#probably asks to be called Nettle or Sting | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

catte-bard · 3 years

Text

FFXIV Write 2021 #13: Oneirophrenia

Urianger in his few months of knowing the pixies felt there were two very important facts about them. They were rather friendly, little creatures. And they were mischievous little devils. Fond of mayhem they were always trying to find little tricks to play on visitors to Il Mheg.

And Urianger was their favourite playmate. The mysterious elf who spoke with a funny voice and who had taken up residence in one the old mortal dwellings. He absolutely delighted them. Mortals never stayed in Il Mheg; they feared the fey and usually tried to pass through quickly when traveling its roads.

Today he had been making notes of the different kinds of flora that bloomed the land. Making quick sketches—though his hand wasn’t as talented as young Master Alphinaud’s—as well as jotting notes down about them.

Fascinating, it was all incredibly fascinating. He had theorized that Il Mheg must be somewhere geographically where Ishgard is on the Source. And yet it possessed a completely different clime.

He had been studying the plant life, curious to see if there were any similarities to those on his home shard. However, much of the flora seemed to have evolved in its own way separate from those on the Source. Which he supposed would make sense. The First’s history had been carved out in a different path from the Source. It had experienced its own eras, its own disasters, tragedies, and other impactful events. And so the flora and fauna and even the landscape itself would’ve adapted differently.

“Urianger!” A chipper voice suddenly popped into existence.

“Good morning to thee, Kenn Beq.” Urianger hummed as he scribbled something down in his journal about the tree he was resting under.

“What are you doing this time?” Kenn Beq asked, flitting close to look over his shoulder. “Oh what pretty pictures! Uri likes flowers! Lemme see! Lemme see! Don’t be shy now!”

And with a flick of their wrist, Urianger’s journal was suddenly lifted out of his hands and into the air. The Archon let out a noise of protest. It seemed the pixies were in a mischievous mood today.

“Kenn Beq.” Urianger fiercely said as if reprimanding a child. “Return that at once.”

They merely giggled at him and leafed through the pages. “Oh calm yourself. I only want to look. Oooh, Uri seems to be a scholar as well. Kenn Sul, come look!” They then called and another pixie popped forth.

Kenn Sul and Kenn Beq were perhaps the equivalent of twins in the world of mortals. The other pixies explained that the pair had been “born” together. And thus the two of them together were the source of much mayhem.

In truth, Urianger always found them rather endearing. Perhaps, reminded of another set of twins he knew well; and thus tolerated their presence. However, today he was in no mood to entertain these two.

“Oooh, how pretty!” Kenn Sul fawned. “You should have told us you liked flowers, Uri.”

He sighed. “Aye, I wish to learn more about thou’s land. And I’ve found the best way to learn about one’s surroundings is to observe the plant life. Now if you would be so kind.” And he stretched out his hand, waiting for his book to be returned to him.

The twins shared a look. And he did not like the smirks on their faces. The pixies were like children, he’d decided—very naughty children. Always scheming something wicked.

“Oh fine.” Kenn Beq agreed and sent the book floating back down to him.

“Uri, if you like flowers we can lead you to some very special ones!” Kenn Sul then said. “Ones that aren’t in your pretty book yet!”

Kenn Beq clapped their hands together in excitement. “Yes, yes! Oh I love those! I would love to see them in your book!”

Urianger eyed them warily. Wisely wondering if the two were up to any tricks. One had to be careful when trusting a pixie. Sometimes they were honest creatures and sometimes they would lead you straight into the jaws of a hungry draco.

And these two were no exception. Nay they were much worse!

“I am too busy for games, my friends.” He shook his head. “Mayhaps another time.”

And Kenn Sul made a stomping motion in the air, crossing their arms. “But it is no game. We mean it!”

“Yes!” Kenn Beq added. “There is a flower patch on the far end of Il Mheg that we know you want to...to sturdy? No that’s not the right word for it? Um Kenn Sul, what was it scholars like Uri did again?”

“I believe it was study.” Their twin offered. “Oh you were quite close!”

Kenn Beq did a twirl in the air at the praise before turning their attention back to Urianger. “Come, come! We’ll show you. And if it’s a rotten trick of ours then you’re free to cuff Kenn Sul across the head a few times as punishment.”

And with that Kenn Beq flitted off.

“H-hey!” Their sibling called after them as they followed. “Why do I have to take the brunt of the blame?!”

Urianger sighed; he could just stay here and return to his studies. Perhaps even return to the Bookman’s Shelves for a lunch. But he felt the twins would take offense to that. They would come pester him until he agreed to come with them on their little adventure. And if not that, they certainly would find a cruel trick to play on him.

And so against his better judgement, he tucked his journal under his arm and followed the tittering fey.

“See Uri!” Kenn Sul proudly announced when they had arrived at their destination.

The pixies flew excited circles around him, pointing at a cluster of shrubs with bright purple flowers blooming on them. Indeed he had never seen these flowers on his travels before. And drew closer out of curiosity. Upon closer inspection he found the flowers’ petals were also speckled with yellow like little freckles. And the flowers themselves were about the size of his entire hand.

“How fascinating.” The Archon hummed and opened his journal to take notes. “And what are these called?”

Kenn Beq came flitting up to rest upon his shoulder. “The mortals that lived here long ago had a name for them—I don’t remember what it was though. We pixies however call them Dreaming-While-Awakes.”

An odd name. He’d have to poor through the tomes at his home to see if he could discover its proper one.

“Are they poisonous? Or dangerous at all?” Urianger tilted his head. He knew many flowers were deceptively beautiful and here and the land of fey one could never be too careful. Just the other day a pixie had warned him to stay away from a cotton-like plant that was said to sting like nettles despite its soft appearance.

“No.” Kenn Beq said, casually swaying their legs. “We’ve never seen it harm mortals before.”

He nodded and assuming Kenn Beq’s knowledge could be trusted, he made note of the observation in his journal. And out of curiosity reach out to touch one of the soft looking petals.

The moment his finger brushed against the petal the flower shuddered and sprayed out a cloud of what he assumed to be some kind of mist or pollen. And then it closed up at once, curling itself into a tight little bud.

Urianger startled, coughing and hacking on the strange concoction it had assaulted him with. The smell was absolutely horrendous, it burned his throat and made his eyes water.

Faintly he could hear the twins laughing at him. Accursed little imps! He should have known better! However, before he could berate them for their trickery, they quickly flew off.

Whatever ailed him seemed to finally dissipate after a few agonizing minutes, though Urianger still suffered from its effects. Do not rub your eyes. It could spread the irritant and damage sight. His studies reminded him. And so he kept his hands away from his face.

It took a moment, but the burning seemed to abate to a more tolerable level. He paused for a moment, doing a mental well-being check. He didn’t seem ill or in any pain—the only thing plaguing him were eyes and a slight headache. But otherwise he didn’t seem to be in any danger.

It seemed Kenn Beq had not lied in that regard. The spray probably was some sort of defense mechanism for the plant. To keep itself from being eaten. He made a note of this within his journal before turning to head home.

During the walk back he did not encounter Kenn Beq or Kenn Sul again. The pair of them smartly staying away from him while his anger was still hot. On the morrow they’d probably come bearing gifts of apology, usually polished stones from the river that they thought were pretty.

And so his walk had gone undisturbed. However, about halfway he had to pause. The throbbing in his head had grown steadily worse. Going from a dull ache to a full on piercing pain. A side effect from the flower?

He groaned, clutching at his head with a hand. He winced at the sun beating down on him. was it always so bright? It made him feel nauseated under its beating warmth. Had that flower been poisonous?

Gods, above he felt so dizzy—the world was spinning and—

“You alright love?”

A voice snapped him from whatever was ailing him.

“You’re not looking too good. What tried to drink Thancred under the table? Though I have to say that’s not a very hard feat to accomplish.”

That voice…

His head still ached and he had to squint through the bright sunlight at the figure before him. It couldn’t be and yet...it sounded like her. It...it looked like her.

He could feel himself trembling as his lips parted to form her name. It couldn’t be. It was impossible.

Yet there she stood grinning at him, hands propped on her hips. “Come on then, up you go.” She insisted. “We need to get back home;?don’t want to be out here in the dark, do you?”

Finally. Finally he had the strength to form her name on his tongue. “Moenbryda?” He whispered incredulously.

She cocked her head. “Were you expecting someone else?”

Once again he was left speechless. How? How was this possible? This had to be a trick! Some cruel, cruel trick done by the pixies. He felt angry. He felt sorrow he thought he buried welling up within him again.

Abruptly, Moenbyrda’s smile fell and was replaced by an expression of concern. “Are you alright, love?” She asked moving forward to cup his face between her hands. And Urianger was surprised to find her touch warm. So real.

“How…” Urianger managed to find his voice. And he could feel tears misting in his eyes. “How are you here?”

Moenbryda seemed surprised and even offended at that. “Urianger...I’ve always been with you. Don’t you remember?” A frown furrowed her brow as she placed the back of her hand against his forehead. “Hmph, that flower must’ve done a number on you, eh? You’re positively burning up. Come on, let’s go back home and prep some tea. That always makes you feel better.”

“But…” Urianger began to protest.

“Hush my dear.” Moenbryda told him and patted him on the cheek. “It’s all going to be okay. You just need to rest.”

Something in her words seemed to soothe him. The emotions rattling within him stilled. And suddenly he felt so tired.

“Right...right.” He murmured, feeling dazed and let her lead him back home.

This felt strange. Like it shouldn’t be happening. And yet...her hands had felt so real against his cheeks. Her fingers felt so real as they entwined with his. And her voice, her sweet voice—he could never mistake it. It was her.

And yet it couldn’t be. Back and forth his mind warred like that. Illogical and logical fighting to dominate his mind which right now felt as if a fog had settled over it.

It didn’t feel right but Moen had promised all was well. And well...he trusted her.

They had made it to the Rising Stones.

Wait...that’s not right. Is it?

He couldn’t ponder on it much longer before Moenbryda dragged him inside. She had settled down at a table and quickly shooed him away, insisting that he start a kettle for them.

“And why am I making the tea when it was thee whom suggested it?” Urianger had asked.

And Moenbryda grinned that wonderful smile of hers. Wry and filled with mischief. “Because you need something to occupy your mind, silly thing. You’ve walked the whole way here with a blank look on your face like your head was suddenly empty.” She teased. “You need something to do to get that brain of yours working again.”

He merely shook his head and wandered over to the stove to prepare the tea. Cheeky. She was always so cheeky. And that was one of the things he loved most about her.

The thought tugged at something at the back of his mind. And the dizzy spell that had ailed him earlier had suddenly returned. The elezen had to lean against the nearby wall for a moment to get his bearings. Why was he feeling so nauseous all of a sudden?

“Is everything alright, Urianger?” he heard Moenbryda call out to him. “You haven’t been acting well since that incident with that flower. Funny thing must be messing with your head.”

“Yes...the flower.” He murmured and clutched at his head. Something about that was making his head throb again. What had Kenn Beq called it? Something wasn’t right. “The Rising Stones. How...did we get here? We were just in Il Mheg.”

“We walked here, obviously. Are you feeling okay?”

No. Not at all. Something...something wasn’t right.

“I am fine.” Urianger reassured, shaking his head to clear it. And with trembling hands he turned his attention back to his task. Right...he needed to put the kettle on to warm the water—

Two cups of tea sat before him. Warm and with steam rising up from them. How? Had he already brewed it and just wasn’t paying attention?

“Uri!” Moenbryda called impatiently. “Are you going to hog it all for yourself?”

He pushed down the nauseated feeling rising within him and turned to carry the cups to his waiting companion. This was nice. How long had it been since the two of them enjoyed a nice tea and chat together?

Again the tugging at his mind came. The flower. Il Mheg. Sitting here in the Rising Stones didn’t seem to fit with it. His sluggish mind swept it away. Focus on tea with Moen not that.

The two of them chatted pleasantly. Reminiscing in old memories and recounting stories of their time after graduating the Studium. It was a pleasant time and Urianger felt he had not had genuine laughter in so long.

He couldn’t help but to feel he was forgetting something though. Something that kept nagging at the back of his mind. It had been tugging on him ever since meeting Moenbryda again.

There was something about her. Something about this day. This very moment. And every time he tried to focus on it he was left feeling dizzy.

“Mm you always made the finest tea, Urianger.” Moenbryda praised as she took a long sip. Knocking it back as if it were a tankard of ale. “Always could taste the care you put into it.”

“Preparing tea is an art.” Urianger replied as he took his own sip. Puzzlement welled up within him. His tasted so plain. Had he put enough herbs in it? “Master Loiusoix taught me that important lesson. “

Moenbryda hummed. “You were always his favourite.”

He set his foul tea aside, no longer having the taste for it. “Do not pretend that he never had a fondness for thee.”

She merely shrugged at that and crossed one leg over the other. “Do you miss him?”

The question seemed out of nowhere and surprised Urianger. He scowled and looked down at his lap. “Aye.” He admitted. “Every day, I long for his wisdom and his guidance. For there are some days where I oft wonder if I am taking the right steps. And if I am taking them down the right path.”

Moenbryda hummed thoughtfully. “And me? Do you miss me?”

That question was odd that it made him jerk his head up to see...her fading.

“Moen?” He whispered in worry.

She was fading. Fading away again.

Something...something was wrong. He felt hot all over and that piercing pain in his head from earlier had returned.

“Moen…” Urianger reached out to grasp her hands. “Moenbryda, what is wrong?!” Desperation made his voice hoarse.

And his dear friend stared at him sadly. And yet she smiled. “Ah told you that silly flower was messing with your head.”

The flower? Yes...yes he remembered now. The fog was slowly lifting and his head was clearer.

Kenn Beq had called something peculiar…Dreaming-While-Awake.

“This isn’t real.” He admitted to himself.

“No.” Moenbryda beamed. “But at least it was nice while it lasted.”

He stared at her sadly and when to grab her hand this time his fingers brushed through it. He closed his eyes with a grimace. Of course, he should’ve known better. Known that such a perfect moment could only exist within the confines of his mind.

“Oh don’t be sad, dear.” Moenbryda consoled. “I told you before, I’ve always been with you.”

“Yes…” He agreed, closing his hand into a fist and looking down at the table. “But only within mine dreams.”

“And within your heart.” She told him.

“And within mine heart.” He repeated solemnly. “I suppose it does answer thine question though. ” He murmured, looking up at the empty air where she’d once been. “I do miss thee terribly.”

When he came out of the strange vision, Urianger found himself lying in a field. Likely somewhere in between where the flowers had been and the Bookman’s Shelves. He hadn’t seemed to travel far in his stupor.

He groaned, wincing at the piercing pain in his skull. Now seeming a thousand times worse with him being awake. He awoke feeling sweaty and hot. And when he tried to stand he instantly regretted it, forced back to his knees as he retched up the contents of his stomach.

Twelve, allow me strength to make it back home.

This would be the last time he trusted the fey on botanistic excursions.

Journal Entry No. 63

Dreamer’s Neem (the the pixies seem to dub it Dreaming-While-Awake)

A beautiful looking flower that grows to about the size of a grown Elezen male’s hand. A light shade of purple and dappled with yellow freckles it seems to grow on shrubs in isolated patches around Il Mheg.

As a defense mechanism against creatures that would try to prey upon it, the plant sprays the aggressor with an agitating powder before closing in on itself. It should be noted that this powder contains a very potent hallucinogenic agent that causes truly powerful visions that seem to affect all the senses.

The former human inhabitants seemed to have used the flower for recreational purposes. Similar to the use of milkweed on the Source. It should be noted however, that while the plant may not be deadly it is best to avoid it. The effects of its defensive powder could prove to be overwhelming to individuals not familiar with the plant.

It should also be well noted that an individual exposed should be given cool water and broth for the rest of the day. The after effects of the hallucinations may leave them weak of stomach. And solid foods could agitate their condition.

Have care for thee whom wouldst seek out this plant. For the vision it offers may not always be pleasant. Speaking from mine own experience it was rather tame. Though other accounts I hath read indicate more nightmarish experiences. How lucky I was in mine own…

#ffxivwrite2021 #final fantasy xiv #Urianger Augurelt #writing

13 notes · View notes

nikkywrites · 3 years

Text

Fool, King of Sea (Ocean's Heart Side Story)

Summary: Amphitrite has never seen a divine fool enough face constant rejection for a domain they do not seem to like. Poseidon is, though, the greatest fool she's ever met. And Calypso is a great friend, when she's not being irritating.

*****

One thing that is of short supply in the ocean is good fun.

It can be made, of course, games built around redirecting ships to wrong ports, seeing who can sneak unaided by divinity into captain's quarters, who can race from Crete to Corinth the quickest. Games that are not made for one.

Calypso is good fun when she wants to play, is a challenge Amphitrite loves to play with. They toss their wins back and forth, banter in barbs they only laugh at. Calypso is a great companion, when she is around.

But there are times when she is not.

Alone, Amphitrite gets bored all too quickly, aimlessly searching through the water. She'll rest with her creatures some days, care for them like the pets they all are, but some days she wants excitement and no one is around to deliver.

Then comes something rarer than excitement -- a divine looking to be king.

It is obvious at a glance that this man does not belong. He is tall with thin hips and too much rage boiling in his bones. He must be some sort of new, thinking he can demand ocean to let him rule. It chooses who it will.

Watching this godling try to force himself upon her home is amusing. It remains cold, rejecting and rejecting him. What a fool, to keep trying.

He slinks away eventually, face pinched and muscles coiled tight. There's a rage boiling in his blood, rage the water rejected without hesitation. Amphitrite laughs at his retreat. It is little wonder her domain does not want him. He is entirely too hot for the cold waters. He will boil her home to steam or it will shatter him.

Ah. Well, it was nice while it lasted. Divines did not handle rejection. He would not face the humiliation again, however amusing it would have been to watch. She feels Calypso's call below, from the deep that is more home to her than Amphitrite, the deep that even she finds too chilling. She watches the point of shore the young god had been standing on and turns to go find Calypso. The call is purposefully untraced and it is a call to find her before she rises to air.

The young god's defilement of her home slips from her mind.

-----

Calypso can look awfully disappointed when she wishes to, can arrange her features in a way that niggles even at her. There is something about the arch of her brow and the curve of her frown and the angle of her eyes that stabs at Amphitrite in a way it shouldn't. It is a look of too much divinity towards something that cannot bear it, but Amphitrite can bear Calypso's divinity just fine. It is a trick.

"What?" she asks eventually, a bite to her words that would make a mortal faint.

Calypso turns her gaze elsewhere, to the seaweed curled up beside them, curled above in a little bubble as the water outside churns them away somewhere else. She stares at the weaving. "Nothing," she says in a too-friendly, too-simple tone.

Amphitrite narrows her eyes. Calypso has her ways of haggling for everything she wishes, from whoever she wishes it from. She recalls the moment she'd learned how Calypso had earned her tentacle-swarmed form. Calypso has never hungered for something she did not get and that nettles at her.

It was not fair.

"Don't play your games with me," Amphitrite warns. "I do not hold patience for them today."

Calypso lifts a cool shoulder. The move is infuriating. "Alright."

The silence burns.

Nothing should be burning under the water, in the deep cold of the sea. There is not allowed any warmth. Certainly not heat.

Amphitrite's glare burns hotter. "You are playing," she says.

Calypso's gaze slides over. Her body language is all relaxation and distance. She is at ease but there is something in her expression, something churning in her mind. "How so?"

That was the question. Then, the answer comes.

"You are trying to nettle me," she says, feeling the answer is right but not knowing why. What reason could there be for Calypso to want her angry?

"Maybe you shouldn't be so easily nettled, then."

Amphitrite's lip curls at the accusation. "What ill is in you today?" she asks. "You're being sour."

Calypso seems to consider the words, rubbing her lips together, She shrugs. "I am not sure." Her eyes flick over nothing. "A passing mood, I think. I want to stir trouble but it's too dreary a day for mortals to be out."

She snorts delicately. "Right. Warning, next time. I warn you."

Calypso's smile looks empty. There is nothing wrong with its shape but it looks false. "Sure. Apologies for wounding your ego."

"As if."

The smile shifts, looks more real, more like a smile that belongs on Calypso's face. "You may barb me back," she says, "if that would ease the sting of your pride."

Remaining bits of Amphitrite's anger fall away. She laughs and Calypso joins in.

"Shall we travel for a mortal?" Amphitrite offers. She is all too aware of these moods of Calypso's, times where she is reaching for something that does not quite exist. She had murmured the word chaos once, describing it.

With all the things she represents, all she is and the price of it -- Amphitrite does not think it worth it. There is an emptiness to Calypso sometimes, like the bottomless abyss that leads to the Underworld, that only knows to soundlessly call. That wrongness. It must be her price, for being the face of too many things.

In her rare moments of softness, Amphitrite worries over how it will cause her trouble one day.

"No, this is fine."

Fine. Because nothing can please her now.

It's her curse. The burden of being all the ocean is.

Amphitrite is grateful that the burden is not hers. The deep is enough for her, the cold and the creatures. She could not imagine more.

The seaweed begins to part. They both gain a sense of being in a different section of ocean, placed anew by a combination of both their powers ordered to drift them away.

Amphitrite looks over at Calypso. Her eyes are terrifying, sometimes. They look as if they can see through all. Laying secrets to the sun.

"You should take a mortal," she suggests. "I know how highly you think of them, but having one is quite fun."

Calypso's eyes churn. She gazes out at the water. "Mortals bear much misfortune by our hands," she says. "I see no reason one needs to bear the misfortune of me."

Amphitrite sighs. "Ready, then?" One day, she would convince Calypso to get a mortal. She didn't understand Calypso's protection over them. She spoke for them when opportunity drifted by, but when she wears her other shape, she swallows them like a fish. No remorse. No guilt. No regret. How can she advocate for them so and have their blood dripping in her soul?

It was not right. Many things weren't with her. It was why she was so fun.

"Am I ever not?"

Amphitrite grins. "Go, then."

They race, power folded under their skin, to find the place they had started at.

-----

The god fool returns.

Amphitrite does not seek his appearance, but the backsplash of his untethered divinity beating against the water reaches her. She comes not from the boredom, this time, but the fun she knows will be there.

The god -- Poseidon, the ocean hisses at her as she travels, one of Cronus' rebelling children -- is just as entertaining as she remembers.

He thrusts his sad excuse of divinity over top the water, steps his foot into the splash of shore, growls his place like it is something he can demand. "I am Poseidon," he says, putting too much force in each syllable, "god of the sea."

Amphitrite's laugh is a soft thing her domain swallows. How foolish.

"I will," he speaks with bared teeth like a roaring beast, "be king of you."

Her laugh bursts. The waves splash with it.

Poseidon -- the fool king -- pulls his head back like he's insulted and a tantruming child. "I am son of Cronus and Rhea," he tells her, unknowing she is there. "You will obey my will."

Amphitrite rises. "I think it will not," she informs him, lips pulled in an effortless grin. To him, it probably appears smug and demeaning. It's not her fault he's made it so easy to humiliate him. "The ocean listens not to those it does not care to. You're best finding a domain somewhere else, little god."

He glares at her. It should be some degree of terrifying, since he aided in the capture and downfall of the Titans, of Cronus, but he is unclaimed and she is in her home.

His glare is about as scary as a baby jellyfish.

"I will be king of the sea," he says.

She sighs. "We have many monarchs already. What need is there for you to be another?" Her eyes rake over him, judging. "This is not where you belong. Go tie yourself somewhere you fit."

His lips lift into a sneer. "I will take this for my domain whatever I must do."

Amphitrite lifts her brows and starts to sink under. "Your lost time, little god." She goes back to her depths. What impudence in that one. The world would not bend to his wiles just because he ended an era of tyranny. He would have to come across a place to store his divinity somewhere else. The ocean would not bend to him. Others have tried.

None succeeded. Becoming patron of the sea is as easy as being accepted by it. If you are not, you will never be.

Simple as that.

-----

"Fool," she scoffs at a whale, running her hand over its flesh. "Why must all new gods think themselves kings of things already claimed? There are plenty of other things they could tie their divinity to."

The whale echoes a call. Amphitrite rubs it soothingly.

"I know." She flicks her gaze to where the fool had been. "Impudence. May the Primordials never let his name be known."

Her hand flexes.

"It is undeserved."

-----

Poseidon is apparently stubborn, alongside his foolishness. Perhaps when this doesn't pan out, he will be god of screeching fools. It suits him much better than the sea and was unclaimed, waiting for him.

He's also screaming for her.

She crests with impatience, shooting him a look packed with all the cold of her domain. He has the sense (not a complete fool then) to fumble some of his confidence. "I told you the ocean would not be yours," she says, "and yet you returned."

"It must be mine," he replies. His eyes dart to the sky, something uneasy flashing across his face. "There is no choice."

She scoffs. "Hardly. There are a thousand unclaimed things you can leer your power over with hardly any struggle at all."

"I will take the sea or have nothing."

Amphitrite tips her chin up. "Enjoy the emptiness then, little god. Try not to let chaos swallow you. She loves the unclaimed."

"I am not unclaimed," he frowns at her. "I choose the ocean."

"Yet it has not chosen you. Take the rejection and find something else."

His lips part. His teeth are flat and unsuited for the blood of ocean living. "I will be patron of the sea no matter what it takes."

"Find a way for it to take you, then. Be a fool. It's amusing."

He strikes at her with divinity her ocean diverts for her. It has little patience for this imposter and his greed, is fed up with his demands. "I am no fool."

"You're demanding gifts like a petulant child." She looks down her nose at him, haughtily lifts her chin to look elsewhere. "I thought you fought in the war."

His chin flies up, features hardening. "I did."

Her lips curve up. "So where is your power? Tell me, great one, what domain is yours?"

His face flushes. She thinks that if she was on land, he'd tackle her. He's apparently not fool enough to dive in the water for her. Unfortunate. It would have been a fun sight. "What is your domain?" he redirects.

"I am Amphitrite," she tells him. Defeat causes his eyes to darken. He recognizes the name. "I am goddess of the deep and the creatures that dwell there."

"A sea patron," he clarifies, lip thrusted out.

One corner of her lip rises without consent. "Yes."

He wrinkles his nose at her reply, staring petulantly at the sand under his bare feet. He drags the ball of his foot against the sand. "So you mock me," he grumbles. "I am just searching for what you have."

Amphitrite laughs. "I belong to the sea," she says, waves lapping against the deep gills slashed on her throat, curling over her collarbones. She looks like her creatures, like a thing of the ocean. It is of no question that she belongs. It is of every question that he does. "You do not. It is as simple as that."

"That will change."

"And I will enjoy your attempt," she promises.

-----

Calypso frowns at her. "You are encouraging him," she accuses.

"What?" Amphitrite lifts her brows and doesn't let her movement to sit beside Calypso lag with the shock. She settles on the sea floor easily, a jellyfish coming to drift by her shoulder. She wraps one of its stinging tendrils around her finger. "I am doing no such thing."

"You are toying with him like a mortal." Calypso continues on unfettered. Little is capable of doing that, if anything is. Amphitrite has not seen anything that is. "Like you're planning on taking him."

Amphitrite shoots a cold look at the other goddess. What accusations. "It is harmless fun."

"He is a god with power yet unknown. It is not wise to taunt what may yet be stronger than you."

"He is a fool," Amphitrite waves her hand. It will not matter. He is determined to take the sea and he will not. He does not fit and does not have the making to force himself to. He seems bound to be a sea god and she thinks he is foolish enough to try until time's end. He may be a strong god, but unclaimed, she will always be more powerful. Such is how divinity works.

Calypso expels a short breath out her nose. "As are you."

"When are you ever wise?" she bites out, cutting the words into blades with her teeth. "You lurk in parts of the sea not yours. You claim to love the sailors you eat. What wisdom is that?"

"Lack of wisdom does not make me a fool," she replies, unbothered by Amphitrite's harshness. "And I am sea patron just as you are. There is no place not fitting me."

"I am queen of the deep." It is hers by her divinity.

Calypso flicks her gaze over. Her face is composed, unflushed, and she looks bored by the conversation. “You never go that deep. No one does. It borders the land of the dead. Do not try to lay your claim over things you do not want.” Her eyes slide away and her mouth purses with a slight twist. Anger? Disgust? Annoyance? “And where I dwell goes deeper than the deep. It is the abyss and you are not goddess of that.”

“It’s the principle of it.”

Calypso laughs. “As if you care for principle. We are both gods of something already claimed. Let details flutter where they must. They are not worth bickering for.”

Amphitrite clicks her tongue. Her sharp fingers dig into her flesh. “Yet bicker you do.”

“You are the one trying to claim what is not yours.”

Amphitrite’s face pinches. “You are irritating, today.” She pushes up, gliding away. “I do not wish to be in your presence.”

She feels Calypso lay back. “As you wish,” she says. “Do think before you flirt with the god. He is trouble.”

Amphitrite snorts as she calls a stream to carry her away. She was not flirting with the fool. She was toying with him. Laughing at his idiocy. In what domain was that flirting?

She was not looking for a husband. She was content with how things were. And even if she wasn’t — she doesn’t wish to wed a fool.

That would be foolish of her.

-----

“Amphitrite,” he calls her by name. She has felt his presence at shore for hours, but did not rise to tease him. Calypso’s words turn in her mind.

She was not looking to court this god. But did it appear that way? Despite the accusation, Calypso was clever. She had sharp eyes.

She would not speak untruths like that, but her honesty can grate. Who was she, to tell Amphitrite what her claim was? Did their domain blessing her with a second form fill her head over capacity? Amphitrite could make her own choices. She did not need a goddess, friend or not, telling her what her intentions were.

She did not need others telling her what she was.

She crests over the waves with her blood pounding hot in her veins. It makes her heart glow, a ruddy red that pierces through her translucent skin, pulsing with the beat of her heart. “Fool,” she spits out.

Poseidon lifts his brows. Something like concern passes over his face. It vanishes just as fast. “I require assistance,” he says. It looks like the words are difficult to say. They should be.

She barks a laugh. He flinches at the sound, like she’d flung a spear of divinity at his head. She throws her head back. She pulls in a breath with a grin that stretches her cheeks. “How does your pride taste?” she asks.

She’s being cruel, she knows, but Calypso thinks she was flirting. She thinks that there was enjoyment here. She wants to control Amphitrite? To tell her the reason she is doing things?

Let her see that she’s wrong. Let her see how her pride tastes when she takes it in her teeth and swallows it whole. Let her realize that sharp eyes and a clever head did not make her all-knowing.

The fool widens his stance, squares his shoulders in a vain attempt to look powerful. His divinity is but a babe in his chest, young and fluttering. “What?”

“You’re eating your pride.” She tilts her head. “Not all of it, apparently, but some. I asked how it tasted.”

“You—” he stabs a finger at her face. “You are rude.”

She chuckles, subdued. “And? What reason is there to be kind?” She rises to her feet and steps closer to the god, the ocean still thinly under her feet, tugging at her ankles. She tilts her head and looks up at him. “You are not anything to fear, little god. Not as you are now.” She steps closer.

The water bids her return. She ignores it. She is not flirting. She is not making an enemy, she is making a point.

Let Calypso see this.

“Anyways, you called me here. It is a blessing that I answered. Are you willing to let rudeness send me back without getting what you were hoping for, whatever it is?”

“No.” His hand makes to reach for her but freezes. His fingers twitch. He lowers his arm. “I— forgive me,” he grits, jaw tight with tension. Is he angry with her? Good.

She hums, not denying or accepting the apology. “What did you call me for?”

“Assistance.”

Amphitrite scoffs. “Of course. You have already said. What assistance do you seek?”

“I,” he takes a breath, “I wish to know how I could become a god of the sea.”

She stares at him, waiting for the joke, the laugh.

It does not come. Right. He is not like Calypso with her sharp humor that is often not humorous at all. He is being serious.

Truly, how did he expect to be a god worth fearing if he has to ask how to gain power?

She sighs, pressing the tips of cold nails to her cheek. “I’ve already told you.” She bends her fingers and presses the bend of them to her cheek. “The ocean must take you in turn. It is not a decision yours alone.”

“How do I… get it to take me, then?”

She considers his question.

“Please it or find a patron to take you instead. It will work as well as the domain taking you itself.”

His eyes spark and his hand lifts again.

“No.” She steps back in the surf. The water rushes in around her. “It takes much strength to take another god and farm their divinity. I have no reason to take that burden for you. Find another.”

“You are the only one I have met,” he explains, an undercurrent chopping his words too close together.

One corner of her lip pulls to the side. “Meet another, then. I will not do your dirty work for you.”

His eyes flash up at the sky as a boom rattles through the air. “I do not have time for that,” he tells her gently, eyes flicking between gray clouds and rust-green eyes.

She looks at the sky and shrugs. A storm. Why does that make him flinch? “That is not my bother.”

She turns on her heel. The ocean welcomes her back, tugging her close. It splashes Poseidon’s feet when he takes two strides after her. His fingers brush her shoulder. “What price would it take?”

Amphitrite rolls her shoulder out of his reach. “Pardon?”

“For you to take me.” She turns to look at him. “What price would you accept?”

She purses her lips. “We would have to wed,” she warns. “We would bound unlike any other.”

His breath shakes. The set of his brow stiffens. “What would it take?” he repeats.

Amphitrite taps her fingers against her mouth. He is desperate enough for this? To bind himself to her for the rest of eternity? “It will not be able to be undone,” she says. “And I do not see you with anything worth paying that price.”

He looks at her, beseeching. “There is no time.”

“So you have said.” What a broken record he was. No time, he must be a sea patron. On and on. Why did she think him entertaining?

Because he humiliated himself and seemed blind to it? It was amusing to watch, at first, before he dredged her in, trying to make a prisoner of a settled goddess. For her to take him in a way that gives him hold over the sea, her own weakens. She loses while he gains.

What could he have to make that trade — that loss — worth it? She did not like him as a god or a man. She liked her domain and her creatures.

It was not worth it, to humor him and his fear.

He drops to his knees. The damp sand caves under the blow. He lowers his head to her. “Please,” he asks. “I will do whatever you require. Anything you ask. I need to be made king of the sea.”

Amphitrite settles, folding her legs beneath her. The water surges and recedes around her collarbone. She takes in a considering breath. He was a son of Cronus, a brother of Zeus. There were tales that they were building a place for gods and something like that would surely be quite powerful. If she aids in his endeavor to be the sea’s face there, perhaps she will be face, too. It could not hurt to have an ally among a leader god, a— what did Calypso tell her that one time? A throned god? There were to be twelve, she thinks and they were to be honored by mortals as no god has before. “Convince me.” She tilts her head and weighs his every twitch in her mind.

Desperate gods are not all that different from desperate mortals. Not if the god is a fool, which this one has proven to be.

He will sacrifice more than he is comfortable to pay if she makes him squirm enough. He will offer enough that the deal goes in her favor.

Amphitrite has always been good at making others uncomfortable.

-----

Calypso’s divinity is an easy thing to bear, when they are in the deep, where Amphitrite is most powerful. When they are closer to shore, it twinges something in her. It makes itself a burden difficult to shake.

Calypso’s fury is a tame thing. Her acts of wrath are not sunken ships and slain sailors. Those are calculated, are not done on whim, is not something she does out of anger.

The only thing her anger does is temper her words into silver blades. She is most eloquent when she is furious.

“You are a fool to be told,” she says, dismissing greeting. The cold bite in her voice sinks into Amphitrite’s chest. Her eyes — do not look furious. She does not look angry at all. Not like Amphitrite expected when she settled her deal with the Olympian and took back to her water.

She looks sad.

The cold thing Calypso placed in her chest pulses. “What do you mean?” She lifts her chin, trying to look unaffected. She does not want to have this conversation so close to the surface, where Calypso’s divinity slips in through her gills as easily as water.

It is too distracting. Too— too easy to succumb to, especially if it with sadness that Calypso confronts her and not anger.

“You struck a deal with the Olympian.” Her eyes drift lower, focused on the joint of her collarbone, the little divot where Calypso’s divinity always rests. “It was not a wise deal to strike.”

Amphitrite waves off the words with a scoff. “However do you mean? I know how to bargain things in my favor.”

Calypso purses her lips out. Her eyes lift. They are sadder, now, and Amphitrite glares to keep them from pulling her in. Calypso’s reasoning was always wise but not always wisest. There were other perspectives that occasionally offered wiser things. This was one of those times. Calypso did not know the deal she struck. How could she? Amphitrite shielded both of their words from sinking in the water and Calypso was not near enough to wriggle around it. “Do you.”

She does not say it like a question.

“Yes,” she affirms anyways, her eyes reshaping into a frosty glare.

Calypso’s brow lifts. “Right.” Her eyes sink towards the ocean floor.

Amphitrite propels herself back. She speaks with a lifted lip. “Do not patronize me,” she warns. “I know what I’ve done.”

Their eyes reconnect. Calypso’s gaze is like an anchor, dragging her down. “I doubt that,” she whispers. “I really do.”

“You don’t know,” Amphitrite says, a steep edge to her words. She doesn’t know. She can’t. But that gaze, that sadness — she clearly thinks she knows something. But what?

“For your sake, I hope I don’t.” She bows her head and does nothing as Amphitrite pushes herself forwards and sinks back to her domain. The water pulses with Calypso’s sorrow. It coats Amphitrite’s teeth until the cold of the deep freezes it out and even then, it lingers.

-----

“You are a fool to be told.”

“You struck a deal with the Olympian.”

“It was not a wise deal to strike.”

Calypso’s words have bad habit of festering in Amphitrite’s mind. She tries to brush them off, to leave them to float at the surface, but they sink right alongside her, anchored with steel to her throat. It is a chained collar of worry.

“Do you.”

“I doubt that.”

Patronization that is actually worry. Amphitrite has never known Calypso to needlessly worry.

The words she speaks are always anchored with truth. Weight. Her words never float because there is reason behind each syllable.

Her nails dig into her palms, seeping the water in divinity that will only be hers alone for precious little time. Was Calypso right to be concerned?

An eel skims over her shoulder, curling around to brush against her arm. Amphitrite strokes it with the hand not bloodied in divinity. “What do you think?” she asks. She lifts her other palm and stares at the dull gold. “Was it a mistake?”

The eel swims away.

Amphitrite’s ankle twitches. “What help,” she says. She closes her fingers over her palms, shoulder jolting with the pressure.

What help indeed. What mistake did Calypso see in the deal she made? What flaw was she being blind to?

The dark curls around her. The deep embraces her in its chill and its emptiness. No matter how poor a deal she made, it will still be here whenever she needs it. Her domain will not disappear because she’s abandoning it. It will not abandon her in equal turn.

That is not what it wishes to do.

It chose Amphitrite as a queen and it has little choice but to respect her decisions. If she wishes to deal herself to an Olympian, to bend herself in the way that bends her domain — then it has little option but to obey. Their queen has commanded.

It may be her last order.

-----

"Little king," Amphitrite greets, tilting her chin.

Poseidon’s eyes glint. He looks pleased in a way that worries her, now. Before, she had thought it was just satisfaction at getting what he had spent sun-turns cajoling for.

Had he played her? Had she stepped into his trap? Was he wise enough to set one?

Was she foolish enough to fall for it?

The concern must be showing on her face, because Poseidon’s mouth twists into a grin. Easy and proud, like a king’s.

She was making him king.

He was getting everything he’d asked for. What was he sacrificing to her, to even the field? A few promises a wise man could eventually wriggle his way out from? Some words that could be torn apart?

Words unsworn on the Styx?

Her chin dips as she swallows. Her eyes do not leave her future spouse. The companion she’s going to swear her future and her divinity to.

Calypso had her reason to worry, did she not?

No. Yes.

Poseidon may not be the fool she thought. That much is becoming true. But she is no less wise. The deal may be skewed, but it is not one-sided. It is not unfair.

Amphitrite would never swear herself to anything that could be turned upon her. She does not make a habit of underestimating an enemy enough that she bares her belly to them, that she leaves herself entirely at their mercy.

Poseidon thought her a fool, and struck his bargain on that option. Amphitrite thought him a fool, and struck a deal that could work even if he turned out to be wise.

She does not nest all of her creatures in the same section of sea.

-----

It is not painful.

It feels like it should be. Ripping one’s divinity from their blood should be an excruciating thing. But it is painless.

Her divinity slips from her body like her blood had earlier, when she cut her palm in her heightened emotional state.

It is simple, in other words. So very simple.

Her creatures lurk around them both in the ceremony, netted above them like an elaborate trap. As if either of them could decide to switch their mind now.

Deals have been made. Divinity should not turn back on their blatant word.

“Careful with your words, little god,” she warns, tilting her head as she examines him. He is nice looking, she supposes, though she doesn’t think him nice enough to warrant wedding him. But there are worse looking things she could tie herself to.

As if that was consolation, but it was nice. Her heirs, at least, would have chances to become more.

He lifts his chin at her before tucking it back into place. He is taller, technically, though Amphitrite keeps her feet off the floor so their eyes are level. The sea feels far more frigid than usual.

Is it her domain, mourning what she used to be? Is it mourning her choice to make this god it so obviously rejected its king?

Is it her almost-wedded, already controlling what is all around him?

No. Her domain would not grant him his gifts until it was due.

The vows, too, feel as if they should stick in her throat or come out bubbling in electrified acid. But they, too, are easy. They slip out like the fine silk donning them both, silks dyed matching shades of blue.

The color suits her well. It offsets her hair. It does not suit him. It is not ill-suiting, but it does not suit him as well as the color of the domain he’s to control should. The color should, when worn, appear as if it is the only color that would do him justice. It should be the only thing that fits the divinity humming under his skin.

On him, it is just a color.

A nice color and nothing more.

It was not what it should be. He was a false king. His divinity was not made to churn the tides and her domain was not made to crash under his order. She was not made to be bound like this and he was not made to be bound to her.

After, when her divinity is raw in her chest, glowing heart pulsing weakly behind glass ribs, she takes his hand. “I hope you find this worth it,” she says, looking at him through her lashes.

He squeezes her hand and pulls his back. “Of course it was,” he replies.

She wonders if he can feel the strings wrapped around his joints. If he can feel the pull over him she has knotted in his chest. He made her swear to him the rights of her divinity, the capability of making ocean obey his command.

She made him swear his devotion to her will.

Can he feel that? Does he know the depth of that vow? That they were more than words and that as her divinity is bound to him, his is bound to her similarly?

It was, as Calypso said, an unfair deal. But it was unfair for them both. Painful like stabs and broken bone. Like horse and cow. Weak comparability.

They were both losers. That was unquestionable.

It was silly of Calypso, though, to think that Amphitrite did not know what she was doing.

She was no stranger to making deals.

-----

“So it is done.” Calypso is lying on the floor, observing the sharp points of nails she isn’t bothering to blunt. She doesn’t like to bother with shedding all the features of the predator she is, especially right after she’s taken a ship to sate her appetite.

Amphitrite never bothers to look mortal. It is not the form that is natural, like it is (more or less) for most of the divine. She is queen of the sea and she looks the part. She is of the sea and one could tell at a glance. “Yes,” she replies, digging up sand with her fingers.

Hers are sharper, technically, as Calypso’s aren’t really nails. They’re more akin to the suckers that line her arms when she is Kraken, just lengthened and enlarged to fit the rough anatomy of human fingers. If she gets them in something, there is no getting them out.

They are dangerous in a different way.

“Have the effects settled yet?” Calypso lifts her chin and the movement allows Amphitrite to see the thick bob of a swallow. As if she was uncertain. Concerned.

Amphitrite thought they were done with that. The deal is done. Calypso does not know better.

“What effects?” she asks, though her bones throb with the fragility of her lessened divinity. She’s been weak, since she wed the fool king, but it is strengthening slowly. She will be back to normal. It may take some decades to be back completely, but that is nothing to her.

Calypso’s breath bubbles up. “Of gifting away your divinity.” She tilts her head and slides her gaze over. “How fares your hold on your domain?”

“It is fine,” Amphitrite defends instantly. She pauses. Is it? Usually, she is approached and surrounded by the wildlife she rules over but that has been absent. It is an effect of her weak divinity. When that is back, so will they.

The sailor goddess hums, noncommittal. “I would be wary of each irregularity.”

“There has been none.”

Calypso’s eyes roam the empty water around them. It looks casual enough, but this is Calypso. She is making a show of looking, turning her head when there is no need. “Right,” she says. “Still. Do not say I did not try to warn you of the danger you enrolled for.”

“It was not dangerous.”

That, Calypso does not answer.

-----

Poseidon is building them a castle. He is insisting upon it. “What kind of rulers would we be,” he says, his hands clasped around her arms too tightly, “if we did not have a throne?”

Amphitrite pries her way out of his grip. “No rulers at all,” she replies. She looks at the construction, at the rising architecture of gems and coral. It is a beautiful thing, already, not even half built, but she is beginning to be aware of the dangers Calypso spoke of.

Her divinity is tied to her husband and he is, in turn, binding it to this castle. To the throne that will be hers. He has not admitted as such, but her divinity hums in the desire, the attempt. She would point it out, would fight, but there is little point to. She cannot undo what is done. She will have to live with her vow and attempt to find some other way out.

“It is beautiful,” she tells him, because he wants to hear it and it will do no harm to be on his good side.

He beams, watching the construction with pride. “Is it not?”

No, her domain whispers in her ear, monotone and sad at once. It does not have emotion like the living, but she can feel its mourning all the same. When it had accepted her as a patron, it was not for this. It is not.

Her domain sympathizes, in the only way it can. It does not offer help. It could, she believes, shatter their deal if it wished, but. The ocean takes after its namesake. Oceanus does not care for what happens in his home and body and neither does the ocean. They are, in fact, one in the same.

Amphitrite holds her eyes shut a moment. “You can go to Olympus,” she tells him.

His head whips over, a fight brimming on his tongue.

“That construction is more important for you to oversee. I can handle this.”

He squints.

She laughs, tilting her head mischievously. “Do you not trust me, husband dear?”

His mouth parts and he bites the words back with a click. “No,” he says. But, all the same, he turns to join his brothers in the making of a place for gods.

She smiles at his retreat. It looks like silver.

The new husband is so hungry for recognition, he’ll want to spend his days on the throne that matters. There was no glory in being a sea king, if you were searching for masses of mortal worship. The ocean would not provide that.

So she had the mercy of knowing he would not be a constant fixture at her side. She could pretend everything was sparkling, in his absence. That her throne was hers alone.

Despite the horror it took to get it — she’s liking the idea of a palace. Of a throne. Of the comfort of knowing her place in mortal’s mind is secure. She can lounge, now, and still be remembered just the same.

Tension leaks from her shoulders.

She thinks she could learn to like this. She did, after all, gain more than she gave.

What was a little divinity, in the end, for a palace and memory steadfast?

-----

Calypso is… displeased is the kind way to put it but neither of them are kind. She is appalled in a wrathful, furious way. That still feels too kind. Calypso feels more Kraken than goddess.

“Pardon?” she asks, sharp teeth snapping around the word.

“You heard me,” Amphitrite says, leaning back against a wall of her new palace, rubies studded around her in a bloody halo. “Do not feign deafness.”

Calypso laughs. There’s a wildness in the gesture, a feral sort of energy to it that raises Amphitrite’s guard. “I must be going so,” she says. “Because surely I did not hear you right.”

“You did,” Amphitrite confirms.

Calypso looks at her like. Like she’d just admitted to relinquish her divinity for a mortal child. Like the very idea is too wild even for them. “What ill poisoned your mind?” she asks. Her arms gesture around to the glimmering castle. “This was not worth the price. It is a thing. You could have done this yourself if you wished.”

Amphitrite watches the outburst languidly. She has never seen Calypso so active. Even when they are racing and she is enjoying herself, there is a relaxed sort of grace to her movements, a backing of calm that permeates through anything else. Even when she is worked up, there is still sense about her. Amphitrite cannot find any now. “You wouldn’t understand. Not with your mind pried shut.”

“He fooled you.”

“He did no such thing. I am aware of the deal I made.”

Calypso scoffs. “Then you are the foolish one. You may not understand the gravity yet, but this choice will grow to haunt you.”

“Sure it will.” Amphitrite looks down her nose. “I fail, though, for the record, to see how this,” she wiggles her fingers outward, gesturing to the palace, “could ever be something I’d regret.”

Calypso’s mouth parts. She bites her words back with a tense jaw. “I suppose we will just see then,” she says, voice back to its typical distanced tone.

Amphitrite nods. “We will.”

Calypso nods back. She does not look pleased, still and that is not entirely a surprise. She is so rarely pleased, when things do not go the way she thinks is best. But she is not entirely displeased, either, which is an accomplishment alone, even if a miniscule one. She eyes the walls of coral and gems, mouth twisting down as she takes in the opulence of it.

It is about the reaction Amphitrite expected. Calypso’s tastes are simple and this is anything except. But that was fine. The palace was not for Calypso nor would she reside there. So it did not matter if she liked it. It was to Amphitrite’s taste and it was to be home.

A place easy to pin. There were perks to having a place to settle and Amphitrite fully intends to take advantage of them. Having mortals on hand was one. She’d always wanted to keep one long term. Her chance for that had come.

Calypso’s eyes drift back to Amphitrite. There is something in her gaze that tries to tug at Amphitrite’s divinity. It has weight that Amphitrite has never felt, not when she is this deep, in the heart of her domain. She swallows it down.

“So we will,” Calypso repeats.

Amphitrite knows she is right. This castle is to be a kind of prison for them both, her and her new husband. There was no worry in that. Calypso did not know details and she was assuming the worst. It was a sweet thought. Her fault for not believing in Amphitrite’s cruelness, however. She knew how to deal herself sweetness from a bitter fool.

Still, to be a good sport, she nods.

Time will prove one of them wrong.

*****

This is still all drippingmoon's fault. Hope you liked what I created.

Tags: @caffeinewitchcraft @super-writer-gal @drippingmoon @blindthewind @notwritinganyflufftoday @mel-writes-with-her-dragons

#writeblr #writblr #creative writing #writing #greek myth retellings #greek mythology #amphitrite #poseidon #calypso #nikkywritesstories #my writing #wip ocean's heart #wip oceans heart #this is such a bare bones way to tell the story and i am undecided on if thats a good or bad thing #i could totally go into this more though #so if you want more. send asks? ill rant happily #i think its the tone i find off though. its a little different from how i usually write. probably why i have mixed feelings on this #or i hope thats why at least

18 notes · View notes

waiting4inspiration · 4 years

Text

Addicted XI: A Cure

Summary: Ivar’s self attempt at remedying his pain leads to him poisoning himself. You’re frantic trying to find a cure and too emotional to be of any help to him.

Warnings: angst, mentions of drug use, poisoning, mentions of abandonment, it’s really angsty, mentions of death, small fluff,

Word Count: 2,485

Addicted Masterlist II Vikings Masterlist

It’s been days since you last spoke to your father all because you don’t really have anything to say to him. There’s nothing you wish to tell him, nothing that you want to share with him that has happened since he left. You told him all he wanted to know, what happened to your mother and brother, and that’s it. What else could you possibly say?

Ivar lets you speak freely every chance you two are alone, letting you ramble and rant on, comforting you when you need it. He’s just thankful that you’re holding up your promise. He’s just grateful that you trust him to heal you just as he trusts you.

But, he hasn’t been holding the end of his promise. He feels that bothering you with his pain will only burden you more, so he keeps it to himself. A part of him is determined to do this himself, sort out his pain on his own, like he has always done.

But he can’t stop wishing that you hadn’t thrown away those leaves. He can’t stop thinking about the relief they gave him.

Perhaps he can find them again in the market?

You’re grateful to have Ivar by your side no matter what, that he’s there to listen to you without asking for anything in return. That he’s holding his promise to heal you and protect you. It’s a relief to not keep everything to yourself as you did back in England. It’s a relief to just let it go.

Though, you can’t help but feel like you’re neglecting his pain.

In the middle of the night, you wake up to the sounds of Ivar groaning in pain. It makes you snap around to face him, and the sight you see him in makes your blood turn cold.

He’s drenched in sweat, but shivering as if he’s stuck in a blizzard. His chest moves rapidly up and down, as if he had run a mile. And his body jerks every now and then in fits as pained groans and screams leave his lips that have a blue tint to them.

“Oh Gods, Ivar.” The words leave your lips before you can even think about them and you quickly push yourself up to kneel beside him.

Grabbing his shoulders, you don’t care about his sweat because the fact that he is burning up makes tears brim your eyes. Letting him rest against the headboard, you take his face in your hands to try and get him to look at you. “Ivar? Ivar, look at me,” you beg, a thousand thoughts running through your mind as to what might be wrong.

Patting his cheeks to get him out of his unconscious state, a small bit of relief washes over you to see his eyes flutter open. But that relief fades at the sight of blood in his eyes. “What is it? What’s wrong?” you frantically question, stroking his face cheeks as you shift closer. You ask him that because, honestly, you have no idea what’s happening.

He breathes out a weak sigh as his head falls against your hand. He’s very weak. “The leaf,” he mutters out, and you barely catch his words.

“The leaf? The leaf is gone, Ivar. I told you that,” you gently whisper, thinking that he’s wanting it for his pain.

But he shakes his head and turns his gaze down to his hand. You follow his gaze, watch as he slowly opens his hand to show you that he has been holding onto a herb. One that looks like that you used to give him for his pain. The leaf that caused only more problems.

Taking the leaf from his hand you carefully examine it. And one small difference, the darker color of the leaf, tell you exactly what you need to know. “Ivar, this is poisonous if you put it in your mouth and it will kill you if you swallow it,” you whisper, looking back up at his face.

And the realization hits you so hard, it makes your body numb.

His eyes close as his head falls back. Throwing the leaf away from you, you take his face in your hands and stroke his cheeks with your thumbs. “Ivar? Ivar!” He doesn’t respond. “Shit.”

Pushing yourself off the bed, you rush out the room, not caring if you bump into things and make them fall over with loud crashes that wake up the entire Hall. You have to find the cure.

The cure? What’s the cure?

Working with herbs, your mother made you learn all about them as if it was a religion, made you memorize their look, which ones look alike but are, in fact, so different, what the cure is if they somehow get mixed up. You could list them off in your sleep.

But now, the thought that if you don’t find the antidote, Ivar will die clouds your thoughts and makes it hard to think about what your mother taught you.

“Green leaves, grows on a post; darker leaves, sprouts from the ground,” you mutter to yourself, trying to recite the phrase your mother taught you about these two leaves because your brother used to be treated with one of them. The same one you treated Ivar with. “One heals, one kills. Both can be fixed with a meal.”

A meal. The kitchens.

Trying to recall the rest of the phrase as you run to the kitchens, you pass by a few people who take note of your emotional state and question what the matter is. But you don’t reply. You have to focus on finding the antidote.

Scrambling through the kitchen, trying to find what you’re looking for, you pick up herbs that you probably have in your pouch, but you can’t remember where you put that. “Mugwort, mayweed, nettle, thyme, fennel,” you mutter as you take them, something inside you telling you to do it, like it’s second nature. You feel that your combination is right, and you don’t see the thrall standing in the doorway staring at you like you’re a crazed woman.

As you turn to leave the kitchen, your eyes go to the firepit where the evening meals meat was roasted. It hasn’t been cleaned out yet, and a burnt piece of wood, charcoal, takes your interest. A voice in your mind tells you to take it. Your mother’s voice.

Grabbing a piece of cloth first to prevent you from burning yourself if the wood is still hot, you take the piece of wood in your free hand before storming out the kitchen.

Back in the room, you throw everything on the table as you move to grab a bowl. You have to put everything together. Ivar’s not looking good and seeing him even paler than before, his lips bluer now makes fresh tears spring from your eyes.

Looking at the herbs you have, you realize you need a knife. Ivar always has a knife beside the bed.

“Gods, what happened?” You don’t comprehend Ubbe’s words. All you can think about is the cure. Get it done. Get it done. You don’t even remember picking up the knife and walking back to the bowl to cut the herbs.

By now, tears are streaming down your cheeks at the thought that he’s doing to die if you don’t get this done. You need to be quick. You’re not being quick enough.

“(Y/n).” You don’t know if it’s your father’s voice that makes you lift your head or your name, but you look away from the bowl in front of you and see him pushing his way past Ubbe at the door and walking towards you.

Renier sees your distraught state and it makes him stop for a second before he picks up his pace towards you. But you look back at the bowl and grab the next herb to cut up. “(Y/n), let another healer take over,” your father whispers as he tries to reach out to place a hand on your shoulder.

“No!” you shout, throwing the cut up leaves in the bowl and grabbing the next one. “No, I can do this. I can help him. I can fix this. I don’t need help. I can - ow.” Not being able to see what you’re doing because of your clouded vision thanks to tears causes the knife to slip and cut your hand, making you drop it to the table and step back.

And then, your knees give in.

Falling to the ground, you break down in sobs and hold your hand to your chest. Lifting your head up when you hear Ivar’s strained breathing. “Ivar,” you whisper to yourself, glancing up at the table again and finding another healer picking up where you left off. “Leave it. I can do it,” you whisper, not sure if she heard you or not.

As you stand to your feet again, Renier stops you by placing his hands on your shoulders. “Let her do it.”

“No. I can do it. I can do it-”

“(Y/n).” Again, it’s either your father’s voice or your name that makes you look at him. And when you do, he cups your cheek in his hand and wipes away a tear. The comfort you’re receiving makes you weak and you fall forward into your father’s chest.

Renier looks over to Ubbe and Hvitserk who stand at the foot of their brother’s bed, give him a nod to say that it’s best to take you out of the room. You’re too emotional to help Ivar even if you really want to. You’ll just end up hurting yourself more.

You have to trust someone else to help him, take a step back.

Keeping your head in his chest, Renier walks you to the door, comforting you by stroking the back of your head as you sob. This reminds him of when you were a child and you had a nightmare. You would call out for him and would want only him.

Halfway to his room, you shake your head and try to pull away from him. “Ivar. I have to help him. I have to-”

“You have to take care of yourself, my darling,” he gently says, wrapping a strong arm around your shoulders to stop you from pulling away. “Ivar will be fine. You have my word.” You look back at him and raise an eyebrow as if to ask if he is sure.

In his room, he sits you down in a chair before moving to look for something. You watch him move around the room, open chest after chest on his search as you bite your lip. Looking over at the door, contemplate getting up and returning to where you feel you need to be.

How could you have left Ivar like that? How could you leave him dying with a healer you don’t know? What if she doesn’t know what she’s doing? Did you even know what you were doing? What if she makes things worse? What if-

“Ow!” you hiss, your head snapping down to your hand when you feel a sting only to find your father dapping the cup on your hand with a wet cloth that smells of alcohol.

But he doesn’t apologize. The focus on his face intrigues you. And when he reaches for a cloth to begin wrapping your cut, you tilt your head to the side. “You’ve done this before,” you whisper, noticing skill in his way of bandaging a wound.

He chuckles as a smile grows on his face. “Your mother taught me a few things. And I helped some healers during wars when they were overrun with work,” he explains, glancing up at you when he ends off the bandaging and pushes himself off the ground, to his feet.

Standing in front of you, your head lifts more to look at him as he reaches out to wipe a tear off your cheek. “You love him,” he whispers, keeping his hand on your cheek, waiting for you to withdraw from his touch. But you don’t.

You nod without having to think about it. You do love him, and you haven’t told him. He could die tonight without you even telling him that you love him. “I can tell. Your mother acted the same way when I came back one night close to death,” he says, turning to grab a chair and pull it closer so he can sit in front of you.

You frown at him. “I don’t remember that,” you whisper, leaning back in your seat and finding comfort in his presence. It’s not tense like you remember your last interaction being.

“It was just before you were born. Your mother was pregnant with you at that time and we still lived in the village,” he states, leaning back too and smiling to see you relaxing around him. “People found out who I really was and didn’t like what my father was planning, so they decided to kill me. After your mother fixed me up, we moved into that out away from the village, knowing that you’d be safe away from those that wished harm on me and you; my heir,” he explains, and somehow, you find yourself smiling.

“Soini would have ruled before me,” you say, a small laugh on your voice as you look down at your hands, your eyes meeting the golden ring he gave to you on the docks.

Renier hums, shakes his head and shifts in his seat. “No. In Nanard, the firstborn is always the successor. No matter if their female or male,” he states, making your head lift back up to look at him.

You stare at him for a second before turning your eyes back down to your hands. “What’s Nanard like?” you question, changing the topic about ruling because you’re not sure how to feel about that just yet.

“It’s beautiful. Both in summer and winter,” he states, perking your interest and making you look up at him again. “We have direct access to the sea. Some say it is a weakness, but I see it as a strength. Because of that, trading can happen all year round. The kingdom is rich, but not in gold like some kings strive to be rich in. Nanard is rich in other ways,” he adds, a smile growing on his face as he speaks about his home.

You swallow, run your tongue over your lips and shift in your seat. “I might like to see it sometime,” you whisper, your sincerity surprising both you and him. But still, his smile grows bigger.

“I’d like to take you. One day,” he says. You smile, happy that he’s not pushing you to make a decision to go back with him when he leaves like you thought he would. “When you are ready, my daughter.”

Like my work? Support me HERE!

Permanent List- @cassindeansass @simsadventures @fandomfic-galore @belovedcherry @a-mess-of-fandoms @official-and-unstable-satan @patton-fielder @geekandbooknerd @lonewolf471 @rainbowkisses31 @moonie-flower101 @p8tn0lish @rinkashirikitateku @readsalot73 @tragicmisfits @petlaufeyson @bangtan-serendipity @aworldwideapart @mythicalbullshit @ateliefloresdaprimavera @xbuckxnastyx @madithemagicalfangirl @ivarthebloodyking @shannygoatgruff @a--1--1--3 @nerdypinupcrystal @mblaqgi @tephi101 @coconutqueen21

Ivar Tags- @sallydelys @youbloodymadgenius @walkxthexmoon @chaoticfiretaconerd @didiintheblog @witch-of-letters @thorins-queen-of-erebor @eleganttravelercloud @youbelongeverywhere @noseyrosey1597 @hxnnigrxms @wonderlandofsu @secretsthathauntus @portraitofinsanity @grincheveryday @fuckindiva

#ivar #ivar the boneless #ivar x reader #ivar the boneless x reader #ivar imagine #ivar the boneless imagine #ivar ragnarsson #vikings ivar #ivar lothbrok #ivar fanfic #ivar the god #vikings #history vikings #vikings imagine #addicted

200 notes · View notes

crystalrainwing · 3 years

Note

hey hey hey august can I hear the wasp story?

THE WASP STOR(IES)

i will begin with a small bit of context. my mom used to be fatally allergic to wasps, specifically yellowjackets. i can’t remember what it was exactly but she had something done to make her not allergic to them anymore, or at least barely allergic. my dad has adhd and he also has a pretty skewed sense of danger; he’s very impulsive and these things combined have resulted in some... interesting... things.

THE FIRST (major) WASP STORY, aka my dad makes questionable decisions: part one

i can’t remember whether this was before or after The Wasp Incident but i believe it was before. at this point in time my youngest sister, squid, was probably four or five and EXTREMELY afraid of wasps because of something that happened when she was 2. at our old house, during the summer she wouldn’t go downstairs because wasps lived in our air conditioning and they’d get blown out into the main room down there. anyways. the rest of us didn’t like wasps either.

except, of course, my dad. my dad was and is not afraid of wasps.

outside my parents’ window was a massive wasp nest. one of the bowling- or basket-ball sized ones. mostly they didn’t bother us. my dad once stuck his hand in the nest just for funsies and only got stung like. 3 or 4 times. so. not too aggressive.

my dad, on this day, was leaf blowing our concrete patio. and the window was RIGHT there.

he wondered, what would happen if i stuck the leaf blower in here and turned it on?

so. he did.

we couldn’t leave the house for a day and a half. but the wasp nest was gone, at least, i guess.

THE SECOND (major) WASP STORY, aka my dad makes questionable decisions part two

this was maybe a year ago (so after The Incident). now there’s a kind of hornets called bald faced hornets. we were already familiar with them from The Incident. they’re mostly okay, because they won’t attack until you’re near their home (usually in a tree). but once they do, their venom is particularly painful. (unrelated but every year they’d eat any apples that fell to the ground and they’d get drunk cause the apples were a little fermented. it’s really funny.)

so in our cherry trees was a big wasp nest. we, of course, wanted to eat the cherries but me and my sisters were willing to just. not go near the tree; that particular tree did not in fact grow any cherries. my dad, being unafraid and bored, decided to find a way to get rid of it.

his original plan was to ‘just stomp on it.’ don’t ask me how that would work because i simply don’t know. he didn’t either. that was the end of the plan. notable problems include the fact that it was in a tree and the fact that it was full of wasps.

anyways. my mom told him that was not actually a good plan but tragically couldn’t convince him to just. leave it alone. the revised plan was to 1. go up a ladder to the nest. 2. cut it down with a... knife? saw? i don’t remember. 3. drop the whole nest + the branch into a bucket and finally, 4. shove a lid on the bucket real fast.

he didn’t even make it to step 2.

me and my sisters were outside, a fair bit away, watching. we knew it was going to be terrible and hilarious. and it was! i actually have the whole thing on video, somewhere; if i can find it and it doesn’t have anyone’s faces on it then i might post it here.

so here’s my dad, standing on a wobbly ladder which is right next to a very steep hill (our yard was essentially a downhill, a few feet of flat ground, and another downhill. good for sledding though). on the ground beneath him, the wasp bucket, and in his hand a dull serrated knife.

being who he was he decided to take a look at the wasps and stuck his hand right next to them. ‘oh,’ i hear him say. ‘these guys are aggressive.’

‘oh, they’re really aggressive.’ he drops the knife. the wasps come out.

we (me and my sisters) start running. behind us, my dad is yelling for us to get inside quickly and close the door because the wasps are CHASING him.

well. we couldn’t go outside that evening, but in the end the only consequence was my dad was in a lot of pain and had like, a fever and stuff from the venom (surprise surprise! they were bald faced hornets), and my cat acted drunk cause she got stung too.

pretty big consequence, let’s be real. i think my dad must feel pain less than other people, because... well. we all have learned th hard way how much bald faced hornets stings hurt.

THE WASP INCIDENT, aka a bizarre series of increasingly terrible misfortunes

the day of The Incident was perfectly normal. we went to a river with some friends, which was fun if a bit cold. i don’t remember the time spent at the river.

soon it came time to leave. we had planned on taking a picture together, but well, too bad. we would go home without it. oh, how i wish we would have gone home without it.

my sister, as mentioned before, was terrified of wasps. and there were a few wasps hanging around; we were near water, no big deal. if she saw one she’d scream, though.

into the woods we went, trying to find a place to take a picture (we stayed on the trail, though; there were some very little kids with us).

i clearly remember the moments before Disaster Struck. a 10 year old me found a beautiful flower. some cool mushrooms.

‘oh, here’s a good place for a picture,’ i hear behind me. the parents stood on the trail, while all the kids stood on a slope directly next to it. there was a nice log adding to the picture, it was very aesthetic, i’m sure.

suddenly, squid starts screaming. no big deal, she is five and screams a lot. she just saw a wasp, probably, or maybe hadden pinched her.

there was a little pinch on my leg. stinging nettle? maybe.

another. these hurt too bad to be stinging nettle. i didn’t know what was going on but we all ran down the slope faster than we’d ever run before.

i was feeling terrible pricks all over my body. please understand these were truly terrible. they were enough to bring me to tears with just one sting.

as everybody ran down the trail towards the cars and, presumably, safety, my mom ripped my shirt off for me because THERE WAS A WASP STUCK INSIDE MY SHIRT. once i got it out i understood what was going on - we were being attacked by wasps. everyone else was out of sight, around a bend in the trail, but i could hear their distant screams as i walked slowly and leisurely down the trail, in intense pain. i thought the trees were very pretty, and the sky very blue.

when i got to the parking lot i was met with the sight of my youngest sister, no pants or shirt on, crying hysterically and my friend doing the same. poor squid, five years old and deathly afraid of wasps, had been stung over 12 times by some of the wasps that personally i have found to be most painful. they’d gotten in her clothes.

the end of the story, right? you’re probably thinking. we go home, squid is even more scared of wasps, that’s it.

well, not quite. remember how i mentioned my mom used to be allergic to wasps? specifically, yellowjackets? and only yellowjackets?

as it turns out, bald faced hornets ARE yellowjackets. and in saving my sister from the wasps stuck in her clothes my mom had been stung six. times.

so. here we are. four parents, at least three crying children, in the middle of the woods 2 hours from civilization and, more importantly a HOSPITAL. someone camping nearby had benadryl but no one had an epi pen, and my mom was having an allergic reaction. she wasn’t going into anaphylactic shock, luckily.

but she still needed an epi pen, because she could.

just down the road was a boy scout camp, and for the first time we had good luck - there were people there. and a medical tent. we took her in, they were confused but they gave her an epi pen. i sat in the car with my friend, who was still crying. she gave me licorice. after an hour or so, my mom was fine. and we went home.

in the end everything was okay, and i have a fun story to tell. also happy to report that squid’s fear of wasps isn’t as severe these days, shes 10 now.

anyways. here are three of the reasons im not fond of wasps, and three of my favourite stories to tell friends (sorry to my irl friends who’ve heard this story SO. many times.)

#and here it is #in its full glory #took me like an hour to type out and idk if it comes across as well as text #ppl tell me i have a good story telling voice but idk if typing them out will be the same :///#soooo lmk how this was to read!!#also ty for asking bestie <3 #i love telling stories!!!#my posts #asks #my stories #wasp story #ask to tag #wasp tw #allergies tw

6 notes · View notes

stereksecretsanta · 3 years

Text

Merry Christmas, leninille!

For @leninille. These are the first three chapters and a complete story within a new storyline I've got several chapter outlines for. All of this came up during development of this Secret Santa Exchange gift, and as more familiar faces are revealed, the tags will be updated accordingly.

Read On AO3

*****

Health Tonics and Love Gardens

Chapter 1 - The Stiles In The Garden

Stiles has been working on this garden for months. It is colorful now, with tiny bushes he'd groomed into shape and the better airflow they get without the other plants strangling the light and air from the garden. He's been restoring this garden to what it might have once been, and tried to keep remembering what his mom told him about the garden back home.

"These flowers may look nice, but they can also cause healing or harm." He thought in his mother's voice.

This specific phrase stuck with him, and usually when he's daydreaming and not paying attention to what he's saying, he'll speak the words and try to recall the exact details of the garden as it was when his mom was caring for it.

"Why?" he again remembers asking, and he says the same thing aloud every time this happens.

The details of the answer vary, probably because his child mind wasn't really any better at staying on target for even half the time his adult brain can do now. That means that his mom's voice answers the questing with different words, and the theme generally was: "Sometimes a little of a plant can help a person heal from an injury. Give them too much, and they will suffer, may come to harm, and could die."

It's the stinging nettle that his mother is indicating to him today. He looks at the plant in the present and gives it side-eye.

"A good cook can turn this nettle into a healthful tea."

Little Stiles can feel himself interrupt her. "I've made tea, mom. It's easy!" He used to be so excited about stuff. He was what... maybe eight years old when this happened?

He favors his mother's memory by having her always say something that humors the younger him.

"Yes! You can make very good tea. And thank you for doing it! But some teas we can make require very good care. A good cook like me knows how to prepare the stems, or the flowers, or pieces of the root all cut up into tiny pieces of any of these plants." She makes tickling fingers at him and he smiles at the recollection.

"What if the cook uses the wrong pieces?"

"Then instead of healing, maybe nothing will happen. But with some plants, you can make someone worse. They can be hurt forever, and might even die."

Little Stiles did not want to make that kind of tea, and he considered not ever being near tea again.

"Promise me, Stiles, that you will not try to make tea from anything that comes from this garden."

That was an easy promise to keep. The Stiles in his 20s, having these memories, appreciates how well his mother understood how he thought. Under her brief guidance, Stiles cultivated a voracious curiosity and analytical mind. He got over the worries about tea, eventually, but it wasn't until after this gardening thing started that he want and tried to learn more about exactly what were these plants in the plot and what kinds of tea could be made with them.

As he found out later, after many hours and days of looking through cookbooks and materials online, he started to feel like this was a medicinal garden instead of an herb garden for actual cooking.

"And never make tea with anything outside the garden without talking to me first, okay?"

Little Stiles nods again. At that age he loved strawberries, and he thought he might not worry so much about tea if he had some of the best tea with his mom right now. "I want to make the strawberry tea!"

"Oh! That sounds good."

Little Stiles helped Claudia put the tools away and gather the strawberries and lemon and sugar from their places in the kitchen. They talked about his day at school, and the memory always fades from there.

It is well more than ten years since that day and it's one of his favorite memories of his mother. Many memories stick because they sucked, or because he thinks about them so much he can't tell if they're real or if he made them up.

He does think it's odd that every week, at least once a week, Stiles is at this old burned house in the Beacon Hills Preserve, working on this garden, talking to himself to review what he's learned about these different plants, and making threats at the plants who he still can't identify or which are giving him troubles that day. He's still just as wary of the nettle, but they've got a grudging agreement not to bother each other. For the rest? He'll unlock their secrets soon enough.

It's fair to say that he lets his guard down at this point. Nobody's ever been around here. He expected there would be graffiti on the house or whatever, but no, it's just been the house and this garden, and Stiles taking care of the latter.

He clips a sprig of lavender and adds it to his bag with the rosemary, adds some heather blossoms, and mutters "Calluna" as he snaps them. It's their genus, and they're in the same family as rhododendrons. There are two of those in the yard, not close to the house.

His thought withers as he turns to the house and takes it in with a slow breath. It always seems like the house is watching him, but not seeing him. It's never felt threatening, just... omnipresent, he thinks.

This house was full of the potential of these many lives. The family suffered, and in his investigation into public records and police records ("Heya, daddio... Can I ask you a question?" being only the most direct route to the files, and not the only one he took), he had learned that the family's absence left some big holes in the town at the time.

Curiously, it was hard to find photos of any of the family members. Even social media didn't have much. The kids weren't in school yearbooks he could get hold of, and he's gone through everything he could find in the school archive, even the old student newsletters.

He had found a photo of Talia Hale. She was the mother and as far as he could tell, the kind of person everyone in town seemed to know and most respected. He had no idea that Talia's spouse looked like, having seen only the name "Blake Hale" and having no idea who that was.

The dusty family obituary Stiles found in the paper printed after the fire listed several dead. But the count doesn't match what the police logged, and that doesn't match the fire inspector's. The insurance company itself gave a third number in a quote taken by a reporter.

The situation didn't make sense to him, and it bothered him that nobody seemed to know what really happened here. How many Hales were impacted by the fire? Did any escape? The body counts ranged from fewer than ten to the low 20s. Nobody knew if there was a party that night because despite all the fresh vehicle tracks at the scene, there were very few vehicles in the driveway. So where did those other visitors go? The firefighters' work destroyed the scene and they couldn't find any tire tracks that might lead them in a useful direction.

And weirdest of all: He's still not found anything that even hints that his mother and the Hales were affiliated. So this garden and the exact matching one at home, which Stiles and his dad have somewhat neglected after many years of close attention, Stiles still doesn't know why he cares so much about this plot at the Hale house.

He'd explored the ruins many times in his months of gardening. The house sits still and aging, creaking wearily in the winds as it always does. The only trespassers seem to be him and the squirrels.

He tugs a threatening vine away from the garden and trims it back. It's probably a volunteer left by some bird.

On his first day here he didn't go in the house, but walked slowly around it, walking his blue bike as he walked the perimeter. It was coming around the back of the house when he caught the scent of a familiar combination of herbs and he discovered his garden out here in the woods.

It is exactly the same layout as at the Stilinski house, but these plants were overgrown and struggling, and the vines were getting close. As he got on his knees and started his first concerted effort at gardening the plot, he started trying to find answers to these two questions: "Why does this garden layout look identical to ours at home?" and, given that the garden does exist in both places, "How did the Hales know his mother?"

Derek doesn't know how to respond. He had never been an alpha, and would never be, so he'd mostly ignored those lessons when his mom and Laura talked about them. His alpha and sister in one being swore to him years ago that no matter how much they'd already lost, they'll always be near each other.

"Are you alright? Did you hear me?" she glances at him and pokes him. She feels the sensation of being mentally stunned, then gives him an annoyed look. "Why is this weird for you?"

He blinked at her. "You don't think it's weird that for years we've not even talked once about Beacon Hills and now you say that you've spent weeks fighting an unidentified and suspicious pull to return home for a few weeks?"

"No, I said a few months. Three or four, maybe. Who cares? It's still a calling."

Derek looked at her and asked the obvious. "Couldn't this be hunters?"

She shook her head. This wasn't aggressive magic, and she wasn't sure how she knew that. It was more than intuition, though... it was certainty. Werewolves are often sensitive to many kinds of magical activities that may happen around them or to them, and her enhanced abilities told her that this just wasn't like any of that. She considered an odd possibility.

"Maybe it's my wolf?"

Derek rolls his eyes. "We are werewolves, Laura. It's a gift of a greater life, not a spiritual possession."

"Hey, I know that there's no separate little spooky spirit inside any of us beyond what most people seem to think they have. But this is like..." She searches the room until her eyes land in the opposite corner. She points at the TV and clarifies, "It's like I'm getting a new channel, and it's focused on the wolfish instincts, not the human side. Can't you feel it, too?"

He shakes his head. There has been zero sensation of compulsion in Derek to return to Beacon Hills. He would be happy to never return. It was once a beautiful place, but that's lost with everything else and he doesn't want to find any of it again.

"Can you check the pack bond and tell me what you see?"

He glares at her, already tired of this conversation. The alpha sees different things in pack bonds than each member sees. Laura likes to learn what Derek sees, and tells herself that it'll come in handy when she's got a bigger pack. They haven't even tried to connect with any werewolves despite there being many free-roaming supernatural family hanging around. The Hales are a duo that nobody can mess with.

She's persistent, so he focuses and listens with his inner senses and finds the same pack bond with her that he's seen for years. It's identical to how it was before. Nothing new, nothing seeming magical beyond the usual. It's hard to believe her about this when he's got no evidence it's happening.

"Damn. I hate this. I wish I had an emissary to ask."

Derek doesn't know what to think about emissaries, and leans toward not-in-favor since theirs failed to protect them from the hunter assault that lead to his family's near-annihilation. This emissary was newer, replacing their former emissary who had died of a normal, terrible cause like brain cancer. Derek met the new guy once and hated how he smelled of animals and cleaning supplies. The man's day job was as head veterinarian at the Beacon Hills Animal Clinic.

Last time they talked about him, Laura recalled that he was mostly a quiet man, didn't like giving full answers, and Talia mostly found him annoying, though useful at times.

Derek stewed on the fresh thoughts of the vet being partly responsible for what happened. Now he's feeling some kind of pull to return, to demand answers, at the very least.

Magic, as far as Derek was concerned, has been far more bother than it's worth.

"I never liked Deaton, but he's all I know." Laura suggested.

"Oh, then all of this was your fault," Derek said in an attempt to lighten the mood. It took a second to realize that he just accused the emissary of letting the family come to harm because he and Laura didn't get along.

"No emissary and no wolf was responsible for what happened, Derek." That left only the implication of the hunter woman he'd let get too close.

With regard to that person, Derek only ever harbors stabbingly angry thoughts about what should happen to her. She'd lied, she'd taken advantage of his life inexperience, and in the end of it all, she failed to murder him with everyone else, and he simmered deep inside from a wound that hadn't healed. His eyes flash.

Laura doesn't look away. He's upset, and he's not great with expressing himself on the best of day. She doesn't flash her eyes back at him. She's not angry, she's sad that he keeps blaming himself.

Derek reads this on her face and understands. "Fuck!" he mumbles a disappointed apology. "It wasn't your fault." He punctuates the air more softly with a mumbled repeat of the exclamation.

"Derek." She has come to a conclusion and in that tone she's warning him to prepare himself for something he is going to dislike. "I think we need to go back. We'll be careful," she says as he gives her an irritated and skeptical. "We'll stay in another town, sneak in as wolves and investigate the Preserve and the house. Maybe check out Beacon Hills and," she said, conspiratorially, "get some donuts before we leave."

"Leave?"

"We don't have to stay. I just need answers."

He considers this. It's not a demand or a request, it's just what she's going to do and she knows he's coming with her. But the confectionary he'd not thought about in years comes back to him. "I forgot about the donuts! And because of you," he glares at her, "now I have to have one."

"Perfect!" she says. He makes a good show at faking indignation, but he's heading into his room and looking around. They weren't likely to come back, so he shoots a message to his boss about a family emergency and he starts packing.

She's looking from the main room at his back as he starts sorting things out. He's always the scaredywolf, and she starts to pull snacks together that they'll want for the long drive.

Chapter 2 - These Wolves Are Here To Play

"Iiiiiiiiiiiiiii've been working on the raaaaaaaaaaailroad!" the man shouts. "All the live-long daaaaaaaaayGAACK!" Choking sputters and spitting follows the interruption. The approaching wolves still and listen.

"What the crap?! I'm working on your stupid habitat here!" A triple spitting sound. "Leave me alone you big dumb m-moth!"

The wolves glance at each other and share a look that says, "This guy's got worse problems than his big, stupid voice."

Laura steps ahead, leading them closer, keeping the shrubs and other undergrowth between them and the person in the distance. This guy doesn't scream "Threat!" to anyone but himself, but even well-meaning people can lead to tragedy. It would be best, of course, if the guy happened to take off before they got near him.

But if he did, she warns herself, that could mean he knows they're coming. That would make him either a super or a magic user. If he stays for too long, they'll need to scare him out of there so they can take a look around.

Derek made a subvocal growl. He's always preferred the hostile approach to any conflict and she nudges him with a low-pitched growl of denial.

Derek huffs. He actually huffs at her.

What a whiny puppy.

"Rodzina," Stiles says to the wolf the second he realizes he's not alone.

And then he slaps his hand over his mouth, uncertain why he's speaking Polish. The wolf regards him, unflinching. "It's Polish for family." This creature is huge! Larger than any dog he's ever met, and it's broad and got a defined mane around its neck. It's a really beautiful and terrifying wolf. Oh, oh god. It's a freaking wolf.

The wolf glances at his chest and tilts its head at him. She seemed to know that word, somehow. How could that even happen? Well, he's happy she hasn't been all growly and dipping her head down and being mean.

"I'm sorry, but there's no food here, and I can't take you home and get you any." With real sorrow, since having a wolf pet would be totally awesome, but a really bad idea, he adds, "You're beautiful, but I can't can't have a pet."

The wolf chuffs at him.

What? A chuff! That's practically falling over with laughter in wolf terms, as far as Stiles is concerned.

"Hey! Don't chuff at me!" He's wiggling a finger at her. It's 10% aggression and 90% cowardice. He focuses on forgetting everything except that 10%. He nervously walks through his thoughts aloud because he can't help his mouth moving of its own accord at this moment.

"Okay, so fine, let's see... I'm gardening here, that's legitimately all I'm doing. No looking for secret treasure at the house or anything. You're coming here passing through or whatever, even though there haven't been wolves in this part of California in decades. I know you understand me, and you're pretending not to. But why don't you talk back?"

He is looking directly into her eyes before consciously realizing he's taking her measure. This is a specific thing he definitely remembers promising himself he'd never do if he were being challenged by a large predator in the wilderness. And yet, he's challenging this alpha wolf—

"You're an alpha wolf? How can there be alpha wolves when the whole scientific hypothesis was proven to be wrong?" He wants to ramble the name of the research article on the subject, and about the way the article was written, but manages to catch hold of his thought trains and redirect. "That's not important right now. It's crazy enough that I somehow know you can understand me clearly."

She's a smart wolf. Human-equivalent intelligence, for sure. She tries not to tilt her head in an approximation of doggy confusion, but it's a projection. Odd how that he's here gardening and along comes this alph—

"WEREWOLF?! You're a werewolf?!"

Stiles describes this later to his father as, "when all hell breaks loose."

The alpha wolf lifts her lips and growls at Stiles, who is immediately cowed. She's joined half a second later by another large wolf, slightly smaller than her as he is a beta, but he's also got very long and sharp and they're massive and this is a very bad place for him to be right now!

"Shit! I'm not delicious! Don't eat me!"

The alpha stops growling again, and seems to be shaking. The other wolf snarls at her. She snarls back.

Of fucking course! "You're siblings?" Okay, that's it, you need to tell me who you are. Between cautiouswolf and hyperprotective wolf," indicating the alpha and the beta in order, "who the hell are you?"

The beta keeps growling but defers reluctantly to the alpha. She studies Stiles, looking at him and not laughing wolfishly anymore. There's no hint of threatening demise, just curiosity.

It would be too far to say it's quite trust, but it's the recognition that the confusion is mutual and that there is no threat.

Stiles also looks at this as another opportunity to try to talk himself out of the situation. He gives explaining himself another try.

"I was here by accident the first time, and then I found the garden," he waves over to it, easily seen from where all three wolves stood. The beta wolf didn't take his eyes off Stiles, but the alpha regarded his handiwork without apparent comment and resumed studying Stiles.

"Keep talking," was the obvious implication. Order. It was definitely an order, and Stiles agreed that he should continue.

"My mom planted a garden exactly like this one at home. So finding such a unique one out here, at the site of," he looks at the house and murmurs, "really bad stuff is just weird." He feels his cheeks tighten and get heavy and a tear slips down his cheeks. "She died before she told me what all the plants are for. As far as I know she didn't even know the family." He turns around, letting embarrassment at his own emotions put his unguarded back at risk of wolfish sneak-attack.

There's a shuffling noise behind him that tugs his attention back and he wipes his face. It's blotchy, and gross, he's sure, but he's looking at the wolves.

Something quiet happened here while he was turned around. The male wolf is looking almost... ashamed in some way, and the alpha turns back to Stiles after a staredown with the beta and seats herself a step closer to Stiles.

He decides not to mention that moving closer is just as terrifying than all of the other scary things they've done because the seated pose is probably just a ruse to get him when he's vulnerable, but...

Thump.

That was a tail. He looks around her sitting form as if trying to find her tail. Her expression reads as, most likely, "You seriously need to chill." Off to the side, the beta just looks mean as ever and ready to chew on his soft and fleshy neck.

He pulls his phone out and texts his dad. He holds up a finger to the wolf who'd risen to her feet again.

"No, just a minute. My dad's expecting me and I need to let him know that I'll be a little late. I'm not telling him about our little one-sided conversation, which you really should join, by the way." The wolves seemed mollified, if not satisfied with the answer. Neither rises to the bait and starts speaking, so the beta keeps his ears rotating around, listening for danger, and the alpha's ears are firmly oriented in his direction.

"Do you know this place?" The ear flick of the alpha and the glance at the house let him connect some dots. "The Hale family lived here and you knew them."

For the next several minutes, Stiles explains what he has learned of the Hales from his look into the school archives, the police and fire reports, the insurance report he'd acquired through a friend of a friend who shall all remain nameless. He tells of the obituary and the news stories and the details that don't make sense.

He's speculating and journeying down educational, if difficult to follow sidetracks, and mentions one detail that catches the wolves' complete attentions. It was about the catatonic John Doe found a few days later a short walk from the highway.

"Oh? Uhh, I just think maybe there's a connection between that John Doe and the Hale fire. There's too many weird details, things that haven't happened at any other time in this town or probably any town. It's tidy and messy at the same time. I don't trust that."

He's been looking at things on his phone that are pictures or notes or scans of things he's found and looks for the rest of what he discovered about that John Doe.

"Look," he says as he flips the phone toward them. "I found evidence that— Oh, I don't know if you even see in color, or if you can read this in your current shape. Hopefully you're better than other canines about that but you're not answering questions right now, so we'll park that for later.

He reviews the notes and continues.

"I snuck into the hospital and I think this guy really could have been a family member or friend of the Hales. He was scarred badly, as if from a fire, and though he wasn't near the Hale house, the paramedics estimated he'd already suffered two days in the cool air in probably this very state."

The sad whine of them both went unnoticed through the racing thoughts of the human.

"I still think he looks like an age-progressed version of the Beacon Hills basketball team player I found in this picture."

He makes the face as large as he can. It's just a face, and it's blurry.

The first wolf shifts back to human. She says, "Who is this?"

Stiles gasps and then tries to pretend a wolf didn't just shift in front of him to human form and start asking him questions.

"This is a picture of Peter Hale."

She turns to the other wolf. "Derek!" and she motions at him to stand up, but the wolf Derek declines. It wasn't an order, but a move of cautious excitement. Derek's keeping a wary eye in the human's direction even as his sister looms closer to the phone and examines the picture.

"I'm sorry, madam alpha, or whatever is the right title, but you appear to have no clothes on and I am not prepared to um... talk with you in this manner at this time. And stuff."

She looks at him, and then herself, and shakes her head. "When it comes to werewolves, clothing is as optional as it gets."

"Oh, your kind can't transform your clothing when you shift?" Something subconscious snags his attention. "Are you sure about that?"

She looks at him. Her hair is a little wild, and she's strong even in this form. "I know more about werewolves than you do."

He tucks his phone in his pocket.

"Okay, look, fine, you want to talk in the nude. You do you, but I really am just going to need to leave right now and clear my head and then I can... I can come back tomorrow, yeah?" He's not sure why he's excited to return. They did nearly eat him several times in this conversation, based on the number of flashes of teeth he caught in the last several minutes.

"Fine, come back tomorrow, but do not tell anyone we were here."

Stiles nods, distracted, and takes a few tries before he gets all his gardening things stuffed back into his bag and gets himself situated for the ride out of the preserve.

"I'll be here just after five tomorrow, alright? I've got work, but I'll be here, and I'll bring some stuff you can look at. Please try to get some clothes or this is going to be awkward and I am really out of awkward for the day.

"You're really not," the alpha says. Stiles sputters.

"Hey!"

"Hey, family man," she says, referring to his Polish of earlier. "I'm Laura. Who are you?"

"I'm Stiles Stilinski."

The other wolf looks at him and hruffs, almost laughing.

Cripes, these siblings are already annoying him.

"Hey, asshole, it's my name. You'd break yourself trying to pronounce my first name, so be thankful for my gracious manner."

Stiles leaves slowly, trying to go faster, but it takes a while to get his body to let go of the anxiety enough to punish his legs on the pedals and fly as fast as he can without crashing.

Kind of a tall order, some days.

"I cannot believe I just promised I'd come back to chat with those man-eaters!" He gripes at himself. "Do they eat people? How do you even ask someone if they eat people? Especially if they can change shapes and have fangs and sharp pointy parts?" He listens to his intuition. Of course they're not cannibals. Or maybe they are if they're not considered humans. "UGH! They are gonna answer so many questions tomorrow or else!"

Derek has followed him silently for maybe half a mile, listening to the bewildering blitz of self-talk ranging from werewolves to garlic naan bread and Derek just gives up and heads toward the house, where Laura is waiting for him.

Chapter 3 - The Interposing

The sun is low now, shining bright fingers through the shattered window frames and vacant doorways of the shell of this old house. By coincidence of timing and place, Laura stands in a sunny shape on the decrepit porch. Derek listens to her adjusting her stance and watches as her fingers push through a beam of sunlight and trace the crackled texture of the carbonized door frame.

"You didn't stop him and make him tell us where Peter is."

She catches his meaning immediately. "Yeah, there's something at work here keeping me from chasing him away."

"You failed," he says, gesturing broadly at her exposed form. "He can't handle this much woman."

"Well, Derek, I've got the supernatural hookup. We all do. He's going to have to get used to all this." She looks at the smudges on her fingers. "But why didn't you stop him?"

"I don't know. And I only just realized it when I said it." Now Derek looks as confused as she had been. He wasn't even feeling hostile toward the Stiles, and that is the most irritating thing about this.

She shifts her hand through beta shift and to full wolf, then back again. It's a difficult transition, but since she could just focus and do it, Derek just observed as she shifted from human form through partial beta and partial full forms, and then back to full human.

Derek was curious what she was doing, and noticed her smile as he held her fingers up.

Every finger still had dirt.

"I've never thought about how we take dirt and things with us through the shift, but not our clothes."

"Are you suggesting that he can teach us to take clothing or tools into our shift?"

She shrugged her shoulders and grinned. The pack bond resonated with satisfaction, and he rolled his eyes.

"We don't know anything about him."

"I know, but if you could feel it, you'd know that this place needs us, Derek." She looks into the house from across the threshold. "And gardener Stiles is part of whatever is going on here." They were all called here. It's magic that bound them, brought them together, and seems to be managing their introduction.

"Is he the magic user?"

"There is ample potential. Surely you could feel that by the time he left."

"I hate magic," Derek grumbles as he thinks about it. Yes, he could tell Stiles was ignorant of his own potential and that worried Derek more than the fact that this stranger happened to suddenly be part of their lives in a way that captivates his alpha.

Laura snaps her fingers. "Yo, how could you not have heard me?"

Derek raises an eyebrow in defiance. Not his best move, but now it's her turn to roll her eyes and she repeats herself.

"Let's go find Deaton. If he's around, maybe he can help us figure out who this is and what kind of magic is being worked here."

"Can we pass the hospital, too? I'd like to see if we might find uncle Peter."

She nods. That matters a lot to both of them, too. She resolves that before 5pm tomorrow, they'll have gotten at least one answer to the question of what's going on. She leans into a full shift and Derek follows, chasing her as they race into the forest for the long route to the vet's office.

"My dad is going to kill me when he finds out I was talking with werewolves at the Hale house." He nearly skids to a stop and releases his clenched brake. He isn't a Hollywood stunts expert and he would not have recovered well from a solo crash on the pavement. His ego would be only one of his many bruised parts.

He considers 14 different stories that seem plausible enough, dismissed half of them outright as abominations, and spend the next minutes thinking up some 40 more before settling on the best candidate.

He parked his bike along the side of the house and walked quickly to the front, nearly crashing into his patient and curious father on the porch.

"Hello Stiles. You didn't say why you'd be late, but—"

"I was watching the sunset!" he interjected. Dad glances toward the sun now, indicating that the sunset isn't done yet.

"Nope, you weren't. Do you want to tell me what really happened?"

"Yes!" he squeaks, and then rushes his dad inside with a glance over his shoulder that lacks any essence of subtlety. He's checking the few houses in view to see if anyone in a homes or yard or car or suspicious van might be spying on them. He closes the door quietly and pointedly locks it.

"Are you sure this is necessary, Stiles?"

"Dad, my world has been supernaturally rocked tonight, and what I'm about to tell you will do the same for you."

#leninille #stereksanta20 #*fic20 #*gifts20

14 notes · View notes

themousetales · 3 years

Text

The Meeting: Hazel and Thyme (Part one!)

- 1 -

Hazel walked the damp streets, she heard the sounds of drips from the trees hitting the wet pavement. She let out a small shiver as she kept walking, and held her purple scarf close to her for a brief moment as she felt her stomach starting to demand some food,and something to drink. She took a deep breath and let her nose continue to lead her in hopes she’d find somewheres that looked good. She only recently moved to this small city. It was bigger than her home town, but it wasn’t a huge city. Not like some of the ones she’s heard others talk about, but big enough she hasn’t explored the whole place yet. As she walked she heard her heels click along the paved roads, and eventually she stopped in front of a shop. From the window peering in, she could tell it was very home-y. Almost like a cafe, but it had flowers in the window, like lavender hanging from string. She also noticed other herbs hanging up in the window too like sage, and stinging nettle. She looked for a moment longer, and for some reason she felt herself wanting to go in. Hazel always followed gut when it told her to do things, and at this moment her body was telling her to go into this cute little shop. She was also curious. So she opened the door and as she did, her red mouse ears flicked as she heard a bell chime, and she noticed another mouse girl. She felt a bit silly, why didn’t she notice the clerk before? Maybe she was bent down? Or maybe her senses were off a bit due to being so hungry, she just didn’t notice. The mouse girl in the shop, she had on a small witches hat, and a cute mori kei styled dress on, and a little apron on that was a soft tan color. Her hair was a soft golden blonde color, with what looked like flicks of strawberry blonde. The strawberry blonde hair was long. Hazel stared for just a moment, and then quickly noticed she was just standing in the doorway, allowing the cool outside air to wisk passed her, and come uninvited into the warm shop. Hazel, cluing into this, quickly shut the door behind her and started to blush. The mouse girl invited her in. “Hello, and welcome! I don’t think I’ve met you before have I?” The girl asked. Hazel, looking a little confused, shook her head no. “Oh, um… N-no. I was just walking by, and became curious…” The mouse girl nodded, as if she hasn’t heard this before. “Mhm! I thought so, I typically remember everyone who stops by... But you're in time, I just put a kettle on, I’m making some thistle tea. Would you like a cup?” Hazel thought for a moment, taking a pause. “Its free, don’t worry. I don’t charge for the tea here. I grow it in the back garden.” The mouse girl added. Hazel then nodded her head. “I’ll take a tea, thank you.” The shop keeper mouse nodded her head and ducked into the back room for a moment to get the tea ready. As the shopkeeper disappeared into the back room, Hazel decided to explore the little shop a bit as she pulled off her scarf. As Hazel pulled off her scraf, and she let her hair down a bit, it was a sharp red color, and it was also very long. The little shop was an odd mixture of a bakery, and a herbalist supply shop - almost. So it had some seating, with four tables tucked away in the corner of the shop. It also had a little display area, keeping bread and baked goodies both warm and safe. As she looked at the baked goodies, she noticed a lot were infused with herbs. Rose, and lavender, lemon, and orange peel seemed to be the most common. Every baked goodie had a handwritten list of ingredients and also the intention to whom might want it. Hazel smiled softly when she figured it out. “Ah” She thought to herself, she kept looking around, and she started to notice more rather obvious signs to herself now. She noticed bags of herbs, freshly chopped, up for sale, each of them writing down what they are good for, she saw both hanging flowers, and bagged flowers which followed suit, and quickly she noticed the tea section, which had a lot of the same description for what tea might be good for what, but her eye noticed some of the

house blends. They were titled as ‘Thyme specials:” and then a clear and carefully written out purpose behind each tea. Such as Tea’s for a full moon, new moon, to new friendship, new beginnings. She figured it out quickly and soon enough, this was probably why her gut was pulling her into a place like this. She was meant to meet another witch and not be so alone and isolated anymore! As Hazel looked, she grew feeling amazed. She found herself wondering many questions, and her brain started to spin, and as those questions started to form, the shop mouse came out of the back room, carrying a tray. She was balancing a teapot, with two tea cups on a tray. The tea cups were a beautiful shade of light brown, with a gold trim, and the teapot matched. On the tray was small dishes, one had some sugar cubes, a small honey dish and a small milk jug was on the tray too. Although Hazel couldn’t see them yet, there was also two bronze plated tea spoons on the tray as well, for each of them to use. The shop keeper, she carefully walked over to a table and slowly set the tray down. Hazel, who was full of questions, now approached the table. She was excited to finally meet a witch locally. Or at least, what she hoped was a witch! Hazel’s face grew with excitement, and she had a big smile on her face as she felt so alone since she moved here, and to finally meet someone who was a witch too was very exciting for her! But not only that, but it seemed like this shop keeper was about the same age as Hazel, and had already had a business in an actual location! They both ended up sitting down, and the shop keeper poured tea into each tea cup, and then took some honey, and added that into one cup followed by milk, she then offered Hazel to do the same. “I haven’t introduced myself yet.” The shop keeper said. “My name is Thyme, and this is my shop, I realize now I probably should’ve told you that before. Sorry about that.” She giggled softly. Thyme seemed really relaxed and calm, her giggle wasn’t a nervous one. Hazel added some sugar to her cup, and took a spoon off the tray, and started to stir her tea. “Oh! Don’t worry about it, I probably just had poor timing.” Hazel said. “I’m Hazel.” “Not poor timing. More like perfect timing. I kept getting a feeling today I was going to meet someone special!” Thyme smiled softly. They to sat for a moment, each still stirring there tea, and then finally taking a sip. Hazel wanted to ask many questions, but didn’t want to overwhelm Thyme. While Thyme herself was curious herself and had some questions to ask. “What do you think of my shop?” Thyme finally asked. Haze,l who was sipping on her tea, put the tea down for a second, and thought to herself. Hazel was starting to fall in love with the shop, as it allowed Thyme to work her magic through the shop. Hazel, being a new witch, and a recently located witch. She’s been going through stopping at peoples houses and doing readings for tarot cards and other dividation privately in peoples homes. Because of this, she wasn’t able to haul much with her. She had her little bag she’d bring with her. But, if she owned a shop like what Thyme had, Having a location where people come too - is a wonderful dream come true. She could sell much more, and also have private readings in the comfort of her own space, and at home visits could be less. “I love it!” Hazel started to blurt out. “I-I mean! I like it! I like that you don’t have to travel to people. And that people come to you! I also like that it feels like a cozy home meets bakery with a small area for supplies. The energy to this place too is very inviting. It’s relaxing to be in here, and I feel like I could be in here all day. Although… I’m not sure how my current wallet feels about all of the goodies I keep smelling.” As Hazel started to compliment the shop, Thyme started to giggle again. She was pleased and very happy to hear from a fellow witch about her shop, and about her baking. “Thank you!” Thyme started to reply. “I’m happy to hear from a fellow witch who can notice the

work and energy that goes into keeping such a space… hmm… I guess this mean then that you’ve been doing the walk around town? I remember that part being very hard on my poor feet.” Thyme stated. “I will say through, the walk around town for my first year, I feel like that’s where i’ve made the most loyal guests. I still do house calls sometimes, but a lot of them enjoy dropping by.” Slowly over tea, the two girls talked about what it’s like to be witches in a newer area for the both of them, and what it was like to be away from home, and to deal with their witches powers, and grow. For Hazel it was nice to just hear from someone who had started out, just like she did. They also talked about what it was like to have non-magical clients and the expectations some of them have. As they chatted Thyme would stop her from time to time as, - not to be rude. But because she’d have people entering the shop and she wanted to help her ‘guests’. When this happened Hazel watched, studying her almost. Thyme would put a lot of energy into talking to her guests and making sure they had everything they wanted, she never called them customers either. The exchanges would never be long. (WattPad Link)

#mine #personal #writing #short story #mouse #mouse girls #witch #witchcraft #cottagecore #fantasy

1 note · View note

vixensheart · 4 years

Text

Butter or No?

Sticky ass tables are the worst.

Katsuki scrubs the offending mystery sticky shit with a worn, threadbare washrag. It’s not coming off, and he grits his teeth and growls. Fucking shitty ass parents, not watching their damn kids. Somehow, Katsuki knows it’s the kids’ fault, here. It’s always the kids that make a mess in the theater. It doesn’t even matter where, either- in the auditorium, the mini arcade, the fucking lobby- kids are little shits that cause chaos wherever they go.

He huffs a sigh and sprays more soapy disinfectant shit onto the mess to let it soak a bit. Then he scrubs again, harder this time. The little round table rattles a bit under the force, but the sticky shit’s coming off so Katsuki doesn’t stop until it's gone.

“Damn, dude, you good over there?”

Katsuki’s head whips up. Across from him, some dude’s watching him with raised brows and a wry grin. He glowers. “M’fine.” It takes a bit of restraint to keep from flipping the dude off, but Katsuki really doesn’t feel like getting bitched at again by Iida. So he bites the inside of his cheek and attempts to resume scrubbing. Except mister fucking chatterbox has apparently decided to ignore Katsuki’s rather blatant cold shoulder.

“You sure? You kind of look like you’re about to break that table.”

His temple throbs. Fucking hell. Is it too damn much to ask to just be left alone? Katsuki grits his teeth and huffs again and decides fuck it, it’s clean enough anyway. He stalks off without another word, because any other words used would definitely have curses in them, and as Iida constantly wails at him, it’s apparently frowned upon to use such words.

“Well, bye, then…” mister dumbass mumbles, and Katsuki stops. Fucking asshole, what, did he want a fight? He tosses a glare over his shoulder, snark at the ready, only to pause. And stare. Because oh. Oh, fuck. Dumbass mcLoudmouth is...actually kind of really hot.

Even slouched in his chair, Katsuki can tell he’s built as fuck, with arms muscular enough that he could probably crush his head open with his biceps and Katsuki would thank him. He’s got a nice jawline, wide, pretty eyes, and a head of ridiculously styled, firetruck red hair. It’s all spiked up with some sort of gel, and would look atrocious, yet this dude’s somehow pulling it off. It almost pisses Katsuki off.

Almost.

He sighs and turns to the table beside him, giving it a squirt from his disinfectant bottle. “Why’re you sitting out here by your damn self, anyway?” Katsuki asks, voice low. The guy perks up.

“Oh. Well, uh, I’m meeting someone! Or, I was supposed to…” He deflates, and looks at his phone. “I guess they’re running late... They were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago.” Hot guy looks absolutely miserable, and Katsuki feels something twist in his chest at the sight. Fuck. Katsuki doesn’t even know this guy’s name, and he’s already ready to punch someone in the face, just for causing that frown.

What the fuck even.

“Well, why don’t you call them, or whatever?” he mutters, as he swipes the rag haphazardly over the already cleaned table. That he wiped down ten minutes ago. It’s fine. Fuck off.

Hot guy chuckles, but it’s hollow. “I would, but uh. I don’t have their number? It’s a date…” He rubs the back of his neck, rueful, and sighs. “I met them on a dating app my friends made me try. And, well. I guess I’m a bit nervous?”

Katsuki bites his lip. Of course he’d be here for a date. The dude’s hot. And as much as Katsuki is loath to admit it, he can’t entirely quell the bubbles of disappointment in his chest. Which is stupid. He’s wearing a shitty-ass red polo that reeks of popcorn butter and sweat, and he’s cleaning tables. What chance in hell would he even have to begin with? So, Katsuki swipes at the too clean table and grunts. “The fuck’re you nervous about? It’s just a date. Buy them popcorn and hold their hand and shit.”

Hot guy laughs, real and genuine this time, and goddamn, is it a pretty sound. Katsuki’s no poet, but fuck, it’s like all the mushy shit they talk about in the cheesy-ass romcoms they play every summer. Gross. He hates how much he likes it, how much he already wants to hear it again. Katsuki flushes and tries to hide the fact with a scowl.

“Thanks, dude. I’ll, uh, try, I guess.” He beams at Katsuki, as if his beautiful laugh didn’t already strike arrows through his heart. “Oh, I’m Kirishima, by the way,” he says. “Thanks for humoring me.”

Katsuki throws the towel up onto his shoulder and shrugs. “S’whatever.” He turns to stalk off again, because he’s at work, dammit, only to pause again. “Bakugou,” he mutters over his shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, Kirishima perks up.

“Huh?”

He scoffs. Fucking dumbass. “My name, shitty hair,” he says. He doesn’t really wait for a response, this time, and storms off instead, face heated. Katsuki feels like he’s got a bunch of stinging nettles rattling around in his stomach, and it’s fucking embarrassing how much he wamts to turn back around and try to fumble his way through asking Kirishima out. But he’s working, and Kirishima’s here for a date with someone else anyway.

So Katsuki stomps his way back to the supply closet and trades his rag and spray bottle for a damn broom and dustpan.

Time to sweep some fucking auditoriums.

Forty-five minutes and two cleaned auditoriums later, and Katsuki’s trudging his way back to the lobby, bent broom in hand.

“Iida’s gonna kill you for breaking the broom. Again.” Jirou snaps her gum, gaze glued to her phone as she trails behind him. Katsuki huffs. He has half a mind to chuck said broom at her, but it’d be a waste of effort.

“S’not my fault guests are fucking gross,” he says. It’s the truth. There was so much goddamn popcorn on the floors and under the seats, it’s like no one actually ate the damn stuff. So of course he had to sweep that shit up. And it’s pretty fucking hard to get the broom under the chairs so. He bent his broom.

Again.

“Put mine away too, and I won’t say anything,” Jirou says, holding hers out to him. She doesn’t even look up from her phone, the bitch. Katsuki grinds his teeth. He wants to tell her to shove it, but this is the twelfth broom he’s bent while sweeping, and Iida really gets up in his damn business about that sort of shit. So, Katsuki swipes it from her with a growl. Jirou looks up at him from beneath her thick, purple bangs and grins. “Thanks.” She pops a bubble and turns on her heel, leaving Katsuki alone in front of the damn supply closet.

Stupid fucking coworkers, being lazy and shit. He knows she’s texting her damn boyfriend and girlfriend in their weird little group chat instead of actually working. She does it all the damn time. But her girlfriend is friends with Iida, so she gets away with that shit. Which. Is bullshit.

Katsuki yanks open the door and tosses both sets of brooms and their dustpans inside, hardly caring if the contents spill out or not. He can always blame fucking Mineta, if he has to. Damn pervy asshole is always getting on everyone’s nerves anyway. He slams the door shut and drags his way back to the lobby.

It’s quiet, now.

He can hear the tinkering of the soft classical music Iida insists on playing, claiming that it’s “professional” and “calming”, or some shit. Katsuki doesn’t really buy it- he’s been yelled at enough by one too many angry guests over dumb shit like popcorn. If the music was as calming as he claimed, that sort of bullshit wouldn’t happen.

Katsuki sighs, gaze sweeping across the many empty tables, checking for any garbage, when a blaze of red hair snags his focus. His brows furrow, and he whips his phone out to check the time.

Eight o’fucking clock. And Kirishima’s still here…? Katsuki frowns. He thought the guy had a date. Why the hell is he slouched over the table like he’s asleep? Unless…

Something dark twists in his chest, and Katsuki finds himself striding over towards shitty haired-muscle boy before he can stop himself. Kirishima doesn’t seem to notice his approach. He’s sprawled across the tabletop, cheek squished into it, phone laying face up beside his nose. There’s a soft snore accompanying the rise and fall of his shoulders; he’s really asleep. Damn. Katsuki clasps his shoulder and gives him a shake. “Hey, shitty hair.”

Kirishima groans, face scrunching cutely. He blinks awake and shifts, sitting up. “Bakugou?” And, oh. His voice is rough, making Katsuki’s heart thud in his chest. He gulps.

“You fell asleep.”

Kirishima’s eyes go wide at that. “Oh!” He taps his phone with a frown that only deepens as he gazes down at it. “Oh.” His shoulders slump. “I...I guess they’re not coming, huh?”

And fuck. Katsuki stares as Kirishima droops, that painful twisting ratcheting up a few notches. Kirishima runs a hand through his hair and huffs a pained laugh. “I guess it’s a good thing I waited to buy tickets, huh?” he asks, voice wobbling. The next chuckle is wet, sad, and Kirishima reaches up to scrub at his face. “Otherwise...I-it would have been a waste…”

It’s instinct that has him reaching out, again. Katsuki grazes his fingers on his shoulder once more in some vain attempt to comfort. Which. Hell, Katsuki is bad at this sort of shit. But there’s a burning need to try that he can’t quite explain.

His gaze darts back up to the digitized showtime board. There’s another showing of...some dumbass action movie in like. Ten minutes. An idea, a stupid, weird, dumb idea blossoms in Katsuki’s mind, and he grabs Kirishima by the wrist and tugs. “C’mere,” he says. He tugs again, and Kirishima fumbles to his feet and lets Katsuki drag him over to the ticket counter.

“Hey, earphones!”

Jirou looks up at him from the stool she’s perched on, brow raised. “What?” She snaps her gum, looking very unimpressed.

“I...I need two courtesy tickets or whatever to the next showing of…” He trails off and squints up at the board. “Cars and Explosions.”

He’s met with an incredulous look. “You can’t be serious right now.”

“Does it fucking look like I’m joking?” Katsuki snaps. He sighs. “Look, I’m off in ten minutes, anyway.” Which is the fucking truth, and Jirou knows it. She looks from Katsuki to Kirishima, who’s lingering behind him like a lost puppy, arm limp in Katsuki’s grasp. He’s not sure what Jirou sees, but something in her expression softens, and she shrugs.

“Whatever. Just make sure you clock out on time.” There’s a bit of typing, and then she’s thrusting two tickets at him with a sigh. Katsuki takes them and drags Kirishima away, muttering his thanks under his breath. He knows she hears it, because she doesn’t try to give him shit. Which.

Thank fuck. Because Katsuki kind of has no idea what he’s doing.

“Uh...dude?” Kirishima tugs his arm a bit. “What’re we doing?” They’ve stopped at concessions, and Katsuki turns to peer at his unwitting companion. Kirishima’s brows are notched, bottom lip poking out in a pout- he looks cute, and Katsuki wants to scream. He huffs and gestures to the snacks.

“Pick something.”

Kirishima looks from him to the snacks, and back again. “Um…popcorn, I guess? But, dude-”

Katsuki jumps the counter. Yeah, sure, maybe it’s dramatic, but hey. He didn’t feel like walking around, and he sure as fuck doesn’t want to figure out where Koda is. Besides, if you want shit done, you’ve gotta do it yourself, or whatever. So, he grabs a popcorn bag and starts scooping some into it.

“Bakugou, dude!” Kirishima’s gawking at him with wide eyes. “Seriously, what are you doing?”

“The fuck does it look like?” Katsuki says. He makes a point to scoop an egregiously large shovel full of popcorn and stuffs it into the bag. “Butter or no?”

Kirishima just chews on his lip and looks around. “Is this even allowed?” He looks a bit like a kid caught with a hand in the cookie jar, which is both adorable and irritating. Because like, fucking hell. He’s not doing anything wrong. Neither of them are.

“You didn’t answer my question, dumbass.” Katsuki sighs, and tosses the scoop back into its cradle. His gaze lingers over Kirishima’s flushed face, and he sighs again. “I’m not a damn delinquent, I am paying for this shit. Now tell me what you want or I’m just gonna dowse it in butter.”

“Y-yeah, uh, butter is great.”

Thank fuck. Katsuki can’t stand assholes that insist on no butter. Like, that’s the whole damn point of popcorn. No butter means the salt isn’t going to stick, and while heavy salt is gross, Katsuki needs some flavor on that shit. So, he pumps some butter into the popcorn and expertly sprinkles in some salt. “You want any drinks or whatever?” He glances at Kirishima, who just shakes his head. Katsuki shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He swipes a small cup and fills it with some coke, because he’s tired as fuck, sue him.

One quick transaction later, and Katsuki’s dragging Kirishima to the theater. Or, pushing him. It’s pretty fucking empty, too, with a single couple in the middle and some dude in one of the front few rows. Katsuki leads Kirishima all the way to the top, right beneath the projector, because that’s the best spot. Fuck off. He flops down into the cushioned chair, Kirishima settling in beside him.

“You...you didn’t have to do this, ya’ know.”

Kirishima’s voice is soft, quiet enough that Katsuki almost misses him speak. He pointedly trains his focus on the cheesy pre-show scrolling across the screen, face heating up. “Just sit down and watch the movie,” he mutters. Kirishima hums, but doesn’t say anything. His gaze lingers, though, and Katsuki can feel the warmth of it. He shifts a bit, blushing even harder.

“I wanted to,” he says then, after a moment.

“Why?”

It’s the million dollar question of the night. Why the fuck does he even care? But then he looks at Kirishima, and his heart stutters in his chest, and he jerks his gaze away again for fear of a heart attack or some shit. “Your sad mug was pissing me off.” It’s a safe answer, but the sharp breath tells Katsuki that Kirishima understood what he meant.

I wanted to make you smile.

The lights darken and the movie starts. There’s a gentle touch on his hand, and Katsuki’s gaze jerks to see Kirishima sliding their hands together. And, oh, shit. His heart pounds, and an unsteady smile warms his lips.

END

#kiribaku #kiribaku week 2020 #day one #bnha #my hero academia

49 notes · View notes

orionwhispers · 5 years

Text

Beware Of The Dogs - Part II

(A/N - here is part 2!!! almost 12,000 words lol. i hate myself. so much alfie fluff and also a little smut(?) dare i say, not really but i tried. i hope you enjoy it, there will be more parts!!)

PART I

PART III

The first taste of freedom was intoxicating.

Your flat was small, with smudged paint and charcoal coloured fingerprints along every wall and a pipe that dribbled stagnant water onto the carpet, but you adored it, because it was yours. You consumed the city like it was medicinal, desperate to see everything and anything. Your insatiable thirst reminded you of bittersweet memories from your childhood, like greedily drinking from the tap with John on a summers morning after spending every moment from sunrise running around the fields. You felt younger and lighter, a sensation so unfamiliar that you mistook it for a sickness at first, before you realised that you were finally free, like a weight had been lifted from your shoulders. Your whole body felt electric, the spark that had dwindled inside of you suddenly reignited, you awoke every morning with a sense of purpose, slipping into your work heels and skirt like they were a new skin.

You always were careful though. You introduced yourself as “Rosie Smith” to anyone who asked, the alibi becoming second nature and slipping off of your tongue like sweet wine whenever you needed it. You felt like you could be a whole new person, you weren’t even sure what was real and what was fantasy, the big city engulfing you and dragging you under. You had heard people say that London was too overwhelming, that they couldn’t make themselves heard, but you loved that. You loved that no one knew your real name or who your family were, you loved that people skipped over your face in the street and let you drown in the crowd. You hung around backstreets and ran through alleys, never staying in one place for too long, you were always cautious, because you knew that all it would take was one sighting from a stray Blinder and your game would be up.

You didn’t plan to stay in London. You knew eventually that the Blinders would expand their company to the capital and it would only be a matter of time before you would be sniffed out by the hounds and dragged back to Birmingham by the scruff of your neck. Edmund had an opening lined up for you down South, and you were planning on saving your pay checks for a cottage to call your own, but before you knew it you found a reason to stay.

Two months after you arrived, Edmund sent you on an errand. It was November, the sky was a vibrant blue, the ground icy and the harsh wind was licking at any exposed flesh. Weeds grew from cracks in the pavement, leaves dripping with dew and the trees were almost entirely bare, naked branches swaying above you. You pulled your coat closer to your skin, blowing hot air onto your hands as you made your way down the street. You were in Camden, a part of the city that you had left unexplored, and you repeated Edmunds hazy directions in your mind like a mantra.

You had visited a quaint bookshop, with plants lining the windowsill and novels stacked crookedly on top of one another, the smell of dust and paper filling the room. Edmund had been on the phone with the owner for weeks, bargaining a price for some first edition Jane Austen’s that had arrived, but by the time you had got there, the woman informed you that they had already been sold.

You scuffed your heel onto the solid ground, frost sticking to your shoe. It was the first task your boss had sent you and you would be returning empty handed, it might not have been your fault but you still felt defeated. You made your way back the way you came, through the park with big looming trees. You were amazed by the vast sapphire sky above you, and the flame coloured leaves that fell on the ground. You were certain you had never seen colour like it before, Birmingham seemed like an eternal grey, and you were engrossed by the spectrum around you. You were so distracted that you didn’t even notice the dog bounding towards you until it was too late, and his massive mud covered paws slammed onto your dress.

“Cyril! Cyril! Down boy! Bloody dog.”

You heard him before you saw him, his voice raspy and gruff. You were entranced by the dog, he was huge, with fur the colour of amber and big hazel eyes that followed your every move. You knelt down to his level, not that you had to go far, and rubbed the fluff on the back of his neck, watching his tongue loll happily. Your knees prickled at the sensation of the cold ground and you felt dampness soak the fabric of your dress, but you didn’t care.

“Oi! Cyril, off mate. Get up you big lump.”

The dog relented, leaning into your touch and sighing, his back leg twitching with glee. A large hand wrapped under his thick leather collar, pulling him back gently but firmly and the big dog fell onto his haunches, paws skidding across the frost tipped grass. You glanced up at the figure that now stood before you; tall and solid like the oak trees planted in the dirt all around you. Surprise made you gasp, bitterly crisp air shocking the back of your throat, so cold it almost tasted metallic in your mouth. Before you could say anything, he offered you a large hand, olive coloured and calloused, and you took it without hesitation. He hoisted you to your feet with little effort, the dog sniffing at your heels, his tail wagging with such force that you wondered if he might take off. You looked up at the man, trying to keep your gaze steady and cool, but his presence was unsettling. He was very handsome. Not in the traditional way perhaps, not like the clean cut boys from back home with sharp haircuts and shaven faces, he looked strong, powerful, as if he could command attention with just a look. He’d certainly captured yours. Your stomach was tight, blush rising to your cheeks as you glanced at him, an unwelcome fever brewing inside of you, you felt ridiculous, small and meek beside such an alluring man. You couldn’t help it, he was unlike anyone you had ever seen before, with his wiry beard and strong nose and rose coloured lips; even the tall hat on his head and the tattoos that marked his fingers, they were all intriguing to you.

You smiled up at him and shrugged softly, toying with the hem. “Its OK. If anything I think he improved the design.”

He was silent. He watched you, his eyes unwavering as he studied your face with such intensity that it made you shiver more than the cold chill of the breeze.You desperately wanted to know what he was thinking, but he remained impassive, his sea glass coloured eyes flickering with an emotion you couldn’t quite comprehend. It seemed as though he was inwardly debating something, his eyebrows furrowing.

You were about to make a hasty excuse and leave, the prickling thought that you were behaving like a child stinging your skin like nettles. You wondered if you looked impossibly young and immature compared to the rest of the women in the city that this handsome stranger probably surrounded himself with, but before you could conjure up words, he opened his mouth, seemingly overcoming the battle he was having in his mind.

“Where are you headed?”

His name was Alfie. You introduced yourself as Rosie and told him that you were heading back to work in Highgate. His accent was thick and unusual to you, but somehow it made you feel at ease, somehow familiar. You wondered if your accent was strong to him, wondered if he could detect the “brum” inside of you, and you hoped he didn’t ask about your past, for some reason you didn’t want this stranger to know anything bad about you.

The two of you walked side by side along the cobbled path that ran through the park, it was quiet, almost empty except for the odd dog walker or couple. A low fog had formed around your ankles like the tide, and you watched Cyril chase some squirrels into the bushes, a rumbling growl emitting from his throat. You were mostly silent, your hands shoved into the pockets of your coat for warmth, clenching and unclenching your fingers from nervousness. Alfie seemed to be mulling something over in his head, his lips moving ever so slightly. Only after you had walked about fifty yards did you notice the cane in his hand, his fingers wrapped around a brass lions head adorning the top and the ever so slight limp in his gait.

“So, what do you do?” You asked eventually, your frozen breath lingering in the air for a moment.

“I own a bakery.”

You stalled for a moment, looking him up and down, pupils flittering on his fine jewellery and expensive three piece suit. He mirrored your gaze, mimicking your movements, his cane thumping suddenly on the solid ground. You smiled suspiciously and raised your eyebrows, not even giving yourself a moment to think before you asked incredulously, “How much bloody bread do you sell if you can afford a Patek Philippe pocket watch?”

As soon as the words came out of your mouth you regretted them, but you didn’t miss the spark of curiosity that flickered across Alfie’s eyes and the twitch in his upper lip. Damn Tommy and his affinity for designer brands.

He toyed with the golden chain tucked into his waistcoat, stroking his thumb across the expensive hardware and pinching the dial.

“You’ve got a fine eye.”

“My dad was a collector.” You lied. The only things Arthur Shelby Sr collected were empty bottles and spots on his liver, anything he owned that was worth something was quickly pawned for cigarettes and alcohol.

Alfie looked you up and down, his tongue darting out to wet his lips and you hated how your stomach flipped. “Right, right.” He smiled. Your comment had obviously knocked him off guard, and you could almost see his mind whirring, trying to figure you out. “So, what are you then, some kind of jeweller?”

“No. I’m a secretary, I work for a publisher. I only started a few months ago.” You couldn’t stop the words from leaving your mouth, since arriving in London privacy was the one thing essential to you and your camouflage, but something about this mysterious stranger had you spilling your secrets. He had an aura about him that intrigued you, attracted you like a bee to sticky, warm honey.

He swung the cane from the ground, tilting the end towards the street that curved in front of you, using it like he would a pointed finger. “That new one up by the butchers? My mate was in there last week.”

You smiled, “Yes, that would be the one.”

He whistled suddenly, and Cyril’s large caramel head lifted from where he had stuck it down a rabbit hole, the big dog lolloping back to you both immediately. You stroked his velvet ears gently, as his body rammed into your knees and Alfie watched you, his eyes trailing you up and down once more. “So what brings you out to Camden? A woman like you shouldn’t be in a place like this.”

You stopped, “A woman like me?” You didn’t try to sugar coat your tone,

He held up his hands and you noticed the rings adorning his fingers, so close that you could cut your teeth on them. “I mean no offence, right,” He leant in slightly as if he was telling a secret, the heat of his body hitting yours. “But Camden is a bad place filled with very bad men.”

“It seemed perfectly safe to me.” You quipped. “Besides, I’ve dealt with my fair share of bad men.” You faltered, the words tumbling out before you could stop them, you only recovered when Cyril nudged your palm and licked the tips of your fingers, begging for crumbs. “I wasn’t there for very long,” you added quickly, wanting to change the subject from the truth you had let slip. “My boss sent me out looking for first editions, but they were all sold when I got there.”

He nodded, sucking his tongue, the ghost of a smile at the edge of his mouth. “You’re not from around here are you?” He asked finally, and you were close enough you could see the outline of his lips as he enunciated his words, and you traced them, familiarising yourself with every dip and divot.

“You can tell?” You pulled away, not allowing yourself any more time to drown in him, you felt small and young and stupid beside him, watching him like you were a child, but what you hated more was the ache in your chest when you pulled your gaze away.

“I would have remembered a face like yours.”

You felt heat rise to the tops of your ears, and could only imagine the colour of your cheeks. You kept your eyes trained anywhere but him, following a magpie dart into the bare branches of a tree, ebony coloured feathers glistening under the milky blue sky. You had reached the end of the path now, stood beside the iron gate that led back into the street. You listened to the roar of the cars and the people around you, but neither were a match for the thumping of your heart and the rush of blood in your ears.

You could feel him watching you as you stepped onto the pavement, stood at the top of the road that would separate the both of you. You spun on your heel so you were facing him. You dared to look up and meet his gaze, noticing the scarring and texture on his cheeks that you hadn’t spotted before, his features flourishing in the sun, no longer able to hide under the shadows of the trees.

“I should head back to work.” You said, first to break the silence that had formed between you like a sheet of ice. There was no awkwardness, but rather unease, neither of you knowing quite what to say to the other. You had never been in a situation like it, never felt so nervous in front of someone who wasn’t blood, and little did you know that Alfie was feeling the same, observing you under the pale light and wondering how you left him so winded.

“Let me walk you to the office.” He insisted, voice thick and raspy.

You appreciated his offer, and truly wanted nothing more than to spend as much time as possible with him, but the voice inside your head reminded you that he was a distraction you couldn’t afford to have, not right now anyway. “No, thank you, but I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

He shook his head, starting to protest but you held up your hands, silencing him with your movements and the soft look in your eyes, he rolled his own in defeat, pursing his lips. You moved closer to him, filling in the gap that separated you, the icy breeze and the recklessness of your actions making goosebumps rise along your spine.

He smelt like leather and cedar, warm but musky, and you thought if you closed your eyes you’d be stood beside the wood burner in the house you grew up in, watching the firewood crumble into ash. You had never been this close to a man who wasn’t related to you, the only time you could recall was when you were fourteen and Harry Miller from your arithmetic class asked you to the pictures. You lied to your family for the first time that night, telling them you staying at Isabella's for dinner after school. You can remember the smell of buttery popcorn and half chewed toffees as you sat sucking on a liquorice whip, your shoulders brushing ever so slightly against Harry’s cotton shirt. Your hands were slick with anticipation and nerves from your rebellion, but the film hadn’t been on for more than five minutes before the doors swung open and you heard John and Arthur hollering your name under the flickering lights.

But you were alone now.

You could sense his eyes roaming across you, so delicate and intimate it was almost as if he was running his fingertips across your skin. You felt so alive and it terrified you, how could somebody you had spent less than an hour with make your whole body feel like it was catching alight? Before you could think you stretched out your hand, Alfie hesitated, a smirk on his lips as he covered your palm with his own, the warmth and the spark that ran through your blood almost making your knees buckle but you ignored it as you looked up at him.

“Goodbye, Alfie.”

“Goodbye, Rosie.”

That night he infiltrated your dreams. You woke at midnight after hours of tossing and turning and sat on the windowsill, watching the stars. The air was icy and you pressed your back against the old radiator, the dull warmth soothing you as you tried to get the constant thoughts of him out of your mind. For the first time in a long time you were focusing on someone who wasn’t a sibling, for the first time you had a tight coil your stomach, knotted like a rope and you felt strangely hopeful. But as soon as the thoughts came you pushed them away, you weren’t in the right place to let anybody in, everything you had worked so hard for could come crumbling down around you if you weren’t careful, you couldn’t afford to risk it all. So with a heavy feeling in your chest, you pulled your blanket over your eyes, settling into the cheap mattress and willing yourself to sleep, ignoring the tall, handsome man who tried to climb inside your mind. You couldn’t be distracted.

The next morning you woke up late, your head throbbing from exhaustion and your eyes blurry and sore. You let the cold air wash over you like a wave as you ran down the street, boot laces untied and top messily tucked into your skirt. You were panting by the time you reached the office, swearing as you rattled the doorknob and it whined in protest, you finally got it open, tumbling across the doormat and smiling hastily as your colleague Elizabeth’s head snapped up.

You didn’t notice the package until after you had made a steaming mug of coffee, inhaling the nutty aroma and letting the heat hit the back of your throat. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with red string, nestled on top of the paperwork you had been meaning to sort out. You frowned in confusion, looking up at Elizabeth with a furrowed brow.

“Oh, right, I forgot to mention it, sorry. A boy dropped it off for you this morning.”

Your mind immediately filled with storm clouds, rampant thoughts running through your brain like wild horses and you briskly ran into an empty office, shutting the door behind you so you could tear open the surprise in peace. Bile rose in your throat, there was no note written on the top or return address, and all that did was enforce the sickening feeling that somebody had found you, somebody bad.

Your fingers were shaking as you manipulated the wrapping, tearing off the ribbon and smoothing down the sides, your heart pounding and your mind immediately thinking the worst. You were expecting a threat, your over active imagination wondering if you had been sent a severed body part as a warning, but as you unwrapped the present, your heart stopped for an entirely different reason.

There were books. Six of them exactly, in pristine condition, the covers vivid and exciting, begging you to open and devour them. You hesitated, not daring to run your finger along the spines despite them pulling you like a magnet. It took you a second but realisation struck you like a stream train. They were first editions. Thomas Hardy, Charles Dickens, Jane Austen, authors you adored and admired. You felt your adrenaline spike, like when you ate too many sweets as a child, that nauseating kind of elation that spread throughout your entire body. Edmund was going to be thrilled, you tentatively opened the cover of “Oliver Twist” a story that had always reminded you of your own family, and watched as piece of paper fluttered onto your shoe.

“I hope you can find some use out of these - Alfie.”

The next time you saw him was on a Friday, after work. The sun had set, the streetlights burning yellow, and the night air so cold it cut like a knife. You had stayed late and twisted your key in the lock, your fingers growing numb, trying to move as quickly as you could before you froze on the spot. You were dreaming of getting home, slipping out of your shoes and crawling into a hot bath, you could practically hear the tub calling your name. You turned around, rubbing your hands together, preparing yourself for the bitter walk home, but you jumped in shock as you saw a silhouette watching you under the pale light.

“Alfie!” You muttered, recognising his features and trying to keep your voice steady despite the surprise bubbling inside of your throat. In any other circumstance you would have been scared, terrified of being alone in the dark with a man you barely knew, but looking at him, you felt nothing but a calm wash of ease flow over you. “What are you doing here?”

He stepped closer, the familiarity of his features striking you in the gut, rendering you speechless just like the first time you met. Luckily for you, he filled in the silence that surrounded you both.

“I was waiting for the shop to close.” He said, his eyes darting across your face and towards the locked office behind you, if you knew him better you would dare to say he seemed apprehensive. “I wanted to walk you home.”

You swallowed quickly, your back growing warm and your toes curling together, suddenly feeling lightheaded and dizzy. “You wanted to walk me home?” There’s a hint of bewilderment in your voice, the only men who have walked you home - beside from your brothers- had been Blinders ordered to keep you safe, stealing any independence you had from a young age. You had always loathed those escorts back home, the men eyeing you as if you were a criminal, ready to run as soon as they looked the other way. You hated losing control and being forced to put it into the hands of whoever Tommy deemed suitable, and as much as you hated to admit it, you felt a gentle twist in your stomach at Alfie’s gesture. It seemed genuine and kind, something you weren’t used to.

“A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be walking alone at night.” The words left him as quickly as running water, and it took you a minute to digest them, fiddling with the keys in your hands like they were a puzzle waiting to be solved. There was no malice or condescension in what he says, and you could see the ghost of a smirk on his lips, and as you looked at the innocence on his face, you could feel a hammer being slammed against the walls you have built around you.

“Are you flirting with me?” You asked finally, quirking a brow and looking up at him through your eyelashes.

“You finally noticed?”

You laughed, soft like snow hitting the pavement and Alfie felt his heart stop. The sky was jet black and these cold months seem to make everything darker, ebony surrounding you like the ocean but as your eyes met, a spark ignited between your bodies. He felt himself unconsciously drawing closer to you, the unfamiliarity of what he was about to do no match for the attraction that connects the two of you.

He brought his thumb to his mouth, scratching the chestnut coloured hairs that decorated his upper lip, flitting his eyes to the ground and tightening his grip on his cane with his other hand, using it to level himself. “Look, the other day in the park, right? I don’t usually do things like that. Well actually, I never fucking do it.”

You frowned, “You mean, you’ve never asked anybody to walk with you?”

“No.” He interjected, the truth of what he’s saying evident on his face. “Look.” He continued, eyes looking everywhere but your own. “It’s just not me, and I honestly had no bloody idea why I did it.”

You sucked on your tongue, taking in everything he said, not knowing what you should respond. Wondering if you’re imagining the magnetism that flows between you, wondering if you’re about to be made a fool and leave with your head hung and your tail between your legs. But whilst your mind fills with dark clouds, Alfie continued.

“But, truth be fucking told right, I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Your eyes snapped up and connected with his, and the urgency makes the both of you smile, connected by your mutual unease at the situation you have found yourself in. He has never opened up to anyone, let alone a girl he’s known for less than a day, and you’ve never been as close to someone as you are now. A moment passes, and given that you haven’t run for the hills, Alfie took it as a good sign and turned back to face the street, gesturing with his arms.

“So, where are we headed?”

Your first date was at a bar in Camden. Alfie picked you up in his car at eight, swallowing thickly when you opened the door and came out in your finest dress, his pupils blown out like he had done a line of snow. You talked all night and into the morning, drinking glasses of rum and champagne in a gold and blood coloured booth at the back, away from any prying eyes. He listened to everything you said, hung on to every word, and any break in the conversation was filled with soft looks and timid smiles. He was so burly and big and unlike anyone you had ever encountered, hard around the edges but melting in the middle when he looked at you, whilst you were so beautiful and sweet and gentle and unlike any woman he had ever encountered in the smoke of London. When the sun finally rose again and the fatigue was setting in he drove you home, promising to take you out again and you climbed up the stairs like you were in a daydream, squealing with happiness after you watched his car turn a corner and vanish down the road.

You always met up at twilight, somewhere dark and secluded where you could both be alone. It was perfect for you, you needed the privacy, you couldn’t imagine what would happen if your family found out you had begun seeing someone, let alone a man like Alfie. As you got closer, the guilt in your stomach constricted your insides like a python, you despised the lies that came out of your mouth whenever he asked about your family or your past, you hated the way that you erased your family as if you were ashamed of them. You reminded yourself though, as Alfie smiled at you, with wide teeth and shining eyes, that you were doing it for his sake, his protection, but a month or so after you had first gone out, you realised just how little he needed your help.

Maybe you had been naive, maybe you had been so wrapped up in your infatuation that the warning signs had turned into butterflies but you ignored the omens from the start. You were a smart woman, and you had grown up with enough cloak and dagger that you should have seen the signs as they unravelled around you, but you were too swept up in emotion to care.

The first time you noticed something wasn’t right was at work. Edmund had thanked you profusely for the books, running his hands across them as if he was in a trance, fingertips gently tracing the spines. He asked you where you had found them, and you told him that you had been sent them as a gift.

“Well, that’s brilliant.” He said, “You must tell me who, I need to write a thank you letter.”

You nodded, smiling to yourself, “I’ve already got it covered, I don’t have an address though, would you be able to help?”

“Certainly. I’ve lived here my whole life. I might know him.”

“His names Alfie, he owns a bakery and - ”

You watched Edmund pale like he was draining a pint of bitter, his obvious discontent evident on his face, and he held the books limply in his palm as if they had transformed from something magical to evil in mere seconds.

“Edmund are you alright?”

He ignored you, walking around you and shutting the door to his office, peering into the hallway to check you were alone. You were about to question him once again but he opened his mouth first, silencing you with a look that could cut through leather.

“How do you know Mr Solomons?”

You frowned, “We met that day you sent me into Camden, he walked me back to the office.” You spoke as if it was the simplest thing in the world but the way that your boss regarded you made your body twist together, worry constricting your airways.

“I know it’s not my place.” Edmund started, his voice barely above a whisper but his words held as much conviction as a punch in the gut. “But you must be careful - ”

“He was perfectly nice, I mean...” You didn’t dare tell him that you had been seeing Alfie for weeks now, the information you had already wanted to keep private suddenly seeming forbidden.

“Rosie. Promise me you will be careful? You can’t trust men like him. He’s dangerous.”

You wanted to ask Edmund who the hell he thought he was policing you as if he was your father, but the way the older gentleman ran a hand through his greying hair and chewed on his lip you stopped yourself from protesting. “I knew I never should have sent you out that day.” He mumbled, and you tried to pry more out of him, but the conversation was over as quickly as it started and he held up his hands and left, leaving you confused and alone.

You made your way to the bakery on a Saturday, Alfie had changed the time of your date from the afternoon to the evening claiming that he was busy with work, but your insatiable need for the truth overpowered the rational part of your brain. It wasn’t hard to find. You retraced your way back to where you had first met, through the park and along the canal, arriving at a bustling market. From there you simply asked for directions from a very hesitant vendor, only promoted with a twenty you shoved into his palm. You would be lying if you said that the hairs on the back of your neck didn’t stand up as you made your way deeper into an alleyway, surrounded completely by men who watched you with greedy eyes.

Your heart hammered in your chest as you noticed the similarities between the bakery and the business back home, the same boat yard with its stagnant smell and looming crates, the workers whose hands were dirty and eyes were distant and the darkness that surrounded you like a robe. You thought about turning around and running back, the knowledge that the perfect bubble you have created would shatter like glass if you continued, wanting nothing more than to stay in your candy coated daydream you had made, but you knew that you had to do this.

You were ignored for the most part as you made your way inside what you assumed was the warehouse, the smell of baked goods and dough hitting you like a steam train. It was a good cover, the first floor completely filled with men rolling and kneading batter between their palms, cases of rolls and loaves packed and ready for shipping, but you knew that it was all false. The men here were heavy set and covered with tattoos, as unconvincing in their aprons as they were likely to break out into song in front of you.

A man spotted you, his head snapping up and voice tight and prickly. “You can’t be back here! Oi!What are you doing?”

You opened your mouth to apologise and ask after Alfie, but before you could a distinctive stentorian voice echoed through the room like a rumbling carriage and you followed it, chasing it down a hidden set of stairs. Your curiosity was piqued, you were nervous but filled with determination to find the man whose voice surrounded you like the ocean, and you smiled as you saw the tops of his curls jutting out from above rows of barrels and kegs. You almost called out his name, but a sharp strike of something metal made you stop in your tracks, the sound so carnal and sickening that you stay rooted on the spot, concealed in the shadows.

“What the fuck are you lot playing at? I’m paying you all good fucking money right, and all I ask for is a bit of fucking respect!”

You lifted your head, trying to angle your vision and get a better view. There were about a dozen men, dressed like militant workers but with their heads bowed in shame. They were lined in a crescent, all cowering from a figure in front of them, strong men shaking like lambs being brought to slaughter.

“That fucking shipment right,” He continued, “It was very valuable and all you fucking pricks had to do was make sure it got there on time, now you’ve made me look like a mug. Am I a fucking mug to you?”

“Boss... I...”

“Shut up.” The voice was so familiar but something inside of you prayed for it to be a case of mistaken identity, especially when another blood curdling thwack echoed around you, and the slump of a body hitting the floor made you gasp. The movement of your inhale made a stray bottle fall from next to you, green glass sparkling as it cracked and shattered onto the floor, the noise making every head snap towards your hiding spot.

You swore you could feel a million eyes on you but any attempt to flee would be futile, having captured the attention of almost every man in the room.

“What the fuck are you all looking at?”

He stepped out from the murk, blood splattered on his white cotton shirt like some kind of abstract painting you could never understand. His hair was loose, tousled from his hands, chains and rings adorning his fingers, catching the light ever so slightly. He looked raw, not hiding behind an expensive suit or lavish grandeur, you would have thought he would have looked softer like this, almost exposed in front of you, but if anything it made him look more powerful, almost... frightening.

It took him barely three strides before he saw you, he was still mumbling under his breath, wiping his hands on a handkerchief in his pocket, the fabric slowly turning red. He lifted his head up, spotting you instantly and faltering, stopping dead in his tracks, his face pale, his eyes glassy. He blinked, softening ever so slightly, he opened his mouth and almost choked on the air, turning away as if he couldn’t bear to look at you.

“Ollie.” He said after a minute, and you watched a boy of about Finns age stand by his side immediately, “Take her into the office, alright lad? Let me finish up here.” His words seemed controlled, but you could hear the tremor of anger in his voice and you feel your knees buckle, reminding you of waiting outside the headmasters office when you were a child, waiting for the inevitable punishment.

Ollie approached you, much kinder looking than the rest of the men you had seen working here, and he gently beckoned for you to walk down the final few steps. He guided you into the vast warehouse, his hand hovering behind your back, but never quite touching it. Everyone’s eyes were still on you, questioning and domineering, but you kept your head held high as you passed them. Alfie’s body was blocking most of your view, but you couldn’t help the bubble of surprise that rose in your throat, some kind of strangled squeal escaping when your gaze dropped to the floor, and Alfie spun around immediately.

The man was lying on the ground, probably only a handful of years older than yourself, a pool of crimson laying around his crown like some kind of fucked up halo. Alfie’s eyes never left yours, he swallowed thickly, running a hand over his face as if he could restart his vision and you would no longer be in front of him, safely tucked away at home, away what you had seen. Ollie didn’t hesitate, finally grabbing the small of your back and pushing you forward, down a long corridor and into an office, slamming the door behind the both of you.

Back in the warehouse the tension was thick like a cloak, Alfie’s breathing short and tight, rage coursing through his veins, adrenaline bubbling inside of him. The men kept their eyes trained on the floor, sensing the anger inside of their boss, all of them terrified of being the one who bore the brunt of it.

He cleared his throat, the sound low like a rumbling wave. “If I catch any one of you fuckers looking at the girl - even fucking thinking about her, I will cut your cock off and feed it to my dog. You see her you keep your head down and keep fucking working. Is that clear?”

A chorus of agreements circled around, Alfie was less than satisfied, wanting to drill his message in everyone’s fucking skull, but the thought of you waiting for him, perhaps scared of him, was enough for him to leave his subordinates and find you.

It was silent for a few minutes, you attempted to control your breathing and the unsteady pace of your heart whilst Ollie awkwardly scratched his curls, shifting his weight every couple of seconds and you watched his sock falling down his leg with his movements, a welcome distraction.

“So you’re the girl?” He asked, his voice raising an octave, plucking up the courage to try and out a face to the stories that had been clouding his mind for the past few weeks.

“The girl?” You enquired, tilting your head.

“Yeah. The girl.” He repeated as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, “The one that Alfie can’t stop...”

Before he could finish the sentence you were dying to hear, the door rattled and swung open, the sound of Alfie’s boots filling the room before he did.

“Fuck off, Ollie.”

You wanted to scold him for his language towards the boy, but that thought quickly dwindled as you felt his presence behind you. Ollie didn’t scurry away like you imagined he might, obviously used to his boss’s harsh tone he instead bid you farewell, smiling kindly as he left the room. Alfie was behind you, not knowing how to approach, not wanting to startle you yet afraid of the silence that surrounded you. You kept your gaze on the mess of papers and files and folders all across the desk, so different to the calm and cleanliness of Tommy’s office, the contrast overwhelming.

“What the hell are you doing here?” He tried to keep as many expletives out of his mouth around you, but his resolve was wearing thin. He walked around the desk, chewing on his upper lip, avoiding eye contact with you and trying to keep his cool, despite the millions of questions he wanted to ask.“You shouldn’t be here, right, how did you even find it? I mean...”

“It’s a distillery!” You interrupted, much more enthusiastically than you had planned, the pieces finally slotting together. His love of rum, the barrels and kegs, the shipyard and the fake bakery, suddenly everything made sense. It was a brilliant cover, and his cunning scheme gave you a newfound respect, and you looked up at him admirably whilst he stared back at you, dumbfounded.

Alfie exhaled loudly like he was deflating, his whole body slumping until he practically fell into his chair, exhausted like he had done laps around the park. He had to admit that he was impressed, and his attraction to you had grown stronger knowing that you had sought him out, and had sussed out his business significantly faster than any of the coppers had, but now this meant that you were tangled up in his web of danger, after he had tried so hard to not let you get involved.

Twisting his neck slightly, he could feel the droplets of stray blood staining his skin, their message loud and as repetitive as an alarm, warning signs telling him to let you go. He had been foolish, he had let you get close, since the very first time you laid eyes on another he knew he was in trouble, and yet the usually artful man had allowed himself to act like a commoner.

“You should go home.” He said, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together as he mulled over his words. “I can have one of my lads drive you.”

“What?”

“You should go ‘ome.” He repeated, “Forget everything you’ve seen today,” He cleared his throat. “Look, I’ll give you something, for the trouble yeah?”

He rummaged around the top drawer of his desk and you gawked at him incredulously, “You’re trying to pay me off?” You asked, your tone false and high pitched.

“How much are we talking?” He continued, ignoring you entirely and sorting through notes in his hand.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just ask me that.”

He rifled through the money, fingers moving at an impossibly fast pace and his eyes following the movement, knowing that if he looked at you he was at risk of crumbling. You moved around the wooden desk so you were on the same side as him, slamming your hand onto the edge of the oak, letting the noise speak for you.

He sighed, placing the bribe on the table, halfway between both of you.

“I’m not taking that.” You said, turning your nose up at his ridiculous offer.

“You should.”

You moved closer, and you noticed every time you inched towards him he shifted backwards. You looked at the splatters on his shirt, ruby red like the jewels that adorned his rings, something oddly beautiful despite the brutality. He could feel your eyes on him, knew you were looking at the grim reminder of just what kind of man he was, the kind of man that didn’t deserve something as heavenly and innocent as yourself. Unbeknownst to him you were thinking the opposite, if anything you felt like your connection was strengthened, joined by the sinful things that seemed to follow you like a menacing shadow. Perhaps you were being stupid, you had left Birmingham to get away from the melodrama of your family and here you were wanting to get tangled up with someone potentially just as chaotic, but watching him under the pale yellow lights in his office, you wanted nothing more than to be close to him.

He was trying to push you away, but he had already anchored himself to you. There was something familiar about his actions, the attempts to pay you off and wallow in self pity. You hadn’t come to London looking for anything, but you had found each other, and after years of letting others make your decisions you dug in your heels, you would no longer let your choices be moulded for you, it was your turn to get what you wanted.

“I’m not scared of you.” You said finally, the heat of your gaze and the warmth of your words making him look up, his tongue in his cheek.

“I’ve done bad things.” He argued, and you moved closer, your belly filled with butterflies. You were acting impulsively, edging towards him like the low tide, as if invisible magnets were pulling you towards him. He was following you closely, he prided himself on his ability to be one step ahead of his enemies, but with you he was at a loss, his head swimming when he looked at you for too long, drowning in your aura.

“You were in the war, you couldn’t help it.” You replied.You were almost touching him now, and he pushed back in his chair slightly, allowing you to slip in between his legs, resting on the edge of his desk. The feeling of the wood in your spine the only thing stopping your whole body from going numb from adrenaline.

“The wars ended.” He countered. He wanted to touch you. You were radiating white hot, and he wanted to let his fingertips ignite as he felt your flesh. This wasn’t like at the clubs, there was no noise, no distraction, you weren’t dressed to the nines but you looked just as beautiful, and he wanted to feel the pulse of your heart as he pressed his lips to your throat. You were intoxicating his thoughts, so small and meek and gentle and yet you had him trailing after you like a puppy.

“Not for everybody.” You said, opening your legs a little, letting your knees touch his, an action so delicate yet the effects hitting you both like you had been doused in ice cold water.You were fully clothed and hardly touching and yet you had never been this intimate with someone before, heat contracting from both of your bodies, your words soft like smoke.

“You should leave, it’ll be safer that way.”

You leaned in and you felt him open his mouth to speak, to tell you to stop, but the smell of you and the closeness of your skin made any rational thoughts dissolve inside of him. You had kissed a few boys before, all young and immature and all just a way to anger your brothers, and you were worried you were going to feel inexperienced as you pressed yourself against him, but you didn’t want to keep thinking, you wanted to feel him.Your nose brushed against his, the curls in his beard coarse against your soft skin, his breath on your neck. Your eyes met, his pupils dark and frantic, and you smiled softly and he swore his heart burst, so you pushed yourself onto him, your mouths meeting, and he felt like you were resurrecting him. You slipped on to his lap, and he ran his hands through your hair, any protests or logical arguments for why you should both stop vanishing, melting into one another, warm and soft but also desperate and greedy, like addicts desperate for another hit. You pulled away far too soon for his liking, resting your forehead against his, breath levelling, the rise and fall of your body against his electrifying.

“I’m not going anywhere, Alfie.”

—-——————————————————-

You had always been a fan of summer, loving the heat and the late nights and the wildflowers that bloomed all around you, but you would have happily traded in all those summer evenings for the first winter you shared with Alfie.

It was cold, blisteringly so, leaving you with numb fingers and frost bitten toes but your insides were gooey and warm like melted chocolate, your body ethereal and light. There was no label on your relationship and that suited both of you, but after that magical kiss you shared in the silence of his office it was obvious that the two of you were bound together. Alfie wanted to keep you safe, he was essentially putting a target on your back every time he looked at you, every time he felt himself being drawn to you, but he couldn’t be the bigger man and let you go. He had hazy memories of love, being a teenager and kissing a school friend in a back alley, but those memories were shattered on the front line. As he grew older he preferred visiting a brothel and taking out his frustrations there, he didn’t have time for a relationship, couldn’t allow himself a weakness, but something about you had expelled the lock from around his heart, one he didn’t even know was clasped shut.

You kept your relationship a secret. Alfie knew Camden like the scars that littered his palm, and you’d meet at dusk, roaming through his kingdom without any qualms. To you he was a beautiful enigma, handsome and unpredictable and quick witted, and you longed to uncover all of his secrets. He could be guarded, to his workers he was thunderous, his voice echoing around the walls long after he had finished his rants, but to you he was quiet, wanting to drink in all the words that left your mouth, rather than speak himself.

You’d meet in the morning, walking Cyril through fields when the grass was so icy it hardly moved beneath your boots, Alfie pulling him away from chasing the ducks into the freezing water. His coat would rest on your shoulders when he walked you home from work, leaving the bakery long before he was due to just so he could guide you through the streets, your hands brushing together under the light of the moon.

After hours he led you around the distillery, voice filled with pride as he showed you his magnum opus. He would offer you his rum, feeling like his mouth might tear in half as he laughed when you choked on the flame coloured drink, pulling you into him and tasting his work on your lips, your innocence mixed with his sin. You’d sit in the back room of the warehouse, knees pressed together, him looming over you, his broad shoulders touching the smallness of your own, listening as you talked, his heart racing like he had downed dozens of pints.

Maybe a month or so later, those bitter mornings grew colder, and soon the sky was filled with clouds, thick snowflakes falling onto the streets and covering the pavement with a blanket of ivory. You had been with Alfie, Cyril at your heels, watching the deer run through the park, watching them leap and canter across the heath. It had been snowing lightly, but it wasn’t long before the sky darkened and the gentle dusting turned into a flurry, the wind whipping around you, melted snow covering your clothes. You squealed lightly, Alfie wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you closer, his large body shielding you as Cyril mimicked the deer and attempted to eat the falling droplets. You felt like your whole body was alight, could feel the strong muscles of his stomach as he cradled you, a sense of of comfort and security that you had never experienced before.

“C’mon,Pet,” he muttered into your cheek, hot air against your skin. If he wasn’t holding you so tight you swore your knees would buckle and you’d drop to the floor. “Let’s get you home, you’ll bloody freeze to death out here.”

You both turned on your heels and started the walk back, Alfie slowly intertwining his large fingers with yours. It was a foreign feeling for both of you, Alfie not remembering the last time he had locked hands with someone, but your delicate palm against felt so right it was as if you were meant to be moulded together, like the ivory sculptures he had seen at an art gallery years back. The thought made him falter momentarily, gripping his other hand tighter around his cane, the only affection he had had for years.

You had barely reached halfway, your feet sinking into the snow and the cold attacking any bare flesh you had exposed, before the path in front of you was nothing but a blur of white. You had never seen anything like it, it was beautiful and pure but also unnerving, the streets you had familiarised now unrecognisable, Alfie’s hands in yours the only thing keeping you steady from getting lost yourself.

Alfie stood next to you, running his tongue along his cheek and across the ridges of his teeth. Inside his head was a whirlpool of thoughts, all so strange and unfamiliar he was certain that if he said them aloud they would burn his tongue, but something about the way you felt beside him made him want to fight his usual instincts.

“We can’t go any further, right, we’ll turn into snowmen. Carrot nose and all.” He tried to keep his voice steady, his finger gently touching the redness of your frost bitten nose, feeling himself tighten when you smiled shyly up at him. “Come back to mine.”

————————————————————————

Alfie’s house was nothing like you imagined.

London was so different from Birmingham, it was more advanced in so many ways, the architecture was beautiful and revolutionary, and everywhere you looked was filled with tall buildings and towering structures. You knew he made a lot of money, you could see he ran his business with a firm hand and was obviously reaping the rewards, but you weren’t attracted to his wealth. You liked his artfulness, his dedication, you liked that he never apologised for the man he was, and most of all his underlying kindness that only appeared around you.

Nevertheless you were expecting a flat, probably on the highest floor, overlooking the city below. Perhaps filled with expensive furniture and modern art that decorated the walls, a doorman that required identification before you could leave the reception, but the reality was so much better. He lived in a cottage, just outside of the city, a small walk from the bakery but just far away enough that the noise and bustle stilled for a moment.

Everything was covered in white, but you could see the faint outline of a pebbled path leading to the front door. There was a line of flowerbeds either side of you, filled with overgrown green plants, their leaves drooping from the weight of the snow. The roof was thatched, something you hadn’t seen often and the brickwork was intricate and delicate, and ivy grew along the walls, climbing towards a window.

“It’s beautiful.” You said.

Alfie turned to look at you, finding himself smiling at your childlike wonder. He was rummaging in his pocket for his keys, Cyril impatiently scratching the front door, the big dog grumbling quietly. Alfie stilled. He liked watching you, your face red from the cold, eyes wide, taking in your surroundings. He looked at his house, he had bought it years ago and only used it as a place to eat and sleep, but even then he spent most nights at work, hunched over his desk. It wasn’t a symbol of his accomplishments, he wasn’t a man who dreamt of a manor or mansion, to him he preferred his wealth in other ways, power and order, but seeing you gazing up at it, he took a moment to take it in, appreciating his home in a way he hadn’t before.

He found his key, twisting it in the lock and pushing the door open. He held it for you, letting you walk in first, Cyril at your heels, the warm air cradling your body. You stood on the doormat, wiping your winter boots and trying to dislodge the mound of snow that had settled on your heels as Alfie brushed past you quickly, pulling off his shoes and rubbing his hands together.

“Right, I’m gonna go and put the fire on, alright Dove?”

You tried to not let the effect of his pet name show on your face but your whole body felt as if it was grinning, the term of endearment warming you up quickly. You nodded, tentatively undoing the buttons of your coat, trying your hardest to stop water from dripping onto the floor.

Alfie obviously noticed your struggle, pointing to a door at the far end of the hallway. “The loo is just down there, so you can freshen up and whatnot.” He cleared his throat, “And there’s a drying closet for your wet things and such in there too, you can’t miss it.”

With that he disappeared into a door on his right, and you noticed droplets falling from his jacket to the floor, leaving splotches along the wood. You flexed your fingers unconsciously, feeling goosebumps at the base of your spine, and you rapidly followed his directions, locking yourself in the bathroom he had mentioned.

You sat on the edge of the claw foot tub unlacing your boots, sighing once you pulled them off of your feet and realised your stockings were soaked through. You shrugged off your coat, your scarf and your winter hat, bundling them in your arms as you tiptoed across the oak, making your way over to the drying closet. You hung everything up, placing your shoes upside down the way Polly had taught you when you were a child, pushing the memory away as soon as it came.

You took a moment to catch your breath, looking into the mirror hanging above the sink. You wiped away a few stray flakes of mascara from under your eyes, and patted the apples of your cheeks, hoping for a natural flush of colour to replace the ashen tone the cold had given you. You realised as you caught your reflection in the glass that this was the first time you had been alone in a mans house, but more importantly than that, you didn’t feel scared or uneasy at all. If anything, you felt comfortable and the longer you spent apart the more you craved to be in Alfie’s presence. It was a strange and unfamiliar feeling, wanting to constantly be around someone, and you wondered if Alfie felt the same.

You slipped out of the bathroom and walked back the way you came, noticing Cyril through a gap in one of the doors, curled up fast asleep on a velvet dog bed. You pushed open the door to the living room, smelling fresh wood and smoke, Alfie’s broad back blocking the view of the fire you could hear roaring behind him.

Alfie felt your presence and turned around, a crooked grin on his face.“There you are! Was worried you had fallen down the bloody plug ‘ole.”

You laughed, rubbing your hands together, the warmth of the fire suddenly noticeable, the heat hitting your body. The room fell into a comfortable silence, Alfie moving to sit on the sofa, gesturing for you to join him. You fell onto him, resting your head on his shoulder and curling your legs underneath yourself. His hand moved to your hair, eyes watching the flames dance as he combed through your locks with his fingers, feeling the softness against him. There were a million things Alfie wanted to say to you as the quiet consumed you both, but the words were stuck in his throat like cotton wool. He wasn’t sure how to articulate himself properly, how to tell you that the last few months had felt as if the soot had left his lungs and that he could feel the rhythm of his heart once again, something that he had thought he had lost a long time ago. He was used to ruling with an iron fist, he knew how to chew someone out, make them submit to him, but handling you, something so delicate, was new territory for him.

He wasn’t great with words, so he didn’t use them. He lifted your head to meet his, cradling you in his large hands, so soft and pure and angelic under the roughness of his calloused palms. His lips met yours, kissing you in a way you hadn’t experienced before, desperate for the feeling of you. He tried to be gentle, he wanted to show his affection in the kiss, wanted to silence any doubts you might have, wanted to show you a different side of him, but you were deadly, the feeling of your lips and your hands and your hair as electrifying as the rum he would drink to numb his thoughts, his very own personal nirvana.

He stopped too soon for your liking, and you felt yourself pout, dragging your swollen lips against his, pleading for more, but one look at the want in your big eyes and he pulled back, shifting so the two of you were apart. You frowned at him, curious for the lack of attention, his eyes flitting around the room and far away from your own.

You moved closer, your hand shifting to his thigh, but pulling back when he jumped, hissing slightly at the feel of your palm against him.

“Alfie?” You asked, leaning up, brushing your lips against his once more. He tried to resist, but he couldn’t, opening his mouth and devouring you, your sweetness tainting his bloodstream. Your foreheads pressed together, and before you knew what you were doing you were in his lap, pressing yourself against him, unsure and inexperienced but full of desire, your hands moving to his hair.

You shifted slightly and Alfie groaned into your mouth, and the sound rang out like a gospel to you but an alarm to him, and he pulled back again once more.

“Pet… Pet, we should stop.”

You were breathless, your voice hoarse. “Why?”

His fingers tentatively grazed the edge of your face, pushing a stray hair behind your ear. “Because right, this is all moving too fucking fast and I don’t wanna do something you’ll regret later.”

“I’m not going to regret anything.” You said honestly. “I… I want this.” The desperation in your tone was embarrassing and you inwardly cringed, but you were being truthful, you wanted him.

Alfie sighed, running his hand over his eyes. “Look, I know that you’ve never done anything like this before, OK… and I don’t think it would be right if we carried on.”

His words stung and you pulled back, feeling young and foolish and naive. You knew you were inexperienced, but the fact that Alfie could tell you were a virgin made heat prickle along your body.

“You don’t want me?” You asked quietly, so soft like silk but soon turning to flames and scorching Alfie’s skin, turning him frantic.

“No I really, really fucking want you, right, and that’s the problem.” His voice was low, thick with lust that made him feel guilty yet urging him to continue. He felt starved of you, he wanted you more than he had ever wanted anything, but the risk was too great. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

You glanced up at him, shaking your head. “You won’t.”

“I’m not good, dove, not good for you. You should be with a good man, a kind man.”

“Alfie.” You sighed, ignoring the protests in your head and instead crawling closer, settling between his open legs, watching as he took a sharp breath. “You are a good man.” You pressed your lips to his neck, around his throat and at the bottom of his jaw, your face brushing against his course hair. He had never been touched so delicately, you felt angelic under him, like some kind of messenger from God designed to make him weak, make him crumble.

He was done being patient.

His hands wove around your waist, careful but longing, running his fingers over you like you were sacred. “When I look at you I can’t think straight, and that’s bad news for a dangerous man like me.” He whispered into your hair, his words made you melt onto him, making him stiffen and cradle you, the feeling so euphoric.

Your eyes met and you smiled at him and he knew he was done for.

“Alfie, take me to bed.”

—————————————————————

The sun was setting, you could see the colours through Alfie’s window. Pink and purple coloured the sky like streaks of paint, the world going dark. Alfie was next to you, your head on his chest, and you felt warm and comfortable, your body alight. He ran his finger along your spine, liking the feeling of your skin reacting to his touch, goosebumps rising as he circled and traced patterns along your flesh.

He had never felt like this before, it wasn’t a simple fuck or a drunken mistake, and as he looked down at you, watching the slow movements of your breath, he realised that he had never let a woman sleep in his bed. He was fucked. He wanted you, needed you, he didn’t know why, but something had brought you together that day, he was sure of it. He never allowed himself to have a weakness, something that his enemies could manipulate and destroy, but you were like a drug to him, and he was a hopeless addict.

He wanted to tell you everything, wanted to say that you drove him mad and made him weak, but he couldn’t muster up the words, they felt ridiculous on his tongue and he felt like a child. So instead, he used the tactic that worked best, control. He knew he would never own you, you were not his possession or his property but he wanted you to understand that now you were bound to him, that he didn’t want you to leave, that he wanted you by his side.

“דו ביסט מייַן” He said, words running over you like warm honey.

You tilted your head, “What does that mean?”

“You’re mine.”

You blinked up at him, drowsy and content and happy. “And you’re all mine?”

He scoffed, his boyish tone returning, booming and full of life. “Course I am Pet, been yours since the very first time you fuckin’ looked at me.”

You both laid in silence, mulling over the sentences separately, bare skin against one another, an owl hooting in the distance. You relaxed, closing your eyes, your body aching and sore but in such a delicious way that you wanted to savour forever. You felt the bed dip, Alfie reaching over and slapping your thigh playfully and greedily, completely enamoured by you.

“Right, shall I put a cup of tea on, Rosie?”

Rosie. The name hit you like a slap in the face, making you feel pale and sick and faint. All of the lies you had told swam in your head, great white sharks of guilt gnawing at your skull. You had given yourself to this man, felt him above you, kissed his skin, giggled into his shoulder, moaned into his mouth. He trusted you, and yet he barely knew who you were. You looked at him, completely bare in the dim light of the room, so big and burly but kind and silly. You didn’t want to lose him, you didn’t want to be without him, you didn’t want your family destroying the one thing that finally made you feel something.

“Yeah, a cup of tea sounds lovely, Alf.”

#alfie solomons imagine #Alfie Solomons #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders oneshot #alfie solomons oneshot

224 notes · View notes