#the breakfasting heron

[pnwander]

nestled. 21 november. high tide 🌧 ↪ the breakfasting heron: 4/?

[butcherlarry]

Exercise Fic Recs 20

I have done 20 (?!?!?) of these recs so far, holy moly!  I think what I’m going to start doing is after every 10 rec posts, I’ll do some specialty recs.  After I rec everything I read this week, I’ll rec some podcasts that I enjoy (I LOVE PODCASTS, OMG).

Kind Truths by Mawiiish  (Superbat, complete.  Clark is Bruce’s plus one to a gala and has to deal with his ~feelings~ about Bruce.  Featuring protective Clark.  Very soft, very cute fic <3)

(one more and then) I’ll say goodbye by immolationfox  (Bruharvy, complete.  A take on how Battinson and Harvey Dent get together in The Batman (2022) verse.)

Stranger than Fiction by foxy_mulder  (Batfam, complete.  Little Timmy writes self insert fanfic about the Batfam.  Shenanigans ensue.  SO FUNNY, GIVE IT A READ.)

Masking by BombusBombus  (Superbat, complete.  A reread for me.  A fic about neurodivergent Bruce and Clark, the masks they wear for their personas, and how they come to love the real people beneath them.  Featuring the best scene discussing relationship goals and expectations.)

borderline by TheResurrectionist  (Batfam, wip.  An update to the batfam hivemind fic.  I am in love with this whole fic and always do a happy dance when it updates.)

Patchwork Pod by Kikat9  (Superbat, wip.  MERMAID AU!!  Bruce is a mermaid with no pod and Clark is the fisherman that befriends him.)

Story of the Century by navaan  (Superbat, complete.  Lois and Jimmy catch Superman and Batman kissing and get photographic evidence of it!  What do they do now?!?)

Stay by navaan  (Superbat, complete.  Clark won’t stay the night and Bruce wants to figure out why.)

Homecoming by Sparkypants  (Batfam, complete.  A look at Jason and Bruce’s relationship throughout the years.  Angst, but with a happy ending!!)

And now for some podcasts!!

Behind the Bastards.  Everything you didn’t know about the worst people in history.  I love the host, Robert Evans.  He used to work at Cracked and has done reporting for Bellingcat. 

Qanon Anonymous.  A deep dive into the cult/conspiracy of Qanon and the other conspiracies that tie into it.  If you really like this podcast, they also have a patreon with some additional content and side podcasts.  One of the short, side podcasts that they are working on is called Manclan, which takes a closer look at online masculinity influencers.  That one is FACINATING to listen too.  And kinda sad.    

Lions Led By Donkeys.  A military history podcast that goes into the worst fuck ups done by militaries.  Be warned, some of the topics they get into can be pretty heavy, so look at the episode summaries for warnings before you listen to them.    

Welcome to Night Vale.  Different from the others I’ve recced, lol.  Incase you have never heard of WTNV on this hellsite, it’s a fictional podcast that takes place in the mysterious town of Night Vale, where all the conspiracy theories go to live.  Each episode is a radio broadcast, and your host is Cecil Palmer.  I also like to describe it as if NPR and The Twilight Zone got together and had a very queer baby.   

Whenever I get my latte and croissant, I also get a breakfast sandwich, but I never picture it.  UNTIL NOW.  It’s a veggie breakfast sandwich with an egg that always has a gooey yolk.  DELICIOUS.

They also had PRIDE DONUTS for Pride Month!  I had to get one for a snack after my walk:

A red-winged blackbird.  He lost his keys and can’t find them :(

Canadian goose!

Big stretch

The babies have entered their so ugly they’re cute stage:

Green heron.  I love how you can see their reflection:

Grackle with some nest building materials:

A robin!  They caught their breakfast:

Blue heron!

Close up:

THEY SPOTTED ME:

A robin again.  They were singing at me, so I had to take a picture:

It was rainy and cool today at the arboretum, which was nice because the past week was hot here.  Didn’t see as many birds, but the scenery was still lovely to look at.  I can’t get over how pretty the water lilies are at the arboretum:

A cool close up of a flower!  you can really see the raindrops on it:

Another close up of some flowers.  I really like the color and pattern on this one!

Waterfalls, my favorite :)

A neat iris with some raindrops:

On to the birds!  A Carolina Wren:

LOOK AT THIS COOL BUG:

Indigo Bunting:

Eastern Bluebird!  He’s so handsome:

Omg, I love this Cardinal’s face:

I love chickadees, they are so tiny and adorable:

Another waterfall (because I’m weeeeeeak):

There are two birds here!  The top one is an eastern bluebird, but I’m not sure what the one on the bottom would be.  Some kind of flycatcher?

An indigo bunting looking off into the distance:

Froggy!

There is a bird in this tree, can you see them?

Need a hint?  They’re right here:

It’s a ruby-throated hummingbird!  This is the third time I’ve found this guy here!  He must like to be tall, or something:

A chipping sparrow:

There are also some really neat koi (I think?) in the pond at the arboretum.  They’re so big!!

Pretty flowers again to finish this off:

Teehee, bee butt:

[itwoodbeprefect]

just had the experience of succesfully sounding out แว่นกันแดด in my head, recognizing those sounds ("waen kan daet") as something i'd seen in transliterated script, confidently going "zonnebril!", and then seeing it translated as sunglasses and going wait?? that was wrong?? for a whole two seconds before remembering that no, those words actually do all fit into the same mold, i was just pouring a different language into it by accident

[inthecityofgoodabode]

March 2023: Sunday Walk

Breakfast... well, as late as we got up, it was probably more like brunch: 

Seen while walking: 

The vetch is starting to bud out: 

Mole tunnel: 

Green & gray: 

[judyprincess]

Too Pink for me- Logan Howlett +18

04: Adam's Apple

"No."

The garden area, where the teachers usually had breakfast, was filled with Logan's bad mood from the early morning, marked by his firm refusal.

"Logan, I haven't finished," Charles said calmly, setting his coffee cup down on the table.

Everyone was watching the scene, but Ororo didn't seem surprised—she had already predicted this would happen.

"Guess what, I don't care."

Logan replied before taking a sip of his black coffee, fully intending to escape Charles' explanations. Knowing what was coming, Charles had no choice but to use his powers, stopping Logan from walking away, which made a low, almost animalistic growl escape from his throat as he turned back to them, frustrated.

"Is this some kind of joke or punishment? Did I do something wrong as a substitute that I don't know about?"

Logan finally spoke, his rough voice like sandpaper, clearly expressing his displeasure.

"Logan, I still don't understand why spending time with Rosellina is a punishment." Charles didn't react to his bad attitude and took another sip of coffee. "The girl is delightful."

"I don't like her. Can that be respected?"

"Do you have a valid argument I might accept?"

Charles leaned forward, resting his chin on his interlaced hands, waiting expectantly. Logan thought for a moment, but no words came out.

"Then, no, I can't respect it. It's just nonsense."

Logan took a deep breath, trying to keep the animal inside him from breaking free.

"This is Scott's job. I don't get why I'm the one doing this."

Ororo glanced at Charles when Logan justified himself to avoid the task, her expression clearly saying, I told you so.

"Logan's right," Scott said after a moment, surprising everyone.

Hank nearly choked on his coffee, having to grab a nearby napkin to wipe himself off as he coughed. The world must have been ending—Logan even raised an eyebrow at Scott.

"Well, that's new," Ororo muttered under her breath, watching the situation unfold.

"Professor, I don't usually agree with Logan."

"Usually?" Logan asked, accusingly.

"Never," Scott corrected. "What I mean is, Rosellina is a new student. I don't think her first day at the school should involve enduring Logan's bad mood. She needs a good experience."

Logan mentally thanked Scott for the intervention, though Scott never missed an opportunity to criticize him.

Charles sighed in his seat, remaining calm and unfazed by Logan's attempts to escape. He waved a hand toward Scott, signaling that his intervention wasn't necessary, before addressing Logan.

"Logan, you have two options," he finally said, unwilling to prolong the situation further. He could already sense Rosellina's thoughts approaching—no, in fact, he could feel her emerald eyes watching them.

"You help Rosellina with her tour of the facilities and try to swallow your bad mood a bit."

Before Charles could continue, Logan cut him off with a challenging tone.

"Or what?"

"Or you'll start teaching history classes first thing Monday morning as an official professor," Charles dropped the ultimatum, taking a sip of his coffee without even looking at him. He didn't need to look to imagine Logan's expression.

"Your choice," Charles concluded, leaving a silence as Hank struggled to hold back a laugh.

"This is the library," Logan grumbled, just like every time he pointed out a new room to Rosellina.

After that trap Charles had set for him, Logan had no choice but to reluctantly accept. As soon as he left the garden, Rosellina was already waiting for him. They began on the ground floor, and after a few rooms, they found themselves in the library where several students were studying.

Logan leaned against one of the bookshelves, arms crossed, as he watched her wander around the room with curious eyes. He couldn't help but let his gaze slide over her, observing how she moved so delicately, like a graceful heron. Her clothes were simple, yet somehow, she made them look elegant and magical—a pink skirt and a white blouse with puffed sleeves. Half of her hair was tied up while the rest cascaded down her back like a waterfall, reaching places he knew he shouldn't be staring at. Logan mentally scolded himself, shaking his head firmly as he tried to focus on the windows.

That's exactly what he hated about this girl—the way she made everyone fall under her charm without even trying. Even he, despite his enduring love for Jean, couldn't stop himself from looking at her. It made him feel like a disgusting pervert.

Logan let out a low growl, tightening his grip on his arms, leaving faint marks from the pressure, though they quickly disappeared. He could hear the murmurs of the students watching her as he tried to keep his mind steady.

"She's beautiful," a rough whisper from one male student made Logan turn his head.

With indifferent eyes, Logan observed the admiration that built up around Rosellina with every step she took. The students watched her with eyes full of infatuation. She hadn't even said a word, but they were all staring at her, though they kept their distance, as if feeling unworthy of approaching her. Logan raised an eyebrow at their behavior. It was like she was a painting they admired from afar, afraid to touch for fear of breaking it. Like she was somehow "forbidden."

He chuckled under his breath, but it wasn't because he found it funny. Not at all—it irritated him. The reverence for someone just because they were pretty, someone who barely said more than two words.

"Uh, good morning," Rosellina finally spoke after hearing the whispers, attempting to greet them.

Logan was surprised by the gesture, but what shocked him even more was the students' response. Shy and embarrassed, they turned away, and only a few managed to give her a small nod in return.

Logan huffed at their ridiculous and timid behavior. Impatient, he pushed off the bookshelf and grabbed Rosellina's wrist.

"She's just a girl," he growled. "Stop drooling and at least return her greeting, you rude brats."

Rosellina was caught off guard, not only by Logan's sudden intervention that caused the students to mutter their apologies under their breath, but by his grip on her wrist—so rough, so abrupt, and of course, without any permission. She hadn't even realized when her legs instinctively quickened, trying to match Logan's long strides as he moved swiftly down the hallway, his towering height forcing her to keep pace.

"L-Logan..." she murmured softly, trying to keep up as they climbed the stairs. "It hurts..." she whispered, wincing as he dragged her down the hallway.

"I really hate you," he spat.

Those words left Rosellina stunned. She could only remain silent, frozen by the sharpness of them. Logan was a man giving her firsts in ways she couldn't understand. No one had ever spoken to her like that before. Why was this man, who barely knew her, so determined to bury her beneath his hatred, to push her away from him?

"The way you draw attention, the way you make people stupid, unable to speak, and yet you don't even say anything back," he continued, releasing her wrist abruptly, letting it drop as she came to a halt.

He turned to face her, his breathing heavy, revealing the erratic pace of his heart driven by the rush of adrenaline.

"I hate it so much."

Rosellina looked at him, feeling a sudden ache in her chest. What was that feeling? Why did it hurt? She wasn't sick, so why did her heart feel this way? In a desperate attempt to ignore that unknown pain, she offered him an embarrassed smile. Even though she wasn't to blame, she was ready to apologize.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, looking at him. "I didn't mean to be such a bother to you today."

Logan blinked, taken aback by her response. It only made his irritation grow. Why was she acting like she was the one at fault? Why so much submission? It was driving him crazy. He hated that unbearably helpless attitude.

"Forget it," he muttered under his breath.

The sharp words, like a blade ready to cut deep, were held back. He was restraining himself, knowing deep down that this girl wasn't truly at fault. Or at least his mind tormented him with the thought of Charles scolding him if she ran off in tears because of his rough demeanor.

"Walk," he grumbled as he began to move, shoving his hands into his pockets. The quicker they got this over with, the better for both of them.

The tour of the facilities continued until they reached the second floor, above the dormitories where more secluded rooms were located. Rosellina remained silent, avoiding greetings but offering a shy smile as the older students occasionally glanced at her. Soon, the hallways were empty, and she couldn't help but fidget with her hands.

"What's your mutation?" she dared to ask after what felt like an eternal silence under the weight of the tension.

Logan didn't respond at first, unwilling to engage in more conversation than necessary, but it seemed Rosellina was determined to go against his plans.

"Healing."

He answered curtly, but he could feel her gaze behind him, quietly asking for more information.

"I've got enhanced senses. I'm like an animal, but with extraordinary regenerative abilities," he explained after a few moments of hesitation.

Rosellina nodded, trying to piece it together. Someone who could heal as quickly as he was injured? That explained why Logan, despite his age, looked so young. His mutation slowed his aging. She observed him subtly, careful not to seem intrusive, until her eyes landed on his chest. A dog tag rested against his shirt, and she could clearly read the name on it.

Wolverine.

She remembered Rogue mentioning that most had nicknames, and she quickly deduced that this was Logan's. It suited him, considering what he had told her about his mutation. Yet, despite everything, Logan didn't generate any ill feelings within her. It was his behavior that caused those tiny stings of pain in her chest.

"Were you in the army?"

Rosellina asked after a while, nervous that she might anger him again. Logan let out a heavy breath in response before turning slightly to look at her.

"You're out of questions."

That was all he said, but his response only confirmed for Rosellina that it was a sensitive subject for him. His expression had darkened when she mentioned it. She followed him closely as he pointed out more rooms, moving at a faster pace, his desire to end the tour evident.

"The professor mentioned an attic," she whispered softly, debating whether she should've said anything at all.

She could've let him go and asked Rogue to take her there instead. She watched Logan stop, fully expecting him to sigh in frustration.

"I... we can finish here—"

"Follow me, it's up the right staircase."

Logan interrupted her, veering off and walking with long strides, though his pace had softened so she could keep up. They ascended toward one of the mansion's towers. When they arrived, Logan turned on the lights, the smell of wood immediately filling the space, mingling with the natural floral scent of Rosellina as she stepped inside, awestruck by the attic's size. Logan lingered in the doorway, watching as the light from the balcony helped him see her move around, as if she were already placing things in their designated spots in her mind.

"Why did the professor give you the attic?"

Logan asked, curiosity gnawing at him. Rosellina, stepping away from the table she had been examining, turned to face him.

"He said I could paint here if I needed space, so I wouldn't bother anyone."

She answered, as kind as always.

"Paint?" Logan raised an eyebrow, not expecting that response.

"Yes, I'm an artist."

Logan could sense the hint of pride in her words when she spoke about her craft.

"Well, I guess that's something you can afford to do when your father's one of the Pentagon's big shots," Logan scoffed, the glint of disdain sharp in his eyes.

Rosellina lightly grazed her fingers across the wooden table before pulling her hand back, a small smile on her face.

"I suppose," she murmured after a moment.

Why did it feel like Logan kept testing the limits of her patience? Was she always going to let people treat her like this without pushing back?

"I really do love painting. It's a way to express myself."

Her words pulled him from his thoughts, as she stared down at the floor.

"Everyone expresses themselves somehow, but for me... well, sometimes it's hard to say what I feel." She confessed, her face turning toward the warm light spilling in from the balcony. "It's so easy to swim and just as easy to drown at the same time. But a lifeline can always be there, something to hold on to and escape from the obvious, if only for a moment."

Logan listened closely. Her words flowed like prose, a melody written in frustration and emotion on the oldest pages of Europe, hinting at something deeper. He wasn't sure if it was just her artistic nature making such elaborate comparisons to things that could've been explained in simpler terms, but something about it held him captive.

"Escaping death is easier than escaping feelings, always finding a way to hide them in plain sight, beyond the understanding of those who can't see past their own pain." Rosellina recited, as if recalling a forgotten tale lost in an untold book.

Logan found himself submerged, drawn into that stormy sea of words that seemed to lead nowhere—yet they consumed him. Because, in his mind, there was an understanding, a connection to what she was saying, even if he didn't fully grasp it himself.

"Maybe... painting is my lifeline." Rosellina turned to meet his gaze with a gentle smile. "But mostly, I love doing it because it makes people happy when I do."

She added, as if trying to steer the conversation away from the previous reflections. Logan looked into her eyes, those emerald gems piercing deeper into him, searching for something beyond what he projected. They were mesmerizing, undeniably beautiful. A truth he couldn't deny.

There was a silence between them as Logan observed her; a storm always seemed to brew whenever Rosellina was around. After what felt like an eternity, Logan finally peeled himself away from the doorway.

"I'm sure you've got other things to do, just like me," he said, turning to head down the stairs. In his language, that meant: time to get out.

Rosellina hurried to follow him, casting one last glance at the space. For some reason, Logan didn't seem as resentful as he had been yesterday or even this morning—that was a small victory for her. They descended the stairs together, arriving at the ground floor where most of the people were gathered. Jean crossed their path before Rosellina could greet her, but Logan beat her to it.

"Hey, Jean," he greeted her with a small smile.

Jean quickly returned the smile and greeting. Rosellina stood there, watching the interaction, noticing Logan's smile and his attitude towards Jean. Was he only resentful towards her? No, surely not. Rosellina mentally shook the thought away.

"Hi, Logan, and you too, Rosellina. I see you've finished the tour," Jean observed after saying hello.

Rosellina greeted her and nodded in agreement.

"Well, you sure took your time. It's already lunchtime."

"Yeah, well, the place isn't exactly small," Logan replied with a short laugh.

Rosellina could feel herself fading into the background of the conversation. Even though they were talking about both of them, the conversation started to feel more like it was just between Logan and Jean. Her emerald eyes watched their expressions, noticing the faint air of flirtation between them.

A flush rose to Rosellina's cheeks. They were probably a couple or at least interested in each other, and here she was, stuck in the middle, feeling like a third wheel illuminating a pair of lovers.

"I've got things to take care of, ciao," Rosellina mumbled softly, excusing herself so as not to interrupt any further.

As she walked away, she glanced back over her shoulder and saw them speaking comfortably, catching sight of Logan's expression as he looked at Jean, noticing the small touches she made on his arm. She quickly turned back.

Intrusive. You're being rude, Rosellina.

She scolded herself mentally, determined not to look again. All she could think now was that Logan probably had a girlfriend, which didn't make him a bad guy, right? Rogue had been right, after all. Not that she had ever thought he was a bad guy anyway.

Logan was so absorbed in his conversation with Jean that he suddenly realized he no longer caught the scent of Rosellina's perfume. He turned around to see that she was gone. When had she left? Jean had distracted him that much.

"Logan?" Jean called, pulling him out of his thoughts.

"Sorry, didn't notice the little annoying rose had left," he muttered, refocusing on Jean.

"You don't like her, huh?" Jean asked as they walked down the hallway and out of the mansion, heading toward the front gardens.

"No," he answered firmly.

After a while, Logan's curiosity got the better of him, and he continued, "Beyond her striking looks, I don't even know what her mutation is."

"Well, you didn't ask her, did you? I'm sure she would've told you. She's not shy about showing it."

Jean teased him, practically telling him it was his fault for not asking her directly. Logan cursed under his breath, glancing at Jean while listening to her. Standing around like an idiot and just listening wasn't exactly his idea of fun.

"I'm asking you so you can tell me, Jean."

Jean raised an eyebrow before giving a sly smile.

"It's in her eyes."

Logan stopped in his tracks, recalling how he had been captivated by her eyes just a moment ago. He remembered thinking they were the most intense emerald green he'd ever seen in his life—like two precious gems. But he hadn't thought much further than that. Beyond her striking pink hair, those eyes were the real pressure that could crush you like the deep ocean's abyss.

"Her eyes? What are they supposed to do?"

"Illusions, she can make your mind see things completely out of reality."

Logan thought that maybe people fell under her spell because of her charm, but that wasn't the case. Her mutation went beyond his understanding. Jean took her time explaining what the professor had told her, along with his hypotheses after conducting an initial test with Rosellina. The Canadian listened closely as Jean talked about the classes Charles would have with Rosellina and how she had agreed to become an arts teacher.

"Art teacher..." he muttered to himself with a faint, mocking smile.

It suits her.

Logan thought to himself. Just then, he felt Jean's hands softly brushing against his, her fingertips tracing the calluses on his palms. That small electric charge traveled up Logan's spine, quickening his heartbeat. He turned to look at her.

"I thought you'd be falling for her by now; she's a very beautiful woman." Jean's words felt strange to him. He could sense a mix of teasing and satisfaction in them.

"I only have eyes for one person, if that's what you're worried about." His voice was lower, more intimate and rough. His hands slipped under her jacket, gently grazing her waist, savoring the feel through her clothes.

Once again, he was falling into something he shouldn't. Into the endless flirtation with Jean that always led nowhere, leaving him with scraps of affection that would never turn into anything more.

"She's not even my type," he clarified.

"She's sweet, pretty," Jean offered, "smart, kind."

"I prefer the strong, independent ones." He shook his head at her attempt, his face leaning closer to hers. "What do I have to do to make you understand that I'm only dying for you?" He confessed, now dangerously close.

Jean placed her hands on Logan's chest, creating some space between them, a small barrier, as she felt her breath catch. Logan's masculinity and boldness always made her tremble—a forbidden man who would only bring her trouble.

"Girls only flirt with the bad boy, Logan..." she whispered softly, looking at him with doe-like eyes. "But they marry the good guy."

Jean crossed that dangerous line, her lips almost brushing against his. Jean could hear the low growl in his throat, feel his hot breath on her face.

"I could be the good guy..." he murmured against her lips, barely grazing them.

He was putting all of his effort into not doing something reckless in the school's gardens, where anyone could see them. It was all forbidden and filled with consequences, a mix that made him both sick and excited at the same time. That little fantasy evaporated when Jean, just inches from sharing a kiss with him, pulled away. Once again, the same thing happened. So close, yet so far.

"Scott's waiting for me," she said as her final words, removing her hands from his chest and breaking all contact as his own hand slipped from her waist. She turned to leave, leaving him standing there. Logan didn't dare say anything, letting her walk away. All he could feel was a toxic storm brewing inside, consuming him—pain, pain and resignation. Settling for the bare minimum, knowing it would never go further, and that he would always be the loser, never the first choice for the red-haired woman he desired so much. Could his healing ability save him from that pain he masochistically confused with pleasure? No. He wouldn't feel so lost and broken, knowing he would never be her choice.

"Damn it."

________________________________________

Why does the forbidden always have to be so tempting?

The human desire to always want what we can't have, that greed that makes us brush against sins we will later pay for dearly.

There is no sin without consequences.

________________________________________

Hello, my dear readers! I'm leaving a little note here for you. I know you're a fan of Marvel, so if you're interested, I've recently published another book, though this one focuses more on the Avengers. In this fanfic, the Avengers' story is rebooted from the first movie, and a new female original character will change the course of the movie timeline in this alternate reality. You can find it on my profile, or search for it by title: Immortal Flames.

If you're also into Japanese mythology, this fanfic will be for you! (Of course, it will be explicit and feature romance between the original character and another Avenger, along with secondary pairings among other Avengers).

I hope you're enjoying Rosellina's story. ✨️

Kisses, 

Judy. 💖

[chaosheadspace]

38) …because they’re running out of time.

Or 48) …out of habit.

If these haven't been asked yet? 🖤🖤🖤

This might not be what you've expected, but the combinations of prompts instantly plopped a library boys scene into my mind, so here you go.

Hob sits at the breakfast table in boxers and a t-shirt over a steaming cup of tea, reading the newspaper on the tablet. It's early Sunday morning, and with Orpheus at Calliope’s and Murphy still asleep, Hob shamelessly soaks up the peace and quiet of half past six. Murphy will get up in half an hour, he and his birding friends have planned a trip to the Walthamstow Wetlands, so Hob will have most of the day to himself. It's not that he's not getting enough alone time, rather that Hob loves the kind of quiet that early mornings bring; when the world seems less real and at the same time more true than it does other times.

The sun paints the shadows of the herbs they keep on the windowsill over the floor, a linocut of warm yellow and grey leaves and stalks and blades. Although the stalks in question are a bit droopy, Hob supposes. He lazily tasks himself to water them. Later. He's not really reading the paper, either, he's just existing, without hurry, and the idea of there being a paper to read is comforting, just like the warmth of the mug in his hands. Hob just doesn't want the actual reading of actual news disturbing him right now.

Into the middle of his peace echoes a faint, muffled thump and some indeterminate cursing, and Hob smiles. The doors of the bedroom and bathroom and bedroom again shut and open in rapid succession, underlined with the shuffle of clothes and the thumping of sleep-clumsy feet.

Then Murphy practically flies through the kitchen door, rummaging around the cupboards, finding his water bottle, filling it at the sink.

Hob leans back in his chair, watching him with a smile. “Good morning,” he greets Murphy, who still hasn't acknowledged him.

“No time,” Murphy says, “I am late, terribly late, Jessamy texted me that she has heard a bittern as she was observing the grey herons, I cannot miss—”

“Herons?” Hob asks. “Aren't those the ones who go ‘zoop’? You know, with the neck?” He knows that Murphy knows what he means. Hob shows him every bird video he finds while perusing the depths of the Internet, sometimes to his delight, sometimes to his exasperation.

Murphy shuts off the water. “No,” he says, “grey herons do not go zoop.” Definitely exasperation this time. “The bird you saw in the video was a green heron, which is very rare around here.” Murphy caps his bottle and swans back out of the kitchen. “I will see you tonight,” he shouts, reaching for his backpack on the coat rack.

“Have fun!” Hob shouts back.

Bang goes the front door, then a shuffle of hasty steps down the three stairs in front of it and then—

The sound of keys in the lock, the front door opening again, and then Murphy comes back into the kitchen, determinedly walking ‘round the table towards Hob.

“I forgot,” Murphy says, using two of his fingers to gently tip Hob's chin up and then kissing him, soft and earnest. Before Hob can properly kiss him back he's already withdrawn, placing another kiss on Hob's forehead.

“Bitterns also go zoop.” Murphy flashes Hob a grin. “In fact, bitterns are also herons.” And with another quick peck to Hob's nose, he's gone again.

Hob smiles and takes a sip of his tea, pulling the tablet closer again to look up videos of bitterns.

Video of Green heron going zoop

Video of a bittern (with call!)

Send me a kissy prompt or read the other ones here

[acti-veg]

i suffer from chronic depression and really low energy. i find preparing even the most basic of meals really hard.

do you know of any places in the uk i can buy vegan ready meals which do deliveries please?

also things i can buy in bulk for breakfast, lunch etc like cereal bars where prep isn’t needed

thank you so much

Huel is a good option for very cheap meals, you can buy ready-to-drink ones or powders that you just mix yourself. That can be breakfast and lunch sorted by itself. There are also quite a lot of meal delivery services in the UK who offer vegan food, I found about five with a quick search but I haven't tried any, so I can't make recommendations.

Stocking up on basics like soups, pasta pots and packaged noodles would be good in a pinch. Protein bars would be good to have on hand, Misfits ones are great but Trek do protein flapjacks that are vegan as well. Home and Bargain and Heron do big flapjacks which are surprisingly vegan and are very high in calories, for when you just need to get some fat and calories in - they're about 5 for £2. For more nutritious options, canned foods can also be just thrown in with microwaves rice, things like chickpeas, lentils, black beans, kidney beans etc. You can buy microwavable packets of pre-flavoured grains and such from most supermarkets, they're reasonably healthy and not too expensive. There are also loads of snacking faux meats that you just throw on some bread for a quick lunch. Even just having some bread, hummus and carrot sticks in in can serve as a quick lunch when you really don't have the energy.

The best advice I can give is to pre-prepare meals in bulk, during those periods where you have the energy to do that. This doesn't need to be complex recipe making, you can throw soy chunks/fake chicken, rice, broccoli and soy/teriyaki sauce in a big pan and make enough for a few days in about 10-15 minutes. Meals like chili, pasta, curry, homemade soups and noodle dishes freeze pretty well so you only need to blast them in the microwave.

[itsagrimm]

He Who Comes from under the Water

Chapter 6 - Safekeeping

Monster!König X she/her afab Reader

CN dead fish

Notes for better understanding at the bottom!

Beta-read by @queenquazar. She is a writer as well and does amazing work which you should definitely check out.

2,3 k words

Masterlist

The water ran playfully past your bare feet dangling in the little stream. You had taken off your shoes, sitting at the grass covered bank while watching König fish. It was shallow, but you could not bring yourself to go deeper than this. König of course did not mind the water, hip deep, and comfortably towering as he straightened victoriously like a tree surviving the flood to pass you one sorry little flapping creature after another, asking you with much elation if that sorry thing would do for lunch.

“A Pike? Yummy.”

“No, not the Rodd. Too much bone.”

“Please don’t make me eat a snail.”

“Another Pike! How did you manage to catch a second one so quickly?”

As the caught fish collected in a basket next to you, waiting to be gutted and prepared, you leaned back on your elbows. It had been a… strange morning.

König had come inside your home for breakfast, only to reveal you might die due to the dangers of being his underwater queen. His words had felt like getting pushed back into a dark pit you had barely managed to crawl out of moments ago. Every time you gathered back your strength, something happened, and you were back where you started. But unlike you, König was not as quick to give up and dragged you back up once again from the pit.

 In fact, you wondered why he had not given up on you, just leaving you to find himself a better, more suitable, queen? No, König was bent on keeping you alive, jumping up from the kitchen table declaring ‘I have an idea’ and running out, shouting for the Heron. Confused, you had stayed where you were, only for König to run back in again, lifting you up in a surprising hug accompanied with a ‘you will live, you will live’-chant. You had squeaked in surprise, and he nearly dropped you on the floor, mumbling an excuse before running out again and returning what felt like no time with a bit of fresh birch bark, asking you for a knife.

“Why?”

“It is to write a letter.”

Confused, you passed him a kitchen knife and he started scratching symbols into the soft bark with it. The little blade looked so ridiculous in his large hands, like a dainty daisy in a bear’s claw. Despite it all, you laughed. A desperate little laugh fighting its way out of your lungs.

He looked up.

“What is it, Bride?”

“Nothing. Your hands are so big and the knife so small. That is all.”

He leaned back.

“Would you prefer to write yourself with this tiny knife in your tiny human hands?”

“I can’t,” you replied shortly, still giggling. What a stupid question.

“Why? Can you only use a knife to chop fish?”

“Yes,” You dead panned and smiled softly, the easing laughter helping you with your heavy mood, “I can’t read. Women do not read or write. Don’t you know? Only men can and Ivar, the village teacher, never allowed girls, despite my brother being a student of his and practising at this table next to me. I still was never allowed to attend.”

König frowned under all the messy tangled hair.

“We should change that. Downstream in the cities, everyone knows how to read and write - man, woman or whatever you humans can be. It would be good for you to learn it - but not today. The Heron will not be able to guard you. They have to deliver this letter and hopefully give us the help we need for you to stay alive.”

He paused, his eyes shifting from the pragmatic to a soft questioning gaze.

“Would you like to spend the day with me instead, Bride? I promise, I’ll keep you as safe as the Heron.”

And that was how you ended up wandering the forest with König. Watching him search for trees to fall for the palace with his big axe, while you followed collecting berries and harvesting herbs with your little, tiny kitchen knife until you grew tired and rested at this little stream.

A little splash of water to your face made you squeal in surprise, and you opened your eyes.

König stood before you, a huge catfish under his arm struggling to get free and splashing water everywhere.

“Don’t fall asleep in the sun, Bride,” König chided softly. “You will get a headache from it. The old man complained about it all the time.”

You giggled. “Yes, grandfather liked to have naps but never chose a good spot for it.”

You got up to move into the shadows of a willow for a quick nap.

König nodded approvingly, the catfish under his arm joining in in an attempt to get free.

“Can you make a fire before you nap? It is not my strong suit and, unlike me, you don’t eat raw fish.”

Surprised you turned to König. The man who appeared to be able to do anything – scare away Ivar, summon speaking animals and swamp lights, catch fish and lift heavy wood – did not know how to make a fire.

“No fire under the water, remember?”

You paused before nodding.

That made sense.

The catfish nodded too before finally wiggling out of König’s grip and slipping back into the water.

With a curse König dived after it, leaving you to make a fire.

With practised ease you build a little pile before lighting it up and feeding it more air and dried bark until it was big enough to sustain itself.

Casually you grabbed a few sticks, sharpened them with your knife, gutted and cleared the caught fish and skewered the pike meat wrapped in some of the herbs. It would make for a great meal and you felt your body going from tired to awake enough for food and an eventual nap afterward.

König emerged from the stream and stepped on land, his unhuman appearance mostly covered by a dripping cloak except for the shimmery wet skin from the water and the sunlight.

“No catfish?”

He grumbled something in defeat before sitting down next to the fire.

“You need to teach me how to do this fire and cooking thing, Bride. Could be useful.”

“Oh yes, I will,” You promised, “Who else is supposed to make meals while I sleep?”

He chuckled.

“You humans are so delicate – always needing rest, food, shelter, air, water – but only the clear sweet waters and none of the green or salty ones. I wonder how you make it through the day laughing. Your lives are so harsh.”

“It is pretty okay being a human.” A grin spread on your face as you shrugged. “Better than coming from the water and having to munch raw catfish. Oh wait, the catfish got away. Guess you’ll go hungry, love.”

The word slipped out of you before you could think - a little treacherous word telling of little, treacherous dreams in your little, hopeful heart.

Love.

You looked down, pretending to concentrate on the fire and picked up one of the sticks to grill the fish.

“Be kind and do not let me starve, maiden.” König called out playfully and picked up one of the prepared sticks. “How do you do this?”

You showed him how to hold the fish without burning it, reminding him he had to turn it once in a while, so the fish will be cooked from all sides, and explaining how you used the herbs on the meat.

“And no bark?” König asked after your explanations.

“No bark.”

“Hmpf.

You looked up at him, his features hidden by his hair and hood. Except for his mouth with gleaming sharp teeth turned down in an unhappy frown.

Very sharp teeth.

You shivered, the reality of your fiancé’s inhumanness hitting you in the face like water from the struggling catfish desperate for life.

“Humans do not eat bark but if you like it so much, do what you want.” Your voice went thin as you spoke, a strange lump of fear and worry weighted down deep in your gut.

“Say, König,” you started. “What exactly is so dangerous about me becoming your wife?”

There, the words were out.

Hanging in the air like the skewed fish over the fire, slowly burning and sizzling away skin – painful and inevitable, unless doing something to prevent it.

König sighed.

“My brother,” he explained with a defeated tone, “Can be very pessimistic. He said I might accidentally kill you by drowning. But,” He looked at you, his eyes clear as ice piercing through any doubt. “I will not do that. I promise you are safe with me and there might be someone who can help with removing that danger. Also,” He continued as a careful, toothy smile grew on his face. “So far I have at least somewhat succeeded in keeping you safe, right? You are here and not hurt or hidden away in the house. Not saying I’ve done it perfectly but…” His voice rippled off in waves, making your eye brows narrow slightly

“It is good enough for now… right?”

You stared into the fire, thinking about König’s words. Yes, you were afraid. His otherness sometimes confusing you, or making you withdraw from him in fear. But never had he done anything to harm you.

At least not willingly.

Yes, there were accidents and mistakes. But, he tried to keep you safe and looked out for you. You could not remember anyone being so honestly interested in you and your well-being. Not the villagers who dropped you the moment you became uncomfortable for them. Not the boys you had kissed in secret, or girlfriends who had stopped visiting you when you started to cry more than you laughed from all the death and misery in your life. And certainly not your family who loved you, but kept you as their obedient child to help at home and carry any expectations they placed on you without opposition. That included your beloved grandfather who promised you to someone without asking your permission, counting on you to just follow his command. Love was complicated. You missed your family, your friends and old life. But there was bitterness thinking about them now. The old house had become as much a sanctuary as it was a prison.

Being with König was not that different: like an axe to build a new palace or yield as a weapon.

Yes, it was unfortunate how you had come to be the Bride of the King from Under the Water.

And maybe it would be your death.

But so far, your engagement has come with much more grace than you had ever known.

“Do not worry, my love,” You whispered those words with a grim dedication to all that it might include. “I know you are keeping me safe, and I trust you will continue to do so.”

The silence of your words weighed heavy as you stared into the fire without seeing the flames.

A hand touched yours and you jerked up. König had moved closer, carefully lifting your hand with the skewered fish up and away from the heat.

“I am not much of an expert on fire but this looks like you could light yourself up like that,” He declared with a soft ring as if trying not to smile. “You said it yourself - ‘turn it so it does not burn’. I would do a poor job keeping my bride safe if I let you burn your fingers now.”

You blinked in confusion, before adjusting the grip on the stick in your hand under his large right palm.

“Thank you,” you mumbled.

He kept his hand around yours - warm, strong, pleasant - and you hummed in approval as his other wandered around your shoulder and pressed you closer to his side.

My bride. My bride.

That’s what he had said.

The words rang pleasantly in your ears as you nuzzled into Königs chest.

XXX

Cultural context notes:

König writes in Old Church Slavonic. Old Church Slavonic is the basis of many the Slavic languages written form. It was ‘created’ by two monks named Methodius and Cyril (That’s why the modern alphabet is now called Cyrillic) who were tasked with helping to convert the Byzantian Slavs in Moravia to Christianity. To do that they translated several religious texts, most importantly the Bible, into Old Church Slavonic which could be understood by the Slavs. Old church Slavonic is really cool and can still be understood by many modern speakers of Slavic languages despite coming from the 9th century. Also, the Polish band Batushka / БАТЮШКА sings in Old Church Slavonic if you want to know what it sounds like.

XXX

shoot me a message if you want to be tagged as well. (-:

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[deuxcherise]

Brother vs Sister

C/w: Unhealthy behavior, probably OOC Ayato Kamisato, yandere Ayato Kamisato, some Ayaka takes over in the meantime, fem reader A/n: So this part technically happens before Fear of Cucumbers, as evident by how you address your blue-haired husbando in this series :3 Basically, you have been wanting to meet your sister-in-law for a while now, and unbeknownst to you, she has been wanting to meet you as well~ Masterlist

It is often noted that the daily affairs of the Kamisato clan are usually kept under wraps for privacy reasons, and not to mention, for safety reasons. However, there are rumors among the servants that even the internal affairs are privy but to a select few.

“It is said that in marriage, one is not only married to their spouse but to their family as well,” you eloquently say as you place pieces of the various entrees on the table onto your bowl of rice. “When should I expect to be meeting your sister, Husband?”

“All in due time, my dear,” your husband answers, copying your actions. “And please, do address me as Ayato when we are in private at least.

And for the few months into your marriage now, that is how your conversation would go whenever the topic of siblings came up over your breakfasts, lunches, and dinners. Nowhere.

You, who have been born and raised as a single child, have never desired a sibling since you’ve the luxury of getting along with your many cousins from the other branches. Nevertheless, you possessed the knowledge of the existence of a sibling of your husband (who you’ve only had a glimpse of at your wedding ceremony), and considering she is the only family he has left in the Kamisato clan, wouldn’t it make sense for the wife to at least be acquainted? Especially since you and her are both the only women of the Kamisato clan now, after all.

“Is that so, Husband?”

“It is so, Wife. My apologies, I will let you know when the time is right.”

As much as you want to prod and provoke your husband until he gives up the details, you have kept your place in fear of accidentally breaking the role of playing the obedient and quiet wife. You could go see her yourself, since she does just live on the premises on the other side of the Kamisato Estate, but first impressions are extremely important and you would not like to embarrass yourself in front of the esteemed Lady Kamisato.

“Alright,” you acquiesce, keeping in mind not to click your tongue in annoyance.

-----🐈-----

The Yashiro commissioner and young lord of the Kamisato clan remains a mysterious figure to the public, unlike his sister, known as the beloved Shirasagi Himegimi, who maintains both the internal and external affairs. Her public image is the model of perfection, one who trains well both in the matters concerning the blade and the brush with the elegance of an egret.

Ching! Clash! Swoop! Clang!

A sword goes flying backwards and lands on the dirt.

“It seems the white heron is distracted,” Ayato teases, pointing his sword at his defeated opponent. There is not a drop of sweat on him to be seen.

Ayaka reaches down and grabs her fallen sword, brandishing towards him with vigor and determination. Beads of sweat lay on her forehead, though it only adds a dewy essence to her dignified appearance. “It seems I am, would you like to know why?”

His eyes widen as he tilts his head in curiosity, his sword lowering. “I do. What is the matter?”

Ayaka follows his lead by lowering her own sword before clearing her throat. “Brother. When, oh when, will I finally get to meet my dear sister-in-law?”

Crack.

There it is again, Ayaka notes as she watches her brother. The calm mask of her brother cracks whenever anyone mentions his wife, no matter who it is. Isn’t it strange how he seems to hide her away from the outside world by utilizing every method in the book?

Ayaka thinks so, and thus this mysterious lady in her brother’s personal life has led her to come up with a couple of theories.

The first one requires you to be one of those shy wives who is scared of everyone, but then that sort of person would be too soft for Ayato and also unbefitting of a daughter of the Holy Dogs. Theory debunked.

The second one entails that you must be a wicked vixen who has somehow charmed your way into Ayato’s heart and is simply manipulating him into having the west wing all to yourself before taking over the entire estate eventually! This also goes with the odd fact that he’s personally reduced the staff— which means you can play behind his back as you please!

There are two things wrong with this theory. If you were playing behind his back, since you’re not allowed out of the estate, it would make more sense for you to have an all-male staff at your fingertips instead of a small all-female entourage. Unless you liked girls… but if you could charm Ayato then Ayaka was sure there would be rumors.

Secondly, if not men then perhaps she would have caught wind of some ridiculously high purchases you’ve made without permission or perhaps some complaints from the staff themselves, or Thoma! But no, everything is running smoothly as per usual. And above all, Ayaka knows better than anyone that Ayato completely dislikes someone with a manipulative personality (like him). So you couldn’t be like that…

What the young miss of the Kamisato clan wants to know above all else is what kind of qualities led to this mischievous brother of hers to hand-picked you himself out of the hundreds of viable brides that many branches had thrown at them? You both live in the same estate, after all! How is it possible that she hasn’t been able to encounter you at least once??? It has been months since you’ve been married to Ayato!

“As I have said before, (Y/n) is still getting used to living with us. I fear a one-on-one meeting may be too much for her at the moment,” Ayato explained calmly. “That is why I have secluded the west wing for her.”

She pouts before an idea pops into her head. “Oh! Then, you should join us during our meeting, Brother! That way, she’ll feel comfortable with me, won't she?”

He shakes his head. “She is still getting used to my presence. Do understand. I will let you know when she is ready.”

“Oh… alright,” Ayaka said.

Little did Ayato know, the young miss would not take this answer lying down.

-----🐈-----

The soft bristles of your hairbrush glides down each and every strand of your hair, like a calm waterfall flowing over a cliff. You take a breath every time you lift the brush and release upon the end of your hair, allowing only tranquil thoughts to fill your mind.

The best locations for finding the best onikabuto are in Inazume City, Kujou Encampment, the Sacred Sakura Shrine, the Serpent’s Head and High Village, Seirai Village, and Tatarsuna. Hm, those places are too far from here. Should I start a beetle farm on the estate…?

Knock! Knock! Knock!

“Lady Kamisato, may we come in?”

You place down the brush and turn towards the sliding doors of your personal room. “Who are ‘we’?”

“A maid and your new lady-in-waiting.”

Oh. Your lady-in-waiting. You pat your heated cheeks as you remember the bridge incident from several days ago. Ever since the day you suddenly found your husband’s hands to be… scandalous, you’ve avoided his presence, even during the times you’d join for eating. Of course, your husband has found this predicament to be less than satisfactory (oh, if only you knew how much). Unfortunately for him, he’s been swamped with governmental duties regarding the upcoming festivals and other events. And thus, through blackmailing as per usual, he has assigned a personal attendant to watch over you in his stead.

“Come in.”

The two ladies come in, closing the door behind them. One of them you recognize by face, with brown hair neatly tucked into a bun underneath the maid headdress and overall, ordinary features. The other a complete stranger, with grey-blue eyes and loose strands of light blue hair poking out of her maid headdress. While the former is holding her head up with confidence as a Lady’s maid should, the latter is holding her head down like she has something to hide.

“Permission for introductions, Lady Kamisato,” asks the maid you recognize.

Your eyes slightly narrow. “Yes, you may.”

The speaking maid presents the shy maid with a slight push from the back, forcing the shy maid to take a step forward. She finally lifts her head and your eyes widen.

She’s… very cute. Clear skin, round silver-blue eyes, delicate features— if you weren’t the wife of Ayato Kamisato, you would have immediately bowed before the princess-like woman and begged her to let you take a picture of her for you to keep. Except that you are, and such behavior would be frowned upon, so you simply cover the bottom half of your face with a fan.

Ayaka, disguised in a maid’s uniform she snatched from one of the laundry baskets, examines you fully. Hiding behind a fan… must be a sign of possessing hidden intentions, she thinks. She purses her lips and curtsies before you. “Pleased to meet you, Lady Kamisato. Br- Your husband has assigned me to be your Lady-in-Waiting.”

You nod. “Pleased to meet you. And what is your name?”

“Aya- mi. Ayami!” Ayaka stutters, hoping you didn’t notice.

You don’t notice, even with the sight of her light-blue hair peeking out of the maid’s hat. “Ayami,” you repeat, politely smiling. “Call me, (Y/n).”

-----

Crash!

“Oh no! I-I’m so sorry!”

You turn from the window and look in surprise at the cracked bowl. “Are you alright, Ayami?”

“Yes, Lady Kamisato…” Ayaka nods, choking back her tears as she kneels down and carefully cleans up the mess she’s made.

Being a lady and being a maid are two opposing roles one does not usually find oneself playing in this society. Being the elegant and socially-adroited young miss of the Kamisato clan, she has had no problems negotiating with potential partners or dealing with difficult nobles. Helping a lady dress, balancing a tray with a bowl of rice and miso soup, maintaining silent footsteps at a consistent pace from the door towards your personal dining table, are more difficult and frustrating tasks than any target she has ever swung a sword at.

“Ouch!”

Noticing the young maid accidentally knick herself with a piece of porcelain, you quickly rush over from the window and kneel nearby, careful of the cracked mess, and hold her hand. “Don’t mind the mess, come here.”

You take her to your makeup table, pull open a drawer, and take out a bandage roll small enough to wrap around her injured thumb.

“Thank you, Lady Kamisato…” Ayaka says, looking between her thumb and you bashfully.

“You’re welcome,” you politely smile, patting her hand. “Take your time, okay? There’s no rush.”

How can a maid be so clumsy? Is she really just a maid? you think.

Ayaka nods. “Mm.”

Is she just pretending to be nice or is she saving face because she knows Brother is watching her? she thinks.

You go back to looking out towards the window, which prompts Ayaka to offer to go outside, which makes you perk up.

-----

Dressed in your outgoing attire, you click your tongue and cross your arms.

“Lady Kamisato? Is something the matter? What are we looking at, if I may ask?”

“Indeed,” you confirm under your breath, glaring at the wall. “It seems my husband is far more evil than expected.”

Evil? Brother? “Whatever do you mean, Lady Kamisato?” Ayaka probes.

You had accidentally spoken aloud but considering she’s your lady-in-waiting under Ayato’s command, then you might as well pass along the message. You look towards her with a pout and point at the wall. “That’s right! See this! This wall used to be covered in vines! And now he’s burned it all away. For no good reason! Ayato is a bad man! A bad man!”

Childish? Yes. Warranted? Oh, absolutely.

According to Ayato, the main reason the vines on the furthest wall of the Kamisato Estate’s garden was burned and cut down was because it proved far too dangerous. Assassins and other hired attackers could easily access the gardens through this area. And Ayaka makes a point to explain this to you.

To which you politely reply, “That is some dog poop.”

“Eh?”

“You must’ve heard from him, right?” you accuse. “How I keep trying to escape this place? That’s why he sent you to keep a watch over me.”

Eh, really? “Why- I mean, isn’t that a good thing? Br- Lord Kamisato making sure you’re safe?”

You place your hands on your hips. “In a way, yes. But also no. Truth be told, Ayami. Your boss, my husband, is keeping me trapped here.”

“Trapped?”

“That’s right! I don’t know what is wrong with that man. He won’t leave me alone, he- he-” The memory of how his arms felt while carrying you in a princess hold floats into your mind. You immediately shake your head and rid yourself by bringing up another related topic. “And he won’t let me meet his sister at all for some reason! I’ve asked every single maid on my staff and none of them can give me a straight answer! Is she so scary that no one wants to talk about her? Am I too inadequate to meet her?”

Ehhhh??? You’ve been wanting to meet me? Ayaka thinks. She clasps both of your hands together in her hands and beams. “Not at all, not at all, Lady Kamisato! In fact, I- she has been wanting to meet you as well. However, Lord Kamisato has been telling her that you were not ready.”

You grit your teeth. “Damn bastard. I’VE BEEN READY! When, oh when, will I finally get to meet her…?”

After that exchange, in which the two of you parted ways at your personal room, Ayaka walks through the house while contemplating your words versus her brother’s when she accidentally bumps into someone.

“Oh!” “Huh?”

Taking a step back, Ayaka starts to quiver.

“Ayaka…?”

[grahamfolgersdeliciousnotebooks]

A quick little Scottish Safehouse fic for you. Check it out on AO3, or read below. Reblogs, replies, etc are always extremely appreciated.

They didn’t talk about it, at the safehouse. They talked about everything but – the weather, the dishes, the neighbors’ cows. They talked about Daisy, but only to comment about her decor, or her taste in books and music made evident by the small collection of vinyl and battered paperbacks scattered across the house. They didn’t talk about what she might be doing now. They didn’t speculate about whether Basira had made good on her promise yet.

Jon didn’t ask Martin about anything he’d said in the Lonely, though the words I really loved you, you know burned a constant hum in the back of his mind. Martin didn’t ask about any of the things he’d Seen. He wouldn’t know what to ask, even if he wanted to. Was it real? Do you love me? He wasn’t sure he needed to ask. What does it mean? Where do we go from here? That was closer to the mark, but terrifying. Everything felt so fragile at the moment. He didn’t want to push. It was easier, safer, to keep things light. Was the tea in Daisy’s cupboards still good? Had Jon seen that grey heron in the stream outside the window? Should they stop by the library the next time they went into town for groceries?

They barely spoke at all when they went to bed. The nerve-wracking reality of sharing a bed, just inches apart, overpowered any instinct to chat. So they said nothing, falling asleep to the sound of the other’s breathing until it was time for one or both of them to be woken by a nightmare.

***

The first night, it was Martin. He tossed and turned in his sleep, badly enough to shake Jon from his own bad dreams, so Jon could hear the second he woke with a hitched, choked breath. 

“It’s alright,” he whispered. “You’re alright, it was just a dream.”

“Jon?”

“I’m here.”

Jon reached across and slipped his hand into Martin’s, and Martin squeezed it like a lifeline. They didn’t say anything else, after that, but when they finally fell asleep nearly an hour later, their hands were still clasped together.

***

In the morning, they talked about the crossword.

“How do you spell obstinate?” Martin asked across the breakfast table.

“O-B-S-T-I-N-A-T-E.”

“Hmm. Too many letters, then.”

“What’s the clue?”

“Stubborn, 8 letters.” Martin told him. “First two letters are O and B.”

“What about ‘obdurate?’”

Martin pencilled it in. “It fits.” He frowned down at the puzzle with a contemplative hum. “And if that’s an R, then that means I was right about 4 down from the beginning…” He filled in a few more clues, then looked up from the puzzle and scoffed. “Obdurate,” he repeated, incredulous. “Who uses the word obdurate?”

***

Jon was woken after midnight by Martin’s harsh, shuddering breaths – crying or on the verge of tears; Jon couldn’t tell. He reached out, and Martin breathed out a shaky sigh.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I was on the beach again,” Martin whispered. “I was alone.”

“You’re not alone anymore.”

“I know.” Another sigh as he struggled to calm his breathing. “I know.”

***

The next day, they talked about the laundry.

“We forgot to buy detergent,” Jon informed him after spending the morning inspecting Daisy’s laundry room and its ancient washer-dryer.

“Daisy didn’t leave any behind?”

“You can look for yourself if you want, but I didn’t see any.”

“I trust you.”

Jon settled on the couch and spread the throw blanket across his lap. “How much did you pack? Do you think we can put off doing laundry until after we go to the shops?”

“Sure,” Martin told him, though in truth he hadn’t packed much. “We’ll be fine.”

***

When Jon woke, he didn’t move. He didn’t make a sound. He lay on his back, letting his tears slide down his cheeks in total silence, certain that he hadn’t woken Martin. But when he finally had to breathe – the tell-tale hiccuping inhale of someone who had just been crying – Martin rolled over to face him.

“Jon?”

“It’s nothing. Just a bad dream,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

Martin watched him. Jon’s chest rose and fell unsteadily, and in the light of the nearly-full moon outside their window, Martin could see the tear tracks glisten, incriminating, on his face.

Jon finally turned to face him, and they lay face to face for a long, silent moment. A strand of long, grey-streaked hair had fallen into Jon’s face with the movement, and Martin reached out to tuck it behind his ear.

“Oh, Jon…”

He let his hand linger, cupping his jaw, then moved it an inch to brush aside the tears from Jon’s cheeks. His hand was warm, and Jon’s skin was cold, and Jon turned his face to press into that point of warm, gentle contact. 

Jon waited for Martin to pull his hand away. Martin waited for Jon to turn away again. Neither of them moved. 

Finally, Jon closed the space between them to tuck his face into the crook of Martin’s neck. Martin held his breath for a moment before bringing his arms up to pull Jon even closer.

They woke up that morning entwined in each other’s arms, but they didn’t talk about it.

***

“We’re almost out of eggs.”

“Already?”

“It’s probably my fault,” Martin admitted. “I used a lot of them for my omelet yesterday.”

“Well, we needed to go shopping anyway.”

Martin hmm’ ed thoughtfully. “There was something else we needed. Wasn’t there?”

“There was,” Jon agreed. “God, what was it?”

“We should start writing these things down.”

***

That night, Jon had another nightmare. Martin could hear him trying to stifle his crying once again, and reached out. 

Jon froze at the contact, caught like a deer in the headlights. Then he turned to press himself against Martin’s chest and let himself be held.

“Nightmare?” Martin asked, and Jon nodded.

“I couldn’t look away,” he murmured. “I tried to, but– I just stood there and watched.”

Martin pressed Jon to him. “It’s alright,” he said, though it wasn’t exactly true. Then he whispered, “I’m here,” which was.

***

The next day, they went into town for groceries. They chatted a bit on the walk there.

“God, breathe that air,” Martin exclaimed, sucking in a good lungful for himself.

“I’m breathing it…” Jon said. “Is there… something I’m supposed to notice?”

“It’s fresh!” Martin told him. “It’s good, country air! I don’t miss London right now, I’ll tell you that.”

“No.” Jon glanced at Martin, bundled in his worn peacoat against the highland chill. “I can’t say I miss London either.”

They chatted more in the grocery store.

“Where are you going?”

“I just want to look at the tea selection…”

“We already have so much back at the house.”

“I’m just looking!”

And more, on the walk back.

“Ooh, look there! Is that a falcon? Or a hawk?”

“A hawk.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, it’s a Eurasian sparrowhawk.”

“Know-it-all.”

“Yes, Martin, that’s sort of the idea.”

And more, when they got back to the safehouse.

“Geez,” Martin said as they walked through the front door, “it’s getting a bit nippy, isn’t it? Should we have a fire tonight?”

“Yes, that’s probably–”

Martin dropped the tote bag he was holding with an abrupt clunk.

“Laundry detergent!”

Jon didn’t have to ask what he meant; he just swore under his breath.

“Damnit!”

“We forgot laundry detergent.”

“Look, Martin, you finish putting the groceries away and I’ll run back to the shop.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“You don’t have to. It’s a long way–”

“I want to.”

“Alright.” Jon bit his lip around the urge to smile. “If you’re sure.”

***

It was Martin’s turn for a nightmare that night. It was too much to ask, it seemed, that just once they both sleep soundly.

He was crying. Quietly, but not so quietly that it didn’t stand out starkly against the silence of the house. He had his back to Jon, and Jon watched his shoulders shake for a single hesitant moment before he wrapped his arms around Martin’s waist.

“Was it the same dream?” he asked in a barely-there whisper, and Martin shook his head.

“You were there this time,” he said. “In the Lonely. But you… you hated me. You didn’t say it, but I could tell– I knew– you wanted me to go.”

“I’m sorry.”

Martin sniffled. “It was just a dream,” he said, as much to himself as to Jon.

“I… I don’t want you to go.”

“I know. You don’t have to… It was just a dream,” Martin repeated.

They let the silence hang in the air for a time, Jon holding Martin in a wordless embrace, Martin letting the tears come without trying to fight them this time. Jon broke the silence to murmur,

“I was prepared to stay.”

“What?”

“When I went into the Lonely, I didn’t know if I’d be able to pull you out – I didn’t know if I’d be able to pull myself out. I just knew…” he took a steadying breath, and pressed his ear to Martin’s back to hear the quiet beating of his heart. “I’d rather be there with you than leave you there alone.”

“Oh.” 

Martin took Jon’s hand in his, pressing it to his chest like a talisman, like it could ward off the Lonely. Maybe it could.

“Thanks, Jon. I…” Another sentence he couldn’t finish. “Thank you.”

Jon turned his head and pressed a kiss to the back of Martin’s neck. In that moment, it felt natural. It felt simple. It felt right.

Martin sighed. The sound was warm, and gentle, and content, and it felt so loud against the silence of the room.

They didn’t talk about it.

***

The next day, they did laundry.

The washer seemed up to the task, but the dryer, which Jon had been dubious of since the moment he set eyes on it, gave out halfway through the first spin cycle. In the end, they had to hang it up to dry.

They worked as a team, Jon handing Martin clothes and pegs and Martin hanging them on the laundry line that stood in the yard behind the safehouse.

They chatted while they worked.

“I’ve never seen you wear this in my life,” Martin remarked as he hung up one of Jon’s old tee shirts from uni.

“Yes, well, I was in a bit of a hurry when I packed…”

Martin read the text printed in too-small serif across the front of the shirt, and his face split into a grin.

“Wait, am-dram? You did am-dram in uni?”

“Very briefly.”

“This explains so much about you.”

“Shut up, Martin,” Jon muttered without any real venom.

“Well, let’s hear something! You must have a bit of Shakespeare memorized.”

He did, but he wasn’t going to say as much while Martin was mocking him.

“I’m not a performing monkey.”

“Oh, come on, just one quick monologue! Just a little, ‘But soft, what light through yonder window breaks…’”

“It is the east, and Juliet is the sun,” Jon finished rotely and without intonation. “Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief, that thou her maid art far more fair than she – and that’s as much as you’ll get out of me.”

Jon bent over to grab more laundry and did his best to hide his face.

“Are you happy?” he asked.

Martin grinned. “Very.”

“Well… that’s good,” he said stiffly. “I’m glad.”

Martin looked at Jon – desperately embarrassed, surrounded by sodden tee shirts, windswept silver-black hair gleaming in the late September sun – and felt more fond than he ever had of anyone in his life.

“I love you.”

The words slipped out before he realized what he was saying. Jon’s head swung around to stare.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t– I mean– I know it’s–”

“You do?” Jon’s words were quiet and utterly serious.

Martin gave an anxious little nod. “Yeah.” His voice came out smaller than he expected. “I do. I really, really do.”

Jon let the pair of trousers he was holding fall to the ground as he surged forward to kiss him.

***

Another nightmare. Another round of whispered reassurances.

“It’s alright, you’re alright, I’m here.”

When the shock wore off and they were able to shake the residual dread from their respective bad dreams, they turned to face each other on the mattress. The light from the barely-waning moon painted everything in shades of dusky silver. 

For a long time, they didn’t speak; they simply studied each other’s faces. Eventually, Jon brought his forehead up to rest against Martin’s.

“I love you.”

Martin swallowed. He still wasn’t used to hearing it. Jon wasn’t used to saying it.

“I love you, too.”

Their lips met in one soft, slow kiss, and then they pulled away just enough to gaze at each other as they fell back into sleep.

[mumblelard]

grabbing onto the weeds to keep from falling off the edge of the world or wednesdays

this past sunday, finn and fallie and i and our partners all had breakfast at finn's apartment like we do the first sunday of every month, then on a whim we all went home and put on our suits and trooped down to the big pool by the river to swim. we swam and watched the blue herons tend their nestlings high up in the trees over the pool. when thunder emptied the pool, we walked home laughing together in the rain. it was such a good day

my earliest memory is opening the screen door to the north florida sun room where i played and finding a greasy swirling bottomless black void. my dad thinks this is the rented house where we lived until it was destroyed by a flood along with most of our stuff and the family car

contractors are coming to replace my porch today

my dreams recently have included walls secretly filled with pink and purple bees, guinea pigs in tutus, yellow gorilla stuffies. i dreamt of the lines of dust and fragments of toys revealed when we emptied out the house where my kids grew up

boba is staying extra close lately, studying my face with concern

i need to go to the mountains soon

[pnwander]

12 november. low tide. 🌧 ↪ the breakfasting heron: 2/?

[writebackatya]

Pepper seems like the kind of F.O.W.L. employee that would have made brownies for everyone the first time she sat down in their inner circle

Bradford: Well everyone, on the behest of Phantom Blot, Pepper will now be joining us in our inner circle

[scatter confused claps, except for from Phantom Blot who is applauding for his best friend]

Pepper: Aw, thank you Mr. Buzzard, sir. Now I know to the rest of you I might just be Egghead No. 277, but I assure you I am the best Egghead F.O.W.L. has got! Of course that’s just my opinion so take that with a grain of salt…

Rockerduck: {coughs}

Pepper: {laughs} Get it!? Grain of salt? Cause my name is Pepper?! {sighs happily before pulling out a tray of brownies} Anyway, I baked us all brownies for my first day here!

Gandra & Steelbeak: Sweet!

Bradford: What? No! Pepper this is not the break room! We conduct business in this room!

Black Heron: As well as our other evil plans.

Bradford: For the last time! We are not evil! Our goal is to have complete control over the world and eliminate Scrooge McDuck and his chil—, Agent Dee! What are you doing?

Gandra: {grabbing a brownie Pepper has cut up for her} I didn’t eat breakfast this morning.

Bradford: Put that back, now!

Gandra: {makes eye contact with Bradford as she slowly takes a bite of the brownie} Mmm. These are great Pepper, are there walnuts in here?

Pepper: Ahh! {winks} Looks like someone has an advanced palate!

Gandra: Thanks I upgraded my tongue myself.

Steelbeak: Well if Gandra gets a brownie I sure as hell am getting a brownie!

Bradford: I don’t care if Agent Dee took a brownie, that doesn’t mean you’re allowed to take one.

Gandra: Yeah Steelbeak, if I took the SATs would you do the same?

Steelbeak: Are you calling me “stupid”?!

Gandra: Today? No. Today I’m gonna call you dumbass, dumbass.

Steelbeak: {slams his fist on the table} Take that back, now!

Gandra: No.

Steelbeak: That’s it, I’m taking a brownie!

Bradford: Agent Dee, stop being an instigator. And Steelbeak don’t you da-

Steelbeak: {chomps down several brownies} Mmm, okay these are pretty great. Is there dark chocolate in here?

Pepper: And that’s a point for Steelbeak!

Black Heron: Did you say, dark chocolate? Okay I am definitely having one now

Bradford: Heron, no! You’ll only encourage-

Rockerduck: I’ll take two. I just realized I forgot to feed Jeeves this morning

Pepper: Sure thing! You sure you don’t want one, Mr. Buzzard?

Bradford: No. I’m fine.

Phantom Blot: {slams his fist onto the table} Just eat the DAMN brownie, Buzzard!

Bradford: …Fine.

Pepper: {cuts up brownies for everyone} Oh I just KNOW I’m gonna LOVE working with everyone here!

[chu-diaries]

140 days of productivity: day 74/140

📸: the boy and the heron + another rainy day

I don’t have much to say about today. I had a lazy breakfast, spent too much time on Reddit and went to my husband’s grandfather’s house to have lunch. I left around 3 pm and came back home, took a nap and watched The Boy and the Heron again. I still have mixed feelings about it. I always feel better after a Miyazaki movie, but this one kinda makes me feel… hopeless. And sad. I absolutely love the warawara and Kiriko is such a great character. Mahito’s interactions with her mom are also really nice and I love her powers as Himi. But overall it just makes me so sad. This never happened before with any of Miyazaki’s works.

🔥: day 14/27

💧: 0,5 L

🧠: 🚫

🧘🏻‍♀️: 🚫

🏃🏻‍♀️: 🚫

🕯️: 🚫

📿: 🚫

🇰🇷: 🚫

📚: invisible cities by ítalo calvino

📺: the boy and the heron

🎧: 🚫

💊: 🚫

🛑: 🚫

[aliciameade]

Darkness at Dawn - Ch. 3

Title: Darkness at Dawn Author: aliciameade Rating: M/E Pairing: Stephanie Smothers/Emily Nelson Summary: Even Bonnie & Clyde met their fate eventually.

Set five years after "Baby."

Also on AO3

The next several days are spent circling one another in the rec yard, Stephanie keeping her distance, Emily staring her down. It’s an act, one Stephanie knows Emily is directing, and she needs to patiently await her cue.

It’s a Sunday afternoon, she thinks, when there’s an uproar in the cellblock. She doesn’t bother rushing to her door’s tiny window to look. She’s too short anyway, and her cellmates wouldn’t let her have a glimpse even if she asked. She’s familiar with the noise though: it’s the welcoming committee of prisoners welcoming a new resident to their section. She’s heard it often, though this “celebration” is especially boisterous and is accompanied by a lot of shouted chatter.

One of her cellmates makes a comment about needing to watch her back.

The next morning at breakfast, Stephanie walks to her usual table with her tray. She’s managed to befriend (she uses the term loosely) a handful of women who all tend to keep to themselves. Two of them are pregnant.

“Hey, baby.”

She slows her pace, looking for the voice to see she’s walked past Emily sitting at the table that’s always occupied by many of the most intimidating, violent inmates of her block. They make eye contact.

“Yeah, I’m talking to you. You speak English? Looks like it.”

She pauses, fingers tapping the sides of her plastic tray. “Uh, yeah.”

“You’re cute. Come here.”

She turns slowly, not exactly sure what Emily’s up to, but she’s buzzing with the opportunity to finally do more than exchange glances. Emily’s holding court, eight or nine other women sitting around the circular table. She makes a sharp comment and they all shuffle until there’s a space next to her.

“Sit with me.”

Stephanie spares a glance at her usual table, its residents watching with rapt attention and fear. It feels a bit like Regina George inviting Cady Heron to join The Plastics’ table in Mean Girls if it had been a prison and not a high school cafeteria.

The women sitting at Emily’s table are also staring and exchanging glances with one another but no comments are made until she fits herself in the space made vacant for her. It’s a narrow spot and she’s grateful for it. Her hip presses into Emily’s, their upper arms grazing. She bumps her foot against Emily’s under the table. She hasn’t felt Emily’s warmth in weeks, has barely heard her voice…taken in the scent that she carries, even here, in the dank, odiferous prison that grants inmates two showers per week. She’s still wearing her hair in a pair of braids, and Stephanie considers braiding her own hair later. It would certainly help with the lack of traditional grooming options.

“What’s your name, baby?” Emily asks as she looks down at her from her height. She’s wearing the same smile Stephanie remembers from the first day they ever spent together, Emily catching her dancing to a French tune in her house. It’s a smile of amusement that reaches her eyes, but one very much laced with danger, or maybe predation, her sharp, straight teeth that have pressed into so much of Stephanie’s flesh over the years on display now.

“Uh…” Stephanie shifts and glances at the women staring at her, everyone waiting for what she’ll say or do. She’d been booked under her given name, and she’d shared it with her cellmates because using a false name in prison, even with other prisoners, seemed unwise.

“It’s Stephanie, right? I know everyone here.”

“Yes,” she answers as she tentatively picks up the unappetizing sandwich from her tray to take a well-observed bite of it. The action garners a strange round of whispers and she wonders if, based on the untouched food on the other women’s trays, she was meant to ask permission. From whom? From Emily?

Emily waves off her response and picks up her sandwich, the rest of the table relaxing a bit and following suit. “I’m going to call you ‘baby.’ You can call me Emily.” 

Stephanie hides her smile in another bite.

Emily rattles off a list of names of the other women at the table as an introduction; some of the names Stephanie already knows from overhearing conversations, others are new to her. They are the women she’s pointedly avoided, their reputations and auras far too menacing.

Emily’s aura, however, is in control of their audience, but they’re starting to lose interest in the lack of action and start to fall into conversation with one another.

“Anyone get to you yet?” 

Stephanie slows her chewing of her terrible sandwich which has a good chance of disagreeing with her stomach later. The question is a double entendre. Emily wants to know if anyone’s made Stephanie their pet yet. If she’s someone’s girlfriend, voluntary or otherwise.

And Stephanie also recognizes that, unsurprisingly as she has managed to do in every scenario, Emily has already claimed a position of power. It’s the first time the thought crosses her mind that maybe Emily, before knowing they would find each other, had claimed a girlfriend or two of her own as a way to assert dominance over the women of her last block. The thought makes her sick, or maybe it’s the sandwich, and she drops it to her tray.

She struggles to keep her eyes down, the natural inclination to look at the person talking to her, especially her wife, is a challenging one. She shakes her head, and she feels Emily’s hand on her back, rubbing it seductively in front of the entire room, and Stephanie can sense everyone taking notice.

“Good.” For a brief moment, her fingertips even slip under the edge of Stephanie’s too-large thread-bare brown sweater and it makes her whole body jump.

She hopes the watchful eyes interpret it as fear that the inmate running things has just laid claim to her as opposed to the arousal of having not been with Emily in months coursing through her. She swallows hard and does nothing else but press her knee against Emily’s under the table.

“Listen up,” Emily suddenly barks, in Greek, and the entire mess hall takes notice. “Anyone touches Baby, you die. This one’s mine.”

A murmur rolls through the hundred or so women sitting at tables like their own until a few of them wolf-whistle and a chorus of hoots, hollers, obscenities, and table-pounding breaks out. It results in the guards, heretofore paying them little mind as meals were a mutually agreed-upon neutral zone (everyone needed to eat, and if a fight broke out, all would go hungry), shouting and stalking threateningly through the rows of tables until everyone settles down.

The distraction lets Stephanie better settle at the table, dropping one hand first to her lap while she picks at the bread on her tray with the other, before briefly sneaking it over to squeeze Emily’s thigh. There are so many people around the table that she knows no one can see what’s happening beneath it, obscured by everyone’s legs, but she doesn’t risk more than that. She does her best to look aggrieved at being claimed, but she’s confident her cheeks are pink.

“Fuck this slop,” Emily announces, first shoving her tray away, then standing up from the table. She looks down at Stephanie and gives a jerk of her head and Stephanie reads it like the command it is and stands as well. She watches with awe as one of the women at the table takes both their trays and first divvy up their leftovers and then racks their trays for them. “Let’s go. Mama needs some attention.”

She strides toward the room’s exit; the only place inmates are allowed when they finish eating is to return to their cells, and very few have done so. Stephanie follows closely, still feeling eyes on her as snide, inappropriate comments are made within earshot about how physically injured she’s about to become. They leave the mess hall, past guards who are engaged in conversation, into their cell block. They pass Stephanie’s empty cell and continue down the corridor lined with heavy metal doors that, for now, sit open and unlocked.

When they reach Emily’s cell, she’s pulled into it and hears the door close behind her, though it doesn’t lock. A guard will be by within the hour to do that.

“Oh, my God, I missed you,” she says, almost crying as she rushes into Emily’s arms. She’s caught and held close, then lifted so her legs can wrap instinctually around Emily’s waist. They’re kissing like the first time they’d made love, sloppy passion on Emily’s designer couch in her million-dollar house. Now, it’s sloppy passion on Emily’s thin-mattressed bunk where they land, Stephanie astride Emily’s hips.

“I missed you, too, baby,” Emily says between kisses, her tongue claiming and reclaiming Stephanie’s mouth as they grab hastily at each other. She’s moving quickly and while Stephanie has no idea how much time they have, she has a suspicion that if Emily’s cell door is closed, her cellmates know to wait until they’re allowed to return. 

She’s okay with quick, though, and moans when Emily’s hand finds her bare breast under her sweater and the other easily moves into her pants, and underwear that she’s grateful Emily can’t see, to slide her fingers into Stephanie.

“Fuck,” she breathes into Emily’s mouth, hips riding Emily hard and fast. It’s only been a couple of months, but it's been full of anxiety, stress, unknowns, and loneliness and sex had been the last thing on her mind until Emily threw a basketball at her head. But now she’s starved, ravenous, and she can’t manage to keep their mouths connected. She’s moving too much and lets her head fall next to Emily’s, moaning and begging in her ear as Emily fucks her in a prison cell.

“Come for me, baby,” Emily purrs in her ear and she does, heat and wetness rushing through her as she cries out, Emily’s hand abandoning her breasts to wrap around Stephanie’s back and pull her in closer, lips and tongue reaching her ear and jaw and neck.

It ends with a sob and Stephanie’s fully crying when it’s eased enough to lift her head. She ignores the tears as she kisses Emily, still riding her fingers as she adjusts her position so she can reach between them and push her hand down Emily’s sweatpants to find her soaked and swollen. She circles her clit in the way she’s long-known turns Emily into a writhing mess.

It works, and Emily’s cursing and begging, and the metal frame of the bunk they’re in is starting to screech against the floor with their thrusting, and Stephanie’s all but forgotten their reality. She slides her fingers lower to push inside Emily to feel her trembling from within and presses the heel of her hand into her clit, her hips riding Emily’s hard, working to fuck each other at the same pace.

It’s messy and desperate and Emily bites her neck as they come together, hard enough that Stephanie knows she’ll leave a noticeable mark for everyone to see. That she’s been claimed.

When it’s over, they’re breathing hard, tangled together, still dressed though Stephanie’s pants have worked their way as low as her stance allows. She feels Emily’s heart racing beneath her fingertips, fingertips that are resting over Emily’s breast. They kiss lazily. Languidly. Lost in the haze of reunion and release until the echo of voices starts growing louder as inmates begin to return.

“What are we going to do?” she says between kisses as she starts to come back to herself and take stock of the situation. 

Emily’s smiling up at her. “Anything we want. I run this place.”

She huffs and sits up, still astride Emily’s waist, though Emily’s fingers are between her lips rather than inside Stephanie. It’s distracting, but not quite enough. “This place is prison, Em.”

“I know,��� she says after drawing her fingers from between her lips with a pop!. “And now I own the sweetest snatch in this godforsaken place.”

Stephanie jostles Emily beneath her, even if she’s flattered. “Be serious. What are we going to do? Detective Summerville showed up when they took me to the hospital after I fainted. He knows—”

“Thinks he knows,” Emily interrupts. “That man really has a thing for you.”

“—yes, thinks he knows what we did. Or, at least he has a pretty good idea of what he thinks we did. He said because we forged our everything, we aren’t legally married, and that’s going to negate our spousal privilege in court, my adopting Nicky is null, and Em, they cleared Sean and released him and Summerville contacted him. I have no idea where Miles is, if he’s with Helen, or if they’ve put him in a foster home. I assume Sean has Nicky by now.”

Emily sobers quickly and sits up. “He did what?”

“He said he called Sean to tell him they found us. We were still missing persons. He said Sean was already flying here, and my attorney still hasn’t contacted me. Have you heard from yours?”

“Not since we were transferred. She said it might take a while, but we have a plan.”

“What’s the plan?”

Emily’s about to answer when she closes her mouth. “We aren’t married.”

“I know that, please don’t remind me.”

“We can’t protect each other. They could try to get one of us to incriminate the other. Or both. It’s better if we don’t talk about it.”

“Em, I would never—” she rushes, framing Emily’s face with her hands.

“I know.” Emily’s voice is low and quiet. “I know that. Let me do this. Let me protect you. This is all my fault anyway.”

“Hey, no.” Stephanie leans in and kisses her. The voices in the corridor are loud now, and she can hear them right outside their door. Emily’s cellmates are waiting to be allowed in, she assumes. “Don’t rewrite history. I chose this. I chose you.”

Emily kisses her at the statement and they get lost in it for a moment before a buzzer sounds; it’s a warning to get back to your assigned cell before they’re locked. She’s seen what happens to those who miss the headcount while bunking up with someone else, or just choosing to be a troublemaker.

Or rather, she hasn’t seen it. They disappear. For days. They return bruised and beaten, or not at all.

“Trust me,” Emily says, kissing her urgently at their clock ticking down. “Do you trust me?”

“Always.”

Emily kisses her as they clamber off the bunk, her hand reaching to push her cell door open, but stops just short as they kiss. Stephanie knows they’re being watched; there’s no way they’re not, standing right in front of the small window in the door as they are. She’s barely tall enough to peer out of her own cell door, but Emily’s sure to be fully in frame even if she has to lean down. There’s whistling and shouting and Emily finally takes a step back and Stephanie can see her slipping into her boss persona. 

“What did you do to make them all respect you this way?”

Emily shrugs and tries to tidy Stephanie’s mussed hair and crooked sweater. “Told them I killed my sister.”

“Imagine if they knew it was little ol’ me,” she says with a laugh. “Can’t believe I’m the boss’s bitch now,” she says with one last kiss to Emily’s lips. “You’re hot when you’re the alpha.”

“Oh, baby,” Emily says as she swings the cell door open to a chorus of cheers and vulgar gestures, “I’m always the alpha.”

[speedyz3]

This Great Blue Heron was stalking its breakfast in the early hours at Farmington Bay. They move so slowly and scan the area looking for movement of any kind. It is pretty amazing to watch.