#where is that little change purse thing my family puts all our non-US coins and small bills in and passes back and forth when we go places?

[rihansu00]

You know how when you're looking for an old fanfic, you can post the equivilent of "there was a guy, and a thing and a place" on Tumblr and get the correct fic?

I need Tumblr to also provide that service for things I have lost in my house.

[asweetprologue]

Geralt decides to retire to Toussaint. He takes Jaskier with him.

Words: 4360, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: The Witcher

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion

Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion

Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Retirement, Getting Together, Domestic, Fluff

I promise I’m still writing stuff!! this is a soft little one shot I wrote a while ago and just cleaned up. read on tumblr below the cut!

In the end, it’s the weariness that does him in.

Once when they were both younger men, Jaskier had asked him about retirement for witchers. If they retreated to Kaer Morhen in their old age to train the new pups, or if they settled down across the Continent, or gave up the hunt to have families of their own. Geralt had snorted. “We don’t retire,” he’d said, mixing potion ingredients by the light of their camp fire. Jaskier had looked at him with wide, curious eyes. “We get old, and slow, and something kills us. We don’t - buy seaside cottages, or whatever.”

Jaskier had hummed at that, a mournful note that seemed to resonate in the air. It was unfair, Geralt had thought, that his friend managed to convey so much in such a sound while the witcher always managed to say so little. “Seems a bit unfair,” Jaskier added.

Geralt had blown out an amused breath, not quite a laugh. “That’s life, bard.”

But now, three decades and countless battles older, he just felt tired. Jaskier no longer traveled with him as frequently, and the Path was a lonely place. He and his brothers no longer met at Kaer Morhen to winter, not once Vesemir had passed. They would stop occasionally to meet up on the road, but never for too long. Even Ciri was going her own way nowadays, though he saw her the most frequently. As the years wore on, Geralt found himself visiting Oxenfurt more and more often. Itching for companionship, for a cease in the ever grinding motion of the Path. The routine that had once been a comfort was now grating.

Maybe it was time to take a break.

It was with this mentality that he turned to Jaskier on the last day of his stay in Oxenfurt and said, “Come to Toussaint with me.”

Jaskier blinked at him owlishly, the expression making him look ten years younger. These days his hair was streaked with gray at the temples, and when he chose to grow out a beard it was as silver as Geralt’s. “What’s so important in Toussaint?” he asked. They were seated at a table in the rooms Jaskier had been provided, for accepting a temporary lecturing position. The term had ended a few weeks ago, hence Geralt’s visit. Jaskier shuffled his gwent deck as he spoke, the cards weaving together like a cascade. Geralt found himself watching the bard’s slim fingers dance through the motions with an old fascination.

“I have an estate there,” he replied, pulling his gaze from the cards. He meant to look Jaskier in the eye, but a brief moment of contact with the bright cerulean had him turning his head, his heartbeat growing ever so slightly faster. It was too hard to ask this if he could see Jaskier’s face. Instead, he looked out the small window, overlooking the red tiled roofs of Oxenfurt. The city was painted a rich gold in the light of the evening sun, reflected warmly off of the river beyond the docks.

Jaskier spluttered across the table. “You have an estate? Since when?”

Geralt felt a smile tug at the corners of his lips. “It was payment for a job,” he said. “There’s a vineyard, gardens. I can send word ahead for them to start renovations on the guest bedroom. Come with me,” he said again, softly. He wasn’t above begging, but he hoped he wouldn’t have to.

Jaskier looked at him with a confused but affectionate look spread across his fine features, and said, “Okay.”

~

Geralt sent a letter ahead to warn the staff of their plans to summer at the estate, and they began their journey to the Duchy.

It was a long journey, but not an arduous one. For once, Geralt allowed them to stick to the main roads, and at this time of year even Velen was bearable. The sweeping fields spread out around them in swaths of green and gold, punctuated here and there by defiant patches of wildflowers. Jaskier wasn’t as quick as he used to be following Geralt on the Path, but they weren’t on the Path anymore. They purchased a second horse and rode side by side at a leisurely pace. When the day grew hot, they would post up in a convenient spot of shade and let the horses graze, lunching on sun warmed bread and sweetmeats. Jaskier rambled the hours away with stories of his students and old antics at Oxenfurt, and Geralt responded with his own tales of hunts and growing up in the keep with his brothers. It was good to have another voice on the road again after months of traveling alone. It was good that it was Jaskier. Geralt had missed him. Once he wouldn’t have been able to admit it, even to himself, but it seemed silly now to hide it. A wall put up against someone who had been inside for years.

They slept beneath the stars and in cramped inns, sharing small spaces like they had for decades. It was different, Geralt thought. Something had released in his shoulders when Jaskier had agreed to come with him. They weren’t in a rush - there were no contracts to fill, no galas to play at. Jaskier’s purse was heavy from his time spent lecturing, and Geralt was able to pick up a few simple contracts as they went. Easy jobs that would put some extra coin in his pocket and lift the tension from the shoulders of the locals. But for the most part it was just the two of them, drinking sweet summer mead and browsing morning markets, getting accustomed to each other’s presence again.

Sitting across the fire from him one night as they camped, Jaskier said, “You’re different, you know.”

Geralt lifted his head from where he’d been skinning the pheasants for supper. “Hmm?”

Jaskier smiled, his eyes soft. “Well, maybe not that different.” At Geralt’s odd look, he went on. “You told me once that witchers never change. That they’re set in their ways. I think you were talking about something like your potions routine when you said it at the time, but I thought it applied to the whole of the witcher experience.”

Geralt hummed again. “It’s true. We age slowly. Get set in our habits.”

“But you changed,” Jaskier said. “I’ve seen it. After Ciri, and now, since we’ve left Oxenfurt. You’re different.”

Geralt shifted uncomfortably. They’d never been on the road together like this, just the two of them as companions. Before Geralt had been focused on the Path, and Jaskier had been cataloguing his deeds as if he were some kind of hero of legend. He knew Jaskier admired Geralt’s drive, his ability to push on towards the next contract. Maybe the bard would think less of him, knowing that he was content to leave the Path behind for so long. “I’m still me,” he said aloud.

Jaskier gave him another smile, warm and honeyed. “I know it’s you, daft man,” he said. “It’s good. To see you… put down the torch for a bit.”

Geralt wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he just gave an agreeable rumble in his chest. And then, because he’d spent so long learning how to use his words around his daughter, he said, “I’m glad you’re here, Jaskier.”

A brief moment of surprise passed over Jaskier’s features, his eyes widening. Though Geralt had become better at voicing his affections over the years, he knew that the bard was always taken aback by the behavior. After a second Jaskier’s smile became a grin, and Geralt felt something in him relax even further. “I’m glad to be here, my friend. You know I can’t resist an adventure.”

~

They arrived in Toussaint quickly after that, both eager to end their days on the road. The countryside spread out around them slowly transformed from the muted colors of the north into the vibrant greens, purples and reds of the vineyards and forests. Geralt always forgot how stunning the Duchy was, with its colorful houses and flashy clothes. For once Jaskier fit in with the crowd flawlessly; it would take more than a bright doublet to stand out in Toussaint. Geralt had always liked it here. The peasants tended to be less prejudiced against non-humans, witchers included, and the knights he’d met always treated him as a brother in arms rather than pest control. The winters were mild and the summers sweet, and the wines were rich even if they were impossible for him to pronounce at times.

Of course Jaskier proved to be fluent in the local language - “What do you think the Seven Liberal Arts even entail, Geralt?” - which was helpful when they passed through smaller villages. Those away from the common crossroads or larger settlements tended to have fewer people who spoke the common northern tongue. They made their way to Geralt’s estate through a series of inns, barns and guest bedrooms as Jaskier relentlessly charmed the locals in grandiose displays of hospitality.

As they approached the estate, Geralt pulled Roach to a stop at the top of a hill. “This is it,” he said, nodding to indicate the view.

Jaskier gaped, craning to look out over the small collection of buildings and the dozens and dozens of grapevines that were nestled in the valley below. Geralt could see several workers out tending to the fields; his majordomo must have been overseeing things as agreed upon. They would have to get to know the rest of the staff while they were here. “This is all yours?” Jaskier asked, snapping Geralt’s attention back to the present.

“The house, most of the fields. I’ve not paid all that much attention to it before now, honestly. The house needs work. Never had any reason to sink funds into it before now.” He’d sent a fair sum of gold ahead to Barnabas-Basil to get started on renovations, but it likely would have only been enough to make the main complex habitable. Geralt was confident that he could undertake much of the repairs himself, in time. It would be good to have a project.

“It’s expansive. You produce wine here?” Jaskier asked, turning back towards him.

“Yes, but you’ll have to ask the majordomo which ones.”

Jaskier nodded to himself as they continued down the hill, soon approaching the main gate to the small villa. Members of the staff bustled throughout the property, though many stopped to look as the two of them passed by. As they settled their horses near a storage shed, the majordomo approached them, apparently already made aware of their arrival.

“Ah, Master Geralt, I trust that your travels were smooth? Please, come inside - I will have someone come and tend to the horses.” Barnabas-Basil Foulty was a clean shaven, bald man with sharp, almost bird-like features, and the head of the estate in Geralt’s stead. He stood at perfect attention at all times, shoulders back and head held high. A proud man, if not also an extremely polite one. Geralt liked him immensely, because he was good at his job and could keep up in the cups the one time the two had drank together.

“Ah, this must be the famous Barnabas-Basil. Fantastic to finally meet your acquaintance, my good man,” Jaskier said, jumping in to give the majordomo’s hand a firm shake. “Geralt has praised your skills from here to Redania and back.”

Barnabas-Basil inclined his head towards Geralt, though his spine did not stray an inch. “I thank you, sir, for your kind words. Please, allow me to show you the progress that we have made on the main house so you might get settled.”

The domo walked them through the estate, giving Jaskier a brief tour and pointing out new additions to Geralt. He’d not been to the estate in at least two years, but it was clear that the workers were making good use of the space. The small collection of colorful houses down the road had fresh coats of paint, and children played in the courtyard below the main house. A garden flourished in the space between the manor and the vineyard, dominated by root vegetables and herbs.

“If you would like, we can have it cleared out so that you might use it for your own purposes,” Barnabas-Basil said. His face betrayed no feelings on the issue.

Geralt grunted. “No need. The staff can use it as they wish.” He refused to meet Jaskier’s gaze as the bard beamed at him proudly. After decades of friendship Jaskier still seemed to find it a delight anytime Geralt did something he thought was particularly chivalrous. Geralt was not eager for him to meet the knights, with their virtues and heroic deeds.

The house, as he suspected, was functional but only just. “We’ve done what we could in a short amount of time, sir,” Barnabas-Basil said, his tone politely apologetic. “I assure you renovations are far from complete.”

“It’s fantastic,” Jaskier said, already darting off to explore the other rooms. There was a small kitchen, a bedroom, bathroom and an upstairs loft that could be made into a second bedroom. The additional bed wouldn’t arrive for another week or two.

“We can share,” Geralt said without looking at Jaskier, and did not elaborate further. “Show me what else needs done.”

~

They fell quickly into a routine. Geralt spent his days working with the locals on renovations, slowly breathing vitality back into the old manor. When he grew tired of working with lumber, he waded into the vineyards, to help pluck the delicate grapes from their twisting vines. A pair of women admonished him for his sloppy work on the first day and taught him how to gently cut the branches away and check the grapes for ripeness. Jaskier fluctuated between helping out with the building work and composing, though he also made the occasional day trip into the city to perform. In the evening they would retire to the house to eat, drink and chat over games of cards. At night they would curl up in Geralt’s bed, as they had when sharing quarters on the road.

It was a strange new intimacy, to learn what Jaskier was like in his bed. They had shared bedrolls many times over the years, but never with any consistency. When the nights were too cold or the inn too full, they would sigh and grumble and agree to share a space for the night, as a matter of convenience. But as soon as they had the coin or the resources to do so, they would always put distance between themselves again. Geralt supposed it had been a kind of self preservation instinct, but he now found little threat in the warmth of Jaskier next to him at night. He learned that some days Jaskier woke before the sunrise, throwing himself out of bed in a tangle of limbs to scramble for a quill. Other days he slept late, sprawled out across the sheets and dozing until the heat of the day forced him up. Often Geralt woke to the bard curled around him, an arm thrown across his broad chest, nose tucked under the witcher’s jaw. Those times always made something tighten in Geralt’s throat. No one should trust a witcher like Jaskier did, but he was grateful for the bard’s foolishness. Jaskier had always believed that Geralt would keep him safe, even when the witcher had refused to even admit that they were friends. Jaskier deserved better, but it didn’t stop Geralt from turning into his warmth each morning, wishing to reach out.

When the second bed came, Jaskier made no effort to relocate to the guest room. Geralt didn’t bring it up.

It only took a month for him to openly think about it, but when he finally did he was surprised it hadn’t come sooner. He looked up from where he was carving a notch in a new post for one of the fences and saw Jaskier sitting on the steps of the manor, the end of his quill hovering near his lips. His mouth moved around abstract syllables as he reached for the next lyric in a new song. The soft, repetitive notes rose and fell in the still summer air, and Geralt could see a small spot of ink on Jaskier’s cheek where he’d tapped himself with the quill by accident. Later that night, Geralt would point it out and they would both laugh, and Jaskier would play at being angry Geralt hadn’t brought it up sooner, and then Geralt would offer to help him clean up. Jaskier looked up from his place on the stairs and met his eye, feeling the attention on him as he always did. When he saw Geralt looking he smiled, as brightly as if he’d not seen the witcher in months, instead of moments. Geralt’s chest swelled with an unspeakable feeling, thick and heady affection and trust and something else even beyond that, and he thought, Oh, I love him.

~

Geralt suggested a picnic. Jaskier was ecstatic, though he tried to act as if he had to consider the notion.

“Will there be wine?” he asked, eyebrows raised playfully.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, fondly exasperated, “we live on a vineyard.”

So they grabbed some bottles from the storeroom, packed a light cotton blanket and some food leftover from lunch and set off up the nearby hill. It took them about twenty minutes to reach the top, but once they did they were quite near the place they’d first stopped to look over the estate. It was nearing evening, the sun hanging low in the sky and making the shadows of the workers coming in stretch out long across the fields. The two men spread out their things, sitting to watch the landscape move below them as they uncorked one of the bottles.

Geralt let Jaskier chatter away about nothing for a while, letting the sound wash over him as they shared the bread and wine. After a while Jaskier fell quiet, leaving them both to gaze out at the beauty of the land around them. Geralt turned to look at Jaskier. The sweep of his brow, the soft bow of his lips. The smattering of freckles he’d collected from weeks on the road, lying in fields and letting the sun kiss his cheeks. To be jealous of the sun, Geralt thought wryly.

Jaskier turned to meet his gaze, realizing that he was being watched. “What is it?” he asked.

“Why did you come with me?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier chuckled a bit, leaning back on one hand. His shirt was unlaced a ways down the front, leaving his dark chest hair exposed. Geralt wanted to put his nose in the hollow of his throat and just breathe there for a while. “I’m not one to turn down a free holiday, my dear.”

“No,” Geralt said, trying to ignore the way the pet name made his stomach flip. “I mean, why did you always come with me? Everyone… People come and go. But you always came back. Why?”

Jaskier gave him an admonishing look. Geralt didn’t know what to make of it. “You know the answer to that,” he said, and his tone held a warning that the witcher didn’t understand.

“I know you value our friendship,” Geralt replied, “but I could say that of many. It’s not the same.”

“Oh Geralt,” Jaskier sighed, his face full of fondness and exasperation and, strangely, an old sort of grief. “You truly are the most unobservant man in the land. You’ve been far more than a friend to me for many years.”

Geralt felt his heart rate pick up at that, the slow thud speeding up to match Jaskier’s. “You’re saying…” He found himself unable to complete the thought. Even after so many years of trying to do better, it was still impossible to form words past the thundering in his ears. This moment felt delicate, like the wrong phrase might shatter it apart.

“I assumed you knew,” Jaskier said with a shrug. The line of his shoulders was just slightly too tense, his body radiating faux casualness. Anyone else may have been fooled, but Geralt had been watching Jaskier for years. “I would never have let it change anything between us, you must know that. You were always involved with someone else - Yennefer, and then Triss and Shani… I didn’t want to get in the way of that. Something that could make you happy.”

“I thought it would,” Geralt said honestly. His gaze flickered over Jaskier’s impassive face. The bard rarely showed his nerves in his expressions, too much a performer for that. Instead it made its way to his hands, twitching over his thighs and worrying the fabric of the blanket, and his heart, which raced in his chest. “I wanted to be the right person for them. Yen wanted me to be useful. Triss wanted me to be a knight in shining armor. They made me feel like I was better than just a witcher.” Jaskier’s lovely mouth twisted slightly, a note of bitterness in his gaze as he looked out over the vineyards. Geralt hurried on. “But you’re the one who made me feel like being a witcher was already good enough.”

Jaskier turned back to him, blinking in surprise. “Well of course it is,” he said, and naturally the bard had missed the point, honing in on his favorite subject: the reputation of witchers and Geralt’s sense of self worth. “You’re already useful, and noble, and good and kind besides all that. You don’t have to be more than what you are to deserve - fuck, basic human connection and love.” He settled slightly, his gesturing hands falling into his lap once more. “Is that why you left them?”

“The Path always calls,” Geralt said with a shrug. “No one but you ever wanted to follow me.”

“Oh,” Jaskier said, blushing. Geralt watched the color rise up over his cheek bones with something like fascination, or maybe hunger. “Well, now you know why,” he continued, with obviously false cheer. He gave Geralt a rueful smile. “I promise I won’t make things awkward. I’ve had decades to practice. I mean, it’s been thirty years. If you were going to fall in love with me you probably would have done so already, hmm?”

“You’d think so,” Geralt agreed. “Sorry it took me so long.” And then he leaned into Jaskier’s space and kissed him.

It wasn’t a very good kiss. Barely a kiss at all, really, considering that Jaskier had frozen under him. Geralt pulled back, lifting a hand to run it gently over Jaskier’s side. The bard was absolutely still, his eyes closed tight. There was a small crease between his eyebrows that Geralt wanted to kiss away, but he wasn’t sure if he should. “Sorry,” he said softly.

Jaskier’s eyes fluttered open. It was unfair that a man could have beautiful eyelashes, Geralt mused, but here they were. “You mustn’t toy with me, witcher,” Jaskier croaked. His voice was raw, as if he’d been singing for hours.

Geralt moved his hand to the bard’s face, his thumb following along the line of his jaw and up to trace across his cheekbone. Freckles like stars under his fingers. “I’m not,” he rumbled. “I swear it, Jaskier. I just -” He paused, trying to marshal his thoughts. “You were always there. No matter how shitty the Path was, or how miserable people were to you because of me, or how much I pushed you away. You stayed. You made me feel like I was worth something, and you made other people think that way too. Every day without you on the Path was always misery. I should have realized sooner, but I’m not… good at this. I’m sorry.”

Jaskier’s head dropped forward, his brow resting on Geralt’s collarbone. “I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard you apologize in the span of a minute,” he said, voice thin. “This is a lot to take in. Are you saying that you… that you love me? You, Geralt of Rivia, are in love with me?”

“Yes,” Geralt said, smiling into Jaskier’s hair. “That’s what I’m trying to say.”

Jaskier pulled away to stare at him. Geralt tried to let his affection through, drinking in Jaskier’s beloved face like he hadn’t allowed himself before. The last rays of the sun played over Jaskier’s hair, turning some of the strands to brilliant amber. His eyes were over bright. Whatever the bard saw in Geralt’s expression must have been enough, because the next moment they were kissing again.

It was, Geralt thought, a miracle that he had ever gone so long without doing so. Now that they’d begun, he never wanted to stop. Jaskier’s lips were warm and soft against his, and when Geralt licked slowly into his mouth he tasted of old wine. They stayed like that for a long time, Geralt holding Jaskier close, decades of tension not so much breaking as releasing like a quiet sigh of relief.

Finally they pulled apart, Geralt nosing at Jaskier’s cheek as he hummed contentment into the bard’s skin. He could feel deft fingers petting through his hair, easily working around the tangles that had formed on the walk up the hill. “I love you,” he said, pressing the words below Jaskier’s ear as if he could speak them into his core that way.

Jaskier shivered once under him. “I love you too,” he said, and Geralt could feel him smiling in the way his jaw moved. He knew Jaskier in his bones. “I’ll follow you wherever you go, you know.”

Geralt pulled back, pushing Jaskier’s fringe back with one hand as he met his eyes. “Maybe I’ll just stop running from you,” he said, smiling. Jaskier grinned back, and neither of them mentioned that his eyes were slightly damp. Geralt pushed himself to his feet and reached down a hand to his bard. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

[inkandpen22]

Somewhere (5/?)

Pairing: Sirius Black x Female!Reader  

Warning: None

Word Count: 1.7k

Part Summary: Sirius and Y/N are falling more and more in love with each passing day. Yet, their love must still remain a secret. Sirius has a surprise for Y/N to escape the troubles of London. 

A/N: sorry if this part feels rushed. I really wanted to get it out by the end of the day to keep up with the schedule. Hope you enjoy it! :)

Masterlist

When Sirius came to visit me last night, he told me to pack a bag for the weekend. I kept begging him to tell me why, but he wouldn't indulge. We fell asleep under the starry ceiling he gifted me for my birthday as we each night. Then, when we woke, I asked him again. He, of course, didn't give even a hint! I told my brother and the others that I'm going along with my friend on her family's road trip. Bradly was reluctant at first, but I reminded him that it was our last summer before going off to school. Lauren helped me convince him. She didn't directly as me if I was lying and secretly meeting Sirius, but I could tell she knew the truth. I've silently thanked her frequently for keeping my secret. I simply can't imagine Sirius not in my life. These last few weeks have been the happiest in my life.

After dinner, I leave with my bag, having told everyone that I was to head over to my friend's house. When in reality, I'm meeting Sirius in the park across the street by the fountain. We've done it before, whenever I go with him to hang out with his friends. Except this time, I won't be coming back for a few days. This will be the first time Sirius and I have spent an entire weekend together. He spends most nights at my house, Bradly and Lauren doesn't know that obviously.

I wait on our usual bench under the lightpost. It's gold light illuminates around me in a perfect circle. I watch the fountain splash, bright white lights makes the water shimmer. Hands appear over my eyes, making the world go black.

"Guess who," a familiar voice instructs.

"Elton John," I giggle, lowering Sirius's hands as I turn around.

He grins as he jumps over the back of the bench and sits beside me slickly. Resting his arm behind me, he leans in and plants a kiss to my lips. We part and rest our foreheads against each other, pondering the closeness after hours apart.

"How was your day, My Love?" He whispers, brushing strands away from my face.

"Uneventful and yourself?" I giggle.

"Consisted of me counting the hours until I could see you," Sirius charms. He does it so effortlessly. "Oh!"

He remembers something suddenly and reaches behind him. He brings around a small black coin purse-looking bag. "You can put your bag in here."

I glance between my tote bag and the wrist bag. He must be joking!

I point at it. "In that little thing?"

"You'll see," he snickers, opening it wide for me.

I suppose I'll just take his words for it. Picking up my bag, I hover it over the coin purse sized bag. I give Sirius a curious look as I lower my tote into his bag, knowing it won't fit. Then, his bag expands like a black hole and practically swallows up my tote. I stare at it, blinking rapidly.

"Okay, I love magic!" I gush.

Sirius laughs at my reaction, closing up the bag to stow away.

"So, what are we doing tonight?" I repeat the question for the millionth time since he mentioned the trip last night.

"And why would I tell you that?" He smirks.

"Could you at least give me a hint?" I plead with a pout.

He hums, thinking it over. "Are you afraid of heights?"

Oh no, is he going to make me go skydiving or something crazy? I don't think I could handle that. I do love planes and flying though!

"Depends..." I answer hesitantly. "What are we talking about?"

He changes the subject, "out of anywhere in the whole world, where do you dream of seeing?"

"Paris," I answer without a moments thought.

Sirius grin, his enthusiasm growing with each passing second. "Close your eyes," he instructs, rising from the bench.

I give him a knowing look, but do as he asks nonetheless. Covering my eyes with my hand, I wait patiently for whatever he's doing. I hear him move about, doing who knows what. Then, Sirius takes my hands and guides me to stand up.

"Do you trust me?" He questions and I can hear the grin on his face.

"I trust you," I reply wholeheartedly.

I feel him move in front of me with his back facing me. He takes my arms and wraps them around his waist. What on earth are we doing?

"Better hold on tight!" He hurries out.

"Why do-"

There's a jolt and instantly I don't feel my feet on the ground. My eyes fly open and we're several yards above the ground. I scream and hug Sirius tightly, pressing my body to his back.

"Oh my god!" I gasp.

"You're okay," Sirius laughs, unfazed by the fact that we're in the air.

I take in my surroundings and realize we're on a broom. These really exist? Magic brooms aren't just myths and fairytales?

"Are we really going to Paris!" I comprehend.

"For the whole weekend," Sirius informs me, gleaming.

I grip his shoulder to catch a glimpse of his face. "You're kidding!"

"Are you happy?" He chuckles, keeping his eyes ahead.

"Things like this don't happen for normal people like me!" I express, utterly dumbfounded.

Sirius shakes his head, "I can show you the whole world, Y/N! No where is impossible!"

I watch down below as London becomes nothing more than a series of lights scattered about and buildings minimize in size. People are practically specks. This is just magic, this a dream!

_____________________________________________________

We traveled from sunset to the moon shining brightly over the world. Brooms are insanely fast! We get into Paris within half an hour! Sirius zooms through the city, showing me everything from the sky. He knows it like the back of his hand. The lights are immaculate! There's so much culture, music, art, history, all in one city! There's so much to take in, I don't know where to look! Sirius assures me that we have plenty of time to experience everything and he has everything sorted. I still feel like I'm dreaming!

Sirius booked us a room at La Réserve Paris. I've never stayed in a more luxurious hotel! After check-in, we're escorted to our suite which has a sitting room in addition to the bedroom! It's huge! Then, the best part, it has two balconies that over look the city! 

I run over to the balcony and scan the horizon. It’s hard to believe I’m actually here! 

“I’m actually in Paris!” I jump up and down. 

“Is it everything you dreamed it would be?” He inquires from within the sitting room. 

I spin on my heels, finding him grinning pleasurably on the sofa. I hurry over and join him. I kneel beside him, taking his hands in mine. “Far better!” 

After we get settled- more like Sirius getting settled and me admiring the view- Sirius tells me to check the closet. Inside hangs a long, low cut, baby blue chiffon. My jaw hits the floor practically as I admire it on the hanger, far too afraid to touch it. Everything is such a whirlwind!

Sirius wraps his arms around me and kisses my shoulder. "Do you like it?"

"Does Sunny like Cher?" I ask rhetorically, considering his question is insane! Of course I love it!

He chuckles, "you and your non-magic pop culture references. Get dressed, we're having dinner on the balcony!" He places a quick peck to my cheek and starts toward the sitting room.

"We are?!" I gasp.

"Take as long as you need!" He assures, strutting away gorgeously.

Holy crap, it's official- not that it wasn't before- I love this boy and this dress. Speaking of which, I turn my attention back to the dress. This gown is to me what hairspray is to Farah Fawcett, my crown jewel!

____________________________________________________

Dinner had me speechless! A maid and butler served us on the balcony. A perfect candle-lit, white table cloth, dinner that overlooked all of Paris. I could see the Eiffel Tower while we sat! Oh, and the food, my heavens! The steak cut like butter, the mash potatoes were smooth as silk, and the orzo! I had no idea what orzo was until tonight! Then, there's the champagne! I'm an eighteen year old girl, I've never had such classier champagne! I have the sort of champagne that can be picked up at the corner store. I'm starting to feel like an imposter, Queen Elizabeth should be in my place! I'm really waiting to wake up any minute.

After dinner, the maid and butler leave us. Sirius reveals his wand from within his tuxedo pocket. With a wave, he conjures up romantic music and asks me to dance. I'm honestly living a fairytale and I'm not taking it for granted. Sirius and I slow dance to a familiar melody. He twirls me playfully, causing both of us to laugh. At the end of the day, we're just kids and it's small moments like this that remind me. We may be in Paris, staying in a palace, dressing like we're royalty, but we're just starting out on our own. I'll be starting university in the fall, Sirius will be starting work, we're young.

I rest my cheek against his chest, pondering having him close.

Sirius recalls the night we met. His tone soft and quiet. "I looked up and my head started spinning. It felt like I was floating! You touched me and it was like being touched by an angel."

I lift my head, meeting his gaze. The lights of the city shimmer in his jet black eyes. "Your eyes glimmer like star in a clear night sky," I whisper, reaching up to caress his cheek. "A life filled with them starring back at me is a whole life."

His eyes search my face admiringly. "My life didn't start until I met you."

I nod, "Just you and me."  My words become a vow.

"For the rest of our days," he promises.

I lower my cheek to his chest again, a sudden rush of worry hindering my mood. "Could we really be together?"

"There's somewhere for us. A place where we can be together without anyone telling us we can't be." His fingers tuck under my chin, making me meet his gaze. He smiles, confident in his words. "Imagine it! A little home on the coast somewhere. We create a life all our own. We'll get married, have a lot of kids, grow old together!"

I laugh lightly, amazed by his plan. Evidently, he's thought about it. "Do you think it's possible?"

"All we need is you and me. As long as we have each other, nothing can stop us!" He states, so sure of it that I can't help but believe it.

I nod, committing myself to this, to us! I don't want anything or anyone else, Sirius is the only person I'll want forever. My life is him now.

___________________________________

Masterlist

[shortace]

High Stakes

Helen sipped from her teacup, and shook her head sadly. She glanced around at her friends: not one of them could pass for under-80. The three of them met every week or so to catch up on old times. Old times were all they had these days.

‘I can’t believe my granddaughter gave away my wedding dresses,’ Doris muttered again. It wasn’t recent, but it still stung. The granddaughter in question had donated them to a local history museum some months ago. The same museum, in fact, to which Helen’s son had given her sewing machine.

‘Everyone knows museums already have enough wedding dresses,’ Marg nodded. ‘They hardly needed yours too.’ Glancing at Helen, she added, ‘Sewing machines too.’ Marg’s great-granddaughter worked in a museum. There might be a few more ‘greats’ in there; she’d lost count. They hadn’t spoken in years, but Marg liked to think she knew something about the field.

Helen sighed. ‘I miss sewing.’ She glanced down at herself. It had been ages since she’d been able to buy new clothes. She could make herself something nicer than this frumpy sundress. It wasn’t as though she ever saw the sun anymore.

‘I miss weddings.’ Doris had had several, and always enjoyed the process far more than the result.

‘Such a shame we can’t just go to the museum and ask for them back,’ Helen observed.

There was a pause.

‘Why not?’ asked Marg after a minute.

Doris choked on her drink, and spent a moment coughing before she could answer. Finally she licked the red spittle from her hand and said ‘We can’t just walk in there and say they’re ours, Marg. They’ve got laws and processes.’

‘But they are yours. You’ve still got portraits from all your weddings to prove it.’

‘Marg, honey,’ Helen said gently, as though talking to a child. ‘You know why we can’t.’

‘Museums repatriate things all the time,’ Marg pointed out. ‘It doesn’t seem to matter what state the original owners are in!’

‘There might be ways around the system,’ Helen mused.

Marg chose a suitably overcast day, and brought her walker to the little museum. Nothing says vulnerable old lady like a walker. She’d play the part of the old dear - the worst of it was, she reflected, that it wasn’t difficult. The walker skidded slightly on some fallen gumnuts, and Marg sighed and tutted like an old lady should. She wanted to swear, but that wouldn’t be in character. The sign out the front of the museum said “Open. Please come in”, so she did. Not a problem.

‘My granddaughter works in a museum,’ she told the young man at reception. ‘She’s very clever, you know, dear.’ She fumbled with her purse and dropped some coins on his side of the desk. He knelt to pick them up, while she apologised profusely, and battled the urge to join him on the floor and count the coins - ‘Old fingers, dear, so clumsy’ - anything to keep his attention away from the CCTV screens. It took several seconds for him to pick up the coins and finish processing the transaction, and Marg was beginning to run out of prattle and patience, but finally it was done and his attention remained firmly on her. Even better: he scuttled out from behind the desk to come and hold the door for her. She thanked him, praised his gallantry, apologised for being such a nuisance, and - when the door closed behind her - heaved a sigh of relief. She was in, and he’d never noticed a thing. Of course she’d have to repeat the performance on the way out, but she had time to prepare herself for that.

There was nothing in particular she wanted to see at this little museum. Marg wasn’t from this country town originally, so the old photos meant nothing to her. She held no memories of how the main street had looked seventy years ago, knew none of the families mentioned, and couldn’t tell a plough from a seed drill. The primary reason for her visit today was the conversation she would have on the way out. But she also made sure to notice the placement and security of a certain sewing machine and several dresses. From what her however-many-greats-granddaughter had said, Marg had worried that the dresses might be in glass cases, but it seemed this museum lacked the funding for that. A low rope was all that separated exhibits from the public. Experimentally, she leaned over the rope and touched one of Doris’ shoes. Nothing happened.

She glanced at the alarm system on the wall near a side door. Making sure nobody was watching - only two other people were visiting, and they were examining a tractor - Marg tapped the numbers one, two, three, four. The machine’s readout switched to arming. Doris had been right: nobody ever changes the factory default. She put the code in again, disarming it.

As she left, the young man was reading a book, but he glanced up to smile at her and thank her for visiting.

‘I’d love to come back later with some friends, if that would be alright, dear?’

‘Of course, you bring them in any time!’

Any time. Not a problem.

‘Thank you, young man, you’ve been most pleasant.’ She made sure to struggle a little with her walker, and passed a few more trivial remarks, to keep his attention on her and away from the CCTV screens where she was not showing up. Finally, checking that the sun remained hidden behind the mass of grey clouds, Marg stepped outside.

Later, Doris frowned into her teacup. It was stained with use, and had a chip in one side, but it commemorated the coronation of Queen Victoria. She would never get rid of it. She’d been there. ‘Do you think, really, that will be enough?’ she asked.

‘It’s an invitation,’ Marg insisted.

Helen frowned. It was non-traditional. It was tricky. She’d never liked deception and deviousness, unlike Doris. But it wasn’t right, that somebody could give away her Singer sewing machine just because she wasn’t technically alive anymore. She wanted it back. ‘I think it’s worth a try,’ she said. ‘But what about the security?’

‘Doris was right about the code,’ Marg said, ignoring Doris’ smirk.

‘And the cameras, did you appear on screen?’

‘Not a problem.’

The front door was locked. The sign said “Closed”. This was the moment of truth.

Marg pulled a bobby pin out of her hair and handed it to Doris.

‘You presume I can pick a lock?’ Doris asked.

‘Well, can’t you?’

‘Yes, but it’s rude to presume it.’ She took the pin, and a moment later the door swung inwards.

‘Quickly,’ Helen whispered, ‘get it closed before anyone sees.’

‘It’s 2am in a small town, Helen,’ Doris pointed out. ‘The only people around are cats. Now, are we ready?’ The three women exchanged glances, took a deep breath, and stepped through the door. Not a problem.

‘I told you the invitation would work!’

‘The alarm,’ Helen reminded them.

‘Should have brought my walker,’ Marg muttered. She hobbled as quickly as she could to the alarm, and with two seconds to spare, tapped in the code.

The three women waited a moment, making sure no sirens rang out, no voices shouted. But there was silence in the museum. A possum scuttling across the roof made Marg jump, but no human sounds intruded on the night.

In the dark it looked eerie, with farm machinery looming and oddly-shaped shadows. Helen shivered a little. ‘We are the scary things in the dark,’ she reminded herself out loud. It was hard to feel like a terrifying creature of the night when your knees ached in the cold and you couldn’t stand up without grimacing. Marg touched her shoulder briefly, then nodded in the direction of the antique Singer.

Helen paused. ‘The cameras,’ she said again.

Doris sighed, exasperated. ‘We don’t show up on cameras, you know that! Now grab that sewing machine!’

‘Things we wear don’t show up on cameras,’ Helen said. ‘But does it work on things we’re touching or carrying?’

Marg and Doris froze in the act of stepping over the rope beside Doris’ dresses. How had nobody thought of this?

‘Well,’ said Doris after a moment, ‘we can wear the wedding gowns.’

‘All of them?’ There were six.

‘Two each.’

‘And my sewing machine, Doris? You can’t wear a sewing machine.’

‘You could balance it on your head and call it a hat.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, that’ll never work!’

‘It’s our only choice!’

‘Did you really need six husbands, Doris?’ Marg grumbled. ‘Just getting these off the mannequins is going to take half the night.’ One of the gowns was close to two hundred years old. The fabric was brittle with age, and moths had already been at it. Lacking the proper undergarments to shape the skirt, the museum had instead created an arrangement of pool noodles and cotton tape to support it.

‘Pool noodles!’ Doris said, horrified.

‘They’re inert,’ Marg said, a little smug at having picked up this knowledge from her granddaughter. ‘Perfectly safe for old textiles.’

‘That isn’t the point. It’s about the dignity.’

Marg snorted. Doris had never been dignified in her life, and had only gotten worse in her undeath.

Leaving the sewing machine for the moment, Helen came to help with the gowns. She eyed them critically, and then looked Doris up and down. ‘We’re not going to fit into these,’ she pointed out.

‘Are you calling me fat?’

Marg sighed. ‘Honestly, ladies, shut up and get on with it!’

It took the three women nearly two hours to get all six gowns off their mannequins, with only minor damage done. Arthritic fingers and poor eyesight failed to assist in their efforts: a hook and eye fastening came off one gown, and some lace was ripped on another. Doris muttered at each new injury, but nothing could be done. Finally, the dresses lay draped over other exhibits - ‘Keep them off the floor!’ Doris had insisted.

‘Well, I suppose now we’ll have to put them on,’ Marg said distastefully.

‘We’re already dressed,’ Helen pointed out, with a gesture at her own attire.

‘You hate that dress.’ Doris was already struggling into one of the older gowns, her modern attire discarded on the floor. Helen blushed and looked away. ‘I had two maids to help me get this on the first time,’ she muttered. ‘Put your old clothes on a mannequin, that’ll confuse ‘em in the morning.’

‘The lack of maids is not the problem. It’s been two hundred years since that husband! Your body has… changed.’ Helen went with the tactful option.

‘A hundred and fifty,’ Doris muttered, bodice gaping.

By the time the dawn approached, three elderly women had six vintage wedding gowns wrapped around themselves in varying degrees of completeness, and one had a sewing machine balanced on her head. On the plus side, the museum’s CCTV couldn’t see them in all their wrinkled and saggy glory as they dashed as fast as their aged undead bodies allowed, to get home before the full light of day hit. The sun peeked over the horizon just as they slammed the door of Helen’s house behind them.

For a moment they simply stared at each other, in something like shock at what they had just done.

Finally, with a broadening grin, Doris said, ‘We should do that more often.’

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

Wedding Colors (Part 3)

(Hayffie ❤️🧡💛💚💙💖. An exploration of Effie’s evolving character as she faces past and present personal intensities while making preparations for Finnick and Annie’s wedding.)

13:00—lunch. For the first time since the ominous day in July that she’d descended into the gloom of 13, Effie’s belly was full. As weeks had turned into months, she hadn’t felt hunger. She’d picked at meals and pushed unpalatable food around her tray. But now something was different. Flint scraped over steel inside her like the wind across her cheeks that morning. Her spoon repeatedly clinked the bottom of the bowl of squash soup. It took every ounce of restraint to not bring the whole bowl to her mouth and tilt it upward to collect the last drops.

Keenly observant, Cressida noted, “That’s new.”

“What?”

“You finishing a meal here.” She dropped her voice. “Are you pregnant, Trinket?”

Effie’s face flushed scarlet, blushing through burnt cheeks. “Bite your tongue!” she snapped.

Cressida glanced at Pollux, and Effie recognized her own faux pas. “Please excuse me. I wasn’t thinking about...”

Interacting with an Avox who was a regular citizen rather than a servant of the Capitol was still a new experience for her.

Pollux signed, “No problem,” and his brother offered the translation.

Effie returned her attention to the inquisitive filmmaker. “I’m JUST hungry. Must a woman be pregnant in order to finish a bowl of soup?” She whispered “pregnant” as if saying it too loudly might invite the situation. Or just as worrisome, Haymitch could walk in at that moment, hear the word, flip out, and not touch her again. Now that she’d opened the Pandora’s box of sex with him, she didn’t want to put a lid back on it.

“Okay. I get it.” Cressida was intrigued by Effie’s blush, but otherwise mollified. “You like the soup. End of story.”

It was golden orange in color and lightly flavored with spices that tasted like autumn. Ginger was recognizable, but the others were a mystery to Effie. Her experience with cooking was mostly limited to a course she’d taken a decade and a half prior at Charis School of Grace, Beauty, and Charm.

Her mother had insisted on “Finishing School” for Effie after she graduated from the Academy. The summer classes had been a compromise, since her father was resolute in his intention to send her to University. He’d even dipped into his personal inheritance to pay extra tuition when her test scores didn’t qualify her outright for admission.

“Charis will focus Euphemia on the most sophisticated etiquette and deportment, preparing her for marriage into greater wealth,” her mother argued.

“University will prepare Effie for a practical career suited to her strongest skills,” her father contended.

“Grace, beauty, and charm ARE her strongest skills. Face it, dear. Like you, our daughter lacks the talent to be a Gamemaker.”

“She has the talent to be more than a rich man’s wife.”

“If I were the wife of a RICH man, then we wouldn’t be having this conversation, would we?”

Their barbs stung each other. After years of practice, the Trinkets knew just where to aim them. They agreed that Effie needed a path which would secure an optimal future for the family. Neither of them asked her what she wanted.

If they’d asked back then, she would have had one specific answer. And if she was honest with herself now, her deepest desire was exactly the same. If she’d voiced it then, her parents would have sent her to the Asylum first before anything else. So she said nothing about it.

By 18, she’d become a master at the art of knowing when to hold her tongue. She’d internalized the pressure to please her parents and reflect positively on her family’s name and station in society. The burden of doing so was a heavy weight on her shoulders.

Effie’s shoulders ached too from the physical work of gathering and carrying around large sacks of perfect leaves. She daydreamed about a bath full of bubbles followed by a nap on a real bed. Allowing the fantasy was a mistake because then her body screamed for it.

She wondered if even babies were allowed to nap here, or did they get merely a half hour of “reflection” before dinner like everyone else? Did they have daily schedules imprinted on their chubby little arms? Eat. Poop. Sleep. What else did the tiny things do? She’d never paid much attention to them in the Capitol. Had she ever seen a baby in 13? She couldn’t recall.

***

14:00—volunteering. The children would be out of school soon. Plutarch told her to expect them along with anyone who was between work shifts. Coin was allowing more flexibility than usual in order to encourage volunteerism. Effie considered the irony in the word spelled out on her arm in purple ink. Following schedules was mandatory. Once “volunteering” is tattooed on your body, doesn’t it cease to be voluntary?

That place made her head hurt if she thought about it too much. She pulled her rose-tinted sunglasses out of her pocket and put them on, hoping the change in light would temper some of the ache, and help her feel less vulnerable.

“Ready or not, here I go,” she said out loud.

She approached the kitchen staff for permission to use large plastic serving bowls to hold the leaves at the tables. The kitchen manager, a middle aged woman named Cuire, put up resistance, muttering something about needing authorization from the president.

Greasy Sae showed no qualms about interjecting. “Now, those leaves ain’t all that different from a salad. We’ll have the bowls washed again long before dinner service.”

The older woman, with her hair up in a kerchief more plain than Effie’s, carried a stack of serving bowls through the doorway without waiting for the manager’s consent. She returned to the kitchen for more until every serving bowl in 13 was in the dining hall. Cuire pursed her lips but said nothing.

Sae pulled a handful of leaves out of one of the canvas bags and dropped them into a bowl. “The list of procedures here’s a mile long. Sometimes the only way to keep these folks from sayin’ ‘no’ is to just not ask ‘em. And then work fast.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Effie joined her efforts to quickly transfer the leaves to the bowls. “Thank you, Sae.”

“Thank YOU, girl. Gatherin’ up all these to make pretty things for the weddin’, you must be exhausted.”

“I had help. From Haymitch.”

“Did you?”

“I had to ambush him.”

“Nah. As often as that boy looks at you, I’d guess he went willingly.”

Ambushed and willing. Yes, he was.

Beetee wheeled up to her with several spools of wire, wire cutters, rolls of electrical tape, and several pairs of scissors.

“The copper color is PERFECT!” Effie gushed.

“This wire is at least a hundred years old,” he replied with little emotion, “The only reason it shows no corrosion is because 13 is fastidious about its storage conditions, including adequate air circulation. The gauge is small. The electrical current from present technologies, would overload and overheat it. The wire is rather useless actually.”

“Well, we’ve found a use for it!”

“In the absence of copper tape, this seems the best match, which is ironic since brown is typically used for high voltages. And high voltages would burn right through this particular wire.”

“We’re just making garlands today, not blowing out an arena!”

“You’re speaking non-metaphorically, of course. We might hope the propo will play a role in shattering the Capitol’s grip on the restless minds of its citizens... That said, it isn’t my intention to imply that YOUR mind is gripped and restless.”

A gripped and restless mind sounded fairly accurate to Effie. “I doubt the Capitol views me as its citizen at this point.” I guess that makes me homeless, even though my family home, my apartment, my belongings, my entire history are all there.

Beetee noticed her smile fade. “You might be right about that. ...I’m sorry.”

After seeing what her victors had been through and what they were still going through, she felt uncomfortable being apologized to by a victor who she held in high regard. I don’t deserve an apology, though manners dictated the proper response to an apology was a gracious, “Thank you.”

“Will you be staying to help?” she added.

“I’m needed in Special Defense. Bring the leftover supplies when you come down later.”

“Beetee, thank you for this.”

The clock was ticking. Effie went to work immediately, arranging leaves in alternating colors and shapes and adhering the stems to a long length of wire.

“What a beautiful pattern!” A friendly voice spoke over Effie’s shoulder. She turned to see Delly Cartwright whose blonde hair fell free of its usual braid.

“An artisan! Delly, I’m grateful you’re here to help with production and quality control.”

From their occasional chats at mealtimes, Effie had learned that Delly’s parents had been shoemakers, and 13 put her to work in textile production as soon as she’d turned 18.

“Me? An artisan?”

“You WILL be, dear. I’ve seen your stitching. I’ve also observed your congenial way with people.” Effie cut a long length of wire for Delly and set her up with supplies to work at another table. “Let’s spread around the talent.”

When school let out, Delly’s younger brother was the first to arrive, not wanting to go “home” to empty quarters. Posy Hawthorne followed close at his heels, skipping to keep up with his much longer legs.

“Stop followin’ me!” he told her.

“I’m not followin’ you. We’re just goin’ the same place, that’s all.”

“Well, you’re a baby, and I don’t want you sittin’ at MY table.”

“Cordwain!” Delly interjected, “That’s not polite!”

“I’m FIVE years old, and I’ll sit wherever I please, CordWAIN.” With three older brothers, Posy could hold her own in disagreements with just about anyone, especially boys. Effie admired that along with her manners.

“Aw, Dellyyyy,” her brother whined, “You’re supposed to call me Cord!”

“You apologize to Posy, and I won’t have to be so stern.”

“Do I HAVE to?! She’s just Vick’s little sister.”

“And you’re MY little brother, so, yes, you do. You know Ma and Pa would say so if—“

“Ma and Pa are dead!” Cord sat at the table with Delly and folded his arms across his chest.

Delly sighed, and her tone softened, “Cordy, honey, that’s all the more reason to apologize.”

His lip quivered, and he muttered in a hoarse voice. “Sorry.”

“I’m sorry they died,” Posy empathized, “My daddy died b’fore I was born.”

She sat across from Effie and looked at her for a long fifteen seconds. Effie wasn’t used to children being so young. The girl’s dark hair fell long past her shoulders in two braids. Her gray eyes were deeply set. She had the look of a person who’d seen the shadow of death and kept going.

“I like your pink glasses.” Posy twirled one of her braids around her finger. “I used to have pink ribbons. Two of ‘em.”

“When I was your age, I wore pink ribbons in my hair. Pink was my favorite color.”

“Mine too! Gale says we can’t go back fer the ribbons. He says they’re gone. Do you think they’re gone?”

“Well... I...” For goodness sake. What does one say to a child whose district was fire bombed to rubble?

Cord muttered some more, “Of course they’re gone!”

Posy ignored him, waiting for Effie’s response.

“Your brother, Gale, is wise, dear.” Effie saw her expectant little face fall. “I am going to your district tomorrow. With Katniss. Would you like for me to look for the ribbons so you know for certain?”

Posy nodded.

“Then I’ll be sure to do that. In the meantime would you like to help make a garland? There aren’t any pink leaves, but there are other pretty colors.”

Posy reached into the bowl and pulled out a red one. “Can I do this one?”

“Of course. Let me show you.”

Effie demonstrated with a different leaf then watched Posy’s small fingers peel and cut the tape and use it to add her chosen leaf to the copper wire.

“How’s that?” the girl asked.

The tape was crooked. The leaf was crooked, and it didn’t fall in line with the pattern. Effie considered telling her so. Aemilia Trinket certainly would have. And for that reason if no other, Effie said to the five-year/old, “That’s wonderful, dear.”

Posy beamed. “You’re nice. You’re not scary at all! I’m gonna go tell Rory that he’s wrong.” She hopped out of the chair and skipped away, turning around long enough to say, “I’ll be back!”

Effie watched her go, not knowing quite what to think. Rory?... She couldn’t remember who that was. One of the Hawthorne boys?

“This year would have been Rory’s first reaping,” Delly explained.

Effie didn’t need to hear anything more in order to understand. The truth split her heart. Half of it dropped like lead into her stomach. The other half rose up into her throat, threatening to choke her.

The children are afraid of me.

Even without a reaping ball in front of me, they are still afraid.

In that moment, she didn’t have time or space to process the realization. She just sat there, forcing a smile, trying to keep the vacant feeling in her chest from showing on her face. As volunteers streamed into the dining hall, she swallowed the lump in her throat, pressed her palm to her stomach, and directed the project as planned.

More children arrived giggling and singing, 🎶”Come live with me and be my love...”🎶 It was the beginning of District 4’s wedding song, which they’d started learning in school. 🎶”...I'll take you out upon the sea...”🎶 drew them into conversation about how the ocean might look, feel, sound, smell, and taste. None of them had ever been to the seashore. They’d only seen it in books.

🎶”...To share the starry night with you...” 🎶 intrigued them too. Some of the children from 12 tried to describe the stars to the kids from 13 who had never been above ground at night. “A star is like the tip of the flame of a candle that never flickers.”... “They just pop out in the sky as it’s changing from blue to black.”... “My grandma says stars are ghosts that come to visit us at night. Good ghosts, not scary ones.”... “Ghosts ain’t real.”... “Are so!”... “Are not!”

Dozens of adults were there to cut wire and strips of tape for the younger children and to ensure the garlands turned out beautifully.

With so many helping hands, Effie had to let go of her precise plans. The work of other artisans became apparent as some patterns emerged which were even more pleasing than what Plutarch and Effie envisioned.

Boggs showed up, carrying his son on his hip. The boy seemed younger than Posy, though Effie was far from an expert about children under 12. Boggs sat at a table with the boy in his lap. The little one reached for the leaves just as Boggs’ communicuff started flashing wildly. “Damon, buddy, President Coin is calling. I’ve just lost my break time. I’m going to need to take you back to daycare, but maybe Miss Trinket will let you take one of the leaves with you?” Boggs gave Effie a pleading look. The last thing he needed just then was an upset kid.

Damon’s big brown eyes welled up with tears. He wiped them away with the backs of his hands which were filled with leaves that he didn’t want to let go. Since the epidemic, Boggs and his son had been on their own. Looking into those teary eyes, Effie couldn’t help but feel for them. The feeling seeped into that empty space in her chest, and eased a bit of the void.

“Your son can stay awhile, if you’d like. Then I can take him back to daycare.”

“Are you sure? He’s a handful, and you have a lot going on here.”

Seeing herself in the moment as “scary ghost” rather than a star, Effie definitely was NOT sure that she was the right person to be looking after a young child. “Of course, I’m sure,” she spoke through her smiling mask.

“What do you say, buddy? Do you want to stay with Miss Trinket and make a garland, or do you want me to take you back to daycare now?”

“It’s Effie. The only one who calls me Miss Trinket around here is Mr. Heavensbee.” She laughed.

Damon climbed down from Boggs’ lap and up into Effie’s. “Oh! Well, hello,” she said, pushing her chair back far enough to make room for him. He was heavier than he’d looked in the strong arms of his father. He squirmed around reaching for everything at once: more leaves of every shape and color, scissors...

Boggs’ eyes widened.

Effie handed Damon a roll of tape in trade for the scissors. “You can hold the tape, and I’LL do the cutting.”

‘Thank you,’ Boggs mouthed the words then told his son, “This is an important job, soldier. Effie is your commanding officer. Are you going to take this work seriously and mind what she tells you to do?”

“Yeth, thir, Daddy, thir!” His lisp melted Effie’s heart.

“At ease, little man. I’ll pick you up from daycare at 18:00.” Boggs kissed his son’s forehead, and Damon was already hard at work attempting to peel tape off the roll.

As Effie helped the boy put leaves on the wire, Posy returned, accompanied by one of her brothers who hurried to claim an open seat next to Cord. Posy skipped up to Effie and patted her head. “I got Vick to come, but Rory’s stubborn. YOU know how boys can be.”

Effie looked up from the table to see Haymitch leaning against a pillar near the edge of the dining hall. He was watching her closely. The expression on his face was a loaded mix of curiosity and seriousness.

“Yes, I do know how boys can be,” Effie agreed, “Especially when they are afraid.”

Haymitch had never seen Effie around little kids, and he was fascinated. The Hawthorne girl chattered on and on, tucking leaf stems into the top knot of Effie’s kerchief. Boggs’ kid was in Effie’s lap, crushing leaves with his hands and unwrapping tape for her to cut with scissors. A girl Haymitch didn’t recognize sat to the side, touching Effie’s bracelet. “Is this silver and gold?” the kid asked.

“This s costume jewelry,” Effie answered.

“What’s ‘costume’?” the girl wanted to know.

“A costume is... something you might wear when you are... pretending.”

The Hawthorne girl said to the other one, “You can wear one of my pink ribbons sometime, and we can pretend to be twins... if Effie finds my ribbons in 12 tomorrow.”

Effie locked eyes with Haymitch. “I promised I’d look, Posy, but please don’t get your hopes up, dear.”

He was trying to make sense of the situation. Effie’s going to 12 tomorrow? Why? And why is nobody telling me anything! Pissed off, he started to walk away.

“Excuse me, girls. Damon, let’s go talk to Haymitch for a few minutes.” Effie stood up, holding the boy on her hip as Boggs had done. “Haymitch! Wait...” She caught up to him before the staircase. If he’d really wanted to avoid her, he would have already been long gone.

“What are you thinking!?” he asked, unsure of what he was wondering about most... Why was Effie going to 12 where the burned corpses of his people were still rotting? Why didn’t she tell him about her plans? And what the hell was his heart doing as he watched her with those little kids?

“Annie needs help selecting one of Cinna’s dresses for the wedding, and Katniss asked if I could go with them for support. So, of course, I said yes. ...Not that I owe you an explanation.”

“You owe me nothing, sweetheart. But it’s bad there. You’re going to see things that’ll change you.”

“I’m already changing.” She boosted the kid up on her hip. “There’s nothing I can do to stop that. ...And I don’t think I want to stop it.”

Damon dropped the leaves and rubbed his eyes. “Are you tired... buddy?” Effie hesitantly used one of Boggs’ nicknames for the boy. He shook his head ‘no’, but rubbed his eyes again. “How about we take these leaves to daycare so you can show your daddy?”

Damon nodded and opened his hands to the floor where the leaves had fallen. Haymitch bent to pick them up and handed them back to the kid. He stood close to them. Effie smelled like the woods, faintly like ginger, and mostly like her. The fragrances helped him feel less agitated. They were familiar, as if less was changing all at once.

“Thank you,” she said about the leaves, “Will you please tell Delly where I’m going and ask her to stay until I return?”

“Sure”

She rested her palm on Haymitch’s shirt where his sweater gaped open. She brushed her fingertips along the buttons. “Will YOU stay until I return? I could really use your help hanging these garlands in Special Defense.”

Her touch felt too good for him to say no.

The peace in his expression was answer enough for her.

As he watched her walk away, a smile crept over his face. He was far too amused to remind Effie that the Hawthorne girl had embellished her head wrap with at least a dozen leaves. In all the years, it was the best *wig* he’d seen her wear. If she was going to roam around 13 looking like a tree, then who was he to stop her?

[kiatheinsomniac]

Huntress VI

Huntress Masterlist: [CLICK HERE]

The light slanted down onto the market from between the rooves and alleys of the Venetian houses, light reflecting off the surfaces of the canals and casting shadows everywhere else simultaneously. She observed from the corner of her hood, shifting from foot to foot on the cobbled path as she idly turned an orange over in her hand, feeling all the pores of its skin as she counted down slowly in her head.

'Five. . . Four. . . Three. . . Two. . . One. . .'

There he was, the guard, right on the dot - the same one who had doubted her vampire-hunting abilities solely for the fact that she was a woman. She looked back down at the stall, not wishing to be recognised. Having grown much too humiliated in her borrowed courtesan attire, (Y/n) had borrowed a spare set of Ezio's clothes while he was in the basement of their new hideout: a villa belonging to a trader and his family who were currently away for a wedding in Rome. (Y/n) and Ezio would be able to camp out there for a week until they were back.

The Assassin's robes were much too big on her: the shirt still too large despite being tucked into the trousers which were held up by the borrowed belt and had to be rolled up at the ankles. The brown cloak was stolen from a washing line and the shoes were taken from the family home they were resting in - and she was careful to not be spotted because these certainly weren't running shoes.

The huntress had one current objective: plot her route into the Duca's villa to retrieve her things. Apparently, the guards were on high alert and Ezio's contact was unable to acquire (Y/n)'s belongings. Part of her wanted to kill the Duca while she was there too: throw a knife from the door while he slept, guarded by two men but she knew that this plan would only result in failure: she didn't have that set of skills.

She placed the orange down on the market stall and eyed up the guards stationed around the villa again. If the night routine was the same, she should have a window of time to make her way into the ground floor through a window.

"Three oranges, please." She requested of the vendor as she pulled a coin purse from her pocket. The money was Ezio's and she was calling it 'borrowed' to make herself feel better about it. Given the nature of their relationship, he wasn't in much of a position to reprimand her anyway.

She pressed the coins into the man's hands as she continued to observe the patrols from her peripheral, turning her head down when a group of guards passed her, heading straight to the villa to take over the shift. She watched as they replaced the ones who had previously been on duty, a smug grin pulling at the corners of her lips as the three oranges were handed to her, wrapped in a creme fabric.

♰♰♰

When (Y/n) returned it was with a head full of new ideas, a heart full of determination and a hand full of oranges. She quietly closed the backdoor of the house (they were using that route to avoid being seen by the neighbours) and made her way to the bedroom they were camped out in when she walked in on a most surprising sight. Her eyes widened and she quickly turned around, hands clutching the fruits within them.

"So is this whole seeing each other almost naked something you vampires do? Because I'm not so sure that I'm fond of it." She spoke and heard a sigh behind her.

"Well, if someone hadn't taken my clothes, I wouldn't be like this and if someone hadn't taken my money, I would have been able to buy new ones." She heard the flat tone from behind her, making her laugh awkwardly. It wasn't a nervous laugh or a dry one: it was the sort that was created to fill space, to try and call attention to itself to try and clear away another subject. Her eyes skimmed down to the terracotta-coloured tiles and the off-white walls with their large extravagant portraits that stretched down the main hall, statues dotted between them. A dark red carpet ran along the middle of the floor as well.

"Well, if your contact had been able to retrieve my stuff, I wouldn't have had the need to borrow these things. I need a- are you decent yet?" She cut herself off, finding it too uncomfortable to talk to him with her back turned.

"I don't have anything to wear."

"The sheets!" She snapped in response. She waited to hear the rise and fall of fabric shuffling before turning around, seeing that he had only covered his legs. It wasn't like he was entirely naked - he had underwear on - but it was far too little for (Y/n)'s liking. She glanced over to the curtains which fluttered lightly in the breeze, the window must have been open.

He was seated on the grand four-poster bed and it's dull white silken sheets. The room was rather bare other than a vanity, a desk and a wardrobe - all of which were mostly empty seeing as this was a guest room.

"What happened to your clothes anyway?" She mused as she set the oranges down on the bedside and tossed his coin purse back to him, noting the look of disdain on his face at noticing she had spent his money. "Look, it may not be important to you but eating is very important to me." She added.

"There's a passage under the villa that leads to a canal, it's dark but it's a good way to travel in the daytime for someone like me. What I hadn't anticipated was the guard at the end of the tunnel who managed to push me into the water during our fight." (Y/n) thought over his words before a bigger picture became apparent in her mind.

"When was the last time you. . ." She trailed off, not quite knowing how to put it in a non-alarmed way. She shot him an almost warning glance from the corner of her (e/c) eyes. He shot her a questioning look and she made her way over to the window, peeking out from the edge of the curtains and spotting his clothes laid on the sill. She held onto the velvet fabric, caressing its softness with her fingertips. An unspoken threat.

"Fed?" He questioned, seeing the witch nod her head in response, he sighed and held his hands in his lap, leaning forwards. "Too long ago." She knew that it had been almost three weeks now. He must be starving.

"Do you plan on. . . I mean, I'd rather it be someone else than me." She debated over making a joke of this, showing her trust by following this up with a laugh and walking over to the screen to change out of his clothes. But she didn't trust him yet so she followed it up with a serious gaze, fingers wrapping around the edge of the dark and heavy curtain.

"I was planning on going out tonight." He replied.

"What time will you be back?" She quizzed, perhaps trying to make such a dark subject seem more casual, to seem more about concern for him than for whoever he would kill later that day. She didn't ask it the way someone would interview a murderer, how would one even go about that? No.

"Don't wait, I won't be back until just before the sunrise." (Y/n) scoffed, knowing what it meant if he would be back so late.

"We have work to do and you're going to play games?" She raised a brow and watched his face contort into offence.

"Look, it may not be important to you but eating is very important to me." He quoted her own words from earlier.

"Yes but I don't sleep with my food before I eat it." She threw back, "I know how Elizabetta was found. Most of your kind like to play some sort of sick game before you go for the kill, something to get the blood pumping." She sneered, realising that that disdain no longer sounded natural in her voice, it was becoming more forced now - a part of her that she thought was so important to her life that she almost didn’t want to let go of it, even if she knew she had to.

She knew she was now swinging, like a pendulum, between trying to earn his trust and reverting to what had almost become an instinctual prejudice. In the past, she always spoke so lowly of vampires, always slandered them at every given chance, so hellbent on revenge. Now that she owed her life to one, it didn't feel right.

"At least I'm more civil about it - I could make them fear for their lives with a chase in the woods." He replied as he stood up, tucking the sheet around his waist and walking towards her, delicately taking her wrist and drawing her hand away from the looming threat of the curtain.    

"Yes, because-" She began sarcastically before cutting herself off. Even if she disagreed, it wouldn't help anything to voice that aloud. What they needed right now was to be able to trust one another. He had drawn her hand closer to him, thumb caressing her wrist and she curled her fingers inwards, hesitantly tugging her own hand back to her side, feeling him press down on her pulse before his eyes met hers and he realised that he may be putting her in a fight or flight position.

And he had learned already that she was the fighting type.

"I need to ask a favour of you. . ." She began, making her way back across the room and tossing her stolen cloak onto the foot of the bed.

"What is it?"

"I need you to steal something for me: the uniform of one of the Duca's guards." Her (e/c) eyes flitted to their corners where she caught how his brows shot up.

"Why? May I ask?" He spoke as he checked the dampness of his clothes, being mindful to keep his skin away from the sunlight.

"I want to break in, that's why." She replied in a cold tone, the stinging of her feet and the bite of rope against her wrists reforming in her memory, "I want my belongings back and I'll set the bastard's chambers alight if I'm able." She paused as the picture of it formed in her mind: the smoke pluming from the window she would leave open, allowing it to rise up like a beacon; a sign to the man who had used her then tried to kill her once she became an inconvenience - him and everyone else in this group she still felt that she knew too little about. "I want him to be afraid." A silence hung over the room, a pensive one.

"Do you know how to pickpocket?" Ezio spoke up and she could hear him retreat to the far side of the room, securely tucked away from any possible venturing sunlight.

"Why would I need to?" She returned with a small glance over her shoulder in his direction.

"So you can stop stealing my money and start stealing someone else's." He replied with a laddish smile, watching in delight as she rolled her eyes but returned his comment with a hesitant smile of her own. "If you truly want to make use of yourself, I'll leave you in the hands of a friend of mine. She'll teach you some skills that will come in handy if you wish to stay with me until we can finish off the Duca."

"And this friend? Is he a vampire too?" (Y/n) knew that she could handle Ezio and that he could tolerate her but she knew that her sharp tongue and developed vampiric disdain could get her into trouble with anyone else of his kind kind.

"She is very much human. More of a political ally than one of kin." He responded as he sat back down at the foot of the bed.

"What will she teach me? Other than pickpocketing?" The witch spoke as she seated herself down on a stool by the unlit fireplace, glancing at the ashen pit and somewhat wanting to light it, with the autumn chill snaking in through the open window.

"How to climb, keep your balance over rooftops-"

"What need do I have for-"

"Even how to climb right into the Duca's window." He continued, playing to her wish to set fire to the man's room as he had ordered for her to be burned. He could see the intrigue in her eyes now, the way she looked up from beneath her lashes.

"It's probably best that you start making contacts in Venice seeing as you've lost all of them now."

"The word 'lost' doesn't quite seem to portray that they tried to execute me. . . with fire." She replied with a sigh and an undertone of bitterness at the memory.

"How have your legs been feeling?" He asked out of concern. It often slipped his mind just how fragile she was compared to him. He watched as part of her dropped a little and she brought her legs up on the stool with her, crossing them.

"I don't think that the scars that will go away. The worst of it is at my ankles but some of them stretch up my calves a bit." She bit down on her lip and one of her hands went to rub at the puckered flesh there under her socks, having already toed off her stolen shoes. "My legs feel better though, stronger than they were at the start of this anyway. I hope your friend will go easy on me." She added a laugh at the end of the phrase but it came out drily - Ezio could tell that she was still thinking about her injuries. Perhaps, he thought, she didn't even care that she would have to live with a memento of it for the rest of her life; perhaps it was because she could live with them while all those in her coven died with them.

They passed the next hour in conversation before (Y/n) made her way to the drawing-room where a shelf of books had caught her interest the previous day. She nestled herself in the window seat (with the curtains drawn, of course) and began reading a copy of Illiad.

A good amount of pages in, the shimmer of a blade caught her attention from her peripheral. There stood Ezio, in his clothes once more, with one sword at his hip and the other being held out to her in offering.

"What? Want to lose?" (Y/n) mused with a teasing grin on her lips as she set the book down.

"You haven't practised in weeks. I've been keeping up." He reminded her as she took the blade and rolled her shoulders, getting into a fighting stance as he drew his own blade from his hip.

"You don't forget how to wield a sword." She began before darting towards him, using the element of surprise by attacking halfway through the phrase.

The clash of steel rang through the room until it grew dark and (Y/n) grew tired. She fell down into the bed of the guest room they had selected for their stay (they tried to keep to as few rooms as possible in order to avoid leaving any trace of their presence in the house). The witch had grown exhausted from so many hours of sparring.

She looked to the end of the bed where Ezio was now fastening his belt and armour of his robes. But her body was now both weakened and tired and she rolled over, bringing the blankets around her figure as she did so.

Ezio made his way to where she lay and reached for the thicker comforter at the end of the bed, throwing it over her body to keep her warm, knowing that her body was much more prone to the cold than his. Her eyes remained closed and her breathing had now slowed as her head sank into the softness of the pillow which lulled her to sleep. The man reached his hand out to brush the hair back from her (s/t) complexion before cupping her jaw, leaning down to press his cold lips to her warm cheek which only grew warmer as her nose scrunched up a little and she turned her head into the pillow more.

"Go and get something to eat." She murmured and he hummed, almost not wanting to leave her. It was rare for him to see her so peaceful, he had stood in the doorway for a few minutes just to admire her reading before offering to spar earlier for this very same reason.

With reluctance, his hand fell from her warm skin and he vanished into the Venetian night.

[kuriquinn]

The Day After

Blanket Fic Disclaimer

Title: The Day After

Rating: K

Pairing: None (mentions SasuSaku)

Summary:   Is it weird that I’m getting used to interpreting ‘Papa-Speak’ after only one day?

Beta Reader: Not beta-read, check back at a later date for edits.

Author’s Note: Yeah, so this is long overdue from when I was filling Sarada Week prompts and I just noticed I’d outlined it but never wrote it, and I desperately needed to write something today that wasn’t my original novel, which is driving me nuts because halfway through writing it in one POV and tense, it decided it wanted to switch, and then also split into someone else’s POV, and just, UGH! Why is writing original stories not as simple as fanfiction! So here, have some Sarade & Sasuke bonding. Because everyone needs a little feel good fluff now and again...

Sarada holds up a bright red picture frame in front of her father, scrunching up her face as she studies him behind the edge. He looks down at her blankly.

“What are you doing?” he asks, and she’s not sure how, but he manages to convey both intense curiosity and mild amusement even without much vocal inflection.

“I’m trying to look at what frames look best with our complexion,” she tells him, which appears to confuse him. She sighs and puts down the frame, starting to rummage around the display for another. “Inojin should really be here for this. He’s so good at this kind of thing,”

Not that she would actually trade away this alone time with her father. They haven’t really been alone together since they arrived home yesterday. Mama has been a convenient buffer between them, filling in silences and suggesting activities for them to take part in as a family.

Like she’s trying to cram as many memories into a few days as she can.

As if we could make up for all the time before, Sarada thinks sadly. Or the time to come.

She knows her father will be leaving the village again soon, but she’s been trying not to think about it too much.

Glancing up at Papa, she notices that he retains his blank look, clearly not knowing who she’s talking about. It occurs to her that maybe he has never met Inojin before.

“He’s one of my friends from the Academy,” she explains. “Mama says you know his parents, and that you went to school with his mom.” He still looks blank. “Auntie Ino?”

Recognition at last. “Ah. Yes. Sai’s boy.”

She thinks she sees his lips purse a bit at that, but she could be mistaken. Her eyes have been picking up on a lot of small things since her Sharingan manifested.

A silence stretches between them then, and Sarada shifts uncomfortably, trying to think of something else to say.

She’s saved when Papa stoops slightly and reaches for a frame at the back of the display. He holds it up for Sarada, and there’s an aura of uncertainty around him.

“I like this one,” he says, and despite the bluntness of the sentiment, she gets the sense he’s asking for her opinion.

Is it weird that I’m getting used to interpreting ‘Papa-Speak’ after only one day? Sarada wonders, taking the frame in her hand. She takes a close look at it, noting the large white, metal rim with curled edges. Well, at least this one won’t break so easily if Mama breaks the house again.

“I like it too,” she tells him, grinning.

She thinks he looks relieved, though she’s not sure if that’s because of her approval or because they don’t need to spend much more time lingering over the picture frame display.

He follows her to the cash, and she starts digging into her pocket for her little money purse, but Papa shakes his head. He is already placing several rumpled bills and dirty coins on the counter.

The cashier, a freckled teenaged girl with blond hair, is gazing up at him in awe, and almost forgets to put the money in her till until Sarada coughs a reminder.

That’s been happening a lot, she thinks, as the girl makes a nervous apology and goes to hand Papa the change. He shakes his head and glances at Sarada while she takes the plastic bag with the frame. I don’t know why. He doesn’t look as scary as he did when he was wearing his travelling cloak.

Mama had made him leave that at home for mending before they left for their errands today.

The staring trend continues as they step out into the busy mall and head back to the small photography studio where Mama is waiting for their pictures to develop. Sarada wonders at first if it’s because of his arm—there aren’t a lot of amputees in the villages these days. Most shinobi that lose limbs in the line of duty have replacements grown for them at the hospital. Mama talks all the time about advances that have been made in limb replacement, and even Boruto was talking the other day about a man with a mechanical arm

Though, he might have been talking about one of his and Shikadai’s stupid games, she muses. I wonder why Papa never got a new arm, the way Lord Hokage did?

There’s never been an opportunity to ask that, though, and things are awkward enough as it is without that line of conversation.

Her awareness of the continued staring increased, and Sarada frowns, nothing that in more than one instance she senses something like hostility. Papa either doesn’t notice it or doesn’t care.

Or maybe he’s used to it. The idea troubles her more than she would like, because why would people be hostile to her father? He’s a hero, isn’t he?

Papa may take no notice of other people’s expressions, but he does notice her suddenly subdued manner.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Nothing!” she says—too fast, because he continues to wait expectantly. She shrugs, uncomfortable and then says, “It’s just…people are staring. At you.”

“Hm.”

She thinks that’s acknowledgement.

“But…why?”

“I haven’t been here in a while,” he replies, which, yes, that could be true, but somehow she senses that’s not the reason.

“It feels like more than that.”

He is quiet a beat, takes a breath in hesitation, and then says, “You’re right.”

Sarada’s eyes widen in surprise, because she didn’t expect him to agree with her so easily. It took her forever to get information out of him when she first tracked him down, but now he seems to be making an effort to be open.

“I am?”

“Yes.”

“So… Why?”

But Papa shakes his head. “Now is not the time.”

Sarada puffs her cheeks out in annoyance, deciding she spoke too soon about him being forthcoming.

“Why not?”

“Because we don’t have enough of it,” he replies, and that halts her frustration, because that’s…deeper a response than she was expecting. Her stomach flips, sensing that they are broaching unsteady territory.

“Is it…” she begins, careful, and not quite knowing how to ask, “does it have to do with why there’s no information about our family in the village archives?”

His eyes close at this, like he’s recalling an old hurt. “Yes.”

“Oh.”

She is frustrated and curious all at once, and she really wants to be annoyed with him, but there’s a sudden sadness that passes over his face, and she immediately feels bad.

“It’s okay, Papa,” she tells him quickly. “We can talk about it some other time. Maybe when you come back.” She reflects for a moment. “Unless…should I ask Mama? I mean, if you don’t want to talk about it.”

“No,” he says with a surprising firmness. “I would prefer to tell you myself.” Then, noting her astonished look, he adds, “If that’s alright with you.”

He’s asking her permission, and that makes her heart flutter happily.

“Okay,” she says. “I can wait—as long as you promise it won’t be for a long time again.”

He considers, and then nods. “It won’t be.”

It rings like a promise.

“Good.” Sarada nods her head decisively. Then, after a second of hesitation, she slips her free hand through her father’s. He blinks down at their connected hands in mild surprise. “Let’s go show Mama the frame we got.”

The corner of his mouth twitches upward a little.

“Alright,” he agrees.

Comments and concrit are much appreciated, and very motivating! For information about supporting my original, non-fandom related works, you’re welcome to check out my ko-fi tip jar, or my patreon page.

栗

[queen-asante]

ejucated immigrant

((AUTHOR’S NOTE: @eene-fangirl For the Fanfiction Weekend Challenge! I should probably wait to post this for Rolf Appreciation Month, but there’s a lot of Jonny backstory/headcanons in here, so I thought it would count. Basically, it’s a poem from Rolf’s POV but it’s technically about Jonny, or rather, Jonny was my muse for this.

I haven’t written a poem in Rolf’s ‘’voice’’ since 2014 but believe it or not, that one little line that Edd says in ‘’A Case of Ed’’ inspired the poem (you know, the one), and as I was reading Ntozake Shange’s for colored girls who have considered suicide/ when the rainbow is enuf, it produced said result. A turnip for your thoughts? I don’t normally write Rolf like this, it’s actually more like Rolf emulating Ntozake Shange for those familiar with her style. As an Indian Immigrant girl who’s considered suicide, that book changed my life, she’s my idol. Hence, the poem is written in ebonics and all lower case to pay homage to Shange (and I consciously dropped third person redundancies, it wasn’t a mistake). Three non-EEnE characters are briefly mentioned: the first one is Vanessa, my friend who’s half African-American and half Haitian. The second one is Ice, who belongs to my friend, Dani. Ice, in her world, is a black and white cat who becomes Double D’s pet. Rolf fears him because he’s not only black and white, but he shares the name of Immigration and Customs Enforcement by pure coincidence. Dani didn’t plan this, as she created Ice before she met me but she liked the idea of giving Rolf a reason to fear the cat, and so we came up with that story together. The third one is Dr. Feelgood who was my therapist, it’s not her real name, it was an affectionate nickname I coined for her in my years battling Bipolar Disorder Type 3.

As a closing thought, much apologies for the length, also tumblr’s going to mess up the format.))

‘’ejucated immigrant’’

dear gods,

i be 14 wit skin as rough as treebark & hands dat look old

i waz the dark skined immigrant wanting to bathe in bleach

Brown Black / Blue Black / Amber Beige / Bister Brick Bronze / Chestnut Chocolate Cinnamin

Copper / Drab / Dust / Ginger / Fawn / Ochre / Coffe Colourd Caramel

Tawny / Terra-Cotta / Henna / Sepia / Umbre

lookin in the thesurus eddward wit two ds give me when i come to dis country

everything spell Brown but nothing spell White

White sound nice like pearl like snow like milk like golden skined white skined light skined

honey dipped / lemon kissed / but begging for ivory / fair frosted silvery ashen boy jimmy

your white hands on my brown skin

i waz the dark skined immigrant botherin to drag you round

you stand there like a closed mouth statue & you insult my way of life

think you know everythin / rolf just some ignorant third world peasant or somethin

but we be livin dis way longer than the foundin of your land

your country young my country old

numbers & poppy / it just to give you illegitimately born breeds of donkeys

somethin to hee-haw over / science say there no gods either but who know dat

you cannot contain lightning bugs in a jar

i waz the dark skined immigrant dreamin of shakin the mr presidents hand

the former mr president wit eyes like a tired old man & Brown his Brown like a mud bath

it really too bad you know / rolf like your former president

dat black man who dont check dixtionaries for validation of his blackness

he not so bad / he waz sympathetic to the plight of the immigrant but his hands tied

not blame him / he not god he not have all the power in the world to fix dis weather

dis cloud dat hang over your land & who the hell is perfect?

it really such a shame / i dream to see the Hill / see the pearly house painted white the place where he live meet him shake his large brown hand / one brown hand to another

cept i not black / rolf not have to be / not pass / rolf european he is white not bloodless

he not pass he not be white enough for your country

cept i be white on the inside look coloured on the out but i aint no coloured

under my skin i am more than a colour

whoever herd of white passing for person of colour

but suddenly i get to dis country & i be treated no different than jonny

so alls i got is coloured dreams

poor grate nano lived & died on silly dreams / well they not exist

there be only reality & reality not kind to the dark skined indigenous immigrant

no one know what i supposed to be / take a wild guess

indian pakistani mexican romani rolf herd it all & none suppose right

they only looking at my face / the outside the outside not matter

cuz i waz the dark skined immigrant not italian not irish but the other kinds

& no one will see unless rolf cut open his veins & bleed

a Wood Nymph have my colour & if i check off the box dat say caucasian i get a funny look

from the lady sittin behind the counter wit the yellow nail polish & beaded eyeglass

spose if jonny do the same they wont believe him neither

jonny be good

yous see him dancin / wearin his stomach out / dark skined bare feet / swayin his hips

& grate thin arms but he not care dat he gots splinters in his fingertips

his nails turnin all black & blue & those chapped lips look like eyes starin out atchu

the gods make dis child the way he is

wit skinted knees & all & elbows pointed outwards readin you like a map

always wit the label on the left side

but he bootiful & he know it / beauty sometime come in the empty coffee can

not in the paper lillies or plastic pearls

you cant make a silk purse from a sows ear / even if dat ear be made of wood

of wood widda crayon drawn smile

jonnys mother the madwoman in the attic

rolf be certain jonny the wood boy some kind of elf from the passage of Valhöll

the mother of the Tree Sprite she not like rolf / well she not like any child it seems

weepy jimmy-boy & rolf invited to jonny-boys abode for a meeting of the Urban Rangers

& tho his mother never says so we feel she not like us very well

she never ast us to stay for lunch

even tho rolf personally would not eat a morsel of what these people eat

& we always been so polite to her but still she build walls

rolf believe she jealous of us becuz jonny likes us

she come out to the parlour / barefoot / flowers in her wild tangled mess of black raven hair

like yoko ono & wearing a long paisley skirt / she bootiful in an earthy sort of way

but she has a wild look in her eyes like a tigress

a violently insane expression like a german vampire dat make rolf think of bertha mason

she looms over her son like a dark older sister becuz they look so alike

altho her skin much darker / a deep chocolate brown / her complexion remind rolf of vanessa maybe she is haitian / she like the demon in nanas stories the one we all have widdin us

who comes out when we try too hard to be good children

she look at white as snow jimmy & myself like she disprove

either she not like us the uniforms or both

rolf forget tho these hippies wit their anti-establishment

they think every uniform represents what jonny calls ‘’the Man’’ & dats what it is rolf think

she not want jonny in the organisation

becuz she think it goes against their opposition to social norms

rolf could tell she wanted to ast us to leave / she not like jonny spending so much time wit us

becuz then he not at home meditating wit her or whatever it is they do

jonnys family is strange / they not eat meat & walk around shoeless

rolf has been called a gypsy by the children at school but flower child jonny seem to rolf more of a gypsy if there ever waz such a thing

he is almost ethereal / his family must be from a clan of faeries the kind nana warns rolf about but brown-skinned jonny seem harmless enough

i watch his mama put a daisy in the pocket of his jeans

i not know if his daddy be white or black but what difference does dat make

rolf understand it is important for a child to love their family no matter their faults

i know The Giving Tree still love his mother

even if she would prefer him to leave the Urban Rangers

of us three jimmy be the whitest of white jonny the blackest of black & i somewhere in between

but any one of us can walk into a puerto rican bar & start speakin spanish

& no one would know what we are

race too complicated & people too narrow minded / want everything boxed in

one day we waz layin on dat grassy knoll / jonny & i

where the trees whisper to us & we whisper back

cuz you know the boy talk to trees & i listen to his voice / & i be lookin at our hands you see

cuz we waz layin inches apart a flower between us & i tuck it behind his ear

then i look & see my skin only one shade lighter than his

tho the sun make me browner than i really be

out in the sun for hours & hours plowing & plowing the fields

by sundown i roasted coffee bean brown / as black as the inside of a chimney

& if i stumble into town any passing stranger would think i waz Black i mean African

id have to stay out of the sun for days to get my old colour black lest i wander round wit only the whites of my eyes visible on my sun burnt dyed rust brown brown skin

& hair so course youd suppose it come off a horses ass

lookin more like an American Indian than a White

i holdin the back of my hand up to jonnys now

how bout dat two brown hands one dark & one light but whos to say i not be a dark white & he not a light skined brown

dont you dare tell me what i am & am not

bitch dis aint no south africa where yous all can reassign us based on what you think

i aint no sandra laing but sometime i wouldnt mind bein black if it meant for you to leave me be

in fact ill gladly be whatever you want me to be but i am what i am

not black enough for black not white enough for white so what am i?

dont box me into Black & White / cuz in dis world brother dat not exist

im sorry as hell but i gettin real tired of bein called

an illegal / an alien / a wop / a gypsy / a guinea / a brownie whatever you want to call us

all your bigoted slurs clumping us together like we one & the same

dat fine but papers or no papers not define who i am

so uncle sam can take it & shove it

welcome to america!

i be having a long love affair wit your country & people

i also be having a war wit em

mama told me there are limits for dark skined immigrants stuck in dis light skined first world

we come over the border wit all the rest of them

wit all them people from central & south america

wit all them refugees from africa & asia

guess what we blend right in we look no different

look just like any other brown faced ‘’illegal alien’’

border patrol take one look at us & think we just like the rest

cuz yesterdays europeans are todays mexicans & middle easterners

coloured Sons of Shepherds gots few chances

what it like to be bilingual / to speak in two tounge

ah but to be fluent in one & not the other tryin to find any definishun in the dixtionary

in which i drop third person redunduncies cuz i only one person not three

& i only speak two language

you speak spanish?

no habla inglés

you speak english?

i dont speak spanish

one day the hat & head as one edd boy say oh rolf! youre so unejucated!

i think my ears deseeve me but i know what i herd

i wish to strike his milk honey cheeks full of nonsense

& say to him i am the ejucated immigrant you be warned about

dont talk to me bout ejucashun

i sale cross the oshun

i wash up on your shore

i lern another language

it wasnt easy

what you know bout ejucashun

all you know come from books & theories

at least i know where i stand

you are a child & i am old old old my hands notted thick wit veins like the roots of a tree

you say i sound angry / yea i angry but not as angry as you

cuz there nothing they fear more than a minority who knows what up

i used to be fraid but not no more

i used to fear the plainclothes agents in Black & White uniform

of immigration & customes enforecement / of ICE police

of eddwards Black & White cat name Ice on ICE

he must be making fool out of me to call a domesticated beast after homeland security

a cat in uniform because the gods make him so not by choice

like there be some purpose to it / i waz the dark skined immigrant you made fun of

i see what they do to the undocumented immigrant on the telly  

but now i not be fraid / becuz you cant touch me

so the grapefruit widda red ugly mouth & bleached hair sit in office now

damming all them people from ‘’shithole countries’’ / just as well but we here to stay

it not what i ast for but no use fighting it

& i will gladly pull the bookmarks from my english dixtionary

the one double d edd boy give me

no longer will i bathe in bleach / only use to washing dishes & floors

i not some bloody floor

‘’immigrant’’

at least i can spell dat  / i look it up in the dixtionary

websters dixtionary / who the hell is webster?

but now it marked up used copy wit yellow post it notes

i use it a lot to lern your tounge

i not smart but i sho as hell not unejucated / papa can tell me dat

i be in your country in first place to reseeve ‘’best ejucashun’’ like grate nano wanted

grate nano waz an adventurer / a dreamer wit big goals

he travell far & wide seeking fame & fortune

when he a very young boy immigrants from every cesspool in western & eastern europe set sale for The North / it waz always grate nanos dream to travel North

everyone say he more insane than a bovine wit mad cows disease

there no room in dis life for dreams they tell him / he prove our village wrong

when rolf eight years of age grate nano briefly left the Old Country to set sale for america

everyone say he be too old / he never too old for dreams

he wanted to find dat American Dream he hear so often about

spoken wit fondness by the tinkers who visit our land

he returned from his valiant voyage wit stories about what he seen

in the North  he said everyone has cars & money & television & running water

no one listen / The North the North they say dat is all you ever talk about

he waz a man who dreamed of a new life for his family & so he decided to send for us

& make a better life for ourselves after the plagues of the land had haunted our family for years grate nano promised us america he said youll soon be eating apple pie from off a china plate white picket fence / coca cola / santa clause / marilyn monroe / empire state building

it sound like a fairytale he spun a legend dat the streets waz paved wit gold

& we believed him for shining in grate nanos eye waz a dream & so here we are

rest his soul he wanted so much to buy us light & sun & clean wind of the oshun

‘’immigrant’’ waz a new word for rolf when he first come here

did not know after hearing the stories from grate nano dat he would soon be one himself

rolf not know what dat mean & still really dont

the dixtionary definishun say \ ˈi-mə-grənt \ noun. a person who comes to a country to take up permanent residence

\ ˈi-mə-ˌgrāt \ verb. [to go or remove into; in, into, and migrate, to remove.]

to come into a new country, region, or environment in order to settle there: opposed to emigrate.

oh sorry dat definishun not say we unclean people / flea invested vermin

sickly serpents who not speak english / greaser / sheenie

contagions of american society / incredibly dirty tramps fresh off the boat

so pervasive / such nonwhite filth / staring back at pitch black faces

not blonde haired & blue eyed / nonwhite skin only fit for dirt & waste work

mama papa kiss me goodbye i going to haiti

but it is what rolf is now it part of his identity just as much as the colour of his skin

just as much as bein a pagan / just as much as bein a male

just as much as bein the Son of a Shepherd

now rolf a new man living in the New World

i am an immigrant

sometime i wish i waz shug avery / bootiful fictional dark skin harlem singer

half man half woman / wit my large glittering masculine thighs i make an animal of men

maybe i have the courtesan complex

so i ast dr feelgood what my diag-nonsense

& she say poor soul you suffer from Stressed Shepherd Syndrome

okay so we all crazy in one way or another / it alright for some

of a mannequin in tears / of personal prejudices

im an unejucated farm boy from No Mans Land

im a poet who write in english

neisatnaf i isatnaf ne / ttim tetrejh dem gnyalp re lesgnel og gem tolrof nuh

rettenremmos i sirb ne mos rav ed / gem etlatrof nuh dro retsem nadrovh

etted tal eddejks rofrovh? / enneh lit gem trekided gej og enneh teksnø etrejh ttim

senneh enenyoø ås gej etted tla eddejks rofrovh

& this is for Sons of Shepherds who have considered suicide

fin

[thetaekooklibrary]

Heyy! Its summer holidays and I'm bored as fuck, so do you guys know any fics that would blow my mind? Like a long fic with an amazing well-made interesting plot? Thats not really specific im sorry, im willing to read anything as long as it has an impressive, mind blowing, not boring at all plot Thank you for this amazing blog 💖

I’ll keep this as short as I can since it’s such a broad request and I have no idea what you guys have already read lol you can also look through our above 50k tag for long fics, and if we rec’ced them we probably gave some kind of opinion on them so you’ll know what we thought of them

Only When the Sun Sets by sacramento - Jeon Jeongguk was never meant to handle so much responsibility, but when he sees a vision foretelling the King’s death, he cannot just sit back and let it happen. The ‘right’ thing to do would be to stop it, but as Jeongguk soon discovers, doing the ‘right’ thing is never so simple, or easy. Stuck in between underhanded plots for the Iron Throne, Jeongguk must figure out who he is and what he stands for. He must choose a side, and he must choose well, for in the Game of Thrones, you win… or you die. There is no middle ground.

Six Impossible Things Before Breakfast by Kavbj - Taehyung has magic in his veins and Jungkook’s determined not to let it kill him. 

Lucky strike by expplipo - “You’re bad luck, I’m good luck. Two sides of a coin. Head and tails. We match.”

Terrible Things Happen (Sometimes, They Save You) by mindheist - Min Yoongi wakes up from a nightmare on a sunless afternoon to a reality more twisted than his dizziest daydreams.

refrigerator humming, chewing gum and instant karma by locks - Taehyung sets the flowers down on the dining table, plucking the card off the little holder. “Dearest Taehyung, just wanted you to know that I’m thinking about you. I hope you’re thinking about me too. Love–” he pauses and squints before cocking an eyebrow and pursing his lips. “Hyung, why is the boss of your little boy band gang professing his love for me?” Yoongi drops the noodles on the floor with a loud curse as he burns his hand.Or, Taehyung’s been trying his hardest to avoid Yoongi’s criminal life for a long ass time, but a cute kid and his infuriating father keep pulling him deeper into the mix.

trust your heart if the seas catch fire by maxx - “Sometimes I wonder whether you’d be better off without me. Whether you really need me at all.” Taehyung has always doubted his necessity to the group, as well as to Jungkook. Usually a knock on the head would suffice to bring him back to his senses. But this time, it seems someone was listening to his request. Now, everything has changed. He’s in a world where Jungkook and the rest of the group are still famous, but he isn’t.

Veni, Vidi, Amavi by yourluckytae - (I came, I saw, I loved) Ever since that day, Taehyung has been looking for something, chasing a dream he seems to be missing. Something important that makes his heart whole. It’s a creeping sense of someone he can’t quite grasp, who’s always on the tip of his tongue, nails on a chalkboard screeching loudly in his ear to remember. But every time he tries, it hurts. But he chases the dreams, the feelings, whatever it is that he’s missing because he thinks it would hurt more to never find whatever’s gone. – Jeongguk stares at his palms absent-mindedly, body rocking with the movement of the train. His fingers trace over non existent words on his right palm. Something he hadn’t thought about in years. He has a feeling; something deep and nostalgic bubbling inside him tasting like chocolate muffins and caramel lattes and smelling of vanilla and strawberries. It stirs within him as his fingers trace each stroke over his palm. It stirs something melancholy, something sad. A feeling. (Kimi no Na Wa (Your Name) Au)

起死回生; To Live Again by mindheist - Fiction gives us a second chance that life denies us.

Abaddon’s Waltz by eclairdeluxe - Hell hath no fury like a lover scorned.

(thought you knew) you were in this song by expplipo - Taehyung nearly chokes, but only nearly. Instead he raises an eyebrow and puts on the most suave smile he can manage. Hopes he looks far more collected than his for-some-reason racing heartbeat would let on, more suit-and-wine than elementary-schooler-with-a-new-crush. “You like me?” Jeongguk blushes, and looks at his feet. He’s smiling. “Of course.” “Really?” Taehyung says. “Like? Or like like?” (So much for suit-and-wine.)

I’ve read all the ones I just listed and I know for sure those are good, but these next ones I haven’t read. most are on my list to read and seem pretty good from skimming the writing a bit and the plots all seem interesting, or they’re ones I know other people love, but I can’t be 100% sure since I haven’t read them

Swamp Magic by GinForInk - Two witches lure Jungkook into their cabin in the woods.

(I know admin guk read this and really loved it, and I read one other fic from this author and it was amazing)

Lupus Tales by kpopismydrug - This is one summer break that Taehyung will never forget. From dealing with a moody mare that likes to think she’s a stroppy teenager rather than a horse, to dealing with childhood memories that threaten to choke him, Taehyung will soon find out that when you take a trip down memory lane, some things are more than just memories.

(super long series that I know admin s loves)

An Interstellar Anomaly by PaprikaFetus - They are two heirs that belong to opposite sides of the universe.

Hustlers by tbz - Jungkook hadn’t meant to lose nine million. He certainly hadn’t meant to lose his kidney. And he hadn’t meant to meet Kim Taehyung.

summer; blue by Batman - More than you can manage, more than you can hide: a study in light.

Mutual Fiend by kkumkkatcher - “I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.” An AU where Jungkook needs to kill Taehyung, but Taehyung also needs to kill Jungkook, and things get (more than) a bit complicated.

All the Years of Us by TrappingLightningBugs - From the moment a new family hobbled into town, having come a long way for sanctuary, Taehyung had eyes only for Jeon Jungkook.

Shifting On My Feet by MarionetteFtHJM - With the ever-growing crime rate in the city there’s no telling what the leading figures will do to remain leading. The safety of the people is at risk and the possible collateral damage looms over the authorities. There is only one safe option, sacrifice a few to save the lives of many. Tear them from the inside, cool the situation down- should be easy enough, right? Jeongguk was just trying to live out his days peacefully, but running from one’s past never really worked out for anybody- so why would he be an exception? He’s not. Demons tend to find who they’re looking for in the end.

Taste of Ink by sugamins - Jungkook is a drug runner for the largest gang in the whole of Busan: the Sam Yong Pa. One day he bumps into a runner for a rival gang in the next district that has trespassed into their territory: a Geum Sung Pa boy called Jimin. Jimin has a friend, a goon for the rival gang. Taehyung beats people up for a living, and boy, does he look good when he’s doing it.But their blossoming friendships reignite old gang flames and causes the most brutal gang war the country has ever seen.Dragons destroy and stars explode.

i know you wanna go to heaven (but you’re human tonight) by moonlightae - Taehyung just thought it would be a one night stand, but he gets more than he bargained for

Assassin’s Order by TaeSyubDKook - CEO Taehyung gets tangled up in some illegal business without even knowing and when Assasin Jeongguk gets assigned to extract information from him after being caught, he realizes in what mess he’s gotten himself into and agrees to cooperate with the assassins, after learning their true reasons, to bring down his uncle’s company. What Jeongguk and Taehyung didn’t expect was falling for each other in the progress.

Kiss With a Fist by byeolguk - “Need a little help, love?” Jungkook asks, teasing him. “Nah I had it all under control, sweetheart,” Taehyung answers with a smile, blood oozing from his split lip. Goddamn even smiling hurt now. Fuckity fuck fuck. Jungkook only rolls his eyes, his cocky smirk never slipping and Taehyung almost forgets how much pain he’s in. prompt-Can you please write the “ kick his ass for me” prompt with taekook!

got a question or request? check our tags page first to see if what you’re looking for is already there, or use the search bar on our blog! if you don’t have any luck with that, feel free to send us an ask when the inbox is open^^

[raiseveganus]

Gunas: Meet The Lady Boss Dominating The Vegan Handbag Market

I recently had the pleasure to speak with Sugandh G. Agrawal, an animal lover, vegan lady boss, and the designer and founder of Gunas, a New York City-based independent high fashion vegan handbag brand.

Many of the design houses are making the move towards cruelty-free fashion; Stella McCartney is known for her animal-friendly designs, Michael Kors recently announced that the company was going fur-free back in 2017, so what sets Gunas apart from the other haute couture lines out there?

Not only does Gunas boast beautiful, classic designs with sleek lines and a wide variety of colors that will carry you through from one season to the next, but it is a brand with a cause. The Gunas brand is cruelty-free, vegan, and sustainably and ethically produced; from the sourcing of materials through to the manufacturing, all Gunas pieces are made with the earth and animals in mind.

As a trained industrial designer, Sugandh had been designing appliances for KitchenAid and Whirlpool when she decided to quit her job and move to New York City. She then studied design management at the Pratt Institute with a focus on sustainability, design, and entrepreneurship. One fateful day, she met a handbag designer and, after talking, decided that her next career move was into the fashion industry, and a vegan handbag idea was born.

She began an internship with an independent label that specialized in exotic skins; her first task was to rearrange the animal hides. “[It] was a real eye-opening moment where I made that connection, that ‘oh my gosh, I’m not eating meat, why am I wearing leather’ [moment],” said Sugandh.

Sugandh grew up in India where the Jain religion has a massive following; the Jains don’t wear or consume animal products or byproducts but she had never made the connection. “Growing up I just thought it was cultural, but that day was a real ‘wake-up’ moment for me.” It was then that she began to reconsider starting her own label where she could connect her passion for design and her undeniable ethics.

When Sugandh began her vegan handbag line ten years ago, most brands didn’t see vegan fashion as sellable, but in recent years it has become the trendy thing to do.

By moving away from animal skins and furs, Sugandh has been able to source new materials that are eco-friendly and cruelty free. Gunas’ newest capsule collection is made from Mulblex, a material created from the leaves of a mulberry tree. The pulp from the leaves is coated onto cotton; it’s extremely lightweight and it functions exactly like leather.

Image provided by Gunas Sugandh- the vegan girl boss ready to dominate the vegan handbag market

“Mulberry tree leaves are a staple for the silkworm, once they eat the mulberry leaves, they are killed to extract the fiber from their bodies to be used for silk,” said Agrawal. “I have a supplier in Korea who is trying to get this material out there [instead], because it’s cruelty-free and instead of killing the silkworms, you’re extracting soaked protein directly from the mulberry leaf. It’s plant based and eliminates the use of plastics [that are commonly used in other leather alternatives] such as pinatex, apple leather or grape leather.”

When Sugandh first started Gunas a decade ago, she was vegetarian, but after visiting a few animal sanctuaries, and learning more about the farm industry, she quickly made the transition to veganism. ��Gunas has really been [a reflection of] my own personal journey,” said Sugandh.

“Being vegan, for me personally, means doing as little harm as possible. We live in a world where there’s some form of animal or [environmental] cruelty happening at some level, so how can we minimize that? How can we reduce our impact on the torture or the abuse of other living beings and our planet in general? For me, that’s what [being vegan] means, to be compassionate, non-judgmental and sharing my values with others. It’s a process of self-discovery.”

Image provided by Gunas

Sugandh draws her inspiration for her handbags from real-life vegans, she focuses on the ‘Gunas girl’ a personal muse based on people in the community. If you take a look at their Instagram page, all of the girls in the photos are vegan and not necessarily models. “I’m learning from them, I’m just one person and there are so many other perspectives within the vegan world,” said Sugandh. “I really try to understand who I’m talking to and what their values are. I invite those into [my designs] and give back to the animal world.”

The brand prides itself on coming full-circle with their products, from where the fabrics are sourced, to who manufactures them, to how they are marketed and how it will impact the animals and the environment. The personal ethics and dedication to the environment are what really sets Gunas apart from other vegan brands on the market.

Image provided by Gunas

When Sugandh first began production, she was manufacturing in New York City in the very expensive fashion district. Labor costs were so high that she was unable to make the bags affordable and accessible to her target market. From there, she went to China to explore cheaper production options and was taken aback by the work conditions and the disregard for human life. She then went to India, where she is originally from, and converted her parents’ garage into a studio and started making her line over there. “I quickly realized that I could not get the quality [materials] that I really needed to give vegan fashion a good name, so I travelled to Korea, it’s a fashion hub that has the quality I desired and it wasn’t a compromise between ethics and good materials.”

She found small artisan studios in Korea that specialized in the production of handbags and they are now able to source fabrics from Korea, Germany and Japan. Each bag is handmade in these artisan studios owned by a group of families. “One family is cutting, one is sewing, and the other family is finishing the product, they all feed off each other and rely on each other,” said Sugandh “It’s very ethical in that sense and I visit the factories once or twice every year so I have a personal connection with everyone that’s making my products.”

Image provided by Gunas

Personal connections run deep in the Gunas brand. Sugandh shared that Gunas led her onto this path, “I didn’t create Gunas, Gunas found me.” The name itself has an incredible story and a special meaning to her. She wanted her brand to be connected to her name, which is Hindi and can be hard for some to pronounce and understand, so she rearranged the letters in her first name – Sugandh – until she came up with ‘Gunas.’ She had no idea what it meant, so she Googled it and was shocked to discover that it is a Sanskrit word with a deep spiritual meaning in Hinduism. “It means ‘qualities of nature’ and if you’re into yoga or meditation, you’ve definitely heard it before,” said Sugandh. “This brand found me, it’s been guiding me and pushing me in the direction of being compassionate and cruelty-free, it shows the world that it can be done in the most positive way. I don’t think it could get any more personal than that.”

Growing her brand into the company it is today has been a labor of love with many challenges along the way. The first fives years were filled with trying to make people understand veganism and why it is so important for fashion to be cruelty free. It was a process of educating people and getting herself, and her brand, out there. “There were so many disappointments,” said Sugandh , “going to trade shows, putting in all the money and not getting orders. There was no other brand doing what I was doing, so I really had to carve out my own way.”

In an effort to retain the essence of the brand, Sugandh chose to stay small and independently owned. “Being self-funded, it was really hard to even afford PR companies and trying to get the brand in front of celebrities,” said Agrawal. “I learned that if you really focus on creating a brand that speaks to your audience, a product that actually delivers on the promise, people will come seek you out.”

This year, Sugandh is focusing on creating smaller products, like wallets and coin purses, that will make her brand more accessible and people won’t necessarily have to spend a couple hundred dollars to enjoy the Gunas brand. “We’re also looking at the beauty industry; I recently found out that the soaps I had been using had tons of animal fat in them, it completely shocked me,” said Sugandh It was just one more area [to improve upon], you don’t even think about it while using the soap, it’s such a small product but it has a huge market. I’m looking [to design] something that helps my Gunas girls not only feel beautiful inside but also outside.”

Vegan Handbag of The Future

You can find Gunas’ full line of products online and the bags have even made some appearances at fashion week. While they don’t do a full-fledged fashion show themselves, some designers have reached out and asked to use a few pieces in their shows. Doing their own show isn’t practical since the handbags they create are meant to be used year-round. “I don’t believe in doing seasons, we’re becoming a world where everything is just so seasonal, especially with climate change, people just don’t invest in season-specific products anymore,” said Sugandh. “I’ve never been into the whole season styling, I just do pieces that can transition from one season into another.”

Image provided by Gunas

The Gunas brand is about spreading compassion and helping others come to a personal understanding of animal rights and activism. Sugandh focuses on helping to spread the message without being pushy. It has taken a long time for the vegan movement to gain a substantial following and the last thing she wants to do is to scare people off.

“We should focus on being compassionate, that is the message of the whole movement. Be inclusive and non-judgmental. Ultimately, everyone is trying to do their best and if we just keep giving each other a hard time, then we’re turning each other against one another instead of uniting and solving a problem that affects humanity on a larger level.”Check out the Gunas website here to see the entire collection and to read about the Gunas Girl!

The post Gunas: Meet The Lady Boss Dominating The Vegan Handbag Market appeared first on Raise Vegan.

source https://raisevegan.com/gunas-meet-the-lady-boss-dominating-the-vegan-handbag-market/