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21witnokidz · 1 year

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IN THE GHETTO

Chapter 4

“Why in the world would you eat cold oats for breakfast. And then add milk in it?”

You were trying to explain to Arthur what cereal was and how you would eat it for breakfast. You just assumed he was used to eating stale bread occasionally with fruits or some shit.

“You just don’t get it. But I’ll tell you one thing I’d kill for just a bowl of cereal right now”

After you got done eating your porridge you heard Dutch come out of his tent and walking towards Arthur.

“Hurry up and get ready son we gotta go into town and do something”

That made you perk up.

“What are y’all gettin ready to do? Can I come?”

Then came around Hosea who was carrying some things to put on his horse.

“Oh what happened to Ms. ‘I don’t wanna be an outlaw’ huh?”

“Well I don’t wanna just sit here and do nothing I have to help out you know”

Then came Bessie coming out of her tent. God everyone is just coming out of no where.

“Well if you wanna help out then why don’t you start with these dishes?”

Arthur stood up and laughed.

“Yea girl stay here with the dishes”

I shot him a glare and followed Bessie to the wash bucket and began scrubbing.

Turns out there was a lot to be done with the boys not around. Like cleaning blood and sweat off there dirty clothes. Washing their sheets and whatnot. You were even starting to wonder maybe you should’ve just done whatever outlaw work the boys were up to.

“Come on Y/N the boys will be here soon. Let’s get supper ready and pull your dress down your ankles are showing”

“God how did you do all this before I came. I mean when I had my parents my mama did most of the work around the house but there was only 3 of us. I can’t imagine what it was like for you with 3 other boys”

“Yea it can be a hard thing sometimes. But they protect me so I don’t mind”

You smiled and got supper started. Bessie was really nice and you could tell why Hosea loved her. But you don’t think you could take another day of this. You could be out there catching bad guys.

Later the boys came back with money and supplies. Just what y’all needed. Y’all sat down in ate together. In the middle of conversation Dutch had something to bring up.

“So unfortunately we’re gonna have to move camp since Arthur can’t handle his drinks without getting into a fight”

“No it was that redneck who can’t handle a drink without messing with me!”

“Well that redneck is gonna have us all killed if we don’t relocate so let’s get everything packed up”

Arthur was like every other teenage boy you met. Think they’re the king of world especially when they get to run around with a gun on their hip. They’re usually angry little men who get violent when their pride is wounded. Arthur ain’t so different.

The new camp here is different. We’re still in a forest but this time there’s a larger town nearby. You never got to go to the last town so you were hoping to explore this one.

The boys were getting ready to head out again but you stopped them this time.

“Can I come with y’all please? I didn’t spend all morning doing target practice for nothin”

Dutch and Hosea looked at each other before shrugging their shoulders.

“Fine but you ride on Arthur’s horse”

You hurriedly climbed onto his horse and held on tight to him.

“My god girl if you that afraid to fall off then maybe you shouldn’t even come. Or maybe yer holding on tight because you never wanna let me go?”

“God shut up”

You guys rode into town and Dutch gave you and Arthur an objective. Get at least 50 dollars by any means necessary. Without causing too much trouble of course.

“Ok I got an idea. We’re gonna pretend to be street urchins with no one to take care of us and beg for money. Sound good?”

I proposed my plan to Arthur and he just laughed.

“Aw that’s cute. That’s not gonna get you anything but a few pitiful stares and MAYBE a couple nickels. We’re gonna go with my plan instead”

Arthur dragged you into a saloon and pulled you aside.

“Ok yer gonna get on top of that table and start dancing a little. You should be cute enough to get a good amount of money from all these men in here. At the same time I’m gonna go pickpocket some people while they’re distracted from yer dancing”

“I can’t do that! I’m just 15 I don’t want these men staring at me while I dance!”

“I’ll make sure no one touches you I promise-“

“I’m not doing it Arthur”

“Would you rather rob people? You said you wanna help out. You said you don’t wanna commit any crimes. So this is how you make money”

You sighed and started walking to the bar. You looked back and saw Arthur putting his thumbs up with a smile. That idiot.

Carefully you walked up to the bartender and demanded a drink. He knew you were young but he gave it to you anyway. You turned around, held your drink up and shouted.

“Ok boys drinks on me!”

All the men shouted and now all their eyes were on you. You squeezed your eyes shut and downed the drink as fast as you could to not burn your throat. The only way for you to do this confidently was to be a little tipsy.

You could already feel the buzz and so you jumped on the table and started your routine. All the men started shouting and whistling and it all made you feel sick so you got another drink. You could see Arthur going around slipping his hands into peoples pockets and taking out wallets and pocket watches. Other men were throwing money at you.

You were constantly looking at him for him to give you the signal to stop but he kept signaling to keep going. Your audience was getting a little bored and so you decided to do something that would blow their mind.

You reached down and lifted your dress up just a little to show you ankle and all the men went crazy. Some even fainted. You looked to Arthur and he made an ok sign with his hand. With that you jumped down and pushed your way through the crowd and got back with Arthur and all the men started booing.

“Don’t worry fellas she’ll back soon to give y’all some more!”

You smacked Arthur’s arm and he dragged you outside. Outside y’all counted your money and found you had 80 dollars. That was more than enough.

“You sure you didn’t use to be a showgirl?”

“Shut up”

You saw 2 men running towards you guys with guns in their hands.

“That’s the little shit who stole my pocket watch!”

Arthur stood up with a frightened look on his face and pulled his gun out ready to shoot.

One of the guys aimed at me and I froze.

“Y/N get the hell outta the way!”

Arthur pushed me away and shot 2 of the men.

“Godammit how the hell you gonna learn to shoot and not even use the damn gun when you’re in trouble?”

“I-I didn’t wanna kill him…”

“That don’t matter. You may not wanna kill him but he sure wanna kill you. You can’t just freeze like that. What if I wasn’t there. Then what?”

Arthur sighed

“I ain’t mad at ya. But man you gotta learn a few things. Like riding a horse. I don’t want to have you holding on to me like that if I knew you could be such a klutz”

He grabbed my hand and led me to the horses where Dutch and Hosea were. Arthur handed him the money.

“80 dollars”

“How’d y’all do that?”

Hosea asked

“Y/N here got up on a table and danced her heart out”

“Why on earth would you ask her to do something like that!?”

“Hosea it’s fine”

“No it’s not. You’re just a girl”

Dutch then piped up.

“Let’s just forget about it and pretend it never happened then”

Then he turned to you

“Well done you two. You bout ready to head back?”

“Not yet I wanna teach Y/N a lil something”

Arthur grabbed his horse and led you 2 into the forest. He took an apple out and gave it to you.

“Yer gonna learn to ride today. Her name is Kelly. Give her that apple”

You gave her the apple and petted her. She made a few noises. Happy noises you hoped. You climbed on her and Arthur held the reigns guiding her.

“Hey- hey this ain’t too bad. This is actually kinda easy!”

“Great so why don’t ya try this”

Arthur slapped the horse on its ass and it took off.

“Woah woah woah that’s too fast. Too fast!”

The horse was going wild and you could barely hang on. It started to run towards a fallen tree in front of you and it jumped over it. It jumped too high causing you to fall.

Arthur ran over to you.

“Hey you okay- HOLY SHIT!”

The impact was harder than both of you thought and turns out there was blood going down your forehead.

“My god Y/N I’m sorry please don’t hate me”

He picked you up and started carrying you back to camp.

“And why the hell’d you do that anyway! Poor girl probably has a terrible headache now. “

Bessie was scolding Arthur now while he looked down to the ground.

“I’m okay Bessie it’ll heal”

“That’s not the point! Arthur yer gonna stay here with Y/N tomorrow while the rest of us go into town understand?”

Arthur sighed.

“Yes ma’am”

#arthur morgan x reader #rdr2 x reader #red dead redemption x reader #arthur morgan #yeehaw

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motownfiction · 6 months

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perhaps

Will thinks perhaps he shouldn’t force the issue. After all, Emma is eleven now, and she’s seen more shit this year than an eleven-year-old should ever have to. But they’re all back in Detroit for Christmas so that baby Veronica can spend some time with her great grandparents, and Will thinks they should make the most of having a real front yard.

They spend Christmas Eve at Lucy’s parents’ house, and Will gets the bright idea that they should leave a trail for the reindeer like they used to, when Emma was much smaller. Lucy warns him that Emma might be a little beyond the Santa thing, what with everything that Christmas has meant for her these past few years (losing Sam, losing tradition, losing whatever faith and trust they had in Charlie). But Will just has a feeling. Sometimes, his inklings are even stronger than Lucy’s.

He puts together a bunch of oats and glitter in a freezer bag. You can always count on Mary Callaghan to keep glitter in the house, even when there are no little kids to entertain. Will taps Emma on the shoulder and asks if she wants to come outside and lead the reindeer to Grandma and Grandpa’s house. And he waits for her to turn him down.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, her pretty eyes – the ones that look just like Will’s – light up. She throws on her jacket and her shoes, and she tosses those oats and glitter around the grass and snow like nothing ever happened. Like the past four years have been normal.

Will sprinkles his own helping of oats and glitter on the ground and wonders why he can’t be like that. Why he still can’t pick himself all the way up. Why part of him still feels like his shoes are glued to the floor in the emergency room. This isn’t what Sam would want. This isn’t a good first Christmas to give his granddaughter.

But he thinks he knows what might be.

“Em!” Will calls. “You gonna be OK out here for a minute?”

“Sure, Daddy,” Emma calls back. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just forgot something in the house. I’ll be right back.”

He makes his way down to the familiar basement apartment where he and Lucy began to raise Elenore over twenty years before. There she is. Miss Veronica Will O’Connor, just over nine months old, staring up at him with big green eyes. She has her father’s eyes, too, but Will isn’t angry. They’re not Charlie’s eyes anymore. They are Veronica’s.

“Come on, Bug,” he says and lifts her out of her crib. “We’ve got some reindeer to hail.”

And of course, Veronica’s not very good at sprinkling the glittery oats. She tries to eat them no fewer than three times. But in her little hat, coat, and snow boots, she’s the most perfect baby since Elenore and Emma. Will holds her close and bounces her on his hip.

“I’d sing to you if I was that kinda grandpa,” he says. “Or if I was Sam. You’d have liked him. He knows even more songs than your mom does.”

At that moment, a car drives by with the windows rolled down, radio playing loudly. Will doesn’t see who’s in the car, but it doesn’t matter. He can hear the music.

Giddy-up, jingle horse / pick up your feet / jingle around the clock …

For a second, Will’s heart stops. This is it – the song that was playing on the radio when Sam died. The last song Sam ever heard with living ears. For another second, Will can’t breathe, either. But then he stops. And he remembers. Steph’s said before that she thinks Sam comes to her as DJ every now and then.

Perhaps that’s what he’s doing today.

Perhaps it’s finally OK to “Jingle Bell Rock” again.

Perhaps.

(part of @nosebleedclub december challenge -- day 24!)

#drabble #writeblr #ch: will o'connor #ch: emma o'connor #ch: veronica o'connor #year: 2006

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osakaso5 · 3 years

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Nagi & Yuki Shuffle Talk Part 2: The Snowy Russia

Part 1 | Part 3

Yuki: Phew... Even in Russia, I can at least stay warm indoors. I hope we never have to leave this café bar.

Interviewer: It's certainly very cold outside! Your photo shoot is tomorrow, so we won't have to leave the hotel for today.

Yuki: Okay.

Nagi Rokuya: It is good that we made it here safely. Especially since Mister Yuki froze in place as soon as we left the airport.

Yuki: Even my hat, coat, gloves, and heat packs didn't help me...

Nagi Rokuya: Your mulled wine is here. I do hope it will keep you warm.

Yuki: Thank you. Ah... That's better.

Nagi Rokuya: Here in Russia, it's called glintvein. It smells quite nice.

Yuki: Hmm. Sounds fancy. It's too bad we couldn't have some together.

Nagi Rokuya: Unfortunately, I am a Japanese idol, even in Russia... So I will have to toast with you using this coffee I ordered.

Yuki: Sure. Cheers.

Nagi Rokuya: Cheers.

Interviewer: Now that we've all gotten settled, should we start the interview?

Yuki: Sure thing.

Interviewer: Thank you! I'll start with the question we ask everyone.

Interviewer: Do you currently have any non-work related goals?

Nagi Rokuya: OK! I shall answer first!

Nagi Rokuya: I want to go to an amusement park with my fellow members of IDOLiSH7!

Yuki: Huh. While that does sound fun, would you really call that a goal?

Nagi Rokuya: It is the one thing I want to accomplish most, so I see no reason not to.

Nagi Rokuya: We have not gone out anywhere as a group for a long time, and I would like to ride a merry-go-round with them.

Nagi Rokuya: It will be a great opportunity to try horseback riding in Japan!

Yuki: I'm not sure if that counts as horseback riding, as funny as it would look. You'd probably be surrounded by little kids, after all.

Yuki: Ah, now I want a picture of Yamato-kun riding the merry-go-round. I could send it to Shizuo-san, too.

Nagi Rokuya: OH... Mister Yuki. Are you not aware that amusement parks are a supreme form of entertainment for children and adults alike?

Yuki: I suppose you've got a point, there.

Yuki: I'm not really the type to plan big happenings, but I admire people who do that stuff, like you.

Yuki: You're like a sun that shines brightly on IDOLiSH7.

Nagi Rokuya: Likewise, they shine brightly upon me!

Yuki: Heh. You've got a good bond with your team.

Nagi Rokuya: And what about you?

Yuki: Well... I'd like to learn to ferment things at home.

Nagi Rokuya: Ferment... Are you planning to make cheese?

Yuki: I've been more into shio koji lately.

Nagi Rokuya: Shio koji..? That name sounds familiar... Are they a famous Japanese person?

Yuki: It's not a person. It's a type of fermented condiment.

Nagi Rokuya: OH! What sort of condiment is it?

Yuki: It's basically edible mold. You grow it in a salty mixture of rice and oats.

Nagi Rokuya: You want to eat mold!?

Yuki: Like I said, it's the edible kind. Kind of like blue cheese.

Nagi Rokuya: I suppose even mold comes in many forms... This shio koji of yours must be nothing to sneer at!

Yuki: It's easy enough to make, but depending on the type of mold and salt you use, its flavor can vary a lot.

Yuki: There's so many combinations you can have, too. Some variations are great for marinading, others for broiling.

Yuki: You can do a lot with it.

Nagi Rokuya: Hm... But what does it taste like..?

Yuki: Well, since you use salt to make it, it's savory. Maybe even a little salty-sweet.

Yuki: If I ever have the time, I'll make a full course meal using shio koji for IDOLiSH7. You guys can come over to my place for dinner.

Nagi Rokuya: My thanks! Mitsuki would like that, being a bit of a home chef himself!

Interviewer: I knew you liked to cook, Yuki-san, but I never realized it was such a big part of your life.

Interviewer: Moving on. Could you ask your questions for each other now?

Yuki: Sure, I'll go first. Nagi-kun, what do you want more than anything else in the world?

Nagi Rokuya: A simple, yet complex question. A ticket to the unveiling of the limited edition Cocona merch that is coming out next month is tempting... very tempting!

Nagi Rokuya: There are so many things I want... But right now, chief among them is a horse.

Yuki: ...A horse? As in, the kind of horse you can ride around like a knight in shining armor?

Nagi Rokuya: YES! As much as I love Japan, I wish it was easier to find horses to spend time with.

Nagi Rokuya: I would also like large fields to ride for hours on. To gallop freely in a vast expanse!

Yuki: ...You're not trying to pull my leg here, are you?

Nagi Rokuya: Of course not.

Yuki: I definitely wasn't expecting that answer, but on second thought, you probably wouldn't look too weird riding a horse.

Yuki: Actually, I think you'd look right at home on one.

Nagi Rokuya: Now then, it is time for my question. What is your favorite place?

Nagi Rokuya: We have established that you dislike anywhere that is cold, but now, I want to know where you enjoy being.

Yuki: Makes sense. To tell you the truth, that'd be inside a warm house.

Nagi Rokuya: Please, I want your answer to be somewhere outdoors..!

Yuki: I don't exactly like the outdoors. ...Ah, but I guess I do like parks and downtown areas in the early morning, when there aren't many people.

Yuki: That quiet morning atmosphere is nice enough to get even me to leave the house sometimes.

Nagi Rokuya: Walking around an empty city does make you feel like the entire world belongs to you.

Yuki: Heh. Yeah, it feels pretty special.

Interviewer: I see, interesting... Thank you both! This has been a great interview.

Yuki: You're welcome.

Nagi Rokuya: You are welcome!

Yuki: Tomorrow we'll have to go outside... Oh, well. I'll worry about that when the time comes.

Nagi Rokuya: There is no need to be nervous. Look how beautiful it is outside.

Yuki: Ugh... Is it just me, or is it snowing even harder than earlier?

Nagi Rokuya: I will show you how to enjoy the snow. We are going to have so much fun tomorrow!

End of Part 2.

#idolish7 #nagi rokuya #yuki #shuffle talk 2019 #translation #i7 #re:vale #rabbit tv

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snelbz · 4 years

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Reckoning and Retribution {3}

An A Court of Thorns and Roses, House of Earth and Blood, & Throne of Glass Crossover, Western AU fanfiction.

Based on a prompt sent in for the 4k follower contest {winner}, from Anonymous: “Ok hear me out: WILD WEST AU CROSSOVER”

@snelbz / @tacmc

It was Saturday morning, which meant that the market was set up in town, every local farmer and gardener, and even some from other towns and territories, out to sell their goods. Elide loved Saturdays, loved deciding what she would be baking that week. She loved to bake, her mother used to bake, and she used to help in whatever way she could before her mother’s untimely death.

“You should bake banana bread,” Aelin crooned, looping her arm through Elide’s. “You make the most wonderful banana bread.”

“I do make wonderful banana bread,” Elide agreed, with a grin.

At the end of the market, up by Hunt’s saloon, Lorcan Salvaterre was leaning up against a post, the brim of his hat pulled down over his eyes, smoking a cigar.

Elide couldn’t shake the feeling that he was watching her, that he had been since their abrupt meeting earlier in the week. His gaze didn’t unsettle her like it should have though. She often found herself meeting those dark eyes, and just when she thought he may approach her, something would steal one of their attention or he’d glance away.

“What a waste of a second chance.”

Elide glanced up at her oldest friend. She followed her line of sight and found that they were looking at the same man. “Why would you say that?”

“He’s awfully cocky,” Aelin said, with pure disdain. “And horribly rude.”

Elide had to admit that he wasn’t exactly welcoming during their encounter, but he didn’t seem that horrible.

Aelin lifted a brow. “Judging by your silence, I’m assuming you disapprove of my judgement.”

“It’s not that I disapprove,” she said, slowly. “I’m just...intrigued by him.”

“Intrigued…” Aelin mused, letting the word hang between them. “I wasn’t even aware you two had made an acquaintance.”

“I wouldn’t even say we’re acquaintances,” she muttered, stepping away from Aelin to inspect a stand full of exotic fruits. “We’ve only spoken once.”

“And when was that?”

The question wasn’t accusatory, but there was indeed an edge to Aelin’s voice that hadn’t been there before.

Elide sighed and turned around to look at her friend. She was off duty today, so she was dressed as Elide was used to seeing her: full, ruffled skirts, corset cinched tight at the waist and her hair was curled and pinned back off her face, which was elegantly accented by the cosmetics she used every day. She looked like a lady waiting for a ball, not the local deputy of a small town.

“A couple days after you started working with Sheriff Whitethorn,” Elide said, moving on to the next stall. Knives and blades and weapons and bullets and all manners of destruction and death were laid out before her. She made to move on, but they’d caught Aelin’s eye and she moved in.

“When you were dropping off my gift basket, I assume,” she asked, picking up a small, wicked looking dagger. Elide nodded, knowing Aelin had worked out the rest.

She’d ranted to her for an hour the other night after she’d come in and found his muddy boots propped up on her desk. Half the goodies in the basket were gone, too, though Rowan had admitted to eating quite a few of them.

“Mm.” Aelin said nothing else as she examined the dagger, it’s intricate filigree handle shining in the morning light, and found a suitable thigh holster for it. She paid the stall owner an egregious amount of money and turned to Elide. “I feel like you’re going to disregard everything I say and are going to attempt to befriend that surly brute of a man, so I would like you to be prepared, just in case.”

Elide blinked as Aelin pushed the small dagger and leather holster into her hand. “I can’t use this.”

“I’d prefer you not have to,” Aelin sighed, “but I’d rather you be safe than sorry.”

Elide hesitated, but Aelin was already walking away. After hurrying to catch up and match her pace, Elide was saying, “You know that I have never used a weapon, not once.”

“Perhaps I should give you a lesson?” Aelin asked, something new already catching her eye.

Elide sighed as she, once again, had to hurry after her oldest friend.

“I won’t even have to use it, Aelin,” Elide protested, looping her arm through Aelin’s to slow her down. “And I am not going to...befriend him.”

Aelin snorted. “You forget how well I know you, Miss Lochan.”

“Oh, trust me, Miss Galathynius, I am fully aware,” Elide said. “You know me as well as I know you, which is why I believe you’re being over dramatic about Mr. Salvaterre.”

A blonde eyebrow raised. “Mister, hmm?”

“Drop it, Aelin,” Elide said, picking up a new bundle of chalk sticks for her classroom. The pieces the children were having to use we’re becoming so short, their writing was becoming near illegible. Well, more illegible, in the case of her younger students. She snagged a bottle of ink as well and before she could reach for her money pouch, Aelin had paid the man. She didn’t bother thanking her friend, knowing she’d wave the praise off anyways. “There’s nothing going on between Lorcan Salvaterre and I.”

“Well that’s a damn shame.”

Aelin and elide turned, finding the man himself standing behind them.

“Miss Lochan,” he drawled, tipping his hat. “Deputy.”

“Mister Salvaterre, good morning,” Elide gave him a friendly curtsy and continued on her way, pausing at a stall that sold little trinkets and jewelry.

Once she was out of earshot, Aelin turned to Lorcan. “Don’t even think about touching her.”

His gaze was amused. “And what made you think I would, Deputy?”

The way he said Deputy made Aelin want to punch him in the throat.

“She’s a kind woman,” Aelin went on. “You will not do anything to cause her harm or ruin.”

Lorcan grinned, wild and vicious. “You make it sound like she fancies me. Has she taken a liking to me, Deputy Galathynius?”

The fact that he used her title as a form of mockery had her hands curling into fists at her sides.

“Aelin, are you coming?”

The pair turned to where Elide waited a few stalls ahead. She called, “Give me just a moment.”

Elide nodded and continued sorting through the fabrics the seller offered.

Turning back to glare at Lorcan, Aelin breathed. “I don’t like you. I don’t trust you. If it weren’t for my promise to protect this town and all who live in it — including you, apparently — I’d put a bullet between your eyes and wouldn’t lose a wink of sleep over it. Rowan tearing up the warrant for your arrest was the most reckless thing he’s ever done. Now, don’t make me repeat this, ” She was a solid foot shorter than him, but as she said the words, Lorcan felt as if he was being talked down to. Like a child. “Leave. Her. Alone.”

His eyes turned dark, hard, as his jaw locked. “Fine, if it means that much to you.”

“It does,” Aelin snapped, picking up her skirts as she stormed to Elide’s side, leaving Lorcan behind.

Elide blinked as Aelin approached, frowning. “Is everything alright? What’s happened?”

“Nothing,” Aelin said, forcing a bright smile. “Let us continue on with our morning.”

Sighing and linking her arm with Aelin’s once more, Elide did just that. After they’d shopped for a few more minutes and Elide had decided she had enough supplies for the week, they were making for her cabin at the far end of town. It was a bit of a walk, but the ladies didn’t care, not wanting to saddle horses. It was such a hassle, and now that she was used to trousers, Aelin just didn’t want to mess with it.

“So,” Aelin began as they walked up the steps of Elide’s little house. “Aside from the fabulous banana bread you’ll be making me, what other goodies will you be baking this week?”

Elide listed off a menagerie of delicious desserts and baked goods. “A peach cobbler, oatmeal and cranberry cookies, blueberry crumble, a couple pies, and a chocolate and stone ground oat cake.”

Aelin’s eyes were wide. “Such a wide variety. What for?”

The tips of Elide’s ears turned red and Aelin certainly noticed as she began to blush. “Mister Salvaterre’s welcome basket.”

Aelin froze as she followed her friend into her house.

Oh, this was not good.

* * * * * * * * *

Bryce loved the silence.

Lying on her bed, she opened the new novel Hunt had given her the day before.

A gift, he had said, and wouldn’t take no for an answer when she had told him that she couldn’t accept.

She was grateful for it.

It had been so long since she had been given a gift, had owned something new. She couldn’t wait to lose herself in the story, if even for a few moments, to get out of the living hell she was in.

A quiet knock sounded on her door. She tightened the sash of the dressing gown she wore around her waist. “Just a minute,” she called.

She made herself appropriate before opening the door, finding Hunt on the other side.

“Hunt-.”

Her quiet words were cut off as he crashed his lips against hers and softly shut the door behind him. When he finally pulled back, Bryce was breathless.

“What are you doing?” She asked.

“Come on, grab your things,” he said, looking around the room for a bag. The room was lavish and luxurious and the furnishings probably cost more than Hunt’s entire saloon, deed, ale, whiskey and all. “Maeve just left. Feyre is watching the bar. Let’s go.”

Bryce hesitated. “Go? Go where?”

Hunt took her face into his large, calloused hands. The look in his eyes was wild, determined. “It’s our chance. Now is our chance.”

Bryce closed her eyes. “Hunt-.”

“Please,” he breathed, his breath hot against her mouth. “Please, Bryce-.”

“I can’t go anywhere,” she whispered, forcing her eyes not to well up with tears. “You know I can’t go anywhere.” He opened his mouth to protest, but she pressed on. “Cairn will find us, you know that. What happened to Clare, to Isaac… I won’t let that happen to you.”

Hung closed his eyes, letting his forehead fall against hers. He knew she was right, knew if they had any hope of getting out of this town alive, it would cost them an egregious amount of money.

Otherwise, they’d be paying with their lives.

Clare Beddor and Isaac Hale were proof of that. After they ran away in the dead of night, Clare’s debt unpaid, it only took two weeks for Cairn to bring back her lifeless body and his decapitated head. His mouth hung open in a wide, never ending scream. It was tossed into an unmarked grave somewhere on the property, but Clare…

Maeve had made a few extra bucks off of her, thanks to the few sick fucks who lived in this town.

This was her life, and there was no getting out of it, no matter how many sleepless nights she spent wondering how she could get out of her debt.

But there was no way.

It was hopeless to dream.

“Bryce,” Hunt whispered, bringing her back to reality.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and she meant it, even though it meant nothing. “You need to let this go, Hunt. I’m a lost cause.”

“Don’t say that,” he begged, just as he always did.

Every time he did it broke her heart.

“I’m making an offer to Maeve on Monday.”

Her head snapped up and her eyes met his. “What?”

He wrapped her up in his arms. She rested her head against his chest, listened to the heart beating inside. The heart that belonged to her, in every way. “I’ve saved up enough for your freedom, with some extra. With what you’ve…earned… We have to be close, Bryce.”

She heard the words he specified. Your freedom. But not Danika’s.

“It’ll be a few more years, Hunt-.”

“No, damn it, I refuse to believe that.” He tilted her chin up, forcing her to look at him. He whispered, “I wish you never would have made that bargain.”

She shook her head. There was no dwelling on it now. What’s done is done, and besides… “I don’t. Not if it kept her safe.”

Copying her motion, Hunt shook his head, his loose hair shaking with the motion. “For two weeks, Bryce?”

The sob that tore from Bryce was heartbreaking.

When she was eight years old, her father had ripped she and Ruhn from their beds, with no explanation, and they’d left the small town they called home. Years later, they’d realize it was because he’d killed Bryce’s mother in a fit of rage. If only that was the worst thing their piece of shit father had done.

Just a few years later, the family, with their young ward, Danika Fendyr, visited Rose Creek on their way west, as far west as they could go. Their father had gotten drunk beyond measure, the former owner of the saloon supplying as much whiskey as any one man could consume. He’d run out of money during his poker game, and needed a few new bargaining chips. He had three.

Bryce and Danika were sold to Maeve, while Ruhn was shipped off to the mines.

The girls were only sixteen when they were to begin selling their bodies, their souls, on behalf of Bryce’s father’s debt. Bryce’s birthday came first, Danika’s just a month later. A week before Danika’s unveiling, Bryce made Maeve a deal.

Her life for Danika’s. Double the price, double the debt, Bryce promised Maeve double everything, if only she said yes.

Maeve agreed.

Danika went free.

She protested, told Bryce she was an idiot as she wept and wrapped her arms around Bryce. Bryce told her best friend, her sister, to go free, to make something of herself.

She deserved as much.

Less than two weeks later, just days after Danika turned sixteen, she was killed by a bandit, a robbery gone bad, making the sacrifice Bryce made worthless.

She had doubled her debt for two weeks of Danika’s freedom, and she had been paying off that debt ever since.

“I don’t care the price, I don’t care how long it takes,” he promised. “One day, you and I are going to leave this town, and we’re never going to look back.”

“Hunt!”

The cry from downstairs was a warning, their time was short.

“Go,” Bryce breathed, her tears at last running down her face. “You can’t be up here when she gets back.”

He knew that, knew that he wouldn’t be the one to bear the punishment if they were to get caught. He nodded, pressing another kiss to her forehead, then her lips, letting it say all the words he couldn’t out loud.

I’m sorry.

I’ll get you out.

I love you.

* * * * * * * *

Exhaustion dwelled in every inch of Ruhn’s body as he followed Aedion, Declan, and Flynn into the saloon. That exhaustion did not stop him, though, he had things to do, those to protect, even if he could only do it from afar.

Anything else would get him shot.

Or hanged.

All they had to do was raise their hands in greeting to Hunt before plopping down around a table. A minute later, Feyre came carrying a jug of ale and four mugs.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Feyre crooned, setting it all in the middle of the table.

“I don’t see any gentlemen here,” Flynn muttered with a smirk.

“True,” Feyre agreed, “but any other sort of greeting just seemed rude.”

Aedion’s attention was immediately on the striking brunette across the room. She was primped and preened and the smile on her face showed everyone how much fun she was having at the saloon, being passed from lap to lap.

That smile was the biggest crock of shit Ruhn had ever seen. It was the same smile he saw on Bryce’s face and Nesta’s and all the other girls who had to lay on their backs just to keep their families fed or protected.

Promising to come back if they needed anything, Feyre flitted off, refilling the glasses of whiskey the sheriff and his newest deputy had sitting on their table. The man in black intrigued Ruhn, but he wasn’t one to start a conversation and make new friends. Especially with a man he was sure had killed people.

It was slow, for a Saturday night, if Lysandra was down on the floor of the saloon. Either that or she was a walking billboard for the services Maeve offered. Since he didn’t see his sister, Ruhn was inclined to believe the latter.

So instead he kept an eye on Feyre, tracking her as she moved from table to table, carefully watching every hand that came close to her.

It seemed that Feyre was fairly good at taking care of herself, and Hunt watched her like a hawk, but still, as he watched Feyre flutter around the floor, watching every man she passed watch after her with a hungry gaze, Ruhn felt the need to look after her, too.

It was difficult enough having to watch the women passed around who weren’t allowed to say no, but he couldn’t bear to watch those who were allowed to say no be taken advantage of simply because they were a woman in a saloon full of drunk bastards.

Flynn and Declan had ended up at the bar and Aedion had snuck into the dry storage room, leaving Ruhn to mull over his day, life and purpose with nothing but a mug of ale to keep him company. When he realized he’d been tracing the same knot in the wood for an entire song in the old, barely-in-tune piano, he looked up, his eyes darting around the room.

No sign of Bryce, but he’d learned to not to hold out hope for easy nights for her long ago.

But when his eyes made another pass, searching for not for wine-red hair, but golden-brown… He came up short.

For a moment, he debated on joining his friends at the bar, if for no other reason than a new vantage point to watch the room. That thought drifted away as he heard a voice, full of sass, from behind him.

“Are you watching me, Mister Danaan?”

He spun around in his chair to find Feyre, one hand on her hip, the other holding up a tin pitcher.

“I was just...scanning the room, Miss Archeron,” he said, simply.

She narrowed her eyes and suppressed her grin. “I believe you’re telling a lie.”

Ruhn huffed a laugh, unable to help himself as Feyre sat down across from him at the empty table. “I was just ensuring your safety after what had happened the other night.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Feyre said, eyes bright. “You are appreciated, you must know.”

He tipped his head in thanks. “How has your day been?”

“Long,” she admitted. “I suppose I cannot complain, though. And yours, Mister Danaan?”

He thought of the hacking he’d done with his pickaxe, hour after hour after hour all day, before he said, “Mine was long, as well.”

Unlike his sister, Ruhn wasn’t forced into the servitude he was sold into. Gavriel, the man who owned and operated out of the mines, was a fair and just man. He saw the situation the children were in, saw that he had the opportunity to help at least one of them. So when Ruhn’s life was offered to him, as payment for a life debt, he said yes, took the young man in.

And then told him he was free to do as he wished. Free to go, to stay, to work, to run.

But with Bryce in proverbial shackles, that wasn’t an option. So he took a job in the mines, made a modest living and did what he could for his sister.

The sadness in Feyre’s eyes told him she understood well.

“Miss Archeron, may-.”

“Feyre, please,” she interrupted. “Call me Feyre.”

He smiled. “Miss Feyre, with your permission, I’d like to walk you home tonight.”

Her eyebrows rose, her blue-grey eyes bright in the candles hanging from the chandelier. “I don’t get off work until late, well past midnight.”

Shaking his head, Ruhn said, “I don’t mind.”

Feyre nodded, slowly, perfectly amused. “Very well, Mister Danaan, you may walk me home.”

She pushed herself up from the table and was beginning to walk away when Ruhn called, “Miss Feyre?”

She turned to face him, yet again, a small smile on her lips. “Yes?”

“If I can call you by your first name, then you may call me by mine,” he said, then added, “Please.”

“Very well,” she said, softly, and then she was off to make her rounds, yet again.

* * * * * * * *

Saturdays were Nesta’s least favorite day.

The crowds were bigger. The room was louder. The men were worse.

As Nesta hurried toward the saloon, she couldn’t help but wonder what sort of torture Maeve would have planned for her to punish her for being late the night before. Again.

She hurried into the saloon, squeezing Feyre’s hand as she passed, her sister giving her what little strength she could, and started up the stairs.

“Nesta Archeron.”

She paused, and turned, finding Maeve standing at the bottom of the staircase. “I’m not late tonight, ma’am.”

A wicked smirk. “No, you’re not.”

Nesta swallowed hard and made her way back down the stairs.

“Get ready and be back down here within twenty minutes. You have a special request tonight.”

A special request. It sent chills up Nesta’s spine.

And not in a good way.

Nonetheless, she did what she was told. After hurrying up to her room, she took her place in front of the vanity and took down her hair, the curls long and loose as they hung around her shoulders. She lined her eyes with kohl, painted her lips to a ruby red, and pinched her cheeks until they were nice and red. She looked at herself, admired herself in the mirror as she did every night before she changed.

Her reflection haunted her.

She was staring at the ghost of the girl she once was, the girl she once knew, before.

After pinning her hair back so that it was out of her eyes, she shrugged off her robe and dressed. Corset, skirts, stockings beneath that reached her mid-thighs.

Lacing her boots up, she steeled herself, praying it wouldn’t be one of the sick men who enjoyed pain. Nesta hated the pain.

She walked down the stairs, Maeve still waiting in the same spot as before. Eyes turned to look at her as she descended into the saloon, as they always did. People always stared when the whores entered the room.

She glanced around, trying not to make it obvious, as she caught the eyes of those in the bar. The usuals were there, of course, Hunt and Feyre and Luca, picking up dirty dishes. But Azriel Draeven was there, too, along with the mayor. And at their table, eyes trained on her, a glass of whiskey in his hand, was Cassian. Their eyes locked and her feet almost froze on the stairs, but she forced them to keep moving.

When she reached the bottom of the stairs, Maeve inspected her with an experienced eye. Without a word, she nodded, clearly pleased with Nesta’s appearance. She held out an envelope. “Do not open this envelope until you’ve reached the general store. You’ll find further instructions inside. You’ve been booked until sunrise. Go get your coat.”

Nesta didn’t say a word as she took the envelope and went back up to grab her coat. It was all she grabbed, her coat, not wanting to bring the rest of her belongings in case things turned ugly. She would have Feyre to grab them before she left. She wouldn’t mind.

She never did.

With her coat over her shoulders, she descended the stairs, once more, not bothering to look at anyone else except for her sister behind the bar.

Feyre could see the question in her eyes. She nodded, once, and Nesta ignored the sorrow in her youngest sister’s eyes as she exited the saloon, envelope in hand, and went down to the general store.

It wasn’t late by any means, but the dusty main road in and out of town was deserted. Those with families were home, having dinner, spending time with their loved ones. Those that didn’t… well, the saloon would be open for quite a while yet. The envelope in her hand felt heavy, though she knew that was just in her mind. It held nothing but a note, written in Maeve’s formal penmanship, like it always did. This wasn’t the first special request she’d fulfilled and she knew it sure as hell wouldn’t be the last.

With a sigh, she opened the envelope and a letter in an unfamiliar hand fell onto her lap. She read through it once, blinking, and paused. She was misunderstanding. She had to be. Nesta quietly read the letter allowed, making sure her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her.

“Return to your home, lock your doors, and go to bed,” she murmured. “Tell no one, keep this a secret from all but your sisters. Get some rest, beautiful.”

The letter still clutched in her hand, Nesta looked around the deserted street. There was no one around, no one secretly watching her, waiting to catch her making a mistake.

Nesta had never run home so fast in her life.

* * * * * * * *

Lysandra had slipped into the dry storage of the saloon while Cairn wasn’t looking. She just needed a second to breathe, to sit without being hounded.

The door cracked open a minute later and Aedion appeared. “Are you okay?”

She breathed a relieved sigh as she nodded her head. She wasn’t sure if she could speak. If she spoke, she may start crying. Maeve would get far too much enjoyment from her tears.

He understood though, he understood how it took a toll on her. Wordlessly, she stood, making her way over to him, and wrapped her arms around his waist. Aedion didn’t hesitate to wrap his own around her and kiss the top of her head. “I’m sorry,” he breathed.

She shook her head and Aedion knew it’s because there was nothing either of them could do.

For a moment, that’s all there was in the world, just the two of them and the silence. She loved that silence, loved when he held her and she could take a few minutes to breathe.

Even if it was never long enough.

Which it never was.

“You should go back out there,” she whispered.

“Or I can give you some coin,” he replied, quietly.

Not for sex, she knew, but so she could have ten extra minutes of breathing time.

Lysandra shook her head. “It would be a waste of coin, and you know it.”

Neither of them made to move though. Aedion’s hand wove into her hair, holding her head to his chest as she breathed him in, as she rooted herself in this moment, to use it as her anchor for the rest of the night.

Stolen kisses and secret meetings are all they had. Aedion would gladly pay for a night with her, for every night with her if he could. He loved Lysandra more than a man had ever loved a woman, or so he firmly believed. And she had given him her whole heart, since they could never have anything more.

She was Maeve’s favorite whore. There were no prices for a night with Lysandra, not unless someone was willing to shell out a wagon full of coins. No, she was Maeve’s personal gift to give out.

To the most worthy of companions.

Maeve’s most worthy clients.

“I have to go,” she whispered.

Aedion nodded, knowing the time was coming. The time always came, no matter how many nights Aedion spent praying it wouldn’t.

He wanted so desperately to tell her that he loved her, but he wouldn’t. No matter how much he felt it, he’d keep it to himself, because to say it would be too hard.

He would say it and nothing would change.

“I’ll be there,” he decided on, after a few seconds passed. He would be there, in the saloon, in case she needed him to look at, to make eye contact with, when she was feeling completely and utterly alone.

She nodded, before taking one last deep breath, breathing him in. And then she was out of his arms, out the door and back into the front room, into her own personal hell.

Because when she saw who was sitting in Maeve’s booth, she thought she was going to be sick. It had been years since she’d seen him. When Maeve crooked a finger over and called for her, those silver eyes met hers and Arrobyn Hammel smiled.

#snelbz rar #reckoning and retribution #sjm crossover #snacmc #snelbz tacmc collab #snelbz x tacmc #acotar #tog #hoeab

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katalyna-rose · 4 years

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Kat’s Rat Shopping List

I’ve gotten a few requests for a shopping list of my rat setup (tagging @collapseofthesky because they requested this, specifically, but I’ve had a few others message me), so I thought I’d give it a try and also add a few explanations for why I do some things the way I do. As such, this is going to be a very long post and is therefore under a cut. There will be a basic shopping list without all the explanations at the very end of the post under TL;DR if you don’t care about the rest or whatever.

I had a lot of fun with this and spent way more time on it than I meant to, and might be open to doing more of this kind of thing in the future.

Cage

First up, the cage. Obviously. I’ve said it before but it’s a Double Critter Nation and a Single Critter Nation with the side panels removed and zip tied together. These are sometimes sold in pet stores (the locally owned pet store I prefer has them in stock). I bought mine online because of a really good sale, but you can sometimes get really lucky and find them for resale on Facebook Marketplace or Craigslist for super cheap. I love this cage because the whole front opens up and that makes it super accessible and easy to clean, decorate, and get to my pets wherever they may be. It’s also huge!

US minimum for rat cages is 2 cubic feet per rat, with a minimum of two rats because rats cannot be housed alone as they are extremely social animals. No, human companionship is not enough, rats need same-age, same-species companionship at all times. Please be aware, as well, that minimums are not the ideal to strive for. Whatever space you intend to dedicate to your rats, fill it! Fill it all up! And if you don’t have enough space for a large cage, don’t get rats. My setup, with the Home Depot/Lowe’s large cement mixing tubs in the bottom, is roughly 45 cubic feet of space. If we’re looking at minimums, this means I could house 22 rats! There’s no way that 22 rats could ever actually be comfortable in my setup. It would be insane, chaotic, and extremely messy. So why would 2 rats be comfortable in 4 cubic feet? They wouldn’t. More space is always better, hard stop.

Also remember that wire cages with bar spacing of no more than an inch for adult rats and no more than half an inch for small or young rats is a must. Tanks are absolutely not recommended for rats due to poor ventilation, which will cause respiratory issues and allow ammonia to build up much faster.

Bedding

This is different from nesting. Yes, it is. Bedding is the substrate used at the bottom of the cage or on shelves to catch errant droppings and urine, and is generally left where it is by the rats because they have no interest in it.

My main bedding is pine wood horse stall pellets. They are as dust free as the alternatives like shavings or paper pellets, and combine the best aspects of both those types of bedding with the ammonia-neutralizing effects of wood shavings and the compact, easy-to-clean nature of pellets. I love them. I also get them super hilariously cheap from Tractor Supply Co, so despite it being a little bit of a drive for me (about an hour round trip) the fact that it’s half the price of the next cheapest option more than makes up for it. I buy a bunch all at once and currently have a few bags left in my trunk because I didn’t have enough closet space for them. It’s great stuff. It crumbles when wet so it helps me keep track of how much and where they’re urinating, and it’s easy to spot clean those areas in between deep cleans.

When choosing a wood, if that’s the route you want to go, remember to check what is safe to use. Pine is only safe when it’s kiln-dried, since it contains fragrant oils that can cause respiratory issues in rats, mice, and hamsters. Some people will advise you to stay away from it entirely, and that’s fine, but since pine is often the cheapest option it’s not always viable. Aspen is a safe wood, but harder to find in pellet form and slightly more expensive as shavings. I use aspen shavings in my litter trays. Cedar wood is NEVER safe, no matter how it’s treated. I don’t think cedar is ever safe no matter what for any animal it’s marketed to, actually. It’ll cause respiratory distress in rats, mice, and hamsters, and guinea pigs and rabbits should never be on shavings regardless though I’m pretty sure they’ll still experience respiratory distress. The oils naturally in the wood are not safe, do not use cedar. Also make sure your bedding is as dust-free as possible, also for respiratory reasons. If you have a small animal, their respiratory system is extremely delicate, and that’s just a fact of pet ownership that you should have learned before getting a pet when you were researching how to care for it.

Since I have two shelves in my cage and they are both shallow to the point of not even having a lip (Critter Nation’s only flaw is the trays that come with the cage), I line my shelves with fleece over an appropriately sized bath mat. Fleece makes a great shelf liner, but I don’t recommend using it in the entire cage because it gets dirty really fast and most rats will chew it up, so you’ll both be changing it every other day and going through it super fast as it is destroyed. However, it makes great shelf liners, especially when very little of the shelf is actually available to the rats like in my setup, where the shelves are mostly covered in other things. Remember that fleece must always be lined with an absorbent layer underneath because the fleece itself allows liquid to pass right through it. That’s the point: the fleece stays relatively clean and dry while the absorbent layer takes all the gross stuff away. Towels are generally not recommended for this because rats can get their nails stuck in the fabric and rip them out, which is painful and distressing for the rat and also you. Anything super absorbent with a really tight weave will do lovely here, hence the low pile bath mats I use. I get them for one or two dollars at Ikea and wash them every week. I keep several around to rotate through. The fleece I use is also a fleece blanket from Ikea for a couple bucks that I cut into four sections because that rendered it the perfect size to tuck around the shelves. This makes my bedding extremely cheap, and that makes me happy because I can spend that money on enrichment instead.

Nesting

This is the material that the rats like to push around, dig in, and sleep in. It’s important to provide soft but preferably absorbent materials for the rats to nest in because it’s enriching, comfortable, and helps them regulate body temperature. Multiple types of nesting are recommended for enrichment purposes. Rats like texture! I use unscented, unlotioned tissues as a main nesting material for within their hides because they’re cheap, safe, absorbent, and soft. I bought 30 boxes of 100 tissues each for super cheap online, but you can also buy dollar store tissues or whatever you have access to. Just make sure they don’t have scents or lotions, because those are not safe for your rats’ delicate respiratory systems. The empty boxes (plastic removed) can also be given for the rats to chew up and play in, or you can save them up to DIY some fun toys later, which is what I’m doing.

I also have two dig boxes, which will also go under the enrichment section. The bins I got for cheap from Target, but obviously you can get bins wherever you want to get bins. Just measure to make sure they fit in your cage properly. The only dig box I want to talk about in this section is the hay box, because the dirt is not actually a nesting material but rather an enriching one. So, hay. My girls love this stuff so much that they drag it all over the cage to shove it into all their sleeping areas. They build actual rat nests in the box, tunnel through it, stash food in it, shred it for fun, and generally spend as much time as possible with the hay. I use oat hay for the seed heads that provide additional enrichment and snacks because the rats have to get to the seeds in order to eat them. If you are feeding a low-quality diet to your rats, do not use oat hay because they’ll fill up on seeds instead of eating their nutritionally-balanced food and that is not good. My rats love their food so much that the seeds are a sometimes snack that I don’t need to regulate because they do it themselves. Any good quality hay will do for a hay box, however, and timothy hay tends to be the cheapest option. Just make sure it’s not super low quality, because low quality hay tends to be dusty. As mentioned previously several times, rats have delicate respiratory systems and dust is bad for them. I buy my hay from Small Pet Select because I like supporting small business, ethical business, and businesses that provide excellent products. They are, however, primarily a rabbit site. I keep hoping they’ll expand the other sections of their shop. Also, make sure your rats aren’t trying to eat the hay. This is highly unlikely because rats are smart and know what’s edible and what isn’t, and hay is not edible for rats. If for some reason your rats are eating hay, do not give them a hay box.

Other nesting options I’ve used in the past include cut up bits of fleece, cut up old clothes you might have lying around, and generally just bits of fabric. Just remember to change out/wash them regularly. Ammonia will build up, and once again that’s bad for your rats’ respiratory systems.

Hides and Hammocks

Rats are prey animals. Surprise! As such, they need plenty of places to hide and feel safe. Rats love small, dark places to rest in. Much like many introverted humans, myself included! Make sure to include plenty of hides all over the cage. Variety is excellent here for enrichment reasons. My rats absolutely love Space Pods! Lixit makes the ones I use, but there’s also a brand called Sputnik that’s basically the same thing. I’ve never seen them in stores, but they’re all over the internet. For rats, make sure you get the large size. Honestly I wish it was larger than it is, but oh well. The girls love it anyway. I kept getting sent only the bottom halves, which is why I have two half space pods in my cage. I got a refund or replacement on both because it’s not what I paid for, but, like… I received the usable half, so I’m gonna use it. The girls don’t like to sleep in them without the covers, but they’ll hang out in there and clean themselves, and they climb through them to get from one spot to another.

In addition to the space pods, I also have various other hides. Lixit also makes a pill-shaped plastic hide that I keep on the shelf over the dirt box. They used to use it a lot more than they do now, and I’m not entirely sure why. Even so, they still use it! I also have a woven grass tent that they enjoy, and a cork log. Neither of those are really for sleeping, but they do hide in them sometimes and generally like to hang out there.

Hammocks are great, and also available in wide variety all over the internet and in stores. My favorite banana hammock was just retired, but I intend to get another. The girls loved it and so did I! Hammocks come in all sorts of shapes and sizes, and can pull double duty as both a place to sleep and a way to break up the cage so there aren’t any dead drops where your rats can fall from a height and hurt themselves. Fill your cage with hammocks! All the hammocks! Support small creators by buying homemade hammocks! Learn to make them yourself! They’re cheap and easy! Hammocks are great.

Enrichment Part 1: Levels

Rats are climbers. Rats need vertical space as well as horizontal space. Rats are sometimes clumsy idiots who fall off of things. As such, all vertical space must be filled with all kinds of fall breakers. As mentioned before, hammocks are great for this. So are ladders, bridges, ropes, and that Ikea tie hanger I have strung across the back of my cage. If your rat falls from anywhere in the cage, make sure there’s something to catch them!

Also make sure there’s something to do on all the levels of the cage, even if that thing to do is just get from one level to the next. Rats are dexterous and adventurous. Ramps are boring because they’re easy. If you have sick or injured rats, absolutely use ramps! Accessibility matters! If your rats are of sound body, however, make them work for it. Lava ledges and bird perches make great alternatives to ramps. Screw them into the cage walls and watch your rats hop around! They love it. Ladders are also fun, especially if they’re not used the way ladders are meant to be used. Suspend them from things, put them at weird angles, just make sure they’re secure. I get a lot of my levels from the bird aisle at the pet store (or virtual pet store). Be aware that sometimes your rats are going to prefer to climb directly on the bars of the cage. That’s normal! The bars are there, so the rats will climb them. That’s all there is to it!

Climbing frames like the wooden wine rack from Ikea that I have in the bottom of my cage are also good to have. My girls love it, and it does double duty as a chew toy.

Enrichment Part 2: Chewing

Contrary to popular belief and old science, rats do not actually require chews to keep their teeth trimmed. Rats trim their own teeth by bruxing, or grinding their teeth together. This does not, however, negate the need for chews. Rats like to chew! What your rat likes to chew best is entirely subjective. Some rats love wood and sticks, some rats will always chew fabric over anything else, some rats will never chew fabric. Every rat is different! Try as much variety as you can and keep stocked up on the things your rats like best. My rats really like woven grass, and I try to keep at least a couple different kinds around for them. I keep a grass mat on a shelf that they like to pull apart, and the woven grass tent will likely have a short lifespan, as well. There’s a woven grass tunnel thing that they’ve put into the dirt box and are slowly but systematically shredding. My girls also like willow sticks, so I’ve got a couple hanging toys of willow that are very slowly being chewed because there’s so much else to chew. The wooden bridges see a fair bit of chewing, and even the lava ledges get chewed on the edges. My girls also love destroying rattan and wicker balls. I bought a bunch of them for cheap and toss a new one in there about every week or so. They love them. I also got a couple things from Small Pet Select like a pine cone, a bit of natural loofah, and a dried okra pod. So far the okra pod has seen the most action and is shredded halfway to infinity. I think they like that it has seeds inside, but the others get chewed sometimes, too. There’s enough variety in my setup that everything lasts a decently long time. Except the rattan balls.

Enrichment Part 3: Digging

As much as rats like to climb, they also like to dig. That’s why it’s highly recommended to have a dig box. Safe substrate is important here. If you’re going with potting soil, make sure it’s just dirt and doesn’t contain any fertilizer. Personally, I found potting soil to be kind of annoying a little expensive. I prefer coconut soil. I use Exo Terra terrarium soil, which is sold in compacted blocks that you have to hydrate. I use two thirds of the recommended water because my rats don’t need humidity. I use three blocks per dig box, and replace the soil every month because the girls will do their business in it sometimes, leave food in it, leave bits of tissue or hay or various shredded chews. Basically, the dirt gets dirty in bad ways and needs to be replaced sometimes. It can also grow things if left too long because of the humidity (which will be a problem regardless of the type of substrate being used). So every deep clean, both dig boxes get emptied, wiped out, and refilled.

The hay box gets an honorable mention here, since it pulls double duty as both nesting and digging. Triple duty, really, since it’s also a forage toy.

Enrichment Part 4: Misc

Yeah, I didn’t know what category to put this under, so here we are. Litter boxes! No, seriously, this counts as enrichment. Training your rats, whether it’s to do tricks or just poop where you want them to, counts as enrichment. Rats are incredibly smart! They’re at least as trainable as the average dog, especially if they come from an ethical breeder who breeds for health and temperament (let me just slide a reminder not to buy live animals from pet stores that source from highly unethical breeding mills in right here; please support ethical breeders and rescues), and will happily take to any training. Remember that positive reinforcement is the only ethical way to train an animal. Treats are great for this, and your pet will love you even more because every living thing loves food. My rats actually didn’t require much training for their litter trays. Make sure that whatever you’re lining the litter trays with is not the same as their normal bedding. If you’re using aspen shavings in the main cage, use pine in the litter trays, or literally any distinct safe bedding. I use shavings in my litter trays and pellets in my main cage. This helps the rats distinguish the litter trays from the rest of the cage and makes it easier to identify where to do their business versus where not to do so. When you first put the litter trays in, just go in at least once a day and toss any poops you see into the tray. If you see your rats using the litter tray, offer a treat while they’re doing so. Rats are extremely clean animals and they like their mess contained as much as you do. It would not be possible for me to only deep clean once a month if I didn’t have litter trays that I clean out about twice a week (or more, if necessary) to get rid of the majority of the mess and smell. I’d be deep cleaning every two weeks at least without them, so the litter trays are a great investment overall. Your rats will never be perfect about using them, because they’re still rats, but they’ll help a great deal.

Also under this section are forage toys! Do not feed your rats from a simple bowl, it’s boring and encourages stashing, which means you’ll never know when they’ve actually run out of food because they’re just going to pick it up and take it somewhere else and have a great big hoard that you’ll find on deep clean day. You can definitely scatter feed, that’s enriching as well because it makes the rats go looking for their food, but forage toys are the ultimate way to feed your rats, I think. I mostly don’t get my forage toys from the small animal aisle. I do have one that’s small animal specific, a little ball that they roll around the get the food out. I also have some marketed for cats, and some marketed for birds. Having multiple kinds is really helpful. I’ve also noticed that while some stashing still occurs, it’s greatly reduced. I refill the toys as they empty and everyone’s happy.

Food/Water

What you feed your rats is extremely important, obviously. Many commercially available pellet foods marketed for rats are actually extremely not good for rats. The same is true cat and dog food. It is a sad fact that the companies that make these foods tend to be far more interested in their bottom line than the health of your pet. As such, do your research! Always do your research! Know what’s in the food and what your animal should be eating, and try to match those two things up as closely as possible. In the UK rat owners typically will avoid pellet foods and prefer homemade mixes for these reasons, but making your own mix is not always feasible and can be tricky if you don’t know what you’re doing. Most US rat owners tend toward pellets because it’s a lot harder to mess up the balance of nutrients when it’s done for you. Also, the UK does not have Oxbow, which is one of the most popular brands of healthy rat food. It’s the brand that I use, and my rats adore it. Mazuri is another popular and healthy option, but my rats prefer Oxbow over anything else. I kind of want to try making my own mix at some point, but I’m not sure I ever will. Like with most of my rat supplies, I buy food in bulk because it’s cheaper. A 20 lb bag of Oxbow Essentials Adult Rat food runs me about 40 bucks. Be careful to buy adult rat food, even for baby rats, because any food that says Young Rat and Mouse is not going to have the appropriate balance of fat and protein even for young rats. Adult food will do just fine for babies, too. If you want to add some extra protein to their diet, try a boiled egg or bits of meat every now and then, but it’s probably not necessary as long as they’re getting enough food and some extra fruits and veggies now and then. If you want to try making a mix, do so much research before you try it, and make sure your ingredients are good quality.

Rats should also receive other foods in addition to their pellet or main food. Rats are omnivores and love fresh veggies, fruits, milk, eggs, and meat! Make sure you research safe foods before giving them to your rats, as not everything is safe. If you adopt your rats from an ethical breeder, they should have resources available to you on what’s safe and healthy. If you rescue, you can still reach out to established ethical breeders for tips and tricks, or find lists online as you do your research. Some veggies are only safe cooked, some parts of certain plants are unsafe while others are safe, and some foods are only safe for males or females but not the other sex (citrus and mango are the ones I remember that fall into that category). Just do your research and try to keep processed foods away from your rats. Sodium is also not good for them. Any raw meat or fish should be frozen and then thawed before being fed to your rats to kill any potential contaminants. Like always, do your research first!

Rats obviously require water, as well. Water bottles tend to be the most widely accepted way to give rats water, because they don’t evaporate and are easy to keep clean. I, however, have a terrible time with bottles, and they always leak or break. Thus, I have opted for water bowls instead. The girls love them more than the bottles I’ve used in the past, and they’re a little more enriching, as well. The only downside is that I have to wash them out daily. But since I spot clean daily anyway, I don’t mind at all.

First Aid Kit

Any responsible pet owner should always keep a first aid kit around, no matter what kind of pet they have. Pet owners who have particularly vulnerable pets should especially be careful to make sure they have a well-stocked first aid kit. This should include single-use sterile syringes without needles, gauze pads, vet wrap, infant/toddler ibuprofen or acetaminophen, medical tape, cat nail trimmers, and probiotic powder like Benebac. But most importantly, it should include the phone number and location of a vet that will see and treat rats. Have a vet picked out that you have confirmed will see and treat your pets BEFORE getting pets. If an emergency arises and you’re suddenly scrambling for a vet last second, not only do you waste precious time getting your pet the help they need but you may find out too late that the nearest rat-friendly vet is too far away. That means your pet will suffer unnecessarily and you are an irresponsible pet owner. Hard stop. If there is no vet within reach that will see rats, do not get rats. Rats will require a vet trip at least once in their lives, since all rats are extremely prone to respiratory illness. Sometimes this happens for no reason at all, because all rats possess a bacteria in their respiratory systems called mycoplasma. There’s no way to get rid of it and nothing you can do about it except make sure your rats live in a clean, well-ventilated environment with safe bedding and materials. Even with all this, sometimes your rats will get sick. That’s normal! Just make sure you can take care of them when it happens. As such, make sure you have a vet fund at all times of at least a couple hundred dollars, in addition to a well-stocked first aid kit and the name and location of an appropriate vet.

It’s also beneficial and enriching to syringe train your rats. What this means is putting a liquid treat like baby food, yogurt, or apple sauce into a syringe and giving it to your rats. This teaches the rats that the syringe is a good thing so that if you ever need to give them medicine from the syringe (rat medicine tends to be oral and dissolved in a liquid solution, so those needle-less syringes will be necessary) they’re more likely to take the medicine with minimum complaints.

Storage

Maybe it goes without saying, but you also need places to put all of the things for your rats. Keep your first aid kit in a box to itself so you always know where it is, and organize your supplies appropriately. I really like Ikea bins for my bedding and food and other dry bulk items, and I keep a lot of my smaller stuff on a shelf at the foot of my bed. Work with the space you have, and plan appropriately.

And thus concludes this extremely long explanation of the bare basics of healthy rat living. Really, this is the bare basics and not even remotely comprehensive of the options available. Be creative when shopping, and definitely look outside of the small animal aisle at your local pet store because it will not contain anywhere near all of what you need.

TL;DR: A Basic Shopping List of My Specific Setup

-Double Critter Nation

-Single Critter Nation

-Zip ties

-2 Large sized cement mixing tubs from Home Depot/Lowe’s

-Pine wood horse stall pellets

-Low pile bath mats, enough to rotate while washing

-Fleece blanket, cut in quarters to fit shelves, enough to rotate while washing

-Bins to hold digging substrate

-Oat hay from Small Pet Select or Oxbow

-Exo Terra coconut fiber terrarium soil

-Lixit Critter Space Pods, large

-Lixit Small Animal Hideout

-Woven grass mat

-Woven grass tent

-Woven grass tube

-Rattan/wicker balls, lots

-Willow stick hanging toys

-Natural loofah

-Sanitized (and therefore safe) pine cone

-Dried okra pod

-Dog ropes

-Wooden bendy bridges

-C-clips, both the kind meant for shower curtains and smaller ones marketed for kids, for hanging things

-Hammocks. All the hammocks. From everywhere hammocks are sold.

-3 (sometimes 4) Ware Scatterless Lock-n-Litter Small Animal Litter Pan, Regular

-Ikea tie hanger

-Ikea wine rack

-Ikea storage bins

-Forage toys

-Oxbow Essentials Adult Rat food

-Ceramic (and therefore tip-proof) water bowls, and/or bowls that can be attached to the cage

-Sterile single-use syringes without needles

-Gauze

-Vet wrap

-Medical tape

-Infant/toddler ibuprofen/acetaminophen

-Cat nail trimmer

-Probiotic powder like Benebac

-The phone number and location of a rat-friendly vet

-A vet fund of at least a couple hundred dollars

A final note before the end: Always remember to do your research before getting pets, do not get pets if you cannot provide a good life for them with MORE THAN the bare minimum requirements for safe and healthy pets, do not buy live animals from pet stores unless it’s part of a rescue program, don’t take the word of just one person as law, don’t be afraid to ask questions respectfully, and always seek new ways to improve your pet care. This has been a PSA from your friendly small animal enthusiast.

#fancy rats #pet rats #my rat setup #rat care #rat care advice #pet care #long post

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teamhook · 4 years

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|AO3|

|FFN|

I want to thank @captainswanmoviemarathon and Discord. My co-writer @revanmeetra87

I want to also thank @ultraluckycatnd for Beta-ing thiis thing for us.

Thursday

Jefferson's broken leg was on a sling. His arm was in a cast. He wasn't in the best condition but he knew if he didn't get Killian back home he would be worse off. He would disappear. The TV kept reminding him that he needed to get out of the hospital ASAP. There were reports the elevators had either stopped working completely or malfunctioning. He had firsthand experience that is why he is in a hospital bed and not at home preparing his Nobel Prize speech. He had tried to charm the nurse to let him leave the hospital but failed miserably. Nurse Ratched told him he had to be released by Doctor Hyde. Jefferson didn't realize that she had come in to check on him earlier and overheard his entire conversation with Emma. She was concerned that he was crazy and suicidal.

Emma was getting ready for her day at work. The sudden ring of the fire alarm startled her. She could hear her neighbors yelling and Cat's frantic barks. She decided to check it out.

Killian had attempted to make breakfast and chaos had erupted, the fire alarm blared, smoke filled the apartment. Cat's barking got louder. As Emma entered she yelled, "Cat shut up!" She turned off the alarm, and opened the window to air out the apartment.

Killian glared. "That thing is a bloody hazard."

"It's just a toaster!" She glared back at Killian.

"That thing does not produce toast! One insertion only produces warm bread and two insertions produce charcoal!" he yelled.

Emma rolled her eyes, this man was a drama queen. "It's just a toaster." She repeats annoyedly.

Killian was pacing back and forth ranting, "You would think that when the General of Electric built the bloody thing he would test it, for him to take pride in his creations instead of just foisting them on the public without warning!"

"You know what, no one cares if they have to insert the toast twice. You know why? Because we all insert it twice!"

He took a step forward, he looked like a hunter going after its prey. He didn't stop until they were toe to toe. "Not where I come from!"

For a second Emma felt a rush, then she squared her shoulders. "Oh no, of course not because where you come from, toast is the result of reflection and study."

"Aye, you mock me, but perhaps one day, when you're awoken from a pleasurable slumber to the scent of a warm brioche smothered in marmalade and fresh creamery butter you'll understand that life is not solely comprised of tasks, but tastes."

Emma's smile widened. "Say that again."

Killian was baffled at her sudden change in demeanor. "Pardon me?"

"Nevermind, you'll be perfect." She looked him up and down. "Good, you're dressed. Come on, you're coming with me."

Killian followed her without question.

Emma and Killian arrived at her work, but not without some stares directed at Killian's wardrobe.

Emma had called Mary Margaret to meet them at the door. Just as requested, Mary Margaret was waiting for them. She greeted them as soon as they walked inside. "Emma, we've been waiting for you. We had-" She looked at the list, "five read so far-"

Emma shook her head. "Mary Margaret, meet Killian. Please take him to the greenroom; I want him to read." Mary Margaret smiled at Killian and nodded.

"Killian, this is Mary Margaret. Go with her and she will explain everything."

Killian and Mary Margaret disappeared down the hall.

Emma walked to the control room. Her boss was chatting up the client, so she went over to the monitors. There were women smiling and batting their lashes as they gazed into the screen with Killian on it.

The client, Mr. Spencer, was frustrated and finally said, "Walsh, I don't have time for this."

Emma responded, "Mr. Spencer, let's look at this last one."

Walsh Oz shakes his head. "Emma, the client said he wants to stop."

"Walsh, trust me, this is the one," Emma said with confidence.

"What is he wearing?" Walsh scrunched up his nose. "He looks like the Quaker Oats guy."

"Well, it doesn't really matter what you think. What really matters is what the ladies think. They love him. To them he is a dream. He's honest, courteous, handsome; a true gentleman. He stands up when you walk in a room. He brings you brioche in bed. If you eat his margarine, maybe your hips will shrink."

In the greenroom, Killian fidgeted under the scrutiny of the director's eyes.

"Mr. Duke, do you see that mark on the floor?"

Killian nodded.

"You need to stand on that tape line," the director said. "Okay, everyone quiet! And action!"

Killian stayed quiet with the rest of the room.

The director stared at him and rolled his eyes. "Mr. Duke, this is the part when you start talking."

Killian turned his gaze to the monitor and with a raised eyebrow, his blue eyes twinkled under the light. "Fresh creamery butter. Is there anything more comforting? I say there is. You'll agree once you sample fat-free Farmer's Bounty with the genuine essence of creamery butter in every bite. You shall receive butter's splendid flavour in your mouth without adding to the luxury of your waistline."

Mr. Spencer laughed boisterously. "Where do I sign?"

Walsh leaned in to whisper in Emma's ear. "Where did you find him?"

Emma took a step away. "Oh, he lives in my building."

Killian waited patiently by the door while Emma gave Mary Margaret some last minute instructions.

Walsh Oz walked out of the stairwell. He smirked as he noticed Emma was still in the building. "What's the deal with the elevators?" he asked no one in particular. He slowly approached her from behind, and smelled her hair. She stiffened. "Emma, we have so much to discuss over dinner tonight."

Oh yeah, Emma though. I'd forgotten about that. She tried to smile. "Yes, we do. I look forward to it."

Killian's jaw clenched at the display of power abuse and the obvious discomfort it caused Emma. Walsh grinned as Emma walked up to Killian so they could leave. "Nice job, Mr. Margarine," Walsh said as the glass doors closed behind them.

Once they're outside, Emma turned to Killian with a bright smile. She started dancing.

Amused, Killian smiled. "You look pleased."

"Killian, you did an amazing job in there! You are going to be famous!"

Killian simply smiled. "I take it you're dining with that man this evening?"

Emma's smile disappeared. "Yes, he's my boss, Walsh."

"Do you require a chaperone? His intentions are obvious," Killian asked.

"I'm alone with you, do I need a chaperone?" Emma rolled her eyes.

"Emma, we're not courting but if we were, as a man of honor, I would inform you of my intentions in writing."

"I don't need saving. No one saves me but me. Don't worry about it," Emma said, slightly annoyed.

Emma walked in front of him. Killian could tell she was miffed at him, so he kept a small distance from her. A horse carriage caught his eye. He patted the horse and turned to Emma. "How about we take one of these?"

She shook her head no. "Those are for tourists."

Killian smiled at the kind old man. "I'm sorry sir, she's not interested."

The man kindly grinned back. "No worries."

Emma raised her hand, and Killian watched her until one of the powered carriages - cars, he remembered - screeched to a halt at their side. It is bright yellow with some black trim, just like the one they used as transport earlier, but it appeared to have a different coachman.

"All right," Emma said as she opened the car door, "We're probably going to need a bank account number and possibly a birth certificate from you before we start filming. Legality and all. So if you could just drop the 'back in time' act for a few minutes and track them down for m-"

From behind them, a man in a billed cap darted forward and jerked Emma's reticule from her hands, then rushed across the street.

"Hey!" Emma shouted, enraged. "That's my purse!"

Emma took flight after the scumbag thief. "Hey asshole! That's my bag! I'm gonna get you, you ass!" She chased after him while wearing the most uncomfortable shoes. He was fast, but she was not about to give up.

She stopped for a brief second to catch her breath. She doesn't want to lose him and was about to restart her chase once more when she heard galloping hooves which confused her. She then heard her name being called out. That's when she noticed him. It was Killian riding a horse and he was fast approaching her.

"Emma, give me your hand," Killian instructed once he reached her.

She gave him her hand and he easily pulled her on the horse as they broke into full gallop in pursuit of the thief.

Emma held on to Killian tight as he maneuvered the animal. The chase didn't last long. They cornered the lowlife rapidly. "I warn you, scoundrel. You stand no chance. When you run, I shall ride and when you stop, the steel of this strap will be lodged in your brain."

The thief had nowhere to run so he just threw the purse on the ground and took flight. A sudden onslaught of cheering and applause erupted from their previously unknown audience. Killian unmounted to retrieve the purse. Emma simply stared at him as she tried to ignore the butterflies in her stomach.

Soon enough, they find themselves back at the corner where the chase began. Killian hooked the horse back up to the carriage as the older man smiled at Emma. "Your boyfriend is a great rider."

Emma smiled. "Yes, he is."

On the ride home, they sat quietly in the carriage.

"Are you for real?" Emma asked.

"Pardon?" Killian responded with a raised brow.

"You're a Duke?" Emma asked.

"I was born a Duke, but I never felt like one," Killian smiled.

Back at the apartment, Emma was getting ready for her dinner with Walsh. She noticed the interactions between Cat and Killian.

Cat was eagerly waiting for her next command from Killian with a wagging tail.

"Stay...Sit. On your feet… Stay… Stay… Good girl," Killian said with a triumphant smile.

Emma can't help as her eyes drifted to Killian. He was a good looking man after all and she wasn't blind. He was distracting, but she had to focus. Dinner equals promotion.

"What are you guys doing tonight?" Emma asked.

David's attention was glued to the game on TV and he mumbled under his breath, "we might meet up with some of my friends."

"Alright, I'm off to dinner then," Emma said.

"Emma, please reconsider my offer to chaperone," Killian begged.

Emma rolled her eyes. "I can take care of myself."

"David, don't you think it's inappropriate-" Killian asked as he helped Emma put on her coat.

"As her brother, I would think my sister would invite me to an audition," David said, outraged.

Emma sighed. "David, you're not exactly margarine material. I'm sorry."

"What!? I can't sell butter? Emma, I'm a great actor. I can sell butter! It's insulting that my own sister has no faith in me."

"Yes, David you are an amazing actor but-"

"Is it the accent? I can do British, Emma. Hell I can be anyone." David continued ranting as Emma turned to Killian. "Good night." She opened the door and lingered for a second before walking away.

Killian gazed after her with a small smile.

Emma and Walsh are seated and he ordered some drinks for them.

After the waiter left, his attention turned to her. "Emma, I have to admit I was nervous for you. When your friend walked in wearing that outfit, saying 'if you eat this margarine your hips will shrink'," Walsh laughed.

Emma smiled. "I was just doing my job."

"He is going to be bigger than Mr. Whipple. You're not sleeping with him are you?" he asked.

"No." She shook her head, yet at the tip of her tongue was a comment about it not being his business. Sometimes she had to remind herself to play nice.

Killian and David decided to go out and meet some friends. "Hey guys, this is Killian," David announced.

Killian smiled as he greeted everyone.

His companions were enthralled by his voice as Killian made a comment about how the best things in life are hidden in the basement of the Louvre.

David excused himself to go to the bar and get drinks where he bumped into a dressed up Mary Margaret out for a girls night out.

Killian noticed the interaction and David's obvious attempt at flirting. so he excused himself to get a closer look. Before he could get closer, though, the connection had been cut short and they returned to their respective parties. Killian stopped Mary Margaret to greet her as David caught their exchange on his way back to the table with the drinks.

Before anyone was aware of it, the evening came to its inevitable end. Killian and David were walking home and David stopped walking. Killian turned to him to see what the problem was as David started talking in a mocking voice...

"Please, allow me to assist you, Abigail."

"Oh, please, allow me to light that for you, Merida."

"What's this? Ah, this is my family crest. It has been in the family for generations."

"What do they have in the basement of the Louvre? The works of Da Vinci, Michelangelo, Chardin, David all surrounded by great coral sponges to absorb the moisture."

Killian was confused by his friend's behavior.

"Not all women are going to swoon over your-" David pointed up and down Killian's form.

Killian studied his friend, trying to understand David's point.

"I was going to get her number but-"

"I believe this is her number," Killian said as he handed his friend the paper. "Mary Margaret has no inkling of your affections. You are a Merry Andrew. Women respond to sincerity. This requires pulling one's tongue from one's cheek. No one wants to be romanced by a baboon. Here's her number and give her a call tomorrow. It's late now and Emma should be home by now."

"Wait, you like her." Realization dawned on David's face. "You really like my sister!"

"David, that's nonsense. You're intoxicated," Killian said as he scratched behind his ear.

"Now who's the Merry-Andrew? You know, Emma is having dinner not long from here. We should go and you can show me the proper way to make a move."

Killian sighed. "Not a move David, an overture. Make your intentions known. Think of pleasing her, not vexing her."

"Fine, no vexing. Come on let's go." David smiled as he pulled Killian in the direction of the restaurant.

Emma cleared her throat. "I have to confess I'm a bit confused. When you mentioned dinner, I was under the impression that we were here to discuss business, a possible promotion even." She sighed. "Dinner is winding down and we have yet to discuss those things. We've talked about your love of La Boheme, and the lovely place you purchased in Sussex."

Walsh gave her his best attempt at a seductive smile. "I don't believe I've ever seen you this flustered Emma, and you haven't even kissed me yet."

Emma fought the urge to roll her eyes. "Right. I like you, Walsh, I do. But I think you would agree that a working relationship- a successful working relationship, requires-"

"Hello, Emma!" David's cheery voice interrupted. "We found you."

Jumping in her seat, Emma turned to see her brother suddenly hovering beside the table. "David?" she asked in disbelief.

"We wanted to say hi," David explained, then proceeded to introduce himself to her boss.

"We?" Emma thought, before realizing Killian was standing at her side.

"Emma," he said in a low, earnest voice as his eyes searched hers. "May I speak to you in private?"

Her mouth fell open. "Seriously? No!"

But Walsh was already inviting the two to pull up seats and join them.

"Where, exactly, did you say it is?" Killian asked Walsh with a cocked eyebrow.

"Sussex, near Ballmour," Walsh said with offhanded superiority.

"Built in the 18th century?" Killian reiterated Walsh's earlier words.

"Early 18th century," Walsh emphasized, with a look at Emma. Killian could almost see the man puffing out his chest with pride. "I have pictures to prove it."

"Well," Killian said, thinking of the empty, rolling green and scattered trees of the area as he knew it. "I do believe you were swindled. I can assure you, as of the late 19th century, there is nothing in the area but farmland."

"You're mistaken," Walsh said immediately. "That's not possible."

Emma quickly jumped in. "He's right; you may be mistaken, Killian!" she hissed. "You don't know-"

Irritation rising due to the fact she was defending the cretin who was so obviously looking to take advantage of her, Killian snapped back. "I was raised there, I do know."

Clearing his throat to break up the discussion, Walsh changed the subject. "Killian, do you enjoy opera?"

Still stinging from Emma's words, Killian plastered a smile on his face. "Oh, indeed. Do you have a favorite?"

Raising his eyes to the ceiling, as if thinking deeply, Walsh finally said, "Boheme. La Boheme. I've seen it 12 times. That's...that is how I learned to speak French."

From the corner of his eye, Killian could see Emma's eyes widen with surprise. Clearly she was impressed, or pretending to be.

Now the irritation grew to ire, and Killian could feel it gnawing at him. He knew he should just let it go, but suddenly he heard himself making a statement in French.

Emma looked to Walsh. "What did he say?"

As Killian had expected, Walsh was sitting there dumbstruck, only managing to croak out a small scoffing noise.

Killian translated the phrase, explaining it was the opening words to Boheme - a duet.

Still slightly stunned, Walsh managed to jump back in and tell the table that Andre sang it to Mimi.

Unable to believe what he was hearing, Killian laughed softly. "Andre?"

Now recovering, Walsh lifted his head. "Yes, I invited Emma to the Met to see it. But she turned me down! Can you believe that, Killian?"

Voice tight, Killian said, "True, it should not be missed by anyone. But perhaps Emma resists on moral grounds."

Emma groaned softly, lowering her head into her hands.

Walsh narrowed his eyes. "How so?"

"Let's get the check!" Emma said hastily, but nobody answered her.

"Well," Killian said, staring at Walsh challengingly, "some feel that to court a woman in one's employ is nothing but a serpentine effort to make a lady fall from grace."

Silence fell over the table, though David was trying to hide his grin.

Finally, Walsh said stiffly, "This guy is charming, Emma. The Duke of Margarine thinks I'm a serpent."

"No, not a serpent," Killian corrected. "Merely a braggart and cad, who knows less French than I, if that is possible." Pushing back his seat, Killian rose and collected his jacket. "And by the way, there is no Andre in Boheme. It's Rodolfo. And though it takes place in France, it is rarely played in French as it is written in Italian. Good night."

Knowing he had made himself a fool, and facing the possibility that Emma would never speak to him again, Killian still turned on his heel and stalked out of the restaurant.

Back at the apartment, Killian and David waited for Emma's return. At the click of the door's lock unlocking, Killian rushed to the door.

Emma opened the door and breezed in, ignoring Killian's plea for a word.

Tag List:

@rumdrum91 @itsfabianadocarmo @xsajx @hookedonapirate @kmomof4 @searchingwardrobes @seriouslyhooked @profdanglaisstuff @let-it-raines @revanmeetra87 @snowbellewells @hollyethecurious @kymbersmith-90 @branlovestowrite @thejollyroger-writer @shireness-says @ilovemesomekillianjones @thisonesatellite @thesschesthair @winterbythesea @stahlop @resident-of-storybrooke @superchocovian @lfh1226-linda @artistic-writer @thislassishooked @shardminds @winterbaby89 @xhookswenchx @ultraluckycatnd @gingerchangeling @laschatzi @wellhellotragic @xemmaloveskillianx @courtorderedcake @pirateherokillian @optomisticgirl @darkcolinodonorgasm @sherlockianwhovian @andiirivera @djlbg @nikkiemms-deactivated20201107 @jennjenn615 @scientificapricot @officerrogers @imlaxdris71 @therealstartraveller776 @kday426 @allons-y-to-hogwarts-713 @donteattheappleshook @spacekrulesbians @lassluna @carpedzem @captainodonoghue @killian-will-do @jarienn972 @tehgreeneyes @demisexualemmaswan @queen-serena88 @swanslieutenant @tiganasummertree @whimsicallyenchantedrose @bethacaciakay @ohmakemeahercules @jrob64 @klynn-stormz @mariakov81

#Captain Swan #CSMM #cs ff #Captain Swan Movie Marathon #CSMM20

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ears-awake-eyes-opened · 4 years

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Effie turns 40

(Hayffie 💜🔥💥. NSFW. Sexual content and intensities at the threshold of midlife. Despite the title, this fic is primarily Haymitch-centric. The story, set about 7-8 years after Mockingjay, is part of a longer arc. Envisioning H & E’s character development is such a muse for me. Their voices were difficult for me to write in this one. I’m figuring them out as I go along. It’s a labor of love right now. Thank you for sharing the prompt — #13 below.)

***

Some decisions are calculated; you make them after they’ve turned over in your mind for hours, days, years even. Effie moving to 12 had been like that. Other decisions can’t even be called ‘decisions’ really. ‘Impulses’ would be more accurate.

Haymitch was generally not impulsive, unless alcohol clouded his judgement or blacked out all thought. There had been no alcohol the night before — on the eve of Effie’s 40th birthday, sobriety was part of their deal. And the whole thing was argueably the best sex he’d ever had with her or anyone else. Not that anyone was arguing the point.

Except something nagged at him — an impulse half-remembered, not because he’d been drunk, but because it had been hers — her impulse... maybe. And only as the sun came up did he give it thought.

“Don’t pull out...”

Her words turned over in his mind, belatedly.

During the night, the sheets had slipped to his side of the bed. If she woke just then, she’d accuse him of stealing the covers, which he likely did, since his sleep was fitful. A lock of hair coiled above her collarbone. He wasn’t sure how the ringlet stayed, given how many times he’d raked his fingers through her hair, pulled at it, dove inside it with that part of him that was into her far beyond the reach of his body.

He traced the curl with a fingertip then glanced down her breasts to her belly. Over a year ago there had been a baby there, for a while. He usually tried not to think about it. But the memory of its heartbeat nagged that morning along with the rest of Effie’s words.

“...Come inside me. It’ll be okay... It’ll be incredible.”

He didn’t hesitate. After pulling out all those months, staying in and feeling her clench around him as he spilled inside her had been so intoxicating that he didn’t even drink afterwards.

Before the pregnancy, Effie was fastidious about birth control. She set timers and took pills at precisely the same minute every day. After the miscarriage, she needed time to decide what to do since the pharmaceuticals had failed. And she felt like her body had failed.

Was she using something new? Did she get a shot or an implant? She hadn’t told him. Why hadn’t she told him?? Why hadn’t he asked her as she clutched his hips and reassured him and kept him in when he would have pulled out. Damn... just thinking about it made him want her exactly like that again.

He was planning to eat her out with breakfast. There was whipped cream in the fridge, and strawberries. He’d bought champagne, which she preferred to hard liquor. He’d drink it from the hollow of her stomach and let her do whatever she wanted to him, within reason. His girl would not be happy waking up 40, but he was planning to make her happy.

His thoughts mulled hot like spiced cider. And his mind wouldn’t let go of uncertainty or the memory of the heartbeat...gone. He didn’t want to go through that shit again.

He slid the covers over her, tucked the curl behind her ear, and waited impatiently for her to wake up.

***

Even with the curtains closed, the sun tormented Effie with reality. In that moment, 40 was the last thing she wanted to be. She rolled away from the window, pulled a blanket over her eyes, and tried falling back to sleep to no avail. She sighed in resignation.

Beneath the sheet, Haymitch caressed along the curve of her hip. His thoughts and emotions which had been rolling earlier were holding steady at the surface. This was her birthday. How long should he let her wake up before asking what he wanted to know?

She dropped the blanket from her eyes and opened them. As he stared into her, there was nothing playful about his expression, just unmistakable intensity. The feeling of a luminous bubble expanded in her chest and stretched along her midline to the juncture of her thighs.

She reached out and held his face in her palm. His jaw was still smooth with just a hint of stubble. She brushed her fingertips in the direction she knew the hair would grow. The familiar act flooded her with sensations of the night before, and she wanted his mouth on her.

She inched closer and nestled against him. Her lips plucked his once, and then again, sliding the tip of her tongue along the seam of his lips. He opened as she expected, and he sucked her in all at once. His teeth caught her lip, and the sting brought her nails digging into his back.

He groaned along her tongue as their bodies brushed, seeking a fit to burst the bubble, which he was feeling now too. Intensity built quickly. He had something to ask, but there wasn’t space now between them for thinking, just feeling.

She drew her leg up along his side, and she opened. He clutched her hips and slipped in slowly, but slow wasn’t enough — like when horses turn home, anticipating oats and cubes of sugar.

She pressed her calf to his ass, urging. A thrill rushed through her as he sank into the sweetest spot. “I’m gonna come fast, honey.” She let go of his mouth in order to say so. “I can feel it.”

His toes curled in the words. He was snug inside her, and she was so wet already. “Fuck, Effie. We just started.”

“I know.” She met him with upward thrusts, letting go of restraint and taking control in turn, drawing out her own pleasure. “Look at me.”

He met her gaze again and held it. Her fervor was catching. He gritted his teeth and matched her pace, holding back when she slowed. Then pushing home like the horses.

“It’s so much,” she spoke of the feeling between them. Her nails played up his spine to the nape of his neck, then along his scalp. His shiver was a harbinger of what was coming. “It’s so much, Haymitch.”

His confession was quiet, tucked somewhere in between guttural sounds and a calloused thumb stroking her breast. “It’s everything.”

The admission, the gentle roughness, the flood of emotion lit her up. “Ohh, I can’t stop it.”

“Jesus. Why would you wanna stop it?” He said it to himself as much as to her.

Luminosity exploded. Her body quaked, milking the length of him. The force of creation swelled. For a moment she was the whole world — his girl. The whole goddamn world. He climaxed inside her without asking the question, without saying another word beyond their cries of pleasure and release. They broke open, glistening.

When her shaking stopped, there were tears on her cheeks. Her leg flopped back onto the bed. “Damn...” she whispered, “I’d be willing to turn 40 every day if each one can start like this.”

He wanted to linger inside her and kiss her tears and tell her how glad he was that she’d been born exactly WHEN she was so she could be exactly WHO she was — somebody who made him feel things he never thought he’d be feeling.

But the nagging uncertainty which had been holding steady on the surface boiled over, and he said none of that. Irritation crept into his voice.

“Damn it. You’re a fucking Siren.” His shift in tone was clear.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That depends.” He looked into her eyes once more, assessing her critically. Then he rolled out of her before he’d fully softened.

“On what?” She turned to face him.

“What birth control are you using now?”

She hesitated. “It’s called being 40.”

“What?”

“I’m old now.”

His face was blank. “40 isn’t old, and it sure ain’t birth control.”

“Withdrawal isn’t 100% effective, and you’ve been doing that for a year with no babies.”

Haymitch sat up, trying to figure out what was happening. “Me pulling out is a hell of a lot more effective birth control than you being 40!”

She draped her arm across her eyes. Saying the truth was uncomfortable, especially with him upset. “My eggs are mummified.”

“Overnight?! You were on your period last week for christ sake! Your drama is gonna get us pregnant again. Is that what you want?!”

Everything got quiet. She uncovered her eyes and dropped her arm to her stomach. “You said ‘us.’ Why talk about US getting pregnant when it’s never going to happen?”

“It ALREADY happened, not even two years ago. And right now there are millions, maybe hundreds of millions, of my guys swimming inside you. It just takes one *non-mummified* egg, and we’re back where we were a year and a half ago. Is that where you want to be?!”

She paused before answering. The delay was long. Way too long, he thought. Her thumb caressed her stomach, just once, but he noticed.

“Effie, do you want a baby?!”

“...I don’t know. ...Maybe. I don’t know!”

“Maybe!? You don’t know!? Well, you might have just gotten one, and I didn’t even get a say!”

He was inches from her in their bed, and he wasn’t touching her. He was scowling as if she’d stabbed him in the back with his own knife.

“I didn’t force you to be with me just now — or last night! ‘IT’S EVERYTHING,’ you said. You JUST said that! What happened to THAT?”

“‘Don’t pull out,’ you said! ‘Come inside me,’ you said! ‘It’ll be okay — It’ll be INCREDIBLE,’ you said!!”

“It WAS incredible! Sex is always good between us but never quite like that. And it’s not because you shaved, or I waxed or I wore that awful pleated skirt. It’s something more. I felt it last night and again just now. Don’t tell me you didn’t feel it too because I KNOW you did!”

He leaped out of bed and stood naked in the middle of the room, fuming at her. Every muscle in his body was rigid. She wanted to touch him and soothe him and make him understand.

“Why do you have to be like this and ruin everything?!”

“You tricked me.”

“I did NOT! When have I EVER been deceitful?! You’re being unfair.”

He stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door.

As the water ran in the shower, Effie stayed in bed. Only when the room was quiet did she realize what she’d been doing. While they’d argued, she was clenching her pelvic floor, holding in those millions of sperm he’d mentioned. If I’m certain that I’m too old to have a baby, and if I don’t even know whether or not I would want to have one, then why am I doing this??

The only answers she could think of were that just maybe she wasn’t too old, and just maybe she knew more than she’d realized. Everything was jumbled, and she didn’t want to let go.

When Haymitch stepped out of the bathroom, he dressed in stony silence.

“We need to talk about this,” she said.

There were fresh tears on her cheeks, but they barely phased him. “I feel suffocated. I’ve gotta get out of here.”

“Fine. Walk away...” As he did, she tried to sound angry. “Walking away is what you always do!”

She steeled herself against the sound she knew was coming. When she heard the front door slam, she told herself, “At the end of the day, it’s my bed he’s crawling back into!” She tried to sound confident, but her voice wavered. Because she wasn’t confident — and she wasn’t angry. Not really.

She was confused, and she was sad. She was 40 — and so goddamn sad.

***

Getting out of the house wasn’t enough. Haymitch wanted out of his feelings, out of his thoughts, out of his body. Walking away wasn’t enough, so he ran — at least fifty yards, veering off the road through a field, thick with grasses and aging saplings. He steered clear of scattered houses and the voices of people. People were just waiting to screw him over and slit his throat. Oats and cubes of sugar were a fucking fantasy. He was running toward nothing, chasing his own breath.

When he couldn’t catch it, he stopped and reached into his coat for his flask. It wasn’t there. Shit. At least coins jingled in his pockets. He gathered them up, and counted out enough to buy a bottle. He set off again in the direction of the Hob, walking now since he’d lost steam for anything else. He’d have to face people after all.

The building was uncrowded for mid morning. Fragrances of food and coffee made his stomach protest its emptiness. He bought a bottle of whiskey and had enough cash left on him for a bowl of soup.

“Mornin’, boy,” Greasy Sae greeted him in the usual way, “You’re showin’ up here mighty early.” She glanced at the bottle tucked in the crook of his elbow. “You pickin’ up supplies for the party?”

Fuck. He’d forgotten. Peeta was hosting a surprise that afternoon, baking a big cake and everything for Effie. Haymitch had no idea who all had been invited. Damn near everyone in 12 knew her now, outgoing as she was. Hopefully Katniss had reined in the boy’s generosity, and they’d keep the gathering small. Though Haymitch didn’t want to deal with any of that shit now.

“Can I get you a cup of beef soup?” Sae asked when he hadn’t responded, “Just made it fresh this mornin’ with the real thing.”

“The party. Right...” he answered late.

Peeta had asked him to come up with some excuse to get Effie to their place early in the afternoon. ...I just heard the kids talking about curtains, maybe you should go over and help them out... Something like that ought to do. Until the fight that morning, he’d been looking forward to spending time with them. He’d been looking forward to everything.

“...Soup would be fine,” he answered after Sae had already ladeled some into an oversized cup.

“How’s that girl of yours?” She filled the silence as Haymitch counted out change. “Turnin’ 40 can be tough for a woman. We tend to feel age differently before we’ve got kids. Once there’s kids, we ain’t got time to feel old. Take a moment to even breathe, and they’ll run right over you.” She handed him the soup. “I know she lost one, and losin’ ‘em hurts. It’s real hard to lose your first. But I got hope for you.”

As he stood there with the cup warming his hands, facing Sae’s crinkled brown eyes and thin smile, he felt Effie’s words filling his gut... Why do you have to be like this and ruin everything?! The thought stole his appetite, but he drank the soup anyway in three gulps and handed the cup back to her. The food calmed his stomach. “Guess I was hungrier than I felt.”

“Feelin’s can fool us. A body can get so used to emptiness that we start feelin’ full from it. But emptiness ain’t gonna nourish you. ...Now, I got customers waitin’. Tell Effie I’m wishin’ her a happy birthday.”

“I’ll do that,” Haymitch said out of habit. He was going to have to talk to Effie eventually, but he wasn’t ready.

He left the Hob feeling like a hypocrite. He’d accused her of tricking him when he was all too eager to finish off sex inside her with nothing in between them — so eager he’d done it twice. And, damn it, he’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t want to do it again.

He cracked open the bottle and tried to chase away regret about what he’d said to her. He followed the gravel road deeper into what used to be the Seam. Long ago it was home, but home changes. The only things that tied him to that stretch of land were memories and wounds long sealed by scars.

His open wounds were elsewhere now, like home was. Swallows of whiskey wrapped the wounds in a layer of gauze. He could think and feel through it, but the thoughts and feelings were hazy, like the mist that covers the meadow in the morning before it’s touched by the sun.

Ghosts of a sort came out of the mist and murmured their stories. He wasn’t sober enough to tell the voices to fuck off, and he wasn’t drunk enough to not hear them. So he listened through the haze, walking without a destination in mind.

***

The first voice — longing — came from the seashore. Skipping rocks and building sandcastles with Annie’s boy had flipped a switch in him. The kid had been his shadow. At the week’s end, the little guy reluctantly said goodbye with a bear hug and a sloppy kiss on Haymitch’s cheek. What might have been if Effie’s baby had lived and become a child? Their child. It would have been something in between a giant pain in the ass and a love big enough to eat him alive.

I’d be a fool to consider bringing a kid into this fucked up world on purpose, the second voice — reason — said. He was an alcoholic who drank to stay alive. He believed he had no business being anybody’s father. And Effie nearly had a seizure every time she stepped in a pile of goose shit. Babies crap all the time, and they puke all over the place. And sleep?... Forget about doing it because they don’t.

And sometimes they die. A third voice — grief — lamented. They fucking die, and I can’t do a damn thing about it.

That fateful morning last year when Effie was losing the baby, she’d roused him from sleep. The chill in her voice tugged his heart into his stomach. “Haymitch, something is VERY wrong.” Cramping had come on in her back and abdomen, and she was bleeding.

Adrenaline rushed to his limbs as if he was in the arena. He’d gone to call for the doctor, and when he returned, Effie was sitting in the dry bathtub, still in her nightie. A steady stream of blood trickled down the drain, and she was holding something reddish purple in the palm of her hand. It was the baby — no bigger than an apple. ...Its name had been pulled from the Reaping Ball before it even had a name.

“I’m sorry,” she kept telling the tiny thing. “I’m so sorry...” She looked at Haymitch as he wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and chest. Her eyes held no tears.

He wasn’t thinking about the baby just then. He was scared out of his mind about losing Effie. “The doc will be here real soon.” It was all he could say as he sat on the edge of the tub, kissing her forehead and stroking her hair. He must have said it as many times as she said “I’m sorry.”

The doctor’s arrival, exam, and treatment were all a blur.

“I know it seems like a lot of blood,” the doc said later, “But there are no signs of hemorrhaging or uterine abnormalities. I was able to remove the placenta. A miscarriage happens more rarely at this stage, but it’s not uncommon. I’m sorry, Effie — Haymitch. ...She appears to be developmentally normal for 15 weeks gestation. I wish could offer an explanation. Sometimes these things just happen. A miscarriage doesn’t necessarily negatively affect subsequent pregnancies. It may take several weeks to recover. When you feel ready, you can try again.”

“We weren’t trying.” Haymitch wasn’t sure why he’d felt the need to clarify.

“She?” Effie had heard the doctor say it, even if she took in nothing else. She had only let go of the baby long enough for the doc to examine it. Otherwise she held it against her chest.

“Gender can be difficult to determine this early, but the signs indicate a girl. An autopsy could confirm, and it might show the cause of the miscarriage. If you’d like—“

“No,” Effie insisted, “I can’t let you take her and cut her open. She’ll be staying here.”

That afternoon Haymitch dug a grave under the maple tree in the backyard. He made it a full six feet deep so the scavengers wouldn’t find her and pick her apart.

Effie wrapped the baby in a small blanket along with her umbilical cord and the pieces of placenta and laid her in a jewelry box. “She’s used to being inside me. She’d be cold in the ground without a blanket.”

The words had been madness. If he’d let himself think about it like that, then he wouldn’t have gotten through it. One of them had to stay sane. Burying the tiny girl was his first and last act of care for her. Shoveling all that dirt over her was like burying an axe in his gut.

I refuse to go through that shit again, the fourth voice spoke in a convergence — anger and fear. It had been the one yelling earlier, as he took the discomfort of his wounds out on Effie. Thinking about the baby was too much, and his body wasn’t even the one she’d lived inside all those weeks. ...Effie’s was.

His feet turned him around, and he headed back up the road. This time he knew where he was going.

***

At home in the yard, the geese barked at him about leaving them to forage for their own breakfasts. The grass was sparse due to lack of attention. Not wanting their hunger to be something else on his conscience, he scooped wheat into their water buckets and pellets into their feed bowls. As they ate, they quieted down and left him alone, which was just fine by him. He liked most of them better at a distance.

Grass didn’t grow under the maple tree. A dense network of roots kept other plants from taking hold. He’d dug through six feet of those roots, and he pictured them growing back now around the jewelry box. The little coffin wouldn’t drift underground whenever the rains came. The tree would hold it in place.

He sat with his back against the tree and took another drink of whiskey — just enough to try to restore the haze which had worn off, leaving him raw again. Mist filled his eyes. The memories coming up were vivid and close. He wiped his nose on his sleeve. He hadn’t cried about anything in so long that he’d forgotten the way tears clog a person’s head before slipping out. They slid down the back of his throat until he’d swallowed so many that he thought he might throw up.

Effie found him there. She shuffled her feet as she approached so she wouldn’t startle him. She sat on the ground, cross legged with her hands in her lap. In the moment, she didn’t care if the soil stained her skirt. In all the years she’d known Haymitch, she’d never seen him cry. She ached to touch him, but she was afraid he’d pull away, so she didn’t reach. He didn’t look at her, but he didn’t tell her to leave, and he didn’t leave either.

Long minutes passed before either of them spoke. In the silence, Effie was uneasy, but at least she wasn’t alone. He was right beside her. The geese wandered the grass, and a breeze was blowing through the maple leaves. The leaves brushed against each other, whispering things she could only imagine.

“We need to talk.” Choked up and hoarse, Haymitch sounded like a stranger.

“Yes, we do.”

He looked at her with swollen eyes. Hers were more pink than white. He was beating himself up inside for making her cry about this, especially today. “I don’t wanna fight,” he said. The battle raging between the voices in his head was all he could handle.

“I don’t want us to fight either. ...Not here. Not about this.” She glanced at the the baby’s grave. “I had no intention of tricking you about anything, especially this.”

“I know.” His swift acknowledgement surprised her. He reached for her hand and interlaced their fingers in her lap. “I didn’t mean to ruin your day.”

She held his hand as a lifeline. “It isn’t ruined.�� She paused before saying it in order to keep from crying again.

“It’s not what I planned.”

“Things don’t always turn out the way we plan.” She hesitated before saying more. “...For a short time after I lost the baby, my breasts made milk. Did I ever tell you that?”

“I don’t think I was hearing much then.” He looked at her breasts, wondering what other details she’d faced alone. “I remember tracing veins there that I hadn’t seen before. ...Sometimes I watched your stomach while you were sleeping.” Sometimes I still do, he didn’t say.

“I never got to feel the baby moving inside me. She was always too small to feel. ...She had the prettiest hands. Long fingers for playing piano. Do you remember?”

He shook his head. He couldn’t remember her hands. He leaned his head back against the tree and closed his eyes. “I’m mixed up, Effie.”

She scooted closer and laid her head on his shoulder. “Oh, honey, I am too.”

He caressed her thumb with his, and she watched the maple leaves cast shadows over their entwined fingers.

***

Eventually the geese wandered over, honking for more handouts.

“Give them an inch, and they want a yard.”

“If they had an actual yard, they probably wouldn’t be so demanding.”

“Suddenly you’re the goose whisperer?”

“‘Goose’ and ‘whisper’ do not belong in the same sentence.”

“I’ll give you that.” He pulled her to her feet, and they went in the house.

Despite the bit of teasing, the solemn mood followed them inside. There was much more to say, but they were both saturated.

“Listen,” he told her, “I don’t know if you want to hear this, but in about an hour I’m supposed to tell you that the kids are talking about getting new curtains and maybe you ought to go over and help them out.”

“Is that the secret code for my surprise party?”

“Peeta is trying to be subtle.”

“That dear boy is anything but subtle. This morning he was decorating a two-tiered cake with the blinds open. They actually COULD use some curtains.”

“If you’re not up for the party, I’ll have them call it off. Peeta might have invited half the town. I don’t know.”

“Be with me awhile. Then I’ll be okay to go.”

Haymitch was unsettled by the realization that being with her ‘awhile’ might never again be enough. Having witnessed so much death, ‘forever’ had always been a subjective and fairly meaningless concept. But it was starting to feel like something other than an endless train of horror. It felt precious and terrifying in a different way.

Effie stepped into his arms as he opened them. He needed to be held as badly as he needed to be holding her. Needing somebody other than himself was dangerous. He was uneasy with it, but he didn’t let go.

“Are you hungry?” He spoke softly against her temple. “I screwed up what I had planned for you for breakfast. I wanted to make you — happy.”

“I ate a little. Maybe we can have your breakfast for dinner?”

Sex was a touchy subject just then, but he wasn’t going to tiptoe around it. “It was gonna be breakfast in bed, using our bodies as plates and glasses. ...Are you still interested?”

“That depends. Will I get to make you — happy — too?”

If he thought too much about her sucking whipped cream off his dick, then they’d never make it to the party. “It’s your birthday, sweetheart. You make the wishes. I wouldn’t turn down that offer.”

At the end of the day, it’s my bed he’s crawling back into. The understanding was as comforting as his arms around her. She didn’t know what ‘everything’ would be, but whatever it might be, she wanted it with him.

#hayffie #hayffie fanfiction #effie x haymitch #haymitch x effie #haymitch abernathy #effie trinket #thg #thg fanfiction #the hunger games #hunger games #post-revolution #district 12 #geese #greasy sae #hayffie baby #the deal #Effie turns 40 #midlife #HayffieFics

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lygerastia · 4 years

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15. Seeking Solace [Geralt of Rivia]

Once upon a time, Geralt had a lover he could come home too. Now, he remembers them fondly.

Warnings: angst.

Chapters: 1 [complete]

Words: 1,666

READ IT ON AO3.

***

Tired.

Tired of running. Tired of searching. Tired of fighting. The witcher—scourge of society—finally exhausted his feelings. He wasn’t supposed to, trained as he was to be neutral. To don’t take things at heart. To not get attached. To not care—to not feel anything. Mercy. Anger.

Love.

The witcher is not as he is supposed—raised—to be. So what? He can break stereotypes as long as he still kills monsters. He can ignore japes and insults like he usually does while still not blaming them for the prejudice. He can be just and have a heart while slashing his sword back and forth, killing without remorse. As long as he fills the void inside his heart. So long as he feeds the gnawing hole that wants to make his life meaningful...

A long time ago, he would’ve been more than happy to be on the road. To go from place to place, searching for jobs—and searching for a part of him that was missing. He wanted to escape the Wild Hunt, Yennefer’s possessiveness, Triss and her lies, Dandelion’s songs, or reunite with the only person he’d tolerate any time of the day: Ciri. The witcher doesn’t know anymore; he saved the world, in the end. And along the way, on this life-threatening adventure, he found something else worth fighting for. A figure he had to leave at some point because he had to save them from the monsters that were hunting him. He was in a race against time.

But he was done now. He could go back to a ‘normal’ life, relax—put a break on the world and enjoy a moment of respite. The witcher wanted to hide, close his eyes, and simply forget everyone else existed. He hurries, spurring Roach to exhaustion, for once pleading his mare to forgive him. Lots of oats will await her when he’s done, the witcher promises. Desperation in his mind, his features showing nothing, his heart is racing—as quickly as the wind. He doesn’t stop to eat, to drink, to check out the crimes that are probably happening around him.

He has only a name in mind, repeating it like a prayer. The white-haired male wishes they are fine—no harm done. But in this cruel world, he knows that anything is possible. That his life has always turned to the worst when he was the happiest. He can arrive in the city and found them dead. He can find them captured—or they simply don’t love him any longer.

The possibilities make him shudder with fright; he wants to stop the torrent of thoughts, but they plague him like a curse.

He gallops like the wind—

In the end (feels too late), he sees the outskirts of the city. The witcher curses those guards at the gate, feels relief when he’s finally through. He follows familiar roads, cutting corners, passing people—he spots their house, finally. Jumping down, he hastily ties Roach and doesn’t wait to knock on the door. Comes in like a storm, startling them.

He never dreamed of seeing them again.

“Geralt!” His name on their lips is like a soothing balm. “You scared me!”

But there’s a loving smile on their lips. And, as he falls into their warm embrace, he knows he’s in the right place.

The witcher doesn’t hesitate to kiss their hair, inhaling the fruity scent he surely missed. Despite it all, his heart doesn’t calm until he looks into their eyes, absorbing every feeling reflected there. When they whisper his name gently, he can’t help but attack those lips with his, hunger in his actions. He missed them, more than anything. His body also missed them—and it shows. They know so, giving him a hungry lascivious look through thick eyelashes. Geralt accepts to be led by the hand toward the bedroom, still smelling of their combined natural scents. It turned him on even more, remembering the perfect times the two of them had together.

They purr, “Missed me?” as if they didn’t know. As if they weren’t feeling his eagerness pressed against their leg.

When he’s done, after hours and hours of love-making, it’s already late in the evening. His lover is exhausted, curled up to his side, an arm around his own body. Geralt embraces them, holding them tight, inhaling his scent on them, so reassuring. It’s still arousing, their musk—but they’re already fast asleep, chest rising slowly.

He closes his eyes, finally at ease. His nerves could get a rest and he can forget about the suffering he went through. He’s warm, he’s comfortable—nothing could pry them from his loving arms. He even feels like he can finally sleep. He welcomes the feeling, glad to be able to let his body rest. The witcher doesn’t know when he drifts into slumber, but he soon wakes from their soft kisses on his rough cheeks. His eyes flutter open—and meets their shining bright eyes and sleepy smile.

“Morning already?” he grumbles, stretching his back like a cat. “Let’s go back to sleep.”

They open their mouth, their lips move, and he expects to feel their soft, warm voice to ring in his ears. He hears nothing in return. Maybe they were just playing a joke on him. A trick. But, as he gazes at them, he notices there’s something wrong: their features...

It’s not like he remembers. Not the soft lips or skin, not the eyes, now turning violent. A coldness creeps up his spine—the wind. He doesn’t remember opening the windows. However, he knows better than this: a slithering realization slowly dawns on him. And the witcher’s heart breaks again—for the millionth time.

“No,” he mouths, voice lost in the torrent of the storm that’s happening all around him all of a sudden. He can’t hear their reply, that smile still on their face. But their facial features are distorted, shaping into something else—he doesn’t remember them being this way. However, despite all his confusion and fright, he remembers the person who was now standing in his lover’s bed, long, dark hair spilling over the fluffy pillow.

Another familiar voice...

Yennefer. Was he plaguing his dreams again? Before they’re gone, before he’s going to lose them again, he calls out, desperate.

“Come back.” He’s unsure, though, whether it’s Yennefer’s voice or his.

Their eyes turn a shade of violet—and he doesn’t want to forget. But, no matter how hard he concentrated, he couldn’t find their face again.

“Come, Geralt...”

He felt himself slipping, everything turning dark around him. The witcher was waking up. He doesn’t want to—reality is too disappointing, and he doesn’t want to face the truth. The truth that his lover was long gone, the result of an unhappy accident. It was his fault. And he can’t forget. He doesn’t want to say ‘I love you’ to a shadow, but he mouths them anyway.

Words have a strong power.

For a second, they’re back to their normal self, the huge bright smile he adored reminding him of better times. He read their lips, whispering the same vows. His heart fills with warmth again—he just wants to succumb to the feeling, to get lost in their embrace.

“Geralt!”

With a gasp, he opens his eyes, meeting pretty violet ones. Once upon a time, he would’ve loved to see those eyes every day he woke up. Once upon a time, he loved the sorceress. Maybe he still does now—he promised her that, whether she believed it or not. Sometimes, the witcher thinks she knows. Even if he doesn’t like it and told her so a thousand times, she still reads his mind. And, whether or not he thinks about it, their name will inevitably pop up. Yennefer says nothing about it.

Should he be grateful? Right now—no. He was angry she woke him up. Pulled him out from his sweet dream. He wanted to get lost. Nothing else mattered.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she says defensively, trying to sound angry when she was startled by his reaction. He doesn’t respond, growling as he stands up. Yennefer seated herself away from his reach, frowning as if it was his fault.

He says nothing, avoiding her gaze, bitter about it all. He feeds the fire, aware of the night and swamp sounds around them, the whinnying of restless horses. On the road again, as usual—the only thing he ever wanted was settling down in the house of his dreams.

With his lover. With Yennefer.

Why did it matter what he wanted? Destiny is always fucking with him.

“You were hurting, Geralt.” Yennefer tries to explain herself, filling in his sulky silence. “Tossing in the sleep. Crying out.” She sounded hurt.

“Do you think I'd let you do that for the whole night?”

Geralt doesn’t respond. She goes on, losing hope. “You seek solace in dreams, Geralt. Don’t hope.” Yennefer casts her eyes downwards, sadness lingering in her features—a thing that he misses entirely.

“They’re long gone.”

The witcher knows that better than anyone. His love got lost because of him—and he feels guilty about it every day. Even if his feelings got dulled to numb pain, he swore he’ll never forget the face of the person who once made him happy. The one he’d promise his future and couldn’t fulfill it. He’ll never forgive himself.

Geralt, witcher with feelings, is tired. But he’ll go on—it's what they’d want to.

“Geralt...” he feels Yennefer’s warm palm on his shoulder and, this time, he doesn’t push her away. He needs consolation, even if it’s with another person. He turns around, capturing her soft lips with his, hungry, hoping the sorceress wasn’t reading his thoughts, for once. He’ll hurt her—because, even if he doesn’t say it, he can deceive himself that he’s kissing someone else.

The witcher still dreams—and will continue to do so. It’s inevitable.

–

[masterlist]

#Geralt of Rivia #Geralt x reader #Geralt imagine #The Witcher

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5lazarus · 4 years

Text

Anders in Autumn, Ch.7

inspired by @cozy-autumn-prompts! Chapter Seven, First Frost: After Varric’s party at the Hanged Man, Anders wakes up hungover and freezing in Fenris’ home. They talk around what’s actually bothering. He sobers up. Read the rest of it here.

Anders woke up shivering and feeling hungover. Someone had thrown his shawl over him and taken off his boots, and tucked a pillow under his head. Alas, the fireplace was unlit, and dusty besides. He winced and pulled himself into a sitting position. Hopefully he hadn’t embarrassed himself too badly the night before. Alcohol and embrium hit him harder since Justice had found a space. He thought, there was to be a spell to magic hangovers away. He felt the echo of smugness from Justice that meant that there was, and that Justice had no intention of teaching him. Mealy-mouthed and parched, Anders left the room and began to wander Danarius’s mansion. At least Fenris had finally disposed of the corpses. He found the elf stirring a pot of oats over the fireplace of the main hall. Fenris growled, “Mage.” Anders winced. He hadn’t thought the wisp was going to indulge all three of them, he had not intentionally invoked it, and he had gotten perhaps too comfortable with spirits since Justice tended to scare the demons away. Anders decided to play it safe. “Thanks for not killing me in my sleep, Mage-Killer,” he said. Fenris grunted. “I’m sure you considered it.” Fenris grunted again. Anders shivered again, and rubbed his hands. If Fenris were less unreasonable--that is not fair, Justice twinged at him, look at the lyrium-brands--if Fenris were less uncomfortable with casual magic, he’d spit a little fire into his hands to warm them up. He said, “Mind if I take a seat?” Before Fenris could tell him no, Anders grabbed a stool and sat next to him at the fireplace. He huddled in his shawl and inhaled deeply: nothing quite like gruel in the morning, after a good party. Was it a good party? He had a moment of grace, so that was good. Fenris stirred the pot, then added a dollop of honey, and then kept pouring. Anders watched with growing amusement as he emptied an entire jar into the pot, and then cinnamon. “Get that for me,” Fenris said, indicating with his chin. Anders turned around and found another jar sitting on the floor: sliced walnuts. He handed it to him. “If you want to be useful, you could slice a few apples. There’s a sack downstairs.” “Oh no, I much prefer being ornamental,” Anders responded. Fenris snorted, but kept stirring. Anders wandered down the grand staircase. He really was living like shit, squatting in his own home. He may have finally removed the corpses, but the mansion still stunk of death, and there were scorch marks everywhere from the party he had thrown in the beginning of the month. The Veil was particularly thin in the cellar. A thin scream stretched across the stone floor. Justice thought, I came too late. Anders blinked and he was holding a knife in one hand, an apple in the other. It was a good apple, solid, smooth, red. He hoped it would be good enough for the gruel. He headed upstairs and announced, “Your cellar’s haunted, you know.” Fenris said, “I live in a mansion formerly owned by a blood mage. Yes. I know.” Anders sliced the apples and added them to the pot. He was feeling increasingly uncomfortable. He’d had tenser breakfasts in the Circle, after one of the apprentices disappeared or an enchanter attacked. This felt a little too similar. He drew closer to the fire. The first frost was settling in, and Fenris’ mansion was freezing. When the apples softened, Fenris ladelled the gruel into two bowls, offering him one. They ate in silence, sitting on stools before a magnificent fireplace in a magnificent hall, that Fenris had turned into a kitchen. Anders kept trying to catch Fenris’ eye, but he wouldn’t look at him. “So,” he said into the chill. “You cleaned up the corpses.” Fenris grunted. He tried again, “The gruel’s good. Thanks for taking me home last night, embrium oil’s hit me harder since Justice moved in.” Fenris paused, spoon halfway to his mouth. He put it back in the bowl and set it aside. “‘Moved in.’ Like a bad roommate, who occasionally urges you to murder people.” “Well, it’s not like he pays rent, but he does give good advice sometimes,” Anders said. “It’s not all doom and gloom. Justice is very healing, you know. Transformative. Catharsis is not an inherently violent process.” He smirked. He was particularly proud of that line. The other Liberati in the Circle would parrot it back at the aequitarians, when they would accuse them all of being fear-mongering extremists. It is not violence if it’s self-defense: but tell your oppressor that. Anders sniffed. Fenris said, “You’re possessed by a demon who pays rent by giving you occasionally good advice. You’re worse than Merrill.” “Hey!” Anders was indignant. “Spirit, not demon. I’m not a blood mage. Merrill deals with demons. Justice is as unbroken as he can be, living in the waking world for so long. It’s hard but we’re trying.” Fenris pinched the bridge of his nose, irritated. “Both of you say there’s a difference in the work you do but I see no evidence to the contrary. That demon Merrill’s been dealing with has her running manic around Kirkwall. You, you’ve been getting more reckless too. Letting the trade unionists host meetings in your clinic--what are you going to do when Varric finds out? Because he will find out. I told him I’d keep an eye on you, but how could you be so reckless?” “Wow, I didn’t know you cared so much,” Anders snapped back. “I’m not turning patients away. I can take care of Varric. I know how to be discreet.” Fenris lifted a single eyebrow. “You look like a molting bird in that shawl. You occasionally have long conversations with yourself. Your eyes glow.” “Your body glows!” Anders cast the bowl aside. “You’re squatting in a mansion in Hightown and regularly let Isabela start bonfires! You are the last person to call me--unsubtle.” Fenris let a short gust of wind out through his nostrils, like an annoyed horse. “I don’t mean--I do not want Varric to catch wind of the dockworkers’ strike. He has people watching you, for your own protection, but he will not risk losing face with the Carta by allowing the Merchants’ Guild to negotiate with them. And the Lavellan are known troublemakers. They don’t have her wanted poster up in Kirkwall, not yet at least, but I know the Carta--” “They’re planning a strike,” Anders said blankly. “You don’t mean they’ve already organized a union. They’ve already organized? I thought yesterday was the first meeting!” Fenris looked abashed. “I should not have said that,” he said stiffly. “It is better you know as little as possible. This isn’t your fight, mage.” “It isn’t yours either, elf,” Anders said. “Half the men working the docks are shem. And Ferelden, too. So don’t give me that excuse. Mages don’t make shit but still have to work and sell for the Templars and the Chantry. The Tranquil do most of the enchanting topside and they’re just kept as mindless--” “Slaves,” Fenris said. “Yes. I’ve thought of the comparison.” Anders flushed. He never felt comfortable talking about Fenris’ past. Not only was it not his business, but the elf was so prickly, and he always felt he was blundering into saying exactly the wrong thing. The Circle was a kind of slavery: mages were not paid for their labor, but at least they were not chattel. They were not possessions, though of course they could always be possessed. “Fine. But I strongly advise you do not let them have any conversation about anything pertaining to the strike in your clinic. You need to steer clear of this. Varric’s sympathy only runs so far. I’ve told him I’d keep an eye on you, that I suspected Justice was gaining a stronger hold on you. So he no longer needs to send guards. But the less you know, the better.” Anders looked at him, hard. Who did he think he was? He ran the fucking Mage Underground--but of course he was not going to tell him that. Aveline was good at looking the other way on her rounds. Donnic was good about vacuously gossipping about templar drama, overheard in the Viscount’s Keep. But Fenris had no sympathy for any mage accused of blood magic, and little interest in hearing what may have driven them there. “Fine. But why do you know? How are you involved?” Fenris shrugged. “Elves talk. I don’t spend my entire time skulking up here, you know.” A smile played at the edges of Fenris’ lips. Anders had the sudden, irrational desire to trace the edges of his mouth: down, boy, he told himself. He kills mages. He’ll kill you if he thinks you’ll lose control. And these days, with so much injustice, how easy it would be, to let it wreck, to let the spirit take the streets and give them a show Kirkwall would never forget. In the cold Anders left and shivered in the first frost of the year, drawing the feathered shawl Mahariel had given him around his shoulders, and wished for the warmth of the hearth. He kept his head down as he walked through Hightown, eyes darting at shadows as the wind rustled the few manicured trees the aristocracy let grow in the public square. Lowtown was bustling as always, and as he passed by the entrance of the Alienage on his way down to Darktown, he noticed that Dalish woman at the gate, speaking to Merrill. When they noticed him they turned away, and he kept walking into the wind, into the gray autumn morning, wishing he had said something better, said something right, because the joy of last night seemed an entire age away. When he got to the clinic there was already a line: three sick babies, a retired miner with a chronic cough, a weaver with arthritis, and too many people who just needed to eat. He did not have enough hot food to last them through the day. He had so little left to give, to get through the first frost, and Justice said: there is more that you can do. Find a better way.

#co-zautumn #dragon age fanfiction #dragon age 2 #da2 #fenris #anders #justice #fenris/anders #anders/fenris #first frost #anders in autumn #fanfic #5lazarus #hes5thlazarus

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itsclydebitches · 4 years

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Title: Mightier Than the Sword

Fandom: Witcher

Summary: A month after the events of "Rare Species," Geralt slinks his way into an inn and is faced with the question of how an emotionless man apologies. (TV!canon with some details drawn from the books and Wild Hunt.)

Pairing: Pre-slash Geralt and Jaskier

Word Count: 2,568

Where to read it: Below or on AO3

A/N: It’s a Christmas miracle! Look at me making an attempt at writing. I figured that if season one was going to leave us in that horrible place with Jaskier and Geralt’s relationship I’d just have to start fixing it myself 👍

The storm had raged for two days and looked as if it had enough life in it for a third. When Geralt shouldered his way into the inn he felt like there was a kikimore on the other side, so strong was the wind keeping slabs attached to frame. When he finally managed and let the door slam shut behind him, catching his heel and dimming the storm’s voice, he found a number of glares leveled his way, the patrons none too pleased at the cold interruption. Dropping his hood did not improve matters.

One man splendid in rotting clothes and stained teeth spat as soon as he saw Geralt’s hair. Another flinched away from his eyes. Still another pretended to keep attention on his food but Geralt caught the inquisitive looks he snuck, far worse than any hatred. The curious only thought they were kinder.

“Witcher,” said a fourth. That tone spread through the room. Apparently Jaskier’s ballads hadn’t reached this corner of the world yet.

Geralt found his seat and kept his back to the wall.

For all the poverty he’d passed through in this town the inn at least was holding its own. The horse hair plaster did little to warm the space, but the many bodies and roaring fire made up for the lack of insulation. The room was otherwise dark. Comforted in the soft chatter and the simple blessing that, though they might growl, no one was inclined to approach him. Geralt took a moment to merely sit, listening to the drip of water from his cloak and the clink of spoons against bowls. The latter made his stomach ache something fierce and with a sigh Geralt stood, approaching the bar.

The innkeep took one look at his threadbare clothes and went back to cleaning his nails. Geralt slid what little coin he had across the counter.

“Oats,” he said. “For the chestnut mare outside.”

“This look like a ploughing stable to you?”

“Does this metal look fake to you?”

Geralt spoke of the coin. Might have meant his sword. Either understanding worked just fine. The innkeep pocketed his meager offering in a flash.

“Doesn’t get your bitch much,” he said, but moved to the back regardless, presumably to make up a pail. Geralt traced his movements just long enough for reassurance before heading back to the fire. His knuckles creaked and when he grimaced the skin of his lips split.

As he sat that hole in his stomach grew wider, deeper, pulled him down stronger than gravity herself and Geralt had to plant his feet against the wave of dizziness that hit. Even witchers were susceptible to starvation. Obviously he would have preferred food for both himself and Roach, but work hadn’t been kind to him these last few weeks. Oh, there were plenty of monsters, just few people willing to pay for their demise. As he’d once told Jaskier, the two rarely went hand-in-hand.

...must be the hunger addling his brain. Geralt knew of no other reason why he should think so much on a bard who was no longer bound to him. He’d severed that tie himself, over a month past.

“Endings,” Geralt said. To Roach, really. The conversation had picked up enough to cover his voice and he knew his horse was just beyond the wall, sheltered beneath the hanging roof of the inn. “It was bound to happen eventually. Best to do it on my own terms.”

If pressed Geralt might have admitted to catching that snort. As if Roach had heard, understood, and had more than her fair share to say about that claim. But he held his ground. Jaskier would have left, and all the better for it. Over the last few weeks Geralt had pictured the man lying prone on Yennefer’s bed. Thought over the advice he’d given about heading to the coast. Become antsy during the long stretch of silences and could only admit now that he’d grown used to Jaskier’s singing. The memories of his songs had settled in the back of his mind, rooting there with a determination that fit their author. More than once Geralt had caught himself humming a tune when there was no one else to hear it.

Yes. There were things he... missed. But better to miss them now while they shown bright in his memory. There would have come a day when Jaskier would no longer ask to accompany him to far off places. Where his songs would warn of a witcher’s violence and treachery, rather than simply lying through his teeth. There may have even come a time when he fell and no sorceress, not even one of Yennerfer’s skill, could save him. Geralt knew this as surely as he knew the weight of his own sword.

Jaskeir would have grown to hate him whether he’d held his foolish tongue or not. That was a destiny Geralt could believe in.

He’d just resolved to meditate until the phrase ‘Toss a coin to your witcher’ finally left his head—its repetition had certainly not brought the command into reality—when a plate was dumped in front of him, steaming meat and crispy potatoes. A bit of relish dotted the top, specific to the region as Geralt didn’t recognize the spices. The smell was enough for him to draw a sharp breath though, swallowing it like that might fill the hole in his stomach. He forced himself to look up into the eyes of a plain woman and kept his hands away from the table's edge.

“I didn’t order this,” Geralt said.

The woman smiled. “I know.”

Hmm. “You misunderstand. I don’t have coin to pay for this.” A drink was set beside the plate. The smell of steamed milk had Geralt briefly closing his eyes.

The woman chuckled. At his longing or whatever game she played, he didn’t know. Perhaps both. Though Geralt had an inkling that he had misjudged her when she pushed the plate closer, a chipped nail tapping its edge.

“It’s you who’s not understandin’” she said. “Coin’s already in the pocket. Mine, not my lout of a brother over there.” Her head jerked towards the innkeep. “Pretty bard was in here just a mo’ ago. Went pale as milk when he saw ye. Thought the poor boy was gonna faint! But he recovered, sure as anything, and gave me a handful of silver before slippin’ out the back. Had stern instructions that I get you a hearty dinner so now here I am, doin’ jus’ that. You won’t catch Sinah goin’ back on her word, no sir. So go on. Eat your fill, witcher. More where that came from if you’ve a mind to have it,” and Sinah inched the plate ever closer.

Geralt’s gaze was on the hearth though. He stared at the flames and tried to ignore how the smell of meat had gone sour. “A bard?”

“Aye. As said, a pretty thing. More dolled up than we’re likely to get ‘round these parts. Sang a bit for his own meal before settlin’ in the back. Quiet. Fidgety. Like a mouse before the cat. Specially when he caught sight of that hair o’ yours. Thought he might be a monster himself—one of those dopple things, if you know my meaning—up until he asked me to serve ye. Odd that. I’ll not have my cookin’ go to waste though. I’ll take it back if—hey now!”

But Geralt was already up and on the move because he’d heard it. Muttering something about saving his plate, he was across the room with a dexterity only a witcher could manage, dodging legs, chairs, spilled drinks, all in near darkness. Throwing himself out into the gale that sound grew stronger. No one else would have heard it above the storm, but Geralt followed it like a clear, melodious bell.

Someone was speaking to Roach. Jaskier was speaking to Roach.

A little ways down the path to avoid a small river forming, around the corner of the inn. Geralt slipped into the shadows created by the overhang and blinked at the sudden assault on his vision. Jaskier was dressed entirely in purple and pink, a beacon amid the grays of the night. Geralt’s first thought upon spotting him was that his clothing was a monstrosity all its own and he would happily accept a contract to dispose of it.

Then, ears perking like a wolf’s, Geralt focused on the conversation.

“—hardly deserves it,” Jaskier was saying, using Roach’s neck to hide from a particularly sodden gust of wind. His mare put up with it, long familiar with the man’s proximity. “Though I suppose that you could technically make an argument for reciprocation. If I am owed a ten percent cut of whatever work he secures thanks to my genius ballads, then perhaps I owe him ten percent of whatever I earn thanks to his heroics. Yes, yes. I know I’m not supposed to be touching you, but I’m not see? I’m touching your saddlebags. Geralt can’t get mad about that, can he?”

He could, yet astoundingly Geralt found that he was not. How could he be when the light of the moon showed Jaskier slipping coin into the side pocket where Geralt was sure to find it? Shivering, drenched to the bone, Jaskier continued to give up his riches, smiling all the while. Geralt could see it even from the shadows. Noted the melancholy grip on its edge. He looked away—again—and this time told himself that it was so his shining eyes didn’t give him away. The excuse sounded weak even within his own head.

“Just a bit to tide him over,” Jaskier said, continuing to pour more than “a bit” into various pockets. “And you of course! No need to tell him I was here, but you should make sure he buys you plenty of carrots. You need more than these wet oats... oh by the gods those look disgusting. I’m sorry, girl. I’d sneak back in to get you something as well but... ah.... not sure ‘sneaking’ and ‘White Wolf’ go well together. Our King of Brooding would spot me for sure and then where would I be? Suffering another punch I’d wager. And given our last meeting I don’t think Geralt would settle for aiming at my gut. Sorry, girl, but this face is just too beautiful to risk.”

Another sliver coin glinting from the shadows. An endless wave of prattle just under the rain. Geralt listened as Jaskier told Roach all about his travels over the last month, how audiences were growing weary of the ballads he had, demanding new, exciting tales. Jaskier had nothing to give them. Though that was fine. Grand even! Challenge and limitation, the bread and butter of an artist. He would find a way and until then he’d help others find there’s. Even grumpy witchers.

“I’m his friend, after all,” Jaskier said. It came out quieter than all the rest. “That’s what the foolish man doesn’t realize. Hardly matters whether he’s my friend. Doesn’t stop me from being his. Really, all those mutated brains and he’s dumb as a goat half the time. He’s lucky he’s gorgeous.” Roach tossed her head, knocking into Jaskier’s and drawing a chuckle. “Knew you’d agree with that, girl. There now. All loaded up? Excellent. I’m going to go dry off now. I will not allow this storm to ruin my new outfit,” and he did a little twirl, showing off the decorative stitching. “Stunning? Why yes, I’m quite aware. Never hurts to hear it though. Thank you, darling.”

Jaskier planted a quick kiss on her muzzle, whispered not to tell, and with a wink slipped away. Geralt took note of the house he was renting a room from and then returned to the inn.

He found Sinah in the back removing a man’s hand from her waist. She followed him to his seat, the meat and potatoes now cold. Geralt shoveled forkfuls down regardless.

“You said the bard’s coin would get me more?”

Sinah inclined her head. “Aye. Wanting a second plate, do you?”

“No, but I’ll take paper and quill if you have it.”

If she found the request odd she didn’t show it. Sinah left and returned with the speed of a wraith, depositing pulpy parchment and a vile of ink heavily watered down. It was enough. Geralt inclined his head in turn, the most respectful gesture she’d seen all day, and the two parted with satisfaction on both sides. Geralt put aside a third of his meal for Roach before finishing the rest with a speed that would have choked a human man. Done, he set about composing a list.

He was no poet. Geralt hadn’t the words to describe his contracts with anything other than the blunt language spoken by all witchers. Still, he made an effort to include details. He wrote about the noonwraith he’d dispatched three towns over, only to find that the residents had but an eighth of the coin they’d originally promised. Geralt had looked at their own sunken cheeks, taken half of that eighth, and been on his way. After that had come the drowner colony, but no one cared to pay for what amounted to a pest—even a dangerous one. There were the men who’d succeeded in both putting a hole in his cloak as well as forfeiting their lives. The young woman who looked much like Sinah but had none of her honor, attempting to lure Geralt into a robbery through false tears. The ghoul whose liver he'd eaten when he couldn’t sell it. The curse he’d lifted for a roof over his head. The nekkers that had managed to drain the rest of his energy before he’d finally collapsed here. It was all common work. The witcher equivalent of doing one’s chores. It was only Jaskier’s voice in his head that told Geralt any of this might interest another.

The whole thing filled five pages and took the length of time required to dry his socks. There was no signature. The writing was splotchy and the paper now smelled of rain. Geralt folded it with all the care he’d give to cleaning his sword.

It wasn’t an apology because witchers didn’t do apologies. Geralt wasn’t even sure he’d know how to give one if required... though this was probably as close as he’d get. He would not think on what Jaskier had done to earn the attempt.

Instead, Geralt planned to sop up the remaining juice on his plate and lick his fingers clean. He would return the inkwell to Sinah and, when the rest of him was dry, he’d ruin it all by going back out into the storm, across the weeds, into the room where Jaskier slept with lute and clothes as flamboyant as a peacock. Geralt’s notes would look like a pauper’s trifle next to the rest of his belongings, but perhaps Jaskier could spin them into something grand.

Indeed, perhaps someday soon there would be another inn, a new ballad, and this time Jaskier would choose to stay. Geralt wouldn't deserve that, but he found himself thinking on it nonetheless. Treacherous thoughts that circumvented destiny and warmed him far better than the fire.

Until then, Geralt curled in on himself and let the music he already knew wash over him.

#witcher #the witcher #twn #geralt #jaskier #dandelion #geralt x dandelion #(pre-slash)#gerlion #witcherfic

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yakumtsaki · 4 years

Photo

I taste just like ice cream, bitch I am so icy, heart cold like an ice queen, that's why they don't like me 🎵

-What the hell was that.

Traditionally I start Union updates with semi-relevant song lyrics.

-Why did you start an update at all.

Because it’s time, Shajar! I took a holy oath in my 2020 simming goals post to update Unions once a month, and I’m already a month late.

-But nothing interesting is happening.

That’s never stopped me before. Now listen to Rico Nasty, cry some more about Sophie blowing you off, and shut up.

-Ugh please, I couldn’t be more over Sonia if I tried. I hardly ever texted her links to wedding pinterest boards and quizzes to determine if our parenting styles are compatible.

Did she ever reply?

-She did once and said ‘who dis’. Of course the letters unscrambled spell out ‘do wish’, meaning she did wish me to keep messaging her. I just don’t know where it all went wrong.

-Hey there, 17 year old girl, maybe you’ve had enough neat whiskey for the night? We’re actually running out of bottles.

-Beat it, ponytail, I need to dull my pain. I’ve just been stabbed right in the gut by the love of my life. Just like my style idol and general role model, space opera fascist Kylo Ren.

Shaj I really hate seeing you like this, and not just because the red neon light is super unflattering on your complexion.

-You can fuck right off too, I was perfectly happy with my dads who hate me and my imbecile sister and my brother who might as well not exist, noogie-ing people all day AND night long, but you had to be all ‘OMG IT’S SOPHIE MIGUEL SHAJAR GO TALK TO HER’. Life-ruining-moron.

But I was totally right about you two hitting it off, I mean look how sad you are now that she dumped- yea never mind, that’s not a good argument.

-Look what I can do even though I’ve had 46 whiskeys!! How you like me now, Sophie???

-You’re paying for all these broken glasses, I’m going to need your name and a credit card.

-Yes, fair enough, my name is Cyneswith Union-

-I LOOK GOOD ENOUGH TO EAT

Yea, you really should eat something to soak up all the alcohol. And not to kick you when you’re down, but you should also disregard all those cliches about ~a smile being the most beautiful thing you can wear~ because MAN. Watch out Joaquin, there’s a new Joker on the prowl.

-So.. 20 lobsters thermidor and our most expensive appetizers?

-Aha.

-Would you mind settling your bill now?

-Of course not! My name is Cyneswith Union and this is the credit card my parents got me when I was 6 because we’re super duper best friends! I love my parents! They don’t care about their other daughter at all, even when their other daughter is going through a really hard time because she got the emotional equivalent of a lightsaber wound in the gut. You know what, let me also get 20 bottles of your most overpriced champagne to go with the lobsters.

Feeling better?

-Well it’s hard to feel bad when you’re spending your parents’ money recklessly and with malice aforethought.

It sure is. Alright well, the sun is coming up, maybe we should head home.

-What’s the rush? What is going to happen if I don’t go home, my parents will get worried? LOL

God your life sucks. Ok let’s hit a couple more places.

-Greetings. Welcome to our establishment. I am a human employee from this planet.

Great, nice to meet you.

-I just want there to be no doubt that I am indeed an earthling, born and raised under the earth’s exosphere and not above it.

Leave us alone.

-And I’m the resident community lot sim with that one face template you hate! There must be one of us on every lot you visit!

-And I am here in my revealing outfit to use the dance sphere and make everyone uncomfortable!

You’re actually pretty, I need to keep you in mind for after Don Oates takes a wrecking ball to our genetics, but yea, let’s bounce, Shajar.

Time to visit the happiest place on earth, Deh'Javu Modern Art Museum, home to my favorite piece of art in any medium, The Toilet of Fire. Shove that Fountain up your ass, Duchamp. How we feeling, Shaj?

-This trash can reminds of Sophie :( She used to go around town throwing money she stole from charities in trash cans and then send them riddles for where to find them :(

Enough with Sophie, we’ll find you someone better! Like..

..your aunt! Get the hell out of here Brit Brit, you’re taking up townie space.

-I won’t be long, Gunther’s amazing close-up portrait of my hair was rejected by the museum so I’m here to set this shithole on fire.

In other words Gunther just painted a canvas black and called it a day?

-His art doesn’t cater to plebs. Yes, offense.

Our old friend Ugly Teen Townie is here so finally we can have some fun. Shajar had gone almost 12 hours(!) without noogieing someone and I was starting to worry for her health.

-Yes, yes, I’m starting to feel like myself again..

Good for you, Shaj!

-Hope you’ve made peace with your God, Ugly Teen Townie, this water balloon is filled with horse feces!

-WHERE DID YOU EVEN GET HORSE SHIT

-I ordered it from some guy named Leod McGreggor.

-How about a another joke, MuRRAY?

-What?!

-Now you say, ‘no, I think we’ve had enough of your jokes’. Say it!

-No, I think we’ve had enough of your jokes.

-What do you get when you cross a mentally-ill loner with a society that abandons him and treats him like trash? Now you say ‘call the police, Gene!’

-Call the police, Gene!

-I'll tell you what you get..

-YOU GET WHAT YOU FUCKING DESERVE. HAHA oh man! Good stuff.

Alright I’m starting to feel bad for Ugly Teen Townie, first he had to come to all the toddler birthday parties during the Victoria/Komei era and now this, he has suffered enough at this family’s hands. Time to go home, Shaj.

-Not so fast!

Wow, the Countess and Mrs. Crumplebottom on the same lot, top 10 anime crossovers.

-I have been sent here by the Limp Dick Vamps United organization to recruit Shajar Union.

Ugh you people are still around? Haven’t heard of you losers since the Count wouldn’t let Victoria bang him, which I’m still annoyed about.

-Indeed we are, and it’s clear Shajar is ready to join us, dedicating her life to evil deeds without romantic distractions. I have no idea what Crumplebottom is doing here.

-I’m here to recruit Shajar to my own organization, Bitter Sims Worldwide Alliance. We’re always on the lookout for new members who want to spread their misery to their fellow Sim.

It sounds like it’d be more effective if you guys just merged your organizations.

-I will NEVER merge my organization with someone who displays her bosom like a common whore.

-Eat a dick, Crumplebottom!

-MAKE ME, FANGTOOTH

-Alright here I am, what the fuck do you want?

-Shajar, it is a pleasure to meet you! Ardent admirer of your work.

-What work, freakshow?

-Torturing everyone around you, what else!

-What? I don’t torture people around me, if anything they torture me.

-Why don’t you talk to me about it?

-I’d rather not, you look like a bejeweled snowman.

-Look deep into my eyes, Shajar..

-And now look deep into my razor sharp teeth..

-Ugh fine, let’s talk.

-Is that Victoria and Komei’s teen granddaughter hanging out with a vampire?

Yes it is Kennedy, keep it moving.

-God, wtf is wrong with this family.

Nothing now that you’ve been removed from our social circle, go away! Just kidding, you’re an icon and I’m marrying you in at some point.

-Hard pass.

Your loss, hombre.

-It definitely isn’t.

-If I had known your turn on was vampires I would had set you two up!

STOP SETTING UP TEENS WITH ADULTS, LAKSHMI. And Shajar’s turn ons isn’t vampires, it’s fitness/fatness. Body positive queen.

-Well, Shajar, you alphabetically listing all the people who have wronged you while I was trying to kill Crumplebottom telepathically has made for a very productive conversation. We’ll be in touch.

-Thanks, Countess, it’s been real.

Shajar!!! Who cares about Sophie when you might bag a hot, rich vamp??

-Meh.

I’m gonna need you to be more excited about this prospect because a vampire spouse might just be enough of a draw to beat the comedic factor of fucking Don Oates turning us into an unintentional uglacy and I’m doing whatever I can to avoid my fate.

Ugh.

UGH

UGHHHHHHH

LMAOOOOOOOOOOOOO VICTORIA

-GET FUCKED, BROKEN FACED WEIRDO

God I miss you Vic 💔

-Donnie-bear, not to be not-nice, but mopping your pee off my front lawn is not exactly what I pictured doing during this date.

This guy won’t even mop up his own piss, what a catch.

Wow, manipulative much?? You are a piss piece of work, Donaldo.

-Don’t think we forgot about you, you 10-nice-point disgrace!

-VICTOR NO

-GET THAT MOP READY

-Finally, some peace and quiet.. Just me, alone with my broken heart, pondering my hopeless, loveless future..

-💗💗💗OMG SIS THERE YOU ARE. DONNIE AND I MADE OUT!!! 💗💗💗 But then grandma’s ghost scared him into soiling himself.

-Good for grandma, hopefully next time she gives him a stroke. Now shut up and let’s eat in silence while I ponder my hopeless, loveless future.

-Okie dokie! 💗💗💗

-Um, I think mine has vomit in it.

-Yea I did that, but it’s just whiskey and lobster, if anything it increased in value.

-Awww thanks sis! 💗💗💗

-Stop patronizing me, you little bitch. God I want to poke your eye out with this chopstick so badly.

-I love you too Shaj! 💗💗💗

And I hate both of you. Where’s your brother, I haven’t paid attention to him in 3 days.

-He went upstairs, I think he’s pusshurt we forgot his birthday LOL

IT’S HIS BIRTHDAY????

-Don’t feel bad, I forgot it too! 💗💗💗

GODDAMMIT. WULF! WULF WHERE ARE YOU

-I’m here, I just grew up and dare I say it could not have gone better!

Really?? Finally some good news! Let me look upon you-

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

AHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA

WULF WHAT THE FUCK

-I was Mozart musical genius boy but now I’m a sk8ter boi! Character development!

Ok this is the most iconic birthday look since Gunther grew up in the pirate costume, we’re obviously keeping it.

-Great! And as if the fact I’m a Wyatt face template with 0 Jojo genes wasn’t enough to make me unelectable, I also rolled family! :D I’m doing everything I can to ensure I live that sweet motherlode spare life!

Honestly you should had picked another outfit cause now that you’re dressed like this I unironically want you to win. Hoisted with your own petard.

#gen 2

49 notes · View notes

rllibrary · 4 years

Text

Blonde / Joyce Carol Oates / 2000

Above: the British paperback cover (If you want a copy of this version, search ISBN 9781841153728)

Quotes (As always, for educational/entertainment purposes only! Full disclaimer at rllibrary.tumblr.com )

"Look, sweetie. You're making too much of it. You've seen a boy's- a man's- thing, haven't you?"

Elsie was so crude and blunt, Norma Jeane laughed, startled.

She nodded, just barely.

"Well, you know- it gets bigger. You know that."

Again, just barely, Norma Jeane nodded.

"It has to do with them looking at you. It makes them want to- you know- 'make love.'"

(130)

Monroe was a natural even as a girl. She had brains but operated from instinct. I believe she could see herself through the camera eye. It was more powerfully, more totally sexual to her than any human connection...Her problem wasn't she was a dumb blonde, it was she wasn't a blonde and she wasn't dumb.

(232)

And the director is thinking, This girl is the first actress of the twenty or more he's auditioned for the role (including the black-haired actress he's probably going to cast) who has caught on to the significance of the scene's opening, the first who seems to have given the role any intelligent thought and who has actually read the entire script (or so she claims) and formed some sort of judgment on it. The girl opens her eyes, sits up slowly and blinking, wide-eyed, and says in a whisper, "Oh, I- must have been asleep." Is she acting, or has she actually been asleep? Everyone's uncomfortable. There is something strange here.

(242)

She was fascinating to watch. Like a mental patient, maybe. Not acting. No technique. She'd put herself to sleep and out would come this other personality that was her yet also not-her.

People like that, you can see why they're drawn to acting. Because the actor, in her role, always knows who she is. All losses are restored.

(243)

Where at her audition Norma Jeane had spoken Angela's lines with seeming spontaneity, naively lying on the floor, now on her feet she was paralyzed with fear at the enormity of the risk before her. What if you fail. If you fail. You will fail. Then you must die. If fired from the film she would be obliged to destroy herself, yet she was deeply in love with Cass Chaplin and hoped one day to have his child- "How can I leave him?" And there was her obligation to Gladys in the hospital at Norwalk. "How can I leave her? Mother has no one but me."

(253)

"Norma, for Christ's sake. Your director will lead you step by step through your scenes, that's what movies are. Not real acting, like the theater; not where you're on your own. Why work so hard? Turn yourself inside out? You're sweating like a horse. Why does this matter so much?"

The question hovered between them. Why does it matter so much? So much!

Knowing it was absurd, what she could not explain to her lover- Because I don't want to die, I'm in terror of dying. I can't leave you. Because to fail in her acting career was to fail at the life she'd chosen to justify her wrongful birth. And even in her mildly deranged state she understood the illogic of such a statement.

(254)

You just can't take your eyes off her. Cass and me, we'd see Niagara a dozen times.... It's because Rose is us. In our souls. She's cruel in ways we are. She's without any morality, like an infant. She's always looking at herself in the mirror just like we'd look if we looked like her. She's stroking herself, she's in love with herself. Like all of us! But it's supposed to be bad...

(347)

It was like only the camera knew how to make love to her the way she needed, and we were voyeurs just hypnotized watching.

(347)

About midway in the movie, when Rose is mocking and laughing at her husband for not being able to get it up, Cassie says to me, "This isn't Norma. This is not our little Fishie." And the hell of it was, it wasn't. This Rose was a total stranger. This was nobody we'd laid eyes on before. Out here, people thought "Marilyn Monroe" was just playing herself. Every movie she made, no matter that it was different from the others, they'd find a way to dismiss it- "That broad can't act. She's just playing herself." But she was a born actress. She was a genius, if you believe in genius. Because Norma didn't have a clue who she was, and she had to fill this emptiness in her. Every time she went out, she had to invent her soul. Other people, we're just as empty; maybe in fact everybody's soul is empty, but Norma was the one to know it.

That was Norma Jeane Baker when we knew her. When we were "the Gemini." Before she betrayed us- or maybe we betrayed her. A long time ago, when we were young.

(347-8)

So strange! The audience adored Lorelei Lee. They liked Dorothy, too- Jane Russell was wonderfully warm, attractive, sympathetic, and funny- but clearly the audience preferred Lorelei Lee. Why? Such rapt, smiling faces. Marilyn Monroe was a winner, and everyone loves a winner.

Oh the irony was, surely these people all knew: Marilyn didn't exist.

I can't fail. If I fail I must die. This had been Marilyn's secret no one knew.

(429)

I was terrified. I wasn't ready. I'd been up most of the night. I kept having to pee! I wasn't taking any drugs, only just aspirin. And an antihistamine tablet Mr. Pearlman's assistant gave me, for a sore throat. I believed the Playwright would take one look at me and speak to Mr. Pearlman and that was it, I'd be out of the cast. Because I never deserved to be there, and I knew it. I seemed to know this beforehand. I seemed to see myself going down those stairs. I held the script, and I tried to read the lines I'd marked in red, and it was like I'd never seen them before. My only clear thought was: If I fail now, it's winter here, freezing. It wouldn't be hard to die, would it?

(497)

Pearlman spoke of the Theater as you'd speak of God. Or more than God, for theater was something in which you participated and lived. "Die for it! For your talent! Scour out your guts! Be hard on yourself, you can take it. It's life and death up there on the stage, my friends. And if not life and death, it's nothing." It was what I revered in him. Oh, he could reach right in....

But he exploited you, didn't he? As a woman.

A woman? What do I care about myself as a woman? I never did....I came to New York to learn to act.

Why do you give Pearlman so much credit? I hate it, in interviews, you exaggerate his role in your life. He eats it up, it's great publicity for him.

Oh, but it's true...isn't it?

You just want to deflect attention from yourself. It's what women do. Defer to bullies. You knew how to act, darling, when you came here.

I did? No.

Certainly you did. I hate this, too, the way you misinterpret yourself.

I do? Gee....

You were a damned good actress when you came to New York. He didn't create you.

You created me.

Nobody created you, you were always yourself.

Well, I guess I knew...something. When I did movies. In fact I was reading Stanislavski. And the diary of, of...Nijinski.

Nijinski.

Nijinski. But I didn't know what I knew. In practice. It was just...what happened when I had to perform. To improvise. Like striking a match....

The hell with that. You were a natural actress from the start.

Oh, hey! Why're you mad, Daddy? I don't get this.

I'm only just saying, darling, you were born with the gift. You have a kind of genius. You don't need theory. Forget Stanislavski! Nijinski! And him.

I never think of him.

Him messing with you...your mind, your talent...like somebody's big thumbs gripping a butterfly, smearing and breaking the wings.

Hey, I'm no butterfly. Feel my muscle? My leg here. I'm a dancer.

Bullshit theory is for somebody like him: can't act, can't write.

Kiss-kiss, Daddy? C'mon.

(503-4)

What kind of questions did he ask you?

My...motivation.

Which was?

To...not die.

What?

To not die. To keep on....

I hate it when you talk like that. It tears my heart.

Oh, I won't! I'm sorry.

(505)

Pearlman was always saying how surprised he was by you. What you're really like.

But...what'd that be? What I'm really like?

Just yourself.

But that isn't enough, is it?

Of course it is.

No. It never is.

What do you mean?

You're a writer, because being just yourself isn't enough. I need to be an actress, because being just myself isn't enough. Hey, you won't ever tell people, will you?

I would never speak of you, darling. It would be like flaying my own skin.

You would never write about me, either...would you, Daddy?

Of course not!

(505-6)

Why don't I remember things better, my mind gets stuck on a role I'm doing, and I...it's like I'm in two places at once? With other people but not...with them. Why I love to act. Even when I'm alone I'm not.

Your gift is so natural, you don't "act." You require no technique. Yes, it's like a match being struck. A sudden flaring flame....

But I like to read, Daddy! I got good grades in school. I like to...think. It's like talking with somebody. In Hollywood, on the set, I'd have to hide my book if I was reading....People thought I was strange.

Your mind can get muddled. You're easily influenced.

Only by people I trust.

(507)

It would astonish the Playwright when he came to know the Blond Actress better how, when she didn't wish to be recognized, she rarely was, for "Marilyn Monroe" was but one of her roles and not the one that most engaged her.

(513)

"I was thinking, what Chekhov does with Natasha, he surprises you because Natasha turns out so strong and devious. And cruel. And Magda, you know- well, Magda is always so good. She wouldn't be, in real life? I mean, all the time? I mean"- the Playwright could see the Blond Actress shifting into a scene, face animated, eyes narrowed- "if it was me, a cleaning girl- and I used to do work like that, laundry, dishes, scrubbing toilets, when I was in an orphanage and a foster home in Los Angeles- I'd be hurt, I'd be angry, how life was so different for different people. But your Magda...she never changes much. She's good."

"Yes. Magda is good. Was good. The original. It wouldn't have occurred to her to be angry." Was this true? The Playwright spoke curtly, but he had to wonder.

(513-4)

There was the Norma who spoke to him and there was the Norma at a short distance from him. The one an object of emotion, the other an object of aesthetic admiration. Which of course is a type of emotion, no less intense.

(586)

The Playwright had noticed, as Max Pearlman had pointed out, how women often took warmly to Norma, quite in reverse of expectations. You would anticipate jealousy, envy, dislike; instead, women felt a curious kinship with Norma, or "Marilyn"; could it be, women looked at her and somehow saw themselves? A man might smile at such a misapprehension. A delusion, or a confusion. But what can a man know? If anyone resisted Norma, it was likely to be a certain kind of man; one sexually attracted to her, yet wise enough to know she would rebuff him. What strategies of irony bred out of threatened male pride, the Playwright well knew.

(591)

"He doesn't love me. It's some blonde thing in his head he loves. Not me."

(600)

"Darling, maybe you should stop feeding those cats," the Playwright suggested.

"Oh, I will! Soon."

"More and more of them will be showing up. You can't feed the entire Maine coast."

"Daddy, I know. You're right."

Yet she continued, through the summer, as he'd known she would. How many scrawny, starving cats showed up each morning to be fed by her, he didn't want to know. Her strange stubbornness. Her powerful will. The man knew himself obliterated by her, in essential things. Only in surface matters was he triumphant.

(605)

She knew she did not deserve life as others deserve life & though she had tried, she had failed to justify her life; yet she must continue to try, for her heart was hopeful, she meant to be good!

(625)

Monroe wanted to be an artist. She was one of the few I'd ever met who took all that crap seriously. That's what killed her, not the other. She wanted to be acknowledged as a great actress and yet she wanted to be loved like a child and obviously you can't have both.You have to choose which you want the most.Me, I chose neither.

(638)

The fairy tale. The Blond Actress would herself come to believe in this fairy tale a man had written for her as a love offering. She would come to believe not just that luminous Roslyn could save the small herd of wild mustangs but that wild mustangs might be saved. These horses, only six remaining of how many hundreds and one of them a foal. A foal galloping anxiously beside its mother. Lassoed and roped by the desperate men, yet they might be saved from death. From the butcher's knife and being ground into dog food. Here is no romance of the West or even of manly ideals and courage but a melancholy "realism" to thrust into an American audience's faces! Roslyn alone would run into the desert in an action blocked out with care by the Blond Actress and her director that would allow her to express, at the top of her lungs, her fury at manly cruelty. (But I don't want close-ups. Not of me screaming.") She would scream at the men Liars! Killers! Why don't you kill yourselves! She would scream in the emptiness of the Nevada desert until her throat was raw. Until the interior of her sore-pocked mouth throbbed with pain. Until more capillaries burst in her straining eyes. Until her heart pounded close to bursting. I hate you! Why don't you die! She may have been screaming at those men of her life whose faces she retained or she may have been screaming at those men lacking faces, constituting the vast world beyond the perimeters of the crimson velvet backdrop and the blinding-bright photographer's lights. She may have been screaming at H who had eluded her charm. She may have been screaming into a mirror. She'd told Doc Fell she would not need any medication that morning (after even the stupor of the phenobarbital night) and aroused now to pity, horror, rage by the spectacle of the trapped horses she had not needed any drug. She believed she would never again need any drugs. What power! What joy! She would return to Hollywood alone, and she would buy a house, her first house, and she would live alone, and she would do only work she wanted to do; she would be the great actress she had a chance of becoming; she would no longer be trapped by men; she would no longer be cheated of her truest self. The Blond Actress was expressing anger, rage. At last. Except (all observers would claim) it wasn't the simulated expression of anger and rage but genuine passion ripping through the woman's body like an electric current.

"Liars! Killers! I hate you."

(668-9)

"You feel genuine emotion, Miss Monroe! That's why you're a brilliant actress. That's why people see in you a magnified image of themselves. Of course they're deluded, but happiness dwells in delusion! Because you live in your soul like a candle that lives in its own burning. You live in our American soul. Don't smile, Miss Monroe. I'm serious, too. I'm saying that you're an intelligent woman, not just a woman of 'feeling'; you're an artist, and like all artists you know that life is just material for your art. Life is what fades, art is what remains. Your emotions, your anguish over your divorce or Mr. Gable's death, whatever-" with an airy impatient gesture taking in all of the world she'd inhabited in thirty-five years or even envisioned: the very memory of the Holocaust evoked out of much-thumbed secondhand books rescued from a used-book store, vessels of Jewish fortitude and suffering, the stale-rancid odors of the California madhouses of her mother's captivity, all the memories of her personal life, as if they were of no more significance to her than a screenplay- "you may as well see your trauma as a newsreel, because others will."

(679)

This doctor says there are miracle drugs now

to control the "blues." I said, oh if the

blues go, what about blues music? He asked

is the music worth the agony & I said that

depends upon the music & he said life is more

precious to retain than music, if a person is

depressed her life is endangered & I said

there must be a middle way & I would find that

way.

(683)

Mother? What did you want from me I could never give you? How did I fail? I tried so hard. She wondered if, if she'd played piano better for Mr. Pearce and sung better for poor Jess Flynn, her childhood would have turned out differently? Maybe her miserable lack of talent had contributed to Gladys Mortinsen's madness. Maybe something in Gladys had simply snapped.

Still, Gladys had seemed to absolve her of blame. Nobody's fault being born, is it?

(695)

Hey I love to act. Truly, acting is my life! Never so happy as when I'm acting, not living.

Oh, what'd I say? Oh well, you know what I mean.

(Why am I so afraid, then? I will not be afraid.)

(697)

Joyce Carol Oates, Blonde, ISBN 9781841153728

#marilynmonroe #novels #literature #joycecaroloates #quotes #movies #blonde #books #fiction #historicalfiction

4 notes · View notes

elesianne · 4 years

Text

A Silmarillion fanfic, chapter twenty-three

Chapter summary: A long summer is spent with Tuilindien’s family.

Rating: Teen and up audiences; Chapter length: ~4,400 words

Chapter notes: After a ten-month break I am finally able to post a new chapter full of love and fluff, and to announce that I have all of this fic written now! So no more long breaks. There will be two chapters after this one, and I intend to post them both about a week apart.

Tuilindien uses modern phonological terminology from our world in this chapter. No doubt Tolkien’s language-loving elves had their own words for things such as phonemes, but as I don’t know those, I ‘borrowed’ from our world. The differences in the speech of Fëanáro, other Noldor, and the Vanyar are discussed in the Shibboleth of Fëanor.

As you may remember, vanimelda, 'beautiful beloved’ or 'beloved Vanya’, is Carnistir’s favoured endearment for Tuilindien. Fëa = spirit, hröa = body.

(Read on AO3)

Chapter XXIII // A summer on the plains

Next summer on Taniquetil

'Carnistir! You’re finally here.’ Tuilindien runs into his arms as soon as he dismounts. Varnerocco snorts and stomps beside them, startled, and that is the only reason Carnistir doesn’t swing Tuilindien in his arms right now and keep her there.

Instead he embraces her quickly and kisses her quicker before telling her, 'I need to stable this impatient creature, Tuilë, and then I will show you how much I missed you too.’

Tuilindien giggles as she shows him to the stall reserved for Varnë. 'It was a long winter’, she agrees. 'I am glad that you could come here for the summer. If you didn’t come, I would probably just have hopped on my horse one day and ridden to Tirion without even packing anything.’

They smile at each other over Varnë’s broad back.

'Snowdrop was around just a moment ago but he slipped off somewhere’, Tuilindien chatters as she helps Carnistir brush down Varnë’s sweat-damp coat and shows him where the tack room and feed are. 'Lirulinë and Alcarno are gone too, have been for a week – they went to my grandparents’ estate early as Lirulinë was beginning to feel tired and wanted to have the travelling done with before the last weeks of her pregnancy. Cirincë has been expecting you, though.’

'She has?’ Carnistir is a little alarmed by that.

'She has made a drawing she wants to gift to you. She has turned out to be much more lastingly interested in art than we thought she would be. It might be her vocation.’

Carnistir has to keep pushing Varnë’s head away when she tries to come eat her oats before Carnistir is done measuring them into the manger.

'And why has she done a drawing for me?’ he asks once that struggle is over.

Tuilindien smiles at the question. 'Cirincë has been gifting her drawings to everyone in the family. You are the only one who has not received one yet.’

'Oh.’ It must be a good thing, then. To be included among family by Tuilindien’s little sister. 'What is the drawing of?’

Tuilindien blushes. 'Me.’

'That might also be the reason for her wanting to give to me.’ Carnistir pats Varnë on the rump as a goodbye, dodges the half-hearted kick she gives him in return, and gets out of the stall to finally embrace Tuilindien like he wants to. She melts in his arms.

'You grow ever more sweet every time I see you’, he mumbles into her hair. He likes that she has it down, unstyled, and he likes the simple dress she wears, with its wide sash and light teal colour.

'You have cut your hair’, Tuilindien says as she runs her fingers through the shoulder-length windswept mess of it. The ribbon holding back had flown off somewhere on the mountain path.

'It was getting too long.’ He doesn’t like it when it grows long enough to cover his shoulder blades. There is something unpleasant about that sensation.

Tuilindien sighs happily. 'I am so glad that you are here for the whole summer, Carnistir. It would be very difficult to give you up soon.’

'As long as I don’t receive word that Curufinwë and Findaráto have collapsed our house, I am not giving you up before the harvest festival.’

Tuilindien pulls back from his arms. 'Findaráto? What does he have to do with the house?’

Carnistir wants to smack himself. 'I didn’t tell you about that in my letters, did I.’

'No.’ Tuilindien takes his arm and leads him out of the stables. 'You can tell me all about it over food and wine. You must be hungry and thirsty after the long journey.’

'There is not so much to tell.’ Carnistir is tired of everyone making such a fuss about him doing something together with Findaráto. He tries not to speak too testily to Tuilindien, though. 'He heard that I was building a house and he came to the worksite and asked me if he could participate in the work’, he summarises for her.

'That may be what happened, but there must be more in the background of it all.’ Tuilindien opens the door of her family’s house and leads him inside. Spotting a maidservant, she orders for wine and a hearty snack to be brought into a sitting room.

'Dinner will be soon’, she tells him as they make their way to the sitting room. As in most rooms of Tuilindien’s home, the stained glass windows throw colourful shadows on the floor, but they are situated so that people sitting around the low table at the end of the room are spared from being thus colourised.

Carnistir studies the window while he tells Tuilindien, 'Findaráto had heard that I’d designed a house with both Noldorin and Vanyarin influences and that intrigued him, he told me, because of his own mixed heritage. He is working towards mastery in stonemasonry and needs to gather more experience but Tirion, you know, is already very built up and there are not many completely new buildings being built. That added to his interest in our house, I believe.’

Carnistir huffs. 'Or perhaps not. He did not tell me that. Perhaps he approached me more because of our kinship. He is strange enough that he might think it a desirable thing to work with his cousin even if that cousin has never liked and has never masked it very well.’

'Yet the cousin agreed to work with him?’

'Well, he works for me. I have more experience with building design and construction and stonemasonry – he has spent much time with his mother’s kin, learning their trades.’

'I see’, Tuilindien says, though it seems like she doesn’t, not quite.

Carnistir is thankful that Tuilindien doesn’t pry more about why he took Findaráto on. Everyone else has, and he is tired of giving explanations.

It doesn’t seem to be enough to try to get along with people; it seems he must tolerate fussing and teasing about it as well.

'He works hard and learns fast’, Carnistir says. It is not an explanation for his actions, just an observation he hasn’t shared with anyone before.

'And how does Curufinwë get along with him?’

Carnistir cannot help but snicker. 'Very badly. Curufinwë has only stayed on because he is too stubborn to give up because of 'that blond pest’, as he calls Findaráto.’

A smile tugs at the corner of Tuilindien’s mouth. 'I hope they won’t collapse the house by some disagreement.’

Carnistir laughs. 'They both are too proud and ambitious for that, luckily. And the foundations are ready already, and they are strong.’

They spend a week in Tuilindien’s home on Taniquetil. Carnistir is given a bedroom on the other side of the house. He isn’t certain whether he should be insulted by that. On one hand, it might be Tuilindien’s parents’ way of telling him that there is to be no sneaking from bedroom to bedroom at night. On the other, it is a very nice, large guest room, possibly the best in the house.

When they ride for Tuilindien’s grandparents’ estate on the plains, the whole household goes with them, servants included.

Cirincë rides the whole way on her own small horse for the first time ever. She wants to ride between Tuilindien and Carnistir and to point out to Carnistir all the 'sights’ that they pass.

Once they settle in the house that is too large to be called a farmhouse but has the warm ambience and unpretentiousness of one, Carnistir finds himself, for the first time in his adult life, completely at leisure.

Tuilindien’s family has no expectations for him, no work to do. He doesn’t have anything that he needs to study, or to plan, apart from correspondence. He worked hard, all his waking hours, all winter, either supervising work at the house or taking part in the physical work himself. If he wasn’t at the worksite, he was negotiating with tradesmen and suppliers or redrawing plans as issues in the original plans became apparent.

It had been the idea that by spending the summer with Tuilindien at her family’s farm, Curufinwë and Findaráto overseeing the continuing building work of his house, Carnistir would be able to rest.

But Carnistir finds that he rested enough already on Taniquetil, and after a few lazy, golden days on the estate, he is dreading the idea of many more weeks of them.

He has gone on walks with Tuilindien. He has gone riding with her. He has been shown very thoroughly around the vineyard, including the facilities and equipment used for making wine which he found very interesting. He has dined formally with the whole family, and on a blanket in the garden with Tuilindien and her little sisters. He has even written home to his mother, Maitimo, Makalaurë and Ambarussar, as well as Curufinwë and Findaráto for work reasons.

He has laid wholly awake at night because there is so much energy left in his body that he cannot slip to Lórien’s realm.

'I need to do something’, he tells Tuilindien in the morning after that night. They are having a private breakfast in the garden.

Tuilindien looks confused. 'What do you need to do?’ she asks.

'Anything. I am… It was very generous of your family to offer to host me for the whole summer just to have me lazing around and eating your food –’

'You are family too’, Tuilindien insists.

He takes her right hand and kisses the finger that holds his ring. 'In spite of that, it doesn’t feel right not to do anything. You’re helping your grandparents with the vineyard’s bookkeeping, and you work on your new treatise every night. And I need to do something for my own sake, too. I am getting restless in all senses of the word.’

Tuilindien’s smile over the rim of her teacup is gentle and understanding as she sips. 'What sorts of things would you like to do, Carnistir?’

'I noticed that the side door of the winery sticks a little. If no one has done anything about it yet, I can fix it, if I get tools somewhere, and do other similar things too. I can give Cirincë riding lessons to improve her seat. I want to learn more about winemaking – if I could follow your foreman around for a day or two…’

'There is not much being done this early in the summer besides trimming the vines. You will find harvest-time more interesting’, Tuilindien says. 'We can ask the foreman about it, though, and whether he can think of more work for you to do, if you truly want to work even though you don’t have to.’

Carnistir grins. 'I would much rather roll up my sleeves and get my hands dirty with physical work than laze around here, or go back to my grandfather’s court and stand or sit around all day just talking and listening and at best writing things down.’

'Very well then’, Tuilindien smiles. 'My family might be bewildered, but there is certainly work here that you and your strong hands can do.’

She blushes when she mentions his hands, and it is delightful to Carnistir.

Carnistir finds the vineyard’s foreman a very sensible person who, after looking Carnistir up and down and apparently coming to some favourable conclusion, gives him work to do every time he asks for it. He does some basic tasks such as fixing the door that require little thinking, and he learns some new skills specific to a vineyard.

He writes a letter about it to his father.

Together with Tuilindien he instructs Cirincë in improving her riding and finds her an eager pupil, if not as exuberant as his little twin brothers.

He still spends time with Tuilindien, too, many hours every day when just the two of them do not much of anything together. He enjoys those quiet hours all the more when they are balanced by mornings spent at work.

Tuilindien takes him often, by foot or on horse, to those places where the rolling plains offer a beautiful, unobstructed view of the Two Trees.

Often they sit under a tree for hours, dreaming with or without words of the future or simply enjoying the closeness of the moment, one of them petting the other’s hair.

'You are going to miss them, aren’t you?’ He asks her one day. 'The Trees. Having them so close and so bright.’

'I am.’ Tuilindien, resting against his chest with her gaze on the Trees, sighs. 'I cannot help it. I love their light this close and though Tirion is beautiful and its brilliant whiteness makes it glow with a light of its own, almost, it is not…’

'It is not the same.’

'It is not the light of my childhood.’ She turns around in his lap and puts her hands in his hair. 'I have left childhood behind, though, and leaving my people who live close to the Trees is another new phase in my life. Do not feel sad for me, Carnistir.’

'But –’

She silences him with a kiss. She knows by now just how to kiss so that he can do nothing but put his arms around her and hold her tight, kiss back, nibble on her lower lip to make her make one of her delightful little noises.

At a certain point they stop kissing, as they must always do until they marry one another. Tuilindien says, 'Your kisses have melted me’, and stays in his lap, head tucked against his shoulder. Her breath tickles in his hair.

She mumbles something into his tunic some time later. It is amusing but incomprehensible.

’Vanimelda, you must lift your head if you wish to speak.’

'Must I?’ Tuilindien gets off him just to lay down with her head in his lap instead. She looks up at him.

'I have been thinking’, she says.

To him, that seems an ominous beginning, especially coupled with the faint sense of anxiety he feels from her. 'Of what?’ he asks.

'I think I shall speak like your family, when we are wedded. Noldorin – the kind of Noldorin that your parents and your brothers speak.’

'My mother speaks otherwise when she is in the company of her own family only’, Carnistir points out.

'Otherwise regarding the merging of the voiceless dental fricative with the voiceless alveolar sibilant?

'Or as my father calls it, sá-siing. Yes.’

'Like your wise mother, I intend continue to speak with my family the way I have always spoken, too. But when I am in Tirion, I will speak the way that your father's… convictions have made your family to speak. Not because of your father’, Tuilindien stresses. 'Because of you. Because it is the way you speak.’

He cups the side of her face. 'If you have made the decision, why do you feel anxiety? Do you doubt it?’

'I do not doubt my decision.’ She turns her hand towards his hand, and closes her eyes. When she continues, it is in perfect Noldorin – and so similar, both in the speech sounds and in rhythm and intonation to the way Carnistir knows himself to speak that it is eerie.

'I am aware, though, that it will place me on the side of the minority among the Noldor, and across the divide from the kind and queen, who have recently adopted the change. It seems to me… awkward to make a choice which sets me apart from most of the people I am joining by marriage, particularly Finwë and Indis who have been so kind to me. But since the marriage is to you, I shall speak as you do.’

How can he reply to that but by bending down to kiss her?

It turns out that sideways, upside-down kissing is awkward too. It makes Tuilindien laugh and get up and straddle his lap again. It is their favourite position to kiss; their whole bodies close together, her face just a bit above his, making it easy to close the distance. Her long hair, when it is free, forms a soft golden curtain around them both.

He kisses her until he can feel the last of her apprehensiveness swept away in a sweet current of better emotions.

One hot, hazy day late in the summer Lirulinë has her baby, a little daughter. Carnistir gets to see her together with Tuilindien when the baby is only a few hours old. He has never seen a child so young, not even the Curufinwë or Ambarussar, for his mother was very exhausted after those births and Fëanáro stayed in their room alone with her and the babies for a whole day.

Lirulinë’s daughter has the same green-blue eyes as her mother and her aunt Tuilindien. Carnistir stands behind Tuilindien’s shoulder as she holds her, marvelling at the new life grasping onto Tuilindien’s finger.

It is far too easy to imagine that one day there might a child that looks much like this child with her eyes like Tuilindien’s and curly hair close in colour to hers, and that she or he might be theirs, theirs to love and to hold. Though, Carnistir thinks when a dash of sense returns to him, their child will most likely have hair much darker than this.

Though he hopes they will have golden-haired children too, against the odds.

'She is very beautiful and strong, Lirulinë’, Tuilindien says when she carefully hands the newborn back to its mother. 'I am very glad that I was able to be here to welcome her.’

Lirulinë just smiles in reply, settling the baby’s blanket better around her.

'We are calling her Aiwië for now’, Alcarno says from his place beside Lirulinë, beaming proudly.

'You named her 'little bird’ in honour of our family’s tradition?’ Tuilindien asks, clearly delighted.

'She is sweet like a fluffy little bird’, Alcarno says. 'It seemed a good way to name her after her mother.’

Lirulinë leans against the headboard and her husband for support, but seems to be in good spirits. 'It will be my role to give her a name that she will not be embarrassed by when she is a grown woman’, she says wryly, but her shrewd eyes are softer than Carnistir has ever seen them.

'It is a lovely father-name, and a lovely tribute to our family.’ Tuilindien goes to kiss Lirulinë’s cheek and the baby’s forehead and Alcarno’s cheek as well.

Carnistir is not jealous as he once would have been. This is a very special moment, even he can feel that, and he has come to know Alcarno and the relationship he has with Tuilindien. They have been friends their whole lives, and brother and sister by marriage for many years.

'Thank you for letting me see the baby’, he says to Lirulinë and Alcarno before he and Tuilindien leave to let them rest and become acquainted with each other. 'She is beautiful.’

Which is what Tuilindien said already, but how else could he describe something so wonderful as a brand new fëa and hröa, a dearly-wished-for child born to a loving family.

In the corridor outside Lirulinë’s bedroom Carnistir can only say 'I hope –’

And Tuilindien says, 'I know, my love, so do I. We will – in time, if we are blessed.’

They go for a long walk in the orchard at the back of the garden, hand in hand, in silence, among the scent of the ripening fruit and the sounds of busy insects and birds.

When the summer draws to its end and the time for harvest arrives, Carnistir seems eager to take part in the work and learn more about winemaking.

'Do you want to learn more about everything that happens, or is there something about winemaking that has especially caught your interest?’ Tuilindien asks him early one morning when she kisses his cheek before he goes to join the pickers for the day.

Carnistir takes a moment to think. 'My father taught me to be interested in how things work, or how they are made’, he says. 'I never had much cause before to think about how grapes are turned into wine, but being here in a vineyard for weeks has made me think about it, and now I want to learn.’

'Well, my grandparents told me that they are very happy that you find their vineyard interesting.’ Tuilindien smiles. 'I will see you at lunch.’

'I like you in work clothes like this’, he says, sweeping his hand down the side of her old cotton dress. 'Even though you have to keep your hair hidden away.’

Tuilindien touches the kerchief she has tied around her head, her long hair carefully tucked inside it. 'It wouldn’t do to have my hairs mixed in with the grapes when I’m sorting them.’

They sneak in another kiss before going their separate ways to the morning’s work. Every adult on the estate takes part in the work during the rush of harvest-time, and older children help, too. They are busy days, but happy too, with jesting and singing making the work hours go faster.

Once most of the work is done for the harvest of the early varieties of grape, Tuilindien’s family as well as most of the estate’s workers leave as a great procession for the Holy Mountain, Taniquetil, for it is time for the harvest festival.

This time, Tuilindien and Carnistir celebrate the festival in the usual manner, if less exuberantly than some. Carnistir refuses to sing where there are strangers to hear it, and he only dances with Tuilindien – and with Cirincë, for she asks him to, and he seems unable to deny her anything.

Tuilindien loves him all the more for it.

They spend the festival with their families. Fëanáro has not come, as usual, but everyone else has. Tyelkormo asks Tuilindien to dance, for which Carnistir glares at him, but Tuilindien agrees because she wants to get to know all of Carnistir’s brothers better.

She doesn’t make much progress with that, though, because the dance Tyelkormo chooses is fast and lively and offers little chance for talking.

Maitimo approaches her next, asking her to join him, Makalaurë and Tinweriel in a dance requiring four dance partners. Tuilindien accepts gracefully though she is nervous that her dancing will fall short of the others’ grace.

All three are pleasant, genial company though, and Tuilindien is all smiles when she returns to Carnistir.

'Do you think Curufinwë will appear to dance with me next?’ she asks him, laughing. Her head spins from dancing and from the wine that is so readily available at this feast. She tries to fix the placement of her veil on her hair, but only makes it worse.

'Almost certainly not.’ Carnistir’s more steady fingers straighten the circlet and veil both, caressing the back of her neck as he tucks her hair under the silvery fabric.

'That may be for the best. I am becoming rather silly. Dance with me again, darling, please.’ She twines her hands around his neck and pulls him close.

'Right here by the food?’ he asks dryly. 'Let us go somewhere more private and I’ll dance with you in a way that my brothers certainly didn't…’

Tuilindien laughs in his ear.

The next day is the long-dreaded day of farewell. Tuilindien tries to make it a little less difficult for Carnistir by giving him something that will keep him preoccupied.

'I think this might be the best gift I have ever given you, though it is not a difficult comparison to win’, she says as she gives him the wicker basket that a serving maid just brought into the room.

He takes the basket. Small, pitiable mews can be heard from the inside and understandably Carnistir does not look very surprised when upon opening the lid he finds a kitten inside.

He looks delighted, though.

The kitten is jet black and has yellow, almost orange eyes, and she also has very many opinions about having been shut in a basket, for however short a time, which she expresses by continued mewing.

She quietens when Carnistir carefully lifts it out of the basket and into his lap. She sniffs the air instead and inspects his tunic by mouthing at it.

'She is old enough for you to take to Tirion with you. If you wish to, that is. You wrote to me in one of your letters that you wanted to have a cat once you settle down in your own home. That home is not yet fully built but I thought that you could use this little creature’s company while you finish it. Her mother is a stable cat and a famous mouser –’

Carnistir interrupts her by taking her hand though he has to let go of it again when the kitten tries to make an escape since she is no longer encircled by his hands. He pulls her back to the safety of his lap.

'Tuilë, she is a great gift. Where did she come from?’

'Our neighbour. I talked with her before we left for the plains for the summer and asked for one of the kittens her family’s stable cat was going to have. I fetched the kitten from her just this morning.’

'She is a gift long in planning, then.’ Carnistir smiles.

'She is, though I did not plan her to be black. I want you to know that. It just happened that every kitten in the litter is black, though only one of the parents is.’

Carnistir shrugs. 'Black is as good a colour as any other.’

'It is not because your hair is black’, Tuilindien stresses.

Carnistir bursts out in laughter. 'I didn’t think about that for a second.’

'My mother saw the kitten when I brought her over from our neighbour, and she asked me whether I intended on colour-matching all my gifts to your hair’, Tuilindien confesses.

The kitten startles at how hard Carnistir shakes with laughter at that. 'Feel free to do so if you wish, Tuilë, for I might not even notice.’

'I don’t wish to do it’, Tuilindien grumbles, but she moves to sit right next to Carnistir and lays her head on his shoulder, looking on while he gets acquainted with his new pet.

A/N: In the next chapter, preparations for the future continue.

I love everyone who is still reading this

#it feels so good to post this #it is a humble offering of fluff and romance but I enjoyed writing it and I hope you guys enjoy reading it #silmarillion fanfiction #tolkien fanfiction #caranthir #caranthir's wife #tuilindien #your spirit calling out to mine #my fics #elesianne's fics

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