#Moss does not understand why does the blue thing call Moss baby?

[moss-anon]

Moss got told to do a Vibe check. Moss does not know what that is. But if Moss friend tell Moss to Moss will do! 

[jaigeye]

An Instrument of Memory.

The darksaber is haunted by all those who have possessed it. Din seeks council with the ghosts; they are here to help.

Read on AO3.   |   My own more benevolent take on the ghosts of the saber.

______

Din Djarin is eight years old, and he is afraid. 

There are many people here, metal-and-flesh people who are loud and strong, and some of his fellow villagers among them. 

The Mandalorian who saved his life has not set him down for hours. He clutches his neck for dear life- a lifeline in this unfamiliar aftermath. The man has not yet chosen to deny him this comfort, and he sits down with the boy in his lap, arms curled around him. 

"This is my wife," says the man, and he points to a helmeted figure across from them, clad in dark blue durasteel.  "She and I will care for you." 

Hesitating, Din turns in his arms, loosening his grip. Her helmet shines in the dim light of the homestead. "Why do you wear that," he asks, pointing to the armor that covers her from head to toe. 

The woman leans in and tilts her head just so. "It is our unity. Together we are strong. Nobody can hurt us this way." 

"Okay," he says, watching as she kneels before him with her hands on her knees. 

“What is your name?” 

"Din."

“We will take care of you, Din. You are safe with us.”

"Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad," She whispers to him in a language he does not understand. It is soothing nonetheless. She pulls her helmet off her head; her hair is done in tight black braids against her scalp, and she has the darkest eyes he has ever seen. “Ner’ad.”

The Mandalorian brushes over his hair with one hand and translates. "... I know your name as my child. You are our Dinui. That means gift. You are our gift." 

                                                    •

In a cave by the sea, Din sits in stillness with the darksaber in his hand. 

The sun’s reflection on the water flickers over his armor like primordial fire, casting strange, fragmented light over the stone. 

The saber hums in his hand. It is so quiet here. 

He feels an odd tug on his glove, another on his sleeve. An urge.

He flicks the switch, and the black bar bursts forth from the hilt, encased in its eerie white glow. 

His breath catches.

The cave bursts to life. Across the stone walls, there is a shifting expanse of black handprints-- from the marks sprawls a strange oozing dust. They move as if they are crawling, flowing in and out of the rock, dribbling to the floor and reappearing elsewhere. 

There are figures at the edge of his vision. They stand in his periphery and dissipate when he turns his helmet to look at them.

To anyone else, the sight of a room clamoring with ghosts might initiate the instinct to run. He does consider it, for a second-- but he doesn’t, because Mandalorians look death in the eye. He’s seen a great many strange things as of late, and he figures he may as well get used to it. 

Sitting straighter, he folds his hands more firmly around the hilt of the saber and says; “What do you want?” 

“That’s not the question you want an answer to,” whispers a melodic voice from behind him. 

“Maybe not number one on the list, but I have a few,” he mutters, and chooses a better place to start. “What are you?”

The walls of the cave bend around him; the gap in the stone where he entered through transforms into a mirror. The only solid figure he can discern in the room is the sight of himself. Cross-legged, helmeted, tense. 

From all around, he can hear a steadily intermingling throng of voices. You don’t deserve it, says one, good on you for showing that Imperial scum what our folk are made of, says another. Zealot, zealot. He cranes his neck, but the half-remembered ghosts flicker out of sight. 

Where is your heart, a soft voice murmurs, you keep your heart in a bag on your hip or on the crook of your arm. 

“We wielded the saber, we died by it, we live by it.”  A woman’s voice, deep, sincere. “Ask your question.” 

Images blink across the cave walls. Paintings of mythosaurs, spears, dead civilians, razed villages-- great herds of beasts cascade over the stone. The handprints divide and scatter, oozing together into black sludge that smears strange markings across the walls. Words in Mando’a, in Aurebesh, in alphabets he has never seen before. Stories he will never understand. The ghosts whisper now, ask us, speak, we are listening...  

“I have brought Grogu to the Jedi. I completed my quest.” 

Unsatisfied. Discontent. Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad, ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad. Wind rushes through the cave; the ocean laps against the rocks. 

A deeper voice emerges from the hum. “Every Jedi is a child his family decided they could live without.”

“That’s--” Din pauses, swallowing his retort. He watches as the air burbles, a geometric miasma scattering out from the cave-paintings. “I want him to be safe. With or without me.” 

“Every time you have left him with another, it has gone afoul.” The ghosts blacken and flicker. He feels a firm hand on his shoulder-- one he can feel but cannot see. “It should be you.”

"What if I do it wrong. I'm not- I’m not a Jedi. I do not understand the force." he cuts himself shorts and sighs. "I'm afraid."

There is a metallic taste on his tongue. The air stinks of ozone. He feels the phantom weight of Grogu in his arms, and he can't help but instinctually cradle that empty space.

“You think your buirs were not afraid?” A rustle, the sound of bells, the sound of a hammer in a forge. Ner’ad, we will take care of you- 

“Will you-- as long as I have this saber, will you help me? Tell me what to do?” 

“We will not always be with you,” says one. “You have lived without us very long, and did well even then.”

“Hm,” he murmurs, unconvinced.

“You know what to do. You will not be alone.”  Buirkan, responsibility, whisper the ghosts. You are like a father to him- be afraid, and do it anyway. 

Named and nameless, real as they are not, the souls who belong to the darksaber touch him. They press their palms into his shoulder, brush where his kneecap transitions into thigh, flutter at the base of his neck, squeeze his shoulders, lay their weight against his back.

“It must be you. It has to be you.” 

“I will try,” he says, and watches as all the strange forms in the cave retract into the black bar of the saber. He sheathes it, holding it in the palms of his hands. “I will try.” 

          ��                                              •

Din is thirty-eight, and still afraid.

The strange planet that Luke Skywalker chose to build his temple upon is lush and green. The humidity crawls between the gaps in his armor. Moss covers the earth; his footsteps feel light as he sinks into that softness. 

Overhead, strange birds called out. A ziggurat rears its head overtop the dense treeline. The darksaber weighs heavy on his hip. Sweat cloys in his helmet; Din swallows, watching silently as a silhouette clad in black emerges from the greenery, cape billowing about him. 

They meet in the middle. Luke Skywalker's smile is as reassuring as it is gentle. "I’m glad you came," says the Jedi. "He asked for you every day."

From a bag on the man's hip, the child reaches for him. 

Din's fragmented heart clicks back into place, whole and trembling. 

He plucks the child from the pouch and cradles him against his armored chest. The ghosts linger about him, press their thumbs into his shoulders, touch his back and murmur kindly. He taps his helmet against the child's forehead; the baby gurgles, pressing his claws into the concave slope of Beskar.

"Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad, Grogu," he whispers to his son. “I know your name as my child.”

[wordsablaze]

13/13 - goat string of fate

A Dozen Denials Soulmate-identifiers exist to make things easier unless you’re Jaskier, who’s equally as deep in love as he is in denial. But there’s only so many excuses you can make to avoid the truth… (aka jaskier’s soulmate is definitely a witcher, just not the one he first assumes)

A/N: what we've all been waiting for... undeniable red string of fate, but with goats for eskel's sake ;) @alllthequeenshorses @eskel-loves-lilbleater

previous chapter

-

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”

Jaskier’s heart breaks.

He knows that Geralt isn’t lying because the words don’t show up on his skin and he knows that Geralt isn’t just saying that for the sake of it because his pulse is as steady as ever under his wrist and he knows that Geralt isn’t thinking with a clouded mind because he can’t feel any intense emotions at the back of his mind.

The only logical conclusion to make is that Geralt really means it.

“See you round,” he says, even though he’s not sure he will.

It’s nowhere near the first time he’s had his heart broken but somehow this time hurts so much more than every other time, probably something to do with the fact that he’s leaving his very soulmate behind as he walks away with blurred vision and wobbly steps.

He doesn’t walk very far, though; he just can’t bring himself to.

-

There is a building on fire.

And there is a witcher trying to help.

Nobody asked him to help and yet he runs into the building because he can hear the panicked heartbeats of four humans inside.

He hands over a frightened child to their mother and runs back in.

He hands over a man to his grateful sister and runs back in.

He hands over a crying girl to her father and runs back in.

There’s one more racing heartbeat inside the building but he can’t find it, it doesn’t belong to anyone he can see, and even though he tries his best because he can’t let anyone die - he just can’t - he has no choice but to leave when the roof caves in and smoke fills the air.

It’s only once he can breathe again that he realises the heartbeat has followed him out.

The last person wasn’t in the fire after all; they’re under his skin.

-

Jaskier doesn’t get the rest of the story from the others in the end.

He wants to - he’s a bard so of course he wants to - but he knows that his own story having just found such a bitter end means that he won’t do the dragon hunt any justice so he leaves its tale to the dwarves.

He’s tired and he kind of wants to cry and he doesn’t know which way he’s meant to go so he doesn’t even try to subtly follow the others back down the mountain. Instead, he walks and walks and walks and hopes he doesn’t fall to his death.

And he doesn’t. But he does stumble over nothing in particular and end up rolling over himself until he hits a tree, gasping for breath and curling around his lute because he doesn’t have any other source of comfort.

The last thought he manages before he drifts off - read: passes out - is that he’s incredibly glad his lute hasn't broken the same way his heart has.

-

There is a funeral.

And there is a witcher trying to mourn.

But there is something giddy in the back of his throat and something bright behind his eyes and something exciting at his fingertips and he cannot focus his emotions.

There is a fight.

And there is a witcher trying to concentrate.

But there is a puzzle in his lungs and a question on the tip of his tongue and a mystery in his every bone and he cannot tell if he knows what move to make next.

There is a festival.

And there is a witcher watching quietly.

But there is a heavy grief in his stomach and a heavy doubt inside his mind and a heavy pain within his blood and he has no idea why his body is telling him to be upset.

-

Jaskier wakes to the taste of oranges.

For some reason, it just makes him want to cry.

“We are not dying on some godsforsaken mountain,” Jaskier mutters to his lute but also to himself because if he is to die, it will not be at the hands of heartbreak.

A lot easier said than done, though, because he ends up lost. Horribly lost. So lost that he wonders if someone had moved him while he was sleeping because there’s no way he could end up so clueless when he’d been pretty close to their original path the day before.

And he’s not unfit but he must have bruised himself more than he can tell while tumbling because he doesn’t get further than the duration of half a dozen ballads before both his muscles and his lungs force him to stop and rest in danger of retiring altogether.

Still, he keeps going. He can’t find anything edible but he hangs onto the taste of oranges from his stolen dream as he pushes forwards, begrudgingly thanking Destiny for giving him at least that from his soulmate.

-

There is a town with a contract.

And there is a witcher who almost regrets accepting it.

The monster is easy enough to defeat, nothing that takes more than a day. No, the monster isn’t the reason he chooses to disappear for almost a month afterwards - that would be the mirror.

Or more specifically, what he sees in the mirror: one of his eyes is the wrong colour.

He thinks he’s delirious at first but one potion and two hours’ worth of meditating later, his eyes are still inexplicably mismatched.

His left eye is the colour of the sky. The colour of the ocean. The colour of a privilege that he was never allowed to have. And he’s read just about enough poetry to know how that means he has a soulmate out there somewhere.

All that does is drown him in a blue hue of guilt.

-

Jaskier has just started playing his third song on the lute when something crashes into his legs.

He yelps, springing to his feet and almost tripping over whatever it is that’d crashed into him, which turns out to be a goat. A goat, of all things.

“Right, well, if you could not do that whole attacking thing again, that’d be great. You have rather pointy horns,” Jaskier huffs, settling on the rock once again.

To its credit, the goat seems to listen, munching on grass instead of stepping on his toes as Jaskier starts playing again. Confused but not entirely against the company, he continues singing about whatever comes to mind until the sky begins to darken and the air turns cold.

He sighs, putting the lute away and gently reaching out to stroke the goat, smiling when it doesn’t just headbutt him and bleats happily before settling in his lap. “At least you seem to want to stick around,” he mumbles.

Too tired to find anywhere more sheltered, Jaskier pulls his doublet tighter around himself and hugs his new best friend as tightly as he dares. For a moment, the goat lifts its head and stares at him and he fears he’s about to have his eye poked out, but then it just burps and settles again.

This time, he falls asleep laughing.

-

There is a hearth.

And there is a witcher sat beside three other witchers.

And despite the warmth of the fire and the warmth of his family, he is cold.

He is colder than he ever is, colder than when he is submerged underwater during a fight or when he is caught unawares in a storm or when he is kicked out of a tavern because he brings down the mood.

There is no explanation for why he is cold because he is home and he is safe and he should be warm but for some reason, he is not.

He is rarely warm.

And if he is warm, he doesn’t understand why.

There is no explanation for why he is warm when passing ruins he’s never seen before or when camping in the middle of nowhere just to be away from people or when being told the last copy of the book he’d been looking for was just sold to someone else.

Eventually, he gets used to the confusion, pulls on a cloak, and moves on.

-

Jaskier is probably losing a few of his marbles.

With nothing better to do, he follows the goat as it travels along a seemingly random path to find nothing in particular, stopping every so often to munch on something or the other.

“I can’t believe I’m following a goat,” he mutters to himself as he brushes grass off his arms, “and it’s not even a cute little baby- what’s a baby goat called? Hmm, I should really know that… Or should I? It’s not like I’ve met any farmers lately. Or anyone, for who am I meant to meet atop a mountain? Well, a goat, apparently.”

Said goat bleats at him as if asking him to hurry up.

“Yes yes, I’m hurrying. Some of us don’t eat grass, you know? Oh, but how would you know when all you can think about is the next patch of moss you’re going to eat? Is that what life is to be, travelling from patch to patch and-? Hey, that could be a wonderful name. I dub thee Patchy, my dearest goat friend,” Jaskier declares, grinning.

Patchy bleats again and headbutts his shin but it’s okay because it doesn’t hurt in the slightest and he only wobbles a little bit.  

“I’m taking that as your approval!”

-

There is a woman.

And there is a witcher lying in bed next to her.

They are both tired and not quite awake and she is gently running her nails along his arms because she has never seen anyone with so many scars.

He is waiting for her to fall asleep but she sits up and frowns, pointing out the words that have appeared on his skin: but I didn’t take any honey.

She must be able to tell he’s just as confused as she is because she gives him a funny look but doesn’t pry, though he leaves in the dead of night while she’s still asleep to avoid any chances of her asking questions.

But the words keep appearing and he ends up with plenty of his own questions anyway.

When he’s mending his armour: it doesn’t even hurt anymore; when he’s hunting: I love you more than I love getting drunk; when he’s brushing his horse: I assure you I have a perfectly good explanation; when he’s buying new gloves: I’m afraid I don’t know you; when he’s stitching up a wound: of course I was given permission to be here.

And on and on and on.

He wonders if this person is even human at times because they seem to lie more in a week than he even talks in a month.

-

Jaskier is exhausted.

“Hey, Patchy, it’s been lovely to know you but I think the time has come to part ways because I simply cannot take another step,” he mutters, leaning against the closest tree and sliding to the floor.

Patchy leaps into his lap with an oddly angry bleat.

Jaskier shrugs, ripping up a bit of grass and letting her eat it off his hand before sighing. “I fear it is indeed my fate to perish here. Perhaps life does grant blessings after all, hmm?”

His stomach rumbles and Patchy seems to take offence, startling and jerking sideways, the goat’s horns catching on his sleeve and causing a panic that leads to a large tear in his doublet and a mercifully smaller tear in his skin.

Still, he winces, pressing a hand onto the cut and half-heartedly glaring at Patchy. “Really? You’re lucky the material is red anyway, you menace.”

He regrets his words when the goat stands, spins on the spot, and makes a strange noise before sprinting away. Somehow, that abrupt departure stings far more than his actual injury.

-

There is an ocean.

And there is a witcher who has never been to the coast for a good reason, and still hasn’t.

He doesn’t belong in this scene, he’s borrowing it from someone else without even knowing how, but he can’t look away from the waves as they brush over the sand and over his toes before retreating once more.

There is a cane.

And there is a witcher who has never suffered this kind of punishment, and still hasn’t.

Although the injuries are not his and the crime - if it even exists - has nothing to do with him, he can’t escape the burning pain and the sharp throbbing as someone makes sure the wood meets its mark, again and again.

There is a cat.

And there is a witcher who has never been able to see one up close, and still hasn’t.

He’s not the one touching the tiny ball of fluff that curls up in his palms, he seems to be experiencing someone else’s amazement, but the feeling of soft fur and quiet purring stays with him for no less than a week.

-

Jaskier is ready to give up.

He truly has no idea where he is or how he’s meant to get back to flat land. The berries he’d found in the morning have done very little to provide him with energy and he’s about to declare himself as food for the wolves or something when he hears bleating.

“Patchy!”

And it is.

The goat barrels into him hard enough to knock him over but he’s too busy trying to hug his horned friend to care. He’s also too busy hugging his horned friend to notice that he’s being watched. That is, until someone clears their throat.

He freezes, looking up.

There’s a very long moment in which his heart drops about a mile into his stomach as he catches sight of a wolf medallion but then he sees the amber eyes and the spiked armour and the hesitant smile and his lungs remember how to work once again.

“You have no idea how happy I am to see you,” Jaskier says, grinning.

The witcher frowns at that, glancing over him in clear concern. Before he can reply, Jaskier looks away to tug his sleeve out of Patchy’s mouth and winces as he pulls on the not quite scab that had developed over the goat-inflicted wound.

“Oh, is he yours?” the witcher asks after a minute, and gods is his voice deep enough to sink into forever.

Jaskier blinks, pulling himself back to the matter at hand before he spirals into a daydream and shaking his head. “I didn’t even know he was a he, to be honest. Thank you for that, by the way, at least I can sing him a more accurate song of gratitude now.”

The witcher chuckles and steps to the side, revealing another, smaller goat that immediately bounds over and settles on his leg; Jaskier has never been so innocently afraid to accidentally move in his life.

“She’s called Lil Bleater,” the witcher says, promptly cursing when said goat starts nibbling on the sleeve Jaskier had just saved from being eaten by Patchy.

“It’s not like I was planning on wearing this doublet again anyway,” Jaskier says, but he still feels incredibly guilty for letting such fine tailoring end up as food for a pair of goats.

-

Eskel has never been so confused.

He feels like he recognises this stranger from somewhere but he can’t place it, the knowledge is almost like smoke slipping between his fingers before he can grasp it properly.

“It looks like it’s seen better days anyway,” he says, immediately regretting it when the other man blinks at him.

But then he laughs - perhaps the nicest laugh Eskel has ever had the pleasure of hearing - and holds out a hand, amusement sparkling in his eyes. Eskel leans forwards to shake his hand but Lil Bleater chooses that moment to get up and charge at him so he steps back and picks her up instead, offering the man an apologetic look.

“Not to worry, my hand will live a little longer without the honour of yours in it. I’m Jaskier, and you have my eternal gratitude for appearing out of nowhere when I was about a day away from forgetting what other people’s voices sound like,” the man says sincerely.

“Jaskier?” Eskel echoes.

He knows Geralt has mentioned this bard in the past and he’d have to be living under a rock not to know of him at all, what with the songs that are sung his way whenever he ventures into more populated towns, but he can’t fathom why someone so famous would be spending his time with a mountain goat.

Jaskier grins up at him. “Ah, so you’ve heard of me! I wish I could say the same but I don’t believe we’ve met before?”

Eskel shakes his head. “I, uh, I don’t do… crowds.”

“You and every other witcher, it seems,” Jaskier says, but he doesn’t sound like he’s trying to insult anyone. If anything, he seems almost sad.

“The crowds seem more like your style, bardling. What are you doing up here?”

The bard opens his mouth to say something before closing it again, then sighs. “I got lost and ended up following a goat until I got even more lost?”

Eskel chuckles, then puts Lil Bleater back on the ground before leaning down and offering Jaskier his hand because it feels odd to continue the conversation while he’s still sitting down. This time, the goats don’t get in the way and he manages to pull them both upright.

-

Jaskier gets about five seconds of being upright before he keels over.

Everything hurts.

The world blurs around him.

His knees hit the floor with a dull thud.

Everything really hurts.

There’s something under his skin.

His body is on fire.

Everything hurts so very much and he has no idea what’s happening and the sky has disappeared altogether and there’s water rushing past his ears and he’s in so much pain and he’s going to die without even having learnt this gorgeous witcher’s name and he can’t feel his hands at all and it’s way too dark and-

“Breathe, Jaskier!”

He already is.

Or maybe he’s not.

He unclenches his jaw and gasps desperately.

“That’s it, just breathe, you’re okay.”

But he’s not.

Or maybe he will be.

He groans and reluctantly peels open his eyes.

“I’ve got you,” the witcher murmurs, and he has; his arms are practically cradled around Jaskier and the two of them are kneeling in a tangle of limbs on the ground.

Jaskier exhales.

“You’re not going to die, I promise. And my name’s Eskel,” the witcher whispers, at which point Jaskier mortifyingly realises he must have been panicking out loud.

Slowly, Jaskier uncurls his limbs.

He stretches his fingers out from where they’d been squeezed into fists and waits for a moment before accepting that whatever the blinding pain had been is over before looking up, intending to thank Eskel.

But Eskel gasps before he can say anything.

And Jaskier immediately panics again, wondering what could possibly be wrong. He doesn’t need to ask though, because Eskel lifts a hand to ever so lightly tracing his finger down the right side of Jaskier’s face and it doesn’t take a genius to work out what he can see.

“No no no no no,” Jaskier breathes frantically, “this cannot be happening.”

He pulls himself out of Eskel’s arms and shakes his head but his gaze lands on his hands as he uses them to balance and his breath hitches. Without wasting a second, he shrugs off his doublet and rolls his sleeves up, eyes widening at the sight of silvery scars he’s never earned, silvery scars he’d once had and once lost.

“No, I- I already know my- Geralt was- is- no, no, no no no no, wait. Wait. This can’t be right, it can’t- it- you can’t- I mean, we can’t be- nope, no no...” Jaskier’s words can’t seem to form themselves properly as he struggles to breathe.

-

Eskel has no idea what’s happening.

Except he does.

There’s only really one explanation for why the marks that had suddenly revealed themselves on Jaskier’s skin are an exact copy of his own scars, there’s only really one explanation for why the colour of Jaskier’s eyes had seemed so familiar, and there’s only really explanation for why he feels like someone has cast igni inside his heart.

Unfortunately, Jaskier doesn’t seem to like that one explanation.

He waits, though. He waits until Jaskier remembers how to inhale and exhale properly before offering the bard a small smile. “I’m sorry.”

Surprisingly, Jaskier looks confused at that. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, “I don’t blame you for preferring, uh, Geralt. Or anyone else, for that matter. I wouldn’t want to be stuck with me either.”

Even more surprisingly, Jaskier shuffles closer and punches his arm with a surprising amount of strength, his confusion having been entirely replaced by anger. “I don’t know what in Melitele’s name you think you mean by that but I demand that you stop… thinking it. I’m not- I- I just thought- I’ve spent years, so many years, thinking that I knew and I- I don’t know… I can’t-”

He cuts himself off, his chin wobbling, and Eskel has the inexplicable urge to hug him.

So he does.

Jaskier stiffens for half a second before he seems to forget that he has bones and all but melts into the embrace, burying his head into the crook of Eskel’s neck and throwing his arms around him as if his life depends on it.

Eskel has never felt so pleasantly warm in his life.

He wraps his arms around Jaskier in return and pulls him close, pretending that he can’t hear the sobs the bard is trying so hard to stifle and marvelling at the fact that he gets to hold his soulmate in his arms at all.

His soulmate.

He’d never thought he’d actually get to meet them.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier mumbles eventually.

Eskel pulls back only enough to frown, brushing the tears away from under Jaskier’s eyes before tilting his head to the left. “You have nothing to apologise for.”

-

Jaskier feels like a fool.

He leans into Eskel’s soft touch for a moment before cupping the witcher’s face in his hands. “I’m sorry I never looked for you. I’m sorry I didn’t realise I was wrong. I’m sorry I almost just insulted you. I’m sorry for wasting so much time. I’m just so, so sorry.”

Eskel shrugs. “You didn’t know and I don’t blame you. It’s not your fault. I… I knew and I didn’t try so perhaps I ought to be the one apologising to you.”

But Jaskier did know.

To some extent, at least.

He’s known for long enough that not everything was adding up and he’d ignored it, he’d done nothing about it because he’d been terrified of losing Geralt, of losing his soulmate, of losing a life he’s loved, and it turns out he’s been losing everything he didn’t even know he could have had instead.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier mumbles again, letting his forehead fall against Eskel’s as he closes his eyes.

“How does getting to the nearest inn sound?” Eskel offers.

Jaskier laughs and meets Eskel’s eyes, nodding. “Sounds like a plan I can’t argue with.”

“We’ll start with getting you to a proper bed and then go from there.”

He tries to resist that, he really does, but Jaskier simply cannot stop himself from smirking and raising an eyebrow. “Straight to bed, darling? Aren’t you even going to buy me a drink first?”

The endearingly sheepish look on Eskel’s face is almost worth all the pain.

“Though you really should buy me a drink first, for one reason or the other; I am a little dizzy still,” Jaskier mutters, having forgotten all about that because of the unprecedented pain.

Eskel curses.

Before Jaskier can even process the emotional whiplash, Eskel has lifted him to his feet and turned around, dropping to one knee. “Let’s go.”

Jaskier blinks. “Are you asking me to… climb on your back?”

Eskel turns to look at him with half a smile. “I really don’t think you’re capable of walking more than a mile more without collapsing, Jaskier.”

Well, that’s probably true. He grabs his lute and swings that onto his own back before looping his arms around Eskel’s neck, his legs locking around the witcher’s waist as he stands up effortlessly.

-

Eskel smiles as Jaskier settles on his back as if he were born to do so.

Which, quite possibly, he sort of was.

He smells like the comfort Eskel gets from when the dreams he borrows are good ones and it feels impossible that he gets to experience it in person. But it’s very much not impossible because Jaskier is a steady weight around his waist and on his shoulder and against his neck.

It’s a little overwhelming.

“So you’re the one who was dreaming of a succubus then?” Jaskier asks out of the blue.

Eskel stops walking for a second, narrowly avoids accidentally kicking Lil Bleater, and clears his throat. “Dreaming? No. No, that’s not quite how we spent the night.”

There’s a moment of silence before Jaskier laughs brightly. Eskel can feel the way his shoulders shake with the force of his amusement and it’s almost a miracle that neither of them overbalance.

“You’ll have to elaborate on that at some point, it’s going to make a great song!”

“You want to write songs about the succubi I’ve met?” Eskel asks, confused. Surely the bard could have asked Geralt about them over the years, it’s not like witchers can afford to designate who takes care of which creatures or anything.

But Jaskier snorts, pokes Eskel’s cheek, and shakes his head. “No, I- I want to write songs about… about my soulmate.”

That feels like a confession and Eskel is honoured to have received it. He hums in acknowledgement and gently squeezes one of Jaskier’s legs. “Not to worry, we have all the time in the world.”

“We do?” Jaskier asks.

Shuffling the bard’s weight a little bit, Eskel lifts his right hand so Jaskier can see his wrist and more specifically, the ouroboros etched into it. He hears Jaskier gasp before there are gentle fingers around his arm that almost make him shiver, a warm finger tracing the symbol over and over until Eskel hears quiet sniffling.

It takes a while for Jaskier to exhale softly and give Eskel’s hand back to him, after which he goes back to supporting his weight more evenly. He has plenty of his own questions but he figures it’s best to leave them for later, when they’ve both recovered from the shock.

The town comes into view sooner than expected, or perhaps Eskel had just been unknowingly pushing himself to walk faster because he can feel the way Jaskier’s grip has slowly relaxed to the point where he’s practically just draped over him like a very strange sort of cloak.

As much as he doesn’t want to let go of Jaskier, he has to when they get to the stables. Both goats are more than happy to be secured near Scorpion, who huffs at Jaskier just hard enough to send him stumbling into Eskel’s side with a small yelp.

“I’ve got you,” Eskel chuckles.

-

Jaskier grins.

“That you have,” he agrees, “but have you got a room?”

Nodding, Eskel leads them both back to the inn. But instead of going up the stairs, he guides Jaskier to the table in the corner. “Stay here, I’m going to get some food.”

Jaskier blinks, used to this scenario playing out the other way around. Eskel is gone before he can even think of replying so he just yawns and waits, shuffling over when the witcher returns because if he doesn’t lean against someone, he’s probably going to fall into his meal.

Eskel pauses for a second before sliding into the seat beside him, placing two bowls of stew in front of them. “I know you’re tired but you really should eat.”

“How ever will I repay such kindness?” Jaskier mumbles before following Eskel’s instructions.

Jaskier is immensely grateful that Eskel doesn’t mind being leaned on because almost counterintuitively, eating only makes him want to fall asleep even more. By the time they’re both finished, he can barely keep his eyes open.

“Almost there,” Eskel says, at which point he realises they’re now halfway up the stairs.

Yawning again, Jaskier keeps a tight hold of Eskel’s arm as they get to his room, thrown off when they stop by the door instead of somewhere more suitable for sleeping. “What’s wrong?” he asks, frowning.

Eskel places the lute Jaskier apparently hadn’t been strong enough to carry himself down before gesturing around vaguely. “I didn’t know anyone would be staying with me so…”

Jaskier laughs, throwing his head back. He has no idea what compels him to do so but he cups Eskel’s confused face in his hands and places a soft kiss on his nose. “Eskel, darling, you are literally my soulmate. I think we’ll be alright sharing a bed.”

He can actually feel the way Eskel smiles under his hands and can’t help grinning back, but then his knees decide to buckle for no apparent reason - aside from the general exhaustion and probably clumsy bruises, of course - and Eskel is once again the only thing keeping him upright.

He’s not entirely sure what the sequence of events is after that but he doesn’t care to puzzle over it because he ends up with his head on an actual pillow and Eskel’s arms around him and he’s never felt so comfortable and safe and content in his life.

“Don’t leave without me,” Jaskier mumbles even as he can feel himself drifting off, only slightly embarrassed at being so obvious about it.

Eskel hums quietly and brushes the pad of his thumb over Jaskier’s cheek before moving his hair away from his forehead, smiling softly as their eyes meet. “I would never even think of it,” he promises.

And somehow, despite everything else in his life that’s somehow gone wrong and fallen apart and proven that perhaps he shouldn’t be so blindly trusting of what he thinks may be the truth even if he has plenty of reasons to believe otherwise, Jaskier can't bring himself to doubt the witcher’s words even in the slightest.

If there’s one thing he knows, it’s that Eskel has always been his destiny.

-

i apologise if this finale was a little messy because i was indecisive and couldn't choose just one pov but i am so hyped to have finished !!! i hope this ending was worth all the chaos <3

-

thanks for reading! masterlist | witcher blog: @itsjaskier

[askkrenko]

Krenko’s Guide to Pokemon: Eevee Line

Part 1. Because seriously.

DESIGN:

Eevee was intentionally designed to be some sort of generic wild critter that could exist but doesn’t. Given traits of all sorts of small, furry things, the purpose of Eevee is to be cute, lovable, and evoke the feeling of ‘some animal.’ It is simultaneously known to everyone and completely unknown. Everyone recognizes Eevee but nobody actually knows what it is.  Eevee is, above all else, THE ‘normal’ Pokemon.

And honestly, it’s totally freaking adorable. Eevee is the best rabbit dog fox kitty thing that ever was, and nobody doesn’t love Eevee. Its design basically couldn’t be better. There’s a reason this fuzzlewuzzle regularly competes with Pikachu for being the face of Pokemon. Sure, it can’t quite win, but it’s up there.

But the concept of Eevee is really the interesting one. Eevee was the first Pokemon with branching evolutions, and while other Pokemon have gotten such since then, Eevee has always had the most. Starting with three in Generation 1, there are currently eight possible evolutions of Eevee, and there could easily be more on the way. This puts the Eevee line in a really notable position. I always love when a Pokemon has a unique gimmick, and while in combat each Eeveelution might just be another, having an Eevee with so many options to choose from makes it an interesting Pokemon to obtain.

But before we discuss the designs of any evolutions, let’s talk about the non-evolved alternate form: Gigantamax. Like Pikachu and Meowth, GIgantamax Eevee is just a gimmick. The Pokemon’s not strong enough to be used, and Gigantamax Eevee can’t actually evolve, so it’s just there to be big and fluffy and cute… and it just fails at that. It’s not that Gigantamax Eevee isn’t cute- of course it is- but it’s not cuter than Eevee is normally, and the big bushy collar isn’t nearly as fun of a unique touch as Meowth being memes or Pikachu going back to its fat gen 1 design. Sadly, Gigantamax Eevee is a waste of everyone’s time.

And now onto the actual evolutions.

VAPOREON: 

Vaporeon is an interesting and unique creature, with large fins on its head and small ones down its back and tail giving it the appearance of a fish, but still with a clearly mammalian mouth and legs. Vaporeon is clearly aquatic and clearly related to Eevee, but other than that it simply doesn’t look like anything. And yet Vaporeon still has a clear design and aesthetic, as something that could maybe possibly be something between a dog, a seal and a dolphin. It’s an elegant, clean design that looks fantastic without looking absurd. 

JOLTEON:

Jolteon’s just yellow with spikes. It’s simple, but it works. There’s nothing weird about Jolteon’s design in the least, though admittedly that means there’s nothing overly special about it. Jolteon is just what happens when you take Eevee and make it cool, and other than the bright coloration there’s nothing particularly odd about it. One of the more subdued Eeveelutions, I like it, it’s cool, but I don’t exactly have specific praise for it.

FLAREON:

Flareon looks even more realistic than Jolteon. The red coloration’s a bit bright, but other than that it’s just a big ol’ floofy floof. The shape and color of its fur suggest fire, but unlike many fire types it doesn’t feel the need to actually be on fire.  Like Jolteon, Flareon is a good, clean design.

It’s also noteworthy here that the first three Eeveelutions have big collars, like Eevee does. The rest do not. Honestly, I really like this part of the design, but I understand why not all would have it.

ESPEON:

The psychic evolution, Espeon’s purple colors are a bit more out there than the previous three,  and my first instinct when looking at it is that it’s supposed to be hairless like a Sphynx Cat, but then it has those huge tufts on the side of its face that are clearly hair despite it not having tufts or even signs of fur anywhere else. They’re too high to be whiskers, too, so they just come across as weird. In fact, everything about Espeon is weird, and not always for the better. The split tail is a cool design, but I don’t understand what it’s going for. The jewel on the forehead I DO understand as a psychic focus, but it’s so obviously artificial compared to the previous Eeveelutions that it feels out of place. In fact, the core concept of Espeon feels a bit out of place. Most of the Eeveelutions are the result of stone or location radiation, and Umbreon happens at night. Espeon levels up in the day time with affection, and somehow becomes a psychic type. A psychic type whose pokedex entry calls the Sun Pokemon. 

Eevee’s whole gimmick is that when exposed to weird stuff it transforms, so I have a hard time understanding why a happy Eevee turns into a psychic type during the day. If it was just about the strong bond with its trainer, why does the sun matter? And if the sun does matter, what’s going on with its everything?

Espeon ultimately just doesn’t work for me. It reads wrong as a creature and I don’t understand how it fits in with other Eevee lore.

UMBREON:

Okay, what’s up with those circles? Black fur I get. Gold stripes I get. Floofy tail, red eyes, sleek body, sure sure sure. I am totally on board with that. But those clean, obvious golden rings absolutely take me out of this design. I get that they’re supposed to be moonlight rings or something, but I’d have been much happier if this thing had golden spots instead of such clean shapes, to make it look more like a realistic animal. 

As far as actually fitting though, it makes sense as a Night-based Pokemon, but the Moon thing is a bit more of a stretch. It’s not nearly as bad as Espeon and the Sun, but Eevee plus Moonlight should result in a brighter, glowing Eevee, not a darker, more sinister Eevee.  Umbreon also has a serious issue of its abilities not being what it says they are. For example, the Pokedex says it’s got poison; Umbreon has never naturally learned a poison type attack. Its rings glowing is supposed to be one of its key features, but none of its abilities reflect that.

This isn’t to say that I dislike Umbreon or Espeon overall. Some of my favorite Pokemon have been Umbreons and Espeons. Their designs just really don’t sell the story that they’re trying to.

LEAFEON:

So, now this is more like what I’m talking about. Eevee + Moss Rock/Leaf Stone = Eevee that’s turning into a plant. It’s still an animal, but with its ears and tail and some of its fur turning into leaves so it can now photosynthesize. Also the leaf is a sword because that’s bitchin’.

Now, while I am totally on board with Leafeon’s concept, I do think the design could’ve used a bit of tweaking. The head and tail are great, but the little leaf things coming off the body look a bit odd, and I’m not really sold on the mostly tan color scheme. I think it’d have looked better with more browns and greens. Specifically, brown legs and belly, green back and neck. Maybe a leafy collar like the original Eeveelutions all had collars. Still, I like it overall.

GLACEON:

I don’t particularly like Glaceon. While it reads as an Ice Eevee it doesn’t read as an Eevee infused with Ice or adapted to Ice so much as it reads as an Eevee with design elements that look ice-like. The sharp diamond shapes over it don’t actually have anything to do with ice the way Jolteon’s spikes are the result of electric charge or Flareon’s floof looks like fire. Further, the addition of what is clearly a hairdo is just sort of weird. It’s too sharp to look like it comes naturally and while it makes for an interesting visual element it doesn’t mean anything or serve any purpose in the Glaceon itself. At least Espeon’s split tail was supposed to be for sensing things. Glaceon just has huge flaps that are definitely a disadvantage in a fight and don’t seem to serve any purpose other than possibly attracting a mate. 

Glaceon is a solid design for a creature but not for ‘this is an Eevee mutated by the ice element.’

SYLVEON:

OH MY GOD WHAT THE HELL IS THIS ABOMINATION!?!?

Oh, it’s a cute fairy Eevee that’s pink and blue with ribbons and bows? You’d think so, and I don’t mind the color scheme for a fairy type but THOSE ARE NOT RIBBONS AND BOWS. Those are ‘feelers.’ Those are FLESH. Fur-covered, wriggly, boneless flesh. 

This is bad. This is wrong. This is not okay.

This is not a fairy. This is an eldritch horror. Foxes should not have tentacles, and tentacles should not have fur. 

And that’s not even getting into how much I hate Sylveon’s evolution method. Eevee evolves into Sylveon when it has affection and knows a fairy type move… but Eevee can just learn Baby-Doll Eyes on its own at level 15, so this isn’t a feat or anything special, it’s just a normal part of raising an Eevee. The worst part is that this is some weird new and special method to explain why you couldn’t have done it before, but the only actual change here is that Eevee didn’t learn Baby-Doll Eyes naturally before, so instead of something being discovered the world has just been rewritten to allow Sylveon to exist.

Because Sylveon is a monster from outside reality that has forced its way in here.

I hate Sylveon. I hate Sylveon so much. And to truly understand how much I hate Sylveon you need to understand that I love Eevee. I have two Eevee on my nightstand- named Artemis and Apollo after my Espeon and Umbreon from Gold and Silver. I make it a point to use Eeveelutions in every game, because I love them so much. One of my oldest RP characters was a Jolteon named Flash. On Halloween, I had one of my video game characters dress up as an Eevee to go to a costume party in an MMO. Which obviously didn’t have an Eevee costume so I had to assemble it. So my hate for Sylveon isn’t just ‘oh, this is an icky Pokemon,’ but I take its existence as an insult to Eevee, who I love so much.

You came to the wrong Eeveehood by Dakunart

TYPING:

What type do you want? Eeveelutions come in eight different types, each with their own strengths and weaknesses. But that’s Pokemon for you. And in the future we’ll probably get even more types. I just hope they have good designs and aren’t disgusting abominations.

STATS OVERVIEW:

We’ll talk about stats of Eeveelutions individually, but for now let’s note what they all have in common: numbers. Every evolved form of Eevee has a 130, a 110, a 95, two 65s, and a 60, for a total of 525 base stats, making for Pokemon that are highly specialized in some areas and very weak in others. This results in all of them having at least a decent stat array, except for Flareon, though whether their array is offensive, defensive, or more balanced varies.

Eeveelutions by Endivinity

MOVES OVERVIEW:

As with stats, we’ll discuss them for individual evolutions, but as they’re all evolved from Eevee they do share a large amount of their move pool. Eevee is notorious for learning Baton Pass naturally, a move so powerful and useful it’s been banned in many formats, and though it requires chain breeding, Eevee’s one of a relatively small number of Pokemon that can learn Wish.

Yawn, Substitute, Protect, and Rest all offer strategic options, and though not available in the current generation, Eevee could previously learn Toxic. 

Actual attack forms for Eevee to learn pre-evolution are pretty limited, but an Eevee can learn Shadow Ball and Iron Tail, both of which have their uses.

Eevee does have a number of unique attacks, primarily from Let’s Go Eevee but also the Z-Move Extreme Evoboost. While all of these are viciously powerful to the point of being outright broken, Eevee’s evolved forms can’t learn them, and thus they’re not relevant in most competitive play. 

Next time, we’ll start going down the list of forms and discussing them in the specifics. This one’s a doozy.

Eeveelutions by Lushies-Art

[doritopaw101]

Arc1, book 3: Chapter 6

Icefire took Whitethroat back to Shadowclan territory two days later. Him and Whitethroat had a long overdue talk. It had been cut short but they were getting somewhere.

Tulip-paw still hadn't woken yet. They managed to stop all his bleeding but only time would tell how well it worked. It had been a half-moon since then. Didn't help when Ashpaw started screeching about how his blue eyes were turning purple. Yellowfang quickly shut him up and said it was due to his Shadowclan blood from Blackfoot, Shadowclan cats tend to change color sometime in their lives, Ashpaw just happened to get it early.

The whole clan was on edge from the attack, more so when Bluestar went rapid when she heard about Nightshade and especially Tiger-roar. Her reaction did nothing to help and only made the panic worse. Raveneye noticed their niece, Sunnypaw be on edge at every given moment and refused to leave camp.

Icefire would try to calm them but he had his own problems. He was having one of his episodes, he had nicked his injured leg on patrol and had been in the sun. Raveneye did their best to help but all they could do was let Icefire lean on them and let it happen.

"It's worst then it usually is" Cherrycloud muttered

"I know, they'll pull through, he always does"

The white tom was curled in a ball, holding his tail for dear life. Raveneye squeezed some wet moss into his mouth and watched in slight relief as Icefire lapped it up.

"I'm glad Brackenfur has taken to the messenger role well enough"

"Agreed, we needed it anyway"

"Stork-kit could work well with it"

"I suppose"

"Daughter, Raveneye" she never called her son or kit, it was for Dustpelt, Fogtail, and Chestnutclaw. Chestnutclaw was always such a kiss up to her. Not like her new litters were much better. Chivestalk and Chestnutclaw seemed to be in a contest for Robinwing's love, not like Dustpelt helped.

"Robinwing" they never really called her mother. Cherrycloud just shrugged, she pulled Badgerkit and Stork-kit closer to her belly. Robinwing went crazy when Cherrycloud named her son Stork-. Raveneye didn't understand but Cherrycloud seemed to know and he wasn't about to ask and get on their bad side.

"What are you doing?" she growled

"Laying with my mate and my sister?" they replied, glancing at Cherrycloud who returned it then turned to glare at the brown molly.

"A mate that can't stop lifting his tail" she sneered "He has a taste for fish I see"

"We're poly, we've discussed things you'd never do considering your love life" they snapped back. They truly didn't care about who Icefire was with, the white tom always kept him in the loop and he'd be a fool to say that some of the toms Icefire's with aren't attractive and he wasn't getting his own share.

Robinwing burned her mateship with Fuzzypelt and Rosetail to the ground moons ago, Patchpelt didn't care and why she was with Featherears, Raveneye still didn't know.

Robwing scoffed at him "At least I have respect in this clan, unlike you two but especially him"

"He should have respect considering he's one of Thunderclan best fighters and showen he's willing to kill for his clan" Cherrycloud growled

"All the while he's whimpering like a lost kitten" her amber eyes shimmered with disgust "I don't know why he's deputy" Robinwing drawled "He's barley doing anything, Leopardstorm or Miststrike should be deputy"

Raveneye felt their fur rise "Too bad, Bluestar made the decision and she's the only one to change it" They could feel Icefire shudder "He'll be back to his regular self soon, piss off"

"At least his kits are useful" she sighed "We shouldn't bother with these kinds of cats"

Raveneye felt their claws unsheathe, these cats she was talking about were: Snowkit, Cinderfreeze Nettlemist, and Icefire. Cats who had their own issues but did well for themselves in the clan in Raveneye's opinion. They all had their own limitations but were still contributing to the clan in some way or form.

"These cats have more good in their bodies than you ever will" Raveneye hissed

"Keep telling yourself that, neither them nor you two could match up to me"

"Good, it be horrifying if they did" Raveneye laughed

As they watched their mother walk away they knew one thing, her time in this world was numbered.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Time was barley a passing thought at this point. The clan was dying, either of sickness or starvation. Thymeroot's cure ran out quick and Shadowclan didn't have the herbs that Thunderclan. Whitethroat and Littlecloud were too nervous to cross Thunderclan territory again considering the hostility. Flyswat stole enough herbs for Marshstar and a few others, they managed to live another day.

Whitethroat felt his bones crack as he woke. 'Damn I'm getting old' he thought grimly.

As he tried to get up, he felt the hold of the cat night to him pull him close. He licked the cat's head softly.

"Crowcloud"

"Where are you going?" The black molly murmured

"Just patrolling, I did say I would patrol tonight"

Crowcloud nuzzled his neck, brushing against his neck fluff "Stay safe, love"

Crowcloud and Pineshadow fit in great with clan society without the pressure of Brokenstar. Pineshadow proved to be a very capable fighter and Crowcloud was a great addition to the nursery and a great help around camp.

He had fun decorating Crowcloud's ear and pelt with crow and raven feathers. He bonded with Crowcloud quicker than he thought. They became mates and it had been bliss before the disease came. Crowcloud was great with raising the baby crows under her care, it was easier to find any good prey at this point. They shared the pain of losing children: Hollylock-paw died first from eating rats, Garlicpaw died next from a coughing fit that left her in so much pain, she asked for death and Blossomhaze gave it to her. Darkpaw shared the same fate. Whitethroat had licked their heads as they took their last breathes.

He did his best to make sure Foxtrot and Buzzardwing lived, made sure Darkhollow didn't overwork herself when she became pregnant with Duskthorn and Boulder's kits when Amberfoot broke it off with him, maybe that was why his leg still hurt when it really shouldn't.

He padded into the clearing, cats either sleeping or grooming each other. He looked up and felt himself stiffen, the tom he hated and privately feared was sitting on the deputy rock, Mossclaw. He was chatting with Jaggedtooth and Toadpelt.

Mossclaw turned his head and locked eyes with Whitethroat. He smirked at him. Whitethroat bared his fangs but his limbs wouldn't work. Mossclaw padded forward, his tail held high. Whitethroat wanted to yell or attack him but his body wouldn't move.

Badgerfang sunk his teeth in Mossclaw's neck. He tossed Mossclaw to the side as Dawncloud nudged him out of his trance.

"Are you okay?" she asked, she carried the scent of sunflowers.

"Y..Yeah"

Badgerfang was standing above Mossclaw, his long fangs bared "Stay the fuck away from him if you know what's good for you" he spat on Mossclaw

"Badgerfang, what's going on here?"

Badgerfang sighed "Nothing, Tigerclaw"

The large two-colored tabby stood tall and mighty, Nightshade and Nightwhisper at his side. They came to camp a half-moon ago, bringing prey and helping with patrols. Marshstar knew why Nightshade and Tigerclaw were exiled but she and everyone else knew they needed as much help as they could get at the moment. The tabby took the name -claw as a sign of change for him, Whitethroat didn't know how he felt about it but he knew his clan wasn't in the position to complain.

Along with them, Tigerclaw and Nightshade brought some of Brokentail's followers and some rouges as well. Tigerclaw said they had changed in their exile and if they gave problems, to talk to him and Nightshade.

Of course Mudfoot was not allowed anywhere near, Palecloud, Lizardfang, Muddytail, and Muddedkit. Barkfoot wasn't allowed near any of his kits. Dewflare was a whole issue altogether though she mostly stuck with Tigerclaw and Nightshade.

The rouges were nice enough, at least they pulled their weight. As an over-seer, Whitethroat taught them the ways of Shadowclan life, either said than done with them honestly. Nightwhisper was quiet but a good fighter. Socks was decent and knew how to hunt at least. Wildfur was well-rounded where he didn't need to much. Crowcloud brought her younger brother Striker into the clan and he earned the name Strikerclaw.

He had a feeling Tigerclaw and Nightshade looked down on him for his injury but if they did, they didn't express it.

"Keep him away from Whitethroat and Houndbelly" Dawncloud hissed "As well as Batwhisker and Burdockpaw"

"I've done nothing" Mossclaw snarled trying to get up but was slammed down by Badgerfang

"You didn't even visit Hollylockpaw or Darkpaw in their final times" Dawncloud spat "You said you loved them and wanted to change but you lied like the fox-heart you are"

"They were weak, they don't deserve-" Whitethroat screeched and lunged at Mossclaw. The brown tom hadn't expected it. It became a blur to Whitethroat. It seemed to pass over shortly when he was dragged away by Batwhisker.

"Mossclaw, you're bothering everyone here, why don't you stay away?" Tigerclaw mewed, his voice as soft as feathers

Mossclaw looked shocked but realized he was very much outnumbered. Jaggedtooth lead him away, to the furthest parts of camp.

As if things couldn't get worse.

Blossomhaze was dragging Blazefang out of the medicine den and behind her Palecloud was dragging Brownwhisker.

/

Whitethroat watched Brownwhisker and Blazefang's bodies as they were being picked apart by crows and coyotes. The coyotes and Shadowclan had a silent agreement of the circle of life.

Viperfang and Goldenmint were heartbroken and Wetfoot and Littlecloud seemed to shut down. Viperfang made sure Jaggedtooth was no where near Blazefang's body. They had taken the former deputy's fangs and claws and they were passed to her kits.

"You'd think it would make you vomit but it just makes you feel nothing"

"Shadowclan is like that Nightwhisper, you get used to it" Whitethroat stated "Brokenstar beat that into our heads perfectly"

"Your uncle was lovely wasn't he" Nightwhisper said sarcastically

"So lovely" he replied

That caused them both to laugh.

He turned away, not wanting to look at the graveyard anymore. He didn't expect any other creatures around but he had been proven wrong. He tripped and fell into a pond.

"Whitethroat, you okay?"

"Yes"

He didn't care much for his fur, it had the typical dirt from living in the marshy pine forest territory that Shadowclan resided in.

"What tripped me?"

Nightwhisper didn't reply for a moment then he gasped "a fox"

He looked over at what had tripped him and his eyes widen, a vixen was caught in a trap. Her head seemed to barely be attached to her body.

Nightwhisper moved the vixen's back leg, revealing a fox kit.

"Fuck"

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dogpaw coughed violently, the pain in her side was almost unbearable.

"Tragic"

Dogpaw whimpered "I..I'm s..sorry"

Vixentail scoffed and turned away "Go back to camp, you can't be a disappoint there, deal with the nursery"

Dogpaw was all too happy to run back to camp. She tried to do a diving trick Vixentail told her to do but all it left her was almost drowning and a sore side. Her mentor was not pleased when she was apprenticed to her, she knew why. Her auncle Mistyfoot wanted to mentor her.

As soon as she got into camp, she went to find her papa, not dad or mother. She loved Stonefur and Skyeyes dearly, he treated her well unlike Blackclaw did, Blackpaw was the favorite.

Riverclan had a lot of dens around, cats could have their own personal dens. It was usually for senior warriors but it's been trimmed down to if you want it, you can. Most cats wanted to stay in one area with their kin but others liked space.

She knew who shared a den with who: Mudfur shared his den with Graypool, Morningriver, Swanlight, Reedtail, Condorwing, and Lakewillow the new kits would join them soon. Suneyes shared her den with Blackclaw, Grasswhisker, Vixentail, Flarepaw, Whirlpaw, and Shinepaw. Whiteclaw shared his den with Greenflower, Silveryide, Silverstream, and Graystripe along with Silverstream and Greenflower's apprentice-aged kits. Leopardclaw only shared her den with Mistyfoot and Mudbelly. Stormstar shared the leader's den with Voleclaw, Sootwhisker, Hailpaw, Mosspaw, and Shellpaw.

Of course there were some cats who lived alone such as Rippleclaw, Sedgecreek, and Dawnscale.

Why did Dogpaw know this? Because Vixentail liked to make her clean all the dens often when she failed a task, of course she never finished all of them had to have her siblings help her finish at least one.

She poked her head into her father's den "Papa?" As far as she knew, Stonefur only shared his den with Skyeyes and Mosspelt. It was the only reason why she knew Stonefur fathered Dawnkit.

She saw her father asleep, cuddling with Skyeyes. Stonefur had cobwebs over his shoulder and muzzle.

"P..papa?"

Stonefur opened one eye "Pup?"

"Yeah, are you okay?"

Stonefur sighed "I'm okay, just a dispute with some otters, someone was taking their share of fish and they got mad, I got in the middle and-"

"Got scratched up when he should've left Blackclaw to deal with it" Skyeyes cut in, her tail lashing

"Is it dealt with though?" Dogpaw asked

"Yeah" Stonefur mewed "Me and Willowheart smoothed it over"

Dogpaw sighed with relief

"Silverstream wanted to talk with you" Skyeyes mewed, "He's by the Starlit ponds"

"Is this true or an excuse for me to leave to give you two privacy?" she chuckled

"You're too smart" Skyeyes returned the chuckle "But no, Silverstream wanted to see you and your siblings, something to do with fish and flowers"

"Got it, have fun" she purred padding out of the den

"She's something" she heard Skyeyes say

"Just like her grandmother" Stonefur replied

Dogpaw jumped between the ponds, water droplets flicking from her fur as she leaped. She caught the scent of Shadepelt, Blackpaw, Pikepaw, and Coalpaw nearby. She hadn't spent time with them in a while and it would be fun to do something with them and a cat she admired and wanted to do anything she could to make up for causing his blindness.

She spotted her brothers and sisters huddled together, it looked like they were planning something.

"Hey-"

Coalpaw put her tail over her mouth "Shush" she pointed her ears in the opposite direction "Listen"

Dogpaw was confused but obeyed. She rested beside her sister and leaned forward.

"As much I applaud you wanting to check on apprentices and royalty, what do you want from me Leopardclaw?"

"I wish to apologize to you for my words against you Silverstream" Leoaprdclaw replied

'What' Dogpaw thought 'that doesn't seem right, Leopardclaw would never apologize if she could help it'

"I realize from my father, Swanlight and my own reflection that I was wrong about you and shouldn't treat you like that because of something you can't control"

Silverstream was silent

"I've actually began to see you in a new light in fact"

A small squeak escaped Silverstream "W..What?"

"What is going on?" Dogpaw whisper yelled

"We don't know" Blackpaw replied

"Shut it and watch" Shadepelt hissed "I trust my mentor, it's Leopardclaw I don't trust"

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Icefire sighed, he felt Raveneye and Embereyes groom him.

"How're you feeling?" Thymeroot asked

"Better"

"Better that you could make a trip to the moonstone"

"Yes" he mewed "I want to be there for Maplepaw"

"I want you to be careful" Thymeroot advised "No heroics, I don't want to have to reset your leg"

Icefire snorted "Got it"

"Get your herbs" Yellowfang cut in "You'll need to be there before dark"

"I can't wait" Maplepaw yowled "I hope to see Snowstrike"

"You'll see who Starclan wants you to see Maplepaw" Icefire mewed

"I hope it's Thunderstar" Rosepaw boasted.

"I want Thunderstar" Bearpaw countered

"Relax" Smokyclaw rolled her eyes

"Apprentices" Yellowfang rasped "Out with you all"

Icefire chuckled "They're just excited is all"

"Excited doesn't mean tear up the den" Yellowfang retorted "Out with you all"

They all piled out near the entrance of camp. He hoped the group wasn't too large as to not cause trouble with Windclan or Shadowclan.

It was him, Maplepaw, Smokyclaw, Bearpaw, Rosepaw, Dustpelt, Aspenpaw and Chestnutclaw. Shrikepaw was due for battle training and Sunnypaw still wasn't comfortable leaving camp and Frostbite didn't mind. Chestnutclaw was grooming her a lot before they left.

Leopardstorm and Miststrike saw them out "May Starclan light your path"

[ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes]

Blue Eyes Part 11

Summary: After the Garrison is shot up, the youngest Shelby daughter finds a new home in London. She strips herself of her last name and tries to live a peaceful life far away from her brothers’ chaos in Birmingham. But fate leads her right back into it after she runs into Alfie Solomons.

Part 11: The Shelbys face prison time even though a certain Wandering Jew called to warn Ella. 

  (gif isn’t mine)

        Ella had broken her arm three times. The left twice and the right once. The first was when she was playing football in the streets with her brothers. At only eight, she overestimated her strength and tried to steal the ball from John. It only ended up with her tripping and getting trampled.

           She broke her left arm again only half a year later. Polly said it was because it wasn’t fully healed from the first break. But Ella had lied to her aunt and told her she’d only taken a tumble down the stairs. In actuality, she’d fallen after trying to follow Tommy and Arthur up the roof.

           When she was twelve, she broke her right arm after taking a nasty fall off a horse. Tommy advised her to stay away from the gelding. He was wild, unpredictable, and strong on the bit. But she hadn’t listened and ended up getting bucked off.

           “Never learns.” Polly scolded when her niece returned, clutching her mangled arm and wailing. “You need to learn from your mistakes, chavi. You can’t just keep at it, thinking you’re smart enough to avoid the consequences.”

           Ella thought she’d learned her lesson a long time ago. She never broke her arm again. She continued playing football with her brothers and the other street kids. But she simply learned to hold her own and if they hit her, she’d hit back harder. She continued climbing the roof. But she learned which shingles to avoid, the loose bricks, and the faulty cables. She kept riding any horse that came her way. But she learned to never let go of the reins and never let herself be thrown.

           “Idiot.” She whispered under her breath. It was dawn and Charlie’s yard was starting to stir with activity. Horses began to call out to each other, workers came filing in, and various languages were passed around in the air.

           She’d been awake all night, wandering around her room in Watery Lane until she became too claustrophobic. So she bundled up and went outside. Passing by the drunks who were staggering home, the laborers going home to sleep for an hour before returning to their second job, and the homeless who had nowhere to go.

           She wound her way around Small Heath, ending up at her uncle’s yard. No one questioned her, letting her roam about as she pleased. Finally, she came to rest, sitting at the edge of the cut with her knees tucked to her chest.

           There were no learning moments. She’d broken her heart and it was the worst break she’d ever suffered through. And she wanted to beat her head against a wall because she wanted nothing but to go back. Do it all again.

           The morning wore on without much notice from Ella. She barely even registered the sun rising. It wasn’t until someone came to sit down beside her, did she finally realize how long she’d been sitting there.

           “Charlie’s been returned,” Arthur said gently as he lowered himself to sit. “He’s at Arrow House.”

           Ella didn’t know why she started to cry. Everything was just too much to handle. “Tommy?”

           “He’s on his way back,” Arthur assured her. “S’all over.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

           She shook her head. “No, it’s not. It never is.”

           Her eldest brother was quiet for a moment. Of course, she was right. When did they ever quit? “Linda wants to go west.” He informed her. “If you’d like, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you came along.”

           Ella just laughed bitterly. “You’re not fucking going anywhere, Arthur. None of us are. We’re all going to die here, don’t you see that?”

           “El.” Arthur gave her a stern look. “You make your own decisions in life. No one else does. You can keep blaming Tom for everything, or you can change the way things are. You can choose to go to America and leave this all behind. Or you can choose to stay here.” He stood and held out a hand to her. “But first, you go get your money from Tommy. What he owes you, then you decide. C’mon, he wants us there by noon.”

~~~~~~~~~~

           “Miss Shelby?”

           Ella turned. Technically she was the only ‘Miss Shelby’ left in the family. Ada had established herself as Mrs. Thorne. Esme and Linda were both ‘Mrs.’ now. So that just left her.

           Mary was standing on the first landing of the stairs. “There’s someone on the phone for you.”

           Confused, Ella followed her upstairs to the phone in the hallway. Anyone who would bother calling her was at Arrow House. And none of her friends in London were aware of Tommy’s manor in Warwickshire. “Thank you, Mary.” She said when the maid took her leave. “Hello?”

           “You need to get outta there.” Alfie’s gruff voice was unmistakable. He skipped the pleasantries or even an apology. There was no time for words that would fall on deaf ears.

           Ella’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

           “Got a tip from the coppers that work for your brother. Said they’re planning on arresting you lot. Tommy told ‘em everything.”

           A cold stream of anxiety trickled down her spine. She weighed the odds. Alfie could be lying; lord knows it wouldn’t be the first time. Or he could be telling the truth, Tommy wasn’t exactly saintly. She wouldn’t put it past him to pull a stunt like that. She gritted her teeth. “Why should I ever trust you again?” She demanded.

           “Because I’ve nothing to gain by telling you this.” His voice was hard to read through the telephone wires.

           Her hand tightened on the receiver. “You’re acting like a knight in shining armor, tryna save me after what you’ve done.”

           There was a moment of silence on the opposite end of the line. “Yeah, call it what you fucking want, right, but there’s gotta be a threat if I’m looking to save you.”

           That was the moment Ella realized her brother had in fact, tipped off the police. She could hear her family talking downstairs, all idly chatting. Unaware of what was about to come next. She couldn’t fathom why Tommy would want them all behind bars. Something for leverage, obviously. Whatever the case, she wasn’t going to run. She’d face it beside the rest of her family.

           “Why’re you really telling me this?” She asked.

           “Because I haven’t stopped caring ‘bout you,” Alfie spoke candidly. “What I’ve done is wrong. I didn’t mean for it to get so outta hand, didn’t know Charlie would be involved in it.”

           Ella never trusted someone over the phone. If she couldn’t see their face, she couldn’t truly see if they were being honest with her. But the shame in Alfie’s voice was hard to ignore. She closed her eyes for a moment. “I’m sorry that the world wasn’t made for us.” She whispered.

           “I’m sorry too, love.”

           “El!” Arthur called upstairs. “C’mon, we’re getting started!”

           She slowly exhaled a breath and straightened her back. “Well, don’t think Tommy can put me away for too long. I'm sure I'll see you 'round London soon enough."

           “Wait, what are talking about? El, you need to leave-” Alfie panicked but she hung up the phone.

~~~~~~~~~~

           Downstairs, Ella sat in the front row of the meeting. Her blue eyes fixed on her brother behind the desk. She crossed her arms over her chest and waited for his big reveal. Everything she told Arthur was right. No matter what they did, Tommy would always get them right where he wanted. Pawns.

           She watched as Tommy passed on parcels of money promised to each of them.

           “El.” Tommy pushed the money towards her.

           She snorted and rolled her eyes. “You know I won’t be needing that.”

           It didn’t even faze him. He simply left the wad of money on the top of the desk.

           Linda stood up, her lips pursed. “Come on, Arthur. The train for the dock leaves in one hour. Then we’ll get the boat to New York and it’ll all be in the past.” She sent a glare Tommy’s way.

           Arthur stood slowly and looked to his siblings with tears in his eyes. “I’ll see you, brother.” He embraced John tightly before moving on to hug Ella.

           She didn’t budge. “You’re not going anywhere, Arthur. I told you.” Her eyes never left Tommy. “You won’t even make it out the front door.”

           Her older brother looked perplexed. “What’re you talking about?” He asked, his arms still held out for a hug.

           “You want to tell them or shall I?” Ella asked Tommy.

           “I spoke to Moss.” He broke his stony silence. “He told me that the Chief Constable of Birmingham has issued warrants for your arrests.”

           “Fantastic.” Ella stood up and began removing her earrings and necklace. The rest of the office began to erupt in panicked chaos as Tommy began rattling off the charges for each of them. She plopped the gems on his desk and finally pulled their mother’s ring out of her pocket. “Should I even trust you to protect these while I’m gone?” She hissed.

           “There are people more powerful than us.” He replied. There were shouts and loud bangs as the police began to storm Arrow House. John and Esme’s baby began to wail adding to the cacophony of arrests. She could hear her brothers fighting the cops tooth and nail as they were restrained.

           “And you need to be more powerful than them.” Ella was shaking. So much anger and fear coursed through her veins but she didn’t want to show him. She didn’t want him to know he’d finally gotten to her. Not after all the years of acting tough for his sake. “I get it, Tom. Your family is worth nothing to you. All we’ve done is nothing. You’ll be alone but at least you’ve got power.”

           Two policemen entered the room and started to roughly pull Ella’s arms behind her back. “Miss, you’re under arrest for aiding and abetting.” One of them barked.

           “You’ll understand,” Tommy said steadily. “You just need to trust me.”

           “I’ll never trust anyone again.” She snarled and resisted against the police as they tried to wrestle her into handcuffs. “I will never call you brother again!” She shouted in Shelta while she was being dragged out of the room.

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

           Ella wasn’t aware of how cold a room could feel. Beyond temperature, that is. She’d suffered enough long nights without enough firewood or quilts to keep her warm to know what cold was. But the jail cell she was pushed into was unlike anything she’d experienced.

           Nothing but unyielding concrete and harsh metal confining her. There was no wonder why people went mad in prisons. Ella wondered how long she’d be in there and how long her sanity would last.

           Her own arms weren’t enough comfort as she sat on the thin cot, hugging her knees to her chest. The only thing that kept her warm was the fierce anger and betrayal held in her heart. It kept her heart beating.

           The night passed and by dawn, she’d created a personal prison for her trust. She locked it up tightly and tossed the key into oblivion. No one on God’s green Earth would ever win it back. She would not be fooled again. That was her lesson learned.

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

          “Shelby.”

           Ella lifted her head to see one of the prison guards at the cell door. It was morning, the sun had just risen. She had hardly slept and the exhaustion was starting to take hold.

           “You’re being released.” He said and unlocked the cell door.

           Ella wondered if Tommy had managed to get them released. She didn’t think it would only take a night to get what he wanted in exchange for damning information about his family. But she wasn’t going to question it.

           Relieved to be in her own clothes again, she stepped out of the prison walls. She half expected her brother to be there, ready to enlist her onto another job. But there was no one waiting for her outside.

           Puzzled, the woman looked up and down the street, unsure of where to go. There was no way she was going back to Warwickshire. She had a few things at Watery Lane but decided to just leave them there. She didn’t want to risk running into her brother.

           So, she headed for the next train to London.

~~~~~~~~~~

           Amelia looked absolutely stunned when she saw her best friend sit down at the desk across from her. “Where on Earth have you been? I thought you’d disappeared off the planet!” She hissed, leaning over her typewriter.

           Ella was exhausted as she set down her purse and picked up a few papers that had been left in her inbox. “Someone in my family was sick.” She lied. “I’m surprised I still had a job here.�� She admitted and began to load a fresh page into her typewriter.

           “Please, Mr. Harding is terrified of your brothers, he wouldn’t dream of firing you.” Amelia laughed. But she could sense the extreme change in her friend. “Everything alright?”

           “No,” Ella answered truthfully and began to type up the notes. “I need a drink.” That was a plus of being at Arrow House. She could walk around with a whiskey and no one would question her.

           Amelia smiled. “Well, once we get off work, we’ll go out. We need to catch up!” She insisted.

           It sounded like the perfect remedy to her growing headache. 

~~~~~~~~~~~

           “My cousin’s visiting from Paris. I invited her to come along, I hope that’s okay.” Amelia linked arms with Ella as they walked down the street towards the club.

           “Yeah, of course.” She shrugged. It hurt to know that even a mention of something as harmless as Paris could conjure up memories of Alfie. It made her grind her teeth knowing that he had become so woven into her existence. It would take a while to pick out all of the threads.

           The two women chatted as they waited in line to enter the club. Ella’s eyes danced over the crowd a few times. She kept expecting to see the familiar movement of people that signaled Alfie’s arrival. But the club-goers went about as per usual.

           “El, did you hear me?” Amelia asked as they were about to enter the club.

           “Hm?”

           Her friend giggled. “You’ve got your head in the clouds. I was asking ‘bout that man who hangs ‘round your brothers. The fit one, Isaiah. He seeing anyone?” She chewed on her lip. The Peaky Blinders were starting to become well known in the London area. Especially to those who liked the intrigue of gangsters mixed with their night activities. After they brutally took over the Eden Club and started making their moves on other venues, people took notice. People like Amelia who loved the thrill.

           “Oh, I dunno.” Ella shook her head. She thought about her younger brother’s friend. She suddenly felt nauseous. She’d disappeared to London without checking in with anyone. Her fear of running into Tommy kept her from making sure the rest of her family was safe. Her stomach knotted and she wobbled a little on her heels.

           “El, you’ve gone pale as a ghost!” Amelia gasped. “Are you okay?”

           “Yeah, I…” She suddenly pulled away from the line in front of the club. “I uh, I forgot something at my flat. I need to go get it.”

           Her friend looked baffled. “Well, I’ll come with you…”

           “No, you stay here. Meet up with your cousin. I’ll be just a mo’!” Her heart raced as she ran down the street. It was only a ten-minute walk to Alfie’s. Less if she ran. Longer if she twisted her ankle from her damn shoes. But she managed to get to his front stoop without falling on the uneven sidewalk.

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

           It was Saturday, Shabbat. That usually meant Alfie was home. So she banged on his door. Cyril’s barks echoed the noise and she could hear his nails clicking on the wood floor as he rushed for the door.

           Heavy footsteps followed. “Oi, quiet down!” Alfie scolded Cyril before opening the door.

           It was relieving to see Ella, not in prison. The man nearly had a vein pop when he heard what Tommy had done. Ollie wasn’t sure he’d ever seen the man’s face so red. It took him a good few hours to pull enough strings to get Ella released and the charges dropped. He decided Sunday was a good day to visit Tommy. It was only fair to inform the Brummie that if he ever pulled something like that again, Alfie would make sure no one, not even God, would ever find his body.

           “It was you, wasn’t it?” Ella asked. She was breathing hard from the run. Her hair was falling out of place and her eye makeup had started to run a little as well.

           Alfie cleared his throat and adjusted the cuff of his sleeve. “Does it matter?” He asked quietly. He didn’t want her to owe him anything. Maybe it was the least he could do to try and make it up to her. There was no winning her back. Even if he never came to terms with that and pined after her for the rest of his godforsaken life, he knew it was true.

           “I want to know.” She insisted. Her throat tightened. “Because…because if it was then it means they’re all still in there. My brothers, my cousin, my aunt.” Her breath was shaky and she couldn’t help but tremble in fear. “And they’ll hang.”

           Alfie nodded. “I tried, love.” He admitted. It wasn’t his plan to free all the Shelbys. That wasn’t his job, but he owed it to Ella to at least try. “But the things they’re facing…I ain’t got people in high ‘nough places.”

           “They’ll kill them…they will. They’ll all die and I can’t…” All the pressure pushing on her finally broke her down. The arrest, the night in prison, Tommy’s betrayal, it was too much. She fell to her knees on the stoop and burst into tears.

           Alfie’s shoulders slumped. He bent down to scoop her up in his arms and bring her inside. Cyril whimpered and followed them into the parlor. He looked on as Alfie set Ella on the couch.

           “Listen,” His voice was low but gentle as he knelt in front of her. “Can’t imagine what your brother is doing, right, and what he thinks he’s gonna get from all this. But I know that he won’t let them face their sentence.”

           Ella curled into herself, hiding her face in her arms. “H-how could he do this?” She hiccupped. “I tr-trusted him.”

           Alfie stood and went to get a blanket folded on the back of the couch. He carefully draped it over her shoulders and went to turn on the radio. There were no words to comfort her. He couldn’t tell her what Tommy was planning. But he did know that Arthur, John, Michael, and Polly were valuable assets to him. The man wouldn’t let them be hung.

           Still, Alfie couldn’t preach about trust. He’d lost her trust just as much as Tommy had. The only thing he could do was go and start the kettle, leaving her with Cyril and the soft jazz music playing.

~~~~~~~~~~

           It took a few hours before Ella was coherent again. Cyril was stuck to her side like glue, letting her stroke his fur to calm down. Alfie remained in the room too, but at a distance. He sat in the armchair near the radio, his elbows resting on his knees as he waited. Waited for her to say something or to leave. He fully expected her to get up and walk out. Maybe say something about his character. Tell him he failed her in more ways than one. Or perhaps she wouldn’t even waste her breath.

           But instead, she looked up from Cyril. Her blue eyes were puffy from crying. All the makeup wiped away on the back of her hand or sleeve, allowing Alfie to see the faint dusting of freckles on her nose and cheeks.

           “Why did you do all this?” She whispered. “Tell me what he was planning and then getting me out?”

           He clasped his hands together. “Because I still love you.” No use in skirting the truth anymore. He could tell her the truth, didn’t make any difference.

           Ella sniffled and wiped her eyes again. “Can you stop?” She begged quietly. “Can’t fucking take it anymore. I don’t want you to love me.” Her voice broke and a new wave of tears threatened to spill. “Because I want so badly to love you back but I can’t. It would be easier if you just hated me. Hated me like you hate me brothers.”

           “I know.” He nodded slowly and felt an all too familiar ache in his chest. “But I can’t, love.”

           She just laughed tearfully. “I don’t know what to do anymore. Most of my family is ‘bout to be killed, I can’t trust Tommy, I can’t trust you, but I still love you. An-And I don’t ever want to leave.” Her eyes met his again. “I don’t want to leave you again. I don’t want to leave this room, I don’t even want you that far away from me.” The few feet between them were causing her to panic. Every cell in her body was fighting against each other. She couldn’t forget the trouble Alfie had caused, but she couldn’t forget the way he loved her either.

           “I wish I had the answers for you,” Alfie said sympathetically. “But I’m just as lost as you are, love.” He laughed weakly and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry.”

           Ella let go of her knees and let her feet fall to the floor. “I have no place in this world anymore.” She whispered. “I can’t go back to Birmingham, can’t go back to the life I have in London. I can’t just pack up and go somewhere new because I’ll know it’s all wrong. Alfie, you were the only place I felt like myself. I just…I thought I knew you.”

           The aftershocks of his ill-fated deal with the Oddfellows was still painful. He couldn’t get the image of Ella’s face after she heard what he’d done. The disbelief was heartbreaking. It only reminded him that he could never be a good enough man for her. “You know me better than anyone.” He said sheepishly.

           “We’ve lied to each other.” Her forehead creased. “What’s stopping us from just repeating the cycle?”

           Alfie stood and went to sit on the opposite end of the couch. Keeping his distance, he stared at the opposite ceiling. The one with nothing but a clock on it. “We could start over.”

           She glanced over at him. “You said the world wasn’t built for us.”

           “Yeah, it weren’t.” He shrugged and scratched Cyril behind his ears. “I ain’t ever gonna be good enough for you, love. But I also know that I ain’t ever gonna get over you. And I’m fucking selfish.”

           Ella rubbed her eyes and shrugged the blanket off her shoulders. “Everyone’s selfish.” She mumbled and stood up. “I’m selfish enough to protect myself. I won’t ever trust you, Alfie. But that’s just how I’ll operate from now on. Protecting myself.” She sighed and started to walk out of the parlor.

           Alfie furrowed his brow and stood as well. He expected her to turn left and walk out of his flat. But instead, she turned right and he heard her footsteps going upstairs.

           “El?” He called and walked out of the room to see her halfway up the stairs.

           She paused and turned. “I’m too tired, Alfie. I’m tired of pushing you away when I’m going to just keep coming back. So might as well just stay. But I told you I won’t trust you. So tell me to leave.”

           He stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at her. His mouth parted slightly in surprise. “And what if I don’t?”

           “Then I’ll stay.” She replied without hesitation. Her hand rested on the banister as she waited for his decision.

           He was silent for a moment. There was no use in pushing her away. He was too fucking far gone. “Don’t go.”

           “Okay.”

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

           Alfie walked into the car factory, traveling upstairs to the offices. He swore under his breath at the expensive décor. He much preferred his bakery to the posh office setting that the Shelbys had set up. Trying to make themselves look like they weren’t born poor Irish travelers.

           The man who greeted him at the door showed him to Tommy’s office. The Blinder was sat behind a large desk, dressed in a three-piece suit as the majority of his family was behind bars.

           The nerve.

           Alfie forcefully let his cane thump against the wood floor to mark his entrance.

           Tommy barely looked up. “You got Ella out of prison.” No pleasantries.

           “Yeah, mate, no thanks to you.” Alfie didn’t sit down. Instead, he walked right up to the edge of Tommy’s desk. “Did that brain injury of yours really fuck you up so badly? Aye? What sorta man sells his entire family to the crown? ‘Specially when he’s the one, right, who most deserves to be locked up, don’t he?”

           The man’s blue eyes flicked up. “Is there a reason for your visit, Mr. Solomons?” He asked curtly, maintaining his low, steady voice. The tone that drove Alfie absolutely mad. If the rest of the world were crumbling down around Tommy Shelby, he’d simply keep talking in that tone and probably light up a cigarette.

           “Yeah, there is. Thanks for getting me straight to the point.” He rested his hands on Tommy’s hands and leaned down to meet his eye line. “Came here to give you a fair warning, right? If you ever, ever, put Ella in harm’s way again, I’m gonna rip every bone outta your fucking body. We clear ‘bout that?” He growled.

           Tommy hardly even blinked. At least Alfie was keeping up the creativity of his threats. “She’s with you, then.”

           “Ain’t any of your fucking business.” He straightened up and grabbed his cane. “She makes her own choices.”

           “And she’s chosen you.” Tommy reached for a cigarette and slipped off his glasses. “Again.”

           Alfie shook his head. “You like this, don’t ya? This cycle. You use the people ‘round you for your own gain. Then you bring them back just to use ‘em again, aye? This is fun for you.”

           “Well, I haven’t killed you yet, Alfie. Suppose you could be useful again.” Tommy averted his eyes from the man and focused on lighting his cigarette. “But you and Ella make your own choices, don’t you?”

           It was infuriating that Alfie couldn't actually shoot him. Instead, he could only leave with a, "Fuck off."

Permanent Tag: @papa-geralt-of-cirilla​ @giftofdreams​ @biba3434​ @kimmietea​

Tag list: @deaflikehawkeye​ @bellarkebxtch​ @evelynshelby​

Masterpost

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[thismightbeaterribleidea]

Accidental Snowbirding

So I went to Florida and accidentally became a snowbird. I drove south in September with no real timeframe for anything in mind, and I ended up staying on the Gulf coast north of Tampa (Pasco County) for almost three months, minus a couple of weeks I was in Georgia.

Some friends have asked me how the new, nomadic life is going, and I tell them that it hasn’t really felt that nomadic. I’ve enjoyed being close to my friend Ron — I had a regular rotation of several campgrounds, none of them more than half an hour from his place. It reminded me of the decade-plus ago when we both lived in Denver, in old, cheap apartments within walking distance of each other. A friend calls and says “do you want to come over?” and you just go over. It’s lovely. We both got into paddleboarding (more on that later) and explored some rivers. We even took an airbnb trip to the Smokies and northern Alabama before the pandemic escalated. So it’s been interesting and good, if different from the types of images that motivated me to buy this big-ass van (wilderness, solitude, aspen groves, desert mesas).

Here’s what I remember from the last few months:

A cotton-candy-pink bird forages on a shoreline and it is so quiet that you can hear its three-clawed feet pattering in the mud. Ninety minutes later we are scarfing down fried chicken in the car in a crowded parking lot.

In the trailer park, people drive golf carts around in loops: maybe this passes for exercise, or maybe they are hoping to run into someone to talk to.

Until November, I sweat and sweat and sweat, and then it cools off enough for me to run in the morning and it’s glorious. 

During the day, there is constant traffic and the lights are always red. There are a lot of billboards, all promising different things, but the one that makes us angry is the one that says “Jesus promises stability.”

I spend the night at a trailer park and the ladies in the office are sweet and efficient and wearing masks. But the spot I’m assigned is across from a mobile home with one of those flags that is half the U.S. flag and half the Confederate flag, and although my privilege probably keeps me safe here, I keep running through the equations with slightly different variables: who would be safe in this spot, in this trailer park/this county/this state/this country, and under what circumstances? What could make all of us safer? And the people who chose to pay for and display that absurdity of a flag, why is that flag the story they tell themselves? And what is the topography of the shared responsibility for all of this bullshit?

We paddle the Hillsborough River and see no other boaters but two alligators. One is basking on a log, and when I turn my head for a second it drops into the water with a massive splash: one moment there was a six-foot alligator; the next moment there was nothing but ripples. It was that fast. My friend decides he will not paddle here alone.

I see live oaks that have Spanish moss hanging from their branches, sure — but they’re also covered in lichens, and on the horizontal branches there are carpets of multiple kinds of moss and clusters of foot-tall ferns. It’s a whole ecosystem in one tree.

I’m driving “home” (most frequent campground) late one night and I am alone on a very dark road. In my headlights, I see a human figure in the middle of my lane, facing directly at me. I think: goblin! But it is a human person. I swerve into the other lane in case he moves. But he doesn’t move a muscle. He is in a half-crouch with his hands on his knees. I catch a glimpse of him in profile as I pass: his face is set in a rictus, jaw clenched. He is still staring straight ahead, unblinking, as if he hasn’t even seen me.

I call Ron just to reassure myself that I haven’t slipped out of the real human world and into someplace else.

“Oh my God,” he says. “But no, you’re still in the real world. There’s a lot of meth around here. He’s not a demon or anything. It’s just Florida.” He is wearing a dark sweatshirt and standing in the dark on a dark road; what if he gets hit? I call the police and I hate that to this day I still wonder if that was the right decision.

We get into paddleboarding. Ron already has an inflatable paddleboard, and I buy one with money I should be saving for things like van insulation or the loose crown on my lower left molar that is already living on borrowed time. But the paddleboard is amazing. Previously, I hadn’t gotten it: why stand when you could sit? I’m lazy and I have crappy feet; I hate standing. But this isn’t regular standing. It’s walking-on-water standing. In our favorite river, the Weeki Wachee, you can see all kinds of things from a paddleboard that it’s harder to see in a kayak, just because of the angle. On a paddleboard, you look straight down and there’s a fish striped like a zebra, an old pine log submerged ten feet down in the clear water, a scurrying blue crab, a bed of rippled sand.

We start at the public park and paddle up against a stiff current. Twice, we get to the three-mile mark and there is the same black-and-white cormorant in the same tree both times. We are familiar with the fact that if you time it right, so that you get back to the park as late as possible without actually paddling in the dark, and the crowds taper off so you have the river to yourself, the deepest pools are turquoise on our way upriver and viridian on our way down.

There are sometimes manatees on the river. In this part of the world, manatees are THE charismatic megafauna. And they are charismatic as hell. Once we are out late, a couple miles up the river with no one else around, and we see a mother and baby grazing on eelgrass in shallow water. We watch for minutes, mesmerized. The baby is tiny for a manatee: about the size of a Corgi. It must be very, very new. There is another manatee that I’m pretty sure I see several times on different days: it is very plump, with three pink slash marks across its back. We get to the point where, if there is a throng of other boaters stopped near where manatees are feeding, we don’t try to stop and see the manatees. We’ve seen them before, and we’ll see them again, when we don’t have to worry about the people and their kayaks and canoes in the current.

The last time I went to the Weeki Wachee, I went alone. The leaves were turning, because the calendar’s close-to-Christmas is Florida’s fall. I hadn’t ever planned on seeing a blazing orange maple next to tropical blue water, but it happened. Close-knit formations of big, soft gray, doe-eyed fish darted under my feet, and at the appointed time the water started turning dark green. In one of the final bends just upriver from the park, there is a deep spot called Hospital Hole. As I paddled down towards it, I saw one manatee, then another break the surface to breathe. I drifted over the hole, away from the manatees near the surface, and I saw the outline of another one eight or ten feet down against the very dark blue of very deep water.

The Weeki Wachee is a very narrow river, usually not more than thirty feet across and often only twenty. It’s also shallow, four or five feet on average, twelve where the current has carved a deep groove or pocket. Hospital Hole is at one of the river’s widest points, I’d guess maybe 150 feet from bank to bank. The hole itself — technically a sinkhole, but with a couple of small springs feeding into it — is only about 30 or 40 feet wide, but 140 feet deep. It goes down so far that there are different layers of water: freshwater, saltwater, a layer that is anoxic, another layer that is so full of hydrogen sulfide that divers can smell the rotten-egg odor even though they’re breathing compressed air. I read online that the manatees often go to Hospital Hole to sleep at night. The sinkhole-spring, like a big deep pocket, gives them space to stay together and still spread out. They can sink down below where they have to worry about boat engines or curious paddle boarders or whatever else manatees worry about. Every so often, they come up to breathe, then sink down again. Respire, rest, repeat.

It’s 7:17 p.m. as I am writing this, so they’re probably there right now.

***

So that’s Florida! Other, more nuts-and-bolts things that have happened include...

I installed lights and outlets. This was a big project and a big deal, since it means that I can have things like a fan (to keep me from sweating to death in the summer), an electric cooler (a.k.a. mini-mini-fridge) for things like vegetables and hummus and cheese and cold boozy beverages, and, well, lights at night that aren’t a harsh blue-white solar lantern, which is what I was using before October, when I made these improvements. Anything electrical is always a little scary; I’m nervous every time I have to go into the breaker box and always surprised when I’m able to touch it without shocking myself. I also had an extremely minimal understanding of how to splice wires together and how to connect all these lights to each other, to the dimmer switch, and to the breaker box. This involved a lot of googling, and even though the DIY van blogs seemed to say that installing lights would take half a day, it took me the better part of two days. But it’s done, and I’m very happy with it. Fiat lux, motherf***er!

My new favorite public agency is the Southwest Florida Water Management District. Occasionally, if I’d had a few drinks at Ron’s house, I spent the night parked in his driveway. Sometimes I stayed in private RV parks. (This was mostly driven by the need to empty the van’s port-a-pot once a week or so — public dump stations are not easy to find in this area of Florida; the closest was about an hour away.) But mostly, I stayed at campground operated by the SWFWMD. These campgrounds are in big tracts of forested, marshy, watery land, and they are great primitive campgrounds that cost $0. There’s no water, no showers, no other fancy campground amenities, but there is usually one outhouse, and each campsite has a picnic table and a fire pit. They’re basic and beautiful.

My favorite campground is called the Serenova Tract. It’s about 15 minutes from Ron’s house, and the campground is in a bunch of pines and live oaks. Horses are allowed, and on one of the last weekends I spent there, several people with horses stayed overnight and hung up Christmas lights. The next morning, they were joined by a dozen other horses and riders who all went for a morning trail ride through the woods. I was insanely jealous.

The other SWFWMD campground I stayed at was called Cypress Creek. It’s a little farther from Ron’s place than Serenova, so it was my second choice when Serenova was full but my van’s shitter wasn’t. It’s a beautiful spot, with tons of big pines. But right now I’m a little wary of it because the last time I stayed there I woke up from a dead sleep at 4:51 a.m. when I heard someone singing and talking to themselves. (The campground had been totally empty when I got there and still was as far as I could see.) It was probably just someone who had come in on foot and was drinking because it was cold (40 degrees) outside, but it was still a bit unnerving. 

I also have a favorite RV park. I was thinking that my relationship with these places would be strictly utilitarian, and it still mostly is. But out of the three RV parks that I’ve stayed at, there’s one small one called Suncoast that I actually kind of enjoyed: even though I only went there occasionally, the three staff people remembered me when I called or came in, and they often gave me a discount on their regular rates because I don’t use any electricity. They (both staff and most guests) also seem to be taking pretty good pandemic precautions. (I actually saw someone get kicked out of the office when they tried to come in without a mask, something that I’ve never seen in any other business since March!) The place has nice big pine trees, and by the office there’s a table where people put free food that they aren’t using, or occasionally two-day-old bread that someone got from Publix for free. The last time I was there, some people had decorated their campers and RVs with lights and it was kind of charming. I still heavily prefer to be out in the woods by myself and not spending any money, but I’m glad I found someplace pleasant for my once-a-week-or-so sewer/water needs.

I figured out how to stay warm while sleeping. This is a bigger deal than it sounds because a) I haven’t insulated the van yet, so at night, it’s only a few degrees warmer than whatever the temperature is outside, and b) I’m a very cold sleeper. Florida is SUPER WARM compared to any other place I’ve ever lived, but in December, it started getting a little chilly at night: down into the fifties, then the forties, then, a few nights ago, 30 degrees. I’ve camped in near-freezing or slightly-below-freezing temperatures before, but sometimes it wasn’t very comfortable — even with good long underwear and socks and a hat and a zero-degree-rated sleeping bag. But I’ve figured out a system for my bed that uses four blankets, layered like a licorice allsort: a quilt, a heavy wool blanket, another quilt, and a faux-wool blanket. If it gets below 40, I can add my zero-degree down sleeping bag and be not just comfortable but actively toasty, like a baking croissant.

Unrelatedly, I’ve been having a hard time getting out of bed in the morning.

I’ve found that my life in a van is basically like my life has been anywhere else. I work. I sleep. I stay up late reading things on the internet when I should be sleeping. Sometimes I go running or do yoga (while trying not to bump into the cabinet or kick the front console or hit the ceiling). Sometimes I do fun things, like paddleboarding or talking to friends. I make goals and plans and don’t follow through on them, except when very very occasionally I do. But when I’m looking up van stuff online, I often run across photos of people who are #selfemployed #vanlife and the photos of them working are:

A woman is seated propped up on pillows in the bed in the back of her van. The doors are open, framing a view of the cerulean sea, so that you can practically smell the gentle breeze blowing over the dunes. She has a laptop on her lap and is looking thoughtfully out to sea while a cup of tea steeps on a tray that is on the white coverlet of her bed.

Or

A man is seated at the dinette in the back of his van. He has a laptop, a French press, a mug of coffee, and a plate with two scones on it on the table. The table, and in fact the whole dinette with its two upholstered benches, would be at home on a small luxury yacht, and it’s the kind of dinette that you make into a bed at night. The astute, intent expression on the man’s face give the viewer to understand that he is competent and disciplined and never stays up two hours past his bedtime because he’s too lazy to lower the dinette table and rearrange the cushions and put on all his sheets and blankets. We are also given to understand that the electrical system in his van would have no problems handling the power drain of a bean grinder, even though he is clearly parked in the high Rockies — again, with the back doors open, the better to take in the late spring air and see the fresh green of the aspen trees — and it’s often cloudy. Lastly, we are given to understand that he baked those scones himself, because when he’s not working, hiking, lumberjacking, or otherwise living his best life, he enjoys unwinding by baking bread and pastries. (Not in the van; don’t be silly! He bakes outside, over a wood fire.)

(A tangent: Why do so many people have their van doors open in photos I see online? Do they only stay in places with no bugs? If I tried that in Florida, or even Maryland or Colorado half the year, I’d be awake half the night swatting at mosquitoes and/or flies.)

In contrast, a photo of me being self-employed in a van would look like:

A woman is sprawled in an ungainly fashion on her narrow bunk. Her laptop is braced by her lower ribs and propped up with a pillow placed over her gut. The pillow has a cat on it. The windows of the van are covered in silver bubble-wrap, so very little light gets in. Absolutely no doors are open, because the van is parked behind a Dunkin Donuts so the woman can get free wifi and not burn through all the data on her phone plan. She takes a break to heat up a can of Campbell’s soup on an alcohol stove, adding a handful of dehydrated mixed vegetables, to be healthy. As she stirs the soup, she gazes contemplatively out the windshield towards the adjacent parking lot, where there is an IHOP. #vanlife

Or

A woman is sitting in the passenger seat of her van with her feet on the dashboard and her laptop on her lap. Beside her in the cupholder is a steaming Hydroflask full of the cheapest tea she could buy at Publix. The van is parked in a grove of live oaks. Spanish moss sways gently in the morning breeze. Behind the woman, in the dark recesses of the van, sets of clothes are hanging: leggings and a shirt, still sweaty, by the side doors, a bathing suit over the sink, a t-shirt and shorts for sleeping in by the rear cabinet. Several kitchen towels are draped on the driver’s seat and on the dashboard because the cab leaks above the sun visors when it rains, and even though she’s tried caulking it three times, she still can’t get it to stop. #vanlife

The good thing, though, is that I’m still getting work and making a living. I can do it someplace that’s safe, without having to risk my life to do it. And I’m getting paid a fair hourly wage. But then the very terrible thing is that everyone should be able to say what I just said, but so many people can’t: they’re not making a real living through their work, they have to risk their lives to do it, and they’re not getting paid a fair wage.

(Brief interlude as I stare at the ceiling angrily.)

***

Here’s what I’m doing next: I left Pasco County on the 16th. I’ll be in what I think of as “traveling quarantine” until the 30th, staying in a national forest near Jacksonville. (With a couple of stops at state parks to refill water, empty the port-a-pot, and maybe take a real shower.) I’ll be in Maryland on New Year’s Eve and will stay at my parents’ while I insulate the van, build interior walls, and do a bunch of other stuff so that I can call it (mostly) finished. Then I’m thinking of going to New Mexico and spending late winter/early spring there… parked on top of a mesa… sipping a cup of French-press coffee on my white coverlet while I thoughtfully gaze out the open doors of my van… (I really would like to park on top of a mesa though.)

[merlinhurricane]

Oo! I finally got a prompt idea! first I was thinking a basic coffee shop au for shiniida (since you made me ship them) but then I thought iida probably wouldn’t work in a coffee shop (“somethin somethin *waves hand around* coffee health somethin”) so he probably ACTUALLY works in one of those juice places that are all natural and put kale in your drinks and sleep deprived shinsou stumbled inside and asked for a black coffee and couldn’t understand why the cute barista was giving him that look

oooooh, yes!! thank you, luv. please keep em coming!!

(tags: shiniida, college au, no quirks au, swearing, iida is no mere barista—he’s a fckin Manager check yoself, multiple POVs bc i Can’t Not)

***

Hitoshi didn’t understand what was happening. Why was this man staring at him like he had a third head? Second head, whatever. Jesus, he was tired.

“Sir, we don’t serve coffee,” came the insistent voice behind the counter.

“Why the fuck not?” Hitoshi’s glared blearily at him, eyes burning. What kind of place didn’t serve coffee? Especially a place called “Pep Up”. What was peppier than fucking coffee?

His outrage and confusion must have shown in his eyes because the hapless employee rattled off an explanation about natural and organic juices and healthy body supplements. Hitoshi didn’t need any of that. Rubbing his temples and trying to get the world to come into better focus, he groaned. “Okay, you’re my last resort. Can you just, like, talk to your manager and see if you can rustle up some caffeine for me? I’ll pay extra. Please,” he begged. The prospect of walking further away from campus in search of actual coffee was a daunting one.

“I am the manager.” The man before him affirmed. “And I can assure you we do not have anything caffeinated. Not only does caffeine create a mild dependancy but it is also a diuretic and can have lasting consequences if imbibed on a daily basis.”

“Mm-hm, delicious consequences,” Hitoshi murmured, causing the manager to stiffen in what Hitoshi assumed was disapproval.

“Indeed.” The manager sighed. “I suspect more than caffeine or any kind of energy supplement—” Hitoshi brightened at the word ���energy”—“you simply need sleep.”

Hitoshi forced out a hollow laugh and attempted once more to bring the broad shop manager into focus. The lights in here were too harsh, the colors too bright. He should have known it wasn’t a coffee shop. Just about ready to give up on this place and try elsewhere, he turned toward the door.

Somewhere between the decision to leave and the execution, however, there was a disconnect. Instead, he found himself staring at a display right next to the door. It was full of oddly shaped bottles in an eye-searing shade of orange. He suspected he would’ve stayed in that exact spot for even longer if something cold hadn’t been pressed into his hand, nearly giving him a heart attack.

“Wha?” He instinctively shoved away the cold, despite it actually being a bit of a relief to his warm, probably dehydrated skin.

To his surprise the cold lingered, along with an amused huff of air against his cheek. Hitoshi looked up to see Mr. Manager. Dear god, he was pretty. Shoulders for miles, square jaw, baby blues, an undercut—he would have been too overtly gorgeous for Hitoshi to even consider if it weren’t for the glasses (he had a weakness for them) softening his look and the fact that the guy was literally holding Hitoshi’s hand wrapped around a plastic cup of smoothie to keep him from dropping it. “Uhh.”

The smoothie was bright green. Why did everything have to be so bright?

“Kale-kiwi mix.” The manager explained, dropping his hand once he was sure Hitoshi had a good grasp of the thing. “With some other stuff. It’ll help you sleep.”

Hitoshi snorted. Sure, this guy was hot, but Ryan friggin Gosling could’ve handed him this smoothie, and he still would’ve been skeptical about the results. Still... “How much do I owe you?”

The man smiled, a sharp, bright slice of white in his ridiculously handsome face. Oh no. “Free of charge. That’s not even on the menu, so it doesn’t have a price. Just, do me a favor and recycle the cup, okay?” He paused for a moment, mouth curling into an enchanting moue of consideration. Oh no. “Maybe after you get some sleep.”

Dazed, exhausted, and utterly smitten, Hitoshi nodded and wobbled out the door into the night, sipping on his definitely-not-coffee.

***

Hitoshi made it home...somehow. He remembered the streetlights stringing long squiggling tails of illumination across his vision, and that was his Stage 3 sleep deprivation indicator. He was sincerely lucky he hadn’t passed out on the walk back to his place.

On the counter sat his nearly finished smoothie. It had been surprisingly tasty, though the thickness made it feel necessary to drink water before he brushed his teeth and collapsed into bed. He was feeling surprisingly well-rested. At least, he assumed this is what “well-rested” felt like, since he couldn’t recall ever experiencing it before.

Snorting at his sardonic thoughts, he moved to throw away the cup before remembering what the hot manager had said. Technically, he didn’t have to acquiesce to his request—Hitoshi didn’t even have a recycling bin in his apartment. Still, the guy had put up with Hitoshi at Stage 3 and hadn’t even charged him for the damn drink. The least he could do was not fuck up the earth with one damn plastic cup.

Campus probably had some recycling bins, and he had to hit the library to finish his project anyway. Tucking the near-empty cup into the elastic cupholder on his bag, he began the trek to campus.

About halfway there, he realized he’d forgotten to make cis morning coffee. Him. Forgetting coffee. What was the world coming to?

Already mourning the lack of caffeine buzz he’d have later, he stopped in front of the library bins. A list of accepted recyclables and their corresponding numbers wwas posted above the special recycling receptacle. Sighing, Hitoshi pulled out the smoothie cup and checked the bottom for a number, then immediately got distracted.

On the bottom of the cup, written in fine black sharpie was a phone number along with “Pep Up and call me. :)”

***

Tenya had evening shift again, and as he walked in that afternoon, he couldn’t help but be apprehensive. It had been a long time since he’d given out his number, and the few times he had done it this way in the past year, none had used it. Whether that was because they were heathens who didn’t recycle or check the recycling number before they did or if they simply weren’t interested, he didn—couldn’t know. And that was the way he liked it.

The stunned and exhausted man from yesterday had caught his eye first because he was acting...odd. Tenya had watched him standing outside the glass double doors, staring up at the shop’s sign as if it was the best thing he’d ever seen. As if it were a candle and he were the moth. When he’d finally gotten inside, he’d continued to watch as the man’s eyes flitted around the room, intelligence and exhaustion shining there in roughly equal measure. He was built like a rock-climber—slim, tall, long arms and legs, and a bit hungry-looking. Tenya had a history with that look. Tenya would be willing to rewrite history for that look.

Going by the bulging bag and air of stress coming off him in waves, he was likely a student at the local university. When he finally approached the counter, Tenya met a set of pale, violet eyes and lost his train of thought entirely. Thankfully, the man was definitely too out-of-it to notice. He smelled like a combination of moss and coffee, so it was no surprise that he was looking to obtain some of the latter.

Despite his clearly tired state and the shortness of the conversation, he’d managed to make Tenya laugh more than once. What would he be like when he was firing on all cylinders? Tenya wanted to find out.

“You’re a cheeky bastard, aren’t you?” A voice shook him from his reverie, drawing his gaze to the front doors, propped open at the moment to let in both the afternoon breeze and the very man who had been occupying Tenya’s thoughts. A pity his words weren’t more...encouraging, though. He sighed.

The man was shaking a grimy plastic cup in his fist even as he walked up to the counter to confront Tenya. He was amused to see that the guy’s hair stood on end just as much now as it had when he’d first appeared in the shop—which was mostly empty right now, thankfully. He was manning the counter while the current barista was on break. He met those lovely, startling eyes head-on. Time to get this over with then. “I apologize for having offended you.” Why couldn’t he have just ignored his advance and moved on like everyone else? Tenya thought sourly.

“The only thing I’m offended by is your lack of faith in me.” The man’s face was still adorned with dark smears beneath his eyes that nearly matched the irises in color, but his face was more mobile, his voice and gestures more lively. “Telling me to sleep before attempting to throw something away doesn’t show a lot of confidence in my cognitive abilities. Kind of a slap in the face.”

Tenya knew the feeling. “And yet here you are, presumably having slept and still holding a dirty cup,” he commented, voice dry and throat drier. Had he not seen the number then? “You do know you’re supposed to wash them before recycling, right?”

“Who has time for that?” He complained.

“Who carries an empty cup around with them all day just for the sake of argument?” Tenya countered.

The man was just as quick to respond. “Who writes their number on the bottom of the cup? How’s that strategy been working out for you?”

Tenya remained silent for a moment. So he’d definitely seen the number. “...what is this about?”

“Mostly wanted to apologize for probably acting crazy last night. And to thank you. For this.” He held up the cup. It was still frustratingly unclear whether he meant the drink or the number.

Tenya took a chance. “You could’ve just called me.”

He was rewarded with a crooked smile. “Truth be told, I also wanted to make sure I hadn’t hallucinated you.” He leaned against the counter. “You seem like the kind of guy that only exists in my imagination.”

Tenya flushed and looked away to hide how pleased he was. “You’re ridiculous.”

The man just grinned wider and bent over the counter to read his name tag. “Tenya, huh? I’m Hitoshi. Can I buy you a drink?”

—End—

***

[pandabearisaunicorn]

You Are My Weakness (SPN fanfic)

You Are My Weakness Chapter 5 Swedish Creatures

Previously parts: Introduction Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

Warnings: killing, mention of sexual content Words: 2186 ENJOY!

…Sam’s P.O.V…

 Dean thought it would be a great idea to bring both Louise and Castiel on this hunt trip, not knowing why exactly. I mean Castiel is just a pain in the ass. I laughed as I looked down in dad’s old journal in front of me. Still confused over what we exactly were looking for. There had been killings around Greenville, South Carolina but all of them was unfinished cases. It was weird, all of the victims were marked with a weird burn mark, almost shaped like a tree. That doesn’t really ring among normal killings, now does it? I have been searching everywhere for some similar killings on the internet, in books and in dad’s journal but nothing. There had been similar cases in Scandinavia, but why does that kind of creature kill here?

 “You’ve found anything yet?” Louise’s sweet voice said, so calm and happy. “Well there has been similar cases in Scandinavia, I’m not sure why it kills all over the way here” I said, still trying to wrap my head around it. “It sure sounds weird” Castiel said, his face confused as he tried to wrap his angel mind around it. “So those victims had the same marks?” Dean asked, his hand wrapped hard around the steering wheel. “Yeah, it’s weird. I really have no idea what we’re looking for” I said and looked out from the window.

I went quiet, Dean blasting his music through the speakers making Louise smile. It seems like they’ve worked things out which make all of us happy. I looked at her through the rear-view mirror at the side of the car, her beautiful smile wide as she looked at him. I just wanted her to look at me that way, but I guess she never will. But that’s what I want, more than anything. I was jealous of him, he could have her all to himself, yet he chose not to. I couldn’t understand why he just let her go like that. Everyone could see how they felt for each other, except them. It was ridiculous to me.

The trees flew by as Dean drove, I just wanted to get out of this car as fast as I could. I was tired of Castiel’s stupid comments, Dean’s singing and Louise’s giggles. I was tired and I felt alone. Even if the car was filled with people.

 Finally we were nearing the small town Greenville, we drove through it. Seeing all the families playing with their kids in their yards, all enjoying the sun and free time. Soon we were out on the countryside, following the tracks of the creature we were looking for. Dean stopped the car near a farm, the place looked like it was still running. One of the sides of the barn only half painted. We all stepped out of the car, walking up to the front door. It was open, I only now noticed the other car parked outside, it did not look like it belonged here. It was a nice shiny black pickup car, looking brand new. I got a weird feeling about this. Suddenly I heard a scream from the inside, the scream was filled with panic. A kind of scream that echoes through you, that make you feel the pain. I ran inside, Dean, Cas and Louise close behind. Inside there was a woman, probably around her 40’s dead on the floor, another woman around her late 20’s fighting something. Her fighting skills were ridiculously good, like she had done that a million times. I was extremely impressed. The creature she was fighting was one hell of an ugly thing. A fat small creature with almost green skin, and moss in his hair. It almost looked like a human yet not. I could barely describe it.

My thoughts were cut short when a gun went off, making the creature explode, all of us ducked down before the intestines blew on us. I looked up, the girl already looking at us weirdly. She sure as hell was beautiful, even with supernatural intestines all over her, she had covered her face just like us, so I could get a good look on her facial features. They were soft, her blue eyes looking confused at me.

 “Who are you?” She asked and I could tell she wasn’t completely American, her accent sound Scandinavian. “We’re hunters just like you” Louise said and stepped out from behind me. Louise’s action making the girl take a few steps closer. “Well then, I would be happy to hear your names. I’m Theresa” She said and waved, the tension in the room evident. “I’m Louise, this is Sam, Dean and Castiel” Louise said as she pointed at all of us. “Alright, I guess this was an awkward start now was it” I said and a small laugh escaped her mouth. “I do have style, haven’t I” She said cockily and sent a wink my way. “You want to grab a drink and tell us about this creature you’ve been hunting?” Louise said, a warm smile on her lips. “Why not, could be fun” Theresa said as she started to walk towards the door. “You coming?”

 …Dean’s P.O.V…

 We were seated in a bar along the road back home, Theresa telling her stories about the creature we all were hunting. A troll, a Scandinavian folklore that actually turned out to be real just way more murderous and evil. They could change shapes, just like a shapeshifter and could lure you in. It was a killer machine and it sure as hell was creepy. I looked over at Louise, her eyes pinned to Theresa who was telling a story of god knows what. I stopped listening after a while, only focusing on the beer and her. God, she was the only thing I could focus on right now. I looked over at her again, her smile big. You know when her eyes crinkle and sparks. I couldn’t help but to smile too. She looked over at me, her smile grew bigger as her cheeks turned crimson and her eyes feel to her lap. I took a sip of the beer in front of me and actually tried to focus on what Theresa said.

 “So you guys, what got you to start hunting?” Theresa said, her voice serious and Sam’s eyes were glued onto her. “Um, our mom was killed by the yellow eyed demon, one hell of a bitch” I said and she looked over at me. “By what now?” She asked and I looked at her in disbelief. “You don’t know who the yellow eyed demon is? And you call yourself a hunter” I said with a chuckle, feeling Louise’s eyes burn me. “Well enlighten me, I mean it’s my first time in America and that famous demon isn’t really famous in Sweden” She said, her voice sharp. “He was one of the most evil demons out there, he had evil plans for people who has psychic abilities, he wanted to build an army. We got to him first”  Sam said and I rolled my eyes. “Yeah only to let hell lose” Louise said with a smile, making me laugh along with her. Theresa started to warm up, maybe realising we weren’t too bad. “Wow, seems like all of you have had a tough life” She said laughing. “Who of you siblings is the oldest, You?” She asked and looked at Cas. I only let out a huge laugh, she looked at me confused. “No, no. Sam and Dean are brothers, Cas and I are just their friends tagging along” Louise said and I sure as hell didn’t like the friend part Louise was saying, she was mine. “Oh I’m sorry, you all just seem so close. I guess you all have been through much” She said and shook her head. “I’m happy they found me you know, I don’t know what I would do without these idiots” Louise said, a small laugh escaped her lips and her eyes glued on me. I felt a warm sensation run though my body. “So where did you find these idiots then?” She said, humour evident in her voice. “They saved me, they took care of me when my parents died. I mean it was nothing they could do to save them. But um, I’m happy it was them who took care of the demons that was possessing my parents bodies and explaining everything for me. I’m so thankful” Louise said, her eyes teary. I looked over at Theresa, also teary-eyed.

 ……

 And that’s how we met her, Theresa or as we now, after 2 weeks, call her Tess. None of us knew how much she would grow on us, how much she could teach us and wise versa. She was just like Louise, bad ass. Sam and her have been connecting weirdly quickly and she’s been hanging around the bunker, we asked her to work with us to figure out what these troll creatures really did all the way over in America. She wasn’t the one to open up on why she hated these creatures so much, yet telling much about her personal life. At least not to me, I guess she had a thing against me.

 Louise and I were seated in the library, her nose stuck in a book about mythical creatures. She looked adorable, with her blonde hair messy and her face bare from makeup. She looked so beautiful. I placed my book down before walking over to her, leaning against the table right next to her. She looked up at me, that sweet look on her face. She shook her head before continuing to read.

 “You know what would be more fun than reading?” I said and she looked up at me again, a bit of annoyance on her face. “No, what could be way more fun than reading” She said teasingly and looked back down in her book. “I can always show yah” I said as I walked up behind her, pushing her hair to the side and leaning down to reach her ear. “You know, I have an idea”

 I could hear her swallowing hard, seeing goosebumps rising on her skin. My lips touched her skin, her soft and flower smelled skin. It was intoxicating, she made me go crazy. She continued to read, signalling me she played hard to get. I gripped the chair and turning her around, pinning her between the chair and me. Her eyes looking up at me in chock, I smiled at her and I slowly leaned in close to her. Our lips almost touching.

 “Do you have an idea, baby?” I asked her as she almost trembled in my grip. “I might have a few” She said, her voice lower than usual and the sexual tension could be cut by a knife.

 We were quickly interrupted as Tess cleared her throat, I quickly pulled away and stood up straight. Her eyes scanning our every move and I could see her lips almost curling up in a smile. Soon Sam stood beside her, a huge pile of books in hand and that huge grin on his lips.

 “I’ve found more to read guys, we might get a lead now!” He exclaimed as he walked around the table to sit down opposite Louise. “Oh, I guess there will be more reading then” Louise said as she looked up at me before turning her chair around again. “I guess there is” I said as I sat down next to her, Tess taking a seat opposite me.

 I guess I will have to wait even more to be that close to Louise, it’s weird how we always get interrupted. If it isn’t  phone call, it’s Tess walking in or it’s Cas painfully tease us about it. All I want is to get alone with her and to be able to show her how much I love her, but I guess it will wait. Again. I huffed as I started to read in one of the books Sam had brought. Soon I could feel Louise’s foot touching me leg, making me turn my chair a little so she could rest them in my lap. A satisfied smile on her lips as she got comfortable. We sat there for hours, reading and teasing. Tess and Sam talking over what they had found, smiling, laughing and flirting. Like I wouldn’t notice, she liked my brother. Too bad he only had eyes for my girl. I glared at him for not realising that another perfect girl was sitting right next to him, basically drooling over him. It was almost humoristic. I was soon feeling done with all the reading, feeling my butt starting to get numb. I raised to my feet and started walking up to my room, not wanting to spend another five minutes in that room with them, well I was sure hoping Louise would take my hint and come up to me later. I just wanted her, I wanted her bad. Her.  

[quietcatastrophe]

To Begin Again- Chapter 3

Sorry for the delay on this one guys! It’s the longest chapter thus far though, so I hope you’ll enjoy it. Special thanks to @mo-nighean-rouge and her lightning speed beta skills. 

It could have been the way his eyes snapped to the door every few seconds that did it. It may have also been the incessant strumming of his fingers against the counter, or the protracted sighs he released after every minute that passed. Most likely, it was the combination of all these nervous tics that finally made his godfather snap and banish him to the back office.  He stews on these thoughts as he waits, trying to summon some patience. He wants so badly to send her a text message, but she did warn him that the end of her shift is not always a precise time, and that it wasn’t uncommon for her to leave an hour later than scheduled. And today isn’t just any other day—it’s her last shift before starting her maternity leave. Surely that fact alone would hold her up—saying goodbye to coworkers, taking care of the necessary paperwork—all accumulating in more time keeping them apart.

He forces himself to redirect his thoughts, booting up the lethargic desktop computer that he uses to keep track of inventory. The tedium of spreadsheets should be a sufficient distraction—the rank and file of ISBN numbers and purchase orders capable of blanking even the most studious minds. But he soon finds that his tactic is too effective. It’s not the sound of the bell above the door chiming, or the ringing of the telephone that draws him from his office, but the sound of voices. Or rather, one voice in particular. He’s not sure how she made it into the shop so silently, particularly when he was waiting so anxiously for a sign of her arrival. And now the very thing he wished to avoid is taking place right before him.

His well-meaning but nosy godfather is face to face with the woman who has captivated him so completely. In less than a fortnight, she’s managed to become his closest friend—the judgment-free counselor, the rational voice of reason, the opinion most highly sought. She is also the friend that he has maybe talked about just a little too much to Murtagh over the past few days. He can’t help his enthusiasm though, and the oversharing is a side effect of spending their work days together. The elder Fraser has made it quite clear to his godson that he doesn’t understand his connection with this mysterious new woman, and that heartbreak seems to be the most likely outcome of the situation. Despite Jamie’s repeated assurances that there is nothing but friendship between them, his godfather remains skeptical.

Looking at her now, Jamie admits to himself that maybe Murtagh isn’t so wrong to doubt him. She’s the most wonderful mess he’s ever seen. She’d come straight from the hospital—her wrinkled scrubs and haphazardly piled hair a testament to the strain of the day. She looks tired, as one might expect after a brutally long shift. But she’s also glowing, radiant in a way that only expecting mothers can be.

He’s still concealed from their view when he hears Murtagh ask “So can I help ye find anything today, lass?”

“Oh, no thank you, I’m actually here to meet someone.” He chooses this moment to reveal himself, stepping out from the doorway of the office.

“Oh aye, ye’re the Sassenach the lad hasn’t stopped talking about for the last week! Let me just call Jamie for ye, he’s in the office.”

“No need, a goistidh, I could hear ye from the back.”

Murtagh casts a unsubtle glance between them, studying their reactions to one another. For his part, Jamie knows he’s smiling like a fool. Couldn’t help it if he tried. But when he glances at Claire and a similar grin reflected on her face, he can’t be bothered to care what his godfather might think.

“I trust you’ll have no trouble closing up for me tonight? Claire and I have some important matters to take care of, we should get going right away.” He moves around the counter to stand next to Claire, gently placing his hand on her lower back and  turning her toward the door. “Ye can call me if there’s any trouble. If not, I’ll see ye back here in the morning.” Without further preamble he shuffles them out the door.  

They walk the first block in companionable silence, Jamie’s hand still gently resting on the small of her back. It’s a rare day of full sunshine, and the warmth lulls them into an easy stroll, Claire leading the way to her home. “So, will I actually be able to patronize this book shop of yours some day? Or shall I be whisked away every time I visit?” Her intent to tease him is apparent, her eyes dancing with mirth as she observes his reaction.

“Och, I dinna mean anything by hurrying ye along, it’s just that Murtagh… he’s known to say quite a lot while thinking verra little.”

“Hmm, I see. So is Sassenach some sort of Scots slang for an unwed pregnant woman then?”

“No lass, Sassenach just means an outsider, or foreigner. Because you’re British.”

“Oh, I see. So it’s not the baby out of wedlock that he disapproves of, but my English ancestry is a deal breaker?” she asks with a cheeky smile, clearly enjoying watching him squirm.

“Aye, ye wee minx. He loves bairns, but canna stand the British.” He bumps his shoulder into hers, returning her easy smile.

“And anyway, his deal breakers are not my own. I’ve been capably choosing my own friends for some time now, and most of them are verra respectable people. One of them is even a renowned surgeon.” His hand flexes where it still rests on the small of her back, his admiration like a physical current running through him. “Though I suppose factoring Angus and Rupert into the mix does lower the bar a wee bit.”

He loses himself in contemplation as they continue their walk, content to follow her lead. After a few more blocks, she turns down a tree dotted lane and stops in front of the third house.

“This is me,” she indicates over her shoulder toward the bright blue door of the terraced home. His eyes travel from the façade of the building to the magnificent landscape before him. With everything just beginning to open in blossom, the yard seems to be dappled by an entire palette of colors. It nearly takes his breath away.

“I bought it because of the garden,” she speaks as if reading his thoughts. “It’s the first place I’ve ever owned myself. My first real roots, I guess you might say.” She pauses, a melancholy smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. “I couldn’t stay in the flat I shared with Frank. It was so stifled, so full of tension…” He notices again how her hand seems to move to her belly in these moments of openness between them—her palm tracing gentle circles over wherever the baby seems to be pressing at the moment. “It wasn’t a good place to grow. Here though…” she breaks off, turning to survey the land before her. “There’s good soil here.” She gives him a genuine wink, followed by a laugh that makes his heart lift in his chest. He chuckles to himself, remembering his comment about the title of her book that first time they met for coffee.

She reaches for his hand as she opens the gate, leading them up the path to the front door. She releases her hold to search for her keys, finally finding them at the very bottom of her satchel. Once inside, the first thing he notices is that the garden doesn’t stop at the outside wall. Her home is alive in a way that makes him feel as if he’s stepped into a story book. Every windowsill, each table, even hollows nestled into bookshelves are filled with verdant life. It’s soothing and stimulating at the same time, the way the room seems to breathe on its own. The sunlight is filtered by her gauzy curtains, casting a soft, ethereal light that makes everything seem to glow. He’s lost in this moment, captivated by her magical fairy world. He can see why she’d want to put down roots here.  

She realizes after a moment that he hasn’t followed her, turning to find him with his eyes dancing about, mouth slightly agape. She moves back toward him, but he doesn’t seem notice.

“After my parents died, I was raised by my uncle.”

He startles, not only from the sound of her voice, but also the sudden mention of the topic. She pauses her story, settling her eyes on his, letting him catch up to the moment. She reaches her hand out toward him once more, and he takes it gratefully. Fingers interlaced, she continues where she left off.

“He was a professor of archaeology, and we spent much of the time between semesters travelling all over the world. I wasn’t allowed to do much on the sites, everything was so sensitive, and they certainly didn’t need a gawky pre-teen mucking about. But when we travelled, I always collected my favorite plants from everywhere we visited. Sometimes it was little wildflowers, other times it was the grass or the moss. I pressed most of it, since plants don’t always travel well. It made me feel less lonely back then, having tokens from all the places I’d called home. I just didn’t know that I’d be cultivating a lifelong interest in botany. Pun intended of course.”  

He’s growing used to the feeling of being astonished by her. Her remarkable ability to move from dark to light, her knack for turning to humor when things feel too heavy. Her resilience has impressed him since the moment he met her, and his admiration only grows with each piece of her story she chooses to share with him. He smiles at her, draws in the light from the room around him, much like her wee plants do. “Ye have a lovely home, Claire. I feel as if I’ve wandered into the realm of a woodland faerie. It suits ye well.” He squeezes her hand and she returns the pressure for a moment, sending him a small smile before letting go.  

“Can I offer you anything to drink before we get started?” She moves through the arched doorway of the living room, into what he assumes is the kitchen. He trails a few steps behind her, taking in more details as he moves through her space. Her bookshelves are teeming, which makes him exceedingly happy. Her décor is minimal and earthy—natural wood furniture, rich woven blankets, framed sketches and landscape photographs adorning the walls. Her things seems to exude a sense of peace and comfort, like all of the nurturing she put into the environment is being radiated back through them. He finds the kitchen to be just as magical—light spills into the room from a large window over the sink, and scattered pots of fresh herbs infuse the air with their botanical aroma.  She’s standing in front of the open refrigerator, surveying her offerings.

“I’ve got water. Or whisky!” she shouts, her face obscured by the open door. “There’s also some orange juice...” she says with some surprise as she pulls out the container, glancing at the expiration date “...of rather dubious freshness. Let’s take that option off the table.” She steps to the sink and pours the murky orange fluid down the drain.    

“Well, I dinna like to drink whisky alone, so water will be fine Sassenach.”

He sees the slight tinge of a blush warm her cheeks at his use of the nickname.

“There is… one more option.” He raises his brows in curiosity, urging her to continue.

“You must promise not to laugh first.” He nearly laughs because of the request alone, but can tell by the look on her face that she’s actually serious.

“Aye, I promise not to laugh.” He moves his hand over his heart, as if to seal in the words.

Forgoing a reply, she reaches into the fridge, pulls out the jug, and sets it on the counter in front of him. She turns briefly again, grabbing two mismatched tumblers from the open shelves, and sets them down between them. Jamie leans into the counter island, reaching out to take the container.

“Chocolate milk. That’s yer big secret?” He asks, eyebrows raised, as he pours a glass.

“It’s been my only true craving throughout this whole pregnancy.” She takes the container from him to pour her own glass.  “My diet has been the paragon of healthy choices, I’ve been preparing more fresh meals when I’m not on shift, and I’ve done everything else according to the books.” She takes a sip from her glass, smiling when she notices Jamie watching her. He’s taken by surprise, however, when she reaches toward him, fingers lightly grazing his cheek as her thumb sweeps across his upper lip.

“Milk mustache.” Is all she says as she draws her hand away, wiping her thumb on her scrub bottoms.

“Anyway, my point was that it is my only vice at the moment, and I don’t care how juvenile that makes me sound.”

“I don’t think ye’re juvenile.” He raises his glass toward her, waiting for her to lift hers in return. “Slainte, Sassenach.” Their glasses clink gently in meeting, and he downs the rest of his milk like a shot. She struggles not to laugh, clamping a hand over her mouth to avoid spitting out her mouthful of milk. “Clearly,” she sputters out once the laughter begins to subside, “you are the juvenile one in this pair, sir.” He only smiles, and raises his empty glass in salute.

“Shall we get started, then?” she asks as she finishes her glass, placing both his and hers into the sink.

“Aye, let’s build yer bairn a nursery.”

[nonbinarybaby]

So, kinda like Yoosung and Jumin fic. How about Yoosung asking Zen out and something happens that makes Yoosung think the date went terribly but Zen loved it and rewards him with a kiss (and maybe smut??)

This one took some time to think about cause I was like “How am i gonna write a story so similar to what i’ve already written but make it different?” But I think I came up with something! :3 Hopefully you like it~ 

Also I really felt like this one didn’t need any smut (shocking, I know, right? But when I got to the point where I ended it, it felt like the end. Anything more felt like it would ruin it. So, yeah I hope you understand :3)

“Where to, Captain?” a YooZen fanfiction by Pansexualtrash.

 “This movie is horrible.”

 “I know.”

 “Why are we watching it then, exactly..?”

 Zen sighed heavily at Yoosung’s question, shifting in his position on the couch, rolling his eyes at the fake french accents coming from the actors on the TV screen.

 “What else would we do?”

 Yoosung continued staring at the screen, his head lolling to the side, tapping his fingers on the edge of the leather chair he was curled up in.

 “You’re right, I suppose.”

 There was silence for a few moments, the sounds of the movie filling the room as they both shifted uncomfortably, not sure what to do with themselves. Zen sighed again, rubbing his forehead.

 “Why does life have to be like this?”

 “Like what?”

 “Like, this-” he gestured his hands in the air dramatically, roughly towards his whole apartment in the immediate area, “sitting in my living room watching some shitty french movie instead of- I don’t know- going on dates with people I like?”

 “You could go on dates,” Yoosung spoke softly, not looking away from the TV screen, his hair hiding his face like a veil. Zen didn’t notice the change in his tone, never skipping a beat as he pressed onwards with his tirade.

 “With who? It’s not like people are lining up on my doorstep. And the fans don’t really count either- I’m not pining to go on dates with people who comment ‘please let me bear your children’ on my InstaPic photos.”

 “With me,” Yoosung’s voice was so soft in that moment- comparable to the footfalls of a mouse avoiding a cat nearby- that Zen didn’t hear it at all. He titlted his head at Yoosung, raising a brow in a questioning manner.

 “Did you say something?”

 Yoosung blushed, turning towards him, his eyebrows scrunched up in an attempt to look serious- he rather looked like he was about to cry.

 “I said, me.”

 “What about you?”

 “You said who would you go on dates with.”

 Zen blinked slowly, the realization of what was happening finally coming to him.

 “And you want me to go on a date… With you?”

 Yoosung’s face turned an even darker shade of red, his face tilting forwards, his bangs hiding more of his eyes from view.

 “Th-That’s what I said. I mean, you want to go on one right..? So why not?” He peeked up at the silver-haired male under the line of his bangs, his heart pounding in his chest, his palms clammy. He tried rubbing them on his jeans, but it didn’t stop the anxiety swirling in his chest.

 A smile curled up on Zen’s lips as he flicked his hair backwards.

 “Weren’t you always teasing me for complaining about being single?”

 Yoosung flinched, looking away, one of his hands flying up to rub his neck awkwardly. A nervous tic.

 “…I was annoyed.”

 “Why?”

 “Because I’ve been single my whole life, and… Well,” Yoosung sighed, glancing up at Zen again, his lavender eyes sparkling with tears that threatened to spill, “I liked you.”

 “Liked?”

 Yoosung sat up straight as a board, his eyes wide with horror.

 “Like! Still like, currently, not past tense!”

 Zen burst into laughter, hiding his face behind his hands as he did so. Yoosung felt like he was on fire as he watched him, his body tingling with nerves- part of him was really hoping he would just spontaneously combust- anything to avoid listening to Zen break out into full-blown hysterics after clarifying his feelings.

 Zen finally pulled himself together, sliding a hand through his hair as he smiled, letting out a breath.

 “Alright. Why not? Let’s go on a date.”

 Yoosung blinked, his mouth hanging in shock.

 “R-Really? Like- right now?”

 Zen smiled, nodding.

 “Yeah. Go home and get changed, and meet me back here. You better have a plan by the time you come to pick me up, or I’ll be disappointed,” Zen stood, winking playfully, swishing his hair over his shoulder as he walked towards the TV, shutting it off, “Be here around 2 PM at the latest.” 

 Yoosung watched him walk away in shock, hearing his bedroom door close. He shot up, grabbing his things, hurriedly running out the door, scrambling for his bike. He pedalled as fast as he could, his mind running a mile a minute as the wind blew through his hair. 

 He made it home soon after leaving, quickly hopping in the shower as soon as he entered the door, being as thorough as possible. He blow-dried his hair when he finished, throwing in some gel to make it look sleek and well-done- a much more mature look in comparison to his usual hair clips and messy disarray. 

 He stood in front of his closet, biting his lip hard as he pondered over what he could wear, his face flushed as his eyes scoured through his options- half with panic, and half with excitement that he was going on a date. 

A date.

 He decided to go with a baby blue t-shirt, a thin, black cardigan layered overtop, grey knee-length jeans that rolled up to his calves, and black high-top shoes. 

 He checked himself in the mirror- satisfied with his look of a relaxed college hipster, he ran out the door, quickly calling for a cab to bring himself to Zen’s apartment. He shot Zen a text to let him know he was on his way, his fingers trembling as he did so. 

 The cab waited outside, and Yoosung waited outside of it, practicing some kind of hello in his head, or how he could hold the car door open for Zen- should he compliment him as he does it? Or just say ‘Hi’? Or something like,’I am at your complete and utter service’?

 Yoosung cringed. God, that was awful

 All of his mental panic was washed away as quickly as it came as Zen walked through his front door. He somehow made it look like everything around him came to a near-halt in slow motion- his hips swaying ever so slightly as he walked- a white faux-leather jacket hugging his waist and his elegant, yet broad shoulders, tapering down along his arms- a pair of sleek, tight, black pants wrapping around his legs in the best of ways- his feet adorned with shoes as bright and red as his eyes.

 And his hair- god, his hair.

 He had let it out of his ponytail, flowing around him like some kind of magical headdress, swirling and dancing in the breeze. It almost looked like it sparkled. 

 Yoosung didn’t even notice when Zen had gotten to be standing right before him. Zen raised an eyebrow playfully, leaning in close.

 “Something wrong, Yoosung?”

 Yoosung ripped open the door, shaking his head firmly. 

 “Nice. You. You’re nice. I mean- You look nice.”

 Zen smirked, flicking his hair behind his shoulder as he got in the taxi, winking up at Yoosung before he closed the door.

 “I know.”

 The blond shut the door, walking around the back of the cab, letting out a heavy breath- this was off to a great start.

 Zen had been pestering him the whole cab ride about where they were going, and Yoosung held his stance, insisting on keeping it a surprise. ‘It better not be some Greek restaurant- that stuff never agrees with me.’ Yoosung assured him it was not, as he knew this already. ‘Alright well i hope it isn’t a movie either. I really am not down to just sit and do nothing for a few hours.’ Again, not that either. 

 Zen had given up on guessing, peering out the window, watching buildings and trees whizz by, colours blurring together into a wild mess, like a child’s finger painting. The cab started to slow down, and Zen averted his eyes, looking forwards, his eyes widening as he turned to Yoosung.

 “You brought me to the aquarium?”

 Yoosung blushed, shrugging his shoulders.

 “I thought you might like fish.”

 And it was the second time that day Zen burst into hysterics.

 “Where to first, Captain?”

 “Why am I the Captain?”

 “You’re the one who wanted to take me on a date.” 

 Yoosung scrunched up his nose, staring down at the aquarium map in his hands, blushing promptly as he realized it was upside down.

 “Yes, but- Captains need experience to steer a boat. I’ve never steered this boat. A date boat.”

 Zen smirked, wrapping his arm around Yoosung’s shoulder, which caused him to stiffen.

 “Well then you’re my apprentice Captain. Let’s test the waters.”

 Zen turned down the first hallway, illuminated by the lights in the tanks, shadows of tropical fish dancing around them. Yoosung could barely hear the whirring of the tank cleaners over the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. All he could seem to focus on was the grip Zen had on his shoulder, how warm his fingertips were, how long and slender his hands looked…

 “Yoosung.”

 “Wh-What?”

 Zen smiled, pointing up at a huge tank in the centre of an open room they had walked to- Yoosung wasn’t sure when they’d arrived.

 “Look at all the jellyfish.”

 Yoosung’s eyes widened as he looked up at the tank- it reached up from the floor to the roof, and judging by the open balconies, it was at least 3 floors high. There were hundreds of jellyfish swimming slowly in the tank, twisting and twirling, all elegance, yet deadly- frills, yet terrifying.

 “It’s beautiful,” Yoosung spoke softly, a breathiness to his voice.

 Zen smiled as he stared at Yoosung, not even bothering to look at the tank.

 “You’re right. It is.”

 The pair slowly made their way through the aquarium- covering almost ¾ of the map, which had given them lovely views at jellyfish, exotic and tropical fish, axolotl, tortoise, and a riveting walkthrough on varying stages of moss and coral development. 

 An announcement went off about a seal show going on at the outside pens- Zen slipped his hand into Yoosungs, following the map to make their way to the show. Yoosung blushed, smiling softly at the gesture, sure his palms were sweaty, but Zen never lost grip. 

 They made it outside, the fresh air whirling around them like a welcoming hug, the sounds of claps and cheers coming from the crowd not too far off. They started to make their way towards the sound, but suddenly Yoosung was slammed into the ground, letting out a surprised yelp as he hit the concrete, his palms aching from catching himself just in time.

 He looked up to see a large man turning around, glaring down at him, his brown eyes wild and clearly angry.

 “What the hell, kid? Watch where you’re going.”

 Zen helped Yoosung up, leering daggers at the man, his voice dripping with animosity as he spoke, “Shouldn’t you be apologizing? What if he had gotten hurt?”

 “He should stay out of the way of someone who’s bigger than him.” The large man smiled crookedly- his teeth were sticking out at funny angles, and his chin hairs looked more like tiny needles sticking out of his face. Zen held his angry stare up at him.

 “No, people should be more respectful of those around them. You shouldn’t have backed up without looking around you first.”

 “And what the hell would a pretty boy do about it, huh?” He laughed sickeningly, waggling his eyebrows, reaching forwards and shoving Zen aside, his back slamming into the railing of the walkway. The large man continued to laugh as he walked away, spitting on the ground, “Pathetic.”

 Zen regained his balance, pushing himself up off of the railing, his face still set in a hard frown. He turned towards Yoosung, about to ask if he was okay, but saw Yoosung staring over the railing, his face white with dread.

 “Yoosung?”

 Yoosung turned to him slowly, his eyes tearing up.

 “When he shoved you- Your- Your phone-” He took a shaky breath, tears spilling over, “It fell through the space in the glass divider on the railing and down the cliffside. It’s gone.”

 They were back, sitting in Zen’s apartment- Zen sitting on the couch, Yoosung sitting on the chair. Zen had insisted he sit down on the couch, but Yoosung said nothing, plopping back into the same spot, arms crossed, eyes puffy and worrisome. 

 Zen sat up, unable to take the silence, scooting closer to Yoosung, moving to the other end of the couch. He looked at the blond seriously, reaching to place a gentle hand on his knee- he felt Yoosung flinch at the touch.

 “Yoosung, it’s okay. It’s not your fault my phone got lost.”

 “Yes it is.”

 “How?”

 “I bumped into the guy.”

 “He bumped into you and was an asshole.”

 “We wouldn’t have been at the aquarium if it hadn’t been for me, and you wouldn’t have lost anything then.”

 “I was due for a phone upgrade anyways, Yoosung. It’s fine.”

 “It isn’t fine. I didn’t want my first date with you to include me making you lose something so expensive.”

 Zen smiled, stroking his knee, still looking up at his lavender eyes, even though they would not come to meet his.

 “We can have a better second date. I didn’t think this one was bad, though, Yooung. Unfortunate things happen.”

 Yoosung sniffled, shifting gently, his hands clenching and unclenching in his lap. He shook his head, almost like he didn’t realize he was doing it, his bangs swishing before him, having fallen from the product he’d put it in it a while ago. 

 “Why would you want to go on a second date with me?”

 “Because I think you’re nice. And you look nice. Nice. You.”

 A small smile cracked on Yoosung’s lips, a soft burst of laughter peppering from them. He wiped his face on his sleeve, stealing a glance up at Zen, who was still all smiles and warm stares. He sighed softly, his body relaxing.

 “I thought you’d be angry. It seems like something to be angry over.”

 “It’s not like you threw my phone over the edge.”

 “That’s true, I suppose.”

 Zen slid his hand up Yoosung’s leg, lacing it into one of his hands, releasing them from the curled-up fists they’d formed. He gave it a gentle squeeze.

 “Where would you like to go next, Captain?”

 Yoosung smiled softly, his lavender eyes sparkling in the light of dusk that poured in through the blinds. 

 “Maybe we can go see a musical show. I hear there’s some really handsome silver-haired actor that’s pretty popular.”

 Yoosung hardly had a chance to object as Zen lifted himself on his knees, connecting their lips like it was the only thing that made sense. Yoosung’s eyes fluttered closed without a second thought, his free hand coming up to tangle in Zen’s hair, squeezing the hand that was holding Zen’s own. Zen sighed into the kiss, his lips soft, incredibly so, like the way a flower petal feels when you touch it- smooth, and velvety, and comforting.

 Zen pulled away gently, red eyes meeting violet, and the two smiled, both elated and shy, and for once on the same page. Yoosung ran his thumb idly along the back of Zen’s soft hand- everything about him seemed soft, right now.

 “So…”

 “So.” 

 “How about that musical?”

 THE END.

[peinde]

colorful headcanons.

frost blue: does your muse enjoy the snow and cold? or are they the type to enjoy summer more? She definitely enjoys the summer more. Being cold blooded, if everything around her isn’t warm, she’ll quickly freeze, so the warmer the better.

peacock blue: is your muse honest? what sorts of lies do they tell, if not? Absolutely not. If you ask her what colour the sky is on a sunny day in California, she’ll tell you green in a heartbeat. Feferi WILL lie at any given opportunity, sometimes for fun.

lapis lazuli: does your muse prefer the idea of exploring the depths of the oceans, or the boundless expanses of space more? She’ll always choose the ocean. Had it not been for Earth’s immense pollution, she would’ve set her sights on its waters ages ago.

reddish brass: how likely is your muse to step up and take the role of a leader? are they willing to take the challenge, or are they more apt to being a follower? Feferi loves to lead; it’s in her blood! She’s already quite the leader, both as a model and as a UN rep. Following orders just simply isn’t something she was made to do, and unless you’re her wife, don’t bother trying to get her to follow!

burnt umber: how stable is your muse, mentally and/or emotionally? Not very, but she’s getting better. Her confidence has definitely built up over the course of her marriage, and she has a lot more of a sense of self-worth than before. There are still quite a few things she needs to work on, and should painful memories of her past be drudged up she can easily spiral again. The recent development with her lusus set her back quite a bit, but with her wife helping she won’t go back to as dark of a place.

champagne: does your muse drink (alcohol)? are they a heavy drinker, if so? Not anymore. She used to be an alcoholic before she met her wife. She does occasionally enjoy a drink during festivities, but never more than three.

tea orange: what is something that your muse is fascinated with? Organisms. There isn’t a single living being she hasn’t found beautiful in some way.

malachite: has your muse ever done anything that they winded up feeling incredibly guilty for in the end? Yes. She’s cheated on her mate Gamzius. They’ve moved past it, but there are times where she still feels guilty about it.

olive: is your muse prone to feeling envious of others? if yes, what is it that they typically feel envious over? No. Envy isn’t a feeling Feferi typically feels.

vermillion: is your muse courageous, or would they consider themselves to be more of a coward? Neither. She doesn’t have a concept of fear, so she can neither cower in it nor overcome it with courage.

coral: what is your muse’s romantic and sexual orientations? Polyamorous panromantic pansexual.

bougainvillaea: would your muse consider themselves as blunt, or do they beat around the bush instead? She definitely beats around the bush, unless she doesn’t understand something. She will always say she doesn’t understand.

currant: what’s something that absolutely disgusts your muse (can be a person, place, thing, ect)? Being given money as a gift. She finds the gesture humiliating, as though she’s charity. She herself loves to give others money as gifts, but no one should ever give her money or offer to give her money. What does she look like, a poor person???

crimson: how passionate is your muse about the things they love most? Oh, very! Get her talking about her interests and she won’t stop, provided you’re someone about which she can feel comfortable talking.

raspberry: what food and/or drink can your muse not get enough of? do they indulge in it often, or is it something reserved for special occasions? There aren’t really any foods that she loves that much. She does have an affinity for fish tacos and sushi, but she is very particular about how they are prepared and how she eats them.

baby blossoms: does your muse have a favorite scent? what is it, and why? Sea salt. It makes her nostalgic.

mallow: what sorts of things might remind your muse of those close to them? any scents, objects, sounds? The colour red, jewels, axolotls, plants, gold, college textbooks

aubergine: does your muse prefer the day, or are they more of a night-owl? The day. It doesn’t feel right if she isn’t up by sunrise.

acacia: how much does it take for your muse to hate someone? Not much or a whole lot, depending on how you look at it. She does hate a few people, some of them for arbitrary and very petty reasons, but most have happened after long strings of whatever she deems injustices. It might be calling her ugly, ignoring her, or more serious things like hurting a loved one. To get her to hate you is a very complicated and unpredictable process, but should you achieve it, be ready to grovel for her forgiveness. She doesn’t forgive very easily.

cadmium yellow: what subjects or topics does your muse avoid, because they bring up harmful / painful memories? She doesn’t like talking about her lusus. She will also avoid certain parts of her sexual past. She will never discuss crushes either.

honey: when your muse loves someone (whether it be romantic, platonic, or familial love), how do they show it? She loves calling her loved ones by nicknames, giving them gifts, and coddling them.

chartreuse: if you had to describe your muse with a color, what color would it be and why? Milennial Pink. It’s a light colour, but not quite as girly as bubblegum or ballet pink. It has a neutrality to it that’s a bit unnerving, just like Feferi.

anise: when it comes to self-care, what does your muse do to take care of themselves? do they take care to spend time on it, or do they feel they don’t deserve it? Self care to Feferi means keeping herself looking at perfect as possible. Self care to her wife, however, means relaxing as much as possible. Feferi feels it’s expected of her to maintain the former, and feels she doesn’t deserve the latter, but Zi is hellbent on showing her otherwise.

new leaf: what message would your muse send to their past self, if any? “Stay dead.”

moss: how easily does your muse adapt to any new situations they’re thrust into? It depends on the situation, but generally Feferi will play along until she can come up with a plan. She prefers things to be neat and organized, and will become a bit irritated when they aren’t, but she manages to hold on until she can readjust.

silk: does your muse care about appearances much? do they spend a lot of time on their own appearance, or do they just go with the flow each day? Oh yes. Her career as a model relies entirely on her appearance. She gets up at dawn each day to make sure her hair, makeup and clothing all look absolutely perfect.

sanguine: does your muse typically have an optimistic, pessimistic, or some middle ground outlook on life? Pessimistic, definitely. She doesn’t have much hope, but she’s working on looking on the bright side.

atoll: if your muse could go anywhere, without any restrictions whatsoever, where would they go? why would they go there? To the bubbles. She hasn’t been able to go back since she was revived.

cool grey: if your muse could ensure one thing for certain in their future to come, what would it be? More power.

black: does your muse have a ‘bucket list?’ list some things your muse wants to accomplish before they die. Not really. She more or less has a constant To-Do list that she keeps updating.

[atypical60]

Happy December!!!Before I go on with this post, I must share something.   I’m so emotional right now because it is one of those moments where you realize you taught your daughter well on the subject of high/low shopping.

Happy December!  Can you find me?

Oona and her boyfriend are planning a few dinner parties. Among them, she will be entertaining his family and wants everything to run smoothly.  Now—they recently moved into a new home and with that comes shopping for all things grown up (it’s the first house).  This runs the gamut of furniture to anything else “home” related.  She’s been spending a ton of time at Home Goods lately.

And so, we were having a conversation about dishes and china, table settings and she mentioned that she was looking for white dishes because white goes with everything (I have white dishes—she’s such a good girl!).  She was looking around at various sets when I mentioned to her that she should head to her local dollar store.  The Dollar store is a mecca for plates and bowls and the cost is so minimal that if you break an item, it’s not a stress nor is it a big deal.

Some of my white dollar store bowls…

…and a couple of the many plates. I’m mixing red and white this year–but I haven’t finalized that thought yet!

Then I mentioned that I have bowls from the dollar store that have lasted for almost 20 years. I have soup bowls, cereal bowls and a ton of plates.  They always look good on the table and the simplicity of them makes a great canvas for the food.  Proof that you do NOT need a ton of money when it comes to home-related goods.

My blue dollar store bowls that are almost 20 years old!  I love these!

This morning she called me and thanked me.  She was at the dollar store and wanted my opinion on plates. Textured or plain?  I can’t tell you how tickled I was.  I taught her well.  And that is a bit of advice to everyone.

Oona sent these pics to me for my opinion.  I’m so proud of my baby for listening to mommy! I need a moment here to wipe the tears from my eyes!

Plates break. And rather than get all flustered in attempting to spend a fortune replacing a “good” and expensive item of China, I go with the budget-minded.  They are dishwasher safe and it’s the food and company that are more important!

OK—back to the post!

My efforts for a truly pretty “nude” pink/rose/mauve are a constant challenge.  My coloring is cool and I have pink undertones.  A bright pink looks horrible on me.  Many pink/nudes just look downright weird.  Due to my aging lips, darker colors that once did look good, no longer do.

A sampling of my lip colors.  In all honesty, I should trash some of these but I can’t bring myself to do so…

They just kind of “hang out”!

I do have my favorites, and my usuals—but still, it is difficult to find the right lip color.

Among my usuals–NYX Butter Gloss–especialy the Tiramisu color. It’s a great neutral!

A few days back I was in Walmart. And to tell you the truth, I was getting pissed off about the rising price of these drug-store lipsticks.  I searched and perused and felt like Goldilocks with her porridge.  Either the colors were too intense or too “off”. Nothing was quite right.

Then I happened to pass the Rimmel display and noticed these Lasting Finish by Kate (Moss) lipsticks.  One tube caught my eye. The Number 08.  I opened the tube and the color did appear slightly dark but I took my chances. After all, what’s one more lip color that doesn’t work?

Well. At under five bucks, this lipstick is an absolute winner.  The color is everything I’ve been looking for. It’s a subtle mauve/rose.  Almost a caramel but not quite. It’s beautiful! Although it doesn’t last the eight hours that Rimmel says it does, it lasts a long enough time for me to be happy with it. That’s all that matters!

I’m so pleased with this winner of a lippie!  It just looks so wonderful and very mature woman flattering!!

This is a great lipstick that will be sticking around in my collection for a while. I’ll have to get back to Walmart later to grab a couple more tubes because with my luck, Rimmel with discontinue it!

I’m wearing Number 08 today!  Oh. And before I head out to buy a couple of backups, I will be sure to wear a heavy scarf to hide my turkey neck!  So happy I did my roots this morning!

And speaking of “stick” and “sticking” (what a segue), I had quite the interesting occurrence on Friday with my KitchenAid stand mixer.

I was mixing bread dough.  Now—the recipe I have calls for mixing the dough about ten minutes. Fine.

And while the dough was mixing, I decided to be pro-active and prepare all the ingredients for the pound cake that I would also be baking that afternoon for Bonaparte.  The counter was full of the proper ingredients and I was feeling rather good about myself for being so prepared.

Ingredients for the next batch…like ladies in waiting I have cake makings in waiting!

When the dough was finished, I released the lock, lifted the dough hook, and proceeded to take the dough out and place in another bowl to proof.

Dough mixed and ready to proof.  This happens on a regular basis!

But something happened.  The bowl of the KitchenAid mixer was stuck to the base and wouldn’t release.  I tried for ten minutes to rotate the bowl with no success.

Why did I feel as though I was reliving this scene from A Christmas Story?

At this point I was starting to panic because panic is what I do best! Nothing worked.

Too bad I didn’t have any paper bags in the house or I could have done this to get rid of my panic.

I went online and discovered that this, although not common, does happen.  KitchenAid’s suggestions are to apply hot compresses to the base of the mixer where bowl meets mixer.  After ten minutes, apply another hot compress.  A half-hour later the bowl didn’t move at all.

Next suggestion was to apply Mineral Oil.  Thank God, my innards sometimes need a “push” and I get that push by swallowing this stuff.  I applied the Mineral Oil to my constipated bowel…er…bowl.  Nothing. Nada. That bowl wasn’t going anywhere.  I could not move my bowl.

Mineral oil was next. It may move your bowels but didn’t move my bowl!

I knelt down on the floor, blessed myself and prayed to St. Jude.  Either ol’ Saint Jude was too busy dealing with other prayers from impossible cases to hear me or he just wasn’t feeling the love for me! My prayers went unanswered.

This guy and I are old friends.  My entire LIFE is one hopeless case.  I got him on prayer speed dial!

I decided to call the KitchenAid hotline. By this time, I was seething.  All I could think of was my first KitchenAid. The one I had for over 30 years and literally used until the motor blew.  I wanted it back. My current mixer is two years old and the quality doesn’t even come near my first one.

The suggestion from Becky at KitchenAid was to take the mixer, place it on the floor and straddle it with my feet.

Might I add that this freaking thing weighs a ton!

By doing this I could provide the strength to release the bowl.  I complied. Now understand, I’m no weakling. I’m a pretty strong broad.  I could not release the bowl.

I was unable to take a photo of what I did next. Better though–it looked X-rated! Use your imagination.  Your DIRTY imagination.  That’s right!

What happened next is a true account.  Bonaparte arrived home from work.  He saw me in this compromising position with my KitchenAid and the look on his shocked face shocked me.  It was as though I was caught cheating. Cheating with a piece of equipment that was certainly not an “adult” toy!

Let’s just say my Frenchman was even more shocked than this mime guy!

“Qu’est-ce que tu fais!!!!!!???” “CASSIE!!!  QU’EST-CE QUE TU FAIS!!!!???”   He was so upset at the sight that he forgot he spoke English! I had never heard my reserved and refined Frenchman scream so loud!

He almost became ill at the sight of me with my KitchenAid!

After he finally regained his composure from both the sight of me looking like I was giving inappropriate lust to my KitchenAid and seeing the mess on the counter, I explained what happened.

He took the mixer from in between my legs, lifted it, placed it on the counter and with two swift moves, the bowl released.

I think I heard my little KitchenAid ask for a cigarette after that physical encounter with me! It is now at rest.

I was at a loss for words.  However, I would rather believe that my request to St. Jude was delayed and  He answered my prayer at that exact moment when Bonaparte twisted the bowl.

By the time we sat down to our Friday evening aperitifs, we were able to laugh about this most “sticky” situation.  And the bread was baked and his pound cake was baked and all was well!

Later on, I found out that someone filmed a YouTube video on how to release the stuck bowl to your KitchenAid.  And here it is. As a public for you and as proof that this does, in fact happen!! This video is great!!

Lipstick and A Stuck Bowl–This Can Only Happen to Me! Happy December!!!Before I go on with this post, I must share something.   I’m so emotional right now because it is one of those moments where you realize you taught your daughter well on the subject of high/low shopping.