, who merely rolled out of bed and calmly told him, “Of course. Would you like the girls to come? Show them their great-grandmother’s home, the place where we met?”

Taehyung could only say yes. And hours later here they stood, just inside the tree line. Within a few feet lay the cabin where it all began.

Papa, Daddy! came Eun’s wheedling tone. Come on! It smells like Great-Grandpa!

Ignore her, she just wants to get back to camp sooner. She misses Sky! came Dae’s teasing addition.

Soon came the sounds of scuffling in the snow, and cheerful snarls of 

Do not! 

Do too! 

Do not! 

Eunie’s got a boyfriend, Eunie’s got a boyfriend--

There was a loud crack, then a softer thud, and then ominous silence. 

Then came a small, Um. Daddy? How mad will Papa be if we broke the armrest on this porch chair?

With an indulgent huff of breath, Jungkook got to his feet and shook out his coat. He looked at Taehyung for a long moment, then asked in a quiet voice, Shall we, my Tae?

Taehyung pictured that night ten years ago. The raging winds, the snapping of tree branches, the thuds of window shutters against the sides of the house. All the lights going dark, the cold seeping in, the shadows creeping tall.

A scratching at the door.

Had his old self known what he knew now, he would have leapt for the door before the scratching could sound again. Because on the other side sat a wolf. A wolf who would become a man to save his life. 

A wolf who would become the love of his life.

He pulled himself out of his reverie, and finally moved, breaking through the tree line to gaze upon the cabin where everything began. It looked unchanged. The same big glass windows, the same wide wooden porch, the same red Adirondack chairs. One with a missing arm now the subject of a playful tug-of-war between two adolescent wolves.

It hasn’t changed, whispered Taehyung, a pressure in his throat. A part of him had always feared Minwoo may have damaged it out of his prejudiced spiteful rage, or that the townsfolk may have burned it to rid themselves of the memories of the assumed witch who once lived there. If only they had known the truth. If only they had all known of the stories that this cabin could tell.

Stories of shapeshifters and the love between them.

I’m glad it hasn’t changed, Jungkook whispered back. He leaned over, licked Taehyung between the eyes. I want you to make me more of that pig meat.

Taehyung stared after him as Jungkook darted off, nosing playfully at his daughters to start up a big game of tag.

Bacon, Taehyung murmured to himself. Then he chuckled a little. And then the chuckles grew to laughter, laughter so loud and carefree that he felt the need to throw his head back and release a howl of pure happiness.

The howl carried into the mountains, ricocheted amongst the peaks and valleys, echoed on and on until it faded.

Then Taehyung ran forward to jump on his mate, to wrestle and tussle and play in the yard with their daughters.

Happy and loved in the crystal snow.

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: To the Beat

Summary: Whilst taking her son to dance classes, Belle meets the shy pianist, Mr Gold.

Written for the @a-monthly-rumbelling prompt: “Limelight, sparkle, tap”

Rated: G

To the Beat

Ever since she could remember, Belle had loved old musical movies. Colour or black and white, it didn’t matter, as long as there was beautiful dancing and catchy music, she could watch the magic weaved on the silver screen for hours. Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers, Gene Kelly, Rosemary Clooney; they were her idols and remained so long into adulthood. She’d grown up wanting to be Judy Garland or Ann Miller (or maybe both at the same time).

She’d never had the voice, but she’d taken tap and ballet lessons well into her teens. She’d never been able to make a career of it, but as a hobby, it still filled her with joy over twenty years later, and watching the glamour and sparkle of the silver screen never failed to make her smile whatever life might throw at her.

Naturally, with so many old movies in the house and with the musical soundtracks always playing in the background to whatever domestic task his mother was performing, it was almost a foregone conclusion that Gideon would inherit Belle’s love for the classics. He watched with gleeful awe as she recreated famous dance sequences in the living room (‘Good morning’ from Singin’ in the Rain was a favourite), and he was tapping his feet in time with the music even before he could walk. Belle had always held a secret hope that he’d follow in her own dancing footsteps, but she didn’t want to force it on him.

It was a rainy Friday in September when she got the first inklings of Gideon’s show business ambitions, when he came home from school in the obvious throes of distress.

“Gid? What’s the matter, love? Did something happen at school?”

Gideon nodded, his brow furrowed as if he couldn’t decide between anger or sadness; once he was sat down on the sofa with milk and cookies and Belle was settled on the floor in front of him, he seemed to have decided on indignation.

“What happened, Gid?”

“We were talking about what we wanted to be when we grew up,” Gideon said. “And I said I wanted to be a tap dancer like Fred Astaire.”

Belle’s heart leapt to her mouth, but she pushed down her excitement, because this revelation was definitely contributing to making Gideon unhappy. “Ok. So then what happened?”

“Then the other boys started laughing at me! They said that boys don’t tap dance, that’s a girly thing!”

Belle was completely blown sideways by this. She’d never even considered dancing being gendered like that before. The famous tap dancers she’d adored in her youth were a mixture of men and women.

“That’s just silly,” she said firmly. “Especially when you told them that you wanted to be like Fred Astaire, who’s very obviously a man.”

“I know that!” Gideon exclaimed. “And the teacher said that too! But then at break, they said that Fred Astaire didn’t count because he’s only in old films, and that these days, tap dancers are all girls!”

Belle resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the ridiculous notions that some kids had had put into their heads, and for a moment she seriously considered gathering all the parents of Storybrooke together and making them sit through her entire musical collection, over 500 hours of it in total.

“Good grief. They have a very narrow-minded view of the world, Gid, and I pity them. If you want to be a dancer, then you can go ahead and be a dancer.”  

Gideon’s face lit up. “Can I really Mom? Will you teach me?”

“No, love. I don’t know enough to teach you.” Gideon’s face fell, but then brightened when she continued. “We’ll get you some proper lessons with a professional at the dance school in town.”

Ever since he’d been born, Belle had been saving for dance lessons for Gideon. Well, she told everyone that it was his college fund, which it would have been if this moment had never occurred. Now, she could put that fund to good use.

“That would be brilliant, Mom!” He paused, deep in serious thought. “Would there be other boys there, though? I don’t want to be the only boy.”

“I’m sure that there will be other boys there, but we’ll see when we go along. Shall we take a look on Saturday?”

Gideon’s response was a huge hug, which Belle took to be a definitive yes.

X

As soon as Miss Mal, former ballerina and current principal of the Storybrooke Dance School, showed them into the room where the beginner’s tap dance classes were taking place and Gideon saw that he was not going to be the only boy there, Belle knew that she had lost him. He was in his element already as the teacher invited him to join in with the class even though he didn’t have tap shoes yet. Belle was just content to watch him, until Miss Mal took her through into her office to sort out the paperwork for getting Gideon enrolled.

On their way to deal with administrative matters, they passed the other mirrored studio, this one set up for ballet with a barre running around the edge, and Mal stepped inside for a moment to speak to the teacher. The class was young, elementary school girls taking their first steps to the tinkling piano music coming from the corner by the door. Belle glanced across at the pianist, a small, thin man with greying hair and dark eyes. As he caught her gaze, she smiled, and he gave a minute smile back before his face flushed bright pink and he turned his attention back to the music, studying it with intensity even though Belle could tell that he must have played the same tunes over and over and could probably do it with his eyes closed.

At that moment, the lesson came to an end, with Miss Mal supervising the curtseying.

“That was very good, girls. Thank you for your hard work this week.”

There was a chorus of thanks to Miss Briar for the lesson and thanks to Mr Gold for the piano, and the girls started to file out of the room. Miss Mal came back over to Belle as Mr Gold began to gather up his music. He kept his head down as he rushed out of the room past Belle, leaving her feeling rather confused and wondering what she’d done wrong.

“Don’t worry, he’s always like that,” Miss Mal said as they continued down the corridor.

No more was said on the topic of Mr Gold, but even after Belle had collected Gideon again and they were on their way home, Gideon enthusing about all the steps he was going to learn, she still couldn’t help thinking about the shy little pianist.

Over the course of the next few months, Belle tried to find out a little more about the mysterious Mr Gold, from the snippets that she picked up from Gideon and what little she overheard among the other parents. She really was intrigued by him, and the fact that he always had a smile and a ready word of praise for the kids, and indeed always had a ready smile and glance for her, but he clammed up as soon as Belle tried to actually talk to him. He had a gift of melting into the background as soon as the music was done, avoiding everyone.

So far, all she had managed to learn was that he’d played piano for the school ever since it had opened, that his son taught adult ballroom dance in the evenings, and his goddaughter was studying for a scholarship to full time ballet school.

She probably shouldn’t be so interested. He was shy and he didn’t like talking to strangers, so Belle wasn’t going to force her conversation onto him. She’d just always liked a good mystery, and all of the other staff were so chatty with the parents.

It wasn’t until the end of term show that she found any answers.

Each of the junior classes performed a piece in the little revue, held on the last Saturday of the term, showing off what they had learned to their parents. Gideon only had a small part, showing off the steps he had learned over the past couple of months, but he enjoyed his time in the limelight, and Belle’s hands were sore from applauding him. She wouldn’t change it for the world, and she would be forever grateful that something that brought her so much joy could also make her son so very happy.

After the performance, there were refreshments, and Belle was chatting amiably with the other parents, Gideon absorbed with his new friends trying to teach himself some of the steps that the older kids had performed and making a fearful racket in the process. She noticed that Mr Gold had once more vanished. Perhaps he just didn’t like large crowds. She hoped that he’d at least got a cup of tea before he disappeared, and his jacket was still lying on top of the piano on the stage so he had to be around somewhere. Belle bit her lip, wondering whether he would appreciate being found or not. They’d exchanged smiles and glances so many times, which she’d always found to be encouraging, but he was never around when she actually had the opportunity to speak to him.

Belle took a deep breath, took a couple of fairy cakes from the refreshment table, and left the room in search of Mr Gold. Once she was outside the main hall, he was surprisingly easy to track down. Piano music was coming from the ballet studio, something beautiful and complicated, a piece meant to be listened to, not danced to.

Belle peeped around the door, but the music didn’t stop; Gold was totally absorbed in it. It was only once the piece came to its coda that he looked up and saw her. He startled, a rabbit in the headlights, and Belle gave an awkward wave, holding up the cakes.

“I didn’t want you to miss out,” she said.

Gold opened his mouth to respond, closed it as if he’d suddenly thought better of it, and then took a deep breath.

“Th-th-thank you.”

With those two words, everything fell into place. Gold didn’t like to talk to anyone because he had a stammer.

“That was beautiful,” she said. “Beethoven, wasn’t it?”

Gold nodded, and he put his fingers back on the keys, playing a light, tinkling tune, his attention still fixed firmly on Belle.

“You son is in the t-t-tap class?”

“Yes. He loves it. He wants to be the next Fred Astaire.”

“He’s g-got the p-p-p…” Gold sighed. “P-p-p… Oh, you know.”

“Thank you. He’ll be so proud to know you think so.”

The music continued on, a little soundtrack to their conversation.

“Music h-helps me t-talk,” Gold said presently. “C-can’t hear myself as much. Gives me something else t-to concentrate on. The r-rhythm helps t-too.”

Belle had read about aiding people with stammers whilst she’d been training as a librarian; it tied in with helping kids to learn to read aloud. Listening to music whilst speaking and tapping out the beats of syllables and sentences were both tried and tested methods, so it made sense that Gold found comfort in playing whilst he talked.

They continued to talk for a while; well, Belle did most of the talking, but it was still a conversation, until Gideon came in looking for her. It was time to go home.

“Bye, Mr Gold,” Gideon said cheerfully.

“G-goodbye. And th-thank you.” He smiled at Belle. “For your p-p-p… p-patience.”

“Any time. Maybe we could chat agaain sometime?”

Gold nodded. “I’d l-like that.”

Belle could have waltzed on air out of the dance school.

[ladyxxdaydream]

8, 17, and 20 for the ask meme~💕

(17) Do you write your story from start to finish, or do you write scenes out of order?

I definitely do NOT write from start to finish lmao. I usually start somewhere in the middle. For Night At The Aquarium, which is my longest fic (and still a WIP heh… O.o), the first scene I wrote didn’t even appear until like chapter 5 or something. It’s on chapter 13? (fuck I need to get back to this i’m sorry) out of like 21… and I already have chapters 15+16 written, but not the ones in between. My brain works in mysterious ways.

(20) Describe your perfect writing conditions

Mmm. Either early morning, right when I wake up, with a cup of green tea + mint. Or late at night with a candle/incense and an herbal tea picked from my garden (current fave is lemongrass and a tiny bit of rosemary). Whatever the case, there’s always tea. I tend to write with music a lot, too. Once I find the song for the fic, it’s usually kept on low, on repeat.

(8) Share a snippet from one of your dialogue scenes you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

Tav, this was HARD. THANKS A LOT. j/k 💗💗I sorta had a crisis over it tho tbh lmao. At first I thought I should chose something ~deep~ and ~smart~ to prove my skill but then I thought about some of my favorite humor and UGH IT WAS HARD. So, I had to ask the other half of my brain @tea-blitz about what SHE thought I should be proud of jsdksgjks I cheated. In the end, I chose two snippets because whatever, I do what I want. One was picked by Tea, and the other by me. Putting them under the cut because this is already long ksjdgkshgj.

my pick—a snippet from the NATA universe, from the prequel I’ll Fall If You Do.

Forewarning. This isn’t a snippet. I have no self control SORRY

“So…” Iruka began, when the silence stretched on, unable to handle it, but Kakashi surprised him, by speaking at the same time.

“Do you believe in karma?”

“What?” Iruka asked, stifling a laugh.

Random.

“Yesterday. At the lake. You said that some people have a hard time in this life but all the progress they’ve made will transfer over and they can try again. You were implying reincarnation, right?”

Iruka stared at Kakashi in disbelief, trying to understand the person in front of him, but failing miserably. He really did remember everything, and with amazing accuracy.

He took another sip of his drink.

“Yes.”

“And if you’re talking about the Buddhist idea of reincarnation, then you must believe in karma, too.”

“Depends on how you define karma,” Iruka said, leaning back against the counter, crossing his feet at the ankles.

“From my limited reading of Buddhist texts so far, karma accumulates based on your actions—,”

“—actually, it starts at the intention. Everything begins in the mind.”

Kakashi gave a small laugh.

“Thank you, sensei,” Kakashi teased. “Shall I go on?”

Iruka blushed, nodding his head.

“Okay, karma accumulates based on your intentions. If you have good intentions paired with right action, you accumulate positive karma. If they’re bad, negative. Every action has a consequence. And your next life is based on the karma that ripens when you die. So, theoretically, if I did a bunch of terrible shit in my past lives, then the terrible shit I experience in this life, are a result of all the negative karma I’ve accumulated. Am I right so far?”

“Technically, yes. But I think there is one major thing that people misunderstand about karma.”

“Which is what?”

“Which is… that just because some terrible shit, as you so eloquently put it,” Iruka flirted, “arises in your life that might be a result of your negative karma, it doesn’t mean you should sit there and passively take it, if you have the power to change the circumstances. That’s not what’s going to purify a cycle of negative karma.”

“Then what will?”

Iruka placed his drink on the counter, before crossing his arms over his chest.

“Forgiveness. Either forgiving yourself, or others who have hurt you, or both. Because if you don’t forgive, you remain angry. You hold on to it. And anger is the ultimate enemy. The one true poison. It breeds negative emotions: retaliation, hatred, which spawns negative action. And there you are, back to accumulating negative karma, continuing the cycle. Or at least according to Buddhism.”

Iruka picked up his drink and downed the remaining sip.

Why I’m proud of it: Hrmmm. Well. I remember reading somewhere that in the datebook, Iruka’s intelligence level is like… super fucking high. Not that I’m surprised, but yeah. So I kinda always imagined him being well-versed in theory, or things that really require brain power, in this case, philosophy/wisdom. But what I really love about this scene, is Kakashi is trudging through his depression, digging for answers or reasons as to why he’s suffered so much in his life. Iruka and Kakashi are getting to know each other at this point, and Kakashi is masking his search for answers in a philosophical discussion. and Iruka basically blows his mind, and gives him his answer at the same time, while being oblivious to the effect he’s having on Kakashi, because he doesn’t know his trauma. The scene directly following this one is switched to Kakashi’s POV, and you can see how impressed he is—(Kakashi examined him meticulously. Iruka had a way of doing that. He’d say something entirely brilliant and breathtaking, and then he’d write it off at the end, like it wasn’t something entirely magnificent. // He was so captivated by Iruka’s way of thinking. He couldn’t get enough of it. He could listen to Iruka talk about anything, indefinitely. Sometimes, it felt like Iruka took his brain out of his skull, scrambled it around like a rubix cube, and put it back. He made him see the world differently, see himself differently. //And that was not an easy feat.) Anyway, I think it’s really sweet. And pin points exactly why they’re good for each other.

Tea’s pick—two bits of dialogue from this cracky piece I wrote called Konoha’s Krazy Kastle

Kakashi sulked. “I’ll be right back,” he said, giving Lee a high-five on his way out.

“No, you won’t.” Iruka said, as Kakashi merged. Kakashi’s brow was slick with sweat, and his breath short and shallow. “I rented that for Naruto and his friends, not you. They won’t go in, with you in there. You’re weirding them out.” Iruka’s lips quivered, as he fought off a smile.

“What do you mean?” Kakashi said, looking confused. “Lee’s in there.”

“Lee’s weird.”

“Hey, rude.”

“You’re the weirdest person I know, and I married you. It’s hardly an insult.”

**

“I’m serious, Kakashi. No sex in the castle.”

Kakashi pulled back slightly to give Iruka an amused, excited look.

“Don’t even try and roleplay this into one of your dumb icha icha plots.”

“How…” Kakashi laughed, in disbelief.

“Because I know you.”

Why I’m proud of it: WELL. Humor is kinda hard sometimes and I like to think that I’m funny lmao. Sometimes, anyway. So, YEAH. I think these scenes are funny and endearing at the same time. Their love is still playful and everything that’s good in this world. The “play-fighting” in the bouncy castle is still one of my favorite scenes I’ve written to this day.

LMAO WELL THANK YOU FOR LISTENING TO MY DISSERTATION. I BET YOU’LL THINK TWICE BEFORE SUBMITTING ANOTHER QUESTION, TAV. sjdgjksj thank you.

[thedyingmoon]

💜 This I Promise 💜

***

LVII. Again ( Part 2 )

***

The sun had set a long time ago and (F/N) still haven't found Kenny. Apparently, he never reported to MP Headquarters and nobody knew where he was. He wasn't even in the city bar. Practically everywhere she went, she wasn't able to locate him.

(F/N) wandered aimlessly at the streets, wanting so much to see Kenny.

"Am I too late?" she asked herself, until she heard some muffled voices in a dark alleyway.

"Alana, dear, you came." a voice that sounded like Kenny uttered.

"Why would I ignore an invitation from a man such as you, Captain Ackerman?"

"Captain Ackerman, it's Kenny!" (F/N) gleefully said, then went towards that alley. However, the scene she saw almost shocked her to death. Alana, who she recognized was Lord Reiss' mistress, was slowly taking off her clothes.

(F/N) hid behind some barrels and witnessed in horror as Alana showed Kenny her naked ample breasts. To this Kenny just smiled.

"Beautiful." he said. "Oh, I did mention that I don't go to brothels, right? Or was it someone else?"

Those words. He said those words to her in the bar last time they met.

Alana just shrugged and went closer to Kenny. "I don't know. Maybe some cheap whore you met outside the bar, hmm?" her arms snaked around Kenny's neck, pressing her breasts against his chest.

"I wonder." the man just muttered. (F/N) was about to look away when she heard Alana gasp. She looked at the two once more and noticed the beautiful courtesan drawing away from Kenny. She looked at the man and saw that he was holding a bloody knife. Her eyes widened even more when she noticed a long slash across her right arm.

"What is the meaning of this?! If you want to be dominant, then I'll let you! Why did you have to wound my beautiful skin like this?!" Alana seethed with anger.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe because you're the cheap whore you're talking about?" Kenny said and grinned while closing the gap between him and Reiss' mistress.

"No, no, no, this must be a joke. You're not trying to kill me, are you? Lord Reiss will kill you for this, you unloyal motherfucker!"

"I was never loyal to him. I just follow his orders."

"Orders? He would never order anyone to kill me!"

"He wouldn't. Unfortunately, you admitted to him that you are with child. His child, yes?"

The blood from Alana's face drained, making her as pale as death. She frantically started denying her words.

"No! No! I'm not! T-that's not true! I'm not pregnant! I never let him - !"

"Oh? Shall we test that out?" Kenny announced playfully as he pointed his knife towards her abdomen. Alana instinctively protected her womb, and this made Kenny even more amused.

"Lying after all, are we?" he said, his smile as sadistic as ever.

"No! Please, don't hurt me. You won't hurt an expecting woman, would you? Have compassion!"

"Oh, I' am compassionate." Kenny said and with a swift movement, he placed his left palm over her mouth and pointed his knife at her throat. "Actually, I'm doing you a favor by making your death as painless as possible."

Alana tried screaming through Kenny's huge hand, but all the sound that she made were just muffled.

"Ah, ah, ah! Don't blame me for this. Blame yourself from being too close to Rod. But, you just had to put a toe out of the line. You really can't live without rich men, can you?"

(F/N) really wanted to help her, but she remained rooted to the ground like a frightened child. She had no idea that Kenny would do something like this.

"Hmm! Hmm!" Alana went on screaming and crying and squirming, but Kenny was too strong for her. With one swift movement of Kenny's right arm, Alana was finally put to silence. Kenny let go of her body and it fell to the ground in a pool of blood. The man sighed, looked up at the sky and swished his knife, splattering bits of blood on the wall of the isolated alleyway.

(F/N) couldn't stop the tears from falling down her face. Her hands instantly covered her mouth to prevent herself from screaming, but she was too late.

"Princess, I know you're there!" Kenny announced with a theatrical flourish. "Come out, come out, wherever you are!"

(F/N) slowly emerged from her hiding place, still covering her mouth. She couldn't stop her legs from shaking, but she still faced the man she thought was the person who would never lie to her.

"Aww, why the shocked expression? I thought that I'm going to be a godfather!"

"Captain, why?" her voice came out like an anguished whimper.

"Not like that, Princess." Kenny went closer to (F/N), who started soing what Alana did earlier the moment she found his true intentions. "You shouldn't be here. Wait, what are you doing here, anyway? Wait, wait! Let me guess,... you're here to tell me something, aren't you?"

(F/N)'s eyes widened in utter fear. How did he know? Unless,...

No! Delilah and the children!

Her arms dropped to her side. Kenny laughed really hard and started doing a jig.

"I'm correct! Wahoo!" Kenny declared, swishing his knife about and splattering blood in all directions. "Now, I'll let you speak. Come on, tell me your business here. I don't want to ruin your moment."

"I came to tell you,..." tears came falling down her face. For right in front of her stood the biggest deceiver of all. "... that someone is going,... to kill you,..."

"Kill me? Did I hear that right? Hey, Traute, you hear that? Someone's going to kill me!"

(F/N) turned just in time to see a tall blonde woman emerging from the shadows and launching herself towards her. She had no chance to escape as the woman called Traute took out a cloth from her pocket and covered (F/N)'s face with it.

With strong chemicals overtaking her body, the last thing she saw,...

... was the forlorn expression on Kenny's face,...

***

Levi was in the living room that night, still moping, when he suddenly heard successive frantic knocks on his door. He didn't bother with his disguise and immediately stood to open the door, hoping it was (F/N). Heck, he was determined to still accept her even though she might be really mad at him right now.

He didn't expect to see Dawk's eldest daughter on the doorway together with Erwin Smith. The brat didn't even look surprised to see him without his disguise.

"You must help us, Captain." Rosemarie said. She even looked like she just escaped some wild dogs or something dangerous like that.

"What happened?" Levi's hair suddenly stood on end. He knew that something really bad has happened.

"It's (F/N)." Erwin provided the answer.

"What happened to (F/N)?!"

"He will kill her!" Rosemarie screamed in panic. "Kenny Ackerman will kill her!"

***

"I say Jacqueline, this is hopeless!" Elvis begged his fiancee to stop banging on the door of the Scouting Legion Headquarters in Trost that very same night. She was angrily waving about a piece of newspaper.

"No! They're the real thieves here." Jacqueline screamed at the face of her useless fiance, Elvis. "You must be helping me here, not whine!"

"But, dear! That's just a newspaper you're holding right there! How could you know that someone stole our identity through that?!"

"Because it says so on the headline! Elvis Shunerman and Jacqueline Baxter, this year's honorary nobles from Wall Rose, graced the Reiss Hall for the launching of the Winter Season. They were to take their place as the King's chosen elite nobles! That aint us! Those are the ones who stole the migration documents from you because of your stupidity! And they're taking everything we should be enjoying right now! Those people are Hange and Levi! The one you told me about!"

"I say! There's a method to this! Not banging on someone's door like a madman!"

The door suddenly opened and they were swiftly taken inside by some invisible hands and dragged them behind the nearest wall as if to hide them. Jacqueline was about to go on a tirade once more when a young, blonde male and taller teenager with a long face and two tones of hair color gestured for them to keep quiet.

"What are you - ?" Jacqueline was about to go at it again when Elvis gestured for her to look at her surroundings. The woman looked and she finally saw,...

... the number of bloody, lifeless bodies lying on the ground next to them.

"What in the holy Wall,..."

***

~@levi4mikasa , @chocolate-mmilk , @yepps , @shewolfofficial , @unhappysap , @nerdyphantomlady , @super-peace-fangirl , @fangurl-ontgeside , and @emilyackerman78 . 💜

***

💜💜💜

***

[braithevashe]

Braithe Vittoria Ashe (Born Bráité Hladík) was born on the 8th of Orus, 969 to Alexandr and Lýdia Hladík of Caelfall. She can’t remember much of her formative years, but the clearest memory that she possesses is that of her mother beating father; That is to say, she was born into an abusive household; However, the abuse was seldom directed at her. Up until the age of 8, nothing of note had happened in her life, and while she may have hit some cognitive milestones early, the chance to expand on them was never there; This was mostly due to her father’s lavish spending.

However, in 977, everything changed; During the final months of the Resurgence Wars, Caelfall was invaded and razed by the undead forces of Baol Rithul, the Black Dread; Amid the chaos, Bráité, Alexandr and Lýdia Hladík were slain and the latter two incorporated into the shuffling horde. Within 14 hours, a town of ~11,000 was reduced to merely 500.

Bráité screamed, and the zombie turned. Empty, dispassionate eyes burrowed into her. The shambling thing gave a humorless smile and raised its weapon; There was no time for Bráité to scream as the rusting ax bit into her meager form over and over.

For 20 days and 20 nights, Bráité’s lifeless corpse lay beneath the rubble and ashes of thousands. Worms and maggots writhing through her pitifully small corpse as, seemingly, destiny made its course known.

Yet, even after all that had transpired, things were not as they appeared. During the invasion, a rival necromancer had arrived and helped drive back the remnants of the horde. After the fighting had settled down and the undead were driven into isolated pockets, and systematically destroyed, the necromancer began digging through the remains. For nearly 15 hours he scoured the remnants of battle; As the dirt and ash finally overwhelmed the meager cloth that he held to protect his throat, and just as he’d given up hope, he found what he was looking for: The source of the soul that shrieked louder than all the others.

For nigh a week he worked, calling upon the old gods and making pacts with nameless horrors; And in the end, it all paid off.

The broken pathetic thing was brought life once more.

Darkness and a clean smell; Rosemary, I think? It’s cold, so cold, and I can’t feel my body. There’s a light in the distance, but I can’t reach it. It keeps on getting farther away. There’s a pain in my chest; It hurts… So bad.

The first thing she notices is the cold; Eternal and all-consuming. Her breath clings to the air and drops to the ground in waves. Wraiths wander aimlessly about, murmuring to themselves in a language she doesn’t understand. She looks about, confused; In the twilit night, fields of dead grass and shades stretch as far as the eye can see. There is a blinding light in the distance, she walks closer, it retreats. Her face trembled slightly before the tears start coming; They freeze to her face and as her face contorts in heaving sobs, they crack and blood rises. She holds herself against the ground, trying to shelter against the cold, but to no avail. She lies there for what seems like forever, sobbing until the tears won’t come. She misses the light, the warmth... She misses her family…

Soft hands grasp her shoulders and pull her to her feet. She can’t see past the blood. The hands gently wipe her face, and the world blurs. She looks up into the figure’s voluminous hood; Soft ever-changing eyes sit about a sharp pale nose; Somber shadows obscure everything else. “You don’t belong here child, it’s not your time. Take my hand and I shall take you back.”

Bráité stared for a moment before taking his hand slowly; The cold began to fade and the pain seemed to disappear. Bráité’s eyes slowly began to close as warmth spread through her meek and battered form.

With a heaving sigh, Bráité opened her eyes; It was dark, and she could hardly make out the low ceiling above her. The cloying scent of antiseptics and sage hung heavy in the air and a fine mist clung to the floor, stirred by an unseen breeze - The ground itself seemed to glow an unhealthy green. A hooded figure stood over her, the only thing she could see within the hood was a white smile and soft ever-changing eyes. “There we go…” whispered the figure, “Welcome back, little crow.”

[sptmbrrr]

paper riches - dawsey x juliet

I watched the movie, fell in love, read the book in 12 hours, watched the movie again, then wrote this. It takes place in the bookverse, where Juliet corresponds with Isola, Dawsey, Amelia, and Eben for several weeks before deciding to visit Guernsey, and sends Amelia a copy of her Anne Brontë biography as proof of her authorship.

The sea breeze, if Dawsey Adams cared to notice, bore the scent of salt, foam, and decomposing seaweed, same as it always has. But as it is, Dawsey doesn’t make a point to notice the same air that’s sustained him for nearly four decades--not since the stench of death and starvation has seceded from Guernsey, departing with the German troops who conjured it. The only thought Dawsey gives to the ever-present wind is that it whips back and forth so, blowing his fringe constantly into his eyes, and so it must be time for Isola to attack it with her shears again.

He pushes his hair out of his vision as he winds his way through Isola’s garden, picking his path to avoid the jungle of herbs that nearly obscure the cobblestone walkway. He hears her shout before he even reaches her door, and the corners of his lips tug up into a cheerful smile. Isola, ever the eager, ever the hostess.

“Dawsey!” She wraps her arms around him in greeting, and Dawsey gently encircles her lean body in his arms. She smells of rosemary and sage, as usual, and she’s already babbling before he lets go.

“I’ve written her, of course, not four days ago. She’s truly a writer, now isn’t she? I feel as if I know her already, from your letters and her ones to Amelia. D’you think she’ll ever come calling?”

Dawsey’s usual response to Isola’s prattle is a hum and a nod. But this time, it fails him. The familiar swooping sensation commandeers his stomach, as it always does when the topic of Juliet Ashton arises, and he cannot bear to utter anything that would dismiss the conversation. “I dearly hope so,” he replies. It’s a fine line to walk, one that will prod Isola forward with the subject of Juliet, but not so far that she’ll notice his obsession.

Isola, having turned towards her drawing room, pauses at the lintel with one hand on the doorjamb. “You are corresponding with her too, are you not? I do hope you’re not frightening her off with your brooding reticence.”

“I do write,” Dawsey counters, with a little more force than necessary. How little Isola knew of the hours Dawsey spent at his writing desk, rehearsing the penmanship and the words to write before committing them to paper. How to seem as effortless as Juliet did, when her skill so far exceeded his own.

She smiles genially and rests one pale hand against his wrist. “Just needling you, Daws. How short are we going today?” She lifts her hand from his arm to his forehead and makes a scissor shape with her first two fingers, then squeezes his fringe between the “blades.” “Shall I lop it all off and be done with winter?”

He frowns, his pride slightly wounded by how quickly he’d fallen for her ruse, and he tilts his chin upward so that his bangs slip out from between Isola’s fingers. “Just a trim, or Kit will have my head.”

Isola laughs at that, a waterfall of giggles that, once rare, he’s heard more and more over the last year. “I’d forgot about that. Didn’t recognize you, did she?”

“No, and we shan’t do it again.” She turns back to her drawing room and gestures to the highbacked chair by the window, on which rests a patched and frayed tablecloth. While Isola busies herself with her tools, Dawsey crosses the room in two strides and unfolds the tablecloth. He sinks into the chair, facing the window, and ties two corners of the tablecloth around his neck.

He breathes out a long sigh as Isola’s comb drags across his scalp. Even during the Occupation, and even despite Isola’s chattering, he’s always found solace in the rhythmic motion of her hands in his hair, the snip of the shears, the lilt of her voice (he never took in a word she said, he just enjoyed the sound of a voice that wasn’t a barking Nazi or a squealing pig).

But this time, he doesn’t block her out. “What have you written her?” he asks, before she can launch into her daily gossip. “Juliet, I mean.”

“Juliet! I wrote all about the Brontë sisters, you know I love them so.” Dawsey smiles into his lap as Isola angles his head forward to trim the back of his neck. He has vivid memories of Isola’s florid monologues on their arcane genius. “Didn’t Amelia tell you? She’s written a biography of Anne Brontë. Her first work, before Izzy Bickerstaff Goes to War. I’m told it sold dreadfully, though I can’t see why.  A true illumination of the least known sister, and so thorough I feel as though I could invite her for tea and never run out of things to talk about.”

He hides his smile at that, doubting that Isola would have trouble running out of things to talk about with a stump. “You’ve read it?” he asks.

“Of course, I begged Amelia to lend it to me as soon as she finished.”

“I want it next,” Dawsey says.

Isola’s shears cease clipping, and Dawsey slowly lifts his head. He feels the heat beginning to rise there--was he too obvious? Too plain that he was desperate to read her own words, her thoughts she felt so strongly she published them for the world to see? Too desperate to touch the child of her mind?

But if Isola notices, she doesn’t say anything. “I’ve it around here somewhere,” she says finally, and tips Dawsey’s head forward with one hand to resume cutting. “I promised it to Eben next, but he’s an even slower reader than you are.”

He doesn’t reply to that, partly from embarrassment and partly because it’s true. Slow, but sincere. That was how he was, and had always been.

The minutes tick by and Dawsey clenches his hands into fists beneath the tablecloth. It takes ages, but Isola finally finishes trimming his hair, and he obediently removes the tablecloth for her to shake out on the stoop while he rinses his hair in the washbasin outside. After a thorough dunking, she hands him the tablecloth to towel off the most of the damp, and then he follows her back inside.

He waits in the drawing room while she putters about in her bedroom to look for the biography. It’s cluttered, as usual, with herbs, upended flower pots, and two dozen vials of tonic in various states of cleanliness. He spies a blotter and shifts two spice containers of lavender to the side to look closer. Miss Juliet Ashton, 23 Glebe Place, Chelsea, London S.W. 3.

A creak of the floorboards makes Dawsey look up to see Isola, book clutched tightly in two hands before her, like the deacon bearing the Holy Bible up the aisle to begin Mass. “Anne Brontë: A Biography,” she announces.

Heart pounding, Dawsey reaches out and hefts the book from Isola. “Thank you,” he says. “And you’ve done a good job?” He runs his hands through his still-moist hair, and Isola nods.

“More handsome than ever, Daws.”

He flushes again at that, and merely nods and brushes past Isola to reach her front door. “Thanks, Isola.”

“You will share me any more of her letters, won’t you?” she asks, following him to the door.

“I will,” he promises, although only through a stab of what feels suspiciously like selfishness. He tries to bury it, try to rationalize that it’s not because there’s some aspects of Juliet he wants to keep for himself.

“Good day.”

He sets off down the path, this time far less concerned with foot placement, in his haste to be out of Isola’s line of sight. He hurries along the main road, disregarding the limp in his leg, until he’s halfway to his home and nearly out of breath. Then he stops, looks behind him and in front of him, but he’s utterly alone. His heart is still fluttering, and it feels almost the same speed as the book pages he flips through with one thumb. A hundred pages, maybe more, from Juliet. He feels as though he is the richest man in the world.

Pages flipped through, the book remains open in Dawsey’s hand, with only the back pages visible. His heart stops fluttering, and in fact feels like it’s stopped altogether. On the back side of the dusk jacket, a picture stares up at him.

Juliet.

It’s just a small square, hardly enough quality to make out her facial features, but it’s enough to strike Dawsey to the bone. She’s smiling up at the camera, which is perhaps the same direction of the sun because her cheeks are pushed up into her eyes with a squint. Her hair falls about her shoulders in sleek ringlets.

He gently traces his thumb along the curve of her head to the well of her shoulder. She can’t be older than he is. He feels as if his circulatory system has been replaced with warm oil heating him through, filling his body with a numb, happy throb.

Juliet.

He snaps to when he hears the wheels of a cart approaching. He hastily tucks the book into the back of his trousers as the heads of a horse team appear in front of him. It’s Eben, with the post.

“Dawsey!” he shouts when he recognizes him standing beside the road. “You weren’t home, and I wanted to give this to you myself.”

He’s beaming down from the driver’s seat, Eli riding shotgun, and holds out a crisp white envelope.

Dawsey feels a stab of guilt at the concealed book in his possession that’s supposed to be in Eben’s hands, but it’s overwhelmed immediately when he recognizes the neat scarlet ink on the front of the envelope.

“Jul--Miss Ashton?” he catches himself, and reaches out to take the letter from Eben’s callused hands.

“The very same. I’m off to Isola’s but do share what she’s written at the Society tomorrow,” he says.

Dawsey barely hears Eben but manages a brief nod of acquiesce, still staring, almost disbelieving, at the letter in his hands. He barely hears the mail cart driving away, barely feels his feet as he saunters homeward. A letter from Juliet, and her book, and her picture.

When he reaches the top of the hill and sees his farm, he can’t help but break into a run, and then a grin. He can see Kit kneeling in the garden, pulling up carrots, with Amelia on a chair watching over her. The book and letter feel light as a feather in his hand. The richest man in the world.

[rosemarytonks]

The Way Out of Berkeley Square, by Rosemary Tonks (1970)

Rosemary Tonks is now known as the poet who disappeared, thanks to a 2009 BBC program (“The Poet Who Vanished”) and features in the Guardian, TLS, the London Review of Books, the Poetry Foundation and others following her death in May 2014 and the reissue that fall of Bedouin of the London Evening, a collection of her poems and selected prose. In truth, she didn’t disappear as much as take a deliberate decision to step away from the life of London and literature she’d led since the mid-1950s. She had health problems, became a devout Christian, and spent her last thirty years in Bournemouth having little or no contact with the large circle of writers, artists, and friends she had known. Sometime in late 1981, she retrieved most of her souvenirs and papers from storage in London and burned them in her garden incinerator. In the years before her death, she read only from the Bible.

The reissue of Bedouin of the London Evening has done much to restore Rosemary Tonks’ standing as an innovative and challenging poet of the sixties. Though praised when her two collections of poems were first published, her poetry is aggressive, edgy, unsettled. “Her poems matched the forceful personality, being rhetorically explosive, with more exclamation marks than anyone else used,” one of her contemporaries recalled. She was neither feminist nor conservative: more than anything, she was an individualist. Several observers have remarked that she most admired the spirit of the flâneur — “equal parts curiosity and laziness” — as embodied in the work of Balzac and Baudelaire:

The crowd is his element, as the air is that of birds and water of fishes. His passion and his profession are to become one flesh with the crowd. For the perfect flâneur, for the passionate spectator, it is an immense joy to set up house in the heart of the multitude, amid the ebb and flow of movement, in the midst of the fugitive and the infinite. To be away from home and yet to feel oneself everywhere at home; to see the world, to be at the centre of the world, and yet to remain hidden from the world—impartial natures which the tongue can but clumsily define.

She was a creature of the city. As she writes in “Diary of a Rebel,”

For my fierce hot-blooded sulkiness I need the café – where old mats Of paper lace catch upon coatsleeves That are brilliant with the nap of idleness …And the cant of the meat-fly is eternal!

She told a Guardian interviewer in 1968 that she used to drive straight into the centre of London each morning, and then to a cafe south of Putney Bridge, where she had scrambled eggs. And the photo on the cover of Bedouin of the London Evening shows her at work at a sidewalk table, a large café-au-lait sitting beside a stack of books and papers. Bloodaxe Books is to be commended for taking advantage of ebook technology and included recordings of Tonks reading a dozen of her poems, along with an interview with Peter Orr, in the EPUB and Kindle versions.

Tonks’ work as a novelist, however, has yet to be rediscovered, for the simple reason that it’s almost impossible to get hold of one of her six novels. The cheapest copy goes for over $70, the dearest for over $400. And forget about finding Emir (1963) outside a couple handfuls of libraries worldwide (she disowned it, anyway). Thanks to the Public Library of India, however, you can find her first novel, Opium Fogs (1963), online in electronic formats.

With the help of my daughter and the University of Washington Library, I was able recently to read Tonks’ 1970 novel, A Way Out of Berkeley Square. At the time it came out, the book probably seemed too odd, too marginal to merit much consideration. “I’m thirty, and I’m stuck,” Tonks’ protagonist, Arabella, complains. Living with her father, romantically involved with a married man, and barely employed with the job of decorating some flats her father is renovating, she was neither the Victorian model of a spinster nor the Seventies’ vision of a woman taking charge of her own life. One reviewer dismissed Arabella as “30 on her driver’s license and 13 in her emotional development.”

This is pretty close to her father’s estimation. He would have her be both the Victorian spinster, serving up a hot dinner and keeping a tidy home for him, and a go-getter, diving into the business of interior decoration with a profit-minded zeal. The one thing he can’t accept is what she is:

My father can’t bear ordinary life; a woman in a dirty cardigan with two pockets on the stomach misshapen by handkerchiefs makes him bristle up, the sight of a coarsely-patterned formica table with brown tea-cup rings on it and large yellow crumbs will cause him a temporary loss of personality, his ego buries itself in one of his shoes and leaves the rest of his body to look after itself, grey, inert.

“I’m out of the habit of taking action,” she thinks. “I don’t have a proper stake in life, in the world.” She definitely doesn’t care for a future of caring for her father for decades until he dies — and then having nothing to show for it. But she’s also skeptical that there is any pot of gold waiting at the end of the rainbow of marriage and/or career:

Inside the showroom I catch the eyes of various men and women, torpid and haggard as drug-addicts, as they turn over the endless fabrics. I have never actually seen a face with an expression on it in this showroom; blanks, and more blanks with dead eyes. The suffering is awful, and it goes on and on, like writing out “I must not say bloody” a hundred times at school, until you’re free to rejoin the mainstream of life.

Yet she wonders, “Shall I take this bit of life, because if I don’t I may not have any life at all?”

Her one lifeline is her brother, who has escaped from London to Karachi, where he is trying to find the distance and energy to make a start as a poet. They write each other nearly every day — he consoling her over their father’s domination, she cheering on his efforts to embrace his new surroundings and work on his writing. When his correspondence suddenly stops, she worries — then panics when she learns after a gap of weeks that he has contracted polio and is barely surviving with the help of his cook. (This parallels Tonks’ own experience of contracting typhoid and then polio while living in India early in the 1950s.)

The crisis kicks her out of her doldrums. Though still very much dependent upon him to arrange for her brother’s care and return to England, it’s Arabella who prods her complacent father and forces the action. In so doing, she discovers a capacity in herself she had not suspected: “I’ve found out that strength is silent; it doesn’t have to be talked about, proved, or borrowed from others. It isn’t even called strength, but action.”

It’s likely that The Way Out of Berkeley Square would have a more favorable reception today. A fair number of women (and men) are stuck living with their parents into their thirties with the decline in earning power and finding the experience demoralizing and emotionally stultifying. And Tonks’ prose is studded with little gems of description. Of her father’s car: “His new Bentley is fully automatic, has doors as heavy as safe doors from the Bank of England, and a steel body as wide as a ping-pong table. Inside you serve from one corner of it, while burning hot air and noisy stereophonic music try to draw off your attention, subdue, drown and kill you.” Of her married lover’s best talent: “Now there are some men who are so good at getting women across traffic that it’s a form of love-making, in which the woman is touched, protected, and lifted forward, until she reaches the opposite pavement in a state of mild delirium.” Kirkus’s reviewer called Tonks’ prose “A decorative style but it’s all parsley.” Well, if that’s parsley, I say bring it on.

I was able to get my hands on a copy of Tonks’ last novel, The Halt During The Chase (1972), so I hope to post something on that as well as Opium Fogs soon.

[The Neglected Books Page, 16 August 2018]

[renegadesrpg]

Dark Angels: Creation, Part 35. Paths of Choice. Sin

I am immune to my senses, so deep in thought am I. The waves lapping at my feet, the sound of sea birds, the scent of salt and ozone in the air…all of it simply does not exist for me. Adrian’s news was indeed an indicator that the time to move was upon us but there is a growing sense of unease within me. Finally rising from the sand, I walk back to the lanai. It is time to look to the future. Or rather, the possible futures.

Adrian has his precognitive ability but it strikes at its own whim, not upon request. I, however, have other methods. There are advantages to having walked the corridors of power for the last 35,000 years and one of them is that I have learned a great deal of magick. There are all sorts of sources for magicks. The angels have their ethereal version, mortals their earth magick, and Zav and Bryn have begun to mix the two for this battle we face, but I am a law unto myself. Death has its own brand of magick, one that is intimately tied to the Fates and the Creator. It is what lets reapers walk between the worlds and bend space and time to do our jobs. In my hands, it is even more. Study with the fae in Tir Nan Og has combined with the innate power I hold and the more general magick of the reaper to allow me to walk the paths of time. It is the only way to see what choices the Fates may put before me, and it is likely even those will be shrouded in mysticism. But I feel compelled to try.

Calling to Declan, I bid him to watch over my body in the physical realm while I allow my spirit to walk other planes. Though a reaper’s body is simply the physical manifestation of his or her soul, the power I hold allows me to maintain that corporeal form while I separate a bit of my own soul from the whole to seek answers from the unknown. This is not the first time I have used his talents thus, even though I know he finds it unnerving to watch, to know the shell no longer houses the spirit.

“It will be fine,” I sooth. “If aught goes wrong while I am occupied, contact Sean. He does not have the power to walk where I will go for this, but he will know what to do.”

Declan’s frown tells me what he thinks of this plan. I have no doubt he would prefer we go directly to Brazil and move forward. Finally, he simply folds his arms and nods, then steps back into the doorway to stand guard.

Maintaining an outward calm but heaving an internal sigh… it is wearing to deal with such unyielding concern from my people… I ignore his recalcitrance and go to the chest I keep at the end of the lanai. Kneeling before it I open it. The fragrant scents of various herbs and resins waft from it as I remove a soft circular rug and smooth it out. An ancient brass brazier follows, along with sage, rosemary, vervain and myrrh. The sage is to bring me wisdom, the rosemary to ground my spirit to this realm and the vervain to protect my spirit as I roam. The last, myrrh, is a resin that when burned will cleanse my mind and my home of any lingering darkness and help me to sink into a deep meditation. In that state I will sever that part of my soul that needs to travel the trails of time.

 All will find their way to the brazier when the time is right. Though it would be a simple thing for me to add them to the bowl with a thought, adding them by my own hand is, as is the careful storage of them physically rather than simply materializing them at need, a nod to the ancient magicks of the fae. A sign of respect for the power, if you will, and one should always respect power if one wishes it to be an ally.

 Sitting back cross-legged on the rug, I place the brazier before me, with the herbs laid out beside it. With a thought white candles ring the rug, declaring my purity of purpose in this endeavor. They flare to life simultaneously at my bidding as I lay the myrrh in the bowl before me.  Extending my hand over it, I murmur “lasair”. It bursts to life, a gold and orange flame dancing above the brazier before settling to a steady burn. One by one I add the others, the fire leaping at each addition and then settling again.  When the flame has receded to stability, the gentle crackling no longer emitting sparks, I settle my hands, palms up on my knees, close my eyes, and begin to speak softly.

 “Cad iad na todhchaíochtaí a scríobh na Morai?

Cad iad na cosáin atá leagtha síos acu dom?

Cad iad na roghanna a thabharfar dom?

Glaoim ar na Fates chun ligean dom a fheiceáil.

 Is ar mo roghanna féin amháin atá an t-iarmhéid crochta,

Is trí mo ghníomhartha amháin a bheidh an domhan saor.

Taispeáin dom cad a chaithfidh mé a dhéanamh.

Glaoim ar na Fates chun ligean dom a fheiceáil.”

 “What futures have the Morai written?

What paths have they laid for me?

What choices shall I be given?

I call the Fates to let me see.

Only on my choices the balance hangs,

Only by my actions will the worlds be free.

Show me what I must do.

I call the Fates to let me see.”

 The sounds and scents of the outside world recede and I feel myself rise above the physical form I maintain. I see myself seated on the floor of the lanai, a body only. Declan is watching from the doorway, his frown gone now, his face impassive, his body rigid as a stone warrior guarding a tomb entrance. And then even that fades away and my essence coalesces on a plane far removed from the mortal one. A wide, raised stone walkway serves as my platform as I survey my surroundings. Around it an ocean of blue flames roil and flicker, a storm of turmoil seething beneath my feet. Sensing that I am not alone, I whirl around, prepared to do battle even here if I must, but relax at the three lovely female forms behind me.

“Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos…” my hand to my chest as I bow my head to them, “I did not expect the Morai to attend to this personally. Why am I so honored?”

 It is the raven-haired Lachesis whose laugh trills across the plane. ‘Why would we not come, Sin? We have grown,’ she shoots a sly smile at her sisters, ‘fond of you.’

 ‘Indeed,’ Atropos adds as she pushes her wavy auburn tresses from her face, ‘you never disappoint. Throughout the eons you have always chosen the door that we would have wished for you. For which I am appreciative. I would find no happiness in cutting the thread of your life. Your existence since becoming Death’s first has provided us with much more pleasure. ’ She smiles at me knowingly.

 ‘Enough sisters,’ the fair Clothos gently reprimands. ‘The time for those recollections has passed. It is the future he needs to see. It is the future he /must/ see if he is to understand.’ She turns her azure-blue eyes to me and takes both my hands in hers. ‘There lies before you only one possible door, but there are two paths behind it.  Both lead to darkness, but the darkness is not always the enemy of the light. It can be the balance and it is that balance upon which the destinies of not just the worlds lie, but of the Creator himself. We came because you must see the results of your decision clearly. We cannot tell you what you must choose or which path it will lead you down. ‘ She smiles lightly, ‘Your free will is still the determiner of all our futures. ‘

 There is a sadness to her smile that I cannot fathom. Gently I reach out to caress her cheek.

 “Clothos, will you not tell me what is on your heart?”

 She simply shakes her head, her enigmatic smile unchanged. ‘I can only tell you whatever you choose, we shall never again be as we were. Whether we become allies or enemies is still to be determined. But we can only go forward.

 “Can fond memories count for nothing, then?” I murmur. She catches my hand and removes it from her cheek. I can see the immortal in her rising as her shoulders firm and her chin tilts. It was always a trait I had admired in her, that ability to put duty to power over emotional frailties. It was one we shared.   

‘The past has been written, Sin. Memories are a wisp in the wind, ephemeral and influenced by what we wish could have been, not necessarily what was. The future is still to be dealt with, an avenue for growth and stability. We cannot let what was dictate what will be.’

 I laugh softly. “And there you have the source of all the disagreements I have ever had with the Morai. The past /has/been written and because of that the memories we hold are the foundation of the future. They are solid and form the basis for the choices we make, the way we grow.” The laughter dies from my face as my need to understand what that future might be reasserts itself. “Come, show me what I need to see.”

 ‘You must go forward from here alone. Your future is yours to determine. We will watch over you and maintain a mental link,’ she answers and then Atropos adds solemnly, ‘Regardless of which path you take, my golden scissors /will/ be used. The only question is upon whom. I have my preferences, but the choice will be yours.’

 I look each of them in turn. Their expressions are impassive now, no teasing, no easy flirtation. They are once again the immortal Fates.  “We have come to the heart of it now, have we not? Who lives and who dies.” Once again dipping my head to them, I turn and walk forward until I come to a door in the pathway. As I open it I can see the path split into two. The roiling blue flames pitch and roll around them and I have to wonder at the significance of this. The flames have meaning and their prevalence around the walkways must symbolize something that will remain constant regardless of the path I choose.

 ‘You must walk through the door, Sin.’ It Is Lachesis voice echoing in my head. ‘You need not walk down far down either path to see what you must.  But you must look.’

Inhaling deeply, I steel myself. Both paths are shrouded in a darkness that the tumultuous fires illuminate only partially.  I choose the right hand path first, walking down it for a few yards until I can see what lies at the end. My jaw sets at the image. I see myself on a throne carved of black marble against a backdrop of fire, the orange flames casting shadows around me.  My face is dark and brooding as thousands kneel before me, my black leathers stained and my bloody sword lying across my legs. Freya, Danu and Kali are in chains before me. An armed guard with spears crossed bars the way to my throne and disembodied souls shimmer on the steps leading up to it. And nowhere do I see the ones whom I now call family.

 “NO. I do not want this!”

 It is a shout in my mind. For before me I see all that I have ever despised. Power without compassion. Strength without mercy. Narcissism and greed. I see a despot leaving bodies in his wake. I see the Horseman of Death as he has always wished to be.

 “I will NOT walk this path, Clothos. I will die by my own hand first!”

‘That is not an option, Sin. The door you went through is one of inconceivable power. It has no limits. Absolute power corrupts absolutely. It is a human truism that holds for the immortal as well. And it is a door you have already chosen to walk through. Nothing can stop it now, but without the influence of the ones whom you hold as family, that monstrous god is what you will become. And you /will/ lose them all if you choose this path. But it is not foregone that you will. Go back now. Walk the left hand path. It has… we’ll call it more creative options.’

 My face is stony, my body rigid with tension as I backtrack my steps to the original fork in the walkway. This one, too, leads into a darkness dimly lit by the blue flames around it, but again, a few yards in I can see the scene at the end. The ebony throne is still there, but my leathers are clean and I am smiling, descending with my hands out to greet those I love. I can make out Sean’s face as he approaches me, and that of his female. I hear Bryn’s laughter somewhere and Zav is there at my left, his dark wings lifted behind him and a teasing smile on his face as he looks down at a small dark-haired female in the crowd, Declan and Celia on either side of her. And there /is/ a crowd. Smaller, mingling, people coming and going with purpose but not fear.  My future self looks up, as though I hear my name called and then I see her. It is my battle angel from the alley in Caldwell. She comes from behind the throne, clothed in leathers, her own silvery, shimmering wings visible now. She smiles at me as I turn to greet her with a kiss. She has a young male of perhaps four years holding her hand. I lift him up and settle him on my hip, kissing his cheek, then pointing to another child in the crowd. He wiggles down and runs to greet her and I laugh at Sean’s disconcerted look of concern.  There are no disembodied souls hovering, no guards with spears. My own sword, clean and shining with glints of fire shimmering along the sharp, curved edge, leans against the throne, an indicator that my future self is not done with it, but it is not bloodied.

 “Clothos…Lachesis…Atropos…” my mental voice cracks with emotion, “What is this you are showing me?”

 Again it is Lachesis voice that comes to me. ‘This is your other future Sin. You cannot escape the power, you cannot escape what you will become. You can only choose how it will be wielded. These are the results of a choice you will make. It will be one or the other. I cannot tell you what you must choose between but I can say that the first will be the result of a choice made out of ego. The second is the result of a choice made from love. You have always had a healthy ego. Do you have the ability to put love over ego?’

Before I can answer, SHE looks at me. My battle angel looks down the long walkway and meets my eyes. I swear she sees me. Not my future self, but me in this time and place. I hear her voice in my mind.

 ‘What will you choose? Will you choose vengeance as you once did or will you remember love and choose a different path?’ 

 #TBC

 #DarkAngelsCreation #PathsOfChoice #CROSSOVER #PhoenixRisingFromTheAshes #RRPG #Renegades #BDBAU #Reapers #Vampires #Angels #Wolven #Ghosts