#As usual I’m gobbling up your art and leaving nothing on the plate

[yusuke-of-valla]

Whumptober Day 2: Good Friends And Good Food

AO3

The second Wednesday of the month usually marks the time where people pack their own lunches and avoid the cafeteria, on account of the head chef having free reign on that day to try her “experimental” dishes.

(To the chef’s credit, she’s been at the school for 50 years and is otherwise a talented cook when she doesn’t get the urge to experiment and is just about the sweetest woman ever, so no one has the heart to tell her everyone’s taken to calling her original concoctions Mystery Food X after a teacher slipped up and called it that.)

There are very few exceptions, one of them being Yusuke, who’s diet of generally anything he can find that’s edible has left him with an iron stomach.

As such, Yusuke’s a little surprised to see someone else there when he gets to the cafeteria.

“Oh, hello! Did I miss something?” A girl with close-cropped white hair asks. “No one else is here.”

“No, most people just avoid the cafeteria on these days,” Yusuke explains. “If you don’t mind me asking, are you one of the Italian exchange students?”

“Yes!” she says, sticking out her hand. “Maria Lucrezia Fiore.”

Yusuke opens his mouth to speak but she keeps going.

“And it’s either Maria Lucrezia or just Lucrezia, I never go by Maria, that’s my oldest sister. She’s Maria Teresa but she goes by Maria, my second oldest is Maria Alessia, my younger sister is Maria Sofia, we’re all Marias, so only Maria Teresa answers to Maria.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Yusuke says. “I’m Yusuke Kitagawa, a third year student in the art department. You?”

“Art as well, though I’m with the second years.”

“Well it’s a pleasure to meet you, Fiore-san.”

“Please, call me Maria Lucrezia at least.” 

“If you insist. Are you in the joint art show?”

While the Italian students were at Kosei, they were challenged to try a painting inspired by a Japanese artist, while the Japanese students were challenged to try a painting inspired by an Italian artist.

The best pieces from each year were going to be on display in a few weeks, along with some cross-cultural music and poetry reading, at a farewell gala the night before the exchange students leave.

“Yes! You as well?” 

Yusuke nods. “I wish I had had more time to touch up the piece, but the professor approved of it anyway so there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Great! I’m excited to see it. Who did you base yours on anyway? I picked Taikan.”

“I decided to go out of my comfort zone and try something inspired by Boccioni.”

“Bella, bella! I’m sure it’s wonderful.”

“Thank you,” Yusuke says. 

“Kitagawa-kun!” The head chef says. “Good to see you! And Fiore-san, I’m so happy you’re here! I’m hoping you two can tell me what you think. I want to try and create some fusion cuisine for the gala, so I was hoping to get student feedback.”

The head chef takes them back to the kitchen and plates them… well it looks like sushi. However instead of rice the chef used spaghetti and made a dip for pasta sauce.

Yusuke takes a bite, and is a little caught off that the spaghetti is warm.

But he never turns down free food, so he gobbles it up.

“Ah! Delicious!” Maria Lucrezia says.

“Yes, thank you for the meal,” Yusuke says.

“I’m glad you think so, but do you think the other students will like it?” The head chef asks.

“Probably not,” Yusuke says bluntly. “The consistency is very strange.”

“I think it’s great! It kind of feels like it’s crawling down my throat on it’s own!” Maria Lucrezia says. Then she thinks for a bit, “though my brother thinks all my favorite foods are gross, so I guess I can’t speak for anyone else.”

“Well, thank you for your honesty. I just can’t stand the thought of making regular hors d'oeuvres for the gala! I mean it’s a celebration of two cultures coming together! That should be included in the food.”

“Well Italy and Japan have to have a lot of culinary staples that overlap,” Yusuke suggests. “I mean they’re both more or less surrounded by the ocean, at the very least they have to fish.”

“Yes! Seabass, cod, swordfish!” Maria Lucrezia says. “So maybe you can do sushi the way they’d make it if it originated in Italy! So use orzo instead of rice or something!” She gasps. “Oh or you can make a Japanese Timpano!”

The head chef nods thoughtfully. “Yes, yes, I must consider this. Both of you, out!”

She shoves them out of the kitchen.

“It’s good to see someone passionate about food!” Maria Lucrezia says. “So many people think of it as just something to eat.”

“Well it is,” Yusuke says. “I do agree that it’s nice to take the time to savor your food, but good food made with care isn’t always available.”

Saying that makes Yusuke miss Leblanc. He hasn’t been in awhile.

Futaba’s busy enjoying her school life to the fullest, and Ren’s back home, so neither of them have invited him over and he can’t go on his own. Otherwise he’d be taking advantage of Boss’s hospitality.

His stomach aches for the warm curry, though.

“That’s such a shame.”

Maria Lucrezia’s words shake Yusuke from his thoughts.

“Getting to enjoy food you like is important! It’s a part of being alive, no?”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Yusuke says.

~

Yusuke stares at the piece he submitted for the Gala. Their teacher is keeping it in her office since too often students will try to edit or touch up already submitted works, but he can see it through the window.

Honestly, he doesn’t know if he wants to touch it up or take the katana he hasn’t touched since February and slice through the canvas.

He’d told his teacher he was inspired by Umberto Boccioni and the Futurist movement, but that was a lie.

In reality futurism happened to be well suited to capturing the spirit of the Phantom Thieves. The futurists had declared: 

 “We shall sing the great masses shaken with work, pleasure, or rebellion; we shall sing the multicolored and polyphonic tidal waves of revolution in the modern metropolis.”

And how could Yusuke resist?

The form, light, and dynamism of Boccioni’s artwork reminded Yusuke of his friends, who, even outside of the Metaverse, are leaping forward into the future.

And here he is. Still doing the same thing he’s always done. 

Everyone’s off trying new things, pushing themselves to grow and be better than they were, and Yusuke doesn’t even know where to start.

He does know he misses them. 

But at the same time, he can’t distract them, clinging to them just because he feels lost.

~

Yusuke doesn’t know how he got volunteered to be on the planning committee for the gala, he just knows he’s here.

Maria Lucrezia’s there too, and she instantly invites him over to sit between her and a boy who must be her brother.

“Ok, so we’ll need to split into groups to do tasks. Since some of you joined late you’ll be assigned, and— Kitagawa and Fiore-san, you’re on flier duty.”

“Huh? But I heard there was an option for arranging the food that was still open!” Maria Lucrezia says.

“You’ll just encourage the chef to get experimental,” her brother says. “Not all of us can eat trash like you two.”

The head of the committee looks sheepish, confirming that it’s exactly as the brother said, and continues on with the assignments.

“I’m sorry for my brother’s rudeness,” Maria Lucrezia whispers. “This is Benito.”

“Hello. Nice to meet you,” Yusuke says, offering his hand.

Benito simply glares at it. “Don’t cause trouble for my sister, alright?”

Maria Lucrezia rolls her eyes. “Yes, yes, very helpful Beni.”

“I’m serious, Lucrezia. I’ve heard about him, he’s the weird one. Think about it, how out there does he have to be to be weird to the eccentrics at this school.”

“I can hear you,” Yusuke says.

“I know.” Benito turns to his sister. “He doesn’t even have any friends despite being about to graduate.”

“I have friends,” Yusuke interjects.

“No you don’t.”

“Yes I do, they just all go to other schools.”

Benito rolls his eyes. “You can’t come up with a better lie?”

“Why would that be a lie? There are lots of schools in Tokyo.”

“Sure but if every single one of your friends goes to another school, and no one else has heard of them, that’s a lie.”

“Hifumi Togo’s met one of my friends.”

“Oh, the shogi prodigy?” Benito fake gasps. “You mean the one currently at a tournament in Nagoya and thus can’t verify that you have friends?”

Yusuke rolls his eyes and pulls open his sketchbook. “Think what you will.” What does he care if this random exchange student believes Yusuke’s friends exist?

“We can meet them at the gala!” Maria Lucrezia says. “We’re the Flier Squad! So we’ll make sure they know about it!”

Yusuke blinks. “If they can come.”

Benito scoffs. “Oh sure, they’re all going to be busy, right? How convenient.”

Yusuke’s grip on his notebook tightens. “You never know.”

~

Yusuke stares at his phone as people walk past him in the underground passageway. 

There’s no point in asking Ren, Ann, and Ryuji since they can’t make it out to Tokyo. Futaba, Haru, and Makoto will be around, and maybe it’d be worth asking Sumire as well on the off chance she doesn’t have a gymnastics meet?

He sends a picture of the flier to each of them.

Yusuke: My work is going to be on display, would you like to come?

There. That didn’t sound desperate. He’d hate for them to drop plans to come out of pity. 

The task done, he puts his phone in his pocket, and tries to focus on watching the people passing by. Normally he’d work on capturing individual people, but since he’s on a bit of a futurism kick, he tries to capture the movement of the crowd itself, and the leaving, breathing bustling of the subway.

He’s almost in the zone when his phone buzzes, at which point Yusuke practically drops his sketchbook to drop his phone.

4 New Messages.

Yusuke takes a deep breath and checks them

Futaba: Sry, next Friday I’m in a gaming competition. Tell me about it after tho! Is there an award? Kick ass!

Makoto: I’ll be in a study group prepping for a big test, I’m so sorry. Will you send pictures?

Haru: Oh no, I’ll be at a business dinner, you must tell me when the next one is though. I’m sorry!

Sumire : Gah! I’m so sorry Kitagawa-senpai! I’ve got the regional finals that day and I won’t be back until late. I might be able to make it before the end?

Yusuke quickly texts “don’t worry about it” to each of them and leans back against the wall. 

Yusuke turns off his phone and slips it back into his pocket. This is fine. It’s not like it’s a show with anything on the line. He’s just showing off a piece that’s already been recognized.

And it’s not like he needs them there to show up some jerk who’ll be back in Italy the next day.

No, he’s being ridiculous. They all have things on the line, he doesn’t. This won’t affect his grade, or his chances of getting into college, or anything.

They have more important things to do because they’re actually taking risks, Yusuke thinks to himself.

Because they’re putting themselves out there and trying things, while Yusuke remains falling back on what he’s always been good at. On what everyone’s always expected him to do.

He’s in place and they’re flying forward.

Yusuke realizes some people are staring at him, and it’s because he’s shaking. He packs up his bag and goes.

No matter how sorry he feels for himself, it doesn’t change the fact that it doesn’t matter his friends can’t come to the gala.

~

“Please come to Kosei High’s first Biennial Cross Cultural Gala! There will be food, music, and artwork on display!” Maria Lucrezia says. 

Every day after school for the last week and a half, Yusuke and Maria Lucrezia have been handing out fliers in different neighborhoods near the school. They really want a large turnout from the local community.

Yusuke’s not sure how many people will actually come, but they have been taking a lot of fliers at least, which is the important part on their end.

“Yo! Inari!” Yusuke turns and spots Futaba running towards him. “Whatcha doing?”

“Handing out fliers,” Yusuke explains, showing her one.

“Oh yeah! The thingie! I’m sure it’ll be cool,” Futaba says. “What’ve you been up to, prepping for this?”

“Yes, pretty much.” We both know I never have anything else to do, is the part Yusuke bites back. He cannot draw his friends into his problems.

“You ok?” Futaba asks. “You eating? Because you’re always welcome at Leblanc.”

“Yes, everything’s fine,” Yusuke says. 

“Sakura-san!” 

A boy and a girl Yusuke doesn’t recognize run up to Futaba. 

“Oh! Hey guys, this is my friend Inari, I told you about him. Inari, this is Aoyagi and Kusanagi, they’re who I’m entering the gaming tournament with. We’re here to practice at the arcade.”

“Nice to meet you both,” Yusuke says. They’re not even wearing Shujin uniforms, so Futaba’s managed to make friends on her own. She never could have done that a year ago.

The swirl of pride in Yusuke’s stomach is weighed down by a tinge of jealousy. Look at how far Futaba’s come, and yet here he is.

“Are you ok?” Futaba asks.

“I’m fine!” He won’t tarnish her moment with his own issues. “I have to keep handing out fliers, I’ll see you around.”

Yusuke runs off before Futaba can say anything, and almost knocks over Maria Lucrezia.

“Oh, there you are, Yusuke-sanpai!”

“Senpai” he corrects her.

“Right, sorry! Senpai. A month in Japan and I’m still not getting it!”

“You speak it fine,” Yusuke says.

“Ah, thanks. I’m… slow at learning things sometimes, you know? I like to take my time.” She sighs, “the next time we come to Japan, I want it to be for longer.”

“Thinking of studying here?” Yusuke asks.

“Perhaps, I don’t know. I’ve lived lots of places, and they’re all so different! I want time to appreciate them all.”

“Oh, you travel around a lot?”

“Yes, though my sisters and I have a bet to see who can go the longest without going to America.”

“Do you travel for your parents' work?” 

Maria Lucrezia’s normally cheery demeanor drops for a second. “No, they died a long time ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Yusuke says. “I understand… my mother passed away a long time ago too, and my previous caretaker is out of the picture.”

“You ever get jealous of people complaining about their parents? Like ‘oh no they make me do homework!’”

“Can’t say I do. I suppose it depends on the parent.”

Maria Lucrezia nods. “Yeah, good answer. Beni’s mom…”

“You have different mothers?”

“Yeah. She was a massive fucking cunt, pardon my French.”

“You’re speaking Japanese.”

Maria Lucrezia laughs. “Kitagawa-senpai, you’re so funny! I seriously don’t get why no one hangs out with you!”

Yusuke tries to keep his face neutral, but Maria Lucrezia seems to catch it. “Oh, I didn’t mean—”

If he wanted he could take her to the arcade and introduce her to Futaba, but all that would do is grant him some satisfaction at the expense of Futaba’s time with her friends.

“It’s fine,” Yusuke says. “Let’s just get back to work.”

~

The gala, at least, is a resounding success. Tons of people from the neighborhood come to visit, including some Yusuke suspects who are just here for the free food, which he respects.

The head chef’s fusion cuisine has come out well from the looks of it, everyone seems to be enjoying it and she’s beaming with pride.

Once the final performance finishes, people begin to trickle out, and the head of the planning committee grabs Yusuke aside and asks him to help put away things.

He’s joined by Maria Lucrezia and Benito.

“Shouldn’t you be preparing for your plane ride?” Yusuke asks. 

“We’ll be fine,” Maria Lucrezia says. 

“I don’t want to leave her alone with you,” Benito adds. “Since your friends didn’t end up showing up after all.”

Yusuke rolls his eyes and pushes past Benito, grabbing several chairs and heading back to the storage closet, Maria Lucrezia following behind.

The door slams shut behind them.

"You'll have to forgive Beni," Maria Lucrezia says. "He's doing his best, even if he can be blunt sometimes."

"I'd like to stop talking about this."

"You know what I think?"

"No,"

"You're a real artist, you know? So many feelings that you're pouring out into the world. And it's killing you that no one can match that. Everything you give you'll never get back because your so-called friends don't care about you as much as you care about them. If you were in their shoes, you'd have noticed if they were upset. You would have been there for them. But then again, they can't. Because you're not their whole world the way they're yours."

"Fiore," Yusuke says sternly. "This is not the time for this conversation."

"You're right, you're right, I need to stop playing with my food."

Suddenly she grabs Yusuke's arm and yanks him downward so they're eye-level. She grabs the back of his head with other hand and to keep him still as she plunges a pair of fangs into his neck.

Yusuke struggles to push her off of him but she's too strong and he's rapidly losing feeling in his arms and legs.

"Senpai," Maria Lucrezia purrs when she stops for a second. "You really are perfect, you know? I mean you could be a bit shorter but your blood's worth the extra effort. Anemics taste so good."

"What... what are you going to do if I die," Yusuke breathes. She's completley supporting his weight right now. 

"Oh don't worry about me, I've done this for a long time. I know how to be patient, even when it was killing me. By the time anyone finds your body, we'll be flying back to Italy, at least. Assuming anyone bothers to notice." She pulls his neck close again. "Now be a good boy and let me eat. There are worse things to be than a good meal, you know." 

Damn it. If he were Fox, he’d be stronger. Faster. Able to fend her off.

If he were Fox he could summon Goemon and have his weapons.

If he were Fox, the rest of the Phantom Thieves would be with him.

But he’s not Fox right now, he’s just Yusuke, and he’s going to die in the back room of a tiny gallery and no one will be any the wiser.

He feels himself fall to the floor with a thud and he can’t even bring himself to move.

So he just closes his eyes and drifts off.

~

“I’m sorry guys,” Futaba says as they exit the gaming tournament.

“It’s not your fault. Who would’ve thought another gaming competition would have a print stickers contest,” Kusanagi says.

“And this time we didn’t have anyone good at it…” Aoyagi adds. “Still, there were about 20 teams and we came fourth. That’s not bad. Let’s grab our seats and watch the finals.”

“...Actually, do you mind if I leave early?” Futaba asks. “I might be able to make my friend’s thing still.”

“No, go ahead!” Aoyagi says. “Tell him hi for us, and remember that thing I said about my partner’s sister?”

“Yeah, we gotta set them up on some kind of art playdate or whatever. Inari’d totally love another artist he can actually nerd out with. See ya guys!”

Futaba heads out to the front of the arcade and opens up her phone, texting the group chat.

Futaba: Hey, any of you guys still at Inari’s art thing?

Ren: ?

Futaba: He’s doing an art show with school. 

Haru: Give him my regards!

Makoto: Me too.

Sumire: Tell him if he doesn’t mind waiting we can swing past and grab some dessert!

Ann: Aww he didn’t tell us he was doing an art show!

Ryuji: Yeah we coulda at least texted him good luck.

Futaba: I don’t think it's a competition, it’s just a display.

Futaba: …wait.

Futaba: So did everyone in the Tokyo group say they couldn’t make it?

Haru: I can’t.

Makoto:  Me neither

Sumire: We’re trying, but we won’t get there before it ends without breaking some traffic laws :(

Futaba: Oh shit… when I saw him last time he looked really bummed about something, is it because none of us could make it?

Ann: When was the last time any of you hung out with him in person?

Haru: That would be, after Sumire-chan’s last meet, right? The victory dinner?

Makoto: That was over a month ago!

Ryuji: Ah shit. I haven’t had a voice chat with him in awhile either.

Ann: Me neither

Ren: Not us.

Futaba: oh noooooo Inari istg if you’ve been all lonely and didn’t want to talk to us.

Futaba: Ok the gallery or whatever isn’t far from here, I’m gonna run over rn.

Makoto: Gonna tell my study group I need a break, I’ll be there ASAP

Ryuji: gl!

Futaba sends a text to Yusuke to say she’s on her way, and sprints/walks over to the gallery.

When she gets there she spots a familiar head of red hair.

“Sumire!” Futaba gasps. “I thought… you’d be…”

“Later?” Sumire finishes. “My aunt was driving and I explained the situation and she, well, broke several traffic laws. But I’m not sure if anyone’s still here.”

“Hold… on…” Futaba says, pulling out her phone. “Yeah… he’s here…”

They follow Futaba’s phone to some storage room, and Futaba pushes it open. “Inari? You– AH!”

There’s a girl with Yusuke’s blood dripping down her chin, and Yusuke slumped over, completely unconscious.

Sumire’s faster than Futaba, and runs over to smack the girl— vampire?!— over the head with her gymnastics bag.

“Hey!” the vampire girl gasps but Sumire keeps going, while Futaba rushes over to check on Yusuke. His pulse is very slow.

The door bursts open again and a dude who looks like the vampire girl runs over and grabs Sumire’s wrist, and she elbows him. Soon the two of them are fighting while vampire girl heads over to Futaba and Yusuke.

Then the door bursts open again.

Makoto’s in the doorway, stares at Futaba holding Yusuke, the vampire girl with blood on her mouth, and the other guy currently wrestling with Sumire, and wastes no time.

She dashes over to the guy wrestling Sumire and throws him off into the path of vampire girl. The dude and the vampire girl look at each other, then turn into bats and fly out the small window.

“What—”

“Vampires! Inari! Hospital!” Futaba gasps, motioning frantically to everything.

Makoto still looks confused, but picks Yusuke up.

“T-take him to my aunt’s car!” Sumire shouts, getting up.

They sprint over, throw Yusuke in the back, and Futaba climbs in while Sumire frantically explains that they have to go to the hospital right now.

~

Well, Yusuke can’t say he was expecting to wake up, but the smell of antiseptic does make sense.

What’s the most surprising are Futaba, Sumire, and Makoto curled up on various chairs around the room.

Then Haru enters with a mug of coffee.

“Oh good, you’re up!” Haru whispers. “I came over as soon as I heard what happened.”

Yuske’s throat is dry. “Is what happened to the Italian exchange student was a vampire?“

“Yes, apparently.”

“Huh.”

“Are you feeling alright?” Haru asks. “You needed an immediate transfusion with all the blood loss.”

“Tired, I suppose.”

“Then do you… have an insatiable thirst for blood?” Haru asks.

“Um… no?”

“Ok, good. You know there are so many different types of vampires it’s hard to tell how real ones work.” Haru explains. “Ren, Ryuji, Mona-chan, and Ann have been texting info all night.”

“Oh, but Ann has class right now?”

“It’s an emergency,” Haru says simply.

Yusuke feels tears start to drip down his face. 

“Huh? Yusuke, what’s wrong?”

“I’m just very happy you all came,” Yusuke says.

“‘Course,” Futaba mutters.

“Sorry, did I wake you up?” Yusuke asks.

“Stop worrying about us you big lug,” Futaba yawns. “Anyway, totally thinking we should have a Tokyo gang group chat so we can hang out more.”

Haru nods. “Great idea! I do feel awkward making plans in the main chat when the others can’t come.”

“I have a break from meets for a while, I’d love to hang out. I see Futaba at school all the time, but I’d like to see the rest of you more. “

“We should do something that’s not too strenuous when Yusuke gets out of the hospital,” Makoto adds. 

“The arcade? I need to get good at print stickers,” Futaba says. 

“Print stickers?” Yusuke asks.

“Ooh! You take pictures in a photo booth and then doodle on them, you’d be great at it, Yusuke!” Sumire says.

“Also I’ve gotta introduce you to this chick, Ena Shinonome, sometime. She’s an art student like you, you can have art friends.”

Yusuke just starts crying harder. “I’d… I’d love all of that.”

Suddenly he has much less to worry about when he can be with his friends.

[xpeachesncream]

cloud nine | teaser/intro

SERIES RELEASE DATE: 04/09/2021

⟼ perfectly wrong ⟼  restart

☁ series masterlist ☁ cloud nine playlist ☁ 

summary: 2 years later, your marriage to taehyung brings people back from your past, new hardships with your bestfriends and tiny roommates who get away with everything just by being cute?

pairing: reader x husband!kth

genre: marriage au | fluff, angst, smut

words: 1.8k

warnings: cussing, mature language/implied sexual content, entire teaser/intro is a flashback.

⟲ FLASHBACK 

"Wake up." You say softly, shaking Taehyung next to you in bed. "Waaake up, Tae." You whine. After a couple of more shakes, Taehyung slowly opens his eyes to your pout. He chuckles as he rubs his eyes and stretches a bit.

"What's wrong, love?"

"Why aren't you waking up more excited?! Today's the day!" He laughs and wraps his arms around you, gently laying his head on your tummy. He presses a kiss on your growing belly before rubbing the surface with his soft, warm hands, making you smile.

"Babygirl, you cant expect me to get my life together in the 5 seconds you took to wake me up."

"Well, have you gotten your life together yet?" You ask, slightly impatient as you twirl a strand of his hair around your finger and tug lightly.

"5 more minutes." He says, pretending to snore on top of your belly. He lets out a small snort when he hears you continuing to whine at him. "God, you win everything. I'm up." He plants one more kiss on your stomach before he sits up to plant a kiss on your lips.

"Finally." You scrunch your nose as you look into his deep, chocolate eyes.

“Goodmorning, beautiful.” He says to you before looking down at your stomach. "And good morning, munchkin. Can't wait to find out if you're gonna be a baby boy or girl." 

"It's a girl, I know it." You say as you slowly get yourself out of the bed to get ready for the day. You walk into the closet to grab some clothes before heading into the bathroom to take a quick body shower and pamper yourself for a bit.

"If you say so, sweetheart." Taehyung chuckles, following you into the bathroom to get himself ready as well. He stands over the sink as he lazily brushes his teeth before fixing his bed hair as much as possible. He lets you have your peace in the shower to walk into the closet and pulls out a comfy, but presentable outfit for the day. The weather wasn't too bad for the fall season - sun was out providing warmth, but the air was still cold.

By the time he had slipped into his clothes, he walks back to the bathroom, leaning against the door frame to watch you lather yourself up and get into your outfit of choice. He chuckles a bit, a big smile plastered on his face when you catch him watching you.

"What?" You look at him confusingly.

"I don't know, you're just cute."

"What am I doing?" You ask, adjusting the shirt over your belly before fixing up your hair.

"You don't have to do anything for me to think so." He says, coming over to kiss you on the cheek, lightly brushing the hair out of your face and tucking it behind your ear. "You ready?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty hungry now." You apply a bit of lip balm to your lips before looking back up at him.

"What do you wanna eat?"

"I don't know."

"Mhm. You know what you want baby, don't lie."

"I really don't." You shrug, trying to lay out some options in your head. You arch your eyebrow as your hands rest on your belly, giving it a good rub or two. Literally, everything seemed like a good option. It was about to be lunch time and you could go for either ends of the spectrum - breakfast/brunch, straight up lunch, dinner, dessert.

"Don't think too hard now."

"I kind of want Squat and Gobble." Taehyung nods in approval, lips slightly poking out.

"Whatever you want, babygirl. I'll take you there." He says, making his way out of the bathroom. "Now chop chop, so we can get your cute ass some food." You took one last look at yourself in the mirror, fixing little things here and there before heading out to meet your husband in the living room. He helps you put on your coat before the two of you walk out to the car, Taehyung instantly turning on the heat to make sure you're comfortable. Getting to Squat and Gobble, you find yourself getting excited by the smell that surrounded the restaurant. Ooh lord, you couldn't wait to eat a good meal before heading to the doctor's. This child was begging for it, too! After getting escorted to a table, the both of you get situated to start looking through the menu.

"Damn."

"Hm?" Taehyung hums, keeping his eyes on the menu.

"I want everything." You pout.

"You and this metabolism of yours, love. Seriously."

"Me and this baby, you mean."

"Mm-mm, no. Don’t go blaming our baby. You wanted everything all the time, way before I popped this baby into you."

"Taehyung.” You shake your head. “Not true."

"Actually, 100% true." Taehyung nods. "So, let me guess. You're either gonna get the Eggs Benedict or the Nor Cal Omelette with a side of Belgian Waffles. Am I right or am I right?" You laugh and shake your head.

"You're right, and you're right."

"Which one is it gonna be?"

"I want the omelette." You say excitedly. He simply smiles at you, catching himself feeling butterflies in his stomach. God, you were everything to him. So fucking beautiful, and so irresistible.

"What?" You ask, confused as to why Tae was staring at you again. "Why are you staring at me like that again?" You slightly chuckle as you watch him bite onto his bottom lip before looking back down and shaking his head.

"Nothing."

"Say it."

"I just love you."

"I love you too." You blush.

"So, has my lady thought of any baby names?"

"Not really, have you?"

"A bit." He chuckles. "If it was a boy, I was thinking Masao. Or, Grey. Iseul. They all roll off my tongue pretty nicely." He says, looking out into space.

"Those are cute. What about girl names?"

"Oh, a whole list." He sips his water. "Miyako. Anya. Seiko. Nabi. Yumi. I honestly could go on."

"Have you been doing your research or something? These are better names than what I would've came up with." You laugh.

"What, I can't have any creative juices flowing through my veins too?"

"Mhm, sure. I'm gonna check your history tab later on the laptop."

"Shit." He playfully whispers. "No but really, baby. Don't they all sound nice?"

"Yes, they do." You smile. "I'm impressed, Kim Taehyung."

"I know, I make you proud." He smirks.

"I only thought of like, two names this entire time."

"That's it?" He snickers.

"Well, clearly you got the whole list ready so I no longer have to worry." You playfully shrug.

"You don't. Let Daddy take care of it." He wiggles his eyebrows, making you laugh. He's for sure not gonna let this one go, not for a long, long time. At this point, your plates are placed in front of you two, the table mostly silent as you both dig in and devour your food. Taehyung only chimes in every now and then about Jimin or Namjoon, or his mom and dad. When you both finish your meal, Tae sits back and lets out a hefty breath while he stretches.

"Full?" You ask, sipping on the last of your water.

"Yup. You ready to go soon, love? Your appointment is coming up real quick." He says checking his watch. You simply nod as Taehyung pays for the food before the two of you head out. In the car, you had been feeling the butterflies attacking all at once. You looked down at your belly, smiling to yourself as you rubbed the surface. You were so excited to hear the news from the doctor being that you and Taehyung had been waiting for this moment for a long time.

Everything seemed so surreal.

Your career as a new illustrator was going strong. 2Peace was still going strong. Your husband's career on the executive team was at its highest. Your friends were all thriving. This baby.

Everything just seemed to be falling into place. And you were hoping it could be like this for a long time. You were hoping it could stay like this.

After checking in at the doctor's office, you sit next to Taehyung, who is now reading an art magazine. You take a deep breath, causing Tae to grab your hand and press a gentle kiss on top of it. He continues to rub your hand with his thumb as he returns his attention on the magazine sitting on his lap and flips through it with his free hand. You were on time for your appointment, and you were really hoping you didn't have to wait for long simply because you had become way too excited.

"You okay?" Tae asks, noticing your leg continuously bouncing up and down.

"Yeah, I just wanna go in already." He chuckles.

"Patience, baby. He'll get to you, alright?" Your bottom lip pokes out in a pout, making Taehyung lean forward to give you a kiss. "You do that on purpose, don't you?"

"Do what on purpose?"

"Pout so I could kiss you."

"No, babe. I'm just expressing my feelings."

"Mhhhhm." He smirks.

"Besides, I never had to force you to give me kisses." You smile confidently.

"Alright, okay. I rest my case, your honor." He clicks his teeth. "See, you win that too."

"Mrs. Kim?" The medical assistant came to the door, causing you and Taehyung to stand - the both of you trying your best to contain your excitement. She takes you to the back to check your vitals and run through the usual routine before leaving you and Taehyung to your peace until the doctor comes knocking. As you get yourself situated on the bed, Taehyung decides to take a picture of you, his beloved wife, and your baby bump. He had been really good about capturing these moments, and you were grateful for it. He gives off a small giggle when he checks the picture, letting you know he's about to send it his mom and dad and all your friends.

Caption:

Can't wait to find out if we have ourselves a baby Tete or baby Y/N.

Sooner or later, the doctor comes in, making small talk with you and Taehyung. He gets the monitor ready, warning you about the cold gel that's about to make contact with your belly. Taehyung tries to take a peek at the monitor, but with the doctor being in the way, he couldn't catch a glimpse of anything. Neither can you, being that you're laying back and can barely see over your hump.

"Everything looks absolutely perfect, and that's all I can ask for. Now, tell me - would you like to know what the sex is?" The doctor smiles from ear to ear as he turns towards you and Tae.

"Yes sir, please. Enlighten us." Taehyung says, standing next to you as you lay silently on the bed, gripping your hand tightly . The doctor checks the monitor once more before chuckling and turning back towards you. "Congratulations! You have yourselves some baby girls!" You put your hand over your mouth as you gasp.

"Wait, wait - did you just say baby girls?" Taehyung's eyes light up as the doctor nods happily.

"Sure did." He points to the monitor. "You got yourself some twin girls right there.”

[the-darklings]

—𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒌, 𝒏𝒐 𝒔𝒖𝒈𝒂𝒓;

pairing: detective loki x reader

word count: 1.8k

summary: “Are you always…” he begins slowly, pausing to search for a world that won’t make him sound like a complete asshole. “...like this?”

notes: Never let it be said that I am not an absolute fool!!! This is set pre-movie so no spoilers for the film itself. 

‘black coffee’ drabbles: ... | 02 |

The coffee is good. 

That’s why he keeps coming in. The diner also has that typical, cosy American feel to it and is, in fact, one of the busiest in town. Certainly more busy than the Chinese place across the street he likes frequenting sometimes. 

Coming here has become an odd habit ever since the Chinese place had to be closed for the day due to a burst pipe in the kitchen. He’d been hungry, sleep-deprived, and trying to solve a case and with no other option than to go to the nearest open establishment to escape the harsh October rain.

He came in because he didn’t have much of a choice. He stayed and kept coming back because the coffee is good. 

He’s also become rather fond of his little booth at the back too. Sometimes he would come in and sit here for hours, pouring over reports and case notes, trying to connect all the little dots and make sure bastards that deserve to rot did exactly that. 

“The usual?”

He pauses, his hand lifting from the notes he was scribbling in his notebook to glance up at the source of the voice. Your face is familiar because he sees you around the diner often—practically every day, if he comes in that often which he often does, even if only for a takeaway.

Truthfully, it’s hard not to notice you. You bounce around the place with a smile and a warm greeting to everyone who steps through the door. Like somehow working endless shifts in this shitty diner that could be paying no more than the minimum wage was somehow the height of living.  

Fake.

That’s the first and logical conclusion that came to mind the first time he saw you. There is no way someone can be genuinely this happy and upbeat all day round and mean it. It’s like you’re dialled up to 200% at all times and it’s almost irritating but—

“I have one of those?” he questions slowly, squinting at you, “The usual?”

Your head tilts slightly and a faint smile lingers around the corners of your mouth, knowing and cheerful. From where you stand, it does look genuine but he still has his suspicions. People would do anything nowadays for a good tip. 

“You’ve been coming in daily for almost two weeks, detective,” you reply amiably, twisting the pen between your fingers. “Of course you do.”

His eyebrows jump slightly and he scoffs under his breath. “And that would be?”

Your feet shuffle—nervous?—and you stare at him for a beat of mutual silence. You haven’t missed the slightly condescending note in his voice then. Good. 

“Coffee: black, no sugar,” you say pleasantly, tapping your pen once against the notepad in your hand, and eyes moving towards the ceiling like you’re visualising the order. “For breakfast, you enjoy bacon and eggs. Though I do recommend our buttermilk pancakes. Joey adds magic into them, I swear. Lunch would be a cheeseburger and double fries. Oh, and for dinner, hmm, meatloaf which I didn’t take you to be the type.”

He’s not sure if he should be worried or pleasantly surprised. 

“Are you always…” he begins slowly, pausing to search for a world that won’t make him sound like a complete asshole. “...like this?”

You laugh; a warm sound, pleasant too, if a bit too loud. Your grin stretches and you simply glance at your notebook, fingers fiddling absentmindedly.

“Well, I guess my coworkers would say yes,” you admit, a touch embarrassed. “I would say that anticipating customer needs and making them feel appreciated is a sign of good customer service.”

Huh. 

He wonders if it’s really as simple as that. But every time he comes in, he does notice how you flutter around the dining room, interacting and chatting with everyone who wants to have a conversation. You do try your hardest to make customers feel welcome. Even if it’s nothing more than a job, he can at least acknowledge the dedication you have for a position most people would consider inconsequential. 

“Coffee. Black,” he states after another moment of silence between you, having to fight back a smile at the way your eyes jump to him, amused. “And I’ll try those, uh, magical pancakes. Thanks.”

Your smile is of pure delight and you hurriedly scribble the order down—almost like him somehow taking your recommendation on board just made your entire day. 

“Comin’ right up, detective.”

. . .

The coffee is good.

He can’t help but think it again—both in genuine appreciation and delight. Most places that sell coffee in this town only sell some weak, washed-out shit that’s a piss poor substitute for caffeine. He might as well add some salt and cement and mix it with water for how good or effective it is.

But as he sips on the scalding content in his cup, he can’t help but sigh. He can almost feel the dull twinge against his temple lessen. Fuck, how long has it been since he slept? He should probably try and catch at least a few hours before Captain tears into him again—though that worry has lessened with each new case he closes. As long as he makes the department—and especially the Captain—look good, very little matters outside of that. 

He just wants to get to the new case and the case after that—not much else exists for him outside his work. He’s good at it. He likes it. What more could he ask for?    

“Hard case?”

His eyes lift and he sees you approaching his booth with a plate of steaming, fluffy pancakes in hand. He’s not much for sweets but even he has to admit that the pancakes look rather good. 

“No,” he answers, lowering his cup slightly, “Not really.”

Not for me.

It goes unsaid but the way your mouth twitches slightly to the side tells him that you likely picked up on the unspoken meaning anyway. He regards you critically, accessing, as you lower the pancakes in front of him.

“You work too hard, detective,” you tell him, expression and voice empty of accusation or judgement. It’s simply a statement, and he even notes the slight, worried furrow of your brows. “You need to rest to be productive. Besides exhaustion can place your life in danger.”

He draws a deep breath, peering at you as he blinks a few times, squinting, “That’s rich coming from someone who I see here every day,” he points out mildly, fingers tapping against the rim of the cup with that slight edge of annoyance he can’t quite quell fully. “Today is your eight-day in a row.”

Your face creases with surprise—almost like someone noticing anything about you is somehow shocking, and perhaps it is; you are as invisible as you are seen in this place—and this time around your smile is softer, almost melancholy. 

“Well, we all gotta eat, right?” you ask, but he gets a sense that you’re not really looking for a reply so he keeps quiet, silently observing you because—perhaps—he is a touch more curious than usual. “Besides, I’m saving up. See, I really want to open my own place. Nothing big, just enough space for a kitchen and maybe ten customers—definitely something manageable. Somewhere where I can make fresh food, and stand back and watch people enjoy what I made for them. There would be kids and lots of sunlight and laughter. It would be warm. Someplace I can call my own. Don’t get me wrong, I do like it here—I mean I grew up in this town, so it goes without saying but…”

You trail off and the fond, dream-like tilt of your voice fades too. For a split second, he feels almost disoriented because for a moment he saw it too. You would greet all guests and know them all by their first names. You would be working every day but you would adore every moment of it. He could see you in a tiny kitchen, dancing around and creating to your heart’s content, putting all your positive energy into the simple art of creation. 

“Sorry,” you mutter weakly and clear your throat. “You’re busy and I shouldn’t be bothering you with this type of talk. But yeah, if you want a good thing, you have to be prepared to work hard for it. I will make it out of here one day.”

No, you won’t. 

It’s a cynical thought—and after hearing your dream he almost feels bad for thinking it—but he knows he’s right. If Huntington thought him anything is that life has a way of gobbling up dreamers like you and spitting them back out mangled and broken beyond repair. Time will pass, you will not leave: be it money, family, or whatever else is holding you back from going right this second. Eventually, you’ll be empty of hopes and dreams, living one day at a time in a cycle that’s like a noose around your throat. 

He should know. 

Your joy will grow into resentment, and your drive will sour into bitterness. All that’s left will be someone unhappy with their life and all they could have done with their wasted time. 

It’s a shame though. 

At this point, he can at least admit to himself that perhaps he was too hasty to assume you were playing pretend. Just an endless optimist. It will be a shame to see a fire like yours slowly dim with time. Because given time, you will wither like so many others have.

“Will I be getting a discount at this new place of yours?” he wonders idly, stabbing the fork into his golden pancakes as he takes another slow sip of coffee.

Your embarrassed expression eases, something warmer and happier taking its place, and you suit it a lot more than a frown. Some faces aren’t made for unhappiness. Tragedy and pain become rawer when reflected in them. That’s why happy people are always the hardest to deal with on cases—they don’t know how to hide their suffering the way others do. 

“That will depend entirely on how much sleep you get before coming in,” you say, something joking and teasing twisting your voice. “I would hate for those bags under your eyes to scare the little ones away.”   

His lips twitch into a surprisingly genuine smile around the rim of his cup, and he turns his head slightly as if considering your words.

“You should also smile more, detective,” you add, voice pleasant, thoughtful, “It suits you.”

His eyes lift to look at you but you’re already walking away, waving at random customers as you pass with few passing comments in between. 

His expression twitches and he blinks quickly a few times, but his gaze stays on you till you disappear behind the kitchen door.

. . .

an: anyway I love one stoic, broody detective and giving him someone happy and positive to deal with is so damn funny. hope you guys enjoyed it. this was a fun little exercise (especially writing from Loki’s POV oppose to Reader’s) so I hope you all liked it. might write another few parts for this because I had so much fun but we shall see since I still need to finish Unbecoming. thank you for reading! <33 

[alchemisland]

Moors Mutt IV - Old Stone

Lar had set plates of milk and egg on the exterior ledge in tribute to the fae folk said to inhabit the ancient mounds. Ah, how rugged tradition. Despite innumerable era-defining events happening daily across the world, for the village of Sperrin it was just another day when the sun rose and, with luck, set again in the evening. They hadn't time for dullards in tailed suits dictating tastes, but they had still team to tend the interspecies relations their ancestors cherished. By all accounts I have heard, to spurn the giving of tributes and gifts incurs great penalty from these entities, with many a workman rising with thorns in his bed after rooting out on the old Hawthorns, which are so revered entire networks and key routeways, which I say should serve to modernise this place a bit, are diverted from their course to leave the old fairy trees in peace. Even now I puzzle at this strange practice, at the contrast between past and present evident in all things once you leave the big cities. The fae, I have since learned, are a race of otherworldy beings driven beneath the furrows as the plague of mankind spread; its boils gaping swordwounds, its pus the belch of industry, and always fatal. Thackeray's 'Sketchbook 1842' spake thusly on the practice; "Crude as their barn religion seems to the imperial beholder, there is yet intricacy in this practices and archaic wisdom therein. If a faith's claim to true institutional status is the number of adherents, there are more worshippers in these bog towns, who bear saints names, than ever had Patrick driven toward the tide." Thackeray made no mention of an egg dish though.

A scarred moggy had the scent hot on his nostrils, thought he what fine folks we to leave a sup for me. I watched him furtively take the decking and slink toward the dish. First he tapped the rim to glean what consequence he might incur, but seeing the clear craned and began to lap its contents delightedly, soaking its whiskers. Fergus thundered out the door, beelining towards the cat which he had spied through the window. He lifted a knee with all grace of rusted Talos and swung the appendage toward the hissing feline. Bold, but not careless, the moggy bailed, zipping from sight before Fergus' hobnail hit. I supposed it a tad overreactive, but when one considers the fae as a true belief system, that cat was essentially gobbling up our good faith, and I thought with another opportunity I'd have done the same.

Lar seemed smaller inside. The barframe served to deemphasize his ample stature, a kingly six foot one stood stock straight; more kingdom keep than tavern keep, and a fur mantle he wore most Heraclean. He took great stomping strides, as in a childhood tale my mother fireside imparted of a giant who wore seven league boots. His ever-bailed fists hung like cudgels by his side, two loyal hounds never stumped for purpose. In his great shadow, one felt a gratitude for civilisation; a concept voluntary for men like Lar. Every second a short man, like me, spent not being torn limb from limb by a man like him was a second lived by his decree.

I swanned to his side, eager for revelation, suddenly taken by the spirit of adventure. Not quite the long walk to the docks before an age on the high seas, for indeed the only thing Sperrin had to resemble the rippling sails of farbound triremes were the sad slanted fabric roofs in the central square still hanging from the Christmas Market, but it was no less a proud moment and a little death; the death of office and oath, of duty, of tedium; for that day I was no longer a swaddled urbanite, good only for council meetings and book reviews, I was reborn in renown; I set off toward the unknown with all the zeal of a whorebound sailor, as of old heroes had.

'Lar, a moment if I could. In the house yesterday I found a bill of sale for an old church somewhere in the demesne. Do you know it?' I asked.

'Know it? Took my first communion there. As did he.' Lar nodded toward Fergus who jostled delightedly, pulling the second of three bags across his vast flank. 'Everyone did. Before she got her toxic claws in.'

'You're joking? I didn't think to ask last night, I thought you wouldn't be interested. This is most fortuitous. Oh, lash me for assuming. What age were you when it closed?'

'After first Communion.' Lar said, concealing his question.

'I'm not Roman Catholic. Happy? My father was a man of intense private faith. Very distrustful of institutions. He encouraged us, and others, to think for ourselves, not to puzzle overmuch the mysteries of man's making.'

'That explains a lot.' said Lar, papist to the root.

'I'm no heathen.' I exhaled my irriation. 'I know my bible well as any bishop; better even. My father wanted to join the priesthood, alas it was not to be. A noble ambition, even unfulfilled. Does that satisfy your piety?'

'What stopped him?' said Lar, unsatisfied. I saw glinting around his neck a pendant freshly clad, its chain lightly linked, an effigy of holy Saint Anthony sun-crowned acentre against a gold rondure.

I shrugged my shoulders. 'Insitutions? He didn't talk about it. So enlighten me if you will; what age is Communion? Twelve - or is that Consternation?'

'It's Confirmation.' Lar spat through gritted teeth. 'Communion is the unleavened bread. Usually the ceremony takes place when the child is seven or eight.'

'Right. And Lady Sizemore, you would not deny she was a woman of means?'

Lar scoffed, loosening phlegm. 'I would not.'

'I had presumed so. Her estate is vast, her house lavish, its contents irreplaceable, its memories priceless, but she was not ostentatious in herself. Lar, I know we're out for the beast and don't worry, I still intend keeping up with the thing, but my heart is really set on figuring this church business. See, I have had cause to see her financial records, public and private. Aside from maintenance costs and the occasional queenly feast, she seemed positively a pincher of pennys, a scrimper.' When our eyes met Lar squinted suspiciously, waiting for more. 'I mean to say Lady Sizemore seemed modest despite her earnings, yet enormous costs were incurred purchasing the church and moving the cairn. I want to know why it's so special.'

'You'll soon find out. Where do you think we're going?'

'Truly? An angel. Art thou an angel? Thou art, truly. Who else so cherubim in cheek and lobe!' I nearly clicked my heels. 'How serendipitous I should inquire. Let me ask another question; what's there now?' We had slowed, each of us, in anticipation of local colour. If trips to the outdoors had purpose, twas this, tramping blind and giving life to what has passed, and perhaps in gratitude, if a higher place exists than this, the dead will bid us good fortune.

'Nothing much anymore. There's been a church on that ground since before any Bishop in Rome ever lied. The first Christians arrived, little more than farmers, armed with twisted staves. Stone by stone they built a temple for their desert god, refuse from the cold of the islands. The Gods of ancient Albion were not of the sun, blithe were they to effulgence. Came they from beneath the clod. Slithered out from eel bores and swam the narrow estuaries like boneless longships. Worshippers twisted as their idols took every chance to spurn the advances of the interlopers, but such savagery cannot be upheld. Hate is not enough. Hate is the infernal speed, the thud of knuckles, the thunder at the antler crash of rutting stags, but it is a fickle thing, a false security, sapping and parasitic. By generations, these savage men became curious. They had killed so many, sundered their doings and mocked their skygod, yet still the missionaries adhered his tenets. Perhaps, they thought, this God is some powerful thing. And with that, the spell of the old ways was broken. Already as the tribesmen made their first ginger steps up the slopes, the slopes we ourselves will ascend, the suckered whips and shadowed protrusions of the old ones retracted to the otherworld, down into the deep dells and dark delvings and the dwindling darks of earth. Came they curious and unarmed, bid the missionaries impart this wisdom worth dying for. This site was not alone chosen for its useful vantage and strategic defensive position. The arriving zealots had observed natives worshipping standing stones, more ancient than the predeluvian cultures of hyborea and Tartaria. Such megaliths were known to hold great arcane power. The priests need only convince the tribes that power was theirs, a demonstration of their gospels infallibility, done easily within a generation. Priests controlled education, taste, oversaw cultural changes, discarded blasphemous and mysterious rites. Soon the brood knew nothing of the traditions held by their forebears. An epoch of strife began.'

'Ah. So the priests came, withstood the assault and incorporated existing idols into their own pantheon? How cunning, deceitful and a tragedy I should say too.'

'All-seeing though their God was, people will always do as they please. The old ways survive unchanged, even to this day the older townsfolk meet for the mysteries. When Fergus and I were bairns enormous crowds travelled from far afield to celebrate the imbolc, until she rooted out the cairn and left the church to rack and ruin. It shouldn't have been allowed.' Lar nodded, the ire of its sundering still upon him fresh, running like new fire in his veins and I saw with each clumping step he drove the point of his boot into the soft ground, like a knight's lance in a fallen pikeman's back, spending his annoyance in this manner.

When I saw his shoulders raise with tension lifted and gait restored, I probed further. 'Do you know the priest?'

'Er - yes. Tarbuck I think his name was.'

'What about Talbot - as in Talbot Church?'

Lar raised a suspicious brow, like a furtive otter arching from the swell, they were thin, brown and sleek, I'd say manicured if I didn't know him better, but I suppose I did not know him well at all. His mouth began to turn and I watched him, trying to clear my mind in anticipation of inquest. At last he spoke most considered, rising to be heard over Fergus' hyucking. 'Yes I suppose that sounds right. Talbot. Couldn't tell you more. Why are you asking if you already know? If I didn't know better, I'd say you're withholding information, partner.'

'You wouldn't believe me if I told you.' What could I tell him? That I had seen a faceless priest with mucky vestments out for a midnight walk? Where did I see him? Funny you should ask, in bed. In bed? Well, yes. I was in bed, but my mind was to the church called be the peal of silent bells. No, it was best to withhold until I knew more, and still all this time there was the beast, presumably furious at having been picked second.

I was met with silence. More space came between us. Knowing Lar and Fergus would soon disappear from sight, I was forced to shout over the wind, 'Why did she move the Cairn?'

Lar shrugged again. True to his word, he could not tell more than that. 'Winter.'

I had thought much since waking from the dream, about the church and lady Sizemore, about the familiar priest and the sympathetic plight implied in his step and dimmed blue eyes. I had forgotten much of the dream's stark imagery. Only this impression of the man burying his secrets and his spade daubed in clay remained. I found most curious the cairn's relocation. Lar had not seemed confident imparting the reason for its transfer, that Lady Sizemore was told the house wouldn't stand another winter despite having done so two hundred years; to me, that seemed a spurious motive and something worth inquiry.

Dawnflame pulsed in seductive ruby, splintering to a prism that dazzled in its royal array, from bold scarlet to princely vermilion, and in that sanguine bank we found hopeful portent. Other larks stirred from roadside redoubts to wave passage. Husbandmen mostly, any whose labours were bound to the rueful star's whim. Breaking from the road we made for pasture, cutting due Northwest across the plain. Dawn's jewels, stars of morning which are night's silver sisters, sundered underfoot, brittle things past season returning to aether.

Lar and Fergus scouted ahead, rudely parading superior vigour. They whispered among themselves. Fifty years old the pair of them, they still moved like Herne the hunter through all terrains. Fergus gave credence to the theory empty vessels howl loudest, guffawing at every ribaldry Lar conjured from the sewer he called a brain. With spare breath I might have cursed them, but my fury came a decliate whisper, peeling like nighttime bells; loudly and to no one. I wished barren the bellies of the sows that held them.

Ego as engine, for a furious mile I kept pace, propelled solely by a need for petty victory. Predictably, for those bones had long been cast, I quickly slowed back to a sad trudge, slower than my previous languid pace.

Themselves ramblers taking long walks for leisure, Lar and Fergus waited at each fence feigning to check their watches, teasing with so many rests between arrivals a man might never tire. Gladly I obliged, quipping Aesop's lessons were lost to them. What else had I but meek agreement. Nod and smile, chaste to make a Roman wife blush, icily injecting scorn where possible unnoticed.

At length the naked path yielded to thick woodland more typical of the region. We pushed through the system of unbowed oaks, which cast snake haired shadows where light could penetrate. Further the branches enclosed to a dome, stealing our brave shadows. Little rest we took in the maze's darkest sectors. Badger, fox and mole strode brazen, unfamiliar and unafraid. At the helm, Lar thought himself Alexander in Hanyson, immortal thirst his guiding star. I remembered how ended that tale.

How hard it seemed rising after only a moment stilled. How quickly a hard-earned graceful step replaced by rhythmless clomping. It was not until several minutes treading passed that semblance of form returned, and soon after, the next reluctant stop, the mossy bank where last we halted still visible shortly behind.

For a time there was sun. Golden fire, faint and pale beyond a tattered veil. The aperture seized before our eyes until only A crescent of light remained, the golden torc of Ulaid.

This terse land existed long before man's dominion and would reign unchanged in the wake of our expiry. Here she gave no quarter. Gaia dressed for war in all her plate. All twisted briar and stinging barbs, long tunnels of night giving to treacherous muddy groves where a man might be taken by the bog and the old things therein.

'Where in jezebel's saucehole are we?" I planted myself. Thought I of Ephialtes leading Persians through the pass, cursed by the gods to wear his inner treachery outwardly.

Fergus deferred to Lar's judgement. Solomon-like, Lar waved our wagons halted. He tossed the empty skins to Fergus. 'Fill these' he said, miming drinking.

While the Giant fetched pales Lar prodded the scant briar. 'Say Lar.' He bid me sit upon a raised bank.

'You look like shit.'

'Not so bad yourself' I wheezed. 'Truly do we have to go so fast? Is it so far we can't mosey, even just for a mile? I've done walking but this is hoplite stuff.'

'Deal.' Lar wanted to sit but he didn't. He stood, knees taxed, breath compromised, but he stood. Nothing to prove and still at attention. One could not deny his character.

We watched Fergus' return, arms extended like some horror out of Jotunheim. Wet cloth clung to his forearms like setting plaster, arousing suspicions he had endured some minor aquatic tragedy. My dry mouth prevented inquiry. I snatched the skin and quaffed generously, muttering thanks. Quite unsympathetically, I had to force myself not to ask 'Water we going to do now?' or comment that it was growing colder the further we went up, in fact 'ri-very cold.'

I produced a flask. Cursed with muteness, Fergus could not explain what manner of calamity had befallen him. Louder his teeth clacked. A mirror pool formed about his feet, spreading wider until he stood aft a glass plinth. I offered a lash. The whiskey shot fire through his veins. His eyes bulged as the water of life reignited the dampened kindling of his passions.

Lar, hitherto predisposed with watering of a different sort, emerged fastening his trousers and immediately noted something awry. He lifted his chin an inch, gave us the once over and bounded towards Fergus. He took a clump of wet tweed and squeezed until it wept through his clenched fist. 'Christ. What happened?'

Lar claimed little of Fergus remained. A friendly shade of what once he was. He assured me what others perceived as emotion was mere instinct. Nerves and twitches, mimicked gestures. Still I swore he had recognised his own foolishness at having fallen into the stream. How shyly he stared to his feet, if only for one moment of divine clarity.

Lar was concerned about Fergus' garments. Wet clothes would spell disaster for the burgeoning expedition. I offered my scarf. Lar followed suit. Like a freed condemned, he slipped the coarse rag from around his own neck. Flattened parallel, they formed a hugging shawl around his sodden shoulders. Gently, by degrees, we warmed Fergus. He took another swig from the flask. In his gargantuan hands, fingers like rolling pins splayed across its scratched surface, the flask appeared little more than a doll's trinket.

Upon imbibing the second drop, revelling its minor anaesthetic quality, his cheeks flashed pink, rouge to blush a whore. When great cities crumbled and ancient wisdoms were lost, when mankind regressed to a baser form, bestial and philistine, beloved of ignorance, the denizens of ancient Ireland had brewed this potent potable, and on its warmth resisted the great debasement. Fire exhumed ice in his veins. The fire of life; the fire of the elixir I had given him, which of old the anointed ones consumed seeking arcane knowledge, devolving their mind to its primal state, therein discovering secrets lost to time.

Ahead the vanguard, Lar spied him first. A shambling form moving quick through the trees. With a limp wave he halted us. Behind we mimed his stoop. On haunches he held the order with a trembling hand, for which we never blamed him. Everyone had reached the same conclusion; the beast was upon us. We had wished without proper consideration. Now our twisted desire was made flesh. From the underworld the beast reeking of acrid smoke had clawed, toxic miasma from the foundries of hell in heady tendrils about its paws.

Gradually the amorphous form revealed contours most corporeal; those of an older man, sweeping towards us at a markedly unsupernatural pace. He moved furtively, shoulders raised to his ears protectively, eyes deep set and impatient. Closer he came until he stood before us on the crest of a mossy embankment. He stood still for address, unsure if we were brigands, bounty hunters or worse. He cast a long glance over each of us in turn, tracing our brows, testing the mettle behind our eyes, down the chest to the navel, to our stained feet and upward again. He shoved a letter into his pocket and I saw on his ringfinger he wore an enormous golden signet, though I could not discern any detail in the dimness.

With his green gillet stained polkadot and wild sideburns adjoining beard and hair, he appeared more victorian eccentric than hiker. I soon learned that his name was Dalliard, a local with roots deeper than those from which his wiry gruaig sprang, a mad albino nest atop his wisened head. He spoke with a thick lilt, a strange medley of gaelic and slang, almost saxon sounding if I didn't know the name Dalliard wasn't Northon. He was assuredly a kill-your-son-and-live-with-your-wife-in silence-for-twenty-years-over-the-lend-of-a-spade type.

Beneath his snowy bristles lay zit red cheeks. I imagined his mouth when it moved as a bubbling postule, his tongue glorious pus emerging like a curious worm's head. As he elbowed past I caught his eye, or rather disturbed him rudely staring. Next I wondered whether the creases on his brow were newly formed, ever present or mere projections of my exhausted, possibly delirious state. No, unmistakably this Dalliard recognised me. Something he saw worried him. Probably some pervert up to no good in the old churchyard, worried we would stumble upon his vile derelictions. Perhaps some looter of antiquities, wondering if I'm here for the same. All this passed in a moment, soon he was long passed and speaking overshoulder.

'Up ahead' he panted, mopping his brow with an overworked handkerchief, 'it levels out. Push on. No more'n a mile. If the kirkyard is left, you've got it. If it steepens again, ye've strayed.'

'The light fades quick. Careful on your way. Don't dally.' Lar called after sardonically.

Emboldened by closeness we came on fast to devour the remaining track, leaping from ledge to mossy shelf with educated precision like trained fleas. How quickly one became accustomed to difficulty; it was not hard to see how we proliferated across every inch of the globe, until even the secret and sacred places of the world were sullied by our refuse; their tranquility strangled by our inanities. Without fire to christen me, mine had been a baptism by stone. Keeping in pace, I turned to Lar and Fergus. 'Know that Dalliard chap well, do you?'

'We don't send cards at Christmas. Lives on the other side of the valley. Different schools, different everything, same parish. Posh eccentric sort. Had some affiliations with the good lady. Why? I'm sure he'd love to take a lovely lass like you for a stew any evening of the year.' Lar bellowed.

'No, it's nothing. Curious

is all. Seemed a bit sketchy to me. Is he all there?'

'Oh yes, quite. Seemed sensible the few times we chanced to meet. Put it from your mind. We're almost there. I've thought of a question all of my own, fancy that, what's your name?'

'Aha.' I smiled. 'I thought you'd never ask.'

'Thought you'd never tell.' Lar smiled, for once unteasingly.

'It's Bastable.' I answered with surprising pride.

'What Bastable?' Lar asked.

'Mr. Bastable will suffice, thank you.'