#and please it's called a TOQUE

[alrikhart]

Stalwart, stubborn, and argumentative; no part of the Iskaran believed in the words coming out of Fharzai's mouth. Even if his guide put the entirety of his belief into this, that didn't make it true. Pain was common in Iskaldrik, but it didn't take a globe trotter to know that spouses were weeping over graves, or orphanages packed with plague all across the realm. The open seas, even the so-called gem, Lysara. Pain was the great equalizer and the one thing that everyone shared. "Hope," Alrik countered, arguing for argument's sake, "can be a very dangerous thing. Hope isn't anything more than a lie people tell themselves but there is more peace in the truth, in knowing your fate and staring it head on." Fleeting thoughts and empty wills did nothing to replace devotion and raw fortitude.

"Just by existing people cause others pain without ever realizing it. So long as we exist, hate will still exist. Light. Peace. There's no such thing here, not in this accursed world. Every war is just a crime paid for by the pain of defeat." Alrik and the other stood in the antithesis of one another, the witch thought perhaps he could see it now - what other reason did someone have to go rummaging through the minds of others unless he was trying to run away from himself? Whatever he was, whoever this Fharzai happened to be, he was just a man, and all men were composed of the same myriad of hurts that masqueraded as a person. "Even the most innocent child will eventually grow up, marred by death, by suffering, and by a means they have no power to control. Pain." Alrik thought about his father and the death of his own ego in this place. "Real pain: that's the only way people can understand one another."

There was no hiding from the guide now, now smile that Alrik could paint on his face, and no mask that he could put on to pretend to be someone else. The truth at his core stood stayed there, a bloated, rotten corpse wallowing around the witch's ego. "I'll follow if only to invite you to prove me wrong. But spirit, in time I think it's you who will come around to my thinking; what will you be then?"

Admittedly, Fharzai yet again found no room to debate Alrik's points. In fact, the other's words struck such a chord with the druid that a haunted expression stretched clearly across his features. It was a reality he had faced so long ago in the Arches, one that still popped up in his nightmares from time to time. Fharzai's lifelong pursuit of peace spanned many normal mortals'. That's why detachment was so important, because if he stopped to think about it he'd realize that most would perish before they saw his vision for the world realized. The hope Fharzai was attempting to nurture in this era would have reverberations in another few decades, but what good would that do for a tortured soul like Alrik?

His desire was as fleeting as the butterfly he wove, yet his resolve to see it through surged in a counter to the creeping despair he felt. Curiosity had his magic encroaching further, contributing to the feeling which is how Fharzai arrived at his decision. "I typically would not wander into Iskaldrik at all because of those attitudes, but the call was too strong. I realize now that it was you who needed me." He would do what he could for Alrik's sake. It mattered not if the witch would remember or if his efforts did little to actually heal the other's pain. The thread of Fate made this encounter possible, and if Fharzai could make even the smallest positive change, a good consequence would come from his choice to intervene. "There's always something to hope for, no matter how dark things may seem. Even the hope of one night's rest free of terrors can hold great power. I will show you."

There were sites made by Dúnedain of his circle that came before, sites that had strong ties to the dream realm. Their placement in the physical world correlated to their location in the dream realm, providing navigatable places for the spirits of Keepers to go when they wanted to tap into greater Circle of Dreams magic. To a witch, the site would be nothing special in astral form, and possibly in physical form too, but there were runes there that protected the spirit as well as the physical body it belonged to. Fharzai figured that if he could teach Alrik's mind to find it in his dreams, perhaps he could find restful sleep on nights when he does.

It was the best way Fharzai could think of to help without becoming more entwined with this stranger. He shifts his legs into a proper lotus position while still levitating, nodding his head as he floats in the direction beyond Alrik's dreamscape. So long as his spirit remained close, Fharzai could lead it away. Hopefully, that cavern wouldn't follow. "What you see may ... overwhelm you, but this journey will not harm you if you stick to my path. See?" Fharzai raises his hand and a shimmering thread immediately links his wrist to Alrik's. "Where I go, you can go. I shall guide you to a place that will hopefully grant you some semblance of serenity when you rest."

[aliwritex]

Heyy!! could you make a franco x reader where they are young parents fic?

a/n: this is short but super cute. some thoughts about dad!franco

Finding out you were going to be parents at 21 wasn’t exactly the greatest thing ever. You were scared and confused at first, not knowing what to do about anything, really. And it was a while till you finally figured out what to do about it.

After you told Franco about your suspicion, you took a test and cried yourself to sleep in his arms when it came out positive. That was not what you had planned. Having just finished your studies, you wanted to start working in your area, get married and then finally start thinking about kids.

He did his best throughout your entire pregnancy, of course that landing the Alpine seat meant he was working more but he always made sure you look after you. He suggested you moved in as soon as you found out, already planing to turn the empty room in his apartment into a nursery.

Franco’s excitement made things a lot easier, he loved kids and always wanted some of his own, surely not so early but he had to take what the universe offered. He showered you with attention and he was in love with your bump. When the baby started kicking he’d lay his head on your lap and stay there for hours, feeling all the movements — then telling the baby off for hurting you.

Your baby boy was born in the summer, little Mateo looked just like him, it almost made you mad. But with a face like that it was impossible.

You were convinced that he was the easiest baby ever, completely healthy, settled into a schedule quickly, quiet and not much work at all. That was until he started walking. The boy became impossible, baby proofing the house was needed the day after he stood for the first time. Your once quiet little boy was now a cheeky smiley toddler.

“¡Boludo, te va a dar um toque!” Franco exclaimed, quickly picking up the child from the floor “Did you see that, mi amor? He was pulling the tape from the outlet” he explained popping into the bathroom where you were getting ready

“Don’t swear around him, please”

Mateo was now a little over a year old and was attending his first race. What you didn’t realize about traveling with a curious toddler was how unsafe hotel rooms are. You had managed to tape all the outlets shut but the baby boy was a little too smart for his own good.

“I didn’t swear!”

“Was that not a bad word?” he shook his head and you rolled your eyes “Right. Need to remember to bring the plugs next time, he’s too smart for the tape.”

It’s not that Franco kept you a secret, you just had a private relationship and never posted about your son. So when you walked into the paddock together with a stroller it was a surprise to many people. You tried to keep a low profile but Teo was just too happy to be there, waving and smiling at everyone. He also did not want to be locked up in his dads room while an entire world for him to explore was right outside.

“He kept calling for Papá” you explained as you walked up to the garage.

It was still Friday morning so there wasn’t much happening around, just Franco talking somethings through with his engineer. So he was free to take your son.

“Vení acá, Teo.” the child smiled, slipping his hand away from yours to run to his dad “Wanna see Papá's car?”

Your son absolutely loved everything. You could see his eyes light up in excitement when Franco showed him anything. He picked him up to show him the inside of the car, Teo was giggling as he flipped him almost upside down to look at it. He even pulled out the steering wheel and the kid was perplexed with all the buttons. You took pictures of everything, so many of them both smiling and laughing at each other.

“Right, that’s enough exploring” you took the child from his arms “someone needs a bottle and a nap or they’ll be too cranky to watch Papá drive later. See you in a bit, okay?”

Franco nodded, stealing a quick kiss on your lips before you left. He couldn’t be happier that he had his family there for him.

[ririright]

“Chaos and Kisses: The Cheeky Wife Chronicles”

Husband! Hayden x Wife Reader (Headcannons)

Part.1 — Part.2 — Part.3

❤︎ You steal his hat whenever he’s working outside.

He’s focused on fixing the fence, so you sneak up, pluck his baseball cap off his head, and bolt.

“Y/N, get back here! The sun is brutal!”

He chases you across the yard, finally tackles you in the tall grass, and steals a kiss instead of the hat.

❤︎ You swap his phone wallpaper with a close-up of your face making the goofiest expression.

He discovers it while trying to show his buddy a picture of the pond he built.

“Oh—uh—ignore that. My wife is… adorable and chaotic.”

He doesn’t change it. In fact, he just takes more goofy selfies with you.

❤︎ You pinch his cheeks like an old grandma.

“Oh, look at this handsome face! Who’s a cute boy?”

He growls and tries to swat you away, but he’s laughing.

“I am a grown man, Y/N.”

“Yes, and you’re adorable.”

❤︎ You surprise him in the shower by tossing ice-cold water over the curtain.

His reaction is a high-pitched, betrayed screech.

“WHAT—YOU LITTLE GREMLIN!”

He bursts out, soaking wet and chasing you through the house, dripping and naked, vowing revenge.

❤︎ You hide sticky notes with silly compliments all over the house.

He opens the fridge: “You’re the sexiest man to ever reach for milk.”

He flips open his laptop: “This keyboard is lucky to be touched by your fingers.”

By the time he finds the one on his pillow that says, “Can’t wait to jump you tonight,” he’s blushing.

❤︎ You call him dramatic nicknames just to see him flustered.

“Oh, my rugged knight of the farm, my sower of seeds, my slayer of weeds.”

He hides his face in his hands. “Stop, please.”

But his smile is huge. “I am not a sower of seeds!”

“Want me to prove it?”

“Y/N!”

❤︎ You jump into his arms with zero warning.

Whether he’s fixing the fence or just walking across the field, you sprint at him like a tiny chaos missile.

He catches you 99% of the time (the 1% involves a hilarious tumble into the hay).

“I’m gonna get gray hair because of you.”

But his grin says he loves every second.

❤︎ You lick his cheek out of nowhere.

He freezes like a deer in headlights.

“Did… did you just—?”

His blush is immediate.

He scrubs at his cheek, stammering. “Why are you like this?”

Then he spends the next ten minutes trying to catch you so he can do it back.

❤︎ You tell him “Catch me if you can” and immediately bolt.

He doesn’t even hesitate. He’s right behind you.

“I swear you are in so much trouble when I catch you!”

He always does. And he always “punishes” you with tickles and breath-stealing kisses.

❤︎ You pull his beanie (toque) down over his eyes when he’s rambling.

He’s midway through explaining how the new pond’s filtration works.

You yank the beanie (toque🇨🇦) down over his face.

“HEY��rude!”

You kiss his nose through the fabric, and he stops sulking immediately.

❤︎ You hide behind the kitchen counter and wait for him to walk in—then jump out and shout “BOO!”

He jumps so high he bangs his knee on the cupboard.

“Babe, you’re gonna give me a heart attack one of these days.”

Two hours later, he’s the one hiding in the barn, waiting to jump-scare you.

❤︎ You send him naughty texts when he’s in the middle of grocery shopping.

He’s staring at a display of strawberries when his phone vibrates.

“I bet you’d love to see what I’m not wearing right now.”

His jaw drops. He types back “I’m in public, you menace.”

You send a photo, and he immediately abandons the cart and speed-walks to the truck.

[historia-vitae-magistras]

I MISSED YOUUU AND YOUR WRITING :(

SO GLAD TO HAVE YOU BACK!!!!

When, or if you’re comfortable with sharing fics from your stash again, could you please revive these? (or perhaps secure them at ao3?):

The one where Matt was growing (but then failing to) some type of melon in cold dreary rainy England sometime in the late 18th / early 19th century

19th century Baby fight: Wee Jack standing up for baby Zee and punching Wee Ludwig , Matt swooping them up later to deescalate

Mid-19th century fight: Teen jack vs Angry livid Arthur because of a broken statue? Then he drops deceased because Zee and Laudanum 

21st century London: Drunk Matt involved in a bar fight cuz he flirted with a girl, and her boyfriend was not having it lol - Jack came to pick him up afterwards

I’m not sure if these were head canons or if you just briefly mentioned these, but they’re in my memory, and I can’t find them anymore from reblogs of your older/deactivated blogs and I still think about them to this day :(((((

Thank you! and Ah! Yes! I can get those written out or back on the blog in some form. Though, unfortunately the first three are what I've kind of started to call 'pseudo-short stories' because they're definitely getting detailed enough to be fics but have not been written out in any true narrative. I've put the ao3 link to the 4th in the comments and below the cut as its a 'real' short story in that its at least a narrative lol.

Whiskey, no so neat.

The woman before Matthew spread herself out on the barstool and looked at him like he was the first apple of autumn in his red toque and brown jacket. He liked it when they did that. There were coloured lights all around the door, a crowd of people, and house music everywhere. A good lager only cost 3 pounds, polished sterling, and he'd had a lot of them. The used glasses on the bar top behind them reflected pretty party lights until they looked like the aurora borealis in his smudged-up vision.

One-night stands made Matthew feel like something had just been invented, something brand new and worth a look at across the bar—valuable, even if only as an ephemeral novelty. Even if it was only because he was pretty.

She swung her arms around him and wound a loose bit of his hair around her fingers. Matthew kissed her and slid himself between her short skirt and black tights and the bar, kissing her again until he was panting and his heart was throbbing to the music at all the pulse points. He looked up at them in the mirror behind the bar, him and the woman. A man stood behind him, glaring murderously from under a ball cap.

"Problem?" Matt asked, looking over his shoulder, arms still slung around the woman's shoulders. He was drunk. He was far too fucking drunk.

"That's my girl."

Matt looked back at the woman.

She shrugged. "An ex,"

"You heard her," Matt laughed. That would have been the end of it at home.

"Get off her!"

"No, thank you," Matthew said, and the woman nudged him closer. They ignored the man. He swung himself around and hitched her up. It was the smoothest floor he'd ever been on, or he was wasted, and he slipped, had to keep adjusting and pushing forward to keep his arms around her and his mouth on her neck. Her moans drew up, and he sighed into her jaw. It's another twenty minutes, maybe twenty-five. They get more drinks. Matt drinks whiskey neat. His fourteenth glass or so. Time doesn't mean much. It clumps up like chunks of ice, making a whole solid in a glass. He's about to ask if she wants to return to her place or his when he's clocked in the face. He's still thinking about how he hopes it's her place because his place is his father's 19th-century sofa and a few quilts half the city over when he pushes her out of the way, hopefully to safety. He cracks an elbow into the glaring bastard's jaw, the way that makes even Alfred fucking hurt and is about to drag the asshole who hit him outside and high stick a few ribs until they're good and dented when Jack's in front of him. He'd forgotten this was a family outing.

"All right, mate, that's enough," He said, gripping Matt's shoulders and steering him towards the door.

The cold night air hit their faces, and they shivered. Matt's baby brother had been in his sunshine-drenched desert continent home until a week ago, and he felt terrible. He curled an elbow around Jack's neck, suddenly wobbly.

"I wasn't finished!" He hiccoughed. "And you should have worn a jacket,"

"Yeah, nah, you're done," Jack said, sounding beyond annoyed.

"I told you to wear a jacket, bud," Matt proclaimed, not responding to Jack but, like all of London, needing to hear him if his brother didn't.

"You're munted," Jack said, grinning. He tossed Matt's arm off and dragged the other over his shoulders like he didn't trust Matthew to stand up. "Just have fucken look at you,"

"But I'm right," Matt said, swerving and thrusting one hand out before him. He forgot to reach a finger out to make the point, lecture, and be the elder sibling. Shit. He hiccoughed.

"Let's find another pub," Matt said, turning around twice before he realized Jack was still to his left.

"You'll find someone to get in trouble over, you goddamn root rat," Jack said, tugging him down the sidewalk.

"Promise I won't,"

"Mate you just arc'd up at some random bloke," Jack said.

"Fucker hit me first!"

"Yeah, I'm sure Dad will love that explanation for why you almost took someone's head off over someone you've never met," Jack said, hailing a cab.

"But she was hot,"

Jack scowled at him.

"D'you even like girls?" Matt asked. He couldn't remember. "Tits are great,"

"Matt, how much did you drink?"

He blinked.

"Heh, too much." Curiosity crept up on him all of a sudden. "Do marsupials not have tits? Is that why you don't like tits?"

"Jesus Christ, mate," Jack was glowing in a street lamp halo of piss-coloured light.

"Come on, if we're out too late you'll still be hurling for that Honore Balzac lecture you wanted to see,"

"I wanted to honour my ballsack on that girl," Matt returned, giggling. Like a child. Like a girl. Except Zee never giggled. She was loud. She laughed as loud as she wanted. Good for her. Matt thought and wondered why his brain wasn't working anymore.

"The writer,"

He blinked. "Oh yeah, I knoooooow," He hadn't, but Matt pulled out the word and was very glad his baby brother held him fast by the waist and shoulder. Baby brother. Bouncy baby Jack hopped up the curb. He was tall. Jesus Christ, he was so tall. Matt grinned down at him as Jack tugged him along.

"I'm so proud of you,"

"How is it you are exactly the same drunk as you are sober?" Jack said, adjusting Matt's arm over his neck, but Matt could hear how pleased he sounded.

"What'stha mean?" Matt slurred.

"Means you're fucken gone, mate, doesn't it? Jesus but it does,"

"You sound," Matt hiccoughed and tried again. The last five shots were kicking in hard, apparently. "You sound Irish,"

"I am Irish you knob, c'mon Matt, make your bloody legs work would ya?"

He must have blacked out a little after that because they stepped off the curb and got into a car. But when the hell had Jack hailed a cab? No, not a cab. Dad's car. Hadn't that been left at the house? Shit.

"If I hurl—

"Do it out the window and I'll hose it off in the morning," A familiar voice said. Father. Dad.

"You called Dad?" Matt asked. His father raised a brow. "Shit! Shit! I didn't kill anyone!"

His father cocked an eyebrow in the rearview mirror. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, when did Matthew find himself in the car? He was stashed in the back on his side, unbuckled. The car was moving.

"You picked us up?" he said, astonished. The soft seat felt absolutely delicious, and he propped his cheek on it, but his stomach was sour—with anxiety, not his bar tab.

"I called him," Jack supplied.

"Why?" Matt said.

"Because you got wasted, horked on the curb and I didn't feel like hauling you all the way home,"

"You didn't have to call Dad!" The world tilted. His guts lurched. He might have been sick all over the car, but then he sat up, and gravity was happier with him. Or was he happier with gravity? His head spun. Had he been this drunk in the bar? He clawed his way towards the other side of the car and leaned between the front seats, holding the center console. "I'm really sorry,"

"It's fine," his father said. At the next stop sign, his eyes flicked up in the mirror, and Matt thought he meant it but still felt terrible.

"I was irresponsible," He said quietly. "Sorry,"

"Really, it's fine,"

"Sorry,"

"Sit back down,"

"Dad,"

"Sit your sorry arse down and buckle up or we will be having words about it!" Arthur snapped. "I mean honestly, Matthew Williams! How irresponsible can you be?"

"Yes, sir," He hated when Arthur whipped out his name like that. Jack and Zee have long since chosen their own, but they'd been given one at least. It was a firm, concrete reminder whenever Arthur said his name in that tone. You're like this because you're not mine. Not really. Secondhand son. Oxfam offspring.

He was beyond drunk if he was thinking like that. He fastened the buckle and remained silent. Jack tried a couple of times to start a conversation, but it got nowhere. Eventually, they sat in sullen silence.

Matthew was quiet but wanted to cry a bit when Arthur glowered in the mirror at him. He averted his gaze and stared at his boots, ashamed of himself for indulging in the drink or the girl. When they got to the house, Jack heaved him up, dragging him out of the car, arm over his shoulder, even when he got his sea legs. This is why he never drank as much as he could actually tolerate. He looked everywhere but at Dad, humiliated enough to stare at his feet. Or he was just so drunk he had to watch his feet move. He'd fall flat on his face even with Jack's balancing

He must blackout again because the next he knew, he was awake in a dark room, convinced he was falling, half-folded onto a chair.

"You with me, mate?" Jack was holding a basin, damp inside. He must have just rinsed it out because his mouth tasted like puke.

"Yeah," Matt said. "I threw up?"

"Yup," Jack said and gave him a pat.

"I suck,"

Jack smiled sympathetically. "Just a bit. You think you're done puking?"

"Nothing left,"

Jack guided him through their father's dark house, somehow steering them both through without breaking anything or falling over. He shoved Matt into the shower, and Matt clumsily washed his hair, hosed off sweat and puke, brushed his teeth, and somehow found himself competently toweling himself off. Jack had found their father's stash of clothes in all their sizes and threw them at him.

"Here, joggers and a jumper for your gangly arse," Jack slapped him gently on the back and Matt snorted.

"Jumper," Matt rolled the word around his mouth. "You're the kangaroo,"

"Jesus Christ you're still hammered. It's like dragging dad off the docks." Jack shook his head, and they somehow managed not to die crossing the hall to the spare bedroom. As soon as he crossed the threshold, Matt's face-planted into the bed and thought the flannel pillowcase was a thousand times better than any tits he would have otherwise fallen face into that night. Jack had said he was like Dad out of annoyance but Matt had the small, and embarassing, flicker of joy. He wanted to blurt out thanks but instead he just laid there in a better mood than he'd been since the car.

"Sit up," Jack kicked him gently on the leg, and Matt rolled over, dizzy.

"Don't want to,"

"Yeah, well, you should have thought about that before you got this drunk," Jack gave him another nudge, and Matt did as he was told. Jack held out a glass of water and a handful of tablets. "Take those, and drink all of that,"

Matt knocked the pills back and drank it all. Jack took the glass from him and filled it again, putting it on the bedside table.

"You're not going to go and choke to death in your sleep, right?" Jack asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. He looked funny, and Matt felt terrible. His spiky hair was wilted, and Matt thought he should put him in the sun. But his head hurt, and light would make it hurt more, so he settled for flopping over and hugging his baby brother.

"I've literally never done that,"

Jack squeezed his shoulder and let go. "Dad has," Jack said, starfishing on the bed and shoving Matt onto the far edge.

"I'm not Dad," Matt said, sipping more at the water.

"You mind if I stay in here and make sure you don't?" Jack said. "You hammered is weird,"

"Sorry,"

"You're allowed," Jack said. "It's just weird,"

"Tell that to Dad, he hates me,"

"He wasn't happy, that's for bloody sure," Jack said. "But he wouldn't pop down to the shops at two in the morning to round up the full fry up if he hated you,"

Matt gagged.

"Sorry," Jack pat him on the shoulder.

"Saint Bibiana have mercy upon my soul," Matt groaned.

Jack snorted and gently shoved him onto his side. "Come on, get some sleep, you'll feel less like shit in the morning."

"You and I both know that's bullshit," Matt said, eyes shut against the spinning. "I deserve it,"

"You do not," Jack looked ready to smack him upside the head. "Don't be stupid. You're fine,"

"I'm sorry for being a prick,"

"You had fun for once, it wasn't your fault that whacker wanted a fight,"

"Still, I'm sorry,"

"Stop apologizing," Jack said again. "I puked on you plenty when I was little,"

Matt chuckled. "God, that's true. You vomited all the way to England like four times,"

"You're the one who never believed me when I said I wasn't done being sick!" Jack shot back, smiling.

"You'd been puking for ten hours straight that time, I didn't know how there could even be anything left in you," Matt's guts flipped. "Hgnn, no more puke talk,"

"All right, all right, mate, sleep time," Jack held the covers up, and Matt rolled under, burrowing under the duvet.

"Al right, all right. When did you get a brain cell?"

"Kiwi lets me have custody of it when she's off being the family shame," He snorted and flopped onto the mattress next to Matt. "Promise you won't puke on me, asshole,"

"Jackass,"

"Please, Jackass is my father. Call me Jack,"

Matt was snorting as he fell asleep.

[chilling-seavey]

Winter Warmers: Day 6 — Playing in The Snow

↳ A/N: ❄☃

↳ Summary: It's the first snowfall of the season. Your two children have very different opinions.

↳ Word Count: 798

↳ Winter Warmers Prompt List | The Way It Goes Masterlist

England had a particularly heavy snowfall that winter, just around the week before Christmas, bathing the sprawling land of the Russell’s family home in a blanket of white. Your three year old son was perched in the bay window at the front of your home since he had woken up that morning, begging and begging and begging to go out and play. He was so adamant that you basically had to force feed him breakfast to get him to have something in his tummy before he was rushing to the front door in only his pyjamas, little fingers still sticky from his pancakes. 

Once he was washed up and dressed—during which he talked your ear off about snow and all the things he would want to do in the snow—you started to zip him into his snowsuit. George joined you downstairs as you fastened your son’s boots, your husband carrying your four month old daughter on his hip with his other hand supporting her back and head. She was already bundled up in a soft pink snowsuit of her own, donning a warm knitted toque with a pompom on top and little mittens that matched. 

“All set.” George announced once he reached the bottom of the stairs, giving the baby a little bounce in his arms. She squealed out a giggle. 

“Us too!” you agreed, finishing up your son’s dressing as you passed him his gloves. 

Without another word, the three year old was bolting out the back door. 

George chuckled as the winter wind gusted through the open back door, your son not even bothering to close it in his haste, “Someone’s excited.” 

You pulled on your own coat with a smile, “Quite.”

George looked to the baby in his arms, cooing to her, “What about you, my little love? Are you excited to see your first snow?”

She stared back at his familiar face and broke into a gummy smile in reply. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. 

Once you and George had shrugged on your own coats and hats and gloves, you joined your son outside, already finding him flopping around in the snow that covered the spacious back lawn. The trees that framed the property were covered in snow, empty deciduous branches and lush rich evergreen boughs, making the entire scene just feel so magical. Perfect for the looming anticipation of Christmas that was just around the corner. 

“Mommy, Daddy, look!” your little boy called the second you stepped out onto the porch. When he saw that you were looking, he threw up a handful of snow into the air so it fluttered back down around him.

“Wow, buddy!” George humoured him, “You’re making it snow all over again!”

The little boy giggled and threw some more snow, wonder in his eyes as he watched it fall around him; flakes sticking to his hair and mittens. 

The snow wasn’t overly deep, just enough for a sufficient depth for the toddler to play in, which allowed George to bend down and lay your daughter on the snowy lawn. Her sweet face furrowed into that of confusion, her brows narrowing up at the two of you, big blue eyes blinking in the sunshine. She looked like a little pink grumpy marshmallow flopped out on the snow. 

George took out his phone and hovered it over her to take a few pictures with a beaming grin, “Oh, that’s the cutest sight ever.”

“She’s not pleased.” you chuckled at her expression.

“Come on, princess, give Dada a smile.” George cooed down to her, waiting to snap the perfect picture. 

Her bottom lip jutted out in a pout that was an exact copy of George’s own. 

He lowered his phone with a fond and slightly exasperated smile, telling her sweetly, “That’s not a smile.”

Just then, your son came bounding over through the snowy lawn, kicking up bunches of white with his every ungraceful step. You held out a hand, telling him gently, “Careful, love, your sister is down here. You don’t want to kick any snow on her.”

The little boy stopped and flopped down onto his knees in the snow beside the baby, only a few traces of snow flying onto her pink snowsuit. Her eyes drifted from George to her brother, her pout turning into a sweet smile at the sight of him. 

“Hi!” your son cooed to her, reaching out to pat her tummy with his mittened hand. 

She flailed her little legs in her snowsuit, kicking a bit of snow up and around in the process of her glee, innocent gaze fixated on her big brother. 

You and George smiled down at the sight, George snapping a few more pictures of your children together against the backdrop of the crisp blanket of snow.

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[got-into-worm-by-mistake]

Kylia Reads Pact: Bonds 1.2

(This is a liveblog, written as I read, please do not spoil me for anything involving Pact, I am endeavoring to have as spoiler free an experience reading the work as I possibly can)

I was dressed and heading out the door in less than a minute, a plain black toque pulled over my hair. 

Its rare that I have to look words up when I read, at least English Language ones. Even if I don't know the word, context is usually enough. But I had to look up 'toque', which apparently is a common Canadian term for those knit winter hats people wear. I've always just called them knit hats (or caps, I'll be honest and say I'm inconsistent).

Worm definitely had it's Candianisms, but I suppose I should expect more in Pact since Pact is explicitly set in Canada. I may have to hit up a Canadian friend for more terms if more come up.

Kind of embarrassing honestly, now that I think about it, how little Canadian 'words for things' (as it were) I actually know. I probably know more Britishisms than Canadian ones.

Mirror people, visions of talking dogs and stretched faces, vampire hunters or witch hunters or whatever they were.  It was unbelievable, impossible to wrap my head around.  So I didn’t believe it, didn’t try to understand it.  I didn’t disbelieve it either.  I was processing it, really, filing it all away for future consideration.

Okay, but I was under the impression that the Otherverse was one where magic and stuff was like, a known quantity, not some hidden secret world.

 I had never been mistreated, exactly, but there hadn’t been a lot of love to go around either.

Guessing we can lay a lot of blame for that on Granny. Wildbow sure loves his familial generational trauma.

Molly’s death wouldn’t have been random.  There had been a reason, and that reason had driven my grandmother to do what she’d done.  All of the fallout from that, the divide in the family, the animosity that had driven me from home to a cold, hostile, unfriendly world, shared that same root cause.

I wouldn't be surprised if there was some magical principle at work that said only one person could actually inherit and have the protection. Though said protection comes with the enemies. Really Granny shouldn't have let anyone inherit her enemies, but Granny's a bitch, so :shrug:

“Blake?  It’s five in the morning.”  He had a trace of a Quebecois accent. “Joel.  It’s an emergency.  I need your car.” “Yeah?”  He switched from annoyance to concern in an instant.  “Need a ride?” “Out of town emergency.  I’ve got to steal your car for a bit.  Please.” “How long?” he asked, turning away from the door.

The fact that this is Joel's response does say a lot about their relationship. It's not 'fuck off' or 'I'm not letting you have my car', it's 'how long'. Which isn't an immediate yes, but it's a very specific delay of an answer.

“Shhh,” he interrupted me.  I made myself stop.  Very calm, soothing, he said, “It’s fine.  I’m so sorry about your cousin, baby.”

Very interesting choice of term for Blake here.

The girl in the mirror raised her arms.  Forearms crossed against one another, forming an ‘x’. “Do me another huge favor?” I asked. “What’s that?” Joel replied. When he looked at me, I had trouble meeting his eyes.  I wasn’t used to omitting the truth when dealing with friends.  “Go back to bed.  Sleep.  I’ve got a bad feeling, and I’m not sure if it’s just because I feel like you’ll never get back to bed if you go now or if it’s something else.  But I’ve got to go, and I feel like I’d be a lot happier if I knew you were in bed, instead of wandering around a dark building alone.”

Please listen to Blake, Joel. I like you already.

“No.  I think I’m you.  Your- our parents named me after her.” I was silent, taking that in. “I know I’m supposed to say something witty here, make a quip, but I’m barely thinking straight,” I said. “I’m you, with one fundamental difference,” Rose elaborated.  “I’m a girl.  I think grandmother is trying to game the system somehow.  A failsafe or trap or something, that kicks in when Molly dies and the inheritance turns over.”

So weird opposite gender alternate universe clone thing?

 I’ve got a lifetime of memories, but I get that I’m a fake.  

That's gotta suck tho, tbh

“Paige is last?”  I asked.  Okay, I got that maybe Kathryn would fit.  She was a mom, a professional.  A serious personality.  Maybe a bit cutthroat, but I could get that. “Paige is last,” she said.

I'm guessing Paige is too practical minded for Granny, most likely. She was probably never in the running.

“A bit ago,” I said, noncommittal.  No use volunteering unnecessary information.

I suppose it makes sense to not give too much info to your weird mirror doppelganger.

Was there a chance this was all a lie? I could wonder if I was losing my mind, but… I felt lucid.

"I don't feel insane, so I must be fine" is not really how this works, Blake :P

While that wasn’t a guarantee I was sane, I knew, but I felt lucid, and it was hard to sell myself the idea that I was insane, if there weren’t any clear symptoms.

At least he's aware

“I’m not any happier,” she said.  “If something chases us, you can run.  Where can I run?  There isn’t much room, on this side.”

Where exactly is she? Some sort of... mirror space? A liminal world between reality and nonexistence?

Can the thing that might chase them even hurt her there?

“It’s not- no.  Blake, the lawyer told me to go.  He pointed in a direction, and told me to take a leap of faith if I wanted to help you.  I did what he said, and now I’m here.  I’m jumping from mirror to mirror, and I’m worried I’m going to jump and I’ll miss, and I’m not sure what happens when I do.”

Kinda terrifying when you think about it.

It was a person, tall, dressed in a long cloak or layered garment of some sort.  Right in the middle of the road.  The cloth had been white to begin with, it looked like, but it was badly stained.  He –or she– wore a mask or a helmet shaped like an overlarge bird’s skull, with a pair of antlers.

Well, there's a villain for ya.

“We left it behind,” I said, firmer. “You got close, and it latched on,” Rose said.  “Believe me on this.” Again, I turned around, trying to see where it might have done so.  Nothing outside the windows, nothing in the mirrors. When I returned my attention to the road, my eyes darting up to the mirror, she insisted, “It did.  It still feels like it’s here.”

I believe Rose, but I wonder where it could be. Again, based on some earlier line, I'm imagining there's some sort of liminality in the space it exists, maybe?

I didn’t have weapons.  I didn’t have much of anything.  Even information was scarce.  How was I supposed to label the bird skull thing?

I was really under the impression this was all a known quantity to at least some extent in-universe. Huh. I guess I was wrong, or something.

It had been three quarters of the way full when I’d started driving.  Now it was at the twenty percent mark.

So it somehow is siphoning the gas? Man, that's just fucking cheating.

“You cannot leave me here!”  There was a note of hysteria in her voice.

Are you even there? Like, where are you and can the bird mask antler dude even get to you?

I hesitated, then used my bag, looping the strap around the mirror.  I hauled down with almost all of my weight. It snapped off.

You are gonna have to owe Joel a mighty big explaination.

 I found the spare tire and a slot for the tire iron.  I grabbed the iron.

Classic weapon. Only less classic than a crowbar or baseball bat, honestly.

If the cell phone hadn’t worked because it was scuffed, then this might be having the same problems.  I needed a clear reflection, apparently.

Figuring out the rules as you go.

Except I couldn’t be sure it would work.  They might find themselves running out of gas in some inexplicable manner.  Then the good Samaritan would be caught up in this.

So do all these magical shit mess with technology, or just this one? Also, where is the case going? Disrupting electronics is a lot simpler than just... disappearing gasoline like it's a dissident in the Soviet Union.

I might as well have struck another tire iron, for all it mattered.  The weapon bounced off the hand, the hand was knocked back, and then it clawed at my face.  I twisted partially away, keeping it from getting my eyes, and felt the pain in my cheek, instead.  I backed away, and my scarf stayed.  Caught in the ragged ends of the nails.

Fun! I guess it was nice knowing Blake! Great web serial Wildbow, nice and short! (/s)

“No way,” I said.  Taking a step to the side, so I was as off the road as I could get without standing in the snowbank.  “I get what you’re after.  You want me to get hit by a car or something.”

So it's a creature that causes or creates nice and 'accidental' deaths, then?

Standing still, waiting for this thing to make a move, I could feel my legs getting colder.  I wasn’t wearing long johns.  

Does anyone wear long johns?

“How does this end, then?” I asked.  “We wait out here by the side of the road until I freeze to death?”

"So what now, Jack Sparrow? Are we to be two immortals locked in an epic battle until Judgment Day and trumpets sound?"

The figure pushed through the cover of branches. A bird skull, a covering of overlapping hides, bleached white and stained, and a heavy wreath of branches around the neck and shoulders, like a nest.

Same one, different one?

There, in the distance, in a gap between neat rows of trees.  A third, with the hides forming a hood over the bird skull.  Shorter than the others.

So a whole pack of them. And they have visual distinctions, so they're not all identical. Fascinating.

Were they wanting me to try to cross?  Was that the plan?

If they're trying to get you to die by accident/natural causes/etc, then... would they actually stop you if you just forced your way past them? Granted, I can see why maybe you don't try that, but.

“I don’t think they’ve got brains in those skulls,” I said.  “Someone gave them orders.” “Makes sense.  Who?” “Does it matter?  I think those orders are why they’re behaving this way.  Barring my path to keep me from certain areas.  Driving me away from shelter, wearing me out.” “They want plausible deaths.”

Which means they probably don't have permission to kill you if you just try and force your way past them.

“Go for an implausible death?”

Good plan.

 “All I can figure is they don’t want to claw me to death.” “Molly was clawed to death,” Rose said. I closed my eyes. “They don’t want to kill two of us the same way,” she said.  “Molly was partially eaten, too, but I don’t think these guys are the type.”

That would definitely attract too much attention.

The three-masked one slowly removed one mask from its shoulder. It dawned on me. That mask was going to be mine.

Huh?

Woman’s hands, oddly enough, with flecks of nail polish still on one.  Wizened, worn, abused, with bits of nail splintered off where they had maybe scraped violently against something.

So they're made from corpses?

It lay there for a good ten seconds before the ice broke.  I watched as the things plunged into the water. Leaving me with only two to deal with.

Does it really? Do these things even drown?

“If you’re positive,” he said.  “I don’t want you haunting me or anything, and I don’t want lawsuits either.  I don’t make that much money.”

Such a Samaritan.

We’d have a relatively safe way to the house, soon enough.  We couldn’t get there fast enough, for the shelter or the answers we could find there.

I imagine this is gonna be pretty common. Just sorta surviving rather than winning. Very Wildbow.

Another interesting chapter. I remain intrigued.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

One False Move

Series Masterlist

Warnings: dark elements, some sexiness in this.

Note: this is what yall asked for, remember that.

Please leave me some feedback either in a reblog or an ask! Likes are always appreciated as well. You know I love yall and hell yeah, you love Professor Steve.

Jake ignores every text and every call. When you pull up his Insta, you find yourself blocked. The last revelation crushes you, sending you into a tailspin and your bed. You burrow under the comforter and cry yourself to a restless sleep.

When you wake up, the sun is still down. It's not even four in the morning. You've never felt like this. So hollow and heavy at once. You drag yourself out of bed and make yourself drink a cup of instant coffee that makes your stomach rot.

You sit at the kitchen table in your empty dorm and hold your head. It's all a mistake, just lies. Professor Rogers knew what he was doing and it worked so well. Why didn't Jensen believe you? He knows better, he should've listened.

Your despair turns to anger and frustration. You don't know why you wasted your time. You get up and rinse out your mug before shuffling back to bed. Well, at least you have groceries for the break. You can make what you bought last a while. You're going to have to.

You lay down and try to fall back asleep. You drift in and out but feel worse as the window pales to a dim grey. The winter morning chills you and keeps you nestled under the blankets. It's only the urgent need that draws you out to the bathroom.

You're more away as you return to your room and grab your phone, stomach wobbly with anxious hope. No replies from Jensen, but a message from a private number.

'He's not worth it.'

You know who it is. He can hide his number but you know he's taunting you. What does he want? He's already ruined everything.

You ignore him and put your phone down. You think of putting a video on your laptop but that just makes you miss Jake even more. He should be here waking up with you. Last night should've been the best night of your life.

Maybe...

You get dressed before you let the thought break through clearly. It's desperate and stupid but you're not going to give up. You zip up your coat and shove your feet into your boots, pulling a toque onto your head. You grab your keys and phone and leave your lonely dorm behind.

The pavement is trimmed with frost and in some places, patches of ice crack under your treads. You keep your hands in your pockets as you chatter, walking with purpose along the curving paths. You stop in front of Jensen's building and look up. He's not going to answer your messages and you can't get in on your own, so you'll have to get creative.

You grab a pebble and count the windows. You're pretty sure it's that one. You huck the stone and it pings off the frame. From your side, it sounds pretty loud. You wait, nothing. You do it again. Several times before the window above opens.

Shit, you were close.

Jensen pokes his head out and lets out a huff that clouds in front of him, "go away--"

"Jake, please, just listen. You know I wouldn't... I wouldn't do that. Not with him."

"Pfft, come on, I'm not an idiot."

"Ugh, what did I ever do to make you believe I would--"

"I don't know. Late office meetings, sending me texts about staying late then calling it off, sounds like cold feet to me."

You lean your head back and whine, "he did that, okay? He took my phone--"

"Convenient story."

"Jake!" You holler, "why can't you see I'm telling the truth? I... you were going to be my first."

He just stares, quiet. You feel yourself wilt. He shakes his head and pulls back, disappearing behind the frame and slamming the pane down. There's your answer.

You turn slowly on your heel. Your eyes well and you quickly flick away your tears. Happy Holidays, indeed.

📚

You're in no rush to get back to your dorm, even with cold nipping at your cheeks. You don't care. You have nothing to look forward too. You waited weeks for your break, to spend time with your boyfriend alone, and now you have nothing.

Typical. Just your luck. Even the wafting aromas of the cafe can't tempt you in as you pass. You carry on, keeping your head down outside the English building, and tramp along in a glum fog. Your feet carry you without a thought, the path etched into your mind and muscles. You look up at the familiar brick facade and fish out your keys.

It's frighteningly still and quiet outside. Most of campus is home and happy, but here you are. You pull out the keyring and scan your fob on the censor. The door beeps and you open it, puttering inside reluctantly.

Suddenly you feel the door open wider and you're shoved forward. You trip as someone skirts in behind you and pulls the heavy barrier shut with a clang. You throw your arms out and steady yourself, turning to face the unceremonious intruder.

"Hey, sweetheart, what's got you down?" Steve asks as he stands tall, hooking his thumbs in his pockets.

"What the hell? Get out? What are you doing--"

"Shhhh," he puts his finger to his lips, "listen."

You blink and hush, listening to the empty hall. What? It's quiet. There's... no one there. The epiphany strains your face as he smirks.

"That's right, sweetie, just you and me," he takes a step closer and you back up. "Sounds like a merry Christmas to me."

"No..." you exhale as you retreat along with his advance, "get away--"

"You can't spend the holidays alone," he says with dripping sympathy, "what kind of man-- boy would abandon you like that?"

"Stop," you hold a hand up, "Steve, you're scaring me."

"Well, baby," his cheek dimples, "you've hurt me so I think I get to return that favour."

He lunges and you stumble backwards, hitting the wall and rolling out of his way. You turn and race down the hallway, pumping your arms wildly. You surpass the elevator and yank open the door to the stairwell. You hear him behind you. He's close.

You grab the railing and swing yourself around, kicking over each step frantically as you struggle not to fall on your face. You're dizzy as you turn up the next flight and the next. Your lungs burn as you feel yourself slowing. You hear him, footsteps echoing up towards you.

You burst onto your floor and fumble with your keys desperately. You can't get a steady grip as you search for the key to your door. Finally, you slide it into the slot as the stairwell door clicks. You hurry inside but as you go to shut the door, it stops short of the frame.

You squeak as Steve gives the door a jolt and flings you back easily. You cry out as he enters and blocks you into the narrow hall that adjoins the rooms. You raise an arm, shielding yourself as your knees shake.

"Please, Steve," you beg as he shuts the door behind him.

"Oh, you don't have to say please, sweetie, I'll give you exactly what you need," he grabs your arm and pulls you close, "I told you, the minute you think you're alone, I'll be there."

[timeslostart]

April 12th, 2023

IT'S MY HOBBY NOT YOURS - SEXISM IN KNITTING AND THE HARSH REALITY FOR MALE KNITTERS

Why is men knitting a bad thing?...

Recently, because I've been so much more active on my social media, I've noticed a trend in my knitting groups that I don't like... female knitters are not very nice to male knitters.  It's almost like they feel men are trying to steal their craft, and this is just not the case.

I notice whenever I comment online about teaching my boyfriend how to knit most women stop interacting with me or make derogatory comments about how their husbands could never do it and imply that they are not patient enough, let alone smart enough.  Reality check ladies... you do not need to be a rocket scientist to learn how to knit.  Anyone can knit and most men have more patience than we will ever know, especially, when it comes to their girlfriend's chattieness.  (yes I talk enough for two women at the very least; that's why I have a blog!)  Knitting also isn't some secret craft only women are allowed to know.  Art in any form should be shared and fiber art, especially, should be passed down to the younger generations, which include... dare I say... MEN!  Perhaps this is a little known fact but a couple hundred years ago it was men who did the majority of the knitting.  Queen Victoria of England was one of the main influenced that got women into the hobby as she loved to knit and did it quite often.

In a society now clambering for inclusivity for absolutely everything under the sun; I find it absurd that many modern women do not want men to knit.  Case and point... our local yarn store is owned by an older woman, (mid fifties I'd wager to guess - we call her the "yarn lady") who is always extremely nice to me when I go in there and even nice when I bring my boyfriend and youngest son along, however, I've been noticing that she directs all her conversation towards me when we go in as a couple.  I didn't think anything of it until recently when my boyfriend tried to sign up for a beginner knitting class she was offering at her store.  The gist of it is he got told he didn't know enough to take the class.  I had been teaching him foundation stitches, cast ons, bind offs and simple stitch patterns so when he told me this I looked at him quite puzzled.  When I read the qualification list to take the class he met every one.  He even had taken a sample of his work in to show the "yarn lady" but it was to no avail.  She refused to let him sign up.  This infuriated him and rightly so and it upset me as well.  I was the one who told him that he should take the class as I was getting too busy to teach him to knit properly.  Between my eldest son (six), my youngest son (eleven months), revamping my website, blog and design work; I had no spare time for myself to knit let alone teaching someone else.  The only conclusion we could come to is that she didn't want men in her class.  There have been Facebook knitting groups as well that have let me join but for my boyfriend; his request is still pending three months after the fact.

This is not the only travesty however.  Have you ever noticed that there are not a lot of knitting patterns for men?  Compared to women and children, men don't have even half of the options or variety that women and children do.  Sexism in knitting is very prevalent and this needs to change.  Men like sweaters, toques and scarves just the same as women do.  This has most definitely been brought to my attention as my boyfriend is having a hard time finding patterns that he would like to knit.  So, like me, he has decided to start designing knitwear.

His first pattern, The Every Man Scarf, was just released on TLA last month and he has been requested by a few other male knitters to keep designing so there will be more patterns from him to come.  In the meantime...  If you would like to read a bit more about the history of knitting please check out the links below:

https://www.the-sustainable-fashion-collective.com/2017/05/04/knitting-brief-history-knitting-uses

https://www.allfreeknitting.com/Tips-for-Knitting/Who-Invented-Knitting-Look-Into-Knitting-History/amp

Also feel free to check out some of our other men's designs that are ready for download on our website: https://www.timeslostart.com

A saying I have been teaching my children is "you get what you give."  Always remember that giving love and tolerance to others gets you a whole lot further than exclusion and intolerance.

Ladies we know very well what it is like to be judged and denied things based solely on our gender... we know how it makes us feel so why in the world would we do the same thing that has been done to us to our male counterparts?  Just something to think about.

Gabrielle Vansteelandt - Times Lost Art

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

First Date. - Price x OC

|| [ Part Two ->] ||

pairing: F!OC: Kathleen "Brass" Moore x John Price words: 2.8K~ cw: flirting, insults, banter, smut mentioned, sexual innuendos/intentions

"NURSE 20040132, RECEPTION ASAP."

Kathleen looked down at her pager and cocked a brow. Usually, she didn't get called to reception unless stuff was going down.

Sighing, she took off her latex gloves and walked over to the sink, washing her hands up to her forearms, before she left the A&E area through one of the double doors.

Scanning her badge on the sensor by the staff-only doors, she stepped out to the reception, clad in her royal blue scrubs.

She had been expecting a reception packed full, or maybe a very distraught family member reaming out the receptionist... But instead, the reception was not very full, and her eyes locked on one very tall and burly Captain Price.

He looked different this time. Still tall and imposing, with big hairy arms on display...

But sporting a thicker, fuller beard... and now wearing a full uniform. A quarter-zip fleece with camo print on the arms, and plain tan on the body, cargo pants and boots... and a kevlar vest.

It had been two weeks since she'd gone over to Stirling Lines to ream out the man and, true to his word, he didn't put in more requests for Wallcroft's release... But now, being here, it rang alarm bells in Kathleen's mind.

Was she about to get reamed out in front of hospital staff the way she did to him, in front of his inferiors? Or was he about to warn he was pursuing Non-Judicial Punishment for her?

Approaching him, she clipped her I.D. back on the left breast pocket of her scrubs and approached the reception desk, leaning on the surrounding wall of the desk, where one of the admin nurses was stationed. "Parker, you rang?" She beckoned.

"I did." Price spoke up before Nurse Parker could get a word in. Kathleen turned her face to look up at John with a cocked brow before she sighed and nodded.

"What can I help you with, Captain?" She asked him, placing her hands in the front pockets of her blue scrubs top.

Price looked at her with a slight tilt of his neck and head, as if he wanted to appear smaller for her, or, maybe, to hear her and see her beter.

His blue eyes took in the shape of the beautiful woman in front of him, the way her uniform didn't conceal the curvy nature of her body, or the size of her breasts, even with an extra layer in the shape of a black underscrubs top beneath the blue scrubs.

"Wanted to see you." He replied as his gaze slid back up to meet her brown ones.

"See me, huh?" She asked and tilted her head to the side, noting the way his hands slid up to grip the straps of his vest right below each shoulder.

The man nodded in agreement, eyebrows raising up to his hairline, which was concealed by a toque, as if he was inviting her to argue about it.

"Well..." Kathleen trailed off as she looked at him. "You saw me." Kathleen said. "Now if you don't mind, I've got better things to do than stand here looking pretty." She began to turn away to duck back behind the security doors.

"Moore, please, wait a minute." Price said, calling her by her surname, which she had no clue he knew. It caused her to stop and look over at him again, over her shoulder.

Sighing loudly, she turned fully to face him and rolled her eyes. "What, Captain?" She asked, conceding in giving him another moment of her time.

John took a step closer, and another, until he was standing over her again. "Let me take you out."

Kathleen cocked a brow. Not the first time a soldier or officer had tried asking her on a date. Hell, not the first they'd turned up after they had been cleared or discharged from treatment just to see her...

But it was the first time that a man invited her out after she had cussed him out.

Shaking her head, she turned away again, and walked over to the double doors she had just emerged from, scanning her I.D. on the reader and pushing the door open. Then, she looked over her shoulder.

John was still standing there, hands on the straps of his vest, looking at her with a deep gaze, like he was trying to see through the layers of her scrubs. Sighing and tapping her foot on the floor twice, she finally waved him over with her hand.

He quickly rushed toward her just as she pushed the door back fully. "Walk with me." She demanded as she began moving down the hall. The man obeyed, staying by her side.

"Don't touch anything, don't look anywhere, don't talk to anyone." She warned him as they passed another doorway, which she pushed open by pressing the crash bar down with her wide hip.

Price followed after her, slipping past the door by turning to the side. "Are you going to let me take you out?" He insisted.

"I'm busy." Was the only reply she could give him, eyes glued forward as they weaved through the hallways.

"I mean on your day off, love."

"I'm a nurse. We don't have those."

"Well, when's your next break?"

"I'm on my feet for 12 hours a day. I don't eat a full meal or drink water for those same 12 hours. I'm genuinely considering starting to wear an adult nappy so I can cut the amount of times I have to go to the loo which are already not a lot because I have a strong bladder and don't drink nearly enough to need to go often, hell, I already wear nicotine patches because I can't get myself smoke breaks."

A normal man would've flinched or winced or shown disgust at what she was saying. At the very least, because it was TMI, and at the most because she's clearly trying to gross him out and scare him away.

And yet John remained impavid, looking at her with the same expression as always, a slightly amused smirk tugging at his lips, eyes locked on her face, on her mouth, as she spoke.

"Didn't answer my question, love."

"I don't have breaks, Captain."

"John." He corrected her.

"Hm?" She cocked a brow as she finally turned to actually look at him.

"John Price." He replied, introducing himself to her.

Sighing and rolling her eyes, she introduced herself in turn. "Kathleen Moore."

"When are you free, Kathleen?" He insisted as he looked at her, right in her eyes, head dipped at an angle.

"Not anytime soon."

"Well... whenever 'not anytime soon' comes..." John began as he reached into his pocket and produced a piece of paper in which he'd scribbled his number prior to the conversation. "Give me a ring." He reached the folded up paper toward her.

Kathleen took his number carefully and stuffed it into her breast pocket. "I'll think about it."

"I'll make sure to wipe all the thoughts from that busy head of yours when you do, love."

"Yeah, right." Kathleen scoffed as they finally entered the A&E department and she quickly washed her hands once more and popped on a pair of latex gloves, before disappearing behind a curtain to check on a patient, leaving John standing there, by the doors leading back out.

-

As it turns out, 'not anytime soon' was actually almost a week later, on Saturday. She shot him a text a bit last minute and, as such, they agreed on coffee, not far from base.

Kathleen arrived and went inside the quaint coffeeshop, immediately catching a glimpse of John in the corner of the room, having claimed a booth to himself. He caught sight of her too, blue eyes flittering over her body, almost shamelessly so.

Kathleen got in line and ordered herself a tea and a raspberry tartlet, paying for them before she headed over to John's table. He was already sitting with his own cuppa and a lemon drizzle cake slice in front of him.

"Took your sweet time, love." John told her as she took her seat beside him, placing her purse on the other side of her body, leaving her left side open for John to come closer.

"Yeah... I didn't want to come." Kathleen replied as she shook her head and gave him a dismissive, mocking glance.

John sighed and shook his head. a smile tugging at the corner of his lips... which only grew when he noticed she was smirking too.

"You think you're funny, huh?"

"Oh, no, I don't think so, I am funny, Captain." She teased him.

John's blue eyes squinted at her in mild amusement, before he leaned a bit closer to her, setting a hand on her hand over the table. "Worth the wait, though, I've gotta say." He remarked, looking her up and down.

His date smiled a bit in the face of the compliment and shook her head. "Thank you..." She said sincerely.

Kathleen looked radiant, her long brown hair tied in a half-up half-down style, wearing pretty make-up and jewelry, and a stunning black and gold cami top, with skin-tight blue jeans and black high-heeled boots.

"You could've put in a bit more effort, though." She quipped as she looked at him. "Looking like you've just rolled out of bed and threw on the first thing you saw in your closet." She said, a mean smirk on her lips, as she watched his eyes narrow.

She had a point however. She had definitely tried harder than him... In his blue jeans, grey quarter-button shirt and black jacket, paired with blue sneakers.

"Oh is that how it is?" John taunted her while cocking a brow, sliding even closer to her, wrapping an arm around the small of her back and onto the side of her hip, pulling her tight against him.

A normal woman would already be pulling away. John was too bold, too handsy... But as Kathleen stared right into his eyes, she couldn't find it in herself to mind.

"Mhm... that's how it is." She murmured as she leaned into him as well, swiveling at the hip in order to face him, setting her hands on his chest.

"We'll see who'll look like they just rolled out of bed when I'm done with you." He murmured in her ear, only pulling away as soon as the waiter came over with Kathleen's order.

It reminded them, forcibly so, that they were in a public place, and caused them both to put some distance between them.

-

"Portuguese, huh?" John asked as he sipped on his second cuppa, holding it around the brim and trying not to burn himself on the hot liquid.

"Mhm..." Kathleen stirred the spoon in her own second cup almost mindlessly.

How they had gone from flirting shamelessly and nearly jumping each other's bones to having a normal, cordial getting-to-know-each-other conversation was beyond them.

They had been at it for nearly two hours now... and they had talked about it all:

What they studied and where (RMA Sandhurst vs. King's College);

How they came to be in their respective careers (wanted to do something good with his life vs. got recommended to enlist due to her bedside manners being 'tough');

What they do in their free time (reading and working out day-to-day, and fishing, woodworking and home/car restoration when he's home vs. reading, yoga and baking);

And now, of course, they were venturing into getting to know more of each other's pasts.

"Where in England did you grow up?" He asked her.

"Around Colchester." She said with a shrug before setting down her spoon and sipping her tea as well. "You?"

"Right around here. Hereford." He replied as he set down his cup and rested his right hand over hers again, fiddling with her feminine hand with his calloused hands, admiring the red nail polish she had put on.

"Big family?" She asked him with a cocked brow.

"Already asking me about my family, da'lin'? A bit eager, aren't ya?" John teased her while cocking his brow, then, slid closer again, lifting her hand up to his mouth and peppering a stupid kiss on the back of it.

"Oh, I'm sorry, 's it making it seem like I want to take yer last name or something, you big bastard?" She taunted in return, which earned her a laugh from him.

"You're a terrible woman, you know that?" He replied, causing her to roll her eyes. "God help the man who marries you one day."

Kathleen scoffed at him and rolled her eyes again. "And this is coming from the man that nearly groveled on his knees to ask me out?"

"I didn't grovel, you hellcat."

"Right, you just accosted me at work and begged me to go out with you, innit, John?"

John scoffed too but dropped another kiss on the back of her hand, and then over her fingers, and onto her palm, blue eyes glued to her brown ones.

There was something in his eyes, something in his kisses. Every nasty word they traded, paired with those stupid kisses of his, and his beard rubbing against her soft skin... She could see herself getting lost in it. In him.

"Didn't answer my question." She told him swiftly, changing the subject as she slipped her hand off his grasp and pushed his head back playfully by the forehead, before grabbing her cuppa and sipping it a bit more.

John didn't feel deterred, he simply slid over, wrapping an arm around the small of her back again and looking into her eyes from up close, even as she drank from her steamy tea cup, his lips almost pressed to it from the other side.

She regarded him through the steam, and over the rim of her cuppa, as if forcefully drawing out her sip of tea, to force him to wait, to have to answer her, the eye contact between them electric and full of heat.

"Just a younger sister." John finally gave in and replied, and so, she finally pulled back the cuppa and set it over the table again.

"Two sisters, two brothers." Kathleen replied in exchanged, which caused John's eyebrows to shoot up.

"Big fuckin' family, that there." John remarked, and she nodded in reply. "You're the big sister?"

"Second oldest." She replied, causing John to nod this time.

"No wonder you're so feisty, sweet'art."

"And no wonder you're such a cunt, John."

"Oh, are big brothers cunts for ya, are they?"

"They are. It's like they make it their life mission to be cunts to their little sisters."

"And you'd know it all about being a cunt, wouldn't ya?" John teased with a cocked brow.

Kathleen didn't deny it, she didn't even seem offended, she merely shrugged and smirked.

John's eyes caught the way the corner of her plump lips curled up in satisfaction and smugness, the cupid's bow well-defined even with just a light layer of peach coloured lipstick.

He leaned his head forward again, taking advantage of the cup no longer being in the way and, slowly, rubbed his lips against the corner of her mouth, his beard rubbing against her jaw and cheek.

His large nose brushed the side of her shorter, upturned one and, softly, he whispered against the skin of her cheek. "Should let me get you out of here..."

"And why would I do that, Jonathan?" Kathleen asked in return, playing coy.

As if her breathing hadn't already hitched in anticipation at the idea of what John was proposing, as if she hadn't been boldly staring a him and the way his clothes clung to his muscular body, the way his cologne wrapped around her like a cloud, as if his strong arm around her didn't make her want to mount him.

"If you keep saying my name like that..." John murmured under his breath as he pressed his lips to the corner of her mouth. Kathleen's hand slid down his stomach and over his belt buckle, before settling over the growing bulge in his blue jeans.

"Fuckin' 'ell... You'll be the fuckin' death of me, Kat." He added with a hiss, eyes fluttering a bit from the mere fact her hand was rubbing over his bulge under the table. "Let me take you out of here, sweet'art." He pleaded in a whisper.

"I don't know..." Kathleen continued teasing him in a coy tone. "I'm not really the type that goes to bed with a bloke on the first date... Not that this even counts as a first date." She added in a scathing tone, causing John to hiss again.

"Right... except I'm not a bloke... I'm a man." John murmured. "And this isn't a first date, according to you..." He listed off. "And... I don't plan on taking you to bed. I plan on watching you ride my cock in the back of my car..." He added, his blue eyes finding hers at the same time as she sucked her bottom lip behind her teeth.

Kathleen wished she could argue with him... But it's not every day that a man not only tolerates her attitude but hands it back equally. And, hell, she couldn't deny that John was attractive... Maybe a bit too attractive...

"So what do you say?" John added with a smirk.

[girldragongizzard]

Epilogue 1: The dog days of Winter

We've taken to using my rooftop for the experiments.

Or, rather, we continue to do so. We never stopped.

The building management has completely given up. It's become clear that I'm a permanent non-rent-paying resident of the property and that I will go where I please, and that any authorities that are called will not do a damn thing about it. But, also, since around the time that Säure mysteriously disappeared one Saturday afternoon, after his last horrific rampage back in October, things have been going remarkably well for the whole block. The city and county at large, really, but particularly well for the Magnolia apartments and all the businesses that shared the first floor.

Because of that, it's possible that some see me as good luck, though I know I'm really just another feature of that luck.

A lot of the horrific shit going on in the rest of the world seems to be taking kind of a break, but I don't know if that's related at all. Still, it does give us some emotional room to enjoy the smaller things. In any case, a lot of people are writing about the global effects of dracomorphosis, and you can read their blogs and articles, so I'm going to remain focused on my local experiences. They're what I can write about best.

So.

The experiments.

On the rooftop with me today, on a cold Saturday in January, is Chapman, Kimberly, and a new person.

And Kimberly is so goofy with nervousness. She does know how to dress warm in her style, with fuzzy black mittens, a thick black scarf and knit wool toque, fat furry black boots, long johns, quilted jacket, and a poodle skirt. This should be good enough for 55 degrees, really. It's not that cold. But she's shivering, and I know it's a mammalian response to excitement, akin to shock. And she occasionally jumps up and down, and claps her mittens together. Then, while most of the time she's very quiet and serious looking, she gets a wild grin on her face and it looks like she just wants to run wildly around the rooftop.

Any time someone asks her a question, it takes her a second to respond, and it's either too subdued and quiet to understand, or she just responds with a loud, "Yeah?"

So, for anybody who's familiar with the conversations she's been having with Chapman, it should be pretty obvious what's going on.

And I'm just watching.

I can't not be here for this.

I've gotta be here for Kimberly.

And I've gotta spend time with Chapman when I'm not spending time with Rhoda.

But it's the new person I'm paying particular attention to right now.

She's kind of a tall, skinny woman, with short, spiky blond hair, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt with broad horizontal stripes under a lab coat. And the way that she's standing next to this huge cardboard box from a refrigerator delivery and talking to Chapman about the particulars of how to render hir circuitry, I feel like I'm being deliberately reminded of a huge chunk of my childhood.

She looks to be in her twenties, close to Kimberly's age, but I know she's much older than that.

I guess when you're the Artist of Transformation, you can appear however you like whenever you'd like.

She's going by the name Jones, though, which breaks the visual illusion a bit, if you were following me in the first place. (It's OK if you weren't, I'll explain it to you in the comments if you need me to.)

So, here she's pointing at the box and saying that Chapman needs to put the circuitry on the inside because otherwise it will break the aesthetics of "the transmogrifier". And Chapman is holding hir chin with one hand, hir elbow with the other, and sighing and nodding. While Kim grins really big and beams at me with what looks like utter embarrassment.

"That is going to be harder," Chapman says. "I can do it, but it will take longer. The more surface area I can utilize, the faster it will be to draw the channels needed, believe it or not."

"I know," Jones says. "But my work is almost all about appearances, you know. And that's sort of important on my end. It's a compromise."

"Really."

"Yes," she nods definitively. "Before we can transform Kimberly into her true self, we're going to have to transform this box into its true self, which is a transmogrifier. And that requires things like this." She pulls out a plastic game spinner from her coat pocket and a brad from her other pocket. "And we're going to need to draw up a dial on the side of it. Also, a visual representation of some rivets and vents and other controls and dials would be really cool, but less necessary."

Chapman rolls hir eyes.

"Don't give me that."

"I want to trust her on this," Kimberly says. "Can we do it her way? Please?"

"Yes," Chapman says. "It's just… Yes, OK. No, this is way cooler, obviously. Let's do it."

Jones claps her hands and beams at everyone. "Perfect! So, we've got two Sharpies, right? I'll work on the outside while you do the inside. Common, let's tip it over. We'll rotate it as we go."

Chapman's sigh sounds like it could give me lift.

"Is this what you usually do for transformation?" Kimberly asks.

Jones shoots her a deadly serious look and says in a flat voice, "No. This is specifically for you."

"Oh." Kimberly looks like she instantly regrets being there at all.

"Relax," Jones says, loosening back up. "I know exactly what I'm doing, and I love it."

Kimberly's hesitant grin looks more like a grimace, but Jones doesn't notice because she's now entirely focused on working with Chapman.

"We are absolutely going to be doing this differently for the larger populace," Chapman says as sie pushes the box over, and then reaches down to adjust what is now the bottom flap so that sie can work on it.

"I was thinking, like, pills, or something," Jones says.

"I definitely cannot do shit with pills," Chapman grumbles as sie gets into the box.

"Well, that's a you problem," Jones quips cheerfully.

Getting Jones to come here was a trick.

Getting her attention was easy, once we'd located her and devised a way to deliver to her the pendant Chapman had made. And all that work had been done with some massive scanning circuits drawn in chalk on my rooftop, and many, many nights of Chapman frowning and cussing about it. Which was then followed by the use of an artistry fueled homing rocket, which sounds as utterly ridiculous as what we're doing today. But when Chapman explained that using hir Art to channel kinetic energy was really the simplest thing sie could do, I guess it made sense.

The rocket just had to be designed to survive the trip, and to not hurt anyone upon "landing".

In the end, it turned out to be a simple hobbyist's rocket with a payload bay that was then covered in Chapman's signature decorations. But the rocket part was converted into a cardboard jet engine of sorts with the strategic application of physical intakes on the sides of the fuselage. And that was part of the steering mechanism as well, apparently. And before I could protest that it looked unworthy of the task, it had been launched with the pendant aboard, and gone.

"It's the next phase that I hate," Chapman said, heading back to the roof hatch. "Now we've got to talk to each other."

Two days later, sie received an email from Jones, upon which sie informed me by texting me, "It begins."

Over the course of the following month, I didn't see much of Chapman. And when I did, sie insisted on talking about other things. But sie eventually explained, apparently when things were starting to go well, that Jones needed to be argued into visiting and working with hir. And, not persuaded by good arguments, but enticed simply by being argued with. At a certain point of investment, she would lose patience with the email and need to do the arguing in person.

And then, theoretically, once she was here, they could settle the arguments and get to business.

And then I'd asked Chapman, "Why?"

Chapman had then looked directly at me with exhausted eyes and simply waited until I apologized.

Now, as I'm watching the two of them, it really looks like Chapman is doing the bulk of the work. There's a constant shifting come from hir while sie is in the box. While the grating static that comes from Jones only happens when she puts her pen to the box, and she does that for about a second or two every few minutes. The rest of the time, she just stands staring at the box and frowning, taking various poses of exaggerated concentration.

After a while, I can't contain myself and I key up a question I soon regret, "Are you putting on an act?"

Scowling at the box, Jones says, "Do you know what a magic trick is, Meghan?"

"Yes," I say.

"It's theater," she says anyway. "I'm not the Artist of Metamorphosis, thank everything. But that means I don't work biologically. I'm the Artist of Transformation. That's magic, and that's theater. Everything I do is theater." She gestures sideways at Kimberly, "And our volunteer, here, needs a good show. Otherwise, why participate in it?"

"Oh."

"Now, the reason we're getting away with using a simple cardboard box is three fold," she says, stepping forward and adding a circle to represent a rivet near one of the corners of the box. Just so. "For one, Chapman's Art is absurd. Have you seen what sie can do? It defies all logic."

"No it doesn't," Chapman protests.

"Please don't interrupt," Jones retorts. "Anyway, sie can do things like slap some kind of esoteric squigglies on a piece of paper and cause an explosion with it, and that's in hir sleep. So, the substrate that sie uses is nearly irrelevant."

"Also very not true," Chapman says.

"Shush."

"You shush."

"Secondly, we're combining Arts, which is totally a big no-no for anything nuanced or careful, which, thankfully, we're not doing in any way," Jones explains.

"Oh, Hailing Fucking Scales," Chapman shouts. "OK, turn."

"Not yet!" Jones yells back. Then she jabs at the top of the box with her Sharpie to place another rivet, and then says more quietly, "OK, now."

Chapman starts getting out of the box to carefully turn it over while Jones steps forward to try to forcefully roll it while Chapman is in it, and it just hits me I am actually, yes, watching siblings interact with each other.

They are acting entirely like little children, too.

"Stop, stop, stop, stop," Chapman is saying, while Jones continues her explanation.

"Thirdly," Jones says. "My magic only works while no one is looking, so we've got to put Kimberly in some sort of box. We can't see her transform, after all. That would be too weird for it to happen. And we're doing this on the cheap, because we're cheap."

"Oh," I say again.

"So, yeah, it's an act," she kicks the box, and Chapman pops out of it and throws hir Sharpie at Jones.

Kimberly has been sidling over to me while this has been going on, and now she's right by my side.

She leans over and murmurs fairly quietly, "Maybe we shouldn't be annoying the immortals with questions."

"No, it's fine," Jones turns to her and says.

And Chapman waves hir hand dismissively, saying, "Yeah, no, you're good. Keep it up."

And then they go back to the business of constructing the transformation device. And the afternoon proceeds pretty much like that until it's done.

In the process, I learn pretty definitively that while I can sense the use of Art, I don't sense every use of it. Though, it doesn't have to be aimed at me to trigger the sensations. And I'd already worked out that the amount of energy being harnessed or altered will affect the range of my sense, a lot like being able to hear sound. But, it is some other specific quality of the act of an Art that causes the notable vibration, or whatever it is that I'm picking up. I don't know what it is, but I do get Jones to tell me when she's using her Art and when she's not. And it turns out she's been using it constantly since before she arrived. Chapman confirms something similar about hirself.

Also, because each Art is so different, it's probably going to take a while to learn just what it is that I'm sensing. But Chapman is all about helping me figure it out, when we're done with this.

So, with that, it starts to sink in that the whole act of arguing and bickering with each other, and the occasional roughhousing, is an indelible part of combining their Arts. And I end up thinking about Ptarmigan and how she talked about working with nightmares and what was a nightmare and what wasn't. And how she'd sometimes engage with them through her scribbling, and sometimes she wouldn't. I think, sometimes, it seemed like the strongest use of her Art was when she was talking to someone, and I never sensed anything then.

I remember that a while ago Rhoda said that the Artists were to us as humans were to ants. That when they talked to us, it was like when scientists were communicating with ants by laying down pheromone trails. To one party or the other, it might seem like something that makes sense is being communicated, but really neither the scientist nor the ant has any way of knowing what the other is thinking or intending.

And I also remember when Ptarmigan tried telling me that the world was a plural system, like a person with DID or OSDD, that we were all its system members, and that Rhoda was its frontrunner in a nightmare.

So, that's got me thinking, what if the universe is like that, too? What if reality itself is just one big colonial entity. And what these two Artists are doing right now is trying to act as translators between Kimberly and the rest of the universe, in order to negotiate some sort of agreement?

Which.

It's.

I'm probably completely wrong. But I kind of like that thought at the moment. It helps me make sense of what I'm seeing. It helps me be OK with how this act between the both of them sort of feels like when a Kindergarten teacher talks to an adult as if the adult is one of their students.

And then, when the two of them are done, they both physically relax and smile at each other. I think they've completely dropped the adversarial posturing.

"OK," Jones says. "All we do now is lower this thing over Kimberly here, with your consent, of course. And then I rotate the spinner from human to werepoodle, as you see written on the box. And we give it a second, then we remove the box."

"Yep," Chapman says.

"What?" Kimberly asks in obvious disbelief, a hint of nervous laughter in her voice.

"We just did all the seriously hard work," Chapman says. "The rest is just activating the device, and we made it that simple. It's really like when Meghan puts the pendant on. Five years went into that piece, too, you know."

Kimberly half points at the box and protests, "But five years didn't go into this cardboard box, though. Right?"

"No."

"It was synergy," Jones says. "And also, when Chapman made that pendant, sie was working way outside hir wheelhouse. This time you've got me involved."

Kimberly looks at me and asks, "What does it feel like?"

"Nothing much," I knuckle into my tablet. Then I sigh and take my princess form to deploy my thumbs, "I didn't notice the change until I started doing things. Moving made it feel wrong right away, but that's because I'm not Chapman."

"I based the human form on my pre-transition self," Chapman explains. "She felt physical dysphoria over it."

"You had to transition?" Kimberly asks.

Chapman waves fingers to the side. "That's off topic, but yes. I'm just always most comfortable as a post transition trans masc enby, if I'm human. Which requires going through the process every life. It's a thing."

"I have a similar problem that's harder to describe," Jones says. "Every Artist has these quirks. Even when we're other animals, or storms, or computers, or whatever, we're queer in some way. I mean, by human standards. I prefer the word atypical. It's more accurate and broad enough. But queer people are cool, so queer works, too."

"Yeah. I like queer a lot," Chapman says.

"OK. Fuckin' cool," Kimberly says. Then she slaps her thighs. "I guess I'm ready for this? I'm kind of scared, actually. It's a big, weird step."

"Oh, if you don't like it, we can turn you right back," Jones says. "That's super easy. We just put the box over you again, and turn the dial the other way. Boom. Done."

"Oh," Kimberly says. "It's still scary."

"Like transition?" Chapman asks.

"Yeah? Kinda? But this is magic. Or Art. It's weirder."

"We did this entirely to your specs, your request," Chapman says. "In theory, based on my scans to back you up, you'll just feel even better. It'll be like taking HRT. You know, when you took those pills and nothing obvious happened, but you felt better right away? Like that. But even more reversible."

"OK! Let's do it! Let's get it done before I jump off the roof to avoid it!"

Jones holds up a hand. "Don't do that.

"I won't," Kimberly says. "I want this too much. But I'm getting that intrusive thought from all the adrenaline."

"OK. Come stand right here, in the middle of the roof, then, please."

"Got it."

And then, once Kimberly is situated, Chapman and Jones both pick up the box and lower it over her.

"You doing OK in there?" Chapman asks.

"Yep!" Kimberly says. "I think so!"

"Okidoke," Jones says, and then reaches out and twists the dial to aim it at the word "werepoodle". And then she says, "One Mississippi."

"Huh," Kimberly's muffled voice comes from the box.

"Picking up the box," Chapman tells her, and then sie and Jones remove the box.

Nothing about Kimberly appears to have changed. I didn't even feel any kind of shift when the dial was turned. Though that's similar to what happens when I use the pendant. Or, what doesn't happen.

Kimberly looks confused and disappointed, holding her mitten clad hands up and turning them over. She's obviously clenching and unclenching her fingers within the mittens.

"You did say 'werepoodle'," Chapman says.

"Right," Kimberly responds.

"It's not a full moon."

"Oh, right!"

[chericheribaby]

me me meee please 🤍

al toque mi reinaaaa

e-> e-mail by AKRIILA, SOULFIA & Red Fingers

u-> Un Lugar by Calle Palermo

g-> Gold by Kiiara

e-> El Tiempo Que Necesites by nsqk

Send me your name and I'll make a mini playlist with the letters in your name

[jrooc]

Weekly tag Wednesday!! 🥳

It's that day again! Thanks for the tag @mybrainismelted

🔤 Name: Jess

🗺️ Where in the world are you? Toronto

🛀 Do you have a favorite towel? Obviously. And if its in the wash all is wrong with the world.

🪨 Can you skip rocks? Barely. Anything requiring hand eye coordination is not my strength lol.

🤔 Tell me about a weird slang term from your area: Toque - which Americans call a Beanie.

🍞 Favorite toast topping? Butter, cinnamon and maple sugar

🌆 City or country living? City living. It gives me anxiety when I'm in small towns where everything is closed after 6 PM.

😸 How do you cheer yourself up after a bad day? Huge surprise but I pour a glass of wine and read Gallavich FanFic.

Although hanging out in the #weird-shit channel in our Fic Club group might be my new favorite thing.

🌗 Are you a pessimist or an optimist? A pessimist who presents as an Optimist.

🏷️ Can I tag you in random stuff? Yes please.

Tagging - @bawlbrayker @heymrspatel @mmmichyyy @spoonfulstar @michellemisfit @dynamic-power @stocious @creepkinginc @deedala @such-a-barbarian @doddzco @softmick @sirrudo @energievie @transmickey @breedxblemickey @depressedstressedlemonzest @samantitheos @notherenewjersey @francesrose3 @ian-galagher

[historia-vitae-magistras]

ooh number 2 "What is their grooming routine?" for Matthew please! I *know* he's got a hair care routine going haha.

When he's not having a mental breakdown in the woods, cropping it short so Alfred will stop calling him a hippy or just straight up neglecting it, yes! Idk what it is about hockey players specifically that makes them so vain about their hair but both of my brothers cried when they had to have their 'sick flow" cut for varying reasons. And Matt, he loves his hair but he's also a bit twitchy about it. Someone says something that rubs him just the wrong way a tiny bit and it's getting cropped and he swears he's never letting it get long again.

But when it's long and when it's pretty, it's center parted or slightly off to the side, and he does the scrunching thing with watered down gel, diffuses with his hair dryer on low (he and Zee have popped breakers tbh) fluffs it up, spends a little more time on the pieces around his face and off he goes until Alfred takes the piss and calls him pretty so then he's shoving on a toque or pulling it back. That also happens when François makes a comment about how it's a shame the hair was the only thing Matt 'inherited.'

[harviert]

Hey, put down your phone

Think I just messed up, oh no

(Verse 1)

I’m falling in love

I’m falling in love

I’m falling in love, and yeah, there’s a price to pay

Drunk in the back of the party

Feels like your name should be lighting up my phone

Small mistakes ain’t worth the fight

I go for the big and reckless kind

That’s why I’m at your door tonight

I trip, I slip, and I fall into love

You ain’t getting away

I don’t think twice, baby, and that’s why I’m

(Chorus)

Falling in love

I’m falling in love

Rolling you over, pulling you close, feeling your touch

Falling in love

Falling in love

Rolling you over, pulling you close, feeling your touch

So, baby, please

(Verse 2)

Told my friends I was home, but I never said where

The lies I tell ain’t sweeter than you, and they still don’t know

We kept dating long after we broke

Another night, another thrill

Try to move on, but I want you still

Every song sounds like you (Like you)

And I’m way too high on your love to play it cool

Another sip, another call

I tell myself I won’t, but I always fall

Back into your arms again (Again)

Guess I like the taste of losing to you

(Bridge)

Small mistakes ain’t worth the fight

I go for the big and reckless kind

That’s why I’m at your door tonight

I trip, I slip, and I fall into love

You ain’t getting away

I don’t think twice, baby

and that’s why

(Chorus)

Falling in love

I’m falling in love

Rolling you over, pulling you close, feeling your touch

Falling in love

Falling in love

Treating me like a king, so I’m sitting on your throne

And falling in love

Falling in love

Falling in love

So call me up when you're alone

Run to me when no one's home

Let's slip away, baby, no one's watching

We're still in orbit

can you feel it?

So, baby, please

Fall into love with me

Let’s go back to the stars

You’re my orbit, I’m your full moon

Glowing, shining, burning bright

We’re falling in love

───────────────────────────

( TRADUÇÃO )

Ei, larga esse telefone

Acho que acabei de errar feio, oh não

(Verso 1)

Estou caindo no amor

Estou caindo no amor

Estou caindo no amor, e sim, isso tem seu preço

Bêbado no fundo da festa

Sinto que seu nome devia estar brilhando na minha tela

Erros pequenos não valem a briga

Eu corro atrás dos grandes e perigosos

É por isso que estou na sua porta essa noite

Tropeço, escorrego e caio no amor

Você não vai escapar

Eu não penso duas vezes, amor,

e é por isso que estou

(Refrão)

Caindo no amor

Estou caindo no amor

Te puxando pra perto, sentindo seu toque

Caindo no amor

Caindo no amor

Te puxando pra perto, sentindo seu toque

Então, por favor, amor

(Verso 2)

Disse pros meus amigos que estava em casa, mas nunca disse onde

As mentiras que conto não são mais doces que você, e eles ainda não sabem

Que continuamos nos vendo mesmo depois de termos terminado

Outra noite, outra emoção

Tento seguir em frente, mas ainda quero você

Toda música soa como você (Como você)

E estou alto demais no seu amor pra fingir que não ligo

Outro gole, outra ligação

Digo a mim mesmo que não vou, mas sempre caio

De volta nos seus braços outra vez (Outra vez)

Acho que gosto do gosto de perder pra você

(Ponte)

Erros pequenos não valem a briga

Eu corro atrás dos grandes e perigosos

É por isso que estou na sua porta essa noite

Tropeço, escorrego e caio no amor

Você não vai escapar

Eu não penso duas vezes, amor

E é por isso que estou

(Refrão)

Caindo no amor

Estou caindo no amor

Te puxando pra perto, sentindo seu toque

Caindo no amor

Caindo no amor

Me tratando como um rei, então estou sentado no seu trono

E caindo no amor

Caindo no amor

Caindo no amor

Então me liga quando estiver sozinho

Corre pra mim quando ninguém estiver em casa

Vamos fugir, amor, ninguém tá olhando

Ainda estamos na mesma órbita

Você sente isso?

Então, por favor, meu bem

Caia no amor comigo

Vamos voltar pras estrelas

Você é minha órbita, eu sou sua lua cheia, brilhando, reluzindo, queimando forte

Estamos caindo no amor

[imaginedreamwrite]

Unburdened: Part 11

A/N: slight smut in the second half

Soft textured blankets lined the bed, purposefully draped across the mattress to create a dense layer of cushion and warmth. The chosen blankets had been enhanced with soft and light grazing of essential oils and scents that would help ease the formative symptoms of a powerful heat cycle that would set in likely in the early hours of the morning.

Bucky was almost certain to a fault that by the time you woke up, you would be in the beginning thicket of the cycle that would bring both of you together as mates.

He was almost certain, and in his certainty, had come a compulsion to make and create a safe place for you and himself to be together. He intended to create it as a surprise, he had wanted to make you a nest as a sign of good faith that he could be the kind of alpha you needed and deserved. He desired to do everything he could to provide for you as a good alpha should.

He had done what he could, used what materials had been here and what he had brought with him to create this nest. He used your favourite blanket on the base, the first layer of comfort for you to indulge yourself with before he added the next layers. Bucky had found softer pillows in the storage room of the small basement, and after dusting them off and cleaning them, he replaced the firmer ones. He had draped soft and airy cotton sheets above the bed to create the feeling of a cove that you could have crawled into, almost like it was a den. With the roof structured and the walls crafted with the same kind of sheets he had used for the roof, Bucky had found and strung warm fairy lights above the bed to illuminate the cove in a delicate glow.

When he was done, when he finally perfected the nest he had made for you, he departed the bedroom to find you. You had made your desire to go outside and explore the immediate surroundings known, and Bucky had only allowed you to leave when you promised headily that you would stay close and not be long. It was just enough time for Bucky to create the nest and prepare it for you.

“Y/N,” he called your name after stepping outside and taking the few steps down the porch to the front of the cabin, “are you around?”

He heard movement from the right of the cabin, and he could detect the surging growth of your scent as you drew closer. He knew you were approaching your heat, he knew his suspicion and approximation of when it would arrive was right. You would be in the throes of your heat by tomorrow morning, and the start of the cycle would bring you and Bucky together as a mated pair.

“I’m here.” You stepped through the tree line, your fingers moving close to your chest in reply to his question.

Upon seeing you Bucky had physically relaxed and let out the breath he was holding in, the tension in his shoulders relaxing. He had let out a breath of air in a huff watching you carefully as you made your way toward him before you had stopped a foot away. You were facing him head-on, your hands covered in soft gloves and an oversized toque on your head to stave off the chill this morning that had settled over the area.

You had stolen his jacket from the hook just inside the door, wrapping yourself in the thick flannel and fleece that had brought you comfort in more ways than just warmth. You had been scenting his jacket as if it was himself, Bucky could detect the mix of yours and his as it clung to the patterned fabric. His scent was surrounding you. It was clinging to your flesh and it was woven into your hair that was freely hanging down, even beneath the toque. Bucky had found himself incredibly pleased by the idea of his scent coating and covering you like a blanket, draped and integrated into your clothes and hair. It was innate, the way his entire body seemed to preen at the idea of you being his so wholly and completely.

It was instinctual to be pleased by you and his scent becoming one kind of life force. It was instinctual and so was the soft purr that had been building in his chest and throat, the sound simultaneously soft and powerful.

The sound of his purr had caught you off guard. It had made you falter, rendering you unable to do much of anything but blink and breathe as you tried to process what had just happened. He could see you, he could see the wheels in your head turning as you rendered and registered the sound that left his lips, and only after a moment had you been pulled from the daze you were in.

“You purred.” You signed to Bucky, a wide and breathtaking grin forming on your face. “You purred! That’s amazing!”

You had bound toward him, closing what little distance there was, and snaked your arms around his shoulders. You hugged him tightly and kissed his cheek with an excitement that was as addictive as it was influential. Your happiness for Bucky and his soft purring had heightened his happiness for you in a cycle that seemed to repeat itself.

You were happy that he was happy, and it was the most powerful jolt to his entire being as an alpha. That marker of your happiness due to his happiness was incredibly telling about the two of you as a whole.

“You’re cold.” He muttered into your ear, slipping his arms around your waist to steady you and give you a boost of body heat. “You should come inside.”

“My heart,” you pulled back to be able to sign your reply to him, “is coming quick. I get colder-“

“-Before you get hotter.” Bucky had continued for you, stating what he had known to be a fact. “We should go in.”

“It’s beautiful.” Your fingers grazed his chest, continuing your sign language as you described the area around you. “Everything here is so…peaceful.”

“It’s relaxing.” Bucky cupped your cheek, slowly brushing his thumb back and forth against your chilled cheeks. “Are you hungry? You should eat, you need to stock up on your energy.”

“I am a little.” You mouthed and signed simultaneously, working in tangency to communicate. “And in desperate need of hot chocolate. Want some?”

“You should let me make it for you.” Bucky dropped his hand to the small of your back, astutely directing you back toward the cabin’s entrance.

He held the door open for you, letting you pass and then locking the door behind you both. He subtly studied you while you took your boots off and set them aside, and then removed Bucky’s flannel jacket. You hung it on the hook with nimble fingers, and then you looked back at him with a smile on your face.

“Hot chocolate,” Bucky’s lips twitched and were quickly pulled into a half-smile, “with little marshmallows?”

“And cinnamon.” You squeaked after signing, one of the few sounds you could make that Bucky had interpreted as the closest thing to a chirp.

“Wanna help?” he motioned you toward the kitchen with the tilt of his head, letting you pass again.

You had moved past him with such fluidity, such natural ease in the space, it made Bucky think of the dream he had of you and your future. The kind of domestic bliss he never thought he could have had, and here was the beginning of it. It was laid out before him, the foundations of the endearing life he wanted.

Bucky felt it as if it was the beginning of the winding tale, he felt as though he was standing above the written pages of a book studying and searching the pages of his own story.

You were here, and this place would be your future home.

You were with Bucky, and he would be the best damn alpha he could be for you.

Bucky knew he would be a good alpha, he knew he would be a good father and a good mate. He had felt it deep within himself, the promise and the internal vow he made to be everything you needed.

He owed it to himself, and he owed it to you.

“I love it here.” Your fingers moved seamlessly, conveying your message to Bucky while you were busying yourself with steaming milk.

“It’s quiet, it’s perfect.” Bucky stood close to you, watching you with nothing less than pure devotion.

In the coming hours, you would be affected by the thick and potent force of your heat, and your heat would set off his rut.

In the few hours that would come and go between now and the start of your heat, you and Bucky would spend the night talking. You would conform to one another and relax, preparing for the upcoming storm.

Moments had passed, minutes turned to hours and the sun had already begun to set.

After hot chocolate and food, Bucky and you had returned to the living room where you settled yourselves upon the couch.

The rest of the late afternoon and evening was spent in constant contact. You had shifted your position a few times from where you first started when you were sitting next to Bucky before you had settled yourself in his lap and rested your head against his shoulder.

You would ultimately end up draped across the couch with your head resting on his lap, sighing airily when he stroked your hair and purred softly.

“Bucky,” you tapped your fingers against his thigh, your yawns becoming far more frequent, “can we go to bed?”

“Yes, baby,” Bucky muttered softly, his voice bringing you comfort and security. “I made you a nest.”

“You made me a nest?” You sat up and questioned him, your fingers fluttering as you signed your message to him.

“I hope you like it.” He had remained nervous, running his fingers through his hair. “I tried-“

You had bound like a deer from the couch, unexpectedly running up the stairs with a vigour that had surprised him. Bucky himself had been languidly rising to his feet to follow after you, listening to the soft little sounds that you could make, the squeaks that had presented themselves as chirps.

When he had come upon you in the bedroom, Bucky had stood back in order to observe you at the moment that had transcended itself. He didn’t quite find himself as elated with the nest as he had hoped when he first started making it, however, now that he had seen you in the room it had all changed.

Bucky was quick to learn from your scent and the soft squeaks that rolled from your tongue that you hadn’t just appreciated the nest, but you loved it. He could feel your emotional shifts, he could recognize the spike in your scent that was an indication of how pleased you were about it all. There was no doubt that Bucky had done good, that he had made something you appreciated.

“Thank you, Bucky.” You had turned toward him giving him a physical confirmation of your appreciation for what he had done, for taking the initiative and creating something you had fond comfort in.

“Is it good?” Bucky had spoken and signed simultaneously, knowing that his voice as your future alpha was as comforting as it was invigorating.

“It’s perfect.” You had slowly stepped toward him, your fingers fluttering as you formed your message and communicated silently. “You are a good man.”

When you had stepped toward him you rest your hand upon his chest, your palm flush against him to feel his heartbeat against you. Your eyes met his, the freeing exchange of desire, deeply rooted care reflecting back and forth between you two was just another reiteration that you two were good together.

You two were made for each other.

“Come with me.” You moved your lips to the silent words, mouthing your message while signing. “Come sit with me.”

You grabbed his vibranium hand to lead him to the nest he created. You had led him to the bed to push him to the mattress while you had stood before him. He couldn’t have looked away even if he was taking his last breath, he would have had to look at you.

“You are a good alpha,” your message was delivered with your fingers moving delicately close to his chest, “you are everything I’ve ever needed.”

You stepped between his legs, your hands meeting his shoulders before you raised your right hand and stroked his hair at the nape of his neck. Bucky had leaned forward and rested his head against you, inhaling and exhaling slowly to fill his lungs with every note of your scent. He had filled himself with you as you stroked his hair, gently scraping your nails against his scalp in slow circles.

“I promise,” Bucky turned his head to place a slew of soft kisses against your stomach and all that he could reach without moving, “I am going to keep you safe. I’m going to take care of you how you need. I’m going to be a good alpha, I’m going to give us the life we both deserve.”

Bucky had woken before you did to the feel of heat radiating through his plain cotton shirt and the dampness of the top blanket that was quickly becoming a vessel for the first symptoms of your heat. He didn’t dare wake you up before he rolled over and checked the time and pulled himself from bed to get you water.

He had moved as quietly as possible, taking one slow step at a time until he had gotten to the lower level of the cabin. As he touched the bottom, he cast a look over his shoulder waiting to hear any sign of you waking up. With reassurance that you were still sleeping, Bucky had shuffled to the kitchen and opened the fridge to grab a few of the still-sealed bottles of water, tucking them under his arm. When he had closed the fridge again and turned back to face the staircase, he had heard the sound of you waking up to be hit with your heat. The sound of rustling and the creak of the floor as you got off the bed had been what spurred Bucky to head back.

He had taken the steps two at a time until he had come to the landing, and then he had stopped. He could catch the twisted spikes of your heat and the sudden shift from light and airy to intoxicating and mouth-watering. It was your heat and the change it had on your scent that had afflicted Bucky with the powerful punch of his cycle. It had landed straight in his gut, the jab of an omega in heat that he had recognized as his.

His hindbrain, and likely yours as well, were driving you to not just be together but to give in to the other completely.

Bucky’s long strides took him straight into the bedroom where he had seen the discarded blankets and had been hit with the powerful jolt of your heat. It had slammed into him with the force of a brick wall, the contrasting shift was impossible to ignore and Bucky had no sooner thrown the bottles of water to the bed when you had stumbled out of the bathroom.

“Please…” you mouthed the words, hands tugging on one of his shirts you had borrowed. “Bucky. Hurts.”

“I’m here.” He stepped toward you, meeting you halfway and catching you when you stumbled into his arms. “Let’s get you to bed and then I’ll help you.”

He led you back to the mattress and laid you down, his hands running up and down your waist and hips feeling you quake beneath his touch. His fingertips, both flesh and metal, had dipped and curled against your flesh to bring you temporary relief, even though you would be needing more soon.

“Bucky please…” you pleaded again, barely getting the message across due to your shaking fingers. “Please-!”

Bucky had cooed softly, getting on the bed before you with one leg on either side of yours. He had hovered above you, studying you as you clenched your jaw with need and desire, your body flooded with all-powerful heat. Bucky had reached out toward you, resting one hand against your barely clothed left breast while the other hand grabbed and twisted the material of his shirt that you had borrowed.

“I’m going to take care of you.” He promised you, tugging the shirt up your belly to the bottom of your breasts. “I’m going to make you feel good.”

He had dropped his head and placed soft open-mouthed kisses on your flesh, trailing his lips and sequential heat from his flesh lower to your hips and pelvis. His actions were soft, they were rooted with desire and gentility as he tasted your skin and the reactive scent that lingered. There was no rush for him, no need to dive in immediately, not when he wanted to make this experience pleasant for you.

He could feel the draw of your heat on his own body, kickstarting the primordial and preternatural shift from an alpha who was watching his omega settle into her heat, to an alpha who was directly thrown into a rut because of his omegas heat.

And still, despite the rut that was going to start taking control of him, Bucky was not going to rush this moment for you.

“Tongue,” your hand resting against his head, one-handedly communicating with him, “I need to feel your tongue.”

“I know it hurts, I know what you need.” He muttered against the inside of your thighs, using his tongue to help clean and taste the slick that had been pouring from your puffy pussy lips. It was as if he was tasting honey pure and unfiltered upon his tongue, the way that your slick juices that were steadily being produced as a drive to make him sink into your cunt was unhindered.

“Bucky!” You tapped his head, signing his name with one hand as desperation had become you. “Please!”

He ran his hands up and around your thighs before cupping the back of your legs to pull you closer to himself. He had brushed his lips against the inside of your thighs, occasionally nipping at your flesh while his fingers dusted over your puffy pussy lips. He felt you squirming, he felt your desire and although he couldn’t hear the sound of your pleasure, he knew you had felt it. He had felt every surge and pulse between you two, every emotion meeting the other until it was a delirious mess that hovered like fog.

“I need to be sure, it’s not too late to change your mind,” Bucky questioned you again, he wanted the confirmation that would bring him a reiterated assurance that you wanted him as your mate.

“Yes,” you nodded your head, your sign language a stark reminder that you wanted him as much as he had wanted you, “I want this and is want you.”

“I’ll be everything you need,” Bucky mumbled against your thighs, creating and verbalizing a vow before he had even attempted to put his lips on your dripping pussy. “I’ll give you everything you want. I’ll be good for you.”

You brushed your hand down his hair, stealing his attention from his task. You locked eyes with him and smiled through the haze, casting him an irrevocable look of pure unadulterated affection and desire It was your promise in a way. It was your curated vow that you too, old care for Bucky as he had cared for you.

“I love you.” He mumbled against the inside of your thigh, unafraid to let the words fall from his tongue. “I love you, Y/N.”

It was the pivotal moment the two of you had been expecting, when Bucky’s tongue had met your soaked flesh and your hand gripped his hair.

It was what both of you wanted; what you’d both needed.

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[kawaikylian]

BELIEVE ME PART 2

Angst 🖤

I don’t know how it started, he believed something terrible and didn’t believe me. We hadn’t talked for days, I called him billions of times and texted him, I had guessed we were done.

He had unfollowed me, erased all my photos, blocked my number and told everyone we weren’t a thing anymore. It was hurtful, I had even talked to Richarlison about what happened, he admitted Neymar confronted him ending in the distruction of there friendship.

It was South Korea vs Brazil, I had came to support richarlison and paquetá two dear close friends of mine, of course I knew Neymar would be there, but it wasn’t going to stop me, a part of me was hoping he’d talk to me, but he didn’t, he only glanced at me multiple times, he would not talk to me, but I admit he looked like he was eager too.

I tried my best not to cry feeling shitty, I kept on wiping my under eyes to prevent crying but I couldn’t hold it in, as the game ended and everyone was walking out my eyes immediately begin to itch, I shut my eyes with force trying to stop the tears.

“Fuck!” I mutter, I realize people are looking at me as some of my makeup smears off and I’m covering my face, richarlison notices coming up to me asking if I’m fine, “voce Esta bem?” He asks with a sweet voice earning a small smile from me. (“Are you okay?”)

“extrano a ney” I say with a soft sweet voice, richarlison hugs me to call me down, I hear a voice call from behind, it’s Neymar, he seems obviously pissed, richarlison walks up to him “o que você quer?!” I don’t hear much except, Neymar’s voice goes a bit high.(“I miss ney”

I walk up to the both of them to ask what’s happening but my face goes into shock when I hear the word “girlfriend”.

“o que você está fazendo com minhas Mulher?”, I become utterly angry “I am not your fucking girlfriend” Neymar becomes surprised “so what your fucking him now?”.(“What are you doing with my women?”)

“No? I am not having sex with him, we are just friends, but regardless it should not matter to you because remember we are nothing right?!”i scoff thinking about the entire situation, “querida nós precisamos conversar” he says in a soft needy tone.(“Dear we need to talk”)

I shew richarlison away and ask Neymar to talk somewhere more privately.

“Não sei por que fiz o que fiz, mas sinto muito.” he begins to somber, he weighs him body down lowering onto his knees grabbing my hands and begging for forgiveness.(“I don’t know why I did what I did but I am so sorry”)

“Desculpa me Por favor linda sinto falta do seu toque, Eu acordo sozinho todos os dias. Eu sinto muito arrependimento, sinto muito.” Im still mad at Neymar but not entirely, I immediately hug him forgetting about everything, I hug him tightly, because I miss his touch.

(““I'm sorry please beautiful I miss your touch, I wake up alone everyday. I feel a lot of regret, I'm sorry.”)

We hug for a good minute, I look into his eyes pulling him into a big kiss, more tears fall onto my face “I forgive you baby”.

I was still mad at Neymar but all I needed at that time was his arms and his touch.

Not the last part

Part 1