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mrsarnasdelicious · 1 year

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Finding Oneself in Happiness - I

Sam Winchester x Reader fic.

Ch 1: Horny

You have your work cut out for you. You know that as soon as you arrive on the scene. Everything is cordoned off and the police are crawling all over, like ants on a hill. You know you need to pull out all the stops to gain access to the scene.

You can’t just drop the trail. Especially not now that there is a victim. You need to catch this beast before it takes another life.

You flash your credentials at a cop and are let into the stable building. It is a mess. The horses are restless and the stablehands are all being interviewed by a separate cop. The victim has not been taken away yet. You recognise the white sheet. And you recognise the growing red circle around the chest area. You begin to scan the area for hoofprints. Luckily the cops let you do your thing. Answering questions that amount to you looking for an illegally imported murder unicorn would be more than just awkward.

Behind you, you hear a gentleman identify himself as FBI. Shit, now you’re going to be on your guard. FBI always watches scenes like this like hawks. They always make your work harder. You look over your shoulder. There’s two of them, jolly good! Now you have to be twice as careful. Pretend to be a horse specialist even more now. You swear under your breath. This is going to be one hell of a job.

The shorter of the two comes over. He flashes his badge really quickly and introduces himself as agent Hendrix. “Let me guess, your first name is James, but your friends call you Jimmy.” You can’t control your snark. His cheeks fluster a little. “Good one.” He chuckles awkwardly. “You work here?” He asks. You shake your head. “No, I work for the local SPCA, to deal with the horses, make sure they are not traumatised and such.” The lie comes easy. You have had to sell fibs like it a thousand times. Luckily you have a talent for it, everyone always seems to buy your BS. Or is that because of your patron god being a Trickster…? Agent Hendrix does not seem in the least impressed, though. It is as though the lie is not working on him. How odd…

“Have you seen anything out of the ordinary?” He asks. “Besides the guy who looks like he’s been run through by a power drill?” You ask. “So you have seen the body?” He furrows his brow. “No.” You reply. The honesty is quicker than your brain. Somehow you feel like this man is ‘in the know’ and lying to him would be useless in solving this murder. Henrix’ eyebrows travel further up his forehead, his skin wrinkling. “Then how would you know he looks like he’s been run through with a power drill?” He asks. “He is not the first.” You reply. “Any idea what coulda done it?” He fires the next question like he’s aiming a shotgun. You snortle dryly. “I do, but you would call me nuts and have me shipped off.” You answer. Agent Hendix’ sniggers. “Try me.” He says.

He gestures for his partner to come listen, too. His partner is tall and built like a brick outhouse. And the sideburns on him make you feel some sort of way. He introduces himself as Agent Bonamassa. You begin to grow suspicious. Two FBI Agents with Rockstar names. That sounds stupidly familiar. “Pleasure to meet you, Agents. I’m Y/N Y/L/N.” You say. They shake your hand. And they both flash you a smile.

“Y/N here says she knows what killed Mr Kebab over there.” Hendrix points his thumb at where the body is being hoisted on a stretcher. “I do, but I am a little reluctant to discuss that here.” You reply. “We can meet you somewhere else later.” Agent Bonamassa suggests. “Sounds good.” You turn your body to him fully. He sends you a boyish smile and wets his lips with the tip of his tongue. You smile back at him. “You know the Pontica Bar, just outside town?” Agent Hendrix asks. He sounds slightly annoyed. You trail your gaze to him. “I should be able to find my way there.” You reply. “How about we meet there at six?” Bonamassa supplies. “Great idea, I might even be able to tell you more than I know now.” You answer. “Good.” Bonamassa smiles at you again.

They leave you to it.

You manage to find a few hoofprints, but no blood trail. A bit disappointing, but nothing you can change.

You meet the two gentlemen at six, at the Pontica Bar. They don’t look remotely like FBI agents anymore. More like lumberjacks, really.

“Agents.” You greet them, only slightly sarcastic. “Yeah … about that.” Agent Bonamassa awkwardly rubs his neck. You sit opposite him at their high table. “Let me guess, you are not really FBI agents?” You ask softly. He nods, not seeming very ashamed of impersonating a government official. “We’re Hunters.” Says Hendrix, which is of course not his name. “I’m Sam Winchester and this is my brother Dean.” The man previously known as Agent Bonamassa adds. That gives you pause. “Wait, you two are the Winchester brothers?” You ask. These guys have a rep! “Does that change things?” Sam asks. You need a moment to think on that. But then you shake your head. “No, we have to see this one through either way.” You reply.

Dean orders himself and Sam a beer and you ask for an iced tea.

“So, what do you got?” Dean asks. “Ever heard of a Karkadann?” You ask. Both brothers shake their head. “Think unicorn, but more Freddy Krueger.” You explain. “So we are dealing with a murder pony here?” Dean asks in disbelief. “Eh, more like an antelope with one horn, so I’m told.” You reply. Sam furrows his brows. The waitress brings your drinks and Dean gives her a smirk. “Can you not, we are working.” Sam chides him. “Excuse me, it is you who is making googoo eyes at Y/N.” Dean grumbles. “Googoo eyes?” Sam snortles. Dean huffs in response. You can’t help but fluster a little.

You tell the brothers everything you know about Karkadann, including the fact that someone likely illegally imported him. “How do you know it is a boy murder unicorn?” Dean asks. “Because the mares pierce the throat rather than the heart.” You reply. Sam gives you a slightly impressed look. You like that, a lot. “Do you know how to gank it?” Dean asks. “I do, but they are very rare. I have strict orders to bring him in alive.” You reply. Both brothers look at you in surprise. “Orders, from whom?” Sam asks. You shake your head. “That does not matter.” You reply. Dean glowers at you, but neither brother asks any more questions.

A different waitress comes with the meal cards. Dean does not even bother looking at his. “I would like a cheeseburger, with extra onions.” He says. The waitress giggles at the way he is grinning at her and scribbles down his order. Then she turns to Sam. “What would you like, handsome?” She asks. Sam smiles awkwardly. “I’ll study the menu first.” He says. “Of course.” She cooes and she flounces off. “Floozy.” You huff. “You say floozy?” Sam chuckles. “Yeah, because calling her a slut or a whore isn’t very women-friendly.” You reply. Dean snorts dryly. “You’re jealous because she flirted with us, aren’t you?” He smirks. “People say you are full of yourself, but I never imagined it to be this bad.” You reply. Dean flips you the bird. “Oh come on, she is just fishing for a tip.” You tell him. Sam slaps his hand over his mouth and tries not to laugh too hard. Dean sticks a finger up to him as well. “I hate you.” He tells his brother. He is obviously sour that the waitress did not mean her flirtations.

You and Sam quietly browse the meal card for a few minutes.

“How did you know she was faking it?” Dean breaks the silence. Sam can’t help renewed laughter. You smirk smugly. “Non Americans just know when Americans are faking.” You reply. “Bullshit.” Dean harrumphs. “Then why did she not even look at me?” You retort. Dean has nothing to say to that. “Shall we get back to the subject at hand?” Sam asks. You put down your meal card, having made your choice. “Sure, but no killing.” You reply. “That’s boring.” Dean groans. “Karkadann are very rare. My employer will reward you for bringing him in alive.” You tell him. That info brings a sparkle in Dean’s eyes. “How much is he paying?” He asks. “We’ll cross that bridge later.” You answer.

The waitress returns for your and Sam’s orders. You have chosen the burrito and Sam takes the caesar salad with extra chicken. It is quickly jolted down before the waitress makes a swift exit stage left. Sam raises his eyebrows at you. “I guess she heard you call her a floozy. Like some grandma.” Dean says. “Eh, hard cheese.” You shrug. “Hard cheese?” Dean frowns. “Tough luck, you Americans would say.” You tell him. “Hard Cheese..” Dean mutters. He shakes his head and takes a sip of his beer. “Not all of us feel the need to swear every other sentence.” Sam tells him. “She talks like a grandma, Sam.” Dean replies. “She can hear you.” You remark dryly.

Soon enough your dinner is served. For a while you eat in silence.

“How do we catch this son of a bitch?” Dean then asks. Ah yes, the matter at hand, again. “We trap him.” You reply. “Yeah, no shit.” Dean does not wait for further explanation. “You are not going to like how we’ll do that.” You say. Dean groans and looks down on the remains of his burger and chips. “How are we going to do that?” Sam asks. “We’re going to pretend to be a lady Karkadann.” You reply. “And how do you suggest we do that?” Dean asks. “Simple, smell like one.” You reply. “That does not sound simple at all.” Sam replies. “It does if you have a vial of Karkadann musk.” You tell him. Sam frowns curiously at you. “And you have that?” He inquires. You nod and smirk smugly. “How do you even get that?” Dean asks. “Either you tap it from a female or you make it artificially.” You wink at him. “Yeah no shit. Neither seems like an easy job to me.” Dean rolls his eyes. “My employer has a female he can tap it from.” You reply.

“Wait, since when is there someone who employs hunters?” Dean asks. “I am not a hunter.” You tell him firmly. “Then what are you?” He retorts. “I am a magizoologist.” You reply. “Isn’t the term cryptozoologist?” Sam interjects. “To those ignorant of what is out there, maybe. But to those in the know, a zoologist specialised in magical beasts is a magizoologist.” You inform him. Sam nods in understanding. “So you hunt magical animals?” Dean continues to question. “No Dean, I don’t hunt them, I study them. And when I find one where they don’t belong, I’ll bring them either home or where they are safest.” You say. “But what about your employer?” Sam asks. “He likes to know everything there is to know. He pays me to find out. Aaand he keeps a menagerie.” You reply. The answer seems to satisfy Sam. He finished his salad. “A zoo of mythical creatures, the guy must be loaded.” Dean is not as easily placated. “Everything about him is strictly confidential until I am instructed otherwise.” You rebuff him. Dean opens his mouth to speak again, but Sam shakes his head.

Once you have finished dinner, Dean orders another round of drinks.

“So, tell me something about your job.” Sam looks you in the eye. You feel slightly tingly when he smiles at you. “Only if you tell me some about yours.” You murr. You scoot a little closer to Sam. He flushes a little. He looks down on you and grins boyishly. Dean clears his throat. “I am still here, you two.” He says loudly. Sam steals a sidelong glance at Dean, before turning back to you. “We could go to my motel room.” He suggests. You reach over and put your hand on his arm. “I stay in an actual hotel, how about that?” You cooe. Sam smirks widely. “I’d like that.” He murmurs.

Sam gets up from his stool. “Don’t wait up.” He tells Dean. “Wasn’t planning on doing so.” The older brother replies.

The two of you leave, taking the bus into town to your hotel. On your way there, you tell Sam everything you know about the Karkadann. He is hanging on your lips.

Sam holds the hotel entrance- and room door for you. He is slightly flustered. But you are too. You don’t usually take people to bed before you well and thoroughly know them. But for Sam you gladly make an exception.

You lock the door and turn to him.

“I … I don’t usually do this.” You mumble. Sam smiles awkwardly. “Neither do I, to be honest.” He replies. “Well, then it will be extra special.” You murmur warmly. Sam nods gently. “Wana start right away?” He asks. You both laugh.

You close the distance between him and you. Sam looks down on you. You lift a hand to cup his cheek. He closes the distance. No need to speak, he understands how this goes. His lips crash into yours. You stand on your tippy toes, so Sam does not have to bend down too much. You can’t help a little moan. Sam’s lips are firm, strong and warm. He kisses you like he means it. And it is very good.

He starts backing you up to the bed.

You break the kiss. “Take off your shoes.” You say. Sam gives you a confused look, but obliges, toeing out of his shoes. You do, too. “That all?” He asks. “Oh yeah, I am going to take my time on the rest of you.” You reply. Sam smirks and resumes the kiss.

You stumble backwards, falling onto the bed. Sam follows eagerly, his lips barely leaving yours. He is so vast that his body fully eclipses yours. You feel shielded from the world. A warm flutter tangles your innards into unfamiliar knots. You do your best to ignore it. Feelings would needlessly complicate everything. And you know the Winchesters are already complicated enough to deal with.

You tangle your fingers into his beautiful brown locks. Sam groans softly against your lips. It is an amazing noise. You grow wet in response. Sam sucks on your bottom lip and licks into your mouth. You moan and buck your pelvis against his. Sam grinds back down. He does so quite firmly and presses you deeper into the mattress. You arch back up at him. Sam moans into your mouth.

Slowly you venture your fingers from his scalp to the buttons of his flannel. Sam shudders at your touches and groans softly. You begin to unbutton his shirt. Sam keeps still, tensing up a little. You wonder, quietly and to yourself, if he is shy. Though you don’t have much time for that, considering every inch of Sam’s skin you unveil to yourself is absolutely marvelous. He is made like a Greek God. You run your fingers over the tattoo on his chest. “Gods.” You whisper. “You like what you see?” Sam asks, voice a bit insecure. “Are you kidding?” You chuckle. “Wha-what? Sam stammers, a bit confused. “Do I like what I see? Samuel, you are built like a Greek God, of course I like what I see.” You murmur. Gently you run your fingertips down his chest, to his glorious abs. Another shudder runs through him.

“Oh fuck.” You hiss.

Carefully you thumb his nipples. Sam groans softly.

You draw him back down for a kiss. Sam groans again and shrugs out of his shirt. You move your hands to his shoulders and his back, to explore his muscles there. His tongue invades your mouth. You moan warmly at him and he groans back. He grinds down on you, as well. You hook one leg around his hip, tilting your pelvis for a better angle. “Oh God.” Sam grunts. His mouth leaves your and he noses at your neck. You moan loudly and tug at his brown locks. A loud groan spills from his lips. An amazing sound that makes your insides quake. “Gods, I want you.” You hiss. “You said we’d take this slow.” Sam whispers against your skin. “Oh I will.” You purr. Sam humms and kisses at your throat. You moan warmly, rubbing the tips of your fingers on his scalp. “I can want you and still take it slow.” You cooe.

Sam kisses down to the edge of your shirt. “Can I take it off?” He asks gently. You sit upright, crowding Sam backwards a little. “Go ahead.” You reply. A goofy smile slips onto Sam’s lips. He pulls your shirt over your head. His eyes venture to your bra right away. “C-can I?” He murmurs. You chuckle and undo the clasp of your bra. “How do you women do that?” Sam asks, amusedly. “Lady magic, Sammy baby.” You purr.

Sam leans in to kiss and nose at your breasts. His mouth swiftly finds your nipples. First right, then left. He sucks and nips the sensitive buds. And he lavishes kisses and licks all over your breasts. All the while he is groaning ever so softly. “Oh Gods, Sam.” You whisper. He smirks against your skin. “You taste so good.” He hisses. “More, Sam, please.” You whisper. He obliges, taking your left nipple in his mouth again.

His hand slips down your belly, to the button of your jeans.

He fiddles with your buttons and soon your hands join his to help him out. “Thanks.” He murmurs against your breast. You shimmy out of your trousers and Sam peels down your panties. He gazes down at you and licks his lips. “I am not going to be able to take it really really slow.” He rasps. “Try at least a little.” You murmur. “I will, don’t worry.” Sam whispers. He leans down to press a kiss between your breasts and then lets his lips trail lower. You close your eyes and heave a happy little sigh. “Your skin is so soft.” Sam whispers. He dips his tongue in your belly button, making you giggle.

Then he carefully attaches his mouth to your thigh. You moan sweetly. “I can smell you.” Sam growls. He groans warmly. He lowers his mouth to you folds. You can’t help a little squeal. “Fuck.” Sam whispers. His tongue carefully parts your folds and seeks out your clit. He is not pulling punches. “Oooh. Oooh Gods.” You whimper. Carefully Sam begins to caress your clit with the tip of his tongue. It is so fucking good. You pull gently at his hair and slowly rock yourself into his touch. Sam groans, sucking down on your clit ever so carefully. “Oh, Samuel!” You cry out, pressing him down against you a bit firmer. He has already got you so close to orgasm you can barely believe it. “So close.” You whisper.

Rather than carrying you into your climax, Sam moves off and instead plunged his tongue inside you. You whine at the loss, but quickly thereafter you cry out at the feeling of Sam fucking you with his tongue. It is a wonderful smooth feeling, but it takes you away from the edge. “Please, please make me cum.” You whine. Sam groans softly against your core. He continues fucking you with his tongue as he brings his thumb to your clit. He rubs you carefully and steadily. You arch into him, beyond your own control. “Oh Gods.” You moan. Your orgasm approaches once again, in full force. So close, you can almost taste it. “Oh… Sam. Please.” You whimper.

Very suddenly Sam switches, his mouth to your clit and his fingers, two digits, buried deep inside you. It is your undoing. You cum, your inner walls clamping down on his fingers and your mind spins. “Oh fuck.” Sam whispers with shuddering voice.

He backs up slowly.

Sam swiftly sheds the rest of his clothes. His cock springs free and you are impressed with how shapely he is. “Sh-shall I?” He whispers. You nod in reply. Sam smiles a lopsided smile and slowly lines himself up. You open your thighs wider to accommodate his wide frame. Slowly, he pushes into you. You moan at how he spears you open. It feels amazing, better than any other man you’ve had inside you. It’s like you and Sam fit together perfectly. Like you were made for each other.

“Do it, fuck me.” You whisper, before reeling him in for a kiss. Sam groans against your lips. Slowly he begins to undulate his pelvis. He works his cock in and out of you in the most sensuous pace. You scratch at his shoulders, lulling your pelvis back at his. You moan in unison, the pleasure coursing through united bodies. “Harder.” You hiss. “Are you sure?” Sam asks. “Yes, absolutely. I can take it.” You reply. “Oh… okay.” Sam nods. He picks up speed and intensity very quickly. He is slamming into you with something akin to desperation rather soon. And you take his every thrust with ease. Your body accepts his, even though he is so much bigger than you.

“Oh … oh god.” Sam gasps. “You take me so well, we fit so well.” He whispers. You nod slowly. “Yes, we fit… we fit perfectly.” You manage to reply between moans. “It feels so good.” Sam groans. “Yes, yes it does.” You agree. He kisses you fiercely. He claims you. You are all his. His tongue searches every detail of your mouth and you moan sweetly for him. He groans against your lips and tries to deepen the kiss even more. “Shit, I’m gona cum.” He rasps into the kiss. “Do it.” You all but order. It is all you need to say. Sam’s thrusts become unsteady and a bit more fierce. You feel the head of his cock against your cervix. “Oh gods.” You moan.

“F-fuck.” Sam groans, as he spends himself inside you. You whine against his throat.

He pulls out slowly and you whimper at the loss. Thick threads of his cum and precum connect his cock with your core. “We still sorta rushed.” You whisper. “But it was amazing.” Sam replies. You nod in affirmation. “It was.” You cooe.

You lay beside each other, talking about everything and nothing. You cuddle up to Sam and he puts his arms around you. Slowly you nod off, as Sam holds your close.

You wake up in the morning because Sam’s cellphone starts ringing.

Sam groans and reaches for the nightstand. “What?” He asks gruffly, upon picking up. You huff softly and curl into his side more tightly. “Yes Dean, we are awake now, thanks to you.” Sam grouches to his phone. You reach out and take the phone from Sam’s hand. “Is there an emergency?” You ask. Dean scoff loudly on the other end of the line. “No, but we have a case.” He replies. Sam makes a feeble attempt to get his phone back. You tisk and climb onto him, straddling his pelvis. His morning wood feels like it is made of warm steel. Sam’s breath catches in his throat. You grind down, gritting your teeth in order not to moan. Strangled, desperate sounds rise to Sam’s throat. “Gods.” You hiss. “What?” Dean sputters. You can’t help a wicked little grin. “How about we meet you for breakfast, in town?” You cooe. Dean makes a strangled little sound, the bare beginning of a reply. “Perfect, we’ll meet you there.” You say cheerfully, before hanging up.

You toss Sam’s phone onto the bed and he tightens his grip on your hips. “I would have loved to see his face.” He growls. “He might still be wearing the expression when we find him in town.” You reply. Sam bucks up at you. A moan spills from your lips. “I want you. I want you so bad. Oh god, oh fuck. Let me fuck you, please.” Sam groans. There is already so much desperation in his voice. You are swift to line him up and sink down on him. “Oooh! Fuck!” Sam gasps. “Good morning.” You purr. “Good morning indeed.” Sam smiles feebly up at you.

You ride him, firm yet slow. Sam’s fingers dig into your hips and he looks up at you, almost breathless with amazement. He groans and gasps, loving the way you take his cock. “It is so good, fuck it is so good.” He chants. He thrusts up into you. You moan loudly. “Oh yes, Samuel, fuck me.” You moan. “I will baby, I will.” Sam’s fingers leave bruises on your hips and pounds up into you. You moan, bracing yourself over his chest. “Oh fuck, you feel so fucking good on my cock.” Sam groans. “Fuck me harder, please.” You reply. Sam plants his heels on the bed and rams into you. You cry out as he ploughs against your cervix.

“Make me cum Sam.” You order. His fingers slide from your hip to your clit. He rubs you urgently, yet carefully. “Cum on my cock, cum on my cock baby.” He growls. “Almost… I am so close Sam, so close.” You moan. He rubs you between thumb and forefinger and you feel your climax come to you as though you owe it money. “F-fuck.” You cry out. Your inner walls tighten on Sam’s cock. He groans lustily. “You’re going to fucking milk me dry.” He hisses. “You think we can cum together?” You ask. Sam eagerly nods. “Yeah, fuck yeah.” He replies. “Count us down?” You cooe. Sam nods, almost breathless. “From ten?” He rasps. You nod in turn. “A-alright.” Sam replies.

“Ten… Nine .. eight.” He thrusts up with every count, all the while still rubbing your clit. You moan out loudly, teetering on the edge. “Se-seven.” Sam stutters. He is having a hard time holding back, but he knows he has to be careful. “So you good.” You moan. “Six, five, fo-ooooh God.. Four.” Sam grunts. You can practically feel his cock twitch inside you. “So close.” He growls. “Me too.” You encourage him. Sam swears under his breath. “Th-th-three, ah fuck.” He is beginning to falter, his climax too close. “A little more, just a little.” You whisper. Sam nods, trying to concentrate of rubbing your clit the way that you like.

Your thighs begin to quiver. “Two Sam, two. Ah!” You cry out. Your inner walls clasp down on him. You are on the absolute edge. “One.” Sam thrusts up sharply. It is what you need. You surrender to the amazing heat in your extremities and the lightning in your spine. Sam spends himself inside you, groaning loudly. “Oh gods, Sam, this is amazing.” You moan as your inner walls contract on his cock, milking him dry.

You shower, dress and head out into town.

Dean is waiting, leaned on the hood of his Chevy Impala. “Took you so long?” He asks. “Something a bit more urgent … came up.” Sam rubs his neck. “I just had to take care of it.” You say unabashedly. “Was it good, at least?’ Dean snarks. Sam flusters a little. “Yeah … like really good.” Sam nods. Dean heaves another sigh. “Well, I am glad you had a good time, but we have a murder unicorn on the loose.” He says. “You are right.” Sam nods.

“How do we trap this thing again?” Dean turns to you. “We set a sexy lady unicorn trap.” You reply. “Sounds easy enough.” Sam replies. You shake your head. “We gotta find ourselves a horse, and then make her smell like a lady Karkadann. The last part is infinitely easier than the first.” You say. ‘So, what you are saying it that we are going to have to steal a horse?” Dean asks. “Yeah.” You tell him. “Alright, let’s do this.” He says. “Breakfast first.” You reply. “I am starving.” Sam adds.

#smut under the cut #spn #jared padalecki #supernatural #sam winchester #sam winchester x reader

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mlobsters · 6 months

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supernatural s11e15 beyond the mat (w. john bring, andrew dabb)

vaguely recall maybe reading something about.. was it j2?? watching the same local wrestling in texas growing up? am i imagining this or was it other people

DEAN He was Dad's favorite. Anytime that noose would come out, Dad would be on his feet. It was one of the few times I ever saw him actually happy. SAM Yeah. I remember that.

not sad at all

DEAN Yeah, Sam. You think I don’t know that? We’ve done nothing but mainline lore for a week, okay? We’ve got jack on another hand of God and Amara, and we’ve got even less jack on how to save Cas. SAM If he wants to be saved. DEAN He does... even if he doesn’t know it yet. SAM Dean...

~personally~ i think it would be more about getting lucifer out and back in the cage/dead, what with the massive and enraging fuckup saying yes to the springing the father of lies who turns out to have been a lying liar, something you were willing to die to prevent, but i admittedly rarely understand their writing decisions when it comes to cas so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

LUCIFER You're gonna look high, look low, far and wide. Search every warehouse, every farmhouse, every hen house, outhouse, and doghouse.

get tommy lee jones's words out of your mouth :p someone's grumpy (it's me, hi) the fugitive is one of my old favorites

like i said yesterday i can't really tolerate what's going down with crowley.

i'm glad dean's having a good time fangirling over the wrestlers but time and place, my dude. oh and another thing i've found when i'm finding something too uncomfortable to watch, i mute and read the captions. for whatever reason, i can tolerate way more awkward without sound. less of a full body experience

SAM Sorry. Uh... wrong place. It’s just y-you were my... my first crush. RIO Ah. You weren’t one of those guys that had my poster above his bed, were you? SAM What? No.

cute but what bed though exactly. did he put the poster up in every motel room.

forever and ever, amen

DEAN Did you tell her you used to have a poster of her over your bed when you were a kid?

again what bed, i'd buy maybe like folded up in his duffel or whatever :p

DEAN Now, that hardly seems worth it. Yeah, think about that. Town after town, putting your ass on the line for next to nothing? No money. No glory. Wow. SAM You realize you just literally described our jobs.

was thinking about the continued logistics of money just recently, if they're still doing the same rackets

SPECTATOR Beer’s cheap, kid’s entertained... parenting. Remember, don’t tell Mom how many I’ve had. SAM Yeah. Now, that brings me back. DEAN You want to not try and ruin one of the nicest things Dad ever did for us, please? Thank you.

could argue both sides of that honestly but you know me and my everlasting grudge against john

this wrestling match falls into the category of let dean enjoy things but it still makes me want to hide under a rock. while i watch this (muted, again) i'm trying to pick apart why i find it so secondhand embarrassment-inducing. that he's acting like a child? that i'm worried about him making a fool of himself in front of people because i'd be mortified to in that position? the perceived embarrassment he clearly never feels about that stuff? i dunno. it would be nice if i could logic my way out of feeling it :P

(that said, i am skipping the thing with him playing around in the ring)

CROWLEY I can’t leave. SIMMONS You can. You still have friends... people who want you back... who want Lucifer gone. I don’t know what he’s done to you. I can’t imagine... but you’re... you’re not a slave, a dog. You’re Crowley, and the Devil should be afraid of you.

was thinking yesterday of game of thrones and theon/reek, where a genuinely unlikable character became somewhat sympathetic after horrendous torture. and i already liked crowley. bleh. (also bumps into personal trauma stuff)

guess we're doin the jaws (1975) comparing scars scene now though less handsy

let's go

sam's face at drunk dean made me laugh

why does this rando crossroads demon want someone to kill for him in addition to the deal, man i am struggling to stay focused on this episode.

LUCIFER She, um, she hates you, B-T-Dubs. SIMMONS Yeah. I really do. LUCIFER Yeah, they all do. Like, every demon in Hell. Can’t really blame them, can you? I mean, maybe once you were the evilest evil that ever eviled... present company excluded. But now... you’re nothing but Dean Winchester’s number-one fan.

misha playing pellegrino's lucifer is a little smoother this episode i think. still don't like it. but i mean, at least misha gets to use his face for more than one expression and his regular speaking voice?

DEAN Okay. Okay. Look, you screwed up, all right? Trust me. I’ve been there. But it is never too late to do the right thing. GUNNAR You really believe that? DEAN I have to.

*cut to lucifer!cas* very subtle :p

so one lightning bolt and that hand of god was out of juice? meanwhile the one in the previous episode took out the sub and surface ship. okay. whatever, glad crowley zapped on out of there

SAM Dean, you know what? He made a bad decision. We’ve been there. DEAN Yeah, you, me, now Cas.

12:22am 4 people including 3 children upstairs sleeping. me: NOW????? are we calling this castiel's first big bad decision?? breaking sam's wall for all the hell trauma to rush in for a distraction?! sucking up all those souls from purgatory and being god for a minute and slaughtering people and angels--which led to the leviathans getting out too?? trusting metatron against all logic otherwise which led to the angels falling? i mean, sounds like trusting lucifer AGAINST ALL LOGIC OTHERWISE is par for the fucking course. by this logic, i think cas and crowley should be on pretty similar footing with the brothers 🤪

whatever, man. i had to have a come to jesus meeting with myself about cas a while back so i'd stop complaining so much about the disconnect of what's shown vs said but apparently this got me really riled up again

#supernatural #spnwatch #spn 11x15 #john bring #andrew dabb #spnwhinge

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waterfiltergurus · 11 months

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How To Winterize a Water Softener (5 Expert Tips)

If your water softener is installed outside or in a location that leaves it susceptible to freezing temperatures, you need to make sure it's suitably protected before winter arrives. Here, we've shared our advice on the best way to winterize your water softener system. 📌 Key Takeaways: - Freezing conditions may damage the resin beads in a water softener or result in leaks from the tanks and pipes. - You can winterize a water softener by keeping the area warm, installing insulation, and keeping water running through the system. - If you don't plan to use the softener in the winter months, unplug it and drain the water. 🤔 Who Should Winterize A Water Softener? Let's start with an overview of the circumstances in which you should winterize your water softener. You'll need to protect your water softener against cold weather if it's installed: - Outside, even if it's in a rainproof shelter - At any unheated location, such as an outhouse, garage, or basement that isn't connected to your central heating - In a property that you don't use, and therefore don't heat, in the winter - In your home if you plan to be away for extended periods in the winter months Essentially, if your water softener ever has the potential to be exposed to very cold temperatures, you should protect it from damage by following the water softener winterization tips in this guide. 🚿 How To Winterize A Water Softener: Our Top Tips Here are our top tips for water softener winterization: Tip 1: Keep The Area Warm Our number one tip for winterizing a water softener that you still want to use is to keep the installation area warm. This is fairly easy to do if you keep the softener in any sort of enclosed area. You just need to make sure there's enough heat in the install location to prevent the softener or its connecting pipes from freezing. The recommended air temperature for a water softener install location is at least 32 degrees Fahrenheit. At this temperature, no part of the softener should be able to freeze. If you know that temperatures drop below 32 degrees in the winter, place a space heater next to the water softener to heat up the install location. Or, if your softener is installed in an area that's usually heated by central heating but you'll be away from home for a few weeks, keep your heating on low in the room where the softener is installed to prevent a significant temperature drop. Yes, these methods will increase your water bill slightly, but a few extra dollars per week is much cheaper than the cost of repairing or replacing a water softening system that has been damaged by freezing conditions - or even dealing with a catastrophic leak. Tip 2: Insulate The Softener Our second tip for winterizing a water softener that you plan to use over the colder season is to insulate the softener to keep the heat in. You should be able to find insulation material from your local home improvement store. Buy enough material to fit around your water softener, then hold it in place with zip ties or rope. With good insulation, your water softener should stay warm enough to provide continued operation even if temperatures fall below 32 degrees Fahrenheit. We also recommend insulating your pipes with special plumbing insulation. Again, you can purchase pipe insulation wrap at most home improvement stores. This will prevent freezing pipes from affecting your water softener's performance. Tip 3: Keep The System In Operation If you're leaving home on vacation for a couple of weeks, your water softener will be more susceptible to freezing because the water is sitting still inside the tanks. So, another way to reduce the potential for freezing is to keep water moving in your water treatment equipment while you're away. Leave a kitchen or bathroom faucet dripping, which will require a small amount of treated water from your softener. This should help you to avoid burst pipes in your water softener system. We recommend combining this trick with tip 1 or 2 (or 1 and 2) in this guide, since leaving your water running alone doesn't guarantee that your softener won't freeze in very cold temperatures. Tip 4: Prevent Exposure To Outside Air A water softener is more likely to freeze in the winter if it's exposed directly to the outside air. So, you can winterize your water softener by reducing its exposure to the elements. There are a few different ways to do this, depending on the water softener install location. If your water softener is installed in a garage, make sure to keep your garage door shut in the winter months, even when you're working in your yard and easy access to your garage might be more convenient. If your water softener is in an outdoor location, you'll need to house it in an insulated box. This will prevent contact with cold air and help your water softener to retain its heat as temperatures drop. Tip 5: Drain & Unplug The Softener Our final tip applies to anyone who doesn't plan to use their water softener for long periods in the winter - especially if the softener will be exposed to freezing weather conditions during this time. We recommend unplugging your softener, which will prevent problems with backflow and frozen pipe issues, as well as electrical problems and leaks. You'll need to drain any of the water lines in the system to prevent them from freezing while you're away. 🧊 How Freezing Temperatures Affect A Water Softener Now you know how to winterize your water softener, you might be wondering why it's so important. What impact can freezing temperatures have on your water softener's performance? When a water softener is working properly, it exchanges calcium and magnesium minerals with sodium ions on a resin bed. Water flows through the media tank (otherwise called a mineral or resin tank) whenever you switch on an appliance or a fixture, and the hardness minerals are removed on-demand. If water softeners are exposed to frigid temperatures, the water in the mineral tank and connecting pipes may freeze. This could damage the resin beads and cause your water softener's pipes to crack, potentially leading to a leak. The brine tank (salt tank) that houses the softener salt might also freeze, preventing brine from traveling in the brine valve tubing to the media tank. Your soft water supply will be interrupted as a result. Or, the floor drain might freeze, meaning that your water softener can't completely drain water during a regeneration cycle, potentially leading to flooding. Plus, if water can't move freely through the system, your home's water pressure may drop, and your softener may be unable to supply your plumbing system with enough water to meet demand. 🔎 Signs Of A Frozen Water Softener So, what are the signs that water softeners display if they're frozen? Here are some of the things you might notice: - A water softener tank that's cold to touch - You can see ice around the tanks, control valve, and pipes - The drain likes are clogged with blocks of ice - Your water softener's electronics switch off or are temperamental - Your water softener is operating at a louder volume than normal Even if your water softener itself isn't frozen, the pipes connecting to the softener might be. Check for signs of frozen pipes, too, including freezing cold pipes that are coated with ice or frost. Related Content: - Help! My Well Pump Is Frozen: What to Do? - Winter Maintenance: How to Keep Your Water Softener from Freezing in Cold Temperatures - Winter-Ready Water Heating: The 7 Best Tankless Water Heaters for the Cold Season 📑 Final Word As long as you take the correct water softener winterization steps, you should be able to safely use your water softener year-round. Even if you've taken all the steps above to protect your hard water treatment equipment from freezing in the winter, you should still make sure to keep an eye on your water softener's performance if it's at risk of damage by freezing. Get into the routine of daily checkups, examining your water softener for leaks and checking that the system is operating as it should. If you're concerned, program a manual regeneration cycle. Is the system backwashing water as it should? Unplug and drain the softener immediately if you notice any leaks. If you think your water softener has frozen, warm up the install location as soon as you spot the issue, then check all pipes and components for damage that could result in a major leak. Contact your local plumber if you're concerned and need a second opinion. Read the full article

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energy-pro-water-damage · 1 year

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Wilson Canyon Park

Wilson Canyon Park in Sylmar, California is a public park situated in the western San Gabriel Mountains. It features verdant oak woodlands and a year-round creek. The trails in the park are a great way to enjoy the natural environment, whether you are just out for a stroll or looking for a longer hike.

One of the best aspects of the Wilson Canyon Park is that it is connected to several Angeles National Forest trails. This makes it a good option for mountain bikers and other trail users. In addition, the park is a popular picnic location, and visitors can often spot wildlife while picnicking. If you are interested in taking a more in-depth look at the area, the Wildlife Learning Center, a 501(c)(3) non-profit organization, is a good place to start.

While Wilson Canyon Park offers many different hiking and biking options, there are a few that are particularly noteworthy. One of them is the Los Pinetos Trail. As the name implies, this short but steep trail descends from the top of a hill and provides excellent views of the nearby mountains.

Another is the Wilson Saddle, a 7-mile trail that starts at the Olive View Medical Center. Despite some damage to the trail due to a fire, the hike is still worth the effort. Fortunately, there is a nice outhouse and a small picnic area.

The Sylmar Canyon Trail is another excellent option. It is a fun and easy loop. A portion of the trail is graded asphalt, making it suitable for walkers. But, it does offer a few challenging hills and an elevation change of more than 1500 feet.

On the other hand, the Sylmar Branch Library in Sylmar, California, is a great place to check out the books, watch movies, and attend story times. The library is part of the Los Angeles Public Library system, and has a variety of activities and events for people of all ages. You can also check out the library's teen poetry club and book club.

Finally, if you want to see some of the other wonders of the world, take a visit to the Wildlife Learning Center. There, you can learn about over 80 animals, and take part in a number of educational programs and birthday parties. Throughout the year, the center also hosts school field trips and summer camps.

With 240 acres of land, Wilson Canyon is a great place to visit if you love nature. It is a gateway to the surrounding Angeles National Forest, offering a rich variety of plant communities and secluded wilderness. Not only that, the park has plenty of green space, a basketball court, and an outdoor playground. Even better, the cost of parking is only $5. That's a steal!

And if you are feeling especially adventurous, you can head to the Whitney Canyon Road, which is a 2.5-mile fire road. After you pass a junction of several trails, you'll end up at the Karen M. Pearson Hillside Trail, a small but steep incline.

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tombeane-blog · 1 year

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Stock Tip - Invest In Rope Futures

(November, 2022)

Last night I was sleeplessly tossing and turning. Wide awake, I decided to solve Climate Change.

Without getting too deep into the weeds, the problem can be described as follows: the climate keeps changing.

Then again. Always has. Always will. But for some reason if it keeps on changing, in 10 years we will all be dead.

Fortunately, we find ourselves living at the precise time in the Earth's billions of years of existence when the global temperature is exactly perfectly suited for humans, animals, plants and rocks. So it's on us to stop it from ever changing again - right here, right now, from where the sun now stands and before one more Polar Bear moves to Florida and starts voting Republican.

So I'm fully on board now and ready to draw a line in the sand and yell, "Hey Nature! Stop all this unreliable weatherating - OR WE WILL!".

Three words - Wind Turbines.

We need lots more of them. We need every field, mountain top, city dump, street corner, vacant lot, corn field, football stadium and city park covered with 'em.

No more NIYBY Luddites. No more "Not In Your Back Yard". Like it or not, you're all in this together.

But what to do on a beautiful, cloudless windless summer day when the turbines won't spin?

Simple problems require simple solutions. As I mentioned in an earlier blog - all of the wind turbines will have battery backup."

"How does it work? To explain I'll need to get a little technical here: When necessary the batteries will continue to spin the turbines, the spinning turbines will continue to inject stable power to the grid."

"Wait a second Tom. How long will those batteries last? What happens if the batteries go dead and the wind hasn't picked up?"

"Easy Vern. While the batteries are powering the turbines, they will simultaneously be charging a second, emergency bank of batteries that will kick in and continue to power the spinning turbines while also recharging the first bank of batteries. This efficient cycle continues until the wind resumes."

"The electrical grid stays powerated through windy, winderer and winderless days."

"And before you ask that question tickling your brain Vern - there will be a backup to the backup in the form of a multi-watt, Honda portable gas generator."

"Hey Tom, let's get serious. This all sounds well and good but....

...giant turbines are noisy, ugly as heck and those spinning blades of death keep killing all of our Eagles!".

"Well bless your heart Vern. You got a point there but slow down and take a breath."

"I've thought this through from the 10,000 foot level (pointing up) and down to the smallest detail (holding two fingers 1/16 inch apart)."

"What is that old saying? I think it's something like - Those Who Remember History Are Authorized To Repeat It!"

"Jumping into the way-back-machine we can see that we spent much of the 20th century building out the national electrical grid with above ground power lines."

"Where? Literally Every."

"All across America every highway and every street had power lines and poles. Power to every home, every apartment, every backyard shed and outhouse in America was supplied via ugly brown poles and skinny wires."

"Those things were a necessary pain that hummed loudly, were ugly as sin and were a convenient place for birds to perch while they pooped on everything below them."

"Their only redeeming quality was that they were a convenient place to staple posters for local punk bands, missing cats and neighborhood garage sales."

"After though, we finally wised up and realized there was a better way. We solved it then and we can solve it now. The birds were disappointed but everyone else loved the idea."

"We hid all those power poles and electrical wires."

"And soooo, all of the 120 million new wind turbines will be buried 180 feet deep along with their twin battery backups and their gas generators."

"Leaving the only thing visible above ground - through a small hole - that little rope pull to start the gas generator."

"Problem solved. Contact your stock broker."

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dorminchu · 3 years

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ALL THESE THINGS THAT I'VE DONE

The war against Paradis is over. Eren and Annie are forced to confront their mortality in a world that seems to have no need of them, and their significance to each other. [Post-Canon]

I didn't know there was an ereani week this year until a couple days ago, but I figured: cool, I should probably post something. Title comes from the track of the same name by The Killers.

The prompt is: Day 3 (4/12): "I love you" / "I loved you"

[Ao3 | FFNet]

When the war was over, it was Armin who took the glory. That was a new look for him, Eren thought. Smart but eternally overlooked until he inherited the role of the Colossus Titan. Willing to carry the burden of humanity's savior without much complaint, unlike his teenage self who had always been plagued by doubts and fears. Eren wouldn't have thought Armin would be ready to chew the bullet while he quietly slipped into the background—but he was the leader, and Eren had always been accustomed to his status of figurehead.

Their roles had inverted with age.

As part of an overarching deal with Queen Historia, Eren was granted quarters—a cabin ten miles from the border of what had once been Wall Rose—and a modest pension, as long as he held his tongue and did not make any attempt to intercept the negotiations between Paradis and the surrounding countries. Eren put in an application for professor at the local military academy and spent the days trying to record what he could remember of his experiences in Marley.

The cabin had been around since the start of the war. About ten or so miles from the nearest village. Perhaps even before Eren was born, when Paradis was just a penal colony in name and the boundaries on inhabitable territory were less strict. The pipes still worked and there was evidence of an outhouse as well as quarters for a small animal—he wondered if it had been a hunter’s lodge.

After growing up in the back end of Shiganshina for the first nine years of his life and living in barracks and halfway houses for the next ten, it was a lot quieter. He felt oftentimes as if he were on a permanent state of leave, awaiting orders that would never come. There was so much time to fritter away now, without a war on the backburner.

ii.

In a bid to lessen the severity of his scarring, Eren tried growing a beard. He couldn't sprout a full one like Zeke could, just the chin-hairs, an innate reminder of his days in Marley. Most often he kept his hair pulled back in a short ponytail or else cut it short in the warmer seasons, though never as short as it had been in his days of adolescence.

He'd regenerated his leg and other limbs since the ceasefire, regained his motor functions in a week-long, agonsing process that he was sure Hanji would've loved had she been alive to witness it—but a day or so after settling into the cabin the old pain was flaring up again. He had a vivid memory of asking Commander Hanji once, at seventeen, after exhausting his father’s journal, but the only conclusion either of them could come up was phantom pain. Even if he were whole and unmarred, he did not anticipate sleep as any source of relief. Colours in his right eye gradually turned dull and it was getting harder to read even by candlelight, disorienting to walk out into harsh sunlight. Eventually he just began wearing a patch for the sake of simplicity. His other eye was unaffected.

He could still remember Ramzi's face better than most of his dead Scouts and it kept him up at night for hours. His way of life—the Titans, ODM gear—was quickly being phased out, trading blades and canisters for rifles and ammunition. His place among the armistice seemed moot.

Eren thought more often of his father. He did not wish to, explicitly, but the memories of him that popped into his head were usually indecipherable and triggered by stress.

The doctors in Marley would define this as shellshock. Other times they left impressions like the outline of the sun under closed eyelids; warmth, family, agony, guilt that would eat away at him for the rest of his remaining life.

Eren was, at least, confident in the fact that he was nothing like his father. He didn't pretend he was doing anything morally righteous, nor had he allowed himself to be molded into a pariah like Zeke. He had only accomplished what those same men were afraid or unable to do. It was nothing to crow about. He did not blame Zeke for that upbringing. Eren had taken action, knowing he would be hated and feared by his own comrades. He could only leave behind his memories in print, and if by some Godforsaken chance they somehow managed to fall into the hands of a like-minded company—well, perhaps one day he would be understood or misconstrued further. Rotting in the ground he could not defend his truth or bias.

But while he was alive, he could not rest. He knew better than most that all of this was fleeting.

It wasn’t as though he was out of shape with all the walking. He still stuck to drills in the morning to keep himself busy; awaiting orders that would never come. It sounded like something Armin might say. But Armin was content to busy himself with the sons and brothers of deceased bureaucrats; the succeeding generation to the brilliant men and women who'd led them right into the mouths of hell and out again.

Commander Hanji was dead. Commander Irvin had been dead four years now. Captain Levi was on his way to retirement and attempting to get Mikasa to replace him.

After seven years of military service his soldier’s inclinations remained unshakeable. He'd wake up every morning, going through the motions as though he were still a stowaway in Marley. He'd never allowed himself to consider a life beyond the pretext of enlistment and eventual expiration within the Scouting Regiment, much less the seemingly endless war between Paradis and the rest of the world. In the best case he had assumed he would die eventually, of old age or a more unheroic death out in the field. He'd never allowed himself to be ruled by that fear of mortality because he had to eradicate the Titans first—it was a child’s logic that had gotten him through military academy. Yet here he was, nineteen, with four going-on three years left to kill. Annie had three, going-on two. That was the only certainty she'd admitted to him without need for prying.

So Eren had to be sharp for the rest of their sakes. The war on Paradis had ended and brought with it economic turmoil. A mourning period that seemed to extend indefinitely. The next decade of prosperity would not be won in a year, nor three, and it would come on the backs of the losing side and breed the same old resentment, and then inevitably the same slow descent towards outrage and madness and oppression. Always in the back of his mind like the learnt urge to drink, or his inherited memories—he could almost convince himself of his hard-won stability. It was a good enough reason as any to stop answering Mikasa's letters.

iii.

The door opened to reveal the very last person he had ever expected to see again. She was every bit the woman he had seen in Marley and little of the girl in the crystal remained. What could he say to a four-year old crush-turned-heartbreak whose face he could scarcely recall among the hundreds of thousands of other casualties? "You shouldn't have come back."

When he moved to close the door, she stopped him with her heel. "I'm no longer a Warrior, nor a soldier. I have nowhere else to turn. You and I understand each other, so there's no point in bloodshed."

He gauged this, chewing his tongue. "Did someone send you?"

Her shoulders stiffened. "No one you'd know."

"I suppose you were sent here to finish the job for Marley?"

"No." Bluntly, she forced herself into the doorway. "I came here on my own. I just—"

"—all right, it seems like there's been some kind of miscommunication between you and whoever sent you."

"I was told you'd be able to accommodate me."

"I don't need anyone else here."

Annie squinted at him. Her hand was clenched tightly on the doorjamb. "You must get bored living up in the mountains. And you could use another pair of hands if you're not regenerating." Eren said nothing. "Did you carve your eye out again?"

"Goddamn you," he growled, and wrenched the door open.

He let her walk past the threshold. Looked at her once, and then away. "I'll set a place aside for you to sleep," indicating a well-worn sofa, "you can stay as long as you need to until you find somewhere you like."

"I don't know why you're so upset. You could have killed me years ago. You've had every opportunity, and yet—"

"—I've moved on." He said it flatly, almost resigned. "You haven't, obviously."

Annie didn't flinch. "So you're just going to stay here and wait to die?"

"I keep myself busy."

"What do you do?"

"I teach the new cadets over at the Academy. It's about two hours from where we are; nothing special, but they seem eager to learn."

"I see."

He turned finally to face her. "What about you?"

Annie hesitated. "Used to work with the other displaced soldiers up until a few days ago."

"How'd that treat you?"

"It was all right. Why, are you too good for it now, now that you're a war hero?"

Eren ignored the barb. "It's been a while since everything settled down, so I wondered how you would fare."

"What, so you just popped up in this house?"

He scoffed. "Of course not. There was a tribunal, and it was decided to let me live on the condition I'd be kept far away where I wouldn't bother with anyone. I can't say the same for the others."

"You sold them out?"

He chuckled. "I didn't have to say much. They did it to themselves. We shared a common goal at one point but never the same ideology. At the very least, I can say I took no pleasure in what I—"

"—Ackermann gave you an out?"

Eren gauged the sharpness in her tone, the stiffness of her posture. "I didn't ask her to." He frowned. "You never told me how you got here. Did Mikasa have something to do with this?"

Annie froze, then averted her eyes. "I didn't have much of a choice. It was either come here or work myself to death doing manual labor. I wouldn't have minded that."

"Why didn't you tell me that she sent you?"

"I don't know. She seemed to pity you."

"Oi, it's not your fault. She can feel however she wants." He sounded bemused, scowling. "What the hell else she she think I'm going to do in four years? I have no plans to start another war."

Annie finally eyed him in her peripherals. "We didn't talk much other than that."

Within the next few hours he'd gotten a few more details out of her. In exchange for agreeing to be quartered here, her record was wiped clean. She had recently reapplied for the MP brigade under a new name and secured a position as secretary in the Karanese district headquarters. She had also admitted to him that she was dying to get back onto the streets again.

As a bedfellow Annie was, in some ways, more than he could've hoped for. Despite the introduction, she talked far less than they had as cadets. She did not seem particularly happy or unhappy, just neutral. She woke up each morning at six hours and left to do her drills. She would come back in an hour and offer to help him with whatever menial tasks needed doing, as if they really were holed up together in the remnants of a cabin lost ten years ago to a threat that would live on in sordid, haunting memory. The kind of life one would find beyond the realm of a weathered photograph.

Unobtrusive without becoming idyllic. The best outcome he could afford her was three years of uneventful domesticity.

They didn't spar anymore. Not for lack of want, or kicking the habit. Eren just couldn't keep up with her the way he used to. His leg was shaky and she pointed it out first. It would have an impact on the kind of punishment he could take as opposed to when he was fifteen and shrugged off every injury like it was nothing. His eye was not healing.

Annie was in better condition. Just by studying her gait it was obvious that she'd taken better care of herself. She had not had to bunk up with a gang of stinking, vulnerable soldiers riddled by shellshock. Trying to communicate with them in German worked, but it got him a lot of funny looks and no end of comparisons to fathers and grandfathers enlisted or long since dead.

Annie wasn't interested in his stories from Marley but she didn't brush him off either. She just tolerated it in a much more polite way than Mikasa or Armin would.

At twenty years old she came up to his chest. Either the crystallization had stunted her growth or she was naturally short. She was also scarred enough down her face but it was of the same sheer consistency as her hair. You would only know what she was if you were paying close attention.

She got skittish and temperamental if he tried to push his luck training with her. Initially it had pissed him off:

"What do you think I'm going to do?"

She'd looked at him bluntly. "You're still recovering. Why overexert yourself?"

He'd never told her about his injuries but the idea of her picking up on it this quickly rankled for reasons he did not care to discuss. "I'm not a kid."

Something flashed in her eyes. "I'm not going to push you."

And that was the end of it. He'd decided that this ritual mattered more to her than him, and respected her space. He still did his own drills.

But every time they locked eyes now he'd get that same, absurd itch in the back of his mind from a year ago. Sharpened his tongue and made him want to speak in ways he didn't think he should attempt to justify whilst sober.

iv.

Days passed. He did not always see her until late in the evening.

In the middle of the night he rolled over onto his bad leg and the pain woke him. In silence he got up, not enough to require medication but still pretty uncomfortable.

“Eren?”

He went still. Annie was up herself, over by the window, staring at him as though he were on his deathbed. In the low light her eyes looked strange and luminous. “Does it hurt?”

“Does—what?”

“Your leg.”

Eren sat up slowly as not to aggravate his condition. She didn't say anything else. “It’s not so bad that I can’t sleep.” He studied her face for signs of age, finding naught but scars, a weariness in her eyes he could speak to. She didn't frown. She just watched him coolly. Eren shrugged. “You can’t sleep either?" No answer. "Thinking about to-morrow?”

“I can get you something for it.”

Eren shook his head. “That's not necessary."

"Don't be stupid."

"This isn't something I can just take pills for.”

"It's chronic." Her tone pregnant with incredulity. "Why haven't you seen a doctor for this?"

"Annie, what the hell is a regular doctor gonna do for either of us? We already fix ourselves. There are other veterans that have been stranded here, they aren't growing their limbs back. They need all the help they can get. Anyway, it's only, what, three more years of living? I can take three. Fuck, I've taken ten."

The more he kept talking, the darker her eyes became. Clench in her jaw, tautness of her shoulders, pronounced enough to notice from a distance—an involuntary reflection of his own revulsion.

"I don't know how you managed to win one war, let alone, if you can't even prevent yourself from running into the ground." Her voice was icy and distinctly contemptuous. She stalked over to him. Cold fingers dug into the meat of his naked shoulder, pushed him upright between the wall and headboard; tight, controlled movements. "Four years later and you still want to pretend you're a fucking martyr. It might've worked on Mikasa, but I'm not your sister. I'm not going to help you hurt yourself."

She kneaded at his leg in a much brusquer way than the way the orderlies in Marley. Eren didn't argue. She was not going to take no for an answer. When it was done she coaxed him to lie down again. He stiffened as he felt her weight join his on the mattress, curled almost tentatively against his chest. She didn’t try to hold him, just huddled as though for warmth. She did not explain herself.

Eren had a vague recollection of the last time this had happened. Back then she came up to his chin, rather than the middle of his chest; their disparity was only thrown into relief. He could feel the human warmth of her through the thin undershirt, the softness of her hair on his cheek. He’d dreamt about this a lot when he was sixteen, while the tragedy of her betrayal was no longer fresh but still painful in his mind. He had no energy left to hate her then, for she was not his enemy.

He heard her breathing even out.

She had stayed this long. There was no sense in abandoning her now.

Sometime after that, Eren started noticing her in more tangible ways. Smell of her hair. The subtle glint in her eyes in lieu of a smile. She'd wait up for him in the mornings before he left. He'd tell her good-bye.

When he came home he’d catch her eyes lingering on him in profile.

Just one day too many of the same quiet inactivity. The fact that they had slept in the same bed was just a catalyst of how familiar they were with each other already.

She woke up an hour later than usual and, fuming, went out to train. A light rain had started. Eren made breakfast. Over the next twenty minutes the light sheet became much more torrential. Annie came back in about half-an-hour, dripping water all over the floor. He would've told her off but she grabbed his wrist. He turned as she leant up and took his face in her hands and kissed him like her life depended on it.

Maybe the situation had always been building to this. He had forgotten about its immediacy until the moment presented itself. But now there was nothing left to say. So he gathered her up and placed her on the counter, kissing her breathless, bunching up her threadbare shirt, palming her tits through the military-issue brassiere—he muttered, "see, I thought you were just being nice," and she scoffed, set her heel to the small of his back even as he put his mouth on her. She was chilled from the rain; it was not yet summer. Half-dressed and needy, he took her right there on the countertop. Afterwards, there was no shame or lingering uncertainty that would have been present as cadets. She pressed her cheek to his.

"I'm going to be away for a while. It's higher pay if I stay in Karanese. Maybe two or three weeks." She looked up at him. Her eyes were bright but her tone was stoic. "I just…" She trailed off because he was only looking at her face. Eren smoothed her damp hair away from her cheek.

"I love you." Then he stopped. Like he was finally coming to grips with the idea. Annie blinked rapidly. A crease formed in her brow. Her mouth worked but no sound came out. Eren kissed her chin. "But, if you're gonna be trackin' mud everywhere you'd best clean it up after yourself."

She finally came back to herself. Shoved him lightly in the chest. "Fuck off." Then hoisted herself off the counter, fixed her trousers, and asked in a dry voice where he kept the washbasin.

vi.

On his own the cabin felt distinctly empty. Sometimes he'd wake up hard and just—take care of it. Annie on top of him. On her knees. Pulling him up to her. He missed her a lot more than he'd care to admit to her face and it wasn't just in the sense that she was available. She'd probably just smirk at him anyway.

But when she returned it was nice to have her around, even for a little while. She kept to herself and he gave her space; it was as though she had never left.

It was still morning. He was working when he felt her come up behind him, hands slipping over his wrists. “Oi,” he muttered, “I’m a little busy.”

“You’re just sitting there.”

He scoffed. “Really? How would you know what I’m doin’?” No answer. Eren closed the book. “You really are demanding, ain’t you?” Faux-annoyance. But he turned.

She looked prettier in uniform. Hair pulled back into less of a bun, more of a severe ponytail. She was looking him up and down as though deciding something for herself.

She leant down, kissed him firmly, nipping at his lip until went with it, half-amused. She stepped back, breathing evenly, eyes glinting. She cupped his face, a vestige of tenderness he did not anticipate.

Then her eyes shifted, something empty, strange. A harsh crack against his jaw he could not anticipate and he took it, worked his jaw, blinking rapidly. “What the hell are you—?”

Annie jerked her head back slightly, fixing him with the same expectance he realised he’d completely misinterpreted. “Hit me.”

Eren didn’t move. Her jaw trembled, then set. He caught her wrist. “That’s enough.”

“Why?” She sounded annoyed. “It’s all right. I can take it.”

“What is this?”

“I’ll be dead before you anyway, it would be easier just to take—”

“—I said that’s enough,” he said, terse. “I’m not going to do anything to you."

Her brow furrowed. "I thought you understood.”

Eren just stared, fighting to keep himself calm when he wanted to grab her shoulders and demand her to justify why the hell she wanted to be hit. "What am I supposed to understand?"

Annie’s eyes darted over his face and then to his wrist. “I want you to hit me back.”

“I’m not going to do that.” He cupped her jaw and she almost flinched; his stomach twisted. “Do you understand me?“

Silence built up between them. "I know you’d stop if I asked you to.”

“I’m not going to wait until after I’ve hurt you to stop.”

Annie pressed her face into his chest. He took her by the shoulders, watching her stiffen.

“Do you hear me?”

She nodded.

"Why d'you want me to hit you?"

"Do you want a list?" He gripped her tight enough to make her flinch and immediately regretted the look of fear that came across her face. He let go of her. "I’ve been complicit in the death of your comrades.” Her voice thickened. “And I’ve taught you everything I know. You don't need me here for anything other than your own gratification.” Returning to the facade of impassivity with unnerving ease. “So, there’s no point in comparing our tallies.”

“Annie—"

“Are you stupid?” Annie spat, the most emotion she had exhibited thus far. “You've taken my country and my life and my father and you—now you want me to love you back. You want to marry me as if we're ever going to—I'm the one who killed your friends, why would you ever want to be reminded of—"

"You love me." She looked helpless in her vulnerability. "What? What's the matter?"

"Why would you want me? I—I can't even have children. I'm going to die in four years. I'm going to watch you die unless I kill myself fir—"

"—Annie—"

"—you could fuck anyone you wanted!" she exploded. "Why does it have to be me?"

"Because you don’t have to earn anything from me! I just want to be around you—can’t you accept that?”

Annie kissed him hard. He trembled though he was holding her.

“Take me to bed." Eren opened his mouth and she kissed his chin. “I want you to take me to bed. I—”

Even then, he was hesitant to touch her. She led the way, stripping down to skin and splaying on his bed. He caressed her when she asked him to, a gentleness in his hands that betrayed his own sympathy; for once she didn’t chastise him.

Her scarring was far more pronounced in the light. He'd noticed before, briefly on the counter and more clearly with enough attention, but not like this. It clustered around her sternum and down her spine. He wondered, briefly, if that was why she'd wanted to do it quickly. Now her eyes were bright and shimmering but she took him into her, reached for him.

"Is this OK?" His voice was a croak.

Her eyes flickered to him. Cautious, sure. "Yeah."

He was on his knees, lifting the small of her back, working her towards a much sweeter surrender. He slid one arm around her waist to support her and touched her breasts, the side of her neck, cupping her jaw. His thumb ran over her scarring.

“Annie.” She gasped at the sound of her name. “Ann. Look. Come here.” She was biting her lip. Head fallen back, her hair was almost diaphanous in the light. He murmured her name and she was shivering with emotion. She turned into her elbow and told him in an unsteady voice to go faster, and the bed creaked to match him.

Her body arched, jaw slack. She wouldn't stop shivering. Her voice did not rise in expectation. It just wavered, edgeless.

He took her wrist away from her face and—she flinched. This serrated, ugly, sound that jerked out of her body. He pulled out, holding her. “Look at me,” his voice hoarse and horrified, “please.”

Annie curled up against his chest and shook. Eren just kept apologizing. She didn't push him away.

Eventually she stopped. Raised her head. Their eyes met and she lost composure again. He brushed her hair from her face. “Stay,” she croaked, “please. I need you.”

He kissed her brow. She almost flinched. He tucked his chin into her shoulder, arms around her back, until she’d calmed down.

"You don't have to do anything," he said quietly. "Do you understand that?"

"I know."

Laying prone, she only came up to his sternum. Annie sat up first. She got to her feet and went over to the window. Her shoulder was parallel to the glass. His attention stayed firmly on her profile. “You’re gonna get colder than hell. Come back here.”

She turned and glanced at his forearm curled half-surreptitiously against his stomach. Scar tissue along her breasts was prominent. In the dead light of this cloudy, April afternoon she finally looked her age.

There was a naked uncertainty in her eyes that made him freeze. "You're not my father and you never will be. You've been kinder towards me than I deserve, given the circumstances. I wish I could despise you."

Eren rolled his shoulders. The silence held for a while. "I don't know if what either of us have done can be forgiven. But, as long as you’re here, I want you to know that I don't hate you." All she did was stare, a slight crease in her brow. “I never could.”

“You love me,” she said. Not with scorn. Like she was testing the idea in a way they would have shied away from as kids. She averted her face towards the window.

She watched him get up and tensed. He limped towards her in a couple strides and draped the blanket around her shoulders with the same tentativeness. She did not put her arms around him. She pressed her face into his shoulder. His arm came around her back and she closed her eyes, just existing in the cold slats of wood against her feet and the rise and fall of his breast.

He put the blankets around her and laid beside her.

He’d always supposed he would heal with enough rest. He didn't know how to put what he felt into words, but eloquence had never been his forte. It was not unlike laying on your deathbed, mulling over all the things that hardly seemed to matter until there was no time left to spare.

There was no pain now, just certainty in the presence of another—the old urge to drink was absent.

This is a cleaned-up version of a couple tumblr WIPs + some old/new material blended in for fun. Think of it as a pilot episode for a much larger fic.

For what it's worth I did like the ending of AoT. Elements of that ending will likely factor into the aforementioned larger fic. I am totally disinterested in arguing about ships or wasted potential—at this point, I’d rather write whatever seems interesting, and leave it at that, canon or not.

And hey, if you think acknowledging canon will override my crippling addiction to the "morally challenged antihero/problematic blonde" dynamic… I really don't see that happening. Even after exiting this fandom, it's like, ALL I've been writing for a year (looking at YOU Insult to Injury) and I feel like I'm going insane. Back on topic though: Now that AoT has concluded, I find I am far less stressed at the prospect for writing for this series again. It won’t be my main focus, but I do like this fic’s concept enough to flesh it out.

#ereaniweek2021 #ereannieweek2021 #eren jaeger #annie leonhardt #ereani #ereannie #snk #aot #shingeki no kyojin #attack on titan #apologies for any disparity between canon #I'm a bit behind but I have the jist of what happens #fanfic #fanfiction

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the-moon-loves-the-sea · 4 years

Note

Second-hand cultural impact of charity work??

Oh, yes. Well, basically, what I was taught is that dumping stuff or money directly into a community is genuinely helpful only in a disaster. At that point, the community’s resources have been wiped out, and tangible help is a relief. But in the long run, the community needs sovereignty and sustainability; continuing to pour money on them because it’s easy for you does nothing good.

One of my teachers had worked on a community development team in Masai territory. He liked to tell how they got the bright idea of building outhouses all over the area. They spent a lot of time and money on it. The Masai, used to burying their crap, were incredibly grossed out by the idea of pooping over stinky holes surrounded by flies. They asked the team why on earth they hadn’t asked the community elders--they would have said they needed a schoolhouse, not poop houses. That stuck with my teacher. He said the first rule of coming into any community as a developer is never make your own plans. Let the leaders lead.

The other thing I was taught is to develop the assets that are already there. If you bring in a bunch of clothes from the outside, say, and sell them for cheap, the local weavers and importers and tailors and clothing shops are going to lose business. The community will be clothed, but at the expense of a bunch of peoples’ livelihoods. Or if you bring in a bunch of farming equipment from elsewhere, the crops will get planted and harvested quicker, but when the equipment breaks down the farmers won’t have easy access to replacement parts, and they’ll lose the harvest they can’t manage. So when you see a lack of a basic resource like clothes or food or equipment, you have to resist the temptation to just distribute it, if it’s not recently lost--if it’s something they’ve never had. Instead find local projects that could supply the need and support their development.

Because the reality is that you’re really not needed, most of the time, in the broad sense. Most communities can solve their own issues, given resources and time. An outsider is unlikely to know their problems better than they do. Coming into a community, you need to be prepared to limit yourself to one thing: the thing you’ve got that they want. You have outside contacts? Help them advocate for themselves with the government or the medical/legal/educational establishment. You have new health-related info? Introduce it to local teachers, doctors, leaders, and let them decide if it’s applicable and practical and how to teach it. Medicine? Don’t give it out yourself; distribute it to community clinics. Land restoration techniques? Run them by the older farmers and landowners first and let them train the others if they think they’ll work. But mostly--work yourself out of a job if you can; get them the resources and get out of the way.

#asks #infodumping about that thing i studied #for the jobs i loved #but were not always that effective at actually helping people

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nxrdist · 3 years

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A/N: This is a one-shot for right now, but I may add to it later. The idea has been bugging me for weeks now and I had to write it! Hope ya’ll enjoy this even though I’m like 5 years too late to the party on Black Sails lol

Story Summary: A year ago, Olivia was ship wrecked in Nassau by a late season hurricane on her way to the New World. As one of the few survivors of the wreck she's had to make her own way. Starting with no money and no prospects on a pirate controlled island can be hard, but there is much to be learned.

Words:3241

The sun had set hours earlier, but still, the salty Nassau air was thick and humid in an echo of the day's heat. It caused sweat to bead at the nape of Olivia's neck as she went around emptying mugs discarded on tables into her pitcher. Heat was one of the first things she'd had to get used to since arriving in Nassau against her will. Sure they had some warm days back in Scotland, but those were nothing in comparison. Often as she sat fanning herself, Olivia would lament the complaints she'd had about the weather in her homeland. Her former life there almost seemed to belong to someone else after a year here.

Sighing to herself, Olivia put the thoughts out of her mind as she went about her work. Most patrons had stumbled off some time ago, leaving her with her final duty of the evening. It didn't take long, and Olivia did her best not to dwell further on her unfortunate circumstances as she completed the chore.

There was, after all, not much to be done about it now. The hurricane that forever changed her life had been a surprise so late in the season. Once the ship had become caught in those tumultuous waters, there had only been so much the crew could do. In the end, they'd lost the battle against the vicious waves and torrential rain. The ship had bashed against a crop of rocks near the edge of the bay, leaving the few survivors stranded. It had not taken long to learn where exactly it was they'd landed -Nassau being rather notorious after all.

Placing the pitcher down on the bartop, Olivia looked for the bartender Mr. Le Goff to inform him she had finished, but he was nowhere to be seen. Frowning slightly, she hesitated. Usually, she would bid him good night before making the short trek to her small home. Tapping her fingers idly against the bar, Olivia glanced around for him again, her eyes eventually drifting toward the second floor. She could hear voices coming from the direction of Ms. Guthrie's office. Interrupting whatever the two might be discussing was certainly not something she had any desire to do, nor did she particularly wish to wait for them to emerge. Ms. Guthrie had been in a sour mood as of late. Nearly every time Olivia saw her, the blonde's features were tight, and she knew why. All the business with the whore from across the way and the pirates had become messy in recent weeks.

Pirates , Olivia sighed.

When she'd realized where she was, Olivia had vowed not to become entangled with them, to keep her head down, and get out as soon as possible. It was difficult, though, when the main clientele at her workplace was precisely that sort. However, Ms. Guthrie's close association with the island's Captains certainly didn't help matters either. Before long, Olivia had realized pirates, while often more vulgar and violent at times than normal men, were just that -men.

The footsteps startled her slightly, and Olivia spun in the direction of the disturbance. Emerging from the kitchen was a lanky bare-faced boy of about fourteen called Kit, who worked alongside the cook. Realizing he'd startled her, Kit smiled sheepishly.

"Sorry, Ma'm."

"Oh, it's quite alright," Olivia replied gently.

Kit was the quiet sort which was a surprise in a place like this, but he was a kind soul by her measure. Olivia had wondered a time or two how he had ended up there, but she'd never felt it proper to pry. He mainly kept to himself and was an excellent aid to the cook, so he often went unnoticed.

"Mr. Le Goff said to let you know it's fine to pop off once you've finished up."

Olivia arched her eyebrow slightly at the boy. "Did he?"

Kit nodded. "He left a short while ago -was muttering something to himself about his son when he left." With a soft 'huh' of understanding, she nodded. Unbidden, her eyes drifted back to the door of Ms. Guthrie's office curiously. If it wasn't Mr. Le Goff, then who was with her?

"It's probably that Captain Flint fellow," said Kit lowly.

For fourteen, he was awfully observant, but with how quiet he was, that should've been no surprise. Still, occasionally the boy made her feel like he'd read her mind. Or perhaps she was simply that easy to read; however, she would prefer to assume the latter.

Biting the inside of her cheek, Olivia nodded. "Well, I'd better get going. Are you alright on your own?"

Kit shrugged. Frowning, Olivia realized she didn't even know where the boy lived.

"Good night then."

"Good night Ms. Adair."

Out in the street, Olivia paused, glancing up at the sky. Twinkling stars looked back at her, mocking in their familiarity. Not being one for astronomy but still loving the stars, it was easy to convince herself she was looking at the same ones as were over her home, which of course they weren't. Scoffing at her own foolishness, Olivia focused back on the path before her. It wasn't far, but becoming too comfortable in a town infested with pirates would be an altogether different level of foolhardiness. So, she kept her hand poised to draw the short blade hidden in the folds of her skirts as she walked.

The blade had been gifted to her by one of Ms. Guthrie's guards after an incident the second week of her employment at the tavern. Olivia had gone out back to use the outhouse when a drunken man had caught up with her. He'd unceremoniously grabbed her and started kissing her neck, but Benjamin had pulled the man off before it could go further than that. After knocking the man out, Benjamin had turned to her, taken a blade from his belt, and pressed it into her palm.

" Don't ever walk alone unarmed. " He'd warned.

And Olivia had taken that very much to heart.

At this time of night, the bustling town had quieted aside from the odd drunk struggling to find their bed. So, when Olivia heard the distinct sound of retching coming from an alley as she passed, it was no great surprise. Initially, she didn't even break stride; drunks were nothing if not messy and unpredictable, and outside of her job Olivia didn't much care for dealing with them. She was perhaps ten paces past the alley when scuffling and a loud grunt drew her attention, giving her pause. As she stood listening for any further movement, Olivia could hear a vaguely familiar voice grumbling to themself. Turning slightly to look back, she could see the form of a stocky man leaning heavily against the wall, looking very much like he was about to slide down it. It was difficult to see his face well in the dim light, but something about his outline was as familiar as his voice. Not that that was much of a surprise, Olivia'd gotten to know many of the locals since coming to Nassau.

Against her better judgment, she stalled there in the street a few moments hoping, if nothing else, then to alleviate her curiosity. It wasn't long before the man exhaled a deep breath and turned his face toward the sky, allowing his profile to become illuminated by a lantern. Without even realizing it, Olivia let out a soft gasp. The noise, however, was enough to draw the man's attention, and he turned in her direction.

Olivia couldn't convince her body to move as the piercing gaze of Charles Vane fell on her. He held it for what felt like hours. It felt like he was staring into her soul until quite suddenly, he doubled over and began retching again. Without thought, Olivia rushed to his side, placing a hand on his shoulder and holding hair away from his face as he vomited onto the ground. When he finished, Charles wiped his mouth with his sleeve and wrenched himself away from her scowling. He said nothing as he turned his back on her and started shuffling down the street as if nothing had happened.

Scoffing at the absurdity of the situation, Olivia watched him go. It was the first she'd seen of the famed Captain in weeks -since Eleanor had, according to the gossip, swindled his ship and crew out from under him. To say she was a bit shocked was an understatement though Charles Vane was among the most feared and respected on the island. Seeing him so low bothered Olivia in a way she did not expect.

The first time she had seen the man was almost a year ago on the beach. New as she'd been to the sweltering Caribbean heat, a moment of weakness led her there in search of a place to swim. As Olivia made her way along the beach, a skiff landed a short distance from her, carrying Captain Vane and several others. Immediately Vane stood out, and even without knowledge of who he was, his commanding presence had struck her. As more of the Ranger's crew came ashore, Olivia'd thought it prudent to abandon her idea of a swim and head back into town, but the man on the boat stuck with her. Later that evening, he'd appeared at the tavern, and Olivia was unable to help asking Benjamin about him.

That man from her memory was so unlike the one she'd just encountered, and before truly deciding to do so, she was following Captain Vane towards the beach. Staying a fair distance behind, Olivia watched him and wondered. Could it be the loss of a ship and crew that brought such a man to this? Sure, she did not know him well. In fact, she hardly knew him at all aside from having served him at the tavern, but she could never have imagined seeing him like this.

When they reached the beach, Charles made directly for his tent disappearing inside without delay leaving Olivia alone in the dark. A few dying fires still burned in some places along the shore, but the only light came from the stars for the most part, and she suddenly felt rather senseless at having followed him. Charles Vane, ship or not, was a pirate Captain, and she just a merchant's daughter. What on God's green Earth was she doing following him? Intoxicated or not, the man could easily kill her or worse. And she was what? Ensuring he made it unharmed to his bed?

Her self-berating was interrupted then by a soft groaning from inside the tent. Olivia bit her lip. Glancing between the tent flap and the path, she felt torn despite herself. So much for staying clear of pirates, Olivia thought spitefully at herself. Even with all the reasons she'd just thought of not to, Olivia reached out to open the tent flap.

Inside she found Charles lying spread-eagled on his back, staring unseeingly at the ceiling. He didn't so much as acknowledge her presence, and by his expression she imagined he was fighting the urge to empty his stomach once more. Looking around the tent, Olivia noticed several empty bottles lying on their sides, an opium pipe, as well as various other articles strewn about. In all, it was a mess, but she did notice a bowl with water and a rag lying beside it. Someone had been taking care of him somewhat recently, but tonight they were nowhere to be seen.

Accepting she'd already gone all-in on this predicament she'd gotten herself into, Olivia knelt beside him. Despite her closeness, Charles's gaze remained fixed on the canopy. Either he was that focused or truly unaware, but she had a feeling it was a latter after the small gasp she'd made in the street grabbed his attention. So, Olivia proceeded with caution as she reached for the rag and dipped it into the waiting bowl. It wasn't until the cloth was about to brush his forehead that a hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, causing Olivia to stifle a yelp.

"What are you doing here?" His voice was deep and quite irritated as he questioned her.

A sudden boldness struck her at the rudeness of his tone. "Ensuring you don't drown in your vomit."

Turning to fix his gaze on her, he furrowed his brow in confusion. Up close, she could see just how glassy his eyes were. For a moment, she was unable to attempt pulling her wrist away or moving at all under his stare. Then he grunted and dropped his grip, breaking the spell.

She waited a moment before tentatively dabbing his forehead with the rag. When he didn't respond, she continued wiping the beads of sweat from his tanned skin. Exhaling a heavy sigh through his nose, Charles seemed to relax some. His eyes slipped closed, and when she pulled away to refresh the rag, he frowned.

"Why?" he murmured, barely above a whisper.

Olivia had a distinct feeling; he wasn't asking why she was there but felt compelled to answer anyway.

"Truly, I do not know." She paused, wringing out the rag slightly before returning it to his forehead. "I'm reckless, I suppose."

That was a true enough statement, she had chosen to stay on at the tavern even after learning of the more respectable -and markedly safer- employment possibilities further inland.

He said nothing. Olivia was beginning to think he'd passed out when he reached out blindly to brush his fingers along her arm. She halted at his touch.

"Mmm, your skin, it's so soft," he breathed. "Missed it."

Her tongue felt stuck in her throat at his words, but she couldn't manage to pull away. Now Olivia was confident; he was not speaking to her, at least not in his mind. His fingers trailed along her arm tenderly a moment or two more before his hand dropped onto his chest.

There was only one person she could think of that Charles Vane might speak with such softness towards, and it made her stomach sick. When Olivia had first arrived in Nassau, Eleanor was in the midst of her affair with the Captain though it ended not a few months after. She'd thought it to be an ill-fated fling with how unconcerned either party seemed about its end, but now? Well, men didn't speak that way to whores, did they? Olivia didn't think so, which left only Eleanor.

After that, Charles did not stir again aside from a few unintelligibly mumbled words, and eventually, she felt her eyes beginning to grow heavy. It had grown very late or early, depending upon perspective, in the time Olivia had spent tending the Captain. Having finished dabbing his face, she moved to his neck and exposed chest and did what little she could to clean the sick which had gotten on his shirt.

Blinking a few times, Olivia sighed. He didn't look all that much better than when she'd first seen him, but he'd been asleep a while with no sign of waking. Feeling as though there was little else she could do, Olivia got to her feet and went to exit the tent.

As she stepped out, Olivia had a strong feeling of being watched that made her hesitate to look back over her shoulder, but Captain Vane was still sleeping like a rock. Guardedly she peered about for the source of the feeling, initially finding nothing. Until she let the flap fall behind her, someone close by cleared their throat, making Olivia immediately draw her dagger. Spinning to face the source of the sound, she found a man with dark windswept hair holding up his hands in a sign of peace.

"Ah, don't be alarmed."

Olivia scowled, hissing as she lowered her dagger marginally. "And why shouldn't I? A man sneaking up on me in the dark, fairly alarming if you ask me."

The man cleared his throat and took a tentative step towards her which Olivia responded to by raising the dagger once more. He looked rather put out at her actions and sighed audibly.

"You're in the camp of Captain Charles Vane, don't you think if I were going to harm you, I'd have done so by now?" Reasoned the man.

Pursing her lips in irritation, Olivia had to admit he had a point, but it still wasn't enough to convince her to lower the dagger.

"I'm only curious, you see," he began again when she didn't respond. "You've been in there for several hours-"

Olivia scrunched up her nose. "I'm no whore."

"No, I didn't think so, dear lady," he said. "I only mean, you've been taking care of the Captain, yes?"

"The way I've heard it, he's not exactly a Captain anymore." She paused. "And who're you?"

"Jack, Jack Rackham quartermaster of the Ranger," he said, straightening slightly with his words.

Olivia arched an eyebrow at him condescendingly.

"Well, formerly, but that's not the point." A beat of silence passed, only filled by the distant lull of the waves on the beach. "I saw you seeing the Captain to his tent. It left me wondering why a barmaid in Eleanor Guthrie's tavern would do such a thing."

Oliva frowned. It was the question she'd been asking herself. Having it posed aloud left her feeling uncomfortable, and she shifted slightly. She also found herself annoyed at being referred to in such a way. Yes, she worked in the Guthrie tavern, but it wasn't as if they owned her. Just because Eleanor had spurned, Captain Vane didn't make it forbidden for her to speak to him -not that they'd really spoken.

"I am in no way accusing you, Miss," Jack said assuringly.

"You know," Olivia finally began. "That's not the first time someone's asked me that tonight."

Technically, Vane asking her why clearly hadn't been in regards to why she was there, but she'd asked herself enough times. And if she was honest, she knew the answer even if it didn't necessarily make complete sense.

"Truthfully," she breathed before raising her voice slightly. "I suppose I just couldn't stand to see a man like that so low."

As she spoke, her face twisted with confusion at her own words. Saying them out loud still didn't explain why she felt that way, but the truth in them was evident. Jack even nodded in a seemingly understanding manner at the explanation.

"Perhaps-"

But before he could say more, Olivia had turned her back and was striding away, still wielding her knife. Wisely, Jack chose not to follow, but he did watch her until she was out of sight -wondering.

In the days that followed, Olivia heard of the disappearance of Captain Vane and the acquisition of the local brothel by Mr. Rackham. She couldn't help feeling a sliver of spite towards Ms. Guthrie for the state of the Captain. Nor could she stop herself feeling mildly irritated at Mr. Rackham for possibly allowing some misfortune to befall the man. Outwardly Olivia carried on as normal, but in a quiet moment or two, she allowed herself to wonder if the Captain was alive.

Eventually, she decided it was respect that had driven her actions that night. For all the things pirates were -thieves, murderers, or in some cases worse- there was something about Vane that Olivia respected. And with his disappearance, she may never know what that was.

Black Sails Taglist; N/A

Charles Vane Taglist; N/A

#black sails #black sails fic #charles vane #charles vane fic #black sails fanfic #if i continue this it will be slow burn af

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pumpkinmaster999 · 4 years

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Heroes Walk in Dirt

By Jess Awh

At last call at the bar I am eight shots in, swing dancing with a broom while Sasha wipes the wood down. His face says he’s wondering how a mess like me can be trusted to clean shit up.

I tell him when I’m home I like to vacuum drunk. Drunk vacuuming is kinda like being on a swing: you blithely toss your body around the room in a tango with the vacuum, singing to yourself, forgetting certain corners. I sing the live recorded version of a John Prine song, “That’s the Way that the World Goes Round.” Sasha asks why live. The song’s got this line: “it’s a half an inch of water and you think you’re gonna drown,” I say, but on the live tape John Prine tells the crowd how a woman came up to him in San Fransisco once and asked him to play his song about the happy enchilada. She thought it went, “it’s a happy enchilada and you think you’re gonna drown.”

In my bedroom I take eight shots of Jim Beam and grab the expensive vacuum I bought at Costco with the different detachable heads which I call “my vacuum ingredients,” and I swing and sing to myself about the happy enchilada.

Sasha shrugs and scrubs the gun line. He says that that John Prine song has a verse where John Prine pretty much says it’s ok to beat your wife. It isn’t okay to beat your wife, I don’t sing that verse. I know it isn’t okay to beat your wife. My wood floors shine. I hate when dirt from the floor sticks to my feet as though it were all the world’s injustice.

I smoke in the tub and I swim in the Hudson, so in a way no bath I take is ever clean as a true baptism. I dislike the laundromat, so I wash clothes at home and hang them on the fire escape. In a nutshell, all I can do is try, I say, in a nutshell. Trying is what we do when succeeding eludes our sight. Sasha once came over after work and laid on my bed eating pistachios, setting the empty shells down on his chest. He’s been upset because his ex is about to marry a man she loves less just to get him a green card and have some kids. I’d never ask anyone or anything to change. I would’ve vacuumed his shirt, though.

I walk to the train to work like always and Lee is waiting outside the liquor store. For whatever reason, the liquor store people hired him seemingly just to stand outside and ask people how they’re doing as they go by. He’s hardly ever inside, and when he is he doesn’t seem to be doing anything. He doesn’t have any flyers to hand out. “What’s new, Lee?” “Oh, you know, new gangsters, new crackheads.” “Oh yeah? You look spiffy. I like the blazer.” “Ah, thanks, it’s gettin’ cold.” “Yep, yep.” “My birthday’s coming up.” I like that one because he always tells me what’s new with the block when I’m really asking what’s new with him. “Shit, when is it?” “The 26th.” “No way, I’m having a party that night. I’ll bring you a piece of cake or something.” We laugh. Lee is always in a clean black button down and black pants that are never wrinkly. He’s like a blackboard that got wiped down with a wet towel. I’m gonna bring him cake because he doesn’t expect me to. We live in this charmed narrative where we move one plant into the sun, or put a sardine out for one stray cat, or organize one shelf, and then the sky opens up so sunbeams land on our shoulders like we somehow answered a prayer God didn’t even say out loud. I read this story in American Girl Magazine when I was nine where they’re walking on the beach and they find hundreds of washed up starfish dying in the sun. The one girl says “we can’t save them all, it’s pointless” and the other starts throwing them in the water one by one. She goes “but we can at least save a few, and that still matters.”

I get to the bar and this guy I know is there drinking, Grant Barber. I tell Sasha I’m going to go hide in the basement and he knows what I mean. A couple summers ago when I was bartending in Chinatown I became friends with Grant Barber because he was living in the radio station. He’d listen to my show on the mail room speakers on Sundays and say things like “I’m glad you played Patsy Cline” or “I can tell you like the music, that’s why you’re such a good host.” Grant Barber has blue eyes like Santa’s eyes, and that’s why I started buying him lunch and letting him shower at my apartment. I’m a good person but I get starfished sometimes. So I served court papers to the squatter who’d forced him out of his place in BedStuy, I went with him to the notary and everything, but when the legal shit started to drag along and he was sending me messages like “I’m gonna kill myself today” and “why won’t you answer me, I’m going to die” I stopped replying. I couldn’t fix it any more for him, and what was I gonna do, sit there listening to a dude I barely knew threaten suicide because I ignored his Facebook DMs? He said he never asked me to “fix it,” just to be there, and then he said he was in love with me. I said this is too many starfish. Actually, I said nothing.

Grant Barber talked to Blaze Foley in Austin back in 1985. I believe that story because he never lied to me about anything else besides the killing himself. “Fuck, I love Blaze Foley, seriously?” Yeah, at this concert at The Outhouse where he was double billed with Townes Van Zandt. Townes played for an hour straight, and I was there with my girlfriend, they were waiting for Blaze to come onstage but no one could find him I guess. He came on and played one song, then left again. That night is the only time I talked to him ever even though I saw him twice or three times. I’ll never forget what he said…I went to the men’s room and he was there barreling through a fifth of whiskey…slouched over a urinal. It was just us two and for some reason I started rambling about how much I looked up to him, how his music moved me, and then he stared at me and said one sentence. He said, and he was slurring—it took him a whole long minute to say this—he said “my problem is that I can’t stop being funny.”

I was funny once, at a nude figure drawing session held by a local art club. They had offered me thirty bucks to play the guitar and sing my songs while the models posed and the artists sketched them. The room echoed like the inside of a drum and the floors were shiny. I sang things I had written and they mingled with the dust lit up by the window and hovering in the air. Afterwards a girl came up to me and said “I loved your lyrics, they were so funny!” And maybe they were funny, but I recoiled because I felt stung, because I had been admitting that I was weak, which is braver than most things I do. Blaze Foley got shot in the chest by his friend Concho January’s son. That’s how he died. He confronted Carey, the son, about stealing Concho January’s veteran pension and welfare checks, and a few days later Carey shot him. Blaze’s friends covered his coffin in duct tape because he never got starfished, he knew his strength even though he looked to be made of flesh. Sasha was uninvited to his ex’s wedding because Gavin (the new fiancé) hates him, and when he found out he said fine, I’m happy for you guys, then cried on my shoulder in the bar basement later.

I love Blaze Foley but I doubt I would’ve ever dated him because I bet his hair was dirty all the time. He has this song called “Sittin’ by the Side of the Road” that’s about being homeless and being fine with it, because what do you even need besides a guitar and a meal to eat? I need a sanctuary that I can control and retreat to. The best gift I’ve ever given a friend is an invitation to stay with me, to hide in my house with the vacuumed floors, out of New York, and feel clean. This is why I wouldn’t date Sasha: his apartment is an unheeded hodgepodge of once-important or still-important things not set in order, not categorized, not scrubbed with Clorox wipes. I wonder what service he’s out there doing that makes him forget about cleaning. He texts me that Grant Barber left the bar and I come upstairs, eyeing the balled-up napkins and brown leaves sprinkled on the ground as I walk to the front door. I will clean this up before anyone else has a chance to disregard it.

#short fiction

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capricornus-rex · 4 years

Text

Stronger Than Blood (3)

Not a witcher fic, the gif just fits the mood

Chapter 3: Impulses | Cal Kestis x Reader

Requested by Anon

Summary: Meeting another Force-sensitive was one thing, but having them related to one of the most formidable known duelers was a whole other story to tell. While being stranded in another planet after barely escaping the Haxion Brood, Cal crosses paths with someone who’s at a crossroads with their own identity and lineage.

Tagging @ayamenimthiriel since they asked in Chapter 2′s comments section ;)

Also posted in AO3

Tags: Force-User! Reader, Force-Sensitive! Reader, Sith-Related! Reader

Chapters: Part 1 | Previous: Part 2 | Next: Part 4 | Masterlist

3 of ?

Cal went back into the city, preparing for his stroll into the inner district with you. He entered Tundu’s shop again, he was half-expecting you to be already waiting by the counter but to no avail. Footsteps were followed when the hinges of the door stopped squeaking.

You were clad in a poncho, you smiled upon seeing Cal wearing the same article of clothing. The only difference is that yours was long enough to reach your knees.

“Awesome, we have the same cover,” you quipped.

When Cal saw you pull up the hood upon exiting the store, he followed suit.

“Stay close,” you warned within his earshot.

“Don’t worry, I plan to,”

Staying under the broad daylight and going together with the crowd was a good tactic, but Cal felt the growing tremors in your body the farther you got away from Tundu’s store. He’d catch glimpses of you—cautious yet calm in demeanor but deep inside you’re sweating bullets, hanging your head low as you pass by the loiterers who may know your face. Cal was under the impression that you’ve been to this part of town more than once. It doesn’t take a genius, after all, he had survived a similar environment for roughly five years.

As soon as the shadows have towered over the streets, your shallow breathing rasped through your lips, avoiding the eyes of the many bystanders grouped together at storefronts; you felt Cal’s arm brush against yours, causing you to flinch and shoot a glance at him.

“What? You said stay close,”

You wonder where does this boy find his smug confidence within himself and use it so casually. Whatever the answer was, it was a question for another time.

This part of town has always been a catalyst to your anxiety growing tenfold. It’s become an unconscious habit of yours to keep your fists clenched, as if repressing something that you can muster but cannot control. The chances of you getting jumped lingered with every step, so you find a way to distract yourself.

“Tundu says that you need a mechanic?” you began.

“Yeah, well, it’s just me and the captain who’s gonna be working on it. It’d be nice to have an extra set of hands,”

“That bad, huh?”

“It’s a bit of a big project, and we have places to go,”

“Well, that was the job I originally signed up for when I walked into Tundu’s sweatshop anyway. I only ended up being an assistant store keeper because not many come by the place to actually get the service,”

“You seem like a pretty good mechanic,”

You scoffed another chuckle again, “Don’t flatter me too much, Cal. I just might get used to it.”

The two of you traded glances: he had that coy smirk flashing back, while you smiled and giggled away the wholesome awkwardness dangling between you.

Farther and farther into the inner district, all the twists and turns, this is the part of the town the locals call “the Boroughs.” The ambience has gotten sketchier, the crowd sparse, and flashing neon lights took the place of natural sunlight. Cal’s hand searched for the saber at his hip—still there. Good.

Around the curb, you’ve led Cal into a store a little bigger than Tundu’s, and you were greeted by a Balosar storekeeper at the counter upon entering. You had warned Cal beforehand to keep his hood on even when they’re inside. The Balosar’s jaw clenched and his eyes squinted, when he realized who it was under the hood, he eased only for a bit—he was suspicious of your companion.

“Come now, Finteb, you don’t have to be so hostile all the time,”

“I’m being precautious—there’s a difference,”

“Sure,” you moaned indifferently. “Where’s your boss?”

Speak of the devil, the boss stepped into the scene: a Quarren. The creature’s tendrils dangled left and right with every step of the stairs.

“Ah, if it isn’t Tundu’s little protégé, [y/n],”

“Hello to you, too, Melgu,” your deadpan greeting hummed through the room.

“It’s been a while, eh, girl?”

“Look, I don’t plan on staying here. I just came here for what I need,”

The Quarren spots the boy behind your shoulder. Even with the complicated structure of his mouth, you spot a smile curling between the fleshy tendrils dangling on both sides of his face.

“Ah yes, but who needs it—is the question. Is it you or your boyfriend here?”

You felt the color burn in your cheekbones, you angled your cowl lower to hide it from everyone in the room—including Cal, whose cheeks were also flushing red.

“He’s… someone I’m working with,” you dismissed. “And he’s the one who needs it.”

BD-1 promptly flashed the holograph of the Mantis’s cross-section to the Quarren—and the Balosar onlooker—Cal described the part to the store owner in full detail.

Just when Melgu thought he was being slick, your instincts were already telling you what he’s trying to pull—just by judging his body language and the tone of his voice. Cal picked up the hint seconds after you did, but neither of you were ready to call him out just yet. It was between you and the Quarren to negotiate about the ship part.

“I have such a part,” he raised his digit in front of you. “But it is no ordinary, generic-line compressor. It’s one of my best merchandise to date!”

“I don’t doubt it,” you reassured with a deadpan tone, obviously unimpressed with his bragging. “So, may we see it?”

Melgu turned to his Balosar assistant, Finteb, to go fetch the part from the stockroom. The young male scurried out of the scene and disappeared into the narrow hall of the store; minutes later, he comes back out with the compressor in his hand and set it down in the counter right in front of everybody.

“This is the all-around model,” you uttered, leaning slightly forward to see the finer details. “Corellian make, of course. You’re right, this isn’t some generic unit.”

“Ahh, see? What’d I tell you?”

“How much is this gonna cost me?”

Melgu didn’t answer with words but with a sinister chuckle. Something is definitely up, no denying that. With your collective suspicion with Cal aroused, the two of you became more cautious of what to say or do next to the Quarren.

“Actually, there is something holding me back,”

Your stomach sank, you weren’t able to control the furrowing of your brows. Cal could feel his ribs constricting around his lungs, pleading to the wind that he won’t have the need to use his saber against this Quarren and his Balosar helper. He felt for his saber with his arm subtly, when he felt the edge of the solid cylinder hit his skin, he was assured—at least on that part only.

Meanwhile, you were also dealing you own problem—both mentally and the one right in front of you, repressing the gradual anger welling up in your being while conversing with this wretched scumbag of a black market vendor was a tedious challenge in and of itself. You’ve dug your nails into your palms that you could feel it cutting through the flesh as you try to suppress yourself. Cal can feel it—and you perfectly well know that he does.

“What is?”

“Your boss, Tundu, he and I have some unfinished business—I’m presuming he’s told you that,”

“He hasn’t told me anything,”

“Aww,” he groaned with pity for you in a mocking manner. “I suppose that walking sack of wrinkles didn’t want to bring his little protégé into his mess—or he just didn’t trust you well enough.”

“What are you getting at, squid?”

“Your boss is in neck-deep debt. Obviously, his business is dying and he had nowhere else to run to but me—almost all of his customers come fleeing to me. They’d even risk the Imperial patrols for my merchandise!” he guffawed insultingly.

Melgu continued to gloat about how his business is booming and, consequentially, killing Tundu’s in the process.

“Look, squid, I didn’t come here to watch you goad at me,” you hissed through the tight grit of your teeth. “Unless, of course, you want me to arrange that on the spot.”

The store owner relished the last moments of his bragging rights, he had taken notice of your hand hovering over where your weapon ought to be; but you’re praying that he doesn’t cross that threshold, but knowing Melgu—who was a sentient combination of fragile ego and a red-hot temper—he does not see any boundary.

“Well, aren’t you just valiant? Tell me, are you really willing to go through all of this trouble…” he picked up the part and flaunted it in front of you under the shine of the building’s skylight. “All for this? Or are you also trying to preserve your boss’s honor?”

“That wasn’t really part of my plan until you decided to bring Tundu into the equation, you seaside degenerate!”

Obviously, the Quarren didn’t like the choice of word you used to call him. The inch-thick flesh over his eyes—where one’s eyebrows should be—wrinkled and the long cartilages that frame the flaps of his triangular head tightened.

With the snap of Melgu’s fingers, his goons appeared from all sides of his store—even from the front door—you and Cal were practically back-to-back with one another, but neither of you have drawn out your weapons.

“What’s the matter, a little outnumbered, aren’t we?”

“I like these odds,”

“Be careful, [y/n], in this part of town—being cocky could only lead you to two roads. If so much as a thread of your shirt flies onto me, my men will reach you and Tundu’s precious little outhouse of a shop,” Melgu chuckled in a sinister tone, images worked in his mind of how his henchmen will handle the situation. “Well, frankly, accidents happen all the time, darling.”

“You son of a bitch!” you snarled. “I could kill you right here and now—I’d even include your boy Antennas here for good measure, just so there won’t be any witnesses.”

An involuntary whimper escaped the Balosar’s mouth, looking to his boss for some kind of reassurance that you won’t lay a finger on him, but no such confirmation came—only a low growl objecting your threat. He motioned for his brutes to hold both of you down—they were Devaronians and their arms could snap your spine with a single squeeze.

“You’re not getting close to our shop!” you growled as you’re nearing your boiling point.

“Ohhhh,” he mockingly sighed. “I’m not going anywhere, but I think my men are getting close the second you stay within my men’s grasp.”

Melgu broke out chortling, it irritated you to the point that you felt your insides burning and seething with rage, sharp inhales entered through the paper-thin gaps between your teeth, and Cal never took his eyes off of you the moment the Devaronians grabbed both of you.

“No…” you snarled.

“What was that?” Melgu leaned in, cupping his right ear flap.

“I said… NOOO!!”

Nobody—not even Cal Kestis, a Jedi—saw it coming. An energy wave sent the whole store flying—both living and inanimate, no one escaped the torrent of Force that emitted from your very being. You quickly helped up Cal to his feet.

“Come on, Cal!”

“You little Serennian bitch!” Melgu groaned as he struggled to prop himself back up.

You gently pushed Cal ahead of you, made a split-second’s worth of a glance and spotted the compressor on the floor. You reached for it, and for the first time, used the Force after some odd years of stagnating your connection with it.

A speeder bike parked by Melgu’s storefront made itself open for the taking. You and Cal hopped on with you on the helm, the two of you sped away before the Devaronian lugs could catch up and dare to hold the speeder bike by its back bumper.

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tinyshe · 3 years

Text

How to be a hermit.

“I occasionally receive enquiries from folk asking for advice or support in pursuing their own vocation to the hermitage, so I put this page together. The information here is purely of a practical nature, and I write only from my own experience in the UK; it is not exhaustive, and things may be different in your locale and circumstances. I may add to it from time to time. Please let me know if you have further (practical) information which might be included.

The call to hermitage is often a gradual realisation, a growing affinity with solitude, a desire to know God in the ordinariness of simply being alive. It is a call which is falling on increasingly receptive ears. By nature, it is a very individual call, and each individual will realise it in a different way depending upon personal inspiration and circumstance.

I hope you will not be put off by the apparent lack of a support structure around the vocation. It is one of the great joys and freedoms that each one of us interprets the call to hermitage in such a different ways– it is essentially, perhaps, a call to “solitary living in the conscious presence of God”, though I know of hermits who live in small communities as well, so even the solitude is not a given!

You will find that much of the information on this page boils down to, “you have to work it out for yourself”. Please don’t be put off by that. It might take time - longer than you expect - and the solutions might appear to be at odds with any romantic ideals you might have been nursing at the outset, but with determination, a good dose of pragmatism, and a sense of adventure, all things are possible.

By way of encouragement, I discovered (after I had been here 10 years!) that the journey of getting to my hermitage (which took me 15 years) has become a part of the sort of hermit that I am. So don't feel that the eremitical life only begins once you step over the threshold of your hermitage. This long search and struggle for stability is the beginning of it. God is with you.

I hope this page is helpful.

Canon 603

§1 Besides institutes of consecrated life the Church recognizes the eremitic or anchoritic life by which the Christian faithful devote their life to the praise of God and salvation of the world through a stricter separation from the world, the silence of solitude and assiduous prayer and penance.

§2 A hermit is recognized in the law as one dedicated to God in a consecrated life if he or she publicly professes the three evangelical counsels [i.e. chastity, poverty and obedience], confirmed by a vow or other sacred bond, in the hands of the diocesan bishop and observes his or her own plan of life under his direction.”

State of Life

There are very many different ways of living as a hermit within the Roman Catholic Church. A hermit can live anonymously, without being “recognised in the law” (of the church), or they can choose to make some sort of commitment, either privately or publicly. If public, this would usually be into the hands of the local ordinary (bishop). Again, the type of commitment can vary by arrangement with the ordinary.

A bishop will usually expect you to have devised a “rule of life” for yourself before accepting your vows. (more on that later).

If you are considering the possibility of becoming a “canonical” hermit by profession of the Evangelical Counsels you will need to refer to Canon 640ff (“canonical profession” simply means, “profession with reference to the Canons”) which describes the process and requirements (basically a minimum of one year’s guided novitiate, followed by a minimum of 3 years in temporary vows). Or you might be able to come to some other arrangement with your bishop and still be professed, but not canonically…

There is no “hierarchy” of hermitage – no single type of commitment is more valid or worthy than another. Neither a canonical hermit nor a professed hermit , nor a privately vowed hermit is a “better” hermit than one who has taken no vows at all. Most hermits (from the little information which is available) are living simple, anonymous, solitary lives without advertisement.

Rule of Life

This is a guide for daily living. It should be useful rather than beautiful (though it can be both!). Some hermits prefer to adapt monastic rules, or a rule from a religious order to which they feel an affinity. Rules can be of varying length and detail– I have found the primary usefulness of mine to be a reference point for decision making; others might look for something which will more definitively structure their day. From experience I would caution against anything too rigid - it is likely you will be chief cook and bottle washer .. and porter .. and gardener. You will need to have the flexibility to respond easily to circumstance. I would suggest that drawing up a rule might be one of the occupations towards the end of the novitiate year – when you have more of a feel for how you will live in hermitage. We each do it so very differently!

(My own Rule of Life can be viewed here - the first several paragraphs are scriptural and canonical guidance. The practical bit is just the three lines at the end!)

Hermitage and living expenses

Whichever route you take, vowed or un-vowed, you will usually be expected to be self-supporting. There is no centralised source of practical nor financial support for hermits, nor any register of empty-hermitages-seeking-occupants, not in the UK anyway. You will need to find your own living place and some sort of income to pay the bills etc. Many hermits have a working life behind them & so are able to provide their own accommodation. Others are "donated" accommodation in return for caretaker or similar duties, or persuade a convent or monastery or other religious community to loan them an outhouse in return for labour. You have to be pretty pragmatic, determined, and prepared to explore lots of avenues! It isn't easy.

In terms of work, and support from the state: in civil law you are expected to support yourself in the same way as everyone else. You can look for, and express a preference for work which enables you to work alone, but there is no special exemption which entitles you to benefits or financial support if you refuse to work at all, just because the work offered isn't hermitage-friendly.

You may have the skills to earn a living from your hermitage – eg. book-keeping, accountancy, copy-writing, web design etc. all of which which might be financially viable ways of earning a living from your front room. Realistically, some of the more menial jobs like cleaning work and ground maintenance are usually plentiful and reasonably suitable as most cleaners/gardeners seem to work in solitude even if they are part of a team. (I worked as a solitary care assistant to a profoundly disabled woman for 5 years in her own home, which worked out very well). You may find previous skills can be adjusted to become more hermit-friendly eg. my teaching experience still provides a firm basis for occasional private tutoring.

From experience, the pursuit of the artisanal work traditionally associated with hermits and monastics, does not provide a reliable, nor sufficient source of income – not to an unknown hermit – unless you are at the top of your artisanal game and already earning a living this way. Many of these types of activities which help support established monastic communities are reliant on the regular footfall of associates and affiliates to the communities, and the publicity which is inherent in their longstanding, their USP, and the loyalty of their local churches. If it works for you – then great! But if you are just setting out and hoping to make your living from weaving baskets all day, then I would advise you to have a plan B to fall back on. Sometimes God’s providence makes itself best known in the guise of a bit of realistic and prudent forethought.

Spiritual support

If you are seriously exploring a vocation to hermitage then it would be wise to enlist the support of a spiritual director. The life of the solitary can throw any number of oddities and curve balls at you, and it is as well to have some one you can freely consult and who will be able to advise you. Try and find someone with a mature and committed prayer life of their own, who will take you, and hermitage, seriously, who is not in awe of the solitary life, and who will not pander to your whims and fancies!

And finally!

This may not have been the sort of information you were hoping for. Launching into hermitage is not the same as entering an established religious order - there is none of the security and stability which might be found in other forms of consecrated life. It is an adventure with God which will require of you every last wit and ingenuity. I pray and hope for God’s blessing on you.

In prayer, in God.

Rachel (Hermit of the Diocese of Nottingham)”

source

#catholic #st cuthbert #nottingham #uk #hermit #hermitage #how to be a hermit #rachel the hermit

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dontshootmespence · 4 years

Text

Savior In A Strange Land

Part 4

Summary: As Spencer and Y/N make their way through Ashela, but they have many obstacles to overcome before they can grow closer.

Words: 1,232

Warnings: Spencer does a bad thing for the one he loves, references to Y/N’s past abuse.

A/N: Probably just one more part left! At the most it will be two. Enjoy!

@queenanneslace4 @heycasbutt @illegalcerebral @theitcaramelchick @kalie-bee

Though she knew that they couldn’t stay in Ashela, Y/N asked to stop frequently. She was weakened and needed rest; for reasons unknown, she was moving slower and slower as the days went by. And although he didn’t speak his thoughts aloud, Spencer sensed her need to take it all in, to say goodbye to the only true home she’d ever known.

As they prepared to depart the nameless town they’d lodged in for the night, Y/N felt herself sick to her stomach, retching near the outhouse for the third time that morning. “I don’t think I’ll be able to walk much today. I might need to rely on Rowena.”

Spencer pressed the back of his hand to her forehead, grimacing at the heat of her skin. “You’re burning up. And pale. Before we leave, we must make a visit to the town physician.”

“I’ll be fine,” she replied. Even as she spoke the words, she wasn’t sure if she believed them. “We need to move before we’re found. I’m sure there are still guards around searching for me.” When she stepped forward, she faltered, falling into Spencer’s arms.

“As soon as we see a physician, we’ll leave,” he assured her.

After asking a local villager to point them in the direction of the town’s doctor, Spencer pulled Y/N close to his side, steadying her exhausted body while he kept vigilant. Since leaving Copros, he’d been somewhat paranoid, searching around every corner and taking in the face of everyone he passed to ensure Y/N’s safety. He had to be alert enough for the both of them. “Here you are,” he said, helping her up the stairs. “You’ll feel better soon. I’m sure of it.”

----

“What is wrong?” Spencer asked, cradling Y/N’s unsteady form in his arms.

The doctor smiled broadly, handing Y/N a tonic for her upset stomach. “I will give you some more of this for your travels, and it should help. But this will continue for quite a while. You’re with child. Congratulations to you both. Will this be your first child?”

Spencer answered shakily, squeezing Y/N’s hand in reassurance. “Yes. This is the first.”

When Y/N met his gaze, she began to cry. “Are you sure? I- I-”

He nodded. And she went numb, completely shutting down as Spencer gathered the necessary medications they would need for their journey. “The news of motherhood can be overwhelming during these uncertain times,” the doctor said to Spencer. “Will she be okay?”

“Yes,” Spencer replied as he cleared his throat. “I’ll make sure of it. It will just take a while to sink in.”

“You will make a wonderful father,” the man said, patting Spencer on the shoulder. “Good luck to you, both.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

With the reality of her situation weighing heavily on his mind, he gathered Y/N to him once again. “Come, love.”

Feigning a smile, she did her best to move forward, though every muscle in her body yearned to collapse into a pile and die. She was carrying the King’s child. “Spencer, you must leave me,” she whispered.

“What?”

“Now that I am carrying the King’s child, you are in even more danger. If anyone here recognizes me, word will spread fast and Samel will send even more guards out to find me.” He didn’t deserve this.

Spencer spun her toward him, lifting her chin so that she could see him. “I will not leave you,” he said earnestly.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw what looked like a castle guard - a lone guard - making his way toward them. Quickly, he dropped the conversation and ushered her away, snaking through the houses and the stands at the local marketplace. Ducking their way around him, Spencer guided her between the inn and one of the homes, but despite his best efforts, the guard found them. “Stay where you are!” The guard said shakily. “I know who you are.”

Swallowing the bile in his throat, Spencer whispered in Y/N’s ear. “Forgive me for what I am about to do.”

He steadied himself and held a hand up, trying to assure the guard of their cooperation. “How may I help you, Sir?”

“That is the Queen,” the guard spat. “And you kidnapped her!”

Y/N channeled every ounce of strength she had into opposing the guard. When she opened her mouth to speak, the guard aimed his gun in her direction and without a thought, Spencer pulled the one weapon he had on his person - a small knife - out of his back pocket and plunged it into the guard’s neck.

“We must leave, Y/N. Now.” As they hastened their pace, she could hear the guard choking on his own blood. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, hands trembling. He’d never killed anyone before. “I’m so sorry.”

----

Spencer helped Y/N into the carriage and readied the horses, ensuring their binds were tight as he hitched them to it. With Y/N so weak, the horses would need to take up the slack today. When he turned to her, to apologize for killing the guard, he found her asleep. Sighing, he prayed that when she woke she wouldn’t see him as some kind of monster. But he wouldn’t disturb her now; she needed rest.

Hours passed before she woke. “Spencer, where are we?” She asked, eyes still heavy with sleep but feeling somewhat better than before, at least physically.

“Just a few miles from the border of Obrana. I’m so sorry,” he said quickly.

“Why?”

“The guard,” he replied, shaking off the memory of the crimson river flowing from the man’s throat.

With what smile she could manage, she rested her hand on his shoulder. “You did what you had to do. I don’t think you a cruel man.”

Relief flooded over him. “I didn’t want to kill him. I took no joy in it.”

“I believe you.” For a moment, she couldn’t think of what to say, cradling her stomach. “Spencer, I have to say again. We should go our separate ways. I would not be offended if you wanted to leave.”

“Why would I?” He looked horrified at the mere thought.

Did he really not care? Did he not understand? “I am carrying the King’s child, Spencer! He took everything from me and now I will forever be reminded of what he did to me! I would not expect you to raise another man’s child.”

“It is also your child,” he said softly. “A child is not its father or its mother. It’s so much more.” Stopping the horses, he put down the reins and cradled her face in his arms. “I love you, Y/N. I have since the moment I saw you in Copros. It would be my honor to help you raise this child. We’ll raise it as ours.”

Her eyes filled with tears at his genuine kindness. “What have I done to deserve you?”

Pulling her in for a kiss, he whispered against her lips. “You were you, my love.”

For the first time since talking to the doctor, she allowed herself to feel, truly feel - the anger, the shame, the fear. As she sobbed into Spencer’s arms, she spoke over and over and over again. “Thank you.” For the first time since leaving her home all those years ago, she wasn’t alone.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #royal au #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #dontshootmespence #savior in a strange land

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zukofenty · 4 years

Text

off the grid

➜ Summary: The one where Katara is a spoiled heiress who manages to crash land on a (cute) soldier of one of the most dangerous nations in the world.

“Get your face out of my vagina!” Katara screams at the top of her lungs.

“Here’s a thought, get your vagina out of my face first!”

➜ Genre: Modern!AU, humor, CEO!Katara, Soldier!Zuko, Crash Landing on You!AU

➜ Words: 10.3k

AO3 @zutaramonth

“Get your face out of my vagina!” Katara screams at the top of her lungs.

“Here’s a thought, get your vagina out of my face first!” Zuko yelps, words gargling. He currently was being suffocated by the crotch at his neck. After Katara’s many screams, and a swift kick to his face, they both scrambled off each other, laying on the ground for a quick moment of relief. Her body is aching after throwing herself from the tree she was stuck in.

After realization set in that he was a soldier who was just nearly crushed to death by a cooch, and she was a woman who somehow crossed impenetrable borders, they swiftly were both upright. Katara in a fighting stance, and Zuko’s gun automatically pointed at the girl’s face. Her eyes nervously darted around, looking for any escape route in the expanse of wilderness and trees and furry animals she sure were foaming at the mouth, looking for a bite of gorgeous heiress who smelled of Chanel No. 5.

“I’m a bad bitch, you can’t kill me!” Katara screeches, taking off as fast as her Yeezys could take her.

“Um, yeah I can !” He insists, shooting into her general direction. He wasn’t trying to kill her persay. Maybe maim. (It just would’ve been a lot easier if she died).

“Fuck!” he screams, once the girl was out of sight.

Last week, Katara was cyberbullying Debby Ryan from the comfort of her penthouse. One of her larger concerns of the week was debating buying the rights to all of her Disney Channel movies, just because she felt like it. Then, she could post clips of her disturbing, Radio Rebel smile every day on Instagram without copyright claims and she could blissfully ignore Debby Ryan DMing her a defamation lawsuit.

She had money money . Like being able to turn on the AC during the summer type of wealthy. The type of rich that could sing John Lennon’s Imagine during any crisis and say that’s enough activism for today . After all, she was an heiress of one of the richest families in the Water Tribes—a nation at the forefront of nearly every cultural conversation. In the past, every other nation out there doubted their abilities based on size alone, underestimating the tribes’ growing force. Once a nation surviving on simply hope to prosper post 100 Years War, they were now a cultural powerhouse you couldn’t ignore if you tried. From their dramas, skincare routines, and exquisite cuisine (two-headed fish soup and all), the nation was suddenly the talk of the entire world. They thrived under people’s ignorant assumptions. Blossomed despite people’s mistreatment of them in the media. Soon enough, those who questioned their authority were begging for alliances.

Except for the Fire Nation. A nation stuck so determinedly in the past. Notorious for their inability to move on from the world of centuries ago. The world where the Fire Nation was a dominating force. While every nation competed to innovate, the Fire Nation seemingly refused to accept reality. Their borders were violently closed off. Their trade was limited to working with the Earth Nation every once in a blue moon. Refugees who manage to escape tell stories of a cruel life seemingly stuck in the stone ages. Their leader, Azulon, threatens to bomb somewhere, something, someone every other week, and every nation’s relationship with them has remained precariously in the air since then.

“What the actual fuck !” She screeches. “I thought this was one of those national parks joggers find bodies in, not the fucking Fire Nation !”

Dead or alive, people weren’t allowed to make it out of the Fire Nation.

Katara was a stubborn CEO. The kind to only accept things by her way, by her standards. Coming from money didn’t mean shit when you didn’t have the raw hunger she had. She wasn’t like many of her peers. She wasn’t content with just sitting back and signing a few papers once in a while so she could make it to her SoulCycle class. But, she’d like to think that’s what made her so successful for the last decade. Katara was insistent on testing her clothing company’s new batch of athletic clothing. She scaled a mountain range in the sweat resistant hoodie. She swam in Olympic sized pools in their innovative, competition ready swimsuit and swim cap matching set. Of course, it made sense to test their new paragliding uniform. At the time.

“ Don’t move. This field is full of landmines,” Zuko warns, putting out his hand to stop the shaking girl. He sees it in her eyes, the way she’s about to run after he’s managed to catch up to her, and unknowingly blow this entire shit up. “They’re grey and round, or shaped like a box that—”

“Like the one you’re stepping on, right now?” Katara smirks, hands coming to her hips to taunt him.

He freezes, hands coming out to balance himself at the edge of the stream she’s managed to leap across.

“Again, I am a bad bitch. These won’t kill me. You won’t kill me.” She snatches his walkie talkie from his jacket’s pocket, and thinks about just taking it and letting the guy who almost fucking shot her suffer. She decides against it (she didn’t want to get on God’s, or Rihanna’s, bad side today) and sets it down on the ground in front of him. He’s left to watch her expertly leap around a few stray explosives.

“If ‘bad bitch’ means missing a few limbs, sure. Go ahead ,” Zuko baits. She happily gives him the bird, before running as fast as she could in her Yeezy Boost 350s. Running even when she hears gunshots whizzing past her. Running even when she sees a sign, warning about a field of landmines.

She runs until her vision becomes blurry, and all she can hear are little children chanting a song about the Fire Nation’s greatness. She runs, even when her body feels like lead, and her eyes are a hair’s breadth away from shutting.

He doesn’t know why he helps her. Why he wants her to get out of here alive. Why he scoops her up once soldiers began flooding the village she stumbled upon. They were making sure everyone was doing their part in singing the national anthem before the enforced curfew. She should’ve been shot to death by now by his men, or at least mauled by a wild lion vulture.

He just doesn’t understand it. Their forces were meant to kill , trained to shoot anything at the border on sight. He doesn’t understand how this five foot nothing girl had outrun men who have trained in the military for nearly their whole lives. His army was sloppy that day. Most of them were still drunk off of whatever cactus juice and homemade wine combination the ladies at the local village had offered to them. Then again, it wasn’t every day someone decided to paraglide during the biggest storm of the decade. It wasn’t every day someone managed to cross into the Fire Nation, when no one wanted to be there for decades .

He doesn’t understand why he pulled her close to his body at the sight of the military’s trucks, and runs them into his house at the edge of the hill. He doesn’t understand why he spent the last three hours painstakingly cooking up noodles from scratch for her. She takes a quick nap on an old sleeping mat he found while he works diligently. His stomach protests the fragrant aroma. He hasn’t eaten a homemade meal in months.

“People literally steal and sell my pubic hairs on eBay. The average price is one grand for a single strand. I deserve better,” Katara says. He thinks it’s completely in jest. She cackles when he glares at her. The smile she sends him tries to relay that she's grateful, but he’s hardly swayed by her charms. Instead, he’s scoffing at the efforts.

A first for her.

She’s used to getting her way, as an expert at manipulation. When you’ve spent your whole life ruthlessly competing to run one of the largest corporations in the world, you couldn’t afford to be sweet or gentle or genuine. You learned to work people, bend them to your will until they snap. Then, you move on. Find someone else, do the old song and dance again.

Before she could even lift a chopstick, Zuko quickly grabs the bowl from her grasp, a pout forming on his lips. While he was always taught to school his features, he always knew he was no good at it.

“I will continue to do what I’ve been doing for the last two hours, and just ignore everything you’ve been saying,” he mutters, sipping at the broth to her dismay. The second she walked in, she called his house “a hut with a dick in it.” When he instructed her to take a shit in the outhouse, she didn't speak to him for the next hour. He thinks he saw her tear up when he mentioned there was no Internet. He swears he was ten seconds away from busting a vein.

“ Ugh . Room temperature water?” Zuko guffaws once her nose crinkles up in disgust.

He blows a stray strand of his hair away from his face. “There are no ice cubes.” She hates how everything he says is so matter of fact.

“Get some, then.” she says, as though it was the most obvious answer in the world. “I don’t drink ice cube-less water.”

He just laughs. “Right, when we get any sort of electricity first, I’ll make it my number one priority to get a fridge that dispenses ice cubes engraved with your perfectly detailed portrait on them, too.”

Katara shoves at him, and he just stares at the spot on his chest she touched. “For future reference, I am vegan. Well, vegan adjacent. But still. The point is I am a delicate flower with an even more delicate diet. A delicate flower that’s used to caviar and organic shit and the rich people gluten-free bread you get from Trader Joe’s. So I’ll excuse it this time, but the next time you make something please remember.” She follows up the command with a sweet smile, as though it made up for her demands.

The memory of her dodging bullets with a branch in her hair easily comes up in his mind. “Nothing about you is delicate.” Zuko barely budges when she tries reaching for the bowl again.

Katara gasps. “Even my bowel movements are delicate!”

He just snorts.

She’s annoying, he decides. All brattiness considered. Even with her tiny frame drowning in her dirty paragliding uniform, and a pout that has him wanting to laugh. The way she moves is dainty, with the self-assurance only those who grew up in comfort have. But, something about her eyes reveal something crueler, something so much more vicious underneath the soft exterior.

He was thoroughly out of options. While he has her holed up in his house until they decide an escape route, he feels his stomach churning at the thought of the Fire Nation’s regular surprise house inspections. Turning her over to the government meant a quick and easy execution for him and his men without question, and the potential to cause even more political strain with the rest of the world. Even if they do hand her to the government, there’s no telling what they would do to her.

He tries to blink the sleep out of his eyes, rubbing at them as thought it could end the nightmare he found himself trapped in.

For the last few years, Zuko’s life was a monotonous routine.

“Type 63 Rifle, Soviet SKS carbine,” Zuko breathes, ears perking up at the sound of the weapon. His hand comes out to halt the hordes of men. “One of us. Retreat,” he barked, arms motioning for his battalion to return to their hidden positions among the dwindling flora and fauna. Months in his uniform without rest, months spent guarding the border to ensure no one left.

He doesn’t remember much about his life before this. He tries to forget, because it made him too sad. It made him want to do something reckless, to break something, to even cry , because he’s long forgotten anything but getting up, getting into uniform, getting into routine.

It was his duty, as the only son of the Fire Nation’s notorious military director.

He was trained to be a war wielding machine. To show no mercy. Men in the Fire Nation weren’t meant to be weak . They weren’t allowed to be soft.

His mother tried to get away from all of it. She tried as hard as she could to tell her children there was a life you could feel beat with all of your heart, as long as cruelty didn’t find it first. She knew Zuko wasn’t meant for this life.

Zuko knew, too.

He was never good at anything, never the best one growing up. While he excelled at delivering blows, or wielding his swords, he was always told his mind was a pathetic thing. Too brash, too naive. Azula was always the better one at that. At violence. She was their father’s right hand, her thoughts filled to the brim with genius strategy. Always one step ahead of everyone else, even as a toddler.

Zuko was content to be in the background, to be nothing more than a decoration when the family portrait needed to be taken. He wants to be selfish, to blame Azula for pressing pause on his life. The day she was assassinated was the day his dreams of forgetting the Fire Nation all but shriveled up. After all, tradition mandated the military director had a blood successor.

“I am not going to put back on my dirty underwear after I shower! I am not a Bhad Bhabie type of bitch,” Katara indignantly spits out, crossing her arms over her chest.

Zuko rolls his eyes. Everything she says is confusing .

“Don’t act up while I’m gone,” Zuko begs.

“Like the City Girls?”

She feels her blood boil at his silence.

“Please tell me you’re lying. Please tell me you’ve heard of ‘Act Up.’ Please. Don’t let me down now.”

“I have no—”

“Seriously, where were you all summer? ‘Act up, you can get snatched up?’ Nothing? Nothing rings a fucking bell?” He can’t help but sweat.

Even when he looked up whatever she says on his work computer (the only time people in the Fire Nation were allowed to use the Internet) he still can’t wrap his head around what exactly a Bhad Bhabie was.

“Then don’t wear underwear. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

She holds the landline phone close to her mouth, as if to make the message clearer. “Where will the pussy juices go then!”

Zuko hangs up on her, only to have her call him precisely 12 minutes later.

“My right nipple is chafing. What about my nipple eczema!” She protests. She feels her face shriveling up. Without her Yves Saint Laurent Firming Serum, she feels like a piece of her identity was missing. He had diligently informed her to use his sole bar of soap for all purposes before he left for work, and she nearly fainted on the spot.

“Tell it to go away, I guess?” Zuko suggests, trying his hardest to sound helpful. He tried leaving detailed notes on how to take a hot bath by pouring boiling water in his basin, and clipping the plastic shower curtain to the ceiling, trapping the heat in. He prays she hasn’t burned down his house, or someone hasn’t seen her through the gate.

“I can’t!” Katara seethes.

Zuko rubs at his temples. “This was meant for only emergencies. Goodbye !” Zuko slams the phone, returning to his paperwork. He feels a hot blush spreading across his cheeks, and tries to bring his hand up to his face to alleviate the warm feeling.

She doesn’t know why he’s so nice to her.

When she’s all but threatened him and blackmailed his entire crew to keep their silence and help her escape.

She simply laughs, the sound foreign to even her own ears. Her empty stomach painfully clenched in protest at the sudden sensation. It had to be some sort of sick joke. A sick fucking joke probably crafted up by Pakku! Or some of those man-children from the Northern Tribes who think they know a thing or two because they took a Marketing 101 crash course on Khan Academy!

She needed to get back for the big shareholders meeting. They were going to announce the new CEO of Moon Tech, the largest corporation in the Water Tribes. It was everything she had been working for her entire life. She couldn’t afford to miss it, lest it show any weakness whatsoever. As the most viable successor, she was sure all eyes were watching her every move. Yet, somehow, she managed to end up on the set of a period piece gone wrong. A miserable, yet probably Academy Award winning, period piece that smelled like moose knuckle pussy pickle.

She looked to the closed door, the flimsy thing separating the minute living room from his even smaller bedroom. She felt guilty for misjudging him upon their first meeting.

She thinks she feels more guilty for breaking his favorite vase.

“C’mon! That was my favorite ficus,” he grumbles, rubbing the spot on his head she broke the vase on. He avoids her gaze because she’s clad in one of his old dress shirts and nothing else, the thing coming to fall at her knees. If he blushes any harder, he thinks she might notice. Her hair is wrapped up in a messy updo and her face is scrubbed clean. The faintest tint of pink dusts across her cheeks.

“Sorry,” she whispers, hand coming to rub at the spot. She was nervous hearing someone wiggle the doorknob when he hadn’t come back well into the night. Why he had three locks on his door and used exactly none of them, she wasn’t quite sure. She thought she was being helpful by locking his doors. Until it was becoming apparent he didn’t care enough to carry his keys with him, and had an additional unlocked back door he was just attacked at.

He swats her away swiftly, body mechanically programmed to attack for coming so close to him. He’s body slammed bigger men for breathing through their mouths. But something stops him abruptly, and he stills when she comes closer, roughly grabbing at his head between her two hands, and bringing it to her eye level. “A slight bump will form, but it’ll go away faster if you soak some rice and press here,” she precisely finds the swelling area. He winces when he feels the pressure.

Her eyes are impossibly wide while she watches him, and he can’t help but shrink at her careful stare. This was the quietest she’s been since she crash landed. He feels unsettled. “I—I got you some stuff.” He places the bag gently in front of her, a now familiar flush coming to pepper his cheeks. “I’m going to go to bed now,” he lies, retreating to his room while still rubbing at his head.

“Thanks,” her voice is barely a whisper, and stops him in his tracks. He turns to her, and her smile is so genuine. Her eyes are swelling with joy and it makes his heart ache. It seemed easier to talk to her that night than in the day. There wasn’t an impossible front to break open to see how she was feeling, the moonlight peeking through the cracks in the wall seemed to make her eyes wider, smile brighter even. Her guard is down and it makes emotions easier to decipher.

She thinks she can’t feel her face when she opens the bag. “I’m such a bitch,” she babbles to herself as she opens the boxes of shampoo, conditioner, and even signature Water Tribe moisturizers. Everything she complained about he managed to remember to a T. He even got her some traditional Fire Nation women’s outfits, even when she was only staying for the next couple of days. The tears pricking at her eyes feel foreign. She could afford private jets to fly to Beverly Hills and start a fist fight with Kim Kardashian just because she hit Kourtney in season 18. A couple dollars worth of smuggled products shouldn’t make her a weepy mess. Somehow though, she feels herself unable to dim the smile plastered across her face.

Zuko wants to jump for joy. Though, he resists the urge when getting up too fast makes his head bump feel like it has a second heartbeat. He spent the better part of his evening at the open air marketplace a few blocks from the village. It was worth enduring the questioning glances from the shop vendors. Even when he felt like crawling in a hole and dying as he hastily gestured he wanted to purchase women’s underwear, it was all worth it when he’s lulled to sleep to the sound of Katara’s giggles.

“I think he just smiled.” Mako whisper-screams. Nearly all the jaws in the mess hall drop open.

“You’re lying ,” a voice squeaks out. The dozens of heads seem to collectively turn towards their captain. Their stomachs churned at seeing living proof of the small smirk on his face. He’s distracted. Staring off into the distance, he’s just picking at the meager helpings of his lunch on his plate.

For all intents and purposes, Zuko was boring . He was a stick in the mud, the kind of guy you saw laugh once or twice a year for obligatory purposes, just to make sure everyone knew he wasn’t a robot assigned by the government to spy on soldiers.

He was a captain who delivered orders, and nothing more. A strict, by the book kind of guy. The team knew little to nothing about him. They weren’t even sure he used the bathroom like a normal human being (half of them were betting money on the robot theory). They just weren’t close like that. They weren’t the type of team to be able to joke around with their captain, share their stories, bleed their heart out on the military field. They knew the scar on his face meant he had pissed off some higher ranking officials who still possessed the power to firebend, a sacred art limited to the few. It meant there was more to the story than just a bumbling captain of a lower ranked crew. The most they got out of him was once in a while he would startle a young kid, who was just trying to get his mandated service over with. He’d clap them on the shoulder and would murmur a low “Good job.” (His definition of keeping up team morale).

He was efficient at his job, and good at keeping his men safe, rarely raising his voice to anyone except maybe himself. More than what they could say for other captains. He was hard on his men, but harder on himself. It was rare to see him doing anything but stress .

Smiling ? Simply out of the question.

He couldn’t help it! It was an automatic reaction to the morning he had.

“Thank you, for everything,” Katara says quietly, placing the tray of food on his night stand. She knew he had to get to the military base in the wee hours of the morning, and also knew she wasn’t going to wake up in time without her vibrating mattress alarm clock. So she pulls an all nighter, and tries to figure out how to use the tools and contraptions at her disposal. She didn’t mean to startle him, she swears. She has to stifle a laugh when he wakes up with a start. Eyes slowly peeling open, the eye crust obstructing his view. His hair is facing every which way. He looks younger, somehow. The messy hair, the wrinkled shirt, and drool he makes a quick job of wiping away.

“What’s this?” He peers up at her curiously, placing the tray in his lap.

“My labor of love.” She insists, sitting even closer to him on his bed. She thinks she likes it when he squirms under her gaze. For all the military get up with metallic shoulders, and the endless medals pinned to his uniforms, he was just a boy under it all. “I know, I haven’t been the most...easy guest to have.” She ignores his snort. “After all of this over, after the Fire Nation opens up its borders again, I promise you. I will pay you ten times what this hut with a dick is worth. Because…” she breathes in, looking unsure of herself. “I’ll never forget your kindness.”

“T—Thank you,” he stutters. He thinks they’re empty promises, but doesn’t try to question them too hard. It shouldn’t be possible for his heart to pulse as fast as it does, but it seems to be mesmerized by how much wider her smile was able to get. The noodles are misshapen, probably because of her inexperience with the old-fashioned machine. The broth is salty and makes Zuko’s throat beg for a glass of water. And yet, he slurps up the entire dish without complaint.

Anything to see her eyes light up.

“The first boob I ever saw was in Titanic . Haven’t seen one since. Waiting for Titanic 2 to come out.” Mako says proudly, puffing out his chest. He hoped his extensive knowledge of non-Fire Nation films would entertain Katara. Zuko’s few trusted men (mainly the ones who were responsible for letting her escape in the first place) were instructed to keep her safe while he sorted out the plans for her escape. Iroh was able to set up a clandestine arrangement with a ship leaving the Fire Nation docks for their semi annual pickup of Earth Nation goods. They were hoping she could sneak through to the Earth Nation, and explain her situation with customs there.

“Buddy, I got some news for you.” Katara smirks, and the boys grow nervous. She was pretty. The type of pretty that made people stare, wondering if it was possible for someone’s eyes to twinkle in the sunlight. She looked like one of those celebrities in the movies he loved. Talked like one, too. In the Fire Nation, she was the type of pretty where guys would be bartering an entire village just to get a chance to look at her. Though, just from talking with her, she seemed like the type of girl who would hide in her house after gaining said village, just to spite them.

Mako was curious about the Water Nation. Their schools taught them that Azulon was an elite magical creature that somehow never needed to take a shit, and people in the other nations defecated three times the amount of Fire Nation folk. He always knew something was up. Everyone was constantly smuggling goods from all the other nations, especially from the Water Nation. There were automatic rice cookers that played a song when it finished making perfect rice, and little boxes that could play music when you press it. Mako always knew there was so much more out there than people in the Fire Nation could ever know.

She tells them stories of her life in the Water Tribes as they wait for Zuko, and she pointedly ignores the scoffs and disbelief. “There are toilets that shoot out water into your ass crack to clean it?”

“You can adjust the settings and everything!” She proclaims, pride filling every one of her words. “Warm, cool, even inconsistent spurts if you’re into that shit.”

They all make a noise of amazement. “That’s incredible .” She talks about sky rises, and business meetings with rich people, and showers that turn on with a drop of a hat.

“What’s a Rihanna again? Is that your God?”

“Yes.” Katara answers, with no hesitation. “See, she is the baddest in the land—”

“Wait!” Bolin abruptly stops her. “I thought that was your God...Megan Thee Stallion?”

“She’s the thiccest of them all.” Katara punctuated with a click of her tongue. “I thought we went over this!”

“Sorry,” they grunt, looking especially sheepish.

“What does she preach?” Kai inquires, eyes growing wide with delight.

Katara taps her lip, eyes coming up to the ceiling trying to concentrate. “She’s a goddess who empowers women! She tries to get everyone to build their knee strength. I think one of her sayings is ‘I need a Mr. Clean, make that pussy beam,’” Katara .

Zuko watches on, leaning on the door frame. He wants to hate the fact that he’ll miss her.

Everything was supposed to be easy at this point.

“Don’t forget about me.” She holds onto his arm as they sit against the edge of the fishing vessel, the waves impatiently slapping against them. He was supposed to bid her farewell at the dock, but something in him wanted to guarantee she was able to get on the second boat to the Earth Nation.

He’s still clad in one of his more formal uniforms. He still feels the chill of the night scraping through the fabric of his double breasted blazer.

Katara openly welcomes the cold, after nearly sweltering to death every second she’s been in the Fire Nation.

He lets his smile reach his eyes. “How could I forget a girl who nearly crushed me to death with her crotch.”

Her guffaw has the captain, Jeong Jeong, even startled. “Right.” She looks off into the distance, and can’t remember a time when she’s ever been surrounded by this much water. “My name’s Katara, by the way.”

Zuko feels a pang in his chest. “Zuko.”

“Nice to meet you, Zuko,” she whispers, holding her hand out to shake his. It feels warm when he grabs at the dainty thing.

“I hope we meet again. Maybe, in another life, Katara.”

“Really?” For a moment, he hears a twinge of sadness in her voice. It could be his mind or his heart making it up, but he swears he hears it.

“Really.”

Everything was going according to plan. Everything was supposed to go smoothly.

Until they’re both panic-sweating underneath the ship in its cargo hold, trying to come up with a plan to fend off the Coast Guard officers stopping all ships sailing past curfew.

“Do something! Doesn’t the military tell you to do something in this case? Or are you guys just trained in the art of being ugly and having anger issues?”

Zuko wracks his brain. “Why don’t you help me?”

“What happens if I don’t?” Katara angrily mutters.

“You’ll deal with the consequences,” Zuko shrugs, too entirely calm. He was a natural in intense situations, but even he could feel his hands shaking.

“That’s just diet ‘ I hope this bitch dies !’”

“Oops,” Zuko sneers.

Katara huffs. “The fact that men can breathe just doesn’t sit right with my soul.” Katara wants to strangle him.

A lightbulb seemingly goes off in his head. Something Mako said about the non-Fire Nation films and stories was always a fool proof “Get out of jail” card.

“Kiss me,” he says without any uncertainty.

“Are you huffing cactus juice, bitch?”

“Just do it!” Zuko practically screams when he hears the door opening. She presses her lips to his chapped ones, and his hands naturally come to her waist. He’s lost in the feeling of her plush lips, how incredibly soft her body was that he ignores the screams of Coast Guard officers.

“What the fuck was that!” They question Jeong Jeong, who simply shrugs. The officers promptly drop the cargo door in shock.

She slaps his face, his cheek already reddening in mere moments.

“What was that for?” Zuko grumbles, stroking his face.

“You’re a freak!”

He narrows his eyes. “I prefer a ‘you’re welcome,’ but that doesn’t seem to be in your vocabulary.” He felt like his entire body was tingling, but Katara could only focus on the fact he was swiping at his lips with the back of his hand.

“Hey! You should be thanking Rihanna you got a chance to kiss me! If you weren’t so colonized you would realize I am one of the most beautiful women in the world!” Katara petulantly reminds.

“I think it’s because you got diarrhea all over my one of my favorite t-shirts that I am doubting that claim.”

Katara sulks, confident form shrinking. “I forgot to boil the water one time, sue me.”

He can’t stop his laugh from taking over his whole body. He’s about to help her up when he hears, “Open it up again!”

This time, Katara fully pushes him down among the boxes of cargo, straddling his lap, and violently mashes her lips to his.

“Get the fuck up here!” Someone screams. Katara lets up on the kiss so Zuko could peer up at the officers. He feels his ears overheating.

“She’s my fiancé.” He hastily explains, once they were on deck. In between their masks, they stare down at Katara, who bites on her tongue, and puts up an act of a bashful bride-to-be. She holds onto his arm with a vice grip, ducking her head behind his broad shoulders.

“They were going on a romantic sight seeing trip,” Jeong Jeong provides, sweat beating down his back.

Katara nods enthusiastically. “We just couldn’t wait for the wedding to have a little fun .” She grins intenerally at their coughs of discomfort and Zuko’s bewildered gaze.

They check Zuko’s identification card, before nodding in understanding.

“Fine,” one officer bites out. He stares at Katara for a beat too long as though he’s reading her thoughts. It makes her uneasy. “Turn it back, and don’t come out past curfew anymore. They’ve implemented new standards for ships.” Jeong Jeong nods in understanding, and jumps to the helm in no time. But, Zuko could sense the panic vibrating off of Katara.

She turns to see the second ship waiting in the distance, her ticket to freedom a few feet away.

“We’re not done with date night!” She insists, coming out to try to stop the officer. Zuko holds her back, eyes pleading with her. “But—I—there has to be some other way.” She’s shaking like a leaf, even when Zuko throws his blazer over her bare shoulders.

“I can’t believe I’m going to be stuck feeding him heartburn medication like they are tic tacs,” Katara says to no one. She’s pacing nervously around the living room, and Zuko’s trying his best to come up with something to comfort her. His head is in his hands, and he’s since loosened his top knot to let his hair fall.

“Katara, I am only two years older than you,” he gently reminds.

“...And then I heard dentures always smell no matter how hard you clean them.”

“Katara I swear—,”

She gasps. “Oh my god, we have to start thinking of retirement homes.”

Things were supposed to be easy.

A spontaneous house check was something the village’s residents were accustomed to. They gathered outside their homes as soldiers began rifling through their things. Parents simply stood about, discussing the new books they had to buy for their kids for the upcoming semester.

Nothing was entirely out of the blue. Yet, the elusive military captain just had to show up to the front of his house, hand in hand with a blue-eyed girl.

A gun was promptly pointed in her face. “Oh shit. Bitch, not this again.”

“This house was registered for one resident.” General Zhao’s lip curls. “State your name and occupation.”

General Zhao had overheard a certain military director’s son was busted trying to get some punani on the seven seas.

It’s not that he hated Zuko, per say. Their relationship was more of a “ regularly abusing Zuko’s privacy to fulfill a personal agenda because of the bloodthirsty desire for power ” type of thing. Normal things. Maybe , it was influenced by the fact he got wind of Zuko pressuring his higher ups to further investigate his sister’s assasination. He wasn’t entirely sure.

“Look here, I have information that could lead to the arrest of Nicki Minaj. So why don’t you, I don’t know. Let me go ! I promise I’ll tell you everything I know about Ms. Nincki,” she lowly breathes, a suggestive waggle of her eyebrows only making the soldiers around her even more heated.

“Shut the fuck up!” A soldier screams behind her, poking her head with the gun. Katara couldn’t help the whimper that passed her lips. For the first time in her life, she thinks she feels genuine fear.

Zuko pushes past the guards holding him back, throwing them to the ground. Without missing a beat, he takes her hand in his. “Get your fucking gun out of my fiancé’s face!” He roars. Gasps reverberate around the villagers. This was the loudest and longest they’ve ever heard Zuko speak. “She works for the government as part of Division 11,” he explains, letting his voice settle into its usual rasp. Everybody visibly recoils.

A highly secretive sector of the government virtually no one , not even General Zhao had access to. They were agents deployed in different nations, with the goal of collecting information about the culture. It would’ve explained Katara’s Water Tribe accent, and the lack of her identification papers.

General Zhao pushes past Zuko, staring him down and grumbling with his men following behind.

The women of the village instantly make way to collect around Katara. Noses turned up at her like she was shit on a brick. No, they couldn’t give a shit about her. They had rushed into their houses after the announcement, and came back to ply Zuko with trays of food.

“For our handsome Zuko finally getting hitched!” The fake smiles make Katara want to stab herself. She swiftly reaches for Zuko’s hand, much to his confusion, and lays her head on his shoulder.

“Baby, let’s go inside. I’m cold,” she feigns through her teeth. Her puppy dog eyes make him feel like he’s in high school. He numbly nods.

She thinks she hears someone’s grandma calling her a slut.

“Pick your head up king, your hairline is receding,” Katara worries her lip at seeing his current state. She doesn’t think he’s slept all night, and he has papers and maps with highlighter marks and red circles all around him on his bed.

It’s been a few days since his big announcement to the village, and it feels better to be able to get outside. Breathe from the confines from Zuko’s dingy house. Even among the whispers and stares from people, the villagers weren’t all bad. The women sometimes drop by to invite her over to cook with them, and the kids bring her only the nicer rocks they’ve managed to dig through the dirt for.

“I just want to get you home.” He practically grunts. She’s holding a cup of tea for him, and he gulps it down as if it was Rihanna’s boob sweat. “I don’t want you to stay here for even a second longer.”

“Thanks!” Katara sends him a sardonic smile.

Fuck . He always knew how to put his foot in his mouth when he’s around her. “No, uh. Not like that. This place is a hell hole, and I just want you to get back. It’s not safe for you, for anyone here.” She pats his back gently when he starts choking on the tea, trying to get all his words out. He’s so sweet, the way he just quietly tries to draft out a plan while he thinks she’s asleep. She hears him curse whenever a pen snaps with the pressure he applies. With how many times he sighs through the night, she feels guilty.

She’s entirely too comfortable around Zuko, he decides. She lays in bed next to him and he hopes she doesn't notice the way he’s grown warm with her presence. He craves it too much these days. “You know what, the one thing I’ve learned through all of this is that the first thing I’m going to do when I come back is shutting down Chrissy Teigen’s Twitter.”

“Not visit your friends and family?” Zuko asks, amusement dancing across his features.

“That can come second,” Katara asserts.

Life wasn’t completely terrible. Sure, she cries the moment Zuko leaves the house because she’s sure she’s going to die in this shit fuck of place and never get to her money’s worth of her one year HelloFresh subscription. But she has complete faith in Zuko’s abilities.

“It’s like during The Amazing Race Season 17 when those two vegetarian doctors ate a goat’s head to win. I think their names were Kat and Nat.”

“The point?” Zuko tries his best to sound exasperated.

“The point is, I’ll learn how to adapt for the next week or so. I promise, it’s not all that terrible!” Zuko doesn’t trust her uneasy, twitching eyes, but nods all the same.

“Hold my hand, motherfucker!” She beams under the attention of the villagers, most of them scoffing when she does her daily send off routine. When Zuko leaves for work, she is insistent on performing their cute couple duties to piss off old people (her other favorite pastime). “Did you remember to bring your water bottle today, stupid bitch?”

“I think I’d like this more if you asked nicely,” he groused. He likes how small her hand fits in his, but he thinks he’ll boil shoelaces and eat them before he would admit it.

She’s made one friend, at least. Ty Lee, a girl whose parents are trying to marry her off by the next summer. The older women side eyed her just the same, thinking her big ole titties were too big of a distraction among the eligible men in the village.

“It came as a shock to us, we still think Zuko is a robot,” Ty Lee admits over a bowl of beef stew. Katara nearly chokes at the spice level. “It’s too bad you’re marrying a lower ranked officer. I know this guy who’s way up there! You could do so much better . I think his name’s Chan!”

“So, Zuko’s basically a nobody here?”

“Pretty much,” the girl states it like it’s a known fact. “He doesn’t do much, to be honest. But he’s all the old ladies’ favorites because he’s cute and moody . Fuck that, give me communication , you know what I mean?”

Katara could already feel the cogs whirring to life in her brain. “Thanks for letting me know, Ty Lee!” Her chirpy tone has the girl smiling as well. Good, her acting skills haven’t gone rusty. “How come when Zuko makes beef stew, it’s never spicy?” She wipes her nose with a napkin Ty Lee had given her after noticing the impending waterfall of snot.

Ty Lee ponders it for a second. “Sorry, babe. This is the most mild recipe you can make in the Fire Nation. I didn’t realize you couldn't handle it. Maybe he’s just remixing a classic?”

Katara tries to hold back her smile. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Babies are broke,” Katara glares at the child in her lap, who only curls in closer to her.

“Oh my god.” Zuko lets the little boy play with his hair when he wasn’t suffocating Katara’s neck with his other arm.

“They live in your head and your house rent free. And then they have the audacity to stare at you in their weak ass outfits,” she points out. They’re both squeezed together on a sofa barely holding itself together, and forced to watch over the birthday boy.

“Don’t be mad. It’s entirely your fault Chungha’s kid laughed so hard it barfed on you.”

Katara’s exhausted laugh makes Zuko forget his tiredness all the same. “Don’t call the baby an ‘it!’”

Zuko lets the kid bite on his finger, and grabs him from Katara’s hands when he begins tugging on her dress straps. “I still can’t believe you taught Chungha’s daughter to ‘not be the bigger person, and punch a bitch!’ And Chungha still invited you to her son’s party.”

“Talk shit, get hit. Basic stuff.”

He had to admit, coming home and immediately being dragged to a baby’s birthday celebration was not how he saw his night going. Especially after hours of grueling paperwork.

“He’s two ,” Zuko lets out an annoyed huff.

“And what about it, bitch?” Katara growls. She has her hair in a complicated updo, complete with the Fire Nation hair ties he recently picked up for her.

He tries to hide the fact he enjoys this far too much. Domestic things. Things like coming home from work to banter with her. Cooking for Katara while she’s busy socializing with the older wives. He heard from Mako that Katara spends most of her day with the married women. Her plan was to try to move him up the ranks of the military ladder by getting to the lieutenant’s wives first.

When she’s home and finished washing up, she takes his dress shirts as though they were her’s and wears them to bed. After she’s passed out on the sleeping mat in the living room, he makes it a habit to carry her to the mattress in his room.

“My bad back likes the hard floor,” he would insist when she would protest.

He thinks he’s a goner when she even starts trying to make Fire Nation snacks for his lunches. He packs them himself, but somehow misses the minute containers that make their way into his pail. Even if the container somehow always breaks because she forgets to close it properly and he ends the day smelling like fish sauce, he likes it.

He knows he must be fucking crazy, pretending this was all real. Maybe he was delusional and reading too much into her actions. Maybe he was a fucking idiot. But for a moment, it was easy to pretend he’s a few months away from marrying a pretty girl. A pretty girl busy spending the night playing around with babies they could one day have together.

He shakes the thought from his head, physically moving his head to make it permeate even deeper. She was going to be back home, safe and sound soon. It was better not to get attached.

She makes it so fucking hard, though. Especially when she’s wiping away at the creases in his brow before bed. Or asking him through the closed bedroom door to tell her it’s going to be ok, to talk to her until she falls asleep because she likes the sound of his voice.

She’s a stone cold bitch. A bitch that could fight with her Swarovski crystal acrylics, and come out virtually unscathed. Someone needs to explain to her exactly why she was crying like a James Charles fake apology video for being a racist at the sight of Chungha’s kid bouncing about, flinging his boogers in her face.

“Maybe if I pray to Azulon hard enough, you guys could have your own little bundle of joy soon!” Chungha exclaims, holding the baby as tight as she could.

After all, when you almost lose a kid, every moment you’re blessed with their breath never feels like enough. You never want to spend another moment away from them. It’s a miracle his fever broke in time for his birthday. Their family couldn’t afford to go to the doctor, with hospitals being a four hour bike ride away.

“Yeah, sure.” Katara barely could hear her over Yoonjn’s gleeful squeals.

“I’ll tell Bomi to pray for you guys, too. After what Azulon did for her little Sana, you’ll be pregnant in no time!”

Katara just squeezes at the baby’s chubby cheek.

“You’re going to kill yourself.” Katara flinches at Zuko’s voice piercing through the quiet night. He’s leaning up against the wall, and emerges from the shadows because he’s dramatic and needed the added effect. She doesn’t miss the way he limps while clutching his side.

“Shut up .” She throws her straw hat at the ground, and flings herself across the sleeping mat, face down. “I’ve had a long night.”

He wants to be angry with her. He wants to scream at her. He was livid .

“What if you got caught, huh? You could’ve been executed .” Zuko knew it wasn’t a coincidence. That the rumors of a spirit going around healing people in the village coincided with someone’s sudden appearance. He thinks the sight of Katara effortlessly waterbending is permanently etched into his memory. The way her face was blissed out, the element easily submitting to her every will.

Katara knows he’s just worried for her. She knows the occasional rustle of the branches was more than a breeze. But, all she sees is red. “Sounds rich, coming from you ! What’s your name again? Sorry, my bad. I didn’t know ‘The Blue Spirit’ was a silent vowel in the name ‘Zuko!’”

He waits a beat, before turning to face her. She has his mask in hand, an angry glare screwing her features.

“How did you—who did—?” His brain was apparently as smooth as Howie Mandel’s head when he needed its help the most. At least he knows where his mask went.

“My mind is as strong as the Twitter men trying to get Doja Cat to show us her titties.” She rolls her eyes when she sees Zuko pondering. “You leave your Dao swords on display in the living room, and the mask is underneath your bed. I don’t know, let me ask the audience.”

“Oh.”

Katara flicks his forehead.

“At least I’m not walking around with some face paint thinking I’m helping these people!”

She scoffs. “But I am! They’re too sick to afford medication. To even go to the hospital. If they make it, no one wants to help them! You’re telling me I have to just watch them die!”

Zuko sighs. “You’re giving them hope !”

“In this dumpster fire of a place, yeah! I fucking am! What’s wrong with that? Tell me!” She challenges. She comes up nose to nose with Zuko, eyes darting and impatiently waiting for an answer.

“What are these people going to do when you’re gone?” What am I going to do when you’re gone? “They think the Painted Lady is real !”

“Let them!” She huffs. “What about you, huh? Going around stealing from the rich to bring back to the villagers? You think you’re any better? You’re going to get killed!”

Zuko scoffs. “You’re missing the point. The difference between you and me? I’m perfectly fine with dying.”

Katara grabs his face in between her hands, anger vanishing. “Zuko, don’t say that.”

“Why the fuck not? Maybe I want to fucking die!” He shouts, ripping his head out of her grasp. “Maybe I’m hoping to get caught!”

“...Why?” Katara croaks.

“ You don’t get it !” He screams. Time seemed to stop when tears fell from Zuko’s eyes. Even when he’s angry, he’s never been this loud with Katara before. He wants to take it all back, stop himself.

She’s at a loss for words. “Zuko, I—”

“This place is a fucking dead end. No one’s going to save us. The Fire Nation doesn’t care about us. The Fire Nation could give less of a fuck. You can’t let people think there’s hope when it’s all a fucking lie !” He laughs, the bitter sound foreign to her. “You know, it’s normal to pray for an early death here. You pray that it’s painless. It’s easier to die than live every day trapped in this reality.”

He loses his grip on the countertop he was leaning on for support. Katara moves to catch him before he falls, and lays him as gently as possible on top of the mat. She makes quick work to heal the gash at his side. A result of following her during her rounds, and fighting off any robbers trying their luck in the night.

“I thought you were the Kris Jenner of the Southern Water Tribe?” He squeezes out, trying to get her to laugh. She’s touched he remembered her Kardashian-Jenner clan rants. (He’s been Team Stormi since day one.) Then again, he seems to remember every little detail about her. “A businesswoman, right? Didn’t know you were a master waterbender on top of all of that.”

She snorts, and wipes away her own tears before he could open his eyes again. “I was a paramedic. I wanted to run a clinic at one point.” Zuko winces at the intensity of the water cooling his wound. “Growing up, I hated the business world. It was all backstabbing and boring bitches. But sometimes, it’s easier.” She’s silent for a while, focused only on the healing process.

“I—I couldn’t save a lot of people,” her voice drops down to a barely audible whisper, and her brows furrow.

They’re shoulder to shoulder on the mat after she wraps up his cut. They’re staring up at the cracks of his ceiling.

“Do you ever miss it?” Zuko rasps.

“Bending?”

“Yeah.”

“Sometimes.” She lets silence fill the air for a moment. “ It’s second nature to me. Fuck, I was bending before I could even talk. Is it bad that I gave up on it? Is it bad it makes me sick to my stomach?”

Something she loved, she couldn’t stand to do again.

She couldn’t save her mom. She couldn’t save her niece. What was the point anymore?

He wraps his hand around hers.

“What do you think we would have been like, in another life?” Zuko groans, laying down beside Katara. She’s sprawled out, still taking in heavy breaths after breaking into an intense run. His side still aches. He thinks his arm is broken from fighting off the soldiers while carrying the dozens of survivors.

The captain in a nearby village was sentenced to a public execution later in the week. He wanted to go out on his own terms and take his village with him, too. Trying to sacrifice people to the Gods above for forgiveness, he set the place ablaze.

It’s too bad The Painted Lady got wind of it first.

“Hm?” Katara hums, healing a cut on her face. “I’d like to think Katara in another life got to be normal. Like just owning a Chevy and living life without ever having to acknowledge Timothee Chalamat’s existence type of normal. She’s happy. She doesn’t develop an addiction to Prozac. She probably has a small white dog named Mochi that can fit into a knock-off Fendi purse.”

“Really? No butt-warming toilets in her life?”

“Nah. She could be the Mayor of Boo Boo the Foolville without any consequences.” She can’t recall a time when she’s felt so free. When her words flow out without carefully being measured. The stars feel like daylight. The expanses of the village’s nearby river tugging at her heart strings. “She could bend without constantly thinking of what could’ve been.”

“Zuko in another life would’ve been a piano player.” It still stings. Thinking about the future that could’ve been.

“Not a full time Blue Spirit?” She teases.

“Full time Blue Spirit doesn’t pay the bills, surprisingly.”

He turns his head and sees her nose crinkle. He’s sure it should be illegal for someone to be this beautiful.

“This kid I healed, he made his own Blue Spirit costume. He’s been wearing it every day, and treated it like it’s this season’s Versace,” Katara murmurs. He laughs, loud and unbridled.

“Yeah? I saw a bunch of little girls with their Painted Lady dolls.” They were holding onto them until their knuckles turned white, even with Zuko dangling them from his shoulders.

Katara’s heart swells. “I think I’m going to cry.”

Zuko nudges her shoulder with his when he hears her mock-sniffles.

“Did you know I told this guy ‘it’s time to evacuate!’ while he was mid-masturbation.”

Katara’s stomach is starting to hurt with how hard she’s squealing. “You’re lying ! Please, say sike!”

Zuko throws his hands up. “I couldn’t make this up even if I tried. He was all like, ‘You mean time to ejaculate!’” Zuko finishes the story in a dude-bro voice.

At this point, Katara was shaking uncontrollably, and it’s infectious. He can’t help laughing, too.

A beat of silence passes between the duo, too distracted by the night sky.

Zuko rubs a hand over his face, determined to stay awake to see her fall asleep.

“What would Zuko and Katara have been in another life?” Katara whispers wistfully.

He glances over to her, eyes heavy. “I think being us would have been easier, in another life.” Her light snores fill the air. “At least then, I could be by your side.”

He nudges her head until it fits securely in the crook of his shoulder.

“Sit there and look pretty!”

“No!”

“All I’m asking you to do is sit and blink!” Katara had run into a kid with a smuggled polaroid camera trying to snap photos of her. In return for not slicing open his urethra with a dull butter knife, she was trying to force him to take photos of Zuko. After all, she wanted a memento of her time with him.

The teen was nervously glanced between the two, the camera shaking in his grasp.

“I think I’m going to go find my mom…”

“Pussy bitch!” Katara screams at the running boy.

“Old ass hoe!” He yelps back.

Zuko knew it was a mistake taking Katara to the night market. As a celebration of the Mid-Autumn Festival, curfews were relaxed. The marketplace opened up to sell street food into the night. There’s singing, dancing, laughing, drinking. A night to forget, a night meant for happiness.

He thinks it’s ridiculous. The way she doesn’t notice the way guys look at her. He’s spent the better part of the night standing in front of her if any man was brave enough to glance in her general direction. At night, she was in her element, her smile was a blinding thing that made his heart race. She doesn’t pay any mind to anyone staring, to anyone trying to get her attention. She’s just taking in the little moments around her, eyes so bright and stares so wide. Like she’s afraid to miss a single detail with just a blink.

“Your breath smells like stupid bitch,” Katara points out after what had to be his 20th grunt of the night. She’s sure he’s holding her close to make sure they still played a newly engaged couple. She relishes in the attention all the same.

“Sorry.” He sulks like a child, and it makes Katara want to hug him.

She pecks his cheek and he freezes. “Look! He bought his girlfriend that potato on a stick thing!”

Zuko rushes off without any hesitation.

He picks the fire flakes off the potato slices before handing it to her. She practically inhales the snack, and he frets. He thinks she’s about to stab herself with the skewer. “Oh look!” She points to another couple, while pouting. “He won her a stuffed dragon.”

Zuko couldn’t stand to see her upset, even for a second.

When she’s hugging the plushie close to her, Zuko throws his arm around her. She stops in her tracks. “Oh my god! Is that ice cream—” He runs to find the vendor without even thinking.

“Number 43!” The vendor yelps. Zuko instantly recognizes the greasy teenager picking up the order in front of him.

“Give me the photos you took of my fiancé,” he says, panting. He practically ran at lightning speed to catch up to the kid, who intentionally rushed off after feeling Zuko glaring him down from a distance. The boy feels his bladder shaking.

“But—but you didn’t want a photo! You—” Zuko’s best menacing scowl had the kid scrambling through his pockets. “She could do better, you know!” He petulantly points out, before throwing the photo in the air and taking off.

Zuko lets himself smile after tucking Katara’s picture safely into his wallet. He knew he told himself he wouldn’t get attached. Not his fault she’s cast him under her spell.

He’s pouting. She’s struggling not to laugh in his face.

“This is mine, now.” He indignantly rips the toy of her hold, squishing it to his chest instead.

“Why?” she questions.

“If you want one so bad, ask Chan to win you one.” She straight up guffaws in his face. Zuko had caught Chan hugging her out of excitement. Ty Lee finally agreed to a date with him, all thanks to Katara meddling.

“I can’t believe you’d cheat on me!” Zuko scowls. He’s more cute than terrifying, and Katara just rolls her eyes. “I thought I was the only one you call ‘babe!’” He tries protesting.

Katara snorts. “That was short for ‘beyblade.’ Let it rip, motherfucker!”

“Am I not a good husband-to-be? Is that what it is? Do you feel neglected, babe ?” He’s just fucking with her at this point, his childish pout threatening to bleed into a full blown laugh. He’s biking them back home, with Katara seated at the front on only a towel. She misses her Tesla.

“For starters, your toes look like gorilla knuckles. They look like they could wrap completely around a baseball.”

“Hey!”

“Be honest. Has anyone ever sucked your toes until you creamed yourself?” Katara’s favorite pastime is making Zuko blush.

She turns back to him to see his reddening face. “Oh my god! Look at how cute you are! I think my stomach has the butterflies!” Zuko just grows positively crimson at her mocking tone. He’ll blame the warming weather, though.

“Kill them. I won’t treat you right,” Zuko murmurs. Katara just swats at his head. “Didn’t I shoot at you? Love yourself, Katara.”

Once they reach his house, she jumps off the bicycle, and grabs Zuko by the shoulders. “Hey.”

“What?” He can’t help being mesmerized by her eyes.

“I think I’ll miss you,” Katara breathes.

“You have to leave first for you to miss me.” Zuko wraps her up in a tight hug.

He feels selfish when he wishes moments with Katara could last a lifetime.

#zutara fanfiction #zutara #zuko x katara #zutara month #zutara month 2020 #may 13 #hidden #zutara month part two

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faithambr · 4 years

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Tilbake til Skolen (Back to School)

(Author’s Note: Hello everyone! This is a multi-chapter story about the budding relationship between Anna and Kristoff. This is based off of a two part episode from The Little House on the Prairie. So sit back and enjoy the story!)

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It was a cool and brisk morning in the small railroad town of Arrendelle, Wisconsin. Arrendelle was a quaint railroad town filled with all walks of life. From the local town merchants chit-chatting at the mercantile to the young woodsmen trying to sell their leftover furs. On the outskirts of town, stood a row of little houses for families who are working with the local railroad company. The majority of the homes were with plain colors and dainty windows. The only areas that were decorated were the gardens and the little curtains hanging by the windowsill. Some curtains were decorated with floral patterns and bright colors, while others had patches with some basic stitching along the edges. In one particular windowsill, there was a bright young woman slowly waking up from her peaceful slumber. Today’s the day. the young woman had thought as she jumped on out of her bed. Today’s the day!

Her heart was cheering at the thought of starting the new school year as the teacher’s assistant. She knew that she was one of the older student at the school; therefore, she was chosen to be the new teacher’s assistant. Maybe she’ll be pretty, just like Mrs. Garvey. she thought while she was choosing her outfit for the day. I should probably wear something nice then. She smiled at the thought of looking her best while she was going through her garments. “Aha! Perfect!” she whispered as she got on her dress. “This will do!”

She smirked as she felt every piece of green fabric at her touch. The embroidery on the hem of her skirt was very detailed while the shirt was just the comfort that she needed for the day. Now I just need to comb this tangled up mess here. she though was she was looking at herself in the small mirror.

Normally she would braid her strawberry blonde locks into two plaits, but today was a special day. A day where she could prove to others that she wasn’t a little girl anymore. For she became a woman in her own eyes. Maybe people will see me as a young woman now. she thought as she made her way on out of her bedroom. Maybe Elsa will see me as a woman, not her kid sister.

“Good morning Anna.” a voice had interrupted her thoughts as Anna made her way into the kitchen dining area.

“Oh good morning, Elsa.” Anna lets out with a nervous laugh.

“Anna,” her sister began as Anna sat down at the small table, “what are you wearing?”

“Ah,” Anna mutters with her thumbs twirling, “they’re my regular school clothes.”

“Oh really?” her older sister raises an eyebrow at her.

Anna bit her lip as she placed a small strand behind her ear. “Yep.”

“Okay then.” Elsa lets out with a sigh. “I guess that you are planning to wear your hair up that way then.”

“Yep.” Anna nods with a nervous smile.

“Why are you nervous?” Elsa asks as she quickly pulls her platinum blonde hair up into a tightly braided bun.

“Oh um,” Anna began while she was eating the oatmeal right in front of her, “it’s because we have a new teacher this school year. So Mrs. Garvey had asked me to help out the new teacher.”

“Interesting.” her older sister smiles as she pours herself a cup of coffee. “I’m assuming that’s why you’re all dressed up.”

“You can say that.” Anna nods in agreement, just as she was finishing up with her bowl of oatmeal.

“Of course.” Elsa began with a smile on her face.

“Say are you heading into town today?” Anna had asked as she got up from the table to put her bowl in the sink.

“As a matter-of-fact,” Elsa answers, making Anna feel a bit unsure, “I heard that there are some job openings in town.”

Anna simply rolls her eyes. “Elsa, why do you have to go and get a job?”

“You know why, Anna.” her older sister answers with a stern look.

“I know, I know.” Anna repeats while she was quickly washing the dishes. “The money is gone.”

“And since the money’s gone,” Elsa continues with a concerned look on her face, “somebody has to get a job in order to pay for the bills.”

“Oh right.” Anna sighs in defeat.

“Plus the fur trade has hit an all-time low so.” Elsa adds as she quickly grabs her maroon shawl on her chair and placed it over her slim shoulders.

“Right.” Anna nods in agreement while she was grabbing her school books nearby.

Her heart was pounding at the thought of the new school year, as she and her sister were making their way on out of their home. Sure Anna knew that Elsa was too focused on the family finances, yet Anna was told to do well in school and to leave the worrying to Elsa. But that doesn’t seem fair to Elsa. Anna had thought as they were leaving the railroad houses and heading straight into town. She knew that Elsa was her big sister and that they were meant to stay together, unless if fate had other plans. Maybe one of us will find someone and fall in love. she thought while she was strolling along, her heels digging into the earthly soil. Highly unlikely though.

“Anna,” a voice had interrupted her thoughts, causing Anna to look at her older sister, “would you look at that.”

“At what Elsa?” Anna gave her sister a confused look.

Elsa points at the building right in front of them. “That!”

“So somebody had finally bought this old building and decided to spruce it up, huh?” Anna says as a matter of factually.

“Yeah well,” Elsa continues while Anna was looking around the railroad town, “I’m sure that whoever bought it, will make the place very comfortable and cozy for everyone in our town.”

“I hope so.” Anna sighs in defeat, just as they heard some ruckus coming from the inside the old building.

“Well who knows.” Elsa lets out with a shrug, just as a disheveled woman had appeared from the canvas over the old building.

“Well hello girls!” the woman calls out while she was fixing up her purple mess of a dress.

“Hello Mrs. Westerguard.” Anna answers for her sister. “How are you doing today?”

“Why ah,” Mrs. Westerguard bit her lip as she made her way down to the two sisters, “everything’s fine. Helena will be graduating today.”

“Oh yes.” Anna puts on a smile, trying to hide her true feelings about Helena.

“Oh sh’es so grown up now.” Mrs. Westerguard lets out with a dramatic gasp. “Pretty soon, she’ll be off and married to a charming young man.”

“Well that does sound nice.” Elsa smiles faintly, hoping that the school bell would ring for her sister.

“Say,” Mrs. Westerguard continues as she looked at Anna, “have you accepted my son’s offer?”

“Oh no,” Anna answers with a confused glance from her sister, “Hans didn’t even say a word to me about it.”

“Well I....”

“Mrs. Westerguard,” Anna had interrupted the older woman, “as much as I would love to sit and chat, but I’m afraid that I have school to go to and I’m sure that my sister has some errands to run.”

“Good day Mrs. Westerguard.” Elsa adds, making the older woman look cross at the two sisters.

“Well then...”

“Good day!” Anna smiles with a wave as she left without her sister and went straight to school.

“Anna,” Elsa shouts in hopes of her sister hearing from afar, “please come straight home after school! We have chores to do!”

“Don’t worry,” Anna shouts back just as she arrived at the school playground, “I will!”

“Anna!” a familiar voice had called out, causing Anna to turn around and face the children in the school yard. “Welcome back!”

“Louisa!” Anna exclaims as she made her way to her dear friend. “How are you?”

“I’m doing alright.” her friend answers while she was fiddling with her blonde hair. “Wow, you look different.”

“Why thank you, Louisa.” Anna had smiled to her friend.

“Do you think that the new teacher will be strict?” her friend had asked while they were making their way to the other children in the school yard.

“Well who knows,” Anna lets out with a shrug as she held her books close to her heart, “but I bet she’ll do well as our teacher.”

“Are you sure?” Louis quirks an eyebrow at her.

“I’m sure.” Anna winks at her friend while they were watching the other children play in the school yard. “Besides Mrs. Garvey needed a break from us.”

“What do you mean Anna?” her friend asks.

“What I mean is...” Anna began just as they heard a wagon pull on up to their little schoolhouse.

“Now I wonder who could that be.” Louisa wonders aloud as they watched the wagon pull on up.

“Oh I don’t know.” Anna lets out with a sigh while she was watching the driver the old lady on down from the wagon. “But I sure would like to know.”

“Well why don’t we go on and introduce ourselves? I’m sure they won’t mind.” Louisa smiles to her dear friend.

“You go on ahead,” Anna stutters a bit, “I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ll be fine.” Anna smiles with her heart beating towards the driver. “Just fine.”

“Alright.”

Her heart was beating faster by the second, while she was watching her friend interact with the new teacher and driver. The driver seemed so rough and rugged, yet his honey brown eyes were calm and focused. His body movements seemed rather stern, yet her heart was telling her something else. She noticed that he seemed rather focused at the task at hand, unlike her. His blond hair was a bit disheveled, yet it was well kept and clean. His rough look demeanor could scare off some animal, yet her heart was telling her otherwise.

He seems so. Anna had thought as she watched the young driver pull away wit his wagon. Different.

The school bell was ringing, causing Anna to snap back into reality. Great I have class today! she thought as she quickly made her way into the little schoolhouse.

“Almost late again, weren’t you?” Louisa had asked, just as Anna sat down right next to her friend up front.

“I had to go to the outhouse.” Anna answers while the new teacher was writing on the front blackboard.

“The outhouse?” her friend raises an eyebrow.

“Good morning class.” the new teacher began, just before Anna had answered her friend.

“Good morning.”

“My name is Mrs. Bulda Bjorgman,” the teacher continues to address the class, “but you will be calling me Mrs. Bjorgman.”

She seems so nice. Anna thought while she was watching the teacher continue on talking to the class. Mrs. Bjorgman was a tad bit older, no thanks to the laugh lines around her dark brown eyes. Her glasses were plain as day, but her smile was genuine. She must have good taste. Anna had thought as she watched the new teacher move about the classroom. Mrs. Bjorgman did have her chesnutt brown hair and her dress was built with some red embroidery fabric.

“Now I’m looking for Anna Dale.” Mrs. Bjorgman had asked as she stood in front of Anna.

“I’m here.” Anna answers, making the new teacher smile.

“Oh good,” the new teacher smiles, “Mrs. Garvey had told me...”

“Yoohoo!” a familiar voice had interrupted the new teacher. “Hello!”

“Why hello Mrs....” Mrs. Bjorgman had answered while Mrs. Westerguard and her daughter, Helena, were making their way to the front of the schoolroom.

“Westerguard.” Mrs. Westerguard finishes for the teacher as she and Helena were right in front of the schoolroom close to the teacher. “This is my daughter Helena.”

“Why it is a wonderful pleasure to meet you.” Mrs. Bjorgman lets out with a nod, making Helena smile mischievously.

“Nice to meet you, too.” Helena nods just before she had turned to face her peers.

“Now my daughter has a commencement speech prepared for the class.” Mrs. Westerguard had stated with her prickly hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Would you mind if she shares it with her peers?”

“Oh I don’t mind at all.” Mrs. Bjorgman answers. “Now class, please pay attention.”

Oh boy! Anna had thought as she watched the redhead begin the commencement speech.

“Fellow friends, students,” Helena began as she smirked down at Anna, “and others, today is the day I embrace my new horizons.”

Seriously. Anna thought with a roll of the eyes.

“My new horizons will bring me some challenges in life,” Helena continues with each of her curls brushing up against her shoulders, “and I must be ready for them.”

Anna simply relaxed her shoulders as she continued on watching her fellow student recite her commencement speech.

“I do plan on doing what I want with my life,” Helena continues with a sly grin on her face, “but I will always remember my time here in this tiny schoolhouse.”

Of course she would. Anna thought, reliving the memories of her and Helena being in that schoolhouse.

“Thank you.” Helena finishes followed by an applause from her mother.

“Oh bravo! Bravo!” Mrs. Westerguard continues her applause along with encouraging the other students to follow through. Wonderful my darling!”

“Well that was a fine speech, Helena.” Mrs. Bjorgman smiles at Helena and Mrs. Westerguard. “Thank you. Now I...”

“Oh Mrs. Bjorgman,” Mrs. Westerguard interrupts the new teacher, “me and my husband have a special surprise for our Helena. Well....uh.... I was wondering if Helena would like to share the surprise with her friends.”

“Oh well I....” Mrs. Bjorgman tries to add in.

“It’ll be only for just a few minutes.” Mrs. Westerguard interrupts again.

“I’m curious to see what it is.” Louisa whispers to Anna, making Anna smirk a little.

“Me too.” Anna whispers back.

“Well alright then,” Mrs. Bjorgman lets out with a sigh, making Mrs. Westerguard smile, “come along children. Let us see this surprise.”

“Yes, yes.” Mrs. Westerguard adds with such a rush as the children were filing on out of the schoolroom, “come children, I’m sure Helena would want to see this with her classmates as soon as possible.”

“More like she wants to show it to everyone, just not Helena.” Anna whispers to her friend Louisa while they were following Mrs. Westerguard to their destination.

“Sounds about right.” her friend nods in agreement, earning both her and Anna a glare from Helena.

“Now,” Mrs. Westerguard began, just as they all had arrived at their destination, “I’m sure that all of you are curious to see what’s behind the canvas here.”

“More like a curtain.” Louisa whispers to Anna just as Mr. Westerguard and the older son, Hans, had appeared from behind the canvas.

“Now I’m sure that my dear lovely daughter would be happy to know that...” Mrs. Westerguard continues with some tears in her eyes.

“Edith will you please...” Mr. Westerguard interrupts Mrs. Westerguard.

“Benjamin, don’t interrupt me!” Mrs. Westerguard gave her husband a cross look. “Now as I was saying, I’m sure that my dear lovely daughter would be happy to know that...”

“Mother,” Hans had interfered with his usual smile and charm, “I’m sure that Helena would love to see her surprise, now.”

“Oh alright.” Mrs. Westerguard sighs as she wipes away her tears. “Helena, this is for you.”

Oh boy. Anna had thought while Mrs. Westerguard was pulling at the rope, causing the canvas to fall ever so dramatically. Here we go again.

“Helena,” Mrs. Westerguard lets out with a dramatic smile, causing Anna to giggle just a little, “your very own restaurant!”

“Why thank you, Mother.” Helena smiles, just as she made her way to her mother.

“You’re welcome my Helena.” Mrs. Westerguard grins while she was guiding her daughter to the entrance of restaurant.

“Well congratulations Helena,” Mrs. Bjorgman began, “and thank you for sharing your surprise with us.”

“You’re welcome.” Helena had nodded, just before she was being escorted on into the new restaurant.

“A restaurant? For Helena?” Louisa gave Anna a confused look as they were heading on back to school. “Why on Earth would her family give her a gift like that?”

“Well I know why,” Anna began, “it’s because her mother wants her to get a husband.”

“How do you know that?”

“Easy,” Anna continues just as they were approaching the schoolhouse, “when Hans was gifted the mercantile, he asked me to be his sweetheart.”

“Well what did you say?” Louisa had asked.

“Well I for one,” Anna continues as she dramatically flips her bangs, “wouldn’t be attending school, if I said yes.”

“Oh.”

“Heck,” Anna adds, “I’d probably be married by now.”

“Right,” Louisa rolls her eyes playfully as they entered into the school room, “you a married woman?”

“Well you may never know.” Anna adds, making her friend smile.

“Now children,” Mrs. Bjorgman claps, getting Anna and her friend to pay attention in class, “I’m sure that you have enjoy seeing Helena’s surprise, but we need to get to our schoolwork.”

The class groaned at the teacher’s response.

“Now Anna Dale, would you mind helping me for today?” Mrs. Bjorgman had stated as she faced Anna.

“Yes I can help.” Anna lets out with a smile.

“Well alright then,” Mrs. Bjorgman grins. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Anna nods while Mrs. Bjorgman was writing some math problems on the blackboard.

“Now children,” Mrs. Bjorgman began as she pointed at some of the problems, “I would like for you to do these problems on your paper tablets.”

The class had groaned at her words.

Well I guess we better get to work then. Anna had thought as she began to write the school work problems.

_____________________________________

It was mid afternoon by the time school was let out. Anna was sure excited to be out of school, no thanks to the amount of schoolwork Mrs. Bjorgman had given her. Maybe she’ll be a good teacher here after all. she thought as she made her way on out of the schoolhouse. She could tell that majority of her classmates weren’t too keen on the extra work, but that didn’t really matter to her. All she cared about would be getting to be with her friends, just before she would get to her schoolwork.

“Anna!” her friend calls out, causing Anna to stop in her tracks outside the schoolyard. “Did you know how much homework she gave us today?”

“Yes Louisa.” Anna answers.

“Well it seems a lot.” Louisa shrugs as they were making their way home.

“Well I think that she’ll be a great...” Anna continues, just as the familiar driver was heading on past them.

Ohh he’s back. she thought, making her cheeks blush with a bright hue of pink.

“Anna,” her friend gave her a confused look, “are you alright? You look flushed.”

“Oh um,” Anna murmurs with her heart beating a little bit faster, “I.... oh I forgot something.”

“What?” Louisa lets out in confusion.

“I’ll be back!” Anna shouts as she was racing on back to the schoolhouse. “I forgot something!”

“Anna!” was all that she could hear from her friend afar.

What did I forget at school again? she thought as she stopped at the edge of the school yard. She knew that the young man must be related to Mrs. Bjorgman, no thanks to how he was treating her right at the schoolhouse. Maybe she’s his aunt or something like that. she thought while she was making her way to the schoolhouse

“Why hello Anna.” Mrs. Bjorgman smiles just before she had gotten on the buggy.

“Hi Mrs. Bjorgman.” Anna lets out with a smile.

“Did you forget something?” Mrs. Bjorgman had asked her.

“Well I thought I did,” Anna began while she was rolling her on heels, “but then I remember I have my tablet in my hands.”

“Oh really?” Mrs. Bjorgman quirks an eyebrow at her.

“Yep.” Anna nods quickly.

“Well just make sure that you do all of your homework now, alright?” Mrs. Bjorgman had instructed Anna, while the young driver was remaining focused on the road.

“Yes ma’am.” Anna replies.

“Oh where are my manners.” Mrs. Bjorgman lets out with a smile. “Anna, this is my son, Kristoff.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Kristoff.” Anna smiles warmly at the young man.

“Same to you, Anna.” the young man had nodded.

“Anna Dale.” Anna lets out with such haste and urgency.

“Well then Ms. Dale,” Kristoff gave her a confused look, “it was pleasure to meet you.”

“Goodbye now Anna.” Mrs. Bjorgman waves just as Kristoff flicked at the reins for the horse to pull the buggy. “See you tomorrow.”

“Goodbye Mrs. Bjorgman.” Anna waves back with her heart sinking by the second.

Anna Dale. she thought with a disgusted look on her face. She couldn’t believe that she was embarrassing herself in front of Kristoff. Maybe I just need to watch what I say and do in front of him. she thought as she began to head back home.

Her mind was telling her that she must continue on with her studies, yer her heart was telling her that there was something particular about Kristoff.

#tilbake til skolen #frozen fandom #kristanna fandom #back to school

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quentinblack · 3 years

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Smoke and Mirrors

Word Count: 3K words

Chapter 11: Hestia II - The Lost Boys (link to full story on FF.net)

Warnings: Reference to Suicide and Rape

Featuring: Hestia Jones & Jordan Turner (OC)

Hestia looked down at her list.

The name read “J TURNER – MGL – 18 – 07/05/1990”

This was the last one of the day.

Jordan Turner was only just eighteen years old when Hestia had first spoken to him at the tail end of last week, a mere few days following his birthday.

By both muggle and wizarding law standards he was now a man, but with his swept over greasy hair, fearful, mistrusting eyes and skinny frame he had seemed far more like a boy. A much worn and faded brown leather belt was the only thing that ensured his oversized, ill-fitting trousers sat near to his waist and did not fall down to his ankles.

It was difficult to believe that he was in-fact older than Harry Potter, who less than a fortnight prior had ended You Know Who’s reign of terror on Great Britain.

It had been You Know Who that had inadvertently destroyed the life of Turner, who had been taken in for questioning with a host of other captured snatchers and Death Eater associates following The Battle of Hogwarts.

Jordan had spent the vast majority of his life working on his father’s farm, which was situated in a sleepy village town a few miles south of Yeovil in Somerset.

From what Hestia had managed to gather from him in his interrogation, he would often do various chores for his father in the field late at night – and it was one fateful night last November when he’d been in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

Fenrir Greyback and his pack of hungry, disgruntled werewolves had been prowling the British countryside for the best part of two decades. For the vast majority of the time their disruption had been kept to a minimum, with Greyback himself often in and out of Azkaban for various offences, primarily resolving around breaking the statute of secrecy by illegally recruiting new victims.

However, both in the years prior and during You Know Who’s rise to power, Greyback had, for want of a better phrase, had his leash unshackled.

It seemed that his reward for unblinking loyalty to The Dark Lord had been free reign to more or less indulge in whatever recreational activity he felt like. This was bad news for British farmers, as his werewolf pack preyed mercilessly on livestock all over Britain.

Hestia had suspected as much even when she was in hiding with Dedalus and the Dursley family. Where they were stationed in Wrexham picked up all of the local regional news, which for many months focused on the extraordinary story of wild wolves supposedly ravaging sheep farms all across Wales.

There were all manner of eccentric oddball farmers and locals getting interviewed by BBC, ITV and Channel 4 presenters, with each interviewee adamantly proclaiming they’d seen a giant wolf or multiple wolves going after one flock or another. One crazed man even professed he’d seen a werewolf.

Needless to say, muggles across the country, excluding the farmers and locals unlucky enough to grab a sighting themselves, did not take it altogether too seriously.

In-fact, much of the coverage was framed in such a manner that the presenters back in the metropolitan London-based studios were downright laughing at the ludicrous tales from the backwards country-folk.

Hestia even recalled Vernon Dursley, in-between laughing along at the coverage with his wife, making several offhand remarks about the Welsh being a load of ‘stupid bloody sheep shaggers’.

But the Welsh farmers and locals had not been stupid at all.

They’d simply seen and witnessed things that no sane muggle would ever be able to comprehend or understand.

Jordan Turner had been one of these poor muggles.

His only problem had been that he hadn’t simply spied or eavesdropped on Greyback’s gang from a distance, no, he’d actually been brave enough, or indeed, foolish enough to try and take them on.

Once the werewolf pack had pillaged their way through Wales it seemed they’d headed out to Bristol, Bath and then eventually made their way south to Yeovil and stumbled upon the Turner family farm.

Jordan had been bottling up some fresh cow’s milk ready for the morning Sunday market when he’d heard a commotion coming from their sheep herd. At first he had not been too concerned, assuming it was probably just a fox, or maybe even a badger.

But as he peered out into the distance he saw several large shadows on the sheep field, which was followed by a blood-curdling howl and a scream of pure terror from a sheep, which caused the others to quickly disperse.

The Turner family had followed the news for the last few months and knew all about the rumoured wolf-pack preying on local farms.

At first his father had laughed it off like most of the rest of the country, but in the last few weeks he had grown slightly concerned. There had been reports from other farmers, ones that he trusted, who were based in Bristol that had given more credible reports of something very strange and sinister happening.

Jordan had thought of running back to the main house and calling for his father when he’d heard that first sheep scream, but he’d thought better of it, as it was a good five minute run. By the time they’d both come back the wolves could’ve been long gone and taken or killed half of their herd.

He’d instead reached for the shotgun in the outhouse and fearlessly sprinted towards the defenceless sheep.

What he had seen when he’d got there had horrified him to the bone.

A big, vicious looking brown wolf with teeth as big as knives was sinking its teeth into the side of a terrified sheep.

Luckily for Jordan the wolf had been so preoccupied in feasting on its flesh that it hadn’t notice he was watching it.

The beast hadn’t noticed when Jordan had raised the gun, nor when he had taken his aim and it was only when the deafening shot had been fired that Jordan’s presence was finally known to it.

It had been too late for the wolf though, as Jordan’s shot had penetrated straight through its neck and fatally wounded it.

The blast had been so loud that it had caused Jordan’s hearing to be temporarily reduced to nothing more than a loud ringing noise, so he was unsure whether the wolf had let out a whimper or not, but after a few moments it fell to the ground, dead.

Jordan had momentarily been quite proud of himself.

His Dad would be happy with him when he ran back to the house and told him that he’d caught a wolf in the act – and put a bullet right through it for good measure, but Jordan never got to tell his Dad what he had done.

As his hearing had returned he had been greeted by the sound of fierce, loud growling behind him, which was coming from the rest of the fallen wolf’s pack – and needless to say, they were not best pleased.

He had thought that the wolf he had shot dead had been big, but many of the other wolves that surrounded him after that had absolutely dwarfed the one that he had just killed.

It had been the one in the middle that had been the most terrifying.

It looked more like a bear than a wolf.

This wolf had been massive.

This wolf had been menacing.

This wolf had been Fenrir Greyback - and he had dived for Jordan Turner, knocked him unconscious and then sunk his teeth deep inside his neck, thus forever cursing the young muggle boy with the blood of a werewolf.

Jordan had recounted to Hestia how Greyback had explained everything to him in the morning when he’d come back around.

She thought how it must be bad enough for a wizard who is aware of werewolves to be bitten and then turned into one, but she sympathised with Turner who had previously never even known they existed outside of horror movies and folk tales.

It was one thing to be told all about the magical word as an excited muggle-born receiving a Hogwarts letter on your 11th birthday, but Jordan’s sorry entry into the magical world had been the polar opposite of that happy childhood experience.

Greyback had bullied the young muggle into joining his pack, under the guise that he was one of them now – a monster, who his family would ostracise should they ever find out the truth. Unable to fend for himself, Jordan was left with little choice but to enlist within Greyback’s ranks and do his bidding for the indefinite future.

The young farmer and many others would join a growing portion of teenage boys and young men reported as missing in the UK. The police would launch various man-hunts and missing person investigations, but to no avail, as the families would be left forever wondering what happened to their lost boys.

The next six months had seen the pack continue to ravage the country as Fenrir Greyback, quite literally, raped and pillaged his way through it. A few lost sheep paled in comparison to the number of teenage muggle girls who also began to go missing, with Turner reporting that Greyback, much like a black widow spider, would feast on and kill his helpless victims after he was finished with them. A corpse would often wind up in a local ditch, forest or river, with the police generally left baffled as to what cruel fate had fallen upon the deceased.

Turner had not understood why Greyback hadn’t held any interest in recruiting the females to join the pack, but Hestia had studied werewolves enough to have a good understanding of what his probable reasoning had been.

A female werewolf, unlike a male, can morph their body to almost three times its normal size during a full moon, as well as that they often develop twice as much of a lust for death and destruction. A she-wolf in the pack could have certainly threatened Greyback, especially if younger males within it lacking a mother-figure possibly gravitated towards her. An Alpha such as Fenrir would have never risked the possibility of having his pack taken over from within.

But now Greyback was behind bars – and, if the whispered rumours were true, he was first in line for execution following what would eventually become the Wizarding equivalent of the Nuremberg trials.

This had left many of the young and newly recruited werewolves without a leader.

A decent percentage of the werewolves that Greyback had turned in the last year were already dead of course, with many being killed in various skirmishes that their Alpha’s snatchers had encountered whilst parading around the countryside.

Those that had survived those battles, like Jordan, were then enlisted in as The Dark Lord took Hogwarts. Nothing could’ve prepared them for such a battle and with just knives, bats or their bare hands to defend themselves it was no surprise that a great number of them had fallen in the fray.

Yet just shy of 100 of them had managed to survive, which had given The Ministry a bit of a problem.

Hestia’s makeshift team had been given the job of at least partially dealing with it, as if they didn’t already have enough on their plate.

The short-term initial plan for these muggle werewolves was fairly simple. They were to have all memory of their previous life as a muggle erased.

At first it had seemed quite a drastic and harsh policy, to have them completely forget all of their family and friends, but it was deemed a necessary precaution to maintain the integrity of the secrecy act.

Hestia thought it may also in some ways be quite cathartic for the misguided young men, as they would no longer be as depressed about their fate. They could not long for the warmth of their previously loving families if they did not remember them.

The art of erasing the memory of a loved one from someone’s mind is a difficult craft to master, but Hestia had a fair amount of practice in the discipline. She had once spent 3 months on an internship in Ohio at the illustrious Munroe Hills Mind Centre, which controversially specialised in just that very branch of memory magic.

Munroe Hills’ team of highly trained, and indeed, highly paid, privately contracted Obliviators spent their time removing memories of former lovers, as well as helping people forget abusive experiences or traumatic events that they had witnessed.

There was good money to be made in the memory game in America, Canada and even closer to home in Switzerland, but Hestia was too much of a homely girl to want to move that far away. She would miss her Mother too much, even if she was only just an international Portkey away.

Hestia knocked on the door to the room that Jordan Turner had been allocated, noting that there was a bit of a foul smell lingering in the hallway.

A whole mini apartment complex had been knocked up temporarily whilst they decided upon where they would rehouse or base the remaining pack, yet, given the smell, it seemed that the former muggles had not taken to life back indoors too comfortably.

The door remained shut and there was no hint of noise emitted from inside.

Hestia knocked once more, with more power this time, but yet again, no response.

It hadn’t been a full moon the previous night, so it wasn’t as if the young wolf would be tired after being up all night.

They generally brought them their evening meal in around half an hour, so Hestia couldn’t have imagined that he would’ve wandered off anywhere.

She gave the door one last try, but still nothing.

The nasty smell felt a little more pronounced now, with Hestia guessing that it was actually coming from inside Jordan’s room.

He hadn’t seemed particularly unhygienic when she had spoken to him earlier in the week, in-fact despite his greasy hair and generally unkempt appearance, he had probably been one of the most civilised and reasonable of those that she spoke to.

“Jordan!” Hestia requested. “Jordan – It’s Hestia. Remember we spoke last week?”

Jones gave the door several further thuds, which, much like her earlier knocks, were once again met with no reply. She pulled on the knob but it seemed that Turner had locked the door.

“Jordan! Please don’t make me force my way in there!” she pleaded, but to no avail and thus she was left with little choice.

“Okay I’m coming in – I hope you’re wearing some clothes….Alohomora!”

The door swung open and Hestia saw him immediately.

He was wearing the same clothes that she had seen him in last week, save for the worn and faded brown leather belt, which was not holding up his trousers to his waist, but instead held up his snapped neck and the rest of his limp, dead body from the coat-hook on the back of the door.

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