#i am blessed with broad shoulders and it is a shame to waste them

[disengaged]

okkkkkkk . time to get back into weightlifting 🫠

[dreaming-about-fanfictions]

How to hold a sword - Geralt of Rivia x Reader - Part 1 of 2

Summary: You are bored with your life and want more. Luckily, Geralt of Rivia visits the town one day.

Requested by: @just-antiyou “could i request a geralt x reader where the reader is slightly wealthy but hates it and wants to be tougher than she looks so she hites geralt to teacher her and he slowly falls for her but she doesnt comprehend why HER? maybe this made no sense im so sorry i love ur writing pls an thank u stay safe” --> Hope you like it! I decided to make two parts out of the story! <3

Words: 2030 Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x fem!Reader Warnings: none

„Stop wasting my time. “

 „Come on! I can pay you!”

 “Sure you can.”

 “Yes! Don’t you believe me?”

 “Stop bothering me and go home.”

 “I have coin! Here!”

 Finally, the Witcher turned around when he heard the rattling of the coins in your small bag as you held it up. He quickly grabbed your hand, forcing it down. “Are you mad or do you enjoy the idea of being robbed,” he scolded you.

He was right. You were standing in the middle of a busy street, merchants and farmers passing you by as they made their way home from the market. The sun was already beginning to set and the first drunks stumbled out of the tavern to your right. Two working girls shrieked when a man fell against them, landing face down on one of the their bosoms, and angrily pushed him away.

 You let the small bag slip back into the pocket of your coat. “I have coin!”, you repeated yourself.

 “Where’d you get that?”, he demanded to know. “Did you steal it?”

 You snorted. Asshole. “My family owns half the town. Did you not recognize this?!” You pointed at your necklace with the family emblem brightly visible.

 His eyes only grazed shortly over it. “I’m not from here.”

 “Right, because you’re Geralt of Rivia, a Witcher, a famous one – so give me one reason why you would decline my offer?”

 “Teaching spoilt girls how to hold a sword is not in my job description.”

 “First of all,” this time you pointed your finger at him. “I’m not a girl, I’m a woman, so start treating me like one! And secondly, as far as I’m concerned, there is no monster to kill for you at the moment.”

 “There’s always monsters to kill.”

 “Witcher!” A frustrated sigh escaped your mouth. What was his problem?

 Geralt looked at you intensely, his eyes wandering from your face to your pocket, where the coins were stowed, back to your face. He pondered about what the offer would truly mean – letting another person come too close to him rarely resulted in anything good. People around him tend to end up hurt or heartbroken or dead. The last person to experience this had been Jaskier. Years of traveling together and it ended in Geralt chasing him away, blaming him for things that weren’t his fault. This happened a few years back and since then, the two of them had rekindled their friendship, but still. His point remained unchanged.

 However, this could be different. You didn’t seek him out to become friends. It was nothing more than a job. Not to mention that your comment about him not having anything better to do at the moment was true. He could really use the coin. Before Geralt was able to rethink this, he wiped his eyes in a tiring and annoyed matter. “Fine.”

 Your face lit up instantly and a big smile appeared on it. “Yes? Oh thank you!”

 “Ten days.”

 “That’s a good start!”, you exclaimed happily.

 “It’s not a start, it’s all I’m offering,” he corrected you. Were you always this cheerful or just when you got your way? “What do I get out of it?”

 “Three coins for each day.”

 The Witcher raised an eyebrow. There was far more in that bag of yours and you both knew it. “Eight.”

 “Four.”

 “Seven.”

 “Witcher!”

 “Six then.”

 “Five.”

“Deal,” he nodded.

 Your smile grew even wider. “Thank you! This is fantastic!”

 The only acknowledgment you got for that statement was a low grunt. He wasn’t so sure about it being a fantastic idea. “Meet me here tomorrow when the sun rises. Do you own a sword?”

 He let out a sigh when you shook your head. “Of course you don’t. Doesn’t matter. Tomorrow, when the sun rises! Understood?”

 “Understood!”

 ***

 You arrived early the next morning. The excitement for the days to come was too overwhelming so after hours of tossing and turning and occasionally falling into a half slumber, you decided to cut the night short.

 You nervously looked around you. Despite the late (or rather early) hour, the street was buzzing with people. Mostly drunks but no less intimidating. It was the second time you visit this part of the town as your mother would forbid you to come here. “It’s a dangerous place,” she always said, “nothing to find there except for criminals and whores.” Observing the people around you, she might had a point.

 Growing up in one of the richest families of the town was a blessing and a curse at the same time. Nothing seemed to be missing from your life – dresses and jewelry, parties and royal receptions – everything was there in arm’s reach. You never had to work a day in your life and never went to bed on an empty stomach. Still, you were unhappy. You were born into this world with no purpose. All you had to do was look pretty, agree to a beneficial marriage and produce heirs. Your father didn’t allow you to be something else, something more. You never asked for much, knowing he’d deny your requests, except for learning how to fight and defend yourself. It was a simple desire but you hoped it would give you something. What, you weren’t sure. A purpose maybe? Indubitably, he refused you.

 A sense of guilt and shame rushed through you. It happened every time as you were aware that the problems were nothing more than luxurary at best. After all, what gave you, a privileged girl with no troubles, the right to complain when there were people starving and dying?

 “Well, ‘ello there, aren’t you a pretty one.”

 You shrieked at the slurring words coming from your left. A man, smelling of beer and piss, reeled towards you. A disgusted look on your face, you took a step back.

 “What’s that face, pretty one? Don’t cha think I’m pretty too?”

 “Fuck off!”

 A second voice made you turn around in surprise. Geralt of Rivia was standing in the doorway of the tavern, glaring at the drunk. Even in his current state of mind, the man sensed that Geralt wasn’t someone he wanted to bother, so he spit out undefinable curses and stumbled away.

 “Thank you,” you said to the Witcher. He looked different this morning. Rested and bathed, you figured and realized his attractiveness for the first time since you met him. Last night you were more focused on convincing him to train you. Tall, broad, with his glooming golden eyes and white hair that fell loosely on his shoulders – only a blind person could deny his good looks.

 Geralt eyed you up and down. “Now why would you wear that?”

 You furrowed your brows in confusion and looked down at your blue dress and fine cloak that hugged your figure. “What?”

 “You want to learn how to fight, am I wrong?”

 “No, you’re not.”

 “And you’re gonna do that in a dress?”

 “I’ve seen women fight in dresses.”

 “But not in fucking ball gowns.”

 “This is not a ball gown!” You protested.

 He rolled his eyes and started walking. “Whatever, come on. We have a long day ahead.”

 You followed, struggling to keep up with him. He didn’t seem to care all that much. “Why do you sleep here?” You pointed back to the run-down pension.

 “What do you mean?”

 “With the money I’m paying, you can afford better … places.”

 “I like it here.”

 “You like sleeping around these creatures?”

 Geralt didn’t answer instead he shot you a glance that made your cheeks flush in embarrassment. You knew exactly what he thought in this moment – he probably regretted taking the job and dreaded the fact that he was stuck with a spoilt girl like you for the next days. You didn’t blame him.

 You couldn’t have known on this day but you were wrong. Geralt didn’t have any regrets – not yet however. He saw you as spoilt, yes. He also recognized your will to change – or else you wouldn’t have come to him in the first place.

 ***

 One hour later and Geralt finally stopped in his tracks. You were more than thankful as your feet already started to hurt. The two of you had left the town far behind and had now reached a small clearing in the woods.

 With a sigh you sat down and leaned against a tree. Geralt kept his gaze on the ground and walked around the clearing, looking for something.

 You watched him. There was certainly something about that Witcher with his tall figure, white-hair and brooding looks. Only a blind woman would deny that. For a brief moment, you wondered if he had a companion or a consort, so to speak. What kind of woman did he desire? You had heard rumors about a mage he had taken as his lover. So probably powerful woman, fighters, he didn’t need to worry about protecting.

 “Here,” a stick landing in front of you catapulted you back into reality.

 You looked at the stick and back at Geralt. “What am I supposed to do with it?”

 “Fight,” only then you noticed a second branch, resting in his hand.

 “With a stick?”

 “Yes.”

 You grabbed it and got up in the same movement. “I’m not a child, I won’t play with sticks,” putting some force behind your words, you looked at him intensely.

 His face didn’t falter. “What do you suggest instead?”

 “A sword. I want to learn how to fight with a sword.”

 “You’re not ready.”

 “We only have two weeks though, we need to speed up this whole process,” you argued.

 “You’re not ready.” He repeated sternly.

 You kept staring at him, realizing that you wouldn’t win this argument. A sigh left your lips. “Fine.”

 A small smile appeared on his face. “Great. Let’s get started.”

 *** The first training was an absolute disaster. You were convinced that you spent the most time on the ground, face-down in the mud – the rest of the time you got your ass kicked. The exhaustion you felt when you were back in the tavern with torn clothes and leaves in your hair came close to nothing you ever experienced in your life.

 Geralt sat next to you, happily eating his piece of chicken, looking like he had just returned home from a lazy and relaxed day out of town.

 “You should eat something,” he said in between bites.

 You looked down at your plate where the food remained untouched. “I’m not hungry.”

 “Yes, you are.”

 As if your stomach wanted to agree, a low growl was heard.

 Geralt smirked but didn’t comment.

 “Fine,” you admitted. “I’m starving.”

 “But?”

 “Everything hurts.” It was true, you felt too exhausted to take one bite out of the meat.

 He shrugged. “Of course it does. You’ll get better though.”

 “I don’t think so,” you sighed. “Did you see me today?!”

 “I’ll tell you what,” Geralt said with a chuckle. “I promise that you’ll be able to fight and win against Jaskier by the end of this.”

 “Is he a good fighter?” You asked with narrowed eyes.

 “He’s not too bad.”

 “What if I lose against him?”

 “You’ll get your coin back.”

 “Deal.” You nodded in contently. Then you added after a brief moment: “Wait, who’s Jaskier?”

 “He’s traveling with me,” Geralt simply answered and took a sip from his beer mug. “You’ll meet him tomorrow. He knows people from this town.”

 Jaskier. You were curious about the kind of person a Witcher spent his time with when he wasn’t away, hunting beasts. Was he as calm and collected as Geralt? Always so serious?

 Another growl came from your stomach and you looked back at the plate. Well, maybe not eating at all would be a worse decision. After all, there were nine more days filled with exhaustion ahead of you. Slowly, you reached down to grab one of the chicken legs and bit into it.

 Geralt watched you carefully and a very small part of him began to like the idea of having to spend more dinners with you in the next days. Of course, he’d never admit it. Not even to himself.

***

My Masterlist

My Tag List: @just-antiyou​ , @sarah-midnight​ , @aspiring-ginger​ , @seb-owns-these-tatas​

Message me if you want to be added to my tag list <3

[inkedtae]

forever under pink skies ⇾ ksj. [F]

𝓅𝒶𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔 ⇾ bestfriend!jin x reader (f.)

𝑔𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒 ⇾ f2l, light humor, sunrise confessions, fluff, angst

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 ⇾ after a late night karaoke session, the two of your went on a little walk along the pier, relishing in the other’s company.

𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉 ⇾ 1.3k

𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 ⇾ eating!jin, pinkhair!jin,

𝒶𝓊𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓇'𝓈 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒 ⇾ blowing hand kisses to you all. extremely unedited. please do not leave hate towards me or any other readers. please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my work without my permission. if you have any requests, please send them my way. enjoy!

⤑ le playlist 

His cotton candy coloured hair bounced with each step down the empty street, the houses and stores lined on either side dark and quiet. He claimed the colour was a drunken mistake, but that was weeks ago and you were fairly certain he went in for a touch up yesterday. He always liked pink and had never been afraid to admit it before, but you thought the bold gesture of dying his hair just flustered him, causing him to shy away from others compliments. 

Your mind wandered back to the last twenty minutes spent at the karaoke pub. A little giggle escaped you as you remembered the singing battle you both engaged in with an elderly couple. Jin practically carried the team with his award-winning voice. You shook your head at the following moments. You had stayed there all night until a security member escorted the both of you out, claiming you made too much noise, even for a karaoke club, and that they’ve been closed for an hour.

You glanced back at Jin, watching him slurp the last chunk of his cup of ramen. He discarded his now empty cup and wooden chopsticks in the garbage bin on the sidewalk. He returned to your side as he wiped his mouth with his sleeve. 

You stared down at your half-eaten food to resist the urge to blush at how cute he was. As your stomach turned with him on your mind, you realized you really couldn’t finish your food and it would be a shame to waste it. Resting the chopsticks on the edge, you offered him the cup. “Here,” you muttered. 

His eyes widened at the gesture and he blew you a kiss, a habit that always erupted your heart even though he practically did that to everyone. You turned away from him, using your hair to hide your now red cheeks. He happily took the cup from your hand, and started eating again. His appetite was as big as his heart. 

The road ended, a boardwalk now taking its place as you continued straight down. The sun slowly began to rise, tinting the navy sky with a light orange. 

“You know how when you’re younger, and the world just feels like the most amazing place to be?” He asked around his food. 

You turned to him and nodded, “That seems like ages ago.” 

You thought back to the last few years of school and work. If you two weren’t in class, you were picking up extra shifts to pay for it. And on any spare nights, you both would usually hunch over your books at the library, exchanging oxygen for coffee. 

“Tonight was probably one of the most freeing nights since then,” he smiled after swallowing the last of his food. He discarded his second cup in the trash once you reached the end of the pier. 

You leaned against the edge, watching as the sun broke the horizon with a swirl of bright colours. You were not entirely sure what to say. The hurt in his voice shattered your heart, then used the broken shards to pierce your soul.

“I have to be honest,” he started when he returned to your side. “I really don’t think it’s worth it.”

You furrowed your brows, “What’s not worth it?”

“All this work and effort,” he shrugged. “I mean we pay money we don’t have to learn crap we don’t care about, and then suffer four years of intense exams, where half a percentage difference decides whether or not we graduate.”

You let his words sink in. The lingering ache in your back from constant work was enough proof of your unappreciated hard work. You rolled your shoulders back, slightly easing the tension. You turned to him and thought of the work he had to put in as a pre-med student, suppressing a shudder. “But, I thought you wanted to be a doctor.”

He sighed, the wind playing with his pink hair again. “I thought I did too. And I can’t believe it took me four years to finally realize that,” he drily chuckled. “I freaking hate studying medicine. I don’t want it as bad as the others.”

You shook your head, fully turning your body to face him. “Wait, wait, when I met you, you were talking about going overseas. You said it was your dream to travel.”

“Yeah, I said it was my dream to travel, but I never mentioned anything about traveling as a doctor.” Another sigh escaped his lips and you wished it was replaced with one of his fits of laughter. All you wanted to do was hug him until he felt better.

“Do you remember that first day?” you asked, a small smile playing on your lips. 

He fought one of his own as he spared you a sidelong glare. “You never let me forget it,” he mumbled. 

“You came in a freaking suit, Jin. No one freaking forgets it.” 

He shook his head, a little laugh bubbling from his lips. “That was one time!” he repeated for what feels like the hundredth time. 

Your eyes locked and the two of you gave in, doubling over. Jin’s squeaky laugh was undeniably contagious, tugging on your lips even when I really don’t want it to. A blessing during awkward situations, and a curse during serious ones. You would never forget your great-aunt’s funeral. You barely knew the woman, forever feeling guilty since you never laughed harder in your life than you did on that day.

You tried to stop laughing long enough to tease, “You’re so lucky I came into your life. I’m the reason you didn’t wear one the next day.”

He playfully nudged your shoulder, leaning in further as he laughed harder.

Your laughter slowly died out after a couple more minutes. As you wiped away a tear, Jin stared at you, a little smirk hovering over his lips. 

You wondered if he was trying to kill you with that look. “What?” You asked, forcing yourself to stare at anything but his handsome face and those dangerous lips. 

He gave into that smirk, a gleam of gratitude sparkling in his eyes. “It’s just that you’re right,” he uttered, voice barely above a whisper, and you found yourself straining your ears to hear his next words over the crashing waves. “I really am lucky to have you in my life, and if it means I get to meet you all over again, I would definitely wear a sparkly pink suit to class everyday.”

Your heart was at your throat, twisting and turning with every breath, and your gut was flipping ten times over, unsettling the nerves that shot up and down your spine. You wanted to say something, anything, but your voice was lost and words didn’t seem to be forming right now. 

He gulped, probably taking your hesitance as a rejection. That’s what you thought anyway before he stepped closer, resting his hands on your waist. You let yours move to his broad shoulders, even though you weren’t entirely sure it was what he wanted. 

You didn’t have a spare chance to mentally debate it as his lips gently pressed against yours. Captured in the essence of him, you felt the aching of your back, of your useless hard work drift away. All you can think about was how his lips were just as soft as they look. 

And though he pulled away all too soon, you felt as though nothing could touch you, like the two of you could stay together, forever under pink skies. 

[alphacouplesslave]

In Service to ElitistGod

ElitistGod came thru the door of his mansion. i immediately froze where I had been scrubbing the foyer of his massive house with a toothbrush. i had been on my hands and knees for 3 hours making sure that every square inch of tile and grout gleamed. As always in the presence of ElitistGod, i tremble in fear and awe.  ElitistGod is strong and athletic and again proved his might and determination by taking on the hardest part of the wooded trail around his estate in a 10K run.  ElitistGod’s sweaty tee shirt clinging to his powerful chest and back. His shorts tight against his thick legs and perfect bottom.  His running shoes wet and muddy and with no concern for any mess, casually stomped into his home.

i crawled behind, my heart dropping as bits of mud fly everywhere, with chunks being ground into the polished tiles from the tread on the bottom of his running shoes.  As he headed to the kitchen for a sports drink, i crawl behind. ElitistGod pulls off his tee shirt as he walks. Soaked in his sweat, i am grateful when his shirt lands on my back from his perfect, over the shoulder toss of the wet garment. It is thrilling for a worm like me to be able to smell and taste anything that comes from ElitistGod’s perfect body.  i quickly wipe my face with the back of ElitistGod’s shirt and then gently put into my mouth to continue crawling.  When i get to the kitchen ElitistGod is taking a huge swig of his drink. As he nosily guzzled down the cold invigorating drink, i felt how was tired, hungry and thirsty i was but knew better than to ever even beg for a drop of water. ElitistGod has trained me to be grateful for whatever crumbs he drops for me.

As ElitistGod finishes the bottle, i’m allowed to kneel before him and remove his running shoes. The powerful, intoxicating aroma of his feet hit my nose as i untie the laces and ease his shoe off. i inhale as deeply as possible. i move as quickly as possible, ElitistGod expects to be served quickly and quietly. i am also trying to move his running shoes gently so that no more mud spatters.

“ElitistGod looks down. “Get my shower ready boy” he orders and at the same time kicks me flat to the floor. He looks amused as I fall one way and the muddy shoes bounce another way spaying mud as they go. i quickly stand, curtsey, pick up the shoes and run to start my chore.

ElitistGod takes his time making his way to his huge bathroom. Along the way he had pulled off his socks and shorts for me to find and pick up.  i look up from where i am laying out his razor and shave cream as ElitistGod enters the room.

ElitistGod has a magnificence body.  Tall, strong, and handsome he is a living god.  He is an amazing image of masculine strength and nobility. His legs are like chiseled marble. His abdomen is a ripped 10 pack. ElitistGod has a powerful, broad chest. His shoulders and arms are thick and muscular. ElitistGod’s radiates confidence, strength, and power.

ElitistGod flings his still hot, sweaty underwear at me. “Here boy” he commands. On my knees I turn and catch his underwear in my mouth. The taste of his sweat, his essence weakens me even further. i suck hard on the fibers trying to get as much of his excretions as i can into my mouth.

Now even naked, ElitistGod appears even more manly. His cock is amazing. Long And thick it fills me with awe.  And with the shame of how inadequate and unmanly i am in his presence.  Kneeling before ElitistGod, his dirty underwear in my mouth, i am washed over with his greatness. ElitistGod is man perfected.  

ElitistGod looks down in contempt, but feeling generous, he allows me a great honor. “You may humble yourself boy”. With that i quickly and regrettably remove his underwear from my mouth and prostrate myself at his feet. my hands behind my back, i only lift head high enough to kiss first his right foot, then his left.  (ElitistGod has trained me to always know his right foot from his left even when it is opposite of my orientation.  -Of course, i am slow and it took several beatings and hours and hours of just staring at ElitistGod’s feet).  Then i return to his right foot, coving the top of his manly, foot and toes with humble, grateful kisses, tasting the salty sweat each time i pressed my lips to his foot. Then i did the same with the left.   ElitistGod only allows this honor for a few seconds, and by now the steam was rolling out of his shower. As i lay at ElitistGod’s feet, i hear him clear his throat with a deep nasal inhale.  Then the splat of his spit on my back. Kicking me as he headed to the shower, i lay on the floor reviling in the greatness of ElitistGod and feeling his spit dry on my back.

As ElitistGod showered, i went and got three towels that he requires in the dryer so that they would be warm for him. As he steps out of the shower, i kneel behind ElitistGod and dry his legs and feet. Later as i am again kneeling behind him, putting on his socks, he lets go with a tremendous fart into my face. Again, i am blessed by ElitistGod’s waste.

Dressed and headed out in one of his fabulous sports cars, ElitistGod looks down at where i am kneeling by the door. “Get my home cleaned up mutt.  Look at this mud everywhere.  What are you a pig or a worm crawling in them mud?  Try not to be as useless as you are pathetic.  Make my house perfect and have the drinks and snacks ready for when I come home with my lady.  Make it perfect boy or I’ll beat the stupid out of you”.   With that ElitistGod left and i started on my chores.

[buckysgoldenheart]

Unprofessional: Part 3 Seb Stan x Reader

Summary: Starring in the same movie meant feelings between any two actors was not allowed.

Sebastian Stan x Reader

Note: 3/?

Warnings: Cursing and stuff. Probs some spelling mistakes. Same old, same old. Self-Body-shaming? Small chance that this is written weird and I just cant tell anymore.

Words: 2105

Hope you guys like it. Comments are appreciated!!!!

Part 3:

Seb P.O.V

Chris paused after taking a sip of his beer from his relaxed position on Seb’s apartments couch. “So, was it good? Or not good? Or what? Cause I don’t know, I feel like I wouldn’t be as upset as you’re are right now, but maybe I’m crazy.” He shrugged.

“You’re not crazy.” Anthony confirmed from his own spot next to the blond. “Seb is crazy.”

Blue-grey eyes flew wide at the blunt comment. Crazy? How am I crazy? “I’m crazy?! How the fuck am I crazy!?”

Anthony’s eyebrow rose an inch up his forehead, clearly saying without saying how idiotic of a question that was. “For complaining! Jesus man, did you see this girl!?” He whipped his phone out from his back jeans pocket, pulled up your picture from a website praising the upcoming film and the actors cast in it, and shoved it in Chris’s face.

Chris made no move to get a look, only nodded and took another swig. “I did, yea I know, she’s definitely hot.”

“HOT, Seb!”

Then the smartphone was turned face-front to Sebastian and extended as far as possible by Anthony’s long arm as if proximity would further prove his point.

Seb rolled his eyes, crossed his arms at his chest, and sighed in annoyance. “I know what she looks like.” It’s not like I could forget her if I tried.

“Are you sure? Cause you are not acting like a man who just kissed this woman a couple hours ago. You’re acting like a man who thought he was kissing this woman only to find out that it was actually a large dog once he opened his eyes.” Anthony slightly chucked.

“Oh, that was funny.” Chris grinned at his friend, who smiled back with pride.

“Thanks ma—"

“No, It wasn’t!” Seb yelled, throwing his hands in the air. “Guys! What. Do. I. Do!?”

“What do you mean what do you do? You do nothing. You’re gonna have to make out a lot before this movie is over.”

“Chris is right, Seb.” Anthony agreed, before a sly smirk took over his face. “Besides, she probably didn’t feel anything. Like kissing cardboard, I bet.”.

“I hate you.”

“Can’t hate us too much. If we’re gone you won’t have anyone to complain to about your ‘problems,’” The brown-eyed man curved his fingers in the air in the shape of a quote. “that every other living, breathing man would consider a blessing from the big man upstairs. I mean, she must have a lizard tongue or something. That’s the only conclusion I can come to as to why you would complain about this woman putting her mouth on yours.”

Chris made a face at the image that scrunched it unattractively, but chuckled. “Yea Seb, does she have a lizard tongue?”

“No, she does not have a lizard tongue! She’s--her tongue is…” Seb groaned and dropped his head in frustration. “…it’s fucking perfect.”

“Oh, well then I totally get why you’re so upset then.”  Anthony’s sarcastic tone once again rang out much to Sebs exasperation.

“I don’t know what to do.”

“What could you do?” Chris chimed. “You have to start filming tomorrow. Just do your job, man. She’ll do hers.”

“We are gonna have to kiss again.”

Anthony laughed, making Seb very nervous for his friend’s next words. “If it were me, I would just fuck up the scene every time, then I’d get to kiss her all damn day. Oh, and don’t even get me started on the sex sce--”

He immediately snapped his mouth shut at the glare directed his way that, with enough effort, could’ve burned a hole through a wall.

“You have no idea how close you are to death.” Seb said. If he thought he wanted to punch Anthony before, it was nothing compared to what he wanted to do to him now.

“I’m just saying…”

“Well stop ‘just saying.’ I took it too far, guys.”

Chris cleared his throat, drawing his friends’ attention to him. “Do you think she could even tell that you weren’t acting? The director basically asked you to kiss each other.”

“He asked us to get to know each other, but does what I described to you sound like a get-to-know-each other kiss?”

Though a sarcastic question, Seb wanted the answer to be ‘yes,’ hoping maybe Chris had similar experiences in the past; that this kind of kiss wasn’t unheard-of between co-stars or known to cause any problems between them.

“Maybe.” Chris replied, shrugging his broad shoulders. “You told her it would be a good idea to make it as accurate as possible for the sake of the scene, so where’s the harm? You did what you said you would do.”

The harm?! The harm is that she’s beautiful and funny and nice and sexy and kisses like a damn angel with a sinful side. “The harm is that I felt something I shouldn’t have.”

Anthony and Chris’s eyes blew wide and a moment passed as the men soaked in that information. They clearly knew Seb enjoyed kissing you, but feelings?

“Ok,” The blond said, drawling out the word. “The way I see it, you have two options: talk to her and see if she felt something as well and then figure out a way to put it behind you or ignore it completely.

Seb rubbed the back of his neck, his white t-shirt threatening to rip at the seam around his bicep. “I don’t know. Those don’t seem like helpful ideas.”

“How is that?”

“Because neither will make me forget what happened so I can do my job right.”

“Yea well, being wiped like Bucky Barnes doesn’t exactly happen in the world we’re in…I don’t think.” Anthony’s eyebrows scrunched together as he contemplated his statement. “Look, take it as a good thing. You guys have chemistry. That’s certainly not a curse when you’re acting sex scenes out with another person.”

“It would be a good thing if it was acting chemistry, but this is not that.” Seb fisted his fingers in his hair and tugged. “This is just bound to fuck me up. We kissed and I felt something and then she ran and now I’m fucked.” He said, almost sounding like he was getting ready to laugh; like he couldn’t believe he got himself into this situation.  

Anthony’s jaw dropped open. “She ran? What did you do?”

“Nothing, I don’t think.” Seb sighed, running a hand down his face. “Maybe I did. I have no idea. She just…left, like broke apart from me, pushed me away, and ran out the door; and now--”

Chris nodded in understanding and smiled in a way that didn’t quite reach his eyes. It was meant to be a comforting smile made just for his friend but didn’t exactly cut it. This situation was going to be more of a problem than he initially thought. “Seb, I get it, she’s beautiful, she really is, but you shouldn’t freak out over some, some…thing you feel that you don’t even know how to describe. That’s a waste of time and energy.”

“You don’t think I know that; that I don’t know how crazy I am sounding?” Seb pressed his palms into the pits of his eyes, forcing dark spots to cloud his vision. “Kissing her made my brain explode a little, Chris.”

“How does something only explode a little?” Anthony mumbled, and Chris swatted him across the arm as he listened Seb; watching as the brunette let his arms drop back to his sides.

“I didn’t want to stop.”

“You need to talk to her; get a sense of what she’s thinking. I know I said an option was to ignore it, but I you’re in deeper than I thought.”

Seb blinked a slow blink, his eyes staying closed for an extra beat to take in the words of his friend, his annoyingly, wise friend. “How are you always so damn sensible?”

Chris finished his beer and put it off to the side on the table, then chuckled. “It’s not like it didn’t take practice.”

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

Y/N P.O.V 

Securing your purse at your shoulder, you walked across the dark pavement to the studio where you would have to have sex with Se—do your job, and you just wanted to run back to your tiny, safe Subaru and drive home. Your first day on the job, while supposed to be nerve-wracking and a little stressful, would not be for the reasons most were used to. There would be no scary boss or overwhelming amount of paperwork; no fear of mean co-workers or possible offending of customers.

Nearly at the door, you sensed some heavy footsteps from afar that quickly turned into a slight jog as they got closer.

“Y/N!”

You heard it somewhere behind you; the end half of your name louder and nearer than the beginning, but you didn’t turn until a strong hand was gripping your forearm with surprising softness and turning you to face its owner.

“Hey, I was calling you; you didn’t hear me?” Seb asked, his lips stretching into a sweet smile, but your face remained impassive, though not on purpose. After yesterday, you were just kind of out of it; awake all night, tossing and turning as you thought about this man’s lips, his perfect perfect lips on yours, the feel of his arms around you and his abs through both of your shirts when you pressed your bodies together.

“Uh, n-no—” You stuttered, because that’s what you only seemed to be able to do when he was around.

“I was hoping we could talk, just for a second.” His eyes were pleading and you didn’t want to deny him, but you had a feeling it was either about the ‘sex’ you would have to have today or the kiss you had yesterday. Who am I kidding, it’s about today. He probably never gave that kiss a second thought.

“Look, about yester—”

“Alright kids, you were supposed to be inside five minutes ago, so let’s get a move on. Get in there and strip. I want you on set in ten.”

You let out the breath you had been holding since those eyes linked to yours, while ‘Thank fuck for our director’ ran through your head about a million times in the ten seconds it took for you to turn from Seb and hurry towards the door, leaving him to stand there, disappointed.

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

Naked…just great.

You held open the small silk robe that barely covered your thighs and studied your body in the full-length mirror with dissatisfaction. They could make up your face and curl your hair until it looked just sexy enough to turn on any man, but…

What will they do about my body? CGI editing, or something?

Stretch marks and small scars and little red spots around your bikini line from shaving with the cheap razors you bought last week.

Women sexy enough to sleep with Seb, or any of his characters, do not have marks on their bodies.

However, you weren’t likely to develop silky, smooth skin within the next two minutes, so you tied your robe, sighing, and stepped outside the dressing room into a crowd of way too many people for you to be comfortable.

And there he was, just standing there like he wasn’t almost completely naked while a member of the crew placed something over his crotch so that what lay underneath never touched you. You shook your head to yourself for being slightly upset that that wouldn’t happen.

Then, a small woman with a headset appeared before you. She rushed out a string of words that you couldn’t comprehend as she ushered you towards the set. You did however, hear her tell you to slip off your robe to get prepped for the scene before she walked away and left you to wait for someone to help. You looked around at the scurrying people and at the giant bed you would have fake sex on, never noticing Sebs eyes grazing all over your barely covered body.

Five minutes later, you were standing a foot from Seb, thankfully with your robes back on, while the director explained the way the scene would go.

“So Y/N, you already admitted that you love Seb and the scene will start off with him kissing you against the wall over there,” He said, pointing to the far left of the set. “before you end up on the bed. Everybody got it?”

“Yea.” Seb said, but you only nodded. Luckily this wouldn’t require you to speak, just act.

“Ok people, robes back off please.”

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[faejilly]

Lath'enansalen

(heart’s blessings)

so hey there. Instead of continuing/finishing any of my idk half-a-dozen posted WIPS or myriad prompt fills, I decided to write something else entirely today. Have some DAI melancholy romance! Because I love Blackwall. (Because I lack sense?)

***

Creators forgive me, I'm in love with a human.

And everyone knows.

And everyone talks about it.

It's not as if The People don't gossip, as if we don't have more than our fair share of politics, questions of power and influence and duty and friendships and rivalries and romances between Firsts and Hahrens, scouts and teachers, Clan to Clan. But it's different when it's shem, when none of the accents are right, and so few of the words. 

It's different when it's so very often about sex. 

It startles, whispers of Grey Warden stamina and exotic Dalish techniques that die down whenever the speakers notice me, embarrassed blushes and mutters replacing them as they pretend to focus on anything and everything else near-by. But few enough people remember to look up, even in a place like Skyhold, and I have heard more than I would have preferred, carried by evening breezes up to my favorite perches. It is somehow unsurprising that this is something my ears would decide to have no trouble hearing.

At least the stables are safe, the grooms and keepers having adopted Blackwall under their care, ignoring all whispers and rumours attempting to pass the weathered planks of their walls. They stomp quite loudly whenever they must walk by or through Blackwall's work-room, and thump the ceiling with their fists before they climb up to the hayloft. They are kind, and it is difficult not to smile at the earnest way the youngest stable-boy always stares at the toes of his boots when he sees me there, so determined not to intrude.

I have extra reasons to enjoy the stable roof, the quiet below almost as beautiful as the expanse of sky above, almost as beautiful as the company I keep.

The quiet in the library is not so kind, the taut silence of held-in whispers following me as I walk through the shelves.

Dorian, of course, refrains from quiet. And would never let me remain ignorant of the... choicest rumors, his smirk bright and his arms spread wide as he repeats them. Such deplorable behavior, he proclaims, even as he appears to indulge in it himself. But his eyes are soft, and the silence around us deepens as a few shamed heads bow, and I know he worries, the ridiculous man, that I should let my heart make such choices for me.

He refrains from doing so in front of Blackwall at least, for which I am grateful. Blackwall stomps loudly enough after Sera teases him about them, his shoulders hunched and hands tight. They bother him, in a way they do not me, in a way I have yet to quite understand. They bring his shadows closer to the surface.

My shadows feel thinner now than I would have ever thought possible. Sometimes it makes me want to laugh, to shake my head. How strange is the world, and however did I end up here? However did here end up with me? However did here fill up with people gossiping about me? I wonder how they come up with them, these soldiers and merchants and refugees who somehow find my every word and deed worthy of interest.

I wonder if they would be disappointed to know the truth.

For all I can feel heat pressing up beneath his skin until we are both full of it, for all there is nothing I enjoy so much as the feel of his shoulders or back beneath my fingers, we are not intimate in the way so many seem to expect.

I have seldom been particularly interested in sex, for all I knew I ought to have married and added children to the Clan. But now that guilt is lost, one small shred of quiet relief amongst all the other worries, and I find myself wondering if, perhaps, with him it might be different.

Perhaps I just needed my heart to ache, before my body would follow.

My heart aches so much more than is wise.

I love his hands, that never pause before they touch me. He doesn't touch me like anyone I've known, not like friends or family or Clan, not even like those few who wanted things other than friendship. Almost shy, no matter how many times I invite him closer, each slight touch so very gentle, as if to make up for the feel of the skin on his hands, thick and hard and calloused. Not that I begrudge the weight of his life, the marks of his labor, but it clearly bothers him. His touch almost catches against my skin, almost jealous, never willing to let go, not completely. His hands are different than a hunter's hands, or even the other soldiers I've been forced to know in this Inquisition. He shrugged when I tried to ask him, his palm held loosely between my hands, just one almost as broad as both my hands together. I want to know every step that led him here, to me, but I let him go as he pulled his hand back, and have not asked again.

There are many things he is not ready to tell me. There are things I don't know how to tell him, either, but it doesn't bother me. It does not make the current path less valuable, just because there's so much more left to go.

When he ducks his head before he drinks, or turns away from my face to look in the fire, it seems he is afraid of the twists in our path. I wonder what he thinks is beyond them. Sometimes I can see his hands turn at his sides as if he wants to touch, but cannot quite make himself reach towards me; I cannot tell if he is afraid for me, or of himself.

Sometimes I see his shadow across a doorway, made long and narrow by the angle of the sun, and the air goes too thin in my throat and my hands reach for my daggers, because I am afraid, so afraid, of what can happen to The People when surrounded by shem'len. Especially ones so dedicated to their Maker.

But then it is Blackwall, not a shem, and I step close enough to feel the warmth of his body, to lean against the solid weight of his chest, to remember that I love him, because and in spite of the fact that he isn't one of The People.

Because and in spite of the weight of his secrets, so like and unlike my own.

I wonder if he was a murderer, before the Wardens. They say they give the condemned another chance, something worth dying for beyond their petty crimes. I wonder if they would have given me a second chance, if I'd been caught, if there'd ever been a Warden to stand between me and a lynching.

Somehow I don't think so.

Unless of course it was Blackwall. I can't imagine a version of our lives where he doesn't look so carefully, so thoroughly, at everyone before him. He would not have wasted someone as angry as I used to be, not when that anger could be turned against the 'spawn.

I wonder who Warden Erana would have been, fifteen years of her anger being encouraged rather than soothed, surrounded by shem instead of family, the beast let free instead of hobbled. I am not sure I would like that Erana, or that Blackwall could love her, but oh, the shem'len never would have ignored her. Never would have been safe from her.

I'm not sure why that makes me smile, the sort of smile that makes most everyone look away from me, eyes dropping too quickly towards the ground.

Except for Blackwall. He was never shem'len. He never expects me to be something I'm not. The rest of them seem to try to forgot what I am when I'm not staring at them, forget elf, forget Dalish, forget the flare of the mark in favor of Inquisitor, of treaties and troops, of Lady Lavellan. Blackwall calls me his lady, but when he says it I feel warm, cherished. Not like those human titles, pushing against me, everyone trying to shove me in a human box to make themselves more comfortable.

I love his eyes, pale and sad and always willing to meet mine. Even when the air is dark and the shine flares up bright enough I can feel the shadows move as I look at them, as I look at him. His eyes are as old as any Hahren I've ever met, and he never looks away.

Or if he does it is because of the heat behind them, because he sees me before him and wants to see more, never less. I wonder if there is a more that I could give him that would ever be enough. A more that could be too much?

I cannot imagine not wanting more of him, every touch, every breath, every day.

I cannot ever seem to ask him that, can never really be sure of what my question is, much less what answer I want to hear, to feel. Luckily it is not a question I need to voice, not yet. He holds himself back from it, goes so far as to leave my company sometimes when the fire behind his eyes is too bright.

He has ducked his head in more than one mountain stream, which is a sight I enjoy as well, the shudder of his back at the shock of it, the way his face eases as he stands, the way the water catches in his hair, darkening the black and making the threads of grey shine in the light.

Sometimes, he notices me watching him, and I can catch the glint of water in his eyelashes as he looks at me, and there is heat beneath his eyes again, and then he swears, and I have to swallow an absurd bubble of laughter as he turns around and stomps back to the stream for another attempt.

Usually I am kind enough to turn away, so as not to distract him again.

Only once am I not, once do I stay, enjoying his mostly amused frustration too much to leave, until he goes back four times, and I lose all ability at feigned composure, falling back against the sun-warmed rock behind me, laughing so hard I'm not sure I quite remember how to breathe.

I feel the weight of him against the ground as he marches over to me, can sense the low growl of his breath through the air between us, but all I can do is gasp as he picks me up and carts me over his shoulder to the middle of the pond.

I shriek as I fall, loudly enough I'm surprised the mountain doesn't slide down upon us, and he laughs, even louder, louder than I've ever heard, not just his usual soft rumbling chuckle, and I'm smiling as I gasp again from the cold, and then I'm sputtering and coughing and laughing, bright and ragged, even as I'm trying to find my feet and push hair out of my eyes.

He helps, fingers catching on new damp tangles no matter how carefully he smooths his hand back, and then his palm rests against my cheek, cooler than the usual heat of his skin on mine, but still warm, and I sigh, and my eyes close as I lean into his touch.

He grunts, low in his chest, so low I can feel it, though not quite hear it. His fingers curl against my skin, and I am painfully aware of wet leathers and clinging linens and one shockingly cold drop of water working its way past my collar and down my spine.

"You are not usually so cruel, my lady."

I open my eyes, so close to his face for a moment I can see nothing but a blur of skin and hair and a sharp pale gaze; I have to take a breath before I can focus, can see the way the skin beside his eyes is too tight, his lips are too thin, the spread of a flush across his cheeks.

"I did not ask you to leave." I let my hand rest against his chest, fingers spread as if there was some way to encompass the strength of his heartbeat, the breadth of his chest, with but a single hand. "I am not the one who sent you to the pond."

Something hardens behind his eyes, brittle and terrible, and the weight of it fills his face, pushes out, until his cheekbones seem too pale and sharp, weapons poised to strike. "Perhaps you should."

"How can I?" My voice is thick, and my free hand reaches up, fingers paused just before his lips. "What part of me could ever wish to see you go?"

I lean in closer, and I am not sure if I should shiver or burn as his hands slide to my hips to hold me close against him, without pause or thought, as if he cannot help it. Something kindles in my chest, low in my stomach, heat and want and worry.

His hands tighten, even as his head shakes, as his mouth opens, and I know he is going to try and argue with me again. But my hands are in his hair now, thick and coarse against my knuckles, and I kiss him, our lips cool from the water and the air, my arms pulling me closer, my body pressed to his, the rumble of his rough groan pressing against the unsteady rhythm of my heart.

I can feel the catch of his breath before his lips move against mine, before he kisses me back, hard and hot and my feet are numb and my mouth burns, and ...

He pulls his mouth away from mine, breaks away, and I feel it like the first crack of ice across a Vinmark lake in spring, deep and echoing.

My eyes close, my fingers curl, tight and tighter still, 'til I hear the hiss of his breath at the pain as his hair pulls.

If you cannot make yourself leave, please, please, why do you refuse to stay?

I let go, step back, feel the water part slowly around us. I wish I could leave, if he will not, but I don't, I can't, I never want to leave, but it hurts, this endless terrible balance, and I am afraid, so afraid that when one of us finally falls it will be too far; we will not stand again.

I hear his voice, no words, not yet, just a rough breath, and I shake my head, my eyes still closed. I cannot trust myself if he apologizes again. I want to slap him, knee him in the stomach, knee him somewhere lower, force him to react, to say, to do ... something.

But what if his choice is to finally turn away completely?

I growl, frustration twisting in my chest, and I turn around, away, blink my eyes at light on water, at light bouncing off ripples, dancing around me. I hear 'Aral's laugh in my head, his offer to stab Blackwall for me, carefully I promise lethallan, no terribly important organs, just enough he can't stagger off. How does that sound?

I am laughing, weak and restless, hand lifting to cover my mouth, oh that sounds perfect, ma serannas.

"Erana." My laugh is gone, as sharp and clean a break as a freshly cut rope at the sound of my name, so rare these days, at the barest brush of his fingertips against my shoulder. Butterfly kisses, Nala always called such things, the touch so light you felt it against your heart more than your skin.

Does she still? Or is her heart too dark to feel such things, after...

My tears are almost as cold as the lake, each breath a stab in my chest, cold and hot and pain; I have not let myself cry for them before.

I am sorry, sorry, I am...

I have never cried for myself before.

Perhaps I am flying, but it is warm, not cold as the air above the mountains must surely be, and there is Blackwall's heartbeat, steady and familiar, and the rest of the world faded and echoing, too far away to bother me, and still I am sobbing, my face pressed to his shoulder as he carries me out of the water.

We stop moving, and the sun is hot and his body surrounds me, warm and solid, and I feel his lips press to the top of my head, and then there is nothing but his heartbeat and his breath and my tears.

After, when my head hurts and my fingers grip too tight, he is still there, his hand soothing up and down my back. I lift my head and his face is too still, too sad, and his lips are cool when I kiss him.

I pull myself closer, push harder against him, and his breath is hot as his lips part for me, as he lets me in; his tongue is in my mouth and I make a noise I've never heard before, need caught in my throat, in the scratch of my nails against his skin as my fingers curl through his hair, as I pull myself closer, closer, pressed against him as hard as I can and it's still not enough, never enough, please, Blackwall, more.

His arms are as hard as ironbark around me, holding me together, holding me in place, but even as my breath burns in my chest his lips soften, and his voice is warm against my skin when he speaks.

"I am sorry for all you've lost, my lady."

I press my forehead against his temple, shudder out something that is almost a sigh. "I don't want to lose you, too." I don't know if I could bear it.

"I cannot promise you tomorrow."

I squeeze my eyes tight, and swallow hard, not sure if it's a sob or a scream that I can't let free.

"But I am here for you today." His voice is steady, his heartbeat even, and I know that if he could hold time still for me, he would. "And my heart will always be yours."

"Prefer to keep all of you, vhenan, not just your heart."

He laughs at the pout in my voice, a warm chuckle that eases the last of my shivers. I shift my weight enough that I can relax, legs sprawled as I lean against his chest.

"Let's not go back to camp, not yet." Stay with me, as long as you can.

"Of course." His hand rubs along my arm, and his breath is just heavy enough I can feel it against my hair. We stay like that, as the sunlight slowly fades, and we both pretend that our peace will last forever.

It won't, but I will treasure it forever. No matter what tomorrow brings, today is enough.

[pinterestingenough]

Barbership part 2

Part 1

Part 3

Part 4

The next morning Julia laid in bed staring at the cracks in her white ceiling. It was the few minutes before the stress of the day that she really appreciated. The moments where she was able to just enjoy the soft warm blanket and the bright light filling her apartment. She was lucky to live above the shop. It made her morning pleasant. She rose out of bed and let her feet touch the cold wooden floor. It was time to start the day. She grabbed a towel and walked over to the bathroom to begin getting ready. As she went mindlessly through the tasks, she let her imagination take her on a trip. She started by thinking about taking a vacation to visit her brother back in their village. She thought about the large green fields and the small cozy living. Then her mind drifted to her imaginary house. A large one. With deep mahogany accents and large open spaces for the light to fill. She thought of the books in the library she would have and the balconies overlooking a beautifully landscaped lawn. Her mind slipped to the idea of her husband. A tall man, strong and proud. With broad shoulders and a fierce disposition. With deep blue eyes that could kill… NO. Julia stopped herself.

She was spooked back into the present. She was showered and ready, and had pulled on a dark green dress. She wound her hair back into a simple bun at the base of her neck and headed downstairs to start the business day.

She was greeted by James, an elderly barber who also worked here. She replied pleasantries with him quickly. Then she froze.

There on the counter laid one beautiful white lily.

“Ah a man came by to leave that here for ya. Look Jules, I don’t know who you have been spending time with, and I am not judging you, but I’ve heard a lot of things about those men… Nothing good.” James looked earnestly at Julia.

“James, I appreciate it but do not worry about me.” She smiled reassuringly at James. She knew he meant well but this wasn’t a subject she felt she wanted to share with him. Anyways, nothing had happened. The lily on her counter was a weird joke from the stoic man.

She still picked it up carefully when James wasn’t looking, and snuck it upstairs into her apartment and into a vase. It was a shame if such a beautiful flower were to be wasted, she explained to herself. But she felt the warm pink in her cheeks as she spent a few seconds imagining that Thomas Shelby took the effort and thought to deliver this flower. Or forced one of his lackeys to do so.

She spent the rest of the day more clear headed with customers. If you looked closely you could see her smile lasted longer and her feet bounced off the ground with every step.

While she didn’t want to admit it, in the back of her mind Julia expected another visit from Mr. Shelby. She looked over to the door often and jumped at every sound. But the sun began setting and she hadn’t a glimpse of that sculpted man.

Somewhat disappointed, she trudged up the stairs to her room. Any other day, she would have been happy, she had plenty of customers and many tipped very well from her happy countenance today. But her heart was filled with a small ache. She had held it back as best as she could, but she had the smallest notion that maybe her small moments with Mr.Shelby had a chance of being something more. Now though, with a day of no contact and only a flower with confusing intentions, she was left feeling hopeless and like a schoolgirl with a silly crush.

She leaned into the mattress and pulled her covers high under her neck. She let herself wallow in the ache and fall asleep to the sound of cars driving into the night.

The next morning she awoke with a new thirst for the day. She felt silly for feeling so upset the day before. She felt that her emotions had taken too big an influence and she reminded herself of the blessing she already had.

She went through her morning routine with a rigid eagerness to feel satisfied and happy. As Julia made her way downstairs, she searched the counter top.

Another flower. A beautiful red rose.

Julia’s lips parted into a smile, and the ache still residing within her heart gave a painful squeeze and disappeared.

This had to mean something. Two days in a row. Two beautiful flowers. But why hadn’t he stayed to speak with her? Julia mulled over the significance as she brought the rose back to her room to join the lily.

As she walked down the stairs she heard a large clatter. It wasn’t just coming from the front of the shop, it was coming from down the street as well. She ran down the last couple steps and saw three officers barging through her door.

“Excuse me! What is going on??” Julia exclaimed in a panic.

“Official business ma’am. We heard Thomas Shelby has a particular interest in this shop. Any idea why?” asked a particularly sour faced cop.

“For a hair cut. What do you think we do here? There is nothing for you to find here.” Julia felt her anger boil under her skin. What in the world would he be doing here except getting a haircut? For goodness sakes the sign outside read Barbershop.

“Huh. Beautiful and an attitude. Boys lets show this lady what happens when you choose to work with gangsters.” Then they showed what they really could do.

They shoved out all the contents in drawers and counters, pushed over the chairs, broke mirrors, and damaged half the tools. Then they spotted the door to Julia’s apartment and hastily made their way up there. They tore down curtains and pushed her stuff onto the floors. They shoved aside furniture and dropped some of the paintings she had.

Julia danced around them pleading them to stop. But after a few minutes of watching them destroy she went mute and simply watched. Each crash tore at her heart but she saw how fruitless it was to argue. In the war between the police and gangs, it was the common people who were always collateral. When they stormed upstairs she could not bear to follow to watch them tear apart her room. She listened to the thuds of objects and furniture and wept in her heart. When they finally descended again they walked right past her, and out the door.

As she stared at their backs walking into another house, she saw that the same was happening up and down the street. People were being thrown out and abused in the streets, and houses and shops were being destroyed and vandalized by these so called protectors. They left almost as fast as they came, but they left the city in despair.

Julia stared dejectedly at the mess left in their wake. Of course she was pissed about the audacity they had to come through the town and cause so much havoc, but she also understood how powerless she ultimately was to them. She began making her way carefully to the closet in the back to get a broom to at least remove the shards of glass scattered along her floor. She looked at the once beautiful large windows in the front of the store that were now shattered and would take too much money to fix.

It was an hour later and Julia and only remedied half of the store. She swept up the glass and had begun putting back the items in the shelves. Her mind was busily spinning trying to figure out how to afford new mirrors and windows. Without them there would be no business. She would have to take money out of paychecks to fund it, mainly her own.

Julia continued to fret as she worked diligently. Then the door swung wide open a second time. Julia rose quickly with anger. Her face quickly changed to surprise as she took in the sight an anxious Thomas Shelby, slightly sweaty, breathing heavily in the middle of her small shop.

“Mr. Shelby,” She clasped her hands nervously in front of her. This was unexpected.

“Mrs. Lark. I heard the coppers tore the town apart. I just thought.. I should come.. Are you hurt?” He looked uncomfortable. Like he wasn’t use to the words coming out of his mouth. Like they made him nervous to say.

“No no I am fine. But everything else.. God everything else,” Julia covered her face as she felt the sudden heat of emotion rage inside. She wanted to cry. They destroyed her livelihood. She was so upset.

“Julia,” Thomas began stretching his arm out to her, then stopped and began reaching for his cigarettes instead. He stared openly at her, observing her quick breaths as she worked to regain her composure. “Here have a smoke. Let it relax you.” He passed her cigarette from his silver case. Julia wiped away a few tracks of tears and took the cigarette. They leaned towards each other as he lit it for her with his lighter. She could smell the tobacco and whiskey off of him. It melted together with the heat of his body and intoxicated her mind. She leaned back dazed from the rush of emotions.

Thomas walked around the store, stopping to inspect the shattered mirrors and damage done to the store. He paused at the door leading to the apartment.

“This is…?” He prompted to Julia.

“That is my apartment, Mr. Shelby. I haven’t had the heart to see what they’ve done to it yet.” She felt her shoulders drop down as she thought about the mess she would find up there.

Thomas took one last glance at her dejected form, and made his way upstairs. He was greeted by torn apart room. They ripped curtains and blankets, broke most of her chine from what he could see, and destroyed anything else they could get their hands on. He was pissed. They had no idea who they were fucking with. He turned on heel ready for some action. He briskly walked back to Julia.

“There is no chance you will be able to stay there this night. I can offer you lodging at my house and my sister can offer you clothes for the night. We shall go now.” He didn’t wait for answer and walked outside the shop. Julia hesitated as she understood what he said. She wanted to say no, but she had nowhere else to go on such short notice.

But what would people say. If she spent the night in the home of the blinders, she would be as close to danger as she would be safe from it. Was this Thomas Shelby as sincere as he seemed around her? Wasn’t he the man that made the police tear apart this building with even more fervor? But in the wake of this disaster she knew he was right. So she decided to follow, but she would not spend the night there. She just needed some time to make proper arrangements.

She walked quickly to the register and took out some cash. Hopefully there was an inn in town that would take her in for the night.

When she exited the building she found Thomas waiting in his car. The engine was already on, and he only quickly looked at her climb in before taking off immediately. His palms were tight on the wheel, and his mind was racing. This was game played by men, and he already promised himself not to draw the short straw again.

“Look Mr. Shelby, I really appreciate  what help you have offered me.. but I don’t think-“ She was cut short by the tense stare he pinned her down with. He dared her to finish the sentence.

Julia had already lost her train of thought. She huffed annoyed as she fixed her sight to the front. “Mr. Shelby unless I am your prisoner, I will continue to make my own decisions about my own life.” She didn’t look over at his reaction.

Thomas’s lips curled up to a smile. “Then you are my prisoner. Should I bind your wrists and carry you into my home or will you be able to walk?” his voice was teasing and light for once. The idea of her as his prisoner made him chuckle. In some ways it was almost true. Who would dare so no to a Peaky Blinder? But he had kept a watchful eye on her in their interactions. Never had her actions or emotions rejected him. If they would, he would stop his fascination with her. He would not drag her into the pit of hell he resided in.

Julia made no move to answer him. She turned her gaze to the right and angrily watched the houses buzz by. She knew she would not have a way out of this trip. She really did appreciate his help, but could not stand his attitude. His tormented soul only felt peace by tormenting other, she thought bitterly.

The car began slowing down and Thomas drove into a driveway. Julia stared up at the house, the nerves in her stomach tightening. She was  willingly walking into a den of lions. She turned her head towards Thomas and saw him looking back at her.

“Nervous? Don’t worry. We don’t bite.. Hard.” He smiled playfully.

Julia couldn’t help but feel a bit better. His smile wrinkled the sides of his eyes. He was genuinely trying to reassure her.

“You underestimate me Mr. Shelby.” She smiled back at him. She didn’t want him to know the anxiety she felt.

There in the small space of the car, they both shared a tender moment. Thomas found himself unable to look away from her golden eyes. They looked so pure but strong. He let his hand raise and brush away a few tendrils that were swept into her face from the ride. She look so beautiful. Maybe a little shaken up, but good. She was resilient. He could see it in the way she held herself even know. Men destroyed her home and her she sat strong and brave. And even more impressively, about to walk into a house of gangsters. He smiled at her slowly, letting the anger and stress that had clouded his head drain away.

Julia sat captivated in his gaze. He was looking at her like he had never seen her before. Like she was something special, and different. She stared back at him. Without the cold demeanor he usually had, he was beyond handsome. She felt sucked into his eyes until she wasn’t able to think, only feel.

Then the door crashed open, and the moment broke.

[theimaginesyouneveraskedfor]

Ring of Fire

Imagine Thorin working at your family’s forge and slowly falling in love with him.

The market square was bustling as you set out a row of tarts along the counter of your stall, the awning above flapping gently with the summer breeze. Your sister, Raina leaned against the post next to you, gazing into the crowd with latent interest. Ever the gossip, she reveled in market days and the opportunity to savour the rumours swirling among the townsfolk of Ered Luin. Despite the staunch character of the dwarven race, many could not help wagging their tongues about the latest histrionics in the lives of their neighbours.

As of late, the entirety of the Blue Mountains had been bedlam with the arrival of their dispossessed Erebor cousins. Since news of Smaug’s invasion upon the Mountain, groups of road-wearied and grieving dwarves had streamed into Ered Luin with only the clothes upon their back. Abiding the hospitality of their race, those native to the western range welcomed their distant kin with open arms though the resettlement had caused quite the furor.

The last of the displaced had trickled in over the last days, only further intensifying the rumour mill. Your attention was drawn from your blind stare across the cobbled street to your sister who chattered furiously into Pia’s ear. The two were never far from each other on market days to the chagrin of you and Pia’s family. You neared as you crossed your arms and cleared your throat tersely.

“Oh, hello, Y/N,” Pia looked over without shame, her cheeks glowing with scandal, “I was just telling Raina--”

“I’ve told you several times over, I haven’t a care for your blather, Pia,” You always sounded too much like your mother when dealing with the boisterous dwarrowdams, “We’ve enough melodrama without your naïve chittering.”

“Please, Y/N,” She waved away your irritation, “Even you’d have an ear for the latest arrivals in Ered Luin,” She glanced around cautiously before leaning towards you, “Anyways, as I was about to say, I just told Raina the very same, but last night, just after midnight, Bennit, the innkeep just beyond the gates of town, says the king of Erebor, Thrain, finally arrived,” Her lips curved in a wicked grin, “As we all know, his daughter has already settled beyond Tiller’s Lane…”

“Mahal, Pia, does your tongue ever still for more than a second?” You challenged with a huff, “I have tarts to sell and little time for such nonsense. Same with Raina,” You sent an admonishing glare towards your sister, “Who has wasted entirely too much time listening to your slander.”

“Oh, but I’ve not finished,” She insisted and lowered her voice further, “His son, Thorin, accompanied him, among other dwarves. Sons of Fundin, I hear. But I suppose they’ve joined the sister at Tiller’s and--”

“Wasn’t there another brother?” You failed to rein in the curiosity she had sparked within you, “The heir?”

“Frerin, oh yes,” She giggled and it brought back your innate malcontent for the dam, “He’s gone apparently. He left them on the road but no one can say for sure the reason. Perhaps the shame is too much.”

“Shame,” You nearly spat at Pia’s gall, “Well, if a dragon flew in here and burnt that precious little smock of yours,” You alluded to the dainty pink dress she wore despite being a cobbler’s daughter, “I’d like to see you speak so then. You’d be fleeing with bows upon your heels.”

“Hmmp,” She rolled her eyes as Raina elbowed you harshly, “You’ve always been a curmudgeon, Y/N.”

The flurry of the market hushed for a second, enough to draw your attention from the impish girls. The babble of the crowd rose once more without pause and you wondered at what had caused the disturbance. You looked back to Raina and Pia who gazed into the crowd dreamily but you could not trace their eyes to the cause of intrigue. With a shake of your head, you returned to the counter and sold an apple tart to the dwarrowdam perusing your wares.

“Raina,” You called to your sister as her tittering grew louder, “Perhaps Pia should return to her father’s shop and you should return to your duties. We’ll need another apple tart up here and--”

The troublesome pair suppressed a squeal and you looked up to the shadow which appeared before your stall. You peered up at the dark-haired dwarf before you with indifference and turned to retrieve the tart that Raina made no move to fetch. Setting it among the row of pies before the browsing stranger, you stepped back and waited for him to decide on a purchase.

“Pardon me, Miss,” He looked up at you with his sapphire-like eyes, the chatter from the corner hushing as he did, “What is this one?”

He pointed to the darkest of the tarts, one of your less-popular sellers but your personal favourite. The dwarf’s voice was deep and sonorous and the bags beneath his eyes betrayed a sleepless night. You donned your best smile, not so naturally chipper as your sister, and stepped forward to the counter.

“That is our maple walnut tart,” You explained proudly, “I make these ones myself.”

“Oh,” He examined the crust with a pause, “I’ll take two.”

You turned back and grabbed another pie from the cart and placed it before him, wrapping the pair in paper for him to carry. He watched patiently as you tied them up with twine and when you finished, he offered a handful of coins you did not recognize. A few bore the bearded face of a dwarf and the other’s the likeness of a single dark mountain. Gold was gold however and this was much more than the worth of your pies.

“Oh, I think you’ve given me too much,” You picked out a few coins and pushed forward the tarts, “That should do it.”

“No, take it,” He set down the pile of gold before you, “I insist.”

He picked up the pies before you could argue further, donning the ghost of a smile which you could tell came rarely to him. He bowed his head courteously before turning away and you watched his broad shoulders disappear into the crowd. You gathered the coins off the countertop, counting them with a sense of relief. You parents could not be unhappy even if you failed to sell another pie.

“Y/N,” Raina spoke at last in a breathless sigh, “Oh, Mahal, you are utterly clueless.”

“What, Raina?” You asked darkly as you dropped the coins into the purse at your belt, “I know it’s been some time since you’ve sold a pie but it’s not so difficult as it looks.”

“No, Y/N,” Pia interjected with glossy eyes, “Oh, you don’t even know!”

“Pray, tell me what you are on about?” You glowered at her as you pulled forth another maple tart.

“That was him!” Pia squealed, clasping her hands before her chest dramatically, “That was Prince Thorin…of Erebor.”

“Oh,” You lifted a wry eyebrow, “How very droll.”

“Sister, please,” Raina scoffed, “Tell me you’re not overcome at the realization that you just spoke with a prince.”

“I am more overcome that I sold two maple tarts for the price of twelve,” You countered as another customer approached, “Now, send Pia away or I’ll drag her down the street myself.”

With a grumble, the errant cobbler’s daughter slunk away and you sold another apple tart wordlessly. Your thoughts returned to your previous exchange and your sheer ignorance at the presence of royalty. You gave little regard to title in lieu of one’s person, but you could not help but linger on the humility in the dwarf’s demeanour. Keeping your thoughts hidden from your sister, you went on with your business while resisting the curiosity brewing in your mind.

You awoke in the dull light of the rising sun as it streamed in through the wooden slats of your shudders. Raina laid next to you upon the straw-filled mattress, her snores more raucous than even your father’s. Your body was stiff from a mere three-hours of sleep and you envied the extra hour your sister was allotted. You turned onto your back with a groan, your shoulders achy, and sat up reluctantly, shifting so that your legs hung off the edge and onto the wooded floor.

You rose, pulling on a pair of wide-legged trousers and a thin-woven tunic, tying your hair away from your face. You laced your hide boots and stomped down the crooked stairs, securing your leather apron across your front. Your mother greeted you in the small kitchen, hanging a kettle over the fire before joining you at the table.

“Your father should be up soon,” She assured though you saw the concern deepen the wrinkles around her eyes, “He had a bit of a night but…he should be fine.” She reached across and took your hand in hers, “He’s so lucky to have you, dear.”

“He’d be much luckier with a son,” You squeezed her hand gently, “He’s the only dwarf blessed with two daughters but little good it does him.”

“You do well enough in the forge,” She praised with a weak smile, “He tells me you’re a natural…you’ve sure got the hands of a smith,” She opened your hand, running a thumb along the callouses which roughened your palm.

“I do the work,” You shrugged and pulled your hand away, “But father is old…and sick. You can lie to Raina but you can’t lie to me. When he is gone, it’ll only be us and…I can’t run the forge alone, just as he can’t.”

“He’s not dead yet,” She stood as she spoke quietly, “And I’ll go out and help you myself, if I must.”

“You can’t,” You shook your head as you watched her remove the trembling kettle from the fire, “You’ve too much work as it is.”

“I’ve had more,” She insisted as she set a mug of tea before you, “Now, you hush all this dark talk, it is much too early for your bitterness.”

“I know,” You chuckled at her remonstrance; she had always accused you of being the cynic of the house, “One day at a time.”

“Oi, morning,” Your father emerged in his timely manner, “Daughter,” He leaned down to peck your temple softly, “Wife,” He neared your mother with his stunted gait and embraced her lovingly, a sloppy kiss placed on her lips before she pushed him away with a giggle.

“Oh, sit down, you old mule,” She placed a cup before him as he lowered himself heavily into a chair, “Gemma brought over some peameal, I was just about to fry it up.”

“Oh, I truly do love you, my dear wife,” Your father preened and visibly salivated, “More than the day we married.”

“Another word and it’ll be sprouts and porridge,” She swatted his shoulder with her spatula as she placed a pan on the fire stove, “I swear, I spoil you.”

“You do, dear,” He agreed with a hearty chortle; a reassurance that he was not so frail as you thought, “More than you know.”

You smiled at the scene, nearly forgetting the woe that had only just shrouded your vision. Your mother went about her work with a melodic hum and your father sipped at his tea, bobbing his head to her song. For a moment, you were hopeful that all would be well and you were worrying for naught. Yet, there was that part of you which told you one happy moment could not buy a lifetime.

You wiped the sweat from your brow as you emerged from the stolid forge, your hair drooping from its bounds. You tugged at the knot in your apron ties and it fell loose across your front as you crossed the yard to the open door of the house. Your mother was in the kitchen as she always was, preparing the evening meal with Raina across from her at the table.

“Anything I can do?” You asked as you approached the table, “I’ve about fifteen minutes.”

“Your father has allowed you a break?” You mother mused, “How kind of him. Please, do not waste it on us. We can handle well enough.”

“I insist,” You took a knife from the block and sat down at the table, picking a carrot from the bunch and began peeling, “He only sent me out because I was apparently too helpful.”

“Hmm, yes,” Your mother looked your over keenly, “I never really considered that to be a flaw.”

“Aye, he’s stubborn as a dwarf,” You kidded and the three of your chuckled, “I swear, it’s the only thing that keeps him going.”

“That and the ale,” Your sister added; she was the youngest and your father had always coddled her.

You continued to skin carrots as your mother and sister carried on, their conversation little more than the repetition of the gossip Raina shared with Pia. Your sister had mentioned the night before your transaction with the prince and you had merely brushed him off as just another customer. It was thus, as you sister returned to the subject of the Erebor royalty, that you tossed the last carrot in the pot and stood, alleging that your time was up.

You left them to their chatter, catching something about how “dashing” the prince was, and you strode back into the yard. The sun was getting lower in the sky and the evening cooler, the sweat under your tunic sending a shiver up your spine. As you neared the forge, you heard your father’s voice and cringed, certain that he was once more talking to himself. Pausing to devise a way to interrupt him, another voice replied, but did nothing to allay your anxieties.

You rounded to the door and pushed it open unceremoniously, “Ada,” You greeted and stopped short at the dark-haired dwarf who was interrupted mid-sentence, “Oh, I’m sorry, have I…”

“It’s alright, Y/N,” You father smiled genially before looking admiringly to Thorin, “You’re just in time.”

“In time?” You squinted at the pair of dwarves; your father looked even older as he stood beside the prince. His grey hair was messy and straggly and the lines in his face deeper by the day. Thorin, in contrast, had a mane untouched by age and stood with squared shoulders and head high, “For what, exactly?”

“Why, Thorin, has offered his services at our forge,” He explained cheerily, “You know I’ve been hesitant to hire a hand, but he is a prince…” He looked meekly to Thorin, “Not that his work isn’t exquisite. Would you look at this, Y/N?”

Your father neared you as he held up the dagger in his hand, the silver flawless and the handle expertly inlaid with carved gems. You could not help but admire the craftsmanship of the weapon. Despite his skill, you were still wary at his offer and wondered if you would be pushed out of the forge in favour of him. Regardless of working in between house and anvil, you enjoyed your smith duties and the time it allowed you with your father.

“And? What did you say?” You crossed your arms defensively.

“Why, I accepted of course,” He answered proudly, “How could I say no to him? Aren’t you happy, dear?” Your father touched your shoulder and you shrugged him off, “You’ll have more than an old man to help you.”

“Or more than a dam to help you, rather,” You spat and Thorin clasped his lips awkwardly at your dismay.

“No, no, dear,” He took you buy the arm, angling you towards the door, “If you would allow us a moment, Thorin,” The prince nodded and your father led you outside, “Y/N,” He turned you back to him, “I am not so deaf as you think me. I heard you and your mother this morning.”

“Ada…” You breathed guiltily, “I--”

“No. no, Y/N, you were right,” He frowned with trembling lips, “One of these days, I’m gonna wake up and not be able to hold a hammer and I can’t expect you to carry that burden.” He reached up to push back a stray lock of your hair behind your ear, “I never meant to hurt you, I only thought--”

“Oh, ada, I’m sorry,” You took his hand and steadied it, “I was…scared. Please, it’s alright. He’s the best you could hope for. It’d be selfish of me to let my own pride get in your way.”

“Thank you, dear,” He leaned over to kiss your cheek, “Now, come on, and try not to look like you’re about to accost the prince.”

You chuckled quietly as he led you back into the forge and Thorin looked up from the  horse shoes you had been forging that day. He set down a heavy iron U and righted his posture, greeting you and your father with a cordial smile. Patiently, he waited for one of you to speak and the elder took the lead.

“My daughter can be a bit…dwarvish,” He teased as he nudged you, “But she could use your help, though not as much as myself. If you’re serious, we’d be glad to take you on immediately,” He explained as you leaned against his anvil, “Now, this is my forge but Y/N is my daughter and that means this is her right. She has as much a say as I do and so she deserves as much as your respect. I don’t care if you’re a prince…”

“Of course, Harkin,” Thorin intoned graciously, “I’d never think of treating her otherwise.” He turned and fingered the horse shoe he had previously been eyeing, “She did this, no?”

You nodded wordlessly and he picked up the shoe, tossing it and catching it in his thick hand. “It’s well-crafted. Good balance. Sturdy.”

“Thank you,” You mumbled.

“Well, then it’s settled,” Your father patted his stomach, “I smell dinner, though, and I’m a dwarf driven by glutton, so I’ll bid you good night before my hunger gets the best of me.”

Your father offered his hand to Thorin and they shook on their deal before your father gave a hurried farewell and fled for the door. He was friendly enough in his manners but could be rather awkward when it came to formalities. You were about issue your own dismissal when Thorin spoke first and kept you from following your father outside.

“The pie was delicious,” He smiled, this time the expression was genuine, “But sadly, it did not last long among my kin.”

“Oh,” You couldn’t help but bask in the compliment, “Well, I’ve a few extra, if you’d like? I mean, you paid for more than two as it is.”

“If it’s not too much trouble,” He accepted, “My sister would be overjoyed. She’s got a sweet tooth and we weren’t afforded maple in Erebor.”

“No trouble at all,” You assured him as you turned for the door, “I’ll fetch you one now and you can be home before the moon.”

Thorin was a good worker. Everyday he arrived just after dawn and after the first day, your mother insisted he join the family for breakfast. She doted on him as if he were the son she’d never had and at times it bothered you. You knew your parents loved you but you would have been more use if you were a dwarf. Even Raina had started rising early so that she could sup with the prince and when he stayed for dinner one night, she had asked him so many questions, he did not linger for dessert.

On the odd day, your father worked alone in the forge alone but with Thorin, you were not so hesitant in helping your mother and sister prepare for market. The next day, you would open your stall as you did every week and so you were to toil away in the kitchen. It was a nice reprieve from the drudgery of the forge.

You awoke and dressed, that day in a plain cotton apron, and slunk down the stairs. Your mother had yet to wake as this was her morning to sleep in and you set up the kettle. The house was quiet but for the muffled clangs of you taking out a pan and gathering the ingredients for breakfast. You chopped some potatoes into fine chunks and seasoned them for a hearty hash, adding more vegetables to the skillet as it began to hiss.

You fetched the pitcher of milk your mother had filled the night before from the pantry but as you emerged, you nearly spilled its contents down your apron. Thorin peeked in through the curtains of the window and smiled as he saw you appear. You placed the jug atop the table and opened the door for him.

“Thorin,” You welcomed him in, “Ever early.”

“My father would be impressed,” He commented as he stayed at your heels, following you to the stove, “Is there anything I can help with?”

“No, I think I’ve got it,” You answered, he hesitated before stepping away and you listened to the creak of a chair as he sat, “Besides, you’ll have enough work as it is. I won’t be in the forge today.”

“Oh?” His tone was surprised, “May I ask why?”

“Tomorrow’s market day,” You set a lid over the pan before it could spit at you and turned to remove the kettle from the hearth, “There’s lots to be done.” You filled two mugs and sat across from Thorin, pushing one towards him, “Any special requests?”

“Well, you know my preference,” He wrapped his hand around the cup, absorbing the warmth with his palms, “Though, I think my sister may be growing tired of the same tart every night.”

“We do sell more than one flavour,” You offered with a tilt of your head, “But you seem like a creature of habit.”

“Oh, do I?” He raised a thick brow, his blue eye gleaming in the early morning light, “Then I’ll just have to send Dis herself,” He grinned as he sipped his tea, lowering it abruptly as the floorboard groaned from behind you, “Good morning, Lord Harkin.”

“For the last time, I’m no lord,” Your father grumbled as he poured himself tea, groggily sitting down beside you, “Though my daughter is a lady. You remember that, eh?”

“Ada,” You sneered at his implication as you stood, “I think the hash should be done.”

“Mm-hmm,” He eyed you suspiciously before turning his attention to Thorin, “Sure, it is.”

You grabbed a stack of plates from the cupboard and set them on the counter, scooping a pile of hash onto two before placing them before your diners. You turned, keeping your face hidden from Thorin and sent a sharp look towards you father with subtle shake of your head. He merely grinned in return and took a bite of his breakfast, poking you playfully as you stepped away. Your father was surely growing more delusional by the day.

You watched your father and Thorin leave through the back door, already deep in chatter about the customs of Erebor. Your father was too curious for his own good and the prince was nostalgic for the home he had lost that he spared no detail in his descriptions. You never pressed for tales of the Mountain as you imagined it was bittersweet to speak of it.

You began to fill a bowl with flour and the fixings for pie dough and your sister came barreling down the stairs, disappointed to find you the only one there. “Where’s Thorin?”

“In the forge,” You muttered, “You’re too late, Raina.”

“Mahal, why didn’t you wake me?”

“Honestly, Raina, are you trying to drive him away? Ada needs all the help he can get out there.”

“Sure, that’s what you’d say,” She poured a cup of the now tepid tea, “You see him more than me.”

“You’re more than welcome to try your hand at the anvil, Raina,” You taunted as you kneaded the clump of dough smooth, “It’s never too late to learn.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” She huffed, “Here, I’ll do up the dough. You’re much to rough with it.”

“Fine,” You shrugged and wiped your hands on the front of your apron, “I’ll gather some of those blackberries. They look ripe and we’re out of strawberries.”

“As you will,” She waved you away, “It’s better than walnuts.”

You flicked your eyes skyward as you grabbed a basket and made for the door. You sat near the edge of the garden and began to pick the ripe berries along the back. You heard the clasp of the forge shudders unhook and the creak of the hinges as they were pushed outward. You kept at your task, filling the basket to your content and standing with a yawn.

You turned, your eyes meeting Thorin’s through the forge window and he looked down quickly. You couldn’t figure if the colour in his cheeks was from heat of his work or from being caught. Whatever it was, you had more important worries to attend to. In the kitchen, you found your mother awake and nibbling on a plate of hash and your sister rolling out crusts for the tarts.

“Here,” You set down the basket on the counter, “I’ll start on the maple walnut.”

The next day at market, you could not drag Raina away from Pia as she divulged every move of the prince over the last week. You had lectured them several times and were doing so once more as a figure appeared before your stall. You looked over to find a dam with dark hair and shining azure eyes inspecting the pies along your countertop. You were certain without asking who it was.

“Hello, Miss,” You approached the front of the stall, “Are you looking for something in particular?”

“Why, yes,” She tapped her chin with her finger, “My brother has been treating us to maple tarts nearly every night. I thought I’d buy him another but I’d like something for myself…a little more fruity, perhaps.”

“Here is the maple tart,” You pointed to the furthest of the pies, “But we also have apple, blackberry, mixed berry, pear, and peach.”

“Oh, blackberry,” Her eyes rounded, her soft lips curving, “I think I’ll take one of those. Oh, and an apple tart for my father.”

“Certainly, I’ll just wrap those up for you,” You reached back for a sheet of brown paper and some twine, packing up her wares carefully.

“My brother is Thorin. He loves your pies,” She handed over her coins pleasantly, “He’s always been one for sweets but he’s lost all his restraint, I swear,” She trilled with laughter, “I’m Dis and you must be, um, oh, I’m no good with names. But he told me he’s been working at your father’s forge.”

“Y/N, my father’s name is Harkin,” You informed her warmly, “He’s a good worker. Better than both me and my ada. And always early, thank Mahal. We had an apprentice years ago who lasted less than a week for his tardiness.”

“My brother early?” She wondered aloud with another giggle, “Well, he’s always been responsible but never famed for his punctuality.”

“I doubt we’re very far, you’re on Tiller’s--” You paused as you heard chitters from the corner and looked over to find Raina and Pia glaring back at you as they whispered, “Tiller’s Lane, right?”

“Not far, I suppose,” She agreed and glanced over at the gossiping dams darkly, “I should be on my way, but I would appreciate one more favour?”

“Which would be?” You prompted anxiously.

“The maple you use in the pie; syrup, right? Where would I go about buying some of my own?”

“Oh, well, we tap our own trees but I could direct you to another stall,” You looked around the street before you spied the dread building in her blue eyes, “You know what? I’ll send a jug home with Thorin. Free of charge. We have more than we need.”

“Truly?” She brightened as she took the pies in her arms, “Thank you, Y/N. And I shall surely see you next week for more.”

You returned a meek farewell as the buxom dam turned away and swept through the crowd with her pies. You crossed your arms as you looked back to Raina and Pia and snarled audibly, quieting them without a word. Wavering under your wrath, Pia giggled nervously before turning on her heel and disappearing up the street. Raina sighed and glanced away guiltily, searching the crowd for someone to distract herself.

It had been a long day and as the season had passed by swiftly, the sun began to descend earlier than the night before. You were hunched over your anvil, hammering out the edge of a knife, your back sore and the sweat flowing into your eyes. Your father had retired hours before at your behest and you and Thorin had remained, working in peaceful silence.

You set down the knife in the dimming shadows of the forge, the natural light working against you. You thought about sparking a lantern but you were tired and ready to be done. As it was, you were ahead of schedule in your commissions and another hour made little difference. You figured Thorin would appreciate a spare hour to himself as well and so you relinquished your hammer to anvil.

Absently, as you turned to inform Thorin of your plans, your finger brushed across the stove where you heated the iron and silver and you retracted your hand with a hiss. Cradling the burnt flesh of your hand you inhaled sharply and the prince looked up from his work. He set aside his project and rounded his anvil as concerned darkened his sapphire irises.

“Are you alright?” He tried to peek at your hand without touching you.

“I’m, ugh, fine,” You moaned, the pain bubbling with your flesh, “Oh, how stupid of me.”

“Come on,” He led you to the door, ushering you over to the well on the other side of the garden, “We need to cool it down.”

He used the winch to pull up a pail full of water and balanced it on the edge of the stone work. He took your hand and ladle water over it, fixated on your purpled flesh. The feel of his calloused palm on yours was comforting and you let him drip the cool liquid over it until it the pain lessened to a dull throb.

“I was just going to say,” You took a handkerchief from your tunic, wrapping it delicately across your hand, “That maybe it was time to call it.”

“I think that best,” He smiled as you winced, “Considering.”

“Yeah, considering,” You agreed with a forced chuckle, “Oh, Mahal.”

“Do you have honey?” He seemed more perturbed by your pain than you.

“Of course,” You replied evenly, “I mean, why wouldn’t I?”

“It will soothe the burn,” He explained, gesturing you towards the back door, “I think it wise to do so before it gets to bad.”

You walked through the door, thankful to find the kitchen empty and you fumbled around with one hand for the honey hidden in the pantry. You sat next to Thorin at the table and he took your hand gently, unwrapping it before taking the honey decisively. He spread a glob across your burn, his thick fingers so tender you could not believe they were the same hands that twisted and shaped metal.

“There,” He wrapped your hand once more and rescinded his own as if suddenly remembering where he was, “It should keep out infection, as well.”

“Thank you,” You kept your hand on the table and let your shoulders slump, “I think you’ve earned a piece of pie,” You looked to your wound helplessly, “If only I could…”

“I’ll get it,” He stood and crossed to the counter where the half-eaten apple crumble was left out, “Milk, too?”

“You learn quickly,” You kidded as you listened to him and watched the sunset through the back window, “There shouldn’t be too much work left to you tomorrow. I’ll have market work to do but if you need help.”

“I’ll be fine,” He asserted as he set a plate and cup before you, “You should rest your hand.”

“I guess,” You picked up the fork he handed to you as he took his own seat, “You’re starting to sound like my mother.”

“I don’t think that’s such a bad thing,” He grinned and took a bite of his dessert, “Mmm.”

You shook your head as you chewed on the sugary apple and found yourself smiling at the dwarf across from you. Despite the indifference you had sworn against him in the past weeks, you could not help but cherish the moment. The kitchen glowed in the dull light of dusk, casting shadows over the pair of you as you savoured the crumbly delicacy. It nearly made you forget all the other worry which had overtaken the small house in the last months.

You sat at the kitchen table with your mother and sister piecing together the pies to be baked for the next day. Once more, you found yourself longing for the forge when previously, you had relished your time away. You filled the middle of a crust with apples and spices, weaving dough over in a precise pattern as your fellow bakers chattered on.

“Oh, Y/N, you seem…absent,” Your mother commented and you looked up, shaken from the ritual of crimping crust, “Are you well?”

“Very,” You answered with confusion, “No need to worry for me, maamr.”

“I know what it must be,” She sent a knowing grin to Raina, “Your sister told me about last night.”

“Last night?” You echoed, further perplexed, “What do you mean?”

“You and Thorin,” Raina’s voice was poison, “It seems your whole aloof act is going rather swimmingly.”

“Huh?” Your lips sagged defensively, “You’ve always had a rather creative imagination…and loose tongue.”

“Dear, don’t let your sister bother you,” You mother reached over to touch your wrist, a bandage now covered your burned hand, “A dwarf who takes the time to tend to a dam’s wound’s…well, you know how courting goes.”

“Courting? I don’t think so, maamr.”

“And the pie?” Your mother prodded further, “One kindness can be overlooked, but more than…when your father first set his eyes to me--”

“Enough,” You stood abruptly, the table rocking before you, “I don’t want to hear any more.” You pointed to your simpering sister, “You best learn to control your mouth before I do it for you,” You dropped your finger and inhaled, fixing your posture, “And the both of you would do well to never mention such fancies again. I am not a dam to be sold for a price,” You seethed as you backed away from the table, “I work my way as well as any dwarf…” You neared the door and looked out towards the forge, Thorin just emerging as he wiped sweat from his damp hairline, “We’re low on apples. I’ll check the tree for more.”

You tramped out into the yard, dragging the step ladder to the trunk of the tree as Thorin approached you with a friendly smile. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and his shirt clung to his chest beneath his leather apron, “Y/N, are you alright?”

“Just fine,” You answered tersely as you tore an apple from the branches, “You?”

“Um,” You felt him staring, trying to decipher you, “I’m well enough,” His eyes bore into you as you eluded them, “Here, let me steady this.”

He stilled the step ladder as it began to wobble beneath your feet. “Thanks,” You uttered shamefully, ruing your harsh manner as you searched for reddened apples, “Don’t worry about me, Thorin. I’m none of your concern.”

*One Year Later*

You could not say which was more unbearable; the forge or the back yard. The scorching summer sun had not relented for days and whether you were smithing or in the kitchen, you could not shed the constant layer of sweat that coated your body. Even the night did little to cool the air and you found yourself tossing atop your shared straw mattress, though whether it was merely the heat was questionable.

You dipped a hoop glowing orange iron into the vat of tepid water, a hiss of steam blowing into your face. As you returned to your anvil and set down what would be a decorative bangle, you heard the disordered clang of metal and a rush of fabric and hair as the dark figure to your left wavered. You looked over just as your father began to sag to the floor, his face red from heat, and you dropped your hammer to catch him before his head crashed into his anvil.

“Ada!” You whined as you carefully lowered him onto his rear, your arms beneath his as you used your knees to steady him, “Ada!”

His eyes lolled backwards and he gave no response to your pleas. Thorin approached from his other side and touched the side of his softly. The corner of his lip twitched as he glanced over at you, his blue eyes coloured with apprehension. He pushed the grey hair away from your father’s face, his thick beard tangled beneath his chin, and edged his fingers down to feel his pulse.

“It must be the heat,” Thorin explained and you heard the relief in his voice, “Mahal knows I feel a bit weary myself these days.”

“Just the heat?” You asked hopefully, clinging to the motionless Harkin, “Truly?”

“His heart is steady but slowed, his breathing even if not a bit laboured,” He examined your father as he spoke, “All he needs is some rest. And water.”

You exhaled the breath you had been withholding in your fear and Thorin hooked his arms under your father’s as you removed your own. He lifted Harking without much effort, turning him so that he was fully in his grasp, his head reclined lifelessly and his legs dangling loosely. “Get the door, please.”

“Oh, yes,” You stood and kicked yourself into action, holding the heavy wooden door as Thorin angled your father’s body through, “Maamr will be so worried.”

“Let’s do our best not to upset her,” Thorin murmured as he neared the back door, “It is nothing but the heat, remember?”

“The heat, yes,” You began to wonder if he were trying to alleviate your own worries with the diagnosis, “Maamr,” You followed Thorin inside as your mother stood over the stove, turning with a gasp, “Maamr, please, it’s alright. It is just the weather.”

“Oh, Harkin,” She neared and caressed her husband’s cheek, “Get him to the bed, quick.”

“He needs water,” Thorin instructed as he continued forward past your mother’s lingering hand, “A wet cloth across his head and a cup when he awakes and all should be well.” Your mother guided him into her bedroom and he set down Harkin carefully on their thin mattress, “Y/N kept him from worse. She caught him before he could hit his head.”

“Oh, dear,” You mother turned to you and pulled you into an embrace, “Thank you. Oh no, I knew this day would come.”

“Maamr,” You backed away from her, “It is merely the summer heat.”

“Y/N,” She grazed your cheek as she had her husband’s, “You know it is more than that.”

You looked down to hide the welling tears in your eyes, turning your back to the room to wipe away the few stray droplets upon your cheeks. “Remove his apron or he’ll only stay warm,” You ordered over your shoulder, “We must return to the forge. There is much to be done.”

You marched out of the room and through the kitchen, Thorin’s footsteps joining your own as he caught up to you in the back yard. His hand closed around your elbow, halting you, and he turned you back to him. “Y/N,” He uttered pitifully, “There is not so much work that it cannot be done tomorrow.”

“Thorin,” You shook your head, shoving his hand away from your arm, “We’re now short a smith, I think that would suggest otherwise.”

“You should be with him, at least,” He argued, blocking your path to the forge, “I’ll keep on but you should be there when he wakes.”

“He has my mother…and Raina. He always preferred her anyhow.” You sidestepped him, evading another attempt to stop you and stormed into the forge. You took your hammer and looked over the bangle you had only half-finished, ignoring Thorin’s presence as he entered and stood at his own station.

You wanted desperately to smash the silver hoop to pieces and fall to shambles against your anvil. Looking around the forge to find your father no where in sight was unsettling. Thorin’s eyes followed yours and you shifted so that he could not see your face, pretending to focus on the metal before you. You had told him many times he should worry about himself.

You had forgone market so that you could help Thorin in the forge, your father still relegated to bedrest. Your mother would not so much as let him sit at the table to eat but he seemed in fine spirits with so many doting upon him. Thorin had brought him a keg of ale and a basket of biscuits from Dis. Your mother was feeding him more heartily than usual and your sister rarely left his side as she fretted over his ever breath.

Your sister, however, was forced to leave to work the counter of the family stall and your mother had at last relented in her coddling of your father. With help from Thorin, she had him ride in the cart they used to carry the posts of their stall and they set off to market with their youngest daughter. It had been the prince’s idea as he had advised that Harkin take some fresh air and assure his friends that he was alive and well. It irked you that they heeded him more than you, your worries often ignored for the feigned expertise of the Erebor exile.

You hammered away at another horseshoe, another to add to your mounting stack. Your extra hours in the forge helped you pass the time and avoid dwelling on the health of your father. The only drawback was Thorin’s incessant gazes and concerns over your wellbeing. How could any worry about you when your father ailed?

You carelessly smashed your hammer into the horseshoe as you languished in your angry thoughts and the u broke in half with a violent snap. You grunted angrily and tossed your hammer to the floor in your frustration, sweeping the ruined ironwork from your anvil. “Mahal!” You kicked half of the shoe with the toe of your leather boot and lumbered out of the forge, swinging the door forcefully as you did.

Behind you, the door was caught before it could slam into the frame with a clatter and you heard Thorin’s pursuit. You ignored him as you entered the eerily silent house and headed for the stairs to your bedroom. You needed to be alone. You were stopped at the bottom step as Thorin’s hand clung to your wrist and you turned back, ready to cuff him across the chin.

“Y/N,” The kindness in his voice curtailed your anger, “Please, just breathe.”

“No, I don’t want to breathe,” You tried to pull away desperately, “I just want—I want--” He released you and you rammed your fist into the wall, “I don’t know what I want. I just want everything to be as it was.”

You slumped onto the bottom stair, hanging your head in your hands as you fought the urge to sob. You sniffed away your emotion and looked up defiantly, “Please, just leave me be.”

“I can’t do that, Y/N,” He squatted before you to meet your eye line, “But what I can do,” He took your hand warmly, “Is make you a tea. Can you endure me long enough for that?”

“Y—yes,” You stuttered and let him help you up as he rose, “Thank you.”

“Just sit,” He pulled a chair out before taking the kettle from the counter, “I’ll fetch some water. You just stay here. Please.”

You nodded and sat down heavily, watching him as he retreated to the yard and you clasped your hand before you as you awaited his return. He did not take long and hung the kettle before building the stove fire, all without a word. He took his usual seat at the kitchen table, looking you over.

“I know it’s…difficult,” He began, he brushed back his dampened black hair as he spoke, “Your father is one of the kindest, strongest, wisest dwarves I met, though I am still young, but…I love my father,” Your breath stilled as he had rarely spoken of any kin but his sister, “But he is tainted. As his father was and I shall surely be when my time comes to reclaim our home,” He shied away in a moment of rare vulnerability, “I only wish I had the same time with my father as you’ve had with yours.

“I do not mean to lessen your grief, at all. I only want you to know that I have carried the same burden for many years,” He scratched his beard as he forced himself to meet your gaze, “Working with your father has helped. Your family is so loving, even to me. Why should a prince ask anything of such a humble clan?”

“Thorin,” You uttered, feeling a fool for not considering his own troubles, “I should have—I never…Thank you. For everything, you know? Without you, I don’t think my father would have done so well. Or the rest of us.”

“Please, don’t,” He bit his lip before he continued, “I should be thanking you, Y/N.”

“Hmmp, for what?” You scoffed darkly.

“I would never think fate just in robbing my people of their home. Never,” His eyes glowed a fiery cobalt, “But I can at least thank the stars that I was brought here…and that I met you, of all dwarrow.”

“Thorin…” You couldn’t help a chuckle at his tender words, “You don’t--”

“I mean it, truly I do,” He ignored the kettle as it began to tremble over the fire, “I’m not so adept when it comes to…emotion but, I…this last year, Y/N, I never would have made it if it were not for you. Not your father or your family, but you.” He smiled meekly as he spoke, the glow in his eyes softening, “Sometimes, when you’re in the garden, I watch you and I’ve seen anything more…inspiring.”

“I, uh,” You rubbed your neck, heat rising to your cheeks; you had never expected a confession from this dwarf you had treated so miserably as of late, “I don’t know, um, what to say. I mean, I--”

“You don’t have to say anything, not if you don’t want to,” He blurted as he fidgeted in his seat, “I only wanted you to know. That’s all.”

“Thorin,” You shook your head with an embarrassed smile, “What I was going to say is that…you helped me, too. And I--” The kettle began to whistle and you stood sharply, removing it from the stove with an annoyed grunt, “Look, what I’m trying to say is that, I think, I, um, feel the same?”

“Are you asking me?” He rose with an amused grin, “Because I can’t answer that question for you.”

“Oh, hush, Thorin,” Your hands went to your hips as you dug your heel into the floor nervously, “You know what I mean.”

“That maybe…you love me?” His face broke into a full smile as he beamed at you hopefully, “Just maybe?”

“Just maybe,” You tilted your head as you neared him, standing on your tip toes as you looked up at him. He bent to meet your lips, a shy, swift peck upon them, and he gazed back nervously as your mouth slowly curved in response. “Maybe,” You challenged, lifting a brow daringly.

Narrowing his eyes, Thorin seized your shoulders and pulled you to him, pressing his lips to yours fervently as you giggled at his frustration. His hand tangled in your hair as he held you to him and you couldn’t help but mirror his ardor, his embrace warmer than even the forge.

“Well?” He separated from you with an impassioned breath, your own chest heaving with excitement.

“Yes,” You replied slyly, running a finger along the trim of his thickening beard, “I think I might just.”

[cowgirlontheloose]

I COME TO MY HORSE SENSES

    I’ve been blessed with many unusual teachers in my life. Most of them were not in a classroom. The most recent was a 2,000 lb. Percheron horse with hooves the size of pizza pans named Major. I met him at a half-day workshop called “Come To Your Senses” held at his home on a rural Ontario farm.

    I was there with 10 other women hoping to learn something useful about ourselves: “…how to connect to our senses with the help of our equine partners.” Sounds pretty New Agey — right? But being a horse lover, I signed up. I knew we would not be riding, but rather working individually on the ground with a horse. This intrigued me. What could I possibly learn this way?

    First, we sat in a circle inside, sipping tea while our facilitator, Susan, explained that in spite of a horses’ intimidating size, they are prey animals. This means they constantly use their senses:  sight, smell, sound, touch — to ensure they are safe. Unlike ego-tormented humans, they never fret about the past or fantasize about the future. They exist totally in the present — their lives depend on it. With such remarkable perceptiveness, they can easily attune themselves to the feelings of others. They react instinctively to how they are approached — either by another animal or a human. In this way, horses can offer valuable feedback and information to us, if we are willing to listen.

    At this point, my jaw hit the floor. From childhood into my mid-20s, I was horse crazy. I showed, jumped, explored dressage, attended Pony Club and galloped across fields after baying hounds. Yes, tally-ho and all that. I even rode for a living for two years on an Alberta cattle ranch.

    Not once in all those years had I been taught what I was hearing from Susan. I had been told how to put on a bridle and saddle, how to mount, dismount and all that necessary stuff. Heads up, heels down. Take charge, you’re the boss. Yet here was Susan telling us that we were missing something key. Something that all horses know.

    I then recalled one long-ago day on the ranch. I was sent to hunt for missing steers. My mount, a sensible bay named Ranger, suddenly refused to take another step at a wide, dried up ditch. I kicked and urged — I was in charge after all. Ranger shivered and snorted. I persisted. Eventually he crouched and leapt, practically holding his nose. To my horror he sank to his belly and floundered, eyes bulging. We had landed in the infamous prairie gumbo:  deep, sticky mud likened to quicksand. Somehow, we struggled to solid ground. When I related this later to my boss, he glared at me. “Ranger has more sense than you do.” I hung my head.

    After workshop introductions, we moved outside. Misty rain fell from a textured grey sky. One-by-one we approached Major. Susan coached us quietly.  Did we feel safe? Did we want to get closer or further away from Major? What were we experiencing? Fear? Calmness, excitement, or something else? Perhaps we yearned for Major to acknowledge us positively. If he turned away or ignored us, did we feel discounted, sad or perhaps curious?

    Earlier, Susan had explained to me that even in such brief encounters between human and horse, participants can experience “what it’s like to be grounded, present, and respectful of how we’re feeling.” As a Buddhist student, I had heard countless teachings on being present. It’s pretty well the bottom line for meditators. How can we learn to be in the present moment?And how on earth could a horse teach me this?

    I watched others approach Major as he nibbled at hay. My mind nattered. Nothing’s happening! This is a waste of time! Okay for beginners maybe, but not me! I know how to approach a horse for cripes sake!  Finally my turn came. “This is weird”, I admitted. “I have no idea how to do this.” Susan suggested approaching Major the way I would a friend. A lightbulb came on! Major was not a creature I needed to “do” something to. We were equals! What a concept. I stood before him, hands behind my back and said hello. I had absolutely no expectations. To my astonishment, he gently raised his huge head, placed his whiskery muzzle against my cheek and stood there, breathing softly.

  I practically levitated with delight. The gesture made me feel so accepted. So one hundred per cent received. And I mean all of me. He moved his horsey head around my face and ears, pouring his warm magic onto me.

    It was as intimate an encounter as I’d ever had. It also explained Susan and Major’s work — Equine Facilitated Wellness — more eloquently than an entire library could. Unlike myself, who is driven by my eggbeater mind, Major exists without shame or embarrassment about his needs. He is tuned to all his body sensations without panicking about, or trying to ignore them. That’s why Major reads and responds to all situations and social dynamics accurately. He accepts whatever happens with grace and ease. Which is more than I can say about me.

    As I headed home, sun beamed through blue sky patches. I was still wrapped in Major’s spell when I had an “aha!” moment. I recalled a Buddhist retreat from some years ago when our teacher, Tarchin, threw us a curve ball. “What if….” he began, gazing around with his blue laser beam eyes. “What if we could all be 100 per cent present to 100 per cent of every being we met, 100 per cent of the time? How would that change the world?”

    I heard his words all right. But they rolled around in my head like marbles, trying to find a way to line up. The notion was too outlandish for me to absorb. For starters, I knew I had probably never been totally present to myself — let alone someone else. I was way too occupied with ignoring or criticizing the abundant icky parts of me. And as for being present to others — well! Just call me a fully automated Judgement Machine, guaranteed to run non-stop.

    When Tarchin’s retreat ended, I signed up for a private interview. I didn’t have anything to ask, and I was shy to meet individually with such an admiral teacher. But some part of me said, “Do it anyway.” We met at the house where he was staying. It was a cool day, but just warm enough to sit on the back deck with jackets and mugs of green tea. I scrambled in my head for an intelligent question — or even a feeble one — feeling sweaty and ridiculous. He, completely at ease, simply turned his head and looked at me. And I? I bust out crying. I mean really big time boohooing. I heaved and sobbed and squirted tears. Somehow I knew I didn’t have to explain or apologize. Eventually I stopped crying and the interview, which I have no further memory of, proceeded. All I recall was his look.

    For the first time in my life, someone had seen all of me. Not just my grey hair or what I was wearing. No, he saw me right down to each follicle, fart, and molecule. And whatever he saw was A-OK. No wonder I bawled like a babe.

    I have recalled that look often. It glows like a comforting wee campfire in my midsection. Someone out there knows me. ALL OF ME! True, I assumed that only incredibly evolved meditation masters could deliver that Deep Space Look. Yet there I was at the workshop, eyeball to eyeball with a horse and being totally received by The Look.

    After the workshop, I climbed into a steaming bath and wallowed there listening to Oscar Peterson music twinkling from the radio. So. How many other deep space looks had I missed because I was too hampered by my insecurities? Surely Tarchin and Major weren’t the only ones out there dispensing this magic.

    I twiddled the hot water tap with my toes. Maybe I could start practicing The Look on others — and myself. I can attest that I am meaner to me, mostly in my thoughts, than to anyone else on this planet. I examined my soapy, saggy body (critically of course) and sighed deeply. This wasn’t going to be easy. Buddhist teachings drone on constantly about compassion for self and others. But very little is said about what it actually is and how to “do” it. This has annoyed me for years. (It’s part of my Someone-tell-me-what-to-do-for-crying-out-loud Syndrome.) But then, that’s the point of Life. I’m supposed to wake up and think for myself. Damn and blast! Concepts like compassion and being present have to be learned, and I am the only one who can figure out how.

    I had a lot to think about. I pulled the plug on the tub. Now Donald Trump was on CBC news saying that the world would be 100 percent better if dictators like Hussein and Gaddafi were still in power. Poor old Trump. Obviously he’s never received the Deep Space Look, otherwise he wouldn’t be so hell bent on proving himself. I arose in a slosh of water and caught sight of my form in the mirror. I saw the thinning hair and drooping body parts, the wrinkles, scars and warty age thing-a-ma-bobs. I squared my scrawny shoulders and gave myself The Look — at least as best I could, and said: “Pretty darn impressive for an old broad.” As I stepped from the tub, the old broad in the mirror smiled back. “Keep up the good work,” she grinned.