#HE IS A COWARD MAN WHO STINKS

[slocumjoe]

Hi! I love the quality of You’re work, it’s so good!

Can you do companions react to overhearing sole and someone else talking, and all sole is talking about is how freaking amazing said companion is and how much they love them and about five minutes into the rant sole just pauses and is like “oh God I actually love them”

could you do gage too if you write for him

I studied for this one, y'know, just to do Gage right for once

Anyway, this got so long, i had to use multiple paragraphs per some companions. Whoops.

Companions react to Sole talking themselves into realizing their feelings for them

We're going to assume the feelings are mutual. Featuring non-romancable companions too, because i love yall and want you to eat good 💕

Cait; the C in Cait stands for Crisis. Panics and runs away, doesn't want to hear anymore. Sole being all sweet about her platonically about ripped her in half as is, but...holy shit. She has a chance with them. Cait didn't think this far.

The A in Cait stands for Assessment. She starts doing mental gymnastics. Okay, Sole's previous partner was like this. Cait is/isn't like that. Are they viable? Does she even know how to have a relationship? She and Sole get along very well, already. They're in- ew, no. They want to smang. Yes, that is it. No one wants her for long.

The I in Cait stands for Insecure. Cait has so many goddamn issues, man. After enough thinking, she talks herself out of it. What if she's wrong, what if she hurts them, what if they hurt her? She shouldn't try it. She'll fuck it up, right?

The T in Cait stands for Take the shot, bitch. Mentally, she decides to not pursue anything. This will fly out of the window the moment Sole flirts with her or gives her any opportunity. Cait is impulsive, man. Insecurity doesn't last long around Sole.

Curie; Curie lacks tact. Might be the most likely to just...walk in and confess her feelings too. Regardless. But she might also give them more time to ponder it, seeing as they just figured it out. The weird stuff happening in her chest (joy, confusion, bashfulness, she's learned) might also nerf her for the moment.

In the time it takes for Sole to confess properly to Curie, she'll give them lots of space, so that they can think of it without her influence. Will be painfully obvious to anyone else that she's over the moon, though. Listens to love songs and stares dreamily at the sky. Draws hearts in her notebook. Gets terrifyingly excited whenever Sole talks to her, thinking it'll be the moment. If they take too long though, WILL approach them on her own.

Danse; I'm gonna be honest, second most likely to hit the legs the moment Sole starts talking about him. Danse is not built for praise. Danse isn't even built for people being neutral towards him. And he isn't the type to eavesdrop. So, we have to assume that he gets there, like, right before Sole says it. At which point, most likely to stumble and fall on his ass. Sole hears the commotion and comes to check, only to see Danse hopping a fence, or sprinting down a hallway. So, jig is already up, Sole knows he heard.

But, Danse is 1 letter away from being a different word. What is that word, class? Yes, it's "dense." Will do mental gymnastics to come to conclusion he misheard, or misunderstood, or that Sole was talking about an entirely different person.

However long it takes Sole to approach him about it, will dig himself a hole full of self-loathing, loneliness, and yearning. The longer it goes, the deeper the hole. Sole really needs to just run after him screaming "COME BACK I LOVE YOU" or this is gonna be exhausting for Person C, who had to watch this play out as an outside observer.

Deacon; Flips a coin to decide his next move; run away screaming, or walk in strutting? If he walks in, will loudly start chatting up whoever Sole is talking to about how cool Sole is, and does it in a way that gives off the vibes of "I totally feel the same way but I'm pretending I don't know you feel that way at all". Person C wants to die seeing this.

Will also talk himself out of it like Cait. Deacon doesn't even know who he is, how could Sole? And things with Barbara didn't end too well, because he was an asshole who dragged her into his shit. He's still an asshole, dragging Sole into his shit. But because of who Sole has to be to get this close with Deacon, they're likely to nip this in the bud and approach him ASAP.

Deacon has maybe ten minutes of freaking out before Sole finds him alone and confesses. And he knows this. If Sole wants to confess, they better recognize him through a disguise. He wants to be swept off his feet, and nothing turns him on like Sole seeing through his shitty wigs.

Gage; HITS THE BRICKS. He sticks around for praise because shit, who doesn't like hearing how badass they are? And from the Overboss, no less! The intelligent, tough, sexy Overboss, who makes him melt with just a look. He could listen to them brag about him all day. Hell yeah, tell them how smart he is, how strong he is, how...big his muscles are...? Uh, thanks...but talk about how good his aim is, despite the one—wait, what's this about him being...charming...? ...Handsome? Boss, what are you—WHAT? WHAT? WHAT THE FUCK?! THIS WASNT THE PLAN! RETREAT, RETREAT, RETREAT.

Gage put all of those nasty little feelings into a jar and threw them into the ocean like a civilized person the moment they reared their ugly little heads. And now, Sole just...fucking said that. Not a care in the world, no hesitatation. They—they can't. They just can't do anything there. Inappropriate workplace relationship, it wouldn't be right. And with him? Dirty, old, banged up Gage, fucked up in more ways then he has teeth? When Sole is...Sole? Nah, nah, that...nah. Best not go there. Gets a bad case of the Yearning that makes him cringe.

Talks a big game to himself about how he's not going to do anything about it, fuck that, fuck love, who needs it, but to be honest? All Sole would have to do is invite him in a shower or something and he's dropping the literal and metaphorical pants. A smart raider doesn't turn his nose up at a good thing dropping right in his lap. That...might also be literal, in this case.

Hancock; Unlike Deacon or Curie, who consider barging in, Hancock does it. He's so shocked, touched, scared, etc, that he puts on the persona and follows its lead. He walks in, chats like normal, teases, makes no indication that he knows. Everything is normal. It didn't happen. If it did, they didn't mean it.

Whenever he remembers it later, immediately distracts himself. Cuts back on chems because he keeps thinking about it on them. Lets his mind wander. Sole is too good for him, Sole deserves better, and Sole can do better. In this state, Hancock's walls are so high up and reinforced, Sole is gonna need a real bulldozer of a confession to knock them down. I recommend a moonlit dinner with music. Something to let him know that they mean business.

MacCready; It takes a good, long time for him to realize what he heard. In the moment, his brain (likely in a bid for self-preservation) locks up. He shrugs and wanders off, forgets about it. It'll be, like, a week later, and he and Sole will be talking, and it'll come rushing back to him. The shutdown happens again, and this repeats until MacCready thinks about it for a moment.

When he realizes what they said, screams into the nearest pillow, mostly because he's been an idiot for...way too long. Has a crisis. What about Lucy? What about Duncan? What about Shaun? What about Sole? Much like Danse, Sole needs to come get their man quickly, before he spooks himself out of getting some. He wants to, but is it time for that? He'll come around once Sole figures themselves out and goes to him.

Nick; The only one who will go out of his way to approach Sole later and confess himself. He's an adult with functional interpersonal skills. He's not going to kick the door down and drop his pants, and he's not going to run away and fake his death just to avoid talking about it.

Nick gets his thoughts in order, waits for Sole to not be busy, and goes for it. If Sole would be embarrassed, doesn't mention that he heard. Nick probably starts real traditional, gets flowers and candy or something. A little courting gift, as is gentlemanly. Nick knows the importance of skipping the tomfoolery and getting down to business, but he's a sentimental man. And besides, Sole deserves to be pampered, and treated right, if they're going to do this.

Also, Nick is Person C with the other companions. And he fucking knows they sit there and eavesdrop, wants to die when Sole confesses their feelings when the object of them is right there. But also, kinda lives for it. His name is Valentine, of course he's a romantic.

Piper; Piper has a taste for the theatrical, and right now, she's thinking of what she would want as Person C. And She, in C's position, would lose her mind if the Person B walked in and loudly proclaimed their feelings for Sole. Also, it's the first thing she thinks to do, too shocked to stop and think. So Piper does it, God bless.

Well, kind of. She charges in, only to cough and awkwardly tell Sole they should talk, red as her coat. Person C (Nick) appreciates this greatly, even if she stumbled on the landing.

Anyway, there's no wistful wondering. They get this shit figured out ASAP. Piper is also impulsive, and thank God for that. Sole is also red as her coat and they go back and forth teasing each other relentlessly. Lots of squealing and incoherent noises.

Preston; Much like Nick, goes for it...but not for a while. He takes time to think it over. After all, Sole is his general, they have a lot going on, he himself has a lot going on...he has logistics to work through. Likely to make a corkboard planning it out. Will he be able to provide the needed emotional labor? Goes to Nick/Person C and ask their opinion. Nick takes one look at the corkboard and tells him Sole is his friend, not a damn supply route.

Heeding Nick's advice, also approaches it traditionally. He invites Sole to a personal, off-the-record meeting late at night. Sole finds their favorite dish, music, and Preston in a tux that Nick would have advised against if he knew about it. But Preston talks about his feelings, confesses, wants to try if Sole is willing. Obviously they are.

X6-88; Decides No. Simply No. He vanishes and refuses to think about it. Sole is his Director. He is a synth, a courser, a machine. He shouldn't have these feelings anyway, but to act on them? To have them reciprocated? Oh no. No, no, no, that won't do. It goes against everything he believes.

He doesn't think about it at all. If Sole brings it up, he will initially reject them out of shock, because he genuinely is not ready to even consider it, let alone agree. Forget matters of compatibility, there is so much red tape around this, and if he trips over it, he risks his life, his position, even Sole, if the other Board Members take enough umbrage.

Sole has to do so much heavy lifting to get him to feel safe enough to think about the possibility. Not even if he wants to, if its possible. After that...X6-88 is not meant for such things. He's never done it before. Sole will expect and need things he can't provide. What if they want sex? He most certainly doesn't. What if they want comfort? His brain isn't built for that. What if they want him to change, better himself? He's not supposed to change, he wouldn't be a courser if he could.

This relationship would take so many baby steps. But he won't forget that Sole, for some reason he can't parse, feels the same way. For something they shouldn't see as a person, but do. And...they like the person they see. It...Sole is going to be dealing with a crisis, down the line.

#fo4 #fallout 4 #paladin danse #preston garvey #piper wright #nick valentine #x6-88 #robert joseph maccready #companions react #hancock #GAGE STANS COME AND GET ME I TOOK NOTES ON THIS FUCKER #HE IS A COWARD MAN WHO STINKS #THE BITCH FLEES THE SCENE I KNOW I'M RIGHT I WENT THROUGH ALL OF HIS DIALOGUE #porter gage

[pondering-gales-left-orb]

i will not accept shane spouse room slander anymore im sick of it

I'm so mad at everyone who is mad at Shane's spouse room and i cant keep silent about it anymore

let me start by saying yes Shane was my first ever spouse in SDV and no i was not thinking i could fix him i was just impressed by his progress and self improvement so i had my character marry him

then i went online to see what are people saying about him and i was SHOCKED everyone was so mean to him and were absolutely wronggggggggggg about him

this man does improve himself he absolutely is better after marriage and everyone that's mischaracterizing that because of his spouse room is a coward sorry i don't make the rules

facts: Shane goes to therapy and starts getting his alcoholism under control by eliminating the source of his pain which is wasting his life away at joja and doing something he loves which is raise blue chickens THAT HE MADE MIGHT I ADD HE INVENTED A NEW BREED OF CHICKENS BTW. that last point alone pisses me of so hard because people so often over look it! he is just as smart as Maru just as creative as Eliot and just as ambitious as Sam, let me repeat myself HE INVENTED A NEW BREED OF CHICKEN WHILE HE WAS DEPRESSED AND SUFFERING OF ALCOHOLISM.... recognize his brilliance please

so that means people saying he falls back into his old habits because he has a six pack in his room is wrong, imo he stops being an alcoholic and goes back to having drinking be a hobby he does while gaming or hanging out with friends at the bar THAT'S THE POINT UR SUPPOSED TO GET FROM HIS HEART EVENTS

yes his room has mud tracks but consider this this man's WHOLE JOB is to RAISE CHICKENS IN A COOP !!!!! chickens who again he literally invented their breed who track mud shit and drop feed on the floor of the coop he is in all day!!! OF FUCKING COURSE HES GONNA HAVE MUD ON HIS SHOES!!

he works all day for his blue chickens and then just wants to come in and relax playing a video game and drinking a beer if he was a horrible dirty alcoholic like people claim he is he would track mud ALL OVER THE HOUSE AND DIRTY UP ALL THE HOUSE but no its just his tiny hobby room

you as a farmer also work all day on chores and after you are done you also just wanna do something fun to relax and guess what YOU HAVE THE ENTIRE HOUSE EVERY ROOM IN THE HOUSE TO MAKE INTO YOUR HOBBY ROOM some of you fill the house with kegs because you are making it your thing hell one of my farmers who was a witch had an entire room that's just crystals potions and a fucking cauldron , in my Shane save i had a room LINED with fish tanks that was my farmers Hobby, do you think Shane gets mad that i had 4 to 6 fish tanks running all day with puffer fishes and some legendary fishes stinking up the house?? NO because he gets his hobby room and the farmer gets their hobby room everyone keeps to their space period.

i think everyone needs to understand that having a messy hobby room is not a bad thing and that Shane and the other spouses have a right to their own room to look however they want and it doesn't have to match the house

everyone also needs to look at Shane in a better light please I'm begging you to let characters have small flaws and not be squeaky clean perfect

Shane sought help he is helping himself and trying to be better but that doesn't mean he doesn't get to indulge in some guilty pleasures he is human and is aloud to be one even while still in recovery! the difference now is that he HAS CONTROL OVER ALCOHOL AND GAMING CONSUMPTION AND IS NOT SPIRALING OUT OF CONTROL LIKE BEFORE he has job he loves a family he takes care of and he makes sure he doesn't dirty up his entire house but gives himself a break in his ONE room and doesn't stop himself form having fun doing the things he enjoys without over indulging or falling into bad habits.

Edit: i know in the end the drinks are non alcoholic as confirmed by him and i mentioned beer and drinks cause i know there is non alcoholic Versions of them som.. but as i said im adressing the MISSCHARACTERIZATION of shane by the shane haters who didn't go through his heart events hence me saying "you are supposed to learn all this from his heart events" cause they dont go through them :D

Anyway,

in conclusion SHANE IS GOOD SPOUSE, a good man and an inventor in his own right. yall just need to be gentle to him in your judgment cause man is he trying his earnest and that needs to be recognized. i mean look at him look at this healthy man <3

#stardew valley #stardew valley 1.6 #SDV #SDV shane #stardew shane #shane stardew valley #leah stardew valley #haley stardew valley #Sam stardew valley #Sebastian stardew valley #Elliot stardew valley #Maru stardew valley #emily stardew valley #abigail stardew valley

[grizzersmamma]

Son of Zmei | Fae AU | Nikto x F!Reader | Part 2.

Overview: Nikto confronts Mr. Petrov & Reader gets a visitor who drops some new information.

A/N: Second part babyyyyy! I’m on a roll now. Shorter than the last part, but the next one should be a bit longer. Continuation of my little Nikto fic based on the Fae AU by @ghouljams​

Warnings: Murder, Arson.

Series Masterlist: Here

CoD Masterlist: Here

Prev Part | Next Part

The man kneeling at Nikto’s feet is quivering like a leaf in the breeze, head pressed to the floor in a deeply exaggerated bow. It does little to quell the simmering rage that burns just under his skin, leaving him to huff out a plume of smoke in his agitation. Clearly, this pathetic excuse for a human doesn’t understand what kind of situation he’s in.  

“Mighty Zmei, forgive me for failing you,” the irritating cretin pleads, “allow me to try again, I can do better!”

He can’t help the growl that rumbles out of him, one of his lips curling to show off his pointed canine. “You offered a life, willingly given, in exchange for your own,” he hisses, starting to circle the human, “you think I cannot take a human if I desire one?” Petrov jumps at his sharp tone, mouth opening and closing silently.  

“O-Of course not, I-”

“You think I am a fool? You would try to deceive me? To break your word by offering the life of another who has not agreed?” His words get louder with each passing syllable, sharp teeth now on full display in a horrifying snarl.  

“Never, All Powerful Zmei! I could never hope to trick someone so wise!” the coward grovels, stinking of fear.  

The black shepherd dog snaps it’s jaws at the man’s face and the raven, perched on one of the chairs, caws angrily. The animals are growing restless at the clear disrespectful behaviour of the human, goading Nikto into action. “We have given you a chance to repay us, the deal is off.”  

It seems Petrov has some spine, for the man straightens, “merciful Zmei, to throw away the years of work I have dedicated to you, it would-it would be foolish!”

The heads of all three dark figures, man, bird and dog, all snap to glare at the human. “We are no fool!” their voices join together, speaking as one entity. Their bodies have begun to shift, twisted and drawing together, the lines between the three different creatures growing blurred. “We require your services no longer.”  

Minutes later, Nikto, the dog and the raven stand together in the street. They watch as the house belonging to Petrov burns steadily, flames casting dancing shadows across the nearby houses. The smoke does not bother them, nor the heat.  

Eventually, they turn to leave.  

The raven flies off ahead, while the man and dog walk. “Return to the female. She is oblivious, too fragile to be near so many Fae,” he spits the word in disgust.  

“Would such a weak creature be a suitable mate?” the dog replies, an exact copy of Nikto’s voice.  

He simply snorts, “we are strong enough for the two of us,” he says simply. The two part ways, Nikto to return to their home and the dog to return to his duty protecting their newest prize.  

When the sun rises, you wake with a large, furry body pressed up against you. It startles you, until you recall the events of yesterday. You had been exhausted after returning home, emotionally and physically drained from needing to walk so far back to your home after enduring such a terrifying encounter. The dog had refused to leave when you’d tried to shoo it away and, reluctantly, you decided to allow the canine into your home.  

It would be wrong for you to abandon the poor dog after it had followed you all the way back to your house. The man who owned him was a creep, but you couldn’t find it in you to leave an innocent dog out in the street where anything could happen to it.  

The dog in question wriggles about slightly to get comfortable, kicking you with big paws while whining loudly. Clearly, he was unhappy with you disturbing his rest, because he rolls over, putting his back to you with a rather dramatic sigh. It’s admittedly rather adorable, even if you don’t recall inviting the animal into your bed. The blanket you’d put on the floor for him is untouched, clearly not good enough for the massive ball of black fur.  

“You need to go home, buddy,” you mumble, stroking the animal’s silky fur. You know it’s not safe to have an unknown dog in your home at all, let alone sharing your bed, but you get the feeling you aren’t in any real danger.  

This thought is confirmed when the dog turns its head to try and nose at your fingers, offering them a small lick.  

When you finally gather the strength needed to get out of bed, the dog is more than happy to follow after you, hopping down from the mattress and onto the floor with a loud thump. It treks through the house, patiently watching while you complete your morning routine.  

You don’t have any dog food in the house, so you offer him some leftovers from your dinner a few nights ago after ensuring there isn’t anything poisonous to dogs in it. He doesn’t seem to mind the food, snapping it up at rapid speed.  

Not needing to be at work (and not planning on going back), you’re sitting comfortably on the living room couch, a warm drink in hand, while your canine companion takes up the rest of the couch. You had attempted to tell him not to climb on the cushions, not wanting dog hair shedding all over everything, but your words fell on deaf ears. So now, you sit on the furthermost cushion with the dog resting its huge head on your thigh.  

After a little bit of Googling on your phone, you believe you’ve figured out what breed the dog is. He’s huge and fluffy, clearly built for a cold climate and likely a livestock guardian dog of some kind. It took a while, but you managed to narrow it down to a Caucasian shepherd thanks to the abundance of pictures on Google Images.  

He’s sweet, but you’re not sure you’d be able to afford to feed such a huge dog, especially now you’re abandoning your job. It would be best for you to drop the dog off at the local vet. He’s probably microchipped, and if not, you’re sure they’ll be able to track the owner down. Such a huge dog is probably fairly memorable to someone who will know how to find his owner.  

You’re startled from your peaceful morning by a knocking at your door.  

The dog leaps to his feet, scampering to the front door with a snarl on his face. He starts barking, pacing back and forth. You’re a little anxious to try and get between the dog and the door, but he thankfully seems to back off once you draw close.  

When you pull the door open, you’re met by a police officer. “Good morning, miss,” the man seems anxious, glancing warily at the massive dog growling at him from behind you.  

“Hi,” you greet slowly, unsure, “is there something I can help you with?”

After confirming your identity, the man sighs softly, offering you a sympathetic smile, “I’m very sorry, but I’m here to inform you that your employer, Mister Petrov unfortunately passed away last night.” You blink at that, swallowing nervously, but the man must not notice, for he continues, “there was a fire at his apartment block.”  

“Oh... that’s horrible...” you’re not sure how to respond to that, stunned.  

Were you responsible for what happened? Was the strange, masked man, Nikto, responsible? A nervous sweat breaks out across your forehead.  

“A lawyer will be around shortly to discuss the assets afforded to you.”

“The assets?” you asks.  

“Ah, yes, it appears Mister Petrov left you some of his assets in his will, miss,” the officer smiles, oblivious to your internal battle. He offers you a brief farewell that you numbly return before leaving you once more to your own devices.  

The dog offers you a bark, nudging at your side when you continue to stare after the officer’s retreating form, snapping you out of your stupor. With a deep sigh, you step back into your home and close the door. You gently lean your head against the door, taking a moment to collect yourself.  

When you turn around, the dog is staring at you intensely.  

“What?” you ask him with a snort, as though he could actually respond to you.  

“You are a strange human,” the dog says.  

You faint on the spot.  

#writing #call of duty modern warfare #cod nikto #nikto call of duty #nikto x reader #tf 1fae1 #fae au

[ohtobeleah]

After that reblog talking about how their farm is a check point I really wanna know how all of the daggers react when they reach it and what they say to Jake and Hollywood

They all show up, one by one, over time. I picture Coyote being the last to come through but even if he was in his late 80’s when he died he’s still showing up no a day older than the last time you saw him at the Hard Deck.

But it’s probably Rooster that kicks up the most stink about it let’s be honest. As soon as he sees Jake Seresin out training one of the horses he’s seeing red. He’s got a bone to pick.

He forgets how he died, the cancer was just too aggressive, and starts running. He runs so fast the pain from the collision doesn’t catch up to him for a few seconds. Jake doesn’t even see Rooster coming, until he’s on the ground in the dirt and grass underneath his wingman.

“YOU FUCKING COWARD!” There’s a few punches thrown and Jake takes them all before he’s pushing Rooster off him. “YOU IDIOT! I COULD HAVE HELPED YOU!? Why’d you have to overdose man, why’d you leave us?”

“Rooster?” It’s the calmness in your voice that’s making Bradley turn around to see you standing there, four year old by your side. She’s the spitting image of Jake. “Not you too honey.” And then Bradley realises—he can talk. He hadn’t been able to talk in months. Throat cancer will do that to you.

“Fuck—am I dead.” Bradley’s just pinching the bridge of his nose,m while he kneels in the dirt with his long lost wingman.

“As dead as dead can be kid.” And that’s when Rooster sees the man he always wanted to be. The man who left him far too early in life. The man who made his mothers heart beat and the man who Maverick never tried to be. “Who let you grow that hideous moustache?”

“Dad?”

#bruises //jake seresin

[final-girl96]

Broken World: Chapter Seventeen

After everyone was finished eating and everything was cleaned up Jenner showed us the rest of the living area. “Most of the facility is powered down including housing so you’ll have to make do here,” he said as we walked down yet another hallway. Offices lined each side of the hall. “The couches are comfortable, but there are cots in storage if you like. There’s a rec room down the hall that you kids might enjoy. Just don’t plug in the video games, okay? Or anything that draws power. The same applies—if you shower, go easy on the hot water.” That made everyone perk up; the fact that there was hot water.

I was walking behind everyone and watched them all pick a room. My head was a little fuzzy from the alcohol but not enough to not know what I was doing. Shane's head popped out of one of the doors when I walked by. “You are more than welcome to share a room with me,” he slurred, smiling. My face scrunched up in disgust and walked by him, picking up my pace, and slipping into a room at the end of the hall. I threw my bag on the floor beside the couch and sat down with a loud sigh. I looked down at my skin, covered in sweat and dirt letting out a bigger sigh. “May as well take advantage of that hot water.” I began to untie my shoes and kicked them off along with my socks. I shed clothing as I walked to the small bathroom on the other side of the room, dropping them into a pile.

I walked to the shower and turned it on, holding my hand under the water. To my delight, the water got hot fast. I stepped under the water, turning around, closing my eyes, and tilting my head back. The hot water felt so relaxing as it loosened my muscles. The bathroom started to steam up, and I turned around to find soap and shampoo. I grabbed the soap and started to wash my body, watching as the dirt and dried blood washed down the drain. Next was my hair, I took my time with washing it. It would probably be a while before I got to have a hot shower again. They even have new razors in the bathroom, so I took care to shave while I was at it. I knew Jenner said to take it easy on the hot water, but it felt too good.

“Fuck! Shit!” I jumped at the sudden voice behind me and spun around. “What the hell?! You scared the fuck out of me, Daryl!” He was standing there holding a bottle of whiskey looking everywhere but at me. “What're you doing?” I asked. “What're you doin'?! You're in my room” I raised my eyebrow and rolled my eyes. “I'm sorry I didn't see your name on it. Oh for fuck sake, Daryl, stop acting like you've never seen me naked before. Unless, you forgot about that time I can home junior year of college during Christmas break. You know the one where you took my virginity and then ignored me for three months after that.”

“Told Ya it was a mistake,” he grunted. I scoffed, “right.” I walked out of the shower and right up to him. “Because having sex with was the most horrible experience of your life!” I yanked the bottle out of his hand, grabbed a towel and walked out into the room. “Take a shower, Daryl, you stink!” I slammed the door and plopped on the couch. Looking to my right to see a cot was set up and put the bottle to my lips, taking a long sip of whiskey, sucking in air through my teeth at the slight burn it made as the amber liquid raved down my throat.

I wasn't on the couch more than five minutes before I was back up, slamming the bottle on the desk and stalking into the bathroom.

“You know what, Dixon!”

He flinched and turned around and stared at me with wide eyes. “The hell ya doin’?!” he yelled. “You day it was a mistake what happened between us. But it wasn't. You enjoyed it and don't say you didn't! You liked being the first man to be inside me. The first to make me come. You liked how I screamed your name. You're just a coward who runs from his feelings! You let Merle make all your decisions for you!”

“You don't know what the hell ya talkin’ about!”

I raised my eyebrows, dropped my towel, and walked right up to him under the surprisingly still hot water. “I do know what I'm talking about. I might have been the one to leave, but you're the one who pushed me away so many times I felt like I had no choice. You've hurt me a lot, Daryl Dixon. You broke my heart when you ignored the next day and then three months after that. I fucking loved you! And don't you dare say it's our age gap because we're only five ye…” I was cut off by him pressing his lips to mine. My brain was so fuzzy from the alcohol that I didn't respond right away. I was trying to figure out what was going on and how it went from hating each other to now with me wrapped around him and my back pressed to the tile.

Daryl's lips trailed down my jaw to my neck, where He sucked a mark into my skin. His hard length pressed against me, pulling a whine from me. “Please.” Daryl gripped himself, looking down between our bodies, and rubbing the tip of his cock through my slit a few times before finding my entrance and pushing inside of me.

“What the hell ya doin’ woman?!” I jumped at the sudden voice and looked up. Daryl was stalking towards me and grabbing the bottle out of my hand. “Well, I was enjoying a drink and having a really good daydream until you interrupted.” Daryl scoffed and sat on the other end of the couch. There was silence between us. Daryl kept fidgeting, and I started to get annoyed by it. “Will you stop!” I said, looking over at him. “Will you get dressed!” He grunted out. His cheeks started to turn a light shade of pink, and I laughed. “Sure, Daryl, I'll get dressed.”

I stood up, walked over to my bag, and pulled out my clothes. But I didn't go to the bathroom, instead I put my clothes on the cot and dropped the towel. “Fucking christ!” Daryl's face turned even more red as he willed himself to look everywhere but at my naked form.

#the walking dead daryl #daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #daryl x reader #daryl fanfiction #daryl dixon x y/n #the walking dead andrea #the walking dead tdog #the walking dead michonne #shane walsh #lori grimes #rick grimes #carl grimes #carol petelier #sophia peletier #dale horvath #glenn rhee #maggie greene #beth greene #hershel greene #twd fanfic #twd family #twd fic #twd fanfiction #twd

[evelynmlewis]

Story: The Boy in the Castle

I've decided to serialize it over a series of 9 posts. Do you like spies? Pathetic wet cat male protagonists? Original fairy tales? Christian allegories? Yes, everybody these days is doing them I know. My very best attempt at evoking the 18th century? (I try.) This story has not yet appeared in print, but it will (now that I am my own publisher) at some point in the future, but likely as part of an anthology... for now... it is my gift to you.

The Boy in the Castle

Part 1.

It was a perfectly ordinary day for Ilya Severin.

His attacker, a bulky brute with tattoos and tanned skin, brandished half of a broken beer bottle threateningly. Ilya picked up a chair and held it in front of himself, legs out, for defense.

“Watch who you mess with next time, bilge scum!” the man bellowed, before grabbing the legs of the chair and using it to swing him bodily into the wall.

 Ilya crumpled to the floor, clutching his stomach. He didn’t bother to get up, but waited for the man to leave.

After the pub had settled down, Dimitri came over and found him. The younger man crouched down. “What happened this time?” he asked in a low voice, looking over his shoulder to make sure everybody was back to minding their own business.

“He called me a coward and a weakling.”

“So you decided to prove him wrong, did you?”

“Gave him a good sock in the jaw.” Ilya accepted Dimitri’s offer of a white napkin, and wiped the blood dribbling from his nose.

“I can’t leave you alone for half a day, can I? You’re already drunk.”

“I come here to find work,” said Ilya.

“You’re not even sober.”

“So what?” Ilya coughed, and pulled himself into a sitting position.

“You’re supposed to be the best smuggler in Rostek.”

“I am the best smuggler in Rostek.” He gave a crooked grin.

“Oh? How will I present you to your client in a state like this?”

Ilya rubbed his nose gingerly. “My client?”

“Yes, your client. I decide to pay back that favor and get you a job, and this is what you give me to work with? Come on, let’s get you back to the inn.”

Ilya splashed his face with water and then rinsed out his greasy, shoulder-length hair in a wooden bucket. Finally he dried off his face with a towel, and with it came the last traces of the blood and grime.

“I need a drink…”

“No,” said Dimitri, standing behind him.

“Of water. Relax.”

“Behind you.” Dimitri pointed to a copper cup on the vanity.

He turned around in the inn’s washroom, found the cup, and sipped it slowly. Then he sat on a wooden stool and started to comb through his hair. “So, you say that you no longer owe me a favor. What have you come up with?”

“Last night a noblewoman, one of those landed gentry it would seem, sent her servant to the pub. He said his mistress would hire only the best smuggler in Rostek. It had a well-paying sound to it, so I mentioned your name.”

“I see. Well then, fine. Count it even. When is my appointment?”

“Half past eleven tomorrow. She’ll meet you at Saint Beska’s Abbey.”

“Did she happen to give a name?”

“No.” Dimitri shook his head.

           ***

The next morning, Ilya dressed in his best waist-coat and tie. He had brushed his hair and washed it with nothing more classy than a bar of soap. He had bathed well enough to hopefully not stink, although it was hard to fully get rid of the smell of alcohol.

Dimitri met him downstairs in the front of the inn, and wrinkled his nose. “Try some mint.”

“No time.” He waved off the young man, who had been hanging around him like some kind of gnat since they ran the last commission together. (He hated to admit it, but Dimitri’s imagined debt to him was probably actually just pity for his sorry state.)  “I’m running late.” It was an hour’s ride to the abbey. For the good smuggler, nothing was more important than punctuality.

“Good morrow, then.” Dimitri gave a wave and retreated to the upstairs rooms.

Ilya went out back to the stable, saddled up, and started off to the Abbey.

Saint Beska’s was outside the city of Rostek proper, to the north, but still within the bounds of the principality of Rostek, which was a small kingdom of the East.

The Abbey sat on a rolling green. There were hedgerows for two miles, finally giving way to trimmed topiary and then the walls of the spreading complex. This was a place for nuns; men did not usually come here, and he wondered if this woman, whoever she was (not a nun, certainly?) was planning to admit him.

When he rode up to the iron-studded gates, he dismounted and approached, wondering if a knock on such a large door would even be noticed.

But as it turned out, no knock was necessary, for there was a shout from above and the gates began to open. He stood back.

The woman came out alone. He understood as soon as he saw her why she had not come to the pub in person. She was in her fifties, and had on a black half-mourning dress, with a purple train. He could not see any jewelry, but mourning clothes could be deceptively simple, and the silk of her dress seemed to exude hidden wealth. She was not wearing a veil.

So then, a dowager whose husband was recently deceased. But not too recently—within the past year or so.

“Madame,” he said, and politely made a small bow.

“Sir.” She did not smile. Nor did she seem terribly impressed. “I sent for a smuggler.”

“Now ma’am,” he said carefully, “All my trade business is of course perfectly lawful.” These naive nobles lacked any sense of the rules of the game. He wasn’t of a mind to incriminate himself before establishing a rapport.

“Then I have no use for you.” She turned around and started to walk back toward the doors.

Ah – he was losing her. “Now, hang on just a moment.”

The woman stopped walking.

“I am… very good at what I do.”

“I sent for the best smuggler in Rostek,” she said, looking back at him. “Are you he?”

“I stay humble.” He scratched at his collar.

Her eyes sharpened. “We may have business, then.”

He nodded. Now they were on. “What do you need?”

He could hazard a guess. He had a burgeoning suspicion about who she was. A noble, yes, but not a noble of Rostek – she was from the kingdom of Belova, toward the south, just like he was. An ongoing civil war there had dethroned the King, and as revolutionaries, called the Vroek Coalition, hunted down and killed the Belovan nobles, they had fled to surrounding countries. This woman had doubtless fled recently, and most likely had left behind some valuable or sentimental personal property that she wished for him to retrieve.

He smiled confidently.

 “I wish you to escort me and my son into Belova,” she said.

Ilya took half a step back, stunned. It took him a moment to reply. “To a country fraught with war?”

She raised an eyebrow. “To the capital. Stosla.”

“Surely you must have gone to great pains to escape from there,” he ventured.

She looked at him drily, and he thought her eye twinkled a bit, but he couldn’t be sure. She wasn’t going to say anything.

“You would be heading into great danger.”

“I am aware of the risks.”

“What are you going to do when you get there?”

“I have made arrangements.”

Ilya thought about this. Perhaps she had a cover – and a safe house. She was a spy, perhaps. A spy for the royalist side of the conflict. If she knew what she was doing, this could work. But—

“How old is your son?” he asked.

“He is nine years old.”

“Nine?!” Ilya stepped back, setting his teeth into a grimace. He folded his arms, looking at the ground, and kicked a pebble. “What shall I call you, madame?”

“You may call me… Madame Olga,” she said, as if deciding on the name.

“All right, listen, Madame Olga. I’ll take you anywhere you wish to go, but this isn’t any kind of journey for a child.”

“He must come.”

“With all due respect, Madame, it’s madness to bring a child on a trip like this.” His deferential mask was slipping, and he tried to put it back on, but it was a bit of a lost cause. “Children are… unpredictable. He will be a liability. Such a journey calls for… discretion… and… fortitude. You should leave him here, where he’s safe.” A child of only nine years would certainly get them all killed.

Olga’s lips tightened, but she remained unmoved. “He is non-negotiable.”

He sighed, trying to imagine the journey and the accommodations. Ilya wiped a hand across his face. “Is he quiet?”

“My son is very well-mannered. Will you do it or not?”

“I’d like half up-front.”

She smiled for the first time. “Done. It shall be paid on our next meeting. Come again this time tomorrow.”

Ilya shook her hand, feeling sweaty.

He started turning around back to his horse, then paused. “Expenses also upfront.”

“Expenses?”

“I’ll need coin to rent a stagecoach.”

She reached into her purse. Ah, finally.

Next Part

#read the tags for mild spoilers #writing #my writing #fairy tale #kind of #original fairy tale #uhhhhh #historical fiction #salt and light #blahblahblah #plaaaaaaceeeholderrr #more just to put this under the cut #one more #etc blah blh blah #blahblah #captivity whump

[amorgansgal]

Maybe some mlm soft moments with Arthur Morgan for some pride month love? Gay cowboys I’m telling ya! (I love a lot of your writing btw!)

Maybe it could go like: Arthur purposely leaving camp for a while to hand pick his own flowers he thinks reader would like while reader is going around asking what they would get for Arthur? Just need some sweet cowboy loving 😭

Happy Pride Month! 🏳️‍🌈 I bashed this out when I was tipsy and a bit tired, so apologies for any typos. But thank you and yes, I've been thinking of doing some more mlm and wlw pairings to celebrate! Planning to do something with Molly, but who to put her with...? Anyway, hope you enjoy and thank you for being sweet and lovely!

Warnings: None, just a little heated kissing!

‘What the hell am I doin’?’ Arthur thinks to himself as he plucks up the long green stem, dotted with bright blueish, purple flowers and gathers it into the small bouquet of daisies, poppies and wisteria. He doesn’t know much about flowers and he’s not sure if you do either. He’s always appreciated them when riding through, enjoyed the way the Texas bluebonnets sway gently in the breeze and he gallops by on Thorn. The way the provide such colour and contrast against the dark green of the nearby woods and the slate grey of the mountains that loom in the distance.

On quiet days, he brings you to Little Creek River and admired you as you lay back on the soft grass, the flowers sending rippling shadows over your cheeks and mouth. You would kick of your boots, close your eyes and he relished seeing that soft, hidden smile on your lips. Arthur’s drawn you like that more times than he can count, but he can never quite capture the calm, peaceful look on your handsome face.

He briefly thinks about tossing the flowers. What the hell were you going to do with a bouquet of flowers? It weren’t like there were any vases or jugs you could put them into and doubtless Grimshaw would make a stink about using good, clean water for flowers. But he wanted to do something nice for you, something special. There wasn’t rhyme or reason, he just wanted to.

‘Because you love him, you fool!’ his brain muttered in response. Arthur scowled, then sighed and looked down at the messy garland. Maybe his mind had a point, maybe that was the truth of the matter. Maybe he was stupidly in love with you, but was too much of a coward to even tell you so.

~~~

‘Hey… uh… Hosea, what… if you were to get Arthur a present, what would you get him?’ You asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.

‘A present?’ Hosea folds his newspaper and places it down on the table. He looks at you keenly. ‘Arthur’s birthday isn’t until 30th July, you’ve got plenty of time. In any case, he isn’t much one for presents.’

‘Yeah, I figured.’ You sigh, sometimes it was difficult getting Arthur to even tell you if he was hungry or tired, let alone if he wanted or needed anything! For a dangerous, bad man, he was a surprisingly selfless one! Always putting the camp and everyone in it first, before himself. Maybe that is why you want to give him something, anything to show your appreciation of him.

Hosea glances at Dutch’s tent and gives you a small smile. ‘But I suppose if I was held at gunpoint and forced to get Arthur a present it would probably be… Hmm… Well he writes in his journal a fair bit-’

‘I’d already thought of that. Seems a bit of a cop out.’

‘You want to get him something more… meaningful?’ Hosea raises a brow and a keen stare. You suddenly become very interested in your hands, you feel that Hosea might already know about yours and Arthur’s relationship. You’ve yet to tell the rest of the camp about your relationship, but perhaps you should’ve known that nothing would get past Hosea.

‘Yeah, I guess.’

Hosea taps his fingers on the table and frowns, then smiles at you. ‘He’s a difficult one. But you know, I think if you get him something that you’ve put a lot of thought and heart into, he’ll love it either way. Why don’t you go into town and see if anything stands out to you?’

You nod. Hosea isn’t really helping much and you just feel that you will stand in the Valentine store scanning the shelves for an eternity, before buying something for Arthur’s horse! ‘Sure, thanks for your help, Hosea.’

He picks up his newspaper and gives you a quick wink and a smile, before resuming his reading. You scoop up your hat and pull on your jacket, then mount your horse and head out to Valentine.

~~~

You sigh as you leave the shop. You really aren’t sure on the gift you got, but maybe it’s best to follow Hosea’s advice. As long as your heart has gone into choosing the present, then hopefully Arthur will appreciate it, even if it’s not something he’s thought to buy himself before.

‘Oh!’

You look up and find Arthur standing by the steps leading up to the store. You come to such a sudden stop, that you almost trip down the stairs. Arthur puts out a hand that lands on your chest, to prevent you from tumbling down the steps and landing face first into the dust and dirt of the road. Even with that small touch, you feel a warm rush of affection flood through you. You wish you could jump into his arms and kiss him. Instead, you can only give him a fond smile and a surreptitious pat on his shoulder.

‘Hey there,’ – you glance around and grin, there’s no one around who could hear you – ‘handsome!’

Arthur’s cheeks immediately flame pink, he lowers his head and hides his bashful smile and bright eyes with the rim of his hat. ‘Hey there,’ – he coughs nervously – ‘Hey there, uh… you!’

You roll your eyes, but couldn’t love him more if you tried! ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Thought you were scoping out a coach in Strawberry?’

‘I was. It’s done now.’ He chuckles to himself. ‘Done pretty well, snuck around the back and managed to pick the lock as they were riding along. You’d think they were off on a day out to the beach, than carrying $500!’

‘Well, how about we get something from the saloon to celebrate then? My treat!’ You add quickly, so he won’t be tempted to insist on paying.

Arthur looks a little worried about the idea, he rubs the back of his neck and toes his boot into the dust near the steps. ‘Ah, I was actually wondering if we could go down to the river, go somewhere a bit more private… can still buy some food and drink if yer hungry.’

You happily nod. In fairness, you like the sound of that idea a good deal more than the same beef stew or lamb’s fry and watery beer. ‘Sounds good to me!’

~~~

Arthur takes another swig of the beer he brought and tries not to make it too obvious that he’s admiring your rear as you fish nearby. You’ve been standing there for nearly half an hour now, without much luck of anything nibbling. The only thing you’ve caught is a tiny bluegill, barely a mouthful.

‘C’mon,’ he mutters. ‘Yer may as well eat somethin’ decent. Don’ think yer goin’ to catch anythin’ before we’ll have to head back to camp soon.’

He gets the feeling that you may have used fishing as a way to avoid providing an answer as to what you were doing in town. You sigh and put away the fishing rod. Then stomp back over to Arthur. He chuckles on seeing the small frown on your face.

‘C’mon now handsome, ain’t no need to look so sore!’

‘Jus’ trying to prove myself a man.’

‘By catchin’ fish?’ Arthur asks.

You land on the blanket with a thud and slouch against a tree stump. You toss the fishing rod aside. ‘Yeah, guess we can’t all be gifted as ‘Arthur-Oh-I’m-shit-at-fishing-but-watch-me-land-this-huge-ass-bass-Morgan!’

Arthur laughs and passes a bottle of whiskey to you. ‘Huge ass bass?’

You try to keep your frown in place, but wind-up snorting with laughter as you take a gulp of the whiskey and cough fiercely. Arthur chuckles and pats you on the back. ‘Easy there. Yer don’ need to prove yerself as a man by catching fish!’ He grins mischievously. ‘Think I know of other ways yer can prove tha’.’

He nuzzles your neck and jaw, his large warm hand cupping your chin and his teeth nipping along the line of your neck, following up to your earlobe and making you shiver as he kisses and suckles it. You bite back a moan, but Arthur presses you down onto the blanket and you enjoy the weight and strength of him. He lifts himself up a bit to look at you and then kisses you, nipping at your lips, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and pulling you to him. His hand runs through your hair and you try not to whimper.

‘Thought I was meant to be eating something,’ you say, when you manage to get a quick gasp of air into your lungs.

‘We got time, sweetheart, ain’t no need to rush things!’ Arthur’s smug grin makes you slap his arm.

As he unbuttons your shirt and kisses down your chest, you happen to glance towards the river, where both your horses are tethered to a nearby tree. In one of Thorn’s saddle bags you can see a bright spray of flowers, wilting a little in the warm afternoon sun. You shoot upright without much warning and Arthur tumbles off you.

‘Jesus! Could give a man a little warnin’ if yer goin’ to do that!’ he grumbles, then spots where your gaze lies. ‘Ah! Oh! Shit!’ he mutters, then runs over to his horse and pulls the flowers out. He looks a little embarrassed and flustered by their wilted appearance.

‘Dammit,’ he says, then cautiously presents the flowers to you. ‘Sorry, they were much nicer when I first got ‘em… but guess I got distracted when I saw you in town and… shit… I ain’t much good at this and if yer don’ want ‘em, it’s fine, just thought…’

You get to your feet, tenderly cup Arthur’s face and kiss him gently. He still wears his worried expression when you’re done trying to express how much you love this soft, daft man. ‘Arthur, they’re wonderful. I’ve never had anyone get me flowers before.’

‘Well… yeah… sorry, should’ve done better-’

You place your thumb over his lips so he can’t talk. ‘Stop it. They’re lovely and I’m grateful for them.’ You feel like your heart might explode and smile giddily. ‘Thank you.’ You take the bouquet from him.

You figure this might be the best time to give him his own gift and reach into your bag. ‘I… I wasn’t sure what to get you, so I-’

‘Yer got me a gift? Why? I don’ need anythin’!’

You laugh. ‘Yeah, I know. But I wanted to give you something because you’re a good, kind man Arthur Morgan.’

‘Now we both know I ain’t-’

You dig out the small wooden box before he can have a chance to even go down that avenue of thought. ‘It’s not really… well I don’t know if you’ll even like it, but if you don’t, I can take it back.’

He very slowly and tentatively opens the book. He frowns a little on seeing the small palette of paints and thin brush.

‘I know you like pencil and I just thought maybe you’d like to give a go, they’re watercolours. My sister used to paint with ‘em and I just thought you might like them and we always go to that place with all the blue purpley flowers and I think they might look good and you’re a talented artist, so-’ you witter on, until Arthur kisses you and you melt happily into the kiss.

‘Thank you,’ he rumbles and tucks you close against him. You glance up and see his affectionate smile, that secret loving one he keeps just for you and your heart races as he murmurs, ‘I love you.’

#you are both cute and useless #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x m!reader #arthur morgan x m reader #arthur morgan x male reader #arthur morgan x m/reader #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #happy pride month #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x y/n

[wonderlandleighleigh]

(Based on the Paul McCartney and Elvis Costello version My Brave Face.)

He drives her off pretty handily about six months into their relationship, and you know what?

Fine.

That’s fucking fine. It frees him up to actually live his life and not be tied to her ever-growing schedule of work and family, and that’s

Fine.

He gets to hang out with his friends me. Party a little more.

He resists the urge to party too hard. Whether he has Midge or not, he needs to stay off the dope so he can actually function. Helps to keep him out of jail, too.

But it’s good.

It is.

It’s good.

It’s not.

It’s not good.

It actually stinks.

It stinks not having Midge anymore, and he finds himself missing everything about her about a week into their break-up. Finds himself burying his face in the pillow she used most often at his place. Finds himself cooking for two people instead of just one.

It’s almost annoying how much he misses her laugh and her voice and her smile and the way she’d bump his hip as they did the dishes together.

And he tries to figure out how to fix it, you know? Flowers. Jewelry. Something.

He settles on a note. Simple. To the point. Sincere.

Dear Midge

Midge

Dear Upper West Side

Miriam

Fuck.

Okay, so for all of Lenny’s talent with words, he’s truly bad at this. I mean, he’s never done it before. Never written out a full list of crimes and apologies. Turns out it’s not as simple as set up and punchline.

He starts there.

Midge -

It turns out that writing a heartfelt, deeply personal apology is not something I’m practiced at. So this will probably not be up to my - or your - standards, but here goes.

I hate that I made you cry.

I hate that I drove you off.

I’m sorry.

I truly am. I feel like the worst kind of villain: a cowardly one. And I know that asking you for a second chance is presumptuous and insane because who in their right mind would give a second chance to the man that told her she’s the reason his life is dull and boring? That the path we were on wasn’t worth pursuing?

The very idea that my life is dull and boring is a cracked one, and I regret ever letting it get hold of me.

Things are just.

Different.

It’s different and that’s scary because as I said before, I am a coward, and change can be nerve-wracking to a complete and utter nut like me.

No, that’s a cop-out of a reason.

The real reason it’s so scary is that it’s real. Cooking meals together. Hanging out with the kids. Doing the dishes. Movie dates. Holiday dinners.

It’s so real.

And I don’t know that I’ve ever been that real with anyone before. My first marriage was all noise. A cacophony of bad behavior, and I think I got used to it. That felt like normal. So being with someone who just wants to work on her act or flip through fashion magazines while I read my own books quietly next to her feels

Scary.

But this week made me realize that the absence of you is much, much more frightening.

Can I take you to dinner tomorrow night?

-Lenny

 He leaves it in her mailbox the next morning, unnoticed, wandering off back to the Village, and waits.

#fic #au #tmmm #Midge x Lenny #just some song fic #Ever since you left I have been trying to compose a baby will you please come home note meant for you #As I clear away another untouched tv dinner on the table I laid for two

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ASOS: Jon X (Chapter 73)

Bastard children were born from lust and lies, men said; their nature was wanton and treacherous. 

This again. Can't remember a time Jon was ever lusty or wanton. That's certainly not why the Ygritte ordeal started, and he seems more than capable of resisting Val and Melisandre.

+.+.+

Once Jon had meant to prove them wrong, to show his lord father that he could be as good and true a son as Robb. I made a botch of that. Robb had become a hero king; if Jon was remembered at all, it would be as a turncloak, an oathbreaker, and a murderer. He was glad that Lord Eddard was not alive to see his shame.

Be thankful he's not alive to witness another shame.

+.+.+

I should have stayed in that cave with Ygritte. If there was a life beyond this one, he hoped to tell her that. She will claw my face the way the eagle did, and curse me for a coward, but I'll tell her all the same.

We already made the connection, but is that the first direct comparison between Ygritte and the eagle?

Interesting he would put that in this chapter.

+.+.+

"That old maester says I cannot hang you," Slynt declared. "He has written Cotter Pyke, and even had the bloody gall to show me the letter. He says you are no turncloak."

"Aemon's lived too long, my lord," Ser Alliser assured him. "His wits have gone dark as his eyes."

"Aye," Slynt said. "A blind man with a chain about his neck, who does he think he is?"

Aemon Targaryen, Jon thought, a king's son and a king's brother and a king who might have been. But he said nothing.

+.+.+

"No need for that, my lord," said Ser Alliser. "Lord Snow will do as we ask. He wants to show us that he is no turncloak. He wants to prove himself a loyal man of the Night's Watch."

Thorne was much the more clever of the two, Jon realized; this had his stink all over it. He was trapped. "I'll go," he said in a clipped, curt voice.

Alliser Thorne, who is supposedly against favoritism in the Night's Watch, is licking the boots of newly arrived member Janos Slynt, and calling him lord.

+.+.+

"We're not sending you to talk with Mance Rayder," Ser Alliser said. "We're sending you to kill him."

The wind whistled through the bars, and Jon Snow shivered. 

Bran?

+.+.+

A raven was pulling out bits of brain from the giant's shattered skull. It looked up as he walked by. "Snow," it screamed at him. "Snow, snow." Then it opened its wings and flew away.

BRAN?!

+.+.+

But as the distance between them diminished Jon saw that the horseman was short and broad, with gold rings glinting on thick arms and a white beard spreading out across his massive chest.

We're reminded of Tormund's gold rings in this chapter.

+.+.+

"You fought us hard here." Tormund turned his garron back toward the wildling camp. "You and your brothers. I give you that. Two hundred dead, and a dozen giants. Mag himself went in that gate o' yours and never did come out."

"He died on the sword of a brave man named Donal Noye."

"Aye? Some great lord was he, this Donal Noye? One of your shiny knights in their steel smallclothes?"

"A blacksmith. He only had one arm."

"A one-armed smith slew Mag the Mighty? Har! That must o' been a fight to see. Mance will make a song of it, see if he don't." 

Would any other brave one-armed men be willing to attempt such a great feat against such an enormous foe?

Not speculating, only daydreaming of the possibilities.

+.+.+

"To Donal Noye, and Mag the Mighty." The skin was full of mead, but a mead so potent that it made Jon's eyes water and sent tendrils of fire snaking through his chest. After the ice cell and the cold ride down in the cage, the warmth was welcome.

Careful.

+.+.+

"She's dead."

"Aye?" Tormund gave a sad shake of the head. "A waste. If I'd been ten years younger, I'd have stolen her meself. That hair she had. Well, the hottest fires burn out quickest." He lifted the skin of mead. "To Ygritte, kissed by fire!" He drank deep.

"To Ygritte, kissed by fire," Jon repeated when Tormund handed him back the skin. He drank even deeper.

Lmao.

A toast to Ygritte, the girl with the red hair, who was kissed by Jon.

Just kidding! Burn in hell, witch.

+.+.+

"That Longspear stole me daughter. Munda, me little autumn apple. Took her right out o' my tent with all four o' her brothers about. Toregg slept through it, the great lout, and Torwynd . . . well, Torwynd the Tame, that says all that needs saying, don't it? The young ones gave the lad a fight, though."

"And Munda?" asked Jon.

"She's my own blood," said Tormund proudly. "She broke his lip for him and bit one ear half off, and I hear he's got so many scratches on his back he can't wear a cloak. She likes him well enough, though. And why not? He don't fight with no spear, you know. Never has. So where do you think he got that name? Har!"

Is this about Lyanna or something?

+.+.+

Jon had to laugh. Even now, even here. Ygritte had been fond of Longspear Ryk. He hoped he found some joy with Tormund's Munda. Someone needed to find some joy somewhere.

@agentrouka-blog with the nice catch!

It was so sweet and silly that Sansa had to laugh, despite everything. Afterward she was absurdly grateful. Somehow the laughter made her hopeful again, if only for a little while. - Sansa III, ASOS

+.+.+

"You know nothing, Jon Snow," Ygritte would have told him. I know that I am going to die, he thought. I know that much, at least. "All men die," he could almost hear her say, "and women too, and every beast that flies or swims or runs. It's not the when o' dying that matters, it's the how of it, Jon Snow."

When you don't have to work for it.

Thanks George.

+.+.+

Easy for you to say, he thought back. You died brave in battle, storming the castle of a foe. I'm going to die a turncloak and a killer. Nor would his death be quick, unless it came on the end of Mance's sword.

No lies detected. He won't die in a battle, and it won't be a quick death. We're counting on that last part.

+.+.+

"Kill him," urged Harma. "Send his body back up in that cage o' theirs and tell them to send us someone else. I'll keep his head for my standard. A turncloak's worse than a dog."

Here comes poetic justice.

+.+.+

"Once a horse is broken to the saddle, any man can mount him," he said in a soft voice. "Once a beast's been joined to a man, any skinchanger can slip inside and ride him. Orell was withering inside his feathers, so I took the eagle for my own. But the joining works both ways, warg. Orell lives inside me now, whispering how much he hates you. And I can soar above the Wall, and see with eagle eyes."

Using horse and mount seems noteworthy.

+.+.+

It was warm within. A small fire burned beneath the smoke holes, and a brazier smouldered near the pile of furs where Dalla lay, pale and sweating. Her sister was holding her hand. Val, Jon remembered. "I was sorry when Jarl fell," he told her.

Val looked at him with pale grey eyes. "He always climbed too fast." 

Hang on, is someone talking? I think I hear something, but I don't see any interesting fleshed out characters anywhere.

+.+.+

She was as fair as he'd remembered, slender, full-breasted, graceful even at rest, with high sharp cheekbones and a thick braid of honey-colored hair that fell to her waist.

It's giving stopgap. It's giving placeholder. It's giving fill-in. It's giving second-string bench warmer. It's giving understudy. It's giving Sunday leftovers. It's giving dollar store variety. It's giving budget DIY basement reno. It's giving often duplicated, never replicated. It's giving temporary road closure, construction ahead, please use shoddy detour.

Worse, she was beautiful.

"Your bosom will be as lovely as the queen's,"

Sansa had gotten their mother's fine high cheekbones

I had heard that Lord Littlefinger's daughter was fair of face and full of grace

"OH, SWEET SHE WAS, AND PURE, AND FAIR! THE MAID WITH HONEY IN HER HAIR!"

"You will love Highgarden as I do, I know it." Margaery brushed back a loose strand of her hair. 

Too bad this wet floor sign has pale grey eyes instead of blue.

Her breath was white as well … but her eyes were blue, her long braid the color of dark honey, her cheeks flushed red from the cold. - Jon XI, ADWD

Whoops, never mind.

+.+.+

Jon kept his face as still as ice. Foul enough to slay a man in his own tent under truce. Must I murder him in front of his wife as their child is being born? 

Stannis can't go one second without trying to ambush a king in a tent.

+.+.+

He closed the fingers of his sword hand. Mance was not wearing armor, but his own sword was sheathed on his left hip. And there were other weapons in the tent, daggers and dirks, a bow and a quiver of arrows, a bronze-headed spear lying beside that big black . . .

. . . horn.

Jon sucked in his breath.

A warhorn, a bloody great warhorn.

"Yes," Mance said. "The Horn of Winter, that Joramun once blew to wake giants from the earth."

The horn was huge, eight feet along the curve and so wide at the mouth that he could have put his arm inside up to the elbow. If this came from an aurochs, it was the biggest that ever lived. At first he thought the bands around it were bronze, but when he moved closer he realized they were gold. Old gold, more brown than yellow, and graven with runes.

Weaponized ellipsis! I won't fall for it.

Gold bands with runes!

+.+.+

Jon faced him. "If you've had the Horn of Joramun all along, why haven't you used it? Why bother building turtles and sending Thenns to kill us in our beds? If this horn is all the songs say, why not just sound it and be done?"

It was Dalla who answered him, Dalla great with child, lying on her pile of furs beside the brazier. "We free folk know things you kneelers have forgotten. Sometimes the short road is not the safest, Jon Snow. The Horned Lord once said that sorcery is a sword without a hilt. There is no safe way to grasp it."

Take a lesson, Bran. The man who trusts in spells is dueling with a glass sword - Bran VII, AGOT

x

"A wise woman." Melisandre rose, her red robes stirring in the wind. "A sword without a hilt is still a sword, though, and a sword is a fine thing to have when foes are all about. - Jon VI, ADWD

Gosh, it's so hard, who do we believe? Maester Luwin and Dalla or a crazy person?

+.+.+

"Why don't you, then?" Jon could have drawn Longclaw then, but he wanted to hear what the wildling had to say.

"Blood," said Mance Rayder. "I'd win in the end, yes, but you'd bleed me, and my people have bled enough."

Mance Rayder passing the vibe check.

I still don't know what to make of him though.

+.+.+

"But once the Wall is fallen," Dalla said, "what will stop the Others?"

A Dothraki army in snow?

+.+.+

Open the gate and let them pass. Easy to say, but what must follow? Giants camping in the ruins of Winterfell? Cannibals in the wolfswood, chariots sweeping across the barrowlands, free folk stealing the daughters of shipwrights and silversmiths from White Harbor and fishwives off the Stony Shore? "Are you a true king?" Jon asked suddenly.

[...]

"You can kill your enemies," Jon said bluntly, "but can you rule your friends? If we let your people pass, are you strong enough to make them keep the king's peace and obey the laws?"

"Whose laws? The laws of Winterfell and King's Landing?" Mance laughed. "When we want laws we'll make our own. You can keep your king's justice too, and your king's taxes. I'm offering you the horn, not our freedom. We will not kneel to you."

Doesn't work like that, Mance. You have to give up something to get something.

+.+.+

I am my own champion, my own fool, and my own harpist.

How fun.

+.+.+

"If you refuse," Mance Rayder said, "Tormund Giantsbane will sound the Horn of Winter three days hence, at dawn."

It's Tormund who sounds the horn? Why not Mance? :)

+.+.+

Harma thundered past before Mance could reply, riding at the head of thirty raiders. Her standard went before her; a dead dog impaled on a spear, raining blood at every stride. 

I can hear the soft whisper of a poem starting.

+.+.+

"Might be you're telling it true," he said. "Those look like Eastwatch men. Sailors on horses. Cotter Pyke always had more guts than sense. He took the Lord of Bones at Long Barrow, he might have thought to do the same with me. If so, he's a fool. He doesn't have the men, he—"

"Mance!" the shout came. It was a scout, bursting from the trees on a lathered horse. "Mance, there's more, they're all around us, iron men, iron, a host of iron men."

I think he's trying to make it seem like it's the ironborn coming, but I was too busy laughing at sailors on horses to appreciate the effort.

Moving forward I will be calling the Dothraki that.

+.+.+

Mance donned his helm with its raven wings.

A helm with raven wings? What is that about?

+.+.+

Then the skinchanger threw back his head and screamed.

The sound was shocking, ear-piercing, thick with agony. Varamyr fell, writhing, and the 'cat was screaming too . . . and high, high in the eastern sky, against the wall of cloud, Jon saw the eagle burning. For a heartbeat it flamed brighter than a star, wreathed in red and gold and orange, its wings beating wildly at the air as if it could fly from the pain. Higher it flew, and higher, and higher still.

Ygritte, Daenerys... love it either way.

I'm sorry a bird had to die for my enjoyment.

+.+.+

The scream brought Val out of the tent, white-faced. "What is it, what's happened?" 

Did someone just say Shireen should die? What the hell?

+.+.+

"The birth!" Val was shouting at him.

A queen is in labour! Blood inside and outside the tent! Where's the king??

+.+.+

A blaze of banners flew above them. The wind was whipping them too wildly for Jon to see the sigils, but he glimpsed a seahorse, a field of birds, a ring of flowers. And yellow, so much yellow, yellow banners with a red device, whose arms were those?

It took me until now to register that the Florent sigil features a ring of blue flowers. Whatever that means.

+.+.+

The King-beyond-the-Wall was waiting outside, his ragged red-and-black cloak blowing in the wind. 

x

The free folk still had the numbers, but the attackers had steel armor and heavy horses. In the thickest part of the fray, Jon saw Mance standing tall in his stirrups. His red-and-black cloak and raven-winged helm made him easy to pick out. 

Oh yeah, the gifted red-and-black cloak that convinced him to desert the Night's Watch. Goes perfect with those atrocious red-and-black swords.

Too bad we don't do red-and-black in these parts.

Give us a proper cloak, Sansa. No rubies.

+.+.+

It's done, Jon thought, they're breaking. The wildlings were running, throwing down their weapons, Hornfoot men and cave dwellers and Thenns in bronze scales, they were running. Mance was gone, someone was waving Harma's head on a pole

The author remembers.

+.+.+

Tormund's lines had broken. Only the giants on their mammoths were holding, hairy islands in a red steel sea. 

Everybody clap!

+.+.+

The fires were leaping from tent to tent and some of the tall pines were going up as well. 

Stannis can't go one second without burning a tree.

+.+.+

Robert, Jon thought for one mad moment, remembering poor Owen, but when the trumpets blew again and the knights charged, the name they cried was "Stannis! Stannis! STANNIS!"

Jon turned away, and went inside the tent.

Perfect reaction to Stannis Baratheon showing up anywhere.

Final thoughts:

The endgame ship has finally arrived, y'all!

Experience the drama, angst, and conflict. Be captivated by these complex, multi-layered characterizations. Feel the power of storytelling at its finest.

-> return to menu <-

#operation stumpy re-read #asos #jon x #summer of shitting on val

[theburningsunset]

my adhd can't chill tf down enough to sleep so may i present this (uhhh spoilers for new-who):

Everything in Doctor Who that ought to be fixed and why:

Any time the doctor shows racism, queerphobia, sexism, ableism, classism, etc. Unless a specific prejudice of Gallifreyan society exists, it would never make sense for the Doctor to be bigoted, even the one from the '60s

Related: when Thirteen breaks the Master's perception filter so the nazis would see he's a man of color and thus endanger him—the Doctor would never.

Completely abandon former companions. Maybe some, maybe originally, but even 2000 years of lessons learned later? The Doctor is a good man, abandonment is too inconsistent with his characterization to be a reoccurring, unchallenged trait.

Wiping Donna's memory. Cruel, erased her character arc and was not a fulfilling or meaningful end. Either kill her or have her decide to retire.

The convoluted reason the Ponds were stuck in 1939 New York. C'mon, if I tried for five seconds I could come up with a sensical reason why the Doctor never saw them and they were stuck. Or just don't make them stuck 🤷🏼‍♀️ maybe they decide to adopt and retire to avoid danger to the kid but the Doctor and River still regularly visit.

The "War Doctor". Showrunners confirmed this only existed because Christopher Eccleston refused to come back for the 50th Special (no shade to his choice). It might've backfired or seemed disrespectful of Chris's performance, but they should've simply recast Nine for it.

Just throw out Kill the Moon, it was bad writing, the heavy-handed abortion allegory was exhausting and weird (regardless of intentionality) and I don't usually cry "but the science!" but...the moon being gone, even if soon after it replaced itself, would cause apocalyptic destruction on Earth and possibly wipe out humanity. The primary salvageable bit that I think is integral is the Twelve/Clara fight at the end.

Danny Pink either doesn't die or doesn't stay dead. The paradox it would cause for him to die before him and Clara have kids when her and Twelve have MET those descendants and been on two separate adventures down that family line is irreconcilable. Full stop.

Bill doesn't die. The end. (Do NOT bury your fucking gays)

Don't have Graham be the last white seat on the Rosa episode, for fucking christ's sake. Plus where the fuck is at least the mention of Claudette Colvin?

Fourteen regenerates into Thirteen's clothes, following well-established rules of regeneration (BBC were cowards for breaking that just to sidestep having David Tennant "crossdress")

Headcanon bits that aren't necessarily tied to quality/consistent writing but I think would've been great:

The Doctor does find Melody. Maybe only by age six or so, if wanting to keep the Silence story intact, but rework Let's Kill Hitler to avoid the Mel situation. It makes me sad that they never got their baby back. She can still turn out to be River, maybe the regen into River only happened post season-six, keeping the reveal. Maybe Melody was eventually re-kidnapped by the Silence and then turned into River Song, or maybe Melody was always a kind of troubled trouble-maker and took on the River Song alias on her own.

Thirteen and Yaz absolutely get together.

keep in mind I haven't finished Thirteen's run (the stink of neolib BS from the Rosa Parks episode tanked my interest in keeping up until Chibnall fucked off), haven't seen the 60th Special yet, still have 20-something seasons of Classic Who to go, and don't remember everything I have seen, nor am I always right. I think on re-watch I'd find more issues but for now it's the list I've got that exactly zero (0) people asked for.

#doctor who #my writer brain refuses to let go of any of these grudges #maybe now ill finally be able to fucking get some goddamn sleep

[ivarthebadbitch]

Your Hell or mine

(a little post 1x8 surprise for @chocolatecheesecake, thanks for indulging me)

Her enemy has finally chosen to reveal himself. In truth, Freydis Eriksdotter has felt his eyes on her ever since fleeing Kattegat, mile after lonely mile, but he has waited until the sun has already sunk below the horizon and she and Harald finally stopped make camp for the night—she might have risked continuing a little further, but Harald was in no condition to do so. He had let her peel away the layers of bloodstained bandages to inspect her clumsy stitches, and when she was done she replaced the bandages and informed him that she would take the first watch. He sank to the ground and he was asleep within minutes.

Now an icy wind whips through the trees and she suppresses a shiver. The days are growing short, and even the small campfire provides scant warmth. She misses the comforts she had in Kattegat, a bed lined with thick furs, fresh hot bread in the mornings, scented baths in a big copper tub. It made her soft, she thinks. It weakened her in some way. But she has learned her lesson and learned it well. She can thank him for that.

“Show yourself,” Freydis says to the darkness. She does not need to look up to know that he is here. She slides herself carefully in front of Harald, who does not stir, and tightens her grip on her dagger, though against this enemy it will do her no good. She does not need to look. She looks anyway.

“He will leave you,” Jarl Kare says. He sits cross legged on the ground across from her with his hood drawn over his head. His eyes are black with malice. “He says he loves you, he may even believe it, but one day you will open your eyes and find he has left you without even looking back. You will see.”

“Dead man, do not speak,” she warns him. “You tell only lies.”

He raises his eyebrows. “I tell you the truths you are afraid to hear.”

“What, then, have you come to tell me?” she demands. “Say what you must say and leave me in peace. Go back to your Christian Hell, as that is where you belong.”

His stillness unsettles her. He does not look away, he does not blink. “When I was about your age, I killed a man,” he says. “A stranger, a pagan; he was working alone in his fields. It was my first time. It was natural, like breathing. I sat there for a while with his blood on my hands and prayed to God and He cleansed me. You know this feeling, as you are like me.”

She glowers at him from across the campfire. There is a trickle of dark blood seeping from the long cut along his neck. His blood still stains her hair and her armor. She stinks of him. Before she left Greenland, she had never killed a man. Now she has killed many. She had once thought it would be a difficult thing, to kill a man—but when she sank her blade into the chest of the man who raped her, or squeezed the breath out of the man who attacked her friends, or struck Kare’s head from his neck with a single blow—she had not hesitated, nor felt a shred of remorse afterwards. Some part of her had not wanted to stop.

(She is her father’s child, more than Leif, and she always has been: her father’s daughter, her father’s monster. She carries him with her wherever she goes, as surely as she carries the scar on her back.)

“I am nothing like you,” she snarls. “You slaughtered innocents, as only cowards do. The people and the priests at Uppsala were living there peacefully. They had done you no harm.”

He laughs. It is an ugly sound. “Done no harm?” he repeats. “How little you know of the world. How little you understand.”

“I understand you well enough!”

Kare chuckles. “One day, you will. We will meet again in Hell, yours or mine, and then you will see. Your time will come.”

Behind her, Harald stirs in his sleep and lets out a small moan. She glances at him and forces herself to unclench her jaw. When she looks back, her enemy is gone; no trace of him remains.

“Freydis?” Harald murmurs tiredly. “Is it my turn to take the watch?”

She reaches out and runs her hand along his beard. His skin is burning with fever. “No,” she tells him. “Sleep for a while longer.”

He lets out a soft groan and obediently closes his eyes. “Was someone there?” he mumbles.

“Only a dead man whose time has come.”

Freydis holds her hands out in front of the dying campfire and waits. Kare does not return: his headless corpse rots quietly in Kattegat. Tomorrow she and Harald must rise early and ride hard again. Tomorrow she must plan her revenge. The wind whistles through the leaves; the birds are silent in the branches overhead. If the gods are in this place, she cannot feel them. After a little while, she pulls her cloak around herself, stamps out the fire, and leaves them all in the dark.

#vikings valhalla #freydis eriksdotter #jarl kare #harald sigurdsson #fanfiction

[readtilyoudie]

Robin squeezed his fingers, feeling their strength, their urgent grip. “I don’t know who persuaded you to feel undesirable. I do know that you can tell a lot about people by what they attack you with.”

“How do you mean?”

“I have noticed that when people want to hurt someone very much, they often reach for the thing that would hurt themselves most deeply. Someone who calls other people cowards is probably terrified of being found out as one, do you see? People who lash out at others for low morals are usually stinking cesspits inside.”

“You say that with feeling.”

“Experience. And someone who might tell a good man who cared for them that he was unlovable or repulsive—I wouldn’t want to be that person,” Robin said. “I think that person might have a pretty face, but they’d have very little else to boast of, and I suspect that deep down they’d know it. Beauty is all very well, but if the best thing you can say about yourself is that you have a pleasing arrangement of features, that’s a sorry state of affairs.”

“You have a pleasing arrangement of features,” Hart observed.

“I do, yes, which is how I know exactly what that’s worth."

The Gentle Art of Fortune Hunting by K.J. Charles

#the gentle art of fortune hunting #kj charles #historical romance #queer

[grimm-rider]

Entry 3

Our first day in Whitethrone was eventful as hell. There was a little bit of everything. Intrigue, an underground rebellion, an incredibly attractive woman, Aenland almost getting an entire parade of enemies chasing after us, forged documents, an opera, and…learning some more things about my lost time…

Anyways one thing at a time.

We arrived at the Fish Camp. A lovely little place that served as the stinking cesspool of slums for Whitethrone. I managed to pull a gentleman aside and got some information that Nadya’s uncle Ringeirr had been taken by some thugs who called themselves the Fish Camp Guard. Just a bunch of bandits who force people to pay them protection money to not be harassed.

Quite frankly Rohkar and his men were more intimidating than this lot. And Rohkar and his men weren’t terribly intimidating at the end of the day so…take from that what you will.

We heard a commotion and stopped some of the Fish Guard from harassing some guy. We kept two alive, but killed the other two. There wasn’t really a point in keeping more than one alive, we just needed one alive to question about the location of their boss.

We were pointed in the direction of a large building with the words “guardhouse” painted on it—poorly. The windows were boarded up and there was only one door. So Nestian decided to knock.

Because why wouldn’t he?

An ogre called back in giant, which none of us spoke. Then the door swung open and one of the thug’s ogre guards attacked Nestian. Aenland followed the ogre’s attack up with three arrows—and the ogre fell over, completely dead.

The thug boss appeared from invisibility, sobbing and begging for mercy—while stabbing Nestian. Because that’s the best way to get mercy. Stabbing the person you want mercy from.

I stepped into the room and Boneshakered the pathetic coward. He whined that this wasn’t mercy at all. I told him he should have thought about that before he stabbed my bear companion. And besides, I’m not the merciful one in this group. He just whimpered like the pathetic creature he was in return.

Edeya sent Snezhinka to bite the man, but he managed to dodge. The fox growled and negative energy dripped from her mouth.

I enjoy that murderous little fox.

A second ogre barreled into the room, yelling out his dead companion’s name.

Unfortunately I was directly in his line of sight, and ended up on the receiving end of his hook, despite Nestian’s best attempt to shield me. I feel like I’ve gotten hardier since I first woke up—that sort of blow probably would have done me in a week ago, but this time around I took two hits from the ogre’s hook and was still standing for long enough to see Nestian take the ogre down. At the same time Aenland took care of Mr ‘have mercy’.

Nadya freed her uncle from the back room. He helped us to disable a trap from the thugs’ lock box. Well…disable in a manner of speaking. More like set off while trying to disable it, and then laughing it off when he got shot by a poisonous dart.

Ringeirr invited us back to his place so we could plan in peace. Back at his hut, we discussed what we intended to do. He was going to lead us through a district called The Howlings, to a forger he knew who would write up papers for us to walk through the city undetected. The biggest problem was that in order to enter the Howlings, they were going to check for our papers. The good news was, the Winter Wolves checking for papers at the Howlings gate were a lot more likely to take a bribe and look the other way than the Winter Witches at the main gate.

So I asked the obvious question. Would they be more likely to let one of their own in with no questions asked? Ringeirr said yes, but you’d need a Rimepelt to do that. So I showed off the Rimepelt, which we’d renegotiated me holding onto because I’d had a feeling it might be useful for getting in the front gate. I thought it would be a good idea if I pretended to be a Winter Wolf and Edeya pretended to be a White Witch, and everyone else was our guest or slave. Most everyone decided they wanted papers for the upper crust—guests and nobility. Certainly, I was going that route when not disguised as a Winter Wolf. They could openly carry weapons and could get away with more. Nestian was the only one who didn’t feel comfortable claiming to be upper class, and said he was going to get papers that claimed himself as a slave. He felt he would be less conspicuous that way.

With everything decided, we made our way to the gates of Whitethrone. As he approached, I activated the Rimepelt.

I expected to become a giant white wolf. Instead, my skin became a healthier fair skintone, my hair became silver, and my eyes became a pale…blue? Blue according to Ringeirr. Looks about white to me so I’ll take his word for it.

Anyways, apparently this is what all Winter Wolves in Whitethrone look like, unless they choose not to. Winter Wolves are apparently terribly, unbearably, jealous of humans and our opposable thumbs, and how we can use them to do things like open doors, and cast spells, and open jars.

Honestly, if I couldn’t do all those things, I’d probably be pretty jealous of people who could, too.

Unfortunately for Winter Wolves, they can only become human in two places: The Howlings, and Redfang. Baba Yaga gave them that ability in these two spots. Everywhere else they’re pretty similar to other wargs, except giant and white and able to create cold from their breath.

But for now do you know what that meant?

It meant I got to be beautiful again for a while.

It wasn’t quite the same as getting my original looks back, but it was a very acceptable substitute. White hair isn’t a bad look.

No…not a bad look at all…

Speaking of which, we came to the gate. There were two Winter Wolves guarding the gate. Only one matters to this journal though. Greta. She’s the one who stopped us to ask for our papers. I told her that I needed to get my friends through. Winter Wolf business.

Greta said that normally she’d be all for turning a blind eye to us coming in, but there was a big parade today and all. She needed a little something more to convince her. I went to slip some gold into her hand. She stopped me, placing her hand on mine, and saying I should keep the gold and use it to buy her a drink at the tavern.

To say I was intrigued was an understatement.

I hadn’t had a man or woman look at me like that since I lost my good looks. And Greta is quite the looker herself. Like…damn.

I know, I know, some people would have some things to say about the fact she’s a wolf in human form. Know what I have to say to them? No one makes a big deal about people fucking dragons in human form. They’re just big intelligent lizards who can become human. What’s the difference?

Anyways I took her up on the offer. Greta told her coworker she was going on break, and said she could guide us through the city. And off we went.

It wasn’t terribly far in that we got jumped by a pack of…terribly unintelligent ice goblins thugs called the Back-Alley Boys. They tried to mug us, before I pointed out that they’d chosen really poor targets. They registered that they appeared to have targeted two Winter Wolves and a White Witch, and immediately apologized and danced their way back into their hiding spot.

Greta was happy that they didn’t bite her ankles this time. Apparently there’s some history there.

Not long afterwards we had our second encounter—a Mirror Man. Edeya identified it, after getting over her sudden case of the shakes. She told us that it could record a minute of what it saw and so long as its mirror was intact it could bring it back to its master. It could instantly send a message to its master. And like all expensive scrying mirrors, there was the chance its Winter Witch master would just pop up on the mirror to take a peek out of its non-existent eyes. The Mirror Men wandered the streets silently demanding to see people’s papers—and taking people away who didn’t comply. And this one was coming towards us with purpose. We decided there was only one course of action we could take—Nestian needed to break the mirror in a single swing.

Our bear companion (although he was currently in human form to not draw attention) did as much, and then we hid the Mirror Man corpse in the fish cart Ringeirr had brought along with us. Greta seemed to find the entire situation amusing more than anything. Thankfully she doesn’t seem to bear any particular loyalty towards the White Witches or the queen.

It didn’t take much longer to reach Denya’s Dive, a hole in the wall bar where Ringeirr stopped to make his deliveries—both illicit and the literal fish. He stashed the Mirror Man in Denya’s basement.

The rest of us went inside the establishment and met Denya Donovan. I immediately recognized the name as the name of Domonik Donovan’s father—the father of the boy who had been murdered by Vasillanova and turned into a guardian doll, and from the looks on the others’ faces so did they.

Nestian ended up writing him a letter to open later—but after I asked a question that happened to lead into him talking about how his son got taken away in the first place, Nestian told him he should open the letter now. It seemed to bring some closure, and reignited the man’s hatred for Vasillanova—and perhaps eventually his will to act on it.

I spent much of the time before this happened chatting with Greta. Apparently, she frequented this bar often, and Denya knew to bring us both an excellent spiced wine. We talked, laughed, had a general good time. She’s clever, and fun, very attractive, and a bit dangerous. I definitely enjoyed our time together.

After Ringeirr came back, we discussed our plans for what was next. We would be making our way to the opposite side of the Howlings to meet with Ringeirr’s forger friend to get fake papers made, then after that we would be going to a place called the Water Palace to enter a hidden tunnel into the sewers to meet the Milani rebellion—the Heralds of Summer’s Return.

Greta was surprisingly chill about all of this illegal talk right in front of her, and I was rather surprised that everyone just started talking about it without even trying to distract her (I’d have gladly found a way to distract her, even if it meant I’d have to get caught up with the plan myself later). Still, it all worked out, her stance on it was basically so long as she didn’t get dragged into anything she didn’t care. And it kind of seemed like even if she did get dragged into something she didn’t really care, really. She was a bit apathetic towards the entire situation—which, honestly, I don’t blame her, to her it was probably all just work and political bullshit.

It was just after we finished arguing about Denya not being willing to make bombs anymore because of his history with his son being taken away because of his past illicit bomb making activities, that we heard distant singing in giant. It grew closer, and as we looked out the window we saw a parade of ogres, winter wolves, and mirror men leading a carriage pulled by two snowy white steeds.

They turned a corner, and suddenly stopped as an old woman began slowly crossing the streets. Chaos erupted as the ogres approached in confusion. They looked between the old woman and the carriage with uncertainty. I watched the carriage—just in time to see the door swing open and two women emerge. One was an unfamiliar face identified to me as Bella Belvorica, a Chelish opera singer of some renown. The other was far more familiar. We’d seen ice statues of her at the Pale Tower.

Nazhena Vasillanova in the flesh stepped from the carriage.

Aenland immediately did the most Aenland thing and decided he had to play hero. He couldn’t just let things play out as they were going to, even though the odds were impossible. He couldn’t wait for things to clear up a little and come out afterwards. Oh no. He had to climb up onto the roof, and watch from a sniper’s position as Vasillanova argued with the old woman.

The old woman believed herself untouchable because she was Jadwiga. Not even Vasillanova would dare kill a Jadwiga. She even went so far as to prod the Winter Witch with her cane.

Vasillanova formed an ice sickle, placing it under the old woman’s throat. She told her that she was Jadwiga Elvana, her great grandmother was the queen, which meant she was more important than her.

Then she pulled away and laughed, saying she wasn’t insane, she wouldn’t kill a woman just for stopping a parade. She told her ogres to help her across the street and to get her to the grocery store. Then she leaned in and whispered to one of them.

I was able to read her lips—she told him “make it painful”.

Bitch. Absolute bitch.

…Why would anyone choose to be around her…?

…

Anyways…

When the ogres grabbed the old woman, Aenland let three arrows fly—instantly killing one of the ogres. He yelled something about how Milani sends her regards, or something. Then he shot another barrage of arrows and killed the other ogre—allowing the old woman to run for her life right before Vasillanova sped off in her now hasted carriage.

Nestian ducked out and—ignoring Aenland’s plan to run for it and lead them away from us—pulled Aenland inside with us. Most of the parade followed Vasillanova to protect her, but a few stragglers remained behind to investigate where the arrows had come from. Including two Mirror Men.

We hastily thought up the idea to hide everyone without papers in the basement as the Mirror Men approached. I stayed upstairs because Winter Wolves don’t need papers. Nadya stayed upstairs and started a very amusing mock argument with her uncle, yelling and screaming at him about something or another. I didn’t really catch basically any of it, but the subject didn’t really matter, what mattered was it made the entire air incredibly awkward when the Mirror Men entered and they saw Ringeirr positively cowering before Nadya ranting and raving at him, before she positively thrust her papers at the Mirror Men with some comment about how ‘at least *she* had her papers’.

The extreme awkwardness seemed to work, as no questions were asked about why she was in town despite her papers being non-local.

It was hilarious. She had them completely fooled. I didn’t realize she had such good acting chops.

After things calmed down, we reconvened and began making our way to the forger’s house. We had one little encounter with a Winter Wolf and an Ice Troll along the way, just outside our destination, but it was barely worth mentioning. We killed them without an issue, saved some slave, met the forger, and disposed of the bodies at his house by chopping them up and setting them on fire.

I think the only thing worth mentioning was that Greta killed the ice troll and…damn. I don’t think I’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing such a powerful woman at work before. I mean, yeah, Nadya’s strong and all, but Greta’s powerful.

Anyways, we made it to the forger’s house. Greta bid me goodbye for the time being, but she gave me the address of a bar she frequented and said if I wanted some more fun I should meet her there. I assured her I was definitely up for some more fun, and that I’d see her soon.

After she left Aenland of all people accosted me with concerns that she was not to be trusted, after how we’d been betrayed by Miriam. I assured him that his worries were unfounded, this was nothing like that. I’m fairly good at reading people—and fairly good at being suspicious of people—and the only vibes I get off Greta is that she is totally into me. And I know when someone is into me, I’ve done that song and dance more than a few times. He pressed the issue, unconvinced despite my assurances, so I decided to get nasty about it and noted that last time it was me who had wanted to not be so trusting of Miriam and be so open with her. I didn’t say it outright but my intention was the implication ‘so who here is the better judge of character?’ I think for once Aenland understood my implication because he stomped off in a huff.

Nestian told me I should be nicer to Aenland, because the entire situation with Miriam really hurt him. I told Nestian I didn’t get why. She’d betrayed us and we killed her—that’s what happens. I don’t get why Aenland took it so personally. Nestian said I didn’t have to understand it, his emotions were still valid. That answer was…incredibly frustrating. That doesn’t answer anything. All it does it says ‘it doesn’t matter if you don’t understand, just accept it’.

Edeya said that maybe the issue was that I *had* been the one person who hadn’t fully trusted Miriam, and as a result I didn’t feel as strongly about it. She told me to imagine if it were her who betrayed them instead, and how that would hurt. I told her straight up that I wouldn’t be hurt, I would be pissed. Because I would. If she betrayed us, I’d be pissed off at her for turning against us. I don’t know if hurt factors into it. Edeya said it was just her two cents and walked off.

I still don’t get it. But I’ll try to play along.

After some waiting around, we each received our papers, and we were finally free to walk the streets a little more freely.

Now it was time to meet the resistance.

Along the way, we passed through the Market Square. There we got our first look at the Dancing Hut, bound there by Dimensional Shackles. Before it were spikes of bone upon which the White and Red Riders were impaled as symbols of Baba Yaga’s defeat. The Black Rider was nowhere to be seen—and there was only one space for a body, not four.

Either news hadn’t reached Vasillanova of us yet, or we weren’t being considered legitimate threats.

If it was the later, we were going to make them regret that mistake.

We tore ourselves away from the sad sight of the shackled hut, and returned to the mission at hand. We arrived at the Water Palace, Ringeirr took us to a room that was far too cramped for all of us, and then a wall opened up leading into a hidden tunnel into the sewers. Aenland make a big stink about going into the sewers because he’s a prissy noble.

Not that I wanted to go in the dirty sewers, either, but I know what has to be done.

We arrived in the hideout of the Heralds of Summer’s Return. There we met a cleric by the name of Solveig, a follower of Milani. She made fast friends with Aenland after she heard about his exploits saving the old woman in her goddess’ name—despite some bad blood Milani might have with full blooded elves. Doesn’t seem like Milani minds Aenland, though. She showed him her favor by sending a couple of white mice to run around nearby while he was talking about slaying their shared foe Treerazor, although I don’t think Aenland noticed them.

I’m not telling him. He doesn’t need to get an even bigger head than he already has, thinking he’s favored by a god.

Solveig told us they were on the brink of a major operation, and could use some help to push it into the final stages. She had four missions she needed completed, three in small groups and one major mission we should save until last and do together.

The first was removing wanted posters of known rebels and replacing them with powerful figures. Not anyone who would actually get arrested, but people who it would humiliate Vasillanova and cause a scandal if they were to be stopped in the streets and questioned or asked for their papers. Aenland and Nadya took that mission.

Thank whichever gods that I would get a mission without having to hear a single word from the elf.

The second mission was to go to the opera. The rebellion had procured two tickets for fancy box seats. They planned to send up a poisoned bottle of wine to the box, which needed to be delivered to Vasillanova’s box. The poison would both make her embarrassingly inebriated during the production, and for the next few days it would make her debilitatingly light sensitive—giving us an advantage if we attacked during that window of opportunity. I also got the feeling there was more to this mission than just that—with the information we knew about Solveig and the singer Bella, I was pretty sure what she really wanted was for me to check in on how Bella was doing. To make sure her girlfriend was alright.

I volunteered for this mission, of course. Talking some poor sap into delivering poison straight to Vasillanova would be a breeze. And then I could enjoy the rest of the show with a particular gorgeous Winter Wolf’s company.

Things were…a bit more complicated than that.

The last of the initial missions was smashing a seemingly abandoned mirror store, where the resistance suspected the Winter Witches stored the materials to make Mirror Men. Edeya immediately volunteered, and Nestian decided to go alongside her.

The fourth and final mission was to slay a dragon.

Yeah.

So that’s going to be…fun.

Anyways, we all parted ways to do our various missions. I went on my own, back in Winter Wolf guise, to see Greta at the bar she’d given me the address to. She was waiting there as promised. She said she was glad I wasn’t scared off after all the excitement earlier, I agreed I was glad she wasn’t either.

I showed her the two tickets and she was almost speechless, wondering just how I’d managed to get opera tickets on such short notice when I’d only just gotten into town. Then she decided she didn’t want to know, and agreed to come along with me. She left to get into some nice clothes, and I went to get some nice clothes of my own.

With all the gold I’d gotten together on this journey so far, it was easy to get a very nice rush order together. Money, power, and good looks can get you everywhere in the world, and with the Winter Wolf guise I finally had all three.

It’s a shame this cloak doesn’t work this way everywhere. I’d just make myself look this way all the time. But anywhere else I’d just turn into a literal wolf. Less useful in most circumstances. It’s no wonder the Winter Wolves around here stay in their human forms all the time.

I really need to get my looks back. Baba Yaga owes me that much after we save her.

Anyways, I met with Greta outside of the opera house. She was even more gorgeous dressed up. She had this nice fitted midnight blue dress that complimented her curves, and a sheer cape that sparkled like starlight, and long white gloves. I almost felt outdone.

She took my arm and led the way to our box. She wasn’t the sort to let someone else take the lead it seemed. That is perfectly fine with me. I can follow along in this dance of ours on occasion.

In our box we were offered some refreshments by a servant, who then stepped outside and said he would be just outside if we needed anything. Then the two of us got back to talking. Greta noticed that the next box over was Vasillanova’s. She asked if I was scared. I told her that she didn’t scare me—at the time I felt it was true, all of my rage at Vasillanova had made me a bit emboldened. Greta laughed and said I should go over and say ‘hi’ then, to which I decided discretion was the better part of valor and declined.

Early in the night the servant with the poisoned wine came.

This is where things got…complicated.

Greta got excited, thinking I had ordered special wine for the two of us. I had to gently explain to her that this was ‘special’ wine, and it involved everything I’d been involved in earlier.

Greta visibly deflated, asking if *that* is what all this was really about.

I did damage control quickly, assuring her that this was merely how I had gotten the tickets. I needed to do one little thing that would only take a moment, and then the rest of the evening would be entirely focused on the two of us.

Greta seemed to loosen up a little, at least enough to be curious, and asked just what I was doing with this wine.

I told her I was sending it over as a ‘gift’ to Vasillanova’s box. When she asked if it was like cyanide or something, I told her unfortunately nothing that strong. Just a little something to embarrass her—and give her one hell of a hangover.

Greta brightened considerably. She said she’d literally pay to see the aftermath of this, so she was in.

With all the wrinkles smoothed over, I grabbed the servant who had been waiting outside the door, and asked him to deliver the wine to Vasillanova ‘with my compliments’, because she looked like she was having a hard night and needed a little pick-me-up.

I settled back in my chair, satisfied that my job was complete.

I shouldn’t have been so quick to let my guard down.

A moment later a hand grasped my shoulder. When I looked up, I was staring dead into the eyes of Nazhena Vasillanova.

And she was smiling.

She exclaimed that she was so happy to see me again, that she hadn’t known I was in town, and why hadn’t I said anything? Was the bottle of wine from me?

I quickly gathered my wits about me and played along. Of course, the wine was a gift! It was meant to be a surprise that I was back in town—I hoped I hadn’t caught her too off guard.

Nazhena laughed it off, saying I knew she loved surprises. It was, after all, a surprise when I had introduced Radosek to her.

So…that’s a thing that happened. Apparently I introduced Radosek Pavril and Nazhena Vasillanova to each other. The two worst people we’ve met so far knew each other because of me.

I had a flash of memory at that. Just a scrap. I was at a party, and Nazhena was there with me. She was begging me to introduce her to someone nice. I looked around and saw Radosek talking to some people, trying to impress them with his goat familiar, and pointed him out. I told her that she and him deserved each other.

Well…I was right. They did deserve each other.

She said that there was some tragic news involving Radosek (oh don’t I know it, he’s sitting in my bag waiting to see her), but that she was also looking to the future.

As she said that she had a particular look while watching that Chelish singer, Bella. It appeared Nazhena had set her eyes on Solveig’s girlfriend as Radosek’s replacement. So that’s probably not going to please our dear rebel leader much.

Nazhena then told me that she was getting a promotion. She was going to be the new head of the Winter Witches. I congratulated her, doing my best to sound sincere and not cringe at the idea of giving congratulations to the worst person I know for her promotion in the worst group I know.

Nazhena asked if her great grandmother—aka Queen Elvana—knew that I was back, or if I was going to surprise her as well. I quickly tried to convince her to keep it a surprise. She was hesitant, but she agreed.

Then Nazhena had the Winter Wolf who had entered the box with her open the wine bottle and pour two glasses—one for each of us—and toasted to me. To my return to power and my position.

What position had that been? Just who was I in the last year, getting tangled up with Urgathoa and going to parties with Nazhena and Radosek? And the queen knows me too? She didn’t react in any way when she saw me over Radosek’s mirror—but then again, she said she had been scrying on the Black Rider’s death, so she knew even before then that I was mixed up in this.

Nazhena drank the wine, and I pretended to drink—splashing the wine over my shoulder when no one was looking. With that out of the way, she said she really should be getting back to her box. She was (thankfully) taking the rest of the bottle with her, as it was a gift.

Once she was gone my act of calm completely shattered and I couldn’t breath for a moment. I hate that Greta saw me lose my cool like that. But I panicked. I hadn’t expected Nazhena to appear in my box with me alone like that. She could have killed me without even thinking about it if I’d slipped up.

My head is still spinning from all of the implications of everything Nazhena had said to me.

I calmed down enough to explain to Greta that I have a gap in my memories and that apparently there were some really important things I didn’t remember during that blank year. I told her I legitimately hadn’t realized I apparently knew Nazhena before she appeared in our box.

‘Knew’ was an understatement, I introduced her to her would-be fiancé. Even if I don’t get the feeling I thought very highly of either of them. Which…why would I?

…I think I believe now even more than before that Radosek was fooling around behind Nazhena’s back with me, given the difference in how he acted towards me vs how she did. He definitely had a spurned lover vibe. And given how friendly she was I think Nazhena never found out.

Anyways…I don’t think I’m going to really figure out more than wild guesses writing about more here.

So, more importantly, the rest of Greta and my date.

The opera was lovely. And even more lovely was Nazhena making an absolute fool of herself in front of an entire audience of Winter Witches by clapping and cheering drunkenly at the wrong time. She left in humiliation not long afterwards. During intermission Greta was literally howling with laughter, and I was right there with her.

The rest of the night was…really great, honestly. Greta has so far proven to be the most engaging date I’ve had the pleasure of having. Everyone back home was so boring. No one was worth my time. Maybe it’s just that I haven’t been with anyone for a while, but this is the most fun I can remember ever having going out with someone. Even if we took out the part where we humiliated a powerful Winter Witch in front of a crowd of people, this date would have been leagues ahead of all others.

Too bad it’s not going to last. She’s either going to dump me or rip my throat out once she sees my true form. Maybe both at the same time.

Ah well…

#pathfinder #journal entry #reign of winter

[thecherrybombbb]

Warning before reading. It's a crackship, mention of drugs/alcohol but nothing explicit

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Many people may wonder what a freak does in their free time; each freak is different. The term Freak was hard to define as to who exactly fell within such a category, yet anyone who didn’t fit societies standards was naturally titled a Freak. Why? Well, here is a big secret. People are scared of standing out, being different, at least most people are. Unlike the man and the wonder, Eddie ‘the Freak’ Munson. Strange, peculiar. Those words often jumped into people’s minds when they thought of Eddie. Perhaps many thought he was this scary lord of a satanic club… Hellfire club. A club which was actually just for nerds to sit around and play Dungeons and Dragons. How did Eddie get to a point where he was so deserving of a title? It all began when he was a younger boy.

Sure, Eddie wouldn’t deem himself as the most academic kid, even when he was younger, he struggled with keeping up. Math? Pft, he hated math as the numbers always got so jumbled up in his mind. Though for a while Eddies life was pretty damn good. His parents were not the richest people, however they lived comfortably in a bungalow. When Eddie was really young, he didn’t actually live in Hawkins, but that was when he was a terrible toddler, so he did not remember a thing. Then came along the double digits in his life, turning 10 he actually took a turn for the worse. It was constant that every time his father would come home, he would stink of beer and this perfume that wasn’t his moms. Sometimes his dad would be in a nice mood and just eat some food and go to bed; that was less common.

Naturally Eddie tried to block out the screams from his mom, just hiding under his bed like some coward. Eddie felt like he had always been a coward, after all he would have saved his mom from those nights if he hadn’t had been so selfish. Of course, he wasn’t actually selfish, he was just a kid, yet his mom gradually began to grow a hatred towards him. Instead of blaming the abuse on his own father, she blamed him. Eddie had apparently been the downfall of her life, the very reason why she started to drink. The drinking was actually keeping her happy, so Eddie was always quick to grab a new beer from the fridge for his mom if hers was becoming empty.

These new habits introduced drugs and alcohol into Eddies life when he was just a little boy, his parents did not care about him. They didn’t provide him food, they didn’t wash his clothes, God it was like he didn’t even exist. Eddie was curious about the appeal of alcohol, it made his parents happy, so surely it would make him happy. Even now he couldn’t help but fondly chuckle from the memory of sipping a beer for the first time. The way his face contorted into utter disgust; the bitterness of the drink seemingly clung to his mouth for the rest of the night. Despite how revolting the taste was, Eddie finished the can that night. Drunk at 10 years old due to the neglect of his parents, he didn’t feel happy. The alcohol just made him swell up into this pit of utter saturnine, incapable of understanding his emotions at the time.

Life stayed like this for a few months, and then the bad people started to become involved. His father had fallen into this cycle of buying drugs, but he never paid off his debt. People began to lurk around their bungalow and attacked his father. Fortunately, his father wasn’t severely hurt, but they fell into this endless cycle of debt. Hi parents borrowing money from family, friends and even the bank… surprise. They never paid it off. Naturally they were kicked out of the bungalow, and Eddie was left all by himself. His parents saw no reason to take such a burden with them. How could parents be so cruel? However, it didn’t end there, as the dealers still wanted payment. If they couldn’t get it from his father, then they tried to get it from Eddie.

He was eleven. He was eleven years old, alone on the streets being hunted by these bad men. He did what every terrified kid would, he ran. He ran as far as he could until the breath was knocked out of his lungs. He ran until he was heaving in the woods, sweat clinging to his face. Even if he wasn’t the brightest academically, he knew his way around town. After all he had spent many days trudging through the woods alone, skipping school because he knew he wouldn’t face a punishment. Even though they hadn’t been the closest, Eddie ran to his uncle’s trailer. From that point onwards his uncle became his guardian and did his best to look after Eddie. He shaved Eddies hair when he asked him too, he got a friend to teach him guitar, and the best thing was how his uncle made sure he went to school.

For the first time in years, Eddie found himself so happy, just full of life as though his parents had been weighing him down an unbelievable amount. His teenage years were quite rough, he faced heavy drug abuse upon himself due to getting mixed up with the wrong type of people in school. This led to a depression, and Eddie was in a really bad place all over again. One of the reasons was something he never thought he would have the face. His identity. Who was he? Well, he figured it out and hated himself for it. Eddie was gay. He liked guys; no girl had attracted him. No one in Hawkins was gay. Anyone who was sure as hell wasn’t screaming it with pride, rather hiding it away in fear for their life. It was no normal. It was not okay. The amount of contrition, and self-loathing Eddie faced within himself was ghastly. Never had anyone insulted him as bad as he had insulted himself.

The only way he managed to cope was through music, it was his escape. Anything that kept his mind off of this revelation. Reading, music, drawing. In fact, the tattoos on his body symbolized more than anyone would know, to anyone else they just looked like the typical drawings that a metalhead would have. Eddie drew them when he was at his darkest time, and that message was a gentle reminder each time he saw them in the mirror. Younger Eddie survived through the emotional turmoil, so older Eddie could withstand anything. Accepting himself was one of the hardest things he has ever had to do, but he did it.

School became a fun place to be again when his burning passion for Dungeons and Dragons was ignited, therefore the Hellfire club came to be a thing, and he met some pretty cool kids. Now here is a thing that people didn’t know about perfect pretty boy Billy Hargrove. He had flirted with Eddie Munson on multiple of occasions, mainly for a discount on some weed, but he still flirted. It was just this lighthearted thing they shared; Eddie had no shame in himself anymore. Unfortunately, he could see that wallowing pit of disgust eating Billy apart from the inside. Every fortnight when Billy would come for some more weed, Eddie used it as a chance to try get Hargrove to open up. It took quite some time, but Eddie made progress. From the mention of the bruise, he saw on Billy’s hip (from his father), it gave Eddie a chance to tell Billy about his own parents. Not due to wanting pity, it was his way of trying to show Billy that there was an escape from such hostility in life. Even though Billy became implausibly livid, it was a natural response about trauma. Sure. Eddie left that forest with a black eye and a bloody nose; Billy wasn’t able to scare him.

Eddie felt as though Billy was scared of Eddie more or less, because Eddie had nothing restraining him. No one was there to degrade him or tell him he is a piece of shit; Eddie had tuned it all out. It wasn’t his place, nor responsibility to look out for Billy, but he did. When their usual evening rolled around, Eddie thought Billy wouldn’t turn up. Minutes passed from when they usually met, but finally he saw that blond beauty emerge from the trees. The conversation that evening lasted hours, and Eddie finally met the genuine Billy. Not that shitty racist asshole, but the Billy who had been cowering away for many years. Hearing Billy willingly talk about his mom made Eddies heart swell up and sting in his chest, feeling so familiar to this life. The more he talked the more abhorrently he felt towards Billy’s father.

The night sky was thick, as the day had been rather humid, making it harder for Eddie to breathe as that familiar pounding of his heart upon his chest reminded him of the scared boy he once was. Subconsciously he fiddled with his rings, the cool metal against the tip of his thumb, just scarcely pinching his skin was a reminder that he was safe here. That was the first time he hugged Billy, a long suffocating hug that lingered hours after they had departed. The next few days Eddies heart felt heavy, torn even with how to truly help Billy. For he could only do so much, but it seemed his presence was enough comfort for the blond. The nights where they sat in a forest gazing at some stars, no words had to be spoke in order for them to understand one another. The feeling of want and safety. These little nightly adventures happened more often than not, hidden within the safety of the night, the moon being a guardian of sorts. Watching as the two boys grew closer until their mutual pining became a burning desire.

They were each other’s secret. During the day everything was how it should be, orderly and separated from one another, but only the night shared the greatest secret. Munson and Hargrove were infatuated with one another, yet neither had managed to say the words. As months passed by, their pining blossomed into an unsettling need. Neither felt settled until they were in one another’s arms, kissing, and talking. Such simple things meant so much. Their nightly dates soon happened at Eddies trailer where he tried to teach Billy how to play guitar – which was a horrific noise- but it was fun.

“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.” Eddie murmured that into Billy’s shoulder one night. It may not have meant anything to Billy, yet Eddie strived to live by those wise words, he sought comfort within such a pithy Shakespearean quote. Those were the words he chanted in his mind when Billy had him pinned against a locker in school. It was an act, but it still hurt that they had to hide.

Eddie didn’t want to hide anymore.

Maybe this time he could run away with someone. Run away with Billy to a place far from Hawkins, and Eddie had such wild ideas of where they could go. It was pointless. The night he even suggested that Billy moved into his trailer, he just watched as that bubbling pit of fear in Billy erupted. Their usual comfort under the night sky turned sour, the air strikingly cold as a shiver ran through eddies spine. In that burst Billy had pinned Eddie down with such force that his head bashed against the ground. The physical pain was only for a moment, yet the dull aching lasted weeks. His heart ached, that passionate flame of his was gradually dying, becoming a mere ember that was no longer a roaring forest fire, but a mere flicker.

Eddie had fucked it up, he continuously blamed himself for the sudden change of behavior. Something was awry, but he couldn’t read Billy’s mind. The lack of communication was overly frustrating because he didn’t know how long he would be left in the dark. It was ironic how quick the night changes. The frustration grew until Eddie was tense, unable to think properly about things. At school it became worse, as he wasn’t sure if Billy was acting when he hit Eddie and screamed things into his face. As pathetic as he felt, Eddie couldn’t even make it to his next lesson. His lack of composure had faltered, and he sobbed in the toilets, alone. The pain of each sob was unbearable, making Eddie heave as the sobs soon turned to panicked breaths. He needed Billy, but Billy didn’t need him… or so he thought.

At the time where Billy needed him most, Eddie wasn’t there. To no fault of his own, Billy refused to reach out, becoming closed off as he was terrified. Of course, Billy knew it would be the best if he left his house. To be away from his dad would be the best step forward, yet he was unable too. The years of abuse manipulated Billy into thinking he couldn’t depend on himself, that he was some useless fuck up without his dad to keep him in place. Even now when he was bigger than his own father, Billy felt like a little boy around him. Weak. Pathetic. He just couldn’t leave. Every part of him ached to leave, but he was intimidated by the thought of a life where he could be happy.

Life became dreary for the pair who were unable to truly communicate, the sun no longer felt so rejuvenating, instead it was a painful reminder of the warmth they had lost. Finally, after so many weeks of no talking, Billy told Eddie to meet him at their usual spot at their usual time. Even the acknowledgment that he existed made Eddies hands sweat, uncertain if his nerves were causing the flutters in his stomach, or if it was excitement. Eddie entered that forest with so much hope yet left in utter despair. Billy had ended things, the hissing venomous tone in his voice left Eddie with a bitter taste in his mouth. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay the fuck away from me Munson. Leave me alone and you won’t get hurt. Do you understand?” Eddie felt like he was in form of shock, but he hadn’t answered. Old Billy had returned… not his Billy. That became strikingly clear when he was slammed against a tree, “DO YOU UNDERSTAND?” Billy’s spit splattering onto Eddies dumbfounded face, the color leaving his cheeks as he swallowed rather harshly. Tears stinging his eyes as Eddie let out the faintest of whimpers followed by a “yeah.”

Eddie felt like he had a curse put upon him, because everyone he loved always left. What the fuck was wrong with him? Every time he closed his eyes, he was brought back to Billy screaming in his face, it was such an unsettling memory because Billy’s eyes looked so foreign. They didn’t hold the alluring loving gaze, void of emotion even, other than the slightest glint of fear. What was Billy scared of? The fear was only there for a moment, yet it haunted Eddies restless nights. Something weird was happening in Hawkins, something unnerving that made goosebumps spread all over his body. Something truly evil, revolting and sinister. What? What was haunting Hawkins? What was lurking in the dark waiting to attack and prey upon the weak? Whilst many prepared in excitement for the festival, Eddie shared no interest in going, instead he was making his way to Billy’s house. The usual hum of his van bought no comfort to Eddie, whilst driving was usually a way to wind down, he felt so rigid. The night was silent, too silent. Eddie rubbed his knuckles against his cheek, reminding him of Billy, that’s what Billy always did to comfort Eddie. That comfort had long dispersed, long forgotten. The closer Eddie was, the more anxiety ridden he became. However, when he reached Billy’s house, he noticed the car driving down the road. Not for a single second did he debate what to do, his foot pushing heavily down as his van rumbled, speeding after Billy.

For a split-second Eddie felt hope, this rush of ebullience, he was so close to truly getting Billy back. Why? Eddie had realized something over the past few days alone. He was in love with Billy Hargrove. He wouldn’t stop chasing him until Billy was back by his side, in his van going far away from Hawkins. He longed to have those nights back where Billy had fallen asleep in his van, so Eddie continued to drive, and he just kept driving so Billy could rest. Now he was determined to have him back, it was the first time he had experienced such an epiphany. It hit him like he had just rammed his van into a wall, or so that’s how Eddie had imagined it. When he saw Billy approaching the mall his brows furrowed in this confusion. The mall was shut by now, so why was Billy going there? Even so, Eddie tried to ignore the flurry of questions in his mind. Though his van came to an abrupt halt, dread coursing through his veins as he saw a monster looming in the far distance… in the mall. What. The. Fuck!

Any other day Eddie would’ve run, that would’ve been the most sensible thing to do, but he had just seen Billy going that way. Love makes people do some real fucked up shit, and right now it gave Eddie the courage the follow Billy towards the mall despite how his body was screaming and begging for him to run. No longer allowing the fear to control him, Eddie started up his van again. Being more wary of his surroundings, basically screaming, “fuck Jesus’ shit fuck what the fuck?!” Over and over, but it helped just a bit. From what he could see Billy had crashed? No- wait. Someone had crashed into him. None of this was making sense, but he stepped out of his van. Admittedly he collapsed after he stepped foot on ground, his legs feeling like jelly. Paralyzed with this fear, yet a sudden wave of nausea passed over him, his heart sinking ominous notion that something devastating was about to happen.

Somehow, he found the strength to pull himself up, using his van to assist as Eddie strained and urged his body to lurch towards the mall, not away. Each step was in complete agony, his entire body shaking, he knew something unnatural was here. Something downright detestable was lurking, or perhaps not lurking anymore. The closer he got, the louder the screams and growls- growls... of this monster. Another step. Another. He had to see Billy and help him, he had too. Eddie was so certain he'd get the man back, the person he loved more than anything in this world. His Billy. His secret. His light in life, the one thing that kept Eddie going.

Though he soon figured out why that unsettling doom and nausea had engulfed him, as it was his body trying to prepare him for the catastrophic event about to unravel. Eddies steps came to a halt once more, tears prickling his eyes as he was trying so fucking hard to run. He wasn't far from Billy, not at all, but he hadn't been fast enough. The second he began to sprint; his lover was gone. This creature impaled him with no mercy, and Eddie didn't have time to even comprehend the situation. Dread. No- there wasn't a word to describe how Eddie felt, but he let out a gut-wrenching scream, and right then he wished he'd wake up from this never-ending nightmare called life. No one else mattered. His own life didn't matter, all he needed was for himself to wake up. Right? This had to be a nightmare. But it wasn't. The ugliest horrific sobs left Eddie as he bolted to Billy's side, his legs becoming smothered in his blood as he hurriedly ripped off his jacket to try wrap around the gaping hole in his chest, as though any pressure would stop the bleeding... even if there was no hope. "You'll be okay, you have to be okay. You hear me? I fucking love you Billy Hargrove. You're not allowed to go. Billy? Billy it's not- it's not funny man. Wake up. Stop playing around. Wake up. Billy. Billy fucking wake up! WAKE UP BILLY!" Seeing those beautiful blue eyes look at him one final time, his heart shattering as he knew Billy was gone.

Billy was impaled as if the flesh poised no resistance at all, the blood gushing out not in constant flow but with the beating of a heart that writhed in desperation of holding on. A small fountain of red surged from his lips, ebbed with the rhythm of a now terrified heart. Billy wanted to hear Eddie’s words, so badly, but his body refused to heed his requests, though his body relaxed upon registering whose embrace he would leave this world in. Finally, one more time, his ocean blues met Eddie’s. And Billy knew, could he have said one last thing before his departure,

'I love you, Munson. I’ve been into you for a goddamn long time now.'

How can you move on in life without your heart? Your body won't work. You're as good as dead. So, Eddie didn't know how he was alive, because his heart died along with Billy Hargrove. Munson became a walking corpse stricken by grief. An unbelievable burden to carry upon his shoulders, the loss of the man he loved. The very man he still loves even if he is no longer alive. No words are possibly strong enough to truly describe the grief and guilt that had begun to decay within Eddie and his mind. Each minute away from Billy had been dreadful before, yet he had the hope of rekindling with Billy. Now he was alone. The only time he ever ran towards something; he ran towards his love. Maybe…maybe he should have run away like he always does. He allowed love to capture him and cage him up like some animal, he had been blind and lovesick. Never. Never would he allow himself to feel such ways again. He could never face the loss of love, so he would never try fall in love once more. No glue was strong enough to repair the shards of his shattered heart. No man would ever be able to rejoice in Eddies warmth, his heart was for Billy. It would always be for Billy, so he would simply suffer in silence. He couldn’t bare to tarnish Billy’s reputation now he was dead. Eddie would suffer in the secret that his true love had died. His secret to share with the night sky where he now sat alone, staring at the stars and wondering why the world was so cruel. Why did the world keep running so normally despite Billy’s death? Eddie felt like his world had stopped and crumbled the second Billy had been impaled. He was simply a ghost of the man he once was.

After a week, Billy’s funeral had been planned, and Eddie was shocked to find an invite shoved a crevice on his van. Whoever had left it seemed to be aware of something, or at least the fact Eddie deserved to be there for any form of closure. Somehow it had slipped Munson’s mind that Maxine Mayfield had also been there to witness her own brother’s death. The mortifying moment had been witnessed by many, but all Eddie had focused on was Billy. Even seeing the invite made that oh so familiar tension rise within his throat, feeling as though something was choking him. Billy was dead. For some reason he had tried to convince himself it had been a really bad nightmare, but this invite was the final confirmation of what he dreaded most. Billy died and wasn’t coming back, no matter how much he tried to kid himself from the truth, Billy was dead. No matter how desperate Eddie had become for sleep, he never got the pleasure to indulge in a basic need, not when he was so aware of everything in his room. Leaning over his bedside table he tugged at his lamp for it to switch on, sat upright entirely as his arms wrapped around himself for any immediate comfort. Though his arms weren’t as strong as Billy’s, so the hug just wasn’t tight enough. The light flickered ever so slightly as his eyes – which had lost their luster- fell upon a long-discarded shirt. The shirt Billy had borrowed the last time he was round the trailer; Eddie hadn’t dared to move it. The ground it lay upon felt sacred, something he shouldn’t move as that meant he would be removing something that was a painful reminder of Billy. Lips pursed together, his jaw began to clench, causing an irritable high-pitched noise. Heart suddenly pounding against his chest as Eddies grip on his own shirt loosened, struggling to pull himself out of bed.

Whilst he tried to stand upright, Eddie let out a pathetic laugh, which only grew in volume as he clutched onto his bedside table. Teetering back and forth as though he was about to fall at any moment due to the lack of care for his own body in a time like this. Fingers clenching the desk, his skin paling as his nails scraped against it. With one last look around his room Eddie let out a disgruntled scream of utter despair, hands now scrambling to find anything to tear. Anything to blame and allow his fury upon; his favorite posters becoming the victims of his wrath. Within the screams of utmost agony soon feel such harsh sobs, choking on his own saliva as he crumbled into a ball against his bed. Many fragmented posters scattered around him, whilst his hands ran through his hair with such ferocity, forcing him to whimper in pain. No matter how much he cried, his tears never seemed to stop. There was no end for the pain he felt, he was trapped. Trapped in this enforced isolation he had created as a punishment for himself. His pale cheeks smothered in tear stains and sweat, chest heaving whilst he gasped so desperately for breath. The rage began to disperse, leaving Eddie back to the state he had been moments before. Only worse as he looked between the fingers which covered his face, noticing the posters torn. He could still remember Billy the first time he came into his room, the way Hargrove seemed impressed to see some limited-edition merch hung up. Now those same posters decorated his floor in a flurry of waste. “Fuck you, Billy.” Seemed to be the only thing he could utter out into the silence of his room as a way to try quieten his own thoughts.

Even so his fit of rage had forced his notepad to fall beside his foot, open and crinkled from how it lay. This was the notepad he would write spontaneous ideas in for songs, tunes or even dungeons and dragons. Things that once brought him the most pleasure, and now he couldn’t even dare think about. Not caring to wipe his eyes Billy sniffed and used his shirt to force away the snot before it went over his lips. In his blurred vision he reached over and grabbed the book, flipping through a few of the pages until he noticed something that he hadn’t wrote. Lips quivering as he blinked back his tears to try understand what it was, and when he did, he felt his heart melt. It was a horrific doodle done by Billy, stick figures even. The pair of them stood together with Eddies guitar, and above it was the simple words of, ‘I love you’. For what shitty doodle was usually worth, to Eddie this moment was priceless. Billy had loved him; he didn’t have to live in that agony of never knowing the truth. Here the answer was the entire time. Besides him the entire time, when he thought there was truly no way the blond reciprocated his feelings, he did. Eddies sullen tears soon faded into those of sudden relief. And for the first time in what felt like months, he was able to rest easy.

The somber date finally arrived for Billy’s funeral, and Eddie just knew what to wear. Unlike being a respectable person and following the usual unspoken rules of a funeral, Eddie didn’t wear full black. His usual outfit was what he decided to come up in, other than the necklace on his neck. Usually, it had a guitar pick on it, but this time it was a pendant Billy had gifted him on his birthday. On his right arm was a fresh tattoo, what of you wonder? The very drawing, he had found in his notepad, he had the stick figures now on his body forever as a way of holding the memory of Billy. Now he looked at it in utter pain, but he hoped one day the tattoo would be a sweet reminder of the times they shared. His chains draped and connected to his trousers, and he wore a few rings, one being a bit plain compared to his sculpted dragon rings. To Eddie the plain ring meant the world as he had found it the other night behind his bed. It wasn’t his ring, but one Billy had lost months ago. When he found it all he could do was laugh because he remembered how desperate Billy had been to find it, and this entire time it had been under Eddies bed. Funerals were always so daunting, yet in his van eddies fingers strummed upon the wheel in time to the song he had started to play was one Billy used to stick on when they had late night drives ‘Runnin’ with the Devil’. Even the name made him wonder if Billy intended for the Devil to mean Eddie, but regardless he couldn’t help the smile tugging at his lips.

Naturally he turned up to the funeral late and stayed standing away from the crowd, lurking from afar as he watched the coffin be lowered into the ground. It made him wonder if Billy’s body was actually in there, had they been able to recover it? It seemed that he couldn’t even hear what people were saying, which helped Eddie stay relaxed. Not bawling his eyes out Infront of everyone, yet his hand gripped the note in his pocket which crinkled but didn’t rip. Staying away from everyone helped to not raise that uncomfortable question about how he knew Billy and if they were good friends. The honest answer would only destroy his reputation after death, and Eddie knew he wouldn’t be able to lie and say he was a nobody. To everyone else, sure he had been a nobody, but to Billy he was somebody. Eddie had run away his entire life, and it led him to something worth living for, but now it was gone. He wanted to keep running. To escape the place which drowned him in memories of Billy; he wouldn’t let himself run any longer. Eventually he would find a way to live and accept life, but it would take time and a lot of patience. For someone so distraught and heartbroken, Eddie seemed to be taking it rather well. He had accepted Billy’s death; he knew he wouldn’t come back. All Eddie could do was live his life out for Billy and hope that the day he dies it would be Billy guiding him down to the luxurious depths of hell. Even as the weather began to spit rain upon them, which caused the crowds to move away and head to the wake prepared, Eddie stayed lingering just that little bit longer.

The spits of rain spluttered into a steady pour, but Eddie paid no attention to the cold drips upon his face, it was actually refreshing. What’s a better place to cry than in weather which hides your tears for you? Nearing the fresh dirt which was slowly turning into a sludgy pile of mud, Eddie found himself sat besides the gravestone taking a deep breath. Fingers carving over the stone, following each letter that spelt out Billy’s name. Only then did his smile begin to falter, lips twitching into a frown as his eyes glossed over with tears. “Its just you and me again. Guess this means you’re forced to listen to me for once, right?” His tongue ran over his teeth before pressing against his upper lip, his thumb twisting the ring around it to distract himself. “I never thought Id be crying over the pretty boy Billy Hargrove, I just know you’re getting a kick out of this.” Fiddling with the note in his pocket, he grabbed the scrunched piece of paper and tried to cover it from the rain so he would be able to read what it said. “I… uhm.” His voice seemed caught up in his throat, unable to utter a sound for a minute. “I love you Hargrove.” Words he wished he had said sooner but was grateful that he had the chance too now. Looking at the note he wasn’t even able to read it from the tears blurring his vision.

The rain wasn’t helping as all Eddie could concentrate on was how his hair was starting to uncurl and stick to his face. “I’ve decided to stop running because I found you here. Maybe I don’t need to be scared anymore. I’ve already lost everything, what else could happen?” He paused, almost waiting for an answer as he barked out a bitter laugh from the silence he was met with. “I will always be yours Hargrove, always.” Closing his eyes and for a few minutes he sat there embarking the pleasure of being alone near a reminder of Billy. Turning to the side to stare at the gravestone once more, pulling the ring off of his finger and placing it down, “I found it for you.” A few more tears dribbled down his cheeks as a smile settled upon his face.

“The course of true love never did run smooth.”

═════════════════════✰°

I hope you enjoyed the story! It's 5794 words long.

#eddie munson #fiction #my writing #writers #writers on tumblr #stranger things #billy hargrove #crackship #fanfic #fantasy #hurt/comfort #character death #gay love #oneshot #unrequited infatuations #unrequited pining #death cw #drugs cw

[chickenroost]

Chapter 3 - The Meeting

The dragons collectively growled or whispered after hearing this at once, until silenced with a cry from the dark king. "Enough! How is this possible?"

"Oarth was their last remaining village - obviously this child was raised there. The oath is guarded very well. Only those who are born there and tested, know of it." Frost answered. "But it does not explain how she was found outside. What happened?" He looked to her once more.

"It was destroyed, - " she told him honestly. "- burned down."

"By what or who?" He narrowed his eyes.

"They killed the mother dragon, Eiwyen, because they blamed her." The dragons growled. "It wasn't her fault. She is a water dragon!" She hurried to assure them. "The one who burned it was Garet. He betrayed us and her. He turned hunter."

The other dragons shrank away as they whispered quietly. "And, what is she to us? Friend or just meat?" A male known as Creed spoke up. His hair was a deep red shade and his eyes the color of freshly spilt blood.

"I can see the clear light in this child," Frost answered. "But that remains to be seen by all of you."

"I don't like humans. They stink. They are cowards and they remind me of the weakest of our kind." Creed scoffed. "Which reminds me, wash your back before we return , Keir."

"Silence, Creed. There will be peace in my court." The dark king, Nelzar, growled.

"As you say, O' dragon of black scales." Creed remarked with a grin.

"We must focus on the situation at hand. Why have you come, Frost?" Nelzar asked.

"It is as I feared. With the discovery of this child before us, it is even worse then I what I have learned so far," Frost began to explain. "Humans have encroached upon my territory in recent years. While normally peaceful, there has been talks of uprisings among my people."

"This effects the rest of us, how, exactly?" Creed spoke up, questioning.

This caused Nelzar to growl in warning, but Frost continued to answer. "With humans and dragons at war, this is little room for peace." He regarded his words carefully.

"Peace?" Onya spoke up. "What peace have the humans given us? For all their slaughtering of our eggs and kindred!"

"What peace have we given them of late?" He asked, regarding her calmly. "For all our destruction of their homes or lives in return for revenge of kin or anger?"

"Have you need to scold my tactics or come for aid?" The other king regarded him at length, growing impatient.

"Aid." Frost answered simply. "I request the help of one of your brother's youngest boys, I am afraid."

"Xial?" Nelzar blinked. "What on earth do you need the boy for?"

"For some research." Frost admitted. "I wish to learn more of the humans against my people."

"Very well," Nelzar gave a nod. "Zihark shouldn't much mind. I will send him to you at this time tomorrow. He will need found."

"Of course," Frost regarded him evenly. "Of the girl - "

"She is to go with you, naturally." Nelzar stated matter - of - fact in manner.

"Yes, but -"

"Then I call this gathering to end. It is well enough you have made one request," he stated. "Off with you. I will head home. I expect you gone soon."

Frost's frown only deepened further as the dragon took of with his group to the skies. This left only Creed, Keir, and the girl remaining behind , along with himself. While Frost stamped his foot, quickly transforming back into his pale blue dragon form, Creed only laughed as Frost gave a sigh. "Hmph." Frost looked to him.

"Ha! So the great Ice king is reduced to a mere moment's notice?" He smirked.

"What of it, you troublesome lad?" Frost huffed vaguely.

"I would have thought you had more self regard then that." Creed sighed, his barb taken seriously.

"Be a good little spark and take the girl with you." Frost smirked.

"What? And what do you expect me to do with such a weed?" Creed grumbled.

"If not you, then that man there." Frost sighed impatiently. "That egg is of the water tribes. The least we could do is return it."

Creed growled. "Do it yourself, old man." Shaking his head, he and Keir took off into the sky.

Frost looked to her in exasperation. "Quite a darn predicament this all turned out to be."

"You have no idea..." A strange voice spoke. This caused Frost to growl as he stepped back a step.

"Who is there? Show yourself!" The ice dragon called out.

"As you wish...oh, dragon king!" There was the sound of metal scraping stone.

Frost regarded this sound and called out to the sky. "Take her!" He hefted her up into his arms as he rose up on his hind legs. Creed and Keir looked back at him in question, but were surprised, when he literally threw her , egg and all towards them.

She let out a scream as she was thrown, but was caught quickly by Creed, and silenced with his hand over her mouth. "Don't say a word." He growled quietly in warning. She could only nod and quieted, as he looked below.

Frost was growling but flew quickly as a swift shot of an arrow settled to where he had been only a moment before. Sinking into the ground, the earth cracked with its force, and formed a small crater. The girl squirmed in Creed's arms as she shivered behind his hand. He could feel her trembling. "Damn, I missed!" A voice cried out, and quickly, Frost was out of range above the cloud bank. "No matter where you go -" the voice yelled. "- I will hunt you down!" Creed nearly went down below the clouds but was stopped by Frost's tail. He motioned for silence. The voice spoke no more, but the dragons quickly followed Frost away from the area, using the clouds as cover for their escape.

#chickenroost #writing #my writing #Shining Light #dragons #fantasy #original #story #chapter 3

[evanhuang14777]

&lt;Cantar del Mío Cid>

My Cid Rodrigo Díaz you will hear what he said to him: Eat, count, of this bread; drink, count, of this wine, / for if you do what I say, you will no longer be a captive.

&lt;El Lazarillo de Tormes> by Lázaro de Tormes

[The blind man] washed the breaks he had made with the pieces of the jar with wine, and, smiling, said: / –What do you think of Lazarus? What made you sick heals you and gives you health – and other gifts that were not to my taste.

&lt;La Galatea> by Cervantes

Who is that powerful one who is known and famous from the East to the West ? Sometimes strong and brave, Other times weak and fearful; He removes and restores health, Shows and covers virtue in many, more than once, He is stronger in old age Than in joyful youth. [...] without weapons he defeats the armed one and it is inevitable that he defeats him and the one who has treated him the most, showing shame, is the most shameless. and it is a thing of wonder That, in the field and in the town, A captain of such a test, Any man dares Even if he loses in the fight.

<warning by Juan Ruiz>

«You can smell the fire, which is a very bad smell,

your mouth smells very bad, there is nothing that is worth it,

it burns the assaduras, the leg burns;

If you want to love, owner, the wine does not bother you.

«The drunken monkeys grow old, they

do not walk in their color, they dry out and turn gray,

they do many vile things, everyone hates them;

They miss God a lot and they fail the world.

«When wine is stronger than brains,

the drunks are gnawed like pigs and rooks;

therefore come deaths, strife and shuffles;

Much wine is good in vats and jars.

«Wine is very good in its very nature,

it has many benefits if taken in moderation;

He who drinks too much of it, take away his sanity,

all the evil in the world becomes all madness.

&lt;Tragicomedy of Calisto and Melibea>

“Settle down, my children, there is plenty of room for everyone, thank God. They gave us so much of paradise when we go there. Put yourselves in order, each one has his own place; I, who am alone, will fit this jug and cup, which is no more my life than what I speak of.

After I got older, I don't know a better job at the table than pouring, because whoever tries honey always gets stuck with it. Well, at night, in winter, there is no such bed heater. With two jugs of these that I drink, when I want to go to bed, I don't feel cold all night. I cover all my clothes with this when Christmas comes; This warms my blood; This sustains me continuously in a being; This makes me always happy; This keeps me cool; I see plenty of this at home, that I will never fear the bad year, that a crust of mousy bread is enough for three days. This removes sadness from the heart more than gold or coral; This gives effort to the young man and strength to the old man; puts color to the colorless; courage to the coward; to the lazy diligence; comforts the brains; takes the cold out of the stomach; removes the stench of longing; it makes the cold powerful; makes one suffer the toils of farming; He makes the tired reapers sweat all bad water; heals the redness and the molars; sustains without stink in the sea, which water does not do.

I would tell you more properties about it that you all have hair. So I don't know who doesn't enjoy mentioning it. It has only one blemish, that what is good is worth a lot and what is bad is harmful. So, what heals the liver, makes the stock market sick. But even with my fatigue I look for the best for the little I drink, only a dozen times at each meal. "They won't let me go from there unless I'm invited like now."

&lt;Don Quixote>Cervantes

Wine is mentioned up to 43 times in Don Quixote (1615), the most universal work of our literature. There are few characters more enthusiastic about wine in all of universal literature than the famous squire Sancho Panza, whom Miguel de Cervantes profiled not only as a great fan of wine but also as the possessor of a complete gift in the knowledge of it. “Won't it be good, Mr. Squire, if I have such a great and natural instinct when it comes to knowing wines that, when I try to smell any of them, I guess the country, the lineage, the flavor, and the hardness and twists it has to take.” , with all the circumstances that affect the wine”, Sancho comes to consider.

Another example, when Don Quixote charges against the windmills while Sancho walked "very slowly on his donkey, and from time to time he raised his boot with such pleasure that the most gifted still life artist in Malaga could envy him."

<coplero Alonso de Toro>

In Villalar and Pedrosa,

Bozales and San Román,

wine is no longer worth anything,

they give it almost for nothing;

Well, in Toro, where you were born,

I found, in the buns of the milestone,

a blessed red wine,

which in your life you dress like this.

In the city of Zamora,

on Valvorraz Street,

Blessed Our Lady,

there are so many taverns!

In Casaseca de Chanas

and Casaseca de Campián,

they give us so much wine

that we sing more than frogs.

In Corrales and Perdigón,

and in Fuen del Carnero,

even if the poor man carries a hide,

he will fill it without delay;

In Venialbo and at Fuente

Cantalapiedra and Cantalpino,

the people are very happy

because they drank a lot of wine.

Villarino and La Ribera

and the town of Fermosel,

a lot of wine, in a great way,

and softer than honey.

&lt;'Anna Karenina'> by Leo Tolstoy

Kitty, observes Anna Karenina's first meeting with the man who would later become her lover. Tolstoy relates what the Russian princess Kitty saw at that meeting: He could see that Anna was intoxicated with the wine of ecstasy that she inspired. She knew that feeling, she knew its signs, and she saw them all in Anna—she saw the trembling, bright light in her eyes, the smile of happiness and excitement that involuntarily forms her lips, and the unmistakable elegance, security, and softness of her movements— .

&lt;'Paris was a Party'> by Ernest Hemingway

The novel includes several memoirs by the author of the time he spent in Paris with other well-known American writers who lived there, where they met in cafes and bars to chat. At that time in Europe we considered wine something as normal and healthy as food, as well as a drink capable of bringing you happiness, well-being and pleasure. Drinking wine was not snobbery or a sign of sophistication or culture; It was something as natural as feeding and, for me, as necessary as that. It wouldn't have occurred to me to sit down to eat something without drinking, be it wine, cider or beer. I loved all wines, except sweet wines or those that were very heavy.

#poem and literature #literature #bar in movie and literature #presentation #index0