#the grass is yellow. The grass was never yellow. not in the hottest summers

[idontliketomatoesleavemealone]

I have rarely felt as much visceral hatred as for the people that bought the house I grew up in

[perfectlyoongi]

DAD!JIMIN who takes your child to meet the ducklings in the lake near your house. the path to the lake was decorated with the most beautiful greens in nature and, on them, Jimin played with your kid amidst running and laughter, guiding them to a small oasis only known to you and Jimin. the spring air gently invited your child to approach the calm waters of the lake, their tiny hand always clinging to Jimin's sweater as your kid, very curiously, looked at the small yellow and brown dots in the water. with bright eyes and an open mouth, your child marveled at the ducklings and all the dances they did behind their mother, encouraging your child to dance with Jimin too. “these ducklings are your friends and they really want to play with you. just be careful because they are still very little, just like you.”

DAD!JIMIN who says the stars are waiting for your child every night when they don't want to sleep. when the games were more fun or the conversations were more fantastic, it was normal for your child to refuse to lie down, always wanting to enjoy all the time with you and Jimin. as such, Jimin thought of a small and tender solution to this problem that always created intense sparkles of hope and happiness in your kid's small, sweet eyes. “the stars are waiting for you to go to sleep so they can tell you the oldest stories they have ever seen. and who knows, maybe they’ll take you on their next adventure.”

DAD!JIMIN who ordered mud salads and stone juices on the hottest summer days. it was normal that on days when the sun was more intense and all the heat of the day accumulated in one spot, Jimin just wanted to cool off — going to visit your child's restaurant seemed the only plausible solution. listening carefully to the chief's recommendations and always questioning the various ingredients used, Jimin seriously considered his order, wanting to make sure that all the balls of play dough would be well spent on his late lunch. “i’ll have a grass and water salad and a white stone lemonade. and i also want a mud and petal salad to take to your dami.”

DAD!JIMIN who renovated a room in your house to store all of your child's legos. you had an extra room since you moved into that house and, after debating the various possibilities that could fill that room, when your child was old enough, Jimin used that room to display all the various legos made by him and your kid. various plants and houses, castles and ships, a whole colorful diversity filled endless shelves, making that room your child's favorite, as in each lego placed there lay a happy and comforting memory. “i think we’re going to need more shelves, love. you have a lot of legos on the floor and you could get hurt. do you want to choose the wood for the room?”

DAD!JIMIN who takes your child to sound checks before the show just to play with them on stage. when the microphones were tested and the band finished rehearsing, Jimin would take off his child's soundproof headphones and place them in the middle of the stage while he watched them. there were moments when the technical team played with the lights and invited your child to run like a butterfly across the stage; other times, Jimin would offer his microphone to them, encouraging them to sing Jimin's songs, performing extremely dramatic duets for the whole team to enjoy; and there were other moments when Jimin and your child played tag among the various people who hadn't yet finished their work — all adventures making your kid's laughter echo loudly throughout the venue. “one day you will be a star, pumpkin. one day you will conquer all the stars!”

DAD!JIMIN who encourages your child to live their feelings. whether it was fear or pain, joy or longing, Jimin always made a point of sitting with your child and guide them through the complex paths of emotions; always showing that they should never be afraid or ashamed to feel, Jimin made it his personal mission to make your child stronger, telling them that all the emotions they felt were human and that was what made them beautiful. “never be afraid to show who you are. it’s our emotions that make us real and you have every right to live and feel them.”

DAD!JIMIN who offers as many roses as your child’s age and keeps all the dried petals in a jar to give to them when they turn 18. Jimin didn't put much thought into what color to buy the rose, he just knew he needed one. or two. or three. or even four. the truth is that Jimin offered roses to your child every year, matching the number of flowers to your kid's age, ending up creating a small dry garden in your garage. when eighteen years of life arrived, Jimin appeared with a large vase, the glass showing all the various dried petals that used to make beautiful and vivid roses. and it was in these petals consumed by time that Jimin had placed all his love. “not all the petals that are here constitute the number of days that i loved you. but every petal holds with them a unique memory of my love for you.”

[kayakoto-enterprises]

What does the rain remind you of?

Together alone when everybody hides inside.

POV Julianne's entries in her sketchbook. Short drabble.

Where I'm from the rain never ends. After the dry, merciless reign of the summer sun comes the wet season where storms happen almost routinely every night. Some nights it relaxes you like a rhythmic lullaby, but most times I've worried about flood seizing our home again. Still, I loved the cold weather. The feeling freed me from the heat of responsibility and accountability. Like it was soothing me to return to bed and let myself be cuddled by the world I built for myself.

I couldn't believe I let myself move to the United States. I hated the dry weather. I moved into the hottest city in the West coast only because my old friends were there. As much as I was thankful for the company funded apartments I was assigned into, there's nothing air conditioning can do that could remind me of the rainshowers of home. The sound of hard trickling on metal ceilings. The gloss it gave the grass. The pools that formed in the broken asphalt. The memory of feeling of relaxation and ease some rainy nights made my lonely heart feel.

I've been staying in Woodbrook for 7 months now. I survived and am surviving the last trickling days of winter. It was just a cold air that enveloped the town comfortably enough for people to still be outside. I couldn't understand this climate. I had thought I would like it too but the frost weakened my defenses and caused me to get ill multiple times. I guess I wasn't made for these times. I wish I could romanticize it like so many others.

The sterile blue and mint tiles of the Woodbrook Elementary Faculty Room hid under the shadows and yellow light of a sole lamp in a cubicle. I was working late grading multiple Plates by students in both Kindergarten and Grade 2 as I had put it off to work on other projects months into the new quarter. The harsh airconditioning froze my hands and legs in place. I quickly graded each paper hoping the pile would shorten soon. The coffee I had minutes ago was not helping my poor mind focus. I slumped my way to the water cooler and looked out the window. My conscience returned to me as the familiar patter of water rang from outside. Sure enough the sound of home was waiting outside. It was raining quite hard.

It had been too long. The faculty was completely dark as I ran out with nothing but my apartment keys in my pocket. I stepped out into the dark sky drumming with thunder and rain. The droplets felt like heavy hands against my back. The cold air brushed my fur. I looked up at the starless sky, falling back into the grass behind the building. It was warm again. The feeling of being in motion again. The comfort of being home.

Picture every happy memory you've had. A birthday. Christmas. A night out with friends. A long bus ride. A hot meal. All of those melt into the grass I've fallen into. I won't be home for a while. This is the closest I can be to reaching that blue garden again.

Melting. And melting. And melting.

On the concrete steps of the elementary's entrance I sat down and listened to the sound of the dying storm. I nearly fell asleep on the plantbox when a harsh yellow light cut through the dark road. My ears perked up to listen for police. I immediately sighed in relief recognizing the dusty blue doors. It's you again.

"Are you finally done grading those drawings?"

I looked up and teasingly smiled.

"No. Sorry."

"Again? How many left? Where's your stuff?"

I was just lost in a euphoric feeling of nostalgia that I didn't answer anything, just falling into her arms suddenly.

"Oh, you're wet. What have you been doing this whole time?"

"Sitting out in the rain. I laid down on the field right there when the rain was stronger."

Her expression gloomed into a frustrated, maybe concerned frown but settled back when I held her hand. Maybe it isn't just nostalgia that's clouding my judgement.

"I..I couldn't sleep when it started to rain." Sam whispered "Then I drove to your apartment and your window wasn't open."

"I told you I'd be going overtime."

She urgently pulled me off the plantbox.

"Let's just do this at my house-"

"Wait. Wait. I.." I protested "Can..can we please stay..here for..a little more?"

"Why?"

I don't understand why I was desperately arguing staying under the rain for longer. I let my hand go from her grip to sit back down on the concrete.

"I want to stay. Rain makes me less homesick."

The rain began to disappear into a tickle of water every now and then. What was left was the glistening plants and metal and the smell of the earth. I looked up to the cloudy sky. It was still going to rain. But there's this peaceful hiatus in between. The engine turned off. Sam sat down next to me, restlessly placing her face between her knees.

"I'm sorry." I feel guilty for dragging her into my own whims again.

"You have to promise me you'll take a warm bath when we get to the house. You are going to get another flu."

I nod wordlessly still lost in my own guilt.

"What does the rain remind you of?"

I scoot closer to her to hear better.

"What does the rain remind me of?"

She yawns before placing her arms around me again.

"Yes. I'll give you a pass on this one. It IS the first rain of the year."

The cicadas return to fill in the space the pouring left.

"It reminds me of the place I used to live in. The rain tonight perfectly captures the feeling of the wet season. I like rain when I can stay at home when classes are suspended. When I could watch tapes of Roy G. Biv and Lecker."

"We really couldn't be..ah..anymore opposite..can we.."

I carefully guided her head to rest on my lap. The rain returned slowly, introducing in phases.

"Why? You..you like sunny days more or you.."

"No. The reason I drove to see you is because rain makes me feel stressed. Angry even. I'm not mad at you for liking rain..but i'm too sleepy to..bathe in that kind of rage right now."

"..so, what..what does the rain remind you of?" I cautiously asked.

It took her a while to rehearse an answer perhaps. We sat in silence forever. I brushed her fur waiting for any answer. Even just a push for us to get in the truck now. Our fur and clothes almost see-through and heavy with water.

"..I had..a bad day in the city..last year. A..really bad day. When the murders were happening, I got extremely upset and hid out somewhere in Golden Apple to seek asylum. My friend died and I was being blamed for it."

"..and it was raining."

"Yes, but then at least I was hidden under hundreds of umbrellas."

My ears pulled back. I crouched down and rested my chin on her cheek.

"I..I'm sorry."

"It's nothing."

I felt a pit in my chest hearing that anecdote. I reached for my keys and dangled them a bit.

"Guess that means we should..go home now..?" I softly smiled.

"Wait. I have a happier story for you about the rain."

"Yeah? What..what is it?"

"You know I did a bit of soul searching after college, right? And..so this kind of weather followed me into the most inconvenient places or times. And whenever it did I had no money to get a room somewhere so I was sleeping under flooding soil most nights."

I nodded along listening carefully. She thinks a bit as she collects the details before talking again.

"I went camping with a friend later in the trip. I had taken so many hits so far I didn't feel like myself since my mind kept wandering towards survival rather than anchoring down my identity...like I had promised myself."

"Then he..showed me the stars reflecting on the stream near our camp.." She pauses in between words to breathe, look me in the eyes "..And how those rains or floods aren't adversaries in my journey so far..I just had to live with how natural things flow. And that really let me. Let it all go."

"So when I came back home here it was..raining. Like the rain was waiting for me here. And I welcomed it back."

My arms just naturally wrapped around her waist when she finished. I couldn't articulate properly how happy her stories make me feel sometimes. I feel safe hearing them. It's always so sure. Like everything had a reason to happen.

"It's just a shame that last year had to dampen your feelings about the rain." I said.

"I don't have any particular opinion about the weather. It's just real to me. Not good nor bad."

We stuck around the wet pavement for hours until the sign of light from the horizon reminded us to come home.

I'll probably catch the flu again. Goodbye.

[prfctparis]

In a Sweet Sunshower

AO3 Link

summary: He Who Brings Rain and The One Who Shines Bright are siblings. It’s fitting that there’s a sunshower during one of the campaigns when their legions team up.

a/n: a few things about Tatooine Slave Culture in this is borrowed from fialleril here on tumblr, so all rights go to them for that. except for the sunshower thing, i came up with it while driving and wrote this as fast as i could and actually kind of proud of the concept ngl. fun fact! zariza’s name mean ‘gold, brilliantly bright’ in hebrew so obviously it means something similar here in this star wars universe.

There’s an old phenomenon, here on Tatooine – from thousands and thousands of years ago back when this place wasn’t all dirt and sand – where the suns shone high in the sky, and voluminous clouds did little to darken the earth below, and rain fell from them, soaking the life on the ground.

It never lasted long, a few or so minutes at most, but it always happened during the hottest season of the year. It was said to be a beautiful sight to behold. The down pouring rain and the bright shining suns, together. Apparently it looked like liquid gold.

Everyone called it a sunshower. All of the Depur took it as a sign for there to be tricksters coming their way. Some of the Amavikka said that it was a sign of hope from one of the ancient prophets – Ekkreth, or Maru, or Tena, or Ebra – or even Ar-Amu to the slaves.

But most said that during it was when slaves became Free for good.

…We haven’t had rain in ages.

Zariza huffs and grimaces. Every single part of her is sweaty and sticky, and the humidity of this planet’s region might actually end up being the death of her. No, not the droids they fought earlier, or the damn Separatists, or even a stray blaster bolt. But the humidity. She knows that hate isn’t a good thing for a Jedi to feel, but she hates it, through and through. The air feels suffocating – the exact opposite of what it should be – and makes the heat of the sun feel hotter than it actually is. 

It’s horrible. She says as much to her Jedi Master.

“Yes, humidity does make what we’re doing harder. Unnecessarily so,” Mace agrees, sounding less annoyed and tired than his padawan but Zariza can hear the edge of the emotions in his voice. He isn’t fairing so well in this weather, either.

At least the battle is over. Now they just have to clean up everything.

The leaders of the planet had asked for clean up help once the fighting had ended and they had verbally agreed to officially join the Republic. Of course the 187th and 501st easily promised they would do so. Neither of the legions have somewhere important to be, except for maybe Coruscant or a High Council meeting, and so here they are. Sweating their asses off in the humid heat that somehow feels like a murder attempt.

“Take a break if you need it, Zariza – I don’t want you overworking yourself in this heat. It could be dangerous,” Mace says after a few more moments. Then to Commander Ponds, “Same goes for all of the one-eighty-seventh, Commander. Take as many breaks as you need.”

Zariza sees Ponds nod out of the corner of her eyes, followed by, “Yes sir, General. Lieutenant Spite and a medic squad are collecting bottles of water and setting up tents for shade. I’ve heard that the five-oh-first are doing the same as they work as well.”

“Good.”

Wiping her brow with the bare skin of her bicep, Zariza is glad that she had the foresight to leave her black cloak and outer tunic on the venator-ship. She now only wears the black boots, leggings, and the sleeveless white under tunic, which is now stained with dirt and a few specks of blood but she could hardly care. The troopers did earlier, though, especially at the beginning of the fight – lack of armor meant danger but Zariza wasn’t about to give herself a heatstroke. She at least still wore the braces for her forearms, and the chest plate that she has since taken off.

One of the troopers – Mayhem, she recognizes the armor – hands her a container of water hardly ten minutes later. She smiles gratefully at him and takes it, taking a few sips, and then hands it back. He caps the container, clips it on his belt, and they both get back to work cleaning broken droid parts and other various debris from the fight. Mayhem never strays too far from her. Zariza might have been annoyed by it if she didn’t know that he’s looking out for her.

On the other side of the large area that had been used a battle field against Seppie droids, are the 501st – her brother included. Like her, he has darker robes than the usual Jedi, and had also foregone the outer tunics because of the planet’s heat before battle started. Zariza won’t be surprised if he’s currently completely shirtless by now – a risk for a sunburn, no doubt, with skin much paler than her own, but that’s his problem. She also knows for a fact that Ahsoka is wearing the tube top outfit she wore constantly before Anakin corralled her into wearing something more covering, a few pieces of armor included, just a month ago.

Hell, even Master Mace Windu is shirtless right now, the weirdness of it be damned. Some troopers have started to disappear regularly, leaving in full gear, only to pop up again with the top half of their blacks and armor gone.

Yeah. Humidity karking sucks.

Needing a break, Zariza leans against a lone tree nearby. She can feel the Living Force flowing through it and focuses on that as she catches her breath. Mayhem spots her and brings her more water without question.

“Thanks,” she sighs, and takes another sip.

Mayhem nods, undoing a second bottle from his belt, right next to where his helmet it clipped. He’s shirtless just like many of his brothers, curly hair frizzy as hell. “You’re welcome, sir,” he says. Once he’s had a few sips of his own, he asks, “How much is left in there?”

She shakes it, and shrugs. “Half, maybe?”

He nods again. “I’ll go back to one of the tents and refill it for you soon.”

She smiles thankfully. “Don’t forget to get yourself some.”

Mayhem chuckles. “Of course not, sir.”

After taking another drink, she hands it back just like before. But she doesn’t move to get back to work just yet. Master Mace nudges her in their bond, asking if she’s okay, and she tiredly pokes back to confirm that she is, all the while eying what’s left of the field to clean up. They’re getting there, but it looks like it will take forever. At least Anakin, Ahsoka, and the 501st are tackling the other half; and they’re getting closer, slowly but surely.

Her eyes flit up to the sky, and she spots grey clouds nearby. But, ugh – they aren’t close enough for them to get rained on.

It causes a frown to tug on her lips. A pout, if she wants to be honest about it.

Mayhem chuckles for a second time, more amused than before. “Finally saw the clouds, huh, verd’ika?”

Another trooper nearby stops and looks as well. A wounded noise escape them. “It’s so close but so damn far,” they say, forlorn. What a Force-damned mood.

“This humidity will be the death of me,” Zariza mumbles.

“That’s not happening on our watch,” they say, firm yet exhausted, the sadness about the clouds suddenly gone.

“Damn straight,” Mayhem agrees.

She can only groan.

Once Zariza has rested for a good few minutes, she stands up straight again, but instead of getting to work, she unties the knot of the yellow bandana at the nape of her neck. The wild, dark waves of her hair are no doubt frizzy and wilder than ever; earlier she was positive that she felt the waves grow in size because of the friz and the humidity, and she honestly doesn’t want to know what she looks like because of it. Quickly, she works on putting her long hair into a nerftail and ties it with the bandana.

What feels like ages later, the planet’s sun is beginning to finally lower in the sky and the 187th has done most of their half of the battle field. Through the bond, Zariza can tell Anakin is close by yet she stays lying on the ground, taking yet another much needed break. The clouds are closer, too. Yet still no rain.

The sound of boots crunching the dry, summer grass as someone walks gets closer and louder, up until the person stops right at Zariza’s head, casting a shadow over her. She blinks and tilts her chin to get a better look at who it is despite already having a pretty good guess. Anakin stands over her, sweaty and shirtless, with red tinting his shoulders, chest, and nose. His dirty blond hair is matted with sweat and it sticks to his forehead and the nape of his neck, a few of the short curls frizzed up, and his face is contorted into a scowl.

“I cannot believe I’m saying this,” he says, “but I miss Tatooine’s dry heat.”

“Agreed,” she grunts.

Anakin huffs and steps to her side. He then sticks out his flesh hand, and Zariza forces herself to sit up so she can grab it. He pulls her to her feet and almost immediately lets go once he’s sure she’s balanced well. The humid heat has made the brother-sister who hug every time they see each other, want to not be touching another body in any way for the foreseeable future.

Anakin runs a hand through his hair, grimaces at the sweat, and wipes it on his pants. Disgusting. “Been drinking enough water?” he asks.

She sighs. “Yep. You?”

“Yep.”

“Ahsoka?”

“Yep.” A beat. “Master Windu?”

She almost says ‘yep’ again, but decides not to. “Yeah, him too. Don’t worry.” She smirks. It’s no secret that before Master Mace took her as his padawan, that Anakin couldn’t stand the man. The feeling might have been mutual, but honestly Zariza doesn’t know and doesn’t care to. For now.

Anakin just rolls his eyes and flips her off, walking off to help Captain Rex and a few more guys of Torrent Company.

Ahsoka comes up to her a second later. The younger teen doesn’t say anything, and neither does Zariza. Usually energetic and happy to get her to know her Master’s little sister better, the heat has zapped the togruta of most of her energy. So in silence, they work together on a particularly large piece of debris, and then immediately head to the nearest tent for some much needed shade. Breaks are becoming more frequent, and Zariza thinks that maybe she will have to stop helping if they don’t finish up cleaning soon.

Anakin is already in the tent, along with Master Mace, Captain Rex, and Commander Ponds by the time the girls get there, and the two padawans wave a short greeting to the men before beelining where other troopers are giving out fresh water.

It’s when one of the Boys In Blue (as the GAR has started calling the 501st) hands them both a fresh container when it happens.

The sound of rain pelting the top of the tent makes everyone freeze. It’s obviously still sunny, but that doesn’t stop Zariza or any of the others to turn to check for themselves. And it is – no clouds directly above them at all – yet the rain is falling down, gradually increasing to a steady downpour. She blinks a few times and inches closer to the edge of the tent, and hardly a second later Anakin is at her side, looking out as well, mouth parted in shock.

“A sunshower,” Anakin whispers.

Zariza numbly nods.

Her mind conjures up a faint memory of being told of a phenomenon from hundreds of thousands of years ago on Tatooine. Of sunshine and rain, together. Of liquid gold. Of tricksters visiting Depur. Of a sign of hope to slaves, or a celebration for the Freed.

It doesn’t look completely like liquid gold like Amu’s tales said, but it was close to it. It’s still beautiful. A stunning phenomenon that neither Anakin nor Zariza believed they would ever get to see. 

“They don’t last long,” she finds herself saying.

The Skywalkers turn their heads in unison to look at one another. Matching grins of excitement and mischief form, and without any prompting Zariza is taking off into the rain almost as fast as a blaster bolt, Anakin hot on her heels.

Zariza jumps into an already formed puddle. It’s right next to one of the 501st troopers, Jesse, and it splashes him. Zariza may or may not have used to Froce to make the splash bigger, but that doesn’t exactly matter. Just that there’s a sunshower, that her and her brother are both Free, and there’s a fucking sunshower and it’s amazing! 

Jesse lunges at her, wanting to retaliate for getting splashed at, but she slips away easily with loud laughter.

From him, anyway – Anakin catches her a second later with water from a puddle cupped in his hands. He promptly dumps it over her head with laughter of his own, then misses up her hair just for the heck of it.

“Wha– ugh, Anakin!”

“Tag, you’re it!” he shouts, as if they’re eight and twelve again in the Room of a Thousand Fountains instead of sixteen and twenty in the middle of a field post-battle.

Zariza gapes at him, but it quickly turns into grins and she chases after him without a second thought.

It doesn’t take long for Ahsoka to join, or even for the troopers. Within seconds, there’s a large game of tag, troopers splashing in puddles, and almost everyone running in the rain with the sun shining down on them, laughter ringing out into the open and so much Light seeping into the Force that Mace can’t help but shove his Commander into the rain as well.

…Yes, we haven’t had rain in thousands upon thousands of years.

But it is said that one day, when the twin suns shine hotly over Tatooine, that clouds will form once again yet they will not obscure the twins from sight, and a downpour of rain will wash over everyone.

All the slaves will be Free, and Depur will no longer have power over us.

We will have a sunshower once more.

[rigmarolling]

Top 5 Things That Will Kill You In the Victorian Era

If you’ve ever spent more than two seconds with me, you know that I live and breathe the fog-choked air of Victorian London. All day. Every day of my life. 

See, in many ways, the Victorians were the first version of us--overwhelmed by rapidly-changing technology (and its awful effect on the climate); dealing with incredible wealth gaps; grappling with rising crime and faster travel and out-of-control media and the whole, “God is dead, oh no” thing. 

Also, everything was trying to kill you.

Like, literally almost everything.

From your clothes to your doctor to your canned food, here are the top five things that will kill you in the Victorian era.

5. Other Victorians

If the rise of penny dreadfuls (cheap magazines stuffed with horror stories for us morbidly-inclined goth types) was any indication, Victorians loved them some true crime. 

And there was no shortage of subject matter to choose from: depending on where you ventured in London, at least, you could be subject to anything from pickpocketing to mugging to violent assault and, of course, murder. 

There were a few reasons for this:

For one thing, the population in London alone increased by millions in the 19th century, and approximately no one was prepared for that. So, to accommodate the rapidly-booming population, the wealthy folks in charge reached out and lovingly ensured the masses of the disenfranchised poor were taken care of by redistributing resources and education and access to opportunities that improved lives on a both a personal and social level.

Lol, no, I’m totally kidding; they shoved them into slums and tenement buildings and pretended they didn’t exist.

So of course, there was a rise in crime, because if you have five kids and you can’t find gainful employment and your family will starve if you don’t steal that basket of food over there, or that purse that lady left sitting over THERE, what are you going to do? You’re going to steal the food and the purse to survive, Jean Valjean, I understand, I do.

Except the powers that be did NOT understand, and instead routinely espoused the idea that if people were poor, it was because they were morally bankrupt, or inherently bad, somehow, and the “criminal classes,” as they came to be known by the growing Victorian middle and upper-middle classes, were simply considered genetically bad to the bone and therefore undeserving of assistance.

Basically:

So ANYWAY.

Crime was on the rise and there were multiple efforts to stop it with varying degrees of success, but big city usually = big crime, especially when there’s a massive gap between the one percent-ers and THE REST OF US, WASHINGTON.

Ahem.

All that crime? The booming news industry loved it. The press ate it up and then spit it back out in salacious headlines that never even bothered with journalistic objectivity, like this gem:

I mean. Full disclosure: I, too, agree that cutting off a woman’s head, arms, and legs and then burning them is “awful, inhuman, & barbarous” but just...maybe...maybe tone it down? Just a bit?

No? Okay.

See, here’s the thing: crime sells. It always has. And papers went nuts with full illustrated spreads about the latest brutal murders so you could sit in your parlor and get anxiety poops thinking about how the butcher down the street looked at you funny the other day and oh, God, you’re probably next, oh God.

The most famous murderer of the era, was, of course, Jack the Ripper, which was just the orchestral climax of a hideously corrupted society that had bubbled into naught but a festering carbuncle, an ulcer upon the very soul of man, trussed up as a city of industry, but which is merely Salome, dancing with the Lamb’s head upon a platter and sending us all tumbling into a fiery pit.

....Ahem, again.

Some popular ways your fellow Victorians could kill you included: dueling (with swords but usually with revolvers), stabbing, garroting, and, probably the most popular method of the era, poisoning.

Speaking of which...

4. Anything dyed that hip shade of green

In 1775, a guy named Carl Wilhelm Scheele invented a new shade of green, cleverly called Scheele’s green, and it instantly became a hit. Pretty soon, manufacturers and tailors were dyeing everything this color. 

Look at it. Bright, airy. Calls to mind a fresh, spring meadow. (What’s that, you ask? Well, before the Industrial Revolution belched out black smoke onto absolutely everything, there were these things called plants and grass and they were all over the place and you could frolic through them and it was very nice for your serotonin levels.)

I mean, listen, this isn’t really my color because anything vaguely yellow-ish makes my already yellow-ish skin look especially jaundiced, but it’s a lovely shade:

Besides using it to create beautiful dresses and tasteful waistcoats, they used it inside book covers:

And it was a super popular wallpaper color:

They had green candles and green cups and green kitchenwares and green paint.

But while Carl Wilhelm Scheele didn’t exactly murder anyone (even though he has three names like every serial killer ever), he sort of, accidentally, indirectly, kinda...did.

Because that springy dye contained every Victorian black widow’s favorite method to dispose of a troublesome husband: arsenic.

Scheele, of course, had no idea--no one did--so I’m fully exonerating him here, but the poison nonetheless started to take its toll.

Reports began to surface of kids getting sicker and sicker and then dying in their green wallpapered rooms; of fashionable ladies rocking those green dresses at balls and then ALSO getting sicker and sicker and breaking out in horrible sores before dying. 

They even used this stuff to dye food green, so of course, anybody who tucked into Victorian green eggs and ham also, you know. Died.

And if they DIDN’T die, they got cancer, because if arsenic doesn’t kill you, it will give you cancer. And then kill you.

Eventually, as science advanced and went, “HEYO, there’s literal poison in this stuff,” consumers were like, “Well, shoot, this summer’s hottest beach shade just killed an entire boarding school,” and Scheele’s green finally fell out of favor.

It was, however, used as a pesticide up through the 1930s, so...way to use the...leftovers? I guess?

3. Your canned food

Hey, now that we’re on the topic of deadly chemicals being where they absolutely should not be, let’s talk about canned food. 

In the Victorian era, it was the new Hot Thing (next to arsenic green). You mean I can can my food now? Like? Forever? Oh, only for a few months. Okay, cool. Still cool. 

Above: Road trip snax.

Food preservation methods had existed long before canned meats and veggies and soups, but canned everything really started to gain traction around the middle of the 19th century, and people were stoked. Remember, the population exploded; people needed new methods of obtaining cheap food that didn’t spoil immediately. So: cans to the rescue! 

Recycling hadn’t really been invented, though, so today, archaeologists constantly find giant Victorian trash pits filled with empty cans.

You know what also hadn’t been invented? Consumer health and safety boards.

So guess what was in the tin cans themselves? 

No, no, don’t worry, it wasn’t arsenic.

It was lead.

Which, in case you weren’t aware, is also very, very bad for you.

So bad, in fact, that today, scientists are pretty sure lead-lined tins of canned food were partially responsible for the deaths on the disastrous Franklin Expedition, an ultimately futile trip to discover the Northwest Passage lead by Sir John Franklin in 1845. Every single man on board the two ships stranded in the Arctic died, and in the 1980s, when scientists discovered perfectly mummified bodies (GRAPHIC, if you don’t like that sort of thing, but awesome if you do) of some of the sailors, one of the mummies contained insane amounts of lead. They later tested the cans found scattered across the wreck site and whoops, they also contained insane amounts of lead.

Above: Some of the tin cans from the Franklin Expedition, which contained items like salted beef, vegetables, tea, lethal amounts of lead, and Chicken of the Sea.

Granted, other factors contributed to the Franklin deaths, like, you know, being stranded in the Arctic and starving to death, and also tuberculosis, but lead-lined canned food certainly didn’t help things along.

2. Your doctor

Here’s my advice if you’re in the Victorian era and you’re starting to feel sick: do not get sick. Just don’t. Because then that means you’ll have to go to the doctor. Which probably means you will die.

Hospitals in the 19th century were deadly. Often even more deadly than just staying at home, according to Dr. Lindsey Fitzharris, author of The Butchering Art. Nobody knew how to treat anything, really, because medical understanding of biology was in its infancy and antibiotics didn’t exist yet, so you were absolutely, definitely going to get some kind of infection the second you stepped foot in a Victorian hospital.

Above: The surgery, where nobody has any idea what they are doing, ever.

Doctors weren’t trying to kill you on purpose--they just didn’t know any better. And it super duper didn’t help that common treatments for everything from the common cold to tuberculosis included taking mercury (which kills you) and blood-letting, (which can also kill you) the tools for which are shown below:

Those might look like fun doodads for your astronomy class at Hogwarts, but they’re actually vials and a really, really sharp needle that pricks you until you bleed out a critically dangerous amount of blood into those vials. 

The (ancient) school of thought behind blood-letting was that draining patients of “bad” blood would rebalance their “humours” and get rid of the icky thing that was making them sick. We might laugh at it now, but if you don’t know any better, logically, it makes sense.

Medically, oh my God, it’s the worst.

So if Doc didn’t bleed you to death, he might try surgery--done without anesthesia or antibiotics (until good old Dr. Lister came along--read The Butchering Art!), and then ship you and your amputated stump leg off to the hospital ward where, instead of healing, you’d get wheeled through hallways stained with every bodily fluid imaginable into rooms filled with people coughing up every bodily fluid imaginable, some of which would get into your leg stump, infect it, and then kill you dead.

“But what about medicine?” you ask. “Can’t I just take medicine?”

Sure! Just be aware that it definitely contains morphine and probably contains cocaine, or mercury, or arsenic, or sulfur, or pulverized bits of ancient Egyptian mummies (I am not kidding. True, the latter had started to fall out of favor in the 19th century, but, like. Stop).

Above: Hard drugs, but just for you.

You think I’m joking?

Above: PARTY TIME.

Sometimes, a doctor would just advise that you move to a ��more temperate climate” like Rome or Spain if you were feeling chronically ill, which might help you get a tan and COULD help if you had sucky lungs, but eventually, you’d just die anyway, because what you really needed was a strong antibiotic or antiviral medication and the closest you were gonna get was Mrs. Hopplebopple’s Temperance Tonic, which was probably filled with ground up baby bones and just so much heroin.

And don’t even get me started on Victorian surgical tools:

Open wide.

1. Water

There are three rules in this life: don’t watch any Adam Sandler movies except for maybe Anger Management, don’t eat the yellow snow, and do not, ever, for any reason, ever drink water in Victorian England.

That’s because it was about as clean as a Victorian hospital. 

Meaning it wasn’t. At all.

Victorian water--of the Thames variety--contained:

Cholera, one of the deadliest killers of the era and bad water’s favorite roommate.

Poop, human and otherwise, because a functioning sewer system? I don’t know her. (At least, not until the 1860s.)

Pee, human and otherwise, because nothing says, “Jolly Old England” like an open trench of piss rolling through the city.

Dead things, like animals, fish (which are animals, so why am I listing them as a separate thing?), and, occasionally, humans.

Chemicals, which spewed forth from the great factories in billowing, bubbling, belching rivers of sludge. (Ha! Omg, yes, I was an English major!)

The Thames was so filthy that Londoners called it “Monster Soup.”

Above: Same.

In 1855, scientist Michael Faraday (who was also kind of hot; tell me I’m wrong), wrote a letter to the Times about the disgusting state of the river:

"Near the bridges the feculence rolled up in clouds so dense that they were visible at the surface, even in water of this kind. ... The smell was very bad, and common to the whole of the water; it was the same as that which now comes up from the gully-holes in the streets; the whole river was for the time a real sewer."

Tl;dr: “It smelled like ass.”

In fact, it got so bad, so putrid, so horrifically clogged with every disgusting thing your mind and your butthole can possibly conjure up, that it lead to one of my favorite things to read about in the world: The Great Stink of 1858.

Yes, that’s the real name. I did not make that up. History is incredible.

Above: Summer vacation, 1858.

The summer of 1858 was miserably hot in London. And the Thames was miserably clogged with poop, and pee, and chemicals, and dead things, and, uh oh, cholera. During July and August that year, the smell wafting from the river was so offensive that Parliament was actually adjourned because everybody kept throwing up. Cholera devastated the city. The water was killing London.

Faced with either the prospect of living with a city-wide vomit-and-diarrhea smell for the rest of forever OR finally cleaning things up, the government actually did something right and chose the latter. They contracted civil engineer Joseph Bazalgette to overhaul the city’s sewer, to which Bazalgette, pinching his nose, responded, “FINALLY.” 

Above: Joesph Bazalgette, savior of the London sewers and purveyor of a truly beautiful mustache.

Bazalgette proceeded to build the London sewer system still in use today. His efforts greatly reduced the number of cholera deaths, cleared the Thames of its Cronenberg-esque muck, and ensured that poop goes where it’s supposed to: way the hell out of HERE and way the hell under THERE.

Water sanitation still had a long way to go, though, which meant you either had to boil your water to kill the bacteria in it, or you could just drink alcohol instead, which was the safer option but which would also leave you very dehydrated and also, if imbibed excessively, would leave you very dead.

So really, you were doomed in some way no matter what you did, and if that isn’t the moral of the entire Victorian story, then I don’t know what is.

[reidrco]

summer ‘09

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: tommy shelby x reader

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: fluff, a very soft tommy

𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿‘𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲: hello!! y’all have probably nothing better to do than read my shitty writing during quarantine so here you go :)) no jk, i’ve had this idea in my head for so long and now i finally had time to write it down!! i got inspired by "live while we’re young" lmao :) oh and ik this gif is william but that’s exactly how i imagine young tommy, y’all cannot change my mind👀 i apologise for any mistakes i made and for the rushed ending :( stay safe everyone! <3

part 2

 summer 1909

The sun had been shining down on earth the entire day, making everyone sweat in the almost unbearable heat. It was the hottest summer you had experienced in a long time, but you finally had the chance to wear your pretty summer dresses again so you didn’t complain. Even though you prefered winter over the burning heat, you were sick of wearing heavy coats, warm socks and gloves.

But the fact that you could finally put on your favorite dresses again wasn’t the only reason why you slowly started to adore the hotness outside while every other citizen of Small Heath hated it more than anything else. Since the days got longer during summer, your overprotective dad allowed you to stay outside a few more hours than in the cold season which meant you could spend more time with your secret heartthrob without your parents getting suspicious.

Tommy Shelby.

The handsome man had stolen your heart months ago and ever since the two of you had tried to spend every free second together. You had met at Freddie Thorne’s birthday party last year. After drinking and dancing through the night together it had just clicked between you two and now you were inseparable.

You had become from strangers to best friends in just one night, but it was clear the two of you couldn’t stay just friends for a long time. Staring at each other’s lips a few seconds too long and using every opportunity to feel each other’s warm touch was nothing unusual for you both.

But none of you felt brave enough to admit that there was more than friendship between you two, too scared of a one-sided love and a broken heart.

Tonigt you would see Tommy again. Even though it had only been less than 24 hours since you had seen him the last time, you already missed him and couldn’t wait to finally get out of the house after dinner.

Time passed slower than ever as you sat at the table with your parents and tried to swallow the delicious food your mother had cocked, but you were too nervous and excited to eat, your stomach filled with butterflies.

You looked at the clock hanging on the wall in the kitchen every five seconds, counting the minutes until you could finally go and see the handsome Romani boy again. It felt like you sat in the kitchen with your parents for three hours, the soup in their porcelain bowls never emptying.

Once your father got up from his chair and carefully carried the dishes to the sink, you rushed into your room and grabbed a package of cheap cigarettes, trying to somehow hide them in your hands behind your back as you walked back to your parents.

“I‘m going for a walk, okay? I‘ll see you later,” you didn’t give your parents a chance to answer, quickly taking on your shoes and running out of the house without looking back.

You ran like your life depended on it, knowing you were already five minutes late and not wanting to let Tommy wait any longer. Your feet carried you through the neighbourhood down to the river, earning weird glances from the people on the streets, but you couldn’t care less.

You didn’t slow down until you finally arrived at your and Tommy‘s secret spot down by the river, trees surrounding the two of you and hiding you from the rest of the world. As quiet as possible you tiptoed towards Tommy who‘s back was facing you, trying your best not to make too much noise.

Tommy didn’t notice your presence yet, being way too caught up in looking at the cool water flowing past him in the river. The smoke of his cigarette surrounded the young, handsome man sitting on the green and soft grass in front of you, the smell of tobacco floating around in the air.

You carefully got on your knees behind Tommy and covered his ocean eyes with your hands seconds later without any prior warning, making his heart skip a beat and his hand wrapping around the sharp knife in the pocket of his trousers immediately.

His tensed muscles automatically relaxed as he heard your soft giggle behind him, the panic you had caused him slowly disappearing again.

“Hello, handsome,” you greeted him and left a peck on his cheek before you removed your hands from his eyes, sitting down next to the boy with a huge smile on your pink, kissable lips.

Tommy was speechless when he saw you. The yellow dress suited you perfectly and made you look even more beautiful combined with the pretty smile on your lips. He wanted to let his fingers run through your soft, shining (y/h/c) hair which always smelled like coconuts from a heavenly paradise.

And he wanted to feel your warm skin against his so badly, having the urge to find out the taste of your lips and getting more desperate to do so every day.

He stared at your beautiful appearance a few seconds too long, scenarios crossing his mind which he shouldn’t think about. The young man watched you lightning a cigarette between your kissable lips and taking a long drag from it, exhaling the deadly smoke from your lungs.

For the first time your eyes meet his this day as you looked at him, giving him the loving smile he had fallen in love with.

“You look beautiful,” he smiled, his cool fingers suddenly brushed over your cheek causing your heart to nearly jump out of your chest. There was already a firework of emotions going off in your whole body only because of a simple touch from Tommy, but you couldn’t help it.

Only his presence brought the butterflies in your stomach back to life, the handsome man shamelessly stealing your heart.

He quickly cleared his throat as he realised he had just complimented you out of nowhere, feeling slightly embarrassed and coming back to reality while he laid down on the grass underneath him. This time it was you watching him putting the cigarette between his lips and taking a long drag, relaxing his tensed muscles.

You stayed silent as you laid down next to him on the soft ground, turning around so you could face him while he looked up into the sky, unable to take your eyes off him. You didn’t know how, but Tommy had the power to even make smoking look incredibly hot and attractive. Even though you didn’t want it, you found yourself wondering what his lips would taste like, how they would feel against your naked lips.

There was a comfortable silence between you two for the following minutes, enjoying each other’s company while smoking your deadly cigarettes in peace. You treasured moments like this the most, they made you feel alive and free, wanting to stay there with Tommy forever and never return home. 

“Would you like to go on a date with me?” he suddenly asked, still staring at the blue sky which slowly turned pitch-black above the two of you. Tommy had thought about asking you out for a long time now, but he had never been brave enough. He had been scared of getting rejected or ruining your precious friendship. Only the thought of losing you made his poor heart ache, but he had to ask you or else he would never find out if you felt the same way.

A part of him was relieved these ten words had finally left his mouth, but he felt like he had to throw up at the same time. Impatiently he waited for your answer, not daring to look at your beautiful face while you couldn’t stop staring at his handsome side profile. It took you a few seconds to realise what he had just asked you. Everything felt so unreal that you thought about slapping yourself in the face to find out if you were dreaming or not.

You had waited so long for him to finally ask you to go on a proper date with him, your heart almost explosed inside your chest. Tommy couldn’t survive your silence another minute so he took a deep breath, turned his face towards you and looked right into your (y/e/c) eyes. No words could’ve described how he felt when he saw the huge smile on your lips.

“I’d love to, Tommy”, you answered honestly and giggled as he took the last, long drag from his cigarette to calm down the anxiety which had built up inside of him. Before you even had the change to tell him how happy you were, he suddenly leaned over and placed one hand next to your head on the soft gras to steady himself while his other hand gently caressed your blushed cheek, his lips closer to yours than ever before.

You stopped breathing for a moment as Tommy pressed his soft lips on yours. Although it wasn’t your first kiss, you didn’t know how to act, scared of doing something wrong. You felt Tommy slowly pulling back immediately, because he started to feel like he had gone one step too far, but before he could do so, you dropped the cigarette between your fingers to the ground and took his handsome face in your warm hands, gently kissing him back.

A satisfied sigh left Tommy’s mouth, his heart beating so loud inside his chest he was sure you could hear it. The taste of smoke and your strawberry chapstick got him addicted to the feeling of your soft lips on his own in seconds. It was a gentle, but passionate kiss, your lips moving in sync.

Having the most attractive man in town on top of you, softly moaning your name against your lips, caused the butterflies in your stomach to fly around excitedly. It was better than you had ever imagined it to be. 

You wrapped your arms around his neck, desperate to pull him closer which was nearly impossible. Even though the handsome man above you nearly took your breath away, you didn’t even think about breaking the kiss for a second. You had waited so long for this moment and now you wanted it to never be over.

 A sudden raindrop on Tommy’s head made him flinch on top of you and quickly pull away. You looked at him confused, your eyes wandering down to his slightly swollen lips you already missed the taste of. He had no time to explain his action, rain unexpectedly pourring down from the almost black sky and soaking your clothes and hair.

The two of you looked into each other’s eyes for a brief second before Tommy leaned down and reunited your lips once again. A few raindrops wouldn’t stop him from kissing the girl of his dreams after he had waited way too long for it to happen.

You giggled and let your fingers run through his soaking wet hair. The two of you couldn’t care less about the heavy rain, drifting into your own little world and enjoying your passionate kiss, the addictive taste of your lips taking you to another dimension.

And when you came home that night, a huge smile on your face and the water dripping on the floor from your summer dress, you already missed Tommy and couldn’t wait to kiss his soft lips again.

𝘁𝗮𝗴 𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁: @sweetgoodangel @captivatedbycillianmurphy

[carelessworld]

Flower Design and Fashion Trends

Long an image of love and beauty, flowers have never become dated. However, some flower colors, assortments and plans are especially popular among more elegant gift-suppliers and decorators. Along these lines, while the best exhortation click here to learn more might be to follow your own taste and reasonableness, this is what specialists foresee will be state of the art this year for fashion conscious flower lovers all over.

Occasional Statements

Summer looks bright, with ostentatious colors, especially greens, oranges and yellows, overwhelming the scene. Gerber daisies, sunflowers, lilies and a fabulous exhibit of colored roses are the backbone. Plans are relaxed, contemporary, emotional, or even outrageous. Bursting tropicals are growing in popularity, as well.

Fall color ranges will be more refined, with an assortment of rich surfaces acquiring in significance. Search for dried grasses and berries highlighting smaller than expected callas, Leonidas roses, and Asiatic lilies. Color selections are graced by rust, bronze, golden or copper tints. Highlights will be natural yet exquisite with more profound color emphasizes.

Customary red will overwhelm the Christmas season again this year, yet watch for a more noteworthy assortment of fresh evergreens, berries, roes and accents. Other popular color plans include hazier reds and red shades, just as non-conventional ranges like purple and turquoise. Surfaces will keep on assuming an important part, with flower arrangements featuring everything from pinecones and cedar to intricate high quality trimmings. Hope to see more glass bowls, 3D shapes and jars of each size, especially in colors. With an accentuation on home and hearth, decorator cachepots and family legacy holders will likewise have an impact.

Spring will blast forward with a whirlwind of color and all the assortment of an English garden. Tulips, iris, hyacinth, freesia, lisianthus, ranunculus and asters are just a portion of the period's ideal. Fashionable plans might include basic clusters with just one type of sprout, reduced nosegays with a bounty of differed blooms and tall vased bouquets with beautiful blossoming branches. Conventional pastels will be back, with an unequivocally female pizazz, yet don't be shocked by infrequent accents in bright fashion colors.

Wedding Flowers

Straightforward. Rich. Special. Those three words are the key to planning a jazzy wedding this year. While conventional tones and flowers are as yet popular, patterns are advancing toward bouquets with just one type of flower for a perfect, contemporary look. Roses are especially popular, with orchids, Calla lilies, cymbidiums and hydrangea showing up.

Colors are inclining toward monochromatic, for solid personality and style. Red and white are popular the entire year. Bright colors, similar to greens and oranges, will stream in the late spring months. The Bohemian look, comprising of metals, earthy colors, oranges and greens will arise in the Fall. Blends like "Khaki and Cream" are a good illustration of this Autumn vogue. Whites, creams, peaches and delicate pinks remain, however bolder colors will come radiating through. Along these lines, don't be reluctant to have a go at something other than what's expected, just make sure to keep it basic, exquisite and exceptional.

Flower Design Trends

From apple and lime to sage and celery, greens are certainly hot. Watch for cymbidiums, hydrangea, Kermit button poms, and roses in an assortment of gorgeous green shades the entire year. In warmer months, search for hot pinks, bright oranges, and radiant yellows in the blend. In the cooler months, anticipate more extravagant tones and more profound tones. The accentuation on plan is surface and detail, with the best floral specialists featuring unusual flower assortments as well as different materials in their plans, like grasses, berries, branches, and even metals. Configuration styles might shift from the smoothed out polish of just a few unusual sprouts to the lush richness of various flowers joined, however paying little mind to style, it will be the little subtleties and unusual accents that have a significant effect this year.

Immortal Beauty

Flowers are immortal. Their popularity goes back ages. However, similar to whatever else, flowers are dependent upon the back and forth movement of fashion patterns. For the hottest colors, surfaces and configuration styles, watch out for your most loved improving magazines, and clasp a few of your number one pictures. Then, at that point, counsel your local florist. Regardless you have as a main priority, an expert florist can rejuvenate it. With an eye on plan and an extraordinary florist accomplice, you'll think that its not difficult to make your floral gift-giving and home beautifying more beautiful than any time in recent memory and fashionably fresh the entire year.

[angelsdontflytheysoar]

Colors never spoken out loud

Blue

Blue is the wind in your hair and rain on your skin. It is the cool touch of water through your fingers and the harsh ripping of tides. Blue is in turns the most soothing of things and the most harsh. It is the silent tears you cry when sorrow overwhelms you.

Red

Red is the last fading warmth of the sun and the heat of a new day. It is the fire in your soul when rage clouds everything and it is the color of her lips when she kisses you. Red burns like revenge and retribution and rebellion it is the freedom from bonds and injustice. Red is hot blood flowing through you.

White

White is cold like ice and the hottest part of a flame. It is the cold and the beauty of a world cloaked in snow and ice. It is the burning knife edge of rage so intense there is nothing left but the wrath in your mind. White is the froth tipping crashing waves, and the coolness of a cold glass of milk in the morning.

Green

Green is the smell of vine tomatoes and fresh cut grass. It is the sound of the wind through trees and the music a forest makes if you listen. It is nature in its purest form. It is the jealousy that turns your stomach and the envy that ruins you. It is the harmony of and the essence of all living things.

Yellow

Yellow is the sun on a clear day, the bright joy of a newborns laughter. It is the happiness you feel when you are truly content. It is the feeling of sunflower petals on your skin and sunlight through leaves. It is the curdling of your stomach when you backdown, and the color of a new infection. It is feeling of accomplishment when you’ve beaten the odds and the hope you hold for the future.

Black

Black is the soothing expanse of the night sky, and the endless fathoms of the ocean. It is the depths of despair so deep you don’t think you’ll ever pull yourself out again. It is the smell of rot and decay. It is the elegant gown she wears.

Orange

Orange is the heat of dancing flames and burning embers, it is the smell of wood smoke and cinnamon and pumpkin pie. Orange is the first crisp wind of autumn and the lingering warmth of summer. It is the enthusiasm you great each day with and the optimism you feel when the world is going your way.

Purple

Purple is the smell of lavender in the air and the coolness of dusk and twilight. Purple is the molted bruise you poke and prod at and the twinge of pain it causes. It is the king who walks with poise and his queen who speaks with wisdom.

Pink

Pink is the first lightening of the sky at dawn, the first pale light that bleeds across the sky right before the sun breaks the horizon. Pink is the gentle felt nose of a horse and the ribbon in a little girls hair. It is the gentle love you feel in your chest and the hope in your gut. It is the smell of cherry blossoms and the taste of fresh peaches.

Brown

Brown is the feeling of rich earth in your hands, the crunch of leaf litter in the fall and the smell of the world after it rains. Brown is the burn of whiskey and the heat of rich coffee. It is the feeling of chocolate melting on your tongue sweet as vanilla and bitter as cocoa. It is the feeling of stability when you stand on the rocks and land that has weathered history and survived.

Gray

Gray is storm clouds and feathers. It is the agony of indecision and the loneliness of neutrality. It is the time before the world is quite ready to awaken. It is the shimmer of silver around her neck and the matte of gunmetal on his hip. It is the fantastical history of knights armor and swords. It is that place of no hope and yet not quite despair. It is the feeling of a doves wing brushing your cheek as it soars to freedom.

[retvenkos]

so much for soulmates // sodapop curtis

The Outsiders - Sodapop Curtis x Reader, Soulmate! AU The one where you finally see color...

The world was beautiful in shades of grey. 

It didn’t really bother you, not having color. You knew people who had lived their whole life without having met their soulmate. You had heard their stories. There was beauty in their - and your - charcoal existence.

The lines between things could be clear or barely even there. Flower petals were distinct, but the leaves in trees all blended into one. In the right light, faces had no eyes or mouths. People could fade into nothing, in the darkest shadows and the brightest lights.

There was comfort in black and white.

But there was brilliance in color, or so they said. You had listened to their stories, too.

The stark brightness of summer was supposed to be less harsh... more full. The winters were supposed to be softer, more alive. They said the spring and fall were the most beautiful thing people would see.

You had seen sixteen years worth of season pass, and your favorite would always be the intense contrasts of summer.

There were books written about the experience of first seeing color. There were entire shows that had first person representations of it; the black and white melting away to show the vivid hues that had existed all along. The Great Thaw, some called it. You had scoffed at them.

People seemed to love color more than their supposed star crossed lover.

There were people who had known color all their lives, having locked eyes with their soulmate so early on, it was a marvel to them that you had never seen the soft blues of the ocean and the rich greens of fields of grass.

There were others who would never no color and spent their lives listening to the vague descriptions of what they were like. You would roll you eyes when you would hear your friends talking about them like they were somehow substitutes for the real thing. It’s not that you thought they didn’t deserve color, but that those without it didn’t need to act like it was the only true goal in life.

What did having a soulmate matter, anyway?

Having one was no guarantee of living happily ever after. You had seen to many families - soulmates and all - ripped apart because they had gotten together over the stupid idea that color would keep their relationship alive.

You had seen those who could see color suddenly lose it as their soulmate passed on from this realm of existence. Could anyone say in earnest that they were better off for having met their soulmate? To have had something you believed was made for you, only for it to be taken away?

When you met with them, they would say that they had forgotten how safe darkness used to feel, before they could distinguish the different colors that the night was made of.

So, no; you weren’t in a rush to meet your soulmate. Part of you thought that if you lived your whole life without them, that would be fine.

You would still have everything you needed.

“It would be like living without feeling, (Y/n).” Johnny Cade looked at you with a frown, his hair flopping over his eyes. He looked comically sad, especially for someone who had never seen color in his life but was mourning it already.

“Well, I’m feeling pretty annoyed right now,” you teased, pushing him lightly and the two of you continued your walk to the movie theatre.

It was a summer afternoon, and with your parent gone for the weekend, you decided to catch up with one of your friends. It would be too long until school started again and you would see him roaming the halls. Besides, Johnny could do with some saving. You knew what his family was like, and it was no way to spend your life.

“Hey, let’s stop at the gas station... get some Colas or something. Besides, you haven’t met Soda yet and that’s a shame.” Johnny turned the corner and you followed after him with a sigh.

“D’you think I’ll see Sodapop Curtis and Sandy making out on the counter and suddenly want to find my soulmate?”

Johnny rolled his eyes. “No one can change your mind, not even Soda. Besides...” 

His voice trailed off.

You raised an eyebrow and turned to the boy beside you.

“...They broke up.”

You scoffed. “So much for soulmates.”

“They, uh... weren’t, actually,” he mumbled, but you could hear him clear as day. “Soda told us. He said he wanted her so bad, it didn’t matter if it wasn’t fate.”

You whistled lowly. They hadn’t been the first to fake it, but it didn’t make it any less awkward.

When you and Johnny got the DX, a loud voice greeted you. Johnny was faster than you and gave the man behind the counter a hug before introducing you.

“Soda, this is (Y/n).”

You pulled your hand out of your pocket for your new acquaintance to shake, but your hands stopped halfway as your eyes met his. 

Your breath caught in your throat as you watched shades of black and white  fade to expose something more rich underneath. 

His eyes were brown. Like the steady ground on which you stood. It looked like what steadiness felt like, strong and supportive but brighter that the hottest summer days. 

Your eyes combed his face. How the heat in his cheeks wasn’t grey but something else, something warm... pink, maybe? You had read somewhere that blushing was pink.

You looked everywhere you could that was right in front of you, and then Soda put a hand on your shoulder and turned you around.

The DX exploded with colors you hadn’t known existed. There were deep tones and dazzling hues; blue, green, yellow, red, and so many more colors you had no names for. Had the world always been this colorful? Or was it something else that made you breathless?

You turned back to Sodapop Curtis, and realized that he was the first person you met without having known what he looked like in black and white. What is the color that made him look like a movie star? He was grinning at you, and you couldn’t help but smile back.

“You two okay, there?” Johnny looked at the two of you, and you realized just how dark his eyes really were. 

He looked older, with color to him. It amazed you how the dark circles under his eyes seemed to slowly melt into his skin. Cruel realities were softer when surrounded by the brilliance around you.

“It’s...” you were at a loss for words. It was both wonderful and harsh all at once. Things that are monotone are easier to process.

“...A lot.” Sodapop’s voice finished your sentence, and while it didn’t have all the flair that you were used to hearing when it came to color, it was exactly how you felt.

“What is?”

“Color,” you breathed, and Johnny’s eyes grew twice their size.

He laughed. “So? What is it like?”

You let out a breath, your mind still reeling. “I think I’m gonna have a headache.”

“That sounds about right.” You turned to Sodapop and his smile was still in full bloom. Your eyes lingered on him for a few more moments before the awkward tension started to settle in.

“I guess I should probably get to know you now, huh?”

You and Soda let out exasperated chuckles, and Johnny disappeared into the many aisles behind you.

“We can be friends for now,” Soda’s voice was light, with a hint of teasing. It was a pleasant sound that filled you. You closed your eyes to listen to it and noticed that even with your eyes shut, color still played against their lids. 

“Yeah, I don’t want to rush anything,” you replied, leaning against the counter just a bit. “I’d really hate for you to not like me... soulmate.”

A/N:

it’s kinda trash, oops.

[dansnaturepictures]

08/08/20-Bee and buddleia in the garden and birds and butterflies on another scorcher at Farlington Marshes 

It was lovely to watch the yellow and purple buddleia in the garden before we went out today in very hot sun glowing nicely, seeing Large White butterfly and bees around it. I took the first picture in this photoset of bees and buddleia in the garden. 

This afternoon I made my return to the coast again this year after an obvious gap in going there due to strict lockdown, visiting the coast for the first time since we went to Portland and Lodmoor in Weymouth, Dorset the culmination in principle of our splendid June week off which kicked off here at Farlington Marshes. On the hottest of days once more today it felt so good to make the most of being at the coast and the sea air. I just loved seeing everything look so blue and pure and I liked the almost creamy look of the landscape with the hot and bright sun sitting nicely on the edge of the clouds all walk with some interesting cloud formations in the air too. I took the second, third, fourth and fifth pictures in this photoset the views here today, as well as the eighth of some seaweed (or similar) very visible in some incredibly clear water beside the sea wall. 

As we walked along the sea wall I was very happy to see a big and erratically flying butterfly come towards us, we just made out it was a Painted Lady. It was the first time I had seen this iconic migratory butterfly species this year after seeing them again and again last summer in a boom year where I did see one here. This made me very happy they are a special butterfly and never one I’m guaranteed to see in a year. But to fall flat after last year with them would have been sad. It’s butterfly 41 of my year which I am so thrilled with it’s only one butterfly behind the amount I saw in 2018 so I still have a shot at making my butterfly year list my second highest ever behind last year which is something it would deserve for how lucky I’ve been that its been this good. It was my first butterfly year tick since Chalkhill Blue at Stockbridge Down four days sky of a month ago so it was nice to tick off another species. 

What’s more it was the only butterfly that you can submit sightings for in Butterfly Conservation’s ‘Big Butterfly Count’ which I had yet to see whilst doing it this year. I was able to include this in a big butterfly count today so it’s the first time I have ever counted every single species at least once over the course of this survey in the summer so this felt amazing. Elsewhere in the count I saw 7 Gatekeeper, 5 Small Heath, 3 Meadow Brown, 2 Common Blue and Large White, 1 Small White and 1 Peacock. 

We saw some top wading birds on the lake, including many splendid bronze plumaged Black-tailed Godwits, full plumage Grey Plovers and lovely looking always Greenshanks in big numbers. As we walked around the sea wall we came to a nice piece of reedbed where we got a cracking view of a Sedge Warbler. It was great to see one of my favourite birds and what’s more for a second time in a year after my first of the year at Common Marsh in June. These days I do rather often only see them once in a year or the second might be when it’s a bit easier too when watching the BTO ring them in the demonstration at the Bird Fair at Rutland Water. So it was good to see one twice this year, and even more positive in a sense this coming here and Common Marsh and not along the River Itchen at Shawford where I saw them the last two years as it broadens where we can rely on to see them when the time comes in years now. I also saw a gorgeous Hobby fly over the lake putting all the birds up from here. 

As we had a nice walk along the sea wall we saw loads of orange erratically flying butterflies that were a little smaller flying around the grass, the dirt and the wall and even out to sea. They could only be Wall Browns, a butterfly we had seen that day in Portland but didn’t get the very best of looks at with it flying over the bill car park. But today there was no doubt these were Wall Browns and it was fantastic to see them again they are so beautiful. One of our most prominent species of butterfly really. They frequent this kind of raw, relatively bare/short grassed habitat often by the coast. They do seem to have had a burst out in this hot weather judging by social media. This was special though as this is the first of the species I have ever seen in my home county Hampshire. This is a species I first saw in Pembrokeshire, Wales in a perfect coastal path location for them and saw them again and again there and it was mind blowing enough finding out they were about in neighbouring Dorset at Portland in 2016 and Durlston in 2017 I’ve seen them in Dorset between those two locations mainly Durlston every year since but to actually have them in my home county is something else as I associated them as a far away species really. I really was so lucky to see so many of then today what an experience. All of this really underpinned what I’ve learnt the last couple of years and our last visit here in the late spring that this nature reserve we’ve always known for birds is a fantastic location for butterflies too with so many about in the season. It does stand to reason actually as its renowed for its rare and varied grasses I was once told on an information tour round there. 

We walked in the grassy cut through and were happy to see and hear hundreds of Starlings probably noisily chatting and flying and piling into trees. A hive of activity which it was fun to witness many flew over our heads. I took the seventh picture in this photoset of some in trees. There were also quite nice large groups of Oystercatcher flying high over us against the blue sky at this point which was lovely to see too. I took the sixth picture in this photoset of them no Farlington visit is complete without this bird the last few years I’ve found, and ninth and tenth pictures of Meadow Pipit and Redshank both on posts nearby to each other it was great to see them both stars of Farlington too especially the former which I saw my first ever of here in 2007. A brilliant way to safely spend a very hot day today I did really enjoy it. 

Wildlife Sightings Summary: My first Painted Lady of the year, four of my favourite birds the Little Egret, Shelduck including a young one, Sedge Warbler and a Buzzard that like a Carrion Crow sat on the same pole for the entire visit pretty much which was memorable, Hobby, Goldfinch, Starling, Linnet, Rock Pipit, Meadow Pipit, Reed Bunting, Woodpigeon, a cracking view of a Swallow right beside my head over the sea, Herring Gull, Great Black Backed Gull; Black-headed Gull, Mediterranean Gull, Mallard, Moorhen, Canada Goose, Redshank, Greenshank, Black-tailed Godwit, Lapwing, Dunlin, Grey Plover, Ringed Plover, Grey Heron, Wall Brown, Gatekeeper, Meadow Brown, Small Heath, Large White, Small White, Common Blue, Peacock, a dragonfly could not quite see which with how fast it flew and moths.

[carol-effing-danvers]

i’ve got you written (in a black book)

Billy Hargrove’s heart is killing him.

(Title from “Something to Believe In” by Young the Giant)

The night after meeting Steve Harrington, Billy coughs up a handful of gardenia petals into the bathroom sink as he’s brushing his teeth in the morning. He pauses, staring at the thick white petals sitting in the curve of the sink. It’s never happened to him before, so he shoves one into his pocket and throws the others into the trash. Billy drops Max off at the middle school, then skips first period to spend time in the library.

 He doesn’t ask the librarian for help and he makes certain that no one is watching before snatching the volume he wants from the shelf – he has to page carefully through the glossy photos before finding the one he wants.

 GARDENIA Genus: Gardenia Meaning: secret love, “you’re lovely!”

 Billy’s shoulders loosen with relief. He has no doubts in his mind about which person he’s spitting flowers for, but this isn’t so bad. Some people, when they get Hanahaki disease, start vomiting red roses and shit like that. Shit that you know is an instant death sentence, the kind of love you can’t just get over.

 Gardenias? That’s not that bad. “you’re lovely!”

 Well, yeah. Steve Harrington is the hottest piece of ass in this worthless shithole town, anybody with eyes can see that. So, he’s got a crush.

 It doesn’t have to mean anything, not in the long term.

 Basketball practice is entering a level of hell heretofore unknown to mankind. Harrington, all strong lanky limbs and big soft eyes, following each other around the court, Billy grinding his teeth at the almost total lack of effort he puts into it. Oh, and worse! The showers!

 Harrington brings his own shampoo, and it fills the space with the smell of him. Billy has the perfect view of his broad shoulders and flat soft abdominals and the artful grace of his fingers scrubbing through his wet hair.

 He stares, though Harrington doesn’t even seem to give a shit. Harrington, he’s noticed, doesn’t seem to give a shit about a whole hell of a lot, especially after Wheeler dumped him. Billy would be worried, if he were the type of person to worry about other people. He stares, he leers, he taunts – trying to get some kind of reaction, even if it’s a punch in the face – then when no one is left in the locker room, he coughs up bright red daisy blossoms (beauty unknown to the possessor) and the silky petals of orange lilies (desire, passion, hatred).

 He laughs hysterically at that. Hanahaki is supposed to be about the pure devotion of an unrequited love, but Billy can’t even do that right. He vomits up sentiments of carnal desire and hate for his so-called ‘beloved’. It’s further proof, in his mind, that this whole thing is nothing but a fucking long-term boner. It’s an intense boner, don’t get him wrong. (He dreams in kiss-bitten lips, long black lashes, and the profoundly perfect curves of Harrington’s thighs and calves. Yeah. Yeah, it’s…intense.)

 Billy’s pretty sure he’d have nothing more to say about Harrington after pulling that ass over his dick once or twice. He would even be nice about it – suck off that big gorgeous dick for him, deep and messy, the way he’s absolutely certain the girls in this town are either too stuck-up or too intimidated to do for him. Then Billy would show him the joy of the sweet spot waiting to be played with in his tight little hole. But if he busted a nut in that (lovely, breathtaking) ass, he’s sure the shine of ‘true love’ would wear off afterwards.

 He’s absolutely convinced of this until the night that Maxine sneaks out the house.

 The moment Harrington steps out of the house and onto the porch, Billy stares at him and feels a tickle in the back of his throat, and when he coughs, a carnation the deep scarlet of fresh blood falls into his hand. He doesn’t even need to look into the book he stole from the school library to know that this new development is bad.

 It makes him angry and he loses his temper. The sight of Harrington’s face drives him half-mad, sometimes.

 He wakes up on the Byers’ house, hours later, and has to stand, bent over the weird papers on the living room. He coughs up another scarlet carnation and throws it in the grass as he stumbles back out the drive. When he checks the book, he nearly chucks the fucking thing into the woods.

 CARNATION (see also: PINK, SWEET WILLIAM) Genus: Dianthus Meaning: fascination -> Carnation (red): admiration, “my heart aches for you!”

 Max is gonna get herself – meaning Billy – in trouble with her antics, following Sinclair and the nerds around, but he obeys her command to stay away from them. All of them.

 He watches Harrington watching Wheeler at the Snow Ball, and it’s torture. He doesn’t even understand why it hurts so bad and then he’s smoking a cigarette, leaning up against the Camaro, and when he coughs into his fist, thin papery petals swirl into the cold night air. He stares at the ground, gaze captured by the oddly poetic image of the delicate-looking deep pink flowers, trodden into the dirty snow.

 His hands shake, and he can’t bring himself compare the petals to the pictures in his stolen book. He makes himself do it the next morning, when one of them floats in his morning coffee. Quickly, he plucks it out of his cup and rinses it off carefully beneath the bathroom faucet, before Neil can see. He makes himself put it in his pocket instead of flushing it down the toilet.

 He has to wait until Max is gone before he can pull the book from its hiding place beneath the driver’s seat.

 CAMELLIA Genus: Camellia Meaning: admiration, perfection -> Camellia, pink: “longing for you!”

 Billy rests his forehead on the pictures of the high-gloss pages and wonders what the fuck he’s gonna do.

 He becomes…achingly familiar with the camellia, and eventually adds white (“you’re adorable!”) and red (“you’re a flame in my heart!”) to the flood of petals that emerge.

 He says something snotty to Tommy in bio that earns him a smile, half-hidden, his soft brown eyes glittering and a light blush dusting the tops of his cheeks. Three long yellow petals emerge when he coughs into his hand and he shoves them into a random pants pocket before anyone can see.

 He knows what they are – he doesn’t have to explore. Sunflowers were his mother’s favorite flower. He knows what they look like, even if they’re shattered into pieces small enough to fit into his lungs.

 SUNFLOWER Genus: Helianthus Meaning: adoration, devotion

 Billy takes deep breaths and refuses to cry in public, even if he is tucked away within the safety of the Camaro.

 It gets worse. So, so much worse. He’d assumed that he just needed to either ignore his feelings or use Harrington to slack his lust, and then the whole thing would go away. But he can’t seduce him into anything – whenever Billy flirts with him, no matter how borderline dangerous it is, Steve just gives him this head-tilted stare, as though Billy is speaking a foreign tongue.

 He tries to fuck a girl on New Year’s Eve and ends up handing her punch until she passes out, because Billy knows as soon as she kisses him that if they go somewhere private, he won’t be able get it up unless Steve Harrington comes walking through the door bare-ass naked and sits in his lap. Instead of fucking Mary Ann Davison, Billy locks himself into the bathroom off Tina’s basement family room and vomit blue violets until his stomach cramps. (Faithfulness, “I’ll always be true!”)

 For Valentine’s day, Steve hands out Reese’s in homeroom and though Billy normally has a coughing fit after a class with Harrington, he has to get a hall pass to run to the bathroom immediately. The whole cup-shaped head of a tulip, the blazing red of a setting sun, falls into his hands and he frantically throws it away (passion, undying love).

 Winter becomes spring and Billy coughs more often, has to excuse himself once or twice a day from class. More covert research into the condition informs Billy that most people have a specific flower that their love inspires, often daffodils for unrequited love.

 Not him, not Billy. Billy has whole bouquets ready for his love. It’s worse at night, and Billy has to get out of the house. It’s too obvious to spend an hour coughing in the bathroom and the sheer volume of blooms in his lungs make it impossible to throw into the garbage without someone in the family noticing.

 There are no shortage of fields in Hawkins, Indiana. Billy resorts to picking one of the nice warm spring evenings. He coughs, he gags, he lets his entire fucking heart pour out into the grass and dirt, scattered in a riot of colors.

 Camellias are still a popular choice, but he produces a lot of red carnations, too. His heart does ache. It aches for him.

 Steve has made his heart as soft and sweet as summer fruit. But nothing Billy touches is truly soft or sweet. It’s all gone rotten in him, decayed and disgusting.

 A waste, he thinks, tears pouring down his face as he is surrounded by a carpet of little yellow primrose. (Eternal love, “I can’t live without you!”). Some of them are spotted with blood, sometimes. And just like him, it all belongs in the trash.

 There’s no way for Billy to know that less than a mile down the road, another boy hides in his bed, Christmas lights twinkling overhead.

 His heart is broken, because Steve thinks he’s made of fool’s gold. Something that everyone will clamber to grab for but only until they realize he’s not gold at all, but iron pyrite. A deception of value.

 All his love is wasted, because it never means anything to the people he gives it to, no matter how much he has to give.

 He’s shiny and worthless and easily discarded.

[lady-plantagenet]

A Bygone Era - Chapter 2 A fictionalised account of the life of Isabel Neville told through the points of view of the people who knew her and herself. Points of View so far: Anne Beauchamp 16th Countess of Warwick and Anne Neville

16th June 1465

‘Isabel has elegance and wit and beauty’ said a sulky nine-year old Anne putting emphasis on each ‘and’ as if to make the three descriptors seem like a dozen ‘what is left for me lady mother?’

The white summer sun was beating off the translucent wings of the dragonflies in fleeting flashes glimmering red, blue and yellow through the stained glass of the castle window. Anne watched in awe as they were gracefully dancing around the surface of the clear pond like a group of dancers creating ripples with every inclination of their wings. Everything in Wensleydale appeared dazzlingly bright today, even yesterday’s jade grass now neared celadon while the sky was a warm celeste. In the solar of Middleham castle, Anne was sat on her mother’s lap while she was diligently braiding her youngest’s whispy long hair.

‘You have a great gift for piety and loyalty...’ started the Countess. The child did not act impressed. All nine year old girls were interested in was being Felices rescued by a Guy of Warwick, just like all boys at that age wanted to be Sir Gawain.

The Countess wanted to box the ears of the nurses that have indoctrinated the impressionable children so. Isabel and Anne’s fanaticism began when their father, recently returned from the court of Louis XI, brought a manuscript of John Lydgate’s ‘Guy of Warwick’ for his two girls. Anne had to admit that the illuminations were beautiful down to the gilded details on the Lady Felice’s hair and  the outline of every capital letter at the start of the page. But Richard knew that such stories would not beguile his cynical wife and he himself only saw the book valuable in so far as it served to further distinguish the nobility of the Beauchamp line and make his daughters smile. Isabel and Anne were predictably over-joyous to have such phantasmagoric legends run through their blood especially as in England, Guy of Warwick was considered St George’s son.

‘Piety and loyalty are not values to be sneered at, Anne’ cautioned the Countess.  Her husband, now also Earl of Salisbury, had instructed the household to foster a spirit of loyalty between the Neville girls and the York boys. Anne knew that her mother must have noted her rapport towards the youngest: Richard Duke of of Gloucester.

Anne was now peering out of the window, beyond the glassy pond, towards Isabel. Her honey-coloured hair had now darkened to a long ebony mane even darker than the chestnut brown of their father’s. Today the strands peaking beneath her turquoise henin appeared to absorb all the sun’s rays in their magnificence. Not yet fourteen, she had the tall willowy silhouette of a nymph. Elegant and dainty whereas Anne appeared fragile and childlike.  

The Earl in his ornate scarlet doublet appeared in the tableaux. He was laughing, taking Isabel in his arms before cupping her cheeks and looking down at her adoringly while she dazzlingly smiled back  like the sycophant she is .

When he goes to court, Father always takes his leave from her last and separately. Look how long his smile lingers when he takes her hands. His favourite daughter the beautiful Isabel,  the intelligent Isabel, the vain Isabel. I never wanted to know anything more than the details of their conversation.

As the countess was finishing Anne’s braided crown she began noticing that her daughter was still not appeased. She took on a lighter tone and pointed out that Isabel did not have hair like hers.

Anne peared into the looking glass by the vanity and a slender fair face framed by a sea of coppery waves the colour of a fox’s tail peered back at her. A colour far brighter than her mother’s auburn.  Isabel may be impossibly graceful but my hair is more similar to the new Queen’s.

All her father’s men hated the woman who claimed the place beside the handsome York king. As soon as news of her father’s humiliation over not knowing of the match became the talk of the kingdom as did talk of the Woodville Queen’s beauty.  They say she is the most beautiful woman in the british isles with the heavy-lidded eyes of a dragon. But, I also hear she is near her thirtieth year with already two sons from her previous husband: a knight.  She was nothing like the blue-eyed virgin princesses in Anne’s fairytales who were all closer to Isabel’s age.  Father also told me that she had large black eyes like drops of tar. A witch’s eyes.

‘What do you think?’ Smiled her mother beckoning Anne to look in the mirror once more. Anne’s hair was coifed in an elaborate braided coronet encircling her small head in thin serpentine plaits culminating in a voluminous halo at her crown. A hairstyle befitting a lady mere months before being considered old enough to wear a headress. A hairstyle also appropriate for what was becoming the hottest summer afternoon in years.

‘Tis beautiful lady mother. Thank you so so much’ Anne thanked with a wide satisfied grin.

‘Now off with you. Your Richard must be wandering where you are- ‘ began the Countess. Anne, the impatient little girl that she was rushed off before Anne could add ‘-and your cousin Clarence shall also be visiting us in a fortnight. I will fetch Bridget so you can practice your greeting courtesies’

Any other day her mother would call after her and chide her for her impertinence. Today, however, the aerial glide of the enamoured singing swallows waltzing above the field of blanche ramsons, alternating in their emissions of white flashes with the pond may have soothed even the heart of the most proprietous woman in England, which was witnessing this beautiful display from her seat at the edge of the heavy-coloured solar.

It had been years since Middleham Castle saw George of Clarence. While the shy thirteen year old pup Richard would remain at Wensleydale to complete his training in the art of chivalry, George, now a man of sixteen was summoned to court to assume his princely status and enthral those who in him saw the purest of the white roses of York.

Little did they know that he needed those two more years at Middleham like a sword needed a scabbard. He has all my father’s skill but none of his humility.  Anne had just began to remember George’s incessant interruption of Master Guffryn’s apparent ‘lack of flourish in his pronounciation’ as he was trying to teach them latin conjugations.  Isabel’s constant tittering could not have been particularly dissuasive.

As the palfrey’s canter dropped to a trot, Anne started to see the wicked smile etched onto George’s lips. With thirty attendants trailing after him in emerald livery, the whole spectacle resembled more a snake than a princely procession.

The five of them were stood in front of the keep like a set of lead painted dolls, their jewels and silks glittering in the hot June sun even in the cold shadow of the ashen battlement. A silkened hand squeezed the Duke of Gloucester’s.

‘I think he will scare Lovell. I do not want that’ whispered Anne

‘He is not here to stay’ smiled Richard squeezing her hand comfortingly ‘What have you truly against him Anne?’

Richard always knows what I mean to say and when I conceal it. He was born with the sageness of Aunt Cecily. Why was none imparted to me? Perhaps it only works if you are directly descended...

‘He will steal Issy from me. Then you will go when the king wants you for battle and I will be all alone up here with mother making shirts for the peasantry...’

‘There will be no wars.’ interjected Richard curtly

Anne was taken aback by the silent force of that response. It took her a moment of contemplation to realise how no matter how brightly the sunne in splendour shone in London, it was still obscured by the darkness of the shadow cast by Sandal Castle.  Richard lost the only parent that resembled him and the brother that proved an adequate figure upon whom he could heap all his hopes and ideals onto. I merely lost an uncle and grandfather that I was far too young to know.

‘No there will not’ replied Anne gently ‘Father will not allow it’

Isabel was beginning to take notice of their whispering, but before she had time to admonish the pesky little pair or nosily demand to be told the subject matter George’s retinue passed the Barbican and were entering the Bailey - close enough for George to notice if Isabel’s face were twisted in pettiness. Anne noticed her sister’s statuesque composure and drew her own hand from Richard’s hold letting the rose-coloured sleeve slip back past her palm.

Let George see that I am now nearly a woman grown who no longer needs to wear soft soles on her pouline to feel when the hem of the skirt overruns her pace.

As the palfrey’s gait came to a halt Anne could not help but notice the resemblance between its mane and Isabel’s own hair. With the grace of a York, the rider dropped from the saddle as if in a controlled slide. Anne noticed that he barely grew since last year and was still hovering below her father’s height.  So Edward has the lion’s share of height in this family while Richard: the wisdom. I wonder what George has...

He was beaming like Anne had never seen him before. She knew that she did not need to turn her head to see if Isabel was blushing.

‘Waarrrwick’ he bellowed, arms open wide, as he let the Earl  grab him into the gruff hug of men familiarised by the strongest of glues - kinship during times of partisanship.

‘Your lordship, we are honoured to have you here after such a long absence’ declared the Countess gracefully ‘Isabel, Anne and of course- your brother Richard’

The Duke of Clarence merely tousled the younger’s ebony curls as if he had not indeed come to visit his younger brother. He flashed the women a smile each rising in brightness saving Isabel’s for last. He stunned all save for her father for whom he queerly displayed a sobre knowing simper. The Earl returned the look like a looking glass.

The girls were being dressed for dinner in their finest gowns. Isabel’s new Burgundian gown was made of an indigo velvet poached from her Despencer ancestress’ dresses. The fall of Byzantium having deprived the west of the luxuries of such a dye, made the colour’s unattainability all the more attractive to Isabel.

After constant badgering Anne was finally permitted to wear her first and only henin to dinner - its lincoln green contrasting the girlish hue of her carnation gown. She liked it well enough, but its flower-pot shape only served to emphasise how short she was compared to Isabel who was enveloped in the sea of pearly silk emanating from her butterfly henin.

Isabel shakily sat on the side of the bed, the woven scarlett damask’s artichoke pattern scrunching under the weight of the heavy silk of her gown and nearly enfolding her from the sides. She looked lost in thought.  Like a maiden in a sea of blood.

‘My Isabel! if I had a room like this I would gladly languish here until the end of my days’ exclaimed Anne

Isabel was not listening.

George as an honoured guest was given the Earl’s grand room displacing all the assigned sleeping arrangements leading to Richard of Gloucester having to sleep in Anne’s room and Anne with Isabel.  I must have been a babe the last time I shared a bed with Isabel. How the years pass.

‘I wonder if George still likes me. I thought he had come here to see us and Richard, but just after all the niceties were dispensed with, he appeared to have come here for father only’ Isabel said in a hushed tone.

Anne knew that she was not the ideal recipient of Isabel’s ruminations, but with Margaret swiftly married off at their mother’s behest, she had to learn to make-do with the Anne’s companionship.  Is she really talking to me? Awaiting an answer from me? Well firstly I do not remember George particularly liking her-. No I have to say something quickly and now or she will never confide in me again.

‘Oh Issy, he had not seen you properly in more than a year and is still not used to the woman you have become’ Anne started ‘Besides there is so much for him and father to discuss, what with all the news at court and the new queen... I hear she is a witch and has used dark magic to make King Edward besotted with her’

‘This is possibly why father has not arranged for us to be her ladies. He fears for us’ said Isabel pensively

‘Because he loves us’ finished Anne

To her delight she saw Isabel starting to smile. She never understood why this gave her so much peace.  Perhaps because I am rarely their cause, she reserves them all for father.  The half-a-decade difference had been used as a reason for Isabel to disregard this child of a sister who having not even bled yet, could hardly understand the woes of a ‘grown woman’ like her.

‘Can you keep a secret Anne?’ Asked Isabel

Anne eagerly nodded, her doe eyes widening into two brown conkers.

‘Mother said that father will persuade the king to give me George and you Richard’ revealed  Isabel hopefully ‘But you must not breathe a word of this to anyone’

Richard? I like him well - he stood up for me when Rob Percy mocked me for crying when father shot the deer for whom I was bringing berries from the kitchen everyday. He brings me bellflowers to press in my books. But quiet and dark, he seemed the farthest thing from the adventurous gallant Ferrex - he was rather a sombre King Arthur. This would not have vexed her so much had she not known that the princeliest of the three sons of York had been snapped up for Isabel.

Anne nodded her head vacantly as the differing strands of emotions tangled in her head in a web of thoughts irreconcilable for a girl of her youth.  Perhaps if I continue shaking my head they will somehow rearrange themselves into neat rows like father’s battlefield arrangements.

Isabel now looked to the looking glass that tonight was polished to shine as clearly as the steel of a shield. Her hand reached for the sandalwood scent and dabbed the last drops of the scent on her wrists and rosy declitage.

‘As much as father loves us, his eyes only see the good that being royal duchesses would do us. His hogging of George leaves me with no chances of having him fall in love with me’ asserted Isabel

‘But Issy, even I know that his feelings are of little consequence. He will marry you because father put King Edward on the throne and so he must do as he says’ said Anne

‘But Annie I do not want that. I want to be loved like the King does the queen’ Isabel said pleadingly ‘She is a common-born widow so surely I deserve the same if not better’

Before Anne could say anything, Agnes’ pinched face peered through the door to announce that the Neville sisters’ attendance at dinner was now sought.

———————————————————

Centuries upon centuries have amassed the Beauchamp and Neville clans a lofty collection of wall-hangings. From the dainty cane-coloured silk tapestries of the orient to the magnificent arrases of the Low Countries portraying courtly love jux-ta-posed with French tapestries depicting noblemen at hunt for the unicorn.  I have never seen so odd an arrangement before. Perchance father just desired to display his wealth to Clarence and nothing more. Perchance, it could be more.

The great hall was a whirl of flashes of jewelled colours so intoxicating that Anne thought she would go cross-eyed. The spanish-grey walls that were peering through the fabrics, and the faded clay tiles that lay unnoticed on the floor seemed so dull and dark in comparison that so far her girlhood years were passed in a dungeon.

Anne made sure to take notice of George’s face when her and Isabel walked in to gauge her new brother-in-law’s feelings for her sister. To her disappointment he looked at Isabel but despite the gallant smile his eyes did not seem to match it nor discount it nor did the gracious words that he spoke when he warmly greeted them.

‘There is a seat here if you would like it, Isabel’ gestured George as the party advanced to the painted long table.

With a rustle of her indigo skirts, Isabel biddably claimed her seat besides her secret betrothed. Anne was sat across them.

‘How do you like Warwick castle, my lord?’ asked Isabel channelling their mother.

‘I am liking it very well Isabel - it is good to be back’ replied George as he clasped her hand between his under the table. Anne peered at him eyes widened, shocked by this physical act of affection that was by no means meant as a display for father. She tried to discern his face - George’s eyes of hazel and honey were wide and the light within flashed and shifted like quick-sand. They tell me nothing.  His eyes are generally very large. The largest I know, and for this he appears perpetually fixated and perplexed.

Isabel was laughing now clearly entranced by her dinner companion. Anne could not blame her, for all his eccentricities, he was one of the comeliest men she had ever seen with shoulder-length tawny hair that fell in curls framing a fair visage outlined by sharp cheekbones.

But I shall have Richard.  Anne thought emptily. No.  She corrected herself.  And I *shall* have Richard and I shall become a royal duchess equal to my sister and for that I ought to be grateful.

All five chapters available here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22268239/chapters/53560129

[kumeko]

seasons

Prompt: season (ahaha, see how great I am with titles?)

Character/Pairing: Sakura, Sasuke, Naruto, Kakashi, Sai, NaruSakuSasu

A/N: I finally got to write another piece for these three. 😊 Written for the @mixupnojutsuzine, for the bonus piece.

Summary: Kakashi had almost made a betting pool for how long their marriage would last—the only thing everyone could agree on was that it would be Naruto’s fault.

...

...

...

...

i.                 Spring

“You know, this is pointless,” Sasuke pointed out dryly, crouched next to the flowerbed. His hands were somehow meticulously clean despite the gardening they’d done for the past two hours.

 Sakura tossed a weed at him with a glare. It was patently unfair that somehow he still was the prettiest amongst them, even when she’d made sure to give him the dirtiest work. On top of all that, he had the gall to complain? “It’s not.”

 “Sakuraaaa-chaaaan.” Naruto slowly dragged out her name, the way he did when he was about to say something that would get him in trouble. “I don’t want to agree with the bastard but he’s right.”

 A betrayal she didn’t expect. Her glare shifted to him and she tossed another weed. “How.”

 “Ouch! How come I get the thorny weeds?” Naruto whined, rubbing the hand that was hit. At least he looked as messy as she did, with streaks of dirt on his face and hands. Even his knees had dust and actually, she really hoped she looked nowhere near as bad as he did.

 “How,” she repeated, her question more of a statement. And really, it was an how. They’d already bought the plants. They’d already planted most of them. This was the absolute worst time to complain or reconsider anything.

 “Between mission and hospital duty, when are you going to water them?” Sasuke asked, pressing the dirt firmly around the flower he’d just planted. His eyes bored into hers. “They’re going to die.”

 “I’m not that busy,” Sakura replied petulantly, the words a lie even before they left her mouth.

 His eyebrow rose in response.

 “You can help,” she countered, pointing her trowel at the pair. In her torn overalls and broken sunhat, she looked more like a ragamuffin than a powerful ninja, but it was the thought that counted. “It’s not like you have that much to do.”

 “Eh?” Naruto grimaced, clumsily digging a hole. She would have liked to say his prosthetic made him clumsy, that his was just lacking some finer control, but Sasuke never had these problems.

 And to be honest, she couldn’t say confidently that Naruto wouldn’t have these issues otherwise. Turning to Sasuke, she amended, “You can help.”

 “Hey!” Naruto might have missed the insult, but he didn’t miss the intent. “I can help.”

 “Yeah.” Sasuke fought and failed the wipe the smirk off his face. “He can help.”

 Sakura threw another weed at him—maybe it wouldn’t help, but it made her feel better. Especially since he didn’t dodge in time and it landed square on his hair.

 ii.                Summer

 “It’s hot,” Sasuke muttered, the same way he did on the hot summer nights, when Sakura and Naruto crawled into bed beside him. He had never been really honest about what he wanted, particularly since Naruto always woke up to find Sasuke’s arms curled around them both.

 Naruto disregarded his words now as he did then, sidling next to him on the porch. After much begging and wheedling and pouting, he had convinced both Sasuke and Sakura to buy a house with him a few years ago. One away from all the ghosts. It really wasn’t healthy how much time Sasuke spent at the old Uchiha compound but that was an argument for a different time.

 Sasuke gave a bleary glare as Naruto pressed against him. “It’s hot,” he repeated. When Naruto didn’t move, he lethargically shoved him away. “Move, idiot.”

 They were stripped down to their boxers. Sakura refused to let them run around naked, no matter how much cooler that would be. Even when Naruto waggled his brows suggestively that maybe she would like the view, she didn’t so much as blush.

 Or well, she did blush lightly, because she was Sakura, but Tsunade had trained her too well and her immediate reaction was her fist. It really had been a mistake to leave her here for three years with that old hag.

 Naruto grumbled as he flopped down onto the cool hardwood floor, pressing as much of his skin to it as possible. It was too hot to even argue. That didn’t stop him anyways. “I’m not an idiot, stupid.”

 It also didn’t stop Sasuke either and maybe Sakura was onto something when she sighed and called them a pair of idiots. “Don’t call me stupid, moron.” He was too dignified to flop down himself, his prosthetic hand fanning himself.

 Maybe they could get one installed with a fan. It was a great idea. Naruto had to remember to ask about it later. Rolling over onto his back, he stared out the porch at the blue sky. This summer was the hottest on record. “It’s hot,” Naruto complained. Even Sakura’s plants, which had somehow survived till August, seemed to agree, wilting in the oppressive heat.

 They needed water.

 Sakura had told him to water them.

 Shit, she was going to kill him. Even that fear seemed like a mirage in this heat. If he died, he wouldn’t feel this sweaty. Water. He needed the water. The plants leaves were shrivelling up but it was too much effort to get up and water them all. Maybe he could use the sprinkler.

 Naruto sat up. The sprinkler! Of course. Maybe he really was a moron. Suddenly filled with energy, Naruto leapt off the porch and into the backyard.

 “What are you doing?” Sasuke drawled, looking half asleep.

 “Sprinkler!” Naruto exclaimed, reaching the shed. Yanking the doors open, he scanned the dim room for the sprinkler. It was high on a shelf and he grabbed it. Running back out, he waved it high in the air. “Sprinkler!”

 “I can see that.” Sasuke was too tired even for sarcasm.

 Rolling his eyes, Naruto grabbed the hose. And everyone called Sasuke a genius. Some genius he was. Within moments, he had the sprinkler running and cold water pelted him. Ahh, he was alive. Closing his eyes, he let the water rain down on him. Feeling refreshed, he glanced at the porch slyly. Sasuke was still sitting there, his eyes half closed.

 His pride was going to ruin him one day. Well, to be honest, it had already ruined him long ago, but it was definitely going to ruin him again. A mischievous grin spread across Naruto’s face as he slowly approached his husband.

 “What are you—” Sasuke flinched as water sprayed down on him. His hair was sopping wet and he brushed it away from his face with a glare. “Naruto.”

 “Well, Sakura told me to water her plants.” Naruto danced back, out of his reach. “And you’ve always been a bit of a pansy.”

 “You’ve been spending too much time with Sai.” Sasuke sprung off the porch, chasing Naruto through the sprinkler.

 When Sakura came back from her shift hours later, it was to a wet porch and two soaked boys lying on the grass. She stared at the flooded lawn and shrieked, “I TOLD YOU TO WATER THEM, NOT DROWN THEM.”

 iii.               Fall

 “How’s ugly?” Sai asked, his attention solely on his easel. In front of him, the fall colours spread and in a rare move from him, he was drawing something decent for once. Something colourful too, even. Maybe he had spent too much time with team seven. In team seven.

 It was making him soft.

 Kakashi looked up from his latest porn book, an amused twinkle in his eye. “Don’t let her hear you call her that.”

 “She knows I call her that.” Sai dipped his brush in water, examining his colour palette. The red wasn’t quite the right colour, the right vibrancy. Maybe if he mixed in some yellows or oranges. A touch of white too.

 “True.” Kakashi nodded, his single eye crinkled as he smiled. Despite the cover on his mouth, his voice didn’t sound muffled at all. Sai had heard the rumours of how ugly or handsome he was underneath it all—maybe he could get him to model one of these days. Scarred or not, it would make for an interesting painting.

 He’d have to get Naruto to help—the only way to convince Kakashi was to annoy him into it and Naruto had mastered that skill.

 Kakashi flipped the page in his book. “I’m impressed you call that to her face.”

 “I’m impressed you can read that with a straight face,” Sai replied, mixing his paints. And really, it was truly impressive—he’d seen how graphic some of the volumes could get. Yet there was not even the slightest tint of blush on his face. Perhaps that’s why he wore the mask, it made it a lot easier to hide reactions.

 “It’s a tame volume this time.” Not that the way Kakashi read gave that impression—each page was ogled at for a long minute before he flipped to the next one.

 “She doesn’t punch me as much anymore,” Sai answered his previous question, moving on from the topic. With a deft hand, he painted the tree leaves, a splotchy mess of colour. When it dried, he’d add in some highlights and outlines, bring order to the chaos.

 “I think living with Naruto has made her all punched-out,” Kakashi suggested, closing his book. He looked up and to the left, at the Hokage’s summit, at his face still getting carved into the mountain next to Tsunade’s. “Will there even be room left there for Naruto?”

 When. It was never an if with Naruto, they all knew he was going to be Hokage soon. Sai briefly glanced to the side himself. “They can make a small one. To match his dick.”

 Kakashi guffawed, the idea too much. Wiping his eye, he nodded. “That’s a brilliant idea.”

 “Then we could make a big one of Sasuke.” Sai picked up a smaller, finer brush, dipping it into black.

 “Now you’re just trying to kill him.” Kakashi shook his head. He ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t think they’d last this long. Maybe after a month Naruto and Sasuke would be at each other’s throats. Or maybe Naruto would do something stupid and Sakura would end him.” Kakashi paused before adding wryly, “Actually, just Naruto accidentally doing something.”

 Sai’s brush stilled. He remembered Naruto, punching the ground after losing Sasuke that first time. Sakura clenching her fist, wiping her tears, and then comforting him. They spent three years chasing a shadow with no clues, and then a few years after that. If war, if death threats, if none of that could break them, then maybe nothing could. “I don’t think they’ll ever separate.”

 Kakashi crossed his arms, staring at the memorial plaque below the Hokage mountain. “No, I suppose not. They aren’t like us.”

 Behind them, they heard bickering, two voices rising quickly. Sai didn’t even need to turn around to know it was Sakura and Naruto squabbling, he’d heard this argument many times before. Just as quickly, the voices quietened down and a glance back showed the pair holding hands, laughing.

 Ugly. Tiny. Maybe it was time he revised his nicknames for them.

 iv.               Winter

 “Here.” Sasuke held out a cup of hot chocolate, steam faintly rising from the top.

 Sakura looked up from the couch, surprised. With a grateful smile, she accepted it, the tips of her fingers gingerly holding the ceramic. “Thanks.”

 “It’s nothing.” He settled in next to her. At three am, the room was dimly lit. Flickers from the tv lit up the walls, a brainless comedy with a volume so low they could only see the action, the reactions, but not hear the cause.

 Sakura blew over her cup. She’d claimed once her tongue was a sensitive as a cat’s, unable to drink piping hot drinks until they were room temperature. Even now, addicted to coffee as she was, she still had to cool down her cup. Taking a tiny sip, she murmured, “You don’t have to stay up every time.”

 “It’s fine.” He relaxed as she leaned against him, her warmth spilling through his clothes and onto his skin.

 “Thank you.” She glanced to her other side, to where Naruto was fast asleep. Stroking his hair, she gave him an affectionate kiss on the forehead. “Why does he always insist on this when he’s always the first to fall asleep?”

 “He’s an idiot,” Sasuke replied, rolling his eyes. As though that was even a question.

 Sakura giggled, leaning over to kiss his cheek. Her breath tickled his skin as she pulled back. “You two really never let up.”

 “Was it bad?” Sasuke asked finally. Sometimes, Sakura took too much after him, bottling up her grief and loss after a particularly bad night in the hospital. It wasn’t healthy, but he was the last person to say that. Even he could hear the hypocrisy of his words.

 “Not today.” She rested her head on his shoulder, her eyes glued to the screen. “No one died today.”

 Died. Her words were specific, and he knew something else had happened. A coma, perhaps. Or a child. Children were almost worse than death sometimes, he’d seen her clutching her fingers sometimes in the same way a kid must have before she operated on them. Still, she seemed fine for now and he didn’t press. If there was something, Naruto could worm it out of her in the morning.  “That’s good.”

 “Yeah, it is.” Sakura set down her mug, relaxing even further onto him. Her words were sluggish, sleep finally getting to her. “Maybe we can…”

 “Can what?” Sasuke set down his own mug. Maybe he should get Naruto to wait for her in bed, it was bad enough he had to carry her upstairs without having to carry him as well.

 “Children.”

 Sakura’s voice was so quiet, Sasuke wasn’t sure he heard right. Abruptly, he looked down at her, his voice cracking. “Children?”

 “In the morning.” Sakura’s voice grew fainter and fainter, sleep claiming her. “We’ll talk then.” Within moments, she was fast asleep.

 With a sigh, he gathered her in his arms. Children. He glanced at Naruto, at Sakura. A family. It was something he both wanted and feared, a continuation, a curse. A compound full of ghosts, dispelled only by Naruto’s laughter, Sakura’s smiles.

 Maybe it was okay to let it all go now. This was something new, something unconnected to all of that. When he settled into bed, after setting Naruto and Sakura in, he wasn’t surprised to find them both clutching him in their sleep. Even unconscious, they refused to let go of him and that was what had saved him, all those years ago. This idiotic obsession, this unhealthy stubbornness.

 He wrapped his arms around them both as he closed his eyes. Children. Family. Future. This time, Sasuke wouldn’t let go of them, let go of those promises.

[overdrivels]

The Way to a Heart (10)

Thank you for your patience. I’m a little sad that this chapter didn’t push me over the 50k works mark, but eh. Hopefully next chapter will make up for it. As always, thank you @dickbutt-writes-again for your help.

<<Chapter 9

The news tells a small audience of heat-exhausted agents that today is one of the hottest days of the summer. Zarya’s face tells of someone who wants to shut the newsomnic up, but can't seem to muster the energy to stand. It's a disconcerting sight to behold. The heat seems to even put out McCree, who normally relishes in it. The only person who seems unaffected is Ana, who still manages to walk outside fully covered, making fools and weaklings of everyone else.

Every remaining agent was forbidden from going outside for day and Mei could not resist contacting the base, reporting her observations with rapid-fire jargon and a heat in her voice that rivals the weather. Hanzo could not really put any effort into listening, busy tending to himself with a crudely made fan.

Athena sounds apologetic when she tells a group of sweaty, irritated agents that the thermostat cannot be adjusted any further without rerouting energy from vital functions on base. Hanzo suspects all the current efforts are being rerouted to cool down Winston whom he had seen neither hair—fur—nor hide of in the past few days, busy with 'meetings’. It's unfair especially when the common areas are barely cooled and their rooms are no better than if they were to open a window (provided that the rooms had windows), and those agents who were relocated to cooler places for a mission were the momentary object of envy.

This heat doesn't quite rival Japan’s, but it is difficult to breathe, to move without wanting to shower or suddenly take a flight to the Arctic. Hana did not spare any words when pointing out the frizzy state of his hair, and he spared no mercy when pointing out her hair is artificially straightened.

(He learned two things after that: not to mention it in the future and that age has not been ridiculously kind to him in the ways he wants to believe.)

It's his first summer away from Japan, but despite the weather, it doesn’t feel like summer at all. Almost fondly, Hanzo thinks a proper summer should have watermelon. Or shaved ice. The air should be thick with the smell of grilled foods and bright with lanterns or fireworks and accompanied by windchimes or the song of cicadas. (Genji would used to try to catch as many as he could when they were younger, essentially eliminating the entire population near their estate at his peak.)

He doesn’t realize he misses all of that until you serve watermelon as a part of lunch.

They’re neat, thick pyramid shaped slices with actual seeds that betray the semi-professionally sculpted meals you make for them. He steals away into his 'secret’ spot once he's finished off the main course to enjoy the chilly summer treat. He takes in the harsh beat of the sun against his skin, the rare summer breeze and relative silence brought on by this thick, overbearing weather.

The only thing missing are the cicadas.

He takes his first bite with a loud ' hrmph ' and regrets nothing. The cool contrast in his mouth against the heat on his skin is a delight of sensations. The salty air tossed around by the occasional breeze only adds to the experience—he briefly thinks that he should have asked for some salt, but there’s no helping it now. And the hunger —Hanzo is not shy about his eating, the bites audible and vicious. Sweet juices trickle down his mouth and into his beard, trickling freely down his hands. It's utterly disgusting and undignified, but there’s no graceful way to eat watermelon. Sure, they could be turned into cubes or little balls, but that just defeats the point of eating watermelon.

Watermelon slices, no matter how undignified, is best. He’s glad you seem to agree.

Hanzo mindlessly spits a barrage of seeds off the ledge.

For a moment, the sun is not yellow, but white. The cry of gulls are cicadas. The sea before him is grass and the familiar landscape of Hanamura. Genji sits next to him, smaller, younger— human —a wide grin on his face right before he spits a line of seeds as well.

「See, brother? I’m better!」

And he hears himself saying, 「You’re too many years too early to think of besting me at anything.」

The younger Genji protests, taking another bite of his watermelon, chewing furiously through the meat of the fruit. He inhales deeply, puffing up his chest and stomach dramatically before the summer air is filled with panicked coughing, barely drowned out by the whining of cicadas and the pounding of a fist.

A ray of sun passes over his eyes and the scene is gone—the sweetness of the fruit turns his mouth numb and bitter, and he nearly throws the rind off the ledge too, only to remember Winston had long warned them against leaving evidence of their occupation behind, no matter how innocuous.

He sucks a shaky breath through his teeth instead and exhales, then wipes his mouth harshly on his arm, clutching the remains of the fruit tightly in his hand. The juice becomes tacky, sticking to him just as uncomfortable as his thoughts. The twisting in his gut threatening to squeeze out the food he’s just eaten and he clenches his teeth until it hurts.

Maybe he doesn’t miss the Japanese summer as much as he thought, after all.

Hanzo does not throw the rinds into the ocean below, barely mustering the maturity to take them back to the cafeteria to be discarded of properly. He finds himself there on reluctant legs anyway.

To his relief and surprise, he finds it relatively empty and significantly cooler than the rest of the base. Even Ana’s usual afternoon crowd is not around.

Hana’s here, her hair up in a ponytail, a tell-tale towel around her neck that indicates she's just finished her training session for the day and deep in a heated conversation. Hanzo thinks she’s surprisingly chipper for such nasty weather, but figures she’s endured worse.

“Chef, why can’t we have shaved ice?”

“Agent D.Va, I cannot allow your health to be compromised. You just came from exercise. Ice will only cause muscle crampin—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She shoves her hands through the window, making grabby hands at you. “Shaved ice, please. Lots of condensed milk and mochi. Oh, and red bean.”

“I have no such thi—”

“Liar.”

The watermelon remains slip straight out of his hands and into the garbage disposal. He’s dumbstruck by the speed at which Hana calls you out, and by the looks of it—hands frozen in midair—so are you.

She begins to tick off her fingers. “You have ice. You have a mandolin”—she ignores your cries of “It’s not the same!”—“you use condensed milk for Mei’s milk coffee sometimes and you just started to make it for Zarya, and you have rice flour for Hanzo’s red bean cakes, so mochi and red bean.”

The MEKA warhero gives you the slyest of grins and crosses her arms, leaning deep into the window. “ So . Shaved ice?”

You fiddle with your sleeve cuffs for a moment, debating. Instead of answering, however, you deflect with, “How do you know all this?”

“McCree told me,” she says innocently and far too easily.

“Excu—He what ?”

Hanzo almost laughs despite himself. No hesitation with throwing McCree under the proverbial bus. But then, the thought of McCree knowing all of this expunges any and all mirth from his being, the implications of it all casting a dark cloud over him.

“Chef. I require a wet towel,” Hanzo says suddenly from behind the young woman.

Naked relief floods your voice as you answer, “Oh, Agent Hanzo. Of course. Right away.”

You depart the window sill in a hurry, leaving both himself and Hana, who gives him an appraising look that is not unlike Ana’s.

“Nice save,” she mutters sarcastically, “I'm sure the chef will now love to show you right into the Cellar.”

He ignores the obvious bait, leaning down momentarily to gauge your distance. He can hear the water running toward the side of the dish waking station; you won't be hearing their conversation should the MEKA operator choose to continue this conversation.

Luckily, she waits in silence, instead just choosing to look at him expectantly as though waiting for him to break down and spill out all his deepest, darkest secrets. He almost scoffs. That will not be today and it most certainly will not be to her. (Hanzo has seen Hana be professional—reporting back to a sudden call from some higher power from the army, the image sternly reminding everyone that this woman is not a fool or a child and she is not unaffected or unawares of the gravity of her situation—whatever the the totality of that may be—but even that will not make the impossible happen.)

You return shortly, presenting a neatly folded towel. “Here you are, Agent Hanzo.”

“Thank you.” He takes it, a little pleasantly surprised to find it warm rather than ice cold. He wipes his sticky hands and face with it, the heat cools quickly against his skin, the faintest hint of a sigh escaping. Much better.

“Hey, Chef. Isn't hot in there?”

That shouldn't have surprised Hanzo as much as it did and for once, he realizes that he's never once seen you wearing anything other than your uniform—standard Overwatch-issued chef’s jacket with a high collar and sleeves with thick cuffs around your wrists.

Even if there was air conditioning inside the kitchen, the fact that you work with fire constantly probably nullifies any relief you may get.

“A little,” you confess, clearly reluctant. “I'm used to it. And”—you chuckle a bit, like it's an inside joke—“don't tell anyone, but I go into the walk-in to cool off sometimes.”

Sometimes Hanzo forgets how honest and earnest normal people can be. While he's used to the posturing, the facades, the measuring of people, this is different, refreshing, even. He hides the beginnings of a smile into the towel.

“Ooo, you’re so lucky. Can we come in at least?”

“No. Non-kitchen—”

“Stingy.”

“I cannot allow non-kitchen personnel to—”

“You let him in, didn’t you?” She jabs a thumb at Hanzo, and a chill spills into his stomach. How did she hear about that? Did you tell her?

“That was...not intentional,” you say slowly, carefully.

Hana shoots him a glance with an eyebrow raised, asking him silently whether you were serious. Then she has the audacity to smirk at him—she knows just like every other person in this base, but even she would not be so obtuse as to let it slip. He returns it with a frown and a warning behind it: do not say anything.

“Oh?” The MEKA driver’s voice sounds downright conspiratorial as she turns back to you. “Is that right? Hm.”

Hanzo does not like the look on her face or the tone of her voice—it reminds him too vividly of his brother right before he’s about to commit some heinous act against the family that Hanzo would inevitably have to clean up.

“Chef~” Her voice turns singsong and you shrink away a mere half-step. Hanzo thinks it’s because you’re trying to shield yourself; you may be obstinate against impromptu requests, but you might not be so strong against Hana. “Come on, it’s hot and we can’t go outside. Please?”

“No, Agent D.Va, I cannot allow tha—”

“If you won’t let us into the kitchen, then give us the shaved ice! It’s just ice, Chef. Don’t be so stingy. We’re melting out here and you have...a walk-in? Chef ! Don’t you love us?”

You begin to stammer messy half-assurances and Hanzo and D.Va both know that she’s won. Hanzo huffs through his nose. If it’s this easy to fluster you and convince you to do something, then he has questions about why Winston chose you to be here, to defend the kitchen, to serve them when you’re such a pushover. (Though he remembers the multiple attempts to get Ana’s coveted cookies without success and wonders if it’s not because it’s Hana that you seem more accommodating or if it’s because you’re wary of him.)

Hanzo resists the urge to sigh. “If the chef does not want to, there is little point to force the matter.”

“Wow,” she says, utterly sarcastic. “Way to say that after you tried to break into the Cellar.”

“Hana!”—“Agent Hanzo!?”

“Oop-sies,” she says, already slinking away without a hint of apology. “I still want my shaved ice, Chef!” The young woman tactically retreats, leaving Hanzo to deal with the bombshell she so casually dropped.

He needs to give chase and probably put her training to the test for that, but his legs betray him, staying firmly planned to the ground, and all he can feel is bone-deep exhaustion that he wishes he can blame on the heat.

Almost instinctively, he steels himself for the inevitable loss, the towel wringing dry in his grip: his food will no longer be safe to eat despite your thin reassurances; the one sanctuary he thought he had found in this base that was free from judgment and the politics of his past is also decimated; he will have to start spending the meager salary Overwatch provides (or his own) and suffer not knowing if the restaurant he choose will be acceptable—it truly shouldn’t be so much of an issue considering just what he managed to make himself eat during his years on the run, but he may have unknowingly, unwittingly become conditioned by your cooking, by your devotion, by the quality he never thought he would ever come close to allowing himself to have ever again.

The broiling sorrow nearly bowls him over with its force, sapping him further of strength. Weak. He’s become weak. Luxuries like food should never have been afforded to him, and now you know and there’s little doubt in his mind that you wouldn’t retaliate with something more devastating than your shabby fencing skills.

Then you laugh, breathless and disbelieving, shattering him from his silence.

“She is really too…” You stop yourself, breaking off with another laugh. “It’s all right, Agent Hanzo. I already know. Someone else told me.”

Hanzo cannot help closing his eyes for a moment and tipping his head back, willing himself to not immediately leave and strangle someone. He knew the base was conspiring against him, he knew McCree could not keep his flapping mouth shut.

“McCree had insisted I try.” Since that man’s name is already tarnished by someone else, there’s no point in trying to mask his source anymore.

“Oh? So it was Jesse ? That rascal.” Your voice sounds fond, and he does not miss how you refer to the cowboy by his first name and only that, cannot miss how you don't seem to bear a hint of anger at McCree when you easily directed your rage at him. He tries his best to ignore the unfounded and uncomfortable twist in his stomach.

“When Jesse used to do this, he was one of the few people to do it alone.”

You rest your hands a little more on the sill and he glances down. The cuff of your sleeves lie limp against your wrists, damp.

“I guess he's just done it so much that I'm not surprised anymore.” You chuckle to yourself. “His attempts were pretty bad, you know. Even back in the day, he was big—oh, you know.” You gesture exaggerated measurements in the air. “Big, tall, loud. No one could miss him. Thought he could blow off the door once. That almost screwed up the line for a day. Head Chef was so angry he fed him meatloaf for a week.

“People who did it in a team usually were more successful. Some of them broke the mechanism; we had to load in food from the front for about a week while those guys were reprimanded and getting the door replaced. Others tried to go in from above, but that lead nowhere. There may have been a few who were smarter and tried the other side, but there was no shortage of people trying then. Even I had to fend off a few people—I was better back then, I think.”

He bites the inside of his lip, but can’t suppress the quirk of his lips. You? Better at fending off agents whose lives were dedicated to espionage and covert operations? Impossible.

“I’m a little shorthanded and busy because of it, but I welcome the challenge.” You laugh again. “Though, I’m not sure I’m a match against a ninja. I remember when Agen—ah, no.” You clear your throat and he has a feeling he knows what you’re about to say, but lets it go. He doesn’t want to tread that path either. “Well, I ask that you do not do it that often. I do have a job to do and customers to feed, so I ask you please respect that.”

In spite of himself and the situation, he finds himself smiling just a bit. “We shall see.”

To everyone's joy, you do call them to the cafeteria for shaved ice a couple of hours before dinner. It turns out there was a machine from your cache of unused kitchen equipment. For people who have never had any, it was an interesting and welcome experience. For people like Hana, this was sweet, sweet victory.

You knew this was bad—indulging agents in their requests when does little to improve their health—but you reasoned against all reason that this was an exception, this was fine , and this was not getting in the way of anything even as your communicator rung incessantly. It makes everyone happy and a chef’s greatest joy is the happiness of their customers. What was it your mentor used to say?

“ Love them with all our being. We live for them. We die for them .”

By the time the last of the agents got their little bowl of shaved ice, it was already time to prep for dinner service. You have to swallow back the rising burn and pressure in your stomach as you shove an ice cube into your mouth—it won’t work, you’ll need medicine to handle this, but it’s just so troublesome—and get to responding to your missed messages and calls as you changed out of your drenched chef’s jacket.

Dinner rolls around and it’s then Hanzo realizes that the game has now changed when he receives his tray. He can tell you're watching him carefully, mischievously despite your face being hidden by the wall. That single piece of pepper—harmless, really—sits at the top of his dish where he could easily pick it out and throw it away if it truly bothers him.

But Hanzo Shimada is no coward.

He picks up his chopsticks right at the service window and takes great pleasure at the stuttering gasp you make when he snaps up the sliver and eats it.

“Thank you for the meal,” he says haughtily before taking his tray and walking away.

His only regret is that he could not look you in the eyes as he did so.

Hanzo holes himself into his room, ignoring the damp humidity that clings to him incessantly even after a shower, his belly full enough to put him to an easy lull. However, after tonight’s slight against him, it means that it’s time for him to take it a little more seriously. He doesn’t truly hate the pepper as much as he thought—lightly grilled and seasoned, less bitter than he expected, but it’s the intent behind it that counted. You will regret your transgressions and challenging Hanzo Shimada to a fight.

“Athena. I need the floorplans of this Watchpoint,” he says, sitting in the single chair in his room and picking up his makeshift fan and cooling himself with it.

The AI is silent and Hanzo waits with bated breath for answer. Will she provide them or is she alerting someone that he’s trying to look into something that he may not be authorized for?

“One moment, please.”

Hanzo spends the first few minutes in suspense, almost ready to tell Athena off for wasting his time when his communicator beeps with the arrival of a file. It’s a large file, one that takes a little too long to open and takes up a ridiculous amount of space when it does.

However, what results is a pleasing document of neat lines and even neater notes. (Some part of him says that if he did not take the path of an assassin and lived a normal life, he may have become an architect.) There are areas he recognizes and areas he knows are no longer there, having either been damaged in some manner unknown to him or long replaced by something newer. He doesn’t linger on them, however, quickly seeking out his prize.

Hanzo zooms in on the kitchen area and can almost recall every detail of the area from the plan. If he thinks about it hard enough, he can probably even map out the exact path he took in the little scuffle. To his amusement, nothing’s changed, it seems. Not the counters, not the measurements, nothing seems out of place except...

Hanzo scrolls through several more files, searching and finding nothing. He leans back in his chair with a steady hand over his eyes.

“Athena. Is this all? Is there a floorplan of anything beneath or beyond the kitchen area?”

“Unfortunately, that data is unavailable.”

“What do you mean…’unavailable’? Does it not exist or…” His eyes narrow. “Am I not authorized to see it?”

She pauses. “I cannot answer that, Agent Hanzo.”

Hanzo raises an eyebrow, a slow smirk curling on his lips. Is that the game they're playing? “And who has the authority to see this information?”

Athena sounds just a touch amused as she answers, likely having caught onto his line of thought, “Unfortunately, you do not have the authority to know that either.”

“How can I gain such clearance?”

“The information is distributed on an as-needed basis. Currently, Agent Hanzo, your duties do not require access to this knowledge.”

Maybe a different tactic then. He supposes finding out who can see such information can come later.

“What can you tell me about the Cellar?”

If a voice could do the equivalent of an eyebrow raise, he's sure that Athena would be doing it. “Unfortunately, I do not have access to any information regarding the Cellar.”

“But you do not deny its existence.”

“...no. I cannot.” The relenting tone in her voice makes his stomach clench with some thrill. “However, I cannot condone spaces that I am unaware of. The safety of all agents and staff within the Gibraltar Watchpoint are my prerogative and data of this nature should be centrally managed.”

Hanzo’s mouth drops open slightly, the implications of Athena’s plea only semi-clear.

Is it possible that not even Athena herself has access to the floor plans then?

“Thank you, Athena,” Hanzo says slowly, trying to piece together the hints he’s been given, “you've been very helpful.”

“I am glad to be of assistance.”

Her voice fades, leaving Hanzo in silence to ponder and scheme.

The plans do not hint at a Cellar. Does it mean it was built after these plans were created?

He leans deeper into the chair, a little bit of a smile playing on his face. It should be laughable, the amount of thought and effort he’s putting into this operation. He tells himself it’s all in good fun, it’s a harmless brain-teaser where lives are not in danger and he stands to have a little something to gain from this. There is no reason to stop yet.

He thinks back.

You seem to come out of that door frequently. The boxes you brought seemed to hold produce and ingredients for an empty kitchen. When Athena summoned you, he heard the Cellar door open before you arrived even though you had nothing.

So it is a storage space, then? For more than just alcohol, it seems.

“.. .and there have always been reports of people filching food ...”

Stolen food. Perhaps that’s why the Cellar exists? To defend it? Then what is the point of having a kitchen?

Though, it’s implied that the other chefs were far more capable than you at defending it. Why need the Cellar at all? Is it because the previous Head Chef knew one day it would end up like this, with a single lone chef to defend the treasure that is the food?

“ I kind of wish they were here .”

If so, then why aren’t they here? You had mentioned that they were around, but you are here alone, catering to a base of criminals and defectors. Hanzo supposes they cannot be blamed. No innocent civilian would want to be embroiled into the political mess that is Overwatch and risk their lives just to cook. Though, you did mention an ex-convict.

Hanzo scoffs. Even he knows that a person’s past cannot dictate their future.

“ We wouldn't have been able to compensate them properly .”

Surely Winston could afford hire at least a single bot to guard the door or just one more chef off the streets (even if air conditioning wasn’t affordable). Is it because of the dangers of the job that the compensation is not comparable? But what dangers could you possibly be in? You do not risk your life like the agents do. You do not travel far. You do not put yourself out there to be recognized. You have no bounty on your head. You’re in a base staffed by at least two capable agents at all times. You should have very little to fear other than boredom.

Hanzo furrows his brows, musing idly on the cost it would require to get a civilian to agree to such a dangerous job when strangeness of those words—“ we ”—strikes him, forcing him to sit straight up.

What would a mere chef know about Overwatch’s finances?

“We lost contact with two more agents heading here,” Winston says solemnly. “I suspect more and more Talon agents are converging on Gibraltar.”

“They probably never left,” Soldier: 76 growls, tightening his fist. “Just lying low, waiting for us to split ourselves up and take us down one by one.”

Winston sighs, a wisp of frosty breath fogging his glasses momentarily. “I believe it may only be a matter of time until they decide to rally their forces for a targeted attack. Should we go in for a preemptive attack or wait?”

The former Strike Commander remains silent.

Athena’s icon lights up the monitor. “May I interrupt?”

Winston waves. “Go ahead, Athena.”

“Chef has forwarded an urgent message. Would you like to view it now?”

The two narrow their eyes at the AI’s screen. Urgent? From the chef? The two briefly exchange a glance with each other.

“Yes, please.”

It takes a few moments for the message to appear, too long to have been simply decrypting itself, but even so, it’s ridiculously short. 

'SENDER: OFFICE OF WILL B. PETRAS

RCPT: CŒUR D’ARTICHAUT

AMT: 30,000,000 CREDITS

ACH: XXXXXXXXX0987

RCV: XXXXXXXXX6750

BIC: UNCUUSNY024

MSG: TO YOUR CLIENTS, MY SUPPORT’

An air of sickening silence strangles the two, and Soldier: 76 could feel the words rocking him to his core. He reads it over and over, the implication of the messages turning over new waves of anxiety in his gut.

Winston turns his head to Soldier, looking pallid. “Is...is this the Petras?”

“Affirmative,” Athena answers instead, pulling up an image of the man who Soldier: 76 recognized as the reason for Overwatch’s persecution. It stares impassively into the room, that heavy-set scowl is too familiar to forget. “The chef would like to know how to proceed with this.”

Winston turns to the older man, voice quiet as though the image would hear them. “Do you think...he knows? By all accounts, he should be the last person to have found out—”

“I can't put it past him. That man has eyes and ears in places most people can’t touch.” Soldier crosses his arms, breathing out heavily through his nose. “'Clients,’ huh?” He laughs derisively to himself. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”

“I thought...I had believed he hated Overwatch. Athena, are you sure this is meant for us?”

“Affirmative.”

“But why…?”

Soldier: 76 rubs his forehead, a deep sigh rumbling in his chest. There can only be two reasons. One, as a trap, and the other—

“Sometimes, what a person represents and what they personally stand for don’t fit.”

He’s seen it in his time: people who claim one thing for the vote or the money, but secretly do the opposite because that’s what they truly believe in. But Petras was another story. He was so sure, so certain, that Petras truly believed in the drivel he spewed about Overwatch: it was becoming too powerful, too autonomous, that Overwatch is not necessary in times of peace. History has shown what happens to organizations created for war; they either get dismantled or live long enough to take over the country.

Perhaps Petras believed it at one point and is now of a different mind. Or maybe he, too, was forced to play the role designated to him. If he was, he had played it well.

With another rumbling sigh, Soldier straightens up. “This is getting out of hand. We need to pull out of this before this blows up and takes us all with it.”

Winston gasps. “You can’t be suggesting to cut ties and leave the chef to deal with it, are you, sir?”

He shakes his head. “No.” He knows firsthand how that feels. “But this place is no longer safe. Chef is no longer safe. This has gone too far. We must end it. Now.”

“But without Chef’s help, we would’ve never been able to keep the current Overwatch running. We can't just—”

“This is for everyone’s protection.”

Winston was always a bleeding heart who cared more about the people than the mission. He made for a great comrade, but (in his opinion) made for a terrible leader. Leaders need to make difficult decisions all the time and often in opposing interest of the very people it will affect. Winston just doesn’t have the heart to do such a thing, and it’s a miracle that Overwatch has been operating for as long as it did under his instruction.

This only solidifies his concerns that recalling Overwatch was very much a mistake and there’s no telling how many people or lives it may take with it this time. Soldier: 76 knew what he was getting himself into when he begrudgingly answered, but not you. You are just here out of a foolish obligation that should’ve— everything should have —died with the old Overwatch. Continuing this any further can lead to the demise of an otherwise bright future where you could continue doing good without them. Time and again, your presence and involvement has been the point of several heated discussions between himself, Winston, and Ana. Nothing good happens when civilians get involved. While you seemed determined to make a place for yourself here—and doing a damn good job of it, winning everyone over by appealing to the most basic of human desires—he wanted you gone.

“Isn’t it safer here? I mean, just last week we received reports of two more former agents—”

“And they’re only targeting agents. Chefs are not an considered agents and not considered relevant. Before that happens, we have to end this because Chef as hell isn’t going to.”

Talon is dirty, but they should not be so dirty as to go after people who were not directly involved in the missions or other had limited information. Or so he hoped—it was a foolish hope, he knows. (He has never once forgotten Amélie, never once forgotten the promise he made to Gerard’s grave, never once forgot the arguments he had with Gabriel after what happened with Ana and Widowmaker.) Soldier: 76 can reluctantly imagine why they would go after you; you’d make a halfway decent hostage—helpless (compared to the current agents), well-liked, well-connected, and a vital part of Overwatch’s current survival. Your existence, no matter how well protected, cannot be ignored.

He looks to Petra’s impassive image and makes up his mind.

With stern determination, he says, “Athena. Call Chef up here. We have to talk.”

Winston looks lost for a moment, mouth agape and eyes searching the air for an answer as Athena answers, “One momen—”

“ No .” Winston raises himself up to his full height, face set in steely determination. “I will not allow you to jeopardize our relationship with the chef like this. Athena, cancel the call.”

His voice drops to a growl when he asks, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“We will regroup and attempt to make contact with Petras and determine his intentions. If it goes well, it will be a huge leap in re-establishing the legitimacy of Overwatch. We will use this to our advantage and bring Overwatch back from the brink.”

Soldier: 76 sneers, a flare of annoyance offsetting the chill of the room, the naivety of Winston’s words sparking nostalgic bitterness from a younger Jack Morrison who had no direction or help.

“You’re making a mistake. We need to stop this operation. Now.”

“Unfortunately, Soldier, I do not recall you volunteering to be the leader.”

Those words lodge a stone in his jaw, preventing him from retaliating. They both stare each other down for a moment before Soldier spits, “Think you can do my job, can you?”

Winston frowns. “Someone has to.”

Chapter 11>>

[marybromley]

Brian Minter: New perennials that can add magic to any shade garden

Last week I wrote about some of the trees and shrubs that add quiet charm to shade gardens. There are, however, many new perennials that can add magic to any such garden. I’m a huge fan of year-round beauty, and this is where perennials make such a great contribution.

In coastal areas, evergreen euphorbias, with their unique foliage, are just now coming into bloom. Their vibrant, hot lime flowers will last for weeks. Euphorbia characias Glacier Blue (rated Zone 7) has those much-coveted blue-toned leaves edged in white. Ascot Rainbow is one of the hardiest, and its green, yellow and red-tinged new growth is particularly attractive. One of my favourites is Shorty, a compact, pure-blue-foliaged variety with lime flowers that pop in spring. Euphorbias prefer dappled or lighter shade, and they’re also a great choice for containers.

Evergreen heucheras provide, by far, the widest range of colours. From the hottest limes and the darkest burgundies to beautiful caramels and everything in-between, they’re the colour stars. The more native heucherellas are a little tougher (hardy to Zone 5), and they develop magnificent colour patterns on their foliage. The darlings of containers, heucheras and heucherellas flower in spring with tiny, spiky, white or pink double flowers on long stems, and remarkably, all their foliage changes colour throughout the year, especially when temperatures fluctuate from warm to cool. Also part of this same family, hardy native tiarellas (foamflower) tolerate Zone 4 climates. Current breeding programs are developing beautiful colour patterns on the foliage of new tiarellas. All these plants need well-draining, light soils with a little bark mulch worked in. They don’t perform well in heavy, clay soils.

Folks often forget about using grasses for shady locations, which is a shame because the huge carex family will provide year-round beauty. Some of the most popular varieties have been branded appropriately with the term Evercolor. Growing 18 inches wide and tall, in winter the hot lime foliage of C. Everillo glows like sunshine. Evergold, with its soft yellow and green-edged leaves, is the most well-known variety, and C. Everlite has cream coloured leaves with dark green edges. These grasses are hardy to Zone 5, and like heucheras, are best planted in groupings of three or more. They also make fabulous container plants.

Although not evergreen, Japanese forest grass (hakonechloa) is in a class by itself. It grows 18 inches tall and wide, is hardy to Zones 5 and 6, has a soft flowing habit and performs well in dry shade and even in quite dark situations. Hakonechloa All Gold and H. Aureola add golden colour to lift shady areas. Sunflare, discovered in B.C., has rich golden foliage with burgundy tips.

Columbines have a long history in shade gardens, but they’re also more sun tolerant than most folks realize. The tall, older varieties have been replaced with more compact (14 to 18 inches) options. The Aquilegia Winky series offers exceptional, longer-lasting double, semi-double and single blooms, and the colour range and number of bicolours is outstanding. My other favourite is the Kirigami series. It’s more compact (12 inches), comes in double, single and bicolour upward facing blossoms and blooms far longer. Pollinators are highly attracted to these new varieties.

No old-fashioned English garden would be complete without the magic of foxgloves (digitalis). Today, they too are changing. Growing anywhere from two to three feet, the Dalmation series, an introduction from Kieft Seeds, has won top awards in German trials for their strong habit, long flowering and distinct pure colours. Candy Mountain, with its speckled rosy-pink blossoms, is the first foxglove from seed to have upward-facing flowers. This year there are lots of new varieties.

Bleeding hearts are another old-fashioned charmer that has come a long way. I love the golden foliage of the pink flowering Gold Heart. The new Dicentra spectabilis Valentine, originally bred in B.C., has puffy, pure red, heart-shaped flowers with white dangling tips. King of Hearts is one of the new sun and heat tolerant varieties, but it’s still quite at home in partially shaded areas. Dicentra Luxuriant, D. Fire Island and Dicentra eximia all have beautiful fern-like foliage to enjoy once the flowers have finished. A collection of different varieties makes a wonderful addition to shady or partially sunny locations.

I’ll never forget the late-renowned British gardener Christopher Lloyd coming to our garden and making the statement that he, unequivocally, didn’t like astilbes. Unfortunately, it was June, and we had hundreds of them in bloom throughout the garden. I was quite relieved and delighted when, at the end of the tour, he said, “You’ve changed my mind on astilbes.” Today, with so many varieties, sizes (from ground covers to tall forms) and differing bloom times, astilbes are a must for shady spots, where they will perform longer if they get lots of water. I particularly love the Visions series for its compact growth (15 inches), its Zone 4 hardiness, its light fragrance and its very full, robust clumps of flowers in many colours.

Brunneras are some of today’s hottest shade plants. From the original B. Jack Frost, with its speckled silver and green foliage, and the vibrant silver of B. Silver Heart, many new introductions continue to impress. Last year’s new introductions (both hardy to Zone 3), B. Jack of Diamonds and Queen of Hearts, with their enormous, impressive leaves, have really changed the game. These dry shade jewels, with their early flowering, blue, forget-me-not type flowers and silver leaves, add vibrancy to shade gardens.

Our grandmothers had old-fashioned pulmonarias in their gardens that had speckled green and silver leaves and bloomed early with pink and blue flowers. Unfortunately, they were susceptible to mildew. New varieties, like P. Majeste, Pretty in Pink and Mrs. Moon, are mildew resistant, hardy to Zone 3 and keep their impressive foliage all summer.

Another forgotten favourite is barrenwort or epimedium. One of the best collections I’ve seen is at Van Dusen Gardens where it’s used as an underplanting to accent many of their shade-loving shrubs. Hardy to Zone 5, they have tiny, starlike flowers in pink, red, white and yellow, and beautiful foliage that turns a lovely bronze later in the season.

If it’s a showpiece you need, the larger ligularias, with their huge leaves in green or burgundy and striking yellow flower spikes or clusters, are ideal candidates. Hardy to Zone 3, they make a spectacular wow display.

One of the shining beacons of colour in any shade garden is the 2020 Plant of the Year: Aralia cordata Sun King. Growing up to three feet and hardy to Zone 3, Sun King is a huge, tropical-looking, golden foliaged wonder that lights up any shady corner.

As we move into late summer and fall, we tend to lose a lot of the colour in our gardens. That is when Japanese anemones play such a key role. Hardy to Zone 4 and coming in shades of pink and white, they begin to flower in August and continue well into frost with massive displays of colour. The older varieties grow three to four feet tall and are still one of the best garden plants. More compact varieties are available, but the larger varieties carry the day. Pure white A. Honorine Jobert is my favourite.

This is just a partial list of the many stunning perennials that will light up any shade garden. The old concept that shade can be challenging is dispelled by these and many other magnificent shade-loving perennials. All the pollinators, butterflies and hummingbirds will be grateful if you can add these special plants to your shade garden.

Brian Minter: New perennials that can add magic to any shade garden published first on https://weedkillerguide.tumblr.com/

[wetooarestarstuff]

7/15/20

We’re almost in the hottest part of summer, and I went to the park during the hottest part of the day - not noon, as you may have thought, but mid-afternoon, around 2, 3 PM, just before the evening cool starts to seep in. And it was truly hot. I wasn’t even exercising, but walking at a normal pace, with a total step count not exceeding 5000 (as I found out later), and by the time I went indoors again, I was so starved for water that even with ample drinking, I still didn’t feel fully replenished for the whole rest of day. 

The geese’s behavior is highly logical. When I got to the park, they were having a slow swim in the lake. Besides staying under a tree, being in the water is probably the best way to mitigate the heat. But for me, the slightly negative part of the geese being in the water is that I’m unable to observe them as closely - the lake is circular, and what are the chances of them swimming near the perimeter, right? I was doing a combination of peering really hard, looking through zoomed camera lens, and, when I got a bit bored, noticing the random plants and stones around me, and the brown lake water in front of my feet. As my head was doing these random motions, I suddenly saw a mother mallard and her yellow ducklings relaxing on the grass under some ferns, with the lake on one side, just right next to my feet! Wow, they must have been there all along - when I walked noisily and hastily up to the shoreline to catch a glimpse of the geese. I could just imagine the mallard being so alarmed as I came up near them, but observant as animals are, she noticed that I hadn’t noticed them, so she stayed with her ducklings without making sound or movement. But now I finally noticed them, and she, who never stopped being aware of me, raised her neck to figure out just what I was trying to do.

I said geese swim in the water to escape the heat, but I guess I was lucky (or geese just never stay that long in water each time to begin with), for after investigating some plants extending down the walls of an overlook, the geese swam in a line across the lake and started climbing up the shore on that side. It was a totally new spot - I had never seen them climb up at this particular spot before.

As soon as I saw the first few geese climb up the dirt, I made my way over there, leaving the mallard group in peace, to “prepare” for their arrival. As it happened, there was a bench directly facing where the geese were climbing up, and I sat happily on there. Beside me, there was another bench, and an elderly man was sitting on it, also observing the geese (since the sudden emergence of the geese through shrubs stole the scene). But of course, he had probably been there earlier too, while I got there specifically because of the geese.

The large geese family led the team and was the first to climb up. They were the most casual about me and soon went over to a lawn to eat, and then through some bushes to find bigger eating areas on the other side. The one-gosling family was next. They stopped once they got on the ground, appearing a little curious and apprehensive. One parent kept looking back and forth between me and the elderly man (I could tell by the way its head moved). It might be thinking, “Why is it that everywhere I go I see this person? Is she omnipresent?” Finally, as if having made up its mind, the family moved in front of me and followed the large geese family through the bushes. 

Goose Dad was last. Although he didn’t stop when he saw me like the one-gosling family did, he lingered with his goslings on the lawn, eating the sparse, dry grass there. I was wondering why Goose Dad wasn’t going to join the other geese through the bushes, but it turned out that Goose Dad was just trying to be stealthy again. While I watched his family, he stayed. But in the moment that my head was turned away, he rushed through the bushes with such speed that when my head turned back again, all I caught was the last two goslings running toward the gap between the bushes. The goslings even flapped their wings in order to catch up quicker, just showing how hurried Goose Dad was - to try to disappear before my head turned around. Like last time, he likely didn’t want humans, but especially me, since I was everywhere, to know where he was going.

Of course, being mischievous as I was, I followed the geese through the bushes, even though I knew they didn’t want me to, but leaving plenty of space between us so they wouldn’t notice me immediately. The geese went far this time, behind the park, so if I had just arrived at the park now, I would have missed them and not know where they went. 

The other geese were bent forward immersed in eating. It must be a relatively new area for them too, full of luxuriant grass without the geese poop which filled the other lawns. Maybe that was one reason the geese chose here: to give time for the other lawns to absorb their poop. When Goose Dad noticed me, he seemed so confused and unsure of what to do that he stopped in the middle of the road, as his goslings ran forward blithely to the grass. For every moment longer I stayed in the area, longer did Goose Dad stand in the middle of the road. In geese concepts, there probably isn’t one for “road”. Although this was a quiet inner road with hardly any cars passing through throughout the day, it made me anxious to watch Goose Dad stand there. It was up to me now then to encourage Goose Dad to move out of the road onto the grass. So I did the one thing I had to do: leave the area, even if it meant I wouldn’t be able to watch the geese anymore. I walked, and when I glanced back, I saw Goose Dad stepping toward the grass.