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six-eyed-samurai · 7 months ago

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SUMMARY: Distancing himself from you was really hard, but Genya had no doubt as to what his coffin soulmate mark meant for you. A/N: Funny enough this is not angst WARNINGS: Set in the Kimetsu Academy AU. Fem reader.

In this world, you find your soulmate not by a red string or a name tattooed on your person, but rather a symbolic little picture imprinted on your shoulder that symbolised something special between you and your soulmate.

The world has seen the ordinary sort (a coffee cup for a cafe meet cute, a book for a library study session), with some unique types (a cross to represent a hospital visit)...but surely no one else on earth save for one Genya Shinazugawa had one of a grave.

It was a plain, unexceptional thing really. Just a simple brown casket underneath thin lines of grass and soil and a tombstone standing sentry over it.

Yet how could it NOT symbolise anything not related to death?

Did it mean he'd die before meeting his soulmate? Did it mean whoever they were, were already dead? Did it mean they were both going to die upon meeting? God, it drove him crazy.

And fearful.

Which was why Genya had long sworn off finding his soulmate. They were both clearly better off never meeting.

So he contented himself with dating around people occasionally who had yet to meet their soulmates. Sure, he knew it wouldn't last long, until they met their one and only at least, but it was fun while it did and at any rate it kept his mind off his own dark, depressing mark.

It still hurt though. Hurt to watch everyone, family and friends and colleagues - hell, even enemies - get together with their soulmates.

Inosuke and Aoi going out after she tripped on his loose shoe he lost running to class identical to the one on her arm and smacked him for it. Iguro-san and Mitsuri-chan shyly confessing their undying love when they pieced together his mark was an old pizza box and hers was a Bunsen burner and test tubes. Kanao and Tanjiro got together after their dropped wallet mix up and discovering the missing halves of their coins literally.

For fxxk's sake, even that Agatsuma kid and Nezuko started dating when they saw the lightning and the loaf of bread on each other's shoulders.

It was really making him feel...slightly left out.

But getting together with his soulmate was a bad idea. So for years Genya could've won a Grammy award for his acting like it was fine, that he never did actually want to meet his soulmate.

Until stupid, lovable HER waltzed back into his life.

He vaguely remembered her from his childhood, but when they both started talking it was like he had known her all his life. Even the gloomy way of how both of them had first met - at some services for a relative of hers and a great god aunt of his - did nothing to dampen their childhood recap chatter.

Was it her charming, if not idiotic humor? Was it the way she complimented him so naturally? Was it the way she just stared at him across the ground and smiled when he turned around?

Whatever it was...she was really making it hard for him to keep to his promise.

"Hey, Genya?"

God. This was it. No, no, no...

"Hmm, yeah?"

"There's something I want to tell you...We've been really good friends for a while now. I was thinking...something more?"

"AND I TURNED HER DOWN, ANIKI, WHY THE HELL DID I DO THAT?”

Genya groaned into his pillow and banged his head against his bed while an irritated Sanemi sat at the other end with a disbelieving expression and handa in the midst face palming himself and bringing it down on his little brother's skull in despair and rage.

"GENYA, WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT!? I'M FXXKING TIRED KF SEEING BOTH YOUR PUPPY EYES AND MOONING!” Sanemi bellowed, then took a deep breath to calm himself and wake his already asleep siblings. “Dammit, what did she say?"

"She was so nice about it, that's the problem!!! She even said we could still be friends if I was fine with it but I just feel even more guilty! WHY ARE GIRLS JUST SO - UGHHH."

"Genya, is this about your soulmate mark thing again?" Sanemi sighed, suddenly serious, and yanked his brother up. "You do know plenty of people don't wind up with their soulmate right, stupid idiot? It doesn't decide everything."

"Yeah, but what if she finds her soulmate and they're a better match? She showed me her mark once - something like a black umbrella lying in a puddle."

"Black umbrella?" Sanemi frowned (well, even more so than before) and leaned back. "Well, well, you don't see that many of that colour around. What are the odds of him finding her soulmate?"

"You found yours! Besides, it's really common, it's the sort of umbrella you bring to a funeral."

"Funeral? Damn, kinda like yours huh, tough luck - hang on a second."

"Yeah?" Genya peeked from the mound of pillows in surprise.

"Tell me how you guys met again." Sanemi snapped his fingers impatiently. “Get on with it, dumbass, I'm not gonna sit here all night listening to you moan about being a wimp.”

"We were at dad's funeral, remember? Her dad was his drinking buddy or something. I dropped the umbrella I was carrying and since it was raining it nearly blew off but she caught it-"

His mouth dropped open when Sanemi let out a loud groan and slapped the mattress. "What?"

"Genya. Funeral. Your mark is a coffin. You guys met at a funeral. You dropped your umbrella. She caught it for you. Her mark is an umbrella. Any bells RINGING YET, YOU GODDAMNED FOOL?"

"...oh god."

Sanemi barely had time to shout after Genya with the speed he was barging out of the room and running off. "DON'T COME BACK UNTIL YOU GET HER, OR I'LL LOCK YOU OUT!”

It wasn't that hard to find her house, having been there so many times. Genya tore through the storm and down the streets like it was nothing but a leisurely walk in the park, barely avoiding slipping on the puddles, until he arrived in front of the garden you and him had spent so many days messing around in. She was standing so obviously, miserably in the pouring rain holding the umbrella like he did so many years ago, a quiet moment from the accepting facade she had thrown up before.

Something about just watching that made him regret every single dead he had had before. She was a beautiful, serene, sorrowful painting.

And he'd be a fool to auction such a treasure like that off.

He called her name, once, twice, panting and desperate.

She whipped around almost at once. "Who - Genya-kun? Genya-kun! You'll catch a cold!"

She rushed forward at once to cover his dripping wet self with her umbrella, concern written - scrawled - over her features.

"Doesn't matter - look - uh -" Genya faltered, then took a deep breath. "I said no because I was afraid you weren't my soulmate. Or if you were... let's just say my mark wasn't the most auspicious. I was...scared of what would happen, so it was worse."

"Is that - is that it? Genya-kun, I - I don't - you know I don't care - care about the marks -"

"No, listen, please. Then I talked it over with Aniki and he kinda made me realize some things."

"Oh - uh - yeah? What?"

"That the grave on my shoulder was because I met you at a funeral, that I love you mark or not and...that yes, I want to be something more."

"We - we can be more than more. We'll be most - I - I promise!"

She held her umbrella over him all those years ago.

Now both of them threw it away to laugh and dance in the rain as newfound lovers.

#genya x reader #genya shinazugawa x reader #genya shinazugawa #sanemi shinazugawa #kimetsu gakuen #Kimetsu Academy #modern au #soulmate au #genya x you #genya x y/n #genya shinazugawa x you #genya shinazugawa x y/n #Sunny's Works

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garciaasfluffypen · 4 months ago

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bright beginnings pt. 11

pairing: single dad!joseph quinn x fem!reader

wc: 1.3k

warnings: grace is still being sneaky teehee

a/n: hi so i'm going to try and write more for this now that grad school has slowed down but i'm not going to give myself a set timeline with a deadline because that really took away my want to write so uuuuuuh yeah ok enjoy :)

part 10 • part 12

“there’s no fucking way you’re going out to tea with her. you’re shitting me.”

“it’s real, it's happening, now help me pick out an outfit so i don’t show up looking like a pile of trash.”

jordan dramatically rolled her eyes. “you look fine.”

“you’re my cousin you have to say that.”

“no i don’t. i could easily call you a bloody wanker and tell you your bra doesn’t match that shirt at all.”

a pause. “you’re right. it doesn’t.”

discarded shirts that were a problem for later y/n were scattered on the floor around you, having tried on half of your closet to try and figure out what to wear. after talking for a bit last night, you and grace decided to go get some tea when she got out of her class, which meant you had approximately twenty minutes before you had to leave to go to LAMDA and meet up with your boss's best friend. you still couldn’t believe it was happening, if you were being honest. from getting the friend request to agreeing to go out all within the timespan of roughly an hour. but you were doing it, and probably shouldn’t back out.

“i should back out.”

“nuh-uh. give me your phone. you’re going out.”

“jordan!” you whined dramatically. “what if this doesn’t work out. what if she’s a catfish?”

“then you’ll die.”

“don’t tell me that!” you threw a balled up pair of socks at jordan’s head. “i’m already nervous.”

“why would you be nervous? we’ve already established she’s a real person.”

“yeah, but she could be a secret sociopath.”

“how’d she ask you to tea?”

“something along the lines of ‘girl i have so much to tell you about joe. wanna get tea tomorrow?’ and i mean like… i should have said no, right? this is weird. i shouldn’t go. she’s going to gossip to me about my boss!”

“that you’re clearly crushing on. i bet you ten bucks and a bottle of svedka that she’s trying to set you two up.”

“i doubt that.”

“mmm i wouldn’t doubt that too much. oh wait, no, not the green. nope. wait, is that my shirt?”

you finally settled on a simple plain gray top and some jeans, accenting it with a coat since it was starting to get the slightest bit chilly outside. you slipped on your shoes and grabbed your keys, yelling out to your aunt that you were heading out for a bit and that you’d be back later. fifteen minutes later you found yourself at LAMDA, searching for the little coffee and tea shop that grace had told you about. you were met with the face of a smiling blonde and automatically felt a sense of relief. she was who she said she was and wasn’t a catfish. the two of you found a little table in the back after ordering your coffees, sitting down and starting to chat about everything and anything. before you knew it, you were bantering like you were two best friends doing a monthly tea spill session. it was all so natural and easy, and you knew exactly why joe and the twins seemed to think so highly of her.

“okay, so, i’m going to be very blunt real quick. the reason i got you here is because joe has a major crush on you and i want to set you guys up on a date.”

you were so glad you weren’t sipping at your latte.

“you like him too, right? this is going to be real awkward if you don’t.”

“no no, i do. it’s just that… he’s my boss? and the other girls might think it's weird and-”

“oh not you too!” grace dramatically put her head in her hands. “screw what society thinks. you guys mesh together like bread and butter and the twins like you. and you like him. and he likes you. so you need to kiss. please. he needs someone, you need someone, it's a perfect match.”

“if you think so.”

“i know so. he hasn’t stopped talking about you. neither have the twins.”

“he talks about me?”

“all the time.” grace smiled. “and i bet he’s been on your mind too.”

your cheeks turned red. “maybe.”

“listen. i’m not usually one to meddle in joe’s love life. he’s his own person and i respect that wholeheartedly. however, he’s down bad and if y’all don’t do something about it soon i think he might combust.”

“i doubt he’ll combust.” you chuckled. “he cares about the daycare too much to leave it high and dry.”

“you’re not wrong there.” grace smiled. “he really cares about you. like, a lot. all i want is for him to be happy.”

“i do too. want him to be happy, i mean.” you started to stumble over your words. “i just don’t want it to get weird at work when the girls find out, yanno? like what if they don’t take it the right way?”

“then they’re idiots.” grace shrugged. “joe really likes you. i promise. like, a lot a lot. so i’m here to just… nudge you two in the right direction.”

you chuckled. “i think it might take a lot of nudging for both of us.”

“then i’ll just slowly nudge you two for however long it takes.” grace popped a grape into her mouth. “starting with him.”

the two of you chatted for roughly another hour before grace had to head to class, leaving you to hop on the bus and head back to your aunts. it also gave you time to think about everything that had happened in the past few months. falling in- well, you’d probably call it lusting over your boss. it was the last thing you ever expected to happen to you. there was part of you that knew this was the universe telling you that it was okay to go through with admitting your feelings to yourself. grace and jordan did have some good points as well, especially when it came to pointing out that it shouldn’t matter what other people thought about your relationship.

a relationship was between two people, sometimes more than that if they swung that way. you personally didn’t, but you knew some girls from college who dabbled in it. you had admired how easily they had let society's preconceived notions flow off of them like a waterfall- it was almost as if they weren’t even outwardly bothered by it. you had aspired to find yourself like that someday, being able to not have to worry about what people thought when they looked at you. it had been something you had wanted to work on for a while, and maybe it was time to start working on that.

you walked back into your aunts house and went to your room, curling up in your bed with the book you were reading currently. it wasn’t catching your attention, though, since your mind kept slipping back to joe. grace’s words of how he actually did like you flew through your mind, and it was becoming a little bit easier to accept the fact that the flirting was real and actually happening. it had been quite a bit of time since you had to deal with flirting, flirting was definitely not your strong suit, it took quite a bit of effort most times to find the right thing to say. but somehow it naturally came out when you were around joe. the ebb and flow of every conversation you two have had so far popped into the forefront of your mind, the dots slowly connecting that it was so much easier to talk to him than any other male you had ever met.

so maybe it wasn’t just lust you were dealing with.

maybe it was full blown feelings for joe.

oh.

#bright beginnings universe #joe quinn #joseph quinn #joseph quinn rpf #joseph quinn fanfiction #joseph quinn x reader #an i (queue) of 187

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imsososolesbian · 5 months ago

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I dunno if you take requests but if you do could you write Shauna Shipman x Reader where they're going grocery shopping and reader is being childish and trying to convince Shauna to get things they don't need like candy or soda lol,, no pressure i know it's kinda strange but thanks if you do :3

Hope this is what you were looking for Anon.

Put that Back

Shauna Shipman x GN!reader

No warnings

Word Count: 1204

You and Shauna were on your weekly grocery run. It was the beginning of a new month so it meant that you would have to go to Costco. Shauna loved you, but she hated taking you to Costco. You loved Costco. It was your happy place.

Shauna looked through her purse, pulling her costco card out. “We are in and out. We are just getting fruit and vegetables,” she looked you in the eye, and you nod. Shauna smiled softly and opened her door, “Come on then honey, lets go. I don’t want to be here long.”

You follow Shauna from the car to the doors, inside you get a buggy. Shauna makes a beeline for the vegetable and fruit freezer. She knew you would mess around and try to put things that weren’t needed in the buggy.

You watch as Shauna looks through different types of produce. Putting the best looking ones into the buggy, a look of concentration on her face. She would occasionally look up from putting things in the buggy and give you a smile.

Once Shauna was happy with all the food she picked up, the two of you walked towards the registers. You stood next to her as she talked to the cashier, an arm around her waist. You were watching the person put all the fruit and vegetables into the shopping cart again.

The walk to the car was more hectic than the time in Costco. You had to dodge people. Extreme focus on what people were doing. It was a relief when you made it to the car. You let Shauna get in the car, as you packed the produce into shopping bags and put them in the trunk. You close the trunk, and start to walk your buggy back to one of the buggy stands. You push the buggy into an open spot and turn around making your way back to the car.

You get into the passenger side, putting some hand sanitizer on. You rub it into your hands, watching Shauna as she did something on her phone, “We are going to stop at Walmart on the way home, okay honey?” she says, looking up from her phone to you.

“Sounds good,” you reply, pulling your seatbelt on. You lean your head on the window as she drives.

Shauna pulls into the parking lot. She shuts the car off, “In and out. Bagels and bread are on sale.”

You nod and get out, and walk around the car, opening Shauna’s door. “Thanks, hun,” she steps out of the car, putting her purse over her shoulder. You offer your hand to her, a smile on your face.

Shauna always parked further from the entrance of a store. Stating she didn’t like being parked close to cars. So the two of you talked as you walked. You gently swing your arms, and Shauna kept looking over at you, a fond look on her face.

You once more got a shopping cart, and pushed it around following Shauna. She first guided you to the bread aisle. She graded a few loafs of bread, and put them in the cart. She then looked at the bagels. It was four for five. She hummed and hawed, looking at all the different types of bagels. Finally she picked up a pack of cinnamon raisin, everything, blueberry and plain.

“Callie texted. She wants to try this new sparkling water thing. We have to go to the drinks,” Shauna said, and you nodded, ready to pull away from the bread and walk over to the drinks.

You were so going to try and get root beer. You had been wanting a root beer float for a long time now. You only really went grocery shopping with Shauna during the first week of the month because it was the biggest haul. You also didn’t always have the time to go shopping with her other days because of your workload. You going meant you could somewhat sway things and get what you wanted for the week.

You watch as Shauna walks away from you in the drink aisle, and you reach up, picking up a two liter bottle of root beer. You were able to sneak it into the cart before Shauna came back. Yet of course when she did come back she looked at you with a raised eyebrow, “Why is there root beer in the cart?”

You shrug, “For floats?” You ask, eyes bright as you look at Shauna and she sighs.

“Put it back. We have pop at home,” she says, and puts over to the shelf where you got it.

“Please Shauna. We could watch a movie and have root beer floats,” you plead with her, doing your best at puppy dog eyes you can. Still Shauna shakes her head, and you turn disappointed and you put it back.

You thought it was just an in and out trip, but it turned out not to be. You found yourself in the dairy aisle with Shauna. She was looking at different types of milk. Yet you couldn’t keep your eyes off of the ice cream. You turn to look at Shauna and she's still looking at milk so you walk over to the ice cream.

You get out your favourite type. You bring it over to the cart and gently place it in. You step back beside Shauna, and look at her, “Still thinking?”

“Yes. I know Callie likes almond milk. You like chocolate. I’ll use whatever we have, so I don’t know what to even get,” Shauna looked at you, “And no I’m not taking suggestions because last time you got cashew milk and you hated it.”

You laugh, “I thought it would taste good.”

Shauna gives you a look before she finally pulls out a jug of plain cow's milk. “Come on then,” she turned to put the milk in the cart, and spotted the ice cream, “Hey honey, why is there a thing of ice cream in here?”

“Because”

“That’s not an answer hun,” Shauna picks up the ice cream and passes it to you, “Put it back.”

You take the ice cream from her, “Fine but I want a pack of sour candy, then”

Turning around you walked over to the freezer and put the ice cream back.You look at all the flavours one more time. You let out a sigh and walk over to Shauna taking control of the cart again.

You had picked up different things in different ailes before you and Shauna had made it to the candy aisle and you got to pick out a thing of sour candy. You pick up your favourtie type of sour candy and turn to Shauna. “This is what I want,” you toss it into the buggy, and Shauna nods.

The two of you check out and you bring the cart to the car, loading everything up with the stuff from Costco. You close the trunk, you put the sour candy in your pocket and you push the buggy back to its proper place.

You sat back in the passenger seat, and by the time you were back at the house, all your candy was gone.

#yellowjackets x reader #shauna shipman #shauna shipman x reader #raphs writings

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kiteblue42 · 1 year ago

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Part 2 of - what the heck is going on with Mobius anyway?

S2e3 - the one where Renslayer calls him out on his BS.

Rather like S1e3 there’s actually not that much Mobius in this episode (I mean he’s in the action but we’re not getting that much insight). Non-the-less I managed to stream of consciousness myself through a lot of words….

(1) Mobius is very into his job & is good at it.

Nothing makes Mobius happier than working a case - yes he has fun at the fair but he is always on it: he knows his history of Chicago, he finds the bread crumbs etc - he’s basically showing rookie Loki how to do the good old fashioned leg work). More generally Mobius sees the bigger picture and steers Loki to the decision to get Victor Timely back to the TVA.

(2) Mobius / Renslayer

Because I love Mobius I kind of want to think Mobius is hurt and misses his friend and really wants her back on their side and is genuinely being forgiving and lovely. But - no - I actually think most of the interaction with Ravonna could be read as Mobius being pretty manipulative. We know he can act in a manipulative way after the interrogation scenes in s2e2. He sees the bigger picture and thinks Ravonna / Miss Minutes could be useful or at least he wants to neutralise them. He has not forgotten she tried to kill himself & Loki (mentioned it a couple of times). And he wants to bring back Timely because he thinks “we’ll never get Renslayer to help us” Compared to scenes with Loki Mobius seems pretty in control of his emotions when dealing with her. Ravonna knows him pretty well and doesn’t buy his soft speeches either “none of your words mean a thing”.

I am very interested in what Ravonna meant by her little speech on: “ tidying up your messes - doing your dirty work - making the hard decisions you never had the nerve to make.” Along side the “soft spot for broken things” comment it seems Ravonna has quite a bit of insight into Mobius. In the end Mobius leaves her to Sylvie with only a slight look of regret.

3) order and chaos - opposites - partners

So the order & chaos theme gets overtly introduced by Victor Timely in the loom presentation. The camera pans to Loki and Mobius which is probably not a coincidence. We get the same cut away to Loki and Mobius when Renslayer engages with this theme.

The obvious takeaway is the Renslayer is order and Sylvie chaos given how the scene plays out but the cut aways do seem important.

Then we also have a theme of partnerships.

Timely brings this up first with “I don’t do partnerships”. Others have written very interesting stuff on these themes (@charcubed : https://www.tumblr.com/charcubed/731718717278502912/heres-your-fun-keycode-for-mirroring-in-loki & @loki-who-remains https://www.tumblr.com/loki-who-remains/731775874980069376/the-dichotomy-of-order-and-chaos-is-so- & https://www.tumblr.com/teamtardis-notdead/731724045258817537/all-that-matters-is-order-vs-chaos

From a Mobius pov the options are just Renslayer / Mobius and Loki /Mobius. So order / order and order / chaos. Renslayer / Mobius was a disaster and no more (there is no “we”). But according to Mobius s2e2 “opposites attract? No!”

The future …?

I’ve said before that “Mobius watch” puts him slipping into a pretty dark place from at least S1e4. His partnership with Loki is working very well (possibly too well as others have pointed out). But it seems likely he sees no future in it - it’s a “now” thing. The same with his role at the TVA. He clearly loves that job but has it been rendered meaningless or even plain wrong.

I don’t buy this version of Mobius being content with a regular job on the timeline either - certainly not jet ski salesman - there’s too much of the TVA analyst in him. So what’s left?Of all the characters we have Mobius is least well equipped to deal with the future because he is focused exclusively on now, his main relationship is with Loki (which he does not think will last) and he has ambiguous feelings towards his job with was the only thing giving him meaning. If there’s a sacrifice to be made he’s an obvious candidate - also Renslayer practically calls him out to make a hard choice so no doubt we will see him make one.

So that’s depressing- still at least we’ll get to see Owen Wilson killing it (I am so impressed with him in this show!).

#loki #mobius #loki spoilers #mobius m mobius #lokius meta #owen wilson #lokius

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yusei-tales · 15 days ago

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Side Story: Outh and the Land of Happiness

An endless stretch of blue fields, a vast, sweeping plain dotted here and there with yellow ranunculus—or was it? That little wildflower you once pointed out with your fingertip. The lake’s water, scattering in soft pink under the noonday sun. And your light brown hair—rustling, scattering in the breeze, drifting in and out of my view like a curtain drawn before my eyes.

Your voice, asking what I’m thinking about. Your tilted head, that red gaze fixed on me, and I could only look back, dazed. I wasn’t thinking of anything. And if I had been, I’d have forgotten by then. Whenever you’d brush the strands slipping past your ear and speak to me, my mind would go blank, no matter what I’d been doing before.

You wanted us to go see the aurora. Said it was a magical sight you could only see up north in those cold countries. When I asked if you weren’t the one casting the most beautiful magic, you’d laugh—just like that, like a sack full of stars spilling out as you showed me your hand.

“That’s true, but the world has many beautiful things in it,” you told me.

If you say so. I’d believe anything you said, though I didn’t think I’d find anything as beautiful as you.

I know things like that don’t suit me. For a time, you gave me everything. Yet, in your last breath, when you spoke my name, I couldn’t meet your gaze with any dignity.

Tell me, Pscheka. Where is this land of happiness you spoke of? Where would I need to go to be happy?

Where could I go to find you again?

I don’t need any other happiness.

Pscheka, with her short, neat hair, and I, with my black hair, were inseparable after a certain point. People often found it curious, seeing gloomy me alongside lively Pscheka, but we didn’t mind, and over time, those around us grew used to seeing us together, so much so that people would think of us in tandem.

“Outh! Outh!”

Her laughter burst out, like white flowers blooming, and shone as she grinned between breaths.

Maybe she had so much laughter that she had enough to share even with me. Could there be anything in calling my name that would bring her that much joy?

“I’m the happiness people leave behind,” she used to say. The light and time that shaped the world, our dear two sources—they were meant to fade away after building the world, but fragments of them remained, and they call us the sorcerers. I knew this, faintly. It’s like an instinct, embedded deep within us, almost like a memory. So it’s no wonder that our very beings sometimes wish to return, to blend into this world.

“This world is precious. I hope everyone lives happily,” you always used to say.

“I bring good fortune to those who call my name, so I’ll make sure you’re happy too.”

Pscheka began to fade at some point. She was using far too much of her powers.

When I realized it, my stomach dropped, as if the ground had fallen out from under me. She was so unnervingly calm that it nearly made me cry. Traitor. We promised to stay together. I wanted to get angry with her, but the words just wouldn’t come out.

I think of Laden’s face, his troubled expression, eyes like a fox’s, big and apologetic, shaking his head. His answer came back exactly as I’d expected.

Yet the words from my mouth were sharp with reproach.

“…This is why I hate you. I’ll never understand.”

A part of me crumbled away, like a wall cracking apart. Even though I thought I had no expectations, I’d had them anyway.

“It’s a crime to have power and do nothing with it. How is doing nothing different from not existing? If that’s all, you might as well not be here. You only fill people with false hope. Just disappear already.”

“If you have the power, you can’t just do nothing, can you?” That’s what you always said. Imagine a hungry child right in front of you—could you really not give them bread? That was your logic.

Was that why you stayed by my side? Out of some sense of duty? Even so, I wouldn’t have minded. If it was because I looked like the most miserable person in the world, then I’d have been fine staying miserable forever.

I’d hoped, you know, that I could somehow melt away altogether like you. But my powers are poison to the world, is that why you came to me?

To ask me not to ruin the world you loved? To fill my mind with beautiful things?

If so, maybe I must linger here till the end of it all.

In a world without you, am I to go on cursing this world until it collapses? Is this my curse coming back to me?

Laden,

“You could, you could’ve saved her; you could’ve shown a better way. It’s easy for you, isn’t it? Why did you just stand by?”

You wouldn’t understand. You don’t know what it’s like to be powerless. To be someone who could do nothing to help the one they loved because their power only brings misfortune.

Pscheka was the one who brought joy, the one who gave others good fortune.

All I could give out were curses.

You’ll never understand how that feels.

I was helpless as I watched her leave me, giving me one last smile as she went.

She was, you know, the only one who understood me. The one who could welcome me with a laugh, saying, “You’re gentle because you never use your power.” The moment I lost her, I knew. Ah, there’s nothing left for me to work for.

Who will win? You, who do nothing, or I, who must do nothing?

Outh, that is my name. One letter away from ‘oath.’ You always liked my name, didn’t you, Pscheka?

I’m sorry. I think I’ll give up on keeping our promise now.

#The Tale of Magicians(Fragment of gods)#oc:outh #oc:pscheka #oc:laden #Outh and the Land of Happiness #The Magician of Crossroads

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petermorwood · 2 years ago

Photo

That was lunch, made quick-and-simple * but dressed up nicely for its photo-op.

* Very quick-and-simple; it was based on a packet of just-add-water oxtail soup, because there are some days when I Could Not Be Arsed, even a simple tomato soup that’s just a couple of tins of tomatoes, an onion, some garlic, some peeling, some chopping, some oil, some seasoning, some cooking, some blending...

Yeah. Enuff said.

However, that didn’t stop me from a few grab-and-chuck-in enhancements - and once I’d announced that, @dduane said: ”Write it up for your followers, and take pictures.”

So...

The enhancements were some orzo and a splash of red wine vinegar from the cupboard, sweet paprika, smoked paprika, cayenne (it’s cold today) and ground caraway from the spice drawer, and some frozen red and green sweet pepper from the freezer.

(Side-note - I slice and freeze my own peppers on cookie sheets, then bag ‘em; also onions and carrots, i.e. the sort of thing I’d take from the freezer, weigh frost and all then throw straight into a pot when making soup or stew. Casual approach? You bet... :-> I’ve never done a price comparison, but I bet it works out cheaper-by-weight than buying them that way.)

So I made the soup as per instructions - add water, stir until boiling, heat down and simmer 5 mins - adding everything else at the beginning and extending the simmer to 15 minutes because of the orzo and peppers.

Then it went into a bowl, got garnished with a dollop of plain yogurt and another grind of chilli, and behold:

Soup even with pasta in it works better with bread, and it just so happens we’ve been baking interesting loaves recently.

So, some First Draft and Second Draft herb bread went into a bowl and onto a plate - these, like the cutlery, are mostly meant as photo props - and behold:

For something which started as little more than flour, salt and flavourings, that soup turned out remarkably well; warming, filling and tasty.

As for the bread, the 2-D herb loaf is just as good as the 1-D, but more herby since DD doubled the amount of herbs while reducing the variety. It’s possible for too many different herbs to argue with each other and end up cancelling out the very effect you’re hoping for, something I suspect happened with the 1-D loaf.

2-D loaf used just basil, tarragon and an “Italian Seasoning” (bought as a packet, put in a jar, so no ingredients list, sorry!) which seems to rely on oregano.

Also, confession time, I wrote in the 1-D recipe that DD was using pumpkin-seed oil (since ETA’d to correct); she actually used olive oil since she couldn’t find the pumpkin-seed oil because someone (cough) had put it away without saying where.

The 2-D bread did have pumpkin-seed oil, which affected both the colour and - wow! it’s nice - the flavour. This now makes us both wonder about using walnut, hazelnut and similar unusual oils in an otherwise basic bread recipe, such as the one I bake every couple of days for the house.

Something ELSE to experiment with. :->

#food and drink #kitchen adventures #breadmaking #basic soup #extra ingredients

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the-lonelybarricade · 2 years ago

Text

Darling, Let's Run

Part II: Along the Reaches of the Street

Summary: A month after her sister mysteriously went missing, Feyre receives a letter instructing she leave the village immediately. And the letter's messenger? A curious black cat.

A sequel to They Are the Hunters, We Are the Foxes. While I recommend reading it first, it is not necessary.

Read on AO3・Feysand Month Masterlist ・Series Masterlist

Previous Chapter ・ Next Chapter

The village was busier than Feyre expected it to be.

As winter approached, she always found the markets grew quieter. Merchants were less willing to travel so far as her ramshackle village if it meant facing harsh weather and highwaymen. But it was market day, and snow hadn’t fallen, so the brisk morning was swept with patrons and vendors alike.

Feyre remembered how much she used to love market days as a little girl. Before their father had taken ill, he used to run a stall at this very market. A merchant who peddled exotic wares he traded off of travelers that passed through her village. Feyre used to regard it with so much whimsy, marveling at her fathers wares as she imagined that she might one day visit such far away places. Now that memory haunted the market like a ghost.

If it were a year where she had managed to catch excess game, she would have at least been weaving through the stalls looking for an interested buyer. Instead the smell of fresh bread and spun sugar wafted through the air, taunting Feyre until the dull, constant pang in her stomach flared to the point of nausea.

She quickly set her sights away from the stalls.

Feyre pretended not to notice the lingering stares of her fellow villages, either. Some of their words trailed her, as readily as the cat that slunk in her shadow. Lord Nolan… murdered… unusual… Guilty. She walked as though she couldn’t hear any of it—just as Nesta had been doing since the moment they had all learned of Lord Nolan’s murder.

Stupid, a cruel part of her whispered as she headed towards the barn Issac’s family owned. She could already see him leaning against a building, arms crossed as he surveyed the crowd. Stupid to think he would still want her with the way the Village has been talking.

Their eyes met, and he inclined his head down that decrepit path towards the barn.

Feyre always used to meet him on market days, but she hadn’t shown up to one in well over a month. Had he waited for her at every single one, she wondered, or had it simply been fortunate timing?

In any case, she followed him down that path, until they were far enough away from any prying eyes.

Issac turned, lips set into a grim line. “What are you doing here?”

It was rare for them to talk beforehand—usually by this point their mouths would be occupied. It shook Feyre off guard enough that she needed a moment to think of a response. “It’s a market day,” she said lamely.

He stared pointedly at the plain dress she wore, and Feyre did her best not to shift under the weight of his scrutiny. She hardly ever wore dresses. Under the smirch of poverty, it felt too much like a child playing pretend. And with the way men’s gazes tended to stick to her and her sisters, she tried to avoid the extra attention when she could.

“Funny,” Issac said, “you haven’t been showing up to many of those recently.”

Feyre reeled at the frost in his tone, so unexpected from the soft-spoken man she’d come to associate him as. She squinted. “Are you… angry with me?”

A muscle feathered in his jaw. “People are saying your sister murdered Lord Nolan. That you helped her get away with it.”

“My sister is missing,” Feyre said, without needing to force the warble in her voice.

Issac sighed, running a hand through his hair. His eyes darted to something over her shoulder, and Feyre turned to see the cat walking through the center of the alleyway, seemingly unconcerned with stealth. He settled himself at Feyre’s side, a predatory gleam in his eyes that made Issac shift weight on his feet.

He pitched his voice low, like he suspected someone might overhear. “And the black cat that suddenly follows you around… It’s a bad omen, Feyre. The others are warning people to stay away from your family.”

“The villagers are narrow minded fools,” Feyre said hotly, wrapping her arms around herself. “And I always thought you above that kind of thinking, Issac.”

He had the decency to look ashamed. His eyes were gentler as they swept over Feyre. “Did you come for a specific reason?”

Feyre leaned forward, suggestively dragging her eyes to those barn doors. She dropped her voice low, leaning closer to let it drip like honey over his skin. “You don’t believe I wanted to see you?”

She watched the caution in his eyes slowly fizzle, replaced by a heat that confirmed he hadn’t found other girls to occupy his time while she’d been away. Not that Feyre would have particularly minded. There was no love between them, and she knew she would hardly think of him once she was in Velaris.

After a moment’s consideration, Issac nodded and slid the barn doors open.

This, at least, was familiar. Her mouth found his the moment the doors shut. It was dim in the barn and in those moments where her eyes adjusted, all she knew was the feeling of Issac’s warm breath, the way his callused hands scraped against her back as he slid them beneath her tunic. For just a moment, she could forget why she had come. The murder, the hunger, the poverty, for a minute they all drifted until there was just this warm body that reminded her she wasn’t entirely alone in the world.

Feyre tore at his shirt, needing to feel the skin beneath, to feel the heart hammering in his chest as an echo to her own. She stifled a moan as Issac grasped her breasts, feeling a spark of relief at his roughness. She didn’t want him to be gentle—not when the world made her so angry and scared, and the only place to bleed that wound was in the way she gripped his hair and tugged like she wanted it to hurt. In response, Issac tore his lips from Feyre’s and bit her neck. Hard, just as he knew she liked it. She moaned, but it was drowned out by the sound of the barn doors opening.

They broke apart as sunlight poured into the space, falling over them like an accusation. She strained to make out the figure strolling in on long, even steps.

“Am I interrupting something?” a deep voice purred.

“Who are you?” Issac asked sharply. Feyre noticed the way he stepped in front of her, ever so slightly, and she couldn’t decide if it was in an effort to protect her or to conceal that he had been having a tryst with an Archeron.

Her eyes were still adjusting to the intrusive light, and she couldn’t see the stranger’s face until he stepped further into the barn, revealing the most beautiful man she had ever seen. Everything about him radiated sensual grace and ease as he stalked around them in a wide circle, ignoring Issac’s question entirely.

His short black hair gleamed like a raven’s feathers, and even in the shadows his golden skin seemed to glow with youth and wealth. Wealth that, if Feyre couldn’t detect from his strong build and healthy features, she certainly could have inferred from his clothing. His fine, silver-trimmed black jacket looked better suited to a royal court than the shambles of their village. But most intriguing of all were his deep, near violet, eyes that twinkled with amusement as they beheld Feyre.

“A barn is hardly a place to take a lady,” he said with a tut, making his way towards one of the occupied stalls. He extended his hand towards the chestnut mare inside, skimming his hand along its neck. “So many prying eyes in here. If you’re in a pinch, at least pick an alleyway with a decently sturdy wall.”

“This is my family’s barn,” Issac said, face redder than she had ever seen it. “You need to leave.”

The stranger waved his hand dismissively. “I’ve simply come to take the mare I’ve purchased.”

Feyre’s heart sank into her chest.

Issac’s brows merged. “What?”

“I purchased this horse from a farmer just a moment ago,” the stranger answered, appraising his new mare with a diligence that felt misplaced. Anyone who was looking for prestige wouldn’t seek it here. And if Issac’s father truly was selling his horse… it dashed any hope that Issac would lend the mare for her own journey.

Issac glanced between the stranger and Feyre before taking a deep breath. “I need to confirm this with my father. Feyre, please… make sure he doesn’t go anywhere.”

She watched him disappear around the corner, seemingly far more concerned about his horse than leaving Feyre alone with the strange man. He was watching her again, and she couldn’t notice that much of his amusement had faded.

“You seem disappointed,” he noted, abandoning the stall in favor of circling towards her. “Really, you should be thanking me. Hay can be dreadfully itchy.”

Feyre crossed her arms defensively. “It’s softer than an alley wall.”

He laughed—laughed in a way that made her blood boil. Like those piercing violet eyes swept over her and saw far more than she’d ever intended him to. He smiled, as sweet and intoxicating as honeyed wine. “I get the feeling, Fay-ruh—” he rolled each syllable of her name over his tongue as if he were tasting it—”that you don’t like things soft.”

Inviting a conversation about what she liked seemed too dangerous a territory when she was alone in this barn with him. Especially when he insisted on moving closer, closing the distance between them with each lulling step. For some reason, she couldn’t find it within herself to step back.

“So long as we’re examining the other, maybe you can tell me more about this horse you’re purchasing.” She angled her head. “And what you’re doing in this village, for that matter?”

His eyes flashed. Excitement, she thought. Some strange thrill of a game, which she felt sparking in her own chest as he prowled closer still. Until he was standing before her and she could see the way his long eyelashes brushed his cheek as he flicked his eyes downwards.

“I’m stopping amid my travels,” he said, lips twisting into a smirk. “And I needed a horse.”

Feyre raised a brow. “Most people amid their travels already have a horse.”

He leaned towards her, almost conspiratorially. So close, she could feel his breath on her face as he murmured, “Does my purchasing another one offend you?”

“It inconveniences me,” was her shoddy defense.

“Mmm, I can see that. I assure you, once I procure my horse you can return to fucking the farmhand in the hay.”

Her cheeks flamed, but she refused to be ashamed when he was staring at her like he was merely an invitation away from doing the same. “Where are your travels taking you?”

He was staring at her mouth, eyes dark and swirling with something she couldn’t quite place. “Velaris,” he answered.

Her heart stopped. She must have misheard him.

“Velaris?”

“Ah.” He pulled away, looking considerate. “I recognise that look in your eye, Feyre. Looking to get out of this quaint little village? See the world?”

He hadn’t been looking at her eyes at all. She wanted to point it out, but Feyre felt more compelled to learn what he was calculating behind that cunning smile. She challenged, “What if I am?”

The stranger splayed his hands amicably. “Then I might be in a position to help.”

“At what cost?”

His smile didn’t waver. “Who says there’s a cost?”

“With men, there is always a cost,” Feyre said flatly. And by the way he was looking at her, Feyre could already guess what that cost might be. Had already contemplated if she was willing to pay it.

“Feyre darling,” he said, her name like a caress on his tongue. She could almost feel it gliding against her skin, until her hair was standing on edge. The stranger whispered, “I’m not like any man you’ve ever met.”

Something in her chest tugged, like he were pulling an invisible string as he slid his hands into his pockets, urging her closer.

She was relieved when Issac returned, stone faced. It gave her a moment to take a steady breath and attempt to calm her racing pulse as the stranger returned his attention to the mare he had in fact purchased.

Issac handed him the lead, wordlessly opening the stall. Though they fucked more frequently than they spoke, Feyre knew he cared very much for that horse. Watching a stranger lead it out of the barn must have been no easy deed, and Feyre wondered what had compelled Issac’s father to sell it. Were they facing hard times as well, or had that man simply offered a price Issac’s father couldn’t refuse?

It was the latter, Feyre suspected. The man sent her a wink as he led the horse towards the open door. He paused, turning his head to call to Feyre, “I’ll be staying at the inn by the tavern. If you reconsider, that is.”

Then he was gone, leaving Issac glaring in his wake.

“What was that about?”

Feyre shrugged, searching for an explanation—or an excuse. With the barn doors open, it didn’t take long for her cat to come slinking in, striding right up to her.

“He wanted to buy my cat, too,” she blurted, leaning down to collect him. The cat lifted into her arms with ease, purring as it tucked its head against her shoulder. “Must be putting together a circus.”

Issac snorted, staring at the cat with thinly veiled contempt. The cat almost looked smug, as though it knew exactly what it was interrupting. “I’m surprised you didn’t sell it.”

Feeling oddly sentimental, Feyre pressed a kiss to the black fur between its ears. She was grateful the cat was giving her an excuse to leave, now that Issac couldn’t help even if he wanted to.

Feyre shrugged. “I’m starting to feel attached to it. Maybe I’ll even give him a name.”

She left with a hasty kiss to Issac’s cheek, inwardly laughing at how the cat glowered over her shoulder the entire time.

Prick, she thought privately. I’ll call him Prick.

Previous Chapter・Next Chapter

#feysandmonth2022 #feysand #feysand fic #feysand fanfic #feysandfanfiction #Cat!Rhys #Darling Let's Run

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iwasthewind · 1 year ago

Note

I have like 2 questions lol

Do you have any childhood Monoma hcs

What in the ever loving toast crunch is a "Spiral Cat"?

Anon, two hours after you sent this ask, I had half my answers typed out. A plethora of hcs. I giggled to myself as I tapped away. There was a wine glass filled with cranberry juice in my hand. (That was a lie. It was a normal glass with guava juice.) I was happily sniggering and wondering how I'd explain what a Spiral Cat is (is the name not explanation enough? It's a Spiral Cat/j) when something truly dreadful occurred- someone called my name.

I looked up, smiling, my phone in my hands. "I got you a new candle!" They said. I gasped, delighted.

I cleared the tab.

AFSHJSSKSKSK FORGIVE ME, HORROR SLOWLY DAWNED ON MY (BEAUTIFUL/J) FACE AND I STARED, APPALLED. THE LIGHT WAS SUCKED OUT OF MY EYES. MY SKIN TURNED SALLOW. MY BONES TURNED TO DUST.

I procrastinated after that, sorry agsjsjsnsk. Anyway, here you go!

Monoma was one of those kids who tried to act really grown up and it came off as just alarming and/or funny sometimes. He tried to use big words and sometimes either didn't know what they meant, or butchered them- you can guess how that turned out 💀. It's a habit that he didn't really grow out of.

I feel like Monoma really clung on to things that had little value to others.

He wouldn't let his parents discard dying plants, torn clothes, chipped vases or the like. "The plants can get better! The vase looks okay when you turn it this way! I can wear this shirt when I play in the sand!"

He'd get so distressed when they tried to argue that they'd relent every time.

As a result, current Monoma's room back home is completely cluttered with old things. The number of cupboards and drawers is ever increasing, but he refuses to part with any of it.

A handkerchief belonging to a friend-turned-bully. A broken fountain pen that used to belong to someone who was a friend before she moved away. Old notebooks filled with silly drawings and stories. His (now deceased) cat's old collar and toys that he refuses to let the current one use. A half painted vase. A stained friendship band.

Monoma had trouble retaining friends. He 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 them easily enough, but it was difficult to connect with him and they'd usually find someone they got along with better and slowly leave.

As a result, he got along well enough with everyone, but there were no actual, close friends in the picture and nobody to defend him when he really needed someone to. It got a little lonely sometimes. Until it didn't, because-

"It's just bread! Moron!"

A cat. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 Cat. It was an ugly tabby with claws and teeth that were too long, and fur that was too matted and dirty, and a hiss that was far louder than any he'd ever heard before. Everything about it was "too much-" her eyes were too dark, too cruel, she was too plain, too aggresive-

Cats scared Monoma, but for this one he felt nothing but pity.

"I got you bread, Tsundere. What- stop with the face. It's bread. B-R-E-A-D."

He didn't quite understand what trauma was, but he figured it looked something like this.

He never really managed to domesticate Tsundere, and even though he gave in to his parents' wishes and agreed to gymnastics and french lessons, he wasn't allowed to bring the cat into the house unless it rained or snowed.

The cat didn't care about such trivial human boundaries. It was their fault- why leave the windows open?

Tsundere, at this point, was too used to being called Tsundere and refused to respond to any other names.

She hated being touched too much and really was a Tsundere, but when Monoma was sick- it really wasn't too bad- she panicked, was inconsolable and remained pressed against his side, purring and trying to make him feel better. She did not make a move to eat for hours, not until Monoma forced her.

She died two years later (she was old) and it was Monoma's turn to be inconsolable.

Is this how you write hcs I've never actually done this before

Moving on

Monoma watched a lot of Ghibli movies when he was very smol, so most of them flew over his head

He really loved the aesthetic, though

He wanted to dress up as Howl for Halloween, but where could you find a Howl costume for a seven year old? Perhaps if you tried-

His grandmother cackled and dressed him up as Calcifer. He still has the costume.

I honestly feel like his parents were physically very present, but emotionally quite absent in his life. They were also overwhelmingly pragmatic sometimes.

"Consider it, Neito. It may never work out. You cannot become a hero with your quirk."

They never really taught him to socialize, or to differentiate between right and wrong. He had to navigate those waters largely on his own.

As a result, some relationships (platonic or otherwise) were pleasant, some were painful and some were just bland. All of them were learning experiences, though.

He has ADHD. He doesn't know it. His middle school teachers brought it up to his parents, who dismissed it with a flick of the wrist and "it's alright, he can manage."

He couldn't manage. An older Monoma with a diagnosis and medication was royally pissed when he found out they already knew.

"You could have told me! Do you think it was easy?! Do you know how many breakdowns I've had? The difficulties I ran into at school? The issues I've had with my self worth? Of course it's easy for you, but it was 𝘯𝘰𝘵 so for me!"

He loved sweet things with a burning passion

He read the first few chapters of Coraline when he was younger, and only touched the book again when he read it with Reiko in UA.

He accidentally ran headfirst into the world of fanfiction at ten, looked over the edge, underestimated the drop and jumped without a parachute.

He has AO3 (he loves it), Quotev (it's good), Deviantart(rarely uses it), Tumblr (meh, sometimes good) and Wattpad ("why do children keep coming here? I hate this").

Reads fanfiction (and writes it as well) but has a tendency to discontinue or have really long hiatuses

Setsuna keeps harping on and on about a wonderful fanfiction that the author discontinued. Monoma who forgot to update it one time and consequently forgot it existed:

She wasn't pleased when she found out

Oh shoot you wanted childhood hcs

What has this turned into

I'm so sorry I'm vv distracted rn but I feel like I need to post this already (it's been way too long ahzjakksk)

#ily for your patience anon (although you've probably forgotten you requested this by now and it's what I deserve)#monoma neito #monoma hcs #bnha #reiko yanagi #mha #idk don't hesitate to ask for more #or even oneshots lmaoo #sheesh I shouldn't have forgotten to do this if was fun #drink lots of water and eat well anon #setsuna tokage #iwasthewind

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sailforvalinor · 10 months ago

Text

Joker and Ace: Jester's Privilege

Chapter 3

Much to Theodore’s surprise, that moment of regret was prolonged much later than he had anticipated, arriving halfway through supper the next night. The ball having gone on into the early hours of the morning (Theodore wasn’t quite sure exactly how early, he had slipped away at the earliest possible moment, that being around midnight), his siblings hadn’t risen until the early afternoon. It gave him a few hours of peace, at least, but it meant now he was sitting at their large dining room table surrounded by his family all in varying degrees of exhaustion, which he knew from years of experience would not result in anything even resembling a pleasant supper.

“My head is splitting,” whined Emmeline for the third time.

“Perhaps if you grouse about it louder, it will go away,” Angeline said sarcastically, pouring so much milk in her third cup of tea that it made Theodore wince. Wine had been forgone that evening, for obvious reasons.

“Just go lie down, dear,” his stepmother said gently. Meredith Ace was a small, delicate sort of woman, who could’ve easily been taken for his older sister, as she was only about fifteen years his senior, and looked younger. Her two children, his half-siblings, were taking their supper in the nursery.

“No, I can’t, I’m famished,” Emmeline said petulantly.

“If you can’t make up your mind on something so trivial as this, Emmie, I don’t know how you can reasonably expect to be able to decide whether or not to marry a certain gentleman of my acquaintance,” Cecil teased, though there wasn’t an ounce of detectable humor in his tone--he sounded rather bored.

Any other girl her age would have blushed over being teased about a potential suitor, but this was Emmeline--her face turned a violent shade of purple. “Who told you that?! Ida? That information was meant to be kept in confidence!”

“Emmeline,” Angeline snapped.

Ida laughed condescendingly. “My dear, Cecil is my husband. Can you honestly expect me not to include him in my confidences?”

“Perhaps if those confidences are also mine,” Emmeline said sulkily.

Theodore was only half-listening to this chatter, eyes idly fixed on the flickering flame of a candle on the table in front of him. He felt quite strange. Despite the fact that he knew that he shouldn’t concern himself any more about her, his thoughts all seemed to wander back to that girl--in particular, her “leaving it up to him to parse.” What did that mean? Who was she? How had she known so much about him?

Who on earth is Eliot? he wondered.

“—I don’t know if you can exactly call it a confidence when you make your admiration of him so plain,” Angeline said. “You monopolized the man nearly the whole night.”

“That isn’t true!” Emmeline protested hotly, her face flaming up in the same way it used to when Angeline and she fought as little girls. “I danced with Mr. Thorpe, and Mr. Smith, and twice with Mr. Harrington, and—“

“Yes, and you stared at Sir Lambton the entire time,” Angeline cut in, scraping a copious amount of butter across a slice of bread. “Honestly, I was embarrassed to be in any way connected with you. The ladies at whist were whispering about it all night. You were somehow even worse than Mr. Evans and his fiancée—and he didn’t dance with another lady the entire night and was dreadfully mawkish, but at least he had substantiated reason.”

Emmeline turned redder, if possible. “Well,” she huffed, cutting her asparagus with an intensity that far exceeded the durability of the poor vegetable, “at least I didn’t dance with the uninvited guest.”

Theodore felt every eye turn on him. He let out an imperceptible sigh, but didn’t bother to glare at his sister. He’d known this was coming.

At the end of the table, his father, who so far had completely ignored the chatter and arguments over supper, lowered his newspaper and stared over it at Theodore with an unreadable expression. “Theodore, is this true?”

While his father hardly even seemed to take conscious note of his other childrens’ misdeeds, any mention of even the slightest misdemeanor of his third son made his ears prick like a dog on the hunt. But this had been the case for too long for Theodore to take the time to inwardly rail against the unfairness of it. He guessed that he’d already known about the girl--he’d probably also already known that he had danced with her, and had been waiting for the perfect moment (i.e., the moment he was in front of as many witnesses as possible) to confront him. Theodore met his gaze as casually as he could manage. “Yes, Father.”

“And you did this with no thought to propriety?” he asked, in a tone that was hard to determine whether or not it was accusing or curious. “To how you were representing your family in the sight of all our acquaintance?”

Theodore could have replied that yes, he had given it every thought that it deserved, and come to the conclusion that it wasn’t worth the dirt on the bottom of his boots—all the spite was still there, cold and black, but he found he was too exhausted to start that fight. His appetite, which hadn’t been great to begin with, completely left him, and he found that all he wanted to do was go to bed. “Yes,” he lied, wanting to get this conversation over as quickly as possible. “My apologies.”

His other brother, Nicholas, gave a low whistle. “I’d never thought I’d see the day. Mark it down in the history books—the day the Vicar lost his head over a pretty girl!” Nicholas, though objectively less handsome than Cecil, styled himself as a bit of a dandy, and had one of those ways of speaking that betrayed how highly he thought of his own intelligence, though he rarely said anything of true substance—it reminded Theodore of the sound of the prongs of a fork screeching across a porcelain plate. It was probably how he had kept his seat in Parliament thus far—that and money, of course.

“I didn’t find her beauty that remarkable,” Emmeline muttered under her breath, her irritation apparently not quite appeased, even after throwing all the heat on Theodore.

Ida gave a high, shrill laugh. “Well, his response is hardly remarkable either, Emmie,” she said in a patronizing tone. “Every man is, when you get down to it, fundamentally the same—and your brother, though he may play the contrarian, is no different. Though he may have…peculiar taste.” She glanced at him significantly over the rim of her glass as she took a sip of water.

She was baiting him, fishing for information about the girl, but luckily he was spared from having to conjure up a response by a timid voice behind him. “Excuse me, sir?”

Theodore turned to find one of the serving girls, Flora, standing at his elbow, face white as a sheet. Flora wouldn’t normally be described as self-assured, but today she looked positively terrified. “Flora, what is it?” he asked. He felt a glare from Cecil at addressing a servant by name.

“Well, sir, what it is then, is that, a lady—“ Her voice cracked, she began again. “A lady came calling for you this morning, sir, while you were out.”

“And you’re just telling us this now?” Cecil demanded. Flora shrank away. “That was over ten hours ago!”

“Honestly, Father, I’ve been telling you for years to let me handle the hiring of the servants,” Angeline said. “They get more stupid every year—“

Theodore held up a hand, and to his amazement, Angeline stopped. “Did she leave a card?” he asked Flora, in a tone not dissimilar to one that someone might use to calm a frightened animal.

Flora only looked more frightened, if possible. “I—well, y-yes, but—that’s why I waited so long to tell you, sir, it’s—“

“—it’s what?!” Emmeline asked. “What on earth is wrong with you, girl? Give it to him!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Theodore saw his father lay down his newspaper, leaning forward with a glint of interest in his eye.

Poor Flora looked like she might start crying on the spot. Theodore sighed. He held out a hand. “Do you have it?” he asked quietly.

“Y-yes, sir.” Shakily, she drew something from behind her back and held it out to him.

There was a moment of stunned silence. Theodore stared for a moment, then took it between his fingers. As he took it from her, a cacophony of shouts exploded around him at the table.

He hardly heard. He stared down at the card in his hand--a playing card. But it was a design he had never seen before--instead of the typical numbers or clubs or diamonds, some sort of jester or fool dressed in red posed in a ridiculous fashion on the front, with the words “Joker” printed in two of the corners. In all other respects it seemed like a normal playing card, but it came from no game he had ever heard of.

He was in little doubt as to who had left this for him, that much was obvious--but he had no idea what he was supposed to make of it. What on earth was she doing, calling on him at all? What was he supposed to glean from this?

“I’ll leave that up to you to parse,” her voice echoed in his head.

His thoughts were interrupted by the voices of his siblings, still berating poor Flora for doing nothing at all.

“What were you doing, interrupting us for something like that?” Angeline bit out.

“What sort of woman was this, you stupid girl?” Cecil demanded.

Flora was shaking like a leaf in the wind. “I--I’m sure I don’t know, sir,” she said. “Seemed very proper and ladylike an’ all that. She said she was leaving this for the master and then left.”

“You don’t remember anything about what she looks like?” Cecil asked incredulously.

“N-no, sir,” Flora stammered. “I’m sorry.”

Theodore quickly slid the card into the inner pocket of his coat. Then, catching the eye of Timothy, an approaching-elderly manservant standing at the ready by the door, he signaled towards Flora with a flick of his gaze.

Timothy caught his meaning immediately, coming forward and taking Flora firmly by the elbow. “I’ll take her to the kitchens, sir,” he told Cecil. “Make sure Matilda gives her a good talking to.” He bowed, then guided Flora quickly out the door and out from beneath his siblings' scrutiny.

“Theodore, what was that?” Emmeline asked. “I wish to examine it.”

“As you already saw, it’s a playing card,” Theodore said nonchalantly. “Nothing of interest.”

“Perhaps not the card itself,” said Nicholas, leaning forward on the table in a most ungentlemanly fashion, “but we all know who it must be from. If you plan on continuing to send each other secret messages, you must train the servants in a bit more…discretion.”

Theodore feigned a laugh. “You may speculate all you like, but I suspect this was the work of one of my old friends from Cambridge. I heard that George Everland was coming to Bath soon—he’s quite fond of a joke.”

Nicholas snickered. “I wasn’t even aware of your having friends at Cambridge, Theo--what, with you having all the charisma of a lobster. Last night you were so dour and taciturn that any lady with any reasonable amount of observational skill must have taken one glance at you and assumed that you were absolutely jug-bitten the night before. Your mysterious lady must have been dreadfully short-sighted.” He gave a chortle at his own wit.

Theodore’s mouth twitched. “Yes, I’m sure that Mr. Evans’ fiancee found that joke frightfully amusing.”

The table suddenly fell so quiet, you could have heard a pin drop. The sound of Emmeline dropping her fork was like a pistol shot. Angeline had frozen with her spoon halfway to her mouth, soup dripping onto the tablecloth. Ida and Cecil’s expressions looked like stone, and all the blood had drained from Nicholas’ face. His father’s expression, of course, was inscrutable.

His stepmother stared at Theodore with wide, frightened eyes. He took a sip of his water, set down his glass. “Well, if you’ll excuse me,” he said casually, as if he hadn’t just said anything of note, “I have some business to take care of.” He stood, gave a slight bow—first to his stepmother, and then his father—then exited the dining room, leaving the impending carnage of his words in his wake.

A slight smile pulled at his mouth once he was alone in the hallway, but it faded just as quickly as he made his way to the library. He’d likely shown his cards too early, but it wasn’t as if he could’ve done much with that information--any attempt to spread slander about his brother, regardless of how true it was, could be easily covered up by his father. Money made all sorts of things go away. He could write to Mr. Evans anonymously, he supposed, though he wasn’t certain he was likely to believe him--and he wasn’t sure whether basic human decency demanded that he tell him the truth, or let him live in blissful ignorance.

The door behind him creaked open, and his father walked into the hallway.

“You will meet me in my study,” he said quietly as he passed, starting up the stairs.

Theodore stopped in his tracks momentarily. Winced.

You have got to get a better hold over your tongue, a voice said in his head.

Theodore’s hand traveled to the playing card in his pocket--for strength, perhaps? He wasn’t quite sure. Gritting his teeth, he followed his father up the stairs.

Note: the reason that Theo doesn't recognize the Joker card is that Jokers wouldn't actually be introduced into playing cards for another few decades. Who would've thought? I didn't find this out until I'd already planned the scene out and had half of it written and went to research what playing cards looked like at the time.

<- Chapter 2 / Chapter 4 ->

#i had so much fun with the slang for this chapter #also: enter the brothers. they also suck #and the father. who also sucks #i am not kind to Theo in the slightest and I take full responsibility for it #joker and ace #oc joker #oc ace #salt and light #doctor who

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scifrey · 2 years ago

Text

Keepsakes:

Caraway & Rosewater

Status: Ongoing Ficlet collection; unbeta’d

Series: the Hob Adherent series

Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022) Includes some comics canon, and some cameos from the wider Gaiman-verse (including the Good Omens and Lucifer television shows), but it’s not necessary to know to enjoy the story.

Rating: PG13

Warnings: Some fade-to-black sexytimes.

Relationships: Morpheus | Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling, Eleanor | Hob Gadling’s Wife/Hob Gadling (past)

Characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Hob Gadling, Delirium of the Endless, Death of the Endless, Dream of the Endless | Daniel Hall, Destruction of the Endless, Desire of the Endless, Despair of the Endless, Destiny of the Endless, Matthew the Raven, Eleanor Gadling, Harriet Butler

READ ON AO3 OR READ BELOW:

Caraway & Rosewater

Inspired by a prompt from @tickldpnk8 on Tumblr. Am I also specifically making this partially about food specifically for @carnelianmeluha …. Maaaaybe.

Hob stops his horse beside the window of the hired carriage, which brought them north from London, in order to get a good look at Eleanor’s face. He wants to memorize her expression when she sees the house for the first time.

Eleanor appears more than a little startled to arrive and be greeted at the door by no one. It shows on her leaf-shaded face, plain as the sun in the sky, and in the stiff set of her spine, and the way she folds her fingers together stiffly in on her lap, and rolls her lower lip in between her teeth. In short, she is displeased.

Hob’s stomach immediately sinks.

“Here?” she asks politically, as she takes in the cool glade where they’ve halted.

It’s a very pretty clearing.

Hob had picked it out a century prior, when his banditry and sellsword ways had granted him enough coin to escape both the unsavory life, and the stink and press of London. He’d purchased the deed for a few small fields and this little patch of woods, and named the tiny farm “Glade Estates” in jest. And in hope. For he did hope, one day, to transform it into a mighty country seat, worthy of the aspirations and titles he worked toward.

He’d returned to London once the purchase had drained him of his money, and found a place as a printer’s apprentice. He’d intended to use what scant extra coin the profession provided to sneak away for a week here and there to lay foundations and design a grand mansion. But first he’d need a cottage in which to stay while doing said planning, laying, and building. Luckily he had all the time in the world to do so, and could afford to take the grand project slowly.

But the more he visited over the next few decades, the more he realized that he prized the simplicity of the little cottage he was creating here, and the peace of being alone with his thoughts and secrets in a way that he could not in London. When he took ill or was injured severely, it was a place of refuge and a haven from prying eyes who would wonder why he was not yet dead of his wounds. He could heal in private and return a whole man. Or as a different man, entirely.

With no hired hands or tradesman to get in his way or gainsay his notions, the glade became a place to work with his hands and challenge his creativity and mind. This became an ever-more valuable treasure as his ascent through the social order meant he increasingly spent his free time sitting on his bottom and drinking. And while he dare not leave behind anything too valuable or worse, tell-tale of his true nature, the little stone cache he’d hidden in the forest proved to be a dry and safe place to guard his few carefully hoarded mementos of the last two centuries.

Deciding to keep Glade Estate humble, Hob worked hard over the decades to build the four-room stone cottage by hand, whenever he needed a break from the stink and the plagues. Or, when hiding from London society long enough to return as his own son.

Now completed, the cottage consisted of a small Great Room, with cooking hearth and bread oven against the wall in the centre of the cottage, surrounded with all the attendant tables, cupboards, and chairs necessary. To the left of that were two small rooms to act as pantry and dairy, and another room to the right was outfitted as best he could manage to mimic the incredible Turkish hammams he had visited as a sellsword.

While he had no hot underground spring to tap into for water, the nearby river water could be heated in the great copper pot he’d installed in one corner of the room, over a stone basin to cradle the fire. A little bit of clever engineering saw the pot itself suspended on a pole with a handle, allowing it to be tipped into the soaking tub and mixed with cold water and bath oils until it was just right for a body to laze in comfortably. Above the washing room, to take advantage of the heat of the copper, was a loft containing a few low chests for clothing, and an equally low bed strung with rope and laid with an extravagantly overstuffed eiderdown mattress.

It’s been decades of back-breaking labour to collect, pile, mortar, and plaster the local grey slate into walls; to fashion and tar the timbers himself with all his shipwright’s tools; to white wash and thatch; to build fencing and train brambles into hedgerows, and plant all manner of fruiting plants and bushes in orderly rows beyond the kitchen door; to plane and joint the wood for each stick of furniture; to lovingly craft the hearth grate and fire tools at the local blacksmith’s; in short, to learn trade after trade, skill after skill, to turn this first piece of land he was able to call his own into a real and honest home.

Instead of funneling his growing shipyard wealth into a great country manor, he’d used it instead to purchase land on the unfashionable south side of the Thames. Let his gold be spent where it would be admired by his fellow courtiers. And let this haven remain modest. This cottage, and its glade, and its woods, and its two remaining small fields were his own personal project.

Today, the two fields were rented to the family whose own fields abutted them. In payment asked for no coin, but for the good maintenance of his garden, orchard, and house while Hob was in the city.

He is rightly very proud of his little retreat. It is not a fine house, all red bricks and glass, not like the one he’s having refurbished in the city as a surprise for Eleanor at that very moment. But it is his–theirs, now–and it is good.

And, if the neighbors have done their duty by the eccentric Sir Gadlen, it should also be scrubbed clean, filled with fresh bedding and linens, and stuffed full of all the best victuals, libations, and cookery ingredients good London gold can buy.

“Yes, here,” Hob confirms, screwing his courage to the sticking place. He swings down from his mare and walks her to the hitching post before the sweet little wood shed leaning against the stone wall of the cottage. This will stand in stead of her barn for the next month, and will be warm enough with the bathing room on the other side of the stone wall.

“Are you not a knight, my husband?” Eleanor asks as the lone coachman steps down to open the carriage door and set out the stepping stool for her.

“I am, my wife,” Hob replies, stripping off his thick leather riding glove to hand her down out of the carriage and onto the thick, mossy grass ringing the cottage garden.

With Eleanor safely on the ground, Hob helps the coachman and driver to unload their trunks, piling them beside her. He’ll bring them inside himself, later. He wants to show Eleanor what she is now mistress of, first.

He thinks it a great treasure indeed. Eleanor, who has seemed amiable enough these four days' journey with their stripped-down comforts and service, seems unconvinced.

“And did you not tell me that you were wealthy, my husband?”

“I did, my wife,” Hob admits, a smile curling into the side of his beard when she offers him a displeased frown. Oh, how he enjoys teasing his sweet and canny lady.

As proof of both his wealth and his generosity, he digs out his purse and pops a gold coin into the palms of the coachman and driver. Along with this he adds a letter of instruction for them to return to Gadlen House, which confirms his instructions for the renovations, and his orders for them to return to Glade Estate in thirty day’s time for the return journey.

“And did you not tell me, my husband,” Eleanor goes on, throwing her arms wide to encompass all that she can see, sending the fan tied to her wrist gyrating in the air with the aggrieved gesture. “That we were to reside at your northern estate for this, our honeymoon?”

Hob sends the carriage and it’s intruding humans and horses on their way.

“Indeed I did,” Hob confirms jovially as he waves goodbye.

“Then why are we alone, standing beside a pokey little crooked cot, with no servants nor people of any sort to speak of, my husband?” Eleanor asks, with a look that might turn lesser (or mortal) men to stone in their tracks.

“Because, wife,” Hob says, and pauses as the carriage rounds a bend in the forest road and is completely out of sight.

Then he whirls on her, grabs her fast by her bottom, and heaves her up against his chest. He cranes his head up to capture her mouth for a filthy, filthy kiss, the likes of which he’s been dying to gift her since they woke together in bed the day after the wedding. He has refrained until now, as they’ve been surrounded by fellow travelers, or servants, or busybodies for nigh on a week.

Eleanor squeals first in surprise, then delight. She laughs and clings to him, arms around his neck, dainty feet kicking in the air as he backs them toward the cottage. Her lips meet his on the tiltyard of their lust, thrust for thrust, sally for sally. So consuming and marvelous is it that Hob’s back hits the planking of the door hard enough to drive the latch into his hip.

“Oof,” he grunts, and sets Eleanor down. He cinches her tight about the waist with one arm, should she get any ideas about running off after the carriage, and fishes through the pouch at his groin for the key to the door.

If the motion makes the back of his hand press against the mound of her sex through her skirts, well, that’s a secret for just the two of them.

“Because what, husband?” Eleanor asks him with cheeky breathlessness, all ire gone as she pets her hands down his neck and shoulders. It makes it hard to fit the key into the lock, and he fumbles it twice before the door swings open behind him, allowing them entry.

Eleanor peers curiously over his shoulder, but he will not have her distracted now. He pockets the key and kisses her again to keep her attention where it belongs, guiding her inside as he does. He kicks the door shut behind her, then presses her up against it and gifts her with another of terribly obscene kisses.

When he breaks away for breath, Hob takes her by the very tips of her fingers and leads her slowly, step by backwards step, toward the ladder that will bring them to the loft bedroom.

“Because, wife, with people we are utterly, utterly alone…” He pauses at the foot of the ladder and leans in to nip the lobe of her ear and whisper directly against her plump cheek: “We are tucked away in our private bower with no servants to snoop, no neighbors to gossip, and no courtiers to spy.”

“And so, dear husband?” Eleanor bids him continue with a raised eyebrow.

“And so, dear wife,” Hob says, meeting her eyebrow with a competitive leer. “There are none about to protest when I make you scream.”

Hob was serious when he said that he meant to woo Eleanor Gifford properly. He set out to prove himself to be not only a wise political choice on her part for her husband, but also a doting and devoted man and life partner.

To that end, he spends the first week of their honeymoon laying service to his wife in all the ways possible.

Hob hunts and cooks what he catches for her, skinning and tanning the hides out back of the cottage to later make mittens and fur collars for her winter-wear. He tends the garden and feeds them both from the early-spring bounty—mostly sallets of tender new leafy greens and herbs, edible flowers, sugar mixed with olive oil, and boiled eggs from the hens he has procured for their stay. He kills, plucks, and cooks chickens. He washes their linens, and reattaches the buttons that carnal enthusiasm has parted from their clothing, and mends tears. He brews quick-beer, and serves cider and wine from the root cellar under the kitchen floor.

He takes her on rambles or rides around the county, teaching her how to find the secret deer paths of the woods, and showing her off proudly on Sunday at the sleepy local church. He tells her stories and sings to her lute accompaniment to her at night, as they cuddle by the hearth, and bids her sleep late in the mornings. He brushes her hair, and tends her frequent baths, and makes little surprises of lavender and lemon soaps.

And of course, he beds her well and often.

Eleanor has never lived without servants. She’s always had someone else to do labor on her behalf, and while the lack of domestic help had perturbed her at first, within days she found his efforts quaint and charming. And romantic. Hob hadn’t expected his ability to serve a decent roast fowl to be an amorous endeavor, but Eleanor’s reciprocity that night had proved him wrong. And her ardor had yet to cool.

Soon enough, she was keen to become his helpmeet in turn, asking him to show her what small tasks she could accomplish to make his larger ones easier or more agreeable.

And so, one gentle, sunny afternoon in their second week at the cottage, Hob has Eleanor stirring the dough for Prince Biskets.

It is May 1st, 1583, and Hob is two hundred and twenty-seven years old today, give or take a few weeks on either side. Hob has selected May Day as his birthday, for the calendars have changed often enough depending on who is in charge and (what country he is in) that he's quite forgotten what day he was really born—if anyone in his family had ever known at all. His mam had always called him her little Bobby Bunny, “born in the spring with hairy ears”, so May 1st had seemed appropriate.

He’ll be meeting his Stranger again in six years, and this time he’ll be able to share all of his joys of his newly married bliss. Perhaps even, by then, show the Stranger portraits of his children, if Hob’s strange nature allows for his seed to take root. Or introduce his Stranger to his family themselves, if their initial meeting at the White Horse goes as smoothly as the last one and his Stranger can be convinced to visit a second night in a row.

That morning, Hob had chivvied Eleanor out of bed at dawn so they could wade into the garden of climbing meadow flowers and harvest the first dew of Spring to wash their faces.

“No one does this any more, husband!” Eleanor had laughed, pleased with the old-fashioned bumpkin ritual.

“I do, wife,” Hob had said. “Make sure to wash behind your ears.”

“You make sure,” Eleanor had countered and tackled him into the verge. Whereupon they engaged in the most traditional and ancient of all the May Day festivities:‘gathering fresshe’ and staining their underlinens bright green with their activities.

After they broke their fast, Eleanor had presented him with his birthday gift—a handkerchief of fine white linen, which she had embroidered herself on the carriage ride north.

“This is a funny little design, is it not, husband?” Eleanor had asked, showing him a sketch. “I saw a whole row of these darling little squiggles on a letter one of the courtiers thought he was being discreet about, just before our wedding. Throckmorton, I think it was. When I asked him what it was, he told me it was a new pattern of stitching for his waistcoat, and that he thought it was to be all the rage quite soon. So I put it down on paper straight away.”

Hob thanked her for the delicate needlework with all the thorough appreciation that such beautiful thoughtfulness deserved, which kept them quite occupied until luncheon.

Now they are making prince biskets to take down into the village for the May Day celebrations. Their most colourful clothes are laid out away from the hearth, where they won’t get ashy, and the flower crowns Eleanor had woven for them that morning during the afterglow are waiting patiently on a hook by the door.

His wife has told him that each of the flowers she’s chosen signify their ardor and attachment, but Hob’s already forgotten which each one is supposed to mean. He’s finding it hard to keep a lot in his poor brain this last fortnight, considering how well fucked-out it is.

“How long must I do this?” Eleanor whines playfully from where she’s seated on a stool by the hearth. Spring though it may be, the clouds are thick in the sky today, and winter’s chill has not entirely retreated from the English countryside.

“The whole of one hour,” Hob reminds her, again. He looks pointedly at the hourglass, where only one quarter of that time has slipped down the funnel, and bends to stoke the fire in the bread oven he’d built into the wall beside the hearth.

By the time Eleanor has finished, the fire should be well burned down and the embers ready to rake out so they can bake using just the heat absorbed by the stones. Normally he would preserve the glowing coals under the clay cerfew to use the next morning, but tonight they’ll be bringing back a torch lit from the May Day Bone Fire to heat the cottage.

As these biskets are for May Day as much as Hob’s birthday, he resumes grinding up the last of the winter-sown spinach to colour the little cakes green with the mortar and pestle. That finished, he perches on the edge of the table to mix the resulting paste with some of the leftover rosewater to liquify it, and then tips the whole lot into Eleanor’s mixing bowl.

She scowls at him for adding to her labors, but he softens it with a sweet kiss on the crown of her flaxen head. Leaving her to stir, Hob retreats to the bathing room to freshen up, and when he returns to the little great hall to relieve her of the bowl so she may do the same, Eleanor’s appreciative gaze travels the length of him more than once.

“I have fur enough to stay warm without clothes,” Hob demurs, flushing under the predatory way her cornflower blue eyes flash with mischief. “And putting my soiled clothes back on simply to finish the baking would defeat the purpose of washing up in the first place.”

“Careful your fur doesn’t catch fire when you rake the oven,” Eleanor murmurs, rising from her stool and raking her nails through the dense curls along his thighs. “I’d hate to see the pelt of so fine a woodland animal scorched. You are so much a faun I half expect you to have a tail.”

She pinches his tail-less bottom. Hob shivers delightedly.

“When you dress,” he murmurs against the side of her head. “Leave off your braes, and I shall do the same. And then when we watched the play and cheered on Robin Hood and his Maid Marion, and eaten our fill, and drunk ourselves into delight, and have jumped the fire to purify ourselves for the coming year, your naughty faun may chase you into the woods and desecrate your temple anew.”

“Is that what this is?” Eleanor whispers, running her fingers now through the hair on his chest. “Foliage instead of fur? Are you the Green Man, come to pluck the last flowers of my virtue to wreathe your maypole?”

Hob feels himself flush deeper, and swats her arse through her skirts. “Off with you, wife, before you distract me and we end up burning our contribution. Then how will we ever show our faces in the village again?”

“Oh, you know the church will have ale and bread enough to buy without you arriving at the village square baring a fortune of caraway and rosewater, you louche spendthrift,” Eleanor teases. But she does make for the bathing room, where Hob has already left her a pitcher of hot water. She sheds pieces of her clothing along the way in a trail that any tempted tracker could easily follow.

Hob is very tempted. He is also very determined to make a good showing at the village this year, and steps stockingless into his boots and throws on an oiled canvas coat to protect himself as he rakes out the coals, butters and fills the baking cups, and puts the biskets in in the oven.

He may be immortal, but a red-hot ember would damage his skin as easily and painfully as any other mortal man. It would ruin the day, the honeymoon, and if it was a truly terrible injury, his plans to ensure that Eleanor really and truly loves him (and has done so for at least half a human lifetime) before he shares the truth of his nature with her.

The coals raked and left in the hearth to cool, the biskets in the oven, a cup of cider poured for himself, and fine clothes to don, Hob feels content and charitable. He loves his life. He loves his wife. He loves his home, and the fruits of all his labours.

And, he muses as he listens to Eleanor singing to herself over the splash of the water as she washes, he has so much to live for. The world is a good, good place, and there is nowhere to go in it but up.

A Couple Centuries Later…

It’s not a surprise party if Hob knows it’s happening, and Hob knows it’s happening because Delirium is terrible at keeping secrets.

But he doesn’t want to ruin her fun. So when he returns from the university early that evening, he allows himself to be redirected to the back garden by floating koi that only he can see, and laughs with genuine delight when Del pops out from behind his little brick-and-iron firepit and shouts “HaPpY BIrThDaY!”

A merry little blaze is already going strong in the wrought-iron bowl, not quite a bonfire to rival May Days of old, but a wonderful nod to the tradition. In place of a maypole, someone has decorated the Inn’s downspout with ribbons and flowers the likes of which the Waking doesn’t often see. But the tradition of a sideboard groaning under the weight of fresh, green food (either naturally green or not)

Hob can’t help but hope that someone is planning to put on the traditional Robin Hood panto. He’d sell a finger to see Matthew in green tights.

Hob relinquishes both his briefcase and a kiss to Morph, who was lingering in one of the shadows of the bramble hedge (old habits, and all that). Patrick hands him a can of London Pride, and Hob is hustled over to one of the loveseats parked around the fire to accept the congratulations of the partygoers.

He’s perfectly happy to be steered around, and to let the party come to him. It was a long day of lectures and student meetings, including one poor student who’d burst into tears when Hob had assured them that he’d be very happy to offer learning accommodations if they’re struggling.

The outdoor sofas are comfortable, the food is good, and the company is wonderful, the strains for music coming through from the pub are mellow, the beer is cold, and Hob is a tired old man who is absolutely delighted to be sitting down.

All told, Hob’s six-hundred and sixty-eighth birthday party in the back garden behind The New Inn is significantly less of an ‘affair’ than his six-hundred and sixty-sixth had been. Lucifer, for one thing, has since returned to Hell so is unable to attend. But all of his in-laws are here this time (in varying degrees of believable mortal guises), along with his mortal friends from Elizabethan Manor. Harriet, Glenn, and Shami have all shown up with their partners and kids.

And the Otherkind of London have stayed away, probably terrified to be in the presence of any of the Endless, never mind six of the seven (plus one former entity). Except for his former PhD mentee who is, apparently, currently dating Bod.

(Hob looks forward to a time when Daniel is powerful enough to step into the Waking as Dream. For now, he’s just started kindergarten in New Jersey, and it’s too long a jaunt across the pond for just an afternoon’s celebration.)

He’s plied with well wishes and booze, flower crowns, kisses on the cheek, and a plate piled high with Dee’s beautiful culinary efforts. It’s a wonderfully casual party, people mingling, drifting in and out of his orbit, and no time freezes or Celestial sneering.

“Prince Biskets,” Harriet says, holding one up to show Hob as she plops into the seat right next to him, newly vacated by Shami. “Childhood favorite?”

“Oof,” Hob says, laying a hand over his heart. “I weep for your writing team if your math is that bad. Childhood. Robyn’s childhood, not mine.”

All the same, Hob takes one of the offered biscuits from Harri, and bites into it.

They’re softer than he remembers them being, likely due to Dee’s fiddling with the recipe, but the burst of caraway and rosewater against his tongue brings tears to his eyes with the sudden overwhelming sense memory of those glorious four weeks at Glade Estate.

The little cottage, regrettably, is no more—just some stone walls slowly tipping over under the weight of climbing ivy and time, lost to Hob along with everything else that was stolen when Sir Robert Gadlen the Third was drowned. The fields have long since been absorbed into the nearby farms. The garden and orchard had grown wild enough to fill up the forest glen.

That place is gone.

But the taste of it, right here, is heavy and sweet on his tongue.

He chews slowly, swallowing around a lump growing in his throat. The back of his eyes burn with emotion.

“The last time I had these,” Hob confesses softly, “I was on my honeymoon with El. We made these for May Day. She gave me a handkerchief that damn near got me hanged for my birthday.”

“Hanged?” Harriet asks, eyes lighting with academic curiosity. She’s the biggest fan of Hob’s hot tea, even more of a gossipmonger than Matthew, because she doesn’t care that the people in his stories have been dead for centuries.

Hob leans back against the loveseat cushions, cranes his head up to take in the rich splash of twilight colour lingering over the hedgerow ringing in the garden in an effort to keep the tears that threaten from falling.

“El was too clever by half for her role in court,” Hob tells Harri with a fond, faraway smile. “She got bored easily, which turned her into a bit of a magpie. She had a little notebook, and she’d write down snatches of song, or funny jokes and conversations, or pretty pieces of design.”

He catches Morph’s eye across the fire, knows his husband is listening in, and knows that there is no resentment or envy in the former anthropomorphic personification of the Human unconscious when Hob speaks of his first spouse. Only interest in Hob’s stories of her, and compassion for the way he loves and misses his mortal family.

Hob beds forward and with a finger, makes some squiggles in the fine sandy gravel ringing the firepit. “She embroidered the design she’d overseen on the hanky herself. She was so proud of it, and she’d kept it a secret from me the whole journey. Throckmorton told her it was a new border for his waistcoat, and she’d believed him.”

Harriet’s mouth drops open. “That’s Mary Queen of Scot’s cypher.”

Hob brushes the code away with the bottom of his shoe and raises the remaining half of his biscuit to her with a lopsided grin. “And guess who rolled up to court five weeks after his marriage flashing it around every time he had to wipe his nose? Both sides wanted me dead for that. Elizabeth called me traitor, and Throckmorton knifed me in my sleep. Didn’t take, obviously.”

Hob meets Morph’s eyes over the fire again, and finds his husband is smiling, affectionate and heavy-lidded.

“Dear lord, what happened?” Harri begs, breathless in her curiosity. “How did you talk your way out of it?”

“Good Queen Bess’ spymaster Walsingham confiscated my snotty hanky and used it to break open the plot,” Hob says. “He never quite believed that El’s interest in the design was innocent, but it got me out of the noose, at least.”

Harriet whoops in delighted laughter.

Morph rises, skirting around the fire to drop himself right onto his husband’s lap. Human though he may be, Morph is still cool as night. “Today is a day of celebration, my husband,” Morph says. “No more tales of loss.”

“No,” Hob agrees, holding remaining bite of Prince Bisket into Morph’s petal-pink mouth. “You’re right, my husband.”

Hob knows himself well enough now that he woos through acts of service, through cooking and feeding, through gifts, through quality time given. Through biscuits offered, and baths drawn, and workspaces built. Through solars and speciality drafting desks.

Morph rolls his eyes, but accepts the bite. “You are still so determined to fatten me up,” Morph complains after he’s swallowed. “One of these days, I will be too plump for your lap.”

“Never,” Hob promises, and grabs a handful of Morph’s skinny arse in pointed appreciation.

Harri laughs at the indignant expression that crosses Morph’s face, like a petulant cat, and all is right with the world.

There’s nowhere to go but up.

And Hob has so much to live for.

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friskynotebook · 1 year ago

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You Make It Feel Like Christmas Ch. 5

An Obidala Hallmark Christmas movie rewrite!

CW: age gap, food, grief, injury, concussion

Summary: Padme and the Kenobis take in the Christmas market and share Christmas memories

Also on AO3!

Padme scrunched her nose as she woke, feeling a rough dog tongue licking her face.

“Oh, good morning, Lola,” she giggled, reaching out to pet the puppy. “Good morning, sweetheart. How are you?”

Padme rolled out of bed and dressed, carrying Lola downstairs. Looks like I’m the first one up. Wrapping herself in a blanket scarf she had found in the back of her borrowed closet, she lit a match and started the fireplace.

“Perfect,” she sighed, a smile on her face.

Satisfied with the cozy early morning atmosphere, Padme headed into the kitchen to prepare the coffee as she’d watched Obi-Wan do for the past few days, humming to herself as it brewed.

“Is that coffee I smell?”

Obi-Wan’s voice startled Padme out of her humming. “It is. It’s ready, actually.”

“Lovely,” he replied, watching her pour him a cup. “Thank you, Ami.”

“You’re welcome,” she blushed, pouring her own cup.

“And I see you got a fire started as well.”

“I did,” she nodded. “Cozy, isn’t it?”

“Very,” he agreed. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, Leia ran downstairs dressed in a plain green onesie.

“I look like a giant green bean!” Leia wailed. “I’m supposed to be an elf!”

“Oh, Leia,” Padme cooed. “At least you’re a really cute green bean.”

Leia pouted and looked down at her socked feet.

“I think I can help,” Padme said. “I would just need a sewing kit.” She turned towards Obi-Wan, a question in her eyes.

“I think I can find one of those,” he nodded.

“Watch your step right there,” Obi-Wan warned Padme, taking her hand and leading her into the dusty old barn.

“Thanks . . . Oh, wow. This is such a beautiful space,” Padme gasped, looking around.

“Oh, thank you,” he demurred. “It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

“It is . . .”

Obi-Wan swallowed. “Satine used to keep her horse out here . . . I’ve been wanting to turn it into an animal hospital for a while now. I’d love it if my clients didn’t have to drive sixty miles to Boulder if their animal needs surgery, you know?”

“That would be great.” Padme walked in comfortable silence with him for a few beats before clearing her throat. “I’ve actually been meaning to ask you about her, about Satine.”

“Oh. Um . . .” Obi-Wan looked down and swallowed. “Well, uh, she passed away a little over three years ago now.” He rubbed his nose, scratched his beard. “Sh-she wasn’t sick for all that long, which is good . . . If anything good could come from that, you know.” He turned away and kept walking.

“I’m so sorry,” Padme murmured.

“Thank you.”

“But that’s not really what I meant.”

Obi-Wan turned to her, his brow furrowed. “Oh?”

“I actually wanted to hear about what she was like. A memory or something?”

“Alright,” he said, smiling softly. “She would make freshly baked cinnamon bread every weekend for the family. She loved baking . . . We would make sure to spend time together every evening at the end of the day to talk about how things went and to reconnect as a couple. That was very important to us, to do that . . . And she loved Christmas. That was her holiday. She made homemade stockings for the children, handmade ornaments . . .” He swallowed. “She always made sure the children got one present they really wanted and one present she believed would make them better people. And just about every year, the children preferred that present anyway . . . I know this might sound strange, but she had the most wonderful scent. When I woke up in the morning, even before I opened my eyes, I just knew she was there. I knew she was all around me.”

“She sounds like an amazing person,” Padme said, her voice hoarse from disuse. “You must miss her a lot.”

Obi-Wan nodded, unable to speak. He stepped over to a few boxes, starting to dig through them.

“You know,” Padme began. “If you did turn this space into an animal hospital, it would be like you were doing something for Satine, in her memory. Helping animals with this incredible space she loved so much.”

“I’ve honestly never thought of it like that,” he replied. “When you put it like that, it sounds lovely.”

Padme smiled and looked down, letting his praise wash over her.

Obi-Wan pulled a metal tin from a dusty box, smiling at her. “Sewing kit.”

“Excited?” Korkie asked his little sister.

“Yep!” Leia beamed, swinging her big brother’s and father’s arms as she walked with them into the Christmas market, showing off her special sparkly elf costume under her jacket.

The family gathered together with the other families as the children gathered on stage for the outdoor Christmas play.

“She’s an elf among green beans,” Obi-Wan murmured to Padme, leaning in close. Padme blushed and opened her mouth to respond when the children interrupted her.

“In Santa’s workshop far away, Santa’s elves work night and day!” Leia grinned in front of her classmates, clearly excited to be wearing such a pretty costume.

“These little elves make video games!” Santa Quinlan announced.

Leia stepped up front. “And these little elves give dolls their names!”

Padme gave Leia a dazzling smile as Obi-Wan surreptitiously went to rub his eye.

“And Santa packs the gifts in his sleigh and takes it to kids on Christmas Day!” Quinlan finished. “Merry Christmas!”

As the crowd started to disperse, Obi-Wan pulled Padme aside. “Her costume really is amazing. I cannot thank you enough, Ami.”

Padme blushed again. Probably just the cold . . . “Oh, I think I might have overdone it a little bit.”

Leia ran over and lept into her father’s arms. “There she is!” Obi-Wan cried as he lifted her up.

“I had the best costume ever!” Leia declared.

“I don’t think Leia minds,” Obi-Wan teased, grinning at Padme. He turned back to his daughter. “You did! Congratulations!”

“Thank you Daddy!” Leia clung to his neck. ##

Later that evening, the family was walking through the market, twinkling Christmas lights dancing through the crisp winter air as their boots trudged through the snow.

“Who wants hot chocolate?” Obi-Wan asked the children.

“Me!” They all cheered.

“Me too!” Obi-Wan grinned. “Want one?” he asked Padme.

“Oh no,” she replied. “I ate, like, half a turkey.”

Obi-Wan chuckled. “We’ll be back. Korkie, help me bring them over?”

“Okay!” Korie said, taking his father’s hand as they walked off.

“Ami!” Mace and Depa came over to Padme, Luke, and Leia.

“Oh hi!” Padme greeted them. “Enjoying the market?”

“It’s wonderful—one of my favorite parts of the season,” Depa replied.

“Listen, Ami, I wanted to talk to you about your car,” Mace said. “We’ve been combing the woods looking for it, and I think we’re finally closing in on it.”

“How have you been feeling?” Depa asked.

“Oh, I . . .” Padme trailed off as she glanced over to where Obi-Wan and Luke went in search of hot chocolate—only to find Obi-Wan going for a polite kiss on the cheek and Siri pulling him in for a more passionate kiss.

Before she even realized what she was feeling, her heart sank. Why do I feel so . . . despondent? He can kiss whoever he wants. He doesn’t owe me anything.

Padme tried to not let her disappointment show on her face. “I’m feeling much better these days,” she replied. “Must be the mountain air.”

Obi-Wan and Korkie returned with the hot chocolates, just in time for the tree lighting.

“Three, two, one!” The crowd chanted, cheering when the Christmas tree in town square was lit up in all its glory.

“They are out,” Obi-Wan said as he came into the living room from putting the children to bed. “Must have been all the sugar.”

He sank down on the couch next to Padme. “Are you alright?” he asked. “You’ve been awfully quiet since we left the market.”

Padme sighed. “Look, Obi-Wan, I have to tell you something. I’m having the time of my life with you and your kids—at least as far as I know—I think I should find another place to stay because . . . I don’t want to be selfish and come between you and Siri.”

Obi-Wan furrowed his brow. “What?”

“I saw you and her in the square kissing when you went to get hot chocolate.”

“Oh!” Obi-Wan chuckled. “No, Ami, it’s not like that at all—”

“I get it,” Padme continued. “I mean, I just fell out of the sky like some crazy snowflake with no memory. There’s a whole world here that I’m not a part of, and I get that—”

“It wasn’t a real kiss,” Obi-Wan interrupted.

Padme looked taken aback. “It looked like a real kiss . . .”

“Well it was a kiss, but it was because of the mistletoe,” Obi-Wan explained. “She held a mistletoe over my head and I wanted to give her a kiss on the cheek to be polite, but she, well, went further than I was comfortable with.” He cleared his throat.

Padme frowned. “Are you alright?”

Obi-Wan looked up from his lap. “Hmm?”

“Are you alright?” she repeated. “She forced you into something you didn’t want, only to make it worse by crossing your boundaries even further—and she did it in public in front of Korkie because she knew you wouldn’t want to make a scene in front of him. It couldn’t have been easy for you, Obi-Wan. Are you okay?”

Obi-Wan swallowed, his features softening. If Padme didn’t know better, she’d think he looked touched. “Better now that I’m home in front of the fire,” he smiled.

After a beat, he continued. “We did go on a date, once. But it was so . . . wrong. It didn’t feel right. She force-fed me some of the most slimy tofu I’d ever had.”

Padme gave him a small smile. “For what it’s worth, I’d never make you eat slimy tofu. Anyone who makes slimy tofu should not be allowed anywhere near a kitchen.”

He laughed. “Ami, Christmas has not been the same around here for a few years now, and having you here with us . . . You’ve made it feel special.”

“Really?” Padme asked, her voice soft.

“Really. And you are a part of this family—I mean, part of this world, here in Salida,” he quickly corrected himself. “I know you’re part of another world and we’ll figure out where that is but until we do . . . What I’m trying to say is we’d love to have you stay here with us.”

She beamed at him, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Daddy! Daddy! Can you bring me water? I’m thirsty!” Leia called.

Padme raised her head. “Duty calls?”

Obi-Wan stood, a wry grin on his face. “Duty calls.”

No-pressure tags: @saradika @obiknights @justsaysomethingjayj @cypanache @alabama-metal-man @vic3456 @darlingamidala @celestial-alignment @your-dose-of-obidala @written-musings @fearless-too-and-stubborn

#obidala #obi wan kenobi #padme amidala #obi wan x padme #obi wan kenobi x padme amidala #obi wan fanfic #padme fanfic #my fic #my writing

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shellyscribbles · 1 year ago

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Find the Word Tag

Thanks for the tag @winterandwords :) Needed a little tag game to get me thinking for writing today.

My words were: Sit, Stand, Walk and Run

From Hallendrest:

Sit

Mircea walked slowly into her room and pulled a nearby chair around to sit before her. He stayed quiet a long moment until his sister laughed with some exasperation. “What is it Mircea?” She couldn’t help but smile as he did his typical unsettling stare before he began. “You didn’t go to the shadow district this morning.” He finally spoke, settling back into his seat. Reena’s smile faded and she turned back to her desk, “I didn’t realize you knew about that.”

Stand

“Why does he stand off to the side?” Reena ventured to ask, gesturing to a man dressed similarly to the apprentices who stood against the wall behind the table. The king looked from her to the man and back. “He’s not a full apprentice. He doesn’t join the main table. He gets to eat when we finish.” He gestured to her plate which she’d only picked at so far. “Eat up.”

Walk

As she stepped out into the sunlight, Reena’s mind returned to how it was another last for her. The last time she’d leave the palace. This wasn’t on one of her silly bread runs or a meandering walk through the city. She was leaving, giving herself as a sacrifice in hopes of keeping them safe. In hopes of seeing them fed. “At least they’ve got a proper carriage for you.” Mircea said quietly as they approached the gate.

Run

�� The honesty she seemed to exude was as much disconcerting as it was attractive. Surely no one existed who simply said what they meant and wore it plainly on their face when they didn’t. How could someone like that be brought into Kalt to rule beside him? To run in the highest political circles… And it was real? If she wasn’t putting on a show to lure him into a false sense of security? He frowned. She’d be a lamb among wolves.

I'll pass tags on to @theunboundwriter, @ryns-ramblings, @scarletteflamerald, and @ashen-crest

Your words if you wish are: Wait, plant, wide and plain.

#tag game #find the word tag #find the word #writeblr #Hallendrest

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lord-angelfish · 2 years ago

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Of Hairstyling and Miscommunication, Chapter 2

Hey ho! The second chapter is now out (aren't y' all lucky).

This chapter is ~1k words, rated Gen, still pre-wincest, and full of overprotective Dean.

Thanks to @herefortears and @samsblush for beta reading this for me!

Read on Ao3.

Excerpt (full chapter under the cut):

He eyed the glass next to his hand unhappily. He was tempted to just get up and refill it himself. He hesitated. If he got up, then Dean would be mad about it, but if he never found out….

Sam nodded to himself firmly, decision made. He'd just have to make sure that Dean didn't find out.

Dean hummed thoughtfully, peering down at the display case in front of him studiously.

After a moment of consideration, he looked up at the worker behind the bar and smiled charmingly. "Excuse me, ma'am," he called, rapping his knuckles on the counter, "could I get the lemon cream pie to go, please? And two slices of banana bread."

The lady smiled cheerfully at him and bagged his order, ringing him up afterwards.

"Bringing home a treat for your boyfriend?" she asked as she opened the register to get him his change.

Dean froze, taken aback. The lady saw his reaction and chuckled, mistaking his confusion for apprehension. "It's nothing to be ashamed of, you know," she said conversationally, smiling gently at him. "I saw you and your young man, the tall one, outside the other day. It's plain to see that you love him very much."

Dean stuttered and blushed, the bag swinging gently from where it was hanging in his clenched fist. "Ma'am," he began, "I'm not - we're not -"

The lady frowned and tilted her head slightly as he stammered unintelligibly and then her eyes widened as she seemed to come to a realization.

"You haven't told him yet?" she said in surprise. "Well, that won't do."

Clicking her tongue, she ducked under the counter. After a few seconds of rummaging around, she made a triumphant sound and came up beaming, holding a pink cupcake.

She started boxing it up and said briskly, "You see, young man, these are the cupcakes that I made for my Amelia when I asked her out - although I was a fair bit younger back then," she said with a chuckle.

"Anyway, I made these for her when I asked her out and when I asked her to marry me. They're good luck pastries, especially for young love."

Dean sputtered and flushed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam set his book down on the table in front of him and sighed. Looking at his watch, he shook his hair out of his face and leaned back in his chair.

He checked his phone idly, wondering where his brother was. He'd have thought that Dean would've been back by now, considering how overprotective he'd been acting before he left.

…..Unless he'd gotten distracted.

Sam groaned mentally.

He eyed his empty water glass consideringly. If his brother had gotten distracted flirting with some girl while he was out getting pie, that meant that he probably wouldn't be back for a few hours yet, which in turn meant that his plan to wait for Dean to get back to the room and make him fill up the water glass was probably not a good one.

Sam groaned again, audibly this time, and let his head thump on the back of his chair.

He eyed the glass next to his hand unhappily. He was tempted to just get up and refill it himself. He hesitated. If he got up, then Dean would be mad about it, but if he never found out….

Sam nodded to himself firmly, decision made. He'd just have to make sure that Dean didn't find out.

He stood up carefully, standing on one leg first and gingerly lowering his other foot down to the floor.

He winced preemptively as he started to put some weight on his hurt ankle, then breathed a sigh of relief when it did nothing more than twinge.

He'd filled up his waterglass and made it halfway back to his seat by the time he heard the familiar rumble of the Impala's engine outside, getting louder and louder until it stopped, and was replaced by the equally familiar sound of Dean's whistling, accompanied by the stomp of his boots as he walked up to the motel room door.

Sam froze, feeling a familiar but always odd mix of preemptive indignation, reluctant fondness, and dread, as he stood motionless, caught halfway between the chair and the sink with no support in sight.

Dean opened the door, carrying his precious burden (which, Sam thought to himself with no small amount of amusement, almost certainly wasn't going to be shared - Dean was just that possessive of his pie).

Dean turned around at his quiet snort, visibly drawing himself up and working himself up to righteous indignation about Sam slighting his precious pie - and then he stopped short, door creaking gently behind him as it came to a rest only partially closed.

Sam winced preemptively, and with good reason.

Dean growled.

He started stomping towards Sam, who was trying not to falter, and then he stopped and looked down at his hands where he was still holding the bags of groceries.

He rolled his eyes, and turned around to set them down on the table, then turned back towards Sam.

"Sam Winchester," he said, still sounding exasperated, but thankfully calmed down from what Sam had thought was going to be an actual blowout.

Sam blinked, shaken out of his thoughts when Dean got to him and started pushing him back towards the table where he'd set the groceries, and where Sam had been sitting before he'd decided to get water.

"You should have waited for me," Dean chided him, pushing him down into the chair and walking towards the sink.

"What, I should have waited for you to get me a glass of water ?" Sam asked, pushing down the warm affection bubbling up in his chest in response to his brother's care.

"Yes! Yes, Sam! You're still hurt, you idiot, I wasn't even gone for an hour!"

"Well how was I supposed to know you hadn't gotten distracted by some girl?"

"Are you fucking kidding me right now, Sam. You almost died. "

Sam flushed and argued back, "I did not almost die, Dean, that two-by-four didn't even touch me!"

Dean's mouth worked for a minute, and he scowled again. He strode forward and set down the glass of water he'd confiscated from Sam on the table with a click, then he turned around and stormed off to sit on the bed.

Sam watched as he crossed his arms and glared at whatever was playing on the TV.

He watched his brother sit and stew for a minute.

"Are you going to eat this pie, or…" Sam couldn't help but ask after the silence got to be stifling.

Dean whipped his head around and glared. "Don't even think about eating my pie, bitch," he snapped, an undercurrent of laughter running through his voice.

Sam grinned. "I'm gonna eat it unless you get here first," he teased, sing-song.

"Hey!"

#salmondean #spn #sam winchester #dean winchester #pre-wincest #my writing shenanigans #hope y'all enjoy this one

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