#she likes sea shells and sand dollars and sea glass even though she knows it's just litter and various. maritime trinkets.

[commsroom]

i love to think about the ways eiffel is willing/able to take up physical space for hera when she can’t. i think... with eiffel and hera and minkowski staying together post-canon, one thing that might start to really bother hera is that, like. she doesn’t have any stuff. she doesn’t even have herself to be there in the house, really, not physically. and unlike with the hephaestus, a house that is actually meant to be a home, a place that is designed for human life, is always full of reminders of the people who live there. so i want to think that she expresses this to eiffel and he starts picking up stuff he thinks she’ll like just to put it on the shelves and around the house, so it’s her house too. and she thinks it’s kind of silly at first because it’s not like she can really interact with most of it, but. then she sees all of her stuff mixed together with eiffel’s on the shelves and it’s like this constant reminder that she exists in the world, that she has an impact on it and a place in it. and that does make her feel a little better.

[sleepless-streetss]

I can see my future so clearly. I am successful. I am living in skyscrapers so I can watch the sun rise every morning over the ocean, and sometimes in these dreams, I can even smell it. The salt in the air, the water crashing into the sand filled with sand dollar shells and sea glass. I don’t know how long this dream will take, but I know I will get there. I can feel it in my bones. Somehow I dream that I am at peace. Will I be though? Reading another book alone when all of my goals have been achieved, money earned, countless hours of research turned in for the glory of success. Will it be enough? Or will my rigidness keep me cold forever, will I ever unwind long enough to uncoil my heart? I wonder if it has been a blessing, or a curse, to be as stubborn and fierce as I have been my entire life. Never letting go. Never giving in. Never surrendering to the unknown because I cannot take two steps in front of me without calculating where the next four will take me. Constantly thinking. Constantly calculating. Constantly controlling every second of my existence. I cannot imagine or dream of a future where I am relaxed. I wonder how weary it must have been to be so close to someone like me. I wonder if I push people away because I cannot find it in my heart to hurt them, and I know that I will. With my unending thought process and uncanny way of overthinking everything, it must have been exhausting. In every end of those dreams, as I read whatever book I have chosen while looking out over a sunrise opening up on the waters edge of some beach, I am alone. I close my book. I pick up my Mac, and I write. Over and over again. That’s the dream that has been on repeat. I cannot find the words anymore to express how consuming it is to be so calculative. So careful. So strict. So rigid in routine. I don’t trust. I don’t open doors to the unknown. I don’t even waste words out loud if they are not necessary any more. It seems as if no one speaks the same language as I do, or no one understands me if I try. Is there anyone out there that knows how to unlock a soul? Or even mine for that matter. Some days I’m not really sure she’s in there, at all. I wonder what it must feel like to meet someone like me, and I wonder if people can feel the cold that I emit when I meet them. Is it so terrible to be the way that I am? Will I still feel this way if I’m still here in 30 years?

[whoneedsapublisher]

The Pull of the Tides

Prompt today was posessive.

Words: ~700

Summary: The tide is a powerful force indeed. Who can resist when pulled by it? Kotori certainly cannot.

Also on Ao3

*********************

Kotori lived in a small house on the beach. At high tide, then waves came within twenty feet of her front door. Day in a day out, no matter what time of day it is, she could hear the sounds of the ocean out her window, and walk into the surf whenever she wanted.

She didn’t always live so close, though. She used to live in a town further inland, a costal fishing town that had been around for centuries, going from a a tiny hamlet to a thriving village to a bustling town, tourism and fishing keeping the place alive year after year.

It was smaller than it had been when she was a child, but it still survived. And that’s why she lived out there, on the beach, in a section where no one visited anymore, tucked away off the side to be alone with nature.

Because the sea is many things. It is bountiful, it is majestic, it is awe-inspiring, and it is beautiful. But it is fierce, terrifying, and powerful as well.

And it is possessive.

As a child, Kotori would play on the beach, like all the children of the village. She would hunt for sand dollars. She would chase crabs. She would build sandcastles. And she would play in the waves.

But unlike the other children, she felt a deep connection to the sea. She would dive deep while swimming and curl in on herself, almost as if embracing the water around her. She would take a bottle of seawater home with her, keeping it on her bedside table like a beloved keepsake.

And the sea grew fond of her in turn.

It would bring her shells, the most beautiful and rarest of them only washing ashore when Kotori was on the beach. It would bring her sea glass as well, and even throw fish upon the rocks for her dinner.

And it would start to miss her when she was gone.

The waves would grow fierce when she was away for too many days in a row. Fishing vessels would be rocked by the tides and their catch would be meager. Storms would brew, riptides would form, and the terrible fury of the sea would rear its head as the people of the village cowered.

Kotori’s parents had always been deep believers in superstition. It was far from uncommon in the town, but her parents were particularly zealous. They believed nothing good would come of this tempestuous connection, and so they forbade Kotori from visiting the beach. The ocean grew fierce and fiercer as Kotori was kept at home, until finally, tragedy struck.

A tidal wave. Water crashed onto the town, washing away entire streets in its fury, the ocean lapping at Kotori’s door as if it was knocking for her to come out.

In the aftermath of the disaster, Kotori simply left. She moved to the beach, and build herself her little house. And there she lived for years. The townsfolk never visited, but were not unkind when she came to town. They would buy the fish and other bounties of the sea she brought and sold her the necessities she needed. But they were afraid to ask if she had ever bothered to go fishing. Not wanting to know the answer.

And so it continued, for decade after decade. Finally, though, Kotori’s life neared its conclusion. Even with the beach so close, it became harder and harder to walk out to the sea, until finally a house call from the town’s doctor confirmed what she already knew.

That night, the sea churned and the drew low, lower than it had in years. In the morning, Kotori opened her door to a sight that brought her no surprise. A wall of water approached her house, towering over her just like it had on that day where the tsunami had come.

She spread her arms wide.

“Take me, Umi,” she cried out, her feeble, aged limbs trembling with the effort to hold them up. “I’m yours.”

When the townspeople came to investigate the beach, barely any trace of Kotori’s house remained.

But in the years and decades since that day, the catches were good, and the tides were fair.

From that day on, the sea was as kind and generous as a newlywed.

[dearlazerbunny]

If/When/Then

Pairings: Kyoya Ootori x Reader

Genre/Ratings: Five Times trope; G, mentions of severe anxiety

Words: 4200

Summary: Or, five times Kyoya didn’t kiss you (and the one time he did)

WARNING: the last bit gets a little angsty

One

“Kyoya. I swear to god. Can we please just-” you rub your eyes exhaustedly, trying to get the harsh blue glow of your laptop out from under your eyelids- “take a break? Or better yet, call it a night?”

The boy sitting across from you on the sofa glances up, his work reflected in his glasses. “How many words do you have?”

“Kyoyaaaaaaaa-”

“Y/N. How many words?” His tone is partially amused but mostly paternal, like he’s asking a small child how many candies they snuck before dinner. If you weren’t so brain dead it’d piss you off, but as it is you’re mostly just petulant.

“Um… three thousand and… something?”

A slender finger pushes his glasses further up his nose. “And the minimum word count is…?”

“You damn well know,” you mumble, before letting your head drop into your hands. One of your elbows is resting on your keyboard, leaving a long trail of jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjs across your half-finished essay.

“What was that?” A socked foot aims a kick at his shin, but your aim goes wide and he dodges it easily. “I believe the answer is six thousand.”

You give a long, heartfelt groan.

Kyoya sighs. He can easily knock out an essay in under an hour, while you require a little more effort- and a lot more bribery. Even if English is one of your best subjects, he knows sitting here for the past few hours laboring over a boring political comparison has to be dragging on you. And he’s been too caught up in his own work to even try to keep your spirits up- something he’s now regretting, seeing the usual sparkle in your eye dull to something uncharacteristically quiet.

“Here.” He reaches over the edge of his perch and feels for the basket of blankets he knows will be sitting there- his sister has a fondness for being wrapped in a minimum of three layers at all times. Carefully, as so not to disturb his own precious computer, he reaches over and drapes a loose-knit woolen beauty over your lap. He even takes a second to tuck the ends over your toes. You watch, fascinated, so used to his fingers tapping out mile-a-minute documents in a harsh staccato that this moment of softness seems unreal. Maybe you’ve already fallen asleep and are dreaming, or it’s a particularly nice sort of 2AM hallucination. Kyoya notices you staring- of course he does, he notices far too much about you nowadays to try and convince himself he only values you as a friend- and very pointedly looks anywhere but your gaze. He’s not sure he could look away if he caught your eye now, hazy with sleep and reflecting starlight from the nearby open window. “Better?”

“Um- yeah.” You settle a little further into the cushions. “Thanks.”

He nods, not trusting himself to speak.

Of course, when he glances over at you not ten minutes later, you’re fast asleep, laptop precariously close to toppling to the floor. He rescues it and saves your work before shutting it down. There’s a slight smile on your face as you dream, and the overwhelming urge to lean over and press a kiss to your forehead makes Kyoya stop still.

His fixation on you has grown over the past few months, that much is clear, but he hadn’t predicted them to progress this quickly this fast. He has his grades to maintain, a club to run, and a company to prepare for. He shouldn’t have time for silly distractions, like categorizing exactly how peaceful you look curled up next to him, or reaching out and brushing a piece of hair out of your eyes.

He shouldn’t. And yet, he does- he always will, for you.

Two

“Remind me again who said this was a good idea?” You squint your eyes as you turn your face towards the sky, which is lit by a brilliant sun. The Host Club is hosting on location this time- a beautiful stretch of beach peppered by towels, umbrellas, waiters offering fruity drinks, and a couple hundred squealing girls. You know. Relaxing. “I think I might like to punch them.”

“You might talk to Mori about a healthy and productive way to manage your rampant anger issues.” You snort and roll your eyes, which in turn makes the corner of Kyoya’s mouth tick up. He’s under an umbrella nearby, neatly marking down figures on his notepad. “Besides, I thought you liked the water.”

“I do, when it’s not so…” you gesture to the gaggle of twenty or so girls nearby, all primping and twisting in their bikinis to hopefully catch the eye of their favorite host- “crowded.”

“Ah.” He can sympathize with that. The smell of salt and brine takes him back to childhood, with the two of you making castles in the sand and pestering the other with seashell-finding competitions. Beach days were lazy days when your parents couldn’t be bothered to have either of you in the house, but to the two of you they were worth their weight in gold. Today, as he watches you stretch into the heat, his childhood friend is overshone by the you of here and now. You’re gorgeous in a simple one piece more stunning than any of the frills the other guests are wearing and hair in a sea-woven braid dangling down your back. Likewise, the Kyoya of here and now is having some thoughts that his five-year-old self have would never even dreamt of.

“I’m going swimming. If I don’t come back in an hour, tell Tamaki it’s his fault for dragging us all out here.”

“Hm? Oh,” Kyoya clears his throat. “Yes, of course.”

You throw him a glance- is he acting strangely? You can’t quite tell; it might just be the heat- before jogging off towards the waves, well away from the party as a whole.

He watches you go, and thinks about going with you, before a guest trills his name and his attention is dragged back to where he doesn’t want it to be.

At the end of the day, the crowd has left, and the club gets a precious hour or so of pink sky and calm surf to themselves. Hikaru, Kaoru, and Haruhi are searching the shoreline for shells and sand dollars; Mori is hauling damp sand for Honey’s massive sand castle; and Tamaki surveys all of them like a proud father. You and Kyoya are sitting a little away, just close enough to the water to let it kiss your toes. “This is more what I remember,” you murmur, a smile on your face, and Kyoya digs his fingers into the sand so they don’t accidentally wind their way around yours like they want to.

“Oh, here.” You pluck your friend’s glasses from his face and use the towel draped loosely over your shoulders to wipe the lenses. When you hand them back, Kyoya has a bit of a stunned expression on his face, making you giggle. “Sorry. They had salt on them. Seemed like it would annoy you.”

“Indeed,” is what he says, willing his tone to be nonchalant or at least neutral. What he wants to say is, do you remember when we were eleven, and you tried the same thing? You ended up getting knocked over by a wave and lost them in the ocean. I was so mad at you, but I still had to hold your hand on the way home so I wouldn’t fall. You didn’t let me trip. Not once.

If he were a braver, bolder, better person, he’d kiss you right now, and see how you taste like salt and sunshine and memories. But he isn’t, so he doesn’t- he lets the Hitachiin twins, who are sneaking up behind you, douse you in water instead. He lets you shriek at them and take chase, threatening to drown them both, breaking the moment and leaving him sitting by the sea alone to remember what was and what might be.

Three

It’s safe to assume that Valentine’s Day is never a dull affair in Music Room 3.  

Everything is decorated with lace and delicate crystal trimmings; the roses are even more bountiful and in every color the human eye can see. The attire is more formal than usual, the cheeks rosier and the lips pinker, and it tends to be the one day when the hosts receive more than give.

Each of their tables is piled high with gifts, cards, baked goods swirled with elaborate frostings. Even though Tamaki keeps insisting that the girls should be the ones receiving sweet nothings, not the hosts, you can tell he’s more than pleased by the growing mound of sentiments slowly dwarfing the other boys’. As it should be, Kyoya supposes.

Honey’s haul is mostly sweets, naturally, and this year Mori also has a surprising armload- apparently one of the only times his admirers hear him speak is when he says ‘thank you’, leading to multiple gifts just so they can hear his voice more than once. Hikaru and Kaoru’s combined mountain looks more like a dragon’s treasure horde than a pile of presents. Haruhi adamantly refused everything until one guest brought her a particularly excellent platter of fish, based on the way she’s been sitting in the corner with her cheeks stuffed for the last twenty minutes.

Kyoya notes all of this with a vague smile, adjusting his calculations and trajectories for the next few months to match the turnout. Valentine’s Day is one holiday he can generally sit out. Sure, there’s a small stack of cards and remember-me’s on the sofa next to him, but his persona as the analytical and aloof host tends to leave him further down in the ranks than the other boys. Which is just fine with him, if he’s being honest- he has manners, but being constantly charming is tiring at best and egregiously aggravating at worst.

“Mother Dearest, it appears you have another card to add to your beautiful collection!” Tamaki flounces over in his wine-colored suit, at least thirty guests in pursuit. “It doesn’t come with a giver, unfortunately- oh! Perhaps you have a secret admireeeeeer!” He wiggles his fingers excitedly and hands over the card with a flourish. “How exciting! A mystery for Valentine’s Day!” His groupies sigh and fan their faces, overcome with the romance and intrigue of it all.

“Thank you, Tamaki,” Kyoya says drily, nimbly plucking the proffered gift from the boy’s fingers. “Please, don’t ignore your guests on my account.”

“I would never! Each and every one of my princesses mean the world to me!” As he and his followers fade back to the other side of the room, Kyoya props his glasses back up on his nose and curiously slides his thumb under the flap of the envelope. It’s a plain white paper, not embellished with hearts or gemstones or ribbon or any of the other garish decorations usually attached to such a thing. The card is similarly simplistic, with only a pencil-sketched heart on the outside and a greeting that reads, “To My Favorite Host.”

Interesting. Perhaps there’s a mystery here after all. He flips it open, not sure what to expect- and immediately has to keep himself from laughing outright. Inside is a crude sketch of two stick figures- one has comically large glasses drawn on its blank face to helpfully distinguish itself as the Kyoya of the pair- and note in chicken scratch: You’re such an asshole, but I guess I love you anyways.

Only one person could be responsible for such a thing. After all, you were never renowned for your artistic talents.  

…

“I got your… note.”

You don’t look up from the book you’re paging through out in the courtyard underneath a spectacular old tree. The leaves frame you beautifully against the afternoon sky. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mmm. I found the art particularly museum worthy.”

Now you smile a bit. “Well, you’re a museum worthy sorta guy.”

“Favorite host is quite the compliment.” He’s getting dangerously close to… something; toeing a line he hasn’t touched before, and it’s making his heart race.

“Don’t get too cocky. Mori’s still got like, an eight-pack.”

Kyoya sits beside you, careful to leave several tree roots between you and him. “Why a valentine? I see you every day; you could have just told me yourself.”

“I dunno.” He fixes you with a look, one that says sure, I believe you. You give a halfhearted shrug, shoulder almost brushing Kyoya’s. “I went by the music room. Everyone else had, like, mountains of stuff and I just… felt like you were under-appreciated, that’s all.”

“I see.” A beat passes with nothing but the wind ruffling your hair. “That’s… kind of you.”

Now you do close the gap between the two of you, nudging your knee against his. “You’re welcome, asshole.”

Four

Your laugh, Kyoya thinks, is the best thing he’s ever heard.

You’re draped over the edge of his bed, head towards the floor, giggling wildly to yourself as you mutter an inside joke that only make sense to you. Your cheeks are flushed, and the bottle of alcohol you snuck into Kyoya’s room is sitting a few feet away, half full. He’s had a few sips, but he isn’t much for relinquishing his mental faculties so easily. It’s tempting, though, what with you so lazily tapping his shoulder or nudging his side to get his attention- it’d be so easy to demolish all his carefully crafted walls and drown in you.

But someone has to be the responsible one- and if he’s honest with himself, the thought of you or he regretting what happened in the dead of night come light of day makes him sick to his stomach. So he sits primly against his headboard, the computer on his lap a boulder pinning him to his spot, only glancing at you every so often to make sure you haven’t tumbled off the bed completely, despite your absolutely intoxicating mood coaxing him closer and closer to throwing caution to the wind.

“-and you’re just… you’re just a good person,” you continue, meandering through your thoughts. “Like, seriously. Why do you have to be so amazing. It’s so goddamn annoying.”

He desperately hopes you’re too out of it to notice the reddening of his own cheeks. “I am hardly what anyone would call ‘good.’”

“Lies! Lies. And. Slander.” You emphasize every word with a poke to various parts of his body- his big toe, his elbow, his knee. “Like- okay. What are you working on right now?”

In actuality he’s browsing through the Ootori Group’s latest research and development journals, evaluating their recent findings and sifting the unimportant from the extraordinary. But you’re most likely far too gone to actually understand any of that, so instead he just generalizes: “refining new data from the company.”

“Yeah! You wanna be a fucking doctor, that’s like- that’s amazing!”

Kyoya quirks an eyebrow. “You do realize my entire family is in the medical profession.”

“No, your entire family throws their money at the medical profession.” You wave a finger in the air like a drunk scientist hypothesizing their theories. “There’s a difference.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“No, listen you jerk!” You haul yourself up and place yourself face-to-face with your best friend, close enough that Kyoya can see the intensity in your eyes. “It’s one thing to pay for shit, it’s another to actually be in the room when someone is having a heart attack and wanting to save their life. You care. More than anyone I know. And that makes you amazing.” You let out a rush of air, the sudden verve in your words having worn you out. “I dunno. Maybe that doesn’t make any sense. Whatever. I’m gonna lay down.” You curl up next to his knee and half heartedly arrange a blanket around your legs before falling asleep.

Meanwhile, Kyoya’s gaze has never left your face. The words may have been spoken by a loose tongue, but anyone could hear the honesty in your voice and see the passion in your eyes. You really think that much of him? Or rather, could you possibly think as much of him as he does of you?

He wishes he could shake you awake and ask you to elaborate. He wishes he could tell you that if he’s amazing, you’re a supernova. He wishes he could get drunk and fall asleep next to you while pressing lazy kisses anywhere he can reach.

His reaches for the bottle, but his fingers barely brush the glass before changing course and clicking off the lamp instead.

Five

God, I hate these things, you think to yourself as you tug on the straps of your dress. You’re not quite sure if you’re referring to the pins sticking your scalp, the uncomfortable formal gown you’re squeezed into, or the entire event in general- actually, it’s most likely all of the above. As much as you love Kyoya and the rest of the boys, you adamantly refuse to attend any of their grand balls. You’re not a fussy person, so the general pompous air of the things always gives you a headache, and you hate wearing dresses anyways. But today you zipped yourself into a slinky black sheath number that’s long enough to hide tennis shoes under the hem, forced your hair into something presentable, and even threw on a little mascara.

Because of Kyoya.

Kyoya, who mentioned in passing that this was the best celebration he’d ever planned, and seemed extremely proud of it to boot. Kyoya, who always grumbles as he slips on his suit, wishing he could spend the night with his charts and figures instead. Kyoya, who always returns to school the next day more stressed than usual, a tight smile plastered on his face as he fends off hordes of fangirls.

The things you do for this boy.

It’s immediately clear when you arrive that you stand out in your ebony gown, a wisp of smoke and night sky amongst a sea of flouncy pastels. Luckily, each of the boys steps up to greet you- a sweet hug from Honey, carefully avoiding wrinkling your dress; good natured teasing from the twins; a particularly extravagant complimentary poem from Tamaki. Eventually you meet Haruhi at the table laden with food, grateful for someone down to earth to laugh with.

After an hour, you’re almost convinced Kyoya finally worked up the nerve to skip the event altogether when there’s a delicate gap on your shoulder. “Would you care for a dance?”

“No,” you say, because that’s what you always say when Kyoya asks you to do something (even if he knows you’ll do it anyways). He smiles and takes your elbow, ignoring the whispers and glares from the other guests- who is she? What makes her so special? Everything, he wishes he could tell them. So many things he it would take him years to count them all.

“I thought you hated these things,” he says when you’re safely tucked in his arms on the dance floor. The fabric of your dress shimmers softly, as though marking you as something uniquely precious amongst all the other attendees.

“I do,” you reply. You’re slowly taking his lead, following the waltz music played by a six-piece orchestra. “But I think you hate them more, so I figured if anything I could help put you out of your misery.”

“Hm. Poisoned boutonnière, perhaps?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of hiding up in the rafters with a blowdart gun.”

Kyoya chuckles, sweeping you along. You’re not a bad dancer, all things considered. “I appreciate the thoughtfulness, though that might be difficult given your choice of attire.”

You grin at him playfully, raising your hem up just enough so he can see your battered old sneakers on your feet. “Nah, I always come prepared.”

It’s such an odd juxtaposition- this beautiful girl in the sinful dress accessorizing with sharpie-covered shoes that are peeling rubber- he can’t help but laugh, a real laugh, perhaps the first one he’s given since the night began. Even out of your element, you still maintain something that is so quintessentially you. He wishes he could tell you how beautiful you look. He wishes he could nudge your sneaker with his dress shoe in a secret invitation to follow him somewhere quiet, to steal small fleeting moments that would make the whole night worth its while.

He thinks about this every time you scuff your feet, hearing the slight squeak of rubber against the polished tile floor.

And the beginning…

“Stop it, Kyoya,” you grit out through a clenched jaw, using all your strength to unfold your friend’s fingers from his bloody palms. His fingernails have dug so far into the skin they’ve left bright red crescent moons dotting his hands. You focus on those, trying to soothe the sting with the fabric of your shirt, because if you look at his face and the tears crawling down his cheeks you’ll start crying too, and that’s not what either of you need right now. “Just talk to me. Please.”

No response. He’s trembling as though there’s a blizzard only he can feel, so you sit him on your bed and wrap him in every blanket you have, leaving his hands free so he can clutch at yours like a lifeline. “Just focus on me, okay? Everything is fine.” You try to keep your voice steady as you murmur anything reassuring you can think of, trying to coax life back into his eyes. You knew his anxiety had gotten worse, but this… this is the most catastrophic yet. You sit cross legged in front of him, so close your knees brush his, and hold onto his fingers for dear life. “Keep breathing. I’m here. It’s all okay.” Please please please come back to me. Come on, Kyoya. Don’t let the demons win.

Slowly, piece by piece, something in him seems to uncoil. His grip lessens just a little, and his breathing becomes audible enough to reassure you he’s still with you. Gently, you put a hand to his forehead, then cheek, testing his temperature. “Hey. You with me?”

Something like a sob escapes his lips, thin and heartbroken. Your own shatters along with it. In an instant you have him in a hug, arms as tight around him as you can possibly manage. Kyoya tucks his head into the crook of your neck, practically collapsing on top of you until you aren’t sure where he stops and you start. He says your name over and over and over again, a hymn only he can hear. You press your lips to his temple just to reassure yourself he hasn’t left you and let him cry; only able to offer comfort in presence and spirit. “Thank you,” he murmurs against your skin, and you hold him tighter.

“I’m always here. You know that.”

He sniffs and wipes away a tear with the heel of his hand, wincing when the salt burns his cuts. “Idiotic. I apologize for… all of this.”

“Stop,” you say firmly. You bring his eyes up to meet yours, so he can see the fire in your gaze. “You have nothing to apologize for. Ever. Okay?”

Kyoya stares back at you, feeling small and worthless against the monsters in his own brain. Every second spent with you banishes them a little farther back into his mind, loosening the vises wrapping his chest and letting him breathe a little easier. It has almost consumed him today, so he ran to the only safe place he knows-  you. And you had held him and wiped his tears and not for a single second judged him for falling apart.

It occurs to him you are one of the few people on earth who see him for who he truly is, and will still hold his hands anyways.

Ever so gently, he presses his lips to yours- soft, tentative, and barely there. It’s a thank you, and offering, and a question all at once. It’s not the grand romantic gestures he’s planned late at night, wanting to sweep you off your feet in a shower of confidence and joy, or even really a conscious decision- it’s instinct, want, and something like bittersweet love.

You blink at him, eyes wide. “Kyoya… I-”

He stills. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, bringing a hand up to press your fingers against his cheekbone. “Don’t ever be sorry,” you say again, and then you kiss him back. You kiss him like it’s all you’ve ever wanted to do; like you’re saying to him what took you so long, you idiot?

He doesn’t know. But he won’t ever make that mistake again. He’ll kiss you every day for as long as he lives to make up for all that lost time, all those late nights and seaside musings and dances with a hand on the small of your back.

When the sun rises, it illuminates a world of a thousand new possibilities.

[aurumacadicus]

For the ask meme how about the acting fishy au?

After Tony brings Clint back to the house, he fusses a lot over making sure Clint is okay. Clint doesn’t know how to take this at first, because mostly what he knows of humans are assholes who don’t change his water enough and never give him live food. But Tony comes home from the store with an armful of live food and just drops it on top of him and Clint would have gorged himself to sickness if Steve hadn’t stopped him. Then Clint discovers pizza and he would much rather have that, especially when Tony gets it with anchovies on it. “I’m pretty sure we’re not supposed to eat pizza,” Bucky says. “Fuck off and let me live my life,” Clint replies, and grabs the coffee pot to drink directly from it.

Tony introduces Steve and Bucky to the idea of “spa days.” He doesn’t mean to though. Steve and Bucky had meant to spend a few days at sea but then they’d gotten bored because they wanted to show Tony all the cool stuff they’d found (he’d made them a waterproof camera!!!) and so they go back to Tony’s house and he’s sitting on the couch with relaxing music playing and mud on his face and cucumber slices over his eyes. “Hey uh what the fuck,” Bucky says, and Tony screams and falls off the couch. However, he gets them really, really into it, and the day that Pepper comes to grab some paperwork to find Steve and Bucky chilling in the basking tank with mud masks and seaweed wraps around their tail and tentacles she fucking drops to the floor crying with laughter.

Bucky’s arm grows back slowly and until it’s fully reformed, he doesn’t really have good use of it. Since he’d never had full control of it since Tony had known him, he doesn’t notice when Bucky starts doing things with both arms, with both hands, with both sets of fingers. Bucky waits for Tony to notice, but Tony is an idiot when it comes to these things, so he never does. So Bucky shows him by grabbing him by the hips with his hands and yanking him into the basking tank. “WHAT THE F--” Tony begins, startled, then pauses when he realizes that he’d put his hands down over Bucky’s. He squeezes Bucky’s left hand, as if not quite believing it’s real, then turns, smiling brightly. “Bucky! Your arm!” Bucky laughs, feeling too full of happy emotion to hold it in, and wraps his arms around Tony to hug him tightly.

Steve finds a pearl while picking through oysters. It’s large, around the size of a golf ball, and a lovely shade of pink. It reminds him of the blush Tony gets when Steve calls his feet cute. He decides to bring it home to Tony; Tony likes it when they bring him presents, like sea glass and sand dollar shells. “Oh,” Tony whispers, taking the pearl in his hands, cradling it close to his body. “Oh, Steve, thank you.” “You’re welcome,” Steve says, and then, “I love you,” and then he waits until Tony has gone to put the pearl someplace safe before he asks JARVIS, “Ummmmm what did I just do?” JARVIS explains that the color of pearl he’d brought home was very rare among humans and very valuable, and Tony probably put more weight on the pearl than Steve had. “I am putting all the weight on it,” Steve says aggressively, and tells Bucky about it, and they spend many days in the ocean searching for more pink pearls.

Natasha comes to visit one day because she thinks the way Bucky gets aggressive with her is funny and she sees Clint in the basking tank. She is moving toward it before she even truly realizes what she is doing and don’t consider what it might look like to the clownfish until Clint sees her and screams bloody murder. “HELP HELP HELP SHE’S GONNA EAT ME TONY HELP YOU SHOULD HAVE LEFT ME IN THE WAREHOUSE AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!” Natasha is mortified, and she’s even more horrified when Tony comes sprinting up out of the workshop and tackles her and manages to send them sliding across the floor away from the basking tank. “Oh shit,” Steve says when he and Bucky come out of the kitchen, and pull Tony up off of her before she unconsciously strangles him in self-defense.

[thegreatestofheck]

One Small Family *A Secret Santa Gift*

happy holidays @popcsheyward!! I was your secret santa for @ijustreallylovethem ‘s gift exchange thing this year and I had so much fun writing this short gift for you! Just a quick thing, I’ve never written a fic with a protagonist who uses she/they pronouns, but I tried it out and I hope I did alright (but if I didn’t do it right, please let me know and I’ll fix it). I hope you enjoy and I hope your holidays are good and fun (despite or in spite of covid). 

Here it is, your found family fic!

It was Gracie’s first Christmas with the Pogues. 

They moved in with their grandparents after their father got caught in some work scandal and their mother thought it best they be away from all of the drama. For most of the summer, they spent their days alone, working at the surf shop their grandpa ran, until a group of wild teenagers came barrelling through. 

She didn’t even remember how they all got acquainted, or how they all became fast friends. One moment, they were spending their nights alone, and the next, they were partying every weekend and breaking every rule their parents gave to them. 

School started and they felt like they were thrown back into the thick of it once again. With Kie going to school at the kook academy, Gracie suddenly felt out of place with the boys. It took her some getting used to, finding her own relationship with each of them. 

She and Pope really bonded over school work. They weren’t used to the public school system, as they went to private school back in Seattle. But Pope really taught them the ropes; kissing up to teachers, turning homework in on time, every secret behind standardized testing. Free periods she wasn’t with JJ or John B, she was studying with Pope. 

John B taught her how to surf. He took them out to the beach at the ass crack of dawn, before the rooster in the front of his house began crowing. He taught them the basics in the early light and cheered them on when the sun rose. He was every motivation she ever needed to start doing the things she wanted to. He didn’t care what it was and apparently, it didn’t matter. Whatever Gracie wanted to do, she did because John B taught her how. 

JJ was the one who taught them how to live. And I mean really live. He took her out driving in the middle of thunderstorms, dancing with them in the parking lot outside of school when the rain came pouring down, taught them how to roll a blunt and shotgun a beer. Anything and everything that got her adrenaline going, she learned from JJ. 

But Kie kept them grounded. She kept them focused. With the boys constantly pulling her in every direction, Gracie needed someone to keep her mind on the important things. Pass your classes, take care of your grandparents, write to your mom and dad, work hard. Kie was strong and resilient and clever and Gracie loved her for it. 

But the semester had ended and now it was time for the holidays. With everyone being as poor as they were, it was decided early on that they would do a game of Secret Santa and the gifts had to be five dollars or less. Gracie had pulled JJ’s name out of the beat up old Santa hat. 

She had two weeks to get him something and it was beyond her what he could even want. They had a million thoughts at first, but none of them were coherent or even remotely plausible with the funds that they had. For nearly two weeks, she wracked her brain trying to think of something. 

They were walking the beach one day when they thought of it. 

They were up early, before most of the Pogues woke up. It was vacation after all, so most of her friends slept in. But she liked the morning. With the heavy fog still hanging over the land, the cold sand beneath their toes, the gentle waves lapping against the shore. It was chilly, but not cold, just enough to keep her senses awake. 

Her foot knocked into something as she wadded through the soft sand. With a start, Gracie leaned down and fished around in the sand until her hand found the cool glass of a bottle. They unburied it, holding the clear glass up to the sun that peaked through the fog just as it rose above the horizon. A plan began to form in their head and a smile pulled at their lips. 

Gracie tucked the glass bottle into her bag and ran back toward the parking lot where her skateboard was. They raced home as fast as their board would take them without falling and tearing their relatively new jeans. 

“Home so soon, Gracie?” Their grandmother called from the kitchen. 

“I figured out what I’m gonna do for JJ!” Gracie called back as they ran for their room. 

Their grandmother only chuckled, returning to whatever deliciously smelling thing that she was cooking on the stove. 

As soon as Gracie made it to her room, she dumped the beautiful glass bottle onto her bed. Their smile never faultered the entire time they ran around their room, from the rising of the sun to almost mid-day, they rummaged around their small space for any single thing that reminded them of her best friends. 

Shells and rocks that they had gathered, sea glass that they had found, a bracelet they had made, ribbons from their birthday present the Pogues had bought for them, a broken ping pong ball, a plastic gold coin, a ferry ticket, a fake shark tooth, and a dozen or so more small things that each had meaning to them and their friends, specifically JJ. 

It was difficult to deilicately shove everything into the small neck of the bottle and there were a few things that she had to leave out. Once everything was arrayed in the bottle to their liking, Gracie sat on her bed with floss from her collection for bracelet making. With a gleeful grin, they set about weaving another bracelet, specifically for JJ. Shades of green and blue and grey that reminded her of the ocean twisted together, woven together with every ounce of affection and care that they could pour into it. Even though their fingers ached and their palms cramped by the end of it, Gracie still couldn’t stop smiling. It was probably the cleanest bracelet they had ever made. 

The finishing touch of the present was to tie the bracelet around the neck of the bottle. Then, they sat back and admired their handiwork. 

By the time Christmas Eve rolled around, the day that the Pogues had set on gifting their presents, Gracie was itching to give their present to JJ. She hadn’t even thought of the gift she was going to recieve until she saw the fifth present around the campfire. 

They all met at the beach. Kie had her ukelele, John B brought the beer, Pope brought the marshmellows, Gracie brought the graham crackers, and JJ had eaten most of the chocolate. They greeted each other with hugs and “Merry Christmas”s until John B couldn’t take it any longer. 

Kie opened her gift first. It was easy enough to tell that Pope had gotten it for her. He blushed all the way through her opening it, his shoulders slouched and his face lowered to the ground. He had gotten her a loosely knit sweater, just the kind that Kie loved to use to cover her bakinis. She grinned like an idiot as she held it in her hands. 

“There’s also this, but I didn’t know how to wrap it,” Pope said. 

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a ukelele pick. It was small and beautifull painted. 

“Did you paint this yourself?” Kie asked, aghast. 

Pope perked up slightly as he nodded. 

“You left it behind once when you were over and I kept forgetting to give it back. So, it was technically already yours but-” 

“I love it, Pope.” Kie threw her arms around his neck and Pope seemed unsure what to do with himself. “Thank you.” 

Pope opened his next. He looked up at JJ, knowing that it came from him before Pope had finished unwrapping it. JJ was hiding a smug grin behind his hands in an attempt to keep up the anonimity. 

“Dude, seriously?” There was annoyance in Pope’s voice, but he was smiling. 

“Seriously!” 

“Let us see,” John B said, reaching his hand out to snatch the present but Pope pulled it back. 

“No way,” Pope laughed. “No one is ever seeing this.” 

“My turn!” JJ yelled to pull attention away from his gift to Pope. 

Gracie couldn’t help but smile as JJ picked up his gift. They could barely contain their excitment and JJ clearly couldn’t either. 

He tore the wrapping off in one swift motion, his eyes gleaming in the firelight. 

“What is it?” Kie asked, head tilted to the side. 

“It’s us,” JJ said, staring at each of the things on the inside. “The recipit from the first day we met Gracie. Our first movie ticket. Our one trip to the mainland.” 

JJ prattled off all of the little memories, pointing at each thing as he said it. Gracie could have cried. They weren’t sure JJ would remember any of them, but he remembered them all. The others joined in with little side stories about the different things and Gracie couldn’t stop the tears that rolled from her eyes. 

“Awww, don’t cry!” Kie mused, leaning over to give them a hug. 

“I’ve just never had friends like you guys,” Gracie said as she quickly wiped away her tears. “I’m so glad you like it.” 

JJ fiddled with the bracelet tied to the neck of the bottle, still smiling. 

“Can I wear this?” He asked. 

“If you want to,” Gracie told him. 

“Help me put it on.” 

Gracie obliged, tying the bracelet around JJ’s slender wrist. Once it was on, he lifted it into the light of the fire so the others could see. He wore it like a badge of pride. 

“I’m never taking it off.” 

Gracie wasn’t sure how she was supposed to deal with the flurry of emotions that brewed in her gut, so they bent down and picked up the gift with her name scrawled across it. 

She unwrapped it, finding a rainbow of emroidary floss tied together with a thin black ribbon. There most have been a dozen new colors. Their jaw fell open and tears pricked at her eyes again. Gracie looked up at John B, knowing that he was the only one who could have gotten her this gift. 

“I was running low,” she said, her voice quiet. 

John B just smiled, leaning back on his hands, looking as pleased with himself as ever. 

“I know.” 

Gracie gave him a brief hug before he picked up his own gift, the last of the night. 

Kie had gifted John B a picture in a picture frame and even though Gracie was sitting right next to him, they couldn’t see what it was. But John B just stared at it, eyes shimmering with tears and mouth parted ever so slightly. His smugness had faded. He pressed the frame to his chest and looked over at Kie, who was looking on with watery eyes. 

“Thank you,” he mouthed, unable to even form words. 

Gracie leaned over to look and he showed her. 

The picture was of the five of them from a day at the beach. They were happy, smiling, grinning from ear to ear. Gracie couldn’t even remember what day it had come from. At the bottom was a short note written in sharpie. 

“From your family,” it read. “Signed, Kie, Pope, JJ, and Gracie.” 

This was the first Christmas that John B had to spend without his dad. It was the first he would spend without a family. Kie had come to each of them asking for one small favor for their friend. None of them thought it was a bad idea. 

The sappy feelings everyone felt in their gut was quickly replaced by JJ’s plea to go skinny dipping, which they all obliged to. 

After they were soaked through their skin, they returned to the campfire for sining and s’mores. The sun was long gone by the time they were feeling tipsy and a little bit like they should probably head home. JJ would be going home with John B, of course. Christmas was no time for him to be around his dad. Gracie was almost tempted to ask if she could come, but she knew this Christmas was important to her grandparents. Maybe next Christmas. 

As Kie drove her home that night, Gracie knew that every Christmas from that day forward she would be spending with the Pogues. She wanted to do this every year until she was old and wrinkling and unable to see any more. 

After all her time of searching and hoping and praying for a group of friends who accepted her for who she was and who loved her for all of her shortcomings, Gracie had finally found it. It was their own little family, a family that was closer than blood because they weren’t bound by blood. 

There was nothing that Gracie wouldn’t do for the Pogues. And Gracie knew, deep down, there was nothing their friends wouldn’t do for them either. 

[radioactivepeasant]

Folklore Friday (sort of)

So essentially, this is a bulletpoint outline of sorts for a slightly spooky thing I try to work on from time to time. The funny thing is, when I first started it a year or so ago, it was slightly in the style of someone reporting after the fact. So it may, by sheer coincidence, bear a mild resemblance to the Magnus Archives. That amuses me.

“Let us review, then, the incident which took place in the Tam Lin Bar & Grill on the evening of June the 19th, 1991.”

A man approached the establishment by night and waited for two exiting patrons to open the door before he entered.

It was a slow night, not many patrons on the family diner side, and only regulars in the bar. 

the regulars consisted of a few Landed Gentry (far more humble, yet no less glamorous than their proud brethren), Eudora Twopelts with her furs, a few humans, and poor old Mr. Baxter of Camden.

Barkeep noticed the Difference.

“I have been asked not to speak at length on the subject of Barkeep. Barkeep holds their peace and keeps their patrons’ secrets, and the patrons are in turn quite protective of them.”

The Man gave himself the name Neil and ordered a blood-orange mocha.

“The blood-orange mocha, by the way, is not what you think it is. Order at your own risk.” 

* The Man, Neil, sought a target, and Barkeep noticed. Barkeep always notices when a new patron fails to actually read The Rules posted on the wall.

* The Man, Neil, sought a target, but he could not choose. 

    * Fern-called and Summer-called played knucklebones with Young Jack and did not pay any attention to the Man. They played until Summer-called lost to Fern-called and left.

     * Summer-called was nearly the object of the Man’s attention that night, save for the fact that his friends would have noticed if the Man had followed Summer-called out into the grove.

* Eudora Twopelts noticed nothing. She never notices much outside the bottom of her salted glass on the dry days, when she most misses the sea and others of her kind.

Mr. Baxter sat alone in his corner, clothes worn and dirty.

One could be forgiven for assuming he looked like nothing so much as a worn, tired man down on his luck.

Mr. Baxter sat, as he always did, in the corner off to the side of the bar. His coffee had long since gone cold.

“Now we move forward from review to speculation.”

The Man, Neil, perhaps approached Mr. Baxter, with a friendly smile and a hand out, bestowing his chosen name like a gift. Perhaps he said something like, “You looked like you could use the company,” though Mr. Baxter didn’t answer.

Mr. Baxter never answers.

Clearly, this did not deter Neil, who must have intended to earn the trust of the melancholy old man, or else wait until he was the last person to leave the bar at closing.

“The Man had done this many times before, and in many different cities, according to missing persons reports. No doubt he thought that night would be no different.”

Barkeep noticed which way Neil’s attention had turned, but Barkeep was not particularly concerned. There was little harm in the stranger sitting with Mr. Baxter, they felt.

At least, there was little harm for those who meant well enough.

Young Jack and Fern-called left the bar at a quarter to nine.

“To allay concerns raised by other witnesses: Young Jack was not Taken. He and Fern-called have a longstanding arrangement.”

The only ones left in the bar at nine o’clock were Eudora, Mr. Baxter, the Man, and of course, Barkeep.

Eudora Twopelts called for one more glass of salted iced tea -- as she always does -- and paid in sand dollars. 

“Barkeep does accept shells and trinkets as currency sometimes, but only with patrons who have proved trustworthy. As a visitor, I had to pay seven dollars for my spiced cider mocha.”

Eudora knows that the salt will only make her miss the sea all the more, but still she comes every night, to drink her salty tea and wait in hopes that one day she’ll meet a kindred spirit to whom she can give her second seal-coat.

Eudora never leaves before closing. She was there until 10:30 and witnessed much of the event.

The Man attempted, according to Eudora, to once again begin a conversation with Mr. Baxter. Mr. Baxter never answered. Mr. Baxter never moved. 

Barkeep came at nine-fifteen and replaced Mr. Baxter’s cup of cold coffee with a fresh one. There may have been a flicker of recognition in Mr. Baxter’s still face, but no other outward change. That would have been as good as a “thank you” from Mr. Baxter.

Neil was obviously willing to be patient. He was old, old, old, and all the brief flicker and noise of humanity must have bored him. He thought himself as above it. Outside it.

Perhaps he observed his tablemate and thought, “If Mr. Baxter knew what I am, how frightened he would be!”

The Man, by the account of Eudora, seemed faintly confused, as though considering whether the inscrutable Mr. Baxter might have sensed something wrong. After all, he (like his apparently unwitting companion) was unnaturally still.

“But he wasn’t still like Mr. Baxter,” Eudora later told us, “Not a stillness of body. He moved, he spoke, he drank. And I’m sure as the tide that he fed. But there’s a...oh, I don’t know. He had a stagnance to his stillness when he was sitting there. Didn’t blink, didn’t even seem to breathe. Skin didn’t even twitch, like it was a pelt.”

The patrons’ consensus appears to be that this Neil gave off the feeling of a cat that is about to spring. It is a feeling familiar to the patrons of the Tam Lin Bar & Grill.

Neil must have wondered if Mr. Baxter, like a rabbit, had sensed his own peril and frozen in hopes of avoiding the gaze of a predator. Mr. Baxter would have given no indication either way.

Barkeep stepped into the back room for a moment to get a mop and bucket for the usual cleaning-up of the night. The door locked behind them of its own accord, and Barkeep sat down to wait.

The appearance of dark stains, spreading across the back room’s walls like tree roots, evidently did not unduly concern Barkeep. They did express some annoyance at the two-and-spare eyes flickering in and out of the walls, but a stern clearing of the throat and a threatening wave of the mop is usually enough to send any displaced eyes scuttling, no matter how disoriented they are.

When the door unlocked, Barkeep returned to the process of closing the bar for the night. 

The Man, Neil, was no longer sitting at Mr. Baxter’s table. The chair he had been sitting on had a faint, greasy film over it, but no worse than other nights.

“Eudora Twopelts has strongly indicated that the story should not be further pursued in regards to Mr. Baxter’s part in it. She could give no account of what took place while Barkeep was locked in the back room, claiming to have averted her eyes.”

“Tidessakes," she told me, “Of course I looked away! We don’t bother Mr. Baxter about the eyes, it isn’t polite!” 

“I have not, to this day, received an explanation of this statement.”

It’s long, sorry. But someday I mean to translate it from bulletpoints to an actual written form, for my own amusement primarily.

[gwenbrightly]

The Little Mermaid Incident (aka the beach day everyone deserves)

Crossposted from ffnet. I’ve been meaning to do a beach day themed chapter for Of Milk and Cookies for awhile now, so here it is!

“This feels… weird…” Lloyd commented absently, digging his toes into the sand. Kai gave his brother an odd look.  

“The sand feels weird?”

“No. This. Being here, at the beach to relax without the threat of an evil warlord bent on world domination looming over us?” he explained, tilting his face toward the sun and enjoying its warmth. Nya slung an arm around his shoulders.

“After everything you’ve been through, you’ve earned it, Lloyd. Taking today to chill and have fun is exactly what you need! And just look how happy your dad is.” she told him, watching as the former villain helped his wife spread out a picnic blanket not far away. The sound of laughter floated over to them. Lloyd grinned.

“I wasn’t sure, at first. If they were gonna figure stuff out. You know?” he admitted hesitantly, “But they’ve both been really great about it so far.”  

Kai gave his hair a ruffle and said, “I’m really happy for you, green bean.”  

“Me too,” Nya agreed, “now let’s get over there and join the others before Cole completely buries Jay.”

“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.” Lloyd noted with a laugh. The two ninja in question were throwing sand at each other with gusto. The buckets they had brought for sand castles had been long forgotten. He followed Kai and Nya as they approached them, ignoring his slight limp. The lingering effects of his injuries made it difficult to completely forget the events leading up to this moment, but he was happy to put the memories out of his mind for now.  

“Do I even want to know what’s happening right now? I thought you were gonna make a scale model of the city.” asked Nya as she ducked a wayward clump of wet sand. Jay gave her a look that clearly meant save me.  

“We were. But dirt clod over here decided it’d be funny to bury me instead…” he complained.  

“So I know this looks bad but-” Cole began to protest before Kai interrupted him.

“Nah, I can definitely see the appeal in torturing Jay.”

“Hey!” the master of lightning glared at Kai, “not helping.”

“Listen. You know those pictures where people bury their legs in sand and make it look like they have mermaid tails and stuff? I was just thinking it’d be funny to take one of those and send it to Zane.” Cole explained, resisting the urge to toss more sand at his best friend. They had all been a bit disappointed that their nindroid brother couldn’t wouldn’t be joining them til later in the day, but they understood his desire to spend as much time as possible with his father. There was no way of knowing how much longer they had. Lloyd’s eyes lit up.  

“Oh, that does sound like fun!”

“Okay but I don’t see why I have to be the mermaid,” Jay said, giving Cole a dirty look, “Nya’s like, way prettier.”  

“Um… thank you?” she replied. Her cheeks flushed slightly at his awkward compliment.  

“Well, I mean, your hair could almost pass for red in this light.” Cole offered.  

“And you did grow up in a junkyard. I’m sure you do have whozits and whatzits galore lying around.” Nya added.  

“And thingamabobs. He’s definitely got at least twenty of those.” Lloyd joined in with glee.  

“But who cares. No big deal. He wants mooore.” Kai began to sing. He wasn’t going to pass up this opportunity to mess with Jay.  

“Jay wants to be where the people are. Jay wants to see, wants to see them dancing,” the others joined in loudly and more than a little off key, “Walkin' around on those, Whad'ya call 'em?”

“Oh, feet!” Nya practically shouted. Jay shook his head in resignation. His family had become far too invested in this for his liking.

“O-okay fine. I’ll do it. But only if you stop singing about me like that.”  

“Thanks for being such a good sport, buddy.” Cole told him, slapping his back. He sighed and then plopped himself down on a particularly nice-looking patch of sand.  

“Well, might as well get comfortable, I guess. I expect to look fabulous by the time this is over.” the master of lightning joked, already scooping up whatever sand was within arm’s reach.

“Oh, don’t worry. You will.” his girlfriend promised. Lloyd nodded enthusiastically.  

“We got you covered.” he declared before grabbing a bucket and wandering off in search of seashells to decorate with. This beach was much nicer than the one on the island. He hadn’t enjoyed that experience very much; it had been gloomy and cold and had quite honestly been full of traumatizing experiences. But here there was sun, and warmth and pretty shells, and sea glass that had washed up with the tide. It was peaceful. Lloyd found himself wishing they’d done this sooner. His parents probably weren’t going to appreciate all his newfound treasures, though. Most of the things he’d put in his bucket were not going to be donated to Jay’s new look. He smiled with delight, spotting another sand dollar to add to his collection.  

“Yo, Lloyd, get your butt over here.” the Green Ninja heard Kai shouting in the distance. He pocketed it and trotted back to the others. They had managed to completely bury Jay’s legs while he was gone and now Cole was carving a scaly design into the sand-tail.  

“Oh, yes. These will work great!” Nya exclaimed, rooting through his Lloyd’s bucket. He snatched away some of his more precious finds before she could claim them for Jay.  

“Betcha I could help you make a lanyard with one of these pieces of sea glass later, if you want? I saw a tutorial on Ninterest that looked cool.” she offered. Lloyd considered this for a moment. It would make a nice gift for his mother – a peace offering to show that he was doing his best to let go of their rocky past.

“Sure, that’d be neat.” he agreed.  

“Okay, you two. Show me the goods. I get full veto power on anything that isn’t mermaidy enough.” Jay told them, doing his best to hold still so he wouldn’t disturb the sand piled on his legs.

“Is that even a word?” Kai wondered. The master of lightning gave him a look.  

“It is now. I’m a mermaid so I would know.”

Nya rolled her eyes and held up one of the shells she’d snagged from Lloyd.  

“Whaddya think, Ariel, is this one a keeper?” she asked her boyfriend. He examined it carefully.  

“Ooh yeah, I like it.” he replied.  

“What about…” Lloyd took his time choosing another shell, “This one? “

“Nah, that one has a piece chipped off, see? Mermaid princesses don’t wear chipped shells.”

“More for me, then.” Lloyd shrugged, happy to return the shell to his collection. They cycled through more shells and eventually they began to run out of places to put them.  

“Please tell me that was the last of them? If we add any more shells, Jay’s gonna start looking tacky.” said Cole.  

“It is. Unless you wanna fight Lloyd to the death for his ‘favorites’ or something.” Nya assured him.

“I just think they’re cool, okay?” Lloyd defended, pulling the bucket closer.

“How about we take that picture, now.” Kai suggested gently. Jay nodded in agreement. He was starting to lose feeling in his feet.  

“Please. As fun as this has been, I can’t hold still much longer.”

They called Garmadon, who wisely refrained from asking questions, over to take the picture for them on Cole’s phone. He waited patiently as they arranged themselves so that everyone was visible, the sight of his son so happy making it all worthwhile. Once everyone was in position (which was an adventure in itself), they smiled brightly while the former warlord snapped several pictures.

“Thank you,” Cole said as he took his phone back from Garmadon and flipped through the images, “guys! These are gold!”

The others crowded around so they could see too. Nya turned to Jay, who was still half buried, and offered her hands.

“Want some help up?” she asked.

“Sure,” he grinned, wanting to see himself in all his mermaid glory before Cole sent the picture to Zane. The master of lightning grabbed his girlfriend’s hands and prepared to be launched from his sandy prison. Unfortunately for both of them, Nya yanked a bit too hard. They both ended up sprawled on the sand, prompting Cole to take even more pictures. Kai and Lloyd snickered as the two struggled to disentangle themselves.  

“You better not post those on Chirp.” Nya muttered. The master of earth shrugged in a way that made it clear he planned to do exactly that the first chance he got.  

“Alright, lemme see.” Jay demanded once he was back on his feet. Cole tossed him his phone. He smiled broadly when he saw the results of his mermaidy suffering.

“Oh, yes. I can’t wait to see Zane’s reaction to this.”

“I don’t know about the rest of you, but I could do with a bit less sand covering my entire body. I’m gonna go rinse off.” Nya declared, heading for the water. Lloyd watched absently as she, Jay, and Cole raced towards the waves after sending Zane a copy of their shenanigans. Kai stood next to him. He didn’t seem interested in joining the others.  

“You’re not gonna go swimming?” Lloyd asked.

“Nah. Water’s not really my thing. And besides. You look like you’ve got something on your mind.” Kai told him.

“I’m just… wondering what happens next, that’s all.” Lloyd explained. Kai regarded him carefully for a moment before responding. There were a lot of unknowns now that the world was beginning to return to normal. But that didn’t mean Lloyd should be stressing out about the future. So Kai settled for something simple.  

“You get to be a kid, Lloyd. You go home and find a good hiding place for all that stuff you’ve got in your bucket. You spend time with your parents and stay up way too late reading comic books,” his brother cracked a grin at this, “Maybe even get Nya to help you with your multiplication tables so you can stop counting on your fingers – don’t think I haven’t noticed that. But at the end of the day, whatever you decide, it’s your choice. I know eventually Master Wu will have stuff for you to do, but in the meantime? Just be a kid, okay? You deserve that much.”

“O-okay. I think I can do that.” Lloyd decided. He hadn’t exactly gotten to just be a kid lately. It sounded… nice.

“Good.” Kai told him, ruffling his hair.  

“Thanks.” he replied, giving the older boy a hug. Returning it, Kai said, “It’s what big brothers do, green bean.”  

They stood there in silence for a few minutes, just enjoying the peacefulness of the afternoon. The sound of Nya screeching as Jay dunked her could be heard in the distance, bringing them back to reality.

“You sure you don’t wanna go in the water?” Lloyd broke the silence.

“Would… would you believe me if I told you I can’t swim?” Kai admitted, looking sheepish. Lloyd stared at him for a moment, trying to figure out if he was lying.

“You do realize you were the first to suggest swimming back to ninjago when we got stuck on the island, right?” he said at last.

“I… yes that is true…” the master of fire stated. Lloyd smacked him.

“Dude, you need serious help. You could’ve died.” he exclaimed.  

Kai held up his hands in surrender.

“I know, I know. Getting myself killed would’ve been a dumb move.”

“The dumbest,” Lloyd agreed, dragging him towards the water, “but you’re at least gonna come put your feet in. And we are so revisiting this later.”

“Okay, but I take no responsibility for any splashing that might happen as a result of your pestering.” joked Kai, giving in to Lloyd’s demands with little protest. After all, the sun was bright and the water was cool, and in this moment, the world was at peace. Whatever the future held could wait.  

[aellafm]

           hello  !  i’m  cc  &  i  simply  have  no  brain  !  currently  stuck  in  a  head  empty  ,  no  thoughts  mood  –  idk  how  i  always  have  muse  for  new  muses  ,  but  here  i  am  anyway  with  aella  ,  who  –  basic  rundown  ,  cause  this  is  so  fucking  long  ,  is  the  only  daughter  of  the  duke  &  duchess  of  sutherland  (  i  ?  am  not  english  but  i  am  reaching  ,  call  me  out  )  &  as  the  sole  heir  ,  has  adopted  the  title  of  marchioness  of  stafford  but  has  decided  to  just  spend  her  days  as  a  conniving  socialite  until  she’s  ultimately  married  off  .  but  ,  if  you’d  like  to  plot  ,  please  like  this  &  i’ll  be  on  my  zippity  way  over  .

 stats  .

there’s     aella     huntington     -     keene   !     though     on    their     socials     they     go     by     @365aella     .     i     heard     she     is     originally     from     london     ,     england     ,     but     made     the     big     move     to     los     angeles     to     join     TWENTIES     .     you     haven’t     heard     about     it     ?     well     ,     apparently     their     dream     is     to     marry     someone     that     pisses     off     her     parents    &    enjoy     a     life     as     a     trophy     wife   ,     but     they     have     no     chance     unless     they     quit     being     so     avaricious     &     devious     .     that     said     ,     those     behind     the     scenes     have     said     they     can     be     loquacious     &     spellbinding     too.     guess     we’ll     have     to     watch     and     find     out     !   ━     &     overflowing     glasses     of     bubbly     champagne     to     hide     welled     up     tears     in     solemn     eyes     ,     toes     digging     into     the     sand     whilst     angry     tears     fall     into     the     earth     ,     hiding     behind     an     air     of     ditz     to     pretend     she     isn’t     calculating     someone’s     downfall     &     exchanging     secrets     as     a     form     of     payment     ;     learning     that     enigmas     are     worth     much     more     than     gold     .  (     park     chaewon     ,     cis     female     ,     she     /     her     )  

𝓲.     𝕒𝕓𝕣𝕚𝕕𝕘𝕖𝕞𝕖𝕟𝕥   .

birth   name   :   bomi  kim current   name   :   aella  huntington  -  keene nickname(s) :   bomi  –  to  close  loved  ones  only  ,  marchioness  ,   age   :  twenty gender   /   pronouns :  cis  gendered   female   /   she  /  her  /  hers orientation   :  bisexual   /   biromantic hometown   :   london  ,  england faceclaim :  park  chaewon  (  gowon  of  loona  )

fun facts  :   genuinely  has  a  collection  of  crowns  –  just  like  –  a  closet  full  of  crowns  ,  just  genuinely  feels  like  a  Beacon  of  Death  but  she  doesn’t  even  talk  about  it  ,  swears  up  &  down  she  was  almost  casted  in  riverdale  (  for  what  ?  that’s  not  impressive  ,  aella  )  ,  is  an  oxford  graduate  actually  but  also  ?  just  doesn’t  mention  it  ,  fully  believed  in  mermaids  until  like  two  years  ago  ,  aella  just  smells  like  the  sea  &  that’s  just  how  it  be  ,  really  good  at  knitting  &  knits  those  huge  blankets  when  stressed  but  doesn’t  give  them  away  so  just  has  a  closet  full  of  blankets  ?  –  &  speaking  of  closets  ,  aella  just  has  like  fifteen  closets  .

aesthetic  :  overflowing  glasses  of  bubbly  champagne  to  hide  welled  up  tears  in  solemn  eyes  ,  toes  digging  into  the  sand  whilst  angry  tears  fall  into  the  earth  ,  hiding  behind  an  air  of  ditz  to  pretend  she  isn’t  calculating  someone’s  downfall  ,  exchanging  secrets  as  a  form  of  payment  ;  learning  that  enigmas  are  worth  much  more  than  gold  ,  her  own  personal  graveyard  with  everyone  she’s  ever  loved  who’s  left  her  too  early  ,  searching  for  the  love  she’s  never  been  shown  only  to  force  it  out  when  she  finds  it  &  baby  blue  tulle  covering  a  silk  dress  worth  hundreds  of  thousands  of  dollars  .

playlist  :  she  says  by  eve  owen  ,  to  die  for  by  sam  smith  ,  kings  &  queens  by  ava  max  ,  wicked  game  by  grace  carter  .

𝓲𝓲.     𝕔𝕙𝕣𝕠𝕟𝕚𝕔𝕝𝕖   .

trigger  warning  :  death  .

            happiness  is  worth  more  than  riches  ,  the  kims  have  unlocked  that  simple  secret  in  their  lifetimes  .  butler  to  a  family  of  nobility  ,  jason  kim  met  mary  hwang  while  working  for  the  huntington  -  keenes  &  got  married  within  months  of  meeting  each  other  .  ‘  when  you  know  ,  you  know  ’  they  said  &  in  a  year  ,  they  had  bomi  .  the  huntington  -  keenes  were  ecstatic  for  the  kims  ,  loving  bomi  as  their  own  –  the  kims  are  family  ,  an  arm  away  from  nobility  .  when  tragedy  strikes  one  month  after  bomi’s  birth  &  the  huntington  -  keene  estate  is  burned  to  the  ground  with  her  parents  inside  ,  bomi  is  taken  in  by  the  duke  &  duchess  .  their  youngest  child  ,  she’s  renamed  aella  &  welcomed  in  by  a  family  of  nobility  .  she’s  not  nobility  by  blood  ,  but  they  raise  her  as  one  ,  her  siblings  (  twins  ,  the  sole  children  of  the  duke  &  duchess  )  treat  her  as  their  own  blood  .  she  gets  a  crown  &  gets  the  opportunity  to  rub  shoulders  with  royal  blood  ;  even  if  some  don’t  look  at  her  as  true  nobility  .  the  huntington  -  keenes  are  always  the  first  to  stand  up  for  her  if  she’s  looked  down  upon  ,  reminding  the  world  that  aella  is  nobility  &  she  is  one  of  them  .  as  the  youngest  ,  nearly  a  decade  younger  than  the  twins  –  edmund  &  augusta  –  aella  is  ,  babied  .  stuffed  in  courtesy  classes  &  given  passes  every  time  she  turns  into  trouble  ,  it  takes  a  while  for  her  to  fully  grasp  that  she  is  royalty  ;  nobility  while  running  in  the  halls  of  buckingham  palace  ,  but  one  day  spent  with  augusta  ,  she  learns  from  lady  augusta  huntington  -  keene  that  women  have  a  crucial  role  in  court  .  while  edmund  will  assume  the  title  of  duke  ,  she  &  augusta  will  marry  up  ,  become  duchesses  in  their  own  right  &  sent  to  fight  dirty  .  secrets  are  worth  more  than  gold  ,  women  are  the  deadliest  soldiers  .  aella  will  always  wonder  what  augusta  uncovered  after  her  marriage  ,  because  while  on  her  way  to  a  gala  with  edmund  ,  the  twins  of  sutherland  were  killed  in  a  horrific  accident  .

            the  funeral  is  closed  casket  ,  aella  stands  with  her  parents  with  a  stone  cold  face  as  the  cameras  take  photos  .  the  twins  are  buried  together  (  ‘  at  least  they  died  together  ’  one  tabloid  says  –  the  reporter  is  fired  in  seconds  )  while  aella  ,  at  fourteen  is  gifted  a  courtesy  title  of  marchioness  .  marquess  edmund  of  stafford  has  died  &  now  she  is  the  sole  heir  .  it’s  a  title  aella  never  wanted  ,  now  thrust  into  the  place  of  her  brother  as  her  parents  teach  her  twenty  -  five  years  worth  of  information  to  catch  her  up  to  his  pace  .  gone  are  the  gentle  souls  who’ve  always  crooned  in  her  ear  &  held  her  in  their  arms  before  nighttime  .  the  horrific  ,  terrifying  deaths  of  their  children  are  enough  to  transform  the  duke  &  duchess  into  empty  shells  of  who  they  used  to  be  .  the  palace  transforms  from  day  to  night  ,  curtains  closed  as  monsters  roam  the  halls  ,  leaving  aella  to  twist  from  sweet  ,  adopted  -  into  -  nobility  lady  of  the  house  ,  into  lethal  marchioness  .  augusta  teaches  her  even  from  beyond  the  grave  ,  diary  locked  words  reminding  aella  of  her  role  as  a  woman  of  nobility  .  play  the  role  ,  laugh  at  the  jokes  ,  gain  their  secrets  ,  report  back  to  the  duke  .  there’s  a  shift  when  aella  turns  sixteen  ,  hardened  by  the  deaths  in  her  life  –  parents  ,  siblings  –  she  gains  a  quick  reputation  that’s  quite  the  opposite  of  her  .  ditzy  ,  bubble  brained  ,  a  bit  lost  ,  in  over  her  head  in  the  world  of  royalty  .  but  underneath  the  duke  ,  they’ve  taken  down  enemies  &  corporations  ,  simply  because  of  a  misunderstanding  or  a  misconstrued  look  .  aella  is  deadly  ,  but  so  is  the  duke  &  at  nineteen  after  a  slight  mishap  in  the  ruining  of  someone’s  career  ,  she  is  threatened  by  him  –  reminded  that  she  is  not  nobility  by  blood  .

            &  aella  is  pissed  off  ,  understandably  .  her  biggest  insecurity  brought  to  light  by  her  own  father  ,  the  one  who  she  always  thought  was  on  her  side  .  aella  finds  solace  in  her  handmaiden  –  the  girl  gifted  to  her  as  a  child  ,  her  only  real  friend  &  she  loses  her  two  days  before  her  graduation  from  oxford  .   she’s  found  dead  from  a  freak  health  accident  &  aella  is  left  with  the  duke  who  refuses  to  see  her  as  she  is  (  though  ,  her  lockscreen  is  still  of  her  &  her  best  friend  )  .  turned  from  a  loving  father  who  used  to  braid  her  hair  &  buy  her  any  jeweled  crown  she  wanted  ,  into  a  ruthless  duke  who  sits  in  an  empty  estate  with  nobody  but  an  un  loyal  butler  by  his  side  .  so  aella  graduates  ,  ignores  the  wilting  duchess  as  she  takes  off  for  the  united  states  .  all  of  her  friends  are  doing  it  ,  noble  women  who’ve  accepted  their  lives  as  just  women  ,  living  as  influencers  &  modern  day  title  holders  before  their  betrothals  are  announced  .  it  takes  barely  months  to  gain  traction  ,  to  hold  a  sizable  following  on  social  media  because  aella  is  likable  –  ditzy  ,  fun  loving  ,  nobility  that’s  infiltrated  england’s  hierarchy  with  her  bubbly  attitude  .  friends  with  celebrities  &  other  socialites  ,  aella  is  at  the  heart  of  every  scandalous  drama  that  comes  out  –  she’s  the  common  factor  that  connects  all  the  tea  ,  but  people  just  don’t  see  it  ,  enamored  by  the  crown  ,  the  title  ,  the  baby  face  .  the  producers  know  ,  a  sixth  sense  for  shit  stirrers  &  dangerous  secret  holders  ,  they  contact  her  &  aella  knows  it  will  piss  off  her  parents  –  nobility  sleazing  it  on  a  reality  show  ?  producers  make  her  promise  drama  ,  so  she  takes  it  ,  unaware  of  how  dangerous  it  is  to  bare  her  soul  to  the  world  .

𝓲𝓲𝓲.     𝕕𝕚𝕤𝕡𝕠𝕤𝕚𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟   .

            exterior  .  marked  by  tragedy  ,  aella  refuses  to  be  seen  by  the  publicness  of  her  life  .  a  public  figure  ,  her  story  is  known  by  many  –  a  sweet  girl  with  dead  parents  ,  adopted  into  nobility  only  to  lose  her  siblings  ,  only  to  lose  her  best  friend  .  she  refuses  to  let  them  see  her  as  sad  &  aella  puts  forth  an  image  of  kindness  .  a  giver  to  charity  ,  a  lover  of  children  ,  a  sweet  girl  who’s  a  little  slow  in  the  head  but  always  means  well  .  aella  is  likable  ,  she’s  sweet  &  people  think  her  authentic  .

a  social  butterfly  ,  one  of  her  most  well  -  known  features  is  that  aella  seems  to  know  everybody  .  they  all  know  her  ,  she’s  mutuals  with  all  the  big  names  as  well  as  the  small  influencers  &  she’s  at  the  center  of  everything  .  the  life  of  the  party  ,  the  marchioness  sheds  her  title  even  if  her  mannerisms  are  still  noble  .  it’s  obvious  she’s  nobility  from  her  speech  ,  her  accent  ,  how  she  sits  at  the  dinner  table  –  but  aella’s  the  fun  one  ,  the  trustworthy  one  because  she’s  never  told  you  someone  else’s  secret  ,  so  why  would  she  tell  anyone  yours  ?

            interior  .  sly  ,  conniving  &  morally  gray  .  her  lips  are  sealed  until  they’re  not  .  good  at  gaining  trust  from  her  charm  &  friendliness  ,  aella  is  quick  to  garner  secrets  as  payment  for  –  anything  .  she  lets  go  of  them  very  rarely  ,  holding  them  close  to  her  in  case  anything  just  happens  to  go  wrong  &  she  needs  ammunition  –  but  behind  the  ditz  &  the  kindness  &  the  likability  is  who  aella  really  is  .  incredibly  angry  ,  so  fucking  hurt  ,  stuck  in  the  process  of  grief  .  she’s  incredibly  smart  ,  extraordinarily  observant  &  a  master  of  manipulation  ,  but  very  few  people  know  the  real  aella  .

she  holds  anger  in  her  palm  like  seawater  &  she’s  an  invincible  liar  .  always  caught  in  some  sort  of  drama  nowadays  ,  though  the  spotlight’s  never  quite  on  her  (  in  other  words  ,  she’s  not  cancelled  yet  –  in  fact  ,  they  praise  aella  for  being  “scandal  free”  )  .  for  example  ,  she’s  the  friend  who  was  told  by  another  friend  to  stop  seeing  the  first  friend  –  or  ,  she’s  the  girl  who  saw  her  friend’s  boyfriend’s  hand  on  someone  else’s  ass  .  aella  is  connected  ,  a  finger  dipped  into  everybody’s  life  even  if  aella  happens  to  be  one  of  the  loneliest  people  she  knows  .

𝓲𝓿.     𝕔𝕠𝕟𝕟𝕖𝕔𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟𝕤   .

these  are  all  most  wanted !  

            skinny  love  ,  someone  who  knows  aella  as  she  truly  is  –  angry  &  sad  &  just  a  fucking  mess  .  we  can  plot  this  out  &  all  the  knitty  gritty  ,  but  just  some  good  ol’  angst  where  their  hearts  are  together  but  they’re  physically  not  &  there’s  a  lot  of  pining  &  hurt  uwu  .  think  carla  &  samu  from  elite  ,  percabeth  in  tlo  ,  u  know  :  spicy  angst  .

           rich  kid  trio  (  0  /  2  )  ,  the  one  percent  of  the  one  percent  ,  they  knew  each  other  before  this  simply  because  of  wealth  .  where  aella’s  nobility  ,  these  muses  either  also  are  ,  or  they’re  simply  super  fuckin’  rich  enough  to  interact  with  nobility  &  they’ve  been  friends  for  ever  –  they’ve  had  their  ups  &  downs  &  they  argue  &  fight  but  they  always  end  up  having  each  other’s  backs  .

          drama  /  scandal  partners  ,  aka  the  ones  that  have  been  involved  in  drama  before  –  probably  because  of  her  –  but  they’ve  made  it  out  with  her  still  on  their  side  &  they  laugh  at  it  now  like  “  haha  remember  when  that  drama  channel  on  youtube  cancelled  you  ?  haha  bitch  !  ”

           current  s  /  o  &  exes  ,  the  one  that  aella’s  currently  dating  –  probably  to  make  her  parents  mad  ,  probably  to  up  views  &  gain  followers  ,  or  maybe  it’s  real  –  &  the  exes  that  she’s  had  rumored  flings  w  (  confirmed  or  not  hehe  )  .  just  give  me  all  the  angst  please  so  we  can  hurt  together  &  hurt  each  other  !  love  this  for  us  !

           everything  else  ,  another  londoner  where  they  hang  out  &  her  accent  just  unleashes  ,  party  buddies  who  get  fucked  up  together  ,  confidant  who  she  goes  to  the  beach  w  &  cries  with  ,  hangover  buds  who  just  lay  in  bed  together  all  day  ,  will  they  -  wont  they  where  they  tease  viewers  &  fans  ,  ex  friends  ,  current  friends  ,  anything  &  everything  !

𝓿.     𝕔𝕠𝕟𝕔𝕝𝕦𝕤𝕚𝕠𝕟   .

i’d  love  to  get  all  these  plots  filled  up  ,  or  any  ones  that  you  might  have  bc  ,  lmk  !   but  if  you’ve  read  this  whole  thing  jesus  ,  you’re  amazing  &  i  love  u  sm  .  please  like  this  &  i’ll  come  to  u  or  lmk  if  u  prefer  disc  & we  can  go  there  !

[safrona-shadowsun]

Sungrass Oasis

{Rp between @beamgully and myself. Thank you for reading if you do!}

The arid sun beaming through the purple Tanari sky began to dip westward, just barely considering its retirement. Gadgetzan was somewhat quiet. Many of its denizens were likely enjoying dinner. Amidst a cluster of adobe buildings there was one with a desert-blush sheet serving as a door. It complemented the sunbaked hue of the clay it rested against. Artful script flitted above the small foyer entrance:

Sungrass Oasis -Tea Lounge-

The void elf that stepped into Gadgetzan may have been more of an odd sight had the importer not been a known personage among several traders. What did draw a few eyes was the glowing scythe carried on her person, indicating that she was something more dangerous than a simple ‘delivery girl’. Yet, with a blink of an eye the ethereal blade of the Black Harvest was dismissed to a pocket of the Void, returning Safrona to her shades of nuanced professionalism. Stranger things had happened in the little desert city, perhaps.

Her eye was caught by the shift of the sheet that seemed to beckon her to an entrance she’d never stepped inside before, the written word of ‘tea lounge’ murmured soundlessly between her lips in consideration. Her step inside was preluded by her curious smile, tucking away the black shard between her fingertips. Tea sounded more cleansing against the trinket’s corruption than her usual glass of bourbon.

Though a hole-in-the-wall, it was contemporary chic and polished. The floor was tiled in sleek black. Voguish artwork brought the white walls to life. Framed in thick, black frames, the paintings were as soothing as they were stylish. They depicted modern abstract, turquoise beaches, and desert blossoms. A few were pieces that might have been pretentious in another setting, but somehow felt innocently trendy here. Two of them were offset by equidistant sandstone bowls resting in tasteful square impressions on the wall. Sweeping glass sculptures ribboned with solid colors - some glittering in the light - added bold character to the lounge. Most of them were feet tall and stood on the floor.

On each chair was a pale yellow cushion. Filled with sand, sea glass, and shells, a candle resting in a glass bowl embellished every table, along with a daisy in a white vase. A handful of firebloom petals were strewn about them. Each table was large enough for two guests, with a pair of long, slender menus. At the far back was a bar (of sorts), near another curtain which supposedly led to outdoor seating. It offered several stools should anyone choose to be in company with the Sin'dorei woman behind it. She scribbled something down with a quill, a gnomish-styled calculator beside her hand.

One look at her sleek, leggy physique and one might already imagine her at an amateur marathon. Yet she had a breezy posture as if vacationing somewhere nice. Her clothes paralleled the establishment: contemporary chic with painted, manicured nails. A sand dollar rested below her slim neck, joined by two silver starfish on a sterling chain.

Her tawny skin was mottled thick with freckles. Coffee brown hair, streaked subtly with caramel highlights, draped either side of her thin face like a square curtain - save the asymmetrical chunk knifing a few inches above her collarbone. Her nose was sloped, and her wide, pale lips coated in gloss. Smoky lavender makeup embellished the golden lights of her eyes.

They were upturned, and cheerfully lean in shape. For now there were only two separate couples occupying the lounge as guests, far too engrossed with each other to notice anything outside of themselves. It was the apparent owner who looked up from her work at the scarlet-haired courier, and spread a sunflower smile. She had a neighborly and wizened kind of charisma. Even her breathy, sand-like voice conveyed warmth: "Welcome! Please, take a seat anywhere you'd like."

The Courier took her study of what could have been considered a diamond in the rough of Gadgetzan as she walked, violet pupils glinting in low light approvingly of the little secret she'd stepped into. That arresting, otherworldly gaze eventually drifted to the desert flower that was the owner as she was greeted with warmth. She offered a practiced smile of her own, pulling away the burgundy hood that matched the long spirals of her gathered hair a little too well.

"I will. Quite the lovely place here," she spoke, her silk voice pleasant, if not a touch unsettling with its residual echo of the Void. "Almost Ramhaken in appeal. I'm surprised I've never found it before, actually." The scarlet importer took an elegant seat of a nearby barstool, a long leg flattered by the cut of her skirt as she'd cross one over the other. "Do you own this little gem in the sand?"

"Thank you!" the owner beamed. Her Muppet-esque friendliness was simple, but not patronizing. Pure, yet the opposite of naive. Her affable smile only broadened as the new guest drew back her hood and made herself comfortable. The tell-tale echo didn't appear to inspire any hesitation in the server whatsoever. She reached under the bar to procure a menu, then offered it.

"Oh, we're very new," she explained. "We opened weeks ago. I'm Colpeia, by the way! Let me know if there's anything that catches your eye." She nodded at her question. "Yes, I do! Though I couldn't have done it without the help of my tribe. A few continue to help as waiters, cooks, and business assistants."

The void elf inclined her head slightly with her gratitude as she took the offered menu, swiveling readily in her barseat to face Colpeia directly. "Ah, that explains much of why we've not met. Safrona. Safrona Shadowsun, importer of many of a needful thing. Maybe business will get us better acquainted, yes?"

Mystery was weaved beneath her try at simplistic professionalism, lending to the idea that she had not always been this simple importer she wore. She was too practiced, an enigmatic charm pooled there to her merlot smile. The emerald eyes of a bronze scarab trinket glinting in her gathered hair, set apart from the scarlet and shadow she wore. It seemed she favored this scarab theme, another design dangling prettily from the lace at her throat.

"I'd say let's see what I can help you with...but.. " she opened the menu as her eyes flowed down the lists inside. A breath of a chuckle unraveled beneath her next words. "Maybe I should just be the customer today for a change."

"Well it's an honor to meet you, Safrona," Colpeia dipped her head, with her own brand of flourished, Cheshire, yet plain charisma. "And sure! Actually, I know one way we may be able to help each other. My parents own a glass business called Beamgully Crystal. Maybe you've heard of it? It's been around for a long time. Their wares range from windows and vials to extravagant art. Much of what you see in this shop was crafted by their hands. They have me acting as their personal courier at times, so I would be very surprised if they wouldn't welcome a charming new courier like yourself."

A brief fondness flashed across Colpeia's features when she eyed the diplomatic woman's scarab motif. It reminded her of a friend. Her smile grew. "I think that's a great idea. We all need to treat ourselves sometime." The elegant script on the menu displayed prices that - while not dirt cheap - were reasonable.

"You as a courier, when you have this fine place to run?" Safrona lifted her eyes from the menu to connect her gaze to Colpeia's once more.  "Well, we can't have that, lovely. All you need to do is give your parents my name, and I'll come do my job. I can handle fragile glass well enough too with the travel, and fees can also be settled on before I come for pick up. My specialty's actually connecting businesses and filling client bases, so maybe we'll see both the Oasis and your parent's glassware business growing, yes?"

Her eyes returned to the menu then and began to settle on a decision. "Mm...my inner wine importer is telling me you could use more alcohol for this menu, but let me slide away from that and take some of your Sweet Spice Tea. And...I'm tempted by Desert Dumplings, but I've...." she chuckled. "The meat choices are....different. What do you recommend to pair with the tea?"

Colpeia shrugged a shoulder. "It's something I've done for many years," she replied. Her dark brows lifted at the proposal. "What a generous offer! I'm certain they'll be very happy to speak with you about it. Perhaps they can meet you at a neutral location that's easy to get to?" She chuckled. "I have thought about it. I wanted to focus on tea, but some alcoholic options might be a good idea."

An unsurprised, but somewhat amused glint couldn't help but touch her eye as Safrona ruminated over her meat choice. It wouldn't be the first time she'd heard similar remarks about Tanari cuisine. "Well there's no arguing that," Colpeia agreed. "Desert meat is unique. The sweet and spicy flavors of the tea may go well with something that's subtle and light. So I would recommend the sandworm meat. Silithid is bold, and hyena is milder than lamb but more robust than beef."

"Dalaran is the easiest for me to arrive to as far as neutral cities go. And seeing as much of my business brings me there, I'm there often enough for the odd appointment. They can simply place a reservation at the Ledgermaine Lounge with the barkeep and I'll  meet them there and take care of the tab."

Safrona nodded her acceptance on the suggestion, folding the menu to offer it up for the collecting. "Being a courier is...not a very satisfying lifepath to wander for the long run.  Take it from me," the Void elf chuckled witheringly. "A good spring point for a while, but even I don't see myself playing delivery girl forever." Her violet gaze took its run down the dusky skinned Colpeia, tilting her head slightly as she did. "You look like you belong here in your little cafe. Not running around about out there making sure people receive their packages on time."

"That's great!" Colpeia smiled. "And so generous of you. I'll tell them. I think they'll be very happy to meet you." She gathered the menu, stowing it somewhere underneath the bar.

She listened patiently. Her gaze on Safrona was deep and open. When the worldly courier finished speaking, Colpeia gave another sincere smile. "Delivering packages for my parents has been something I've done for a long time, but only as an occasional side-job when their schedules were very tight," she reassured. "I'm actually a freelance mathematician. The cafe has become a side job for me, but one I hold dear in the short amount of time it's existed." Her pause was pensive, her golden eyes falling briefly to the floor.

"Our world still bleeds and everyone is tired." Colpeia looked back up at her. "I built this lounge to offer respite, even if for a little while. We all have a role in a time of war. Some believe theirs is to fight in it. Others to heal wounds and keep their friends alive. I think people forget that we need ways to find solace in these times the most, not the least. We all need to be reminded what we fight and are alive for. So I guess for that reason, I absolutely agree with you, Safrona. For now my place is here."

Colpeia's reasonings had the world-worn courier closing her eyes briefly with a small, warmed smile. When she spoke again, another piece of the professional that tried to take over had taken a back seat, letting someone more genuine and perhaps even a little bitter through. "It's true, isn't it? We're all a little predisposed to war like a bad habit. Consistently assigned our roles and thrown at one another for a battle cry in honor or glory of this or that. Told our lives won't be the same if we do not fight for the little piece of land we were born to. Some become weapons. By the time they come home...do they even know how to live anymore? Or is normalcy stripped from us and replaced by the cycle of conditioned violence? As much as I can tell you that war is profit, most of the time its empty gold put right into a cycle, breeding more machines."

The Courier shrugged as her eyes veered away with the same bitter smile. "I don't think war will ever change. People will always have something to fight over, and something will always be trying to deaden Azeroth, because other forces decide our only real, true mercy is the idea of death, or some degree of unified mindlessness. And honestly there are days I wake up and can't find a legitimate argument against that when we are faced with the same old rut, over and over..."

Her unearthly gaze floated back over to the golden-eyed Colpeia with a withering chuckle. "But...that is perhaps more the Void talking than I. And its quieter here, in many aspects. Finding a place like yours, people like you...? It does remind me that some things are still worth putting in the fight for. Living for. Strange that, the little things, yes? Little mortal things like the delight of an oasis in the middle of the desert. A family trying to make the best of things, apart from the call of nations of war. It's important, keeping those little things running. The bakers must bake, the teachers must teach, the vintners must make their wine. The midwives must welcome new life, the pallbearers must put their dead to rest."

Safrona rested her heart-shaped face in the cradle of her fingers, her eyes still alight on her hostess. "I may be a little outside of the cycle of it all, but I find some strange satisfaction in helping keep that quality and culture of life for others in its order more than anything, as a courier. So yes, very much agreed. And I need more people like you in my life, lovely girl."

The air grew pleasantly cool as night fell outside the lounge. Colpeia briefly dipped behind the bar to obtain a clear kettle and cup. Placing them on the countertop, she released a folded pellet of herbs into the kettle's basin, then aimed her curved fingers. A stream of cold water materialized from her palm to trickle inside. It stopped when it was full. Since then, her gaze was present and sincere, never drifting from Safrona's thoughtful monologue. If anything, it deepened. Her manicured palm rested on the kettle's underside while she used subtle magic to heat it.

Safrona's last sentence softened Colpeia's eyes. A smile warm enough to rival the sun from hours ago beamed back at her. "Thank you. I feel lucky to have met you too, Safrona. I think you're doing something important. Couriers help keep the poetry of our world alive." The smile dimmed. "I wish I had reason to disagree with many of the other things you've said. People don't like to see themselves in their enemies. War is easier when you're blind."

A reflective glimpse landed on the back of a human Shafisian waiting a table. "My tribe has a saying for feeling stuck. 'The mind wants to heal.' A lot of people forget how to live normal lives after surviving hell. They don't heal until they decide they're ready. It's a hard journey that often takes a lifetime, if they ever accept it.”

"Death can seem like an easy answer, but I've seen secondhand that it doesn't give us peace. We can't control wars or the mindlessness behind other people's eyes. All we can do is create a mindfulness in ourselves. I think that helps when peace is hard to find." Colpeia's polished nails clinked as she removed her hand. Bubbles and steam now clung to the kettle walls, a vibrant flower blossoming in its pinkish water. Another server reappeared from behind a curtain. He balanced a platter of dumplings in his hand, which he served beside Safrona's now steaming hot tea. Colpeia exchanged nods with him.

The teaflower blooming its gift of bounty for her was it's own touch of magic Safrona had never gave her attention to before no matter how many teahouses she had visited and supplied before this one. Perhaps there was this small, simple meaning now in the generous courtesy of being served by Colpeia and her tribe that gave the moment its credence.

Safrona sat to let the steam and its delicate floral aroma caress her face from the teacup.  Little cleansing rituals seemed to fall aside her, a deeper bottle of sin the default to reach for by habit in the knowing of what she was. "It's good," she murmured with a smile after that first sip. The little things. "I think...I simply want to go back to knowing nothing tonight, lovely girl. Other than the fact that I need to come here again, and more often, yes?"

Colpeia smiled. Watching Safrona enjoy her tea gave her a certain warm pleasure. She dipped her head in a sincere bow, her hand raised in a cheshire-esque gesture. "We will always be happy to see you, Safrona. I certainly will."

[unsettlingshortstories]

The Cat and the Coffee Drinkers

Max Steele (1963)

Only the five-year-old children who were sent to the kindergarten of Miss Effie Barr had any idea what they were learning in that one-room schoolhouse, and they seldom told anyone, and certainly not grown people.

My father was sent to her when he was five years old, and thirty years later when no one had much money, I was sent to her. Even though ours was no longer a small Southern town, and even though she was already in her seventies the first time I saw her, Miss Effie had known all the children in her school a year, and often longer, before they appeared before her for lessons. My mother, with proper gloves and hat, began taking me to call on her when I was four. It was a good place to visit. The house was a large gray one with elegant white columns, and it was set well back from the same street we lived on. Until the Depression the Barrs had owned the entire block and theirs was the only house on it.

There were mossy brick steps leading up from the hitching post to the gravel walk which curved between overgrown boxwoods to the low porch with its twelve slender columns. There in the summer in the shade of the water oaks Miss Effie, dressed in black, would be sitting, knitting or embroidering while her big gray cat sat at, and sometimes on, her feet. Slow uncertain music would be coming through the open windows from the music room, where her older sister, Miss Hattie, gave piano lessons.

Miss Effie never seemed to watch a child on such visits, or offer him anything like cookies or lemonade, or say anything to endear herself to a youngster. Instead she would talk lady-talk with the mother and, hardly pausing, say to the waiting child, "You can pull up the wild onions on the lawn if you've nothing better to do." There was no suggestion in her voice that it was a game or that there would be a reward. She simply stated what could be done if one took a notion. Usually a child did.

There was no nonsense about Miss Effie. One morning in late September my mother and I were standing with eleven other mothers and children on the wide porch. Miss Effie looked everyone over carefully from where she stood with one hand on the screen door. She checked a list in the other hand against the faces on the porch to be sure that these were the children she had chosen from the forty or more who had visited her in the summer.

Apparently satisfied, or at least reconciled to another year of supplementing her income (for no Southern lady of her generation "worked"), she opened the door wide and said in her indifferent tone, "Children inside." When one mother tried to lead her reluctant son into the dark parlor, Miss Effie said, "Mothers outside." She pushed the big cat out with her foot and said, "You too, Mr. Thomas."

When the children were all inside and the mothers outside, Miss Effie latched the screen, thanked the mothers for bringing the children, and reminded them that classes began at eight-thirty and ended at noon. The tuition of two dollars a week would be acceptable each Friday, and each child as part of his training should be given the responsibility for delivering the money in an envelope bearing the parent's signature. She thanked them again in such a way that there was nothing for them to do except wander together in a group down the gravel walk.

Miss Effie then turned to us, standing somewhat closer together than was necessary in the center of the dark parlor, and said, "Since this is your first day, I want to show you everything. Then you won't be wondering about things while you should be listening."

She made us look at the Oriental carpet, the grandfather clock, the bookcases of leather-bound volumes, and the shelves on which were collections of rocks, shells, birds' nests, and petrified wood. She offered to let us touch, just this once, any of these things.

She would not let us into the music room, but she indicated through the door the imported grand piano, the red plush seat where Miss Hattie sat during lessons, the music racks, the ferns, and the window seats, which she said were full of sheet music. "You're never to go in there," she said. "I don't go in there myself."

Next, she showed us the dining room, the den, and the hallway, and then at the foot of the stairs she said, "We're going upstairs, and then you'll never go up there again." Barbara Ware, one of the three girls, began to whimper. "Don't worry," Miss Effie said. "You'll come back down. But there'll be no reason to go up again. I want you to see everything so you won't have to ask personal questions, which would certainly be the height of impoliteness, wouldn't it? I mean, if you started wanting to know, without my telling you, where I sleep and which window is Miss Hattie's, I'd think you were rude, wouldn't I? I'll show you everything so you won't be tempted to ask personal questions."

We went up the stairs, and she showed us her room and where she kept her shoes (in the steps leading up to the side of the four-poster bed), where she hung her clothes (in two large wardrobes), and where she kept her hatbox (in a teakwood sea chest). The cat, she said, slept on the sea chest if he happened to be home at night.

She then knocked on the door of Miss Hattie's room and asked her sister if we might look in. Miss Hattie agreed to a short visit. After that Miss Effie showed us the upstairs bathroom and that the bathtub faucet dripped all night and that was why the towel was kept under it.

Downstairs again, she let us see the new kitchen, which was built in 1900, and the back porch, which had been screened in only four years before, with a small door through which the cat could come and go as he liked. We were as fascinated by everything as we would have been if we had never seen a house before.

"Now, out the back door. All of you." She made us all stand on the ground, off the steps, while she lowered herself step by step with the aid of a cane which she kept on a nail by the door. "Now you've seen my house, and you won't see it again. Unless I give your mothers fruitcake and coffee at Christmas. And I don't think I will. Not this year. Do you ever get tired of fruitcake and coffee at Christmas?"

We said we did since it was clear that she did.

"Over there is the barn, and we'll see it some other time. And that is the greenhouse, and we'll be seeing it often. And here is the classroom where we'll be." She pointed with her cane to a square brick building, which before the Civil War had been the kitchen. The door was open.

She shepherded us along the brick walk with her cane, not allowing any of us near enough to her to topple her over. At the open door she said, "Go on in."

We crowded in, and when we were all through the door, she summoned us back out. "Now which of you are boys?" The nine boys raised their hands, following her lead. "And which girls?" The three girls had already separated themselves from the boys and nodded together. "All right then, young gentlemen," she said, regarding us, "let's let the young ladies enter first, or I may think you're all young ladies."

The girls, looking timid and pleased, entered. We started in after them.

"Wait just a minute, young gentlemen," she said. "Haven't you forgotten something?" We looked about for another girl. 

"Me!" she announced. "You've forgotten me!" She passed through our huddle, separating us with her stick, and marched into the brick kitchen.

Inside and out, the kitchen was mainly of brick. The walls and floor were brick, and the huge chimney and hearth, except for a closet-cupboard on each side of it, were brick. The ceiling, however, was of beams and broad boards, and the windows were of wavy glass in casements that opened out like shutters. There were three large wooden tables and at each table four chairs.

Again she had to show us everything. The fireplace would be used only in the coldest weather, she said. At other times an iron stove at one side of the room would be used. A captain's chair between the fireplace and the stove was her own and not to be touched by us. A sewing table, overflowing with yarn and knitting needles, was for her own use and not for ours. One cupboard, the one near her, held dishes. She opened its door. She would let us see in the other cupboard later. The tables and chairs and, at the far end of the room, the pegs for coats were all ours to do with as we pleased. It was, she explained, our schoolroom, and therefore, since we were young ladies and gentlemen, she was sure we would keep it clean.

As a matter of fact, she saw no reason why we should not begin with the first lesson: Sweeping and Dusting. She opened the other cupboard and showed us a mop, bucket, rags, brushes, and three brooms. We were not divided into teams; we were not given certain areas to see who could sweep his area cleanest. We were simply told that young ladies should naturally be able to sweep and that young gentlemen at some times in their lives would certainly be expected to sweep a room clean.

The instruction was simple: "You get a good grip on the handle and set to." She handed out the three brooms and started the first three boys sweeping from the fireplace toward the front door. She made simple corrections: "You'll raise a dust, flirting the broom upward. Keep it near the floor. Hold lower on the handle. You'll get more dirt. Don't bend over. You'll be tired before the floor is clean."

Miss Effie corrected the series of sweepers from time to time while she made a big red enamel coffeepot of coffee on a small alcohol stove. Each child was given a turn with the broom before the job was finished. Since the room had not been swept, she admitted, all summer, there was a respectable pile of brick dust, sand, and sweepings near the door by the time she said, "We'll have lunch now." It was already ten o'clock. "After lunch I'll teach you how to take up trash and to dust. Everyone needs to know that."

"Lunch," it happened, was half a mug of coffee each. One spoon of sugar, she said, was sufficient, if we felt it necessary to use sugar at all (she didn't), and there was milk for those who could not or would not (she spoke as though using milk were a defect of character) take their coffee black. I daresay not any of us had ever had coffee before, and Robert Barnes said he hadn't.

"Good!" Miss Effie said. "So you have learned something today."

Miriam Wells, however, said that her parents wouldn't approve of her drinking coffee. 

"Very well," Miss Effie said. "Don't drink it. And the next time I offer you any, if I ever do, simply say 'No, thank you, ma'am.' " (The next day Miriam Wells was drinking it along with the rest of us.) "Let's get this clear right this minute—your parents don't need to know what you do when you're under my instruction."

Her firm words gave us a warm feeling, and from that moment on, the schoolroom became a special, safe, and rather secret place.

That day we learned, further, how to rinse out mugs and place them in a pan to be boiled later, how to take up trash, and how to dust. At noon we were taught how to put on our sweaters or coats and how to hold our caps in our left hands until we were outside. We also learned how to approach, one at a time, our teacher (or any lady we should happen to be visiting) and say thank you (for the coffee or whatever we had been served) and how to say goodbye and turn and leave the room without running or laughing.

The next morning Robert Barnes was waiting on his steps when I walked by his house. Since he and I lived nearer to the Barrs than any of the other children, we were the first to arrive. We walked up the grassy drive as we had been told to do and along the brick walk and into the schoolhouse. Miss Effie sat in her captain's chair brushing the large gray cat which lay on a tall stool in front of her. We entered without speaking. Without looking up, Miss Effie said, "Now, young gentlemen, let's try that again—outside. Take off your caps before you step through the door, and say 'Good morning, ma'am' as you come through the door. Smile if you feel like it. Don't if you don't." She herself did not smile as we went out and came back in the manner she had suggested. However, this time she looked directly at us when she returned our "good mornings." Each child who entered in what she felt to be a rude way was sent out to try again.

Strangely enough she did not smile at anyone. She treated each child as an adult and each lesson as though it were serious task. Even though there were occasional crying scene or temper tantrums among us, she herself never lost her firm, rational approach. Sitting in her captain's chair, dressed in black from neck to toe except for a cameo, small gold loop earrings, and a gold and opal ring on her right hand, she was usually as solemn and considerate as a judge on his bench.

The third day she was again brushing the cat as we entered. She waited until we were all properly in before addressing us as a class. "This is Mr. Thomas. He's a no-good cat, and he doesn't like children, so leave him alone. I'd have nothing to do with him myself except that he happens to belong to me because his mother and grandmother belonged to me. They were no good either. But since he does belong to me and since he is here, we may as well talk about cats."

She showed us how to brush a cat, the spots under his neck where he liked to be rubbed, how he didn't like his ears or whiskers touched, how his ears turned to pick up sounds how he stretched and shut his paw pads when he was tickled on the stomach or feet, and how he twitched his tail when annoyed. "Mr. Thomas is a fighter," she said—and she let us look at the scars from a dozen or more serious fights—"and he's getting too old to fight, but he hasn't got sense enough to know that."

She looked at us where we stood more or less in a large circle around her. "Now, let's see, I don't know your names. I know your mothers, but not your names." She would, she said, point to us one at a time and we were to give our names in clear, loud voices while looking her right in the eye. Then we were to choose a chair at one of the three tables.

"I hate the way most people become shy when they say their names. Be proud of it and speak up."

When the young ladies had finished giving their names, she said that they did admirably well; they chose to sit at the same table. One or two boys shouted their names in a silly fashion and had to repeat. One or two others looked away, to decide on a chair or to watch the cat, they claimed, and so had to repeat. I did not speak loud enough and had to say my name three times. One lad refused to say his name a second time, and that day and the next she called him Mr. No-Name. On Friday he did not appear, or Monday or Tuesday, and the next week a new boy from the waiting list gave his name in a perfect fashion and took Mr. No-Name's place.

We learned about cats and names the third day then. The following day Barbara Ware and Robert Barnes distinguished themselves by claiming to like their coffee black with no sugar, just the way Miss Effie was convinced it should be drunk.

At the end of the second week we reviewed what we had learned by sweeping and dusting the room again. And each day we practiced coming in and leaving properly and saying our names in a way that sounded as though we were proud of them and of ourselves—which by then we were.

The third week, putting down the cat brush and shooing Mr. Thomas off the stool, Miss Effie said that she too was proud of the way we identified ourselves with eyes level and unblinking. "But now," she said, "I want to teach you to give a name that is not your own—without any shiftiness.

She sat with both thin hands clasping the arms of her chair and gave a short lecture. Not everyone, she said, was entitled to know your name. Some people of a certain sort would ask when it was none of their business. It would be unnecessarily rude to tell them so. But we could simply tell such people a name that had nothing whatever to do with our own. She did not mention kidnappings, but talked rather about ruthless salesmen, strangers on buses and trains, and tramps and beggars wandering through the neighborhood.

For the purpose of practice, all of the young ladies would learn to give in a courteous, convincing manner the rather dated, unconvincing name "Polly Livingstone." The boys would be, when asked, "William Johnson" (a name I can still give with much more conviction than my own). That day and the next we each gave our own names before the coffee break, and after coffee, our false names. We liked the exercises in which we went up to her, shook her hand if she offered it, and gave our false names, confronting, without staring, her solemn gaze with ours. If we smiled or twisted, we had to stand by the fireplace until we could exercise more poise. At the end of the first month Miss Effie said that she was fairly well pleased with our progress. "I have taught you, thus far, mainly about rooms. Most people spend most of their lives in rooms, and now you know about them."

She mentioned some of the things we had learned, like how to enter rooms: ladies first, young men bareheaded with their caps in their left hands, ready to offer their right hands to any extended, how to look a person directly in the eye and give one's name (real or false, depending on the occasion) without squirming, how to sweep and dust a room, and finally how to leave a room promptly, without lingering, but without running or giggling.

"What else have we learned about rooms?" she then asked, letting Mr. Thomas out the window onto the sunny ledge where he liked to sit.

"How to drink coffee," Miriam Wells said rather proudly. 

"No," Miss Effie said, "that has to do with another series which includes how to accept things and how to get rid of things you don't want: fat meat, bones, seeds, pits, peelings, and"—she added under her breath—"parents." She paused for a moment and looked pleased, as though she might wink or smile, but her angular face did not change its expression very much. "No. Besides, I'm not pleased with the way you're drinking coffee." She then said for the first time a speech which she repeated so often that by the end of the year we sometimes shouted it in our play on the way home. "Coffee is a beverage to be enjoyed for its flavor. It is not a food to be enriched with milk and sugar. Only certain types of people try to gain nourishment from it. In general they are the ones, I suspect, who show their emotions in public." (We had, I'm sure, no idea what the speech meant.) She expected us by June—possibly by Christmas—to be drinking it black. "Is there anything else we need to know about rooms?" she asked.

"How to build them," Phillip Pike said.

"That," Miss Effie said, "you can't learn from me. Unfortunately. I wish I knew."

She looked thoughtfully out the window to the ledge on which Mr. Thomas was grooming himself. "Windows!" she said. "How to clean windows."

Again the cupboard was opened, and by noon the next day we knew how to clean windows inside and out and how to adjust all the shades in a room to the same level.

When it turned cold in November—cold enough for the stove but not the fireplace—we settled down to the real work which had given Miss Effie's kindergarten its reputation: Reading. Miss Effie liked to read, and it was well known in the town and especially among the public school teachers that the two or three hundred children she had taught had grown up reading everything they could find. She assured us that even though we were only five years old we would be reading better than the third-grade schoolchildren by the end of the year.

Each morning the stove was already hot when we arrived. She would brush Mr. Thomas awhile; then when we were all in our places and warm, she would hand out our reading books, which we opened every day to the first page and laid flat before us on the tables. While we looked at the first page she began heating the big red enamel pot of coffee, and also, because we needed nourishment to keep warm, a black iron pot of oatmeal. Then Miss Effie would sit down, allow Mr. Thomas to jump into her lap, and begin reading—always from the first page in an excited tone. She would read to the point exactly where we had finished the day before, so that from necessity she read faster each day while we turned our pages, which we knew by heart, when we saw her ready to turn hers.

Then one after another we went up to her and sat on Mr. Thomas' stool by the stove and read aloud to her while those at the tables either listened, or read, or played with architectural blocks. The child on the stool was rewarded at the end of each sentence with two spoonfuls of oatmeal if he read well, one if not so well. Since we each read twice, once before coffee and once after, we did not really get hungry before we left the school at noon. Of course those who read fast and well ate more oatmeal than the others.

In addition to the reading lessons, which were the most important part of the day, we learned to take money and shopping lists to Mr. Zenacher's grocery store, to pay for groceries, and to bring them back with the change. Usually two or three of us went together to the store on the next block. At the same time three or four others might be learning to paint flowerpots or to catch frying-size chickens in the chicken yard back of the barn. 

On sunny days that winter we would all go out to the greenhouse for an hour and learn to reset ferns and to start bulbs on wet beds of rock. In March we learned how to rake Miss Effie's tennis court, to fill in the holes with powdery sand, and to tie strings properly so that later a yardman could mark the lines with lime. The tennis court was for rent in the afternoons to high school girls and boys during the spring and summer.

By Eastertime we were all proficient sweepers, dusters, shoppers, bulb-setters, readers, and black-coffee drinkers. Miss Effie herself, now that spring was almost in the air, hated to sit all morning by the stove where we'd been all winter. Usually after an hour or so of reading all aloud and at once, we would follow her into the yards and prune the first-breath-of-spring, the jessamines, the yellow bells, and the peach and pear trees. We kept the branches we cut off, and we stuck them in buckets of water in the greenhouse. Miss Effie printed a sign which said "Flowers for Sale," and we helped her tie it to a tree near the sidewalk. In addition to the flowering branches which we had forced, she sold ferns and the jonquils that we had set, which were now in bud.

All in all, spring was a busy time. And I remember only one other thing we learned. One warm May morning we arrived to find Mr. Thomas, badly torn about the ears, his eyes shut, his breathing noisy, on a folded rug near the open door of the schoolhouse. We wanted to pet him and talk to him, but Miss Effie, regarding him constantly, said no, that he had obviously been not only a bad cat but a foolish one. She believed he had been hit by a car while running from some dogs and that that was how the dogs got to him. (She and Miss Hattie had heard the fight during the night.) At any rate, he had managed to crawl under the steps where the dogs couldn't get to him anymore. At dawn she had come down and thrown hot water on the dogs and rescued him.

As soon as a boy from her cousin's office arrived (her cousin was a doctor) she was going to teach us how to put a cat to sleep, she said.

We pointed out that he already seemed to be asleep.

"But," she explained, not taking her eyes from the cat, "we are going to put him to sleep so that he won't wake up."

"You're going to kill him?" Robert Barnes said.

"You could say that."

We were all greatly disturbed when we understood that this was the last we would see of Mr. Thomas. But Miss Effie had no sympathy, apparently, for the cat or for us. "He is suffering, and even if he is a no-good cat, he shouldn't suffer."

When Barbara Ware began to whimper, Miss Effie said, "Animals are not people." Her tone was severe enough to stop Barbara from crying.

After the boy had arrived with the package and left, Miss Effie stopped her reading, went to the cupboard, and got out a canvas bag with a drawstring top. "Now if you young ladies will follow us, I'll ask the young gentlemen to bring Mr. Thomas."

We all rushed to be the ones to lift the piece of carpet and bear Mr. Thomas after her through the garden to the toolshed. "Just wrap the carpet around him. Tight. Head and all," she instructed when we reached the toolshed. After we had him wrapped securely, Miss Effie opened the package and read the label—"Chloroform." She explained to us the properties of the chemical while we rolled the cat tighter and stuck him, tail first, into the canvas bag. Miss Effie asked us to stand back and hold our breaths. She then soaked a large rag with the liquid and poured the rest directly onto the cat's head and on the carpet. She poked the rag into the rolled carpet so that it hid Mr. Thomas completely. She then drew the drawstring tight and placed the cat, bag and all, in the toolshed. She shut the door firmly and latched it. "That'll cut out the air," she said.

Back in the schoolhouse, we tried to listen as she read, without the usual excited tone, but we were all thinking about Mr. Thomas in the toolshed. "Well," she finally said, "if you will excuse me a moment, I'll go see if my cat is dead."

We watched from the windows as she walked with her cane through the garden to the toolshed. We could see her open the door and bend over the sack for a long time. At last she straightened up and locked the door again. She came back with the same unhalting gait and stood for a moment in the sun before the open door of the schoolhouse.

"When I dismiss you, you're to go straight down the drive and straight home. And if they want to know why you're home early"—she stopped and studied the ground as though she had lost there her cameo or her words—"tell them the only thing Miss Effie had to teach you today was how to kill a cat."

Without waiting for us to leave, she walked in her usual dignified fashion down the brick walk and up the back steps and into her house, shutting the kitchen door firmly behind her. I know that that was not the last day of school, for I remember helping to spread tablecloths over the reading tables, and I remember helping to serve tea cakes to the mothers who came the last day and stood on the tennis court near the table where Miss Hattie was serving coffee. But the final, definite picture I have of Miss Effie is that of her coming through the garden from the toolshed and standing in the doorway a moment to say that she had nothing more to teach us.

[l0chn3ss]

Just For A Minute

A MaStar fic for the masses! I listened to these two songs as I was writing this, one that I found before, and one that I found towards the end that I thought were great :D i stole rose’s and ash’s eyes for this one

@se-rarepair-day this one goes out to the homies

She already knew that they wouldn't last.

Maka was by no means intuitive, but there were signs within their relationship that called out to even the most dense person. Like for starters, the most obvious, Black Star told her straight up, from the get go, that he wasn't looking for a serious relationship. He was in town for the summer, wanting a bit of thrill just before he went back from whence he came.

"It's all for fun, alright?"

And she agreed to that without question, because that's what she'd already decided herself. Afraid of commitment, afraid that whoever she'd love would just leave her anyways- perhaps it was better like this. So why not go out with the boy she knew will disappear in the end, save her a little heartbreak by knowing just how it would all play out?

As a visitor, Black Star hadn't seen most of the area. He talked about the clear waves that crashed in the evening, of the lovely sounds that a resident had been trained to call an annoyance. He pointed to a page in a guide book that he snagged from the airport, tapping animatedly of the so called bike trails that lead to the bluffs and of the sites that he was sure Maka had passed before. As silly as it is, watching him was like watching a puppy who found magic in the most mundane things; she found it endearing for a beat before shoving the book into his face, teasing his childlike excitement.

They started off slow as any couple did in the beginning.

Hugging after a day was the first step, then holding hands during a date was the second. Maka was careful to not move too quickly, functioning on a timely schedule that she believed would give them the most out of their relationship. She let him wrap his arm around her waist by the third date, then kiss her cheek by the fourth. And on the fifth? They were making out against a tree that Maka swore no one ever passed, yelping loudly when a gang of teenagers showed up ringing the bells on their bikes and whooping to the evening sky.

Embarrassment wasn't her strongest suit; Maka hid her face into Black Star's chest until he drew her out with laughter and kisses to her forehead. "Babe," he said. "Didn't know you had a thing for that shit." They continued as if there was no chance that they would be caught again.

Soon later, he'd convinced her first to show him around her favorite places, let her take him to the scenes that she'd shown others before him. They took walks down the shore, combing for the shells that Black Star wanted to send to his aunt who lived no where next to the ocean. Though the ones that they found weren't too big, he took them anyway, wading into the sea until he was ankle deep and washing them in the waters. While he was there, he stuck a hand into the bottom and collected a fist full of muddy sand, grinning happily when it turned into goo in the air and trickled down his wrist.

Maka turned her nose, telling him that there was no chance that she'd hold that dirty hand on the way back. And yet she did, swinging it back and forth with a sand dollar in her other palm.

Coming home late from the long day, crusted salts under her nails, Spirit asked her what kept her for so long. She replied smoothly that it was just a friend. Showing him around was eating up most of her attention, but she promised her papa that everything was alright, that he was leaving for the mainland in another few months. Unconvinced, Spirit warned her not to lose track of time, but she assured him again that she wouldn't lose a second to this boy.

In her room, she thought to herself though…

Even if it wasn't for keeps, can I keep you just for a second?

She was enjoying their outings, playing along with their improv kisses, tilting her head where he wanted her to. His touches were clearly well practiced, effective. Of all her short term relationships, Black Star's came most effortlessly to her. And despite not knowing each other beforehand, they behaved like they had. So he was a little different; there was still nothing to worry about. She just wanted to know the boy she was dating.

That next morning, if she could even call it that, she woke up to the sound of tapping on her window. Jerking up from a less than pleasant dream, Maka walked to her curtains, drawing them aside and ready to scare of any sea gulls that seemed to be pecking the glass. They should have been asleep during that time, she thought groggily, believing that anyone who was awake before the sun was committing a crime.

But face to face was Black Star rather than an avian army. He leaned against the frame, tall figure barely fitting and taking up more space than she expected. Voice muffled, he coaxed her closer, asking her to work the latch, pulling her outside once she had. With a knee on her window sill and her hand in his, she hastily asked him where and why? It was still dark and she wasn't dressed properly at all.

He didn't answer her, grinning widely and hoisting her up onto his back as to not get her clean soles dirty. From there, Black Star went along the trail behind her house, careful not to jostle her too roughly, still evading her questions. Instead he laughed, "Babe, don't you trust me?"

Resigning herself where she was, Maka buried herself where his neck met his shoulders, choosing to get just a couple more minutes of sleep rather than waste her breath. His warmth, his smell, was comforting to her, she discovered. There was no need for a blanket when she had him holding onto her against the early mist.

Waking up again the second time was much nicer than the first. He'd only needed to turn his head and kiss her forehead to stir her back to life, letting her register where he'd taken her at her own pace after wiping her drool on his shirt. They were back at the beach on top of a sand dune that held itself up with plenty of beachgrass. The sky was several tints lighter, glowing faintly since the last time her eyes were open. And she knew why he'd taken her out then. Placing her onto his lap, more than careful of her indoor pajamas, he nodded his chin to the horizon.

They didn't need to wait for very long, maybe just for a minute before the sun peeked behind the waves, turning the sky a gentle shade of orange that merged into a blue gradient. Maka must have seen that view thousands of times as a child, sneaking out of her window alone to see the sunrise before crawling back into her bed, only to be caught with dirty feet by her father at breakfast. She supposed that she didn't have to worry about that this time around, tucking her legs closer to Black Star and feeding off his heat. And when she looked up to him, she saw that he was already watching her.

With the sun inching higher, it casted a growing field of light across the beachfront. The rays gently touched his tanned face and the same ones turned the inner ring of his bright green irises a golden yellow. Burning under his gaze, she felt her cheeks heating up, suddenly feeling like time should've stopped then.

Leaning back on his arms, he had a smile softer than she'd ever seen on him. "Told you. Have some faith in me, ya?"

He used his chest to nudge her shoulders towards the ocean, but the scene failed to impress, as she knew what he looked like behind her. Luckily for her, sunrises weren't something that the world fell short of. She defied his notion and reached for his lips in the hopes that their kiss might slow time, make their moment last just a little longer.

Putting her head back onto the pillow was hard to do later that morning. Maka hadn't revisited a place with Black Star since he'd come to the island, and with that early trip, she felt just a smidge slighted by herself. How dare she let him claim something that belonged to her, to show her something that she'd already experienced long before. And even worse, how dare she be unable to wipe that smugness off his face, bodies touching, and let herself be drawn to it even deeper.

Out of pure pettiness, she decided to plan the next trip. But she found that the beach quickly became their date spot of choice, especially the cove just beyond the popular area. Where the waters grew calm, where the sand was finer and even the seagulls abandoned, Maka and Black Star made that place theirs. Along the shore were small rocks that were smoothed by erosion, dusty and imperfect in form. But with five or six in her palm, Maka grew accustomed to the feeling, preferring its fuzzy-like texture and crumbling layer.

Black Star placed the seventh one on top of the rest, cackling when they all tumbled away except one in the coincidental shape of a heart that fit snuggly in the center of her hand. The indent was rough, slightly discolored within the crack. She examined it for a moment before pelting it at Star, hitting his back and laughing as he chased her down, foregoing the rest of the collection that dropped back onto the sand. Though before they left for dinner, he managed to find that very one that Maka threw and pocketed it.

She figured that he saw beauty in those stones, as if there was something in them that wasn't there before. And how could there be- they've been in the same place since the morning tide. Was there something that she could learn from him? She hoped that it weren't true, especially since she couldn't stand to make the boy any more memorable than he already was.

But as he tugged her along, stopping every so often to point out something that he found interesting, unable to stop talking about the wild flowers that sprang in the middle of the road, she grew more confused. He told her that they weren't just weeds. They were resilient, and that someday he hoped to be like them too. He liked how untampered the island was, how they worked with the wind and shared the land with the people who lived there. And he would go on and on down that train of thought. Oversharing was a nasty habit of his, and Maka was more than happy to let him talk to fill the space.

Still, there were words begging to be said to him.

Teach her to see beauty in the very things that she'd seen too often. Remind her what it meant to be a wanderer, an explorer of the earth. And show her how to fall in love again, even though she really shouldn't, especially after all this time.

If nothing is for keeps, can I keep you just for a minute?

They were stretched across the top of a sand dune within a couple of nights. Maka nibbled on glasswort that she'd found on the way there while Star was playing in the grasses surrounding them, refusing her offer to try her evening snack. According to him, just because some things were edible, it didn't mean that they should eat them. And she laughed at that, discreetly spitting out bits of the plant that she didn't feel like swallowing. The late summer glasswort was much more tasty to her, but she was unwilling to wait those couple of weeks until they were ready.

Calling her attention away from the red sunset, he reached for her hand and presented a woven ring made of beachgrass. It was jagged in some parts; the smooth reeds didn't help hide Star's poor craftsmanship. However, it was made carefully enough to hold its shape, thick enough to be noticeable from afar. And it's a sweet gesture that made her hold her breath. She blushed as he rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb. As if he had the intent to get married at all.

But she let him slip the ring onto her finger, daring to let the moment tug at her heart.

He chuckled lowly, almost sadly, "Would've been cute if it were real."

And suddenly the moment tugged in a different way, away from any direction that could have possibly been entertained. She examined it quietly, holding back whatever comment she had, choosing instead to tease him on something easy, like how she should have tricked him with a stem of glasswort.

His laugh sounded best when it was unrestrained, she decided.

Dusting themselves off once the sun had disappeared, they made their way to Maka's home, making time pass slowly by engaging in a competition to find the first star to shine that night. Truth be told, she wasn't looking too hard. Living there for as long as she had, Maka already knew which constellations would appear, what places would give her the best view. Admitting it to others was hard to do, though. Because how could she tell that boy that he shone brightest no matter the time of day?

She just didn't, choosing to lose gracefully as he smiled triumphantly, pointing at the wrong cluster of stars.

After Maka was dropped off in her backyard, she chose to remain there for a while longer. Searching the sky for the answer to her problems, twisting the ring on her finger, she wondered about how much longer she could keep up that ruse. It was true to her, as certain as the stars, that there were things that were made to only last for a while, not staying longer than they have to. Those summer stars could stand to give her another lesson in loss. And she wondered how far she would let herself fall, knowing that with the change of seasons, Star would be gone as well.

Pulling the ring off, she knelt onto the dirt ground and dropped it into a hole that she made quickly with just her fingers. It would decompose with time, Maka believed, letting nature take its course without her necessarily imposing her will onto it. She only looked back once on her way inside. Regret was becoming something that Maka didn't know she was capable of feeling. But she continued to her room, picking out the dirt under her nails.

Luckily, Star didn't ask about the ring ever again.

Instead, he asked her about other things, curious about her future and her life. They were always on the topic of him before, though she would chime in during some moments about herself whenever it was relevant. Never did he want to make an entire conversation about her though- or maybe he had, and she'd only noticed now that he was direct. Star watched her talk, nodding during moments of approval and echoed her words just to be sure during some points.

She was content with where she was, taking comfort in things that were familiar, yet strangely always craving for more and more. Like she wanted to build on her current world, she supposed. To take things and apply them, to improve and to continue to grow in the places where she decided to settle- that was her drive, maybe. Something like that.

And he was silent for a while, processing what she had to say. "So, you're pretty set on staying here, huh?"

Perhaps she was. It wasn't any of his business though.

But lately, strangely, she was starting to look at her home a little differently. How long had that tree been there, waving to her every morning? What lived in the wildflowers; when do they tend to revisit, and from where? And how long does it take for those bits of seaglass to reemerge up on the surface of the sand? Maka wondered when her curiosity evaded her, voicing it out loud to no one in particular.

Star agreed to go with her to check, just because he wanted to know too.

Though, he didn't collect much that afternoon, dropping what little seaglass he had into Maka's mason jar. Part of him seemed distracted, and a part of her knew it was different than his regular lack of focus. There was certainly something bothering him that day, she mused. But if he didn't want to tell, then she wasn't the one who was going to ask.

Maka thought that he liked these sorts of little trinkets though. He was beginning to fill his pockets with much more than just random rocks and pressed flowers. Like he wanted to take a bit of the island home with him.

Caught deep in her silence, she squealed when a familiar feel of arms wrapped her waist, hoisting her up into the air. With a loud cackle and more strength than anyone should have, Star spun on his heel around in the sand. The abrupt motion caused Maka to release the jar, and it flew somewhere she couldn't keep track of. But it was the least of her worries in that moment. Dizzy thoughts replaced the ill tension and an involuntary laugh bubbled from her throat. She tried to reach for him and instead was met with a ready mouth, peppering her face after he plopped them both onto the ground.

Those same kisses eventually grew heavier, hands roamed freely in every which way imaginable. A particular press of his lips to hers made her yearn for more, so she retracted long enough to let him know. She'll go crazy if he did that again.

And he laughed in her ear, hot breath sending chills down her neck, "Ain't that so, babe?"

It wasn't fair.

If nothing is for keeps, can't I keep you for more than a minute?

She was asking for too much now, asking to keep him for longer than the time she had. It was unfamiliar to be so selfish, like she was betraying herself in the very ways she warded against. He was to return to whence he came, she reminded herself, finding too much heartache filled the void when she tried to banish her straying thoughts.

It seemed too late for her now. They went further than just "attraction," moved beyond a simple "hey, I like you." Maka was beginning to grow just a touch more desperate for what little days he had left, anything that let her be closer to Star-

When did he become just Star to her?

Mortified. Embarrassed. Afraid. Words that described basic emotions held nothing to how lost she felt. She was a fool, a fool with a stubborn heart that craved for things she wasn't allowed to have. A fool who reached for things that made her powerless in spite of it being out of her own discretion.

And she just kept coming back, over and over again to the end of their days.

They agreed to break up a week before he left, giving him a bit of time to transition back into his bachelor status and for reasons that they thought made sense in the far beginnings of the summer. The ones that didn't mean anything to her now.

"Don't miss me too much, alright Maks?"

"I wouldn't dream of it, Star."

It was a good time that they had, and she swore that she made the most of it while she had him. So why does she want to keep holding onto his hand, as if parting with him would break her in some way. Even in front of the airport's security checkpoint, Maka had no intention of letting him go.

She broke every rule that she had within that last week with him, loved with every bit of her being that she could spare. It turned out that there was plenty of more room to fall for him, so much that she couldn't stand the thought of not seeing him tomorrow. But today was the last day.

Forgetting their terms and decisions, ignoring everything else that went along with it, she gave him a final kiss. Tiptoeing on her feet, breathing in the traces of summer, Maka presented him the sweetest thank you for the love, for the adventures, for his time.

"Fly safe, babe."

He left, walking to the entrance of the terminal with a tight chest and a heavy heart.

It wasn't for keeps anyway, but he wished he kept her for more than just for a minute.

[frogmouthtom]

beach day with the parkers

thank you ruby for the inspo and tips!!

for the car ride you and peter bought a ton of candy and snacks 

((for the way there and back from the beach))

but you eat it all on the way there

peter accidentally playing his guilty pleasure music when he gets the aux chord

(i.e. britney spears)

“shut up! it’s really good for swinging around the city!”

aunt may reminding peter to “make sure you keep your shirt on, you know you burn easily" 

peter is all embarrassed like "aunt maaay”

when you all get out of the car she tries to rub sunscreen on his face

he squirms away blushing

(leaving a ton of white spots on his face)

so of course you rub them in

((and he lets you))

 him thinking “oh my god [y/n] is touching me”

you lie and say you have to keep ur shirt on too, just to make peter feel better

(it works)

when you actually get in the water he thinks every strand of seaweed is a sea monster and climbs on top of you like a koala bear

“i swear i felt it bite me"

“peter it’s a plant”

“it was an electric eel [y/n] i S W E A R" 

when you both get out of the water you sit on one of ur towels and share the other one wrapped around your shoulders

peter wearing a white shirt and leaving almost nothing to the imagination

hoping he wears white shirts more often

collecting cool sea shells and sea glass

peter accidentally grabbing live sand dollars 

discreetly putting them back when he’s not looking

you guys both getting a little bit burned despite aunt may’s efforts

aunt may getting flirted with by the life guard

going to the ice cream truck together

peter putting his arm around you subconsciously because he’s worried someone is going to flirt with you

peter not being able to eat his ice cream without making a mess

this boy gets his ice cream everywhere

(you wiping it off for him)

((peter blushing))

you get tired of your shirt sticking to you so you take it off

peter trying not to gawk (emphasis on the try)

((he does anyway))

peter dropping his ice cream because he’s DISTRACTED

peter taking his shirt off too bc he wants to seem cool, but getting it stuck halfway

peter ending up getting burnt like a lobster

you guys going back in the water and splashing each other a ton

accidentally swallowing lots of salt water

"peter why do you keep swimming away”

“you know what they say [y/n]… the ocean is mother nature’s toilet”

hoping you didn’t just swallow peter’s pee water

splashing him extra hard

“hey [y/n] look at this cool rock”

“thats a hermit crab”

peter screaming and dropping it with a look of horror on his face

hermit crab getting revenge and pinching his toe extra hard

peter trying not to faint

blinking back tears (he’s sensitive)

peter asking everyone if he can pet their dog

a loose puppy runs over to you guys

“aunt may can we keep him???”

“peter what did we talk about?”

with a sad look on his face “no taking the dogs home…”

hand stand competitions (though he has an advantage with his spidey agility)

you burying peter in the sand up to his neck

adding boobs just for fun

peter madly blushing “[y/n] nO sTOP MAY WILL SEE GET RID OF THEM”

aunt may flirting with the life guard more, not paying attention to you guys

but you take off the boobs just to be nice

you both smelling like salt water

sand in every crevice

peter’s hair being super volumized… and fluffy… and poofy… and curly 

peter falling asleep on you

so naturally you pile sand dollars on him

taking unflattering photos of him and showing him when he wakes up

peter waking up and being confused and sleepy

“[y/n] where are we?”

“am i still spider-man?”

“no you’re dead oooOoooOOoo”

peter getting freckles because of the sun

you teach peter to float on his back because he doesn’t know how even though he’s a freakin’ superhero

“but you’re spider-man”

“shut up [y/n]”

getting him the floaty wings just to poke fun

peter actually using the floaty wings until you make him take them off

getting really close to peter’s face because you fall a lil forward from a wave

peter floating from holding his breath because he’s distracted looking at how beautiful you are

holding him ever so lightly around his waist

and peter’s like “oh my GOD”

getting rlly tired and just like hanging on peter with your eyes closed

peter thinking you’ve fallen asleep on him

he whispers something really quietly like “should i wake [y/n] up???" 

being conflicted, commenting on how you look pretty

you open one eye and blush

"so u think im pretty, parker?”

peter’s face turning bright red “oh it’s you know, sun burn, hahaha, shoulda listened to aunt may”

he just sinks under the water

you pretend like you believe him

he pretends like he believes your pretending

((you both being kind of giddy about it)

you slip under water and grab his ankles

peter screaming because he thinks it’s an electric eel

him being really mad because it actually scared him

you say sorry and kiss him real quick on the cheek

peter wishing you scared him more often

you have a competition of the best sand castle

aunt may judges

peter being super serious about his castle

trying super hard

aunt may announcing you as the winner, mostly because she likes having you around

peter is SALTY about it and being an ass, stomping on yours because he lost

(but in good nature)

((hopes u kiss him on the cheek again to cheer him up))

instead you go out in the water and pretend to be really mad

peter following after you

“[y/n] im so sorry please forgive me”

whispering to himself "god, i’m such an idiot, why did i do that?“

you turn around and splash him right in the face, giggling

so of course he grabs you around the waist and dunks you right under the waves

you both laughing so hard that peter gets salt water up his nose

peter going down in the water at eye level and waggling his eyebrows up and down

secretly being scared the hermit crab will come back and pinch his nose or butt

so you pinch his butt just for fun

and insist it’s not you

“i think that crab is holding a grudge, better stay out of the water, right?”

a big wave crashing over you guys

peter’s swim trunks falling off

you having to go look for them while he waits in the water, literally naked and afraid

still thinks the hermit crab is going to come back

“peter, you’ve gotta let it go”

“i’m completely vulnerable right now [y/n], now is not the time to ‘let it go’”

he’s just a tiny head in the water, not moving, eyes all wide and hoping no one swims past

finally you see his shorts being used as a flag for a little kid’s sand castle

finally getting them back to peter

finally getting him out of the water

you guys walking down the beach together, and watching the wet sand squelch through your toes

aunt may yelling at you guys to not go too far out, because she wants to “keep an eye on you trouble makers”

peter rolling his eyes even though it actually gives him a nice warm feeling that she cares so much

eventually finding a volleyball net and ball

peter begging you to play, just because

him being a clumsy of player

(even though he’s a superhero?)

missing the ball when he serves

hitting him square in the face

peter going to spike it but it gets stuck on his hand

and trying to shake it off furiously

“[y/n]!! help me, it won’t come off!!”

“wow it must be hard to be a super hero”

peter sputtering to come up with a response

blushing (AGAIN)

finally getting it off

and flinging it too far by accident and hitting you in the head

peter apologizing profusely, and you just throw it back at him extra hard

(you’re still grinning like an idiot)

aunt may letting you guys stay long enough to watch the sun set

so you sit on a rock together

kind of leaning against each other

(kind of holding hands too)

peter worrying that you can hear how fast his heart is beating

you worrying that peter can hear how fast your heart it beating

him completely missing the sunset because he’s just admiring you and how the light reflects off your face

and also worrying about whether his hand feels sweaty

and how he feels so lucky to have you with him

you leaning on his shoulder and his heart almost bursts (yours too)

you guys falling asleep on each other on the ride home

getting burgers and fries (and sharing them)

((stealing all of peters fries))

“get your own [y/n]”

“sharing is caring, parker”

peter not actually caring that you’re taking his food because he thinks you’re too cute

listening to more music on the car ride home, and belting out the lyrics to your favorite songs

peter definitely playing more britney spears

(on purpose though)

aunt may gets tired of britney so you and peter share ear buds

both of you being sad you have to go home

peter probably sneaking out to visit you that night anyways

putting all the shells that you found in your room when you get home, so you can look at them and be reminded of this day

peter surprising you the next day with a necklace he made out of his shells

(for you)

both of you immediately begging aunt may to go again

[oselatra]

Twenty

Forgive The Observer a public love letter, Dear Reader. A gentleman never kisses and tells, but he is allowed to swoon a bit, and so we will. Last week made 20 years since we wed our beloved in her grandpa's little church way down in El Dorado, two dumb kids with nothing but our lives stretching out before us like an open road.

Forgive The Observer a public love letter, Dear Reader. A gentleman never kisses and tells, but he is allowed to swoon a bit, and so we will. Last week made 20 years since we wed our beloved in her grandpa's little church way down in El Dorado, two dumb kids with nothing but our lives stretching out before us like an open road. Who the hell was Yours Truly back then, when we saw her there in white at the head of the aisle? We forget, or dare not remember.

While she has been our rock, The Observer has been a dozen people in 20 years, and she has suffered and loved them all: enfant terrible, kid, lover, father, writer, reporter, teacher, artist, wise man, blowhard, tyrant, white knight, certified idiot and holy fool. Yes, we have taken a rail grind on the edge of the deep, dark abyss a time or two, as all long relationships must, but the only thing The Observer knows for sure is that I want to hold that woman's hand until the day I die. It ain't much to know this late in life, but The Observer has never trusted those who knew too much, for damn sure. What's the old saying about God laughing at mortal plans?

Leaving Junior at home with instructions to clean out the cat box and to be smart enough to not leave any beer bottles in the fish tank after the epic blowout sure to come, we dropped down through Vicksburg to sweltering New Orleans, where we spent a night in a lovely old hotel and soon came to the realization that we have become old enough that a late night café au lait at Café Du Monde thrilled us more than Bourbon Street. We strolled the old lanes, sweated hot beads and remembered how we walked all those same streets when we were youngsters, the Quarter still the same, while we are so different. Didn't hurt our feelings, though. Once you reach a certain age, you tend to let go of what you can't do a damn thing about, because you realize it is that way for everyone. Time does not play favorites. Time is fair.

The next day, we got up and hightailed it east, across the pine-scattered sand of south Mississippi, through the tunnel at Mobile, into Florida and the hotel we'd paid too much to stay in, so close to the blue-green Gulf that you could throw a sand dollar from the balcony and hit the waves. The Observer brought spouse there for the first time — her first trip to saltwater — when she was pregnant with Junior. For a landlocked child, there is a fascination with the sea — the bigness of it, to strike a Trumpian phrase; the curved horizon line swimming with pale clouds; the waves rising up and rushing over the sand and receding every two seconds.

Even as a boy, I made the connection with time: that the waves were doing that on the day I was born, they were doing that every day of my life when I wasn't there to watch them, and will be doing that on the day I die, casting up shells and seaweed and sand-slicked pieces of green glass. As I kid, that's a scary thought. As an old married fart sitting at the edge of the world, drinking from a sandy can, holding hands with the love of this life, it's less so.

Even though mortality is closer, there is the satisfaction of having lived a good life, and loved a truly good person, and that there is still time to do more of it before it all closes down. Time to watch the birds fish at the cusp of the water. Time to offer a sip of slowly warming beer. Time enough to look at the woman by my side, and think: Ye gods, whatever in the world did I do right that I should be so lucky and have so much? Whatever in the world did she do wrong to wind up with a fool like me?

Twenty