#and this was also a delight to read aloud as I edited

[helion-ism]

so, after two years I have finally written something again. it's actually one of my new year's resolutions to start writing again, just a little at least, to get into it again. I will probably also edit some of the things I wrote in the past and re-post them again because I had a phase where I deleted almost all of them (just girly things 🤪)

anyways, this is what I came up with. hope you enjoy!

thanks, @lucienarcheron for reading and offering advice 🫶

rating: mature

word count: 3,207

or: read it on ao3

archer and prey

She could feel his wicked grin on her skin as she whimpered in response, leaning back against his hard body, leaning back against his hard body, his kisses lazy – without haste. Her head fell on his shoulder as his clever hands moved to her waist. He held her firmly and with care. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

All she felt and needed to feel was this pure heat he was offering her, this fire he was responsible for that was burning low in her body and threatening to consume her. And Elain could not stop herself from shivering, repeating with a hushed voice, “Please, please.” He chuckled at her impatience.

But he rewarded her the next moment when his tongue was on her neck, drawing circles. And his lips – his perfect lips – moved against her sensitive skin, though never increasing the pace. She liked this torture more than she would ever admit. Liked how he seemed to relish in taking his time with her, too. 

His hands were on her thighs, his fingers burrowed in her skirts, hoisting them up little by little. He wasn’t close enough to where she wanted him, and Elain propped herself against him with a force that surprised and delighted him. He laughed and her stomach clenched at the sound. 

More, more, more. 

She might have said the words aloud. 

Lucien’s hand moved to her neck. It might be his favourite part of hers, she thought, with the way he always kept returning to it. He caressed her collarbone, lay his fingers around her neck, and squeezed lightly. Elain gasped as she felt his hard length at her back, his fingertips gently turning her head to face him. She looked at him and the rugged scar that graced his face. 

Wicked, wanton, wild. 

“Please,” she whispered again and lifted her head to meet his lips. She wanted to make him lose his composure, make him forget his purpose for a second. She kissed him like she had never kissed him before, pressing against him, her hands up in his long hair, tugging and pulling. He groaned and Elain felt the sound in her core – but it wasn’t enough. She needed to feel him everywhere forever. 

Lucien’s hand went to the back of her head, tilting it to have better access to her, his tongue now occupied with her own. He was in charge and taking over, deliberately slowing his movements yet again. She snarled, and he laughed again, this time louder. Her head was spinning. 

Lucien’s other hand moved to her hips, turning and hoisting her up onto him. Elain’s head fell back at the pressure of him against her core and started to move slowly, leisurely against him. She felt so good, breathing his name in painful need. He was wearing too many clothes – she needed them off. 

“You’re mine,” he purred, his lips on her collarbone, sucking until she felt a pain so good, so sharp –

Elain gasped as she bolted up from her bed. Breathing hard and fast, she placed a hand on her chest, willing herself to calm down. She let it happen again. This dream, this fantasy she could never shake off, no matter how much she told herself she hated him in the daylight. It was only in dreams she said his name these days, allowing it to roll off her tongue only then when no one else could hear. 

She felt like a traitor. To Feyre, to Nesta, to herself. 

To him. 

She tried so hard to not think of him, even when he was in town. Even more so when he was out somewhere on the Continent with that human queen. Did not allow her thoughts to ever wander and wonder. Yet, at night, when the stars sparkled in the sky and the winds moved the sheer fabric of her curtains into her bedroom, her traitorous thoughts returned to him. 

She knew it wasn’t fair to anyone. Not to either of them but especially herself. She had promised herself a thousand times to not let it bother her, this feeling that seemed to grow day by day. She thought perhaps that was why this body, this altered mind, now urged her to go to him, to touch him, even if only in her dreams. But she understood that loneliness was a burden she could not get rid of at night even if she could pretend it disappeared under the bright sun of Velaris. She blamed him for it.

Elain shivered as she pushed aside the covers of her bed and walked to the open window. Her feet were cold on the wooden floor, but she didn’t mind. It cleared her head. Velaris looked beautiful at night and she wished it could give her the strength Feyre drew from it. She wished it could be enough that she wanted to fit in. Wished she could feel like Nesta did after suffering for so long. But wishes were not enough and with each day passing, the feeling of isolation and desperation grew inside her and made her restless. Made her feel more alone. 

Elain sighed and leaned her head against the opened window frame. She closed her eyes. 

It could be so quiet here, at night. And only because the city was asleep and she couldn't be caught did Elain let herself think about her dream once more. She had stopped counting how often she awoke in the darkness, wishing to be close to him. Most of the time, the dreams were like this: slow and passionate, feeling too real. Like he was right here, behind her, worshipping her. She could almost smell him, taste him on her lips. She opened her eyes to stop the pain threatening to squeeze her heart until only tears could help her get rid of it. 

Sometimes Elain woke because he touched her pointed ears and that was not something she could even accustom herself to in her dreams. Sometimes it was because she peaked, twisting in her sheets and waking up satisfied and yet yearning for more. She wondered how that was possible when she could not remember how his touch felt on her skin. Other times, it did not get that far. It was words that drew her from her subconscious. 

Lucien wasn’t in Velaris. But she knew he was on his way back to the Night Court, to report on whatever it was exactly that he was doing out there for Feyre and Rhysand. She prohibited herself from caring every time someone uttered his name in her presence and hated her body for not complying. Elain wondered if on the mornings that followed nights like these, when she couldn’t go back to sleep and waited for the sunrise – she wondered if Feyre noticed. If that was why her sister studied Elain with a wariness that followed her through the rest of the day. But her sister never said a word.

Feyre likely suspected Elain would shut down the conversation, never admitting to anything. And how could her sister, with her perfect baby, and perfect mate, who she had accept with love in her heart, ever understand? How could anyone? Nesta once could, but Nesta loved Cassian. Nesta had friends and a purpose. She had a home. 

Elain had that once, too. With Graysen. She almost did, anyway. 

She sighed, sliding to the floor and letting her chin rest on her knees. It would be a long night as she longed for the day.

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

He was here, she realized. 

In the townhouse.

It was barely dawn. 

His heart beat loudly in his chest and his scent – like a summer morning brightening the day – filled up the air. Elain couldn’t breathe as all of her senses focused on him – an instinct she wasn’t sure how to work against. She hadn’t actively decided to leave her room, yet here she was. He noticed her a few seconds later, looking up the staircase with wide eyes and a slightly opened mouth. 

He was so beautiful, she thought. It was unfair. 

“My lady,” he said. 

Those were his first words after months of utter silence. She wondered if his being here meant he had freed the firebird and was back in Prythian for good. “I didn’t realize you were here.” 

Elain furrowed her brow. “I live here now,” she replied and hated how quiet and unsure she sounded.

“I assumed you would be with Feyre and Rhys –”

“I thought it would be best to give them privacy. As a young family.” 

Her heartbeat matched his. Could he still not hear it? 

He was silent. She thought it was the most they had spoken in ages. His eyes scanned her from top to bottom as she gripped the ornate railing. As she squeezed it like she might bend it underneath her frail hands. 

“You look well,” he said then, a hint of a polite smile on his lips. She swallowed and Elain did not think it could be more awkward. “I’m sorry for disturbing you in your home. I figured I would recommend the townhouse to meet with Feyre not to … barge in on you, and she didn’t mention anything about you being here. I am here for business.”

“Business,” she said slowly, frowning. Of course, Feyre hadn’t said anything to him.

But before she could say anything else, the door opened and Feyre rushed in. Elain stiffened while Lucien seemed to relax. 

She suspected he hated being here. She didn’t let herself think of what else he might have hated.

Feyre lit up as she hugged him. “Lucien, I didn’t realize you were here this early!” She glanced up at Elain and cringed slightly. Elain said nothing. Feyre likely had planned on warning her. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” he replied softly.

And Elain didn’t hear what Feyre said next as everything grew louder in her head. Like water rushing right above her and into those sensitive ears. The duo moved to the parlour and Elain found herself following them slowly. 

The door wasn’t closed, so she supposed she was welcome, especially when Lucien didn’t tear his eyes away from her as she entered the room and found herself by the window. The sun was hidden behind dark clouds. 

The weather seemed to match the mood of her mate. 

He seemed to have anticipated the arrival of Rhys and his brother and still, his mood worsened. He may have moved slightly closer to her. 

“Am I interrupting?” Eris said, grinning widely at Elain, who, in turn, frowned at him. She didn’t know what to think of the redhead. Something about him unsettled her. He looked so different from Lucien. His nose was sharper, his skin paler, and his eyes seemed to take in everyone in the room at the same time – as if he was used to paying attention to every single person in his vicinity. Like he didn’t trust anyone here. Elain could hardly fault him for that. 

“Be quick about it, Eris,” Lucien hissed and Elain watched Rhys step behind Feyre, kissing her on her cheek. Her stomach tightened painfully. 

“Oh, brother, how have I missed you, too,” Eris snickered. He took a seat in the armchair closest to the fireplace. “Does your firebird miss you already?”

Elain froze at his question, well aware that everyone’s eyes were on her. The room was shrinking and every little noise, the fly on the windowsill, the birds chirping outside, Eris’s breathing, was getting louder and louder and louder. She wanted to cry and she didn’t know why. 

She still remembered how difficult moments like this had been in those first few months. After she had surfaced, scared and shaking, and Lucien had made his way to her. When she had arrived at the Night Court, Feyre gone, Nesta blazing, and everything had been too much, too loud, pungent. It had been Lucien, surprisingly, who understood and offered the advice she desperately needed. She had clung to the windows of the house, praying for peace and quiet, praying for her old life to come back to her. 

“Close your eyes when it gets too overwhelming in this new body,” he had said. She had blinked in response and looked at him. His brutally beautiful face had looked like he understood. She hadn’t seen how. “Make sure to breathe in deeply, and I mean, deeply. Down to your navel. Then hold it, and breathe out slowly. Close your eyes and block out the noise by focusing on one thing. Be it a bird chirping or footsteps outside.”

She hadn’t replied, and Lucien had stood, bowing, to leave again. This, Elain, had to admit, had helped more than the healer’s poking and touching. She didn’t have to tell him that it was the sound of his heartbeat, or the memory thereof, that she often used to calm herself down. Even now, with so much time having passed. She didn’t know why these Fae senses were taking so long for her to get used to. 

Now, her ears focused on the steady, yet agitated beat of his heart. Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Ba-boom. 

The noises disappeared as she continued to breathe deeply. She looked at Eris, surprised to see his eyes observing her, not his brother.

“The firebird,” Lucien spat, “is still a firebird and unless you have helpful information for breaking her curse, I suggest you tell us what you came here for, brother.” 

Rhys chuckled and sat with Feyre on the couch, obviously trying to calm the flared tempers. He looked suspiciously at ease, but maybe that belonged to the artful skillset of a High Lord. 

Her sister rolled her eyes. “We’re not here to discuss Vassa, Eris.”

Lucien ran his fingers through his hair, clenching his jaw and Elain couldn’t help but look back at Lucien, but he was staring at Eris.

“I am here to discuss my father’s death.” 

Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Then – 

“You mean you are here to discuss treason,” Feyre said quietly as Lucien remained silent. 

But Elain could hear him clear and loud. He did not want to be in this room. She saw flashes of blood on a dark floor, she saw a red forest and a head on the ground. A thin, red-haired woman crying in a beautifully decorated parlor. 

“Treason,” Eris grunted. “If that’s what you want to call it.”

“We told you, we cannot get involved,” Rhys said slowly. But he leaned forward like he had had the thought, too. Lucien noticed and clenched his fists. 

Elain’s heart ached, and she hated herself for following him into this room. Hated herself for getting herself into this mess and to witness him like this – agitated and internally pacing. Did he want to return to his home? Did he miss the sight of those colourful trees? 

“Mother would like to see you again,” Eris simply said. 

“He will kill me on sight,” Lucien’s voice was quiet and emotionless. Somehow Elain knew what her mate’s brother would say next. Feyre did, too, as she straightened her back and looked at Eris with narrow eyes. 

“Not if you bring your mate – both of you protected by the Night Court and her being Feyre Cursebreaker’s sister, he would not dare.” 

Silence.

“You have lost your mind,” Feyre said at the same time as Lucien snarled, “Over my dead body.” 

Eris wanted her to be a distraction. To be a piece in his chess game as he played his way to the position of a High Lord. Rhys was silent, but Elain’s irritation with Eris grew. He knew, she realized, when to press which buttons. Her brother-in-law understood too, what Elain had learned in this moment. 

Feyre was watching her with worried eyes and Elain felt a darkness brush against her mind, but she recoiled from it. She barely could form any coherent thought and did not want to have Feyre invade the chaos inside of her.

“Elain.” Lucien’s voice was gentle and she looked at him, his golden eye whirring frantically. He looked ill while Eris seemed to be enjoying his moment. Elain clenched her fist and faced Eris.

“You cannot decide to use me and expect me to oblige. You cannot drag Lucien into this simply because it is convenient for you. This is your mess.” She was oddly proud of herself for saying those words without shaking. The anger, a burning flame ignited in her heart, made sure of that. Rhys smiled. As did Eris.

“Maybe it is. But surely you and Lucien have a desire to see him gone. After all, you are a princess of the Autumn Court now.” 

Lucien’s eyes turned cold, perhaps for the first time in his life. “Elain is a free female. The Autumn Court is nothing to her. As it is to me. We are not going to help you commit treason. I will not risk her life like that.” His words were clipped. Elain didn’t understand why Rhys and Feyre stayed silent. 

“What of mother?”

Lucien narrowed his eyes. “What of mother?”

“You know I will do it either way. With or without the Night Court’s help. I understand their … reluctance to assist me. Despite my continued assistance over these last months.” Feyre rolled her eyes, but before she could say anything, Eris continued, “I will do it and should I fail, what do you think becomes of our mother?” He looked at Lucien and Elain swore she saw a flicker of vulnerability show on his face. Perhaps another form of manipulation. Her heart ached nonetheless.

“He will punish her,” Eris added and looked at Elain. “If they won’t help me save my mother, you certainly could, Elain. I will forever be in your debt.” 

The atmosphere in the room changed instantly. Lucien turned livid and tried very hard to restrain himself and not tackle Eris off the armchair. His brother was holding on to the armrest as if he was aware of that. Elain didn’t hear what Feyre and Rhys were saying, but their anger was palpable. 

Elain knew, she knew, that Eris was a mastermind, but she believed him. She believed that he wanted nothing more than to see his mother in safety. Elain didn’t know their father, but given Lucien’s hatred for the Autumn Court, she could only guess what evil he was responsible for. She again saw puddles of blood on the floor. Did blood stain marble? 

It irritated her that Eris used her to force Lucien to play by his rules. He clearly did not want to step a foot inside his home again, but everyone in this townhouse knew that if Elain went, Lucien would follow. Perhaps that was why she said, faintly but clearly enough for everyone to hear, “Fine.” 

“I will go but not for you,” she said looking at Eris with a frown, then back at Lucien. His face had paled. Elain didn’t really know where it came from, she had certainly not expected the day to go like this. Seeing Lucien, seeing his brother, and saying things she never would have expected herself to even think. “I will go for your mother. No one should be left at risk.” 

[art-of-manliness]

Odds & Ends: August 23, 2024

And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie. We recently finished reading this book aloud as a family (nothing relaxes kids before bed like a tale of serial murder). Having sold over 100 million copies, And Then They Were None is not only Christie’s most popular novel but one of the bestselling books of all time, and it lived up to its renown. Christie manages to make a plot that might seem ridiculous — ten people are invited to an island and killed off one by one — not seem ridiculous, and keeps you guessing whodunit til the very end. Huckberry Icons of Style. Fall is just around the corner, so it’s a good time to start thinking about picking up some new items for your wardrobe. Huckberry has published “30 Icons of Timeless Men’s Style,” which offers short profiles of figures from Steve McQueen to Johnny Cash describing what made their signature styles distinct. They’ve also put together a shop of modern smart casual clothes that draws inspiration from these icons to help today’s men put together some classic-looking outfits of their own. “Ladyfingers” by Herb Albert and the Tijuana Brass. My dad was a big Herb Albert and the Tijuana Brass fan back in the day. He owned all the albums, including the iconic Whip Cream and Other Delights, which featured a pretty gal seemingly dressed only in whip cream. Lots of great songs on that album, but my favorite is “Ladyfingers.” This song features Herb Albert’s signature trumpet playing that blends cool jazz with Latin flair. Surprisingly, my 13-year-old son Gus is a big fan of this song. He loves to cue it up during sunset drives.  An Ode to Old Bay, the Great American Condiment. In a previous edition of Odds & Ends, we highlighted one of the McKay’s favorite seasonings: Old Bay. We put it on eggs, meat, and sandwiches. I like to use it when I make this healthier, at-home version of the classic crispy chicken sandwich. Well, Old Bay recently got the hagiographical treatment in The New Yorker. Casey Cep takes us on a historical tour of this Maryland staple and why you, too, should make Old Bay a standby in your spice rack. Long live Old Bay!  Quote of the Week To find one’s work in the world and do it honorably, to keep one’s record clean so that nothing clandestine, furtive, surreptitious can ever leap out upon one from ambush and spoil one’s life, to be able, therefore, unafraid to look the world in the face, to live honorably also with one’s own soul, to walk life’s journey unhaunted by the ghosts of people from whose ruin one has stolen pleasure, and so at last to be a gentleman, one, that is, who puts a little more into life than one takes out—gather up the significance of such character, forty years old, sixty years old, eighty years old—one may well celebrate the solid satisfactions of such a life. —Henry Emerson Fosdick Help support independent publishing. Make a donation to The Art of Manliness! Thanks for the support! http://dlvr.it/TCJ9F6

[fruitytrollroll]

you dont have anons on on your main so: in theme with some of your other nice anons: one of my favourite fics of all time is an unfinished fic you last updated several ago and even though its a WIP i STILL recommend it to people as one of the best pieces of writing in my fandom. if i ever make a ship reclist, it will literally be the first fic on it. i think about it all the time. ive never sent you an ask about it because im also a writer and would hate to feel pressured into going back to a wip im not feeling anymore, so like, this ask is Not That, it's more a "your WIPs, even unfinished, are crazy valuable to the people who love them, and thank you for sharing them with us". even if you never finish it, i'll still always love it. it's also nice to see your passion for writing in fandoms i'm not in, and if i ever do get into them, your ao3 will be the first place i go to for extra reading :)

THIS IS SO SWEET???? THANK YOU HFJSHFJSJ?????

I had to read this ask aloud to my friends because I was so CURIOUS which fic you were talking about and I wondered WHY you didn't specify which one it was, and they were like "Bro, they don't want to pressure you <3" WHICH IS SO SWEET AND CONSIDERATE OF YOU???

But please don't worry about that!! Hearing people think fondly work doesn't make me feel pressured at all!! If anything, receiving glowing praise of a fic I've shelved usually just makes me want to read it back (I am incurably obsessed with my own writing). Often I'm reminded of how much I enjoyed writing it, or I'll think "Wow, this still holds up!" or "Oh, this sentence could be a little stronger..." And then I'll just decide to polish it up? One of the benefits of fic posted to AO3 being a LIVE document means I can edit it whenever I want, and that freedom to embellish and gradually improve my work makes me happy to go back to it.

Sometimes I'll even realize, "You know what? The writing hurdle I ran into back then isn't even an issue now, I know exactly how to wrap this up!" or even, "Oh man, wasn't the next chapter almost finished?? I should just tidy it up and post it as a thanks to my lovely readers!"

SO PLEASE... PLEASE, PLEASE, I'M DYING OF CURIOSITY... YOU CAN'T JUST SAY THAT AND LEAVE, I HAVE /GOT/ TO KNOW WHICH FIC IT WAS...!!!!!

Of course, you don't HAVE to tell me, and I'm delighted by the content and the spirit of this compliment!!

BUT PLEASE COME BACK. PLEASE TELL ME. WHICH FIC WAS IT!!! YOU CAN PUT ME ON BLAST I DON'T CARE I HAVE NO SHAME!!!

[jillianrose305]

More obey me scenarios from me maladaptive day dreaming ^3^

SAMS AND COSTCO EDITION

Lucifer:Rember we don't want to cause chaos in the human realm during our vist if you do you be punished at home

Mammon:yeah yeah Let's go already!

Lucifer:Mammon...

Mammon:I mean Yes sir!

*insert sadistic lucifer smile here*

Luke:*grabbing mc's sleeve* come on i want to go see if they have ingredient for that new dessert recipe

MC: oh my diavolo yes let's go

*both about to run off*

Simeon:luke you both have to grab a cart first

Luke:oh right

*after every pair grabs their cart*

Lucifer:Alright stick with your pairs im gonna say them one more time[just read the pairs below]

Group 1 latte duo: Satan and Asmodeus

Group 2 "Dialuci is what I've heard people call us! Oh no..." = Lucifer and Lord Diavolo

Group 3 : lukes dads = Simeon and Barbatos

Group 4 : Best Brothers = Beelzebub and Brlphagor

Group 5 : Act most like siblings = Leviathan and mammon

Group 6 =Mephistopheles and rapheal

Group 7 = Thirteen and Solomon

Group 8 : unsupervised = Mc and LUKE.<3

[Just little tidbits not full thing]

Asmo: Oh my look at all these facial kits~

Satan:*holding romance books and a new coffee maker* ...

Asmo:...

Satan: Romance movies and facials while drinking coffee.

Asmo:your the best brother Satan!~

[Next group]

Lucifer: Lord Diavolo are you sure this is neseaccary

[Diavolos goofy laugh]

Diavolo: Of course it is!

*the cart full of random items and diavolo is holding up matching pajamas for him, lucifer, Mc, and Batbatos*

[Next group]

Barbatos: I feel this would be best for a new recipe I've been wanting to try.

Simeon:oh?

Barbatos: i sall this tea jelly to put on pastries when reading a book the other day sometimes people glaze it with honey or some sort of cream.

Simeon: oo sounds delicious would you mind if I also tried to make it when we get back i feel the jelly itself would be good in bubble milk tea.

Barbatos: I wouldn't mind at all and that does sound delightful.

[Next group]

Beelzebub: hmm this looks delicious

Belphagor: mhm.. we should get more bedding and food for a sleepover with MC later.

Beelzebub: I agree. ... do you think MC wants chocolate or strawberry pudding..

Belphagor:hmm get both

Beelzebub:hm your right..

[Next group]

Levithan: woah! They have limited edition Tsl Plushies!

Mammon:..get 5 of each I want to sell 1 of each..

Leviathan:heh? What are you gonna do with the other three of each...hehe are you gonna gift them to MC and Beel?~

Mammon: Sh- shut up!

Leviathan:but I can't figure who the last set will go too...wait ARE YOU A TSL FAN!

Mammon: JUST PUT THEM IN THE CART

Leviathan:lol lower

Mammon:YOU LITTERALY LIKE IT MORE THEM ME

Leviathan: Shut up Mammon

[Next group]

Mephistopheles :This camera would be great for the Newspaper club!

Rapheal:[lost somewhere in the store]

[Next group]

Group 7: they weren't aloud inside and just went into a boba shop nearby

[Next group]

Luke:MC Look at this! Can I get it for Simeon?

MC: of course Luke . *ruffles his hair*

Luke: hey I'm not a kid!

MC:*giggles*

[Alright next is what everyone bought]

Asmodeus and Satan: Hello kitty coffee maker, k - cups, coffee beans, Creamer, sugar, hello kitty blankets, Fluffy body pillows, nail polish, Facial kit.

Diavolo and Lucifer: Cat keyboard, Random bakery items, Choclate fountain, 4 pairs of matching silk PJs, 4 matching slippers, Nail polish, Orbees spa feet thing, INSANE amount of stationary and note books, Wine , tea, and seafood.

Simeon and Barbatos: 15 Times of teas,milk,sugar, Mason jars, Costers , pens, 5 cook books, Aprons, Books, matching Sunglasses , and Diet coke.

Belphagor and Beelzebub: 2 Alaskan king beds , 10 throw blankets, 8 comforters, 30 pillows, 15 oversized Plushies, insane amount of snacks, matching PJ'S, Hulu subscription, Netflix subscription, Disney + Subscription, and 4 board games.

Leviathan and mammon: 5 full TSl plushie sets.

Mephistopheles and rapheal : New camera and a churro.

Solomon and Thirteen: Boba.

MC and Luke: Gift for Simeon and matching hoodies.

[blysse-and-blunder]

first commonplace book of 2023

monday, january 9, 2023 ~ 6:30pm pst

back ‘at home’ (parents’ place) after a lil trip to see family, during which our flight was cancelled (us and the rest of the world) and we consequently got to spend a total of like 48 hours in the car roundtrip. new year’s at the shore was nice though, and so was roadtrip tunes and reading aloud and the very epic puzzle the family completed.

reading i’m juggling a couple of hot library loans right now, trying to finish them before the loan periods expire while also balancing each one’s tone and vibe etc. so it’s the monster baru cormorant (seth dickinson) when i wake up, maybe you should talk to someone (lori gottlieb) during the day, and the last graduate (naomi novik) at bedtime, in what is a really weird stylistic and emotional smorgasbord now that i look at it... insights and observations to come later when i can focus on one specifically. also, big shoutout to the free knidle download of lord peter wimsey mysteries i already had, and to dorothy l. sayers’ way with words and her ridiculous delightful sweet fop of an amateur detective (and no i don’t mean benoit) who collects medieval manuscripts and quotes poetry every so often mid-sentence while periodically having intense wwi ptsd. every generation needs their fruity little detective, it’s a keystone species. reading this aloud to my mom in the car kept us both awake and discussing things like clues and the picture this paints of things like  early 20th century london society’s antisemitism and train system and newspaper/ print culture.

watching just went back to check the previous ilcb and while i did mention this show, i didn’t feature it specifically so: three pines, based on the louise penny novel series of the same name, now streaming on prime. my mom loves the books, and now we’re all loving the show, and alfred molina is absolutely loving this role he gets to play (and it shows). you may feel that the premise of ‘small cute town full of local characters where murders keep happening’ has been done already, and you’d be right, but there’s something about seeing quebec on screen like this-- and the indigenous community’s strong presence from the first scene of the first episode-- that feels different, and important. the music design and landscape are great, the themes are very honest even when details or plot twists (the whodunnit of episodes 1 and 2, and the tragic twist at the end of ep 2) end up feeling a little exaggerated. here are some good articles about the show’s attempts to center indigenous voices, bring topics like residential school violence and indigenous treatment by police to international audiences, and (arguable, but i respect them for the attempt) avoid white saviorism.

also, you may have deduced from the recent glass onion blogging that i did finally get to watch knives out 2 electric boogaloo.  things i liked about this movie: 1) the response to it/analyses of it/art and memes and edits which i can now enjoy having seen it (the one which observes that the movie itself is a fugue, seriously, i love how much everyone else has been loving this and it has made it so much better), 2) the celebrity cameos (yo-yo ma! hugh grant! stephen sondeheim!?) and watching janelle monae, 3) the visual palette and coloring and lighting and design choices, 4) PEG, 5) finding out at the end that it’s a beatles song reference. i think that i had seen just enough on my dash to have....overly high expectations in some regards, though not specific spoilers so i was still Not Expecting That.

listening got to play a bunch of my music in the car on the roadtrip, so here’s to my mom deciding she likes orville peck (more than hozier!? who is apparently too sad) and my dad enjoying basia bulat’s the garden, and here’s to all the audiobooks, and audiobook recommendations i got from friends, which i gathered optimistically pre-trip and still haven’t finished. so far i’m really enjoying t.j. klune’s through the whispering door (read by kirt graves), which feels both like a more mature and creative venture than his first book and which this narrator is doing a delightful job of (i think the sense of whimsy comes through better when mediated by narrator, it infuses depth/warmth/nuance into details that i think on their own might have rubbed me the wrong way).

and today i just finished listening to jeannette mccurdy’s i’m glad my mom died, which is a harrowing memoir but also was so riveting. she reads it herself, and again having her specific voice and delivery of some of the dialogue was so, so necessary and heartbreaking and occasionally hilarious, it really adds to the experience. major trigger warnings on this one for descriptions (detailed, visceral) of disordered eating, various mental health problems, alcohol abuse, child abuse, and painstaking personal growth. big shoutout to @dimir-charmer​ for recommending this one, i was immediately hooked, you were so right.

playing stardew year three, and i’ve bought a bouquet. her art exhibit was so nerdy, i loved it. just waiting for the right time to pop the question ❤️ (probably after my next house upgrade)(is this delaying a sign of cold feet, or just wanting to only offer her the best?? i’ve already got 8 hearts it’s probably fine but ahhhhh) 

i’ve also figured out (kinda) how to run celeste on this laptop! and immediately threw my poor sweet girl onto many, many icy spikes. again. and again. this one is not a keyboard game, friends, i’m trying lots of different key configurations to try and make it one but i think at the end of the day we’re going to need a controller of some kind. beautiful though.

making spent a lot of yesterday selecting and writing new year’s cards while discovering the power of the background seinfeld marathon, alkj;lkjalskdg asd and i have other art and or craft plans afoot since having been presented with a calligraphy pen and some good paper. baked a gazillion molasses cookies before the trip, but have otherwise just been sort of coasting on creative things lately.

working on threw together a haphazard conference proposal as a way to make myself work on chapter four, and after spending all day staring at it finally just sent it off with the same idea i’d had days ago (but which i thought if i tried hard enough i might be able to improve on. alas.) otherwise, still chugging on recommendation letter (ah) and reading friend’s chapters (ahh) and coming up with things to say for that thing in february (AH) and RAship hours. we’re back to the grind, baby.

[cryingoverspilledmilks-blog]

Kismet

Fandom: The Glass Scientists

Current rating: T

Chapter: 1

Title: Fugue

A/N: This fic is sort of a canon-divergent, wish-fulfillment drabble piece that started as a lot of different fics i wrote that i discovered had scenes that would fit better together as a single fic, and so i took snippets from those and stuck them together and whittled the whole mess down into something more manageable. Lots of late night editing sessions for something I'm doing for free, but I was motivated to finish this by someone being so very enthusiastic in the tags on the WIP excerpts I posted, which was honestly such a delight to wake up to. Thank you so much btw @greedycanine I really appreciate that boost and I hope I meet your expectations in the full chapters :)

The comic has updated several times since I began writing this, and I did add some non-canon elements (for instance, that Lanyon Knows, which is a common enough trope in this fandom and one that I enjoy immensely.)

The flaws in this one might not be as glaring as my over-anxious mind anticipates, but if you notice them, I probably have too. It is likely best read as a self-contained hypothetical with hints of canon plot woven in. It's a bit messy, but I think it may be enjoyable nonetheless.

Here is the first part of this great beast. It consists mostly of a conversation, beginning with some emblematic Jekyll and Hyde mirror-bickering. I thought it would be interesting to explore one of those moments where Hyde has something insightful to say, even if it's something of a means to an end for him.

The font changes are something of a fanfic guilty pleasure for me, but they're also a tool I love to use to show who's speaking and how, without necessarily using a dialogue tag every other line, especially when we have two characters who have the ability to communicate both in ways only they can hear and in ways others can.

Hope all of that works for y'all. Happy reading :)

Chapter 1: Fugue

“Are you ready to let me back out yet? Believe it or not, hanging over your shoulder all day does get old.”

"Not now."

“Why not?”

"I don’t want you getting involved in this. We've just made it through into the thickest of this whole ordeal. There’s still too much at stake."

“Ugh. That’s how you see every situation you can’t directly micromanage. It’s like the whole of your world is always resting oh-so-precariously on the head of a pin, ready to be upset by the slightest deviation from your expectations. Lighten up just this once, won't you?"

Henry sighed heavily at that and slid his finished page to the far side of the desk, thinking better of his initial impulse to reply. Pulling a fresh sheet of paper into view and dipping his pen into the inkwell again, he continued to write, attempting to ignore the familiar but currently disembodied speaker.

“Don’t act like you can’t hear me all of a sudden," the voice grumbled impatiently.  "You know, I’ve noticed something lately, Henry. You always insist on framing our situation as though you’re the most responsible party between the two of us, but you never seem to have any really substantial backup plans on hand, in case those delicate matters you like fussing over so much go awry. You never give yourself a real margin of error, despite the fact you're always angsting over what could go wrong.”

Ink pooled slightly on the page under Henry’s pen as he paused, scoffing at the insinuation that he’d been anything but diligent. “And you do?” he prodded back sarcastically, speaking aloud this time, his voice firm but quiet. He was rather aware of precisely how audible he was behind his office door. It was more risky to communicate this way, but he seemed to have an easier time filtering himself when he wasn’t trying to speak internally, and that was important when he was dealing with his incorporeal counterpart.

The lengthy mirror standing off to one side drew his eye when he heard the reply.

“Oh, I always figure something out, one way or another. Surely you know that better than anyone.” 

Henry rolled his eyes at the hazy silhouette that suddenly could be glimpsed in the mirror’s reflection of the opposite wall. “Abandoning every situation that doesn’t go your way and playing hopscotch all over the city’s rooftops is not a backup plan,” he muttered bitterly, composing the end of a follow-up letter for a prospective sponsor before setting the page aside to let the ink dry.

“It can be, if you’re clever enough," the shadow replied. "Also, you're one to talk about giving up easy. Just a few weeks ago I watched you nearly forfeit your whole operation just because Lanyon told you he didn't think things looked sound after you passed out mid-speech. Face it, you’re all or nothing when it comes to solving problems. What is that about?”

Another exasperated sigh as Henry spared another glance at the shadow in the mirror. "Can we not do this right now? You only ask these questions because you already know what gets under my skin. You don't really care about the answers, do you?"

When the shadow spoke next, it was with a mockery of a hurt tone, the dark shape leaning back slightly. A silhouetted hand rested against an approximation of the chest, in a gesture best described as theatrically wounded.

"Why, you insult me, dear doctor. I'm only curious, for both of our sakes, being as close as we are," came the snidely-sweet reply.

Henry narrowed his eyes. “Do you honestly expect I could believe you truly care about what happens to me? After all you've put me through? You take such joy in my misfortune. Really, you can drop the saccharine nonsense, Hyde."

Letting the name slip from his mouth was a mistake, but wouldn’t be costly this time since they were alone- and he only uttered it the one time, Henry reasoned quickly. It was mostly to try to quell the dread in his stomach at the prospect of someone in the hall happening by as he said it out loud, in an otherwise perceptibly empty room.

Hyde vanished from the glass, only to reappear, more thoroughly illuminated, in the empty air near the desk, looking slightly more like a person than an apparition now, as well as irritated.

“I’m trying to tell you that you might actually benefit from trying things my way. Be a little more spontaneous. Roll over the bumps in the road, instead of just counting on things going the right way the first time, every time. It was funny to watch you flounder at first, I must admit, but honestly it's just getting old. I wonder what would happen if you switched things up and proved me right," he paused briefly, noting Henry's contemplative expression.

"And another thing!" Hyde exclaimed, pointing at the ceiling for emphasis. "You told me you'd let me out after the exhibition, then not at all, and now here you are again running yourself uselessly into the ground. The bourgeois types you find yourself groveling to yet again are notoriously hard to satisfy. Why should you have to rush if they already know what you and the others are capable of?"

Stretching a little as Hyde went on, Henry stopped a moment and glanced out the window with a pensive look in his eye.

“That's one of the few times you’ve been right about something, amongst all those snide remarks.”

“Hey!” Hyde sounded affronted at first, then did an almost comical double-take. "Wait, you agree with me?"

“I can certainly see what you mean, even if I can't abide by that advice in the same way you might,” Henry began. “We need everyone's projects to come together smoothly if we're to maintain what good standing we've managed to acquire with our sponsors. They have high hopes and even higher expectations after the splash everyone made at the exhibition. We would need to plan for every eventuality within reach of what we set out to do, but… I do miss things while trying to account for the unexpected, don’t I? Always, something unforeseen gets in my way.” Henry turned in his seat and reached into the cabinet above, pulling out a leather-bound notebook tucked behind a row of vials. Flipping to the first clean page, he dipped his pen into the inkwell once more. "Somehow the fact you managed to worm your way back to the front of our mind to pester me once again is not one such surprise.."

Hyde furrowed his brow in displeasure, rolling his eyes at Henry's little jab. “Of course it isn't. Did you really think I could be held down so easily? You made it harder for me to take over the body on my own, but I'm still here." he paused for a moment. "How long is this going to take?" 

“Not quite as long as you seem to be concerned about. I just have to jot down some…alternatives so I remember them while the subject is fresh,” Henry spoke mildly, but his expression was disgruntled and contemplative.

Hyde rolled his eyes, and did not look at Henry's page, whose looping, slanted script looked far too dull for him to devote attention to at this hour, restless and bitter as he was.

Henry went on, "I'm still upset about that stunt you pulled on the stage, but I'm certain you figured that out already. It was cruel even by your usual standards."

“Cruelty is the very thing I'm made for, but now that you mention it, I actually did you a favor by dragging you down into the dark and the quiet," Hyde spat."You're just addicted to working until you pass out. It's a real fuckin' problem."

As he grew more impatient, the East-London drawl that Hyde had picked up since his creation was seeping further into his inflections. Beneath that, there was a slight but distinct lilt which gestured toward shared memories of Glasgow, making an uncommon cocktail of tones that were unmistakably signature to him. Like so many things about Hyde, Henry noticed, it produced a quality both familiar and foreign. It was, fittingly enough, a faintly haunting thing to witness, a reminder of just how right Hyde always was about the extent of their connection.

Henry squinted his eyes shut as if to abandon that train of thought, trying to remain bearably numb to the reality of being forever stuck arguing with a living distillate of the most confusing parts of himself. “If I'm doomed to be addicted to anything at all, as you say I am, I'd much rather it be something useful,” Henry replied coldly after a moment, the page under his pen nearly full.

Hyde paused, nose wrinkled in defensive chagrin. "I don't concern myself with counting the ways I can be used by others. At least my addictions don't rely on people telling me what to do," he muttered. "Are you done yet?"

Henry shook his head in stiff silence, much to Hyde’s dismay. He gave a frustrated groan. “You can pick this up tomorrow! It’s getting close to evening by now, and you always take so much longer with these things than you say you will."

Once the page was dry and flipped over, there was no reply but the continued, now noticeably forceful scratching of Henry’s pen. His brow was creased with irritation, a deepening frown on his face. 

Hyde growled in frustration. “Jekyll!”

Henry grit his teeth, snapping a look over at Hyde that was a mixture of anger and anxiety. "Must you be so childish?! Don't think I don't know what you're doing by now, I am not as much of a fool as you seem to think. Why should I go out of my way to let you out again, when you have proven time and time again that you don't know how to keep your excursions from ruining everything I strive for?"

He could not stop the impatient edge from entering his voice, as much as he'd wanted to avoid raising it tonight. As he spoke, Hyde's features twisted into a mask of indignation and rage.

"You don't know the first thing about ruin! Try being in my position for a change- less than nothing, a ghost of a ghost! And for what? You have no idea how lucky you really are. My entire existence is eaten up by watching another man live a life I could do so much more with if I was given the chance!"

Jekyll shut the notebook with a forceful swipe of his hand down against the desk, eyes downcast. "I would love to see you try living my life for once," he replied flatly, "If perhaps you weren't so preoccupied with immediate gratification, maybe I'd even trust you with making an attempt."

"Perhaps if we had any more of that potion of ours made, I would be able to seriously debate if I wanted to take you up on that. But I am mostly stranded now, and it isn't my fault I wound up that way. You're the one who made that call." Hyde shot back, moving phantom-like toward the doorway that led to the other portion of the office, where many of their experiments had taken place. 

Jekyll tucked the notebook into a drawer under his desk, slamming it closed in irritation. "Not your fault? I had to destroy it. You would have found some way to get your hands on it when I was needed most, because that is what you always do! You didn't give me another choice!"

Hyde's image distorted slightly for a moment, like smeared paint on canvas, before resolving itself, as if reacting physically to emotion. "There is always another choice! This is what I'm talking about. All or nothing. We are two parts of a whole, you know that. Or, at least you ought to by now."

His voice, as well, seemed faintly doubled, the translation of a will to be heard. "You need me around, you know you do, even if you can't admit it. How many times have you watched me indulge in what you couldn't? How many times have you deliberately sent me into the world to voice the thoughts you must otherwise claim to revile? How much benefit have you reaped from our cooperation? You can't keep me locked away forever. You will always need the outlet I provide."

Jekyll's head began to ache a bit the longer he considered Hyde's point. It was true, he knew, that he found a secret kind of fulfillment in watching things he could never partake in play out vicariously from behind Hyde's eyes. This was a fault, really, or at least he thought so. However, a fault that he had not managed to shake off, for the better part of fifteen years. It would take a lot of willpower to break a habit like that after so long. That was partly why he had destroyed the potion to begin with. He knew Hyde was probably right, that he was not really strong enough to resist the temptation of such freedom.

Technically, the potion could be recreated if it was necessary, though it was always an arduous process. They had needed to do that many times over a decade and a half. But Jekyll had cut himself off from that last ready-made batch as a last desperate bid for control, and had thought never to make it again.

Thinking about how much work still needed to be done before the lodgers' new project deadlines was a miserable uphill battle. Even now, deep down, he wanted to be somewhere else tonight, doing anything besides wearing himself out, cooped up in the office for the umpteenth time. Acknowledging that, even privately, felt like a betrayal of a higher caliber than even Hyde's, but the thought persisted even still.

He sighed. "Well...be that as it may, you are still an enormous liability. And, besides which- what do you even want me to do? What remained of that batch of the potion is gone now."

Hyde paused, and his expression shifted, from anger to mild disbelief, and finally into a smug, cheshire smile. "Well, I have been thinking about that, and I realized- it's not all gone," he moved toward the tall, solid wooden cabinet against the far wall of the office. It was the one Jekyll kept things that were risky to have visible behind glass (copies of the will written in his name, for instance.) It was also, Jekyll realized with dawning horror, where Hyde kept his physical set of clothing tucked away when Jekyll was in control. 

Among them was a tattered overcoat, with two stolen vials of HJ-7 tucked into the inside pocket.

Enough for exactly one last night on the town before the potion would have to be remade entirely. A final obstacle in the way of true control. A pacifying bargaining chip to buy himself more time before the pair of them would argue like this again.

Hyde seemed to recognize the way Jekyll's eyes shifted in thinly-concealed conflict, bordering on panic, and if it was possible, his grin widened.

"You remember the night I went to Blackfog, don't you, Jekyll?"

[unproduciblesmackdown]

also enjoyed some delightful behind-the-scenes bonus material sort of videos for a:tdd from frictional:

the sound design demonstration video is a complete gift

the soundtrack composition and a tour of the composer's digital setup (so, all at one desk here lol):

a funny little edit presumably just serving as some teaser material:

and this video on Story:

which pairs really well w/an ye olde dev blog post i read abt their approach to immersion as well by trying to make the player feel like they Are the protagonist / doing what they would do, vs thinking of themself as just operating within the constraints of piloting a specific guy around, and had comments on what they chose to do to enhance this / what they think did or didn't work....sure noticed that frictional overall focuses on Story a lot, which i think is neat even if it comes at a tradeoff for how the game itself works sometimes, though the game serving the story and story serving the game works so well in a:tdd for sure, i also felt that the story did enough in the bunker, though the focus felt on the gameplay itself more so....it was funny hearing that apparently many players interpreted daniel's Read Aloud Diary Entries as being read aloud by him Now, Speaking in the Present, and would then be confused why he doesn't speak aloud to agrippa, though agrippa acts like daniel's responding....got the lore that agrippa was added fairly late in development, and that they considered removing the voiceover for diaries (which: noooo lol i love it. Eye didn't interpret it as [daniel is doing a dramatic reading for us Now] & it's so fun. but i note henri (& lambert's? i think) notes are Voiced Over in the bunker, so, win) or some different approach for agrippa (which, i also still really enjoy As Is imo, and sure interpret as either [imagine that daniel is speaking but we don't hear it] or [assuming agrippa is telepathic what with the mouth situation & we aren't hearing daniel's Thought Responses, which also aligns then with daniel just declining to have those thought responses for alexander lol)....talked abt Not doing cutscenes or anything where control was taken from the player, though there could be "reflexive" instances of forcing the View onto some event/item, and saying most ppl didn't mind this but they were wondering if even that was unnecessary....estimating that fifteen to thirty percent of players were annoyed by the Auditory Responses of daniel's reactions like, the heartbeat sfx, gasping, audible breathing, but to hell with them lol. i suppose i'd say that maybe daniel's Reactions like so were really what makes him feel very Present as a character, not as Necessarily an extension of the player, but (a) when Eye was playing i'd had the bonus confidence of enough familiarity via playthroughs to not be taken by surprise for the most part; the blog also said that Most Players were either neutral or felt daniel's noticeable reactions Enhanced the effects for them & (b) also Thee Story just serves to make daniel A Character in the first place, even if he didn't react thusly....but it'd be like, oh, gotta look after the guy separate from me, daniel, and make him feel a little better by standing in torchlight or collecting an item or something. but it's also like how it says in the video there, wherein this is Like having to mind your avatar's health stats. i realize I'm not wounded, but you find some laudanum about it (versus anything more like a Heal Kit lol. hangin in there), maybe I'm not crackling with fear rn, but i find daniel some light about it. and if i Was really in this creepy castle i Would be really quite scared i bet....you have to carry on....whilest it's also like, of course impossible to Ignore how well daniel's doing on that front, since even though he Doesn't become more easily found by enemies by any direct mechanic, having darkened shaky/blurry vision ft. hallucinations & that if you upset daniel enough he falls over for a few seconds = you really are in more danger b/c of all That....anyways obviously i like daniel's Presence as Past & Present character.

[demonslayedher]

"Grandpa Kokushibo" AU

This started as a simple little joke in those Muichiro doodles. And then it was just supposed to be a simple little drabble. A simple little Crack Fic. But next thing you know...

------

“You… you are my descendent…”

“…huh…”

Six flaring eyes loomed over Tokito, the two in the middle etched with writing. Upper Moon… One…

“Those eyes…”

Having been so locked on the demon’s eyes, he didn’t realize at first that it was talking about his own. “…huh…?”

“…They’re red… a sign… a Kakushaku-no-Ko… you have… potential…”

“……huh…..”

“Become… a demon…”

“…huh………. Huh!?”

With little recourse to convince the demon to leave like he might attempt with a bear or a boar, Tokito brought the demon home. “Sweetheart? I, uh… a relative of mine is visiting.”

His wife, whose complexion was lovely even without the luxuries of make-up, smiled up sweetly from where she knelt, with their two young sons asleep on the futon before her. “You still have family? What happy news---”

The demon, Kokushibo, bowed lowly so that he could fit inside the door. “Good evening,” he said.

“…G…Good evening,” she gawked, her soft green eyes wide and locked. “A… a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure… is mine.”

“Uh, so, it seems this is my great-grandfather of sorts. A great many ‘greats.’ A few centuries’ worth of ‘greats.’ What a coincidence that we’ve just run into each other.”

“It’s no… coincidence. I have… always been searching… for Sun Breath users…”

Tokito smiled with his face like puddy. “Sun Breath? What’s that?”

“…to kill them…”

Tokito and his wife shared a “ghh!!” as their throats tightened.

“I did not expect… to find the remains of the Tsugikuni Clan… out here… in this… dump…”

“I, uh, I sort of recall that name being way back in the family. But on the wrong side of the war, you know? We haven’t been a warrior clan since the start of Edo times.”

“A pity… but… no matter… you will have… a greater master to serve…”

“Um! Uh! Would you like to meet your grandsons?”

“Honey, what are you—”

Six eyes widened. “Grandsons?”

“I have twin boys! I’m busy raising them, I don’t have any time for swordsmanship, haha! All I know how to do is swing an ax.”

“Heirs… are important… they’ll do no good… as children… You,” he looked to Tokito’s wife, whose eyes were swirling trying to follow his gaze. “You do it. You raise them. I’ll… train my descendent…”

“Train…?”

“You may have… the ability… to attain the Breath… of the Sun…”

“D---di---di—didn’t you say you were going to kill S-S-Sun Breath users?”

“Why would I… kill my descendent…?”

Tokito was doing his best, but he was hitting his limits for how many more surprises he could take that evening. “Listen, I… I only want what’s best for my family. I want to watch my sons grow up, and teach them how to live a simple life out here in nature. Ancestor or not, we want nothing to do with demons.”

“My dear,” his wife said, some surprised admiration in her tone.

“I have to ask you to leave.”

“I cannot.”

“You will take ‘no’ for an answer!”

“I cannot,” Kokushibo stressed. “The sun is rising. Sunlight… will kill me…”

“…ah… oh. That’s a problem.”

“I’ll remain… here…”

“I’m sorry, I can’t have you do that. You’re a demon, and—”

“Defy me… and I will kill your family.”

“---GHH!” the Tokito couple swallowed harder.

----- The boys woke up to find a demon quietly sitting cross-legged in the corner. Yuichiro cried, Muichiro stared. Tokito didn’t want to scare them, however rightfully they should be, so he smiled and introduced the demon as their grandfather. Kokushibo politely bowed his head. The boys were quickly accepting. In his heart, Tokito cried and begged the forgiveness of his religious parents for not teaching them a proper distaste for evil.

In a battle of will, Tokito would be easily outmatched. But for however many years Kokushibo had on him, he didn’t seem like a quick thinker. Tokito might be able to beat him in a battle of wits. He had an ability that was sure to ward Kokushibo off, if only he could wield it with the right timing.

“If you leave me no choice, Grandfather, then I guess I must learn this Sun Breathing swordsmanship you keep talking about! Maybe you’re right, maybe I do have potential! I’d like to think all my practice cutting down trees makes me adept with a blade,” he smiled, his hands proudly at his hips. “Will you take a look this evening?”

“Yes… I eagerly await… seeing your potential… my descendent…”

Tokito grinned. He couldn’t wait either. In the meantime, Yuichiro and Muichiro spent the daylight hours at either side of the unusual houseguest.

“Grandpa, you have flames on your face. Do those hurt?”

“They do not…”

“You have as many eyes as a bug. Why do you have so many eyes?”

“Because… I am… a demon…”

“It looks gross. With all those eyes, can’t you see it looks gross?”

“I can see… a great many things…”

“Why are there eyes on your sword? Can your sword see?”

“My sword is made with… my blood… its eyes… are my eyes…”

“Is your sword a bug?”

“What’s its name?”

“Kyokokukamusari.”

“Kyokko…”

“Kyokyaku…”

“Kyokyakoku…”

“Kyokukuka…”

“Your tongues… are young.”

When evening fell, Tokito put his plan into action. It took no special effort on his part, all he had to do was trust himself.

“Yahh! Yaahh!” he yelled as he swung his ax. “Yaah! Yar! Yagh! Yuh!! Ya—AHHH!” he spun around and fell down, nearly lopping off his own arm. Perfect!

All of Kokushibo’s eyes, even the ones down his sword were blazing on him, and he waited for Kokushibo’s reaction. There was no fooling those eyes, which made Tokito’s plan all the better.

That demon would know!

“You are very…”

“Yes?”

“Clumsy.”

Precisely! This would chase that pesky demon off, wouldn’t it?

“I can see… it will take… many years… to train you…”

…no.

-----

The centuries had made Kokushibo resilient to setback, and time flowed at a different pace for him. “Become a demon now… and you will have… all the time you need… to attain… Sun Breathing…”

“Now, now wait!” Tokito waved his arms. He had taken the full next day to get his wits rounded back up, while Kokushibo resided indoors again patiently allowing the curious bos to poke the eyes of his sword, proving to them he was too powerful to be harmed by their tiny fingers. Yuichiro contemplated poking Kokushibo in one of the eyes on his face, but he hesitated when all six were focused on him, and he cried and buried his face behind his hands. “Wait. Wait. You can wait, can’t you?”

“Wait… for what?”

“If it’s inevitable that I have to become a demon, can’t you wait for me to be a human longer?”

“What good is there… in being human?”

“I want to watch my boys grow up!”

“I am a demon… I see them… perfectly fine.”

“Well, I mean, but, no, I mean, like, out there, having a normal family life with them. Working in the mountains, coming home, making food.”

“A human body… is weak… and will starve… without food… A waste… of time… to constantly…. work… for… Your body… will grow old… and frail… Become a demon… and these concerns… will vanish…”

“You—you make a compelling argument, Grandfather. But being human is good too!”

“How… is being human… better… than being… a demon?”

“I, well… is… isn’t it weird to learn Sun Breathing if I can’t see the sun?”

The demon’s eyes, every last one of them, went wide. Tokito had him! “You’re… right…” he said, stunned.

“Haha, oh, Grandfather! It’s been so long since you’ve seen it that you must had forgotten about it! All the creatures of this world are meant to be touched by the sun’s rays, it’s the natural way of things. It’s a blessing.”

“Sun Breathing… may require… practice… under the sun…”

“Haha, it may take a while, but I guess I’ll have to do my best on my own.”

“I will… train you… at night… and by day… you will train… under the sun…”

-----

The arrangement seemed to be working a while. Whether Tokito trained during the day or not (he did not), his progress was slow. His wife had come to get accustomed to the situation, knowing she had to make the best of it until the demon hopefully got bored and left. Having the boys so entertained during the day helped her get a lot of extra work done around the house.

“Grandfather,” she addressed him. “We got a great catch for dinner tonight, look at the size of this fish! What part of the fish is your favorite? I’ll serve that part for you.”

“Demons… do not eat… fish…”

“Oh, how rude of us. What would better suit your tastes?”

“Demons… do not consume… human food… we would… vomit it…”

“Ahhh… oh. Well, we can’t have that.”

“Grandpa. Grandpa,” Muichiro tugged at his hakama. “Then what do demons eat?”

“Humans.”

Muichiro stared, and after what felt like a long time in human experience, his face flushed and his eyes welled with tears. Yuichiro pinched his cheek. “Don’t cry, stupid. He’s only teasing you.”

“…oh,” Muichiro, red-faced and cheek still stretched smiled with relief.

Their mother, meanwhile, was blanched white, the fish still flopping around in her stiff hands.

--

“You’re not… making much… progress… could it be… you’re not… practicing… in daylight…?”

“Ah, ahhhh, yes, I’m afraid not,” Tokito sweated profusely. “That… that’s just part of being human. There’s so much work to do all day and then I have to sleep through so much of the night. I may never learn swordsmanship at this rate, hahaha!”

“Then hurry… and become a dem—”

“S-Sure must had been nice to be in a samurai clan back in your day, huh? Servants to do all the tedious chores and stuff so you could focus and train! May, maybe it’d be nice to hear some stories about when you were growing up! The boys would love to know their family history too, I’m sure!”

“…what chores…?”

“Oh, haha, oh, Grandfather! Did you not even know what chores were? What a charmed life—”

“What chores?” he stressed.

“Uhh---well---chopping trees, mostly.”

“Your ax… hand it to me…”

“Uhh… yes, sir.”

“I will chop your trees… so you… may advance… in your training…”

“Ye… yes, sir.”

-----

They had an excess of very high-quality wood on a regular basis. It sold so well on Tokito’s occasional trips into town that he found himself with more money than he ever had in his life. “Use it… to buy food…” Kokushibo instructed him. “Nourish your family… with it… buy warmer clothes… save your labor…”

Tokito had been raised being told that demons were evil, but he began to question that. They were all part of a world beyond humans, populated by Buddhas and Tengu and foxes, who was to say that their nature was entirely evil?

All at once, one night after months of the demon’s constant presence, he disappeared. Tokito and his wife cried with relief, and Tokito vowed to use the gifts the supernatural ancestor bestowed on them to raise his family well, and to never forget humility in the face of things outside their human experience.

But then he came back the following night.

“G-Grandfather,” he trembled. “Y-y-you’re back.”

“I went out… to feed. Now… continue… your practice…”

Inside, his wife cried on behalf of them both, for Tokito was too scared to anything but obey.

-----

Two years went by. With no choice, Tokito could not help that his swordsmanship improved. “Hhm,” Kokushibo nodded with approval. “Soon… I shall… find you a sword… no longer… a wooden one…”

“Aw, you don’t need to trouble yourself, Grandfather!”

“It is… no trouble… to steal one…”

“Well, what I mean is, I’m still so clumsy! Hahaha! Sure would be a waste of effort to kill myself by accident, wouldn’t it?”

“Hmm… you are right…”

“Hahaha!”

“I will… make you a demon first…”

“No! No, wait! I’ll keep practicing, I’ll keep practicing! Let’s hold off on a real sword until I’m ready!”

“You are… delaying… the inevitable…”

“And you are exceedingly patient, Grandfather!”

“That person… is not… so patient… he watches… and tells me… to hurry… and be done… with you…”

“Ghh!” he gulped as he went pale. He should never had forgotten his humility facing that which was outside human experience.

“Gra-a-a-a-nd-paaaa!” came a voice at the door of the hut. “Come fold origami with us!”

“I would… rather play Go…” the demon answered as he turned around and answered the summons.

“Go is boring!”

“You will… appreciate it when you are older…”

His wits. Tokito had to keep thinking with his wits.

-----

Another year went by. Kokushibo remained outwardly patient, but once again made mention of ‘that person.’

“He has… more tasks for me… than to be here… tonight… I will grant you his blood…”

“Wait! Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait!” Tokito raised his voice at him. This was it. He had to enact his next plan. “What are all these ‘tasks’ anyway? You still take plenty of time away to be a hitman, what else could he possibly have you do?”

Kokushibo answered very simply. “Look for… the blue… spider lily.”

“Ha! Spider lilies aren’t blue, everyone knows that,” sneered Yuichiro.

“The spider lilies are all dead,” said Muichiro. “It’s winter.”

If Kokushibo had twelve eyebrows, he would had raised them in their direction. “I… see… winter… of course… they must… be seasonal…”

“Are you senile, Grandpa? Of course they’re seasonal. They only grow in autumn.”

“You see big patches of them all of a sudden!”

“Autumn… of course… how could I… had forgotten…”

“That’s to be expected, don’t be so hard on yourself, Grandfather,” Tokito’s wife sweetly smiled to him. “They’re a daytime flower, it must be so long since you’ve seen them.”

“Daytime… yes… of course… they’re under… the sun… no wonder… it’s been… impossible… for demons… for a thousand… years… that person’s… blood… is swelling… within me… with… frustration…”

With the rising tenseness in Kokushibo’s voice, Tokito’s muscle sprung with their own tension. “N-no wonder! How sad! How sad that demons can’t go under the sun! I hope I never—”

“That person… will give you… more time. For you… must search… in the daytime…”

“Ghh…” he swallowed. “Y… yes, sir.”

“That’s stupid,” said Yuichiro. “You’re not going to find any in winter.”

“Yes… it’s stupid. You will… search next autumn… and train… until then… and…”

“……….and……….?”

“Play… Go… with me. These rascals… have no… appreciation for… Go…”

“It’s boring, Grandpa!”

“I’m trying, I can’t remember all the rules!”

“Let’s play Shogi instead!”

“Fine… lay the board… let’s play Shogi…”

-----

Two more years passed. Tokito had reprieve from his training during the autumns to search for the blue spider lilies, and one untimely fall in those searches gave him a much longer reprieve from training. His leg was badly broken, and he spent most of the winter bedridden.

“Haha… I’m still so clumsy…” he laughed, covering up that he also wanted to cry.

“And now we have to do all your work,” grumbled Yuichiro.

“Are you still in pain, Dear?”

“A… a lot, yes…”

“Become… a demon…”

“N-no! I’m still so clumsy, I haven’t mastered any of the Sun Breath yet!”

“I don’t want Daddy to get hurt anymore,” Muichiro said with tear-stained eyes. “Next autumn, I’ll go look for the flowers instead.”

“Ghh!” Tokito and his wife looked to him, helpless to tell their son to stop.

“Very good… a good child…” Kokushibo patted his head. “You will… be useful… to that person… too…”

It had to stop. Tokito needed to hurry and eliminate this demon, for the sake of his family.

-----

The following autumn, his leg still bothered him. On most days it was fine, but when it rained or when he climbed too stiff of an incline, the pain kept coming back. He could not use it as any excuse to skip his training, though, for Kokushibo would use that as an excuse to rip him from his humanity.

He kept up the training, as well as ventured out through the mountains to search, and ventured down the mountain periodically to sell the wood that Kokushibo cut. On one of those trips into town, he overheard the gossip.

“I heard it was demons.”

He froze to the spot and listened. He knew it wasn’t Kokushibo, for he was careful not to cause any incidents that would inconvenience the Tokito family—a strange thing that Tokito was sorry for being grateful for. But, perhaps if an incident had occurred closer to them, he’d have heard the following gossip sooner.

“The Demon Slayers are sure to catch it.”

“Demon Slayers?”

“Swordsmen with the sun in their blades, they fight with Breaths to take those monsters down.”

Breaths! Like Sun Breathing!

“Um!” he butted in. “How can I find these Demon Slayers?”

“How? We don’t know. Do you have a demon on your hands, Tokito?”

“…Ghh!... N… No…” he bit his lip and rolled his eyes back to avoid looking at them as he lied.

Maybe there was someone out there who could help him. But how would he find them without raising Kokushibo’s suspicion? The stress made it hard for him to sleep and gave him headaches. His could not risk any talk of this at home, but his sweet wife could see how it pained him, and she whispered with a light cough to let her and the boys take care of searching for the blue spider lilies.

-----

His wife fell ill. A common thing, for humans.

“I’m sorry, Grandfather. For now while I’m still human, I still have human responsibilities to my family. I need to find medicine for her. I’ll be back after I go fetch a herb that will help.”

“You know not where… to find… the blue spider lily… but know… the location… of… a little… herb…?”

“Yes. I’ll be right back.”

“It’s… raining…”

“I know exactly where it is.”

“Where… is it…”

“It grows on the side of a cliff near here.”

“You… know… of plants… on a cliff… but not… the blue… spider lilies…? You… wreak… of… a liar…”

Tokito ran cold.

“And… to think… someone… as… clumsy… as you… would… try… in this… weather…? You…”

This was not the time for everything to crash and fail. His wife’s lungs were in a bad state, if Kokushibo were to do something to him now—

“…are… more… idiotic than I thought… stay here… my… stupid descendent. No wonder… you take… so long to progress…”

The demon very soon returned, unbothered by how his clothes and hair left dripping wet pools throughout their home. He did not know which herb it was so he had cleaned the cliffs of them, allowing Tokito to sort through and pick out the ones that would help. Tokito made them into a medicine to treat his wife, and while it eased her coughing over the following day, she was still in a worrisome state. Kokushibo rolled all six eyes before leaving again that night, returning very close to dawn with his hands full of medicines. “Something… in these… ought to do it…”

It took a little careful trial and error, but a few of them turned out to be very effective, and she soon made a complete recovery.

And now, Tokito had a debt to pay.

-----

He made progress in Sun Breathing. Something was breaking through, making sense in his muscles. Kokushibo watched all the more silently with each night. They both had the sense that there was a change coming soon. Tokito was on the last of his wits.

The time Kokushibo spent around his sons, influencing them… it likewise had to end.

“Grandfather,” he asked, his forehead against his thumbs. “Where do we go once I can no longer be in the sun?”

“You can reside here… as long as that person… allows you to… you want… to watch over your sons… do you not…?”

“I don’t know that much about demons. But if I become one, they’ll be in danger, won’t they?”

“…I will make certain… no harm… will come to your family…”

Tokito closed his eyes with a sigh. “Thank you.”

“Of the two of them… Muichiro… may also… be of use… to that person…”

“Ghh!” his whole chest tightened as much as his throat.

He had let this go on too long. How could he find them? How could he find the Demon Slayers? How could he do without ‘that person’ knowing?

----- The sun! Whatever action he took, it had to be under the protection of the sun!

“Tokito, good to see you!”

“It’s been months!”

“You had us worried.”

And humans! There was a strength in humans he couldn’t forget, and must always find himself humbled by. Anything he could ever accomplish on his own was so small, but with the help of more people! “Thank you for keeping us in mind! My wife fell ill a while, but she’s recovered now.”

“Psst. Are you still, you know?”

“You know?” another one asked, biting her lip and rolling her eyes back a second. “You know?”

“Ah… ah!! Yes!”

“Not to worry, lad,” an old man patted his shoulder. “Your family’s fallen on hard times, and that’s a shame. We’ve spread word of your family, and it’ll reach the right ears soon.” With a grin, the old lady next to him pointed to a crow flying overhead.

“Ahhh!” his eyes watered, and he bowed so low his face nearly hit his knees. “Thank you so much!”

“Hold your head up, young man. Do your roots proud!”

Yes. Even if his roots were Kokushibo, he could not allow himself to lose his humanity. There was still hope!

-----

Tokito had to protect his family. This Breath had a power, a power strong enough to make ‘that person’ want to rid the world of anyone who could use it. Maybe it was ungrateful to hone it as a gift to his eventual rescuers, a weapon that they might use.

A weapon they might use against Kokushibo, the ancestor who had spent years teaching it to him.

After a long day of training in the rays of the sun and well into the night, Tokito returned to his home, already dark inside. Muichiro and Yuichiro were wrapped up in their futon and using Kokushibo’s knees for pillows. All six of his eyes opened slowly, focused solely on Tokito. “You’ve… grown much stronger… it’s time soon… for a sword…”

-----

A knock came at the door. “That’s odd,” his wife blinked her big green eyes to it. They were not used to visitors.

“I’ll get it!!” Tokito shouted with a smile and bounded over to it. Their cry for help had been answered! It had to be buff, strong swordsmen, ready to rescue them and eliminate the demon—

He pulled wide the door, and against the light, there was the silhouette of two small children, and a demure lady in a traveling kimono.

No, this was wrong. Something was wrong. There was something special about these people, but they were not the Demon Slayers he waited for. As his breath tightened, the woman searched his face with growing concern. One of the children at her side looked inside the house, starting first on the woman with the big green eyes, and then the two identical children with long hair, staring back at the door while their Go board was illuminated by the outside light, and then to the dark corner of the house, where a demon sat and stared back.

“Ubu… ya… shi… ki?”

-----

(((And then, the author who only wanted to write a short crack fic, put the fic away, scared by the evil she had unleashed.)))

[mypoisonedvine]

Love, Theoretically | Sebastian Stan x reader (chapter 10 - FINALE)

series masterlist

series summary: having lost your husband, sister, and best friend all to the same extramarital affair, you ran away to a secluded villa in the Hungarian countryside to write and get a little time away from the life you’d left behind.  you were only looking for peace and perhaps some inspiration for your novel, but instead you found an unlikely connection with the immigrant repairman– even though the two of you don’t speak the same language.

word count: 6k

warnings: implied smut, angst, fluff, romcom tropes, lots of swearing, pregnancy mention/minor breeding kink

note: click the asterisk for a hyperlink to a translation when the time comes

Six months later...

“It’s good!” she beamed, setting down the last chunk of pages and taking off her reading glasses. “Oh man, that ending hurt, but it’s really, really good!”

You leaned back into the plush chair and sighed with relief. “You think so?”

“It’s best-seller material,” she assured. “With some editing, of course. God, I can’t believe you were sitting on this for so long.”

“What are the biggest changes you want to make?” you asked.

“Well, I’m thinking we’ll cut the romantic subplot,” she mentioned in passing, like it was no big deal. “It’s distracting.

“Distracing?” you repeated. “Nia, it’s the story. It’s a romance.”

“I thought it was a thriller,” she frowned.

“A romance disguised as a thriller,” you corrected.

“Listen, I get what you mean, but I didn’t get this—” she tapped the nameplate on her desk: ‘NIA BROWN, HEAD PUBLISHER’ in shiny letters— “for nothing. I know what I’m talking about, and I know what your readers want. Violence, gore, drama!”

“It has all that!” you defended. “But it’s all there to talk about the real love he finds in her!”

“What do you mean ‘real love’?” she pressed flatly.

“I mean…” you pondered. “I mean love where you feel like a version of yourself that you actually like. Love where you feel unjudged, no precedents or caveats or back-up plans. Love that fucking hurts because you never wanted to rely on anything or anybody. Love that lives in silence because you don’t even need words.”

She furrowed her brow. “That… sounds nice, I guess, but I don’t think anybody really has that. Everybody needs a back-up plan. Everybody needs words— a writer should know that.”

“Oh my god. Oh my god,” you groaned, your face falling into your hands. “I’m so fucking stupid. Jesus Christ, I’m a moron.”

“What? What’s going on?”

“I had that! I had that, and I let it go! I’m the dumbest bitch on the fucking face of the Earth.”

“Don’t say that,” she soothed, but you were already standing up.

“No, I need to find him,” you decided as you grabbed your coat and briefcase. “I need to go back and try to fix this. I love him, I’ve never— I didn’t know I could love like that, I didn’t know I could be loved like that… oh my god, I need to find him. It isn’t over.”

“It isn’t over?” she repeated incredulously. “You said Michael signed the papers!”

“It’s not Michael,” you rolled your eyes as you stormed out of the office. “It was never Michael.”

You ran into the first telephone box you could find, slamming the door shut as you searched your purse for the business card that probably wasn't even in there.

After a moment, you gasped with delight when you pulled it from a very bottom pocket and began punching in the number as fast as possible with shivering hands, long-distance charges be damned.

“Hello?” the confused voice on the other end answered.

“Mrs. Alberti, hi— does Sebastian still work for you?” you asked hastily.

“No, dear," she sighed, apparently recognizing you by just your voice (and likely your request), "he quit recently, and moved away.”

“Moved?" you repeated with a wrinkled brow. "Where?!”

“I assume back home, sweetheart; to Bucharest.”

“Shit,” you sighed. “Shit!”

“Are you having your ‘run through the airport’ moment, sweetheart?” she realized.

“Yes, I think so— do you have his address?”

“Well, no, but I’ll see what I can find.”

You waited rather impatiently as she shuffled through papers in the background, mumbling to herself as she apparently searched for information that could help you.

“All I’ve got is the address of a previous employer… a carpenter,” she finally explained, breaking the silence. “It was his only reference when he came to work here," she explained.

"Wow, you really did just hire him for his looks," you blurted out.

"He was desperate for work, that boy had nowhere else to go,” she defended.

“Right, well, I guess if that’s my only lead then I’ve gotta go for it,” you decided. “Thank you, Mrs. Alberti.”

“I told you to call me when that book was a hit. Did it happen yet?” she piped up.

“It’s not published yet,” you explained. “It needs some more work… but I think it’s almost ready.”

“I think so, too, dear.”

Learn Romanian in 10 Weeks! A practical language guide.

Week 1, Day 1: Greetings

Hello                      Salut

Goodbye                La revedere

Thank you              Mulțumesc

You’re welcome      Cu plăcere

Good morning         Bună dimineata

Good afternoon       Bună ziua

Good evening          Bună seara

Good night               Noapte bună

You brushed your hair back out of your face with a sigh, turning the page as you mumbled the phrases to yourself. Broken Hungarian and your high school education in Latin were not getting you as far with this as you had been hoping.

How are you?          Ce mai faci

I love you                 Te iubesc

“Te iubesc, te iubesc, te iubesc,�� you repeated over and over in a whisper.

Each day you had a new routine: practice Romanian for an hour, check flight prices online (or call the airline), research what you knew about Sebastian and the address Mrs. Alberti had given you, and then get back to practicing Romanian again.

Oh, and occasionally you worked on the edits Nia wanted for your manuscript. You were focusing on the minor changes— grammar errors, rearranging sentences— and putting off her big request for the removal and replacement of the romantic aspects. More than ever, they seemed like the most important thing the book had to offer.

You had a small apartment, just a place to sleep and shower really; much too small to fit everything you’d already taken from Michael’s house (you know, the one that used to be your house) along with what he’d shipped to you that you forgot before. He included a letter in the package as well. You threw it out, unopened.

Truthfully, you never really fully unpacked. As much as you realized you probably should, in order to really feel like you had a real home, you couldn’t bring yourself to empty your suitcases when you knew you’d be packing them again any day now.

You also realized how outrageous this all was. Ignoring the unlikelihood of even finding him in the first place, Sebastian probably wouldn’t want anything to do with you after you broke his heart, left, and then randomly tracked him down after over half a year. But to be totally transparent, you weren’t really doing this to get him back, necessarily. You knew that was probably never going to happen. You were doing this because you needed to try. You needed to go there, and get hurt, and come back knowing you did everything you could: you’d never be able to live with yourself if you did anything less than that.

You couldn’t start your new life until you had put everything else to bed. And if that meant being 100%, painfully certain that you and Sebastian could never be together, then that was just how it needed to be.

After two weeks of looking, there still weren’t any reasonable flights to Bucharest, so you booked another trip by train, figuring you could use the three day trip to brush up on the key Romanian phrases you were going to need as well as prepare your speech.

Yes, your plan was a speech. You didn’t have a back-up plan. You didn’t even have a return ticket back to London yet.

A passage by Yeats came to mind; But I, being poor, have only my dreams. I have spread my dreams under your feet. Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams.

In all your life, you’d never understood before why someone would want to only have their dreams. But now, here you were… and yes, it felt terrifying and vulnerable and uncomfortably naked, but it felt pretty damn good, too.

With a sigh, you scribbled out the last sentence you’d written, tossing the trash paper aside. You looked up out the window at the scenery flying by in a blur, worried that if you didn’t look out from the train every once in a while you’d get motion sickness.

The sun was beginning to set already, the green of hills and trees tinted orange. You only indulged in it for a moment, though, before getting back to this god-forsaken speech you were deadset on finishing before you arrived in Bucharest tomorrow. At first, you’d figured the translating would be the most difficult part… but writing in English wasn’t exactly a piece of cake, either. You had so much to say, and suddenly so few words for any of it.

You’d probably done more editing on this than any of your novels combined; the crumpled up pages spilling out of your wastebasket were proof enough of that.

“And I’m a fucking writer!” you groaned aloud, to no one in particular. “How is anybody else supposed to be able to do this, if I can’t?”

Other people aren’t as emotionally constipated as you, the voice of your inner critic reminded you plainly, making you roll your eyes at yourself.

A rap at your door made you sit up straighter and turn around. A stewardess slid open the frosted glass slightly to give you a friendly smile. “Is everything alright, ma’am?”

Your brows furrowed at the sound of her accent. “Is that a Romanian accent?” you asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” she nodded.

“So you’re fluent in Romanian and English,” you concluded.

“And Portuguese, yes ma’am,” she agreed.

“Could you come in here for a moment and help me translate something?”

She seemed slightly confused at the request but stepped forward, sliding the door most of the way shut behind her. Leaning beside you on the desk, she picked up your handwritten letter and blinked her wide, brown eyes a few times. You felt slightly embarrassed knowing she was reading such intimate thoughts, but that was how it felt the first time someone read anything you wrote so you were pretty much used to it by now.

“I usually ask the passengers what brings them to Bucharest,” she mumbled after a moment. “This is the most interesting thing so far. Am I reading this correctly, that you intend to confess your love to someone you met—” she scanned the page quickly— “during a vacation in Hungary?”

“Yup,” you smiled awkwardly, popping the ‘p’ at the end of the word.

“And he doesn’t speak English?” she assumed; you nodded. “And… you don’t speak Romanian?”

You nodded again, and she breathed in and out quickly, sitting beside you as she stared at the letter.

“I’ve never seen anything like this before,” she explained.

“Sorry for sucking you into the entropic vortex that is my life,” you chuckled.

“I don’t mean to pry,” she sighed, setting the letter down, and you laughed a little internally at the idea that she was worried about prying when she just read the most personal piece of writing you’d ever put to the page, “but do you think this is… enough? I mean, to build a relationship on?”

You just gave her a shrug. “I have no idea. But, you know, I spent my whole life worrying about stuff like that. I dated my husband for seven years before we got married, because I wanted to be sure. I was initially interested in him because he was successful and ambitious, and it made me feel like this was a really secure relationship that I could rely on. I double majored in English and Computer Science because I wanted a more stable career to fall back on in case being a writer didn’t work out, and even though it did, I’ve spent most of my career publishing what I thought people wanted to read instead of what I wanted to write, so I’d have a better shot at a good paycheck. I grew up thinking the best thing I could ever have was security. And now I’m divorced, watching my royalties shrink every month, more insecure in every way than I’ve ever been, and I’m realizing that the choices I made didn’t give me what I wanted. I gave up so much in the name of safety, and I let the one good thing I’d ever found go, so I could go back to being the same person I always was. I’m ready to settle again, if this doesn’t work… I’m ready to accept that this is just the way life goes, and be thankful that I got a taste of the kind of stuff I thought only existed in the sort of books I’d read but never write.”

She swallowed as she looked at you, and you felt your eyes water as you stared out the window towards the dimming scenery one more time, smiling at the sight of a distant village, a church with a steeple, vineyards and farms. Someone’s whole life is in that little town, you imagined, and they’re just watching your train go by like they see every other day.

“Sebastian gave me more security than I’d ever had before, even though the whole thing was such a ridiculous little whirlwind, and nothing like I ever imagined my life could be. But he made me want to be honest and raw and write sappy letters like the one you just read. He doesn’t have any money, at least as far as I know, and I haven’t known him for seven years, and on paper it makes no sense… but you would understand if you knew him. If you felt that joy that he radiates, if you saw him live his simple little life like it’s the best thing in the world. You would understand if you knew how much I needed this. You would understand if you had been just as miserable being who I’ve been for so long, and finally had a chance to be somebody you think you were maybe meant to be the whole time. So, if I never see him again, I hope I just get to thank him.”

You waited for her to say something, but furrowed your brow at the long moment of silence, looking back from the window finally and finding her staring at you with a tear running down her cheek. When you met her gaze, she quickly wiped it away with a sniffle and looked down at your desk again. “Let’s get to translating, shall we?” she announced with a half-smile.

You noticed the way the other passengers looked at you as everyone was in line to deboard from the train car; you stuck out like a sore thumb, since everybody else was carrying heavy luggage and all you had was a backpack.

In your defense, you really had no idea how to pack for a trip where you knew neither the duration nor the true final destination. So, it was mainly filled with your essentials, a few clothes for any kind of weather, and enough leu to buy anything else you needed along the way.

The stewardess was waving goodbye to everyone as they shuffled out into the train station, occasionally stopping to shake a hand or give directions to nearby destinations. When you were just about to pass by, though, she pulled you into a tight hug.

“Good luck,” she whispered, holding you just a moment too long before pulling back and giving you an encouraging look. “If he doesn’t take you back, feel free to blame my translation… because if he knows what’s in your heart, I know he’ll say yes.”

“Yeah, that’s the hard part isn’t it?” you laughed weakly. “Thank you for your help. I guess if I come back alone for the return trip tonight, you’ll know how bad it went.”

“Then I hope I don’t see you again,” she winked.

It being a major train station and all, cabs were waiting around every corner so it was pretty easy to grab one and give them the address you already had written down for this exact purpose.

“This is pretty far,” the driver explained, “on the edge of town. Not a tourist spot.”

“Good, because I’m not a tourist,” you nodded, already only giving him half your attention as you pulled out the translated speech to practice.

“And you can afford this?” he pressed. You sighed and dug through your bag, pulling out a haphazard stack of bills and handing them through the plastic partition.

“Is this enough?” you asked, and he didn’t answer, just taking the money and starting the car as you smiled and leaned back in your seat.

As much as you had tried to convince yourself to not get your hopes up, the butterflies in your stomach felt more like whole birds at this point, demanding to break free as you practiced the words hand-written on the page over and over again, committing it all to memory.

“What are you reading?” the cab driver asked after several minutes.

“Oh, nothing,” you mumbled, “sorry if I’m bothering you, you can turn on the radio.”

“No, it’s not bothering me, but what you are saying… it’s very odd. It sounds like something from a play, or movie,” he explained.

“Um, it’s not,” you replied, a little embarrassed. “But does it sound like it’s from a good movie? Like, if you heard a character say this to another character, would you think they should get together?”

“I… don’t know,” he answered, sounding confused. “I mean, it depends on what happened, right? How they met, how well they get along…”

So, you told him the whole story, as succinctly as possible (which is not very succinct at all). By the end, he was actually giving commentary as you spoke.

“Why the hell did you leave?” he interjected, clearly irritated with you. “You loved him!”

“Yeah, well, sometimes love isn’t enough! I loved my husband too, and look how that turned out,” you defended.

“But that’s different. That was love for all the wrong reasons.”

“I promise, it felt very real at the time,” you shrugged.

“And now?” he countered. “You realize that this man— Sebastian, right?— is real.”

“I hope I’m right this time,” you offered. “But even if I am, he may not agree.”

The driver scoffed, taking a hand off the wheel to wave dismissively. “If he’s anything like you said, then he will still be completely in love with you. After all, you still feel the same way after all this time apart, don’t you?”

“If anything, I love him more every day,” you admitted, your heart beating quickly just to say it aloud.

“You know, when I met my wife, she was engaged to another man. He was rich, good-looking, and he wasn’t even a bad guy unlike this husband you describe. He was a good man, but he wasn’t right for her. They were… content together, but she wasn’t truly happy. Every night I would come to her window and beg her to marry me, because I knew that she knew we were meant for each other, but she was scared because her family wouldn’t approve and she would be a poor man’s wife.”

“How did you convince her to marry you instead?” you asked eagerly, sucked into the story already.

“I didn’t. On the day of the wedding, some people told me to go and break it up but I didn’t. I thought it would be wrong, to try to ruin her happiness and take it for myself by making a scene at the wedding. I realized she was her own woman and if she wanted to choose him, I had to let her. I had locked myself in my house, not wanting to see anyone that day, and she appeared at my door. I didn’t need to convince her because she knew the truth in her heart, and called off the wedding herself.”

“Wow,” you smiled.

“She was still in her dress!” he recalled with a hearty laugh. “She looked like an angel. We were married just a few days later. And next month will be thirty years,” he added as he lifted his left hand to show the golden band on his finger.

“Thirty years, that’s… a long time,” you sighed.

“It wasn’t always easy,” he admitted. “But it was always worth it.”

Just as you wondered what you could possibly say to that, you felt the car slow down to a stop.

“This is the address you gave me, this is it,” he explained, pointing out his passenger-side window. You leaned up against the glass and gasped in dawning fear as you saw the storefront dark and empty inside.

“No, nonono,” you whispered rapidly to yourself as you swung open the door and hopped out, pressing your face against the glass to try to get a look inside and finding what was undeniably a closed carpentry business. There was a note on the door, taped on the inside of the glass, and you knew enough Romanian to know it said something about a vacation and three months.

“Shit!” you yelped, holding your face in your hands, wondering if your journey had come to an end before it really began.

“Are you alright?” the driver asked, rolling down his window to speak to you.

“This was my only lead, I don’t have his real address,” you explained. “He used to work here, I thought maybe someone would know him…”

He sighed, giving you a sympathetic look. “Get back in, we can search nearby. You came too far to give in yet.”

But getting back in the car felt like giving in, too, which you realized as you looked back at the note taped to the carpenter's door. This was the closest you'd gotten, and it felt wasteful to leave with nothing.

Just as you were ready to hop in the passenger seat and start searching aimlessly through suburban Bucharest, or maybe look around for a Romanian yellow pages, you heard a noise from behind you, across the street; a laugh. His laugh. But it couldn’t be because it was too good to be true… and yet you found yourself whipping your head around and hoping beyond all reason that it was Sebastian.

Across the street was a restaurant, with a large patio where patrons were dining and chatting as they sat at wrought iron tables, and your eyes searched the crowd for any signs of him.

And then your gaze landed on a head of thick brunette hair, red and gold highlights so obvious now when the sunlight hit it this way. Broad shoulders wrapped in a white button-up shirt. He was facing away from you but he was looking to the side so you could see his face; he was smiling, laughing at something someone had said. And it was his smile that you recognized; it was like everything else faded away, and in that moment you thought maybe you could almost be happy with just this, just seeing him be happy even if it had nothing to do with you.

“Sebastian,” you called out to him, but he didn’t react. “Sebastian!”

His whole body turned, his eyes met yours, and you couldn't help but let the tears well in your eyes as you ran across the road to him.

He looked, understandably, stunned, and you realized he was actually waiting on a table at the moment; he said something to them, apparently excusing himself, and stepped closer to you.

But he stopped walking, not coming any closer, not exactly dragging you into his arms like you might've preferred, but with a breath to try to soothe your racing mind, you summoned your memories of the practiced letter and began. *

“Când am venit în Ungaria…” you started slowly, doing your best to remember the words and hoping your pronunciation wasn’t too awful, “nu căutam dragoste. Căutam spațiu, claritate și poate o idee de carte de un milion de dolari. În schimb, am găsit tot ce am căutat toată viața mea…”

You did your best to bite back tears, especially when his expression was nearly unreadable and you had no idea how well this was going.

“Ești tu, Sebastian, bineînțeles că ești tu,” you sighed, laughing slightly. “Ai fost acolo pentru mine când nici nu știam ce vreau de la nimeni. Ai fost prietenul meu fără să spui vreodată un cuvânt - cel puțin nu un cuvânt pe care l-am înțeles. M-ai iubit și nu știam ce să fac cu asta, pentru că uitasem cu mult timp în urmă cum se simțea să fii iubit. Și ce simțeai să iubești cu adevărat pe cineva. Dar te iubesc. Și am fost prost să te las să pleci, atât de neconceput de prost. Vreau să fim noi, Sebastian. Lasă-mă să te iubesc, mai dă-mi o șansă și îți promit că nu te voi mai lăsa să pleci niciodată.

The first thing he said was your name, and just the way he said it made you fall in love with him all over again.

“I… I dream that you would come back,” he shakily replied. “But now I cannot believe. You are my dream.”

Tears were openly flowing at this point and you wanted to run into his arms, but you tried to stay calm and hear him out. He stepped closer, almost hesitant, like you would run away if he got too close too fast.

“I love you, very much that I am sure I am insane person,” he explained with a grin, and you giggled. “We will live anywhere, do anything you would like— be my wife.”

You gasped as he pulled you into him, gripping your arms tightly as his desperation became apparent.

“Marry me?” he asked softly.

“Da,” you nodded, “yes, of course, anything—”

He kissed you suddenly, but gently, and it said more than any words in any language could.

It was a small wedding, in the Hungarian countryside by the lake. You could remember diving into that lake for lost pages of your manuscript; you could remember looking out over the water and dreaming of this moment you were living right now, thinking it was impossible.

He didn’t have much family, but they welcomed you with open arms.

Your family, well, they were too busy with planning another wedding, for your ex-husband and your ex-sister. A few of them sent cards but the rest were suspiciously quiet. You honestly didn’t even notice… you had a new family to attend to, anyhow. And it wasn’t like you didn’t have any guests, since you were able to track down and invite a stewardess named Maria, and a cab driver named Andrei and his wife, Paola.

Sebastian’s cousins weaved flowers into your hair and his grandmother tailored her dress to fit you like a glove. A picture of his parents was hung nearby in tribute; he told you they would’ve wanted to see him get married but that he felt, in some way, they were able to even if they had passed away quite some time ago.

You realized you’d never seen him in anything even mildly formal before; in fact, the suit he wore was rather casual, all things considered, but he looked so painfully cute in it. Sometimes you thought he actually looked a bit out of place wearing a shirt, though, especially one that was buttoned up all the way.

Luckily, the shirt was halfway unbuttoned about ten minutes into the reception.

Mrs. Alberti cooked a massive dinner for everyone, and even grew the flowers that you carried down the cobblestone aisle.

And wow, can Romanians drink. You had to be careful not to try to keep up with them, because if you had you would’ve been blacked out halfway into the night and the last thing you wanted was to forget even a moment of this.

As the night started to wind down to a close, you and your new husband retired to the lakehouse, running up the stairs and finding them as creaky as always.

He wrapped his arms around you in the hall and kissed you eagerly as you stumbled back into the bedroom, tripping over the doorway and falling onto the bed together.

It felt so right to have his weight on top of you, to feel his smile against your lips, to wrap your arms around his neck.

“This room,” he mumbled into the kiss. “Do you remember first time?”

“Yes,” you nodded, “da, I remember, how could I forget?”

He grinned and moved his lips down to your neck. "I thought of you every day… I love you,” he whispered.

“Te iubesc,” you whispered back.

It was almost like the first time in so many ways: passionate, yet oddly hesitant as you rediscovered each other. It was comfortable, though… you couldn’t think of any other person you felt so comfortable with, somebody who finally got you out of your own head and who made you want to experience everything life had to offer.

You were sure you’d never gone so long without worrying about something in all your life.

“My wife,” he whispered against your skin. “This is all I had wanted… from seeing you in very beginning.”

“You’re all I ever wanted,” you sighed in return, “ești tot ce mi-am dorit vreodată, Sebastian.”

Life with Sebastian was beautifully simple. You spent most of the day writing, usually, while he built furniture to sell and occasionally gardened with his spare time. You could always tell how busy you’d been with a new novel lately by how perfectly groomed the hydrangea bushes were.

You’d told him once that you’d come to Hungary looking for a million-dollar book idea. A Killer in Disguise performed alright, but not anywhere near that. The Language of Love, on the other hand, was definitely a million-dollar idea… about eleven times over. Sebastian didn’t seem to worry too much about how much money you made, though; he was just proud to say that he was the inspiration for your hit novel. You secretly suspected that he was more proud of your work reaching enough international notoriety to be translated into Romanian.

His English still needed some work, but you found it endearing. He was determined to get better and spent at least a half-hour each day practicing, but you hoped he wouldn’t get too perfect because you would miss the silly little mistakes he made. At least you could be sure he’d keep the accent forever… damn, that accent; and he knew exactly what it did to you, too.

In fact, you were crossing through the hall in your robe one evening when your husband’s voice stopped you.

“Darling wife,” you heard Sebastian call from the bedroom in a playful sing-song.

“What is it, Seba?” you asked with a smirk.

“Come in here, please…”

You opened the bedroom door to find most of the room covered in rose petals: most of all the bed, which was surrounded by candles, and topped with a shirtless (as per usual) Sebastian, laid on his side seductively with a long-stemmed rose (one you recognized from his very own garden) between his teeth.

“What are you doing?” you laughed. “Is this some sort of special occasion I’ve forgotten?”

You were already searching your mind for what it could be, but your two-year anniversary had passed a few months ago already and since it was spring it couldn’t be the anniversary of when you first met since that was late in the summer.

“Iss not quite a thpecial occathion yeth,” he answered before taking the rose from his mouth so he actually made sense. “I was considering it could be a special occasion, when we’re done…”

You smirked and climbed over the candles and into bed with him, taking the opportunity to run your hands over his chest. “And what occasion would that be?”

“A year from now, it could be the anniversary of when our child was conceived,” he answered.

Your breath caught in your throat, your voice reduced to a whisper of surprise. “Seba—”

“If you’re not ready, I will be understand,” he instantly added, stern yet soft. “Only if you want this, I just thought that maybe—”

You silenced him with a kiss, lacing your fingers into his hair and letting him roll you onto your back. He pulled back just enough to let you answer, but your noses were still bumping into each other and you smiled.

“I’m ready, Sebastian. More than ready,” you whispered.

He grinned and kissed you again, deeper and slower as he held your face with one hand and gripped your waist with the other. As his lips trailed down to your neck, you were interrupted with one pressing thought.

“Can I ask you something?”

He popped up and looked down at you with a smile. “Sure!”

“Why are you wearing ratty old jeans?” you laughed.

“Hey, these worked on you the first time,” he defended.

You gasped. “You don’t mean those are the jeans—”

“Yes,” he nodded, “the jeans that I had been wearing when I was working on Mrs. Alberti’s cottage. And, truly, when I was finding an excuse to work outside your window.”

“Wait,” you sat up, “did you actually work outside my window on purpose?”

He laughed, hanging his head quickly before looking back at you again with a sparkle in his eye. “You are very smart, my love, except for those times when you are— how do you say? Oblivious.”

You chuckled, unfortunately very aware that he was right.

“Didn’t you ever wonder why I was building a window frame, nearly a dozen metres away from the window it was for?”

You thought for a moment before dropping your face into your hands and laughing. “No, I didn’t notice that. I was too busy giving you a thorough eye-fuck,” you recalled.

“Yes, because I was not wearing a shirt and this distracted you,” he pondered, sounding suddenly like a scientist explaining a theorem or something. “See, that’s the beauty of wearing the jeans and no shirt. The body distracts you while the jeans seduce you.”

“How about you take the jeans off and put that body on me, capisce?” you pleaded; not that you didn’t love his humor or anything, but maybe his funny bone wasn’t exactly the bone you were interested in at the moment.

He grinned devilishly and suddenly pulled your legs apart, settling his body between them as he kissed your neck again, nipping at your jawline and ear. “You’re being impatient, dragă,” he purred. “You want to have my baby that badly?”

You whined involuntarily, arching your back as his hands roamed your body and finally began to untie your robe and push the silk out of the way. “Yes, Sebastian, please—”

“Let’s just say, theoretically, I wanted to have more than one? Would you have another of my children?” he asked softly as he reached up and palmed at your breasts, teasing your nipples which were already much too hard and sensitive for how little he’d touched you. The rough denim rubbing against the inside of your thighs was oddly arousing— maybe it was the sensation itself, or maybe it was just that this was almost like the first thing you imagined when you saw Sebastian all those years ago.

“Yes,” you moaned out your answer, “yes, you know I’d do anything for you.”

“What if I wanted a big family?” he pressed. “Really big? Like, Catholic big?”

“We can have our own fuckin’ Brady Bunch, Seb, I just need you right now,” you begged, grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him into a hot and desperate kiss.

He decided to wait until afterwards to ask what a ‘Brady Bunch’ was. You decided to wait until afterwards to ask when he’d learned how to use the word ‘theoretically’.

sfarsit; the end

[thekarina]

Op 4, No. 11: The Lily of the Valley

The lady who sows love wherever she goes, leaving traces of mellow delight in her wake. Her existence thought to be that of the beloved Aphrodite’s daughter, bestows favors in the shape of little bits of warmth. She lives in a modest hamlet nestled in the midst of every green, where the sun rises over land and provides a refreshing escape from reality as the flower blossoms beautifully. You were cordially welcomed by her gentle embrace after ringing the bell and signifying your arrival.

“Welcome to my humble abode!” she exclaims and wears a smile on her face, delighted to have your company. “You may not think much of it, but this is the safest I’ve been in a long time.”

A preceding disclaimer, if you manage to stumble into this blog, is that this is the author responsible for her portrayal speaking and would want to clarify that everything of the contents you may read here is only an act of fiction and shall be recognized as such. This is essentially aespa’s Karina reinterpreted in another reality, where she keeps notes of her everyday events in a small diary.

“It’s a wonderful gift, isn't it?” She wonders aloud, “What is?” “How different we are.” She says, “In some sense, each individual has a quality that separates them from others.”

And she felt, deep inside her wholeness of a heart, that her style of expressing her thoughts could not possibly bear any likeness to another. From here, I would want to respectfully request that anyone who is curious and was enticed to read about my writings to not plagiarize my work. Simply put, I do not want to see anyone paraphrase or use my writings as a template to make their own captions. Please enjoy it quietly instead. I am inclined to mention that the photos seen in this blog (especially the mood boards) are edited by the author unless stated otherwise.

More importantly, please read my Writer’s Notes before following.

Thank you for taking the time in going through my blog! I also encourage you to leave your trace in my message box, which I will use to talk to those who feel like having a conversation.

Sincerely yours, Serenity Blair of The Rivermore.

[thetaoofzoe]

FIC: The Mercy In You 1/1

Pairing: Demon Priest! Henry Cavill x YOU

Summary: You liked Sunday Sermons in the courtyard of the church the most. 

Rating: Explicit, some religious/satanic imagery, oral sex (male receiving), rapacious absolution and yes, it’s the smutty smut you expect ;)

Notes: I don’t remember who said it, but this came out of the conversation regarding Sherlock!Henry’s high white collar :)

Bonus points if you know the song from which I took the title.

(sherlock pic from andyicons)

Want to read more? Click for my Masterlist

It was an extremely pleasant mid-Autumn morning and you enjoyed the warmth of the sun on your shoulders as you sat on the soft, neatly cut grass in the small courtyard between the church’s main building and the second smaller building which had been repurposed for administrative offices.

A thick luscious green hedge enclosed one side of the courtyard, and on the other side stood a tall iron lattice fence woven with thick ropy green vines from which sprouted sweet smelling red and purple flowers. 

As you sat there, basking in the sun, you watched as two men, dressed all in black, ferried a small table and two matching chairs from the administrative building and into the courtyard where they set them up near to the tall hedge. Another man brought out a white dish, a vase of flowers and a silver goblet which he arranged carefully on the table. 

One of the men looked your way and you gave him a friendly wave. He nodded and you went back to checking your audio equipment. 

It was just another daily sermon session that the church liked to provide for parishioners who could not, or did not want to attend in person, but still wanted to receive the good word. You and your crew had been working with the church for months now, helping them to set up and livestream the daily sermons, and then edit and post the videos to the church’s website for future viewing.

You attended most of the filming sessions and found that each presenter brought a different flavour to their sermons, which you liked. And, while you weren’t particularly religious you found yourself liking the Sunday Sermons the best, for was a nice positive way to start the week. 

‘Well,’ said the cameraman, glancing at his wristwatch. ‘We’re just waiting for the priest. We’ve got about a half hour before we start the stream.’

With a soft groan born of stiff cramped muscles from sitting cross-legged too long, you pressed up from the ground and stretched.

‘I’ll go and have a look around for him. I also want some water, so… two birds, one stone.’

The cameraman shrugged and you turned away, scowling, rebuffed that you didn’t even get a chuckle from your off-handed joke.

You walked across the grass to one of the open doors that you knew led to the corridor that ran directly passed the ladies loo and into the kitchen. Stepping  into the cool dim interior, something odd grabbed your attention. 

You paused and listened carefully, but there was only muted silence. You closed your eyes and a sudden wave of strange arousal washed over you. You sucked in a sharp breath, surprised by the response of your body to that unseen force.

Then as quickly as the fervour had seized you, it was gone. You opened your eyes and casting about an apprehensive glance, you let out a shaky breath. You were alone in the corridor. Or at least as alone as you could tell. You made moves to continue to the kitchen when your bladder reminded you that there was another pressing matter at hand.

You eyed the heavy wood loo door and said aloud, ‘Ok, three birds.’

There were no towels, so you were still shaking your hands dry when you left the toilets,  and walked down the hall to where the offices were located. If the priest giving the sermon was anywhere, it was probably in there.

As you approached the offices, you could hear a soft chanting. The sound of it seemed to be coming from everywhere and you stopped, feeling a little disorientated. There was that rush of arousal again and you could feel the wetness beginning to seep into the crotch of your knickers.

The chanting waned a bit and keeping your focus on the door marked ‘Office’ you forced yourself to keep moving. You then realised that the chanting was coming from behind the office door. Male voices rose and fell rhythmically and you wondered if they were getting ready for the morning. Although you were loathe to disturb the men, you lifted your hand to knock on the door as you had to fetch the priest who would be giving the sermon in less than half an hour.

You knocked, and the chanting ceased. Putting on your pre-emptively chagrined face, you waited nervously for the door to swing open and possibly reveal a frazzled looking priest. However, you were still facing a closed door after a few minutes drifted by.

You knocked again.

Silence.

You felt uneasy and slipped your hand down the smoothly worn wood to rest on the door knob. You didn’t want to just barge in, so you waited and lifted your hand to knock again.

‘Are you looking for someone?’

The quiet voice behind you made you jump. You spun round, and pressed back against the office door.

‘Oh!’ you cried, pressing a hand to your breast and cringing at how dramatic you sounded. ‘You gave me a such a fright! I didn’t hear you.’

You recognised the tall man standing behind you and he looked perfectly pleasant with his bright blue eyes, brown curls and stiff high white collar. 

‘I’m sorry,’ he said slowly, but looked anything but. ‘That wasn’t my intention.’

You let out a relieved, breathy laugh and mentally groped for his surname.

‘It’s Father ahh…’

‘It’s just Henry, please. There’s no need for formalities.’

You tasted his name on your tongue, licking it into the roof of your mouth, savouring it as you formed the syllables of his name and dumbly repeated it back to him, much to his visual delight.

It was an effort to break his gaze and you silently congratulated yourself when you managed to do it.

‘I’m ah…’ you jerked a thumb over your shoulder at the door behind you. ‘I’m looking for the priest who is doing the morning sermon. I... hahaha... I got distracted by the chanting.’

His eyes slid over to the door and then back to you and you felt thoroughly probed by his intense gaze. Your nipples tightened reflexively and you were embarrassed by the sweet lasciviousness that rose unbidden in your thoughts.

‘I don’t think anyone’s in there,’ he said, sounding incredulous about your claim of hearing chanting.

You opened your mouth to defend your own lucidity, but the words dried up when he reached for you. A pulse of excitement echoed in your core and you tensed, ready for the heat of his hand on you.

But it didn’t come.

Instead, he merely nudged you aside and closing his hand round the wood doorknob, he turned it. You barely had time to step away before he swung the door open, revealing a small cluttered room with one dusty window and four wood desks crammed close together in the centre. Trying to keep a respectable distance between the two of you and failing miserably, you curved around the door frame and sheepishly peeked in.

The room was empty and the free standing water dispenser gurgled mockingly from its place in the corner.

With his hand still on the knob, and his body trapping you in the corner between the door and the wall, Henry looked at you.

He was so close.

‘Maybe that’s what you heard?’ he asked, indicating the dispenser with a jerk of his chin.

‘I heard voices,’ you mumbled, looking back at him. 

Noticing the thin strands of grey mingling with the curls at his temple, you caught yourself before you leaned in and sniffed him like a bitch in heat.

There was that wave of dark arousal again, deep and thrumming and more intense this time and you could only imagine that the source of that tantalising sensation, was Henry.

He pulled the door closed again and it slapped unceremoniously against your bottom, startling a gasp out of you.

‘Anything else?’ he asked, sounding pleased with himself.

There was something that he wanted, something that he expected from you and you couldn’t bring yourself to admit that whatever this thing was, you wanted to give it to him. 

‘Forgive me, Father,’ you gasped, words escaping your wicked mouth before you even attempted to squash them.

His eyebrows rose with interest, silently asking about what you let hang unsaid in the air, and his plush lips lengthened into a knowing smile. There was an eagerness to his manner now, excitement and expectation in his fathomless blue eyes.

Was there a need to respond?

Obviously not, for Henry turned round without another word and beckoning you with two fingers, he led you from the administrative building to the main church and to the row of confessional booths lining the back wall.

When he pulled open the door to one of the booths, you belatedly thought that if this was the Father who was giving the sermon, this might make him late.

You had to say something.

‘I– I ah…’ you started and he paused mid-step into the booth, but didn’t look at you.

And in between slow, deep breaths, you heard him say, ‘Come, child.’

Or at least, you thought he spoke.

The whisper of his deep voice swirled around like smoke, coming from everywhere, coming from you and you weren’t sure which of you had spoken. You felt dizzy and unfettered and Henry was the only anchor that your mind could hold on to.

He then stepped fully into the booth and was sitting on the bench seat when you too stepped inside and closed the half-latticed door behind you. There was a low padded stool between his feet and instinctively you dropped to your knees before him. On the wall above his head hung the upside down cross outlined in thin red neon tubing and he was vaguely illuminated in the crimson tinged darkness.

You were sure that he was saying something and this close to him, you could feel his voice rumbling through you more than you could hear, or make out the words. You put your hands together in prayer in front of your face, then pressed your lips to the backs of your upraised thumbs.

Henry murmured soft encouraging praise when you reached forward and pushed aside the front panels of his black cassock. The material was softer than you expected and smiling a little, you stroked your palms up his surprisingly muscular thighs to where his trousers were fastened with a simple button and zip fly.

Henry trailed delicate fingers along your hair line and you could smell the scent of sugary vanilla and warm heather. You closed your eyes, inhaling the pleasant scent of his skin, and let your hands work blindly to guide his rock hard cock from his trousers. He was thick and heavy in your hands, nearly monstrous and your mouth watered at the sight of him. 

You looked up at the sound of a soft exhalation of breath and what you saw made your own breath catch. He seemed to glow, the caramel highlights in his chocolate brown hair catching the blood red light, that same light causing the wetness between his slightly open lips to glisten. Sharp, jagged upper fangs curved down against his lower lip and the evidence of his true nature pulsed molten heat through you. This is what he was, this beast, you thought ecstatic to be privy to this sinful delight.

It was nothing at all to slide his glorious cock into your eager mouth and even further when he pressed your head down.

The scent of him surrounded you and the taste of him was incredible. Flattening your tongue, you drew back and trailed saliva wet strokes up and down the underside of his rigid flesh and Henry groaned deeply, voluptuously in response. Greedily, you engulfed him again, suckling him desperately, unashamed by the muffled, hungry noises you made.

You dug your fingers into his thigh to gain some purchase as you encircled the base of his cock with the other. When you squeezed, he swore beneath his breath, pushing you on to do it again. You swirled your tongue round the swollen, leaking head, licking him, sucking him until his hips snapped up to force his slick cock down your throat.

He gripped the back of your neck, and growled, ‘Accept your absolution.’

You held your breath and went still, relishing the fiery pulse of cum filling your mouth. Your face went hot and with salty tears stinging your eyes, you accepted it rapaciously.

Mouth brimming with thick creamy fluid, you gazed up at him once more, and in the dim crimson light, he gave you a contented grin that again exposed his ivory coloured fangs.

 He then fisted your hair and dragged you up from your knees before forcing you to straddle him.

Leaning in you let his sticky cum dribble into his open, waiting mouth as he guided you down into a sloppy possessive kiss.

Your walkie talkie crackled and you could hear the staticky voice of the cameraman.

‘Have you located Father Henry?’ he asked, sounding annoyed. ‘He’s going to make us late!’

Henry continued to kiss you, sucking your tongue into his mouth, heedless of the call for the Sunday Sermon. His grip on your arse held you tight to him and it was a struggle to pull away.

‘They… they’re looking for you,’ you gasped, stating  the obvious.

‘And?’ he asked.

‘And, you ahh… promised?’

What else could you say to a demon priest who was scheduled to perform the Sunday morning sermon?

Henry righted himself, huffed a disappointed sigh and standing, dumped you off of his lap. You tried to take a step back, but stumbled over the low stool. He caught you up by the waist and tutted softly.

‘I shan’t dare damage you as I wish to have you for later.’

In his dark embrace, you found yourself swooning. He lifted you effortlessly with one hand and opening the booth door, he deposited you carefully on your feet out in the main hall’s interior. You stared helplessly up at him, your devotion to him burning like a live wire inside you. You felt that you could weep at the sight of him. 

He looked perfectly composed and just as pleasant as he did when you encountered him earlier in the day. You pressed the back of your hand to your mouth to silence your disappointed moan when he turned and strode to the courtyard where the filming crew waited.

Instead of following him, you went to sit in one of the back pews and looked up at the monstrous upside down cross that hung behind the pulpit -  a knowing specter that had been a witness to your rapturous gratification.

Your walkie crackled again.

‘Get out here! Who else is going to work the audio?’

With a sigh, you heaved yourself up from the pew and trudged out to the courtyard. You knew you wouldn’t survive the next hour.

-End. Please like reblog and follow, all that good stuff. Comment if you were moved :)

[lingthusiasm]

Transcript Lingthusiasm Episode 52: Writing is a technology

This is a transcript for Lingthusiasm Episode 52: Writing is a technology. It’s been lightly edited for readability. Listen to the episode here or wherever you get your podcasts. Links to studies mentioned and further reading can be found on the Episode 52 show notes page.

[Music]

Gretchen: Welcome to Lingthusiasm, a podcast that’s enthusiastic about linguistics! I’m Gretchen McCulloch.

Lauren: I’m Lauren Gawne. Today, we’re getting enthusiastic about writing as a technology. But first, do you wish there was more Lingthusiasm to listen to? Even though this is Episode 52, we have almost a hundred episodes of Lingthusiasm. Some of them exist as bonus episodes over at our Patreon.

Gretchen: If you want to listen to those and have more Lingthusiasm in your earballs, you can go to patron.com/lingthusiasm. This also helps keep the show ad-free. If you like listening to a show without ads, help us keep doing that.

Lauren: The Patreon also fosters this wonderful linguistics enthusiastic community. In fact, we have a Discord server, which is basically just a wonderful chat space for people to talk about linguistics. There are over 350 people on the Lingthusiasm Discord right now.

Gretchen: If you wish you had other lingthusiasts to talk to to share your interesting linguistics anecdotes and memes and general nerdery, and you want more people like that to talk to, you can join the Patreon to also get access to the Discord. We launched the Discord community just a year ago, and it’s been really fun to see it grow and thrive and take on a life of its own since then. If you are already a patron, and you haven’t linked your Patreon and Discord account together, it’s there waiting for you. Feel free to come join us.

Lauren: We have Patreon supporter levels at a range of tiers. Some of them include additional merch. One of my favourite perks is the very scientific Lingthusiasm IPA quiz where we send you a short quiz and then we give you your own custom IPA character which is enshrined on our Wall of Fame.

Gretchen: It’s a fun quiz. We have fun looking at people’s answers.

Lauren: Our most recent bonus episode is a collection of some of our favourite anecdotes from interviews and from other episodes that didn’t quite make it into the original episode. We’re delighted to share those in that bonus episode.

Gretchen: You get to see a bit behind-the-scenes with that episode. Also, do you want more linguistics on your favourite other podcasts?

Lauren: Always.

Gretchen: Constantly. We’re also very happy to do podcast interviews on other shows about various topics. If there’re other podcasts that you like that you wish would do a linguistics episode and interview one of us, you should tell them that! We’re happy to come on. Tag us both or something on social media or tell your favourite podcasts that they could do a linguistics episode because we’d be happy to do that.

[Music]

Lauren: Gretchen, do you remember learning how to read?

Gretchen: Not really. I mean, I remember encountering the alphabet chart in my first year of school, but I already sort of knew the alphabet at that point. I guess there was some point when I didn’t know how to read, and there was some point when I did, but I don’t really have concrete memories of that. Do you remember learning how to read?

Lauren: I feel like I have more memories of learning how to write, just because that’s such a mechanical thing. I remember sitting there writing out a row of As. I definitely wrote the number “five” backward for way longer than I probably should have, which is a really common thing that happens when kids are learning to write because it is a combination of brain skills and fine motor skills. But reading in English is something I feel like I’ve always just been able to do. I mean, I guess in comparison learning to read Nepali, which is written in a different script – it’s written in the Devanagari script – I have more memories of that because I did that in my 20s. Even now, I still feel the real disconnect between being relatively able to chat and really struggling to read and write. I still have to put my finger under the words as I’m going through, whereas with English it just feels like the words are beaming straight into my brain because I learnt to read that language so early in my life.

Gretchen: Yeah, I read at this automatic level. I can’t see a sign that says, “Stop,” on it and not read it in Latin script. But in undergrad I took both Ancient Greek and Arabic. In Greek, I got to the point – because the script is sort of similar enough and I was familiar enough with the letters previously-ish – that I got to the point where I could very slowly sound out words as I was reading them out loud because we had to do a lot of reading aloud in Greek class. But in Arabic, I was very much at that hooked on phonics level where you’re like, /p/-/t/-/k/-/a/. There are a few words that I have as sight words in Arabic. One of them is the word for “and,” which is “waa”, and one of the words for “the,” which is “al”, and one of them is the word for “book” because “kitaab” just shows up all the time. But most of the words I had to painstakingly sound out each letter and then listen to myself as I was saying them. I’d be like, “Oh, it’s that word,” even if I knew it, which is this process that I must’ve gone through in English, but I don’t remember doing it for the Latin script.

Lauren: I think that is one of the things that makes it really hard for people who grow up in highly literate, highly educated societies to tease writing and reading apart from language. But actually, when you step back, you realise that writing is actually super weird.

Gretchen: It’s so weird! It’s this interesting – it really is a technology. It’s a thing you do on top of language to do stuff with language, but it’s not the language itself. There are thousands and possibly millions of languages that have never been written down in the history of humanity. We have no idea. We’ve never met a society of humans, or heard of a society of humans, without language. But those are spoken and signed languages, which are just kind of there. Writing, by contrast, was invented somewhere between 3 and 4 times in the history of humanity.

Lauren: That we know of.

Gretchen: That we know of.

Lauren: There might’ve been a society that did a very ephemeral form of snow writing that we have lost forever. But we have records of 3 or 4 times.

Gretchen: It’s been invented a handful of times. There are a few other cases where there are scripts that haven’t been deciphered by modern humans. Maybe they’re scripts, maybe they’re not – it’s not quite clear. But it’s definitely a handful of number of times. And then once other cultures come in contact with the technology of writing, they’re like, “Oh, this is cool. Let’s adapt this to our linguistic situation,” and it gets borrowed a heck of a lot. But it only got cemented a few times.

Lauren: It’s worth saying that “3 to 4” is a bit squishy because it’s not entirely clear if cuneiform, which is a very pointy form of writing from Babylonia, somehow inspired the Egyptian system that became what we know as the hieroglyphs or if they just happened around the same time by coincidence are something we may never really fully put together. That’s a very contested situation. That’s why we can’t even pin down the number of times we think it was invented.

Gretchen: Cuneiform is the one that’s made with the sharpened reed that you push into your clay tablets or, if you’re some people on the internet, into your gingerbread because there’s some really excellent examples of cuneiform gingerbread tablets people have made, which I just wanna – yeah, it’s really great. The Egyptian hieroglyphs people have seen. But yeah, it’s unclear whether they were in contact with each other and kind of heard of each other in a very loose sense and were inspired by each other because there was some amount of contact between those two areas, or if that was elsewhere. The other two – one is in Mesoamerica, in modern-day Mexico and that area, where they had a writing system there that, again, developed into lots of different scripts as it got borrowed from different areas, of which the best deciphered is the Mayan script from the 3rd Century BCE. There’s also the Olmec script, which is probably the oldest. The Zapotec script is also really old. There’s a bunch of scripts in the modern-day Mexico area that also developed independently.

Lauren: Then the final system arose in China around the Bronze Age a couple of thousand years BCE. Because this script was mostly found in its most earliest forms on oracle bones, it’s known as the “oracle bone” script.

Gretchen: What is an oracle bone?

Lauren: They are turtle bones that are used in divination.

Gretchen: Oh.

Lauren: Yeah.

Gretchen: And, again, the Chinese script, once it developed further, it was also, yeah, influenced a bunch of the other writing systems in the area.

Lauren: I find it super fascinating, with absolutely no historical knowledge or insight to bring to this, that in these three different places that were completely separate and going about their own cultural lives writing arose at a similar time around 3,000 to 4,000 years ago.

Gretchen: Yeah! You wonder what was in the water or something. Well, and it’s partially, I think, that there’s a certain level of writing makes it easier to do things like administrative bureaucracy if you’re trying to keep track of whether people paid their taxes or – it’s a very empire-y thing to have is to develop a writing system.

Lauren: Oh yeah. And it’s absolutely worth stating that it’s not like three people in these three different locations all woke up on the same Tuesday 4,000 years ago and were like, “I’m gonna write a long letter to someone.”

Gretchen: Did they have Tuesdays 4,000 years ago?

Lauren: What you see is this emergence of, “I’m just gonna make a couple of notes so I know how much money you owe me.” Some of the earliest cuneiform tablets we have are just, like, beer supply stock takes.

Gretchen: Like, “Three oxes and this many baskets of grain” or whatever.

Lauren: I feel like it’s very human to be like, “We love writing because it’s poetry, and I can send letters to people I love,” and it’s like, no, it’s actually, “I just wanted to know how much you owe me.”

Gretchen: The king just wants to know if these people have paid their taxes.

Lauren: So, what you get is – although I’m like, “Oh, it all happened within similar millennia,” it is actually centuries of development from just keeping tabs on a few items to a fully fleshed out written system.

Gretchen: What types of things people thought were important to write down – things like legal codes and stuff like that – one of the interesting things that I came across when I was looking this up was that there’s a person named Enheduanna, who is the earliest known poet whose name has been recorded. She was the high priestess of the goddess Inanna and the moon god Nanna in the Sumerian city-state of Ur. There we go. But authorship shows up much later than some anonymous civil servant keeping track of who’s registered which grain or some anonymous priest or something keeping track of who’s made various offerings. This idea of like, “Oh, you’re gonna write poetry,” is a step later.

Lauren: Filing your tax is what is actually one of the best links you have to those ancient civilisations.

Gretchen: There’s this Egyptian named Ptahhotep – that’s “Pta,” P-T, even though I know I’m not pronouncing it that way – he was a vizier in Egypt. He’s also one of the first named writers, the first book in history – or people call him the first book in history – because he wrote these Maxims of Ptahhotep. There may have been people who were writing on more perishable materials that didn’t get recorded and stuff like that. It’s this whole process of, “Okay, I’m going to draw these little diagrams of oxen or something or draw these little diagrams of this plant or this animal or whatever to record what types of things get recorded.” But then in order for it to actually become a writing system, there’s also this step of abstraction that has to happen. This is when you start saying, “Okay, well, the word for this very easily visualisable thing” – so I’m thinking of oxen because the word for “ox” in one of the Semitic languages, I think, was something like /alef/. And so, this “ox’s head” gets transformed into, “Okay, what if this is the sound at the beginning of the word for ‘ox’s head,’” which is /alef/, and it gets transformed into our modern letter A, which is “alpha.” “Alpha” in Greek is just the name of the letter. It’s not “an ox’s head” in Greek anymore because the Greeks borrowed it form the Phoenicians. This level of abstraction that has to go from, “Okay, I’m gonna draw an ox’s head” – if you turn a capital A upside down, it kind of looks like an ox’s head.

Lauren: It’s got its little horns, which are the feet of an A.

Gretchen: Yeah, and there’re all these related languages. You know, Arabic’s got alif at the beginning, even though it doesn’t look like an ox’s head anymore. Hebrew’s got an alef, and Greek’s got an alpha, and all of these alphabets that begin with A. It’s this level of abstraction where you can use this thing to stand for this thing that was associated with an ox.

Lauren: There’re a couple of main different ways that you can relate these abstract images that you’re putting down in writing to the language that you are trying to capture. Of course, being a linguistics podcast, I was gonna bring this straight back to the structure of language.

Gretchen: Well, I think it’s interesting to look at the structure of languages in different areas of the world, and how people reflect those in the writing systems that are developed for those languages. When they borrow a writing system for a language with a very different structure, they end up doing certain adaptations to account for not just like, “Okay, languages have different sounds,” but also those sounds are organised and structured in different ways with relationship to each other. The writing systems often reflect some of that history.

Lauren: The Latin alphabet that both of us are most familiar with has a very approximate correspondence between each character of the writing system and a sound in the language. And I say “approximate” because English spelling is a wonderful historical record of how some of those sound changes have changed over time. I’m just gonna keep this upbeat. You can fall down a giant well of English writing system problems, but to get to a point where the majority of letters have a pretty stable correspondence to sounds that we recognise as phones in the language, and that allows us to write out the words of English.

Gretchen: One of the things that’s true about a lot of the Indo-European languages is that they have a particular ratio between consonants and vowels in the words, where they have a fair bit of consonants in relationship to their vowels but not a ton. You can see this in the writing system because the writing system represents consonants and vowels separately. And yet, when the Greeks were borrowing the alphabet from the Phoenicians – Phoenician is a Semitic language like modern-day Arabic and Hebrew – that alphabet only had consonants in it – letters for consonants – because the vowels were not that important. This is still true of modern-day Semitic languages is they’re often written in writing systems that don’t represent the vowels or kind of optionally represent the short vowels, or sometimes they represent the long vowels, but they’re often written in writing systems where the vowels can be omitted. That’s not really a thing you can do very well in Indo-European languages and still have things understood because the vowels carry enough information that you need to represent them somehow.

Lauren: Even when you have a phonemic script, it’s not necessary to always represent all of the sounds to convey the language.

Gretchen: Right. Then conversely, there are other languages where the vowels are even more important and, in fact, every consonant comes with a vowel or virtually every consonant comes with a vowel. In those, you often get what are called “syllabaries,” where they represent one syllable at a time, because why bother with representing each of these things separately when in every context where you have a consonant there’s gonna be a nearby vowel – or in virtually every context there’s gonna be a nearby vowel – and so you can have a symbol that just represents the whole syllable there. That’s also a structure that doesn’t work very well for Indo-European languages because they don’t have that many vowels. There’s this spot of like they have important enough vowels that you need to represent the vowels somehow but not so important are vowels that you have to represent lots of vowels all the time, whereas languages like Japanese or Hindi – well, Hindi’s Indo-European, but it’s got more vowels, I guess.

Lauren: The Devanagari writing system is inherently focused on the syllable, which is a very different approach to reading. Each character of this writing system, if there’s no vowel specified, it just comes with a bonus vowel. It’s like, “Buy this consonant, get this free letter A sound.”

Gretchen: Right. That’s partly a feature of the writing system, but it can only be a feature of the writing system because it’s already a feature of the language. A similar thing goes for a language like Chinese, where a lot of things are based around a syllable.

Lauren: Then you can go a level of abstraction further where your character in the writing system represents a word-level thing and doesn’t have a direct relationship to the sound correspondence, which is what happens with the Chinese script.

Gretchen: I think it’s important to recognise that there is a phonetic component to Chinese characters. They often make use of – especially for words that are more abstract – it’s not just like, “Oh, here’s a bunch of little pictures that we’ve drawn,” because that’s not capable of conveying abstract concepts like grammatical particles and words for things that don’t come with easy pictures. And so, making use of, “Okay, a lot of our words are one or two syllables long, so here’s a word that’s relatively easy to visualise that sounds very similar to a word that is not as easy to visualise.” We can just add a thing to be like, “It sounds like this, but it’s got a meaning more related to this,” and you can be like, “Oh, it must be this more abstract word.” The classic example, which I’m definitely gonna do the tones wrong on, is that the word for “horse” is /ma/, and the word for mother is also /ma/ with a different tone, and you can add the little horse semantic component with the woman semantic component and be like, “Oh, it’s the word that sounds like ‘horse’ but has to do with something with a woman,” and then you end up with “mother.”

Lauren: This works for languages in China because they tend to be not as long as words in English. We like to add all these extra bits of morphology within our grammar, whereas, again, you get – not a direct rule force – but you get this general tendency where the writing system kind of fits with the vibe of the grammar of the language.

Gretchen: One example of that is in Japanese where they were heavily influenced by the Chinese script, but Japanese actually does have suffixes and other little grammatical words and things you need to change about words. They made some of the Chinese characters that had formerly only had semantic things into just like, “Oh, this makes this sound, and this makes this sound,” because they needed to be able to represent that morphological information that’s not super important in Chinese but is very important in Japanese. You end up adapting a script into something else when it gets borrowed in a different context. Another interesting example here is Farsi or Persian which is an Indo-European language that’s conventionally written with the same script as Arabic except it’s also had a couple of additional letters added because Persian has a P and Arabic doesn’t. They had to create a symbol for the sound P, which is why you get “Farsi” instead of “Parsi” because Arabic doesn’t pronounce that P. So, it makes the P into an F. Sometimes you get people adding additional letters like adding a letter for P. Sometimes you get adapting whole sets of a script.

Lauren: Sometimes you lose letters. English had distinct characters for /θ/ and /ð/ until it was technologically easier to just use the characters in the printing press that English had borrowed. It’s makes me a little bit sad. But also, it makes international people – maybe it’s a little bit easier.

Gretchen: We used to have a thorn for the /ð/ sound, but those early printing presses from continental Europe didn’t have thorns on them. I mean, Icelandic still has thorns. One of the things that I think is more interesting in the closer to modern era – not strictly modern era – is cultures and peoples that are familiar with the idea of writing yet take the idea of writing and say, “We’re gonna make our own homegrown script that actually works really well for our particular language.” One of my favourites is the Cherokee syllabary, which was invented by Sequoyah, who was a Cherokee man who didn’t know how to read in English, but he’d encountered the Latin-based writing system in English. He thought it was cool that the English speakers had this, and so he locked himself in shed for several years and came up with a syllabary for Cherokee. Some of the symbols on the Cherokee syllabary look something like Latin letters, but they stand for completely different things because he wasn’t just learning to read from English. Some of them are completely different. This became hugely popular among the Cherokee in the area. There were newspapers in this in the 1800s. There was very high literacy in Cherokee country. It was really popular. It’s even still found on modern-day computer keyboards and stuff like this. You can get Windows and stuff in Cherokee. It’s this interesting example of that’s one where we can say a particular person was inspired by writing systems but also created his own thing that became very popular.

Lauren: The thing that makes Cherokee so compelling to me is not only did he come up with an incredibly elegant, well thought out, suits the language system, but that he actually got uptake as well – that the community decided to use this as the writing system that they would learn to read and write in, and that it had uptake. It’s very easy to come up with ways of improving the technology of writing but, as I think you’re fond of saying, language is very much an open-source project. You can come up with really elegant solutions, but if no one else is gonna take them up, that’s not gonna be very helpful. So, Sequoyah’s work is doubly amazing for that reason.

Gretchen: People actually made printing presses with the Cherokee symbols and were using those. Another interesting case of this disconnect between a person or people coming up with a system and actual uptake of it is Korean, which has what I think linguists generally agree is just the best writing system.

Lauren: Yeah, we’re like, “Writing as a technology is amazing. All writing systems are equally valid. But Korean is particularly great.”

Gretchen: “But Korean’s really cool.” The thing that’s cool about it from a completely biased linguist perspective is that the writing system of Korean, Hangul, the script, is not just based on individual sounds or phonemes, it’s actually at a more precise level based on the shape of the mouth and how you configure the mouth in order to make those particular sounds. There’s a lot of, okay, here are these closely related sounds – let’s say you make them all with the lips – and you just add an additional stroke to make it this other related sound that you make with the lips. Between P and B and M, which are all made with the lips, those symbols have a similar shape. It’s not an accident. It’s very systematic between that and the same thing with T and D and N. Those have a similar shape because they have this relationship. It’s very technically beautiful from an analysis of language perspective.

Lauren: I love this so much that when we were prototyping a potential script for the Aramteskan language for the Shadowscent books, when I was constructing that language, I also started constructing a script that we never used anywhere, but it was helpful to think about how the characters would write and what writing implements they would use. If you look at the script, you’ll notice that the letter P and B are very similar, but B has an additional stroke. T and D are very similar, but D has an additional stroke. Very much feature driven. And then for the vowels – it’s roughly a quadrant in the writing space – the /i/ vowel is in the top left of the quadrant, the /u/ vowel is in the top right of the quadrant, the /a/ vowel is in the bottom left of the quadrant.

Gretchen: So clever!

Lauren: It was actually just for really selfish reasons that I decided to go with a feature-based system, and that is that it was easier for me to remember if I used the features of the language and made sure that the voiced sound was always identical to the voiceless one but just with an additional stroke. It meant that I only had to remember half the characters.

Gretchen: That’s very elegant. The easy to remember bit is also true about the Hangul script because it’s got so much regularity. The famous quote about Hangul is something like “A wise man can learn it in an afternoon and a foolish man can learn it in a day.”

Lauren: So catchy!

Gretchen: There’s probably a better version of that quote. What’s interesting about it from an adoption perspective is that Hangul was invented by Sejong the Great.

Lauren: Appropriately named.

Gretchen: Who has a national holiday now because of the script. But it was created in 1443. It’s not quite clear whether it was him personally doing everything or whether he had an advisory committee of linguists, but it’s really extremely well-adapted to the linguistic situation of Korean in particular. Even though it’s just also really cool for how it represents the inside of the mouth, but it’s really well adapted for Korean. It was invented in 1443, but it wasn’t popularised in use until several centuries later because for a long time Korean was also using, like Japanese, this adapted version of the Chinese script or adapted version of the Japanese script because of the cultural influences. In the early 20th century, they were doing a much bigger literacy push in Korea to be like, “What want everyone to learn how to read.” And they said, “Okay, we’re gonna have an orthographic reform, and we’re gonna use this script which has this very nice historical pedigree but also is much easier to learn than this complicated thing that we had done that wasn’t really designed for Korean.” It’s got this historical antecedence but also it came back in the modern-day. Now, everything in Korean is written in it. It’s because it’s really easy to learn how to read and write in. The historical uptake wasn’t immediate. It wasn’t during King Sejong’s lifetime where they were like, “Oh, yeah, now we’re all gonna use his script,” people were like, “Okay, king, you’ve got this hobby,” but it wasn’t popularised until later.

Lauren: Even when there is really strong abstraction, humans have this unavoidable tendency to think about the relationship between sounds and other senses. In sound-based writing systems – Suzy Styles, who has been on the podcast before and works on perception across the senses, did an experiment alongside Nora Turoman where they looked at whether people can guess, for writing systems they’re not familiar with, which character was the /u/ sound and which character was the /i/ sound. They found that for a whole variety of scripts there is a much higher than chance – because there’s only two choices. If was completely arbitrary, it would be 50/50. But people do tend, across the evolution of sound-based writing systems, to have /u/ that has a more rounded, bigger sound has properties in the writing system that re-occur. People continue to unavoidably link the sounds of the language to the written properties of the script in a very low-level way. I’ll link to that study. It’s really great.

Gretchen: That’s interesting. It’s not gonna be 100%, but there’s this slightly better than chance relationship.

Lauren: Yeah.

Gretchen: Visual representation of physical information is also something that shows up in ways of writing signed languages.

Lauren: Yeah. Everything we’ve talked about so far, I think, we’ve talked about for spoken languages, but it is possible to write signed languages as well.

Gretchen: There are several different systems in place. Some of them are language-specific like, “Oh, this is the system for writing ASL in particular,” and some of them are kind of like your linguist, International Phonetic Alphabet trying to provide a language-agnostic way of writing signed languages for research purposes but, in a way, that’s sort of impractical, like the IPA for general use. There’s an interesting set of systems. There isn’t as much agreement among representers of signed languages in writing which amounts of information are crucial information that has to be written down and which are optional bits of information that the reader can fill in from their own knowledge of the language and the signer.

Lauren: I think it’s worth flagging that that’s not just a discussion that arises for signed languages. It’s just that those conversations got thrashed out for spoken languages four millennia ago, and we weren’t around when people were arguing about whether intonation had any role in the – or people probably were arguing because it was an emerging thing.

Gretchen: Well, when people were arguing about like, “Do we write vowels or not,” which was a big thing. Do we write vowels? Do we write intonation? And punctuation followed quite a bit after – you know, punctuation wasn’t as much of a thing for several of the early centuries and millennia of writing. They didn’t do punctuation. There’s some level of ongoingness that’s still there. If you think about the internet efforts to try to write tone of voice very precisely and communicate sarcasm and irony and rhetorical questions very precisely, there’s some level of ongoing debate that’s still happening in the spoken language context but not nearly as much as is still happening in the signed language context.

Lauren: Also, just because of the way that signed language communities tend to be embedded within larger spoken language communities, people who sign as a primary language tend to also be educated in the mainstream spoken language, and so literacy gets developed in, say, a language like English.

Gretchen: I think that’s the case for a lot of smaller spoken languages as well where sometimes there’s this imperative of, “Okay, we want to be able to write things to each other” or something, but if there hasn’t been a history of a lot of published literature in that language that you’re trying to read, then it becomes a question of, “Should we teach this in school,” because there isn’t literature there, even though there would be oral literature. It becomes a chicken and egg problem of which comes first, or which do you start teaching first, when you’re constantly comparing stuff against a few very large spoken languages that have this very long writing tradition. It shows up in languages with a newer writing tradition.

Lauren: Education systems have a massive influence there. My grandmother, actually her strongest written language is German. Even though she and her sister speak to each other in Polish, they would write to each other in German because that’s the language they had been educated to write in. Even with people who don’t speak minority languages, the influence of the education system there is so massive.

Gretchen: Reading and writing, they’re separate skills even though they’re often taught together. Sometimes you can read a language that you can’t write or something like that. But it’s a big question. With signed languages, because video technology is now available, if we’d had good audio recording technology 4,000 years ago, the pressure to develop writing systems for spoken languages might not have been as strong – probably wouldn’t have been as strong – even though there are other useful things that writing can do even in the audio-video era. It’s easier to be like, “Well, you can just make a video of the signer,” and then you’d know exactly what they were trying to say and exactly how they wanted to say it. You wouldn’t have this level of abstraction of are you gonna try to write it down in a way that imperfectly represents what a person is gonna do when they’re producing it. It is still interesting looking at some of the signed language writing systems. Some of them, like Stokoe notation and HamNoSys, which stands for “Hamburg Notation System,” they try to very physically represent the characteristics of the signer – where their hands are, where their face is, and things like that. There’s another one that I can’t find the name of that is based on the ASCII alphabet, so you can type it into search engine boxes, which has some advantages as well but represents things more abstractly. It’s got this link with Korean, which was representing this very physical aspect of what the mouth is doing. Several of the signed language writing systems like Stokoe and HamNoSys also have this very physical representation what the body’s doing when it’s being produced. But I think they’re more popular among researchers than they are among actual D/deaf users who tend to use video a lot.

Lauren: I encounter Stokoe and HamNoSys in the gesture and signed linguistics literature. I haven’t really seen them too much outside of that.

Gretchen: I think that it’s easy to conflate a language with its writing system because we’re so used to thinking of English as sort of inextricably linked to the Latin alphabet. But there isn’t a reason, in theory, why you couldn’t write English in the Greek alphabet or in the Arabic alphabet or in a very adapted version of Chinese characters where you’d have to do a lot of adaptation. The same thing is true when you write languages that don’t originally use the Latin alphabet and you have romanisations of them. Writing systems are just as much political and contextual. Some of them have this very tight structural relationship to the properties of the languages they represent and some of them have looser relationships because they’ve been adapted to it later.

Lauren: It’s this slightly looser relationship to language as it’s spoken or signed that means that linguists don’t always include writing systems in, say, an Introduction to Linguistics course. We don’t often talk about writing systems. But when we were putting together the Crash Course series, we ended up making writing the topic of our final episode for the series.

Gretchen: I think partly because people are really interested in it, so why not do something about writing, and also because I think that you can use writing systems as a window into some of the interesting structural features of different languages and how the writing systems represent that. As somebody who’s really interested in internet linguistics and the rise of informal writing and how we represent tone of voice and things like that in modern-day writing, and that’s still a moving target evolutionarily speaking, I think it’s interesting to give that linguistic lens on writing systems even though they are imperfect representations of the languages that they represent.

Lauren: “Writing Systems” is Video 16 of Crash Course linguistics, which is wrapping up this month. If you’ve been holding out to watch all 16 of those episodes, you’ll be able to do so very soon or perhaps even now thanks to the temporal vagueness of podcasts.

Gretchen: Crash Course is the YouTube series that we’ve been working on basically all of 2020. It’s especially popular with high school or undergraduate teaching. If you know people that age, or who teach people that age, that may be a useful thing to send to people. We hope that people find it useful as a resource for self-teaching or for instructing in various capacities.

[Music]

Lauren: For more Lingthusiasm and links to all the things mentioned in this episode, go to lingthusiasm.com. You can listen to us on Apple Podcasts, Google Podcasts, Spotify, SoundCloud, YouTube, or wherever else you get your podcasts. You can follow @Lingthusiasm on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, and Tumblr. You can get IPA scarves, “Not judging your grammar, just analysing it” mugs, and other Lingthusiasm merch at lingthusiasm.com/merch. I tweet and blog as Superlinguo.

Gretchen: I can be found as @GretchenAMcC on Twitter, my blog is AllThingsLinguistic.com, and book about internet language is called Because Internet. Have you listened to all the Lingthusiasm episodes and you wish there were more? You can access to 48 bonus episodes to listen to right now at patreon.com/lingthusiasm or follow the links from our website. Patrons also get access to our Discord chat room to talk with other linguistics fans – like, do you remember learning how to read – and other rewards as well as helping keep the show ad-free. Recent bonus topics include an AMA with a lexicographer and our favourite stories and anecdotes that we just didn’t have time for in some of the earlier episodes. Can’t afford to pledge? That’s okay, too. We also really appreciate it if you could recommend Lingthusiasm to anyone who needs a little more linguistics in their life. And, hey, tell your other favourite podcasts that they could a linguistics episode, and get us on! It’d be fun.

Lauren: Lingthusiasm is created and produced by Gretchen McCulloch and Lauren Gawne. Our Senior Producer is Claire Gawne, our Editorial Producer is Sarah Dopierala, and our music is “Ancient City” by The Triangles.

Gretchen: Stay lingthusiastic!

[Music]

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

[fanfictionaries]

The Seduction of Sirius Black - Part 1

Pairing: Hermione Granger x Sirius Black

Summary:

Hermione loves her boyfriend, but there’s just one little problem -- she’s hopelessly attracted to Sirius Black. 

Warnings: Swearing, Smut/18+ NSFW, Angst, Ron bashing (sorry) 

Author’s Note: Posting some old stuff! Honestly, editing it has been a nice lead back into really writing. Very cathartic! 

Also, apologies for the Ron bashing in this story. I know it’s a stupid trope and to a certain extent I really enjoy Ron as a character, buuuuut I’m using it as a cheap way to move plot. 

ALSO, this is obviously a AU where Sirius didn’t die in the Department of Mysteries. 

ALSO (and this is the last one I swear), I AM a big fan of Wolfstar but I also have daddy issues and find Sirius Black extremely attractive and this is my tumblr so I can write the stories I want I guess. Haha Not to mention, Sirius Black gives BIG bisexual energy.  

MASTERLIST

*** 

Hermione didn’t really know when it had happened – this attraction to Sirius Black. It wasn’t as if she had woken up one day with the sudden urge to jump across the table and shag the older wizard into the next life. The whole thing had occurred much more gradually than that, she supposed. However, despite all of the trivial aspects of her…situation, Hermione chose instead to focus purely on the fact that he was entirely off limits. For many reasons. There was no way anyone in her close-knit circle of friends would be okay with her becoming entangled with a man more than twice her age and who also happened to be her best friend’s god father. It would be unacceptable. It would be impractical. Most of all it would be highly inappropriate as she was currently dating her other best friend, Ronald Weasley.

She supposed the attraction was inevitable to a certain degree. At the beginning, nearly a year and half ago, things like physical attraction were far from her mind. She’d just started her new position at the Ministry, Harry and Ron were training to be Aurors, the war had just come to an end and thus her life was a whirlwind of people and places. But over time things slowed down. Ronald was stationed away on official Auror business more and more often, leaving very little time for him to visit her and when he did come back, he had to split his time between her and his large family. Harry, having waited for Ginny to finish her final year at Hogwarts, had gone and married her the summer after and for all intents and purposes abandoned her. Harry…

It was really all Harry’s fault. Or at least that’s what Hermione liked to think whenever she felt her heart skip and her pulse slip between her thighs in Sirius Black’s presence. It had been Harry’s idea for Hermione to move into Grimmauld Place with him and Sirius after the war. Family, it seemed, had taken an important role in everyone’s lives when Lord Voldemort fell for the final time. All of the Weasley children had moved back to their childhood home of the Burrow – even Charlie much to everyone’s great surprise and delight. Tonks and Remus moved in with her mother and father, Andromeda and Theodore, to bask in the cheer of their newborn baby Teddy. And Harry had moved in with Sirius. Everyone had felt the need to be closer than ever to the ones that they loved, and Hermione completely understood that need. In fact, if she had had a family to go to, she would have moved in with them as well. But her parents were still in Australia somewhere, the location even unknown to herself as she’d designed it that way. Harry, being fully aware of this fact, insisted that she move in with him and Sirius. Hermione had been fully prepared to get her own flat in London. But after a bit of prodding she’d accepted Harry’s offer, secretly grateful that her best friend was so kind and thoughtful. Now, she probably cursed him name at least five times a day.

Hermione had been happy for him and Ginny when they announced their engagement. She’d cried not only when Ginny asked her to be her maid of honor, but also when the two had said their ‘I do’s. However, Harry moved out of Grimmauld Place following their marriage and subsequently left her to live with Sirius Black all by herself. So now she sat in the quaint little kitchen of the Black home, sipping her morning tea, and trying incredibly hard to keep her attention on her book rather than glance up at the rugged wizard sitting across from her.

“Hmpf” Sirius let out the little sound of surprise before continuing, “Would you look at that. Sources say that while Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, announces no final decisions have been made in regard to the recent Magical Creature Equality Act proposed last month, there are certain voices in the Ministry that are persuading not only the members of the Wizengamot, but the Minister himself to vote yes for magical creature equality.” He read the words aloud, peaking over his paper at her and raising his eyebrows. “I wonder who those certain voices or voice is…” he mused humorously.

It was no secret that shortly after being appointed a position in the Ministry department of Magical Creatures, Hermione had gone about being a personal activist for Magical Creature rights. Merlin, she had written almost the entire Act herself. Her hand still cramped at the thought of the hours she spent in her office and the library at Grimmauld Place scribbling away with her quill.

“No idea,” Hermione responded, feigning ignorance but blushing all the same in embarrassment. She kept her eyes on the pages of her book but found no matter how many times she read and reread the same paragraph she couldn’t retain it. Slowly her eyes shifted to the man in front of her. His gaze was fixed on the paper and so she was free to take him in. He had just showered, his wavy brown hair hanging damp to his shoulders. It made him look, in her opinion, especially delectable that morning. Hermione felt herself blush even deeper at the lewd thoughts threatening to enter her mind before looking back down at her book and scolding herself.

“So, when is Ronald coming for a visit again? Need me to clear off any time soon?” Sirius asked, sparking up conversation after the long bout of silence.

“Unfortunately, he won’t be back till next month,” she sighed, ignoring the second half of Sirius’s question.

“Well that’s not too bad I suppose—” Sirius smiled warmly and set down his paper as he stood up “—It gives you plenty of time to focus on getting the Ministry on board with your Act before you’re…distracted.” Sirius added the last part with a teasing implication not lost on Hermione.

“My Act?” Hermione asked, raising an eyebrow jokingly as she stood up as well and took her teacup to the sink. She grabbed the sponge to begin washing up when Sirius took it from her hand.

“I can do the washing up. You’re going to be late for work. Besides, it’s not like I work or anything. Might as well do something productive today,” he stated dryly, turning on the tap.

“Hmm, yes. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. You’ve become quite the lay-about. When are you going to get a job and start contributing to the household?” Hermione asked cheekily.

“Lay-about? Need I remind you that this is my house that you live in, rent free. You’re lucky a kind old man like me has taken a liking to you, or you’d be on the streets, kitten,” Sirius said, flicking some water off his fingertips in her direction.

“More like taken pity on me—” Hermione shook her head “—and you’re far from an old man, Sirius. I swear, you’d like people to think you’re closer to eighty than twenty!” She exited the kitchen and slipped into her heels next to the front door.

“Mind picking up some milk on your way home, kitten? We’re almost out!” Sirius called out to her, ignoring her statement on his age. Hermione tried not to focus on the way her stomach flipped in response to Sirius using his nickname for her for a second time that morning.

“Sure thing!” she called back before exiting the front door and apparating the moment she hit the sidewalk.

Hermione found it very difficult to work that day. The summer heat had become abysmal, proving to be quite the sticky, humid season, and of course that meant the Ministry’s cooling charms were on the fritz. By the time the day was over, Hermione’s hair had grown three times its size. Catching her reflection in a Ministry window, Hermione had gasped at its state. Even she hadn’t known it could get that big. In addition, her silk blouse that she had tucked into a polyester pencil skirt had become damp and uncomfortable from the sweat that accumulated on her body throughout the day.  And even after casting multiple drying spells to herself and her clothes, there was still nothing she could do about her hair. To add to her physical discomfort, she also struggled with a mental discomfort as well. Ron had been plaguing her mind all day long.

Ronald Weasley. Her oldest friend, now boyfriend. It hadn’t been a shock to anyone when they had gotten together after the war had ended. It had almost been expected in fact. She’d liked him since third year and aside from his short tryst with Lavender Brown, it had been obvious they would be together. Hermione loved Ron, she really did, but he was gone so often. Gone often and when he was home things felt…off. His affection seemed to have waned and Hermione was left thinking that perhaps it had something to do with her. Every time he chose to kiss her cheek as opposed to her lips or pat her leg friendly instead of holding her hand Hermione felt a little blow to her confidence. Bitterly she thought of how he and Lavender had been all over each other sixth year. She certainly wouldn’t enjoy having Ron’s tongue shoved down her throat in broad daylight, but surely, it’d be nice to have him show a bit of affection. In the beginning he’d been much more enthusiastic. They would often sneak off for a cheeky snog and hands often lingered under tables. They’d even gone all the way. It had been romantic and sweet, and Ron had certainly enjoyed himself. Or at least she thought he had. But now she wasn’t so sure. Maybe she’d been rubbish at it and he didn’t know how to tell her. Maybe he just didn’t find her attractive anymore. She had put on a bit of weight in the past year and a half. Hermione figured it was for the best as she was no longer starving to death on the run from Voldemort and his Death Eaters. But now when she looked in the mirror her eyes focused for too long on the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips, the thickness of her thighs, and the softness of her stomach.

Despite this possibility, Hermione couldn’t help but feel guilty about her lustful thoughts involving Sirius. She often tried to reason with herself that it was perfectly normal to feel such base emotions. Everyone had them and as long as she didn’t act on them, she was fine. She was just lonely, and Sirius was there.

Resolving to speak with Ron about her concerns when he returned in a week, Hermione shook the troubling thoughts from her head and continued down Diagon Alley, intending to just pop by the small corner store at the end for some milk and maybe some ice-cream for later. She needed a small pick-me-up after the day she’d had. Jogging the last few steps to the corner store, Hermione pulled open the heavy door and sighed happily as the cooling charms inside enveloped her. She wiped her forehead with her arm and headed to the back of the store where the freezer section was. The store was practically deserted aside from a single witch staring at the ice pops with a heavy look of concentration. Hermione walked up next to her to stare at the ice-cream choices and smiled when she spotted the Rocky Road. It was Ron’s favorite.

“It’s a scorcher out there, innit?” commented the witch, her thick London accent coming through endearingly sweet. Hermione looked to her left and took in the girl. She was thin and tan with beautiful golden hair tied up into a long ponytail. She had a friendly, heart-shaped face and sparkly green eyes. Something about her seemed familiar – Hermione must have seen her somewhere before.

“I’m practically melting,” agreed Hermione, shaking her head, and grabbing the Rocky Road, thinking she would have that tonight rather than her usual Mint Chocolate-Chip.

“Any fun plans for the heat?” the pretty blonde asked casually, grabbing a box of grape ice pops and a carton of Rocky Road ice-cream as well.

“Not really. Probably just go home and cast as many cooling charms as possible—” Hermione crinkled her nose and quirked the corner of her mouth in a wry grin “—Yourself?”

“Me and my boyfriend are planning a nice night in. He’s just got back from assignment with the Ministry. He’s an Auror, so we’re doing a bit of celebrating before he has to go back.” The girl smiled, her voice heavy with adoration.

“How nice! My boyfriend’s an Auror as well.”

“Really?” the girl asked, eyes lighting up.

“Yes, he’s actually away on assignment right now. I wonder if they know—” Hermione had been about to ask if perhaps their respective partners were familiar with each other when a voice called out from the end of the aisle.

“Babe, they didn’t have the crisps you like, but—” Basket hanging from one hand and a bag of Salt and Vinegar crisps in the other, Ron stopped dead in his tracts at the sight of Hermione. His eyes grew wide, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “’Mione?”

Hermione stared back too, but unlike Ron she was unable to find her voice. Instead she just stared. Ron was back from assignment? Why hadn’t he told her? What was he doing there? Why was he calling this girl babe when—

“Wait—‘Mione? As in Hermione Granger?” the witch asked, taking a step back from Hermione and towards Ron. She looked at Hermione with wide, incredulous eyes. “Oh my gosh, I feel so foolish. I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you.”

Hermione looked on in confusion as she watched the witch hook her arm in Ron’s and smile politely back at her.

“Hermione,” Ron said her name again, but Hermione was too busy taking the two of them in. She felt like an absolute fool. The carton of Rocky Road slipped from her fingers and landed on the linoleum floor of the shop with a dull thud. Then, in a panic, Hermione turned on the spot and fled, hearing Ron’s call after her mix with a small ‘Oh my’ from the pretty blonde witch.

There were a million places Hermione could have gone. There were a million places Hermione should have gone. All of them much better choices than the seedy little muggle bar she found just outside of Diagon Alley. She should have gone home. Or to Harry. Or to Ginny. The smart choice was to tell someone what had happened and to talk it out. But instead, she spent the next four hours doing her best to get well and truly pissed. Drinking wasn’t like Hermione and certainly the first glass of whiskey had been hard to get down. But she found after the first two, she hardly tasted the biting liquid anymore and the dulling effect of the alcohol was just so nice.

It was just past ten in the evening when Hermione left the bar, tipping this way and that way in her heels and feeling exceptionally light-headed. The night had cooled down and the sun had just set, allowing Hermione to feel some semblance of relief as she walked down the street to a nearby alleyway. It probably wasn’t the best idea to apparate when she was so inebriated, but Hermione wasn’t really thinking in that moment. She just knew she didn’t want to walk. Thankfully, she managed to land, although very ungracefully, in front of Grimmauld Place without splinching herself.

“Shit,” Hermione whispered followed by a snort of laughter when she tripped over the threshold after finally getting her key in the keyhole. The world had gone all wobbly it had taken her ages to find the right key and get it in the lock. Closing the front door as quietly behind her as possible Hermione found herself overtaken by the strong urge to laugh again. Hermione Granger was well and truly sloshed and for some reason she found that to be very funny.

“Hermione?”

Hermione jumped at her name, letting out a little shriek as she turned around and found Sirius standing in the hall. The hall was dark, but light streamed out through the doorway to the kitchen illuminating him in long shadows where he stood, arms crossed.

“Sirius—” Hermione held a hand to her heart, feeling it beat wildly in her chest. “I didn’t think you’d still be up.”

“It’s past eleven, where have you been?” There was a strange tone to his voice, like he was angry with her but also like he was speaking to a small, frightened animal.

Past eleven? How long had it taken her to unlock the front door?

“I was—” Hermione tripped on the rug, catching herself on the wall and letting out another little laugh “—I stopped and had a little post-work drink.” Her words were slurred, even to her own ears and she laughed again, holding a hand over mouth in embarrassment. “Well, maybe one or two post-work drinks.”

“Are you drunk, kitten?” Sirius asked, sounding amused now.

Hermione continued down the hall, getting closer and closer to Sirius. Each step was a new struggle. A trip here, a wobble there. But Hermione didn’t care. In fact, she felt…good. Free almost. “Maaaaybe,” she drawled, giggling like a small child as she closed the last bit of distance and swayed before Sirius.

He stared down at her, arms now uncrossed as he seemed to be trying to figure out whether he should be amused or concerned. Hermione’s mouth went dry. Now that she was closer, she could see him more clearly and Merlin did she see him. There was a shadow of facial hair across his square jaw, and down his neck. Hermione found herself wondering what it felt like – whether it was soft or rough. Gaze traveling down the thickness of his neck she found his upperhalf bare, the only thing covering his torso, an open robe revealing the inky black of his tattoos. She loved his tattoos. They made him look dangerous. Mysterious. Hot. His chest was free of hair, the lean muscles dipping low and high like delicious hills and valleys she’d so like to explore. In fact…she reached out a hand, her body working opposite of a clear head as her fingertips tentatively touched the smooth planes of Sirius’ chest. He was warm.

He went sort of rigid under her touch, but Hermione barely noticed. Instead she was too entranced by the feel of him. Had she ever touched him before? She didn’t think she had. Her gazed traveled further south and with it, so did her fingertips. Ghosting down the center of his chest from sternum to bellybutton, she blushed furiously at the sight of thick dark hair starting at his navel and disappearing below a pair of pajama pants that sat dangerously low on his hips. She swallowed thickly, her breath coming in thick hot puffs as her hand traveled further, barely brushing the thick hair before a hand shot out and grasped her wrist.

Hermione gasped, looking up suddenly into the stormy eyes of Sirius Black before her. He lifted her wrist to shoulder height, pulling her forward slightly as he did it. The distance between them closed even more.

“Kitten.” It was a warning. Hermione knew it. But for some reason her whiskey-idled brain didn’t care. She liked the risk behind his tone. Her body practically purred at the sound of his special nickname just for her – the irony of that sentiment lost on her in the moment.

“Yes, Sirius?” she responded, her voice coming out deep and breathy and dare she say seductive? Hermione had never sounded like that before. She kind of liked it. Looking up at him with her best attempt at innocent eyes, she waited for him to say something.

Sirius stared down at her, his face a stony mask, but a war was raging behind his eyes. Hermione’s gaze flickered from the stormy grey of his eyes to the fullness of his lips and back up. With a deep breath and a long swallow that made his Adam’s apple bob in a mouth-watering way, Sirius finally spoke.

“You should go to bed.”

Hermione huffed, a bit like a petulant child but not quite as bratty. “What if I don’t want to?”

“It wasn’t really a suggestion.” His tone was dark, and it sent a surprising thrill through Hermione’s body. Her center throbbed. Her breath hitched. Maybe it was all in her head – this thick tension between them. Or maybe it wasn’t. It was certainly taboo, this…energy radiating between them. But Hermione didn’t really care because in that moment she made the sudden realization that she could have this. She could have this and not be the bad guy. Ron was the bad guy. All those months of guilt for feeling basic human attraction and he was off shagging some beautiful, leggy blonde. But now…she didn’t have to feel guilty anymore.

Before she could stop herself, Hermione lifted up onto her toes and closed the distance between them. Their lips pressed together for a moment, firm and warm. When Sirius failed to respond, Hermione’s stomach dropped, and she made the mortifying realization that he didn’t want to kiss her. She was just beginning to pull away, an apology poised on her lips when the grip on her wrist vanished and reappeared around her waist, pulling her in tightly as Sirius’s lips claimed her own.

It all happened very quickly. A meshing of lips and teeth and tongue that left her hot, sticky, and out of breath. Before she knew it, she was being pushed up against the wall of the hallway, her back and head hitting the plaster hard, but she did not care. The only thing she could focus on was the feeling of Sirius’s lips on her own and the hot cloud of their shared breath.

His hands remained wrapped tightly around her torso, gripping the material of her blouse in his fists, but Hermione’s hands were everywhere. She wanted to touch all of him, and she was determined to do so. It wasn’t until her hands wound themselves around his neck and threaded up into his hair, gripping the strands vice-like, that Sirius broke. He let out a ragged groan before moving his hands from around her waist to her front. Grabbing the material of her blouse in each hand, he gave a great tug, not even bothering to try and unbutton it. Hermione gasped at the sound of ripping fabric and the pop of her blouse buttons. Cool air brushing her sensitive skin and the hitch in his breath made Hermione acutely aware that she was now bare to him from the waist up. She remembered the bra she’d chosen to wear that day – a thin and see-through number that cupped her breasts perfectly but left little to the imagination. He was kissing her neck then, sucking and biting in ways that left her breathless and needy. His hands covered her breasts, kneading and stroking in a gentle way that contrasted so strikingly with how he was attacking her neck.

The only thing Hermione could do in that moment was hold on for dear life. Her heart felt like it was going to beat out of her chest and when Sirius’s mouth traveled south to envelope of her nipples, she thought that actually had. She let out a low, needy moan and arched into him. Feeling bold, she slid a hand from his hair, down the firm planes of his chest and to the front of his pajama bottoms. At the feel of his hard length she whined, high and breathy. Her hand had been there for barely a moment before Sirius tore away from her, distancing himself the width of the hallway. Hermione leaned against the wall behind her, needing the stability of it to stay upright due to her still drunk nature and the shaky state of her legs.

“What?” she asked, looking at the panting man across from her with confusion.

Sirius stared at her for a moment, chest falling up and down as pieces of his thick dark hair hung in his face. Hermione tried to focus but the only thing she could think of was how much she wanted to brush that hair from his gorgeous features so she could see him more clearly.

“You’re drunk. You should go to bed,” said Sirius, his voice low and gravely and filled with an edge of regret.

“But—” Hermione hesitated, confused at his response “—I don’t understand.” She crossed the distance between them, kissing up the older wizard’s neck. Did he think she didn’t want this?

“Kitten.” Sirius’s voice was strained, but he still managed to grab Hermione’s wandering hands and push her away again. Hermione gasped at his rough touch as he pulled her off of him. “I said you should go to bed.”

Hermione stared up at him in shock for a moment before a surprising rage filled her. Was she not good enough for him? Was she not pretty enough? Did he not enjoy what they’d been doing? The hot sting of angry tears reached the inner corners of her eyes and she tore out of Sirius’s grip before stomping up the stairs towards her room with a huff.

Part 2

[pinkanonwrites]

love me, please love me

Akaashi x Reader

Happy belated Valentine's day! I wanted to write a bittersweet piece for the occasion, but I caved right at the end and made it 100% sweet instead. Basically Akaashi is a delight and I wanted to see him pine, and pine hard. I hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it!

(also the song title is from a song of the same name by Michel Polnareff, which I highly recommend listening to in order to get that yearning vibe)

Akaashi had already decided by himself at an early point in his professional career that writing romance, for all intents and purposes, was easy.

Sure, there would always be details and characters and overarching, more interesting plot to work out, but the overall premise was always the same. Two characters with undeniable chemistry, kept from admitting their true feelings because of Person X or Situation Y, rinse and repeat misunderstandings and 'almosts' until the manga was ready to end. Maybe even leave room afterwards for a cute, episodic spin-off.

Easy.

The real world, however, rarely offered such simplicities.

For example, Akaashi was in love with an office worker whose desk was once across from his, and he was pretty sure they didn't even know his name.

It's not like he'd known he was going to fall for you. How could he have? There was no chorus of angels, no heavenly light from above as the world seemed to fall into slow-motion. No. On his first day in the office you had been late, stumbled in with messy hair and a haphazard stack of manuscripts that you smacked down onto your desk, and had nearly tipped your overfull coffee mug all over the floor. He could hardly call it a good first impression. And yet…

The other workers on your floor seemed to hold you in a very high regard. He'd barely been there a week when one of his concerns had been directed to your desk.

"Ah, excuse me. Takaoda-san told me you could help with this?"

Your attention snapped up from your screen to Akaashi and the folder tucked in his hands. Noticeably confused for a split second, it took a moment before realization dawned on you.

"Oh! You're the guy who just joined! Kashi-san, right? Yeah, I can help you with that!"

You didn't even give him time to correct your butchering of his name.

Not only had you solved his problem, you'd scooted your chair to the side a bit and motioned for him to drag his own over and seat himself beside you, carefully walking him through the entire process.

"There you are! I'll just email this over to you so you have the file on your computer then."

"Yes, thank you very much."

"No problem! If you have any more questions, I'd be happy to help you out."

Your kindness, it seemed, extended to the other members of your office floor as well. Not a day would go by without Akaashi seeing at least one person hunkered down beside you at your desk in various states of disarray, waiting for your kind and composed words to soothe their frazzled minds. Clearly you were a cherished member of this office.

He was sure that the warm stirrings beginning in his chest were no more than admiration at that point.

Mostly sure.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

As his status with the editing company and his understanding of the industry began to rise, Akaashi was swiftly moved up to higher departments and higher pressures, longer meetings and tighter deadlines. He no longer spent as much time on the main floor where he'd started. But he still noticed you.

You'd been the first on the floor to cheer for him when it was announced that he'd be moving to his own private office. You patted him on the back and wished him well with a big, bright smile that made his stomach do something funny he tried to ignore. Occasionally you bumped into each other in the elevator, the break room, in meeting rooms as clusters of overworked people filed in and out.

And sometimes, on darkened evenings when he was leaving the building in the dead of night, he'd see you still sat at your desk. Alone in the office space, you continued to tap away at your keyboard. He'd never considered that for all the time you spent helping others with their problems, that was time unspent solving your own.

"Kashi-san?"

He faltered a bit under your tired gaze, lurking in the doorway of the floor, having finally caught your eye. He didn't even remember to correct you, again.

It didn't matter that much, though. Not when his body was already moving without him thinking, standing at the side of your desk and placing the canned coffee he'd just bought from the vending machine on its corner.

"It's almost 10. I'm surprised you're still here."

You blinked, then laughed, a sweet melodic tune. The coffee clutched in both hands, you looked up at him so sweetly that his heart hammered in response.

"Yeah, there's a lot to get done."

"Please be sure not to overwork yourself. You're a vital piece of this company."

I will, thank you… Hey, have you eaten?"

He startled, checking his watch. "N-Not since lunch."

"Let's grab something. My treat. Consider it a thanks for the coffee."

"Ah… if you insist."

Not that he needed much insistence.

And so began a comfortable pattern as late night dinners between the two of you became all the more common. It was rare that a week went by that didn't end a long and tiring day with ramen in a cozy booth, or snack foods scarfed down outside a 24-hour convenience store, your smiling face all the warmth he needed to stave off the evening chill.

Perhaps this was where he'd first realized, when you'd held a napkin out to him to dab away the teriyaki sauce smeared at the corner of his mouth: A sudden, longing lurch to do the same, to cup your cheek gently in his hand, to run the pad of his thumb over your soft lower lip. He walked home in a daze that evening, dusted with snow and brimming with warmth and confusion.

Realistically he knew that office romances weren't uncommon. He'd read enough manga and watched enough dramas to know that. And yet, he couldn't shake the concern so easily. What if your bosses found out? What would your co-workers think?

...What if it didn't work?

The only glimpses of yourself he'd gotten outside of a workplace environment were those short, shared meals. How could that be enough to judge whether you two were really meant to work well together? Was it worth risking the fallout?

No. Certainly not. Not for a silly crush. Akaashi could wait this out, he should wait this out. Keep his distance and wait until the butterflies faded and the fires died and he was left with the same feelings he'd felt for you in the beginning, appreciation and the occasional concern.

He would be fine.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

On the dawn of week three of minimizing contact with you, Akaashi Keiji was decidedly not fine.

He hadn't realized how dependent he'd become on your presence until it was unceremoniously torn away from him. Is a grown man meant to crave another person's voice so much? Their smile? Their laugh? He felt like a schoolboy again, flustered and frustrated and brimming over with emotions he wasn't sure how to outlet.

On Tuesday morning you'd come in early, clearly dressed for a date. Takaoda confirmed his suspicion a moment later when he complimented your outfit.

"I've got a blind date tonight, actually."

The butterflies in Akaashi's stomach choked and died, falling like stones into the pit of his gut. He nearly shocked himself with the single word that screamed across his rushing mind, that he didn't dare speak aloud.

No.

He felt like a jerk. He felt like a coward. He felt like a horrible, selfish child. But when you saw him standing in the hall and lifted a hand to wave, Akaashi ducked his head and hurried to his office, pointedly and obviously ignoring your greeting.

Well done Keiji, surely they would return your feelings now.

Very little got done that day. And as the clock ticked ever and ever closer to 5pm, Akaashi knew he needed to make a choice. And he knew he needed help making it.

Lifting his cell phone, Akaashi called the one person he knew could give him an easy answer.

"Hey, hey, hey! Akaashi! How are you? Aren't you at work right now?"

"Yes, Bokuto-san. However, I had an important question I was hoping you could help me with."

"Of course! Must be real big if you're calling me about it, huh?"

"Yes, it is."

Faced with the possibility of finally having an answer to his concerns, Akaashi found himself at a loss of where to start.

"Bokuto-san, have you ever had feelings for someone but weren't sure if telling them was the best idea?"

"Oho? Romance questions? Now I'm real interested!" He could hear Bokuto's big, silly grin even over the phone. "Well yeah, some of the cheerleaders are pretty hot. And you remember that guy at the ramen place who always gave me extra coupons? Pretty sure he could've been my soulmate!"

"Bokuto-san, I believe my situation is a touch more serious than a waiter who gives me extra coupons."

Bokuto maturely responded by blowing a raspberry into the receiver.

"Well, if it's that serious why haven't you asked them yourself? You've gotten this torn up about it to call me, so it must be the real deal."

"It really isn't that easy…"

"Isn't it? I mean, they either like you or they don't, right? If they do, great! If they don't, well then you can just start getting over them faster."

Akaashi found himself struggling for a reasonable response to that.

"Hey, all I can say is, you miss a hundred percent of the shots you don't take! Someone famous said that. Shakespeare, I think."

"Wayne Gretzky."

"Bless you."

Sighing, Akaashi glanced at his watch. You would probably be leaving soon. You might even already be out of the office. "...Thank you, Bokuto-san. If you'll excuse me, I need to catch an elevator."

"Sure thing bud! Lemme know how it goes!"

Click.

Akaashi's office door swung shut alongside the soft click of Bokuto hanging up. He skittered on the tile, trying to right himself as he sprinted around the corner, stopping only for a second at the window to the office floor. No one there.

He was probably too late already, why wouldn't you have left early on the night of your date? You worked so hard every other day, surely you would take the few extra minutes to prepare yourself. You were smart like that. Smart, and beautiful, and considerate, and there was no way Akaashi was going to just let you walk off with another man, not without even trying…

Around the corner, standing at the door to one of the elevators, there you were. Why did you look so… grim?

"Oh, hey!" You forced a smile onto your face as you gave him a little wave. "Clocking out on time? That's not like you."

Akaashi opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He tried again, clearing his throat hard.

"Oh, damn. Here."

You pressed a half-empty water bottle into his hands.

"Were you running? You're wheezing like crazy."

Staring down at the bottle in his quivering hands, his mouth moved before his mind could work.

"A date!"

You froze, finally focusing up on his face, staring so, so deeply into his eyes. Or maybe you were just looking at him normally. He could no longer tell. "Oh, yeah. I had one. He had to cancel."

The water bottle clattered to the floor as he gripped both your hands in his.

"Would you consider dinner, then?... With… me? Not like we usually do, this one's…. It's…."

Your hands were so warm. You could probably feel how sweaty his were. Gross. He should probably let you go before you got creeped out or-

"A date?"

"....Please."

A giddy, boisterous laugh bubbled out of you, one he had only heard after you'd downed a few drinks yourself. You squeezed his hands tight, giving him a smile that washed his anxieties away like chalk beneath the rain.

"I'd like that."

"Ah. Yes. Shall we go then?"

"We shall." You hooked your arm around his elbow, giving him a playful grin. "Lead the way, good sir."

Akaashi had already decided for himself at an early point in his professional career that writing romance, for all intents and purposes, was easy.

Living it, though? That was much harder. But he couldn't find it in himself to mind.

"Oh! Takaoda finally told me I've been getting your name wrong this whole time? Why didn't you say anything? I feel like such a jackass!"

"There, uh, a good time to mention it never seemed to come up?"

"Well I have a lot of making up to do, don't I Akaashi?~"

"I'm looking forward to it."

[wreckitremy]

Now that Harry Potter is hate trending again, I feel its important to offer up a good replacement series.

The Young Wizard series by Diane Duane

Here is the first book in the now 10 book series

So You Want to be a Wizard

This book hooked me from the start. This is one of the rare occasions when the description not only nails the sell, but the book delivers on what the description hints at. The main character is in a library, and, well, I'll just copypaste it here:

Something stopped Nita's hand as it ran along the bookshelf. She looked and

found that one of the books had a loose thread at the top of its spine. It was one of those So You Want to Be a . . . books, a series on careers. So You Want to Be a Pilot, and a Scientist . . . a Writer. But his one said, So You Want to Be a Wizard.

I don't belive this, Nina thought. She shut the book and stood there holding it in

her hand, confused, amazed, suspicious--and delighted. If it was a joke, it was a great one. If it wasn't . . . ?

As a bookworm, the first chapter alone just straight up spoke to my soul. I have spoken aloud the Wizard Oath more times than I have wished for my letter to hogwarts.

Diane Duane is my all time favorite author, because of this series. These books predate Harry Potter, but she has continuously released updated editions to her books to make sure they are still relatable, and not offensive.

Diane Duane has written for star trek, and many other scifi publications. She is a big fan of Niel Gaimen's work, and I know this because she is also on tumblr @/dduane.

Now the magic within this series, doesnt work quite the same as Harry Potter. It's much more complex than anything I have ever read.

Visually perhaps it looks like doctor strange magic, but structurally, involves math it is that complex.

Basically, if you love Harry Potter, and doctor who, please read this series.

[amorgansgal]

The Only Compass I Need

Well as you've all been good VDL-gang hoes and as it's my birthday today as promised here's my longer fic for Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character. It's been edited and checked by my lovely partner, but I will always appreciate any comments or feedback. Hope you all have a wonderful day and thank you for making this fandom always such a delight to be in!

Summary: Ruth Shelton has been running with the Anderson Boys for many years, but when she and her daughter, Daisy, are abandoned in a snowy cabin in the West Grizzlies, she must come to terms with being left behind by people she thought she could trust and rely on. Determined to keep herself and her daughter alive, she will do anything it takes to ensure a better future for Daisy, but runs into trouble and has to rely on another gang to keep them safe.

Rating: Explicit

You can read it on AO3 too!

‘Ma?’ Daisy looked up from the newspaper she was busy colouring in, and Ruth tried not to close her eyes in frustration. Daisy had asked her the same question almost every night, just before dinner, ‘When’s Pa coming back?’

Ruth poked the remnants of the fire in the grate, willing the small, crackling flame to finish cooking the rabbit she had trapped. She didn’t risk gathering more wood with the evening rapidly growing dark. In the small, run down cabin the frigid wind of the West Grizzlies whistled through the gaps in the walls. Outside the first few flakes of a spring snow storm drifted lazily through the navy-blue sky.

She pulled the moth-eaten blanket they had found abandoned in one of the bedrooms around her and her daughter’s shoulders. She tried to ignore the twisting, painful feeling in her gut and the hot burn of tears that found their way to her eyes. How dare he, how dare he leave his daughter.

Two weeks. For two weeks they had sat in this cramped, dirty, broken little hut and waited. She had wondered after the first week whether he was dead or injured. She still liked to think the best of Frans, even though the man was unkind and impatient with her, and had cared so little for his daughter that on good days he would ignore her and on worse days shove her away. But by the time they reached the second week, with no one from the gang even attempting to find her, she realised that they’d been abandoned. Perhaps Frans hoped that the cold weather or starvation would get rid of a problem he could no longer stomach.

‘I don’t think he’s coming back,’ Ruth replied, her voice flat and distant. She coughed a little, clearing her throat, Daisy didn’t need to see or hear her mother’s resentment or pain.

‘Oh,’ came Daisy’s response. She resumed colouring in a picture of a man wearing a top hat, choosing a vibrant green for him.

Ruth poked the rabbit on the small grill, and sighed. Perhaps she was still clinging onto the vague hope that Frans might change his mind. Daisy seemed to idolise the man, no matter how poorly he treated her, and Ruth wanted her daughter to be right about him.

‘Tonight, we’re going to pack up what we can,’ Ruth said. ‘Then tomorrow we’ll ride Freyja somewhere warmer. If your father wants to find us, he will do.’

‘But Pa said to stay here.’

‘Well, he can’t expect us to stay with the cold weather coming in, and there’s very little food here. He’ll understand.’

‘How will he know where we’ve gone? We can’t leave him a note.’

‘We can leave him a message. He’ll just have to find someone else who can read it for him. Hopefully, when he turns up Edgar or Josef will be with him.’

‘Why hasn’t Edgar come?’ Daisy asked, scratching her nails against the waxy, green crayon. Ruth pulled it from her hands.

‘Don’t do that, they were expensive. I don’t know.’

Daisy began to draw wiggly lines under the words in the paper, the yellowing pages now being covered with purple, red and blue. She looked back up, ‘Ok.’

‘I’ve always promised to tell you the truth, haven’t I?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, I would tell you, if I knew where your father was, if I knew where Edgar was or if I knew where anyone was.’

Daisy carefully put her red crayon down on the page, then began to put the crayons back in the little tin she kept all her priceless possessions in. A dried daisy flower from Edgar, a blue-green marble she had found in Blackwater and a yellow, silk ribbon dotted with daisies that Ruth had brought her for her birthday last year.

Not for the first time, Ruth felt the twinge of guilt that always followed when seeing the few treasured items in Daisy’s tin. She wanted to give Daisy a home, a proper home with her own bedroom and toys, clothes that fit her properly, a warm fireplace and a door that could be locked and bolted shut.

‘Dinner will take a while, Sweetpea, you don’t have to put away your things just yet.’

‘Oh,’ Daisy said once more. ‘Well, can I help?’

‘There ain’t much to do, rabbit will be done in a bit.’

Daisy pulled up the newspaper and sat down in front of Ruth. The girl squinted at it with her light blue eyes in the low light, and began to read aloud the main story, sounding out the words she was unfamiliar with. ‘Bank boat… he… he--is--t? Ma, what’s a he--is--t?’

‘A he--is--t?’ Ruth glanced down at the newspaper, trying to figure out what her daughter was looking at. ‘Oh, a heist. It means a robbery.’

‘Like what Pa does?’

‘Yes,’ she looked back down to the story, to see if it was the Anderson Boys who were involved, but as she read, it became clear it was about the Van Der Linde Gang rather than her own. She frowned at the idea of still claiming the gang as her own. Evidently Anderson was not too heart-broken about her disappearance, despite how long she had been running with them. But then Anderson often called her a damned fool for getting in the family way and hadn’t exactly tried to keep her around. Perhaps it was better this way, to be abandoned and left to her own devices rather than trailing behind, trying to pretend that the group she had once called her family still cared for her.

The rabbit was done… charred on the outside, bloody in the middle. But when had that ever bothered her? Certainly, Daisy had learnt long ago that an empty belly was a far worse fate than a dissatisfied one. She tried to get Daisy to part with a bit of the newspaper, so she could lay the best bits on it for her and cause less of a mess when using her fingers to tear at the meat.

While Ruth gnawed at what remained on the bones, she checked their supplies. Two cans of beans, one can of peaches and a tin of crackers. They would share one tin of beans for their breakfast tomorrow, then they would have to hope she could catch or kill something for their midday meal, and assuming she could find the way, arrive in Valentine by four or five. She was banking on the weather being good, and the roads clear, otherwise it could take them longer and she had no desire to spend a cold night in unfamiliar woods.

She packed away the supplies, then made sure the repeater and pistols she carried were cleaned and loaded correctly. Ruth frowned on seeing how few bullets she had left in the box of ammo. This was going to be a rough few days. Every shot she could make would have to be perfect, no matter whether it was man or beast at the end of the sights.

She also double-checked how much money they had left, perhaps hoping the amount would increase on the next count. It would be better if she could get her daughter a warm bath and a hot meal when they arrived, even if she couldn’t afford a bed for the night. Ruth tried to not let the hiss of irritation pass between her lips. Anderson had always been insistent that any money made was money for the group, and while that had meant she could dip in and out of the funds box with relative ease, it had come back to bite her.

Her last job had pulled $150, but the vast majority of that had ended up in the box. Now she was looking at the grand total of ten years of loyalty and very few complaints from her, no matter how poorly her daughter was treated. She had $8.05.

‘We might have to do a coach job when we get to Valentine,’ she said.

Daisy pulled a face, a deep frown appearing on her forehead. ‘Do we have to?’

‘Do you want to eat?’

‘Can’t we just eat deer?’

‘No, it’s not good to eat nothing but meat.’

‘But I’m getting bigger now. I don’t want to pretend to be a little kid who cries.’

‘You just have to put your hands over your eyes and pretend. You’re so good at it! And it means Mama doesn’t have to shoot anyone.’

Ruth finished the last bits of rabbit on her side of the newspaper and looked at the peaches, tempted to break into them and at least give her daughter something sweet to eat. But there was no guarantee they would even reach Valentine tomorrow, especially with how strong the wind was howling and how quickly the temperature was dropping.

Daisy nestled closer under the blanket and picked up some more of the rabbit. ‘Who have you shot, Mama?’

‘Lots of people, who wanted to hurt me or you, Edgar or Josef or Anders.’

‘And Pa?’

Ruth wiped her dirty hands on her handkerchief, leaving streaks of grease on the discoloured material. She avoided her daughter’s eye as she replied, ‘Sure, your Pa too.’ In her head she found herself thinking, ‘wish I hadn’t bothered, bastard didn’t deserve my protection.’

She used a corner of the newspaper to clean the grease away from Daisy’s mouth, then grabbed a comb from her bag. She sat Daisy on her lap and began to gently untangle the knots at the end of her hair, before working upwards to the crown of her head and brushing through Daisy’s beautiful, golden brown hair.

At first, admittedly, it had hurt to see how much Daisy took after her father in looks, but they couldn’t be more different. Whilst her father was dismissive, callous and cowardly, Daisy was sweet, kind and brave. Braver than most kids her age, though Ruth wished she didn’t have to be.

She carefully plaited Daisy’s long hair, admiring the soft strands between her fingers, and finished off their little ritual by giving her a kiss on her cheek and then tickling her ribs. Daisy squealed and giggled, trying to bat away Ruth’s hands and yet still cuddling close once she was done.

‘Still little enough for that then?’ Ruth asked.

‘Hmph,’ came her daughter’s response and Ruth hid her smile. She felt torn, part of her was excited to see how much her daughter would change and grow over the years. But another part longed to go back to when she had been a baby, when her cheeks had been round and soft, and Ruth had easily spent the best part of her days pressing kisses to them. What did it matter that Frans was fucking whores and spending his money on drink and cards, when she had a baby in her arms, whose steady, sweet eyes gazed up at her with all the adoration and love she needed?

Another part, a part she tried not to think about, was terrified. What kind of a life was this for a child? Running from the law, hiding in abandoned houses and cabins, stealing and cheating to keep them both fed? This life was dangerous for anyone at the best of times, but for a child even more so. Daisy’s young age would not stop the law from punishing her, no matter how little choice she had in growing up in a gang and running schemes with her mother. But it was either involve Daisy, or leave her in a cave or up a tree, and that didn’t necessarily mean she was any safer, especially if someone were to find her.

She pushed away those thoughts; it wasn’t helpful to dwell on their situation. She hoped to be a good moral guide later in life for her daughter, but right now she would have to continue to be a hypocrite.

‘Bed time, Daisy,’ she said.

Daisy didn’t make a word of protest, as she was occasionally keen on doing, and took off her boots, before climbing into Ruth’s bedroll. Ruth joined her; it was too cold for their separate beds. While Daisy snuggled up against her, pulling the cover over head, Ruth threw their last remaining wood on the fire.

She grabbed her pistol and repeater, leaving the repeater next to the bedroll, but holding the pistol tightly. She kept her eyes on the front door, which they blocked with the dining table during the evenings. She had moved the wardrobe from the main bedroom to block the back door, and so felt comfortable enough to sleep with their backs to it.

She did her best to keep her eyes open, resisting sleep for as long as possible, until she drifted off and then woke with a sudden jolt to find the piercing, white light of a new day filtering between the bits of rotten wood and around the edge of the door.