#there is a tiny woman in my brain and also a tiny twelve year old boy and they are cooking up the most insane ideas you've ever seen

[neverendingford]

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#there is a tiny woman in my brain and also a tiny twelve year old boy and they are cooking up the most insane ideas you've ever seen #they are best friends and want to burn down the world together #and I am their fucking Evangelion mech #gods above I do the best I can but they're so fucking u #anyway it's super fun in here you should try it some time. #I need to figure out whether my doctor actually ordered my mood stabilizers or if she was gonna wait a month on that #tag talk

[fayes-fics]

Friends & Family

Friends + Masterpost

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader, Modern AU

Summary: Anthony has a very important question to ask, but the universe appears to be conspiring against him. Threequel. Set a year after the first fic in this series

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI. Public sexual acts, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, woman on top, back-to-back orgasm. Also, on a non-sexual front, all sorts of emotions and thwarted proposals.

Word Count: 5.4k

Authors Note: This is VERY, VERY belated request fill for the divine @colettebronte. She has had the patience of a saint as I have grappled with this request for many months. I hope this is worth the wait, but to be honest, after this delay, I'm not sure anything could be. Thank you to @sorryallonsy for betaing. Please enjoy <3

I

“Viscount Anthony Bridgerton, what is this??” 

There is an undignified yelp, and a spatula drops to the floor with a loud splat. Apparently, he didn't hear you come in.

“Bloody hell! You scared the shit out of me… And what is the full-name business all about?” he exclaims, spinning around, holding his hands aloft as if in a hostage situation. The sight is made even funnier by the fact he is wearing one of your novelty aprons, complete with floppy bunny ears.

You have walked in from afternoon coffee with old friends to find your kitchen in absolute disarray. Pots, pats on every surface, opened containers, the contents of your spice cupboard all pulled out and haphazardly dotted around. There is a large pile of reusable shopping bags with half-open veggies in and what looks like a sourdough loaf cut open and likely going stale next to the complete wrong knife for the job at hand. There is almost no worktop surface that is left unused or covered in some sticky-looking residue from god knows what. 

“I said yes to you making dinner while I was out; I did not say you could conduct some kind of controlled explosion in my kitchen,” holding your hands up in exasperated resignation. 

Frankly, it’s a mystery why he offered to make dinner in the first place; you have never seen the man so much as boil an egg in all the years you have known him. And certainly not in the twelve months you have loved him. His idea of cooking is usually stopping at Whole Foods to pick up a hot rotisserie chicken.

He walks towards you with that adorable puppy dog expression, his perennial get-out-of-jail-free card. You pick a fleck of what you think is broccoli from his hair as he reaches you.

“Points for effort?” he pouts, a tiny smile toying with the corners of his mouth, seeking forgiveness. You let him pull you into his arms and kiss your cheek. “Do you still love me?” he teases, pulling back to shoot you that perfect-toothed charming grin.

“I’ll love you even more if you tidy all this up,” you counter, raising an eyebrow as he chuckles. “Although I’m intrigued. You have never once made dinner since we’ve been dating; why now?”

“Well, I wanted to do something special…” he says pointedly, pulling away to switch off the hob when there is a slight burning smell in the air.

“What’s so special about today?” You frown.

“Really?” He spins around to look at you, a slight pout as you wrack your brains. “What happened on this date one year ago?”

Ohhh…

You feel bad you had completely not realised it. Exactly one year ago to this day, you got together after many years of combative flirting. Heart melting in your ribcage as you suddenly realise this is him attempting to cook an anniversary dinner for you. 

“You secret romantic, you,” you murmur, contrition and affection burning inside as you can't help but seek his touch.

“Don’t let anyone know,” he jests as he pulls you into his arms again and kisses your temple. “I have a reputation to uphold….”

“Of course…” you giggle, resting your head on his shoulders as you sway together in the bombsite that was your kitchen. “And here was me thinking you would do something far more risqué…”

“Such as..?” he prompts, intrigued by where your thoughts have gone.

“Oh, I don't know….” you run your fingers into his lush hair, pressing into him. “Maybe take me back to that same penthouse your friend owns. Maybe make it to that overpriced sofa this time…” his eyes flash dark and dangerous, licking his lips, and you feel compelled to continue, “Maybe even that enormous bed. And the balcony….”

He groans gently as his mind no doubt fills with the same images as yours. “Fuckkkkkkk….” he rues, “I should have done that. I’m definitely no Gordon Ramsey….”

You laugh and run your hands up his biceps. “Maybe not. But I do have a suggestion…” you offer, dropping your voice a little smokier.

“Tell me…” Anthony rumbles, nudging your cheek until your lips brush, fingers digging into your flesh where he holds you.

“Let's work up an appetite and then order from our usual. Tidying up can wait…” you whisper, mouth ghosting over his, fingers opening the top button of his shirt and toying with the patch of chest hair.

“You’re fucking perfect.”

You squeal gently as he picks you up and strides towards your bedroom. The little navy velvet box burning a hole in his suit jacket pocket can wait for another day. Perhaps.

—

II

During a boring editorial meeting the following morning, your phone buzzes in your lap.

AB: Can you be at mine at 7pm tonight?

Y/N: Yes… but why?

AB: All will be revealed 😉 

AB: Come hungry for delicious protein 

Y/N: Filthy. I like it. 😉😛

AB: OMG NO! Not THAT. Bloody hell…

Y/N: Shame…

AB: Well, okay, maybe a bit of that. Afterwards. 😉

Y/N: *victory dance* 💃 

AB: I love you, you filthy animal 😛😘

—

You walk into Anthony’s kitchen at precisely 7pm that evening to find some very posh-looking man in a bowtie pouring some wine into the good glasses. The ones you are too scared to use. 

“What is all this?” Your curiosity piqued.

“Cooking was a disaster, so this is recompense,” Anthony greets you with a hug and a brief kiss on the lips. 

He looks handsome in his usual crisp shirt, undone just enough at the chest to be distracting, and custom-tailored trousers that cling to him just right. It takes some effort to tear your eyes away from him, but when you do, you now see a smorgasbord of cheese on his expansive, pristine white marble kitchen island, with fruit, crackers and all manner of chutneys.

“Oooh, lovely. Fancy cheese and wine night?” you guess.

“Indeed,” he replies warmly. “Baxter here is a world-renowned expert on such things. He will be taking us on a cheese world tour paired with the very best wines.”

“Sounds lovely. Thank you,” you nod to the man, then crowd into Anthony again. “The anniversary of our first proper date?” you guess, kissing his jaw, enjoying the slight rasp of stubble there.

“The lady is learning…” he ribs genially, taking your hand and pulling you along to take a seat on one of the stools.

Baxter speaks engagingly and knowledgeable, and admittedly, every cheese and wine pairing is exquisite. Just a bite from each, but after 10 countries, you are a little tipsy, leaning into Anthony and shooting him goofy smiles, resting your chin on his shoulder, cheekily grabbing his thigh where the fabric pulls taut right over his quad muscle so temptingly. You want to climb into his lap and wrap around him.

After an hour, the man politely takes his leave, mentioning he has left some more “adventurous” choices in sealed boxes in the fridge. 

“What does adventurous cheese mean?” you tipsily ponder after the man has left. “Do you think it's abseiled down a mountain?”

Anthony laughs accommodatingly at your goofiness, taking your hand and leading you outside onto the balcony. “I assume strong-flavoured maybe. But I’m quite sure it's all bravado,” he assures.

You lean on the railing, looking down upon the Thames below, all of London seeming reflected in its inky depths, a thousand lights twinkling in its choppy waves, like a sea of stars beneath you.

“I could never tire of this view,” you declare wistfully, a warmth behind your ribs as he crowds into your back, placing a light blanket around your shoulders.

“It is yours to enjoy for as long as it is mine,” he breathes into your hair, kissing your temple and wrapping his arms around your waist.

You sway together gently in the breeze, your hands over his, pushing back into his warm body.

“I love you,” you say quietly, turning to nuzzle his cheek.

“I love you too,” he responds immediately, “and I have for so long now; it feels wrong when you are not with me,” his tone ardent, gentle. “Wait here….” he whispers, a waver in his voice that makes you pause.

You wait patiently as he slips back inside, the breeze dancing through your hair as you inhale deeply and soak in the city. Although you are high above street level, the sounds are still there, like a background hum. It’s as energising as the country air at his rural ancestral home in Kent, just in a different way—so vibrant and teeming with life. 

Anthony seems to be gone for a while, so out of intrigue, you wander inside to the fridge, grab one of the containers Baxter left and take it back onto the balcony before he reappears. When you peel it open, you are taken aback by the smell. It's very pungent, even out in the open air. 

“There is an important question I wa…” Anthony freezes mid-sentence. “Dear god, what is that smell?” he exclaims, his face scrunching violently.

“Oh, I think it's the cheese Baxter left.” 

You swing the container around so it's right under his nose and watch him go white as a sheet and then double over to one side, dry heaving.

“That's disgusting!” He gags, quickly putting something small from his hand into his trouser pocket as he coughs roughly, almost bent double.

“It’s not that bad, is it?” you frown, bringing the container back to your own nose, closer than you had it before.

Then, a wave of nausea hits you, too. It smells of decay and bad feet and turns your stomach so violently that you have to grab the balcony railing to stop yourself from stumbling.

“Fuck that's terrible,” you stutter, trying hard to keep down the rich wines and cheeses you have already consumed.

“Throw it!” Anthony blurts, somewhat frantic.

“Where?” you panic, holding it away at arm's length, desperate to stay upwind of it.

“Off the fucking balcony! Fling it in the Thames! I can't even have that shit in my bins….” he yelps before another wretch doubles him over again.

Gripping the container, you fling the contents as hard as you can, watching the blob of cheese sail downwards in an arc for twelve storeys, hitting the river below with a distant but satisfying plop. You both stand there wheezing and gasping as you reseal the container immediately, fearful of any residual scent.

“Dear god, am I going to inadvertently ruin every one of these special evenings?” he grumbles under his breath, sounding more like a rhetorical question than anything.

You have no idea what he could mean, but you don’t have the capacity to ask - you have to run to the cloakroom as the mere olfactory flashback makes you nauseated.

When you reemerge ten minutes later, full of regret and needing toothpaste, you find him in his en suite bathroom in a similar fragile state. You both crawl into his bed feeling delicate, curling up foetal and holding hands across the expanse of the bed, him muttering apologies.

—

III

The following week, Anthony takes you back to the same restaurant where you had your second date, one year to the day later. Seeing the pattern in advance, you wear the beautiful little black dress he bought you recently. And you are pleased to make him temporarily tongue-tied when you slip off your coat to reveal it, whispering coquettishly in his ear that you are happy to skip dinner and return to his.

“Oh, we will,” he rumbles, a promissory note that lights a fire low in your belly.

After perusing the menu, you decide to order the same dish you had last time. You are certain everything is terrific, but you remember it being so delicious it had you making noises only Anthony usually can. Also, you are hoping for a complete repeat of the same night from a year ago. Memorably, it was the first time he managed to give you three orgasms in one night—you are very keen to repeat that. 

But rather strangely, Anthony’s energy seems slightly off, almost nervous. You can only assume it's apprehension that this night does not go as the previous two attempts at anniversary celebrations have. 

While you are sharing a delicious starter, a familiar face over the room at the bar catches your eye.

“Is that Benedict?” you frown, causing Anthony to twist in your booth and look.

“Probably,” he sighs.

You are nonplussed by his reaction, so you take it upon yourself to wave to him, to Anthony’s seeming chagrin.

When Benedict wanders over, you notice his shoulders are hunched, a shuffled gait. Not the usual mister sunshine he is.

“Hey Ben, everything okay?” you check as he pulls up nearby, hovering a little.

“I got dumped,” he exhales. “So I’m drowning my sorrows,” he explains, holding his whiskey tumbler aloft in a rueful toast.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you grimace, knowing he has been more unlucky in love than not, which seems a shame; he’s a sweet, good-looking man but often gets used, attracted to people who take advantage of his giving nature.

“Anyway, I don’t want to interrupt your dinner…” he placates modestly, glancing at his older brother, who seems to be brooding.

“Don't be silly, you can join us,” you beckon him into the booth.

“No, he can’t,” Anthony interjects.

You frown at him. “Why not? It’s just dinner,” you dispute.

“No, it’s not; it’s our anniversary,” Anthony argues before turning to Benedict. “Brother, I love you and all, but would you kindly fuck off?” Anthony grouses, gritting his teeth.

“Anthony!” You admonish. “Don’t be a dick!” You roll your eyes. “Ignore your grouchy brother, Ben; of course, you can join us,” you offer again, seeing the hesitancy but also the sadness tugging at the corner of his eyes that means you are worried about leaving him alone.

He acquiesces, and as he wanders across to the bar to grab his jacket and join you, you scowl at Anthony. “He’s just been dumped. You could be nicer,”

“I could… just not tonight,” he says, almost harangued.

You decide not to dwell on why he seems unduly hung up on this evening’s plans, being so particular, watching him seem to fiddle with an item in his jacket pocket, then look askance across the restaurant, defeated. 

“Anthony, are you okay?” You check quietly as Benedict walks back over.

“Yeah, I just….” He sighs and finally meets your eye squarely with a tinge of sadness. “I had other plans for us tonight. Not babysitting…”

At one point during the main course, Benedict excuses himself to the bathroom. Anthony has been mostly monosyllabic, almost sulking, and you feel guilty; perhaps he did indeed have other ideas for the evening.

You shuffle around to lean into him and grab his hand, placing it high on your thigh under the table, the message unmistakable.

“We can still have our plans for later…” you whisper hotly into his ear.

He seems to perk up immediately, his hand grasping your flesh in a way that catches your breath. “You always know what to say to make me feel better…” he murmurs, at once playful and reverent.

“Touch me…” you whisper, the need for him an instant, tart taste in your mouth.

“Here, in the restaurant? With my brother coming back to join us any moment?” His tone is incredulous but unmistakably aroused.

“Yes…” you hiss, pushing his hand up higher to the junction of your thighs where you burn molten for him always.

He growls when he realises you have made another style choice, this one scandalous—no underwear.

“I’ll do more than that, you wonderful minx,” he huffs, pulling your thigh over his lap under the tablecloth. He plunges two fingers into your aching pussy and presses his thumb over your clit. You gasp and grip the table hard, just as Benedict reappears.

It certainly does wonders for Anthony’s disposition, like he is a different man now. Chatting amiably to his brother as you subtly try not to look flustered, dripping silently into his palm as he holds still. 

“Whatever you did to put this one in a better mood, thank you,” Benedict jests at one point.

“I just had to give the old grouch a hug and his favourite toy to keep him entertained,” you joke back, him not realising exactly how true that is. Anthony’s fingers flex deep inside you at your cheeky riposte, and you can feel his smirk as you have to cough to hide your moan.

“Well, thank you,” Benedict smiles, “you bring things out in my brother I never thought I would see. So whatever magic trick you are pulling, keep doing it.”

Anthony’s fingers curl hard against your g spot, and you have to laugh loudly to not scream.

“She’s the very best brother,” Anthony replies, lips brushing your temple as he flicks his thumb teasingly over your clit. “I hope one day you find someone as special as she is,” he offers, his first sympathetic noise to his brother of the evening.

“I should be so lucky,” Benedict adds quietly, tone pensive, glancing at his phone as it lights up by his elbow.

Anthony withdraws from your pussy; you whimper mutely, feeling bereft but also relieved, not sure you can act any longer. You watch as he brings those fingers up to his mouth and sucks them decadently as Benedict is distracted by his phone.

“Thank you for dessert, my love,” he thrums into your ear, “and the show,” he adds cheekily, your clit and pussy clenching, denied, so very aroused.

“Take me home right now, Anthony!” Your order is through gritted teeth, quiet but brokering no argument. 

And he does.

—

IV

A tide of relief hits you as the door to his sleek penthouse clicks softly open; tossing aside your umbrella and slipping off your shoes in the fancy hallway. It's been a taxing work day; all you can think about is climbing into the shower, then curling up and watching something mindless until Anthony gets home.

“Y/n…” 

An enticing but distant call in that familiar voice.

“Anthony?” you respond, puzzled. “I thought you would be out late tonight?” you add, wandering forward, trying to find the source.

“Change of plan….” 

You cross the open-plan lounge area with its floor-to-ceiling view across the rooftops of London. It's been more than a year of dating, and still, you aren't entirely used to the sheer scale of his place compared to yours. It feels like it takes ages to get across just his living room.

“Where are you?” you frown, hands on hips. It sounds like he's likely in the bedroom.

“Follow the sound of my voice,” he entices, and yep, it's definitely from that direction.

However, when you wander in, the room is empty, the early evening sun blazing onto the soft, luxurious white duvet on his vast bed.

“Getting warmer,” he offers, quieter now, and you recognise his voice has an echo. He can only be in his en-suite bathroom.

You round the corner into that tastefully masculine room - all slate and birch - to be greeted by a sight that makes your lungs feel too tight.

There, in his sizeable sunken whirlpool tub, is one Anthony Bridgerton. Very naked and very wet. Standing so that the bubbling waterline hugs his hips—acres of toned torso, water droplets meandering down the washboard of his stomach and glistening in the thatch of hair across his chest. You bite your lips without even realising it, shifting your stance as you feel a ripple of excitement over your skin.

“Hello, Ms y/l/n,” he preens, knowing exactly how much the sight before you makes you tongue-tied and aroused.

“Hello…” you stutter back, eyes still feasting. “What is the CEO of Bridgerton Enterprises doing taking a bath at….” you glance down to check your watch, “... 5:25 pm on a Thursday?”

“It's a special occasion…” he smirks, wading towards the edge of the tub closest to you. “I thought a bath would be nice.” 

You can't seem to look away from the wake of waves cresting his Adonis belt as he does so. The sight of something delicious just below the surface is almost hypnotic. 

“My eyes are up here, you know,” he mocks gently, tongue literally in cheek, as you cut your gaze to his triumphant face.

“Wh… what special occasion?” you manage to stumble out.

“Surely you recall what happened on this night exactly twelve months ago?” 

When you look nonplussed - frankly, you can barely remember your own name right now - he mock sighs.

“I surprised you on my way back from the airport?” he prompts.

“Oh!” you suddenly cotton on, “it's been a year since we exchanged keys!”

He nods, and a fetching beam breaks out across his face. “Ahhh, the lady remembereth,” he winks.

“So this is how you’re celebrating?” your eyes again drag covetously down his body. 

“No, this is how WE are celebrating…” he corrects and gestures towards a bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket at one corner of the tub, along with two long-stemmed flutes.

You can't help but match his grin now. “Well, I can’t find fault with that idea,” you admit, taking a step closer until you are at the edge of the tub surround.

“Hmm, I thought not,” he says silkily, closing the gap between you.

Grabbing the back of your neck with a firm hand, he draws you down into a deep, sensual kiss. His mouth claims yours. You shiver as warm water trickles down inside your top from the hand in your hair. He crowds into you, soaking your clothing with the press of his body as you kneel on the sunken tub surround.

“Oh no, this is all wet,” he feigns, tugging lightly at your sleeve, “you will just have to take it off.”

“Hmmm. I rather think that is your doing. How about you take it off?” you challenge, the banter between you never seeming to get old.

“Maybe I’ll just pull you into the water fully clothed?” he posits, raising an eyebrow.

You laugh and take a step back, revelling in his undivided attention as you strip for him, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his expression hungry; the only sounds are his panted breath and the bubbles roiling in the tub. You are down to your underwear, a new matching lacy set, as if you knew, on some subconscious level, it was a special occasion, when he lunges forward and makes you squeal as he effortlessly picks you up and hauls you into the huge tub with him. The warm, effervescent water is a balm and tonic, making your skin tingle. 

“What is the point of celebrating anything if it’s not an excuse to get naked?” he offers silkily, cupping your jaw with both palms, his wet thumbs rubbing over your cheekbones, then his lips are back, plundering, seeking, his tongue tangling with yours as his hands roam your skin, arranging so you are straddling his lap, his cock a solid press against your inner thigh.

This is indeed how you always want to celebrate every milestone of your relationship—with wonderful, sensual intimacy. Anthony pulls back from the kiss, and you stare into his rich eyes, blissfully tracing the lines of his face with fingertips as he easily unhooks your bra and pulls it gently over the rounds of your shoulders. This close-up and soaked, his face is all sharp contours and smooth, lightly tanned skin.

“You are too handsome,” your internal monologue spilling out with a light mewl as his thumbs brush your nipples.

“I love you too,” he chuckles drolly to make a point. 

“Oh yes, that too,” you append with a playful pout. Then, a more sincere “I love you.”

“Wonderful to hear,” he rumbles into your ear as his hands slide underwater to tug down your underwear. 

He pulls you deeper into his lap, your thighs pushed wide around his slender hips. His rigid cock nudges your slit promisingly, and you wait with bated breath for his much-wanted invasion. But he pauses, and you feel the curl of his smile against your cheekbone.

“Champagne?” he teases, holding still.

“Now?!” you splutter. “How about you get inside me first?”

“I thought you'd never ask,” he answers, wry and laconic. 

Any witty riposte you may have dies on your lips as he surges into your body, knowing you need no warm-up, ready for him the minute you rounded the corner of the room. 

“Happy key day,” he murmurs as your eyes flutter closed and you moan loudly, him nudging that spot that makes you so addicted to him.

“Happy key day,” your response is a ragged exhale as you adjust to his deep invasion. 

Every time it still feels like the first, like it's just too good, and you just want to cling to him and be fucked into oblivion or fuck him into oblivion. A potent, heavy feeling inside that makes you crackle with energy and feel sated at the same time.

“Fuck me, Anthony,” you sigh into his wet hair, pushing closer into his embrace, voicing your exact desires.

“With pleasure.”

You squeak as his hands grasp tight around your waist and haul you up until just his tip is still inside you, then slams you back down, a curse falling from your lips as he does. His handling is slightly rough in a way that feels perfect, his teeth glancing your earlobe before he sucks it into his mouth and bites lightly.

Then it's a wondrous carnal dance, your joint noises echoing up the slate tiles as you fuck wantonly. Taking over at one point and gripping the edge of the oversized tub, you ride him for all your worth, chasing that feeling only he, his cock, has ever given you. So addictive ever since that very first night.

“I only ever want to fuck you, always…” the words tumbling from your lips unbidden, no filter between your thoughts and mouth as you spiral higher.

Even in the full throes of passion, his expression softens as you confess it. 

“Forever?” something vulnerable in his panted tone as you rise and fall upon him.

“Forever, Anthony Bridgerton,” you vow, sensing his need to hear it, wrapping your arms tightly around his shoulders, pressing all of your being into him, wanting your bodies to be forged together somehow.

His thumb slips between your legs, and you cry out as he snags your clit perfectly, eyes rolling, feeling like a live wire.

“I need to feel it; please give it to me,” he implores desperately, thumb flicking almost violently over your engorged pearl.

It doesn't take much more, and you are fracturing around him. Crying his name, fingernails leaving crescent shapes on his shoulders as you reach that high, unable to stop slamming upon him as you flutter, your whole body spasming in pleasure but unwilling to stop. Him roaring his approval as you squeeze his cock tight, rippling around him.

“Please don't come,” you plead to him, “I need more, Anthony, more,” a wrecked sob, wanting to orgasm again. He snarls, his teeth on your cheekbone, his grip tightening around your hips, staving off his orgasm as best he can.

You grab his face and babble nonsense, saying you need his cock forever, strung out on the edge, almost a mania in your being, needing everything he can give. He pants harshly into your open-mouthed, sloppy kisses as you keep riding wound so tight like a coiled spring, wanting to be speared open by him always.

“Marry me!” he cries as you both reach that peak together, an explosion in both of your beings, feeling him come inside you harsh and deep, moaning your name like a prayer.

You collapse upon him, the bubbles of the jetted tub tickle your skin as you heave breaths, wracked and sated to your very core. A high like you have never known.

“Did you just…. propose?” you stutter as your brain comes back online, his cock still buried inside you.

“Shit…” he laments. “That was NOT how it was supposed to go! I had it all planned out!” he decries, burying his face into your shoulder where you still sit upon him.

“Anthony….” there are no other words, shock tying your tongue. 

He pulls back and looks contrite. “Please allow me a do-over?” his face so beseeching.

Raw emotion and victory crest hard in your veins, and you can't help but banter with him - as you always have, as you always will, until death do you part now.

“No, Viscount Bridgerton,” you rag, holding his face, “No do-overs. You will just have to live with the fact you proposed to me as we came together….” 

His face is a jumble of warring emotions as you realise you have kept him on tenterhooks about your answer. 

“…And you will just have to accept that I said yes with you still inside me,” you add silkily.

A handsome grin claims his whole face, relief and devotion coursing through him. “We can’t tell anyone,” he whispers as you resurface from another kiss.

“Our little secret,” you smile back as he finally slips from your body.

—

“You know I might be the first-ever Viscountess with a garden flat in Zone 3,” you chuckle, sitting in matching fluffy robes on his balcony, the sky a riot of colour as the sun sets. 

A few minutes before, he had gotten down on one knee and produced a little velvet box. You squealed and said yes again, watching transfixed as he pushed a flawless, elegant three-carat diamond onto your finger.

Anthony frowns deeply. “Err, no. You are moving in here with me,” he asserts loftily.

“I’m not selling my place!” 

“You can rent it out!” he waves dismissively.

“Urgh, tenants. Hassle.” You roll your eyes.

��Okay, fine, then we can just use it to store all of my stuff you hate, alright?” he counters, catching your gaze with a fiery challenge. Your insides ablaze that your trademark flirtatious antagonism will always be there, even once you are married.

“Oh, Viscount Bridgerton, you have a deal…” you whisper coquettish and swing off of your lounger onto his, straddling him and sealing the pact with a kiss.

“I’m just so glad I could finally make it happen.” 

You flip around and settle between his legs, your spine on his chest, lacing your hands together over your robe. “What do you mean?”

He barks a laugh you feel echo into your back. “So this is not the first time I have tried to propose to you. Remember that disastrous cooking? Attempt 1. Cheese night when we almost died? Attempt 2. Benedict interruptus? Attempt 3.” He holds up a hand before you, counting each on his fingers. “I almost gave up.”

You laugh and realise with hindsight how he seemed off kilter on those occasions, a soft ache behind your ribs in empathy. “I’m so glad you didn’t. Give up, that is,” you murmur, running your fingers over his lovingly once he lowers his hand back to your belly.

“I jest; I would never give up trying to make you my wife,” he pledges solemnly into your hair, kissing the shell of your ear. “And I hope you will never give up on me, as terrible of a husband as I will likely be….” he demures.

“I can do that, old friend…” you tease, a callback to that first night you got together.

“Less of the old,” he chides, immediately picking up your invitation, an exact repeat of your words to each other that first night you got together, heart melting as you realise he remembers the conversation word for word, too.

“I've known you my whole life, Anthony,” you continue, that conversation etched into your brain, turning back over in his arms. “You can't lie to me…”

“I never will,” he goes offscript, and you exchange laden looks. Then, a dangerous smirk takes over his face as he leans closer. “But you can handcuff me to our bed anytime,” he adds, a nod to the joke you made that night.

“You wish, you lucky fuck,” you respond, aping his line. 

He grins widely and pulls back, handing you a champagne flute from the nearby lounger table.

“From old friends to new family…” he toasts, sincere and ardent, clinking his glass softly against yours.

“Friends and family…” you smile, your diamond ring afire in the setting sun, as you take a sip and pull him in for a blistering kiss.

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#anthony bridgerton fanfiction #anthony bridgerton #anthony bridgerton smut #anthony bridgerton fluff #anthony bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #bridgerton smut #bridgerton fluff #bridgerton imagine #anthony bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton x female reader #anthony bridgerton x you #anthony bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton x you #bridgerton x y/n

[dramavixen]

watch this! – provoke

In times like these, when so many high production-value dramas vie over the spotlight with their intense plots and flashy names, you occasionally need a low-budget show that's just vibing in the corner—a bit of a wallflower and rough around the edges, but it's doing its own thing, doing it quite well, and will provide respite for your overwhelmed brain.

What is Provoke?

A romance-revenge webdrama set in the Republican era. A woman marries the geezer responsible for her parents' death, plotting to ruin him and restore her family's sullied name. Said geezer's son becomes suspicious of her and decides that creating the greatest amount of sexual tension possible with her is the best course of action. Also, he clearly has plans of his own since he's not the guy's real son.

This show is as cheesy and melodramatic as it gets and none of it can be considered logical. It's awesome.

Why watch?

--

We be trendsetters

You got your friends-to-lovers and enemies-to-lovers stories. As timeless as those tropes may be, might I suggest "stepmom-to-lover" as the new trend? (Or how about all three at once?) It's fresh! It's forbidden! It's so ludicrous that the mere existence of the premise is spicy!

In my personal opinion, the execution should have been much spicier. I only very gently clutched my pearls when what I wanted was to feel scandalized through every blood vessel of this tiny body of mine. But alas, I can't bring myself to dislike the love story we did receive. I graciously accept all over-the-top romances.

Ahem. What I meant to say was, ew, gross. What kind of weirdo thought that such an offensive idea could make for good television? Someone classy like me would never.

--

That romance story you wrote as a twelve-year-old after watching an episode of a soap opera...this is that

Rain pours down against the window. A pretty young woman sits in front of her vanity, brushing on a thick layer of makeup even though it's time to go to bed.

Lightning sets the skies aflame, outlining a silhouette that appears in the doorway. It's him, the dashing young master of the household. His dark eyes glint as he leans awkwardly against the wall in an attempt to come off as intimidating. He's soaked from being outside the rain and drops of water fall from the tips of his hair. He kind of looks like an infuriated feline.

She stands when she sees him. He crosses the room.

"What are you—" she stammers, her words catching in her throat as he corners her against the vanity and wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her body against his. He grabs her wrist with his other hand and pins it to the table, knocking over an open container of rouge. Its contents burst into a firework of glimmering powder.

His face is close enough that she can feel his breath on her cheek. She tries to lean away from him, but he's too strong. He is a lion, and she a gazelle.

"Have you forgotten?" she says as she struggles against him. "I'm your father's concubine."

"And have you forgotten?" His voice is deep; some might even consider it sultry. "I'm the one who brought you into this family."

They stare at one another. Then he brings his lips crashing down on hers, or whatever the standard cliché for "kissing" is nowadays.

Such goes the first few minutes of the first episode, which also happens to be what's pictured in our provocative poster. Wait until you see the whole scene.

My fanfiction past feels so seen right now.

--

There is exactly one brain cell present

You think that because this is a revenge drama, you're going to get a super intricate plot? Heck no. We don't have the time or brainpower for that, remember? We're here for the fun of it.

Everything about this show is smooth sailing because all of the characters are of mediocre intelligence and ability. Your brain does not need to be in operation at any point. Our female lead? She's probably the smartest one, but it's not like that's impressive when her husband is oddly easy to seduce. His actual wife tries so, so hard to be mean to the new girl in the house but fails with flying colors. Meanwhile, the male lead spends most of his time making heart-eyes at his dad's new concubine. It's like watching a bunch of wild geese chase each other and somehow accomplish things along the way.

--

[insert pun about chemistry and chemistry class here]

These two lead actors could perform all the tropes in the world and I would love it. They bulldoze through a lot in this show and every moment has me grinning like a total creep. That's what low-budget dramas bless us with: shameless clichés. They don't need to make up excuses for why a bridal carry or eye contact that lasts ten minutes exists. After all, we know what we're here for: to satiate our cravings for unrestrained, cheesy-as-heck romance.

The level of acting is higher than you should ask for from a production of this scale. The tension between the two is palpable at every moment, and they truly bring their characters to life. It helps that they're very easy on the eyes. I mean, just look at this pair of bloodthirsty impostors:

When they start falling for one another...oh boy. My weak heart.

--

Cinematography 101

I would include screenshots of how stunning this drama is, but I'm not sure how many would do it justice. The set isn't particularly breathtaking and there aren't many flashy assets otherwise, but the director makes smart decisions with what he has to produce fantastic results. A lot of it is based on motion, which is why still screenshots can't really suffice in displaying his techniques.

Nifty camera angles or tricks aren't what caught my attention, but the combination of basic props, movement, and lighting did. A lot can be accomplished through simplicity to craft a specific atmosphere, which is exactly what makes this drama feel like a large-scale production. You really have to see it in motion to believe it.

--

I'm going to be humming the theme song to myself for the next week as I get this drama out of my system. It grabbed me by the throat and dragged me from the depths of my drama slump. Maybe I need to relive my tacky romance phase.

#provoke #招惹 #recs* #scribbles* #yeah i think i'm just sick of using my head when i watch tv #give me all the brainless content #did i change the format of this just bc i wanted to write that fanfiction-esque segment #maybe #and i had a fantastic time doing it

[deabruarenjarraitzaileaya-ha]

This is my gift for Eyeshield 21 Winter Gift Exchange of 2023. @shortandbittersweet I hope you like it! And I'm so sorry about the delay 🙏🙏

Also many thanks to @eyeshields for all their work organizing the event ♥️♥️

.............................................................

When Kongou Agon stepped into the Empire City Casino at 01:43 am, he had a clear plan in mind: take a look around, play a few games and win easy money, perhaps find a pretty woman to pass the time with and leave the tab to… Just will away the time until the blond trash and the other idiots called him in desperation, begging him to help with their ridiculous plan. He’d have a bit of fun at their expense, leave them hanging for a bit, and appear in the nick of time. 

Simple, easy to follow plan. The blond trash would try to pull some shit, but nothing that would damage his own plan, so Agon wasn’t too worried. Which is why, after ordering himself a drink and approaching the gambling tables, he did a double take that almost spilled the fucking beer all over the floor. He blinked once, twice, and gritted his teeth. But of course, of course, that trash would be in this casino with no explanation, dealing cards at the poker table like he did that every night from 10 to 6. 

Unlike other times he’d seen Hiruma go ‘undercover’, he seemed to be making an effort this time. He looked as dumb as the rest of the casino workers, with a red vest and a ridiculous visor, his hair slicked back and as tame as he’d ever seen it, pointy ears partially covered by it. 

That wasn’t why it took him a good few seconds to make sure it was him, though. It was the smile. He was smiling like a normal person, as if he were a regular 19-year-old trash with regular trash teeth and regular trash personality. 

It was disgusting. 

…And somehow more unsettling than the usual demonic grin. 

“What the fuck, trash!?” he asked, reasonably, and sneered at the nearby randos clutching their pearls.

“Welcome, sir! Would you like to join the game?”

Oh, fuck no. He was acting. The affected perkiness and wide-eyed, eager face… he was mimicking that tiny roller-skating menace.

“Aaah!? Fat chance, trash. I want you to tell me what-”

But Hiruma had already given him two cards face down and was gesturing to the vacant chair with that uncanny smile.

He could just turn around and leave, ignore the annoying trash and whatever mad scheme he was cooking up in that big brain of his. They had some twelve hours until their flight back to Japan, he could find something else to do with his time until then. He could…

Agon sat down with a scowl, picking the two cards up but not taking his eyes off of Hiruma. “What are you doing here? You told me those assholes would be at the casino by the airport.”

Hiruma laid a hand on the table and leaned in, tilting his head to the side to hide the sudden impish quirk of his smile from the rest of the casino. “Which is why you ran away to a different casino on the other side of the city?” he asked, voice back to his usual raspiness and eyebrows arched in mockery.

Manipulative piece of shit.

“You’re becoming predictable, Agon-kun, never a good look.” He leaned back and yet again fixed the same cheerful mask from before on his face. Agon resisted the urge to grab his cheeks and headbutt him.

“So the rest of the trash is here as well?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, sir,” he replied sunnily, before turning to the idiots who had remained. “Ready to continue the game, everyone?”

There was no way Hiruma didn’t know their teammates’ exact location, either in this very casino or in some other part of New York. But he didn’t really care one way or another; he could always call Ikkyuu if he really wanted to know.

“So those assholes you're looking for—the pencil pushers who are trying to reject the creation of a world championship—, they are in this casino. And your plan is, what, to cheat them of their money? To smile at them creepily until they agree?”

Agon had experience with Hiruma’s schemes. They sounded crazy, but were annoyingly clever. They usually involved blackmail—but that required Hiruma himself to stay hidden and in control of at least three electronic devices—, intimidation and/or physical violence. Dealing with people in influential positions such as these involved more elaborate methods than beating them into a pulp—which was a pity, because he could really use some light exercise, and he hardly had the patience for a more elaborate charade.

The trash, instead of answering, pointed at the cards in Agon’s hand with his freakishly long fingers. “Would you like to place a bet, sir?”

Ugh!

Fine.

He pushed his sunglasses up into his head and stole a quick look at his cards: the king of diamonds and the ten of clubs. Could be worse. Could be better. He took a few chips out of his pocket to pay the buy-in and the bet to continue the game, adding them to the pile.

There were three cards already on the table: the king of spades, the five of clubs and the eight of diamonds. Hiruma shuffled the deck like a magician with a caffeine overdose and put one more card down with a flourish: the queen of hearts. 

Agon didn’t really like these types of games; he preferred to rely on his own skill rather than on chance and statistics. But his luck was decent and the ladies at casinos were usually loaded and willing to spend it on him, so he’d been to a few.

A glance at the blond trash—at the tilt of his chin and the glint in his green eyes whenever he wasn’t playing the golden retriever for the other players—told him he was being challenged. Win the game and get these idiots to leave, huh? It was a blatant manipulation attempt, Hiruma Youichi’s speciality: annoy someone into abandoning common sense and catch them in his web. While fully aware of it, Agon couldn’t not try and prove the bastard wrong—sometimes, he wondered why he even bothered. And the chance to earn good money was appealing, too.

He remembered the basics of the game: Hold’em Texas, Hiruma had called it, a variant of poker. As the rest of the table made their bids, he drank his beer and eyed them with disdain. They were all gray guys in suits that would make Unko-chan seem charismatic and fun by comparison. They would be easy to intimidate, or at least repel. He would have preferred to have a pretty girl to please his eye—instead he had to look at that blond trash and his stupid face—, but at least he would get these idiots’ money.

And get it he did. 

He may have had some trouble remembering whether a Straight or a Flush had higher value, but all it took was his third best glare, a few insults, some good hands and Hiruma ‘unwittingly’ annoying and confusing the shit out of them. After half an hour, Agon’s beer glass was as empty as the surrounding seats, and he had ten times the number of chips he had started the game with.

The skinny trash looked delighted; his sunny smile had grown fangs and he could almost see a pointy tail wagging behind him. “Kekeke, well done, sir!”

“Aaah? Cut the crap, trash, tell me your plan.”

Hiruma leaned forward, looking like he was about to divulge some juicy secret, but Agon knew from experience that it was going to be bullshit. However, without saying anything, Hiruma’s eyes left his to rest somewhere over his shoulder.

Agon scowled.

“Deal me in, brat.”

That snobby, nasal voice… No fucking way. 

Agon whipped his head around so fast his glasses would have gone flying if they weren’t high quality, expensive as hell Oakley Juliets.

Sliding into a vacant seat, wearing a white fur coat and the expression of someone who’d smelled shit—and who knew, with that fucking snout of his he might have been able to smell a corpse next city over—, was Clifford fucking D Lewis.  

“Of course, sir!” 

The American quarterback took his cards, but didn’t even glance at them, eyes fixed on Hiruma the same way Anezaki pretended not to stare at cream puffs.

“I’m beginning to wonder about your hobbies. Are you an aspiring actor? Part of an amateur theater group, perhaps? This is at least the third time you’ve played dress up in my presence.”

Hiruma’s smile sharpened like a sushi chef’s knife, and he tilted his head. “Clifford-sama recognised me? I’m honored.”

Clifford snorted, the sound loud even with the racket of the casino surrounding them—probably because it had more room to reverberate due to his enormous nose. He muttered something under his breath, but Agon’s English wasn’t good enough to catch it. One of Hiruma’s freakish ears twitched, however, and for a second he looked like his usual devilish self, ridiculous costume and all.

Neither of them had spared him a glance yet.

“What the hell are you doing here?” 

The pompous bastard barely turned his head to glance at him. “Agon Kongou,” he said, in a tone of voice that reminded him of ‘I don’t even need to pay attention to guys like you’. “Strange choice for a poker game. Was your cowboy friend unavailable?”

Clifford D Lewis had a very punchable face. And he may be faster than him still, but Agon’s reaction time was better; in such close quarters…

A kick to the shin stopped him from lunging forward. He glowered at Hiruma, who had that disgustingly cheerful smile on yet again. “A game against the dealer, gentlemen?”

He took the two cards with a snarl. Hiruma better start explaining soon, otherwise he’d leave, and then he’d really have to call for that cowboy trash to come help him.

Clifford huffed and readjusted the collar of his tiger print shirt—and seriously, why the hell did it have to be that particular pattern? Agon was wearing it better, but it still pissed him off. 

They paid the starting amount. Agon had two queens, but it would take a lot of luck to win against these two poker addicts. The three open cards weren’t very encouraging, but he’d be damned if he folded in the first round. He’d be able to think better if Clifford quitted his yapping. Agon knew enough English to know that the D in his name had to stand for Dick.

“It’s clear why you’re here. You’re after Jacob Robert Clarkson, general secretary of the American Football Federation, and Daniel Mullin, director of development of the International Football Committee. They have been speaking against the consolidation of an international university league and hindering the entire process; without their approval, the project won’t take off.”

Hiruma put another card down. The American quarterback made the bet, and they matched it. 

“It’s interesting that you’re posing as a poker dealer, then, since neither of them plays poker.”

Wait, what?

“Clarkson is a roulette man and Mullin only plays slot machines. An information broker of your level must have known that before starting this whole ridiculous charade.”

What.

Hiruma put the last card down. Clifford shoved half of his sizable mountain of chips towards the center of the table and leaned closer. “If you wanted to attract my attention, there are other ways, brat.”

Okay, no. “What the fuck, trash!?” He pushed the same amount of chips forward; he didn’t care about winning anymore, but he wouldn’t back down on principle. 

“You needn’t have bothered, of course; Don would never allow them to completely reject the project or even dawdle too much,” Clifford said, that annoying superior smirk in place. “It’s clear to us, after that first international two years ago, that other countries need to be reminded of America’s superiority.”

Hiruma’s toothy grin widened, looking as unhinged as a shoji door. “Is that so? How generous of America-sama.”

He uncovered his cards. They were an ace and a two, which meant he only had Two Pairs; the little shit had been bluffing.

Clifford had two tens. With the cards on the table, he had a Full House. He opened his mouth, eyes fixed on Hiruma, but Agon slammed his cards down on the table before he could say anything.

He had two queens, plus the two queens on the table; he had the highest hand. Hiruma cackled without restraint and Clifford scowled. 

“Another game?”

#es2023wge #eyeshield 21 #es21 #hiruma youichi #kongou agon #clifford d louis #clifford d lewis #The fic turned out quite silly... #Thankfully Eyeshield is a great show for these cases in particular #since you can be sure Hiruma has pulled bigger stunts for sillier reasons than whatever you can come up with #so 🤷 #hopefully I did your prompt justice

[sophieswundergarten]

uno reverse! do you have any favorite fun facts/infodumps you would like to share? :D

Hoo boy, an open invitation to ramble about something that gets my brain excited? I hope you won't regret this. (Also, thank you, Milk :>)

Today we're going to be talking about Deb Cook!!!

Deborah Cook, as she is usually credited in films, is the head of LAIKA's costume department. She has worked on every LAIKA film that has been made, from Coraline (2009) to the upcoming Wildwood (2025).

The thing about stop-motion animation is that there is a massive amount of planning that needs to be worked out before the actual filming process even starts. Part of this is the costume designs for all the puppets, so that they fit into the world and can be used as vessels for a cohesive story.

Cook does a lot of research into historical elements that can be used in costumes, as well as using computers and collaborating with other people in the art department to create her own version of textiles that are perfect for the character. She takes her job very seriously, and works to consider what each character's personality is so she can create a fitting look for them.

But, the!! The thing is, these puppets are generally about eight to twelve inches tall!! So you can't just go to a craft store and buy any old fabric, because the weave might be too rough, or when a camera is focussed on a piece of clothing so small the colors are distorted. So there is a necessary level of detail that must be adhered to, otherwise the final product will be kind of disastrous. You can't just make tiny jeans out of regular denim, you have to find a fabric that looks like denim, but is light enough that it'll be flexible when placed on a tiny puppet.

Now, there are a lot of insanely talented people who create all sorts of miniatures and have come up with ingenious solutions to this that can be pointed out. HOWEVER, a great deal of these are because of how much work LAIKA has put into that field of art in the last seventeen years.

In Coraline, some of the costumes were made out of a child's sock. A sock. And it worked because Deb Cook is a fantastic and dedicated artist who works really hard to do her best in literally everything. But, now that LAIKA has had over a decade of experience and accolades and new highly clever artists joining them, they have come up with many new ways to use technology to help.

But Deb Cook is an artist and she will go out of her way to make something look as authentic as possible. For the iconic beetle crest on Kubo's clothing in Kubo and the Two Strings (2016), she dyed rice paste, painted the fabric, and then carefully washed it off to leave the image.

So, after all of that, and the meticulous attention given to every thread, you must remember that they have to animate all this. That means rigging in skirts and weighted sleeves and armature in capes. Each and every piece of clothing, in addition to needing to be replicated or else durable enough to be used for the two or so years required to make a stop-motion film, must be controlled down to the tiniest motion. In addition, the costume department she manages has to be able to make repairs or tiny alterations when something is damaged or an animator needs to get at the inner workings of a puppet.

There are so many more things that need to be considered in stop-motion versus live action, since the majority of the materials and designs are made from scratch in the studio.

And yet, despite all this, the woman hasn't won any awards

SO. That was my insane, unpolished rant about how much I love Deb Cook. Sorry and/or thank you if you made it this far, and if you want to learn more here are some resources:

> 1

> 2

> 3

> 4

> 5

#This was a really nice opportunity to ramble #Thank you once again Milk :) #I'm so very tired right now so I'm sorry for any typos/mistakes #laika studios

[gumnut-logic]

Wire (Bit 11)

Bit 1 | Bit 2 | Bit 3 | Bit 4 | Bit 5 | Bit 6 | Bit 7 | Bit 8 | Bit 9 | Bit 10

Bit 11

Written between 1am and 4.30am. Guess who has insomnia again. But eh, we gets fic.

Special thanks to @katblu42 for the plot suggestion that was added into this bit ::hugs:: Also to @janetm74 @scribbles97 and @tsarinatorment for their amazing support ::squeezes you so tight::

This is still whump. Sorry, guys. A little bit of a longer bit this time at 1337 words.

-o-o-o-

Virgil ran a corn leaf through his fingers.

It was the depth of summer and the sky was brilliant with sun, the corn silks drying and brown above swollen husks while the giant flower heads at the top of each plant danced in the wind.

Ever so tall.

Cornstalks rustled as if speaking to each other, whispering his name.

He couldn’t see out of the field. It appeared to go on forever and he didn’t know how he had ended up in the maze in the first place.

Scott had been yelling his name. There had been pain and movement and Grandpa urging him on.

But now there was just the cornfield.

The wind hissed.

They weren’t supposed to play amongst the corn. There were snakes in the field and Grandma did not like losing sight of her charges.

Of course, Scott had dragged him in once.

Only once.

The field was mysterious and exciting. They hadn’t gone far, but Grandpa had discovered them and the fallout had been extensive.

They both learnt that day exactly why they shouldn’t go into the cornfield as Grandpa had found a snake, showed it to them and then listed off exactly what happened to someone who was bitten.

Scott hadn’t been a fan of snakes ever since.

Of course, Grandma followed that lecture up with some extensive first aid training for what to do if you were bitten by a snake.

It had been a long few days after that.

They never went into the cornfield again.

Until now.

And Scott wasn’t here.

Virgil shivered. He wasn’t a kid anymore and had faced far worse dangers than a snake infested cornfield, but there was something more going on here.

He knew it deep in his soul.

His IR uniform was gone and in its place his comfortable flannel shirt, jeans and boots were a stark contrast against the green stalks.

The leaf was rough between his fingertips, silica strong, almost like wire, but sharper, prone to those thin slices like paper cuts.

“Virgil.”

He startled. His name was sudden, yet as whispered on the wind as the rattling leaves.

“Gordon?”

The wind shook stalks and continued to whisper unintelligibly, ignoring him.

Two hands landed on his shoulders.

His gasp was swallowed as those small hands gently turned him around on the spot.

Eyes dark and so like his own looked up at him with so much love any remaining fear evaporated and fluttered away.

“Mom?”

-o-o-o-

Scott stood in a hospital doorway still wearing the suit he wore for the press conference yesterday.

He felt grimy and he was sprouting stubble on his chin to match his lack of self care over the last forty-eight hours or so. He wasn’t sure of the exact number.

Numbers hurt.

The door he was standing in wasn’t Virgil’s. No, he had left his brother for yet another necessary task as the eldest, the protector of his family.

John had offered to do it for him, but Scott felt an irrational and driven need to see that what his brother had given everything for was worth it.

Of course, every life was worth it. That was the Tracy motto.

But Scott was human. Ever more so now he was in pain. And he felt the need to make sure...it was worth it.

The paediatric ward was brightly painted. A stark lie to the children it contained in an attempt to distract them from the pain these halls actually contained.

The tiny figure in the bed was quiet, strawberry blond hair falling over closed eyes. He looked much more peaceful now he wasn’t bleeding.

Scott was grateful Virgil had succeeded in saving the little boy. His name was John and he did look a little like Gordon.

Toddler Gordon.

Despite everything, Scott did smile just a little. At age three, Gords had been an absolute terror. Virgil, for whatever reason, had taken it upon himself to prevent the little brat from killing himself or others and the resultant hilarity of watching his twelve year old brother chase after the three year old was legendary.

Until the day Virgil actually did save Gordon. Fish baby or no, a dam on the farm was no place for a three year old.

Although this was not Gordon, this little boy was just as lucky as Scott’s little fish brother, even if it took the rest of the Tracys to finally get him out from under that building.

Little John had two broken legs, some nasty bruising, and had inhaled far too much concrete dust and fumes. This last coupled with some internal bleeding and a three year old’s tiny body had made it very touch and go. Virgil had protected him as much as he could, but there had only been so much his critically injured brother could do.

But the doctors had saved him and although he had a tough path ahead, Virgil hadn’t risked himself in vain.

It was worth it.

Worth the lax and non-responsive figure in that too white bed on the other side of the hospital.

Scott swallowed hard.

Focus.

The boy’s mother finally caught sight of him and he forced himself to straighten up and feign presentability.

“Mr Tracy!” She hurried over, eyes wide. “Ohmigod, I don’t know how to thank you enough.”

Something must have shown in his eyes because hers widened and she held herself back.

“Come in, sir. Have a seat.” She stepped away and offered him one of the same plastic hospital chairs he had already spent a good part of the day sitting in on the other side of the building.

He held up a kind hand. “No, no, I’m only here for a moment. I just wanted to see how little John was doing.”

The woman’s breath was harsh at the mention and he prayed she wouldn’t burst into tears because he did not have the reserves right now and would likely join her.

She glanced at her son. “The doctors expect him to make a full recovery thanks to your brother.” A pause and he knew what she was going ask. “How is he?”

The image of Virgil lying ever so still, head swathed in bandages from literal brain surgery coupled with a belly full of even more stitches...

“He’s...” Another harsh swallow. “...hanging in there.”

The gentle hand on his arm nearly broke him.

He drew in a breath and mentally shook himself. “Um, I came over here to give you this.” He held out the piece of paper he had signed himself not twenty minutes ago. “When...” He tried again. God, he was tired. “When people heard Virgil was injured he was sent gifts and money.” They were still coming in. His brother was truly loved by the general public. Virgil Tracy and his giant flying green machine. Virgil would smile and wave it off, but really, people loved him. “My brothers and I know that Virgil would want you to have this, to help John in his recovery.” The cheque had a considerable number of zeros written on it.

Her eyes widened as she read them. “My god.” She blinked. “Thank you. I can’t lie. We need this. But...but what about the others?”

“Virgil saved the rest. There were some minor injuries. They’ve all been seen to.” He glanced at the bed. “John was the last one.” Scott blinked rapidly. John’s babysitter hadn’t made it, killed in the initial collapse. John had been very, very lucky.

“Thank you.” And her hands were clutching his arm again.

Scott looked down at her. Virgil would definitely want this. He dropped his hand over hers. “You’re welcome.” Now he had to leave.

She nodded and let him go. But she didn’t step back, only staring up at him.

“Mr Tracy, all my hopes for your brother...”

Scott nodded abruptly, but had no more words. A dip of his head as he backed out of the room and stalked down the hallway.

All his hopes...

-o-o-o-

Next

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #Virgil Tracy #Scott Tracy #Gordon Tracy #nuttyfic

[searchingwardrobes]

It’s Been . . . a DAY 2/3

One month a few days, and finally I bring you chapter two! Sorry for the wait. Are you ready for Killian to have a bad day? And maybe a certain blonde makes it better?

Summary: Emma Swan bursts into Killian’s life in spectacular fashion - when her three year old pees on his office floor. Nevertheless, Killian is mesmerized by this tenacious woman. Perhaps fate will let them cross paths again …

Rated: G

Words: Just a bit over 2k in this chapter

Also on Ao3

Tagging: @kmomof4​  @snowbellewells​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​ @xhookswenchx​ @teamhook​ @let-it-raines​ @winterbythesea​ @spartanguard​ @shireness-says​ @superchocovian​ @thesschesthair​ @resident-of-storybrooke​ @vvbooklady1256​ @hookedonapirate​ @ultraluckycatnd​ @hollyethecurious​ @welllpthisishappening​ @wellhellotragic​ @bethacaciakay​ @optomisticgirl​ @lfh1226-linda​ @ilovemesomekillianjones​ @ekr032-blog-blog​ @itsfabianadocarmo​ @profdanglaisstuff​ @thisonesatellite​ @winterbaby89​ @tiganasummertree​ @xsajx​ @jennjenn615​ @zaharadessert​​

Chapter Two:

“That’ll be $2.50.”

It’s an innocuous statement, or it normally would be, but Killian has just escaped the office after a particularly nasty run-in with Zelena Green. Escaped her demands for the most ridiculous tax deductions (with no receipts, mind you) along with her shrill screeching and her terrifying claws - ahem, manicure - so swiftly that he apparently ran to the coffee shop empty handed. 

“Um . . .” Killian’s panic mounts as he pats his jeans pockets and then his leather jacket with no success. “I think,” he chuckles awkwardly and throws the barista a lopsided and charming (he hopes) smile, “I forgot my wallet.”

The barista simply arches a brow at him, communicating quite clearly that she is immune to his wiles. She braces her arms on the counter and leans towards him.

“It’s still $2.50.”

He clutches the to-go cup in his hand so tightly that it threatens to pop the lid. 

“I heard you, lass, and I plan on giving you the money. I just need to run back to the office -”

“You’re not going anywhere until you give me two dollars and fifty cents.”

For a moment, he wants to snap at her, but he learned long ago that he can catch more flies with honey than vinegar. He leans his hip against the counter casually, lowers his gaze a bit, and gives the barista his best smolder.

“You’re a good worker . . .” he finds her name tag, “Ashley. I admire that. I promise you can trust me. My office is only down the block. I’ll be back in a flash.”

“Or I’ll never see you again. Just give me the damn $2.50. I got my pay docked last week for the tinder being short, and I sure as hell won’t let it happen again.”

This is clearly not his day. 

“$2.50 you said?” a voice over his shoulder asks. 

Killian spins, recognizing that voice. His eyes widen with joy when he sees none other than Emma Swan standing there with a sparkle in her green eyes and a smirk on her lips. She leans around him to set her cup beside his. 

“Just put his on my bill,” she tells the barista.

“I can’t let you do that,” he starts to protest, but Emma lifts a hand to stop his words. 

“It’s the least I can do after . . . well, what happened to your floors.”

He chuckles lightly, and she blushes even as she shakes her head and lifts her gaze to the ceiling as if to say what’s a mother to do though, right?

“Fine by me,” Ashley says with a shrug, ringing up Emma’s purchase. “So that’ll be $6.15.”

Killian grimaces inwardly - this is a local place, and the prices are steep - but Emma doesn’t even flinch as she scans her card and then takes the receipt. She turns to Killian with a smile, holding out his to-go cup. 

“I am in your debt,” he tells her. 

Emma rolls her eyes and waves her hand. “Are you kidding? We’re even now.”

Killian racks his brain for a way to prolong this little encounter, but before his mind can connect to his vocal chords, Emma turns to the bar that holds the cream, sugar, and various shakers of spices. He hovers, his brain still refusing to cooperate, as she removes the lid of her cup and shakes some cinnamon on the swirls of whipped cream inside. He practically jumps when she ends up breaking the awkward silence first. 

“You see, I didn’t really mind adding your $2.50 to my order. That’s nothing in this place.” She snaps the lid back on her cup and turns to face him. “Let me guess, regular coffee, black?”

He nods, a smile curling his lips as he takes a sip of said coffee. “Aye. And yours is?”

“Hot chocolate, actually. Most expensive thing on the menu besides the pastries, which is just unfair, in my opinion.”

Their gazes connect over the rims of their cups, and Killian catalogues the new information. She prefers hot chocolate over coffee, with whipped cream and cinnamon. 

“That doesn’t happen to you often, does it?” she asks.

“Forgetting my wallet?”

“No, your charm not working.”

Killian tilts his head back and laughs. Then he saunters closer to her, bends his head, and lowers his voice. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

She doesn’t seem to be visibly affected by his flirting in the least. Instead, she tosses him a casual smirk, one eyebrow arching. “Perhaps I would.”

His heart hammers in his chest as he searches her eyes. This woman is a bloody marvel. He had seen it even when she was falling apart in his office, and it’s even clearer now when she’s the one in control. His gaze falls to her lips, and he can’t help wetting his own. Abruptly, she clears her throat  and takes a step back. 

“I . . . uh, I really need to get back to my stuff.”

She hurries over to a table by the window and starts gathering up a laptop and some books and papers. A highlighter marker falls off and rolls across the floor. Killian picks it up and hands it to her. 

“Thanks,” she mutters, color staining her cheeks. 

“Work?”

“Uh, no,” she stammers, tucking hair behind both ears, “it’s school. My current job sucks, quite frankly, so I’m trying to get my degree.”

“That’s admirable,” Killan tells her sincerely. “In what?”

“Dental hygiene,” she wrinkles her nose adorably. “I know that’s stupid.”

Killian frowns. “Why in the world would you say that?”

Emma shrugs. “I mean, who likes teeth?”

He arches both brows as he bites down on his lower lip. “I can think of some reasons people would.”

She rolls her eyes again and smacks him in the arm. “You know what I mean!”

They both laugh then as he rubs at his arm exaggeratedly. “Okay, seriously, dentists like teeth. I mean, I assume they do.”

Emma shakes her head. “I don’t think so. I mean, maybe some, but mostly I think they just know it will make them lots of money.”

“And that’s why you want to be a dental hygienist?”

Emma lifts her messenger bag and loops it over her shoulder. “I don’t need to be rich, but secure would be nice. I want to give Henry a good life, you know? And dental hygiene is steady work, steady pay, and good hours.”

Emma doesn’t seem to mind when Killian walks beside her as they leave the coffee shop. 

“You’re a good mother, Emma. I still fail to see where any of that is stupid.”

She hitches the bag further up her shoulder, then takes another sip of her hot chocolate. “I don’t know. Aren’t I supposed to be studying something I’m passionate about? Instead, I’m being completely pragmatic. All I need for this career is an associate’s degree, which will take way less time and money.”

“I think we put way too much pressure on people to find a career - a passion, as you say. At the end of the day, a job is pragmatic. We need money to live, and a job gives us that.”

“Is that why you became an accountant?” Emma tilts her head and studies him as she asks the question. “You don’t seem the type. No offense.”

He scratches behind his ear. “None taken. And yes, I make good money at it, so that’s part of it. Liam and I went our entire childhood barely surviving, so we both vowed to change that when we were old enough.”

“I get that,” Emma mutters into her cup of hot chocolate. Killian wonders at the comment, but doesn’t press her. 

“I do like numbers, though, so does Liam. We both excelled at that when we were in the Navy, and . . .” he shook his head. “It’s a dull story. We’ll just use the cliche the rest is history.”

Emma laughs, a free and easy thing in the early spring air, and Killian wants to hold onto it. For some reason, he gets the impression it’s a rare sound from her. 

“I suppose going to school for accounting is about as interesting as dental hygiene.”

“Well, then, here’s to making a living,” he tells her cheerfully, extending his coffee cup. 

She taps it with her cup of cocoa. “To making a living.”

They both sip, the air becoming charged again as their gazes linger. Then Emma glances over his shoulder, and her eyes light up. 

“Flowers!” 

She hurries over to the sidewalk display and picks up a bunch of snowdrops. “These are Mary Margaret’s favorite,” she said with a smile. 

“Really? Elsa loves them too,” Killian says, gently touching a delicate white blossom. “Who is Mary Margaret?”

“My sister,” Emma tells him, her smile fond, “foster sister, technically. Eva and Leopold adopted me when I was twelve and Mary Margaret was sixteen. I was a terror, let me tell you.”

“You had been through a lot of pain, I’m sure.”

Emma studies him for a moment, slight surprise lighting her eyes. “Yeah, I had . . . but the three of them loved me anyway. And now, well, Mary Margaret is both my sister and my best friend. She and Eva both watch Henry for me while I work and study.”

“What about Leopold?”

Emma buries her nose in the snowdrops, “He passed away when I was still in high school.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Emma gives her head a quick shake. “The point is, Mary Margaret and Eva are both the absolute best. I don’t know what I would do without them. David’s not bad either, I guess.” She chuckles fondly.

“David?” He assumes by her laughter that he isn’t a boyfriend. Please don’t let him be a boyfriend.

“Mary Margaret’s husband. They’re newlyweds and completely nauseating.”

Killian treasures each tiny nugget of Emma’s life and files it carefully away. He wants to know so much more. How did she come to have Henry? Why is she raising him alone? What pain was she forced to endure those first twelve years of her life? Though he can imagine that last one fairly well. He and Liam had spent nearly that long shuffled from home to home after their mother’s death, Brennan Jones never wanting to take responsibility for his sons. 

“I want to buy these for Jones & Jones,” Emma tells him, “as a thank you.”

“We’ve told you that it was no trouble. Besides, you bought my coffee, remember?”

Emma shakes her head. “I’ve been meaning to come by with flowers all week, but I was just too embarrassed. Please let me.”

Killian nods, albeit a bit reluctantly. He guesses that Emma is on a tight budget. She said her job sucks, and she’s caring for a toddler while also putting herself through school. He’s sure the small family she mentioned helps when they can, but still, she already spent over six dollars at the coffee shop, thanks to him. However, he can already see that she is a lass of great pride. He doesn’t want to insult her by refusing the gift. 

Emma purchases the flowers, and then she walks with him the rest of the way to Jones & Jones. Elsa exclaims over the flowers just as Killian expected her to, even enveloping Emma in a hug. Ariel hugs her too and asks about Henry. Even Liam is lured away from his desk, and he ends up showing off pictures of little Ian to Emma. He and Elsa swap funny stories about raising a three year old, and before long, an hour has passed. 

“Oh my God,” Emma suddenly gasps, “what time is it?”

“Almost five,” Elsa tells her. 

“Shit, I’ve gotta go. Mary Margaret is expecting me soon, and Henry gets cranky when dinner is late.”

Killian stands there like an idiot as Emma rushes out in a whirlwind, leaving her now cold hot chocolate on the edge of Killian’s desk. 

“Please tell me you asked her out this time,” Liam says once the door has shut behind her. 

Killian groans. He didn’t even get her number. 

“Maybe you’ll run into her again?” Ariel suggests, but there isn’t much faith in her voice.

Not that Killian blames her for her doubt. Fate gave him a second chance, and he doesn’t hold out much hope that it will give him a third. 

#cs #cs ff #modern au #first meeting #and second meeting? #mommy!emma #single mom emma #little henry #fluff #humor

[lovecanbesostrange]

Okay, for the poor people on the Ruby Lucas Harem Discord suffering because of this ask (x) on konako’s tumblr that lead to things (including this fanart x), I have this wild scene out of context.

Mary Margaret was sitting at her desk, updating her chemistry flashcards. Ruby was sitting on her bed cross-legged staring at her laptop screen, waiting for this English essay to write itself.

“Ugh,” Ruby groaned and let herself fall backwards. Out of habit she put her hands to her face, but winced when her fingers touched the band aid over her eyebrow. It’s been five days.

A knock on the door made them both turn. They usually could tell who it was by the exact sound of the knock. Like Charming had one hard knock followed by two quick ones or Mulan knocked four times in a specific rhythm. So whoever this was, was more than unexpected. Ruby drew in a sharp breath. She had heard back from the police yesterday that there would be no criminal charges, but they both knew something else would arise from this.

Mary Margaret looked at her, then turned her chair to fully face the door and Ruby got back up again. “Come in.”

“Hallo. Good, you’re here.”

“Mom!” Mary Margaret was up in a second and gave her mother a hug. “I didn’t know you’d be coming.”

Eva hugged her back, but despite the smile on her face, her voice already made them realize this was not a fun surprise visit. “I didn’t know I would be here today either.” The hug ended and she stepped into the room, her gaze landing on Ruby. “I got some news last night and suddenly I was in my car this morning.”

Mary Margaret glanced at the clock. It was a twelve hours drive with good traffic, so Eva must’ve gotten behind the wheel around 4am.

“Hi…” Ruby busied herself closing her laptop and didn’t look up.

“Honey,” Eva stroked Mary Margaret’s hair, “would you mind giving us the room? I want to talk to Ruby.”

“Sure.” Mary Margaret glanced between the two and then grabbed her things from the desk. “I’m down the hall in the common area.” When she passed Eva she whispered: “Don’t be too harsh on her, please.”

That made Eva smile. Her daughter knew exactly why she was here, but she looked out for her friend. These girls always had each other’s back and knowing they were loyal like that, dragging each other out of trouble, was certainly a good thing.

Eva took the vacant chair and rolled herself over a bit towards Ruby’s bed. “So.”

Ruby slowly looked up. Eva took in the bandaid and she could see a faint red line indicating that her lip must have been busted. Trying to hide one hand with the other was a giveaway that her knuckles were bruised as well. Eva had to breathe slowly. A part of her wanted to grab Ruby by the shoulders and shake the whole story out of her. She wanted to yell about irresponsibilties, the futility of violence and all the consequences physical assault could come with. The bigger part of her wanted to cradle her like the 9 year old she sometimes still saw, who confessed to lying about her home address, as if not having loving parents was her personal failing.

“I was at dinner with friends last night and suddenly got asked if I heard about the ruckus on campus. I was really surprised when I was shown this tiny article about a football player beating up another student. And it took me two phone calls to find out it was you.”

“I’m sorry,” Ruby murmured towards the blanket she was sitting on, playing with the seam of her sweatpants.

“For what?” Eva tried to keep her voice as neutral as possible. She had felt every emotion during the long drive and had played out many versions of this conversation. But sitting in this room she realized none of those would work.

Ruby furrowed her brows and finally looked up. “Beating up that guy, of course?” It was a bit more of a question than a statement. The question had rattled her. There was so much to be sorry for though. The beating, losing her temper at all, making Regina worry that night already, not doing so great in classes lately, clinging to Snow, making her team suffer… oh, wait. “Also for not calling… I guess…”

The board said that her mother, Anita, would be notified of this by mail. That was her home address, her contact, but maybe this was why Eva was here. The Blanchards had always cared, but now she was in college, she wasn’t a kid anymore, she had to do these things by herself. But maybe, just maybe they should have called. “I shouldn’t have put this on Snow alone… she should’ve talked to you…”

“Ruby, no.” Eva got up and sat down on the bed, gesturing Ruby to scoot over next to her. “Sure, I’m disappointed-”

The word stung and Ruby interjected immediately. “I’m sorry. I messed up, but I promise Snow wasn’t even there and I won’t-”

“Stop!” Eva took Ruby’s hands, now seeing the bruises already turning yellow, showing the passage of time already. “I am disappointed you didn’t call. And I’m glad to hear Mary wasn’t involved, but I wanted to know anyway. Because of you. I care about you. And this is serious. I know…” She paused and slowed down, knowing the next thing would hurt, but after all these years, Eva needed to say it out loud. “I know your mom doesn’t take good care of you, I know you feel like she doesn’t care at all and I honestly don’t know if she does. But I do. I am not your mother, but I care.”

The dam broke and Ruby started to cry. Eva took her into her arms and immediately Ruby clung to her. It was weird that Eva had seen the aftermath of Ruby crying quite a few times over the years, but rarely had she shed tears in front of her. Maybe Eva should have made her before, pushed her a little bit towards that to hammer it home that she cared and that she would be there for her. Just the same she had hugged Mary Margaret after break-ups, over bruised knees, bad grades, and other bad news.

“I’m sorry for everything”, Ruby got out between sobs. Her tears stained Eva’s blouse already. “I didn’t mean to… I don’t want to hurt people… I swear I want to be good.”

There was more, but it was hard to decipher it all and Eva let her cry, rubbing circles on her back. Getting the full story would take time, that was for sure. All she could do now was to reassure Ruby. “I know you’re good, you just made a mistake. People make mistakes.”

Eva looked over Ruby’s shoulder and saw her pinboard. A few pictures were on it and she immediately recognized one taken the time she and Leopold had taken the girls to Six Flags. They had ridden all the rollercoasters until they were practically green in the face. It had also been the day she had seen Ruby at her most carefree. There was one photo of Ruby with her Grandmother, a woman Eva had met only once. Anita was nowhere to be found on the wall.

A group shot looked nice. Eva recognized David from the pictures Mary Margaret had sent her, but couldn’t even guess who the others were. It was a bit sad living too far away to meet all these people, because she had made it a point to know Mary Margaret’s friends in school by face and name. Mulan, Belle, August, Robin, Jasmin, Anna, Aurora… so many names. She smiled at the picture in the corner that showed Ruby in her team uniform, helmet in hand. A candid shot, her elbow resting on the shoulder of another girl. Or maybe it was young woman now.

Eva turned a bit to catch a glimpse of Mary Margaret’s pinboard. Cluttered with far more pictures, flyers and notes. They shared a room, they had shared the most parts of their lives for the past 11 years and yet there still was such a noticeable difference.

Ruby started to calm down and when she let go, Eva leaned forward to get tissues out of her bag. “Can you tell me your version of the story now? All I know is that you were provoked and sent a boy to the hospital. The article said something about questionable self-defense.”

“There are no criminal charges,” Ruby said after blowing her nose. “He said something to my friend. Insulted her. And he wouldn’t stop, calling her… the c-word… and when he touched me, I lost it.”

“He was in the hospital,” she prompted.

“For a broken arm.” A pause. “A broken nose.” Ruby looked at Eva again. “He lost a tooth. And has some more bruises than I do. He was on the ground fast…”

Eva put a hand on Ruby’s shoulder. “I have no problem believing you would defend any of your friends like that. But you must have hit him pretty hard.” Ruby nodded, the shame was visible. “Tell me the truth. Has this happened before? Because what I can’t believe is that you would pound someone when he’s already down. Something else is going on and I want to know if that will happen again.”

Ruby pressed her palms against the mattress and slid away a bit. Eva could hear - and even see - her breathing pick up. This was almost all the confirmation she needed.

“I’m sorry.”

“Has it happened before, yes or no?”

“Yes.”

Silence fell.

Eva closed her eyes. This was the thing she had feared. Because either Ruby had lost it very big time and the paper didn’t cover the big scoop behind it. Or something had been going on and she had been blind to it. And she needed to hear this from Ruby herself either way.

“When?”

“Back in high school… it was… at junior prom…”

Eva scrambled her brain. She remembered Mary Margaret having a date and giving her one more motherly talk about safe sex that had left her daughter bright red in the face. She also remembered that date bringing her home even before curfew and that Mary Margaret had been not very talkative that night. She had sworn nothing bad had happened with him and Eva only suspected that they’d had a stupid teen argument. There was nothing too remarkable about that. Had she seen Ruby the next day? She couldn’t recall.

While she was thinking, Ruby went on hesitantly. “This boy Peter had asked me out… from the hockey team… but it… it was all a prank… some of those guys wanted to like… set me up for a joke… and... “ She quickly glanced up and right back down again. “It wasn’t as bad, he had bruises and a swollen eye. Snow was there to stop me and we all agreed to not tell anyone. I apologized to him though. And it all… it was… like now… just more… it wasn’t just Whale being a dick to my friend, it’s… everything is so much sometimes and I explode.”

This was less surprising to hear than Eva cared to admit. “Have you ever hurt somebody with intention?”

Ruby shook her head. Her voice was broken. “One time… but only one time… I shoved Snow… I swear it was only once… I yelled at her and shoved her and the second I had done that… I apologized immediately and I never ever intended to hurt anybody.” She looked at Eva again. “Least of all her. I swear.” For this she held eye contact as long as she could.

Eva reached out touching her hand that was clenched around the edge of the mattress. “Thank you for being honest.”

There were a lot of details Eva wanted to know about, but this had been hard enough on Ruby. And now they had time to figure things out. But she had revealed a bright spot. “No criminal charges, you said?”

Ruby nodded. “The police seem very uninterested. And any civil things… well, I need to worry about what the board decides. My… friend said her family will keep things on the down-low.” She squirmed a bit.

“Who is this friend?”

“Regina Mills.”

“Mills? Oh.” Of all the people to get in a fight for, this was probably the luckiest choice. Although it didn’t sit right with Eva that there might be things going to circumvent what law dictated. But she also knew that worse people got away with far worse behavior and Ruby deserved to have one strike with minimal consequences. Even if this was technically her second. “I have looked up a few therapists in town already. I nee-”

“I’m seeing the campus therapist already. But I blew off a few appointments and I get that I shouldn’t.” Eva looked over at Mary Margaret’s bed at that. “Yes, Snow made me. She went with me the first time even.”

“What else are you girls keeping from me?” That came out more judgmental than she meant to. “I know you’re growing up, but you’re still kids to me. I always thought you knew you can come to me with problems.”

“Sorry.”

Eva scooted closer again and put her arm around Ruby’s shoulder. “Enough with the apologies. I know you’re a good kid. I remember you kept Mary from starting to smoke, so that’s something.”

“You know about that?” Ruby looked at her bewildered.

“I am a mom after all and some things I do pick up. You didn’t like it, because you’re an athlete, right?”

“Yeah, it’s super shitty for your lungs and I told her it was uncool.”

Eva laughed. “Wish that would work on Leo and his cigars. But thanks for that. I know you two look out for each other. But I will have to chew out my daughter for keeping a few too many secrets.” Ruby tensed up a bit. “What? Something else I need to know?”

“No…” She dragged the syllable out, dragging her toes over the floor.

“Ruby, I just said you can tell me. That is all I want from you, the truth. And we can work anything out from there.”

“But… what if…” She crossed her arms in front of chest, bracing herself. “What if… I’m not who you think I am?”

“You’re Ruby Lucas. You’re the best friend of my daughter, almost more like a sister. You worked your butt off to get here and you work hard to be the best version of you. I know you even send some of that money home you make at the gas station. Because you care so much about people you love, like your grandmother. I know you are a good person, even though you keep way too much inside. But we can work on that now.” She gave Ruby a kiss on the head, like she would with Mary Margaret. “What could be so bad about you?”

“I’m… I think… I’m gay.” Ruby breathed out that last word and was one tense muscle in Eva’s half embrace.

Eva looked at the pinboard again. The picture with Ruby smiling while leaning on the other girl. It clicked. On top of everything else, this secret had weighed Ruby down. She sure had enough reasons to be angry at the world already. This wasn’t something Eva had prepared for, so she just brought around her other arm to pull Ruby closer. “I want you to be happy and in love.” Finally she felt Ruby breathe in again.

((I just have to stop myself here. This could go on and on and on and on otherwise. Because I already know Eva is gonna take them out to dinner, insisting on meeting David. She gets a hotel room nearby. Of course Snow offers to let her sleep in the dorm but “Honey, that’s kind, but no. So much no to sleeping in a dorm bed.” And she freshens up a bit and passes a book store, where her eye is caught by a pride display and she gets a bracelet with a tiny rainbow flag, two actually, she wears one and gives the other to Ruby, because well, she doesn’t know exactly what to say, but this will definitely not make her think less of her!! Eva is the silent MVP of the story.))

#gender mix football AU #(where nobody gives a fuck about football) #Ruby Lucas #(sorry for spamming the tag - come to the server to yell at me about it) #this fic would be 100k words at this point already - sorry I don't have actual writing stamina for that #konako #somehow it's her fault - and the demons circling her inbox #lazylaziel #if only you knew what you started... even though it's so far removed by now... sorry #$! #RRCAU

[gay-otlc]

Keepers of the Chaos (Chapter 2)

Summary: Tam, Linh, Keefe, Biana, and Fitz are part of the tiny fandom for Keeper of the Chaos, and Tam and Linh's podcast convinces some of their other friends to watch it as well. The group finds themselves strangely invested in this show, where students at Tumblr High School who work together to write about an elf named Sophia, cause incomprehensible chaos, and fight their rival Pinterest High School.

Content warnings: Cursing, food, L*ura

Word count: 2005

Notes: Check out the beautiful theme song here!

(Read on AO3)

Sophie rolls her eyes as she opens the link her girlfriend sent her and puts in her earbuds. Biana has been incessantly pestering her to watch Keepers of the Chaos for so long that Sophie half wants to watch it just to shut her up, but she's always tired, or busy, and she doesn't really like watching new things. Still, Biana asked her very nicely to listen to this one podcast, and she looked very pretty when she asked, so Sophie's dumb omni ass couldn't refuse.

"Welcome to the Twins of the Chaos podcast," it begins after loading for an obnoxiously long time. The girl speaking has a pretty voice, Sophie has to admit- sweet and melodic and vaguely amused.

Maybe listening to this podcast won't be so bad if she can listen to that girl's voice the whole time.

But another person speaks, adding "Where some chaotic twins discuss our favorite show, Keepers of the Chaos," and his voice is not as pretty. She continues listening anyway, since Biana may or may not murder her if she stops.

The two voices- whose names are Linh and Tam, apparently- start talking about Keepers of the Chaos some more, giving Sophie a summary she's heard tons of times from Biana and Fitz- though the twins explain it slightly more coherently and with less... whatever the verbal equivalent of keyboard smashing is. Biana usually starts rambling about her favorite characters, like Lynn- not "Lynn the fandom mom," but the other Lynn- and Avery, or sometimes Nora and Darwin. Sophie doesn't understand any of those names and loses track of the conversation as soon as it involves too many unfamiliar names.

But Tam and Linh are making more sense, at least for the most part, until they start mentioning specific couples. The conversation gets again comprehensive soon enough, though, and Sophie does smile at the name "The Dark Duck."

By the end, when Tam says "half of them wearing sleeping masks with teal eyes painted on and the other half watching the chaos with mild amusement," Sophie is curious enough to be mildly intrigued. She listens to their outro music, and before she can regret it, types out a text message to Biana.

Sophie: fine

Sophie: ill watch it

Biana responds instantly with an array of heart emojis. Sophie blushes.

Biana: can i come over and watch with u?

Sophie: ok!

Sophie: moms making mallowmelt

Sophie: but u cant have any

Biana: >:(

Biana: hope u like being single then

Sophie: fine u can have some mallowmelt

Biana: yayyyy!

Biana: ily

Sophie: ilyt

Sophie: now lets watch ur stupid show

Biana: on my way!!!

Sophie smiles, shaking her head. She's a little annoyed, but fine, it sounds interesting enough from the podcast. And what else would she be doing? Studying? Having US history as an alternative would make even the most horrible of shows seem good. She stuffs her textbooks into her backpack and shoves some things out of the way so her room looks a bit neater before rushing downstairs. The mallowmelt smells good enough to make her mouth water.

"Mmm..." she sighs, barely taking time to let it cool off before taking a large bite. "That's so good. Thanks, Mom."

Edaline  smiles. "You're welcome. Just save some for your father and I."

"Fine, fine. I have to share with Biana, anyway." Sophie huffs and takes another bite. "She's coming over, is that alright? We're going to watch a show together."

"Sure, just make sure to get your homework done."

Sophie rolls her eyes. "Fine."

"And keep the door open!" Grady calls. Edaline laughs as Sophie's face flames.

"I'm going back to my room," she grumbles, taking a plate of mallowmelt with her and walking up the stairs. She manages not to trip over her own feet and drop the mallowmelt, thankfully, as she grabs her laptop and opens Netflix. Sighing, she searches for Keepers of the Chaos and clicks on the show that comes up before waiting for Biana to arrive.

The doorbell rings soon, and Sophie carefully sets down her laptop and her plate on her bed before rushing down the stairs. Panting slightly, she opens the door for her girlfriend. Biana's wearing a t-shirt with the Amsterdam flag on it. Sophie has no idea why. Maybe Biana likes the country? Her girlfriend is pretty weird. "Come on in," she says, realizing she's been staring. In her defense, Biana is pretty and Sophie is very omni.

"Ready to go watch Keepers of the Chaos?" Biana asks. She bounces on her toes slightly.

"Alright," says Sophie. "I set it up on my laptop in my room."

"Awesome! You'll love it."

Sophie follows Biana up the stairs and into her room. They sit on the bed together, Sophie leaning against the wall and Biana leaning against Sophie, and Biana presses play. Somber kazoos begin playing in the background as the theme song starts.

We're on the edge of chaos

No one is straight

We're making fanart

Because L*ura we hate

And we're gonna have teal eyes in the end!

We must be weird, and we must be gay

(We must be gay!)

We will find every bit of sanity that we have

And give it all to Lynn

Ohhhh

We must be gay!

Biana dances a little along with the song, and Sophie can't help but smile. A curvy, round-faced person with short dark hair and colorful earrings plays a few notes on the piano, and then a KEEPERS OF THE CHAOS logo flashes across the screen. Then, a group of students sit in a classroom.

"Shai! Tater! Lynn! You three finally got together?" says the same person who just played piano, gesturing to a redhaed wearing a Sappho lesbian flag cape. She's holding the fingerless-gloved hand of a lanky person with brightly colored hair, and they're holding hands with a tall girl who has chin length brown hair. The rest of the class applauds the fiancees before returning to their own conversations.

"Yep! Thanks, Ink," says Tater.

Ink smiles at them and turns to a person with light brown skin and golden hoop earrings partially covered by long dark hair. "Hi, Kiri, how was your break?"

"Good! Here's to a good 2021?" Kiri turns to the person next to them. "How about you, Ref?"

Ref has short brown hair and red glasses. "Yeah, my break was dOPE," she says, leaving everyone to wonder how he did that with their voice. "oH, and happy belated Hanukkah to Shai!"

"Thanks, you too. And guess what! I didn't set my hair on fire this year!"

A short guy with strawberry blonde hair looks concerned. "Um. Congratulations?"

"Thanks, Sam!"

Sophie looks away from the screen and at Biana. "There are a lot of characters..." she mutters.

"Yeah, but you get to know them well enough eventually," says Biana. "Now shh, let's keep watching!"

A lot of other characters are introduced in various conversations, and Sophie's brain has a hard time keeping track of them all. She does remember Tara, a curvy, bored-looking girl with long sideswept bangs, and Blue, a bisexual who may or may not be an arsonist. She doesn't know either of their personalities very well yet, but she likes them so far. Lucat, a pale, blue haired asexual, who later joins the Hanukkah conversation, also seems cool.

Once quite a bit of introductions are done- Sophie lost count at around twenty something- are over, an announcement comes over the school's loudspeakers.

"Welcome back, Tumblr High School!" announces a voice. "I hope you all had a good break. Now, the Tumblr staff have an important announcement for you all. High schools in this county, like ours, Pinterest High School, and Instagram High School, will be holding a competition. All members of the winning team will receive a scholarship to AO3 college. If you are interested, meet in room 69 after school. Now, onto other announcements..."

Somber kazoos play again as the principal's droning voice fades into the background. A montage of the previously introduced characters wishing they could go to AO3 college moves across the screen. After a few minutes of them zooming through school and talking about how fucking boring it is, all of them gather in the room (some of them with more jokes than others) to discuss the competition.

A blonde woman welcomes them into the room. They wait a while to make sure no one else will arrive, but once everyone is there, the woman clears her throat. "Hello, everyone! I'm glad you're interested in joining the competition. My name is Shannon Messenger, and I'm in charge of admissions at AO3 College. My coworker L*ura and I designed this competition."

Sophie gasps and looks at Biana. "L*ura? But isn't that the person they hate? They said that in the intro!" Biana smiles at her, and she blushes as she realizes that she's kind of... maybe... invested in the show now. She decides she'll endure the "I told you so"s later and looks back at the show, trying to telepathically tell the characters not to trust this L*ura person... and perhaps not Shannon either. It's too early to tell whether Shannon will be an antagonist or not.

"All of you will be working as a team to write a story together. The main premise is that a twelve year old girl named Sophia is a telepath, but she can't tell anyone her secret. Then, she meets a teal-eyed boy named Finn, and he tells her that she's an elf. She travels back to the elf world with him, where she struggles a bit at the elf school Firefox, makes friends with some other elves, learns that she is an illegal creation of a rebel group called the Dark Duck, and another rebel group- the Rarelynoticed- tries to kidnap and kill Sophia and her friend Deck. There are other details to be included into the story, which will be given out to the participants as a packet. The object of this competition is not to determine your ability at coming up with story ideas, but your ability to work in groups and execute well developed ideas. Does anyone have any questions?"

Someone raises their hand- a short, tanned girl. "Lynn?" prompts the principal.

"Did you say the rebel group was named the Dark Duck?"

"And the Rarelynoticed?" adds another person, with rectangular glasses and a red bracelet.

"Raise your hand before speaking, Auran," scolds the principal. "But yes, those are the names."

"Alright then," Auran mutters.

"Unless anyone else has questions, we'll be sending out sign up forms for everyone interested, and then we will distribute the information packets about your story. You can talk to each other and start planning."

No one else has questions, so once they've all filled out the sign up form, they gather in small groups and flip through the packets, making sarcastic comments or mocking names ("'Rarelynoticed' though-" a stylish hijabi named Raiin sighs as they come across a page of information about the group) as they try to form some semblance of a plan. Once they all agree that they've made a lot of progress, they make plans to meet up again soon and walk back home.

Unbeknownst  to them, a pair of ominous teal eyes watch from above.

Somber kazoos play once again, and the credits roll.

"So, what'd you think?" Biana asks as Sophie closes her laptop.

Rather inaudibly, Sophie mumbles "It was good."

"What was that?"

"It was good! I liked it!"

Biana grins. "I told you so." She leans over and kisses Sophie on the cheek. "Thanks for watching it. I have to go do some homework, awesome seeing you!" As she walks out, Sophie hears her singing under her breath. "We must be gay..."

#tumblr kotlc fandom fandom #keepers of the chaos #shai types things #cursing tw #we must be g a y #shai's writing

[redladydeath]

jhgfdfghjkhgf i was going to just post this in the video’s comment section but for some reason that’s not working so here’re act one of the william and mary play:

Mary: Look, you’re my best friend, okay? And, um, best friends tell each other everything, right? Oh my god. Excuse me. Oh, Maria Regina, it was awful! He was awful, William, my Dutch cousin, or as father likes to call him “the Dutch Dog” *laughs*… I had the honor of being forced to dine with the extended family. My little Dutch cousin William– and was he rude! Oh my god. He spent the entire meal either staring at me or grimacing at the food. No manners. And he’s old too, like, at least thirty, not that you’d know by looking at him, he’s very short, but old enough to know better, and all that I could hear the entire time was his breathing– no, no, no– wheezing, with his tiny little child-sized mouth. *imitates wheezing* [indecipherable] –cause he had [indecipherable] big monster of a nose to use, but I guess that was out of commission. And King Charles II– God save him– and all twelve of his spaniels, seated at the table, eating off of the plates– how am I related to these people?

Anne: Mary!

Mary: Shh! Shh! My sister! We’re fighting! Oh god. Uncle Charles– God save him– William... ew. I’ve never fit in with this entire family and now I find out that my sister’s been ta… my sister– No, no I will not stand here and idly gossip. My sister– no. Sh– no. Sh– no. Sh– nope! Betty!

Betty: Yes, your ladyship?

Mary: Um, take Maria Regina will you?

Betty: Yes, your ladyship. Anne has been screaming for you, your ladyship.

Mary: Yes, tell her I’m dead.

Betty: Yes, your ladyship.

Mary: No, don’t, that’ll get her hopes up. Tell her that I’m resting– exhausted from a fascinating dinner with our exotic Dutch cousin.

Betty: Yes, your ladyship.

Mary: And I can trust you all? Oh, um, and would you bring me an ink, pen, and paper?

Betty: Yes, your ladyship.

Mary: How’s this? Dearest, dear, dear, dear, dear, dear... girlfriend– no, no, no... lover– no, too saucy– um... husband? Yeah… it’s a woman, but we’re gonna call her a husband. Don’t get confused! Um, dearest husband, after my prayers to all-mighty God, I’ve come to make peace with you, for it is a strange thing for a man and a wife to quarrel. What more can I say to prove that I love with more zeal than any lover can? You are loved with a love never known by man–

Anne: Mary!

Mary: You are loved more than can be expressed–

Anne: Mary!

Mary: By your ever-obedient–

Anne: Mary!

Mary: SHUT UP!! –wife. But to my great sorrow, I find out that you’ve been corresponding with *whispered* my sister!

Anne: Mary!

Mary: Shut up! Oh, to be your humble servant! To kiss the ground where you go–

Anne: What are you doing?!

Mary: Shut up! Oh, to be your dog on a string, your fish in a net, your limber trout–

Anne: She writes me too, you know!

Mary: No, she doesn’t!

Anne: Yes, she does!

Mary: Shut up! [indecipherable] If my letter has made the effect, dear “husband”, on your hard ear, I may without scruple call you my dearest, dear, dear, dear, dear, dear, dear, dear husband.

Anne: She is not your husband and your letter to her are weird. Also, she sends me letters and calls me her husband and loves me more than she loves you and you’re a lesbian!

Mary: That word doesn’t even exist yet, Anne!

Anne: Lesbian!

Mary: Keep your voice down!

Anne: She writes me more letters.

Mary: Our love is forbidden.

Anne: Get over yourself!

Mary: She knows unlike you I’ll be queen!

Anne: Whatever. I don’t care. I don’t even want to be queen.

Mary: Oh, good, cause you never will be.

Anne: Of course I will! When your head gets so damned big from all the bullshit praise, even your ugly, masculine, lesbian neck won’t be able to support its weight. Snap! And your head will fall off, like our poor headless grandpa Charles–

Mary and Anne: God save him!

Mary: To imagine the death of a monarch is treason, I could look you in the Tower.

Anne: You couldn’t!

Mary: When I’m queen.

Anne: You wouldn’t!

Mary: I could!

Anne: Nu-uh!

Mary: Uh-huh!

Anne: You wouldn’t be the first queen to do that to a little sister.

Mary: Well, you came in here and started it.

Anne: I know. I have something to tell you.

Mary: You could’ve waited!

Anne: I have a memory. About mummy.

Mary: Did you? Really? Would you tell me?

Anne: When we knew she wouldn’t make it much longer, she asked me to come to her bedside. She had just got her blood let, so she was speaking very openly.

Mary: It’s okay, Anne!

Anne: She asked me “Do you know why I named your older sister Mary but named you after me?”

Mary: Why?

Anne: Mummy said… “Because prefer you to that bitch older sister!”

Mary: Leave!

Anne: Mom liked me more!

Mary: I was named after a queen!

Anne: Yeah, Bloody Mary! “Oh, look at me! I’m named after a fat, bloated Tudor Catholic!”

Mary and Anne: *spit*

Mary: Leave!

Anne: I just came in here to ask how dinner went.

Mary: It was lovely. Leave!

Anne: Was it? I bet it was boring.

Mary: Only for a child but when you’re fifteen years old you appreciate stimulating conversation!

Anne: [indecipherable]

Mary: Good!

Anne: Was he… stimulating?

Mary: Ew! I mean… yes.

Anne: What was he like?

Mary: Tall, dark, handsome.

Anne: Really? Tall, dark, and handsome?

Mary: Mmyeah.

Anne: I’m jealous.

Mary: You should be.

Anne: Did he stare at you?

Mary: What? No.

Anne: I guess he wouldn’t. Not after what I have heard.

Mary: Oh, I don’t even want to hear your idle gossip– what did you hear?

Anne: Oh, it’s just that father told me that Uncle Charles–

Mary and Anne: God save him!

Anne: –Tried to marry you off to him.

Mary: What?

Anne: For some Dutch alliance.

Mary: What?

Anne: Yeah. He turned you down though.

Mary: He turned me down?

Anne: Three times.

Mary: What?

Anne: And here I was going to come in and make fun of you! I thought William was a tiny little goblin man. That would’ve been so embarrassing!

Mary: Right…

Anne: If you were turned down by an ugly little goblin man.

Mary: Right…

Anne: Three times!

Mary: Leave!

Anne: Why?

Mary: Leave!

Anne: I thought he was stimulating!

Mary: I want to be alone!

Anne: Mary the Martyr, you’re so weird! Maybe you’ll actually fit in if you didn’t lock yourself in your room all the time writing creepy letters. Some queen you’ll be! You’re friends with a fish!

Mary: Well, I will be queen whether I want to or not!

Anne: Mary the Martyr, you’re engaged to Louis the fucking XIV, what right do you have to be mad at me?

Mary: ...Have you seen the latest portrait of Louis?

Anne: Yeah!

Mary and Anne: *squee*

Anne: He’s fucking gorgeous! Even for a Catholic!

Mary and Anne: *spit*

Anne: Milky skin, so fucking rich! Full deep eyes, tight little French ass…

Mary: Anne! God is listening!

Anne: [indecipherable] I’m just appreciating the work! Those portraits are rarely accurate though. You saw the portrait of Uncle Charles–

Mary and Anne: God save him!

Anne: –He looked like a Roman god dipped in oil.

Mary: What?

Anne: He glistened Mary! Like a buttered up Roman statue! In reality, he looks more like butter. Well… butter with syphilis.

Mary: Oh my god, you can be quite cruel Anne.

Anne: I’m destined to marry one of our fat, inbred cousins, so I’m allowed to be.

Mary: Sorry.

Anne: Yeah, it’s whatever. Well, I’m going! Unlike you I actually have friends to hang out with.

Mary: Oh, bad company ruins good morals.

Anne: Fuck you! See you at dinner.

Mary: That’s why that little Dutch dwarf was staring at me. Oh my God, could you imagine that tiny, wheezing little man crawling into your bed every night– oh my god, it’s an offensive thought! But the most offensive part? He said no! He said no to me! Oh my God, the man is a slug! William of Orange– blegh! And Uncle Charles– God save him– tried to make me marry that, not that I would’ve! No! I would’ve told him off, right to his face. I’m not afraid of him! I will not be made a sacrificial lamb. I would’ve told him off to his face! Right to his tiny, regal, little mustache: “No, Uncle! You may be king, but I will not marry that creature! Put me in chains; lock me in the Tower; feed me to the ghost of Cromwell; I absolutely refuse to marry that creature!” I would’ve told him off. I will not be made a sacrificial lamb!

*fanfare*

Mary: Oh, Jesus Christ.

Betty: Your uncle, King Charles II– God save him– is here your ladyship.

Mary: Okay, send him in.

Betty: Yes, your ladyship.

*dogs yapping*

Charles: Quiet, quiet, quiet! [indecipherable] Good doggy-woggys! Now, niece!

Mary: Oh, Uncle, God save you–

Charles: Rise dear! You’re one of the few girls at court I’d rather not see on her knees.

Mary: Oh– ew.

Charles: Oyster?

Groom of the Stool: Yes, your majesty! *grunting*

Charles: I’ve just come from your mother and father’s apartments.

Mary: She’s not my mother.

Charles: Charming lady, your new mummy. She’s got those bovine hips, so I assume she’ll be plopping out heirs as soon as James’ dousing rod directs her away from foreign [indecipherable].

Mary: Oh my God.

Charles: Oyster?

Groom of the Stool: Yes, your majesty! *grunting*

Charles: If God is good– and we know he is– she’ll give birth to a few boys before she’s spent. Women are quite fragile, as you know Mary. It’s especially hard with our good Stuart stock and– Oh, Dicky, no, no hump, no hump, daddy has a [indecipherable]. Might we can hope for a few younger brothers– you’d like that, wouldn’t you Mary?

Mary: Oh, yes, dear uncle. How I love being an older sister to our dear, simple Anne and how I’d revel in the opportunity to be an older sister again.

Charles: Oyster?

Groom of the Stool: Yes, your majesty! *grunting*

Charles: [indecipherable] England [indecipherable] worry that another woman would take the throne.

Mary: Yes, poor England.

Charles: Yes.

Mary: Ah, ah, ah, ah!

Charles: Dicky! If that heifer can squeeze out just one little boy, England is saved! Oh, Mary, you see it’s not that women shouldn’t be involved in politics, it’s that they can’t. Their brains aren’t built for it! I don’t even know if you can comprehend what I’m saying to you right now!

Mary: I’m lost.

Charles: Yes, I assumed so. Oyster?

Groom of the Stool: Yes, your majesty! *grunting*

Charles: *chocking, spits* [indecipherable] Go on, up! [indecipherable] Now, where were we? Yes– women are not fit to rule.

Mary: Sorry, once more.

Charles: I am king.

Mary: You are king.

Charles: I am a great king.

Mary: You are a great king.

Charles: Women… cannot be kings.

Mary: No, they’re queens.

Charles: …Very good Mary! I’m very proud. That’s a real thought you just had!

Mary: I’m lost again.

Charles: So, if I am king and women…?

Mary: Can’t be kings.

Charles: Then women…?

Mary: Can’t be great kings?

Charles: Exactly! I am very impressed with your understanding of Restoration politics. As king, I’ve found it requires tremendous subtlety. OW! Dicky, get off! Dicky, don’t let–! God, you bastard! Bite that hand that feeds you, ey? Groom of the Stool!

Groom of the Stool: Yes, your majesty?

Charles: Lock him in the Tower!

Groom of the Stool: Yes, your majesty.

Charles: You made a big mistake, Dicky! No [indecipherable] bites a sovereign.

Groom of the Stool: Yes, your majesty!

Charles: Now, let us break our conversation into greater areas regarding your sex.

Mary: Ah, like needle crappy gossip.

Charles: And… boys.

Mary: Ah, yes, boys.

Charles: And… marriage.

Mary: Ah, yes, my purpose in life.

Charles: You a beautiful Stuart girl– Protestant– a large Protestant wedding to a regal, Protestant husband.

Mary: No, ha, Louis’ Catholic.

Charles: Louis? Yes, he’s Catholic.

Mary: Right, but you just said–

Charles: You, a beautiful Stuart girl– 

Mary: Oh no!

Charles: A large Protestant wedding–

Mary: Oh, god!

Charles: To a regal–

Mary: No!

Charles: Protestant...

Mary: Please!

Charles: Did you enjoy dinner last night? You [indecipherable] to impressed your cousin.

Mary: No.

Charles: William! Were you taken by him, Mary?

Mary: *bahing*

Charles: He was very taken by you.

Mary: *bahing*

Charles: Your first cousin, so you’ll have a lot in common!

Mary: *bahing*

Charles: My dead sister’s boy! She was a real bitch.

Mary: *bahing*

Charles: And you’ll have the line of succession, so you won’t have to worry about being queen, Mary. William can handle it. Sorry he’s such a cold, ugly bastard.

Mary: *spluttering*

Charles: Your Catholic father *spits* is pissed. Not surprising, but I ordered him to shut the fuck up about it. The wedding is next week. La~!

Mary: Wait! Anne!

Charles: Oh, you’re too thoughtful, dear girl! Anne will be fine on her own.

Mary: No, no, no, marry Anne off to William!

Charles: Certainly not! You’re next in line after your idiot father. We’ll marry Anne off to one of the fat, inbred cousins.

Mary: But I learned French!

Charles: And now you’ll get to learn Dutch! It’s not a beautiful language, but it matches the people. The king exits!

Mary: *sobbing*

*church music / exert of “Aria” by Marco Rosano*

Priest: Gathered! His Royal Highness Charles II!

Ensemble: GOD SAVE HIM!

Priest: The bride’s father James (the eventual second)– what? Your father refused to attend!

Mary: *sobbing*

Priest: We are gathered today in the eyes of our Protestant God to witness the eternal joining of two people, and more importantly, two nations. Our beloved England and our at-least-for-the-time-being-not-enemy Holland.

*fanfare*

Priest: The Dutch Stand Stadtholder! ...William? ...The Prince of Orange!

William: *violent coughing*

Priest: William? You good?

William: Ja.

Priest: Do you need a minute?

William: [indecipherable]

Priest: Okay! So… the, uh… the Dutch Stadtholder! The Prince of Orang– William?

William: *violent coughing* [indecipherable]

Priest: We are gathered– we are– we’re gathered– we are gathered– gathered– and we are gathered–

William: [Dutch word]

Priest: Pardon?

William: [Dutch word]

Priest: Sorry, I–

William: [Dutch word], stepping [Dutch word].

Priest: Oh, yes. *groaning* NOW! We are gathered for the joining of two people, two nations, and one [indecipherable] faith. Do you, Mary, take a solemn vow to obey and honor William until you’re parted by death? Okay, good. Do you, William, take a solemn vow to take Mary as your bride and treat her with whatever respect you happen to feel like showing her? Alright, whoo! You’re all good in here. You may kiss the bride.

William: *violent coughing*

*retro dance music* / exert of “Oh! Oh! I'm Goin' Home” by The Peppers

Mary: Wow. Midnight. Where did the time go?

William: Time for bed.

Mary: Right. Yup. Time for bed. It’s late and… it’s late and… it’s late and… it’s time for bed and there’s the bed, it’s time for bed and… we’re married now.

Charles: Now, nephew! To your purpose! God save Saint George and England! *giggling*

Mary: Right, historically, um, all of that actually happened. Well– oh, sorry, I was talking to someone else. Well, I guess it’s late, right? It’s late and it’s, um, time to go do– time to do– time to go do do do do do do do do doing of it. Ah! Wow. A ring… Is it for me? …Should I take it? …I’ll take it. Wow… a ruby… yes, ruby– rubies are very– rubies are red! Red. Rubies are… pink actually, now that I look at it. Funny, they’re really much more pink. Everyone always says “ruby red” but they’re much more pink when you look at it, oh look at that, it’s–

William: My mother’s.

Mary: Your mother’s? Wow. Beautiful. Ring. That was your mother’s. Ring, ruby, ring, ruby, ring–

William: She’s dead.

Mary: What? Oh, I’m sorry. About that– that she’s dead. What happened? Sorry! No, none of my business. Poor Mum! Um, my mom is dead. Died when I was a child so… I know what it’s like. To have a dead mum. *awkward laughter*

William: You don’t have to smile for me. You don’t have to pretend.

Mary: Dearest dear, dear, dear, dear, dear, dear husband– this is the woman again, um... You’ll find a pair of horns on your front door for… it appears I’ve taken another husband. Hm…

*whistle*

Anne: I brought you a going-away present. It’s another goldfish.

Mary: Thank you, sister.

Anne: I knew you already that one, so you’d like it. I hope they don’t eat each other. Do goldfish eat each other? Is it a long trip to Holland?

Mary: I don’t know!

Anne: You seem glum. Story time! When Aunt Catherine–

Mary and Anne: God save her!

Anne: Married Uncle Charlie–

Mary and Anne: God save him!

Anne: She had to leave Portugal in order to marry him. She hadn’t even met him yet, so I guess it could be worse.

Mary: Yes, but she came to England, I’m leaving it!

Anne: Yeah, fair. Just trying to help.

Mary: I don’t need your help, dear sister, this is my cross to bear.

Anne: Saint Mary the Martyr of English diplomacy! If only you were Catholic.

Mary and Anne: *spit*

*whistle*

Mary: I’ve never left London, that’s what scares me the most. God be with thee, sister. God be with thee, England.

William: …Two.

Mary: Oh. Yes, Anne got me one as a going-away pr– okay.

Anne: I hate him.

Mary: Well, he’s your brother now.

Anne: Please, I hated him when he was my cousin. I think you should be the first Protestant saint just for sleeping with him. I can’t even imagine!

Mary: …Neither can I.

Anne: WHAT?! TELL ME EVERYTHING!!

Mary: Well, considering we haven’t, that’s everything to tell!

Anne: Oh my God! You’ve been married a week!

Mary: This stays between you and me, Anne!

Anne: Oh, but Mary, I have to tell my friends!

Mary: I don’t like your friends!

Anne: Fuck you! The court would die if they knew!

Mary: No!

Anne: But Mary, you can’t tell something this juicy and force me to hold it inside!

Mary: Shh!

Anne: But it’s not you Mary, it’s him. That puny prig.

Mary: No.

Anne: But you don’t even like him!

Mary: What wife likes her husband?

Anne: He’s so gross and I used to think you were gross, but he’s like, super gross. Oh thank God you’re not screwing! Your kids would be so gro– I didn’t realize Papa hadn’t told you the truth about him!

Mary: Oh, what did father say?

Anne: He buggers boys. Said he buggers boys. Said if he takes the throne, England gets two queens.

Mary: …I’ll have nothing to do with silly, irreverent myths, Anne… And tell my other husband I’ll send her the new address.

Anne: Gross! [indecipherable] each other!

*Dutch folk music* / exert of “Klompe Dans” by Camerata Trajectina

Citizen: Welkom in Nederland!

Mary: Oh, yes, thank you.

Citizen: Welkom in Nederland!

Mary: Ah, yes, thank you.

Citizen: Welkom in Nederland!

Mary: Thank you.

*fanfare*

Mary: Oh, good day William!

Citizens: Welkom in Nederland!

Mary: Life in Holland. It’s beautiful. It’s very, very clean.

Citizen: Welkom in Nederland!

Betty: Your ladyship?

Citizens: Welkom in Nederland!

Mary: Thank you! Please keep talking, Betty.

Betty: Your ladyship–

Citizens: Welkom in Nederland!

Mary: Anything in English– thank you!

Betty: *whispers*

Mary: Dank u.

Citizens: Ooo!

*fanfare*

Betty: Supper time!

Mary: I’m not hungry.

Betty: Not you, your ladyship.

Citizen: Welkom in Nederland…

Mary: …Dank u.

Citizens: Ooo!

Mary: I must grin when my heart is fit to break, I must speak when my heart is so oppressed I can scarcely breathe.

Betty: Oh, that’s real pretty. The Bastard, your ladyship.

Mary: The Bastard?

Betty: Your half-cousin, King Charles II– God Save Him–’s bastard son, your ladyship.

Mary: Here?

Betty: Uh-huh.

Mary: Whoo!

Monmouth: Cousin!

William: Let me not interrupt your reunion. Continue this.

Mary: How’s home?

Monmouth: England is good! The family not so much. My father, Charles II–

Mary and Monmouth: God save him!

Monmouth: –seems ill. Parliament hates your father, James (the eventual second) since he’s decided to be Catholic–

Mary and Monmouth: *spit*

Monmouth: –since we just had nine years of civil war, ugh! People would rather avoid any foreseeable royalist drama, so Parliament wrote the Exclusion Act to keep your father off the throne.

Mary: Oh no!

Monmouth: No! Charles II–

Mary and Monmouth: God save him!

Monmouth: –refused to sign it.

Mary: Oh, good.

Monmouth: No! That’s why [indecipherable] is shit! Charles II–

Mary and Monmouth: God save him!

Monmouth: –dissolved Parliament, hoping to form a more moderate one.

Mary: Oh, good!

Monmouth: No! Bad! A group of Protestants then tried to blow up my papa Charlie–

Mary and Monmouth: God save him!

Monmouth: –on his way back from a race to [indecipherable]!

Mary: Oh no!

Monmouth: Oh yes!

Monmouth: –[indecipherable] watching the race, ALL OF NEWMARKET CAUGHT ON FIRE!!

Mary: Oh no!

Monmouth: No, that’s good! Charles’– God save him– house in Newmarket was destroyed, so they had to leave the race early, thus foiling the plot to kill him!

Mary: Oh, God is very generous to our family. And how’s Anne?

Monmouth: Married.

Mary: Oh, to one of the inbred cousins?

Monmouth: We’re royal! Inbred cousins are the only dignified option! How’s life in the Dutch court?

Mary: Um… clean, it’s very, very clean.

Monmouth: Ah, thank God you have William.

Mary: *hysterical laughter* ...Yes. No, I do see William from time to time. He likes to walk from stage left to stage right to stage right to stage left.

Monmouth: Incredibly generous man– looking forward to our dinner tonight! He invited me to hunt tomorrow and all the rest of next week! Very charming!

Mary: You’ve only been onstage for a minute and a half!

Betty: There are more officials for you to meet, your ladyship.

Monmouth: See you around, cuz. Ch-cha! …Ch-cha!

Citizen: Welkom in Nederland!

Mary: Dank u.

Citizens: Ooo!

William: …Welkom in Nederland! *laughter, interrupted by violent coughing*

*fanfare*

Citizen: Welkom in Nederland!

Betty: Alright! Her ladyship has another engagement she must prepare for, so sorry!

Mary: Ugh, what’s next Betty?

Betty: Nothing, your ladyship. I just think you’ve been gawked at enough today.

Mary: Oh, thank you Betty!

Betty: What’s a lady-in-waiting for?

Mary: But I’m afraid William might be cross once he finds out I didn’t finish all the state greetings. I guess I’d actually have to spend time with him for him to be cross with me.

Betty: He’s not one to get cross about things; he’s quite charming actually if you get past the hermetic silence.

Mary: I suppose he prefers the company of *whispered* his men?

*fanfare*

William and Monmouth: *laughing*

William: *starts coughing violently*

Monmouth: I love this guy!

*fanfare*

Betty: You’ve heard that already, have you?

Mary: Is it true?

Betty: Rumors, your ladyship. I also heard rumors of a girl who wrote letters to a woman she called her husband. And I now know a woman who still writes these letters!

Mary: Dismissed!

Betty: Your ladyship.

Mary: Wait. Put the children to bed, will you? Wait– wait, wait wait– just [indecipherable]. Don’t judge me! Dearest, dear, dear, dear, dear, dear– stop!– husband… Let me start again: Dearest, dear, dear, dear, dear, dear husband: You’ve not responded to any of my letter as of late!

Anne: Dearest sister!

Mary: Oh good God, Anne! Still able to interrupt me from across the English Chanel!

Anne: It is with good nice that I write. Since we last spoke… I’m pregnant!

Mary and Anne: *squeeing*

Anne: I know! I know! I fucking know! Ah, someone has to produce some heirs in this family!

Mary: Hey…

Anne: What have you been up to? Oh! My friends are here! Thank you, sis!

Mary: Anne is pregnant. My younger sister is pregnant …I’m jealous! Ugh!

*fanfare*

William and Monmouth: To hunt!

Monmouth: ♪ I’ll sing you eight, O! ♪

William and Monmouth: ♪ Green grow the rushes, O! ♪

William: ♪ What are your eight, O? ♪

Monmouth: ♪ Eight for the April Rainers! ♪

William: ♪ Seven for the seven stars in the sky! ♪

William and Monmouth: ♪ Six for the six proud walkers! ♪ Five for the symbols at your door! ♪ Four for the Gospel makers! ♪ THREE, THREE THE RIVALS! ♪ Two, two the lily-white boys! ♪ Clothed all in green, O! ♪ One is one and all alone! ♪ And evermore shall be so! ♪

*fanfare*

Mary: Betty!

Betty: *imitating the song*

Mary: Stop!

Betty: Oh! Yes, your ladyship.

Mary: My cousin, the Bastard, and Prince William have been spending an awful lot of time together!

Betty: William loves the hunt.

Mary: How do you know?!

Betty: He told me!

Mary: You’ve spoken with him? Am I the only person in the entire world who’s not had a single conversation with my husband?!

Betty: You just need to catch him in the right mood.

*fanfare*

Mary: Dearest, dear, dear, dear, dear, dear– Oh my God, you’re pathetic! Two husbands and neither one replies!

Anne: Okay, so I wasn’t pregnant. Well, I was, but I’m not anymore.

Mary: Oh… Anne I’m so sorry!

Anne: I know. But I will be again. Maybe tonight! God be with me!

Mary: I don’t have to be Mary the Martyr. I can fix him. I can make it work. It’s a job, right? I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I’m just doing my job!

*fanfare*

Mary: Oh, William! Um, I was wondering–

William: Nothing!

Monmouth: The hunt did not go well!

William: Ugh!

Anne: Yup, pregnant!

Mary: Again? Wow!

*fanfare*

Mary: Oh, William! I’d love to talk with you!

William: …but–but–but we’re going to the hunt?

Mary: Yes, but I’d really like to talk with you.

William: …Okay?

Mary: In private.

William: Um… After the hunt?

Mary: Yeah, okay, sure.

*fanfare*

Anne: Okay, that pregnancy wasn’t meant to be, but tonight, THIS IS THE ONE!

Mary: Tonight, this is the one!

*fanfare*

Mary: Oh, William! I’m so looking forward to our evening!

William: Not in the mood!

Monmouth: The stag got away!

*fanfare*

Mary: The stag got away…

Anne: Pregnant!

Mary: Ugh!

*fanfare*

Mary: William, wait! Tonight?

William: Eh!

Mary: Wait! Here, for good luck!

Monmouth: *retching*

*fanfare*

Mary: Tonight! Tonight!

*fanfare*

Mary: Oh, husband! How was the hunt?

William: I got the stag!

Mary: Oh, you must be very merry!

William: I… uh… I’m exhausted. Ugh…

Monmouth: Come on. Shake it off.

William: *violent coughing*

*fanfare*

Mary: I will force myself to love this creature.

*fanfare*

Mary: *screams* ...Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh! It must have been a chill!

William: [indecipherable]!

Mary: Oh, oh no! Oh no! Oh, my slipper! Oh, I–I’m so sorry to, uh, keep you from you duties!

William: I’ve been meaning to schedule a time for our talk.

Mary: Oh, you remembered?

William: What was the subject?

Mary: Us. You and me. Us and our… duties.

William: Ah. Our political duties are not as rulers, but as first citizens. Stadtholder means “the first citizen.” It is very different from life in England. For example, no Dutch citizen kisses my hand. In the Netherlands, we are all equals. Calvinists, Protestants, Jews– even the Jews Mary. [indecipherable] Do you like Holland?

Mary: Oh, it’s very, very clean. I’m not, um… I’m not sure if I’m fitting in.

William: Well, I don’t fit in and I was born here.

Mary: I feel the same way about my family.

William: Our family.

Mary: You’re very close to the Bastard, you know. Hunting and… actually talking and I was thinking, now that we’re actually talking, Anne is pregnant… again.

William: Ja? ...Yes? …This life is not the life you wanted, is that a true thing I just said? Bastard! Where is [indecipherable]?!

Monmouth: *whispers*

William: Your uncle, Charles II–

Mary: God save him!

William: –he’s dead.

Charles: …Oh.

Anne: I had a miscarriage. Oh, and Daddy’s the king now. God save him.

William: To his newly crowned majesty– James II– I send you greetings–

*evil music / exert of “Allegro” by Marco Rosano*

James: James II! Boy, you’re the husband of my eldest daughter, the heir apparent to the throne of England, my father’s grandchild, my son-in-law: it’s King James II!

William: Ah. From one very close ally to another very, very close ally– that is what we still are, right?

James: Say it! Say my name, William!

William: King James II?

James: YES! That’s me, the king! Say it again!

William: King James II, I first wish to send you condolences on the death of your brother, God save hi–

James: I was at his bed when he passed.

William: Surely, you provided much comfort to Charles–

James: Oh, “surely provided much comfort to Charles,” yes! He converted, on his deathbed, to Catholicism!

William: *spits*

James: I’ll never forget his final words to me: “Make sure my whores don’t starve!” Men of power keep mistresses, you know… Do you know that, William?

William: …Well, uh, the reason I write is because, well, I have an offer for you. You see, here in Europe we have a little club. I call it “a league”. Not everyone is allowed into it, actually, but England most definitely would be allowed in “the league”. It is what may be described as “exclusive”. A lot of really great countries have joined: uh, Austria, Spain, the Netherlands, even Savoy.

James: Which countries are not allowed?

William: France.

James: Oh, don’t like Louis, do we?

William: No, I don’t! Louis wants to be king of Europe and he– he is routinely invading us here in Holland. Your son-in-law: who is that? That is me! Which I know you aren’t thrilled about, but your daughter is the Princess of Orange. Louis XIV is invading not just my country, but also her country.

James: Please. Mary’s country is, and always will be, England!

William: And as the future Queen of England, you should protect her.

James: I wouldn’t be so sure about Mary. While she is the eldest, she’s still a woman, and unlike you, William, I plan to perform kingly duties with my queen.

William: I just wanted to invite you to our league.

James: I’m very important, I’ve got to go.

William: France is at our borders as we speak!

James: That’s not my problem. Mary was betrothed to him for years, you know, before she married you. My idiot brother made that happen against my protests but I’m the king now! I wasn’t supposed to be, but God wanted me. God needs me! Sixty years of second-fiddle to King Syphilis and now I’m calling the shots, William! I don’t need you, you need me, and frankly, I don’t really like you.

*evil music / exert of “Allegro” by Marco Rosano*

James: Shh!

William: Why you do that?

*evil music / exert of “Allegro” by Marco Rosano*

James: Shh!! Thank you. Ooo, ooo, how they all loved my brother Charles the Pervert– forced me to marry my daughter to that Dutch abortion! Now, I’d like to speak to the court! You all like… gossip, don’t you? Let’s talk about William.

*retro music / exert of “O Samba Brasileiro” by Walter Wanderley*

Mary: They’re laughing, Maria Regina. They’ve been whispering all morning and I don’t– I don’t want to sound paranoid but… I hear my name. I hear William’s name and I hear… Betty’s name.

Messengers: God save him!

Mary: Hello?

Messenger 1: Your father sends us–

Messenger 2: God save him!

Messenger 1: James II–

Messenger 2: Long may he reign!

Mary: Oh, Father sends you?

Messengers: God save him, yes!

Messenger 2: In his infinite and divine wisdom, we were sent to you–

Messenger 1: His oldest daughter–

Messenger 2: Possibly the future queen–

Mary: Possibly?

Messenger 1: Your mother, the queen–

Mary: She’s not my mother.

Messenger 2: Is hoping to reward England with many sons–

Messenger 1: But one’s eyes are to the future–

Messenger 2: He hasn’t forgotten his eldest.

Mary: Oh, we haven’t spoken–

Messenger 1: He thinks of you often.

Mary: Well, he doesn’t write.

Messenger 1: It’s not that he thinks of you as you are–

Mary: Okay…?

Messenger 2: More for what you could be.

Mary: Well, I’m just happy that he’s thinking of me.

Messenger 2: He’s thinking of your soul.

Messenger 1: Your eternal soul.

Messenger 2: Your eternal, everlasting soul.

Mary: Yup, those both mean the same thing.

Messenger 1: Since Jesus was crucified–

Messenger 2: [indecipherable], mind you–

Mary: Yes, I’ve heard.

Messenger 1: A church was born–

Messenger 2: The Catholic Church!

Mary: *spits* Oh, sorry, habit.

Messenger 1: James–

Messenger 2: King James–

Messengers: God save him!

Messenger 1: Has sent us–

Messenger 2: In his infinite and sacred judgment–

Messengers: To convert you to Catholicism!

Mary: …Yeah, no, I’m good.

Messenger 1: It’s the true faith.

Mary: Yes, next time he could just write.

Messenger 2: [indecipherable] reading materials!

Mary: Right, or even visit–

Messenger 1: [indecipherable] all the celebrities are Catholic.

Messenger 2: Wow, really?

Messenger 1: Really!

Messengers: Like who?

Messenger 2: The pope, you ever heard of him?

Messenger 1: Of course! Wow, the pope is Catholic?

Messengers: Who else?

Messenger 2: God!

Mary: Debatable.

Messengers: Who else?

Messenger 2: Louis XIV.

Messenger 1: Whoah, he’s a heartthrob.

Mary: Yes, okay, I’ve heard enough!

Messenger 1: But Louis’ such a hunk!

Messenger 2: And Catholic!

Messenger 1: And… He’s Catholic?

Messenger 2: You better believe it!

Messengers: A Catholic hunk!

Mary: Okay, I’m married!

Messenger 1: For now.

Mary: …Excuse me?

Messenger 1: Hard to ignore the rumors–

Messenger 2: Naughty rumors–

Messenger 1: Everyone’s tittling–

Messenger 2: A-tittle here, a-tittle there–

Messengers: Tittle everywhere!

Messenger 1: That little Dutch devil–

Messenger 2: Evil Protestant pervert–

Mary: Oh, no, no, no, him buggering boys– that’s just a rumor!

Messenger 1: Boys?!

Messenger 2: Buggering?!

Messenger 1: Boys?!

Messenger 2: Buggering?!

Messengers: Buggering boys?!

Messenger 1: More like buggering the help.

Messenger 2: Dutch devil!

Mary: With the help?

Messengers: Buggering the help.

Messenger 1: Yes, everyone knows–

Messenger 2: Knows her name even.

Mary: Do you know their name?

Messenger 1: Well, I’ve said everyone–

Messenger 2: We’re part of everyone–

Mary: So, yes?

Messengers: Yes!

Mary: What’s his name?

Messenger 1: His name?

Messenger 2: His name?

Messengers: Squinty Betty!

Messenger 1: Squinty Betty’s a man?

Messenger 2: I didn’t know she was a man!

Messeger 1: No, I bet Betty’s a man.

Messenger 2: No, man, she’s a wo-man.

Messenger 1: Wo-man?

Messengers: Wo-man, she’s a wo-man!

Mary: Wait, Squinty Betty?!

Messenger 1: And the Dutch devil!

Messenger 2: Evil Dutch devil!

Messenger 1: Evil!

Messenger 2: Evil: that’s not good!

Messenger 1: No, it’s not good!

Messenger 2: That’s the opposite of good!

Messengers: And what’s the opposite of good?

Mary: Evil!

Messangers: *scream*

Mary: *screams*

Messenger 1: [indecipherable] James–

Messenger 2: King James–

Messengers: God save him!

Messenger 1: Has the fires burning.

Mary: Fires?

Messenger 2: To feel the heat.

Messenger 1: Ow!

Messenger 2: Careful.

Messenger 1: It’s the heat.

Messenger 2: I feel it.

Messenger 1: [indecipherable] King James [indecipherable] our beloved England [indecipherable] burning more evil people than Charles ever did.

Mary: Wait, he’s burning people?

Messenger 2: [indecipherable]

Messenger 1: Evil people!

Mary: He’s burning people?!

Messenger 2: [indecipherable]

Messenger 1: Evil people!

Mary: Father’s burning people?!

Messenger 2: [indecipherable]

Messenger 1: Evil people!

Mary: Jesus!

Messengers: Praise him!

Messenger 1: Praise Jesus!

Messenger 2: Praise God!

Messenger 1: Praise the pope!

Messenger 2: And above all, praise the king!

Messengers: God save King James II, long may he reign!

Mary: …William and Betty– no… No, I’ll have nothing to do with silly, irreverent myths… Betty! Um, throw these away. And, um, put the children to bed, will you? Oh– oh– oh– oh– oh, um… question: how is it you always to find William in such a talkative mood?

Betty: I just run into him.

*laid back retro music / exert of “Rain” by Walter Wanderley*

Mary: It’s late. No, you don’t have to leave. You were in Betty’s room. Do you know how I know that? Maybe because the entire court is talking about it! No, you don’t need to talk! I have tried to get you to talk for months, you do not need to talk now! Fuck off, Betty! The longest I’ve ever spent with you is [indecipherable]. You’re impossible! You’re thick! Uncaring! Cruel! My life here is suffering and now you make me the fool? To my father, to the court, and to myself! I’m the fool! You know, it was better when I thought you were gay; I thought “Well, at least it’s not my fault” but now I know, “No, it is my fault!” You turned down marrying me once before, why did you have to say yes this time? I was engaged to Louis XIV! I could’ve been in Versailles, in the most beautiful place on Earth and I would’ve been happy– no, I would be happy! And I would be liked and my family would love me and I would’ve done everything right, but then you came along! And ruined it! And everything! And me! And– this isn’t right! No! This is not how this was supposed to go! It was supposed to be me and Louis and it would’ve been right and normal and then I would be normal and happy and I don’t know– I don’t know why you had to say yes this time! Louis– Louis– Louis is– Louis– Louis– Louis– Louis– Louis– Louis– Louis’ the king! Right? Right? And he’s beautiful! I assume. I’ve seen the portraits– which are rarely accurate– but I’ve always wanted to marry him! Well, I was always supposed to marry him– but at least he’s nice! Yes, I’ve not met him, but at least I’ve heard that he’s ni– well, I guess I’ve actually not heard anything, but I was alway supposed to ma– Well, I guess I always– Okay, well, I guess I’ve never really actually thought about it! Well, I guess I never actually like Louis, or men… Men in general. I mean, I write to a woman who I call my husband, and I’ve always had a crush on her, but she’s not very nice to me, and she writes to my sister more than she writes to me, AND I DON’T KNOW IF I’M A LESBIAN, OKAY?! I don’t like men! But I don’t know if I like women either– historically speaking, there’s some things we just can’t know about me, okay, historically speaking– but personally speaking, you know what? I’M FIFTEEN YEARS OLD!! How am I supposed to know?! You know what? No! I didn’t want to marry Louis, now that I think about it, because, well, I never actually thought about it because, well, I’M NEVER SUPPOSED TO THINK! But I am gonna think! Like you said, we’re just first citizens here, right? So I’m allowed to think! So I’m gonna think! So I’m gonna think! Right, let me think! …Okay. I have something to say. I’m fifteen years old, William. Do you have any idea how scary this is? Leaving my country, marrying you, a stranger, I… I don’t speak the language, I don’t have any friends, and you, my husband, are still a stranger. You don’t have to love me. You don’t have to like me. But please don’t be cruel to me. I… I do not know how much… more a fifteen year old girl can take.

William: …Betty’s a spy. Before I married you, I had asked her to inform me about you.

Mary: Yeah, a spy, that’s the best you could come up with–

William: It’s true.

Mary: Yes, my lady-in-waiting is a spy! …Well, what did Betty the spy say?

William: She said you weren’t like your family.

Mary: Well, I tried to be like them.

William: I never tried.

Mary: Well, I think that makes you honest.

William: But not liked.

Mary: Well, they don’t like either of us. We share that at least.

William: I need to say something.

Mary: Okay! Good! Yeah! Okay! I’m here! I can listen! …Is it a problem? Is it personal? Is it about what I think it’s about? I know what it is, William.

William: You do?

Mary: Yes. It’s about–

Mary and William: Your penis / Your father

William: Wait, what?!

Mary: What about my father?

William: He terrifies me.

Mary: Oh, yeah, me too.

William: The balance of peace in this world is a delicate thing and James isn’t.

Mary: You can talk to me about these things, William. I know who my father is, you’re not going to hurt my feelings.

William: Yes… My penis?

Mary: Oh, um, well, I mean… why haven’t we…?

William: I’m uncomfortable around–

Mary: Me.

William: …people.

Mary: Oh, yeah, well, same, haha... But, um… It’s just a job, right? We would just be… doing our… our job.

*classical music / exert of “Zadok The Priest, Hwv 258″ by the English Chamber Orchestra*

William: *panting*

William: *panting*

William: *panting*

Mary: I HAVE NEWS! …I’M PREGNANT!! I did it! William did it! We, um… well, obviously, we did it. Oh my God, I feel a strange thing!

William: Are you okay?!

Mary: No! Yes! No! …I feel… happy.

*cheerful folk music / “Bransle de Bourgogne” by Brisk Recorder Quartet Amsterdam*

Anne: I have news!

Mary: Hello, Anne!

Anne: Hello, Mary.

Mary: You’re pregnant?

Anne: No, Mumsy is.

Mary: She’s not our mother.

Anne: They say if it’s a boy, God has chosen to make England Catholic again, but that’s only a 50-50 chance.

Mary: No, he wouldn’t baptize him Catholic, Anne.

Anne: I wouldn’t be so sure.

Mary: But we’ve just had nine years of civil war, why would he lead us into another?

Anne: To save us from the Dutch Devil.

William: Me?

Anne: I prefer “the Dutch Abortion” but “devil” isn’t bad. Gotta go!

Mary: God be with thee, Anne.

Anne: P.S. I may be pregnant, not sure.

*cheerful folk music / “Bransle de Bourgogne” by Brisk Recorder Quartet Amsterdam*

Mary: Ohhh!

Messengers: Glorious day!

Messenger 1: Tra-la!

Messenger 2: We’ve been sent to you by your father, the king!

Messenger 1: God save him!

Messenger 2: Long may he reign!

Mary: Again, he could always just write.

Messenger 1: He has his own pregnancy to attend to.

Messenger 2: His future son!

Mary: Are you certain about that?

Messenger 1: God ordained it!

Messenger 2: A Catholic England!

Messengers: Tra-la!

Messenger 1: We’ve been sent to beseech you.

Messenger 2: Consider your child’s–

Messenger 1: Everlasting soul!

Messenger 2: Baptize your child in the Catholic faith!

Mary: *spits* …morning sickness.

Messenger 1: For your child!

Messenger 2: For your father!

Messenger 1: You must respect him!

Messenger 2: Honor him!

Messenger 1: It’s in the Bible!

Messenger 2: “Honor thy father”!

Messengers: The Fifth Commandment!

Messenger 1: Honor the king of England!

Messenger 2: God save him!

Messenger 1: Long may he reign!

Messenger 2: For England!

Messengers: Make the baby Catholic!

William: Mary?

Mary: Yes?

William: Honor is not obeying.

*cheerful folk music / “Bransle de Bourgogne” by Brisk Recorder Quartet Amsterdam*

Anne: I have news!

Mary: You’re pregnant.

Anne: Besides that, Mary, but yes.

Mary: Oh, congratulations!

Anne: Yes, same to you!

Mary: Thank you!

Anne: Thank you! I have news: people are talking about Mother’s pregnancy–

Mary: Ah, she’s not our mother.

Anne: –And they think it’s all a big fake! Everyone is saying how [video skips]

Mary: Who’s saying that?

Anne: The court, Parliament, everyone! Oh, they don’t like Papa; they say every nineteen out of twenty want him gone.

Mary: Yes, but not likely cause the king does not–

William: Mary–

Anne: Ew!

Mary: Anne!

Anne: Sorry… Hello, William… glad you got my sister pregnant. *retches*

Mary: No. No, it’s not right for me to dance… No! No, I can have this moment! I can be happy! Yeah, nothing’s gonna stop me– *claps* –from enjoying this moment! Go ahead!

*cheerful folk music / “Bransle de Bourgogne” by Brisk Recorder Quartet Amsterdam*

Monmouth: Ah! I thank you for the generosity both you and William have shown me over the last undetermined period of time, but I must leave.

William: Oh, where’re you going? I was going to plan another hunt.

Monmouth: There comes a time in every mans life where the cruel, [indecipherable] eye of destiny looks upon him! The hero of every story has his moment of action! [indecipherable] standing on the precipice of glory to see the apotheosis of my journey’s end on that glorious mountain green! Today I sail! This story shall no longer wander unguided like an orphan clinging from one vague historical anecdote to another! No! Search no longer, poor play, for you have found your hero! And that hero… it’s me. Someone has to save our England! I have a mighty army of almost one hundred men! Eighty two to be exact!

Mary: Wait, with eighty two men you’re planning to–

Monmouth: Invade England, seize the crown, depose your father, my uncle, and save England from Catholic *spits* tyranny?

Mary: You’re planning on doing this with…

Monmouth: Eighty two men! Historically, this is what I did, so yah. [indecipherable] sweet cousin, it will be a Protestant England! ALL HAIL KING BASTARD THE FIRST! CHA-CHAH! Ah! He-yaaaaaaaaaaaa!!

Mary: Eighty two men can’t overthrow the king of England!

William: He’s hoping the people will rise.

Mary: What would they do to father?

William: Kill him.

Mary: Ah! Ah!

William: Okay, okay, okay! The Bastard doesn’t have any support, your father will be fine! You can have this moment; you deserve to be happy.

Mary: How? I may not like my family, but I love them. Yes, I-I deserve to be happy, but Father doesn’t deserve to die!

William: He won’t, he’ll be fine!

Mary: You can’t know that for sure.

William: I do! …I-I promise you– I-I… I promise on the life of our child that nothing will happen to your father. I’ll see to it.

Mary: You will?

William: Mmhm.

Mary: …Okay… Okay, yes, okay… I’m happy.

William: Rest. Nurse? Take my wife to her bedchamber. Make sure she doesn’t want for anything.

Mary: Ooo!

William: [indecipherable]. James?

*evil music / exert of “Allegro” by Marco Rosano*

James: James?! Use my full title!

William: I have grave news.

James: Oh, has France invaded you again?

William: Your nephew, the Duke of Monmouth–

James: Who?

William: …The Bastard.

James: Oh, why didn’t you say?! How is the lad?

William: He’s leading an army to depose you and take the crown for himself.

James: *laughs* You’re having a laugh! …Shit! How dare he! Doesn’t he know who I am?! I’m the king! I’m very well respected and loved– everybody loves me! *gasps* Why doesn’t he love me?! Oh, he’s just a little shit bastard, I’ll crush him! How dare he not see how awesome I am! How powerful and strong and– oh! I am so mad right now! It was a good day too, it was going really well, I had just finished telling the queen “I’m gonna make it a good one today, you know!” Ugh, I am so mad right now I’m literally shaking! *gasps* I need to eat something!

William: I hope you now see that our relationship is very…

*execution drums / exert from “March to the Scaffold” by Paul Edward*

Headsman: *giggling* For your crimes against the crown, you are sentenced to death!

James: Say hello to your father for me, boy. Any last words?

Monmouth: Fuck off!

James: How dare you! Kill the bastard!

Headsman: God save the king!

James: No one questions my authority!

Monmouth: Piss off!

James: Bastard?!

Monmouth: I have still a few [indecipherable]

James: How dare you! [indecipherable]

Headsman: Thank you. One more!

James: Who’s the douchebag now, huh?

Monmouth: You are!

James: Bastard! [indecipherable] I am not a douchebag, I am the king of England!

Monmouth: Douche of England more like it!

James: Cut off his head!

Headsman: [indecipherable] does anyone want to take over, huh?

Monmouth: It takes– ugh! –and this is all true– ugh! –five blows! Ugh! King Douche II! Ugh– *splutters*

James: Who’s the douchebag now, huh? Not me. I am not a douche! You hear me, Bastard?! I am not a douche! You hear me, England? I am not a douche! I am King James II! Not King Douche II! King James II! Charles didn’t respect me, and you, you didn’t respect me, but my people will. OR I’LL FUCKING MAKE THEM! They will fucking tremble in love and adoration– ohh! I want hundreds to pay for this bastard’s actions! I don’t care who they were, if they even so much as saw him walk by, they are to be executed. Churchyard trees are to be littered with corpses, the military men will be order to play in time with the twitching of their feet! And if you think that this is too much, too cruel, I’ll remind you: One, I am just being historically accurate, and two, I am the goddamn motherfucking King of England! William!

William: …your majesty.

James: Oh, I couldn’t’ve done it without you! …But I know what this is. Scared to lose a few more windmills to Louis, huh? What, you thought that you could bribe me with this little quid-pro-quo?

William: I didn’t do it for you, I did it for Mary.

James: Mary? Don’t you dare bring my daughter into this. What? You thought that I was so stupid that little nugget of information would have me on all-fours like a whipped bitch begging to do you any favor you asked? No! That little shit was nothing! I could have fought him off while wiping my ass! I owe you nothing! France may be at your borders, but England could join them just as easily! God knows Louis and I talk about it. *laughs* Tip-toe around me, William. Now, I’d like to speak to my daughter. Now!

William: Mary, could you come here, please? I have a letter for you from your father.

Mary: He’s safe! Thank you, William!

James: Mary, my eldest daughter! *laughs* You know, I fought your uncle Charles about you having to marry that–

Mary: [indecipherable] William’s wonderful, actually. Yes, I–I miss my home very much, but Holland, it’s very, very clean.

James: [indecipherable] they tell me you’re considering a Catholic baptism.

Mary: Oh, no I’m not, Father.

James: You have a responsibility to me, Mary. Biblically, I am your father and you must honor me.

Mary: Well– I do honor you.

James: Then you must obey me.

Mary: Well, honor is not obeying.

James: From King Douche II to you now?

Mary: King Douche?

James: How dare you! I am very [indecipherable] you talk back to me. I am your father and you must honor me!

Mary: Enough of this.

James: You will make the child Catholic!

Mary: Stop!

James: We all know you have no choice. You’re a prisoner.

Mary: Please…

James: [indecipherable], Mary, there’s hope in the distance!

Mary: What are you suggesting?

James: Just because you… lie with the Dutch Dog doesn’t mean you need to get its flees.

Mary: He’s my husband!

James: *laughs* William isn’t long for this world.

Mary: What are you planning?

James: Oh, come now!

Mary: What are you plann– ah! Ah!

James: *laughs* You look like him. Can’t even walk without wheezing, spits blood; your time in the tower is almost over, Mary.

Mary: He is the father of my child. William, could you come here, please?

James: *scoffs* Is he the father? Last I heard, he couldn’t perform.

Mary: You’re one to talk!

James: My performance isn’t to be questioned!

Mary: I know the rumors of the queen’s great belly!

James: [indecipherable] rumors: just a few!

Mary: Nineteen out of twenty! That’s what– ah! Ah!

James: Make the child Catholic!

Mary: *spits*

James: Your mother–

Mary: She’s not my mother!

James: No, your real mother! Remember the day she died?

Mary: Please, Father, I’m in pain! I don’t want–

James: The day she died the priest came to administer her last rites, to cleanse her soul. Without it, your mother would be damned for all eternity! Her skin would scorch, blisters would form– weeping blisters!

Mary: *voice breaking* …William?

James: A priest came… and she refused him.

Mary: William! …That’s a lie!

James: After my counseling she refused the Protestant priest. The Catholic bishop was called in and all was confessed. So, in your philosophy, Mary, is it your mother or your child who’s damned to unfathomable pain and suffering? Which is the one true faith? If you baptize that child Protestant, it means you believe it’s your mother suffering, right now as we speak. Have you ever considered hellfire, Mary? *laughs* It’s something to think about. Oh! Your new mummy’s in labour now. Got to run.

Anne: Mary– and William *scoffs*– the queen’s had a baby. It’s a boy. They’ve baptized him Catholic *spits* toldja so. But there’s something else. I have some gossip! All of London– they think it’s a changeling! They think it’s not a real child. They think she snuck a child into her bed to pass off as our brother! Oh! Papa’s going mad. Something’s going to happen. Something bad.

William: May I see it?

Betty: There’s nothing to see. ...You should go to her, William.

*dramatic music / exert from “2020” by SUUNS*

♪ And what you see is really what you see ♪ ♪ What you, what you, what you, what you ♪ ♪ Do what you please, the thing what you see ♪ ♪ What you, what you, what you, what you ♪ ♪ And what you see you feel ♪ ♪ Coming real, take your way ♪ ♪ All through the way… ♪

~ Intermission ~

*guitar strumming*

Chorus: ♪ Good fortune [indecipherable] William and Mary [indecipherable]-tend ♪ ♪ May glories increase and their lives never end ♪ ♪ [indecipherable] daily successes our nation may find ♪ ♪ For England [indecipherable] they both are designed ♪

Mary: William?

William: Huh?

Mary: Why is there a Greek chorus?

William: [indecipherable] chorus now.

Mary: Yes, why?

Chorus: ♪ Over the hills and it must be done ♪ ♪ To England, Glorious Revolution! ♪ ♪ William commands and we will obey ♪ ♪ Over the hills and far away ♪

Mary: Shoot, shoot, shoot! What story with a Greek chorus ends well?!

William: It’s just a device, Mary, it doesn’t mean–

Mary: The letter! They’re here because of the letter!

William: We received a letter?

Mary: From England. They call themselves–

Chorus: ♪ THE IMMORTAL SEVEN! ♪

Mary and William: The Immortal Seven.

Mary: Parliament has invited us to England.

William: They’ve invited us to invade England.

Mary: Why would they do that?

William: I don’t know.

Mary: We can’t invade!

Chorus: ♪ Invade you must, there’s no time to waste ♪ ♪ James is a monster! Our country defaced ♪ ♪ Blood in the streets and corpses in trees ♪ ♪ Come and put our minds at ease ♪

William: Your father is in talks to invade with Louis. Where? Here! He’s–he’s had his boy and he’s baptized him Catholic and all of England is on the brink of Civil War again!

Mary: What does that have to do with us?

William: Um, well… They want us to depose your father.

Mary: It has to be us?

William: I don’t see another alternative.

Mary: Shoot, shoot, shoot! Is it right?

William: Right? We–we save England, we save the Netherlands, we keep Europe in balance– yes.

Mary: But is it right for a daughter to depose her father? It’s the Fifth Commandment, right? “Honor thy father!”

William: He doesn’t need to die.

Mary: Well, I know my history, William! You only depose a king by killing him. How many former kings do you see walking around?! But… He can’t invade Holland! It’s your country and you care so much for it and the people and it’s so very, very clean– Okay, yes! We should do this. But we have to do it a different way. No blood. No killing. If it’s an invasion, it has to be a bloodless invasion!

William: I don’t know…

Mary: Can you try?

William: Invade one of the most powerful countries in the world, other-throw its king, and not hurt anyone in the process?

Mary: Please?

William: …Ja.

Chorus: *gasps* ♪ What’s that you say? ♪ ♪ We prick up our ears ♪ ♪ [indecipherable] you come ♪ ♪ To end all our fears ♪ ♪ Think of what you both could be ♪ ♪ You’ll go down in history! ♪

Mary: We could, couldn’t we! Imagine all that “First Citizen” stuff here in the Netherlands– we could do that in England! You could bring all of your wonderful ideas to my country! Imagine: Freedom of religion!

William: Freedom of the press!

Mary: And no more torturing! Or bloody pomp and circumstance! And we do it bloodless! We ride into England and the people will rise with us and father will say “Oh wow, that’s what the people want!” And it’ll all work out [indecipherable] Why shouldn’t we be king and queen?! Neither one of us want the damn job so we’re the ones who should have it…

William: Would I be king?

Mary: Yes.

William: Who would you be?

Mary: The queen.

William: Right, but who’s the one in charge?

Mary: …Oh.

William: It would be you, you’re first in line.

Mary: Oh, me? No. 

Chorus: *murmuring in agreement*

Mary: No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no! I’d rather not.

William: It’s not up to you, you’re first in line.

Mary: Ah, but you! You–you are after me!

William: Right, but you still come first.

Mary: But I don’t want to be queen– okay, wait, wait! Let me think… Okay, solution. ….We’ll… both be king and queen!

William: It does not work that way.

Mary: [spluttering] Listen! We go to England; you raise an army and depose– aw– depose father and then we say “Alright! We’re both king and queen!” What’re they gonna do, say no?

William: Joint monarchs– it would be a first.

Mary: [indecipherable] I don’t know if it’s right. God says to honor thy father, but… that doesn’t feel right.

William: We can say no, Mary.

Mary: No… You okay?

Anne: Yes, quite, sister.

Mary: Okay, good.

Anne: Stop staring at me!

Mary: Let’s keep going. And my heart says to bother you.

William: Your heart says that? What do we want to do?

Chorus: ♪ To England, to England! We sail, we sail! To England, to England! At last, at last! A tempest, a tempest! Begins, begins! And [indecipherable], and [indecipherable]! [indecipherable], [indecipherable]! ♪

Soloist: ♪ To England, we sail / [indecipherable] / [indecipherable] / [indecipherable] ♪

Chorus: ♪ The men are afraid ♪ ♪ There’s no debate ♪ ♪ Revolution now must wait ♪

*storm sounds*

Mary: Ahh!

William: THEY’RE CALLING IT THE CATHOLIC WIND! WE CANNOT SAIL FOR ENGLAND UNTIL IT PASSES! WE’VE ALREADY LOST A THOUSAND HORSES! WE HAVE FORTY THOUSAND MEN WAITING TO INVADE– BUT THIS WIND!!

Mary: There have been so many omens! This wind; the miscarriage! Is it a sign from God?! Can a daughter who deposes her father be a Christian?! Can doing what’s right and God’s will be at odds?!

William: WHAT?!

Mary: CAN DOING WHAT’S RIGHT AND GOD’S WILL BE AT ODDS?!

William: Oh, it is over.

Chorus: ♪ [indecipherable] ♪ ♪ William and Mary, our God has ordained ♪ ♪ Rex and Regina, this we say ♪ ♪ Sail on the future king’s birthday ♪

Mary: Wait, really?

William: Ja. It’s my birthday. The fourth. Historically, that’s just how it happened to work out.

Mary: Oh! Well, that’s a good omen, right? Happy birthday to you!

William: Yes.

Mary: William, wait! Look… I respect you. And, under normal circumstances, I would never breach this, um, unspoken agreement, but, um, it’s his birthday– ah, could we– um, uh– you know– could we do just one round of “Happy Birthday”? Um, what’s a good starting note? *hums* Is that good? *hums* Ready?

Mary, chorus, and audience: ♪ Happy birthday to you! ♪ ♪ Happy birthday to you! ♪ ♪ Happy birthday dear William! ♪ ♪ Happy birthday to your! ♪

*cheering*

William: This is the greatest birthday present I’ve ever received. Thank you.

Chorus: ♪ William has come and we will defend ♪ ♪ To kick out the tyrant and and then will ascend ♪ ♪ His first steps on English soil ♪ ♪ Defender of faith and [indecipherable] ♪

William: Hello? Where the hell is everyone?

Peasant: *screams* Oh, it’s [indecipherable] Day. Everyone’s busy catching cats.

William: Ah. Well, um, I am William of Orange, Defender of the Faith and– wait, why are you catching cats?

Peasant: To [indecipherable] the pope.

William: Ah. Well, I am William of Orange, Defende– the pope?

Peasant: *sighs* Not the real one sadly, but yeah. [indecipherable] cats and set them on fire.

William: Why you do this?

Peasant: For God! It’s tradition! …You’re not from around here are ya, foreigner!

Chorus: ♪ Over the hills and it must be done ♪ ♪ To England, Glorious Revolu– ♪

Peasant: [indecipherable] you are making such a racket!

William: I am William of Orange, Defender of the Faith!

*cat screeches*

Peasant: [indecipherable] you scared the cat!

William: Good woman, have you not heard of our coming?

Peasant: …[indecipherable] in England?

William: I–

Peasant: [indecipherable] and whip em til their backs be bloody!! Ngyeehhhhhhhhh!!

William: *screams* I AM WILLIAM OF ORANGE! I COME FROM THE HAGUE BY INVITATION OF PARLIAMENT! Good lady! We come to overthrow King James II.

Peasant: *spits*

William: Progress. I am the [indecipherable]’s husband and myself, third in line. We come to bring stability and religious… freedom to this… country.

Peasant: Oh, you and what army?

Chorus: ♪ We are [indecipherable] ♪ ♪ Join is so you [indecipherable] ♪ ♪ [indecipherable] ♪ ♪ James will soon be overthrown ♪

Peasant: Oh, [indecipherable], sir! I don’t have anything of worth but… I’d be proud to give you my cats.

William: *coughs*

Peasant: Oh, must be the cat smoke.

William: Oh, this air is filthy. I need a little rest.

Messenger: ♪ One man tried to poison your food ♪

Anne: ♪ Some with bullets [indecipherable] ♪

Chorus: ♪ Mostly [indecipherable] ready to fight ♪

Charles: ♪ [indecipherable] horse was white! ♪

William: Let us move forward!

James: William! What the hell do you think you’re doing?!

Chorus: ♪ James was appalled by the sight that he saw ♪

James: ♪ I’ll have your head, boy, remember [indecipherable]! ♪

Chorus: ♪ Soon his generals started to fall ♪

James: ♪ Troops, make an example of him! ♪

Chorus: ♪ James’ troops then began to abandon ♪ ♪ Our glorious William now [indecipherable] ♪

James: Did you not all swear your loyalty?! You are all my subjects! *gaps* Mary! Ungrateful daughter! You must swear your loyalty to your father! It is God’s will! The Fifth Commandment! Consider the hell– *splutters* What the hell? Anne, Messenger, and Monmouth: ♪ Blood from his nose ♪ ♪ [indecipherable] to God ♪ ♪ James was denied ♪ ♪ His royal throne ♪

James: No! No! What the hell?! *spluttering* The Fifth Commandment– shit! This is terribly inconvenient

Anne, Messenger, and Monmouth: ♪ To James [indecipherable] ♪ ♪ His nose really bled ♪

James: WAIT, WHAT?!!

Anne, Messenger, and Monmouth: ♪ To France, King James ♪ ♪ Finally fleeeeeeeeeeee– ♪

James: STOP SINGING!

Anne, Messenger, and Monmouth: ♪ –eeeeeeeedddddd ♪

James: What, is this really historically accurate?! You’re just gonna let me go, William?! HA! Coward! I will return, William, I promise you that! Mary! Ungrateful daughter! You will suffer the fait of an unfaithful daughter. This is not how my story was… suppose to be told… To France.

Chorus: ♪ William has won now that James has fled ♪

William: *prolonged violent coughing*

Chorus: ♪ London is happy! ♪ ♪ With bonfires lit ♪ ♪ Willy’s lungs can’t take the smoke ♪ ♪ And all the fog just made him choke ♪ ♪ Over the hills and it must be done ♪ ♪ To England, Glorious Revolution! ♪ ♪ William commanded and now we’ve won ♪ ♪ Our new day begins with the rising of the sun! ♪ ♪ Of the sun! ♪

William: *groaning, gasping for breath*

#redlady speaks #it takes. a really long time to transcribe something #history brainrot #william iii #mary ii #the glorious revolution #charles ii #james ii #queen anne #the stuarts

[samwrights]

I’m sorry but ukai with a breeding kink😳yes PLEASE

I swear I saw another ask that asked for Ukai with an impreg kink

*ahem* anyways—WOW this one was a doozy but holy shit did I have fun writing it. 11k words you guys. 11. K. It is a lot so grab some cocoa or coffee and a blanket because this is a read. It even has to be split into two parts because I hit the fucking text limit, BUT this also means there is no actual smut in this portion. You can find that here.

If you guys need some ear candy, I recommend the following:

Day N Nite (Crooker’s Remix) by Kid Cudi

Pursuit of Happiness (Extended version with Steve Aoki) by Kid Cudi

Breaking Me by Topic

C’Mon by Ke$ha

Flannel by The Cardboard Swords (it has to be sad somewhere)

Magic in the Hamptons by Social House

Fun fact: Ke$ha was actually the primary inspiration for this fic and for DJ!Ukai. God bless her.

Warnings: language, nicotine and alcohol consumption, implied drug use, implied emotionally abusive relationship, breeding/impreg kink, dirty talk, rough sex, risky sex, road head, slight dub-con, praise, multiple smut scenes, 3rd person POV reader-insert—because the word ‘you’ just didn’t seem to fit.

Without further ado, please enjoy the filthy depths of my brain followed by a relatively happy ending that I’ve titled, “Between the Lines’” :-)

“You’ve been more tired lately, and you’re showing up right when practice starts. Is everything okay?” Was the question that Takeda had asked Ukai Keishin that haunted him for years to come. Sure, he had wanted to gain more independence from his parents, wanted to start being more adult-like and take over the mortgage and the bills so his parents could finally rest. At the age of twenty-six, it seemed like a good idea at the time. With four years passing, however, Keishin was so damn tired, but it wasn’t like he could just stop working.

He was still tending to crops every morning, tending to the shop, coaching for Karasuno, but in the four years time, he had adopted one more job on the weekends—Ukai Keishin was a local nightclub DJ. He’d discovered the job opportunity one fateful night that he was out with his friends from the neighborhood association. To this day, he was still unsure of why he was approached with the job, especially considering he didn’t know the first thing about being a DJ, but the woman who had offered him the position had taught him everything he needed to know.

It turned out that he had a natural affinity for the position, seeing as he was still at it years later under the alias Spira. Ukai kept telling himself that he would quit the gig eventually because there was no way he could continue working four jobs—it was inhuman and the money didn’t even really matter to him. Okay, that last one is a lie; his DJ gig has been a substantial contributor to his savings funds to the point where he was even able to afford a newer, larger, (and slightly) used SUV in full compared to his tiny, old yellow beater. Even his mortgage bills were starting to look less daunting with the current cash flow.

Who needs sleep anyway? Ukai survived and thrived off of nicotine and caffeine anyway. Besides, sleep was the last thing on his mind whenever he set foot into the club. It was impossible to think of anything other than the writhing bodies of sweaty, young adults that were already drunk or high or were practically fucking each other with their clothes on. Perhaps that was part of the reason Keishin felt the need to quit this job—he was envious. Envious of the fact that he never got to indulge in his youth like these kids did; he started working and helping his family out right away after college. Sure, he went out here and there, but these twenty-something-year-olds were living their best life, while he was thirty and catering to their whims.

To say he was a bit bitter would be an understatement.

Bitterness aside, however, it did him good to see the youth enjoying exactly that—their youth. They got to do as they pleased between exams and becoming functioning members of society and, while he was jealous, Ukai was proud to be able to contribute to their pleasure.

He’d arrived to the club early, as he often did, to try to grab a drink before he was due for stage time. Ukai was thankful the bartenders knew him enough that he didn’t have to verbally order considering the music was too loud to hear him in the first place. A rum and coke manifests itself in a small, plastic cup that the blonde raises in thanks before weaving and bobbing around the various partygoers. For the most part, he’s successful in dodging the flailing bodies as he mutely notes the very upbeat remix of some female pop artist playing.

But only remotely successful as Keishin attempts to salvage his drink from spilling as he raises it over his head as one of the partygoers is pushed into him. “Hey, careful!” He snaps toward the younger, [hair color]ed woman. She only looks half-offended by the scolding, but otherwise unperturbed. If anything, the dominating expression on her face was confusion.

“Coach Ukai?” He’s surprised to hear both his given name and his title, let alone coming from a club patron, as they all knew him as Spira. Recognition slips his mind entirely—he’s never met this girl in any way that he can remember. Certainly, he would never forget crossing paths with this beauty, even if she was dressed in a similarly juvenile fashion to the other ravers. Tight crop top tee cinched together by a knot at the midriff, with army green high-waisted shorts attempting to cover the bare skin, face painted with makeup, glitter, and sweat; even underneath the garb, she brought forth no recollection. “Uh, d-do you remember me?” It’s a challenge to hear over the music, but she presses forward close enough that her lips are right in Keishin’s ear.

“Can’t say that I do,” he yells right back into hers.

“Karasuno class of twenty-twelve, I was Sugawara’s girlfriend.” Oh.

Oh.

Now he remembered, vaguely, but he doesn’t ever remember her looking like this. The last four years had been incredibly kind to her, in more ways than one. Back in her Karasuno days, [name] had always looked pleasant, for lack of better term. But there was always a lifeless, matted, dull glaze to her eyes that screamed she was searching for something more. While it was still somewhat present, there was a substantial joyous air around her. It looked good on her. However, as much as Ukai wanted to stay and admire, he had to go get set up for the evening. Or rather, that was the excuse he used when he said he would catch her after the show. “[name], did you know who that was?” The woman in question gives a nod, confused at the sudden star struck gawks that her friends held.

“Uh, yeah? My ex-boyfriend’s volleyball coach?”

“No dude, that was the DJ, Spira.”

“What?”

Being the closing act meant a lot of different things to Ukai Keishin. On the negative spectrum, it meant he was going to have to tend to crops as soon as he finished cleaning up his set. That also meant he wasn’t going to get to go to bed until nearly eight in the morning after his shift at the farm. Yet, for him, the positives greatly outweighed the negatives. For Keishin, watching the audience lose themselves in euphoria, albeit probably a drug-induced one, just hit different for him. It was a sense of satisfaction that only came from a select few activities, with coaching volleyball being the other major contributor. There was just something about the way the crowd was overwhelmed and screaming the second underground remixes of old Kid Cudi tracks with his own twists overtook the speakers that granted Keishin a sense of enlightenment.

For him, being a DJ allowed an audience to flow and vibe with the journey of his life and all its constant up and down motions while under the guise of anonymity. As Spira, Ukai opened up the complexity and conflicting feelings of his inner mind and brought it to fruition through his mixes. He felt that in his soul, he’d done his art of storytelling justice. The audience felt it. Hell, his mom at home probably felt it. Perhaps it was one of the main reasons this dingy, hole-in-the-wall club kept asking him to come back every weekend.

His mind wanders further as he clutches an electronic cigarette in his hand, mixing beats on the turntable while taking hits of nicotine in between. He wonders if the girl he had ran into just a few minutes prior had been frequenting here as often as he had. Then, thinking back to what little information she supplied earlier, Ukai’s mind drifts off to the former third-year setter from when he first started coaching. Sugawara was a nice boy with a firm, almost parental, hand that walked dangerously along the lines of being a partner and being a control freak. When it came to his relationship, things had to go his way. And while his girlfriend that came to every tournament was much more outspoken yet easy going, she was opinionated and didn’t shy from confrontation.

Now that the coach had given it more thought, it was a wonder that one tolerated the other at any point in time. If anything, Ukai imagines the two of them would typically be at each other’s throats. From the few times he had interacted with her, she was always more free spirited and couldn’t be weighed down by any one else’s opinion, but seeing her now was different—she was in her element in the dingy, dark club with the glitter on her cheekbones refracting light off of her face. There was laughter and true, unabashed joy on her face. She had a light of her own—like she was ray of sunshine in the center of a storm.

Three hours past midnight when the club closed was always Keishin’s sign to leave, regardless of the countless attempts to attend the after party he’d been invited to. He had to go to work, after all. Sure, a part of him had always been a little green with envy at all the DJs that got to hook up with club patrons after, but after being at this gig for a few years, he figured that the right girl for him would eventually come to him if he continued working on himself. After all, he didn’t want to just have a string of one night stands with a bunch of fresh adults that could barely function after the small drop of Malibu rum—he was too old for that.

“Uh, coach?” [name] felt strange calling him that, but she didn’t feel familiar enough with him to address him otherwise. He was halfway in his car, the blonde ready to leave for the weekend to go back to his regular day-to-day work. “You coming to the after party?” [name] asks when Keishin only looks at her in question, cigarette hanging betwixt his dry lips.

“No, I actually have to go to work right now.”

“Oh,” she doesn’t mean to express her disappointment, but it slips anyway, “guess I’ll catch you later then?”

“Uh, yeah.” A tight lipped hybrid of a pained grin and grimace crosses her wet, gloss covered lips. Without another word, Ukai closes his car door, a little more brusquely than he intended to, before backing out and leaving the young woman to her own devices. His mind wanders once again with him humming absentmindedly to the soft acoustic punk playing over the car radio. His eyes are focused on the passing greenery, the cars that are weaving and bobbing off the freeway—hell he even noticed the way the tendrils of the sun are just barely starting to peak over the horizon because it reminded him of her. A thought he banishes immediately because he feels creepy for even thinking that.

Yet no matter how much scenery flitted through his honey eyes, his mind keeps traveling back to one thing, or rather one person, only.

Goddammit.

On Monday’s practice, Ukai Keishin’s mind is flooding and drowning in memories of his first year as the volleyball club’s coach. It was as if his mind was coercing him to attempt to reach out to the girl that plagued his mind for the last forty-eight hours or so. Though, he had no way of contacting her. Instead, with every step along the wooden floors, he can remember the way she would walk Suga to practice, almost physically seeing her standing in the doorway to kiss the third-year setter goodbye. As if he could see her sitting underneath the third window from the left, quietly doing homework and exchanging small talk and airy laughter with Kiyoko and Daichi. As if he could see the same sunny smile she gave in the audience from Saturday night at the club between the lines of the woodwork in the floorboards.

It was a repeating pattern day in and day out that was beginning to make Ukai question his sanity.

“Hey, man,” his assistant coach and fellow Karasuno alumni, Tsukishima Akiteru, places a hand on his shoulder and looks at him in worry. “Are you okay? You’ve been out of it all week.” In what world did a week translate into three days, the older blonde coach didn’t know.

“I’m fine, just tired,” Keishin all but bites back. He didn’t want to admit his conscious had been running rampant with thoughts of a girl he’d briefly met at a club. It felt almost as disturbing and perverted as it sounded in his mind.

“The team’s worried about you. Why don’t you take an early weekend and get some rest? We’ll see you back on Monday, yeah?” Normally, Ukai would have vehemently refused. However, his circumstances were far from normal and he was gracious for an assistant coach he trusted wholeheartedly to do the work that needed to be done. And so, Ukai heeded Akiteru’s advice and went home before practice even began on Thursday afternoon.

It was slightly disorienting for him to go home and nap, but he was incredibly thankful for the gift. Waking up just before he was technically supposed to start his shift at the shop, Keishin jumps into a cold shower to bring him to life before heading downstairs. A bellowing yawn passes his lips through his teeth as he starts his evening. Maybe his team was right—he really did need a break. Thankfully, he knew that the second the doors to the Sakanoshita were locked, he was done for the evening and wouldn’t need to reawaken until three the following morning. Just a few more hours until then, he thought.

With it being a slower evening as well, Ukai was able to kick his feet up on the counter as he always did, pull open the newspaper from earlier in the morning and casually flip through. Briefly, he considers giving up one of his four jobs because this was something he missed doing. But consideration aside, he was far too in love with the cash flow and the thought of paying off his mortgage to entertain the thought for long. Maybe one day, he would finally sell the Sakanoshita store or quit helping on the farm—

“You still work here?” Huh. Her voice sounds different when it isn’t drowning under the speakers of a nightclub.

“I do own this place, you know.” Ukai snarks at the woman who’d been consuming his brain for the last week. She looks different without glitter reflecting off of her unreal cheekbones or the heavy layers of foundation and eyeshadow. Even more than before, Keishin definitely recognized [name] now. “What are you doing here anyway?”

“Shopping,” she snorts as if it were the most obvious thing, “why else would I be at a store?”

“Dunno, maybe you’re just here to see me.” Ukai responds without skipping a beat, turning the page of the paper to play into his guise that he wasn’t the slightest bit surprised at [name]’s presence.

“Uh...actually...” her voice is quiet, prompting the coach to quirk a brow and fold up the paper he was now pretending to read. It wasn’t like he could focus on anything right now outside of the woman standing before him, spearated only by a thin counter. Without talking again, his brown eyes lock with hers, silently goading for her to continue speaking. “I-I just...I don’t know. It was just really weird to see you at the club and then to find out that you’re Spira on top of that. I haven’t seen anyone from Karasuno since I graduated and—“

“Woah, kid, breathe.” Ukai interrupts her before she can continue spewing word vomit at a hundred miles an hour. “So what if I’m Spira? Though, you better not tell anyone that. My stage name is a secret between us, alright?” For a moment she’s quiet, gears turning in her head. The secrecy didn’t make sense to her because, if anything, he should be proud of the fact that he’s rather well known in the underground electronica scene. Or at least, she was in his stead, because [name] would have been proud of Ukai regardless of whatever occupation he held.

She supposed it came with the territory of having an unrequited crush on the coach years ago, that continued well beyond high school and even university, back when she was still dating Sugawara Koushi. It was the reason she had even bothered to come sit in on his practices and partially the reason she would come to his tournaments and matches. Not that she didn’t want to be supportive of her then-boyfriend—it would have been a fight had she not—but seeing the hot older coach was definitely a bonus in her book. “But why?” She offers, not wanting conversation to end despite her not having actually bought anything.

“If the school ever caught wind of me doing that, I could lose my position as the coach. Some shit about Karasuno’s image or whatever.” [name] gives a small nod, fidgeting subconsciously, as an attempt to shake her nerves and anxiety, by sifting through various candy bars that were in front of her before grabbing her favorite. Without a second thought, she peels the wrapper before placing the candy between her lips, the puffy pink skin greatly contrasting the chocolate coating. “Ya gonna pay for that, kid?” Ukai irks, his honey brown eyes steeling over in irritation. The nickname she’s given hits the final nail on the coffin and seals away [name]’s trepidation. Instead, her own sass comes out to join the fun.

“Nah,” she hums playfully, the chocolate-covered wafer cookie crunching between her teeth. “Quit calling me kid, coach. I’m a lady,” the irony isn’t lost on either of them as she speaks with her mouth full.

“Still a kid, kid. And quit calling me coach, I’m not your damn coach.” The familiar, grumpy attitude of his brings [name] back to the Ukai she knew back in high school. In a mix of nostalgia, warmth washes over her as the haughty tone in his voice sent shivers down her spine like it did a few years back.

“Sure thing, coach,” she teases again before tossing the wrapper of the stolen candy bar into the nearest bin. “You’re at the club tomorrow, right?” The question adds a bit of context and confirmation to Ukai—it seems she knew when Spira was performing, meaning she must have been a patron for a decent amount of time. Part of him wonders how she never realized who he was before, another part wonders how he’s never noticed her considering she could make all traffic stop if she stood in the middle of a freeway. At least, that’s what looking at her did to his heart.

“Yeah?”

“Maybe this time, you’ll join us at the after party.” Without another word, [name] pushes herself away from the counter she’d been leaning on while talking to the blonde man. With Akiteru giving him the weekend off, he actually entertained the thought of attending this time. Even if her invitation was rather blasé and indirect, he didn’t see the opportunity of him attending one presenting itself any time soon. He may be old, by his own standard, but there was a unknown allure to the thought of showing up to a wild party with a woman that was so adamant of his attendance.

Or rather, adamant in his mind. Whether she actually wanted his company remained to be seen, but the curiosity was gnawing at him, and was something he would have to unearth sooner rather than later.

Having an entire night, or a day’s worth, of rest was a rather disorienting, yet pleasant feeling for Ukai. After tending to crops and returning home in the early hours of the morning, the blonde coach was able to catch a solid nine hours of sleep before his shift at the Sakanoshita store with another chance to nap before he needed to head to the club. Despite knowing he had the ability to do so before another restless night, his mind felt the need to keep him awake and alert. Even after showering and styling his blonde tresses into their usual mane—mundane acts that usually came to him automatically—he was hyper aware of the slightest unruly flyaways.

Ukai Keishin was nervous.

He didn’t know what to wear or if there was a dress code or if anything he typically wore would be deemed worthy of an after party. A part of him wanted to leave it alone and let him sport his usual white track pants and tight, maroon muscle tank, but that part of him immediately drowns in the ocean of his anxiety. Another string in his brain prompted him to dress up just a little bit to help him look the part—it had nothing to do with impressing a certain club patron, no—he tried to convince himself. A miserable attempt, but still one nonetheless.

Eventually, he settled on crisp, dark-washed jeans that hugged his muscular legs without being suffocating, paired with a vibrant, crimson muscle tee that hugged his biceps all the same. Ukai still felt a little out of place in the attire, as he often had back when he first assumed the alias Spira, but headed out the door of his apartment before his conscious could dispute it.

He was early again, even more so than normal. Desperate for a drink to calm his nerves and replace his blood with liquid courage, Ukai worms his way around to the bar, signaling the attendant for his usual. Rum and coke in hand, the DJ stands off to the side, hiding like a wallflower, while he studied the sweaty, dancing bodies. Did he know why he was looking for her—no. Maybe partially to tell her she owed him for the candy bar, maybe to tell her he was joining in on the after party this time around.

Maybe to just see her.

Keishin banishes the last thought with a shake of his head before skulking off to the attached patio to smoke. Pulling a cigarette from his pack and a lighter from his pocket, the flame torches the end of the filter at the same time the blonde inhales. Forcefully pushing the smoke out past his lips, Ukai takes a hearty sip of his drink until it’s nearly gone. He was going to need something stronger tonight.

“Is it that time already?” The older man’s head snaps to the voice that had been haunting him subconsciously.

Part of him wishes he didn’t look.

As if to play into her question, [name] checks the large, rose gold watch on her right wrist—an incredibly stark contrast to her outfit for the evening. Maybe it was a hunch when Ukai felt that he had been underdressed, as if his intuition knew that she was going to be dressed to the nines in a black skater dress. Even with a modest neckline, the lace cut out detailing on the sides of the dress accentuated her curves impeccably, playing well with the volume of the skirt, while the open back she was sporting dipped dangerously low.

It took everything in Ukai to not throw every milliliter of restraint and inhibition out the window and fuck her right then and there.

Taking a lengthy drag of his cigarette to hold himself back, Keishin inhales deeply, the smoke billowing past his lips emerging densely and grey in color. “I’m a little early—needed an extra drink today.” The man manages to choke out, downing whatever is left in his little plastic cup for added emphasis.

“Need another?” [name] chirps politely; almost too politely as if to deliberately dispute the salacious thoughts flooding the coaches mind.

“I can get—“

“I owe you anyway,” she reminds him, alluding to the candy bar she had eaten without paying for from the previous night. “Pick your poison.”

“Double rum and coke.” He concedes. [name]’s lips twitch upward slightly at the corner before she plucks the empty cup from Ukai’s hand. He doesn’t miss the way the shellac on her nails grazes against his skin, leaving the whispers of contact to run warm. Immediately, the blonde man uses the nearly dead cigarette between his teeth to light a fresh one—heaven or hell knows he needed the nicotine right now.

Given the silence, Keishin takes the opportunity to absorb his surroundings. From the general direction that [name] initially came from, she wasn’t around any of her friends or really anyone that he knew. That was good at least; there wasn’t anybody else that knew of his presence. [name] returns, two clear plastic cups in her hands and surrenders the darker of the two to the man awaiting. “Hold mine for a sec?” Without thinking, Keishin holds his cigarette between his left index and middle fingers, his drink in the same hand, while taking hers. To his surprise, she pulls out her own pack of menthols and a torch lighter, setting the leaves ablaze before taking her obvious vodka cranberry back.

“You took up smoking?” The older of the two asks in surprise, noting the way her lipstick leaves the slightest bit of residue along the brown filter. [name] gives a shrug.

“Surprised you didn’t notice it sooner, coach. I’ve been smoking since second year.” Ukai gives a roll of his eyes at the use of this strange pet name he’s been dubbed by her. But he thinks about it, thinks about how Suga must have felt probably knowing that she did. Thinks how it just added to this strange, sassy yet happy, wild and free exterior she now had. And [name] notices instantly the very same look Ukai had in his face when he was trying to strategize, trying to figure out a way to navigate a conversation with his team about becoming better—she knows what’s coming next. “Yeah, yeah, I know I should quit or whatever. Suga lost that argument a long time ago.”

“Can’t really tell you what to do when I’m just as guilty.” Ukai gives a laugh—one that is embedded with bitterness and envy at the mention of the third-year setter—yet is just as vivacious as he is. A sound entirely different than she’d ever heard leave his lungs before. She likes it.

After finishing his smoke, Keishin gulps down a hefty swig of his drink before patting [name] on the shoulder before announcing his departure. “I’ll see you inside,” the girl, woman, calls out thoughtfully as she gives a small wave with her cigarette filter between her fingers. Ukai doesn’t verbalize the same sentiment. He doesn’t want to slip up and admit he’ll be looking for her.

But it’s painfully obvious that he is when he takes over the booth. Unable to hide the fact that with every chance that he looks into the audience, he’s searching for that black skater dress that hugs her all too perfectly, [hair color] locks swaying as she moves in the crowd. Ukai can’t hide it at all—not behind the turn table or new remixes meant to get the crowd moving.

He can’t hide the urgency he feels to find her outside in the crisp evening air, smoking on the back patio of the club after his set. [name] is talking and laughing with her friends while thin grey smoke billows from her open mouth before her eyes land on him. Some of her friends take notice to the tension and their shared gazes, some of them whispering his alias in excitement. But [name] just smiles knowingly, if not a little cocky, because she can see that urgency, that desperation, that Ukai was trying to hide. “Wait, [name], do you know Spira?” A bystander asked. Clearly, they weren’t present the last time this was brought up.

“Yeah, I may have met him once or twice,” the woman in question snickers as she strides over closer and closer to the aforementioned DJ.

“Cute,” Ukai sneers teasingly at her jab before instinctively reaching for the half-gone cigarette she pulls to her stained lips. At first, she thought he was going to put it out, considering their little conversation from a few hours ago. Instead, the volleyball coach puts the filter to his own lips, noting the damp fabric probably from her freshly applied lipgloss, and takes a drag. It tasted like watermelons and mint.

“Cheeky,” [name] returns, plucking her cancer stick back from the blonde man. While her friends are still behind her murmuring about the familiarity between the two of them, Keishin and [name] are lost in their own little world. “So since your set is over, and considering you’re still here, I’m assuming you’re joining me for the after party? Or do you have to go to work again?”

“I told them I’d be out of town this weekend,” Ukai tries to play it off as nonchalantly as he could, ties to swallow it down his nerves with rum and nicotine. It proves rather difficult considering the coy smile on [name]’s face is wearing and cracking through his resolve rather quickly. But at least, to him, he could confirm his mind was not playing tricks on him and [name] was just as adamant about his attendance as he initially thought. Even more so with her next statement.

“Cool. Your car or mine?” It took him a minute to process her words even—lust thickening and constricting the flow to his brain at the vague question. Ukai was getting far too ahead of himself, but goddammit how could he focus when the fabric of her skirt hit her mid-thigh and framed her like a Venetian goddess—“I don’t mind driving there.” She adds to coax him away from his silence.

“Nah, I got it. We’ll take mine.”

“Lead the way,” [name] chimes sweetly as she wraps an arm around the coach’s forearm. The physical touch is everything he’s been fantasizing about for the last few days—hellfire and brimstone and sunlight and goddammit why did he wear jeans that were only getting tighter and tighter?

Ukai opens the passenger door to his SUV, supporting the woman as she clambered in cautiously so as not to stumble from her heels. Getting settled in, the coach surrenders his unlocked phone to allow her the entirety of his music library. The irony of the DJ surrendering DJ rights to the passenger was not lost on either of them. Much to his surprise, [name] put on soft acoustic punk as he usually did on his way home from the club. The kind of softness one would turn on to accompany the fragile pitter-patter of rain against the windshield. “Cardboard Swords?” Ukai asks in surprise, more than familiar with the band.

“Flannel is a favorite of mine. I’m kind of surprised it’s in your library.” She adds after she begins directing him to this evening’s party location. From the corner of his eyes, he can see the way her full lips are moving along each word with expertise. He sees the way her [eye color] orbs soften slightly and he can tell this song hits home for her.

She’ll never say why—she’ll never tell him this was the song that helped her move on from Sugawara Koushi while restoring her inner peace.

But Keishin is no fool. He can tell that this is physically hurting her—crushing her soul into the leather seat of his car and, instinctually, he wraps a large hand around hers that’s resting in her lap. “I came out tonight to have fun with you, so don’t you go getting sad on me.” He means each word with innocent intent, yet he cannot ignore the almost hidden, salacious drip to each syllable and neither can she. How could she when his touch sent volts of electricity through her skin?

“Right, right,” she says in a conceding tone, switching the audio to something much more upbeat and a little flirty. “Why did you agree to go out tonight?” If Ukai had an answer, then it died on his lips as he let go of [name]’s hand to reach for another cigarette. The process of lighting the tube, inhaling, and exhaling bought him an extra minute to come up with an excuse; her doing the same giving him another thirty seconds.

“I don’t know.” It’s a blatant lie—a lie that [name] believes all too easily—but Ukai can’t bring himself to admit the truth. He can’t admit out loud that she’s the only thing that’s been on his mind all week or that he jumped at the opportunity, created one even, to be able to have a one-on-one moment with her. Keishin can’t admit that he can tell there are intricate webs spun in her mind and that all he wants to do is untangle them one by one.

And he certainly can’t tell her that even the mere sight of her sends his brain into overdrive and all he wants to do is repeatedly fill her over and over with his seed until she is entirely his, inside and out in mind, body, and soul. There was no way in the nine circles of hell that Ukai Keishin was going to admit to his sinful thoughts.

“It’s just up here.” [name] points with gaunt fingers, cigarette between them as her voice is half choked from inhaling her own smoke. Mirroring the man’s actions earlier, she indulged in her own nicotine habit to quell the budding disappointment from Ukai’s lackluster response. They drove up a slight winding hill and as the trees pass by, the itch for her truth and her history was gnawing at him. He wanted to know why this rambunctious party girl invited him all week to these elusive after parties. Why Flannel ate away at her insides like it did his. Why did her and Sugawara breakup?

But he decides against it for the moment.

“Where are we?” Ukai asks. There’s cars all lining the sides of the road of varying worth—he felt even more out of place than normal with his older SUV, even if it was an upgrade for him, considering the large number of luxury vehicles.

“Bevelle’s house.” [name] says simply, pointing to an empty space in the streets as she throws the butt of her cigarette into the road. The casual way she name drops the owner of the club makes him gawk, catching flies in his mouth had there been any at the hour. With a satisfied, cheesy grin, she hops out of her seat and walks in the grass to meet Ukai on the other side as he clambers out of the vehicle as well. In familiarity, she grips into his forearm once again as they walk towards the forest mansion.

Keishin wasn’t sure what to expect when the two of them walked in, but a home full of people screaming his pseudonym and her name was not on that list. Younger hordes had surrounded [name], greeting her warmly and telling her how glad they were to see her again for the evening. Others were approaching Ukai, telling them how rare and a momentous occasion that the infamous artist Spira was amongst their midst.

“Glad to see you could join us, Spira.” His boss and club owner, Bevelle, approaches the mismatched couple. Bevelle was an alias used by the middle aged woman, her real name unknown to those that didn’t know her know her, and was once upon a time her stage name. While she had chosen a quiet location in the Miyagi prefecture, Bevelle was quite known in the underground scene. Granted, Ukai didn’t know any of that when he’d taken the job. If anything, it was all thanks to her that he was able to learn for his own success as well as granting him the opportunity to learn in the first place. “Good to see you too, trouble.” Bevelle affectionately goes to muss at [name]’s hair, to which she only replies with a cheeky grin.

“How do you know Bevelle?” Ukai presses his lips towards the ear of the woman still hanging onto him as she expertly leads the way to the kitchen. The car ride left her feeling slightly uncomfortable, ashamed even though she would never admit to that, and she knew she definitely needed a drink after it. Part of her was heavily rebuking herself for trying to pry into his mind by asking why he came along, even more so when she put on the one song that shattered her heart every time she heard it. It just excited her that he had it in his library, that he even knew who The Cardboard Swords were, and that he enjoyed the same obscure taste in music as much as she did.

“She’s a close family friend!” The chirp that [name] gives isn’t entirely convincing, like she isn’t telling the truth. Regardless, Ukai washes down his doubt with the beer he was handed, figuring she probably had her reasons. And as soon as the plastic is in each of their hands, [name] downs the contents immediately, hoping to drown out the nerves ebbing from her stomach with vodka. She should have been ecstatic—her old high school crush, her unrequited crush, was here with her, drinking side by side but she can’t help but feel the tension between them—sexual or otherwise.

Just as the two of them down their second round, a piercing voice cuts through the thicket of the masses, calling out her name and capturing her attention. “It’s your song! Come on!” A shrug and a smile crosses [name]’s features as she’s all but dragged away to a different part of the mansion. Much to his surprise, she grabbed onto Keishin to drag him along as well.

The two of them are presented with a myriad of sweaty, rolling bodies—much more gone than Ukai had ever seen at the club itself. It was oddly...sensual, if it could be called that, to see the fluid movements between party goers. Sensual, intimate, strange—all of them could be used interchangeably at this moment.

[name] is dancing with another woman, mouthing all of the words to the current pop song while bobbing and jumping around excitedly before her eyes lock on his. She’s in her element now. All sunshine and smiles like Ukai had seen from on occasion from years ago or most recently at the club, but they’re directed at him for once as she pulls him closer onto the dance floor. The taunting beats and repetitive call of “come on” and the way [name] loosely wraps her arms around his neck as she dances brings Ukai to the realization that this was the end of the line.

The end of the line, because Keishin can’t hold himself back anymore.

Not with the way her hips are grinding against is and she’s laughing warmly and heartily at his slight discomfort and her teeth are glittering off the lights in the dark room like stars in the night sky. Not with the way her head is thrown back and her dress drops low enough to flaunt the expanse of bare skin of her neck and collar bones that are just begging him to sink his teeth in. Not with the way her [eye color]ed orbs are locked with his as she sings along with the music, oddly enough alluding to some form of confession of her feelings.

He can’t fucking take it anymore.

The large hands he has on her hips move just under her arms to hoist her up, [name] instinctively wrapping her legs around his waist to keep her balance. Their eyes are locked, honed in on each other with the rest of the party melting into the background. With her deepest, most wild high school fantasy driving her actions, she grins. “Hi,” is all she says before Ukai cranes his neck back to cover her lips with his.

His kiss is everything she imagined it would be after years of pining. The smell and taste of smoke and wood floods her senses as his tongue laps at the watermelon lip gloss on her bottom lip before seeking refuge within her mouth. His hands, now wrapped around her thighs give intermittent squeezes, either to keep them grounded in reality or just because he needs something to clutch at—she’s unsure of which. In response, her manicured fingernails tangle into his messy blonde locks. Their kiss pours out their desperation, laying it all out on the table for the both of them to see clear as day.

The only thing that prompts them to break apart is the ending of the song.

“You wanna get out of here?” Ukai asks as he tenderly puts [name] back on the ground. As if he weren’t just making out with her moments ago, the motion is delicate and gingerly and almost loving.

“Not yet,” there’s a knowing, smug lilt in her voice as she turns on her heel and throw herself back into the throng of party people. Or rather, attempts. While she’s attempting to flee, Keishin snatches her wrist, pulling her closer until their chests are flush against each other.

“Nuh uh,” the blonde man tuts, “you’ve been asking me to join you at a party all week, now here I am. The hell makes you think you’re leaving my side tonight?” [name]’s grin only grows wider.

“I’ve waited for years for this opportunity, coach, so if you think I’m not gonna have fun with it, you’re dead wrong.” The word ‘years’ constricts the man’s heart—forces his pupils to blow into dilation with her modest, yet blunt confession.

“Years?”

“Years,” she repeats, “ever since that first practice you stumbled into the Karasuno gym as the temporary coach. Why do you think I came to every single exhibition match and tournament? Or came to study and do homework while you guys had practice?” This girl was grinding at every steel line of self-control that was left in Ukai’s body because every word spilling past her lips added an additional ten volts to the sexual tension between them.

“We’re leaving.” He bites out despite the delicate tone. Wrapping his hand around hers once again, Keishin tugs her along time dodge the party goers that threw the two of them curious glances, wondering why they were quick to leave shortly after their arrival. Just to tease him further, [name] almost wants to offer a rebuttal and tell him that they should stay longer and enjoy the show. However, she knows she’s done enough waiting and if he was taking her home, she wasn’t going to argue.

While urgency and desperation was their game, Keishin didn’t cut corners when it came to presenting himself as a gentleman as he helped [name] back into the car. Hormones be damned—he was still going to help a lady into the passengers seat. “You never did tell me why you finally agreed to come out tonight.” She says quietly, as if the two of them hadn’t been making out and dry humping a few minutes prior. “And it’s clearly not because you knew I had a crush on you all throughout third year—“

“Don’t act like you’re the only one with feelings in this.” Ukai grits out, speeding much faster back home than he did on the way to Bevelle’s house. Paying that no mind, [name]’s ears perk up at his own wayward confession. When she asked for clarity, a rumbling groan shakes his chest as he patted down his pockets in search for his nicotine sticks. “I didn’t recognize you the first night at the club because you look different now. Happiness looks good on you.”

“Happiness?” She echos confusedly, turning to face Ukai fully after lighting her own cigarette.

“You used to always look content back then—just barely content and nothing more. And I can’t stop thinking back to those days because you’re this ball of sunshine, kid, and I can’t stop wondering what the hell Suga did to you to dim your shine that badly. I haven’t stopped thinking about you all week.”

[name] is quiet for a moment at his own rendition, his own version, of a confession and she’s stunned. And she can’t tell if she wants to cry or kiss him because this is not that way she ever fantasized this conversation going. It was going better than she dreamed. Better, because the words that Ukai is saying adds an entirely new layer to his amped up personality—he wasn’t just the sexy volleyball coach that she used to pine over. He was a person with deep rooted feelings for justice in the sense of wanting to understand how someone could inflict damage to the innocent and he wanted to rectify said injustices. He wanted to know how someone like Suga could try to dampen her sunlight instead of allowing her to thrive and bloom.

She wants to kiss him, she decides, but since he’s driving, she settles for placing a chaste one on the corner of his mouth. “Serves you right,” she jokes when she pulls away, “it’s been a long four years for me. It’s your turn to suffer.”

“Trust me, this car ride is torture enough.”

[ next ]

#haikyu!! #haikyuu!! imagine #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu imagine #haikyuu oneshot #ukai keishin #haikyuu ukai #hq ukai #ukai x reader #ukai scenario #keishin ukai x reader #dj!au #haikyuu sugawara #sugawara imagine #sugawara koushi #sugawara x reader #nsfhq

[sambergscott]

i'll promise that i'll love you for the rest of my life

one giving the other flowers, as requested by @rosalitadiazz AGES ago, also dedicated to @397bartonstreet for the initial idea of amy sleeping in/just being the best and @nine-niall for helping with the marriage highlight reel.... and for making me listen to heartbreak weather on repeat for the last few days and coming up with this title

happy anniversary to jake and amy!!! (also since the ep aired 2 years ago today i'm not *technically* late thank u very much)

One million, fifty one thousand and two hundred minutes after marrying Amy Santiago (or, two years), every moment is as wonderful as day one. He still feels the same rush of excitement when he sees her waiting by their car at the end of a shift, the same swell of pride when she introduces him to someone as her husband, the same “oh my god we’re actually married” moment when he catches her rings glinting in the sunlight. It’s been the best one million, fifty one thousand and two hundred minutes of his life. And while he appreciates every single second they have together, knowing how in their line of work things can change all too easy, their second anniversary presents the perfect opportunity to remind her that everyday he gets to be with someone as amazing as her is crazy to him.

He has flowers, a handmade card, he even hoovered and she’s still asleep.

She never sleeps this late.

Everyone knows she’s the morning person in their relationship and he’s the Get Out Of Bed After Snoozing The Alarm Seventeen Times person. They live together, share a car, and yet most mornings he ends up riding the Subway, squashed between an old woman and a nerdy looking guy who smells like he hasn’t showered in a week, Amy rolling her eyes when he gets to work mid-briefing. The rare days she can get him out of bed early usually involve some kind of bribery using food and/or sex.

The point is, he’s supposed to be the one sleeping in past 11 AM, but ever since their doctor prescribed Clomid to help stimulate ovulation and boost their chances of making a baby, their roles have been totally reversed like Lindsay Lohan and Jamie Lee Curtis in Freaky Friday.

Pregnant Amy falls asleep anywhere and everywhere. The couch, the car, the cleaning cupboard at work when she was trying to find some Nuclear-strength cleaner to remove the stench of Charles’ lunch from the air before she hurled again.

She could sleep all day if he let her and he quite easily could. She looks so peaceful and cute and free from the stresses of her family asking why they waited so long (well, long for Santiago standards) to start a family. Plus, the messy hair and tiny bit of drool on her chin are impossibly endearing in the way only she can be.

He smiles and wraps his arms around her, resting his head on his shoulder, his hands - like his thoughts - drifting to her growing bump as they inevitably always do.

This time next year they’ll be celebrating with their little boy or girl, telling them all about the insane, magical day that was May 15th 2018. Of course, it might be some time before they can fully grasp the TV-worthy drama of the creepy phone call, the bomb in the vent, the ex-boyfriend proposing - twice! - and the wall of Amy photos, but they will sure as dammit know how beautiful their mom looked in her dress and how happy their dad was when Grandpa Holt finally announced them as husband and wife.

“Can’t breathe,” his wife squeaks, finally awake. “Arms too tight.”

“Oops. Sorry, babe.” He kisses her by way of apology; sometimes when he gets to thinking about that day, about seeing her walk down the shredded paper aisle under the glow of fairy lights, surrounded by the very people who watched them fall in love, he kind of forgets where he is and what he’s doing.

She’s always had that intoxicating effect on him. That’s never gonna change.

“Time is it?” She yawns, stretching her arms above her head.

“Twenty five to,” he pauses to brace himself for her reaction, “...twelve.”

“Twelve?” Horrified, she moves to get out of bed and yeah, he knows her so well. “Let me go,” she huffs in frustration when he forms a barrier to keep her from leaving.

“No can do, Santiago,” he says authoritatively. “You’ve been working yourself to the bone and you’re pregnant. You need to rest. We’ve both got the day off, our dinner reservations aren’t until 8. Just let your husband take care of you for a couple of hours.”

She chews on her lower lip, making her contemplative face that he recognises from sitting opposite her for so many years, preferring watching her piece together the leads in a case rather than work on his own. “Fine,” she eventually concedes. “Happy anniversary, by the way.”

“Happy anniversary,” he returns the sentiment, kissing her again because, well, he can, one of the perks of marrying Amy Santiago (alongside a perfectly organised sock drawer and getting to hang out with the best person in the world 24 sevs). “I got you these,” he adds, procuring the daffodil bouquet he found online.

“Jake,” she sighs dreamily, placing the flowers on her nightstand. “They’re beautiful. And my favourites.”

“I know,” he smirks. He may not be Santiago level smart, but he’s smart when it comes to all things Santiago. “Also made you this.” He hands over the card.

She opens it, instantly tearing up at his sweet message inside, the dam bursting when she notices the scrawled message written with his wrong hand from their unborn baby. “Mine sucks in comparison,” she laments, passing him his card before locking her eyes back on the words ‘happy anniversary to the world’s best mama’.

“It does not suck,” he reassures her, clutching it to his chest. “I’m going to savour it for all times. I want to be buried with it.”

She rolls her eyes, drying her cheeks with the back of her hand. “I thought you wanted to be buried with your original copy of Die Hard.”

“OK, Die Hard and your card. Rhymes for a reason, Ames.”

“You’re such a dork,” she responds, stifling her laughter. “Can’t believe I’ve been married to you for two full years.”

“I know.” He grins. “What was your favourite part?”

Her eyes glimmer with excitement and love and memories of their first anniversary before things turned upside down. “Are you suggesting we do a marriage highlight reel à la NBA inside stuff?”

“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting. I’ll go first. NUMBER FIVE,” he yells in his spot on Ahmad Rashad impression, earning a giggle from his wife. “Number five is that dress you wore on my birthday. Your butt looked the bomb in it.”

“Thanks, babe.” Two years in, she’s used to the constant “your butt is the bomb” comments, often uttered at the most inappropriate of times like when she stands up to brief the squad or play soccer with her brothers, much to her chagrin and their delight.

“Number four,” she quickly moves on. “The time you taught me to play Mario Party and I beat Wario on the first try.”

“That was my worst moment,” he groans.

“And that’s why it’s my best.”

He sighs, considers debating it, engaging in the classic back-and-forth that is the very foundation of their relationship, but it’s moot. She was way better than him. Santiago’s learn fast. It’s in their genes or something. And despite the crushing disappointment when she beat Wario with ease and dork danced her way to the kitchen to grab them both an orange soda, it was still a very fun night and a worthy moment in the highlight reel.

“Number Three. The York murder.”

Immediate understanding spreads across Amy’s face, but he explains anyway.

“I spent three days working that case and you just came in, saw the board and solved it right away.”

“I’m very smart,” she jokes lightheartedly.

“You are,” he agrees, his voice coming out softer and sincerer than even he imagined. “I love that about you. I love your brain. I love how good you are at your job, at figuring out puzzles. I love that you listen to NPR and know so much about the font Helvetica and have read, like, a million books. I love that you do a crossword every night and I love how proud you look when you give me a sports clue and I actually get it right. I love cheering you on at Trivia Nights even when Kylie can’t stop glaring at me. How lucky am I to have the smartest wife in the world?”

Touched, she can barely compile her thoughts to reveal her Number Two.

“The night at Shaw’s, at Hitchcock’s second divorce party, your speech, the way you kissed me, the way you were so gentle when we got home,” she sniffles. “It was special and made me feel so loved and if I say anymore I’m going to cry again, so you go.”

He chuckles knowingly. The pregnancy hormones have been making her extra emotional lately, they can’t even watch commercials anymore without her fully weeping. And while last year Pam and her twisted bowels interrupted before they could get to Number One, this year Number One is obvious. Clear as day. And there’s no one to interrupt.

He pretends to think about it for a minute (because he will always love teasing her, married or not). Only when she grabs his arm and digs her nails into his skin does he put both their hands on her bump and smiles. “Obviously this little guy or gal is Number One.”

She smiles back at him, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

His own face falls. “Ames?”

“It’s been a hard year, hasn’t it?” She sighs, thinking back to calendars and fertility appointments and the strict no nacho policy.

“Yeah,” he says, “it has. But this next year is gonna be the best one yet.”

“I mean... We’re probably not going to sleep a lot.”

“You might not sleep a lot but I sure will,” he teases, his words falling flat. “Just kidding, babe. Obviously I’m going to get up for all the feeds and diaper changes and whatever else this kid throws at us. Gonna be there for you both. No matter what.”

The pregnancy hormones strike again and she starts crying and, honestly, he can’t wait for this baby to get out, for more reasons than one.

“BRB, I’ll go make your favourite breakfast to make you feel better, don’t grow anymore body parts while I’m gone.”

He returns seven minutes later with pancakes, a ton of fruit, decaf coffee and another kiss. He climbs back into bed, devours his own Nutella pancakes and posts his favourite blurry, drunk on Champagne and love selfie from their makeshift wedding reception at Shaw’s, on Insta with a caption about how he promises he’s gonna love her for the rest of his life.

And he keeps that promise.

#b99 fic #jake x amy #my writing #dork danced is my new favourite verb

[dragonrajafanfiction]

The Crane Team: Bad News

“Once upon a time, there was a beautiful little girl named Vasilisa. She lived with her father, a merchant, and her mother who was just as beautiful as she was. When Vasilisa was eight years old, her mother got sick and was about to die… but before she died, she gave Vasilisa a little doll and said, ‘This doll will help you. All you have to do is give it a little bit to eat and a little bit to drink, every day.’”

It was late at night. Erii and Yoko lay in the same bed in their nightgowns, holding hands, their faces so close together their breaths tickled each other’s noses. Erii’s eyes stared into Yoko’s as she listened closely, clinging to her stuffed bear. She’d heard this story before, but it was her favorite one.

“As soon as her mother died, Vasilisa was sad. So she did as her mother told her. She gave the doll a little to eat and a little to drink and the doll spoke and said. ‘Don’t worry Vasilisa. I will always be here to help you.’” Yoko pulled her body a little closer to Erii and her voice dropped to barely over a whisper. “About a year later, her father remarried to a cruel older woman. The new wife was a woman with two daughters but she didn’t allow her daughters to work. She made Vasilisa do all the cooking, all the cleaning and the laundry and made her take care of the garden and the pigs.”

“Whenever Vasilisa was so tired she was about to give up hope, she would whisper to her doll. And all the chores remaining for that day would be suddenly finished! So the stepmother gave her more and more work. But no matter how much she tried to make Vasilisa fail, the doll would make up for her lack and she would always succeed.”

“One day, young men knocked on the door. ‘We heard there was a beautiful and talented young woman here! We want to marry her!’ They said. But the stepmother would hide Vasilisa and take out her daughters and say, These are the women you were looking for.’ But her daughters were lazy and demanding and didn’t know how to sew a simple button. The men would leave disappointed.”

“One day, her father had to travel far away for business, leaving Vasilisa alone. Her stepmother decided to sell his house and moved them to a gloomy hut by the edge of a dark forest. When her father returned from his work, they were all gone and he could not find them.”

“One day the stepmother said, ‘Vasilisa, there is no wood for the fire… go into the woods and get fire for us from Baba Yaga.’ The stepmother said. The stepmother was sure that Vasilisa would never return from this task.”

“Vasilisa was very scared and asked the doll for help. But the doll advised her to go to the Baba Yaga! ‘Go into the forest before the sun rises to bring back fire from Baba Yaga.’ The doll said.”

“So Vasilisa stepped into the dark forest all alone. While she was walking, a mysterious man rode by her in the hours before dawn, dressed in white, riding a white horse. He was so bright, the forest was lit up by him as he rode by. And then the light faded away. A few hours later, when the sun was high in the sky, a rider came by on a red horse, wearing all red! And then, as the sun began to set… Black horse and a man in all black rode by her. And as he left, she came to a clearing and there was a very strange house.”

“This house had chicken legs for a foundation and it was walled by a fence of human bones. The night had fallen as the rider in black rode by and the skulls on the fence were glowing in their eye sockets. Vasilisa turned to run away, but as soon as she stepped back on the path, she heard it.”

Yoko slapped her hand on the mattress. “Thump! Thump! Thump! Out of the shadows of the night, the Baba Yaga was returning home, riding on her mortar. She was an ugly old woman with a lumpy face and huge eyebrows. Her eyes were so sunken under the folds of her skin that you couldn’t see them at all.

Erii’s hands clung tighter to the bear and she stared, barely breathing.

“Vasilisa said, ‘Baba Yaga, I have come for some fire to take back home!’”

Yoko made her voice soft like a scratchy serpent’s hiss. Her fingers curled like a claw as she pointed at Erii’s nose. “‘If you want my fire… You must first perform my chores. If you do not perform, I will turn your bones into an extension of my fence! First! Clean the house and the yard, then… wash my laundry, cook me some meals for the day!’”

“Vasilisa worked as hard as she could. But as soon as she swept the house, the dust would reappear. She begged for the doll to help. ‘Help me please!’ and the doll caused a breeze to sweep up the dust and hold it in the air. When she weeded the garden, the weeds would grow back as soon as she pulled them! ‘Help me!’ she said to the doll. So the doll caused insects to come and eat the weeds as they sprouted. And so it was. Vasilisa would do the work, but the doll would make sure the work stayed done!”

“Baba Yaga returned to her house and was shocked to see what was happening. She wanted to see how the girl was doing this. So she sat down on the floor of the hut and called Vasilisa.”

Yoko hissed again. “‘I have one more task for you. Separate poppy seeds from the dirt on the ground.’”

“Such a thing was impossible. Poppy seeds and dirt were hard to distinguish. She had no choice but to stand before the Baba Yaga and request the doll's help. When she did… hands with no arms and no one controlling them appeared from the air and perfectly separated all the seeds from the dirt.”

“At this time Baba Yaga seemed to understand and her bushy eyebrows lifted high. And she said, ‘AH!’”

Erii flinched and closed her eyes.

“She hurried Vasilisa out of the house. ‘I want no such power in my house! No! No! This is the power of a mother’s blessing and here is nothing that can overcome it!’ She gave Vasilisa the fire -- a skull lantern full of burning coals -- and sent her on her way home with instructions to bury the skull lantern when she was through with it.”

Yoko poked Erii in the side to make her open her eyes again.

“When Vasilisa got home. The stepmother and the stepsisters were singing and dancing in the garden that evening. Vasilisa didn't realize it but she had been gone for days! Her stepmother and stepsisters threw a party to celebrate her death. When they saw Vasilisa returning with the glowing skull from the forest shadows, they were suddenly terrified and afraid! They tried to run! But fire shot out of the skull lantern’s eyes and consumed them. Their bodies were burned to ash.”

“Soon after that, a rich merchant came by and found Vasilisa living by herself in a beautiful house that she had made all by herself. He wooed her and they married and went back to Moscow. She was so skilled that she caught the attention of the Tsar and lived the rest of her life in the palace.”

Erii clapped her hands in applause.

Yoko stroked her hair. “Now go to sleep. I have to do some more work tonight but I’ll be here in the morning.”

Erii nodded silently.

She was older than Yoko by three years, but Yoko had a hard time remembering that. Yoko was the one who tended to answer all her questions and introduce her to new experiences. Not the other way around. But Erii was amazingly inquisitive and a fast learner. It wouldn’t be long before Yoko would feel younger next to her. She made her way back to her room.

 She removed her contacts revealing her splendid fire colored eyes. She walked up to what appeared to be a blank wall, but when she spoke in russian, the simple word ‘Open’.  A panel that was seamlessly hidden in the wall opened to a hollow where a retinal scanning device ran a red light across her eye. A door slid open and revealed a hidden passageway that led to a dead end. When she walked to the end of the passageway, she pressed a key code and the wall slid back to reveal the Tokyo night many stories above the ground. The wind rustled her hair and the sound of an ambulance siren floated up from the street far below.

She stepped out of her nightgown and stood in the night air in nothing but her bare skin and scales. Her mind focused on the inside of her body and she pulled hard on her bones, tensing her muscles until it seemed like her bones collapsed. It felt funny, like reaching inside of herself with a third, fourth or fifth arm. She reached inward all the way through her back, feeling her muscles and tendons stretch.

The skin of her back deformed, pushing out a large hump until it split, black blood spattering in an arc onto the tile floor of this hall. It hurt, a sharp pain, like hitting your hand on a table or cutting your finger and she gasped and grit her teeth. From the wounds, two beautiful ivory colored bone wings extended their delicate membranes. Nerve signals told her brain that these new appendages were wet and chilly in the night air. They flapped once to shed the blood from them. The wounds they created would close in a few seconds, the muscles stitching themselves into a new configuration.

Her wings were magnificent in their size. Twelve feet in their full span. They were not only covered in fine silver scales but also in tiny, fine hairlike feathers over the veiny transparent membranes. It’s not that she grew the wings. The wings were always with her. The extra bones hid perfectly under her human skeleton in layers. She had hundreds of extra bones like this, a hallmark of dragon kind. Looking at her was like looking at a beautiful female demon, alluring, yet frightening.

Her lungs expanded in the new space made by the bones extending outside her body and she stepped towards the ledge.

Scales crawled themselves over her skin with a soft rattle noise, fitting tightly together like chain mail. These crystalline scales were as good as clothing and protected her from the cold air outside. Her blood heated itself to a higher temperature than a normal human’s to the point where if she were to get wet, the water would rise up in a steam and she would burn human skin.

The long drop to the pavement below was freedom. She leaped from a running start, her wings fanning out like a tent and catching the air with a firm snap, she slid on the current and her muscles contracted to flap once. The feathers provided extra lift and she was zooming straight up from a single wingbeat into the low hanging clouds.

It was like flying through fog but she could feel where the peaks of the tall buildings were from the eddies they created in the wind. People in those buildings might see a swift passing shadow with burning eyes as she flew by and wonder if they had imagined it. In this way she entered and exited Genji Heavy Industries completely undetected, which was important given the dangers she now faced.

Yoko wasn’t nearly as ignorant as she appeared to be. The questions she asked Crow were a cover and a test. She made it seem like she really didn’t understand Hydra and needed Crow’s help to find dangerous men in their ranks. But it was also a test to see how loyal Crow was to those dangerous men. He didn’t completely fail that test. He resisted the idea of punishing people for their evil deeds. He said that Chisei Gen hadn’t done anything about it, but Yoko didn’t believe that was because he didn’t know about it. No one asked Devil Clan members what happened to them because it was easier to just live under the system they directly benefited from.

Yoko turned on her wing tip and nimbly landed. She was familiar with this area. A series of warehouses in the middle of empty fields where she had walked in grief after Chance’s death. An opening in the roof was covered in a metal panel. It should have been too heavy for someone of her build to lift alone but she lifted it easily and slipped inside.

She dropped twenty feet to a concrete floor. Before she even landed, she realized that someone was here, rolled in the air, flapped her wings to escape. A sword flashed by her head and the person wielding it, landed gracefully.

It was a woman in a kabuki wig and white makeup and a beautiful purple kimono. Her thick socks and wooden clogs didn’t impede her movement at all. She dashed forward and Yoko leaned away to escape her strike.

Yoko reached out and grabbed her wrist and tried to sweep her legs out from under her, but this woman jumped, kicked out with both of her feet right in Yoko’s chest and performed a perfect backflip. She reached in her robes and threw out silver blades that pursued Yoko.

Normally, Yoko would have taken cover and wondered who this person was, but she already knew who this person was and there was no use in hiding from her. She charged, her eyes full of challenge. The woman lifted her sword defensively and Yoko skidded to a halt right before she lashed out, the blade missing her by less than an inch. Yoko grabbed the back side of the blade and absorbed a knee to the stomach to seize the woman’s throat. They both went down but the woman was pinned.

“Take that wig off. You look dumb.” Yoko said, standing up.

The woman obliged and the black haired wig was removed to reveal a cascade of blonde hair. “So you’ve finally been able to defeat me. It’s a shame it took you turning into a dragon to do it.” She said, in a cold voice.

“I just have a dragon’s body. I’m not actually a dragon. I’m still me, Zero.”

“My point stands.” Zero picked herself off the floor. “You say that… but it makes no difference because there are dragonslayers after you.” She wiped the makeup off her face. “I don’t know where they’re from, but the alchemical arsenal they brought was impressive.”

“You don’t know where they’re from? They’re not from Hydra then?” Yoko walked to a box and pulled out a shirt from it. She pulled it over her head as her scales receded. The wings were retracting, the bones snapping and deforming back into her human skeleton.

From her contacts at Hydra, Zero was Yoko’s ace in the hole. She didn’t return to Japan with the others, instead, she stayed in Tokyo under the guise of finishing her Internship. In reality, she had been placed there by the request of Z. She knew everyone in Hydra, including members of the Sons of Amaterasu. She was able to get into the meeting disguised as one of the geishas.

“No. His accent was indistinct. He was hiding it. But he was definitely European. He made a contract with the Sons of Amaterasu. They’re not only planning on killing you but Erii. The European man provided the Sons of Amaterasu with woodblocks to disable her.”

“What?” Yoko hissed. “How do they know about the woodblocks?”

“It’s worth investigating. Anyway, I brought you gifts from the equipment department. Your malleable bones make regular clothes a bit hard to wear so I got something for you…”

“That’s … really thoughtful, but what do you mean ‘anyway’! This is insane. First of all, they have to know about Erii… second of all, they have to know Erii had her brain cut…” Yoko walked after the stoic Zero who opened a box. “Someone had to have been working with Herzog… because I killed him. There was no way he survived! Unless he had two body doubles…”

Zero was staring at her, glaring.

Yoko felt a sudden since of uncertainty but then she recovered. “I did. It was really him. It was…” The last of Herzog was eaten by his own Deadpool. There was no sign of Herzog since. If Herzog was still alive he wouldn’t have allowed Yoko to be bitten by the Light King’s parasite.

“Then Bondarev must still be alive.” Zero said slowly, “Here. Try this on. It’s a body suit made of self healing fabric. You’ll be able to shape shift as you like without losing your clothes.”

“Thanks. I’ll have to tell Erii the bad news.” Yoko took the body suit and folded it over her arm.

“Can she handle that?” Zero asked.

“She’s way stronger than she looks.”

#Dragon Raja

[knitting-with-norbert]

Blue Icon of Doom

Thirteen minutes.

The little icon was teasing me, staring me down from its place on my screen.

Sitting comfortably in the corner (as if it couldn’t mock me anymore than it already was it had taken my favourite spot), companionably wedged with the pixelated red heart of Undertale to its left and the achingly familiar grass block of Minecraft below it.

My stomach turned as my phone screen lit up where it lay on the desk beside me. A mountain of notifications marked as unread covered the screen, overwhelming in its reminder of how I failed to maintain conversations.

My fingers fumble the phone, almost dropping it and I squeeze my eyes shut, desperately trying to ignore the twist in my gut and fight back the familiar wave of panic.

Twelve minutes.

When I open my eyes again the three has changed to a two and my throat has gone dry.

‘Might be running a little late – kids still not in bed! Shouldn’t be more than five minutes, though’

The dreaded zoom call, planned just a week ago.

Not dreaded because of the people – no, everyone who I speak to from my course is lovely and caring and so, so understanding.

Or… I suppose it is because of the people. Because I don’t deal well with people. I never have. In a way, I just don’t understand them, I struggle to read them because I’m too focused on trying to follow the correct social etiquette, always so sure that I’m going to mess something up, become a public laughing stock.

Sure that they have formed a secret club and there will be some form of ‘social initiation’ that I will probably fail.

Eleven minutes.

Though, I’m sure I’ve already failed the test seeing as though I can never bring myself to reply to the messages on the group chat.

I so desperately hope that they don’t take my constant silence on there personally. But I can’t explain it to them, I would never be able to find the words to explain how exhausting I find even the smallest amount of social interaction. Or how I could spend hours tweaking my responses to their messages, wanting to make sure that I got the right tone, wrote the right thing, hit the right joke.

How it’s just easier to silently panic over replying than it is to live in fear that I’ve said the wrong thing.

Ten minutes.

I’m sure that the Zoom icon is taunting me.

If it had eyes they would be staring right back at me, boring into my skull, reading my mind and coming up with an abundance of ways it can make me squirm.

Am I still invited to the call?

They haven’t explicitly said that I could come. Perhaps I ought to read between the lines and not turn up. Maybe they took my lack of public response on the matter as my saying that I couldn’t make it or that I wasn’t interested.

Nine minutes.

Maybe in this scenario it would simply be best to tell them that I was feeling unwell and so wouldn’t be able to join them. It would probably be a relief to them – after all, they are all a few years older than me, with real lives, real jobs and real hobbies and a real chance to take what we learn on this course to their futures.

They don’t really want me there.

My thumb hovers over the home button on my phone, ready to unlock it and open the WhatsApp chat to send a message to say I was feeling unwell.

It wouldn’t be a lie, and it wasn’t a lie either the countless times before where I had sent a message saying I was sick so couldn’t complete some of the work or couldn’t make it to some of the other group sessions.

Eight minutes.

But I know that they must think it’s a lie every time I say I’m feeling unwell.

After all, physically I am fine. But I don’t know how to tell them that every conscious moment I am simultaneously exhausted by everything, even thinking of reading a few pages, and yet also completely wide awake, jittering and fidgeting, desperate for my brain to just shut up for a moment.

I close my eyes again, feeling wetness gathering at the corners and I bite my lip to stifle a pitiful whimper. I clench the hand that isn’t holding my phone, finding a vicious comfort in how my ragged, bitten down nails dig into the palm of my hand.

Six minutes

When I open my eyes next it is to find that two minutes have been wasted and three more messages have come through to my phone.

One with the room code and password and link which serve to twist my stomach into knots and clog up my throat and I struggle to breathe.

The next is a photo of two children, tucked into bed. One looks half asleep, eyes looking drowsily up at the person who was taking the photo (the same woman who had been concerned about being late) with a tired smile. The other was far more awake, sitting up in bed and his arm is blurry as he’s moving to grab a book from his bedside table.

The image makes me smile. It helps me to breathe easier.

The final message waiting for me on the group chat is simple, and yet makes all the difference to me as I try to suppress my panic over joining the call.

“I hope everyone can make it this week! I can’t wait to catch up with you all!”

Five minutes

With still shaking hands but renewed assurance I navigated my mouse to hover over the malicious icon.

There’s a few moments after I click it where it doesn’t boot up and I am left with the sudden irrational fear that Zoom itself – the hivemind, if you will – has decided to intervene and save my course mates (my friends?) from having to endure my company.

And then-

Four minutes

the familiar coloured bubbles. The screen welcoming me to the meeting and for a brief moment I can’t remember why I was so panicked about joining as I navigate myself to the ‘join meeting’ button and click it, writing in the room details.

It’s instinctive, the way that my fingers type the name “Freddie”, rather than my full, real name which they all know me by. After all, most of my friends call me Freddie by now and hearing the nickname is somewhat of a comfort to me because of that.

I suck in a breath and try to stop the menacing carousel in my mind, going over every possible outcome of what would happen if I didn’t change it to the name that they knew me by.

Three minutes

I type quickly, erasing Freddie and replacing it with the old, familiar letters and don’t hesitate before ticking the box to turn off my video.

I sit back at my desk chair and wait, chewing anxiously on my nails as I wait for the minutes to pass.

I can’t be early.

I can’t be late.

I’ll click join meeting the moment that 7 o’clock hits so that I can’t be judged or mocked for being early or late, I’ll just be on-time. Reliable, boring, safe and on-time.

Two minutes

I can’t help but worry that my course mates will be able to hear how my leg is shaking beneath the desk. The movement sends tiny ripples across the surface of my now lukewarm tea.

I pick up the mug, cradling it in my hands in the hope that it will be enough to stop them from being able to see how my hands are visibly shaking.

I count to ten, I try to slow my breathing down into something more manageable, something more natural. I try to focus on something – anything else.

The dog zipping past the window as she cases the ball thrown by my laughing brother, the smell from the kitchen and the quiet murmurs and laughter of my parents poking fun at each other. Above me I can hear the footsteps of my older brother, home for the weekend and having turned his room back to normal from the make-shift study I had set up for myself in there.

I consider going to grab a blanket, something to hold on my lap properly, something to curl into and make myself small. But as the thought crosses my mind, my eyes flick to the clock in the corner of my screen and something pierces through my chest.

I’m one minute late.

I type in the password at least three times incorrectly before at last being allowed into the meeting.

Nine faces smile at my entrance, calling out cheerful greetings and “glad you could make it”‘s, some just raising their hands in a wave before they return to the conversation they were already having.

I turn my camera on, hiding myself in the folds of my hoodie but smiling at them all the same, nodding along to the conversation.

And about half an hour in, my heart has finally stopped pounding and my brain has lost its fog and I can breathe again.

(you may be able to tell from this short story that I’ve been having a lot of Zoom calls with my coursemates and as much as I love all of them, Norbert acts up every single time and this is what I go through and I wanted to get it out on the page. Let me know your thoughts and if you’ve had similar experiences with Zoom or anything of the sort! Links to all my socials and website and the like are all in my bio if you’re interested!

Freddie 🐸)

#short story #short stories #mental health #mental health awareness #mental health sucks #mental health stigma #anxiety #anxiety disorder #social anxiety #social phobia #writing #blogging

[honeydewplaydough]

Childish Laughter & Bleeding Scars

Cross posted on AO3 !  Can you guys tell me that Nie Mingjue is my favorite character lol?

What an unfortunate sight he must be, thought Nie Mingjue as he sputtered out blood through fleeting breaths. Coughs shook his whole frame. Suspended by his wrist, he hung mere inches off the ground. If he had been just a couple of inches taller, maybe he would be able to at least rest some of his body weight on the tips of his toes. But for now, he hung bonelessly, arms pulled tight. The pain was a dull ache that spread through the entirety of his shoulders and down to the middle of his back.

Nie Mingjue figured he would have rather suffered the grueling sharp pains of a hundred stab wounds than what seemed like the slow tearing of muscles.

The man leaned his head against the cold of the wall, allowing for at least the merciful kiss of relief on the back of his head. For if the lavish Sun Palace were warmth, the warmth of alcohol, the warmth of bodies pressing together, and the warmth of blood splattering across the floors, then the dungeons were the depths of a winter raging sea.

Deadly. Cold. Merciless.

Another cough wrecked his Nie Mingjue’s body. He had, at one point, attempted to count the days however the only light sources were the unreliable brightness of the lanterns that somehow flickered out on their own free will and left him in periods of darkness that never seemed to end. To pour salt in the wound, the servants also did not feed him in a coherent and a time measurable manner.

To be fair, however, feeding him was a strong word. They brought him scraps of supposed food when they damned well pleased.

And besides, eating the food prepared by any Wen Dog’s hand was not a luxury Nie Mingjue was willing to extend to them.

Furthermore, with his Qi haphazardly sealed, he would not be able to fight off the poison they would inevitably force-feed him once it had entered his body. He would be forced to witness what it would do to his body in full force. Would it make him vomit his intense up? Would it make him lose his teeth and have his gums be raw and exposed? Cause unscratchable itches that would leave him howling like some sort of maddened animal?

He would not let them have a chance to bear witness to it.

The lurch of his body forward strained his muscles and for a moment made him forget about his thoughts. He felt the clot of blood forcing its way up to his throat and down to the ground to where all the blood had trickled down from his chin and accumulated there at his exposed feet.

Worse than that was the blood that laid at his feet did not come from his own turbulent inwards.

It was also so that his body was covered from head to toe in wounds. Slices of varying degrees tore from shoulders down. A particularly nasty one had stretched from belly button to naval. Hundreds of them littered over his body, some of them being calculated slices meant to remove the top layer of skin, skinning him as if he were some sort of vegetable. Others meant to cut down deep and not a single thought was spared to the carnage that the knife took with it when it was pulled from his skin.

He couldn’t say which he had preferred.

All Nie Mingjue could do was simply hang there in silence as various torturers used his body as their canvas. Each one of them probably hoped to be praised when their Sect Leader came back from the battle he had so leisurely attended.

Just thinking about the man-made and anger run through his veins. The man that had slain his father in such a meticulous way that no blame could ever be put on to him. The man that bought our mercenaries to come and hack away at his borders, causing him both inconvenience and weeks of little sleep.

The man that haunted his dreams starting from his youth to adulthood.

Let it be known, however, that if Nie Mingjue were to see that bastard face to face, he’d kill him. He wasn’t twelve anymore. He’d face him like the man that he was and would take his head back to QingHe. For himself. To prove to himself that his youth was not a waste. That Wen Ruohan could not harm him anymore.

He would show the head off to his people. To not only to inspire them, that it was possible to shoot down the sun and conquer evil, but that as long as he stood here alive on this earth, he would always protect them.

An offering for Lan Xichen. To show him that there was nothing to be afraid of. That Nie Mingjue would move mountains, conquer the sun, and show him that he was worthy.

Revenge for Nie Huaisang. Former Clan Leader Nie had been both their fathers. He had smiled down at them all the same, had picked up Nie Huaisang, and had held Nie Mingjue by the hand. He told them stories of ole underneath the starry nights.

Nie Huaisang had loved their dad too.

To bring him the head of the one who killed him, would show that Nie Mingjue would protect him and would make do on the promise he made when he was still just a youth.

He just hoped that his little useless brother wouldn’t try and turn into something it was not.

‘Oh, da-ge! Why must I work so tirelessly out on the field every day if one, the war is over, and two, you’ve already shot the son out of the sky! If anything, now is the perfect opportunity to laze around! Discover new hobbies, pick up an ancient craft! Who knows, maybe by the end of summer, I’ll become a talented flute player. One that will shake the entire cultivation world and seize them up by their necks!’

Nie Mingjue let out a snort, as he pictured his brother saying it. It sounded close enough to him and he couldn’t help but let out a small smile at the thought. The thought of his useless, no good, weak little brother being safe at night.

It was then, he heard a shuffling of feet from behind the entrance to his personal hellhole. He rolled his eyes, cursing the cowardice of the poor bastard. Was he not restrained? Were they transporting him somewhere? No, the last time they had tried that, he had needed at least seven Wen Dogs to drag him down the halls.

He tried to contain his snort at that memory.

It had caused Meng Yao to lose face, even if it was just other Wen Dogs of slightly lower rank, and that had made the beating he received earlier a bit more worth it.

But at the topic of hand, he was starting to get annoyed. What kind of grown man or woman shook like that? Did they not have the upper hand? Were they some poor servant here to dress his wounds?

Nie Mingjue was annoyed.

He had been slightly fevered and the ache in his shoulders and his back were only worsening. Whoever it was, Nie Mingjue couldn’t care less. Be it Wen Ruohan himself or a scrambling slave of a slave. They should at least have some face!

“I know you are there, you Wen Dog! Stop shuffling like a coward and face me,” Nie Mingjue snapped out.

The shuffling and rustling of robes paused for a moment. And a few steps were heard. For some reason, the more that Nie Mingjue paid attention to the noise, instead of it barely passing through his ears and onto his brain, he realized that the person had tiny feet. The pitter-patters of steps caused great confusion.

Had they sent down a small child to torture him? Had they sent a little servant boy to dress the wounds and toss down his scraps? What was he doing here?

“Doggie?” Came the small voice.

Nie Mingjue furrowed his eyebrows. The child did not sound over the age of three years old. What game were those bastards playing? What kind of monster sends down a child? Had it not been Nie Mingjue and the boy had come closer to another war criminal, he was still little enough that he could simply be kicked out of the way.

Suddenly, the boy was standing in front of him behind the bars. One hand was gripping the bars as he plastered himself against them.

“I… The Doggie?” He asked excitedly pointing to himself. He looked to be searching for something on Nie Mingjue’s face, “Woof Woof!”

#nie mingjue #nie huaisang #wen rouhan #meng yao #jin guangyao #fanfiction #mo dao zu shi #lan yuan #lan sizhui #a-yuan #the untamed #mdzs #fic writing

[9r7g5h]

Her Little Garthy

Fandom: Fantasy High

Rating: K

Genre: General

Summary:  In which a previous Ayda gains her child.

Words: 2097

Disclaimer: I do not own Fantasy High.

AN: So, Garthy specifically stated that they were from Zajiri celestials, and they’re a half orc. While Ayda could be their bio mother, Ayda has also said in her notes that she hasn’t been in love with anyone for at least the last three lifetimes, spanning the last 150 years. Garthy is nowhere near that old, and Ayda is half phoenix, not related to the Zajiri at all, while Garthy also exhibits no bird-like features. So, best conclusion is adopted families and with the cuteness of Jawbone adopting Adaine, this went ahead and popped out as well.

Ayda Aguefort legitimately wasn’t used to people being inside of her library. Other than Roland, who she had hired many, many years ago as a young man, it was common for her to pass her many days reading and writing and studying without seeing a single other soul. Silence, broken only by the sound of her quill on paper and the rustle of pages, the occasional thunk as she dropped a book back into place, her hands getting a bit too old for the larger of them.

It was nice, in a way. She was old, early fifties by her count, as inaccurate as it was, since she didn’t have an exact date of her last reincarnation. The person she had hired, according to her notes, to take care of her had skipped out when she was young, leaving Roland for the task he was woefully unprepared for. But he had taught her to read and write and use the magic within her, all the things her absent father should have done, so she was grateful, to him and for the silence. She knew she was off, knew something about her seemed strange to others, and so she accepted and enjoyed the silence for what it was.

Except, now, there was an orc woman standing in her library. Clearly suffering from exhaustion, weakened by some unknown affliction Ayda would have to study later, and, most obvious and concerning, coated in blood both her own and not. Her clothes were tattered, clearly showing signs of the fight she had most likely been in just a short while before, especially since her sword was still dripping blood onto the wood of Ayda’s library.

She was also cradling an infant in her other arm, another thing that intrigued Ayda, but that would have to wait for further examination.

“Please,” the orc woman said, holding out the infant to Ayda. “Please, take her.”

Ayda had had very little interaction with children in this life, though a previous one who had made children of various species their subject of investigation had left incredibly detailed notes. So she knew how to cradle the child’s head with her elbow, keeping the infant face up so it could breathe, the runes on her arms flaring slightly to produce the extra heat something so small would most certainly need.

It was so tiny. Fascinating.

“Do you require assistance?” Ayda asked once she had made sure the child was secure, her mind content that said task was complete. “I am not a healer, but I can escort you to-“

“No,” the orc woman said, even as she unsteadily lowered herself to the floor. “No, please, just, let’s just stay inside. No one will bother us here.”

Ayda wanted to ask what the orc woman meant, but there was also part of her that could take a very well-educated guess as to what she was talking about. Ayda was considered weird here on the Leviathan, an anomaly, a magic user amongst all of the pirates that focused on swords and their primitive miniature cannons. Sure, there were some pirates that knew a bit of magic, enough to call up a wind to fill their sails, or those druids who were trying to grow a garden on the north western side of the city, but nothing like her.

There was nothing like her anywhere.

Except, to an extent, the infant she was now holding in her arms.

It was clear the child was a celestial, probably from one of the angelic fiends that inhabited orcish religions. Zajiri, if she had to take a guess, though she would have to reexamine the child and compare the brief mental notes she had taken to the books she knew she had, second floor, twelfth row on the left side of the library. Maybe she could convince the mother to let her borrow the child for a bit, later, when she wasn’t slowly leaking a large puddle of blood.

“Are you sure you do not require assistance? I am available to help if you require it.” For, of course, a fair and reasonable price, but Ayda had been taught to not bring that up when someone was in obvious danger. It was rude, and could potentially hold up events that needed to happen at a quicker pace.

Still, the orc woman shook her head.

“No, I’m alright,” the woman said. She took a few deep breathes, placed her hand over her lower stomach, and the puddle of blood stopped growing as a low light glowed from her hand. A healer, then. “I just needed somewhere safe to rest for a bit.” She stopped for a moment, looked at Ayda. “I’ve heard what you can do. What kind of person you are. Figured you wouldn’t hurt a baby, and could maybe help ward off those who would.”

Ayda gave a jerky nod of her head, adjusting her arm as her shoulder started to feel sore. She disliked violence, though she was well versed in quite a number of spells to protect herself and her library as necessary. She had actually just been working on one a short while before, to help with the unraveling of someone’s very essence. A work in progress, but it showed promise.

“Your child is a celestial.” A statement, though perhaps with the slightest bit of a question behind it.

“As are you,” the orc woman said back, giving a small shrug. “Don’t know what you are,” she added, “but mine at least isn’t a bird.”

Ayda gave a squawk of laughter, finding humor in the orc woman’s statement, she following with a chuckle of her own shortly after.

“It’s funny, because I’m only part bird, and your child doesn’t seem to have any bird within them,” Ayda explained, the orc woman giving a nod at her explanation. No other words, but still the nod made her feel warm inside, at least for a moment. “Is that why you came here, because of our shared heritage from the celestial realms? If you’re looking for information on your child’s legacy, I could be of some service.”

A shake of the head, the orc woman’s previous brief smile disappearing. “You’re strong, right?”

Another jerky nod from Ayda.

“Strong enough to protect a baby, if anyone should try to harm it?”

Another jerky nod, though this one with confusion.

“I am not sure why anyone would try to harm a child, especially in the presence of a wizard, but if you need my help keeping this one safe, I would be happy to help. Do you require this assistance?”

“Good,” the orc woman said. After another moment of sitting, she forced herself to rise, Ayda rising with her, not even aware of when she had sat on the floor to be face to face with this strange orc woman, the child still in her hands. “Look,” the orc woman continued, stretching out the soreness in her muscles that remained even after the healing, “there some asshole out there, James Whitclaw or some shit, who wants to eat my baby’s brains. Kidnapped me from my ship when the word got out that I was birthing something special, thinks it might help him become king or something someday. I’ll be damned before I let that bastard touch that skull, but I’m badly outnumbered. I won’t ask you to come with me, but no one will try to take my baby from you here. Will you watch her until I come back?”

Ayda paused for a moment, looking down at the child in her arms. Sleeping soundly, maybe a few hours old, still wrinkly and that weird newborn orcish green before it settled into its permanent shade.

“Will you allow me to research your child during this time, until you return for it?”

The orc woman snorted and nodded her agreement. “Thought you might say that, from what I’ve heard of ya.”

“Then by the seven seas and the twelve stars and the nine hells, I will care for your child as my own until you have returned to claim it.” Ayda’s runes flared as she spoke her oath, the orc woman satisfied with that response.

“Let me see her real quick then,” the orc woman said, holding out her arms. Ayda was careful handing the child over, watching curiously as the orc woman sniffed the infant’s head, held it close to her chest, and placed a quick kiss on its forehead, causing it to coo and murmur in its sleep.

A brief pang of jealousy, that Ayda quickly forgot about as the child was returned to her care.

“Garthy,” the orc woman said as she reached the door, not turning back. “The babe’s name is Garthy O’Brien.” And with that the orc woman was gone, sword on her should, prepared to go make the world a safer place for her child.

Ayda leaned down as the door closed shut and sniffed the infant’s head, her eyebrow raising as she smelled the strange scent the newborn gave off. Not the various odors one expected from a child, pleasant but not overly so. Fascinating.

“Well, Garthy,” Ayda said as she headed towards the stairs, shifting the child in her arms to a more comfortable position, “I have promised your mother that I would care for you as if you were my own. While I have never had children, as far as my knowledge of my past lives allows me, you are now legally mine until your mother returns. An hour? Maybe two? That should be enough time for me to study you, get a sense of your origins.”

At some point during her statement, one of Garthy’s large eye slid open, looking up at Ayda with sleep and curiosity in equal measures. Curious pupils, a wonderful color, just hinting at the mystic within the child, just waiting to be found.

Ayda leaned down and kissed Garthy on the forehead, the child quickly lulled back to sleep by the warmth of her runes, safe and warm until its mother returned.

***

Ayda Augefort legitimately wasn’t used to people being inside of her library. Other than Roland, who she had hired many, many years ago as a young man, it was common for her to pass her many days reading and writing and studying without seeing a single other soul. Other than, of course, her child, Garthy. A health ten years old, if she had to guess, though half orc aasimars weren’t her specialty, they were happy to spend their time sitting with her in her library, handing her the books that her hands were too old for, taking notes for when her eyes were beginning to fail her.

She hadn’t been the best of mothers, of course. She had been woefully unprepared for the challenges of raising a child, especially one that had been left with her by an orc woman in the middle of the night, once for the child to be left for what Ayda had to presume was the rest of their lives. The orc woman had never come back, and knowing the Leviathan and a smattering of statistics, it was highly unlikely she ever would.

But Ayda had taught Garthy how to read and write and how to use the magic within them, had learned to cook more then just a basic sandwich to feed her new child, and had even considered reaching out to Arthur to let him know about his new grandchild, though she had lost the nerve just before she had. So far she had given them all of the love that she could, in her own strange way of showing it, and Garthy was happy and healthy and seemed to be doing alright.

And by the seven seas and the twelve stars and the nine hells, until the day her next reincarnation was to come, she would make sure that was the case. She loved her little child, the small creature that had so quickly grown from the squalling infant, her little Garthy, and even in her next life, she would make sure that Ayda loved them too.

(And she would, even without the notes reminding her to love Garthy with all her heart, to love her child she couldn’t remember, Ayda would love them. Because Garthy would teach her how to reach and write and use the magic within her, and would love her with all of their heart, and even before Ayda could do so, as Garthy picked her newborn form out of the ashes, Ayda would love them.)

#Fantasy High #Ayda Aguefort #Garthy O'brien #Dimension 20 #fanfiction