#also yes I drew the Dutch picture

[notdeadyetmatthews]

Recently got obsessed with scrap booking, so I bought a load of stupid things and have decided that I'm going to do a journal with pages inspired by RDR2 characters.

First off

Mr Dutch Van der Linde

[mrm0rgansw0man]

Can I request something real quick?

Arthur founds out he has a daughter but she’s living in the streets type orphan…

i got WAYY too into this story lol i hope you enjoyy!! Xx

i took a little bit of creative liberty with this one and it was just a blast to write

Daughter of Legend

"She looks just like you, Arthur!" Dutch said, elbowing Arthur arm and wiggling his eyebrows.

"There's no way..." Arthur mumbled, his voice sounded distant. His mind was somewhere else.

"Arthur! We need to go talk to her at least. I mean, look at the girl!"

"Oh fine!" Arthur grumbled. There was no way. She couldn't be..unless... No... Wait... Oh god-

"Hey! Why don't you men jus' take a picture of me if yer' gonna keep starin'! Piss off!"

That voice pulled Arthur from his thoughts, and drew a laugh from Dutch.

"So sorry, little Miss!" Dutch said, raising his hands in the air. "We just-"

"No! Men like you only want one thing from a girl like me- and you can't have it! You friends with the men who came after me the other night? If you come any closer I'll scream!" The girl spat. And fucking god it just broke Arthur's heart. Was it really her?

"Honey.. we're not here to hurt you. Promise." Arthur said, looking the girl in the eyes. Icy blue, just like his. "I jus'..."

"You..." The girl started, cautiously making her way towards Arthur. The southern drawl of her voice sounding all too familiar. "Do I... Are you...?"

"Is your name Victoria...?" Arthur asked softly, his voice raw with emotion but also full of hope.

The girl's eyes welled up with tears, her mouth was agape. Dutch had taken a step back, watching in awe from a distance. Now he understood why Arthur had reacted the way he did.

The girl nodded viciously. She knew who she was talking too, but she couldn't dare believe it to be true. Because what if it wasn't him? Even though she knew it was.

"Victoria Morgan..? Is that your name?" Arthur breathed out. Was is real?

"Yes!" Victoria cried, covering her mouth with her palms. She shook her head viciously. This was real, this was happening. It wasn't just a hopeful daydream she allowed herself to indulge in anymore. Her whole body shook the fore of her sobs, she began to fall forawrd.

Arthur ran forward, catching his little girl in his arms.

"Daddy!" Victoria sobbed, she wrapped her arms around her father and sobbed into his chest. Not even his strong and secure arms wrapping around her could calm her. "Oh it's you it's you I thought you forgot about me! I thought you left! I couldn't find you! Dad!"

Victoria wailed. A sound so painful and raw, it was barley contained by Arthur chest. He silently wept, a steady stream of tears flowing down his face.

"Oh my sweet baby girl.." Arthur said shakily. He cradled Victoria's head in his hands. Just like when she was a baby. It quieted her down a bit, just like when she was a baby. "I looked so hard for you and yer' Mama.... So so hard baby.."

"She's dead daddy..." Victoria whispered. "I- I-"

"Shhh Shhh honey it's okay." Arthur said softly. "You don't need to tell me nothin' now. I'm with you now. I'm never lettin' you outta my sight again."

"I've been so scared.. I tried to find you, for years daddy. I needed you so bad." Victoria whispered.

"Look at me." Arthur said, pulling away from Victoria slightly and holding her face so he could look her in the eyes. "You will never leave my side again. I'm gon' protect you. 'M here now, you just try and forget everythin' that happened to you over all these years. I'm gonna take care of you now."

"Nothin' else matters now that I'm by your side?" Victoria said with a sad laugh. Arthur returned the laugh. He used to say that same thing to Victoria when he'd come back to visit her injured. To stop her from worrying.

"That's right baby, that's right." Arthur said, using his thumbs to wipe away Victoria's stray tears.

"Arthur.." Dutch started, not really sure what to say. "Go..go get your little girl back to camp. I'll finish everything up here. But we need to talk when I get back."

Arthur nodded gratefully. Victoria ignored anyone and anything that wasn't her father, feeling safe in his arms but still stuck in that constant mode of survival and terror.

"I never though I'd see your pretty face again." Arthur said with a light chuckle. "You've grown t'be such a beautiful young woman.. I'm s' sorry I couldn't have been here to watch it happen."

"It's okay." VIctoria said with a smile. "It wasn't by choice, on either of our parts."

"Mhm." Arthur nodded. He smoothed down the ruffled bits of his daughters honey blonde hair. "You're 15 now, god there's so much I need to tell you. S'much we need to talk about.. C'mon. Let's get you home."

Arthur scooped up Victoria in his arms, and made his way over to his horse. He got Victoria settled before climbing on behind her. Neither of them could believe this was real.

"I never thought I'd see you again..." Victoria said softly. Arthur took one arm off the reins and squeezed his daughter in a hug. "Your Arthur Morgan? The gunslinger? And was that Dutch Van Der Linde?"

"That's right honey." Arthur chuckled. "I forget last time I saw ya' you were too young to know I had a name other than 'daddy.' "

"I only knew your last name, cause I heard mama call you Mr. Morgan a few times." Victoria said with a sigh. "I never even knew her name...."

"Eliza." Arthur said softly. Victoria nodded, though she didn't speak. He understood, I mean, what was there to say?

"When she.. y'know. She knew the people were comin'. She sent me out the back door, told me to run straight into the woods near the house. To get in deep, and told me not 'to come back, to wait there for her. She never came to get me. I stayed hidden till the next mornin' before I went back to the house and found her."

Arthur let out a deep and heavy sigh. Sweet Eliza, murdered. Gone. Dead. Her last act was to protect their daughter. God the woman she was. Arthur could shoot himself in the foot, if only he had done things differently.

"Do you know who they were?" Arthur asked quietly. Victoria sighed, running her hands through her hair as she began to think back to that horrible day.

"I remember her sayin' something about a bunch of 'Irish bastards' but that's 'bout it." Victoria said, so casually. If only she knew the information she had just given to her father.

Arthur's head swam, he couldn't hear anything other than the pounding of his heart in his ears.

Irish bastards.

Irish fucking bastards.

O'Driscolls.

a/n: will definitly be doing a part two of this! i get wayyy to invested in these requests and drabbles lol Xx

[bagelboys-withcreamcheese]

Dutch Van Der Linde x Male!Reader

~~

~~

*during one of Dutch’s speeches*

Hosea, whispering: Did you hear that voice crack?

Reader, also whispering: That wasn't a voice crack, that was a whole voice meth.

—

Dutch: I hate you.

Reader: Well, according to this picture I drew of us holding hands, that is untrue.

—

Reader: Oooh, a train!

Dutch: We’re in a train station, Y/N.

—

Reader: I can't imagine what Dutch is planning, but I can tell you two things: I won't like it and it won't be legal.

—

Dutch: Thank you for engaging in the mortifying existence of being known so that I may partake in the euphoric experience of knowing you.

Reader: *finger guns*

—

Reader: Look, I know you think my judgement's clouded because I like Dutch a little bit.

Arthur, holding up Reader’s journal: You doodled your wedding invitation.

Reader: No, that's our joint tombstone.

Arthur: Oh, my mistake.

—

Reader: That shirt looks great, Hosea.

Hosea: Thanks.

Reader: But I bet it would look even better on Dutch's floor.

Dutch: …Are you hitting on Hosea for me?

—

Dutch: I love you

Reader: Why?

Dutch: I honestly don’t know

—

Reader, looking in the mirror: How did you pull that?

Dutch: How did I romance you, you mean?

Reader: No. Hosea. I’ve seen old pictures, he was way out of your league.

—

Reader: If a hot man disagrees with me, I will immediately change my views. I have no principles.

Dutch: Maybe you should have principles.

Reader: You’re right, maybe I should.

Hosea: No, you shouldn’t.

Reader: No, I shouldn’t.

—

Hosea, looking at Dutch: Do you ever have the urge to tell someone to shut up, even when they aren’t talking?

Reader, also looking at Dutch: Yes.

—

Reader, watching Dutch sleep: He’s my life, my love, my everything. He looks so peaceful while sleeping. I love him so much.

Dutch: *snores*

Reader: I can’t live like this.

[cea-tide]

For my birthday last year I was gifted the book "Japan in honderd kleine stukjes" by Paulien Cornelisse, a book about 100 small observations, details, and facts about Japan as seen through a foreigner's eye.

The book is illustrated with cute drawings of what is talked about, made by Cornelisse too, and one drawing struck out to me because I vaguely recognised it from somewhere... but how could I? I have never read this book before.

[/ID: one page of the book in question, with the text in dutch: "60. Liften Omdat Japan zo'n overgereguleerd en veilig land is, heb je er geen lifters. Ik heb het er wel eens geprobeerd, liften. Wat er gebeurde was dat ik door een aardige Japanner naar het dichtstbijzijnde treinstation werd gebracht. Mij werd duidelijk gemaakt: Kijk! Er bestaat in dit land vervoer waar iedereen gebruik van mag maken! Het heet een trein!" Under the text is an illustration of a small rural train station with a thatched roof. It is captioned as "Zeldzaam rustiek Japans plattelandsstationnetje" /END ID]

So it turns out it is this train station pictured below she drew in the book, down to the road signage.

[/ID: the same train station but then in real life. A mountain hill is seen in the background, and the train station is on the right. /END ID]

Picture source (unlikely to be primary source)

So how did I find this picture? Well, coincidentally, a little less than 2 years ago I was ALSO looking for a picture of a rural Japanese train station, just like Cornelisse. If you search those terms it will be one of the top results. So why was I looking for one? Because I needed inspiration for a Minecraft build. At the time a contest was running with "train station" as theme, and I decided I wanted a rural Japanese one. What a funny coincidence!

[/ID: A minecraft build inspired by that train station. The blocks are barely visible because it takes up the full 256 block height limit. On the rails are two trains inspired by the Hankyu 7006 train type, one that for example rides on the Kyoto line as a sightseeing train. /END ID]

So I was curious where this station actually is—reverse image search it is. At first I used Tineye and it found the same image but with a caption: "Japan keeps a defunct Train station running for just one girl, so that she can attend school every day! The train makes only two stops. One when a lone high-school student leaves for school and the other when she returns."

That's interesting, surely there must be more articles about it. And yes, there are. This article talks about the Kyu-shirataki train station on Hokkaido island. But that's odd... that's not the train station we are looking for, because that is around a size of a shed. It seems the story was attributed to the wrong image/station.

Tineye wasn't helping me much more, so I tried it again with Google Image Search, but that didn't want to work at all. When I searched up for the picture again though, just like how I first found it, and clicked through on the website link, I found a pinterest post attributing it to the Yunokami-Onsen station in Minami Aizu, Fukushima prefecture.

And sure enough, there it was!

[/ID: two pictures of the Yunokami-Onsen station during blooming season /END ID]

Picture sources: X and X

[ducktoonsfanart]

Kids and teenagers - Duckverse and Goofyverse characters

Like last time, I'll post my old and post my new drawings of my favorite characters from the Duckverse, Mouseverse, and other universes associated with Mickey and Friends, since I can't tell what the unique name is except for the Classic Disney Universe.

This time with children, that is, children's characters. The first drawing I drew was Gosalyn Mallard, Darkwing Duck's adopted daughter, who is very mischievous, but that's why she wants to help Darkwing Duck in various troubles. She is also a sporty type and a rebellious girl. I drew her after the original picture, but I drew her in my own way. Yes, she is also my favorite girl in the Duckverse.

Another drawing is April, May and June Duck, Daisy's nieces, who are also mischievous but like to help and often hang out with Donald's nephews. They are also members of scouts under the name "Chickadees Patrol". I mostly drew them based on Dutch comics (Duckies and Donald Duck Week). Also, the third drawing represents April, May and June, but from the series The Legend of The Three Caballeros. While in the Dutch comics April is purple, May is pink and June is yellow, in Legend of The Three Caballeros April is yellow, May is orange and June is purple. Just to know the difference.

The fourth drawing I drew was Max Goof, from Goof Troop and who is Goofy's son. He is often a mischievous boy who goes to school and hangs out with P.J. and Pistol (Pete and Peg's children) and often gets into trouble with his father, but still loves his father. He is a very funny character. Yes, I prefer the version of him in Goof Troop more than in both Goofy movies, but that doesn't mean I don't like Max in both Goofy movies where he's also great, but then again I think Max in Goof Troop was awesome. Yes, I drew him based on Goof Troop.

The fifth, sixth and seventh drawings represent Huey, Dewey and Louie from the Quack Pack, but I drew them in the poses of Huey, Dewey and Louie from the Egmont comics published in Holland, Denmark, Scandinavia and other European countries. Although the classic nephews are the best for me, I still think that the Quack Pack version also has its advantages, so I chose to draw them separately. Huey is a leader, fanatic and eager for love, Dewey is a computer science guy who likes to make jokes and Louie who likes comics, music, and saving endangered animals and who likes to play various sports. A real team. Of course I drew them in my own way.

I hope you like these drawings and love these characters. And don't worry, there will be more surprises.

[snootlestheangel]

Oh my gosh can I get more about Woody?!

I love him so much!

I love all of your ocs so much! They’re so much fun!

I love them too!! They're just *squishes their faces*

He's a phenomenal guitar player, and he loves to play whatever Flash wants to sing during little Shadow Company events or something.

Absolute Pepsi fan. Doesn't drink a lot of it, it's more of a guilty pleasure for him.

Doesn't mind a sweet here and there, but sticks to more hearty things like brownies when he does. Man loves himself a good brownie.

Can actually bake pretty decently, especially when he's doing outdoor stuff. Uses a dutch oven to make the most phenomenal apple cobblers anyone has ever eaten.

Appearance wise, he's pretty simplistic. Just a total cowboy that has an affinity for wearing Hawaiian shirts. It's not clear why he likes wearing those so much, but he does and he looks good in them so no one is willing to question. Not quite dark eyes, but still brown, and some messy black hair. Covered in barely visible freckles from all the summers he spent in the sun all day. Just a little bit of a beard, which is more like the Dad Scruff, ya know? He's got a slim Dad Bod. Dad Bod but like Sleek Mode. He's still a lot like his younger self, but just bulked since joining and having kids.

His kids! He's like the Best Dad! Always bringing them home little gifts and just being such a cool dad. Constantly bragging about his kids' achievements. Even though they're only 5 and 3, he's still bragging. "Look at this picture my boy drew!" *shows a very toddler-like rendition of a triceratops* "He's so talented!"

Yes he is absolutely aware that he's exaggerating and being a total DadTM but he doesn't care! That boy needs his father's support in life! And he definitely takes his daughter on Daddy-Daughter dates when he's home. Just spoils the hell out of her when he can, and does everything in his power to let her be a little girl. Sometimes that means dressing up and playing tea party.

Woody was definitely valedictorian in high school. He's incredibly smart, but he's never held it over/against others. For anything, he used to tutor other kids and was constantly being praised for being a really good teacher cause he helped others realize their intelligence isn't defined by tests and academic stuff, and that they're intelligent in other ways. (Truck would have loved for Woody to be in his life during school, but he would never tell the other that)

Doesn't have too bad of a childhood, definitely just kind of went through it and then decided he didn't know what to do with his adult life, leading to him joining. Has a good relationship with his parents and his older and younger brothers (one older, one younger). Has a lot of extended family and so things get crazy around the holidays and birthdays/other big family events.

A good ole Southern boy, if you will. Is an incredible sharp shooter, especially with handguns and smaller rifles not designed for sniping. This skill sometimes scares people that don't realize he grew up out in the middle of farm country Southern USA. Grew up on a cattle farm and he loves visiting his parents, especially with his kids. Sometimes, "his kids" also means an additional adult person (Ness, having like no childhood, loves when Woody takes him out to the Fallwood farm. He gets to experience all the fun things Woody did as a kid with his brothers, and it's a good healing experience for him. Besides, Woody's family is so Southern sometimes that he doesn't feel weird for not being able to form words correctly, cause half the time he just ends up sounding like Woody's uncle and that's good enough for everyone)

Likes to keep things lighthearted cause he knows how horrible life in the military can get and he doesn't want to lose any more Shadows, especially the young ones. He had an old buddy from basic that went through some really serious shit and ending up taking his own life. That fucked Woody up, so he's constantly doing check-ins with everyone, even though it's not his job. He's just so worried in his own way.

Will give the softest looks as he asks if you're okay, and you respond with something like "hanging in there". Always opens his arms for a hug, but will give what he refers to as the "Fist bump for morale". Because of all the worry he has for other Shadows, he's greying early and it's especially noticeable in his scruff. Has so many worry lines and smile lines. Just looks older than he actually is cause he wears his stress on his face/body.

[hyporheicflow]

ok, (this might be long so bear with me here i’m sorry) i got the very bright idea to try and braid my hair last night since i’ve been letting my mullet grow longer than usual, i’m too lazy to cut it but also i kinda want to see how long i can let it grow anyways, that shit was hard. i spent more time than i even want to think about trying to do a dutch braid up the back of my head and then i still had to do the top half to meet back it was a serious test in my patience, dexterity, and (most importantly) arm strength. i almost forgot just how difficult it can be to braid your own hair, and it’s just so much worse when you can barely hold onto it

but now, all i can think about is little mullet boba (maybe just as he’s growing his hair out to the length it is later on? idk, but the point is it’s not super long) trying to figure out how he’s gonna fit it under his helmet since now it’s too long to just leave alone and so i’m just picturing little boba sitting there trying (and mostly failing) to braid his mullet up, while fennec just watches on in amusement because “no fennec, i don’t want or need help” (i like to think there’s an unholy amount of bobby-pins and maybe a few sparkly clips involved to keep it all together those first few times) or maybe, alternatively, boba realises just how hard it is and agrees to let fennec braid his hair instead until it’s long enough for him to do it with less struggle. either way, the mental image of baby mullet boba trying to figure out his braids has been haunting me all day and i needed to share

first off can i just say my favorite asks are when people with mullets come here to tell me about them lmfao <3 it feels like such a specific corner of the internet i’ve accidentally cultivated considering i don’t actually have a mullet myself!! but i do have very long hair rn so i completely feel you on the braiding lol

 (also i saw your follow up and you’re right, reqs aren’t open rn, but i was already on this train of thought and am always in the mulletverse mood lol so enjoy some rougher sketches and some context lmfao)

and yes!! it is absolutely my hc that fennec teaches him (idk how long you’ve been here but my thoughts here are an extension of the baby fennec as zam wesell’s protégée verse that i played around with a while back) and boba is allergic to asking for help so it’s a whole thing and fennec teases him relentlessly about his first few attempts...

the other thing i’ve been thinking about re: helmet braids is fennec’s threading...i’m not sure what the costumers were inspired by for it but i personally was reminded of hair tapes like this (painting is from 1586, unknown artist):

i imagine that added structure would be really helpful with layered hairstyles like boba’s mullet lmfao...

anyway from there i got into the idea of fennec teaching boba how to do these hair tape styles to keep the helmet hair to a bit more manageable level lol

(and here are some rough sketches of how that could look (one based on fennec’s, one based on an alternate padmé costume i drew a while back)

[jiejie-eonni-onee-sama]

You targeted my heart...

For the beloved @empress-writes​

Hope you will enjoy the story!

"Q, get me out of here!"

**"This is what I am currently doing, 007!"**

Running down the building, James Bond dodged bullets as he tried to find the exit.

Seriously, he thought this mission in Uzbekistan would be a simple one: all he had to do was to find a file about a Dutch press magnate, retrieve it, and bring it back to England. In short, a piece of cake.

But concretely, nothing went as planned, and he gets caught by two Russian agents who were also after this file.

Once he was outside the building, James ran into the streets, trying to leave his pursuers behind. As he passed near an alley, a hand grabbed him by the collar.

"Come here, you idiot!"

Pinned against a wall, James looked at the main street as his pursuers passed close without noticing him.

Suddenly, he heard a familiar voice saying:

"My, my... Everywhere I go, there is always trouble. And when there is trouble, it means that you're in the area, dear James!"

The British spy turned his head and nearly choked when he recognized his savior:

"(Y/N)?"

"Herself, Mister Bond!" smirked the woman.

007 growled:

"I should have known that you will be here, too!"

"Is that how you thank me? How ungrateful! What happens to the good manners that make British men's reputation?"

James rolled his eyes at the ironic remark: nothing from (Y/N) (L/N) could surprise him anymore. 

Indeed, the American spy was the only person on Earth that could cross swords with the best English spy without a scratch. 

Both played cat and mouse since their first meeting in Paris. 

A game that they would never grow tired to play, even if it implies getting on each other's nerves.

"What are you doing here, (Y/N)?"

"Guess what?"

James sighed.

"You're here for the same reasons, I suppose?"

"Bang on, Mister Bond! And judging by your attempt to beat Usain Bolt's record, I assume that you have found this file?"

"How could you be so sure?"

"Let's just say that I've learned my lesson from Tokyo..."

The blonde man grinned.

"I hope you're still not mad at me..."

The woman has a disdainful air.

"Who do you take me for, uh? A little girl?"

"No, for a very resentful woman."

She shrugged.

"Anyway! I have no time to lose with you: I have unfinished business waiting for me..."

"I thought I was the unfinished business..."

She grinned.

"You wish you were, Mister Bond."

(Y/N) turned around and walked away.

"Have a safe journey home, 007!"

Her attitude puzzled James: usually, she would have fought for taking the file. Now, she did not even mention the coveted object. Something was wrong...

Tired, James decided to go back to England and took the first plane for London. 

Once he sat on his seat, he discreetly opened the file behind a newspaper. The British spy was shocked to discover that the file was empty.

Well, almost empty, as he noticed a small note.

"To win a race, the swiftness of a dart

Availeth not without a timely start."

Think about those words of wisdom from La Fontaine.

Sincerely yours.

(Y/N)

Defeated, James growled of frustration: she outsmarted him, once again.

He did not why, but imagining (Y/N) triumphally smiling at him while saying "Gotcha!" did not annoy him that much. Honestly, he found her pretty cute when she acted sassily. 

Yes, this girl will be the death of him, but no woman can compete with (Y/N) (L/N).

Meanwhile, in another plane, (Y/N) checked the file, grinning. She can picture James's face when he would realize that she beat him to this mission. 

The American spy dreamily smiled as she thought about his icy blue eyes. They perfectly matched his chiseled face... Uh, Lord: why her best frenemy has to be so handsome?

(Y/N) smirked: they will meet again and would resume their little game. She just needed to be patient.

A few months later, in a forest in Colombia.

"Speak, you bitch!"

The contact of the calloused hand with her cheek made (Y/N) hissing with pain. She turned her head and glanced furiously at her jailers.

The American operative cursed herself for being so reckless. She was so eager to catch this gang red-handed that she forgot to be discreet.

And now, she was in a life-threatening situation. This time, she probably won't escape... 

"For the last time, I ask you: Who send you here?" snarled the gangster.

"Your mother!" she snickered.

The gunman grimaced.

"So, you want to play this game? As you wish..."

He took a blowtorch and turned it on.

"Maybe this would help you recovering your memory..."

Trying to untie her ropes, (Y/N) started to panic as she saw the flame coming closer to her face...

"How rude of you to treat a lady this way!"

All stopped on their tracks as they heard a voice coming from nowhere.

As for (Y/N), she recognized this familiar voice: it meant that a charming British spy was not far...

"Show yourself, bastard!" screamed the mobster as his henchmen and he drew their guns.

"If you ask politely..." replied James as he gunned down a gangster.

Taking advantage of the element of surprise, (Y/N) untied her feet and kicked two of the men in the legs, making them fall. 

Then, she broke the ropes that bound her hands and joined the fight. 

While he got rid of two opponents, James glanced at (Y/N) as she furiously knocked out her adversaries. The British spy must admit that the American spy was sexy when she was angry. A real lioness!

"James! Stop checking me out and fight!"

"At your orders!" 

They kept fighting when suddenly, a mobster caught the woman by surprise and pinned her down, strangling her.

Struggling to breathe, (Y/N) kicked the air with her feet, trying to get rid of his iron grip. But she failed, and her vision started to blur.

Luckily for her, James shot the man in the head, saving her from certain death. 

As (Y/N) gasped for air, James rushed to her side.

"You're right?"

"I knew worse..." she grimaced.

The blonde man noticed the bruises on her face. His blood boiled with rage: he should have intervened sooner! How dare they hurt her?

But the priority was to take (Y/N) to a safer place. He carried her in his arms and rushed to his car before driving down to his hotel. Once they arrived, they managed to reach his room without being noticed by the staff.

Then, James gently laid the woman on the mattress before picking his first aid kit and starting to heal her wounds.

"I suppose that I should thank you for saving me..." she whispered.

"Don't bother... Besides, I only return you the favor."

(Y/N) glanced at him with a questioning look.

"The favor?"

"Do you remember when you saved me in Uzbekistan?"

The American woman nodded.

"This time when I save you from the Russian agents?"

"Indeed."

She smirked.

"You bet I remember it... I thought you would be mad at me after my little trick!"

He laughed.

"Not even the slightest. You played well, and I consider it as my retribution for Tokyo!"

They went silent for minutes before (Y/N) dared to ask:

"Why did you save me?"

James slightly bit his lip before answering:

"Well... I could not let you die. Because I would never find someone equal to you."

"I'm flattered."

He came closer to her, their faces apart from inches.

"I meant it, (Y/N). I would find life tedious if you were not here."

"Because I'm just a playmate to you?"

He gave her a small peck on the corner of her lips.

"We can be more than that if you want..."

"Maybe one day..." she replied with a tired smile.

James nodded: duty will come first, no matter what would happen.

"We have all the time in the world..." 

"Will you waiting for me?" the woman whispered as she drifted into sleep.

She barely heard James's answer:

"I will wait, (Y/N)."

A year later, in London.

Walking down the snowy streets, James looked at the peaceful surrounding with a small smile. After several missions around the world, M granted him some days off. 

007 did not complain about it: saying that he was tired would be an understatement.

However, he could not stop thinking about (Y/N): he did not see the American spy since their last encounter in Colombia, and he missed their flirtatious game. James hoped she was doing well...

"Do you miss me, Mister Bond?"

The British spy turned around and smiled when he spotted the young woman sitting next to him, elegantly dressed in a crimson winter coat. She gave him a charming and warm smile.

"I return you the question, Miss (L/N)."

She laughed.

"If it wasn't the case, I would not be here."

The British man chuckled.

"You got the point."

They stayed silent for a few minutes before he muttered:

"I missed you, (Y/N)."

"I missed you too, James." 

(Y/N) questioned:

"If you're still ready... Then, will you be more than a playmate to me?"

A genuine smile came across James's face:

"I am always ready. Especially for you!"

He got up and offered his hand:

"I know a place where we can talk about it... Will you come with me?"

She got up and put her arm around his and replied:

"Let's go, then."

The pair walked to their destination, arm in arm. Suddenly, James heard a small sound coming from his phone. Looking at the screen, he saw a message from Q:

Should I order an engagement ring?

Smirking, Bond texted back before giving all his attention back to (Y/N). They both have all the time to think about it... 

Meanwhile, in his lab, Q worked on his computer when his phone buzzed. Intrigued, he picked his phone and laughed when he saw the reply of 007:

Later, Q. Promise, you will be the first to know...

The quartermaster smirked: (Y/N) and Bond aimed at each other's heart and hit it right on the mark.

Let's see what would happen in the future, even if he hoped the best for the two secret agents...

Thanks for the reading!

I hope you enjoy the story: please let me know!

Don’t hesitate to send me requests: it will be a pleasure!

See you later and take care! 😘🥰😍😷

[killian-whump]

Game Night! [Liveblog #2]

And here comes the next part of Josh’s Game Night video, featuring our favorite guy and some other folks :)

Again - Don’t send me bitchy asks for doing this, you’ll be barking up the wrong tree. I’d literally be posting the video itself right now if I could, so...

ANYWAY! Moving right along!

After the conclusion of the Would You Rather? segment, we’re now moving on to Jackbox games. Josh asks if they’re familiar. Kat is, but Colin and Sam both shake their heads no. I, too, am unfamiliar with this. Guess I should pay attention to the explanation.

Oh wow. There’s a fifth person now on the Zoom call, Josh’s producer Sammy, and now everyone’s boxes are smaller. She’s going to tell us how the games work, while I wonder what Josh needs a producer for. She’s mostly giving the guests the technical information here. The first game is Drawful, which is basically pictionary or whatever, they get a silly prompt and have to draw it.

I can tell already that Colin’s getting excited to play games, lol. Look at him up there in the corner grinning like a mischievous imp:

Sorry for the graininess of this, but we need to zoom in:

COLIN O’DONOTROLL, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN 😂

Okay, so the stars are all going to the Jackbox website, and now they’re going to draw pictures of themselves for their icons. Sam has just entered Jackbox with the username “joshsucks�� 😂 He’s really happy with himself:

Josh says he’s never seen him happier 😂 “That’s a child’s joy.”

Kat’s and Colin’s icons come up. “She’s got a pen!” Colin tattles.

Sam’s icon comes up. I have no idea what it is. Josh has no idea what it is either, and says “Is that like... Thor? What am I looking at?” Sam doesn’t explain.

Here’s their icons:

Note the undeniable presence of the Ayebrow on Colin’s 😂

Okay.. first round. They’re all drawin- Wow. Josh is already DONE drawing. Even Sammy is frightened by how quickly he finished. Sammy announces that joshsucks is ready. “Alright, we don’t need to actually say his name out loud each time,” Josh says. I can feel the determination to win radiating off of Colin as he draws.

Pictured Above: Very Serious Drawing Face (also: sweet floof)

“Do we start drinking yet?” Sam asks. Colin is still drawing. Josh gives the green light on drinking, and Sam goes for it. Kat’s having whiskey. Colin’s done drawing now, and sips his tea. “Strong tea,” Sam says.

The first drawing comes up:

I have no idea what that is, but obviously Josh drew it, and I can’t even formulate a cohesive guess because Colin is now making this face:

and I’m too busy laughing, because that is a man who takes his silly drawing guessing VERY seriously, because guessing right = WINNING 😂 Josh is telling us that whoever drew that is a genius. “Oh Jesus,” Sammy says. The guesses are coming in...

Sammy: Joshsucks is in. Josh: OKAY. Sam: Every time :)

The guesses are up: “ye olde jailhouse” “oramge bus” (sic, and lol) “prison eyes” and “alcatraz”. One of these is the right answer. The others are the players’ guesses. Everybody has to vote for what they think the real prompt was. “It’s hard not to vote for an oram-jay bus,” Josh says. “It’s dutch,” Sam says. “It’s dutch, alright?”

The results are coming up... The real prompt was Alcatraz! “That’s not Alcatraz,” Sam says. “That is terrible,” Colin says. “It’s rubbish,” says Sam. Josh wonders what else he could’ve drawn. “Draw... an island,” Sam says. “Oh yeah,” Josh says. “It’s on an island...”

Colin’s guess of “prison eyes” got ALL the votes (besides his own), so he’s now winning! Check the grin on that goof’s face, you guys:

Next picture comes up:

I have NO idea who drew this, you guys. No idea at all. Sam asks what to do now. "If you drew it, just... think about your work,” Sammy advises.

The guesses come up: “the coolest guy alive” “king of games?” “king horowitz” and “creepy prince”. Those are some terrible guesses, lol. Only cos the king of games guess has a question mark on it. Otherwise, it would be a good guess. I just doubt the actual prompt would have a question mark...

Results are up! Right answer was “creepy prince” and only Josh voted for it. “What’s coming out of my mouth?” Josh asks. “It’s like hm-hm-hm,” Sam says. “Like that emoji... the creepy one.” Colin scored NO points that round, but everyone else did. He’s still in the lead, but they’re closing in...!

Will Colin keep his lead? Will Sam ever tell us what his icon’s supposed to be? Can anyone even hear Kat? STAY TUNED FOR THE NEXT INSTALLMENT!!!

[asthesamcroflies]

Hi can I get an imagine with Happy. The reader works with Gemma and Happy has a crush on her. One night they run into each other in a bar and they're a little drunk he takes her home where they get it on. She thinks its a one night so she gets up to go but he stops her and tells her he likes her and to stay. Definitely smutty with a cute ending please

So, I also had a separate request which just stated Happy Lowman/smutty/#26 and thought I’d incorporate the two... Enjoy!

Prompt 26: “You’re a little hostile right now...”

Night One

He didn’t usually get drunk, not in the traditional sense. He’d have to let his guard down for that and Happy Lowman did not let his guard down. Not usually anyway.

But he’d agreed to catch up with some fellow former nomads in a bar they used to frequent back in the day and had ended up drinking more than he’d intended. Not that he couldn’t hold his liquor. But yeah, all things considered, it had been a weird night. So much had changed. Just not for him.

Tank cutting out early had been the final straw. It turned out the burly biker who’d left the nomad life behind to land with the Samdino crew a couple of years ago, a man who had once swore he needed nothing more than his bike and his cut, now had an old lady and twin babies to consider. Tank, for Christ’s sake. Two babies.

Happy – fearless, intimidating Happy – found the mere thought mildly terrifying.

Actually, of the six of them – six guys known to put the fear of god in those who dared cross them or their club, six die-hard bachelors who lived their lives on the road – four were now firmly tied down in a way they’d always vowed they never would be.

That left Mouse and Happy himself still free to indulge in whatever the hell they pleased.

Where once that would have made Happy smug though, now it rankled at him. Not least because he knew nothing would please his ma more than to see him finally settle down. Landing in Charming with the mother charter had been the compromise that allowed him to check in on her, given her advancing years and sometimes poor health. But where his Samcro brothers had old ladies, kids and community ties, he still might as well have been a nomad in all but name – living out of the clubhouse, indulging in the easy pussy that flocked to the place, but never letting anyone get too close. There just wasn’t anyone who—

“Watch it,” he growled, as someone bumped into him, sending his drink sloshing over his hand. “Or I’ll… You.”

“Uh, Happy, hey. Sorry, shit, I’m such a klutz.”

The tall, gruff Son had no idea what to say to the woman stood in front of him. He never did. Not when she was holed up in the Teller-Morrow office with Gemma, not when she was casually strolling across the yard or through the garage, and especially not when she was stood before him in some dive bar in a tiny dress that barely covered her ass, those big eyes slightly hazy with alcohol as she gazed up at him.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, genuinely surprised to see her out of her usual habitat, but realising too late that the simple question unintentionally sounded less like small talk and more like some kind of interrogation.

“Uh, you’re a little hostile right now…” she said, somewhat defensively. “I am allowed a life outside TM, you know.”

Was she? Of course, she was. Well, it depended on what she meant by a life. The concept hadn’t really crossed Happy’s mind until now, and he found himself frowning at the thought of it. As far as he was concerned, her place was in the TM office. And unwittingly starring in the vast majority of the fantasies that drifted into his mind when he wasn’t entirely focused on work.

Obviously, he realised that the scenarios he pictured all too vividly were utterly incompatible with reality. She wasn’t some croweater, easy pussy. For a start, unlike most of the club girls, she had absolutely no idea the effect she had on him. For all he knew, this life she was apparently entitled to could include a boyfriend. Husband even. The thought rankled him more than he cared to admit, even to himself.

“Just… didn’t expect to see you here,” he muttered, realising he was just staring at her and shifting his dark gaze almost guiltily from those tantalising bare legs. Taking in her plump, glossy lips instead didn’t help in the slightest.

“I’ll get you another beer,” she offered, with a little eager-to-please smile, swaying on her heels just a little as she flagged down the barman. “Since I made you spill…”

And in the end, he’d let her. That was how they’d ended up talking most of the night, slow though the conversation was to ignite. Turned out she was there with a girlfriend who’d abandoned her in favour of some guy. Going back to the clubhouse had eventually been Happy’s idea. He was just surprised it was one he’d voiced out loud – and that she’d agreed. Maybe that life of hers didn’t actually include another man after all…

So that was where they’d ended up, back at TM. Both of them were now on more comfortable turf in familiar surroundings and, having raided the clubhouse bar, well on their way towards a new level of drunkenness.

“This might be the most we’ve ever talked,” she giggled, leaning against his shoulder as they sat on top of one of the picnic tables outside in the growing darkness. “You never talk to me, Happy. Don’t you like me?”

The Samcro enforcer didn’t know how to answer that. How could a man with his reputation admit that he didn’t have the courage to talk to a woman he actually liked the idea of for more than a quick fuck? As it turned out, her own Dutch courage negated the need for an answer from him.

Instead, her mouth simply crashed onto his.

She tasted of the vodka she’d been knocking back and something sweet that might have been whatever was slicked on her lips to make them look so damn irresistible and he kissed her back with a hunger that wasn’t exactly a familiar sensation for him. For once, he didn’t just want to get his dick wet courtesy of the first willing body – he wanted her. Specifically her.

“Not here,” he growled, drunk on booze and the intoxicating scent of her perfume, but not too drunk to register that they were too close to the main door to avoid an audience for long. And he wasn’t okay with that, not with her.

Making it to his dorm room was something of a blur though, as if the world flipped into fast forward, only to grind back down to slow motion when somehow she was under him on his bed in just tiny scraps of hot pink lace. He was pretty sure those delicate panties ripped in his big hands in his determination to get them off her, but he had to have her before she drove him out of his goddamn mind.

The groan he drew from her when his tongue plundered her wet heat went straight to his cock.

“Oh god, Happy…” she moaned, her short, neat nails raking over his shaved scalp and practically sending a shiver down his spine.

Part of him wanted to just eat her out until she screamed for mercy, but another part – the part of him that was achingly hard for her – needed something more. And it seemed that was what she wanted too, as instead of complaining when he pulled away, she simply lay there breathless and taking in the sight of his lean, inked torso while he retrieved a condom from the night-stand.

His hand curled lightly around her slim throat and, in one long, slow thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside her, muttering dark curses at the feel of how tight she was around his throbbing cock.

“Happy…”

His name on her lips was practically a whine as her legs wrapped around his pistoning hips, her heels digging into the backs of his thighs and her hands reaching back to grip the headboard of the bed, stretching out her gloriously naked body for him.

“Fuck, yes,” she groaned, her laboured breath hot on his ear. “Harder…”

For once, Happy did as he was told.

The hand around her throat slipped downwards the fullness of her tits, cupping, squeezing the firm flesh, pinching her dusky nipples as he slowed the pace of his thrusts, wanting this to last if it was probably going to be the only chance he got.

She bit her lower lip, her head thrown back and her hips meeting his perfectly as she focused on chasing the orgasm that seemed to be brewing low in her belly.

“Happy, please…” she ground out, one hand leaving the headboard to trail down her own stomach and between her legs, her fingers grazing his slick cock as it slipped in and out of her, before finding the tiny bundle of nerves they had been seeking out.

He only let her rub frantically at her clit for a second, then firmly gripped her wrist and drew her hand away, guiding it back to the headboard with a glare and a shake of his head. If she wanted to cum, he didn’t need any fucking help getting her there.

The biker picked up the pace again, slamming into her hard and fast as she cried out in pleasure, her eyes squeezing closed. His hand cupped her cheek at that, getting her attention.

“Look at me,” Happy demanded roughly, his own breathing getting ragged with his exertions.

Her eyes opened, meeting his and he swallowed hard, letting his thumb trace over her full lower lip, prompting her to gently suck on the digit. When his hand finally slipped away, it trailed down her body, over skin flushed and covered in tiny beads of sweat, and sought out her clit just as she had.

It was somehow too much and not enough all at once and her hips arched helplessly towards his, her thighs clenching and her body trembling as she cried out.

“Oh, Happy, fuck, fuck, fuck…” she all but sobbed. “I’m… I’m gonna cum… I’m… Oh, fuuuuuck!”

With a flare of masculine pride at the response he could induce in her, Happy held out for as long as he could, jaw clenched as he fucked her through the intensity of her orgasm. But the vise-like grip of her soaked pussy around his cock quickly won out and he soon came hard and with a roar that he muffled against her throat, before collapsing down on top of her.

“Jesus…” she sighed breathlessly, as he shifted his weight off her to lie on his back by her side, trying to get his breath back and dashing sweat from his brow with his forearm.

Neither of them spoke. Nothing that came to Happy’s tongue seemed right and the silence soon stretched out between them uncomfortably, even as his brain berated him and told him he was in danger of completely fucking up whatever the hell had just happened.

Sure enough, she started to shift away from him, awkwardness creeping in and, despite what had just transpired between them, making her wrap herself in the tangled sheets and clutch them to her chest.

“Uh, I guess you probably want me to go…” she said softly.

His head snapped towards her at that, but she already had her back to him and didn’t see the look on his face.

“It’s okay,” she continued, obviously not wanting to make the whole situation any more awkward than it had to be. “I’ve been around enough to know how it works, Hap.”

“Stay.”

His low voice was rougher than ever, more hesitant than he’d ever been about anything. He cleared his throat and tried again.

“Stay. Uh, please?”

She turned, wide-eyed. The Tacoma Killer didn’t say please.

“You… You don’t have to do this,” she tried hesitantly, trying to second-guess what was going on here. “One night, that’s the deal, right?”

He shrugged, feigning a casualness he really didn’t feel. “Doesn’t have to be.”

“So… not just one night?” she said, quiet and unsure, clearly mulling over what that might mean.

“Maybe just… night one?” Happy suggested, a rare little grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he reached for her again. They could figure it out later.

[tinkerd]

Interview with Anne Both & David Litchfield first published on www.readingzone.com

A SHELTER FOR SADNESS TEMPLAR PUBLISHING JANUARY 2021

A SHELTER FOR SADNESS is a profound and moving picture book about how a young boy manages his feelings of sadness, not by ignoring them but in giving his sadness the space, care and thought that it needs. We asked author ANNE BOOTH to tell us what inspired the picture book, and illustrator DAVID LITCHFIELD about how he approached the illustrations: Q: What for you are the key ingredients for a great picture book? ANNE: For me, the words have to leave room for the pictures, the pictures have to capture the feeling of the words and extend the story, and both the words and the pictures have to be the best they can be for the demands of that book - be it a funny or a sad book or any other type. DAVID: Oof! that is a BIG question. I'm still trying to work that one out if I'm honest. For me what I personally love about picture books is that you can be transported to the furthest part of someone's imagination but still recognise yourself, and the world, in its pages. It's escapism but also empathy. It's crazy looking animals and creatures but they are experiencing some of the most human emotions of all. There are so many different ingredients that go into these books. But for me I think the ultimate goal is to tell a story that connects with children in the most imaginative way possible. Q: Can you tell us what you wanted to achieve in this book, about how we deal with sadness? ANNE: I hoped it would be good for both children and adults, and that it would help them cope with the type of sadness which stays with us and has to be coped with alongside everyday life. I wanted children to be told that they can build their sadness a shelter as early as possible, as I think that telling children to be 'resilient' (which is a good thing in itself) can sometimes be abusive - it can sometimes really be just saying 'don't tell us you are sad, even though as adults we are doing things which make you sad'. I think children have lots of things to be sad about - big and little things - and learning to build a shelter for their sadness can, paradoxically, help them have permission and space to be happy. DAVID: My hope for the book was to get children - and adults - to talk more about their emotions and how they are feeling. Don't just bundle them up inside. It's important to recognise how you are feeling, recognise that it's there and it exists. And talk it through with someone. A parent or a teacher, or just someone that you trust. The worst thing we can do as human beings is pretend that these feelings are not real and that we should just get over it. Q: Was there one thing that helped inspire the text? ANNE: Yes. I went to a talk at my church, and the speaker quoted this passage from Etty Hillesum; 'Give your sorrow all the space and shelter in yourself that is its due, for if everyone bears grief honestly and courageously, the sorrow that now fills the world will abate. But if you do instead reserve most of the space inside you for hatred and thoughts of revenge - from which new sorrows will be born for others - then sorrow will never cease in this world. And if you have given sorrow the space it demands, then you may truly say: life is beautiful and so rich.' (Esther 'Etty' Hillesum (15 Jan 1914 - 30 Nov 1943) I wrote our picture book text in response to Etty Hillesum's words, so I was trying to expand on her idea that we need to give shelter to our sorrow / sadness, as I thought she had such a wise and beautiful vision, which was, amazingly, born out of her immense suffering as a Dutch Jewish woman under the Nazis, and someone who would actually die in the Holocaust. It was written as my creative response to her words, so writing it actually helped me to think and pray about my own sadness, and I felt it would be a good picture book, to help people cope with sadness that just can't be fixed, but which we need not to overwhelm us or turn us to hate or bitterness. I loved the idea that if we give shelter to our sadness we can truly say that 'life is beautiful and so rich'. Q: Was it a difficult text to write, as it is so pared back? ANNE: I think that because it came after the talk, and hearing Etty Hillesum's beautiful words, and after meditating on, and praying in response, to them, I didn't actually want to use many words. I wasn't paring back anything as such, I was just trying to find my best response to her words, and the writing of it came all at once, but I think the writing wouldn't have come that way if I hadn't already experienced and thought a lot about sadness for years, and hadn't deeply connected with Etty Hillesum's words. Q: Why did you decide the main character would be a boy? ANNE: As I was writing from my own point of view, and in response to Etty Hillesum, I suppose I thought the narrator might be a girl, but I was open to any interpretation. I'm not sure if it was the publisher or David who decided the main character would be a boy, but I am very happy with that. I hope it speaks to boys and girls, men and women, and I think that there is actually something good about it being a boy, as from a very young age, little boys are told to 'man up' and are put under particular pressure not to cry or express sadness - all part of toxic masculinity - so hopefully this will play a part in countering that and telling boys and girls that there is nothing to be ashamed about being sad. DAVID: I'm not sure how this was decided. For some reason I just instinctively drew a boy when I was sketching the book out. I think that's a case of me very much seeing myself in the character as I was making the book. Perhaps an argument can be made that some boys need more help in facing their emotions than girls. But to be honest, I think I just instinctively recognised myself in that character and drew him as a boy. Q: David, what drew you to this text, why did you want to illustrate it? DAVID: As soon as I read Anne's manuscript I knew that I 100% wanted to be the illustrator. I received the project over two years ago and I couldn't start straight away due to other project commitments. I was so scared that Templar would not be able to wait for me. But I was so happy and relieved that they decided to wait until I had finished the other books I was working on. The text just really connected with me and it stirred up some very raw emotions in me. I also recognised that it would be unlike any book I had ever drawn before and the challenge of creating it was something that I really wanted to take on. Q: How did you decide how to depict Sadness? DAVID: There have been a few really fantastic books recently that depict sadness and other emotions as an actual character. Some of my favourites are 'When sadness Comes To Call' by Eva Eland, 'Me and My Fear' by Francesca Senna, and 'Ruby's Worry' by Tom Percival. All of these handle these sensitive subjects so beautifully and visualise what an emotion could look like in the real world. I see our book very much as a continuation of these series of books and the themes they follow. They were definitely a big influence on me when I was drawing the book. In terms of the look of our Sadness, I came up with a number of ideas in my sketchbook. One was a very ghostly, scary looking thing. The other was a teardrop and one was a cloud. But then I just thought about what a typical six or seven year old might draw if I asked them to visualise their sadness. All these confusing and conflicting emotions might come together and it felt like a really messy, scruffy scribble would fit the bill perfectly. Also, I remember trying to articulate how I felt when I was young and the words just wouldn't come out. So drawing a confusing, mess of emotions just felt right. It's also a really great character to draw. you really do feel like you are getting some emotions out of your system and onto the paper when you draw Sadness. Q: David, Can you tell us how you create your images and that special luminosity in your pages? DAVID: Everything starts in my sketchbook and I will plan the whole book out with lots of scruffy sketches. But once I start making the final artwork I usually begin by making lots of very messy watercolour washes, letting the different colours naturally mix into each other. I will also take photos of other textures such as the bark of a tree, or concrete or the sky. I will then scan all of this into my computer and experiment with overlaying each of them together until I find a look and feel that I like. These will then generally take the form of a background for a spread. The characters and buildings I will usually draw out in my sketchbook and then scan these into my computer also. Using Photoshop I will position these over the backgrounds and add other textures over them and just see what works. Basically, its a lot of experimenting and seeing what works with all these different types of media and textures. The luminosity is just an extension of what my art teachers have always taught me about shade and light. But I do like to play around with light and the atmosphere that can bring to an image. I think I really appreciated the drama of light from watching too many Steven Spielberg films growing up. Q: Do you have a favourite spread? ANNE: I love them all! I think the last page is so, so beautiful and gives me hope, but that is because of all the pages that came before, so I couldn't choose! I think David has done an amazing job - the book is so beautiful. DAVID: I like a lot of them. I love the penultimate page where the boy and sadness are walking through the blooming garden. I like the spread early on where Sadness is going through all of the different ways it is feeling and all the different actions it is taking. But I think my favourite image is the simple one of Sadness and the boy sitting together on the log. They are not saying or doing anything, they are just together and there for each other. That's one of my favourite illustrations I have ever drawn in fact. I love it. Q: Will you be creating any more picture books about emotions? What are you working on now? ANNE: I would love to write more picture books about emotions. I have an idea I am trying to find words for - it isn't coming as easily as A Shelter for Sadness but I hope it can work. I also have a little picture book story I am working on, and I am revising and rewriting a middle grade novel, and am waiting to be given edits for an adult novel and should be starting a second adult novel, so I have lots to be getting on with! DAVID: I hope so. I think I will always try and convey emotion in my books and hope that the reader can recognise their own emotions in these stories. Q: Where is your favourite place to work? ANNE: I work in bed (where I am typing this) and in a little writing hut my husband built me in our garden. I also write sitting on the sofa or at the table. When the pandemic is over, I am so looking forward to working in a coffee shop again! I do find it very helpful, when I have lots of work to do, to go away for a few days, to somewhere like Gladstone's Library in Wales, or beautiful retreats in England or France or Ireland I have been to. DAVID: My favourite place to work doesn't actually exist yet. I would love to create art in a cabin in the woods, surrounded by nature. Unfortunately I haven't found that place yet, but I have hope that I will one day soon. At the minute, due to lockdown, I'm drawing my books in the corner of my bedroom, which is not ideal as I'm quite messy and it's quite a small space. It can get a bit frustrating. But, every once in a while I can pretend that I'm in that cabin in the woods and everything feels right again. Q: Where are you most likely to be found when you're not at your desk? ANNE: Maybe out with my husband, walking our dog, or reading in bed, or sitting watching something lovely - I really appreciate good TV and films and I love watching them with other people. I love chatting with family and friends and visiting them. For a post-pandemic answer, I want to leave my desk and travel to see friends and family. DAVID: Mainly riding my bike with my two sons, or walking our dog Maggie, or listening to music very loudly on my headphones. Thank you Anne and David for joining us on ReadingZone!

See original post here: https://readingzone.com/index.php?zone=sz&page=interview&authorid=623a7c5192eb0909e0d251c44bae33c1

[busterkeatonfanfic]

Chapter 3

The third glass of whiskey at lunch was a miscalculation. He felt a little too unsteady on his feet as he walked into the barber shop set and they weren’t filming any pratfalls today, so he couldn’t play it off as that. He put an extra stick of chewing gum in his mouth just in case the first stick and brushing his teeth hadn’t concealed the smell of the drink on his breath, and tried to keep his gait steady. At least he’d be sitting for most of this scene.

Reisner was fussing over the props with the workmen, telling them some sign wasn’t straight. “Buster, where do you want these?” said Bert, gesturing to the barber chairs where he and his girl were destined to reunite. “Do you want them farther apart than this? Closer? Or what?”

Buster shrugged and sat down in one of the chairs. “They look fine to me. Maybe a little closer.”

“I mean, are the cameras going to have enough room?”

“Bert, they’re fine,” he said. “Move them a little closer together if you want. You know I trust you.”

Bert nodded and wrestled the other chair forward a few inches. As he wrestled, he said offhandedly, “You sure scared Nelly, didn’t you?”

Buster had no idea what he was talking about. “Nelly?”

“The prop girl, Nelly.”

“I’m not following.” Behind him and to the side, men bustled lighting into place. 

“The new girl I’ve got in the prop house. I sent her to ask you about the chairs. She looked like a ghost when she came back.”

A second ticked by, then another. Then another. He still wasn’t—

Realization landed like an oversized prop anvil. “Ah, hell.” 

“What?” said Bert.

“That was your prop girl?”

“Yes. What did you say to her to make her look so white?” Bert gave him a knowing look. 

“Nothing!” Buster said. He’d been acting and ad-libbing his whole life and he wasn’t about to stop now. “She got a little tongue-tied and I filled in the blanks. Thought she was coming to ask for her big break in the movies, you know how they corner me about that stuff. I must have embarrassed her, I guess.”

Blame that third glass of whiskey. It had made him dopey and loose, thrown off his judgment. There was a feeling in his stomach right now that he didn’t like, a sizzling sense of shame. It was a feeling that hung around too often these days in one form or another and he was getting sick of it. It wasn’t his fault. Nine times out of ten when there was a woman under the age of forty in his dressing room, she was already naked or willing to be. The other times, it was the age-old hard-luck story about needing a break. He’d had perfect reason to assume both motives. It wasn’t his fault.

The shame niggled. Oh yes it was.

He tried not to dwell on the fact that he’d insulted the girl’s looks on top of it all. In truth, there was nothing wrong with them. She looked fine, just not suited to pictures was all. With the whiskey freeing his tongue, he’d thought nothing of answering honestly. Now the terrible coarseness of his remarks was apparent.

The shame went on niggling him until the cameras began rolling and he lost himself where he always lost himself, facing down the cameras with a stone face. 

By the time she’d gone to bed, Nelly’s humiliation had invited a friend along: anger. She knew that men were frequently cruel, licentious, and crude, but she’d never thought in a million years that Buster Keaton could be counted amongst them. All of it was a damnable lie, the wife and the children and the sophisticated parties, and most of all the sweet trepidatious Buster of the films. He wasn’t Rudolph Valentino’s Sheik or John Barrymore’s Don Juan, not her favorite character or star in other words, but she’d always found him charming; what girl didn’t? She had to wonder—were they all like this? Did Valentino have a nightly habit of robbing women of their virtue? Did Barrymore delight in dressing down girls until they felt about as small and as low as a bug? 

She rolled onto her side fitfully, fuming. It now seemed like a mistake to come to California. Perhaps it was just better to turn tail and go back to Evanston rather than spend another day in the employment of a man who had belittled her ambitions and her looks before she had a chance to get a word in edgewise. She could maybe work herself up to a couple starring roles in local productions, retire at the height of her career, marry, and host garden parties and luncheons for the Women’s Auxiliary Club just like her mother and aunts. Of course, the thought wasn’t a serious one. She was being paid a handsome twelve dollars a day, far more than she’d ever earned as a part-time governess in Evanston. She’d swallow her pride, finish out the picture, and use the experience as entrance into another picture, maybe not a laugh feature next time.

She let a fantasy of John Barrymore rock her off to sleep. Although she’d never seen him in Hamlet , she’d clipped a picture from the production from a magazine and glued it into her scrapbook: dark clothing, brooding brow, those strong hands that could clutch a girl and make her swoon. After Steamboat wrapped up, she’d return south to Hollywood and finagle her way onto the United Artists lot, where she would be cast as Katherine to Barrymore’s Petruchio in Taming of the Shrew . The last thought in her mind before she drifted off was of Barrymore’s big hands tearing the blankets off of Kate as she lay in bed, declaring them unfit for such a woman as his wife.

  The memory of what he’d said to the prop girl bit at Buster like a flea all the next morning. As soon as the cameras stopped rolling, his traitorous mind would wander to the incident and he’d be reminded unpleasantly of what a low thing he’d done. He stuck to one whiskey at lunch, even though he would have preferred a second. He tried calling Nate at the Villa, thinking that hearing her voice might provide some kind of consolation. The phone just rang and rang, until finally Edwin picked up and told him she was with Dutch.

At last, his conscience pricked him so much he left his dressing room early. He peeked in the canteen and cheers of “Buster!” erupted from the extras and the crew. He gave them a wave of acknowledgment and left. The girl wasn’t there. He exited and headed toward the prop house. Feeling slightly shy in addition to remorseful, he swung open the door when he got there. The prop girl didn’t notice him over the sound of the radio. She had her back turned to him at the workbench and was crunching an apple and reading a book.

“Hello,” he said. 

“Jesus Christ!” she said, nearly startling out of her skin and whipping her head around.  

Her swearing made him feel better. In his experience girls who swore could take care of themselves, which meant that maybe he hadn’t crushed her underfoot like a flimsy petunia blossom.

She blanched when she realized who it was. “Oh. Mr. Keaton,” she said. An expression resembling dislike settled on her face. 

He couldn’t blame her. He crossed the room and swung himself onto the workbench, dangling his legs. “I insulted you yesterday,” he said, studying her face. Despite the dainty little mouth she’d drawn on with lipstick, she couldn’t hide the fact that her lips were full. Her brown hair was done up in earphones in a faux bob. She reminded him a little of Evelyn Nesbit. Now that he had a good look at her, without the glaze of whiskey, he doubly regretted what he’d said about her looks. 

She stared straight ahead, expressionless, the apple forgotten in her hand. She still seemed a little nervous around him, but there was a set to her jaw that told him he was not going to be forgiven easily.

“There’s baseball practice tonight at seven. You’re invited,” he tried.

She finally met his eyes. “I have plans.”

“Okay,” he said, conceding. “You’re angry with me. I get it. Look, I was out of line yesterday. I can’t tell you how sorry I am for opening my big fat mouth. I was way out of line.”

She merely looked at him. 

“I acted disgracefully. There’s nothing wrong with your looks. I never should have said anything, I never should have—” He couldn’t bring himself to mention that he assumed she’d also been looking for sex. “I’ve been out of sorts lately and, look, I won’t start making excuses. It was wrong, plain and simple. I made assumptions and I shouldn’t have. What’s your name? Nelly?” he said, pressing. He wasn’t going to let up until that flea he called his conscience stopped biting.

“Nelly,” she confirmed in a flat voice. 

“Let me make it up to you, Nelly. Do you want to be an extra today? I’ll ask Bert to give you the afternoon off.” He could almost see her internal struggle. She set her half-eaten apple on the workbench and folded her hands in her lap. “I don’t want any favors,” she said, staring ahead.

She was a proud one. It should have annoyed him, but he found himself admiring her stubbornness. Anyway, he had a lot of practice in Natalie cracking tough nuts. He hopped off the workbench and sank to one knee, propping supplicating hands on her knee. “Please?”

She drew in her lips and he could tell she was trying not to smile. Ah, sweet victory. 

For his pièce de résistance, he broke into song. “ I can hear the robins singing, Nellie Dean. Sweetest recollections ringing, Nellie Dean .”

Nelly succumbed to the smile. “Alright,” she said, shaking her head and trying to hide it. 

“Good,” he said, getting to his feet. He crossed the room and poked his head into the area where all the costumes were stored. Although the film was ostensibly set fifty years ago, all of the women’s costumes were of the latest fashion. He thumbed through the rack and pulled out a few dresses halfway before selecting a pink sleeveless one embroidered with burgundy flowers. “Wear this,” he said, walking back into the main room and handing it to her.

She looked surprised. “Are you sure?” Her eyes told him she still didn’t trust him. 

“Of course I’m sure. Go dress and I’ll walk you to the set.”

Looking now as though she especially didn’t trust him, she nonetheless went into the costume room and closed the door behind her. She came out less than a minute later. She looked just fine—maybe not like a leading lady—but just fine. The shame nipped him again and he scratched it off, reminding himself that he was making it up to her.  

“Sure you don’t want something nicer for the shoot?” he said, noticing that she was wearing flat brown Oxfords.

“Oh, they’re fine. I don’t suppose the cameras will be anywhere near my feet.”

When he stepped closer to her, it clicked; she was a couple inches shorter than she’d been yesterday. He’d made her embarrassed of her height and she switched shoes. It was another reminder of how rotten his words had been. No taller than he was, she was certainly not a giant. He even had an inch on her, give or take. 

“Do I need to put on more makeup?” she said. 

He shook his head. “No, you don’t need to wear any if you’re in the background. We have to do it to stick out,” he said, indicating his powdered cheeks. 

“Alright then.”

“Hold on a minute.” He ripped a piece of paper from a steno pad on the workbench and wrote, Stealing Nelly for the afternoon. Will return her in a timely fashion. -Buster. He set the half-eaten apple on top of it for a paperweight and offered his arm to Nelly. She just stared at it and then at him. “I’ll walk you to the set,” he explained.

She continued to look unsure as she accepted it, but his conscience felt much lighter as they left the prop house together. 

The bright lights agreed with Nelly. They probably wouldn’t have appeared particularly bright to any proper budding starlet, but that Buster had made her an extra for a day, that she would actually be on film and tens of thousands of people would see her, was exactly what she’d been hoping for when she’d taken a train from Evanston to West Hollywood to Sacramento. 

It turned out that being an extra involved a lot of standing around waiting for direction while the cameras tracked the exploits of the main characters, namely Buster and his mouse-sized co-star Marion, whom everyone called Peanuts. The scene was about missed connections; Buster, encountering his girl on the street, tries to apologize to her. She ducks in and out of the telegraph office, debating whether to accept, then follows after him as he trudges away from her.

Peanuts needed the benefit of multiple takes. Buster was flawless, Nelly thought, in every one. Her role was to be one of the town inhabitants walking down the sidewalk. It was hot in the early afternoon sun and she was grateful that Buster had picked out a sleeveless dress for her. She tried to act casual while strolling back and forth and not get distracted by the action further down the sidewalk where Buster and Peanuts were.

After the scene had wrapped, the director and Buster moved onto the next one: Buster walks dejectedly up the street and a car whizzes his carpetbag out of his hands and onto its running board. She and the other extras gathered in a small crowd facing the car to watch. Behind the scenes like this, she began to see how the gags were accomplished. For this one, the camera tracked Buster on the left. When the car came into frame, it obscured most of his body. Because of this, the audience couldn’t see one of the actors in the car pluck the carpetbag from Buster’s hand in one fluid movement, which left him bag-free and bewildered after the car had passed. The hand-off was invisible. This scene took only a couple takes. Buster was all business in between, telling the other actors and the director in a serious way what he thought the scene should look like. It was all so fascinating to finally be on the inside and see the nuts and bolts. She watched carefully, trying to commit it to memory. 

For the next scene, the carpet bag was meant to tumble off the running board and trip up Buster, who was running at top speed after the car. It took around three or four takes for the bag to fall satisfactorily into Buster’s path. Each time it did, he would somehow tumble head over heels to miss it. The first time he accomplished the stunt, the extras hooted and broke into clapping. Buster flashed a quick smile, clearly pleased, and Nelly joined in the applause. No matter how many times he vaulted over the bag, going briefly vertical, she couldn’t tell how he did it. After that, it was back to the sidewalk for her even though she was too far in the distance, she thought, for the cameras to see her at this point.

After some time had gone by, Buster announced that it was a wrap. So that was that. She looked around at a couple of the other extras for guidance, wondering what came next. The logical thing to do would be to return the dress and finish out the rest of the day in the prop house, so she decided just to slip away rather than reveal herself as a rookie by asking. As she turned at the corner near the facade of the Western Union Telegraph building to take a shortcut, the sound of hurried footsteps made her look over her shoulder. It was Buster. The extras turned to look at them as Buster came to a stop. Nelly felt herself pale a little as she faced him. For all her bravery in the prop house earlier, she was still far from used to him.

“Coming to practice tonight?” he said, a little out of breath. 

She was surprised. She’d assumed that the invitation earlier had been flippant. “I can’t,” she said, before she had time to think about it. She had a hard time reading the answering expression on his face, but she thought it was puzzlement. “I have plans.”

However thrilling being an extra had been, part of her had not forgiven him. When she’d stepped back and looked at her torso in her bureau mirror that morning, all she could think about was his comment about her bosom being too big and her needing to lose twenty pounds. The words still felt like salt in a bleeding gash, even if he clearly did wish to make it up to her. Anyway, she wasn’t fibbing about having plans. She’d agreed to play blackjack with Joe and Maggie, the owners of the house on 22nd Street, that night. 

“Well, alright then,” Buster said, with a nod. “I’ll see you around.”

“Sure,” she said, feeling an upwelling of all sorts of emotions: regret at turning him down, pride at her own resolve, anxiety that he might decide to can her if she continued to rebuff him. “Thank you for letting me be part of the picture.”

“No problem.”

She nodded at him and they parted. 

The worst of the confused feelings had faded by eight that evening when she was at the leather-top folding table with Joe and Maggie in their sitting room, regaling them with stories from the day. By now, they knew that she was employed in the prop shop and not as an extra, so the fact that she really had been an extra that afternoon was of the utmost interest to both. She went over every detail, keeping back, of course, yesterday’s ignominious encounter with the picture’s star. As the conversation waned and they settled into the game of blackjack, she felt positively luminous. Not even Mary Pickford, she thought, could feel as famous as she did tonight. (Watch Steamboat Bill, Jr. here.)

[fedeipox]

The Way of Time (Rdr2 Fanfic) - Chapter 2 (2/3)

I generally post in the morning just to realize half the planet is still asleep. How wonderful!!

And no, I’m not being sarcastic, I honestly find it fascinating. 

Part 1 here: https://fedeipox.tumblr.com/post/636417099433164800/the-way-of-time-rdr2-fanfic-chapter-2-13

Chapter 2 (2/3) - Rats and caravan

Words: 2,3k

When she walked inside the room she found Mr. Smith, the man with the ridiculous mustache and Lenny at work, but there was also someone who was doing nothing.

The man with the blond walrus mustache and the white hat was seated on the table dandling his feet down and polishing a long silver knife with a grayish rug.

The first thing Emily thought to do when she saw him was point it out: why everybody was working but him? Was he special? 

Her mother taught her that everybody is supposed to do his part and for this reason she was used to clean and tide her room weekly and wash her own clothes, apart from working and bringing money in the house every month. She never helped her in the kitchen though. She was a terrible cook. 

So, let the others work while he was doing nothing wasn’t right. But then, with a quick glance at the long sharped blade he had in his hands, she thought that maybe it wasn’t the greatest moment to tell him to move his ass. 

“Okay, on my three, Charles” said the man with the ridiculous mustache and when Emily looked at him she saw him and the dark Native bended over a big trunk. 

“One, two, three.”

The two of them lifted the thing, which looked particularly heavy, and brought it outside, all under the high and mighty gaze of the man seated on the table.

“Come, Emily, help me with this” Tilly called her.

She was grabbing another trunk from its handle and waiting for someone to lift the other side of it. Emily reached her and did as she was asked, but she couldn’t bear the weight of that thing for long, and after a couple of steps, she had to put it down.

“Don’t worry, you can do it, we are not in a hurry” said Tilly to reassure her.

Emily knew her limits, she knew she wasn’t strong, she had never been. Her muscles were weak and her bones broke easily, she had learned that when she was a kid.

“Well, actually we are in a hurry, ladies. The law can still catch up with us. You should speed up a little” said the man on the table. 

Emily let the handle of the trunk go and lifted to look at him. He had blue insolent eyes and the curve of his lips had something wicked and mocking. He surely didn’t look like a gentleman. 

“So why don’t you help us?” she replied feeling upset by the man’s behavior. 

“I am a man, house chores do not concern me.”

Emily scoffed. She couldn’t believe it. She had just found the worst specimen of the human kind. 

“Asshole” she just whispered before reaching the handle of that heavy thing again.

“Hey, watch your mouth, girl.” 

Looking at him again, Emily noticed he wasn’t as angry as his voice made him seem, he was just playing the big man. Ridiculous. 

“And you watch your manners. Making a woman work hard as you do nothing isn’t very gentlemanly” she rebuked him.

“You talk about manners? We barely know each other and you already insulted me” said the man jumping down the table and taking a step towards her.

Emily withdrew glancing at the knife he still had in his hands, before fixing her eyes on his. He wasn’t angry, or if he was he was hiding that anger behind one of the most evil, perverted smiles she had ever seen. She was scared by that man, she couldn’t lie to herself, but at the same time he upset her so much she wanted to reply something. If hate had a face, it was the face of…

“Leave her alone, Micah” Lenny stepped in, coming from the other room and getting by her side.

Micah raised his hands in the air making them understand he had no bad intentions and with the same sneer that hadn’t left his face for a second, he walked out. 

“Gosh, is he always like that?” Emily asked.

“Yeah, you better get used to him” answered Tilly.

Get used? She had no intention to get used to anybody, she wanted to leave those people as soon as possible. It wasn’t her plan to live with a bunch of criminals, even if that was 1899 and she had no plan at all. For now. 

With Tilly they moved the trunk outside and left it to the men who lifted it without problems to load it with the others.

Emily looked at the long line of wagons and the people going in and out from the cabins carrying every kind of object. They were like nomads: they moved their house to go wherever they wanted to and whenever it pleased them to do so. What kind of life was that? With no roots, no stability, no rest. Not a comfortable bed to sleep at night, not a possibility to have a family, have a steady job. 

Emily snorted to herself. Now she was talking silly: they were outlaws, that was their job.

“Okay, we’ve done our part” said Mary-Beth going away.

“Where are you going?” asked Emily.

“Probably reading” she answered without bothering to look at her.

Emily exchanged a look with Tilly.

“If you still want to help go to Miss Grimshaw” she said before heading to the opposite direction of Mary-Beth.

Did she want to help? Had she any other choice? Between sit still and freeze and working she preferred working. At least the movement could warm her more than Mary-Beth’s coat was doing.

She started walking and at every wagon she passed she couldn’t help but staring at the couple of horses tied to each of them. Why, why horses? Among all the kind of animals that existed in the world, why horses?

“Good Morning, Miss.”

Emily turned around and watched the man as he walked towards her. 

“Good Morning… Hosea, right?”

“Yes, how you doing this morning?” 

“Better, thank you. I was… helping” she said pointing a finger on the wagons around her.

“Good, the sooner we get outta here the better. I’m not a snow lover.”

Emily giggled, more as a formality than a real amusement, but at the same time Hosea’s words made her think of something: he seemed to be one of the men in charge in that place, so who better than him. 

“Where are we heading?” she asked.

Hosea looked at her right in the eye before answering.

“There’s a town. Its name’s Valentine. I think we’ll find what we’re looking for down there.”

Valentine, she knew that place, but she had never been there. It was a commercial city. Fine business and trading companies, but nothing more. No art, no history, no tourism.

“And, what are you looking for?” she asked intrigued.

“Opportunities” he exclaimed going away with a smile.

Emily frowned, but soon understood what he was talking about and what he meant by “opportunities”. 

She kept walking until she reached the main cabin from which two people were stumbling out dragging the man who the night before was laying on the cot. One was Charles Smith, the other was Abigail. She wondered what had happened to him, but asked nothing, and went inside right after they came out. 

“Oh good, you’re here. Help the reverend with those boxes. We’re almost done” said Miss Grimshaw as soon as she laid eyes on her.

She had no idea who the reverend was and she also found odd that a gang of criminals had a man of church with them. But thinking about it, that shouldn’t have surprised her, not after Jack. 

She saw the man with the reddish mustache lifting some boxes and presumed that he had to be the reverend, so she drew closer and took a couple of the smaller ones, the only ones she could carry without tear away her arms from her body. 

Since they seemed to move a lot, couldn’t they travel a little lighter? Emily asked herself while she followed the man outside, and when she loaded the boxes on the back of the wagon and turned around, she spotted the man with the blue coat that had made her get down the train the night before, approaching with his horse. She looked at him as he made his horse slow down and dismounted it to walk towards Dutch and Hosea. 

“So, we getting out of this hellhole?” he asked. 

“We’re gonna try, weather seems stable” answered Dutch.

“And we just robbed a Leviticus Cornwall train” Hosea added.

The information stroke Emily as a cold shower. The train she was in. That’s what they were doing the night before, they were robbing it. And Cornwall was no mafia boss, but Leviticus Cornwall the magnate and entrepreneur who died in… 1899! And his business, that big business he had created from nothing with his own hands, was split among his faithful partners after his death. 

That was it, the confirmation that she was truly in 1899. She had learned about Cornwall at school, read his name in history books, where they said he was murdered in Annesburg by an opposer of his campaign for improving the miners working conditions. He was a good man, a man who had power and used that power to help others. Who knew if she could meet him and maybe… maybe warn him of his future, maybe…maybe save his life herself! She would have changed history! 

“Bring Hosea. I know you two like to talk about the good old days and what’s gone wrong with old Dutch.”

The tall man with the blue coat walked right in front of her and gave her a look before he kept going. She felt a shiver run down her spine: was it the cold or that man’s eyes? He had something different from the rest of them, but she couldn’t tell what.

“Miss, it’s time to go” said a voice from her back and turning around she saw Santa Clause looking at her with a courteous smile on his face.

“To which wagon?” she asked.

“Anyone. There’s still space in the second-to-last, you want to join me?”

She looked at his sweet smile under his beard and those dark cheerful eyes and thought he was really the perfect kind of man that could play the role of Santa Clause in the stores during Christmas Holidays. He just needed a red suit and hat and a laughing kid on his knees telling him what he wished to get from him that year. This picture gave Emily the feeling that she could trust him.

“Sure” she said with a kind smile. 

Together they walked past three wagons which were already starting to move and reached the one with the big man and Charles Smith at the driving place, while in the back she recognized Jack and the woman with the freckled face she had yelled at the night before. Santa Clause hopped in leaving his legs dangling from the back and Emily followed his example. 

As she adjusted herself better on the place she had chosen, she looked up at the last wagon right ahead of her. The man with the blue coat and Hosea were seated at the driver place and, looking for a moment at them, she gulped in embarrassment. 

She had to travel with the eyes of those two on her, and she didn’t know why, but the idea was troubling. Not much for Hosea, but for the other man, who had such a strange effect on her.

She heard the deep voice of Charles Smith behind her yelling and the wagon started moving with a jolt. 

...

Arthur gave a strong whip of the reins and made the horses move, following the caravan and leaving that cold mountain for good. He also hoped to leave the bad luck behind, together with Blackwater, the runaway, the fear and the losses, but he knew he wouldn’t have. If Arthur had a flaw, one among the others, was that he couldn’t let the past go, even if he tried with all himself. 

“Why it took you so much to come back?” asked Hosea. 

“I had to take care of some loose ends. Be sure this Mr. Cornwall can’t track us down.”

“I tell you, it wasn’t a good move. He is a powerful man, the kind that doesn’t let things go easily.”

Arthur grunted. He knew Hosea was the reasonable part of the group and that he worried about them all, but he trusted Dutch with his life and the one of everybody else there.

As the wagons kept going he exchanged a look with the girl he had found on Cornwall’s train and wondered if they had found out anything about her.

“What about our new arrival?” he asked to Hosea.

Hosea stared at her for some time, thinking about the mystery that girl was.

“Miss Emily Richardson. She’s definitely an interesting type” he said.

“Where do she come from?”

“Saint Denis. If she speaks the truth. And then…”

Arthur looked at Hosea. There was something odd if he used that suspense.

“She says she comes from 2020.”

Arthur laughed in a snort and shook his head. Bullshit. 

“She wasn’t lying” said Hosea plainly.

“Well then, she has a wild imagination.”

“And she looks perfectly sane.”

“Oh come on, Hosea” Arthur complained.

He couldn’t believe he was having that conversation. He knew Hosea was good with people, but maybe that girl was so convinced with her own follies that he couldn’t understand she was crazy, or maybe she was a very good liar, better that Hosea. 

No, that couldn’t be, he knew no better liar than Hosea. 

[hysterialevi]

His Name Was Isaac - Ch. 6

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

Point of view: third-person

Author’s note: This part’s a bit shorter than the others, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. Thank you for all your support so far :)

Previous chapter | Next chapter

This story is also on AO3

THAT NIGHT

BLACKWATER SALOON

Storming up the wooden staircase, Micah quickly breezed through the other customers scattered around the saloon as he made his way to the young man, ready to beat some answers out of him.

According to the bartender, the man was still in Blackwater and hadn’t taken his leave yet, so Micah decided he’d pay the boy a visit after all the hell that broke loose at the bank.

He knew that the boy would cause some type of damage -- he didn’t seem to be on good terms with the Van der Lindes, after all -- but Micah never expected the kid to cause this much chaos.

Thanks to him, one of their men was dead, the Pinkertons were after them, their supplies had been destroyed, and on top of all that, Dutch was now on high alert for any traitors within the gang.

Micah had no idea if the boy was trying to get them arrested by the law, or just kill the whole lot of them by himself, but he planned on getting an explanation tonight.

And he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“Hey!” Micah called out, pounding a fist on the door. “I know you’re in there, princess. You and I need to have a chat.”

Waiting for a response, Micah heard nothing but the muffled sound of someone pacing around the room for a moment, leading him to believe that the boy was either trying to escape or find something to defend himself.

Micah knocked again. “Hey, cowpoke! Open up! Don’t make me break in there.”

This time, a voice replied.

“Gimme a damn minute!”

After a while of waiting, the door finally creaked open to a slit and revealed nothing more than the protruding barrel of a pistol, causing Micah to let out an amused laugh at the hostile greeting.

“...You really is the suspicious type, ain’t you?” He teased.

Isaac didn’t budge. “I prefer the word ‘cautious.”

Micah leaned forward, speaking to the young man in a patronizing voice. “Well, whatever you wanna call it, I’d suggest openin’ this goddamn door right now. ‘Cause otherwise, I might just kick my way in there and give you a beating after that shit you pulled at the camp...!”

The young man scoffed. “I may be suspicious, but at least I ain’t stupid. You really wanna threaten someone who has a gun on you?”

Micah chuckled darkly. “A gun won’t do you no favors when we’re this deep in civilization, boy. You shoot me, and the law’ll be on top of you within minutes. I think I’ll be just fine.”

Isaac widened the gap slightly, allowing the other man to see him more clearly through the door.

“So why did you come here, then? You don’t exactly look like you’re here for a talk.”

Micah leaned against the wall, grinning slyly. “On the contrary, I came here for answers. It’s clear to me now that I underestimated you before, but after all the help I’ve given, I’d say an explanation is due.”

Isaac paused for a minute, contemplating whether to let Micah in or not.

“...Fine.” He settled with. “But I’ll keep my gun handy, if you don’t mind. You don’t exactly radiate with trust.”

Micah smirked at that. “Well, ain’t you a gentleman.”

Letting the other man walk in, Isaac quickly shut the door once Micah was through the entryway and lowered his voice, wanting to avoid the attention of unknown listeners.

It didn’t look like anyone else had followed Micah into the saloon, but purely based on the man’s sour mood alone, Isaac assumed the gang might’ve wanted revenge after everything he’d done.

He’d have to tread carefully from here on out.

“So,” Isaac began, sliding his pistol back into its holster, “what did you wanna ask me?”

Micah took a seat on one of the chairs and lit a cigarette, allowing himself to get comfortable.

“Well, for starters...” he let out a puff of smoke, “...why don’t you tell me your name, boy? Seems only fair, seein’ as how you know mine.”

The young man crossed his arms, admittedly reluctant to share it.

“...Isaac.”

“Isaac?” Micah repeated, dangling the cigarette from between his fingers. “That’s a good name. A strong name. I actually ran with a fella named Isaac many years ago. Sadly, the poor bastard couldn’t live up to it. He was a clumsy drunk. Only in it for the money. But you...”

The outlaw rose from his chair, pointing a finger at the boy. “...You’re smarter than you look, ain’t you? Not many people could’ve snuck into our camp the way you did. But damn, did you take us by surprise.”

Isaac gave him a puzzled look. “How d’you mean?”

“Joe and Cleet never saw you coming,” Micah explained. “They were certain that no one had tampered with our supplies while we was robbin’ the bank, and the encounter with the Pinkertons didn’t exactly help matters neither. Funny how they managed to corner us on the same day of our robbery.”

Micah narrowed his eyes at Isaac. “It’s almost like... someone told them what would happen.”

The boy shrugged. “You gave me the information.”

“All I told you was that we had plans for a robbery,” the older man corrected, his tone more stern now. “I never mentioned nothin’ about a bank. How the hell did you know?”

Isaac gestured loosely to the town around them. “What else is their to rob around these parts? I assumed you weren’t gonna rustle livestock.”

Micah sighed in frustration. “Well, whatever you was plannin’ with that Pinkerton ambush, it nearly got us all killed. Dutch had to take a woman hostage just to get us outta there. And when we got back to camp, poor old Cleet ended up chokin’ on his food. The rest of us probably woulda dropped too if he didn’t go down first.”

That caught the young man’s attention. “The poison worked? Who else did it kill?”

“Nobody.” Micah answered. “Cleet’s the only one.”

Isaac was visibly disappointed at the news. “So Mackintosh is still alive, then.” He pounded a fist on the desk’s surface. “Dammit...!”

Micah perked his head up in interest upon hearing that, causing him to pause mid-action.

“Wait, that’s who you’re after? Shay Mackintosh?” He chuckled at the realization, suddenly understanding why the young man was here. “I see now... you’re tryin’ to eliminate the rest of us, so you can reach little ol’ Shay. Not a bad plan, except for one tiny flaw...”

Isaac let out a bored breath. “...What?”

“Well, you did just poison our food. And destroy our supplies. And steal our money. And break our weapons. I just fail to understand how you expect me to give you information... when I’m starvin’ to death.”

The boy didn’t seem to concerned with the idea. “Simple. You give me what I need, and I’ll pay you back the money I stole. Bit by bit.”

Micah laid a hand on the grip of his revolver. “Or... I could just kill you now, and take it all.”

“You’d never know where to find it.” Isaac countered.

“You don’t have the money on you?”

“Of course not. You think I didn’t expect you to come stompin’ back over here after I took everything you own? Keepin’ that much money on me would’ve been a death sentence.”

Micah backed down from the argument and grumpily conceded Isaac’s point, clearly not too happy with where he’d ended up.  

Just a few days ago, he thought he finally had the opportunity to kick Arthur out of the picture and was planning to use Isaac as the weapon, only to now discover that the boy carried more experience than he initially thought.

If Micah had known that Isaac would actually be able to come through with his plans, he’d never have given him that much information. He figured the boy would’ve gotten killed somewhere along the way, but now, thanks to his own naivety, Isaac was hoarding all of their savings in some godforsaken armpit in West Elizabeth, and using that as a way to keep Micah on a leash.

He was trapped. And the only way out of this mess was through the very man who deceived him in the first place.

What a strange world they lived in.

“...Fine.” Micah grumbled. “What other information d’you need?”

Isaac glanced through the room’s window, making sure that nobody was listening in.

“Now that you’ve finished robbin’ the bank, I assume your gang’s gonna relocate?”

The outlaw nodded. “Yeah. Why?”

Isaac took out the map Micah drew for him, flipping it to the blank side. “I need to know how you’re plannin’ to get there. Just gimme a route, or a town, or anything that could point me in the right direction.”

Micah eyed the map suspiciously. “Shouldn’t you just be concerned with the location itself? Why d’you need to know how we’re gettin’ there?”

“Because that’s the only time your gang will be vulnerable.”

The outlaw paused for a second, piecing the puzzle together in his head. “...So you’re thinking of attacking us on the road, then. Is that it?”

Isaac took out a pencil for Micah. “Yes. The poison didn’t kill Mackintosh, so it looks like I’m gonna have to take a more head-on approach. No more hiding in the shadows or attacking from a distance. I need to confront him face-to-face.”

Micah shrugged in uncertainty. “You sure, princess? It ain’t gon’ be easy. Especially since the rest of the gang will be there, too.”

The boy practically shoved the pencil into his hands. “That’s why I need your information. Then I can decide how I’m gonna separate the lot of you.”

The older man gave in to the kid’s persistence. “Alright, alright. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, though.”

Taking a few minutes to scribble down another map, Micah roughly drew a clear line that carved its way through the Tall Trees region and down to Manzanita Post, curving back up to the Montana River just before the road hit Blackwater. 

“You’re takin’ the gang through Skinner Brother territory?” Isaac asked, noticing the direction of the route.

“We have to. Dutch wants to head back east in search of a cure for his illness.”

The young man rubbed his chin in thought, putting together a new plan in his head. 

“...That’d be a good spot to ambush the gang. There’s a lotta trees, and not that many places to escape. There’s also the fact that you have all them Skinner Brothers crawling around everywhere. It’d be easy to trap Dutch and his men.”

“Yeah, but it’d be easy for you to get stuck, too.”

Isaac’s mind wasn’t swayed. “I’m willin’ to risk it for this.”

“Fair enough.” Micah replied. “Just don’t come cryin’ to me when some crazy bastard’s got your hide roasting on a spit.”

Setting the pencil down, the outlaw finished his map before handing it to the boy, checking to see if he was satisfied with it.

“Is that everything you need?” He questioned flatly, evidently just wanting to go back to the camp.

Isaac thoroughly examined the piece of paper, his brow furrowed in concentration. 

“For now.”

Micah held a hand out. “And my payment?”

Glancing up from the map for a second, Isaac dug into his pockets and pulled out another eighteen dollars, slapping the wad of cash into Micah’s palm.

“There.”

The outlaw licked his finger and began counting the individual bills, stuffing the clump of money into his coat once he was finished.

“Thank you, kind sir. I think I’ll head home now. Good luck on concludin’ whatever business it is you have with Shay. Can’t imagine what he’s done to get you on his tail... but I won’t cry for him.”

Leaving Isaac to his own devices, Micah made a swift exit out of the room and began quietly descending the stairs, not wanting to alert any of the other customers in case the Van der Lindes were among them.

He assumed the rest of the gang would have questions about where he was getting these sudden bundles of cash, but their skepticism meant virtually nothing to him, seeing as how they were already on the verge of death anyways.

At this point, Micah wasn’t even sure if he was interested in leading the gang anymore. He supposed it’d be possible to try and rebuild from the ashes that Dutch left behind, but considering the sad state of their small group of degenerates, he’d be better off hightailing it on his own and making money elsewhere.

He just hoped he could get rid of Arthur before that happened. That man had been a thorn in Micah’s side for far too long, and he knew as well as anybody that they’d never see eye-to-eye on anything. 

His only chance right now was to get Morgan out of the way, and then run off with whatever dwindling legacy Dutch left behind in his absence. 

Some may have called it cowardly, others may’ve called it rotten. All that mattered to Micah was that he made it out of this alive, and a whole lot richer.

It was the only thing he cared about these days, and the only thing that was holding him back.

Money.

[ducklooney]

Again with my drawings of mine. This time I drew, although I needed it earlier, but I couldn't bring myself to do it for some special reasons that I wouldn't mention, but I drew it for another occasion. On this day, for the first time in 1952, one of the most famous fictional inventors appeared in a comic book called Gladstone's Terrible Secret, as well as one of the best Disney characters and one of the most famous characters in comics and cartoons and in Disney Duckverse. And that is Gyro Gearloose (in Serbian it is Proka Pronalazač). Yes, I know most people know who he is, so I wouldn't say anything. Although his birthday is in August (the comic was written in August, but published in May) and in September (both versions of Gyro in Ducktales appeared then), but officially his birthday is May 11 and I would like Gyro Gearloose to have a happy birthday! By the way, this drawing is also a crossover, considering the episode Ducktales Astro Boyd, which was a reference to Astro Boy, so I used characters from anime, manga, cartoons and comics, primarily from Astro Boy, both versions of Ducktales, comics Carl Barks and Italian comics. Yes, here are Astro Boy and his mentor or you his protégé or other father (whatever) Professor Ochanomizu or other names Dr. Packadermus J. Elefun, Professor Peabody or Dr. O'Shay. Professor Peabody himself is talking to Gyro (Italian version, since my favorite version is Gyro, but certainly the version in the original Ducktales and in the Dutch comics are not bad and I like those versions of Gyro there) since they both created robots that they can feel human feelings (Astro Boy and Boyd robot) and have both enemies who want to get their projects (Professor Peabody has Dr. Tenma, and Gyro Professor Akita, Emil Eagle and his evil ego, Mad Ducktor). Yes, there are Boyd Beaks waving to Gyro's nephew, Newton Gearloose, and a little running away from Inspector Tejuka (Ducktales version of Inspector Zenigata (the one who watched and read Lupin III, knows what I'm talking about)), and Inspector Tezuka is also chasing Gyro assistant, Little Helper, who is a faithful partner of Gyro and a small light bulb. 

Since Astro Boy invented Osama Tezuka, who wrote numerous comics, partly modeled on Carl Barks (he even drew how Astro Boy hugs Donald Duck), so I drew here how Astro Boy hugs Donald, and friends with Donald's nephews, who ask for his autograph and take pictures with him (if it is a version of Huey, Dewey and Louie from the original Ducktales and from the comics, why not). 

So this is in part Osama Tezuka and Carl Barks, and in part one of my favorite cartoon series from my childhood, Astro Boy (1980 and 2003 versions) and Ducktales original (1987 version). I wanted to draw the background of the park in Tokyo, but I didn't arrive, and it would look a little ugly. I apologize if my drawing turned out badly. But certainly related to both the Ducktales episode (Astro Boyd) and Gyro's birthday. Happy birthday, Gyro Gearloose!

[astaralys]

Of Nowhere in Particular, an icebros oneshot

Kristoff doesn't understand hair braiding. Or his sister-in-law, for that matter. In one lesson, Elsa demystifies both for him. A post-Frozen 2 icebros oneshot.

(a.k.a that one scene from ch. 6 of The Next Unknown that wouldn’t leave me alone until I’d given it another 2793 words...)

Can also be read on: FF.net || AO3

Thank you for reading!

-----

This was ridiculous. He could dig a snow anchor in his sleep. He could fasten knots so secure that the sled wouldn't budge an inch in a snowstorm. He understood stuff like this.

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

"You're not helping, Sven."

"You should just ask Anna to teach you."

"She showed me once when she was half-asleep. I've got this. Hold still."

"Kristoff?"

Yelping, Kristoff whirled around in time to see the ropes that had flown out of his hands land conveniently in Elsa's.

"Sorry for scaring you," she said sheepishly.

"Oh my god." Kristoff clutched his chest. "I thought you were Anna."

Elsa's brow furrowed in concern. "Did the two of you have a fight?"

"No! No, we're good—great. Seriously. It's just… I'm kinda trying to surprise her with something and you know Anna; never know when she's going to pop up. Or where. One time, she gave me, like, half a second's warning before she jumped out a second-storey window and I had to drop everything to catch her."

Nice one, Bjorgman. Now she'll think you're enabling her sister's recklessness.

"… Never mind. Did you, uh, need me for something?"

Elsa's lips curved. "Anna and I wondered if you might be free to join us for lunch." She raised the rope, which she had wound into a neat coil. "But now I'm wondering if I walked in on you putting Sven in a hogtie. He doesn't look very happy."

"We're just practicing some knots before our next trip into the mountains. Right, boy? Ow! Hey!" Sven had snorted and butted him.

Elsa arched a fine eyebrow.

Rubbing his back, Kristoff muttered, "Braiding."

"I'm sorry? I didn't catch that."

"Hair."

"Her?"

"Braiding her hair!"

Too late, Kristoff realised he'd practically yelled at Elsa. Anna's sister. His sister-in-law. Queen of ice and snow. Crap.

But she only stepped forward with mirth in her eyes. "May I?"

Dumbly, he nodded.

Sven held perfectly still for Elsa, allowing her to loop the ropes over his antlers. "You have way too many ropes. It isn't as complicated as it looks; most braids require only three strands." She looked over her shoulder to where Kristoff still stood, dazed. Her smile broadened in amusement. "Come closer. I have no intention of strangling you."

He reluctantly drew up to her side, shooting Sven a hapless look. His best friend ignored him and let out a snuff of pleasure as Elsa scratched his chin. Traitor.

"This is a French braid." Elsa's fingers wove through the ropes in an entirely different kind of magic. "Dutch braid. Pull-through braid. Waterfall braid. The varieties are endless. The symmetry of Anna's pigtails would be difficult for a beginner; I suggest you start with a simple three-strand braid."

Kristoff's eyes felt crossed just from watching. He latched onto the word 'simple'. "Is that the kind of braid you usually have?"

"Yes. It was the first style I taught Anna, too." She fastened the spare ropes to Sven's other antler. "Here, hold your fingers like this. Try to follow along, and tell me if you need me to slow down. Ready?"

He wasn't. How on earth did women do this every day? He'd once seen Anna and Elsa take turns braiding each other's hair at games night, shouting guesses at Olaf's enactments without once looking down at their hands. Utterly terrifying.

But Elsa had once terrified him, too. And now she was laughing as she leaned over to free his clumsy fingers from the dead knot he'd somehow created, her voice warm with patience. "I know it's difficult, but it does get easier. Let's try again. Left… cross—no, the other way. Yes. Now right… and cross again… that's it. You're getting it."

His hair had flopped over his eyes. His left leg was itchy. He wanted to sneeze. But Kristoff dared not take his hands or eyes off the braid, which looked nothing like Elsa's. If he squinted hard enough, though, he could just see it starting to take shape.

There was a rhythm to it, too, just like ice harvesting. Saw, clamp, lift, load… left, cross, right, cross…

Suddenly, Elsa clapped her hands together. "You did it!"

"I did?" Kristoff blinked, looking down. He stared. "Holy carrots—I did it!"

He repeated it to prove that he could. Then again. When he finally managed to do it without Elsa guiding him, Kristoff punched the air and turned to her with both hands held high.

She tilted her head quizzically.

"Hi-ten," he told her. "Two hi-fives."

"Oh. Yes, of course." After slapping palms, she added, "You have very large hands."

"Doesn't help with the braiding, trust me."

"But it does mean you'll be able to catch Anna when she falls." Before Kristoff could think of how to respond to that, Elsa asked, "Would you like to try for real now?"

"Catching Anna? Kinda did that a hundred times already."

"Braiding hair, Kristoff."

"Right. Uh… sure." He sweated at the thought of Anna wearing his ugly braid for the rest of the day, because he already knew she would refuse to take it out. Sometimes Kristoff still wondered how someone like her had ended up so irrevocably taking over the heart of someone like him.

Elsa twirled her hand, and a stool of ice rose from the ground. Then she sat down with her back to him, clasping her hands in her lap.

That was when it hit Kristoff that she meant for him to practice on her. "Are you sure? I mean, I'd like to. May I—I mean we me… wait, what?"

Tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, Elsa chuckled. "You may."

"O-Okay... it's just, um, this is a lot. For me."

Even as he said it, Kristoff realised that it was a lot more for Elsa than it was for him. He knew her well enough by now to tell that she wasn't as relaxed as she tried to portray. They were two ends of the same chain, clicking together only when Anna was their connecting clasp. And they both knew that.

"I'm definitely going to mess up. My stupid salami fingers might yank out your hair."

"That's fine. When we were little, Anna used to pull my braid and pretend I was a racehorse."

It took a moment. Then Kristoff burst into laughter. "You're kidding me."

"Oh no, I am deadly serious. I was Elsa the Swift, proudly bearing Anna the Fearless-Viking-and-Sometimes-Dragonslayer into many vicious battles."

The strangest part was Kristoff could actually picture it. Not Elsa as a horse, but as a child zipping down the halls to indulge her rambunctious baby sister. Elsa with the chest of satin gloves Anna had told him about. Elsa withdrawing from others the same way Kristoff had—except she had been driven away by the horror of hurting them, and he had distanced himself out of fear of being hurt by them.

Then there was Elsa wiping a smudge of paint off of his cheek on Anna's perfect birthday. Elsa being the only one to understand that he'd been acting out 'alone' at last week's charades. Elsa opening her arms and hugging him back for a fraction longer each time she returned from the Enchanted Forest.

Elsa conjuring a second stool for him so he could sit down and braid her hair.

Kristoff gazed at the stool's flawless crystalline structure, as fine and strong and brittle as the silky hair in his hands, and wanted to say I love your ice.

Instead, he blurted out: "I love you."

Elsa spun around. Their wide eyes locked together.

"Ice!" Kristoff said hastily. He could hear Sven laughing behind him. "I love your ice! I mean, I don't not love—I do like you…"

Elsa's lips twitched. "Kristoff?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I also don't not love you."

Kristoff opened and closed his mouth. "That is very confusing."

"Double negatives usually are," she replied, turning back around. "But the meaning remains the same, no matter how complicated it seems."

Kristoff blinked, then sat down. Slowly, carefully, he combed a hand through Elsa's hair. "I'm sorry," he murmured.

"You really have nothing to apologise for."

"No, I meant… I'm sorry I wasn't there. When you and Anna found your parents' ship. And when you… you know. In Ahtohallan."

He couldn't see her face, and Elsa always sat with such poise that it was hard to tell, but Kristoff sensed her whole body go still.

He divided her hair into three strands. "I wish I'd been there. I should have been there."

"No one but me could have safely crossed the Dark Sea—"

"I know that. I know there was probably nothing I could have done. And I'm not saying you and Anna need my protection but…" Kristoff let out a frustrated sigh. "I was raised by trolls, Elsa."

She sounded confused. "I know…?"

"Trolls have very long lives." The rhythm of braiding lulled him into forcing the words out. "Reindeers are better than people, because people beat you and cheat you. And leave you."

Things had been so much simpler when it had just been him and Sven. Before Kristoff had learned how dangerous it was to care for someone. Before the only two people he trusted froze to death one after the other.

Left, cross, right, cross.

The braid slid out of his hands as Elsa turned around. "I'm sorry, too," she said softly. "For leaving you behind and…"

"Dying? Yeah, it'd be great if you could refrain from doing that again."

"You realise it must happen at least one more time, don't you?"

"You realise it would have sounded a lot more reassuring if you hadn't said 'at least', right?"

"Well," Elsa said with a bashful smile, "it wasn't like the first time was intentional. I thought it best to be safe."

"Safe," Kristoff retorted. "Please. You and Anna have no sense of self-preservation. Can you please develop some before I end up having to rule Arendelle? That would be tragic for all involved."

"'King Kristoff' does have a nice ring to it."

"So does Kristoff Bjorgman of Nowhere in Particular."

People like him were not meant to be called Your Highness. They did not marry queens and live in castles. They had no business gelling their hair, or learning how to braid their wife's at night so she wouldn't wake up with shocking bed hair.

People like him were never meant to have so much to lose.

"I've always envied people like you."

Kristoff blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

Elsa's smile was distant. "This will sound conceited and ungrateful… but I spent most of my life wishing I could be of Nowhere in Particular, too."

Oh.

Sven shot him a baleful, look-what-you've-done look.

Kristoff swallowed. "I think I was there that night."

"I'm sorry?"

There was no way he could do this face to face, so he twirled his finger. Despite being clearly confused, Elsa still turned back around. If only Anna was as compliant.

Unravelling the half-braid that remained, Kristoff said, "I'd snuck out of the orphanage to hang out with the ice harvesters, and I got separated from them when your parents rode past me in the woods. You left behind a trail of ice; it was like nothing I'd ever seen before. So Sven and I followed it to the trolls. I didn't know it was you and Anna until way later, when I saw your ice palace and made the connection. I mean; I've seen a lot of ice, but none of it comes close to yours. I never forgot it—because that night, I remember thinking that I wanted to be you."

Elsa sucked in an audible breath. "You shouldn't have. It was the worst day of my life. I hurt Anna and I… I lost a lot of things that night, Kristoff."

"Yeah, but I didn't know that. I was a scruffy orphan feeling sorry for himself. All I saw was that you had parents who obviously loved you, a sibling to play with, and ice magic to boot. Everything I didn't have, and wanted. But then Bulda adopted me. I went from Kristoff of Nowhere in Particular to Kristoff of the Valley of the Living Rock—and now I'm supposedly Prince Kristoff of Arendelle."

He began the braid again, his fingers steadier this time. "I'm sorry that you were scared that night. If I could go back, I'd jump out of the bushes and tell Pabbie to leave Anna's memories alone, and to save those visions for when you were older. But I'm not sorry that you are you, Elsa, because… well—let's just say that the worst day of your life set into motion the best of mine. You're the reason I have a family."

Anna falling quiet usually meant something was wrong, but Elsa's silence was a part of her; a bridge as much as a barrier. When he'd first started staying in the castle, Kristoff had instinctively hid himself whenever servants or guards approached, unable to shake off the feeling that someone would tell him he wasn't supposed to be there. He'd discovered many broom closets this way.

Every now and then, though, he'd slip into a random sitting room and stumble across Elsa tucked away, reading. There was always a startled, wary edge in her expression when she looked up, but Kristoff had also learned to expect the subtle relief when Elsa recognised that it was just him. She'd offer a smile and sometimes tilt her head or raise an eyebrow. Then she would usually return to her book without saying anything, leaving only an indescribable warmth in the silence; assuring him, without words, that he was welcome to stay.

Sometimes they sat and talked. Sometimes she read and he napped, and they'd both jump out of their skins when Anna inevitably banged into the room with leaves in her hair, ducklings in her hands, and sunshine in her eyes. Sometimes Kristoff would slip out of a busy ballroom and onto a secluded balcony, and she'd already be there catching a breath of fresh air. Sometimes, they'd wordlessly share a flute of champagne one of them had brought out, and he would understand in her tired smile that Elsa of Arendelle and Kristoff of Nowhere in Particular were not so different after all. Two fixer-uppers guided by the same landmark.

Elsa's voice sounded raw as she said, "May I change your life a second time?"

"It'll at least be the fifth time, but sure."

"If you give Anna a pillow to hug and use a hot water bottle to warm up the bed near her feet on cold nights, she won't kick you in her sleep."

"… Are you serious?"

"Yes. Although I do advise wearing an extra layer. I haven't found a way to stop her from stealing the blanket."

"What about the snoring? Any tricks for that?"

"Mother had a way of simply closing her mouth, but I also have not figured that out yet."

He finished the braid and held it over her shoulder. "If I can, do I get a prize?"

Elsa secured her hair with a touch of ice, and smiled back at him. Her eyelashes were heavy with unfallen tears, but her eyes shone with warmth. "I hope you're not expecting another medal and sled. I've already given you my whole world."

She had. She'd given him the gift of summer, wrapped in laughter and strawberry blonde hair.

Who they could now hear calling their names.

Kristoff and Elsa looked at each other.

"Bucket," he predicted, as they both stood up.

Elsa shook her head. "Dress."

Standing at the door, they watched Anna's face light up as she spotted them. She flounced across the courtyard, evading buckets of soap water left behind by the cleaning staff and even remembering to lift her dress as she ran. There was hope.

Then they saw her shoes. "Heels," Kristoff muttered, as Elsa sighed, "Oh dear."

"There you guys are! Are we having lunch or ho-whoooaa!"

The Queen of Arendelle landed face first in a fluffy mound of snow.

Elsa lowered her hand and gave Kristoff a pointed look. "Your wife."

"Your sister."

A snowball exploded on the doorframe above, showering both of them in white.

Anna giggled in the background.

Kristoff shook the cold out of his hair and began to roll up his sleeves. "Our idiot?" he suggested.

"Queen of Poor Decisions," Elsa agreed, calmly brushing herself off as a winter breeze swirled at her feet.

Anna was already running, her laughter floating up into the sky.

Reindeers were better than people; Kristoff knew that was true.

For all except two.