#and there's like five more i could throw in my hat for ... at what cost ...

[lovesodeepandwideandwell]

So in the fall I went from like fully a hundred percent head in the game with the church job to realizing job applications are due Now and working on them, all in the space of like. A weekend. Meaning I missed a lot of good opportunities that closed earlier in the fall and spent a while staving off panic that I missed everything and didn't have a wide enough net. Anyway given all that it's great that I keep finding more openings but also AT WHAT COST

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

First Date

Summary: The reader accidentally sends an angry email off to a co-worker but winds up with a date instead...

Pairing: Landscaper!Dean x reader

Square: First Date

Word Count: 1,900ish

Warnings: language, fluff

A/N: Written for @spndeanbingo​​​​ . Enjoy!

_______

You yawned as you trotted out of the kitchen with a cup of coffee in hand down to your home office. You plopped down in your chair and got on your computer, checking your email with a tired hum. You saw an email from the facilities manager and sighed.

“Oh come on,” you said, rolling your eyes. “I’m work from home now, jackass. Refund my parking pass. That was like five hundred bucks.”

You growled and typed out an angry email in response, getting so fed up when you finished you knocked your coffee all over your computer.

“Shit!” you said, grabbing some tissues and moping it up.

You saw a sent message appear on screen and you shook your head.

“No. No. No, I didn’t send that. Recall, recall,” you said, shoving the tissues aside. It’d already been opened though and the recall failed, your jaw dropping. “No! I just moved into this house! I can’t afford to get fired.”

You grabbed your phone and decided to bite the bullet, trying to dial the guy when you got an email back.

As highlighted in my original message below, your refund will show up next month along with all other refunds to staff now working from home.

You hit reply and started writing an apology, praying he didn’t report you to HR.

I’m so sorry. It was an accident. I wrote it to express my frustrations and had no intentions of ever sending it. I’m deeply embarrassed, Mr. Winchester, and apologize once again.

You bit your bottom lip and waited a minute, getting a response back.

Thank you for your apology, Ms. Y/L/N. Seeing as today is my last day and it was a mistake, I see no reason to pursue this further.

“Ah, thank you, thank you,” you said. “Now let’s deal with this coffee.”

Two Weeks Later

“So what’s the damage?” you asked. The man in the flannel and baseball cap wrote up a tally on his clipboard before looking back at the house and yard again.

“Normally, for total lawn maintenance, that includes your weeding, trimming, spring and fall clean up, etc. for a lawn this large, you’re looking at around eighty a week,” he said. “But we’re trying to break into this neighborhood so let’s call it fifty a week. We get ten yards around here, we’ll knock it down to forty. How’s that sound?”

“Fifty for everything?” you asked. “Including the snow removal?”

“We’ll negotiate a separate contract for that but I’d call that about 350 for that season,” he said. “So. We have a deal?”

“For fifty bucks, you got a deal,” you said, shaking his hand.

“Perfect. I will have a contract written up and sent over to you this evening,” he said. He dug around into his back pocket and pulled out a business card.

“Super Natural Lawn Services,” you said. “Winchester.”

“Hm?” he said, writing something down on his clipboard.

“Name sounds familiar is all,” you said.

“Used to be in charge of managing the grounds at a local place until they decided to have their staff work from home. Ms. Y/L/N,” he said with a smirk. 

“Oh my…” you said, Dean chuckling. “I am so-”

“I like running my own business a lot better,” he said. “Besides, you apologized. We’re all good. We’ll get that contract straightened out and I’ll get a team over Friday morning to start on your landscape design.”

“I really am sorry, Mr. Winchester. I-”

“Y/N. It’s good. I promise. I’ll see you around, okay?”

You nodded and he headed back to his car, giving you a wave as he drove off.

Two Weeks Later

“Hey, Dean?” you called from your front porch. He poked his head up from where he was head first in a notebook, staring at the dirt edge around your house. “You want a drink? It’s really hot out.”

“I’m okay,” he said, sweating pouring off of him.

“You want to come into the air conditioning for a minute?” you asked. He was about to say no when he took off his hat and his hair was soaked with sweat. “Come on.”

“Alright. Just for a minute,” he said. He hopped up onto the porch and stepped into your foyer, letting out a sigh. “Okay, that’s nice.”

“You like lemonade?”

“Sure,” he said. He took off his boots and followed you to your kitchen, taking a seat at the table when you waved him down. You brought over a large glass, Dean gulping it down. “Do you have a minute? Now that your lawn is in good shape, I have a few ideas for landscaping near the house if I could pick your brain.”

“Sure,” you said. He flipped open his notebook and showed you a drawing, your eyes wide. “You drew that? It’s great.”

“Do you like that kind of style? It’s minimal upkeep but it’s not barren out there this way,” he said.

“I love it. How much does that cost?” you asked.

“It’s part of your weekly bill. I have a few other ideas in here you can take a look at and tell me which you like best,” he said. You flipped through the notebook with him, still liking the first one the most. “Alright. We’ll get that going for you then.”

“My neighbor was asking about you the other day. I gave her your name,” you said.

“Fingers crossed we get a bit more business around here then,” he said as he stood up. “I’ll get out of your hair now. Thanks for the drink, Y/N.”

One Month Later

You hummed as you sat on your front porch with your morning coffee, watching Dean across the street and walk around a yard with his team. They’d already done your yard for the week and you knew Dean was up to about six or so houses in the development. With a big stretch you glanced over to your car and saw something on the windshield. You got up and walked over, plucking off a note.

Found a problem with one of your plants. Rabbits were eating it. I’ll replace it later today.

You looked across the street just as he looked over. You gave a wave and he returned it before you headed back inside.

Four hours later you were getting home from the store to find another note stuck up against your front door.

Plant should be all good now. Enjoy your weekend.

“Hey,” you heard behind you and you nearly jumped out of your skin. “Sorry.”

“Hi, Dean,” you said. “S’alright. I got your note.”

“It was a simple fix,” he said. “I actually am looking for my work gloves. I either left them at your place or the Jones’ but I didn’t find them over there.”

“Are they black?” you asked.

“Yeah. You find them?” he asked. 

“Maybe they’re near my new plant,” you said, nodding your head. He looked over and they were on the grass beside it.

“Ah. That’s what I get for taking calls while working,” he said. He grabbed them and started to leave, pausing at the driveway. “Hey, Y/N.”

“Yeah?”

“You single?”

“Why?”

“Cause if you’re dating someone, I don’t think my odds of getting a date will go very far,” he said as he spun around. You smiled and leaned against the porch post. “Single?”

“Why would you want to date me? I was very rude to you once.”

“You were pissed about throwing money away for no good reason. Trust me, I got plenty of emails that day. You’re the only one that apologized. Plus you may have once told the grumpy guy in the cafeteria to go do a job that makes him happy.”

“You knew who I was when I emailed you, didn’t you.”

“Yeah. I looked you up at work. You were nice back then. You always offer my crew cold water if you’re home. I just like you,” he said.

“Pick me up at seven,” you said as you spun around. “You decide what we’re doing.”

“Alright,” he said. “I wouldn’t advise a dress and heels.”

“Now I’m intrigued. I’ll see you later then, Dean.”

“Yes you will, sweetheart.”

“Hi,” said Dean when you opened your front door just before seven. You laughed when he held out a packet of flower seeds. “They’ll go great in a planter on the porch.”

“Thanks,” you said. You put the packet inside and locked up, following him to his car. “So what are we doing?”

“I figured we could do something and grab a bite after if that’s okay?” he asked.

“Sure,” you said. “Were you thinking of a movie?”

“Hopefully it’s more fun than a movie,” he said. “Trust me.”

“Okay, that is the most fun I’ve ever had on a first date,” you said, Dean chuckling as you both turned in your helmets. “I did not even know there was go-karting in this town. Like really nice go-karting too.”

“We could come back sometime,” he said. “I don’t know about you but I’m starving.”

“Same,” you said. 

“Well follow me then,” he said, walking past his car in the parking lot and headed for the street. He took your hand and you walked across over to a diner, Dean walking the two of you inside and to a booth by the corner.

Twelve minutes later you had a double bacon cheeseburger with jalapenos in front of you along with a basket of fries and onion rings. You dug in, Dean smiling to himself as he enjoyed his own burger.

“Too much?” you said.

“Save room for dessert. They have out of this world sundaes,” he said.

“If it’s as good as this burger, I’m sold,” you said. “So what made you want to have a landscaping business?”

“I get to be outside, do some hard work but some mental work too. We’re doing pretty good for our first year,” he said. “I didn’t like my old job very much.”

“It sounds like this one is working out for you.”

“It is. Probably would have taken me longer to ask you out if I hadn’t sort of known you already but I don’t mind,” he said, taking one of your fries.

“You flirt with all your customers or just me?”

“Just you,” he said. “How’s it working out so far?”

“Pretty good. Want to go catch the music fest downtown after our meal? Main act comes on at nine,” you said. “Unless you’re not into rock.”

“Oh, sweetheart. You and me are gonna get along just fine.”

_____

[jimlingss]

Moirai [2]

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3

➜ Words: 6.2k

➜ Genres: 60% Fluff, 40% Angst, Isekai!AU

➜ Summary: Death is supposed to be the end. Or at least that's what you assumed when you're hit by a TRUCK. But the moment you open your eyes again, instead of being sent to the afterlife, you've become a baby. And not just any baby. You're the female villain of a video game.

You turn the corner and dart down the hall.   “My lady!”   There’s a parade of maids chasing after you, Joan included in the bunch, and a frightened guard whose metal armour clanks with each movement. You grin, swinging your wooden sword around at them with a ‘huzzah!’. Pretending you’re a champion, you twirl around the pillar with one arm. But even with your theatrics, they’re still meters away and out of reach.   “Please! Come back! You have your dance lessons!”   You stick out your tongue. “Then catch me!”   It’s been one full year since you’ve started learning swordsmanship and admittedly, it’s become one of your most favourite times of the day. It beats sitting at a desk with the old fart droning on and on about dumb things you already know or having your posture criticized over and over again during dance lessons.    You’re frankly getting tired of having information and insults shoved down your throat.    Sword lessons are the only time you can be out in the sun and do whatever you want. You can tell that you’re improving too. It’s a pain in the ass to get the guards to take you seriously, but sometimes the tips and tricks they give are pretty helpful.   It’s fun.   Especially when there are people desperately chasing you.   “P-Please!” one of the girls cries out, running out of breath.   One of the best perks about being a five-year old is having endless energy in your body. And you’ll happily take advantage of that while you still can. “Pirates never give up! Argh, matey!”   But your play time is unfortunately interrupted by a deadpanning voice—   “What are you doing?”    The familiar sharp voice sends shivers up your spine and you freeze.   Your parade halts on their heels as well, immediately dropping their heads to the ground and placing one hand over the other reverently. “Your grace.”   “What is going on here?” Your mother’s footsteps echo through the marble hall, ball gown dragged behind her as her scrutinizing eyes lay on the help, the knight and then to you.   “I’m so sorry,” Joan is quick to confess, “The lady refuses to attend her dance practices.”   And she’s quick to throw you under the bus.   If you could, you’d stick up your middle finger at her.   Your mother turns, her glare laid upon you. You brace yourself.   “This is not how the future Devereux head should act.” Her voice is above a slight murmur, yet chilling and heavy. Her narrowed eyes have dimmed as they look upon you. She doesn’t need to yell to be frightening. “The Chevalier household has their youngest daughter playing piano and they recently went to the castle to show her talent. How will you compete, Anastasia?”   “I—”   “Or will you continue to tarnish our family’s name by being a child?”   You are a child. Technically.    The woman looms over you, her demeanour imposing and the burden of the household’s name lays upon your shoulders. You can’t help but feel small. It’s no wonder Anastasia took the Prince’s kindness as love and fell for him so quickly. Moments with him were her moments of freedom.   You stay quiet, solemn, knowing it’s not worth arguing. Your eyes instead focus on a younger maid who’s silently snickering to herself and before you can make note for later, your vision blurs.   “From now on, your swordsmanship lessons will be retracted until you’ve caught up with the rest of your lessons,” she says while looking straight ahead, not sparing you a glance. “The only places you are to be permitted in for the next month is your room and the study—”   It’s unfair. A punishment that doesn’t fit the crime.   But your voice doesn’t come out of your mouth.   The world tilts on an axis. It swirls. Your head is lightweight.    And before you could figure out what’s happening, there’s a shrill cry for you — “my lady!” — and you feel yourself falling back before the universe becomes pitch black. An abyss of nothing.   //   “Why did she faint?!”   When you come to, your first thought is that you’ve died. Again.   Illness. Heart attack. Maybe from the plague.    Fuck.   It’s frightening and you feel an urge to cry, knowing that you yet again didn’t complete your goal of living a long and fruitful life. That the years spent fighting for your survival were ultimately useless. But then you hear far away voices and realize your fingers can twitch. The soft mattress underneath you registers soon after and it sinks in that you’re in your room, bedridden.   “Well….your grace…”   “On with it! I didn’t bring you here to waste my time!”   “Herrick…”   Oh right. It’s the Eve of the Solar Festival, isn’t it? A day where commoners celebrate the empire and wish for its everlasting prosperity. You remember since you’ve never gone before. Around this same time last year and the year before that, you fell ill in the exact same way — cold, chest aching, dizzy spells.    It’s odd. Usually you aren’t so weak and yet somehow, you always get better in the morning once the festival is over. You don’t remember this ever being mentioned in the original game either. Or at least Anastasia never said anything about it and she would’ve totally milked it for the Prince’s attention if she could’ve. But maybe it’s an outside detail. Something the game developers were going to include in a future DLC.   “We don’t know what’s happening to the lady, your grace,” the healer says.   Your father bellows from his stomach, “Excuse me?!”   “H-Her pulse reads well and she has no fever either. I-It’s a very unusual case.”   In your half-consciousness, you perceive the bitter silence.    “Heal her at all costs.” Your father’s footsteps fade and your mother sighs.   You wish you couldn’t hear. Otherwise, it would be easy to demonize the pair as unsympathetic, psychopathic parents who only consider their daughter a chess piece. You’re sure the only reason they’re expressing so much concern is because you are the only heir after all. They really have no future if Anastasia dies.    But it’s still hard to quell the hope that they actually care for your wellbeing.    Still, you wish you couldn’t hear their desperation. It wouldn’t have to be so conflicting. Or bittersweet. The only time they show an ounce of their affection is when you’re on your deathbed.   You muster the strength to open your eyes once everyone’s left the room.    Most likely, you’ll live through this. You still have yet to have any of the game’s encounters or even start. Anastasia was alive for most of it, enough to terrorize the main character, so you’ll live too.   Shit. When does the game start again?   The opening scene was right before the debutante ball was held for all the girls in the empire.   You count on your fingers — give or take, there’s twelve or thirteen years left….   But you remember from the wiki fan page that Anastasia became engaged to the Crown Prince when they were kids.    Oh god. If you weren’t so weak, you’d roll over and scream into your pillow.   There’s an unsettling feeling boiling in the pit of your stomach.   No matter how much effort you put forth, you don’t know how you’re going to avoid that arrangement.

Turns out, it’s unavoidable.   It begins two years later at seven years old, the D-day that you were dreading, the first domino that begins all the others.   “No! Please!” The entire household is stunned at how you’ve grabbed onto the Duke’s leg and wrapped your limbs around his appendage, practically dead weight and not allowing him to move a single step.    All your life, you’ve kept a good amount of distance between your parents — never daring to overstep your boundaries or sass them back no matter how much you wanted to. It’s more trouble than it’s worth anyway and it’s better to play on their good side.   But you’ve thrown in the towel. This is your last desperate attempt.   “I’ll be good, I promise I’ll go to all my dance lessons and all my history lessons and all my math lessons. Please, papa! Please!” You’re practically crying aloud. You wish someone would help you. “I don’t want to go to the Royal Palace!”   Edith is shaking her head while Joan is mortified at the sidelines.   Your mother’s expression is twisted in disgust while your dad is wholly aghast. Hey — it’s not like you wanted to do this either, alright?!   But your pleas fall on deaf ears. To them, it’s merely the whining of a child. A temper tantrum.   “My lady, please stop this,” Joan harshly whispers and rushes to pry your grip off of the Duke’s leg. Several others come too, maids and kitchen staff alike. Your strength is no match for theirs.   “My stomach hurts!”   Your father has no sympathy. “We’ve delayed enough times, Anastasia. If we postpone the meeting with the King again, it would be shameful to our house. Now get up.”   He’s done hearing the excuses — and while you’d usually internally call him out for being an ass, the moment you heard he wanted to take you to the palace, you did claim you have a fever.    Then you claimed diarrhea. A cough. Hid for several hours.   You’re actually surprised you managed to delay it for this long.   “There’s no choice, my lady,” Joan mutters quickly as she fixes the ribbons in your pretty hairdo. “You must go with the Duke today.”   Deep down, you know it’s true. You’ll be pulled along anyhow.    But you wish they would understand that this is a matter of life and death for you.   Your silence is a sign of raising the white flag and Joan retracts back to her place as your dad turns to leave the manor. He adjusts his hat as he’s escorted to the carriage and you’re about to trail after him, but your mother stops you.   You expect her to reprimand you, give an earful of what you should and shouldn’t do. But you’re surprised when she lowers herself down to your eye level.    She catches you off guard when she reaches out to button up your pea coat, attentive and careful in each swift movement. “This is a really important meeting, Anastasia. Do you understand?”    Her voice is soft, quiet enough that no one else aside from you can hear. You nod.   “You must be on your best behaviour. Your father, me, all the workers here, and the whole House of Devereux will be relying on you.” Wow. Way to not pressure a seven year old. “Today is the day that might change our lives for the better.”   As she finishes buttoning, her hands stroke your shoulders down your arms. The Duchess smiles gingerly, tiredly. For a moment, you feel guilty for being so selfish — for prioritizing your own survival and desires when everyone else was quite literally relying on you for their livelihood.   You find yourself swallowing hard before nodding again.    You get into the carriage without another word.    Well fuck. What now?   A part of you wishes you ran away when you had the opportunity — even though there was a good chance you would’ve been kidnapped and sold at an underground market or gone hungry or be shipped back right to your parents. Ashea, like any other place, doesn’t take kindly to wandering children.   But at least then you would’ve had more control and choice.    You know this isn’t just a fun field trip to the palace. The only reason the Duke and the King would meet like this is to seek an engagement. Your engagement with the Prince’s.    Half an hour later, you peek out the carriage windows to see the castle at the horizon.   Stone walls, seven towers, lookouts, the empire’s flag fluttering in the breeze — it’s a beautiful place with rolling green hills and beds of flowers that wind up the path. It’s a hundred times more grand than the Devereux estate and ten times the size too, stretching across for miles. But it’s also the location where all of it happens.    The beginning. The climax. The end.   “Anastasia.”   Your attention is taken when your father steps off the carriage. You take the servant's hand and hop down onto the cobblestone, following your father closely. He greets an important person or two and you lower your head to them in greeting as they complement how mannerly you are.   The two of you are led through open, lavish halls full of life-sized portraits and marble statues, and then through the garden. Even in both your lifetimes, you’ve never seen so many different kinds of flowers and vivid hues in one place.    Pansies. Orchids. Marigold.    Magenta. Lavender. Marmalade.   But you don't get to admire it for long. Not when the gazebo comes into sight.    A man with straight posture, dark hair streaked with gray to show his age and deep set eyes sits at the rounded table. Even with the absence of his crown, his status is shown through his navy cape ornate with golden swirls held together by an emerald jewel embellished with the royal crest. Wrinkles around his mouth, he has a fiercely stern expression until he cordially smiles as your father approaches.    Beside him is a spitting image, a smaller boy slumped in the white chair, visibly bored.   “Herrick! Good to see you, my old friend.”   “Your Majesty.” Your father bows and you follow suit, giving a curtsy and lowering your head. But at the same time, you can’t help peeking at the boy. His eyes meet yours and you look away.   Oh fuck.   It’s the first meeting between the Prince and Anastasia.    You’re sure for her it was impactful, nerve wracking, life changing. And it’s like that for you as well, but not so much on the positive side.   “Please, the formalities. Is this the daughter you've been speaking so highly about?”   “Yes, this is my only child, Anastasia.”   You plaster on a perfect, little smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Majesty.”   The King hums. “A very lovely child indeed. The Devereux House is blessed.”   The Duke smiles. “Thank you.”   “Please sit and make yourselves welcome.” The King gestures and the servants nearby scurry over, pulling out your chairs, pouring tea and placing plates of biscuits on their table. In a blink, they’ve finished and you can’t help but muse how much better they are than the servants back at home. The King smiles and looks at his son. “Jungkook, don’t you have anything to say?”   “Nice to meet you,” he deadpans before his doe eyes wander out to the gardens.    Jungkook is wholly disinterested in you and this entire affair — you don’t blame him. You bet any seven year old would be itching to get out of their seat. But looking at him, you can’t believe you liked him so much in the game. You even had him as your phone wallpaper for a few months.   But from the perspective of Anastasia and knowing your outcome and your impending demise, he’s not even cute as a kid.   If anything, sitting across from him stresses you the fuck out.   You weren’t supposed to even meet him. This was the exact opposite of your battle plans. And yet the engagement is going to happen whether you like it or not. The greatest irony of all is that you know he’ll end up falling in love with the main character anyway instead of you. Aka. the orphaned girl who ends up adopted by a baron.   This whole ordeal only serves to make you suffer.   The only way you could sabotage this meeting now is by slamming the teapot over Prince Jungkook’s head. And that would either get you thrown in jail for treason and executed or sent back to the Devereux estate on house arrest where your mother would kill you.   Oh god. It’s death either way.   “Are the sweets not to your liking?”   It takes a second for you to register that the King is looking at you. That he’s speaking to you.   You go wide-eyed, realizing you haven’t had a bite of the cakes, the biscuits or sipped on any tea. You’ve completely tuned out their conversation. But he’s been watching you and Jungkook from the corner of his eye, assessing your interactions closely.    Your palms go clammy as you open your mouth before closing it.    “She’s just shy,” your dad swiftly informs with a polite smile. It’s a complete lie, but one the royal monarch believes.   “Ah. We shouldn’t bore them with adult talk then.” The man turns to his son. “Jungkook, why don’t you go off and play with Anastasia here?”   “Okay,” he mumbles and slides off his chair.   You follow suit, a bit relieved that you were dismissed from the overly formal atmosphere.   The two of you go deeper into the gardens until the gazes of your father and the King’s fade from view. Jungkook is wearing a white ensemble with a cape which he dirties with the way he’s kicking rocks in his path. He seems burdened that you’re beside him.   “What do you like playing?” he asks.   You’re perplexed on how to answer. You’re not sure how you should play with an actual seven year old. Then again, you like to run away from the maids and swing your sword around on your down time. But that’s just because you like their reactions.   “Sword fighting.”   Jungkook blanches as if he just bit into a lemon. “What kind of girl plays with swords?”   Suddenly, you’re overwhelmed with an urge to kick the royal prince right in his shin.    But as the annoyance floods you, an epiphany comes along with it — if you can’t avoid Jungkook, maybe it’s time to switch strategies. Maybe you can start sowing the seeds of your future survival right here, right now. If one day, he’ll be condemning you of countless crimes and looking down at you as an evil villain, maybe you can turn his perception in the opposite direction.   Harmless. Overbearingly nice. Arrows that practically point ‘I’M NOT A THREAT WHATSOEVER!’.    You’re a genius.   You force the highest pitched giggle you can. “Really?”   Jungkook kicks another rock. “Girls have flimsy arms and trip every time you touch them.”   Ah. The ancient version of: girls have cooties and so you should stay away from them. Alright, alright. You can work with this.   “What do you like playing, Your Highness?”   “Anything that’s not with girls.”   You pause and laugh, hoping it doesn’t sound too stiff.   Jungkook suddenly lifts his head and turns to you with the swivel of his heel. You stop as well and his index finger juts right in your face. “Since I’m the prince, I’ll have mercy on you. We can play servant and king.”   “What’s servant and king?”   “I’m the king.” His thumb pokes himself and then he’s back to pointing right between your eyes again. “You’re the servant. You have to follow me and all my orders or off with your head!”   What a little shit.   How is this going to be any fun for you?!   But you draw an enormous grin on your face, left eye twitching in the process. “Sounds like fun, Your Highness!”   He strolls off. “Let’s go, dumb dumb.”   Your teeth grit and you inhale a deep breath. It hurts your pride to be insulted by a literal seven year old, but you can handle it. When it comes to life or death, you’ll easily befriend the hero.   “Fetch that stick, peasant!”   The prince points at the distance and looks at you expectedly.   Your teeth grit. But you muster a smile and dash forward.   When it comes to life or death, you’ll befriend the hero……….probably.   “Here you go, Your Highness.”   You present the stick to him with both hands and the brat smirks. A rush of air leaves his nose and then he takes the stick. You’re not sure what to expect, but your entire body freezes when he hurls it as far as his arms can go. He points between your brows a second later. “Go get it!”   Motherfucker. “Yes!”    Once Jungkook’s tired of having you fetch like a dog, you trail after him closely. The green hedges are triple your size, acting like corridors of the garden before they open up to certain areas filled with beds of flowers or a fountain. Some paths are unpaved, so you listen to the crunch of rocks underneath his shoes amidst the quiet.    When you’re not out of breath and running at his command, it finally sinks in that it’s the first time you’re with a main character of the game. For the seven years of this lifetime thus far, there was only really you. Your parents were supporting characters at best who just took the opportunity to slyly diss the main heroine a few times at royal gatherings. But other than that, you’re currently facing the backside of someone you know a lot about.   Who he will become. What his future holds. What his desires are.   You pipe up, “Prince Jungkook—”   “That’s Your Highness, peasant!”   You clench your jaw. “Your Highness…”   “What?”   You quicken your steps until you’re beside him and he turns his head. “I’ll support you forever if you want to fall in love with anyone! I don’t care about being the crown princess or the queen!”    For good measure, you flash a wink and a thumbs up.   “What?” His boyish face is twisted up in disgust. “Why would a peasant be a queen?”   You hold in your sigh. “I’m just saying. If we ever get engaged or something, it can always be annulled when we’re older. So feel free to love on, Your Highness. Make love, not war!”   Your words completely fly over Jungkook’s head.   His face reads that he has no clue what you’re talking about.   And he turns away from you. “You’re weird.”   You scoff.    You’re not sure how you can become friendly with a seven year old when you’re internally twenty years older than he is. If you had chocolate on you, you’d use that as a bargaining chip. But clearly, you only have your body, brain and the surroundings at the moment….   What do seven year old boys like?   What do they like?   As you scan your surroundings, your eye catches something in the bushes. You stop and get closer.   At the same time, Jungkook realizes you’re not following him anymore and turns around. “What are you doing, peasa—” His words are cut short by a shrill shriek of absolute terror.   Your brows furrow and you thrust your hand closer to him. “It’s a ladybug.”   The tiny red and black polka dotted bug is crawling in your hand. Jungkook screams again.   He’s stumbling back, nearly tripping onto his butt, doe eyes reflected with complete horror as if you just chopped off his mom’s head. “Get that thing away from me!” his voice cracks up and down two different octaves and realizing his weakness, you grin.   You know your plan was to seem as harmless as possible, but it’s just too much fun teasing him.   “What thing, Your Highness? Your servant is merely showing you a small forest creature.”   “No! Stop!”   He scrambles and starts running away.   You chase after him while giggling manically. “Prince Jungkook! Where are you going!”   “Get the bug away from me!”   He turns over his shoulder with eyeballs nearly falling out of their sockets, face bright red, and you take the opportunity to toss the ladybug at him. Jungkook’s shrieks echo, pitched and earsplitting.   You’re forced to stop with how hard you’re laughing and by then, he’s ran for the hills, completely gone from sight.   Oh god. You can’t believe he’s so scared.    You can’t believe you were so scared — he’s just a kid.   Your giggles taper off as you wander the gardens by yourself. It’s freeing to stroll at your own pace without a brat demanding you to fetch sticks or barking at you to do this and that. It’s a chance to finally admire the surroundings.   You’re sure the first time Anastasia saw the castle, it became her dream home. The place is similar to the aesthetic background graphics of the game and it was always described as beautiful by all the characters. And it really is that way.   But this is also the place of her demise and possibly yours.    You’re sure the only time you’ll be able to enjoy the palace and be this carefree is right now.   You’re admiring the blooming carnations, peony and roses as you turn the corner. The figure standing by the sprouting fountain doesn’t register until after a delayed moment and your eyes lift to see a woman — mysterious in her gray dress. It’s simple attire, but the fabrics are layered on top of one another, light enough that they drape down and flow to the breeze. Her brunette hair is tied into a bun and as if she feels the pressure of your eyes, her bright irises turn towards you.   You realize you’re staring and you blink several times, approaching her politely.    She pulls her charcoal shawl closer to her and smiles. The light wrinkles around her kind eyes crease. “Are you lost, child?”   You shake your head. “No. I’m just looking.”   She crouches down to match your height, gazing at you tenderly. “Where are your parents?”   “My dad’s talking to the King.” You point off in the distance as curiosity eats at you. She doesn’t look like an ordinary worker but not a visitor of the castle either. “I’m Anastasia.”   She searches your expression as if she’s endeared by you. “That’s a beautiful name.”   “Thanks! Who’re you?”   She’s soft-spoken, voice above a quiet murmur, “My name is Erena Robane.”   You frown. The name rings a bell. “Lady Robane?”   “No.” Her laugh tinkles. “I’m no lady.”    Before you can press your mind any further and pick apart your brain at why her name sounds so familiar, she reaches into the small pouch she was carrying and hands you a wrapped piece of candy. “Would you like one?”   Your eyes light up at the pink square. “Yes, please!”    You know better, as an internal twenty seven year old, than to take candy from strangers, but the Duke and Duchess never give you any sweets. So you’ll happily take what you can.   Erena smiles and drops the treat into your outstretched palm.   Not wanting to risk getting it confiscated by Edith, Joan or your mother if you brought it home, you quickly unwrap it and throw it into your mouth. It’s peppermint and it’s pretty damn good.   The woman looks at you patiently, waiting for a reaction, so you give her a thumbs up and a “Yummy!”   She laughs faintly. “Do you like candy?”   “Yep!” You hold out both hands as if you’re trick-or-treating. “Can I have another one, please?”   Might as well seize the chance while you can. It’s a dog-eat-dog world.    “You have very good manners.” She smiles, taking another out of her endless pouch and dropping it in your hand. Oh man, you’re starting to really like this lady. “My son likes chocolate, but I only managed to get candy for today.”   You chew the hard candy in your cheek, crunching down on it. You hope it rots your teeth and makes Edith’s life a living nightmare when she has to deal with it. “Your son?”   Her lips part to speak. But she’s interrupted—   “Mom?”   By sheer coincidence and coincidence itself, a boy with floppy, brown hair turns the corner of the garden. Thin lips, but chubby cheeks and bright eyes of deep mocha. You’ve known him the second your eyes have laid on him. A younger form of the person you fear most.   Taehyung.   You gasp and immediately spin around, hoping he didn’t see you, pretending you didn’t see him.   “I have to go now!”    Before Taehyung’s mom can utter another word, you run away. You don’t notice how Taehyung slows as well, brows furrowed at your receding form.   To see Jungkook is one thing. But to see Taehyung, the one who will use, coerce and lead you to your doom, is another. Jungkook handed down your judgment, but Taehyung is the one who led you there.   He’s the villain.   //   “You did decently,” your mother informs a few days after the whole affair. “We might have to go to the palace more often from now on.”   You nod, unable to dwell in her approval, mind still lost in a daze.    Taehyung — a half prince born a year before Jungkook. He has the blood of a royal with his father as the King, but his mother is merely a palace maid. You remember that he seeks revenge for her death after she’s poisoned by the jealous Queen.   But if she’s still alive, that means it’ll happen soon.   This year.    Springtime.    You’re slowly recalling the details of the event, the catalyst that begins Taehyung’s descent into madness, how he became the game’s villain. But you can’t involve yourself. You just can’t.   You shouldn’t have met any of them in the first place.   You shouldn’t get entangled in their story, in their lives. If you want to live, if you want to survive, you have to avoid Taehyung at all costs. So you can’t. You can’t. Can’t.   A day passes as you focus on your studies.   You can’t.   Another two days goes by, six meals eaten.   Can’t—   On the seventh, your silver spoon clanks noisily against the porcelain bowl, slipping from your grasps, dropping downwards in your deep trance that throbs your temples. Joan turns at the ruckus and you look at her, already standing up.   “I have to go to the castle.”   The guilt eating at you has won its battle.    “Pardon me?”   “Today. Right now.” You rush out of the room and down the hall, determination set in your strides. Maybe you can avoid this. Maybe if you do, he won’t become the game’s villain. Then he won’t be a threat to you, and you won’t be a threat to anyone. You’ll live and so will his mom who’s done nothing wrong.   The maid struggles to catch up to you. “My lady! Please! Wait! What do you mean?”   “I forgot something really important!”   “Y-You can’t just go. My lady! You must ask permission from the Duke and Duchess!”   “There’s no time to.” You’ve never been more serious and somber. There isn’t an inch of mischief, no childish selfishness. Twenty seven years has amounted to this very moment. And you use your status as the Duke’s daughter to command the girl. “Come with me. If the Duke or Duchess gets mad, I’ll take the blame.”   Joan sighs, annoyed as she looks around as if someone else could reason with you. But as you turn to her, looking her dead in the eye, she shifts on her feet and hesitantly calls for a carriage.   You’re in it before you can blink again.   There must be time. There hasn’t been any news yet. No reports of a death in the castle.   You can warn him. You can avoid this tragedy.    “We’re here, my lady,” Joan informs, peering out the window at the enormous stone walls and towers looming high above the clouds. The carriage doors open and she guides you out.    Your feet land onto the cobblestone.    But there isn’t any welcome. No guards that ask what your business here is. No servant passing by.   Instead, there’s chaos in the distance.    Your head whips to the noise and Joan shouts as you dash off towards it. Yet no one notices you in the midst of the pandemonium. No one would pay mind to a small child. You’re left to linger in the open halls, butlers that quickly walk past, maids whispering amongst themselves—   “Did you hear?”   Your head turns towards two girls.   “The King’s mistress just died!”   You came a moment too late.

No one cries.   The arrangement is short and unluxurious, the bare minimum of what would be acceptable for a royal family. A priestess in front drones on impassively about the afterlife, but as you look around, no one grieves. After all, they wouldn’t shed tears for a mere maid.    This is merely a charade to quell away scandalous rumors and to give nobles an excuse to come to the castle and be acknowledged.   You’re overwhelmed in black, a tulle skirt and puffed sleeves. Your parents stand on either side of you, your father in a jacket with the house’s emblem and your mother with a veil covering the right side of her face. Like many others, your family has come for appearance sakes.   But for you, it’s different.   The woman inside the closed casket has shown you a kindness that you so seldom receive.   And because of your hesitation, because of your self-preservation and selfishness, this happened.   Once the burial ceremony is over, your parents mingle amongst the nobles, laughing cordially behind gloved hands as you follow after them and cutesy. It feels like you’re a show pony, brought around to show what the future of the Devereux looks like.   But after a while, you manage to slip away from the scrutiny.    And by sheer coincidence and coincidence only, you find him.   At first it’s the noise of heart wrenching sobs. It’s unrestrained wails and choked hiccups in between that attracts your attention. You twist through the familiar hedge corridors and the moment you turn the corner, your eyes lift to a small figure underneath an oak tree.    He sits alone. He cries to himself.    The boy with floppy, brown hair has his knees pulled together. He incessantly rubs at his eyes as if that alone could stop the tears that well and pour. He cries enough for the tens of people at the funeral, substituting their apathy with his anguish. His entire body wracks and the moment he whimpers “m-mom” in-between, it’s shaking to your core.    This is the beginning. The start of his path of destruction.   In this entire castle that stretches across the horizon, only his mother ever loved him. The half-prince. The Forgotten Prince. The one dirtied by regular red blood, not blue enough for the golden crown.   Taehyung mourns, vision blurred by his grief.   But as he rubs his eyes with his small fists, black shoes appear between the gaps of his hands.   He looks up. Your arm is extended in front of him.    Taehyung looks down to your folded, pink handkerchief. He looks stunned for a moment, as if he’s surprised that there was someone here. That someone actually heard him. That someone came.   He takes your handkerchief and sniffles.   “I’m sorry,” you murmur.    Sorry that she passed away, that he has to endure this, that you didn’t save her when you could’ve.   This isn’t just a game you’re playing anymore. All these people aren’t just characters.   You’re living a new life. And all these people have emotions, desires, thoughts of their own.   You’re not sure how you can comfort Taehyung. What you can say to make it better. “Your mother loved you a lot. I’m sure she wouldn’t want you to be crying so much by yourself.”   He hiccups, snivelling uncontrollably. “B-But if I don’t cry for her, who will?”   You don’t know what to say.   Tears continue to slip down his cheeks and as you linger awkwardly, you decide there isn’t much that you can say. So you sit beside him. You sit underneath the canopy of the tree and branches of rustling leaves, on the soft bed of grass, looking out at the garden.    This is all you can do.   You don’t notice the way Taehyung looks up in-between his mourning, glossy eyes pinpointed on the profile of your face.    The pair of you sit next to one another in the silence of his sniffles until it levels. Until he can breathe again—   “Anastasia!”   There’s a sharp call of your name, one that can only belong to your mother. You immediately come to your feet again as if a dog whistle has been blown. But as you hurry away, you turn over your shoulder. Your eyes connect with Taehyung’s brown ones, and for a moment you slow.   You leave a second later.   You twist down the hedges and turn the corner, nearly bumping straight into her. She looks down at you with her brows furrowed. “Where did you go?”   You smile. “I got lost.”   It’s futile. You know it now.   Trying to avoid the three that will lead you to your demise is like trying to wish you’d suddenly vanish off these lands. You know it won’t be the last time that you see Taehyung. It won’t be the last of Jungkook either. Or whoever the heroine will be. It seems like the more you try to run, the more you inadvertently become involved. But you’ll hold your head up high and face whatever is to come head on.

[alastaircarstairsdefenselawyer]

the ghost of unbroken love pt 1

Summary: Thomas pays the Carstairs home a visit once the dust has settled (COI spoilers!)

Read it on AO3 | Fanfiction Masterlist

CW: PTSD, implied child abuse, bullying

thanks to @littlx-songbxrd for the title :) (it’s a line from “silhouettes” by sleeping at last)

Alastair’s eyes widened in surprise when he opened the front door to see Thomas Lightwood standing before him. “What are you doing here?” 

“Hello to you, too,” he replied, his eyes narrowing as he looked at Alastair’s hands. “Why do you have a hedgehog?” 

He turned away slightly, gently stroking the hedgehog in his palm. “Excuse you, don’t be rude to Alfred.” 

Thomas gave a slight smile. “My apologies, Alfred. Wait- Isn’t that Christopher’s hedgehog?” 

Alastair’s eyes flared, clearly offended. “He is not! He was merely watching him for a few days.” 

“Ah, I do think he mentioned that. My mistake.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.” 

“Since when do you have a pet hedgehog, though?” 

He tried to focus on the feeling of Alfred squirming in his palms and not on the tall, handsome masterpiece of a man standing before him, or on the memory of what his lips and skin tasted like. “If you’re here to try to change my mind-” 

“I’m not, don’t worry. I just… I thought that perhaps we could talk, now that some of the excitement has passed.” 

Alastair sighed. “Fine, come in, then, before you freeze.” 

Thomas followed him in, shaking some of the melting ice and snow from his hair and hanging up his coat. His nose and ears were red from the cold. 

“It truly would not kill you to wear a hat, you know,” Alastair commented. 

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’ve a reputation to uphold, don’t I? What would my friends and I be known for if not our aversion to hats?” 

“Besides being a nuisance, you mean?” 

Thomas smirked. “Kit did look after Alfred for you.” 

“Believe me, any time I mention you and your Merry boys, I never mean Christopher.” 

He chuckled. “That’s fair.” Thomas’ eyes drifted to the piano. Alastair cursed silently to himself, realizing that he’d left the fallboard open earlier. “You play?” 

“I…” Alastair hesitated. He certainly used to. He wanted to, again. He could play music from a sheet without much effort, though he was still rusty, but playing written music was never what Alastair had enjoyed about playing. He’d always found his joy in creating, in taking written words and crafting it into a beautiful melody. That had been what he was attempting earlier, before he’d gotten overwhelmed and abandoned the project to fetch Alfred to calm him down, before Thomas had arrived at his doorstep. But it was a lost cause, for the part of Alastair that created, the part that dreamed, had died long ago. “Sometimes. Sometimes I do.” 

Thomas pulled something out of his coat. “I, uh, I brought you something. I thought… Well, I’m not sure what I thought. I’m certainly not an expert in dealing with grief. But this is one of the books I read after Barbara died, and I thought it was a helpful distraction, and I figured at the very least you could amuse yourself with my trying to make sense of it all in the margins.” 

Alastair gave him a small smile while placing Alfred down on the sofa and accepted the book. It was a volume of Sufi poetry, written in Farsi and Arabic. “Thank you, this… it means a lot.” 

The conversation stumbled awkwardly for the next few minutes until finally Thomas made a pensive noise. “May I… May I ask you something?” 

Alastair paused. “You may.” 

“Why are you still friends with them?” 

Alastair cast a dark gaze away from him. “I already told you, I-” 

“You have no friends, I know. But you certainly pretend to be friendly with them, at the very least. You certainly don’t treat them anything like the way we’ve treated you.” 

You don’t treat them anything like the way you’ve treated me, he wanted to say, but he knew that he would be deflecting to bring it up now. The truth was that Alastair asked himself the same questions. Why was he civil with them, friendly even? Why did he placate his father knowing how he would still treat him? He was sure he could see the wheels turning in Thomas’ brain, though his face betrayed none of it, wondering how badly they could have truly treated him if he was able to stay so amicable with them. Alastair, too, often worried if his own memories were lying to him, tricking him. “I can hardly blame them, can I? When I myself have done horrible things?” 

Thomas hesitated. “That- That’s not really fair, is it?” 

“I’m not sure what you mean.” 

“Well, it sounded like, at the time, you hadn’t done anything yet. At least, not to them.” 

“What’s it matter? What goes around comes around.” 

“More like what comes around goes around. Life isn’t just some twisted justice system, paying for crimes you hadn’t yet committed. What reasons did they have for treating you the way they did? Have they apologized?” Alastair’s brain stalled as Thomas added, “Do you think they owe you one?” 

Alastair could feel his heart beating, blood rushing to his head, his chest constricting. “Why are you doing this?” he demanded a little too forcefully. “I told you to leave me alone!” 

Thomas took a daring step towards him. “I think you think you deserved it. You think that you’re a monster, that you’re dangerous, a terrible person. You think that means they were justified in hurting you. That’s bullshit, Alastair. No one deserves to go through what you did, even someone who is terrible, and you are not. You’ve done bad things, certainly, but you’ve had reasons for doing each of them, and not one was that you are a terrible person. You are none of the things that you call yourself. You are strong and resilient and compassionate, and you love with your whole heart even those who do not deserve it.” 

Alastair took a step back. “You’re wrong.” He wasn’t. Alastair hated feeling so seen, so vulnerable. He wanted to scream. Why wasn’t it enough, then? His love was never enough to make his father want to change, to get better. It was not even enough to get him to stop throwing things at him whenever the night quit going his way. His love was not enough to make Charles love him back. Even the boys at the Academy, Augustus and the rest, he’d spent so much time and energy trying desperately for them to genuinely like him, but it was never enough. He was fairly certain that it never would be. Thomas was wrong, Alastair was none of the things Thomas believed him to be, he was weak and pathetic and whatever love he held inside of him was broken at its core. “You ask me why I treat the boys from school better than you treated me, but why do you? You and your friends have never given them a fraction of the grief you’ve given me, even Augustus after he hurt your sister so terribly. Why?” 

Alastair could see the defenses light behind Thomas’ eyes. “Don’t talk about Eugenia as if you know what happened!” 

Alastair looked him in the eyes without a hint of expression on his face. “I do, and I know because she told me.” 

Thomas stumbled on his words, unsure of how to respond. 

“I told you why I was cruel to you lot at school, but I did not tell you why I spread that rumor. The truth is that I was hurting and I was scared and all I wanted was for you to leave me alone, but you wouldn’t. And then Matthew came, running his mouth with his endless nonsense, poking fun at the way I looked and reminding me yet again that there is not a single person on this Earth who sees me as anything more than an afterthought. And so I repeated that rumor to him. And I repeated it again, and again, because I was angry, because when Matthew blew up my belongings, my father decided that the cost to replace them was more than simply the coinage at the shops.” Alastair inhaled, pushing away the memory of the fury in his father’s eyes when he came home that semester. 

Releasing a shaky breath, Alastair continued, “And I know. I know that wasn’t fair to him, or to you, or to your parents. But I have been trying to apologize for five months, only you decided without even hearing my apology that I did not deserve forgiveness. What now, Thomas? Now that you know my secrets, you’ve seen my scars? Do I deserve forgiveness? Do I deserve to be hated? Because truly I cannot keep track.” He gestured to the door, his voice now angry. “Who are you to decide what is deserved and undeserved? You do not get to come here and pretend like you understand me or my life. You and your friends think that you’re better than everyone else, but I have a secret for you: you are not morally superior simply because you are less broken than the rest of us. Get out of my house.” 

“Alastair-” Thomas tried, but he was cut off. 

“Leave, Thomas. And put me out of your mind. I left Charles because I did not wish to be his secret, and I will not be yours, either.” 

Thomas looked like he was about to speak, but stopped himself. He looked hurt and confused, something like a wounded puppy. Alastair would not flinch. Finally, he obliged, though he turned at the last moment. “I’m sorry,” he said in a small voice, though not ingenuine. Alastair shut and bolted the door without responding. 

Once the door was secure, Alastair sank to his knees, a million thoughts and feelings flooding his brain, from relief to anger to utter despair. Shaky breath after shaky breath, he attempted to piece the world back together again.

taglist (lmk if you want to be added and, if so, whether for every TLH fic I write or just for this series or something else): @littlx-songbxrd @dianasarrow @doitforthecarstairs 

[herinsectreflection]

Season Five is essentially a slow-motion trolley problem for Buffy to solve. She can let the unstoppable oncoming train that is Glory kill millions, or she can pull the lever and kill Dawn instead. It’s the most iconic choice in a series that is pretty much all about choice. This internal dilemma is externalised with the main villains. The show uses them to take a stance on the problem. There are obviously a lot of different ways to approach this from a moral philosophy standpoint, and I’m not going to talk about what is the “correct” moral choice, but how the show presents and interprets the various standpoints. It’s also worth mentioning that I am not a philosopher, this is just what I interpret from watching the show and some base level understanding.

Glory represents the option of simply letting people die. She is presented as egocentric, narcissistic, vain, and honestly kind of lazy. I think this is what the show thinks of people who would simply walk away from the lever and do nothing to keep their own hands clean. Glory does not take a sadistic pleasure in causing the death of millions, she simply doesn’t care. She justifies this by declaring that the world sucks anyway, and everyone suffers, so it doesn’t matter.

“Funny. 'Cause I look around at this world you're so eager to be a part of ... and all I see is six billion lunatics looking for the fastest ride out. ... I'm crazy? Honey, I'm the original one-eyed chicklet in the kingdom of the blind.”

- Glory, 5x21 The Weight of the World

But this is patently self-serving, yielding her own agency and using the absurdity of the universe to justify the atrocities she will be responsible for. She refuses to actively engage with the consequences of her actions, and so exposes her poisonous egomania. To simply not make a choice and let millions die would be selfish and intellectually vapid, and so Glory is selfish and vapid, and the main villain.

The Knights of Byzantium represent the opposite, strictly utilitarian viewpoint: that pulling the lever and killing the single person is not simply morally correct, but an imperative. They are treated slightly more sympathetically than Glory, since they are working in an understandable moral framework, but the story shows the ugliness inherent in their outlook. The ultimate endpoint of it is them hunting down and trying to kill a 14 year old girl. Buffy herself points out that this is inherently horrific.

“What kind of god would demand her life for something that she has no control over?”

- Buffy, 5x20 Spiral

The show is consistent throughout its run that a moral framework based purely on a utilitarian, mathematical approach and excuses any evil action as long as the amount of good done outweighs it, is ultimately unethical. That viewpoint can be used to justify any number of awful things, as long as they are outweighed on the cosmic scale. The show does not agree. It believes that certain actions are simply wrong, that no amount of good can wash out the bad. The hypothetical lives that the Knights of Byzantium could save lend their actions a reason that Glory does not have, but ultimately it does not change the fact that a child - a child with a mother, a sister, friends, a life - would be dead at their hands. The Knights refuse to confront that, simply falling back on dogmatic imperatives and silencing independent thought. They too allow their agency to be reduced, which is what allows them to commit awful actions.

Giles represents the space between these two villainous perspectives on the problem, and the heroic one that Buffy represents. He is, of course, not a villain - he’s one of the white hats, mentor to the hero. But he does argue for the utilitarian point of view. The shows stops itself being morally narrow-minded by allowing Giles to voice opposition to Buffy without being a villain, but it also proposes that the action of killing one person to save others is inherently unheroic. It taints Giles, and he accepts that.

“She's a hero, you see. She's not like us.”

I’ve been talking about Dawn as if she is the hypothetical single person on the other track, but she might better fit this scenario if we look at the “Fat Man” variation. This version posits that a “very fat man” is next to you, and pushing him onto the track will save everyone there. Dawn is that man in this scenario. Similarly, Ben can be seen as the “Fat Villain” variant, where pushing the person responsible for tying people to the tracks would save them. Giles’ murder of Ben can be seen as justified, if still unheroic, because Ben himself has chosen selfishness and tainted his own innocence.

Ben is very much a counterpart to Buffy in S5. He too had an ancient mystical force thrust upon him when he was young, which he had no choice in. His personal and professional lives suffer because of this. He cannot pursue the life he imagined for himself because of Glory’s presence, just as being the Slayer prevents it for Buffy. And both Buffy and Ben are offered an easy way out, which they spend The Weight of the World ruminating on - to simply let Dawn die. Ben at this point has a very obvious alternate solution -  the same one Buffy eventually comes to, though she hasn’t realised it’s an option yet - that he ignores. He can throw himself onto the tracks. He can stop anyone dying by killing himself and therefore Glory. But unlike Buffy, he makes the selfish choice, to preserve his own future at the cost of an innocent child. And so he is condemned, and declared a villain as he is killed.

Buffy is the one true hero in this scenario. She concludes that the only moral option is to throw herself onto the tracks. This is still, ultimately, one life given to save many. But it’s hers to give. It’s her choice to make. Glory, Ben, the Knights of Byzantium, even Giles - when they advocate for killing Dawn, they all claim ownership of her life. She becomes a lamb for them to offer up. Dawn, brave and heroic mini-Buffy as she is, actually does offer up her own life to save others too, but the point is that it’s her life to give. It’s the difference between sacrifice and self-sacrifice.

This is how Buffy reconciles “Death is your gift” with “A Slayer is not a Killer”. All the other actors we’ve considered are killers. Giles and Tara spell it out pretty well in The Gift.

BUFFY: The spirit guide told me ... that death is my gift. Guess that means a Slayer really is just a killer after all.

GILES: I think you're wrong about that.

TARA: (points to Giles) You're a killer.

A killer is not necessarily evil or a monster, as Giles as a person makes clear. But a killer will pull that lever. A Slayer will jump on the tracks. Buffy and Faith debated this idea back in Consequences, where supposed utilitarian Faith suggests that “Slayer” and “killer” are interchangeable. Buffy argues that they are not, and specifically cites the idea that they can’t decide whether the lives of others are worth saving or not.

Faith: We're warriors. We're built to kill.

Buffy: To kill demons! But it does not mean that we get to pass judgment on people like we're better than everybody else!

Throughout S5, and particularly starting in Restless she fears that Faith is in fact right, and that a Slayer is in fact a killer. But in The Gift she proves that incorrect. She ties the human part of herself represented by Dawn to the duty-bound slayer part of herself, and both lead to the same destination of self-sacrifice, and heroism.

[hargrove-mayfields]

for @magellan-88!

When Hawkins’ class of ‘85 graduated high school, Billy was the first to take off, halfway back to San Francisco before the caps even touched the ground.

Everyone gave hats off to him for being one of the few who’d ever make it out of the dying ghost town that was Hawkins, but as much as he hated that place and all its confines, he felt like he had left behind a lot.

The job wasn’t what he really wanted to do anyways, his house, when he was still staying there, was cramped, and after only a couple of months, the town had no sentimental value to him. The only thing he couldn’t help but feel bad about ditching, and that amounted to a whole lot of regret on his part, were the people.

Not the girls who swooned over him or the half made friendships he’d been neglecting since they formed anyways either, but he had his little sister, to whom he promised he’d drop everything and come back the second she said the word, and he also had Steve.

His relationship with Steve was a little blurrier, the two of them had gotten to the point of calling each other friends just after Christmas, best friends by the time Neil kicked Billy out for nothing but turning the big one-eight in april, and he was left crashing on the Harrington’s designer couch until he was free to leave Hawkins.

That’s where Steve would’ve ended the story at least, but as for Billy, he’d fallen ass over tits in love for his best friend in a matter of a smoldering gaze at a Halloween party.

Of all the many things he regrets about his short time in that cramped little town, he’d have to say the biggest was not having worked up the courage to fess up about his little crush before he skipped town to live it up more than two thousand miles away, mostly because that had been the only of his mistake he never took any time to resolve.

So it was that when Steve, apparently completely forgetting about the existence of time zones, calls him up at five in the morning to ask if he could come out to visit his new place in the golden state in a few weeks, Billy senses a pretty big opportunity.

What Steve had always done when Billy was staying at his place was cover the couch in the upstairs foyer, as he was made to call it, in layers of spare pillows and blankets, making it up like a bed for him. If he could, he would’ve let him have the guest bedroom, but that was out of the question when every other night that Steve’s parents were home, they argued and John had to take the spare.

But Billy doesn’t have a spare room, and he isn’t too sure about doing the same for Steve in his new apartment.

The problem isn’t that he can't, he has a brand new couch, bought from an actual furniture store instead of an old busted up one at thrift (or that he brought in off the curb and said was bought at thrift) and it’s even got a pull out to make things easier. He’d spent too many dozens of nights on Steve’s couch, staring up at the way high ceiling and wishing he had the guts to make a move, that he doesn’t think his yearning heart can take being just down the hall from him again, especially not with the promise that in a few weeks time, there’d be that vast, looming space between them again.

So he’s settled on it, Steve is going to sleep in his bed. He’s just gotta find a way to get him there, and that’s simple enough, he just has to pretend there’s nowhere else for him to sleep.

Now, he’ll admit that his plan on selling that idea is shaky at best, but Steve is bone tired when he gets there a few days later, his first time flying and dealing with jet lag taking everything he has out of him, so really, he’s looking to crash as soon as they get up to Billy’s apartment.

Only, he notices immediately that the couch isn’t set up like a bed like he usually would have done it up, and he looks to Billy with a slight tilt of his head, confusion in those big puppy-dog eyes.

So Billy answers, trying not to be too smug about it, “Sorry man, couch is out of the question.”

“Why?” Steve asks, then thinks better of it, knowing Billy’s history, “Actually, hold that thought, I don’t think I want to know.”

That makes Billy laugh, makes him remember why he fell in love with Steve in the first place too, “Nothing gross this time, s’just brand new. Can’t have you drooling all over the furniture that cost me two months of rent.”

“Right. So.. where am I going to sleep then?”

“I’ve got a bed, Steve.”

“Well duh, but I’m not going to kick you out of your own bed.”

“I didn’t say that. You’re not the only one with a queen sized now. I got room for two.”

“But.. is that going to be weird?” Steve asks, shifting on his feet, like the suggestion makes him uncomfortable, and Billy almost backs out then, lies about how he was just messing around to test Steve, but he sticks to his guns, saying, “Only if you make it weird. Don’t have much of a choice anyhow, unless you want to sleep in the bathtub.”

Steve insists on arguing though, “What’s wrong with sleeping on the floor?”

“Dude, this is a shitty ass apartment. I live here and I don’t even know half of the nasty shit that’s been on this floor.”

“Fine, just as long as I have a place to sleep.” Steve half-mumbles, cut off by a yawn, obviously too tired to keep pressing the issue.

He saunters off to Billy’s room not too long after that, not even changing out of his clothes before he’s throwing himself face down in his bed, leaving Billy to do his entire nighttime routine while Steve makes himself right at home, assuming that after brushing his teeth and putting his hair up, changing out of his jeans and triple checking that the doors and windows were locked tight, that’d be enough time for Steve to fall asleep.

That however, does not happen to be the case.

Billy knew from sleeping just down the hall from Steve’s bedroom that he snored like a motherfucker, and from the times he had fallen asleep on the basketball bus after a game that Steve never stopped moving in his sleep, but he was truly not prepared for how difficult it was for Steve to get to sleep in the first place.

He understands it, he remembers how hard it had been trying to relax in the silence that surrounded the country, and since that was all Steve was used to, it wasn’t exactly a surprise that the sounds of the city were hard for him to tune out and just sleep.

What he doesn’t understand is how Steve doesn’t wear himself out tossing and turning, and after at least an hour of it, Billy’s got to wonder if this is a princess and the pea type situation, some messed up spring in his mattress making this arrangement not proper for the royalty at his side.

Billy can tell he wants to talk, from the way he keeps feeling Steve’s eyes on his back, the tapping of his fingers against the headboard, which, if they got to talking he might not even need part two of his plan, but Steve doesn’t ever say anything just sighs with every chime on the clock, another hour he can’t get to sleep.

It isn’t until three in the morning rolls around that Steve finally conks out, Billy himself still barely awake enough to shoot his shot, draping himself over Steve and pulling him close before he has a chance to roll over onto his front again, falling asleep with his crush in his arms.

~~~~

The sun’s not up yet, and the clock’s too blurry to say exactly what time it is when Steve wakes up again, realizing after a few minutes that he’s hot as hell, and didn’t immediately start tossing and turning again, which, once he’s actually woken up enough to think, he discovers that the only reason that is is because Billy is pressed against his back, his arm thrown over his side, spooning him and basically keeping him held there in place.

Steve at first tries not to think about it, the whole, sleeping in the same bed as the person he deliberately never did that with to avoid facing his feeling, and just get comfortable with Billy all cuddled up to him, but he’s a front sleeper, and Billy is fucking hot in more ways than one, so when it’s evident that’s not going to work, he clears his throat, announcing into the silence, “You’re smotherin’ me, Bill.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath behind him, like Billy had just woken up, and a soft little hum of a question, “Hm?”

“You’re like, on top of me, man.” Steve informs him, like he didn’t notice he was half laying on him, but Billy answers bluntly, voice all tired and scratchy, “Don’t care.”

That sort of confuses Steve. He’d been expecting an apology, for Billy to roll over and them to pretend this never happened in the morning, and it’s got his mind, and his heart, racing a mile a minute, because Billy isn’t the only one with a helpless crush, there’s a reason Steve flew 2,000 miles just to see him.

So he asks, before he can lead himself on, “Just to be clear, is this an accidental thing that only isn’t awkward because we’re friends or is this like, meaningful?”

Billy just hums, pulling him even closer, making Steve feel small, “Go to sleep, Steven.”

“Okay.” He tries to, shoving his arm under the pillows and shifting under Billy’s weight so he’d be comfortable enough, but it’s just nagging at his lovesick brain, “But seriously man, I don’t know what I should take away from this.”

Billy sighs softly, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles, maybe because he was tired, maybe because Steve was being Steve, “Look, you’re in my bed, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, because of the couch, I thought you were just a cuddler or something.”

“Nope. This was all by design.”

“So then the couch..”

“Was perfectly fine, yeah. Damn thing even has a fold out.”

“You did this on purpose?”

“Thought I made that pretty obvious.”

Steve pouts, sitting up so Billy has to let go of him, “Well if you’re so annoyed with me, I’ll just leave you to get back to sleep.”

“Oh no. It’s much too late for that. I’m thinking we’re going to have to find another way to spend the time now. And, well, since you’re already here...”

[alexchild60]

Lost It All- Kung Lao Imagine

Sorry this took so long. I just stated grad school, so I’ve been preoccupied. I got this idea from the song Lost It All by Black Veil Brides. I hope you enjoy it :)

I smiled as Kung Lao joined me in the fight pit. He pulled me in for a kiss once he was in front of me.

“What took you so long?” I asked when we broke away.

“I went and picked something up for you.” He brought a small bouquet of flowers from behind his back. These flowers were some that I had seen around Raiden’s temple and stopped to admire a couple of times. “They’re the ones you always look at.”

“Lao, you’re so thoughtful.” 

~~~~~~

“What is this place?” Sonya asked.

“It’s the Void,” Raiden replied. “This is a place between realms. Shang Tsung will not be able to get to us here.”

I looked around and saw Liu Kang with Kung Lao’s hat.

“Where’s Kung Lao?” I asked, trying not to panic.

Cole stepped forward. “(Y/N), I’m sorry. Shang Tsung grabbed him before we could get into the Void.”

Liu Kang presented Kung Lao’s hat to me. I let out a wail before falling to my knees crying. I held his hat in my arms, even though it was cutting me. Liu Kang knelt down beside me and pulled me into a hug.

After a few minutes of crying, I searched for Raiden. “Why couldn’t you save him?” I asked once my eyes met his.

“I cannot save everyone,” he replied, but there was hurt evident in his eyes.

His response angered me. “You should’ve come sooner! Explain to me how you didn’t know Shang Tsung was already there!”

Liu placed a hand on my shoulder. “(Y/N), calm down.” I shrugged off his hand.

“I made a mistake, (Y/N),” Raiden said.

“And that mistake cost Kung Lao his life,” I replied as I walked away from him.

I sat on the ground away from everyone as I held Kung Lao’s hat in my hands. I don’t know how long I sat there just staring at it and crying.

“(Y/N),” Raiden said. I looked up and saw it was just the two of us. 

“Where did everyone else go?”

“Cole, proposed a plan to allow our champions a chance to defeat Shang Tsung’s.” He sat down beside me. “They believed you wouldn’t have the desire to fight and it would put you more into harm’s way.” I didn’t say anything. The two of us sat in silence for a while before he broke it. “There may be a way to bring him back.”

I raised my head up. “How?”

“If we can find a way to extract his soul from Shang Tsung, we can bring him back; but we will need to train you harder. You will need to defeat him in Mortal Kombat.”

~~~~~~

I blocked Kung Lao’s kick with my arms, like he showed me. 

“Good, (Y/N)!” He yelled as he threw a punch in my direction. I dodged his punch and rebutted with one of my own.

Kung Lao took off his hat and began maneuvering it at me. I was doing an alright job at dodging his hat, until he decided to throw it. His hat came at me full speed and I closed my eyes as I braced for the impact, but it never came. I opened my eyes to see the hat on the ground. Kung Lao approached me with a confused look on his face. He picked up his hat on his way to me, but ran into what seemed like an invisible wall.

“Ouch!”

“What’s going on, Lao?” 

“I can’t get any closer.” He stuck his finger out towards me and pulled it back really quick. “It shocked me.”

“What shocked you?” 

“Whatever is preventing me from getting near you.”

I stuck my arm out and tried to reach through the wall. I felt a surge of energy as my arm went through, but it wasn’t painful. I stepped through it to Kung Lao.

I touched his arm. “Does that hurt?”

“No.” He moved where I was standing and ran his arm horizontally as if he was feeling for something. “It’s gone.” A smile crept on his face. “(Y/N), I think we just found your arcana.”

~~~~~~

I looked around the arena as I entered with Liu Kang. Thankfully Kung Lao’s hat was keeping my nervous face hidden from onlookers.

Liu Kang turned and looked at me. “Are you okay?” He asked me.

I had a few cuts and bruises, but thankfully nothing major. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just ready to do this.”

Liu Kang nodded. “You’ve trained hard for this, (Y/N). I know you can do it. If Kung Lao was here, I know he’d say the same thing.”

“You’re right, Liu.”

We stopped in the middle of the arena. We looked ahead and saw Shang Tsung approaching us with a smirk on his face.

“So this is the great (Y/F/N) (Y/L/N). The Earthrealm champion who defeated all of mine.” His voice oozed with confidence. “As you are aware, I can’t simply let Earthrealm just walk away now. Which is why I have challenged you.” The smirk on his face never left. 

“I want to raise the stakes, Shang Tsung.” His smile grew.

“What do you want?”

“Kung Lao’s soul.”

“Oh yes. Once I consumed his soul, I learned quite a bit about you.”

You tried to not let your anger distract you. “Do we have a deal?”

“What do I get when I win?” 

“My soul. I’ve had a lot of training from Raiden himself, so I have a lot of valuable information you could use.” He paused to think. “Do you really want to let Earthrealm win this tournament?”

His smile returned to his face. “You have a deal, (Y/N). You have five minutes to prepare.”

He turned and walked away.

Liu Kang wrapped his arm around my shoulders. “I know you can do it, (Y/N). Do it for Kung Lao.” I nodded. He made his way to the sidelines.

I sighed and took Kung Lao’s hat into my hands. “I can do it. I have to do it.”

Shang Tsung approached me once again. He readied himself in a fighting stance. “I hope you’re prepared for defeat.”

I placed Kung Lao’s hat back on my head and ran my hand along the rim as I got into my own stance. 

A bell went off to begin the fight. Shang Tsung did not hold back. He quickly began offensively attacking me with kicks, punches, and flames. I dodged each one.

“Raiden has trained you well,” he said in a teasing tone. He threw three flames at me that I dodged, but he quickly followed it with a kick to my chest. I staggered back but remained upright. I looked at him as I waited for his next strike, but he quickly disappeared. I felt a hard kick to the back of my leg which brought me down to one knee. I turned and quickly pulled off Kung Lao’s hat. I sliced at Shang Tsung’s direction. I caught him by surprise and cut part of his thigh. I stood up completely and cut his cheek. He pushed me back a few feet with a group of flames. He wiped the blood from the cut on his face and smiled. He ran towards me and began throwing more punches and kicks. The speed at which he was going eventually became overwhelming and I was knocked to the ground. Shang Tsung smiled as he stood over me. His face changed from his own to Kung Lao’s.

“You were simply no match for me just like Kung Lao,” he taunted.

~~~~~~

Kung Lao and I were sitting on the edge of one of Raiden’s statues. He had his arm wrapped around my side and I had my head on his shoulder. We watched as the sun pushed the night away and slowly crept over the temple. 

“I’m glad we decided to do this,” I said to him. 

“ I am, too.”

We sat in silence for a few more moments just taking in the beautiful sight and each other’s presence.

“(Y/N).”

“Yeah?”

“Do you love me?” 

I knitted my eyebrows together and looked up at him. “Of course I love you, Kung Lao.”

He smiled as he looked down at me. “Then marry me.”

“When would we even get married? There’s this really big tournament coming up in about a month, you know.” 

He chuckled. “After the tournament. What do you say?” I moved so I was straddling his lap and pulled him in for a passionate kiss. “Is that a yes?” He asked when we finally pulled away. 

I laughed. “It’s a yes, Kung Lao.”

~~~~~~

Shang Tsung/Kung Lao allowed a menacing smile to creep on his face. He stepped back and the ground began to shake. He had summoned what appeared to be a giant, flaming cobra. The cobra grew to a great height before allowing its mouth to come down at me. I quickly summoned a force field to cover me. The cobra’s mouth came around the force field, but it was unable to penetrate it. It took all my energy to keep the barrier between me and the cobra’s mouth. The cobra quickly dissipated. As it went away I quickly pulled off my hat and threw it in Shang Tsung’s direction. He easily dodged the hat. He moved toward me and began throwing punches at me. I moved backwards as I blocked each one.

“Your soul will be mine,” he growled. “You and Kung Lao can finally be reunited.”

 I saw the hat coming back towards us. I used my force to push Shang Tsung backwards right into the hat. The hat stuck right into his back. He fell to his knees. I summoned the hat out of his back and into my hand. I held it up to his throat. Blood was coming out of his mouth. 

“Do you surrender?” I asked as I allowed the hat to spin, as if it was a buzz saw.

Shang Tsung looked into my eyes and nodded. “I surrender.”

I stopped the hat. I saw a sliver of green make its way out of Shang Tsung. Liu Kang and Raiden quickly joined me on the arena floor.

“You did it, (Y/N)!” Liu Kang cheered. 

A smile was on Raiden’s lips. “You have saved Earthrealm from the likes of Shang Tsung.” His eyes moved in the direction of the green sliver. “I will transport you back to the temple immediately, (Y/N).”

Raiden’s lightning came down and wrapped around me. I was immediately teleported from the arena back to his temple. I quickly made my way through the halls and to a hidden room. The hidden room was only known to Raiden, Liu Kang, and I and it’s where we had been preserving Kung Lao’s body until the end of the tournament. I walked into the room to see someone sitting up on the makeshift bed we had in there.

“(Y/N)?” A familiar voice called out. 

I smiled and ran closer. “Kung Lao!” I carefully wrapped my arms around him. “I’m so happy to see you, my love!” I said as tears ran down my face. 

He tightened our embrace. “I’m happy to see you, too!” He pulled me into a passionate kiss. 

I pulled away after a few minutes. “Are you still up for a wedding?” I asked with a giant smile.

He smiled back at me. “Of course!”

[toastedclownery]

Hey so uh, I finally finished the bit I wanted to write based on this scene by @mintyfrosty!! I changed some things according to my version of them but it’s basically the same Gonna put in under a Read More. TW for anxiety attack and passing out of exhaustion ovo”

He looked at the board in front of him. Hours of work put into it, papers full of notes and reminders, calculations, timetables and floor plans.  And yet, he couldn't remember one thing he had written on it. He couldn't read, couldn't think clearly.

He had to get this heist right. Had to plan out every single detail, every possibility. That's what he was for. Think ahead, be prepared for anything that could go wrong, and create a way to avoid it. He was particularly good at that, it was easy for him to consider different scenarios where things could meet with disaster. However, it came at a cost.

Still staring at the bunch of papers pinned on his wall, he blinked slowly, unable to focus on anything. His mind was tired, and so was body, even if he himself didn't feel it. He took another sip of the cup of coffee he was holding, deciding to push his sleepiness away for one more night.

This one has to be perfect, they couldn't have any more mishaps. Terrence' last raid was the last straw. They had lost too many people to it. There had to be a stop to that de iure leader's wreckless nature. Reg thought if he proposed a calculated enough and totally safe plan, maybe the elites would listen to him. Maybe he could get a seat at their table. Maybe…

His head almost drooped and he quickly had to readjust himself, his eyes now wide open, heavy bags under them. His body was fighting against him. Why? He didn't feel tired. In fact, he wasn't feeling anything at all. He felt fine.

Rising his hand in order to reach for the cup again, he noticed the trembling waves inside the container. His hand was shaking. He frowned, shut his eyes in frustration and downed all the remaining coffee in one go. Two or three seconds later, he realized that might not have been the best idea.

No, it was okay. He didn't need to worry, he was fine. He looked at different points of the board rapidly, trying to take anything in. Nothing went through. His breathing became unsteady, and the corners of his vision were beginning to become blurry and dotted. 

It has to be perfect, he thought.

Realizing he was getting dizzy, he had to remind himself to breathe. He felt like he was choking. Why wasn't he getting any air?

We've lost too many people already, were the repeating thoughts drumming in his mind.

He was too out of it to notice his hand had given out, dropping the ceramic cup and letting it shatter. Startled by the loud noise, he tried taking a step back, only to notice his legs had turned wobbly, barely keeping him on his feet.

With one last glance at the board, all the papers were now a mess of smears and black spots. The room started tilting… and tilting… He was out before he even hit the floor.

Night patrol. It had to be night patrol. He would have preferred to have some rest tonight, but he had to be chosen for taking a walk around the base at ungodly hours of the night. He would have complained, but knew he couldn't speak against the Chief. He went along with it, knowing nobody else would do it anyway. Right thought Terrence usually cut the other elites too short, himself included. He felt like he could do more than just night patrol, but on second thought, he was the one that fit best for the job.

He was passing through the corridors, reaching a series of doors that led to the Toppat members' rooms. Unlike his fellow elite's bedrooms, these were smaller and had thinner walls. He remembered the time he had to sleep in one of those rooms. It was nearly impossible, any noise was able to get through those walls made of cardboard.

Just thinking about it made him tired. He was about to let out a yawn, but was stopped by a loud noise coming from one of the dorms ahead. It sounded like a glass-shattering noise, followed by a light thud. 

He saw a stream of light under one of the doors. Who in their right mind was still awake at this late hour of the night? He looked at the name on the door. "R. Copperbottom" It read. That name was familiar. He gave the door a couple of knocks.

"Oi, is everything alright in there?"

He waited about ten seconds, no response.

"Can I get in?" 

Again, silence. 

Right opened the door and stepped into the room. He didn't know what he was expecting to see, but it definitely wasn't a collapsed man in the middle of the floor. He cursed under his breath and went to check if he was okay. 

He gently turned him to face upward. He drew a few hairs back and was able to see his face. And then he recognized him. The smooth mane of hair that was usually collected in a ponytail was now a frizzy mess of ties and knots. There was also his familiar curled mustache, which seemed to get the same treatment, and a pair of dark circles around his eyes. 

He knew this one. He hadn’t spent that much time in the Clan, yet he had jumped up the ranks in no time. He ascended to his current position much faster than he had seen anyone do it in his time as an elite. There was a reason for that. The guy was a working machine. 

Ever since the day he was recruited, he would show interest in what the Clan’s next big heist was going to be. Even if he wasn’t part of it. Right had started to see his face more often around the higher positions. He shone with curiosity and initiative when robbery plans were finally handed to him for the first time, adding thousands of tweaks and details that would stun the field operatives. He would go on his way to arrange every minute of a heist, and then proceed to explain each new bit to his superiors. 

Needless to say they were surprised with this new guy appearing out of nowhere and before they knew it he was suddenly giving them lectures like a teacher rants to a bunch of toddlers. If he was met with any kind of criticism, he would come back the very next day with a new refined version of the plan. The team of elites were intrigued, they shared their recognition of his potential, whereas the Chief… Would usually butt heads with him. 

"I think you worry too much, pipsqueak" 

Right hated to agree on that, currently looking at said pipsqueak laying on the floor, most likely passed out from exhaustion. He doubted he got enough sleep when making all those schemes, and the scene before him proved his theory to be correct. 

He examined the room. Next to the unconscious prodigy were broken pieces of a ceramic mug. He must have dropped it before falling along with it. His hat was still on his head but tipped to the side. In front of them was a wide corkboard, filled with papers and post-its hung on it left, right and center. Right blinked twice before regaining his focus on the other man. 

"Hey, Reginald? Can you hear me?"

He shook him by the shoulders a little bit. Maybe he would be able to wake up momentarily so he could go to bed on his own. Seeing how that wasn't the case, he sighed, and decided to do it himself. 

He drew the bed sheets back, scooped him up carefully and held him in some kind of bridal style, his head resting on his shoulder. He was light as a feather, so he was pretty easy to carry around. The smallest yelp came out of Reg’s mouth at the feeling of being picked up, but he relaxed again when leaning on Right's chest. Right slowly put him down on the bed and tucked him in. 

It was weird, seeing him like this. The only times he would see him were quickly running through the corridors or giving his presentations on schemes. Always full of energy and enthusiasm. Right noticed a certain spark in his eyes when he talked. He noticed the way he would smile while telling his favorite parts of a plan. How he would sometimes motion rapidly while nervously rambling things under his breath. Now, he was laying limp on the bed, looking a mess, a strong fatigue visible on his features. Right chuckled. He would not want to be seen like this. Suddenly, he blinked, and found himself sitting on the side of the bed, hypnotized by the rhythmic breath of his sleep longer than he would have liked to admit. 

He shook his head and got up. He had completely forgotten about the ceramic shards still on the floor. He picked the broken pieces one by one. Luckily, there didn’t seem to be a lot of small bits, just five big shapes that fit neatly like a puzzle. He chose not to throw them away, thinking of putting them back together if possible. He grabbed the dark gray fedora that had rolled off his head and left it on the bedside table. 

He saw an alarm clock, set to chime three hours from now. He turned it off. There was no way he was gonna let him sleep so little. He would let him sleep in, have the day off. He could make up something not to make the others suspicious. He’d ask him about that jungle of papers another time. He needed rest now. 

He turned off the lights and shut the door, the pieces of the coffee cup still in his right hand.

[deberiaestarescribiendo]

Hit me with your best shot

A/N: Hey! I saw the #WritersWednesday challenge on @autumnleaves1991-blog blog and thought it was an amazing opportunity to let the creativity flow and though I just started showing my works on here I guess giving it a chance wouldn't hur anybody and maybe some of you would enjoy this as much as I did writing it. And on that note, I'd like to thank every writer on here because your works have helped me a lot during these weird times; and of course speacilly to you @autumnleaves1991-blog for this and your "You're my best friend" series that made me cry, yearn (so much yearning) and loved every single minute of it, thank you!

Pairing: Javier Peña x Female character ( I decided to leave her very undeterminated as it's narrated on Javi's perspective I decided to use she/her pronouns, but I guess you could read it as a f!reader?)

Summary: Post-season 3, Javi and the character go on a date to Laredo's funfair (You could read this as a small piece on its own or as a part of the series I'm currently writing; if you're interested is on my blog and I haven't posted much since I opened it)

Warning: None (let me know if I should mark something) fluff! maybe some kissing...

Another thing! I've just finished this, so brace yourselves for some mistakes and mispellings, sorry

(I was listening to Kacey Musgraves while writing this, if you want to add more fluff to it)

She’s lovely with that white summer dress, she’s tapping her feet nervously looking around the street waiting for his car to arrive, but Javi is parked on the side of the road chewing a nicorette that has already lost all its taste. He observes how she peeks at her watch. He’s already late and doesn’t know what would make him feel any more terrible: standing her up or going on a date with her like an old creep.

Come on, Peña he urges himself to make a decision, but before he can make up his mind, he hears the door unlocking.

“Hey! I thought something had caught you up” she smiles and any doubts he had had been lifted. Gosh she’s pretty

“Sorry, I’m late I had...” he can make up any excuse and he feels he’s just smiling like an idiot.

“Don’t worry” she seats and adjusts her dress shyly “I see we’re making progress” she motions to his mouth

“Oh, yeah, I’ve been very good.” Javi says proudly and follows the road full of car towards the fair “I haven’t had a smoke in...a month, I think”

“Congrats!” she cheers “You deserve a reward then” she grins

“Sure?” he smirks eying her briefly not losing the sight of the road

“Whatever you want” she nods

“But a cigarette, of course”

“Obvs” she chuckles

“Then I better think for a really good reward, I deserve it”

“Yep”

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

­­­­­­­­­She’s talking about the first time she came to the funfair being a child. Javier is listening partially; part of his focus is on everybody around them. It feels like all Laredo is there and they had been stopped a few times already by people that wanted to shake his hand and thank him for his service; and Javi starts to feel like the music is too loud, there’s too many people around them and that he doesn’t want to hear the word “hero” anymore. So he tries really hard to look at her, to concentrate his mind on how she interrupts her speech when she looks directly at him, how she blushes, how the warm breezes moves the baby hairs that frame that beautiful visage, how her lips shine with that chapstick she uses and that he’s dying to taste.

“Anyway we can do any ride but that one” she points at the big one in the middle that spins fast creating a wave of screams and laughter every time it makes a round “Unless you want me to puke all over your pretty plaid shirt”

“You like my shirt?” he smirks

“Yeah” she tucks a lock of her hair behind her ear “You look like a real cowboy” she adds. Her smile is brighter than any of the thousand small lights that illuminate the fair.

“I like your dress” Javier leaves his hand hang languidly close to hers until their skin brushes against each other. When he sees she doesn’t recoil, he grabs her hand locking his fingers with hers.

He can sense her nervousness, but hopes it’s the good kind. The exact same feeling he has at the moment, those soft palpitations that he hasn’t felt in years; the butterflies. Eventually she answers his compliment:

“Thanks, it was just 10$” instantly she looks down at her feet “God! I’m terrible at this”

“At what?” the people look at him and then at her, and then their gaze is fixed on their intertwined hands. Javi knows that the rumors are already spreading and hopes that whatever she’s going to hear about him in the next few days doesn’t ruin this.

“Dates...flirt...this” she points at him and then herself

“I cannot believe that” he counters

“Seriously? hey your dress is pretty; yes it cost me ten dollars” she mimics

“I thought it was cute”

“Cute?” she raises her right eyebrow

“Yes, you’re cute” Javi maintains

“You too” she admits

“Me?”

“Yeah! A pretty cute cowboy in plaid” she laughs

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

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­She makes him forget about this damn town, even Colombia and everything that happens seems a billion years away. If the people around them bother her, she doesn’t say. She doesn’t speak with him like anybody in town after he’s been back. For her it’s just Javi, and this Javi can have fun: he has shared a cotton candy with her, he has done some of the strongest rides even if his back is killing him, he has hold her waist when she jumped and screamed on the Tunnel of Terror and then laughed out loud when they got out.

“Javi!” she calls “We forgot about your reward for your first month without a smoke” she holds his hand and stars running towards the shooting gallery.

“You have five shots to win one of our wonderful set of prices. You just have to hit the little birds once”

The targets come and go up and down on the wheel, the paint on them is chipped, testimony of a long life in these funfairs and many missed shots. She takes one of the guns and closes one of her eyes aiming towards the wooden forms that spin on the wheel.

“Take a look of the plushies, cowboy, I’m gonna win you one” she says cockily

“Yeah, sure” he scoffs

“What? you don’t think I’m capable?” she turns towards him, gun still in her hand

“Wow, first of all, never point to somebody with a gun” Javi grabs the barrel and pushes it downwards “even if it’s not real, and second, open both of your eyes to aim” he explains

“Yes, sir. I forgot you were an agent. I better follow your orders, then” she winks at him and with a deep breath resumes her posture to take her first shot. Failing.

“Shit” she grunts “Have you chosen?” she points to the wall on the right full of stuff toys

“Erm...Does it matter?”

“Absolutely, come on, it motivates me”

The toys are horrendous; surely they’ve been doing their round around every fun fair in Texas for ages.

“Okay, one of the teddy bears” he agrees with a shrug

“No! no! be more specific” she scolds “Do you want the big one? the white one with the red bowtie? the brown with the small farmer hat? Or...Look!” she jumps excitedly “There’s a cowboy one, I’m gonna get you the cowboy” she nods and tries a second time, missing.

Javi mocks her and leans on her shaking in laughter.

“Yeah, really funny. Why don’t you try then?” she passes him the gun. After he has collected himself, he adjusts his posture and aims. Nothing.

She crosses her arms over her chest and observes him with an amused grin.

He doesn’t wait longer until he tries again and misses.

“You only got one left”

“Say goodbye to your teddy bear, cowboy” she whispers in his ear. Her sweet perfume and her voice distract him briefly. For a second he wants to throw the gun away and take her in his arms at last.

Javier shots again

“No luck today, sir, if you want to try again is three dollars”

Javi refuses the man with a gesture; she doesn’t say a thing for a minute, but then snorts and cries in laughter

“You’re lousy shot!” she screams

“You missed too” he defends

“Yeah, two shots, and you three, but who of us is a well trained agent, huh?” she sassed

Javi bites his lip, both hands on his hips; he knows there’s no way to defend his shitty shots.

“I still gained a reward though” he gazes at her

“Yeah, that’s true. What do you want then? I still have a few of dollars on me if you want a sundae or something”

“No, not that” he walks towards her and she instinctively recoils until she’s against the tent of the shooting gallery “I want something sweeter” he places his hands on her waist.

“Wh-hat?”

He bends and holds her at the same time, saving the height difference between them. He just brushes his lips against hers at first until she sighs and comes closer to him standing on her tiptoes. Javi deepens the kiss savoring the fruity chapstick she wears. Her lips are soft and sweet as he has imagined since he met her, her soft moans are music to his ears and he wants to hear more.

“Wow, you’re an incredible kisser, Javi Peña, but a terrible shot” she assures.

[kazoo5480]

Almost finished! 30 chapters down, a few more to go. Thanks to those of you who wrote awesome notes, and who provide inspiration to us newbies every day with your lovely tales!

Chapter 1 Arrivals

Prologue – September 1943, New York City

25-year-old Killian Jones steps down the ramp off the Algernon straight from Belfast. He has $40 to his name, the clothes on his back. Having lost his brother in an accident, his mother to illness, and abandonment of his father when he was 7, Killian made a choice to leave his homeland and make his way to America. America was currently engaged in World War II, with no family left, he decides that a fresh start in a new land and a new line of work away from the IRA is just what he needs after the arrests and massacres taking place back in Ireland.

Gun running and violence is not a life he wants any longer, nor is a life in prison, or death. He is hopeful that despite his heritage, he will be able to settle into a new life, away from the massacre left behind on the emerald isle. Finding honest work is harder than he expected, even in a city this large.

Waiting in those long lines with all those other expats, hoping to find honest work and nothing. He goes every day for two weeks but quickly realizes that no one wants to hire an Irishman or give him a fair shake. But he believes you make your own destiny and believes in hard work and determination.

He hears the other men talking, that security and lounges, the US Army, and driving taxis are just about the only people hiring anyone right now if you aren’t American.

Killian has no interest in joining Americas crusade, so he finds a gig working the doors and security a little dingy nightclub at first, but slowly descends into the more glamorous nightclubs and lounges.

Word spreads quickly to his newest employer, Louis Lepke, who owns the Riobamba- one of Manhattan’s most posh nightclubs that Killian was once part of the IRA and has a hell of a left hook. Lepke, one of the most dangerous mob bosses in New York at that time sees potential in Killian, thinks that his past IRA ties could be beneficial to their enterprise, and he offers him a better paying job running pickups and drop offs of packages that Killian doesn’t open and doesn’t want to open.

While the money is nothing to turn your nose up at, Killian continues this path, socking away the cash and crafting an entirely new persona for himself while making his own contingency plans to disappear for a quieter life someplace near the sea, perhaps finding peace and burying his demons for good at last.

Killian will never forget the day he was able to move out of the vermin infested room he had been renting in a boarding house on the lower east side, and into a three-room apartment of his own for $80 a month near Washington Square Park. Not cheap by any means, but it’s a second-floor walkup, with a fireplace, and wide windows that overlook the street.

Lepke pays him three hundred a month right now, but he always earns tips from both ends of pickup and delivery, and that extra cash is always appreciated.

He will never forget the first suit he purchases, or his first pair of new shoes in god knows how many years. He knows with his new employment, he needs to look the part, so he only is careful in his wardrobe choices, dark colors that won’t show dirt easily, well-tailored shirts, wingtips in black and white, and two hats that he sees the other men wearing.

He manages to pry a floorboard in the back of his new closet loose, securing the hole with a thin layer of wood, ensuring nothing would fall through or be lost to the ageing building, and he uses this as home for his cash and very little valuables. He has no furniture to speak of, except a mattress on the floor with linens, but he knows soon enough he will have money to furnish his new home.

For now, he is only willing to spend money on rent, and groceries, he saves every dollar that he earns after his necessities are purchased.

What he does not expect is meeting Emma Swan, an enchanting blonde lounge singer at the Riobamba. Frank Sinatra even plays there on occasion, so the joint was always packed. But amongst all those entertainers, is Emma. With the voice of an angel, the body of a bloody goddess, and a fire in her green eyes.

He knows that from the moment he saw her dancing and singing across that smoke filled room, that he was going to have her no matter the cost. Tonight, her golden curls pinned back on one side with a glittering clip, wrapped in a floor length sequin dress cut scandalously low in the front, even for the nightclub scene at that point in time.

She is easily the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, and he wonders if she works for Lepke as well, a personal relationship perhaps, and the thought of any man touching her at all has him see red when those thoughts flit through his mind. He always hopes divine intervention is on his side to catch a glimpse of her during her sets, whether picking up or dropping off to his boss.

Occasionally he just sits in the back nursing a rum while he watches her, gliding around the small stage, dressed like sex personified, singing in that angelic voice of hers, enchanting the entire room.

She sings songs of love and happiness, sometimes she covers popular music of other entertainers, but he sees the sadness and demons lingering behind those emerald eyes, the glittering dresses and gorgeous gold curls. He wants to know more, scale those walls he can spot a mile high surrounding her.

On more than one occasion he is thankful for the low lighting of the club and his dark suits to hide the evidence of his rock-hard arousal that she stirs up every damn time he lays eyes on her. Green eyes that sparkle in the low lighting, locking on his blue. She sees him and he sees her, never exchanging words, just eye locks and then he is off.

In a rare occasion that Killian indulges the other members of his crew in playing craps, he casually asks about Emma to one of the kinder men, Bill Starkey, a slightly older married man, who handles the books for the clubs that Lepke owns.

“What of that lounge singer Starkey, she is a sight for sore eyes if I may say so myself”, Killian mentions with a smile. The older man looks him over for a second, and replies “She is a quite a dame, isn’t she? Voice of a siren an everything, but she is not to be trifled with - She keeps to herself, is a bloody fantastic piece of entertainment, draws the crowds in, but she does not mess with our crew. Many of ours have learned that the hard way he says with a laugh, Tough as brass that one is, so don’t bother with her”, and the man went back to the game.

When Starkey bids goodnight, leaving the younger men to their games, another crew member that Killian has somewhat befriended named Victor Whale leans over, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “If its Emma you’ve set your sightings on, you are not as slick as you think ya git, my girl Ruby mentioned that she caught you watching her shows on occasion, but Emma doesn’t date anyone around here, if she does date, it isn’t anyone related to our line of work”.

Bidding goodnight to Killian and the few stragglers still playing, he stands and Killian notices Ruby Lucas in her coat waiting by the door with a smile on her face. Whale takes her hand and pulls them out the door. Killian feels a pang of jealousy at their obvious companionship but pushes the thought away.

Ruby Lucas, the costume coordinator for the club, is a gorgeous specimen of her own right with long chocolate locks, hazel eyes, and legs for days. She has worked in the club a long time, and if anyone knows Emma, its Ruby. Killian decides that perhaps he shall inquire to Ms. Lucas about Swan but tucks the thought away for another time.

He has gained enough information about her for one night, he will have to just be patient. If Ruby has noticed him watching Emma, he would bet the few dollars left in his lightened pocket tonight that she has told Swan about him, and that is something he is not quite sure he knows how to feel about.

He wonders what Ruby would tell Emma, since she was obviously very much with Whale, she must know more about their conducted business, but appears to know when to keep her mouth shut. Maybe, the tides will be in his favor since he tends to keep a low profile in his job. The bosses like him because he is discreet and is known not to be messed with.

Emma sees him alright, black suits, navy wool suits, tuxedoes at parties, custom made shirts, and she would bet her last dollar that those cufflinks he always wears are actual sterling silver.

He has slicked back inky hair, tousled in just the right places, a permanent five o’ clock shadow, and forget me not blue eyes that haunt her for days every single time she catches a glimpse of him staring right back at her. 

She notices the way he carries himself, so confident, dangerous, and definitely a hustler. He must be connected somehow, and Emma does not want that complication in her simple life.

He looks at her sometimes like he would devour her like a man on death row, and she being his last meal. She cannot get mixed up with someone like him, she has survived this long without someone, and the last time she allowed someone into her heart it nearly broke her in two.

Her friend Ruby has casually mentioned him, his name is Killian Jones, he works with her boyfriend Victor, but she does not know exactly what his role is. Ruby giggles as she talks about how handsome Killian is, and notes that he always throws her a generous tip, never ogling her or being disrespectful like some of the other crew who think that any woman in the club is dumb enough to roll in the sack with them.

Ruby has been with her boyfriend for a few years from what she mentions, having been together since before Victor’s job with Lepke’s crew, whatever that may be. Ruby is also one of the few people that makes Emma smile genuinely and lifts her spirits. Emma considers the brunette one of her very few real friends.

One night after her set is done, Emma enters her dressing room, and slips out of her dress, carefully hanging it inside the garment bag, and lights a cigarette, swallowing a sip of her Manhattan. Her roommate Mary Margaret is getting better and better with her sewing skills, her emerald green gown tonight is delicate, covered in sequins and green feathers float around the hem of her dress, she admires the gown once more before zipping the bag.

Standing in her silk stockings and garters, she begins removing her jewelry and realizes suddenly that she is not alone. Sitting in a low chair in the back corner of the dressing room is Killian fucking Jones. She grabs for her silk robe, tying it quickly- trying to regain some of her modesty. Watching her with those blue eyes, fingers crossed under his chin while he leans forward, elbows on his knees.

"Don't stop on my account love, I simply wanted to introduce myself, and I thank the bloody gods that I was granted enough luck to watch your private show just now. He smirked at her, running is tongue over his bottom lip, and she wanted to punch that smirk off his smug face, even if her heart beat faster in her chest and not from anxiety.

“Emma breathe,” she internally chastises herself. Her brain reconnects, she stamps out her cigarette, and she manages to spit out “listen pal, I don't know who the hell you think you are, but I am not that type of woman. Go buy one down the street if you need to get your rocks off but get the hell out.”

He stood up, adjusting his trousers by the belt, which she noticed were fitting awfully tight, the evidence of his arousal clear but now covered as he buttoned his coat up.

He spoke, his voice a lilting Irish accent, “I apologize lass, I simply wanted to introduce myself and give you these in person,” he held out a large bouquet of creamy white roses tipped in pale pink, tied with a black silk ribbon. 

“You are a vision, both on and off the stage Swan, and I simply was hoping to make your acquaintance as we seem to catch each other’s eye from time to time. I thought perhaps my interest was reciprocated, but clearly it is not, and I shan't bother you again”.

Emma did not know what to say, still shocked, her red painted mouth in a grim line. She caught his cologne as he made his exit, carefully avoiding touching her in any way. He smelled of wood and spice, and definitely rum.

Right as he was crossing the threshold to exit, Emma made a rash decision, and grabbed his hand, locked eyes with him and said, “Don't ever do that again, thank you for the flowers, but I am not interested.” 

“They're nothing compared to you Emma, but I do apologize again”, and with that parting line Killian quietly exited, making sure to close the door fully behind him.

Emma locked the handle, ensuring no one else would interrupt her. She cleaned most of her face off and pulled on her burgundy wool dress and matching coat, gathered her things, and her flowers hailing a cab home.

Tagging a few who might be interested! @wefoundloveunderthelight @itsfabianadocarmo @purplehawkcaptain @the-lady-of-misthaven @the-captains-ayebrows @thesschesthair @myfearless-love @kmomof4 @jonesfandomfanatic @hookedpirate @xhookswenchx @let-it-raines @letmedieahooker @captainswanouat @captainswoon @cathloves @laschatzi @timeless-love-story @asluve @ao3feed-cs @ahookerandproud @ineffablecolors @the-darkdragonfly @donteattheappleshook @kymbersmith-90 @elizabeethan @the-darkdragonfly @tnlph @the-captains-ayebrows @captainswoon @captainswanouat @captain-swan-coffee​ @jrob64​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​​ @captainirishstubble @onceuponadaily​ @resident-of-storybrooke​​ @greenlef777 Let me know if you want to be added or removed! 

[broccoliboix5peepeeman]

IDK if someone else already requested this prompt, but can I have a scenario where Eijirō accidentally becomes Izuku's secret Santa because of a misunderstanding??? That's all I wanted to say, TYSM & ILYSM 💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖 (Platonic KiriDeku) - btw, I've read your previous prompts & they're all sooo good!!!! My favorites are It's Always Been You, Disclosure, Forgive Me, Burning Need, The Rabbit and the Tiger, & Recipe for Disaster 😍😍😍🤩🤩🤩

*Frantically scrambles to get this done before Christmas becomes completely irrelevant* Bibbidi bobbidi boo, it is done, friendo! 😘 This is my first Kirishima POV so fingers crossed it turned out alright :’) (Also, thank you so much, I’m sobbing?! That really warms my heart - I’m so glad you’ve enjoyed them! 💖💖💖)

Eijirou never claimed to be the brightest bulb on the planet.

 Granted, it wasn’t through lack of trying; some things just came easier to him than others. For example, when Ectoplasm was spouting about letters which had no right to be in maths, he felt like ripping his hair out - he always refrained though, his hair took way too long to style only for him to mess it up over algebra. However, put him in a gym and ask him about the different muscle groups and he’d be able to recite them with ease.

 His strengths just laid elsewhere. 

So, when Iida announced something to the class in the common room, Eijirou was too busy watching a workout video on his phone to pay attention. It wasn’t until the class rep wandered over with a bowl full of paper that he realised he probably should’ve been listening.

 ‘Err… Hey, Mr Class Rep!’ He laughed awkwardly.

 ‘Good evening, Kirishima-san.’ Iida nodded in greeting and held the bowl out expectantly. ‘Time to pick out a name. Remember, you’re not allowed to tell anyone who you’ve got. As heroes in training, it is important that we are able to keep confidential information a secret.’

 Eijirou saluted, before dipping his hand in and picking out a piece of paper. He curiously opened it to find “Midoriya” scrawled out messily on the page. When he confirmed that he hadn’t picked out his own name, Iida said his goodbye and moved on to the next person.

 Once alone, Eijirou looked down at the paper crumpled in his hands, the ink staring mockingly at him. He really should’ve been paying attention, but he didn’t want to ask what was happening and risk everyone being disappointed in him. Maybe he could just figure it out based on what he had already heard?

 Iida had mentioned keeping it a secret. He also brought up them being heroes in training. Maybe that meant a training event was happening soon! Eijirou furrowed his eyebrows together. They usually didn’t plan things this far ahead though…

 ‘Hey, Iida!’ He called. ‘When’s this happening?’

 ‘The evening of the 24th!’ He chopped the air as he spoke. ‘The 25th would be too hectic.’

 ‘Great, thanks!’ Eijirou gave him a thumbs up to accentuate his point.

 When the attention was directed away from him, he sighed and looked across the room at where Midoriya was talking excitedly to Todoroki.

 If this was a training exercise, then Eijirou would have to up his game. Besides Bakugou and Crimson Riot, Midoriya was the manliest person he knew and had proved himself to be a formidable opponent time and time again. In order to best him, Eijirou would need to work extra hard and give it his all.

 He hastily stuffed the piece of paper in his pocket and stood, excusing himself.

 He needed to hit the gym.

  💪💪

 Six days after he had picked out Midoriya’s name, Eijirou was fairly confident that he could give his opponent a good fight. He just needed one extra push. He needed to train with someone - or someones - who knew Midoriya and his fighting style.

 ‘Hey Bakubro! Todoroki!’ He called. 

 His two classmates were in the kitchen; neither appeared to have heard him. Bakugou stood by the oven, wok and wooden spoon in his hands as he cooked something spicy, while Todoroki sat at the counter opposite, conjuring small pebbles of ice and throwing them at the blonde’s back.

 ‘I swear to fucking All Might, Icyhot, if you don’t cut that out, I’m gonna beat the shit out of you.’ He growled dangerously.

 ‘I'd like to see you try, bitch.’ Todoroki replied nonchalantly, aiming for the back of his head.

 Before Bakugou could respond, however, Eijirou decided to intervene.

 ‘Hey guysss!’ He called out again, rushing forwards and standing between them. The two looked at him confused, but nodded in greeting. ‘I need your help with something.’

 ‘Why you asking Icyhot?’ Bakugou growled. ‘Ask me instead, Shittyhair!’

 ‘Jealous?’ Todoroki raised an eyebrow.

 ‘It’s important I talk to both of you!’ Eijirou laughed nervously and patted the blonde on the shoulder. ‘Well, I say talk… What I mean is… I need your help for training.’

 ‘Anything in particular?’ Todoroki asked.

 ‘Well, I’m not supposed to say, but...’ He hesitated. It would be fine if he told them, right? It wasn't like either of them couldn't keep a secret. ‘When we were drawing names last week, I got Midoriya, and you guys know his fighting style best, so I was hoping to spar with you both to improve my training for when I face him.’

 The silence in the room was almost deafening, until...

 'Dammit, I wanted to get Midoriya.' Todoroki whispered as if Eijirou couldn't hear him.

 Bakugou merely huffed.

 ‘So you’re telling me that you got stupid Deku for your Secret Santa and your immediate reaction was to fight him?’ He finally asked, looking at him like he had grown a second head. 'You know what? No. I'm proud of you.'

 ‘Secret Santa?’ Eijirou tilted his head to the side. When Bakugou facepalmed in response, he turned to find Todoroki raising an eyebrow, clearly amused.

 ‘Didn’t you hear Iida explain it?’ He asked, voice even.

 ‘Not really, but I didn’t want to ask.’ He chuckled nervously. ‘But I assumed that if Iida had organised it, it had to be something to do with training, so I’ve been hitting the gym more because I wanted to put up a good fight, but now I realise that I have to...’

 He trailed off and his smile faltered as his eyes widened with realisation. ‘Now I have until tomorrow to get Midoriya a present.’

 ‘I wouldn’t worry too much.’ Todoroki spoke, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Midoriya is really easy to buy for.’

 ‘You buy him stuff often?’ Eijirou furrowed his eyebrows together in question.

 ‘Icyhot has a fucking hard-on for stupid Deku, if you haven’t noticed.’ Bakugou tsked.

 ‘And you have a hard-on for Kirishima.’ Todoroki replied easily, before turning to Eijirou. ‘Sorry about that, by the way.’

 ‘Moving on!’ Bakugou exclaimed angrily before Eijirou could process any of what had just occurred. ‘Deku likes heroes and All Might. Literally get him something related to that and happy fucking days.’

 ‘It’s important to know what he’s already got though.’ Todoroki urged. ‘He already has the official bronze-age, silver-age and golden-age All Might figurines, including the pop vinyl figures. He also has five rare limited edition All Might-’

 Eijirou’s brain was starting to do that thing again where it just kind of switched off. He was interested in what Todoroki had to say, honest, he just had trouble processing the fact that Todoroki had the capability of actually speaking more than two sentences at a time.

 His eyes must’ve glazed over, because Bakugou suddenly whacked him around the back of the head to snap him out of it.

 ‘ugh, this is so difficult.’ Eijirou moaned, hiding his face in his hands. ‘So basically he has every single piece of All Might merchandise that a normal person can afford.’

 ‘I mean, when you put it like that...’ Todoroki stroked his chin, contemplative. ‘You could try and find him merch for other heroes though. As long as it’s not Endeavour, I think he’ll be happy.’

 At that moment, a thought struck Eijirou. It was an idea unlike any other. He knew that in the years to come, people would ask him, 'Red Riot, what was your best idea?' and he would immediately think of this moment. It was like the first time he had discovered the beauty of hair spray.

 It was a revelation.

 ‘I have the perfect idea!’ He proclaimed, startling both of his friends. Before either of them could respond though, he quickly thanked them and booked it out of the kitchen.

 All it’ll cost me is several boxes of tea!

  💪💪

 After several hours of pleading with Yaoyorozu, bargaining with Jirou on her behalf, one roll of wrapping paper and way too much tape later, Eijirou placed his present in the designated bag in the common room and collapsed onto one of the sofas, ready to fall asleep. However, Iida’s booming voice soon echoed through the room, startling him.

 ‘All right! Now that everyone’s presents have been put in the bag, it is time for the Secret Santa exchange!’ His hands chopped through the air as Kaminari stealthily placed a Santa's hat on the class rep’s head without him noticing. ‘Midoriya-san, if you could help me hand out the presents while everyone else gets settled, I would be very grateful!’

 ‘Of course, Iida-kun!’ Eijirou saw Midoriya sprint over, an eager smile on his lips. However, he tried to hide his snigger when his friend's actions only prompted Iida to lecture him about running inside.

 Soon enough, all the presents were handed out and everyone was settled on the sofas and carpet cushions. After opening his own present and finding an erotic Santa×Reader novella called Spanked by Santa inside, Eijirou's eyes instantly landed on Kaminari and the two sniggered to themselves.

 'Bro, really?'

 'I don't know what you're talking about, man!'

 'I know this was you!'

 When the two of them calmed down, Eijiro turned and watched as Midoriya struggled to unwrap his present. His crooked hands tried to navigate his way around the mass of tape and Eijrou felt incredibly guilty. Luckily, Todoroki was sitting next to him and helped rip the hardest parts away, only sending Eijirou an exasperated glance once, which he thought was pretty good going.

 He leant forwards in his seat and waited for the moment of realisation and oh boy, he was so glad that he did. Wrapping paper torn off, Midoriya stared at the present with wide emerald eyes and let out a shocked gasp.

 In his hands was the first ever hero Deku figurine - trademark and copyright Yaoyorozu Momo - ever to exist. Eijirou watched as his friend turned the figure around in his hands, noticing every detail, from the hints of red that poked out from his iron soles, to his white air force gloves, to the yellow bolts fastened to his knee pads, and to the respirator around his neck. A smile appeared on Midoriya’s face and his eyes shone brightly…

 Then he promptly burst out crying.

 Uraraka and Todoroki, who were sitting either side of their friend, promptly procured two buckets from behind them and held them up, catching the flood of tears pouring from Midoriya’s eyes, while Tsu came up behind him and slid a waterproof coat over his Christmas jumper.

 Had they expected this?

 Startled, Eijirou leaped off the sofa and ran over to them, scrambling over the mass of presents and wrapping paper scattered around the floor.

 ‘Midoriya! Oh my god, are you okay?!’ He grasped his friend’s shoulders and shook him slightly as he continued to openly sob. ‘I’m so sorry, do you hate it? Man, I didn’t mean to make you cry-’

 ‘Kirishima-kun...’ Midoriya slowly calmed himself, reducing the flood of tears down to a slight drizzle as he wiped at his eyes with a waterproof sleeve. ‘I- I love it! I love it so much! Thank you!’

 Eijirou stilled, slowly removing his hands from his friend’s shoulders.

 ’You… You do?’

 ‘Really, really!’ Midoriya sniffed, eyes now dry and staring at Eijirou with so much gratitude that he had to refrain from placing a hand over his heart and wincing at the intensity. ‘You’re so thoughtful - thank you so much!’

 ‘No problem, dude!’ Eijirou rubbed the back of his neck and smiled nervously. ‘You’re one of the best heroes out there. It’s only fair that there’s some merch of you out there as well, haha!’

 Before he could comprehend what was happening, green lightning suddenly began to crackle around Midoriya as he surged forwards and tackled Eijirou to the floor. His friend hugged his waist tightly and cried freely into his shirt. Not knowing how to proceed, Eijirou gingerly returned the hug and smiled dopily.

 So manly.

[weasleydream]

Family reunion - Part 2

The second part is here! Hope you enjoy!

Masterlist

Part 1 

“My periods George! I only throw pillows at Fred when he bothers me during my periods!”

It was even a sort of joke between us. When he would speak too loud in the morning and I would throw him the first pillow I could reach, George would laugh at the scene and say that it was that time of the month where I would become a real tigress. Anyway, the realization was clearly visible in my boyfriend’s eyes.

“Oh. Fuck.”

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

Without waiting for them, I rushed into our room and quickly opened the wardrobe. In the middle of my panties, I had hidden two muggle pregnancy tests, just in case. I closed the wardrobe door quite violently and went back into the bathroom where Fred and George stood in the same position, trying to process what was happening. When my boyfriend saw the two boxes in my hand, his expression became confused.

“What’s this?”

“A muggle pregnancy test. It really works, don’t worry, but you don’t need to know how.” I added, anticipating his questions. “Now, get out of here!”

Once alone in the bathroom, I quickly used the two tests, just to be sure. I unlocked the door but didn’t open it, and sat on the chair. When the boys realized the door was open, they both joined me in, Fred leaning against the wall and George kneeling in front of me and holding my hands. 

“Are you… You know?”

He couldn’t even say the word. 

“We have to wait. If there are two bars then it means that I’m… It will be positive.”

These five minutes were a torture. An awful torture as tons of questions were filling my head, along with insecurities. If I was really pregnant, I would never give up on the baby, but what would George do? What would Mrs Weasley say? What kind of life could I offer to my child with the war ongoing? I became aware of the fact that I was crying when George’s thumbs wiped my tears.

“It’s okay, baby. Whatever happens, I’m with you.”

“We’re both with you, kiddo.” Added Fred with a gentle smile. 

The time seemed to extend endlessly. I didn’t have the strength to watch the tests, so instead, I buried my face into George’s chest. Then Fred, with an emotional voice, pronounced the sentence that would change our lives.

“Y/N, you’re pregnant.”

I grabbed the tests: two pink bars. On both. I looked up to George. His eyes were teary, and the most genuine smile I had never seen on his face was plastered on his lips. 

“We’re gonna be parents!”

He pulled me against him and kissed me sweetly. I could feel all his love for me and for the little baby growing in me, and I hoped he could feel my love for them. His arms were pressing me against him, and my hands were cupping his face. Our tears of joy gave a salty taste to our kiss, the taste of a genuine happiness, the taste of love. When we pulled back, Fred hugged me, tears of joy filling his eyes too. Then he took his brother into his embrace and patted his back, constantly muttering congratulations. This emotional moment between the twins was something I had never seen. It touched me and brought other tears into my eyes. George took my waist and pulled me between them. We stayed here a few minutes, enjoying this pure happiness. 

However, the bliss brought in our little flat vanished partially as our uncertainties arrived. We were afraid because of the war, obviously, even if George had reiterated me his promise - “Y/N, what I told you earlier is truer than ever. You and our baby, you are my absolute priorities, I’ll protect you at all costs.”. Fred had also told me he would be here, taking advantage of George’s brief absence (“Whatever my brother thinks about it, just know that I would give my life for your little family, kiddo.”). I felt so secured with them… But all my worries weren’t gone because we still had one thing to do, one very dangerous thing: telling Mrs Weasley. I felt like on this one, the one risking his life was George. And it seemed like he was feeling it too because the same day, when we were happily chatting about the big changes that were going to happen, and when I mentioned his mother, my boyfriend’s face lost all colour. 

“She’s gonna kill me…”

Obviously, Fred found the idea very funny and proposed to bet on which death their mother would choose. 

“I know! She’s gonna wait until the little one’s birth, then she’s gonna put your face in dirty diapers.”

My laughters erupted as George muttered a “Gross.”. I was looking for an original way to announce it to George’s family. Sadly, I had never really had one of my own. Both my parents along with all my immediate family except my grandmother had been killed during the first war against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, when I was little. My grandma had been unable to accept her loss, and she left me in an orphanage until my first year at Hogwarts. From this point, I became close with the twins and, aware of my situation, they invited me for Christmas to the Burrow. Mrs Weasley had immediately acted like the mother I couldn’t remember. She knew I lived in an orphanage and she made a point of letting me stay at the Burrow as often as possible.

I felt like this baby would also be a gift for her, and I wanted its future arrival to be a light in her darkened daily life. That’s why I wanted a special way to tell her, and, by Merlin’s pants, I had the Weasley twins on my side! Yeah, I thought about asking them for fireworks. But, what was the point if we didn’t have a proper audience?

“Boys, do you think we can reunite your family at the Burrow without telling your mother? She would be so happy to see Bill and Charlie! We could do that for the Easter Day.” 

“Great idea, kiddo,” started Fred. “But Charlie is in Romania and Bill in France. Do you think we will have enough time to tell them?”

“Plus, we would have to inform Ron and Ginny that they have to come back. Where are they gonna stay?” Added George. 

“Yes, it’s gonna work. Everyone will stay here until Easter.”

The following day, while the boys were working on the shop -George had forbidden me to work at least until the baby’s birth- I wrote the letters. I didn’t tell anything about my pregnancy, just that we wanted to reunite everyone. In Ron and Ginny’s one, I added that they would have to take the Hogwarts Express and that they would stay in our flat, so Harry and Hermione couldn’t come. I sent the three letters, hoping all would go well, and started to prepare the lunch. 

The boys didn’t eat simultaneously so that the shop was never empty. This day, George was the first one to show up. He kissed me and slightly stroke my belly, but he quickly realized I had something to tell him.

“What’s bothering you babe?”

He started to eat, probably starving.

“I want to go to the Ministry of Magic today.”

He frowned.

“Why?”

“I want to see Percy.”

I knew he wouldn’t be fond of the idea, however I didn’t expect his face to drop like it did, nor did I expect the anger in his eyes. 

“No way. This git hasn’t spoken to us in months, he has sent back his Christmas sweater to mum! He didn’t care about dad when he was at St-Mungo’s and… Do you remember how he lied to mum at Christmas? No, I don’t want him to be here.”

“George, he’s your brother! This baby is gonna be his nephew or his niece, and Molly wants nothing more than to see him! Please, let me try. Just try. I go to the Ministry, I talk to him, and if he doesn’t want to come, then I give up.”

George seemed to think for a while, but didn’t change his mind. 

“No Y/N, sorry but I don’t want you to go there, especially alone.”

“Why?”

“Because of what happens outside!” He was now standing in front of me, a vein pulsating in his neck. “Fred and I have to make more Shield Hats and we can’t go with you, and I won’t let you alone. No way.”

I knew this overprotectiveness should have bothered me, but the genuine fear in his eyes as his hands were resting on my belly tenderized me. I slowly kissed him and whispered:

“I’m gonna be okay, Georgie. But you can’t keep me here like a bird in its cage. I will be very careful, I promise, and I won’t be long.”

With a sigh, he nodded.

I had never been to the Ministry’s headquarters. Before my departure, George had explained me what to do once in the telephone box. Following his instructions and the operator’s ones, I quickly found myself into the Atrium. It was huge, with in its center a big fountain. Getting closer, I saw its name - the Fountain of Magical Brethren. I asked for direction and went to find Percy’s office. I was wandering into a corridor, walking near the walls in order to prevent from disturbing the ones who were working, when I literally bumped into Percy. We were both frozen and watching the other in the eyes. 

“Well, hello, Y/N… What are you doing here?”

He had recovered from his surprise and was now displaying a superior air.

“Don’t do that with me Perce, please, don’t be so pompous.”

“Sorry.”

Percy and I had surprisingly gotten along pretty well when we were younger. Maybe it was because I understood his dreams of greatness, or because I knew why he felt so different from the rest of his family without him telling me. Anyway, he was a good friend of mine, until his fight with his father… Mrs Weasley had begged me to talk to him, she thought he would listen to me… And she was wrong. He had slammed the door in my face, in the same way as with his mother, and he had told me some really mean things. We hadn’t seen each other since. 

“Come in.”

I followed him into his little office. The desk was against the wall and cluttered with reports. A memory of him, slightly younger and babbling about some very important report made me smile.

“Is there one about cauldron bottoms?” 

He looked at me with some kind of smile on the lips. However, the constant moving of his hands showed his nervousness. He didn’t tell anything, clearly waiting for me to express why I was here. 

“Have you seen Fred and George’s shop?” It wasn’t at all what I wanted to say but I was as nervous as Percy. He frowned. “No, in fact, it doesn’t matter. Well… George and I have, hum, a kind of announcement and we… We wanted to, well, to announce it in front of all the family and I-we thought you would like to be here.”

Percy stayed silent for a while, looking everywhere except in my eyes. I was beginning to feel concerned about his hearing when he muttered something so low I almost didn’t catch it.

“I can’t, sorry.” Then his eyes fell on my hands. “You’re not gonna marry him, are you?”

“No, that’s not what it’s about.”

“Then… Are you pregnant?”

I stayed silent a few seconds, and nodded slowly. He cleared his throat, but a strange emotion remained in his voice.

“Congratulation, Y/N, I’m happy for the both of you.”

“Thanks, Perce.” I had to find something to convince him to come. “Percy, I really want you to come at the Burrow, please!”

“I can’t Y/N!” This time he spoke louder. “They don’t want to see me, and I’m too afraid to see them! I’ve been a git to them, yes, but they didn’t hold back the hurtful observations too. I won’t come, sorry Y/N.”

“But Percy, they miss you! Do you even have an idea of how much Molly had cried because she missed you? Your name has become a taboo because it’s too painful, and even if he doesn’t admit it, Arthur -”

“Stop!” He was now screaming. “Don’t tell me they miss me. If they don’t talk about me, it’s because they hate me. Don’t try to tell me my father miss me. Don’t try to tell me the twins miss me. It would be lies.”

“No Perce, they do!”

“They do? Then tell me, who wanted to see me at the Burrow, you or George?”

His face was red, and he was now looking straight into my eyes, daring me to lie. Of course he knew that I wanted to see him, not George, but if only everyone could explain themselves… No, it was useless. I saw it in his eyes, he was determined to ignore his family. I could cry in front of him, beg him, but he wouldn’t change his mind. I was about to leave his office, but I stopped in front of the door, my hand on the handle.

“If you change your mind, we’ll be at the Burrow at Easter. Bye, Percy. And… They don’t hate you, I know it.”

With that, I left and crossed the corridor as quickly as possible. I didn’t want to stay here, too saddened by my failure. I didn’t even realize that Mr Weasley was in the elevator.

“Y/N! What are you doing here? Is everything okay?”

I smiled, not wanting him to know why I was here. 

“Yes, I’m fine and you?”

“A little tired, I’ve had a lot of work lately and -”

He stopped himself, glaring at a man who had just entered the elevator. Mr Weasley stayed silent until the cabin stopped at his level. He muttered me to follow him and soon we arrived in an office slightly larger than Percy’s one.

“You shouldn’t be here alone, Y/N.” Mr Weasley had an unusual look of disapproval in his eyes. Then he seemed worried. “Is there something wrong? With George? Did you fight or…”

“No, don’t worry Mr Weasley! Everything’s fine, really. I just…” I had to find something. “I wanted some fresh air and I thought I could come and see you.” 

What a stupid excuse. 

“Well, we can say fresh air isn’t missing lately.” Mr Weasley was watching through the window.

“Why is everything so cold and so dark?” I murmured.

“The Dementors, Y/N. They are everywhere and out of control. That’s why you being alone is a big mistake. If you want, you can wait for me and I’ll walk you home.”

“No, thanks Mr Weasley, but don’t worry, I’ll be okay.” I smiled.

After some banalities, I left him to his work and went back to the shop. George was worried sick and pacing in front of the shop. When he saw me, he ran towards me and pulled me into a strong embrace. Later that day, while Fred, George and I were eating dinner, I told them what happened at the Ministry. I told them everything, except the fact that Percy was afraid they would hate him forever. I felt like I didn’t have the right to do so, and I could just hope that one day, he would have the courage to face his beloved family. 

To be continued

[concussed-to-pieces]

Whether It Works Out Or Not Part One

Fandom: Red Dead Redemption 2

Pairing: Eventual Arthur Morgan/Named OFC

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: You guys wanna' join me in yeehell? I don't know what's happened to me. I'm from New England. I shouldn't find this cowboy chicanery appealing, and yet here I am with eighty something hours in the game. So! I've only just gotten to Chapter Three and I have avoided spoilers thus far. Enjoy!

[Spoiler warning for the first three chapters of the game!]

Tag List: @huliabitch​ @cookiethewriter​ @pedrosbigdorkenergy​ @thirstworldproblemss​ @anonymouscosmos​ @culturalrebel​ @karmezii​ @teaofpeach​ @crookedmoonsaultpunk​ @zombiexbody​ @nelba​ @gabrielle1776​ @toxiicpop​ @mstgsmy​

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains gore/graphic depictions of violence, historical inaccuracies and general peril. Stay safe!]

Irene Craft had lived as a man for six months when she first met him. 

Six glorious, difficult, yet somehow simultaneously carefree months.

The fateful night she had decided to leave her husband and make her own way in the world had been a long time coming. Every book, every treatise, every pamphlet she could get her hands on, she had devoured. She had no finances to speak of, everything was in her husband's name, so she knew that her struggle would be long and fraught with peril. But she refused to endure the abuse any longer, especially once he made an idle comment about pregnancy and how it would 'bind her to him forever.' 

His bone-chilling chuckle afterwards had stiffened her resolve to steel. She left as the moon waned, her mount's saddlebags full of food and the mended clothes she would need for her new life. 

In the city of Saint Denis, she sold her hair. Once her mother's pride and joy; when brushed out it reached the young woman's hips. The curls were unruly and dull russet in shade, but her mother had sworn up and down they bore auburn tones if the sun hit just right. Irene wondered briefly what her mother would say about her doing this, going to be shorn like a sheep, but she quickly put the thought out of her head. Her mother had been dead for nearly five years at that point, and her father in the ground for two. He had lived long enough to see her married off to the man he deemed a suitable match, and then the good Doctor Craft had passed on.

The barber, at the very least, was sober and much more kind than she had anticipated. He didn't begrudge her the few tears she did let fall, and he gave her a fair price for her locks. 

With that business settled, Irene acquired supplies with her newfound wealth and headed up into the mountains. If her luck held, no one would come looking for such a delicate, fragile lady in the dangerous climes. She would take her chances, regardless.

…

The first few months were...challenging. 

There was a massive difference between having the knowledge from books and having the experience that one could only garner out in the field. Bitter cold and hunger were excellent teachers though, and she had always been a quick study. Her mistakes were not often repeated. 

Irene learned how to fletch her own arrows, learned how to snare small game and how to track large prey, how to build her shelters in the lee of bluffs to fend off the howling winds that whipped through the mountains. She made her living by hunting deer and other game to sell for their hides and meat in the nearby town of Valentine. No one would look for a woman if all they saw was a man, so she kept bundled up and pitched her voice into a low rasp when she needed to interact with other folks. 

Irene had decided, in a fit of petulance, that she would call herself Frank. Franklin had been her father's name, and no doubt if he had been blessed with a son, the child would have been plagued by it as well. Doctor Craft loathed it when folk called him Frank, always correcting them with a belligerent harumph. Saints preserve them if they dared to call him Frankie.

So Frank Craft she became, the soft-spoken hunter who lived alone in the hills.

It was peaceful, but more importantly she was free.

Until the day she stumbled into a trap.

...

Again, she had been living in the mountains for around six months when this particular disaster struck. It had been a long day spent tracking a bull elk, which she had managed to fell just as night blanketed the landscape. Had it still been daylight out, she doubted she would have found herself in such a precarious position.

As it was, she had debated making camp right there, but ultimately decided to lash the hulking beast to her horse and forge her way back to her previous site.

She had been leading her horse through the fresh powder, not wanting to tax the weary animal, and didn't see the bear trap before her boot landed squarely in the middle of it. A mistake that would have cost her the whole leg, had she not been wearing these particular heavy furred boots. The trap also seemed worn, not crushing her foot outright as she had feared but simply gripping her ankle like a vise. 

Though admittedly, it mattered very little. She was stuck. Her horse, a skittish, ghostly pale thing by the name of Bluster, immediately panicked at the sound of the trap snapping shut and fled. Irene swore at the damn animal until her voice threatened to give out, calling him every unkind name in the book while she tried to pry the jaws of the trap open to no avail. 

She sat down awkwardly in the snow, bracing her free foot and then straining backwards in an attempt to unseat the tree that the trap's chain was secured to. Unfortunately for her, it held just fine. Then, she tried hobbling over to the tree and seeing if she could shim the chain off with a wedge, but that also proved futile.

Irene growled more obscenities under her breath, flopping onto her back and hammering her fists into the snow at her sides. "Shit." She sighed, the reality of her situation dawning slowly. She was trapped in a device that would no doubt cut off the circulation to her foot. There was a high probability of her losing the foot if that occurred. If, of course, she didn't perish from the cold or lack of food first. 

Irene pressed her hands to her eyes, sucking in a lungful of the crisp, pine-scented air while she tried to assure herself that she would manage to escape this mess just like all the others. She wouldn't just give up, absolutely not! 

As she sat there wracking her brain and trying to see whether she could muscle the trap apart enough for her to at least wiggle her foot out of her boot, she heard the distinct sound of a horse bumbling through the undergrowth. "Bluster!" She shouted, her voice a strange combination of husky and ragged. "You bastard, runnin' off at the first sign of trouble!"

But the horse that greeted her eyes first was not, in fact, Bluster. It was an appaloosa, still shaggy with its winter coat. On its back was a man in a heavy blue jacket, shearling peeking out at the collar. And in his hands were the reins for the sheepish-looking Bluster, who peered around the appaloosa and whinnied guiltily at her.

"Howdy mister." The man shook Bluster's reins. "I reckon this fine specimen is yours?"

Irene had never been more thankful to see a huge, imposing man in all her life. "Yessir, yes he is. I know we've only just met, but I don't suppose you'd be willing to offer me a helping hand?" She gruffed out, indicating her trapped foot with a grimace.

The man's face was in shadow from his hat, the moonlight overhead throwing everything into stark contrast. She caught a brief flash of teeth when he smiled. "Oh sure." He drawled, dismounting and securing Bluster to a nearby tree. His own horse he simply left the reins to trail, no doubt trusting the creature to behave itself. That done, he sauntered over to her, crouched down and with one low grunt, easily forced the jaws of the trap apart. "There. Simple enough. You weren't in there for very long, were you?" He asked, sounding a bit worried while she vigorously rubbed the circulation back into her leg. With any luck, she would escape with nothing but some bruising.

"My sincerest thanks." Irene said gratefully, "no, it's hardly been an hour." She cocked her head curiously. "May I know the name of my rescuer, sir?"

"Uh, Arthur." He replied, shaking her proffered hand. "You sound like you've got some learnin' under your belt there, Mister…?"

"Frank Craft, Mister Arthur, and I don't know what fate would have befallen me had you not stumbled across the," Irene paused, raising her voice pointedly at Bluster, "titanic coward that is my loyal steed. I'm in your debt, my friend." She waved a hand at Bluster, indicating his heavy burden. "As you can see, I had a relatively successful hunt before this misfortune befell me. Normally I'd head into town with it at daybreak, but seeing as you've saved my life and all, it's only fair that you should have it."

"Whoa now, I ain't helped you to get your hunt." Arthur protested, tipping his head to the side and permitting the moon's illumination to reach beneath the brim of his hat. Irene was momentarily struck dumb by just how blue his eyes were, nearly missing when he continued, "too many folk in this world only help other people on account of gettin' somethin' in return. If I was caught in a trap and I ain't had nothin' to give you for freein' me aside from gratitude, would you leave me?"

"What? No, that's barbaric." Irene almost forgot to adjust her voice, wincing when it cracked awkwardly. 

Arthur chuckled, getting to his feet and offering her a hand up. She stumbled, her foot still numb, and the man kept a firm hand on her elbow until she regained her balance. "Now, that noble hogwash bein' said, I do got a lot of mouths to feed. So if the offer still stands, Mister Frank, I'd be mighty grateful."

"Absolutely! As long as you'll put it to use." And really, what was one day's worth of work to her? She could always find another creature to stalk and harvest. Bluster whickered nervously when she approached, the horse's ears flicking back and forth to catch the sound of her voice when she grumbled about his cowardice. "Kneel, Bluster." The horse clumsily obeyed and Irene untied the elk from his back, rolling it off onto the snow.

"Huh, that's a neat trick. I wouldn't have thought of that." Arthur remarked. "Teachin' a horse his dancin' steps and such."

"How else would I have gotten it up onto him?" Irene asked, grinning when Arthur chuckled again. "Of course, seeing as you muscled that trap open like it was nothing, I doubt you've ever had to worry about that sort of problem."

As if to prove her point, Arthur shouldered the elk up from the ground and neatly deposited it onto his own horse. The sturdy beast didn't so much as nicker, obviously used to this treatment. "You're more than welcome back at my camp, Mister Frank." He offered. "I reckon there's enough on this big bastard to warrant you gettin' a bowl of stew in the bargain."

Irene was already shaking her head before he could finish, politely declining his invitation. "I'm afraid I'm not suitable for most company, Mister Arthur. Been out here alone for too long. Maybe once the thaw hits, I'll suss out human companionship again." 

Arthur chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then spat off to the side. "Well, I am mighty grateful all the same, Mister Frank. I know the others will appreciate this. Adios until we meet again, then?" 

He touched the brim of his hat and Irene returned the gesture with a smile. "Adieu, Mister Arthur."

…

Two months went by before their paths crossed once more. 

Irene had located a dense thicket of blackberry bushes down in the lowlands and spent almost two entire days stripping the branches of their fruit. A house was coming together just outside of Valentine, and that meant soon enough there would be a gathering for the last push of assembly. As she daydreamed about the most recent time she had been to a party (a dreary affair for her husband's birthday, full of ah the stately beauty and oh isn't she a catch despite her age), she failed to notice Bluster growing severely agitated about something. 

Now granted, the horse's name was Bluster for a reason; he was always in a twist about one thing or another. So Irene paid him very little mind. By the time she noticed the problem, Bluster had snapped his tether line and taken off like a shot.

A bear, it was a bear, oh sweet Lord. Irene froze, a handful of berries halfway to her mouth while the beast scratched at the ground not fifteen feet away from her. It hasn't spotted me, she realized, trying desperately to recall what she had read about black bears. Was she supposed to run? Was she supposed to back away slowly? Wave her arms and yell? 

Shit.

The bear grumbled, glancing around and sampling the air suspiciously. It appeared to notice her and reared up on its hind legs, unleashing a deafening roar. She was frozen, her knees shaking as the creature lumbered forward. She couldn't even open her mouth to scream. It rushed her with what seemed to be the devastating speed of a locomotive and she was knocked prone, her hand darting to her side, draw your knife idiot!

Her head flew back from the momentum of the assault and struck the ground hard when she landed, the blow sending sparking wheels of color across her vision and fading everything out for what felt like a lifetime. She had assumed she was dead, but someone shaking her shoulder roughly roused her back to consciousness. Irene groaned in pain, stirring.

"Alright, he lives! Wasn't sure for a little bit there." That voice. She knew that voice. "You comin' 'round, Mister Frank?"

Frank. Frank. Right, that was her. She was Frank. And that voice… "Arthur?" She rasped blearily. 

He was on one knee over her, blocking out the sun with his large form. He inclined his head, drawling, "in the flesh, Mister Frank! Looks like you hit your head real hard when you landed. Put your own lights out."

Irene grimaced, moving to sit up. "Shit," she swore, touching the back of her head and feeling her fingers grow sticky with blood. The bear. She looked around frantically, spotting the creature slumped beside her with an arrow clean through its eye socket. 

Arthur seemed to notice her distress, placing a well-meaning hand on her shoulder. "Easy now, boah. It's okay. You were lucky today, I s'pose." That hand traveled up the back of her neck, the man indelicately tipping her head forward and then whistling as he examined the wound on the back of it. "Damn, you'll have a hell of a scar. Looks like it's already stopped bleedin', though." 

"How did you...where did you even come from?" Irene asked in confusion. 

The man nodded in the direction of a large, grassy knoll to the west of their current location, adjusting himself absentmindedly in his pants when he settled back onto his haunches. Irene still had yet to maneuver that particular tic into her 'masculine' repertoire. She struggled enough with the spitting in public, and the last thing she wanted was to be labeled a pervert or a degenerate simply on account of her adjustments being 'less than organic'. "I didn't notice you was down here until the bear did, I'm pretty sure." He remarked. "Think you startled him as much as he startled you. You foragin' for berries?"

"Yes, I...I was thinking about treats and parties and I'm afraid I wasn't paying attention." Irene admitted, her face going a little red. Whether from the frank thoughts of adjusting or the shame of being caught unawares, she was uncertain.

"Blackberry pie, right?" Arthur hummed, obviously sympathizing with her distraction. "Means summer's really here. You bake things like that?" He rummaged in his satchel without waiting for a reply, pulling out a bandanna and two bottles. One bottle she recognized as whiskey, but the other was much smaller and made of a greenish glass. "You're gonna' want this to take the edge off." Arthur informed her calmly, pressing the bottle of whiskey into her hand and then uncorking the small bottle with his teeth.

"Edge?" She asked, wary now.

"Eeyup. Take a swig and I'll get started on this."

This was, apparently, cleaning and dressing the wound on the back of her head. Which, incidentally, the lone slug of whiskey she drank did nothing for. She didn't dare consume any more than that, however. Wine in the drawing room was one thing, but whiskey out in the berry patch was a horse of a different color. Arthur was at least capable, if a little more ruthless than the average physician. She had endured worse. 

"You're a real lucky boah, Frank. Ain't deep enough to need stitchin'." 

"I do feel immensely lucky today." Irene replied dryly, "a dead bear at my feet, a stomach full of fresh blackberries and a bottle of whiskey in my hand. Tell me, how could my life get any better than this?" She cringed in pain but the sensation quickly dulled in the wake of Arthur's gravelly chuckle.

"Gotta' say, you did a damn fine job of distractin' that bear. Let me get the easiest shot I've ever taken." He remarked conversationally after several minutes of silence. 

"Mister Arthur, should I ask what it is that you're daubing all over the back of my head? Or is that a fool's errand?"

"What, this? Some uh…" he paused, flipping the bottle over and squinting at the label. "Ginseng and yarrow. Ol' Hosea swears by it and he's been alive longer n' most."

Irene relaxed slightly. The combination didn't sound too sinister, though she was unfamiliar with herbal medicine that wasn't refined tinctures. This was more of a paste than anything, Arthur constantly stopping to coax a bit more of it down the neck of the bottle. "Well, I'm very grateful, Mister Arthur. You don't have to-"

"I know." Arthur interrupted her. "You ain't beholden to me or anythin', don't fret. Though if you'd like to stick around an' help me butcher up that bear, I wouldn't say no." 

"Are you still hunting for a small army?"

Arthur sounded rueful when he replied, "feels like there's more of 'em every damn day. I'll be takin' this kill into town. The women want the essentials, their flour and sugar and such." He grumbled, "dunno' why they need so damn much flour."

"Well, how else will they make pies?" Irene pointed out.

"Huh. S'pose you're right." Arthur said after a moment, seeming surprised. "Guess I never grew out the phase of thinkin' pies an' cakes just show up fresh on windowsills."

Cleanly skinning and butchering the good-sized bear was a long and arduous process, even with two sets of hands working on the task. Bluster had reemerged from the woods after a time and now grazed peacefully alongside Arthur's mare, that appaloosa from before who had since shed her winter coat. 

Arthur finally sat back on his haunches, wiping the sweat off his forehead and accidentally leaving a rusty red trail of blood in its wake. "Welp, I dunno' about you, Mister Frank. But I could certainly do with a wash-up and a meal." He had taken his hat off while they worked, his tawny, sun-streaked hair curling around his ears and sticking out at odd angles from the sweat. "Join me for supper, won't you?" He requested, hooking a thumb over his shoulder at the stream that flowed in a gully past the knoll. "Ain't nobody can chide me about takin' the best bits of the critter if nobody knows." He continued with a smirk. "Can I trust you not to rat me out, Frank?"

Irene hesitated. She was hungry and tired from the long day. Arthur didn't seem all that dangerous. Or rather, he obviously was, but in a way that was honest and blunt. "Absolutely." She replied firmly. "Your secret is safe with me, Mister Arthur."

"Now, I am gonna' ask for a handful or two of them berries you got." Arthur carried on as he got to his feet, extending a hand to help her up. "As rec...recompense and such."

Irene sighed dramatically. "Ah, I should have known no good deed goes unpunished. And here I thought that offering myself up as unwitting bait was more than enough to justify a mouthful or two of meat."

Arthur's laugh was raucous, the large man clapping her on the back hard enough to make her stumble. "You're a good man, Frank."

"Nowhere near as good as you, Arthur." She retorted with a grin, confused by the way his face darkened.

"'Fraid I'd never be able to claim that title, Frank." Arthur said quietly, the mirth gone from his expression. "Beardless youth like yourself ain't oughta' cast me in any sort of decent light. I ain't a good person."

"Hey, what was it you said when you freed me up from that trap? 'Too many folk in this world only help other people on account of gettin' somethin' in return', right?" Irene reminded him, trying to mimic his deep, honeyed drawl. She must have done a poor job, because Arthur cracked a reluctant smile. "You've helped me twice, now! Surely that warrants a smattering of decent light, wouldn't you agree?"

"Aw hell, Frank, I just don't want you developin' any lofty notions about my character is all! Don't want you gettin' your hopes dashed." Arthur protested. "I ain't no saint or role model or anythin' like that."

"Don't worry about my preconceptions, Mister Arthur. I don't view you as a role model at all." Irene wanted to laugh at how crestfallen he looked, despite his big talk. She splashed water on her hands, scrubbing at the blood on them with some of the sand from the riverbed. "I view you as a friend. A friend with flaws and drawbacks just like myself. Just like all human beings have." She elaborated, startled when Arthur crouched beside her on the riverbank and put a hand on her shoulder.

"Thank you." The man said sincerely, his blue eyes warm and bright. "That means a whole lot to me, Mister Frank. I'd like to count you as a friend myself, if I could."

Irene forgot her tongue for a moment, ensnared by the blatantly hopeful look he was giving her. He must have any woman within fifty miles of here falling head over heels for him! "You'll have a remarkably difficult time trying to get rid of me, Mister Arthur. I'm very persistent." She finally managed to respond. "Like a mangy mutt once you feed it some table scraps."

"I reckon it's settled then." Arthur's smile had returned, and Irene found herself oddly pleased that she had been the one to bring it back.

...

They camped there under the stars that night. 

Arthur planned to head into town the following day, where he would sell off the bear and then assist in the last few steps of the house building. But for now, he occupied himself with creating a roast fit for a king. Irene watched curiously as he studded the whole cut with herbs, finally daring to ask him a few questions about cooking. He obliged her with answers graciously and freely. Despite his opinionated stance on baking, he obviously had no such reservations when it came to cooking.

"I'm always afraid my ignorance of plants will get me into serious trouble. Lord only knows how many poisonous things I could consume if left to my own devices." Irene admitted, certain that he must think her foolish.

Arthur rummaged around in his satchel and pulled out a worn leather-bound journal. He tossed her the notebook, chuckling lowly when she nearly fumbled it. "I sketch a fair amount, look at the last pages. Check the margins for whether it's edible or not."

When she tugged loose the strap that held the journal closed and obediently cracked it open to the last few pages, Irene was flabbergasted. Sprawled across the pages were both detailed drawings and fleeting sketches of various plants and animals. "Arthur," she said, her voice breaking as she nearly forgot to pitch it lower. The older man glanced up at her, his brow furrowed. "These are incredible."

"What is?" Arthur asked in confusion. It abruptly seemed to dawn on him and he grinned sheepishly, shaking his head. "Oh, my l'il drawin's? They're just somethin' to pass the time, mostly. Done 'em ever since I was a kid."

"They're amazing!" Irene praised, making sure her hands were clean and free of grease before she even dared to hover her fingertips over the sketched snout of a border collie. "You actually capture the motion of the creature, which is a rare talent. I've seen a lot of art in my day, Mister Arthur, but few pieces have the same amount of life in them that your work displays."

"Aw shucks Frank, you're layin' it on pretty thick ain't ya'?" Arthur protested, and his face might not have been pink from just the heat of the fire. "It's nothin' special."

"Oh it absolutely is. These are...I mean all the plants are so detailed. Easily identifiable. Can you draw people and structures as well?" 

Arthur took the journal back and carefully flipped through it to a few different pages, showing her that his skill extended to more than just plants and animals. An oil derrick sketched proud and tall against the blank-page sky, a blind man who he had come across in his travels, a two-page spread of a small camp titled Horseshoe Overlook...  "Like I said, though, ain't nothin' special." He finished firmly, tucking the sketchbook back into his satchel. 

"You ought to make a book!" Irene suggested. "For those of us ingrates that wouldn't know oregano from our elbow."

"Me? A book?" Arthur scoffed at the idea. "Last thing I want is more attention."

"Well...you could do it under a pseudonym!"

"A what? Listen here, Frank, I ain't no good Christian man, but I ain't about to pseudo...seedo...look, I ain't doin' nothin' to nobody's nims, alright?" Arthur sounded absolutely scandalised. 

"Arthur, a pseudonym is just a fake name." Irene explained.

"Oh. Oh. Shit. Well I knew that." Arthur blustered at her, huffing out a breath. "Just...makin' sure you knew, is all!"

"Of course." Irene got to her feet, dusting herself off. "So. He can cook, he can draw, he can hunt…" she trailed off, doing her best to keep her tone light as Arthur continued to mumble in a flustered manner and fidget with the brim of his hat. "Is there anything you can't do, Mister Arthur?"

His laugh in reply was devoid of humor, a bitter noise. "Sure. Can't seem to stay out of trouble. More accurately though, can't seem to avoid gettin' dragged into trouble."

Irene squatted beside him next to the fire, debating giving his shoulder a rough shove of comradery. But the concern of accidentally knocking him over into the embers was enough to make her gentle her touch to a light pat. "I'm sorry to hear that, Arthur." She said quietly.

"Ah, don't pay me no mind, Frank. I'm just bellyachin'." Arthur placed his hand over hers absently, like it was an instinctive response. "You're a good kid. Don't get yourself tangled up in someone else's woes like I have, you understand me?" He admonished her sternly. 

"I'm hardly a child, Mister Arthur." Irene protested. "I am nearly twenty-seven." 

"What, without a lick of facial hair and your voice still shatterin'?" He teased, grazing her bare jaw with a large hand. "Naw, you ain't. But it's okay, your secret's safe with me."

"Arthur." Irene grabbed his hand, staring him down. She wasn't sure why this of all things was what she was caught up on. Maybe it was the notion that he believed she, or rather, Frank, was some fool stripling that had just been lucky so far. "I'm not a child."

Arthur stared at her, and for a split-second Irene was certain she had sold herself out. But then the older man abruptly guffawed, clapping her on the back. "No, I s'pose you ain't. You got old steel in them eyes of yours, Frank. Seen too much for your time on this earth, I imagine."

...

The final day had come at long last. 

Irene hurried to help finish the last few clapboards for the outside of the house, nearly crushing her thumb with the hammer in her haste. 

Various men and women from Valentine proper had already started to gather in the yard. Tables were being shuffled together, delicious smells coming from the freshly-christened firepit. Spirits were high and laughter was loud in the sunshine of midday, and Irene couldn't help her smile as she looked around. 

It was truly a marvelous thing to be a part of a community that willingly accepted anyone who would help, regardless of their past transgressions. She felt utterly at peace here, even in the midst of such organized chaos. 

A heavy arm landed around her shoulders and she felt a hand nearly shove the hat clean off her head. "There he is!" Arthur announced gladly, making her laugh. "It's finally time for the fun! You gonna' be stickin' around this evenin'?" 

"Maybe." Irene allowed, letting him haul her into his side with his grip on her shoulders. Arthur didn't seem to actually know just how strong he was, which strangely enough made her feel safer around him. "And you, Arthur?"

"I wouldn't miss it!" The man replied, his voice bright with excitement. "Been too long since there was a reason to celebrate. Was a hard winter. Folks need this shit." 

"Absolutely." Irene ducked out from beneath his arm and straightened her hat. "I'll see you later, Arthur. Gotta' go get washed up!" 

Valentine was barely a five minute walk down the road, but impatience ate away at her and she broke into a jog. She'd hatched a plan for tonight. A foolhardy, stupid plan. She still had no clear idea why she was doing this, even as she sauntered up the steps to the Valentine hotel. 

Irene slapped her money down on the counter, paying up front for a bath and a room for the night. Her spurs rattled loudly while she made her way up the stairs, nerves building in her throat like frantic bird wings beating away just beneath the skin.

It had been a short eternity since she had even seen herself in a looking glass, much less worn a dress. 

The dress itself was nothing like the elaborate ones she had worn during her marriage. It was a plain fawn-brown color, lacking in lace trim or cumbersome whale bone buttons. A dress for this new life she had made, one that she could don and doff unaided.

Once she had scrubbed herself pink with the provided tub of hot bathwater and lye soap that threatened to be iris-scented, of all things, Irene stepped into the dress and slowly buttoned the tiny buttons that ran the length of the front. Thankfully, the cut was modest enough that she wouldn't need a fichu to cover up with.

She had been avoiding looking at herself in the mirror until she absolutely had to, and when she finally did gather her courage she was shocked by what met her gaze. She looked older, of course, a bit more weathered, but she looked alive. She had haunted her husband's house like a ghost, gaunt and battered and seen not heard. Now though, her eyes were clear and her cheeks were pink even without pinching, a byproduct of the fresh outdoor air. Her shoulders were freckled liberally as well, though the dress hid them well enough with its high neckline and long sleeves. Her mother had always tried to dull her freckles out with those blasted rose tea treatments and lemon, but the spots had stubbornly persisted.

Her hair though…

She grimaced, raking her fingers through the sun-lightened corkscrews that bounced and sprang back around her ears. It seemed that, as usual, her hair would be hopelessly unmanageable. Mercifully, since she always wore a hat, at least her hair wouldn't be the thing to give her away. Wonder of all wonders, it did appear that there was some auburn mixed in with the brown.

Irene emerged from her room, locking the door securely behind her and tucking the key into her pocket. She paused to straighten out her skirts, smiling a little dumbly downwards at the pleats while she swished back and forth in a brief moment of indulgence. However, no sooner had she stopped to do so than a large body in a hurry nearly toppled her over. She heard a startled grunt as the person managed to catch her, and then a familiar voice apologized, "sorry ma'am! 'Fraid I'm like a bull in a china shop sometimes."

Arthur, it was Arthur. Oh Lord. Irene stared at his boots in an effort to buy herself time to collect her thoughts, noticing dimly that he too had bathed and clearly attempted to tidy himself up. Did she come clean right now? Confess that she wasn't Frank at all, but Irene? Lord, this whole plan was stupid! What had she been thinking?! "Oh no sir, I should be the one apologizing. I was so excited for the festivities I appear to have forgotten my sensibilities." Her voice was soft and she looked up at him through her lashes, wondering whether he would even recognize her without a layer of grime on her face. "Forgive my inattention, won't you?"

Arthur, for some reason, swallowed hard. "Well, ain't you just as pleasant as punch! You must be from outta' town. My name's Arthur, ma'am, and it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance." He gave her a little half-bow and Irene barely contained her relief at his blatant unfamiliarity with her. Obviously she needn't have worried. 

"My name is Irene, Mister Arthur, and trust me, the pleasure is all mine." She replied, automatically accepting the hand he offered. "Are you looking forward to the party as well?"

"Oh sure, Miss Irene." That drawl lingered sinfully on the syllables of her Christian name and Irene felt herself blush. "It's a rough life out here, only makes sense for folks to take what joy they can find where they can find it." Arthur glanced down at her, his smile a bit melancholy. "House raisin's hard work, but it's less tedious if we all know there's somethin' lighthearted waitin' at the end. Good food, good company…" He trailed off, clearing his throat.

"Of that, I'm certain!" Irene dared to continue holding his arm once they reached the street, and Arthur made no move to dislodge her. "Do you think there will be dancing, Mister Arthur?"

He chuckled at her obvious excitement. "I s'pose there might be. I'm not much one for dancin', though."

"Well," Irene said boldly, "I would be just delighted if I could steal a dance with you at some point this evening."

Arthur's eyebrows shot up to his golden-brown hairline. "You sure you got the right feller, ma'am?" 

"Of course! Please Arthur, won't you save me a dance?" She implored sweetly.

Arthur sighed, shaking his head. "Alright, which one of 'em put you up to this? It was Karen, weren't it. Woman won't stop interferin' in my personal affairs." He growled, "I ain't lookin' for pity, Miss Irene."

"What?" Irene asked in confusion. "No, I haven't been put up to anything. I...I simply wanted a dance. Have I offended you, Mister Arthur?" This could be an irreparable blunder! Her plan might be in shambles.

"Aw hell, now I feel like a fool." Arthur rubbed a hand over the back of his neck sheepishly. "Pardon my suspicion, Miss Irene. I'm used to bein' passed over is all." He mumbled. 

"What?" Irene gasped theatrically, loving the way his laughter rumbled in his chest. "A fine man such as yourself, passed over? That's deplorable, Mister Arthur!"

"Shucks ma'am, I'm passable decent, but I don't know if I'd ever call myself fine." Arthur smiled, his face a bright, endearing pink. Oh, complimenting him elicited the sweetest results! Irene was enraptured.

"Would you accompany me along the path to the festivities, Mister Arthur? I'm afraid I have no chaperone this evening." She implored. It was so strange, sliding easily back into being able to make polite conversation or clinging to an arm with rapt attention while a man spoke. She supposed all those etiquette lessons had done her some good. At least with Arthur she didn't have to feign her attention.

He nodded, swallowing hard again. "Sure, I can do that, Miss Irene."

"Oh!" Irene said suddenly like a thought had just occurred to her, the young woman making a move to pull away. "I apologize, Mister Arthur. It is so presumptive of me to monopolize your time. Did I interrupt you on your way to the Mrs. Arthur? Or perhaps a tryst with your beloved? I'm afraid I've always been rather self-absorbed, do forgive me."

He chuckled sadly, shaking his head. "Ma'am, there's no need for all that." He said, patting her arm in a way that he probably believed was soothing. Irene barely refrained from laughing at the knowledge that he calmed people like he calmed his horse. "All I'm headin' for tonight is some merriment with the local folk." He paused, still patting her hand absently. "Y'know, I think you'd get on real well with a friend of mine by the name of Frank." Arthur remarked, appearing oblivious to the way she froze. "He's got some real hellfirin' opinions and a noble heart. Nothin' like me at all, a genuine, sweet boah. Outspoken, but kinda' shy 'round lots of folks. If we stumble across him, I'll introduce you."

"Oh I very much doubt that we'll see him tonight." Irene muttered under her breath to herself, a little puffed up by the praise Arthur had inadvertently lavished upon her.

…

There was indeed food and drink, and Irene found herself in the midst of conversation more often than not. It was incredibly amusing to know that all she needed to do was wash the dirt off her face and don a dress to make 'Frank' disappear into the ether. But again, that had been the whole point.  

The musicians were tuning up when she noticed something odd. There was an unmanned violin (or fiddle, perhaps), sitting forlorn and silent on the front steps. Irene straightened out her dress and made her way carefully over to the stairs. "Pardon me, sirs," she called cheerfully. "but where is your violinist?"

"Ah, I'm sorry ma'am, but ol' Jefferson died durin' the winter." The guitarist informed her, looking a touch morose. "Figured we'd bring out his Hyde so it could at least listen to all the hubbub. Be a shame to leave it to gather dust."

"My deepest condolences." Irene murmured, going to turn away and then biting her lip as she paused. "Sirs, I...perhaps I could be of assistance? I have...some prior experience with violin." Nobody needed to know about the years spent learning, and the few bright moments in her marriage being her improvising quick, jaunty tunes alone in the drawing room. Leaving the instrument behind had been like leaving a piece of her heart, but it was so delicate and fragile…

"Well if you think you can keep up, you're more n' welcome to rosin the bow ma'am." The man smiled, gesturing at the fiddle. "It would do it some good to be played again, I'll wager." 

Irene was scooping up the instrument almost before he had finished speaking, immensely pleased to find out that it was relatively in tune. The man that she assumed would be the step caller graciously handed her a handkerchief to pad her cheek when she tucked the violin into place, and Irene spent several minutes hurriedly tightening and rosining up the bow. 

The first draw emitted a note that was clear, if a bit flat. Irene grinned sheepishly, fidgeting with the tuning pegs and then trying again. Ah, there it was. The instrument had a beautifully rich voice, no doubt facilitated by the stockier body it bore.

"Ladies and gentlemen, finish up your food! It's time for the real fun to begin!" The caller announced over the buzz of the populace. Tables began to move out of the way, clearing the front yard. 

"I see you're the fiddler this evenin'?" Irene started at the sound of Arthur's voice. She had lost track of him shortly after arriving to the party, the man apologizing to her even while he was getting dragged off by a dark-haired woman in a beautiful green dress. Now, he reclined against the railing, his eyes troubled but smile firmly in place.

"Hopefully, if the good Lord is merciful. It has been quite a while." Irene admitted. "I'd still very much like that dance, Arthur, if your other beaus don't keep you occupied." She jibed. Perhaps it was a bit bold for a woman to comment on an older man's pursuits, but she did feel that she could get away with a touch of good-natured ribbing.

"Welp," Arthur drawled, doffing his hat. "I s'pose we'll just have to see how the night goes, Miss Irene. I wouldn't call 'em beaus though. Just folks that want somethin' from me."

Irene tilted her head to the side, but Arthur managed to avoid her gaze. Following his line of sight, she noticed he appeared to be watching the dark-haired woman from earlier. "Who is your friend? I must know her seamstress, Mister Arthur, because that dress is lovely." 

"Mary." Arthur muttered, the name sounding like it was dragged out of him. "Uh, that is, the widow Linton."

"Oh no, the poor thing." Irene said sadly, meaning every word. There had been a time in her life where she had been utterly devoted to her fiance, believing that she had truly loved him. She could not begrudge anyone their own happiness, as wary as she had been made from her past experience. As the saying went, 'see how the bear behaves in its den before you decide to live with it.' 

"Eeyup, real shame. Pneumonia got him." Arthur informed her curtly.

Irene was sure her sympathy was evident on her face, because Arthur's sharp blue eyes had softened slightly when he looked back at her. Pneumonia was so sinister in its onset, the way it settled into the chest and by the time most patients realized it wasn't a cold, they were too far gone to help. "You should ask her to dance! Get her mind off of things." She suggested.

Arthur chuffed out a breath in a manner that was so similar to his horse Irene had to chew her lower lip to stave off her laughter. "Nope." He said firmly. "Mary shall not dance with me, Miss Irene. Not if I have anythin' to say about it. I doubt I'll dance much at all, honestly."

…

Arthur appeared to be sticking to his word throughout the night. He was indeed not much for dancing, but as he drank he got progressively more mobile. It was like his body loosened up, he smiled more, laughed louder…

He seemed absolutely thrilled when she found him later that evening, saying plainly, "There she is! I figured you forgot about me!" 

Irene shook her head, smiling up at him. She had politely declined her way across nearly the entire yard in order to reach him. "I don't think I ever could, Mister Arthur. May I ask for a dance?"

"Obliged to oblige, ma'am." Arthur extended a hand, drawing her in almost indecently close. "That was some fine music you played earlier." He drawled after a moment. 

Irene simply let herself be swayed back and forth, one hand on his shoulder and the other still entwined with his own. "Thank you." She replied softly. "It has been a while since I was able to indulge myself."

"Fiddlin' ain't a vice, ma'am." Arthur protested.

Irene chuckled. "Some might disagree, Mister Arthur."

"Well, they're wrong. How the hell could music be bad for someone?" He removed his hand from her hip to wave over at the group of men who were still currently playing away. "Music's good for the soul. Makes everythin' lighter. What miserable fools have you had to deal with?" Arthur grumbled.

Irene rolled her eyes comically. "Lord, you don't know the half of it!"

Arthur pressed her even tighter to his body, his breath hot over her ear when he murmured, "well Irene, they're dead wrong."

"Mister Arthur…" Irene went bright red at his proximity, at the heat that flooded her. What a strange sensation! Even back when she had been newly betrothed, before she had known her then-fiancé's cruelty, she had never experienced such a fierce reaction from a simple close whisper. Was it only to be chalked up to the newness of the experience? Or was it because it was Arthur doing it? 

"Irene, I hope I ain't bein' too forward when I...would you like to…" Arthur trailed off, clearing his throat. "I mean, I ain't got anythin' to offer you aside from a good time," he continued to hem and haw. "You seem like a genuine lady and I...someone like me ain't never really been allowed to touch that sort of person. I sleep under the stars and drink too much for anyone's good, never mind my own." His eyes met her own and a slow, almost forlorn smile played across his mouth. 

Despite the ribald impropriety of his words he looked so utterly tender, his hat slightly tilted and his eyes drowsily gentle. Irene found herself nodding before he even managed to actually ask her. "I have a room for the night, Mister Arthur. I am…" she hesitated. "Not...very experienced, but not inexperienced."

"Thank God." Arthur replied, surprising her. "You wouldn't want someone like me for somethin' like your first time."

"Oh?" Clearly, they had careened past the point of polite or appropriate conversation. But now, she was curious. "Why is that, Mister Arthur?"

He coughed, fidgeting with the brim of his hat. "I'm just...I'm not...fit for that sorta' thing. Not worth it. Fine ladies deserve a proper gentleman an' I ain't that." He stated. 

"Arthur…" Irene took his hands and tugged on them, leading him out of the yard and towards the roadside. "You're more of a gentleman than most, I can promise you that." She insisted.

"Miss Irene, wait!" The sound of her name being yelled made her pause, and Irene found herself abruptly confronted with the step caller as he thrust the fiddle's sturdy case at her. "Me and the boys, we got to talkin'. We figure you ought to keep the old Hyde, as a thank you of sorts." He said, sweeping his hat off his head. "Besides, if you leave it here it'll never be played. And there's nothin' worse than an unplayed fiddle. Believe me, I would know!" 

"I…" Irene wanted to burst into tears. This was so unexpected and kind. The case settled into her arms, like an old friend already. "B-But I have no way to-"

"Not for money ma'am. Simply for liftin' folks' spirits tonight. You take that Hyde and you spread that gift of yours around." 

"Thank you." Irene said sincerely, "I...you have no idea how much this means to me, sir."

"Mighty kind of you fellers." Arthur added, his grin a little sheepish when the caller turned his attention on him to express his thanks for Arthur's help in acquiring the remaining lumber for the house. He tried to wave off the praise to no avail, looking increasingly awkward the longer he was subjected to the step caller's enthusiasm.

The woman from earlier (Irene wracked her brain for a moment before remembering Mary, Mary) approached on Arthur's opposite side while he was preoccupied with the step caller. However, she didn't miss the way Arthur's posture went tight as he noticed Mary standing there expectantly. Arthur suddenly seized Irene's hand, muttered a curt, "obliged," to the step caller and set off at a brisk pace down the road. 

"Don't forget that you promised, Arthur Morgan!" The widow Linton called after him, her voice sharp. Arthur just waved a dismissive hand in her general direction.

Irene struggled to keep up even after Arthur scooped the case out of her arms, the man's longer legs easily outstripping her own. "Arthur, can you slow down?" She implored, a little fearful now. He looked like he was stewing, his shoulders squared against some invisible adversary.

Arthur obliged her in silence. He maintained that silence until they reached the outskirts of town, where he clarified, "you had a room, right?"

"Yes, I...yes. For the night." Irene answered softly. Arthur just nodded in reply. "Arthur, you don't-"

"I ain't gonna' hurt you." He cut her off. "You have my word, Miss Irene. Ain't got nothin' to fear from me."

Irene was still more than a touch anxious as they ascended the stairs, and she almost dropped the key, fumbling to get it into the lock. Arthur hummed low in his throat, that comforting horse pat landing on her arm again and soothing her enough that she managed to get the door open.

Arthur carefully set the case against the wall, and then he was on her. He kissed hungrily, his whole body pressed to hers before the door was even fully shut behind them. His tongue plunged into her mouth without so much as a warning or a by your leave. Irene had only read about this kind of kissing and experiencing it firsthand was composure-shattering. She found herself weak at the knees, grateful for the weight of Arthur's large form to anchor herself as he boldly coaxed her tongue to reply.

Irene shyly licked into his mouth, making a soft noise that had Arthur shuddering and offering his own groan in response. He pulled away, slow, like he was being dragged, and struggled to bring her with him.

The man sat down hard on the bed, urging her close in between his spread legs. Then, Arthur grabbed two handfuls of the back of her dress and rested his forehead on the spot directly beneath her breasts. 

Irene froze, confused until she felt his shoulders tremble. 

He was crying, like his heart was fit to break. Deep, shuddering sobs that came from somewhere by the floorboards and ravaged his entire body on the way up. Hesitantly, Irene carded her fingers through his hair, cradling the back of his head. She could feel the tears seeping into the fabric of her dress, slowly dampening the material.

"It's just never enough." Arthur finally said thickly. He stayed where he was, wearily slurring into her abdomen, "I give an' I give an' I do an' it's just...never enough to make folks happy."

"Arthur..." Irene whispered. She felt silly for not noticing sooner than something was very wrong, guilt rushing her as she realized that she had been so caught up in him giving her attention that she must have missed the signs.

"It's never enough that I'm just there, still alive, still willin', even though I'm a damn fool. Never enough." He mumbled, "God, I'm a fool."

"No you're not." Irene said firmly. Arthur looked up at her. "You're brave, you're loyal and you're kind, Arthur. It's not your fault that the people around you seem to have taken those traits for granted."

"We was plannin' to be married, y'know. Me an'...me an' Mary." He confessed abruptly, not that he needed to. "Or maybe it was just me plannin'. She...I just don't know."

"What happened? Did she call it off?"

"Her daddy, he didn't approve of me. I didn't have...enough," Arthur explained, his words stilted as he recounted probably more than he meant to. "I was orphaned pretty early on and I...well shit, I hung around with folks bad and good an' to Mr. Gillis, that was worth a condemnation. Forbade it. Said I was filthy, that I'd c'rupt...corrupt her. Ruin her. Break her with these turrible hands of mine." The hands in question gripped Irene's dress even tighter and he fought back a sob. "So I...I had to let her go. Watched her fall in love with some rich feller and it made me wonder, made me scared that she ain't never loved me at all. And then tonight..." He shook his head.

"What about tonight, Arthur?" Irene prompted him gently.

"She come to me askin' for a damn favor. After everythin' that's happened, she still had the damn gall to ask me for shit. Her little brother's gone off to shack up with some cult ." Arthur cleared his throat. "So I'm too rough to marry, but I'm sure as hell good enough to ask to rescue her precious baby brother. She said she thinks of me often and I just...dammit, it ain't right for her to tell me that!" He erupted, hiccupping out yet another sob. "It ain't right, I finally thought I was--I mean I was doin' okay, I was better, an' now…"

"It feels like you just hit a patch of shale and slid your way back down into the bottom of the gorge you were crawling out of." 

Arthur sniffled. "Well, yeah. Kinda'. H-How'd you know?"

"You think you're the only person in the world to have troubles with people you were trying to recover from?" Irene's laugh was soft and sad. "My situation is a bit different, but no less weighty for it, Mister Arthur."

Arthur huffed out a breath, rubbing his forehead back and forth on her stomach. "I just hate myself. Can't hate her, all I can do is hate m'self." He sighed.

"Don't." Irene admonished him, trawling her fingers through his thick hair and dragging his head back with the motion. Arthur groaned again, this time lower, his eyes half-lidding as he appeared to enjoy being ministered to. "Don't hate yourself for being kind, Arthur, and don't let the world beat that kindness out of you. There are people, so many people who will love you for it. Hell, there's probably some that already do." 

Blue eyes blinked open sluggishly, still glassy with tears as he looked up at her. Liquor-honest words tumbled from his lips, "why the hell are you bein' so nice to me? Led you up here for a reason an' now I'm all a mess about another woman." He shook his head, not waiting for a response before continuing, "I just wanna' sleep. Forget about all of this. I...lay down with me? I need...I need...somethin' to hang onto." He mumbled, tugging at the back of her skirt. "Clothes on is fine. Just need to hold you. Few minutes, even." He pleaded.

Irene bit her lip uncertainly. Laying down fully-clothed? It seemed a bit strange. But she didn't have on a corset, so at least she wouldn't be uncomfortable… "Alright." She agreed softly after a moment, reaching down to unlace her boots. Hopefully Arthur was too inebriated to notice that 'her' boots were also Frank's boots. He seemed more than a few sheets to the wind, if his weeping was anything to judge by.

Arthur clumsily kicked off his own boots and laid on his side, catching her arm to guide her down with her back to his chest. It was somewhat awkward at first; Irene had never actually been held in such a manner and the bed was incredibly small. She knew she was probably too stiff, and slowly urged her shoulders to loosen a bit. Arthur draped his arm over her hips, not even holding her so much as he was simply laying his hand on her stomach.

"Thank you." He mumbled into the back of her neck, still sniffling a little. 

Irene tentatively placed her hand over his own, lacing her fingers through his. "Shh, sleep. You'll feel better in the morning, Arthur." She whispered. Then, so quiet she wasn't sure he would even hear her, "thank you, Arthur. For everything."

Part Two: Friends

[myhockeyworld87]

Not So Dangerous Liaison - Sidney Crosby - Part 2

Word Count: 3,430

POV: Sidney’s

Warnings: Adult Language

Notes: Here’s part 2 in the Crosby saga. Thanks to everyone who read it and sent in encouraging words. Glad you all enjoyed it. More to come soon!

It seemed like a decent plan, avoid (Y/N) at all costs; though it proved to be harder than you anticipated. You walked into the practice arena, early as usual, and there she was, all bright-eyed and smiling. She was standing there on her cell scrolling through something. It was hard to take your eyes off her as she was wearing a cute pair of leggings with a jacket all the coaches wore, though she had sneakers on instead of skates. The sides of her hair were pulled backed, but her long waves flowed over her shoulders and your fingers itched to touch it and find out if it was as soft as it looked. Shaking yourself, you looked away to regain some composure, and that's when she saw you.

 "Hey, Sid." Her smile was as bright as the sun and part of you wondered why she didn't hate you after that first night.

 "Hi (Y/N), you're here early."

 "Yeah, I didn't think it would make a very good impression to be late on the first day." She was bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet, obviously full of excitement. It was both adorable and somewhat contagious. "Speaking of which, do you have that paper from yesterday?"

 Shit! You'd honestly tried to fill it out last night, though every single time you looked at it; you thought of the way she looked standing in the film room, or how her eye sparkled just like they were now. "Uh…well umm."

 "Don't worry, you can always bring it to me tonight?" You had to stop yourself from rolling your eyes, not at the comment, but the fact that you'd be seeing her every day until the end of the season.

 "Yeah, I'll do that." Somehow you didn't want the conversation to end just yet, so you found yourself saying, "So how do you like things so far?"

 "Well, it's still early, considering I think I've only technically been on the clock for like thirty minutes." She giggled and you found yourself smiling at the sound. "But so far so good. I really think it's going to be a lot of fun." Fun for her maybe, because right now you were in sheer torture, just being in her presence.

 "Ah…that's good, really good." You adjusted the rim of your hat, before adding. "Well you know if you need anything you can always call me." Ugh, why had you just said that? You were willingly volunteering yourself to help her out, that was anything but avoiding her like you originally planned.

 "Awe, thanks, Sid. I really appreciate that."

 You stood there for a full minute not knowing what to do or say before you heard someone come up behind you. "Wow, Sid, you're not on the ice yet?" It was Flower's teasing voice that caught both yours and (Y/N)'s attention, and he was right, by the time he usually showed up, you'd normally done a few warmup laps.

 "Oh wow, I'm sorry Sid. I didn't mean to keep you." (Y/N) was really too sweet and part of you hated to see the interlude end, but Flower's words reminded you that she was nothing but a distraction.

 "You didn't...I mean I'm just as much at fault."

 "Here's my form (Y/N), I may not have been the first one turning it in," Flower said while nudging you. "But I at least hope I get an A for punctuality."

 "Well, you just so happen to be the first, so I'll give you an A+." She said with a cute little wink to the goalie. Suddenly, you were wishing you'd done that paper last night.

 "Woah, you mean to tell me I beat Mr. Perfect here. Where's your head at man?" It would be wrong to say daydreaming of the woman in front of you; so you just shrugged and headed off to the locker room.

 You were just finishing lacing your skates when Marc-Andre entered, having finished his chat with (Y/N). "You've got it bad; don't you?"

 "I don't know what you're talking about."

 "Come on man, don't play dumb with me. I know all the signs." He was shoving his bag in his cubby and throwing on his equipment. "Stupid ass grin on your face. Fair off look. Do you want me to continue?" You rolled your eyes at him while making a pfting noise. "You can't fool me. I know you like (Y/N). But what I want to know is why didn't you call her at the start of the season?"

 There was no way you could lie to one of your best friends, he'd see right through you. It was just easier, to tell the truth. "She's too much of a distraction man. I just need to focus on hockey. Besides, playoffs start in a little over a week."

 "Well, you should've got her out of your system before now, because we are going to be seeing a lot of her from here on out." Flower was right, you were definitely going to be seeing a lot more of (Y/N), and since avoidance didn't seem to be working; you were definitely going to need a new plan.

 You blew out a long breath. "Any ideas what I can do?"

 "Hmmm…if it was me; I'd channel that energy into hockey." If it was only that easy. "Skate a little faster or hit the puck a little harder when you think of her." Well, it was an option, and hopefully, it was one that would work.

 "It's worth a try." Thankfully, when you headed back out to the rink (Y/N) was nowhere in sight, which made focusing on hockey a bit easier. She appeared about midway through practice and instead of concentrating on her, you did exactly as Flower said. What was surprising, was that it seemed to work. Your passes were a little crisper, and pucks seemed to find an easy way into the net, maybe this wasn't going to be so bad.

 Well until you were running the last drill and saw her talking to Beau again. It took every ounce of will power, not to break your stick in two. It seemed like every time there was a get-together, Beau was always by her side. It grated on your nerves and you found yourself, attacking the puck with a bit more force than normal. By the time practice was over, she was again gone, to your relief. There were only four more games left in the regular season, and the last home game was tonight. You kept telling yourself if you could just make it through this initial period of adjustment, you'd be fine since playoffs would literally consume all your time.

 It was about five hours later that you were rethinking things again. Of course, she was at the arena when you arrived, only this time she wasn't sporting her cute active look. Dressed in a short black skirt and matching jacket, she belted the outfit to accentuate her curves. She either had on a black lace cami underneath or black lace bra, whichever it was it had you dying to see what lay underneath the fabric. A pair of black heels showed over her legs to perfection as she walked down the hallway, looking more like she was ready to take the boardroom by storm than to watch a hockey game.

 "Hey Sid, did you happen to bring that form?"

 Fuck, that damn paper was the bane of your existence at the moment. "No sorry, I forgot it again."

 "No biggie, if you could just give me who you want to be called in case of an injury that's the main thing I need."

 "Yeah sure…I mean definitely my parents."

 She handed over her phone then for you to put in their information. "Don't worry I'll only call them if necessary, just don't want them worrying."

 "Oh yeah of course." You handed the phone back to her, vaguely wondering if your number was in there and how at the same time you could get hers.

 "Well, I won't take up any more of your time." She said, patting you on the shoulder. "I know you have pregame rituals and all. Good luck tonight."

 "Thanks," and with that she headed off, leaving you standing there, still hypnotized by her. The scent of her perfume still lingered in the air and you found yourself just breathing it in a minute longer before moving to the locker room. Focus, you told yourself. You were not going to be distracted by her.

 Once more of the guys started filing in, it was a bit easier to forget about the gorgeous woman, roaming around the arena somewhere. It seemed to be business as usual. You made yourself the same sandwich as you always did, got taped up and played a little warmup soccer. It was only when the ball bounced out of the circle, and you turned to retrieve it, knocking your hat off in the process, that you saw her again, as the ball landed at her feet. "Wow, my grandma can play better than that boys." She teased, dropping the ball only to kick it with her heeled feet back into play. She bent down and picked up your lucky hat in the process as well. Everyone knew that your snapback was pretty much sacred and didn't touch it. It was also disgustingly filthy as you never washed it being the superstitious fuck that you were. "Wouldn't want to lose this." She stated, handing it back over with a cute little wink, as her hand touched yours.

 "Uh, yeah…thanks." There was this electricity when she touched you and for a second you didn't want to let go. But then you pulled back suddenly as if you'd been burnt. Luckily, she was called away by one of the social media staff and went back to the soccer game. Normally, you'd be freaking yourself out a bit after the whole hat fiasco, but instead, you kept thinking of Flower's advice and how you would just channel everything into the game.

 Halfway through the first, you thought you were fighting a losing battle and that (Y/N) had really jinxed you, in more ways than one. Everything changed though, on a hooking penalty to the Flyers. About thirty seconds into it, on a great pass from Phil, you took all that pent-up frustration out on a slap shot, sending the puck into the back of the net. From there the rest of the night was a magical ending to the regular season at home, where the Pens came out victorious.

 As you stepped off the ice, you kept looking for (Y/N) but she was nowhere to be found. You weren't sure why you wanted to see her, maybe it was the superstitious side of you, feeling as though you had a new ritual where she had to touch your hat in order for you to have a great game, or maybe there was just a part of you that really wanted to see her. The latter being something you didn't want to examine too closely, yet she was nowhere around. You finished up your post-game interviews and then headed home for the night, as you had to be up early for a flight to Ottawa.

 You were actually surprised that she wasn't at the airport before you in the morning, though she wasn't far behind you. It seemed she had a penchant for being early, just as you did. As she entered the plane you could see her hesitance as to where she should sit, and part of you was a bit disappointed that you had a standard seat with Flower for every away game. Of course, it was Beau who offered her a seat beside him and before the engine started you could hear the two of them laughing about something. The sound grating on your nerves.

 By the time the plane landed, you were cranky and irritable from straining to listen to the two of them. You couldn't imagine, why (Y/N) was getting off the bus first once you were at the hotel. Normally, one of the staffers went and got all the keys, and then you just grabbed one as everyone went inside. It must be a new part of her job or something. She hopped back on a few short minutes later, walking down the aisle, handing certain keys to people. It seemed strange, but you didn't really question it.

 Finally being allowed off the bus, you headed up to your room, and upon entering flung yourself on the bed and took a nice long nap. You'd been too keyed up from the win to get a good night's sleep, and planned on napping on the plane. Only you'd constantly heard Beau and (Y/N) chit-chatting the entire time. It was about three hours later when you headed down for a meeting with the team. Everyone seemed to be talking about how great their stay was so far, which didn't really make a ton of sense to you. You'd stayed in this hotel dozens of times over the years and there wasn't anything remarkable about it.

 Phil and Rusty were discussing just this subject when you sat down at the table. "So what did you get in your room?" Phil asked.

 "What?"

 "You know, like what did (Y/N) have in there for you?" Christ, what was he talking about? You'd literally walked in, threw your bag down, and slept. It wasn't as if she'd left a present in there for you. The confusion on your face must have given you away, for Phil kept going then. "Well, she had extra pillows in there for me, so I didn't end up having to call down like I do every time and there was a special box filled with my favorite protein bars and stuff."

 "Shears and I got extra towels because the guy uses like twenty, no lie; and then she had peanut M&M and stuff in there for me." Rusty chimed in. "Didn't you have one?"

 "How would she even know what I like?"

 "The form man, didn't you fill it out?" Rusty countered as if you actually knew what was on it.

 You grabbed your neck, hoping to stop the blush that was creeping up, before saying. "Um…no. I kind of forgot about it."

 Phil just shook his head at you, giving you a side smirk at the same time. "Did you even look at it?"

 "Um…not really."

 "What's the deal with you and her anyway?" He added.

 "There's no deal there."

 "No kidding, but you've been giving her the cold shoulder ever since she took this job." This time it was Rusty who called you out.

 "I'm just not falling all over her like some people are." Well, maybe you'd tried your best to avoid her at first, but you didn't feel like you were snubbing her by any means.

 "Wow, no need to get all defensive," Phil commented and you realized your voice might have been a bit harsher than you intended. "We're just pointing out that you haven't treated her like you do other new staffers."

 "What's that supposed to mean?"

 "Well when Sara started as JR's new secretary, you sent her flowers. I noticed you didn't do that with (Y/N)." There was no way you could argue with Rusty because it was true; you didn't send flowers to (Y/N) as you had in the past to welcome new recruits. You usually signed it from the entire team as well. "And before you even ask, I know because there weren't any in her office when I dropped off my form." Now you felt like an ass, though it wasn't like you could rectify the situation on the road. "Luckily Kelsey sent her something from us."

 "A couple of the guys and I were talking about taking her out to dinner in DC. Sort of like a welcome to the group kind of thing."

 "Perfect, I'll just tag along with you guys, Phil." He raised an eyebrow at you and so you added. "And order the flowers when we get back."

 "Deal, but since you fucked up; you can pay."

 "Fine." It was really the least you could do crashing their dinner and all, plus it would be easier to be with (Y/N) in a group setting than in a one on one environment.

 "Oh, one more thing." You cocked your head at your teammate. "You can invite her."

 Fuck. It was really the only thing going through your mind, as you groaned inwardly. "Alright."

 "No better time like the present," Rusty said, motioning to the doorway where (Y/N) just walked through. Phil elbowed you as well in order to get you to go over to her. Reluctantly, you got up to ask her to dinner with everyone.

 "Hey (Y/N), can I have a minute?"

 "Sure, what's up?" She moved off to the side and you couldn't help but notice the sway of her hips.

 "So um…like…I wanted to know if you wanted to…um…go out to dinner when we get to DC?" God, that was horrible. You sounded like a babbling idiot, and you forgot to mention it was with other guys on the team and that it was to welcome her.

 "I really…" She started to answer and you cut her off short.

 "With the team, to welcome you of course." Did that even make sense?

 "Oh well, yeah sure that's really nice of you guys. It's not really necessary though."

 "I want to…I mean we want to." Why did you feel so tongued tied all of the sudden around her? You had stumbled a bit around her that first at Flower's but then things had gone so well. Then again, you weren't afraid of her throwing you off track of all your goals then.

 "Ok, it sounds like fun."

 "Great, we can work out the details later." You made a move to leave because just being around her, you found it hard to breathe, but she stopped you.

 "Sid, I hope you're ok with your room and stuff. I wasn't exactly sure what you liked since I didn't have your form."

 That damn fucking form was literally going to be the bane of your existence, and the fact that you hadn't paid attention to anything in the room didn't really help. "Oh yeah, it's fine. Thanks. I'll get that form to you, once we get back."

 She shrugged and cocked her head to the side as if somehow reading your thoughts. Though she didn't voice what those were. "No problem, just get it to me whenever. Let me know if you need anything." With that she walked away, seeming somewhat annoyed.

 Had you said the wrong thing to her. An uneasiness settled in your stomach; it was something you didn't want to explore. As soon as the meeting was over, you headed back up to your room, to see exactly what she had done. You unlocked the door, looking at the room with a whole different view. The bed was still a mess, but you could tell that there was an abundance of pillows there; it was something that you didn't notice when you'd napped before. Going into the bathroom, you saw that just like Rusty, your room had extra towels in as well. As you wandered back into the main room, you saw a basket sitting on the desk. The inside was filled with some of your favorite things. Candies from your hometown in Novia Scotia, your favorite protein bars and drinks, and so much more. Though one thing stood out above everything else, a book on Egyptian history. It was something you both talked about that first night. There was also a handwritten note tucked inside.

 'Sid, I wasn't exactly sure what would make your away games a bit easier but thought maybe some of this would help. Hopefully, the view will relax you before the big game. If not I thought you'd enjoy this book on the Pyramids as much as I did. Let me know if you need anything at all.  - (Y/N)'

 Now you knew that it wasn't an annoyed look on her face, but one of disappointment; for you truly felt like an asshole for not having noticed any of the special things she'd done for you and the entire team. You were going to need more than just dinner to make things right with (Y/N) that was for sure.

[valhallanrose]

Seven Devils

Astoria’s Cursebreaker arc picks up about five years after the events of Show Your Fangs, which you can find here along with the rest of their canon backstory. 

Major thank you to @apprenticealec​ for letting me borrow some of her pirates for the next few installments of Astoria’s journey. Sorry to Rodrigo (and especially Jacqui) for getting Astoria inflicted upon them in the process. 

Fic Title: Seven Devils by Florence + The Machine

2.1k. No CWs apply. 

It was supposed to be like any other transport. 

The sea and the sky were near perfect mirrors, as if the Fae’s Folly sailed on an ocean of stars that carried them toward the Sea Palace. It was a long journey, but one that its crew had made many times before, through the Frozen Sea and up into the Persephia when the Scourgelands were too perilous to cross by land. It was the preferred route to reach the western side of the continent, rather than risk the Strait of Sirens to the north, and they’d faced minimal skirmish on prior trips.

But the Folly was under contract, and a demanding one at that, meaning some had let their guard slip when the rare chance came to rest. 

It would be too late when they heard the pounding of drums over the sea, rousing the crew from slumber and drawing them out on the deck to investigate, then sending it into chaos as they tried to open the sails and escape the ship in their shadow. 

And then El Corazon Sangrante split the night with cannon fire. 

*     *     *     *     *

The Fae’s Folly wasn’t equipped for conflict, and surrender came quickly - about when the captain realized the winds would give them enough momentum to keep moving, but not necessarily to get out of range. So he chose, rather than risk the lives of his crew, to wave the metaphorical white flag. He’d been instructed by the harbormaster to preserve the vessel at all costs - the goods could be replaced, or at the very least they could recoup the losses, but a damaged ship was far more painful for a trading port’s business in the grand scheme. 

The captain had watched with tongue between his teeth as pirates boarded his ship, some remaining above deck to watch his crew while the others scattered across the ship to raid its cargo hold. One, a tall man with dark skin and equally dark hair, had asked him where his manifests were - information which he’d given, begrudgingly, when he eyed the hand settled on the pistol holstered at his hip. 

Another would board after a few moments - wearing, of all things, a spotted fur coat - at around the same time the previous man emerged from the captain’s quarters, flipping through sheafs of paper with maps tucked under his arm. 

“Jacqui, could this have been more underwhelming?” He almost pouted as he fluffed the collar of his coat, lifting a hand to keep his hat firmly planted on his head. 

“You’re the one who saw a ‘big ship’ and insisted that we see if it ‘had anything good’, Rodrigo.” The man, presumably Jacqui, made air quotes as he read without so much as looking up. “Which, no, it seems you picked a common cargo ship. No matter. Never hurts to resupply -”

He paused mid sentence, eyes fixed on a line on the manifest long enough to make the fur-coated man step closer and find what had caught his attention. 

- Personal gift from Baroness Canonach of Kintyre to Lady Chiara D’Oria.

Jacqui’s pistol came free of its holster as he strode across the deck, tucking the weapon beneath the captain of the Folly’s chin and giving him a stormy look. 

“Tell me something.” He said quietly, gold eyes dark as Rodrigo’s hand fell to rest neatly on the hilt of his blade beneath that fur coat. “What exactly are you delivering to the D’Orias?”

*     *     *     *     *

The sun beamed across Astoria’s face where they stood at Cliffs of Balgaire, wild breeze ruffling the hem of their coat around their knees and carrying the smell of salt up from where they lashed at the base of the cliffs far below. One leather-clad hand pushed their bangs back while the other held the pages of the letter firmly in hand, eyes flickering over the ink as time ticked by.

Sachairi Canonach, the cousin closest to them in age and next in line for the barony of Kintyre after Astoria themself, had called them back to Rosinmoor. After a long-winded bout of pleasantries, he’d asked them to come when their project in the Bulan mountains had ended for the season, and that they assist him in a personal favor. 

They agreed - on the condition they met near Mistwatch, for returning to the family estate meant dealing with their mother, and they wanted absolutely nothing to do with her for the time being.

So with the shadow of the ruined Canonach castle at their back, Astoria turned their face to the sun, closing their eyes to let the warmth seep into their skin. There were a few long, peaceful moments, where all they could hear was the roar of the sea and the call of the birds before a voice drew their focus back to the rest of the world.

“You know, I’m just glad we didn’t plan to meet in the castle. I know you agreed to meet me here, but this place has always given me the heebie jeebies. I’ll never understand why you loved it so much when we were kids.”

Astoria turned, smile lifting the corners of their lips as they stepped forward to meet his embrace halfway. 

“You’d hate me if I gave you the history lesson.” They teased, burying their face in the tartan draped across his shoulder and chuckling as he thumped them on the back a few times. 

“I probably would.” Sachairi leaned back, giving them a broad smile as his hands fell on their shoulders and gave them a squeeze. “You look well. How was the trip back? I’m assuming you took the Emerald Sea into the Strait of Seals, and then into Rosafearn?”

“Yeah, it’s probably the quickest route. Especially when my travel is funded by the clan, who apparently made it very clear to the quartermaster and the captain that the ‘heir to Kintyre was going to need efficient travel south’.” 

They gave him a displeased look, and Sachairi at least had the decency to look sheepish when they folded their arms across their chest. “I couldn’t decide if I wanted to stay up north or come here and skelp you myself for pulling that. You know I hate it when people throw their titles and names around to get their way, why would you make me out to be a hypocrite by doing the same?”

Sachairi’s hands lifted in a gesture of surrender as Astoria huffed, shoving their hands in their pockets and giving him something of a glowering look. 

“I know, I know, and I’m sorry, Astoria - but I promise you I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t think it was necessary. I need your help with something a little time critical, but I couldn’t risk the letter getting intercepted on the way.”

“Well, start talking. Your personal favor is on thin ice for now.”

Wordlessly, Sachairi offered his arm, and Astoria tucked their hand neatly into the crook of his elbow before they began to walk the overgrown path that circled the walls of Mistwatch. They waited patiently for him to gather his words as they walked, the wind sweeping the hair away from both of their faces as he heaved a sigh. 

“A few weeks ago, the baroness ordered a small shipment of jewels and ore be sent to the Sea Palace - supposedly a sampling to attract business from the D’Oria family, but I digress. It left aboard the Fae’s Folly with a full load of cargo, the rest of the shipment made up of the standard goods, but when the Folly returned to port, the captain informed us the ship had been raided by pirates out in the Sea of Persephia.”

“And you don’t believe that.” 

“It’s not that I don’t believe it - the Folly’s been surveyed and definitely sustained an attack, but I’m not confident that it was a simple raid. The only things missing from the manifests were basic supplies any sailor would use, some regional maps of the Frozen Sea and the western Scourgelands, and the jewels. From what little knowledge of the family I have, I trust the D’Orias as far as I can throw them.”

Astoria let out a small snort at that, the sound swallowed by the wind as they tucked a few pieces of hair behind their ears. “If they’re friends of my mother, I’d be inclined to agree. So what’s my role in this, Sachairi?”

He slowed to a stop, turning to face Astoria with something of a serious expression on his face. His hands fell to rest on their shoulders, giving them a squeeze as he held their gaze, not even moving to brush curly hair out of his eyes when the wind blew them out of place.

“I want you to find out if the raiders were working on behalf of the D’Orias. Of all our family, I trust you most to both keep this off Senga’s radar for now, and to keep yourself safe in the process. If the jewels were stolen by true pirates, they can keep them, we have enough at our disposal to manage trade without them and I don’t want you in more danger than you have to be. But if they were stolen by the D’Orias or on their behalf, I want you to gather whatever evidence you can to prove it so that we can nip this relationship in the bud. The baroness won’t believe it unless I can put it on the table in front of her, so I don’t want to level any accusations without knowing exactly what I’m walking into.”

Astoria heaved a long breath, mulling over the proposition for a little while as they tugged on the beaded chain on their glasses. 

“You do realize that this is wildly out of my skill set.”

“On the contrary, I think it’s just within it.” Sachairi chuckled, reaching forward to push their glasses back up their nose. “Have you not made a life for yourself in the pursuit of knowledge and answers? Perhaps not in this manner, but I have faith that you’ll find a way to make it work. You’ve always been the most stubborn of all of us.”

They scoffed, folding their arms across their chest and giving him a sour look, but he only smiled and took a step back to give them space. A few moments of rustling in his satchel eventually turned up a neatly folded stack of papers, bound together with ribbon and stamped with the green wax crest of the Canonachs. Sachairi held it out, brow raised and trying to maintain a stoic face, but they could see the way his lips threatened to lift at the corners in a sort of knowing smile. 

“...fine. Fine, I’ll do it, but you owe me. And you have to answer to Myrna if I get hurt during this shit, because she’s not getting my hide for it.” They snatched the papers out of his hand, smacking him lightly on the wrist with them before popping the seal. Idly they flicked through them, brows pulling together as they read through the documents in hand. 

“You’ve already booked my passage? What would you have done if I refused?”

“Never crossed my mind.” The younger Canonach turned, beginning to pick his way down the path that would lead him eventually back to where he left his horse. “I can always take the hit from the cost if you decide not to go, we both know that the clan has more gold in its coffers than we could spend in all our lifetimes combined. But you’ve never been one to turn down the chance for something new, have you?”

They stood there for a long, long moment, eyes fixed on the point where he eventually disappeared over the hill and travel papers clasped tightly in hand. 

He wasn’t wrong, there. They’d spent the nearly five years since they’d been home traveling the world, only staying in one place for a few weeks at a time and diving straight into archaeological work that buried them up to their waist in busy work, but something like this? They couldn’t remember the last time the idea of a journey had inspired such a thrill in them, even if they didn’t want to admit it. 

They still loved their job, they had no doubts about that. It was monotonous sometimes, day in and day out in burial mounds and crypts or seemingly endless hikes to the middle of nowhere, but...was that really all they wanted from life? Was that really all they wanted to do, after fighting for some sense of freedom for so long?

With a sigh, they shoved the papers into the pocket inside their coat, turning to look back out over the broad blue sea to where it met the sky on the horizon. 

They supposed they’d just have to find out.

[lisarichardsonbylines]

How to Tell Your Husband You’re a Witch

Witches we need you. Now more than ever. In the time of COVID-19 we can find respite in place-based reverence, plant magic and the divine feminine. So writes Lisa Richardson, who came to witchiness with nothing but white hetero straight-lacedness and a crush on a yoga teacher.

Lisa Richardson | Longreads | April 2020 | 15 minutes (4,084 words)

On a Friday afternoon, pre-COVID-19, my husband dropped some ice-cubes into glasses, ready to make us screwdrivers and cheers to surviving another week of working/parenting/wondering where the hell the years were going, only, the vodka bottle was empty.

“Oh yeah,” I said, my eyes sliding sideways, trying to not cause a fuss, “I used it for medicine.” The previous week, the kitchen counter had been cluttered with a giant mason jar full of oily plant matter. “Balm of Gilead!” I explained, brightly, as he wiped away the breakfast crumbs around it.

“But what is it?”

“Cottonwood tips in oil.”

His eyes had flicked, then, over to the brand-new bottle of extra virgin olive oil that was now nearly empty, as I enumerated the medicinal benefits of this old herbal remedy (and all this from a tree in our backyard!). Twenty-four years together means I could hear the abacus in his brain clicking, as he wordlessly calculated the cost per milliliter of a gallon jar of plant matter masticating in top-shelf olive oil, against the cost per unit of a bottle of generic aspirin tables, overlaid with the probability of me losing interest in this project.

First the olive oil. Now the vodka for dozens of little jars of tinctures — garden herbs and weeds soaking in now-undrinkable booze. My midlife quest to attune more deeply to the rhythms of the natural world was starting to incur unexpected, but real, costs.

He was quiet, as he opened the fridge and pulled out a beer instead.

* * *

In my defense, I could have pointed my finger at Natalie Rousseau, a yoga teacher living in my 5,000 person village, who I’d first encountered leading a solstice yoga class billed as a way to survive the madness of the holidays (in slightly more gracious language). Thanks to her offerings of insight I did survive the commercial horror of the “festive” season, and a few months later, as the new moon entered Aries (whatever that actually means), I plonked down $200 to subscribe to her online 13 Moons course — my foray into “slowing down and being more present,” as I pitched it to my husband when he inquired about the strange entry on the credit card statement.

But I did not deflect the simmering tension between us by naming Natalie as the instigator of these “kitchen witch” experiments. Even though I am not a member of any kind of coven or cult, (I don’t think book club counts), I know deep in my bones to never throw another woman onto the fire for helping you. That has been done too many times.

But there it is. The word. Witch. The wound.

* * *

Every day, after COVID-19 entered our world, Natalie Rousseau has responded with an offering, a teaching — a meditation, an ancient mantra of protection, a yoga practice for managing anxiety, a how-to video on harvesting poplar medicine. It’s as if she’s been resourcing herself for this moment to develop the richest arsenal imaginable, to navigate, not the public health crisis, but the billion personal crises each of us is forced to confront as life as we know it slams into pandemic mode. It’s not what I thought a witch would do, if I ever thought about them at all.

Natalie doesn’t look like a witch either — not in the way I conceived it for last year’s Halloween costume, with my long black skirt, dollar-store pointy hat, and heavy black eyeliner, walking alongside my 6-year-old vampire-werewolf. Natalie is petite, just a few inches over five feet, her long blond hair still evoking the decade she spent living in a west coast surf town, her chest and lean muscled arms bright with full sleeve flowery tattoos and Mary Oliver quotes. She moves like a dancer, demonstrating yoga poses as if she’s transcending gravity. As a teacher, she speaks exactly, even in Sanskrit, and guides movement precisely, padding gently and soundlessly through the room, making an adjustment here, offering an instruction there.

So, I was surprised when she used the word “witch” to launch her new online offering, The Witches Wheel. The lure was irresistible. Natalie was claiming the word “witch” without flinching, without anger, without provocation, not as a way to reclaim feminine power and stick it to the men, warranted as that may be: It was essentially an invitation to observe the cycle of the seasons.

A threshold beckoned.

* * *

Natalie, a recent empty-nester, lives with her husband Paul and two dogs in a modest townhome, with a creek and a dozen rogue gardens installed by various residents running behind it. The garage is full of motorbikes. The porch is swept clean on the day I visit, six months into the 13 Moons program, wanting to talk with her about this radical word and why, in a world still unsure what to do with powerful women, she’s not afraid that she’s exposing herself to pitchforks and fires, haters, and trolls.

Even though I am not a member of any kind of coven or cult, (I don’t think book club counts), I know deep in my bones to never throw another woman onto the fire for helping you. That has been done too many times.

A tea blend of her own mixing — vanilla chaga chai — is brewing on the stove in an open saucepan. She tends to it, as I settle in, sneaking glimpses around the room, looking for evidence of witchcraft — pentagrams, cloaks, bottled frogs. Nothing. The space is uncluttered, a throw-rug on the armchair, a couple of stark white deer skulls are mounted, European-style, on a wall against a reclaimed barn board — definitely more Soho chic than occult-goth. Her husband returns from town, where he has picked up fresh croissants for us. He’s tall and strong, with a tightly cropped red beard — he looks like a guy you’d run into at the gym, at the surf break, at the hardware store.

“So, what’s it like living with a witch?” I ask him as Natalie attends to our tea, a light-hearted question sprouting out of the great compost of fears I am thinking. Is it impossibly hard to be with a woman who comfortably claims her own power, magic, cycles, voice? What kind of a man can love and honor a witch? And lurking deep beneath it all: Will my husband be one of them?

Paul rolls his eyes, overly-dramatically, pointing up to the light fixture in the kitchen — light bulbs housed in mason jars of all sizes, evoking summer cabins and fireflies and Kinfolk magazine dinner party lanterns. “I made this for her because everything ends up in jars. Have you seen inside these cupboards?” He walks around the house, in faux-exasperation, opening doors to reveal neat stacks of jars, full of dried petals, leaves, syrups, tonics, salves, salts. “And there’s more upstairs!” If it hadn’t been for the dinner party they’d hosted the previous night, most of their apartment’s horizontal surfaces would be covered in jars, he tells me, and the front porch would have housed a dead raven and a dead Cooper’s hawk.

“She’s always sending me out in search of dead things,” he jokes. He picks up roadkill in case she can salvage feathers or skulls.

“When he first met me, I was already a skull collector, and now he goes and finds them for me and brings them back,” says Natalie. “He’s gotten really good at living with witchy stuff.”

The two of them are remarkably self-sufficient — an animal lover (“he loves animals more than people”), Paul realized veganism left him tired and undernourished, so took up hunting to procure his own meat humanely; one of the deer skulls mounted on the wall was harvested this fall, its meat now fills their freezer. They grow a garden, wildcraft, eat well. There is an ease between them — a tidal push and pull as they navigate their modest shared space and the morning routine, without evidence of fake niceness, of power trips or struggles.

Witchcraft, in Natalie Rousseau’s mind, is too non-dogmatic and non-hierarchical to submit to a single all-encompassing definition. “As a practice, it’s so highly individual,” she says, “but across the board, it is very place-based, land-based and body-based. For me, it’s about cultivating a relationship with your own body, your own mind, your emotions, and subtle sensing faculties. It’s learning how to trust your intuition. It’s about reclaiming your own instincts, but also being able to feel: this is what stress feels like in my body, this is what relaxation feels like, this is what it feels like to say yes to something out of a sense of obligation or pressure, this is what it feels like to have a boundary. This is what it feels like when I’m safe. These cues come to us from our bodies. It has to be, for it to work well, otherwise, you’re always reaching outside yourself for another authority.”

This is what she wants to help women, particularly, to reclaim: their sense that they are the first authority on themselves, that they can trust their bodies’ wisdom.

“The biggest thing I want to share with people,” says Natalie of her teaching and online courses, “is how to trust themselves. Everyone can very easily make the medicines that their household would need for common household complaints — colds and flus and chest colds and menstrual cramps — so many basic things that anyone can make very simply, quite affordably. I’m not anti-pharmaceutical. There are many medications people have to take daily to live. And if I have a serious infection, I’m going to take antibiotics; if I am seriously ill, I am going to go to the doctor; if I have any kind of trauma, I’m going to be so grateful for that form of medicine. But I believe the role kitchen medicine has is in the maintenance and prevention of illness.”

One of her biggest laments, though, as she makes videos and handouts and shares them with her online community, is that even people who have paid to do her course don’t feel that they have the time to take it into their kitchens. “Making a tincture is literally pouring vodka over plant materials and leaving it on your counter for four weeks!” she says. But it is easier for most people to just buy one online and have it delivered to their doorstep. “I am saddened by how easily women give their power over. This is the biggest thing I’ve noticed as a teacher in the past couple of years — how quickly women will say, ‘but how do you do this? I don’t know how to do this! I’m afraid to try this because I might not be good at it, I might be doing it wrong. I’m an imposter.’ I really struggle with this. Where is it coming from?”

But she knows. We have relinquished our power, over a thousand years or more, of wounding, of witch-burnings, of patriarchy either convincing us we have none or forcibly stripping it away, (hello Harvey Weinstein), until all we feel empowered to do, now, in 2020, is consume. And we’ve been doing that with all our might.

We override the listening, we ignore the nudges, we push through, like good soldiers. “Most people are running so hard,” observes Natalie. “Our culture is so focussed on productivity. We are so overly heroic — it’s all or nothing. I can’t do something unless I’m an expert. I don’t want to try. But this is a craft. It’s a path of education.”

Natalie’s invitation is gentle, and she’s crafted her online course to serve that: Start with one plant and learn its taste, its smell. Spend five minutes a day on meditation or in conscious ritual and begin to notice what’s going on in your nervous system, in your mind, in your body.

“When he first met me, I was already a skull collector, and now he goes and finds them for me and brings them back,” says Natalie. “He’s gotten really good at living with witchy stuff.”

Don’t get so distracted by the word witch, that you fail to notice that it is connected to craft. Witchcraft, for Natalie, is a path of learning “how to trust and problem solve, from within, knowing that we are in a system of power that, for better, for worse, will strip us of any ability to trust ourselves and to always feel empty so we have to keep buying more stuff.”

When she says this, a deep thrill of recognition hums in me, accompanied by a shiver of fear. Those are revolutionary things to say out loud, to cast into the open air. I recognize it viscerally as the kind of talk that gets people in trouble.

* * *

Last summer, before I met Natalie, I had stepped from my backyard patio stones onto freshly cut grass and spied the sinuous form of a wandering garter snake. I leaned in quickly, excitedly, about to call my 6-year-old over to glimpse the garden visitor before it shimmied away. But it was eerily still. Ugly slash wounds marked its body. It was dead. Innocent victim to the ride-on lawnmower. Obliterated by our oblivion.

“Oh no,” I muttered. “I’m so sorry!”

I had already begun to wake up to the natural world, it’s rhythms, it’s offerings of medicine, it’s otherness, but it had come with a shadow side, a growing despair at what we were doing to the world. Even without a malicious intention, I was causing death and destruction — just mowing the lawn, drinking my coffee, wiping my ass: My actions, all our human activity, had compounding impacts that were destroying the snakes, the ocean, the atmosphere, the forests, the icecaps — beyond repair.

I wanted my garden to be a habitat. I wanted the bees to waggle-dance directions to my sunflowers to their hive-mates, I wanted the wandering garter snakes to nest in their hibernacula through the winter and bask in the long grass in the summer, I wanted to lie on my back and watch butterflies dance through the flowers and the hummingbirds zoom in and out, I wanted to inhabit innocence again.

I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. My penitence froze me in place, scared to make a move for fear of ruining something else. Then, regret overriding my squeamishness, I fetched the flat-bladed shovel and edged it under the dead snake. I carried her body over to the vegetable patch, and in a space between the beds, where the mower never goes, I laid her down. I picked marigolds and calendula from around the garden, where they’d been planted to keep the snails away, and lay the bright orange blossoms in a circle around her.

Grandmother snake, I whispered, hoping that some force that exists beyond the definitively dead snake at my feet, might spread the word among the entire species, “I’m sorry. We didn’t mean it. I will try to be more careful.”

It was a made-up ritual, the kind that a kid might perform deep in her dream world at the bottom of the garden, and it made my 44 year-old-self feel a little bit better. At least I’d made a gesture of repair, had expressed my desire to return into balance with the living world around me. If it had any effect, I’d never know. I went back inside, said nothing.

A few days later, out in the garden, my husband tripped over the skeleton of a decomposing snake, ringed by wilted flowers, half consumed by ants.

“That was spooky,” he confronted me. “What’s going on? Are you some kind of witch?”

* * *

* * *

Natalie has always been comfortable with the word. Now she’s having fun inviting people to consider the archetype, circle it, unpack it, stumble upon some kind of recognition: Wait a second! Maybe I am a witch!

“It’s cool how people in the western world can take a description that has been used mostly as a slur, and turn it around to use as something empowering,” she says.

For thousands of years, witch was a term used to incite violence against women. By the most conservative estimates, half a million people, mostly women, were executed in the European witch craze between 1300 and 1650. Accusations of witchcraft were used against women, says Rousseau, “in ways that were extremely dangerous and terrifying. It was really about getting power from them, and getting land back. So, to use a word like that in an empowered way, even today, you have to know you’re safe to do it. And it’s important to realize that in many places in the world, it’s still not safe for women to say that. But if we can, in safe places, take that word and turn it around, that, to me, is extremely powerful.”

I wanted the bees to waggle-dance directions to my sunflowers to their hive-mates, I wanted the wandering garter snakes to nest in their hibernacula through the winter and bask in the long grass in the summer, I wanted to lie on my back and watch butterflies dance through the flowers and the hummingbirds zoom in and out, I wanted to inhabit innocence again.

Natalie herself embodies empowerment. Not in the traditional way I have come to recognize power — as someone standing over, dominating someone else, her source of power comes from within.

She doesn’t need to take any from her partner.

“Do you find this relationship at all emasculating?” I joke to Natalie’s husband.

“I don’t. Not at all. No,” he replies.

“We’ve always given each other space to be ourselves.”

But that’s not always a guarantee of safety.

If it is dangerous to be an empowered woman in the world, then it’s dangerous, too, for the men who love them.

Lyla June Johnston is an author and activist of Diné and European heritage. Her inquiry into her disowned European heritage led to a realization: The millions of women burned alive, drowned alive, dismembered alive, beaten, raped and otherwise tortured as so-called, “witches,” were not witches at all. They were the medicine people of old Europe. Her lens, as a contemporary indigenous woman, and as a survivor of sexual violence, helped her identify that those were the women who understood the herbal medicines, the ones who prayed with stones, the ones who passed on sacred chants. And the all-out warfare of the witch burnings didn’t just harm the women. It had a profound effect on the men who loved them, their husbands, sons, brothers. She recognizes the echo of this in the story of her own time, of her own people. “Nothing makes a man go mad like watching the women of his family get burned alive. If the men respond to this hatred with hatred, the hatred is passed on. And who can blame them? While peace and love are the correct response to hatred, it is not an easy response by any means.”

How many men have kept their women down, tried to keep them at home, have become the handcuffs that the women fought against because they were answering to their own unarticulated primal instinct to keep them safe?

Natalie Rousseau speculates, “I am sure historically you had lots of husbands telling their wives to tone it down, not because they didn’t respect their power, but because they were genuinely afraid. I’d apply that to any women described as uppity — getting involved politically, or getting involved in local stuff that’s happening, fighting for the environment: Stop getting noticed so much. This could be dangerous.”

Some dangers are too great to be able to protect each other from. And so we turn the fight on each other — little domestic power-trips that distract us from the fact that we’ve relinquished all our power any way to the Great Machine.

* * *

My tentative inquiries into witchcraft, becoming fluent in my own moods and emotions, and paying attention to the seasons, barely prepared me for the abrupt slow-the-fuck-down order that came when COVID-19 landed in British Columbia, in my village, as school broke for spring break. The emergency handbrake was pulled. Everything came to a squealing stop — all my plans, canceled; all the stores, closing; the whole damn world, under house arrest and in a panic. The whiplash from the stunning speed of that shift has left my whole being hypersensitive to any sudden movement, to being jerked around. But the first things I have staked my trust in, in that space of uncertainty, were Natalie’s teachings: First, trust your body. Pause. Listen.

In self-imposed isolation with my husband and just-turned-7-year-old, I dance with anxiety and curiosity and disconnection and too-much-information. The well-trodden pathways we have all been racing along, flexing our power and exercising our entitlements as consumers, are suddenly bordered up with emergency tape. This invitation that Natalie has been dripping out, month after month, takes root. There is far more potency available to us, than shopping, driving, holidaying, consuming, endlessly moving around the planet.

There is potency in all the feelings that have been showing up at my door. Oh, good morning frustration. Ah grief, yes, I suppose you’d like a cup of tea. Hello there, existential terror, I wondered when you’d pop by. There is potency in sitting with my back against a huge cedar tree and listening, in slowing down so much that I can give my 7-year-old my full attention. There is potency even in my words, when I soothe him down from a tantrum by saying, “you know, this is a really hard time for everyone in the whole world right now because no one knows what’s going to happen and no one can play with their friends. I’m really proud of you.” And I can feel his body relax into this space of being acknowledged in his struggles and his efforts.

I don’t know if there are any medicinal properties in the tincture of St John’s Wort and valerian that I drop into water and hand my husband, to gentle his nervous system. Or in the jar of immune-boosting oxymel, that I brewed up with grated ginger and turmeric and orange peel, and shake every day. But even if it’s a placebo, there’s a relief for me in feeling I can do something, can offer my people some kind of healing intention in a little glass, that I can acknowledge that this is hard for my husband too, and that acknowledgment isn’t a concession that takes away from my own sense of struggle.

For decades, we’ve bought into the illusion that our power is as consumers. Now that stores are closing and the shelves are emptying and we have to stay home and not immediately indulge every whim that arises, we all feel powerless. But that was never our truest source of power. There’s another source that we can all plug back into, our deep relationship and interbeing with the life force. Maybe, this is our threshold moment. Maybe, this is a chance to craft a few little spells, to speak the words of the world we long to inhabit — a place where the currency of kindness and wonder flow, where humans return to a deep memory of belonging among the plants and creatures, and to brew up a cup of tea, light a candle, and dream it into existence. Maybe it’s an invitation to say, “I’m sorry, we didn’t mean to, I will try and be more careful,” and to build a little altar, even if you feel kind of cray cray doing it. Let your nervous system settle as you invent some small ritual, (just ask your inner 5-year-old for guidance, she probably remembers exactly what to do), and make a gesture of repair.

“I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have on my Apocalypse team,” I tell my husband, the night the global virus countertops 400,000. He’s been chopping wood, auditing the pantry, getting our kid across the finish line of the LEGO project that has absorbed him for four days. My husband was a farm kid. He’s always been practical, my polar opposite. Even when we have battled each other, (am I giving up too much of my power to him? If I acknowledge his pain and his needs, will that cancel mine out?) I’ve always known he would do anything to keep me safe. “Not that I can request an upgrade now,” I joke. “But I bet you’re glad to be stuck with me. One always wants a daydreamer at your side in a pinch.”

“Oh yeah,” he spoofs me: “’ The stock market is collapsing, let me just go check my Tarot cards.’”

We laugh. And hold each other. We can’t buy our way out of this. None of us. Our entire species, our global community, is being vividly reminded that we are all in this together, inextricably connected, epidemiologically entwined, in our vulnerability and our sweet potential. We didn’t need Amazon and airlines and online shopping to know what the witches have been telling us all this time. All the power we need is right here — between us, around us, within us. We just have to remember it.

* * *

Lisa Richarson

is a senior contributor to Coast Mountain Culture magazine and a columnist for Pique newsmagazine and edits the hyperlocal websites,

TheWellnessAlmanac.com

and

TracedElements.com.

She’s deep into a decade-long mission to slow the fuck down, but still optimize life for happiness and productivity. Born and raised in Australia, she has lived as a guest on the unceded territory of the Líl̓wat Nation since a ski vacation went rogue 20-odd years ago.

Editor: Carolyn Wells

Posted by

Lisa Richardson

on

April 8, 2020

https://longreads.com/2020/04/08/how-to-tell-your-husband-youre-a-witch/