#curse my horizontal inclinations

[sublimecatgalaxy]

JJ Maybank smut with best friends to lovers? Maybe they get super high and they get into mischief?

UM YES LMAO

"You ever think about banging John B or Pope?" JJ's question makes me choke, the smoke in my lungs quickly expelled- wasted- in an attempt to snap my head to look at JJ, who has a shit eating grin on his face.

"JJ, what?" I squeak, watching him shrug simply as he rests against the back of the drivers seat in the van. I look around, searching for any sign of our friends but there's no movement in John B's shack, just dead silence.

"I'm just asking a question!" JJ whisper yells, holding his hands up in surrender as he blows weed into the air between us. My cheeks warm, hands reaching up to scratch at the back of my neck and I see that JJ's eyes bloodshot and his pupils are blown.

"It's a stupid question." I mutter, taking a hit from my own joint, falling back onto the floor with a groan. JJ watches me with a teasing look as I stretch out on the floor of the van, his eyes flicking down to where my shirt rides up.

"Seriously? You've got no imagination." He chastises with a click of his tongue, head shaking disappointedly at me.

"Shut up!" Smacking him upside the head, he screeches, rolling away from me with a loud laugh. "I have an imagination, they just don't occupy it."

"Lame." He snorts.

"Why lame? Do you think about Kie in that way? Sarah?" I dig but he just pauses, eyes flickering up to the ceiling as he thinks.

"Well-" He laughs, running his fingers through his unruly hair. "I've known Kie since the start of puberty so that's a given."

"You've known me since puberty." His eyes widen briefly at my implication, throat clearing loudly as he sits up abruptly.

"Yeah? And?" He squeaks. "Are you asking me if I've had indecent thoughts about you? Gasp!" He asks and I immediately shake my head, trying to recover from the obvious grave I've dug myself but when a smile cracks across his face, I know he's just messing with me. Thank god. "You act like such a prude sometimes." He shakes his head, peeking past me and up at the Chateau.

"I'm not a prude." I huff, brows furrowed as JJ moves to lay down beside me, nimble fingers holding a joint to my lips. I take his invitation without hesitation, lips wrapping around the tip.

"You lost your virginity to a band geek." He snorts as I take a deep breath, holding it for a moment before blowing it directly into his eyes, his blue orbs snapping shut as curses fly from his lips.

"He was kind of cute." I defend but I know I'm lying through my teeth, remembering the scrawny boy from junior year. He was nice enough and he was very excited to be given an opportunity to even touch a girl, let alone have sex with one.

But yeah, he could've been better looking and he could've lasted a bit longer.

"Uh, no. He wasn't- I'm cute, he's like totally fugly, dude." JJ laughs, forcing the 'cutest' smile he can muster. Reaching out, I pinch his cheeks with a giggle.

"Fine, he wasn't the cutest but..." I trail off, toying with the strings of JJ's hoodie that I wear, tying them and untying them. JJ's brows furrow as he rolls onto his side, propping his head up with the palm of his hand.

"But?"

"I don't know, he was a good kisser. Gentle." I huff, head drooping to the side so I can look up at JJ who just scoffs with a cringed smile.

"Ugh yuck- gentle, how absolutely boring." I know that he means that and that he's not just teasing me- he's always been pretty adamant that 'vanilla sex invites nothing but divorce' or so he claims. He took shots and Pope and Kie when they first got together, urging them to spice up their bedroom life and he did the same to John B and Sarah but there was no helping those two.

"Okay, well at least I'm not a man-whore." He gasps at my attempted insult, feigning offense as he falls onto his back, gripping his chest.

"Ouch! Man-whore- no. I like to call myself femininely inclined." He boasts proudly, sending me a wink that makes my stomach flip.

"More like horizontally reclined."

"And vertically." He whoops, reaching behind to pat himself on the back. A few beats go by, JJ biting at his lip as he looks over at me, looking as if he wants to ask me something. Before I can tell him to spit it out, he speaks. "So you've only had sex with that one guy?"

"Sex- yeah, just the one guy." I nod sternly, biting back a smirk. "I've done other things." I offer vaguely, watching a shocked expression pass across his handsome face, his cheeks blushing gently at the thought.

"Really? I'm your best friend- you gotta indulge me here." He implores breathlessly, scooting ever so close to me.

"You don't tell me all about your sex-capades. How is this fair?"

"What do you wanna know? I'm an open book, cupcake." I grin, clasping my fists under my chin as I look at him, eyes flickering back and forth between his deep blue hues.

"I don't know, uh, ever gone down on a girl?" I ask the first question that pops into my head but it makes him freeze, giddy, proud smile fading as his head drops to rest against the carpet.

"Fuck." He mutters into the carpet.

"What?" I ask, pulling my knees to my chest, facing him.

"No." He sighs, head tilting so his cheek presses into the floor, squished cheeks forcing his lips into a cute pout. His cheeks are red and there's a boyish smile on his lips and for a second, I wonder if he's actually embarrassed. Or flustered?

"You haven't?" His head shakes, pout only deepening as his eyes shut.

"No, but it's like a fucking dream of mine." His voice is deeper than it was moments ago- gravely and tense too- and it causes a shiver to shoot down my spine.

"Seriously?" I ask, breathless and flustered at the thought of him imagining pleasing a girl and having it be on the top of his bucket list. Most guys, I can assume, would rather have something way filthier done to them, but the thought of JJ wanting to do nothing but give is mind blowing.

"Yeah, yeah- I get it. Girls hate going down on a guy but, I don't know dude." He cuts himself off with a groan, running a hand down his face as he returns to staring at the ceiling, biting at his lip. "Has a guy ever gone down on you?" He asks but looks shocked that the words actually leave his lips, blue eyes widening briefly.

"Yeah but it was really fucking bad." I giggle, breaking some of the tension in the small space, an intrigued grin spreading across JJ's lips.

"Why?"

"Didn't know where the clit was- wasn't even in the right place." He bursts out laughing almost immediately, kicking his legs and clapping his hands like a child. I've never told him this before, mostly because I didn't want him to make fun of me but it almost seems like he's making fun with me.

"Guys act like it's hard to miss." JJ snorts and shakes his head in deep disapproval. "Not that hard- and that's coming from a guy who failed human anatomy."

"Cuz guys don't actually take the time to look. Like a simple google search could show you the whole entire pathway of female anatomy. They either think the clit is a magic button or they don't care." I whine, rubbing my hands down my face in frustration just at the memory. "You guys are so easy- you cum and it's not that big of an achievement on our part." I chuckle and I watch JJ groan and adjust himself, rolling back onto his stomach.

"Jesus." He whispers, squeezing his eyes shut tightly and I begin to pick up on what's going on.

"What?" I ask through a prolonged sigh, biting nervously at my lip as JJ reaches down to actually adjust himself. "JJ! Seriously, are you hard?" I giggle, sitting up, spine straight as a board as he whines and hides his face in his hands.

"Please don't make fun of me, I'll cum." His words make me laugh even harder, my chest aching from the giggles that don't seem to stop and he reaches out to smack my bare thigh.

"You started this!" I point at him with an incredulous look, lighting another blunt and holding it to my lips. I take an extra strong hit, closing my eyes to try to wash out all of the inappropriate thoughts filling my mind but they don't seem to go anywhere.

"I need more weed, please and thank you." JJ tries to reach out to take the joint from me but I hold it away from him with raised, teasing brows.

"Nope, it's mine now." I shrug, taking another hit.

"You like to see me suffer? You masochist." He tuts, biceps straining as he lifts himself up onto his arms beside me, head just inches away from my thighs.

"You've got no clue." The words leave me faster than I can control and I almost immediately slap a hand over my mouth.

"I..." He trails off, silencing consuming the empty space around us. I can hear my heartbeat rumbling in my ears and I suddenly feel so exposed under JJ's heated gaze. "This is getting weird." He mutters, throat dry and words come out more ragged than he intended and he clears his throat awkwardly.

"Yeah, weird." I mutter but before I can add anything more, he interrupts my thought process with a shocking question.

"Can I go down on you-"

"JJ!"

"What?!" "It would be a mutual experience." He promises but I pause, jaw slacking and lips parting as words completely and utterly escape me. There's no thoughts in my head, no words on the tip of my tongue, just JJ and the stupid image he's put in my head of him between my thighs.

"I just- wouldn't that be weird?" I ask, actually considering it for a moment, wondering if I could finally have the opportunity to learn why and how JJ gets so many women to get into bed with him.

"Not for me." He shakes his head viciously, chin tilting upwards so he can give me the cutest pair of pleading puppy eyes, lip pouting out as I shove him. "Dude, you're stupid hot."

"No I'm not." I scoff.

"Uh huh, you are." He promises, hand slipping under my thigh so can he lower himself beneath it, slipping effortlessly between my thighs as he rests my leg across his shoulder. I flush at the new position, completely and utterly at his mercy as I swallow roughly, watching him rest his cheek against my bare skin. "C'mon, when was the last time you actually came like really came where you didn't have to do it yourself."

"Never." I respond immediately, throwing caution out the window.

"Fuck, you're killing me here." He whines, tongue slipping out to wet his lips, the eager look in his eyes only growing. "C'mon, let me make you cum- please let me make you cum." All of the air pulls from my lungs, the dumb look on my face only worsening as I try to process his words in real time but I feel like I'm so far away from here.

Maybe it's the weed or maybe it's the way JJ's fingers are inching towards the waistband of my spandex shorts, toying with the edge of it.

"I'll do anything- you want music, I can do that- weed, fuck where's the weed-" He's suddenly scrambling around, knocking things over as he looks for the blunt that I discarded and he doesn't let up until he hears me call out his name. "Show me." He whispers, pressing a shameless kiss to my thigh, a small breathy sigh escaping me at the gentle feeling. "Please."

"You're my best friend, JJ." My words have no weight to them as he motions towards my pants and I give him a firm nod, allowing him to start to pull them down, kissing newly exposed skin with every inch revealed.

"So, let your best friend show you how good he is with his tongue, huh?" I moan freely, reaching up to shove my hands in my face as he discards my shorts but he doesn't look just yet, not daring to break eye contact with me. "Just- here, give me your hand." I do what he says and he helps me slip my fingers into his unruly hair, urging me to give it a simple tug. "Better?" He asks, tugging me further down onto the floor by my hips as he nestles between my legs.

"This is so awkward." I mutter, not bothering to let go of his hair while his lips skim against the sensitive skin of my navel, teasing me with every breath he breathes.

"Just relax. Not like I'm gonna judge you or anything." He promises and I finally look down at him and the look in his eyes is all it takes for me to relax into him a bit, seeing the devotion and the adoration lining his blue eyes.

"You're the king of judgment." I giggle breathlessly.

"Just close your eyes or something." He reaches up to run his fingers teasingly across my face, pulling a snort from me. "Also, maybe be quiet since they're sleeping like twenty feet away." He clicks his tongue towards the house and I nod, legs shaking beside his head as he urges me to bend my knees.

"This is so fucked up." I mutter.

"Are you gonna talk through this whole thing-"

"Do something and maybe I'll shut my mouth." He chuckles against my hip, nipping it playfully as I squeal, giving his hair a firm tug as he moans.

"Yes ma'am." He takes a tentative deep breath before giving in, tongue flattening against my slit as a trying taste, a quiet hum escaping him and he chuckles. "Mmm, you taste salty." He coos, dragging the tip of his pointed tongue up the length of my core just before circling around my clit and I tug on his hair.

"Please don't make me self conscious right now." I chuckle, whole body flushing and trembling under his touch. He wraps his arms firmly around my thighs, holding me to him so he can dive right back in, lapping like he's been deprived of touching me- tasting me.

"Not trying to, I didn't say it was a bad thing." He mutters before freeing one of his hands from holding me, slipping his fingers into his mouth before skimming them along my entrance, watching my every move and motion for any sort of disapproval. When I give him no sign, he slowly slips his fingers into me, moaning loudly as my spine arches up into him. My hand flies from his hair to the ground, fisting the carpet as I use my other hand to muffle my squeals. "Fuck, you are all I'm gonna be craving from now on. Fuck weed, fuck beer." He sounds so sure as he watches his fingers disappear and reappear, carefully curling upwards in a skillful maneuver and I feel it, the uptick of pleasure, the electricity shooting down my legs.

"JJ-"

"What is my form of dirty talk not working for you, sweetheart?" He teases, tongue flattening and moving in quick motions- side to side- against my clit and my head thumps against the floor, hair probably all over the place by now.

"No it is, and I'll cum too quick if you keep talking." I giggle breathlessly, again reaching down to thread my fingers through his hair to ground myself.

"Shut it, you love to hear me talk."

"I do." I admit bashfully, wanting nothing but to let him keep talking but another part of me wants to just shrivel up and die out of embarrassment, wondering how we're going to come back from this- how are we supposed to talk this out? Tell our friends?

"Do you realize how long I've wanted this? Fucking years." JJ's confession eases some of the questions I have running through my head and I don't feel like my heart aches as much as it did before,

"JJ, I-"

"Yeah? You wanted me too?" He asks, hiking my legs further up onto his shoulder as his fingers pick up pace, thrusting in and out of me at an unholy speed, his brows furrowed in concentration.

"Yes, want you so bad." I squirm under his grasp, core tightening around him with ever thrust and it almost makes me want to scream how his fingers just aren't enough.

I want more.

"You've got me. I'm trapped between your thighs, no better position for a man to be in to care for his woman." He grins, sucking my clit between his lips and my jaw drops in a silent moan, lips trembling in pleasure and I feel a lawyer of sweat drench me.

"Your woman?" I ask, propping myself up onto my elbows to look down at him, gasping violently as I chase my high but there's apart of me that can't move on from what he said. His woman?

"Yeah, mine." He growls, blue hues glancing up at me and the look in his eyes is enough to make me cum; pupils blown to high hell and he's looking at me like a predator gazes at a prey.

"Fuck, all yours- I'm gonna cum." Before I can though, he slips his fingers from me, pulling back with a wicked grin and I whine loudly, feeling tears prick at the corner of my eyes.

"Not yet."

"Why?" I whimper and I know I sound pathetic and I wouldn't deny it but I can't find a fuck to give right now as he so close to me but choosing to be so far.

"Cuz I like to make you squirm. This is payback for making fun of my hard-on." He winks, not breaking eye contact as he licks at my clit, not taking his time, not waiting but going full force into trying to make me cum and make me cum hard.

"Wasn't making fun of you. I liked it." I admit, running my hands down my face as I suck in a breath of air. "I want you so bad, JJ." The tears in my eyes finally crack, rolling down my cheeks and he's quick to bat them away from his free hand, other hand brushing across my clit in wide swoops.

"Yeah?"

"I'm cumming- shit." It hits me like a ton of bricks, my body tensing and then trembling against him and I writhe around in his grasp, trying to wiggle away from him but he doesn't let me, just lowers his tongue to my core and tastes me once more.

"Fu-uck." JJ moans, reaching down between him and the floor to adjust himself, palming himself too not so subtly. "Holy fuck, Y/n." He mutters, resting his chin against my thigh as I chuckle, biting my lip and throwing an arm over my eyes.

"Now I'm embarrassed." I mutter and JJ's on it in a minute, handing me his sweatshirt so I can slip it on over my naked body.

"Here- goddamnit." He huffs, running a hand through his hair as he gazes at me, pussy drunk and stoned. I hug myself in his sweatshirt with a coy smile, biting at the corner of my lip before surging forward, pressing my lips to his. "Woah." He mutters into the kiss, hand hesitantly reaching up to cup my cheek.

"All yours, yeah?" I ask, lingering near his lips as I press another few pecks to his lips and he chuckles under his breath.

"All mine."

#jj #jj x reader #jj maybank #jj maybank x reader #the outerbanks #the outerbanks fic

[lifeofkaze]

Something Wicked This Way Comes

A/N: This story is was written for @hp-12monthsofmagic October prompt. Happy Halloween. OCs featured belong to @whatwouldvalerydo (Victoria Summer... sorry for bothering her again), @the-al-chemist (Jim and Ethel Hexley), @endlessly-cursed (Nilüfer Sultan, in mention), @slytherindisaster (Gabriel Sapieha, Lysander Mercury) and @kc-and-co (Bradford Pendleton IV). Warning: serious Shakespeare blasphemy. I'm sorry.

The day had been overcast, and darkness come early over the Forbidden Forest. Swathes of mist rose from the moss and root covered ground, and the night was silent except for the rustling of fallen leaves, the soft sounds of the creatures that had ventured out under the cover of nightfall, and a resounding scraping sound as something heavy was dragged over a piece of stone, followed by a groan and the hasty shuffling of feet.

“How much further is it?”

“It can’t be very far, I daresay.”

“You said that ten minutes ago, Ethel. I swear I recognise this tree.”

“Hush, I believe I can see it from here. Quickly, now.”

Three figures stepped into an opening in the trees, in the middle of which the ground rose gently to a grass-covered mound. On it, bathed in the light of the full moon, six boulders of varying sizes had been erected to form a circle, in the middle of which a seventh stone lay on its side, forming what looked to be an altar.

It was there that the three girls, clad in skirts and blouses that marked them as students of the nearby Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, dragged the cauldron they had been pulling behind them. They were breathing heavily by the time they had made it to the top, and the faces of Ethel Hexley and Selene Fraser grew red as they hoisted the heavy metal pot on top of the horizontally lying stone. 

Selene and Ethel had found the stone ring a couple of days ago while prowling the woods, and had been dying to return ever since. They had prepared diligently, but with the unsteadiness of the late October weather, it had taken them until the very last day of the month to make their way out into the Forbidden Forest again. They were chatting in hushed whispers amongst each other now, excitedly checking the contents of the bags slung around their shoulders.

Victoria, who had seen herself half-compelled, half-forced to accompany her dormmates, seemed less enthusiastic. She looked around uneasily, observing the shadows cast by the tall stone monuments. Wrapping her arms around herself to keep from shivering, she stepped closer to the stone altar.

“Are you finally going to tell me what this is all about?” 

Ethel and Selene stopped whispering and shared a meaningful look.

“We have something special planned for tonight,” Selene said in a low voice.

“Something to mark the occasion,” Ethel agreed.

“We’ll do magic,” the two of them said in unison, the sable-coloured ferret that had appeared on Selene’s shoulder nodding his head as if in agreement. 

Victoria looked between them sceptically. “But why come here? Why all that hustle? We could have just as well stayed at the castle.”

“Because, dearest Victoria,” Selene said and motioned at the stones surrounding them. “This place is special.” 

“Most magical.”

“Of the utmost importance.”

Ethel paused, looking at Selene curiously. “It is?”

“It must be, must it not?” Selene shrugged. “Why endure all the hardships to set these stones up otherwise?”

“You must be right, of course.” Clapping her hands together, Ethel turned back to Victoria and pointed at the cauldron. “There is a spell that Selene and I have been wanting to attempt but Professor Sharp refuses to let us into the Potions classroom by ourselves after this most unfortunate incident with Carolyn Nyberg’s calming draught.”

“Which was not our fault, if I may say so.”

“Far from it.”

“The farthest.”

“And what did you need my help for?” Victoria asked patiently.

“See, the spell needs three wielders to succeed.”

“Three witches, to be precise.”

“And who would be more inclined, more perfectly suited to complete our trio than you?”

Victoria could think of a handful of people better suited; the matter of inclination was another one entirely but she chose to remain silent. 

“Shall we begin then?”

Victoria was still at a loss for what was about to happen when she was directed to stand at the head of the stone, with Selene and Ethel facing each other on its side. 

“You might want to take that,” Selene whispered to Victoria, producing a densely written note from the folds of her skirt. “We have it memorised.”

Victoria was just about to ask what she meant when Selene and Ethel began chanting, in grave, hushed voices that didn’t sound like them at all. 

“Thrice the brinded cat hath mew’d. Thrice and once the hedge-pig whined. Harpier cries ‘Tis time, ‘tis time. Round about the cauldron go; In the poison’d entrails throw.”

They began moving to circle the stone altar with the now bubbling cauldron, underneath which Ethel had set fire. 

“Toad that under cold stone Days and nights has thirty-one Sweltere’d venom sleeping got, Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot.”

Selene reached into her bag and pulled out a stoppered bottle which looked suspiciously like the ones Professor Sharp had on display behind his desk in the Potions classroom. She held it over the cauldron and shook its contents inside. The slimy green something that had fallen out sank to the bottom, and Selene and Ethel continued to sing, in a much louder, almost gleeful voice,

“Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble.” 

“Hold on,” Victoria cried out. “Did you drag me out here to enact a play?”

“We never would even think of dragging you.”

“You walked quite by yourself.”

“And this is not any stupid spell from any stupid play we are putting to the test here. This is Macbeth!”

“By the greatest poet of all times.”

“The master of words.”

“The bard of bards.”

Wearily, Victoria held a hand up and the stream of chatter ceased. “And does Professor Sharp know you stole… borrowed one of his cauldrons and ingredients?” 

Ethel and Selene exchanged a glance that had the sinking feeling in Victoria’s stomach intensify. She stifled the sigh lodged in her chest. 

“Go on then.”

Breaking into smiles, Ethel began rummaging through her bag again, while Selene reached across the stone to squeeze Victoria’s hand. The chanting recommenced as Ethel produced a small parcel. In places, moisture had already seeped through the parchment, and Victoria could only briefly glimpse something reddish as its contents were tossed into the cauldron. 

“Fillet of a fenny snake, In the cauldron boil and bake; Eye of newt and toe of frog, Wool of bat and tongue of dog, Adder’s fork and blind-worm’s sting, Lizard’s legs and owlet’s wing, For a charm of powerful trouble, ike a hell-broth boil and bubble.”

They continued in that fashion as ingredient after ingredient made its way into the cauldron. Selene and Ethel seemed to have acquired everything the recipe listed, adding newts’ eyes and lizards’ legs with more and more glee as the potion boiled up and began changing its colour, bathing the clearing in an eerily green glow. 

“Liver of blaspheming Jew, Gall of goat, and slips of yew Sliver’d in the moon’s eclipse…”

“You didn’t actually put someone’s liver in there, did you?” Victoria asked with wide eyes.

“No,” said Ethel and sounded almost regretful. “A piece of someone’s liver is surprisingly hard to come by.”

Victoria chose not to comment on this. “Then what did you put in just now?” 

“We got some calf liver from the kitchens. Did you have any luck with the Tartar’s lips, Selly?”

“No,” sighed Selene, “and not with the nose of Turk either. I asked Nilüfer Sultan if she cared to help out but she wouldn’t hear of it.”

“How rude.”

“Don’t you think so?”

“So can we go back now if you don’t have everything to complete the spell?” 

“Oh Victoria, don’t be silly,” Selene laughed. “A good witch knows how to adapt!”

With pinched fingers, she pulled a tissue from her pocket and let it float into the cauldron, topping it up with something that Victoria could only assume to be a handful of ground meat. She and Ethel took up singing again.

“Cool it with a baboon’s blood, Then the charm is firm and good.” 

Ethel produced a slender vial from her now empty bag, unstoppered it and poured some red liquid into the cauldron. She and Selene exchanged excited looks and stepped forward to peer inside. Victoria did not. The eerie green glow from before had vanished, the colour of the potion they had brewed changing disconcertingly fast. The soft sound of the bubbling had given way to a deeper rumble, too, making the metal pot shake on the stone altar.

“What exactly did you brew there?”

“We brewed a potion most potent and most fantastical.”

“Dare I say, the potion of potions.”

“I gathered,” said Victoria, brushing a lock of her hair behind her ear and watching the quivering cauldron from the corner of her eye. “But what does it do?”

Selene and Ethel stopped in their tracks.

“What do you mean, what does it do?”

“What are its effects? What’s going to happen now?” Victoria paled as a thought struck her. “I’m not going to drink it if that’s what you intended.”

“Well, in the play, Macbeth is supposed to see apparitions telling him of his fate now.”

“There is no Macbeth here, though, and no apparitions either.”

Ethel and Selene looked at each other shrugging, as if the thought had only now occurred to them. Feeling suddenly more stupid than possibly endangered, she crossed her arms in front of her chest.

“I can’t believe you two,” she sternly told her friends. “Every time I think you can’t get anymore silly you top my expectations. Not only that you drag me away from the Halloween feast in the middle of the night to clamber over sticks and stones with a stolen - yes, Ethel, stolen - cauldron, you didn’t even spent a thought at the purpose of such a doing, or what might possibly come off it!”

“But we did!” Selene protested loudly. She was barely audible of the rumble of the potion. It splashed higher and higher, and glowed brighter and brighter, coming up as high as if someone had thrown a stone into water. “In the play —“

“‘Play’ being the operative word here,” Victoria scoffed. “Did you really think I would fancy seeing a severed head and a bloody baby telling me about my doom?” She snorted. “Pray, forgive me if I do decline.” 

Selene looked torn between feeling sorry to have upset her friend and the righteous urge to prove Victoria wrong, while Ethel geared herself up to defend their endeavour. Before it could come to it, however, the light changed yet again. With a resounding boom, the cauldron shot up into the air and came crashing down with a loud bang, bouncing off one of the vertical stones as it did so. 

Victoria and Ethel gasped as they jumped away from the glowing drops flying their way. Selene shrieked and pressed Alan to her chest with one hand, rubbing at a stain on her skirt with the other. The formerly peaceful, moonlit clearing was reduced to chaos, but when suddenly a low, agony-filled moan reached them from the blackness of the trees, the three girls and one ferret froze. 

Alan gave a whimper, clambering up onto Selene’s shoulder. Selene held him and stroked his fur, but her excitedly glittering eyes were trained on the darkness ahead. She started towards it with a couple of determined steps, but Victoria caught her by her sleeve and pulled her back. Reluctantly, she turned and followed her fleeing friends, quick footsteps carrying them away from the stone circle and back towards the castle. 

When they were gone, the moaning and groaning stopped. A rustle sounded in the underbrush beyond the clearing, and from the darkness four figures emerged, three of them grinning broadly, and one not so much, slowly trailing behind the others. They approached the clearing, standing in the middle of the exploded potion with three of them on one side, and the remaining on the other. 

“Pleasure doing business with you, gentlemen,” said Gabriel Sapieha, watching his vandalised surroundings with a look of profound satisfaction.

“Anytime, old chap.” Bradford Pendleton hooked the toe of his boot under the handle of the cauldron and pushed it back into a standing position. Curiously, he peered inside. “Who would have thought that my tempering with potion recipes would not result in failure for once?”

“Carolyn Nyberg would be proud of you.”

Brady chuckled. “I certainly hope not. Good aim, Mercury.” 

“Thank you. Did you see their faces?” asked Lysander Mercury with a grin. He screwed up his face and it morphed into the features of Ethel Hexley, her eyes wide and her mouth rounded to a perfect circle as Ethel-Lysander waved his arms above his head in a hysterical gesture. He held his stomach as he laughed. “This was priceless, gentlemen, absolutely priceless.”

“If you say so,” Jim Hexley mumbled, watching as the hair on his friend’s head turned back to its original golden shade and he looked like himself again. “Are we quite done now? There are honeyed cakes at the feast. I’d be loath to miss them.”

“Not afraid of the dark, are we, old chap?”

Jim was spared a reply when something - or someone? - moved beyond the treeline. A low howl carried through the moonlit night toward them, swelling in volume and pitch. The boys in the clearing looked at each other uneasily. Jim swallowed.

“It hasn’t worked, though, has it? The potion?”

“Don’t be a fool, Hexley,” said Lysander, but he didn’t look away from where the howl had come from. “It is bound to be a wolf or something.”

“You sound like that wouldn't be a problem in itself.”

The howling took up again. The four boys looked up at the full moon hanging silvery above their heads and back at each other.

“I say we make for the castle,” Gabriel suggested in a light tone but his eyes never left the shadow of the trees. “My friends are eager to hear of our success, and we wouldn’t want Jim to miss his honeyed cakes, would we?”

They all agreed, and so left the clearing. One by one they stepped onto the path leading under the canopy of trees, which Jim could swear looked darker than it had upon their arrival. He was the last to follow, and he cast one look back at the stone circle across his shoulder. The cauldron still sat where it had fallen, now upright again, in a ring of glowing specks of potion, which shimmered ominously in the moonlight.

A shiver running down his spine, Jim turned away, hurrying his steps to catch up with his friends toward the warmth and safety of the brightly lit castle. 

#hphl #hogwarts legacy #selene fraser #12mom #twelve months of magic

[mnmovdoom]

grabbing the other’s hand so they don’t fall - any characters, I just like your writing!

Thank you! If that's so, then here are my OCs Magda and Wolfram!

It was a wide circle made up of large, dark stones covered in moss and erected towards the sky. In the centre, there was a flat stone placed horizontally.  The stones were mostly wrapped by blossoming ivy, like the oaks and maples and ash trees and undergrowth around them were not sufficient cover.

Since Wolfram had found the stones during one of his rides, the forest really was not sufficient cover. But there was no path leading to the stones, and even though the horses easily walked over the undergrowth, the interior of the circle and the nearing area were too cluttered with rocks and shrubbery. 

The most direct route to the stones was cut by a wide stream. Wolfram had managed to use the slippery rocks peeking out of the running water to reach his objective - not without having slipped once and promptly given up on being graceful, since he had soaked himself already…

But now he had the countess with him, and he wanted to take her to the stones without making a fool of himself or, worse, getting her soaked.

“I wonder who did that,” the countess commented from his right. They were still astride their horses, looking at the circle of stones across the stream. 

Wolfram pulled out his helmet and tied it to the front of the saddle, then passed his leg over his horse’s neck and slid to the ground:

“Giants,” he replied, very sure of himself. 

The countess hummed and dismounted from her palfrey. They let the horses loose to graze and she followed him to the stream:

“Why would giants build a circle of stones?” she mused. Wolfram shrugged:

“Maybe it was some sort of sitting? Maybe the standing rocks are the back of rock seats, but the rest is gone now.”

“Why would they sit in the middle of the forest? Maybe witches built this place,” At that, Wolfram gave her a flat look. She smiled. “How do you know this place is not cursed, sir knight?”

“I think I can recognise something cursed when I see it. Countess…” 

Magda just grinned. Riling up her favourite knight was fun.

They reached the stream and Wolfram pointed at the few scattered rocks peeking out of the water. Honestly, Magda thought that simply walking across the stream was more practical - but she was wearing boots and breeches and a gambeson over her tunic, while Wolfram was wearing full mail. She could understand why he didn’t want to go in the water, and she could indulge him by following his lead on the rocks.

“Try not to slip, Wolfram!” she chirped, once she stepped on the first mossy rock. It was slippery, and to better balance herself, Magda placed a hand on the pommel of her sword to keep it from swaying at her waist. To his credit, Wolfram was already halfway through - and this time he even made it without slipping.

Moments after he touched the bank, Magda joined him. Now, they just needed to climb a small yet steep incline and they’d reach the stones. 

The path that Wolfram had cleared when he had first discovered the stones, a week ago, was gone. The vegetation had grown back - thicker even, he could swear. Maybe, there really was witchcraft at work in this place. But not wanting to look like a lesser knight in Magda's eyes, Wolfram puffed his chest and advanced, stomping down and pushing grass and shrubbery to the side. 

Magda followed closely through the path he was clearing, but soon enough they were side by side, climbing a steep incline that was actually bigger than what it had looked like.

“Maybe witches really made this place…” Wolfram grumbled, aggrieved. 

“Or maybe this is a giant’s step to the sitting place?” Magda countered. There were plenty of loose rocks and twigs under her boots, and unconsciously, her hand found Wolfram’s, which in turn held hers in a tight grip. If one of them tripped, the other could hold them up - or they could both go down.

Halfway up Magda did slip on a loose rock, but Wolfram quickly pulled her up and she went nowhere near the ground. Wolfram had good reflexes, Magda had to give him that. But when they reached the top, it was Wolfram who tripped on a root and it took all of Magda’s strength not to dive after him and stop his fall, which almost resulted in her plummeting forwards. 

Still, Wolfram regained his balance, pointedly smoothing over his surcoat to hide his embarrassment. On her behalf, Magda was quite pleased with having held up a fully armoured knight.

They began to explore the circle of stones, looking around and up to the sky curiously, still holding each other’s hands tightly. 

#I was asked something #my writing #OCs #Magda #Wolfram

[hinnyxromione]

“Out of No Where” Harry/Ginny Claim Debunked

So, I usually do not feed into the argument that Harry and Ginny’s relationship came out of nowhere claim because first of all, I’ve always seen it as a misadvised, unjustified argument that stemmed from what the movies presented. However, since I’m quarantined in my house and I’m a social psychologist in training, I questioned whether or not there was a way to quantify Ginny Weasley and Harry Potter’s relationship to find whether or not this “out of nowhere” claim is justified. 

To develop my hypothesis, I did a literature review from social psychology academic, empirical studies on infatuation, relationships, and love in both teenage samples and young adult samples. From that review, I found a popular theory in infatuation which states that what we deem as “crushes” develop at an exponential rate (an example depicted below). 

Think of the x-axis (horizontal line) as the time passed. Think of the y-axis (vertical line) as the number of times a person thought of the person/item of interest. The red line is what we’re interested in. In the exponential graph below, as time passes, the rate of growth in number of thoughts increased “exponentially.” So in a way, think of the corner of the red line as the point in which the subject has identified that they have a crush on the person of interest. After that crush has been identified, the number of thoughts related to that person increases substantially due to the addictiveness and fascination associated with infatuation. Of course this makes sense when we think about our obsession with the Harry Potter franchise. The more we realized we loved it, the more we thought about it. (Or I assume you’ve had this experience being that you’ve read this post to this point).

Hypothesis and Measurement:

So how does this relate to Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley? My hypothesis was that Harry’s crush on Ginny would develop in a similar pattern throughout the six books leading up to their first kiss. To test this, I quantified Harry and Ginny’s relationship through the number of pages the word “Ginny” appeared in the books. Now hear me out: the books for the most part are told from Harry’s point of view (although written in third person) with exceptions in chapters such as the first chapter in the Goblet of Fire, and first chapter in the Half Blood Prince. Therefore, every time the word “Ginny” is mentioned reflects the number of times Harry acknowledges Ginny’s presence in the situation/setting. The number of times Ginny’s name appears can also relate to the strength of her association (or friendship) with Harry, which in my belief is vital in the understanding of Harry and Ginny’s relationship development. 

Limitations of the measurement that should be considered before we discuss the results: (1) since I’m using the number of PAGES that Ginny is mentioned, this number could be different from book to book depending on year of printing, size of the book, size of the font, etc, (2) “Ms. Weasley” or “Ron’s sister” and similar references were not counted, and (3) I used pages because I thought using the number of times Ginny’s name appeared was influenced by dialogue/relevance to the scene. Obviously Ginny’s name will appear more in scenes that she is the focal point of (aka Chamber of Secrets) which is hard to compare with in books where she is not the focal point (like in Prisoner of Azkaban). I hoped by standardizing the number to the number of pages, we’d get a more comparable number that we can use to analyze between book to book.

Results

The following graphic shows the results:

So, was my hypothesis supported? It’s hard to tell. 

Ginny Weasley was mentioned on three pages in the first book which makes sense; they hadn’t met, and she was only seen on platform 9 3/4 in the beginning and the end of the book.

In the Chamber of Secrets, she was the focal point of the climax of the story so obviously she would appear in more pages. Interestingly enough, “Ginny” was mentioned on 25 pages before she was taken to the Chamber at the end of the book.

Prisoner of Azkaban and Goblet of Fire makes sense because she was not an intricate part of the plots of those books. She is also in the year below Harry so she was not in class with him and therefore is not in many settings where she would just be off-handedly mentioned as being present.

The Order of the Phoenix is the surprising finding. Her name was present on more pages in the fifth book than it was in the actual book where Harry confesses his infatuation for her. This is the portion that really throws the wrench in my hypothesis. However, after thinking about it more, it makes sense, and here’s why. Have you ever watched tv and noticed that the same commercial is on at every commercial break? This is purposeful because of the repetitive exposure effect; the more you see something, the more likely you are to be inclined to purchase that item. There’s a similar effect in infatuation research; the more positive experiences you have with a person, the more you are likely to develop positive feelings for that person (either friendship-related or romance-related feelings). Therefore, it makes sense that Harry would develop some sort of relationship with Ginny when she’s present in his life that many times in a year (127 times). Is it positive? For the most part, his experiences with Ginny in the fifth book are positive in that his experiences with her, even if they are negative in nature like in the Ministry, they are not negative between Ginny and Harry. 

Now why is she mentioned fewer times in the sixth book? After re-scanning through the book, there are many more scenes in which Harry is looking at Voldemort’s memories with Dumbledore which take up a lot of the book. That makes sense, of course, because that is the main point of the book. Ginny is still mentioned on 1/6 of the pages in the sixth book. While in the Order of the Phoenix, Ginny is mentioned on 1/8 of the pages in the book (it’s 200 pages longer than the Half Blood Prince).

Now, in terms of plot, what would dictate the reason behind why there is such a spike in Ginny’s presence during the fifth book? How about this:

“Hermione told me to get on with life, maybe go out with some other people, relax a bit around you, because I never used to be able to talk if you were in the room, remember? And she thought you might take a bit more notice if I was a bit more--myself.” (Pg 647 in Half Blood Prince)

Although never explicitly stated, it can be inferred that this conversation happened in the summer before Order of the Phoenix when Hermione and Ginny were rooming together at 12 Grimmauld Place. After that, Ginny made the effort to relax a bit more and show Harry that she has relaxed more around him. This means that she would have more positive, comfortable experiences with Harry which Harry might take more notice in. 

In addition, it’s important to note that there are a lot of moments that are left out of the books. Obviously, JK Rowling wouldn’t include every single day of the school year; that would make the books incredibly long and cause the books to lose their focus. This means that moments like the exploding snaps game Harry and Ginny had together after the chamber which we learned about in Cursed Child, or the enjoyable afternoons in the sixth book, were not present to include in these results. Also, more mundane events where interactions between these characters could have occurred, such as daily meals where nothing of importance to the plot happens, were also left out because how many times do you really want to read about Harry’s breakfast habits? These events could also show how many more occurrences Harry and Ginny had together and would change how these results appear.

In conclusion, Harry and Ginny’s relationship development makes sense when viewing it from a social psychology stance. Their relationship did not occur out of nowhere, in fact it makes sense that their relationship would develop in the way that it did when analyzing the number of events Harry and Ginny experience together pre-infatuation. In other words, his infatuation developed because of how much time he spent with Ginny in his fifth year. This of course does not even touch on the attractive qualities within each of them that make them compatible in the first place.

Continue arguing all you like about the development of Harry and Ginny’s relationship, but to me, it was done realistically and with common sense when it comes to driving the main plot of the story. I’m logging off and will not discuss this anymore. (I know I didn’t cite the social psychology studies but it’s tumblr and I really don’t feel like doing that right now)

#hinny #harry x ginny #ginny weasley #ginny potter #harry potter and the prisoner of azkaban #harry potter and the goblet of fire #harry potter and the philosopher's stone #harry potter and the sorcerer's stone #harry potter and the chamber of secrets #harry potter and the order of the phoenix #harry potter and the half blood prince #harry potter

[missnmikaelson-main]

A Year to Eternity? - Chapter 2

AN: I do not own TVD, TO or Legacies

He cast his eyes upwards and blinked, counting the logs on the building’s exterior; forty beams stacked horizontally created the house’s height.

A few centuries ago the home would have been moderately luxurious, and by twenty-first century standards of vacation homes it held a certain rustic charm.

Were he human he wouldn’t have minded living out his days inside, especially if he could do so with the woman who owned it.

He could see it: a charming home, a compassionate woman, and hellion or two running amok to remind him fondly of rambunctious younger siblings. An entire life he might have had in another world.

He didn’t anticipate much of a life beyond the full moon; only the promise of the dreaded black horizon remained.

He could live with that. He would live with that… for her.

The half baked idea formed in his mind long before bearing witness to his niece’s lapsed judgement; it wasn’t her fault, and he had a plan to deal with it, but there remained one single piece of unfinished business.

Conscious suddenly of the passage of time he allowed his eyes one final glance at the red convertible before he knocked.

“It’s open.” The familiar voice called from upstairs in obvious invitation; he made a mental not to scold her for it as he stepped inside.

Beyond the open patio doors water lapped against the deck, bringing with it the fresh air and damp earth.

He passed the cozy dining room table, caught the sweet smell from the vase of tulips, pausing at the foot of the stairs where he tilted his head minutely and met the guarded blue eyes of his sister.

She came down the steps until they were at an equal height and stopped. With a jolt he realized the guarded expression was a reflection of his own eyes.

“You’re going to do something foolish, aren’t you?” His stiff neck proved answer enough and she released a defeated sigh. “My idiotic, self-sacrificing, noble brother.”

She looked at him, tears shimmering in her eyes that she refused to let fall.

“Please don’t do this.”

“What makes you think I plan on doing anything?” He straightened his shoulders.

“You’re here,” she tossed up her hands, but kept her voice low so it didn’t carry to mortal ears, “you’re stepping into her human life because you think this is your final chance to see her.”

“I’m just here to catch up with an old friend,” he denied, unsure why he bothered; Rebekah could always see through him when it came to her. He attempted deflection instead. “What are you doing here?”

“You know exactly what I’m doing here,” she scoffed, “just like she knows why I waltzed back into her life, but I’ve waited a thousand years. I can wait a few more weeks.”

“What do you mean?” His brows drew together.

Rebekah hesitated, glancing up the stairs when Elena called down.

“My brain’s not addled, right?” Her laugh sounded strained, as if she worried that were really the case. “I heard someone at the door?”

“You’re not mad yet, love,” she called.

“Rebekah?” He reached for her elbow.

“You’ll see,” she shook off his hand. “Tell her she’s missing necessitates and I’ve gone in town to fetch them.”

He stared after her a moment beyond the closing of the door and then walked up the stairs, following the steady sound of her heart to a room overlooking the lake.

He tried not to do it, but when he found her on her knees, up to her elbows in a blue tote, he couldn’t keep her name from rolling off his tongue in revered tones.

“Elena.”

She inhaled a short breath and looked up. The soft smile he liked to fantasize as being just for him bloomed, warming his soul.

“Elijah.”

His name from her lips welcomed him home with whispers of a life they would never have.

“This is Mystic Falls,” the corner of his mouth quirked up, “you need to be more careful about who you invite inside.”

“I felt pretty safe with Rebekah here,” she shrugged, “besides, with the exception of Caroline, I make a point of avoiding vampires these days.”

“Do you want me to leave?” He motioned over his shoulder.

“I think I can make another exception,” her half smile returned. “And it’s only partially because your sister seems to have abandoned me and I definitely need help to stand up.”

His eyes flickered down to her stomach as she leaned back on her knees. The rest of the room came into focus, making sense of Rebekah’s comment.

“That I can do,” he chuckled. Placing a hand on her elbow, he helped her stand and guided her into the grey rocking chair before kneeling and putting the rest of the clothes in the dresser.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she picked up a stuffed whale, “because it is nice to see you, but if I ask what you’re doing here will you give me a straight answer, or dodge my question like your sister?”

A thousand responses filtered through his mind: ‘I miss you’, ‘I wanted to see you’, ‘I needed to hear your voice one more time’.

“I thought it was time we caught up,” he said instead. “The last I heard you were in a magically induced coma after becoming human again.”

“Then you’re definitely behind on the times,” she chewed her bottom lip.

“Yes, well,” he shut the drawer filled with onesies he felt certain once belonged to Hope, “when you were awakened I had no idea who I was.”

“Sounds like I missed a lot too,” she blew out a rush of air. “Tea?”

“Tea?” He frowned, snapping the tote’s lid back in place.

“I’d offer coffee, but Caroline and Bonnie purged the kitchen when I proved incapable of not drinking it,” she stood up carefully. “The other option is water or a decent whiskey that’s been collecting dust for twenty-plus years.”

“Tea would be lovely,” he smiled, watching her place the whale in the crib.

She walked out of the room faster than he thought she should have been capable of in her current condition. He caught up with ease, finding her at the top of the stairs holding tight to the railing.

In the kitchen she put the kettle on to boil and reached into a cupboard.

He stretched an arm above her head, retrieving the blue mugs beyond her grasp.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

Elena busied her hands preparing the tea and Elijah allowed himself a moment, one glistening moment, to bask in domesticity; they worked well together, gliding around each other. And when his hand brushed her elbow or grazed the small of her back her heart skipped just as it had all those years ago in Willoughby when he felt the jump beneath his finger tips.

The taste of her lips had haunted him since.

“Where did Rebekah go?” She asked when they sat on the back deck.

He forced his gaze up, halting his study of her mouth’s movement. Sunlight filtered through the sparse trees, casting her warm eyes half in shadow.

“She mentioned something about fetching missing necessities,” he sipped his tea and tilted the mug, glancing at the dark liquid.

“Necessities,” she tasted the word, feeling the weight of each syllable on her tongue. “I didn’t realize I lacked necessities.”

“Have you run out of milk?” He smirked.

“I just bought groceries and even if I hadn’t I don’t know when she would have gotten the chance to look in the fridge and find a lack of milk.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t attempt to purchase coffee,” he chuckled.

“Tried in the second trimester and got caught by Caroline,” she sipped, shrugging one shoulder. Her tongue darted out to catch a drop from her lip. “She compelled everyone who might have supplied it and now I have to drive to Richmond, which is just too much work for a cup of mediocre coffee. And Rebekah was only in the nursery.”

“Maybe she noticed something missing.”

“She wouldn’t be the first one,” Elena stared out across the sparkling water. “I wish I still had her number so I can tell her it’s not necessary; she did enough.”

“What do you mean?” He set his mug on the table and reached into his jacket for his phone.

“Well, she carried everything inside, put the crib together and recycled the boxes.” She drummed her fingers along her stomach. “She doesn’t have to suck up to get the cure. All she had to do was ask.”

“So you do still have it,” he leaned across the table, setting down his phone and catching her cup before it could tumble into her lap.

“What happened to you Elena? When word reached me I expected you to sleep for decades, yet Bonnie Bennett lives and you’re awake.”

“You want to know how I woke up,” she laid her hands on the table, feeling the warmth from his arm across the inch of space, “when it was made clear to all of us that any interference from anyone would result in a joint, grisly death.”

“It is my understanding that you were to sleep until Bonnie passed.” He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully.

“There is a very simple explanation for that,” she turned over her palm and traced her lifeline with her eyes. “Kai lied about the curse. He told Damon it was tied to Bonnie’s life, but actually he tied it to Damon’s.”

She lapsed into silence a moment; a symphony of crickets and frogs filled the quiet. When she opened her mouth again a mixture of nostalgia and sorrow laced her tone, nearly drowning out the touch of exasperation.

“Care and Bonnie filled me in since I was ‘sleeping’ at the time,” she exhaled, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

“About eight years ago Katherine clawed her way out of hell, and no, I’m not joking. She came with a rather solid plan to get rid of me. Mystic Falls came this close to being consumed in literal hellfire,” she held her thumb and forefinger together.

“Obviously that didn’t happen,” he inclined his head.

“They dug up her bones and carved a knife that would kill her once and for all,” she cringed and swallowed her urge to apologize. Once upon a time Elijah had loved her, and she spoke of her ancestor’s death with no hint of remorse, but for whatever reason he didn’t seem bothered, merely curious.

“What happened?”

“Nobody knows for sure,” she shrugged. “The running theory is that Stefan did what he always did and played the hero because someone had to drag Katherine down so she wouldn’t get away. Stefan killed Katherine and saved the town, and Damon tried to save Stefan, or vice versa. All anyone really knows is that all three of them went down in the caves and all three of them died.”

“I’m sorry.” His sudden admission made her heart skip. “You two were together,” he answered the silent question.

“I don’t know that we were at that point,” her brows narrowed. “I told him to live his life which was as close to a break up as I could get without actually saying it. Should I have said: ‘wait for me’ instead?”

“What are a handful of decades to a vampire?”

“Arguably nothing,” she shrugged. “I think I still had a human’s perspective of time where everything can change in the blink of an eye. I still think that regardless of immortality.”

He thought of his niece. The turning point for all of them. Their hope brought forth by what should have been a single act fuelled by bourbon and bad decisions that brought mother and child into their lives.

“You think that because it’s true, and any immortal who says otherwise is lying through their teeth.”

“How do I know you’re not lying now?” She said, a teasing light in her eyes.

“I have never lied to you Elena, and I never will.”

Her eyes flickered to his mouth and back up.

“Never?” She tasted scepticism on her tongue.

“Never,” he confirmed. “I might have withheld information, but I have never lied. Not to you.”

“You withheld information?” She cocked a curious eyebrow. “What didn’t you tell me?”

Objectively she knew the amount of things he hadn’t told her were innumerable; there had to be countless things he had kept quiet for the simple reason that the information was none of her business.

“I never told you that even on your emotionless bottom I could never mistake you for anyone else.” He reached for his mug, taking a sip of lukewarm tea.

Colour kissed her collarbones.

“Could have fooled me,” she murmured.

“I never got the chance to tell you, and for that I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” she licked her bottom lip, “for what I said in Willoughby, for…”

“That’s not necessary, Elena.”

“Yeah, it is,” she sighed. The flicker of hurt in his eyes that day had urged her to turn it back on; she nearly listened to the whisper.

“I lied,” she ran her finger around the rim of her mug, “it didn’t feel good watching the letter burn, or anything else.”

Her stomach twisted with despair.

Her covered her hand, gently squeezing her fingers. Warmth spread up her arm.

“Can I ask you something?”

She swallowed and sucked in a shallow breath, glancing up through her lashes.

“You can ask me anything,” she gave him her soft half smile.

“Why did Rebekah put that nursery together?” He nodded to the house.

“Because I put it off until I physically couldn’t put things together.” She shrugged.

“And when you left the nursery you practically ran.”

“Is there a question in there?” She took in a shaking breath.

“A couple questions,” he nodded. “Why hadn’t anyone helped you before now?”

“Caroline and Bonnie have been helping, but they have their own lives.”

“Is there nobody else who could offer aid?” He frowned in concern, mentally calculating the distance from the lake to the hospital.

“Jeremy pops by from time to time, but he wouldn’t have a clue how to do half of this stuff,” amusement flickered through her eyes. “Ric does know, but after one too many grandpa jokes he’s hesitant to step into more teasing. And then there’s the fact that everyone thinks I already did all of this stuff except for Bonnie; she was with me when I picked up the crib today and saw the trunk of my car.”

“She didn’t offer to help?” He quickly questioned the wisdom in lecturing the Bennett witch.

“Kol was on her doorstep, Caroline wanted her to help him. I didn’t hear the message though,” her teeth sank into her bottom lip, “since my brain was hurtling full speed towards a freak out. You didn’t know Kol was at Bonnie’s?”

“No,” he leaned forward, reflexively squeezing her hand. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” she smiled sadly, “Rebekah showed up and calmed me down.”

“And where is your child’s father in all of this?” Unsurprisingly he felt a stab of jealousy.

“Non-existent,” she shivered in a blast of cold wind.

He stood, offering her a hand up. “Non-existent?”

She carried the empty mugs inside, nodding as he shut the patio door.

“I mean, obviously he exists somewhere, but I have no idea where.” She slammed the mugs down with more force than necessary. One shattered, sending half a dozen shards to the floor.

Before she could blink Elijah knelt at her feet. He picked up the sharp pieces with one hand and grasped her hip with the other to help her keep her balance.

“Shall I hunt the bastard down and murder him for you?” He attempted to joke.

“If only it were that simple,” she breathed. A blush crept up her cheeks when she saw the mess she had made. “Caroline already made that offer.”

“And you didn’t take her up on it?” He stood, disposing of glass.

“I’d have to know where to start looking,” she shook her head. The weight settled on her chest again.

“If I ask what happened, will you tell me?” His hands curled around her elbows.

“I don’t know,” she stepped out of his hold, spinning to pace into the living room.

“Elena?”

She grasped the back of a leather armchair and sucked in quick bursts of air, forcing herself to even her breathing.

“I don’t know, Elijah,” she shook her head. “I… I literally don’t know.”

And then her procrastination, desire to be anywhere else but the nursery, and her apparent lack of excitement, made sense; and it seemed unlikely that the possibility of eventually bringing another doppelgänger into the world was the root of the problem.

“Walk me through it,” he placed his palm on the small of her back. “Tell me?”

“I haven’t told anybody,” a hysterical giggle, closer to a sob, broke in her chest. Two breakdowns in one day. Nice Elena.

“Not Bonnie or Caroline?”

She shook her head. “They would have burned that town down for answers, so I told them it was a one night thing and when I told him he basically told me to go to hell.”

“Will you tell me the truth?” He wanted to scold himself for daring to physically comfort her, but he was a selfish man; he would take every possible form of contact he could get.

“I suppose I’ll have to, won’t I?” She sighed, rolling her eyes. “You’ll know if I lie.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything.” His fingers worked a knot from her back. The level of tension in her body worried him.

Her legs shook, exhausted from hauling around the extra weight.

He guided her to the sofa and perched beside her, resisting the urge to wrap an arm around her shoulders. He doubted she would like that with the subject he suspected invaded her mind; he wanted to kick himself for bringing it up and forcing her to relive it.

A fire crackled to life in the hearth.

He filed the knowledge away for later.

“You know about the twins?” She took controlled breaths, watching him nod. “They’re gonna have to merge and Caroline’s been looking for a solution since they were little. I go with her sometimes; the promise of channeling the last doppelgänger tends to loosen tongues.”

“I can understand that.” He shifted, accidentally brushing her knee.

“She got a lead, turned out to be a bust,” she tilted her head, “about a witch near Almeirim, so about nine months ago I went with her to Brazil. She went to meet the witch and I hung back in case she needed me.”

She stared at the coffee table without seeing it.

“I got a little bored, so around midnight I went for a walk near the river.”

“Alone?” His brows shut up.

“I know the danger of walking along, and I thought I could handle myself.” She waved one hand towards the fire. “After everything I thought learning a bit of magic would be a good idea.”

“Did your gypsy heritage help?” He listened to her erratic heart.

“No.” Her eyes took on a far away look again. “I walked along the river. I heard something break the surface. I turned to look, and then… then I was fifteen feet downstream, soaked through and my phone was on the ground with two missed calls from Caroline and a bunch of text messages.”

“How much time had passed?” His mind scrambled for possibilities.

“At least three hours,” she worried her bottom lip. “A couple weeks later I got a positive pregnancy test.”

“You didn’t consider the possibility before that?”

“I felt physically fine.” She placed her palms on her thighs. “Everything was in place, nothing hurt, so no, my mind didn’t go to that possibility. I didn’t even think I could be pregnant until Caroline gently steered me in that direction.”

“Where did your mind go?”

“Witches,” she shrugged. “I figured witches saw me, recognized me, and used me for a spell before making me forget it.”

“Not vampires?” He smirked.

“I was on vervain.”

“And you’ve told nobody,” his eyes noted the shift in light, signifying the sinking sun.

“Nobody,” she exhaled.

“I see,” he glanced towards the ceiling. Then studied her profile.

“Elena…” he hesitated, but ultimately reached for her hand. “Do you want this?”

“I…” her mouth opened and closed a few times. “I have mixed feelings.”

She loved Bonnie, but she could be judgemental at times, and she loved Caroline; they were family, sisters, but neither could ever understand. She suspected Katherine to be the only one who could have, and even then she couldn’t get all of it. Katherine would have understood half. Caroline would have understood half, but nobody would understand it all, not completely.

Elijah would listen though - listen and not judge.

“I’m a doppelgänger,” she closed her eyes, “I never wanted there to be another; that was going to be my giant ‘fuck you’ to Klaus.”

He chuckled, she smiled, and neither mentioned the way their fingers slipped together.

“But now there is a baby, so that’s out the window,” she tilted her head, laughing softly. “And I don’t know how it got in there. I don’t know if I consented and then was forced to forget, or maybe I didn’t consent; maybe someone forced me because they wanted my bloodline to continue. And I don’t know if I’m supposed to find the mermaid theme a cute reminder of getting knocked up somewhere near the water, or if I’m supposed to be horrified, but…” she trailed off, feeling the sting of tears behind her eyes.

Elijah pressed a smooth navy handkerchief into her hand, nodding encouragingly as she opened and dried her eyes.

“But,” her fingers crumpled the fabric against her belly. “There’s going to be a baby. And she’s real, and she’s mine,” her voice trembled, “and I put everything off. Then today I had to confront it.

“I told Rebekah I was terrified of being a single mother, which is true,” she sniffed, clearing her throat, “and that’s why I had the anxiety attack.”

“You’re conflicted,” he smoothed his thumb along her finger, “and after what you told me I’m not surprised. I am surprised that you’re not sobbing right now.”

She groaned, dropping her head into her hands. “I just totally unloaded on you. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright Elena,” he smoothed a hand across her shoulders.

“No, it’s not,” she pressed her lips together. “You came here to catch up and I…”

“I did catch up,” he swept her hair over her shoulder and pulled her hands away from her face. His thumbs rubbed over her knuckles. “I arguably know more than your friends.”

“No arguing about it because you do know more,” her nose wrinkled as her lips parted slightly. “Why are you really here? I might have bought catching up if you hadn’t looked like you wanted to say a million other things.”

“Am I that easily read?”

“I’m getting better at it,” she twisted in place, releasing his hands as she readjusted. “What’s going on? Why today? And what did you mean you didn’t know who you were? You said you’d never lie to me,” she reminded with a watery smile.

“I did say that,” he lowered his eyes, nodding. “I had my memory removed so I wouldn’t be a danger to my family and I came here today because it’s the last chance I’ll get to speak with you.”

The teasing sparkle left her eyes.

“What do you mean?” She swallowed.

“A darkness has taken hold of my niece,” he sighed, watching the shift of her stomach. A lump rose beneath her shirt as the baby stretched in the cramped space. “It’s killing her; she won’t survive the full moon tonight.”

“Th-that’s horrible,” she gently touched his arm, “but I don’t understand the connection.”

“I took her to lunch today and overheard a conversation I wasn’t meant to.”

“Eavesdropper,” she accused, attempting to lift the dread from her shoulders.

“Niklaus plans to have Caroline’s girls move the Hollow - that’s the darkness my siblings and I took into ourselves years ago, and the reason I forgot everything - into him. Then he wants her to subdue him and drop him at the bottom of the ocean. I can’t let him do that.”

She couldn’t see Caroline being onboard with the plan, and she wouldn’t have wished that fate on Klaus anymore, but if it came to a choice between brothers she knew who she would pick.

“Don’t do this Elijah,” fresh tears welled in her eyes. She lost too many people to martyrdom; he was meant to be there, always somewhere.

“You don’t even know what I’m planning,” his rueful smile failed to reach his eyes.

“Like hell I don’t,” she cried, digging her nails into his soft jacket. “You do things you abhor to protect your family all the time, and now you’re thinking you’ll take Klaus’ place. I get that you want to protect them; I understand it, but not like this. Find another way.”

“There is no other way,” he shook his head, catching the crunch of tires over gravel.

The speed she utilized to stand shocked them almost as much as the vehemence in her voice.

“There’s always another way!” Heat flashed in her eyes; it dissipated a bit when her front door swung open. Her brows rose, shooting towards her hairline. “Care?”

“Hey,” she grinned, striding into the living room. She took in Elijah’s presence, but made no comment on her best friend’s company. “Did you pick up popcorn?”

“Yeah,” she crossed her arms over her stomach, “why?”

“Because this is going to be seriously amusing,” her eyes glittered, jumping from green to blue and back.

Elena opened her mouth to ask, but a clipped accent cut off her voice.

“You’re taking far too much pleasure in this, love.”

“Not yet,” Caroline smirked, “but I guarantee that I will.”

++++

“You need to relax,” Kol scolded, lightly clapping a hand on her knee. “Lighten up.”

“How am I supposed to do that?” She scoffed through a bemused smile.

He never wanted to see such a forlorn expression on her face; she was meant to be protected and kept far from the horrific company their family made a habit of keeping. His dead heart broke to see so much cynicism in one so young.

“My life hangs on my dad’s ability to convince a woman who hates him, whose aunt he murdered in a ritual that should have killed her too, to help him.”

“Don’t count him out yet, bunny.”

“I’m going to die in a few hours,” she rolled her eyes, staring out over the town square. “She’s not going to want to help him.”

He tapped his fingers against the bench and watched the revelry of the teenagers along with the rest of the town. It still surprised him, though it probably shouldn’t have, how little the town had changed. He half expected the quarterback to materialize on his periphery in a letterman jacket, but of course he now held the office of Sheriff.

“She might hate Nik.” He ran his tongue over his teeth. “She might deny Nik. She could hear it out from Rebekah. Her guilt may sway her to say yes to me, though I doubt it. There is, however, one person she will say yes to.”

Hope’s eyes narrowed as she tilted her head and gripped the underside of the bench, driving a splinter into her index finger. “Caroline?”

Caroline Forbes possessed a single minded determination that led them to the breakthrough, and as Elena’s best friend she held the doppelgängers ear, but he doubted even Caroline could turn her set mind.

The hatred for Klaus ran deep.

“Sure,” the corner of his mouth quirked up.

From the edge of the square, on the fringe of the concert crowd, a teenage boy stole a glance in their direction; his fifth since they sat down, not that Kol deliberately kept count. The boy simply proved impossible to miss for anyone whose attention was not consumed by her impending death.

“Don’t look now, darling,” he teased, “but there is a kicked puppy that keeps looking at you.” The statement succeeded in distracting her. He watched her face pop up and flood with heat and a tiny smile. “Is this possibly a puppy you didn’t mean to kick?”

“He’s not a puppy,” she murmured.

“Oh, you like him,” he leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Shall I inquire as to his intentions? Perhaps discuss a dowry?”

“You’re not half as funny as you think you are,” she told her shoes.

“I’m hilarious and you know it.” An idea took shape in his mind; he hoped it would be a fitting distraction. “Why don’t you go and talk to him? He doesn’t look like he bites. Go on and have some fun.”

“What’s the point?” She shook her head, but her muscles bunched, ready to stand and approach.

“The point, little witch, is that you’re fifteen years old and you’re alive and you deserve to have some fun with a boy you like while your beloved uncle makes him uncomfortable with threatening stares.” He chuckled and smoothed out his features. “I do a wonderful imitation of a deranged psychopath.”

“Is that because you are one?” She cocked an eyebrow, increasing her resemblance to her father.

“Less so these days,” he smirked and brought one hand around to the small of her back, “go on. Have some fun.”

Hope got to her feet rather than let him shove her to the ground. Her nails picked at her finger, pulling the splinter out; it stung, burning in the evening air. She glanced over her shoulder and received a shooing motion for the effort.

With her heart in her throat she sucked in a shallow breath and left, skirting around the people listening to the music.

Landon glanced around as she approached him, tearing his poor concentration from the dancing couples. His shock morphed into a shy smile.

Butterflies swarmed in her belly, making her steps falter. She sensed if she looked back she would find one uncle resembling a cat with a canary.

“Hey.” She cringed at the breathlessness of her voice. Fuel for the teasing fire, but then again, she’d be dead in a few hours so it didn’t matter.

“Hey.” His voice matched hers and that brought a modicum of comfort.

“I thought you had to be somewhere tonight.”

“Yeah, well,” she shrugged, slipping her hands into her pockets, “it turns out that somewhere was the town square with my uncle.”

“You’re uncle?” His eyes widened when she nodded. “He’s young.”

“He’s older than he looks,” she snickered, considering turning to give him a quick smirk. “I’m here for a little while, but I do have a curfew soon.”

“Private school doesn’t want you hanging out with the town riffraff too late?” He teased. “Shocking.”

“Trust me,” she laughed, “there’s plenty of riffraff behind the gates.”

He laughed, ducking his head.

“So, uh,” he spoke to his shoes, “you know that jerk from the Grille?”

He looked up and she nodded.

“Apparently he wrecked his car today.”

She had to bite her lip to hide her grin she knew matched Kol’s.

“And now you’re here, and the music’s good, so before my luck runs out, which it will…”

He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Do you… uh… want to dance or something?”

“You want to dance with me?” Her brows shot up. Nobody had ever asked her to dance outside of family, and she hadn’t felt inclined to do much dancing at the wedding.

“Fair warning,” he started babbling, “I might suck at it, and I haven’t really thought this whole thing through. Kind of living in the moment here,” he shrugged his shoulders.

“I…” she hesitated, biting her lip. “You know I should probably do more of that myself.”

She held out her hand, nodding as they moved into a simple form and swayed. When they turned she half expected to find Kol glaring at Landon like he promised. Instead she found his nodding head bent over a sheet of paper and Bonnie Bennett beside him, turning over the bone knife between her hands.

++++

“I wish we had more time,” Bonnie murmured, running her finger over the dark object. A vial burned a hole in her pocket.

“You can seal it in the knife with Elena’s blood,” he made minute adjustments with a pencil.

“I know, and I know it’ll work,” she sighed. “I just wish we could have found something less… pointy.”

“Pointy?” He laughed, turning to face her.

“Don’t mock me,” she elbowed him lightly, “this is still going to be a dangerous thing. Made all the worse by the evil spirit we’re going to stick inside it.”

“I know, love,” he sobered. “I wish we had a little more time too, but Elena’s blood will seal it and we can lock the knife up. Given more time we could have broken down the components and forged a box of sorts, but,” his eyes found his niece, “we’re short on time.”

“I know,” she reached into her pocket for her buzzing phone. “It’s Caroline.”

@elejahforever @elejah-wonderland @naughtynecromancer @ethanjwillis @cry-btch@geekofmanyfandoms @morsmornte @xanderling @bellemorte180 @iw1shiknew @blndbandt@petrova-banz @bulldozed88 @njeancastro316

#Elena gilbert #Elijah mikaelson #elejah #klaroline #Klaus mikaelson #Caroline forbes #bonnie bennett #kol mikaelson #kennett #Rebekah mikaelson #hope mikaelson #Landon kirby #handon #legacies #the vampire diaries #the originals

[stevethehairington]

45 from that kiss prompt thing with Gallavich would be amazing

hii! first of all thank you so much or sending this in, i appreciate it SO much!! the second i saw which prompt 45 was omg i opened a doc and the words started spilling out, that was a GREAT one to pick! 

i may have gotten a little carried away writing it, so it’s a lot longer than i expected it to be at first haha. but hey that just means more gallavich for you to read! :)

i have posted it to ao3, though, which you can find the link to here. otherwise, here is is under the keep reading! happy reading!

It’s late when they get back. It’s late, and the house is dark, which means everyone must be asleep. But his slumbering siblings are the last thing on Ian’s mind as he and Mickey stumble into the quiet house, connected at the mouth.

The door goes flying open, banging into the wall hard enough to make the preexisting doorknob sized crater even larger, and Ian pushes Mickey across the threshold, sticking his foot out behind him to kick the door closed. He walks Mickey backwards, sure enough in the knowledge that Mickey knows the layout of his house well enough that he doesn’t need to bother giving navigation his full attention— not that either of them would even if they did need to. Ian’s too lost in the warmth of Mickey’s mouth and the slide of his tongue against his own to worry about anything else.

Despite knowing their way around the house, there’s still no way for them to anticipate the whereabouts of the constantly moving stuff in the house, and Mickey nearly trips backwards over a stray boot lying in the middle of the hall.

Ian’s hands are already around Mickey’s waist, luckily, and his grip only tightens, effectively pulling Mickey closer and keeping him upright.

It’s not enough to keep Mickey’s own arms from flying up to loop around Ian’s neck to steady himself, though. But once Mickey’s regained his balance, Ian feels a rush of satisfaction when Mickey keeps them there, and even lets one hand drift up into Ian’s hair, cradling the back of his head as he kisses him deeper.

Undeterred by the near trip up, Mickey sidesteps the boot and Ian kicks it aside. They don’t make it very far before Mickey’s bumping into the wall, letting out a gruff noise as his shoulder connects with an unused coat hook. To correct for it, he ends up crowding forward into Ian’s space, forcing him back into the door.

Ian hits the door with a dull thud, but then Mickey plasters himself up against Ian’s front and cradles his jaw between his hands as he kisses him within an inch of his life— at least that’s what it feels like to Ian. And, god, does he love that. The way Mickey kisses him. It may have taken a while for Mickey to warm up to even the idea of kissing Ian, but once he had and once he’d taken that leap, he’d been all in. Every kiss with Mickey simultaneously feels like the very first one and the last one they may ever share.

They kiss against the front door for a little while, lazy and content. But Ian gets impatient, and he surges forward again, desperate to move this to somewhere they can get horizontal— though it isn’t as though he’s opposed to fucking Mickey against the door if it really comes down to it.

But when he moves to shove Mickey through the second door leading to the family room, Mickey’s back connects roughly with the closed door, and the knob jams into his lower back, hard.

Mickey yelps into Ian’s mouth, interrupting the kiss, and clenches his jaw against the onslaught of pain, momentarily forgetting his mouth’s current activities, which means he ends up biting down onto Ian’s lip rather painfully.

Ian hisses as the pain starts to bloom, and he jumps back, hand immediately flying up to his mouth.

Across from him Mickey spins around to glare at the doorknob and twists his arm behind him to rub at his back.

Ian makes a noise as he gingerly touches his lip. Even in the dark he can see his finger comes away stained with a little bit of blood as he pulls it back.

His noise draws Mickey’s attention again, and he turns back to Ian, disgruntled annoyance melting from his face to make way for concern. The skin between his eyebrows bunches up again as he steps into Ian’s space and goes to address the wound. “Shit,” Mickey hisses, reaching for Ian’s face. “Fuckin’ doorknob. Are you okay?”

Ian swats at his hand, the tiniest flare of irritation lighting up his nerves. He’s fine. His lip stings, but just like it had been earlier at the dugouts, Ian’s feeling something, and even if that something is pain, Ian still wants it. Relishes it, even. Instead of giving Mickey a proper answer, he knocks Mickey’s hand from his face again and tugs him back into a kiss, chasing those feelings.

Mickey doesn’t complain or protest, just curls his arms around Ian’s waist and settles his palms low on his back, just above his ass.

Ian keeps one hand fisted into the front of Mickey’s shirt, but slips the other around him, blindly feeling for the doorknob so he can open it and they can make it through this time.

They spill into the family room, Ian sucking Mickey’s bottom lip into his mouth as he pushes Mickey further into the room. He nips at Mickey’s lip a few times, drawing out a soft noise from the back of Mickey’s throat that goes straight to his dick and spurs Ian on even more.

Mickey tries to take control by sliding his fingers into the belt loops of Ian’s jeans as he shuffles backwards, pulling them towards the stairs. He’s clearly just as desperate as Ian is to get on with it, but unlike Ian he seems more inclined to find a bed rather than settle for the closest piece of furniture. They lurch towards the foot of the stairs, and Mickey spins them so that if they were to start climbing, Ian would have to do it backwards— the bastard.

Ian’s shoulder clips the bannister, and he grunts into Mickey’s mouth. It doesn’t hurt much, but the dull ache of the impact is enough to clear his mind for the briefest of moments.

“Not upstairs,” he pants into Mickey’s mouth, and he has more to say, has an explanation to give, but Mickey hasn’t stopped kissing him, and Ian gets lost in it until Mickey mumbles an urgent c’mon against his lips and tries to back Ian up again.

Ian presses a hand flat against Mickey’s chest, and Mickey breaks the kiss momentarily to give Ian a confused, impatient look.

“We can’t go in my room,” Ian tells him, and Mickey just blinks at him with blown pupils and shiny lips, and Ian almost forgets why they can’t go up to his room and drags him there anyways. But then he remembers his brothers— the children— he shares a room with, and he shakes his head. “Full house,” he reminds Mickey, tapping a finger against his chest, and the meaning dawns on Mickey, who groans and lets his forehead fall against Ian’s shoulder.

“We ever goin’ to fuck on a bed?” Mickey asks gruffly, a hint of irritation lacing his words.

Ian laughs airily, and buries his face in Mickey’s hair before tipping his head back to meet Mickey’s eyes. And for a second, everything else fades away. Ian’s siblings upstairs, Mickey’s dad and his wife and his kid at home, the last few months, all the ups and downs they’ve been through, it all just disappears from his memory, and it’s just him and Mickey laughing and smiling and kissing away the time.

“Next time,” Ian promises, breaking the moment. He ducks down to steal a quick kiss, and Mickey’s lips chase his as he pulls away. It makes Ian grin. “Couch looks pretty good to me right now, though,” he adds, punctuating it by giving Mickey’s ass a squeeze through his jeans.

Mickey’s not expecting it, and he jumps a little in Ian’s arms, cursing at him under his breath, but there’s a tiny grin quirking at his lips, and he grabs Ian’s hand to tug him through the dark house towards the sofa a few feet away.

Ian clings to Mickey’s back, dropping Mickey’s hand so he can slide his arms around his waist and tease him by toying with the front of his jeans. He latches onto Mickey’s neck too, as best as he can from behind him, anyways.

Mickey seems to be enjoying it, huffing out little laughs that go breathy towards the end when Ian really gets into it. It’s distracting as hell, though, and Mickey’s legs fail him more often than not, bringing him to a stop several times before they make it to the couch so he can melt back into Ian’s body and revel in the touch of his hands and the press of his lips.

He sends an elbow into Ian’s ribs, light enough not to hurt but hard enough that he’ll get the message to quit it, at least for now, so they can get to the couch and he can get the fuck on him for real.

They finally round the corner of the couch, and Ian’s about to manhandle Mickey around so they’re facing each other and he can kiss him as they collapse into the cushions (and maybe so he can fuck Mickey face to face, too— Mickey’s in a good enough mood that Ian doesn’t think he’d stop them to turn himself around if Ian were to try to fuck him like this), but before he can, Mickey comes to an abrupt stop.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” Mickey hisses, the tiniest hint of a whine to his voice as he glares down at Frank’s sprawled out, unmoving form clearly passed out across the sofa.

“Fuckin’ Frank,” Ian groans and drops his forehead against Mickey’s back. Of fucking course Frank would find a way to cockblock him without even meaning to. “He doesn’t even fucking live here,” he grumbles.

Mickey gives the bottom of the couch an experimental kick, but Frank doesn’t even stir. He huffs out and kicks the couch again, this time in frustration.

And it is frustrating, but Ian is determined not to let this— not to let Frank— ruin his evening. It had been such a good one— the best one in a while, really— and there’s no way he’s not going to end it by fucking his boyfriend good and hard, just the way they both deserve.

“C’mon,” Ian says, grabbing Mickey’s hand again. He brings his face close to Mickey’s. “M’still gonna fuck you,” he promises, voice low enough to make Mickey forget all about the deadbeat alcoholic passed out on what would’ve been their ‘bed’ for the evening. “Kitchen table’s the next flat surface I can think of,” he whispers into Mickey’s ear, and he grins at the shudder he can feel go through Mickey’s body. Feeling a little daring, Ian darts his tongue out to lick the shell of Mickey’s ear, then bites down on his lobe. It’s a bold move, one that has just as high a chance of earning him a punch as it does not. But he doesn’t give Mickey the chance to make that decision. Ian spins him around in his arms and crushes his mouth to Mickey’s, and by then Mickey’s far too occupied to protest.

They knock into the coffee table as they distractedly try to shimmy out of the tight space between the table and the couch, and a few of Debbie’s or maybe Fiona’s magazines slip off the surface and flop to the ground, the pages fanning out and bending back. Neither Ian nor Mickey can be assed to care.

Mickey bumps into the end of the couch, and he nearly steps on one of Liam’s toys lying in their path, but thankfully his foot lands a few inches away from it, and they make it into the kitchen unscathed.

Once in the kitchen, Ian walks Mickey back until he runs into the counter. He presses him against the ledge and crowds into his space, licking at the seam of Mickey’s mouth until he parts his lips for Ian.

Mickey’s hands grip at his waist, then push under his shirt and settle against his bare skin.

Desperate to get those hands all over him, Ian breaks the kiss long enough to rear back so he can yank his shirt over his head. He lets it fall to a heap somewhere on the floor behind him, then reattaches himself to Mickey’s mouth, licking into it with a renewed fervor.

As soon as he’s back in Mickey’s space, Mickey’s hands find his waist again. This time instead of just settling there, his hands glide up Ian’s back, smoothing over the muscles Ian knows Mickey loves to grab onto when he fucks him good— the few times they have fucked face to face he hadn’t been able to let go. His hands are warm against Ian’s skin and they leave a trail of electricity in their wake.

And suddenly Ian’s itching to get his own hands all over Mickey’s bare skin. He tugs at the bottom of Mickey’s shirt, pulling it from where it’s tucked into the waistband of his jeans all properlike for their date. Ian can’t help but smile a little dopily at the effort Mickey put into it, like he knew how much it would mean to Ian if he did. (And to himself, too, he’s not fooling anyone.)

Mickey gets the hint pretty quick, nipping at Ian’s bottom lip before abandoning his mouth to focus on getting rid of his shirt. “The fuck you smilin’ about?” He asks, but Ian can hear Mickey’s own smile in his voice and he just laughs a little.

“Get your fucking shirt off,” Ian replies, clawing at the offending fabric still covering Mickey’s upper half.

“Bossy fuck,” Mickey mutters, but it’s clear he’s wants it gone just as bad when he stops messing with the buttons and starts to pull his shirt up his body as quickly as he can instead.

His arm gets caught in the sleeve in his haste, and rather than take his time to untangle himself, Mickey huffs and tries to shake his arm free. It doesn’t help that Ian’s still pulling at the material, probably hindering him much more than he is actually helping any, but he’s too damn eager to get Mickey naked to act rationally.

“Fucking god damn fancy ass shirt,” Mickey grumbles, followed by a string of curses that makes Ian snort in amusement.

But his amusement doesn’t last too long. In the next second, Mickey finally manages to get his arm free, but the release is so sharp that his arm flails back and his elbow goes slamming into the empty metal pot that was sitting on the stove beside them.

The pot knocks onto its side with a clatter, sending the lid skidding across the stove to crash into the coffee maker, then rolls none too quietly right over the edge of the counter where it falls to the floor with a loud, echoing crash.

Mickey grabs for Ian instinctively, clutching at his arms tight enough that his nails are bound to leave little half moon indents in his skin.

“Oh fuck!”

“Shit!” Ian hisses out, eyes going wide as he watches the scene in horror.

The pot keeps rolling across the floor until it hits the side of the laundry machine and finally comes to a stop. The room goes quiet.

They stand there, frozen in the kitchen, the throbbing in their pants momentarily forgotten as they both strain their ears for any sign that the noise woke anyone up.

After a few seconds and nothing, not even a peep from Frank (which for the briefest of moments makes Ian wonder if he’s dead rather than just passed out on the couch), the tension in their shoulder relaxes.

Ian tears his eyes from where he was squinting towards the stairs to look at Mickey, and when their eyes meet, they both burst into quiet, relieved laughter. Ian quickly muffles himself in Mickey’s neck, and Mickey presses his face into Ian’s hair in response.

“Fuck, I thought for sure that would wake someone up,” Ian says, giggling like a child that’s had too much sugar. He can’t help it though, it makes him fucking giddy that no one seemed to have heard them. They’re being fucking loud.

“Those shitheads can sleep through anything, fuck,” Mickey says, almost in awe. “Must be fuckin’ nice.”

It’s a loaded statement, but now is really not the time to unpack all that, so rather than let himself get too caught up in it, Ian presses his lips to Mickey’s neck where he’s still hiding his face. He leaves a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses down to Mickey’s collarbone, nipping gently at the skin before laving over it with his tongue. “Guess they can sleep through anything,” he agrees. “Means I can make you scream my name when I fuck you right here in the kitchen,” Ian says, low and dirty.

“Fuck you, I ain’t a screamer,” Mickey snaps, but Ian can see the way his words are affecting him. He can feel it too, where Mickey’s pressing up against his thigh.

“Bet I can make you one,” Ian taunts, biting down on his lip. He lifts his head from Mickey’s neck, a wicked smirk unfurling across his face.“I bet—”

He’s cut off by Mickey growling low in his throat and crushing his lips back to Ian’s in a searing kiss that has Ian gasping into it before matching his enthusiasm.

And Mickey doesn’t waste a second either. They’ve barely even started back up before Mickey’s hands are at Ian’s pants, popping open the button and tearing the zipper down. He shoves Ian’s jeans down just enough that he can slide his hand into his boxers and wrap strong fingers around his dick.

Ian whimpers into Mickey’s mouth and pushes his hips instinctively back against Mickey’s hand. Then he scrambles to get his own hand down the back of Mickey’s jeans, too, and he cups a good handful of it, pulling a short little moan from Mickey that he immediately tries to stifle. It makes Ian pretty damn smug.

He’s about to see if he can pull any more unexpected sounds from Mickey by trailing a finger teasingly over his crack when light suddenly floods the kitchen.

“Fucking shit! What the fuck!”

Mickey’s hand is gone from his pants in an instant, and Ian stumbles back as Mickey shoves him away, panting hard and eyes wild with panic.

Ian’s heart rabbits in his chest and he yanks his jeans back up as he whirls around.

“I’ve got a fuckin bat!” Fiona shouts, and she sure fucking does.

She stands just beneath the doorframe, her foot inches away from that stupid fucking pot that, apparently, did wake someone up. Her hair is sticking up from the pillow, and her eyes are wide, but she doesn’t look fully alert quite yet, traces of sleep still around the edges. The Gallagher’s trusty thug bashing baseball bat is hoisted over her shoulder, like she’s ready to swing.

“It’s just us!” Ian screeches, stepping in front of Mickey and holding his hands out to placate his sister.

“Christ, Ian,” Fiona breathes, letting the bat fall to her side. She places her other hand over her chest and blows out a long breath. “Fuck you doin’ coming in so late like that?” She asks, and it’s then that she notices Mickey where he’s still standing behind Ian. He’s steadfastly avoiding meeting her eyes, and Ian knows it’s mostly from embarrassment over getting caught about to fuck and not because he got caught about to fuck Ian.

Fiona’s eyes flit between the pair of them, and Ian knows they must be a sight to see. He’s sure his hair is all over the place from when Mickey had his hands buried in it, and his jeans are still undone and hastily dragged back up so they cover enough of what needs to be covered. Neither one of them has a shirt on, and they’re both breathing like they’d just run a fucking marathon. Ian spares a quick glance back at Mickey, and even though he looks slightly more put together than Ian, it still isn’t hard to tell what he’s just been doing. Not with the way his lips are redder than usual and still shining from being in Ian’s mouth just seconds ago.

“We had a date,” Ian tells Fiona proudly, and he drops his shoulder back to knock into Mickey’s. He looks back at him, and smiles when he sees that Mickey has finally lifted his eyes from the floor.

Mickey manages to smile back, just the tiniest lift of the corners of his lips, but Ian catches it and it makes him feel warm all over. Then Mickey meets Fiona’s eyes and gives a short nod, confirming Ian’s answer, and that makes Ian’s fucking heart sing. A few months ago Mickey never would have admitted to being on a date— hell, he couldn’t even admit that they were boyfriends, which they so obviously were. He probably never would have even agreed to going out on a date either, but that’s besides the point. He’s come a long fucking way, and Ian couldn’t be more proud.

Fiona softens and a happy, albeit tired smile graces her face. “A date, huh?” She repeats, sticking her hand on her hip. She lifts the baseball bat and uses it to gesture around the kitchen. “You continuin’ that date here or somethin’?” And the knowing look she gives the two of them is enough to have them both blushing.

“Fuck off,” Mickey mutters gruffly, dropping his eyes back to the floor.

Ian gives her a bashful look and the tiniest shrug of his shoulders. “Uh, no?” He tries, but it’s not convincing at all, not that it even needs to be at this point. They’ve already been caught with their hands down their pants— literally.

Fiona laughs and then sighs. “Just remember we gotta eat breakfast in this kitchen in the morning,” she warns, pointing the baseball bat at them again. “Leave it cleaner than you found it,” she calls, already halfway out of the room on her way back to the stairs. She’s barely gone before they hear a quiet, “how the fuck did he get in here?” which means Fiona must have found Frank. But then the soft thuds of feet on the stairs can be heard, and Fiona really is gone.

It takes a few seconds before Ian or Mickey move, both still shook up from the interruption.

Mickey breaks first, blowing a breath out through his teeth and rubbing his hands down his face. “Jesus christ,” he mumbles.

Ian thinks that might have killed the mood with Mickey, and he prepares himself to accept that his sister just totally cockblocked him even if it was unintentional.

But then Mickey starts to laugh, and his hands fall back to his side. He gives Ian a bewildered look, like he kind of can’t believe that just happened— that Fiona said what she said— and Ian just shrugs. He knows she’s been in the exact same position before, so she’s not really in the place to judge or get on Ian’s case about it.

“It kinda sounds like she just fuckin’ gave us her blessing or something to fuck in the kitchen,” Mickey says, shaking his head. “What the fuck.”

“That’s ‘cause she kind of fucking did,” Ian points out, inching back into Mickey’s space. He meets Mickey’s eyes and tilts his head to the side. “You still up for it?” He asks, a grin tugging at his lips.

“You’re still revving to go even after your sister just walked in on us?” Mickey asks, astounded.

Ian waggles his eyebrows and shrugs. “Always revving to go when I’m around you,” he answers, and Mickey snorts and shoves Ian a little.

“Cheesy fucker,” he says, but it comes out fond, and he’s cracking a smile. “Well, fuck, alright then,” Mickey adds after a second, laughing a little. “What the fuck you doing over there? Get the fuck on me, man.”

And, fuck, Ian doesn’t need to be told twice.

#gallavich #shameless #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #asks #eddiesasspbrak #my writing #mack writes

[orphans-of-coldfront]

@the-hunter-of-teufort-rp

// I imagined what their first encounter with the shapeshifter would be like and I figured that would be a good opportunity to write that short story I owed you ages ago portraying Johanna.

Johanna’s flashlight tore a rift through the darkness as she swiped it horizontally, sending its beam rustling through the foliage. Her hunting partner did the same, illuminating the other direction in order to keep the night’s veil at bay. The two of them knew better than to give their foe the element of surprise. The thing that they were hunting was a denizen of these woods. It knew the place well. This spelled disaster for them if they made the mistake of lowering their guard, even for a split second.

“My flashlight’s not picking up anything, but I feel like it’s stalking us” whispered Johanna in an unwavering voice. Her hand tightly clenched the handle of her handgun. Lucas gave her a side glance and noticed that the glyphs engraved into the ring on her finger were glowing. A bright, golden haze scattered in the air, as if its power was so potent that it seeped into the fabric of time and space. Lucas’ grip on his revolver was relentless, his one good eye squinting while it focused on the horizon.

“Yeah, partner, I’m inclined to agree. Weird, then, that the light hasn’t revealed anything.”

She nodded and thought about their situation. Her heart skipped a beat as she heard the nearby rustling of foliage without noticing any movement from the bushes.

“Any movement on your side, Lucas?”

“Nothing.”

“In the trees.”

As soon as Johanna deduced its position, the thing swooped down from a nearby tree. The huntress quickly lifted the barrel of her handgun skyward and fired a few shots at the pale, blurry grotesque shape that swiftly slammed against the ground, inches from Lucas’ position. The middle-aged man was struck, not by the thing but by the flying rocks and roots. He shielded his eyes and staggered back. The seasoned archer fired a few rounds at the ground near the rubble. Shivers ran down her spine when she witnessed the ghastly, sickly twisted mass of rotten flesh leap sideways before it scattered into the forest at a remarkable speed. A wave of dread washed over her when she heard the gross, dry sound of bones snapping and the crisp popping of its morphing bone structure. She knew exactly what it was, and it was as vile as what she recalled from her previous hunts.

“Are you okay, Lucas?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. That was a close call.”

“Looks like we found your shapeshifter.”

“No doubt about it. Foul breath. Pale, sickly skin. Contorted body. Bones shattered from the fall. Changes its shape and bone structure nearly instantly.”

A brisk gust of wind seeped into Lucas’ skin while his eye picked up a blurry figure making its way towards him. He lifted his colt and pointed it at the creature. As it approached, he began to tremble slightly. He bared his teeth while visceral anger erupted within, coursing through his veins like molten magma. He felt the taste of rage drip from his molars. It tasted like the smell of the air after a storm subsided. Toxic. Electric.

“How dare you?”  He growled while a thin haze escaped from his salivating mouth. His pupil had shrunk. His heavy breathing became sporadic.

Before him stood his mother, Zoey Laurier. Her blonde, curly hair cascaded down her neck. Lucas was disgusted by her eyes, which he remembered had always been full of love in his sweetest, innocent childhood days. They glared at him. Taunted him. He was fixated on those thin lips, perked into an amused grin. His quivering index hovered over the trigger for a few seconds, but he felt like a boiling kettle. Something in the depth of his mind screamed and drowned the rest of his thoughts. He let out a primal roar and squeezed the trigger. The bullet zoomed through the static air and carved through the doppelganger’s flesh. The shapeshifter didn’t flinch. Johanna’s eyes widened and she clenched her teeth as she watched Lucas fire again and again and again, sending more and more bullets drilling through the creature.

“Lucas! The bullets aren’t doing anything!”

She was right. The information which they had found turned out to be inaccurate. This was one of the risks of the hunt. These vile fiends were often portrayed in art and literature, and even in fellow hunters’ journals, but it was hard to find reliable information amidst this sea of data, which was oftentimes wrong. That was a real problem, because this wasn’t just some research paper. Their lives were at stake whenever they stepped into these creatures’ lair. In fact, they were going to die tonight unless she did something to calm down her partner.

She closed her eyes and channeled her energy into the ring that decorated her finger. A blinding light exploded from thin air and formed an American robin, which perched itself on top of the huntress’ shoulder. A reassuring, comforting warmth emanated from the bird. Johanna pointed at the blonde woman, which was getting closer and closer to Lucas, and the bird took flight, slamming through the creature’s body and drilling a large hole through its chest before immolating its body. The usually soft voice of the woman became distorted into a bestial screech while the creature crawled back into the wood, leaving chunks of rotten flesh behind it. This was their cue to make a run for it. She charged towards her distraught partner and shook his shoulder. He turned around and quickly met her sparkling, chestnut gaze. It was full of empathy.

“We have to run or we’re gonna die here!”

Her voice was full of worry, but it reassured him, nonetheless. It reminded him that he wasn’t alone. His features became softer. He nodded quietly and they made their way through the forest. The pair passed through the trail of trees that twisted and turned as they reached for the cloudy sky. Their flashlight frantically cleaved through the darkness. The rustling of leaves and the loud stomping sound behind him made Johanna’s heart leap. She stopped and quickly invoked a bow using her divine ring, which she used to fire an arrow in the direction of the bouncing shadow. The creature attempted to dodge, and it certainly would have succeeded if she hadn’t transformed the arrow into a thick, heavy net in a split second, which the shadow quickly got tangled into. Its body slumped to the ground and it fought to break free. While it could change forms, the net was too tight to allow it to break free in most conventional forms. Lucas, grinned and turned to the huntress.

“Nice shot! I owe you a drink after this”, he called out cheerfully while staring tauntingly at the shapeshifter, which screeched violently while trying to claw its way through the net, whose powerful light was sturdier than a steel cage.

“Make that two. Let’s get out of here, first”, she replied fully aware that it was only a matter of time until it escaped, and that she would rather be driving through the highway when it did. Thus, did the pair vanish in the depths of the darkness, leaving the cursed forest and its denizen behind them.

#ic #the-hunter-of-teufort-rp #scarredtactician #short story

[nekojitachan]

Oo dif person but speaking of wdwg, I've read all of your 600k+ fics at least twice and let me say your author's notes are hilarious lmao.Every single chapter you're like "okay guys! This is it! The longest chapter!"And according to Kindle it's a 40 min chapter, but then by the end of the fic the chapters are like 1 hr 30 mins long each and you are no longer keeping track of which is the longest chapter and idk why that's funny but it is lol but!! Thank you for writing them I love them so much!!

Well, to be FAIR, at the time they were the longest chapter. And then I seemed to be cursing myself because the next would just be longer, and the next, and the NEXT... and I finally figured it out after like 20 or so chapters (so my learning curve isn’t a horizontal line completely, but it has a pretty darn small incline, I’ll give you that...).

But hey! I’m always glad to provide some amusement with my inability to accept the fact that I fail at writing short fics and chapters. 😀

#nekojitachanfics #kingdomofcrookedfoxes

[selenecrawford]

Selene Crawford :The Tiger, The God of War and The Bro’s

Decided to play a bit with how the story evolves. I hope you liked this chapter. I had a lot of fun making it.

Warning: Cursing

Without hesitating Shingen approached the group with great confidence. Never stop smiling he took the bottle and served himself a drink. Masamune was going to confront him when Nobunaga's voice stopped him.

“Calm down Dragon, The tiger is not alone aren't you?”

“I'm flattered that you may think you know me Oda, but I have to give it to you, yes,  I'm not alone. Kenshin is with Princess and Yuki and Sasuke are checking for bugs...” drinking in one shot Shingen went for another shot but Mitsuhide took the bottle away.

“So what brings your group to our turf?” Mitsuhide served him a glass and pass it to Hideyoshi.

“Your turf uh?” the sarcastic smirk of Shingen went big and wide.

“My, My, aren't we too cocky aren't ya snake?”

“Shingen is late, we are tired and frankly we are having something going on. Unless, you are done rattling the nest, state your business or leave.” said Nobunaga with tiredness on his voice.

Shingen stopped smiling, and took the remaining chair on the table. Masamune was still silent a bad signal noticed by all including Shingen.

“Go check on her Masamune but do not engage, clear?” No response. “Don't make me repeat myself again Date, ARE WE CLEAR?” the second time Nobunaga's voice was raised in a deeper and more authoritative tone.

Masamune couldn't trust his own voice so he gave a nod and went back to his office. He was trying really hard not to kill them all. His blood was boiling with hatred. His mind was foggy and full of many scenarios. He just gave a head shake to clear his mind. She is ok, she is just sleeping and she is safe. The walk to his office seemed longer than usual. When he arrived, Kenshin was facing the door while reclined against the wall. Like Shingen, his jacket and trousers were black with his shirt with horizontal lines between sky soft blue, gold and white. Considering himself an eccentric, he was donning a fedora and a white rabbit pin on one of the sides. With arms crossed and closed eyes he seemed almost asleep. Masamune stood next to the door of his office.

“It's been a while Dragon, I never thought you will look so weak.” the soft tone of voice might not had been loud but it was enough for Masamune to stop mid action and stiffen his back straight.

“I don't have time for your bullshit, God of War, just pray she is ok...”

“And what if she is not?” a mocking smile appeared on Kenshin's mouth.

Before Masamune could react Sasuke appeared at the other side of the hallway.

“Everything is clear, boss. Shall we join Shingen?”

Masamune stopped on his tracks waiting for the next move of Kenshin. With a mocking smirk, Kenshin finally stood and walk toward Sasuke and Yuki before the trio disappeared into the break room. Masamune felt his auto control almost at his limit, turning toward his office he entered trying to be as silent as possible. He found her still asleep, gripping his jacket as if it were a safety blanket. Her face was relaxed and her breathing was even and soft. Looking at her made him, forget the rest of them. He took a seat at the floor near her, he just reclined his head near the edge of the sofa and took in all he could of the image before his eyes. He became addicted to her face and her smile. A bittersweet smile played on his lips while remembering when sometimes he managed to make her blush with his invitations to date. Masamune knew she was going to say no. But couldn't get enough of that flustered face, her scar was more visible and somehow made her look even more beautiful. He closed his eyes for a moment and gave a deep sigh. Letting his mind wondering he couldn't stopped the feeling that he failed her just like he failed his father on that fateful day.

Meanwhile, The trio joined Shingen and reported all his findings. The place was clear and Selene was resting although she might need more than a couple of hours to sleep. The ordeal was more than enough to top the end of the week.

Shingen took the opportunity to finally state his business to the Oda. He hated him but he noticed a changed on the atmosphere of the place. Could it be that she was the cause? The day he saw her looking like a 16 year old attending the phone he thought she was a minor maybe a friend or family of one of them. She was courteous and nice to him but also she display such a wall...Shingen was a courier of information, while he was wealthy enough to last him a lifetime he always felt inclined to help those who were less fortunate. He studied law like Oda and managed and started his law firm to make pro Bono jobs in order to help. While Oda had a different approach both had a common goal. Unfortunately, the difference on ways to achieve their goal also created a rift between their friendship.

Normally he wouldn't saunter into the lair of the Devil but this time it was different. The princess, resting at the office of the Dragon was too precious to be left alone. The web, rattle like a war zone, when news of the shooting spread like wild fire. Oda, might have an idea of how valuable her assistant might be but not the full scope like him. With a knowing smile, Shingen decided to play a bit and poke the Devil on the blindside and see how much he could bleed?

“Say Oda, how much you do you know about your princess?”

“What does that supposed to mean?” Nobunaga raised an eyebrow suspiciously.

“Well, the word is that the shooting was for her not for you. And that it was a warning, perhaps?” Shingen gave a big grin like a kid who knows all the answers to the riddle and enjoyed bragging about it.

“ We run a background check and spoke with Kincaid as she told us. So far Selene, had been clear with us and she knows well that lies are not allowed.” Hideyoshi spoke as a matter of fact crossing his arms.

“Shingen if you are done playing, let's go this is boring as hell.” said Kenshin with an impatient tone.

Shingen smiled and decided to stop the games for now going straight to the point. “Selene is well known on the community Oda. Take care of her. No one, still knows who order this but whoever it is is playing with fire. I know you don't want to believe me. But again Princess is more than meets the eye. Keep that eye on her.” finishing his drink the group left the place leaving everyone as confused as ever.

Masamune saw from the office window when the group left. Checking once more on Selene he went back to the break room.

“Good timing Masamune, take Selene to your house and keep and eye on her during the weekend.” was the reception he got upon entering the break room.

“What we can do in the meantime?” was Mitsurani's turn to speak.

“Get all you can on the internet regarding Selene I will go see Kincaid once again to see if there is something missing.

“What's going on?” asked Masamune confused.

“As soon as we found we will let you know” answered Nobunaga with a frown.

The tasks were assigned and Masamune brought the car to the front of the backdoor. Nobunaga put Selene still sleeping on the back seat. He refrained from telling Nobunaga that Kenshin injected her with a sedative to let her rest a full night. He knew it wouldn't sit well with him.

“If something happens call him. I know he might know by now if pick up the messages.” Nobunaga put Selene gently on the seat and made sure she was comfortable.

Hideyoshi handed a bag with several things for Selene including her purse. “See you on Monday.”

Masamune left without a word on his way to the mountains. He had a house on the city but when he needed to be alone the mountains were his refuge. Or lair as sometimes, jokingly Selene likes to call it. The trip was a bit complicated and Masamune took extra measures to not be followed. Once home he took Selene to the guest room and tuck her in on the bed. The next following hours he set a perimeter and managed to activate the security system. Not having slept since yesterday, Masamune took a shower and took some Bermuda shorts and an old t shirt and lay down next to Selene. He laid a gentle kiss on her forehead and then stayed looking at her until he fell asleep.

It was noon when Selene started to awaken, for some reason she felt secure and warmth. Slowly opening her eyes, she found face to face with Masamune. Her heart started beating wildly at the sight of his face so near. Instead of panic a tender sensation made her feel flustered and in awe. She just looked at his face and could see his features up close and personal. After a couple of minutes she decided to get up and a sensation of Vertigo suddenly hit her.

“Shit, what is wrong with me?” while holding her head and waiting for the sensation to pass.

“Lass everything okay? What's wrong?” Masamune sit next to her holding her on his arms.

“ I don't know I woke up and suddenly the place started to spin. I need a shower. Where are we?” Selene's voice sounded a bit groggy.

“This is my house on the mountains. You are staying with me until Monday. Come on, I'll help get you to the bathroom.” Masamune sounded gentle and worried.

Making an effort Selene used the bathroom and then took a quick shower with Masamune at the door. Every 5 minutes Masamune asked Selene if she was ok just to make sure she didn't faint or fell. She was self conscious of being naked and every time she heard his voice her body jolted like she was being caressed by him. She dried herself and took a bath robe. Taking the shower curtain to the side Masamune went to get her on his arms.

“I can walk you know?” she protested in vain.

“Right now you are still pretty shaken. We need to change the bandages. I'm taking you to the kitchen ok?” he was holding her without any effort at all.

Selene didn't respond she felt somehow spoiled it and deep inside she was loving it. The kitchen was spacious with a center island table in granite. Masamune let her on one of the chairs and went to get a shirt and the first aid kit. Closing his eyes he waited for Selene to put the shirt on. Once she was ready he changed the bandage and prepared a small breakfast for both.  Selene still felt exhausted and wanted to sleep some more. Deciding to be stubborn this time she tried to walk with the help of Masamune. Once on the bed, he was going to leave when Selene took his hand.

“Could you stay with me I don't want to be alone right now, please.” her voice was pleading with sadness and desperation.

“Sure.” he didn't tough of anything else when he went back to bed and took her in his arms. He started caressing her hair until she fell asleep again. Kissing her head Masamune closed his eyes until he also fell asleep.

@datemasamunemaiwaifu @la-piperina @unstoppablelinda @elievalentine @colivara @ikesenhell @xathia-89 @masa-little-kitten @epicdragonlady @mikamiw @jennacat84 @kimi00twin @yeshasays @notsafefortum-blr

[platypan]

Greg is a Chaos Fairy, Wirt needs to learn to Say No, and Sara's day just got Cursed With Being Interesting

“Look!” Greg ran down the road. “The horse tracks go in this direction.”

“Horse tracks,” Sara repeated.

“An evil horse kidnapped Wirt,” Greg informed her.

“Why do you think that?” she let her eyes narrow. “Is that something that happens, here?”

“Yes.”

“...you’ve met horse kidnappers,” she repeated, just to be sure.

“Probably. They’re--”

“Probably. ”

“Probably that way,” Greg pointed impatiently.

The brothers, the frog, and Sara run afoul of further folktale mischief.

「Read it on my Ao3 」 

Chapter One

Sara opened her mouth to ask Wirt something, she wasn’t sure what, because as soon as she looked up her eyes met the eyes of Greg’s frog.  “What,” she whispered, glancing from the back of his head, where the frog was perched, to the teacher, who was still sorting through her bag, not having noticed the invading agent of chaos.

“Sssh,” Greg squirmed on the seat, kicking his legs, then sat still with a sigh of satisfaction.  “I have to do roll call for Wirt.”

“Why?” she whispered back.  “Is he--”

Greg beckoned her down to the floor, whispering under their desks.  “He’s digging a grave.”

“He’s what?”

“We were walking along, and we found a body, and it looked just like our friend Beatrice.”  Unsatisfied with the level of secrecy, he’d made parentheses for his face out of his hands, so his stage whisper was magnified from about four inches away.    

Sara made a frog-like noise.  “Did you call 911?! Oh,” her eyes narrowed.  “Wait, was it a bird?”

“I told him I’d come get a recorder to play a funeral song, but then the bell rang.”

“Uhh,” Sara reviewed the words in her head.  

“My frog will sing,” Greg nodded.  “You should come, you can throw flowers.  It will be a good funeral.”

Greg’s frog decided that moment to let its chin swell to nearly its own size again, in anticipation of a truly ground-shaking croak, and before Sara could question herself, she was grabbing her bag, grabbing the frog, and dragging Greg out of the classroom.  The frog, startled, let out a ribbit so loud the classrooms they passed fell silent, and she grabbed for Greg’s sleeve to pull him faster.

“I didn’t say Wirt’s name for roll call!” he scrabbled at lockers, his shoes squeaking loudly as he fought.  “We’re passing the music room! I need a recorder!”

“ Fine, ” she squinted through the darkened glass of the door, then drug him inside, just as voices started to echo in the hall behind them.

“Wirt had perfect attendance,” Greg informed her, strict hands on hips, as she listened for footsteps at the door.  “Oh well. You have to play too, then. My frog will sing.”

“I only play the piano,” she hissed back.  

“I will grab a triangle for you,” Greg hrmmmed over the selection, finally selecting a pale, cream-coloured recorder.  “Oh, I can’t find a triangle.”

“Shh,” she tried again, looking over to see him unlatching one of the low windows.  “What--no, Greg--”

There was a thumping crash outside, as his frog stared at her from the horizontal surface of the window.  Greg’s face reappeared. “Come on, Jehosaphat,” he tugged at the frog. Someone knocked at the door to the music room, and Sara’s heart jolted.  She was clambering through the window, limbs flailing like a turtle, before she knew what she was about, only to find herself drug off through the bushes by the front of her NASA jacket.

“Let me go, Greg,” she whispered crosssly.  “I need to stand up, I can’t walk this fast--”

They slid into a ditch, she thought at first, but as she yelled it just kept going, a long sandy incline of dead leaves, until she ran out of breath shortly before hitting the bottom, and Greg hopped up onto an adjacent path, unfazed.  Sara, of course, had an old bottle shoving against the side of her butt.

“What was--where?!” she scrambled up to catch up to him, rubbing the developing bruise.

“Shortcut!” Greg shook both fists in the air triumphantly.

“The leaves are falling--it’s summer,” she frowned up at the naked trees, before closing her eyes, squeezing the bridge of her nose, and taking a few slow breaths.  

“Come on,” Greg drug her onwards, letting her arm go when she stumbled.  When they came on the grave, it was human-sized, but the notebook-paper wrapped bundle in the bottom was smaller than her fist.  The surrounding ground was covered in horseshoe prints, of all things.

“Okay,” said Greg, and whipped out the recorder.  

“And where’s Wirt?” she circled the grave.  There were only a few prints that looked like sneakers, no shovel, and no Wirt.

“We’re going to start now,” Greg nodded at the frog.  It began to sing. Sara set her jaw, and raised the glass bottle she’d found to her lips to blow in time to Greg’s recorder.  She did additional percussion with her nails on the side. This is what it sang:

Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound!

My ears attend the cry:--

Ye living all! come view the ground

Where you must shortly lie.

Princes! this clay must be your bed,

In spite of all your towers;

The tall, the wise, the reverend head

Must lie as low as ours.

Great God! is this our certain doom?

And are we still secure?

Still walking downward to our tomb,

And yet prepare no more!

Grant us the powers of quickening grace

To fit our souls to fly;

Then, when we drop this dying flesh,

We'll rise above the sky.

Once they’d finished, they lowered their heads.  

“It was a good funeral,” Greg nodded.  

Sara gave a wary glance at the frog, looked around again for Wirt, swallowing, then pushed most of the loose dirt back in the grave with her shoe.  Greg stumbled back out of some bushes with a hubcap. He was brushing the leaves off. He handed it to Sara, who looked from it, to him, to the grave, then began shoving it in at the head of the grave with her foot.  Greg vanished again--predictably, at this point--and reappeared again with a rock. He placed it carefully at the other end.

“That’s for her feet,” he told Sara, then, “Where has Wirt got to,” he put his hands on his hips again.

“I didn’t know your frog could sing,” Sara said, feeling oddly out of breath.  She wondered whether she should sit, and wait for Wirt.

“All frogs can sing,” Greg rolled his eyes, and she shrugged.

“I’ve never even skipped school before.”

“Your attendance doesn’t matter,” Greg said loftily.  “They’ve got Wirt.”

She blinked at him.  “What? Who?”

“Well,” he took a deep, impressive breath.  “ Someone.  He’s not here.”

“That doesn’t mean--”

“Look!”  Greg ran down the road.  “The horse tracks go in this direction.”

“Horse tracks,” Sara repeated.  

“An evil horse kidnapped Wirt,” Greg informed her.

“Why do you think that?” she let her eyes narrow.  “Is that something that happens, here?”

“Yes.”

“...you’ve met horse kidnappers,” she repeated, just to be sure.

“Probably.  They’re--”

“ Probably. ”

“Probably that way,” Greg pointed impatiently.  

Sara scrabbled at her hair, groaning, then braced herself, shoulders back.  “Well. He’s not here, there aren’t any footprints, and the only prints are from the horse.  We won’t catch a horse, but we can see where it’s going.”

“I hope it kidnapped Wirt,” Greg jumped over to his frog, grabbing it around the middle.  

“Hello,” a small voice said, near Sara’s ear, and she spun to frown around.  “Ahem. Here, in the shadbush.”

“You’re a--hello,” Sara tried, feeling like a Disney princess, which led to a bizarre inclination to curtsey.

“I am a regulus calendula.  A ruby-crowned kinglet,” the bird said crisply, and Sara was half relieved she hadn’t blurted “bird”, and half annoyed.

“I wasn’t wondering.  Did you need something?”

“You don’t have a crown,” Greg pointed out.

The bird ruffled up to three times its previous tiny size, fluttering indignantly.  

“I mean,” Sara sighed.  “If it’s part of your introduction, of course I’ll remember, it’s just our friend--”

“Wirt’s been kidnapped,” Greg put in, with relish.

“--is missing, so I wasn’t really thinking about what kind of bird you were.”

“Hrmpf,” the bird turned away from them, flicking its tail.

“...we’ll be going, then,” Sara smiled stiffly, turning to follow the hoofprints.

“G’bye, Mr Ruby-Crowned Kinglet,” Greg called cheerfully.  

“That doesn’t even make sense,” the bird fluttered to follow them.  “You wouldn’t say Mr Human.  And my name is Phoebe.”

“Hullo, Mrs Phoebe!” Greg waved his frog, and Sara groaned.  

“Hello, Phoebe, I’m Sara,” she said, shrugging as she walked.  “Did you happen to see what happened here? I’m sorry I was rude.”

“Hrm,” said Phoebe, zipping ahead, and then returning to land on Sara’s head.  Her weight was barely noticeable. “Your friend seems nice. Bit of a whiner.”

“He is, isn’t he,” Greg sighed, shaking his head.

“Wirt’s all right,” Sara grimaced.  “Did you see what happened? Did he just leave?”

“Hrm,” Phoebe flitted over to sit on Greg’s head.  He went exaggeratedly crosseyed.

“Okay , we’re following the horse, then,” Sara strode ahead.

“He’s been kidnapped by an evil horse,” Greg explained again.

“What fun,” Phoebe chirped.  “I’ll just tag along.”

Far along the road, Wirt raised his voice over the pounding hooves.  “...and you’re sure I’ll be back in time?”

“Oh, sure,” the horse whinnied.  “Remember, I know your friend. Frank.”

“Fred,” Wirt said automatically, clutching at the silvery bridle, and the mane that sometimes faded through his fingers like smoke.

“Fred,” the horse agreed.

「Read more chapters on my Ao3! 」

#over the garden wall #otgw #otgw fic #wirt & sara #greg & frog #weird folktaley OCs #platypan fic #platypan

[forsakenfragments]

I Washed My Hands With Blood

CHAPTER 2

Maggie enters Nightmare Forest, intent on an adventure.

My path through Grimsby was meandering and prone to wanderlust. That night it drizzled, and while the rain soaked my nightgown and reduced me to a shivering mess, the soft pitter-patter of rain droplets on broad beech leaves soothed both my mental and physical ailments. Although the cold infected my sore ankle and caused stiffness, I did not stop to rest near the tempting fire of the Inn nor Reverend Emeriel’s home, which he insisted was always open to anyone left without a home. The reason for this, I thought, was because he was lonely now that his adopted daughter was only a thought passing on the wind.

I thought similar unsavory thoughts on the rest of the town. Mary, a midwife and wealthy mother to a brood of six, bought exorbitant amounts of jewelry at the market every Saturday, although I could never figure out if it were because her marriage was unsatisfactory or if she was remarkably vain. Baxter the Baker inherited his family business as the oldest son and most responsible, but he failed to perform even the simplest of tasks and tended to cheat his customers simply because he could not sell any other way. Adelaide was a young girl betrothed to a 33-year-old man named Arthur, and while her family draped her gaudy baubles and wedding drab, I saw the emptiness in her eyes and knew she resigned to her fate of early spiritual suicide. Sir Cassius was a lonely old man with wrinkles in his face so thick they could tell stories, and he lived on the gothic mansion on the hill with his very young granddaughter.

All of these stories, unique in their own ways, lived on in the sagging timber-frame homes lining the streets of Grimsby. While the roofs were towering with slate panels, the houses dipped down under the weight of rainwater and the drudgery the inhabitants endured daily. Every day, the citizens of Grimsby went about the monotony of life, going through the same motions they enacted with every sunset. It disgusted me, to the point where my stomach curled and recoiled every time I saw the dull flicker of life in their eyes, the only thing signifying that they were breathing human beings instead of one of the pieces of machinery in the London factories.

Even my mother seemed this way at that time. While she had been lively and animated in an earlier year, the troubles and toils of her life beat down her resolve until she sleepwalked through my childhood without so much as a glimmer in her gaze. Where her arms were warm and her voice dripping with honey, I noticed her heartbeat was slow, and her eyes were cold. She abandoned her unfinished paintings, ceased the care of her garden, and did not cook our potato soup with as much zeal. Not even seeing my father sober enough to continue his carpenting business could make her smile.

This robotic nature of my neighbors forced me to hurriedly walk through the town with my eyes locked on my feet. Piles of dust and dirt passed my eyes, well-trodden during the busiest hours of the day but unsettlingly empty during the dead hours of the night. The wind whisked past my head, and the southern winds carried the scent of wildflowers to my nose from the sprawling flowered meadows outside of Grimsby. With time, the dirt path began to grow grassy and knotted with tussocks of greenery. It was then I looked up and realized I was on the border of Grimsby.

To my left, the church and its courtyard of the dead sat close to the frigid waters of the lake. The moon tugged on the pond and it lapped against the smooth pebbles lining it, washed of any blemishes from eons of being cradled by sandy water. Where the moon could often be seen reflected in the lagoon’s inky black depths, the black swallowed up my only source of light, and I was left in suffocating darkness. Ahead, there was a stretch of green and knots of grass overflowing with bluebells and honeysuckles, and just past that was a wall of trees. Where some meadow’s transition into woodland was gradual and subtle, Nightmare Forest acted as a looming barrier between the land of reality and the land of terror. The field leading into was bright and cheery, with an abundance of sweet-smelling flowers and pale prairie grasses, whereas the forest was dark, ominous, and looming as if the trees were giants turning their backs on humanity in contempt. I looked upon it, remembered my mother’s frantic warnings, and promptly ignored her concern in my conscience. I was a child, and anything that was unavailable to me was naturally alluring. Her cautions only inflamed my necessity for the unattainable.

Having spotted my target, I raced towards the stalwart line of beech and maple, sidestepping firm boulders and disrupting warrens of rabbits in fitful slumber. My bumbling feet caught on errant roots and misplaced twigs, but in my scramble to reach the ominous wood, my subsequent tumble into the dust and dirt was a mere inconvenience.

Breathing hard and huffing, I finally reached the line of trees. I stooped over and supported myself on my knees, the soothing cold of the breeze and the searing heat of my skin creating a strange dichotomy across my nerves. My heart pounded hard in a fruitless attempt to escape my ribcage, but with time it soothed into a calm pound and my lungs could expand fully without panting, so I straightened and peered into the thick darkness of Nightmare forest.

I could not see past the trees; their trunks were so thick and their canopies so impenetrable that anything beneath their reign was rendered an abyssal black. The fact did not unnerve me, but it instead piqued my interest, so I took one step forward, then another, hesitant only because of the last shreds of guilt I felt for directly contradicting my mother’s orders.

With a few final steps, I plunged into Nightmare Forest’s thick undergrowth. I stumbled through the tense darkness, now entirely cannibalized by an eerie sense of unease that made my head feel backward. My mind swam, and my stomach curled up within me, swallowed whole by an aura strange enough to allow me to walk horizontally across walls.

Here, I was half-tempted to turn back and careen back into the safety of my own bed, but upon seeing my father’s wrinkled face contorted with rage in my minds-eye, I steeled my resolve and proceeded.

My eyes were virgins to the gloom of the forest and my limbs uncoordinated, so much of my time spent in the woods was wasted smacking face-first into trees and tripping over roots designed only to trip up children running away from home. After nearly five minutes into my fateful excursion, my face ached from repeatedly bumping face-first into an ancient, gnarled oak, and my arms stung with pain from the wild rose shrubs back home and the scratching nettles lining the forest floor. I stepped forwards twice more, sensed an incline, then sighed a long, dramatic sigh. The forest was beginning to make way to the mountains, and I knew that attempting to scale the treacherous cliffs there would lead to my death, so I turned on my heel and prepared to exit the forest.

I was blinded by a radiant white light. A dull, aching pain pressed against the back of my eyes, so I pushed my arm close to my eyes and squinted until my eyes could adjust to the brazen glow. Within a few seconds, the ache faded and I lowered my forearm to peer at the bright object meticulously.

Standing amongst a knoll of ragwort and field rose, a deer with an unnaturally white pelt stood. Its fur was so brilliant that it gleamed like a star against the black backdrop of night, and it burned so brightly that it drowned out the contours of its eyes and nose. I could not make out any of its facial features except for horns high enough to spear a man from top to bottom and still have the length to spare. With eyes I could not perceive, it stared at me. I swore it nodded at me, imperceptible but real nonetheless.

For these few moments, we gazed at each other, equally curious and intrigued but each much too cautious to approach. Tension snapped like a spring between us, mounting and building and gaining.

Then, the stag turned tail and fled, it’s short, bushy tail disappearing into the darkness of the forest. The underbrush swallowed it, and just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone.

Frightened, I called out after it. “Wait!” I shouted, scrambling forwards. “Please, wait for me!”

I leaped forth from my perch and careened into the boxwoods and azaleas, ignoring the sting of shrubs running across my bare arms and the tearing of my dirtied nightgown as branches caught on it and threatened to pull me back. Through sheer determination alone, I resisted the clawing of skeletal beech branches in their attempts to slow me down and barreled through them, desperate to hang onto the only shred of light I had found in Nightmare Forest.

The chase was on. My heart pumped, and my legs pushed forward with strength I was unaware I possessed. I crashed through the thickets and coppice, stirring up rancor in the deathly silent woodland where the noise was unwelcome. The blood rushed through my ears and adrenaline pumped through my veins, but no matter how much I ran, I never spotted the fluffy white tail prancing through the brushwood. Despair swam across my thoughts and tears of exhaustion welled up in my eyes.

Then, my foot caught on a root placed deliberately in my path by an ensnaring, ancient oak I had slammed my head against many moments beforehand. My heart launched into my throat, and I tumbled into the wild shrubbery with an unceremonious shout.

I slammed my head upon a small rock, small and unassuming until it pressed hard into my temple. Blood, red and hot, seeped from the wound created on the side of my head, the blood-flow only enhanced by the zealous pumping of my heart. Clutching the sparse clumps of crabgrass between my fingers, I laid face down in the Nightmare Forest, grimacing in agony and cursing my incredible foolishness.

I wished to be back home, lying safe in bed with mother. I wished my father did not stomp into my room, and I wished I had not launched myself through my portly window to escape. I wished I did not fall into the roses and I wished I did not walk so quickly past the timber-frame homes of Grimsby. In that moment of desperation, I wished to not exist, only to float through humanity as a nameless husk without a single ounce of consciousness. Thinking this, tears began to flow, and they ran down my cheeks, dripping into the dirt and landing in my mouth. My chest heaved as I sobbed, my hope and dreams crushed into an unidentifiable paste of nothingness by a celestial mortar and pestle.

An answer to my wishes came then, on the wings of angels and heralded by trumpet fanfare.

“Hey,” said a soft voice. “Are you okay?”

Cheeks stained with tears and lip quivering, I raised my head at an achingly slow pace and locked my eyes on a pair of poorly cobbled shoes. They stood near my face and shuffled there, connected legs covered in ragged pants. My eyes traveled further up, and I found a little boy’s face staring down at me.

By his clear, pale complexion, I knew he was around my age range, if not a bit older. By the way, his legs quivered, and his cheeks stood out against his gaunt face, I could tell he was poor and plagued by malnutrition. By the way, his blue eyes shimmered in comparison to his jet black hair, I could tell he truly cared for my well-being. He reached his hand out for me in a chivalrous gesture, smiling with straight white teeth and a rosy glow on his cheeks.

Instinctively, I smiled and reached up my arm to swipe across my nose and eyes. I cleared away my tears and mucus and took his hand in mine with a thankful nod. He pulled me to my feet, and I tested my ankle to the force of the ground, only to cringe and exhale in pain. I opened my eyes into slits, staring through the gloom into the eyes of my strange savior.

I ignored the question on his lips. “Did you see?” I asked him, frantic and bumbling. “The deer? The white one?”

He quirked his brow, glanced about the deep gloom lining the underbrush, and turned back to fix me with a strange stare. I saw the confusion in his eyes and groaned.

“It was here!” I gestured wide to the sweeping darkness before the two of us, desperately searching for any spot of light beneath the thick canopy overhead. “I saw it! It ran away!”

The boy fixed me with another strange gaze, looking towards me as if I had just spouted off some nonsense about pigs soaring through the sky. He held my gaze for a few moments before erupting in laughter, loud and mocking, albeit not intentional.

“Hey!” I fumed. “I’m being serious!”

“I’m sorry,” he wheezed, shoulders heaving with the weight of his amusement. “But white deer don’t come ‘round these parts. They don’t exist.”

I deflated instantly, a pinprick of anger still existing deep within my stomach extinguished immediately by the icy wave of his laughter. I curled in on myself and rubbed at my elbow, frowning so profoundly it almost didn’t fit on my face. With time, his laughter faded and we were left with only the thick, unsettling quiet of Nightmare Forest.

“Why are you out here anyway?” the boy asked. “No one really comes round here.”

I surged for a chance to defend myself from his interrogation. “My pa was gonna hit me, so I ran,” I blurted. The truth bubbled from my mouth like water in a gentle brook, and I did nothing to stop it, suddenly unable to lie in good faith around this strange boy.

“My dad does that sometimes too,” the boy responded, mulling around the gloomy clearing for a few moments before coming to rest on a toadstool-covered log, hollowed and husk-like. I limped across the clearing, overdramatic in my minor injury as many children were prone to acting, and sat beside him.

“Who are you? I never see you around town,” I argued suddenly, intrigued and too curious for my own good. His eyes darkened, and he smiled, and something opened in my stomach, making it twist and turn and coil within my abdomen. I felt paralyzed.

“I’m Michael,” the boy responded much too eagerly. “Me an’ my dad cut wood in this forest.”

The explanation was strange, and it made my skin crawl, but I ignored any peculiar feelings, fixed him with a full, toothy grin, and joyfully delivered my own introduction. “I’m Maggie!” I chirped. “My pa’ uses wood to make stuff!”

“Probably not our wood though,” Michael mused. “No one from Grimsby comes over here.”

I frowned at the sentiment. “Why not?”

“You haven’t heard the rumors?” Michael wondered aloud, searching my face.

I shook my head in one sweeping motion. Immediately, Michael launched into a ghost tale for the ages.

“Your folks say that this forest is full of monsters and beasts. We had shot a deer once and were in the middle of cleaning it when a bloke ran up, screamed, then went back to town to spread dodgy stories.”

“That was Mr. Murphy!” I shouted in understanding. “He said he found a herd of dead deer with their heads cut off and blood all over!”

Michael grinned from ear to ear and shook his head with a contemptuous guffaw. “A tosser, that man is,” Michael remarked, and I smiled and giggled as if we were sharing secrets.

“Yeah, he’s a right tit!” I cried suddenly, emboldened by Michael’s presence and ability to say entirely impolite language I had never been allowed to utter before. He laughed at my usage and how eager I was to say it, and we both broke into a fit of wild, uncontrollable giggles.

Unbeknownst to me, Michael rose from the mossy log in the midst of my side-splitting laughter, and with a devilish grin, he tapped my shoulder forcefully. Broken from my compulsive giggling, a few errant huffs fell from my mouth as I glanced up to Michael’s face and quirked my brow. I tipped my head to the side, and his smile grew wider.

“Tag,” he whispered, barely audible beneath my amusement. “You’re it.”

Fire alight in my eyes, I shot from my spot on the log and launched at Michael. I shot my arms forward but they wrapped around thin air, and a gust of wind as Michael shifted from his original spot and scampered across the clearing to the edge of the trees. I leered after him, eyes glinting with youthful energy now that I was engaging in play.

After a brief second where we stared at each other from across the grassy knoll, I stumbling over boulders, rocks, and fallen logs in my mad scramble to reach Michael in time. With his far superior height and my unfortunate speed penalty attributed to my tiny legs, he quickly stepped around my charging form and dashed to the other end of the clearing like a matador taunting a raging bull.

I twisted around and whipped towards where he stood, uphill and staring down at me with a triumphant grin and his hands on his hips. I pushed myself hard and faster, ignoring the dull ache in my ankles and legs and knees in favour of the chase. The wind pelted my face, and my tongue lolled from my mouth, panting for breath and wide-eyes with adrenaline. My mousey brown hair was a mess; tangled, frizzy, and full of brambles, but I ignored the way it caught on shrubs and foliage in favour of chasing desperately after Michael. Even within moments of our chance meeting, I considered him my friend, and he came to be my only friend in the cold darkness of existence. For once in my life, I felt eager to see the sun rise over the horizon and reach her pale dawn fingers across the eastern meadows.

Then, I was weightless. For the briefest of moments, I soared through the air, unaffected by the world and ignorant of standard physics. My grin remained through the moment of no gravity, but as I felt myself fall forward, the smile disappeared, and I shouted in fear as the ground rushed towards me. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut in preparation for the fall, prepared to take the brunt of the pain and feel my synapses erupt in agony.

It never came. Instead, hands grasped around my midsection and hoisted me back up, pulling my feet from the ground and placing me on the uneven dirt so that I was upright and safe. I glanced up from my bruised, scratched hands and looked to Michael, who grinned at me. I noticed only now that he was missing a tooth, a sharp canine that had yet to grow into his beaming smile.

“You trip a lot,” Michael remarked with a good-natured chuckle.

Indignant, I dispelled his hands and placed my hands on my hips, face stained with dirt and nightgown tattered. “This forest is just dumb!” I defended myself, strong in my tone but weak in my argument. My voice rises above the suffocating silence of the forest, bouncing off the rough beech bark surrounding us.

Then, a great cry rose from the surrounding underbrush. “Maggie?” called a feminine voice, shaky and coloured with panic.

I turned around immediately, placing my back to Michael in favour of inspecting the deep abyss from which I heard the question come from. The forest smelled of thick leaf musk and dead dock, and the wind howled through the dense, nearly bare canopy, whistling through knots and knolls in winding wood. Again, the voice cried out.

“Maggie, is that you?”

The imperceptible kilt added to the very end of the woman’s voice gave me enough information to deduce that this woman was my mother, and the way her voice tore from her throat indicated she was searching for me specifically. Eager to introduce my new friend to my mother, I immediately responded. “Mum! I’m right here!” I shouted, ruthlessly piercing through the silence.

Within seconds, the underbrush crashed and caved and crackled under the weight of brisk footsteps. The shadows came to expel my mother, her fiery red hair equally as frazzled and her green eyes accentuated by sagging black circles. A vein swelled on her temple as she dashed towards me, knees rising high in her effort to tame the sprawling coppice. She came to stand before me, and she placed her hands atop my shoulders, shaking them softly as her arms trembled and her eyes grew wet and glassy.

“Maggie,” mother whispered, voice breaking and grip tightening to a raw strength on my shoulders. “Maggie, you’re here.”

I quirked a brow and frowned. “Yeah,” I confirmed slowly, staring up at her.

Without warning, she surged forward and wrapped her arms around me, her chest heaving as she sobbed into my small shoulders. Hesitantly, I clutched her to me and drank in her scent, smelling vaguely of roses and honeydew. “I thought I lost you,” she babbled, voice strained by tears. “Lost you to this wretched forest.”

“I’m still here,” I protested softly, a sound lost to the immense quiet of Nightmare Forest. With this, mother drew away and clutched my hand, a smile tugging at her tear-stained cheeks.

“Come, let’s return home,” she offered gently, then turned and tugged at me. Although she was strong, my will to remain was stronger, and I evaded her grasp, slipping my hand from her fingers and staring at her as she turned to stare at me. She furrowed her brows and clutched her dirt-stained skirts, red hair frazzled and eyes sunken.

“Wait,” I exploded, scrabbling to surmount a rock. “I met someone! His name is Michael!”

I gestured to the surrounding forest. Mother’s brows furrowed further.

“Maggie,” Mother uttered my name, then pointed a curled finger behind me. “Don’t be silly. There’s no one there. No one lives in Nightmare forest.”

Swayed, I whipped around and scanned the line of dark trunks, stained with the black night. I searched through the thick, grim shade, trees in the distance curling like burnt bodies and beckoning to newcomers with gnarled, frayed branches. The silhouette of Michael was absent, and no matter how hard I peered and squinted, I could not catch the blue of his eyes or his pale complexion.

Stunned, I stared, pondering how someone so tangible and real could disappear from the clearing without so much as a crackle of crushed brambles or fallen branches. He vanished like a summer breeze in the dead of autumn, gone without so much as a trace to suggest he was ever there in the first place. Lost in the fog of my own thoughts, I swayed on my feet, blinking complacently.

My mother’s smooth, blemish-free hand on mine threw me violently back to reality. She turned me around with a gentle, guiding hand, smiled a smile that made the corners of her eyes crinkle, then helped me off the boulder I balanced on.

“Come along,” Mother hummed. “We’re both exhausted.”

Without further qualms, I stumbled blindly after her brisk steps. She led me with a firm hand and a breakneck pace, bouncy in her actions and shaky in her hold. Just as we reached the line of trees surrounding the clearing and were about to plunge into the thick undergrowth once more, I cautioned a wary glance over my shoulder.

The darkness left behind me was cleaved by rays of radiant light, all falling from the effervescent grace of the white stag I observed before. It was unencumbered by darkness and evil, dispelling every hint of malevolence remaining in the forest. Enamored, I tugged upon my mother’s arm. She only pressed further on, pulling me along behind her. I looked for as long as I could, eager to see the last remaining bit of white, luminescent fur.

Then, within a few seconds, a patch of dock and tansy blocked my view and devoured the angelic deer, drenching us in crawling darkness once more.

#nanowrimo #novel #chapter #writing #book #fiction #supernatural fiction #original novel

[twinfanfics]

The tale of the three head beast -The Marching Fishes 6/20

Digimon GoT AU

Second part of the tale of the three head beast series, you can read the first part The chosen children Here and here, or look for the tag  3t3hb  on this blog.

Resume: Three years had pased since Taichi won the hand of princess Sora and both get crowned King and Queen of the living land, now they must faced the duty of the monarchs. The war started on the Honest Island, does the King Joe would manage it?. Mean while at the other side of the sea Takato and Ruki stronger their forces.

Pairs: Taiyama, taisora, Joumy, daiken, and sooo so many others

ACT 1

ACT 2. SCENE 1: THE ARRIVAL

ACT 2. SCENE 2: BROTHERHOOD. (after the cut)

Iory stopped by Mimi’s cell before gone at the war boats. She was sitting with her back on the wall, uncomfortable for the pregnancy, she was hugging his son, both dirty and hunger, but at least the angry yelling had stopped.

“This is going to end soon” Iory said. But Mimi didn’t answered, she kept there, with his son on her arms “I never intend to…” He know he didn’t own her any apologized. “I know Joe Kido is a good man, too good to be King” her eyes were full of tears and he was full of words “but Taichi Yagami on the big Throne are  bad news, a puppet of The Light, the same Light that kills homosexuals and heretics, how much time has to pass before The Light will came at the Honest Islands and started to burn our idols and books.” she closed her eyes and kissed his son on the front as he tied the hug and Iory kept talking “My own father fighted against the capitol, he was trying to independence our home and he ended killed by the sword of the Wolf Knight, a peasant whose only achievement was won the throne for Joe Kido.” The Queen trembled “This is the best for the Islands” Iory said at last.

“Liar” The Queen said at Iory’s back.

The blood of the Forgotten Prince boiled.

The Ikkaku’s Island was at just some kilometers apart, the last defense before the Grand Island. Joe kept all the zone fierced guarded, but now Iory was sure that Joe would give up.

He was wrong.

“War boats at the horizont!” Davis yelled since the watchtower.

The sea was calmed and the warriors ready. The two flotillas encountered each other in the middle of the blue, and the battle started.

“Take the boats and get as many prisoners as you could!” Iory yelled the orders.

Davis jumped from the watchtower and the rebels scream, his sword was fast and certain, his hair was an orange flame that run over the battlefield, no for nothing he was his master’s favorite. Even then, Ken Ichijouji was the first on boarded the enemies boats.

Blood was draining to his sword, sweat all over himself and the screams of his enemies didn’t stop, some of them crying, more of them cursing his name. Ken felt alive on the battlefield, actions and quick thinking, kill the enemy, take the rudder, it was easy. Easier that the other things of life.  

Ken was guarding the cell when the Queen wake up. She found herself trapped, with his son still unconscious next to her over the cold floor. She searched for the weapons under her dress, but they had taken each one of them. She found just the smug face of Ichijouji looking at her. The swerwords of his dying enemies were nothing compared at the treats of the Queen. One beat at the bars of the cell and she stopped the yelling.  He was expecting questions, an opportunity to insult her and make her felt as the vain insect that she was. But the Queen started sobbing without help, uncontrollable murmurs that sound to much as a prayer, but wasn’t the name of god on Mimi’s lips.

“Joley… sister… please… “

“How you dare!” Ken scream.

His angry eyes found her quizzical look.

After everything how she dare to say that name, to called the sister that she betrayed. She had seduced the Sea King to choose her over Joley, when she knows that she was breaking her younger sister's heart. Because Joley’s heart was precious, Ken knows that. Memories of that far warm night assaulted him, the hot skin of the princess of the desert, her enthusiastic kisses mixed with all that alcohol. How long has been? three years? Would he ever seen her again?

Davis blocked one enemy attack against Ken´s back. The young knight turned to saw the face of his lover, Davis was so handsome with that bravery on his eyes, his sword moving gracefully, his mouth yelling at his enemies.

“We had this battle won” Davis said so full of confident that he even had time to kiss Ken before entering at the weaponry room. The smell of the gunpowder and the fire begun.

Davis Motomiya set the boat on fire and watch how his followers did the same with the rest of the enemies ships. His arm over Ken’s waist and both jumped at the principal ship, where Iory was looking them with proud. They had captured all the enemies that hadn’t jumped at the ocean or died on the fire (or in Ichijouji´s blade). His boyfriend was hugging him as his brother and the rebels celebrate the victory. Freedom, justice, the spirit of the Honest Islands will survive and conquer all.  The Queen had been wrong when she told him that he doesn’t belong there.

Davis had been in charge to give the food at the Queen. Ken was always yelling at her and Iory was a prince, he hadn’t had to do those things.

He didn’t understand his brothers, Mimi wasn’t rude at him. If something she looks scary and kept a child in jail was a discussion that he had lost. Back when they were small children The Sea King would had reasons to imprisoned them and he showed mercy instead, because they were children.

“Where are you from?” The Queen had asked after the third or fourth time that he had given her clean food.

“The Honest Island” Davis had responded. The Queen hadn't been looking so convinced. “I can guess that my parents are from some place else, but I am not”

“You guess?”

“Master Ryo bright me at the Honest Island when I was a baby, I don’t remembered live far away of this ocean” Davis had been talking easily “When the King accepted to training me as a Knight I won a place, and when the other King kill him and forgive my live, I won two brothers” Mimi shivered at the mention of the old battle. Maybe after those days with the knights she could understand the story of the Honest Island. Davis himself didn’t understand that much.

“I had been trying to do the same thing” the Queen had said sweetening her voice “I try to belong”

She had been sitting on an old chair, her son had been on her lap hugging at her big mom’s belly. Somehow she made the all thing looked like a throne. Suddenly Davis had been feeling so uncomfortable, Iory maybe was a leader and the right heir, but he had never seen that… royalty.

Mimi didn’t deserve that cell. The Queen moved her big eyelashes and his son coughed a few while Davis’ heart get smaller on his chest.

“You know you don’t belong with them, right?” the Queen had said while Davis had his hand resting over the cell lock “The Sea King had been so generous to you”.

A moment of hesitation. The keys were holding on his waist, he know that his brothers weren’t on the building. Did he really would be able to…

Something hit him. The Queen hit him with the chair. He hit the floor and the hand of the Queen had stretched to grab the keys, and she almost got them. Davis rolled at the floor, give up and dared to watch at Mimi’s eyes, and then, he understand why his brothers refused to see her.  Any of them would brake before her.

He had been left the room as Mimi yelled at him many variants of fool. But she had been wrong, he belongs at the Islands, at this rebelion, with his brothers: Ken and Iory, his lover and his prince.

The rebel flotilla was celebrating the triumph while Ryo Akiyama was watching the Queen‘s  cell on the rebels quarters.  There was something comforting at watching at the Queen. Maybe it was the obvious hate that the Queen felt for him or maybe was the red hair and the purple eyes that remembered him at his own wife. The women of the desert were something else.  

“He is going to kill you” Mimi said with no hesitation.

“Excuse me?”

“He adores at that children, but you… the King despise you”

Ryo laughed a little before answered.

“Oh darling, on this days, everybody call himself a King”  

With no more explanation the assassin left the Queen’s cell. Ryo walked through the building until his room, he closed the door and the windows, making completed darkness, he unveiled the big old mirror, recited the old canticle and slowly, a figure formed on the other side.

“Love of my life” he said as Rika´s image appeared.

“You fool” The woman said with the biggest smile he had seen in her since the first day Takato hold a sword.

“You look happy”

She inclined to pick something of the floor.

“Look this” she said as showed him a baby dinosaur moving on her arms “Takato found saurios! my child is the chosen one”

“For the Light God!” Ryo hide his jealousy behind his surprise. “I hadn’t seen one of those on years” the smiled of Rika only grown “But what about them? for when they grow up enough to be useful on combat MY CHILD had been conquer all the continent”

“Yeah sure” She dismissed him “Your plan is obviously not stupid. How is your lame rebelion going?”

“My apprentices are at two battles to won the Grand Island and when Iory will be King of this place, it will be only matter of time to send his army against the capital. Davis will be King of all the living land before the next summer solstice. You had to see him Rika, the people adore him”

“Well, Takato is a King already”

“A indulged King” he said making her frowned “ You had given him everything, Davis is a survivor, a natural leader”

“You are always over complicating everything” She said “two battles you said”

“Two battles to conquer the richest land of the continent”

“Made yourself sure that Izumi didn’t interfere” She said without hidden her concern.

“I assure you Rika, the Capital bigger mistake is dismissed this war. We are gonna win”

“For the glory of the Courage house” She said as a goodbye.

“For the glory of the Courage house” He repeated.

Ryo allow him to rest a little. All their fights and patience were paying off.

He remembered that night when Rika decided that felt compassion was part of their jobs. She give up everything for a baby that she believed was the chosen one, but he had never been much of fairy tales himself. Takato could had lucky, but his brother, Davis, had been talented since the first time that Ryo founded him hidden under the crib. Rika hadn’t see him, that itself was marvelous. He is going to be King, Ryo would make it. Captured the Queen had been a winning move, they are going to conquer the Honest Island in no time.

Far away, the knights of the Islands shared his master confident, not as his knowledge. The Forgotten Prince leadered the insing ship as Ken and Davis make out on the watchtower of the boat. And then, they see them: The Light banners all over the Ikkaku’s Island, and all their confidence banished.

#3t3hb #the tale of the three head beast #the marching fishes #digimon fanfic #digimon GoT au #Mimi tachikawa #ken ichijouji #davis motomiya #Iory Hida #Ryo akiyama #daiken

[canadian-riddler]

I don’t think I told the story of how I even started listening to EDM so here it is to the best of my recollection (it’s a long post so if you start it make sure you have time lol):

It must’ve been in 2008 or 2009 that I learned it even existed.  Around that time was my first Batman obsession and this was a time before the Internet was really a significant part of my life.  Because that was the year I saw The Dark Knight and I started listening to Hans Zimmer OSTs, which I had to get on CD from the library and sometimes force my old failing CD player to read because if the disc was damaged it just skipped forever.  And this was a time when I had to record CDs down to cassette tapes (all of which I still have) because after two weeks CDs had to be returned to the library.

The first EDM song I probably ever heard - or at least the first one I remember liking - was ‘He’s a Pirate’, the Jack Sparrow remix by Tiesto because it was included as the final track on the Curse of the Black Pearl CD.  And this was before the Internet was available to me, remember, so I had no idea what the song was or if it had a genre or any of that.  And I didn’t have any way of looking for more of it.  I had maybe a couple of cassettes gotten as a book reading prize from a library discard pile, very old MC Mario compilations, but those tapes were more house/underground mixes and the song the cassette was on when I tried to listen to it was, I believe, ‘Higher State of Consciousness‘ by Josh Wink and I was not ready for it yet.  So my only option was to try and find a radio station that played this dance music.  This was before David Guetta brought it into the mainstream, so it was rare to find one.  But I did: Z 103.5 out of Toronto (I lived in Hamilton at the time), which just came in if I positioned the radio dial just so, and on that station I heard Adagio for Strings by Tiesto and Axel F by Street Frog, but that wasn’t even the most important part.  The most important part was that this radio station had a professional DJ who did live mixes every day at five pm.  This DJ, DJ Danny D, would mix two compilation CDs every year for the radio station.  And the library had them.  The first one I listened to was Summer Rush 2005, which I borrowed because it had both Adagio for Strings and Axel F on it.  After that was MC Mario.com Version 2.0 with Benni Benassi’s Satisfaction and California Dreamin’ by DJ Sammy and MC Mario Mixdown 2005 with Sound of San Francisco by Global Deejays and Call on Me by Eric Prydz, and then just any other mix CD the library had that I could borrow (but those two were my favourite ones). 

When I was sent off to high school in about 2011 I discovered the Internet, in the days of BeeMP3 and having to find remixes on forums, but I wasn’t ready for real DJs.  No, I was looking for Sonic the Hedgehog remixes.  I was obsessed with them.  I was burning them on CD to play in my SUV.  I am not kidding.  YouTube downloading wasn’t a thing yet, or at least I barely knew of YouTube’s existence.  There was someone on the Internet called ImmortalImage who had folders of HUNDREDS of dance music songs, which they would post on YouTube in the interest of preservation (though they removed the channel after they posted one thousand songs or something like that) and I downloaded those folders without knowing a single artist in them.  They were called ‘Greatest Electronic Music of All Time’ and some of it truly is the greatest music ever made.

Now, Indy, you might be wondering, where does ARMIN come into all this?  The answer is: eventually.

I didn’t have a phone that could get on the Internet using wifi, not that it was widely available.  I was at Tim Hortons when they first introduced wifi freely available at all their locations, but the only device I had was my PSP and it got stuck on the landing page and never got me through to the Internet.  I got a laptop shortly after, but what really took me to the next step was when I bought an iPod Touch after I accidentally left my iPod Nano on a bus somewhere in Kanata.  iPods had podcasts, and there was a DJ with a podcast by the name of Hardwell who was becoming very popular.  He had a couple friends, Dannic and Dyro, who I liked by association, and I was at work with my laptop when I watched the stream where Hardwell was crowned no.1 DJ in the world during the DJ Mag Top 100.  Hardwell did a mix after the show and this led me to the discovery of EDM festivals.

The first year I heard about Escapade here in Ottawa, it was still in a parking lot and Tiesto was playing but he was the only DJ I knew so I didn’t want to go just for one guy.  The next year, though, Dannic was playing and I only lasted about three hours before going home very tired and very sunburned.  It was an experience I wasn’t sure I wanted to repeat.  But then I ended up on YouTube, on ASOT 600 in Miami.  It was the BEST thing I had EVER heard in my entire life.  Everything else just SUCKED compared to that set.  And the festival was magic.  You could just see that it was magic by watching it.  I didn’t listen to ASOT, not yet; it was only on Spotify and Spotify wasn’t available in Canada, and even when it was I wasn’t inclined to use a website just for one thing.  But the sets on YouTube?  Magic.

And the next Escapade, in 2015, which I had bought a presale ticket for, sent out an email and IIRC it was right around Christmas.  And I was upstairs at work and I was about to go home and when I read it I gasped out loud and sat down on the floor.  Because Armin was headlining the festival, and so was Knife Party, and I had never ever in a million years thought Armin would come to Ottawa because the clubs in Toronto and Montreal were so much better.

The weather was lousy, as it tends to be for Escapade, but it was my mission in life to be in the front row for the entire festival, not so I would be in the pictures (which I was) but so I could see the stage.  The first day I was off to the left side somewhere, but the SECOND day.  The SECOND day I was right in the corner of the L-shaped gate, front and centre and nobody could push me out of the row no matter how hard they tried, and I was there for the entire twelve hours of the festival and it rained half the day and some drunk French guy dumped his beer on my head and tried to blame it on me but when W&W came on it didn’t MATTER.  And when they were finished Armin came on, and it was actually a RELIEF because there had been a rumour that he wasn’t going to show up because it was raining and he KNEW about it and he made fun of it, and you know what they had on the second day?  They had LASERS!  Even though we were near to the airport they had horizontal green lasers and even the security guards were trying to touch them and they looked like they were glittering because of the misty rain.

He played for two of the best hours of my life.  He has a song he made with a Canadian singer and when he played that song he held up the Canadian flag for us and that’s how I knew we really MEANT something to him.  And this was one of the last festivals he wore the Myo armbands for and he was directing the spotlights during Adagio for Strings and he asked if we wanted to hear the story of how he fell in love with trance and it was like everything I had ever wanted had happened all in one hundred twenty minutes and if I had had to lay down my life afterward as payment I would have done so happily.  And when I got home I knew I needed to go to an American festival.  Tomorrowland was too far so it had to be American.  It was between Ultra Miami and EDC Las Vegas and EDC won out because there was just something about a festival that existed only to light up the night and then fade when the sun rose that was magical.  And my first EDC, it was magic.  Everything was perfect.  I got on the livestream for Gaia during my favourite song, how can I EVER top that?  I can’t!  It was the most beautiful place on earth and in some ways, it always will be.  Even last year, which was by all accounts a horrible disaster, I still came away from it with a kandi bracelet and the memory of a time when people were willing to help me when I was completely unable to help myself.

And this year I have EDC in two months and Armin is returning to Ottawa, and I don’t know what they’ll bring.  But it will be something special.  It always is.  I just have to let it happen.

#I just learned right now MC Mario is Canadian #how about that #Indy and EDM #so says Indy #EDM makes my life worth living

[challito]

A much shorter song that involves ice and fire

This far south Lydia was already sweating beneath her garments. Her pack was heavy with clothes already shed. By the time she arrived in the land of the True Southerners she’d be surprised if she could stand to wear anything at all.

Everything was confusing here. The Southerners called themselves Northerners and most True Southerners were surprised to find there was something north of what they assumed was ‘The North.’ In truth she was a Northerner, or a True Northerner. The people that called themselves Northerners, who were actually Southerners should have been called Mid-landers, and the ‘True Southerners’ should simply drop the true and be done with it.

When Lydia first arrived in Aeselthorpe, she shared her theory. Her audience: a handful of drunk, sodden loggers in a damp smelling inn with walls that whistled as the wind blew. Unlike strangers in the North where she came from the loggers didn’t take much time to contemplate or muse on her reasoning. One of the three took a short draw from his mead horn and said:

“Nay, we are the Northerners, true or otherwise. Southerners are southerners, nothing to say about that. But your lot, who live on land that can’t be farmed and send their children to play in blizzards are truly insane. Around here we just call you ‘touched.’”

Then, they remarked on how long and pointy Lydia’s ears were before they returned to their conversation about how best to fell a tree. Lydia contemplated giving their remarks time and thought in order to develop a productive dialogue and a clear line of discourse. The loggers however had not done the same for her.

Part of Lydia’s journey was to live and experience the cultures of the southern lands. In the end, she took a draw from her mead horn, remarked at how short and stocky the loggers were, even my Dwarven standards, and called to the innkeeper for something to eat. It turned out that was exactly how to ingratiate herself with the locals.

The three Dwarves laughed heartily and paid for her stew as well as for another round of drinks. Everything travelled merrily from there. Throughout the night she talked with most of the patrons, had all her smoke and drink paid for, and danced until she was the last one standing. For all the complaints her people had of Mid-landers, Lydia had to admit, they sure knew their revelry.

When she departed the next morning, those that were awake were sad to see her leave. They affectionately called her things like ‘Girly’, ‘Paleface’, and ‘Long-Ear.’ All of which had lost their derisive edge. They begged her not to travel alone as ‘A fragile thing like you is sure to be robbed or eaten or carried off by the wind.’

Lydia smiled and nodded and thanked. She shook hands and embraced people she’d known for no more than an evening. She even wiped the tears of particularly handsome dwarf. He seemed sure she would die on the road to the south.

She played the part of a grateful, ignorant, damsel well enough. The truth of the matter was that if she had the inclination, she could have killed every patron of that inn before even one of them could reach the front door. But there was no reason to share that with anyone.

Although her curiosity pulled her west, to the land where people were owned like tools and forced to work for free, Lydia followed her quest south. She followed winding switchbacks and narrow mountain passes. She camped in caves and clearings and even once on the side of a mountain.

A strong wind blew snow up against the cliff face Lydia was traversing. What she thought would have been a shortcut was instead a treacherous stretch of mountains. To most travelers the mountains and wind would have whistled death. Lydia, however, was a Northerner, a True ‘Touched’ Northerner. She hailed from an ancient clan whose bloodline was so potent that ice ran through her veins, right beside The Weave and blood.

She took comfort in that fact. Deep into the night her face was raw with cold and her joints ached from days of climbing up and down mountains. Lydia whispered words and practiced hand signs that her Grandma had taught her. As the wind whistled and roared, Lydia could almost hear her soft, croaky voice. As her hands followed familiar patterns, she could almost see her Grandma’s hands, draped with crumpled paper skin that folded gently over every bone and vein.

Standing on a precarious ledge, Lydia gingerly bent down and placed her hand on the rock at her feet. She could feel intensely slow vibrations of cold and weave release through her fingers and palms. She watched as a bubble of thick ice slowly formed around her and the rock, fixing in place. It had been a while since she was able to use such powerful magics freely. As she executed her incantation, she felt like a cat stretching in the sun who had not had that luxury for a very long winter.

The cold, in truth was no hinderance to Lydia, one of the many benefits of her heritage. However, warmth was a luxury that she loved to afford. Even though she would never suffer adversely from intense cold, she did create a small fire to warm her fingers and toes. She shaped a hole in the top of her new shelter with her magic. It allowed the smoke to escape and air to enter. Wrapped in a thick fur she fell asleep quickly feeling very much like she was back at home.

The fire died out quickly for lack of fuel. Even if it had not, it would have hardly left a scratch in the ice. The ice Lydia summoned was infused with herself, her weave, and because of her bloodline, her ancestors as well. Her ice was strong as the mountain it clung to because they were both countless centuries old.

When morning came Lydia woke slowly. She melted her shelter parts at a time. She showered and drank under one section before dressing, gathering her things and melting the rest. She continued her climb as she had the past few days. She froze her feet and at times her hands to the mountain before taking a step freezing the next foot and melting the one behind. She did this in such a rapid rhythm that to an onlooker it would have seemed as though she were running horizontally along a sheer cliff face.

When she finally left the mountain range Lydia cursed herself twice over. Her shortcut through the mountains had been recklessly dangerous. The next thing she hadn’t thought of was finding the road again through the thickest boreal forest she had ever seen. She ran up trees like she had run across mountains to try and find her way back to the road. Even so, she was effectively lost for another couple of days.

When she finally did find the road again, she thanked her ancestors and her Gods. She guessed which way led south as the road seemed to run east to west and started on. The wind washing through the trees and foreign bird songs gave a spring to her step. She walked for nearly half the day before she heard the familiar sounds of a caravan.

When she caught up, she even recognized a few of the faces from her night of hazy drunken revelry in Aeselthorpe. Those that recognized her in turn rushed to meet her or called and beckoned from atop carts and horses. For almost a third of the month she had travelled and they, only a day behind her.

Neither the caravan’s tracker nor scout had seen any sign of her past the first couple of days. Sadly, they had concluded that the forest had taken her. Lydia admitted to getting lost, though she didn’t explain her exact route. Finding herself after becoming lost in the forest was triumph enough to these people. She didn’t want them knowing she had braved the side of the mountains that roughly translated to ‘Hell’s Breath.’

Despite originally wanting to travel alone, Lydia reveled in the rest of the month travelling with the caravan. She hunted several times with a Minotaur named Njal and sang often with a trio of singers, two Dwarves and a Human, that reminded her of the loggers in Aeselthorpe. They teased her mercilessly for her poor tune, but Lydia retorted often in a way that brought laughter both at her own expense and theirs.

She spoke at length with an elder that was making his final pilgrimage to Bjornnholm. He tried to share with her as much of his culture and spirituality as he could. The others simply called him ��Jarl’ which meant chief. As the month rolled by Jarl slept more of each day. Even when he was awake, at times it was all he could do to lie with his eyes open and watch the sky pass overhead.

Close to the end of the month she was introduced to a young Dwarf named Igor. Despite his youth, he was treated with great excitement and respect. They called him a Sky-Slinger because he possessed an innate ability to summon lighting without any training in the Weave.

When Lydia asked if his ability was related to his bloodline, the idea was meant with confusion and offense. Clearly, the Mid-landers ideas of such obviously inherited magics were skewed by their culture. To them, Igor’s ability was a blessing of the gods. His apparent proficiency was a certain sign that he was destined for great deeds. Even to Jarl, Igor’s fate was written in the stars clear as day and if it were to be read it spelled Hero.

Exactly one month after leaving Aeselthorpe, Lydia found herself hunting again with the Minotaur, Njal. They were discussing the benefits and drawbacks of their respective weapons. Njal used a quiver of javelins and a long knife. She on the other hand carried a holster of throwing knives.

In honesty, Lydia preferred the knives and needles she could shape out of ice for any number of reasons. She was unsure as to how the foreigners would view her ability and her bloodline though. Having not spent much time with their people she wasn’t sure if she would be viewed with suspicion or lorded like heroic, young Igor.

In the North, Her North, most people were very wary of her and those that exhibited her bloodline. Her clan members who had travelled south had received mixed receptions. Mid-landers were a superstitious people. As far as Lydia was concerned, they could change their mind on what they thought of anything depending on how the wind was blowing.

With all that in mind, Lydia made do with her own knives. She tired not to make excuses on the handful of occasions she missed, ignoring the amused huffing noise that blew through Njal’s nostrils. She did however point out that his javelins ruined the hide of every animal he hunted. His huffs seemed to grow quieter after that.

They had barely left the caravan when they spotted a lone boar. It snuffled through the underbrush in before of them. Lydia decided that his boar must be incredibly brave or deaf. Regardless, it was large enough to feed the caravan for the night at least.

Njal nodded to Lydia and she slid one of her throwing knives from its holster. With a quick motion she let it fly. With a single knife that size there were only a few places that could kill the boar from a distance. It sailed hungrily toward the eye of the unaware pig until a sound alerted the boar.

Screaming. Multiple voices. The pig turned and the knife took it heavily on the side of the head. A huge gash tore across the side of its face, but Lydia and Njal were already running back toward the caravan. She thanked her ancestors and her Gods that they had not made it far.

When they broke through the tree line onto the road the Caravan was in a panic. Njal almost took an arrow from the human of the trio that Lydia often sung with. He apologized hastily to Njal before another arrow sailed out of the woods and took him in the throat.

The arrow came from the opposite side of the road Lydia and Njal had been hunting in. Already she could see the corpses of two more victims. The rest of the caravan were hiding behind their wagons and horses. A few were readying bows and slings.

Those few shot blindly into the trees. Igor on the other hand took pot shots from cover. Lydia had to admit it was mighty impressive to see a boy of 15 or so sling lightning into the forest as though he were the Storm Father himself.

Lydia and Njal took cover with the rest of the caravan just in time to see a flaming arrow soaring out toward them. No, not an arrow. A bolt of fire and Weave. It hurtled toward the largest cart and stuck it heavily on the side. Flames licked its sides and caught on a blanket that was draped over the contents. In moments, the whole thing was alight causing the caravan to scatter into a panicked frenzy.

The two remaining singers were shot down quickly. Their last noises not beautiful harmonies but pained, gurgled screams. Njal launched two javelins into the woods and from the similar scream that gurgled in return, Lydia knew he had hit one of their attackers.

Arrows continued to rain down as Njal ordered the survivors to take cover in the opposite tree line. In the chaos, she heard someone scream her name.

“Lydia!” Screamed a panicked child.

“Leave her, it’s too late! Take cover!” Njal bellowed in response.

There were only two people Lydia could see herself being mistaken for. But, to the surviving members of the caravan, Lydia was dead. She had died on the road just like they foretold. To bandits of all things and a caravan of travelling companions hadn’t done a damn thing to stop them.

From her spot of cover Lydia took a deep breath. She withdrew a whalebone mask from a fold in her clothing and put it on. It was a simple oval shape with no features. It sported two diagonal slits for eyes and a minimal arching blue motif that stretched across one cheek. Then she ran straight into the attacker’s tree line.

She flanked them best she could. The moment she entered she drew secret glyphs in the air and whispered mist. When Lydia exhaled it felt like her grandmother was using her mouth to exhale too. A huge billowing gout of mist rolled through the trees. She heard panicked yelling when the bandits began to notice.

With her eyes closed, Lydia could hear the location of 3 people in the tree line. She headed for the closest one. A tall human man, well over six feet was facing away from her with an arrow knocked. Lydia shaped a knife made of ice into her hand. She relished the weight of it and exhaled gently as she dragged it across the tall man’s throat. He fell without a sound.

Lydia found the next bandit moments later. A thick set dwarf was loosing arrow after arrow toward the caravan. When the dwarf turned to grab another quiver, Lydia locked eyes with her. They stared at each other in a silent stand off until Lydia dove behind a tree away from the Dwarf. She was so surprised at Lydia’s instant retreat that she never heard it coming. An arc of electricity tore through the Dwarf and felled a couple of trees at the same time. Lydia made a note to suggest that felling technique to the loggers if she ever made it back to Aeselthorpe.

She heard 6 more voices yell out after that. “The Slinger! Target the Slinger!” They screamed.

Lydia used the time to estimate their location and rushed toward the closest one. Like her first kill of the day, he had no idea Lydia was there until her ice knife was sliding across his throat. She moved through the mist and ended a fourth life in much the same way.

When she reached her next victim, it seemed he was aware something was coming. Three copies of the same man stood extremely close to each other, so close that the illusions seemed to share the same feet. Immediately Lydia knew this to be the slinger that had burnt the cart moments earlier.

She threw her ice knife at one of the men, but it passed harmlessly through his illusory throat. He retaliated by launching a bolt of fire at her. Lydia ducked out of the way and took cover behind the trunk of a mighty tree. She felt it shake as another bolt of fire blast into the bark.

Lydia breathed and traced another glyph into the air. She whispered ice and a mirror made of a single sheet of ice took shape not far from where she was standing. Lydia bent down and tossed a rock toward the mirror to get the Slingers attention. It worked. From his position and through the mist, it would have looked like Lydia was standing right before him.

Another bolt of fire struck the ice mirror heavily and in that moment Lydia acted. She stepped out from behind the tree and threw three needles made of ice toward the enemy Slinger. Two of the needles passed through illusory eyes while the third slid through flesh, iris and cornea and deep into brain stem. The Slinger collapsed with a heavy thud.

Lydia raced to the next bandit to find a thin woman already pinned to a tree by a javelin. Lydia could hear the last bandit screaming; “Wraith! Wraith!” before his cries were cut short. Slowly the masked woman crept through the trees back toward the road.

Njal stood over a small dwarf, leaning heavily on his last javelin. Bodies littered the road. A handful of bandits had been killed when they left the tree line. Though, virtually the whole caravan had been slaughtered. Just over a score of Dwarves, Humans, Elves and one Minotaur lay dead or dying in the dirt.

When Lydia recognized who Njal was standing over her breath caught. Igor. God touched. Heaven blessed. Name written in the stars that spelled ‘Hero.’ In death it was hard to see him as anything other than a boy that was far too young to die. Lydia forgot herself in that moment and stepped forward.

Njal raised his last javelin before Lydia took off her mask. Njal kept his javelin raised.

“It was you?” He asked. “The Wraith?”

Lydia nodded.

“I wish I could read the plans of the Gods. I’d give my life to the Storm Father to understand why this was necessary.”

Lydia wanted to tell him that she didn’t think the Gods had a plan. That this wasn’t their doing but the deeds of desperate mortals fighting for survival. Seeing the corpses of Njal’s companions that littered the ground around them she decided to hold her tongue. Truth be told, reason or no, it didn’t really matter.

“Jarl?” Lydia asked hopelessly. It was all she could bring herself to say.

Njal looked surprised for a moment. As if he’d forgotten all about the old man who had slept for a month from Aeselthorpe to Bjornnholm. When they approached the wagon they both saw Jarl. Eyes gazing toward the sky, breath coming and going, slow and ragged.

“Is that you Njal?” Jarl asked.

Njal blew through his nostrils in response and moved into the Jarls field of vision.

“I think I hear the clash of the Storm Lords thunder. I will be feasting in his halls any moment now.” Jarl said.

“You very well may, but you won’t we walking through its doors today.” Njal said, resting a hand on Jarls shoulder. The old man had no idea that his family and friends had all been slaughtered. Lydia took it for a blessing.

Without a word Njal gathered his belongings. He calmed the horses and hitched them to two carts, one holding Jarl. Slowly, he packed the carts with anything that he could salvage. Lydia helped but noticed that Njal kept plenty of distance between the two of them now that he knew her as ‘the Wraith.’

After an hour or so Njal set off leading the two horse drawn carts side by side down the old dirt road. It was the middle of the day. Lydia’s fog had rolled away and the grizzly terror of what had happened stood plain and proud for all to see. Lydia had known death intimately before, many times. That day, however, was the first she saw a crowd of mostly innocent lives snuffed out in moments, for no reason at all.

“Njal.” She said when she caught up with the Minotaur. He did not respond. “Njal.” She said again firmly.

He cocked an ear her way.

“Njal, I need you to keep what I did…what I can do a secret. Can you do that for me?” Lydia asked.

Again, Njal said nothing. He chewed his bottom lip in contemplation. He didn’t even look at her. He did offer her one of the two ropes he was using to lead the horses with. In that moment, for Lydia, that was enough. It had to be. What more could be done?

#fantasy #short story #writing #magic #short fic

[erinmansfield]

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[perahn]

Codex Entry

For @circlingmoon, for DMing and encouraging me to be the amoral Red Wizard who always lurked within.

This text is written in a fiendishly difficult encryption, consisting of at least two different ciphers per page. It is difficult to infer reading order; on some pages the writing flows across the page in the left-to-right fashion of Common, on others it appears to spiral out from a central point, while others appear horizontal or completely random. A multitude of different coloured inks form part of the coding. Once the text has been decrypted, the reader must be fluent in Thayan Mulhorandi, Draconic and Infernal, and possess a basic understanding of Undercommon for the later pages, as the journal is written in a peculiar mixture of the vocabulary and grammar of all four languages.

This is a calculated risk. There are certain of my thoughts and secrets that must be preserved and not simply remembered. Neither method is secure, of course… any mind is open to one sufficiently skilled, and if my own mind were to be broken, these petty ciphers would be easily extracted. For the moment, my own positioning is protection enough: I am seen as powerful enough to be useful, but not enough to be a threat, and there are few enough of my rivals or clique who are perspicacious enough to make a better assessment.

Nebastis appears to be playing a similar game, but her analysis of the situation on the Alaor betrayed an overly acute understanding of the historical forces at play. I believe she would be worth cultivating…

A span of pages, some of which appears to describe the daily life of a Red Wizard student, some to record dreams, some to be detailed equations or spellwork diagrams, and one which is a poorly-drawn depiction of a wyvern and a phoenix in battle.

… all arranged with Nebastis. I have paid the doorkeeper the customary amount to ensure we won’t be disturbed. He probably supplements his income handsomely by guarding these little trysts – but there are simply not that many pieces of neutral territory within the Academy, and at times ambition and caution must give way to more primal needs.

She said, “I trust you.” I could never have guessed how exciting – how erotic – those three words could be.

She watches my lips, and licks hers.

I watch her fingers – their slender shape, their clever, delicate movements – and I imagine.

I have never known impatience like this, as though fire burns beneath my skin. Nebastis. Less than hour remains.

The next entry is on the same page. The time marker indicated a span of one hour and twenty minutes since the commencement of the previous entry.

That was eminently satisfying. It appears I had credited Nebastis with far more cunning than she deserved. When she said that she trusted me and that she desired me, she was being entirely truthful. She did not even look twice at the spells I had cast around our meeting place.

So she is eliminated, and with less effort than it took to remove Pteptah or Se-atma from the game board. I am almost ready to neutralise Nofet.

A good deal of what follows is undeciphered at present, but proper names and ‘eliminated’ tends to recur, as do dreams about ‘the Erratic’, ‘the Silent’, ‘the Thirsty’ and skulls, buried beneath mountains and by water.

… The monastery of the Long Death is a known quantity, of course, but individual monks remain unpredictable variables. I have recognised this Shayazi assigned to me as one of the recurring, although I am not certain which she represents as yet. The monks do refer to death as the ‘Silent Lord’… Still, a preliminary assessment is necessary.

Physically, she poses a deadly threat. The monks’ training is extensive, honing her naturally muscular form into a mechanism that will strike both swiftly and with certainty. She would be difficult to catch off-guard. She evidences no magic, whether innate, studied or talismanic. By preference, she fights in melee; I would keep her at range should it become necessary to neutralise her. Spells that target her strength of personality would probably succeed, as she appears to spend much of her energy on controlling an innate rage… no doubt the curse of her orcish heritage. How glad I am for the superiority of my pure Mulan blood! She also appears to have an inexhaustible appetite and capacity for alcohol, and so is eminently suitable for a properly calibrated dose of the correct poison.

Shayazi is not stupid, but the monks’ education was certainly… limited. She is so focused on her pointless studies of thanatology (not uninteresting, admittedly, but impractical) that she would be easy to deceive on any matter that fell outside that narrow scope. Nor do I believe that the Long Death monks learn the ruthless political manoeuvring which is a part of Academy life, which is doubtless why the Red Wizards rule Thay and the monks play no significant role in the wider world.

For the moment, however, she appears to perceive my protection as a duty, and one she takes very seriously indeed. I shall encourage her to continue in that vein by any means necessary. She cannot be trusted, of course, but she is undeniably an asset as long she chooses to be so. She balances many of my weaknesses, and she is, moreover, enjoyable company. It is, of course, entirely possible that much of my current assessment is flawed, depending on Shayazi’s ability to dissimulate. I shall continue to monitor and reassess.

Additional notes appear to follow at various dates and times. The following pages seem to detail the writer’s experiences of a long voyage by sea, including some difficulty with sea-sickness. Dreams of eyes, and a woman who cuts off her hand and laughs for joy, predominate.

Initial Assessment: Khetad? Kheteeth? Mornir? Mulnar? That sorceress.

I know she is one of the recurring, and therefore necessary in some measure to my goals. At the same time, I find myself thinking longingly of all the ways to strip a sorceress of their magic and make them useful. She is a sterling example of all the worst traits of her kind. She relies on poorly-understood and internalised processes to wield magic that was left in her blood by some remote ancestor. It is alien to the wizards’ way of controlled and disciplined magic earned by effort; it is sloppy, disorganised, and inelegant in every way.

In situations like these, however, it has its advantages for me. It is possible to map at least some of the spells at her command; sorcerers do not learn quickly. It can be surmised that she has more spells than these, if she follows the usual developmental pattern for sorcerers.

Cantrips: Fire Bolt (used to light a candle, and offensively). Ray of Frost (used to cool her drink, and offensively). Shocking Grasp (used when pinching Harper’s buttocks, when he was looking at a barmaid). Prestigitation (used for numerous flashy effects to prop up her projected image of dangerous sorceress, including redoing her cosmetics).

Level 1: Magic Missile (fired in the air to impress a customs officer. Failed). Thunderwave (used against a gang of attacking kobolds. Effective).

Level 2: Shatter (attack of ogres. Destroyed several of the caravans we were travelling with).

I have never met anyone quite so childish, and that includes actual children. She is obsessed with maintaining her ‘dangerous Elven sorceress’ image, and so would be uniquely vulnerable to manipulation aimed at that point. Any Suggestion along the lines of ‘A sorceress as powerful as you should be able to –‘ should succeed admirably. Unless, of course, this is a manufactured flaw. Sometimes she seems too insistent on her part to be genuine in it.

It is maddening, however, that she amuses many of those we have met, instead of rightly garnering irritation or contempt. It must be some peculiarity of all these illogical people. I miss my Academy, where motivations and behaviours made sense, where I knew the rules by which everyone played…

In short, I believe I could neutralise this Khayteed, if she were isolated, under most circumstances. I do not believe she plans well, and she seems too self-obsessed to study others well; I doubt she would see me coming. An overt attack is even less desirable than usual, given her focus on Evocation magic, although if Shay could be manipulated properly, she would make an excellent counter. However, in most conceivable situations which involve eliminating Khedded, Taliesin Harper must be considered.

Initial Assessment: Taliesin Harper.

By far the most conspicuous threat of all the recurring – not least because my Detect Thoughts failed. He remains too much of an unknown at this point. He has clearly trained with both melee and ranged weaponry; he appears to favour the former, but it is too early to be sure. He could certainly put an arrow in Shay before she could reach him. He seems intelligent and socially capable, and I am inclined to believe that he could play a part better than most. Sometimes he reminds me of others I knew back home…

It is so difficult to make any useful observations. His motivations are completely unknown. He and Kheited seem to have been travelling together for some time. She regards him as her property, but his attitude towards her is harder to place. For the present I can only assume that she is beneficial, in some measure, to whatever his plans truly are, but it is all so nebulous. He has attempted some flirtation with me, upon occasion; I am not minded to encourage it until I have a clearer understanding of why, and of whether the danger he presents outweighs the possible benefits.

He is on his own territory, and he understands the ways power is expressed and controlled in this land; I am far from my Academy. If the situation were reversed, he would be easy prey. As it is, I must be exceedingly cautious. He would not be as easy to Suggest as Khedit; his weaknesses are not so well displayed. He has not, as yet, exhibited any habits which could be leveraged to my advantage. I am acutely aware that most of my study has been aimed to help me neutralise other spellcasters. So much more information is necessary before I can plan effectively… I despise feeling this vulnerable.

More observations and dreams follow, as well as several pages of potential strategies for learning more of the individuals the writer has assessed. Many have been crossed out or marked as ‘impractical’, ‘obvious’ or ‘dangerous’.

I am very ready to be out of this rain. What sort of developmentally-damaged masochists would choose to dwell in a climate like this? Still, I am informed that we should reach Waterdeep tomorrow evening…

#writing #circlingmoon #D&D #codenamecynic #bettydice #dakoyone #Khemuret Xul