#or a woman who has a round face and red cheeks and enormous ears but her eyes make you trust her immediately

[leatherbookmark]

"is this the narrator or the wwx, because neither sounds particularly good", part ?: the round-faced girl makes her debut! in Japanese, "one could even call her looks 清楚" (tbh I didn't really understand it because it means like... neat, tidy, trim? what does it mean in this case? she looked more or less not travel-worn? looked it up more and apparently it means "fair-skinned with small eyes, nose and lips and not too dark eyebrows" so I guess "delicate" fits), but in chinese ggl trans got me "barely handsome" and I was like come on that's mean, it can't be this. so I put spaces between the words and

wow

[firefly-in-darkness]

Lost and Found.

Pairing → Geralt of Rivia x Reader

Characters → Ciri, Jaskier, Priscilla, Yennefer (mentioned)

Summary → Geralt left with Yennefer for months.

Word Count → 5k

AFG Square Fill → Geralt @anyfandomgoesbingo

Warnings → 18+. Angst, heartache, jealousy, swearing, happy ending

Betas → @wonder-cole // all mistakes are my own.

A/N →  Well this ended up being a longer story than I expected… I’ve only written for Geralt / The Witcher fandom once before and will have used content from the series, the books and the games as I have watched, read and played everything based on our ashen haired babe

The tavern was full of locals that had escaped from the cold night air. Farmworkers caked in mud with a distinct stench of sweat, merchants drowned their sorrows or celebrated their successes. A shadowy corner for the gamblers prayed for their Gwent decks to fare better than their opponents. There were even some families gathered by the large fire with bowls of broth and torn pieces of bread.

You had taken a seat at an empty table, slightly out of sight from the group you were meant to be with. You weren’t ready to be confronted with that situation until you had at least two tankards worth of ale in your system. In all fairness, you had debated about coming here in the first place, but it was Cirilla’s twenty-first birthday, and you would have felt awful if you hadn’t shown your face, even for the briefest of moments to wish her well.

It had absolutely nothing to do with avoiding a certain witcher, nothing at all.

A few years ago, Ciri marched into a small school on the outskirts of Rochdale, a quaint town in Velen, and stated that she wanted to continue her studies. Even if it was only for a few days a month. When her family visited. The matron was sceptical at first, not knowing who this child was or where she had come from but when Ciri produced a large coin purse, there were no qualms of fitting her into the roster of students.

You took Ciri under your wing the moment she’d stepped into your classroom. Ciri’s love for history and mythology strengthened the bond between you. Many evenings were spent talking about the world and all its wonder. And particularly, the monsters that lurked in the darkness.

In the space of a few weeks, you learnt a lot about Ciri and her adoptive parent. She confided in you about her hardships of trying to find Geralt. He was someone that her grandmother had told her to go to when Cintra fell to the Nilfgaardians. Your heart had clenched at the thought of such a sweet young girl wandering this world alone, with no family and in search of someone that she did not truly know existed.

It was one evening when Ciri unravelled the rope attached to her horse outside the school, waiting for Geralt to arrive, that you first met him. While you loaded the saddlebags with books, the sound of hoofs on the cobblestones caught your attention, and a majestic mare appeared from the side of the stone wall with a man astride her. He silently nodded to Ciri, no further expression or acknowledgement was made.

It looked as if there were no more than fifteen years between Geralt and Ciri, and he was not what you had expected. You had envisioned an older man, a farmer or merchant perhaps, with a family of his own. Not this handsome man, in a black cape, luscious white hair that curled over his shoulders.

He had caught you off guard, enamoured as you watched him dismount the horse. Your bodies almost touched in the tight space between you both. You stared at his chest, the wolf head medallion indicating his occupation. A Witcher. He towered over you; amber eyes glared down as you froze to the spot. Your legs felt like lead as you were held in his gaze. He should have frightened you, a slayer of monsters but, regardless of his stoic appearance, his presence provided a sense of calm.

The first grunt that he expelled went unheard, you snapped out of it when he did it a second time and shifted from his path so he could collect the books from Ciri. You could have sworn that, even though he seemed gruff, a small smirk twitched at your flustered state.

“See you next week Miss,” Ciri called after you as you lifted yourself into the saddle and gave her a small wave.

The awkwardness heated your cheeks and your mind spiralled at the way you’d reacted to Geralt. You had never frozen in front of a parent or guardian before. A cough brought you to your senses and a groan rumbled through you unexpectedly as you turned to him, eyes wide with embarrassment and a wish for the ground to swallow you whole.

You waited for Geralt to say something, but no words followed, and he seemed to be in just a flustered state as yourself, but you tried to shake that thought. There was no way a man like him would ever think of a teacher in any way other than a guardian should.

Ciri popped from around Geralt’s horse, a mischievous look on her face, “He’s trying to ask you if you’d like to join us for dinner or would like company back to your lodgings.”

You smiled to yourself at the fond memory, the sound of music and laughter lifted your spirit in the small tavern. Until you glanced to the side; the seat beside you was empty, and its presence was a reminder of what you had lost. 

What had happened between you and Geralt was a friendship that had developed into secret sparks of lust. But your burning flame of love was extinguished the moment you saw him with Yennefer. After two years of tiptoeing around friendship and the late night trysts, you’d lost him to the most beautiful and powerful woman of the continent.

Your heart ached when you caught several glimpses of Geralt throughout the evening; either talking to the innkeeper or with Ciri and Jaskier as they attempted to get him to dance. He hadn’t seen you yet, you were sure of it, and you hadn’t made your presence known to anyone either. As much as you wanted to keep it that way, you would have to see Ciri at some point and that time came sooner than you expected as your eyes met across the tavern and she ran towards you.

In a flash of light, she teleported to your table and wrapped her arms around you. You would never get used to that. You returned the hug, clinging onto her as tightly as you could because it was likely this would be the last time, you would see her.

Nobody knew about your job offer at Oxenfurt Academy, that you were strongly considering the move to Redania, bags packed and ready at the door. It was what you needed, a fresh start. Plus, you knew that the matron was going to start looking at reducing the staff numbers after the drop in births in the town so you might as well get out before you were penniless.

You let Ciri go and caught another arrival to your side; Jaskier. His beaming smile was infectious, and he made you giggle as he dramatically bowed to you. Geralt was behind him, no expression on his face and not that you dared to look at him properly in fear for how much it would hurt you to do so. 

Completely unaware of the awkward tension that was filling the space between you and your former secret lover, Jaskier instantly took a seat opposite you and tipped his tankard upside down, “Oh Geralt, it looks like it’s your round!” 

Geralt grunted and left the three of you on your own. You relaxed ever so slightly as you watched him walk away and turned your attention to the birthday girl, woman.

“Oh, Y/N, it has been a while, three months at least!” Ciri said as she clasped your hands in hers.

“It has indeed, I heard from many merchants about your birthday celebrations, and I had to make sure at once that I was here to join in!” You beamed at her and shuffled along the wooden bench for her to join, “How long are you staying in town for this time?”

“I’m not sure, it depends on Geralt as always.” Ciri shrugged.

Priscilla, a beautiful blonde bard that caught Jaskier’s attention many moons ago in Novigrad, appeared at this side and pulled him away to perform a duet on the makeshift stage. In her excitement, Ciri jumped out and followed them. Even though they didn’t notice you had stayed behind, you didn’t mind and chuckled at their antics as they coaxed the patrons to gather around.

“Guess this is for you then.” Geralt slid into the seat opposite and gestured to the tankard, the foam spilling over the edge as you took it from him.

You were sure he could hear your heart thumping in your chest, choosing to give a small smile and a nod as you sipped the ale. The bittersweet melody filled the room, and it took you back to another time. To one where Geralt held you in his arms and filled you with so much hope for a future together.

It was your first visit to the Skellige Isles, and you loved every second that you spent with Crach an Craite and his clan, celebrating his daughter, Cerys, becoming Queen. You had been surprised when Geralt had asked you to accompany him, thinking that he’d ask Yennefer or Ciri to join him, but you didn’t let the moment pass you by; it was the first time you’d been on a ship and travelled the seas, let alone attended a coronation.

The banquet hall was full to the brim of Jarls and their clans from the many islands that formed Skellige. Enormous amounts of food were laid out on the tables and wine was on a never-ending supply. The revelry continued long into the night, you and Geralt clapping and laughing along to the guests dancing the Cèilidh.

You brought the goblet to your lips, now stained red from the wine, and sipped slowly as you felt the alcohol taking effect. Warmth filled your cheeks and you felt like you were floating with Geralt at your side, his arm securely around your waist.

“Drink up, because we are going up there any minute.” Geralt whispered in your ear.

Once more, Geralt had surprised you, thinking he’d never do such a thing and proving you wrong in an instant. Or, just, maybe, you shouldn’t believe everything that Yennefer tells you. He whisked you up into his arms and you skipped into the throng of bouncing and twirling dancers.

After a few stumbles and the odd miss turn, you found the rhythm and began to enjoy yourself. It was like you were in your own little world with Geralt. Your heart was beating so fast you thought it might burst from your chest. Together, you rounded the dance floor, twirling between other people and joining them for the group segments of the dance before returning to Geralt to skip through a human archway.

The music hit its end, you and Geralt both collapsing onto a bench, still giggling through the pain of being out of breath. He leant forward, his hand firmly on the nape of your neck, and pressed his lips to yours. You kissed him back with no inhibitions.

Your fingertips skimmed along your bottom lip, the memory of Geralt’s kiss still lingering there. After all this time, the memory had you brimming with hope and desire, or maybe it was the ale that was clouding your judgement. Without a second thought, you turned towards Geralt to find that he was looking straight at you, and he was too slow to hide his staring. You choked out a laugh as his eyes went wide and his cheeks tinged pink. Never in a million years did you think you’d see the witcher blush.

“I’m sorry but your face.” You giggled into your palm, swaying from side to side and clutching your belly. “So-sorry.”

“No, you’re not.” He tried to sound angry, but his smirk betrayed him.

Your fit of laughter tapered off and allowed you to regain your composure. The awkward silence filling the space between you once more as you resigned to not pursuing the conversation. A wave across the room caught your eye, Ciri beckoning you over but as you turned to stand, Geralt placed his hand atop yours on the table.

He hardly touched you, and you were staring at his hand, uncertain as to what he was doing. You lifted your head to find his softened gaze and immediately dropped back into your seat, nodding for him to say whatever it was that was on his mind.

“What were you thinking?” He whispered.

“When?” Your brow furrowed, the weight of Geralt’s hand growing as he relaxed.

“Just now. It looked like you were daydreaming.” He asked.

Your heart raced; you were silly to think he wouldn’t notice. He notices everything, and you couldn’t lie to him, he would catch you out, even if you were good at it. Stalling for time, you picked up your empty tankard and tried to catch the remaining droplets for some courage.

“If you really must know,” You paused, waiting for him to shut the conversation down but he didn’t and you felt the heat rising up your neck, “Erm, well, I was thinking about when we danced at Cerys’ ascension.”

Geralt smiled, a full beaming one, one that was like the moment he pulled away from your kiss all those years ago. It hit you with a force, and you couldn’t hold back all the feelings that you had packed away when he left with Yennefer not even a few months ago.

He didn’t say anything, just smiled and then sipped his ale. You weren’t sure what was happening and why he was looking at you like that. As if he was happy that you still thought of him fondly. Before you could question him, Ciri was at your side and tugging at your arm to join her, exclaiming that there would be dancing. You unfurled her hand from its grip and shook your head.

“I’m sorry Ciri, but I have to go now.” You gave her a sad smile as you stepped out from the table and pressed a light kiss to her cheek, “I hope you enjoy the rest of your celebrations little sparrow.”

Ciri’s face softened at the old nickname, “Thank you, do you need someone to walk you home.”

You chose to ignore the glare that Ciri was giving Geralt as you pulled the cloak around your shoulders. Geralt wouldn’t fall for her tricks but she was stubborn and from the huff and scrape of the chair, you knew she had gotten her way.

“Ready?” Geralt asked and you nodded, following him through the door into the night.

It was freezing, the air bit into the exposed skin of your cheeks and neck. Suddenly Geralt was in front of you, pulling the hood over your head and bringing it tighter around you.

“There’s a storm coming, you don’t want to catch a cold.” He explained.

You were dumbfounded at his care and the way he weaved an arm across your shoulders, guiding you back to your cottage. Unable to do or say anything more than put one foot in front of the other, or thereabouts, in your slightly merry state.

Geralt was warm, and smelt of ale, sandalwood, and leather. You were unable to stop yourself from sinking further into his hold, relishing the moment. Even if it meant that your heart would shatter once you reached your home, and the loss of his warmth would bring tears.

Silence remained between you, yet this time it was comfortable. It was as if this is where you were meant to be; walking side by side in a small town, surrounded by the multitude of stars and nothing but the beating of your hearts.

The cobbled path wound around various shops and cottages, culminating in the town square. It was empty, a distinct comparison to when you visited earlier in the morning to see if the visiting merchants had anything new or different to sell.

“Would you have liked to dance?” Geralt whispered, if the square was alive with the traders and merchants, you wouldn’t have heard him, but it was clear in the open air.

“I’m sorry?” You uncurled from his hold and stood in front of him, looking up at his glowing eyes.

“Back there, did I stop you?” He asked with a neutral expression that you had long ago realised was a mask to hide his true feelings.

“No,” you shook your head and wrapped your arms around yourself, “I did think it was time to leave though.”

“Because you were daydreaming about me?” Geralt asked, a lopsided smile on his lips as you continued down the path.

“Yes, because I was getting caught up in our past.” You ducked away from his sight, “I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“I was thinking about the same thing, well more specifically what happened afterwards.” Geralt stopped at the gate to your cottage, “And I think you were too.”

You looked up at him, knowing you couldn’t lie, with a sad smile “You know I was Geralt. Don’t play games with your thinking. Thank you for walking me home.”

Geralt’s words rushed out, “Can I come in?”

Once again, Geralt was full of surprises, he’d never invited himself round and usually, he would just enter without question. Then you thought of how different things were now that you had gone your separate ways. When he chose to be with her.

“What would Yennefer think?” You asked, the jealousy not missing from your tone no matter how hard you tried to be nonchalant.

“Yennefer is not my master.” He grunted, “Why are we even talking about her?”

“Because you left with her. That day.” You bit down on your lip in a hope of tears not making an appearance. “I didn’t realise you had feelings for her until Jaskier mentioned the djinn and the wish you granted.”

“That fuckin’ bard.” He growled, “I do not have feelings for Yennefer, my wish was about you, but it didn’t work. You didn’t want me near you.”

You recoiled at his tone, “excuse me? You’re the one that left in a carriage to god knows where for months without a single word.”

“I left a letter.” Geralt pushed through the cottage door and gestured his hands towards the candles dotted around the cottage, causing a flame to ignite at their wicks.

You followed him into your bedroom and watched as he pulled at the drawer that you’d put aside for him many moons ago, and atop his tunics was a piece of folded paper. You stared at the letter, now in Geralt’s hand. 

It had been too painful to open the drawer, you hadn’t been in it since he left. It had taunted you enough just by being there, a reminder of you welcoming him into your home. Let alone being able to feel the fabric or take in his scent, it would have filled your heart with more pain.

“As it’s still in the drawer, I’m guessing you didn’t find it.” Geralt sighed, placing it down on the furniture and leaning back against, folding his arms. “And that explains why you didn’t turn up the other night.”

“I didn’t, why would I have gone in there?” You whispered as you began preparing the fireplace, anything to keep you busy.

He mumbled, “Because you sleep in my tunics when I’m away.”

“Okay, and what about the other night?” You questioned as the flames caught on the logs, “Where was I supposed to meet you?

At the lack of response, you turned to look at Geralt and he was scowling at something behind you, the trunk at the door and a collection of bags. You watched him taking in the rest of your home. There were no ornaments or trinkets on the walls, no books on the shelves or stacks of parchment dotted around. It was all packed away, ready for you to leave.

“Are you going somewhere?” He asked, the neutral appearance back on his features.

“Yes.” you nodded.

“For how long?” His arms dropped from their hold on his chest.

“For as long as I have a job.” You stated.

“Where?” Geralt was quiet and looking down at the floor.

“Oxenfurt Academy.”

His head snapped up, amber eyes glinting in the dim light of your cottage, “Why are you going to Redania?”

“Because I have nothing else here.” You shrugged as a tear fell from your cheek, you knew that not saying goodbye was hard, but this seemed a lot harder.

“What about Ciri? Or Jaskier? Priscilla?” Geralt asked, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he waited for your answer.

“I’m sure I’ll see them again. Ciri and I will likely cross paths if she pursues her education, and I’m sure she’d track me down the second she finds out about me leaving. I already made a promise to Jaskier that I’d see Priscilla’s shows wherever I am.” Before Geralt interrupted, you sat on the edge of your bed and continued, “He doesn’t know, it was an old promise, and you know what I’m like when it comes to those.”

Geralt silently moved across the room and sat beside you, taking your hand in his, “What about me?” 

You shook your head, “I thought you didn’t want me anymore.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Geralt looked at you, a softness in his eyes, “So, Oxenfurt Academy?”

You were unable to look at him, ashamed of deciding to leave in haste and without talking to him about it at least once, “Yes, I leave in a couple of weeks.”

“I’ll follow you anywhere.” He promised and before you could counter him, he continued, “I asked you to meet me at the docks because I wanted to give you this.” 

Geralt opened a pouch attached to his hip and pulled out a delicate silver chain. He held it out so you could see the side profile of a wolf’s head with an amber gem for the eye. You weren’t sure what to say as you marvelled at the beautiful gift, lifting your hair away from your neck for Geralt to clip it in place.

“Thank you, it’s beautiful.” You whispered.

Your fingers glided along the chain and you held the wolf away from your chest, twisting it in the glow of the candles. A stray tear fell down your cheek but Geralt caught it with the pad of his thumb. You leant into his warm touch, his calloused palm a welcome feeling that you had long missed. Geralt lifted your face and pressed his forehead to yours before he softly kissed you.

The kiss was tentative at first, light pecks making way for harder pushes and pulls, swipes of tongue until your arms were wrapped around Geralt’s neck. You adjusted until you were straddling his lap. Geralt pulled at the lacing of your tunic until it loosened around your shoulders and exposed more of your chest. 

He brought his lips to yours again, the kiss was more heated than before. Tongues swiped and teeth nibbled along each other’s lips with him pulling your body into a tight hold, his erection hardening and pushing against your core. 

At the spark of pleasure, you pulled away in shock and lifted your body from him. You held the tunic in place and backed away, sitting further down the bed from him, his head hanging down as you tried to make sense of why you pulled away and were still protecting yourself when it was clear that he wanted you.

“I’m sorry Geralt, I- for the longest time, I thought you were with Yennefer, I-” You sobbed, hand cupping your mouth as you let the emotions flow freely.

You felt the bed dip and you turned to find Geralt laying back against the pillows, an arm open in waiting. You scooted up the bed and curled into his side, sinking into his warmth, and being soothed by the fingertips that swirled up and down your arm in nonsensical patterns.

“As I said before, I will follow you anywhere that you go.” He murmured and pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

With the tears no longer falling, you tipped your head up to look at Geralt to find his eyes closed. You rested your head onto his shoulder and began to trace the shape of the medallion on his chest, sleep finally taking you to the world of dreams as raindrops began to patter on the roof.

A new home: it was on a quiet street quite close to Oxenfurt academy, only a twenty-minute stroll until you were in the hustle and bustle of the city. It was a lot busier than you had prepared for, especially compared to your small town of Rochdale. 

Your colleagues had told you that you’d been lucky to find the lodgings in the area and for such a good rental rate too. The ground floor consisted of a kitchen and seating area and the upstairs hosted two bedrooms. It was just the right size for you, but you hadn’t fully unpacked yet. Satchels half-emptied and trunks open but still full to the brim with trinkets and books.

You were settled in the chair by the fireplace, the warm embers glowing as you read the book in your lap. It wasn’t late but your eyes were feeling heavy after the most hectic month of moving to the city and settling into your new role at the academy. 

A knock at the door made you jump; the book fell to the floor with a thud. Tentatively, you approached the entrance to your home and glanced through the frosted pane in the wooden door but could only make out two figures. Ciri and Geralt stood before you, your mouth dropped agape as their arrival was unexpected and you weren’t sure what to say.

“Surprise! I’ve enrolled at Oxenfurt Academy.” Ciri laughed and wrapped her arms around you.

You held her close and rested your chin on her shoulder, looking over at Geralt, shock and happiness coursing through you. In the dim light of the torches that lined the street, his mouth twitched into a smirk. Your heart fluttered and you couldn’t wait to have his arms wrapped around you once more.

“I cannot believe it; I wish you’d let me know beforehand so I could have prepared for your visit.” You beckoned them into the warmth of your new lodgings, picked up the fallen book and attempted to tidy away the pots and pans on the table.

“Oh, come on Y/N, it’s only us, I’ll start making a pot of tea.” Ciri headed over to the stove and filled the kettle.

Geralt entered your home, he filled the space with his height and broad shoulders, the atmosphere was tense, and you weren’t sure what to do. It had been a while since you last spoke to him; the morning after he returned and discovered you were moving away.

“Hello,” you squeaked, unable to keep the excitement from your tone, “erm- how long are you staying? Where are you staying?”

“Ciri mentioned you had spare beds.” Geralt murmured. “If that’s okay with you?”

“Yes, of course, right this way.” The steps creaked underfoot as you both ascended the staircase, and your nerves began to bubble as you felt his eyes on your back. You opened the first door to the spare room with two single frames and a small chest of drawers, “sorry it’s not much. My bedroom is just down the hall and there is a bath in there.”

Geralt placed a couple of satchels on the bed and removed his armoured plate. You couldn’t help the way you stared at him in the tunic and the dark hair across the exposed part of his chest. He pulled out a small bag from a satchel pocket and turned back to you with a small smile.

“I-We brought your favourite biscuits from Rochdale.”

The stutter did not go unnoticed, but you did not react to it, instead offered a smile and a whispered thank you as Geralt placed the bag into your outstretched hand. Instantly, you opened it and raised it to your face to inhale the sweet scent of the treat.

“This will go lovely with the tea, we should-.” You gestured back to the stairs and spun on your heel.

“Wait,” Geralt huffed and caught the crook of your arm to turn you to face him, “I should have done something else when you answered the door.”

A frown etched on your features until his hand cupped your cheek and you caught the way his amber eyes glowed as they flicked down to your lips. Your mouth parted and your eyes fluttered closed as you slowly edged towards one another, meeting in the middle in a soft kiss.

Your body tingled in Geralt’s hold, as your lips melted into his chapped ones. Knees grew weak as he invaded all your senses. It was as if he knew and wrapped an arm around your waist, holding you flush to his hard chest.

Both of you pulled away for air, his fiery gaze drank you in and sent a wave of pleasure through your body. He claimed your mouth once more with hunger, your hands carded through his ashen locks, and you tugged him closer still. Geralt lifted you into his arms and carried you to your bedroom.

Too consumed in your reunion and that Geralt had kept his promise to follow you anywhere, neither of you heard the door close behind Ciri’s hasty exit.

The tea and biscuits were long forgotten.

Everything Tag List: @kitkatd7 / @fandomfic-galore / @writerwrites / @thefridgeismybestie / @wedonttalkaboutitenough​ / @courtneychicken / @persephonesinfernos / @miraclesoflove​ / @lizzarooni​ / @queenoftheunderdark​

[princesssarisa]

Snow White Winter: "Snow White" (1990 Golden Films animation)

The '90s were the golden age of the direct-to-video "mockbuster": cheaply animated features based on the same stories as the most popular films from Disney and other big name animation studios. One of the studios that specialized the most in this phenomenon was Golden Films, whose output includes versions of The Little Mermaid, Anastasia, Pocahontas, Cinderella, Aladdin, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and no less than two adaptations each of Beauty and the Beast and Snow White. This is the first of the two Snow Whites, released in 1990.

The colorful animation of this thirty-minute Snow White is very much of the low-budget Saturday morning cartoon variety. The time period is very vague, generally seeming somewhat medieval, but with 19th century costumes inexplicably worn at the Prince's castle in the end. Snow White herself starts out as a chubby-cheeked, freckled preteen in the prologue, but grows into a pretty if insipid-looking maiden with wide, vacant eyes for the story proper. The seven dwarfs are funny little men with big, round ears and chubby bodies but long, skinny arms and legs, while the Prince is handsome in a dorky way, with voluminous auburn hair. This is all unoffensive, but then we come to the wicked Queen's design. Apparently just because she's a villain, the animators decided that she should be ugly, with dark bags under her eyes, an enormous witch-like nose, age lines running down her face, sagging breasts, and a big mole on her cheek. This makes total nonsense of the idea that the Queen is the second most beautiful woman in the land, surpassed only by Snow White. Yet both her supposedly truthful mirror and Snow White herself describe this homely Queen as if she were a stunning beauty. If this discrepancy was meant to be funny, it falls flat. So does the fact that in her first peddler woman disguise, she changes nothing about her appearance, only her clothes.

For the most part, the script faithfully follows the Grimms' tale, with just a few quirky embellishments. Harking back to the earliest adaptations, the magic mirror is a hand mirror, and the Queen's request becomes "Mirror, Mirror, in my hand/Who is the fairest in all the land?" The mirror makes its replies through luscious, feminine red lips that appear in the glass, but with a male voice. Snow White herself also has some early interactions with the Queen: first as a child, when she tries to be friendly and give her stepmother an apple, only for the Queen to smash it against the wall, and later when the Queen pretends to be friendly to her and sends her into the forest to gather mushrooms... with the Huntsman as her "bodyguard." In a disturbing touch, the Huntsman is sent to kill Snow White with an axe, not a knife, but in a touch of bowdlerization, the Queen demands no proof. (In the same vein, the script generally replaces the words "death" or "kill" with euphemisms, and describes the poisoned Snow White's resting place as a glass "box," not "coffin.") The Queen has a talking pet raven who finds the dwarfs' cottage for her, a la Disney's Sleeping Beauty, and who provides comic relief, as does a talking squirrel whom Snow White befriends in the forest. As in the Disney version, Snow White cleans the dwarfs' cottage instead of eating their food when she first arrives, and while most of the dwarfs lack individual personalities, one of them is clearly inspired by Dopey, although he can talk: he has no beard, he wears green, and he's very much the silly one. (For example, when the dwarfs warn Snow White not to let anyone in the house, he adds "Unless it's the express delivery man. I'm expecting a package.")

All three of the Queen's attempts to kill Snow White from the Grimm's tale are included, although instead of poisoning only half the apple, she tricks her by eating a different apple herself, making Snow White think the whole basket is safe. Snow White's awakening is also faithful to the Grimms, as the Prince asks to take Snow White home with him, but as his servants carry her away, one of them trips over a rock, shaking the piece of apple from her throat. The Queen's ending is softened, however: she isn't killed, but simply goes mad when she sees that the "newly made queen" is Snow White, wildly laughs and dances in place, then prances out of the ballroom, presumably never to be heard from again.

It's a shame that this isn't a higher quality production, because the voice cast includes some of the best, most famous actors in the animation industry: Kath Soucie as Snow White, Cam Clarke as the Magic Mirror, Jim Cummings as the Huntsman, and Rob Paulsen as the Dopey-ish dwarf. A Snow White featuring the likes of them should really have been better.

This cartoon isn't without charm, and it might be a decent introduction to the tale for a small child. But as a whole, it definitely belongs in the file labeled "for completists only."

@superkingofpriderock, @ariel-seagull-wings

[local-trash69]

A little break, part one (SMUT)

Chris Redfield x Female!reader

It was a warm summer day and the BSAA North America branch, they were busy as always whether it's sending teams out to investigate locations where Umbrella might hiding or training soldiers to prepare themselves for a next war.

Captain of Alpha team as known as Captain Redfield was in his office finishing his paperwork on his last encounter with bio-weapons, even though he is working, his mind wonders around.

Chris Redfield thinks about his lovely wife Y/N who also works with the BSAA even though he doesn't really like the idea of her working with him, she doesn't work on the battle field however she does help support the teams by checking on them, making sure that the weaponry does not jam within a battle, helps train the soldiers.

Chris knows Y/N is a strong woman and that she has more balls than every soldier he knows even himself. She has seen every ugly thing he has seen yet it doesn't seem to affect her.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. His dark eyes moved from the white sheets of paper, stained with ink letters and moved to the dark oak door of his office.

Chris raised from his chair, stretching his arms as he walks to the door. His hand touched the door knob and gingerly opens the door.

His eyes traveled to her sweet and angelic face, the shining and radiating smile, bright hopeful eyes, the light blush that's permanent on her cheeks. Her uniform was neat yet revealing, something Chris doesn't like.

Her white buttoned shirt was loose by 2 buttons and it revealed some of her cleavage, since her husband is way taller than her, he gets a better view.

Her black shirt reaching to her thighs, giving anyone a perfect view of her legs and her perfect ass.

"I came to drop a few things off" she smiled.

"Oh, okay. Come on in" he smiles, welcoming his lover into his office

She walks in and sat down on his chair then removes her high-heels. Chris examined her smaller form, her face showed some relief when she removed her high heels.

"It's been a long day" she smiles.

Chris chuckles "Story of my life"

He walks to her, she seemed to relax in his comfortable leather chair. Her hair gently framed her face and commented her face.

In his eyes, she was perfect, angel sent from heaven like she was meant for him, a perfect fit to the puzzle. She was everything he wanted in one person.

His hands hovered over her shoulders then gently started massaging her shoulders, instantly she felt better and more relaxed, less tense.

His glaze, fixed on her facial features and seeing her relaxed was enough to make him melt.

She placed her slim fingers on his rough and enormous hands, looking up to him.

A small pout on her lips, chuckling, he leans downwards and placed his lips on her lips.

The kiss was passionate at first until it became hot and exciting for them both. His hands roams down to her chest, he rips her shirt and the buttons were sent flying away from her, her chest now exposed to her lover.

His hands cups her breasts perfectly in his huge hands, his lips traveled to her sensitive neck, a gasp leaves her lips.

"Chris, come on. We are at work" she moans.

"Just a little bit-"

"Chris-"

"Shh baby girl, daddy will take care of you" he rubs her nipples through her black lacy.

"Chris, please. If your gonna do it. Let me help you" she stood up and got onto her knees.

Her hands slowly unbuckles his belt and pants, his bulge getting larger by the second.

"Someone is excited~" she grins.

"What? I can't help it" he chuckles.

"Your always horny" she giggles and pulls his pants down, his buckle hits the ground with a metalic sound.

His boxers now seemed tight and uncomfortable around his large and hard cock, pushing against the fabric of his boxers.

Her fingers gently pulls down the thin fabric separating her and his hard member that's begging for attention. A giggle erupts in her throat as she strokes his hard shaft. The older man leans back on his chair, a pleasured grunt was heard. Y/N drags her tongue against his shaft, giving a long stroke with her tongue and twirls her tongue around him then slowly sinks her mouth onto his cock.

Chris bites his lip, trying to silence himself but his mind was filled with lust and pleasure. He couldn't help and run his hand through her smooth and silky hair.

Y/N had no problem taking him deep into her mouth and throat, she loves watching her husband become undone and knowing what he has been through and the weight of his shoulders. All she wants to do is make him relax sexually or just a simple massage.

She slowly pulls away, looking at his hard self. He was definitely above 6 inches and he had a lot of veins visible. His head cherry red, wanting to fuck his lover straight into pleasure heaven.

Chris watches her, dreaming of releasing his seed deep inside her, bury his cock deep inside her and make her swell with his kids. It was difficult for him to watch her innocent face between his thighs or hear her sweet moans as she calls out to him.

He picks her up and placed her on his desk, not worried about the papers he had knocked off his desk. His hands roams her body, he always worshipped her body, her sweet curves and round soft breasts, her soft skin and sweet scent. It was intoxicating for him, it makes him want to devour her.

"So beautiful. So soft. You're walking around wearing this. You probably turned on some men, I'm jealous. Too bad they can't fuck you. Fuck your sweet pussy" he growls in her ear.

"Babe..." she whines in frustration and wants him inside her.

"Say it" he commands.

"Fuck me daddy. Fuck me so hard. I can't handle this teasing" she begs.

Chris pushes her shirt up, exposing her thighs and soaked panties. He bit his lip and slowly removed her panties.

He has seen her naked before but each time he is suprised but how tight she looks, her sweet pussy all wet for him, his thinks about screwing her hard and marking her once again.

"Stop staring!" she whines loudly.

"Sorry" he chuckles deeply.

(Part two will be posted soon:3✌🏻)

[20moonchild21]

Gif by @minhope

ꨄ∙๛Gentleman [Maknae line]

Pairing: BTS x female!oc

Warnings: very mild swearing

Words: 1000+

ッ

๛匕нє σиє ωнєяє єνєи тнє уσυиg σиєѕ нανє gσσ∂ мαииєяѕ ∙ꨄ

♕

j̸imim

All the boys were gathered around there living room looking at the pieces of paper that were spread all over the table.

They had a performance coming up in a few weeks and had now to decide what outfits they feel the most comfortable to dance in.

So after discussion for about 3 hours everybody, their stylist and them, agreed to a basic black shirt which was highlighted with small diamonds that would be sparkling in the light of the big stage flashlights.

"Wow, they will look great." Taehyung said as he looked at the sketches their stylist had made. "Good job, Grace."

"Thank you, but only with your help." She smiled politely as she took the last sip of he coffee. "I think in about 2 week we will have the outfits and then you can have a rehearsal in those clothes."

The small girl gathered her things together and stood up from the sofa to say goodbye to all of the boys. She loved how warmly they treated her and showing her respect for her work. She had worked with people who were a lot worse. People who thought of themselves better than anybody else.

"I will bring you to the door." She heard a voice piping up from behind her and she immediately smiled.

Together, she and Jimin made their way to the small hallway of their apartment.

The girl bent down t slip into her shoes and when she stood back up she already saw Jimin waiting for her with her coat in his hands. He stretched his arms out gesturing for her to slip inside the piece of fabric.

A small shade of red spread over the girls cheeks as she slide her arms inside.

"Thank you." She almost whispered and smiled over at the boy.

t̸aehyung

Taehyung cursed as he pulled his face masks higher under his eyes and the hat he wore further down his face. He really hoped that no one would recognize him this time, because if, he has no one to protect him with him.

It had been a typical morning in the dorm until Jungkook decided to want fresh bread rolls from the bakery across the street. 6 rounds of rock, paper, scissor later, he found himself walking down the street.

Lucky for him, it was still early in the morning so there weren't much people walking around.

After 10 minutes of walking he finally reached the small bakery that all of the boys loved so much.

"Ahhh, good morning my dear Taehyung." The old lady that owned the shop greeted him friendly. "How are you? What can I get you this morning? Do you still sing for the small children?"

He chuckled in the inside. There was one day he tried to explain his job to her, but because of her age she couldn't really understand that he was not only singing in front of children, but in front of people all around the world.

He quickly held a small talk with the nice lady before he ordered his bread rolls. He paid for his food and was about to left the bakery when at the same time a girl his age was about to enter the bakery, too.

When she saw him she quickly stepped back and gestured for him to step out first. Raised like a good boy, he obviously wouldn't step out first. Instead, he opened the door, stepped back and gestured for her to step in first.

"Ladys first." He smiled at her and she entered. Mumbling a quick 'thank you' towards him, but he saw how her cheeks turned slightly red.

"What a good boy." He heard the old lady saying towards the girl as he was almost out of the door. With a wide smile on his face he made his way back to the dorm.

(Not a pile of clothes but a pile of cuteness)

j̸ungkook

Jungkook tapped his feet on the ground nervously.

Today would be the groups first live performance after the long lockdown. Of course, the boys had plenty of time for practicing their performance at home but somehow his nervousness just wouldn't go away.

"Chill, Kookie." Jimin who had plopped down next to him on the sofa said while playing on his phone. "We've done this a thousand times before, remember?"

"You're right, hyung." The young boy sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. "I will just go and get something to drink."

Jungkook stood up from the sofa he was sitting on and left the room. The truth was he didn't even know where he would get something to drink, he just wanted to take a quick walk and hopefully calm down a little bit.

As he walked through the endless hallways if the area a sudden noise rang through his ear.

"Ah fuck!" A soft voice cursed, followed by "Oh girl, why do they have to be so damn heavy?"

Curiosity swelled inside Jungkook. It was obvious that the voice belonged to a woman and a look around the corner confirmed his suspicion.

Walking, or rather stumbling through the hallway she carried what looked like an enormous pile of clothes. A closer look even showed him that she carried the clothes they would be wearing in a few hours.

He even recognized the girl. She was one of the new stylists the company had hired a few months ago.

"Hey, you." He said as he walked up to her, and before she could say something let alone that she could see him over that mount of clothes, he just took them from her slim arms. "Let me carry them. They look heavy."

For a moment she looked confused, before a shade of red spread over her freckled cheeks.

"Sorry." She mumbled and pushed a strand of blond hair behind her ear. "This is nice of y-you, but you really d-don't have to do this. I-I am sure you have a lot of other - "

He knew what she was about to say, but Jungkook would never think of him better than of somebody else.

"No it's okay." He quickly said before he started walking. "I know how heavy they area, and I won't let you carry them all by yourself."

———————————/////—————————

Hello,

here are the young ones.

I really hope you like it!

What do you think? Is there anything hotter than a boy who knows how to treat a girl?

Same as always: recommendations, comments, wishes, requests? Just write me!

Stay safe and healthy

Mꨄ

[hayleysstark]

Oblivious

Words: 1960 Warnings: Swearing, drinking Summary: "You just have to sort of spell it out with Merlin," Guinevere says. "I mean, he didn't even get it when I kissed him--" / "You kissed Merlin?!" Arthur squawks.

Read on Fanfiction or AO3. 

If he's honest with himself, Arthur really doesn't think he can even pick out the most bizarre bit of this whole bizarre feast—maybe the bit where Merlin's actually, for the first time in his ugly-and-ripped-up-clothes life, dressed up like an actual Court Sorcerer, with the silken blue cloak and the nice boots with the shiny buckles and everything, even if poor Guinevere did have to practically wrestle him into it, and even if he obstinately refused to part with that godawful red scarf. Or maybe it's the bit where there is an extremely famous and scarily powerful sorceress in this hall right now, at this very table, at the King's Table, with a golden goblet of rich red wine in her hand, and a wide, red-lipstick smile on her face and not so much as a single hint of murderous intent in her soft, pretty brown eyes.

Or maybe it's the bit where there is an extremely famous and scarily powerful sorceress in this hall right now and she is doing her damn best to flirt with Merlin.

No, no, really, honestly, it sounds like a joke, and yeah, actually, Arthur would give up his sword if only that would make it a joke—yes, he'd toss away the sword the Great Lizard of Fate and Destiny puffed a bit of breath on, the sword that is, apparently, a Really Big Deal, the sword that is, apparently, so special and important and magical, Merlin just had to stuff it in a big rock for ages—except this isn't actually a joke.

There is an actual human woman trying to flirt with Merlin.

It sounds like a joke.

It is not.

This extremely famous and scarily powerful sorceress—Lady Tuilelaith, see, look, Merlin, Arthur can remember and say her name—has tried so hard all night, from the moment she stepped into the hall and got her first look at Merlin, to win him over.

And Merlin, in one of his all-too-common feats of incredible idiocy, has not even noticed.

Now, to be perfectly fair to the oblivious, magical dollophead, romance always is a bit of a tricky thing. Arthur knows that, he does, really—the early days of his own courtship with Guinevere, at his side right now, in the queen's seat, were certainly awkward and uncertain enough to teach him that little lesson—but, honestly, he's not sure if the Lady Tuilelaith can even be more obvious now.

She's twirled her long, curly hair around her finger. She's laughed out loud at absolutely everything Merlin's said tonight, even the really ridiculous stuff, and she's gushed on and on and on about his magic, and oh, goodness, Emrys, your power is truly beautiful, truly amazing, just extraordinary, and, for God's sake, enough is enough! She fed him a bite off the pastry on her plate with her own damned fork!

And Merlin! Hasn't! Even! Noticed!

Arthur wonders if he could, maybe, very discreetly stab Merlin in the thigh with the bread knife, or if Lady Tuilelaith would see it.

Well, Lady Tuilelaith hasn't taken her eyes off the magical idiot for a single moment since she met him tonight. So. Yes. She would probably see.

Unfortunate.

But Guinevere, oh, of course, Guinevere, absolutely beams over at Merlin and the poor, persistent Lady Tuilelaith with a big, bright smile. "Cute," she whispers, to Arthur, over the rim of her own golden goblet, "aren't they?"

"Cute?" Arthur huffs. Of course. Of course that's what Guinevere thinks. That's always what Guinevere thinks. She's wanted to get Merlin married off ever since she heard his last love is dead at the bottom of a magic lake. "Guinevere, he's completely clueless. It's painful. I've got secondhand embarrassment for that poor woman."

Guinevere doesn't laugh, but her dark eyes crinkle up at the edges like when she wants to laugh but knows better. "Well," she takes a small, dainty sip of her wine, "she could stand to be a bit less subtle about it."

"Less subtle?" Arthur squawks. Too loudly. He knows it's too loudly, because Gwaine actually pulls his face out of his mead long enough to look 'round at them. Arthur flushes, and drops his voice back down to a low whisper. "What do you want her to do? Take up a quill and write up a marriage proposal to Merlin on her face?"

Guinevere's eyes crinkle up again. "You just have to sort of spell it out with him. I mean, for God's sake, he didn't get it even when I kissed him—"

"You kissed Merlin?!"

All right, now that one was definitely too loud, because Elyan and Percival and Leon all look up, too—thank God Merlin and the Lady Tuilelaith are too far down the table to hear, except Arthur's not sure he has it in himself to care right now if they did hear, because apparently, Guinevere kissed Merlin? No, no, no, that is absolutely not true, that is not a thing that happened, ever, no chance, no way, he just—he just didn't hear it right, that's all. The wine must be getting to him.

"Oh," Guinevere waves a dismissive hand, and shrugs her bare brown shoulders, with a soft rustle of heavy, red velvet, "it was nothing, honestly. It's been so long now, I suppose I just forgot to tell you."

Oh, God. Arthur did hear it right. Oh, Jesus Christ, he's not ready for this. He is not ready for this. "Let me—let me get this straight," he sits up a bit straighter in his seat, and drops his fork back in his plate—he's not even going to pretend to eat any longer, "you had a snog with Merlin? That Merlin? Down there?" He jerks his chin at the idiot at the end of the table.

Guinevere's lips twitch. "It wasn't 'a snog', Arthur, it was one kiss—"

"But it was with Merlin!"

"—and, anyway, the whole thing was a complete waste because he never even kissed me back," she ends, all in a rush, a bit pink in the face, and she hastily drains the last of her wine.

Arthur makes a face. "You wanted him to kiss you back?"

"Oh, yeah," Elyan pipes up, "that's right, you never told Arthur about your thing with Merlin, did you?"

"For the last time, Elyan," Guinevere rolls her eyes, but her cheeks still look a bit red, "Merlin and I did not have 'a thing'. Merlin and I never had 'a thing'."

"It sounds an awful lot like you had 'a thing'." Arthur points out. Calmly.

"Come on!" Guinevere slams her empty goblet down on the table. "Yes, I liked Merlin, rather a lot, actually, when I first met him, but I'm married now! To you! I love you now! Does that sound like we had 'a thing' to you?"

"But," Arthur blinks, "why on earth did you like him to start with?"

Guinevere looks like she would happily cut off her right arm with Arthur's dull bread knife if she could only get a bit more wine in exchange, but Arthur's certainly not going to let her off the hook now. She can't just drop boulders like I kissed Merlin and I liked Merlin a lot when I first met him without explaining herself!

"Perhaps because the first day I ever met him, I met him because he stood up to a bully? And got punished for it?"

Oh. Yes. All right. Arthur walked right into that one. He can admit it.

"And," Guinevere lifts her chin a bit, "because he was always so kind to me, even back then, when I was only a servant, and he's brave. And he's got a good sense of humor. And it certainly doesn't hurt that he happens to be very handsome, too."

Very handsome? Christ in heaven, maybe all that wine is getting to Arthur. Oh, God. He hopes.

"Oh, yeah," Gwaine lets out a low whistle, and actually puts down his mead, "yeah, I hear that. Goddamn. Handsome. That's tame, Gwen, have you seen that man?"

Oh, God, oh, God, this is not the wine, is it? This is actually a thing that is happening. Death would honestly be kinder. "We're all talking about the same Merlin here, right?" Because Arthur has to be absolutely sure. If it's not the wine, well, obviously, there's another sorcerer servant called Merlin in the castle. That's it. That's got to be it. Right? "The skinny little broomstick down there? Ugly scarf? Big ears? Rubbish with a sword?"

Guinevere's mouth drops open. "What? His ears are cute!"

"You could land a dragon on those things!"

"They're cute!"

"They're enormous!"

"All right, all right, but," Gwaine holds up a hand, and leans up a little in his seat, "his smile could kill me, and I'd say thank you. All agreed?"

Percival nods earnestly.

"Wait, wait," Arthur rubs at his temple—the usual once-a-day Merlin headache, and Merlin himself hasn't even brought it on, "you're telling me all three of you—" he jabs a finger at Guinevere, at Gwaine, at Percival, "—and Merlin—" he flicks a glance down the long table at the clotpole, still wrapped up in the Lady Tuilelaith, "—and the idiot's never even picked up on it?"

Guinevere gives a small, sad shake of her dark curly head. "Never."

Percival goes a bit red and hastily stuffs a bread roll in his mouth.

"No luck." Gwaine lets out a deep sigh and leans back. "You give him a room full of candles and roses and a hot, naked man in his bed and he just thinks you're—"

Percival chokes over his bread roll.

"What?" Elyan whips his head around to look at Gwaine, his dark eyes wide as saucers. "You sprawled naked in Merlin's bed?!"

"Oh, God," Arthur drops his head into his hands, "oh, God, please tell me you're joking, Sir Gwaine, please tell me this is a joke—"

"Who did you hire to play the 'hot, naked man'?"

Gwaine chucks his last, uneaten bite of apple tart at Guinevere.

"All right, all right, no, how—?" Elyan holds up a hand. "How did Merlin not cotton on? After he found you naked in his bed? With all the roses and the candles?"

Arthur lifts his face out of his hands. Now that Elyan's raised the question, he actually sort of wants to know.

The great, shameless Sir Gwaine flushes bright red. "He thought I was drunk."

Leon arches a ginger-blond brow. "Were you?"

The great, shameless Sir Gwaine goes even redder. "No! And I said that! Like, a hundred times! But Merlin just kept going on and on about it! Said he would never 'take advantage' while I was 'compromised'!" He snatches up his mead and takes an enormous swallow. "I mean, how much clearer could I make it? I was naked in his bed!"

If only Arthur had some soap to scrub out his mind, because he would honestly and truly much rather be dead than live the rest of his life with naked Gwaine sprawled in Merlin's bed in his brain. Or with Guinevere snogging Merlin in his brain. God. He takes a very desperate sip of his own wine. "Am I honestly the only one at this table who has not batted my lashes at Merlin?!"

There is a long stretch of silence.

Too long.

Without a single word, Guinevere reaches out, plucks Arthur's goblet from his hand, and drinks down the last of his wine, too.

[artificialqueens]

A Purr-fect Day (Branjie) - Athena2

Summary: Vanessa decides to adopt a cat, and finds herself instantly crushing on Brooke, the beautiful cat shelter volunteer. Featuring short cameo appearances from Rose/Denali and Raja/Manila. 

A/N: This is just pure fluff, and I really hope you all enjoy it! I also put in small cameos of Rose/Denali because I wanted to write them a little, and Rajila. Thank you so much to Writ for suggesting this idea, and for betaing! Please leave some feedback if you like. Sorry not sorry about the title.

Even with the fluffy cats running around and meowing, the blonde is still the first thing Vanessa notices.

She’s at the information desk, going over something in a notebook, pausing now and then to sip coffee and glance at the cats in their kennels—fluffy ones, big ones, little ones, striped ones, spotted ones—and Vanessa doesn’t know if the woman or the cats will make her heart explode first.

“Hi,” Vanessa says, approaching the desk.

The blonde’s green eyes widen and her teeth shine in a brilliant smile when she looks up to see Vanessa. “Hi, how can I help—no, Mr. Tibbles! We don’t attack our friends!” She runs over to an enormous gray cat who’s swinging paws at a frightened orange kitten. Vanessa can’t stop smiling as the blonde carefully scoops up the attacker and returns him to his side of the kennel, soothing the orange kitten with some gentle strokes before breathlessly running back to Vanessa.

“Sorry,” she says, fixing her hair. “We’re a little short staffed. It’s just me and Ida, and she’s on break.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Vanessa says, heart fluttering at how the blonde’s—Brooke, according to her slightly crooked name tag—cheeks are tinged bright pink.

“So, um, how can I help you?”

“I want to get a cat.”

Brooke nods. “Any kind in particular?”

“I was hoping I could just play with them and pick one,” Vanessa says sheepishly.

Brooke’s smile is huge. “Of course! That’s how I picked mine out.” She leads Vanessa around the corner, into a tiny room with even more kennels. There are so many kitties rolling around that Vanessa all but melts, dropping to the floor and opening her arms for the balls of fluff to run into.

Brooke grins, and then she’s on the floor too, gently petting a striped brown cat.

“Okay if I join you?” Brooke asks sheepishly. “I love playing with them.”

“Of course. They really like you,” Vanessa says, watching three cats fight for position on Brooke’s lap.

Brooke nods. “They’re used to me, that’s why. And I give them treats. Isn’t that right, Pepper?” She pets a chunky black cat and blushes. “Look, that one likes you, see?”

Vanessa looks down at a fluffy white cat that’s butting his head into her knee, letting out little mrrps.

“His name’s Thackery.”

“Thackery.” Vanessa tries it out, hand melting into his soft fur. He purrs beneath her, looking up at her in wonder, and Vanessa’s sold. “I’ll take him.”

She almost wishes it took her a little longer to find one, because now she’ll have to say goodbye to Brooke.

—-

Vanessa fixes her hair in the rear view mirror. It’s lame to be back at the shelter so soon, she knows that, and Brooke gave her paperwork on feeding and care instructions, but Vanessa has a question on Thackery, and who better to ask than Brooke? Sure, there’s Google, but every website gives her a different answer. Brooke is definitely a cat expert, and any opportunity to see her is one that should be taken.

There’s an older woman at the desk when Vanessa walks in, peering at her through pointy turquoise glasses that look into Vanessa’s soul. Vanessa wonders if Brooke isn’t here today when she turns and sees Brooke feeding all the cats, and breathes a sigh of relief.

“You need help, hon?” The scratchy voice comes from the counter, and Vanessa marches up to the woman, name tag reading Ida.

“Um, I just had a question for Brooke.”

“You her friend or something?”

“Kinda …” Vanessa sweats under Ida’s glare. Nothing like an old lady’s stink eye to steal her usual charm. “I mean, she helped me before, and we talked a little, and I wanted to talk to her about my cat.”

Ida nods. “BROOKE!!! Girl here has a question for you!! I’m goin’ on break!”

Vanessa checks her ringing ears while Brooke bounds over to the desk, and her face lights up when she recognizes Vanessa.

“Hi,” Brooke says.

“Hi. I’m Vanessa, by the way. I never told you last time. I mean, I know I signed my name on the paperwork but anyway–” She forces her lips shut to stop her rambling. “Just wanted to introduce myself.”

Brooke just grins. “I’m Brooke. Which you probably know because of my name tag. Um, Ida said you had a question?”

“Right!” Vanessa latches onto the thread that will save her from the awkwardness. “So, Thackery keeps sprawling out all over the place and rubbing his back on the rug? And I looked it up, and one site said he might have an itch, and another said he might be stretching, and I just wanted to make sure he’s okay.”

If Brooke thinks her coming here to ask a relatively simple, clearly Googe-able question is weird, she doesn’t show it. “Well, it could be either of those, and if you think it’s an itch, you might want to call the vet. But with most cats–mine too–stretching out like that means they’re happy and safe. That they trust you.”

“Oh,” Vanessa says softly. “So he–he really likes me then?” she asks, heart swelling at the thought of Thackery liking her.

“I would think so.” Brooke’s whole face turns fiery red as she adds, “It’s easy to see why.”

Now it’s Vanessa’s turn to blush, eyes flitting down to her feet. “I took this video of him the other day, you gotta see it. He got stuck in all the pillows, look–”

Brooke leans in close as they huddle together and watch the video, dissolving into laughs and squeals. Vanessa almost can’t breathe with Brooke this close to her, smelling faintly of strawberry shampoo, her eyes bright and shining. Vanessa scrolls through some more Thackery pictures on her phone, and Brooke shows Vanessa pictures of her two cats pouting in Santa hats, the whole thing coming to a stop when a couple comes in with their kid, wanting to look at the cats.

“Sorry, Vanessa,” Brooke says quietly. “Ida’s still on break.”

“Don’t worry about it. You do your job, get another kitty a nice home.”

Brooke smiles. “I will.”

“I’ll be back if I have more questions and stuff. If that’s okay,” Vanessa says, holding her breath.

“Absolutely.”

Brooke brings the couple over to the kennels, and Vanessa starts thinking of cat questions she might need answered.

—

Vanessa doesn’t even pretend to have a question in mind when she heads back to the shelter. It’s been almost two weeks, and though she doesn’t want to look desperate, every day is a day Brooke might forget her, even though Vanessa doesn’t think that’ll happen from the wide-eyed smile Brooke has for her all the time.

She can’t even think of a reasonable question anyway. Thackery has been great, really settling into Vanessa’s apartment like he owns the place. He eats all the food she carefully pours into his bowl, and he even figured out how to jump across the couch without getting stuck in the pillows, an act that means Vanessa has to vacuum cat hair off her couch a lot more often. But when he purrs when she holds him and falls asleep curled up at her feet in bed, it’s all worth it. She doesn’t know how Brooke manages to work at the shelter without bringing home every kitty she sees.

Things are quiet when she walks in. Ida is back at the front desk, filling out a crossword puzzle and cursing under her breath.

Vanessa walks closer. “Um, is–”

“You’re the girl who was looking for Brooke before,” Ida says plainly, sharp eyes peering out from her turquoise glasses.

Vanessa blushes. She’s definitely not as slick as she thought, if even Ida remembers her coming here to see Brooke. “Yeah. Is she here today?”

Ida nods. “She’s in the back. We have a litter of kittens ready to be adopted. Brooke’s been taking care of them.”

Vanessa rounds the corner and breathes out a soft aww when she sees Brooke on the floor, stroking five fluffy kittens, their fur swirls of browns and whites and oranges. She loves how much Brooke cares about the cats, how her affection comes through in her soft whispers and gentle pets. Her movements are so soft and delicate, so careful and caring, and Vanessa wonders what it would be like to have Brooke’s hands stroking her hair, rubbing her back.

“Five new kitties?” Vanessa asks quietly.

Brooke turns to her and grins. “Yeah. Come see.” She motions for Vanessa to sit at her side, and Vanessa does, getting down on the white tile. The kittens nuzzle against each other, tiny paws outstretched. “We posted about them online and there’s two couples interested. They’re coming by in a bit.”

“I love them!” Vanessa squeals. “Have you named them yet?”

“Not yet. There are five, though, so maybe we should name them after the Spice Girls.” Brooke blushes. “My friends and I did a group costume of them one year. Somehow they convinced me to be Sporty Spice.”

Vanessa squeals. “First of all, you have to name them that, it’s adorable. Second of all, there better be a picture of you in that costume!”

Brooke sighs. “There is.” She pulls out her phone and surrenders it to Vanessa, who actually gasps. There are four other people in the picture, but Vanessa only has eyes for Brooke: bright red sweatpants clinging to her hips, blue sports bra showing off her toned stomach and every curve and muscle in her arms, eyes shining in her cheesy smile.

“Damn.” Vanessa whistles, hoping Brooke can’t notice how hot Vanessa’s face is. “Look at y’all all organized and stuff. I tried a cowgirl group costume with my friends and A’keria misheard and showed up in a freaking cow costume.”

Brooke bursts into laughter at her side. “Is there a picture of that?”

Vanessa obliges, and then she and Brooke are in a comfortable silence, their shoulders touching as they watch the cats snuggle and pet their heads occasionally. Vanessa could stay like this all day, and she’s wondering if maybe she should ask Brooke out, get to know her somewhere without cats meowing, when a shout makes them both jump.

“BROOKE!!! The first couple for the cats is here!!! I’m goin’ on break!!”

The couple by the reception desk is a lesbian power couple if Vanessa’s ever seen one. There’s a tall woman with dark hair and bright blue necklace proclaiming her to be Raja, with a shorter woman with big black waves at her side. They’re both definitely in fashion or art or something—aside from their delicate hands that are built for sketching, Raja’s leather jacket is covered in hand-painted swirls and the other woman’s Hostess cupcake earrings are clearly handmade. They look like the cool aunts who’d let you have wine at the family gatherings, and Vanessa feels a surge of pride when Raja nods at approval at her jean jacket.

“Which one should we get, Manila?” Raja asks.

“We have to get Posh.”

“Of course,” Raja agrees.

“Do you think I could sew cat clothes? I could definitely sew cat clothes,” Manila answers her own question.

Raja grins. “We’re gonna have the best dressed cat in the city.”

“In the state, Raja. Maybe even the country.”

They’re barely out the door when the next couple walks in, and Vanessa does a double-take, because apparently it’s lesbian power couple day at the cat shelter. These two are a little shorter than the first two, but no less impressive. The one with brown hair glides across the tile floor and squeals when she sees the kitties, the blonde in the royal blue power suit behind her waving and cooing at all the other cats.

The brunette strokes one of the kittens. “I want to take all four!”

“Denali, honey, we really only have room for one,” the blonde says.

“Four.”

“One.”

“Four.”

“One.”

“Two?”

The blonde pauses. “Okay, two.” She smiles and grabs Denali’s hand. “We’ll get Sporty Spice for you, Miss Figure Skater, and then Ginger Spice for that time I tried to dye my hair pink and it came out red.”

“That was more like Scary Spice,” Denali mumbles.

“Denali!”

“It’s true, Rosie. But I love you anyway.”

Vanessa fades back as she watches the couple grab their cats and fill out the paperwork Brooke gives them. She springs back to Brooke’s side once they leave, and all she can think is what it would be like to be with Brooke in that way, to have stories and jokes between just them. As much as she wants to ask Brooke out, the moment is gone. Ida’s still on break, and Vanessa sticks around a little longer, passing Brooke the bags of food for the cats and watching her organize paperwork. Vanessa heads out, vowing that next time, she’ll make her move.

—-

Today’s the day. Vanessa’s red skirt is a little–definitely–too much for a cat shelter, but this is the day she’s really going to go for it. Even in just minutes at the shelter, Brooke makes Vanessa smile in a way no one has for a while. She wants to have time to be with Brooke, time to talk as long as they want without cats needing food or people asking questions.

Ida looks up expectantly when Vanessa walks in, a smile on her bright pink lips. “Brooke’s in the back,” she says, before Vanessa can even ask.

“Okay–”

“BROOKE!!!! Your friend is here!! I’m goin’ on break!!”

Ida shuffles off with her crossword puzzle book under her arm, and Brooke runs out breathlessly, grinning when she sees Vanessa. “Hey,” she says. “Everything okay with Thackery?”

“Will you go out with me?” Vanessa blurts, ignoring Brooke’s question before she loses her nerve.

Brooke’s cheeks are bright pink, but she’s still smiling, and Vanessa doesn’t think she’d be smiling if the answer was no.

“I–I’d love to go out with you, Vanessa. I finish up here at four, do you want to get coffee or something?”

Vanessa’s smile is so huge she can hardly get the words out. “That’d be great, Brooke.”

“About damn time!” Ida’s voice soars through the break room wall. “I thought I’d be on break forever waiting for you two to get together already!”

[destroy-the-cannon]

Fire With Fire, a Oneshot

I’m back and at my usual shit again! I don't actually have a new chapter of the fit this week. I had a crap ton of family issues to deal with, but thankfully that’s all over now. I promise that from now on it’ll be a much more regular schedule, but I just couldn’t finish the chapter this week, and would rather give you something crappy than nothing at all. I want to make it clear that this is IN NO WAY part of my main story. This is a completely separate piece. But that’s enough jabber. So please enjoy (or enjoy making fun of) this Anton-era one shot I did a while back.

Taglist: @sirbeepsalot @kingliam2019 @kamilahsayeet2063 @cordonian-literature

Story Tags: Rival get romantic, swords, queer romance.

Warnings: Mentions of blood, mature language, weapons.

“YA! YA! YA!” Olivia bared her teeth as she lunged at Paige. Her blade glinted in the sun as she drove it straight towards her opponent’s neck. Paige blocked it with infuriating ease and a quick grin, swirling around to make a thrust at Olivia’s stomach.

“Has anyone ever told you that you can be-”, Pant, stab, perry, laugh- “Just a tad aggressive?” Olivia was fighting too hard to answer. She let out a savage roar as she threw herself forward, blade pointed right towards the other duchess’s neck.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t trying to actually kill Paige, much as she wanted to at the moment. It was training. Mara and Bastien had decided that it was high time that the group of nobles learned how to properly defend themselves, mainly because the two guards were apparently incapable of doing their actual jobs. Every time an actual threat seemed to surface, they were conveniently nowhere to be found. But oh, when the occasional party goer or paparazzo got too rowdy, they were on the case!

It didn’t help that the Prince of Charity and the Duchess of Weakness didn’t have the balls to hire new, more competent guards. It seemed that Lady Dumb and Sir Dumber were locked into their positions for life, no matter how incompetent they proved to be. It was something of a blessing that the nobles were finally receiving proper training; Olivia was certain that when the time came, there would be nobody around to protect them but each other.

And as delightful as it was to have official permission to point a blade at Paige’s throat, Olivia hated how… competent the other woman had proved to be when it came to sparring.

Well, maybe competent wasn’t the word for it. Maybe incredible, legendary, or awe-inspiring might’ve worked better. There were some other ones, too, but the Nevrakis chose to ignore them.

They were currently aboard one of the royal ships. It was enormous, beautiful, but mostly decorative. It was far too slow and clunky to be useful in an actual ocean battle, but it was going to have to make do. Liam had thought that for this year’s royal tour, it would be charming to go by boat and visit some of the seaside duchies. It made them more of a target than an unmarked train would’ve, but maybe that was the point. They were all tired of running and hiding, Olivia especially. Cowering wasn’t exactly a Lythikosian specialty; they faced their opponents head-on, like warriors. She was ready to be done with all this, and finally snatch up a moment of peace with her… friends. It was hard to admit, but that was how she was finally coming to see those idiots. Not as allies, but as people she cared about. It was hard to stomach, so she tried to think about it as little as possible.

Which brings us right back around to the deck of the Athenian Dream, where Olivia was currently fighting for her life while trying desperately not to show it.

She had no idea how the fuck Paige had managed to get so good, but she was incredible, truly. Taking another crude swipe, Olivia ground her teeth, trying not to let her frustration show. Where Paige’s method was elegant and quick, Olivia’s was heavy and aggressive. She didn’t make witty jokes, or twirl, or laugh. She cut out the showmanship and went straight for the kill.

“Ha! Take that! And that! And that!” Paige practically skipped around the deck as she struck. Her blade was a blur as she twisted it into a series of complicated moves. “And THIS!” She grinned and threw out a savage swipe.

She should’ve been able to block it.

Her opponent was clearly expecting her to. It would’ve been easy, nothing more than a quick lean to the side. But Olivia felt glued to the spot. She was tired, so tired, and Paige made for an infuriating enemy. A simple ponytail swung from her head, somehow still intact. She was wearing a gorgeous black workout set that fit her distractingly well, and her eyes sparkled with almost childlike joy. The sun tangled its rays in her dark hair, and for a moment Olivia found herself entranced with the halo effect.

Until she felt a sudden, sharp sting near her neck. She hissed, nearly dropping her sword. Stretching her neck, she saw a thin cut bleeding on her shoulder. Not serious, but messy. Paige inhaled sharply and took a step forward, her brow crumpled with concern.

“Shit, Olivia, I’m so sorry. There’s a first aid kit on board, do you want to stop for the day?” She stepped closer, and Olivia suddenly couldn’t bear the lack of distance between them. The throbbing in her shoulder only spurred her sudden burst of anger.

“HE YAAAAAAAA!” She screamed wildly as she lunged for Paige, who stumbled back with a look of surprise.

“Woah! Shit, Olivia, please!”

Olivia didn’t stop. She couldn’t, really. She was yelling like a banshee as she came forward with everything she had. Paige was barely keeping up, her pleas going unheard. She narrowly missed getting her arm taken off by a particularly intense slash, twin roses of red blooming on her cheeks. Her features sharpened all at once as she realized that Olivia wasn’t playing.

They had chosen to practice sans their usual protection that afternoon. It was exhausting to pull the heavy gear on and off, not to mention the oppressive afternoon heat. Paige and Olivia had always had more of a knack for bladework, and the two had only ever practiced with Mara. A little friendly competition had seemed like a fun way to pass some time on a slow day. But now, as Olivia’s blade tore a wide rip in the side of leggings, Paige wished more than ever that she’d asked Liam instead.

“Ha! Where are the jokes now, hm? Come on, where’s that legendary Valtorian wit? Cat got your tongue?” Olivia snarled as she sliced her weapon through the air. She tried (and frankly, failed) to keep her gaze from drifting to the tear she’d put on her opponent’s bottoms, exposing the skin there. Paige was now fighting back, but she didn’t look happy about it. She wasn’t going as hard as she had been, and she wasn’t laughing. She was fighting purely to keep herself intact.

Olivia’s adrenaline was beginning to falter slightly as she danced around the deck. Glancing around wildly, she saw that they had grown closer to the side of the boat. They hadn’t established a way to win when they started, but the duchess figured that if she could pin Paige to the portside and press the flat of her blade against the other woman’s throat, that must count as a victory. She would win, and all would be right with the world. She could go back to the palace, wash up, and pretend that none of this ever happened. She could put Paige and everything she came with into a little box inside her mind. It would all be over as soon as she won.

“Olivia, seriously! You’re freaking me out, let’s just go.”

“We’re not leaving until I’ve won. We are going to end this PROPERLY!” Swoosh. Turn. Stab, step, charge and-

Thunk. Paige’s back hit the portside.

“Any last words?” Olivia murmured low in the other duchess’s ear. She pressed the flat of her blade against her windpipe, just loose enough for her to breath comfortably.

Olivia had expected the moment to be supremely satisfying, but was instead to distracted by her and Paige’s proximity to care. She realized with dull horror that she had started clutching the other woman’s hip, her nails digging in to the exposed flesh where her leggings had been torn. Olivia flicked her gaze down to Paige’s gently parted lips, her breath hitching. While part of her wanted to throw more distance between the two of them, the other part wanted desperately to close the gap and cut throught the tension. She spoke, trying to push down her growing desperation.

“So. Guess I win.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“What?”

All Olivia saw was the flash of a smug grin before Paige grabbed her by the hair and pressed their lips together.

The sword fell from the Nevrakis’s hand and fell onto the deck with a loud clatter. Neither woman noticed.

It was rough, hot, tender, and so fucking satisfying. Months of frustration and anger and want and need poured out between them. Olivia hands wrapped tighter around Paige’s hips and pulled the two of them closer together, closing any gaps between them. She tipped her head back as the kiss grew deeper and deeper, sighing deeply. It was perfect, it was growing, it…

Paige pulled back and put on an absolutely insufferable smirk, eyes alight.

“Seems like I’m the real winner here.” She grinned and pulled from Olivia’s grip, picking up the fallen sword from the deck. She brandished it once, twice, then peered up through her lashes with a challenging look.

“Another round?”

[lesetoilesfous]

"you obviously can’t be trusted to take care of yourself, so let me do it for you." with fenhawke or hawke/isabela please!

AH I am currently romancing fenris for the first time so, I gotta

(If you’d like me to write you a dragon age fic, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting

Pairing: Fenris/Garrett Hawke

Characters: Fenris, Garrett Hawke

Tags: Hawke is an idiot, Fenris survived three years on the run by himself somehow, who let Hawke near a cooking pot, Fenris is exasperated and in love and exasperated by the fact he’s in love, post All That Remains

Rating: Mature

“You obviously can’t be trusted to take care of yourself, so let me do it for you.” 

Garrett scowls, crossing his arms defensively across his chest and not moving away from the charred remains of what was meant to be a honey-roasted bronto haunch. “I can look after myself, Fenris.”

Fenris raises his eyebrow. Hawke unfolds his arms and resolutely does not look at the blackened chunk of what could no longer, even charitably, be called meat. Between them, Dog watches with interest, transparently waiting for an opportunity to salvage the haunch. Fenris steps back, and gestures for her to take it. Then he looks up at Garrett, who is in turn watching somewhat mournfully as Dog smears grease and ash across the red rug spread over his floor.

When Fenris speaks, he does so in a deliberate drawl. “Clearly.” He narrows his eyes as he looks at Hawke, noting the creases around his mouth and eyes and the thinness to his cheeks, the way his tunic hangs lighter than it usually would. His skin is pale, too, even in the bronze light of the fire. “When did you last eat?” Hawke opens his mouth, and Fenris scowls at him. “What passes for ale at The Hanged Man doesn’t count.” Hawke shuts his mouth. 

Fenris tries very hard to resist the urge to sigh. Of all the men in Thedas, why did it have to be this one?

Then he marches briskly out of the main hall and towards Garrett’s kitchen. He doesn’t wait to see if Hawke will follow. After six years, Fenris has come to learn that despite his better judgement and all sensible social norms, Garrett Hawke will follow him without question, anywhere. Fenris tries not to be overwhelmed by the enormity of that. 

“Fenris, you’re not seriously planning to cook for me.” Hawke’s voice is loud, and bounces off the empty stone walls of his family home. Not for the first time, Fenris wonders how well he is truly acclimatising to the sudden emptiness of the Amell Estate. It was clearly not built for solitude. 

Dismissing his concerns for now, Fenris throws his comment back over his shoulder as he swings open the door to the library and steps through it. “That depends, were you seriously planning not to eat?”

He crosses the library quickly - unable to resist throwing a brief, hungry glance at the shelves. (”They’re yours, you know. All of them. Take as long as you need.” Hawke’s chin had rested lightly on his head as he’d said the words, arms wrapping loosely around his belly. Fenris had wanted to call him out on his magnanimity - to point out that he could not possibly mean such a generous promise. But too much of him had been seized by the sudden, powerful hope that he meant it, and the unwillingness to risk the possibility that he didn’t. So instead he’d said nothing - only reached out, reverently, and brushed his fingers along the soft red leather spines of the Amell family library.)

“How do you know where the kitchen is, anyway?” Hawke asks, mildly, taking the door when Fenris holds it open for him, and stepping back to let Dog come bounding through, her claws skittering on the stone. 

Fenris resists the urge to sigh - choosing not to resurrect the old argument of whether Garrett should hire servants as he clears away the dusty surfaces and begins to search the pantry for something edible. Garrett would not have purchased something, but Leandra was a sensible woman. She would have bought stores to last. The connection between Leandra’s death and Garrett’s sudden inability to feed himself is one Fenris is unsure how to examine yet. But he knows he will be there for Hawke, when he is ready to discuss it. It is the best, and the least, that he can do.

Fenris’ hand tightens around the pan in his hand. 

It is, at least, not the only thing he can do.

As he prepares the meal, he looks up to see Hawke watching him, curiously, still waiting for an answer. Fenris carefully begins dicing onions. “You are aware that poisoning is a popular method of assassination.”

“Yes?” Hawke drags out his answer as he props his hip against the counter. Fenris tries not to sigh again, and resists the childish urge to laugh at his lover as he mixes the onion and garlic with olive oil in the pot and lights the stove beneath it.

“Understanding a building’s layout is fairly standard procedure when securing it from possible assassins. The kitchen -” Fenris manages to light the fire and steps back as it rises with a huff, carefully closing the clay door to the oven, “- is crucial.”

When he looks up, Hawke is frowning at him, one hand resting on Dog’s head. “Fenris...” Hawke’s voice holds a note of warning that Fenris has come to appreciate and resent in equal measure. He resists the urge to cross his arms.

“What?”

Hawke’s eyes tighten. “It’s just. All this...The security, cooking for me. You’re not...” Hawke trails off, biting the inside of his cheek, and impatience quickly wins the battle over affection in Fenris’ chest, hastened on by a strange kind of anxiety.

“Not what?”

Hawke meets his eyes then, lifting his chin. “I’m not another Danarius to you, am I?”

Fenris blinks. Then he raises his hands. “Oh no, dread magister, I live in fear of your terrible magics.” He snorts, then, and lowers his arms - feeling a stupid bubble of affection rising through his chest at the fact Hawke had thought of such a thing at all. It drives him in a sudden wave of boldness to kiss the unhappy frown on Hawke’s brow, though his lover doesn’t smile when Fenris comes down from his tiptoes, so he chooses instead to flick his nose lightly with his finger and thumb. That does elicit a small laugh from Garrett, and it’s only when it does that Fenris realises how much he’d missed it, these past weeks.

Having successfully discovered stock, water, white wine and dried peas, Fenris returns to his meal, dumping the ingredients into the pan unceremoniously and shifting it into the centre of the hot plate until the mixture begins to simmer. The smell of cooking onions and oil fills the kitchen, mixing with the light, heady scent of cooking wine and the salty, moreish taste of the stock.

Fenris stirs it a few times before turning back to his lover. “No, Hawke, you are not another Danarius. For one thing, i do not fear you.” It as true now as it had been the first time he’d come to Hawke’s bed, three years ago. It still seems like the most impossible gift.

Fenris is afraid of intimacy, certainly. He is afraid of trust. He is afraid of losing this man who holds so much of his heart to death or worse, and he knows too well the shape of the many fates worse than death the world might hold for a man like Garrett Hawke. But Fenris is not afraid of the man himself, and it is that, he has found, that has made all the difference.

Garrett, for his part, gestures to his broad chest with a look of mock affront. “Not afraid? Of me? I’ll have you know I’m the Champion of Kirkwall, serrah.” Fenris snorts, and Garrett warms to his part, shifting away from the counter whilst the risotto bubbles wetly next to Fenris. Dog begins to bark, excited, tail wagging as she does so. Hawke raises his hands into the air. “I defeated the Arishok himself in single combat. The Arishok. He’s twenty feet tall.”

Fenris smirks at him. “I hear he shoots fire out of his eyes.”

Garrett gasps. “He does! His roar is enough to make a grown man soil himself. But not I! My loins are girded with iron!” Fenris raises his eyebrows and Hawke falters, arms falling from where they’d been raised as he flushes. “Alright, that one got away from me.”

Fenris shakes his head and steps forward, running his fingers over the cool silk of Hawke’s tunic. “No, no. Tell me about your iron loins.” He grins up at his lover then, teasing, and Garrett grins back.

“You’ certainly keep me humble, love.”

Garrett bends and kisses him, then, and his beard scratches against Fenris’ chin, soft and familiar. Fenris sighs and lets him, and resists the urge to answer that he doesn’t. Garrett does that well enough himself. He always has. It’s one of the things Fenris loves about him.

Between them, Dog whines, and they break apart breathless as teenagers. Fenris feels his face flush and returns quickly to the meal, checking on it before searching the cupboard for any kind of hard cheese. 

A little later it’s ready, and Fenris spoons the mixture into a fine silver bowl for Hawke, who takes it gratefully as he leans against the counter. “Where’d you learn to cook?” Hawke pauses to eat a spoonful of risotto before groaning in a way that is positively obscene and, Fenris thinks, only a little exaggerated. “Maker, that’s good.” With sudden, honest gusto Hawke begins to wolf down the rest of the mix. Fenris stops worrying about what he’ll do with the excess.

Instead, he leans against the counter opposite Hawke, stepping back and away from the heat of the oven and poking at his own rice. “I taught myself. After I left Danarius.”

Hawke grunts, and swallows, gesturing with his spoon. “What is this? It’s so good.”

Fenris ducks his head, and tries to stifle the stupidly shy smile pulling at his lips even as heat burns its way up into the tips of his ears. “It’s...nothing. A Tevene peasant recipe.” Hawke watches him, patiently, and Fenris feels his cheeks burn, tossing the words between them like an embarassed kind of offering. “Risi e bisi.”

Fenris quickly shoves a spoonful of the rice into his mouth before he can do anything worse. The mixture is salty and sweet, rounded out by the stock and cheese. He lets it warm him, and takes a moment to appreciate the simple pleasure of having access to hot food as and when he needs it. 

Hawke, meanwhile sets down his empty bowl with a satisfied sigh. “Risi e bisi.” His Fereldan accent butchers the language. Fenris doesn’t care. “I’ll have to remember that.”

There’s a little more colour in Hawke’s cheeks now - brought up by the warmth of food, laughter and flirtation. It paints him ruddy and warm, and there’s a smile lingering around his lips as he bends to scratch Dog’s great sandy head. Fenris feels a small coil of satisfaction curl in his gut as he watches him.

He is safe. He is well. He is happy.

Fenris did that.

Carefully, Fenris sets down his own bowl and steps forward, reaching up to touch Hawke’s cheek. Garrett’s hand catches his gingerly. He always stares at him with such poorly hidden wonder, when Fenris touches him. Fenris smiles at him, and is struck for a moment by the image of a raven chick, fluffy and awkward and fragile, cradled in his hands. Hesitantly, Hawke smiles back.

Fenris gets up on tiptoes, and presses a long, slow, chaste kiss to Hawke’s lips.

“Let me take care of you.” He smiles at Garrett, and runs a thumb over his tanned, weather-beaten cheek. “That is what lovers do, isn’t it?”

[ancientechos]

Whimsy

Emet-Selch/Arianna ♡ 1260 words ♡ ShB

“And what about you? What would you make if you had creation magic?”

Next

The evening starts as almost any other: the two of them conversing in her room, seated at different corners of her desk. This time, the conversation inevitably steers in the direction of creation magic, once the subject is initially breached.

You could make entire buildings?

Were it possible to convey breathlessness in simple words on paper.

“Can, not could.” The smugness in Emet-Selch’s tone is practically palpable. “And not just buildings -- entire cities.” One arm lifts in a grandiose sweeping motion toward some unseen illusion. Though it quickly lowers, his gaze turning sharp. “What about you? What would you make, if you had creation magic?”

The abrupt question puts her on the spot, her mind blank. She has never -- considered --

Though now that he asks...one thing in particular comes to mind.

Is it possible to make creatures?

The question seems odd as she looks at it for several long moments, though she cannot discern another way she might be able to ask it. Not entirely satisfied, she pushes the book across the table in his direction anyway. She cannot help but glance up at him as he reads, his mouth quickly curving into a smirk.

“Where do you think everything around you comes from? Of course w -- I can. Though that isn’t really the question, is it?” He lifts a hand teasingly, index finger nearly coming close enough to tap her on the nose --

She leans away.

He continues moving as if nothing is amiss, fingers drumming along the desk as he pushes her book back.

“I asked you what you would make.”

-- Well, she really does have one idea. But...it’s difficult to describe it in words...

Blinking,  she opens her book to a blank page. She has never considered herself to be especially good at drawing, though she supposes, in this case...she does not have much of a choice. She cannot simply take her thoughts out of her head, after all.

The finished product is rather simple -- an oval- or spherical creature, possessing two round eyes and a mouth. Along its body are whiskerlike projections, meant to represent fur, along with a long tail tipped with fluff.

-- It‘s the companion of one of her characters, and she had always thought it would be rather cute if it were to actually exist. Though now that she looks at it, she can’t help but think it terribly childish. How embarrassing to show a man who had crafted entire cities such a banal and amateurish creature.

She’s halfway through beginning to rip the page out of the book entirely when the sound of snapping fingers tears through her thoughts, and much closer than she would think.

And, with not even another sound, it -- suddenly, simply appears on the desk, as if it had just leapt from the pages of her book. Though, obviously, far more...normal-looking than anything she could have ever drawn. And -- it moves, its gaze flicking about the room uncertainly in confusion. It shifts slightly, ruffling its pale pink fur as its owlish gaze finally settles upon her.

Arianna’s gaze flicks from the creature, to the smirking Ascian -- then back again.

“Ah...” She can’t help the sound that leaves her, perhaps not even able to notice in the midst of her pure and utter shock. Just like that -- what appears to be a living creature --

Cautiously, she lifts one hand, holding a finger out to it. The creature nuzzles its cheek against her with a pleased gurgling sound, and Arianna all but melts into the chair she sits upon. The hand not otherwise occupied presses against her chest, as if needing to contain the overflowing emotions welling up within her.

“How charming,” she breathes out, voice barely a whisper as she gazes into the creature’s glossy eyes.

The Ascian sitting next to her tenses as she speaks, his golden gaze drifting from the fawning hyuran woman to the ball of fluff. Clearing his throat, he turns his face away, almost grudgingly -- directing his stare toward the ground.

“Well, I am certainly glad you like it.” He cannot tell why his voice is suddenly so soft. An uncomfortable sensation fills him, seeing her gush so with delight.  He feels as if he simply cannot continue to look at her, lest...

“I -- I --” Her voice rings out again, then stops. Heat fills her face as she becomes aware of the unseemly smile spreading across her face, not to mention that she had just -- spoken in front of him --

For a moment she finds her voice lost again, until she looks away from him, her own face bright red.

“I...love it. Thank...you. You didn’t have to...” Inhaling deeply, she tries to calm herself by distracting herself -- lifting the creature to cradle it in both her palms. Its tail twitches gently in what she can only assume to be happiness.

The Ascian clears his throat again, leaning back into his chair with a heavy exhale. “Perhaps not. But think nothing of it. It was...nothing.”

She doesn’t notice him watching her marvel at the creature, fingers gently stroking at its fluffy fur. She can’t possibly take it anywhere with her -- it could get hurt. Oh, but...

“D-do you think it would be lonely on its own...?” Arianna finally looks toward Emet-Selch — though the red flush increases two-fold to simply see him looking at her, and she quickly diverts her eyes with a shaky exhale.

Quiet laughter accompanies another snapping of his fingers. “I know I would be.”

And again -- 

The second creature on her desk is just as adorable as the first, though its fur is pale blue instead of pink. It chirps, and Arianna’s shoulders lifts to her ears as an uncontrollable smile spreads across her face. Whatever remains of her heart has just simply...dissolved.

She allows the pink-furred creature to hop off her hand, and it quickly joins its counterpart on the desk. They immediately appear to take a liking to one another, chirping and gurgling happily, their tails swaying.

Is it truly possible for anything to be so --

Then the two creatures rub their cheeks together, and Arianna has to bite her lip to stifle the whine that had threatened to build up in reaction to such a darling sight.

She doesn’t bother to hide the smile this time as she turns to look toward the Ascian again. Quickly, she scribbles a message for him in her book.

Thank you. I do not really know what I did to deserve these, but thank you.

Emet-Selch seems vaguely cross as he reads the words now -- or perhaps disappointed. It takes him a moment to actually look at the words -- or respond.

“You’re very welcome. And...perhaps you don’t deserve them...for your meddling in the First, at least.” The smirk that twists his mouth is not so sharp this time. “Though for your heroics, perhaps you do.”

Whatever had set him off earlier seems to be completely gone now, a new languidness in his limbs. “I trust you’ll take care of them. I wouldn’t have made them otherwise, I think. And I do think they seem quite taken by you...”

He gives a vague nod toward the desk, where the two creatures stare up at the hyuran woman with enormous eyes. Blinking, she places down her writing utensil to pet the two of them, much to their delighted squeaks.

Next

[sunflwrvolume6]

plausible deniability [seven]

kept secrets

Her head swims as she realises she’s lost. A small voice tells her she will never leave this corridor and she’ll die here, become a skeletal decoration. Aila swallows thickly and tries to decide which corner to take: the one before her, or the one at the other end.

[ao3 ☆ wattpad]

[previous☆ next]

[masterlist]

Aila doesn’t remember falling asleep. She doesn’t remember whether she tossed and turned all night or if she even dreamt at all. All she knows is waking to a pounding headache and a bitter taste in her mouth. She blinks slowly then sits up, stretching out the kinks in her body.

The mattress is better than the one she has at home. Aila reaches for the elastic band on her wrist, pulling her hair into a low ponytail as she examines the room like she hadn’t been able to last night.

Deep burgundy curtains are drawn tightly together around the room, fragmenting the pale creme-coloured walls. A black rug spreads across the floor around the bed frame. The mirror above the chest of drawers is gilded with gold, elaborate carvings along the edges. A nightstand sits beside the bed, and her phone sits on top. White against mahogany. There are no other decorations.

No one must sleep here, she thinks. Aila exhales sharply and pats the mattress. Would Niall think it weird if she asked to take it home? Shaking the thought away, she pushes back the heavy comforter and clambers off the bed. Her uniform hangs from a hook on the back of the door, and another pile of clothes are stacked neatly on the bureau. A folded piece of paper rests on top.

Aila, these are for you to keep. Breakfast is in the dining room whenever you’re ready.

The handwriting takes her aback. Loopy and tidy, it doesn’t exactly match what she’s seen of Niall’s personality. Aila sets the note aside and picks up the blouse. The black fabric flows like water between her fingers, the silken smoothness interrupted only by the intricate lacework along the neckline. Her cheeks flush when she sees the underwear that had been hidden beneath the top.

Had he chosen them? Or did he have Scary-Woman pick them out? Whoever did it did a good job. Aila blows out a breath and hurriedly changes. It should concern her that everything fits comfortably. That the outfit is the same style as something she would have purchased for herself—if she could afford it.

She makes sure to grab her phone and bag before leaving the room. The creme walls have extended to the hallway, white marble twin snakes on either side of a maroon rug running the length of the hall. Aila pauses next to a painting on the wall: Rolling fields of green, a cluster of cottages under an expansive stretch of blue sky. She has no idea what place the painting depicts—it certainly isn’t Primden or any of the surrounding towns—but it radiates peace, stability, home. A small scribble in the corner marks the artist’s name, though she can’t decipher it. It looks like a blob.

Breakfast is in the dining room. Right. She was on a mission. Where is the dining room? She had been so frazzled last night, she hadn’t paid attention to the path Niall had taken when bringing her to the room.

Her head swims as she realises she’s lost. A small voice tells her she will never leave this corridor and she’ll die here, become a skeletal decoration. Aila swallows thickly and tries to decide which corner to take: the one before her, or the one at the other end.

A quiet shriek escapes her lips when someone rounds the corner in front of her. The older man’s face remains impassive as Aila clasps a hand to her chest. As if it will control the sudden galloping of her heart. As if it can calm her breathing. It doesn’t work, but she tries to find comfort in the pressure above her sternum.

“I was looking for the dining room?”

She winces when the words come out as a question. The man nods stiffly and turns on his heel, striding away. Aila scurries to follow him. He may not know it, but he’s saved her from rotting in this house. His steps are measured, the route a well-learnt path, and Aila forces herself to not gawk at the decor they pass.

He comes to a stop just outside enormous doors. Voices come from the other side, unintelligible through the wood, and Aila meets the man’s gaze. His chin dips, then he reaches out for the handles with gloved hands. The doors swing open without a sound, and she watches as the people in the dining room come into view.

Niall sits at the head of the long table, and the driver who gave her a lift home that day is to his right. Scary-Woman sits to the left. Aila is focused on the soft smile on Niall’s face, not bothering to look at the others. He waves the old man away. The man bows and leaves Aila alone. She inhales as steadily as possible, hoping to draw strength from it, but her knees still shake as she takes the seat the driver vacates.

As she sits, she finally takes stock of the others. Her brows furrow. “Didn’t you get picked up by the police?”

The man’s cheeks flush a furious red, eyes flashing. His scowl disturbs the sharp lines of his cheeks. Someone down the table snorts, a hand clapping over his mouth, and even Niall appears amused by her enquiry.

“He did. He was let out.”

“Why was he stalking me?”

“Not stalking, love. I asked Zayn to keep an eye on you for your protection.”

“Yeah, that worked out well,” she grumbles, and Niall’s gaze drops to the table, pink tinting the tops of his ears. “Anyway. If you wanted me to have a bodyguard, you probably should have picked someone less attractive.”

Niall tilts his head with a brow raised. She almost gets lost in his eyes, but his voice distracts her, pulls her out of the daze. “What do you mean?”

“He’s too… pretty, I guess, to be inconspicuous. He stood out in a crowd. Wait, why the fuck did you have someone tailing me?”

He sighs, raises his hands in surrender, and promises to explain after breakfast. She frowns, wanting to argue, but he’s already moved on. She sits back as a woman sets a plate in front of her. She picks at the food and wonders if she can get by with not eating. Her thoughts are racing too much for her to feel any hunger.

Niall pushes her fork closer to her without even taking his eyes off the man he’d had following Aila. She blows out a breath and picks up the utensil. His lips quirk as she takes a bite. The others talk around her, obviously assured she won’t understand the coded phrases. They aren’t wrong, she thinks. She has no hopes of understanding. So she only picks at her food and tunes them out as much as she can.

Aila comes back to herself when she realises she’s alone with Niall. Her eyes widen at the empty chairs and silence. He swallows down the rest of his coffee before gesturing for her to follow him from the room. His hand settles, warm and gentle, on her lower back as he guides her to a room across the foyer.

Navy blue walls greet her, and the same burgundy curtains hang over the windows here though they’re tied back. Weak sunlight barely touches the room, but the lamps on the end-tables illuminate the space enough. A chessboard sits below the front window, two wingback chairs placed on either side, and the far wall is blocked off by bookshelves that stretch from floor to ceiling.

Niall waves toward the couch in the centre of the room, and Aila sits at one end while he takes the other. She stares at the coffee-table, at the knives and wire spread across the surface. She shifts uncomfortably when she recognises them from the films she’s watched with her friends.

“When I realised my wallet was missing, I figured someone would have found it at some point.” Niall smiles when she finally meets his eye. “I have more faith in humanity than most would like, but even I didn’t figure it would be brought back with nothing stolen. You surprised me.”

Aila scratches idly at her hairline. “There was nothing in it. I told you that.”

Her tone is too defencive, she knows it is, but all Niall does is laugh and shake his head.

“Yes, well, that just further proves you didn’t search through it for longer than it took to get my address. If you had, you would have found my bank cards.” His face settles into seriousness, and he hesitates before turning to face her more fully. “When I saw everything was just as it was when I lost it, it intrigued me. I’ve lived here for almost nine years. People don’t often return lost items without demands of compensation.

“But you? You wanted to return it directly to me—or rather, Mister Niall Ho-ran. It’s Horan, by the way. And you yelled at the guard because he walked away without offering you a lift home. Which is why I sent Mully after you. Didn’t want you to freeze to death after being so kind to me.”

“I appreciate that. Well, my feet do, anyway.” She pauses, running her finger along the seam in the leather cushion. “Still can’t tell me anything, can you?”

“You believe me when I say I wish I could, don’t you?”

“I suppose I have to, don’t I? It’s the only answer I’ve ever gotten from you.”

Niall gives her a crooked grin. “I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again. You’re something else, Aila.”

Her gaze drifts along the expanse of his body, the T-shirt over broad shoulders and chest. The slacks that hardly conceal the muscles of his thighs. Her eyes focus a second too long on the stretch of fabric between his legs. Cheeks flushing, Aila quickly looks away.

“So what are your plans for the day?” he asks as if he hasn’t noticed her checking him out.

“Probably go home and sleep some more. I have tonight and tomorrow morning off, so my roommates and I will most likely have a belated Junk Night.”

“You’ve mentioned that before. What exactly is ‘Junk Night’?”

Aila laughs and wonders how she can explain it without making it sound like they’re all a bunch of gluttons. “Well, we’re broke as Hell, so we pool our money once a week to get a bunch of takeaway and criticise whatever films we’re watching that night. Last time was the Godfather series, but there wasn’t much we could criticise about those. They’re classics.”

“You like mafia films, then?”

She wonders about the slight downturn to his lips, the darkness in his eyes. She nods and explains she likes almost any movie she watches. She’s more particular about books, but she can usually find at least one redeeming quality with films. Even the worst ones.

“Anyway, Junk Night is basically just a reason for the five of us to hang out, relax, and forget about the fact we’re all working too long hours for too little pay to put up with the shit we do.”

“It sounds like fun.”

“It is. Which is why I forgot to text you back before.”

Niall laughs and pats her knee. Aila’s breath catches in her throat at the contact. “And I told you that you’re forgiven for it.” He checks the time then grimaces. “I hate to do this, but I’ve a meeting to get ready for. Whenever you want to go home, let Tania or Mully know. They’ll give you a lift.”

Aila nods and watches him stand. The muscles in his back ripple beneath the cotton of his shirt, slacks tightening around his ass before relaxing once he’s fully upright. He smiles down at her, fingers brushing along her cheek as he passes, and a fluttering kicks up in her chest. His touch was soft—almost inconsequential—but it still affects her. She hardly dares to believe in the juxtaposition of the feather-light contact and the hard ice in his eyes the last time they saw each other.

“Am I allowed to text you again?” she asks; her voice is small, and she waits with bated breath and heart racing.

He pauses at the doorway, but he doesn’t turn around. “I’d like it if you did.”

Then he’s gone. Aila listens to his footsteps as they fade then stares around the room. Nothing catches her interest. Her head is spinning too wildly for her focus. This is a totally different Niall than she saw the last two times they were face-to-face. He’s still guarded. He keeps his cards held too closely to his chest. But she doesn’t feel like it’s her fault anymore, that she somehow caused him to pull away.

Whatever he’s hiding is on him. She has to trust that the truth will out eventually.

His name is in her contact list once more.

Rising to her feet, Aila exits the room in search of Mully. Tania—she assumes Tania is the woman from last night—is far too frightening. She’s been in close quarters with Mully before; she can at least have faith he won’t kill her for stumbling into Niall’s life.

“May I help you, Miss?”

Aila whirls around, eyes wide. The old man watches her with glittering eyes. She gasps in a breath.

“You need to wear a bell.”

His lips twitch minutely as he bows his head. “I apologise, Miss. My intention wasn’t to startle you. May I help you?”

“Yeah, um, I’m looking for Mully.”

“I’m sorry. Mister Sean has just left. Miss Tania is around if you’re interested in speaking with her.”

“She isn’t going to, like, murder me, is she?”

“Of course not, Miss. Mister Niall would not be pleased if she did.”

“Then I guess I’ll talk to her.”

“Right this way.”

Tania is sat at the edge of a gigantic indoor pool when the man leads Aila through the archway. He bows again and disappears. His footsteps are far too quiet. Aila draws in a steadying breath before turning back to Tania. Zayn and two of the men from breakfast are swimming laps, none of them paying attention to the newcomer.

“Uh, Tania?”

“What?”

“Niall told me to ask you for a lift home?”

Tania glances back over her shoulder with narrowed eyes. Finally, she scoffs and clambers to her feet. “If he said to ask, then I guess I have no choice.”

“I can take the train back, it’s not a problem.”

“Yeah, that’ll go over as well as a lead balloon. Niall won’t risk your safety like that. Lou, I’ll be back. Keep these idiots in line.”

Lou waves a hand, grinning brightly at Aila, and dives under the water again. The other two follow suit. Tania’s soft smile disappears when she faces Aila. No words are spoken as Tania leads her through the corridors, through a kitchen bustling with activity, and into a garage. Aila can’t stop the gasp.

Seven cars are sheltered from the weather outside. From vintage to modern, every single one of them shine in the overhead lights. Tania makes her way to a gleaming teal sports car and pulls open the door.

“You coming or what?”

Aila rushes to the passenger door. Bass thunders through the car once Tania starts the engine. She doesn’t bother waiting for Aila to buckle up; she presses a button on the pad above her head, and the garage door rises with a rumbling hum. She reverses quickly out of the building, a sharp smile on her pale face when she sees Aila clinging to the door handle.

Aila doesn’t let go as Tania goes well over the speed limit. She takes curves far too fast. She weaves through the traffic cluttering up downtown. She doesn’t slow down even when the lights turn yellow. Eventually—sooner than Aila expected—the car squeals to a stop outside of her house. Tania stares out her window while Aila steps out of the car.

Before she can shut the door behind her, Tania lowers the music and leans over. “Don’t fuck this up, Aila.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just remember that.”

“You’re making me remember an awful lot without explanation.”

“You’ll never get one from me,” Tania says with a snort. “Now go away.”

Aila pushes the door closed, and Tania speeds away. These people are demanding too much of her patience if they expect her to be okay with not having answers.

[punkandsnacks]

Between Wolves & Doves; Chapter Seven, Savagery.

Author: @punk-in-docs​ & @adamsnackdriver​

Also on AO3-

Trigger Warnings: !!! Violent thoughts in this chap !!! Kylo’s getting somewhat, territorial. Shall we say-

Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.

He’s been stalking this earth long since civilizations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it.

He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia.

In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.

He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.

He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.

~ ~ 🥀  ~ ~

When he came to her that night, her tears of grief were still drying on her cheeks. Catching in the fires light, like ribbons of sparkling amber.

 If he had a soul, it would be crumbling in despair for glimpsing the sight of her like this.

 “Oh, My little dove.” He sighs, weary and heart sore for her. She didn’t even have anyone to cry to or to embrace in her sadness. She always had to cry alone.

 Tears staining onto the clasping embroidery of her laced pillow. Her supple form curled up into a fitful tense shape on the bed. Her toed off brown boots are strewn on the floor by the end of the bed.

 Concern weights down the heavy lentil of his stern brow as he rounds the end of her bed to come closer. His big hand cupping the polished twists of the wood pillar of the mahogany frame. He steps over her boots. Coming to tower over where she rests on the mattress.

 She’s still wearing her gown. The ash grey wool she wore earlier today. Her hair is still bound. Though it’s strictness is softened by wisps that have worked their way loose. Spilling over her cheeks and straying across the pillow. Like dark twisted roots.

 She won’t wake. She never does. He sets himself carefully on the bed. Feels it give and creak beneath his weight. He watches her rest. Brings his hand up to stroke a thumb across the soft cushion of her damp cheek. Wet and salt clings to his skin.

 He whispers to her. “I felt it. I felt your sadness. I felt it reach out to me. Calling to me.”

 He leans down and kisses the tear away. When he does, when he tastes that sadness on his lips - a shatter of emotion and memory cracks through him. Like thunder splintering and charring an old oak. He is struck by it. Well and truly.

 He can hear her mothers snarls, feel the crush of guilt and righteous anger drowning his sweet little dove. Being told she must obey to her family expectations. Start making them proud. Start thinking of marriage.

 He sighs deeply as he pulls away. He didn’t even register the pretty floral of her skin he so loves. Not tonight.

 Tonight, he is not a baying monster seeking for blood. He is a suitor who has deeply concerned, rushed to her side as he felt the worst woes of his lover.

 He felt her despair. Her dying hope. He felt the waning happiness of their day wither. Like a dried flower hardening up in the frost or the heat. Seizing up it’s bright petals. Or shedding them. He’s felt how her family’s expectations strip her bare and leave her shredded and bruised.

 Here, he just feels his jaw grit at the rage of it all. He grows wilder with anger. Can feel the black of it, thick like rotten honey, bleeding flushing into his veins.

 “I wonder, do you feel me too? Are you so struck by all the things I perceive?” He asks to her. Not intending at all for his questions to be answered.

 Their bond is strong - this cannot be denied. It’s tug engulfed them both from the second their eyes met. That blazing dazzling storm that took his breath away. The tempest of her influence quakes inside his chest.

 Yet this...fondness, for her. A mere mortal. A simple, human girl. It is not so perishable. To look upon the last love and bond he has felt in his life, it seems so dangerously frail in comparison. Adoring her is like cherishing a birds eggshell. Like a faint ember glowing, about to extinguish. Yearning and waiting to be made bright.

 Humans. All of them are so fleeting. So quick to bud and even quicker to fade. Like a dying little spark. Extinguished before it barely even thrives.

 He can feel this spirit. This entwining of their souls. This dense entanglement of emotion. Can sense how it hungers to grow. Like him; it’s a bloodthirsty beast. Demands heart and cartilage and inky black ichor of blood to sustain it.

 His yearning is more than he ever thought. And he knows how she wants it desperately also. Wants him. Their feelings have found symmetry in each other. This is the first time a woman has been more to him than a collection of veins to drink off.

 “I confess; I care not if you can sense me yet. Because I sensed you the minute I saw you, Iris Ashton. And now I feel how trapped you are.” He explains softly.

 “Little Dove. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to see you freed.” He promises.

 He’s stroking her hair back off her face. Trying to soothe away the crinkling frown in her brow. The one that spoke highly of her turmoil.

 “I would rip those pathetic beings you call relatives to pieces for making you suffer like this. I wouldn’t even drink them. Dove. I’d kill purely for the pleasure and the sport of it.” He pledges.

 Somewhere in his mind, faintly, upon a distant echo of an echo, he can hear his makers voice. He can hear Draegan calling him a savage, chiding him for those words. He always was the one between the two, blessed with more leniency.

 “Your mother is desperately trying to keep us apart. It will not be so. I will not stand for it.” He confesses.

 “I will not.” He makes plain. Shakes his head. His words are quiet venom with the resolute strength of iron, but he’s softly caressing her cheek. Taking away all the tears and salty sadness with his fingertips.

 “I have a foul temper and when people deny me the things I want. They will inevitably lose.” He growls.

 He will kill. Maim. Slaughter and hunt without any whiff of so called or feared consequences. He’s a vampire. He’s above emotion. He does not subscribe to petty human clemency. There is no point in mercy being instilled in such savage beasts, after all. It would wither and die in the face of all the foul things he’s committed. The gore. The pain. The massacres. The bloodlust.

 “I came tonight because you cried out for me. You cloud up every moment in my head. You live behind my closed eyelids when I rest at night...” He expresses.

 He reaches his hand to cover her collarbone. Very close to the space over her heart. Warm skin soothes his icy palm. It’s been so long since he felt the flurry and flush of warmth. He can feel the quivering muscle tremble and tick under her skin. Gushes and guides her blood. The rattle of it pulses and echos through her vulnerable bones.

 The fragility of her tiny timpani heart, beating away her time.

 “And now your body beats for me. Each pump of your heart I can hear; and it sounds like it’s calling out my name. And I will always answer to it.” He promises. “I cannot ignore it, even should I wish too.”

 He cannot fathom the enormity of this strangle hold she has across him. He can only nurture it’s budding into being. He will help blossom and thrive, whatever this may be.

 He quirks a slight tip of a smile. It breaks the stoic nature of his scowl hardened face. Like strong waves being dashed on the rocks. It yielded.

 “When I think back upon you sitting astride Kana today, it makes me smile. I had not thought you to be such a wild creature so ready to dash the rules.” He says in mirth.

 He’d only looked at her and seen the etiquette she adheres too. He was pleasantly surprised to find she was no shrinking violet. He’s enamoured with uncovering more such stubborn wilderness within her.

 “How glad I am for it. That little spit of fiery spirit that not even your foul mother can hope to tame. I’ve always been so enamoured with wild things.” He smiles.

 He rubs his thumb across her forehead. His own brow creases when he feels the tremble and agony of her aching head. The raw sting of her red eyes. He rubs until that grey nimbus of her pain passes away. Like smoke on the gentle breeze. He soothes it away.

 He is sure to put vastly happier thoughts into her head. Plants them there like seeds ready to sprout. He helps her recall every smile they’ve shared. Every ghost of a touch. Every look of their eyes clashing that sent rattles of desire wracking down her spine. His too, though she had no clue as to the potency of her charms.

 No clue whatsoever- it’s one of his favourite things about her. Here is a power she doesn’t even know she wields. He will gladly instruct her to see it used.

 He lets her see them this afternoon. Riding side by side in the frosty sunshine. Stroking the horses in their stalls. The way he caught her and reeled her in when she slipped off Kana’s back. He lets that warm happiness flow through her like golden ambrosia. The sweet honey nectar of happiness they share together.

 He will have more. He will make it so.

 He feels how her body is growing colder. He twists around and sees the fire in her hearth is crumbling low. Barely sustained. He crosses and sees to it. Stokes it with the iron poker and piles on more logs to see her kept warm.

 Silently he walks back to the bed, to her side. Pulls up the fluffy eiderdown over her where it lay crumpled at her feet. The feathery down of it rumples and crushes and he tucks it around her prone body. Her human well-being, hangs loosely by a fine thread compared to his stronger senses.

 He exhaled an amused sound to himself. “And they say I am the creature who bears no soul.” He speaks in detriment to his caring touches.

 But so long as he is near, he will not see her suffer. From cold. From sadness. From anything that may ail her.

 He has seen worse things than his own kind being blights upon humans. He’s witnessed plagues, wars, outbreaks of diseases too foul to name. The awful crippling frailty of suffering a human existence.

 He places his hand on her elbow, atop the covers he shrouded her in. Her dreams eased by his influence. Her strains and stresses plucked away by his hands. He could do more than merely enchant her senses. He could alter them. Make her witness things if he wished to.

 “How is it a creature like me can find such solace in even being near you.” He asks gently. Big fingertips of his grooming through her hair. Feeling the spun-bronze soft of it combing through his fingers.

 He may never have an answer to that musing. An eternal query for him to ponder over through his ages. All he knows, is that he won’t be kept apart from her. Not for anyone’s wishes.

 He stays until a cresting red-gold dawn. Blood and gold copper coins, spill slanted across the sky. The birds outside in Westwell’s meagre garden begin their song to herald to the new day.

 He leaves her. Parts with a kiss to her cheek and before he slips from her sight and off into that blaze of a dawn, he leaves his initialled kerchief crumpled up in her hand.

 The thought as to her confusion of how it got there, will make him smile. Now she has a token of him. That happy thought keeps him smug in temper, and buoyant for the whole day. He hopes it will jab at her acerbic mother.

 Should teach her that no one stands in Lord Ren’s path. And even fewer live to tell the tale of having done so.

   ~ ~ 🥀  ~ ~

 Iris really did applaud her mothers cruel sense of efficiency. Not but the next day, and Sergeant Armitage Hux and Mrs Hux call at Westwell to take tea.

 As they alight from their carriage, Iris is sat at the window armchair. Watching their newcomers. A flash of brilliant red catches her eye, stark in the icy landscape of the frosted green and creamy cotswold stone gravel drive.

 He wore his full ceremonial uniform under his black cape. Wool coat the shade of split veins. On his head, covering the copper of his short hair, sits a cocked half moon army hat. Fluffy red and white plumage darts up, sprouting from one side. Blood spattered on snowy doves feathers. The ultimate homage to war.

 He looks terribly neat and well groomed. Meticulously so. Coat brushed. His cape is spotless. His white breeches are about as pristine as the snow that fell around the estate last night. His black boots gleam. Freshly polished and waxed. Iris bites her tongue when she sees he’s fully dressed for battle. Even his gold rapier sword hangs at his side. Bumping against his hip.

 Hux turns and helps his mother down from the carriage. She is a stout woman of late age, with greying hair and a face that always looks pinched. Her pale face hidden in her frilly bonnet. A ruffled frill secured around her neck. A chemisette collar of rippled muslin, peaking in cresting white waves. Tied in a bow around her neck. Brushing under her chin. Collar starched and stiff. Holding her chin precariously high. Incredibly precocious.

 Then again, the woman did always adore and admire looking down upon people. Haughtily peering down on her lessers.

 Much of her dress is covered by her deep plum pelisse. She has lilac gloves on and is pinching her skirts up. Afraid of the mud. Sniffing in disdain at muddying her rose pink and mauve half boots with it. Iris shuts her book with a harsh snap. A sigh leaves her lips.

 She sets her book aside. Mother appears in the parlour. Lifts up the arched curtain to better glimpse at their guests. She turns a casting eye over Iris’s dress.

 “Your skirts are wrinkled and your hair is loose at the back. Fix it.” She instructs snappily with quick hurrying. Before turning back to seat herself elegantly on the settee opposite.

 Their parlour was not quite the finest room in Britain. But it was cosy. Heavy blue velvet drapes line the windows with gold tassels trimmed on their edges. There is upholstered walnut settees and arm chairs with white and pink rosebud pattern on the seats.

 The fire is lit and roaring amber in the austere grey of the stone hearth surround. Mother arranged an ostentatious vase of tall spilling blooms on the French end table across the room, by the door. Perfuming the air with violets and bluebells. Sugared fruit of exotic variety lay in the only silver bowl they have in the house. Polished especially. Desperate to show off their finery.

 Mother is fussing with the crocheted lace doily on the table. Tugging it straight. Setting her grey satin skirts to fold nicely and neat around her knees. Tugging on her finest shawl around her shoulders. Hissing at Iris to set her legs straight. For she always sat most uncommonly. With one knee folded under the other.

 Iris is in the upholstered linen armchair opposite to the settee. In the chair has seen better years. A twin set. They creak and crack under her weight. But it’s always done that ever since she was a child. It’s her favourite spot. The light is adequate for reading. Until Posy or Flora come marching in and clamour and demand the chair for they have to fix up their bonnets for church on Sunday. Heaven forfend they are seen out in the same bonnet twice.

 Luckily today they preen and fuss in the parlour mirror before the housekeeper shows their guests into the front parlour. Posy is in a duck egg blue with a green ribbon at her waist. Flora is almost matching in a cotton white with a peony pink ribbon. They preen a moment longer until the door handle cracks and twists across the room. The two littlest Ashton’s dart quickly to take their places. Squeaking with giddy excitement. Plonking artlessly onto the furniture.

 Iris’s mother frowns at her eldest daughters dour smile. She’d tugged her out of bed nearly at dawn this morning. Ordered her up. To bathe and wash and then dress her hair for Hux’s call.

Laced her tight into stays and her whisper-blue silk dress. Barely blue. Like a sky just turning at twilight. It had three quarter sleeves and handsome train. It it showed off the prettiness of her neck and shoulders. Especially when she wore her pearl sapphire earrings. They sparkle all across her neck.

 She puts down her book on the end table. And looks up into the parlour doorway as Mrs Hux enters, preceding her son. Their stout almost-elderly matron of a housekeeper, Simpson, opens the door to them and curtseys. Announcing them. “Maratella Hux and Sergeant Hux. If you please, Ma’am.”

 Maratella glides in first. Still with her parasol hooked upon the crook of her arm. She snaps her fingers at Simpson to take it and her bonnet.

 “I would have disrobed more in the hall. But your entryway is most drafty and I do so fear getting dust on my bonnet. For it will never be gotten out easy in all this fine lace.” Simpson takes her bonnet and her parasol off her. She curtseys to Caroline.

 “Mrs Ashton. You do keep such a snug parlour.” And then she turns and offhandedly stresses Posy, Flora and Iris. The whole bouquet. As if suddenly surprised they’re all here. “Oh. And I dare say such a pretty flock of gels.” She compliments.

 “You remember my youngest’s. Posy and Flora. And of course, Iris. My eldest.”

 Hux nods and lays particular care in Iris’s intended direction. He turns back to Mrs Ashton.

 “I feel I must ride into town to immediately fetch the constable. Ma’am. You have been charged with a criminally beautiful set of daughters. Mrs Ashton.” Hux flatters. With an easy charm of a smile.

 Two thirds of the Ashton bouquet giggle wildly, enamoured with the praise. The remaining third bites her tongue to guard it. To keep from rolling her eyes.

 “You are very good, Sir. Please. Do come, be seated. I have rung for tea.” Mrs Ashton floats delicately to retake her seat. Mrs Hux daintily comports herself next to her friend.

 Armitage remains stood. Arms tugged behind. Sword clanging his belt where he stands with a jaunt to one hip one leg kicked out.

 “How are you? My dear Mrs Ashton...” Maratella greets. Taking Caroline’s hands into her own. She wore spotless calfskin gloves. Before she unbuttons the pearl fastenings and makes a show of peeling the expensive things off her tubby hands. Delicately pinching each fingertip and caressing the thing off her hand like she was doing it for exaggerated show. She wasn’t. She was merely acting elegantly as she thought she must.

 “I am in good health. I thank you Mrs Hux.” She answers. “Your Armitage looks extremely well. London air must agree with you, Sir?” Mother simpers.

 “It did serve me most splendidly. Ma’am. But I am more than pleased to be home. And most thankful for your invitation.” He bows politely and his sea foam green eyes flicker over to find Iris. She smiles meagrely at him, averts her gaze.

 He cuts the figure of a tall man standing there, behind his short mother with his hands crossed precisely behind his back. Trying to make his lean chest look impressive with all his gleaming medals and polished gold buttons resting stitched to their black braiding wool patches. Soot. Gold. And blood. All in one uniform.

 Armitage Hux had missed the main war of late. The Napoleonic wars which happened of 1815, just this last year gone. Iris wondered if Hux really ever equated the finery of such a uniform, with real true war.

 Here he is. Trussed up like a clockwork toy-soldier. With his boots shining and his composure spotless. He’s a young man who has not seen the full horror of war. Iris can’t exactly boast of knowing any more than he. But his uniform spoke of such hope. Time will tell if he can seize the bravery needed to march onto a battlefield.

 “Iris looks exceedingly well. Do you not think so Armitage?” His mother urges.

 “Indeed she does. Most handsome.” Hux says to the matronly mama’s. But he’s smiling right at her. He crosses the few short steps to the unoccupied twin chair where she’s sat by the window. Gracefully deposits himself into the chair.

 Iris takes a subtle breath before she turns towards him. Sat demurely with her hands clasped on her knees and her back straight. When all she really wants to do is lounge. And slouch. And do anything to put him off the idea of marriage.

 She was doomed to its sentence. She’d have rather sat here today and stuck pins in her eyes. Rather than conform to conversations about the weather, the local gossip, the tea or the snow outside. When all their mothers were really trying to arrange, was, when it boiled down to it? A forced mating ritual between the country gentry.

 The way Mama and Mrs Hux are peering at them from their settee, is like they can already envisage the wedding clothes. And the names for the Hux babe they want to see, soiling in its cloth, and squalling loudly it’s bassinet.

 Iris is sick to death of all this match making- but. She is the eldest Miss Ashton. She persists. When all she wants is to flee the room screaming.

 “How did you find London this time of year? Must be miserably cold and busy.” Iris seeks.

 “Yes. It was rather. Lucky my visit didn’t extend for too long. I am not so enamoured of city living. The society may be fine and resplendent. I did not suffer for a dinner invite the whole time I was in town. But the lifestyle suits me very ill. I much prefer my time spent back here at Walford.” He tells.

 “And how is your regiment?” She enquires. He answers. They talk about his militia training. His fellow officers. His sword. His commission. They just lapse to the weather. When the door handle creaks again and in comes their procession of maids with the tea and cake.

 Assam tea with a side of Cooks buttery baked ginger biscuits. Seed cake, and finger sandwiches. Made of fluffy pillow soft white bread. Filled with sliced tongue, or ham, with cornichon or yellow piccalilli.

 Cook has even made her violet macarons. Gorgeous silky little round cakes of smooth, bright purple. Wedged either side of cloying sweet ganache. Almonds and sugar and all things made sweet with violet essence.

 Iris knew mother must’ve gone through a fair amount of their family budget for such an indulgent French fancy. Sugar and eggs and coconut didn’t come cheap. Of course she would pour every hope and penny farthing they had spare into this venture. Anything to catch a suitor.

 Caroline pours, and Julia hands around the cups. Leaves a macaron perched on Iris’s saucer. Waggles her brows at Iris, poking with good natured chiding fun for Hux, who was sat opposite her. Looking most keen.

 Iris sips her tea from her blue and white spode cup and pays their silly maid no mind. Just because they both flutter eyes at anything of Male born, with nice thighs framed by their breeches.

 He’s a soldier too? The maids will state that every romantic girl must get her heart broke by a soldier, just the once.

 Hux sets his tea on the end table between them. Leaning a tad closer to initiate more intimate conversation.

 “Do forgive my speaking bluntly, Miss Ashton. But I believe it is brightening up. Would you care to take a turn on the lawn with me?” He seeks. They had finished their tea. After all. And she must be polite.

 “I’d be delighted to. Sergeant Hux.” She accepts. She stands and deposits her empty teacup down. He tells their Mothers of their plan. He sees Iris into the cold foyer and they pull on their coats. She wished she could find something repulsive in him. But really, he is a gentleman. He holds the door. Helps her into her pelisse. He’s not a horrible suitor. Maybe if he was she could hate him more keenly. 

 She wished she could be repulsed by his every action and snobbery. But he is, genial. He smiles warmly at her.

 He takes her arm when they get outside. They walk along the drive in companionable, yet slightly awkward silence. Iris just knows their mothers will be fussing like clucking hens at the parlour window watching them. Planning a wedding for the spring after a suitably long engagement. Posy and Flora will be marvelling at every barest touch they share.

 ‘Did you see how he took your arm?’ Or ‘How he doted upon you... I should so like for a man to hold a door like that for me.’

 Hux breaks the silence. They walk arm-in-arm around the curvature of the frozen pond.

 “I know men aren’t supposed to be appraised of such matters. Miss Ashton. And if you’ll forgive me, I shall speak plainly-“ He declares to her.

 He brings them to a stop. Ten to rly reaches out. His gloved fingers take her hand. She admires it. The plumage on his hat is battered in the wild wind. The only sounds she can hear is her bonnet ribbons fluttering and snapping on the wind. The birdsong chipping sweetly at her ears. The terrified drum of her heart.

 “I came here today with the express purpose and intention of paying court to you, Iris.” He tells her. A hopeful smile on his lips.

 His eyes crinkle at the corners with hope. His stark inky cape flaps on the breeze. She smells wool and boot polish. Stuck on the frosty landscape that glittered in his eyes.

 Her chest breaks. Crushing in on itself.

 She looks up into his face. The sun kissed gold upon her icy-white cheeks. Red tinted from the cold breeze. She swallows. Tipping her head slightly back so she can see his face past the woven peak of her bonnet.

 Her mouth gapes and she looks down where he’s holding her hand- and it doesn’t feel right.

 She feels like she wants to burst. Needles of hot and ice cold stab at her ribs like ferocious ten thousand little knives. She wants to be sick or run away. This isn’t the pair of hands that should be holding hers.

 Sergeant Hux is terribly nice. Courteous and well bred. And more wealthy than her. But- but he’s not...

 Lord Ren’s face strikes at her mind with so much power. She almost loses her breath. And her footing. She regains her composure. Even though it feels like something just yanked up inside her chest and tore away her lungs from where they are joined to her throat.

 She plasters on a false meek smile.

 “I see...” She remarks. Anything more witty or feeling was beyond her. She felt like soon, she’d fade into the air, like smoke. Just drift away.

 “I know it is the especial wish of your mother, aswell as mine, that we are to consider each other as potential spouses. And I would very much- I should very much like to spend more time with you, if you’ve no objection?” He asks. Still clasping her hand.

 “You are kind sir...” She stutters breath around the words. “Your attentions would be most welcome.” She lies.

 She feels rotten.

 “I know we know a little of each other. I believe there is some fondness between us. That could grow into respect, and, and possibly- one day, maybe more than that.” He approaches cautiously.

 She nods. “You speak very bluntly of such matters. Sergeant Hux.” She says. He speaks as if they are already truths, come into fruition.

 “I merely speak what is present. Miss Ashton. My- words are not finely crafted or driven by passion. They do not fall prettily. I am no astounding orator. Nor poet. But I do so believe that we might have a chance of making each other passably happy.” He declares once again.

 “You shall never want for anything should we marry. You’d be a Sergeants wife and all that is offered it it’s income. I would treat you dearly, and- admire you as any husband should whilst you see to raising our offspring. These are, after all, matters that fall rightly to women.” He adds.

 “Yes, indeed.” She guards her tongue before it becomes uncivil.

 “We are invited to the Elton’s musicale, two nights forth. Thursday next. Would you do me the honour of your hand in the invite?” He seeks.

 “Well. I-“ she swallows the sticky grey lump in her throat. How she’d love to be selfish and refuse. Her eyes still rimmed and raw from crying over all this last night. Heart sore. A great crack splintering through the middle of it like ancient rusted clay pottery. Her heart so badly wants anything- something more. Someone else.

 She can’t do it. Mother would have her crucified. She wants her sisters to have a better comfort in life than what she’s had to suffer with being the family puppet. She wants her father to have new clothes and not have to worry. She wants to see Westwell safe from the bailiffs. 

 “I should be thrilled to attend.” She smiles. Her shattered heart crumbles that little bit more. Morphs into a wet mush of clay. Drowned by disappointment.

 This wasn’t for her benefit- it’s for everyone else’s. And that was no reason to marry. She believes first and foremost in living for herself. Iris so badly wants to live for herself. To be her own person. She does not have that luxury and it’s suffocating.

 She agreed because it was polite. Because he was a genial man and she didn’t wish him upset when he’s done nothing wrong, but let himself be manoeuvred into matrimony by his mother.

She agreed. For her sisters. For her father. Definitely not for her mother though. She doesn’t deserve even an ounce of her thoughts or considerations.

 She agrees, even though all of Hampshire society knew that the musical performed by the Elton’s made all the local dogs howl. Even though several ‘accomplished’ young ladies of the ton, played their instruments so ill, everyone swore they could hear the thud of the long deceased composer banging their skull in lamentation and sheer agony on the lid of their coffin.

 Even though she’ll be sat next to a man who has promised only to love her dearly. He is a nice man. That is simply it. She feels unworthy and ignorant. She doesn’t want the things she’s supposed too.

 She’s overwhelmed. Her head is spinning, and her mouth as sticky dry as a chasm of sand. They’re not even courting properly, or engaged and she wants to pick up her skirts and flee across the horizon. She wants to run. To breathe. To be free from this nice courtesy that she doesn’t want.

 She wants more out of her life than that of being a broodmare of a sergeants wife. The expectations don’t stop the day she says ‘I do.’ The fetid things will live on and on. Until she becomes the perfect bride. Then the most perfect housekeeper slash wife. Then a doting mother to a child she’s sure she doesn’t want. Fathered by a man who loves her with lukewarm and polite affection.

 Can a soul really be satisfied by such a light caress of passion?

 Hers is begging and screaming for more. She’s read in books about exotic cities and lands. Blue blue, so very blue seas and oceans, vaster than her comprehension. Wide wide skies filled with sunsets she could only dream of glimpsing at.

 She’s read of snowy mountains and thick pine woodland. Air full of sap and snow. Of sunny cities entirely made out of blue bricks in Morocco. Or ones in Asia painted the entire street rosebud pink just for one visiting dignitary.

 She’s heard teasing dribbles of exotic accents and tastes and cultures. She wants to see the bursting heated streets lined with saccharine Mango trees in India. Perfume of it in the air, of spices and sweetness. Wants to see the terracotta catholic loud renaissance of Florence. She wanted to see Castles and chateaus and forts and grand ballrooms. And American railways across the plains of the wild west and-

 She’ll never have any of those things. Not a one. Her future was written and decided. And it is appearing bleak.

 She thirsts and wants things she’ll never see. Such opulence in the world out there. And instead? She’ll be manacled to a husband and the children and the stove in this tiny savage spit of a village. Until old age and death comes to take her away. Return her to the heat and rot of earth and maggots to help fade her to nothing. Until all that remains of her, is dirty bones and her loved one’s scraps of memories.

 Hux smiles. Brings her hand up to lay a gentle kiss upon her glove. “I anticipate it eagerly.” He says. She offers a wobbly smile that she tries to make stand strong.

 She can feel eyes stabbing into her back - most likely from the direction of the parlour window. Mama and Mrs Hux stood at the parlour’s front facing windows. Appraising their fine match.

 But there’s something else- something that raises the hairs on the back of her neck. Something altogether much more unwholesome. She feels a cold chill burst and slither up her spine. Horribly slow.

 Hux has taken her palm to place it in his elbow once again. And they wander now around the rest of the pond. He remarks how beautiful the great spreading horse chestnut tree must be in spring. Iris smiles her agreement.

 Peering around. Everywhere in her garden she looked, all was empty. She can’t see their gardener, Higgins, trimming verges or shrubbery. She looks between the copses of the vast spread of trees that shield her view, past the shrubs and the neat hedges. There was nothing. They were the only two people outside the house, out here.

 So why does Iris feel as if they aren’t?

 Her eyes catch on the bare mulberry tree, the sprawling trunk is bare and black. Like dead curled up spiders legs. Swaying in the breeze.

 A black shape sits in that tree. A raven or a jackdaw bird possibly. Onyx black. Curling feet and a sharp inky beak. Fixated its beady glittering honey-black eyes on the both of them. Not moving an inch. Hunched and peering down over them.

 Iris looks at it for a long moment. Watches the wind ruffling it’s feathers. It stays fixing its look on her. And it doesn’t move. Not scared. Not at all intimidated by her presence.

 Hux jolts her out of her gawping at an unsuspecting bird. It gives a scratchy caw of a call, and spreads its flapping great wings. Soars up into the icy soft of the pearl sky and soars away over the house.

 “Miss Ashton?” Hux asks again. A tad louder to capture her attention.

 “Forgive me. Lost in my thoughts...” She laughs explains in mirth, turns back and smiles to him. He smiles awkwardly and ducks his head. Discusses the weather with her once again.

 They head back into the house for more tea. Caroline gives Iris such a sickly smile when they come back into the room.

 Hux announces to Mrs Ashton that he should like to pay call to Iris and escort her to the Musicale next week. Mrs Ashton accepts delightedly.

 Mrs Hux adds onto that enjoyment. “Why, we should get a party together. Such a merry gathering! The Ashton’s and the Hux’s shall all attend. You know we have two carriages, Mrs Ashton. Hux may escort all your lovely daughters. And you and Mr Ashton May ride with me and Brendol.” She organised with a giddy grin. Tapping her companions knee.

 Iris stands there next to Hux. Feeling very much as if her life is being lived for her. She has no choice in the matter. She is chattel.

 Thankfully, after arranging the outing. Maratella and Hux take their leave. They are going on into Pembleton for a general perusal. And Hux needs more boot polish. And she is in desperate need of new ribbons for her hat. Iris shrewdly eyes the hefty bonnet on the woman’s head, groaning under the weight of lace and ribbons and muslin.

 Hux kisses her hand again. Bows to her before he leaves. Iris swallows nervously. But doesn’t let her expression betray it. Flora and Posy giggle and whisper to each other. Flourishing into gossip as he leaves the room.

 Iris stands looking at the door for a second after it’s shut. Mother sees them off to the front door.

 Iris waits to hear the latch on the front door go. When she does she strides quickly for the parlour door, she yanks it open and tears across the foyer and upstairs. Her feet loudly slap each step as she holds her skirts bunched in her fingers.

 When she gets to her room she throws the door open with such ferocity the door handle smacks loudly to the wall. She starts getting at the fastenings of her dress. Unloops them and manages to get down to her chemise and her stays. She throws the fine dress away to crumple to her bed. It balloons on the air and floats gently down. Mourning the loss of being worn.

 She is at her wardrobe, ruffling through angrily. She’s so breathless. Her lungs are not getting air. Why can’t she breathe? Her mind is racing a million miles a minute. She’s sweaty and clammy and her temples are pounding straining pulsing. Every heartbeat hurts her head. Throat clawing shut.

 She won’t cry. She wilfully clamps her teeth shut-she won’t.

 She skips herself into her simple beige muslin dress. And shoved her arms through the old wool blue pelisse. Stabs her feet into her boots. Heads back downstairs with her scarf to hand. Every nerve balances on the precise of a knifes edge.

 She gets to the front door when her mother appears, peering into the hallway from the parlour doorway. “Precisely where do you think you’re going?” She seeks. Frowning. Face pulled into a scowl.

 “I’ve done my duty for today surely. Have I not? What more do you want from me. I’m done parading myself like a witless idiot. I need a walk and some air.” She offers curtly. Slipping out the front door.

 Slamming it shut behind her before her mothers next shrill words pierce her ears. No doubt cursing her daughter for daring to have such an insulting commodity as a functioning brain.

 She walks quick. Off up the front drive. Let’s the sting of cold rip at her eyes and her cheeks. Taking deep dragging breaths. It feels like she’d swallowed an entire ream of dressmakers pins. Stabbing and squeezing more pain into her.

 She puffs and pants and finally feels like she’s gained some breathing space. Coming into the woods near Westwell and shuts her eyes and lets the sounds soothe her frayed self.

 The wood pigeons. A cuckoo’s call. The hiss of leaves scratching against their branches in the wind. High above. The crunch of her boots on twigs and frosted leaves mushed underfoot.

 The tactile scratch of her gloves hands scraping across the rough bark of trees around her. She leans back against one of them. Looks up at it’s dead brown leaves. Elm tree.

 It’s nice to let something sturdy take her weight for once. She doesn’t often have that luxury.

 She regains control of her senses. Of her ragged breath and thumping heart. The cold wind wraps around her snugly. Letting her envelope herself in this silence. Breath escapes silver and wispy from her lips.

 A twig snaps far off in the tree’s-

 Her eyes shoot open. Scanning all around. Sickly bile rising to the back of her throat. She steps away from the elm tree and lets her eyes flicker all around the woodland. Over the ash brown of the trees and the brush of golden leaves mingled with crystals of frost on the ground.

 She turns her head around and then loses her breath. Except this time, it is not of her own making.

 There is a dark shape looming out of the trees. A big shape. A monstrous shape. A big meaty tangle of black-grey smudged fur. Pointed ears, a long snout. Eyes standing stark. Eyes that are more golden than a tuscan sun.

 A wolf.

 She watches as this beast assesses her from afar. Gently picking its paws over the foliage and mess of brittle twigs and mud on the wood floor. It’s paws were as big as dinner plates. It’s not baring it’s teeth at her. She imagines those teeth are bigger and sharper than most silver daggers or pocket knives.

 It’s ears are swivelled in her direction. Eyes fixed on her too.

 She stays still. Frozen to the spot she’s rooted too. Trying not to tremble in fear as tears, hot and molten silver, fill stinging at her eyes. She shivers with the ache of staying so still. Not daring to move one muscle.

 This is the beast that’s been attacking the soused farmhands. The one that’s been hunting for blood. She doesn’t quite appreciate how much of a true statement that is.

 When it’s about a foot away from her- it suddenly stops. Raises its lowered head. She sees the long line of its shaggy neck. Fur shining the shade of matte coal. It regards her with casual concern. It’s not growling. Or stalking her every move.

 She stops holding such tension in her body. She’s used to the wolf hounds they have on the farm. Shaggy slobbering lumbering dogs who go insane for the dried liver, and fresh bones cook saves for them when she had a haunch of pork.

 She remembers how their dogs go apoplectic for them. Gnawing at the fresh gummy blood and meat on those bones. She swallows at the not so appropriate visual of bloodied bones, right at this second. When she could have her throat ripped open by this savage wolf.

 She watches as it comes closer by two steps from those big lethal paws. Then it sits.

 She swallows. The way she knows canines. Sitting is not a sign of a rabid beast baying for blood.

 “You know, you shouldn’t be afraid.” Lord Ren’s voice ricochets through her head. Like a distant echo. Smoke on the air. Did she imagine it, or recall it?

 What else was it he had said? She can vaguely recall. “Wolves are not just blood thirsty beasts. They are intelligent and sociable animals. They are more likely to be spooked by a human than want to kill them.”

 So she does the only thing she can think of. Maybe it’s foolish. Maybe she’s putting herself in greater danger? But the wolf’s tranquility makes her brave.

 She makes herself look less like a threat. Slowly sinks to a crouch, joining it. Her knees stab into the frosty ground as she sinks down. Coming eye to eye with the creature.

 So close now she can see the various flecks of honey in its eyes. Can see every strand of fur where they stand rigid from its sleekly shaggy coat.

 She rests fully on her bent knees. Damning her dress. Dancing the wet frost and mud bleeding into her dress. She tilts her slightly head at the wolf.

 “Where did you come from then?” She asks it. Seeing the huge ears turn to her.

 Where she’s crouched, it’s almost taller than her, sat down. On all fours it would have come up well past her hip she’d imagine. It was no stretch to perceive how this could be the creature that’s been attacking men around these parts of late. It is a brutely sized beast.

 Meaty shoulders, a slim body, long strong legs and a powerful tail. Immense and strong.

 “I know I should most likely be scared of a creature like you.... But you don’t seem very dangerous, to me... I’m sure if you were hungry enough to kill me you would’ve done so by now.” She counters to it.

 It tilts his head and licks its chops. Flashes her the ivory sabres that it had for teeth. She looks down to it’s intimidating big paws. The claws almost bigger than her fingers. Another flurry of fear shivers through her.

 “Are you the only one of your kind? You must be lonely. Are there any more of you hereabouts?...” She seeks. Wobbly voice straightening out when she unknots her tongue.

 The wolf just sits. And watches her. Doesn’t move. Just looks.

 Those gold eyes harrowing in their ferocity. She feels like they burn her. Yet. Why does she feel like she’s seen those buttery-honey eyes once or twice before-

 She must be mad. They should call the doctor to come take her away to the nearest mental institution and pin her into a straight jacket. Here she is sat talking to a wolf.

 “I know better than any what being lonely is like I suppose...” She adds softly.

 Maybe she is insane. She has the oddest inclination- she reaches up. But not before stopping to take her gloves off. She leaves them crumpled in her lap. And extends her hand towards the beast.

 She somehow already knows it won’t harm her.

 It still sits there. Even as she gets her fingers to stroke the side of its neck. Fur so soft and thick under her palm. Silky smooth. She’d never felt a pelt this smooth.

 It makes a deep appreciative growl in the back of its throat at being petted. A deep husking rumbling noise. A chuff of breath.

 A sudden noise makes her shrink back. The wolf sharply turns its head. She looks too. A horse and rider galloping through the far lane, off in the woods

 By the time she twists back, the wolf is gone. Sprinting off through the trees. Far to the horizon.

 A black blur in the woods. And she is alone once more.

  ~ ~ 🥀  ~ ~

[chickensarentcheap]

Best Part of Me - Chapter 4

Warnings: none

Tagging: @c-a-v-a-l-r-y​, @alievans007​, @thunderintheshadows​, @innerpaperexpertcloud​

While it is a more peaceful existence, it is often a lonelier one. The safety and security of seclusion at times feeling like isolation. Their property…their home itself…is beautiful beyond anything she could have imagined; surrounded by the sights and sounds of nature, the dense and lush woodlands and the pristine beach and majesty of the ocean. Aside from the noise and activity of their own residence, they are very much shut off from the rest of the world; two hundred yards from their closest neighbour, tucked at the very end of a three kilometer stretch of recently paved road. Weeks can pass by before she even sees another human being, let alone speaks to them.  There’d been scares and complications during the last three months of her final pregnancy and she’d had to relegate herself to living the life of a ‘shut in’ for the sake of both her health and that of her unborn daughter; never leaving the property aside from specialist appointments. Addie had been an incredibly determined little girl; wanting to make her debut long before it was safe for her to do so. It had been nothing short of a miracle when the doctors had managed to tide things over until week thirty-four, and everyone that had been providing care had thought she’d been in the NICU for the long haul. Only for her to prove them all wrong; being released after only a week and a half.

 A fighter. All five pounds, ten ounces of her.

 Normally Esme would spend the first part of her morning -after the older kids had been shipped off to school-  on the beach; Addie in the carrier strapped to her body, Declan toddling along beside them, allowing him to stop every so often to splash and stomp in the water or play in the sand. Today they walk the road instead, Mac’s leash secured around her waist, one hand pushing the baby in her stroller, the other tightly gripping Declan by the wrist. He is quick and has no fear and won’t think twice about bolting into the woods or onto someone else’s property.

 The pavement is hot but comfortable against their bare feet. It was one of the things that she had found so unusual at about Australia at first; no one ever seemed to wear shoes unless going into businesses, and even then, occasionally footwear would be noticeably absent. It is one of the charming ‘quirks’, going hand in hand with their laid-back natures and accents and hilarious slang words. An entirely different way of life; a refreshing and welcoming change of pace. Everyone seeming much more relaxed and calmer.  Friendly. Always willing to help one another out, whether friends or strangers. And while Colorado had been lovely in its own right, it often felt too ‘fast.’ That life was constantly hectic, barely given you a chance to catch your breath, never mind admire your surroundings. Everything about Australia is incredible to her; the scenery, the people, the way you just take time to enjoy everyone and everything around you.

 But it is still lonely at times. Outside of her own family, she doesn’t really have a life; no relatives that can visit, no friends to talk to or hang out with. It has been that way for years; long before she’d ever met Tyler. Once her first marriage had disintegrated, she’d begun the long and arduous journey of ‘rediscovery;’ more than content with the job she had, jumping from place to place, and living out of suitcases, never forming bonds, or putting down roots. She’s older now though; almost thirty-six. And lately she’s found herself craving more.  She had thought that she was perfect content with just being a wife and a mother, but her heart has begun to yearn for something extra.  Mom friends that she can talk to whether it be face to face or through a text, other women she could have lunch dates and engage in ‘girl talk’ with. Needing to be more than that someone’s spouse. Someone’s mother. Needing…wanting… to exist outside of the comforts of those two realms.

 And she feels guilty for that. As if she’s taking every thing she already has for granted. That she is makes her selfish for wanting more and she should just be happy with the way her life already is. She has a lot more than a lot of women in the world:  a supportive, loving, and helpful husband, five beautiful and amazing kids. Shouldn’t that be enough?

 ****

 It is a beautiful morning. Brilliant sunshine, the sky a vivid shade of blue and cluttered with enormous, pure white clouds. The temperature is always cooler where they are; a few to several degrees lower thanks to the abundance of trees and the winds that roll in off the ocean. And she is comfortable in a pair of tattered and weather jean shorts and a hoodie over her t-shirt, one of her husband’s ball caps pulled low over her eyes. It’s become a habit that she wishes she could break herself of; a hat used more for disguise than a cute accessory or protection from the sun. That paranoia still lingers; that there could always be someone out there watching, hell bent on revenge and looking for the perfect opportunity to enforce it.

 The walk is slow going; Declan routinely stopping to investigate things, whether it be rocks and sticks he finds particularly interesting, or wildlife that lingers at the tree line that he wants to watch. He is infinitely curious about the world around him, noticing everything and anything, big or small. He hasn’t met and animal or person he hasn’t liked, and vice vera. Out of the five, he’s the ‘charming’ one; able to melt hearts with those striking blue eyes and mischievous smile. Extremely affectionate and loving to everyone he meets, even old ladies in the grocery store who always seem to be enamoured by the thick red hair and the outrageously long eyelashes. While Esme may be biased -as all mothers are- he is just damn cute. A sweet little personality to go along with an even sweeter face. And she can’t resist pausing to take pictures of him with her phone; so adorable in his backwards baseball hat, loose tendrils of hair sticking out at the ears.

 She sends one of the photos -of Declan holding a baby garter snake and flashing that trademark smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes (his father’s smile)- to her husband’s cell, along with a text that reads: see what cute babies you make?

 The house closest to them has been up for sale for three months; a one-story white stucco place with elaborate Japanese inspired front gardens and an interlocking brick driveway. The property itself is much smaller that what they own, but no less stunning. She notices that not only has the ‘for sale’ sign been taken down, but there’s a bright blue Suzuki hatch back in the driveway; tailgate up, surrounded by boxes being unloaded by the home’s new owner. A tall, statuesque blond with vibrant pink, purple, and aquamarine highlights in her shoulder length tresses. And she watches -albeit briefly- as the woman continues to remove items from the back of the car. The couple that had lived there before had been in their eighties and absolutely hated kids and would complain about Millie and the twins ‘running wild and unsupervised’ in the road despite the fact that their father would have been  less than ten feet away. Never directing the complaints to Tyler himself, but waiting until they’d see him leave and then knock on the door to confront her. So it’s nice to see someone younger. That hopefully won’t be such a miserable asshole.

 The front door of the house has been left open and a pug comes waddling out; immediately noticing them at the end of the driveway, which starts off a round of barking from both the smaller dog and Mac and absolute excitement from Declan who begins repeatedly shrieking ‘oggie!’ and tries to yank his wrist out of her grasp. He’s incredibly strong for a little guy; heavy, solid, and powerful. And Mac -still barking yet thankfully not bolting- parks himself right in front of the toddler to block his path.

 The woman in the driveway smiles and waves to them in greeting, and that’s when Esme makes the ultimate mistake; letting go of her son’s hand to wave back. He seizes the opportunity; taking off up the driveway the second he feels his mother’s grasp release.

 “Oh my god Declan! Get back here!” she bellows, and unleashes Mac from around her waist, allowing the dog to chase after him. At the most he’ll grab the toddler by the back of the shirt or knock him to the ground. He’s done it before with each one of the kids; showing an incredible instinct -and with no training- to protect the little humans. “Declan William!” she hollers as she hurries after him and the dog. The latter now making friends with the initially startled pug; the new homeowner scooping Declan up and settling him on her hip.

 “Well hey there cutie,” the blond gushes, gently taking hold of his hands as he tries to tear the unique and colourful glasses off her face. “Who are you?”

 “This is Declan,” Esme responds. “And he’s not usually this much of a shit head, I swear.”

 “You’re just a curious little man, aren’t you! You just wanted to come and meet Stan-Lee. Here, let me introduce you…” their new neighbour drops down to one knee and places Declan on her thigh, taking his hand in hers and then running it over the pug’s fur. The toddler giggling with the dog licks at his hand. “See that? He likes you already! He loves to meet new friends. Especially little ones.”

 “I am so sorry,” Esme can feel the blush in her cheeks. “I’m usually not that stupid. Letting him get away like that. Especially on the road. Although no one but us ever comes down this far. We used to get people that would speed down here and park on our property to get into the woods. But we own all that, so my husband went out and scared the crap out of them with a hunting rifle and they never came back. You must think I’m a shitty parent.”

 The blond waves off the mere suggestion. “Not at all. They get away sometimes. No matter how hard we try to stop them. Not to mention he’s crazy strong! Two? Two and a half?”

 “Seventeen months. I know. He’s absurdly tall. But so is his dad. I am sorry he ran over like that. Bothering you and your dog and…”

 “It’s no bother. Honest. I’m Salena,” she offers a hand, and Esme accepts it warmly.

 “I’m Esme. And that’s Mac,” she nods at the German Shepherd as he playfights with the pug. “It’s actually Macaroni. Don’t ask. My son named him. And this is Adeline,” she gestures to the stroller. “Be we call her Addie.”

 “Is this your little sister?” Salena speaks to Declan as she places him on the ground and takes him by the hand, leading him to the stroller. “How about you show me your little sister. I bet she’s a cutie, just like you. May I?” she asks Esme, taking hold of the corner of the blanket that covers the buggy.

 “Of course.”

 She peels the blanket back, then places a hand over her chest. “Oh my gracious! Look at you, pretty girl! Aren’t you just a darling! You’re just new.”

 “Very new,” Esme confirms. “Only two weeks.”

 “And you already look like that?”  Salena looks over the top rim of her glasses as she eyes Esme from head to toe.

 “Please! The clothes hide everything, trust me. I’m huge. And I feel gross.”

 “You’re crazy! You look amazing. Are these your only two?”

 “No. There’s three more,” she says, and the neighbour’s eyes widen. “Five-year-old twin boys and a soon to be six-year-old daughter. I know,’ she laughs. “I’m crazy.”

 “I just can’t believe that body’s had five kids. Five’s the limit?”

 “Four was the original limit but by husband wanted one more. I don’t know who is more insane. Me or him.”

 “Well if these two are as beautiful as they are, I can only imagine what the other three look like. The red hair comes from your husband?”

 “His mother. Declan’s the only one with it. The other three are blond. Or light brown. Whatever you want to call it. And the last one is all me. Which I feel I deserved after having four that look and act exactly like their father. All that work and getting fat and I don’t get one that looks like me? That is some bullshit.”

 “Would you like to come in?” Salena inquires, nodding towards the house. “I have a breakfast casserole in the oven, and it is way too much for just one person, even with leftovers.”

 “We shouldn’t. We were just on a walk before lunch and we don’t want to impose or…”

 “You won’t be imposing at all. We can sit out back and chat some more. You’re the first person I’ve met since moving to Cookstown. I was staying a hotel right in town while waiting for the house to close. It would be nice to have a friend that’s close by.”

 It’s tempting, and as much as she loves the idea of having a friend…especially a neighbour…she knows Tyler will be hesitant. He’s severely overprotective. Beginning after Dhaka and becoming increasingly worse over the years, hitting its peak after the McMann incident. In his mind, everyone is a possible threat. Including the neighbour with the funky glasses and the colorful hair.

 “Just stay for a little while,” the other woman urges. “Just for something to eat and a little chat. I don’t bite. I promise.”

 “It’s not that and it’s not you, believe me,” Esme attempts to explain. “This is going to sound really weird, but things went really bad before we moved here and I’m a little…apprehensive…when it comes to new people. It’s not personal. I swear. It’s all my own issues.”

 “I promise I am not a serial killer. Just come in and have some lunch and let me spend some more with this cutie pie,” she tickles Declan’s stomach until he’s giggling hysterically and beaming up at her with the utmost adoration. “Just an hour,” she says. “If I bore you or I annoy before then, you can leave. I won’t hold you hostage.”

 “Okay,” Esme finally agrees, as Salena scoops Declan up once more and leads the way towards the house.

 ****

He receives the text message just as he pulls his truck up in front of his father’s new place; a small, cottage style bungalow in a newly established retirement and nursing care community in Port Douglas. It had been bittersweet when he’d eventually found out that the old man had sold the family home. The years there hadn’t all been horrible; there’d been a handful of good memories made between those four walls. That house was the last physical tie that Tyler had had to his mother, and the new owners had bulldozed it with plans on custom build for the lot. The demolition had finally erased all the dark secrets that the place had once held. All the cruel words, all the tears, all the holes in the walls, all the beatings.

 Killing the engine, his pulls his cell from the side pocket of his cargos and checks the message. A slow smile spreading across his face when he sees the picture of his youngest son, and the words that his wife had sent afterwards. If there is one thing they excel at, it’s making beautiful children. And the activities that help with the actual creation of them. He texts her back, telling her that they’ve just reached his dad’s place and have two stops afterwards close to home. That he loves her and the kids and will see them soon.

 He begins to ask where she is but decides against it. It will only irritate her if she feels as if he’s keeping tabs on her and attempting to control her. She claims he’s overprotective to the point of suffocation, something that the therapist had said they’d touch on in the next session. Why he is the way he is and what he can do to either control it or stop it altogether. Tyler doesn’t necessarily want to be that way; he doesn’t want her to feel as if he’s locking her away in the house and controlling every move she makes. But he’s already come so close to losing her. Twice. And he doesn’t want to take the chance of there being a third time.

 So he doesn���t ask. Even though it gnaws at his stomach that she’s out there. Off the property. With two of his kids in tow. Instead he pockets his cell, pulls the keys from the ignition, and then finishes the coffee that sits in one of the cup holders between the front seats.

 “How are we going to explain me?” Ovi inquires. “Am I just going to be some guy that you hired or…?”

 “He already knows all about you.”

 “How much does he know? Or what does he know?”

 “Your folks were friends of mine and Esme’s, they died, left us you in their will. Nice and simple. It doesn’t need to be complicated.”

 The lying never stops. Not when it comes to the old life. To the old Tyler. But at this stage in the game -with his father not functioning properly in the first place- he doesn’t see the need to burden the old man with the truth. Chances are he’d be extremely pissed and/or disgusted and wouldn’t even remember what he’d been told the next day.

 “And you think he believes it?” Ovi asks.

 “Mate, I don’t even know if he knows who I am anymore. Chances are he doesn’t even remember I have a wife and kids. Or that I even told him about you already. But if he asks, that’s what we tell him. Got it?”

 Ovi nods.

 Tyler opens the compartment between their seats and fishes out the extra bottle of anti anxiety meds. It’s always smart to have them on hand; never knowing what situations or environments will bring on an attack. But he can already feel the heaviness in his chest and the dryness in his mouth, and he takes three of the pills and places them under his tongue, waiting for them to full dissolve before putting the bottle in his pocket.

 It’s a hell of a way to live. Having to dope yourself up just to be able to get out of the goddamn car.

 And he’s plain fucking sick of it.

 ****

 The personal support worker greets them at the front door; a short and stocky Aboriginal woman clad in brightly patterned scrubs and bearing a name tag that identifies her as Maggie. She as kind, almost sad eyes, and a soft, pleasant smile and her grip is deceptively strong when she shakes their hands.

 “You must be Trevor,” she addresses him.

 “Tyler,” he gently corrects, and removing his sunglasses, hangs them on the neck of his t-shirt.

 She offers an apologetic smile. “He told me he was expecting someone named Trevor.”

 “Trevor was his brother. My uncle. He died twenty years ago. But I’m Tyler. His son.”

 “This happens, you know,” she sighs. “Moment when they can’t remember the people in the present, but they remember the ones from the past. It isn’t personal. It’s just the disease. It’s a cruel thing; what it does to people.”

 He nods in agreement, trying to at least appear sympathetic. But he feels nothing. No empathy. No pity. No sorrow that his father is slipping away. No regrets that they’ve let the years go by without even attempting a reconciliation.

 “You just moved back, I hear,” Maggie comments, as she leads them from the front foyer and towards the back of the house. “Were you gone long?”

 “Five and a half years.”

 “That’s a long time to be away from home. What made you come back?”

 “I came into some money and I was able to retire early,” Tyler explains. It’s not a total lie; that part did happen. It just wasn’t as easy as he’s making it sound. “My wife and I decided this was the best place to raise our kids.”

 “Well I can’t argue with that. Is this them?”  Maggie pauses in the hall between the living room and kitchen, nodding at the frame photographs on the wall. “Your kids?”

 It’s their school pictures from last year when they’d still been in Telluride. Before they’d ever heard of Michael McMann. And one of Declan when he’d just been a baby; not even crawling or walking yet.

 Tyler nods. “They’re a year older now. And we added another. A little girl. Two weeks old.”

 Maggie arches an eyebrow. “You’re telling me you have five kids?”

 “Yup.”

 “Five kids,” she breathes and shakes her head. “Boy, you’re either both brave as hell or you’re both just plain crazy.”

 “Maybe both?” Ovi suggests, and then laughs when Tyler directs a playful elbow into his stomach.

 “I actually have six kids,” Tyler says. “If we count him,” he jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “When he’s not being a smart ass.”

 Maggie looks Ovi up and down. “You’re one of his…” she nods at Tyler. “…kids?”

 The young man nods.

 “And just how does that work? When you look like you do…” she looks at Tyler, then at Ovi. “…and you look like you do.”

 “They took me in,” Ovi explains. “Six years ago. After my parents died. It was in my mother’s will. That I was supposed to go to Tyler. So…. here I am.”

 “Here he is,” Tyler confirms, and tousles Ovi’s hair. “Congratulations. It’s a boy. All six foot one and two hundred pounds of him.”

 “He’s not my father, but he is my dad,” Ovi says. “And that’s good enough for me.”

 Maggie gives a slow nod of agreement, and then once again leads the way down the hall. “Your father insisted we put those pictures up as soon as he moved in. He’s extremely proud of his grandkids.”

 Tyler doubts it. On both counts.

 “He’s having one of his ‘okay’ days,” she says. “Woke up knowing what day is, what month, what year.”

 “But thinks his dead brother is going to show up,” Tyler tosses out. And again, nothing. Not even the slightest hint of sadness. The man doesn’t deserve any. Not after the life he’s lived. Not with all the things he’s said and all the things he’s done.

 “He may have just screwed the name up,” she suggests. “I mean, you’re his son. He obviously knows your name.”

 “I haven’t been his son in a long time,” Tyler says. It doesn’t hurt to admit. It just is what it is. In the same way that Ovi may still bear the Mahajan name, but his father had stopped being a part of his life a long time ago because of his own selfish and evil choices. Just as Tyler’s old man had destroyed their relationship with the use of a belt or a fist or whatever else his father could get his hands on.

 “You’ll always be his son,” Maggie’s tone has a scolding tone to it. “He helped give you life.”

 “That’s about all he did. He knocked my mum up. That’s it. I know you mean well, but you shouldn’t be lecturing about how things are between him and I. I lived with him. You didn’t. So how about we just cut the chit chat and you mind your own business.”

 She holds her hands up un surrender, then nods towards the sliding glass door that leads out onto a small patio. “He’s out there. Likes to sit in the sun and listen to the birds. He’s a very sweet man. Very gentle. Very good to us.”

 Tyler gives a derisive snort. It will be a cold day in hell before he acknowledges any of those traits. Because before the old man’s brain started going on him, he was a tyrant. Controlling and manipulative. Drinking far too much. Treating his mother like a slave and then degrading her and beating her if she dared stand up for herself. And when she’d died, all that cruelty and abuse had been turned onto his only child. He could forgive what his father had done to him, but there’s no goddamn way he’d ever forgive him for what he’d done to his mum.

 ****

 His father sits in an old porch swing; frail and sickly looking, a far cry from the man he’d been the last time Tyler had seen him six years ago. When he’d still carried himself with a hint of cockiness and superiority; shoulders still broad, eyes still icy and intimidating. He’s a shell of his former self, and Tyler almost hates himself for viewing this as a form of karma. That after years of treating people horribly, the old man has been reduced to needing help from complete strangers to perform even the smallest of tasks.

 “William, “ Maggie speaks from the doorway. “You have company. Your son and your...” she looks at Ovi for clarification as to just who he is.

 “Grandson,” Tyler finishes for her.

 “Your son and your grandson are here,” she continues. “They’ve come to visit.”

 Tyler gives her a small, appreciative smile and then waits until she steps back into the house and shuts the door before turning to Ovi. “Why don’t you go and find that list he supposedly made of the things we need to fix. Probably on the fridge or the kitchen table or...”

 “TV,” his father speaks up. “It’s by the TV.”

 Tyler smirks. “Go check there. See what you can do on your own. I’ll be in in a few.”

 Ovi nods, then gives a nervous smile and a small wave when he notices Tyler’s father watching him, a puzzled look on his face.

 “Go on,” Tyler encourages. “I need a few minutes here.”

 “Okay,” Ovi agrees, and slips back into the house.

 “Hey dad,” Tyler greets, as he grabs one of the patio chairs and places it facing the swing, sighing heavily as he sinks down into it. “You know who I am right?”

 His father nods, then leans forward and takes a hold of Tyler’s chin, turning his face to one side, then the other. “They let you keep that fur in the army?”

 “I’m not in the army anymore. I haven’t been in it for a long time.”

 “The war is over? They sent you home? From Afghanistan?”

 “I was in Afghanistan sixteen years ago. The war’s been over for a while. That one at least.”

 “So you’re home now?”

 Tyler nods.

 “I don’t know if I have enough room here for you. There’s not a lot of space. I had to get rid of the old place and downsize and...”

 “Dad, I have my own place to live. In Cookstown. With my wife and my kids.”

 He looks puzzled. “You have more than one now? When did that happen? Wasn’t Sarah just getting ready to have Austin?”

 Tyler sighs and runs a hand through his hair, then over his face. “Sarah and I haven’t been together in a long time. Since Austin died. That’s almost sixteen years ago now.”

 His father cocks his head to the side, confusion in his eyes and lining his face. “It is?”

 “I got married again. You were at the wedding. In Sydney. Same little place you and mum got married at. Near the opera house.”

 “Tiny little dark haired thing?”

 “Esme. You made a joke about her having a weird name.”

 “Esme...Esme...” his eyes squint as he tries to remember. “...cute wee thing. I like her. She’s a sweetheart. You’re still married to her?”

 “Six years and counting. She’s still putting up with me somehow. Do you remember meeting your granddaughter? Amelia? I brought her to the old house.”

 His father nods.

 “She’s going to be six in a couple months. I’ve also got twin boys that just turned five. Tyler and Tanner and another boy that’s seventeen months, Declan. And we just had another baby two weeks ago. A little girl. Adeline.”

 The old man smiles. “Your mother’s name.”

 “We call her Addie for short.”

 “That’s nice. Real nice. That you named her after your mother. She loved you so much, you know. Your mother. You were her pride and joy. The light of her life. I’d never seen her so as happy as she was the day you were born. She was a good mom to you. A real good mom.”

 “Yeah....” Tyler clears his throat noisily, trying to rid himself of the lump of emotion that sits squarely in his windpipe. “...she was.”

 “She’s a good mom? Your wife?”

 “She’s an incredible mom. I couldn’t have asked for a better mother for my kids. Or for a better woman to give me children.”

 “Six years?” his father asks. That you’ve been together?”

 “Six years and a couple of months,” Tyler confirms. “I haven’t screwed this one up. Not yet, anyway.”

 “Must be a good woman. A strong woman. To put up with the likes of you. You’ve always been a handful.”  It isn’t said with malice; there’s a soft smile curving the old man’s lips.

 “She keeps hanging in there. Keeps giving me another chance every time I screw up. Which has been a lot, unfortunately. But she never gives up on us. On me.”

 “Don’t let her get away. You’ll regret it if you do. And treat her right. Don’t make the same mistakes I did. You’re better than that. You always have been. You’re better than me. Thank Christ.”

 “Well I guess that’s one thing I do have to thank you for,” Tyler muses. “Showing me how not to be.”

 “And you’re back home? In Australia?”

 “We were in Colorado. We just move back six months ago. We should get you out to the house. You’d love it. It’s right on the beach. Awesome spot. And you’d get to see Amelia again. And meet your other grandkids.”

 His father smiles. “I’d like that.”

 “Maybe for Amelia’s birthday,” Tyler suggests, and then stares down at his hands; palms up, studying all the callouses and scars that years on the job have left behind.

 There’s so much he wants to say. Things that he needs to get off his chest in regard to the nightmare that he’d lived through growing up. He wants to punish his father; make him feel even the slightest bit of regret and remorse for all the things he’s said and done.

 But he doesn’t. Because whatever he says will never come close to the torment that’s always taking place in father’s broken mind.

[turtlepated]

The Handbook for the Recently Married (to the Deceased)

Chapter 3 - 

[TW: brief, loose description of a panic attack. Just tread lightly! Don’t wanna upset anybody!]

Tag list: @sapphic-florals , @beetlejuicebeadoll , @do-ya-hear-that-sound , @imtherain , @imsuchahobbit , @pastelnacht , @tialanderrol , @sammyskip

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At my pronouncement Beetlejuice whipped around to face me so quickly that his head actually spun on his shoulders like a top for a moment before he stopped it by clapping both palms to either side. There was also an audible record scratch followed by complete silence. “I’m sorry, what was that?” he asked, jamming a finger into his ear and wiggling it vigorously as though a blockage may have caused him to mishear me. “I said I’ll marry you. If you want, that is.” He blinked slowly a few times, his mouth opening and then shutting again. His brow furrowed deeply, his eyes narrowing as he fixed me with a doubtful look. “This is a trick, but I’m not sure how.” Despite the complete absurdity of the situation, or maybe because of it, I laughed through my nose at the blunt certainty in his statement. “No trick, you have my word.” Beetlejuice scoffed incredulously and I recoiled from the spray of saliva, wiping the wetness off my cheek. “Nice try, dollface,” he sneered, pacing around me so that I had to turn to keep him in sight. “I’m not fallin’ for that one.”

“But I really mean it,” I insisted. “You said you wanted life, right?” Eyes still narrowed, Beetlejuice gave a jerky affirmative nod. “Yeah…?” “And the only way for you to… become alive is to marry a living person?” He turned his head, fixing me with a mistrustful side eye. “Yeah…?.” I nodded along, shrugging one shoulder as though it were the most casual suggestion possible. “So then, why not marry me?” 

I could practically hear the wheels in his head turning, his expression softening from skepticism into slack-jawed surprise and back again as he debated internally. I watched, amazed and curious, as shoots of different colors flared in his hair like a neon sign: purple and red and blue and yellow. After taking a long moment to think it over, he looked back at me with eyes wide and round.

“Why?” he asked, his raspy voice so quiet it came out like a croak. My throat tightened and I had to swallow hard to force the feeling back down. No one had ever looked at me with that kind of vulnerability, no one had ever spoken to me with such bald openness, and I wondered if he was even aware of just how transparent he was in this moment.

I flashed him a lopsided smile, relieved when my lips didn’t tremble and the burning in my eyes subsided. “You said you were tired of being alone,” I explained, taking a deep breath and mustering my courage. It was my turn to be open. “I am, too. So… let’s get married.” His brows knitted together, his eyes darting back and forth as he thought, his tongue darting out to wet his parted lips. “You’re… you’re serious?” I nodded firmly. “That way, neither of us has to be alone anymore.” From above and behind us, someone cleared their throat. Beetlejuice turned to look and I leaned sideways, peering over his shoulder at the man on the platform. He was still sweating bullets and pale as milk, but he was trying to smile in a friendly way that ended up more of a grimace.

“It just so happens, I’m ordained,” he announced. “I could marry you right now!” At the podiums, Delia let out a sharp cry of alarm. “Otho!” she chastised, aghast. “What are you doing?!” “Oh, shut up, Delia!” Otho nearly shrieked, his voice ratcheting about an octave higher. “I can’t die in Connecticut! Mr. Ghost Demon, sir, if you’ll let me down I’ll gladly perform a civil ceremony!” Beetlejuice beamed, his previously serious and rather melancholy demeanor wiped away as easily dry erase marker off a board. With a snap of his fingers and a tremendous puff of brilliantly green smoke, the scaffold and gallows disappeared and left Otho standing on solid ground, his hands patting himself down all over as if to make sure it was still in one piece.

“Anything can happen in a live show, folks!” Beetlejuice said into his mic, turning once again as if addressing an audience. “We’ll be right back with the wedding of the century! Eat your hearts out, Will and Kate!” Tossing the mic carelessly over his shoulder (it landed somewhere with a shrill scream of electronic feedback) Beetlejuice reached up and began fussing with his bow tie, smoothing the ruffles down the front of his green polyester button-down shirt. “Let’s get this show on the road, Skippy! What’s first?” he asked, practically bouncing over to Otho and slinging an arm around his shoulders like they were old school friends. Jumping and uttering a tiny frightened sound, Otho cleared his throat and took a moment to compose himself before turning on a winning, charismatic smile of perfectly white teeth. While they worked out the particulars, Delia and the Maitlands converged on me like a flock of extremely concerned birds.

They all began speaking at the same time. “You don’t have to do this!” Adam insisted, whispering vehemently so Beetlejuice wouldn’t overhear. “He’s right, we can figure something out together!” Barbara agreed. “We can’t let you go through with this!” Delia tittered anxiously. “He’s a demon!” “He’s dangerous!” “His vibes are atrocious!” I raised my hands in a supplicant gesture, trying to get them to calm down when I felt a cold, clammy hand take me by the elbow. “Shake a leg, babes! It’s showtime!” Beetlejuice tugged me resolutely after him to where Otho stood with his hands clasped loosely in front of him like a very posh reverend. The specter had undergone another wardrobe change, now wearing a somewhat shabby and extraordinarily garish tuxedo of red crushed velvet, his verdant hair slicked back flat against his head. It took a very long moment for me to realize that since pulling me away from the three distraught sympathizers, Beetlejuice had been talking animatedly.

I had thought that I was making, if not a rational decision, then the only logical choice I could make. Now that the moment was upon me, I found that I wasn’t quite as at peace with the whole arrangement as I’d thought I was. Beetlejuice’s words, which were still issuing from his mouth at a startling rate, did not penetrate the cottony fluff that seemed stuffed in my ears as he steered me forward. Was this what getting cold feet felt like? I wasn’t sure, I’d never been engaged before, I’d never been anything before. What had I gotten myself into?

Beetlejuice pulled me up short beside him, turning and glancing me up and down. “Hmm,” he murmured thoughtfully to himself. “Just a sec, doll. Needs a little…” He trailed off, snapping his fingers and enveloping me in a puff of red smoke. It cleared a moment later and I looked down at myself to see that I was now clothed in a long-sleeved dressed of frilled layers with a high, lacey collar. It was also bright red to match his tux. At my right side, Beetlejuice grinned toothily and took my hand, tucking it into the crook of his left elbow and turning us both to face Otho. “All right, sunshine,” he said, grinning ear to ear and bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. “Do your stuff!”

Otho’s eyes darted from Beetlejuice’s to mine, his mouth pulling into a thin line and his eyebrows rising marginally as if to say, “Sorry”, and then he cleared his throat and began to speak. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today before these witnesses to join this… erm…man and this woman in wedded bliss!” Behind us I heard scrambling footsteps, craning back over my shoulder to see Delia and the Maitlands rushing forward as if to put a stop to the proceedings. Without turning, Beetlejuice made a sharp, dismissive gesture with his free hand and the three of them stopped suddenly as if they’d collided with an invisible wall. “Can we just, uh, skip to the important parts?” he asked/instructed the reluctant officiant. Flustered and put on the spot, Otho’s mouth opened and closed like a fish a few times but he did as he was asked.

“If you’ll both just sign your full names to this marriage certificate,” he said, withdrawing a flat leather pouch from an interior pocket of his jacket. He opened it, rifled through for a moment, and pulled out a single slip. “Got a pen, pal?” Beetlejuice asked, plucking it deftly from Otho’s fingers as he dove into another pocket in search of a pen. When Otho produced a pen, Beetlejuice gestured for him to turn around and pressed the certificate to the man’s back, signing his name on a line at the bottom of the document before presenting the pen to me with a flourish. “M’dear,” he said with an enormous rakish grin. I watched my hand reach mechanically forward and take it from him but it wasn’t acting on any conscious input from me. I raised the pen to the paper and wrote my name on the dotted line. Otho spun back around, Beetlejuice insistently stuffing the paper back into his hands. He read the document carefully, shot one last sorrowful look at me, and added his own signature to the final line before shoving the pen back into his pocket without replacing its cap. “Very well then. Lawrence Betelgeuse Shoggoth; do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, and forsaking all others for as long as you both shall live?” Beetlejuice was beaming at me, his hair such a vibrant shade of green it was practically glowing. “I do!”

I blinked dumbly, momentarily thrown by the unexpected normalcy of at least part of his full name as Otho turned at last to me. “And do you… yada yada yada, so long as you both shall live?” he asked, cutting an anxious glance to Beetlejuice who was making an impatient “hurry it up!” gesture. I opened my mouth but couldn’t make a sound, my mind going totally blank. I could hear muffled thumps and voices behind us, as if Barbara, Adam and Delia were trying to get through whatever invisible barrier Beetlejuice had erected between them and us. My eyes turned to the expectant face of the man beside me. Beetlejuice’s eyes were fixed on me, his grin slipping slightly as I kept my silence. I heard myself say the words in my head before they made it to my lips: “I do.”

Exhaling quietly, Otho concluded, “Then by the power vested in me by the state of whatever, I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.” Without further adieu, Beetlejuice slipped one arm around my waist, grasped the back of my head with the other hand and crushed his mouth against mine as he spun me dizzyingly around, dipping me so severely I gasped against his lips, sure that I was about to hit the floor. But he held me up with apparent ease, cantilevered at a steep angle to the floor, and took my gasp as an opportunity to slip his chilly tongue into my mouth. The scent and taste of him flooded my senses; damp soil and stagnant, mildewy water, dead leaves and the sickly-sweet odor of long-wilted flowers. It was wet and melodramatic, slightly musty and interspersed with an almost painful press of teeth. He was also making no attempt to be quiet about it, moaning lewdly against my mouth.

How much longer was he planning this to go on, I wondered? Laughing softly through my nose, I figured I might as well play along and raised my hands to his face, cupping his jaw. His bristly scruff was rough against my thumbs as I ran them up and over his cheeks, my fingers coming to rest in the short, thick hair at the base of his skull. A jolt passed through him as he sucked in a sharp breath through his nose and his eyes snapped wide open. Just as quickly and easily as I’d gone down he swung me upright, separating from me with a sound like a plunger being pulled from a sink. We looked at one another in silence for a beat, my eyes rising to the top of his head where I could swear strands of his hair were turning a soft cotton candy pink. Clearing his throat and averting his gaze, Beetlejuice lifted his hands up to his face. He spread and wiggled his fingers, rotating them at the wrist to scrutinize the front and back of his palms. “Huh,” he grunted, underwhelmed. “That seems pretty anticlimactic.” “Was something supposed to happen?” I asked. He gave a noncommittal, one-shouldered shrug. “I mean, I thought so, but maybe-”  

Beetlejuice cut himself off with a sharp cry, doubling over, his face crinkling as if in pain and his hands pressed flat against his chest. All of us jumped back, alarmed, unsure what to do as he let out a strangled gasp, curling further in on himself, staggering unsteadily and grunting, his eyes pinched tightly shut and his teeth bared. After a moment he relaxed, head hanging down, trembling arms braced against his thighs as his back rose and fell in deep, shuddering breaths. “Wow,” he said, somehow even raspier than before. “That was a thing.” Blowing out one last hard exhale he righted himself, hands on his hips. “So! When do we eat the cake – oh….” Beetlejuice froze in place, his mouth a tiny o, his eyes the size of saucers. “What was…? There it is again!” He dashed the few feet over to me, so fast I thought he might bowl me right over, seizing one of my hands in both of his and mashing my palm firmly against his chest. “Do you feel that?!”

I stiffened at the unexpected closeness and contact, but I tried to figure out what he was talking about. Truthfully, I didn’t feel anything at all at first, but when I concentrated I did indeed distinguish a rhythmic thump. “Your… your heartbeat?” I asked. A harsh gasp tore from him, his face going totally slack in shock. “I have a heartbeat?” he repeated numbly. “I’m… alive?” He let out a bark of laughter, then another, then launched into a full-on bout of hysterics ranging from deep belly laughter to high, tittering giggles as he flung both arms around my waist, lifted me up and spun me around, so overcome by his elation. “I’m alive! I’m aliiiiive! Thank you! Thankyouthankyouthankyou! I’ve never been so happy!” With another loud gasp he stopped again, the skirt of my dress swinging around us as he plopped me unceremoniously back on my feet. “I’m happy!” he said, the word coming out as a reedy squeak.

His joy was so contagious I couldn’t help smiling myself. Even the others, glancing uncertainly to me and one another, were looking at the very least hopeful that maybe it was smooth sailing from here on out.

It was not.

“Oh God, what if it doesn’t last?” he whined, twisting his hands together anxiously. “Oh God, it’s gone! The happiness is gone! What if it never comes back?! Now I feel bad! Ugh, why does it feel like I swallowed a bowling ball? And like somebody melon-balled out my heart?! That’s not fair, those feelings don’t even go together! Now I’m mad!” We all stood stupefied by the intensity and speed of his emotional 180. He rounded on us in a fury, charging towards no one in particular and raving about how society failed to teach men how to properly process their anger. The others clustered loosely together, safety in numbers after all, and I stepped toward him, laying a hand lightly on his arm and making a soft shushing motion with the other. He stopped when I touched him, chest heaving, jaw clenched, eying me hard. “Just take a deep breath,” I urged, taking care to keep my voice as calm as possible, demonstrating for him the long slow inhale through the nose, the long slow exhale through the mouth. “Try it,” I said when he looked doubtful, still practically panting but at my insistence he begrudgingly copied me, sucking in a huge lungful of air and puffing his cheeks out. We exhaled at the same time and repeated the exercise and I was relieved to note the tension draining out of the set of his shoulders and the forearm which I still had my hand curled loosely around.

“Better?” I asked. He grumbled something under his breath. All eyes turned in the same direction then as a door opened in the wall, emitting drifting mist that glowed faintly green. Lydia emerged from the murk, followed closely by the tall man who had run through after her, presumably her father. Both of them stopped dead, faces freezing into nearly identical masks of confusion as they took in the scene before them: Delia and the Maitlands huddled, Otho hiding behind them, while Beetlejuice and I stood together in ostentatious red wedding apparel. “What the hell?” said Lydia, her father too befuddled to reprimand her for the swear. The door swung silently closed of its own accord behind them, awkward silence filling the room until I cleared my throat. “Are you Charles Deetz?” I asked. Charles Deetz nodded mutely. I raised my hand in a half-hearted wave. “Hi. I’m your neighbor. I brought your mail.”

Delia raced forward then to Charles and Lydia, flinging her arms around them while the Maitlands kept their distance for the time being, turning their attention to myself. “What’re you gonna do now?” Barbara asked, trying not to make it obvious that she was talking about the now no-longer-dead demon standing next to me. I raised my eyebrows. I hadn’t even stopped long enough yet to think about what would happen now. “I… have absolutely no idea,” I admitted, turning to see that Lydia had pried herself free from Delia and had marched over to Beetlejuice. She stopped right in front of him, glaring defiantly, arms crossed over her chest. “That was a crappy stunt you pulled,” she said matter of factly. Beetlejuice, unimpressed by her demeanor, held his ground. “Don’t gimme that, half pint. You started it!” he growled back. Lydia’s glower faltered, replaced with total incomprehension. “What? What are you talking about?” Beetlejuice pointed triumphantly, nearly poking her in the face as he said, “See! There you go again!” She batted his hand away and considering his shaky handle on the whole emotions thing, I thought it best to intervene before things got out of control. I looped my arm through Beetlejuice’s and steered him purposefully away from the irate teen and towards the door. “Come on, honey, we don’t want to overstay our welcome.” Charles and Delia, who’d been cooing and fussing at one another, seemed to remember their unexpected guest at that point and called after me. “Wait!” Charles began, bringing himself up short, unsure of what to say. “Will you… be all right?” He shot a quick glance at Beetlejuice as if to add “with him?” I felt Beetlejuice tensing again next to me, leaning into him and laying my other hand against his bicep. “We’ll be just fine. It was, er… very nice to meet you all!”

With that, I opened the front door and walked out with a husband in tow. As we descended the steps, from inside I heard someone, it sounded like Delia, shout, “Congratulations!”

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Ah, weddings. Tears, emotions, full blown meltdowns and threats of physical violence... 

Thanks for reading! Up next, domestic bliss with the Juice man! PFT!

If you’d like to be tagged, gimme a shout!

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 4

[amostimprobabledream]

Vernalagnia (Tommy x May)

She goes home from the Derby in her silly red dress and prepares to tuck it, and her dreams, away.

May sighs and pushes a lock of hair behind her ear. She shouldn't be surprised. Not really. Didn't he warn her at the stables?

There's someone…

The girl who was supposed to be sailing away. The secret. Passably good-looking, though not as beautiful as May had imagined. For a man like Tommy Shelby to still be interested after two years (May did her homework), but she supposes it hardly matters now, whatever she looks like.

Tommy has made his choice.

It's silly, the way her chest aches as if it's missing something that was only recently there. She had thought after she lost her husband that nothing else could hurt her like that again. She swam in pain, then. She'd wake every day feeling like the weight of the ocean was bearing down on her and she'd choke and gasp for air, wondering if it was possible to drown by her own tears.

Her father had held her up, stopped her from sinking. He knew what it was like to lose someone – May's own recollections of Mama are misty and vague, but when she became a young woman, her father would look at her with such pain in his eyes. They never spoke about it out loud, but May knows that for her father, Mama has never been a distant memory.

Enough of this. May thinks sternly to herself as she holds out a foot and allows the made to remove her muddy riding boots. She could and would do it herself, usually, but she often gets the sense that the maids want to do more than what she asks of them. They're probably bored, with only one mistress to attend to in this big, expansive house. May has guests over all the time, but no matter how many they are, they never seem able to quite drown out how their voices and footsteps still echo.

"Will there be anything else, madam?" the maid asks her. "Some tea, perhaps?"

"No, that's quite all right, Winnie," May says, managing a smile. "I've had a long day. I think I'll just retire for the evening."

Winifred accepts this with a nod and a smile of her own, but her disappointment is clear as she leaves. They really are bored, but May isn't in the mood for witnesses to her melancholy at the moment. She'll speak to them tomorrow, maybe.

"You don't know maids."

May closes her eyes for a moment, as if it takes all of her concentration to banish the phantom image of Tommy Shelby from her mind. He's proving rather insistent about staying there, unfortunately, even if he isn't so keen to do so in person.

May undresses, holding out her red dress and inspecting it in the low lamplight and she knows she'll always think of the Derby when she looks at it, no matter where else she might wear the dress. It's a shame, it's a beautiful colour and a fashionable design, but the memories stain it far worse than any mud could hope to. They cling like perfume. She's almost tempted to fling it on the fire and watch the flames chew through it, but that seems melodramatic. Maybe she should give it to Winifred, instead.

Sensing that sleep will not come easily to her that night, May pours herself a drink. Brandy, to warm up the numb feeling that has settled inside her like snow.

"Cheers," May murmurs to nobody, before swallowing a mouthful.

It goes down warm and sweet and she has to remind herself to drink it steadily, instead of dashing it all down in one go like she'd seen some of the girls at the Derby doing, which was tempting. One woman in white had been steadily drinking most of the afternoon, though judging by her red-rimmed eyes and the shaking hand that held her cigarettes, May deduced that this particular woman was in dire need of it.

Her bed feels enormous to her, the sheets impervious and unwelcoming to her presence. After considering it, May wriggles out of it again and moves towards the window – her room is hot, since the fire has been kept burning all evening and she wants to breathe in fresh air as she sleeps, not wake up and feel suffocated. She opens it a crack and peers out into the night. It's a clear sky, the moon close and round above the grounds. The closest houses are all dark, so when May peers out into the distance, it's like there's nothing anywhere but trees. She shakes her head and slips back into bed, shifting to get comfortable.

There's the horse, too. May thinks dryly to herself. What was she going to do about that? It seems unseemly to continue training Tommy Shelby's racehorse, given the name it bears and the circumstances around it, but he'd already paid her to do it. Until today, she had enjoyed doing so – May is never happier than when she is with her horses. But, like other things that had brought her joy, it appears as though it's not meant to be. Maybe she should just send the money back.

Another thing for her to deal with later. She's too exhausted and despondent to be making rational choices at the moment, and the brandy is starting to kick in – a dreaminess engulfs her, filling her head with a fog that isn't unpleasant. May stares at the dwindling fire as her eyes begin to close, voices floating through her mind.

No regrets, May. No regrets. ~

Birdsong wakes her.

May's eyes flicker open. It is not quite yet morning – the sun is just pulling itself over the horizon, as if too had a difficult day previously and the grounds are still coated in an early-morning mist that always reminds May of being out at sea, like the house is its own little island.

She's an early riser, courtesy of her horse-riding, so she sees no reason not to get up. Her mouth still tastes of brandy and she's glad that she stopped at one. It seems like a good time to try getting into the habit of sensible decisions.

May rises and heads for the bathroom, splashing water on her face, rolling her eyes at her reflection and begins thinking of what she needs to do today, tomorrow, all the days sprawling out before her. She knows she's being pessimistic, to think of the time as just tasks to complete, so she steps back into her room to get dressed.

Only, she stops.

It's like he arrived with the dawn. A figure in black, standing boldly in the middle of her bedroom, staring at her with those eyes that remind her of a crisp January day.

"Tommy," May says, her voice sounding quiet even to her own ears. "What's happened?"

He looks tired, she realises. There's a heaviness in his posture and shadows in his face that weren't there before. Something important just happened to Tommy in the last twenty-four hours, but she doubts that he'll explain himself. He rarely answers questions, after all.

"A few things," he says, his voice slightly hoarse. "But they're done with, now."

"Are they?" May asks.

Perhaps her tone is a little arc, or perhaps he could read the wariness in her body. Either way, he fixes her with a look that freezes her in place with the intensity of it. She wants to look away, but doesn't.

"Yeah. They are." He replies.

And he crosses the room to her in three strides, just three, and then he's pulling her in, kissing her hungrily, hand on the small of her back. May reacts instinctively, wraps her arms around his neck, sinking into him. She's never said it out loud, but she loves the way he holds her to him, solid and warm and here.

For a few minutes they just kiss, but there's so much exchanged between those kisses, the way his lips part and she does the same, a meeting of tongues, before it's back to their lips again, all of it tingling with a pulse that jumpstarts her heart, like he's waking her body from hibernation.

"It's done, then?" May asks, and she doesn't doubt for a second that Tommy was doing more than just attending the races that day. "And she really has sailed away? For good?"

She'd like to pretend she doesn't care, but she does, and she knows Tommy knows it too. Might as well bite the bullet and just ask the obvious question. Tommy's thumb traces her cheek and when she looks up at him, his pupils are huge, threatening to eclipse the slim circle of blue surrounding them.

"We're not like your fuckin' goldfish, May," Tommy says, "Life's too short to forgive and forget. From now, the past stays where it belongs."

May finds herself nodding at that, even though it wasn't a question. He pulls her in closer, his lips ghosting up her neck.

"It's you, May," he tells her huskily, and his words and his lips send a shiver through her. "It's you I want."

And she knew that Tommy Shelby gets what he wants. A smile curves her lips and she releases a breath she didn't know she was holding.

"And I you," she answers simply.

It's enough, because she feels Tommy smile against her skin before his hands slide up her back.

No more is said as he guides her back to the bed, which is still warm. She feels vulnerable in just her nightgown while he's in full attire, but it doesn't last long. His coat and hat are removed in a way that manages to be both swift and strangely elegant at once. Her heart skips a beat as he climbs onto the bed, kissing her like a man starved. He looks down at her lying there, as if to drink in the sight of her, like he can't believe she's really there.

His hands slide up her thighs and May watches him, nearly shivering with anticipation, as he takes his time with it, the silk of her nightgown exposing inch by tantalising inch of her.

The silence stretches as he gently tugs the material over her head, tossed into some corner of the room. His body is both beautiful and flawed, pale and muscled, littered with scars and tattoos that speak of pain that runs far deeper than mere flesh. May by comparison is soft and smooth, it gives away nothing. His fingertip traces her bottom lip.

"Look at you," he breathes, his voice rough with want. "Fuckin' beautiful."

The contrast isn't lost on May. A man as violent and dangerous as Tommy Shelby shouldn't be capable of undoing her with a few simple words, but he is. Perhaps that's the most dangerous thing about him. When he kisses her like this, when he touches her, his hand sliding between her legs, the rest of the world simply floats away. He strokes her firmly, fingers expertly reaching to a place that makes her gasp out loud, while his wicked mouth marks her skin. It pleases Tommy to leave his stamp on her, and he can see by how she squirms and how dark her eyes are that May likes it too.

It's not like before his name leaves her mouth in a rising cry, pleasure sweeping over her in such a fierce surge that all she can do is surrender to it. Not that May minds.

She pulls Tommy down to her as he finally enters her, needing – no – demanding skin on skin, the feeling of his body on hers. It's been so long and she has been so alone, and the notion that she never has to be again…well, can she really be blamed for getting greedy for that feeling?

Tommy rests a forearm above her head, bracing himself as he moves and May drags her hand up the shorn side of his head, tugging at his thick, dark hair. He growls softly and sends more heat chasing down her spine in the most delightful way.

"Tommy…" May cries out, gasps punctuating every sound she makes. "Oh…Tommy…"

"Yes," he responds in barely more than a low murmur, but the way he says it is everything. "That's it, May. That's it, my girl."

She doesn't know, exactly, if he planned this from the moment he set off to go to her. Perhaps he knew as soon as he saw the house, or when he climbed through her window, but even if he didn't plan it, this seems inevitable. Their coming together like this, it's the most natural thing in the world.

Her fingernails dig into his shoulderblades as she comes, her body tingling with the pleasure of it, a tightness in her melting away with the peaceful euphoria that follows. Tommy groans against her ear, pressing his lips to hers as he collapses beside her, spent. They lie like that for a stretch of time that feels much longer than it is, and May combs her fingers leisurely through his hair. When Tommy walks into the house, it's like she can breathe properly again for the first time in years.

She wonders if perhaps she chases away the darkness inside his head.

"Penny for 'em," Tommy says beside her.

She glances at him and isn't surprised to find he's lightning a cigarette, propped against the pillows. He offers her one and he takes it, letting him light it for her.

"I was just thinking that you won't be needing to stay in the guest wing anymore," May says and Tommy gives a snort of amusement.

"No, don't suppose I will," he says, smoke furling from between parted lips.

She studies the planes of his face, the sharp angles of his cheekbones and jaw. He has a cut by his eyebrow that's new – she suspects it has something to do with the cryptic 'business' mentioned.

"Have you thought of one yet?" she asks him.

Tommy takes another drag of his cigarette before speaking.

"Thought of what?"

"A new name," May says, smiling as she takes a drag on her own cigarette. "For the horse."

Tommy didn't answer that immediately. Instead he turned the question over in his mind, like a shiny new penny. He hadn't been wrong when he'd told his men that Derby Day was going to be a big one, but even he couldn't have foreseen just how big it had turned out to be.

A man discovers the truly important things, when he's about to die. He knows that better than anyone. And the image of himself kneeling in a fucking field, knowing that everything he'd worked to the bone for was about to slip away…

He turns and looks at May. She knew something about being lost too. But she was here, and now that Tommy had found her, he didn't want to let go again. With the past dying behind him, sure as the mist was dispersing beneath the rising sun, the future was Tommy's to grasp with both hands.

"Springtide," Tommy says and he likes how the word sounds aloud – crisp and clean.

"Springtide," says May and he likes it even more in her accent. The sun is high enough now that it lights up her face, and her smile is warm as she turns her body towards him. "I like it."

Tommy nods, removes the cigarette and leans over to kiss her, her lips parting for him like a flower.

With May beside him, the bleak midwinter fades away.

[bapha]

Collaboration work with @reluctantlyback for @yoihomezine from last year. We are free to post now, so enjoy! Please read Aza work, it’s a pretty domestic day for the gang. You can read read the fic here or go to Ao3: His Gold by Aza. T, 2.501 words. Canon compliant, post-series, Victuri, russian family.

Yuuri can’t help feeling nervous and awkward during around the Russian skaters his first few days in St. Petersburg. Thankfully, McDonald’s is an international favorite for cheat day meals. And besides, Viktor is there too.

As he laced up his skates and stepped onto the ice, Yuuri marveled at the grand Sports Champions Club rink. Even though he’d already been training there for a couple of days, the sheer enormity of it still stunned him. And of course, the fact that he was practicing in Viktor’s home rink never failed to make his inner fanboy light up with joy.

               Once he finished his warm-ups, he skated to the section of rail where Viktor stood, one finger tapping gently against his lip. “Well? Where should I start, coach?” Yuuri let himself purr the last word, knowing exactly how much Viktor loved to hear it. A faint blush rushed to his fiancé’s cheeks.

               Viktor leaned over the railing. He put his hands around Yuuri’s shoulders and leaned in close to whisper in his ear. “One of these days, you’re going to say that, and I won’t be able to stop myself, dorogoy.”

               This time, it was Yuuri who turned pink. He jerked back a little—just enough so that he wasn’t quite so close, but still within Viktor’s arms. “Not here,” he hissed, feeling his cheeks warm further. His coach pouted.

               “We’re alone though,” Viktor pointed out. “The others won’t be here for another hour and a half.”

               “That—that’s not the point!” Yuuri pulled back a little more, trying his best to ignore Viktor’s pout. “Coach Feltsman trusted us enough to arrange for us to use the rink for a couple hours before he comes in. We shouldn’t abuse that trust.”

               Viktor smiled slightly. “I guess… Okay! Let’s work on your short program step sequence. It was absolutely, what’s the English word—stilted! —at the Grand Prix. I want you to keep running through it until I say you can stop.”

               Yuuri nodded. Now that he’d memorized his routines and mastered most of his jumps, he rarely needed Viktor on the ice. Besides, Yuuri thought as he skated out to the center, it was probably for the best that his fiancé conserves more energy now that Viktor was competing as well.

               The familiar strums of the guitar echoed through the near-empty rink as Yuuri wrapped his arms around himself. He took only a moment to become immersed in the music. Only Viktor’s occasional shouted criticism alerted him to the passage of time. Yuuri danced and spun on the ice, taking full advantage of his high stamina to run through the Eros step sequence over and over. He imagined the endless haze of a night spent getting drunk, every pole dancing class, the heat of a night spent with Viktor. That, he knew, was his true eros, his ultimate performance by which he’d finally win a gold medal. By the time his coach called him over for a break, nearly an hour had passed.

               “Very good, very sexy.” Viktor leaned over the barrier again. “I really felt that performance,” he murmured, one hand tracing Yuuri’s collarbone, the other cupping his own chin.

               Yuuri gulped. “W-what next?”

               Viktor sighed and withdrew his hand. “So devoted. Hmm…quad flips. Land three or four in a row, then skate a few laps and try again. Let’s aim for…three rounds.”

               “Yes, coach!” Yuuri pushed off the rail and gathered speed, thinking only of the magnificent jump’s incredible height and power, imagining ice chips flying with the force of his takeoff. He began entry, and with a final push—

               He spun in midair once, twice, three times—four! He landed neatly on one foot, and immediately collected more speed for another jump. Yuuri finished the round and began skating laps, allowing himself to cool down a bit before attempting a second sequence.

               As he entered the next cycle of three jumps, the doors to the rink opened with a bang and a groan and a general clamor of voices and gear rustling in bags. Yuuri recognized Yurio’s shouts and what sounded like Georgi whimpering in pain. A distinctly feminine laugh—Mila, maybe—echoed over the two.

               Yuuri tried to mentally refocus. Now was not the time to lose concentration and flub a jump, not when the rest of the rink’s skaters had just arrived. He skated faster. He moved into the entry position, and out of the corner of his eye, spotted Coach Feltsman moving towards the rail. Pushing for liftoff, he pulled his arms in and jumped.

               Four tight rotations later, he came down hard, double-footing the landing in an effort to stay upright. Frowning, he gathered speed again, catching a glimpse of Viktor’s silvery hair as his fiancé turned to face his own coach. Coach Feltsman gestured wildly toward the ice. Yuuri flinched instinctively and managed only a triple before slamming onto the ice.

               “Yuuri!” Viktor’s voice wasn’t disappointed by any means, but Yuuri couldn’t help feeling wary as he skated towards his fiancé and Coach Feltsman.

               “Yes, Vitya?” He wrung his hands out of Viktor’s view.

               Coach Feltsman grunted, catching Yuuri’s attention, and in his heavy accent instructed him to get off the ice. Yuuri nodded quickly and moved to follow the order.

               As he cleaned off his skates and placed them in his bag, Yuuri noticed that nobody had taken his place on the ice. In fact, Yurio seemed to be engaged in a rather vicious shouting match with his coach, Mila and Georgi standing nearby, mouths agape. Viktor, on the other hand, was watching the confrontation with an amused look on his face.

               Yuuri shouldered his bag, prepared to relocate to the gym or dance studio. He caught Viktor’s eye, and moved to his side. “Where to, coach?”

               Viktor smiled. “Lunch!”

               The arguing between Coach Feltsman and Yurio came to an abrupt halt. Yuuri frowned. “It’s not even noon.”

               “No arguing, Yuuri!”

               “But—”

               “Later tonight, darling!”

               Yuuri felt his face turn bright red. He stammered something out, but it was drowned out by Yurio’s gagging noise.

               “Shut up, old man! There are other people around you two morons! Gross! I’m even a fucking minor!”

               Viktor smiled pleasantly, and it grew to a full-on heart-shaped grin as he spoke. “I should hope not; even if you’re at the age of consent, you’re our kotyonok, so no.”

               “I’LL MURDER YOU, YOU GODDAMN PERVERT—!”

               Yuuri and Viktor made a quick escape, leaving Mila, Georgi, and an exasperated and somewhat terrified Coach Feltsman to deal with Yurio’s sudden, violent rage.

                 By the time they had gathered outside the rink, Viktor had queued at least six restaurant websites on his phone. Yuuri watched with some amusement as his fiancé flicked through another food blog with sparkles in his eyes.

               “Yuuri, what do you think of this place? It’s a Korean place, Makko Li, and it’s got great reviews—here, look.” Viktor extended his phone long enough for Yuuri to catch a glimpse of a cozy brick interior before snatching it back to flip to a picture of a warm but sleek restaurant. “Or we could go to here, Phali Hinkali; it has nearly four hundred five-star reviews. But it is a cheat day, so maybe Italian? A plate full of carbs is a cheat day classic…”

               The sound of doors squeaking open caused Yuuri to glance up. Mila, Georgi, and a reluctant (and stomping) Yurio exited the rink, bags slung over their shoulders. The two older skaters stopped a few feet away from Yuuri and Viktor, allowing Yurio to come to a screeching halt only a couple inches from Viktor’s phone.

               “What are you doing, standing around like that, old man?” Yurio wasn’t yelling, but his harshness was still present. Yuuri noticed distantly that his face was still red from shouting. “You’re blocking traffic. Get out of my way.”

        ��      Viktor looked up, the picture of innocence. “But Yurio—”

               “That’s not my name, damn it!”

               “—we’re all going to eat together! All five of us!” Viktor smiled brightly and walked past Yurio to put an arm around Georgi and Mila’s shoulders.

               Yurio bristled. Yuuri thought about taking a small step back from the blond ball of anger, but one glare from Yurio had him frozen.

               Viktor dragged Mila and Georgi over, nearly barreling into Yurio. “I’ll pay! Join us!”

               Yurio’s frown eased a bit. “Fine, but only because you’re paying. I still hate you all.”                “Perfect!” Viktor smiled, but then frowned. “Where should we go, moy dorogoy?”

               Yuuri thought for only a moment. “McDonald’s. I haven’t had any since I left Detroit, and nothing comes close in unhealthy-cheat-day content.”

               Mila grinned. “…McDonald’s? As in the American burger chain? I’m in!”

               “Oh, I went there after Anya—” Georgi’s eyes began to water, but he quickly choked out assent to eating there. Yurio glared, but didn’t object, so they all began walking down the sidewalk. Mila and Yurio exchanged scathing insults, while Georgi and Viktor made pleasant small talk.

               Despite holding his Vitya’s hand, Yuuri felt isolated. Though Viktor and Georgi made the effort to speak in English, the overwhelming sound of Russian gnawed on his anxieties. At least when he’d moved to Detroit, he’d had a passable grasp of English. All the Russian he knew were pet names and a few choice curses. Before he could worry too much, Viktor squeezed his hand, and Yuuri refocused on Georgi’s somewhat animated tale of his first date with Katya, another woman unsuspecting of the skater’s flair for dramatics.

               By the time they reached McDonald’s, the lunch rush hadn’t quite started, so Yuuri walked right up to the counter. While menus varied slightly between countries, McDonald’s had a fairly standardized selection. Yuuri knew exactly what he wanted: a Big Mac easy on the mayo and liberal with the onions, a medium fry, and a large sweet tea. Viktor, to his credit, didn’t even blink as he placed the order, pausing for a moment after finishing.

               “Pick out my meal, Yuuri? I’m starving.”

               “Uh…I think you’ll like the mushroom and swiss.”

               Viktor pouted. “That’s it?”

               “You and your insanely fast metabolism,” Yuuri muttered. Clearing his throat, he added “Large fry and a small McFlurry, plus a cup for water.”

               “Sounds amazing!” They stepped aside for the others to order, and once Viktor swiped his card to pay, went in search of a table. Georgi and Mila slid into one side of a booth, leaving Viktor, Yurio, and Yuuri to split the other side of the booth.

               Yurio glared. “Idite vy,” he hissed, but after a quick frown from Viktor, stalked off to retrieve their food. Viktor scooched all the way to the window, leaving Yuuri to plant himself solidly in the middle. The table was silent. Mila twisted to check on their order. Georgi tapped out a text.

               Viktor attempted to make small talk, but Yuuri couldn’t manage anything more than noncommittal mumbles. With the Russian skaters listening, Yuuri couldn’t help but feel self-conscious. Even though he knew they didn’t hate him, his mind kept going back to his failed quad flips, insisting they resented him for wasting ice time. And, his mind supplied unhelpfully, they had to hate him for bringing disgrace to the rink’s flawless and pristine image. Who was he, his brain mocked, to think he was good enough to practice at Russia’s premier rink—?

               Yurio slammed their trays down. A couple of fries on the top went flying in the air and skittered across the table. “Here’s the stupid food.” He flopped down next to Yuuri, grabbed his burger and drink, and began eating with fervor. The others blinked, and as if electrified by Yurio’s actions, began a mad scramble to properly identify which items were whose.

               Yuuri bit into his Big Mac and had to keep himself from moaning. Good old-fashioned American grease, Viktor by his side plowing through his fries…it was the subject of many a Detroit dream. The pleasant silence brought on by everybody eating calmed Yuuri’s nerves. If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend that he was back in America, in the McDonald’s just off campus, sinking his teeth into a meal Celestino would murder him for.

               Almost. Yuuri could not ignore Viktor’s knee against his, or the way his fiancé’s arm brushed against his own as Viktor reached for his McFlurry, or the twin glint of their rings as they caught the noon sun. It made an idyllic if somewhat bizarre scene, and as Viktor reached for another fry, Yuuri grabbed his hand.

               “Hmm? Is something the matter, my Yuuri?” Viktor frowned slightly in concern.

               Yuuri smiled softly. “I just feel so happy right now, Vitya.”

               Viktor blushed, a soft pink dusting his cheeks. His blue, blue eyes narrowed somewhat as he smiled. “I love you too, zolotse.”

               A muffled thump caught Yuuri’s attention. Mila had dropped her chicken tender, mouth still open. Georgi’s eyes became suspiciously bright, and sure enough, he began to cry.

               “Is something wrong?” Yuuri asked.

               “It’s just—” Georgi sniffled. “Such p-pure love!” He began to sob in earnest, fries long forgotten.

               Yurio made a gagging noise. “Blin, keep that romance shit at home, Viktor! Nobody wants to see that out in public.”

               “Mind your language, Yurio,” Viktor singsonged, narrowly dodging a fry flying towards his head.

               Yurio settled for making a rude gesture and refocusing on plowing through his remaining fries.

               “Um, Mila?” Yuuri asked, hyperaware of Georgi’s tears and Yurio’s volatile temper. “What does that mean, ‘zolotse’? Vikor won’t translate it for me.”

               She stared for a moment, mouth still agape. “…gold. It means ‘my gold.’”

               Yuuri flushed, feeling his face turn red as the linoleum seats. “Really?” he asked, turning toward his fiancé. “But I haven’t won a gold yet.”

               Viktor flipped his hair, doing his best to act nonchalant. “Well, you know. I guess you at least got me a gold ring, so.”

               Yuuri smirked slightly, forgetting completely about their company. “Of course, Vitya. I love you too.”

                  By the time everyone had finished their meal, Yurio, Mila, and Georgi were adamant about returning to the rink. Viktor, on the other hand, dragged Yuuri back toward their shared apartment. “I need a little ‘Yuuri’ time,” he’d said, drawing said man into a kiss.

As they walked hand-in-hand down the St. Petersburg streets, Yuuri thought about how nervous he’d been to move to Russia: how he’d worried Viktor’s rinkmates would hate him; that he’d miss Hasetsu excessively like he had in Detroit; that the language would be too hard to grasp; that despite Viktor’s presence, it wouldn’t feel like home.

But Mila and Georgi were openly welcoming (Yurio wasn’t even too hostile), he was slowly but surely picking up bits of Russian, and he didn’t miss Hasetsu the way he once had. His hometown would always be part of his heart, but now...

Yuuri gathered the courage to very quietly say, “Moy dom tam, gde ty.” He burrowed his face into his coat, unable to look up thanks to his blush.

               Viktor’s step faltered for a beat but resumed its steady pace quickly. “I feel exactly the same way, my Yuuri. My life, my love.”