#i mostly see them at water sources in our house and rarely around like our garbage

[mspeevee]

oh yeah update on the shelter for my cat, they emailed me back but it's cuz they're moving locations so i won't be able to surrender her till mid january at the earliest.........

[lucientelrunya]

Like a lonely house pt 2

Chaotic me deciced to switch back to present tense (already edited part one) and I'm still quite clueless how to tag. But it gave me so much joy to see people enjoy my little idea.

Please feel free to point out any mistakes you spot, I'm always trying to improve my writing and stop myself from agonizing over every sentence and constantly rewrite everything...

I think Zhang Rishan might be a tad bit dramatic in this part, but I hope you enjoy this anyway :)

The blackness and cotton in his head only slowly recede, permeated by the sound of muffled voices Zhang Rishan knows. The voices carry an urgency, an impalpable sense of importance that drags him back to consciousness with a sudden harshness. Still it takes more effort than it should to blink his eyes open and for a moment he is confused why there is a stone ceiling above him and why little white flakes are clinging to his lashes. He rubs at his eyes, his movement sluggish and his arm feels heavy, a dull ache that causes the memories to come rushing back. The strange tomb, the force controlling him, the ritual, the pool - Ba Ye. It’s not a dream - nightmare? - or at least not all of it and he sits up way too quickly for his body to adjust. Thankfully someone grabs his shoulders - again - to keep him upright.

It takes Zhang Rishan another long moment to blink away the black spots and recognize Luo Que beside him, offering him an already open bottle of water, which is considerate and much appreciated. He really needs to drink something, at least to get the taste of copper and something he can’t even begin to describe out of his mouth. The strange pale liquid has dried all over his skin and clothes like some sort of clay, cracking and peeling off in flakes and powdery dust when he moves. He opts to ignore it for now, content with getting it off his lips and out of his eyes.

Luo Que doesn’t say anything and patiently waits for him to gulp down most of the bottle before he sits back again, letting go of Zhang Rishan’s shoulders and looking at him with a barely there question in his eyes. And, yeah, Zhang Rishan would like to know what’s going on here himself, thank you very much. With his vision mostly free of black spots and blurring edges he dares to look around him, having already spotted Zhang Qiling’s black clad legs next to him from the corner of his eye. He is lying on a sleeping bag right next to him, with Huo Daofu examining him quietly and unhurriedly.

And Zhang Rishan’s brain is still mushy enough to take a long moment to truly comprehend what he is looking at when he finds the source of the voices. Liu Sang and Pangzi arguing is not some rare occurrence (as he has learned in the last two days), although it's not really arguing and more of a friendly stage of bickering, but Liu Sang and Wang Pangzi arguing with Ba Ye is not normal, not in the least. So it really hasn’t been a dream or his imagination.

An illusion then, maybe? A hallucination, like the meteorite inside the tomb and Er Ye getting back his dead wife? Maybe he is still in the pool and all of this is just a hallucination? But back then the whole fake world had frozen once Ba Ye had started to doubt and Zhang Rishan is absolutely doubting the possibility of this being real. It feels too much like Er Ye’s illusion of getting Yatou back and Zhang Rishan has lived long enough to know that there is no way to truly bring a dead person back to life.

No one freezes and no one vanishes, not even when he puts his hand on his arm to push a thumb into the wound beneath the bandages and elicits a spark of pain that is absolutely and undeniably real. It quickly vanishes again, his body cataloguing it under ‘inconvenient but not life threatening’ and opting to ignore it like he had been trained. But it leaves Zhang Rishan fairly confident in his assumption that this is not an illusion.

He must have been staring, lost in his contemplation of what is real and what isn’t, because suddenly Ba Ye is turning towards him, a look of relief flashing over his face. “Lieutenant! You are awake! Please, please tell these people who I am!” He sounds worried but also a little irritated and whiny, and so much like the Ba Ye Zhang Rishan remembers. For a moment he allows himself to just watch Ba Ye come over and squat down in front of him. He had obviously tried to wipe his glasses off on his equally stained scarf resulting in smudged pale lines all over his glasses and his face.

And he has to fight the urge to reach out and touch, to convince himself that Ba Ye is real, because he has been dead and gone for almost 80 years. Even if they never found his body, even if he had been hidden somewhere by Qiu De Kao for whatever reason there is just no way for him to be alive right now, alive and the same, he is no Zhang, he has no qilin blood.

Wu Xie kneeling down beside him, half on Zhang Qiling’s sleeping bag, breaks the moment. “You know him” and although it’s not a question Zhang Rishan nods. He glances at Wu Xie, who looks worried but also curious and intrigued, always drawn to mysteries. Pangzi and Liu Sang come over, too, placing themselves behind Ba Ye like they are prepared to grab and restrain him if he tries anything, but they look at Zhang Rishan. With at least 5 pairs of expectant eyes on him, probably six, he has to squish the feeling of vulnerability and helplessness that wants to crawl out and drape itself all over him. Instead he consciously straightens his back, squares his shoulders and shifts to sit cross-legged.

He has no idea what’s going on here, no idea how to tell Ba Ye where or rather when he is now (because right now he can’t fight the acceptance that this is a living, breathing Ba Ye who just hasn’t aged a day) or what happened in the pool or if everything did really happen like he thinks. If that being had been there, in the pool and had granted him a wish he hadn’t ever put into words, had made a fleeting thought into a new reality. Each of them is looking at him like he has all the answers and he hates that he is sitting here on the floor of a dimly lit cave, on a sleeping bag someone else has rolled out for him, with bandages around his arms and feeling so utterly helpless. He can’t suppress the bitter thought that Fo Ye would have known what to do.

Taking a deep breath he decides to start with what he is sure of, which is the answer to Wu Xie’s “You know him”. “I do know this man, his name is Qi Tiezui, also known as Ba Ye”, and the name and the title should mean something to at least Wu Xie and maybe Huo Daofu, even if they obviously don’t recognize him from old photos. Maybe because they never paid attention to those pictures, which are faded and grainy compared to what even the simplest smartphone camera is able to capture nowadays or maybe because Ba Ye looks like he took a mud bath. Maybe both.

On to the second thing he is quite certain of: “As to what happened, I’m not really sure myself. As soon as I entered the tomb some force took over my body and I suppose Zhang Qiling's as well and we came to this cave to enact some kind of blood sacrifice ritual for whatever deity they are worshipping here.” No need to point out he had been meant to be the sacrifice, that bit is quite obvious, although he is not sure why Zhang Qiling is the one still unconscious then. “There was chanting, but I wasn’t able to understand it”, he adds, which makes Liu Sang nod at him. “Yeah, I heard you through the wall, but wasn’t able to identify the words either.”

Zhang Rishan considers asking why they hadn’t followed them into the cave and tried to stop the whole thing, if only to give him a little more time to try and find words for what happened after that, but he doesn’t have to voice his question. “Yeah, almost broke my damn nose trying to follow you two through that convenient little magic wall that suddenly turned into a real wall after you two went through, and we couldn’t find a mechanism or another entry or hear anything. Imagine our immense joy at hearing this idiot here say there’s ‘eerie chanting’!” Pangzi grumbles and there is no need for him to add that the use of some explosives had been on the table. Or had they used explosives?

“Did you blow a hole into the wall?” Zhang Rishan asks, eyeing a pile of broken stone in the vicinity of the wall, but Pangzi shakes his head. “Nah, I wanted to, but then the ground started to shake and - poof - the entrance was back and actually visible.” It takes Zhang Rishan another moment to realize the rubble is what’s left of the statue he had only glimpsed upon entering the cave. Had the earthquake destroyed it? Had it even been an earthquake?

Wu Xie humms beside him, following his line of sight for a moment before he points to the wall behind the rubble. “There are some murals depicting locals worshipping a deity that I have never seen before. But it seems to be for protection against droughts or bad harvests, your garden-variety-harvest-god to ensure plenty of food and the likes. Nothing that can bring dead people back to life.” Ah, right back to the burning question.

Ba Ye sputters quite helplessly at that. “Dead? What do you mean dead? Do I look dead to you? Lieutenant, what is going on here, who are these people?” Considering that Ba Ye’s face is still mostly covered in white it wouldn’t be that unreasonable to mistake him for a ghost. But beneath that he doesn’t look dead or like a walking corpse, he looks just like Zhang Rishan remembers him, just like the last time he had seen him before he had vanished. And he still has no idea how to tell Ba Ye that everyone he knows is dead. Well, everyone except Zhang Rishan.

“I’m Wu Xie, this is Wang Pangzi, Liu Sang, Luo Que and behind me are Huo Daofu and Zhang Qiling.” Wu Xie blindly pats Zhang Qiling’s lower leg when he says his name, his eyes never leaving Ba Ye’s face, gauging his reaction to two familiar family names. And Ba Ye doesn’t disappoint, confusion clearly written all over his face. He is mouthing ‘Wu’ and ‘Huo’ while his eyes scan Wu Xie’s face before he looks at Zhang Rishan with a mixture of confusion, incomprehension and helplessness.

“He is Wu Laogou’s grandson”, Zhang Rishan says softly, because their relation is the most obvious to emphasize how much time has passed and the most obvious in terms of resemblance, Ba Ye must have seen that. And Zhang Rishan holds his gaze until Ba Ye looks down, takes a deep breath, closes his mouth and lets himself plop back down to sit on the ground, his whole body curling inwards. This would be a lot to take in for everybody and Zhang Rishan would like to give Ba Ye a moment to compose himself without everyone else staring at him. There are things he hasn’t told them yet, but he is still not sure how to put any of that into words.

“Did the murals say anything about something being confined here?” Zhang Rishan asks Wu Xie, who just looks puzzled. “Confined? What do you mean?” And he really has to try and put it into words, there is no way around it, is there? He takes another deep breath through his nose. “For the ceremony I was kneeling in that pool and when the tremors started I fell into whatever liquid is in there, and it was like - like there was something in there with me. Like it was a living thing with a consciousness and whatever we did in that ceremony it set that thing free.” He can already feel some doubtful looks but nobody starts to interrupt him and Wu Xie actually nods thoughtfully like he can imagine that, so he continues: “It was communicating with me, not with words, more like with feelings and impressions,” and he just waits for Huo Daofu to interrupt him, to say something about blood loss and hallucinations, but he doesn’t, he just doesn’t - “It made very clear that it had been imprisoned here for whatever purpose and that it was just so very thankful that I set it free.”

Everyone is quiet, mulling over those words. There are still so many questions, like who or what had controlled them to enact this ceremony? Had it been the imprisoned being? Or something else? But why? And who had sealed the tomb? And why?

“So you set some ancient being free and someone from your past turns up. What if he is no human but that being in the shape of someone it saw while it was inside your mind?” Liu Sang questions, looking at Ba Ye thoughtfully who stops his calculations to stare back incredulously. “What? First I’m dead, now I’m some preternatural being? Let me tell you, I’m just a fortune teller!” He acts and sounds just like Ba Ye, but Liu Sang has a point, that being had looked into his mind, had probably had access to all his thoughts and memories. It makes his head hurt even thinking about it.

Pangzi and Liu Sang start bickering about how to test that theory, to find out if someone is human and it only gets more chaotic when Zhang Qiling wakes up and Wu Xie starts worrying over him, asking him how he feels and if he is alright while Huo Daofu tries to rule out a concussion. Zhang Rishan tries to ignore them for the moment, even though he would like to get Zhang Qiling’s version of the ceremony. He feels torn between the possible explanations for this situation, but why would some ancient being that had been trapped in a cave for centuries if not millenia take human form and stay with them? To play tricks on him? Or maybe-

“Lieutenant, if so much time has passed that the grandson of Wu Laogu is at least as old as I am, how come you haven’t aged a day?” Ba Ye’s question jolts him out of these thoughts. “It’s a Zhang-family-thing”, he answers, because Ba Ye already knows so much about their family that it should be enough. Ba Ye nods, visibly brightening at the answer, as if he had hoped for something along those lines. “So, why don’t we just ask Fo Ye for help to prove I’m just a normal human? I mean, if that being was in your head and knows what you know it doesn’t know everything about me.”

Of course he would think of Fo Ye as the answer to everything and of course Zhang Rishan has to say it now. He shakes his head slightly and forces himself to watch Ba Ye’s face and catalogue his reaction. “No. Fo Ye is not with us anymore.” It’s cruel, so cruel to tell him like this and Zhang Rishan hates it even more than he hates saying the words at all. Ba Ye’s whole face crumples but he visibly tries to hide his distress. “How on earth am I supposed to prove I’m just a normal human, then?” he bristles, obviously trying to distract himself with anger. “Tell me! What should I do!” Those last words are directed towards Pangzi and Liu Sang behind him who actually stop their bickering and have the grace to look embarrassed.

“Why would that being even want to stay here? What could be in it for... it?” Pangzi voices Zhang Rishan’s thoughts from before. “Maybe it needs help to leave the cave?” Wu Xie suggests, joining the conversation again after assuring himself that Zhang Qiling is fine aside from a cut on his forehead. “Or maybe it’s just lonely and looking for some company?” Huo Daofu throws in and Zhang Rishan isn’t sure if it’s meant to be a joke or a real suggestion. But if they are just casually throwing around theories he can add one, too.

“Maybe it’s an illusion.” Even if there is no meteorite around and even if he had set that theory aside before. Ba Ye inhales sharply at that suggestion and slaps Zhang Rishan’s knee a little harder than necessary. “Aiya! An Illusion? Does that feel like an illusion? Is there a meteorite around that you haven’t told me about? Shouldn’t you be able to tell the difference?” Ba Ye slaps him again and Zhang Rishan just lets him, flinching only a little. It makes Luo Que beside him tense noticeably, like he contemplates grabbing Ba Ye’s arm and stopping him from hitting his boss, but in the end he doesn’t move and just watches.

“Should I? I mean you were the one who realized it was an illusion back then, and you guided us out of it.” Ba Ye harrumphs at that, knitting his brows. “It’s not an illusion”, Wu Xie says and the certainty in his voice makes it easy to just accept it. After all Wu Xie had come with him and should be a real person, even if they stepped into some fake world at some point, just like Fo Ye, Ba Ye, Er Ye and Chen Pi had been real people who stepped into the meteorite.

“Thank you!” Ba Ye says, giving Wu Xie a small bow. “And if you let me, I can show you that I am perfectly capable of leaving this place all on my own.” Which leaves them with: a lonely godly being looking for company (or a bored godly being looking for some fun?) or the possibility that it is really Ba Ye.

For a moment everyone is quiet again and Zhang Rishan takes the chance to ask Zhang Qiling how he had experienced being possessed or remote controlled or whatever it had been. His answer is disappointingly simple and his experience almost the same as Zhang Rishan’s, except that he had not been in contact with another consciousness but had been knocked out really hard by something as soon as the cave had started to shake. Which confirms Zhang Rishan’s suspicion that there had been something with him in the pool.

He gets up, startling both Ba Ye and Luo Que with the sudden movement, making them stand up with him as if they are preparing to catch him again. It’s endearing and disconcerting at the same time and he opts to ignore the way it makes him feel for the moment, but tucks the feeling away to pick it apart later.

The pool is surprisingly dry and empty, but covered in the same white flaky residue both Zhang Rishan and Ba Ye are covered in, which is reassuring because it means there had been something before. For a moment Zhang Rishan just stares at the empty pool, trying and failing to find a hole or a crack in the stone through which the liquid could have vanished. Surely it did not just evaporate into thin air? His memory is not clear enough to dispel the thought that maybe the liquid had not vanished but changed its shape and made itself into a human being.

“Huh? Why is it empty?” Pangzi asks which makes Zhang Rishan release a breath he hadn’t even been aware of holding. “It wasn’t empty when you could get in?” he reassures himself, looking at the other man. “Hah! Wish it had been, do you have any idea how hard it was to get you out of that stuff?” Pangzi snorts and points at the smudged edge of the pool, where a very visible track of white covers the ground all the way over to their sleeping bags. It also makes Zhang Rishan notice the white smudges all over Pangzis clothes only to find the man grinning at him when he looks up again. The corners of his mouth twitch involuntarily in quiet amusement and he nods his thanks, which makes Pangzi grin even more.

With the pool providing no answers at all Zhang Rishan walks over to the wall to look at the murals, soon joined by Wu Xie who points to the parts of the murals he had mentioned before. It shows a group of people in clothing Zhang Rishan has never seen building this tomb. Maybe some minority? They have no idea how old this tomb is, after all or how long it had been sealed. In the next part of the mural it almost looks like they are summoning the unknown god and not merely worshipping and some part of Zhang Rishan’s mind resonates with that thought. The ceremony looks just like what the two of them had enacted, one person in the pool and the other at the altar with a dagger. But it almost seems like the sacrifice on the mural dissolves into the pool, a thought he really doesn’t want to dwell on.

After that the mural gets quite confusing, depicting the statue that is broken now and people celebrating rich harvests, without any clear connection. He looks back at the picture of the god, tracing the faded lines with his fingers trying to recall everything the being in the pool had tried to tell him through thoughts and feelings and suddenly he understands. Or at least he thinks he does.

“They didn’t worship the god, they captured it and confined it in here because as long as it was here everything around it would be thriving, rich harvests, no sicknesses, people living long and full lives.” As soon as he says it he knows it’s true and he finds Wu Xie nodding next to him. “So, you set that god free and as a gesture of thanks it returned a dead person from your past?” And Zhang Rishan knows dead people don’t come back to life, but this is a god they are talking about and it had made everything else grow, had kept people healthy and strong. Maybe it could do this too?

“I’m still not dead and I was never dead!” Ba Ye protests from beside him and reminds Zhang Rishan that he still doesn’t know what happened when Ba Ye vanished back then, how or when he died. He looks at him and contemplates asking just that but somehow he is afraid of the answer. “Maybe you died and you just forgot.” Pangzi says, pushing at one of the larger rocks left over from the statue with his foot.

“How would someone forget his own death, this is ridiculous! An hour ago I was just in my room, enjoying a nice cup of tea and suddenly I find myself in this cave, almost drowning in that pool!” Ba Ye gestures wildly and angrily with his arm, almost slapping Zhang Rishan in the face in the process, but Pangzi is unimpressed. “How could you not forget your death? Or the fact that you died. Maybe you just dropped dead drinking your tea, things like that happen. Who knows.”

“He didn’t drop dead, he vanished without a trace, leaving everything behind”, Zhang Rishan interjects. If Ba Ye had just dropped dead there would have been a funeral and it would have been just as sad and hard, but there wouldn’t have been a mystery, no reason to wish to know what happened.

“Well, maybe he did drop dead and that god plucked his body from the past, brought him back to life and put him here”, Wu Xie shrugs, “I mean, my terminal lung cancer got healed by magic golden coffin water in thunder city, so it’s not that far-fetched.”

And - oh, oh - realisation hits him like a punch to the sternum, taking his breath away, almost making him double over and sink to his knees. It had been him. Ba Ye never just vanished, had never been kidnapped by the Japanese or Qiu De Kao. He had never died, he had been snatched away by this being - god - whatever - and placed here and now, with Zhang Rishan, because it had wanted to give him something he had lost. But Ba Ye had never been lost, he had been stolen, stolen because Zhang Rishan is selfish and thoughtless and cruel and - He has done this. He has done this to Ba Ye. And to Fo Ye. And -

He can’t breathe. How can he ever say this? How can he ever tell Ba Ye? He can never be forgiven for this, there is no way, absolutely no way. Look out for Ba Ye, that had been his order, the one most important to Fo Ye and thus the most important to Zhang Rishan. And he had failed, miserably - no, he had done the opposite! And for the first time in quite a while he wishes Fo Ye was the one with a long life and not him. Fo Ye would never have done something so stupid.

Unbidden he remembers the illusion he had fallen victim to below the Chen tree, Fo Ye with his gun pointed at him, disappointed, so disappointed and he wishes it had been real, that he had died that day so he would have never been able to come here today. But Ba Ye had been missing before, he had vanished before Zhang Rishan had ever been to this tomb and shared his memories with a god. There would have been no reason to wish to know what happened that day if nothing had happened. And that really makes his head hurt, how is it even possible? How does this work, today and the past linked like this? Like it had always been meant to be this way?

[according-to-the-laura]

StackedNatural Day 146: 1x17, 7x18, 11x17, 12x16

StackedNatural Masterpost: [x]

March 30, 2022

1x17: Hell House

Written by: Trey Callaway

Directed by: Chris Long

Original air date: March 30, 2006

Plot Synopsis:

When a case of a seemingly average haunting begins to go haywire, Sam and Dean come to find that two bumbling, wanna-be paranormal investigators, Harry and Ed, are already on the case.

Features:

A Winchester prank war, a Texas Tulpa, the Ghostfacers before they were the Ghostfacers, flamethrower solutions.

My Thoughts:

This is such a fun episode. I love the early-seasons brother energy coming in so strong with the prank war. I love how much they smile and laugh in this episode.

Sam especially is so much fun in this episode, and has a ton of personality. Watching Stacked is really driving home for me that they dampened a lot of Sam’s personality traits the later they got into the series. He used to be so delightful!

I really love tulpas as a concept, and I wish that the show took more advantage of them. @meg3point0 pointed out that hunters in general should be way more susceptible to tulpas, since they kind of believe the stories they hear as a default. I get that they’re more rare because they focus on the Tibetan symbol, but I think it would have been cool to explore more things that are powerful because of our belief in them. What I really wish was that the tulpa concept carried forward into the metanarrative of God in the late seasons - there’s a real missed opportunity with them being the only people alive on Earth, and therefore the only source of belief as a power source when they went up against Chuck. Rather than deus-ex-machina-ing Jack into a power vacuum, they could have replaced a belief in God with a belief in Jack, turning the power of prayer against God and using it to power Jack up. In the secret good Supernatural that exists in my mind, that’s how the final confrontation went down.

Notable Lines:

“People believe in Santa Claus -- how come I'm not getting hooked up every Christmas?” “‘Cause you're a bad person.”

“This stuff here...this is our ticket to the big time right here. Fame, money, sex. With girls. OK?”

“Kinda makes you wonder… of all the things we hunted, how many existed just because people believed in them?”

Laura’s (completely subjective) Episode Rating: 8.9

IMdB Rating: 8.4

7x18: Party On, Garth

Written by: Adam Glass

Directed by: Phil Sgriccia

Original air date: March 30, 2012

Plot Synopsis:

Garth calls Sam and Dean for assistance in battling a ghost that you can only see when drunk.

Features:

GARTH GARTH GARTH, a ghost for drunk people, Mr. Fizzles, haunted sake, Dean’s functional alcoholism, a shojo revenge mission, Bobby haunting the flask.

My Thoughts:

I love Garth so much. The show tries to make him out to be so weird and embarrassing, but he has the happiest ending of any hunter in the series. He gets to be in love, he gets his own house and to be mostly out of hunting, he gets to take up the career he had before hunting, and he’s able to balance the monstrousness within him to live a normal life. Plus, he carries around a sock puppet just in case he runs into a kid. Love that man.

The whole plot about them not believing Bobby could be a ghost is a little wild to me. Garth pointed out EMF coming from the flask specifically, and if Sam was doing all of his little tests when Dean wasn’t around then the flask wouldn’t be either. It does make for some great moments, though. I love the “there you are” moment at the end. It reminded us of the end of 11x16 Safe House, when Dean and Bobby briefly see each other in the nest and have a moment of connection.

The monster itself is fine, I find the gags of them trying to get drunk fairly entertaining, but mostly I just want to watch Garth run around in sunglasses all day.

Notable Lines:

“You’ve been Garthed.”

“Beer’s not food, it’s whatever water is.”

“Dude, I just drank a whole beer, of course I’m drunk.”

“I mean, can you even get drunk anymore? It's kind of like drinking a vitamin for you, right?”

Laura’s (completely subjective) Episode Rating: 8.5

IMdB Rating: 8.5

11x17: Red Meat

Written by: Robert Berens & Andrew Dabb

Directed by: Nina Lopez-Corrado

Original air date: March 30, 2016

Plot Synopsis:

In the midst of battling werewolves Sam gets shot then strangled and goes into shock. Dean, thinking Sam is actually dead, takes drastic measures to talk to a reaper in order to save his brother.

Features:

Sam getting shot, a werewolf set-up, Sam getting suffocated, Dean betting tased, Sam being maybe-dead, so much gore, Dean overdosing in pseudo-suicide attempt, Dean trying to deal with Billie, Sam being an absolute badass.

My Thoughts:

I literally cannot BELIEVE how good season 11 is. I am constantly kicking myself for stopping at the season 11 premiere, and I understand now why so many people list s11 among their favourites.

This episode is so well-written and so well directed. I love the cuts back and forth in time, they do a great job of distinguishing it stylistically from other monster of the week episodes. I love an episode starting in media res, it gives it a sense of urgency that can be lacking from episodes when you know they’re going to win. I also thought the victims of the week were way more interesting and engaging than the typical ones, especially Michelle. The actress for her was excellent. Even when it was clear that Corbin was going to become the bad guy, his emotional arc was clearly drawn and his choices made sense, even when I hated them because they threatened Sam.

I also think that it can be easy to forget about the risks that come with even ordinary hunting cases, and I love seeing the nitty gritty little details of what happens if someone gets shot four miles into the woods. It makes the whole lifestyle feel that much more dangerous. I feel like Sam in this episode proves the reputation that they’ve earned among the hunting community. They’re not just hard to kill because they keep getting brought back - they’re just hard to kill, period.

I am obsessed with Billie as a character and so many lines that she gets are so raw. Outstanding. I love her saying she thinks he’d go by heart attack, when that’s how she tries to kill him in Despair.

Notable Lines:

“After I do this, go get the doc and tell her to… Tell her to bring me back, if she can. If not... no hard feelings, okay?”

“Never took you for the suicide type. Doesn't fit your whole martyr thing.”

“It's cute, though. You pretending you're trying to save Sam for the greater good, when we both know you're doing it for you. You can't lose him.”

“Come along now, Dean. It's time. The Empty... it's waiting.”

Laura’s (completely subjective) Episode Rating: 9.8

IMdB Rating: 8.4

12x16: Ladies Drink Free

Written by: Meredith Gylnn

Directed by: Amyn Kaderali

Original air date: March 30, 2017

Plot Synopsis:

Dean and Sam let Mick Davies tag along on a case as they search for a werewolf and they run into Claire Novak, the reunion is short lived after Claire is bitten and the brothers race to find a way to help her before she turns.

Features:

Mick tagging along, Claire pretending to be on campus tours, Mick’s first kill, monsters wearing stupid mask, Claire getting bitten,

My Thoughts:

The think about this episode is I’m really into the premise but I just don’t think that the writing is good enough to support it. Kathryn Newton sells the hell out of it so it isn’t like, terrible to watch, but I think a better writer could have delivered it in a better way.

This episode is trying to make a lot of valid points about the British Men of Letters, but it doesn’t support them with the narrative well enough for them to land. I like the idea that the werewolf was acting out to try and build a pack because the BMoL killed a bunch of them with weapons they’d never seen before. Their actions having consequences they hadn’t considered is compelling. But in this episode the wolf is an irritating douche targeting high school girls he considers vulnerable, so there’s no pity or emotion attached to what happened to his pack. We don’t care about what happened to them.

Claire having that scene with Sam where she tells him that she has to be killed because she knows she wouldn’t be able to control herself is also compelling on its own - I like them mirroring her with Sam, because he has so much experience with being the monstrous thing among humans and feeling out of control. That whole exchange would have been so much better served if she WAS able to retain some level of control. Personally I wish she would have stayed a werewolf like Garth, but if she wasn’t going to then I think she should have at least not been as actively dangerous to them during the fight. She could have been the one to knock out the wolf that turned her and willingly submitted to the cure. It would have given that scene more punch without causing ramifications later in the series.

The whole thing with the existence of the British Men of Letters is that they’re totally ruthless, black and white. Again, what makes a monster monstrous? And they keep skirting around the question, but they never properly engage with it. If Claire had either turned but kept control or turned and submitted to the cure, it would have shaken Mick’s worldview up a lot more and been more interesting.

Notable Lines:

“Maybe some people can control this, but I can barely keep it together on a good day.”

“It’s my life. I get all the votes.”

“You know who says they're a nice guy? Clingy, insecure bitches with mommy issues.”

“I have a family, and they love me.”

“I'm ready, and I never would've been if it wasn't for you being my mother.”

Laura’s (completely subjective) Episode Rating: 8.3

IMdB Rating: 8.0

In Conclusion: Two episodes with funny recurring guest stars followed by two werewolf episodes with deeply personal ramifications for the brothers. Nice job, Stacked.

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[writersrealmbts]

Clearwater Springs: Part 1

Description: ot7 x reader, reader’s choice, fairy/supernatural/soulmate au. The choices you make influence the story! In this world, war-torn and ragged, you’ve been offered a home and a job working as a librarian. Will you meet your soulmates? Will you ever find the shelves behind the piles of books? Who knows.

Warnings: None

Posted: 08/29/2020

Tags: ot7 x reader, supernatural bts, 

5,111 words

A/N: Once I was actually able to write, this came out really easily. I hope you guys enjoy it and don’t forget to do the pre-chapter 2 survey (link at the end of post)! 

You stared up at the house in a bit of a daze, still untethered. Still vulnerable.

“Isn’t it magnificent?! A real masterpiece, this house.”

You glanced at your over-enthusiastic caseworker, then looked back up at the grand Victorian house, wondering if the inside matched the outside, and why such a grand house was way out in the middle of nowhere. Why its owner would offer to take in strays, misfits, and others in need of a new home after the recent war when they were obviously still doing well despite the near economic collapse.

Your caseworker was practically bouncing up to the house, making you dizzy as he jostled the itty-bitty fountain you were temporarily tied to.

But you’d been dealing with that for a month, and you were getting pretty good at walking a straight line while the world appeared to spin around you.

“Now, if you and he agree at the end of the day, you’ll be tethered to a natural spring and the creek it runs into nearby, and you’ll stay in one of the spare rooms and you’ll help him organize and keep his library, which he runs as a traditional library—when organized—for some of the locals.”

You didn’t bother responding since he didn’t seem to be looking for a response, instead heavily trodding up to the front door as he rang the doorbell.

“Also, to simulate what life will be like, I’ll be leaving you for the day once I set your fountain down in a safe spot.”

“You said,” You murmured, closing your eyes for a moment, feeling yourself swaying from side to side. As a xana, you were originally tethered to a fountain many miles away, but as the war reached that town, your fountain had been damaged and your original workplace—a large library where you specialized in the children’s section, reading to them and singing your songs—utterly demolished. Because the fountain wasn’t completely destroyed, you survived. An experimental spell and three weeks later and there you were, standing on the steps of the home of a human where you would be exchanging work for a place to sleep and food to eat. You didn’t even need that much food, about a meal a day was enough for you when your tethered place was healthy and strong and not being jerked around like a dog was playing tug-of-war with it.

The front door opened, revealing a man with pink hair. “Hello, you must be Y/n. We’ve been expecting you. Welcome to Clearwater Springs.”

“We?” You asked, glancing at your worker.

The human did as well. “You told her about the house’s haltija, right?”

You relaxed. “Oh. Just a haltija?”

“Well, he’s also half-brownie, but thankfully that only manifests in the occasional clumsy or destructive moment. He’s quite friendly, though, and very fond of the forest,” The human spoke quickly, as though afraid you would pass negative judgement on the haltija—creatures who were known for guarding and protecting—for having brownie blood—admittedly, creatures who could become troublesome when disrespected, but otherwise also keepers of the home and chore-doers for the kind.

“I’m sure he’s very kind and gentle,” You replied.

“Right. And you’re a xana?”

You nodded.

“And...I’m sorry, I’m not sure what exactly that is, other than the fact that you’re generally tied to some form of pure water, like fountains, springs, rivers, waterfalls….”

You nodded. “I’m originally from a fountain. Um...I’m not sure how to explain what I am.”

Your caseworker took that hint. “Oh! Right, well, they seem to always know virtuous hearts through some test or other—though no one ever seems to be able to pin down the test—um, they have enchanted songs that bring feelings of peace and love to the pure and could almost kill those who are impure. Um, let’s see, she has combs made of moonbeams and sunlight, respectively. Can’t completely care for babies, but once they can feed themselves she’s fine.”

You frowned, fighting yourself not to glare at him. Your species couldn’t produce milk, so in the old days—before there was formula—it was a sort of changeling situation. A Xanino would replace a human child. Terrible, but true. Nowadays, most xaninos were adopted by naiads or other nature or house spirits—because now it was scandalous to try and raise your own child as a xana.

“Oh, she has treasure, but who knows where she keeps that—”

“It’s enchanted, you’re not supposed to know where I keep it,” You muttered, even though he wasn’t paying any attention to you.

“And she can give you a drink that we call ‘Love water’. Couldn’t tell you why, and I’ve never seen her hand it out. Think that’s it. Here’s her fountain, I’ll be back at sundown.”

The human almost dropped the fountain that was shoved into his hands, and if he wasn’t so surprised you thought he might have yelled at your caseworker.

But the car peeled down the driveway again, kicking up dirt.

You stared after him, a little disconcerted. “Mages.”

“Um, well, we’ve been preparing for your arrival. We’ve gotten the basement bathroom renovated so that you can shower or bathe in the waters of your spring when you need, and your bedroom is ready for you. We thought you’d prefer to decorate it with your things...but looking back now I probably should have known you wouldn’t have many things. It’s a hard time for everyone,” The human rambled, rubbing his neck. “Oh, I’m Seokjin, by the way.”

“Oh, yes, I suppose your name would be important. I’d hate to be rude and just refer to you as ‘The Human” when you’re my boss.”

Seokjin looked startled at the title. “I’d rather think of it as a partnership. I’ve been told I shouldn’t live alone, and you needed a new home. Also, my library is out of control and I have no idea where to start—I mean, other than the new library building that we just finished. Don’t worry, it’s very close to your water source as well, but your spring is still highly protected.”

You just nodded, wondering why he didn’t stare like most humans did. You were beautiful—that was one of the key points of defining a xana: being extraordinarily beautiful. Xana’s were considered more beautiful than any other species—and only a few other species even tried to contend with it since yours was more rare, and therefore more worth the attention.

“Um, let’s get inside so I can set this down. We’ll make sure Namjoon steers completely clear of it.” Seokjin stepped back and leaned his head in a gesture that suggested welcoming you inside and to follow him.

He led the way through the entry, and then to the living room through the arch immediately to the right. He took the fountain and placed it on a table that was against the wall—out of the way of general traffic. “There. Now, Namjoon should be around somewhere. Probably the garden, he likes it out there. But for now let me show you the house, including where you’ll be staying and then we’ll go and talk about the library. There’s a lot of work that I want to do, Namjoon is heavily involved in that too. He likes books, but between us...we don’t really have the skills to put what we want into action—which is why we’re really excited that you’re here.” He started the tour.

“I’ll do my best to h-hell, what is this hell?” You said, looking at the mess. It looked somewhat like a library, except you couldn’t even see the shelves. It was just piles upon piles of books, newspapers, journals, magazines, and comic books with a thin path between it all.

Seokjin winced. “It is...mildly organized. We’ve been receiving donations. Don’t worry, there will be a bigger place, we mostly just need to pack all of this up and move it to the new facility in an...organized fashion.”

You pointed at the mix of magazines and books. “This is organized.”

“I did say somewhat, didn’t I? We had a large influx of books very suddenly. Things got very messy in the chaos of it all. I think they were sending us books from destroyed libraries.” He shrugged a bit. “Don’t worry. We’ll be helping at every turn and I’m bringing in extra workers from town as needed.”

You supposed that was supposed to be comforting, but you were staring at a nightmare of a situation. One toppling tower, and there was no navigating through.

“Hyung? Is that you?” The pile asked.

Then it was all falling over and someone was diving out while Seokjin pulled you against the wall and out of the way.

Seokjin sighed. “Namjoon. Our guest is here.”

The man with blue hair looked up, then back at his legs (which were trapped under many books), then back at you. He stared at you with big eyes, looking a little flustered.

You took a deep breath. “Well, that is exactly what we didn’t want to happen.”

“Yeah. Namjoon, didn’t we talk about not going in there?” Seokjin bent down and grabbed Namjoon under the arms and pulled him out from the pile, helping him to his feet.

“I just wanted the next book in my series.” Namjoon rubbed the back of his neck. “I was doing okay until then.”

Seokjin shook his head a bit. “Namjoonie, this is y/n. She’s the one that’s going to stay with us and help with the library?”

Namjoon was definitely already staring at you, and he looked a little flustered and red. “Hi.”

“She’s a xana. Y/n, this is Namjoon, the haltija of the house.”

“Uh, nice to meet you,” Namjoon said hurriedly.

“Nice to meet you, too,” You replied, trying for a smile, but you were pretty sure you just gave him a woozy look.

“Maybe you should lie down before we continue the house tour? He was jostling your fountain around quite a bit.” Seokjin frowned toward the front door.

Namjoon nodded. “He’s right. You need rest. I can tell.”

You shrugged. “Nah, the world is supposed to be constantly spinning.”

“Should I carry her? Should I carry you?” Seokjin asked, sounding and looking a little panicked.

You shrugged. “I’m fine. This has been my life for the past three months.”

Namjoon’s eyes widened.

Seokjin looked like he was going to have a meltdown.

“Unless you’re going to have a panic attack, in which case you may carry me if it will help you,” You said quickly, concerned with how quickly he was freaking out.

Namjoon glanced at the human, then nodded. “I think that might be the only way to stall him out. He’s not wearing his glasses.”

You shrugged again, uncertain what not having glasses had to do with anything, and waited while Namjoon muttered something to Seokjin.

A couple moments later, Seokjin came over, muttering something about being sorry, then he carefully scooped you up. “Sorry, your dress is a little slippery. Silk?”

You nodded. “Yeah. My clothes just sort of...appear as I need them? Usually made of silk, but sometimes there’s a velvet cloak when it’s colder. Some linen when it’s warmer. Always dresses.”

“Cool,” Namjoon said, following the two of you up the stairs.

“I suppose so,” You replied, doing your best not to look at Seokjin. He was handsome for a human. And you’d never seen a non-fairy pull off pink hair before today. He had a sort of gentleness to his face, a softness that could easily become cold and judgemental. If that even made sense.

But honestly, there were very few things that made sense since the war had begun some ten years ago.

“Why is your hair blue?” You asked the haltija, looking over Seokjin’s shoulder as you realized you had been looking at him despite specifically thinking you shouldn’t and only noticing because his ears had started turning a violent shade of red.

“Oh...uh...we’re not really sure. It just sort of...changes now and then. A few days ago I woke up and it was this color. Before that it had been brown.”

“Did you two paint any part of the house?”

“Well, not in the same time frame as my hair color changing. And definitely not this color. Jin-hyung has this crazy theory that it’s connected to my soulmate or something.”

“You have a soulmate?” You asked, surprised.

He nodded, rubbing his left shoulder-pectoral area, which meant either his mark was located there or he had some muscle pain from his dive for freedom in the great August book-slide. “Yeah. Or...well, I have multiple sections in my mark...so, I guess I’m part of a soul-group. Probably a platonic one given my species.”

“You never know what’s waiting around the riverbend,” You replied, thinking back to Grandma Loire’s wise words when you had been fretting about the war. Granted, at that time, her words had been very wrong, but you wouldn’t begrudge the dead for their mistakes.

But also thinking about your own soulmark and the multiple parts in it. You were certain it was just a coincidence, but it was still an interesting fact that you filed away.

“You sound like a naiad,” Namjoon snorted.

“A naiad told me that. She was very wrong at the time. Told me not to worry about the battle in Manhattan.”

“Ooh,” He winced. “Very wrong.”

Seokjin held onto you a little tighter. “Where did you live before this?”

“Rocamadour. Our library was new when I started working there. Before there were a couple but they were in some towns over.”

“Where is that?” Namjoon asked.

“It’s in the Alps,” Seokjin answered, then paused at the top of the stairs. “Get the door?”

The door swung open before Seokjin had finished asking.

You craned your head to look at Namjoon, suddenly concerned with your privacy.

He held up his hands. “I can open doors and windows, I can’t see through walls. I can also hear things, if you want me to. If you want me to hear, just knock or tap your foot three times and I’ll listen.”

You nodded slightly and relaxed again.

Seokjin carried you into the room, which was painted such a calm color. The bed was a queen-size, and it was soft when he lay you in the middle of it. The top blanket was velvet-y and so, so soft.

Namjoon gave you a smile when you let out a sound of appreciation.

Seokjin smiled at you. “Well, I’m going to find out whether he’s coming back to check in on you tonight or not while you rest, then we’ll go over other things and go to the spring. Feel free to go anywhere in the house, as long as it isn’t one of our bedrooms. Mine is on the first floor, Namjoon’s is across the hall. Food in the kitchen is up for grabs unless it’s in the meal-plan that I have on the fridge. Oh, that door there leads to your bathroom, the one next to it leads to your closet, and this third door leads to your sitting room or office or whatever you want to use it for. We’ll let you nap now.”

Namjoon dipped his head as Seokjin pushed and pulled him out of your bedroom door.

You stared at the closed door for a moment, then lay back. You were still so accustomed to sleeping on your fountain or in your fountain that this felt weird. But it felt weird in a heavenly sort of way. You slid up and then managed to slide under the covers, a little excited about the silk sheets. It was so nice.

So heavenly that you woke up feeling so refreshed that it had to be illegal. Sure, you still felt a little off (because the fountain you were temporarily tethered too wasn’t the greatest), but you felt much better than before.

You slid out of the sheets, enjoying the feel of the hardwood on your feet as you cautiously checked out your bathroom, closet, and sitting room (which only had an armchair and a small sofa). Once you had tested the seats (because you had to know which would be your favorite, it was the armchair), you ventured out into the hallway.

Namjoon’s door was open, but you didn’t hear anything in there, so you decided not to bother him.

Instead, you headed back the way you had been carried, looking around for more detail.

The structure of the house, the woodwork, the moulding, the baseboards and the stairway all had a distinctly Victorian style, and all were likely original to the house. But the design was more subtle, softer, and more contemporary in the coloring and the furniture. It was a nice sort of mix that gave the house an air of elegance that was refreshing. You’d been in some victorian-style homes before and they had been so overwhelmingly Victorian that it was like you were trapped in England in that time period and about to choke on a piece of jellied eel.

You avoided the pile of books spilling out of the library (but did notice that they’d been somewhat cleaned up), and checked out the living room again with the ulterior motive of checking on your current fountain.

The style was even more contemporary there, yet still paid a nice homage to the house. A monochrome color scheme, with pops of color in some of the throw pillows and delicate accents in the artwork.

Your fountain looked cleaner than ever and had a healthy amount of water in it for once, which you honestly felt boded well for you. There even seemed to be a new coating of pebbles at the bottom of the small basin.

You flinched as a cat hopped up onto the table next to the fountain and took a drink from it. It was young, a long-haired calico, so soft and pretty looking.

You let it sniff your hand, humming softly before you carefully picked it up. You snuggled it, happy when it seemed to revel in your attention, even seeking it when you started looking over the books that were seperated from the library and on the shelf beside the fireplace. There weren’t many, but you recognized one or two of the titles, and the taste there seemed to vary widely. You figured they were probably books from both of the boys, and left them as they were to go try and find the kitchen for a glass of water.

The office was nearby, but didn’t look like it got used as an office very often, but definitely seemed to have a gaming station in one corner.

You found the billiard’s room next, noting that there was a ping-pong table folded up in a corner. It seemed pretty abandoned, clean, but not nearly as used.

Then a smell permeated the air, drawing you back toward soft noise and even softer humming, murmured conversation and the sizzling of something cooking.

You peeked into the large kitchen, smiling when you saw Namjoon reading in one corner, and Seokjin cooking at the stove. Namjoon seemed to be explaining the book to Seokjin, quietly passionate about it.

Seokjin was smiling and humming, possibly more focused on what he was cooking, but still seeming to hear what Namjoon was saying.

“Smells good,” You said quietly, slipping completely into the room. Trying not to disturb the aura.

Seokjin turned and grinned at you. “Hey! You look like you feel better.”

You nodded. “That bed is heavenly. And thank you for cleaning the fountain.”

He shrugged. “It looked like it had been neglected for a while. Namjoon found some pebbles for it as well because he read that once they’ve been exposed to the tether it can make a transition easier, theoretically.”

Namjoon looked embarrassed, rubbing his neck. “I figured it couldn’t hurt to try it out.”

“That was very thoughtful,” You told him, smiling at him as well.

He was bright red after that.

Seokjin chuckled. “I’ll have dinner ready soon. Then I thought we could head down to the new library building, and then maybe go into town. There isn’t much, but I do need to pick up some things.”

You took the seat that Namjoon offered. “That sounds like a plan. Who’s the kitty?”

“Oh, that’s Parsley. She followed us home one day and has been here ever since.” Namjoon pet the cat carefully. “She’s a good mouser, so we just sort of created a pact that as long as she keeps us pest free, we’ll keep her pest-free.”

“She’s a cutie,” You said, pressing your cheek against the soft fur and enjoying the soothing vibrations of her purr. It was just one of the many things that made you feel so comfortable here. That and both men seemed relatively impervious to your enchanting beauty, which was refreshing. It gave you hope that this would work out. That you wouldn’t always be free-floating.

“She is. Do you know anything about this bird that practically forced it’s way into our house?” Seokjin asked, pointing toward the ceiling.

You leaned to the left to look at the little black and white fluff-ball. “Was wondering when he would show up. He’s been following me for a while. Don’t know why, but he seems to have formed an attachment. Whether he feels like conversing is a completely different matter.”

“Does he have a name?”

“Not that he’ll tell me.”

Namjoon started laughing.

Seokjin gave you an exasperated look. “What do you call him?”

“Fluffball, marshmallow, cotton swab, cotton ball, cotton candy, fairy floss—he really doesn’t like that one—squishy, fluffy, Caspar, and Leo.” You shrugged. “Like I said, he won’t tell me his name. Just what his name isn’t.”

“So, none of those are his name?”

“Well, fairy floss isn’t. I’ve gotten to the point where I think he’s just waiting for someone else to settle on a name for him—preferably one he likes.”

“And until then, he’s just going to come and go as he pleases?”

You shrugged again, holding it for a while.

Namjoon was still laughing, his smile revealing some adorable dimples.

“So...is he a magical bird?”

You looked up at your feathered friend, and resisted the urge to shrug once more. “Maybe?”

Seokjin huffed. “What does he eat?”

“Haven’t the foggiest. He always leaves to eat. Sometimes I’d see him eating bird-seed, but mostly he just flies off and comes back well-fed. I think he eats insects.”

“Great. He can deal with the mosquitos.” Seokjin spared the bird a glance, then dished up the food. “The store might have some insects we can get for him, just in case. You never know. They always have weird things.”

“Really?” You looked forlornly after the kitty as it leaped off and disappeared through another doorway. “Is it a magic shop?”

“Well….”

“We told you that Jin-hyung is the only human in town, didn’t we?” Namjoon asked, eyes widened slightly. “Everyone who lives in the area is magical to some extent, except for hyung.”

You shook your head, a little stunned. “No. No you did not tell me that.”

But man was that an idea to wrap your head around.

Seokjin shrugged, having plated up the food. “This is a pretty popular place for refugees. Sort of remote and accepting of different species. A nice place to make a fresh start.”

“But...you’re the only human. Doesn’t that get...I don’t know...lonely?”

He blinked at you, then shook his head and shrugged. “No? I have Namjoonie, and now you’re here too. And yeah, I’m outnumbered, but they’ve never held my species against me. I mean, that’s probably because I did sort of pay for the whole town, which isn’t much. But more people come each day, and some people move on to other places once they’ve gotten back onto their feet. It’s like an adventure, meet some new characters, help them on their journey, then return home to sleep in a big, soft, bed with a full belly.”

And maybe the look of genuine happiness on his face was just a little too alluring.

Maybe you were just desperate to belong somewhere, because when he included you...it was like the world lit up.

And no, you were not tearing up.

His hand covered yours, warmth spreading from his touch to the mark that was hidden under the sleeve of your dress as he smiled warmly at you. “I really do hope that this place becomes your home. Everyone deserves to have a home.”

And then he was moving away, maybe not even aware that he was one of your soulmates since he was human.

“Come on, let’s eat.”

Namjoon quickly complied with Seokjin’s words, but you were slower to follow, trying to figure out how all of this had come about.

“I heard that a new van full of people arrived yesterday, so I want to see if I can meet any of them. See if we still have enough housing for everyone. That might mean a couple people staying with us in the house if there isn’t enough housing. Is that okay?”

You nodded, just following their actions, but not taking as much food as they did. Mostly because you didn’t need much food to survive, but it smelled good. So good, and Seokjin did cook it himself.

“Alright, then it’s a plan. Eat, see the new library, go to the store, meet people, come home.” Seokjin nodded firmly at the end of the list, then seemed to remember something. “And talk to your mage-handler and see about tethering you to the spring. That’s probably more important. We can do the other things tomorrow if we have to, but the tethering should be done sooner rather than later. That is, if you want to be tethered to the spring. You wouldn’t necessarily have to live here your whole life, we could always get you your own home, it would just—”

“Living here is fine, and yes, I would like to be tethered to the spring,” You said quickly, noticing how his speech was deteriorating. “I just have one question.”

“Oh?” He looked so genuinely concerned, leaning forward in his seat.

“Namjoon said you wear glasses, so...have you actually seen me?”

Namjoon snickered.

Seokjin’s ears turned bright red. “Um. Yes. Yes I can see you. I have seen you. I’m seeing you. I, um, I put in my, um, contacts. I can see you quite clearly. Also, I could see you when I was closer. Just, not after a certain distance. And yes, we do plan on actively protecting you when we go out.”

You nodded. “Just curious.”

Namjoon paused after swallowing. “The mage is back.”

Seokjin sighed. “So, town tomorrow then. I’ll go let him in. I suppose this means I need to offer him dinner?”

“That would be the polite thing,” Namjoon said, gleefully.

Seokjin muttered as he left the room.

“He’s...unusual for a human,” You commented.

Namjoon nodded. “Yeah. He is. But he’s one of the best human’s I’ve ever met. We’re really glad you’re going to stay with us, Y/n. I hope you never regret your choice.”

“I hope so too.” But you didn’t think you would.

Namjoon turned toward the door, eyes narrowed slightly before rolling his eyes. “Can you help me cover the food? Apparently Mr. Mage is insisting on doing the tethering now if you agree to it.”

You rolled your eyes and got up to help him cover all three plates and the platters and bowls with tin foil to possibly retain some warmth. You highly doubted you’d be eating again that evening since tethering made you impossibly nauseous and sleepy. “I won’t be very coherent after the tethering.”

He nodded. “We’ll make sure you get back here and into bed safely, or into the tub downstairs.”

You nodded, then followed him out to where Seokjin was listening to your mage, looking strained.

“Ah, so, have you decided whether you wish to be tethered to the spring here or not?”

“I have decided to be tethered, yes.” Anything to not be in his careless hands anymore.

“Excellent! I’ll get the fountain!”

“How about I grab it, that way your hands are free to do the actual spell,” Jin quickly intervened. “Namjoon can lead the way back to the mouth of the spring.”

You breathed a sigh of relief as the mage agreed to it. At least Seokjin would be careful.

“Alright, then lets head to this spring! I’d love to be on the road before dark.”

Namjoon’s chin jutted out slightly.

Seokjin just gave a pained smile, nodding. “Yes. Driving after dark is a pain. Namjoon. Lead the way.”

And you weren’t about to tell on Namjoon when you saw one of the floorboards pop up to trip the mage, because you kind of felt somewhat vindicated.

The forest around the house was made up primarily of spruces, firs, pines, and hemlocks with birches, oaks, and red maples popping through here and there. The path that the four of you took (with a little fluffball following overhead and a calico furball following behind curiously) was discreet, yet also fairly well-worn. As though walked often, but also well-cared for.

It was quiet, with varying degrees of density—some areas providing a wide view of the rest of the forest, and other areas being so dense that you couldn’t see a foot past the nearest tree.

Namjoon followed the path for a while, then diverged into the forest down what appeared to be a game-trail, something not walked often.

Then you could sense the water. It’s purity, it’s cleanliness. Free and untethered.

The creek was beautiful, and all of you followed it to the head of the spring.

You grinned when you saw it, a thrill going through you. It was beautiful and so clean and lovely and it was going to be yours.

Seokjin set your fountain down so that the mage could prepare the spell, then came over to you. “You’re sure about this?”

You looked into his eyes, the eyes of one of your soulmates, and nodded. “I’ve never been more certain about anything in my life.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled, a little more carefree now.

You hoped you’d have the courage to talk about soulmates with him someday, but today you were going to have your soul ripped from a tiny fountain and sewn back into a spring. You only had so much courage.

And then the mage started the spell.

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Survey Results used for this chapter: 

Namjoon-Blue (haltija), Seokjin-Pink (human), You-Cyan (xana) 

Silk, Book-Librarian, Creek-what your water source is attached to, House/Apartment/Mansion, Style-Victorian & Contemporary, view-boreal/boreal-mix forest, calico kitty, white bird with black wings, 

Whoops-meet Seokjin first, Oh No-meet Namjoon second, LaLaLa-C (some friends, some strangers), Loyalty-Soulmate au, Black-War tore through and you're all in relief housing situation.

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Pre-Chapter 2 Survey

Next.

Masterlist.  ot7 Masterpost.

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Taglist: @missmoxxiesworld​  @bryvada​  @i-dont-even-know-fck​ @knjhe​ @alex--awesome--22  @kerikaaria​ @killcomet​ @letsreadbts​ @taestannie​

[izlaria]

Someone you like (part 1)

This work is inspired by the animatic called Someone you like by honestlyprettychill. I don’t know if I’ll have the energy to do all of the povs showcased in the video, but I just really loved the idea that Lance would eventually come to like Pidge, a romance born from  years of friendship. Friends to lovers is my jam.

I’m posting this on tumblr in case I never finish it, because I just wanted to share what I’ve written so far. I might upload the whole thing to AO3 later.

I made some changes to the video’s initial idea, because I wanted to follow canon ages and I didn’t want a 14-year-old to fall for a 12-year-old. At that time, it’s a pretty big difference in development. So I wanted to establish the basis for Lance to eventually romanticize their first encounter, despite not having been attracted to young Katie.

Spanish to English translations at the end.

14 years old

The truth was that Lance went to Space Camp because Veronica could be a little pest. She knew their parents wouldn’t let her go alone and so had enticed her younger brother with the promise of travel and foreign girls and no parental supervision.

Veronica had obviously left out the fact that they were essentially going to school on steroids for a month, smack in the middle of their summer break. Cool as Miami might seem, Lance wasn’t exactly excited for all the extra work the camp would entail.

“No es un acampamiento,” his sister repeated for what felt like the thousandth time. He wasn’t listening anymore. “Tú sabes que el campo de explotación espacial no está muy desenvuelto en Cuba. Si realmente quieres trabajar con eso, entonces simplemente cállate y no insultes a nadie.”

“¿Cuando he insultado a alguien?” he shot back, defensive. Veronica didn’t dignify that with an answer.

As much as Lance might like to think himself very smooth, there were still times when he stumbled over his words, especially in English. More than once he’d meant to pay someone a compliment and had accidentally started an argument of some kind.

Veronica looked impatiently at her watch. “Mira, tengo una reunión con mi orientador. Y tú tienes por lo menos dos artículos para leer para las clases de mañana, ¿por qué no vas a la biblioteca para trabajar un poco? Prometo comprarte una hamburguesa después.”

Lance pouted at her, arms crossed over his chest. “Me debes más que una hamburguesa y lo sabes, Ronie.”

His sister snickered, but it was as much of an acknowledgement as he was going to get. Veronica pressed a quick kiss to his hair, already turning to go into the main building.

“¡Gracias, hermanito! ¡No te arrepentirás!”

In all honesty, Lance wasn’t as irritated as he made Veronica believe. He knew that a summer program in Miami was a really good opportunity, especially if he wanted to get into the Garrison in the following years. It was just difficult.

He was diligent and studious, but not as naturally gifted as some of the other kids. Besides, he hadn’t been to the US in a couple years, since his parents had mostly settled down in the family farm, which meant he still had to fall back into his English, a task made even more frustrating by the xenophobic comments from one of the boys in his AP geometry class.

The teacher had put an end to it right away, but the words stuck with Lance, for some reason.

With how much humanity had progressed in terms of technology, one would think they would be able to get past petty rivalry between nationalities and usually that was true, but the influx of foreigners following the establishment of the Galaxy Garrison in the US desert still annoyed some people, despite its existence as a multinational center for space exploration. It irritated Lance to no end, especially when so many of these scientific advances came from international collaboration.

If only he could shrug off the inadequacy that now grew in his chest.

Straight ahead, there was a path that led to a green area in the middle of the campus. The other students had taken to calling it the Woods, though it was more of a middle-sized park, with benches and picnic tables where anyone from the Institute could go to relax. That’s where Lance went, mind too full to really focus on homework.

He wondered if people would react that same way if he ever made it into the Garrison. He didn’t know how Veronica dealt with it all, especially when she was alone in Arizona most of the time. Barely a week had passed and Lance already missed his parents, the tenderness of home-cooked food and well-intended lectures.

No, he had to believe that Billy Underwood was an exception. The other kids hadn’t joined in on his taunts, even if no one had moved to defend Lance. It was still too early to make conclusions on his colleagues, especially when everyone had seemed so charmed by him before then.

Lance was so lost in thought that he didn’t realize he had been standing in front of one of the benches until a new voice broke through the peace of the park.

“Are you just gonna stand there?”

The words were somewhat harsh, but when Lance lowered his eyes to their source the girl winced, grimacing. She seemed to have spoken impulsively.

“Hmm, yeah.” Lance blinked at her for a moment, before finally sitting down on the bench. He made sure to leave space between him and the girl, not wanting to make the situation even more awkward.

“I didn’t mean to snap at you,” the girl said after a moment of silence. She looked at him sideways and her brown eyes seemed almost golden in the sunlight. There were freckles spread across the bridge of her nose and across her cheeks, and the green ribbon in her hair swayed in the wind. It was a soft sight, a contrast to the steeliness of her posture and gaze.

“It’s fine,” Lance hurried to assure her. She looked young, but so did he, and talking to complete strangers never failed to make him nervous. “Nothing like a little girl yelling at me to bring me back to earth.”

He gave her his best grin, the one reserved for first impressions and fancy parties. It was supposed to project confidence and kindness, even though Luis said he ended up looking a bit smug.

“I didn’t yell,” the girl pointed out with a light frown. Then her eyes shifted into a more calculating look. “You’re a bit of a goofball, aren’t you?”

“I prefer the term good-humored,” he replied jokingly.

She continued to stare. Lance got the feeling that the girl did this a lot. She had an untamed intelligence to her that Lance couldn’t completely understand. It was the sort of air that teachers sometimes carried, as if they could see something deeper in you if they looked long enough.

“It didn’t seem like you were feeling all that good-humored just now.” She tilted her head to the side, letting the words hang between them.

“Yeah, I suppose that’s true,” Lance found himself saying.

“Do you… want to talk about it?” She looked so doubtful that it almost made Lance laugh. The feeling, however, was overcome by the relief of finally having someone who would listen.

He had spent the week trying and failing to explain to Veronica what was truly making him feel down. She was too busy or too happy for Lance to tell her the truth, especially when it left him so vulnerable. After all, Veronica had taken to her work on the Institute like a fish to water. Lance was supposed to be more adaptable than this.

With the rest of his family away in Cuba, he felt unbearably lonely.

“Yes! Thank you!” Lance shifted in the bench to face the girl. She was taken aback by his enthusiasm, but didn’t move away. “There’s this cabrón in my class, who thought it was a good idea to mess with me, just ‘cause I said fábrica instead of factory in our first day here. He hasn’t really left me alone since…” he whined. “I speak two languages but somehow I’m the uneducated ass here!”

The girl nodded, eyes downcast. “I know what you mean.”

“You do?” He eyed the fairness of her skin and the almost ginger of her hair. “Sorry, but you look white.”

Lance’s comment must have taken her by surprise, because she actually laughed.

“I am white. I’m also Italian.” She rolled her eyes, but there was amusement in the tug of her lips. “I can be both.”

“That’s true.” Lance grinned sheepishly. It was good that she wasn’t offended by his lack of filter. “You don’t have much of an accent, though.”

“Neither do you,” the girl bit back, no real animosity in her tone.

He shrugged. “My family spent a lot of time in the US when I was younger. It used to be second nature to me. Now, I keep feeling like I have to hold back the instinct to roll my R’s.”

“I get that. My parents moved here right after I was born, but we used to speak Italian in the house.” There was a pause here, something that she couldn’t bring herself to say. “I think it’s cool that you can speak Spanish. It’s useful.”

“Yeah?” Lance sat up straight, feeling suddenly boastful.

“Sure!” she continued, encouraged by his interest. “The Bouman Aeronautics Research Institute really values multiculturalism! It is a hob of different nationalities and perspectives, created to foster new minds from around the world! Or that’s what my brother says, at least, and he is rarely wrong.” She gave him a smirk that quickly shifted into a grimace. “Don’t tell him I said that or he will never let me forget it.”

“Older brother?” At her nod, Lance smiled. “I got older siblings too. Sort of the reason I’m here in the first place, actually. One of them was accepted as a researcher and she tricked me into applying too.”

“Same, actually.” She seemed startled for a moment, pulling out her cellphone. “Freak, I have to go! I completely lost track of time while reading.” She got up to go, collecting the book she’d apparently put down to talk to him. It was a thick volume with numbers on the cover, but it didn’t look like math.

Another green ribbon fluttered to the ground, having escaped the pages of the book. Lance bent down to pick it up.

“Here.” He stretched it out to the girl. “Wouldn’t want to lose its pair,” he said with a wink.

“Thanks for reminding me!” She grabbed the ribbon hurriedly, then paused, turning back to Lance. “And for the conversation, I guess.”

Lance grinned at her. She was a little awkward but in an endearing way, like she wasn’t used to having the attention of others on her. Given she empathized with his circumstances in the Institute, it wasn’t that big of a leap to assume that she had trouble making friends.

“Bye bye, Italian girl.” He waved, glad that he could spend these few minutes with her.

“Farewell, Spanish boy.”

Lance meant to correct her about his nationality, but she took out running, clearly late for something. He laughed at the way she stumbled across the uneven ground, careless like a little kid. It was a strange juxtaposition: the thoughtfulness of her earlier words and the childishness of her smile now.

He settled back into the bench, feeling much more content than he’d been earlier. It was nice to talk to people outside of class, for a change.

And, well, Italian girl was pretty. A bit young-looking for him, but he thought guys her age should be tripping over their feet for a chance to talk to her.

“Hey, you’re Lance, right?” A boy had approached while Lance observed the girl disappear from sight. He was tall and robust, with shortly cropped hair, but his expression was friendly. “You’re in my Analytics class.”

It took Lance a second to place him. Analytics was one of the classes Lance struggled with the most, so he hadn’t had as much opportunity to joke around there.

“And you’re Hunk!” Lance snapped his fingers, smiling. “Sit down, man! What can I do for ya?”

Translations:

“No es un acampamiento.Tú sabes que el campo de explotación espacial no está muy desenvuelto en Cuba. Si realmente quieres trabajar con eso, entonces simplemente cállate y no insultes a nadie.” - “It’s not a camp. You know that the field of space exploration is not very well developped in Cuba. If you really do want to work in this area, then simply shut up and don’t insult anyone.”

“¿Cuando he insultado a alguien?” - “When have I insulted anyone?”

“Mira, tengo una reunión con mi orientador. Y tú tienes por lo menos dos artículos para leer para las clases de mañana, ¿por qué no vas a la biblioteca para trabajar un poco? Prometo comprarte una hamburguesa después.” - “Look, I have a meeting with my coordinator. And you have at least two articles to read for tomorrow’s classes. Why don’t you go work for a bit in the library? I promise to buy you a burger later.”

“Me debes más que una hamburguesa y lo sabes, Ronie.” - “You owe me more than a burger and you know it, Ronie.”

“¡Gracias, hermanito! ¡No te arrepentirás!” - “Thank you, little brother! You won’t regret it!”

Cabrón - Bastard

[ukdamo]

Remembrance of Things Present

One of mine...

The gloryhole in 89 Napier Street was the repository for practical things not necessarily needed immediately to hand: the scorched and rickety ironing board (the iron standing on its heel on the shelf above); left-over rolls of wallpaper; a canopy of coats cascading untidily from too few hooks; the two books (Universal Home Doctor and Family Bible); a bashed brown tea caddy, minus its label, that held buttons, wooden cotton reels, a selection of sewing needles, hair grips, press-studs on their cards, folorn biros with bitten ends; the Ewbank (at an earlier date), the reconditioned Hoover now in its stead. And mum's handbags. Old ones bulged with insurance policies, family snaps, the one £5 Premium Bond and the the three £1 ones, grave papers, mass cards, cast-off compacts with cracked mirrors or broken clasps, and almost-but-not-quite empty jars of Pond's cold cream. And the little cylinders of fake gold that held the stumps of greasy, muted-pinky-maroon lip sticks. It was all illuminated by a bare low-wattage bulb.

The gloryhole was, basically, under-stair storage. It was accessed from a door in the corner of the living room. Once the door was opened, you faced a narrow underdrawn space that sloped upward from left to right, following the contours of the stairs. In front, where the height permitted it, a shelf ran around the space. Under it were the old, two-pronged coat hooks. Mum's discarded handbags dangled by their frayed straps from those Victorian coat hooks, smothered by coats. They made occasional forays out into the light, when documents needed consulting or prayer cards needed re-homing. To the left of the door, down one-step, the space retreated into an increasingly confined wedge, so that the smaller objects had to be shoved into the deepest part of the recess and the taller ones stood immediately adjacent. The gloryhole was seldom decorated: it always lagged behind the rest of the house by at least two or three colour-schemes. Occasionally, when its yellowing paint became too depressing, it was freshened up by left over emulsion. The gloryhole housed the left-over wallpaper from various rooms - but never enjoyed a Polycell make-over of its own.

From the vantage point of 2017, Napier Street as our family home is long-gone. So are my parents; dad in 1995, mum a decade later. Equally long-gone are those old handbags with their stash of yesteryear's oddments. But, as I beetle along towards old age, the inherent power of those distant objects to seems to grow exponentially. The handbags and their associated evocations perhaps most of all.

Pond's cold cream. I don't know if it still exists. When I was a boy, it lived in small, glass, oval jars with bakelite screw lids. It was not gloopy or waxy. It was a reassuringly viscose white fondant, and had always the imprint of mum's last finger-scoop. The texture was cool, smooth and soothing. Its fragrance was of mum. Or maybe it was the other way round. A discreet scent of jasmine with distant lilies. It was soft on the palms and immediately made skin more malleable, less friable, less care-worn, more translucent. I can sympathise with her fondness for it: less a cotton winders' hands, more of a princess's. I used to have occasional dabs of my own: less a scrawly schoolboy's hands, more of an aesthete's?

In one or other of the bags there was a ladies Ronson lighter – it still had a working flint but its petrol-infused lint had long since dried out. I used to enjoy the dry, rasping spark with electric flare. Not so much a burning smell as a mechanical one. And then there were the compacts. They were usually smudged by the old lipsticks, their hinges encrusted with their own pink-blush powder. Indeed, the insurance policies, prayer cards and the faux-satin linings of the handbags were similarly smudged. The dull gold-coloured compact, the one with the cracked mirror, had a thin flat disc in it – satin one side and mildly padded on the other. Practically all the powder was gone from the insert. Little bevels of it remained where the side and bottom of the pan met. But the pad was still redolent of dustings and pattings. The powder was an anhydrous mist, different from the silky puff of Johnson's baby powder. Matt rather than shiny, the pad gave a satisfyingly muted pat when applied to the back of your hand. It had a fragrance, too, different from the cold cream, but complementary. The aroma was a pink carnation.

Mum was a delicate creature in some respects – allergic to anything other than gold jewellery. In this, I am not her son: I can wear any base metal, though my fondness and preference is for silver. Anything other than butter on her bread made her nauseous. Wartime had been a torture for her (the chemical coarseness of margarine, you understand). She had to trade all manner of coupons to secure enough butter. I sympathise with that. Her choice of butter was always Lurpak but she'd tolerate Kerrygold or Anchor if it was demanded of her. Stork – which the adverts claimed was indistinguishable from butter – was relegated to cake-making. Rightly so. Vile. Only desperation would make a person use it on bread.

Mum's repertoire of soaps was as limited as her butter.

Pears (those amber ovals) she liked – but it was too pricey. Imperial Leather (“Simon, Bermuda”) was also valued but equally pricey. I don't recall it featuring anything other than rarely – probably when it was on offer. We were a family of six, with four blokes, you see: that's a lot of soap. So, the mundane soap was a Lever Brothers stand by: Sunlight. With lanolin, even. I had no idea what lanolin was – but mum could use it on that delicate skin. This was in the days before hypoallergenic was a even a word, still less a range of products. Sunlight soap came in fat, cumbersome, rectangular, pale magnolia cakes. Really, it was very unfeminine: great half-charlies that were too big for the hand, unless you were a navvy or a coal miner. They had a wide groove on their upper surface, with a cursive 'Sunlight' stamped in it. I don't know if Sunlight is still going: it had a retro makeover many years ago but I can't recall seeing it in decades. The gradual demise of the C2 working class probably doomed it to extinction. And as for lanolin, people finding out that it was the oil from sheep's fleeces no doubt undermined its appeal, somewhat. Sometimes it's best not to know: when I hear what goes into mum's old Oil of Ulay (now sans oil, and simply Olay for copyright reasons, I think), it is cringeworthy.

But lanolin. I recall coming face to face with it a few years ago on a walk to the Water Meetings and Quaker Bridge in Barrowford. Summer time. No azure flash of kingfishers racing along Pendle Water that trip, but as I forked right and headed up the road into Blacko to follow it homewards, there was the buzz of clippers in a field. A Landrover was pulled up, with trailer uncoupled. The trailer sported on- /off- ramps, a generator, and a tall pole, attached to the top of which was a flexible bendy cord. At the end of the cord was the source of the insistent buzzing – sheep shears. The trailer was adjacent to a sheep pen, in which dozens of ewes jostled half-heartedly for position, and peered blankly out. I stopped to watch proceedings and, after a minute or two, the farmer came over, opened the gate, and invited me in.

And so we stood, the three of us. Me, the farmer, and the sheep shearer. And I learned about shearing, fleeces, and sheep. The shearer travelled from farm to farm (hence the Landrover with its bespoke trailer) making his way through Wales, Lancashire, Yorkshire on a pre-arranged timetable and route. He was netting £2 a fleece – and he had each of those pliable ladies, and some cantankerous ones – nabbed, shaved, and released at no more than 90 second intervals. The farmer penned the sheep ready, so there was no delay, and they contracted for a minimum number, so farmers with smaller holdings rendezvoused at the farm where the shearer was to set up. Prices for fleeces rose and fell – they weren't bad that year, as I recall, but sheep need shearing whatever the price.

The bewildered ladies were unceremoniously up-ended and plonked on their ample bottoms, whilst the young fella planted his muscular legs and gripped them, and set to work with the clippers. Mostly, they were subdued once he had them: perhaps reassured by his evident skill and no-nonsense approach. That always worked with me when I was a boy: the sound of the airplane clippers, the smell of 3-in-1 oil, and the firm purpose of the barber. Short back and sides and sparse conversation. Mind you, I don't think the barber netted £2 a scalp back in the day.

The sun shone, the sheep skittered off once fleeced, and we three chatted. Soon my eye was drawn to the large grease spot on the wooden trailer. Lanolin, live and in-person. Handy for soap making, handier still for shedding the filthiest Lancashire weather: these sheep were well set up for inclemencies. I noted, too, that the shearer was wearing moccasins. As the farmer explained, the best shearers wore moccasins. Their suede nap gave some purchase on the slippery grease and their firm pressure was kinder to sheep. Lots of younger men were sporting trainers now, he said, but he didn't rate them. They were not good. The risk of injury to sheep, and man, was increased. I found myself glad that the shearer stood fully congruent with his occupation – no flirting with any Nike or Adidas innovations. Real sheep shearers do it in moccasins.

After the family home was sold and mum and dad went to live in Lomeshaye Village, in one of the old-folks' flats, mum's predilection for Imperial Leather resurfaced. There was always a bar in the bathroom. With just the two of them (kids all gone) the economies necessary for a family of six, on a wagon driver's income, were less stringent. Imperial Leather as pensioner indulgence! One of the things that most endeared me to those lozenge-shaped bars of buttermilk hue was the little foil label that conjured up the decadence of the Romanovs. It was my understanding that the label was there to prevent the soap leaving a mess on the sink ceramics or soap dish: you stood the bar on its label. As the soap wore down, the label stood proud and the soap was no longer in contact with the sink – hence, no mess. Perhaps because we were very plebeian, the soap was never label down. You announced the fact that you were using it by having the label showing.

For me, nowadays, picking the soap up, lathering it under the tap, releases not so much a fragrance as a wave of nostalgia. Imperial Leather's fragrance has elements of sandalwood and the richness of plant oils – it's mildly exotic and suggestive of luxury. Which is, no doubt, what Cussons were aiming at. But for me, it mostly carries aromas of mum. It's powerfully evocative. Aromas are.

I recall a visit – with mum – to Gawthorpe Hall. It's one of the places we'd scoot off to for an afternoon of cultural noseyness, and cake. The cafe was lodged in the stable block and featured home-baking and pots of tea. Ideal for us. After a leisurely brew and news-swop, we were about to go and explore the lovely Elizabethan pile: I decided to make a visit to the lavatory first. The tea room was above, the toilets below, so I skittered down the stairs and found the Gents. The soap was in an old-school wall dispenser: fingers under, palm operates a rectangular squirter. One squidge was enough: the years receded and I was age six, it was dinner time, I was standing at a child-height sink in St George's RC Primary School, Vaughan Street, Nelson, washing my hands so that Mrs. Ingham (a diminutive tyrant) would not throw me out of the dinner queue. The soap dispensed in the Gawthorpe toilet was the same amber-coloured, antiseptic liquid that Lancashire County Council used in its school thirty years before. The power of scent created a wormhole in space-time and drew me through it, irresistibly. That power can be used to advantage, though. You can elect to make the journey. Fragrance can open the portal, on demand. If liquid coal-tar soap can take me to primary school, other fragrances can take me elsewhere.

4711, for instance. That eau-de-cologne can transport me to Köln, and the year 1976. It's a school exchange trip and I'm in Germany, staying with a family from Mayen: we're on a trip to Cologne. I've been up the cathedral tower and seen the Rhine bridges and I'm looking for a present for mum. On Glockenstrasse, at number 4711, stands an impressive perfume factory and shop – home to 4711. The original eau-de-cologne. Echt Kölnisch Wasser. It's still there – flagship shop of the perfume house, and it still glitters with possibility. I bought mum a bottle of the eponymous 18th CE perfume and she wore it ever after. Generally, she kept it in her current handbag (before they were, successively, relegated to the gloryhole). She'd dab it on her hanky and freshen up with it on car trips. As a perfume, 4711 has had an odd evolution over the 200 plus years of its existence; it was, originally, a men's fragrance for the prestige Houses of Europe. More latterly, it has been a women's fragrance – but 4711 indicate it as unisex. I agree. The scent is of citrus and wood that carries a fresh, sharp finish and has enduring undernotes. For me it's an everyday scent: it lives in my sports bag, for application after swims. It's also my travel fragrance and comes with me on every trip, near or far.

As I age (just clocked 56, Not Out), I seem to be developing a deepening appreciation for my past and how it has shaped who I have become. I heard once that making sense of your life is only possible when you look back over it – I recall an analogy that compared it to running your fingers over a fish's scales: they lie smoothly when stroked in one direction but are likely to tear your flesh if stroked in the wrong one. I can see connections, recognise how events and people shaped my experiences. I know I hold threads together, personally. I weave my own cloth - but on a loom I inherited. More tellingly still, some elements of the pattern, some of the aesthetics that inform the weave, some of the yarns, were given to me. I'm the child of weavers in more ways than one.

I can find, too, there's comfort in the sureties of the past. Like the familiarity of an old pair of slippers (not that I wear slippers), the quiet resonances of childhood are reassuring. I think we like continuity, as a species. We tell stories. We create in our own likeness. We look to where we came from to make sense of where we are and to decide where we want to go.

I'm conscious of my heritage. Not (I think) conditioned or stultified by it, or forever harking back to a mystical Golden Age that exists only in the warm fuzziness of a smug and delusional imagination. But I know I make choices which ensure there are tokens of continuity that I can carry with me into my everyday life. Mostly, they are mundane. And I like that, too. It's too easy to confuse what's important with what's valuable, unless you guard against that possibility. The richer you are, the more imperilled that discernment is: I've safeguarded myself against that risk very well!

My tokens are trivial. It's good that they are.

I think of the tea caddy spoon – it's in my kitchen, as it was in mum's kitchen, and as it was in her mum's kitchen before her (c/o a pre-WW II holiday to the Isle of Man): or there's my 'ice-cream' spoon – courtesy of Margaret Pepper and the Raj (well, the North Western Railway Volunteer Rifles, circa 1920). These tokens are a continuing connection with people now gone. They are stirred (if you'll forgive the pun) by everyday use.

I note, increasingly, that I am becoming my parents. I look like dad. Really: peas in a pod, chip off the old block, and so on. I look in the mirror and he smiles back at me. I look at my physignomy – and his fingerprints are all over it. My driving style evokes his. In some situations, I can sense him near. Curiously, he underpins my confidence in situations from which his natural diffidence would have disbarred him. If I stand tall, it's because he raised me. As for mum, she's around most days. Wimbledon Fortnight, she practically moves in. It was ever ‘our time’ - I’d rock up with whimberry charlottes, or strawberries, and we’d sit on the edges of chairs for hours and hours as Nastase, Connors, Becker, McEnroe, Ivanisovic, Sampras, Federer and Billie Jean King, Martina, Steffi and the Williams sisters thwacked balls back and forth. I miss her acutely then. And we both missed Dan Maskell, together. She’s at my elbow at breakfast when I make a pot of Yorkshire Tea (there's another evocation!); when the Imperial Leather is handled at shower time; twice weekly, in the men's locker room at Crow Wood, after a swim. Perhaps it's fortunate that the evocation is a personal, rather than an universal, one? (Otherwise, explanations might prove difficult).

I don't know if the trivial and potent associations that so flavour my life – 4711, Imperial Leather, and two old spoons – will evoke the same responses among my nephews and nieces and their respective kids once I'm dead. It’s open to doubt. They don't live cheek-by-jowl with them, as I do. It matters not. They will make their own. As things stand, I'm the orphan in the world, now mum and dad are long dead: the comfort blanket offered by fragrances and spoons is mine, and very probably mine alone.

There's quiet comfort in that, too.

© Damian, April 2017

[hysterialevi]

His Name Was Isaac - Ch. 2

Fanfic summary: During a mission to avenge his mother’s death, Isaac hunts down the men responsible for her murder and kills them off one-by-one, only to discover that his last target is taking refuge among the Van der Linde gang. In an attempt to kill them, Isaac attacks the gang and unknowingly becomes enemies with his own father, who is in the process of fighting his own battle for redemption.

Point of view: third-person

Author’s note: Just wanted to say thank you guys for all the support you gave on the first chapter. I’m definitely excited to write more for you and I hope you’ll stick around for future parts :)

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This story is also on AO3

TWO MONTHS LATER

AURORA BASIN, WEST ELIZABETH

Blackwater.

It was so close.

Dutch could see it.

Somewhere beyond those trees, all the way over the eastern horizon and past the Great Plains, lay the city that started all this. The city that caused the Van der Linde gang to transform from a simple band of outcasts... into a group of killers willing to do anything for a wad of cash.

But was anyone surprised? Probably not.

After Hosea finally succumbed to his illness five years ago, any glimmer of humanity that remained among them instantly vanished. Dutch took full control over the gang and immediately started heading back out west, eager to return to New Austin. Meanwhile, his mental health deteriorated rapidly into a state of paranoia, greed, and an incessant need for power... and the fact that Marston eventually left did little to help matters either. 

At the moment, the only original gang members to remain at Dutch’s side were Bill Williamson, Micah Bell, and of course... Arthur Morgan.

Nobody ever questioned Bill or Micah’s sense of loyalty -- they rarely expressed any emotions suggesting otherwise, after all -- but to everyone’s surprise, Arthur decided to stay.

Some of the rumors said he stayed simply because he had no other family to return to. Others implied that he was waiting for Dutch to follow in Hosea’s footsteps before swooping in to become the new leader. But in reality... the reason Arthur had yet to abandon Dutch was mostly due to sentiment.

Despite everything Dutch had done over these past eight years, Arthur could still see a part of the old him lingering inside. Behind all the ravings and robbing and killing, Arthur could sense that there was something more human at Dutch’s core -- something more fatherly -- and he knew it would disappear completely if he left. So, against better judgement, Arthur stayed.

It probably seemed foolish to other people, to stick around like this. But those rare moments when the old Dutch would break through and remind Arthur of the good ol’ days definitely made it worth it. He had nothing else to care about nowadays, and it wasn’t like Arthur could just leave the gang behind. He was old now -- or at least older than before -- and even if he did abandon Dutch, he doubted he’d have enough time to start a new life for himself.

Right now, the only thing Arthur could do was accept that he was destined to be an outlaw for life... and he had.

Putting his tangled thoughts aside for a moment, Arthur returned to the task at hand and roamed down the short corridor, making his way through the derelict cabin as he went to meet Dutch in the living room.

This cabin was nice, Arthur thought, for a place that had been abandoned for so long. He and Micah found it sitting in the middle of nowhere while hunting for food at Aurora’s Basin, and decided it would be the best place to set up their new camp. At least until they finally made their move on Blackwater.

Though, Arthur couldn’t deny that he was worried for Dutch’s wellbeing. Ever since the gang first settled here, the man practically locked himself in the cabin and rarely ever came out. 

And whenever he did come out, he always looked so pale. Tired. Sickly, even. Not even close to the man Arthur knew eight years ago. He could’ve sworn that Dutch’s hair was getting grayer every time he saw him, and the way his eyes often stared blankly into the distance did nothing to help ease Arthur’s nerves.

He just hoped it wasn’t too late to bring Dutch back from the edge. He might’ve been a total madman these days, but... even then, he was still like a father to Arthur. And as his son, the last thing he wanted was to see him lose himself completely.

He just feared it might have been too late already.

Finally arriving at the living room, Arthur sauntered through the narrow wooden archway and walked up to Dutch, only to be greeted by a depressing scene.

It was completely dark in here.

All the candles had been snuffed out, the fireplace lay cold with ashes, and the lamp on the ceiling did nothing but swing despondently in the chilling breeze.

At the moment, the only source of light in the room was the one in front of Dutch himself. It was a tall, somewhat cracked window that sat right underneath a broken pendulum clock, and it had a torn bundle of curtains dancing gently around it.

There was an array of pale, white sunbeams pouring through its dusty glass currently, and with the way they embraced Dutch’s figure, he looked like nothing more than a silhouette relaxing in an old rocking chair. 

Arthur took a few steps towards the man, hoping to check up on him.

“...Dutch?” He called out quietly. “You, um... wanted to see me?”

The older man slowly glanced over his shoulder at the sound of his name, silently beckoning his friend to come closer once he saw who it was.

When Arthur was at his side, Dutch presented a used handkerchief to him and held it up in the light, making sure the other man could see the blood splatters staining its white fabric.

Arthur eyed the handkerchief with a sorrowful gaze, letting out a morose sigh.

“You ain’t doin’ too good, huh.”

Dutch coughed a few times, his voice raspy from the irritation. “What gave it away?”

Pressing his hands against the armrests, Dutch steadily pushed himself up from the chair and rose to his feet, still facing the window as he continued to talk.

“I’m... I’m dying, son.” He said, almost sounding apologetic. “I can feel it. It won’t be long now before you and Micah are the ones in charge of this gang, and I’m buried in the ground.”

Arthur was admittedly grief-stricken by the news, but did his best to hide it and simply carried on with the conversation.

“...You really think Micah would share that kinda power with me? You know how that man is.”

Dutch put his hands on his hips. “Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t know.”

“Well, with all respect, Dutch, I ain’t too comfortable with lettin’ the future of this gang depend on a ‘maybe.”

“Neither am I,” the older man agreed, “but I don’t know what else to do, Arthur. Even after all these years, you and Micah continue to butt heads like a pair of deer who’ve got their antlers tangled. If I’m gonna leave this world in peace, I need to know that you and Micah can work together. Otherwise...”

Dutch’s voice trailed off, leaving Arthur with a sense of dread in his gut.

“Well...” he picked up, “I don’t know what’s gonna happen.”

Arthur shrugged in uncertainty, leaning against the wall. “So... what d’you wanna do?”

The other man returned to his rocking chair, allowing himself to sink into the flat cushion.

“Nothing. Not yet, at least. For now, we just do things the way we’ve always done them. We head for Blackwater, and we focus on the bank. My death is a bridge we’ll cross once we get to it. In the meantime, though...” Dutch gave Arthur a pleading look, “just try to cooperate with Micah, would you? For my sake. The future of this gang may depend on it.”

The younger outlaw crossed his arms, reluctant to agree but still complying nonetheless.

“...Of course, Dutch.” Arthur replied. “For your sake. I doubt it’ll be easy, though.”

That seemed to please the older man. “Thank you, son. Thank you.”

Leaning back in his chair, Dutch let his head fall back and stretched his legs out, gazing aimlessly through the open window once again.

“Oh... I wish Hosea were here. We had our disagreements from time to time, but no one knew how to keep people together quite like that old boy. It ain’t been the same since he died.”

Arthur shook his head with a sigh. “No, it hasn’t. I just wish John was here, too.”

Dutch glowered at the mention of Marston’s name. “Pfft. That man was a traitor. We’re better off without him.”

“Maybe,” Arthur conceded, “but he was still family.”

“Family don’t turn their back on you, Arthur.” Dutch countered. “If we’re going to survive this year, we’ve got to stick together. You, me, Micah, Bill, Mackintosh -- everyone. We can’t let what happened at Beaver Hollow happen again. You understand?”

The younger man hesitated to answer, unable to deny his skepticism about Dutch’s leadership.

“...I understand.” He replied regardless. The other man managed to display a small smile.

“I knew you would, Arthur.” Dutch said, shutting his eyes in order to get some rest as the day gradually came to an end. “You was always there through thick and thin. Even after John abandoned us and Hosea passed, you stuck around. You’ve been loyal from the start, and that means the world to me. Never forget that.”

Arthur pushed himself off the wall and began heading for the cabin’s front door, letting Dutch get some sleep. 

“I won’t, Dutch. I won’t.”

~~~~~~~~~~

SAINT DENIS

GASKILL RESIDENCE

AFTERNOON

“...Gaskill...” Isaac murmured to himself, reading the small note in his hand.

He glanced up at the house in front of him, making sure this was the right place.

“Yep,” he confirmed, talking to his horse. “I think we’re here, Aldo.”

Leaving Aldo at the hitching post, Isaac said goodbye to the majestic creature and stuffed the note back into his pocket, strolling up to the front porch.

The property wasn’t as big as some of the others Isaac had seen along the way, but he still thought it looked rather cozy. It had a total of two stories and was decorated with loads of flowers, trees, grass, and a small water fountain that stood elegantly on the front lawn. There were a few birds perched on the edge of it at the moment, and they chirped happily as the cool water trickled onto their feathers, causing them to flutter their wings joyfully.

As for the house itself, if Isaac’s information was correct, then it belonged to an author by the name of Leslie Dupont. Though, according to the research he’d done, that was just a pen name. 

Her actual name was Mary-Beth Gaskill, and word on the street was that she used to be part of the Van der Linde gang... the very same gang Isaac had been tracking down for these past two months.

He had to admit, this “Dutch van der Linde” figure was proving rather difficult to find. For a while now, he had been jumping from person to person -- town to town -- just trying to get even the smallest lead.

At first, Isaac paid a visit to a general store owner named Simon Pearson who apparently used to be the gang’s cook. He talked with him for a while and shared a few drinks, only to realize that the man had a talent for speaking a lot without actually saying anything substantial. 

Afterwards, he tracked down another ex-member by the name of Tilly Pierre. She appeared friendly enough and was somewhat more willing to communicate, but Isaac hardly got a word out of her before her husband shooed him away. Didn’t want suspicious folks hanging around their family, he said.

And as if that wasn’t tiresome enough already, Isaac found himself talking to a preacher called Orville Swanson who seemed to have nothing but bad memories of Dutch, and kept going on about how much Isaac reminded him of one of the gang members.

At this point, Isaac was just hoping that this Gaskill woman actually existed. It seemed like every lead he followed up would end up with more questions than answers, and all the people he talked to so far had been less than eager to speak about their experiences with him.

If Miss Gaskill didn’t have anything valuable to give him, he had no idea where he would turn next.

Stepping up to the front door, Isaac gave it a few firm knocks and waited patiently in the garden, eager to speak with this woman. After a moment or two, the door swung open from the inside, revealing Ms. Gaskill herself. 

She was a lot more presentable than Isaac expected. In contrast to the rugged, hardened, mean-spirited woman he had been anticipating, Ms. Gaskill actually seemed quite sweet. She had a romantic twinkle in her eye and carried a very inquisitive nature, giving her the look of someone who enjoyed reading books and drinking tea as opposed to the ex-outlaw Isaac heard she was.

“Arthur--!” Ms. Gaskill greeted excitedly, only to cut herself off once she got a better look at her visitor’s face. “Oh, um...” a flustered chuckle escaped her, “s-sorry, mister. I... mistook you for someone else.”

Isaac smiled. “No worries. That seems to happen a lot nowadays.”

The woman cleared her throat. “Can I... can I help you, sir?”

“Yes, actually. Um...” the young man double-checked his note, “...are you Mary-Beth Gaskill?”

She nodded, immediately picking up on the fact that he used her real name. “I am. Who might you be?”

“My name’s Isaac. I apologize for interruptin’ your day like this, but... I was wonderin’ if I could ask you a few questions.”

“What about?”

Isaac hesitated for a second, unsure about how to broach the subject. “...It’s...it’s about the Van der Linde gang. I’ve heard that you used to run with them back in the day, and I was hopin’ you might be able to provide some answers. I’m lookin’ for them, you see.”

To Isaac’s surprise, the response actually seemed to earn him a more colloquial temperament from Ms. Gaskill, as opposed to the suspicious nature his previous visits induced. 

“Ah... I think I understand. Of course, of course. Come on in. I’d be happy to help.”

“Thank you, madam. I’ll just be a minute.”

Pushing the door completely open, Ms. Gaskill allowed Isaac to walk in as she made her way to the sitting area, preparing something for them to drink.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” She offered.

Isaac shut the front door behind him, removing his hat. “That’d be lovely.”

Mary-Beth beamed at him, gesturing to the multiple chairs that had been arranged around the room. “Please, have a seat. Make yourself at home.”

Taking in his surroundings, Isaac sat down next to a rather nice end table and placed his hat on his lap, gazing at the decorations scattered throughout the house. 

Isaac already pegged Mary-Beth for a bookworm, but he had no idea just how into it she truly was. There were numerous bookshelves filled to the brim with horror stories, mysteries, comedies, tragedies... but most of all, romances.

They seemed to occupy the shelves more than any other genre, and just by looking at the small ribbons sticking out from between their pages, it was evident that Mary-Beth was busy working her way through quite a few of them at the same time. He wondered what that said about her as a person.

“Here you go,” Ms. Gaskill said as she handed him a cup of coffee, breaking Isaac out of his thoughts. “Careful, it’s hot.”

Isaac gently brought the cup into his grasp, holding it securely as the smell of freshly-brewed coffee beans reached his nose. “Thank you.”

Giving him a smile in response, Mary-Beth retrieved her own cup of coffee before taking a seat across from the young man, admittedly intrigued by his motive for being here.

“So...” she started, “you’re lookin’ for the Van der Linde gang. May I ask why?”

Isaac took a sip. “Well, truth be told, I ain’t really concerned about the whole gang. I’m just lookin’ for a specific person who I’ve been told is with them.”

Ms. Gaskill formed her own conclusion. “So, you’re a bounty hunter?”

“In a way, I guess. Only difference is I’m not doing this for the money. My reasons are more personal.”

The young woman nodded in understanding. “I see. And how did you know I used to be with them?”

“Your friend Mr. Swanson directed me to you.”

A nostalgic look spread across Mary-Beth’s face at the sound of Swanson’s name. 

“Oh, Mr. Swanson...” she reminisced warmly, “it’s been many years since I last saw him, but he was always so kind. Lost, perhaps, but kind. How is he nowadays?”

“He’s doin’ well, I think,” Isaac answered honestly. “He’s a minister now, up in New York. I don’t know what he was like when you knew him, but... Swanson seemed to be content with his life, if a bit remorseful.”

“That’s good to hear,” Ms. Gaskill said, her expression dimming slightly afterwards. “Too many of my friends from the old days ended up dead, missing, or just straight-up insane... so I’m glad that at least someone besides Tilly turned out okay.”

She downed some of her coffee, changing the subject. “But enough about that. You said you had questions about the Van der Linde gang?”

“I do.”

“Well...” Mary-Beth set her coffee down, “what would you like to know?”

Isaac decided to start at the top, inquiring about the leader himself.

“...What kind of a man is Dutch van der Linde?” He asked. “What can I expect from him?”

Ms. Gaskill chuckled at the question. “I used to ask myself the same thing everyday.”

Isaac smirked. “He’s unpredictable, I take it?”

“Understatement of the century. Though, to be fair, Dutch wasn’t always like that. When I first joined their gang, he actually saved me. A couple of men had just caught me stealin’ from them and were chasing me over the hills until Dutch scared them off. He was so generous back then. So passionate.”

“Yeah?” Isaac noted. “How so?”

Mary-Beth leaned forward, gesturing with her hands. “Well, even though Dutch was technically an outlaw, he never really came across as one. He was more like a teacher, or a guardian. A father even, to some. He loved us all, and we loved him, but...”

A melancholic sigh escaped the young woman. “...things just... spiraled out of control. As the years passed by, civilization began to spread, the law started killin’ our people, and eventually, Dutch just... snapped. In the end, he was more akin to a tyrant than anything, and the gang fell apart within a few short months. That was when I decided to run away with my friends, but... not everyone made it.”

Mary-Beth’s expression sank with sorrow, causing Isaac to blurt out an apology.

“I-I’m sorry, Ms. Gaskill. I didn’t mean to bring up any bad memories.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” She reassured. “I just wish things could’ve turned out differently, y’know? Not everyone in the gang was rotten. Some of them were actually quite wonderful... but it’s rarely the good ones who survive. I’m just surprised to hear that the Van der Linde gang is still going. I thought the rest of them would’ve scattered to the winds by now.”

Isaac drank some more of his coffee. “D’you have any idea where I could find them?”

Ms. Gaskill thought for a moment. “Well, if there’s anythin’ I know about Dutch, it’s that he probably headed back to the west.”

The young man quirked a brow. “The west? That’s a pretty big region. You have any specific states in mind? Or cities? Anything that could narrow it down?”

“Hmm... Dutch used to talk a lot about New Austin,” she suggested. “Apparently, he’s quite fond of the desert. Said it made him feel closer to the sky. I know he was always eyeballin’ that town Blackwater, too.”

“Blackwater...” Isaac repeated, mentally marking the town as his next point of interest. “I’ve been there a few times. Do you know why he’d be hangin’ around there?”

Mary-Beth shrugged. “No idea. All I know is that eight years ago, a ferry job in Blackwater nearly finished the whole gang. Perhaps Dutch feels like he has unfinished business there. Probably sees the town as a trophy he never got to win.”

“Hmm... that makes sense. And what about his numbers? How many men did Dutch have when you was with him?”

The woman conjured up a quick estimation. “Roughly two dozen, I think. Possibly a few more. But I can’t imagine he has that many people following him around these days, considerin’ how maniacal he was when I last saw him.”

“I see. So, he’s likely got a good chunk of people with him.”

The young man finished his coffee and placed the empty mug on the end table, preparing to leave.

“Well, I think I’ve gotten all the answers I needed, Ms. Gaskill. Thanks for takin’ the time to help me out. I really appreciate it.”

Mary-Beth smiled sincerely. “Anytime. It was good to talk about the old days, no matter how chaotic they might’ve been. I just hope you can find whomever it is you’re lookin’ for. Are they a friend of yours?”

Isaac chuckled. “Hardly. Quite the opposite, actually.”

“Ah. So you’re trackin’ down an enemy. Well, be careful out there, then. Things may be more civilized nowadays, but many gangs still roam the country. Not to mention that Dutch himself is exceptionally dangerous. Stay safe during your search.”

The man rose to his feet, heading to the door. “I will. Believe me. Oh, and um... Ms. Gaskill?” Isaac threw a look of gratitude at her, putting his hat back on before stepping out into the sun. “Thanks for the coffee.”

[bookaddict19]

Sleeping with the Enemy (Part 2) | Fred Weasley x Reader

Rating: Mature...eventually. I don’t know.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY FRED AND GEORGE WEASLEY! Thank you all for the support that I received from the first part of this fic. If you haven’t Part 1, I will post a link below. Part 2 is a little bit longer than the first one, so I’m sorry about that. No hate, please. But if you like it, let me know and I will continue adding to it. 

PART 1

Y/N stretched out on her back. Her dark head rested on Draco’s chest while her bare feet brushed the sun-soaked grass that surrounded their picnic blanket like the sea surrounds a distant island. She had left her sunglasses inside and was attempting to shield her eyes from the sun’s glistening rays with the pages of her book. Draco, as usual, had found himself unable to stay even remotely still or quiet. During the past hour, he alternated between playing with Y/N’s hair, talking (mostly to himself) about the day’s upcoming Quidditch match, and doodling what Y/N could only assume was Potter’s name over and over again in the dirt.

 “I wonder what he looks like without his glasses,” Draco said as he twirled a piece of her hair.

“Who?” Y/N asked annoyed. She was sure she knew who he was referring too but was highly irritated that he was interrupting her reading to ask her daft questions. 

“Who do you think” he sneered jokingly. 

“I’m going to go out on a limb,” she paused thinking. Her stalling was getting on his nerves and she knew it. Y/N smiled. “…and say probably like Harry Potter…but without glasses”

 “You’re impossible,” he laughed as he fell back onto the blanket and started drawing in the grass again. She had always loved the sound of his laugh. It was rare and musical, so very different from the false barking sound he made when he told a nasty joke or made a cruel comment.   

“That’s me,” she smiled sarcastically, returning to her reading. “Miss Impossible.” They quieted for a few minutes, each content in their own endeavor.

 “If Ned Stark dies, I swear to Merlin, I will go back to America if only to hunt down this sadistic writer and turn him into a dung beetle,” Y/N mumbled to herself as she turned the page; the motion causing the sun to momentarily pierce her eyes. Draco wasn’t listening. She sighed and closed the book in order to sit up and face him. His smile had faded. “What are you doing?” she rolled her eyes at him. Slowly, the pale-headed boy pulled his eyes away from his drawings in the dirt to find hers.

 “I think that I have earned the right to wallow in self-pity for a bit,” he stated placidly. Y/N put her hand on his cheek as she had done just hours before and thought back to the events of last night. 

                                                            ***

 Y/N had awoken, still wrapped in Draco’s arms, to a searing pain in her left forearm. She struggled to her feet; sleep still attempting to pull her back into it’s dark embrace. She turned to find Draco doubled-over on his side, his face strained in pain. Something’s wrong, she thought, her breath coming in short gasps. “Really? Didn’t notice,” Draco groaned, his face pressed against the pillows of couch. She didn’t realize she had spoken aloud. The pain of the mark and the drowsiness from her lack of sleep had her mind swimming in a pool of confusion. Her senses were overloading. She couldn’t breathe. Somewhere in her murky waters of her mind she heard something crash to the floor. Draco had fallen off of his place on the couch, beads of sweat dripped from the side of his head and onto the carpet. She couldn’t see his face.

 As Y/N made her way to Draco’s side, she struggled to get her breathing under control. She collapsed. The left side of her body cried out in pain as she crawled towards him. What to do? What to do? What to do? The words ran through her mind in a continuous fashion that made them lose all meaning. She was almost to him when she suddenly cried out. It seemed that Draco’s glass from their previous night of drinking had crashed to floor with him and shattered into pieces. Her stomach turned as her gaze found her mangled hand. Blood and bits of glass protruded from the wound. Black dots filled her vision as she tried to make sense of what was happening. She took a deep breath. The left side of her body had become completely immobile. Her Dark Mark continued to pulse with pain and, a few inches below it, her injured hand stung with the slightest of movement. As her blood dripped to the floor, her vision came back into focus. Blood, she thought dully. What had Dumbledore told her about blood? 

Her scattered mind thought back to a conversation that seemed a lifetime ago. “Blood is power,” he said, his wizened voiced crackled like the hearth before them. “Blood is life and death. Something that binds us to our ancestry and our progeny…it’s no surprise that many of our kind believe it to be the source of our magic and something to be revered.”

Blood, she thought again as she reached Draco. She moved her right hand to her injured one; the crimson liquid felt warm to her touch. Symbols flashed in her mind. Ancient drawings, long forgotten, from archaic grimoires passed down from a time before wands became the new fashion. As her fingers became her quill and her blood became her ink, Y/N began to draw the symbols that now flashed before her eyes onto her arm, just above the Dark Mark. As the pain began to subside, she turned her attention to Draco. After repeating the ritual, Y/N slump on her side; her head resting on Draco’s shoulder. His color was coming back. 

“He’s angry,” Draco whispered, his breath rustled her hair as he spoke. She whimpered in pain. Her hand was still bleeding. She was weak and felt as though she had used more magic in the last few hours than she had since she had come back to Britain. “It’s okay,” Draco soothed. It wasn’t. As he reached for his wand in order to mend her hand, her fingers found his cheek. “We’ll get through this. I promise.”

                                                            ***

 “And speaking of self-pity,” Draco muttered under his breath, pulling her out of her reprieve. Y/N followed his eyes. Potter, Granger, and Weasley were making their way across the grounds; their heads bent in deep conversation. When the trio neared the entryway to the castle, they stopped and sat down on the grass. Potter moved to rest his hand on Weasley’s shoulder. Y/N felt Draco tense beside her. Something seemed to be wrong. Weasley’s freckled face was wet, his nose dripped dribble onto his shirt. He certainly was not a pretty crier, Y/N thought to herself. Draco made a move to get up. Apparently, gawking at Potter was not on today’s agenda.

“Come on,” he said as he made to pull the picnic blanket out from up under her. “We’re leaving.”

“Hey! I’m not finished with my book,” she screeched at him as she tumbled onto the grass. “Get up,” he commanded and pulled her to her feet. Y/N grabbed her book off the ground and began to brush the grass from her dark clothes, muttering curses under her breath. As they made their way to the castle, Y/N struggled to keep up with Draco’s long strides. She was panting from having to almost jog to stay at his heels.

 “Slow down, you git,” Y/N called out to him. She tripped. As she brought herself to her feet, a slew of profanities on her lips, she came face-to-face with Potter, Weasley, and Granger.

  “Potter,” she nodded awkwardly. “Fancy meeting you here.” She made a move to leave. Weasley was attempting to wipe the tears and dribble from his face. Besides the flaming hair, Y/N could hardly believe that him and the twins were related. Ron’s face was babyish and spotted where Fred’s had been smooth and chiseled, with only the dusting of freckles to mark it. The thought of Fred made her palms start to sweat and her heart beat a bit faster. She turned and found herself facing a very displeased Draco Malfoy.

“Potter,” he said, looking over Y/N’s shoulder and into the dark-haired boy’s green eyes.

“Malfoy,” Potter replied.

“Black,” Y/N mumbled, feeling left out. Draco looked at her, a highly exasperated expression on his face.

“We were just leaving,” Draco muttered. He grabbed Y/N’s arm and attempted to pull her away.

  “Death Eater dealings to tend too, I presume,” Weasley said, his voice cracking. He was no longer crying. His face flushed red with anger. And here we go, Y/N thought. Draco was the first to lunge, wand completely forgotten. He crashed into Weasley. Punches were being tossed around by both boys, the majority of them failing to connect. Draco grabbed Weasley by the neck and pinned him to the ground. Potter, seeing Weasley’s distressed, kicked Draco in the ribs causing him to cry out.

 “Excuse me, Granger,” Y/N said, pushing the bushy-haired girl out of the way. She jumped onto Potter’s back and sent the both of them tumbling to the ground. The next few minutes were filled with elbows and fists, punches and kicks until a harsh Scottish voice yelled, “THAT IS ENOUGH.” McGonagall marched over as the brawlers broke apart. Granger began tending to Potter and Weasley’s wounds as Y/N examined Draco’s blackening eye. “Well, that was fun while it lasted,” she smirked.

“In all my years,” McGonagall shrieked as the pair pulled themselves to their feet. “Detention. Immediately. All of you, go! And 50 points each will be taken from both of your houses.”

Next to her, Draco had paled. “But, professor,” he started. “Slytherin’s match starts in an hour! If I could just–” “Absolutely not, Mr. Malfoy,” Professor McGonagall stated firmly. “You should of thought of that before you started brawling like common miscreants.” Draco quieted. His dark gray eyes burned like embers as he watched a smirk form on Potter and Weasley’s faces.

Hours later, the Slytherin common room was filled with streams of slightly-inebriated students swaying to the beat of the Weird Sisters’ latest album. Draco, who had been in a sour mood since the fight (and subsequent detention), had orchestrated what Y/N could only describe as a night of pure debauchee in an attempt to atone for missing the match. Despite lacking their seeker, the Slytherin team had managed (probably through a great deal of cheating) to beat Hufflepuff and Draco was desperate to make everyone forget that he wasn’t there help. He was doing a good job, Y/N thought to herself as she sipped her butterbeer and watched as Pansy Parkinson led a Hufflepuff boy up the stairs to the girls’ dormitory. Y/N sat at the edge of the festivities, careful not to get too close to the action. In spite of the cheer in the room, a gloom had begun to settle over her like a dark shadow.

 “What are you doing?” Draco said as he sat down next to her; a smile played on his lips as he admired his handywork. Clearly, he was feeling better, Y/N thought as she watched him sway drunkenly. The party was in full swing. Butterbeer had been passed out to anyone who didn’t already have a drink in their hand, and someone had snuck down to the kitchens because biscuits and cauldron cakes now littered the counters. The room was filled with the sounds of music and laughter as students danced to the melody. A Ravenclaw girl and a Slytherin boy were making out on one of the nearby couches. Y/N was worried if he stuck his tongue any farther down her throat then he would accidently swallow her.

 “Self-medicating,” Y/N answered, waving her glass in his face. He rolled his eyes. She forced a smile at his exasperation and began to scan the crowd again. A flash of flaming red hair caught her attention. Her breath caught in throat as she attempted to zero in on the source but whoever it was had quickly faded back into the crowd. Y/N tried squash the feeling of disappointment that bloomed in her chest. She had not seen Fred Weasley since the night before but he had rarely left her thoughts since then. There was something about being clustered together in the dark stairwell as magic sparked around them that made the experience hard to forget. Not that they had much contact in the past. She had always found him and his twin quite amusing. Their thirst for chaos seemed to almost mimic her own at times. But she had never spoke much to either of them and both had a deep mistrust of Slytherins.

“You know, you turn into a terrible bore when you get in one of your moods,” Draco muttered, bringing her attention back to the present. “Do you even remember what fun looks like,” He pointed at a tawny-haired Ravenclaw boy who was dancing nearby. The boy turned, raised his glass to them and smiled. “Because that is fun.”

  “I don’t particularly like blondes,” Y/N mumbled, a real smile had begun to form on her lips as she ruffled Draco’s pale hair. “Besides, I think he’s more your type than mine.”

 “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Draco said with a disappointed sigh. “He’s good friends with Hannah Abbott. She’s here somewhere. Forgive me if I don’t want to get hexed again by that little minx.” His eyes darted around. “I don’t know why she hates me so much,” he mused to himself.

Y/N laughed. “Well, you did shag her in one of the Quidditch locker rooms and never talked to her again.”

“No, I shagged her brother in one of the Quidditch locker rooms,” Draco corrected. “I kissed her at Warrington’s back-to-school party last term and…okay, I see your point.” Y/N snickered again. “I’ll keep an eye out for Hannah if you want to try your luck,” she offered as she nodded to the Ravenclaw boy.

“I love you,” Draco smirked devilishly. He kissed her forehead before making his way over to the boy. “I know,” she replied softly but he was already too far away to hear. As Y/N made her way through the crowd, she kept an eye out for Hannah. Y/N didn’t think that Hannah would make a scene in the middle of the Slytherin common room but Draco did have an affinity for falling for the crazy ones. Take Potter for example, Y/N thought to herself. She didn’t know what he saw in the scar-faced wizard besides the fact that he was totally and completely off limits. But maybe that was part of the appeal, she mused as her thoughts began to wander back to Fred. She got another drink. It was her third…no fourth…no…did it really matter? It was only butterbeer. She smiled to herself. As the warm liquid burned in her throat, the gloom that had settled in her chest was starting to fade again.

 A flicker of red caught her eye again. She turned and came face-to-face with a pair of stormy blue eyes. Her smile faded as her eyes instinctively searched the room for Draco. If he found at about last night…she would most definitely have some explaining to do. She grabbed Fred’s hand and quickly led him out of the common room, stepping on a few partiers’ feet in the process. “If your back for seconds, dear Weasley, I’m afraid I’m going to have to disappoint you,” she said rather sarcastically. Once she reached the hall, she turned and looked at him. For a moment, they stood there, not quite close enough to touch. Y/N could hear the sounds of the laughter and music echoing in the hallway of the dungeons. She tore her gaze away from Fred’s to scan the scene for the eyes of prying professors or drunk partygoers. She knew that the underage drinking, premarital sex, and who knows what else Draco had planned for the night, would likely be received with the same sentiment from the Hogwarts staff as the less than traditional magic she had performed the night before.

After assuring herself that the coast was clear, she returned her attention to Fred. Her spell had worked wonders, if she did say so herself. Fred stood before her, a picture of health. His crimson hair glittered in the torchlight; the fine golden strands that were mixed in with the red becoming more pronounced. His blue eyes were dark with determination as he wiped the sweat from his brow. As his cheeks flushed with color, she watched the way his pale arm, strengthen from years exertion from grueling Quidditch matches, brought his hand to rest on the back of his neck. She remembered how that hand had felt in hers just only last night, when they sat huddled together in the darkness as magic filled the corridor.

 “I…,” He searched her eyes, pleading. “I need a favor.”

 Her eyes hardened as an involuntary, almost manic laugh escaped her lips. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

 “Please,” he begged. “It’s George. He’s not getting better. He’s in the hospital wing and Madam Pomfrey insists that there is nothing to be done except wait…they’ve sent an owl to my parents...something about the curse reaching his bloodstream…” he faltered.

Her heart immediately went out to him. Umbridge must have spelled these quills under a blood moon for their magic to be so potent. If the curse had made it to George’s bloodstream then it wouldn’t be much longer. He most likely had only a few days, a week at most, left before his poison reached his brain. Even then, it wouldn’t be a peaceful death. Y/N briefly wondered how Umbridge would explain such a thing to the Ministry but had no doubt that somehow, some way, she would be able to do so. Fred was still watching Y/N’s face as if she were a locked box that he had been told not to open but he was desperate to find a way in. He stood there asking a girl, who most would view as his enemy, for help. However, despite his distress, there were no tears in his eyes. Just stony resolve. If that wasn’t the bravery of a lionheart, she didn’t know what was. Nevertheless, she couldn’t risk her mission, her life, or, even worse, Draco’s life to play nurse to the Weasley twins. She was here for one purpose and that purpose was likely to her killed at best and a whole bunch of others killed at worse. She knew what she had to do, even if she didn’t like it.

 Y/N plastered a haughty, fake smile to her face despite not being able to meet his eyes. “I’m going to with no…but thanks. Your faith in my abilities is very flattering,” she responded curtly.  She started again, intending to walk past him and back into the common room, when he grabbed her arm and pulled her towards him. She bristled, caught off guard. With a twitch of her free hand, she sent a shock through Fred that had him scrambling backwards. Y/N took this opportunity to escape, making it halfway down the hall before Fred’s words halted her progress.

“What if it was Malfoy?” Fred yelled at her. She turned to look at him. Her breath came in rushed gasps. She was losing control. “What?” she breathed. “Draco, I mean,” Fred started again. “What if Umbridge had hurt Draco? What if it were him in the hospital wing right now?” he finished. 

She started towards him, her hands crackling with magic. “I would personally burn that human Pepto-Bismol bottle at the stake before I’d let her touch hair on his head,” she spat. To Fred’s credit, he didn’t flinch away. He simply looked at her, the determination that she had admired just minutes before remained in his darkening eyes. There was something else there too. A fierce loyalty, a quiet desire for revenge, a need for chaos that mirrored that in her own eyes. 

“Well…I was thinking of something little bit less dramatic,” he smirked. “Mum still refuses to let George and I play with matches and I’ve never been very skilled at pyrotechnic charms,” he shrugged. “Although, I wouldn’t get in your way if your wanted to try.”

She bit her lip in an attempt to keep a straight face. Her anger had disappeared as quickly as it had come on. Could he never be serious? But the tenacity in his eyes had remained constant. “Please,” he whispered again. Her eyes met his; her thoughts sobering. “Don’t make me regret this, Weasley,” she whispered back. He smiled slightly, turning on his heels as he did so to walk back in the direction of the hospital wing. It was like walking with Draco. For every step he took, Y/N had to take two. She was out of breath by the time she made it up the first landing.

 It was late when Fred and Y/N arrived in the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey was nowhere to be found. From the smell of dung bombs in the air, Y/N assumed Fred had ensured that they wouldn’t be disturbed. They would have to make this quick. George was lying in the only taken bed in the room. Y/N suddenly understood why Ron was crying earlier. George was deathly pale; his chin was stained red like he had been coughing up blood. He showed no sign that he registered the pair entering the room. Fred rushed to his brother’s side and put his hand on his forehead like he was trying to take his temperature.

 “You can fix him, right?” he said to her. Y/N walked to the boy’s bedside. If not for the slow, irregular movements of his chest, she would’ve thought he was already dead. This would take a lot of magic and she wasn’t quite sure that she would have enough. She also wasn’t sure why she was willing to risk it for a boy she barely knew. But one look into Fred’s pleading eyes and she had her answer. He looked at her with all the faith in the world. The only other person who had ever done that was Draco.

 “I can try,” she whispered. She took George’s hand; she was conscious of Fred’s eyes on her the entire time. She took a deep breath and began to softly chant the words to the same spell that she had used the night before to heal Fred’s hand. Fred watched as lights in the room began to dim as her voice rose higher and higher. The burned smell of magic filled the air and made it hard for him to breathe. Fear filled his heart as his eyes returned to Y/N. She was pale and shaking. Blood flowed from her nose and onto her shirt as her lips whispered the words of the spell.

“Black, that’s enough,” Fred rose to his feet and made his way to her. “Stop.” He put a hand on her arm. With a flick of her spare hand, she sent Fred flying across the room. He smashed against the wall and cried out, more in shock than in pain. “I can do this,” she whispered breathlessly, pulling her eyes away from George to look at Fred. Her eyes, Fred thought. They were no longer the chocolate-colored irises that he had grown accustomed to looking for in crowds. Instead, her eyes seem to burn an unearthly gold. Fred attempted to move towards her again but the force of her magic kept him pinned to the wall. She had lost control. “I can do this,” he heard her fanatically whisper again as she returned her attention back to George and resumed the chant.

A soft, golden light flowed from her hands to George’s. The twin’s color had started to return. His chest moved at a steady rhythm as his breathing returned to normal.  Just a little bit more, Y/N thought. Cuts appeared on Y/N’s wrists as her stamina began to fade. She fought the urge to cry out as black dots filled her vision. With her attention diverted, Fred attempted struggle out of his invisible bonds. And then…it was over. As the torches rose to their full stature once more, Fred felt the invisible chains that bound him fade away. Y/N rose to look at him; her eyes had returned to the same dark brown that they had been when he had met her in the Slytherin common room earlier that night. She was pale and bleeding but a triumphant, cocky smile had formed on her lips before she collapsed. Fred rushed to her side. He picked her up and laid her gingerly on the bed next to his twin’s.

 “Black, are you okay?” Fred whispered as he moved her dark hair out her eyes. “Y/N…” he whispered again.

 “I’m sorry,” she whispered sleepily. “I lost control for a bit at the end.” She smiled like, despite the spell almost killing her, it had been a hell of a good time. Fred sighed, relieved that she was at least well enough to joke about it. He got up and began to rummage through Madam Pomfrey’s supplies in order to find something to bandage Y/N’s wounds. The pair sat in silence as Fred dressed the cuts on her wrists, neither really knew what to say.

 “Freddie…” a voice from the bed beside them murmured groggily. Y/N fell back into the pillows of her hospital bed as Fred turned his attention to his brother. George looked like he was slowly waking up from a long, pleasant dream. His cheeks, which had been white as a sheet just minutes before, now flushed red as he yawned. He stretched and attempted to sit up.

 “Easy, there, Sleeping Beauty,” Fred warned. “You need rest.”

 George smiled drowsily. “Don’t have to tell me twice, little brother,” he mumbled as turned over on his side and began to snore softly. Fred watched him worriedly.

 “He’ll be fine,” Y/N assured as she struggled back into a sitting position. “The spell took. I’m sure of it. Otherwise, it probably would have killed him,” she mused. Fred turned to look at her sharply.

 “Only joking,” She attempted a smile. “Mostly,” she muttered to herself.

 “Thank you,” Fred whispered. His eyes searched hers as he approached her. She couldn’t tell if it was fear or nerves that made his hands shake as he walked around his brother’s hospital bed to sit by her. “Yeah. Yeah,” she tutted, not looking at him. She felt weak and sick, but attempted to muster some of her usual sarcasm. “The next time I’m charging you, Weasley. And, believe me, you can’t afford me.”

 “It’s Fred. Just Fred,” he laughed. The sound made her heart race and her foot begin to tap in a nervous gesture.

 His hand rested on her arm; their faces were so close that she could feel the heat coming off of his body. Why was he always so warm? she thought as her breath caught in her throat. Her eyes moved down his face to where, even in the midst of all of this fear and pain, a ghost of a smile still played hide-and-seek on his lips. His grip tightened on her arm. The embrace was not enough to hurt her but enough to bring her back to her senses. If not for the glamour on her arm, he would be able to look down and see his fingers wrapped around her Dark Mark.

 “Weasley…” she trailed off, not sure where to start or what to say. He moved closer to her; his eyes bright. His hand began to make its way from her arm to brush a dark curl out of her face. “Fred…” she whispered warningly.  

 “What the bloody hell is going on here,” said a panicked voice that made both Fred and Y/N jump apart. Draco Malfoy was standing in the doorway of the hospital wing clutching a bleeding arm. And he looked anything but happy. 

[hobiwonder]

Induratize | 05

Pairing: Prince!Jimin x Princess!Reader

Genre: Royalty AU.

Warnings: Angst, Smut (future), Fluff, Some violence. [angst in this chapter].

Words: 4k+

Summary: You make a heart-shattering discovery. 

A/N: i won’t even try and justify the wait bc i’ve been crying about it on my blog regularly, so!!! this is a major chapter in terms of OC and Jimin’s relationship. It took me a while to write it because I kept getting distracted by other projects but now that i only have exams to cover (and the big reveal has happened phew) I can maybe focus on moving the story to its fluffy end???? hmmm????? [it’s coming soon]. PLEASE tell me what you think!!! I have already written 2k words of the next chapter.

When Jimin used to walk down the same dimly lit passageway towards his father’s, the King’s, chambers he rarely felt anything other than mild annoyance from being reprimanded for the most minuscule mishap while on missions and negotiations with the neighbouring clans. Back then, he had nothing to lose. Nor did he care much if he was whipped or starved whenever he made a mistake. It was how he had been trained ever since he was a boy. His father became even more unsympathetic once the Queen passed. Jimin was allowed a mere few hours to grieve her before he was stowed away in the training camp under the Army General. Every tear that slipped down his cheek was whipped away until his eyes were dry and mouth was set tight. There was no place for weakening emotions like sadness. Only anger. And anger was filled inside of Jimin to the brim in his years of training. To the point where he learned how to master it and utilise the emotion in winning wars and slashing clans that refused to do his father’s bidding.

He had learned how to be unyielding and unforgiving. He was attached to no one but the cause of…. Of what? He had never questioned it before. Conquering was all his father cared about. But was it not enough? Haelyra was prospering. There was nothing the kingdom lacked. Yet his father was unwilling to stop his mission to have the whole world in the palm of his hand. And Jimin was a loyal soldier, fulfilling his duty to his country and being an advocate of his father’s plans. Whether willing or unwilling. Though he was mostly ambivalent to the details or the plans. He didn’t know a life other than the one he was living. The tender love and nurture his mother provided for the short period that she was alive felt like a fever dream.

Until you. Until he met you. And now that he was walking through the same walls, surrounded by the same guards, about to see the same person he had seen many times in this context; he was scared. He was scared out of his wits because now he had something to lose. You. The one person who let him shed tears without judgement and held him together. Someone he did not know he needed until he let you in and wrap your warm arms around his cold body. You were the warmest person he had ever known and the only person who let him…. feel anything other than anger and numbness. Only other person apart from his mother. Though his body was not showing physical signs of his internal panic about what would his father could possibly do to you if he realised your importance to Jimin.

Leaving you in his chambers was harder than he thought it would be. Your soft eyes had looked up at him while you clutched the sheets around your even softer body. Thankfully, he’d been able to contain his initial panic and gently coax you in to taking another restful nap until he was finished with business. Reassuring you that he would be back and that it was just a routine visit. But of course Jimin knew better than to pretend he knew what was coming his way. That was his father’s play. Never keeping Jimin in the know too much so he will stay on alert and not become comfortable in his position as the future king. He understood it before. Or at least he thought he did. That his father was preparing him for what is to come. Though, more and more it seemed impractical to Jimin that he wasn’t not aware of future plans, or even current, right before they were to be implemented. Would it not be better if Jimin was made aware of future expeditions and laws that were to be announced before they actually were? Did his father not trust him with any decision making?

“Your majesty.” Minister of the Household, Ahn Jihoon, greeted Jimin as he entered his father’s chambers. His nerves were on edge but at least his years of training made him a master of control.

Jimin took a curt bow towards where his father sat in his throne, busy examining the scroll in his hands.

“How are you, son?” This was certainly unexpected. Jimin could count on one hand how many times his father had asked him that.

“I am well, father. What is it that you wish to discuss?” He gets straight to the point like always. However, he could tell that his father was trying to find the right words to speak with the way his eyes roamed about the room before setting on him.

“I see it was quite the blood bath.” The King chuckles as if the death of hundreds of people was daily humour to him and it makes Jimin feel queasy. “You’re looking bright which is excellent before you begin your next task.”

“When would that be?” It was too soon for his men to go out again. They had barely healed from the last mission. Hell, he had barely healed but he didn’t want his father to know that.

“Well son,” The King leaned back in his throne, placing the scroll he had been reading to the side for the house minister to collect, “You will embark at sundown tomorrow.”

When his father continued to stare at him with shrewd arrogance, Jimin knew the answer to his question before it even slipped past his tongue.

“Where… would that be?” A calculated smile and then an astute laugh.

“To Tampa of course. We have business there you failed to finish. Again.” The atmosphere had gone eerie in mere seconds as the King grimaced towards Jimin, unsatisfied.

“But my lord, we just attacked. I’ve barely had time to wash off the blood soaked in my coats.” Though Jimin’s reasoning fell on deaf ears as the King waived off his concerns.

“It will be better to attack while the enemy is still wounded. The element of surprise will be in our favour son.” Jimin was furious.

“And how do you expect me to use that element in my favour when half of my men are bed bound?”

“We will recruit more men if need be.” The king looked unbothered. Staring dismissively at Jimin who tried to keep his voice levelled and not explode with the anger bubbling inside. How could his father be so reckless and uncaring towards his own people?

“I will not have untrained soldiers sign a death contract. You underestimate the Tampans, father. They fight with a vigour that even I do not possess.”

“Then acquire it!” The king’s loud voice boomed across the walls, alerting the guards standing in his chambers to the king’s fury. “For your land. For your people! Remember son. No mercy…” He leaned close to Jimin, looking him in the eyes before whispering, “Only vengeance.”

Jimin swallowed his own vehemence. Your face flashing before his eyes suddenly, calming his nerves tenfold that even he himself was surprised.

“We will make an enemy out of them forever if we attack again, you are aware, right father?”

“We don’t need cooperation from those heathens; only obedience.” The king spoke of his former allies as if he had barely known them. When in reality, the Tampan tribe had been a valuable resource and a source of information to his father’s previous plans. And yet, with the craze of world dominance, the King was ready to sacrifice valuable bonds in exchange of absolute power. Wanting nothing but to play God.

Jimin says nothing. Face stoic and posture stony. “Do you understand me soldier?”

He just nods. “Good. You must maintain an air of absolute obedience with anyone. No exceptions. You are the future King, son. You must be cruel if it results in obedience.”

If Jimin remained in his father’s chambers any longer, he was afraid he would say something that could jeopardize his men or worse, you.

“And Jimin?” He stops right before he exits when his father calls him again.

“Yes, my lord?”

“The girl must remain pure. Do not forget. If the marriage is consummated, it will be difficult cutting ties with Munia when the time comes.”

Within seconds, Jimin has exited his father’s chambers after nodding before he stops in the hallway, away from anyone witnessing the heavy breaths leaving him. He had almost forgotten. In fact, he actually had forgotten about the sick and twisted plan his father had in mind before he agreed to marry Jimin with you. The relationship that had cultivated between him and you turned out to be something so bewildering, so precious that the reminder of the wicker scheme his father had come up with was making him physically sick to his stomach.

How could Jimin ever agree to it? How did he ever agree to such thing being done to an innocent human being, let alone someone he had come to care for so much that he knew, without question, that he would die for you. The overwhelming feeling he had developed to protect and cherish you was like cold water being poured all over him. The realisation that he loved you had him weak in the knees as he leaned back against the stone wall for support. Looking up at the sky as if it held all the answers.

He was in love with you. And in the end, he would have to leave you.

His father had specifically instructed him to not consummate his marriage with you because then, after acquiring all of your wealth and Kingdom, the royal law would allow Jimin to divorce a princess if she is pure and can be married to another royal. It was the sick reality. That you would be just handed off to the next Kingdom as an offering to another prince. As long as you were pure, his father’s plans would be in place and no royal laws will be broken. If Jimin did take your maidenhood, you would be his wife forever, his responsibility and the King would have no choice but to remain allies with Munia.

But he knew that if he did mark you as his forever, the King would not stop at anything until you were out of his life. There was no other way to conquer Munia other than war or via infiltration. Having Jimin be in holy matrimony with you was the perfect way to gain access to anything and everything in Munia.

And yet, he couldn’t find it in himself to try to do any of those things. He didn’t care for it anymore. Ever since you’d come in to his life, it seemed worth living again. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it happened but he would do anything to protect you. Even if it meant keeping you away from him. He couldn’t risk your life for his own selfish need to have you. You deserved better than a man like him. A man who was using you for your wealth and Kingdom. It didn’t matter how much he loved you; his father would never let you stay in his life

It had been roughly an hour that Jimin has been gone and with each passing minute, you’re getting more nervous. In the time you’ve been here, it wasn’t hard to notice Jimin’s swaying moods always came after being away on his father’s orders or whenever he came back from his chambers. And the way Jimin’s demeanour distorted, hearing the guard relay the message, you knew that all the progress you two had made so far in connecting with each other was at risk. It was becoming more apparent to you that opening himself up to someone was definitely not an option for Jimin before you or at least a while before you that his default reaction to you being concerned for his wellbeing was that it was a burden for you. When in reality, anyone and not just someone with a relationship such as a husband or wife, would comfort a person in distress like he was last night.

Though you were determined because even if you hadn’t clearly admitted to yourself that Jimin, as infuriating his fluctuating moods and sometimes unyielding rigid personality, meant something to you – you were not going to give up. Not that you had much of a choice anymore because you couldn’t just up and leave. You were bound to Jimin by every royal law out there and before, that seemed like the worst life sentence. But you were happy that you’d made a life for yourself with genuine friendships and your ever growing romance with Jimin. Never did you think that the mere thought of him would make you blush so much. And now you were. Blushing furiously while you brushed your hair as Haejin tidied up in the back.

“Are you feeling okay, Princess?”

“Huh? P-Pardon?” You could see Haejin looking slyly at you. As if she didn’t really care about the answer.

“You’re looking awfully rosy.” Her tone appears to be playful teasing first. Until she opens her mouth again when you duck your head in embarrassment. “The prince has that affect doesn’t he? I would know.”

“I beg your pardon?” The words slip out before you can control your reaction and you can feel your heart skip a beat. What does that mean?

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Princess.” It was as if this was a completely different Haejin that what you’d been witnessing before. Maybe on the first day you’d been here but never did you think that you’d be right about your suspicions. That she had some sort of relationship with your husband. And you were not exactly happy with her condescending tone right now. Haejin just smiles at you through the mirror as she finishes folding the feathery blankets before she tip-toes out the door, curtseying to you as she leaves.

What in the lord’s name was that supposed to mean? Did Jimin harbour some sort of feelings for her? Even if he did, it wouldn’t have been allowed in the first place due to her place as a palace worker. Though you were entirely speculating at this point, your silly heart was hurting already at even the thought of Jimin being involved with another woman. You wanted to be the only one and as silly as this sounded even in your head – you wanted Jimin to wholly belong to you. The more you got to know him, the harder it was becoming to be apart. And even though he was still on castle grounds, you felt like it had been a lifetime since you’d been able to smell is earthy scent.

The creaking open of the chamber doors is unnoticed by your ears as you stare off in to the distance, still absentmindedly brushing your hair. Jimin’s solemn reflection in the mirror however has you turning back fast. Something didn’t feel right.

“Are… are you alright?” He doesn’t look at you right away. His face was set in harsh lines, the way you have mostly seen him as of late.

You get up from your vanity chair, making your way to the window where he stood, looking out of the castle. Jimin stood quietly as if in deep thought, hands inside his trouser pockets. It may not have been the best time for your body to react the way it does, shuddering as you take in his attractive stance and the way the muscles in his back appeared prominent below his thin blouse. He was the epitome of beauty.

“I’m fine. I’m… fine.” The sigh doesn’t go unnoticed by you. The Prince sounds deeply troubled with whatever that is occupying his mind. You desperately hoped that your growing closeness would mean that your husband would open up to you a bit more freely. Yet, it seems that you will have to probe and prod at him to let you share his troubles and worries and maybe ease his pain.

Jimin doesn’t turn around to even spare you a glance. It’s almost as if he’s going out of his way to avoid looking your way and you don’t understand what happened in the small timeframe he was away from you. “Jimin, please talk to me. What’s the matter?”

Your hands go to take his wrist in to yours, still standing behind him as you look up at his stoic face. He doesn’t budge. And you try again. “Jimin? Are you due to leave again? Is that… Is that what’s troubling you?”

He just shakes his head but only to dismiss your questions – not as an answer to them. Why was he acting so distant again? Why does this feel like that despite the two steps forward, you’d taken several back?

Your body moves at its own accord as you take a step forward, slipping your hands up his chest trying your best to have him just look at you. “Can I help-”

“Enough! You can’t help me!” Jimin’s outburst is unexpected and his loud voice so close to you makes you flinch backwards like you’ve been burned. If he notices you flinch, he doesn’t comment. He’s looking at you like he’s helpless. Eyes blown wide while the clench in his jaw intensifies. You’d figured to some extent that Jimin was not in the carefree, lively mood he’d left the chambers in. Everything about him looked… hostile. It’s like someone had brought him back to default. Reverting him back in to the closed off, austere and indifferent man you’d become used to but had hoped could change.

You’re not sure what you looked like but the expression on your face must have brought Jimin back from the episode of rage he’d flown in. He’s reaching out to you – hands trying to grasp yours. You step back out of instinct, not wanting to upset him further and it breaks his heart to see you back away. “W-Why are you being like this?”

The tears pool in your eyes before you can stop them and Jimin’s attempts to touch you intensify, wanting to wipe away the hurt from your face. “I’m so sorry, love. I’m…. sorry.”

Jimin’s head hangs low, hands resigning by his side while he lets the tears escape. What had happened for him to be so fraught? All the times in the past, you’d always been able to tell yourself that you could do something about the many mishaps that occurred between the two of you. This time, however, it seemed different. You felt a thousand miles away from your husband and to see him so troubled made you feel helpless.

“Y/n...,” Jimin is moving forwards with a new fire in his eyes, desperation lacing his every movement as his callous hands cup your face.

“Listen to me. There are forces, in this castle that want to take you away from me. And I... I knew that when the time came, I would have to give you up. But... But that was before I- I felt this way. I can’t let you be taken away from me. I will not give you up.”

“What do you mean? Jimin, please. T-Tell me.”

Now it’s you who is desperately trying to look him in the eyes, hands coming up to hold him by his elbows. Trying to gauge some sort of explanation for his odd confession. Who was going to take your away from him? How did he know this already but had not thought to tell you anything before? Did he always know you would be discarded?

“Jimin... please. What is happening?”

“I’m so sorry. I... I will do whatever it takes to keep you by my side. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

“Jimin!” You’re hysterical just as much as him. Trying to shake him from his delirium. And for once he stops, watching you pull away to gather your thoughts. “What are you not telling me?”

The eerie silence that follows is enough to tell you that this wasn’t an ordinary secret. Did you really want to find out? Maybe living in ignorance will be better than knowing the wholehearted truth but it was too late. You harboured too many feelings for the man across from you to let this go. You needed to know what he was implying.

“Before... Before you were betrothed to me, The King had made a plan. A plan to use your father’s royal relations in exchange for the manpower we would provide. As a token of good faith and to make sure that the two kingdoms will be united after decades of war, your father had suggested that I will take you as my bride. In order to test my father’s truthfulness and to strengthen the alliance. But the king... my father. He’s a cruel man Y/n. He always gets his way. He always sets his own rules and most of all - his pride is what matters to him most.”

Each word escaping Jimin’s mouth makes your stomach churn further and further. Your father had offered you up as a peace offering like you were a lamb to slaughter. You had made yourself believe that he needed to protect his people and that you understood. But it didn’t ease the pain. Especially after hearing it from your husband’s mouth. Because you had a feeling something more grim was coming.

“Go on.” You’re holding on the bedpost, standing much farther than before and now the distance you had felt before had become physical.

Jimin is silent for a few more seconds before he speaks again. Shame and regret lacing his every word making you feel sick.

“My father had decided to agree with yours. To continue with the alliance. In front of your father anyway. He played the part of a dutiful and loyal king, bettering the circumstances during his reign by bringing you here. But... that’s not the case. He told me to not... not take your maidenhood. To keep my distance from you until he had what he needed. And then, he was going to send you back.”

“You see, he finds a way. He always finds a way to make everything dance to his beat. And the law dictates that if a royal bride is virginal, if the marriage hasn’t been consummated... it is not real.”

“No church will be able to stand against my father and declare him a sinner if I... If I had kept my distance. I- My love for you is real, my love. Please.”

The wetness on your cheeks is registered only when Jimin has stopped speaking. You were crying silently, without even knowing that teardrops were falling steadily from your face. The realisation that this whole marriage was a sham, that it was a carefully orchestrated affair was shattering you into tiny little pieces.

“You agreed to it.” it may have been a whisper but Jimin’s pained eyes heard you fine and clear.

He was rooted in place, watching you crumble against the bed, seconds away from madness.

“That was before. Please, Y/n.”

“Yet you continued toying with my heart.” your whole world was crashing down.

Nothing could have prepared for your husband’s complicit partaking in such an ugly scheme. How could a human being do this to another? Were you in love with a man who had no regard for another’s life? Was he really a changed man or this was his way of covering up his slip up from before? Why did you feel so uncertain about everything? So, so lost and betrayed and hurt and anguish.

“Please, Y/n. I love you. I loved you the day I met you I just took too long to realise it. I-I won’t let anything happen.”

“Do you? How am I to believe that? I was merely a temporary whore to warm your bed. Was I not?”

“Don’t say that. Please.” Jimin is kneeling in front of you, trying to hold you. Show you that he’s telling the truth and you so desperately want to believe him.

But you weren’t naive. He was loyal to his kingdom. Just like your father was. Just like his father was.

“You can’t keep me. You... you won’t keep me. You don’t have the power to.” Bringing your hand unto his face, you stroke across the chiselled bones, watching his pretty, puffy eyes looking at you with just longing.

“I don’t have power over myself. I’m merely, a body to be shuffled as the people in my life please, aren’t I? I have no autonomy. I’m no one.”

The words tumbled out of you without any hesitation. At this point, you were speaking to yourself more than Jimin. Because it was true. Just like your father, Jimin was loyal to the crown. And when the time came, you knew he would obey his father. And you will have to leave. You’ll go back to the place that had essentially exiled you. You belonged nowhere.

“Please, darling. Don’t say that. You’re the besting to have ever happened to me. I will keep you safe.”

“How? You don’t love me! You think you do. To ease your guilt. You don’t... love me.”

“I do and I will prove it to you.” For once, it was not you trying to gain Jimin’s favour.

After months and months of trying to build something between the two of you, you realised that it was futile. You’d been making yourself into a fool all the while he had known that this could go nowhere. Yet, to keep you from suspecting, he’d gone along the few times he had been present with you.

“Just... Just leave me be. Please, my lord. Just grant me some solitude.”

Jimin’s eyes are as vacant as your heart and you know that your refusal to say his name was your small step of retaliation. Nonetheless, he listens. Dropping a kiss to your forehead, he backs away. Watching you huddle within yourself - melancholy taking over the air.

“I won’t give up, Y/n.”

Oh how you wished that would’ve held true.

a/n: it won't hurt this much next chapter i promise.

[tiramisiyu]

Tears of Themis: Main Story 5-18 Translation

Translated parts: Chapter 5 – Sounds of Falling Snow (Part 1, 2, 3): 5-1 / 5-3 / 5-5 / 5-7 / 5-9 / 5-11 / 5-13 ♦️ ♦️  5-14 / 5-16 / 5-18 / 5-20 / 5-22 / 5-24 / 5-26 / 5-28 ♦️ ♦️ 5-29 / 5-31 / 5-33 / 5-35 / 5-37 / 5-39 / 5-40 / 5-42 / 5-43 Translation Masterlist: here

Video: (16:34)   【未定事件簿】最新主线雪落有声中篇完整剧情_哔哩哔哩 (゜-゜)つロ 干杯~-bilibili

MC: Looking at the police’s case file, Kong Moli’s car accident does indeed look like an accident.

On the road, I opened the iPad to check the case file materials that Xia Yan got.

MC: Kong Moli’s car rammed into the highway guardrails because the car brake pedals were too worn, resulting in loss of control of the car brakes…

MC: It sounds like it makes sense.

Xia Yan: On Kong Moli’s SUV, there was only one brake pedal that was too worn. The others were far from a degree that required replacements.

Xia Yan: Although the left and right brake pedals having different wear levels is a typical situation, if the difference is that large, it’s fairly rare.

Xia Yan: This can clearly be counted as a point of suspicion. For the remaining things, at least from what we can see from the case verdict report, there aren’t any flaws.

MC: Are we almost there yet? How long have we been driving?

I cleared away the iPad and suddenly felt a little dizzy and nauseated.

Xia Yan: I told you to not look earlier - do you feel uncomfortable now?

Xia Yan: There’s lemon water in the thermos. Drink a little, it’ll be a little better.

I had just picked up the thermos when Xia Yan slammed on the emergency brakes.

Good thing that the thermos was only half-full with water, or else my clothes would be completely covered in water. 

MC: Xia Yan, you… huh?

Right in front of the car, there was an old man who appeared from who-knows-where, slowly and leisurely walking on his walking stick and crossing the street.

He glanced at our car once, not having the slightest awareness that he was holding up normal traffic.

MC: This person is… Sun Heping?

Yesterday, when I was going through Kong Moli’s case file, I specifically paid attention to Sun Heping, which was why I could recognize him in a single look. 

Xia Yan: That’s him. Let’s get off and ask.

Rainbow River Village

MC: Hello, sir. May I ask if you are Mr. Sun Heping?

MC: I am a lawyer from Themis Law firm. This is my certificate.

Taking advantage of the bit of time when Xia Yan was stopping his car on the roadside, I helped Sun Heping across the road.

Sun Heping: Lawyer? This old man isn’t getting involved in a lawsuit.

MC: You’ve misunderstood. We haven’t come to find you for a litigation.

MC: I am the friend of reporter Kong Moli. Do you still remember her? I came because of her.

Sun Heping: …

Sun Heping: I don’t recognize any reporter. Don’t think you can dig up any news from me. 

Sun Heping: Since I haven’t received my pollution compensation for even a single day, don’t think that you will hear a single good word from me about them!

MC: Mr. Sun, please calm down…

MC: Who do you mean when you say “them”?

Sun Heping: What did you just say you were? A lawyer, right?

Sun Heping: Then “them” are the people who paid up to have you do the lawsuit!

Sun Heping: I’m all too familiar with your group of pettifoggers. Aren’t you all the type to speak for whoever hands over more money!

MC: (I didn’t even say anything, so why am I suffering through this barrage of scolding…)

Sun Heping shook off my hand, grabbed on his walking stick and walked forward two steps, as if dealing with me would be the same as dealing with something dirty.

MC: Mr. Sun, please listen to me. I’m investigating Kong Moli’s car accident, I’m not what you think…

Sun Heping: Hurry and leave. Leave Rainbow River Village - the village does not welcome you.

Having left these words, Sun Heping walked away angrily.

I wanted to go and block him, but I was pulled on by Xia Yan.

Xia Yan: This isn’t the place to talk. Sun Heping is also a tough person. Best not to force him.

Xia Yan: Let’s go look first for…

???: Are you both looking for Sun Heping?

MC: !!!

A middle-aged man appeared behind us. He suddenly stuck in his words into our discussion, startling me terribly.

MC: (Is this the Rainbow River Village head, Wang Han?)

Though Xia Yan and I have seen Wang Han’s picture in the case file, directly showing that we recognize him would likely arouse his wariness.

Xia Yan: Sir, you are…?

It was clear that Xia Yan had the same thought as me. With the Sun Heping lesson just now, pretending to be clueless for now was the best policy.

Wang Han: I’m the village head of Rainbow River Village, Wang Han.

Xia Yan: Hello, Village Head Wang, we are from Themis Law Firm.

Xia Yan: This is Lawyer [MC]. I am her assistant, Xia Yan.

Wang Han: So you were the leader of a law firm! It’s an honour to welcome you; what business brings you here to our little mountain?

MC: (Leader? Village Head Wang, your way of talking is kind of too…)

Wang Han: It couldn’t be that Old Man Sun has caused an issue?

Wang Han: Ah, he’s just got a terrible temper. He really isn’t a bad person - please be magnanimous and let him go.

Wang Han’s expression had “grief and lament” written all over it.

If not for their surnames being different, I’d even suspect that he was worrying for his own father.

MC: (It’s not that I haven’t seen people who would usher us into the location, but why does Wang Han make people feel so awkward…)

INVESTIGATION START

Watch

What is the electronic device that seems like a watch on his wrist?

> Health wristband

> Electronic watch

MC: (Is the black thing on Wang Han’s wrist… a health wristband?)

MC: (These few years, health wristbands have been very popular. Though it really can track health situations…)

MC: (But to an office worker, it can only give a clearer understanding of how bad one’s health is…)

Suddenly, the logo on Wang Han’s wristband caught my attention. 

MC: (This is… Heirson’s logo?)

MC: (Wang Han uses Heirson products?)

MC: (Heirson’s been continuously suspected for the Rainbow River pollution. As the village head, why would Wang Han use their products?)

MC: (Could it be that after Kong Moli’s lawsuit, Wang Han believed that the only source of the pollution was the paper mill?)

Belt buckle

MC: (The logo on his leather belt is… Pax Fashion?! And it’s from the high-end product line?!)

MC: (I remember this product line’s male accessories mostly have prices of around 5 digits.)

MC: (If this leather belt is real leather, then it’ll be even more expensive…)

MC: (Wasn’t it said that Rainbow River Village isn’t particularly wealthy? Why do the people in the village pay so much attention to dressing up?)

MC: (Village Head Wang, I’m suddenly forming doubts about your income levels…)

Tropical shirt

Wang Han’s body fat and fair complexion-

> Took proper care > Rarely participates in farming work

MC: (I remember that the materials said that Wang Han is 57 years old this year, but looking at his external appearance, he really doesn’t seem like an aged person.)

MC: (Even if he usually takes proper care, a typical farmer who does work in the fields wouldn’t have his kind of fair complexion…)

MC: (Plus, he’s a fat guy. The fat seems too much…)

MC: (Village Head Wang, I’m guessing that you haven’t worked in the fields for years…)

MC: (It couldn’t be that on typical days, you only busy yourself with attracting investments and banqueting?)

MC: (Wang Han doesn’t look too much like someone whose main job is farming. Plus, his attitude towards Heirson   is somewhat ambiguous.)

MC: (If we’re not confident, it would be good to converse with him to maintain everything.)

INSPECTION END

MC: Village Head, you’ve misunderstood. We came to find Sun Heping to understand the situation. 

MC: Do you know about the reporter Kong Moli who got into the car accident on the highway outside the village last year?

MC: We’re helping her clear up her inheritance, and we wanted to understand the exact situation of the accident that day.

Wang Han: So it was like this. Then, if the two of you aren’t opposed to it, you can come to my house to sit for a bit.

Wang Han: Old Man Sun’s house is far, and he wasn’t in the village that day. If you have any questions, you two can ask me.

MC: That would be great.

Looks like Wang Han had no doubts against my excuses.

Wang Han: My house is just in front. You two don’t need to drive - we can just walk over. 

Saying this, Wang Han walked in front on the road. 

When he passed my side, Xia Yan suddenly tugged my hand and pointed to the loop of keys hanging on Wang Han’s leather belt.

MC: ???

Seeing that I hadn’t reacted, Xia Yan just sent me a message.

“His car keys don’t have Pax Mechanical’s logo.”

“If he only has one car, then he changed cars.”

[kettle-on]

George Harrison x gardener!reader

Chapter 2

At last!! The joining chapter!

George is here!

This ended up much longer than I meant it to be, but... c’est comme ca la vie!

Read on :)

*this picture is from a map made of Friar Park by Alan Tabor in 1914

_______________________

A three-day stretch of sunshine and warm weather is rare for this time of year, but I’m grateful for it as I sit with my cup of tea and perched on a stool in the garden kitchen. It’s become my designated spot to spend my lunch break - when not drinking in the view from the window, I can keep my head down in here quietly and out of anyone’s way.

It’s Wednesday, and I’ve managed to get through the past two days on mostly tea and biscuits. It’s been fairly straightforward so far, and I’ve observed progress on one or two large plinth displays, been shown around an expanse of pine trees, almost got to investigate the alpine garden and mini Matterhorn but not quite yet, and have finally been able to lay my hands on a dogwood bush in an area I’m told was once called “The Paddock.”

I am glad for the easing-in process. What a nightmare it would be to screw up somewhere prominent at a place like this; so large and visible, and so well-loved and historic.

I take a grateful swig of my brew as a shout comes from the doorway to the hall,

“A-ha!”

Bravely, I sneak a glance up to the source of the voice and am instantly breathless.

He looks softer and greyer than I’d imagined, but I’d still know those eyes anywhere: the man of the house, George Harrison himself.

“They said you’d arrived, but I was beginning to think I was being swindled,” he reveals a toothy grin. “George.”

I appreciate that he not only still bothers to introduce himself, but he already knows my name, too.

For all I’d learned about him being the quiet, mysterious Beatle, and the moody dark horse, he is all lightness and giving. With his arms wide, he leans attentively onto the island counter across from me, and I feel as if I could unravel right there before him.

He scans my face with eagerness and I realize I have yet to say a single word.

“Well, I’ve…” Breathe. Keep your cool. “I’ve only been here since Monday, so...” I manage to offer, my eyes dancing across the surface in front of me and settling on my almost empty mug of tea, “It’s a big lot. Plenty of space to hide.”

He’s quiet but he hasn’t moved. I dare myself to return my gaze to his face, and it’s only now that I notice the sparkle in his eyes. How is he still this handsome? The deep lines across his famous dark brows remind me of tree bark, and I wonder how many years of scowling they took to develop. Then I make the mistake of letting my eyes drift to his mouth, now in a crooked and thoughtful closed smile.

“What do you make of it so far? Gettin’ on all right?” he asks, quickly peering into my almost empty mug before heading over to the kettle. He fills it with water up to the top line, and it looks like we’ll be here a while.

 “It’s beautiful. Olivia started to give me a tour when I arrived, but we had to cut it short. From what I’ve seen so far, I can see how you’d never want to leave.”

He opens a cupboard to take out a mug for himself, but even with his back facing me he makes sure to look over his shoulder, listening intently.

I continue, “I’m glad to be starting small, to be honest. I’ve been sorting out those bushes by the pool.”

“I see. Shoved you ‘round the back, did they?” There’s the grin again, and the unmistakable smile lines I recognize from various old video clips I’d seen floating around the internet.

“Yeah,” I manage, narrowly avoiding a giddy sigh.

“Well, I’ve been working on the garden for, oh, fifty years, is it? You should have seen it then, all buried in rubbish and brambles and debris. Horrible. But, as you say, you start with the little things, whatever you can manage, and you start to get an understanding of what you’re working with, you know. It’s easy to be overwhelmed.”

Leaning back against the counter with his arms folded, it’s clear he’s used this plan of operations many times.

“But there’s always a little unhappy area that just needs someone to come along and give it some careful attention.”

The kettle bubbles along, lending a soundtrack to the butterflies I’m trying to subdue in my stomach, and George points to my cup of tea, inquiring if I’d like another. I smile in agreement and quickly gulp down what’s left, and then offer the mug in all its floral print glory back to him,

“Thank you.”

His eyes linger on my face for just a moment before he returns to the counter. I look out the window again, and begin to piece together the circumstances of my current situation. This is George Harrison’s house. This is where I work. I’ve trained for years on my own and on teams in classrooms and greenhouses, learned the Latin names and all about colour theory and garden design. I’ve aggravated a dodgy hip many times over from shoveling dirt in the rain. I’ve earned very little money all the while, but look what it’s come to: I get to come here every day, and soak in the history and whimsy of such a magical place. How lucky am I?

“This wasn’t you, was it?” asks George after it dawns on me that he’d been humming something familiar for the past few minutes.

“Sorry?”

“Nickin’ all my tea bags. I’m sure I filled this up at the weekend,” he states, demonstrating a single tea bag nestled in the pale blue china caddy, ironically labelled ‘tobacco’.

It wasn’t me, and luckily he believes me. A few of the gardeners I hadn’t yet met had been in and out since my lunch break began, but I wouldn’t dare be a snitch and reveal them as the culprits.  Nevertheless, George’s efforts to make a brew for himself are thwarted when he finds the usual spot for the box of tea bags empty.

“This is outrageous!” he feigns fury. “Nevermind. Come on, I’ll show you where I keep the good stuff.”

Without a second thought, I follow him out to the vegetable garden where one of the gardeners I haven’t met yet is checking the progress of some turnips.

“All right, Vijay?” calls George. For a man of his age he’s quite speedy, but decades of singing and stress, (and smoking, I recall) have left his voice fairly scratchy when he tries for volume.

Vijay responds with cool pleasantries, and my host takes care of our introductions.

“If you’re after any veg for your table, he’s your man.” George explains, and Vijay’s bashful smile returns him to his notes.

We carry on our trek, past more beds of herbs, vegetables, and if my nose is to be believed, there are blueberries somewhere nearby.

The song George is humming sounds a bit like a Johnny Cash tune, and he builds his production with finger snaps and whistles.

The hedges here seem to go on for miles, and it’s a few minutes before we reach the end of this garden. The path leads down a slope where it meets the service driveway and disappears among some tall trees.

“No, I don’t think I’ll take you into the forest today, but remind me. I think you’ll like it. A nice old fashioned Lovers’ Walk.”

I blink at him, my mouth having fallen open slightly on the journey.

Instead, we cross to the right, to the grand chateau itself.

“I feel like I’m not supposed to be here,” I confess as we near a huge stone doorway like the one I met my first morning.

“You don’t have to come in if you don’t want to. But I think you might want to,” he toys with me, and the lines around his mouth hold back a knowing laugh.

“Yeah, all right, go on then,” I pretend to be cool and casual, and my trickery works.

It’s dark in here. This is a back way after all, but that doesn’t preclude the walls from their own ornaments and paintings. I pass beneath a brass swan seeming to emerge from the woodwork, and follow George over to a room that he almost facetiously calls a pantry.

“Shall we take our tea in the courtyard today?” he asks with all the put-on poshness of a John Cleese character, then returning to his normal manner to inquire,

“Or do you have work to be getting back to?”

Checking the time on my phone, I’m relieved to see my lunch hour isn’t up yet.

“I’ve got twenty minutes, how’s that?”

“All the time in the world!” he roars, shuffling over to a built-in set of shelves that nearly reach the ceiling.

He lets out a cheer when he finds it, and turns to me grinning to proudly display the box of tea we’d come all this way for.

Yorkshire Gold.

[nanasarea]

Mermade IX

 Prompt: When Renjun and his friends decide to go to Seirina Island, he accidentally meets you, a literal fish out of water

Genre: you know when i said “mostly fluff”,  this is the other part, the one that isn’t “mostly”

Pairing: mermaid!reader x renjun

Word count: 1k

Tag list: @moloprint​  @emijjk  @peachykrystal  @multimulti-posts @jaeminsmainbitch  @bumblebeenct​  @junglewoos​

main m.list / series m.list / mermade m.list 

i  ii  iii iv  v  vi  vii viii  ix  

“You can’t.” he said “Why not?” You asked, giving him a confused look as he took a deep breath and said.

“Because I like you.”

“Because you what?” You asked “Because I like you, I really do. I know how insensitive and selfish it sounds for me ask you to stay only because of me. I know you miss your pod and I know they miss you, but can’t you stay? At least a little longer?” He asked “Renjun, I-I don’t know what to say, I like you too, I really so and I wish you had said it sooner, because I really do like you.” You started, while holding onto his hand “but my pod, they’re family, I can’t just say no to them.” You added.

“We could have been together for so long if we both had just confessed then, huh?” He asked, chuckling “That seems to be the case.” You said, chuckling to hide the tear that slipped from your eye. “We’re idiots.” He said “We are.” You agreed, before finally getting the courage to grab him by his shirt and pull him closer and thus, kissing him.

“You mean to tell me I missed a whole bunch of that, just because I was a scary cat?” He asked after you pulled away “Pretty much.” You said, both of you smiling like the idiots you were. “Hey, let me take you on one date before you leave at least.” He said “Of course.” You said before quickly kissing him again.

That night, you went on a walk along the beach, he brought some chalk so you drew on the sidewalk for a bit. You both agreed to do stupid doodles, but Renjun went behind your back and drew a masterpiece. “Did you have to show off? I already like you.” You teased “Sorry, love.” He smiled, his ears turning a light shade of pink. 

With both of you proud of your artworks, one of you more proud than the other, you ended up making your way to the beach and thankfully for both of you, you were the only ones there. The only light source were the stars and the crescent moon above as you joked about going for a swim. 

“Well, let’s go.” He said, taking his shirt off “I wasn’t serious.” You laughed “I was.” He winked “You could never catch up to me, I can speed swim, remember?” You reminded, winking back at him. “I’ll just have to try my best then.” He smiled while taking his pants off. 

You ended up swimming for a whole hour before making your way back to the house. You had to go up for air multiple times, because of Renjun but you also swam with some dolphins and showed him some of your underwater magic skills, all of which made him very impressed and call you out on you showing off this time.

When you got back, you gave him a goodnight kiss, which he insisted wasn’t enough to keep him from sleeping in the same bed as you one last time. “One last cuddle session, now that I can cuddle you with no shame, I shall cuddle you with no shame.” He laughed while pulling you closer to him. 

The next day, you had your last breakfast, your last morning swim, your last lunch and while you wanted to bring everything you had bought, in your time on land, with you, you couldn’t and apologized multiple times to Renjun, for having to waste his money on these thing, to which he only smiled and kissed you before telling you “At least it’s something to remember you by.” 

You went to the island to say goodbye as you didn’t want anyone to see you turn in the middle of the day, but you took a boat ride with Renjun so he could go back safely. You made your way to the moon pool and started to cry, not being able to hold it anymore. “I guess this is it.” You said, fighting your tears “Hey, don’t cry, you’re gonna make me cry.” He said, pulling you into a hug. “I’m gonna miss you.” He sighed “I’m gonna miss you too.” You replied, your words being drowned out by the sobs.

“Hey, think about it for a second. Aren’t we lucky to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard? Some people would kill for what we have.” He smiled “had.” You corrected, the crying making your words inaudible. “Please don’t make it harder than it needs to be.” He said.

“Hey, how do we know this is goodbye anyway? Maybe I’ll see you in another life. One where we’re both cats!” You explained “Of course, I’ll spend all 9 lives with you, I promise.” He smiled “How can you be so sure?” You laughed “ The reason it hurts so much to separate is because our souls are connected, therefor our souls will meet again, once we get reincarnated as cats. We’re mermade for each other” He laughed “You’re an idiot.” You laughed before kissing him.

“I have to go now.” You said after pulling away “I’ll visit if I can!” You added, happily before jumping into the pool “You better.” He jokingly warned before crouching down and giving you one last kiss before waving goodbye.

Renjun didn’t expect you to come back ever, let along to come visit every year. Almost like clockwork, you arrived for a few hours and went back to your pod, on your anniversary of meeting, but soon the visits turned from yearly to every second year and so on. The visits became more rare as time went by, but that didn’t stop Renjun, he always looked at the ocean and smiled, when he was your tail.

He never knew what happened to you or what you were up to, anything to be honest. Those hours you usually spent just talking about the old day, drawing on the sidewalk or getting cranberry boosters from rikki’s, you didn’t talk much about your own lives. He always wondered, did you move on, did you find someone new, were you okay, all these questions kept running around in his mind, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask, he didn’t want to waste his time with you.

Eventually, there came a time, when he never got to see you again, but he always stared at Seirina Island and hoped that, maybe, just maybe, he would get to see your tail again.

a/n: and so, renjun and your story, like my 2nd series,ends, but all good things must come to an end, right?

[acesgroupchat]

The assassin’s wife dies before he can find her, crossing the river to join her husband without even a moment’s hesitation. Not without regret, of course, drawled Lin Chen. But she is no fool. The fields beyond the river are far more comfortable, and her daughter is beyond her reach now.

Mei Changsu finds the girl in a pleasure house just beginning to show the strain of financial trouble. Gong Yu is just sixteen, flawless manners and superlative musicianship hiding a ferocity that borders on desperation. Her mother had ensured that she received every possible education and even at sixteen her status as a performer is already rising. But she is also an assassin’s daughter, hands as comfortable with a sword as with a qin, and a mind that holds every one of her mother’s secrets even now.

He offers to buy her contract, her freedom in exchange for her story. For a chance to avenge her father, she offers him absolute loyalty, and the sort of information that cannot be bought in respectable circles. The madam of her house is eager for the sale, a badly needed cash infusion to save her struggling business. It’s a foolish choice. Within two years Gong Yu has her own house in Jinling and a growing reputation as its greatest new musician, and the madam’s house teeters on the edge of bankruptcy.

Letters arrive from Jinling, from Wei Zheng in Yaowang valley, and from Chiyan survivors now spread to every corner of Da Liang, envoys of what some are beginning to call the Jiangzuo alliance. Mei Changsu’s house in Langzhuo is now the centre of an exceptionally wealthy sect with innumerable business interests and the respect of the realm’s best martial artists. He spends most nights reading reports and letters, lamps burning low as the house sleeps around him. He is, however, sometimes forced to retire to bed, lest Li Gang make good on his threats and hire a physician to assist him in his fretting. Mei Changsu can count a day’s heartbeats in handfuls. He has no desire to know what else a physician might discover. He finds himself sleeping far more often than he would prefer.

The underworld is increasingly crowded, stone halls filled with wandering, miserable souls. He no longer has any trouble finding the sources of the voices he hears, huddled pockets of abject, directionless people. His army camp is now far from the only settlement. Lin Chen is rarely in his garden, but it is the only place he might answer questions anymore. When Mei Changsu nudges him about the new encampments he snorts.

“It's famines, mostly. The people are starving, and because they starve they riot, and because they riot soldiers are sent after them. They all end up here.” Even now, lounging amongst the tree roots, there is tension in his frame. His fan moves restlessly in his hand. “There have been murders in the outer districts as well. Powerful families are taking land for their own, which means more starvation of course, and those who object find their throats cut rather quickly.”

Mei Changsu bites his tongue. He has his own reports of corruption, radiating out from the capital like an infection and sinking deep roots in every province. These are bad years for Da Liang, but Lin Chen surely knows this and the thought makes him far to sick to gloat, even if he had been right to begin with. He wonders, idly, whether Lin Chen can read those thoughts in his mind, until Lin Chen’s fan smacks his nose, abruptly breaking the line of his thoughts.

“I don’t need to read your mind to know those thoughts,” says Lin Chen. His fan moves to prod at his cheek. “Your face is really terribly transparent. How you’ve managed to keep yourself a secret this long is truly a mystery.”

He flicks a hand out, and is surprised when it actually connects with the fan, brushing it away from his face. Lin Chen meets his startled expression with a smirk, and taps gently at his knuckles before tucking the fan away and sprawling back on the ground.

As he leaves the garden, he finds a small boy curled up and sobbing at a bend in the hall. He is utterly alone, and bears the signs of a severe beating even now. Mei Changsu sits beside him, and waits as he slowly calms. Between sniffles, the boy pours out his life story. He was the son of a performer, barely thirteen years old, with two older sisters. He was beaten to death by an enraged customer in the same pleasure house where he was raised. His murderer is the son of a duke, and the boy is terrified that his sisters will report his case and draw retaliation from the duke’s family. Justice for himself is not even a thought in his mind. Mei Changsu follows him to the river. The boy dries his eyes on a sleeve, and enters the water with an acceptance that does not even seem resigned.

He wakes long before dawn to a room thinly lit by starlight. He sits for a long time, finally rising to grind ink in the predawn grey. He writes out the name of every minister and official he can think of, long lists of of negligence and corruption slipping across pages of note paper. The court he lays out now is not the court Prince Qi described, not the government he was raised to serve. Factionalism and opportunism run rampant and the common people are preyed upon by myriad powerful figures with no chance of recourse and no protection whatsoever.

In the underworld, when he had begun to lay out his plans, he had given very little thought to the succession. This was, he realizes now, a significant oversight. The last several months have given him far more ammunition against Xie Yu, and in-roads in the court that he can exploit if need be. They have also revealed a disastrous flaw in his plans. He had promised Lin Chen that Jingyu-gege would remain in the underworld, but without his steady presence the court has fallen to ruin, and clearing his name will not undo the damage of his absence. Xiao Jingxuan is the worst possible replacement, both amoral and incompetent.

He might have justice for his army, but this will not relieve the halls of death, glutted with famine and murder. The dead may find peace, but the living will suffer through the remainder of the emperor’s reign, for all of the crown prince’s. Jingxuan’s children are unlikely to be any better. Even if they are, Da Liang is unlikely to survive to see them. History is littered with fallen dynasties, and Da Liang has powerful enemies.

If he cannot fix the courts, he consigns his nation to an early death. A new crown prince is needed, and there is really only one plausible option.

As the sun crests the horizon, Mei Changsu grinds new ink and fetches better paper. There are arrangements to be made. By midmorning, a messenger rides for Jinling with two letters in his care. One is for Gong Yu, new orders and requests for information, written in careful code and signed by Mei Changsu. The second letter is addressed to the care of one Madame Meng, with a message for her husband in terribly subtle words, and bearing a different name altogether.

[callmeunstable]

Angels & Demons - Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Characters: Reader, Godling, Healer

Summary: She finds herself in the middle of a unknown forest after falling asleep. It seems like a normal forest until she gets to meet a mystical creature that welcomes her in a different world.

Warnings: Monsters, Cursing, Blood

Words: 2.000+

A/N: Hey! This is the second part of my The Witcher Fic. I accidentally deleted this part so I had to reupload ot. Yes I cried, but thankfully I still had the draft saved on my laptop.

Disclaimer: GIF’s and PNG’s are taken from Tumblr and are not mine! Credits to the creators!

Tags: @marvelbrat @charliestuff

Song: I couldn’t find the original one sooo

Absently, Alva wondered if most of the monsters were meant to be as beautiful and kind as James, or if this one was an exception to the rule, her mind struggled to hold on to one thought, with a whole new world opening in front of her.

“I know the healer of the village on the other side of the forest. She’s nice. She brings fruits to me from time to time. She will help you.” James hopped in front of her leading the way out of the woods.

She couldn’t believe anything her eyes captured. There are bad creatures. According to the Godling, there are a lot of them. The boy explained to her, that “Drowners” inhabit both natural and artificial bodies of water, from rivers and lakes to mill ponds and city sewers. It is commonly thought that these creatures are drowned men, somehow arisen from the dead to prey on the living. This opinion is as widespread as it is false, for the beasts are another post-Conjunction relict.

She couldn’t believe that this Godling just was a boy but knowing such crucial things about this life. She remembered James talking about the powers he has, that’s how he was able to save her.

“Hey, play some more of your music, please? I love the sound of it and we have to walk some time.” The Godling begged and gave his best puppy face.

She grabbed her phone and she had an idea. Maybe she was able to call or text her dad? Letting him know she’s okay. She wasn’t sure if this was the best idea she ever had, but still better than making him believe she was dead.

No signal. Of course.

“Music, please.”

She pressed the icons on her phone monotonously and a random song started playing.

 “Oh dear, oh dear, I’m sorry

That you grew up so soon

A cold year and no high school parties

I’ve been drinking alone

Oh, I’ve been drinking alone”

 “A blessing to my ears. What's the name of this bard?” The Godling started dancing along while walking in front of the girl.

“What is a bard?” These questions came automatically out of her mouth, wanting to know everything about this world.

Knowledge is power. Even in a world like this. If she knows what she has to be careful about, she can start to protect herself.

“You know the man and women writing songs and these lovely texts of legends, stories of their personal experiences, or their imaginations. I don’t care what they are about. I care about the melodies. I love the tunes.” James seemed to drift off in a state where he was admiring the artists and musicians at this time the whole way out of the woods.

He specifically talked about a Bard called Priscilla. A young woman famous for her poetry.

 “So, don't fear, don’t fear their warnings

They’re bitterer than most

4 years of driving across the country

For empty seats at their shows

And they’ve been drinking alone.”

 Less and fewer trees came along their way and after some more minutes, a village became visible. Still far away but the girl decided to turn off the music which was rewarded with an angry look of the Godling.

“Her cottage isn’t in the village. It's right here!”

He took a sharp turn between some trees and as told, a small cabin was revealed in front of them. It was old. Looked like a typical middle-aged, self-made cottage. Random kinds of stones were piled upon each other, connected by something that seemed to be a kind of cement. A small chimney was built on top and was busy blowing smoke out of it.

“Savilla! I want to show you, my new friend.” The boy shouted and Alva begged it was quiet enough so no one around could hear them. She wasn’t ready to meet anyone in this world, at least for now.

The old wooden door of the cottage opened and a middle-aged woman stepped out of the house. She was beautiful. Her Long black hair was braided down to the small waist of hers. Her long dress was colored with a dark wood green tone. A small V-neck covered her chest mostly and the butterfly sleeves made her look like a princess. A less fancy princess but a gorgeous one.

“Hello, my lovely James. How can I help you today?” Savilla had a warm smile on her face and holding her arms out for e hug.

The Godling happily jumped into her arms, to just leave them a couple of seconds later to point hysterically at Alva.

“This is my friend Alva. She got lost in my forest and a Drowner hit her. I think shes not from hear so she needs your help.”

Savilla laid her eyes on the small girl for the first time. Silently analyzing every single part of her. At this moment Alva realized that she was a unicorn in this world. Her clothes looked completely different from Safillas and James’. She was wearing a red lumberjacket that revealed her sports bra. Some pair of sporty leggings rested on her legs and short sneakers tied on her feet. Her favorite outfit for hiking. At least her fake leather bag seemed to fit the surroundings.

It wasn’t hard to tell that if the person in front of her wasn’t a cosplayer of Lord of the Rings, she had to be stuck in some kind of middle age century.

“Yes, she's not from here. I can tell.” The firm look of the women changed into a friendly smile. “Come in, I think it’s the best if no one sees you like this.”

Both Alva and James entered the cabin. Inside it was beautiful. Flower and herbs were growing every in countless pottery. An out of stone made kitchen area filled the rest of the room with a cozy fireplace at the opposite wall. Different kinds of fabric and papers stuck to the wall. It was filled with colors and smells that made you feel instantly relaxed, at least if you’re a person like Alva.

“You don’t seem to be in a lot of pain.”, stated Safilla while grabbing a wooden chair and placing it in front of her, guiding her to sit down.

“It’s pretty numb right now. It was worse about an hour ago.” Alva tried to give off a normal impression. But what is normal in this world.

er “That what I was inferred already. You seem to be in shock. Your body numbed itself to protect you from the pain.” While investigating the big scratch she explaining typical injuries caused by Drowners.

“You’re lucky that you had James by your side. He’s a loyal soul.” The healer tossed an apple to the boy who caught it happily.

Savilla mixed some unfamiliar herbs and bandaged it up with a clean cloth.

“It should heal fast, it's not a deep cut. You are lucky.”

The women put everything back in place and then grabbed a stool herself.

“Where are you from?”, she asked.

Where was she from actually? Maybe similar countries still exist?

“Originally my family comes from Sweden but I live in the USA at the moment.” The girl explained but ended up not receiving the reaction she wanted.

“I never heard of a place like that. I traveled a lot through Cintra, Temeria, and Lyria. How did you end up here?”

The girl got quiet. She didn’t want to cause any trouble. She was a stranger to this world. How much corruption was she able to cause?

Alva felt a hand on her shoulder. Savilla gently pat her and gave her a motherly smile.

“Look dear, I’m not here to hurt you. I can see you disturbed, even traumatized. You have no idea how you got access to this world, have you?”

The girl started to tear up and found herself in a warm hug of the healer. She couldn’t help herself but at this moment everything that was built up throughout the day suddenly burst out of her.

Every breath felt like acid burning heart throat, inflaming her lungs. Her heart felt like somebody was squeezing out every single emotion trapped in there. Like a sharp blade that is cutting straight through her chest.

“Mark my words, one day will come when you finally realize that fate is inevitable. One day you will get passed all this pain and realize it was a lesson learned for a better future, for a better you. You believe that this was an accident. But in our world, everything happens for a reason.” Savilla didn’t break the contact because she knew that this girl needed it. This wasn’t the first time something like this happened. The same happened decades ago. When the monsters first got into this dimension.

“I can teach you if you let me.”

Alva lifted her head and looked at the healer.

“I can teach you how to survive in this world until we figure it a way how to get you back. You just need to let me help you.”

“How do you know?” The girl was confused, more confused than she was, to begin with. How much does this woman know?

“This is not the first time a portal opened on accident. What we need to figure out is, if this indeed was an accident or if you have a mission you have to fulfill. I will help you. That’s my duty. Let me explain. I’m a mage.”

Savilla explained to Alva that mages are basically what she knows as a witch. Only rare individuals have the potential to become mages and many of those with this potential are doomed to madness. Unless the individual in question - known as a source - learns to control their power quickly, he or she may end up a half-insane, slobbering oracle. That is why schools of sorcery were created, where talented children study for many years, acquiring knowledge and mastering magical skills. Because of their powers, mages age more slowly than ordinary people. Savilla herself attended a school called Aretuza. But she didn’t believe in their morals so she left and lives on her own.

Mages can extract magical energy from the four elements, transport themselves long distances and heal, as well as kill, in the blink of an eye. They have extensive scientific and political knowledge; in the latter respect, many mages are the equals of rulers.

A witch that is connected so some kind of rule book.

“Know you know about me, but for now we need to get you out of your clothes. They reveal your true identity. There are people out there who will view you as dangerous and they’ll get scared. We need to give you a new persona. But for now, let’s start easy. No one will look for you because James took care of that. New clothes will at least give you the appearance of our dimension.”

Savilla walked in a different room and you could her searching sounds. Fabrics got thrown around after her steps came closer again.

As she walked into the room she showed off a dress similar to hers. The dress was white and it had some floral symbols embroidered in the fabric. Her sleeves were also long and wide, almost touching the ground. The White of the dress was mostly protected by a moss green light coat that had a corset on the front. The white dress was strapless but unseen due to the green coat. On top of that Savilla brought her some flat sandals.

“I can give you some pants to wear underneath the dress if you’d like. Is more efficient when you have to move quickly.” The mage was happy she could assist that young girl. She finally had a purpose to assist to.

Alva only nodded along, speechless by the kindness the woman was offering her.

Savilla walked up to her with a hairbrush and put her hair into different styles. “And maybe we can do something with your hair, putting it up or braid-“, she hesitated the moment when she was putting her hair up. “I think it looks fitting already.”

Quickly brushing Alva's hair down again.

[izlaria]

Someone you like (part 1, updated)

After uploading the first part of my plance fic here, I ended up writing more on that same period of time. It’s not much, but I thought I would add it anyway.

This fic is based on the “Someone you like” animatic by honestlyprettychill. Their work is super bomb, so I ask you guys to go check it out and give the artist some love. With this update, I’m hoping to have wrapped up on the pre-Garrison time period, and I have already started writing Pidge’s pov of their time as students, so you’ll have that to look foward to, if you end up enjoying this fic. My other post has more disclaimers, so you can find it here. This story is also available on AO3.

The part I added comes after the -- that I used as a page break.

Thanks to everyone who has liked and reblogged this verse. Feel free to add comments in the tags or to straight up come talk to me. I love feedback.

Spanish to English translations at the end.

14 and 12 years old

The truth was that Lance went to Space Camp because Veronica could be a little pest. She knew their parents wouldn’t let her go alone and so had enticed her younger brother with the promise of travel and foreign girls and no parental supervision.

Veronica had obviously left out the fact that they were essentially going to school on steroids for a month, smack in the middle of their summer break. Cool as Miami might seem, Lance wasn’t exactly excited for all the extra work the camp would entail.

“No es un acampamiento,” his sister repeated for what felt like the thousandth time. He wasn’t listening anymore. “Tú sabes que el campo de explotación espacial no está muy desenvuelto en Cuba. Si realmente quieres trabajar con eso, entonces simplemente cállate y no insultes a nadie.”

“¿Cuando he insultado a alguien?” he shot back, defensive. Veronica didn’t dignify that with an answer.

As much as Lance might like to think himself very smooth, there were still times when he stumbled over his words, especially in English. More than once he’d meant to pay someone a compliment and had accidentally started an argument of some kind.

Veronica looked impatiently at her watch. “Mira, tengo una reunión con mi orientador. Y tú tienes por lo menos dos artículos para leer para las clases de mañana, ¿por qué no vas a la biblioteca para trabajar un poco? Prometo comprarte una hamburguesa después.”

Lance pouted at her, arms crossed over his chest. “Me debes más que una hamburguesa y lo sabes, Ronie.”

His sister snickered, but it was as much of an acknowledgement as he was going to get. Veronica pressed a quick kiss to his hair, already turning to go into the main building.

“¡Gracias, hermanito! ¡No te arrepentirás!”

In all honesty, Lance wasn’t as irritated as he made Veronica believe. He knew that a summer program in Miami was a really good opportunity, especially if he wanted to get into the Garrison in the following years. It was just difficult.

He was diligent and studious, but not as naturally gifted as some of the other kids. Besides, he hadn’t been to the US in a couple years, since his parents had mostly settled down in the family farm, which meant he still had to fall back into his English, a task made even more frustrating by the xenophobic comments from one of the boys in his AP geometry class.

The teacher had put an end to it right away, but the words stuck with Lance, for some reason.

With how much humanity had progressed in terms of technology, one would think they would be able to get past petty rivalry between nationalities and usually that was true, but the influx of foreigners following the establishment of the Galaxy Garrison in the US desert still annoyed some people, despite its existence as a multinational center for space exploration. It irritated Lance to no end, especially when so many of these scientific advances came from international collaboration.

If only he could shrug off the inadequacy that now grew in his chest.

Straight ahead, there was a path that led to a green area in the middle of the campus. The other students had taken to calling it the Woods, though it was more of a middle-sized park, with benches and picnic tables where anyone from the Institute could go to relax. That’s where Lance went, mind too full to really focus on homework.

He wondered if people would react that same way if he ever made it into the Garrison. He didn’t know how Veronica dealt with it all, especially when she was alone in Arizona most of the time. Barely a week had passed and Lance already missed his parents, the tenderness of home-cooked food and well-intended lectures.

No, he had to believe that Billy Underwood was an exception. The other kids hadn’t joined in on his taunts, even if no one had moved to defend Lance. It was still too early to make conclusions on his colleagues, especially when everyone had seemed so charmed by him before then.

Lance was so lost in thought that he didn’t realize he had been standing in front of one of the benches until a new voice broke through the peace of the park.

“Are you just gonna stand there?”

The words were somewhat harsh, but when Lance lowered his eyes to their source the girl winced, grimacing. She seemed to have spoken impulsively.

“Hmm, yeah.” Lance blinked at her for a moment, before finally sitting down on the bench. He made sure to leave space between him and the girl, not wanting to make the situation even more awkward.

“I didn’t mean to snap at you,” the girl said after a moment of silence. She looked at him sideways and her brown eyes seemed almost golden in the sunlight. There were freckles spread across the bridge of her nose and across her cheeks, and the green ribbon in her hair swayed in the wind. It was a soft sight, a contrast to the steeliness of her posture and gaze.

“It’s fine,” Lance hurried to assure her. She looked young, but so did he, and talking to complete strangers never failed to make him nervous. “Nothing like a little girl yelling at me to bring me back to earth.”

He gave her his best grin, the one reserved for first impressions and fancy parties. It was supposed to project confidence and kindness, even though Luis said he ended up looking a bit smug.

“I didn’t yell,” the girl pointed out with a light frown. Then her eyes shifted into a more calculating look. “You’re a bit of a goofball, aren’t you?”

“I prefer the term good-humored,” he replied jokingly.

She continued to stare. Lance got the feeling that the girl did this a lot. She had an untamed intelligence to her that Lance couldn’t completely understand. It was the sort of air that teachers sometimes carried, as if they could see something deeper in you if they looked long enough.

“It didn’t seem like you were feeling all that good-humored just now.” She tilted her head to the side, letting the words hang between them.

“Yeah, I suppose that’s true,” Lance found himself saying.

“Do you… want to talk about it?” She looked so doubtful that it almost made Lance laugh. The feeling, however, was overcome by the relief of finally having someone who would listen.

He had spent the week trying and failing to explain to Veronica what was truly making him feel down. She was too busy or too happy for Lance to tell her the truth, especially when it left him so vulnerable. After all, Veronica had taken to her work on the Institute like a fish to water. Lance was supposed to be more adaptable than this.

With the rest of his family away in Cuba, he felt unbearably lonely.

“Yes! Thank you!” Lance shifted in the bench to face the girl. She was taken aback by his enthusiasm, but didn’t move away. “There’s this cabrón in my class, who thought it was a good idea to mess with me, just ‘cause I said fábrica instead of factory in our first day here. He hasn’t really left me alone since…” he whined. “I speak two languages but somehow I’m the uneducated ass here!”

The girl nodded, eyes downcast. “I know what you mean.”

“You do?” He eyed the fairness of her skin and the almost ginger of her hair. “Sorry, but you look white.”

Lance’s comment must have taken her by surprise, because she actually laughed.

“I am white. I’m also Italian.” She rolled her eyes, but there was amusement in the tug of her lips. “I can be both.”

“That’s true.” Lance grinned sheepishly. It was good that she wasn’t offended by his lack of filter. “You don’t have much of an accent, though.”

“Neither do you,” the girl bit back, no real animosity in her tone.

He shrugged. “My family spent a lot of time in the US when I was younger. It used to be second nature to me. Now, I keep feeling like I have to hold back the instinct to roll my R’s.”

“I get that. My parents moved here right after I was born, but we used to speak Italian in the house.” There was a pause here, something that she couldn’t bring herself to say. “I think it’s cool that you can speak Spanish. It’s useful.”

“Yeah?” Lance sat up straight, feeling suddenly boastful.

“Sure!” she continued, encouraged by his interest. “The Bouman Aeronautics Research Institute really values multiculturalism! It is a hob of different nationalities and perspectives, created to foster new minds from around the world! Or that’s what my brother says, at least, and he is rarely wrong.” She gave him a smirk that quickly shifted into a grimace. “Don’t tell him I said that or he will never let me forget it.”

“Older brother?” At her nod, Lance smiled. “I got older siblings too. Sort of the reason I’m here in the first place, actually. One of them was accepted as a researcher and she tricked me into applying too.”

“Same, actually.” She seemed startled for a moment, pulling out her cellphone. “Freak, I have to go! I completely lost track of time while reading.” She got up to go, collecting the book she’d apparently put down to talk to him. It was a thick volume with numbers on the cover, but it didn’t look like math.

Another green ribbon fluttered to the ground, having escaped the pages of the book. Lance bent down to pick it up.

“Here.” He stretched it out to the girl. “Wouldn’t want to lose its pair,” he said with a wink.

“Thanks for reminding me!” She grabbed the ribbon hurriedly, then paused, turning back to Lance. “And for the conversation, I guess.”

Lance grinned at her. She was a little awkward but in an endearing way, like she wasn’t used to having the attention of others on her. Given she empathized with his circumstances in the Institute, it wasn’t that big of a leap to assume that she had trouble making friends.

“Bye bye, Italian girl.” He waved, glad that he could spend these few minutes with her.

“Farewell, Spanish boy.”

Lance meant to correct her about his nationality, but she took out running, clearly late for something. He laughed at the way she stumbled across the uneven ground, careless like a little kid. It was a strange juxtaposition: the thoughtfulness of her earlier words and the childishness of her smile now.

He settled back into the bench, feeling much more content than he’d been earlier. It was nice to talk to people outside of class, for a change.

And, well, Italian girl was pretty. A bit young-looking for him, but he thought guys her age should be tripping over their feet for a chance to talk to her.

“Hey, you’re Lance, right?” A boy had approached while Lance observed the girl disappear from sight. He was tall and robust, with shortly cropped hair, but his expression was friendly. “You’re in my Analytics class.”

It took Lance a second to place him. Analytics was one of the classes Lance struggled with the most, so he hadn’t had as much opportunity to joke around there.

“And you’re Hunk!” Lance snapped his fingers, smiling. “Sit down, man! What can I do for ya?”

--

“No, I promise you, she’s a cutie!” Lance exclaimed, hands waving around in the air. Hunk chuckled at his exuberance.

“I believe you, Lance.” His friend’s tone was fond and amused, which brought a smile to Lance’s face. “You’ve told me about Italian girl a hundred times already. Why don’t you just approach her again? You said you saw her on campus.”

It was true, he had seen her: running across the woods with her arms full of books; sitting by the big windows in the cafeteria, papers spread across the nearby seats; standing under an oak tree with her face turned towards the wind, her long hair escaping from where she’d tied it back.

Lance pouted at Hunk. “She hasn’t spoken to me since…” he mumbled.

“Well,” Hunk scrunched up his brows in thought, “you did say she seemed younger than us. She’s probably just embarrassed about venting to a stranger out of nowhere.”

Lance threw himself onto his bed so that Hunk wouldn’t see his face contort in a grimace. He hadn’t meant to twist the story so badly, but he had already started talking about Italian girl before he realized he didn’t want to share his insecurities with the other boy. Hunk was almost excessively easy to talk to, but they’d known each other for too short a time.

“She didn’t seem like the shy type,” he retorted, arms spread over his head. “Too snipy.”

Hunk had gotten up from his place at the desk and moved to sit on the bed, shaking his head at Lance. He had kind eyes, something that Lance hadn’t really noticed on that first week in the Institute. Some things just got lost amid the noise, he reasoned.

“For someone who feels no shame hitting on random girls, you sure are hung up on this one.” Hunk poked him on the ribs and Lance recoiled, twisting away.

“It’s not like that!” Even as he said it, Lance could feel his neck grow warm. He wasn’t really attracted to the girl, but there was something pleasant about her that did leave him faltering. “Seriously, dude, she’s probably the same age as my little sister!”

Hunk hummed in acceptance. “If you say that’s not it, then I believe you. You just talk about her a lot for someone who you only met once.”

Lance sat up to look Hunk in the eyes. It was true that his mind kept drifting back towards that girl, but he didn’t think the emotion she awakened in him was romantic.

“I’ve just never clicked with anyone like that,” he confessed, bringing his knees up to his chest. “And maybe that’s also why I haven’t talked to her again. ‘Cause what if it was a hoax?”

“So you don’t want to ruin the memory of it?” Hunk put a finger to his chin in a considering motion. “That’s fair.”

There was more to it, but Lance didn’t feel like explaining himself further. Several times he had gone by Italian girl in the library, even stopped to look at her, considering, but whenever she raised those amber eyes to meet his, Lance froze. He blushed and blustered and eventually left.

It was nice to see her smiling, though, even if it was at his expense. She was always alone when Lance saw her and it reminded him of how isolated he’d felt before befriending Hunk.

Italian girl was clearly smart, probably smarter than almost anyone in the institute, given how fast she went through those complicated-looking books. She also spent a lot of time in the library, because it was where Lance most ran into her. It was always her and her astronomy books and her ribbons.

Maybe he was projecting. Luis said he did this a lot.

“I just hope she found a friend here,” he said, more to himself than to Hunk, “someone who will also end up a little late just because they want to hear her out.”

Hunk studied his face, making Lance shift his position in discomfort.

“Who could have known?” the boy started teasingly. “You’re actually a good guy behind all that arrogance.”

Lance used his elbow to push Hunk off the bed, complaining more dramatically than was truly warranted. His friend laughed as he got up, only to throw himself back onto Lance to mess up his hair.

“What the hell, dude? Going for my hairdo?” He tried to free himself from Hunk’s arm around his neck. “Friendship over! We are no longer rooming when we get to the Garrison!”

Hunk didn’t let up and the two continued to laugh well into the afternoon.

Their time in the Institute would end in a little over a week, and Italian girl would drift to the back of Lance’s mind to become a lovely memory, just the afterimage of someone who could have meant more to him.

Translations:

“No es un acampamiento.Tú sabes que el campo de explotación espacial no está muy desenvuelto en Cuba. Si realmente quieres trabajar con eso, entonces simplemente cállate y no insultes a nadie.” - “It’s not a camp. You know that the field of space exploration is not very well developped in Cuba. If you really do want to work in this area, then simply shut up and don’t insult anyone.”

“¿Cuando he insultado a alguien?” - “When have I insulted anyone?”

“Mira, tengo una reunión con mi orientador. Y tú tienes por lo menos dos artículos para leer para las clases de mañana, ¿por qué no vas a la biblioteca para trabajar un poco? Prometo comprarte una hamburguesa después.” - “Look, I have a meeting with my coordinator. And you have at least two articles to read for tomorrow’s classes. Why don’t you go work for a bit in the library? I promise to buy you a burger later.”

“Me debes más que una hamburguesa y lo sabes, Ronie.” - “You owe me more than a burger and you know it, Ronie.”

“¡Gracias, hermanito! ¡No te arrepentirás!” - “Thank you, little brother! You won’t regret it!”

Cabrón - Bastard

[cinnamon-bugg]

Distant Shore

The sea was something Steven lived with throughout his whole life. Many residents and tourists think the beach was haunted, but Steven knew better. It was simply just overrun with corrupted gems. Which is why The Gems won't allow him to go surfing alone, since there could be corrupted gems hidden under the ocean. But like any teenager, Steven would often sneak out to surf. And today was one of those days, he planned on going beyond the waves and relaxing for an hour or two. 

Steven, with a small waterproof bag strapped around him, paddled towards the ocean. When he thought he was close enough, Steven got up from his board. Getting past the waves was something the teen relished. The rush of adrenaline, the water droplets splashing through his face, it was perfect for Steven.

As he made past the waves, the excitement died down. Steven sighed quietly and moved his bag in front of him. The teen stuck his hand in there and took out his ukulele. Steven adjusted the cords, testing out what tune he wanted for the day. When he was satisfied, Steven laid down on the board and began to play his instrument, singing along the way.

People barely go to this side of the beach, mostly because it's been closed off but also because of the whole haunted rumors. So to Steven, he had the ocean to himself. The teen rarely gets to hang out with others, he's considered to be the weird kid in the town. It doesn't bother Steven anymore, but he has been feeling lonely lately. Throughout his whole life, the people he could talk to were The Gems, his mother, his father, and Lion. But overtime, conversations feel predictable and the longing of meeting new people starts to grow.

Steven quickly pushes those thoughts away. He came here to enjoy himself and unwind. As the teen continued to sing, from the corner of his eye, he could see a shark's fin popping out of the ocean. Most people would freak out at any signs of a shark, but not Steven, he knew better. He remembered what his father told him, as long as you don't bother it and are not bleeding anywhere, the shark won't attack. So Steven tried to ignore it and focused on playing the ukulele. 

Then something made his board move. The teen held a tight grip on the sides of the board on impulse. With a shaky breath, he looked down at the water to see if he found anything.... nothing. Steven tried to rationalize the odd occurrence as the ocean's current messing up his board's balance. But the teen felt like he should tuck his ukulele back in his bag, just in case. He laid back down and sang to calm his nerves.

Suddenly his board jumped out of the water, and Steven was flung into the ocean. What happened next was something teen didn't expect to see. He saw a massive shadowy figure, who looked to be twice or even thrice as tall as him. The most unique feature though was its piercing blue eyes, somehow it gave a warm feeling to Steven. But the moment the creature tried to get closer to him, that feeling was quickly replaced with fear. He swam to the surface as fast as he could and desperately cling to his board.

"Steven!" The teen groaned and looked behind him and The Gems on the beach. 

"What are you doing over there!?" Pearl shouted worryingly. "Get back here this instance!"

Steven cursed himself and paddled to shore. As he expected, Pearl scolded him for going alone, Garnet looked at him in disappointment, and Amethyst... well she didn't seem to care.

In the end Pearl hugged Steven as tight as she could. "You could’ve  gotten seriously hurt." 

"I know." The teen said automatically. He's heard this before countless times. 

"Rose is gone for a few days and put us in charge of you. We just want to protect you  Steven." Garnet clarified. 

The teen didn't say anything and quietly went to the house. As he reached the porch, Steven looked at the sea. Maybe there was more than marine animals and corrupted gems out there. 

The rest of the day went as the norm. Do chores, waste time on videogames, help Pearl with dinner, and call mom. Steven fell on his bed and rubbed his face. What happened at the beach was still on his mind, and who could blame him? He thought of what it could be based on what he saw. Definitely not a gem, looked too human to be one. But then Steven realized, that from below its torso, it didn't seem to have any legs, but rather a tail? The teen tried connecting the dots and came to the conclusion that it was... a mermaid?

"That doesn't sound right." He thought. 

Then again, he was living with aliens so maybe a mermaid was in the realm of possibilities. A loud splash that came from outside caught Steven's attention. He got out of bed and went outside, but Steven came prepared. The teen held a sword that was a gift from his mother, which was also once hers.

Cautiously, he stepped closer to the beach. At first nothing looked out to the ordinary, until Steven saw an oddly large clam. It was basically the size of a football. The teen knelt down and noticed a wet piece of paper was slapped onto the clam. Steven picked the paper up with only two fingers and realized that there was something on the paper. It was barely legible since the ink was smeared but Steven was able to read it as I'm sorry.

He dropped the paper next to him and opened the clam out of curiosity. Inside was a pearl ring, Steven plucked it out of the clam and examined it. It was beautiful all things considered, but it was apparent that the ring couldn't fit Steven's finger. The teen still appreciated the gift and held it to his hand with care. 

He wasn't sure if he should say thank you, since the creature was nowhere to be seen. But he felt like it'd be rude to not say anything.

"Uh... Thanks for the ring, it's really beautiful!" Steven exclaimed at the creature, if it was even still there.

After a long awkward silence, Steven nodded to himself in reassurance and went back to the house. Morning came and Lion suddenly sat on top of Steven as he slept. The teen tried his best to get his pet off of him, but he didn't have the same strength as his mother.

"Lion, get off of me!" And he did, but by dragging Steven out of his bed. The teen huffed in annoyance and stood up, only for his feline companion nudged him relentlessly out of the house until he was outside. 

"I'm already out of bed, what more do you want?!"

Lion stopped and knelt down in response. Steven felt too tired to take Lion for a walk, unfortunately that didn't matter to his pet. If Lion wanted to go out for a walk, then he was going to force Steven to do so no matter what. So the teen lazily got on top of his lion and grabbed his mane as the feline started running. At first, Steven thought that he could sleep while, but then Lion created a portal and landed in a cave. They were still on the beach, but the cave was located somewhere far away from Beach City.  

"Lion, this is too far. Let's go back." Steven said. 

Lion instead went inside the cave The teen was about to leave without the feline despite the fact that there was no solid ground in the cave but the deep water, until he saw a large silhouette pass by beneath them. Lion noticed and stopped, as if he was waiting for someone. And sure enough, someone emerged out of the water in front of them. Steven knew full well who it was, as the mermaid pulled his hair back and the teen could get a better look at the blue eyes he vividly remembered.

The mermaid smiled, showing his sharp teeth, and said, "There you are."  His soft voice somewhat helped ease the situation for Steven.

"Oh wow." Was that came out of the teen's mouth. His body stayed completely still, not sure what to do now. 

Steven had to run, it's what the Crystal Gems and his mother has taught him to do. That his life mattered more than theirs and he shouldn't get involved in anything could risk his life. But Steven didn't do that. He wanted to know why, why this person took time to come here.

"Okay, you're quiet... But I expected your reaction to be worse coming from a human." 

The mermaid got close and scratched Lion's chin with his finger. "Thank you so much for helping me, little guy."

Steven regained his train of thought and realized what the person next to him said. "Wait a minute, you planned this?"

"Well yeah." The mermaid shrugged. 

"How?"

"My people have the ability to communicate with animals, and I managed to convince this fella to help me bring you here."

The teen looked at his surroundings. The cave was very dim, with the source of light only being the entrance and the mermaid's eyes. "Why here though?"

"I'm not allowed to meet other humans, supposedly it's dangerous and can endanger our species." The mermaid explained, who seemed nervous trying to explain.

"So isn't being here kinda breaking that rule?" Steven asked.

"Well I had to, because you're my soulmate."

"I'm sorry, what?" The teen thought he was joking, "Soulmates don't exist. "

"Oh but they do. It's that you humans don't know it yet. Haven't you felt like a piece of you has been missing throughout your whole life, or that you've been attracted by a certain place for no reason? That's because a soulmate makes someone feel complete." Steven didn't want to believe this, he knew better, but the teen couldn't help himself. The thought of having a soulmate excited him. It was as if it came out of a fairytale. 

"Of course there is another way I can prove that we're soulmates if you have any doubts." The mermaid continued.

"Really?" Steven asked.

"Yeah, here I'll show you." 

The mermaid placed his hand on his chest and made it glow. As he extended his arm, strings came out that then connected to Steven's heart. It felt weird, but Steven thought it was an amazing sight to behold.

"See, we're connected." With the wave of his hand, the strings disappeared in a matter of seconds. 

"This is... a lot to take in." Steven admitted as he nervously chuckled.

"Pretty much much, I mean a mermaid having a human for a soulmate is practically unheard of." 

"Half human actually, my mom's an alien." The mermaid looked confused but didn't ask for more clarification.

Steven leaned forward on Lion and asked, "If you don't mind, what's your name?"

 "My name is Jim." He answered, as if a weight had been lifted from him.

"Well my name is Steven." 

Jim lowered himself in the water as his demeanor changed. "Can you keep our thing a secret? This really isn't supposed to happen and I don't want you to get hurt." 

"Don't worry, I won't tell anyone about you." Steven stated. "Besides, I like the idea of dating in secret." 

Steven had always hoped he'd find someone special in his life. But the teen didn't expect to find out this way, or who it was.  Then again, his life has never been that simple or normal, and for once, it didn't bother him.