#leatherbound classics | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

powderblueblood · 5 months

Text

HELLFIRE & ICE — eddie munson x f!oc as enemies to star-crossed lovers

CHAPTER ONE — THE POISE, INTEGRITY and LUCK OF A KENNEDY

MASTERLIST | NEXT

summary: you go head-to-head with your new neighbor, eddie munson, and lose something precious to you in the process. content warnings: NSFW / MINORS DNI swearing, classic 80s classism, tommy hagan jumpscare, eddie munson jackin off word count: 3.4k

Dear reader, I wish I could tell you it ends well for you.

I wish I could tell you that this is nothing but a bad dream, or a fugue state, or an extremely vivid hallucination brought on from that weed your friends buy from that burnout in the horrendous denim vest that is now your next door neighbor.

I wish I could tell you that you’re not sitting on your designer suitcases in the weed-ridden lot of a trailer park, watching your mom (who is already it’s-five o’clock-somewhere drunk) charmlessly haggle about the rent.

See, you used to have money, but now you don’t.

You used to have a dad who wasn’t incarcerated, but now you don’t.

You used to have integrity, but the IRS seized the last of that along with your childhood home in Loch Nora.

I wish I could tell you that you weren’t totally fucked. But it seems that there’s no way this total shitheap of a situation could get worse–

“Need a little help with that?”

–except there is. There totally is.

You flex your hand, relieving it from it’s writing cramp. You’ve been hunched over your journal, perched on your ready-to-burst luggage for what seems like hours now– admittedly, you’re the kind of girl that’s used to valet service. Bellhops carrying your suitcases to your room when you used to join your dad on business trips.

But valets never looked like this. Squinting at you from beneath his ratted-out waves, Eddie Munson gives you a once-over that makes your stomach lurch. You know him the same way everyone in Hawkins knows him– either barrelling through the hallways like a tweaked out autocrat whose only dominion is over his group of unwashed dorks or palming off baggies at parties. But there’s something about Munson that’s always rubbed you the wrong way. He’s so loud and defiant and achingly obvious, smug when he’s got no right to be.

Especially now.

“Excuse me?” you drawl, snapping closed the leatherbound journal.

“Just wheeling out the welcome wagon. It’s not often we get new neighbors with so much…,” he pauses, gaze scanning over the boxes and bags and randomized ephemera being loaded out of the cheapest moving van Hawkins has to offer, “Shit.”

“If I didn’t know any better, Munson, I’d say you were casing the joint.” In fact, you find yourself wondering where exactly your jewelry box is– y’know, the leftover shit your parents didn’t already pawn. The millieu of your grief made you forget about the high possibility of people in the trailer park stealing your stuff.

Munson grimaces. “Do I look like a thief to you?”

“You look like a drug dealer to me,” you snipe, smile all fake. “You might be looking to diversify your criminal skillset. How should I know?”

From where you sit on your straining suitcase, you’re about eye-level with Eddie’s crotch. And call him a weirdo, call him whatever, he doesn’t mind the view. As much as he’d like to pretend he’s above the discordant buzz of Hawkins’ gossip scuttlebutt, news of your family’s downfall is hot shit. He can barely believe it’s really happening, and right in his front yard; Hawkins High’s stoniest, coldest fox and her equally foxy mom were packing their fur coats and shit into a double wide. Eddie couldn’t lie– he liked seeing people like you get knocked down a peg. So he’d come to gloat. A little.

But you’re all snappy and full of venom– not like in school, where he’s almost positive you’ve never made eye contact with him.

He doesn’t mind that change in attitude either.

“C’mon. That luggage looks a little heavy for you, princess,” he says. “I don’t entirely trust you getting it inside the trailer without breaking a nail.”

“I don’t need your help,” you say, shoving that tattered journal into your book bag. Eddie wonders what kind of bullshit you’re always writing in there– every time you’re not in the middle of some idiot milleu with your popular cohorts, you’re practicing your longhand.

“You could use it, though,” he counters, and the condescension in his tone makes your cheeks flare up. You spring from your seat on the suitcase, making Munson take a shocked half-step back. His eyes blaze, rounding out as he takes you in at your full height.

Still taller than you. He'll be okay. He thinks.

“I’m a goddamn cheerleader, you Neanderthal looking dipshit,” you spit, “I’ve got a core of steel.”

You turn and dip, reaching for the thick leather handles of the case and discover–oof–that’s a little bit way heavier than you were expecting it to be. But spurned by sheer stubbornness and a need to get away from him as quickly as humanly possible, you brace yourself against the screaming muscles in your arms and wobble the baggage all the way to the trailer door. Your mom stands in your path, dress slipping off her shoulders, blearily looking toward the Munson kid as he retreats to his own trailer with a languid backwards tread. He can’t look away from this scene.

“Mom. Mom, can I fucking–” you struggle through gritted teeth, “The bag, Mom. Get out of the way.”

She moves out of your way at an aching half-speed as Munson’s eyes burn hot on your struggling frame–he’s loving this, he’s loving seeing you in the shit just like everyone’s loving seeing you in the shit–and you deposit your suitcase in your brand new matchbox-sized bedroom with a heaving gasp. Shit.

You cross the room in about three steps, heading to the window to close the blinds– shshk. Sshsk.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

The blinds begin to close, but stop dead not even halfway across the window. They’re stuck, leaving you without a particle of privacy. Which sucks, of course, because you were really banking on some scheduled crying time tonight.

You had held it in for as long as you possibly could, all that hurt and frustration at the disaster your father had landed you in, promising yourself that you’d let it all out once you and your mom had a safe place. A place that wasn’t your estranged aunt’s basement couch, or a motel you could barely afford. A place that you could at least pretend was home. In your minds eye, you had envisioned something modest-if-shitty– the sunnier end of Cherry Lane, maybe. You hadn’t counted on a place that required a gas hookup.

You tug on the beaded chain with a desperate force and no give– exasperated, you let your head slump against the filthy windowpane. The bedroom window stares directly into the window of the trailer opposite, where a warm yellow light flickers on and illuminates another bedroom.

Peeling posters and a guitar on the wall. Of course. Of course you’ve got a bird’s eye view into Eddie Munson’s fetid cave. He spots you in the window and pouts a big ol’ pitiful pout– poor little rich girl. Missing your velvet blackout curtains?

You can’t flip him the bird quick enough before he closes his fully functional blinds.

–

You sleep like shit. Exhaustion couldn't even beat you into a slumber. You couldn’t be bothered to begin the unpacking process and instead fished out whatever closest resembled pyjamas from your luggage (an oversized t-shirt from a father-daughter trip to Columbia University), curling up on your bare mattress with your coat thrown over you, but the thing that was really keeping you awake? You couldn’t find your pen.

Your prized possession pen, your fountain pen in the ruby-red casing. Your journaling pen. You refuse to write in your diary with an inferior instrument, alright, that’s just not how it’s done, but it’s nowhere to be found. It’s not rolling around the bottom of your book bag, though you’ve emptied the thing three times. It’s not anywhere.

You ask your mom if she’s spotted it anywhere, but she’s still in a Valium haze when you’re buzzing around, trying to get ready for school.

That’s a whole other ordeal. Your acceptable school clothes are, again, buried in some suitcase that was hastily packed as agents waited for you to vacate the property. And by appropriate, you mean your carefully chosen pastel color palette– the very best of the very trendiest, the ra-ra skirts and the bomber jackets that sit so perfectly on your poised shoulders. The kind of clothes that make someone like Tina go, God, I wish we could trade dads. Just for the credit card.

Now, all you’ve got to hand are the clothes that feel like your dirty little secret– thrift store suede and dark, rich knits, dresses of velvet and leather boots. The kind of things you collect just to collect, to dress up in when you know no one’s going to be looking at you and think someday. Someday you’ll be someplace where you don’t have to wear the exact right JCPenney piece of shit to fit in with a crowd. Because these are the kinds of clothes that feel right, but make people, important people, people like Carol go–

“Jesus, Lacy, dressed for a funeral much?”

You hadn’t though the ensemble was too dark, but hey, in the harsh light of day. You bashfully shrug your jacket closer around you, faux fur collar tickling your ears. “I’m in mourning.”

“Shit, I hate driving out here,” Tommy Hagan squawks from the driver’s seat, already agitated first thing in the morning, “I always feel like I’m gonna get carjacked.”

Forget your shitty car; the only thing they’d be stripping for parts out here is you, Tommy, you want to quip, but you just fasten your seatbelt. Carol had managed to guilt him into giving you a ride this morning, an effort in pity and also because she wanted the gossip from the trailer park before anybody else.

“Yeah, how was it, Lace? Did you like, deadbolt the doors and shit? Because you really gotta do that out here.”

“You should get a bat to leave by the door. Y’know, for intruders,” Tina blankly adds, staring into her compact mirror.

“You should get a gun,” Hagan says, peeling out of the park with a quickness, “if that’s who you’re livin’ next to.”

“What? Who?”

“That Munson freak,” you sigh, resting your head against the windowpane again, “He like, basically threatened to rob me when I was trying to move in yesterday.”

A chorus of disgust rises up in the car that makes you feel good– warm, surrounded, accepted. Even though it blatantly wasn’t true, you’d do just about anything to win your friends’ approval these days. You noticed a certain waver in their stares when you revealed where you’d be moving to, after your dad was sentenced and everything.

A lot of the time, you didn’t feel like they wanted to be there for you, more that they wanted to be the first to hear the dirt on Hawkins’ most scandalous family.

Usually you’re the one on the receiving end of their deep, dark secrets.

It’s like they feel like they finally have something on you.

Or, no! That’s crazy, you’re just being paranoid. These are your friends. As much as high schoolers can be friends.

“I’ve got just the thing to take your mind off it, Lacy,” Tina says, pinching your arm, “Kegger at Harrington’s on Friday. He even asked about you–”

“--he said he could give you a discount at Family Video if you need it–” Hagan sniggers, earning a smack in the ear from Tina.

“--shut up! So, you’re not a total social pariah yet, okay?”

You blink. You know Tina means well, but sometimes she is so fucking tactless. “Um. Didn’t think I was one, Tins, but thanks for the reassurance. I guess.”

–

He’s not a thief. He swears to God, or whatever the cooler alternative of God is, he’s not.

But he’d be lying if he didn’t consider keeping the stupid red pen just to see if you’d miss it. It’s engraved, he noticed, while rolling it between his fingers as he lay in bed last night. And Eddie Munson is a man not unfamiliar with the value of a decent writing utensil. Those D&D campaigns don’t write themselves. You want something that’s going to be in it for the scribbling long haul and this thing’s not bad. Etched in teeny tiny letters on the pen cap are your initials– the letters of a name no one calls you anymore.

Which is the part that makes it stupid, obviously. What is it with rich people and putting their monogram all over everything?

God, she’s obsessed with this fuckin’ thing, Eddie thinks. Wonder how much it’s worth. A lot, to you, obviously. You’re always etching with it in English, using it to push a lock of hair behind your ear in the library. Tapping it against your lips when you’re standing at your open locker, the tip settling right into your Cupid’s bow, the red casing bouncing off the plush pink of— woah. Pause.

Eddie had to take a beat.

He’d been tapping the pen against his lips too. Thinking about you. Thinking about your lips. That nasty little pout you gave him outside your trailer, the snarl it curled into when he goaded you on.

Fuck, was that kinda… were you kinda…

It’s enough for him to jam the pen into his mouth and palm himself over his boxers, just to make sure. And— yep. He’d hummed, a kind of well whaddaya know! and slipped his hand under the worn elastic waistband. He even gave himself a couple of tugs, just to make sure.

And the thing that made him really sure was the Technicolor vision he had of confronting you in the library’s restricted section.

Yanking that pen away from your mouth and grabbing a fistful of your hair.

Clamping his mouth onto yours and sinking his tongue so deep inside he could taste the cherry Tab lingering on your uvula.

Guiding your hand, your writing hand, past the undone clink of his belt and waistband of his jeans so you could stroke him to the head.

Ink stains mixing with precum.

Moaning into your mouth.

Giving you something to write to dear diary about.

So now, back in the harsh light of day, this stupid rich bitch pen is burning a hole in his pocket.

Almost like payback, as if you’d embarrassed him by making him hard in the privacy of his own trailer, he approaches you in the most audacious setting imaginable— the cafeteria.

You sit there, among your usual gaggle of Gap zombies, but you look— different. You’re dressed different. Cool jacket, Eddie involuntarily thinks before mentally slapping himself. Shut up! We’re here to humiliate her, remember?

“Lacy,” he says, but he draws it out all over his tongue so it sounds like laayyyy-ceeee, and you are visibly disgusted by this. He looms over the table, barely containing the twisted grin on his face. He's playing the part of fake bashful here, you see. “You, uh, dropped this outside my place last night.” Your shoulders go tense. Eyes of your space cadet friends snapping back and forth, from Eddie to you to Eddie to you.

Because it’s true. Technically, you did drop it and technically, it was outside his place but the implication is what's killing you.

Eddie can barely outstretch his hand before you snap the pen from him, icy fingers a shock to his skin. This sick thrill gathers like a twister in his stomach as you freeze in place, staring him down with a laser pointed glare. Fuck. Off. And. Die, it says.

But he doesn’t! “Oh gosh, no need to thank me, Lace! Really, it was no trouble at all— what are neighbors for!”

Mocking giggles start bursting from the popular kid peanut gallery. But the flavor is… off.

Eddie scans the little in-crowd that are scoffing at your expense— which, okay, is totally what he came over here to do but… these are meant to be your buddies, right? Shouldn’t Hagan be threatening to beat Eddie’s ass right about now?

But instead they’re just… letting you stew. No one’s telling Eddie to back off, no one’s calling him their second favorite F slur (freak, naturally).

Nicole Summers is laughing into her sleeve. That’s rich. Underclassman Carver is almost looking at him like, Yeah man, you got her good!

Which does not feel good. Feels kind of shitty, actually.

Too easy of a win.

You didn’t even get a chance to fight back. You couldn’t.

Fuck.

Eddie turns heel and heads back to his table, a gaggle of befuddled Hellfire heads eager to know what the hell was that, man?! But even he can’t quite put his finger on it.

He feels… bad for you.

—

“Anybody got bleach?”

It’s the first thing you manage to choke out after a chorus of ooh, Lacy, what a good neighbor! and Hope that’s all you dropped outside his trailer, girl! All through lunch period, you’re the fucking laughing stock squared thanks to that long haired douchebag.

“Bleach ain’t gonna cut it,” Carol smirks as you both exit the girls room and head toward your respective lockers, “That thing is totally contaminated with freak cooties. Better toss it— unless you don’t mind.”

See, that’s the thing. You do mind, because it’s your stupid goddamn special idiot sentimental pen and now he’s gone and— and— freaked it up somehow. Exploiting the fact you’ve had to make a major lifestyle downgrade because it makes him feel better. It makes you feel even more exposed than you’ve been getting used to feeling lately.

Before you can get into it any more, Carol is clotheslined by Tommy to go, I don’t know, finger each other behind the basketball bleachers or whatever it is they do instead of going to study hall. You’ve lost track.

You push past the gathering rush in the hallway to access your locker. Just as you slam the door closed, it appears again, like an insistent apparition.

“What, Munson, are you here to tell me you put a bomb in my book bag? Because, if so, great. At least that’ll kill me.”

Munson stands there, leaning against some poor bastard freshman’s locker, brow all tight.

“Was I kind of a dick earlier?”

You stare at him, incredulous. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“I was. Shit, I knew it!”

“Why the fuck are you talking to me.”

“I didn’t mean it to come off like that— well, okay, I kinda did, but that was pretty cold. I mean, your dirty laundry’s already all over Hawkins, I probably shouldn’t have been like, waving your panties around—“

“Munson.” You gesture toward him, as if you’re going to clutch him by the forearms to shut him up, but halt at the last second. Fuck, you can’t stand him, you can’t stand the way he’s standing there with this earnest look in his eyes, on some hair metal Ferris Beuller protagonist of reality bullshit.

Your eyes flare white hot, jaw flexing.

“Listen to me. We may live in a regrettably closer orbit now, but that does not require us to acknowledge each other as human beings. In fact, if you try and pull some shit like that again— in fact, if you even so much as deign to look in my direction again, I will slash the tires on that fucking decommissioned World War II ambulance you call a van. You do not exist to me, and I better not exist to you. I am not your neighbor, I am a figment of your fucking rotted pothead imagination at best. Leave me the fuck alone or I will eat you. Capiche?”

You know for a fact that these are the highest volume of words you’ve ever spoken (or will ever speak) directly to Munson, and he knows it too. You don’t let loose like this— you don’t even talk to anyone outside your friend group unless extracurriculars or group projects call for it. Not because you’re shy, but because you’re discerning.

Munson has managed to disarm you of all that with one stupid little pen.

He’s staring at you with a deviously shiny-eyed gaze, one that makes you feel like you need to button the modesty button of a blouse you’re not even wearing.

“M’kay, well, let me know if you need a ride after school!” he chirps and shrugs and takes off down the hallway to some class he’s certainly failing.

And you’ve just earned the first big fat F of your life, by letting Eddie Munson get under your skin.

author's notes: hi! if you've read this far, i owe you my eternal thanks. been a hot sec since i wrote fic so i appreciate it. - thee perennial reference to lacy's nickname— best imagined sung to yourself in your bedroom mirror and having a classic 18 year old existential crisis, lol! - the journal and fountain pen motif is a not entirely subtle reference to veronica sawyer from heathers. please expect this trend to continue - as far as timelines go re: steve's working life and tommy and carol's high school careers, bear with me. all will be discussed or at least briefly mentioned but will there be inconsistencies? of course there will, babe. i'm here to fuck around, i'm not here for continuity - horndog eddie munson you WILL live forever! - please reblog, like & comment to show support! i've got some killer chapters planned for this fic and i live to entertain u

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fic #stranger things fic #eddie munson x you #published by powder #in progress #hellfire & ice #e. munson by powder

465 notes · View notes

forbidden-sunlight · 7 months

Text

yandere! kusuriuri with chise!reader headcanons

Warnings: obsessive behavior, violence, and blood.

There may also be possible triggers in this story.

If you do not feel comfortable venturing any further, please hit the 'back' button on your device or computer and read something much more pleasant than a possible series of unfortunate events.

Hey guys, welcome to the finale in this mini-series, featuring the beloved Medicine Seller of the classic anime horror series, Mononoke, and the character!reader who is Chise Hatori from the fantastic world of The Ancient Magus Bride. There will also be some references from the aforementioned manga/anime series as well as from the cozy novel Emily Wilde’s Encyclopedia of Faeries by Heather Fawcett. I highly recommend it! :)

Shout-out to @enryegotrip for being a collaborator and being an awesome person as well @deathmetalunicorn1 for providing feedback and making sure all the characters weren’t too OOC 😅 Check out their stuff, guys, their blogs are fantastic.

So with that being said, sit back, relax, and enjoy the ending of this cozy yandere fic :) If you would like to see more adventures featuring these two, please let me know in the comments!

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE : A FOX’S WEDDING PREPARATIONS

The flow of time is erratic and completely unpredictable in the Fairy Kingdom. A day here could be an entire season in the human world or even a week. It is not controlled by the rulers of this plane, so the neighbors cannot be completely blamed when they lure a beautiful human away from their home with enchanting music for the purpose of playing with them until there is nothing left of them, a soulless husk. That was how they entertained themselves for centuries. It would even be considered a sport. Fortunately, the number of incidents has decreased drastically since I succeeded Elias as the mage of this village. My workload, however, is not the reason why I haven’t been writing in the leatherbound notebooks as I should have been; there is one to record my daily life, and another to document whatever discoveries I make in the field.

As I am writing this, I am recounting what my houseguest Kusuriuri has told me, word for word. These are his words, not mine. The last memory I have is returning home from a day in the city. I had collected supplies for a lecture at the College. Because I am a Sleigh Beggy, I am much closer to the source of magic than any living creature, save for those who have existed for eons, such as Ashen Eyes and the ancient spirits that surround the forest just beyond the village. That was why the Director invited me to speak to the students, and impart my knowledge to them. Including a lengthy discussion, I was also entrusted with overseeing the first-years interacting with the neighbors, and stepping in if things got out of hand.

Yet when I stepped into the backroom where I worked, organizing everything for the following morning, I had collapsed. Ruth had been the first one to hear the loud thud, having sat outside of the door curled up in a ball, bored and waiting for dinner to be ready so he could drag me out of there. Silky was in the kitchen, and so was he, Kusuriuri, assisting her in preparing the evening’s meal since he had already gone for a walk around the village and read some books earlier. He claimed to have heard Ruth's barking and followed the sound to see me laying on the floor, unconscious and bleeding from the mouth.

Silky panicked, naturally, and rushed back to the kitchen to grab the smelling salts and other herbs that Elias had told her to specifically brew as soon as she saw symptoms of magical depletion. Kusuriuri lowered to the ground and lifted me off of the floor, being careful not to jostle me. When he saw Ruth mirroring the same condition as I, he asked him to get back in the shadows, as from what he understood, it is safer for him to maintain his state of mind and spiritual body. He swore to Ruth that he would look after me, doing whatever he could to help.

It was Ruth who had instructed him to take me to see Shannon, the changeling doctor who has been treating me for my condition. By offering a trinket to the Ariels, he was led to a fairy mound and took me there, bundled up in a thick blanket and a blindfold around my eyes so that my body did not keep unconsciously absorbing the magic around me. They led him past the mound’s barrier, down the evergreen steps and into the Fairy Kingdom where Shannon ran her clinic.

It appears that as soon as he stepped into the Fairy Kingdom, the glamor charms he had placed on him were removed. The Kusuriuri who now sits beside me in a chair with a strange smile, is the true form of my foxy guest. Wavy light pink hair that reflected orange highlights beneath the realm’s eternal sunlight, cat-yellow eyes, and skin that accentuated the intricate patterns that were painted on his face. The bright, hallucinogenic patterns of his kimono were turned inside out, transforming into greens, reds, and blues against obsidian silk. He was, is, truly beautiful in such an ethereal way, anyone who could not succumb to his seduction charms would know immediately he was not a human. Then again, seduction charms have ensured that the fox spirits were still alive to this very day and not hunted down tirelessly by exorcists.

If there is one truth I hate to admit…it is never knowing whether I have used too much magic, or just enough so that I do not keep passing out and getting treatment. I hate being a burden to others, even when I am getting better at asking for help if I truly need it. It is hard to believe that it might already be close to half of a year since Ruth brought him home, injured and very confused in an era of modern society that is nothing like his home country.

But I am getting ahead of myself. Presently, Shannon is having me undergo extensive treatment, physical and magical therapy to be precise. Angela will need to be contacted to create another talisman to regulate the magic being absorbed and expelled from my body. Kusuriuri….well….he asked me a question that caught me off guard, completely out of the blue.

“At death’s door, you are given two choices: to be young, healthy, and beautiful forevermore….or would allow yourself to be ferried to the afterlife, and be judged for the life you have led as a human?”

Yes. That is what he asked me. And I answered truthfully, because….well, I cannot lie, even if I wanted to. Being an immortal does not give someone the ability to go against the laws of nature and control. Their time is just extended, and soon everything and everyone will return from where they came from; the soil beneath our feet, or the river of magic that sustains all life for the hidden ones. There is not a single being in this world that is an exception of the inevitable. Looking back, from when I had almost all hope and sold myself on the black market, to being a respectable mage who has come to accept the demons of the past yet cannot forgive those who have harmed me and my loved ones…I’d say I have lived a very fulfilling life.

If I had died that day I blacked out in the lab...I would have only regretted being a burden to Silky and Ruth, for they have been here for me ever since Elias to travel the world on a sabbatical. He stared at me, wide-eyed and mouth hanging open for but only a moment before he smiled softly. He then stood from his chair, stepping forward and pulling me into his arms, one hand placed on my shoulder and the other resting on the back of my head.

He whispered softly in my ear, two words that startled and confused me greatly. “You pass.”

Pass? What did I pass, exactly?

Unfortunately I did not have an opportunity to ask what he meant because Shannon is now here, announcing it is time for our physical therapy session in the woods, which is why I will stop writing in here until much later, hopefully…

Kusuriuri watched the changeling and her patient walk away from the cottage towards the forest. Albeit tempted to follow them and become more familiarized with Shannon’s medical methods, he tried not to worry; the red string attached to his pinky reminded him that no matter where or how far he was apart from [First Name], he would always find his bride. There is no doubt that his creator is already aware that the mage had passed his test and was already coordinating with the other gods to prepare the wedding ceremony. Inari-sama always got like this whenever his children found their lifelong companion, acting more like an anxious mother-in-law who wanted everything to be perfect.

No doubt it would take place in the temple, a traditional procession where the world would go silent as his kindred trailed after the bride, donned in kimonos and masks that coordinated with the clans they were affiliated with. Still…perhaps it was not too much of a stretch to ask his creator to allow him to have a tiny bit of control over the ceremony before things got too out of hand, yes? He is the groom after all.

He felt his face heat up at the image of [First Name] donned in the white bridal kimono and wearing a fox mask, his heart beginning to hammer against his ribs. Ah…she would be so beautiful that day, he had no doubt. And she will be all his, so very, very, soon. But he must be patient. He had not waited this long to attain a bride he personally desired by being hasty. A love like theirs must be gently nurtured, after all.

The love of a mage and a zenko who kills Mononoke, that is.

And a zenko will always guard what they treasure the most, keep them away from those who would dare to try and claim what is rightfully theirs.

Bonus Content:

Because his bride possessed the Gift of Sight, [First Name] is able to see the Mononoke as clear as day. This revelation both relieved Kusuriuri and elevated his overprotective nature tenfold, especially when they traveled to Japan for their honeymoon. Neither had expected to cross paths with a highly aggressive bakeneko in the halls of an inn renowned for its hot springs, yet [First Name] proved herself to be highly efficient in using magical tools to keep the Mononoke at bay as well as helping him figure out its Form, Truth, and Regret.

Did he also mention...that she was also exceptionally beautiful when she yelled at him at the top of her lungs to release the Sword of Exorcism as she pushed back against the Mononoke, utilizing strength of The Dragon's Curse that was nestled within her arm?

Perhaps...he'll make more of an attempt to purposely anger if it meant seeing such a lovely expression on her face.

Taglist:

@saltyfruitbat

@westsidedrives

@himurakenshin25

@nastysparrow

@littlemintsister

@sketchlove

@i-am-the-pirate-queen

@simpgoddess3000

@praisethesuuun

@mitra555

@rin-matsuoka345-blog

@cassanderasblog

#forbidden-sunlight #yandere x reader #yandere male #x reader #ns.fw #ror x reader #yandere #mononoke 2007 #mononoke kusuriuri x reader #mononoke medicine seller #mononoke 2024 #mononoke medicine seller x reader #cw dubious consent #cw blood #cw obsessive behavior #cw obsession #tw obsessive love #tw obsessive behavior #chise!reader

190 notes · View notes

plussizefantasia · 7 months

Text

Cozy Corner

Flufftober Day 5: Book Shop

Loki Laufeyson x f!reader

Word Count: 1.0k

AN: I loved writing this one. I love Austen and you can absolutely tell haha. I feel like I probably should have said this before but I don't have a beta reader, any mistakes are my own. (if you want to be a beta reader for me let me know) Please reblog if you enjoyed it!

divider credit: @royallaesthetics

Your favorite part of living in New York was the fact that you could find pretty much any kind of store you could ever think of, and it would only be a short walk and a subway ride away. Take your favorite bookstore, Cozy Corner. The owner was an older woman who had introduced herself as Martha to you within the first few minutes of your first visit. Martha had been a librarian at an elementary school in Brooklyn for 45 years before she decided that she wanted to open her store.

You had stumbled upon this place by accident. You had been looking for a new store to buy books from when you had decided that the huge Barnes and Noble in the city was way too hard for you to navigate. So you went for a walk and decided to see if you could find a small one on your path.

You had, and it turned out to be one of the best things to happen to you since you moved into the city. You could spend hours of your day here, lounging in the plush chairs that sit by Martha’s front window, reading whatever new books she had gotten. She keeps bringing you mugs of coffee, and you're not exactly sure where they come from given that she doesn't sell coffee but you’re grateful for it anyway.

Your favorite way to spend your day had become reading at the store, and the other regular that you have seen come in increasing frequency is just a bonus. At least that is what you tell Martha when she asks you what you think of the handsome man who keeps smiling at you without ever saying anything.

He is nice to look at, you won’t deny that. He’s tall and lithe and has an aura of confidence and power that you can’t seem to forget. Martha tells you he’s a fan of the classics, that he’s bought a copy of every Hemingway that she has in stock and she’s sure that the two of you would get along. You don’t know if she just wants to matchmake or if she genuinely thinks the two of you would get along but you don’t have the heart to tell her that you don’t think it’ll work out.

He’s gorgeous and intimidating and everything you’d want in a man but is too afraid to go for. Luckily you don’t have to muster up the confidence to speak to him, he speaks to you first.

“Is this seat taken?” He asks gesturing to the only other plush chair in the store. It doesn’t exactly match the one that you’re sat in but it doesn’t take away from the ambiance in the room at all.

You’re taken aback by his request but still manage to nod your assent. He’s never stayed this long before. Usually, he just comes in and presses the stacks for an hour or so before making a purchase and smiling at you as he leaves. Today he seems inclined to sit and start his newest purchase right away.

“Loki,” he says and reaches his hand out for you to shake. You do and give him your name in response. You don’t try to continue the conversation beyond that, afraid to interrupt Loki’s reading. He however doesn’t seem to have any qualms with conversation.

“Haven’t you read that before?” He references the semi-battered copy of Pride and Prejudice in your hands. You’re stunned by his observational skills and you admit to yourself, also a little flattered.

“It’s my favorite Austen novel. I read it at least three times a year.” You admit, pulling the book closer to your chest. You move it closer to your heart.

“I’m partial to Persuasion myself but I enjoy all of Austen’s work,” he replies and fully closes and puts down his book. It’s a leatherbound copy of Crime and Punishment, you remember reading it for a college literature class and are excited to be able to talk to him about something else.

You don’t even realize how long the two of you are talking until Martha rounds the corner with a sheepish expression on her face.

“I hate to interrupt you two but it’s time to close.” You take a glance at the clock and are surprised at how late it’s gotten. But what catches your eye is the fact that technically the shop should’ve closed two hours ago.

‘Martha!” you exclaimed “Why on earth did you let us stay for so long?” You quickly stand and go to collect your things grabbing the book on the table in front of you without really looking. Loki moves to the same. Martha tuts at you, “I was going to, but I saw how wonderfully you two were getting along and I didn’t want to stop you.”

Your chest swells with affection for the older woman and you fondly shake your head at her. “Well next time feel free to interrupt, you don't have to stay open just for us.”

‘Next time?” Loki asks and you turn to him.

“Yeah, unless you don’t want to continue our riveting conversation on philosophy in fiction?” You ask teasingly but with an undercurrent of seriousness. You thought the conversation was going well but now you worry that maybe he didn’t think the same.

“I’d be delighted to.” He tells you “But I also believe that it is much past our dear Martha’s bedtime and we should postpone our discussion for at least a few hours.” He smirks and looks towards the woman. She takes the cue and goes to collect the rest of her belongings so that the three of you can leave and she can lock up the store behind you.

With your jacket on, ready to face the slight fall chill that permeates the late-night New York air you step out of the comfort of the store. You turn to Loki and wish him a good night before making your way down the street and towards your apartment.

It isn’t until you get back to your palace and unpack your bag that you realize you’ve grabbed the wrong book. You smile without meaning to, it seems you have another reason to see Loki again soon.

#plus size reader #plus size!reader #fanfic #fluff #x reader #loki x reader #loki laufeyson #loki odinson #loki #loki imagine #loki x plus size reader

144 notes · View notes

motions1ckn3ss · 1 month

Text

need some advice regarding my dissertation on les mis i.e. translations! i'll elaborate under the cut so please scroll past if you have no interest in this

some background:

i'm writing my dissertation next year on homoeroticism and classical allusions in les mis (exr of course).

i own a physical copy of the norman denny translation and a kindle edition of the christine donougher translation.

i'm thinking of purchasing the kindle edition of the isabel florence hapgood translation as well.

i'm thinking i should choose one translation to focus on in my dissertation and i was wondering which one everyone recommended - i know donougher's translation is said to be the best but i've not read it all the way through, only the relevant parts.

i've read all of the denny translation and i don't much care for it i have to say. i'm currently reading the hapgood translation through les mis letters and i'm enjoying it but i've seen people saying it's not the best translation, however her translation of the most famous exr passages are the ones i'm most familiar with (e.g. 'do you permit it', 'be serious / i am wild' etc).

to summarise i'm leaning towards using the hapgood translation primarily and perhaps bringing in the other two to explore how the french can be construed in different ways? but i'm also open to focusing on donougher's translation and bringing in the other two instead.

if anyone could give me some advice on the best course of action to take that would be much appreciated! i'll also be consulting my tutor on this matter don't worry lol

edit: does anyone know who translated the barnes and noble leatherbound classic edition? i've seen people saying it's hapgood but i can't find any official information, if it is the hapgood translation i may invest in it (i'll add a photo below so people know which edition i'm talking about)

#les mis #les miserables #enjoltaire #exr #enjolras #grantaire #question

16 notes · View notes

ardenigh · 4 months

Note

More questions on Tegan & Lucky!

What sort of media would Lucky be interested in?

What sort of books and journals are in Tegan's collection?

What bike did Tegan have and what is Lucky's? How did Lucky get his?

What are Tegan's associates doing about Lucky being around instead of him?

Whether for his curiosity of meeting new people and places or distancing himself from Tegan's social circles, would Lucky consider moving somewhere else?

Since Lucky is still legally seen as Tegan, would he get his name changed?

Since Tegan is the king of street racing, would it be fitting that he also has an unbeatable skeeball highscore in every arcade he's been to?

i was going to open this answer by going "well it's your lucky day" but i just made myself cringe with it lol

it is time for boy lore!

What sort of media would Lucky be interested in?

I think he likes weird mixed-media and self-published stuff, honestly. Audio dramas, video essays. Things he can put on while he’s on the road or stretched out watching the clouds. Reading is nice, too, but he focuses best when he's just gotten up and isn't moving yet.

He likes a classic slasher from time to time, too, but only with other people. Corn-syrup blood and cheesy practical effects are just kind of better enjoyed together.

What sort of books and journals are in Tegan's collection?

Make no mistake, Tegan was a NERD. Aeronautical anthologies, astronomy texts, those weird Barnes & Noble historical coffee table selections. Poetry, like a lot of poetry. Tegan's very much a Yeats boy, although he was also fond of Rilke and Rimbaud. There’s also, like, a few dusty language textbooks, the sort that you buy on a kick and never get around to actually studying. And he wrote a lot. Memo pads and leatherbound Walgreens journals, that sort of thing. Crack one of those suckers open and you get a free tongue-in-cheek existential crisis in mechanical pencil, 'cause that's what he had on tap 80% of the time.

What bike did Tegan have and what is Lucky's? How did Lucky get his?

Tegan had a 2012 BMW F800ST! Torquey and balanced and really well cared for. Midnight blue with some subtle yellow and white accents, little bit of a Van Gogh homage (nerd).

Of course, Janus had mixed feelings on the whole racing thing, but he also recognizing that having a motorcycle was an integral part of his brother’s identity, so he arranged for a replacement — a Sprint 1050. They are both sort of sharp in the front, and honestly, like, a bike is a bike. Only thing is that a bike is not a bike, and so while Lucky does get things done with the Sprint, it’s a little bit too finicky for his taste. He ends up trading with another local bike enthusiast for something a little more his style, and that — a Yamaha FJR1300 — ends up being his trademark bike. He gets it done up in his colors and everything. :)

What are Tegan's associates doing about Lucky being around instead of him?

Aside from the fact that he just isn’t around as much as they’re used to, I think that most of his acquaintances are just convinced that Tegan sort of got scared off the scene by the crash. First one of his career, right? And bad enough to take him off the map for months. I think that what strikes them as the strangest is the way that he just doesn’t seem to engage in the racing game at all anymore — he just seems to be a full-time courier, now.

When they ask, though, he’s genial. Maybe a little vague. Something's ever so slightly off about him. It’s weird, but who wouldn’t be? The crash was pretty bad. I’m still sorting everything out. Everyone doing okay? Nothing like an NDE to really mellow someone out. He’s still welcome, though, and sometimes he takes people up on invitations on the town, but the atmosphere’s a little different now that Holloway doesn’t step up and dazzle whole rooms like he used to.

Tegan’s best friend is canny enough and close enough that she knows what Lucky’s deal is — anyway, she’s been busy in the interim with trying to suss out what got him killed in the first place. How is she coping with the recent development that the bestie has been format wiped and now perceives way more and also way less than she is comfortable with? Uh. Really well. Don't ask her any more questions.

Whether for his curiosity of meeting new people and places or distancing himself from Tegan's social circles, would Lucky consider moving somewhere else?

Lucky would love traveling, I can tell you that much. You know those people who will tour from one coast to another with a backpack and their bike? That's right up his alley.

As far as leaving permanently, though, Lucky is a creature of sentiment. He's got ties to the city, inherited though they were, and once he starts making them his own, it'll get that much harder to actually leave it behind.

He is going touring though. Someday.

Since Lucky is still legally seen as Tegan, would he get his name changed?

Maybe after enough time’s passed. Feels disrespectful to immediately start over, you know? I think a part of Lucky seeks to understand who Tegan was, and it might just be sentimentality, but wearing the name feels like a part of that, almost? You wear the name, you read the journals, you find the person still lingering in the apartment, the idle nail-carvings on the end table, the weighted blankets and sleep playlists.

In the end, if he gets too used to it, he might just start telling people that he is Lucky, yeah, but he was named after a brother who passed away. Maybe Tegan would be amused.

Since Tegan is the king of street racing, would it be fitting that he also has an unbeatable skeeball highscore in every arcade he's been to

YES. Is it anywhere near as prestigious? Absolutely not, but it's fun to see the neighborhood teens placing bets to see who can beat him.

Did Tegan have any tattoos? If so, what where they and what meaning did it have to him?

He’s got a simple one stretching horizontally above his shoulder blades, the phases of the moon. He would’ve had more, but he had too many ideas for them and often sketched down concepts in his journals and never actually committed to them. Lots of thought went into maybe getting a line or two from poems he liked inked, but he never got the chance.

If Tegan did have tattoos, would Lucky be interested in getting one as well?

The first tattoo Lucky gets might be for Tegan. Some poem on his bicep or chest. But in you is the presence that / will be, when all the stars are dead, maybe. A lonely impulse of delight / drove to thus tumult in the clouds. That one will take some thought.

Other than that, maybe a spade? Is that too on the nose?

#bike drawings pending like i have drafts but you would not BELIEVE how awful i am at machinery . looks ROUGH #like as it is i just kind of look at them and sigh . wistfully #thinking abt tegan makes me miss tegan and its so funny bc man i KILLED him . sorry tegan sdhfj #poems quoted up there are buddha in glory by rilke and an irish airman foresees his fate by yeats!#oc: tegan ''lucky'' holloway #also fun thing here is that everything abt the names here is just . like inexplicably irish? which wasn't a conscious choice #i really liked hol but navidson seemed a bit obvious and i liked the mouthfeel of the name holloway #10 to 1 if i like you i'm going to name a character for you smtime! tegan is named after a gamer friend i had who was really sweet n cool #miss ya teagan i hope u and ur hamster are well!#n i always liked yeats okay but sayer was a gateway drug i am TELLING you. sailing to byzantium? omg #ty for the ask!!!#after 10 THOUSAND years too omg i'm givin u a medal #wading through the inbox like boyyy i got some stuff 2 keep me busy !!

7 notes · View notes

mywifeleftme · 26 days

Text

355: Motörhead // No Remorse

No Remorse Motörhead 1984, Bronze

I heard British comics writer Warren Ellis tell a story about hearing a horrible banging in the hallway outside his flat late one night in the mid-1980s. When he poked his head outside to give the noisenik hell he discovered Lemmy wandering around smacking the walls with a wooden cooking spoon. After he managed to get the metal legend’s attention, Lemmy waved the implement at him and snarled, “You ever hear of a coke spoon? This is my coke spoon!”

youtube

This past Friday, I talked to a 50-something punk named Joey P who has 26 Motörhead records on vinyl (including the coveted leatherbound version of No Remorse). If you ever want to have a long conversation with Joey P, I recommend starting with a riff on if Ronnie James Dio was a mob-connected / Rat Pack wiseguy, and then letting him go into antiquarian detail on which Motörhead records are kind of underrated (Another Perfect Day), underrated (Bastards), and really underrated (1916). Love that guy, and I think he’s mostly right. 26 is probably too many Motörhead records even for me, but they are one of those long-running, very sonically consistent bands who turn their deepest fans into sommeliers. I can hold forth about the subtle differences in tasting notes between an Ace of Spades and an Iron Fist (let alone a departure like Orgasmatron!) while an outsider looks doubtfully into their two indistinguishable cups of Jack and Coke. A band like this gives men of a certain age a way to sniff each other over when they meet in a clearing, a low-impact ritual of butting heads.

For years I remembered a story I thought one of my friends had told me about running into Lemmy at the Dominion Tavern in Ottawa towards the end of his life. He was miserably drinking white wine on his doctor’s orders, not looking for conversation. The image always struck me as both funny (I cannot imagine the house wine at the Dom having a nice finish), and sad (the day Lemmy Goddamn Kilmister lets anyone tell him he can’t have whiskey!). I think I’ve repeated it once or twice over the years as an example of how age mellows us all, but when I asked the pal I thought had told me, she denied it (though she did add that her ex told her Lemmy’d gone to see “the rippers in Aylmer once”). So, I dunno, maybe he escaped the fate of the Dom Chardonnay.

Speaking of fate, Lemmy was a damned sharp fellow beneath all the drugging and boozing (who else could’ve written the lyric “Fourth day, five-day marathon / We’re moving like a parallelogram”), and he rightly figured his label had pitched doing a hits compilation in 1984 because they thought the band was washed up. (The limp sales and savage critical reaction to Another Perfect Day having had something to do with that.) Kilmister insisted on inserting a side’s worth of new songs onto the double LP comp to emphasize that Motörhead remained very much a going concern. Of the four, only the brilliantly dumb “Killed By Death” became a classic in its own right, but the new tracks showed the band were still capable of churning out the sound that had defined them with undiminished ferocity. They never lost it.

youtube

I do know a woman who hooked up with Lemmy towards the end of his life (if anything in rock and roll can be believed, she had about 1,000 peers. It was like a more pleasant [?] Germs burn). They went home from the bar in Montreal and drank whiskey, and then she split in the morning without leaving her number. She thought the story was funny and I thought not leaving a number was a pretty good flex, but at the end she still gave a bit of a wistful, “I know he probably wouldn’t have called me anyway…”

Lemmy picked the songs for No Remorse himself, and even provides short annotations in the liners, so if you’re going to quibble with the selections, you’ll have to take it up with the mole man. (As he says of “Like a Nightmare,” a left-field inclusion, “This was one of my favourite B-sides. Everyone didn’t like it, but seeing as I’m the only one of the old band left, here it is!!”) There are a load of Motörhead compilations out there (I’m partial to 2000’s lavish, oddly-sequenced double-CD The Best of, since it’s the one I had as a kid), and as Joey P will tell you, they did lots of good stuff after 1984. But if 1) you only need one Motörhead record on wax, 2) you’re mostly into the original lineup, and 3) you want something reasonably comprehensive, No Remorse is a no-brainer. It has a few relative duds (“Louie, Louie”) and lacks some absolute classics (“Dead Men Tell No Tales”; “Tear Ya Down”; “City Kids”; “Love Me Like a Reptile”; “White Line Fever” etc. etc.) but why complain given the teeth-rattling abundance there is? As Lemmy says, “Here is Motörhead as you’ve come to expect them. Write your opinion on a Beatle wig and send it to someone who gives a damn. Even if you get us banned, we ain’t gonna stop!”

Motörhead were obviously a legendary live act, and they were my first metal show (on a bill at Detroit’s Pine Knob with Dio and Iron Maiden). They played a lot of arenas, but they made the most sense in small theatres. Bigger venues tend to dwarf them, like a small motorcycle gang trying to take over a castle. In a theatre, or better yet a bar, they own the place like The Wild Ones. I don’t remember much specific from their Pine Knob set, except that before closing with “Ace of Spades,” a song Lem was famously bored of playing every night, he told us all, “You’ll know this one, sing along if you want, I won’t be able to hear you anyway,” and then abruptly launched into that hellbent bass riff. Then he disappeared (probably there was some walking beforehand, couldn’t tell you for sure).

Lemmy’s funeral was livestreamed back in 2015, and it’s genuinely one of the sweetest, silliest things I have ever watched. The altar features flower arrangements in the shape of the ace of spades; an iron cross in place of a crucifix; two Marshall stacks; a pair of Triple H’s wrestling boots; a 3D-printed urn in the shape of his cavalry hat; and a mirror with a big line of speed on it. Everybody cries, many of them the sort of people the PMRC would’ve expected to burst into flames if they were to enter a church. Everybody talks about how genuinely nice he was. His girlfriend Cheryl, a job that earns you instant and eternal That Poor Woman status from all who observe, gives a super brief statement: “Lemmy loved me, but his greatest love was his fans and his music. I remember saying, ‘Baby, stay home, don’t go, skip this tour. And he said, ‘Baby, I can’t. I love my fans.’” (Imagine that being an interaction between two genuine living people—yet I believe it.) Apparently, he was an absolute pinball fiend. His bootmaker gives a speech. Somebody reads some limericks Lem wrote. What a life. What a story.

youtube

“Can’t get enough / And you know it’s some righteous stuff / Goes up like prices at Christmas! / Motörhead / Remember me now / Motörhead, alright"

355/365

#motörhead #lemmy kilmister #lemmy #metal #punk #rock n roll #ace of spades #overkill #'70s music #'80s music #no remorse #music review #vinyl record #anecdote #tour stories

4 notes · View notes

tu-sugar-mami · 2 years

Text

What if you love art.

Non specified gender reader

Since you have memory, you've always been interested in the many branches of art, especially fantastic creatures sculptures (like that one of Theseus and the Minotaur), music and paintings, but as of lately you have been attracted by literature and ancient poetry. You loved the way people described the beauty of things, sometimes even their loved ones, in words only the most passionate poets could ever muster.

You don't like to brag, but your family is what one would consider incredibly wealthy, and since very young you decided to use such wealth on your artistic passions instead of the neverending parties demanding a new ball attire everytime and living the luxuries of an extravagant life like your siblings did.

You wouldn't call the always growing collection of antique tomes in your private library a waste of your parents money like your older sibling would often say, but you wouldn't deny that it does damage the balance numbers in your family's bank account. So one day, just after yet another quarrel with your mother's most stubborn child, you decide to earn back some of the invested money by sending out an announcement letting people know your book collection was on sale.

Selling the tomes wouldn't be an easy feat, seeing that very few people would be interested in the old leatherbound set you offered.

Or so you thought…

What you didn't expect was to receive a letter days later from a potential buyer inviting you to their home to discuss a price. It shakes you even more to find that said home was, in fact, a very fancy looking castle that was big enough to see even from the carriage's window a few miles away.

Another surprise, though still delightful, is to find that the potential buyer was a gorgeous Lady, so tall that you had to strain your neck to look her in the eye.

When the Lady gives you a tour through her castle, she tells you that her eldest daughter, Bela, is soon to celebrate her birthday, and she thought of gifting her the collection since, in her words, Bela is very enthusiastic of classic literature.

You're not sure a mostly unknown and very old fairytale book can be considered a 'classic', not if no one has read it, but you keep the comment to yourself.

The Lady's company is lovely and you find yourself engrossed in a delightful conversation. Her subtle touches are soft and gentle even for someone her size, but not unwelcome. The Lady, Alcina as she makes you call her, is stunning. Her golden eyes are vibrant and wise. Her lips, red as blood, are almost irresistible when she smirks, which is very often but you're not complaining. The way she speaks is teasing, with a low purr that makes your arms tingle.

It takes more effort on your part than you'd like to admit to stop yourself from asking her to hoist you up against the wall and let you circle her waist with your legs.

When you're taken to her office to finally discuss the price for the books set (which you completely forgot were the reason for the visit) you see her take a seat and sensually cross her legs one over the other in a smooth motion, her eyes never leaving you, as if she knew your eyes were unable to stray from her for too long.

Truthfully, your mind was loudly thinking how to politely ask her to let you ride and grind on those thick thighs of her, or at least let her know that she was more than welcome to spread her legs again and let you kn–

It takes you a second to realize she's handed you a paper, and when you take it there's an obscene number neatly written on it. Enough to cover for all of your collection and a handful more.

"I- Alcina this is way more than I can accept!" You say, handing back the note.

She smirks, and yet again you are tempted to have those lips exploring your skin and leaving red lipstick marks behind.

"Take it as a thank you for being such a delightful company." Alcina leans over the table between, and gracefully tucks a stray hair behind your ear, her touch lingering in your jaw. "It's been a while since i've encountered such a lovely little mouse."

Your upbringing and manners don't let you throw your body at her and let her do as she pleases with it, but oh boy how you're tempted.

"So tell me, lovely, shall we close the deal?"

Can you really be blamed if a week later you return to deliver the promised books yourself and stay for the celebration in your most, without another proper word, sluttiest attire your siblings combined were able to conjure?

Of course your siblings were confused as to why you came to them for fashion advice, but oh well, their efforts worked for the best, since your snack of a body caught the attention of the one Alcina Dimitrescu even more than last time.

The party went well and you finally got to meet the three daughters of the woman you were so hard thirsting over. Lots of -a bit suspicious- food was served, though later that night you would find that the Lady herself would soon become your favorite thing to eat.

-----------

You can read similar stories in my AO3

If you love my work, would you like to buy me a coffee?

#alcina x reader #lady dimitrescu x reader #lady dimitrescu #alcina dimitrescu #re8 #my fic #alcina and you

79 notes · View notes

olet-lucernam · 7 months

Text

A Hollow Promise [3] chapter i, part iii

{_[on AO3]_}

main tags : loki x original character, post-avengers 2012, canon divergence - post-thor: the dark world, canon-typical violence, mentions of torture

summary: In the aftermath of the Battle of New York, the Avengers need a few days to build a transport device for the Tesseract. With the Helicarrier damaged and surveillance offline, SHIELD sends an asset to guard Loki in the interim: a young woman who sees the truth in all things, and cannot lie.

Even long presumed dead, her memories lost to her, Loki would know her anywhere.

And this changes things.

Some things last beyond infinity. And the universe is in love with chaos.

(Loki was never looking for redemption. It came as an unexpected side-effect.)

chapter summary : awaiting his return to asgard after the battle of new york, loki unexpectedly encounters a familiar face.

recommended listening : vedro con mio diletto, vivaldi

[PREVIOUS] | [MASTERLIST] | [NEXT]

Half an hour lapsed, before a sigh of hydraulics heralded her return.

Seated at the bench installed into the back wall of the cell, Loki opened his eyes.

"Hello again, darling," he directed at the ceiling, the seamless LED lights shattering curving threads of cold white through his lashes. The tips of his fingers were laced loosely, draped between his parted knees, head tilted back against the glass.

"Hello again, Prince Loki." The tap of her boots circled up towards the control panel, echoing slightly in the hollow space. "Did I keep you waiting?"

The corner of Loki's mouth lifted. "I am a man of my word," he replied smoothly, "and you, a woman worth the wait."

A short, unguarded giggle bubbled out of her, chased by the clink of zips of a bag dropping to the walkway.

"Silvertongue," she murmured, like an old joke. "I ought to have expected that."

Loki exhaled into a soundless laugh.

"Indeed." He lowered his head to look at her.

She had returned with her luggage, unloading them by the terminal; the canvas rucksack listed under its own weight, packed to rounded seams, with a tightly furled bedroll propped against the wall next to it. Hooking her thumb under a thick strap cutting into her shoulder, she swung a black duffel bag off her shoulder and to the floor with an alarmingly solid clang.

Loki stared at the bag, faintly disconcerted.

Straightening, she sighed in relief, fingers slipping under her collar to massage the indent out of her flesh. Catching his eye, it took her a moment to interpret his expression.

She smiled ruefully.

"Paper is heavy."

Loki watched as she knelt, briskly unzipping the duffel bag- and began decanting dozens of books.

He stifled the immediate pang of longing. It had been almost two years since he had last held a book, any book, in his hands, and while the quality of craftsmanship paled in comparison to the texts in the heart of Asgard's citadel- whether in the vast halls and endless rows of the royal archives, or his mother's private, meticulously curated reading room in her apartments, or his own jealously guarded, voraciously maintained library- any bibliophile knew that a book's value was in its content first, and its bindings second.

Every volume in her collection was creased and cracked, softened and furled with repeated handlings and rereads; a select few leatherbound and embossed compendia supplemented bricks of paperbacks, mass-produced from cheap wood pulp and printing presses, covers splitting into fractures of white. It was a glut of eclectic taste, unabashedly unfrugal.

Loki canted his head to skim the titles printed along the spines.

"Classical literature, philosophy, history- both ancient and more recent," he noted aloud, "mythology, medicine, politics- and poetry." Loki arched an eyebrow. "An acquired taste, some would say."

"An easily acquired taste," she said, sitting back on her heel, a tome on the Byzantine Empire in one hand, and three slim treatises- Sun Tzu, Niccolò Machiavelli, Friedrich Nietzsche- in the other. "Anyone who hates poetry just hasn't found a style they like yet."

"And your taste?"

Demonstratively, she dropped a thick poetry anthology atop a tower of nineteenth century novels.

"Broad. But leaning into English classics. Cliché as that may be."

"Clichés are often genius overused," Loki argued.

"Or overhyped mediocrity," she replied, "or a weak imitation that mimics genius without understanding why the original worked."

"And of those, which are your clichéd classics?"

Loki could tell that she had sensed a trap, even if she couldn't yet identify how it would close around her.

"Are you going to take me as an authority?"

"Why should I not?" Loki spread his hands. "You cannot speak an untruth."

"Literary opinions are subjective."

"Then I will accept a subjective truth."

"And why the sudden interest in Earth- Midgardian literature?"

"Perhaps I find the example of an eloquent, well-spoken individual persuasive."

She shot him a narrow look at his phrasing.

Loki pressed down on a smile. Crafting his words around a negative space without making the omission obvious, at least to the untrained or unwary, was a trick that he had practiced into perfection.

The young woman in front of him was neither untrained or unwary. And, as someone who couldn't lie, he suspected that she had used the trick herself more than once, to get away with speaking without saying much, while convincing the entire room otherwise.

"Or- maybe that was a complete non-answer, devoid of substance and beautifully costumed in flattery," she said.

Loki smirked. "You are hardly proving it to be false flattery with that answer, darling."

"I never said it was false."

A laugh startled out of Loki at the unapologetic response. "Well. No self-effacement? No blushing modesty? How refreshing."

"Why should I pretend? Even if I could." Rising to her feet, she flicked a stray curl out of her face with a toss of her head, folding her arms. The gesture would be almost preening, were her tone not so utterly matter of fact. "You're right. I'm intelligent, and articulate enough to express it, and I don't rest on my laurels. I work hard to be excellent. You complimented me. Why shouldn't I agree?"

"Why, indeed?" Loki's voice thrummed low and warm, leaning in. "And why should I not presume that your literary taste is one that you can defend with alacrity and wit, and therefore worthy of hearing?"

She was quiet for a long moment.

"I think I should be asking for your recommendations."

Her nail hooked into her sleeve, twisting the fabric around her fingertip.

Loki knew he had won before she even had to speak.

"What would you like to hear?"

"Anything," he answered softly. "Anything I may not have heard before. Anything beautiful."

"Hm."

She pressed the pad of her thumb to the seam of her lips, gaze slipping aside in thought.

She began to recite.

"To see a World in a Grain of Sand And Heaven in a Wild Flower Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand –"

"– And Eternity in an hour," Loki finished, startling her.

He almost regretted interrupting. She had an easy cadence, smooth as molten gold, like the world crystallised at golden hour. But the white-hot thrill of triumph at the way she was stunned into speechlessness was worth it.

"William Blake, Auguries of Innocence, circa 1803," he cited. "An English classic indeed."

The trap was sprung.

Her expression tensed from surprise into something caustic, eyes flashing.

Loki watched her with poorly concealed amusement.

A part of him wanted her indignant and angry and flustered after she had pulled him apart so easily, like splitting open a pomegranate with her thumbs- and the rest of him just wanted to see what she would do, how she would retaliate, how she would ignite.

She didn't disappoint. Straightening, she made her counterstrike.

"Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire –"

"– I hold with those who favour fire," Loki interrupted, cutting across her, eyes darkening, each vowel a rush of air like the heat from a plume of flame.

"But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice."

He tilted his head at her, assessing.

"Robert Frost. Ice and Fire."

"Fire and Ice," she corrected him coolly. "Published 1920."

Loki's eyebrow tensed, ego pricked.

Before she could select a new verse, Loki rose from the bench swiftly, and launched into a turbulent, passionate speech, equal parts imploring and accusing.

"Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day, And make me travel forth without my cloak, To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way, Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke? 'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face, For no man well of such a salve can speak That heals the wound but cures not the disgrace: Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief; Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss: The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief To him that bears the strong offence's loss –"

"– Ah, but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds," she uttered the final couplet powerfully, a sweet, surrendering absolution. "And they are rich, and ransom all ill deeds."

Loki could taste his heartbeat on his tongue, blood singing in his ears, thumbing at the creases of his opposite palm. As he had spoken each line, he had pulled closer to the edge of the cell, drawn in with each quartet of iambic pentameter- and she had followed, magnetic, suddenly standing before him in aching definition.

"Shakespeare, Sonnet 34," she said, lifting a hand to skim against the glass. Loki's fingers twitched with the reflex to mirror her. "You chose one of the more obscure ones."

"Ah, I forgot- you called your taste cliché. Bright star, would I were as stedfast as thou art –"

"Keats," she interposed, rolling her eyes slightly, "Bright Star, I'm familiar."

Loki canted his head at her. "Not your taste?"

"In small doses. Like all the Romantics, Keats can get a little- cloying. Like a cake with too much buttercream. And for your information," she added, eyes sweeping up and sharpening on his, "I like obscure."

"I would believe it, were I given evidence." Loki replied, blithely aloof.

She pressed her tongue to the back of her teeth.

"Your lies are things of beauty, my love."

It was spoken in the inflection of a taunt.

"They flit from the tongue, wingéd alight Enchant the mind, and cheat and bluff.

Your lies, sweet one, settle as sugar dust Upon festered wound and sphacelus To draw the bitter from the slough.

Your lies are a keen knife, my love. Chased with silver Limned with blood.

The loveliest lies are thine, dear heart For the furtive truths they each impart –"

She trailed off expectantly.

Loki ransacked his memory for the reference.

"Too obscure?" She suggested with a slight grin.

Loki held up a hand, stalling.

Biting down on her smile, she yielded to the request, stepping away and letting him think.

Loki was almost certain that he knew the poem. He vaguely recognised the irregular lilt whittled into the stanzas, but he couldn't place it. Given their shorter lifespans, Midgardian artists in general tended to be more prolific, and the lack of a unified planetary culture making the offerings diverse, but currently that virtue was only a hindrance.

Midway through debating whether to search back another century, it struck him.

They were, after all, still playing a game.

Or rather, several games layered over each other like a multiple exposure photographic film.

Loki's eyes snapped up to meet hers.

She was grinning from behind her fingers, delighted that he was catching on.

He cast his mind forwards, to the most recently published poets who had debuted the past half decade.

Oh.

He turned to her abruptly with a rush of recollection.

"For words they speak not, yet still confirm With every utterance and phrases' turn. Thy heart, as stars in daylight skies, Is unveiled in the dark of gentle lies."

She hummed, a low musical note in the back of throat. "Title and author?"

"Lies. Ellison." Loki exhaled slowly, irked. "That was unfair."

"How so?"

"It was published barely two years ago," he said rancorously, "a novice effort by an unknown neophyte of barely fourteen-"

"And yet you can still cite the date of publication, and the poet's age," she replied blithely, "so it couldn't have been that unfair, could it?"

Loki glared at her mutinously.

"You asked for obscure," she said, unaffected. "If you wanted to me to continue with the ancients, you should have said."

Entirely against his will, and much to his displeasure, Loki was impressed.

"Very well," he said, quietly dangerous, "I am now specifying."

She flicked out an open palm, ceding the floor in challenge.

Loki set his jaw.

"Kàn zhūchéngbì sī fēnfēn, Qiáocuì zhīlí wèi yì jūn. Bùxìn bǐ lái zhǎng xià lèi, Kāi xiāng yàn qǔ shíliúqún."

He had deliberately recited the original text, rather than speaking through the filter of Allspeak. Some nuance was inevitably lost in translation, particularly within the limited fidelity of the universal tongue- but while more precise in meaning, the original was also several shades opaquer. The Hanyu languages were tonal, brimming with homonyms differentiated solely by inflection, easily missed by non-native speakers. And considering that the poem in question was a few centuries older than Loki himself, with the linguistic drift, she would find it nigh impossible-

"So deep in thought while watching reds change to greens," she translated pensively, as though she were somewhere else. "So frail I've become in memory of you. If you do not believe these tears I have wept, open this chest and see the marks on my pomegranate dress."

Loki started at her in carefully masked disbelief.

"You speak Chinese."

"Mandarin and a little Cantonese, yes," she said simply- before wincing into a sheepish grimace. "Although, you also chose one of the few classical Chinese poems I know well enough to recognise."

Loki sent her a sour look.

"You could have mentioned that."

"I might have, if you had asked," she retorted. "You're the one who quoted Wu Zetian out of the blue."

Loki glowered, but relented.

"How many languages do you speak?" He asked instead.

"A few. Enough to qualify as a polyglot, if not a hyperglot."

"Impressive."

The compliment had spilled out of him, unthinking and genuine.

Like the sun breaking through cloud cover, she warmed through.

"Thank you. I've always been good with languages."

"I can credit it." Loki ran a fingertip along his lower lip, observing her through his lashes. "Care to put forward any other non-English poems?"

She paused, her mouth twisting slightly in thought.

"There is one. But- it's not a poem in the strictest sense."

It was a strange caveat. "You have my attention, darling."

"Do I? Lucky me."

Her tone was wry, but the look in her eyes was intense, glowing like embers.

And instead of speaking-

"Vedrò con mio diletto –"

- she sang.

Loki's heart stopped.

"L'alma dell'alma mia, dell'alma mia Il core del mio cor Pien di content Pien di contento –"

The Vivaldi aria was crystalline and angelic, composed for vaulted opera halls and soaring cathedral naves, for white marble and clerestory windows flooding light into a basilica, rather than black steel sealed against the open air- but the way she sang it was lower, warmer, sweeter. She allayed the piercing brightness of the upper register into something gentler, more earthly, like a dawn-soaked aubade heard on the cusp of waking.

The lights in the cell flickered briefly.

"Vedrò con mio diletto L'alma dell'alma mia, dell'alma mia Il cor di questo, cor pien di content Pien di contento

E se dal caro oggetto Lungi convien che sia, convien che sia Sospirerò penando Ogni momento…"

The air throbbed, metal shivering from the final note, settling like dust.

Loki swallowed, unsealing his lips.

"I will see with joy," he translated, throat stoppered, vocal cords strangled by the words, "the soul of my soul, heart of my heart, full of contentment. And if from my dear object I be far away, I will sigh, suffering every moment."

Her eyes were locked on his.

"You have a lovely voice," he confessed.

There is witchcraft in your lips.

The air left her lungs in a slow, soundless billow.

Watching her watch him was like pressing his eye to the lens of a kaleidoscope. Every brilliant facet of her was cracked open, letting him look for as long as he wanted- and gazing back.

Loki wanted to demand more and to wrench away.

Eventually, she fell away from the cell.

She returned to the books, sinking to one knee. Pulling a few from the collection, sampling seemingly at random, she stacked them into the crook of one arm until she could barely balance them against her torso.

Rising to her feet and rounding the cage, she dropped just out of sight, behind one of the thickset pillars set at the cardinal points of the cell.

Loki heard the chirp of a digital keypad, the snap of a latch, and a clunk.

Not for the first time, Loki noticed the faint seams in the pillars, the outline of a door. It hadn't been relevant, before; he already had his plans in motion, locked into place like clockwork, and indifference towards his prison only served to make his captors more unsettled.

It had taken the bare minimum for Loki to start splitting them at the seams, to turn disinterest and wariness into open hostility and discord.

Imagine what someone could accomplish if they were actually trying.

With a click, and the snick of a digital lock, she emerged from behind the pillar, arms empty and eyes expectant.

Loki arched an eyebrow, and indulged her. Crossing the cell, he found the handle, and pulled the hatch open.

Inside the hollow interior were several shelves, installed at intervals. It was completely empty- save for an assortment of books on a ledge just below his ribs.

Loki turned the stack with a near-frictionless rasp of paper against metal, examining the spines.

The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. Northern Lights. Paradise Lost. The Tragedy of Eleanora Belmont. Il Principe. Pride and Prejudice. The Theory of Existentialism. The Pretender. Hogfather. Wicked Things. Wolf Hall.

"You gave me the best of your library, darling," he observed, tracing the satin cover of the Bard's anthology, stitched with floral devices in shimmering gold.

"Oh, don't worry." She slid the rest of her library into place against the wall. "I held a few back."

She hefted up a modest hardback, interlocking geometric detailing embossed in gold leaf in the leather, ubiquitous and unmistakable.

Tales of Norse Mythology, the cover declared.

She burst out laughing, sweet and unmalicious, at his look of affront.

"Relax," she soothed, setting the offending book down, "I prefer Greek mythology anyway. Much better attested, and with contemporaneous sources, unlike the Prose and Poetic Edda. Ah, no offense intended, Old Norse poetry is deliciously intricate. Especially dróttkvævitt, with the way the kennings and heiti turning it into a labyrinth of meaning."

Loki's lips quirked. "Well. I must admit, your pronunciation is-"

Then he caught up with what she had just said.

Greek.

Oh.

"Aletheia."

She looked up, a trio of books gathered to her chest, halfway through moving a folding plastic chair from against the wall.

"Yes?"

"Lethe," he continued, "meaning oblivion, forgetfulness, concealment. With the alpha privative, aletheia- unconcealed. Or- truth."

She straightened, setting the chair in front of the control panel, and smiled faintly.

"You know your Greek," she acknowledged, before shifting into neutral explanation. "Aletheia is the Greek goddess and personification of truth. She's often interpreted as the daughter of Chronos, personification of time, who is also usually her vindicator and protector, revealing her to the world. It's a popular allegory in Western classical art." She gave a self-deprecating smile. "In one of the novels I gave you, there is a device called an alethiometer, a golden compass that tells the truth to any question asked. That's where I got the name, originally. In my defence, Aletheia is far more obscure a deity than, say, Nike."

"How apt," Loki commented dryly. "Victory favoured over truth."

She stifled an amused smirk.

"You have no idea."

"I can hazard a guess, darling."

She stilled.

"Oh," she said, doubtlessly catching the truth in his grim tone, "you can."

Loki tapped his index finger against the nearest book cover.

"Do you have any recommendations? As to where I should start?"

She slipped into her seat, swivelling and bending to extract a slim device from a pocket of her duffel bag, followed by a tangle of candy-coloured silicone earphones.

"My suggestions will be biased," she warned without heat. "And probably unnecessary, depending on how many of them you've already read."

Loki smirked. "Darling, I'm counting on it."

"Ah- so you've been trying to read me though my preferences all along." Her eyes glinted like the taper of a needle. "Clever."

She spoke as if the ploy hadn't been double-edged from the beginning- as if she wasn't aware of it, in the same way that Loki had known his ploy would draw his own blood as much as hers.

It was becoming increasingly difficult to convince himself that he was looking at a lie, and to stop himself from cataloguing all the loopholes that could make it true.

"Hm, well," he mused with a smile, dropping his voice to something dangerously intimate and only mostly insincere, "I could be sweet for you, and have you spilling all your secrets. Is that preferable?"

She suppressed a smile.

"Start with a few Shakespearean plays," she instructed, plugging in her earphones and cracking open one of the books in her lap, tucking the other two aside, holstered next to her hip. "Merchant of Venice, Othello, Much Ado About Nothing- in that order. Then Northern Lights, The Pretender, and Hogfather. Throw in a few breaks with the lighter ones, especially The Prince. That particular translation is very digestible, and probably as succinct as Machiavelli originally intended."

"More laconic than loquacious," Loki added, leafing through her slender copy of the infamous work, an edition with the gloss of recent printing and the wear of thorough, repeated study, "all the better for the intended audience of a short-tempered political leader with an even shorter attention span."

"Too much lion, not enough fox," she agreed with a conspiratorial smirk.

"Thus spake the fierce fox," Loki observed, easing the brick of the Shakespearean anthology out from inside the pillar.

She looked up, settling back in the chair as comfortably as the rigid frame would permit.

"So utters the cunning lion," she said, kicking one leg up to cross over the other.

She raised the music player, tapping the play button with an audible click.

Wresting back a laugh as bright as snow-blindness, Loki took a seat at the bench.

The two of them sank into the quiet.

[PREVIOUS] | [MASTERLIST] | [NEXT]

7 notes · View notes

struggles-and-prose · 9 months

Text

📚 Beautiful Books part 4: Edgar Allan Poe Collected Works by Edgar Allan Poe 📚

Got this book for Christmas last year, along with other books, published by Canterbury Classics. They have a lot of options in terms of books, some of which I own and will review in future posts. On the cover we can see our good friend, Edgar Allan Poe on a red background, with elements referring to some of his stories like a raven for “The Raven” or a heart for “The Tell-Tale Heart” (my favourite of his short stories). The rest of the book cover is black.

In the back, there’s what looks like an old mansion on a red background with a murder of crows flying over it.

The spine has 4 hubs, and God only knows how I love me some hubs lol. 2 on top and the other 2 at the bottom. We can see a heart as well as a raven over this obsidian background.

The end paper is not my favourite, but still pretty cool nonetheless. A brick wall with a skeleton inside.

Inside, we can find a picture of our beautiful sad boy Edgar Allan Poe. Such a shame we’ve lost him. Obviously, a long time ago, but still.

The side of the pages are decorated with gold.

The text is pretty small, but not too bad. I still have to put my face really close to be able to read, with a total of 724 pages.

And we have a gorgeous dark red bookmark ribbon inside, which pairs well with the black of the book. Beautiful goth masterpiece.

My favourite part of this book has to be the spine, because of the multiple hubs and the little heart drawing.

Fun fact about Edgar Allan Poe: He would often write with his Siamese cat on his shoulder. 🖤

1 note · View note

serenaew · 1 year

Text

Serena's Masterlist: Severitus

Last updated 28/12/2023

This includes works that are not explicitly Severitus, but Harry & Snape gen.

Overview

Meta:

Interview on the Fanfic Maverick Podcast, 2nd half

Series:

Forget Me Not Universe (WIP):

Ouroboros in Tribute (T, complete)

it is time (for it to be time) (M, WIP: 1/5)

Unforgiven, unforgotten (T, complete, only available on P&S for the time being )

Christmas in Limbo Universe:

Christmas in Limbo (M, WIP: 3/7)

As they meet (T, complete)

Pomelo universe:

A small step for a boy (G, complete)

One-Shots:

Portrait of a Swan (T, complete, only available on P&S)

Withered Flowers (T, complete)

The Curse of Halloween (T, complete)

Podfic and filk:

[Fic & Podfic] Surrender (M, complete)

[Fic & Podfic] Reconditioning (T, complete)

[Podfic] Quidditch and Quietude (G, complete)

[Podfic] Stolen Years Lost (G, complete)

[Podfic] Cinnamon Rolls (G, complete)

Loose poetry:

Late Reflections (T, complete)

Expand for more details on individual elements.

Details

Series:

Forget Me Not Universe:

In which Severus Snape finds out that Harry Potter, presumed dead, has been his son all along.

Inspired by lesyeuxverts' like poppy and memory.

Ouroboros in Tribute (T, complete)

Summary: Blood, I have learnt, is thicker than water. - The life of a fallen Prince, as remembered by the father he had never known. Additional Tags/Warnings: Poetry, Sonnets, Podfic, Severus Snape is Harry Potter's biological father, Grief/Mourning, Emotional Hurt No Comfort, Implied Character Death

it is time (for it to be time) (M, WIP: 1/5)

Summary: Severus Snape never expected to survive the war. But here he is, one year after the Dark Lord's final defeat - one year after Harry Potter's disappearance, presumed death. As the boy's Last Will and Testament is released, Severus finds himself facing the gravity of his actions, in the form of the secrets hidden inside a cherry-wood box, and scribbled across a leatherbound journal. Additional Tags/Warnings: Emotional Hurt no Comfort, Canon divergence, implied MCD, ritual magic, non-linear narrative, five stages of grief

Unforgiven, unforgotten (T, complete, only available on P&S)

Summary: He does not expect to be forgiven; he vows to never forget. Additional Tags/Warnings: Implied Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Emotional Hurt No Comfort

Christmas in Limbo Universe:

To put it in the words of my beta: What if Nagini, not Harry, got all the plot armour when she captured Harry in Godric's Hollow?

Christmas in Limbo (M, WIP: 3/7)

Summary: Christmas Eve 1997. All is not well. Harry Potter's successful capture by Nagini in Godric's Hollow prompts some divine intervention and leads to astonishing revelations. Additional Tags/Warnings: Canonical Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Temporary Character Death, Implied Dissociation, Canon Divergence - Book 7, Afterlife - sort of, Time Travel, Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, Lily meddles from beyond, Alternate Universe - A Christmas Carol Fusion

As they meet (T, complete)

Summary: Companion poem for Christmas in Limbo. Additional Tags/Warnings: Poetry

Pomelo universe:

A Severitus six-shot where pomelos make regular appearances.

A small step for a boy (G, complete)

Summary: After having been rescued from the Dursleys, Harry continues to struggle with eating; and Severus struggles with watching Harry struggle - until a pomelo comes along. Additional Tags/Warnings: Kidfic, domestic fluff with a sprinkle of angst, eating diorder, pomelo, hopeful ending

One-shots:

Portrait of a Swan (T, complete, only available on P&S)

Summary: Harry talks to Snape's Portrait after the events in Ugly Duckling. Additional Tags/Warnings: Referenced Character Death, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-epilogue, bittersweet inspired by Morgana's Ugly Duckling.

Withered Flowers (T, complete)

Summary: The meaning of flowers, past, present and future. In remembrance of Severus and Lily. Additional Tags/Warnings: Referenced Character Death, Classical Music, Songfic, Making Peace With Canon, Afterlife

The Curse of Halloween (T, complete)

Summary: Every Halloween was cursed with new nightmares. This year was no different. Additional Tags / Warnings: Halloween, Masquerade, bad memories, panic attack, hopeful ending

Podfic and filk:

[Fic & Podfic] Surrender (M, Severus & Harry, complete)

Summary: Harry ends his life within the Veil after losing Sirius, and Severus spends every day visiting, wondering if he should follow. Additional Tags/Warnings: Suicidal Idealation, Depression, Referenced Character Death, Bible Quotes

[Fic & Podfic] Reconditioning (T, pre-Severitus, complete)

Summary: Harry has gained an unexpected interest in potions, but that does not stop him from blowing cauldrons. To counter that, Harry throws himself headfirst in studying the theory. Ironically, he just keeps getting worse, and Harry can't figure out why. Umbridge is another obstacle, as is Professor Snape. Or is he? Additional Tags/Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, Potions, Occlumency, Angst, Pre-Severitus

[Podfic] Quidditch and Quietude (G, complete)

Summary: Harry is looking for some peace and quiet after a rough quidditch match. He knows just where to go. Assume established severitus. 6th year-ish. Podfic of Quidditch and Quietude by Ttime42. Additional Tags/Warnings: Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Family Feels, Autumn

[Podfic] Stolen Years Lost (G, complete)

Summary: What could he say? Severus was gone, and now Harry would never see the light at the end of those tunnels again. Podfic of Stolen Years Lost by BinteMuhammad. Additional Tags/Warnings: Major Character Death, Post-Canon, Auror Harry Potter, Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning

[Podfic] Cinnamon Rolls (G, complete)

Summary: Eileen takes Sev and Harry shopping at the market. Podfic of Cinnamon Rolls by WiCeBa. Additional Tags / Warnings: Family Dynamics, Referenced Child Abuse, Mostly fluff, some difficult memories

Loose poetry:

Late Reflections (T, complete)

Summary: All was said and done. Reflecting on what was, and what could have been. Additional Tags/Warnings: Poetry, Hurt no Comfort, Religious imagery and Symbolism

#Severitus #harry potter #severus snape #fanfiction #snape fandom #pro snape #poetry #masterlist

15 notes · View notes