#Apparently you can make mead out of honey and I love honey so of course I have to try it

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

I kind of want to try making mead or ambrosia 👀

Obviously not right now because I have Shit To Do; but maybe during the summer after I’ve moved

#alcohol mention #Apparently you can make mead out of honey and I love honey so of course I have to try it #I want to make more food from scratch so I can reduce my plastic consumption #because my ten-year goal is to convert to a completely anticapitalist zero-waste lifestyle #Just for me… I don’t put pressure on anyone to do the same unless they’re well-off and being ridiculous about their consumption #Except for maybe encouraging people to switch to reusable water bottles if they’re in an area where the tap water is potable #(like where I live) #or flaunting my canvas shopping bag that I got for 5 dollars at a hardware store whenever possible #Okay I guess I do push people a little bit #But it’s all reasonable things directed at people I know are physically mentally and financially able to do those things #or I’ll just casually mention microplastics and pollution in conversation as a “fun fact” #But I’m not ridiculous about it with anyone but myself #I hold myself to some weird standards that I don’t hold others to and I’m fine with it #Obviously it’s the corporations’ faults that everything is the way it is and no single person can make a huge difference #But if everyone does one thing to help the planet; then it might buy us some time to change the system #There is also the issue of supply and demand; if more people reduce plastic intake then less plastic will be produced #But again: it’s very hard to be ethical in this society. EVERYTHING enjoyable is packaged in plastic and it sucks #(ok not literally everything but consider: most candy is wrapped in plastic and clothes have plastic tags and chips are in plastic #sushi is in plastic containers and meat is in shrink wrap or styrofoam and most modern chewing gum is a byproduct of vinyl #toys are packaged in plastic etc. etc.)

[jaceyneedsabetterusername]

Broken Down (Pt.1)

Pairing: Arvin Russell x F!Reader

Summary: When your car breaks down on the side of the highway, you’re picked up by a kind couple who apparently have a thing for picking up hitchhikers, judging by the boy in the back seat. What started as a ride turns into a horror story. 

Warnings: NONCON ELEMENTS (it’s Carl and Sandy and if you are reading this, you’re damn well aware of what they do - no full on rape though! Just noncon touching), murder/ serial killers, being held at gun point, description of blood and violence, typical Carl and Sandy stuff

Word Count: 7.2k

A/N: There are parts of this that are from the movie directly and I do not claim to own those parts. All other original parts are mine though!

Part 2 out now!

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It was no secret that Sandy was unhappy with her life with Carl anymore. She wasn't quiet about it- not even to him. Any logical person would think that she'd be scared to tell her serial killer partner that she was tired of killing people but she wasn't sure if she cared about the outcome anymore. She already felt dead inside. 

"Carl, I'm done." 

"C'mon, Sandy. It's not that bad." Carl tried to convince his partner, looking over at her from behind the wheel. 

Sandy scoffed sadly, "I don't like when they cry." 

"But they take the best pictures," Carl responded insensitively. They drove on in silence for a while down the highway, ever consciously looking for their next victim. "You know what? How about we try something new, huh? We can try to make this next one a little more interesting." 

Sandy rolled her eyes and stared out at the landscape as it blurred past on their trek along the highway. That wasn’t what she meant and Carl knew it. She didn’t want to make things more interesting. She wanted out. She knew it was no use arguing, though. Carl always got his way. 

**

You stood at the edge of the road, thumb extended as the occasional car passed by, to no avail. Your car sat dead in the turn out behind you. Your duffel bag was laid down on the ground by your feet, your dark blue floral skirt blowing against the material when the breeze blew. Of all the roads to break down on, it just had to be the one in the middle of nowhere Ohio - West Virginia border where almost no cars drove past. It was beginning to get dark and your nerves were starting to fray at the thought of being stuck in the woods alone at night. 

Finally, a car drove up to you and you waved your hands to get their attention, put on your nicest smile, and stuck your thumb out. The vehicle slowed to a halt beside you and you saw three people in there, a woman driving, a man rolling his window down to talk to you, and a young man in the backseat. "What's a sweet girl like you doing out here stuck on the side of the road?" The man questioned with a smile. 

"My car broke down and I just need to get into town to call a mechanic." You gestured back to your old yellow Ford that had started acting up a little ways back. When you pulled over to take a look at it, it just wouldn't start up again. 

He looked over at the pretty blonde lady driving, giving her a look you couldn't see but she returned one that you couldn't quite read. The man turned back to you with a smile, “Well we’re dropping this fella off in Meade but I’m sure we could drop you in the next closest town. Shouldn’t be too far if you’d like a ride.” 

A smile spread across your face, “Thank you so much.” You picked up your duffel bag and hustled over to the side of the car that was bordering the road, sliding into the seat when you threw the door open. 

“What a good day for makin’ new friends, huh, honey?” The man said chipperly before turning around to look at the two of you in the back seat. “What were your names?” 

“Y/N.” You answered warmly, glancing over at the boy beside you who sat stiffly, his jaw clenched tightly. You’d assumed he was with the couple but it seemed you may have been wrong. 

He swallowed after a brief pause, his eyes widening in fear for a moment, “Arvin, sir.” 

“Well, Arvin and Y/N, it’s a pleasure to meet you two. I’m Carl and this is my wife Sandy.” He patted Sandy on the shoulder and she gave him a small forced smile. Trouble in paradise, you thought. “Where you from Y/N?” 

Your hands laid prim and proper in your lap, holding your skirt down from the breeze from Carl’s rolled down window, “Just a small town not too far from here actually. Barren Springs? Not many people have heard of it.” 

“Can’t say I have,” Carl shook his head. 

Arvin chimed in for the first time since you’d gotten in the car, “I've been through there for work before.” 

“Yeah? You live nearby?” You asked, looking over at him. A blush heated your cheeks at the site of the handsome young man. His curly brown locks were messily pressed down against his head from the baseball cap that he had curled up in his lap. 

Arvin just nodded a little when he made eye contact, “Coal Creek.” He swallowed hard, before his eyes darted away from yours and bounced off every moving object he could see.

“Oh, nice! I’ve only ever driven through it on the way to my grandparent’s house but it’s a cute little town.” You chipped, waiting for a response from Arvin but he only gave you a curt nod and fidgeted his hands along his legs. A thick silence settled over the car for a moment and you cast your gaze away from the attractive boy down to the mechanism that allowed the driver’s seat to adjust on the ground of the car, suddenly feeling like you overstepped with Arvin with your seemingly innocent comment. 

“Looks like you’re set for a trip. You leaving or coming home?” Sandy asked, looking at you through the rear view mirror. 

“Comin’ home,” You responded, replacing that polite smile and slightly higher voice you did when speaking to strangers, “A friend of mine from high school moved to Blacksburg with her sweetheart. I just went out there for their wedding.” You smiled at the memory of their ceremony. It was one of those marriages that you just knew was meant to be. 

“Awe, I just love weddings.” She said dreamily, gazing nostalgically out across the road. 

You smiled and made a small noise of agreement. At the thought of weddings, you couldn’t help but let your mind wander to the idea of marrying the man sitting beside you. It was silly, you knew, fantasizing about marrying a complete and total stranger. Barren Springs didn’t have many good suitors to pick from and you had yet to make it out on your own into the world. It had been a long time since you’d been physically attracted to anyone as strongly as you were attracted to Arvin. Besides, you weren’t fantasizing about marrying him, per se, but more so just having a wedding with him. The thought of seeing him so handsome and dressed up and the way his eyes would sparkle with adoration when he saw you walk down the aisle in your dress. It was ridiculous! You could have laughed at yourself. You just wanted to think that maybe there was some possibility that he thought you were half as beautiful as you thought he was. 

After some time driving in silence, with you sneaking many glances at the man sitting beside you, Carl spoke up, “Oh shit, my old billy don’t work like it used to. I’m gonna have to pull over and take a leak.” He trailed off, looking over at Sandy with a smile. She gave him a sharp look but slowed down. You wondered just how often of an inconvenience this must have been if she seemed so annoyed by the request. “Is that alright by you two?” He asked a little louder, directing the question at you and Arvin. 

You and Arvin both got strange looks on your face, finding it strange that he felt the need to ask if he could use the restroom. “Sure,” Arvin muttered. 

“Yeah, of course.” You added, eyes flicking between the man and woman up front. 

“There should be a road up here on the right,” Carl directed Sandy, “Little further. Little further. Slow down. Right here.” The car slowed and rolled to a stop, rocks crunching beneath the tires. “This is good.” 

You craned your head to watch the main road disappear a few dozen feet behind you and your nerves perked up. Arvin must have noticed the way you sucked a deep breath in, louder than usual, because he glanced over at you with a look in his eyes that told you that your sudden uneasiness was not unfounded. You watched as his eyes shot back and forth between the couple and then around at your surroundings. 

You began to pick at the hem of your dress. Hitchhiking was something you tried to avoid at all costs and managed to do so successfully until this very day because the idea of getting in a car with a stranger made you nervous. You knew that in all likeliness, Carl probably was just going to use the restroom and then return and you’d be on your merry way. The little indecipherable looks he and Sandy kept shooting each other didn’t escape your notice though. 

“I won’t be long.” Carl reassured, opening the door and stepping out. As he did, his jacket lifted and you saw the pistol tucked in the waistband of his pants clear as day and your eyes widened in silent panic. 

A lot of people own guns out here, you tried to rationalize but it still didn’t sit right with you. None of this did. A rock the size of Texas sat heavy in your gut and you had an extreme urge to get as far from here as possible without raising suspicions. For one, it would be extremely awkward if you were wrong and you were freaking out over nothing. On the other hand, if they were planning to kill you, it could speed up the process before you could think up a way out of it. 

You glanced over at Arvin and it was clear that he had noticed the gun as well because his jaw clenched tightly and his eyes followed Carl like a hawk watching a rabbit. Your hand slid across the seat and you nudged his leg, nodding ever so slightly towards Carl with wide implying eyes. Arvin breathed deeply and nodded, having seen exactly what you had seen. It was validating to know that Arvin didn’t feel right either but it was also even more unnerving because it meant the likelihood of danger was more likely. 

Arvin rolled the window down to watch Carl more clearly and Sandy shifting up front drew your attention. You looked up to see her absentmindedly trying to light a match for the cigarette that hung between her lips. Finally, she got it lit and brought the flame to the tip of her cigarette. You watched her do this with intent, so much so that you jumped when Carl leaned through Arvin’s window and loudly announced, “Damn. That’s gonna be one fine sunset. You have to be patient with me while I get a few shots off. Hon, give me the key.” 

He must have noticed the uncomfortable looks on yours and Arvin’s faces because he reassured, “Don’t you worry none. We’ve got some hooch in the back and… well, you got two pretty ladies with ya.” Carl raised his eyebrows at you and his partner before looking back at Arvin with a wink, “And Sandy’s good company.” 

You fidgeted uncomfortably at the way Carl added that last part, not liking the way his tone implied certain things. Sandy turned around to shoot the pair of you a smile, one that both of you returned with a hard swallow in an attempt to not show that you were highly suspicious of whatever the hell this was. Your gaze went back to Carl, where the keys made a bulge in this back pocket and your heart fell at the sight. Those keys were your only chance of getting out of here. 

The back of the car opened and you turned around to watch Carl retrieve a camera and a blanket, the gun still firmly in his waistband, before walking up to the side of the car and opening the door. Arvin flinched and looked over at Carl who motioned outside, “How ‘bout we all share a drink over this beautiful sunset. What y’all think?” 

Your voice came out shaky, “Thank you but I don’t drink. It might be best if we get headin’ out sooner than later though. My ma’s expecting me home soon and I don’t wanna worry her.” Whether or not your words were lies was a moot point. Getting out of the car just felt like a bad move. 

Carl shrugged, “Well, then, you can just watch the rest of us share a drink then. And don’t you worry. We’ll be on the road soon enough- just as soon as the sun sets. Your mama shouldn’t be too worried. Now why don’t you two come join us.” This time, it didn’t sound like much of a question. 

Sandy had thrown her door open and stepped out onto the earth outside, slamming the door shut. You were surprised when she opened up your door and leaned against it, “C’mon, hon. You don’t have to drink any. Wouldn’t wanna miss such a pretty sunset, though, would you?” 

With a partner on either side of you, you and Arvin looked at each other, knowing neither of you had a choice but to get out of the car. Reluctantly, you stepped out and walked around the back of the car towards the clearing that Carl was now leading Arvin too as well. He laid out the blanket on the ground and gestured for you and Arvin to sit down. Sandy followed shortly after with a mason jar full of a light peach liquid. She unscrewed the cap and took a swig straight from the jar, “I made it myself out o’ some strawberries I grew back home.” 

“The best stuff in Ohio. My girl’s got a real gift.” Carl winked at his wife, who handed him the jar. He too took a sip before passing it to Arvin. Arvin just shook his head before murmuring a polite decline. Carl tsked, “C’mon boy. Don’t wanna hurt my wife’s feelings.” Arvin’s jaw tensed before he slowly took the strawberry hooch from your host and tilted it till the liquid touched his lips, though you couldn’t quite tell if he actually let any of the liquid enter his mouth or not. 

He handed the jar back to Carl, not offering you any and you wondered if he was trying to respect your comment about not indulging in alcohol or if he was trying to keep you safe. Regardless, you were grateful. Carl raised the jar towards you, offering it silently, but you put your hand up, “Thank you but I’ll have to pass. I’m sure it’s delicious though.” 

“Alright, suit yourself.” He said with a shrug, taking a sip himself before screwing the lid back on and setting it on the blanket. 

Sandy came to sit just beside you and Arvin on the blanket, looking up at her husband who was still standing. “Wouldn’t they make a cute couple, Carl?” She pondered out loud and you couldn’t help the blush in your cheeks at the thought. Arvin shifted beside you, most likely feeling just as weird about the comment as you did. 

“Now, Sandy, no need to make the poor kids uncomfortable,” He chided lightly, turning around, “But, y’know, this is a real nice picture. Do y’all mind if I take a few shots for posterity’s sake? I mean, seein’ as we probably won’t see each other again after today.” 

Before you could answer, Sandy was already scooting in close to Arvin and forcefully initiating a pose, “Alright, now you,” Carl pointed at you, “Scootch in just a little closer.” Your arms shook as they lifted your body enough to move a few inches closer to Arvin. “Perfect. Now everyone smile.” You tried your hardest to force a smile but you couldn’t get one out that was worth any photo. 

Carl stood up, as if he was in thought, “I’m a photographer and I would love to get some posed shots if y’all wouldn’t mind. Now, Sandy, why don’t you step back for just a moment while we get these two together. Good. Now, Arvin, you put your arm around her- good! Just like that.” 

Arvin awkwardly placed his arm on the ground behind your back, just close enough to look like the two of you were leaning into each other. Carl pulled away from the camera with a smile, “Sandy is right. You two would make a cute couple. Now, Sandy, why you don’t hop back in there. Perfect.” 

Carl paused for a moment to ponder his next pose, “Now, Arvin, why don’t you lean back and touch my wife. Y/N, I want you to kiss him while he does it.” 

The instructions slipped from his lips with such little reservation that you were convinced you misheard him for a moment. The man had been fairly polite thus far, if not a bit odd with his quips and pryingly friendly remarks, so the bluntness with which he just told you and Arvin to perform semi-sexual acts on each other and his wife took you off guard. “Excuse me?” You shrank back, ripping your body away from Arvin and Sandy with a velocity that almost jolted you.  

When you did, your hand grazed a large patch of skin that had previously been covered with her fuzzy cheetah print coat. You whipped around to see her sitting behind you in nothing but her underwear and you quickly realized that you had grazed just beneath her bare breast. “What the fuck!” You jumped, moving away from the nearly nude woman. 

Arvin jumped when her hand rested on his shoulder and moved away as well, looking between the man and woman who clearly saw nothing wrong with what they were doing. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on here but we’re leaving.” Arvin pressed with a firm voice, standing up and offering his hand to you, pulling you up to almost be tucked into his side, his hand staying on your arm protectively.

Carl looked at him like he was some naive boy. “Boy, I’m giving you the opportunity to fuck my wife and that beautiful girl over there while I take pictures. You’re a damned fool if you turn this down.” 

“You guys are sick. I will not be having sex with anyone here today!” You exclaimed indignantly at Carl’s implication that you were going to be just fine with this. 

The older man looked over to you and waved his hand with a cocky knowing smirk. “I’ve seen you lookin’ at ‘im the whole drive. You’re tellin’ me you don’t want to make love to this boy right here? And what about my wife? You ever been with a woman?” Carl asked, eyes flicking back to Sandy, who wiggled her breasts and gave you a comforting look that told you she would help you through whatever experience you may have lacked.

You found yourself stepping backwards, away from Arvin even. Your head shook, a boiling mixture of terror, rage, and embarrassment burning inside you, “I-I-I already told you. I ain’t doing no-”

Words failed when Carl reached behind him and pulled out the gun you’d noticed earlier, pointing it right at your chest, “Now look, I hate pointin’ a gun at a pretty young thing like yourself but I’m gonna shoot you if you don’t start doin’ what I say. You and my wife are gonna give this boy the best time of his life and I’m gonna take pictures while you do it. That’s it. You understand?” 

The world around you seemed to freeze while you stared down the barrel of his pistol. You couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t talk. Sandy moved closer to you, her lips coming to your neck in a gentle kiss that made your skin crawl. A single tear rolled down your cheek while you stared at the gun that was still pointed at you, Sandy’s hand moving to brush your hair off your neck so she had more access. There was nothing you could do. If you made any move to shove her off, he’d shoot you. If you made a move to run, he’d shoot you. If you tried to knock the gun out of his hand, he’d shoot you. All you could do for the time being was let Sandy do what she would until you could find the right moment to disarm Carl and get the hell out of here. 

She looked up at Arvin with sultry eyes over your shoulder, “C’mon, Arvin. You ever thought about being with two women at once before?” 

Arvin swallowed hard as he watched how you sat with tears welling in your eyes, trying your hardest not to break in this impossible situation. He stood in seething anger and fear, his heart breaking a little when your hands snapped up to grab her wrists as her hands crept around your front and unpopped the top two buttons of your blouse. 

There was a click from Carl cocking the pistol and he took a step closer to you, “I told you I would shoot you if you don’t start playin’ along. This is your last warning. You’re testing my patience, girl.” Your legs were nearly giving out on you when Sandy popped open another two buttons, your bra clearly exposed for everyone to see. Your shirt was unbuttoned as far as it could go before disappearing into the waistband of your skirt where it was tucked in. 

 Arvin looked away from your exposed upper body, not wanting to make you any more uncomfortable and violated than you already were. Suddenly, there was a small flash and the click of a camera and Arvin snapped his focus over to Carl to see him snapping pictures of you, half nude and trying not to fall apart. A coil of pure hatred had been building in Arvin since the first direction of sexual acts but now he was on the verge of tackling and killing Carl right now with his bare hands. 

When he looked at you, eyes clenched shut now and silent tears pouring out the corners, he could see Lenora. Both of you were just fearful girls being taken advantage of by someone with too much power. He couldn’t save his sister but maybe he could save you. Arvin could feel his father’s Luger in his pocket but he wasn’t sure if he could draw it and shoot Carl before he could pull the trigger on you. His father’s words came back to him. Wait for the right moment. 

Carl whipped his head over to look at Arvin and snapped at him, “I ain’t askin’ again, son. Get in there and start touchin’ those girls!” Carl took the gun off you for just a moment to point it at Arvin and encourage him to approach you and Sandy. 

Now, it wasn’t that Arvin had no regard for his own life. The last thing he wanted to do was die, especially after how hard he’d had to fight his whole life, but he was more willing to risk getting himself shot than you. His hand had been gripped around his pistol in the pocket of his denim jacket, just waiting for the right moment to get the two of you away safely. In a second, he cocked the gun and drew it quickly, firing sloppily in Carl’s direction. 

Two gunshots rang out. 

You screamed, thinking that Carl had just murdered Arvin before your eyes and that you were next. Your eyes were clenched shut until you noticed Carl seethe in anger and pain, “Fuck! Fuck you boy!” And then multiple more gunshots. 

This time, there were no more groans of pain, only the heavy thud of Carl’s body on the ground. His gun fell to the ground when his hand loosened and you dove for it, snapping out of Sandy’s grip. You landed hard, your bare chest and abdomen scraping painfully against the sticks and rocks when your body slid against the rough ground. You grabbed the gun and turned to point it at Sandy, who had also procured a gun from God knows where and had it aimed right at you. You didn’t hesitate.

Again, there were two bangs. 

You fell back after you fired off your shot and in your panicked state, you couldn’t tell if you’d been hit, your arms had given up supporting your weight on the ground, or if the recoil from the gun was that intense. 

There was the sound of another body hitting the ground. 

Arving rushed to your side, falling to his knees and inspecting you for immediate signs of physical distress. “Are you okay? Were you shot?” 

Your hands ran all over your body, trying to feel for any signs of being shot. You couldn’t feel any part of your body right now, the adrenaline distorting your perception of pain. Even the large bloody scratches on your chest, breasts, stomach, arms, and knees weren’t causing any discomfort at the moment. You shook your head, “I- I don’t think so. Were you?” 

He shook his head, helping lift you to sitting, “No-no, I’m alright. We need to get out of here though.” 

Your knees were shaky as you tried to stand up but they almost gave out on you when you saw the dead bodies on the forest floor. Carl had been shot three times, twice in the chest and once in the arm. Sandy was already pale with a bloody entrance wound in her throat. 

“Oh my God… we killed them.” You were nearly hyperventilating, stumbling backwards. Arvin walked with you, holding you up until you stopped moving. 

“They were gonna kill us. We had no choice.” He held you tightly by the shoulders, looking straight into your teary and panicked eyes. 

“The police ain't gonna believe that.” Your entire life just crumbled to pieces before your eyes, all because you hitched a ride with some strangers. 

Arvin shook his head, “That’s why we gotta get outta here. Leave ‘em. Don’t tell anybody about what happened.” 

His words sunk in and you nodded in agreement. The honest part of you wanted to tell the police. Maybe they could help you but you knew that there was an equal chance they’d lock you up for murder as well. You couldn’t risk it. Running was the only option. 

Carl’s gun was still in your hand and once you realized it, you wiped it down on your skirt before placing it back in Carl’s hand. “What’re you doin’?” Arvin asked, watching you meticulously place it as if it had just fallen in place. 

“Makin’ it look like a murder-suicide. They can’t pin it to us if it don’t look like they were just murdered.” You explained, leaving the gun in his hand and taking a few shaky steps back as you stared at the corpse. You couldn’t believe you were doing this. You had never imagined yourself shooting anyone let alone fixing a crime scene to get away with murder. This was an extreme situation though. You had to shoot Sandy and Arvin had to shoot Carl. They were going to kill you two if you didn’t kill them first.  

Arvin noticed the way your face had noticeably paled and how your eyes were glued to Carl’s body and the splatters of crimson liquid that pooled on his shirt and dripped onto the earth beneath his body. He stepped between you and Carl’s body and put his hand on your shoulder, the other gently on your face. His beautiful face blocked your view but you still struggled to fight the tunnel vision. “Hey, look at me. Look at me!” He urged, his grip on your face getting ever so slightly more firm when he noticed your eyes try to dart around his frame to see the body again. Arvin wasn’t hurting you by any means, just trying to keep you focused on him. “You did what you had to do, ya hear me? They was gonna kill both of us. You ain’t done nothin’ wrong. Now we just gotta get outta here, okay?” 

You swallowed hard and nodded, your eyes squeezing shut tightly for just a moment to ground yourself. In your brief moment of meditation, you tried to focus on anything to ground you but the only calming thing you could process was Arvin’s comforting hands on your shoulder and face and the way you could feel his gaze still on you with so much concern and determination, even with your eyes closed. 

When you opened them again, you breathed out, “Okay.” 

Arvin glanced down and noticed the thin trails of blood that were starting to dribble down your torso from the deeper scrapes and at first reached out to button your shirt for you but hesitated, his hands shrinking back when he realized he wasn’t sure whether that was the appropriate response. You flinched back a little when he reached for your top out of pure instinct but quickly relaxed. You glanced down, just now noticing that your shirt was still unbuttoned. “‘M sorry, I just…” You trailed off, unsure of how to explain your new reaction in light of the trauma you’d just gone through. Your fingers nimbly began to button up your shirt but you hissed when the fabric tightened around the copious lesions. 

“No, it’s alright. Here, take my jacket.” He was already shrugging off the denim jacket before he finished speaking. 

You put your hand up, clutching the opened fabric of your shirt together in your hand in front of your chest instead of buttoning it properly, finding this way you could keep the fabric from sticking to your wounds. “I can’t take your jacket. I don’t wanna get blood on it.” Arvin’s eyes followed yours until they landed on the small spots of blood already seeping through your thin blouse. 

Without allowing you to protest, he slung in over your shoulders, engulfing you arms and all. “It’s fine, really. I insist. You can’t go walkin’ ‘round all exposed like that. I can try to help you clean up if we find any rags.” 

You sighed when the fabric covered your arms and his scent engulfed your senses. Yet again, you found yourself numb to the world, if only for a second, but this time because all you could experience was Arvin Russel. Tunnel vision made him your only view and all you inhaled was the scent of clean musk, wet earth, and the faint scent of car grease. “Thank you.” You whispered, gripping onto the open sides just enough to keep the garment from slipping off your shoulders. 

Arvin just nodded reassuringly before wordlessly taking off towards Carl and Sandy’s car. You followed curiously. He searched around frantically and, while you were unsure of what he was looking for, you were curious to see what he’d find. For the most part, there was nothing out of the usual, until he came across a roll of film in the glove compartment. With trembling hands, he unrolled the small canister and looked at the negatives. “Oh my God-” He trailed off in horror. 

“What is it?” You asked, reaching for the film. The images nearly made you throw up. Even though they were difficult to see because they were only negatives, it was still fairly clear what they were. Pictures of men and Sandy filled the roll but they got progressively more violent and graphic, sexually and gorily. At first, they were just sitting together but then Sandy was topless in the next one and then they were kissing in the one after that and then the man would be naked in the following. Eventually, there’d only be a pool of what you assumed to be blood where his genitals should have been before finally just shots of a motionless bloody corpse that used to be whoever that poor man was.  

“Shit… we were next, weren’t we?” You asked, images of you and Arvin facing this same kind of torture flooding your mind and making your stomach churn. The guilt you had felt for shooting Sandy was melting away and you actually felt almost glad you and Arvin had ended this pair of monsters. They couldn’t hurt anyone else the way they had brutally slaughtered these other men. 

“I think so. Fuck, there’s a bunch of ‘em.” Arvin pulled out at least four other canisters, too scared to open them. It was safe to assume what they were photos of and you really didn’t want to see anymore. 

Your hands shook so much you could barely keep your grip on the negatives, “We need to give these to the police. If we prove they were serial killers, maybe they won’t send us to jail. It was self-defense.” 

Arvin really did appreciate the fact that you so badly wanted to be good and honest. Killing people wasn’t easy and he was pretty damn sure you’d never done it before. Hell, before today, neither had he. Maybe it would be easy for you to get off without any charges if you came clean but he was sure the police would be looking for him for killing Preston Teagarden any moment now. The note he’d left for his uncle and grandma back home was pretty much sure evidence that he was the murderer. If the two of you went to the police, he’d be practically turning himself in. He couldn’t do it. 

“I-I can’t go to the police. I can’t tell you why but I can’t. If you want to go to the police, you can’t tell ‘em I was here. Tell ‘em you was by yourself.” Arvin looked up at you from where he sat in the passenger seat. 

You looked down at him, realization dawning on your face. “You did somethin’, didn’t you? That’s why you were hitchhiking. You were runnin’ away.” 

Arvin got quiet and looked down at the ground where your white shoes, now scuffed up from the encounter, made contact with the soil and leaves that covered the ground. He shouldn’t tell you the truth but for some reason he really wanted to. There was an energy radiating off of you that felt safe and understanding and maybe he shouldn’t trust you but gosh did he want to. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he answered, still avoiding your gaze, “I- I didn’t want to but… he hurt my sister real bad.” 

Your silence scared Arvin. He shouldn’t have opened up, especially to a girl that was practically a stranger. Being nearly killed by a pair of serial killers creates a strange bond between two people though. Arvin’s heart stopped beating until you finally spoke again. “I believe you. It’s okay.” 

The surprise was clear in Arvin’s scared eyes when he finally looked back up to you. You didn’t look scared of him like he had feared. You actually looked almost sad for him. 

Inside, you were. Arvin Russell was a good man - you could just feel it. From your brief but intense experience with him today, you could tell that he was a kind, polite soul but there was clearly a fire that burned inside him, an urge to protect those he cared about. You had seen first hand that he was more than capable of protecting himself and others, even at high stakes… and now so were you. You were no different than him now so you were in no position to judge for what he may have done. 

“If you don’t want to go to the police, we won’t. We can get as far from here as possible and keep this our secret.” You assured, uncomfortable by how comfortable you were with the idea of running from the law.

Arvin took a moment to try and figure out the next step. Whatever it was, it needed to happen fast so you two had enough time to put space between you and the crime scene. He thought to the next closest town and groaned, “What’s wrong with your car?” 

“I don’t know. It just started actin’ up while I was drivin’ and when I pulled over, it wouldn’t start up again.” You thought back to the vehicle, which still sat on the side of the road no more than three miles back.

Arvin stood up from the passenger seat and you stepped aside so he could have some room. “I know a little ‘bout cars. It might not be too bad a fix. Walkin’ back and fixing up the car wouldn’t take as long as walking the next ten or fifteen miles to Falksville.” Arvin was right. You were right between Coal Creek, where apparently Arvin was on the run from, and Falksville, the next town over. It would take hours to walk there. 

“Alright,” you agreed. You walked to the backdoor and opened it to grab your duffel bag, handing Arvin his bag as well. Before the two of you started your trek back to your car, you couldn’t help but look back at the crime scene - the two dead bodies lying motionless, knowing you did that, the way that you had manipulated the scene, the way that you were running away with Arvin to literally flee the police. The weight of the situation weighed on you with a heavy sigh. 

A hand rested on your shoulder, “We did what we had to.” You tore your gaze from the scene, the image burned into your memory for the rest of your life. It was difficult to argue with those beautiful brown eyes that looked at you like you were someone he genuinely cared for, not like you were the stranger to him that you actually were.

You stood up a little straighter, cast one more look over at the scene before turning around to face the road. “I know.” 

**

The walk took almost an hour and neither of you tried to hitchhike your way there. Once you arrived, you attempted to clean your wounds with a pile of napkins you had hidden in your glove compartment and a water bottle while Arvin tinkered under the hood of your car. it didn’t take long for him to figure out the problem and with the help of the tool set your father insisted on you keeping in your trunk in case of an emergency (like this), he was able to get the car up and running. 

“Alright, try it now.” He instructed from under the hood. You sat in the driver’s seat, turning the key in the ignition whenever Arvin instructed to see if the car would turn over. You twisted the key again and the car struggled at first, the pulsing mechanical sound of the car trying to turn over tearing through the quiet woods. Just as you were about to admit defeat this round, the roar of the engine came to life and just like that, your car ran again. 

A big smile spread across your face and you jumped out of the driver’s seat to stand beside Arvin, both of you looking down at the engine beneath the hood. “I can’t believe that worked! Thank you so much!” 

Arvin reached up and shut the hood. “It’s no problem. We should get goin’ though.” 

You nodded in agreement, “Where do you need a ride to?” 

He thought for a moment. Arvin wasn’t quite sure. He had been hitching rides to Meade so he could see his old home but you weren’t going anywhere near that way. He didn’t want to ask you to go so far out of your way but then it occurred to him…. “Where are you goin’?” 

“Back home. My parents are expectin’ me home tonight but I can give you a ride where you need.” You answered as if it were obvious. The best way to act normal was to do exactly that: act normal. 

Arvin chewed his tongue, “You don’t live too far from here. It might be easy to link you to the crime if they catch you.” He didn’t want to scare you but he also didn’t want to see you get locked up. 

You rolled your eyes, “If that were true, they’d have to suspect every person in a thirty mile radius. It’s illogical for the police to single us out. You can stay at my house for a few days, if you need.” 

Arvin just shook his head, “I got some things I gotta do. Look, I really think you should get away for a little while so they can’t connect you to the crime but I understand if not. If it’s not too much to ask, though, would you mind possibly given’ me a lift to Falksville so I can hitch a ride there? I ain’t got much money for gas but-” 

“I ain’t lettin’ you hitchhike your way to Meade. Not after what just happened. I can give you a ride there.” You leaned against the hood of your car and looked up at him sincerely. 

“You sure? What ‘bout your parents? Ain’t they expectin’ you?” 

You just shrugged, “I’ll call ‘em in Fawksville and tell ‘em I decided to head up to Meade for a few days. Shouldn’t be a problem at all. That way I can give you a ride up to Meade and then you can take the bus there to wherever you wanna go.” 

“That’s real kind of you. Thank you.” His hands twitched in his pocket, wanting to reach out and hug you but physical affection had made Arvin nervous ever since his mother got sick. 

You nodded your head back to the car, “Hop in. We can head out and get as far as we can tonight. Either find a hotel or we can switch off when we get too tired.” Arvin listened and wordlessly slid into the passenger seat. 

The two of you drove off into the night, the stars beginning to shine brightly in the lightless woods. You weren’t quite sure what your life would be like now and neither was Arvin. There was blood on your hands and there would be a constant paranoia that one day the cops would catch up with you and throw you in prison, even if you ran away like Arvin had suggested.

And then there was Arvin. Handsome, altruistic, and brave, you were bonded to this stranger by the horrors you had endured and the blood you had shed. Though the two of you were strangers, there was a closeness that you felt to him that seemed impossible to feel with anyone else- a bond between survivors that would always be there, even if you never saw each other again. Something told you that this man would be a salient figure in your life, though. 

As you drove off down the highway, the only sound being the faint crackling radio, you tried to leave the horrors of the road behind you but there was a feeling in your gut that this was far from the end.  

#Arvin Russell #arvin russel imagine #arvin russel #arvin russell x reader #arvin russel imagines #arvin x reader #arvin russel x y/n #arvin russel x you #arvin russel x reader #tom holland #tom holland imagine #tom holland one shot #tom holland x you #The Devil All The Time #tdatt #tdatt imagine #tdatt fics

[blackestnight]

12: the ordeal of

Prompt: Free day

Word count: 3139*

*technically the doc I submitted for the challenge has 2162 words, because I started this fic months ago and used today to kick my own ass into finishing it. This is the full version.

Follows The Honor Of and Caesura, and like, I won’t force you to read those or anything, but this will make a lot more sense if you do.

“What do you mean,” Alisaie snapped, her flagon striking the tabletop with a dull thunk, “You’re getting married?”

There were drops of cider decorating her chin, and Hanami considered telling her to wipe her face. Sighed instead.

“I do not know what else I could mean,” she said, dull, her voice muffled by the rim of her own mug. She took another sip of mead—made with honey from Il Mheg, apparently, almost sickeningly sweet, but without something to occupy her hands she’d go back to fiddling with the unfamiliar weight of her ring, and that had already gotten her into trouble once, hadn’t it. “Sit down.”

Too late to avoid making a scene. Hanami hunched her shoulders and shifted in her seat at the round of whispers that rippled behind her back, just audible over the rush of water below the Wandering Stairs.

“Well!” Thancred said, and when Hanami glanced up it was to see him offering his own cup in a toast, ignoring Alphinaud in the next chair bodily pulling his twin into her seat. “I suppose we ought to offer our congratulations, then. I can truly say I never thought to see the day when you would reform into a family woman.”

Hanami opened her mouth, ready to remind him of his own history with romance, but he yelped before she could, and across the table Y’shtola settled back into her chair. “What Thancred meant to say is that we are all very happy for you,” she said. “I am sure that our friend will be glad to tell you so once he recalls his manners.”

“‘Tis indeed a most joyous announcement,” Urianger added, with a tilt of his own glass. At his elbow, Ryne seemed almost starry-eyed, clutching her cup of cider in both hands.

“I’ve never been to a wedding before,” she admitted, shifting forward in her chair to rest her elbows on the table. “Who are you marrying? What are they like?”

They were—aside from Alisaie’s outburst—all speaking...not quietly, but certainly not loud. With the noise from the other patrons and the swell of chatter from the Musica Universalis below, it was entirely possible that they hadn’t heard Alisaie either. Still, though, Hanami swore she felt a prickle down the back of her neck, the physical weight of observation, and fought the urge to hunch her shoulders. “His name is Aymeric,” she admitted, hesitant in the face of Ryne’s eagerness, of the Scions’ naked stares.

Fuck, but this was exactly the kind of fuss she hated.

(Not like it was a secret, her and Aymeric, not like the Scions didn’t know, even if she’d never told them in so many words. If they hadn’t guessed from the way she’d drifted back to Ishgard, after slaying the shade of Nidhogg for the last time, they’d each certainly figured it out by the time Aymeric had found her in Castrum Oriens, after Zenos’s slaughter at the Reach, to kneel by her bedside and press fluttering, damp kisses into her sweat-crusted hair. They’d never bothered to hide it. Never been ashamed. But there was a difference between loving a man and screaming it from the rooftops, and the business of her heart and her bed was her business. Not anyone else’s. She’d never been the kind to turn her emotions into a spectacle anyway.

...not the pleasant ones, at least.)

“Caracal got your tongue?” Thancred asked, punctuated by another swig from his glass. “Alphinaud, help the lady out, you’ve known the good ser just as long. Gods know trying to get decent gossip out of this one is harder than getting a sore tooth from a goobbue.”

Hanami couldn’t tell whether Alphinaud’s flush was from the mug of cider or from the effort of subduing his equally tipsy twin, but he perked up while Alisaie fumed into her drink. “Of course!” he said, turning to Ryne. “Ser Aymeric is quite a prominent figure in our world—on the Source. Not only is he the Lord Commander of the knights of the Holy See of Ishgard, but following the conclusion of the Dragonsong War, he was unanimously elected to the position of Lord Speaker of—”

Ryne’s bright curiosity was quickly being overwhelmed by a dawning frown of confusion. “I believe Thancred’s aim was for information of a more personal nature,” Y’shtola said, with a wry grin. “Not a dossier.”

“Oh.” Alphinaud seemed to deflate a bit, which would have had Hanami fending off a smile if she weren’t desperately wishing for the tile floor to crack open and swallow her. “Well, I wouldn’t say I know him personally. As a representative in the Eorzean Alliance it does of course behoove me to maintain a professional working relationship with Ser Aymeric, but it’s not as though I stop in for tea or anything.”

She almost snorted; even if Alphinaud made more frequent personal visits to Ishgard, she could almost guarantee they would end up turning professional, if only because he and Aymeric couldn’t be in the same room for more than a few minutes without debating politics or theology or philosophy or the-kami-could-only-guess-what. She still remembered with agonizing clarity the way the two of them had chattered during the entire climb up Sohm Al; eventually she had left them to it so she could scout ahead for Horde patrols in peace and quiet, since the two of them would not be sneaking up on anything with the way they carried on like a pair of grandmothers over a game of mahjong.

Thancred leaned over, one hand raised to the side of his mouth in a stage whisper. “By all accounts, the man’s completely smitten,” he said, clearly just to make Ryne laugh at the price of Hanami pressing her own fingers to her brow bone to massage her temples.

“You are worse than a fishwife,” she snapped.

Thancred shrugged, shameless. “If you aren’t going to give us the juicy gossip yourself, I for one am more than happy to continue embarrassing you.”

Hanami readied to snarl something distinctly unkind at him, but Urianger—for once—decided to throw a damper on the beginnings of their fight. “Mayhap a more constructive discussion is in order,” he said. “For how long hast thine arrangement been in place? Since your return to the Source?”

Hanami forced herself to let a slow breath out through her nose. Dates. Concrete facts. Still more scrutiny than she wanted, but doable. “No,” she said. “Since the trip we took, before the Alliance meeting in Ala Mhigo. Right before this mess”—she twitched her fingers to indicate the Stairs, or the Crystarium, or Norvrandt generally—“started.”

She didn’t realize her mistake in admitting it until Alisaie coughed into her mug again, and Y’shtola raised an eyebrow. “Which, if I recall correctly,” she said, “was before any of us had been brought to the First. Yet this is certainly the first I have heard of it.”

Alisaie inhaled; Alphinaud jerked in his seat and she cut off with a hiss. Hanami wondered whether her own patience or her companions’ toes would snap first.

“I was going to say something,” she muttered. “After the meeting. But I was busy, and we decided to wait until we knew if anyone would wake up. So it is not like it mattered.”

The mood at the table had turned distinctly somber—apart from Alisaie, who remained indignant. “It didn’t matter?” she said. “Even if you had no immediate plans for a ceremony, and even if you were too busy to say anything while we were in Ala Mhigo or the Stones, there were moons between the first summoning and the last! Did it never occur to you that those of us who remained on the Source might have liked to hear the news? So that we might celebrate something happy for you, as your friends?”

That was the point, she almost said. She didn’t want a celebration with the Scions, didn’t want a party or a fuss or the unending, insufferable questions—she had to deal with enough of that from Ishgard; it was already exhausting having her private life disassembled and twisted around like a puzzle box, having strangers take what they thought they knew of her and try to fit it into what they thought a good nobleman’s wife should be. She would take happiness on her behalf, but not at the price of being put in a case and gawped at like a creature on display in a menagerie.

She already gave enough of herself away, sacrificed her name and her deeds to the grinding wheel of the public. Let them have the Warrior of Light. With Aymeric, though, she could just be herself, and having that picked apart hurt like a fresh wound.

She didn’t realize she had begun to grind her teeth until Alphinaud said, “I think that’s enough, Alisaie,” and his sister settled back with a huff.

With minimal stumbling, Thancred made a comment to Y’shtola about a tea blend from the Greatwood that was gaining popularity in the Crystarium, and the others seized on the new topic like dogs chasing a cut of meat. Hanami remained silent, taking token sips of her over-sweet mead, until she finally claimed a headache and excused herself.

—

She had just finished steeping her tea—brought from home; green tea wasn’t drunk in Norvrandt, and she hadn’t realized how fiercely she would miss it until she’d gone nearly a year without—when the silence of her room broke with a gentle tap-tap at the door.

Briefly, she debated the merits of just ignoring it and pretending to either be asleep or in the bath. The lamps were turned up, though, and in the wake of the knock she heard a shuffling of feet and a familiar irritated grunt, so she sighed and abandoned her cup to get the door.

(In her pajamas, which she chose to feel spiteful about rather than embarrassed. The cotton shorts and oversized unbuttoned shirt were perfectly decent, at least with the loose camisole underneath, even if it didn’t cover her stomach. It was warm enough to get away with, though, and she would take the chance to enjoy not getting her scales caught in seams while she slept, and that was what they got for interrupting her so late at night.)

It was sort of funny, watching Alphinaud go pink about the ears and immediately take interest in the doorjamb—as though he had never seen her in sleepwear before, honestly—while Alisaie blinked in shock and Ryne gasped at the scar that stretched from Hanami’s left hip in a diagonal nearly to the top of her ribcage.

“Yes?” she said.

Alphinaud recovered his dignity first, to his credit. “Thank you for answering, despite the late hour,” he said. “We simply wished to extend our apologies for earlier. We continued to press you for information even when you made your discomfort clear, and we came to express how sorry we are for doing so—didn’t we.” This he punctuated with a pointed look at Alisaie.

To her credit, she only shrugged. “Yes. I especially owe you an apology—I was quite short with you. I...shouldn’t have let my excitement get the better of me.”

Ryne began to wring her hands when she spoke up. “And we’re sure the others are sorry, too. We didn’t mean to make you leave the party, we ought to have listened.”

Oh, bless these children, Hanami thought, so fiercely that she needed to swallow before she could respond. “Stop apologizing for grown men,” she told Ryne, because it was painfully clear which other she meant. “If you try to say you are sorry for every time Thancred has pissed me off, you will be standing here until we are both old and gray. Come in already.”

They filed in like a row of obedient ducklings and arranged themselves around the little table while Hanami set the kettle back on the stove. Her neck prickled again with the feeling of being watched, but that only made sense—as a rule, she didn’t invite people to her suite, aside from ghostly invaders. Alphinaud had lived with her at Fortemps Manor for much of their time in exile, but Hanami realized with a jolt that by the time Alisaie had taken up residence with the Scions, Hanami had mostly been staying in Ishgard—with the Fortemps family, sometimes with Sidguru and Rielle, and as the moons went on, more and more often with Aymeric. And of course Ryne was mostly under Thancred and Urianger’s care. Likely none of them were used to seeing her so dressed down.

It was her private life on display again, but it rankled less, here in her domain.

“He is an elezen,” she said, pouring hot water into the spare teacups and leaving them to warm while she returned the kettle to a lower flame. “Aymeric. I do not know if I said so earlier. Though I suppose that would be ‘elf’ to you.”

When she looked over her shoulder, Ryne’s eyes were wide again, her hands folded in her lap. “Urianger told me,” she admitted, sheepish. “We talked about him a bit more after you left. Only a little, though.”

“To that point,” Alphinaud added, before Hanami could make herself upset over Urianger having anything to say, “I actually...well, I suppose it’s rather embarrassing, but I haven’t seen Ser Aymeric myself in over two summers—from my perspective. I tried for a sketch, for Ryne’s sake, but I would not feel confident speaking for its accuracy.” With that, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a little palm-sized notebook, letting it fall open somewhere in the middle and holding the pages flat with a thumb.

Hanami left the stove to cross to the table and peer over Alphinaud’s notebook. She didn’t know the first thing about portraiture—she could draw, but her skill lay in technical drawings, reproducing patterns and laying out schematics. Drawing people was an entirely different thing. Even so, the little sketch was obviously good—she could see scrapped attempts scattered across the facing page, stray pencil marks and half-finished outlines of a face, but the completed version was easily recognizable. There were details that took her by surprise (that Alphinaud had drawn Aymeric unsmiling, and without the jewelry he so often wore on his ears, or that the angles of his nose and jaw were slightly wrong to her familiar eye) but given the speed with which he must have drawn it, and the miniscule size of the canvas, it was remarkable.

“That is him,” she said, and watched Alphinaud grin with relief. “You have a good memory.”

(There was a thought. Borel Manor was lined with portraits of generations of Viscounts and Viscountesses, watching over the hallways and mantlepieces like sentinels from beyond time. She had even seen the painting of Aymeric’s parents on her first visit, both of them fair-haired and dark-skinned and looking nothing like the toddler perched in his mother’s lap. An anniversary gift from his father, Aymeric had told her, lovely and flushed at her seeing his childhood immortalized in oil paints. Alphinaud really was remarkably skilled, and she could still see Dulia-Chai’s delighted grin at her own portrait. Maybe a wedding gift.)

“He’s very handsome,” Ryne said, kneeling on her seat to lean over the table.

“He is,” Hanami allowed, and returned to the stove, emptying the cups and pouring clean water to test the temperature with her finger.

Alisaie rested her chin against her hand, leaning in with a conspiratorial look. “He’s so polite, too,” she said. “I almost ever saw him when we weren’t in awful meetings, but every time it was all ‘Mistress Alisaie’ this and ‘Madame Leveilleur’ that. Hells, the first time we met—well, I hardly remember it, I think I was bleeding on someone’s embroidery, but apparently he had me taken straight to the captain of the Ishgardian Knights’ medics. Told them I was his personal charge and everything. I’m not sure he even knew my name.”

Hanami frowned at the memory. The whole evening was tangled in so many emotions—satisfaction, even comfort, at Borel Manor, and frustration at being interrupted before she could take the chance to get what she wanted, and fear for Alisaie. Anger, hot and metallic as blood on her tongue, at the so-called Warriors of Darkness.

How times had changed.

How she had changed, too, in her comings and goings—in her adventures that took her from Ishgard and her respites that brought her back. And Aymeric, always Aymeric, patient and constant as the shore, who welcomed her with open arms and tender words. Handsome and kind, yes, and devious when he wished to be, faithful to a fault and so doggedly hopeful of a brighter future that he worked himself to the bone. Who loved his city in a way she could never understand, and loved her just as much, and made sure she knew it. Who made her believe she could be the person he saw when he looked at her. Who was home, now, in a way she had been sure she would never have again, after her self-imposed exile. In a way she had been sure she wouldn’t want again. Who waited for her, always. Who knew her down to her heart, as only he could, and who adored everything he saw, against all reason.

Well. Maybe not all reason. She knew his frustration, his selfishness, his fear, his rare temper, and she cherished them. They made him Aymeric, not any Lord of Ishgard, and made him hers. The world could have his politeness, but she got to have all of him.

Her stubborn, handsome, idealistic fool of a man. When she turned to press her nose into the collar of the shirt she could still smell his soap, and it settled her nerves in a way no tea could manage.

To think she’d get to steal his shirts for the rest of their lives. Legally, even.

The water was still too warm, so she looked back at the table. Ryne was smiling in amazement, glancing between Alisaie and Hanami in open wonder, while Alphinaud had left his book open on the table and had his hands in his lap, looking ready to continue the story of Alisaie’s rescue at the slightest provocation.

“Did Aymeric ever tell you that your bleeding on Edmont’s couch interrupted his trying to court me?” Hanami said. “He even had a dinner with candles and everything. That is why I was dressed up. He had been planning it for at least a sennight.”

Alisaie seemed delighted by this new information, and Ryne pressed one hand against her mouth to cover her grin. Hanami shook her head and gave up on the tea entirely, moving to take her place at the table.

#ffxivwrite2021 #final fantasy xiv #oc: hanami hagane #s: a minor justice #alphinaud leveilleur #alisaie leveilleur #ryne #and #aymeric de borel #as ser not appearing in this fic but shhhhhh. #...is already a tag i have used? #alright. #HOLDS MYSELF AT KNIFEPOINT. WRITE WEDDING CONTENT YOU FOOL #IT'S BEEN MORE THAN A YEAR #writing - mine

[g--r-e--e-n]

Of herbs and riddles Pt.1

Pairing: GN! MC x Satan.

Content: Fantasy AU for Obey me! MAX that was supposed to be posted as a whole but I can't fully finish it on time so at least have this :')

Warnings: It says hell at some point but I'm not sure if that's a swearword. Pretty sure anything else is not worrying, please tell me if you think otherwise so I can properly tag any sort of danger away!

(Edit: Apparently says "hell" several times. Sue me or something, I'm already crying either way.)

"Good morning, sir!" You cheerfully welcomed the young man crossing your apothecary's door. "How may I help you?"

He smiles softly, reaching the counter and looking you with the most beautiful piercing eyes you had ever seen.

"Good morning to you too." The man greets elegantly, his golden hair reflecting the candlelight filling your modest shop, the morning sun still to weak to allow the flames to die as they had been made to. By his clothes and the softness of his long and slender fingers, you soon understood he was one of those few big fishes passing by this small pound that your village is. "My dear brother has gained quite a wicked heartburn after a rather copious dinner. I was hoping you would have some remedy for his condition."

"Sure thing, sir!" You gladly answered. You loved your work as much as it was possible, and having such an interesting customer was definitely a plus, specially since foreigners were known for their generous tips. "Let me see..."

You begin wandering around your store, the magic candles now dying to let the soft sun come through the window.

The young blonde man stared quietly at you, following you quietly and looking over your shoulder towards the dried leaves and small bottles. He had seen many in his books, old as time itself, yet memorizing all of them would've been imposible within a mortal lifetime. However, instead of jealous, he felt mesmerized. There were little things he admired as much as knowledge, and you were filled with it.

Getting his head our from those thoughts, you turned around with some little bags.

"Give him a cup of chamomile tea and root of Ginger, he shall be fine sooner than a cock sings. If he's not, come over again and I'll give you a special bred of tea I'm working on." You started walking towards the counter again, closely followed by your customer and the smell of the herbs. "Giving him something to chew on rather than eat could help him too, if you feel on a rush."

"Thank you" He absentmindedly replied, the jewels in his eyes lost in the little bags you handed over, a slight hope blossoming in your chest. He said nothing about being unable to come again, so perhaps he was a newcomer rather than a traveler. "How much?"

"Two pieces for the root, the rest is on the house" you replied, keeping your smile as you handed the goods over. "After all, you're new here, aren't you?"

Your client stared at you, taking the plants and handing you the money ever so graciously you felt like you had met an angel. Four coins weighted down your hand.

"That we are." He softly said, a smile to his face. "My older brother came for a gig, he was the main wizard in the neighboring village, but he soon fell in love with this land of yours and made all of us tag along."

There was something this guy wasn't telling you, you just knew.

"Are you a wizard too, sir?"

"Not quite. I'm just a librarian." He vaguely answered, shrugging. "And I better get home before my brothers begin to grief me."

You let go a soft laugh, as he flashed you another of his smiles, turning his back to you, hand waving in the air as his silhouette.

"Wait!" You stopped him. You needed his name, something, anything, and you didn't even know why.

"Yes..?"

"... Don't let him drink milk. Makes it worse."

He laughed a bit, saying something you didn't quite want to hear, too embarrassed. What the hell had just happened?

You sighed, trying your best to keep on working, sorting your material and attending the folk with a smile brighter than the sun itself.

You had made yourself a name thanks to your knowledge, being one of the few fools to dedicate your life to science when magic was a thing. Nobody would've betted anything on you, but here you were, healing people better than any witch ever could, knowing by heart every plant that grew around your hometown.

It had been hard, but you felt like you were living a good life. You felt happy with your own situation, and after the librarian's visit, you could barely keep your heart from bouncing in excitement, hoping to meet him again.

Your chance, of course, took you fully by surprise, way sooner than expected.

It had been four days, and you were about to close after a pretty exhausting day of work when the librarian entered the place, any complains dying on your throat at the sight of his worry.

"Good evening sir, are you alright? Is it your brother again?"

You walked over to him, concern painted all over your face, but not daring to invade his personal space.

"No. Yes. What you gave me last time worked marvelously. It's not that." He sighed, closing his eyes for a second. You could see the dark skin under them. "It's other brother, actually. He's a reckless young man, and got himself in a fight. His condition is not serious, but he keeps on complaining about the scars that might be left in his face. Do you think you could help him?"

Oh. So his brother was that one idiot that tried to get away without paying from the butcher. God, you hoped he wasn't too bad.

"Yes, sure, one second." You nod before looking from plants again, his gaze fixed upon them as last time, making you somehow nervous. Perhaps a little conversation could help, while you grab the herbs. "So... Have you been sleeping fine, sir? You seem rather tired to me."

You slowly turn around, some bottles resting in your arms, softly clinking against each other as you walked towards the counter.

"I'm reading a book full of riddles." He admitted, feeling oddly at ease withing your little shop. "This far I've solved them all, yet there's one that I can't quite lay my finger on."

You start mixing substances, peeling carefully some aloe.

"Well, why don't you tell me the riddle? Maybe I can help you out."

The librarian stared at you in disbelief. Did you really think you could solve something he didn't?

Of course, he didn't really want to refuse, and would much rather see you fail by yourself.

"Sure thing" he says with a smile, his eyes shining dangerously. "I am valued by men, fetched from afar, Gleaned on the hill-slopes, gathered in groves,

In dale and on down.

All day through the air,

Wings bore me aloft, and brought me with cunning

Safe under roof.

Men steeped me in vats.

Now I have power to pummel and bind,

To cast to the earth, old man and young.

Soon he shall find who reaches to seize me,

Pits force against force, that he's flat on the ground,

Stripped of his strength if he cease not his folly,

Loud in his speech, but of power despoiled

To manage his mind, his hands or his feet.

Now ask me my name, who can bind men on earth,

And lay fools low in the light of day."

You rise an eyebrow, sealing mixing your little beverage with as much energy as you could gather.

"Sir, you must be kidding me. How could not figure that out?" You questioned, staring at the liquid to check it's colour and quality. "It's mead. Honey mead, they make some at the monastery up the hill. At times I use it to make some of my beverages taste nice, it makes any biter taste disappear."

The librarian blinks a couple times. He had thought wine to be the answer, which apparently was a close call, but whatever you were talking about didn't really ring a bell.

"It's an alcoholic beverage, right?

"Never tried it?" You were rather surprised, really. He looked like a fine man, one of those who would attend hundreds of fancy dinners. How can he not know his liquors?.

"My brothers don't like me drinking." He admits, a defeated smile to his soft lips. "I pretty much stick to tea most of the time."

"At least it's healthy!" You smile at hin, handing the mix. "Here you go, sir. It's oily and a bit thick, the onion extract might itch a bit, but worry not, it'll work perfectly. Rub it against any mark your brother might have left and it will soon be gone. If the mark happens to be darker than his skin, cut a lemon in two and rub it against the wound."

"Thank you." The blonde man smiled cheerfully, your conversation very obviously pleasing him. You had no idea how close he was to ripping the book's pages apart because of that damn riddle. "How much?"

"Two coins shall suffice, sir!" You handed him your gooey mix, receiving five whole coins in exchange. Your eyes wide . "Sir, I beg your pardon, but isn't this a bit too much? You already paid me double last time!"

He shakes his head gently.

"Two for the medicine, two for the riddle, and one for humouring me. What is it but fair?"

He messed up your hair before you could complain, soon heading home to his brothers, leaving the fire grow on your cheeks, too stunned to even close the shop as you were supposed to.

You couldn't help but find yourself hoping to meet him again, waiting for another three days to go by. Your dear librarian, however, took very little time.

In two days, he was already in front of you again, while you attended your neighbor's cuts, not allowing yourself to get your attention from the poor man no matter how handsome your new favorite customer was.

In a few minutes, your neighbor had already paid and waved you goodbye, happy as ever. You couldn't stop yourself from smiling like a fool, loving your job, before finally paying the librarian some attention.

"Good afternoon, sir! How may I help you today?"

"It's one of my brothers" he said, to none of your surprises. Honestly, he must be wasting a fortune in helping them. How many brothers did he even have? "He's been failing asleep during his shift at work, through his studying lessons, and I'm afraid he'll end up sleeping his days away. Would you be able to help me?"

You nood, soon heading to fish some herbs, as always followed by the tall man and his cryptic gaze. You didn't even know his name yet, but something about him felt like meeting an old friend.

"You know, I usually would give you some green tea, but..." You softly smile, pulling something from the bottom of your shelf before facing the young man, showing him your little treasure. "A friend of mine likes to travel. At times, he brings me this to help me whenever I feel tired or sick. I'm not exaggerating when I say it makes miracles! It's called Siberian Gingsen, but you might as well call it the holy grail. Just please remember to keep the dosage small and preferably during mornings, unless you want your brother to stay awake all night. "

Your customer nods, listening closely.

"Your brother does not have any heart issues, does he?" You ask, slightly ridding off your excitement. "We could try something else then."

He softly shakes his head.

"No, don't worry. That little brat is surprisingly healthy seeing as how he spends his days doing nothing." He sighs. As much as he enjoyed Belphegor's company, at times it was a bit worrying. No human should sleep this much without being considered dead. "How much is it?"

You stare at the Gingsen, struggling a bit. You had never thought of actually selling it, but it's not like you needed it anyways, so that's not really a reason to rise the prize. Still, it's an imported good, right?

You sigh, realizing you needed an assistant more than you'd like to, before going back to your default smile.

"Two coins shall suffice, sir!" You gifted him a smile Satan knew he would not forget in some days now. Despite his blush, he handed you four coins. "Sir, please..."

"Two for the remedy. Two for... Going to the fair tomorrow?" His words surprised you, and even if you tried your best to hide it, you were red up to your ears. "I heard from some villagers you don't usually frequent that sort of events, so I really won't mind it if you decline, but... I think we could have a nice time there."

His gentle, genuinely caring tone softly melted your heart, sweet as belladonna and just as dangerous.

You didn't really have a life aside from the shop and, at times, the market. All your free time was spent diving between pages, looking for all the information you could gather, and something in this almost stranger's eyes told you he wasn't really a party kind of person. God, ge didn't even know honey wine.

"Sir, I... I don't even know your name." You mumbled, confused, not used to how blunt this gentleman was, not even moving his eyes, calling yours like light calls a moth.

"Oh. Right." He said, faking surprise, not really willing to admit he liked being called "sir" ever so politely, fairly sure it would ruin the whole mood. "I'm Satan. A pleasure to meet you..."

He expectantly looked at you, and soon you gifted him your name, his new favorite sound.

"And now that you have a name to call me by, will you come to our little date?" He tried his best to sound secure, fearing he already knew the answer. "I'm sorry, I hope I'm not coming off as too strong. I just-"

"No, it's fine. Why not?" You smile as you best can, still nervous, but way too afraid the situation would worse with Satan's lose tongue. "Let's meet tomorrow morning at the fountain, shall we? Usually there's music as early as sunrise, I'm sure you'll adore it."

"Then I'll trust you" he answered, genuinely glad this turned out so nicely. It almost seemed like a dream. "Now, I shall go before that brother of mine falls asleep again."

And just as elegantly as he had entered, he left, his image lingering in your memory for a while.

A date.

You were having a date.

A date with the gorgeous foreigner who just so happened to frequently visit your shop.

A date with Satan.

What the hell.

#obey me! #obey me #obey me satan #satan x mc #swd satan #Satan x reader #om! swd #om! #om! satan #om! fanfic #gn!reader #Gn!MC

[damienthepious]

Joyous Saintsrise, and Happy Lizard Kissin’. It just seemed like fate that the last day of the decade is a Tuesday, and this idea popped into my head and i wrote the whole damn thing yesterday so forgive if it is a little bit sloppy. I love you, I love you, I love you.

Thus Unfurled

[ao3]

[Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla, (also everyone is friends everyone loves each other i love all of them HECK)

Characters: Lord Arum, Sir Damien, Rilla, The Keep, Sir Marc, Talfryn, Sir Angelo, Olala, (Sir Caroline mentioned but not present)

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, Lizard Kissin’ Tuesday, Holidays, Saintsrise, Party, (just a lot of gentle... yes), Found Family, (hey how was that not already a recognized tag)

Summary:  The last day of Saintsrise, and two present have never celebrated before.

Notes: Happy New Years! Happy Lizard Kissin'! I'm emotional and sappy and hey, y'all? I really, really love you. Thank you for being so kind to me this year, and I hope next year is even better. Also, Olala is here? Don't question it. Her stuff got resolved, probably. It's not important right now. Now? It's about food and fun and loving each other. The title is from the Saintsrise carol Sir Angelo sings at the beginning of Frozen King Of Flame. 💖]

~

Arum does not mind the celebratory aspect of this particular human holiday. There is food to be had, and drink and song and revelry, and Damien especially seems charmed by the symbolism of the year turning over, of the demarcation of time, though Arum cannot help but think of it as somewhat arbitrary. Every day they are a year from the same day the year previous, are they not? He supposes such things can be useful, in their way. He has half his mind on the next human Festival of the Three, since it will mark a much more personally meaningful unit of time; a full year he has known his honeysuckle, and near to that for his Amaryllis as well.

Saintsrise is near triple the length of that festival, though. The humans do not intrude upon his space for the entirety of their celebrations, but he has seen more of Sir Marc and Talfryn in the last week than he had in the three months previous. Of course, Sir Marc had been gone for much of that time, and the child has made his visits more frequent since his return, so perhaps that is unfair.

This last day of the festivities, Sir Damien and Amaryllis have convinced him to allow the lot of them to come spend the evening in the Keep. All of them. Together.

It is, perhaps, the loudest it has been inside of his Keep since the assault. Arum believes that Sir Marc is a distinct factor in the creation of noise, he and Damien’s little rival with the booming voice and proclivity for running shoulder-first into doorframes and breaking chairs. They seem to egg each other on, even, and Arum rolls his eyes as they set to arm wrestling for perhaps the third time tonight (Sir Marc has not, as yet, managed to win).

It does grow too much for him, eventually, too overwhelming in brightness and sound, and Arum retreats to darker parts of the Keep to unclench his fists and breathe in the quiet for a long moment or two. The Keep lilts gently, and it drapes vines around his shoulders, and Arum can feel its mellow pleasure, that he and it have been included in this enthusiastic revelry, that there is so much joy and life within its walls, tonight, and Arum is glad for that, if nothing else. His Keep deserves a little joy, deserves to feel such love. The Keep preens at these thoughts, and reminds Arum that he, too, deserves love, deserves joy.

Amaryllis and Damien come to find him after a time. They know him enough, now, to understand that he would grow overwhelmed in such an environment, and they come only gently, only smiling, and Arum holds them to his chest, squeezing tight and nuzzling his snout against their hair and feeling them as a steadying presence. Rilla presses a kiss to his cheek, then, and Damien gazes up at him with so much joy, and then he allows them to take his hands and lead him back to the party proper.

Olala, clinging to Sir Angelo’s leg, asks about the celebration, about why this Ferdinand gets a day less than his brothers merely for being small, her voice full to bursting with a fierce and childish sense of injustice, and Arum and Amaryllis smile in tandem as Damien’s eyes brighten, as he stands and begins to tell the tale. Arum tunes out the words, but only because Damien gave him the same story only days before, and Arum remembers well enough. He would rather spend his attention watching Damien instead, eyes sharp on the enthusiastic gesturing of his hands, on the curve of his smile, the way his curls bounce as he grows more animated in his excitement. Amaryllis comes to sit beside him with a mug of mead to share, and he curls around her and they both watch their poet delight in his tale as the little changeling watches with eyes shining just as bright.

The feast is rather decadent, larger on this last night than on the nights previous, and besides the main meal, everyone has brought something special to share. Even Olala, who spent the day baking beside Marc. This, apparently, is the third of their attempted cakes, and though it looks slightly lopsided it smells delightfully like honey and cinnamon and ginger, and the decoration is colorful and enthusiastic, if childish. Arum wonders which of the two is more responsible for that part of it. Angelo brought a bright, fragrant curry, and Talfryn came with enough of his mother’s blend of spiced tea to make an entire pot, and then another when the first is drained.

Arum, Damien, and Amaryllis spent their day poring over a recipe from one of her fathers. Arum does not typically take well to recipes, but- for this one, he held his tongue. The resulting rasgulla are soft and sweet and perfect, if the ones sacrificed to their taste-tests are any indication, and Talfryn in particular lights up when he sees them, making Rilla grin with an infectious sort of pride.

They eat their fill, and there is so much left that Arum does not know what they will do with it all when the celebrations are finished.

There are games, then. Nothing that requires much movement, they are all far too full for that, but Sir Marc leads them in some word games, and Sir Angelo seems to know a rather ridiculous number of guessing games and the like, and eventually when those scatter off to inattention Damien recites a poem that seems more word-game than anything, itself. A sort of verbal play, a tongue twister that bounces and lilts and rhymes through nonsense and even Sir Marc applauds when Damien careens through to the end.

Olala yawns wide, her little voice squeaking as she leans into Marc’s side, and the knight looks overwhelmingly fond as he ruffles her hair.

“Well, looks like we’re all pretty ready to wind it down, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, probably. It’s been- really fun, actually,” Tal says brightly, through a yawn of his own.

“Quite a boisterous evening! It is merely a shame that Captain Sir Caroline could not join in the festivities as well.”

Perhaps half the room winces in tandem at the suggestion, but no one disabuses Angelo of the notion that Caroline would rather be here with a monster (and possibly worse- Sir Damien) rather than South for her own holiday. Arum saw her briefly on the second day of Saintsrise, when they had been clustered all in Rilla’s front room eating sweets and playing games, and she had very politely pretended that Arum did not exist. Arum was relieved to return the favor, and she had excused herself rather early.

“The celebration is- is over, then?” Olala says, tilting her head and clutching her tail and looking both sleepy and disappointed that the evening may not continue.

“Not just yet,” Damien says warmly, his arm curled around Rilla’s waist. “The celebration may not end until the final words are said.”

Olala blinks, clearly confused, and Arum narrows his eyes for much the same reason.

“The person in attendance who has seen the fewest Saintsrises,” Angelo says dutifully, eager as a schoolboy, “must say “may we love one another as family until the Saints rise again,” to call the festivities to an end.”

Damien smiles in Arum's direction, and Amaryllis does the same with a playfully quirked eyebrow, and Marc is wearing an expression that Arum believes could be called a leer. The remaining few follow suit in the staring, after that.

Arum blinks, and then when the implication hits him his frill flares wide and he leaps to standing, defensive immediately.

“N-no, certainly- do not look at me, that is ridiculous, certainly the child-”

“How many Saintsrises have you celebrated, exactly, Scales?” Marc asks with a less-than-sly grin. “Ten? Twelve?”

“None, obviously, takatakataka. I don’t believe in your ridiculous ghosts,” he snarls, and Marc’s grin widens with a gleeful laugh.

“So you’ve celebrated exactly as many - as few, excuse me - Saintsrises as the kid,” he says, and Arum growls lightly before Damien stands as well and puts a hand on his shoulder, and the noise in Arum’s throat tapers off.

“We will not make you do anything you do not wish to, my lily,” he says gently. “If little Olala would be so kind as to say the words, I am sure we would be delighted. That would work precisely as well.”

Olala perks up, and she stands as well. She nods, and grins, but-

Arum can see that she is nervous. The corners of her mouth do not turn so high as they usually do, and her tail is curling around her own ankle. It is a nervous tic Arum recognizes, one that the little changeling must have picked up from Arum himself.

Arum feels his frill still flaring, embarrassment at both the idea that he would say something so ridiculous as well as the knowledge of all these assembled mammals seeing him so agitated by the idea. He- he does not wish to be the one to close this ceremony. He holds no stock in tradition, he acknowledges no Saints, he is only included in such revelry out of deference to his lovers, surely-

But Olala is sleepy and burying her nervousness in a dutiful sort of excitement, and for Arum, it is always easier to stand when he needs not stand alone.

So Arum sighs, and he reaches out a hand. Olala doesn’t even hesitate to slot her own tiny fingers between his own (tipped with claws at the moment, she has grown claws to match his own, clever little creature) and the sigh fades into a smile when she blinks up at him.

“May we… may we love one another as family,” he says, and Olala echoes a half-second behind, and then fits into a unison on the second half with her gentle lisp bouncing the words chipper and high, “until the Saints rise again.”

The humans cheer and the Keep sings for the sake of joining in the noise, and it is possible that Sir Marc is still laughing at him, but Arum has ceased to care. Olala is looking up at him again, grinning with sharp teeth, enthusiastic and not even remotely shy, and Arum barely feels foolish as he smiles back. He chuckles, then lifts the child into the air, letting her scream a laugh before he arranges her to sit upon his shoulders, her tiny hands gripping his horns for purchase, and that would be worth the ridiculousness just for her bouncing laughter, though the utterly charmed look that Sir Damien is giving him is certainly pleasant as well.

May we love one another as family.

He does. Already, Arum does.

Sir Angelo throws an arm around Sir Marc’s shoulders and another around Talfryn’s, and both burst into their own laughter at Angelo’s pink-cheeked delight and his enthusiastic but scratchy-voiced caroling. Amaryllis is embracing Sir Damien, pressing a kiss to his flushing cheek, and Olala’s tiny hands grip Arum's horns with clumsy care.

Arum does not give any credence to the human Saints, though he attempts not to mock them quite so loudly for Damien’s sake, but-

There is something to the idea of this holiday, he thinks. Olala laughs above him and Rilla has joined Angelo’s song, now, softening and supporting, and Arum loves her, and loves Damien joining in beside her, loves his Keep, loves very gently this strange child on his shoulders as she attempts to hum where she does not know the words, as she winds a soft tail like a scarf around his neck. He has affection enough, even, for the brothers, for Sir Angelo, and not only for how they love and are loved by those beloved to him. He cares for them each in their own right, as well.

Love one another as family.

He hopes the Saints do not deign to rise again so long as he lives. Arum finds he would much prefer no condition upon which this feeling will end. He would much prefer it, if he may to continue to love every one of these baffling, charming creatures as his family for the rest of his life.

#elle's fanfic #the penumbra podcast #second citadel #rad bouquet #lizard kissin' tuesday #nearly the full ensemble so like... too lazy to tag *all* of them #saintsrise #food mention

[officialleehadan]

Red Silk Wings

Eskyl was not overly pleased to be in a whorehouse.

Oh, sure, it was a classy whorehouse because Zain had expensive taste in everything including lovers, but it was still a whorehouse. Red draped the walls. The seating was polished wood, smooth and comfortable, and easy to clean. The whores were beautiful, dressed in almost-transparent silks and very little else. These were not the whores of a warrior tavern, either. These were confident, sleek courtesans, who were selling good conversation as much as anything else.

Zain, of course, was holding court. He had no less than four lovelies, three men and a determined woman, draped halfway in his lap as he did little cantrips to amuse them.

Eskyl had purchased absolutely nothing but a mug of good mead, and told the first whore to approach him that he was soon to be wedded.

For any other whorehouse, that would have been an invitation. This woman took it for the polite refusal it was, and kept her hands to herself.

Bald-Face was, unfortunately, less versed in the nuances of human conversation. He was also holding court, apparently unaware that the lovely young woman listening to him was halfway to shoving her hands down his pants.

Well, Eskyl supposed be understood. Bald-Face was polite, reasonably good-looking, and very prone to talking about honey at length.

And also was oblivious to just how many honey references could be misconstrued as references to sex.

This was sure to be deeply hilarious. Eskyl caught the eye of one of the girls and ordered a plate of food for himself even as two of Zain’s companions dragged him into the dancing.

His necromancer friend seemed to be losing clothing at an impressive rate. Eskyl had to give the whores credit for their alacrity. Zain’s clothing tended to be the complicated sort.

“It’s not so difficult to coax the best results out of my ladies,” Bald-Face was saying brightly, definitely talking about bees. “A light touch where it matters, but that’s no difficulty. I just move a little more slowly.”

Bees. He was talking about bees. He was always talking about bees.

The whores did not know he was talking about bees.

“Tell us more about this light touch,” the whore, a delicate creature of dusky skin and black hair and deep yellow silks, purred. She gave a good impression of being riveted to Bald-Face’s every word. “We live for a man who takes his time.”

“Well, all good things take time,” Bald-Face told her fondly, and looked down when another whore, this one pale, with fiery hair and green silks, twined her fingers with his. “Oh, hello. We’re talking about honey.”

“I love honey,” the redhead sighed, and stretched appealingly. Her eyes were lined in black kohl and her lips were inviting. Eskyl was impressed. It took a lot of skill to do makeup so well, and to make it look like she wore none at all. “All sticky sweet and golden.”

“He takes his time,” the dark-skinned whore murmured to her, eyes wide and promising. Bald-face didn’t even notice. “He was telling me how you need to go slow.”

“Just until they warm up to you,” Bald-Face said cheerfully. “But really, it’s the queen who matters the most. She’s the one who commands everything.”

“Do you like to be commanded?”

“Well, when a queen wants something, you can’t say no, can you? It would be rude.”

Eskyl was laughing too hard to breathe, silent shudders as he tried his best not to choke on his own mead.

“Are you alright?” Bald-Face noticed his distress, such as it was, and looked over. “What’s so funny?”

Eskyl flapped a hand at him, still laughing and completely unable to speak.

The whores glanced at him, then at Bald-Face, and decided they probably didn’t want to know.

“Queens are touchy sometimes” Bald-Face was warming to his topic as a third whore drifted over. “Really though, the honey from wildflowers is the sweetest, even if it’s the hardest to coax out of them.”

“I love the wild,” the new whore breathed as she leaned over far enough for Bald-Face to see right down her shirt. He didn’t even notice. “Would you tell us about how wild you can be? We’re desperate for you.”

“Oh, I’m not very wild,” Bald-Face told her obliviously. “But I adore honey.”

The whore who Eskyl first talked to came over with his food, and looked at Bald-Face with something like confusion twisting her red-painted lips.

“Bees,” Eskyl wheezed when she turned to him for answers. “He’s talking about bees. He’s a bee wizard. The only females he’s interested in are the ones with stingers”

The whore’s lips parted in a wordless Oh, and she turned to head off her eager compatriots. After all there were other customers who were interested in stingers of a different, much more profitable sort.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t fast enough.

The red headed whore must have decided that they weren’t being forward enough, or maybe just ran out of patience. She ran her hand up Bald-Face’s thigh, bold fingers making her invitation inescapably clear.

Unfortunately, Bald-Face was only sometimes human, was never good with women, and reacted poorly to surprises.

He yelped, attempted to clamber over the back of the couch to escape the whore’s questing fingers, and turned into rather a lot of bees all at once.

Pandemonium ensued.

Whores ran in all directions as thousands of bald-face hornets swirled through the room, buzzing with fury and confusion all at once.

Eskyl put a hand over his mug to keep the hornets out, and sighed.

People scattered. Mass panic sent whores and their half-dresses customers scrambling out of the room. Doors slammed, but doors were never much good against hornets, and there was more screaming from upstairs as the hornets tried and failed to find a way outside.

Zain stormed into the room, stark naked and glowing with unearthly magic.

The few whores left in the room took one look at him and fled, screaming.

The bees swirled and coalesced back into a very contrite-looking Bald-Face.

Zain stared at him, radiating outrage.

Eskyl started laughing again, and took a deep drink of his mead.

“Well,” he said as they glared at each other. “You did say you wanted some excitement.”

+++

Brothers Bound:

Before they were old monsters, they were young men. The adventures of Eskyl, Zain, and Bald-Face, before they were legends.

Body-Weight of Bees

Already Dead (Free on Patreon!)

+++

MORE STORIES!

+++

#writing #writers #spilled ink #writing prompts #spilled thoughts #writer #spilled words #writing prompt #prompts #magic #leehadan #lee hadan #necromancer #necromancy #flirt #flirting #honey #misunderstanding #bees #mead #brewing #motivating quotes #quotes #family #brothers #trouble #funny #lol #humor #black humor

[paradise-of-guilty-pleasures]

Shattered Reflections {12}

[Helsa RP- Fanfic]

Fandom: Frozen

Genre: Post-Frozen/ Canon Divergence

- Hurt/Comfort, Drama, Romance

Pairing(s): Hans/Elsa, Kristoff/Anna

Previous Chapter:  11. Spilling the Tea

A/N:

Kristanna Chapter. It's Short and Sweet. Hope you Enjoy~ 

12. Homemade with Love

After her tea time chat with Elsa, regarding a certain auburn-haired Prince she'd still like to punch in the face, Anna needed to find a way to decompress. Lucky for her, she had a great big cuddly bear of a boyfriend, she could go to for all her coddling needs. They had planned to spend the afternoon together and Anna was going to take full advantage of all the warm hugs and sweet kisses she could get.

Kristoff packed the picnic, mostly to test how Anna liked his cooking. Fresh molasses bread he'd baked, a stew of wild vegetables and game he'd caught, that sort of thing. He'd been planning for a while to try Anna on some of his foods, to see how she liked his wilder sort of life without pushing her into the deep end. So, he was a little nervous. Of course, she found him at the stables with Sven. "Hey there, Feistypants." He hummed, offering an arm to hug her, with the other holding the picnic basket. He was always down to hold his girlfriend, which was great because she seemed to need the hugs.

Anna didn't waste a second to wrap her arms around him in a big warm hug. "Don't call me, Feistypants," she playfully grumbled, with her face pressed against his chest. She took in his scent, no longer a stinky reindeer man odor, now more of a manly mountain musk of Kristoff, it helped that he'd bathe more frequently since they started courting. The smell of Kristoff wasn't the only thing her nose picked up, there was something else lingering in the air. ``Whatever you have planned for us today smells delicious," Anna said, prying herself from their embrace to try to sneak a peek into the picnic basket.

"Mmhm, a homemade picnic from the sort of stuff I eat at home. Where would you like to go enjoy it? Somewhere near the woods, or by the fjord, maybe under a willow tree somewhere?" Kristoff hummed. He didn't mind if she snuck a peek, she wouldn't see much but food-- but it would be what she thought of it that would be the real surprise. "I figured you ought to see what my cooking is like before, well, whatever happens in the future." He was still too nervous to say 'marriage'.

"Hmm? We can go whenever, as long as we share some relaxing alone time together, I don't really mind where we go," Anna chirped. "Oh! Is that so? You made it yourself, for me, I'm honored. If it tastes as good as it smells, which I'm pretty sure it will, you don't have to worry about your culinary skills impressing me, besides I can assure you it's definitely better than anything I can prepare myself," She giddily giggled.

"Mmhm, a few different foods I make so you can try a taste, some homemade molasses bread and cheese and butter, some garden fruits and vegetables. Here, we can find a place on Sven." He helped Anna up onto Sven's back and hung up the picnic basket on Sven's antlers while he got up so nothing would spill. He picked it up again and guided Sven out. Out over the grass and toward the willow trees that once sparkled with eternal ice when Elsa had frozen the land. Now the trees had bright spring green leaves and draped over their trunks with grace and poise, drifting down toward clear ponds where ducks built nests. Kristoff found a lovely clear spot on a hill under the sun where they could enjoy their picnic.

It was the perfect spot, secluded, beautiful and refreshing. Away from all the worries of the castle. Anna took in the fresh air and explored a bit of the surrounding area as Kristoff set up the picnic. She'd picked some wild flowers and returned to the picnic area. Anna playfully placed one of the flowers in Kristoff's hair, behind his ear. "There, now everything is perfect," Anna said brightly giggling. Kristoff laughed a little with her, and made sure she had a flower, too. "Better keep one for yourself too little dandy-lion." He teased. He liked that almost as much as feistypants, a little false lion trying to be fierce. "We've got a hot wild-game stew with wild vegetables, stuffed wild mushrooms, dandelion green salad, nettle beer, red clover ice tea, pine-wild berry crisp, and my usual lunch packs: homemade molasses bread, stored cheese, wild apples, and some smoked and dried meats. Admittedly the stuffed mushrooms were just me trying to impress, but most of this is the kind of thing I'd eat at home, and probably none of it is what you'd be used to." He smiled, but some of it was nervous. He unloaded clay containers of hot things that he had carefully brought to make sure they would stay warm, carefully insulated in the picnic basket.

"What would you like to try first? Or d'you want to try a little bit of everything and hope for the best? I won't tell you what the wild game is, but it's not reindeer." He didn't need her freaking out about rabbits, birds, or the occasional well-cooked wolf. "I do all my own hunting and keep a garden at home for the 'wild' vegetables and fruits, sometimes the folks stop by to help in the garden." He hoped the hunting wouldn't be too off-putting when she finally saw it. He didn't actually want to change his lifestyle, he loved his home. The castle was nice, but he hoped she would spend a little time with him in his home, too.

"Hmm," Anna hummed as she tapped her index finger on her chin. " I'm feeling adventurous today, give me a little bit of everything, please." A wide grin plastered on her face. "Food straight from the source sounds exciting, especially knowing you prepared it all for me with love," she cheekily teased.

"That's right." Kristoff hummed, and leaned over to kiss her forehead just to be cute. He dished up little bits of everything, including a few different meats from the stew along with a little of all the vegetables, a few stuffed mushrooms, some of the salad and bread, to start with. A plate could only hold so much, after all, may as well start with the savories. "Beer or tea to start with? The beer isn't strong, it's a 'small beer', made for after work when you need a drink but don't necessarily trust the water to be safe. You'll still be sober at the end of a pint. If I had a decent supply of honey I might make mead, but I don't know how to maintain a hive yet, it seems like full-time work." It wasn't important, it was just thoughts on his life.

Anna wore a beaming smile, she loved Kristoff's soft kisses, just as much as she loved warm hugs. " Now that's a tough choice," she giggled. "But I think I'll start with the tea and save the beer for later."

He smiled at her giggling, it was just so sweet and warmed his heart. Which was good, as an ice harvester. He poured her some ice tea into mugs. A lot of ceramic, which made sense, clay was easy enough to get and to make and fire, with a little practice; and it held hot and cold things fairly well, once they were glazed. That was the hard part, but potters were easy enough to find and work with. "I hope you enjoy it, I know it's not going to be like what you're used to." There wasn't much processed sugar, mostly molasses or honey. Anywhere he would use egg it would be from wild birds, and all of his fruits and vegetables were from things that weren't typically farmed. "The trolls taught me how to garden a lot of these things, but some things like mushrooms have to be foraged for, and some things like milk and cheese I still have to buy. I suppose I needed some reason to go to town and hold a proper job." He joked. Now he didn't need a reason any stronger than Anna.

"Milk and cheese are pretty good reasons," she laughed and quipped back. "I know chocolate would be on the top of my list."

"Now let me taste this lovely meal prepared just for me," she hummed as she brought a spoonful in for the first bite. Kristoff was right, it wasn't what she was used to. It was different, but good different, it was quite delectable in fact. The vegetables and the tender meat were paired well in a perfect blend of texture and flavor. She needed more. "Oh my goodness Kristoff, this is so good," she purred with another spoonful already in her mouth. Anna may have been a princess, but etiquette often took a back seat to her eccentric nature.

"Clothes too, I can only sew patchwork, really. Thankfully, the ice farmers' wives are usually pretty good to help out with that kind of thing. As long as I don't mind them trying to set me up with their daughters." He cringed, clearly not comfortable with that idea. "I'm glad you like it!" He wondered if he should tell her what the meat was, or wait until it was digested before he let her know she was probably eating rabbit and wolf, or maybe a wild bird, depending on which bite of meat she had. He was just glad she enjoyed whatever she ate. "I live alone, so I figured I'd best learn how to cook properly." and apparently, he did that in spades.

"Hmm? Cooking and sewing, on top of being a strong handsome ice harvester," Anna swooned. "I guess I'm extra lucky that none of those daughters managed to snag you first, cause you sir are quite the catch," she praised, holding the spoon upside down against her lips.

He laughed a little. "Like I said, I can just sew patches and fix a seam now and then." He shrugged, maybe flushing a little at the compliments. "Maybe I'll ask Elsa if she'd be okay with you coming up to visit my home for twenty-four hours or so. If I promise there won't be any funny business and tell her that Sven can be a good 'moral guardian'. But I'd like you to visit sometime..." Sometime before they got married. "I've been proposed to once or twice, usually by women just happy that I have a job. I politely declined and did my best to trade routes with other ice harvesters, but I still can't get away from the occasional nudge toward one of their daughters." He rolled his eyes, definitely not interested. And that was before the eternal winter. Now that he had a title, he just did his best to not have to talk to women outside of the castle.

Kristoff's mention of Elsa and staying overnight, made her smile falter remembering their tea time discussion. She didn't want to damper their date with her distress so soon, though right now seemed to be the right time to bring up the subject. "Um, Kristoff," She began. "Speaking of staying over..." She fidgeted with the spoon in her hand. "Do you think you could possibly stay over at the castle, for a while? I'd feel as lot safer if you did and Elsa said it was okay, at least until..." She took a deep sigh. "H-he's gone." She let out an involuntary gulp.

Kristoff was a little surprised, but nodded. "Alright, if it makes you feel safer." No questions, he understood what Anna had been through. He remembered the sight of Anna frozen on the fjord, as if in a dream. He had barely had time to process the idea before she was unfrozen again, but it did remind Kristoff of the dark side of 'nothing is permanent'. He spent a lot more time thinking about mortality, these days. "Do you want me to hold you until you fall asleep or just to hang out with the guards in the hall so I can put him through a window if he snoops around?" That was at least a little bit of a joke, to try and lighten her mood.

"Thank you." Kristoff's joke brought a small smile back to Anna's face. She sighed again. "I really wish he didn't have this control over me, but he still does and I hate it." Anna huffed. "And what's worse is that my own sister acts all nonchalant about the whole ordeal. I don't know what's gotten into Elsa, but it frightens me more how much trust she has in the very monster that tried to kill her and me!" "I don't want to doubt my own sister's judgement, she's Queen after all, and making tough decisions is what she has to do, but I can't help but feel a bit disappointed in the one she chose to take. Especially since she didn't consult me first and tried to hide the whole thing to try to 'protect me'. " I feel like I've become the cautious one and I'm the one warning her about him. Maybe there's something I'm missing. But, ugh! It's just so frustrating that I still have to nudge Elsa to open up to me... It's almost like she has more faith in him than me," Anna went from frustration to disappointment in a fraction of a second. Anna took a deep sigh from her venting. "All this to say, I don't trust Hans in the least. I don't know what he's been filling Elsa's head with, in order to make her trust him, but I know first hand he's a two-faced snake and I can't help but think that he's plotting something."

Kristoff stopped to think about it. "Maybe-- and stay with me on this-- you should talk to him, too? Not to try and trust him, but to figure out what he's been saying to seem trustworthy? I spoke to him in the battle and he seemed honest, but I also only asked whose side he was on, I didn't ask why. I definitely don't have any love for the guy. I can stay by you as a guard if you want to talk to him? But I also won't ask you to stress yourself out. I'll be the wall between you if I have to be, nobody will hurt you with me around." Kristoff assured. He didn't want her to be afraid, ever. "You're right to be frustrated, I can understand your point of view, I'd have a hard time believing if you weren't bothered."

Initially, Anna's eyes grew wide in disbelief at the suggestion, but she held her tongue and listened closely. Kristoff was wise and Anna trusted that he would never steer her wrong. After he finished she paused to ponder. " You know what? You're absolutely right!" She determinedly declared. "I should totally face him myself! I shouldn't have to cower in fear in my own home, he doesn't deserve that satisfaction! If I want my questions answered, I must go straight to source!

"Kristoff, please stand by my side when I face him, because I'm afraid...I'm afraid, I'll punch an injured man in the face, if I have no one there to stop me." "Thank you, for your insight," she said softly as she kissed his cheek. "One of the many many reasons I love you." "But, hey, let's not let that issue distract us from our date any longer. Let's continue enjoying the lovely meal you prepared for me and our alone time and we'll deal with all that stuff later."

Kristoff laughed a little at her quick turn from determination to not wanting to 'punch an injured man in the face'. "I'll be there." He promised, and pulled her back over to return her kiss, just to be cute and affectionate. "I love you too, feistypants." "And if you need me to be the scary growly mountain man to spook him a little I can do that too." Boy could he. He didn't act scary much now that he had Anna, but he still could, when pressed. The savory foods were delicious, the tea was made sweet, the wild-berry crisp was tart, it was all very good-- but the warm molasses bread with butter was probably the best, especially next to an occasional slice of cheese. Kristoff made the bread often, and he knew how to make it good. He ate a bit as well, but it was mostly for Anna to sample a lot of different foods. The extra lunch packs were hardly necessary, they were more like a demonstration of what he brought with him to work. It was, in his mind, a perfect date, just knowing that she liked his cooking and the different kinds of food he ate when he was home. He let her lean on him while he held her waist, and he was as happy there as a cat in a warm lap. Kristoff was a man of simple pleasures.

#Helsa #Kristanna #Frozen #Fanfiction #Frozen Fanfiction #Shattered Reflections

[7-wonders]

Shatter pt. 4

Summary: Eighteen months after the end of the world, and you’re somehow still alive. All of this newfound free time you have gives you plenty of time to ponder the question: who the hell are you?

Word count: 2080

A/N: It’s me, back with part four! Took me a little while but I finally did it. As always, special thanks to @jimmlangdon for all of their help with this series.

Read Part One HERE | Read Part Two HERE | Read Part Three HERE

Sleep is abruptly ripped away from you by the slamming of a door and a hand shaking your shoulder. You sit up, blearily blinking your eyes and attempting to discern where you are. Your neck aches painfully, and you realize that you must have fallen asleep leaning against Mallory. The witch beside you looks just as confused as you are, especially when faced with a grim Supreme.

“Follow me, girls.” You and Mallory look at each other in bemusement, both reluctantly standing to head back into the little shack. Early sunlight starts to make its way over the horizon, a faint glow lighting the bayou ahead of you. It’s peaceful, almost too peaceful considering the events of the past few weeks. Your eyes burn after all the tears shed last night, and you’re mildly disappointed that your new Sight didn’t give you anymore glimpses of Michael.

You know that you shouldn’t be sad that you didn’t see your former lover. You fought tooth-and-nail to escape him, and you should be happy that you’re now safe. But you can’t help the pangs of sadness that come with not seeing his sweet smile and his crystal blue eyes. When you first woke up moments ago, you had hoped that the hand waking you would belong to Michael. The visions of the rising Antichrist are shattered when you pass through the door and are blindsided.

It’s a coordinated attack, you can tell from the multiple witches trying to pin you to the ground and Mallory’s screams as the same happens to her. The uneven wood digs into your back, making you grimace while your hands are held above your head and your legs grow heavy. Myrtle Snow smiles at you apologetically, red hair coming into view and gloved hands making sure you don’t go anywhere.

“Miss Cordelia? What…?” You’re being assaulted, both mentally and physically, and are slow at processing your current situation as a result. The Supreme’s blonde hair is slightly mussed, and you realize that the head you had yanked in your fight to get away had been hers.

“Your allegiances, while not your fault, are still fractured. On the one hand, your mind wants to be with us, your sisters. On the other, your heart is still with Michael. Even before Michael’s mind had been made up that he would get you back, we had known of his plans for the apocalypse. You and Mallory are both extremely powerful young women, so if you were to be buried underground with us to survive the initial blasts, your magic would act as a beacon to forces that want to do us harm.”

“I don’t understand!” Mallory cries from next to you. You glance over at her to see tears tracking down her face as she shakes in terror. Your hand creeps across the floor and intertwines with hers, squeezing in reassurement.

“Coco has already made the sacrifice, and had her mind wiped as a result. Her wealth will ensure that all of you safely reach the Outposts that are being built for survivors. Your powers, along with your memories, will lay dormant until the time is right. As a result, (Y/N), Michael will not be able to use your bond to his advantage, since you won’t have memories of him to even have a bond.” It’s your turn to start crying, shaking your head back and forth desperately.

“No, please. You can’t do this! I don’t want to forget him, I can’t forget him!” You whimper. Cordelia smiles at you sympathetically, and you want to reach up and slap her across the face.

“I promise that you’ll feel differently when you get your memories back. You’re going to be saving all of humanity with this sacrifice.”

“I’ll never forgive you for this. You’re taking who I am away from me against my will! I don’t care if this will save humanity, you shouldn’t be allowed to do this.” You hiss, eyes steeling in a glare. Before you can continue with your verbal torrent, Cordelia produces a translucent powder. You start struggling in one last attempt at an escape, but your efforts are fruitless. The powder gets blown into your face, and your coughing draws it into your lungs. Before you black out, there’s only one word on your lips.

“Michael.”

30 months later…

The harsh knocking on your door acts as your alarm clock today, just as it has everyday for the past eighteen months. You jolt up, sheets tangled around your legs and bunched at the bottom of the bed. Running a hand through your messy hair, you listen as the Gray makes their way down the hallway, providing a wakeup call for your fellow occupants. Hell, better known as Outpost 3, had been your home for just over a year. The period of time directly before the bombs fell had been a flurry of events, involving gathering your few belongings and escaping with your boss to a private jet owned by Coco St. Pierre-Vanderbilt.

“Coco! Coco wait!” Mr. Gallant yelled, hopping out of the convertible and jogging towards the jet. You stay behind to grab all of his things and help his grandmother, Evie, out of the car.

“Gallant? What the hell are you doing here?” Coco squawked.

“You said there were enough tickets for your family and your husband. That’s five tickets, and only two of them are being used.” He explained excitedly.

“Your assistant can’t come, Brock should be here at any moment!” You had huffed at being called Gallant’s ‘assistant.’ You were basically his sister, but there wasn’t any time to call the socialite out when Coco’s assistant screamed a warning. Runway workers were rapidly advancing in a hope to grab a spot and survive nuclear annihilation.

“Coco, I’m not leaving without (Y/N).” Gallant affirmed, making your heart warm at his effort to save your life. Coco thought for a moment, finally rolling her eyes and nodding.

“Fine, but we need to go like, NOW!”

The jet had barely made it to cruising altitude before the bombs dropped, and you couldn’t help but to thank your lucky stars every single day. Even living in the strictest, most-backwards living conditions was better than how you were living for a while before the end of the world.

You didn’t know who you were. You had amnesia, whether it be from an injury or some sort of coping mechanism, but the facts remained the same; you had woken up in an apartment that you didn’t own, with no memory except for your name and a friend who could help you. That friend was Mr. Gallant, who quickly took you in and gave you so many things, the least of those being a job. He was a shoulder to cry on when you were frustrated about your lack of memories, your ‘boyfriend’ when weird guys were hitting on you, your therapist when you needed to vent, and your best friend. Technically being his assistant, you had been expecting to be a Gray along with Coco’s assistant, Mallory. To your shock, your name was on a list guaranteeing that you receive a spot on the highest tier of this new society. The purple dress you slip on as you get ready acts as a reminder that you’re probably the luckiest person left alive.

“Welcome to another beautiful day underground.” Gallant greets you with a snicker when you enter the dining room, handing you a glass of water and patting the chair next to you. Somehow, even after all this time, you had still managed to remain best friends with the man.

“Did I hear something about horseback riding on the schedule today?” You joke, earning a few laughs from the Purples scattered through the room.

“I mean this is the nicest way, (Y/N), but you look like shit.”

“Thank you, it’s this new beauty routine I’m trying.” You say sarcastically, rolling your eyes. Gallant sighs, grabbing your hand in his.

“Did you have the dream again?” ‘The dream,’ or what should be known as dreams, have plagued you since the day you woke up in the unfamiliar apartment in the middle of Los Angeles. Sometimes they involved beautiful women, all dressed in black and smiling at you. Other times there was a swamp, the muggy air enveloping your subconscious and chirping echoing from within the ecosystem. There were also a few dreams that left you crying and shaking, dreams filled with screaming, blood, and gunfire. The most common dreams, though, all revolved around a man.

You dreamed of this man almost every time you fell asleep, yet you couldn’t ever clearly see his face. You knew that he was tall and had beautiful blond curls that tickled your face when he leaned down to kiss you. You were always touching this man in some way or another, usually just holding hands as you relive what you assume are your lost memories. Sometimes, his face would clear just long enough for you to see his haunting eyes, which are the clearest shade of blue you’ve ever seen. You get so lost in reminiscing on your dream that you don’t realize you haven’t yet answered Gallant until he calls your name again.

“Of course, I always do.” You respond.

“Which one was it? The gun one?”

“It was the one with the man.” Gallant knew about all your dreams, and had listened to you attempt to dissect them for countless hours.

“I love your hot mystery man.” He says playfully, grinning.

“Apparently I did, too. Too bad I don’t know who he actually is.” The gelatinous cubes, your only source of nutrition for over a year, lay untouched on your respective plates.

“You’ve been having the dream with your blue-eyed honey a lot more often, lately. Maybe that means something?” He suggests, picking up his fork and absently spinning it in his hand. You shrug, considering it.

“Maybe. Or maybe-” The shrill sound of an alarm startles you, and your hands clap against your ears for protection. Ms. Mead walks quickly to the dining room, staring at the gathered survivors.

“Security breach. Back to your rooms, all of you.” She says sternly, watching as everyone stands immediately. You follow the herd, but your thoughts remain on what Ms. Mead just said. A security breach? For the duration of your time here, nothing had ever gotten through the walls surrounding the Outpost. You don’t know whether to be intrigued or scared at this.

“Think it’s cannibals?” Gallant whispers into your ear, snapping his teeth to make you jump.

“Don’t be so morbid, Gal, Jesus.” You mutter. He wants to retort, but you’re all shepherded to your rooms and given strict orders to remain there until further instruction.

The hours until you’re summoned out pass slowly, and you find yourself trying to sleep in order to pass the time. You’re also hoping that you see those familiar blue eyes again, but are disheartened when you’re told to gather in the library before you can dream. Coco’s already sitting next to Gallant, talking his ear off about god-knows-what, and Evie sits on his other side. You take the only open seat left, next to Timothy. He smiles at you when you join him, Emily holding holding his hand tightly.

“Any clue what this is about?” You ask.

“Maybe they’re finally gonna take us out.” Emily suggests, wiggling her eyebrows to make you both giggle.

“We should be so lucky.” Your banter is interrupted when Ms. Venable, the leader of the Outpost, enters the room. She stands at the head of the room, eyes cast towards the door the entire time. When she still hasn’t spoken in two minutes, you sigh and start picking at your nails to give yourself something to do. Heels clacking against the floor fill the room, but you assume it’s The Hand joining the group after finishing their rounds. You only look up when Timothy nudges you slightly.

Immediately, your eyes widen at the sight you’re faced with. It’s not The Hand. Instead, a tall man, dressed to the nines, with long blond hair and startling blue eyes, commands the room with only his presence. Everybody stares at him in varying degrees of lust and attraction, but you stare at him for a different reason; you know this man. You’re not sure how, or from where, but you know him.

“My name is Langdon, and I represent the Cooperative.”

Tag list: @queencocoakimmie @nana15774 @lichellaw @sammythankyou @sebastianshoe @pastel-cloudz @ultragibbycentralworld @grim-adventures58 @let-me-try-mom @uptosomeseriousfuckshit @dandycandy75 @trimbooohgodplsnoooo @alexcornerblog @everything-is-awesomesauce @tickled--pinkmoodpoisoning @ccodyfern @dolceandchalamet

#michael langdon #michael langdon imagine #michael langdon x reader #ahs #michael langdon imagines #ahs apocalypse #ahs imagine #american horror story #american horror story imagine #american horror story apocalypse

[scoundrels-in-love]

1, 24, 26!

Thank you for asking, dear!!

1. What are you doing at this exact moment? (I want details, people!)As of starting responding to this ask, I am pausing watch of The Mandalorian, episode 7, because my friend needed a moment. We’re immensely enjoying it.  (Continued to responding to this after we finished the season and I am swimming in emotions over it and now we’re listening to music together.)

I have a delicious cheesecake with raspberry jam waiting for me and I am on the side discussing a horrible tragedy that happened in Thailand with a friend from there. Mostly varying degrees of disgusting reactions from people.

Other than this weight, I am feeling kind of at ease for first time in quite a while. Most things are out of my hands, I’ve done my best, now I just need to let myself enjoy the time off.

24. Basic, but what’s your sign? Do you act like your sign’s “stereotype”? 

I am a Capricorn and a Water Rooster by Chinese horoscope.

Capricorns in cliches are considered serious, very responsible, hard working individuals that will stop at nothing to reach their goals. That, as you may know, doesn’t apply to me, in my opinion. I might have the supposed inclinations toward depression and pessimistic nature of one and perfectionism that brings me to ruin, but that’s the extent of it. Self control and me? Ha. I may a bit of stickler for traditions/rules, though, but I am still open to new things, experiences, cultures, opinions. Sometimes too much even.

I’ve never felt particularly my sign, though after I started working I did realize doing my job well is very important to me as a person, but I think I relate more to my Lunar sign aka Cancer which means I’m emotional mess, though perhaps in some ways more complicatedly guarded because of Capricorn. Who knows.

As for Rooster, they’re supposedly loud and boastful creatures, though the element of Water tones it down a little. Definitely also one who strides toward their goal. With charm, humor and skill with words, apparently. Also obviously rather off the mark. I can’t comment on the supposed generosity, I do like to make people smile and give little gifts. (But it’s also how I was raised.)

I do think some people perceive me like this on some level, at least initially. Some have definitely thought of me as stuck up, for whatever reason. I do think that, overall, astrology is interesting way of self-learning and understanding, but mostly as something to compare and weight yourself to, and even if it is genuinely absolutely true, there are lot of always-interacting aspects to it that make every person and their chart unique. And there’s also self-perception vs outside point of view. So, in return, I could ask, do you think I am alike my sign? (Rhetorically, of course.)

26. Tell us in the 3rd person who you probably were in your past life.

(You just had to. Oh boy.)

Her shawl, a deep blue setting off hundreds of tiny bronze plates woven in the fabric, wrapped around her shoulders, is held together by a brooch, a lot like the one that is at the neck of her white linen shirt that she wove herself.

Maybe her hair is covered in similar blue shawl, a sign she is a married woman, or maybe she wears a bronze crown of unmarried maiden. Maybe she’s on her way to the market, looking her best as the oldest daughter of her family or as mistress of wealthy household, to help with bargaining as much to show off to other wives, with many bronze necklaces and amber that shines with eternal sunlight caught in it; the sunbeams bounce on her bronze bracers, slip down her skirt.

Maybe she welcomes a trader to her household by the riverside, dressed in her best, as her ancestors have before - Baltic amber has made its way all the way to Rome and Egypt. Her hands know work and her hair has been made paler blonde from sunlight, but she is proud and she crafts songs that will tell of her life, her culture and past a thousand years later when so much else has been lost. She offers these traders bread baked just this morning, with cheese and salted pork and there is pot of fresh honey on the table, gives them strong mead to loosen their tongues and wares.

Maybe she’s daughter of one of the last remaining free men of her nation, in a city of Germans, where her father’s father managed to bargain for some independence that too will be lost and assimilated eventually. Maybe she falls in love with a foreigner that is brought here by tides of war and her brothers disown her and get rid of her beloved, though she already has married him and carries his child under her heart, and she walks onward the best she can.

There are so many things she could have been, so many things she was.

Send me an unusual ask or task?

#ask games answered #don't mind me I have a lot of feelings about everything right now #nire-the-mithridatist #sent on a cloud

[whifferdills]

"ACME Instant Tunnel" Gomens, AzCrow, reasonably explicit, mutual masturbation, Makin' Out, pinin', fuckin', voyeurism, hurt/comfort, weird anxieties, variable genitalia. Aziraphale is a hedonist and Crowley likes to watch. ~6k words

It starts, technically, in the Garden. The first rain is falling: Crowley is sheltered by the angel's wing, a fact he will not stop turning over and over in his mind for the next few millennia. But he's compartmentalized it, and is beginning to fret instead over how to make a satisfactorily cool exit from this sort of emotionally uncomfortable situation.

He looks over, about to say something awful that hasn't been invented yet, like "Better mosey along," or "Catch you on the flipside." And the angel is - hmm. Eyes closed, face tilted up to the sky. His hair gone wet and dark. Skin glistening, droplets rolling carelessly down. Like he's enjoying himself, somehow. Feeling like he shouldn't be witnessing this, he casts his gaze to the ground. He's greeted by the sight of the angel's toes wriggling, what, delightedly? Delightedly, in the dust as it turns into mud on the stone.

What?

On some level Crowley will never fully unpack this. What he knows at this particular moment is that he is intrigued; that there is something about this specific angel, an unrelenting strangeness, an absolute fuck-wild streak that compelled him to give his flaming sword away, and shelter a demon, and do...That, in the rain. What he knows right now is Aziraphale is, at the very least, worth keeping an eye on.

      The first time Crowley admits to himself that something might be afoot, they're in Rome. It's Aziraphale who approaches him, this time. He looks at Crowley like he's ever so grateful to see a familiar face. And he also looks at him like, well,

No, can't be, surely

Crowley is tired and cranky and terribly sober and inclined to be surly, churlish, but this angel is looking at him like he's almost embarrassed to be looking at him in the, the whatever way he's looking at him.

And then he tries tempting Crowley and, oh, Satan, has he been tempting himself this whole time?

It's a lot to work through, is all. Crowley likes beer and wine and scotch and mead because they all do the thing where you don't have to deal so much with the world if you have enough of them. Beyond that, the physicality of consumption hadn't quite caught him. He'd licked honey off the taut stomach of a Polybian soldier, tongue in the valley of his hips; it'd been alright. A piece of coarse brown bread, once, since it had been offered.

But this is Aziraphale, and this is oysters. Crowley nurses a tankard of ale, and he watches. On the half-shell, shimmering iridescent, the briny wetness.

"They look like camel snot," he says.

Aziraphale frowns, but oh, there's something there, something teasing, something daring. "Hush," he says. "They're lovely. And there's a special sauce. Not that they need it, particularly, but it is nice." He leans in towards his plate and inhales, his eyes drifting shut.

Crowley shifts in his seat. This is. Well, it is - something, certainly. And he's fixated, on the angel's plump fingers delicately picking up a shell, and holding it up to his lips; fixated on the line of his neck as he tilts his head back, and sucks the flesh into his mouth; as he swallows; as he moans, almost, a pleased little noise. As he puts the shell down, and nestles each successive shell atop it, on and on until it's over and he has a hand cradling his belly and a beatific expression on his face.

"I told you," he says. "Simply exquisite."

Crowley has not partaken, but he nods anyway. They move on to safer subjects (as if any of this is safe, as if a demon should say anything to an angel that wasn't warlike and mean), and they drink, and once time and the room have gone wobbly, Crowley invents the Irish Goodbye.

      They're in a garden, again, and the sun is setting. They're on a bench, with a respectable amount of distance between them. Room for Jesus, as the humans sometimes say. "Summer's waning," Aziraphale says softly.

Crowley risks a glance over. The angel is still sitting primly, but with his head quirked, tilted just so towards the sky.

"Mmm," Crowley hmm's.

"I love this time of year. As the air cools. Still damp, of course, but there's something in the air that changes, something...and it's so easy to be comfortable, this weather. Not too hot, not too cold, just right. Perfect for curling up with a good book and a cup of tea. Perhaps in front of a fire, perhaps not."

Crowley immediately, directly, and in a somewhat thunderstruck way realizes he wants nothing more than to curl up next to fucking Goldilocks over here, with a book and some tea and the threat of a lovely warming hearth. So he does the obvious thing, which is to garble out a shambles of a farewell and high-tail it back to his rented room.

      They're in a restaurant. Crowley is drinking cement-sludge Turkish coffee and watching as Aziraphale quite literally bites off more than he can chew. It'd all sounded so good, is the thing. He'd just gotten carried away, when ordering.

There's twin thrills, wrapping around each other: firstly, and as always, the wonderment of a creature of love actually loving, headfirst and come-what-may. And then there's the darker, more familiar, and by this point slightly more uncomfortable pull of an angel, of all things, an actual Angel doing a Sin. The decadence of this.

Because this is gluttony, isn't it, just a touch. You don't pull a minor miracle to make room for more dolmas just because you're so full of love. You do it out of want.

And, oh, does Aziraphale want. Wants it all, and then some. Worst of all, he keeps looking at Crowley furtively, like this means something, like this is somehow shamefully important -

Which it is, of course. When is it ever reasonable for an angel and a demon to share a meal?

Crowley leaves, this time, in a way approaching cool. He saunters back to the Bentley, and then he drives very fast and flings himself first into his flat and then onto his bed, where he screams for an hour.

It's the image, isn't it: Aziraphale leaning back in his chair. Skin flushed and belly full, his eyes closed, the pleased hum he's making under his breath. It's a lot, it's a lot, it's a lot -

(Get yourself together)

  (He could, and he does, punch a wall about it, feels his knuckles crunch against drywall and the drywall crack before him. He shouts something that might make sense and he cradles his hand in his other hand; he waits, just a tick, waits to heal himself and miracle the wall repaired. It's nice, is all, is somehow needed, is the only thing that fits, sometimes, to be. Just - Angry, like this. He breathes in and out, and flexes his rapidly bruising fingers.)

      The century is pressing onwards and for some reason everything is going faster. Technology, people, politics, them. He buys Aziraphale a churro from a street vendor, and he watches him eat it, and Aziraphale makes

that face

And suddenly he's pulling an angel into an alleyway by the shirt collar. He is politely waiting as Aziraphale finishes swallowing the last bite of pastry, and then he's chasing his tongue back into his mouth, the sugar and grease on his lips, a stray crumb; his hips pushing in as he presses Aziraphale against the wall, as the awkward hard lines of him scramble into, are in awe of, the warm soft comfort of this creature

  which he never deserved, did he, comfort, of all things, heaven forfend -

  Aziraphale looks at him like he wants to eat him, like he wants this so very much and so much else besides; there is a second where Crowley thinks maybe, maybe, maybe now

And the moment ends, and Aziraphale is wearing an expression like he might throw up, and Crowley apologies both profusely and incomprehensibly, and they both run away.

    Aziraphale is in a bar, and Crowley is in the same bar, but they are not there together. Crowley blends in, ish, passing well enough for gothy twink. Aquanet holding his hair aloft, a hint of mesh and leather about his outfit. Aziraphale stands out, and it's awful, because Crowley is cringing in equal parts due to how completely the angel is misreading the room, and how he isn't -

(This beautiful aristocrat. With his clothes and his canapes and his crepes and his boys, and his other assorted luxuries - a far cry from asceticism, and inching further from God's grace by the day. Crowley is torn between being somewhat concerned, vis a vis Falling, and wanting to swallow this idiot whole.)

He's holding court, and he's being ridiculous, and he's recounting anecdotes about Oscar Fucking Wilde, and there's an air of, you know. Ha ha, the middle-aged fag, the stately old homo of England so obliviously out of touch in this dim, dank club that has little room for that sort of delicate, prissy expression of queerness. Crowley, at least, has made an attempt, the thin leather straps of his harness pressing into his chest under his blouse. The moustache, the femme nods, the leather cap. Tom of Finland eat your heart out.

The music is too loud and there's a young man catching Aziraphale's gaze and Crowley's heart is in his throat. He could say something. He could sidle up, like he always does, with a sway of the hips and some pithy remark and an insinuation, but

Well, insinuating here, of all places. A touch on the nose. It'd be a sort of admission, wouldn't it. A confession, if you'll pardon the phrase.

So the angel and the boy go to the bathroom. So Crowley follows. He falls back into a snake and hides in a hastily-miracled vent above the adjacent stall, and he listens. Aziraphale is loud, apparently. Vocal and excited and shameless and so, so full of love (and so much else besides), and the boy is so eager. The rustle-slide of trousers undone and shucked down, the gasp at something, the implication of a head of hair clenched in the angel's greedy hands - Crowley screams internally and then slithers towards the nearest exit as quickly as his tiny shitty snake body will allow.

      Aziraphale has a barber. He's never liked attending to himself - the end result, yes, but the effort? Perish the thought. He has (had? it's been some time) a tailor, and occasionally a butler, and throughout most of it, a barber.

It's one of the things Crowley likes about him. How clearly his face wants a beard, how desperately he does not want a beard to be atop his face. And he could shave himself, could even sort his body out to not grow hair at all, but. Well. It's a thing, isn't it.

Crowley comes with, sometimes. The angel always likes company and a willing ear, and Crowley likes, oh. What. The physicality of it. The dusting of the badger brush over his skin, the foam spread about his face. Upper lip, double chin, where the hair ends below his Adam's apple. The scrape of the blade over his soft, yielding face

  And the threat, of course, the possibility of violence

  The hot towel on his neck. Hair trimmed, smoothed, oiled and annointed, put back into place. The razor stropped on leather, the cologne, the performative humanity - Crowley likes how Aziraphale smells after he's been to the barber. That fresh, soapy something; something particularly masculine, softened as always by an equally particular otherness. Crowley wants to breathe him in, like this, the sharp clean luxury of him as he goes about his otherwise humdrum, mildewy life.

  (Aziraphale had been a soldier, is the thing. With a flaming sword and ethereal helmet and a pressed white uniform, brass buttons shining. Aziraphale looks at him, sometimes, with such guilt and regret that it sends him reeling. The golden trumpet had sounded, and presumably Aziraphale had charged - But they don't talk about that, do they. Bygones being bygones, and all. They've agreed to move on.)

      They're in Crowley's flat. This is giving Crowley a certain amount of unearned confidence. Home pitch advantage. He's provided snacks and libations

  He's been all the fuck over town and used more miracles than he probably should, assembling this Unassuming buffet and bar. He bought a cocktail strainer for this, four types of pie. Wine, more wine, some champagne, a dusty bottle of scotch. Cheese and things. Oysters, of course, because fuck his gay life. Hand-shucked and all, with a flat head screwdriver, because he'll be damned again before he buys a fucking oyster shucking fucking knife specifically for the purpose. Anyway. So.

  So. So. They're in Crowley's flat. Aziraphale is humming, pleased, trailing his hand over the veritable bounty of food and booze. And Crowley is whining, internally, hoping against hope that he's somehow managed to do this right.

"What sort of cheese is this?" Aziraphale says, at the exact same moment as Crowley blurts out

"So d'you do the other Earthly Pleasures or is it just food'n'drink?"

Aziraphale frowns, in a blank sort of way; Crowley folds his body and soul up into a pretzel and addresses his corpse C/O Hell.

  But he's considering, isn't he.

  "How do you mean," Aziraphale says slowly. Voice about as husky as it ever gets, still high and camp but with an edge to it.

"Do you," Crowley says,

Do you, yanno, do you ever just.... Do you ever find yourself, right, in a place, and you feel a way, so you, right, Touch yourself about it Do you ever Yanno

  "Hgn," he finishes, finally.

Aziraphale eyes him up and down, and it's the single thirstiest, most hungry and sultry thing he's ever seen. Not that he'd know, really, he's more in the business of Wrath, so he's not super experienced here, but

"The sins of the flesh?" Aziraphale replies, half-finishing the thought. He's holding Crowley's gaze, glancing away just long enough to seem coquettish.

  "Nnngghk," Crowley says.

  "I have. You know that." Aziraphale stares him down: not silly and old-fashioned, so much, anymore, not prissy and odd and camp but so, so incredibly direct. Because he wants, and the angel always goes for what he wants.

"Many times," he continues. "Perhaps not as many times as you, but,"

Crowley tries to look cool, worldly, and well-fucked. He's...more theoretical than practical, here, but it's important to his self-image.

The angel steps forward; Crowley stands, stuck to the floor and waving like the leaves of a quaking aspen.

He can live through this. He will. He asks for strength from a higher power. Blanche, Dorothy, Rose, and Sophia - Bob ROSS -

  (Did he ever tell the story about falling? It happened in increments. Every question, every doubt, every mistimed joke, he drifted farther and farther from God's grace. One minute he's in front of the archangels trying to explain how little sense it made that knowledge should be a sin, and the next, boom, he was on the other side of the door, and Heaven had changed the locks.

And the gate to Hell was, of course, open. Latch broken, as if to say, go on then, you know you want to. So he went.

Nothing happened, is the fuck of it. Nothing changed. It didn't even hurt. He was his old regular self, only with no name and a carefully edited set of memories. The snake thing, that came later, after God started inventing and populating Earth. He was him, just...stripped, basically, of all his paperwork.

And it almost felt good, finally falling the rest of the way. Opening the door and sauntering down the rickety steps. It was dark and dank down there but that was really more for aesthetic, it wasn't like he needed to breathe in the air. No one had bothered to really decorate yet, it was just sort of a cellar with an odd, musty smell. Folks scattered about, kind of milling, not so much of a heirarchy as it was, a, what. Commune? Had that been invented yet?

Beezlebub xirself lead him through the orientation, and xe was decent enough, if humourless.

"What do you feel?" xe asked him.

It wasn't a question he'd reckoned with before. Not anything an angel would ask him. What did he feel. He closed his eyes, considered, turning the inside of him over and over like a rock tumbler until: "I'm angry," he said.

"And spiteful?"

"Guess so, yeah."

Beezelbub grinned; it was disconcerting. "We encourage cross-training of course, but it's excellent to have another team member with your...tastes."

He settled into it like a snake slipping back into the grass. How fine a feeling, to push people to their limits in the smallest of ways, to be the straw on a camel's back. And to then offer them a choice: to be cruel, or to be kind? To be better, to be Just, or to indulge in a raised voice, a raised fist? They fell like dominoes at the slightest provocation. And who wouldn't, really, living in such an unjust world. It's not like God was listening.)

      "I have, you know that," Aziraphale is saying, and he's stepping closer. Him and all his fucking heavenly glow. "And this - why not? We do so much else, together. Besides, I know how you like to play at tempting me, when I've already done a fairly good job of tempting myself."

It's dangerously close to honesty. Crowley squinches his eyes shut and counts to ten. Aziraphale is still there when he opens them, looking beautiful and Good and so pointedly angelic. The bastard.

"Go on, then," Aziraphale says, giving him that look. The queer, loaded one. The one where he can't say it out loud, neither of them can, where this can't exist and if it somehow does, it should never, ever be acknowledged -

Crowley swallows, for dramatic and erotic effect. "What do you feel?" he asks.

Aziraphale considers, also for dramatic and erotic effect. "Hungry, mainly."

For, what. Food? Crowley? To be delicately coddled and diligently attended-to?

"Right," Crowley says vaguely. Aziraphale grins and steps back, attention now wholely on the oyster which he is obscenely slurping through his lips.

  (He was only ever the Serpent because he was new. All the other demons had been down long enough that the stench of Hell was obvious on them, emanated from them. Crowley still had a whiff of heaven about him, just enough to be convincing.

"It'll be fun," Beezelbub insisted, and slapped him on the back so hard he turned into a snake.)

    "How do you feel?" Crowley asks again.

Aziraphale considers. He's done a number on dinner, and the wine as well; tilted back in his chair, face happily flushed, hands clasped around his well-fed belly, he's the very picture of sated desire. Crowley's banking on it still not being enough.

"Full," Aziraphale settles on. "Good. Hmm."

He's made himself a fucking stomach, what else is in there? A prostate? A cock? A cunt and G-spot? How many mechanisms of pleasure has he miracled himself?

"And what else," Crowley finds himself saying. It's almost in a cool, suave way.

"I'd like - well. It's tricky, isn't it. So easy to get the wires crossed."

Crowley, who is nothing but a pile of crossed wires, represses the need to scream at the top of his lungs and/or punch a hole in the wall. "Go on," he ekes out. Aziraphale just looks at him. Holds his gaze long enough, and then nods. He doesn't undress, he never undresses. There might not even be a body under all those layers. What he does, is he moves one hand from where it rests on the crest of his belly, slides it down to his waistband, where the button is just slightly overtaxed from the evening's efforts. He breathes in, for effect, and slips the button free, pulls the zipper down. Settles his hand between his legs. Crowley wants, he wants, he -

  "Wanna see," he blurts out.

And Aziraphale smiles, that knowing self-satisfied quirk of the lips,

and he spreads his legs. His hand delving inside his well-worn trousers, pulling out a plump, pink, small but perfectly-formed cock.

"I like it when we share," he says, casually.

Crowley narrowly avoids dissolving into the nearby refridgerator. (You can order groceries and play Doom on the thing, it's awful but he's got respect for whatever demon came up with "smart" as an adjective for home appliances.)

"You'll have a cup of espresso, usually," Aziraphale continues. He's fondling the skin of his balls, conversationally.

  Are they really doing this? How drunk are they, really?

  "Or a biscotti," Crowley chokes out. His hands are shaking but they are, they are en route to his nice snake belt, adorning his nice black trou, because fuck it he's got a brand.

"Yes," Aziraphale breathes - such kindness, such awe, such selfish want and love -

Crowley whines and positions his hand over his cunt. If he touches himself it's all over, he'll come and that'll be that and they'll never speak of this again, and all he wants, really, is to watch, to know, to be present - Aziraphale closes his plump fist over his plump cock and goes hmmm with his stupid plump face and Crowley kicks the leg of his armchair so hard he breaks a toe.

He comes early, and then comes again after the angel does, after seeing him just Twiddle himself in such an absolutely fucking ridiculous and transcendental way. Just comes twice amidst a pile of oyster shells and wanton angel. As you do, of an evening. He snaps a finger, and it at least doesn't smell like seafood anymore.

"I'm a - gotta," he explains, then crashes headfirst into a nap that lasts for two years.

  (He wakes up alone, but in bed and with a note tucked under his telephone. Til we meet again, xx. He clutches the note to his chest, and sneezes, and goes back to sleep for another year.)

    That old classic "end of the fucking world" anxiety: it happens, it happens a lot and so much - Crowley gets used to the sensation of his heart in his throat. It all threatens to burst loose. Aziraphale is finally falling, or cracking apart in his, their, this personal way - would it be wrong to admit that he's beautiful, like this? So vulnerable, so full of doubt. The struggle to put a name to the faith that has always carried him forward. So very, very close to becoming something else. And then he almost loses him -

A significant part of him wants to give up, wants to lie down on the tarmac and go to sleep as the world burns. He's tired, he's had a very long day. But, fuck it, he'd asked Aziraphale to help save this stupid fucking world and now Aziraphale is asking him, and, better late than never - besides, he's got spite and directionless rage on his side, so

can he get a "wahoo";

      It's after Armageddidn't - Crowley feels raw, flayed alive, and sort of giddily willing to say anything, any stupid thing. Aziraphale, for this round, is playing the part of the idiot who runs away. Winds up in some fuck-off corner of Sussex, for whatever reason.

Crowley, obviously, follows.

So they're in a coastal village. Orbiting a cottage, even, a small space. There's a lot, it's a lot - books and teacups and things - there's just so much of this, of them, in such a constrained area. Aziraphale has already nested and Crowley feels, right, just a little like an invasive species, here

  But he wants to be here, so much, and that counts, right?

  "Hey," he says, softly. Outside the local newsagent's. He's holding a bag of pickled onion Monster Munch. He pushes his glasses off, nestles them in his hair. Aziraphale draws the single most labored breath history has ever recorded. Looks him up and down. Steps forward.

It could happen here, of course. Aziraphale could fall to his knees and confess his undying love, or vice versa, this could all - it could work out, and work out neatly

  Ha ha

But what happens is,

He hands Aziraphale the Monster Munch, and their fingers brush; storm clouds gather above.

Aziraphale bites his lip and steps in close, their coats touching, the warmth beneath. What happens is the angel slides his hand behind the demon's neck, and draws him in, drinking deep. What happens is he kisses Crowley to within an inch of his life before stepping back

  "Home, I think," he says. Crowley nods.

  Whatever, wherever home is. In this case, the cottage. The door closes behind them, and immediately locks. Crowley holds Aziraphale's hands as he heads deliberately towards, something, something, what is he doing here again?

  The bedroom, you idiot

  Aziraphale kisses him again, pulling him tightly against himself, enveloping him, before flipping him around, pushing him on and pressing him down into the bed with something approaching kindness. A hand at the junction between hips and arse, and another hand cautiously questioning, undoing his belt -

  it's a lot it's a lot it's a lot he takes it all back he's not the one who goes too fast

  "Alright?" Aziraphale asks, high pitched and breathy. His miracle-slick finger probing inside the eager but tight ring of his arsehole. It's alright, it's alright, of course it's all fucking right What happens is,

The sky cracks free, and the humidity breaks, the rain sheeting down, white noise on the roof, and,

  Aziraphale fucks him, and this berk who only ever learned one dance, he's almost got rhythm, somehow. And a cock fit to purpose, this time, long and thick. He fucks Crowley like it's his job, and he's good at his job, fucks him like he's proud of being good at his job. Leans in, his belly against Crowley's back, maybe gasps once or twice.

If he were feeling more charitable, he'd note the vulnerability in Aziraphale, the watery desperate look in his eyes; but he's not and he's mad for some inexplicable reason (they don't talk, they never say it, they never fucking say it) and, right, fuck him - Crowley comes in a small, shitty way and Aziraphale follows soon after and it's -

    It's not much good, really, but it's nice. And shouldn't that be enough? It's something, it's more than nothing. Maybe marks left in the skin of his back from where his shirt had rucked up and the buttons of Aziraphale's waistcoat had dug in. They don't say anything. They never say anything. It's just how they are, how this always is. Can't draw too much attention, even if no one's watching.

What happens is;

"We can sleep here," Crowley coughs out.

"Obviously," Aziraphale smarms.

Agreed, then. They sleep there, in the one bed.

  It's a lot, okay? Calm down. It's eternity. The entirety of everything. Don't - Don't look at him like that. He's just taking a nap -

Crowley wakes up an undetermined period of time later, and he's disoriented, and it's still raining, and Aziraphale isn't there. Not in the bed, not in the cottage, not - oh, fuck, and the panic rises. "Angel?" He calls out, casually, tripping over his own feet. What if it had been too much, what if he'd stepped over the line, what if Aziraphale had left, again - what if it wasn't any different, now? But, he finds him. He's standing outside in the rain, like an idiot. Fully dressed and utterly drenched. Crowley sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. "Angel?" Aziraphale turns to look at him, a far too complicated expression on his face. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, only nothing's coming out. "Would you like an umbrella?" Aziraphale shakes his head. "Would you like to come inside?" Aziraphale purses his lips and stares at him wildly, chin wobbling. Fine, fine. Fine. Crowley grabs an umbrella and manifests a pair of flip flops and squelches out onto the lawn. "Cmere," he says, taking the angel's hand, and he leads him back inside. "I'm wet," Aziraphale says mournfully. And hopefully, with an expectant look on his face. Fine, okay. Okay. "Shoes off," Crowley grumbles, and goes to fetch a towel. Aziraphale pouts. He'd been expecting a miracle, probably. Crowley dries his hair, fluffing it back up. Neither of them attempt to make eye contact. Crowley drops the towel, and then lets his hands settle on Aziraphale's shoulders. Gently, gently, he pulls the heavy, sodden wool off, carefully hanging it up on the coat rack. "Oh," Aziraphale says softly, inhaling sharply. "Alright?" Crowley asks. His hands are hovering over the top button of Aziraphale's waistcoat. Aziraphale nods quickly, like he's trying to stay ahead of himself, like he doesn't trust himself to speak. Eyes too wide and his mouth screwed up tight. So. Crowley continues undressing him. Methodically, precisely, hands not dwelling, gaze not lingering. Aziraphale's, what, whimpering under his breath, and something is stretching taut as a bowstring inside Crowley. He pauses at the last bit of kit, the prim pair of briefs. He's not touching. Or not touching, touching - you know. Aziraphale looks up bashfully. "I don't - that is to say. Well. What would you like?" That hadn't been the question, but it answers it anyway. Crowley swallows. "Doesn't matter," he squeaks out. "Don't overthink it." Back on the edge of a complete breakdown: "I have to overthink it! I don't know how else to-" His anxiety is flaring alongside Aziraphale's - the sympathetic vibrations they've always had. Peas in a nervous pod. "Whatever is fine. Just - exhale. Metaphorically. Or something. It's okay. No one's watching. It's just us." Crowley gives him what he hopes is a reassuring smile, and pulls his briefs down. Aziraphale scrunches his eyes shut, looking constipated. When he's worked up the courage to look, he's greeted with. Ah. Nothing, in fact. Aziraphale is as smooth and bare as a Ken doll. "I'm sorry," Aziraphale wails melodramatically. "I can't." Aaaaaaaaaaaaa, says Crowley's inner monologue. "Angel, please, just - it's fine, shut up, it's fine, you know you don't have to - I'm getting your pajamas." "I don't have any pajamas," Aziraphale sobs. "Sweatpants?" The angel stops wringing his hands long enough to give him a look of disgust. "No." Oh, for fuck's sake. Crowley snaps his fingers. "Thank you," Aziraphale murmurs. And then he's quiet again, standing awkward in a soft set of plaid flannel pajamas. He's quiet as Crowley leads him to the couch and sits him down; quiet as Crowley brews a pot of tea, hands him a tea-cup, sits down next to him a carefully-measured distance away. He preferred the histrionics, on the whole. That at least he knew what to do with. Time probably passes. The clock on the mantlepiece is ticking, anyway. "I don't know what I want," Aziraphale says finally, in a very small voice. "It's disconcerting." He looks like he feels dreadfully vulnerable. "That's...Fine," Crowley says. He gives Aziraphale's hand a brief pat. On the angel's schedule, as always. He'll wait. Ten, twenty minutes, a half hour, it's not much, but it's long in this context, sitting in silence, breaths performatively held, the livewire of this; please, angel, please Aziraphale breathes in and straightens his shoulders. Crowley doesn't look, or at least more than he has to. "It's. Well. Heaven," Aziraphale says, exhaling. Crowley nods. "I know I didn't belong there. I know none of them liked me. I know...who I am, what I want to be, is. Fundamentally incompatible, with Heaven. I'm better off without it." And." He pauses, staring straight ahead. "And the knowledge that I will never, ever go back, it. It hurts. And I don't know what to do with that." Snakes don't have tear ducts but Crowley half wishes he'd bothered to slap some on this morning, if only to do something with the thickness in his throat. He glances to the side, just long enough to catch Crowley's eye. "I'm glad you're here," he says. "Thank you, again. I know I take advantage of your - you, sometimes." "I know how to say no," Crowley replies. He doesn't know quite how to steer this conversation out of dangerous waters. "Yes, of course, dear." Aziraphale looks at him, then, or looks slightly past, something aching and awful in his eyes, something utterly bereft. Familiar enough. It's okay, it's okay. It'll be okay. It has to be, anyway. Crowley, who is, on second thought, definitively not in the vincinity of wanting to cry, tugs Aziraphale close. Lines his soft edges against all his angles, his head and hair under his hand. Doesn't comment on the raspy little noise Aziraphale makes as he slots home. "Good trip," he says. "Should come here next fall." Aziraphale snorts, and digs his way closer into Crowley's arms. "Puns. Hell's work?" "Collaboration with heaven, I should think. We both brought this upon ourselves." He hums, and tangles his fingers in Aziraphale's hair, and once again just relishes in being here, alive, and together. They both avoid drawing attention to how loaded that sentence is. And, as the morning draws on, they both find themselves casually, peacefully, falling back asleep.

They're trying again: it's still not quite working, but at least this time they're a touch more honest. In the cottage by the sea, with the fresh air and the snacks from the newsagents and the tentative, whatever, and the outright fucking want - "I could, you know, the other one," Crowley mumbles. Arse in the air and his face in a paisley pillowcase. "Ah, no. Thank you. I quite like this. Working you open. The reward for my effort. Like a pistachio." "Like a what?" Crowley spits out a bit of down and turns around, spine doing something somewhat inhuman. Aziraphale looks down, lips pursed. Eyes set in that knowing, slightly naughty cant. "Oh! I have just the thing -" He adjourns, he returns with a tangle of leather straps, and an - and a strap. Crowley swallows thickly. "You know you could just do both. Even the humans can do both." "Yes, but this is fun. There's all sorts, you know. Different colors and shapes. So much better than it was. Do you remember? The bread? I felt positively spoiled for choice at the shop." He slips the cock into the ring and steps into the harness, sliding it up and loosening it a touch as it catches around his thighs. Of course Aziraphale owns this. Of course this is a thing. "This is alright?" He asks brightly, cock jutting out, proud and vibrantly hot pink. "The, well, you know. And the nudity." Crowley blanks into a haze of static. "Nudity is good when fucking, angel," he slurs out. "I was under the impression you preferred me clothed." Aziraphale plops onto the bed, dick bouncing, his body soft and plush and unafraid. The leather pressing in just so. "It - no. That's just all I've had, you clothed. Seen. All I've seen." He wriggles. "Always thought it would be nice, though. Undress you. Unwrap you like a present." Aziraphale huffs out a low, indulgent chuckle. "Presents and pistachios. What a pair we make, hmm?" He slides inside Crowley, hard and slick. Like peas in a - oh, fuck, yep, that's what a prostate does - Crowley accidentally slaps Aziraphale in the face. It's fine. This is - it's good. He whines just enough as the angel enters him, hips coming flush to arse. It's okay, it's okay, it's It's just eternity, innit. So what. Crowley grins, and grabs fistfuls of the bedding, and -

"This is - don't tell me." Gabriel flips through the envelope of photographs. "Parcheesi?" "Pornography," Sandalphon corrects gently. "Yes! Yes. Pornography. And we have this. Pornography. Because?" There's a heavy pause. "We're keeping an eye on the renegade angel," Uriel reminds him. Ah. "Do we need to?" Gabriel asks, flipping the last photo face-down. "Is there a point? This is extremely distasteful. I'd prefer if we did not, in general, look at these things. Specifically me, I am not interested. But it's fine if you are!" He glances around the room. Blank expressions abound. "No? Right. Let's drop the threat level down and, uh, hopefully never think about this -" He taps the envelope, now re-filled with photographs - "Again. Okay?" Everyone nods, and itches to disperse. Gabriel ceremoniously tosses the envelope into the express chute to Hells' furnaces, claps his hands, and gives his team a generous thumbs-up. Meeting adjourned.

#good omens fanfic #aziraphale/crowley #ineffable husbands #*uses the word 'soft' 500 times* lit tra cher baBEY #official original content tag

[sulevinblade]

(Talesfromthefade) things you said when you were drunk, for the DWC?

OH MY GOD this was a little idea that got away from me in a big big way but I’m still pretty happy with it. For this and for “cafune - the act of running your fingers through the hair of someone you love,” from @contreparry! For @dadrunkwriting!!

Alistair/Leohta Aeducan, T for language, dumb suggestive jokes, and alcohol use, 4k+ words (awaaaay from me, I wish I had time to edit it but uh I spent the entire time writing it instead). 

On the cusp of the party’s visit to Orzammar, Alistair learns what kind of drunk Leohta can be, and shares a little lesson of his own. Light angst, serious fluff.

He finds her standing on the rocky beach, well away from the dim glow provided by the Spoiled Princess’s small windows. It takes a moment for Alistair’s eyes to adjust to the complete dark–the night watch Templar doused all the torches at the dock, as clear an indication as anything that no one else would cross Lake Calenhad tonight–but even if he’d had to follow her blind he could’ve found her by the sound.

Bloop.

Normally finding Leohta by sound means the clank or grind of armour, the grunts or barks of Leon, or even her rare laughter at something Zevran said (it was always Zevran making her laugh), but tonight the sound is completely unfamiliar. It’s still enough to guide him, though.

Bloop.

Last he’d seen her, she was swapping some of the coin they’d made selling things to the Templar quartermaster for three large bottles of deep pink liquid. It seemed a bit of a racket to Alistair, that they should collect the mages’ items as they cleared the Tower only to sell them to the Templars who would then in turn sell them back to the Mages, but surely if that wasn’t how the economy of the Circle usually worked, Wynne would’ve said something. That was Alistair’s hope, anyway, as he’d watched Leohta count the coins before they left, then again at the tavern’s bar. She’d tossed the bag back to him before collecting the bottles and heading outside, and he in turn had left it with Zevran.

Bloop.

“You have known our illustrious leader the longest among any of us. Has this always been a habit of hers?” Alistair squinted across the table, trying to determine Zevran’s game, but succeeded only in giving up his own. “You think I see this as a weakness I can exploit, but I would think even you would see that if I were going to do so, I would have done it by now and certainly would not draw attention to my plans by involving you.” His eyes only narrowed further–how does Zevran make talking down to him still seem so seductive?–but Alistair did sit back in his chair.

“I haven’t known her all that long, really, but I don’t think so. Why d'you ask?”

“My Antiva makes the finest wines in Thedas, so it is not uncommon to see those there who overindulge, but there are many types. Leohta, she is young and exploring her limits, yes, but she is also trying to drown things she does not want to feel. Her limits are low and the things she seeks to kill are very large. It is a dangerous combination.”

Alistair glanced again toward the door. Of course she hadn’t come back inside, that’d be too much to ask for, but what was he supposed to do?

“If it is too much for you, I will go after her, but she should not be alone.” Both of their chairs scraped back at the same time but Alistair was the first to stand, something that for some reason brought a sad smile to Zevran’s face. Alistair could only look at it for a moment before looking away.  "I know you do not think much of me, Alistair, and while that is entirely your loss, I do know that one thing we have in common is how much we care for her. Go see to her, my friend, before her sorrows are not all she drowns. It is probably for the best; I am not much of a swimmer myself.“

Bloop.

So now here he is, approaching carefully, pretending to be taking in the constellations while Leohta hurls rocks at the water like she’s trying to knock the waves down before they can reach the shore. The night is perfectly clear; Kinloch Hold is merely a dark space in the sky where the stars are missing, but everything else is black sky and white twinkles. He clears his throat in case she somehow hasn’t noticed since he doesn’t fancy getting one of those stones thrown at him, but she only pauses for a moment before bending to search the area around her feet for another suitable candidate. One bottle is already empty, stuffed mouth down among the pebbles and into the sand underneath them, and as Alistair finishes closing the distance Leohta gives up her search and instead tips to land on her backside, legs out in front of her and a second bottle in her hand. He knows they’re not small but her stature makes them seem even larger; it makes the sight of her lifting one to her lips almost comical but the effect is spoiled by how long it stays there. Maker’s breath, Zevran was right when he talked about drowning.

"You planning on coming up for air any time soon?”

There’s a pop as she breaks the vacuum she’s created, then a dry laugh. She still isn’t looking at him. It makes his chest hurt, how badly he wants her to turn her head. “Breathe through your nose and you can use your mouth for whatever you want.”

“You’re spending too much time with Zevran, saying things like that.” Sighing, Alistair drops down crosslegged at her side and extends a hand. “What are you even drinking? I’ve never seen anything that color in a tavern before.”

“One of the Templars told me about it. I guess–” there’s a pause and she bunches up her eyebrows, apparently trying to put the pieces back together, “I guess the mother started making it as a tribute to her daughter and now of course it’s all very sad but the owner still makes it as a specialty. Sweet mead made with roses.” She passes over the open bottle, not bothering to wipe the top, and the expression on her face, like she’s sharing a secret, distracts him so much he can’t be bothered either. She wasn’t kidding when she said it was sweet but the roses are strong too, floral and delicate. He passes the bottle back after just one mouthful.

“I’ve never had a mead like that before. It’s very… different.” Leohta seems to accept that answer, nodding before lifting the bottle to her lips again.

“There’s nothing like this in Orzammar. Not even in the palace. Not even to make it. No honey, no roses, and when there is if you said you wanted to make something like this with it, you’d be laughed out of the kitchen.” She holds the bottle in front of her contemplatively, swishing the contents back and forth gently and tilting her head in time with the motion. Alistair’d almost think it was a contented sort of gesture but then she sighs and drops her head back, hair falling over her shoulders as she lifts the bottle skyward. “Nothing like that, either. No stars, no sky. Some of the caverns are so high the ceilings are invisible, but you still know they’re up there.” Slowly, she lowers the bottle but keeps her gaze fixed upward.

“Do you miss that?” It’s not something he’s given a lot of thought to but it’s hard to imagine. Even within the walls of the Chantry there were windows. The sky was always there, or not-there maybe, when compared to a ceiling of stone. Trying to imagine life without it or everything it held–the sun, the moons, the clouds and stars and birds–was virtually impossible, but here was Leohta not just imagining the opposite but living it.

“Dunno. I still don’t understand all this. What keeps it up there?” Her hand waves up at the stars but only briefly; even sitting down she’s unsteady without both hands to support her. “With the stone, you know that even if you can’t see the ceiling, it’s still held there by the stone. Nothing floats, nothing rises or sets.” Watching her profile, he can see the way it hardens as her train of thought jumps the track. “Nothing changes.”

He shifts a little, the pebbles grinding softly underneath him as he leans to try to catch her eye. “You changed.”

This time when she looks over at him, it gives him a chill. The stone she’s been so contemplative about has found a home in her eyes, the set of her mouth. They seem cold and stiff and almost lifeless, soft evening blue turned to lapis lazuli. Still beautiful but hard. “I left, and not by choice. You wouldn’t know how much I’ve changed, Alistair. You have no idea what I was like before we met.”

“I suppose not, but I do know you’ve changed in the time I’ve known you.” He keeps his voice softer now, speaking carefully to avoid that stony shift becoming somehow permanent. He hasn’t seen her look like that since before Ostagar, and to lose all the little ways she’s softened since then would be the greatest waste. “Do you miss that? Or her, I guess. Do you miss who you were before?”

Her laugh is a single humorless sound that moves her entire body, shaking her shoulders and flexing her stomach. “What does that matter? She’s dead. Worse than dead.” There’s venom in her voice but Alistair doesn’t flinch since for once he’s certain it’s not directed at him. He watches as Leohta stands, a wobbly process that involves repeated planting of hands and feet before she can push herself vertical. There’s a powerful temptation to offer her help but the set of her jaw makes him stay his hand, even if whatever effect she might be going for is already ruined by her own unsteadiness. “Nobody mourned her, nobody misses her, but it doesn’t change the fact that she’s dead. Bhelen killed her as sure as he killed Trian. The prince is dead, the princess is dead. Princess Aeducan is dead.” Her voice is raising, getting louder and more raw the longer she speaks, until finally she’s yelling out at the water. “Princess Leohta Aeducan, second born and best beloved daughter of House Aeducan, is dead!” She punctuates the last word by throwing the empty bottle into the water but it’s a bad throw, short and shallow. The bottle makes only a small splash then floats, reflecting the moonlight as it bobs its way back toward the shore.

Alistair rises, brushing at the back of his breeches, and makes his way up to stand beside her. He’s well within punching range, possibly a dangerous gamble, but if the way she’s carrying herself is any indication, it wouldn’t hurt very much right now. Plus, if she punched him, at least it’d prove she was feeling something. “I’d mourn her but like you said, I never did get to meet her. I’ve met Warden Aeducan, though, and I think she’s pretty great. Accomplished a lot, too.”

She’s bent back down and is sorting through the stones at her feet, tucking some in the bend of her other arm. Standing back up is a careful process but she’s shaking her head the entire time. “They’re not gonna think so.” Her voice is normal again but her profile is still stony.

Bloop.

Was this was he was like heading into Redcliffe? Of course, he hadn’t gotten drunk on sickly sweet mead to deal with it, but he’d had his turn as the prodigal royal-but-not-really. The main difference was he never wanted it, but she spoke so little of her life before the Grey Wardens. Was the crown of Orzammar what she’d really wanted? Not that it really mattered now. “Seems to me they had their chance to appreciate you and they blew it.”

“Oh, no. That’s the thing. Up until the end, they loved Princess Aeducan. That was the whole problem. She was too well-loved. Luckily, I’m not.” Leohta stares out at the ripples from her last throw but the fight’s going out of her. It ought to be a comfort, less risk of being punched, but instead it just hurts more. He curls his hands into fists at his sides to keep from reaching out, swallows the words that’d tell her just how deeply loved she is and not only by him, as much as he might wish it were so.

“We could go back to Denerim without going to Orzammar.” Aaaaaaaalistair, what’re you doooooooing? He ignores the voice in the back of his head, prepared to make an argument for mounting their assault without the help of the dwarves, but Leohta shakes her head. She’s drunk and she’s still got better sense than you.

“Just because I don’t want to go back doesn’t mean we don’t have to. Being a Grey Warden isn’t supposed to be fun, hasn’t been so far, why start now?” She seems to consider the matter closed as she turns her attention back to the rocks she’s holding, sorting through them as though looking for a particular one. They start to slip away and clack into the pebbles below and with a frustrated sigh she picks one, letting the remainder drop. “This is supposed to be, though. How the fuck do you do this?” Another windup, another bloop.

“Wait. What are you trying to do?”

“Make it…” She shakes her head, the word apparently lost, and instead makes a bouncing motion with her hand.

“You’re trying to skip stones… by heaving them at the surface of the water with all your might?” And there’s the punch he was waiting for, exactly as painless as expected. It’s not even hard enough to stop him laughing.

“I saw you and Zevran do it in Redcliffe before we left and it seemed to calm you down so I thought I’d try. You made it look easy, but if you’re just gonna laugh then forg–”

Alistair intercepts her before she can start to walk away. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just that I never would have guessed that’s what you were trying to do. I thought you were mad at the lake or something.” She’s looking up at him, wary, so he holds his hands up in innocence. “If you still want to try, I can show you.”

“No more laughing?”

“No more laughing. Warden’s honor.” When Leohta seems satisfied with his intentions, Alistair finally looks away from her, crouching down. “The first thing you need is the right kind of rock. It needs to be pretty flat and you want a triangle shape if you can find one, but flat will do for now.”

She’s crouching as well. “I thought it would be better with a round rock, like a ball.” She’s quiet, almost chastized, and Alistair has to duck his head and cough into his fist to hide the grin it conjures.

“No, that’ll break through the water and sink. A flat rock will bounce better. Something like these.” He shows her the three he’s found, all rounder still than he’d like but they should do the trick. She holds up a couple of her own and really, they’re no better, but they’re only for learning. “Yes, those will do. Now.” Alistair drops to his knees and crooks his fingers around one of the stones. “You have to hold it like this, because the important part is that you get it to spin. That’s what makes it skip.”

Leohta’s squinting at his hand, then she tries it out herself. Her hands are smaller so she can’t quite circle it the way he does, but Alistair hopes it’ll work out. “Like this?”

“Just like that. Now, the other trick is not to throw it up but to flick it. You want it to stay flat so you have to kind of–” He turns his arm out at the elbow and flicks the rock out onto the water. Four hops, not his best work but not bad.

When he looks back at Leohta, though, she’s entranced. She watches the ripples so long he has to clear his throat to get her attention back, but this time every trace of the stone is gone from her face. She looks eager, determined, but also a little embarrassed. Surprised to have been caught, probably, but it’s a charming expression nonetheless. She turns to face the water again, weighing the rock in her hand, then moves her arm and throws.

It splashes and sinks just like all her other attempts. Leohta curses softly and starts to turn away but Alistair catches her wrist.

“Hey, no way. You’re not giving up after one attempt. C'mon. We’ve got two more rocks, so two more tries, then I guess I can let you give up.” He starts to move before she can start to argue.

“It’s not giving up, Alistair, it’s accepting the inedible. Inedibibble. Ined… remind me to compliment the tavernkeeper tomorrow. His stuff is good.” Her voice gradually gets softer, a delayed reaction to where Alistair has taken up a position just behind her. It’s extremely convenient for him: she can’t see how his face is burning up from the presumptuousness of being so close to her, but it’s also the best position to show her how to move her arm. He wraps his hand around hers and lifts her arm into position.

“From here, you have to flick your hand out. Try to imagine the rock spinning out from the inside of your thumb and taking all that energy with it. The harder you can flick it, the more it’ll bounce and the more hops you’ll–all right, that’s it, you and Zevran are officially being separated because that’s not even dirty and now you’ve made it dirty. I hope you’re happy.” The woman in front of him is struggling to contain her laughter, he can tell, and as much as he wants to keep her focus on him, it’s hard to be genuinely upset. She doesn’t laugh nearly enough and especially not around him. The fact that whatever is so funny is lost on him is a far distant concern.

Alistair waits for her to compose herself then takes a moment to compose himself in turn when she settles back into a proper posture that puts her in contact with him from shoulder to hip. She’s nearly as tall as he is when he’s on his knees like this, a fact he’s thought about many times but never quite in this situation. Leohta gives herself a little shake, tossing her hair in his face as she does. He tries to blow it out of the way but there’s just too much. All right then, one thing at a time.

“Now. Just remember, angle your hand back and then flick. That word is ruined for me now, I think. You’ve ruined flicking.” In front of him Leohta snorts and Alistair make a private vow to forbid Zevran from using that word. He wants it to be their joke even if he doesn’t understand it. “Do you think you can manage?”

“To flick? I’ve done all right for the last few years anyway.” She giggles and clears her throat. “All right. Angle my hand back,” and her hand is moving inside of his so he loosens his grip, “then forward and flick!”

Alistair peers over her shoulder and sure enough. Blip, blip. One hop, but it’s one more than she’d managed before. He puts his hands on her shoulders and squeezes. “There you go! Well done, Warden Aeducan.” She lifts one hand to pat his but he can tell she’s still looking at the ripples.

After a moment, he releases her shoulders and, feeling a little bolder by the fact that she hasn’t elbowed him away yet, reaches forward to comb his fingers through her hair. It’s a practical gesture–even as he’s speaking, her hair is getting in his mouth–but hardly exclusively practical. Her hair is thick and her scalp surprisingly warm underneath it. In front of him she’s gone very still; he thinks she might even be holding her breath but then again, so is he. He focuses on his own hands until he’s gathered her hair at the back of her neck, but then the tension in it changes and oh.

Alistair looks up and she’s right there, her head turned to look at him. Maker’s breath but she’s close, her mouth gently open and her eyes searching his face. Her breath smells like honey and roses and his hand is still in her hair, it’d be so easy and it might be perfect but she’s been drinking and that’s not right. Or might it be OK, with her looking at him like that? The motion of her lips is so mesmerizing that it takes him a moment to realize she’s speaking to him.

“Alistair.” And like that, the moment is over, or at least set aside. “Would you do that again?”

“Of course.” She could ask him to fetch the moons from the sky right now and he’d say yes, but… “Wait, do what?” He didn’t do anything other than have a whole lot of thoughts in a very short span of time.

“Touch my hair. That was nice.” She’s leaning more of her weight against him now and it’s nice but also just starting to make him concerned. Still, he already said yes, so Alistair releases her hair from where he’s holding it and threads his fingers through it again, starting at her temple, mindful of and parallel to the little braid she’s so meticulous about. As he does it, her eyes drift closed but her face is relaxed. It’s not quite a smile but he’ll take it. “Again,” she murmurs as his hand comes to rest on the back of her neck.

Alistair laughs softly but he complies with her request, stroking his fingers through her hair again. And again, and once more, until she leans forward completely and drops her head onto his shoulder. Her breath is warm on his neck as he gives her one last stroke, then stops to reach out away from her. She grumbles softly in protest but he hushes her. “I’m just getting your other bottle. It’s bought and paid for, no sense leaving it here.”

“Why, where’re we going?”

“I don’t know yet about myself but you are doing to bed. Sleeping standing up is only good for horses and probably Sten, and sleeping on your knees is good for no one. Now, come on, up you get.” He hooks the hand holding the unopened bottle of rhodomel under Leohta’s knees, his other arm coming up behind her shoulders. She grumbles again as he starts to stand and he pauses before beginning to walk.

“You’re carrying me like a princess.” The humor in her voice warms him but now he feels a little more confident about deflecting it.

“I’m a Warden carrying another Warden like a Warden. No princesses here. Well, except for the tavern but I’m certainly not trying to pick that up. I could throw you over my shoulder if you wanted, but you have to promise not to throw up on my back.”

“No promises.” She slumps against his shoulder as he starts to walk. It’s only a few steps from the beach to the door but he takes his time. Who knows what Orzammar will do to her, or what she might do to Orzammar? The answer is liable to be complicated but this, for as unexpected as it is, feels strangely simple. She might not even remember it in the morning, but it’s not a feeling Alistair’s going to forget any time soon. “Alistair.”

“I don’t have a free hand to pet you, but if you can stay awake until we get inside, maybe I’ll give you scritches once I get you upstairs.” He’s trying to figure out how he’s going to open the door when she shakes her head and answers.

“Thank you for coming out tonight. I’m sorry I’m–”

“None of that now. You have nothing to be sorry for, and if anything I should say thank you for having me.” Alistair manages to hook the latch with his pinkie then wedge his foot into the gap, kicking the door open as he maneuvers her inside. “You may not have found it so, but I think being a Warden can be a little bit fun, if you’re with the right person. Or people,” he continues, scrambling to cover for himself while trying to ease the door’s closing with his foot. Once he’s got both feet back on the ground, he looks down at the woman in his arms. Fast asleep, looking as young as he’s ever seen her and more peaceful than she has possibly the entire time he’s known her. The inn’s main room is empty, the fire doused, and he’s almost loathe to speak again and interrupt the silence, but he does.

“Or person. Just the right person.”

#my writing #dadwc #dwc #alistair theirin #leohta aeducan #alistair x f!warden #alistair x f!aeducan #alcohol #but also fluff #and feels #leohta's such a mess #oh and yes she and jonah gave their mabaris the same name #it's a thing

[mrspasser]

Bound - a short Loki fanfic

Credits for the cover art go to @nanihoosartblog, I found the picture online and loved it :-)

***

Bound

It was meant to be humiliating, making Loki watch the party in shackles. Yet she couldn’t find it shameful; he didn’t seem to think so either. He was watching the gathered people with disdain, the flickering light of the fire not even reaching his outstretched legs because he was that far away. His face was in the shadows, though she could see the hard glimmer in his eyes. He was angry, his pride was probably hurt, yet he still managed to look like he had planned to be put in the corner like that.

Ylva didn’t really know why the youngest son was bound this time. Maybe he’d stabbed Thor, or had made his older brother believe he was a snake again. Loki was always scheming to thwart the plans of Thor and his friends. If they didn’t include him, he made sure to include himself somehow. Ylva was sure he would deny her theory fiercely, another reason to make her think she was right.

She thought a lot about Loki, probably way more than he would ever think about her. He knew who she was, of course, being Fandral’s younger sister she was about the same age as Loki and they more or less hung out with the same people. She also saw him in the library often, when the lessons were done and they had to do homework. Thor always snuck out and went to the training grounds; Loki didn’t, though he didn’t really do his homework either. He was always reading, trying to go deeper or further or beyond the stuff their teachers talked about. Of course he had private lessons, he wasn’t in her class; he was a prince after all and she was definitely not royal. Yet she didn’t think his lessons differed much from hers, she had seen him with the same textbooks she had.

She saw a lot. She saw how he licked his finger before turning a page. She saw how he sometimes frowned when he was reading, or how he bit his lip when he came upon something particularly complicated. She also saw how the corners of his mouth turned up when he read something he liked, or the way his eyes lit up when he got excited over a book. She also saw how the young prince - and this was her favourite thing to watch - rested his head in his hand when he got a little tired, his fingers woven in between his dark hair. Tired Loki who enjoyed the book he was reading, that was her favourite image of him.

He probably barely had any image of her in his head. When someone mentioned her to him he most likely thought of some generic girl, not specifically of a girl with strawberry blonde hair, blue eyes and freckles that became more prominent in the summer. Or a girl that liked the same books as he did. Or a girl that was always trying to come up with something to say to him, but always came up blank whenever his eyes happened to glance over her. He knew of her, but he didn’t know her.

It might be the mead in her blood, or it might be that the warm night made her bolder, but she had slowly backed away from the merry circle of people around the fire and now she was approaching the trickster prince from the side.

They had shackled his hands behind the last pole of the fence that divided the sparring area in two. It was not much of a fence; just wooden poles in the ground, connected with a plank nailed against the side of the poles. Loki was sitting on a sandbag or something, it couldn’t be all that comfortable, yet he seemed relatively at ease.

“Hey, Ylva,” he greeted her casually when she came close. It surprised her that he knew her name. They’d never really talked before, apart from the obligatory greetings and a little smalltalk when they found themselves in the same company.

“Hi,” she said softly, because she felt a little awkward about coming over to him and because she didn’t want any of the others to notice them. The whole point of his punishment was ignoring the boy and that was the opposite of what she was doing.

She walked past the dark-haired prince and stopped to lean on the fence with a few feet between them. Looking down on him like this she could see how his longish hair curled at his collar; she wanted to touch it, to feel if it really was as soft as it looked. 

He had to turn his head a little to look at her, which he did as if they just happened to run in to each other. “Enjoying the party?” It sounded like an everyday question. Like he wasn’t being made to sit it out like some lowly criminal who would be dealt with later. His situation reminded her of a Midgardian western story she once read, where the hero went into the tavern for a drink and had the bad guy tied up with the horses outside. Loki had read the same book, she had seen him with it the week after she returned it to the library.

“Nah,” she said. “Volstagg wants to drink all the mead, my brother wants to kiss all the girls,” she gestured with her tankard of mead to the people around the fire, “and everybody listens to your brother’s brawny stories like they’ve not heard them at least ten times before.”

Loki chuckled. “Same old, same old.”

“Precisely.” Ylva took a sip from her mead. The honey drink was warm in her throat.

“Can I have some?” Loki asked, looking at her tankard.

“Oh. Uh, sure.” Ylva pushed herself upright and wanted to walk back to the fire, where a barrel of mead was being held hostage by Volstagg. “I’ll go get you a drink.”

“No, don’t,” he said quickly. “They’ll stop you. Just give me some of yours.”

Ylva started to hold out her tankard to him, though she quickly realised her mistake. What was he gonna do? Hold the rim of the tankard between his teeth and just tip his head back? She rolled her eyes at her own stupidity and walked around the fence to crouch down in front of him. Loki was following her movements and she felt heat creep up her neck; hopefully it was dark enough for him not to notice it. She had never been this close to him before - not when they were alone - and even though he was just watching what she was doing, it felt way too intimate already.

She angled the tankard to his lips and started to tip it carefully. She couldn’t really see what she was doing, sitting right in front of him and awkwardly trying to avoid touching his legs or any other part of him. The result was a splutter from Loki and mead that ran down his chin and neck.

“Careful!” he huffed, though he didn’t sound mad. If anything, he sounded a little amused.

“Sorry, sorry,” Ylva whispered hurriedly and before she had thought it through she had her sleeve already bunched up around her hand and wiped his chin dry. Maybe she should have gone easier on the mead tonight.

Loki raised his chin to expose his throat. “I think you missed a spot,” he instructed dryly and when she moved her hand to clean there too they both started to laugh, breaking the tension.

“Try again,” Loki chuckled, sitting up straighter. “Try not to pour it down my shirt this time.”

Ylva sat more to the side now, her knees pressed to the burlap bag of sand Loki was sitting on. She had to lean on his shoulder a little to get the angle right, but this time he could drink without spilling the honey wine all over him.

When he pulled back, there was just a little left and Ylva drank it in one swig before putting the tankard down behind her. She sat down on the sandy ground of the sparring pit, wrapping her arms around her knees. They both stared in silence at the people by the fire, watching the lights play over their faces.

Thor was in the center, easily recognised by his height and blond hair. He was talking animatedly, gesturing wildly with his tankard. Using one of his friends as a prop, he was imitating a fight scene or something.

Her own brother was there too, a little to the side, a girl in each of his arms. As Ylva watched he whispered something in their ears, one at a time, making them giggle and clutch to him tighter. To her disgust they walked away in the direction of the gardens after that, leaving Ylva without a doubt about their plans once they got to the dark, secluded palace gardens.

She must have made a disapproving sound, because Loki responded understandingly. “Brothers… right?”

“I don’t know what is more disgusting. His slutty behaviour or theirs.”

“They’re just having fun,” Loki shrugged.

“Can’t be that much fun,” Ylva said curtly. “It’s never the same girl twice. Apparently they’re all no good.”

The prince started to laugh silently, his chest moving up and down. “That is one way to look at it.”

“He’s almost out of girls, I think. Next, he has to move on to guys.” She turned to Loki with a smirk. “You better watch out, pretty boy!”

“You think I’m pretty?” Loki’s smirk became wider as hers disappeared, his perfectly straight teeth white in the dark.

Ylva scrambled to her feet, heat rushing to her face. She had no witty comeback for this and walking away would only confirm she thought he was handsome, yet it was all she could think of doing right now.

But she could not stand up straight and go: her dress was stuck. She turned back and tugged at it, only to get two little tugs back in response. Loki was holding the edge of her skirt in his bound hands, it had been in his reach when she was sitting down next to him.

“Don’t go,” he said and it sounded suspiciously like a plea. “Come on, Ylva, sit down.” He looked from her to the people by the fire. “I could use some company.”

Ylva turned to him and he released the hem of her dress, the fabric pooling around her legs. She didn’t sit down again, yet she had no intention of walking away anymore either. “Why don’t you just teleport out of here?” she asked. “You can do that, right?”

He grimaced. “Not when I’m stuck like this. I’d have to take the whole fence with me, I can’t do that. Yet.” He stuck his chin up with the last word, like it was only a matter of time before he would learn how to do that.

Ylva felt the wood of the fence; it was sturdy enough as a barrier, yet the top plank was simply nailed to the posts. Though he was no muscled warrior like his brother, Loki was strong enough on his own. “You could probably break out, it’s just a wooden railing.”

Loki leaned sideways and inspected the post he was bound to. “I could, though not without making a lot of noise.”

“Can’t you magick the nails out?” Ylva had crouched down next to him on the balls of her feet, taking a closer look at the fence. It was hard to see in the dark, so she felt with her hand how the plank was attached to the pole.

“I’ll add that to my list of things to learn in magic school,” Loki said sarcastically, rolling his eyes at her from his leaning position. “For now, you’ll have to help me.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Ylva answered absentmindedly, trying to make out the heads of the nails in the wood with her fingertips. Her tongue slipped out between her teeth, as always when she was concentrating hard. There were only two nails, about three inches apart. That seemed a bit far apart, so she eased her hand to the back of the plank. She kind of lost her footing for a moment, but Loki didn’t seem to mind that she rested her knee on his thigh to keep herself balanced. Ylva leaned even further over him, to get a better feel of the pole and the plank behind him. The top of Loki’s head just came up to the plank, which was about six inches wide. If she had thought about it in advance, it would have made more sense to get up and walk around Loki to check out the fence; yet she was here now anyway, with enough mead in her system to make her care a little less about what she was doing.

“Yes! Got it!” Ylva exclaimed, getting hushed by Loki immediately.

“Quiet,” he hissed. “They’ll hear us.”

Ylva glanced back to the fire, where everyone still seemed occupied with drinking and talking to each other. Nobody was paying attention to the prince or the girl that was practically in his lap by now. She tried not to think too hard about that little fact. Or that Loki had sat up straighter again, which meant his face was closer than before.

“There is only one nail in this plank,” she whispered at him. “The other one missed the post.”

“Which means even your tiny girl biceps can pry it loose?” Loki teased.

She hit his arm. Hard.

“I take that as a yes,” he smirked.

“Fine, I’ll try,” she grumbled, standing up from her crouched position. Ylva pulled her sleeves down to protect her hands and grabbed the plank. Standing next to Loki didn’t give her the right angle, so she had to stand over him to really be able to use her strength. The prince didn’t complain, he kept his head down as she put her weight in to pull at the wood. “Next time, remind me to bring a crowbar,” Ylva groaned, jostling the plank. It moved a bit, she was pretty sure she could wrench the nail out if only she pulled hard enough.

At the moment Loki lifted his head to make some joke about her being an excellent sidekick if she carried a crowbar as a weapon, Ylva pulled extra hard and the plank suddenly came loose, hitting Loki in the head.

She cursed under her breath and instinctively cradled Loki’s head against her to rub over the sore spot at the back of his head, smothering his loud curses in her skirt as an extra benefit. “Sorry, sorry!” she whispered. “You should have kept your head down!”

Suddenly Ylva became aware how Loki was shaking under her hands. For a second she thought he was crying, until she heard him laugh. His voice was barely audible with his face hidden in her dress, but she could hear him clear as day. 

“Valhalla, Ylva! Does this count as second or third base?!” He nearly choked on his words from laughing.

With an annoyed cry she released him, pushing him back against the pole. Loki slumped against it, heaving with laughter.

Ylva surely hoped nobody would come look why Loki was laughing so hard. What would she say? I hit him in the head and I pulled him against me to console him like a little kid, inadvertently pressing his face in my crotch? Gods, what was she doing?! Ylva stepped back and tripped over her dress - or Loki’s feet - and fell flat on her ass between his lower legs. Wonderful, as if she needed to make an even greater fool out of herself!

Loki took one look at her exasperated face and started laughing again. Ylva couldn’t help but start laughing too and when he pushed her with his foot she easily tipped to the side, pressing her hand over her mouth to try and keep quiet.

It took them a few minutes to gather themselves again, before they could start getting Loki off the fencepost. The prince easily got to his feet and Ylva pulled the plank free from the post so Loki could slip his arms out.

“Let’s not talk about what just happened ever again,” she stated sternly as he stretched his back; he had been sitting there quite a while.

“I can’t promise that,” Loki answered with glinting eyes, easily stepping out of her reach as she tried to hit his arm again. “Thanks for helping me out, though. Now we just have to get rid of the shackles.”

Ylva tilted her head to look behind Loki’s back at his bound wrists. It looked like Thor had borrowed the restraints from a prison guard. “Can you pick the lock?”

He shook his head. “Not when it’s behind my back. I’ll have to…” He stopped talking and lowered himself to the ground. Ylva bit back a giggle when he wriggled and bent his body as far as it would go with the goal of bringing his arms back to his front. It worked, exposing a fair bit of skin on his back and stomach when his shirt rode up. Or maybe his pants got lower, it was hard to say in the dark, even though Ylva watched with interest. “Odin’s beard, I’m gonna feel that tomorrow,” Loki groaned as he stood up again, rolling his shoulders.

The young prince lifted his wrists up to his face, hoping it would help him see how he could get the restraints off in the dark. Ylva peered at the metal shackles from the side; they looked fairly big around the boy’s wrists.

A cry from someone by the fire startled them both. To Ylva’s horror multiple dark figures were suddenly running towards them, yelling things like “Get them!” and other inaudible cries.

“We have to run!” she gasped, turning to Loki.

He looked over her shoulder and then back to her. “Too late,” he exclaimed and then out of the blue he lifted his arms and brought them down around her, the shackles hard against her back.

She fell against him and as his arms closed her in firmly, she felt a sudden sharp pull on her body. It was like someone yanked her from her feet in one strong tug and at the same time it felt like falling, but falling in a horizontal direction while her stomach went the other way.

As fast as it came, it was over. Ylva swallowed back some bile, reeling on her feet. Loki still had his arms around her and his face was pressed in the crook of her neck. He held her up, though she did the same for him. “Give me… a second…” the young prince panted, his breath hot on her skin.

Ylva bunched his shirt in her hands, giving herself something to hold on to in fear of toppling over. “What… what was that?” she asked, after she was sure she wouldn’t retch up the mead when she opened her mouth.

“I’m kinda… proud of myself,” Loki answered out of breath, his head still on her shoulder even though he had to stoop down a little to do that. In fact, Ylva felt he had widened his stance to be lower. “I never… teleported two people at once before.”

“That was teleporting?” Ylva muttered irritatedly. “I hate it.”

His chuckle vibrated against her throat, making her shiver in a very, very good way. He straightened out after that, meaning she had to look up to look him in the eye. Which she didn’t, not right away anyway, because even if you had held a knife to her throat she couldn’t tell you if the featherlight kiss she had felt against her skin before he pulled away was real or not. She had to decide it was a figment of her imagination before she was able to look him in the face again.

Looking Loki in the eye while he still had his arms around her, the shackles resting lightly against the small of her back, turned out to be an impossible task. So Ylva looked at the dark shapes surrounding them. “Where are we?”

“Behind mother’s greenhouse,” Loki said, looking around himself too. He looked down. “I think we’re standing in one of her flowerbeds, better get out before we trample everything.”

If Ylva had expected him to release her from his embrace, she was wrong. Instead, he simply pressed his arms together to lift her up by her waist and took two big steps to get them out of the queen’s flowerbeds.

Only after they were standing on the cobblestoned path did he lift his arms so she could step away from him. That meant releasing his shirt too, which she apparently was still holding on to. Ylva awkwardly smoothed the fabric a bit; she couldn’t see it in the dark, but she was pretty sure you could still see where she had held on to it so tightly.

“This way,” he said, gently bumping her shoulder to make her walk with him. They walked around the greenhouse to the entrance. “Key is up there.” The prince nudged his head to the ridge above the door.

Ylva stood on her toes and felt with her hand until her fingers touched the key. She fumbled it in the keyhole and pushed the door open for them. Loki strode in with purpose, walking to a workbench in the back. It was so dark in here, Ylva could hardly see where she walked. The prince lit a green fire in his hand, holding it above the workbench in search for something. “All right, partner,” he said to Ylva, gesturing her over. “Help me search.”

“Partner?” Ylva asked curiously as she approached the workbench. There was a green flame dancing above Loki’s palm; it wasn’t hot, it was just light.

“My partner in crime,” Loki smirked, bumping her shoulder. “Look for a pin or something.”

Ylva’s brain was a little fried from the combination of mead, teleporting and being manhandled by Loki. Him calling her ‘my partner’ didn’t help at all, even when it was a ‘partner in crime’.

Together they turned over the contents of the workbench until Ylva found a roll of thin metal wire. “Would this work?”

Loki held his flame closer. “Yes, that would do it. Cut some off and twist it so it’s stronger.” He held up a pair of pruning shears for her. Ylva did as he asked and handed Loki the twisted metal pin when she was done. The green light went out when he turned his hands and wriggled the pin in the keyhole of his restraints. Loki grunted a little as he tried to pry the lock open. At one point he lit up another green flame to see what he was doing. His concentrated frown was adorable if you asked Ylva; though it was lucky nobody asked her, she might accidently say it out loud.

Suddenly the lock clicked and the frown on Loki’s face made way for a beautiful smile. The design made it so that Ylva had to help the boy to twist the restraints completely open. They thudded heavily to the ground.

Loki flexed his freed wrists and suddenly squeezed her face between his hands. “You are a wonderful sidekick!” he exclaimed and let go of her face, paying no attention to Ylva’s bewildered state when he grabbed her hand to pull her with him. “Come on, let’s get out of here!”

A grinning blond Asgardian prince stopped them in their tracks. Thor had his arms crossed in front of his chest, his feet spread apart. He looked a lot like Odin at that moment, were it not for the shit-eating grin on his face. Behind him, some of his friends spilled into the greenhouse.

“Loki, that’s my little sister you have there,” Fandral said accusingly, coming to stand next to Thor.

Loki shrugged with a smirk, giving Ylva’s hand a squeeze. “So?”

“So, I don’t know what you told her to convince her to help you escape, but I suggest you cut it out right now.” Fandral took a step forward, as if he wanted to grab them.

Thor held out his arm to hold Fandral back. “Don’t overreact, my friend. It’s not such a big deal.” The crown prince grinned and turned his attention back to his younger brother. “I’m sure Loki has been nothing but nice to her.”

Ylva didn’t know what to make of the conversation that played out in front of her. It was kind of hard to think with Loki’s fingers wrapped around her hand. He had not let go of her the entire time, he even rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand like it was perfectly normal for them to hold hands.

What happened outside the greenhouse, that was a lot easier to wrap her mind around. On all four sides there were lights all of a sudden, lights that blurred a little in the glass of the greenhouse, yet she recognised the shine of the Einherjar’s armour well enough. The palace guards probably couldn’t see exactly what happened inside the greenhouse, because it was so dark in here, but they sure had some explaining to do. All of them. Neither of them was supposed to be here in the middle of the night, the palace gardens were a forbidden area after dark. This meant trouble. Ylva’s parents would be so mad!

“The guards are here,” she hissed at Loki, tugging at his hand.

He looked back at her, grinning wide. “Perfect,” the prince said to her, before he turned back to Thor. “Good luck talking yourself out of this, brother!”

Before Ylva could protest Loki pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her. She only had time to think ‘oh no, not again’ before her body fell one way and her stomach the other way.

They came to a standstill just outside the walls of the palace. Ylva held on to Loki - his fingers buried in his biceps this time - while she tried to push her stomach back to where it belonged.

“You okay?” he asked, sounding less out of breath than the first time. “I think I’m getting better at it.”

“Well, I’m not!” she gasped, pinching his arms as hard as she could. “I still hate it.”

“Not as much as Thor hates having to explain to father why the Einherjar had to pluck him and his friends from the gardens in the middle of the night.” Loki chuckles, his arms loosely around Ylva’s waist. “Breaking and entering in mother’s greenhouse. She’s not gonna like that.”

“Well… thanks for helping me escape then,” Ylva said hesitantly. “Does that make us even?”

Loki smirked. “Sure. We’re partners in crime now, aren’t we?” He moved his arms so his hands rested on her waist. “Think you can stand without falling over now?” Ylva nodded, although she regretted it when Loki stepped back from her. The prince nudged his chin to something behind her. “That’s where you live, isn’t it?”

Ylva turned her head to see the buildings behind her. It was a row of houses angled directly at the palace wall. They were not big, but they had nice gardens and the view down the hill to the village was lovely. “Yeah,” she nodded.

“Thought so,” Loki said with a smile. “Then I’ve properly seen you home. Don’t want to disappoint my mother by having bad manners.” He had the audacity to wink at her before he gave Ylva something she could dream about for months to come. Loki stepped closer and gently kissed her cheek. “See you around, partner.”

***

Thank you for reading! This story is part of my short story collection ‘Muffins’ on Wattpad. You can find me there as @ilse_writes. 

#loki #fanfiction #writing #Wattpad #reading #fanfic #thor #sigyn #loki x ylva #coffeeandbooks #asgard #teenageloki #teenagers #magic #bound #ilsewrites #Author #newstory #short story

[gale-lavellan]

((Got this from X and thought I’d RP it as Gale.))

1. What is your name?

My name is Gale Lavellan.

2. What is your real name?

...Gale...Lavellan...? You’re not very-...Shit, you’re not one of those “you’re the Herald of Andraste!” people are you? I’m so tired of that nonsensical title. You have no idea. We figured out that it was Justinia who sent me back, not Andraste!

3. Do you know why you were called that?

Yes, because religious fanatics can’t consider that maybe other people are amazing. It has to be some divine intervention or other crap. 

...I realize you meant my name...That was because my mother liked the common language, and particularly a name that reflected the weather at the time. We had ‘gale’ winds the day I was born, apparently. So, it stuck.

4. Are you single or taken?

Very happily taken by Dorian Pavus. Granted, the distance is a bit annoying, but I have a sending crystal so I can talk to him. It’s still a little hard to sleep without him beside me though...

5. Have any abilities or powers?

I am a mage, and for a while, I did have the anchor, but that is gone...as you can see. *holds up stump* But it’s fine. I was ambidextrous, and I can do everything I need to for my magic with my right hand. It is a bit hard to get dressed though. 

6. What is your eye color?

How did Dorian put it? “Amethysts of the night sky”...Cheesy and poetic...Gods, I miss him...

7. How about your hair color?

Ebony black.

8. Have you any family members?

My mother died when I was 16, but my father, and twin sisters, are alive and well.

9. Oh? What about pets?

Revas, my hart. He’s been my mount since I was named First when I was 16...not long after my mother died...

10. That’s cool I guess, now tell me about something you don’t like.

I hate when people insist that one group is inherently evil because they did something bad, or because of a few bad eggs. I chose to keep the Grey Wardens around because I knew they could rise above what they’d been tricked into. I did make sure Alistair stuck around to lead them, and retrain them, but they proved their value. I still get the odd encounter with someone who wishes I’d just banished them.

11. Do you have any hobbies/activities you like doing?

I do enjoy singing. That’s really the only one. I don’t do it in public though, so don’t ask.

12. Ever hurt anyone before?

Who hasn’t? Physically or not, it’s impossible to go through life without doing that. Also, you know...I’ve been in plenty of battles.

13. Ever… killed anyone before?

No! What ever gave you /that/ idea?! I’ve never /killed/ anybody! All of the mages, templars, venatori, and other people who’ve attacked me and failed are on a farm in the North having the time of their lives! 

Damn...Dorian really is rubbing off on me. This can’t be good...

14. What kind of animal are you?

What? Like, if I could turn into one? Probably a cat or a fox. Something sneaky but playful.

15. Name your worst habits.

I have been known to chew my fingernails. Sometimes I go a little too far, and they hurt for a few days. It isn’t a constant issue, but it does happen before a big fight. I’m surprised I had any nails left before the fight with Corypheus. 

16. Do you look up to anyone at all?

Dorian, Cole, Bull, and my Keeper, of course. All of them are great people who I will always look up to. I used to also look up to Fen’Harel and Solas, but not only are they the same person...He’s a piece of shit who plans to destroy the world. So that kind of kills the mood.

17. Gay, straight, or bisexual?

*Looks around the room at all the naked male Qunari statues in the hall and next to his throne(shown here X)* Is-...Is this not gay enough? I can show you my bed too. It’s got two of these statues pulling it.

18. Do you go to school?

I mean, I am still learning magic. But I’m past being taught. It’s more mastering the craft now.

19. Do you ever want to marry and have kids one day?

Marriage might be nice for fun. Dorian and I would love a party and all of that to celebrate our love...and to piss off the nobles in Tevinter. And we’d actually get to have another in my clan as well, which would just be fun. However, kids are out of the question. Neither one of us is really a big fan of them.

20. Do you have any fanboys/fangirls?

...Far too many. I mean, I like some of the attention, but the ones that still see me as a religious figure and icon need to stop. I’ve made it very clear how I feel about that...

21. What are you most afraid of?

I know this may be cliche, and it’s obvious by now, but losing Dorian. He’s my world. I can’t imagine being /without/ him at this point...

22. What do you usually wear?

Mage armour. I know armour isn’t known for comfort, but it’s actually really nice for mages, and it also looks damn good on me, so I’m not about to wear something else.

23. Do you love someone?

I thought it was obvious by now, but Dorian Pavus. He is the love of my life, and nothing will change that.

24. When was the last time you wet yourself?

The first time I fought a full-grown dragon. I mean, the scar on my face is from a dragonling for one, so I’ve always been naturally cautious of them, but when you have something 10 times that size flying around and breathing fire at you, your body does whatever the fuck it wants...

25. Well, it’s not over yet!

Fine by me. I’m enjoying myself.

26. What class are you? (High class, middle class, low class)

High-Middle? I mean, since the Inquisition is disbanded, I’m not ‘officially’ high class anymore, and I don’t have that much money myself, so...it’s hard to say.

27. How many friends do you have?

Eight.

28. What are your thoughts on pie?

It’s delicious.

29. Favorite drink?

Mead.

30. What’s your favourite place?

Right now? A certain office in Tevinter...

31. Are you interested in someone?

No. I haven’t been gushing about anyone for the last ten minutes. Not at all.

32. What’s your bra cup size and/or how big is your willy?

I have no idea about the first part. I’ve never worn a bra. But I’m 7 inches long. I’m also a little on the thin side, so it’s that much better for sex with Dorian. I can hit the pleasure points without hurting him.

33. Would you rather swim in the lake or the ocean?

Lake. The ocean is too big. I would feel more vulnerable there than anything.

34. What’s your type?

Honey skin, grey/hazel eyes, dark hair with an undercut, a /glorious/ mustache, scathing wit, and a silky voice that makes me melt. What? Too specific?

35. Any fetishes?

Now /that/ is treading a little close to danger. But I will say silk scarves are a fun thing I keep around whenever I know I’m seeing Dorian.

36. Seme or uke? Top or Bottom? Dominant or Submissive?

Dorian and I are both very dominant, so we switch. If we are both in a particularly dominating mood, we ‘fight’ for it.

37. Camping or indoors?

Camping. The risk of being caught is always a bit of a thrill. And you got a second fetish out of me...Damn you.

38. Are you wanting the interview to end?

Nah, but I get the feeling-

39. Now it’s over!

Well, this was fun.

#Inquisitor Lavellan #gale lavellan #pavellan #dorian pavus #inquisitor x dorian #dorian x inquisitor #dragon age #Dragon Age: Inquisition #dragon age inquisition #dai #da:i #da:i spoilers #dai spoilers #trespasser spoilers

[leisurelypanda]

December 21st came before they knew it. School had let out a few days ago and Steve had been relaxing with Thor, enjoying the break together while they could. The mood was marred by the sadness that he felt at Thor going away but he tried to put on a brave face and enjoy the time he had with Thor before he had to leave. Logically, he knew that Thor wasn’t leaving for long, but he couldn’t help the disappointment that refused to abate.

Steve did not take his anxiety medicine that morning, but he did take his meds with him in case he needed them. He was genuinely curious about the drinking aspect of the holiday, even if he only planned on having one or two drinks. Nothing major. Steve definitely didn’t plan on ever becoming drunk.

When he arrived at Thor’s house early that afternoon he was surprised at how… festive it looked. There was a large, ornate wreath on the door decorated with holly, pine cones, and red ribbons that definitely hadn’t been there yesterday. It was beautiful and, shockingly, real. He could smell the evergreen and the pine from it. It was somewhat strange, honestly. People had wreaths and Christmas trees but in his experience they were always plastic. No one really had the money to buy an authentic tree or wreath every year. Except Thor, apparently.

Once he was inside he was hit with the sense of déjà vu. It was so different. Like during Samhain, the entryway was decorated completely differently from the usual. There was holly hanging from the chandelier and more wreaths decorated the walls. Holly hung from archways where connecting rooms and from the windows. Various kinds of branches, some normal bare and some with some kind of red berries adorned the walls as well. And in the center of the foyer, there was an alter like before, decorated with the various kind of plants in the home and a pair of small figurines, one of an elderly man and the other of a woman. It was beautiful.

“Steve,” Thor greeted him warmly. He leaned down to kiss him. Steve could taste… honey and some other kinds of warm spices on his lips. “Blessed Yule.”

“Blessed Yule, babe,” he mimicked. “You all really go all out for your holidays, don’t you?”

Thor smiled proudly. “Yes, but could the same not be said of most people when observing their religious holidays?”

“I don’t know. I’m not religious, but it’s beautiful,” he said. Thor smiled.

“Come, we were just about to start decorating the tree,” he said, taking his hand and dragging him through to the living room. Steve gaped at the sight. An enormous tree stood proudly in the room reaching up to the high ceiling. There was even a ladder so that decorations could be placed on the upper branches that couldn’t be reached. And it was gorgeous. Odin was at the top of the ladder stringing lights around the tree while Mr. Baker held the ladder steady. Frigga turned as they entered the room and smiled.

“Welcome Steve,” she said, hugging him warmly. “Blessed Yule.”

Steve repeated the greeting dutifully.

“You’re just in time to help us celebrate,” she said, leading him to the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink? We have some eggnog, the nonalcoholic and the alcoholic kind, some mead, beer, glogg--”

“Grog?” he asked.

“No, glogg,” she corrected. “It’s a red wine mulled with spices like cinnamon, clove, orange, cardamom, ginger. It’s a Swedish specialty. It’s delicious.”

She poured a bit in a mug and offered it to him. It was a good thing that his medication was a mild tranquilizer rather than a full blown antianxiety medication like he had when he first started out. He could certainly smell the spices she mentioned, though he wasn’t familiar with most of their flavors. He took a cautious sip. It was sweeter than he expected. The spices didn’t overwhelm the drink and he found that he liked it quite a bit.

“That’s good,” he said. “That’s very good.”

“Do you want some more?” she asked. He nodded. She took his mug and added a mixture of raisins and almonds before she poured the drink into the mug and topped it with cranberries. Steve took a sip. It was sweeter than before and the flavors of the fruits and almonds added to the appeal.

“Do take it easy, though,” she warned. “It’s stronger than it seems. We don’t want you drinking more than you are ready for.”

He sipped it more carefully and returned to the living room. The lights were almost finished being wrapped around the tree.

“So what’s the story behind Yule, anyway?” Steve asked. “Is it similar to Christmas at all?”

“In some ways,” Thor said. “Most religions have some kind of celebration around the winter solstice to celebrate the end of the darkest night and return of the light.”

“Is that why there’s so many lights for Christmas?” Steve asked.

“Well most Christmas traditions come from Yule in some way,” he replied. “Like the tree, the wreaths, hanging up lights, and the mistletoe, of course.”

“Mistletoe is from Yule?” Steve asked with a smile. “I don’t remember that from elementary school.”

“I will be happy to… fill the gaps in your education,” Thor murmured as he pressed a kiss to Steve’s lips. Maybe it was the wine, but Steve’s smile grew.

“I look forward to it,” he whispered.

“Will you two stop snogging for a second and plug in the lights?” Odin shouted from the top of the tree. Thor chuckled lowly before he left to do as requested. The tree lit up in a brilliant display of golden lights and the Odinson household cheered. Odin ambled down the ladder and the family gathered around to start decorating. Frigga handed Steve some ribbons to tie around the branches.

The whole process took about an hour and a half between the drinking, the singing, and the actual decorating. Steve was surprised to learn that Thor was the only one in the family who couldn’t sing. He was also the one who sang the loudest, drowning out everyone else. Steve found himself laughing with his hands covering his ears at the display. Thor made a show at pouting and sang even louder.

“Stop!” he shouted. “Please have mercy! My ears!”

“You cannot silence my golden pipes!” Thor protested. He continued singing the little holiday diddy at the top of his lungs. Steve was saved by the grace of Frigga, who told him to be quiet and make himself useful by putting some more decorations on the tree. She also handed him a couple more ornaments.

“Enjoying yourself, dear?” she asked.

“As long as Thor isn’t singing,” he laughed. She laughed with him.

“I’m sure I don’t know where he gets it,” she said. “No one else in the family is so atrocious at singing, yet he is the one who enjoys it the most.”

“I would have thought that he would have a good baritone voice or something,” Steve said.

“Well, he has a bad baritone,” she said with a smile.

“I can hear you, you know,” Thor shouted from the other side from the tree.

“You know it’s rude to eavesdrop, babe,” Steve replied.

“So is gossip,” he said, coming around the tree. He wrapped his arms around Steve’s waist. “So where does that leave us?”

Steve giggled. He was on his second mug of the glogg. Thor became suddenly serious and took the mug from his hand and set it aside.

“My love, I think you have had enough of that for now,” he said. Mr. Baker appeared with a tall glass of water. “Please, drink all of this.”

“Why?” he said as he took the glass.

“It will help keep you hydrated,” he answered. Steve took a gulp of the water.

“So what do you do on Yule?” he asked. “Why’s it important?”

“Well in Norse tradition, it’s a time of honoring Baldr,” Thor explained.

“Who is Baldr?”

“He was the god of light and the sun,” Thor said. “He was also the most beautiful and beloved of the gods. His mother Frigga, who was skilled in divining the fates of all things and in changing them, saw that he would be killed. To prevent this from happening, she sought out every living thing and made them swear that they would not harm him.

“After this, the gods would entertain themselves by hurling objects at him and laughing when the fell harmlessly to the ground. They marveled at his invincibility. One god saw their folly: Loki. He went to Frigga and asked her if there was any being that she had neglected to ask for the oath in her quest. She confessed that she had neglected to ask one thing: mistletoe. She said that it was such a small, harmless plant that she did not think it would pose a threat.

“So Loki took some mistletoe and fashioned a spear from it. He gave it to the blind god of darkness, Baldr’s brother, Hodr, and convinced him to throw it at Baldr while the gods were celebrating. The spear pierced him and he fell down dead. All the gods mourned him so much that they decided that one of them should go down to Helheim, the land of the dead, to beg its queen, Hel, to restore the dead god to life.

“She agreed, on the condition that every living thing that loved him, mourned for him. So the gods went out to get everyone to mourn for him. But one being did not, a giantess who lived in a cave. She refused, saying that Hel should be allowed to keep what was hers. And so Baldr remained in Helheim. Legend says that when Ragnarok, the last battle, is complete, Baldr will return to lead the world back to the light.”

Steve whistled then he looked at Loki. “Why’d you kill him, man?”

“I didn’t kill him,” Loki replied with a sly grin. “My god killed him. That I share his name is coincidental.”

“Your god?”

“We all honor the gods,” Frigga explained. “But each of us has one or two that we pay special attention. Loki honors his namesake.”

“You named your son after the trickster god?” Steve asked, bemused.

“There’s an important lesson in the story,” she said. “Frigga went through all that trouble to change fate, and then the gods decided to test it. Don’t flirt with death and act surprised if she returns her affections.”

“So what does this have to do with Yule?” Steve asked.

“We remember, mourn, and honor Baldr on the longest night of the year,” Frigga said. “Then we celebrate and await his return at the beginning of the new cycle when Ragnarok is over.”

“It usually involves drinking, feasting, and staying up until sunrise,” Thor said cheerfully. “Oaths are taken very seriously at Yule, too.”

“That’s the best part,” Loki said. “Seeing what promises you can get out of people.”

“We’re staying up all night?” Steve asked. He looked down at his glass. He seemed to have drank it all during Thor’s story.

“If you’re up for it,” Odin said, glowering at him from the tree. That sounded like a challenge if Steve had ever heard one. And Steve was not about to let Thor’s grumpy father get the last laugh. Maybe it was the alcohol, but he seemed braver for some reason.

“The question is,” Steve said. “Are you up for it, old man?”

Whistles and cheers sounded from the others as Steve and Odin stared each other down, not unlike the last time it happened. Then, to his surprise, Odin smiled. Not out of approval, but as an acceptance of the challenge. Steve had a feeling that this would be an interesting night. -------------------------------------------------------------------------

Some hours later, after dinner had been consumed, The family went off in different directions to see to their own festivities. Odin and Frigga went around the house burning something Thor called smudge sticks that filled the house with scents like rosemary, pine, and cedar. It might not be Christmas, but it certainly smelled like it. Loki was sewing something called poppets to look like gingerbread people, which Thor said were meant to attract something during the new year, like love, prosperity, or protection.

“So what do you do?” Steve asked Thor. they were sitting on the couch admiring the tree. Thor was on his 5th drink, whereas Steve had decided he was done for the night at his third. HI shead was clearing up and he decided that while the buzz was interesting, he had no real interest in experiencing drunkenness. He was afraid of what could happen. But he trust Thor enough that he was mostly relaxed around him while he was drinking.

“Well, I do have a personal favorite,” he said. He set his drink down on the coffee table and held up some kind of weed. He wiggled his eyebrows.

“What is that?” Steve said. “And why do you seem excited about it?”

“Mistletoe,” Thor said. Steve immediately blushed. “You know the tradition, yes?”

Steve pressed a light, teasing kiss to Thor’s lips.

“Happy?” he asked, his voice lower and huskier than he meant it. Thor pouted.

“You tease,” he whined. Steve grinned and pressed another longer kiss to his lips. Thor returned it gently, opening his mouth to grant Steve access. Steve straddled his lover’s hips to get better leverage. His lover’s hands immediately went to his back and wandered down until one found its perch on the curve of his ass and the other groped his thigh. He could taste the honey and cinnamon on his tongue from the mead he’d been drinking. It was… intoxicating.

Thor bucked his hips and Steve gasped as he felt Thor’s arousal against his own. His jeans were suddenly very uncomfortable. He tugged at Thor’s hair, urging him on--

Someone cleared their throat. Steve practically jumped off Thor. His blush grew even more when he realized who caught them. Odin. Frigga was covering her mouth with a hand, but there was amusement in her eyes as she regarded them. Odin looked annoyed more than anything.

“The next time the… mood strikes you,” he ground out. “Please find some place more private. There are other people in the house, you know.”

Steve looked down at the floor as he nodded. He could not meet Odin’s eye.

“Sorry father,” Thor said.

Steve considered letting the couch swallowing him when Odin huffed and walked out. He looked up in time to see Frigga give them a conspiratorial wink before she followed. As soon as they were gone, Thor reached over for him to take his hand. Steve avoided his touch.

“I need some air,” he said as he got up. “I’ll be back soon.”

He reached the porch and exhaled, watching his cloud of breath appear, then vanish before his eyes. He didn’t particularly like the cold or the winter. It was hard to appreciate the cold when there were months when his mom wasn’t sure if she would have the money to pay the heating bill. That concern had vanished when Joe died. Not having someone drain the finances buying drinks did marvels for the budget, it seemed.

Still, there were times when he relished the cold. Like now, when he needed to clear his head. He looked up at the lights from the city. They reminded him of the lights on the tree inside. They were beautiful. And tonight he could see a crescent moon shining above them. It wasn’t bright enough to illuminate the yard, but it was still lovely.

“Come to clear your head, boy?” asked a voice. Steve jumped and turned to find Odin leaning on the doorframe behind him. His face was stern, almost like how he imagined Santa with a bowel movement. “You act as though I am about to beat you, you know. You needn’t worry. You might be an ungrateful upstart, but I won’t do you harm.”

“Thanks,” he drawled. “It helps to clear my head. The cold, I mean.”

“Heh. You would like Sweden, then,” he said walking closer. “Don’t cower, boy, I am not here to pummel you. Stand up straight like a man.”

Steve found himself obeying without question. Odin had a commanding presence about him, almost like he had spent time in the military. He brooked no nonsense and suffered no fools. It made people listen. His gaze was cold and assessing. Steve could see the shrewd intellect that had secured him the position of ambassador to the United States. Politicians didn’t get anywhere by being trusting. He braced his hands on the railing in front of and turned that calculating gaze on Steve.

“How much has Thor told you about Yule?” he asked.

“Well, he told me about Baldr’s death,” he admitted.

“Good,” Odin said. “He honors Baldr, it is only natural that he should tell you about his god’s demise.”

“It was interesting,” he said lamely. He was waiting for the other shoe to drop. “He also said to be careful of oaths.”

“Well, at least he’s ensured you will not do something stupid,” Odin said. Then he regarded him with a scowl. “One of the other purposes of Yule is to air grievances.”

There it is, Steve thought. He braced himself.

“I do not like you,” Odin said.

“The feeling is mutual,” Steve asked, trying to sound casual.

“I think that you are weak,” Odin said. “My wife and son tell me that you suffer from panic attacks, but that just means that you are ruled by fear. There is no way you could be worthy of my son.”

The words came like a punch in the gut. It took the wind out of him. He could do nothing but gaze up at the old man, his jaw hanging open uselessly.

“Were you simply unsure of yourself, that would be one thing,” he continued. “You are a boy. It is only natural. But you are simply a coward who lacks the nerve to admit or the balls to be a man.”

“It’s true,” Steve said. His heart was racing, but he would be damned before he let Thor’s father bully him into submission. “I have Panic Disorder. I live in constant fear of when my next panic attack will strike. I struggle with anxiety on a daily basis and it’s taken me nearly a year and a half of therapy to learn how to live with it. But don’t make the mistake of thinking that you understand what my life has been like. Why should that make me unworthy?”

“You are ashamed of yourself,” Odin said, eying him. “For all your bravado, you see yourself as weak. I can see it in your eyes. You don’t think you are worthy either.”

Again, it hit him like a punch in the gut. Odin certainly knew how to get to people. He wasn’t wrong. He constantly wondered if this was a dream, if he would wake up and cold reality would set in because the only way any of this could be true was if it was a dream.

“How can I think that you are worthy if you cannot think it yourself?” Odin demanded. “I’ve seen your like before. Thor has always attracted men like you to him. He’s too softhearted. He got himself hurt because they both took advantage of his kindness in one way or another.”

Steve was silent at that. He had never really asked in detail about Thor’s exes. He only knew that he had some because he had mentioned them in passing. He could not deny that even though Thor lavished him with affection and assured him that he was more than enough, he often wondered if he actually deserved this.

“So here is my grievance,” Odin said. “I think you will break my son’s heart. You will hurt him and I would have sought to prevent his being hurt again, but it seems that he has already fallen for you. I can only hope that he will decide at some point to end it himself first.”

“You think you know what is best,” Steve found himself saying. “But you’re the one letting fear rule you. Fear that you can’t protect him. You barely know me. You’ve judged me based on a panic attack and on Thor’s past relationships, people I’ve never even met. How can you say that you know what I will do when all you really know about me is that I have chronic anxiety?”

Odin was silent, aside from a scoff.

“I promise that everything that I want from Thor comes from good intentions,” he said. “I will not toss aside the kindness Thor has shown me just because you think we’re a bad match.”

“An oath on Yule. Even after Thor’s warning,” Odin drawled. “How poetic.”

He drew himself up to his full height and glowered down at Steve, contempt smoldering in his eye. He suddenly seemed like a giant to Steve, ready to crush him if he didn’t say the right thing.

“If you break your oath,” he growled. “I will see that you suffer.”

“You would hardly be the first,” Steve said. The lump in his throat made it sound more breathy and meek than he would have preferred.

“But,” Odin said. “If you are telling the truth, if your relationship with my son lasts until the day after your year anniversary, I will give your relationship my blessing.”

“Deal,” Steve said. He held out his hand. Odin took it in a strong, firm grip. Whether it was magic, whether there were gods or spirits or angels bearing witness to their bargain, whether it was something inherently about the season, it felt very solemn. Like this truly wasn’t something that could be broken without consequences. As Steve watched Odin go back into the house, he had to wonder if he had just done something rash.

Either way, he had no intention of letting Odin win. He had been with Thor for three months now. It seemed like such a short amount of time, and at the same time, it felt like it had been forever. And even though he struggled daily with feeling inadequate, he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

His reverie was interrupted by a crash and shouting. Steve hurried inside to find Thor and Loki grappling on the floor.

“Shouldn’t we do something?” Steve asked. Frigga chuckled.

“Don’t worry, dear,” she said. “They do this every year, since Thor honors Baldr and Loki, well, take a guess.”

“You killed my god!” Thor roared. He had his brother in a headlock. Loki laughed and jabbed Thor in the stomach with an elbow.

“Your god was an idiot,” Loki replied with a sardonic grin. He ran outside and into the yard and Thor gave chase, hollering all the way.

Steve watched in amazement as they wrestled and fought on the lawn. Their styles were completely different. Thor was more strength oriented and tried to overpower Loki. His brother, on the other hand was slippery and dextrous. It was fascinating to watch, but Thor eventually managed to pin his brother to the ground, which was no less impressive for the fact that he was drunk.

“Yield,” he growled. Loki struggled, but Thor had managed to keep him pinned to the cold earth.

“Fine, I yield,” Loki groaned. Thor jumped up and cheered and ran up the steps to capture Steve in a fierce, victorious embrace and kissed him. Steve laughed into his lover’s mouth.

Yeah, he thought. There’s no way I’m letting that old Grinch win. -------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sometime around midnight, the Odinson family gathered around their tree and began their gift exchange. It was an interesting sight, as Steve had never before seen gifts being exchanged between a family when half of them were half drunk. He was also shocked to discover that he was being included in the exchange. He was suddenly glad he had brought gifts, though it was nothing special. Odin didn’t give him anything and he was glad for it because he didn’t have anything for him, to be honest.

Frigga gave him more art supplies, which was good because he was starting to run low and this would surely last him a while. Loki gave him a pair of little puppets (he called them, “poppets,” though) that looked like gingerbread people.

“This one’s meant to attract love,” he said, pointing to one that had more pink decorations, like hearts and flowers. The other had a bit of mistletoe pinned to it and a shield. “And that one is for protection.”

“Do I keep it with me or…?” Steve asked.

“You can,” Loki said. “Or you can keep it in your room to ward off negative energies.”

“Cool,” Steve said. He meant it. He had no idea Loki was so skilled. “Thank you, Loki.”

Loki actually seemed bashful at the praise. “It’s nothing,” he said.

Steve got up and hugged him. Loki made a groan of disgust in protest.

“Thor, your boyfriend is hugging me,” he whined.

“Yeah he is,” Thor said, raising his bottle of mead. He had taken a break for a few hours but resumed drinking for the gift exchange. Steve himself had another mug of glogg sitting on the coffee table. But just the one. He had already drank more tonight than he ever planned on drinking in general. He’d probably go a few months without.

“Tell him to stop,” Loki said.

“Come on, brother, it’s Yule!” Thor said cheerfully. “Live a little.”

Loki grumbled and returned the hug.

“You’re welcome,” he muttered. Steve finally let him go.

Thor actually had to leave the room to get his present to Steve. He returned with a large canvas that Steve recognized as one of Frigga’s painting canvases. He gasped as he turned it around and revealed a painting of the two of them dancing under the moonlight. It was similar to their Homecoming date. There were some artistic liberties taken, such as the fact that instead of anywhere in New York, they were dancing under a grove of pine trees covered in snow lit in the holiday style with a full moon shining down on them. It was beautiful and he actually teared up at the sight.

“I commissioned this a few weeks ago,” he said. “I could not think of anything else that you would want, so--”

Steve tackled him with a hug before he could finish.

“I love it,” he said. He looked at Frigga. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, dear,” she said.

Steve got out his sketchbook and carefully removed one of the pictures. It was a new one that he had finished recently, of Thor and Loki grappling and smiling like the rambunctious brothers they were. He handed it to Frigga who looked at it and smiled as her fingers traced the lines of their faces.

“Thank you, Steve,” she said. “It’s beautiful. A mother can never have too many pictures of her children.”

To Loki, he handed a picture of him as a mad scientist. Loki laughed when he saw himself holding a vial of some kind of mixture grinning like a madman under a transformer shooting electricity. Thor rolled his eyes.

Finally, to Thor, he gave him the completed version of a picture he had been working on recently. Thor was sitting on a white horse, his armor gleaming in the light of the sun shining down overhead, his red cape draped behind him. His family was behind him, smiling faces throwing flowers on the ground beneath the horse. Thor was looking directly at the viewer with a smile on his face as he held out his hand.

“I recognize this,” Thor said. “This is the one you started a month ago at the beginning of the Thanksgiving break.”

“Yeah,” Steve said with a blush. “It’s not much, but--”

Thor silenced him with a kiss. Steve sighed in spite of himself.

“I love it, älskling,” he said. “It is beautiful.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“But where are you?” he asked.

“Umm… well, this is from a dream I had, so…” he said.

“So I am looking at you in this picture?” Thor asked with a sloppy grin.

“Yes?” Steve replied. Thor smiled again and kissed him. It was a bit clumsy, since he was drunk, but Steve was becoming more comfortable around it. As long as Thor was there, anyway.

“I love you,” he whispered. “Happy Yule.”

“Happy Yule, Thor,” he replied. “I love you, too.” -------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thor didn't make it until sunrise, but he did manage to make it to the porch with Steve about an hour before dawn. Where he promptly fell asleep with his head resting in Steve's lap. Steve smiled at the sight and tangled his fingers in his golden locks as he waited in silence for the sunrise.

The rest of the family was quiet too, as if the night of celebration was replaced with a heavy solemnity. Mr. Baker, Mrs. Bianchi, and the rest of the household staff had turned in hours ago. They weren't pagan, so they weren't required to observe their employers’ religious holidays. All of them had at one point in time, but not this year.

Steve had never actually seen the sun rise over New York City. His apartment buildings generally didn't let residents on the roof. Also, as a 19 year old, any time before the sun before had been in the sky for a few hours was too early to be out of bed. He was fighting the urge to close his eyes and curl himself around Thor's sleeping form.

The sky overhead began to lighten gradually. Black started to soften to pale orange and yellow. All of them were silent, apart from Thor's soft snoring, as the dawn after the longest night arrived. Steve captured the image in his mind. Somewhere in the back of his artist mind he wondered what it would be like to watch the sunrise from the top of the Empire State Building. But the part of him that was terrified of heights dismissed that almost immediately.

The sun began to peak over the horizon, a fragile orange sliver of light breaking through the night. Soon the night gave way to the pale light of the morning and the sky turned from black to shades of blue and yellow. And maybe there was actually some magic there or perhaps the sunlight triggered some part of his brain, but Steve felt his spirit lift. Like something new had begun.

When the sun had fully risen, the Odinsons began to taper off to bed. Odin paused long enough to nod at Steve in acknowledgment of his small victory. Steve would have felt smug but an enormous yawn reminded him that he was dog tired. He shook his boyfriend gently until he started awake.

“The sun's up,” he said.

“Huzzah,” Thor murmured. “Blessed Yule.”

“Blessed Yule,” he parroted. “Now do you think we can start the year off right and go to bed?”

“Sleep first, älskling,” he murmured, nuzzling his face in his lap. “Sex later.”

Steve was too tired to chastise him. Instead he just yawned and waited for Thor to get up. His legs were starting to fall asleep. They staggered to the bedroom, Thor stopping to drink some water. As they climbed into bed to sleep the day away, Steve tried to think about anything but the fact that he was leaving.

#thundershield #thorsteve #stevethor #steve rogers x thor #avengers #marvel #fanfic #Thundering Heart #Ballad of the Thundering Heart #yule #christmas #my work

[aromatickindling-blog]

Hmm, I’ll sort this out into the Stardew Valley Farmer as villager prompt with visuals and less words one day...

Green

Appearance:

    Green's an average sized young woman with minty hair tied up into a messy ponytail, part of her side swept bangs awning her sharp aquamarine eyes. If you're observant, you can see slight bags under eyes, covered with foundation powder to avoid questions from people. Her wardrobe's quite functional, filled with different boots for all occasions, thick working gloves, shade hats, winter fur caps, and cargo pants in different neutral colors, working well with her cotton button jackets. Her favorite happens to be the dark green formal jacket with a popped collar. The equipment she carries on her hip belt is well-taken care of, polished to the nines before being covered in all sorts of filth. She does have a strong liking for long scarves, goggles, and small, subtle hair pins, though.

    For some reason, her freckles tend to appear in curves and triangles; she has one that looks similar to Orion's Belt that she brings up as a conversation piece if she has to do small talk. Of course, she does take pains to cover up the scars she's gotten from her spelunking adventures in the mines and the Skull Dungeon. A Serpent pack left a particularly nasty one stretching down her left calf to her ankle. She prays to Yoba no one notices.

Summary:

    An ambivert erring on the side of introverted behavior, Green's the one of the twin grandchildren of Stardew Valley's previous farmer, come to take over Smaug farm. Thanks to years of neglect and her grandfather's 'brilliant' idea of staking land in a wilderness full of monsters, she's got her work cut out for her. Worse yet, with the Gotoran-Ferngill Republic conflict in full swing, she's especially reluctant to open up to anyone in the Valley. However, with the Adventurer's Guild and the Museum in town, she'll be able to settle in. Yet if anyone bothers getting to know her well enough, they might detect a hint of loneliness in her eyes.

At her Grandfather's grave, Green has planted an orange tree and told him:

    "If I can't see myself becoming part of the community here, Grandpa, I'll at least keep my part of the deal. I'll make sure the farm is up and running smoothly by the end of the second year. If the war continues...if Sage isn't back home here at that time, and I'm still unable to find someone I can trust here...I'll come after him. I'm sorry Grandpa, but I hope you can understand me on this. Mayor Lewis can take over the farm; it'll be a great source of revenue for Pelican Town...they'll need it more than I do. But thank you...for giving me an out from my former job. It was suffocating."

...For some reason, every Friday and Sunday Green never fails to greet the traveling cart merchant. Apparently, the two exchange letters; strangely, the writing doesn't match the merchant's personal chicken-scratch. After the bus has been repaired, you might even catch a glimpse of her with a strange bodyguard speaking about a "Mr. Qi." Who is this Mr. Qi, anyway?

Love: coffee, hazelnuts, goat cheese, poppy, fairy rose, dinosaur egg, all fossils and bone artifacts, duck feather, thunder egg, all soups, bone flute, mead

Likes: all flowers, all fruit, dried starfish, ornamental fan, ancient sword, fiddlehead fern, all dwarf scrolls, iron bar, copper bar, maple bar, lava eel, void salmon, honey, garlic, hot pepper, cloth, arrowhead, wine

 Dislikes: truffles, truffle oil (don't ask), super cucumber (once again, don't ask), beer, pale ale, morel mushroom (she's reminded of that one frog with all the holes in its back. And bot flies, the spawn of the underworld)

Hated: wicked statue, skull brazier, elvish jewelry, prehistoric hand axe, golden mask, Robin's axe

Personality:

    Green's the quiet observer of the twins, almost akin to a shade behind her brother's bombastic front. She's not the type to normally initiate conversation either, so only when she is required to, when she wants to give advice, or when she needs information will she, reluctantly, start one with a person. She's very polite about it too. But, you may have found her committing a social faux pas during the first year when she climbed on everyone's houses for a bird feather or little critter. Mayor Lewis chewed her out harshly for it. From then on out, it was only natural cliffs, rock faces, and trees she would climb onto, if not her own farm buildings.

    She is often found doing work on the farm, at the museum with Gunther, or training with Marlon at the Adventurer's Guild during the day, almost always with a cup of coffee and the occasional maple bar. Once Smaug farm is up and running, she does build a small training arena in front of the greenhouse. Don't ask why. When evening arrives, she disappears into the mountains and doesn't return home until 1:00 am in the morning. Some days may involve her leaving for Calico Desert early in the morning until 1:00 am. Shane often swears he would see blood leaking out of her when she was returning home at night. No one believes him thanks to how well Green dresses her wounds. This can only last so long with how she's burning the candle on both ends. On the weekends, no one is capable of tracking her down while she's out on her foraging hikes, much to her relief. Even better is during those evenings when everyone is at Gus's Saloon, when she can sneak into the Community Center to repair it with the Junimos before going home to refine sketches, put away gathered inventory, and generally wind down for the night with a tune from her harp, a nice hot soak, and a quick gaming session. Only on Sundays does she dare oversleep to offset the lack of it during the weekdays.

      Once more comfortable with people, she becomes more straightforward with her answers, although any questions regarding her family or her spelunking episodes are deflected or redirected to another topic. Outgoing villagers are more likely to get to this point. Snarky jokes will be made about the topic at hand, light teasing may occur if she is addressed directly, and, if it pops into her head, a few puns. Don't ask about her hikes or finds, she will become quite detailed with the scientific basis for everything she came across.

    Yoba help her if any of the single townsfolk become interested in her. Poor Green won't know what to do with herself, all her secrets might be spilled into the public square with that kind of relationship. What should she do now, how much of her activities should she cut back to spend time with them, what will they think of her once they find out what she's been trying to hide from the villagers, will their relatives approve of her, how long before they find out about her hiding her wounds from plain sight, do they like mint breath or coffee breath, are they allergic to poppies and fairy roses, will they mind her fossil collection, should she pick up cooking again, video game nights or movie nights, are they up for hiking, are they not okay with PDA, do they like cuddling, will they not mind her wrapping her arms around them as a greeting, do they like nuzzles, nape kisses, why her, and why are they even interested at all?! THESE ARE ALL IMPORTANT QUESTIONS...at least in her mind, they are. This is why she comes off as aloof, not only as a deterrent for anyone interested, but also as a result of her trying to strangle any feelings of affection that might develop for anyone else. Also, Yoba help the poor sap that does start to develop a crush on her; her lack of self-care and time during the weekdays is sure to wear on them.

    But, she is more than willing to make adjustments for them should they accept her, all of her. Green's probably going to ask them to come out to the beach at night near the solitary rock to spill her heritage as a half-Gotoran, half-Fergillan to them, mental escape routes calculating in her head but another part of her pleading this will be okay and she's just paranoid. From there, if accepted, she will tell about her brother and her parents, how Sage left for the army after a nasty spat with her regarding the Gotoran conflict, how her Gotoran Father died for helping the Ferngillan side, and how her Ferngillan Mother's MIA, probably in an underground resistance movement against the Gotoran government. She's only had her brother as a social crutch before he left, and it's the main reason why she bottled herself up. Why bother with people if all they're going to do is break your heart once you're close with them? But, she'll admit she was wrong, and then apologize for unloading all of this onto to them, and for not trusting them as much before. From there, she'll become more and more honest to them about her activities.

    The letters she was swapping with the merchant happened to be correspondences with her brother, usually curt and to the point. She makes it a priority to leave out any bitterness from his leaving her since he's in danger and needs all the help he can get. As for Mr. Qi...money is great and so is spelunking. That's all I'm going to say, other than it's a dangerous profession that has left her with a number of gashes...all of which she's refused to go to Harvey's for, much to her partner's dismay. As for the music drifting near the railroad tracks at night, it was her playing a couple tunes her father taught her on her mini-harp. She might even offer to serenade them from time to time.

    Despite her insecurities about herself, Green's quite the affectionate lover, offering sweet words in their ear, leaving small gifts for them after she visits their house, engaging in conversations more often with them, and giving out subtle public displays of affection, whether it be the joining of their hands, brushing their shoulders clean, a lingering look, or a soft caress on the back of their hand if they're slightly agitated. It's still quite confusing to her what to do and she'll hesitate early on about it, but she'll slowly ease into it...and wonder how the hell did this happen??? Then not care and nestle in close to them at night after pressing a kiss to their neck. Grandpa works wonders in keeping his grandchild in Stardew Valley. What a magnificent bastard he is.

Inventory:

·         Mini-harp

(You can hear the notes of a melody off near the mountaintops during the night, drifting down onto the railroad tracks...)

·         Obsidian knife

(A memento of her brother, before he left for Gotoro. Held closely to the hip, sometimes the chest whenever she thinks of him. It's as though the essence of the sea has imprinted onto this knife.)

·         Lava katana

(Can't go wrong with cauterizing deliberate wounds on monsters. Makes it less messy! Smells horrific...)

·         Herb satchel

(Most remedies have plant-based compounds to thank for their use. After trips to the mines or the Skull Dungeon, its strangely lighter. Smells strongly of mint.)

·         Pack

(Contains most essentials, from food to water to tools and, of course, a loaded first-aid kit. Got to be prepared for all sorts of insanity the spirits bring about when they're angry. For some reason, the pack smells of pine needles.)

·         Sketchbook

(Contains all sorts of colored sketches of landscapes, plants, monsters, rocks, animals, and even pressed flowers...wait...some of the villagers are sketched in here too? Has a light floral scent.)

[hermanwatts]

Men are From Cimmeria, Women are From Earthsea

There has been round of blog posts in the wake of an interview I had at Jared Trueheart’s Legends of Men blog. That interview spurred a response by Jason Ray Carney who disputes that sword and sorcery is man’s fiction. Daniel Davis joined in at his Brain Leakage blog. Jason Ray responded to that. Go read these posts. Jason said that Jared, Daniel, and I were hysterical. You are not subjective when you are the object of comment. Comment if you find where any of us were “hysterical.” Jason states that sword and sorcery is “gender neutral.”

Gender neutrality: Are we talking androgyny, hermaphrodites, eunuchs, or neuters?

Sword and sorcery got its start in Weird Tales magazine with a few stories in its competitors Strange Tales and Strange Stories. I have already written on female readers of Weird Tales push back against Robert E. Howard once the Conan series got rolling. E. Hoffmann Price wrote later in Amra that Conan saved Weird Tales more than once.

Farnsworth Wright knew his readers.

Let us look at some random issues of Weird Tales. September 1932– twelve stories and one poem. Two stories by women and one poem. October 1935– nine stories, three poems; one story by a woman. March 1938– 10 stories, two poems; one story by a woman. So, the average female percentage as writer is around 10%.

Now to the letters section, “The Eyrie,” to get an idea of female readership. August 1932– 12 letters, all from men. March 1934– 3 out of 19 letters by women. September 1938– 3 out of 23 letters by women. So, female readership of Weird Tales hovered somewhere around 12-15%. This is probably a higher percentage than the science fiction magazines of the period.

Weird Tales used Margaret Brundage as the almost exclusive cover artist from 1933-1936. Most of her paintings have nubile, beautiful young women in various stages of undress. Editor Farnsworth Wright who was notoriously nervous about not alienating readers had no problem with art that would be considered offensive today. He must have had an idea of gender breakdown of readers.

The case of C. L. Moore is used as a battle cry as a True Cross for Amazon equality crusaders. I first read about Jirel and C. L. Moore from Avon’s Reader’s Guide to Fantasy in the early 80s. Ace Books did a mass market paperback collection in November 1982. I remember distinctly buying it along with two Fritz Leiber paperbacks in mid-May 1983. Back then, you could go to the local B. Dalton or Waldenbooks and get the paperback Conans, Elric, Fafhrd & the Gray Mouser, Kane, some Brak, David C. Smith, and even the Timescape Clark Ashton Smith. I tore in Jirel of Joiry finding “Black God’s Kiss” on the slow side. “Black God’s Shadow” even slower and then just bogging down and scanning through the stories. This past winter, I sat down and reread in detail and it was not a pleasant experience. Moore’s prose is painfully slow and overwritten. Her narrative also had a habit of turning into word salad at crucial scenes.

“Around the dark image a mist was swirling. It was tenuous and real by turns, but gradually she began to make out a ring of figures–girls’ figures, more unreal than a vision–dancing girls who circled the crouching statue with flying fee and tossing hair–girls who turned to Jirel her own face in in as many moods as there were girls. Jirel laughing, Jirel weeping, Jirel convulsed with fury, Jirel honey-sweet, Jirel convulsed with fury, a riot of flashing limbs, a chaos of tears and mirth and all humanity’s moods. The air danced with them in shimmering waves, so that the land was blurred behind them and the image seemed to shiver within itself.”

W.T.F?

There is one scene at the beginning of “Jirel Meets Magic” where Jirel handles a sword. That is it. She deals with adversaries as a vehicle using supernatural third parties. When you look at the plots of the stories, “Black God’s Kiss” is a captivity/kidnapping narrative. It is The Sheik with hallucinogenic passages. “Black God’s Shadow” is the second half of a romance arc. As a friend of mine said, Jirel was treated rough by Guillaume and she liked it. “Jirel Meets Magic” is Alice in Wonderland. “The Dark Land” is another captivity story. “Hellsgarde” is a haunted house story. Moore did not seem comfortable writing scenes of physical combat as I could find only one brief scene with no carnage depicted, just Jirel flailing around with her sword.

There have been three mass market and one trade paperback printings of the Jirel stories, each over a decade apart.  That puts her a notch ahead of reprints of Norvell Page’s “Prester John” series. If Jirel is such an iconic series, why hasn’t the book been in continuously in print? People like the idea of Jirel, many just don’t like reading Jirel.

I was thinking of Moore’s influence through the Jirel series. The only thing that came to mind were two stories by Tanith Lee in the Amazons! Anthologies featuring “Jaisel” that read like homages to Moore. C. L. Moore’s writing style would change. Some stories reprinted in the collection Judgement Night are listed under Moore’s name instead of “Lawrence O’Donnell.” “Paradise Street,” “Heir Apparent,” and her novel Doomsday Morning are written in a stripped-down hard-boiled manner.

CL. Moore was a gracious and lovely lady from what anyone who met her has told me. One friend did tell that in the late 1970s at a science fiction convention, she laughed at the idea she was some sort of feminist icon.

If you add up the writers of sword and sorcery in the 1930s- Robert E. Howard, Clark Ashton Smith, H. Warner Munn, Nictzin Dyalhis, Clifford Ball, David H. Keller, Seabury Quinn, Henry Kuttner, Lloyd Arthur Eshbach, Fritz Leiber, Norvell Page, and C. L. Moore, you come up with a little under 10% female participation rate, a percentage that equals that of Weird Tales and a little under the readership.

There is a type of story found mainly in Planet Stories that is not technically sword and sorcery but has the attitude of it. Poul Anderson’s “Virgin of Valkarion” is Exhibit A. Leigh Brackett was a writer for Planet Stories in the 1940s with a few stories in the 1950s. Her writing style is a cross between Edgar Rice Burroughs and Dashiell Hammett. It is an interesting case of gender ventriloquism. Brackett wrote in a faux-masculine style most of the time. Every now and then the mask would slip as in “All the Colors of the Rainbow.” I can remember sending a Leigh Brackett book to a friend of mine. He returned it unimpressed. He pointed out a fight scene where Brackett had two guys rolling around in the dirt and the emphasis was on how they were getting their clothes dirty instead of physical damage. I can remember the first Brackett I ever read was “The Secret of Sinharat” and being disappointed at the rather tame ending. I was expecting Eric John Stark (aka N’Chaka) was pile up the bodies at the climax. The follow up “People of the Talisman” was more blood and thunder. That was the story that was rewritten by Brackett’s husband, Edmond Hamilton and expanded by 40%. I need to compare the texts someday.

If we look at writers of sword and super-science for Planet Stories, the list includes: Gardner F. Fox, Bryce Walton, Emmett McDowell, Ross Rocklynne, Basil Wells, Erik Fennel, Alfred Coppel, Stanley Mullen, Poul Anderson, and Leigh Brackett. Again, the female participation rate is around 10%.

There were a few sword and sorcery stories that filtered out in the 1950s with E. E. “Doc” Smith, John Brunner, L. Sprague de Camp, and of course Jack Vance. The 1960s gave us Roger Zelazny, John Jakes, Michael Moorcock, Lin Carter, Gardner F. Fox, Ben Haas as “Richard Meade” and “Quinn Reade.” You did have Jane Gaskell’s “Atlan” books shoe horned into the genre. Those are Perils of Pauline type books featuring Cija. They are not very good but always seemed to have great covers whether by Frank Frazetta, Jeff Jones, Boris Vallejo, or James Gurney.

Leigh Brackett could have written a bona fide sword and sorcery story with an antediluvian setting and supernatural elements. Editors would have snapped up anything she wrote. She didn’t but she at least gave us the excellent Skaith trilogy which had its share of physical action.

Sword and sorcery spread out into popular culture starting around 1966 with the paperback books and the Warren magazines. You could buy Frank Frazetta posters at a lot of record stores. Bands like Nazareth were using sword and sorcery imaging on their record album sleeves.

Ted White became editor of Fantastic Stories in 1969. The magazine was a grab-bag of different types of stories. Sword and sorcery did have an increasing presence. White tapped into all sorts of artists talent and you had very traditional sword and sorcery type covers by Jeff Jones, Esteban Maroto, Doug Beekman, and especially Steve Fabian who painted idealized female bodies. Ted White must have known who was buying the magazine.

Ted White knew his readers.

In the middle 1970s, you had the next great female talent, Tanith Lee. I have written on her sword and sorcery when she died. She was unique. I prefer her stories to her novels, but her novels are preferable to much other out there.

Not Sword and Sorcery

Lee showed up in the original sword and sorcery anthologies of the late 1970s. Swords Against Darkness ran for five volumes 1977-1979. It had a total of 57 stories, seven stories and one poem by females for a participation rate of 14%. Heroic Fantasy (D.A.W. Books, 1979) had 17 entries (including some non-fiction pieces), two were by female for a participation rate of 11.7%. Tanith Lee was present in five out of six of those anthologies.

Jessica Amanda Salmonson edited to Amazons! Anthologies (1979 and 1982). Technically, they are not sword and sorcery but amazon anthologies. She was able to invert the 10% number that keeps popping up. Amazons II had 12 stories, three by men so the ratio rose to 25%. Salmonson probably took the series as far as she could though she edited two more anthologies for Ace (Heroic Fantasy).

Marion Zimmer Bradley edited the Sword and Sorceress anthology for D.A.W. Books. It has all the appearance of continuing the idea of Salmonson’s Amazons! But with an in-house writer. The books were not so much sword and sorcery but fantasy of all sorts with a feminist orientation. The first volume had 15 stories, six by men for a 40% participation rate. That would shrink in subsequent volumes. It has a type of fiction that I call “femizon” which split off into its own genre the same way Glen Cook did with military fantasy around the same time.

One last example. My favorite sword and sorcery anthology of the past 10 years is Rogue Blades’ Entertainment’s Return of the Sword. The stories were by amateurs and small press people. It has heart and sincerity. 21 stories by 22 authors, one female for a 4.5% participation rate.

Not Sword and Sorcery

A personal observation: I have known two women personally that like reading Robert E. Howard’s Conan stories. One is mid-50s, the other around 60. One is a pharmacist, the other a nurse that runs a hospital operating room. So, just like the authors, the XX chromosome readers are on the rare side. I think most women are not particularly interested in reading fiction with lots of scenes of intense physical action.

I will give an anecdote that forms opinions. About 15-16 years ago, my office manager’s high school aged daughter read The Lord of the Rings. I thought I would build on that. I lent her one of L. Sprague de Camp’s sword and sorcery anthologies, either Sword & Sorcery or The Spell of Seven. Either of those books are excellent introductions to the genre. She did not like the book as she has problems with the vocabulary. She was constantly going to the dictionary to look up the meaning of words. If you want your kid to score high on the English potion of the S.A.T test, have them read sword and sorcery fiction. Then I lent her Poul Anderson’s The Broken Sword. She did not like that at all. It really upset her. Sword and sorcery is not going to pass through the feminine filter of a good portion of the fairer sex.

This came to me this week. A good portion of women like horror especially that more in the Gothic fiction end of the spectrum. Horror light if you will. There might have been an opportunity for a clever editor to sell sword and sorcery disguised as gothic romance to women readers. Phyllis Whitney did have a story in Weird Tales in the 1930s.

Here is a writing exercise of high school or college students. Have them start with a scene of traveler in the woods looking for shelter and finding a manor or castle. See how the story breaks down between the sexes.

So to wrap this up. My friend, the late Steve Tompkins used a phrase “the exception that proves the rule.” Crunching some numbers swerves that way. The history of sword and sorcery has had a few female outliers who wrote in the genre but the 10-12% rule appears consistent for decades.

Where’s the Sword and Sorcery?

Sword and sorcery fiction may not be totally male, but it skews heavily in the XY chromosome end of the spectrum. Women were not excluded but participation was also for the most not much beyond token entries. I think gender skewed, not gender neutral is a better way to describe the genre. I think editors like Don Wollheim, E. F. Benson, Larry Shaw, and Roy Torgeson were quite happy to pick up a few female readers along the way, but they knew which side their bread was buttered on when publishing sword and sorcery. If the genre is gender neutral, why did the incoming female editors such as Betsy Wollheim at D.A.W. Books and Susan Allison at Ace Books pretty much kill off publishing sword and sorcery? Wouldn’t all the female readers keep it going?  I was there, there was a K-T event in 1985. A few books that were already probably slated made it into the later 1980s, but the genre was decapitated. David Gemmell adapted by writing 300 page + novels with an ensemble cast and lost of domestic goings on but the efficient 60,000 word novel featuring one hero was gone.

This is an example our modern society’s obsession with equalitarianism. De-gendering the genre strikes me as post-modernism. It is also risible. A few weeks ago, an endocrinologist was telling me about hormone supplementation for trans-gendering. The men upon getting estrogen become emotional and weepy. The women getting testosterone develop a sense of humor and are generally less depressed.

I can sympathize with Jason Ray Carney. He teaches at a college. If he were outed that he is interested in what is perceived as masculine fiction, outside of a few sane colleges like Hillsdale or Grove City, he would be hauled up against a tribunal by the commissars for Wrong Think.

Gender Neutral

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