#but alas i continue to only draw dogs

[stinkybrowndogs]

I think i definetly would have been a furry had i been allowed on the internet before the age of 16. I was fucking primed to be a furry.

Im just saying that i am not making bucko bucks on furry commissions rn bc i was prevented from reaching my true potential

[jdtrashman]

Countdown To Dawntrail Week 1: Beginning City

Allienea Shepard stepped off the carriage and gazed up at the doors to Ul'Dah. The jewel of Thanalan. The site of the bloodsands, whose brutal reputation had reached even the ears of her people in faraway Thavnair. And a hateful cesspit of inequality and corruption.

Allie tied her burning red hair behind her head, straightened her new - totally not stolen skirt - and walked in as carefully as possible. Her first question shall be how the women of this country can actually walk around in these accursed things.

Ul'Dah, true to what she had heard during her five-year trek to this country, was always busy. The copper cobblestones were always underfoot of some adventurer or merchant, and even the palatial balconies above could hear the deals and arguments happening below as clearly as Allie could standing right next to them.

After talking to the lady of the inn, Momo something or other, Allie ventured to the Thaumaturge guild to get herself set up with room and board.

The guild was run by five lalafellian brothers, who inducted her into the guild with a mix of ceremony and menial tasks. The first three days were a routine of killing monsters outside the gates and bringing back proof of her kills in exchange for more lessons. All the while, whenever she could, she would ask around taverns and markets about the woman that had brought her to Eorzea. The only reason she was so far from home to begin with. So far? Nothing.

But it was on the fourth day when all of that would begin to change.

Allie was bringing back some animal skins for the guild when she saw a highlander woman sobbing on the ground, her feeble form passed over by the uninterested townsfolk. The men who had pushed her - Brass Blades, she had learned - spat on the woman. "next time, we tell you go get out of the way, ya Ala Mhigan bitch, you do as we say!!!" one of them screamed, spittle bursting from his all-but unhinged jaw. One last kick, and the men hopped aboard the luxurious carriage that was behind them as it continued. The wheels kicked mud onto the woman's legs, which only made her sob harder.

Allie stared at the carriage, most likely belonging to quite the man of means. And sure enough, through the tinted windows, she could barely make out the form of a Lalafell with an impressive mustache. The sight disgusted her. Angered her. And soon enough, she began to glare at the carriage. Thinking burning thoughts.

The man within would survive what happened next, his panicked and charred men pulling his coughing, wheezing body from the wreckage. It didn't take them long to figure out who was responsible. Sadly, they decided that it was the woman they had already disrespected. "Highlander dog!" the same guard shouted, drawing his blade. Allie's instinct was to slink back into the crowd. It would've been the smart thing to do. But then, letting the carriage go would also have been the smart thing to do. And never let a soul accuse Allienea Shepard of being smart.

"She didn't do it, I did!" Allie said, stepping forward, displaying her Thaumaturge staff as proof. Her charity was rewarded with the butt of the guard's sword meeting the side of her skull, and the blackness of sleep.

She awoke, shockingly, in the guild - instead of a cell. Apparently, what would otherwise have been a death sentence, was reduced to "community service" by a mysterious patron. The patron's messenger to the courts merely gave the initials M. W. to mark their influence. Cocobuki didn't know why, and neither did Allie, but the scolding she got from the guild masters made death seem preferable. Few things are as humiliating as having to capitulate to someone who barely reaches your knees.

The terms of her community service were simple: she was to accompany a knight of the sultansworn on his duties until the courts deemed her service to be filled. And so, a day later, her handler appeared. A Miqote paladin named Q'ihnn Tia.

She did not have time for this.

[epsilonbis]

Maia (2017-2024)

When Maia first arrived in the garden of my parents' house, I still remember how Luna, our cat, was staring out of my bedroom window at this huge ball of fur walking on her territory. This first interaction between these two inspired me to write the first page of my webcomic Companion Size, where two characters of opposing characters, looks and sizes had to live together in a D&D-style world. Their bickering, their mischief, their behavior in everyday life… Every moment spent with the two of them was a new inspiration to write each page of this comic. Their story could have gone on for a very long time.

Alas, last Thursday evening, Maia suffered from stomach dilatation, a condition that affects almost all dogs. My parents took her immediately to the vet, who treated her and kept her overnight for observation. The next morning, her stomach lurched again and the vet rushed her to the operation room. She suffered a heart attack on the operating table and passed away on the morning of Friday April 5, 2024, at the age of 7.

This terrible news was a huge upheaval for the whole family. Not a single day had passed without her being by our side. I will never forget her cute squeaks when she saw our faces when we got up in the morning, the jumps of joy she made before going for a walk, her terribly loud barks that startled the whole house. Maia only joined our family for two years, but in that short time, we loved her deep in our hearts, just as she must have loved us. The days that follow will be difficult, now that she is gone.

The portrait of Maia at the top is the last drawing I made of her, long before her death. At that time, it was supposed to be some kind of response to this drawing I made a year ago but wasn't finished because I wasn't really satisfied with the end result. Today, with the current circumstances, I chose to finish it and publish it to pay tribute to her.

As for the webcomic Companion Size, I'm not entirely sure for the moment but I would like to continue it a little longer. I still have lots of stories and anecdotes about Luna and Maia to tell you and it’s a story that is close to my heart, even more now. If I prefer to say that the Maia of my story is more of an inspiration than the incarnation of the real Maia, it is to better continue to share my memories of her with you.

Hoping that the sun will be brighter in the coming days.

[meanwhileinstasiville]

Alameda burned no farther than ~5 miles from the interstate

America redlines minorities to about that distance for home and work. I think about this when the cartel style surveillance becomes particularly aggravated; yeah, I can be followed around and even escorted to a corner in the dark (as I was last night) where someone waits for me to walk up, and also *met on the same corner* by someone else who waits for me there in the light of day (she couldn’t even meet my gaze, so I hope it saves her money or improves the quality of her life to be thrown under the bus like that, because otherwise she had no choice about standing there).

A few years ago now, there was that “an historic” firestorm that nonetheless burned only a few miles outward from a transnational interstate. Around here, the fire seemed able to read the tax lot system based on the track it burned and specifically where it didn’t. There was even the token nod to the “separate but equal” way that the kkk used to do things; a fire started under an overpass, behind a press conference, only to be immediately extinguished (some exceptional fire department *name withheld* has considering how rural it is). And moreover, a lot of those “brown” people found that they couldn’t rebuild even with fire insurance settlements. Owing to ex post facto changes to where and how houses can be constructed.

It occurs to me that surveillance in the conspicuous form it takes, is based not on facts, but on inferences. Cartel standard would have that nothing personal matters; experiences, education, thoughts, feelings, etc. What *does* matter in the place of those things, is receptivity to the social feedback loop that best suits the “higher ups” (think aztec-priestking style) account of their present interests, the best. So one should hope they fact check some of the farther fetched ideas about whiteness as separate from a caucasian skin tone. Or specific proportions. A food or drink. And of course, cartels have to sort of “lease” their whiteness from Chicago, as doled out by the greater white power structure of the United States dba nazis, neonazis, and other assorted hate groups. A system imperfect.

There’s a counselling office person who used to stalk me within a couple blocks of his office. I thought it was maybe because he was gay (and I have a knack for getting gay stalkers), because he stood outside for a “smoke break” any time I happened by that office on the way here. And then, it was walking his dog to meet me at intersections (yes, these sorts of things have been going on for years), giving way to conspicuously yanking on his dog’s leash while yelling at it. Stalker style, because his residence was about a block or so from his office, and he continues to appear (yelling at his dog today, but it varies) even though he vacated the home. That way he can follow me around while I don’t know where he lives. The people from the corner above are a recent “since the fires” thing; people who are supposed to look like me. Along with a Tesla bearing a JLY-RGR vanity plate and a disproportionate number of mini-coopers that turn up one intersection after another. They used to be red honda fits, blue fords, and HVAC (cartel for comfort ie not death) service vehicles. 

I think it might be because of “something rotten in Denmark” back when the British Empire was being backseat driven by Danes like 800 years ago. Again with inferences. It’s not england, as a late friend had pointed out. Anglo-Saxon (WASPs, as it were) have a certain set of exclusive educational and civic privileges in America going back to colonial days. I don’t have any of those. I do have some persecution experiences ala hassidic peoples. And also, certain strategies for reducing the test scores of blacks and/or latinos (drawing not to scale and the like) did the kind of damage you would expect. White though I may be. Some attempts at “splitting” by the son of the resident drug kingpin about the region haven’t helped much, either.

As it were, english people would be considered “aliens”, like Mexicans. They would also be considered “defacto” enemies of the American people. They would be associated with talking funny (I sound about like Ben Stein with a touch of African, not at all from that part of the world). And associated with not pronouncing words right. They live in apartments, while *you* live in a house. It’s a lot to project for the son of an aztec style priestking, because *they are the only people who function the way they do*. And I don’t know how your own parameters can be changed by labelling and harassing other people; some kind of a logic fallacy in there.

Aztec society orbited the priestking. Only they can grow; all else is inhibited. They alone eat best; all they didn’t want, is what everyone else eats, and only from what’s left over. They’re the arbiter of truth like the whole judicial system in a patrilineal line (no wonder they died out where they were historically from). They get a medal when people compete. They also enjoy the privilege of being the score to have, or the time to match without beating, because to exceed the priestking is to both “sit higher than the king” and also to commit summary suicide. Around here, it has a curious effect of urban decay where they go. They have brilliant friends, who seem down on their luck, or moreover plagued by tragedy. Smart, but their dad committed suicide. Well rounded and also connected (I get it, rickochet) and yet somehow they can’t seem to win for losing. Another list of tragedies. 

Even the friend of an enemy (who said enemy claims “thinks he’s smarter than you!?!” something of a touchy subject with him I guess) seemed to have caught on to what hanging out with the son of a drug kingpin does to your life. Rickochet lost a childhood friend in the single digits. Every vacation he’s ever taken that I know of has been plagued with setbacks (all of them expensive, because white people aren’t redlined). After running a newspaper he ended up in retail, way out of profile for his origins. Even women who “larped” with him and are white seem to have “no luck with men” despite having a literal fan following worthy of any idol singer (I get that too, bijou). And even when you *don’t* hang out with them, because their dad is worried you’ll kill them, or else they’ll kill you, as I’ve lived, you *continue* to have problems with them. A college is a party college even if you’re a priestking’s kid, and all degrees are not created equal. (As a sort of aside about Rickochet, *he’s* been historically unable to access the kind of money a white person from his origins should be earning, not unlike myself). Economists don’t get to handle money, like architects don’t get to handle buildings. That’s a minority misperception.

[kaus-quietis]

The softest Fedya fanart you’ll ever see

[tommyspeakycap]

HF for how Tommy feels on his daughters wedding day please

first half is headcanons and the second half is a lil blurb!

tommy is quite literally distraught

like that’s no exaggeration he is literally heart broken

his baby, his whole world was getting married

for the past 20 years, you had been tommy shelby’s whole world

you were born when tommy was only 17

not even an adult yet himself

so it felt as though you had been with him most of his life

it had kind of just been you and him, in a sense

of course there was the rest of the clan too, and you were incredibly close to them as well

but your mother died in childbirth, so tommy was both mum and dad

he had to do it all alone in that sense

everyone tells him he should be so proud of how he raised you

because you’re sweet and kind

and you have that humour that the war took from tommy

you made people laugh like he had

and you were really the only person that could make him laugh

you were strong, like your mother tommy had always said

but you credit everything you are to him

he was the first man to love you, and teach you how you should be loved

he also taught you how you should be treated, generally a lot better than the average father would

tommy made sure that his daughter would be treated like a queen

you were his princess

so whomever you were to marry, you would be treated as their queen

he made absolutely sure of that

and that marrying was your choice

not something you were coerced into for money or business, but something you wanted

and it was

with a man who you had loved since 16

tommy liked him as much as he could like the man that was going to be taking his baby girls hand and changing her name

the thought of you not being (y/n) shelby, tommy shelby’s little princess, was earth shattering to him

although you had insisted you were keeping it in the middle

alas, tommy knew you were so loved by that man

be that as it may, all parties knew if he stepped a foot out of line or raised a finger in anything but gentility and love

then he would be struck down in a timely and violent fashion by tommy himself

tommy definitely cries that day too

“Tommy?” Grace’s voice immediately draws his attention towards her and away from his thoughts about the impending fact his little girl was getting married in half an hour. His eyes are that kind of wet that shows he’s fighting tears, that he won’t dare let them fall. Grace can see the lump he tries to swallow in his throat and a piece of her heart breaks for him as she sits down on the bench next to him outside the hall where the ceremony would take place. You were inside getting the dress on and getting your hair done with Polly and Ada and previously Grace before she had come out to see if her husband was okay.

He was not.

“Oh Tommy,” Her voice is so soft and caring as she wraps her arm around him and rubs his shoulder, hugging him to her slightly. “She looks so beautiful Tom, and god she’s so happy; can’t stop smiling at all. She still has that smile you talk about, the innocent one and it looks just like yours does sometimes.” Tommy clenches his jaw tightly, still refusing to let those tears go. She sees him clamp down his teeth over his bottom lip to stop it trembling. “It’s alright Tommy, this is good. She’s in love with a man who loves her so much. Almost as much as you do.”

Tommy shakes his head at that, one hand on his knee to brace himself as he tries to speak. “Not possible.” He snips, “And i loved her first.”

His voice breaks on that. The lip finally trembles and he hangs his head with a sharp inhale to let free that shoulder shaking sob. “She was my little baby. How is that my little girl in there? She used to-” Tommy had to pause again, roughly wiping his hand over his face to clear away the tears as he looks up at Grace, “She used to be this big,” he gestures with his hands in a way that she imagined was meant to be him cradling a baby. His voice sounds drastically different than she’s used to because it’s clouded by his tears and his agony.

“She used to ask me to brush her teeth and comb her hair and lift her up to wash her hands,” he bleats, images flashing through his mind of that short little girl who couldn’t reach the bathroom sink. He sees the little girl who stood on top of the toilet so he could brush those teeth and he can see the smile that little girl gave him all those nights when he asked to see to make sure he had brushed them right. “She used to climb into my bed every morning and she used to save up her tooth fairy money to buy us all gifts. She’d save food from her dinner for the dogs on the street and i swear on my life i don’t know how to live without her being my baby girl, Grace.” Tears continue to stream down his cheeks as Grace notices the black and white photograph that looked truly as though it had been through the war; as it had. it was stained and slightly run and it was crumpled. A little girl with a toothless grin and Tommy Shelby’s eyes, even with the lack of colour to the old photograph.

“It’s alright Tommy,” Grace hums, rubbing her husbands back soothingly, “She’s your little girl, she always will be.” She knew there was really nothing else she could say that would ease his pain. There was nothing anyone could do or say that would send you back to the little girl he would could throw over his shoulder and run around the house with. There was nothing that could ease the pain of a fathers aching heart when his baby girl becomes a woman who doesn’t need him like she used to.

“Thomas?”

He and Grace look up at Polly. The look in her eyes speaks for her . “She’s ready?” Tommy asks, prompting his aunt to nod her head with a smile. “Come on then, Tom!” Arthur calls from the grand doorway at the top of the steps to the hall. When Tommy and Grace reach him, Arthur wraps his arm roughly around his brothers shoulder and pulls Tommy into him. “Baby (y/n) getting fuckin’ married eh? Can’t fuckin’ believes she’s this fuckin grown up.” He shakes his head, taking his arm away from his brother when they reach the door of the dressing room where you were waiting. “Beautiful she is, Tom.” Arthur says, “Looks just like mum. In you go.” He ushers his younger brother in that door.

Nobody sees Tommy Shelby quite like you do, and he’s happy for it to stay that way. He’s known it since you were a tiny little girl wrapped up in his arms. He doesn't love anyone like he loves you, so it makes full sense that you are the only person in the world who he allows his vulnerability to fully leak through with. Although, he probably couldn't prevent it even if he tried.

Maybe that’s why he doesn't fight so hard to keep his eyes from welling up when he sees you standing there looking in the mirror, donned in the most beautiful white wedding gown that he’s ever seen. Placed in his hand is the stunning light veil that he had picked out for you. The headband was something like a tiara, because you were his princess and he truly believed that everything you had should be the best the world could offer. The dress too had been extortionate and you would never have gotten it had you known the price it had come to, but Tommy had never allowed you to know. He simply had the designers bring an array of dresses to his estate where you tried them all on with Polly, Ada, Lizzie, Grace, Linda and Esme to comment and complement each dress, as well ad aide you on picking the one that suited you the most with cost never a mention. Tommy had preached he ‘no expense spared’ approach the whole way through the planning of the wedding and any timenhe caught you trying to cut or manage costs, he simply shut you down and enforced the rule that the wedding planner was no longer allowed to discuss prices with you. 

He had truly created the most fantastical day for you, and he would have spent every single penny that he had if it meant giving you the most beautiful start to a new life that he could give. 

You had wanted him to be the one to place that veil on your head with the guidance of your hair dresser to ensure he didn't mess up the design of your hair. He had been the one to place little plastic tiaras on your head when you were merely a little girl who wanted to play princess dress up. He used to be the one to comb back your hair and twirl you around that Watery Lane kitchen with Arthur did the same with Ada and Polly laughed heartily from her seat at the table. 

It felt right to have him put a tiara on you one last time as baby Shelby. 

“You’re beautiful.” He breathes, his lips stretching into a wide and incredibly proud smile. “So, so very beautiful my darling.” Your cheeks blush ever so slightly and you lean over to kiss his cheek. “Thank you, dad.” 

He wants to hug you tightly and never let you go. He wants to will and wish you back to the little girl that he used to twirl around all afternoon. He missed that little girl so much. He had so much love in his heart for you, so much that it overwhelmed him every time he had tried to acknowledge it over the course of your life. 

“I love you.” he says, his shaky voice conveying how much he actually means those words. “So much more than you can ever know. I’m going to miss you so much.” 

You breathe a short laugh, shaking your head at him. “I’m not going anywhere, dad. I’ll still be seeing you all the time. I’ll just have a different name.” You hold his hand tightly in yours as he leads you out of the dressing room and into the hall towards the large double doors that would take you to the isle. 

“Mhm,” he hums, “I suppose. You’ll understand what I mean someday. I just love you so much.” 

“I love you too.” 

“You two ready to go?” The wedding planner asks, watching as you turn to Tommy somewhat excitedly and nod. “You ready dad?” You ask, giving his had a reassuring squeeze. He sighs heavily, but nods his head too, removing his hand from yours and moving his arm so that you can link yours through his. His play on his mind before he says them, a small smile too playing on his lips as the nickname that he used to call you runs through his memory.

“Ready as I’ll ever be, my little love.” 

[atsukashii]

Hi is it ok if I request y/n x kuroo & she/her & ☀️ & pink please?

smooth like butter, like a criminal undercover gon' pop like trouble breaking into your heart like that

✘ hey google: how do you tell if a guy is flirting with you?

✘ GENRE: fluff

✘ WARNINGS: aged up characters, bookshop au

✘ WORD COUNT: 1.9k

“I’d like to take you to the movies, but they don’t let you bring in your own snacks.”

Closing your work locker, you raise an eyebrow at the familiar six foot, raven haired guy, who smirks down at you as if he just won first prize. In cringe worthy pick up lines? Yeah he can take that medal.

“Are you calling me a snack?” You ask, adjusting the strap of your bag.

“Will you go out with me if I say yes?” Kuroo asks again, wagging his eyebrows at you teasingly, and you immediately know he’s messing with you.

“Not a chance.” Offering him a scathing glare, you spin on your heels and slip out the front door of the shop. When you’d first gotten the job at the small bookshop near your house, you'd have been ecstatic. Although you’d been less ecstatic about your new colleague who you’d never met before in your life, but had been slipping you cheesy and corny pick up lines every day for months.

You didn’t even know that there were that many ways to flirt with someone, but alas, Kuroo proved you wrong every shift. At first, you’d been a flustered bumbling mess trying to come up with a response, but as you caught on to how his hazel eyes glinted with untamed mischief, you’d decided that Kuroo wasn’t your favourite person.

That wasn’t to say that you by any means hated the guy, there was no way you could when he was literally one of the nicest people you’d ever come across in your life. He held doors open for you, and would volunteer to carry the new boxes of stock out back because they were heavy - although you had an inkling that was partly to show off. In the end, Kuroo is sweet, kind, and hilarious. But he thinks that hitting on you every day, and asking you out as a joke is also hilarious.

And it’s hilariously pissing you off.

Because somewhere down along the way, between the angel references and calling you a ‘cute-cumber’ you’d found yourself smiling at the lines. You found yourself anticipating getting to work shifts with him, just to see him and for the chance to witness the familiar rogue smile and the pure giddiness that emits from his very being.

But to him, it was a joke. And that left more than a bad taste in your mouth.

Adjusting your bag once more, you try to slide the store door closed behind you to keep the aircon inside - a stark contrast to the summer heat bearing down on you. Before it can close completely, a hand rolls the glass door to a stop and you find yourself once again looking up into hazel eyes.

“Not finished?” You snipe back, having reached your quota of fake flirting for the day. Kuroo doesn’t flinch at your tone, or maybe he just chooses not to notice judging by the smile that graces his face. Maybe, just maybe you could eventually get over him. It’s not going to go anywhere, if it was going to, he wouldn’t have waited literal months to make a move. So maybe, you can let him go.

“Oh I have plenty more for you princess, but I just thought you might want this first.” In his hand is a copy of the book you’d been reading behind the counter of your shifts. Blinking twice, you realise it’s got similar dog eared pages and a crinkled spine from continuous use - that's your book. Instinctively you peer into your bag on your shoulder, and alas, it's empty. With an empty mind, you take the item from Kuroo’s outstretched hand, and offer him a quick thanks as you try to swallow the emotion in your throat.

“You’re most welcome. Walk home safe, I'll see you tomorrow princess.” Kuroo responds with a rogue wink that has you flushing from head to toe. His knowing grin proves that was the response he was looking for, so you quickly shove the book in your back and practically run from your work - swearing that you can feel his gaze on you the whole way home.

Yeah, there’s no chance you’re going to get over him.

This is cemented on your next night shift. You stand behind the counter, your eyes glancing up from the book you’re reading to the group of teenage girls giggling amongst the young adult isle. Really, it should be an actual law for people to be as quiet in bookstores as they are in libraries.

The door opens once more, and you begin to groan internally at the thought of even more rowdy teenagers coming in, but instead Kuroo slinks through the door in all his six foot two glory. Dressed in his work shirt, some black jeans and his usual sneakers, he looks good and the bastard knows it from the raised eyebrows he shoots you when he catches you looking. You don’t reply, but instead turn back to your book, ignoring him and the gaggling teenagers who suddenly shut up as he walks past them to go to the back room. You can’t blame them as their eyes stay glued to his every movement. Kuroo walks like he was meant to carry the world on his shoulders, but instead spins it like a basketball on one finger. As if the most difficult things for him are effortless. Like a god amongst men. Okay, let's not go that far. If he ever heard that, his ego would asphyxiate everyone from here to the south pole.

“Do you like my shirt?” Kuroo’s question has you turning around before you can stop yourself, but you’re all levels of confused as he holds the hem of his shirt in pinched fingers away from his body. His shirt? It’s his work shirt…

“Uh it’s your work shirt…” You manage to mumble out, brows still furrowed, completely baffled.

“Yeah but its made of a different material.” He points out, moving closer to you, only looking up from his shirt and to you when he’s standing only a few feet away. “Boyfriend material.” His grin is actually blinding, so you’re not sure if you’re squinting from that, or from the way you scrunch up your nose in distaste at his line.

“I hate you.” You grumble, turning away and looking down at your book once more, letting your hair fall over your cheeks to hide the flush splashed brightly across them.

“Hate me? Why must you hurt me so princess?” Kuroo jokes, and you find yourself getting more and more disappointed as he grows quiet and begins to start on his own work for the shift. It’s not until you both notice the gaggling girls practically drooling on the floor at him that you decide you need to take your break.

Closing your book loud enough to startle the group of girls and the guy flicking aimlessly through a volleyball magazine at your side. “I’m going for my ten.” You offer in explanation as you try to move out back. You don’t get to even make it past the counter before there's a warm hand wrapping around your own. Kuroo’s hand completely engulfs yours in the best ways and you can’t help but gape at it as it pulls your walk to a stop.

“Are you alright?” He asks, drawing your eyes reluctantly from your entwined hands to his face, and once you spot genuine concern there, you hesitate with your response. How do you say that no, you’re not okay because would you be if the person that you liked jokingly asked you out on a daily basis for months on repeat? But never meant it?

“Yeah, I'm fine.” Kuroo doesn’t let go just yet, but instead scratches the back of his neck with his other hand nervously.

“You know, if I'm honestly bothering you, please tell me. I don’t ever want to make you uncomfortable y/n,” He offers, shame and hurt flashing brightly in his eyes - and it shocks you stupid for a few seconds. It takes you an added moment that he’s talking about his teasing. Wait, he thinks he’s bothering me? Is he?

“Kuroo, if it was bothering me I would have told you alright?” You say softly, your gaze drifting back to your hand. “I mean sure sometimes it can be a bit much but that's mainly because I'm an idiot.” Not expecting those words, Kuroo’s nerves bleed into a confused frown that has you wanting to reach up and thumb away the line between his pinched brows.

“An idiot? Princess, if what I'm saying is bothering you-”

“It’s not what you’re saying that’s bothering me, it’s the joking.” The second the words leave your mouth, you wish you could reach out, grab them, and shove them back down your throat, because the way Kuroo drops your hand as if it burnt him hurts more than you thought it would.

“Joking?” His tone is utterly perplexed, and this time, you’re the one looking back at him with confusion. A loud laugh barks from his chest and you immediately feel embarrassed for absolutely nothing. Kuroo is laughing so hard and obnoxiously that tears actually crest the corner of his eyes, and at this rate you’re ready to just walk out the door if it means you don’t have to deal with this embarrassment for another second.

“You mean to tell me, that all this time you thought I was joking?” Kuroo gets out between laughs, and you feel your stomach drop at his words. What does he mean did you think he was joking? Was he not?

Your silence is answer enough because he runs a hand through his thick dark hair and leans back on the counter behind him.

“Jesus Christ Y/n!”

“You would laugh at me after you said them!” You defend, pointing an accusing finger in his way. How could you not think he was joking when he’d laugh at you, his whole being the very embodiment of mischief when he would say his lines.

“Because your face would go red and you’d tell me I was an idiot under your breath, because it was cute!” Kuroo rebuts right back, trying once more not to laugh, and you can’t help but groan. You cannot believe that this entire time, he was actually trying to ask you out on a date. Well, you can’t fault his perseverance and tenacity.

“Kuroo,” you grumble, bridging your fingers and pressing them to your forehead in thought, just trying to calm your raging heart at the fact that this is happening.

“Y/n,” he grins right back, and you can feel him closing in on your position before you can even see him. But once you open your eyes again, letting your hands fall from your face, Kuroo’s stunning features are right up close and more beautiful than you’d thought.

“Does this mean that you’ll go out with me when I ask this time?” You really do try for your pride's sake to not flush at his words, but heat still crawls up your neck and Kuroo’s growing smile tells you that your mental attempt to stop it isn’t working.

“Yes, I will.” You say, letting the smile tug at the corners of your mouth.

“Good, I'll remember that for my new line tomorrow.”

✘ A/N: more fluffy kurro for ya day, y'all i am l i v i n g for this man rn

©️ 2021 all rights reserved to atsukashii, do not change, edit, translate, or repost any works on any platform.

[olivia-anderson-fanfic]

Into The Unknown, Part 5

First

Previous

Tim finished up pretty quickly.

After all, all the baby toys seemed to just be different variations of each other. Some crinkle, some make sounds, some squish, some… do nothing at all? Tim had no clue how he used to get by as a kid.

He ended up getting Damian three toys:

A tiny rubber duck. He’s almost completely sure that Marinette would have bought one if Tim hadn’t. At least when he was the one buying it he could opt to get the Darth Vader one (Damian had always been woefully uncultured, this was his one chance to make the kid watch sci-fi without risking getting stabbed).

A plush cow with crinkly ears. He had to hope that this could maybe jog memories of Batcow and, in turn, everything else. Tim had tried to think of something a little more relevant but all he could think of were things related to Batman, to Superboy, to the League of Assassins (did their lives really revolve around vigilante-work that much?)... and, unfortunately, this reality didn’t have merch that he could give the kid.

And a squishy plastic baguette. Because that was all he could think of to get back at Marinette for the duck thing.

When it came to little kid books he hesitated for just a bit before getting the basics -- stuff like animals and the letters and Spot The Dog. He wondered, vaguely, if he’d have to teach the kid numbers since they already used the Arabic numeral system. He got a book on it just in case.

Then he got a couple of books on parenting.

He checked out and then walked back to the sitting area where he was supposed to meet Marinette.

… she was taking forever.

He sighed quietly and skimmed through a book on parenting.

… oops they were supposed to breastfeed until Damian was about two. No clue what to do about that. Maybe the kid was already used to a bottle? He hoped so. He’d watch him more carefully while Marinette was holding him to see. In the meantime, he’d get a bottle and some formula on top of the baby food they’d been getting so far.

Alright so the kid was supposed to learn behaviors and language through observation. Good. That, hopefully, solved that problem. Tim probably would have just given the kid a textbook and said ‘good luck’. Marinette… he didn’t really know what Marinette would have done, but the woman wasn’t a teacher as far as he could tell and asking her to teach the kid properly was a little unfair.

Babies around his age are supposed to speak in something called… protowords? Like… a baby language? Damn, he has a miraculous and it seemingly allows him the power to understand every language but apparently ‘baby-speak’ didn’t count as a language. Tim called bullshit.

He felt a weight settle down on the bench next to him and absently glanced over.

Marinette sent him a slightly tired smile. She was wearing a new, dark red scarf.

He opened his mouth to say something only to have her shake her head and adjust her scarf a little to show him something.

Ah. It looked like Damian had fallen asleep on her shoulder so she’d fashioned the scarf into a makeshift baby sling.

“Could’ve used the stroller,” he whispered, setting his receipt in the book to mark his page.

She snorted. “And risk waking him? He cries every time he wakes up, I’m not dealing with that right now.”

He bit his lip. “You know… this book says he’s supposed to cry for, like, an hour to an hour and a half a day.”

She tipped her head to the side a little. “He’s cried like… three times.”

“Yeah, and he was really easy to shut up. Decidedly not normal.”

They looked back down at Damian, identical frowns on their faces.

“Does it have an explanation for why he’d be like this?” Marinette asked, her voice soft.

Tim hesitated.

“The only reasons I can think of are that he doesn’t think we’d help him if he cried or he thinks crying is something he’d be punished for. Considering how he was raised… it could be either. Or both.”

~

Marinette yawned as she sat back on the hotel bed. She leaned back against Tim, leaving him to bear the weight of both her and Damian.

He, to his credit, barely even blinked. He turned slowly until they were both leaning back against each other.

She tipped her head back to rest on his shoulder.

She could fall asleep like this, she thought. Propped against Tim. Damian, in her arms, watching an episode of something called True and the Rainbow Kingdom… it was nice.

Or, at least, it would be if Tim could stop that infernal tapping.

“Ugh, could you stop that? Some people actually sleep.”

He gave a tiny puff of laughter that acknowledged that he heard her but, alas, he continued typing.

She groaned a little and reached a hand behind herself to give him a tiny bap to his side.

“Hm. This may shock you, but hitting me really hasn’t helped your case.”

She huffed and twisted around to try and see over his shoulder. She’d given up on sleeping, anyway.

“What are you even doing?”

He shrugged just slightly. “Trying to figure out what to do about money.”

She nodded slowly, looking over his shoulder as he scrolled through jobs they could do with zero experience or degrees. That could sustain a family of three and pay for the daycare they would have to take Damian to. The options... weren’t great.

Damian tugged on her shirt for her attention and she looked down as he pointed at his screen with a bright smile. There was a black cat on the screen. She didn’t really know what he wanted until he kept saying ‘ma’ over and over. She nodded and said ‘cat’ in both Arabic and English, which seemed to sate him as he went back to watching… the giant green yeti monster stealing a basket of candy? What the fuck was even going on on this show? Were kids’ shows like this in her own world, too? Or was this one’s shows just especially weird?

A thought occurred to her and she looked back over at Tim.

“You exist in this world, right?”

He nodded absently and opened a tab that, despite its claim that it was an entry level job, apparently required two years of experience and a degree. He closed it quickly.

“Why don't we just mooch off of the other you?”

Tim sighed. “Because that’s illegal?”

“You’re a vigilante. I don’t think that ‘borrowing’ money from your alternate self is where you should draw the line on illegal activities.”

“I draw the line when it harms innocent people.”

She laughed at that. “He’s rich. It’s not like he’s going to miss it. Think of it as… giving the money to people who need it.”

“You’re a regular robin hood,” Tim said sarcastically.

“I know. I’m so kind,” she agreed, grinning.

There were a few moments of silence.

Then, finally, he shook his head. “Even if we could somehow do that -- which I can’t guarantee because I’m not completely sure I could guess my passwords -- the fact that we’re in Texas… he’d notice.”

She shrugged. “Then let’s move back to Gotham.”

He blinked and finally looked up from the computer. “What?”

“We don’t have much of a life here, really, so why not move?”

He considered this for a while before sighing and flopping back on the bed. “Let me see if I can even get into the account. There’s nothing to say that I even have the same social security number here...”

She nodded her understanding and laid back next to him. Damian whined a little at the sudden displacement but just ran a hand up and down his back absently until he was watching his show again, completely silent as he stared at the screen. Now the main girl was reaching into her bag for a weird orb of light that was, apparently, sentient. Was this the Dora of their world? God help their children.

Speaking of helping their children...

She picked up a parenting book to read while Tim tried to guess his otherworldly counterpart’s passwords.

~

Tim managed to get in.

He rested his head in his hands, cursing quietly.

She glanced over and smiled at his slightly flushed face.

“What was the password?”

He grumbled under his breath.

This only seemed to encourage her more because she started nudging his shoulder, the soft smile morphing into a cheeky grin.

He sighed and took a moment to gather himself before looking over at her. “It’s… ‘<3Richard<3graysons<3little<3brother<3’.”

“... I don’t get it.”

“Good. So you can’t tease me about it,” he said, sticking his tongue out at her.

She scoffed. “That’s not fair.”

“Totally is.”

He set the computer down beside himself and stretched his achy old bones. He’d had a baby for approximately two days now and he could already feel the bad back setting in. Tomorrow he would have gray hair.

“I’m going to look it up if you don’t tell me.”

“... he’s a celebrity,” Tim said quietly.

Her grin wavered back towards that genuine smile for just a second before spreading into an even wider grin. She reached out and pinched his cheeks. “Awwww, Tim, that’s so cute --!”

“Shut up,” he complained, batting her hands away.

She snickered. “No. I’m going to write that password on your tombstone.”

“You’re assuming I’m going to die first.”

“I have an extended lifespan. You’re only going to have that for another fifteen years. After that? Unless I’m really stupid you’re gonna die first.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m going to find out how to be immortal now. Purely to spite you.”

She snorted. “Okay. Good luck with that.”

“Thank you.”

With that, he pushed himself up with a groan. “I’m going to get him ready for bed.”

She nodded her understanding and continued with her reading.

Damian whined a little when Tim tried to take him away from where he had curled up next to Marinette but that seemed to be more because he was tired and cranky than genuine distress.

Tim was the one to bathe him. It wasn’t a bubble bath, he wasn’t eager to repeat the previous night’s mistakes, but he did give Damian the rubber duck. This seemed to work for all of them, since Damian now allowed them to take him out of the bath as long as he got to bring his duck.

Marinette grinned when she looked over at where Damian was chewing on his rubber duck as Tim struggled to click the annoyingly difficult buttons of the onesie into place.

“Told you he would love it.”

“We both know that wasn’t why you wanted to get it.”

“And we both know you didn’t get that squishy bread-thing just because you thought he would like it, either.”

He smiled. “Maaaaaybe.”

The onesie finally allowed itself to be buttoned and Tim picked Damian up so he could get into bed.

Marinette frowned. “This book says we shouldn’t let him sleep with us every night. Says it creates a bad habit that’s hard to break.”

Tim raised an eyebrow at her but, reluctantly, carried the kid over to the crib so they could sleep separately.

“Fine. But I’m going to sleep before him so I don’t stress out all night.”

She snickered. “Fine. Fine.”

He climbed into bed, set a pillow between them, and promptly dozed off before he could get woken up by Damian whimpering through the night.

… Tim woke up a few hours later -- his body wasn’t quite used to sleeping through nights just yet -- to find that Marinette had brought the kid into bed with them again.

He smiled a little and moved the pillow out from between them. Even if Damian was currently too trapped in Marinette’s arms to even reach it, it was best to make sure it couldn’t happen.

Damian whimpered a little in his sleep again and Tim tipped his head to the side. He reached over and gently combed his fingers through the fuzzy little tufts of hair that the kid had so far. Damian relaxed.

Tim sighed and shifted in the bed until he was closer to Damian, then maneuvered through Marinette’s mess of limbs to press a tiny kiss to the top of his head. The baby smiled in his sleep and, though the kid couldn’t see it, he returned the smile. He rested an arm around the kid as well in hopes that it would keep the kid feeling safe before allowing himself to drift off.

~~~~~

Next

@nathleigh @peachmuses @unoriginalmess @hammalammadamdam @astrynyx @laurcad123 @927roses-and-stuff

[erosofthepen]

Hello! Can I request an Eomer x reader (surprise surprise) with prompts 8 and 11?

Have a good day/night!

I literally forgot to post this smh 🤦‍♀️ Also I only did prompt 11, hope thats okay

Splinters

Pairing: Eomer x Reader

Words: 1034

Warnings: Angst, heartbreak

“(Y/N)!”

You cringed as he called your name. In the rush of events that had just occurred, it was shocking that he would have the balls to come after you. You kept walking, rushing past the carvings on the walls, linked together and worn from children running their hands along them, smoothing the wood over years and years. No fear of splinters to be found in the halls of Edoras. Save the ones working their way to the center of your heart.

Your name was called again, but you ignored it, casting it aside and forcing it to blend into the chaos coming from the mead hall. However, it was especially difficult to discard the voice of your lover so easily.

Breath quickening, you moved faster, trying to flee as quickly as possible. Tears that had started falling now blurred your vision, and as you passed the drunken guards at the door, you could now hear your lover's footsteps chasing after you. You ran faster.

Only, the tears that had stained your vision caused you to misstep, and when your vision cleared, you were lying on the cold ground. Rohan was harsh, and even in the early fall, the ground grew hard and bitter with frost. The blades of grass were yellowed and starting to form crystals of ice, and you considered staying there until you withered and froze as well.

But the gods had other plans.

A pair of strong arms, hardened by travels and toned by sword-work lifted you from the ground and pulled you close.

“You’re bleeding,” whispered words said, and while they were quiet and calm, you heard only thunder in them. A rough but gentle hand came up to cup your cheek, but you pulled away, making to run again. But alas, the strength of the Prince of Rohan was too powerful to break free from.

“Will you stop this game, even for a moment?” Eomer spoke, weary lines of hurt etched into his face. As if he was the one suffering.

“A game? Do you think of me as a child, running for the joy of it? I run to break free from you, it is no game you dog!”

The Prince's face fell, a perfect expression of grief and pain, one that great artists try to replicate, only to constantly fall short of the actual emotion.

“Will you not give me a chance to speak? To try and make sense of this situation instead of drawing rash conclusions of what the future holds for us? My love, I will not let you go so easily, not with how much love my heart holds for you!”

Again, you struggled to pull away, but weakly, and he only pulled you closer.

“What happened in those halls was just as much a shock to me as it was to you,” he continued, his gaze boring into you, though you refused to meet it.

“Like hell it was a shock. You’ve known since before you could draw an arrow from its quiver,” you spat, staring intently at the ground. “You knew, all the time we spent together, every promise made, each gentle kiss we shared, you knew all along it wouldn’t last, and gave me false hope. I built a future in my mind with you, Eomer, and now it has been lost.”

He cursed and released one of his hands from your wrist, bringing it up to your cheek and forcing you to meet his gaze. A bitter gust of wind rose up and sent a shiver through your body, but the warrior didn’t even seem the slightest bit affected. If he did shake, it was from emotion and not from the cold.

“You speak too rashly! You know I harbor nothing but the deepest love in my heart, and it is a love I will not break apart for any reason! I have built a future with you in the depths of my thoughts also, and I’ll be damned if anyone should try and take that from us!”

He spoke earnestly, you could tell, but the betrayal you felt was stronger than that.

“Then why is it that you never bothered to bring up the betrothal you have been engaged in since birth?” You seethed. Eomer had the decency to look guilty, and you found some sort of twisted pride at the fact.

For Indeed, tonight King Theoden had announced that the union of Eomer and Lady Runa would take place on Midsummer's day, a union planned for advantage since the birth of Eomer. He had known about it. He had kept silent.

“(Y/N), I have not even met with this woman, I cannot even fathom—“

“Cannot fathom? How could you not fathom the long expected? You knew this day would come, and you said nothing. What was the whole purpose of our love, then? Was I simply a distraction to you, or perhaps a placeholder for what was to come?” You let forth a bitter laugh, even as your throat swelled with emotion, “I suppose it was too good to last.”

Eomer’s grip tightened, and his eyes were pleading as he responded,

“No, you could never be a distraction, or a placeholder. My love, you mean more—“

“Do not call me that. Do not call me something that is not honest.”

Eomer, one of the greatest and strongest warriors ever to grace the plains of the harsh land, looked utterly defeated. His grip loosened until it fell away, and he stepped back. Eyes focusing on yours, his shoulders moved with his inhale and he spoke.

“If you want honesty, I shall give it to you. I want nothing to do with that woman. I want you. To feel the warmth of your hold, the fabric of your shirt against my cheek, the safety I find in your arms. I want to be with you, to love and be loved by you. But if that is not what you desire, I will leave and trouble you no longer.”

He waited for a response. When none came, his heart breaking showed through his face. He turned on his heel and walked back the way you both had come

[we-love-imagines]

Sunday Sniffles

Valentine’s Event: Day 4

Prompt: Rohan + Domestic

Ao3 Link

Author’s Note: Hi! This one is a bit of a sick fic, but it isn’t very gross, just a little fever. I’m so excited for the Rohan ova to go to Netflix, I haven’t gotten the chance to watch them on my own so I’m super excited. I love Rohan so much, he’s so fun to write for! Expect a lot more Rohan content soon!

As you opened your eyes, groaning softly as you woke up, you noticed the man that was beside you when you went to sleep was long gone. To most people, waking up to an empty bed would be upsetting, but you had grown used to it. You and your fiancé, Rohan, were busy people, and there wasn’t much time for early morning cuddles. There was coffee to make, pages to draw, and work to be done. 

However, you both had the tendency to run yourselves ragged. As you rolled out of bed, your legs felt like jello, and your sinuses were extremely sore. As you headed to the bathroom, chills ran up and down your spine as you sniffled and coughed, your head pounding as every step felt like a mile. Realization hit you, however, when you entered the bathroom and flicked the lights on. Your paled cheeks and reddened nose gave it away- you had gotten sick.

After washing up a little, you hoped the icky feeling that coated your body would disappear so you could get some work done; alas, it did not. You slung a blanket over your shoulders, wandering down the hall to your fiancé's office on shaky legs.

“Rohaaaaaan,” you called, your voice hoarse,  before opening the door, “I’m coming in.” He always got a little miffed when he was interrupted, but he was used to you stopping in around this time to say ‘Good Morning.’ Not noticing the weak warble of your voice, he didn’t think to take his eyes off his work.

“What is it, (Y/n)?”

“Babe, I think I’m sick,” you told him, before sneezing, “I don’t think I’ll be able to look over your pages today, I’m sorry.”

Setting down his pencil, he turned to face you. The moment he laid eyes on you, he could definitely tell you weren’t bluffing- you looked like death. While Rohan could certainly overdo it at times, your job as a manga editor had you working yourself to the bone a lot. You not only checked for continuity and general errors in a multitude of mangakas’ manuscripts, but you also were their main consultant, bouncing around ideas with them whenever they seemed stuck. While you were the editor for Pink Dark Boy, Rohan was very self-sufficient, so he never needed much from you. However, as of late, the other mangakas under your care were getting quite needy, putting a little too much on your plate for the past week or so.

“Let me take your temperature,” Rohan stood up, taking your hand and dragging you into another room. He pulled out a little thermometer, placing it in your mouth- just as he expected, the temperature rapidly rose.

“You have a fever, my dear,” he sighed, looking over your weak form, “Come on, let’s get you back to bed.” To most people, Rohan seemed like a heartless bastard; Hell, when you first became his editor, you thought so too. However, after getting to know him better, you quickly found that he could be rather sweet if he wanted to. After years of going out, you discovered that said kindness seemed to only be extended to you and a few close friends. Whenever he’d call you little pet names, or hold you like he was right now as he walked you back to your shared bedroom, you reminded yourself of why you fell for that heartless bastard in the first place.

Tucking you back in under your covers, he sat you up on some extra pillows, grabbing some extra blankets from the closet to warm you up even more.

“Tea?” he asked, rolling up his sleeves.

“Babe, you don’t need to baby me,” you told him, prying off some excess blankets, “Go back to work, I know you’re busy. Besides, I have a few calls to make-”

“No, no (Y/n). You’re not doing any work today,” he protested, taking the blanket you were trying to get rid of and putting it back on top of you, “The more you try to do today, the longer your fever is gonna last. You’ve been working too hard lately, anyways. It’s probably the reason you’re sick.”

“But the other mangakas need me, at least let me call them-”

“Dear, they’re creative people, they can manage for a few days while you recover,” he cut you off, making a snide face. He never liked how busy those other mangakas made you- they always seemed to rely on you too heavily for ideas.

“Until then, you’re staying right here. I’m going to make you some hot water for your throat- would you like to read something?”

“Again, babe, you don’t have to fuss over me,” you chided, shooing him away, “I won’t go into work today, but I can make my own tea. You have pages to finish.”

“I know I have pages to finish, but I’m ahead of schedule. Is it wrong of me to ensure my fiancée is well taken care of?” Rohan rolled his eyes, a cocky little grin on his face. He knew you hated when he was right. “What if I wanted to fuss over you anyways, hm? We’re both so busy, I don’t have the time to properly spoil you like I should.”

“You sly dog,” you smiled back at him, sniffling in between words, “You’ve been waiting for something like this, haven’t you?”

“Guilty is charged,” he chuckled, rolling up his sleeves before placing a box of tissues on your nightstand, “I’ve been wanting a nice, easy day with you for awhile. While your condition isn’t optimal, I’ll take any chance I get.”

Without another word, he rushed downstairs to fetch you some warm water as you reached for the drawer in your nightstand, pulling out a book you’ve been meaning to finish. Rohan came back to your room, not only with some hot water and a variety of tea bags to choose from, but with a large breakfast, too.

“You’ve got to drink lots of warm water and eat right so you can get better, okay?” he instructed, setting the tray of food deftly on your lap. You also noticed his ‘go bag’ of art supplies slung over his shoulder. He always carried that bag around when he was out of the house in case inspiration suddenly struck him, so he could draw whole pages of manuscript then and there. He set it down, gently, in the corner of the room; if this bag was with him, it meant that he was staying by your side all day.

Sitting on the bed next to you, Rohan made conversation with you while you ate, cleaning up soon after you were done. He spent the whole day like that, lying beside you, making sure you were okay.

“Rohan, you shouldn’t cuddle me,” you weakly argued, trying to push the man currently spooning you away, “I could get you sick!”

“I don’t care. It’s been too long since we’ve gotten to just lay around together, Dear,” he shot back, nuzzling into you. While you wanted to protest further, the warmth of his body and the endearing pet-name made you complacent. Soon enough, you found yourself drifting off in his arms.

Seeing as you were ill, you had a hard time staying asleep, but Rohan would always lull you back down, comforting you like a mother singing to a baby. While part of you wished he was getting his work done, it felt so nice to finally spend some quality time with your future husband. Your little chats in between naps actually included a lot of wedding planning- something you were both too busy to think about since he popped the question. Also, even though you felt a little bad about it, it felt really nice to be doted on like this. Rohan was being so sweet and gentle with you, which was a very nice change of pace compared to his usual prickly personality.

Suddenly, you found yourself waking up, the electric clock on your nightstand showing that it was the early evening. Did you just spend all day in bed? Despite the frail feeling in your limbs, or how gross your face felt, it was so nice to lounge around all day. 

Behind you, you heard a little snore coming from Rohan. Carefully, you turned over to face him, making sure to go slow enough not to wake him. As you settled back in, you saw how peaceful his face was, all of the tension in his body gone as he slept.

It felt nice to wake up to his face again. From here on out, you two would make sure to save some more time for each other.

[noladyme]

The Wife - Chapter 1

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. As rumors spread that Mr. James Delaney had returned to England – making a dramatic arrival at his father’s funeral – you might imagine mothers throughout London, rushing to present their marriable daughters to the man. They did not; and for three very good reasons. First; James Keziah Delaney was clearly damaged from his travels, and not a little dangerous. Secondly; it was the general opinion of the better society that Mr. Delaney had inherited his mother’s madness. Thirdly; Mr. Delaney was not single. In fact, he was very much married.

TW: angst, violence, blood, smut (6573 words)

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. As rumors spread that Mr. James Delaney had returned to England – making a dramatic arrival at his father’s funeral – you might imagine mothers throughout London, rushing to present their marriable daughters to the man. They did not; and for three very good reasons.

First; James Keziah Delaney was clearly damaged from his travels, and not a little dangerous. Strange reports were made of late night magic rituals, and more than once the gentleman had been seen with red stained hands – though it was unclear whether the stains stemmed from blood, or the powders he would use to draw markings on his face.

Secondly; it was the general opinion of the better society that Mr. Delaney had inherited his mother’s madness; and no one wanted to risk a familiar connection with a woman who ended her days in Bethlem Royal Hospital – in common tongue, Bedlam Insane Asylum.

Thirdly; Mr. Delaney was not single. In fact, he was very much married.

---

Rosalind was seated in front of the small fireplace in her room at Mrs. Owen’s boarding house, fiddling with the garnet ring she wore on the long finger of her right hand. The fire had long since gone out, but she hadn’t the stamina or even will to get up and feed the dying embers with more wood. As it was, the cold she felt streaming through her veins went well with the chill of the room.

In her hand, she held a letter sent by Mr. Thoyt; the lawyer of her late father-in-law. She’d read it twice; and then once more, just to see if she had not been mistaken.

To; Rosalind Beauchamp c/o Mrs. Fanny Owen

Dear Madam, I sincerely hope this letter finds you well, as I received information that your absence from the funeral of your late father-in-law, was due to an ailment of some kind. Had you attended, I had a seat saved for you in the front pew, where it would have been proper for the heiress of Mr. Horace Delaney to be seated. Alas, I had to take the seat myself, as to not leave it unused; and make the fullness of the pews in the church seem uneven.

Rosalind rolled her eyes at this. There was no doubt in her mind that Thoyt would have filled the seat right next to her, if she had been there; claiming that would be proper, as he was the executor of the elder Delaney’s will.

I should like to extend the well wishes of Mr. Thorne Geary, who has asked if it would be in your wish to promenade with him one of the coming days. I counsel you to accept his visit; as you know he has only your well-being in mind, and bears warm sentiments towards you.

These sentiments Rosalind was well aware of; and was in fact doing her best to avoid the man, so she would not have to spend another drawn out visit, avoiding the topic of widows and widowers remarrying.

It is my hope that your ailment is not of the heart, for I fear I have rather disturbing news to pass on to you; and would not want to make you even more frail. I must inform you that James Keziah Delaney has returned to London. He arrived at the funeral service shortly before the minister began his sermon. These past ten years have changed him much, but it is indeed him.

James. After 3 years as a scorned wife, with a runaway husband, and then 7 more as a widow; he’d returned. A hard knot had formed in her stomach as she read on.

My dear, I urge you to avoid any contact with Mr. Delaney. He is, I reiterate, very different than the gentleman you knew; and from the looks of him, more beast than man. I will be happy to offer any legal aid you might need to separate from him, and fight for your inheritance. James Delaney was proclaimed dead 7 years ago; but as he has been gone for so long, I am sure we can find some legal way to proclaim you continued sole heiress of the Delaney fortunes – among them, the rights to the area in America known as Nootka Sound. I should like to call on you at your earliest disposal. With regards; Robert Thoyt, solicitor.

Rosalind’s hands were shaking, as she held on to the letter. She got on her feet, gazing at the intricately decorated chest in front of the bed in her small room. It had been a gift from her father-in-law; one that he had purchased on one of his many travels. It was the only gift she had ever received from the man, that hadn’t been given out of some sense of responsibility to her. She laid down the letter on the bedside table, and walked over and opened the chest. Moving around gloves, fabrics, unfinished embroidery works, and small boxes of beads and trinkets; she reached the bottom of the chest, where a for years untouched muslin gown lay, next to a veil of fragile lace. She pulled out the delicate dress, and laid it on the bed. It still had a dark stain on the front, from where the minister had spilt wine on her, as her husband and she had taken communion together after being wed. Once outside the church, James had stroked his index finger over the red stain – which was just over the left breast, and smiled. “It matches your lips, Rose”, he’d said; and her distress over having her wedding gown ruined in such a manner, left way to happiness. The way any woman should feel on her wedding day. She hadn’t realized she was crying, until another stain disgraced the muslin; one from a tear.

It was all too much to believe. This man, whom she’d cherished with a naïve and young heart, had suddenly reappeared, after being proclaimed dead. She had to see if it was true; if it was truly him.

There was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Owen stepped inside; her large figure filling the doorway. “Lunch is ready, miss Beauchamp”, she said. “Thank you, but I will be going out”, Rosalind said. Mrs. Owen smiled brightly. “Will you be meeting Mr. Geary, then?”, she asked. “I will not”. “Mr. Thoyt?”. Rosalind had become a master at keeping her composure in regards to her nosy landlady; but today she was a little less inclined to be polite. “It is a private matter. Please call a carriage for me”, she said shortly, and the stout woman recoiled slightly at her tone. “Right away, miss”.

After the door closed again, Rosalind stripped off her plain, cotton day dress, and put on a dark blue gown; more suited for an afternoon visit. She shrugged off her inclination to wear the red gown. That would be too much. Her dark grey jacket, a purse and a capote to match, finished her ensemble. Her boots weren’t much to speak of, but they kept her feet mostly dry; though the soles were wearing thin.

The carriage was waiting for her outside the boarding house. She asked the driver to take her back to her former home.

---

Chamber House was even more dreary than when she’d been there last. The smell from the river running behind the house struck her nose, and Rosalind felt a chill go through her body. Trying to open the metal gate, she had to lean against it; putting her whole weight on the rusty thing. It made a loud screeching sound, when it finally opened.

The garden in front of the house was unkempt, and the windows on the bottom floor had been boarded up. For a moment, she considered leaving, as the building seemed abandoned. Maybe Thoyt had been mistaken, and the man at the funeral was an imposter. Smoke from the chimney let Rosalind know that someone was inside, but she had also heard stories of mudlarks roaming empty houses for warmth and the occasional cat that could be made in to dinner. This wasn’t a place for proper ladies, as countess Musgrove would say, but the countess was hardly a proper lady herself, and Rosalind had business to attend.

She went up the few steps to the door, and took a deep breath, before knocking on the door. There was the sound of a dog barking, and then some shuffling around, followed by a voice muttering at the dog. The door opened, and a slight, tired looking man appeared in front of her. “Brace…”, Rosalind greeted him quietly. The old butler stood seemingly dumbfounded at her arrival. She looked up at the sky. “It seems about to rain. May I please come in?”. “Of course, ma’am", Brace muttered, and stepped aside.

The grand hallway was less grand than it had been, years before. The house seemed dark and cold, and Rosalind did not feel inclined to take of her hat or jacket, when Brace reached for them. “I won’t be staying long”, she said. “I just came to see… Is it true? Is he back?”. “He is…”, Brace said with a nod. “This last week". “And you didn’t feel it necessary to inform me?”. Brace looked at the floor in front of him, and fidgeted with the hem of his tattered jacket. “He is changed, Mrs. Delaney…”, Brace began. “Miss Beauchamp”, Rosalind corrected him. Brace recoiled at this, but kept his expression as indifferent as possible. “Yes, miss”.

Rosalind walked towards the sitting room with as much calm as she could muster. “Is he here?”, she asked. “No”, Brace replied. “He is… on business. I don’t know when he’ll return”. “I’ll have to wait, then”, Rosalind sighed. Brace stepped in front of her. “Ma’am… Miss”, he said. “You shouldn’t. James isn’t… He is not the young man you knew”. “And I’m not the girl he knew either”, Rosalind retorted. “In any case, I need to speak with him…”. Brace must have seen the determination on her face, because he stepped aside, and let Rosalind enter the room.

It was dark, and smelled of a mixture of spices, whiskey; and wet firewood and ashes – only slightly taking away from the smell of the river. The furniture was the same, though damaged from the moisture seeping through the walls from the Thames. A large grey dog rested by the unlit fireplace, and lifted its head slightly as she entered. Though it had made its presence known earlier, it seemed to be more bark than bite; and simply let out a huff, as she seated herself on the sofa. It raised its eyes to look at her, and she smiled slightly at it; feeling like she got a sort of smile in return. “Tea, miss?”, Brace asked. “No, thank you”, Rosalind said. “Good. We don’t have any”, the butler smiled. “And from what I remember, you prefer coffee”. His expression had warmed, since he’d apparently accepted that Rosalind had no intention of leaving. She suspected he was trying to soften the blow of whatever she was about to face. “That sounds lovely. Thank you, Brace”.

After the butler had disappeared, Rosalind took some time to get reacquainted with the room in which she’d spent many hours, years before. Seated on this same couch, she’d kept her father-in-law company, as he rambled about his business and how everyone was trying to cheat him. She’d had tea with uninteresting ladies from all over town, who all came with well wishes after the wedding, combined with insincere regrets upon the departure of her husband, so soon after. The same night, in fact. A whole year she’d managed to keep her sanity in the house, which became draftier and drearier almost by the second. When his son had up and left suddenly, the elder Delaney had gone into a strange bout of melancholy; almost seeming to feel guilty about the fact. Rosalind did her best to keep up the façade of a good wife and daughter-in-law, but found it harder and harder to keep up with Mr. Delaney’s moods, and when the letters from her husband stopped, she found no reason to stay in the house any longer. She would visit weekly, but never for long, as the old man seemed rather indifferent to whether she was there or not, and mostly stared into the fireplace, and muttered to himself.

Horace Delaney had made sure she received an allowance to keep up with expenses; but 4£ a month did not stretch far. In the end, Rosalind had taken up work as a chaperone and occasional tutor to young ladies in the south-east of England – never straying too far from London.

Two years after leaving the Chamber House, Rosalind received a letter, letting her know that her husband was suspected dead in a shipwreck. The news hit her painfully hard. Deep down, she had always hoped that James would return to her one day, even after he was thought of as dead; though rationally, she knew better. She’d dreamed of him often. He was always at a distance, always out of reach. It was agony to miss him so. Now, he had returned, and as it was, clearly not for his wife.

Soon after, her visits became rarer. The elder Delaney more or less ignored her when she came, and more than once, he’d asked Brace to tell her to leave, while she was still in the room; so he could get back to work. She’d attended Zilpha's wedding, but the two had never been close; merely friendly acquaintances, with a dead brother and husband in common. Once Zilpha had passed, after a sudden disease that made her seem old beyond her years in just weeks, Horace made it clear he had no wish to see any kind if family; so for two years, Rosalind had stayed away from Chamber House.

Until today.

Brace returned with a tray of coffee and biscuits that looked hard enough to crack a tooth on. Out of sheer politeness, Rosalind picked up one, and dipped it in her cup of coffee, to soften the treat. Brace threw a biscuit at the dog, who gulped it up without much trouble chewing it. Rosalind dropped her biscuit on the floor herself, and the dog got up, and slowly walked over to eat it. It lifted its head, and looked at her; and she timidly scratched it behind its ear.

Suddenly, it turned its head, and looked towards the hallway. The door opened, and a gust of wind blew through the house; making it sound like the building was whimpering, as it passed through the cracks in the walls. A dark figure stepped into the hallway; the sound of his boots loud as canons. A long coat covered his broad frame, and he wore a hat; pushed forward on his head, and hiding his face in shadow. “Brace! Coffee…”, he ordered; his hoarse voice leaving very little trace of the raspy, warm one Rosalind remembered. Brace hurried to greet his master, and took his hat and coat. Rosalind sat very still, with bated breath and beating heart. “In the sitting room, but… sir, you have a guest”, Brace said. “I’m not inclined to receive anyone. Tell them to go away”. “You will want to see her… Maybe”. Rosalind got on her feet, and slowly turned to face the doorway.

James Delaney had indeed changed. Gone was the young gentleman, with the boyish charm and nervous smile; and instead, there stood a bearded, brute man, who had danger and darkness written all over his expression. A scar ran from his brow, and down over his eye and cheek.

Yet, she could not find a flaw on him. He was even more striking than the day they’d met. Love and pain streamed through her body. James took one look at his wife; nodded, and let out a breathy grunt. “Rosalind…”, he said. “James…”, she breathed; trying to keep her composure. Rosalind felt as if she might faint at any moment. She regretted coming to see him, and unsure what had been her reason. But now she was here, as was he; and internally, she struggled not to throw herself into his arms, or attack him with the fire poke.

Rosalind sat back down, and James took his place in what had been his father’s chair, opposite her; looking at the dog. He took a biscuit, and threw it in the air. The dog caught it, and gobbled it down. Brace went over to the samovar, and looked at Rosalind. “More coffee, miss Beauchamp?”, he asked. James eyes flew towards Rosalind, and then down at the ring adorning her right hand; and something hard ghosted his face. She immediately regretted not having worn gloves. “Yes. More coffee for miss Beauchamp, and then maybe a cup for your master, hmm?”, James said. “Of course, sir. And I’ve prepared a cod for dinner. Atticus brought it”. James replied with a grunt, and Brace poured coffee for them. “Will you be staying, miss?”. “No, thank you Brace. My landlady is expecting me at the boarding house”, Rosalind said. Once again, James gave her an unreadable, hard look.

Brace stood uncomfortably by the fireplace, before finally pretending to remember something he had to see to, and scuttered off. James and Rosalind sat in silence for a long moment. Trying to calm herself, Rosalind took a sip of her coffee. “I was told you died”, she said quietly. “I did”, James replied, and drank the entire content of his cup in one go. “You’re a widow, miss Beauchamp”. Rosalind’s cheeks flushed red. “It was easier to use my maiden name…”. “To separate yourself from my father, or me…?”, James grunted. Rosalind looked down. “To start anew”, she whispered. “I had to start over, after you left”.

James seemingly ignored that last sentence. “You did not attend my father’s funeral”, he said, his eyes fixed on something on the far wall. You did not attend our wedding night, Rosalind wanted to reply; but thought the better of it. “I felt indisposed”, she said meekly. “Too indisposed to say a last farewell to the man who has been keeping up your expenses these last 10 years?”, James challenged. “Whom you were set to inherit this house and the rest of his fortune from?”. “I am not kept”, she retorted. James eyes flickered. “I felt indisposed to sit through a sham of a service set up by a lawyer, who had no love for the deceased; and to then have to avoid the wandering eyes of every man in the room, hoping to get his hand on said fortune. And me”.

James raised his brows at her, making the scar on his face even more prominent. “You’ve had suitors, then?”, he asked. “I’ve been a widow, not a nun”, Rosalind retorted, an angry edge to her voice. James’ lip twitched into a slight smile, which was gone as soon as it had arrived. “But never remarried…”, he said. “You know I didn’t…”. “You could have gone to France. Stayed with relatives there. They could have found a suitable match for you”. “I have no family to speak of in France. And I’ve never met any of the few I have”.

With a loud bang, James put one foot up on the ottoman in front of his chair, and pulled off his boot. “So, is that why you are here? Because you want to be married?”, he asked, and took off the other boot. “You said my husband was dead. It seems that is not an option”. Rosalind did not understand why uttering the words brought her as much pain as it did; but she felt something break inside her when she did. “Then why?”. “I need to know where I stand. Dead as you may be, here you are; and my situation is much different than I thought it to be”, she said. “It is clear that I am no longer the heiress of this… grand house, and your father’s holdings. To add to that is that, legally I am bound to you; and you to me…”. “I will keep up with your expenses”, James said, interrupting her. “How much was my father providing?”. Rosalind bit her cheek, and looked down again. “4£ a month”, she whispered.

James eyes widened. “My father only granted you 4£ a month?”, he said. “That is not much money for hats, lace gloves and whatnot”. “Don’t insult me, James”, Rosalind said. “You know full well that I couldn’t care less about hats and gloves”. “Do I? I have not seen you in ten years”, James shrugged. “And who’s fault is that?”, Rosalind hissed. “Hmm”, James muttered. “How have you been making a living? I take it you have had to take on employment? There aren’t many ways for a gentle woman to make money. I hope you have not been forced to solicit yourself”. His voice was cold, and his eyes traced her figure. “You are cruel…”, Rosalind said. “And you are not first to have uttered those words. Though; vicious and evil are more common, when I am spoken of". James took a sip of his coffee, and studied her face for a reaction. Rosalind kept her composure, surprising even herself at her ability to do so.

“You should know I have received a letter from Mr. Thoyt, your father’s lawyer", she said. James met her eyes again, narrowing his own. “He has offered me legal aid in regards to claiming your inheritance”. “Which you will accept, of course". James said. “No. I will not. It is not my inheritance. I didn’t even truly want it, when I thought you were dead". He looked down at her feet, and she instinctively pulled them backwards, and tried to cover them with her skirts. “You could have used it", James said. “I don’t want your family’s money. That was not why I married you".

James got on his feet abruptly, making it clear it was time for Rosalind to leave. She stood up, and walked towards the hallway; clutching her purse. “I will provide you with 15£ a month. I do not want you taking on employment with anyone anymore… no matter what it is”, James said. “Why do you care? Very few people know I am your wife; and I do not use your name”, Rosalind replied. “I will not be dragging it through the mud”. “Call it taking responsibility for my mistakes”, he said. “Is that what I am?”. Her voice was shaking at this point.

James met her eyes, and let out a short, audible breath. “Take yourself to a shoemaker, and have him make you some better boots”, he said. “The ones you have on, are almost worn out. Have them send the bill to me”. “No, thank you. I shall mend them”, Rosalind replied. She went to leave, but James put a hand on the doorhandle; and blocked her exit. “You will buy new boots, and I will see that your current accommodations are suitable”, he said, looking seriously at her. “You don’t know where I live”, Rosalind said. “I will find out”. There was no doubt in his voice, he was merely making a statement of fact.

James opened the door for her, but before she could exit, he stepped outside, and looked across the garden, and turned his head to gaze down the road; almost as if making sure no one was watching them. When he finally stepped aside, Rosalind walked down the steps; and turned to face him one last time. “James…”, she said. “Rose…”, he replied; making her breath hitch. His eyes warmed for a second, before he stepped back inside, and closed the door.

---

Rosalind had a strange dream that night.

She was walking along the shore of a muddied lake. A way out in the water, with his back to her, stood a broad-shouldered man with markings on his skin. He wore no clothes, save a cloth to cover his privates. A dark gravelly voice was speaking strange words she did not understand, and when she called out to the figure in the water, he turned around. He was the one speaking, but the words were sounding as if they were coming from somewhere very close; not from where he was standing.

She closed her eyes in fear, and when she opened them again, he was standing right in front of her. It was James, but he had a painted face, and his eyes were black. She closed her eyes again, and covered her face. A strong pair of hands grabbed her wrists, and pulled them down. “Look at me”, James said. “No… You’re dead”, Rosalind said. “Am I? I am here now…”. “You left me. And then you came back as someone else”.

She opened her eyes again, and saw James as she had seen him earlier that day. No paint on his face, and bright blue eyes. “I was always here”. He put his index finger on her forehead, and then just over her left breast. “And here…”. When he removed his hand, a red stain marked her nightgown. “It matches your lips, Rose”.

She woke up in a jolt, and held her hand to her chest. Looking down, she saw a red stain on her nightgown, just over her left breast.

Getting out of bed, Rosalind walked over to the washbasin, and splashed her face with the cold water. She rubbed at the stain with a moist finger, but all that did, was make it more prominent, and her nipple harden from the cold, damp fabric now covering it. She walked over to the window and looked outside. Across the street, she saw a dark figure; looking up towards her. She didn’t recognize the face, but the menacing glare she thought she could see from under the rim of the persons hat, made her instantly move backwards, and out of view of the window.

The bed felt cold and unwelcoming when she got back under the sheets.

---

As she finished her breakfast the next morning, Mrs. Owen came into the dining room, holding a medium sized parcel. “This came for you, miss. Might you have a secret admirer?”, she said. She handed Rosalind the parcel, and a letter. “And your mail”. Rosalind thanked her, and went up to her room, to examine the parcel, and read her letter in private.

Inside the parcel lay a pair of half boots, in soft, yet sturdy leather. They would keep Rosalind’s feet dry and warm, and it was clear they had not been cheap. There was no note attached to the gift; though gift might be the wrong word, as James seemed to see her more as a responsibility to take care of, rather than someone to bestow presents upon. She threw the boots in a corner, unable to define her emotions – anger or sadness, she was not sure. After a few moments of frustrated groans and a few stray tears, she walked over, and gingerly picked up the boots; dusting them off with her hand. She set them down on top of the chest.

Rosalind turned her attentions to her letter. The writing was in the blunt and crude, yet feminine hand and wording of countess Musgrove.

To; Rosalind Beauchamp c/o Fanny Owen

Dearest friend, It has come to my attention that you have recently been made aware of some rather disturbing news. An acquaintance of mine has informed me that your apparently not so late husband has returned to London. It seems to come at a terrible time, as you were so close to inheriting somewhat of a fortune; at least enough to attract a new husband. Am I mistaken in thinking Mr. Thorne Geary has taken an interest in you? In any case, please call upon me for tea this Friday afternoon, so we might play a round of cassino, and discuss your plans for your now much changed future.

Sincerely; Genevieve Musgrove, countess.

Rosalind let out a very unfeminine and impolite noise. She would rather take an ice bath of lime, than sit through another afternoon of the countess and her friends gossiping and filling their gobs with sweets. None the less, she was obliged to attend, to stay in Musgrove’s good graces; and have a chance for another employment with her. And it was not like she had a husband, who could give her a good excuse to stay away.

There was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Owen stepped inside. “You have a visitor, miss”, she said, a mischievous smile on her plump face. “Perhaps the green gown, for a promenade?”. “Mr. Geary, then?”, Rosalind sighed. “Indeed. And he has mentioned on many occasions, how lovely the green goes with your ten”. Rosalind cocked a brow at her landlady. “May I trouble your maid for help with preparing? I am finding myself out of sorts”. Mrs. Owen nodded, and left the room. Soon the young maid entered. “Please, will you fetch my blue gown?”.

---

Thorne Geary was waiting in the sitting room, politely smiling at Mrs. Owen; when Rosalind entered. “Miss Beauchamp! I came to enquire upon your health, after your absence from the funeral service”, he said. “Mr. Thoyt let me know you wished to call upon me; but I am quite sure I did not respond affirmatively”, Rosalind said. A dissatisfied expression ghosted Mr. Geary’s face. “Alas, I believe we have matters to discuss”, he said through an insincere smile. “Will you do me the honor of promenading with me?”.

A little while later, Mr. Geary and Rosalind were strolling along the lanes of Hyde Park. “Your gown is quite fetching, miss Beauchamp”, the gentleman proclaimed. “Almost as fetching as the green you wore when I last called upon you”. “I am unsure whether that is a compliment, or an insult”, Rosalind replied. Geary cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable about her response.

“It was quite a shock to see James Delaney at the funeral”, Geary said. He was holding his arm in such a manner, that Rosalind was invited to take it. She ignored the gesture. “I am sure it was”, she muttered; and moved her body to put a little more distance between them. Geary stepped after her, and the smell of the herring he had obviously eaten earlier hit her nose. Rosalind detested herring. “I am sure it came as an even greater shock for you, my dear Rosalind”, he said. “Please, Mr. Geary. I do not think we are quite close enough acquaintances for pet names”. “Are we not family? In-laws?”, Geary smiled. “Now, more than ever, it would seem, as you… husband has reappeared”.

He gestured for them to walk down a smaller lane, away from curious ears. “Ever since we first met, I’ve felt a close connection to you”, Geary said. “And, then when my dear Zilpha passed… well, I must admit, I hoped we might build on that bond”. Rosalind felt bile rise in her throat. “Mr. Geary…”, she began. “Thorne, please…”, Geary insisted. “Mr. Geary!”, Rosalind said firmly. “This conversation is highly improper, and I beg of you to stop”.

Geary sighed, and looked down. “You know of my sentiments towards you. Those have not changed, merely because that savage, who forced matrimony on you years ago, is back”. “You do not know him”, Rosalind said quietly. “Neither do you. From what I am told, your courtship was very brief. There were even rumors of you being in unfortunate circumstances…”. Rosalind stopped in her tracks. “Gossip mongering, Mr. Geary? So much for close connections”, she said.

Geary stepped over to a bench in an alcove, and gestured for Rosalind to sit. “Please, miss Beauchamp… for I insist on still calling you that, and not Mrs. Delaney, if you will not let me call you by your first name”, he said. They sat down together; Rosalind aiming for sitting as far from her companion as she could. “I, of course, am well aware that your chasteness can never be questioned. You are beyond doubt the kindest, most virtuous woman I have had the pleasure to meet. Even as my betrothed walked up the aisle to become my wife, I could not take my eyes off you…”. “You should stop speaking”, Rosalind said. “Please, let me get this off my chest!”, Geary said. His voice was not pleading; but hard – and Rosalind was reminded of how her sister-in-law had wilted from a lively and smiling favorite in London society, to a grey ghost of her former self, after she married. In this moment, Rosalind knew that Mr. Geary had been the one to make his wife such.

Geary took a firm hold of her hand, and when she tried to pull it away, he grabbed her wrist; and continued his speech. “Delaney is mad. I have spoken to more than one sailor, who have told me stories, I cannot repeat in present company”, Geary said. “He should have stayed dead, and let you keep the inheritance. You and I could…”. “There is no you and I, Mr. Geary”, Rosalind tried.

Geary’s hand around her wrist tightened. “I know I am not a very wealthy man, but you and I… we both married in to the Delaney family; and we saw how that mad old bastard brought shame on the name”. “Perhaps we should have helped him, instead of standing by?”, Rosalind muttered; trying to keep herself calm, as the man held on to her. He leaned in closer, and his hot breath hit her face. “No… He got everything he deserved; and sired two wretches, who continued to do the same”. “How can you speak of your wife in such a manner?”. “She was a barren fool…”.

Rosalind finally pried herself free from Geary’s grasp, and stood up; but he grabbed her by the arm, and forced her to sit again. “Let me go”, Rosalind whimpered. She was sure to have marks on her arm after his manhandling her. Geary looked at her intently. “I can do much with the money I can make from selling that plot of land in America; and with you as my wife…”. “I am already married, sir!”, Rosalind sneered. “Are you? Delaney was back for more than a week, without letting himself be known to you. It wasn’t until Thoyt wrote you, that you knew. He hasn’t taken you in; you are still living in that boarding house”. A vile grin, which Geary clearly thought came across as calming, spread across his lips. “But, never mind that. That can all be taken care of”. “What is that supposed to mean?”. A knot had begun forming in the pit of Rosalind’s stomach, and she was shaking.

“You speak ill of my dear sister, and now you have intentions on my wife”. James appeared in front of them; a dark look about him. “Let her go”. “You interrupted our conversation, Mr. Delaney”, Geary said. “Is that what you were doing? Conversing? Or plotting my demise…”, James retorted. “In any case, you have your hands and mind on what is still mine. Release the lady”.

Rosalind tore herself from Geary, and got on her feet, moving away from the bench; and towards James. He gave her a look of dissatisfied confusion, and she went to stand next to him, her eyes on the ground. “You should have stayed dead”, Geary sneered, and got on his feet. He stood taller than James, but in no way seemed as dangerous as him. “Is that what you tell my sister, when she haunts your nightmares?”, James asked. Geary recoiled at James’ words; and James half turned towards Rosalind. “I will escort you back to your lodgings”, he said, and turned his back to Geary. Rosalind followed his lead, and they walked down the path. She felt Geary’s eyes on her back as they went.

---

They walked in silence. Rosalind struggled to keep up with James’ long strides; and after a while, she stopped, and went to sit on a bench at the side of the lane. “I have things to do. If you need to catch your breath, then be quick about it”, James said. “You don’t have to escort me. Go about your business”, Rosalind retorted. “And risk the predators setting on you? Come now, we have eyes on us”. Rosalind looked around her, seeing no one but ladies, gentlemen, and the occasional governess taking a child on a stroll. “What eyes?”.

James narrowed his eyes for a moment, as if making a decision of whether to tell her more, or hold his tongue. In the end, he settled for continuing. “Your Mr. Geary made it clear”, he said. “He is not my Mr. Geary. I’d prefer to avoid the connection all together”, Rosalind retorted. “Hmm”, James grunted. “He made it clear, as I said. I am to be taken care of. There are evil men who are out to kill me”. “And my sore feet put you in danger?”. James seemed taken aback, and slightly amused at her retort. “Perhaps you should have worn your new boots”, he said, and stretched out his hand for her to stand. Rosalind was about to take it, when she saw that James had removed his glove. “Come…”, he said; and with her heart in her throat, she took his hand.

It was as warm as she remembered, and his touch sent the same shivers down her spine, as it had those many years before. As she stood in front of him, everything around Rosalind disappeared; and all she could see, was the man in front of her. She breathed him in. Musk, fresh tobacco, grass, dirt, coffee – and that undefinable thing that was merely him. “James…”, she whispered. James expression hardened, and his eyes became dark. “No… None of that. Do not make yourself a weakness”, he said. “And do not let me become one, either. You are too good for that”. “But you…”. James let go of her hand, and his face grew almost saddened. She looked down at his hand, and saw that the tip of his index finger was red. Rosalind let out a soft gasp; and when she opened her mouth to speak, he was already walking down the path again. He slowed his pace, so she could keep up; but did not speak to her for the rest of the walk.

Once back at the boarding house, Mrs. Owen met them in the door. “Going out with one gentleman, and coming back with another… Really, miss Beauchamp”, she said in a chiding voice. “Not a common occurrence, then?”, James said. Rosalind had to will herself not to slap him. Mrs. Owen raised a pair of cold eyes. “I beg your pardon… This is a proper establishment, sir!”, she exclaimed. “And who are you?”. “Her husband”.

Mrs. Owen looked stunned, and for once, she didn’t seem to know what to say. “You are… Well, that’s… You are recently wed, then?”, she asked. “No”, James said shortly. He looked at Rosalind one final time, before turning around, and walking away.

---

[ihearthes]

Quarantine Christmas Part 1

Author: @ihearthes Pairing: Harry x y/n Rating: Fluff/Smut (Smut in Part 2) Word Count: 2826 (Part 1) Fiction Chalenge via @caitlin‘s fiction party via @sweetcreatureinthedark

December 23, 2020

My head spins as I haul my suitcase from the trunk, using two hands due to the heft of the dirty clothes inside. Setting it on the ground, I yank on the handle before grappling with the two shopping bags filled with presents, reaching back for the decorated Christmas tin that is filled with homemade cookies, fudge, and other delicacies baked by my colleagues at Apple Music. 

Wrestling with my hands full, I close the trunk with an elbow, shivering in the chilly LA air. At the front door, I want to cry. Dammit. I could clearly remember that when Glenne had given me the code for the front door and the alarm, I placed them in my phone under her contact information. 

“FUCK!” The primal scream is released from my lungs, likely scaring the neighbors if any of them are outside enjoying Christmas lights or having family celebrations on this Christmas Eve Eve. Balancing the tin of cookies on top of the suitcase, I set down the shopping bags to reach for my phone. My purse slips off my shoulder, knocking the container of sweets, and in the scramble to rescue them, I nearly fall head over heels into the bushes. 

It isn’t until I punch in the numbers and drag my personal effects inside that it occurs to me that the alarm isn’t armed. Had Glenne and Jeffrey forgotten to punch in the code before they left for Palm Springs? Deciding I don’t care, I leave everything by the door as I drag my suitcase to the main floor laundry room, dumping everything in without regard to color or type of clothing. Since we’ve been working remotely the majority of the time for the last fucking nine months, “dressing up” encompasses blue jeans and the occasional blouse, but most of my clothing is sweatpants and t-shirts. Deciding washing the blue jeans and blouses with the sweatpants and t-shirts is the worst idea ever, I fish those out before pouring laundry detergent over the remaining garments and starting the washer. 

Glancing down at the clothing currently on my body, it seems completely reasonable to drop them into the washer too. Stripping the t-shirt from my body, I toss it into the swirling water before adding my bra, socks, and leggings to the murky mix. Wearing only panties in the cool house makes my nipples bead. 

Ha! I’m sure my nips are happy to get any action after almost a year with no dating of any sort because of the fucking pandemic. Which reminds me that I’ve forgotten my vibrator at home. Shit. Of all the things I don’t mind borrowing from Glenne, I do have a line I won’t cross. 

Placing the tin of Christmas yummies on the kitchen counter, I grasp the handles of the two bags of gifts. It might be silly to put them under the tree since I’m the only one in the house, but it will make me feel better. More like I’m at home with my family in Indiana. Less like I’m stuck in quarantine in an empty house for my favorite holiday. Sniffling, I swipe at my nose with the back of my hand as I pad down the two steps into the living room to the tree. 

Kneeling at the fake tree, I reach for the switch to turn on the lights. As the colors begin blinking, I carefully withdraw each present, reading the tag before gently placing the gift under the tree. Even my brother had sent a present through the mail which must mean he misses me his year. Right now, we should be challenging each other to the most ridiculous games to see who is the best. Inevitably, he would win some while I beat him at others until eventually we declare a tie. My mother would chastise us both with a grin on her face, implicitly encouraging us to continue our “reindeer games” as my father called them. 

From behind me, I hear a shuffling sound. Hadn’t they taken Myles with them? No matter. I could use the company a dog would provide. 

“Santa, you’ve changed!” a soft voice exclaims, and I jump, twisting around to find another human wearing sweatpants and a hoodie. 

“It’s you!” Both voices exclaim simultaneously. “What the fuck are you doing here?” We both pause, “Stop saying what I’m saying!” 

Out of breath, I stare at him. The Harry Styles. Fuck. 

His eyes roam over my body, and it finally dawns on me that I’m wearing nothing but my Victoria’s Secret lace panties. Shit. 

Pacing measuredly to the couch without openly cringing, I grasp a wool throw and wrap it around my chest regally like I’ve just exited the pool at some exotic locale near the equator. My shoulders straighten, and I face him openly. 

“Are you joining Glenne and Jeffrey in Palm Springs?” My back is a board, and my tone is barely restrained. 

“Nope.” His nonchalance combined with his truncated answer pisses me off, per usual.

“So you’re flying home, waiting here for your flight tonight?” The hopeful tone is obvious to me and probably to him as well.

“No.” Those green eyes of his rake over my nearly-naked body, and I shiver. From the cold of course. Jesus. Get your heads out of the gutter!

“Watering the plants prior to returning to the Soho?”

“Uh uh.”

Delayed dread begins to fill my stomach. “You mean --” I clear my throat -- “you’re staying here?”

“Yep.”

“Shit.” Running my hand through my hair, I ponder the impact and my next steps. 

“You?” He asks politely, even though I know he doesn’t feel solicitude at this moment.

“Glenne told me I could stay here for a few days. I made arrangements for my place to be fumigated while I was in Indiana for Christmas.”

His raised eyebrow mocks me. 

“I’m not going, though. Okay?” 

“Why not?”

“Seriously? Where the fuck have you been, Styles? In case you didn’t know, there’s a global fucking pandemic, and all of Los Angeles is locked down. So no -- I am not getting on a plane with a bunch of potentially infected and contagious --” Emotion overwhelms me, and I have to stop and catch my breath. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I turn away from him so he can’t see the tears that form in my eyes. 

“Whatever, Smith.”

“My name --” I draw myself up and gather my anger around me like a cloak -- “is not Smith.”

“Yeah, right. Which bedroom are you planning to sleep in?”

“Surely you’re not suggesting we both stay here?” Appalled, I stare at him with my mouth open. “I’ll get a hotel room.” When I realize my wardrobe is in the washing machine, I softly say, “As soon as my clothes are dry.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t be ridiculous, Smith. We’ll share the space. It’s only a couple of days.”

“Excuse me!?” Anger wells up. “Only the most important days in the entire year!” Superiority makes me stand up fully to him. “Besides, I’ve been quarantining for months. No way do I want to share germs with you!”

“Oh please! As if you’ve got a monopoly on quarantining! I’m perfectly safe. We get tested every morning before we film. When was the last time you were tested?” 

“Two days ago!” She’s at her boiling point. “Look, if we're both staying here together, then we’re just going to have to avoid each other. It’s a big house. We can do that.”

“Maybe once you put some clothes on,” Harry comments, smirking in that way he has where the left side of his mouth tilts up. 

Mortified, I glance down at myself. Briefly I consider scurrying for Glenne’s closet, but I pause. Why should I rush away? Because he’s male? Because he was here first? Because he’s sexy as fuck and my panties can’t take anymore? 

“Fine,” I respond as I brush past him like the Queen of England. “I’ll find something to wear, and then we can hash out the details.”

“Great plan. I’m ordering something for dinner.”

My stomach growls, and I suddenly feel an irrational hatred for that part of my body. How I long to state that I’ve already eaten or that I plan to cook something! But alas, I’ve brought no food with me, and I’ve no clue what’s in the kitchen. If Glenne and Jeffrey even left anything. 

“Does that mean you’d like some too?” He gloats, and as much as I would like to smack the grin off his face, I’ve not eaten since a quick bite for breakfast hours before. 

Knowing I’m going to have to grovel, I face him. “I’m capable of ordering for myself.”

“Yes, but that’s not necessarily good for the environment, is it? Sending two drivers to the same address from different restaurants?” Pausing, he appears to swallow whatever snarky comment was forthcoming. “Can we agree on this one small thing? I’m thinking poke.”

Shit. Fuck. Goddammit. That’s exactly what I would have ordered. Fuck. 

Casually, I shrug. “Yeah, whatever. I can choke down some poke.” As I saunter away, tucking the ends of the makeshift shroud under my armpits, I call back to him, “Spicy please.”

Quickly I make my way to Glenne’s closet, surveying the items there. Ripping down a pair of joggers and a Full Stop Management hoodie, I drop the covering I’ve been wearing and rapidly draw the clothes over my naked body. Nothing I can do about not having a bra, but the hoodie is roomy so I worry less. 

In the bathroom, I run my fingers through my hair, combing out the curls as best I can in this environment. In no way do I want it to appear that I’m trying to look amazing for Harry. Biting my lip, I admit to myself that the opposite is true. I absolutely want him to fall at my feet. 

Which isn’t going to happen, I remind myself. Give up the ghost of a fantasy. 

Making eye contact in the mirror, I provide a pep talk for myself. “Listen,” I remind my reflection, “this is just one more fucked up situation in 2020. You’ve gotten through worse. It’s truly a giant house, so there’s no reason -- wait. Why is he staying here anyway?” For whatever reason, I had allowed him to dodge that incredibly simple question. 

Tucking my hands into the hoodie’s front pocket, I amble to the kitchen where Harry is just disconnecting his phone. 

“Food will be here in 45 minutes,” he promises. 

“Why are you staying here again? I missed your answer earlier,” I prompt. 

I’m confident I see a flash of embarrassment crossing his face as he lowers his head. “Wine?” He asks, gesturing towards the extensive rack of reds and then the chiller of whites. 

Unsure as to whether I should allow the diversion or press, I examine him. His eyes look tired and sad. His clothes, while comfortable, aren’t upbeat. Nor is his current demeanor. Is he okay? 

Planting his hands in his hoodie in an unconscious mimic of my pose, he glances at me before his eyes stray to the side, examining the marble countertop. That look tells me more than I need to know, and my empath side emerges as I toss him a life preserver. 

“With poke? I think perhaps a Reisling.” 

He nods, bending to look through the wines in the cooler before he extracts one, holding it up for me to inspect the label. My eyes start to widen at the vineyard, assuming the extravagant cost, but I calm my features. “Perf!” I declare. 

Grasping the wine opener from a nearby drawer, Harry removes the cork as I snatch two wine glasses from the cabinet and place them near him. Carefully comparing the amount in each glass, he pours enough before recorking the bottle. Taking my glass, I move into the living room where I can view the tree. It’s Christmas Eve Eve after all, and I refuse to be deterred from watching the lights twinkle and celebrating the season. 

Harry apparently has a similar idea as he fiddles with the sound system before a crackle of ‘Jingle Bell Drunk’ by RaeLynn starts playing which causes me to giggle. 

I settle on one side of the sofa, and Harry plants himself on the other side. Separately, we each take a sip of the riesling. My tongue does a happy dance at the flavor on my tongue. “This sweetness will cut the spicy quite well. Excellent choice.”

“You made the selection,” Harry reminds me, and I cringe. 

“Oh. Yeah.”

Silence descends as the song proclaims “I’ve been naughty. I’ve been nice.” 

“If there was ever a year for this song, this is it.” I announce into the quiet. 

“Yeah. It’s been quite the year.”

Sharply, I glance at him. Perhaps I had missed something? “Excuse me? You’ve had one hell of a year, Styles. Grammy nominations aside, there were how many music videos released during this global disaster? Plus a movie!”

“Agreed.” He’s quiet, his jaw clenched, and suddenly his words burst forth as though a gate at a dam has been opened. “But no tour. And almost no family time.”

Wait. Was this superstar feeling some of my emotions? He’d had a stellar year in anyone’s estimation. Maybe I could be more sympathetic. 

“Yeah. I’m sorry about tour. I had tickets to Vegas and one of the LA shows.”

His head swivels to me more swiftly than an owl focusing on prey. “You had tickets?”

“HAVE.” I swallow. “Thanks for not canceling by the way. I cannot imagine the bloodbath for getting tickets in the future. You’ve become the ‘it celebrity’.”

A blush is followed by a sheepish smile. “You can always get tickets, Smith. Just ask.”

“I don’t do that.” My voice is filled with the prickles that I feel at his words. 

“Do what?” 

“Use my privilege to get tickets to shows.”

“Oh. I…” His words trailed off. 

Suddenly, I feel less uncomfortable around him. Reaching out, I shove at his shoulder. “You’re a giant star, and you have a ton of fans who want to see you. Me? I’m just happy to be a member of the audience.”

“Really?” Incredulous is what I sense in that one word. “Why?”

“Seriously?” I’m appalled. “Do you not know what an amazing entertainer you are, Styles? Fuck. If I hadn’t been able to see your Fine Line show at the Forum last December, I probably would have cried. You know exactly what your audience wants, and you deliver it. Consistently.”

“But --”

“Hush. Don’t you dare negate your talent!” Taking another sip of wine, I reveal unabashedly, “Maybe it’s the wine talking, but I really enjoy your shows.”

“Smith?” He inquires, and my hand stalls with my wine glass halfway to my mouth.

“Yeah?”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you like my shows?”

Stalling, I run a finger through my hair and empty my wine glass before holding it out to him. “More please?”

He rises, but I can read his reluctance. Within moments, Harry is back at my side, handing me a second glass of the riesling. I can’t help but notice that he’s topped his own off too. 

“Answer the question, Smith.”

“My name isn’t Smith. In fact, there’s not a single part of my name that’s related to Smith. Why do you call me that?”

“Tell me why you like my shows, and I’ll reveal the meaning behind the nickname.”

My head feels fuzzy from the wine and the headiness of being near Harry, and I watch the lights flashing on the tree for a few minutes while Meghan Patrick belts out her version of ‘I’ll Be Home for Christmas’ over the sound system. 

“You make your fans feel like they matter.”

“How?” His question comes rapidly, and I have to gather my thoughts. 

“You...talk to them. Listen to them. Watch them. Appreciate them. It’s rare, Harry. I mean, I’m in this business too, you know. Not every artist does what you do.”

“False.”

“I’m fucking serious, you asshole.” I gulp down more of the wine. “You make your audience feel like they’re your closest friends. I wish more artists did that. Specifically the ones I represent.”

“Oh.” His single utterance is enough, and we sit in pure tranquility for several minutes as the lights blink and Ava Max sings “Christmas Without You”. 

“Wanna watch the quintessential holiday movie?” I inquire, looking at him. 

“Which is?”

“Die Hard, of course,” is my response. “What were you thinking?”

“It’s a Wonderful Life.”

“Nope. It’s pretty good. In the top five for sure.”

“Wait. What are your top five?”

“Oh, that’s easy. ‘Die Hard’, ‘Home Alone’, ‘A Christmas Story’, ‘The Santa Clause’, and ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’.

“You’re serious?”

“Deadly?” I giggle at the joke since ‘Die Hard’ is full of death. 

“Fine. But we watch ‘Wonderful Life’ afterwards.”

“Deal.”

Part 2

[hikarinon]

Fictitious Promise

۵ Pairing :  Haikyuu!! MIYA ATSUMU x reader

۵ Angsttt + fluff, OOC, heartbreaks, promises :”

۵ Warnings : i hope this messes you up

  Loving you never broke my heart, Atsu.

Believing in your promises did.

There he is.

Dazzling.

Swarmed by others the moment he walked out through the doors and put on a smile. Hands carefully, yet instinctively finding its way around waists, head, and shoulders.

Black jersey drawed and pulled by soft hands with pretty nails. The way those fingers trailed their way up and down on his stern chest, wailing noises of indirect desires. You might be standing meters a way from the party, yet no one’s stupid enough not to see it. the way he’s enjoying it.

There he is.

That scumbag.

Your attention went upon a sudden knock on your window shield, you smiled at the subject as you let the car window slowly lower. He smiled back,

“Hey gorgeous.” his hands tucks away a strand of hair behind your ear, as if that’s what he does best. Your cheeks leaned on his palms sweetly as he hums at your action.

“You’re driving now, Atsu” you grinned when he clicked his tongue.

Finally able to look elsewhere rather than front, your eyes scanned the surroundings, sucking it all in as if you’ll never see it again. You looked everywhere, especially upon the person right beside you. his warmth spread upon your thighs, signaling you to give him your hands. He brushed his lips against your knuckles,

“Wanna go buy some take outs, babe?”

“Yes, I’m begging you.”

He chuckled, “Anything for you, princess.”

—————

   Do you remember when destiny allowed him to flirt with you for the very first time?

You were simply sitting alone on your desk, cheeks resting on your left palm while the other was writing an assignment. A shadow appeared in front of you, knocked on your desk. And there he was, sitting on the chair backwards, smugly smiling as his hands crossed on your desk.

“Hey, can I borrow a pen?”

You calmly gave it to him. He resumed to draw scribbles on your desk, “It doesn’t work.”

“It obviously does, Miya-san”

“Oh really?” he gave you his palm, “ then try writing your number here.”

—————

“May I ask for your orders?”

He threw an easy brief warm smile at you before saying his orders, “One double cheeseburger ala carte, one large pepsi with two straws, and one twenty pc chicken nugget sharebox for my starving girlfriend.”

“Atsu, babe. I will throw hands”

—————

    Remember when you went out for a date to the movies? He was late. Yet there he was, hands full. He bought you three hot dogs, one hot chocolate, one caramel popcorn bucket sized, and one large pepsi with two straws to share. He instantly got the couple sit tickets the moment he saw they were available. both of your hands linked to each other throughout the whole entire movie.

You whispered in his ears ,“ I wanna eat. Can you let go of my hand for a bi-”

“Nope. Sorry, can’t do that”  

—————

Your eyes glimmered with orange by the sunset. The car parked on a hill, he turned on some alternative music on the radio, whilst eating the burger. His eyes caught you sweetly munching on your nuggies and he instantly went soft. You were startled by the sudden flash as he took a pic of you. a glare sent from the corner of your eyes, mouth full with nuggets. He smiled cunningly and captured your lips with his playfully,

“Relax, you’re pretty.”

—————

     Remember the day when suddenly he took a lot of photos of you? He realized his phone didn’t have at least 100 photos of you. You were very flustered by his sudden action that day, but dear how elated you were. They weren’t pretty in your eyes, but his sarcastic mouth said otherwise.

“Geez, why are you so jealous of my overly gorgeous girlfriend?” he continued to ramble through his phone.

“Here, look. I even made her my wallpaper so piss off.”

—————

You cackled loudly as he tangles your waist and pulls you down with him, sinking on the sofa.

“Where do you think you’re going babe” his nose lovingly nuzzled against the back of your neck, sending faint shivers. You jiggled, trying to escape from his strong grasp “Pleaseeee I haven’t bathe.” his lips littered down your back, “Mmmm no wonder you smell nice.”

Your fists lightly hit him on the chest. You turned around to face his stunning features as your lips formed a smile the moment he sealed it with his,

“Let’s bathe together, yeah?”

—————

   Remember when the Inarizaki team brought you along to the beach cause he begged them to? You literally bought a new swimsuit just to show off some skin for him. He adores your body very much. More than he intended to actually.

The moment you opened your clothes, revealing a two piece swimsuit, all stares and whistles headed towards you. It wasn’t even a minute till your body was covered with something soft that had a very familiar scent on it.

“I literally bought this just for this occasion, Atsu.”

“I think we can all agree that you’re hot ,babe. And you know that. What you probably didn’t know was that you’re hotness can only be reserved by me and me only.”

————— 

“Oh my god, then what?” you find yourself on the corner of tub playing footsies with Atsumu who is seated on the opposite side, stroking your feet with his.

“Then Omi-omi took his handkerchief and slapped it across Bokuto’s face” you snorted.

Mellow water enveloping your nudity, your body started to lean deeper. You can feel your face sink into the warmth as you closed your eyes, wanting to float.

You felt a pull on your hips. He easily caressed your back, lifting you up. Your eyes met and drowned in the most mesmerizing hazelnut eyes, drooping, slowly closing. He took his precious time enjoying his view. With most eagerness laying hot breaths against your wet plump lips

He leaned forward to taste them. His teeth nibbled your lower lips, enticing it to open. Your tongues swirled together in the hotness of the insides of your mouth. Your hips instinctively grind against his, you whined a moan as he released your swollen lips.

“Have I told you today that I love you?”

—————

     Remember when he suddenly opened up to you about his deep feelings and insecurities? You simply missed him, you just gotta call. With a hoarse voice you said hi and cue the intros.

He admitted that he was really that happy you called. He needed someone to talk to and you were just the perfect person for that matter. Delight filled your heart as he spent a solid three hours on the phone with you, just being vulnerable.

“You are an angel, did you know that babe? You mean everything to me. You accepted me for who I am, you’re the only one who understood me, and you know all of my bad sides and self-defects yet…” he paused,

“You still stayed ….…. darn it, I love you.”  

—————

he stared at you all doe eyed, watching some old vines on youtube. As cute as you were all dolled up, wearing his oversized sweater, laying on your stomach on the bed, it was torturing him on how you’re not under his arms right now.

His body plopped on top of your back, but careful enough not to crush you. It was now officially his mission to steal your attention. He pampered wet kisses on your shoulders, licking and biting you as he heard someone sing from your phone,

“Goodness he’s worse than you, Atsu-OWEHATTHEFUCKK” he cuts you off by pinching your sides, tickling it. You were wheezing as both of you laughed widely while fighting for dominance. He finally had your attention. he took a hold of your wrist and pinned it on top of your head. he smirked cynically,

“Turns out I’m too patient with you, sweetheart. How bout a lil punishment, hm?”

—————

    God, remember when he wrote a song just for you? It was just this year. Your birthday to be exact.

He said the MSBY had a meeting the whole day so he couldn’t just go and throw flowers and shower your whole body with kisses as you bathe and make love together in his jacuzzi. You were a bit disappointed to be honest.

But all your sorrows vanished the second you heard the audio he sent you.

Words by words, sentence by sentence, exclaiming his love for you. You could hear that he was a bit out of tune, but honestly, you didn’t give a single fuck about his voice. Your heart was too consumed with the lyrics,

“ Baby, I know

I can make it better, I can hold you tighter

All roads leads to you” 

—————

All spooned up by his stature, his legs captivated yours to decrease the rate of possibilities of you leaving him. He breathe against your back, hands circling your torso adoringly.

He loves doing that, it gives him somewhat kind of tranquility and ecstasy on how your being is near him and with him. You can’t help but find yourself smiling foolishly as you hear his muffled I love you’s against your skin.

Then all of the sudden, it rained.

He lifted his head to look out the window to confirm the pouring rain outside, then he went back to his former position

“You like the rain, right?” he hummed

—————

  Oh the rain

Remember the rain? You must never forget the rain.

Room scattered with thrown books. Legs frail, fallen to the floor. It went just like that and voila, you had a huge fight. He didn’t restrain his volume as he yelled back his defense, and so did you. Then silence filled the room. The only thing keeping you conscious is the sound of the pouring rain outside and the menacing, broken stare he bestowed upon you.

You closed your eyes shut, emptiness rushed through your body, letting the tears stain the floor as you ran out of the house. Your feet brought you out, far away from him. the coldness wet rain enveloping your being. But compared with what he gave you, it was beyond warm.

But it’s okay, it’s over anyway. Warm tears combined with the falling rain, jerked the moment your sight was surprised by him. Wet, drenched, catching his breath, hands holding a dry jacket. He hesitantly wrapped you in them and pulled on its sides, causing you to fall forward leaning on his chest.

With a hard push you backed away, but he didn’t give up on you yet. He embraced you, stroking your hair, your back, calming the both of you down.

“It’s not going to be easy babe. putting up with me, putting up with you, it’s hard. But I want to do it, I wanna go through all of it with you. Just you!” your breath sobbed against his chest. He squeezed you tighter, kissing your forehead.

he held on for his goddamn life.

“I promise I’m going to change. I’m sorry for yelling at you babe, my sweetheart, I’m so sorry. I won’t do anything like that again.” your whimpering lips silenced by his,

“I”m not going to hurt you anymore. I promise.”

————— 

Your sight became cloudy after receiving his question. You used your index finger to lightly graze off the wetness trickling down from your eyes, careful so he won’t notice. Then you flipped your body to face his.

—————

  Remember how he kissed you to sleep that night?

How he made such a dramatic scene?

All his mistakes, his errors, his faults.

Remember how he apologized for all of it

-

Just to end up doing it all over again?

—————

 You clenched your fists and smiled,

“Yeah, I like it a lot.”

—————

  You know what else you remember?

how there were other faded ink on his palm

how he made you wait three hours, all alone in the cinema

and blamed you for being to early in the first place

—————

You fondled and stroked his slumbered cheeks, softly snoring.

—————

  how there were other gorgeous pictures in his gallery, probably more than 100

 And how his wallpaper  magically changed the next day

—————

 Your lips sealed his temple, as a huge wave went up to your heart, tearing them apart.

—————

  the way his eyes looked at those luscious body at the beach, bodies that weren’t yours.

how he didn’t notice the despair in your voice as he opened up to you that night you called him

you had to swallow up your all your tears and restrain yourself from telling him that your grandfather just passed away.

—————

 Your lips clenched, pursing against his temple as you whispered a hoarse goodbye.

—————

  God, remember how you found out he gave you the exact same song he gave his ex?

—————

 You stood up from the bed, released from his tender arms.

—————

  Remember how he barely calls you, how he didn’t want to hear your stories, how he didn’t ask you if you were okay, how you had to say sorry for venting, how his eyes didn’t smile when you were talking to him, how he said you didn’t care about him at all?

—————

 The sealed letter placed on your pillow. With all capabilities you have left, you changed and grabbed your baggage and your plane ticket.

It took everything in you not to break down as you take the doorknob into your hands.

—————

  I kept asking this questions over and over again Atsu, and every time I do, the answer remains the same.

Yes, I do remember.

I remember every single shit of it. 

Now the question is, do you remember, Atsu? Did any of this even pass through your mind before you bought the thing that is in your drawer? The one with our names carved on it? How could you be so sure of succeeding?

But yeah I would probably fall to my knees, crying tears of joy, repeating my indulgement over and over again as you’d slip it in between my fingers.

—————

 You flinched when you heard a voice coming from his mouth. You turned around to glance at him attentively, just to see him still sleeping peacefully, mumbling out the words,

“.…m..marry me….y/n…”

You quickly opened the door, closing it while you still can,

and you broke down.

Your body leans on the door,clenching it, slowly falling down to the tiles. Your eyes closed shut, sobbing out every everlasting tears. You quickly lift your hand to seal your muffled, gasping cries escaping your mouth. Silencing it.

—————

  And that’s why I’m leaving, Atsu. Because I know I won’t reject you.

 We’re all fools in love, huh?

—————

 and you left

Finally.

—————

  Loving you never broke my heart, Atsu. Believing in your promises did.

-

 -Sincerely, y/n

—————

 Sunshine peeking through the shades, triggering his eyelids to open. Empty arms greeted him, but he let it slide. He thought you’re probably just lurking somewhere in the house being all pretty. He smiled at the thought.

 That is, till his hands found its way on a letter.

 ‘Dear, Atsu’

————————————————

 All that was left was a crumbled, slightly wet letter, an empty proposal ring, and a curled up Miya Atsumu, all laying on the cold floor.

 Devastation, guilt, and dejection emptying him. His heart clenched out tears every single time he remembered.

Hiccups and gasps reaching for air filled the silence. Heavy breaths barely escaped his trembling lips as tears flowed down on his laps with ease. You broke him.

 You broke his heart

 For you have also broken a promise

 Do you remember, love?

 when you promised him you would stay.

[chuuyas89bottleofpetrus]

CHARACTER PROFILE: MARGARITA CONCHITIA

Name: Margarita Conchitia

Age: 15

Stand: ｢La Vie Bohème｣

(Later ｢Seasons of Love｣)

(I am currently drawing my own picture of ｢Seasons of Love｣, but have this picture from Magic The Gathering for now)

Powers: ｢La Vie Bohème｣ is capable of creating life not unlike ｢Golden Experience｣. It can only create plant life, and it does not use nonliving objects. The user only needs to touch an area and the plant life of the users choice will start growing, and the user has incredible control over the plants that grow. The user can do anything from make pictures out of the plants to wrap thorny vines around their enemy’s body.

At the attainment of ｢Seasons of Love｣, the user can make the flowers grown give their life force to an injured person to heal them, or even sometimes give the life force to a dead person and bring them back to life. There is specific criteria for revival, and it also takes a huge toll on the user’s own life force. Although their life force can “recharge”, if the life force runs out, the user will die

Appearance: ｢La Vie Bohème｣ (see picture above)

｢Seasons of Love｣ is a warm-colored humanoid snake. It is about 7ft in height and has vines wrapping around its arms and waist. Instead of the flower dress that its previous form had, it instead has armor made out of non-sentient sea life such as seaweed, anemones, and coral.

Backstory: Margarita was born the youngest and only girl out of seven brothers. Her mother was American and the owner of a popular concert venue and her father was Hispanic and the owner of Wine Like Blood, a multi-billion dollar alcohol company. They met when her father was providing alcohol for a concert being hosted at her mother’s venue, and you can see how well they hit it off because they had EIGHT KIDS.

Even though she had seven brothers the only important siblings would be the oldest set of twins, Alexander and Alejandro. Alejandro was the older twin, making him the oldest sibling. The family almost never saw him because he was always studying or taking a class. Alexander was closer to his family, always helping them with something, whether it be homework or cleaning their rooms.

The night of Margarita’s eighth birthday (which is Christmas), she was woken up by gunshots. Alexander burst into her room only a few seconds later, the doberman puppy her mother intended to give her in his arms. He shoved Margarita and the pup into her closet, telling her not to come out until twelve hours had passed, and he left

The gunshots continued, accompanied by screaming and crying, but Margarita obeyed her brother and stayed in the closet. She watched the clock hanging in her closet wall for hours, and went to the living room once all the noise died down. She threw up at the sight that greeted her

Her mother? Bloody and bruised, her clothes torn off and a bullet hole was on her head. Her father? Laying in a pool of his own blood, face swollen, two black eyes, his head cracked open. Most of her brothers were beaten to a pulp, each with a bullet hole in their heads. Two brothers were missing. Alejandro, who was supposed to fly in the next day from England where he was studying law at Oxford, and Alexander, who she could only assume was dragged away by whoever did this.

Alejandro inherited his father’s company and his mother’s properties, and Margarita got her share of the inheritance, but Alejandro was in heavy grief and didn’t know how to cope, so he bought land in Italy, built three houses on it, and shipped his sister over there, cutting off all contact with her aside from the 200,000 lira he legally had to give her every month. He felt horrible about it for years.

Margarita was very, very smart. She figured out Italian was almost the same as Spanish and easily became fluent, and her mother taught her all the math and grammar she needed to know to be successful in life. She was perfectly capable of living on her own

For her first year alone, Margarita did considerably well. She used the mansion on her land to paint murals, the farm house to grow a valley of flowers and other plants, and then the normal two-story was just used to live in. She even came into possession of five other dogs, a bullmastiff (Rose), a German Shepard (Marigold), a giant schnauzer (Lillie), a St. Bernard (Seraph), and a Great Dane (Bella), alongside her doberman, Orchid, who was her closest friend and companion.

But she couldn’t keep herself happy for long. Six months after her ninth birthday, Margarita started falling down the rabbit hole. She gave hundreds of lira to liquor stores to permit her purchases of strong alcohol, and bought thousands of dollars worth of weed and heroine, but of course it was just pocket change to her. She opened a coffee shop where she also sold flowers at ten years old to give her something to do so she could stop her bad habits, but alas, it didn’t work.

Three years passed, and Bruno Buccellati was sent the shop. The Bodega became a popular spot for students studying after school, business had went up, and Polpo wanted the owner to pay rent even though they had no idea it was on mafia property.

It was after hours, and Margarita was smoking a cigarette while painting a picture of the city view outside the shop’s glass window, her sleeves rolled up due to the warm weather. Buccellati came through a zipper in the back door, but Margarita didn’t flinch, saying that the store was closed. Buccellati very quickly noticed the stench of alcohol, and saw the needle marks on Margarita's arms. So, instead of asking for the rent, he introduced himself, and offered a membership to Passione.

[be11atrixthestrange]

Step 12: Asking Her To Marry You

From 12 Fail-Safe Ways To Charm Hermione Granger

(Which is now complete!!)

Check it out on Ao3 or FFN!

————————————

Asking Her To Marry You

At this point in your relationship, you’ll hopefully know her well enough to plan the perfect proposal. But don’t worry too much about perfection— if you’ve followed our advice, she’ll be charmed enough to say yes to an imperfect one too. So alas, this is where our guidance ends, your future together begins. Best of luck!

————————————

Ron chuckled at the book’s irritating, yet unsurprising lack of advice. Annoyingly, the book was right— he no longer needed its guidance. What he needed was sleep, in fact, his body was now begging for it.

He set the book on the table beside him and curled up behind Hermione. With his face in her hair and his arm around her waist, he closed his eyes and was asleep in no time. Any anxiety about the next day was appeased by his dreams, in which his elaborate— maybe slightly exaggerated—  plan to propose went off without a hitch.

xxxxx

In his dream, Hermione was the first to rise— as usual, and Ron woke to the sound of the shower. Ron watched himself stumble out of bed and into the steam to join her, where she enthusiastically embraced him, jumped into his arms, and wrapped her legs around his waist. He pinned her to the wall and kissed her lips, her cheeks and her neck before working his way down her body. Dream-Ron moved his mouth between her legs while Hermione gripped his hair and slipped her thigh over his shoulder. Pleased with his own technique, Ron smugly watched on as Hermione unravelled, and he hoped that it wouldn’t be the last time that day Dream-Ron would invoke such an enthusiastic exclamation while down on one knee.

Almost too suddenly, the shower scene morphed and shifted like a memory transition in a pensive. Dream-Ron was in the kitchen, and Hermione was curled up in the living room with a book. Pots and pans sizzled on the stove, and the scent of a hearty breakfast filled the air. The tea-kettle whistled and he poured two cups before piling their plates high with food. They sat cozily on the sofa, eating breakfast and confirming plans for the day.

The walls of their apartment then faded away, rematerializing into what appeared to be a blend of a nearby bookstore and the Hogwarts library. Ron and Hermione were quickly engulfed by the maze of bookshelves. Hermione’s mind was always turning, looking for problems to solve and puzzles to complete, so she didn’t protest when Ron handed her the first book— Wuthering Heights, and told her he’d set up a puzzle for her to solve. In that book he’d dog-eared a page, and circled letters that named the title of the next one. Ron saw a smile spread across her face as she began her hunt, excitedly flipping through each novel until her stack included Wuthering Heights, as well as Iliad, Little Women, Life of Pi, Year of Wonders, Oliver Twist, and Utopia.

Hermione became so engrossed in the scavenger hunt that she didn’t notice Dream-Ron leave the bookshop. She had no problem finding the rest of the books, and was soon holding a stack of blurry titles which Ron knew to be Moby Dick, Alice in Wonderland, Robinson Crusoe, Rabbit Hill, Youngblood Hawke, and Mansfield Park. There was just one more to find— Jane Austen’s ‘Emma’, which happened to be a portkey enchanted to bring her to Grimmauld Place.

It might have seemed like a random assortment of books, but it wasn’t. Ron had spent significant effort locating these exact titles, and he could list them in order by memory, and as a result, they’d been swimming in his dreams for quite some time now. He knew Hermione was clever enough to figure out the pattern, possibly too clever— so much so that she might miss the connection entirely. After all, she frequently overlooked what was right under her nose.

As soon as she laid her hand on Emma, the walls of the Corner Books—Hogwarts Library hybrid started spinning, morphing into the drawing room of Grimmauld Place as if it had taken a long swig of polyjuice potion. Soon enough, Hermione was standing face-to-face with Harry and Ginny.

“Hermione!” Ginny said excitedly. “You made it!”

“Where’s Ron?” she asked excitedly.

Harry answered by handing her another scrawl of paper.

Meet me in the place we first kissed. You’re clever enough to find out how.

Hermione looked up at Harry and Ginny, letting slip a little huff of annoyance. “That would be the room of requirement.”

Ginny shrugged, as tight-lipped as Ron had told her to be.

“The only way to get there is with a house elf—“

“Keep reading,” said Harry.

Hermione glanced back down to the note.

Ps: Remember what I said to earn that kiss!

Hermione scowled at the note.

Harry nodded. “I can summon Kreacher if you want—“

“No!” she said, and Dream-Ron smiled. Just like at the battle of Hogwarts, he would never force house elves to be part of his proposal plan, and he understood her well enough to assume she knew that. “There’s another way.”

Harry smiled and gestured to the rest of the house. “Have fun.”

The world spun around her once again, shifting into another room upstairs. Hermione was suddenly standing in front of one of the Vanishing Cabinets that the Aurors had confiscated from an ex-Death Eater months prior. In his dream, the cabinet was a bit more obvious than in reality. It was tall, colorful, and bursting with energy as though it were alive, unlike the dull, dark, and sinister version that actually existed. Even though the cabinet looked fun and enticing in the dream, Dream-Hermione was still a skeptic, so she stood in front of it with her arms crossed, her face scrunched up as though it had called her a dirty word.

Ron had pulled some serious strings to set the second one up in the Room of Requirement, but luckily, McGonagall was as much of a hopeless romantic as he was. Hermione continued to study the cabinet from a distance, as if checking for dark magic, and he understood her hesitation of course— she had no way of knowing where its sibling was. She gingerly opened the door to find another note scribbled inside.

You found it! See you on the other side.

Hermione beamed, and then to his confusion, dropped her bag to the floor, hastily removing books. When her bag appeared empty, she piled two books back in— Year of Wonders and Emma.

Interesting. Ron wasn’t going to pretend to understand that choice, even in a dream-state.

He shrugged it off, which was easy to do once distracted by the look of pure giddiness on her face as she disappeared inside.

Grimmauld Place faded away, and its place appeared the Room of Requirement. Not that it was recognizable as such— Ron had asked the Room of Requirement to look a very specific way, and of course, it had obliged, exceeding all expectations. Hermione stepped out of the cabinet into what appeared to be a train compartment on the Hogwarts Express, just like the one where he had first met her.

She looked around, and tears filled her eyes as the memories of their first encounter flooded in. On the cabinet door was another note, which she unstuck from the wall with a trembling hand.

This is where we met! It’s also where I first realized how much I valued the opinion of that precocious know-it-all, Hermione Granger. I still check for dirt on my nose everyday.

Hermione shakily laughed, and wiped a tear from her eyes with her free hand. Then the train compartment doors slid open to reveal another room. This time it was a bathroom, much like the one where she nearly lost her life to a rogue troll when they were eleven.

She shuddered at the memory, but grinned when she noticed the writing on the wall.

This is where I learned exactly how desperate I was for your forgiveness, and how far I was willing to go to earn your friendship. Thank you for teaching me how to pronounce Wingardium Leviosa.

Her eyes watered again, blurring her vision so that she nearly missed the door sliding open again to reveal the next room. Patting her sleeve to her eyes, she stepped out of the bathroom and into the Great Hall, which was all dolled up for the Yule Ball. The Weird Sisters playing loudly in the background was a stark contrast to the soft decorations and draping lights which looked exactly as romantic as they did in their fourth year.

This time, however, the lights spelled out a message.

This where I realized I fancied you.

Hermione laughed, clearly not as saddened by the memory as she could have been. Instead, she appeared grateful for the event that made Ron’s daft teenage self realize she was not just any girl.

A pair of doors appeared across the room, and Hermione continued her way through, admiring the decorations with a soft smile on her face. When she exited, she found herself in the Gryffindor Common Room— more specifically— the armchairs and fireplace where they had spent so many nights huddled up close to one another, studying, talking, or simply sitting in comfortable silence.

Her eyes paused on a message plastered on the wall, just above the fire.

This is where I fell irrevocably in love with you.

She looked longingly at those chairs, like she wanted to take a seat by the fire and curl up with a blanket and a book. He could clearly imagine her eyes scanning the pages, her fingers drifting over the words as if touching them would make them real, and her lips forming into a content smile as the day’s stress left her body. It was a beautiful image of her in her default state, a picture that was one hundred percent Hermione. He’d never seen her happier anywhere else.

Dream-Ron had appeared behind her. He cleared his throat, and Hermione turned on her heels to face him, her eyes instantly re-watering at the sight of him.

“Hermione,” he began, his voice shaking with nerves. “I know that you don’t like surprises, so I hope this doesn’t come as one.”

Her lips quivered and she brought a trembling hand to her face to absorb the tears that were now falling freely down her face.

“I even spelled it out for you in the bookstore, so I hope you’ve had time to think of your answer.” She softly laughed and her eyes sparkled when he reached into his pocket and took a step toward her, lowering himself to one knee. With a shaky inhale to prepare, he asked the question. “Hermione Granger, will you marry me?”

Dream-Ron’s voice cracked like he was a teenager asking her to a dance, and he half expected her to look at him in confusion, and ask “what?”

But that’s not what happened. She was lost for words, and answered with her head which bobbed up and down as she ran toward him. He opened his arms to embrace her, but she halted.

“Wait!”

She dug into her bag, and pulled out the two books she had purposefully brought with her, Year of Wonders, and Emma. She handed them to Dream-Ron, who looked them over with an amused grin on his face, while she dove back into her bag. She pulled out a third— one that was not from the bookstore. Pride and Prejudice— her favorite book, the one she always has with her. It all made sense now.

Year of Wonders

Emma

Pride and Prejudice

Holding all three books, Dream-Ron smiled up at her. “Is… this a yes?”

“Well, seeing as I don’t have an S, it’s a ‘Yep’,” she said, before finally diving into his embrace as the books tumbled from his arms like basilisk fangs.

He had forgone all effort to keep from crying, and so had she. He momentarily pulled away from the hug to slide the ring onto her finger. It took a couple tries with their trembling hands, but then she fell heavier into his arms and he tightened his embrace. He lifted her up and carried her to an armchair, and they sat intertwined by the crackling fire, hugging, kissing, and crying into each other’s hair.

Ron half expected the room to shape-shift again, bringing them to the celebration at the Burrow where their families were waiting, but his dream never got that far. Their embrace in the armchairs began to feel even more real, and soon enough, the Gryffindor Common Room was fading to black.

xxxxx

Ron awoke in his own bed, his arms still wrapped solidly around Hermione. The sun was shining through the window, sending a beam of light to the floor where Crookshanks slept, belly up, as if he was trying to photosynthesize. Hermione began to shift restlessly in her sleep, groaning, as the light knocked on her eyelids like an unwelcome solicitor..

Reality set in, and it would have been easy to feel sad upon realizing his perfectly-executed proposal was all a dream. But instead, Ron just felt giddy with excitement. This could very well be the start of the best day of his life.

As long as everything went according to plan.

———————————————

“To Ron and Hermione!” exclaimed Arthur, reaching his champagne glass straight up into the air.

“To Ron and Hermione!” echoed a chorus of Weasleys, Grangers, and a Potter.

Glasses clinked, champagne splashed, and a beaming Ron slipped an arm around Hermione to pull her close to him. She tilted her head up to his, and he leaned in to capture her lips in a kiss. He felt her arms wrap around his middle and vaguely heard a few whistles in the background.

Ron and Hermione. It always had a ring to it.

No time had been wasted before preparing The Burrow for the celebration. CONGRATULATIONS was magically written on the wall in capitalized, tinsel-like lettering that flashed red and gold. Jean and Molly had prepared an impressive spread, which rivaled Hogwarts welcoming feasts. Hugo was already mentoring Arthur in the art of mixology, while Charlie and George eagerly volunteered to taste test each new cocktail. There was a cake shaped like an engagement ring, and it appeared that Ginny had gotten to it, because the words “about fucking time” were scribbled across in icing.

“So, Darling,” said Jean, as she refilled her champagne glass. “Aren’t you going to tell us how he proposed?”

“Yes, dear! Please tell everyone!” echoed Molly.

Hermione, who had just taken an unusually large bite of watermelon, replied with a look of surprise, as if for some reason she hadn’t expected that question. She slowly chewed, buying herself some time, and sent a panicked glance in Ron’s direction. A silent conversation followed.

How much do I tell them?

That’s up to you.

They squinted at each other for a few more moments, finalizing the details of their abridged story. Then Hermione turned back to her mom. “I’d love to tell that story.”

xxxxx

Earlier that day...

“Good morning,” were the first words Ron mumbled at the start of the best day of his life.

“Morning,” she muttered back.

He snaked his arm around her and pulled her close. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” she said, sending him a look of slight confusion at his eager confession of love. “I’ll be right back,” she added before hastily untangling himself from her arms, and bolting to the bathroom.

Ron groggily rolled out of bed to get dressed for the day. He opened the drawer of his nightstand to find the small velvet ring-box, and slipped it into his pocket before hobbling into the kitchen to make tea and start breakfast. He filled two mugs and set them aside to cool off while breakfast sizzled on the stove. His stomach twisted in a combination of hunger and nerves as he shuffled eggs around in the pan, planning out how he would introduce today’s activities. Luring her to the bookstore should be easy enough, but he hoped she was feeling up to the rest of the adventure.

He heard the shower starting upstairs, and turned the stove down to low. Remembering the colorful beginning of last night’s dream, he stumbled back into the bedroom, hoping Hermione wouldn’t mind a visitor. He presumptuously pulled off his shirt before cracking open the door to unleash a flume of steam into the bedroom.

Ron froze at the sight of Hermione. The shower was running in the background, but she was crouched on the tile floor, hovering her face over the toilet while she wretched. One hand wrangled her hair behind her head, while the other supported her weight on the floor.

Fuck.

“Hermione,” stammered Ron. “Are… are you ok?” He rushed to her side and knelt down, taking her hair from her hands. He cleared some loose strands away from her face while she gently shook her head.

“No,” she groaned. “Not okay—” her body interrupted her as she heaved again.

“Well, shit, Hermione,” he said softly, hoping his disappointment didn’t sour his words. Hermione rarely threw up. In fact, the last time he recalled had been during a panic attack in Australia before they found her parents. It suddenly occurred to him that this was the first time he’d held her hair on a bathroom floor while she vomited into the toilet. He felt a strange sense of pride, as if they had reached a new relationship milestone.

As his hopes for a smooth-sailing proposal started to fade, there was a part of him that considered asking her right there on the bathroom floor. It would have been the least romantic way to do it, and she’d probably hate him for it, but he doubted she’d say no. Something about seeing her in such a vulnerable state made his heart swell, and he wanted her to know it was that it was her humanity that he fell in love with.

Fuck, he’d marry her on a bathroom floor with vomit on her face, no question about it.

She grimaced and groaned, then leaned over the toilet yet again, and Ron gently held her close and rubbed her back as she suffered through the next wave of nausea.

He could maybe wait a little longer.

Eventually she stood up and wiped her face, revealing an expression of utter embarrassment. “Thank you,” she whispered, pointedly looking away from him. “I’m going to shower now.”

Ron scoured his mind for something to say that might make her feel less awkward. His randy brain landed on, “do you mind if I join you?”

Hermione paused, then laughed. “You want to shower with me?” she asked incredulously. “After that?” she added, motioning toward the bathroom floor.

“Well… always,” shrugged Ron.

“Sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t exactly feel sexy right now.”

He wanted to tell her how wrong she was, and that his attraction to her was unconditional, but worried it would have come off insincere. “Ok. Breakfast is ready in the kitchen—”

“About that,” she interrupted. “It smells wonderful but…” she trailed off, motioning to the toilet where she’d left last night’s meal.

“Right,” said Ron. “Would porridge be better?”

“Yes.”

“Ok then. Porridge it is.”

“Thank you.”

Once in the kitchen, Ron scraped the remaining eggs and veggies into a leftovers box, and stored them in the refrigerator, before getting started on a gentler, blander breakfast.

To contrast the flavorless porridge he was making, Ron’s mind shifted into overdrive, trying to rework his proposal plan to consider Hermione’s nausea. Portkeys could upset even the strongest stomachs, and the Vanishing Cabinet was no walk in the park either. He had planned to floo to the Burrow from Grimmauld Place after returning together in the Vanishing Cabinet, and at the very least, they could always floo to the Burrow early…

Fuck.

Ron tried to keep an open mind about the day ahead. Maybe Hermione would be feeling better after her shower, and a trip to the bookstore would cheer her up. If that didn’t work, maybe his mum would be able to push the celebration back a day, and he could try tomorrow.

Everything was going to be fine.

He doubted that even more when Hermione never returned to the kitchen. Thinking he’d better go check on her, he left breakfast on the counter for the second time, and made his way back to the bedroom.

She had returned to the same place as before, crouched on the bathroom floor, head bowed over the toilet. She looked pale and sullen, and hadn’t bothered to change into day clothes or dry her hair after her shower. Her sopping wet hair stuck firmly to her towel which seemed to absorb enough water to save their neglected houseplants and she sat on the tile with the heaviness of a bag of flour.

“Hermione?” Ron asked tenderly.

She shook her head, and covered her face with her hands.

“You’re not feeling any better,” he said.

Hermione shrugged.

Ron willed himself to emotionally detach from the remaining images of Hermione in a bookstore, the Room of Requirement, and the Burrow and sat down next to her. With a closer look at her face he realized she was crying.

Fuck.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, as he slipped an arm around her. “I’m worried about you. You’re never sick.”

She turned into him and buried her face in his chest, mumbling something incoherent.

“Sorry?” he said, pulling her close to him so he could hear her better.

Lifting her face from his chest for a brief moment, she said, “We haven’t been spending mornings together.”

She was right, their schedules had never lined up enough to enjoy waking up at the same time, and as of late that was even more true. “Hermione,” he whispered. “Has this been happening a lot?”

Hermione nodded and pressed her face back into his chest. She spoke so softly against his shirt that he might not have heard her, but the words demanded his attention. “Ron, I’m pregnant.”

The images that had been dancing in Ron’s mind were still there— Hermione gathering books, searching for the Vanishing Cabinet at Grimmauld Place, wandering through Ron’s memories, and embracing him by the fire in the common room. It almost felt that his mind was expanding so that those images took up less and less space, because they weren’t actually real, and this was.

In all that extra space, his mind cycled through visions of his future, playing memories yet to be made. For the first time since he had decided to ask her to marry him, proposing felt like a simple task because he saw far beyond that now. He wanted to ask her, but then he wanted to hold her hair if she got sick again. He wanted to run out at weird hours of the night to buy the food she craved. He wanted to go to that bookstore, not so she could partake in his scavenger hunt, but so he could buy all the books about pregnancy and parenting.

“Are you serious?” were the words that tumbled out of his mouth, dripping with pure excitement. She nodded affirmatively, and an involuntary smile spread across his face.  He reached a hand to her cheek to wipe away a tear, before landing his lips on her forehead.

He felt her grinning under his hand, seemingly pleased at his positive reaction. Her excitement gave her next question a melody. “Well...what do you want to do?” She asked it confidently, like she already knew what he would say.

But she didn't know.

“I want to marry you,” he stated, like it was the most obvious question in the world.

She pulled away and squinted skeptically at him as if he might be joking, but there was nothing but sincerity in his eyes.

He then reached into his pocket, pulled out the ring box, and popped it open to reveal a beautiful solitaire ring— simple, understated, yet timeless, just like Hermione.  Then a smile enveloped her face and she didn’t need to say anything at all. She leaned into his embrace, and he felt tears leaking from his eyes, elation on his face, and nothing but happiness.

They sat there intertwined and crying for some time until he realized she’d never actually answered. “So… will you?”

She responded wordlessly, with an enthusiastic nod against his chest, and he slipped the ring onto her finger.

It really felt like the rest of the world had disappeared and they were alone, the only people that mattered. When reality started to filter back, Ron had to chuckle at the sudden realization of what room they were in. It was almost funny how much effort he had put into planning out the perfect day, only to propose to Hermione on a bathroom floor.

“I had a better plan, you know,” he said finally. “To ask you.”

She shook her head and mumbled into his chest. “This was perfect.”

Maybe it was. Their friendship began in a bathroom, as did their relationship nearly eight years later, so it was quite fitting that he proposed in one too. He’d have to save his scavenger hunt for another occasion, but that was ok. He had a lifetime of opportunities ahead.

To outsiders, it might not be the most romantic story. Luckily, Ron didn’t give a fuck what outsiders thought, because he had Hermione.

xxxxx

“We had just woken up and were getting ready for the day. We got to talking, and I asked him what he wanted to do,” she said, wiping a stray tear from her face. “He said ‘I want to marry you.’ I... didn’t see it coming at all.”

Ron was thankful for the fact that his lopsided grin was pretty much stuck to his face, otherwise he might have winced. As he had predicted, Hermione had left out the most important piece of information. Without it, it all sounded rather unremarkable.

“Out of the blue?” asked Molly, her eyebrows raised.

In his peripheral vision, Ron saw Harry and Ginny exchange a knowing glance.

“Out of the blue.” said Hermione, before taking another big bite of her watermelon slice.

“I think that’s so romantic!” Jean had one hand resting on her heart, and her eyes sparkled with tears. “Ron, did you plan it like that?”

Ron inhaled sharply at the sound of his name. “Um, well no, actually,” he said, sending a reassuring look toward Hermione. “I had something more elaborate planned.”

“Then what happened?”

Ron grinned as he watched Hermione show off her ring to Ginny and Angelina who had appeared at her shoulder. “I just couldn’t wait any longer.”

Molly and Jean’s soft smiles and sparkling eyes suggested they were satisfied by that answer.

The celebrations continued into the evening hours, and sometime after dinner, Ron appeared at Hugo and Arthur’s makeshift bar to find that Hugo already had a drink waiting for him.

“Congratulations again, son!” said Arthur, before engulfing him in another hug.

“Thanks Dad,” he said.

“I’m going to check on my future daughter-in-law!” he said excitedly. “I’ll see if she wants a drink.”

Arthur scurried away, leaving Ron alone with Hugo.

“I already made you an Alexander,” Hugo said, sliding the drink across the table to Ron. “Made one for Hermione too.”

Ron felt his ears turning crimson, as if he’d been caught in a lie. Now was not the time to inform Hugo why his daughter wasn’t drinking. He would just have to drink for two today.

However, Hugo was quite observant. In a whisper he added, “there’s no alcohol in hers.”

Ron met Hugo’s unflinching gaze, and the two men stared at each other for an uncomfortable pause. The tension finally broke when Hugo smiled, and Ron felt a wave of relief. “How did you know?”

Hugo chuckled. “I’ve never seen her eat watermelon.” He took a dramatic swig of his own drink before continuing. “But Jean couldn’t get enough of it when she was pregnant with Hermione.”

Ron glanced over at Hermione, who was working her way through yet another slice of watermelon. He tried to remember the last time he’d seen her eating it, but was drawing a blank.

Hugo brought him out of his memories. “I guess our conversation about contraception was for shit.”

If Ron had just met Hugo, he might have put more effort into formulating a diplomatic answer. He might have interpreted his pursed lips as stern disapproval rather than a weak attempt to prevent himself from laughing at his own joke. He definitely would not have burst out laughing and answered the way he did.

“Total shit.”

Encouraged by a few cocktails, Hugo grinned widely and unleashed a hearty laugh. Then he did something surprising. He put down his glass, circled the table, and opened his arms to embrace Ron.

“I’m happy for you, son,” he said softly. “I hope you’re happy too.”

Ron saw no reason to hold back his tears, so he didn’t. He had always assumed his future father-in-law would consider Ron's happiness simply an extension of his daughter’s, but Hugo proved him wrong. This was a man who cared about him deeply, as if he was his own son and Ron could feel it. “I’ve never been happier.”

Hugo pulled him to arms length. Ron noticed a tear on his cheek and felt another wave of connection with the man. With a pat on his shoulder, he turned back to the bar and grabbed both glasses. “Now go have a drink. Have some fun,” he said before adding with a wink, “while you can.”

Ron found Hermione discussing wedding plans in the living room with Ginny and Angelina, and slid into a seat on the armrest of her chair. He pressed the glass into her hand and leaned down to whisper in her ear, “non-alcoholic.”

She looked up at him and mouthed, thank you, before leaning against him while he slipped his arm around her.

Ginny was smiling at them as more Weasleys piled into the living room. Seeing Ron and Hermione together ignited another toast from the group. “To Ron and Hermione.”

“To Ron and Hermione!” echoed the crowd.

Plus one.

He’d never been more excited about anything in his life, and it was clearly evident by his expression. When she clicked her glass against his and looked him right in the eyes, he saw his own elation reflecting back at him, and knew she felt the same way. They had come so far, but their story was only just beginning.

[greensparty]

Green’s Party Guide to the 2022 Oscar Nominated Short Films

After last year’s Academy Awards telecast being a very low-rated year, they are panicking about how to draw in new viewers and they have apparently decided the best way to have a good telecast is to cut multiple categories from the live broadcast (presenting the award earlier in the evening and showing a clip of the acceptance speech that is). LAME! Especially because among those categories are the Short Films categories for Animated, Live Action and Documentary. I have been a longtime champion of these categories and it is very disheartening to hear the Academy is going to cut them from the live telecast in favor of comedy and music segments. 

This is also the very reason why I am excited to continue my annual tradition of showcasing the Academy Award nominees for Best Animated Short Film, Best Live Action Short Film and Best Documentary Short Film (read my 2017, 2018, 2019, 2020, and 2021 guides). This year’s nominated short films are available from ShortsTV both in theaters and online. I’ve watched all of them and had time to think about them. Here are my thoughts and predictions:

2022 Shorts TV poster

Best Animated Short:

The New Yorker’s Affairs of the Art (Canada / U.K.) was directed by Joanna Quinn (a previous Best Animated Short nominee for Famous Fred). The character of Beryl (voiced by Mena Trussler) and her family continue their obsessions with drawing, taxidermy and more. Beast (Chile) is stop-motion animation with porcelain dolls. It is a NSFW tale of a secret police agent who trains dogs to torture prisoners of war. Anyone who thinks animation is only for kids should (or should not?) watch this! Boxballet (Russia) is an offbeat romance between a ballerina and a boxer. This is practically a silent film! Netflix’s Robin Robin (U.K.) was produced by Aardman Animations (of Wallace and Gromit and Shaun the Sheep fame). This stop-motion musical is about a bird raised by mice and the personal journey of self-discovery. With no Pixar this year, this is considered the frontrunner. At 30 minutes, its also the longest. In The Windshield Wiper (U.S. / Spain), a man sits in a cafe while smoking and ponders the answer to the question “what is love?”. What follows are various scenarios of love in numerous world locations.

Will Win: Robin Robin is the frontrunner thanks to the name recognition of Aardman and the star power of voice actors Gillian Anderson and Richard E. Grant.

Should Win: I really got into The Windshield Wiper. The meandering and abstract approach to its storytelling is not going to be for everyone, but it had something to say about love and the search for love in the modern era and how similar it is all over the world. Director Alberto Mielgo was also a visual consultant on Oscar-winning Best Animated Feature Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse.

Best Live Action Short:

At 38 minutes Ala Kachuu - Take and Run (Switzerland / Kyrgyzstan) is the longest of the “short” live action nominees. It is about a young woman in Kyrgyzstan who is kidnapped and forced into marriage. It shows the woman’s desire for freedom and free will in contrast with the culture and societal expectations. The New Yorker’s On My Mind (Denmark) is actually directed by Martin Strange-Hansen, who previously won an Oscar for Best Live Action Short for 2002′s This Charming Man. In this one, a man is at a bar in the morning and he insists on using the karaoke machine to sing “Always on My Mind”. He needs to sing it right now, today...even though no one is in the bar. There is a reveal as to why it is so urgent, but I won’t be spoiling it. In the sci-fi short Please Hold (U.S.), a young man is imprisoned and it shows a not-too-distant-future where everything is automated and you can’t speak to a human, even when it comes to the justice system. In The Dress (Poland), a young woman with dwarfism works in a rural motel as a maid, smokes like a chimney and play slots. But things change when a man passing through shows an interest in her. It shows the sexual awakening she has as a result of this would-be romance and the harsh realities she has to deal with on a daily basis. WePresent’s The Long Goodbye (U.K.) has the star power of lead actor/co-writer Riz Ahmed, an Oscar nominee for lead actor last year for Sound of Metal. This short film accompanied Ahmed’s 2020 album of the same name. It begins with a British-Pakistani family at home and then things take a turn when armed guards show up in the neighborhood. Not going to get into spoilers, but Ahmed gets to show off his rap skills.

Will Win: This is hard to call. As with most years, there are some really dark and super serious films. This year there is a common theme about human suffering. I predict that the Academy is going to go with the name recognition of The Long Goodbye, mainly because Riz Ahmed was robbed of an Oscar last year. IMHO, it feels like an extended music video as opposed to a short film that develops the story and characters in a short amount of time.

Should Win: Again this is hard. Please Hold gets credit for being highly ambitious. But I think there should be a tie between On My Mind and The Dress. On My Mind presents a situation very quickly and the reveal is a big emotional payoff. The Dress is the kind of story you don’t normally see getting the film treatment, especially in such a raw emotional way. 

Best Documentary Short:

Such a wide diversity in this year’s doc short category. In Netflix’s Audible (U.S.), a high school football player from the Maryland School for the Deaf in Frederick, MD tries to defend the team’s winning streak while dealing with the loss of a friend. Netflix’s Lead Me Home (U.S.) looks at people living on the street in several West Coast cities and the homeless crisis in those cities. The New York Times’ The Queen of Basketball (U.S.) was directed by Ben Proudfoot, who directed A Concerto Is a Conversation, which was nominated for Best Documentary Short last year. This year, Proudfoot is profiling Lucy Harris, who was the first woman to officially be drafted into the NBA and scored the first basket in women’s Olympics history. This little-known piece of basketball history was executive produced by Shaquille O’Neal. Netflix’s Three Songs for Benazir (Afghanistan) follows a young Afghan refugee living in a camp for displaced persons in Kabul. HBO Documentary’s When We Were Bullies (U.S.) shows the documentary’s director Jay Rosenblatt looking back at a bullying incident that he was involved with fifty years earlier. It is deeply personal and he confronts his complicity in the incident as he tracks down and re-connects with his old classmates and teachers.

Will Win: This is a hard one to call, but I think its going to be The Queen of Basketball. It presents an engaging subject, archival footage of classic NBA and Olympics footage, a piece of history that most people don’t know about, and the name recognition of Shaq as a producer.

Should Win: Its hard when comparing five subject that are very different in scope and subject, especially with so much serious issues being examined. But of all of these docs, I thought When We Were Bullies was the most innovative in that it connects a number of coincidences, it is a filmmaker examining himself and his own story, and combining animation with the modern-day interviews, along with something to say about learning from things you did that you’re not proud of.

This year’s Oscar Nominated Short Films can be seen online from ShortsTV and in movie theaters, including West Newton Cinema, Landmark Kendall Square Cinema and Coolidge Corner Theatre in the Boston area. For tickets and info: https://tickets.oscar-shorts.com/tickets/