#its been collecting dust in my drafts for almost two months now

[apricot-the-apricat]

Rivvy's ref sheet :]

My sona!! They're not really canon to the actual story (not this version atleast, Apricot still is) so they look/function a bit extra weird even for my oc standards, but they're cool I like them.

Also to clarify Apricot isn't my sona anymore, she's just a normal oc, the also-being-my-sona part is Rivvy's job now which is part of why they're non-canon. I made this username a good few years before rivvy was a thing tho so I'm gonna stick with it lol

alt. outfit mostly so you can see their scar better:

[eldritchqueerture]

Point of View - Original Statement Fic

Point of View (5004 words) by LadyNikita Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Original Statement Giver(s) (The Magnus Archives) Additional Tags: Statement Fic (The Magnus Archives), Original Statement (The Magnus Archives), this was intended as the eye but evolved into the vast as well, happens, cosmic horror, attempt at Eldritch Madness, unreality, Discussions of pointlessness and meaninglessness, Canon-Typical The Vast Content (The Magnus Archives), from the eps about space, Mentions of Death, Compulsion, discussions of free will (kind of), Dissociation, Panic, Mentions of addiction, Leitner Book (The Magnus Archives), except it was not possessed by Leitner, Pretty Colours <3, Neurodivergent Protagonist, Queer Protagonist, because I can project a bit as a treat, Can Be Read Without Prior Knowledge of the Podcast (I think)

Summary: "Humans crave understanding. They strive towards knowing more and more, that’s what all science is about, isn’t it? To study, to learn and understand; to seek answers to questions. But are we really equipped to handle the answers we seek? Even if we were able to reach them, are our minds advanced enough to grasp the truths about the world we live in? What if there are things just beyond our understanding, lurking in the shadows of reality, peeking into our world just enough to feed on us, on our uncertainty and our pathetic scrambling towards answers that would only bring madness?" --- Statement of Lyria Ellison regarding a different point of view and the dangers of knowledge.

Notes: Hiiiiii <3 I've been reading Lovecraft recently and as much as I hate the dude, The Colour Out of Space gave me so much inspiration that I immediately sat down and produced this in one sitting. I've been meaning to play with the concept of eldritch madness for a while; something about this trope is really appealing to me and I'm really enjoying my attempts at shaping it with words. Lyria is a preexisting OC of mine, I will give some background on her in the end notes because I love her very much. This is a form of practice for me; I'm playing with horror themes and I'd like to get acquainted with them to better incorporate them into my overall writing. Therefore I will accept constructive criticism if anyone wants to give it, but only in the form of DMs, either on Tumblr (your-queer-vampire-dm) or on Discord, if we know each other through a server. All of the warnings I think should be mentioned are in the tags, but if you think something should be added then please tell me!

Date: May 10th , 2018

Name: Lyria Ellison

Subject of experience: A different point of view and the dangers of knowledge.

—

How do you start telling a story that changed your heart, your mind, and your soul so profoundly that you can barely still function in a society? How do you say all that without sounding borderline insane? Nobody knows what I’ve seen, what I’ve been through. I know they would all say I’ve hallucinated it all and should seek treatment. But I know it won’t help. I know… I know so much now. Too much and not enough. Never enough. I know what happened was real . I don’t have proof so I’m guessing you won’t believe me either, but I need to tell someone about it. So I might as well tell you.

My name is Lyria Ellison and I’m a neuropsychology major. Ex-major, I should say. I dropped out after… Yeah. I dropped out; there’s not much point in continuing studying things about the feeble, insignificant human brain. Utterly pointless venture.

Humans crave understanding. They strive towards knowing more and more, that’s what all science is about, isn’t it? To study, to learn and understand; to seek answers to questions. But are we really equipped to handle the answers we seek? Even if we were able to reach them, are our minds advanced enough to grasp the truths about the world we live in? What if there are things just beyond our understanding, lurking in the shadows of reality, peeking into our world just enough to feed on us, on our uncertainty and our pathetic scrambling towards answers that would only bring madness?

Just a year ago, I was convinced I was going to finish my degree. I was so passionate about it too, eager to learn more and more, to research and seek knowledge. Curious and fascinated by the world around us. What a foolish thing it was to give into that drive. My mind was open to the supernatural, although I always approached it scientifically; I never said the supernatural existed, but I also never said it didn’t. It was plausible; all in all, every scientist must accept that there is still a vast amount of knowledge we don’t have about the world.

The ignorance was a blessing. But I shall not get ahead of myself.

It started around December last year; my dad had died, and my girlfriend, Shawala, and I were clearing out his house. There wasn’t really anyone else to do it; my mother had passed a couple years prior, I had no siblings, and extended family was out of the picture as well; and my dad had gathered a lot of things in his adventurous life; he was a traveller, and he loved the world, loved learning about it, just like me. I was feeling pretty overwhelmed with it all; my dad meant a lot to me back then, and Shawala proved an excellent support at that first shock. She promised to do some first view assessments of the ground floor, while I went to scope out how things looked in the attic.

It’s always either basements or attics, isn’t it? I used to read horror, Lovecraftian was my favourite – how ironic, isn’t it? How stupid . How utterly ignorant. The hubris of the human race at its finest.

Anyways, the attic was half-lit from the small windows in the roof, and dust was swirling in the faint light of the afternoon sun. It was cold here, but I didn’t pay much mind; the house was old, and it wasn’t surprising that there was draft. To say the space was cluttered would be an understatement; I could barely walk around the numerous boxes, old furniture, crates, and overflowing bookshelves; all of which made something in my chest curl tight, bringing tears to my eyes. I steered my steps towards the nearest bookshelf; I’ve always been a bookworm, fascinated by nearly any tome I came across; I’ve been reading popular science books since I was eight. So naturally, I was drawn to the books, taking huge steps above the cardboard boxes and careful not to hit anything else.

The books were old, of course, and dusty. Some of them had loose pages, and I treated them very gently, almost reverently. I have a little bit of a bookbinder streak, and I decided I would take them home and try to put them back together. As I rifled through them, I saw they pertained to a vast variety of subjects, from poetry, drama, and history, to science, metaphysics, and maths. The deeper I looked into this stunning collection, the more reverence rose in my heart; at my fingertips I had the oldest and the biggest accumulation of knowledge I had ever seen. I saw some books dated back even two hundred years ago.

At that point Shawala called me to check if I was alright. I put the book I had in my hands back and my knuckles brushed against the black leather cover of the next one on the shelf. I felt pleasant tingling in my palm at the touch and my heart leaped at the prospect; I didn’t know why –  the book seemed ordinary enough on the shelf and there was no title on its spine.

I sometimes wonder if I could have just left it there and gone downstairs; chosen to come back later and then maybe, it wouldn’t have enticed me as it did. If, by that point, I had had any choice left on the matter.

Alas, intrigued by the book, I placed my palm on the spine and took it out. The leather was soft and smooth, probably sheep, with familiar subtle grains all over the texture. I remember it striked me as odd that it was warmer than the rest of the books in the drafty attic, but I shrugged it off. The front cover had a title, small but visible in the centre, etched in gold – Punctum Visus .

I, by all means, cannot read or speak Latin, but I figured it was something to do with vision. I opened the book, an unknown anticipation buzzing in my stomach. The pages were worn and old, their texture was slightly rough but pleasant under my fingertips; as I opened the front page, I saw the title again, this time in thick but still elegant, black letters, and the smell came up to my nostrils.

I tried to describe it in my head countless times after. I always loved the smell of old books, and I knew it very well, so it came to me as a surprise to realize it wasn’t the only smell I could feel from the book. It was… cold, somehow, distant but prickling at my nose, a little bit the way peppermint tastes. It reminded me of the night sky and distant stars somehow. The smell awakened an unease within me, as I couldn’t quite place what it was and why it seemed so weird , but it wasn’t by any means unpleasant. It was… enticing. Like a promise of a mystery.

I breathed it in again through my nose, closing my eyes, and for a moment I lost all feeling in my body. I was untethered and immaterial, somewhere in deep darkness that seemed to envelop me whole. It felt cold on my mind, stretching it thoughtlessly in the empty vastness, and I saw distant flickering lights of stars. Before I could form a coherent thought, I was back in myself, panting and shaking, staring at the front page of the Punctum Visus . I looked around with shaky breaths; the attic looked the same, and Shawala’s steps on the stairs reached my ears, with her voice calling my name. A shiver passed down my spine, causing goosebumps to bloom on my skin; was it the draft, the dread, or the excitement I couldn’t tell.

I knew I had to read this book, no matter what it took for me to do so.

I took it home, almost forgetting about the rest of the books upstairs. It had spent the next month laying in my room, as I dealt with the formalities and moving the rest of things that weren’t sold from the house either to my place or to charity. After the day we left the house for the last time, I collapsed in my bed, exhausted, but instead of closing, my eyes fell on the book unassumingly waiting on my nightstand.

A surge of excitement passed through me, waking me right up. I sat up and reached for the book. It was still warm; I couldn’t tell if it was good or bad, but warm it was. I think it made me subconsciously assign it more… being? Like, even before I knew anything, I somehow subconsciously accepted that it was more than just an object; that it was, in a sense, alive on its own. I brushed my fingers on the cover, feeling the texture of the leather and the etching of the letters. In the meantime during this month I had checked the meaning of the title – Point of Sight; a position from which a thing is or is supposed to be viewed. It makes so much sense now.

But then I didn’t know what dangers it held; or I didn’t want to think about them. I do remember feeling anxious, my hands trembling every time I opened the cover, but it was so mingled with exhilaration of the certainty I was discovering something important that I must have disregarded it. As I turned the pages, I wasn’t surprised to find the text in Latin; though I still felt a pang of frustration that it meant I couldn’t read it for now. I rifled through the pages, looking curiously at the letters that formed words yet unattainable to me. There was a hunger inside of me; a hunger to Know. As I turned the pages past various symbols, illustrations of the constellations, and of Earth, I determined it must be some sort of a metaphysical work. The point of view on the world around us.

Normally I just skim through works like this and leave them. While they are an interesting read sometimes, they’re not my favourite genre and, looking objectively, putting in the effort of learning a whole language just for the sake of reading a treatise on the meaning of cosmos by an unknown author seems strange at best. But somehow it seemed obvious to me that I had to read it. It called to me, sang into a part of my being that begged to be filled, promising knowledge that would finally leave me satisfied. I know now that it’s impossible. Once you’ve tasted the hunger for knowing, you will never find satisfaction; it’s like an addiction. You just crave more and more, and the knowledge never ends. After a certain point you know too much and when it all connects, when it starts to make sense… you slip. I didn’t know that, even though maybe I should have. I didn’t know what those things I was feeling meant then and I didn’t stop to question them; I gave into it as soon as it touched me. I was stupid.

What followed were a busy couple of months. Every waking moment that wasn’t spent keeping up the pretence of being interested in my major (back then I only thought it a brief hyperfixation, of course, and wouldn’t have called it a pretence at all), I was learning Latin online or staring into the incomprehensible words on the pages. This period of my life is a blur; I remember my friends checking up on me if I was alright, since I wasn’t particularly social anymore. Shawala got progressively more worried, but it fully escaped my mind to care. I know that staring thoughtlessly at the book took up more and more of my time; once, I remember, I returned from my classes at three PM and took the book out; when I came back to myself it was well past midnight. That’s when I started to feel truly uneasy about it. It was the second half of April; I looked back on what I’ve been doing these past months and this cold dread started creeping up to my throat. I realized I didn’t know why I wanted to read the book so much and I remembered the “vision” or the hallucination I had that first time in my dad’s attic. I had set it aside completely as unimportant, and I couldn’t wrap my head around why. I started shaking and theorizing in my head about the book being able to influence my mind somehow, to control it. Had my actions not been my own? How much of it was my own will and how much was the book? Was it even possible for it to influence me like that; could it be that it was supernatural in some way?

The house became cold, unnaturally so. It was dark and all the windows were closed, but a chill draft managed to find its way into the corridor I was in anyway. I sank to the floor and hugged my knees, trembling in panic. I was all alone in the flat, everyone I knew was surely already asleep in their homes, and I was small and weak in the face of something that maybe could have controlled my mind. I suddenly became aware of the leatherbound book in my hand, and I threw it along the corridor at the front door with a whimper, as far away from me as possible. The book thumped against the door, then the floor, and opened on a random page.

I’ve read enough horrors. I knew that the page would be significant, and that knowledge made me sob and hug my knees tighter. I didn’t know what was happening; I felt like I’d just woken up from a months-long dream… and perhaps I was right. The recent past felt alien.

I felt tears sting my eyes and that’s when the smell reached me. Again that mixture of old paper and peppermint cold, distantly sweet but freezing the blood in my veins. My breath came in ragged and shallow, and tears streamed down my face as I stared at the open book that was calling me in an inaudible whisper. The logical side of my mind was trying desperately to make sense of it, to assign the dissociative feeling to my father’s death and yeah, it was plausible, but somehow it just didn’t feel right. The whispers sounded again, swirling around my head, the golden sound almost touching the back of my neck, making me wince. It was enticing and promising, but this time, I felt terror instead of excitement. Disregarding how my mind was trying to rationalize the situation, I knew the book was cursed somehow. I knew that I was its victim. And I knew that I would not be strong enough to resist it.

I don’t know how much time I sat there, trembling, and sobbing into my knees, before I calmed down from the panic and decided I had to do something. I had to find out what this book was and how it found itself into my dad’s library. I couldn’t remember seeing anything in his diaries that would mention it at all, but then again, I didn’t read them all cover to cover. On wobbly legs I carefully made my way back to my room and searched the Internet until the sun started peeking out of the window; I found nothing about any book titled Punctum Visus . I tried all the libraries that I’d known of, that had their assortment online, all the research databases; nothing.

So, at the crack of dawn, with a fast-beating heart, I stood in the door of my room, staring out into the corridor, where the book still lay by the front door, unmoving. The golden strings of a wordless melody made it to my ears; it promised an explanation; that this time if I looked close enough, I would find what I was looking for.

What was I looking for?

Where else could I find the answers if not in the book itself?

I could feel its cold fingers slowly wrap around my mind, steering me to come closer. It called me with a hypnotising voice that awakened all the red signals in my brain, telling me to run and hide, but I didn’t. The voice meant danger, but I knew it also meant knowledge.

Dangerous knowledge. The pull dragged me through the corridor step by step; I hadn’t been fighting it as strongly as I could have had and I was about to start, since I was getting closer to the book, but suddenly I felt the chill of the influence let go, hovering close but out of reach. It was still compelling me to come, to Look, but I could move my own limbs. I had a choice to make.

Knowledge of danger. Did I believe my own warning thoughts that I would regret looking into the book? Did I take my own logical, rational side seriously? Was I ever good at resisting my own impulses?

I’ve never been addicted to anything, but then again, I never really had the opportunity, as it were; my friends were more of a no-alcohol types and I really ever smoked cigarettes once. I’ve never seen drugs in real life. So who’s to say if I’m not an addictive personality? And this, this was addictive. The thrill of mystery, the exhilarating process of learning, the anticipation of the answers.

Was it ever really my choice?

No supernatural force guided my steps that night; no cold fingers made me kneel next to the book and carefully cradle it in my arms, looking at the page with a shaky breath and tears in my eyes, as if I was coming back home like the prodigal son. But I’m sure it was by some paranormal means that this time I could understand the text on the pages.

I honestly don’t remember what it said. As I read the unfamiliar words, the meaning presented itself in my mind, not entirely unlike that first “vision” I had in the attic; as soon as I started reading I knew that I had made the choice and there was no turning back. That cold draft enveloped me, sat on my skin, and started to bite; I felt that smell again, stronger than ever before, something intangible but unmistakably inhuman . It was then that I realized that’s what had felt wrong to me about the smell since the beginning. It was inferior and alien. My hands started shaking as my eyes, glued to the text, moved now on their own down the page, drinking the words in. I was terrified out of my mind, but the pleasant tingling along my nerves was back, the anticipation of the promised understanding.

My mind was drowned with the tide of knowledge. This was just a prologue; a true discovery would require preparation, but I was almost ready. The voice said I was chosen, that I was a perfect candidate to bring It what It needs and that I would be rewarded. I cried tears of amazement and horror at the sheer scope of the voice – it seemed to encompass the entire world. I couldn’t comprehend it, but I didn’t know then that it was a blessing. I wanted to know, I craved to know what It was and how I could be of use to something so powerful, so huge. Divine. That was a word that crossed my mind, as much as I don’t like that. I don’t like many things, but I can’t change any of them.

The voice said I’m on the right path. I would Know and Understand. First, I needed to do something. As It told me what that was, doubt started to creep up to my mind. What was I doing? What was happening? How could this be real?

I came to on the floor by my front door, the cursed book in hand, with a tear-stained face and a bloody nose.

I knew what I had to do to get ready and, as I calmed down and went over everything in my head, I was surprised by how trivial it was. Honestly, by this point I was kind of afraid It would tell me to hurt someone, so I was glad this was just about reading a bunch of words in a specific location at a specific time. I was aware of the fact that this was most probably a ritual, and I was quite apprehensive. I kept arguing with myself in my head, over and over whether I should follow through, but deep down I knew that I would, no matter what I told myself. This part, I think, scared me the most; how compelling the promise of knowledge was, how reverently I’d found myself thinking of the book and its owner (which I assumed was the voice), how fanatical some of my thoughts sounded. I’ve never been religious, never really felt idealistic either. I was always focused on facts, on the here and now. Can knowledge be an ideal? Can you be a fanatic of Seeing and Knowing?

How much had I changed since I’d found Punctum Visus in that old attic.

I found a good, quiet spot, on the north-west side of the New Forest National Park near Southampton. I told no one about this, deeming it unimportant. I would come back after my big discovery, I would explain everything. I laugh at myself now; at my naivety.

The night of April 28 th was clear, and the starry sky looked back at me as I parked my car on the road in the forest and locked it. I tied a piece of a long red string to the wheel, not to lose my way in the forest, and started to walk forward. I held the book close to my chest, as if it could protect me from the dark, eerie outlines of the trees, swaying gently on the wind and whatever the darkness around me held. I didn’t light the torch; the moon was nearly full, bathing everything in its gentle light, and besides, for some reason it seemed that the crude yellow light would somehow break the sanctity of what I was about to do. I could see the ground in front of me and managed to lose sight of my car and everything else besides trees pretty fast.

I stopped when I found a small clearing. The moon was high in the sky, shining down on me like a big eye; I didn’t know why this comparison seemed the most fitting, but it did. I took a deep breath, feeling a chill plant little dots all over my skin, making my hairs stand on end. The wind died down and the trees froze, as if in anticipation. I felt something watching me closely; I was not alone here anymore.

The realization made my breath catch in my throat and the last streaks of sanity broke through my thick skull. Run! Drop the book and run! I didn’t. My hands trembled, my muscles tensed, and I stood there, frozen with fear as something stared at me, seemingly for eternity. Something bigger than me, bigger than anything I have ever seen was watching me, waiting. My eyes dropped to the book in my arms. The black leather was warm, as always, but this time I felt a pulsating sensation from it. A heartbeat.

I screamed. The book landed discarded on the ground, and I stumbled backwards and tripped, landing in the grass as well. It was cold and wet, and it glistened with something in the faint moonlight. At first I took it for water, but upon closer inspection I saw it was the grass itself that glittered – a shy rainbow, glowing iridescently in an impossible way. I froze, stunned, for I have never seen such colours before. It seemed utterly alien, something unfitting for the human eye to see; simultaneously beautiful and horrifying.

As I looked around, I noticed that everything alive in the forest – the trees, the grass, the bushes, the plants – had taken on that iridescent mixture of faint light that prickled my eyes and sent a shiver of terror down my spine. It was beautiful, utterly gorgeous in a way that nothing a human eye can perceive could be. It was horrifying in how different, alien, and other it was. My senses could tell this is not of the Earth; not of this reality, not of this world; everything in me that still had common sense tried to recoil from the inferiority of this magnificence and the danger it brought, but I had abandoned common sense a while back. Maybe even when I touched the book for the first time. I stared then, breathless and trembling, at this scenery as if from a fairy tale and decided to lock away my rational thoughts. I wanted to See, to Know; I wanted to experience and if this was the death of me then hell, it was a pretty good way to go. To behold such a sight, I thought, was a reward in and of itself.

Of course, I had no idea what any of it meant. I slowly rose to my knees and patted the ground down until I felt the book. It still pulsated with this heartbeat and the letters etched in the leather glowed with golden light. My hands were sweaty, and I didn’t know whether I was shivering from fear or the cold. I opened the book on the first page.

What I saw was not what I had expected. I remembered that the first page, after the titular one, was the beginning of the introduction, that much I had understood, but now it was a big picture in black and white; a night sky, with an almost full moon and strewn with stars. It was a shot from the ground and treetops could be seen at the edges of the picture. As the book swayed in my hands, the stars glittered, and the perspective shifted ever so slightly, as if it was in 3D. Stricken by a surge of dread and cold certainty, I looked up. My suspicion was right – the picture in the book depicted the exact image that was now above me. I gasped quietly and looked down at the book—

And this is where things started to really go horribly, horribly wrong.

The book was gone. What’s more, the ground was gone too and suddenly everything was not where it should have been. I blinked but it did nothing to ease the dizziness; and when I composed myself enough to register what I was seeing I froze, the most intense horror I have ever experienced crushing my body from all sides and inside out.

I realized that I was Seeing. I was finally Seeing, and I Understood it all.

I don’t know how to convey in words what I saw. I don’t believe it’s possible; humans were never made to see and understand such things. I should have never touched the book, I should have never asked for knowledge. All my life I believed that knowledge was the point; it was a tool, and it was power. I don’t know what I think anymore. I think some knowledge should always be hidden because we were not made to know everything. We can’t , it’s physically impossible for us to comprehend.

For one moment in my life. For one moment I became something else, and I saw the world in the way It sees the world. For one moment I shared a mind with an eldritch being, a thing that is Fear itself, and I saw the Earth through Its Eye. I can’t… I can’t tell you just how horrible it is. How… How meaningless; we’re all intertwined things, guided by strings of web that lead us through life, and we’re all connected in this maze of fear . We’re not individuals; we’re not special. We don’t have souls and none of our experiences matter. We’re just fear. These… These entities are a part of all of us. They’re our fear and they live inside of us, inside of every living creature that can feel fear. Can you comprehend that? How can you be sure you are yourself when there’s a cosmic entity, a power as old as life itself, living you ? And no one has any idea. Nobody knows and if I tell someone they’ll think I’m crazy. Sometimes I think I’m crazy. But deep down I know what I saw. I know it was real. And I’m terrified. I’m terrified because I know that this Being of eyes that I became a part of watches everything I do. I feel Its presence here very strongly, and I guess it makes sense. It will never leave me. It’s a part of me, just like the rest of them; just like they’re all a part of every one of you, yet you have no idea. But I know. And I know I’m all alone with that knowledge, the knowledge that I can’t comprehend, but I know I could in that one moment. It’s a very lonely place to be and I’m scared.

I’m scared as I have never been before; this fear doesn’t leave me anymore. Every second of every day I’m aware I’m watched by something as great as cosmos. I’m aware I shared my mind with that being and it makes my skin crawl.

I don’t know what to do now, but I don’t expect any advice from you. I’m leaving the book with you, as proof. Its heart doesn’t beat anymore, and I’ve seen what I was supposed to.

Don’t read it.

Notes: If you enjoyed it, please consider leaving me a comment!! For people interested in a little bit of background: Lyria is a D&D character I have created that still awaits her chance to play in a campaign. She's an arcane scholar that has a dark little secret of actually being a warlock of a being she doesn't know a lot about. She's in love with knowledge and she seeks to learn about her powers as well as the world around her. I'm currently DMing a Ravenloft campaign and I just couldn't miss the fact how much potential for a corruption arc she has. Then I listened to TMA and I was like, she would definitely become the Avatar of the Beholding.

[luckhound]

— best laid plans.

pairing.  dino/gender neutral reader

genre.  humour, fluff

request.  OHH for the dates gone wrong prompts, Dino and the crabs one?? slfndkdj THANK YOU FOR YOUR WONDERFUL WRITING!! —@what-the-fuck-khr​

description.  you’ve been stressed as of late, but your boyfriend comes up with a plan to fix that. because your boyfriend is dino cavallone, it doesn’t go as expected.

note.  so this has been collecting dust in my drafts for months now, but i finally got the inspiration to finish it and post it. hope that makes up for the wait :^)

Sometimes it’s easy to forget who Dino is. He’s a total dork, has a tendency to trip over both his words and his own two feet, and rarely takes himself seriously.

Then he does something that reminds you just how important and influential he is, like fly you on his jet to a private island he owns. All because you complained about how stressed you’ve been feeling lately once.

“I thought you could use a vacation,” he’d said when you expressed your shock, grinning widely. “It’ll be just the two of us!”

As suddenly as he’d sprung the idea, it was still sweet of him to plan it for you. So you had smiled back, his excitement infectious and sparking your own...

Which was when Romario cleared his throat and clarified that he and Dino’s subordinates would be accompanying you. Obviously, you tell yourself later. It’d be dangerous for him to travel alone, especially with a civilian like you, who can’t fight.

It can be easy to forget, but Dino is the Cavallone boss. He’s not just your boyfriend. You made your peace with that long ago, because you know he has his obligations, and there are many.

But he never lets you feel like an afterthought, or unimportant. That’s why you love him anyway.

Plus, it’s not too bad, all things considered. At least Dino can keep both his feet under him with his men with the two of you. You enjoy that privilege as you stroll along the beach, hand-in-hand with your boyfriend, inching close to the shoreline and jogging away once the waves reach you. His subordinates are nearby, but they’re enjoying themselves as well and far away enough that you have some semblance of privacy. You’ll take what you can get.

Dino squeezes your hand, prompting your attention. “How is everything so far?” he asks. “Are you feeling a bit better?”

You squeeze back. “I’m feeling much better. Thanks for bringing me here.”

He beams at your response. “Of course! I know when I’m feeling stressed, a change of pace helps me out. I thought it might do the same for you.”

This is more than a change of pace, in your opinion, but you understand the intention behind it. So you nod and swing your joined hands, closing your eyes and breathing in the fresh air. The tranquility of the moment washes over you. Waves crash against the shore, seagulls cry out as they soar in the sky, and Dino breathes quietly beside you...

Then he yelps, and the tranquility is gone.

“Dino?” You turn to him, alarmed when you spot tears gathering in his eyes. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“My toe!” he cries out, confusing you further.

When you look down, though, everything becomes clear.

Since you’re at the beach, both of you had long taken off your sandals to walk barefoot on the warm sand. Which left Dino’s feet vulnerable to pests, like the crab that has the skin of his big toe pinched between its claws.

“Oh!” you say, at a loss for words. The times you’ve frequented the beach, you’ve never had to deal with something like this before. “Uh! Why don’t you, um. Shake it off?” That should get rid of the crab, surely?

“R-Right!” He lifts his foot and shakes his leg, looking completely ridiculous. Worse, the crab just dangles from his toe, refusing to let go. He cries out again. “Ack! Now it hurts even more!”

You look around, perplexed, then realize Dino’s screams must have alerted his men. They might have a better idea of what to do. You glance over your shoulder.

Only to find them staring in your direction, not moving a muscle to help their boss, in hysterics. One of them even appears to be holding his phone up, recording.

...Okay, you should’ve expected that. And, seeing as your boyfriend isn’t in any real danger, it is kind of funny. You thought situations like this only happened in comedies. The corners of your mouth twitch, but you resist the urge to smile.

Unfortunately, Dino notices. “Hey! Don’t laugh. I’m in pain over here!”

“I’m not laughing!”

“But you want to! I can tell!”

“Don’t you have bigger things to worry about right now?”

“Yeah! And you’re not helping!” Dino looks down at his foot, grimacing. Then his eyes widen. “Oh, no. No.”

You follow his gaze. To your horror, you see, scuttling across the sand, a crab inching its way towards the two of you. But the crab is still hanging off Dino’s foot. Which means there is more than one.

You scan the ground, your thought proven correct. An army of crabs are advancing on you, their pincers held aloft and practically gleaming in the sunlight. You stumble backwards. Thankfully, they don’t follow after you. It’s as if they don’t even notice you’re there.

Because they’re too busy following Dino.

“What the...” He hops away once, then twice, but they only hurry to close the distance. “Where did all of these crabs come from? I didn’t even do anything to them!”

Whatever the reason, the crabs are gaining on him. One swipes at him with a pincer, but he manages to hop away before it succeeds in the attempt.

“Guys!” Dino calls out. To his men, you realize after a beat. “A little assistance, here?!”

Instead of springing into action, his subordinates cup their hands over their mouths and shout encouragements. Behind them, Romario reclines on a folding chair, sunglasses perched on his nose and completely at peace.

“You got this, boss!”

“We believe in you!”

“Keep at it! You’re almost safe!”

“Man, the others are gonna love this...”

Still hopping away, Dino yells over his shoulder, “At least throw me my whip, you assholes!”

As you watch, in disbelief at what you’re seeing, he hobbles down the beach, followed closely by the crustaceans. He’s still flailing his foot, hoping to dislodge the crab on his toe, to no avail.

You stare. Then you bend over in laughter, clutching at your stomach.

This isn’t what you were expecting when Dino proposed a romantic getaway to his (one of several) private island. But it worked. Stress is the last thing on your mind right now.

And it’s all thanks to your loving boyfriend. In a way.

[jellidile]

Between Bookshelves  (Barris Sakan x fem!OC)

This WIP has been in my drafts for like... ever?? I never thought I’d share it but I don’t see why not. I haven’t played Helix Waltz in such a long time but I had so much fun when I was. I absolutely recommend it just for the characters and story even if the actual gameplay is... repetitive (it’s sad but true).  NOTE** I have not played Helix Waltz in like... two years?? So I would basically be writing before the more exciting chapters came out and off memory so if any die hard fans are like, actually in the lore- I am sorry my knowledge is not up to date Deveraux as an OC was made originally for this game but as my interests shifted I’ve reworked her into other media because I like her that much lmao I just like my shy baby too much to let her collect dust :))

Life for Deveraux La-Fey was simple. She stayed at home. Ran her shop, and got to be surrounded by books, all in one place. Days would come and go. And nothing ever changed. Sure she was surprised when Lady Nyx came to the store the first time. But by now, it had been months, and Nyx always seemed happy to have someone who would listen. It was a good life. Visavis may not have approved of it, but then again, he was a bird.

It was just another day when the shop bell rang and Deveraux peeked out from one of the bookshelves,

“W-welcome to La-Fey’s books!” She’d been dusting off the racks as was almost done. A deep baritone voice cheerfully answered,

“Ah! So I am in the right place. My lady, do you happen to have any Casebook collections?” Deveraux smiled to herself,

“Back left corner, call me if you need something.” the gentle but purposeful steps of a man quickly passed her by. As she finished the dusting she trotted over to her counter. She couldn’t see her customer but she didn’t mind, until he came out of hiding.

Now, her store did have a small reputation for being a place where almost any rare and hard to find book you asked for could be ordered and eventually purchased. Though almost no nobles ever came. This left Deveraux not only happy she didn’t have to stress herself out with their arrival. But gloomy because it meant she didn’t get a lot of good business. Never in a million years however, did she ever expect the Minister of Justice to walk into her store. She’d only ever caught glimpses of him. Never had she been face to face. Why would she? She shivered, why was he here?? The Minister though, seemed none the wiser to the flurry of thoughts running through Deveraux’s head as he spoke,

“Ms. La-Fey, do you have the Lionheart casebook collection 3 in stock?” Deveraux cleared her throat and smiled,

“U-um, actually yes! Apologies for its absence on the shelf. I’ve been doing a reread of the whole store,” Quickly she dipped under her counter and pulled up the old book. She smiled gently pushing it towards the man towering in front of her. He smiled sweetly opening it and paging through quickly,

“Yes, this is exactly what I was looking for! This I’ve heard is a very rare book indeed, how on earth do you have a copy Ms. La-Fey?” Deveraux chuckled lightly,

“I-I’ve had it since I was a child S-sir, it’s my favorite book. U-um, please, you can just call me Deveraux.” The minister seemed to study her before nodding,

“How lucky Ms. L- Deveraux! Is it for sale perchance?” Deveraux nodded,

“Indeed Minister, I have it up right now for 100 gold. Is that alright?” the Minister nodded digging into his pocket and pulling out a small pouch,

“Exactly 100 gold for you, Ms. Deveraux.” Instead of picking up the money Deveraux grabbed the book,

“This is your first time here, right Minister?” he nodded, confused. Deveraux continued,

“Well, there’s a special trick I can do, which means I never run out of stock.” as she held to book in one hand the other began to glow. The Minister watched silently as in her other hand, a perfect copy of the book appeared,

“Here, is your copy Minister. Please don’t fret, it’s an exact copy with only one large difference so people know. All within the law.” The Minister gaped before smiling again,

“How very interesting… What is this flaw you mentioned?” Deveraux put the two book side by side and opened them. There on the other side of the copied books cover, was a large ornate purple brand,

“There it is! The brand for the shop. Is that alright sir?” The Minister smiled picking up his copy,

“Oh yes, I’ll have to come back once I’ve finished this collection and see your opinion on some of the cases. Have a nice day Ms. Deveraux. Thank you for the book.” Just as quickly as he appeared, the Minister left. Leaving Deveraux bent over the counter almost shell-shocked. He was coming back? And he wanted to talk to her? She whimpered to herself as the shop bell rang again. Springing her back up from her position. At the door was Lady Nyx,

“Oh! Ms. Deveraux I just saw Mr. Barris walk out of here! Did he buy something from you?” Deveraux nodded slowly, putting the money into her register. Still shaking, from the experience. Nyx frowned,

“Ms. Deveraux, please don’t be scared! Mr. Barris is very nice. He wouldn’t say anything bad about the store.” Deveraux listened as Nyx spoke more about the Minister. She sighed in defeat,

“If you say so, then it must be true. How can I help you today?” Nyx smiled trotting to the window seat,

“Mind if I sit and read here today? Father said I had to get out of the house today.” Deveraux smiled,

“Of course my lady. You are always welcome to sit and read. Oh, before you get too engrossed, those raven and eagle quills finally came in. I must say, the crow feathers look dashing.” Nyx jumped up from the seat and rushed back over to the counter,

“Oh! Deveraux you must let me see them! And just call me Nyx! None of this my lady stuff!” Deveraux laughed, pulling out the quills. Most people just used the new fountain or dip pens. But the quill was much more fun and greatly cheaper. Nyx’s eyes went wide with delight as she held up an eagle feather. In the company of Nyx, Deveraux found herself relaxing. The Minister wouldn’t come back. She thought. No, he just said that to be polite. This was just a small surprise. Life would continue on as it always had.

Except life did not. Two weeks later the Minister returned. Deveraux had been engrossed in her logs as well as absently rearranging the quills which sat on the counter using a simple levitation spell. When the shop bell rang she quickly called out,

“Welcome to La-Fey’s books! If you need anything just ask!” When the customer had responded Deveraux almost spilled all of her ink and dropped the quills,

“I was wondering if you had a moment to talk Ms. Deveraux.” She whipped around quickly floating the quills to where she wanted them. Deveraux felt her legs shake,

“W-What about Minister?” He smiled,

“Oh, there’s a few cases I read that interested me and I’d like your opinion, and maybe just talk. Would I be interrupting anything? I could come back another time.” Deveraux shook her head,

“N-No, you aren’t interrupting anything. There’s a table at the back over there where we can sit. W-would you like anything? Tea?” The Minister shook his head,

“That’s very kind of you, but no. I wouldn’t want to be a bother. Ah, also, you may call me Barris. The only people who call me Minister usually want to sell me something.” he laughed and Deveraux blushed beet red. How could he be so oblivious. This was strange, no one came to a bookstore just to talk to the shop keep! Deveraux hesitantly sat down as Barris followed. She fiddled with her hands seeing sparkles slowly twinkle back at her,

“I don’t mean to be rude Sir, but… Why come here to talk? Seems a bit odd, doesn’t it?” Barris furrowed his brow as he took out the book she’d sold to him,

“I guess you could look at it that way. Lady Nyx told me that you talk to her though?” Deveraux gasped,

“Oh! No wonder you’ve acted so comfortable here! I should’ve guessed you heard something from her.” Barris looked surprised,

“Sorry… Do you not talk to everyone?” Deveraux shook her head,

“N-no. I didn’t speak to Lady Nyx for a time either.” He blushed lightly,

“My apologies… I just assumed-” Deveraux laughed,

“It’s quite alright, I mean you’re here already. Please, what cases have you curious?” Barris smiled lightly opening the book and pointing to a particular passage,

“Here, right here.”

For a moment the pair had their eyes meet. Something sparked. A quick flash as Barris looked down reading what he’d prepared days ago. Deveraux felt a twinkle in her heart as she looked down as well.

[borealis-strange]

Night 1

Summary:

I had worked in the world of the paranormal for a couple of years. My mission was to help those souls who, for some reason, had stayed in the world of the living. Despite the nature of my job, where it was a relief to help these souls, there was someone I will never forget. And it was the first time I felt sad about helping someone.

Madame Mercury, an important woman from England, had urgently asked me to come to her house because she believed there was a ghost. She couldn't give me more details, but with the little, she told me, I had enough.

Trigger warning! This is a story about ghosts so it contains elements of horror and mentions of death and illness

Notes:

I had this in my drafts for months and until now I decided to finish it. And it turned out longer than expected.

Tag-list:

@freesiafields @bambirexwrites @whitequeen-ofwillowgreen @vaeya @sirenlovesqueen @moreofthatqueen 

I had worked in the world of the paranormal for a couple of years. My mission was to help those souls who, for some reason, had stayed in the world of the living. Despite the nature of my job, where it was a relief to help these souls, there was someone I will never forget. And it was the first time I felt sad about helping someone.

Madame Mercury, an important woman from England, had urgently asked me to come to her house because she believed there was a ghost. She couldn't give me more details, but with the little she told me, I had enough.

I headed home around noon. It was a bit of a long trip because the house was on the outskirts of the city. After an hour of carriage ride, I finally reached the huge black house. It was quite elegant and beautiful but the fact that it was in the middle of a forest made it look gloomy.

I sighed heavily and tried to fix my vest before opening the gate to the house. I walked down the gravel path that led to the house.

I lightly knocked on the door and waited. I heard heels approaching until a dark-haired woman opened the door. She was wearing her elegant black dress.

— Thank God you have arrived, Miss May — Madame Mercury said somewhat relieved — Come in  —

We both went into the house.

The house was large, much larger than I expected. Besides being decorated with many things; paintings, crystal figurines, porcelain mugs, and various other things, it seemed that Madame Mercury was either a collector or just very extravagant.

Madame Mercury led me into the living room, where there were two armchairs in front of a fireplace.

— Come, sit here — Mercury told me and I did what she asked. — We have tea and cookies, do you want some? —

— No thanks — I politely declined. I took out of my suitcase a small notebook and pen to start taking notes — Tell me Madame Mercury, how long have you had this house? —

— We bought this house when we moved to England. We thought it was very pretty and it was at a very affordable price but they never told us about the ... problems it had —

— Could you explain to me what kind of problems, Madame Mercury? —

— Oh Gods. The house is a mess. For months I have been listening to things at night, and I am sure it is not the cats, nor any of us —

— How can you be so sure? —

— I know my children. They don't make noises of… strange things. — Mercury mumbled.

— Could you explain that? What kinds of sounds have you heard? —

— I heard wailing ... as if someone was crying. There is also something that is moving the furniture in the rooms that I don't use. I’ve listened to it all night and when I go to check the furniture they are elsewhere. Sheets are everywhere, it's a complete mess! — Mercury shuddered.

I wrote down everything she told me. It was nothing special, supernaturally speaking, and apparently, the ghost was not aggressive. Perfect.

— Who lives with you? — I asked without looking up

— We are the cats, Joanna, my wife and I — She answered, this time calmer — Although my wife is not currently here. She had to take a business trip —

—Okay — I said in a low voice as I wrote down the last details. — Could you show me the room? —

— Joanna! — Madame Mercury called — I wouldn’t go to that room even if I was crazy — She said in a whisper.

A girl dressed in black came out of the kitchen. Her long brown hair was tied up in a bun.

— Yes ma'am? — The young woman spoke.

—Would you kindly take Miss May to ... that room — Mercury indicated.

— Sure, Madame — Joanna said.

— Tonight I'll be working on this — I informed Mercury while she put my notebook back — If you hear something out of the ordinary, it's probably me — I said before following Joanna.

Joanna led me to the second floor, through the great hallways and the wooden doors. The house was bigger on the inside than it appeared on the outside. She led me to the darkest corner of the house, where there was only a worn door. Even without walking through the door, you could feel a strange breeze.

— It's here —Joanna said as she opened the door.

The room looked… normal. It looked like a maze; full of furniture with white sheets. The curtains were closed so I couldn't make out too many things.

— What is the function of this room? — I asked while I tried to distinguish more things.

— It's a cellar — Joanna answered — We use it to store all the old furniture and things that we don't use. —

I went a little deeper, trying not to bump into the furniture. Strangely, the room seemed huge with all the furniture inside. Being inside I could notice a strong smell of dust and humidity. In addition to being colder than normal.

— Okay — I muttered to myself.

— Are you going to inspect it now? — Joanna asked with concern

— Not yet — I said as I returned to her side — I need it to be darker — Joanna looked at me confused but she didn't ask any more questions.

— Do you want me to take you to your room? — Joanna asked as she closed the door — So that you can leave your things —

— If it's no problem — I replied with a smile.

Joanna just watched me before heading back down the hall.

—This will be your room during your stay here — Joanna said as she opened one of the doors.

The room was small with a bed, a dresser, and a wardrobe, and it seemed to have its own bathroom. It would be enough for me.

— Thank you —

— No problem, if you need me, I'm here — Joanna said before leaving.

I put my suitcase on the bed and started to unpack my things. It was nothing special, just clothes, the notebook where I kept my report, and my special dagger. I would have brought more things but from what I had been told, it was a category 1 ghost. It would not be complicated at all.

I grabbed my notebook and pen and went to the dresser to begin my report.

“November 20, 1896. Night 1

I explored the room and they gave me the first details about this ghost. Apparently, it's just a soul lamenting (probably about their death) and moving some furniture. It doesn't seem to do more than that.

The room where it is located in a cellar, ideal for hiding. I'll wait for the night to see if I can make contact with this spirit "

I left the notebook open and went to bed. I removed my suitcase and went to bed hoping to get some sleep. This would be a long night.

_______________

I got up around midnight. They always said it was the best time to "hunt" ghosts, and I could tell there was some truth to it. I guess it's just easier to see them in total darkness.

I grabbed the gas lamp from the bedside table before leaving the room, plus my notebook.

During the day, the house was elegant, now you could feel its immensity, its gloomy immensity. Now you could think that it was truly haunted, mostly because of all the things that Mercury collected. I didn't want to imagine what the first floor looked like.

I slowly opened the cellar door, trying not to make too much noise. They said that that scared ghosts.

I walked slowly around the room, trying not to trip over something. The wooden boards creaked under my weight. I had to make an enormous effort to not scare myself, either with my breathing or my steps.

The shadows on the furniture made me believe that the ghost was already in these directions and that it was much more dangerous than I had anticipated.

It was just the first night, it had to "win" trust with the ghost.

I don't know how long I spent hanging around here. I assumed at least an hour, but it could be more or less. I just knew that with every minute that passed, my nervousness grew even more.

"Easy Brianna" I said to myself "It is just a ghost, there is no need to be nervous"

I managed to hear a little sob. I was sure it wasn't me. I stopped and looked around without turning around. Another sob, this time closer. The ghost was behind me.

I held my breath as I felt my heartbeat stronger.

—What are you doing here? -—It was a female voice.

I slowly turned around until I was face to face with the ghost.

I managed to calm down a bit when I saw her.

A poor ghost. She was a girl, no more than twenty years old. Her long blonde hair floated behind her. She was looking at me with his big blue eyes, almost pleading. Her skin was whiter than the moon and was stained by traces of black tears. She wore a white dress that almost reached the floor, plus she was barefoot. Despite her appearance, I did not feel threatened.

His death was probably sudden and that is why she did not get his eternal rest. This would be easy.

— Hello — I greeted cordially, leaving my fears behind. — I'm Brianna and I've come to help you —

— Help me? — Asked the girl with enthusiasm.

— Sure. I have to find ... —

— Are you a doctor? — The girl interrupted me. — I did not know that women could be doctors —

I think I already know what happened to the girl. And worst of all, she still believed that she was alive. This will be more complicated than I thought.

The girl looked at me with pleading eyes, I couldn't tell her that I was not a doctor.

— Yes, now women can be doctors — I lied — Could you tell me your name and age sweetheart — I asked as I took out my notebook to start writing down.

— I'm Regina ... Regina Taylor. And I am 17 years old — She answered in a low voice.

I wrote it down in my notebook.

— Very well, why don't we sit down and tell me a little more about ... your illness —

There really was no place to sit, so in the end, I opted for the floor. The girl imitated me.

— Well ... since the last few days — Regina began. Days… she had lost track of time — I have had a fever and headaches. In addition to my skin rashes, they are quite painful. —

The girl had smallpox, or so it seemed, I was not a doctor. And, she hadn't been treated in time, or incorrectlyñ

—I also have another problem — Regina said in a low voice, pulling me out of my thoughts.

— What's wrong? — Asked.

—There is someone in my house — She said in a whisper as if she did not want anyone else to hear her.

— In your house? — I asked slowly as if making sure of what I was hearing.

Regina nodded slowly.

— What are you talking about? — Asked

— For some reason, two women began to take all the things out of my room and filled it with old and ugly furniture —

It was surely Madame Mercury and her wife when they moved in. Wasn't that like ten years ago?

— At first, I thought they were going to remodel my room but no — Regina lamented.

— And what did you do about it? — I asked the girl.

— I started moving the furniture in the hope that they would finally return me to my room. Do you think you could do something? —

I sighed heavily. Really, there was only one thing he could do, but it wasn't time yet.

— I'll try to talk to the owner of the house — I tried to comfort her. — I'd better go to sleep, and I recommend you do the same —

Before I could get up off the ground, Regina grabbed my arm.

— Please stay here — she looked at me with pleading eyes — You're the only one who has come in days. I do not like to be alone —

I bit my lower lip. Technically I had already finished my "work" for the night, but the girl looked at me with supplication and sadness. It wouldn't hurt to stay awake a little longer, plus I might get a little more information.

— Alright —

Regina smiled hugely before taking my arm and dragging me somewhere. She led me to the side of the window. Below there was a small chest. Regina opened it and started looking for something in it. After a few seconds, she pulled out a board and excitedly showed it to me. It was chess.

— Do you want to play? — She asked while she made little jumps.

— Okay... —

We sat on the floor facing each other and I put the lamp aside to illuminate us. Regina arranged the pieces, she used the white pieces and I the black ones. This… was one of the strangest things that had happened to me at work. I had already seen everything; ghosts of decapitated people, vengeful ghosts, drowned ghosts who had created an ecosystem in a lake, even a ghost of fire but never would I have imagined that I would play quietly with a ghost.

Truth be told, I was pretty rusty in the game, I hadn't played it in years. When Regina won the game, she looked at me with great emotion.

We played a few more games, the good thing is that this managed to keep my focus.

We didn't talk for the rest of the game, mostly because I didn't know what to say and Regina was very focused on her game.

I don't know how long we spent playing, I guess a couple of hours.

The girl yawned and I couldn't help but do the same.

— Are you tired? — I asked.

Regina nodded slowly. Without saying anything else she got up and began to go to some corner of the room. I quickly put the game together and went after her.

Regina lay down on an old bed in the room. She snuggled into the pillow.

— Good night Dr. Brianna — The girl said quietly while she fell asleep and her body faded slightly.

I couldn't help but smile. When the girl completely vanished, I knew it was time to go back to my room.

— Good night Regina — I said as she left the cellar and closed the door.

As I could, I walked down the hall, trying very hard not to fall asleep.

A category 1 ghost. I only needed to tell her that this was no longer her place in her world and that she needed to rest, the difficult thing would be to find a way to tell her.

I laid down on the bed and fell asleep immediately.

[imnotwolverine]

The Monster’s Lair - A Belle Tune

Vampire!Henry x Belle - multi-chapter

Chapter 1 - A Belle Tune | Chap 2 >

Disclaimer: Dark adult fairytale - stalking, mild injury, angsty vibes

Author’s note: Here we go dear readers, a whole new series!! As I was setting out the plotline I kept saying to myself; “Let’s make this 3-5 chapters, a short series, okay, Wolfie?” ...Welp... Apparently I have many talents, but writing short series is not one of them. I’ve tried again and again to reshape the plot into a shorter, snappier version, but I just couldn’t. So, here goes; 12 chapters of broody vampire Henry and sweet Belle. I hope you are ready ❤️

Word count: 1.991

Reading music: Agnes Obel - Tokka 

(Link to my Masterlist)

-

It was the first day of Autumn, summer finally past, as a tale of old was sung anew.

The land was cracked open dry and dusty after months without rain, the crops starting to fail just before harvest season. It made the tensions run high amongst the town folk, their worried eyes aiming upwards. The air had been thick for days now, the clouds drifting heavy and grey on dreary skies, foreboding a long awaited storm that just wouldn’t break.

And yet, not all were worried. At this moment the morning air felt slightly cheery too, as a soft tune wove through the ancient pine tree forest that lay like a prickly blanket over the rolling hills. 

It was a familiar tune, sung by a familiar woman’s voice, her pale skin and dark braided hair a sight he saw often in these parts of the land. Before her, two mutts sniffled happily, their wet noses pushing through the fallen leaves and shrubs that covered the dry forest floor. 

From the shadows of that same thicket, he was watching her, watching her rosy lips curl up in that dreamy smile, her feet kicking her blue skirts with confident strides.

Belle, he knew her name by now, was one of the few who dared to wander so close to his grounds, his domain, her skirts rustling as she conjured a book from the depths of her pockets. Always reading. 

At first he had been somewhat surprised to see a woman of her position even owning a book, a proper book. Her father was but a poor horse handler and her family long deceased. 

But, indeed, she could read. 

With an elegant hand she brushed down her skirts before sitting down on that same fallen down tree that she used everyday; her hide-out whenever the weather allowed. Clicking her tongue she instructed her dogs to lay down, her hand flicking through the book, returning to the page where she had left off a day ago.

Away from the snarky remarks and jealous whispers of the town folk, here she could read as dawn cracked over the horizon, her presence welcomed by the listening embrace of the forest and its inhabitants. The birds quieted their song and the mice and squirrels halted their squabbling, just long enough to look and listen, bewitched beady eyes watching the pretty woman as she started to read aloud.

It was an old and leather bound rendering of Apuleius’ Cupid and Psyche, an ancient fairy tale, the book nearly falling apart as she brushed her fingertips over the yellowed, vulnerable pages. She had read it a dozen times now, and yet the monster couldn’t help but listen, his lips moving in a silent joined recital. He knew the words by heart at this point.

What exactly she did by the day time he couldn’t tell, his disposition making it impossible for him to visit town when the sun was out. And thus he would just imagine it. Perhaps she worked as one of the chambermaids for the Les Comtes. Perhaps she helped her father in the stables - he had seen the old man during the nights many a time, his rough hands being ever so gentle with the handsome beasts that belonged to the Les Comtes. In fact all was owned by the Les Comtes, the family so rich that almost all villagers worked for their estate and businesses.  

Far too soon Belle’s voice would silence again, her finger tracing the page she had ended on, memorising it before gently closing the book, her eyes looking up through the thicket of the tree branches, watching those looming clouds up above. He knew what she thought; it was going to rain and she probably couldn’t return to this spot for a long time.

After the rain would come hail, winds, winter. And as it goes with reading outside, her natural reading nook was simply not able to hide her from the elements, and, with her reading hobby sneered at by the town’s folk, this might very well be her last reading session for this year.

With a sigh she got up, calling for her dogs and making her way back to the village, long skirts kicking, her book hidden back in the depths of her pockets. Oh, how he was going to miss her. Even if it was just for a day. Here in the forest he was awaited by an eternal nothingness. No job, no destination, only empty days that wove into a long string of months, years, centuries.

Returning to the crumbling ruins of his castle, the grande structure long past its glory days, he wandered endlessly through its halls, dust collecting on items that shouldn’t ever run into such disuse. Plates, cups, the fireplace, the beds. For centuries now he could not feel the pleasure of the simplicity of life. The food ashen on his tongue. His eyes, though closed, never truly resting. His skin no longer feeling the comfort of a warm hearth. His still beating heart but a mousy whisper of its once roaring strength.

Watching those heavy clouds above the treetops, he knew that it would be long before he would get to hear her voice again. A storm was looming, the long dry spell finally coming to an end and taking with it the long awaited rains. He knew it was a necessity, the listening critters around him feeling desperate for food now winter was soon to arrive, but he couldn’t help but feel a deep disappointment all the same. Because with the dreary days would come even more dark hours for him, the last sparkle of joy ripped from his life until spring would probably come again.  

—

‘Another one dead.’ The hunter growled, heaving the dead dog’s body from his cart, the boneless heap of bled out sinew and fur unceremoniously dropping to the dusty ground. With the ongoing drought, food has become more and more scarce. Crops were failing, wild animals were roaming nearer to the village and despite their best efforts, the hunters had great difficulty to actually catch anything. Something strange was afoot in the forest and rumour was about; it was the beast!

‘So no luck then.’ Arthur said in a hushed tone, his old knees cracking as he squatted down to inspect the remains of the hound. And indeed. Neck cracked, jugular torn, the required strength for such an act belonging to no less than a bear..or beast..of sorts.

‘Twas a mad dog anyways. But still..’ The hunter squinted, looking out over the yellow grassed meadows, to the edge of the forest where that monstrous beast hid away. ‘..we must see to it. The darn thing must be done with once and ..for..’ He blinked, then looked at Arthur with mild confusion. ‘Is that Belle?’ He pointed at a figure that appeared from the tree-line, two dogs at either side of her light blue skirts.

Arthur pushed himself up with a groan and also squinted his eyes, his sight no longer what it had been. ‘If it’s a pretty thing with two mutts, a dress of blue and a smile for days, it must be Belle.’ He said, his vision too blurry to discern anything that resembled his daughter. The hunter gruntled his disapproval, though not denying that it was indeed Belle, his strong, broad shouldered frame turning back to his cart to bring out what few rabbits and pheasants he had managed to catch in his traps. ‘You ought to bring some sense in that girl, Arthur..’ He warned, bushy eyebrows frowning as he looked back at the girl, her skirts twirling as she threw a stick for the dogs to fetch.

‘She is just so very much like her mother.’ Arthur sighed, not fully agreeing with the hunter’s sentiments as his lips curled in an amused smile.

‘Tcould be the death of her, old man. The beast is out there, I know that much. In fact. There’s a meeting in the town hall by sundown, in case you wish to join.’

‘Good..good...’ Arthur nodded, only half-listening now, his eyes finally managing to focus on Belle as she kicked her legs over the wood log fence near the stables he worked, her face all smiles and skirts a muddy mess.

Oh..Belle!

--

The shutters of the barn-like town hall shuddered, the wind outside picking up and the torch flames dancing wildly in the draft. It was a busy night, the floorboards creaking as the town’s men got up from their benches to express their bewilderment and frustrations, loud “Aye’s” and “Nays” echoing in the air as the discussions roared.

Now the food reserves of the town were running low and people had to ration, the tension was near tangible. Winter was coming and the people felt as restless as the storm that was picking up outside. The pigs needed to be fed, the elderly were struggling, sickness was spreading and all fingers pointed angrily at the direction of that wicked forest. The Beast’s forest.

‘Dear people! My people!’ Old Master Le Comte stood up from the throne-like seat that was situated right at the head of the hall, his fatty fingers balancing a shiny cup of wine. He raised his hand to calm the uproar, old furrowy brows raising up to show two grey, beady eyes. ‘Say AYE and agree, that we must see to the end of this beast for once and for all. He threatens our livestock, steals our hunted bounty and his cursed evil talons bring us only disease and misfortune. This drought? I would not be surprised if it were by HIS design!’ He exclaimed.

The town roared up with enthusiasm, fists raised in the air as a loud ‘AYE’ resounded front to back. In fact only the old man Arthur sat quiet, far in the corner, thinking fingers pulling at his moustache. He had discussed the matter with Belle and all she had to say was; “It is indeed quite practical to make a simple minded animal responsible for all your sorrows. But is it right to kill it because you conjured an image of beastly proportion, fed by your own fears? From what I heard he only has killed those who came too close..far too close.” 

‘HELP HELP!! The church! A FIRE!’ The large doors of the hall swung open as a young man burst through, arms waving in despair, the discussions regarding the monster quickly forgotten as everyone made haste to stop the flames as they quickly swept around them, the simple wooden structures of the inner town feeding themselves like perfectly dried logs to the hellish bonfire.  

Arthur looked up from his daze and slowly followed the hastened crowd outside, his feet no longer so fast as he felt a sudden, surprising coolness in his neck. A wet coolness. With a question in his eyes he looked up at the darkened sky, feeling another drop on his wrinkly skin. Rain? Did the gods bless them just in time? Would all be well?

A conclusion made prematurely, as a new alarm was struck from the village’s heart.

‘THE BEAST! TIS THE BEAST!’ The loud screams came from the village square, Arthur’s attention immediately drawn back to the people that sped past him. Oh no..oh no...BELLE! She was alone, she was..

*FLUNK*

With a loud thud Arthur smacked to the ground, his eyes blinking in shock as he saw the person who had bumped into him rush passed, the silhouette of the person already fading from his vision as all he could do was claw into the dusty road, eyes seeing all black.

Oh no...he thought, his body now fading out of consciousness. Belle! She must be warned! She was all alone! The beast..Oh Belle..the beast..and...Belle...

With heavy blinking eyes he scratched and cried, trying to gain the attention of people rushing by, but failing. None could hear or see him as the storm drowned out his wails and the night hid him in unblinking dark, leaving him with little else but hope, hope that Belle’s joyful tunes would indeed not be ended at the slashing of beastly claws, like the hunter had warned him for this morning.

Oh Belle, dear Belle..

--

Chap 2 >

--

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[eagle-raider]

Of hidden meanings

I wrote this back in August and it’s been collecting digital dust in my draft folder ever since. To celebrate International Translation day (yes, it is a thing, and yes, it’s today) I told myself I’d post it. Behold the wall of text.

I’ve been (re) reading one of my all times favorite books, which is Les Liaisons Dangereuses (1782, Choderlos de Laclos), but in English this time – after months of trying to get my hands on a translation (the one I got is by Thomas Moore and was published in 1812).  

The book is a classic of French literature, an epistolary novel telling the story of the Marchioness de Merteuil and the Viscount de Valmont, two narcissistic rivals (and ex-lovers) who use seduction as a weapon to socially control and exploit others, all the while enjoying their cruel games and boasting about their talent for manipulation.  

The book has had several movie adaptations, ranging from the most faithful (Dangerous Liaisons, Stephen Frears, 1988) to the most forgettable (Valmont by Milos Forman, 1989), to a loosely based adaptation/Modern setting re-writing (Cruel Intentions, 1999 and that infamous tongue kiss between SMG and Selma Blair). So yeah, you’ve probably either heard of it, or seen one of those movies, or at least the gifs of that kiss.  

Now, this book has been censored to hell and back because of its depiction of amorality. It explores different subjects: revenge, manipulation, malice and even female homosexuality (briefly, but it’s there – both in the book and the movie adaptation by Frears), with feminist undertones, which, for a book written by a military man in 1782 is a real novelty.  

Yes, the Marchioness de Merteuil is a villain, if you look at the book through a Manichaean perspective (which is what the movie did), but above all, she is a victim of her time. And again, for a man to fully grasp the societal burden of women circa 1782 is absolutely unprecedented. And it’s way too real for it to be a happy coincidence.

I know this book almost by heart my copy is filled to the brim with annotations and almost all pages are dog-eared.  

Now, one of my all-time favorite letters within the book is letter 141. It’s about 2/3 through the story – the Marchioness de Merteuil is peeved at Valmont because he is too enamored with his lover to pay her any attention – said lover is a married noble, a devout Christian he managed to defile—his words not mine.  

The reason she’s peeved is never explained. Jealousy, perhaps, but it’s not borne out of love. Merteuil doesn’t love him, she just wants him wrapped around her little finger.

So, in this letter, as per their twisted game, she tells him that now that he got what he wanted, it is time to break things off with that Christian woman. And, in her infinite generosity, Merteuil provides him with the perfect breakup letter. I was really looking forward to seeing how the translator – Thomas Moore – would handle the nuances, and I wasn’t disappointed for the most part.

It goes as follows:  

One tires of every thing, my angel! It is a law of nature; it is not my fault. 

 If, then, I am tired of a connection that has entirely taken me up four long months, it is not my fault.

If, for example, I had just as much love as you had virtue, and that’s saying a great deal, it is not at all surprising that one should end with the other; it is not my fault

It follows, then, that for some time past, I have deceived you; but your unmerciful affection in some measure forced me to it! It is not my fault.

Now a woman I love to distraction, insists I must sacrifice you: it is not my fault.

I am sensible here is a fine field for reproaches; but if nature has only granted men constancy, whilst it gives obstinacy to women, it is not my fault.

Take my advice, choose another lover, as I have another mistress—The advice is good; if you think otherwise, it is not my fault.

Farewell, my angel! I took you with pleasure, I part you without regret; perhaps I shall return to you; it is the way of the world; it is not my fault

It’s perfect, it’s vicious, it’s exactly what you’d expect to receive from an asshole like Valmont.

Now why am I telling you this? Because there’s a slight change in the movie adaptation, that I think fully grasps the hidden meaning behind “It is not my fault,”  which is the literal translation of the original French version: ce n’est pas ma faute.

The writing team decided to change “It is not my fault” to “It’s beyond my control” and if you’re a purist, you might think they were absolutely stupid and why choose another option when word for word translation works just fine in this case? Why change it when the meaning behind the words is there?  

To answer your question: because it’s not.  

Keep in mind that the book is written in old-French, or an older iteration of French, rather. Words had a slightly different meaning than they do now, e.g. the verb to hear (entendre in French) meant “understand” which is something that the French verb kind of lost while the English retained somewhat (when people say I get you/do you hear me).

So, when the letter says “It is not my fault.” what it really means is, “It’s beyond my control.”  

Earlier, I said that Merteuil wanted to have Valmont wrapped around her little finger? This is what I meant. It’s beyond his control. She demanded of him that breaks up with his lover, she provided the means to do so, and as she writes earlier in the same letter:

“My comparison appears to me the more just as, like [a Sultan], you never are the lover or friend of a woman, but always her tyrant or her slave.”

Boom. Burn.

Valmont is Merteuil’s slave and she spelled it out to him (quite brutally). Which is why, I believe that the translator could have maybe underlined the hidden take behind “It is not my fault.” 

The movie did, because it fully grasped Merteuil’s intention: Valmont is her puppet. He should break up with his lover because Merteuil wants him to and because it is literally beyond his control. Which is what Valmont keeps repeating in the sequence:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cjUmvHBgHr0

(apologies for the potato quality)

It’s nitpicky but it matters in this case because the nuance is lost in the translation, unless the readers pay careful attention. I’m not saying the translation is bad, because it’s not. Literary translation is a balancing act of subjectivity.  

It begs the question: how far can you adapt a translation into your target language before it reaches the point of no return and everything that made the text special/authentic/flavorful is lost? It’s the eternal debate between traductology scholars: are you a target-oriented/source-oriented translator. Most translators will say they’re target-oriented, and they’re right.  

However, the game changes when you’re translating classics, because you’re not just translating a text into a language your audience can understand—you’re translating a chunk of history with it. You can’t dissociate the book and its author from the historical context it was written in because the context gives crucial clues on how to navigate the translation. A book, whatever it may be about, is a testimony of its time.

Does an English-speaking audience in 2020 understand that “It is not my fault” means “I’m somebody’s puppet, your life and mine aren’t ours to do as we please?”

Does “it isn’t my fault” hold as much meaning in 2020 than its French counterpart did in 1782?

If yes, keep it.  

It not, then change it. Adapt it, make it more obvious even if you stray a little from the original version. 

This is what the movie did, in all subtlety, forgoing a literal translation for something else that was in line with the context of the book/history/plot.

I will admit my own bias because this book is among my favorite pieces of classical literature – and Renaissance/pre-French revolution is my favorite period, so I nerd. A lot.    

Next up: Game Localization and how the Japanese translation/VA work of Ghost of Tsushima influenced Jin Sakai’s personality (goody two-shoes in English vs. darker/grounded in JP)

Happy International Translation Day, folks!

[takingcourage]

Kismet

Pairing: f!Hayden x m!MC (Tate)

Word Count: 2,825

Summary: A weekend getaway gives Hayden and Tate the perfect excuse to enjoy some time together and to think about their future. 

Note: This is one of those stories that’s been collecting dust in my drafts for ages. I could never get the ending quite right, so I kind of forgot it existed until I started seeing posts about this appreciation week and decided to finish it. The end result certainly doesn’t do Hayden justice, but I wanted to do what I could to recognize one of my favorite Choices characters. I’m still a little bitter that we never got to see Hayden’s continued growth in a third book. : / 

Anyway...

Thanks so much to @haydenyoungappreciationweek​ and @lizzybeth1986​ for organizing this event and giving me an excuse to finally finish this story.  

Tate stood outside Hayden’s front door, scratching the line of one thick eyebrow as he waited for the telltale rush of footsteps on the other side of the wood. His lips slanted into a smirk at the sound of his girlfriend’s bare feet coming down the hallway. As usual, she was running. Seconds later, the door flew open wide to reveal Hayden, breathless and giddy.

“Are you ready for the best weekend ever, Tate Park?”

Following her into the apartment, his mouth kinked up at her eager greeting. “I am, but it doesn’t look like you are…” he replied, surveying the piles of clothes strewn about her living room.

Hayden snagged a dirty mug from the coffee table, glancing over her shoulder as she carried it to the kitchen. “Really thought you’d be used to my messes by now.”

Her duffle bag sat open on the floor, empty save for a pair of tennis shoes at the bottom. Shaking his head, Tate sauntered over to the side chair and began folding the towels that were heaped into the seat. From the other room, he heard Hayden pull out the dishwasher tray. Based on the sounds that emerged from the kitchen, it seemed the mug was not the only dish making a tardy entrance into the machine.

“I’m just wondering how we’re going to have the best weekend ever if you haven’t even packed yet. And I never remember things being this cluttered when you lived with Sloane.”

“You never saw my bedroom.” Hayden reappeared in the doorway and threw him a suggestive wink. “Besides, I’m much cleaner when I’m living with another person.”

“Careful...l might hold you to that someday.” He caught her waist as she passed by and pressed a sound kiss to her lips. For a brief moment, she melted against him, and he savored the scent of warm vanilla against her skin. So much had changed since their first meeting more than a year ago, but at least one thing remained the same: her kisses still had the power to make his knees turn to rubber. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” she rejoined, eyes flashing with sincerity before the customary glint of mischief returned. “Even though you’re a neat freak.”

“I’m not a neat freak. I just prefer to use my furniture for its intended purpose.”

“Couches are overrated.”

“Ouch. I’ve clearly been slacking if you think that’s the case. Are you sure you don’t want to skip the getaway for a movie marathon? There’d be lots of blankets and snacks. And hours of snuggling…” His skin tingled a bit at the thought.

“We can watch movies in Cedar Rest.”

“If we ever get there…” the words were mumbled under his breath, but nothing escaped her hearing. He dodged the rolled-up pair of socks she threw in retaliation, then dropped them into the open duffle bag at his feet. If this was her method of packing, it was going to be a long night indeed.

“I just have to be there to check in with the organizers before the festival starts tomorrow morning. And I should be ready to go in the next ten minutes or so, which gives us plenty of time to get dinner and then go explore the town for a while.”

“Or time to chill at the bed and breakfast,” he offered, arranging the now-folded towels in a neat stack.

“Long day at work?”

“No, I’m just not convinced that we’re going to get out of here in the next ten minutes. And I think you’re forgetting that we have a ninety-minute drive ahead of us… after we’ve made it out of the city.”

“Oh, hush.” She shoved a pair of pajama pants into her duffle bag in protest, and Tate had to turn his face to hide a smirk.  

“Take your time,” he offered casually, lifting the precarious pile of towels from the chair. “I wasn’t in the mood for dinner tonight anyway…”

Tate had already rounded the corner to the bathroom by the time she called out after him, “You love me!”

He did. So very much. He could hardly remember the days before she’d come into his life, although he’d known her less than two years. And as he transferred the stack of washcloths from his arms to the cabinet shelf, he found himself wishing that he was putting away their towels in their bathroom. He’d caught himself having similar thoughts too many times over the past months.

Tate fully supported her decision to live alone, but in such moments, his resolve wavered. Recently, he’d missed seeing her every day -- missed those quiet, intimate moments they had shared during the many weeks they spent on the run. Staying over for weekends just wasn’t the same. He wanted all of life to be with her.

Much as her methods might frustrate him, he wanted to pack a single suitcase, together. They’d pull their favorite items out of the closet, comparing piles as they arranged them on the bed. Tate would check the forecast and watch Hayden cram everything from a bathing suit to her winter coat into the allotted space. She’d curl her nose at his planning and make quips about the unreliability of weather reports. 

Somehow, it was his idea of bliss.

But for now, he would continue to be patient. There was nothing to be gained by rushing her. He’d never ask her to do anything she wasn’t ready for, though he would be lying if he said he wasn’t ready to put all separation behind them. The engagement rings in his browsing history were a sign of just how ready.

When he returned to the living room, Hayden was tugging at the zipper on her duffle, all traces of clothing having disappeared from the couch cushions. She dropped the finished bag beside the door, wheeling toward him with a distinct sparkle in her eyes. “Shall we go?”

Tate shook his head at her bemused expression. “We may have time for dinner after all.” Hoisting the strap of her bag over his shoulder, he wove his fingers through hers and flashed her a cheesy grin. “Time for the best weekend ever!”

The last thing he saw before she flipped off the lights was Hayden shaking her head at him, eyes narrowed at his affected tone. He squeezed her hand as they made their way out into the hall.

______

“Dipper would have loved today. It’s a shame she’s with Sloane this weekend.”

Tate mumbled his agreement around the key card between his teeth. Behind him, Hayden turned on a lamp and continued talking. “It’s my penance for missing two Stir-Fridays in a row. I couldn’t have her living alone all weekend, especially with Khann out of the country for the month.”

He unburdened himself, setting the bags of food on the small table. Hayden placed her bottle beside them before rummaging to find the cups from their place beside the sink. “I’m sure she appreciates it.”

“She deserved to have her for a while. This joint-custody has hardly been a fair exchange with all the traveling she’s been doing with the AIC.” Hayden broke the seal on the wine, pouring generous servings into the hotel glasses. “We should find her a dog of her own someday. Dipper’s bound to get spoiled if we keep this system up.”

“She is your dog, after all.” He took the drink from her outstretched hand and drew a sip of the dark liquid. “And think of the playdates Dipper could have with a new dog. They’d have a great time.”

Hayden beamed at him as her quick fingers yanked an inscrutable object from one of the food cartons. Their dinner was a haphazard assortment of festival food, and most of it was cold. After a long day of socializing under the autumn sun, they’d both decided that a hotel-room dinner was in the cards. Luckily, between all of the food stands, they’d had a considerable selection to choose from, and Hayden had wanted to try it all. 

“I’m starving.”

Tate raised an inquisitive brow at her complaint. He rummaged through the packaging to find the burger he’d ordered.

“I know I had a massive lunch, but these jobs take it out of me.”

“I can see why.”

Tate reflected on the day, unable to control his smile at the memory of how much fun it had been to watch her work. Steve had been the point of contact for this job, it was true, but there was no doubt in Tate’s mind why the event organizers had chosen Hayden to document the day. The Equinox Festival had been a vibrant, colorful affair that was almost enough to make Tate miss the mundane bustle of New York City streets. But Hayden was completely at home.

Tate never stopped marveling at how good Hayden was at engaging people and bringing out their best features in her photography. He’d always thought of himself as an extrovert, but she gave new meaning to the word. Children, especially, had been drawn to her at today’s event, and he knew without even looking at the camera that the images she’d captured would be stunning. There was something in those candid moments that mesmerized her, and that fascination translated into her photography.

“You okay there?”

Tate raised his lukewarm sandwich in acknowledgment. “Yep, just thinking.” He watched as she withdrew a kebab from yet another container of food. “Do you want to take a look at today’s shots after we finish eating? I’m excited to see what you got.”

“Me too. I think the new tourism website is going to turn out great.”

“I’m sure it will.”

Once they had finished eating, Hayden transferred the images to her computer while Tate cleared the table. His task complete, Tate joined her on the couch, startled by a sudden change to her appearance.

“You started wearing glasses?” The question came out a bit more incredulous than he’d intended, but the sight was jarring.

“Not all the time -- obviously. Usually just when I’m working on my computer.”

“Your vision is better than 20/20, Hayden.”

“And I want to make sure it stays that way,” she insisted saucily, tapping the hard plastic frame at her temple. “These are supposed to protect my eyes from blue light.”

"Your eyes are....nevermind..." he mumbled, stretching his fingers to brush a strand of hair from her forehead. He narrowed his eyes and looked closer. "They look great."

“They’re supposed to make me look more competent and less threatening.”

Tate’s brows knit in confusion. “Is that something you’ve been worried about?” While he knew she was capable of incredible feats of strength, it would be absurd for the average observer to be frightened based on appearances.

“You never know. Harley looks pretty threatening when she wants to be.”

He had to admit that much was true. “But none of your clients have said anything about you being threatening or incompetent, have they?” The question prickled the skin at his neck;  the thought of anyone questioning her made his blood boil. 

“Of course not!” she brushed it off as though the thought were ridiculous. At his skeptical look, she added, “I promise. No one has said anything -- I’m just testing them out.” Her dark eyes looked even larger from behind the clear frames, and Tate smiled in the rush of affection that flooded over him. The underlying fondness was always there, but in these moments, he was struck by just how proud he was of her. With a sight pang, he also realized how much he missed being there to witness these little steps in her process of self-discovery.

“If you’re sure,” he answered, pushing the feeling aside. “Let’s look at what you’ve got.”

Computer in hand, Hayden moved to his lap and stretched her legs along the length of the couch. “Can you see?” She asked, sweeping her hair over one shoulder as she settled back against him.

“Uh-huh.” His eyes flicked down to the screen before settling again on her profile. The glasses were quite an attractive addition…

“This girl had the best fashion sense. I don’t understand how she put all of that together, but look! It’s perfect.”

He nodded, trying to concentrate on the picture instead of Hayden's warm, familiar scent. “I like the socks,” he murmured against the silky hair at his cheek.

“Me too! Maybe I’ll try to find some like that next time I’m out shopping. I bet Nadia would like them too.” 

Tate hummed in assent, watching contentedly as she flicked through the pictures and offered observations on each one. As expected, the images were a perfect representation of the day’s events. For the next hour, they chattered over their favorites and relived memories.

"...And that's the last one,” she announced, lifting her finger from the trackpad. “I'll start editing them when we get back tomorrow."

"And in the meantime?"

"I’m going to enjoy the rest of my weekend with you.” She closed the lid on her laptop before moving it to the coffee table. Stretching a hand behind her, she wound deft fingers into the hair at the base of his neck. "Maybe we should sleep here tonight -- I'm pretty comfortable."

“On the couch? Aren’t they overrated?”

“Mmmmm,” she considered. “No.”

He kissed the exposed shell of her ear. 

“Well,” she waffled, shifting in his arms so that she could see his face. “The one at my house is still overrated -- at least, most of the time. I don’t need it all to myself.”

“I guess that’s just one of the downfalls of living alone.” He tried to play the exchange off casually, but his heart sank at the reminder that they would be parting ways once they reached home the next afternoon.

She grew uncharacteristically still, one nail digging slightly into the outer seam of her pants. “I think that’s something I had to learn for myself,” she told him finally, the hesitance in her tone catching him off guard. 

Was she nervous? He thought back over the strange response, pulse accelerating at the possibilities. “What do you mean?” 

“That I don’t like living alone as much as I’d like living with you.”

His breath halted, and he couldn’t quite suppress the hope that was bubbling up inside of him. For the space of several anxious heartbeats, he held his tongue, afraid that breaking the silence would cut the opportunity short.  

“Didn’t you say you wanted to move in together?” Her voice was soft. Behind the glasses, he saw a flash of trepidation.

“Of course I do. But are you sure? You’ve been discovering so much on your own. I don’t want to hold you back.”

Swinging her legs off the edge of the couch, Hayden turned to sit sideways on his lap. Tate bristled with pleasure as one cool hand landed on the nape of his neck. “It’s been good for me -- don’t get me wrong. But while I still don’t know everything, there are a lot of things I’m sure of. One of them is that I’d rather be living with you. ” Her nose wrinkled as she met his gaze and removed her glasses. “You’re my kismet, remember? We were always destined to be together. Together together, Tate. Living together.” 

“I get the picture.” Taking the dangling glasses from her fingers, he carefully placed them on the coffee table.

“I’m pretty sure I get the pictures. We just finished looking at them, remember?” 

Tate groaned and pulled her tight against him, relishing in the small sigh of contentment that fell from her lips when she was secure in his arms. 

“Think you can handle me and my flawless sense of humor all the time?” 

“Your humor, your sincerity -- on the rare occasions when it makes an appearance -- your messes...” His lips curved into what was shaping up to become a permanent smile. Even the thought of sacrificing his spotless apartment couldn’t dampen his mood. 

“My massages?”

He laughed as her grip on his neck tightened. “Your massages -- I want to be there as often as you’ll let me.” 

“Then you’ll be there a lot. I hope you’re ready for it.” 

“I’d consider it a privilege,” he told her truthfully, combing his fingers through the pile of hair at his shoulder. Lulled by the repetitive motion, the events of the day started to catch up with both of them.

“Tate?” 

His eyelids parted in time to see her lift her face off his chest. Her eyes had grown a little tired, but they were steady and true. Soon, they’d be the first sight to greet him every morning. He could have pinched himself over the realization. “Hmm?” 

“Told you this was going to be the best weekend ever.” 

[twilighcreed]

Title: What Pride Has Brought

Paring: Arthur Morgan X Reader (Established Friendship turned Romance); Past Arthur Morgan X Mary Linton (Mentioned)

Author: TwilighCreed

Word Count: 6.4k+

Warning: Violence themed, gore, character death, angst, animal death, strong language... Defiantly not something children should read... 

Summary: In the wake of the Valentine massacre, the Gang faces a short supply of much needed food after their hasty retreat to their new hideout at Clements Point. With their leaders gone in search for a way out, Y/N takes in upon herself to ensure the well being of her family in the Ambarino mountains. 

Authors Note: Hello everyone! It’s been a long while since I’ve last posted anything on my account, and I deeply apologies for that. With me starting my career in the military, enlisting has taken me across the country and the world. This story has been collecting dust in my archives since December of 2018 and I thought it’s about time I get back into my passion for writing. Not sure if I’ll make a part two, but it’s defiantly a thought. Thank you all so much for your patience! 

Enjoy! 

    The tension of the rawhide bowstring was taut between your fingertips, the skin raw from continuous use for the past several days and you could feel the ache in your muscles. You were used to the soreness—it was always yours and Charles responsibility to go hunting for provision within the camp. The others were always too clumsy when it came to the primitive art of hunting, bringing back small game and buckshot meat and ravaged pelts, neither of which were any help when it came to carving what little meat you could salvage from the appalling carcass of a whitetail buck. It became too common that you took it upon yourself to become the food provider; easing the weight off Charles and making Pearson a little happier when you started to bring quality kills in from a hunt.

Furthermore, when you weren’t at camping helping the woman with their chores, making meals other than stew for the men, and helping Kieran with the horses or aiding Dutch with new plans of another heist, you often find yourself surrounded by thick forest with nothing but your wits and skills to keep you alive while you hunt for the next big thing: elk.       

The bland taste of local game started to become recurring and the meals weren’t as happily anticipated anymore; causing the gang to start complaining about the food quality and making a bitter Person. You looked over at him with empathy while slowly chewing on your stew, and by the following morning you packed your warmest attire and drove your horse up north to the Ambarino mountains, heading to Grizzlies East where you heard fellow hunters and trappers had caught prized kills. It was worth a shot and a good excuse to leave camp for a few days. Arthur always had you stuck in camp.

It was what lead up to your current situation, with an improved arrow notched in your bowstring and your dominant arm brawn back with the large form of an elk in between your crosshairs. He was several meters away—amidst dead vegetation and low hanging branches— from your hidden position behind a pine tree, your body leaning up against the bark to help keep you steady and benefit you in getting a perfect shot. All you needed to do was aim a little lower to the left…

“Your posture is off.”

TWANG! 

THUNK!

    In your focused concentration, you were unaware of a presence coming up behind you that your fingers slipped and the arrow was released too early, sending it flying between the Elks' legs and into the tree behind them. Now aware that the elk’s life was threatened, it wasted no time to burst into a sprint and make a sharp turn into the dense vegetation. In a matter of seconds, you lost sight of the mammal and you could only watch it flee in utter defeat.

You could hear the quiet chuckle behind you and your devastated shock quickly turned into fierce annoyance. Whipping around, you glared at the man leaned up against a tree behind you, a smug smile on his lips and a mischievous spark in his eye. For a moment you stood there in admiration at how unmistakable handsome Arthur Morgan looked with his blue winter coat and hat tipped low, but the sting and numb feeling you felt in your arms and hands reminded you that he had just ruined a perfect opportunity to kill a prized elk you had spent the past three days tracking. It was a horrendous act of betrayal—he knew you pride yourself on your hunting abilities.     

Your breath was hot in its confined space behind your bandana despite the plummeting cold that surrounds you, and for a moment it became almost unbearably uncomfortable. Allowing your bow arm to rest, you reached up and pulled down the cloth covering your lower face, a scowl etched into your features. 

“What the hell, Arthur!?” you half whispered half yelled, your irritation clear enough for him to know that you were furious with him, however, your displeasure didn't seem to phase him, only adding to his pride of getting you worked up so quickly. 

It usually took a lot to get you angry, you were always calm and collected, but when it came to Arthur Morgan, he knew exactly what buttons to push to throw you into a fit, and that irks you, but at the same time gave you a strange comfort because it only showed how well he did know you. 

“My bad, sweetheart, did I scare ‘em off?” he spoke, his western drawl husky and laced with hints of laughter; and for a second, your previous anger subsided and you welcomed the sound of his voice.      

“What’da think?” you huffed, glancing back over your shoulder at where you last saw the elk run off to. “Damnit. It took me three days the track him.” you groaned.

The sound of breathy laughter caught your ears and you narrowed your eyes, looking over at the cowboy with a more intense glare, a frown tugging at your lips. He was laughing at you. “What are you laughing at? This is serious, Arthur!”

“I know it is. Calm yourself, Darlin’. Come on, let's go get yer elk. He couldn't have gone far.”

You watched him with a continuous scowl as he pushed himself off the tree and started to trek over in the general direction of where the elk had scurried off, ignoring your pointed look with a smirk. 

While he crouched down and examined the tracks, you walked over and plucked your arrow from the tree, examining the arrowhead for any damage that might have been caused on impact. To your surprise, it didn’t take too much damage, but it would still need to be sharpened at the tip before it could be used again.

“Where’d you leave your horses?” 

“Just past that treeline,” you nodded in the direction, walking back over to where Arthur now stood. “I brought Dutchess and Arizona with me.”

“I noticed. Why’d yer need two?” he asked, joining your side while you sauntered to where your horses were hitched. 

You chuckled softly, “An elk is a lot heavier than a deer. I’m planning on taking a lot of the meat back to camp and stock up. God knows I can only take enough of everyone's complaining about the food.”

Arthur hummed in understanding. It was blatantly obvious that morale was low in camp since the move from Horseshoe Overlook to Clements Point, and with the new humidity they had to endure and the rise in temperature, most of the food had gone bad, leaving a limitation on what was available. You knew a few tricks that would keep the elk’s meat lasting for several weeks, even months if the process was taken with precaution.

Reaching to where you had your horses hitched, you placed a gentle hand on your mustang mare—Dutchess—neck and gave her a few gentle strokes before moving over to your draft horse, Arizona; checking over them to make sure they were well enough to drive through the snow. When you were satisfied, you placed your bow on your saddle and mounted your horse, glancing over at Arthur. 

Just as you were about to ask where his horse was, he lets out a high whistle and you could hear a horse wine not too far from where you were. Not long after, you spotted the black frame of a large animal and out came the confident struts of his Arabian stallion. Arthur smirked when he noticed your envious eyes.

“You need to teach me how to call my horse like that.” 

“Maybe some other time, now come on, we’re losin’ daylight.”

You nodded your head and held the reins of your mount as well as the lead to your other. You allowed Arthur to take the front, directing his horse to where the elk's prints were still fresh. You might as well let him do the tracking, he was the one who spooked the elk.

☾

     Your eyes studied the distance between the setting sun and the horizon, calculating how much time you have left before it grew dark and you would either need to set up camp or find shelter, depending on how the weather held up. You had maybe a minimum of two hours before then, and with the temperature growing, even more, colder than the previous nights, you knew it was going to be a freezing night.

 “Arthur,” you called his name from atop your horse. When he heard your worried tone, he looked over his shoulder at you, his eyes becoming serious and you knew you had his full attention. With a regretful sigh, you kicked your horse to stop beside his mount. “It’s getting late. We should find some shelter. I have a feeling that tonight's gonna get pretty bad.”

“Are ya sure? What about your buck?”

You both had been tracking him for several miles at this point, from Lake Isabella all the way up Spider Gorge and east to Cairn Lake and soon after reaching the lake the wind had started to pick up covering his trail with the surrounding snow making it even harder to track him. There was no point in continuing with a dead end.

“We can try again in the morning.” you said, “Colter isn't far from here. We can set up camp there. No point in tracking him if we freeze tonight.”

Arthur nodded his head in silent agreement before turning his reins and heading west, backtracking and going northwest off the trial. You noticed he had become quiet, a stern front replacing the gentle persona he had shown you earlier. It was unsettling but you knew it was better to leave it alone. 

Colter was the first settlement the gang had found after the whole ordeal in Blackwater and they were forced to run north away from the Pinkertons. It was an old abandoned mining town that still seemed intact, but with the harsh and unpredictable weather, it was slowly starting to degrade with passing time. 

“So, how’d you find me?” you asked, trying to start a gentle conversation while watching as Arthur tugged at the reins for his mount to bank left and up the hill. “You were still gone when I left.”

“Charles told me. You should have waited until I came back,” he said, his voice gruff and flat.

This slightly threw you off. Why was he acting so cold towards you?

“The camp needed food, Arthur. A whitetail or a bore can only do so much and the camps funds are low and no one is willing to spend their own money on food for everyone else.” you reasoned, feeling slightly offended that he thought you couldn't handle yourself. He knew you could hold your own. “Besides, you were off with Dutch and Hosea doing Gods-knows-what while I’m doing some actual work for the group.” you shot back, a bitter taste in your mouth.

His head twisted and he gave you a hard glare making you slightly flinch in your saddle. You cursed at yourself for opening your mouth like that, but it had been nagging at you for a while and part of you felt relieved you said it out loud. But with the hard look, he was giving you now made you question if it was right of you to say it.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he clamored, pulling back on his reins and stopping his mount before turning in the saddle to look at you.

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t play dumb with me. Since that shitshow, in Valentine, we had to move camp again, and at the worst time—”

“It ain’t like we haven’t had to move before. You're the one outhere hunting for some damn elk while I’m the one risking my neck to make us some money.” he protested, belittling your effort with comparing his work with yours.

Both you and Arthur worked harder than most when it came to contributing to the camps well being. You both had strong bonds to the gang meaning you both took everything personally and to heart. Arthur had been with the gang longer than you and is one of the original members and right hand of Dutch. You coming many years later when you were seventeen and at the time Arthur was twenty-five. 

There was an obvious strong connection between you and Arthur. There was no doubt about it. He took the role of looking after you when they found you on death's door after aiding them when a job has gone wrong. Feeling responsible, he had persuaded Dutch to take you in (not that he needed much persuading, you did help them after all). Some of the members at camp would argue and say your relationship was almost at the peak of romantic, but with Arthur’s troubled past relationships with Mary Linton, and you not wanting to spoil what you had with him, you decided to keep it as just companions. 

Though it never stopped either of you from looking longing after one another when either would go to bed in their respective tents, or seek each other out after no seeing the other for a while, nor the long talks you shared by the campfire, speaking in hushed whispers about your past and what the future holds. And because of this bond and Arthur taking on the role of bodyguard, he practically forbids you from leaving camp, ensuring several arguments like this one.        

“Excuse me, you're the one who wouldn't let me pick up a job! Not even an honest one!” you growled, holding your ground. You weren’t afraid to stand up to Arthur like the others. It was both admirable and annoying trail. It gave him pride knowing you could stand your ground but also incredibly irritating when it comes to situations like this.

“Yeah? What the hell yer gonna do? Work at the whore house?”

Your eyes widen in shock, hurt, completely taken off guard. For a long minute, you didn't know what to say, your heart clenching inside your chest that it became unbearable. You could see that the moment those words left his lips he regretted it, but there was no turning back now. Arthur was just as stubborn as you were, maybe even more.

Your lips tightened and your eyes turned cold, you first clenching tight around the leather straps and you swore you saw Arthur tremble. 

“You know what? Fuck you!” you shouted, “I didn’t ask for you to come out here! You know damn well I could pick up an honest job.” you deflect, determined to defend your wounded pride.

“Mhm, sure.” he tusked, shaking his head in disbelief. 

You didn't know what the hell got into him, but you weren’t going to push around. That wasn’t you. 

“Damn you, Arthur Morgan. Why the hell are you even out here? I don’t need you! Why don’t you go back to the fucking bitch Mary!” you shouted, almost standing up in your saddle and pointing an accusing finger at him.

When the name of his past lover left your lips you saw the green of Arthur's eyes widen and his face pale. Not a second later his stone cold facade resurfaced and his tone became bitter and threatening.

“How the he—”

“You think I didn't know?” it was your time to laugh,  “I saw the damn letter, Arthur. You wanna try and explain yourself on that one?”

“She needed my help. Her brother was off trying to join some damn cult—”

“So you go crawling back to her after what she did to you? After everything, I’ve done for you?! Do I mean so little to you, Arthur?”

The secret was revealed and you weren’t sure if you were happy or upset even more than when you found the letter. But the cards were dealt and now you both had to face them.

“It ain’t like that, Y/N. You know that!” he choked and his eyes narrowed, “It ain't even your damn business!”

You just shake your head. 

It hurt you more than you’d like to admit when you saw the letter. It hurts even worse when he came back to camp late knowing that he went off to see her. You didn't know what transpired between them, but you assumed the worst. You thought that if you prepared yourself it would hurt less. That's what you thought and you were wrong. It still hurt like a son of a bitch. 

“Yeah, of course, you’d say that.” you huffed, feeling defeated. You suddenly got a strong feeling of wanting to be alone, and if you stayed even longer you know things would get worse. 

Turning your reins sharply you kicked your horse's side and clicked your tongue, sending both your mounts into a fast trot. “Do me a favor and leave me the hell alone!” you yelled over your shoulder, not daring to look back.

“Where the hell do you think you're going?” You heard him shout after you but heard no sign of him coming after you.

Good.

“Away from you! Hiya!”

☾

When the sun’s rays had finally been closed off by the mountain ridge and the moon started it’s rise to the middle of the midnight sky, you had bitterly wished you stayed with Arthur. The temperature had notably dropped tremendously and not even your many layers of clothing could keep the bone-chilling cold out. Your horses undeniably increased in their whines and you couldn’t blame them. It was damn near freezing and the wind had picked up making you all the more miserable and making it even harder to ignore the cold.

From the last few minutes of daylight, you were headed further north following along Spider Gorge. You haven't been this far north so you were treading new territory and with night befalling far more quickly that you’d like, you were desperately attempting to find some landmarks or shelter. Anything to get you and your horses out of the cold, but to your demise, there was nothing but snowy mountains closing you in and thick trees.

“Fuck.” you cursed, your body shaking violently and your teeth clattering getting even louder.

This wasn’t at all what you planned or hoped for. Everything was going the exact opposite in the worst way possible. The gang was still left without food (to your knowledge), the Pinkertons were hot on your gang's trail; losing Jenny, Davy, and Mac; stupid Mary coming back into Arthur's life and now your argument and the weather turning foil. 

Nothing was going right and dread started to creep into the pit of your stomach. If you stayed out here any longer you would freeze to death, and the last thing the gang needed was to find out you died because of your pride and jealousy. But the one thing that keeps eating at you was that you would die alone, without telling Arthur your true feelings, and that you wouldn't have the chance to fix the rift that had started to grow for the past few weeks since you discovered the letter.

It was selfish of you to think that he was yours and yours alone and that what you had was really special. You were a fool and you could see that now. It still didn't ease the pain in your heart. And yours hopes to have a few days away from him only made matters worse. 

More than anything you just wanted to be back at camp, in the company of your family and in the quiet embrace that you would share with Arthur after a long night by the fire and a bottle in hand before you found the letter.

“C-come on girl… j..just a little… further…” you managed to say between shivering breaths. 

The wind started to howl and with it: snow. It was turning into a blizzard and your hope for surviving was starting to diminish. You weren’t one to give up so easily, not without a fight at least. You came into this world in someone else's blood kicking and screaming, you’d be damned if you didn't go out the same way.

A sudden howl caught your attention and you felt your blood run cold. With the rush of wind, the howl was amplified and it was near impossible to know where it was coming from. But you knew that sound from anywhere… 

Wolves.

Your mare abruptly let out a loud cry and started to frantically move in her place, throwing her head back and letting out a string of whales. It was frightening and you tried to calm her down with your words but to no avail, the wind was too loud for her to hear you. 

Before you could do anything, Arizona let out a whine himself and throw his body in the air, his forelegs kicking and the lead slipping from your hand. You hopelessly reached out to grab the rope but it was too late and he broke into a run and you lost sight of him in the storm.

“Shit! Arizona!” you called out, “Damn it!” 

You had heard of a wolf pack prowling these parts from the time John was attacked, but in your time spent here, you hadn't heard nor seen any. Not even any dead carcasses of animals they hunted or signs of a possible den. You thought it was too cold for them. You were wrong. If your knowledge was correct, the wolves corralled their prey, forcing them to run. You had your revolver and knife if it came down to a fight, but with the severe unseasonable weather, a wolf attack would seal your death. 

If a wolf manages to pine you down, they would undoubtedly go for your throat. If you managed to get out of the struggle, you would most certainly have critical wounds, and if the infection did not kill you, the blood loss would. And if by some miracle neither of these happened, the elements would finish you off—hypothermia being the primary cause.

Through the blizzard you heard another howl, this one much closer and you could hear more than one as they raised in voice. Instantaneously Dutchess let out a panicked cry and broke out into a gallop, oblivious to your commands when you tried to stop her. It all moved to fast and everything just seemed to blur around you and before you could do anything, Dutchess came to a streaking halt and you flew forward. 

The snow was deep enough that your landing wasn’t too harsh, but the moment you fell into the white blanket you let out a yelp for how freezing the snow felt against your exposed flesh. You stumbled to your feet and the howling wind was broken by the unmistakable sound of a curdling growl.

You couldn't move. Your muscles had seized and your body trembled in fear. All function in your body just went out and you were no longer in control and no matter how hard you screamed at yourself to move, you couldn't. You were frozen in fear.

It took the cry of your horse and the bloodlust bark of a beast to make you move. You picked yourself up and turned sharply away from where you heard the terrifying noises, your body going to flight mode and you just ran. Your mare was already too far ahead of you by the time you started to flee, and your fear spiked to its peak. There was no way you could catch up to her.  

The wind whipped at your face and bite at your skin. Your body was numb and everything stung and burned. You were losing energy fast. Trying to hike through two feet of snow was draining you and trying to run was only making it all the more difficult. 

You could hear the barks and growls coming from behind you, and the rush of their paws against the snow. You didn't know if it was just one or many, you couldn't see them, and you didn't want to find out.

You leaped forward, digging your heels into the white powder and clawing your way through the thick snowfields. Your breath was ragged and hot, your throat sore from your sharp intakes of the icy bitter cold and every muscle fiber in your body burned like a raging fire. You could still hear them behind you and for a moment you looked over your shoulder; never stopping your assault forward. What you saw made your heat drop.

You could see a blurry outline of the beast. It was larger and bigger than any of the wolves you’ve seen throughout the states. Its eyes looked as if they glowed white and it struck terror down to your core. Wolves often hunted in packs, and they were chasers, opportunist, seeking weak prey. You were that chase, that open opportunity—you were the hunt. 

This sudden new found fear pushed you to go even harder, faster, leaping up out of the snow and pushing through with purpose. You refused to be their food. You disregarded your worries for the horse and focused on the looming threat at hand. You needed to find shelter and you needed to find it fast.

Through what little light filtered through the storm, you saw the distinguishable outline of pine trees. Being in an open field would give them a larger area to strike, so if you stuck to the trees you would put something between you and wolves. It was the only choice you had.

Making a beeline for the thick forest you felt the sting of the lower branches lash out while you plunged into the thick of it. It slows you down but gave you an advantage by putting distance between you and the threat. The recognizable sound of their strides grew a little quieter, but their voice of annoyance grew louder.

You had managed to find the outcropping of a mountain's side and with it the chance to find shelter. It was difficult trying to navigate through the blizzard but you had coped with this difficulty, finding that the mountainside abruptly curved inward into itself. A cave. 

You stumbled forward and out of the storm, your hand reaching for the wall to help guide you. You had heard that some caves would continue on for miles but the floors underneath them would disappear. Many miners and curious adventures had died that way; falling to their death. It was distinctly colder in the cave, but you were blocked from the wind and out of the open storm. You were safe for now, but you weren’t out of danger just yet.

Your eyes slowly adjusted to the dark and you could make out blurry lines of the structure of the cave. The ceiling was low, but enough for you to stand at your full height without having to bend your knees. You could barely make out the other side of the cavern and you estimated that it was at least four meters wide. The atmosphere was slightly damp but it was dry enough that you wouldn’t be at the risk of frostbite, but the snow had penetrated your coat and when the temperature would rise, the snow would melt and your clothes would become soaked. 

You shuffle your feet forward and kept your palm flat against the wall. You glanced back to the opening of the cave and saw that the entrance was smaller than when you stumbled in. You were several yards in when suddenly your foot hit something hard and you fell forward. You thrust your hands forward and were able to soften your fall but you could feel your forearms and palms sting and your knees ache when it came into contact with the ground.

You waited a moment on all fours to regain your breath and to calm your nerves. Your heart was banging against your chest, threatening to break free and it was so loud in your ears you that you thought it would burst. Thankfully, your muscles were still shaking indicating that you didn't pass the threshold of severe hypothermia. You weren’t sure but you know your core temperature had most likely dropped and you would need to build a fire to regain that lost heat. 

So lost in thought, your body ignored the dampness beneath your palm and it wasn’t until you made a move to get up that you noticed it. It didn't feel like water because it wasn’t cold. It was warm and almost sticky. Pushing yourself up, you reached into the coat of your pocket for your matches and pulled them out. It was the only source of light you had. You left your lantern secured on your saddle.

With trembling hands, you managed to pluck a single wood match from its container before dragging the tip across the ignitor, igniting the flame. The match did not give off a lot of light, but enough for you to see a little more clearly now. 

Curious as to what made you fall, you turned your head down and to your horror, you almost screamed. The object that had made you fall wasn’t a rock like you though, but the carcass of an elk, the elk you were hunting. You know it was the elk you were hunting because of the antlers. One of the tips had broke clean off. It was how you were able to track him. 

You tumbled backward in shock, your backside hitting the stone and it ran up your spine like a lightning bolt. The front part of your clothes—more notable your hands and knees—were drenched in blood. You groaned, suddenly feeling sick. Holding down the urge to vomit, you pushed yourself up onto your knees to get a closer look at the corpse of the elk.

Striking another match, you brought it close, your eyes looming over the ravaged carcass. You could still feel the heat radiating off the animal's fur and the smell wasn’t rank, meaning the kill was still fresh. The throat of the mammal had cleanly been bitten through and the belly was torn open and pulled apart. Upon closer inspection, you could see puncture wounds scattered all over the body, notable around the limbs of the elk. They were bite marks.

Realization washed over you and for a second time that night you felt your heart seize in your chest and the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Quickly, you stood up and surveyed the area, dread holding you tightly while you prayed to God that you weren’t where you thought you were. Then you saw it. Bones littered the back of the cave and chewed on skulls decorated the floor. Patches of dead leaves and branches were scattered in remote parts of the cave as fixed for bedding.

You were on their home…

 A low, deep throaty growl echoed through the cave and you wished the world would swallow you whole. You spun around, your eyes straining in search of where you heard the growl came from.

You swallowed hard when you saw the form of a wolf standing in front of you, it’s massive body trapping you while it bared its fangs, freshly stained crimson from the elk's blood; its eyes clouded in lust for blood—your blood. You could see that the wolf was foaming at the mouth, saliva dripping down in strings onto the cold floor. 

You kept your eyes locked with the wolf, your hand slowly reaching down to where your holster was. You had six bullets in the chamber and one already in the barrel, if you aimed right and shoot quick enough, you should—

 Your thoughts were cut short when you saw two smaller forms come out from behind, what you presumed, the alpha. They weren’t as threatening as the one who stood before you, but they only added to your stakes of you making it out alive.

They seemed to chitter almost themselves, their heads dropped low and their eyes never leaving yours. You could hear the scrape of their claws on the ground and you shuddered in fear; you wouldn't be surprised if the wolf could smell it on you. It would be strong. 

Your eyes flickered from one beast to the other, your mind racing to come up with a plan, anything to get you out of this mess. But each only seemed to end in your demise. 

Where the hell was Arthur when you needed him?

Just as your fingers grazed the cold steel of your revolver, almost instantaneously the wolf lunged. 

It happened so quickly you didn't have time to think: just act.

The loud vibrant explosion of your finger pulling back on the trigger echoed several times before you felt the massive weight of the animal push you down. You felt your breath leave your lungs and you were left winded, gasping for breath but you didn’t have time. You threw your arms out in front of you as a shield and a sudden burning, searing piercing pain shot up your arm and you cried out. 

Grunts and barks filled your ears as the wolf thrashed it’s head side-to-side, it’s jaws clamped around your arm, ripping your clothes and its teeth sinking deeper into your left arm. Out of reflex your right hand turned into a fist and started to strike down hard onto the wolves head, yelps and gasp leaving your lips as the wolf only seemed to bite down harder.

You felt the massive paws push down even harder on your chest and the pressure became too great that you thought you heard a crack. You yelled and reached blindly for your pistol, your hands only coming in contact with the cold floor. Abandoning the gun, you reached down to your side and gripped the hilt of your knife and yanking it out of the sheath. 

The wolf let go of your arm for a second only to lunge for your throat. You moved your head to the side and felt the wolves teeth sink into your shoulder and your mind went blank in agony and you screamed. You brought the knife up and muster all your strength, you plunged the blade into the wolf, blind aiming. 

You heard the wolf cry out in its own pain, its teeth leaving your skin and you bitterly hopped it was worse than what you felt. 

You pulled the knife out and plunged it back in, this time closer to the chest. It yelped above you, warm blood oozing onto your hand as you repeatedly stabbed the wolf while using your left arm to push the wolf up, exposing it’s soft belly to you. With a cry, you dug the knife as hard as you can into the soft flesh of the wolves underside and the beast gave out a weak whine.

The weight above you gave way and the wolf tumbled off you, your knife still impaled in its side. You took the opportunity and rolled to your side with a pained grunt, your good arm reaching for your pistol. When you felt the metal against your palm you shot forward, your iron sights aimed at the other two wolves and letting off several rounds. By the painful yelps, they let out you know you hit at least one of them. 

Click! Click! Click!

The soft clink of your gun told you-you were out of bullets. Looking down at the gun you threw it to your side, the clattering of steel hitting the rocks bounced off the walls and you were left in silence.

Your eyes traveled back up and you were once more greeted with the slow and disheartening realization that you were alone. The other wolves had fled when you killed the authoritative figure in their small pack. Without their leader they were useless.

The agonizing pain forced you to look down at your wounded limb and bleeding shoulder. The wolf had torn clean through your coat and undershirt underneath, creating a clean path down to your flesh. With the dime light of the cave, you could see the bright crimson of your blood leaking from several large puncture wounds on the back of your forearm. You wouldn't be surprised if it went down to the bone. 

Using your right hand, you gently yanked down on the bandana wrapped around your neck, freeing it before you used the cloth as a makeshift wrap. Your hands had stopped trembly so it was a little easier to tie a loose not after you wrapped your arm. In the distance you could feel the warm trickle of your blood as it seeped into your shirt and stained your chest, small streams of blood leaking from your shoulder and you could feel an intensified ache with each heartbeat.  

 Your breaths came out short and shallow, and each puff was accompanied by a thick cloud of smoke. You could no longer feel the tingle in your toes or the burning of your muscles. You couldn't feel anything but the pain of your wounds. Everything just seemed to grow quiet… And you felt the heaviness in your eyes and it was becoming more difficult to hold yourself up. 

You blinked, and you blinked again, a sudden dark cloud creeps into the corners of your vision, slowly reaching forward and the world started to become dark and cold. 

“Nu.. nno… no…” you tried to say, trying to force yourself to stay awake but with each passing second, it was becoming clear this wasn’t a battle you would win. Your muscles gave out and you fell on your back, numb to the pain when your head hits the floor.

“A..Ar… aarrthh… Arthuuurr…” you whispered into the abyss. His name sends warmth to your heart and you almost cracked a smile.

You knew you were going to die. But it was going to be a good death. You were proud because you had died the way you wanted, kicking a screaming; your body soaked in the mixture of your blood and the wolves. It wasn’t a bad ending to a short and painful story. It was better than at the gallows with a noose wrapped tight around your neck and the people chanting your name for a crime that wasn’t yours. 

But all that didn't seem to matter, because as the darkness took over your vision and your eyes became too heavy to keep them open, all you could see was the deep forest green of his eyes, and feel the soft tendrils of his hair, and hear the sweet deep voice of his drawl as he said your name…

[oldmanatom]

wrote a whole long post about how i “did” “NaNo,” thought i saved it to my drafts, came to post it tonight and it’s not there. that’s genuinely a bummer since i had other Thoughts™ baked into it, but i’ll take it as an opportunity to write a second draft version instead, now that i have my thoughts more together:

my version of NaNo, much like my version last year, was just to hit a word count goal with whatever writing i could scrape together. this year i set the goal lower than last year, and actually more or less hit it, which was cool and tbh surprising.

i’ve been resistant to writing to hit a word count in the past—seemed like an easy way to psych myself out, plus how i write (jumping all around the story/page/doc) makes keeping track of word counts annoying at best, challenging at worst—but succeeding last month made it far more appealing. i’m going to try and hit it again this month, to see if it might be a good way to keep myself on the writing...treadmill? hike? grind? [insert relevant metaphor here].

for the first time in literally (literally!) years, i’ve completed a first draft of something. it’s objectively not very good, and will need a lot of work—i didn’t know what the hell i was doing for 50% of it, and once i figured out what i was trying to do i didn’t know how to do it for the other 50%, and it took me basically the entire month to put it together brick by brick, so what i have now is about as scattered as you’d expect from that process—but it’s done, which means i can actually do that work and make those edits with a holistic view on what i’m working with, instead of, like, trying to fix the foundation as i’m also trying to build the frame and hang the drywall, so to speak.

thinking also about this post, and about that Terry Pratchett quote about how the first draft is just you telling yourself the story, and about how impossible it is to know and see everything there is to know and see about my story on the very first pass. this idea—that something being done is better than it being good when it comes to first drafts—is something that’s both obvious and easy to understand, and yet has taken me years to realize and more years to actually implement.

why? lots of reasons. one of them: i get stuck in write-edit cycles—write something, go back and edit it, write more, edit that and edit the other part to fit in with the new part, write more, etc etc. it’s a momentum killer. if i do that, i finish nothing, as i’ve proven over and over again over the years as i’ve started a million things and followed through on exactly none of them. trying to break myself of this habit has been a struggle, and mostly i lose, but i’m losing less often and less extensively than i was at the beginning, which i’ll take.

why care about this? lots of reasons. one of them: i am extraordinarily tired of looking at my folders full of bits and pieces stuck in Google docs that get forgotten about and left to collect virtual dust. they might be “good,” but i’m not satisfied with just writing them and letting them sit and do nothing, like some sort of dragon’s hoard of words. i am, regardless of how i feel moment to moment, a decent writer; if nothing else, i’m writing things that i like to read, and that i’d like others to read; i should find a way to bridge the gap and finish these off into something i can share.

(feeling like nothing’s ever done enough to share is its own point which i’m still trying to figure out, and which might be the next meta “thing” i tackle on the first edit/second draft of this piece. how much can one oneshot teach me? is it wise to make this into The Little Story That Could? i guess we’ll find out.)

one thing i’ve been learning as i’ve been trying to put this idea into practice, which will absolutely sound sappy but keeps proving itself true: my story’s going to teach me as i go. it’s going to tell me what needs to happen with the plot and characters and everything else, and it’s going to do that regardless of whether or not i have a 19 page scene-by-scene outline or a conversation i like, an image in my head of the scene, and a vague idea of what i want to happen next. and, whatever i miss on the first round i can pick up and work on in the next rounds. but it only teaches me if i keep writing it, unfortunately.

basically: it doesn’t have to be good, it just has to be done. that’s it. that’s the only requirement of a first draft: that it be complete. just keep writing until the damn thing’s finished. polish comes second. i keep repeating this like a fucking mantra, like something you’d chant to yourself to get through a root canal or the last hour of a truly terrible shift, and honestly that’s what it feels like half the time, but it worked once, so who’s to say it won’t work again.

i think there was a third point in my original post, but i can’t remember it so i guess it can’t be that important. i’ll end with a few quotes from this past month of NaNo, entirely from that draft, which is partly because that was 80-90% of my writing this past month and partly because the other 10-20% is stuff that i’m likely going to be posting soon (yes, i do have plans to post something soon, sorry @ my poor neglected writing sideblog). without context, because i think that’s funnier—

1.

To your eternal shame, you can't actually manage to look up at the woman you know is standing in the doorway, one sandaled foot through the threshold and leaning heavily on the Death First to Solicitors and Thieves doormat. Instead, you glance partway over and see weak, yellowish light spill out from inside, cascade over the porch steps, and reach with dim and blunted fingers out towards her soaked half yard. You trace the watery edges of it with your eyes instead of looking at her, and it's a coward's move but that relief is back again, so.

"Harrow?" she says, barely audible over the pounding water around you.

You remember, then, when you told her ages ago that her vintage standing lamp needed its bulb replaced and the two of you had gotten into a nice little row over well, it's not dead yet, now is it, and where the hell am I supposed to find another weird filament bulb like that, and who exactly decided to get the damn antique showpiece thing anyways. It's entirely unsurprising that after all these years it's still the same almost-flickering bulb stuck in it, that it's somehow still alive and managing to bleed light out onto this miserable scene.

2.

Being shorn down to your shirts and jeans and socks makes you wrap your arms around yourself again. No longer having five pounds of wet denim on your shoulders lets your body remember what warmth is, and more importantly reminds you that you have none, and so what had been a vague shaking for the last hour turns into full-on shivering, teeth clacking and everything. You ask, not for the first time, for some reasonable God to show you mercy and cut you down.

Instead, Ianthe covers her smile half with her hand and says, "Oh, look at you, Harry, you poor thing. Soaking wet and I didn't even have a hand in it."

"Shut up," you try to say, but your chattering teeth and jaw make it come out more like "s-s-s-hhhht 'p," and Ianthe doesn't react regardless, just shakes her head and throws you another towel.

3.

"Harrow, please. It's late and I've never been fond of your insistence on bullshitting when I have your back against a wall. Besides, ending up huddled on my porch in the worst storm of the year is a little much, even for—"

"Even for me," you interrupt, "as though I was the one who slept in front of our front door for three nights so that I wouldn't 'run out on you with the rent' after you lost an argument."

The corner of Ianthe's mouth twitches, but it's the only slip of her otherwise curious, focused expression. "To be fair, it was an argument about the rent."

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Is Cry Me. A River done? I thought there was more coming or did I read something wrong?

Not done, nearly though

Part Five:

The tingle of something altogether too pleasant ran along the inside of her thighs, bringing Claire out of her slumber. Two hands gripped her, keeping her gently in place as Jamie nestled himself neatly between her legs. She opened her eyes, squinting but unable to lift her head enough to see him clearly.

“Oh...God…” She moaned. Her lip caught between her teeth as her back arched off the mattress, one hand fisted in the sheets whilst the other sought out the confines of his hair, her fingers twitching against his skull as his tongue worked some sort of magic against her needy flesh.

It wasn’t long before she found herself shaky and spent, her head resting solidly against his chest as he kissed her forehead.

“I think we should finish it...together,” she whispered. The thought had been rattling around since the funeral. WIth all of Lamb’s friends gathered under one roof, Claire had been asked on numerous occasions whether his manuscript would be forthcoming and, although she couldn’t give an accurate response, she hadn’t been able to say no. “I don’t think I could do it by myself, and you have the better insight. But I would hate to see it languishing on our computers - unread.”

“When do we start?” In all honesty Jamie was excited by the prospect. It didn’t mean Claire had committed to a life in Glasgow, but it meant he would have more time to silently convince her.

“Later,” she mumbled, turning quickly in order to catch him unawares, “right now I think we have some unfinished business of our own.” Pinning him to the bed, she kissed him once on the lips, keeping him still with her hips as she began the painfully slow trip down his neck and along his chest.

-- --- --

With a fresh cup of coffee in her hands, Claire peeled open her laptop, drumming her fingers against the wood of the desk as she waited for it to load.

“So, I think we should discuss where we take this from, aye?” Jamie began, blowing the steam from his hot tea. “We’d been sort of sticking to a chronological order, ye ken from what ye’ve already read that most of the early years tales have been written, the middle too. It’s mainly the later years we have to finish off.”

“I have some of his letters, if that helps?”

Lamb, like clockwork, had written to Claire. Being caught up in her own life, she had read them -replied to a couple- though had never gone into the sort of detail he’d hoped for. But she had kept them safe, read them over and over until the ink had begun to fade from some of the pages. She had treasured them when she’d been so down that she had wanted to take him up on his offer and leave Oxford. Now, it seemed, they might be all the more useful to them.

The scent of toast wafted into the small lounge as the buzzer beeped in the kitchen. With breakfast nearly ready, she left him to finish off the food while she rushed upstairs to collect the tin. Clutching it tightly between her fingers, she placed it delicately on the table, leaving it for Jamie to open.

“He certainly covered all of his bases, didn’t he?” Jamie chuckled, taking a bite of toast and passing Claire a plate of her own. “Now we can just interpret them, I can help fill in some of the blanks and we can get a great end - something Quentin would be proud of.”

They spent the rest of the day surrounded by paper, trying to reorganise as many letters as possible, finding some semblance of an order to the stories told within them. By the time the sun was setting, the automatic lights turning on in sequence around the small room, they had already found a few that could be discarded as well as some incredibly valuable *new* anecdotes that Jamie had loosely remembered Lamb talking about but hadn’t been able to fully add to their timetable of events, not until he’d read and re-read the words a few times.

Standing, an envelope in her hands and a biro tucked neatly through her messy bun, Claire scratched her head with the end of the paper. “How long do you think this will take to finish?” She asked, knowing he might have a better idea now they’d finally completed the task of skim-reading most of the letters. “Not that I’m in a rush, of course.” A distinct red blush coated her cheeks as she smiled across at Jamie, her memories of their mornings adventures flashing before her eyes as her stomach clenched.

“Ach well, that all depends on how fast I can type.” He jested, winking -both of his eyes closing for a brief moment as his inability to do so reared its head. It looked rather like an extended blink rather than a wink which caused Claire to bite her lip as she held back her laughter.”But in all honesty I reckon we might have a good rough end in a month or two. That includes a couple of draft reads and edits.”

“Two months? Max?” A bolt of fear shot through her at the prospect of an end. After their first encounter, she had grown fond of their daily interactions. Whether it was the agonising lust that seemed to set her on fire from the inside out, or the little touches of his hand on hers as he past her on the stairs, there was something otherworldly about the way his body called to hers and the idea of another few guilt free months in his company made her heart race and her toes curl.

“What will ye do when we’re done?” The question fell from his mouth without him really thinking about it, but he could tell by the widening of her eyes that she wasn’t really sure.

In the week after the funeral, neither had really made any steps in returning to their proper routine. Jamie had made sure the shelves were stocked with good food, he had called his bosses and kept them abreast of the ever changing situation, putting their minds at ease as him and Claire had discussed some varied details of what Lamb might want in the wake of his death. Other than that, though, both had just basked in the quiet company of the other.

Claire had a few things in mind for her immediate future, she had been dreaming vividly and the more she delved into the early life of her uncle, and his days lost with her in the wilderness, the more she wanted to pen her own version of events -though she had no idea where to start.

“Maybe I’ll become like Mary Poppins,” picking up the much abused video box of the classic movie from Lamb’s shelf, she ran her finger over the front cover and smiled, “and go where the wind takes me.”

“Are ye feeling the need for an adventure now?” Tapping against one of the smaller piles, he cocked his head to the side. With the tales fresh in his mind, he could almost feel the intoxication, the lure of travel from the stories Lamb had woven into the very fabric of the paper.

“Maybe,” she sighed, a very basic plot forming in her mind, “but there’s a chance I’ll need your assistance with it.”

-- --- --

Days turned into weeks and before either of them knew it, a whole month had passed in a blur. Working day and night, powered by caffeine and the company of the other, Jamie and Claire began to put the final words down on the biography. They barely spoke of what would happen once they’d finished, but on the days she wasn’t working on Lambs memoir, Claire was thinking of her own novella.

“I think we’re ready for this version to go to the publishers now. What do you think?” Pulling his glasses from his nose and placing them beside his laptop, he stretched his legs beneath the table and suppressed a yawn.

“I agree, I think we’ve done all we can with it -- I think he’d be proud.” Gazing out of the window, the dulled glass caused the passers by to appear disjoined as they walked by. She was in a world of her own, the words swirling around her as if Lamb were here himself. His voice seemed to speak to her and it wasn’t until a flurry of activity caught her off guard and brought her out of her daydream that she realised Jamie was still talking. “C-can you repeat that, sorry…”

“I just agreed wi’ ye, he would be.” A slow smile spread across his face as she turned back to him. “He’d be so proud of you too, Claire.”

“It was a while back now, but do you remember the phone call you took for me, from Frank?”

A cold shudder ran down his spine but he nodded as he tried to hold back the vitriol. Though no more had been said about the man, he knew from the way she occasionally reacted to him that nothing good could come from her mentioning him. “Aye, I do.”

“Before you I had little to no knowledge of proper *human* relationships. I met him, Frank, in Africa when I was there with Lamb, though the two never really crossed paths. He was my first kiss and when we finally bumped into one another again back home I sort of just found myself gravitating towards him. When I was away, in the desert, in the jungle, anywhere really with Lamb he had an unconscious way about him. He kept me grounded in some way. But alone, I was useless. I was trapped, wrapped up in this elevated world hidden from mere mortals where people like Frank are completely untouchable.”

Pouring her a wee dram, Jamie walked Claire to the sofa, sitting her down before handing her the tumbler.

She took a swig before continuing. “I’m so scared.”

“Of what, lass?”

“I don’t even know!” She sighed, exasperated. “Of finishing this and having nothing. Of staying and then this turning to dust. Of going home and falling straight back into old habits - but those are the ones I know. It’s daft. I know which the terrible decision is, but you represent something infinitely worse.”

"Aye, worse am I?" He tried to joke, but it fell flat the moment the words left his mouth.

"No- harder."

"Which is it Claire?"

"I don’t know, I don't know how to explain, I’m sorry, Jamie,” she spluttered, passing the glass back, her hand shaking as she stood quickly, “I think I just need some space.” Rushing from the lounge, she headed straight up to her room and slammed the door shut.

It was the first night in a long time that she spent alone. Jamie, still shocked and flustered by her fast exit, sat for a while by himself before gathering some of his belongings and returning to his own flat for the night. Claire heard the front door slam, her hand covering her mouth as she cried almost silently. Curling up on her bed, she kept her eyes on the case she had never quite unpacked as if it’s half-filled mass was indicative of where she was always meant to end up.

There were a couple of letters she had held back from Jamie, ones that had more personal comments that she wasn’t comfortable sharing. Yet.

Morning arrived, the sun streaming in through her open blinds. She’d slept on and off and rubbed her red-rimmed eyes as she crawled out from beneath the thin blanket that she’d pulled over herself sometime during the early hours.

“Claire?”

She jumped a little, shocked that he had somehow managed to sneak back in without her hearing him. The first reply barely left her mouth, her throat dry as she swallowed and tried again. “Yes, Jamie?”

The door opened slowly, the hinges creaking as he popped his head around the wood. “I have somewhere to take ye, will you come wi’ me?”

Nodding, she plucked a piece of stray fluff from her creased jeans. “Yes, sure, can I change first?”

“Of course,” he replied, “I’ll wait downstairs.”

Quickly, she used her en-suite to wash and re-dress in clean clothes before placing her purse and notepad into her small bag. Making her way downstairs, she felt a heaviness cross her chest. He was waiting, his car keys resting between his fingers.

“Driving?”

“Aye, ready?”

“Yes.”

-- --- --

The motorway wasn’t too dissimilar from the train ride, though the sound of the wheels on tarmac were slightly more relaxing than the chug of the metal wheels against the tracks. “Do you want to tell me what surprise you have in store for me?” She tried to sound light, but somehow she still sounded worried.

“Ye’ll see.” He returned, a tight smile lifting his lips slightly.

“Have you sent the manuscript off?”

“I emailed the first PDF this morning before we left. I’ll hear soon and I’ve cc’d you into it, so ye should know the moment they respond to me.”

As they drove over each county line, a new sign popping up to indicate their direction, Claire started to feel more and more nervous. As Dumfries and Galloway came into view, she felt this almighty lump forming in her throat. Just before the Gretna junction, Jamie pulled off the motorway just as the sun peaked high in the sky. Small villages came and went until a borders train station came into view, giving her a glance at the side of a carriage as it sat quietly on the partially hidden platform.

“Will you tell me now?” She asked calmly, though she had an idea of what was about to happen.

“It isn’t due to leave for another thirty minutes,” he said, pointing at the ScotRail service idling beside them, “I’ll wait, to make sure ye get away alright, and I’ll make sure the rest of your belongings get back to Oxford safely. But I think ye might need something more than I can offer ye here.”

“You think I should go back?”

“That’s what ye’ve been thinking about, aye? Yer home. The one you’ve belonged in.”

“Home.” She mirrored, the word seeming foreign on her tongue. “What about the rest of Lamb’s biography?”

“We can email. And I can phone. It’s written, no’ much will need completing on it now.”

“...and there’s nothing for me here?” Her voice was steadily lowering, getting more inaudible as cars started to pull in and park around them.

“Only ye ken that.” Opening the car door, he gallantly walked to her side and held out his hand for her to take. “I’ll wait until yer gone, to make sure you’re safe and ye can call whenever you like.”

Finding her voice seemed impossible and she couldn’t help but replay their last conversation over and over in her head. Having confessed to him that he was the more terrifying option, she had fled and hidden in her room. Walking over to the entrance, she turned only to find him hunched over, his back facing towards her as he rested against his car bonnet. Her feet kept moving, though every step increased the stabbing pain in her chest.

Hauling himself back into the front seat, Jamie let his head flop onto the steering wheel. It was highly likely that his plan could backfire massively, but from the moment he’d mentioned the end of the book he had felt an immediate disconnect from Claire. It was fear, that much was clear, and he didn’t want to send her back to somewhere she was deeply unhappy. However, something in his gut told him that her misplaced sense of self was too fragile to be convinced to stay with words alone. At the first sign of trouble, she would run. If she wanted to stay, to make a life here with him, she needed to make this choice herself.

Sitting with her hands wrapped in her coat, Claire watched as various passengers wandered up and down the platform, the guards opening and closing the doors for them. Though it wasn’t freezing cold, she couldn’t help but feel chilled. Though she hadn’t picked up on it before, reading back through Lamb’s letters it had suddenly become clear about his intentions for her. Clearly he hadn’t voiced those opinions to Jamie but it had been silly of her to think he didn’t know of her situation in Oxford. A man in uniform raised his brows as he walked by her for the tenth time. Standing, she brushed the creases from her trousers. This wasn’t a choice between Jamie and Frank because that would have been an impossibly easy decision, but a choice between who she’d always been and a new variant of herself. As the clouds of steam cleared from the front of the train, the sight of the car sat stoically in the car park made her stumble backwards and she sighed loudly as her bottom hit the warmed wooden seat once more.

A loud horn echoed through the trees surrounding the station as the engine pulled out and disappeared off into Cumbria. As promised he waited, long enough to watch as the car park emptied and the lights dimmed in the entrance to the platforms.

Closing his eyes, he inhaled, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel as he tried to calm himself enough to turn the engine on and drive away.

A knock on the window made him sit bolt upright, sweat running down his back as he twisted to see who’d disturbed his pity party.

“Claire!”

She stood, tears in her eyes as she stepped back from the car. “Take me home, Jamie, please. To Glasgow”

Taking her hand, he bought it to his lips and kissed her softly. “Aye,” he replied, watching as she sniffed, shaking her head as she made her way to the passenger side and climbed in. “Home it is.”

[rickondickon]

Three Times You Met Robin Arryn

Hi guys! So um, can we talk about how Robin Arryn went from 0 to He’s Going To Places real quick? Yeah? Alright. So this is just me being shook and finally posting this draft that sat here and collected dust for like, a month. Enjoy!

Pairing: Robin Arryn x Reader

Word count: 1441

Summary: Something made Robin Arryn drastically change, but you’re not the one who’ll complain about it

Warnings: surprisingly none.

Note: Since Robin is like, 16 years old in season 8, I made reader 17. Don’t make this weird guys.

The first time you met Robin Arryn, it had been a disaster.

You were born inside a wealthy family of the Vale, so you were bound to marry equal or higher than your status. However, when your parents told you of your bethroted, your face fell.

When he comes of age, they said, you will marry Lord Robin Arryn.

It wasn't a secret that the boy was weird. You had never met him, but the rumors about him were oddly specific, so you didn't really have a choice but to believe them. It didn't help that you had to constantly hear the snickers and mockery of your stitching group after the news came out.

So, are you looking forward to marry the whiniest Lord of Westeros?

You'll have a child to look after before he even puts one in your belly!

I do wonder if he'll suckle at your tit like he did to his mother for all those years.

That one had been particularily crude, and you had to threaten to cut financial support to her house to make her finally shut up.

Lord Arryn was even more terrible in person than in reputation. Your family had travelled to the Eyrie after the deal was concluded, question for you to meet your bethroted.

It went as well as you could have expected, which meant it was uncomfortable, embarassing and overall terrible. The young Lord, one year your junior, had stuck to you like glue and even began talking about your future.

You're going to be my wife! We'll have so many children, and falcons, and we'll throw our enemies through the moon door!

And to make matter worse, Lady Arryn was creeping you out. She seemed all too eager for you to be wed to her son already, she could have proceded with the wedding here and there if it wasn't for Lord Yohn Royce reminding her Robin needed to learn his role better before taking wife.

You had then left, a few days later, with a bitter taste in your mouth and a dread for the next time you'd be back at the Eyrie.

The second time you saw Robin Arryn, however, was a completely different experience.

After everything went down, the death of Lady Arryn and Lord Baelish, the war for the living, the war for Kings Landing, the idea of marrying Lord Arryn was so far in your head that you almost forgot.

More like you genuinely thought he'd forget about you and move on.

But he apparently didn't, and one morning, shortly after the beginning of the winter, you were surprised by a visit of Yohn Royce with none other than Lord Arryn. Your parents had called you to the hall to welcome them after you had been told to put on your best dress, and you waited anxiously for the Lord to show up.

You could still hear the snickers of the ladies behind you, who had refused to leave after the interruption of your tea. They had wanted to see this.

You held your breath as the door was opened, and for a brief moment, your brain did not register what it saw.

You recognized instantly Yohn, but not the young man beside him. He was holding himself up right, he was elegantly dressed and his hair was well combed. It took you a moment to realize thay it was, in fact, Robin Arryn.

The ladies stopped talking entirely, and you were sure they were just as gawking at him as you were.

"My lady" He took one step toward you, a bright smile lighting up his features. He completely ignored one of the ladies, Lora, that was sending him flirtarious looks by walking right past her without aknowledging her the slightest. "You are even more beautiful than the last time I saw you"

He spoke so suavely, it made you truly wonder if it was the same person you met three years ago.

"Thank you, my Lord" You replied softly, unable to pitch your voice any higher. You were stunned. "Time was kind to you as well, as it seems"

His smile got even brighter, if it was possible, at you returning the compliment.

"I was hoping we could talk alone, if you don't mind" He politely requested. You looked around to see your parents extasic, and the ladies of the court, green with jealousy. Your gaze finally met his expectant one and you nodded.

"Of course, my Lord" You agreed, and he gave you his arm. You hooked yours to it and he lead you outside, away from prying eyes.

He set a comfortable pace through the gardens, looking around with tamed wonder. Your home was far from a castle, and widely different from the Eyrie, but it was a beautiful, comfortable estate nonetheless. And apparently, Robin seemed to appreciate it.

"My Lady, I meant to ask about this engagement" He suddenly spoke, but you hid your startled reaction so well that he didn't even notice.

"Of course, what about it?" You replied carefully, suddenly unsure of his intentions. That would be a blow in front of your family if he decided to call it off here and there.

"I understand it was made many years ago, under different circumstances" He glanced down at you. "A lot have change ever since, for you and I, I'm sure"

"They have indeed" You nodded along, wishing he would get to his point already.

"Tell me, my Lady" He halted his steps and turned toward you. "Is that what you want?"

"I-- I'm not sure I understand" You stammered, blinking rapidely.

A small smile crossed his feature. "I am asking you if the engagement is what you desire" He repeated, then chuckled when all you gave him was a confused expression. "I have learned a lot of things from my cousin Sansa during those last years, such as decisions made for you by other people without your consent are not always the best"

Your jaw could have hit the floor, if it wasn't for Robin gently pulling it back up with two fingers. Your cheeks burned in embarasment, but he seemed to find it mostly amusing rather than weird.

"I..." You trailed off, before blurting out against your will "Don't you wanna be with me?"

Way to go...

His eyes twinkled with laughter. "I'd wish nothing more" He confessed. "I've been in love with you since the moment I met you. But it's not up to me"

Your brain was spinning. This could not be the Robin you met three years ago, the little spoiled brat who couldn't understand that the world was not his. Whatever happened to him, you were glad it did.

"I'd... Like to uphold the engagement" You finally answered after a long moment of silence, pondering the choice he gave you. That answer definitely pleased him, because the wide smile he had when he saw you earlier returned.

"Then it's settled..." He trailed off, before getting down on one knee and holding up a ring. Your eyes widened so big you thought they'd fall out of their socket. It was simple, yet beautiful with its silver band and three small dark blue rocks ornering it. It must have been a family heirloom. "Lady (Y/N), would you become my wife, become Lady Arryn and Lady of the Vale by my side?"

"Yes, Lord Arryn" You whispered, nodding slowly. He slipped the ring on your finger and stood up, now way closer to you than he'd been earlier.

"Wonderful" He grinned, brushing a lose strand of hair behind your ear. He leaned in and placed a tender kiss on your cheek, and you felt you face once again heat up.

"S-Should we go back and tell the news?" You suggested, a bit overwhelmed by the whole situation. You still didn't know how well this was going to turn out, but you really liked this new Robin. You glanced down at your hand, and the ring fitted you perfectly.

Maybe this was meant to be, after all.

"I'd much rather keep walking around and get to know you" He offered his arm once again, and for once you truly couldn't object with him. "If you'd like"

You smiled and took his arm as an answer, this time, setting the pace yourself. The afternoon you spent with him was nice, and you actually looked forward spending more time with him. You almost wished he'd stay a couple more days at the estate, just to have others afternoons like that.

And you thought, the third time you'd see Robin Arryn would be your wedding day.

[sanguinarysanguinity]

Fic-Writer / Vid-Maker Meme

Tagged by @educatedinyellow and @gailbsanders, thank you!

Author/Vidder Name: sanguinity

Fandoms You Write For: Lately it’s mostly book!verse Hornblower and ACD!Holmes (although the ACD!Holmes is largely behind the scenes with a long-form WIP that I’ve been focusing on). I also write for assorted small Holmesian fandoms as the whim or prompts take me, and I used to write fairly prolifically for Elementary, before that show wore me into the ground with how persistently they don’t care about Joan Watson. I’ve written a fair bit of Strange Empire, some Doctor Who / Torchwood, and quite a few one-offs in random fandoms, from the Oz books to Terminator: Sarah Connor Chronicles.

Fandoms I Vid For: Mostly one-offs or small batches that overlap with the fandoms I write for: Holmesian multiverse, Terminator: Sarah Connor Chronicles, plus a number of rarer Festivids-qualifying fandoms like The Middleman or Noah’s Arc. 

Where You Post Fic: Most of it is on AO3, excepting some three-sentence and five-sentence fics that I’ve never collected. 

Where You Post Vids: Variously Vimeo, YouTube, and DailyMotion, depending on who threw a fit about what copyrighted music the week I posted it, but all my vids are listed at AO3.

Most Popular One-Shot: “The Sincerity of Dust,” a BBC Sherlock Mystrade flash-fic I banged out one morning and which then went on to eat Cleveland. It has 1400 kudos and is working on 14,000 hits. Its nearest rival is “Score: Q to 12,″ an Elementary flash-fic featuring Sherlock and Joan playing Calvinscrabble, which performed modestly on AO3 but cleaned up on tumblr to the tune of 1700 notes.

Most Popular Multi-Chapter Story: “Holocene Park,” an Elementary case fic featuring dinosaurs under the streets of New York City. If I’m remembered in the Elementary fandom for anything, it’s probably for this or Calvinscrabble.

Most Popular Vid: “Something Good (Will Come From That),” my Holmes/Watson multiverse vid. It has 10K plays, the AO3 page has 2.5K hits, and the tumblr page has almost 800 notes. It escaped my corner of pseudonym-based AO3-centric fandom and has made the rounds of the Sherlockian scions on Facebook, as well as being rec’d on non-fannish websites in French, German, and Japanese. For a little while there it was making me anxious with how popular it got -- at the height of its popularity, I was worrying my mom was going to email it to me. After it hit it big I almost completely stopped making things for a while, because I was pretty sure that nothing else I made would be even half that good ever again. Happily, that turned out to be a stupid reason to not make things, and so I started making things again.

Favorite Story You Wrote/Vid You Made: Yeah, sorry, no, my brain burns out on “favorite” questions, especially ones that have no criteria. I’ll just refer you to my Fic/Vid Speed-Dating Score Card, which can be construed as a list of my favorite works on various axes, and is still fairly accurate despite being a year old. (Scariest nowadays is probably “Tea for Two,” a Moriarty-centric story from this last round of Holmestice.)

Story You Were Nervous to Post: “Any Service Required,” which is dark Bush/Hornblower porn. I always feel hideously exposed when publishing porn -- I’m nervous about posting it even in the best of cases. But what with this being dark-fic, I was half-expecting the self-appointed morals police who get prescriptive about “healthy” relationships to show up and make a stink. Or along similar lines, I was fearing that followers who are used to a certain kind of thing from me will look at this one, think it base trash, and lose respect for me over it. I’m happy to say that nothing like that has happened so far, and while readership has been light, I’m fine with that: I’d rather a story have a small readership who is genuinely into it than a large readership who isn’t, and I’d like to believe that this story’s small readership is mostly due to people taking a look at the tags and making good decisions about the kind of thing they enjoy reading. 

How Do You Choose Your Titles: BY ANY MEANS I CAN MAKE WORK. My preference is to grab a meaningful phrase from the text, but I’ll also use quotes and popular phrases, sometimes straight-up and sometimes with a twist, if it seems a decent fit for the story. Ideally, a title will speak to some deeper truth about the story, but when push comes to shove, I’ll settle for a title that is short, clean, and memorable: basically, anything that I and others can remember without having to look it up all the damn time. (This is my main problem with people using lines of poetry or song lyrics as titles: they tend to register in my brain as generic word salad, and in many cases I couldn’t say without looking it up what the title actually was, let alone what it had to do with the story.)

Do You Outline: For long or complex stories, sure, yes. If there are many scenes or multiple chapters, I tend to jot down a few lines listing out the succession of scenes or chapters; for “The Next World,” whose main body is a long and rambly conversation, I had an outline that listed out every twist and turn of that convo. The outline for “Langstroth on Bees” (WIP, currently 58K) is a monster of a thing, listing out the internal timeline (five years of current action plus another ten of backstory), various promises I’ve made that I need to deliver on, assorted events that I want to remember to include, and rough ideas about where chapter breaks should maybe fall. Given that I’ve been working on that story for five years now, often with breaks from it of nearly a year, that outline has saved my ass. I guarantee you that without it, I would have picked up this story at some point, tried to remember where I was going with it, come up with nothing much, and shelved it permanently. If anything, I really should outline more often -- I have a few long-standing drafts in my WIP folder that I just... don’t remember where I was going with that. I remember that I did have a destination in mind, yes, but what exactly? WHO KNOWS. Btw, my outlines are living documents -- I revise them often, as my understanding of the story develops. In fact, revising the outline is one of many tools for understanding where a story is going and what is still needed to bring it together.

How many of your fanworks are…

Complete: 92 stories or story collections (I have a few AO3 “stories” that are actually collected ficlets from tumblr or Sherlock60), and 26 vids and vidlets, 

In-Progress: Nothing published to AO3 -- it makes me crazy to have a partially-published WIP. My drafts folder has 36 partially completed stories in it, and there are probably a half-dozen vids that I started but haven’t finished.

Coming Soon: Four? For various values of “coming soon.” I have two Hornblower stories that are mostly done (one for the Tegmore verse and another for the Kraken verse), and I’ve been working steadily on “Langstroth on Bees” in the hopes that I’ll finish it this year. And I’m signed up for Remix Revival -- whatever I do for that will probably be the very-most-next thing.

Do You Accept Prompts: Yes! Although I have only a 1/3 to 1/2 completion rate on prompts -- I do hope that no one minds that too terribly! But I’ll actively solicit prompts from time to time -- to celebrate something, or if I’m having a shit day and want to turn it around -- and some of my best stuff has come from prompts people have given me. I never ever guarantee filling them (see my above mentioned completion rate), but if someone wants to prompt me something, my ask box is open. Even if the prompt never gets filled, I still get a warm flutter of “They want to play with me!” from it.

Upcoming Story You Are Most Excited to Write: “Langstroth on Bees,” a 58K-and-counting Holmes/Watson retirement fic that I’ve been working for five years. I added a solid 13K to it this month, and have maybe 20K left to go -- I’m hope-hope-hoping to have it done this year. But I’ve gotten far enough into it that “Langstroth” has finally begun overlapping the territory covered in “From Allegany,” and by the end of this chapter I’ll have passed it entirely. Then I’ll be in unwritten territory, wheee! (Speaking of titles, I never really intended to call this thing “Langstroth on Bees” -- that’s just a working title for my drafts folder. But enough of you now know it by that name that I think I’m going to have to stick with it? So I’m desperately trying to figure out how to justify it. ONE OF MANY THINGS TO DO IN THIS DRAFT.)

Tag Five Fanfic Authors to Answer These Questions As Well: @beanarie @quipxotic @phoenixfalls @xserpx @amindamazed And of course anyone else who wants to play!

[rjcauthor]

Collected Email Q & A Author Advice

[Author Note: Originally published on my website in 2014-ish, when I’d written 10 or so books. Now I’m at 48 myself plus another 12 co-authored...still stands.]

Q: I'd like to write a book, but I just don't know what to do or how to get started. For instance, I'll start working on a story, and then I'll suddenly lose the motivation to get it done. Is there any advice that you can give me in that aspect, or even getting started as a writer in general?

A:

Losing motivation mid-book and moving on to brighter, shinier new ideas is not unusual at all. It's the number one thing that keeps people from becoming authors, actually, by finishing a book. I suffered from it myself all the way until I was age thirty and finished my first book, and still suffer from it to this day, really. I've just gotten worlds better at overcoming it.

Here's the secret: finish the book.

I know, I know. That doesn't sound like an answer. It sounds like the danged problem, all spelled out again. But it's actually the secret. You have to finish a book, no matter what. Write garbage to get it done. Write the most nonsensical idiocy if you have to in order to wade through the middle and get to the end parts you want to write (hopefully) or just hold your nose and write crap all the way to the end if you have to. Force your way through to the end, however you have to do it, because in order to become a writer, you have to finish books. It's a requirement. It is not, however, a requirement for you to finish them well on the first try. Because you can rewrite them as many times as you need to in order to achieve a finished product you're proud of. Your first book, you may get to the end and say, "I don't think there's any way this can be fixed." And that's fine. Another secret: most authors don't publish their first book. It sits in a drawer somewhere, gathering dust, and we're all too ashamed of it to ever let anyone else see it.

The truth is that you have to start somewhere, and the rush of confidence that comes from finishing your first book, even if it's bad and you never want it to be published, is vital to your future success. Because when the next book gets to that mid-way slog point, you can look back and remember that - "Hey, I did this once before. I can do it again." And it's motivation like nothing else. The realization for me after finishing that first book was that if I could do it once, I could do it again and again. Two weeks ago I finished my 25th book. And that never would have happened if I hadn't blundered horribly through to FINALLY, after twenty years of starting to write books, finish my first one.

I can't promise you that it's easy to get to the end of that first one. It almost feels like you're thrashing blindly in the dark, wallowing in the mud toward a finish line you can't even see. No, I can't promise you it's easy, because it's some of the hardest mental work you'll do just getting to the end of the first one. But I can promise you it's worth it if you keep building that mental muscle.

Q: My writing sucks. How do I make it not suck?

A:

Lots of practice and reading on craft. Writing can be one of the most satisfying and simultaneously nerve-wracking experiences you can have. The thing about professional writers is that we've all been there at the start, when we're looking at our writing and think, "Uh...this doesn't exactly look like Gillian Flynn (or whoever)." Just to make you feel better, most authors stick their first book in a shoebox and never let it out. Defender (my first book) in its current form is probably in its twelfth draft (maybe more) and I'd written a TON of short works in college in addition to journals, blogs and all manner of other stuff. It takes a while to start hitting the rhythm and feeling satisfied with your work (for most of us; if you've knocked it out of the park already, then you are a rare and masterful talent!) and even some of the writers I think are the best think their work is still crap. Writers are not really known for their confidence...

Q: I'm in the process of writing my own book (and have been for a couple of years) but am struggling to juggle it with work commitments.

How did you plan the Girl in the Box series?

How long did each book take you to write?

Have you planned them individually or was the series planned as a whole entity?

A:

Here's the thing - every writer is going to have a different process. The Girl in the Box series was the second series I wrote, and by that time I'd somewhat refined my ideas and process for doing things. So I'm going to just tell you how I did things once I'd figured it out a little, and hopefully it'll help.

When I plan a series, I like to know what emotional high/low points to look forward to. For example (don't know how far you've gotten yet) but in the end of Girl in the Box #5, there's a massive emotional low point, one that was a gut punch that I looked forward to as I wrote towards it. I also knew vaguely how the series would end, who the big bad guy was, though it wasn't entirely clear before I started. Some people like to have all of this planned out. Some writers like to have none of it planned and just write. Which is the best way? The one that works for you.

With each book, I started with a theme that influenced the title - Alone, the protagonist starts out alone, isolated from others, not sure who to trust. With Untouched, she's trying to cope with the revelation at the end of book 1 that she can't touch people, so now she's gone from merely isolated by herself to completely unable to touch the world around her. A useful idea is to write out your idea for a book in a simple form like this: "When (protagonist) encounters (situation that has changed the status quo), he/she sets forth to (right the situation). But will he/she succeed when (antagonist) tries to stop him/her?" As Jim Butcher says in a wonderful talk from FaerieCon in 2013, if you're a new writer and can't boil your story down to this simplest form, you need to work with it until you can, because it's probably too complex to execute as a new writer.

As for time to complete the books...I'll be honest, this answer won't help you at all. I was a full-time professional writer before I started writing book 2 of this series, and was a stay at home dad for book 1, so the truth wouldn't be all that enlightening and might even be somewhat discouraging as I write very quickly - much, much more quickly than 99% of authors. Even when I was working 60-80 hours a week I managed to write 180,000 words of fiction in the course of about three months when the idea seized me. That's very unusual for most writers, especially those with full time jobs and family commitments. I would urge you to focus on trying to write 1,000 words per day, every day, and either getting up early or staying up late in order to do that. If you held to that schedule for three months, you'd have a reasonably long book done by the end of that 90 day timeframe.

While I did mostly plan out Girl in the Box before starting, down to the theme of each book in the series and a general idea of where the plot for each would go, I would caution you that trying to carry a whole series on your back as a new writer is the quickest path to madness. I don't want to discourage you if you have a vision for a ten book series, because that's certainly how I've always approached my fiction by nature, but a standalone volume would put a lot less pressure on you starting out.

[starboyjxmin]

Blithe (One Shot)

Happy birthday my love.

Pairing: Jimin x Reader

“We’re going to be late if you continue to wait for that 99% to turn into 100%.” Your friend was anxiously waiting for you by the door of the bathroom which was ajar, enough to see you sitting fully clothed on a closed toilet, holding up your phone which was charging with what seemed as a string. 

“No, no, no, you need to understand that if I’m waiting for it to be fully charged you need to stop bothering me. I don’t bother you when you wait for the microwave to exactly get to zero.” You spat back, looking at the orange battery icon, knee bouncing as you patiently waited for it to be at its full capacity.

Today was an important day for Y/N. Emphasis on important, thank you very much.

“Y/N if we don’t leave now, we will be late to the airport and Jimin will have missed us, most importantly you.” He was practically hovering at this point.

“Okay, let’s go.” Your heart started to beat abnormally and your stomach began to squeeze, sending electrical shocks that were more of a death shock than a zoo in your tummy.

Today was the day that you finally meet your boyfriend from South Korea. Park Jimin was the oldest and sweetest soul you had ever known.

You had known him thanks to your best friend who had convinced you to join an online Korean book club that was interested in Harry Potter, which you first found to be a very ridiculous idea given that you didn’t know Korean to begin with, unlike him. However, according to him; “Best fucking thing I have ever done also, you’ll enjoy it.” And he had turned out to be right.

After a week of almost giving up (Google Translate was such a pain in the ass), the President of the club suddenly began to send you multiple text posts regarding Harry Potter head cannons in English. This would make you smile at 2 A.M. The President then began to speak to you a lot about his own theories regarding what he thought about Phoenix being Dumbledore’s horcrux.

Soon, the theories which were translated with what you presumed to be Google Translate, turned into Good Morning messages then-

[Starboy52]: “Sorry but can I have your number?” You stared blankly at your screen. Wait what?

[Moonchild13]:“Why?” Of course you would be hesitate, you didn’t know who he really actually was to begin with.

[Starboy52]: “The app sometimes crashes on me, and the website can be a bit slow as you can tell.” You giggled, fondly remembering how he once organized a giveway and announced the winners which took you three hours afterwards to find out who had won.

[Moonchild13]: “Even then, how can I know I can trust you? Plus, won’t you be charged for long distant texts?”

[Starboy52]: “How can I trust that you’re in America and actually speak English, not using a translator?” You giggled at his message.

[Moonchild13]: “Send me a picture of who you are then and I’ll send you one as well.”

Somehow this had become the start of many actual calls where both of you were mostly quiet and giggling because one would send the other messages that were translated. Soon, he began to teach you certain words in Korean as you taught him phrases in English.

“Hi, my name is.”

“Hi, my name is.” He repeated after you, a smile could be heard in his voice.

Things advanced, he called as soon as it was morning for you, and at night when he wasn’t busy during the day. Although the obvious language barrier between the two of you was very evident and high, it never stopped the two of you from enjoying each other’s presence on the phone, if anything this was comforting. This would sometimes lead to you sleeping until very late, but it was never a problem.

“When can I finally see your face?” You had agreed to yourself that if Starboy52, the president of the book club did not Facetime you in 5 months, you would confront him about his true identity.

“I’m not, mmm, I’m not cute.” Nonsense, he sounded cute.

“Oppa, please.” You could hear a muffled sound in the background and his low mm fill the space as well.

“Promise you won’t be angry.”

“Okay..” You were nervous, almost sick to your stomach as you waited in anticipation for the face of the man you were starting to fall in love with. The familiar sound announcing an incoming Facetime video call made you want to puke. Your finger hoovered over the accept button momentarily as cold terror spread from your fingertips, down your arm, and up to your shoulder, almost as if you had hit your funny bone.

“Aein.” A blonde haired, sweet faced boy with chubby cheeks and thick lips appeared on screen. He turned momentarily, out of shyness showing you his sharp jawline which left you in awe. 

He wasn’t cute, he was gorgeous. 

“H-hi.” That was the beginning of multiple Facetimes that would involve both of you falling asleep together despite the difficult time zones. Nothing was an obstacle for you and him.

“Terminal 5A will be unloading shortly.” You felt a familiar wave of anxiety fawned over your whole body and your hearing going numb as your friend was in your face saying something while pulling you around the airport. The overhead screens informed you that Terminal 5A was the plane from Seoul, making it further real to you that your lover was here, finally close and not a sick joke that your brain played on you.

“How will I know if you really mean everything and actually are coming to LA?” You heard some soft talking in the background.

“I-” He paused as you could hear his friend Namjoon helping him out with the translation so he could answer you back in English. “have my ticket, mmm,” His deep hums never failed to make you feel so at ease. “I go-be there soon,” He quickly corrected himself as you hear Namjoon laughing in the background. 

“Wait, really?” Okay now this, you never expected to ever be true much less for him to actually have the ticket so soon. You knew he was well off, he had simply told you that he was in a band that did okay but never told you what type of band or the name. It never came to you to google him either since you pent most of your time in school and dedicated to him. Jimin knew you were in college, and that you were 2 years younger with an older sister and a single dad who parented you. But he was very private about his family, the only information you knew was that he had both parents and a younger brother around your age who he loved very much. 

“Mhm, surprise!” Surprise indeed.

“I don’t want to be here, I’m nervous now.” You began to pull your friend’s hand off your wrist but he simply tightened his grip, giving you a puzzled look. 

“Wasn’t it you that tormented the poor boy to come visit you since you were low on money, and a broke college student?” Your friend rolled his eyes as he saw your pathetic face scrunch up. He knew that if he let you go on about with your tantrum, there would be no time to catch the boy on time so he pulled you about, determined for you to meet him.

“He makes me so happy, we laugh so much, I think he’s the one but I am nothing in comparison-” Your friend shot you a terrifying look as he continued to pull you around the airport by the arm.

“Do not say such stupid thing ever again.” He turned his eyes away from you as the lad now faced the arrival section. “Here we are.” 

“I don’t...” A tiny voice came out of you, sounding extremely shaken up.

“You are more than what he deserves. This guy makes you happy, yes, but guess what. You make him even happier. He does anything to make you smile. He finds the time in his very busy day to send you short messages, send you pictures and videos, and then he facetimes you despite having to sleep after a tiresome day. So why would you think you are nothing in comparison to him? Without you, there is no Park Jimin. Now get a grip, mate. He’s here.” 

“I-,” A loud heart pounding was heard in your ears, chest constrained, palms clammy as you caught sight of the blond mob of parted hair as a man with dark shades made his way towards you. The same chipped smile that had made you continuously blush whenever it was shown on the screen of your phone, was now here. No longer was it trapped in a small screen making Jimin’s smile no justice but rather in front of you and adorning his beautiful face. 

“Aein.” The tenor voice that use to aid you to sleep sometimes now sounded even richer mixed in with the air and buzz of the unruly airport. Here he was. Jimin was here. He was real. 

He jogged towards you, stopping only when his warm body hit yours, his arms engulfing you in a tight squeeze as he buried his face into your neck. 

Jimin would never admit this vocally but he had been wanting for the day that he could finally hold you and love you the same way you had all these months when he was lost as a overly worked idol. But you came into his life unexpectedly. All he ever wanted was to put his few free seconds into a book club and what he got was a girlfriend who was there for him at every waking second, supporting him, holding him in place when the stress of being perfect was making him wish he could just float away. But you were there. Making him keep his head and loved him for being just Park Jimin from Busan instead of Park Jimin of BTS. That was all he ever wish.

“Aein..” You said back, running a hand through the back of his head, feeling his hair between your fingers. “You’re here.” His arms tighten even more around you.

“I’m home.”

(A.N. // I wrote this 5 months ago but I didn’t know where I wanted this to go or much less what I wanted it to be. So it’s been sitting in my drafts collecting dusts but due to it being Jimin’s birthday, I now know why I wrote and where this was suppose to go. Also, I dedicate this to my Jimin anon who I love dearly and hope has been doing fantastic. Happy Birthday, Jimin. You’re alright, kid.)

[naomi-l-tiessen-blog]

Tips on Breaking Out of Your Writing Hiatus

Helllllooooo everybody ~

Happy Thursday Blogday!

Well, we’ve all been there. We didn’t mean for it to happen, but it just…did.

We stopped writing.

Life got busy. I’ve never been a fantastic multi-tasker, and back in the summer of 2016, it seemed like suddenly everything was happening at once. I was playing roller derby, and had practice 3 times a week. I was still working full-time at the hospital. And on top of it all, I was in the process of moving to a different city, soooo packing, packing, packing. As much as I didn’t want it to, writing sort of went onto the backburner, and then it slipped off completely. And I let it. I didn’t even think twice about letting it not be a priority. One week became one month, then two months, then three months, and then I stopped counting.

So, when the time came that I finally decided to pick up the pieces of my nearly finished manuscript, I was sort of at a loss of what to do. I had stopped in the middle of a chapter (ouch), and said chapter was a heavy duty one (double ouch). I had no clue what to do. I knew that I had overcome the hardest part by accepting the fact that I had screwed up, but somehow, it didn’t seem as simple as sitting down and writing again. In truth, I didn’t feel worthy to write. I almost felt like I needed to confess my sins, plead for forgiveness from my abandoned novel baby, and join a Seven Steps Program or something.

All this sound familiar?

I have done a good chunk of research, and have come up with ten useful tips on how to overcome the mountain that is known as Hiatus. Some of these may work for you, and some of them may make you cringe so hard it looks like you’re seizing. But whether all of them apply to you or not, they are still little gems to put in your writer bank!

1) So, first and foremost, allow yourself that pity party your brain is begging you to have. Eat junk food, wallow in guilt, maybe cry a little (ahem *points to self* moi), and procrastinate a bit more. Get it out of your system. And then, when you are finally ready to face the music (…manuscript?), move on. I know, I know, weird tip right? “But Scarlette, everyone else tells me to stop beating myself up immediately!” Ooook. Well, you’re going to feel guilty regardless of whether I tell you to or not. So let’s all just be real about this. You’re a human being. You feel things. You’re going to feel guilty about abandoning your baby and letting it collect dust. You’re going to want to beat yourself up about it. Use that to push yourself forward. Do it. Do ittttt. And then carry on.

2) Start slow. Maybe do some writing challenges or exercises. Do a writing prompt or two...whatever it takes to get the brain juices flowing (ugh...that sounds nasty). For me, I went back momentarily to fanfiction. Writing fanfiction was my safety blanket for a long time, and it felt nice to be on familiar ground while I more or less tried to un-rust myself. And really, much to my relief, it didn’t take long to get my groove and confidence back. One thing to keep in mind is that it's not a race; you need to figure out what works best for you to get back in the swing of things. It may take a couple writing prompts, or it might take an entire fanfiction. Go at a pace that is good for you. Your novel baby knows you are working hard. It’s not going anywhere. It’ll be there when you are ready. It’s not a race. Unless you have an epic deadline….then this is super awkward…may I refer you to my previous blog regarding motivation?

3) Do research. And by research, I mean reading. A lot of it. And I don't know about you, but sometimes when I'm reading, I'll find myself thinking, "Well fuck, I could've written this better." Yes. Hell yes. Use that. DO THAT. GET WRITING.

4) Once you are actively writing, allow yourself to get into the groove, and don’t stop. Unless you desperately need a pee break, sustenance in the form of snacks and liquids, or it’s a family emergency, don’t stop. Whether it’s for a page, or thirty minutes, or 500 words, or an entire chapter/scene, write your little cynical, introverted heart out. You’re going to force that groove out of its hiding place, the stubborn bastard.

5) Set a concrete, measurable goal.  “Write.” is not gonna cut it, trust me. I’ve done it before where I’ll get home after work, look at my Honey-Do List and see WRITE in big, aggressively bold letters staring back at me. I’ll then toss the list aside, grab my video game controller, and say, “Well, technically I wrote all day. Charting on patients counts as writing, right?” No, no it doesn’t. Give yourself something to work towards, such as a word count, page number, or set a timer and tell yourself that you’ll write for the next hour without stopping.

6) Don’t edit as you go. For the love of God, don’t edit as you go. Accept the fact that you are going to be rusty, and move on. Right now, all that’s important is getting words out of your noggin and onto paper. Save the editing for later. That’s what drafts (and drafts, and drafts) are for. The minute you start analyzing what you are writing, you’re going to only focus on how awkward and rough things are sounding, and you’ll lose your gumption to push forward. Instead of thinking, “Writing, writing, writing,” you’ll be thinking, “Shitty, shitty, shitty. Oh God, make it stop.” No. Bad. Don’t do that.

7) Accept the fact that your writing style has most likely changed. It's going to be almost comical re-reading and editing my first draft of HBE, considering I started writing it in 2014 and have grown so much since then. And by comical I mean I'm going to cry. A lot. But that’s the harsh truth of going on hiatus in the middle of a project. Things are bound to change. You aren’t the same writer you once were when you first started. Maybe this change is for the better, or maybe it’s for the worst. But guess what? You won’t actually know the answer unless you START FRICKEN WRITING.

8) Maybe start somewhere you were once really excited about. Now, I don't normally recommend this...I’m a fan of writing in chronological order, but if you are stuck on a killer scene and are dreading going back to it, especially now that you are feeling a bit out of touch with your writer side, maybe start somewhere a bit lighter, easier. Maybe there’s a scene you’ve been dying to get to, and you know that you could totally make that scene your bitch. If the only reason why you haven’t already pounced all over that scene is because of a fear of breaking out of chronological order, then you’re being stubborn and silly. Come on. Try it. Give in to my suave charm and give it a shot. It could be a confidence booster! And then, when you are feeling ready, go back to that killer scene and kick its butt.

9) Build up your habit/restart your ritual. Some people throw dance parties right before they get to writing. Some people like to read right before they dive into their own work as a way to be inspired. I personally like to clean my entire house about 15 times before I finally decide to sit down and write (DO NOT RECOMMEND). What was your previous ritual? Did it work for you? If it didn’t, switch it up! Instead of waiting until nighttime to write, perhaps get to work in the morning when your mind and body are refreshed and not weighed down and jaded by the day yet. Maybe try location writing. I know, I know, the idea of getting out of the house might seem awful and panic-attack inducing, but it might help stimulate your brain juices (ugh…said it again), and inspire you. Find a quiet little coffee shop, or hunker down in the corner of a book store. Get your favorite coffee/tea/cleverly disguised alcoholic beverage (no judgement), and write until closing time. Find a ritual that works for you, and perform it until it becomes a habit. Think of it as your bedtime routine. The moment you start doing this ritual, whether it’s brushing your teeth, washing your face, or putting on your PJ’s (this doesn’t work for me, considering I wear my PJ’s all day), something triggers in your brain, telling it, “Hey, it’s time for bed! Hooray!” The same will happen with your writing routine. The minute you initiate the writing ritual, your brain is going to register what is happening and jump into Writer Mode.

10) Revamp that outline. It's going to help remind you of all the hard work you’ve already put into your manuscript, how far you’ve come, and the fun things to come. Set aside some time to laze out on the couch with a glass of wine, and read your outline from start to finish. Not gonna lie, chances are it’s going to make you cringe a little *once again, pointing to self*. You might find plot holes, or god-awful ideas that sounded so good at the time but what the hell were you thinking? Were you wondering why I mentioned an alcoholic beverage earlier? This is why. You need to sift through all the bullshit and find the reasons why you fell in love with your novel baby in the first place. Get excited all over again. Review it, revise it, love it.

Bonus Tip: When you are done writing for the day and about to pack it in, set yourself up for success. Organize and prepare for your next writing adventure so that it isn't like pulling teeth when you attempt to convert brain vomit into word vomit. Personally, I like to stop in the middle of a sentence. I might know how I want that sentence to end right then and there, but I save it for the next day. So, when I open up my manuscript and see that half-done sentence just begging to be finished, I can easily do it. BAM! First sentence done. Piece of cake. I’M ON FIRE! Now onto the next one. It's a bit of a mind game, I know, but it's also a confidence booster for me.

And that’s it! See, jumping back into that novel doesn’t seem so terrifying now, does it? And keep in mind to take these with a grain of salt; some of these will work for you, and some of them won’t. Everyone is a unique, delicate flower, and not every drop of water from the watering can is going to make its mark on you. God. Cheese please. It sounded so much better in my head.

With that said, I post new blogs every Thursday, and if there is anything you’d like me to discuss, feel free to message me on here, or tweet me @ @ScarletteStone

Until next time, my beautiful, delicate flowers:

Happy writing!