#i could find a dozen similar passages

[gayleonofcuy]

Writing Lessons from ASOIAF

The last night fell black and moonless, but for once the sky was clear. "I am going up the hill to look for Ghost," he told the Thenns at the cave mouth, and they grunted and let him pass.

So many stars, he thought as he trudged up the slope through pines and firs and ash. Maester Luwin had taught him his stars as a boy in Winterfell; he had learned the names of the twelve houses of heaven and the rulers of each; he could find the seven wanderers sacred to the Faith; he was old friends with the Ice Dragon, the Shadowcat, the Moonmaid, and the Sword of the Morning. All those he shared with Ygritte, but not some of the others. We look up at the same stars, and see such different things. The King's Crown was the Cradle, to hear her tell it; the Stallion was the Horned Lord; the red wanderer that septons preached was sacred to their Smith up here was called the Thief. And when the Thief was in the Moonmaid, that was a propitious time for a man to steal a woman, Ygritte insisted. "Like the night you stole me. The Thief was bright that night."

-Jon, ASoS

I have this passage marked as 'writing inspiration' and wanted to share why I like it, if (like me) you are an ASOIAF fan and struggling aspiring writer. GRRM does a few things in this passage that I think are helpful 'advice.'

Exposition: When people criticize bad books not set in our world (or even mediocre books that could be better), one of the most common complaints is clunky exposition or info dumping, especially in the first few chapters of the novel.

Here, GRRM is expositing in a way that adds depth and richness to Westerosi and Freefolk societies. Jon lists the stars by talking about his childhood (which we already care about) and compares and contrasts his names with the names by which Ygritte knows them. This is more retainable and interesting for readers than if he had simply looked up at the sky and listed them for us.

Importantly, we are three books into the series, but we are still learning about the world. Everything hasn't been told to us already.

Lesson: Find memorable ways to show your worldbuilding. And you don't need to show everything in the first few chapters.

Cultural similarities: By this point, we've learned that the Freefolk are descendants of the First Men who were kicked on the worse side of the wall. This is one way of reinforcing the point, by having them share names for 'universal' things like stars.

Cultural differences: The influence of the Andals' religion on the common tongue, even among the First Men, is obvious here with the star named the Smith. But the passage is also pointing out at least a couple of other differences between their geographies and cultures.

1. The Fauna of Beyond-the-Wall: At the beginning of ASOS, Chett's prologue notes

It was a rare thing to find even a dozen mounted wildlings, and five hundred...

One of the advantages that the Rangers have over the Freefolk is their properly armed and armored warriors, but it seems clear that horses is another. Jon mentions that most of the people in the column are traveling by foot.

And even more telling, only one in a hundred wildlings was mounted. The Old Bear will go through them like an axe through porridge.

Stallions, while important in both cultures, are perhaps less important to lay people beyond the wall. At the very least, they're not important or perhaps relevant enough to the common person to merit the name of a star. The King's Crown also falls in this category, obviously.

2. The importance of thieving in Freefolk culture: The harshness of the North, especially during winter, has been established many times. This is magnified north of the wall, which is colder and more brutal. Aside from climate, a big reason is because they lack regular commerce with the rest of the Seven Kingdoms due to the Wall. They can't exactly show up to the Vale to buy grain during hard times.

Thus the Freefolk have had to become necessary thieves, and thieving has in turn been raised to a point of respect or reverence, even extending to their courting or mating customs.

We don't know at this point, whether stealing women was part of First Men culture that the Northerners gradually discarded. But, I think we can say that part of the reason the Freefolk have elevated stealing to a virtue is because it's so necessary. Thieves are needed for luxuries, like silks, wine, spices and so on. But they're also crucial for survival, by taking weapons and perhaps food and goods that you can eat or trade for food during their harsh winters.

So the Thief is great name for a major star in their culture, in the way that Jupiter was in western European culture.

Movement: We learn later that Jon is (brooding) on a hill near the wall, a long ways away from The Fist of the First Men where we saw him last. The end of the passage also sets up Jon describing the beginning of his physical relationship with Ygritte, but he does this in post. There is no 'and the next day, and the next day' until we get to the meat (heh) which is the instinct of many newbie writers. We have arrived here without tedious descriptions of progress, while also covering a lot of physical, emotional and narrative ground.

#asoiaf #asoiaf meta #game of thrones #writing #writeblr #writing advice #jon snow #ygritte #writing tips

[sewercl0wn]

Antagonists, anti-heroes, and villains: A how-to (part 1)

Antagonists are what arguably drive a story. From facilitating conflict and plot progression, to defining and shaping the protagonist. A well written villain could turn your story from meh to unforgettable.

manipulation_.

Good and bad isn’t black and white. A well written villain will bring intrigue to their points and make them appeal, even if you don’t directly support them.

For example, 1984 by George Orwell was greatly improved thanks to O’Brien - while I don’t think he is correct in anything he’s done, I was immersed in his reasonings and manipulative personality.

Taken from the book, I fully believe this following passage shows gaslighting and manipulative anti-heroes and the effect they have on the victim:

“...but the aim of this was simply to humiliate him and destroy his power of arguing and reasoning. Their real weapon was the merciless questioning that went on and on, hour after hour, tripping him up, laying traps for him, twisting everything that he said, convicting him at every step of lies and self-contradiction until he began weeping as much from shame as from nervous fatigue. Sometimes he would weep half a dozen times in a single session. Most of the time they screamed abuse at him and threatened at every hesitation to deliver him over to the guards again; but sometimes they would suddenly change their tune, call him comrade, appeal to him in the name of Ingsoc and Big Brother, and ask him sorrowfully whether even now he had not enough loyalty to the Party left to make him wish to undo the evil he had done. When his nerves were in rags after hours of questioning, even this appeal could reduce him to snivelling tears. In the end the nagging voices broke him down more completely than the boots and fists of the guards. He became simply a mouth that uttered, a hand that signed, whatever was demanded of him. His sole concern was to find out what they wanted him to confess, and then confess it quickly, before the bullying started anew.”

Other examples include Mother Gothel from Tangled and Light Yagami from Death note

Knowing the importance of a manipulative character, here’s how to write one:

Seclusion. By secluding and isolating the victim from other influences that can counter the scheming tactics. By taking someone away from familiar settings and people, they are more vulnerable

Guilt tripping and (mildly) degrading comments. Even minor playful ‘jokes’ or ‘teasing’ can contribute. By making someone feel worse or making them feel in debt, they feel morally obligated to stick around. Some might call this ‘playing the victim card’ (Some manipulators might switch between victimizing themselves and being the bully. Whatever is most convenient at the time)

Trust. There has to be a level of trust between victim and the character before they make any moves. Someone is more likely to overlook manipulative advances from someone who has helped them, shared moments with them, etc,. The victim will logically be more likely to trust a friend more than a stranger.

Remember, this doesn’t always happen immediately. Manipulators may be skilled in their craft, but they aren’t magic. It can take take days, weeks, months, or even years for a character to manipulate their targets.

base it off real life_.

A realistic character is always more interesting that a 2d one. People have layers, caked upon each other. If you're having trouble to write your antagonist - base it off real life.

E.g. You want to write a clown serial killer, base it off The Joker from batman, or "Clown Killer Gacy" (John Wayne Gacy)

THIS ISN'T AN EXCUSE TO PLAGIARIZE! (And you don't wanna get sued from making it too similar to a real character) read this post to learn about how to avoid plagiarism

(tw: don't google this next guy if you're not comfortable w gore + murder)

All villains have motive, taking the example of Blake Leibel - he tortured and murdered his fiance because their newborn daughter was taking away all the attention, as well as stress from avoiding Russian mob bosses that were trying to get money back from his brother.

Analyze villains you like from your favourite books, animes and movies. Delve deep and do research!

this was long, so i’ll make more parts to this and link them here. hope this helps!

#writing #creative writing #writers block #Writing tips #writers #writers on tumblr #written #writeblr #writing help #writing prompt #writing life #your local sewer rat #writing inspiration #writing villains #writing characters #villians #antagonist #writing anti heroes #anti heroes

[alexis-royce]

If a Mr Sacks showed up asking for a gift from Cards, what would they give?

Please take a moment to pretend that your character has slipped on The Robe of Mr Sacks.

When you receive the Incarnadine Fur Robe, it comes with instructions to enter The Bazaar at your earliest possible convenience. You make your way in through the Steel Door, but soon find yourself ferried through a twisting labyrinth of wet, muggy passages. The internal layout of the Bazaar would no doubt make for valuable intel, were it not for the unmistakable sense that the walls themselves are wriggling. You recall an exhibition surgery in Ladybones, just off of Hawley Street. The way the surgeon displaced yard after yard of the unconscious man’s intestines, wrapping them around a metal cart much the same as a sailor with a length of rope. It was crucial that they be secured.

After all, they wouldn’t stop wriggling.

Descend.

Through you have climbed down no less than four flights of stairs, you soon emerge into a corridor lined with windows. You are dozens of storeys up above the city.

Mr Cards’ apartment is languidly decorated, half Belgian, half French, and absolutely sneering in the face of good British decency. Gone is the tasteful moderation, nearly every item has some broad, plant-like flourish. And that lampshade! Good god, is that stained glass? The very idea!

A large oriel window looks out over the city of London.

If anovelbirthmark == 1: It also looks suspiciously similar to a spire-emporium. If you calculate the angle, one could almost swear that this room was located in the South-East tower…

The doors to this entryway boom open, and Cards strides forward with the practiced gait of a stage performer. They take your hand in both of its claws, the large palms dwarfing your own.

“Why, Mr Sacks! If I offer you my regards, rest assured that they come only as a prelude to the actual merriment!”

Cards is terribly eager to talk with you. It mixes you a warm spiced drink, then sits you down to a game of twenty squares. It preens and explosits at length about the recent journey it undertook to reach its fellows in The Neath. No less than three times, it insists you explain your reasons for choosing it over any of the other Masters, cackling with glee at any offered praise to it, and harder still at any criticism leveled at the rest.

Despite not knowing the rules, you soundly beat Cards at the board game, and it congratulates you with simpering aplomb. It reaches over your shoulder to find the half-forgotten sack, slipping a lavishly milled envelope within. You spend another twenty minutes at the door before leaving, listening to Cards gossiping and waiting while it stuffs another clawful or two of cherry sweets into your pockets.

It is unseemly in the extreme to open a gift envelope in public, but once you’re home, a letter opener makes quick work of the wax seal. It’s been stamped with a correspondence symbol, leaving the wax still distressingly hot.

When you pull out the contents of the envelope, you’re left holding a Christmas Card. You don’t know what you expected. The writing within is signed in Violant, so distracting that you nearly miss the other bit of paper inside the Christmas card.

Ah. A library card. Your name is written in the same ink as the holiday well-wishes. The thought crosses your mind to bin it, but when you flip it over, you realize that the back of the card lists credentials for access to one of the Ministry of Public Decency’s Storehouses for Felerroneous Materials.

That is a trap with your name on it.

You turn your attention to the other card. At least that one will compliment the decor.

You have received A Card-Within-A-Card (Home Comfort) Watchful +3 Respectable +1

The exterior is a chic conversation piece. The interior is an unforgettable reminder never to start a game without knowing whether you are included in the field of play.

#Fallen London #Merry Christmas! #Consider this slipped into your extra-canon inventory if you want #If you want an excuse to harass Pages then pilfer as much as you can before it notices #The Ex-Disgraced Academic #images are from in-game #Also hell yeah I named Harley Street to Hawley Street #if you want my reason why just imagine Maggie screaming for ten minutes and thirty seconds without taking a breath #and there you go

[fiftysevenacademics]

Eggplant “impletata,” or vânătă umplută (vegan version)

On May 3 our friend Jonathan Harker was served a ground meat-stuffed eggplant dish he called “impletata” for breakfast. Stuffed eggplant is one of my specialties so I immediately decided I had to make it. I never follow a recipe for my own and have very strong opinions and routines when it comes to making stuffed eggplant, so I decided it was of utmost importance that I not just wing it and try to find an authentic Romanian recipe. Googling eggplant “impletata” turned up recipes-- but only from people doing what I’m doing and trying to copy our imperiled food blogger friend. The recipes were all quite different and I realized something fishy was going on. So I googled “Romanian stuffed eggplant” and came across a passage from The Universal Vampire: Origins and Evolution of a Legend, edited by Barbara Brodman, and James E. Doan, Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 2013. I reproduce the passage in its entirety because... Jonathan, your language skills and food curiosity are a bit lacking (the same goes for a lot of literary critics, I guess):

If the paprika hendl with mamaliga is problematic because it raises doubts about Harker’s recollections of his trip, the famous stuffed eggplant is a true challenge and highlights Harker’s inability with languages. Impletata is in fact a mix of two, or even three Romanian words (none of which means eggplant): împletită , which is a type of braided bread; umplută , an adjective that means stuffed; and împănată , another adjective that means half-stuffed, or feathered, meaning that the inside of the “eggplant” (to keep with Harker’s menu) is not scooped out, but that the “eggplant” is sliced on the surface and other vegetables are inserted halfway. In fact, there are lots of recipes of vegetables and meats that can either be umplută or împănată , whereas only the bread is împletită . Without mentioning the fact that impletata is not a word in the Romanian lexicon, Klinger notes that “[t]he simplest version of impletata is a scooped out eggplant with the pulped eggplant, ground meat, breadcrumbs, and butter, and baked. Dozens of recipes are widely available in English, under ‘stuffed eggplant.’” Similarly, Leatherdale observes: “‘Mamaliga’ and ‘impletata’ come from Johnson (p. 120): ‘Egg plant stuffed with chopped meat is National Dish and called ‘Ua Impletata.’” Both these descriptions refer to stuffed eggplant, which in Romanian would be vânătă umplută. The “Ua” in Johnson’s text, reproduced by Leatherdale, could be an attempt to write down the Transylvanian pronunciation of “o,” which is the Romanian feminine indefinite article, that is, “a,” as in “a[n] impletata.” It is even possible that Johnson confused “o” with “una,” the Romanian feminine cardinal numeral, that is, “one.” This brief discussion of Harker’s Transylvanian meals shows both that his diary entries are not accurate and also that the critics working with the novel have never questioned the information offered by the fictional traveler. Indeed, all the academic work relies on Harker’s diary and on a few travelers’ logs that Stoker used. Not one critic has really questioned whether the information in these writings is correct. The notes mention Stoker’s source for one or another piece of information and they stop at that.

Googling “vânătă umplută” did, indeed turn up pages and pages of recipes, but they were all in Romanian. Google translate did a good enough job, however, for me to recognize that the only English-language recipe I found in my first search that seemed to be authentic, on a Romanian recipe blog, was, in fact, similar to all the translated recipes I was looking at. Plus, it was a very simple recipe with ingredients I had on hand, and it was already in English, so that’s what I used. Recipe is below with my additions and substitutions.

Ingredients (x)

6 small eggplants

14 oz/400 g ground sirloin (my addition: or meat analog)

2 onions

3 tablespoons lard (my addition: or shortening)

1 lb/500 g tomatoes (my substitution: a 14.5 oz can of diced tomatoes)

1 teaspoon flour

½ teaspoon sugar

1 tablespoon mixed chopped parsley and dill (I only used parsley)

salt

pepper

My addition: garlic powder, cider vinegar

My addition: 1 cup breadcrumbs

Directions

Remove the stems of the eggplants.

Then set to boil for 5 – 6 minutes in salt water.

Remove and keep in cold water until cooled off.

Drain well and remove the insides.

Do not throw away the insides, but keep in the colander.

To the ground meat add finely chopped raw or fried onion, 2 tablespoons of lard, salt, pepper, chopped parsley and dill and the eggplants' insides.

Mix well and fill the eggplant shells with this mixture.

Fry some finely chopped onion with a tablespoon of lard, add flour, let it turn yellow, then pour the boiled and strained tomatoes over it.

Add salt and sugar.

Place the eggplants in this sauce, spread some chopped parsley and dill and let simmer, covered, until the liquid is reduced somewhat.

I had 2 large egpplants, not 6 small. I cut them in half and boiled them 10 minutes, which was my first mistake. They were way too soft— should’ve left them whole and only cooked them for 5-6 even though they were larger.  I used this fake ground pork stuff (10 oz) we have and a little crumbled tempeh for texture (4 oz). I used about 2 Tbs. of onions in the sauce and mixed the rest with the meat/eggplant guts mixture. That was my second mistake. I should have fried the onions first because they were too wet and also didn’t taste as good as they should’ve. The filling mixture looked too wet so I added about a cup of breadcrumbs. That was my third mistake. It needed double that much breadcrumbs! My fourth mistake was there was way too much filling for the eggplants but I heaped it all on anyway. It looked impressive but I knew better and did it anyhow. The sauce was chunkier than I wanted so I used an immersion blender to make it smooth.

I stuffed the eggplants and started to cook them in the sauce in a covered pan on the stove as directed but decided they were just way too wet so I carefully lifted them out, put them in a baking pan, and baked them for about 40 minutes at 375. The eggplant shell was mush LOL. The filling, though cooked through, did not hold together and was also kind of bland and mushy. 

But it was all good enough, just not up to my usual glorious stuffed eggplant standards. I do like the pre-boiling method, though. I have never done it that way and it makes things a lot simpler. I’ll just make sure I don’t boil it for too long next time. This recipe is easy but not all that great. If I make it again I’ll make a stickier, more textured filling with more salt and pepper and cooked onions.

#dracula daily #daily dracula #dracula #eggplant #recipe #food #my stuff #long post

[jeweled-blue-eyes]

What are your headcannons of siodonna?

Siodonna is one of the few countries that managed to resist Obelia's colonization

they are military not very advanced but they had a skillful marriage policy and knew how to make allies of their neighbouring countries

it also helped that they were located far away from Obelia which would make a conquest much harder

they are the only ones that still believe in the old gods (the world tree) but their religion split up into different sects

some say the world tree is the only true god, some say the world tree merely serves as a messenger, other's claim that they have seen fairies around the world who are the true servants of the world tree, then others speculate that the fairies or a creature that lives in the branches of the tree are the ones performing the miracles and not the tree itself

when a Siodonnian citizen dies they will plant a tree on the grave, it's symbolic to a ladder to heaven

instead of "go to hell" there is a similar phrase which roughly translates to "go find the world tree/chase the world tree"

many young men and women travelled the world to find the world tree or find themselves, it used to be a ritual to mark the passage between childhood and adulthood

there is the belief that when you find the world tree it will grant you three wishes: "I can grant you a wish or tell you a truth. But not both"/ I can forgive you a sin or permit you a wrong. But not both."/ "I can give you back something that you've lost, or I can remove something you wish to have exercised, but not both."/ "Once you choose, you have chosen. Once I speak. I have spoken. Choose carefully, for no matter what you choose, you will almost certainly pay more than you realize." (I recently read the wish bridge and I fell in love with this concept.) I also like the idea that there is an evil world tree, maybe planted by Aeternitas with the intention to destroy their faith, that pretends to be the real world tree and also grants wishes but always twists them for their own amusement and more often than not it leads to the demise of the traveller. Or even a domino effect that could destroy a nation. (Similar to the Cthaeh in Kingkiller Chronicles).

Siodonnians are famous for their great scholars

memory stones are mined in Siodonna and the formula to engrave memories in the gems was created by Siodonnian magicians

other things they have invented: hydraulic engineering, mass produced pottery, high-quality dye and new colours like tyrian purple

if Diana was an illegitimate princess, I'd headcanon that magenta eyes are rare and the trademark of Siodonnian royality, if she was a commoner I imagine that magenta eyes are very common in Siodonna,

Diana was part of the entourage of the princess who was meant to become part of Claude's harem but Claude fell in love with Diana instead

the princess was Diana’s childhood friend and was in love with her (she was the Felix to Claude’s Diana)

all the Siodonnian dancers were basically a peace offering given to Claude after the Siodonnian Emperor or Empress heard of the dynastic revolution that happened over there. They did not want to risk a war with Obelia.

the massacre of the Ruby Palace put a strain on the relationship of Siodonna and Obelia, the Siodonnians demanded justice for their murdered princess who had been quite popular among the common folk despite being one of dozen illegitimate children of the Emperor but the council thought it was not wise to make such a rash decision based on emotions alone. So they waited.

Athy's death was the last straw and they declared war on Obelia in Claude's moment of weakness, other countries that have been colonized rose up and joined their troops

Siodonnia has a head of a state but they also have a council that has much more power in government affairs than Obelia’s council, half of the council is chosen by the ruler, the other half is voted (they get picked from a privileged group and not everyone can vote but it is an improvement in comparision to Obelia where their monarchy rules absolute)

#wmmap #siodonna #headcanons

[ehlnofeh]

I decided to do something for tes Summerfest!

The prompt I chose for today was Language, so here a little wip with my Altmer LDB Finwe, enjoy!

“Look at these, aren’t they splendid?”

“They most definitely are.”

Finwe had been distracted all day while Serana was busy checking and referencing.

They were exploring an old cave and, as the information they had been given proved useful, it had led onto a large, golden door.

This Dwemer ruin had been well hidden. Whether the passage of time or intentional design had been the reason for this had been discussed all morning.

Finwe had been pacing back and forth all afternoon, alert and reacting to every small sound that rattled through pipes and clunked against the stone. Luckily she had only needed to draw her sword on two occasions; one had been a small skeever that slinked away at the imposing sight and the other had been a herd (what do you even call a group of automata?) of Dwarven Spiders. They didn’t appear to be on any malicious endeavour, but it didn’t hurt to be sure with something that had no physical expressions of emotion.

Serana had been having a slightly smoother time, with a few stone tablets luring her into a feverish excitement. She had taken an interest in the Dwemer, having been not quite alive while they still existed on Nirn. Whatever had sent them away was intriguing and probably carried with it an immense magical force, which was always useful in her eyes. Serana wasn’t anywhere near as fascinated by ancient Nord history as she had a rather intimate knowledge of things the ancient Nords got up to, instead being intrigued by the disappearance of the Dwemer.

Finwe and Serana had spoken about travelling into Morrowind, perhaps when they had more freedom to do as they pleased. There would of course be more settlements to explore, but for now, Skyrim’s abundance of places to see would suffice.

As they tired later into the day, Serana had taken to shouting out words she found on the tablets to Finwe, hoping for a spark of recognition. The letters used by the Altmeri language had equivalents in the Dwemer tongue, which is where the similarities appeared to end. Finwe had so far listened to more than six dozen words that Serana did not know and did not sound anything like the language she grew up with, which meant the shouts of frustration were getting louder and more amusing to listen to at each no she had sent back.

“I’m getting sick of the word thu and anything it is indicating towards,” Serana said, standing and stretching herself from her hunched position. “I’d love to find just one word that could help make a link here or there, but even the ones that look like they will come out in a nice elven word are being rebuked.”

She pressed her hands against her face and laid back over the table, careful to avoid leaning on the fruits of her work.

“At least you can assume they were writing about another person, or groups of people?” Finwe asked tentatively. “Better than just more historical lists of stone and metal to be traded?”

“Sure.”

That would be the end of that conversation then Finwe thought.

“Would it be helpful to - rather than looking for Dwemer words and checking them - maybe look for a common word across cultures and seeing if they have that anywhere?”

The light returned to Serana’s eyes for a moment.

“What kind of word?”

Finwe considered for a moment, as she had one in her mind already.

“Mora, or something similar”.

“That means wood doesn’t it.” The optimism left Serana’s face just as fast as it had arrived.

“Why do you look so downtrodden about that?” Finwe asked earnestly.

Serana responded with a half a shrug and a very slow gesture to their surroundings which consisted of stone walls and bronze piping like veins inside a golem.

Ah.

Perhaps a better word would be needed.

#tes summer fest #tes #skyrim #oc: Finwe #Serana #elder scrolls

[roleplayolyhedrons]

Simulating the World (Pt. 1)

I might as well confess from the beginning that I did not grow up playing tabletop (pen and paper) role-playing games. I was a war gamer from an early age. I played behind grand armies, rolling dice to decide the fate of entrenched enemies, and even my soldiers, for that matter. I came to role-playing games at a critical juncture in my own life—a time when I was bored with war games and needed some form of mental stimulation that went beyond what television and video games could offer me at the time. Role-playing games, to me, signify a significant step in a process of self-exploration through games and gaming—a sort of natural progression from one gaming genre, such as war games, to the next, role-playing games.

Mage Knight

I roll the dice—they’re high numbers—what exactly, I can’t recall after nearly fifteen years. Probably a six and a five on the six-sided dice. All kill shot, I remember. I also remember the ugly orange carpet of the room and the dozen or so people crammed into the tiny spare room in my junior high school. My opponent’s face, a fuzzy, easily forgotten face, scowls at the loss of her Mage Knight miniature, her prized soldier on the battlefield. She removed the plastic warrior from the table, which is decorated with sand table terrain—i.e., stone masonry structures, such as fortified walls, square towers,m and sagging buildings with thatched rooves all of which are fashioned from painted soda box cardboard. I’m winning at a game that is, at its heart, very much like chess, although it’s different. In other words, it’s hard to say it tastes like chicken, when, in fact, it isn’t chicken, doesn’t even come close, in many respects. The endgame is the same as chess: Kill off your opponent’s pieces until s/he capitulates. It’s a game my pubescent self prefers over chess because of the options available to one playing the game. No more strict movements on an undecorated board. The pawns of war move in ways that chess pieces only dream of, duking it out over neatly modeled sand table terrain. Dice rolls act as the great equalizer, as much as a good strategy. (And good strategy doesn’t hurt either.) Chess, after playing Mage Knight, feels anachronistic and tastes bland.

There’s a catch to playing Mage Knight: I have to keep it secret because it is one of those things forbidden in my household. It’s far too similar to a game called Dungeons & Dragons in my father’s eyes. When he finds out that I want to play this game with my friends, and on a Sunday of all days, he flips out. My old man decides the best punishment is to force me to read aloud Bible passages. He thinks, hopes, that this activity will purge, scrub away with an intellectual version of a wire brush, any interests I have in such games. My father hands me an old Bible and says, “Here, read this. Make sure I can hear you reading this from in the living room.” I ask him why. He says, “Because I told you to. Now read!” My father truly believes the rumors and theories surrounding the connections between devil worship and suicide among those who play games like Dungeons & Dragons. This is strange to me. My father doesn’t treat my younger brother in the same way. He can play with his friends on a Sunday, and so can my sister. Instead of playing with my friends, instead of playing a harmless game of Mage Knight, I read from Judges, and the fantastical stories from this part of the Bible only serve to kindle my interest in playing out such stories in game form. I can almost imagine reenacting the battles with my miniatures, bought with earned and stolen quarters, all in the name of G-d.

War Games

Military modeling and simulation is the technical term for what hobbyists call war gaming. M&S, as it is more commonly known, has been around for millennia. Human beings, from ancient Egyptian pharaohs to Mesopotamian kings to Prussian military officers have all tried to simulate combat without the risk associated with actual warfare. The answer to this dilemma of simulating a part of the real world was not what we would call LARP-ing—live-action role-playing—, complete with mock swords and shields and cheesy acting to boot. Instead, ancient and modern civilizations alike developed board games using intricate and not-so-intricate playing pieces, along with wooden, clay, or stone boards. What started as a training tool for the ruling and military elite soon became a pastime of those who had little interest or knowledge in the affairs of war and peace.

War games are a permanent staple of modern-day gaming hobbies. Popular war games fill the shelves of big box stores and hobby and specialist shops alike. Entire conventions are dedicated to the wargaming hobby in the civilian world. Names like Avalon Hill, Games Workshop, and Fantasy Flight Games (FFG), conjure up images of miniature warriors duking out over sand table real estate. Players rely on dice and pre-established statistics to determine the odds of combat and movement on the board. In some cases, war games are quite elaborate, with miniatures, realistic, war-torn landscapes, and complex formulas as part of the overall gaming experience. However, other war games are quite simple, with said games being fashioned from inexpensive cardboard cardstock or plastic tokens. Nevertheless, whether it is elaborate war games or cheap cardboard ones, many civilians know war gaming simply as a hobby they love and spend countless hours on. Few know about the origins of war gaming, the grandfather of role-playing games, especially when it comes to its political and military origins.

War games have been around for as long as human beings have fought wars against one another. Such games offer players a chance to experience combat against an opponent without the risks associated with real war. War games, like chess and Go, have become permanent fixtures of the civilian world, as ultimate games of strategy, patience, and mental endurance. Entire libraries have been written on games like chess. However, the war game as we know it is a relatively modern invention. The wargaming hobby is in debt to the likes of Prussian military strategists, who first developed and used the game Kriegsspiel (i.e., literally “war game”) to train military officers in strategy and tactics. This pedagogical method is pregnant with possibilities and problems. Officers, and even the political elite, are better able to get a grasp of combat, which is fraught with unknowns, unknowns that must be anticipated by the commander in question. These same games, however, can create a sort of myopia within those who play them, allowing the officers in question to believe they are best prepared for the situation at hand, when, in fact, they haven’t.

Jackson Kicked My Ass

I’m at my friend’s, Jackson’s, house, an old riverfront Victorian. Jackson is this tall, lanky character, with combed hair, a goofy smile, and the mouth of a sailor on shore leave. We’ve brought together a collection of Warhammer 40K miniatures my grandmother, on my father’s side, bought for me, along with some old hardbound books, clean coffee mugs, and a handful of six-sided dice. The books and cups serve as ad hoc terrain, the best we can come up with, considering the circumstances. Cups serve as towering mountains, and the books are grand mesas, tableland on some alien desert world. The books and cups are organized in such a way that the middle of the table is the narrowest point, with the top and bottom ends widening out enough to allow for our troops to be placed in their start positions. I play a small squad of Space Marines. Jackson plays a squad of Tyranids, an alien insectoid-like race. We’re using our own rules this time because I’ve forgotten the rulebook at home, which is hidden from my father’s prying eyes. I position my Space Marines in a firing line, just before the narrowest point on the table, getting ready for Jackson’s insectoid swarm. Once it’s his turn, he unleashes his horde, charging toward my Space Marines. Both sides are equally matched, considering. It’s my turn again. I roll to fire on the Tyranids, killing three off the bat. Jackson curses under his breath. It’s his turn again. His alien horde attacks my Space Marine line, full force. He rolls and kills two of my Space Marines. It’s my turn again. I find that my Space Marines are in an optimal position. Jackson’s troops are being bottle-necked by the terrain and my soldiers are ready to take them on. I decide to roll an attack against Jackson’s troops. I roll low, really low. So low, it is laughable now that I think about it, some fifteen years later. Jackson laughs. It’s one of those laughs that sounds like monkeys fighting one another over forage. He knows his troops are safe, for now. It’s his turn. He rolls for attack, and he manages to kill four of my courageous Space Marines. I wince as this takes place. Jackson feels victory coming.

“You ready to surrender, bitch?”

“Fuck you, man,” I retort.

“You kno’ I’m gonna fuckin’ win,  bro. Just admit it.”

“Fuck off, Jackson.”

It’s my turn. I roll. Again, the numbers aren’t in my favor. I don’t manage to kill or wound any of Jackson’s horde, which appears to be more ferocious than it did a few minutes ago.

I move my Space Marines back some, giving myself breathing room. Jackson moves closer. I roll for an attack, and I only manage to kill one of his hordes. I feel the sweat dripping off my brow, my hands are shaky, and my heart rate is through the roof. I can’t let this cocky fucker win, I think to myself. Jackson moves in for the kill. He manages to finish off the remainder of my Space Marine squad. In my mind, I can hear the shrill screams of grown men being torn apart by an alien horde. They cry out for their God-like emperor to save them, but their cries fall on deaf ears.

Jackson’s smiling at the end, all of his front teeth, pearly whites even in the dim light, are showing. He reaches over to shake my hand. I take it.

“No hard feelin’s, bro?”

“Sure, no hard feelings.”

“Another round, dude?” Jackson asks.

I nod, and we begin setting up our soldiers on opposite ends of the table for another battle.

#ttrpgs #wargames #simulation #series

[hippiemikelove-blog]

#AllCannabinoids #BadRX #Cannabis #CannabisBlogs #CannabisRecovery #MikesMedicines #MMJ #NatureNotPills #PharmaBeware #Withdraw

[astradrifting]

So here’s a funny little tidbit that I found while researching another post.

In ACOK, Jon I, Lord Commander Mormont explains to Jon the Targaryen succession after Daeron II, how Maester Aemon could have been a king and refused. He’s pretty longwinded about it, explaining how Aemon was 9th or 10th in line for the throne; it’s a similar vibe to Littlefinger explaining to Sansa how Harry Hardying is the heir to the Vale in AFFC. George really needs people to understand his complicated lines of succession:

"Aemon was at his books when the eldest of his uncles, the heir apparent, was slain in a tourney mishap. He left two sons, but they followed him to the grave not long after, during the Great Spring Sickness. King Daeron was also taken, so the crown passed to Daeron's second son, Aerys."

"The Mad King?" Jon was confused. Aerys had been king before Robert, that wasn't so long ago.

"No, this was Aerys the First. The one Robert deposed was the second of that name."

“How long ago was this?”

“Eighty years or close enough,” the Old Bear said, “and no, I still hadn’t been born, though Aemon had forged half a dozen links of his maester’s chain by then. Aerys wed his own sister, as the Targaryens were wont to do, and reigned for ten or twelve years. Aemon took his vows and left the Citadel to serve at some lordling’s court….until his royal uncle died without issue.”

(ACOK, Jon II)

He specifically mentions Aerys wedding his sister, as the Targaryens often do, nothing special about it….except Aerys didn’t marry his sister. In what was probably a record first for the Targaryens, none of Daeron II’s sons married their sister, because he had no daughters. 

So is this a mistake, or a retcon?

It’s pretty much impossible for this to be a mistake on George’s part, because the line of succession after Daeron II in particular was clearly something George had already put a lot of thought into. He wouldn’t just forget about giving Daeron a daughter in one book only to contradict it in TWOIAF and the Dunk and Egg novellas, where we find out who Aerys married. Furthermore, if Daeron had actually had a daughter, she would have been betrothed to his eldest son and heir apparent, Baelor Breakspear, not the second son Aerys.  

So Mormont probably made a mistake, mixing up Aerys I with Aerys II, who did marry his sister, much as Jon did in that same conversation. Mormont’s not a geneologist, I can’t blame him, all these Targaryens blend into one after a while. What’s the big deal? Why have I spent so much time talking about the marriage of a barely relevant Targaryen king?

First off: I will do anything to procrastinate on actual work. Secondly, while Mormont made a mistake, I think this was a very intentional detail on George’s part. Because the woman that Aerys actually married was Aelinor Penrose, his cousin.

There was actually some discussion about this Jon passage and Aerys’ marriage on the westeros.org forums, because it’s not been clarified how Aelinor and Aerys are cousins, who’s child she is that they’re somehow related, besides the fact that she’s not related to his great-aunt Elaena Targaryen, who married Lord Ronnel Penrose. 

The commenters in the thread I linked above are mostly quite confused about the timeline, how to keep what little we know about Aelinor consistent with the fact that she’s Aerys’ cousin.

[text in case it’s unclear : “To reiterate that Penrose thing, here are a bunch of arguments why Aelinor Penrose as cousin of Aerys I causes more problems than it solves.”]

They even suggest removing the detail about them being cousins and making Aelinor a sister again, because that would simplify things:

[text: “My suggestion would be: Change the children of Ronnel and Elaena to three elder sons and one daughter, Aelinor, who married Aerys I. The three elder sons could then be old enough to be killed off by Fireball in 196 - if twins were among them, and we make this story about squires trying to win glory etc. Fireball sparing the youngest son could then be a nod to Princess Elaena, which could be sort of nice touch.

Even better would be the idea to make Aelinor Aerys' sister again, who perhaps was married to him in second marriage, after being married to a son of Elaena's in first marriage [although go with the classical Targaryen incest would be in order in Aerys' case, especially if their parents never actually thought that the marriage had to be consummated - considering Baelor's, Maekar's, and eventually Rhaegel's children].”]

Elio M. Garcia, one of George’s co-writers for TWOIAF, responded to this post, succintly refuting it:

[text: “I said that Aelinor was a cousin, not that she was a descendant of Elaena. 

There’s no issue with the Aelinor situation. 

HoW, 

Thanks]

There’s also the question of why Aerys would be married into a relatively minor house from the Stormlands, especially when his brother Baelor was already married to Jena Dondarrion, another Stormlands house; to a woman who evidently wasn’t even of the main branch, because Elaena Targaryen’s son was the heir to House Penrose but Aelinor isn’t related to her. She can’t be a cousin through Daeron II’s sister Daenerys, because Daenerys was much younger than Daeron and there’s no way a younger child of hers married into the Penroses and had a child old enough to marry Aerys by the time he ascended to the throne in 209AC. A more likely prospect is that Aelinor wasn’t a cousin through the Targaryens at all, but through Aerys’ mother, Myriah Martell. Perhaps she had a younger sister who married a Penrose. Except there’s a problem with that as well, because why would a Martell princess marry a second son?

[text: “Hm, so Elaena and a daughter of the first Daenaerys both married into the Penroses? This seems to be a bit of an overkill, no? They aren't even the mst powerful among the Marcher lords. And would it actually make things better time-wise? Daenaerys was born... 172 AC, no? So, let's say marriage around 186 at the earliest, eldest child bespoke as a heir to Dorne... No, it fits even worse than with Elaena.

Or are we speaking about Maron's and Mariah's younger sister marrying a Penrose? I.e. a cousin through the Martells, not through Targs? There is still a problem that somebody of her stature would have married the _Lord_ Penrose. So, were she and Elaena married to the same man and was Aelinor actually Elaena's stepdaughter?

I have to say, that I don't understand the reason for complicating things like that. Either a sister or a daughter of Elaena would have done the job much better, IMHO. Because, really, why did Egg expect to marry one of his sisters if nobody in the previous 2 generations had?”] 

The comment above is right. This detail is so strangely placed, and doesn’t make much sense with how noble marriages work. But Elio confirmed, “There’s no issue with the Aelinor situation.”

Meaning it’s all intentional. For some reason, George has deliberately made Aelinor Penrose Aerys’ cousin, and has not clarified the degree of their relation even though this muddies up the timeline and contradicts the only explicit reference to her in the main text of ASOIAF. Apparently, all that’s important is that we know that Aelinor was a Penrose, not previously related to the Targaryens, and Aerys’ cousin. 

So in that conversation with Jon, the mistake Mormont made was intentional too. He drew attention to a Targaryen king who he thinks married his sister, but the truth is, she was his cousin. Despite what Jon’s father figure told him.

#astra rambles #jonsa #meta #this is probably the farthest i've ever reached #except it's all deliberate!!! #he says sister but actually she was a cousin #he refuses to clarify what degree of cousin #it'd be easier to put her down as a sister but that's not the truth

[aelingalathyniusrailme]

Power recognizes power

A little power training gwynriel fic that came from me writing “if you find me at the edge, we’ll jump together.” and I was like this sentence deserves to be the title of something. plus throw everything (and by everything I mean that one sentence in the book) that you know about lightsingers away I’m just using the cute name. and yk there may or may not be some smut at the end. 

She was glowing.

She was glowing and Azriel did not mean she looked radiant or that she was overcome with joy, although she did and she was. Gwyneth Berdara was a living, breathing star. As if the spring equinox had come early this year.

Her skin lit up against the blackness of the sky and her hair burned bright with the ferocity of the hearth.

Gwyneth Berdara had stopped singing, the crowd was silent.  All eyes were on her but she was looking at him, her light, a beacon to his darkness.

His shadows yearned to go to her, he yearned to go to her. Instead, they both stayed stagnant, watching, waiting.

Azriel was had had enough, he dissolved from view and reappeared on the stage. Startled, Gwyn, took a step back and he stayed right with her, matching her step for step.

He gently tucked a stray piece of lit-up auburn hair behind her here, whispering, “It appears you glow, my love.”  

Gwyn, ultimately getting over her initial shock lightly pushed him on the shoulder, “Don’t do that.” She scowled.

Chuckling, he pressed his mouth to hers, in a soft, soothing kiss, forgetful of the audience behind them. As she relaxed beneath his touch, the glow became dimmer and dimmer until it ceased to be. Darkness returned and he stepped back. Gwyn took a breath and stilled. The nervous, passionate energy, that arouse when she sang, calmed for now.

Azriel turned to the crowd, “Due to the events that occurred here tonight, the performance will have to be cut short.” A soft boo drew his attention and immediately he isolated the noise. “Do you want to boo my mate again?” Azriel threatened coolly, his eyes narrowing.

Annoyed, she sighed and spoke to the crowd, “Oh ignore him, I truly am sorry for this interruption but I want to give nothing more than my best and right now I feel as if I can’t do that. the show will be rescheduled sometime next month, letters will be sent out with more information.”

He watched as the stunned and irritated faces slowly began disappearing. Some winnowing away, others taking the slightly more traditional door. Gwyn held her hand out to him. He took it, “So you’re a living lamp?”

“An astute observation.”  

“Is there any way I can convince you to rest now and figure this out later?”

She sighed, “It has been an especially long night.”

Azriel stared at her in disbelief, “did you just agree that you should rest?”

“Oh close your mouth, you’ll swallow a fly.” He responded by grinning at her and winnowing them away to their shared home.

Taking off his shirt he yawned not realizing how tired he actually was. It was still strange to him, being able to sleep so freely, without the looming fear of the past and what he couldn’t control. He stopped, realizing Gwyn had not moved from the door.

Gently he asked, “Are you coming?”

She looked at him blankly, lost in thought for a moment before she responded, “Um-yeah-later.” He was unconvinced so she tried again. “I think I’m going to stay out here and make some tea, maybe read a book.”

Azriel gave her a knowing look but did not push, “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight Az.” He tenderly kissed her cheek and walked to their room, immediately passing out on the bed.

—————————————————–

Azriel awoke at dawn and turned, unsurprisingly, to find the left side of the bed cold and empty. He sighed as he got out of bed, pulling on a pair of pants, mumbling. “Gwyneth berdara, you are going to be the death of me.”

Knowing there was no way she would be in the house but believing he probably should, he checked regardless and when he determined that she was in fact not in the house, he closed his eyes. When he opened them once again he found himself at the house of wind.

He nodded in acknowledgment, “Clotho,”

Shadowsinger. “The one and only.”

Is there something you require? “Just looking for that mate of mine. Any chance she’s here”

You know she is, and you know precisely where to find her. Ask what you truly want to ask. Through gritted teeth, he asked, “How long has she been here?”

Since 11 pm. Exhaling, he muttered, “Why can’t that damn woman ever rest.”

Over excursion out of only stubborn will seems to be a similarity between the two of you. Azriel frowned slightly before smiling pleasantly, “It’s been a pleasure as always, thank you for your help.”

Clotho only nodded and Azriel began the stairs to the 7th floor.

It took a moment for him to find her, the shadowsinger was a trained spy, forced to observe and retain even the smallest of details, yet he couldn’t find a bubbly redhead in a room full of texts and stories.

Ah, no wonder he hadn’t seen her. Gwyn was surrounded by hundreds upon hundreds of books. She was drowning in literature, her hair was tied loosely in a braid with quite a few pieces falling out, there were dark circles beneath her eyes, and she was sporting the slightly insane look that came from a lack of sleep.

“Gwyn.” Her head jerked up in surprise to see him.

“Oh Az, Ok Ok, I promise I will go to sleep soon I just need 5 more minutes. I’m so so so close. I think I’m going to skip training today. Ok how about 2 minutes. 10. No that’s more. 10 sets of 1 minute. I just need 10 sets of 1 minute. I’m fine how are you?”

“Gwyn, my love, you’re delirious.”

She brushed him off, “What no I’m fine. I’m fine. Did I already say that? I can’t remember.”

Logic was never the way to deal with her insane stubbornness, so he tried a different approach. He pushed down his worry for her, and curled his mouth into a smirk, “I bet,” She perked up like a dog about to be fed, “that you can’t summarize everything you learned last night into,” he checked the clock. “15 minutes.”

“I could do it in 10.”

“Prove it.”

“And when I win?”

“I leave you to research. But if you can’t you have to go to bed.”

“Time starts now.”

Gwyn took a deep breath and began. “First I looked into where light magic is supposed to originate: the day court. Their magic is described as warm and comforting. Every single text I read described the magic the same way, as a sort of yellowish-brown light, like the sun. But the magic that came from me was more of an icy blinding light, like the lights from the stars rather than the sun. Also, as far as I know, I don’t have family from the day court so I looked into the family I do have. My family from the autumn court. However, we know that autumn court magic is fire, and what manifested in me was light not heat. My grandmother was a nymph so I thought well what type of magic do nymphs have. And the answer was severely disappointing, with basic plant magic being the most a nymph was able to do. I was stumped for a few hours before I realized. I’m basing my research on what I believe to be true not what I know to be true. I was told that I am a quarter nymph and because that heritage would explain my non-high fae-like features I believed that, for there was no reason for me not to. But what if my nymph grandmother was not a nymph at all. I flipped through dozens of books on faeries that have similar features, light magic, and/or can live on land and water. For the most part, I could not find anything, but then out of the corner of my eye I found a small tome on the history of light magic, the majority being all things I’d seen a million times before on the day court, but a passage no more than a page long, referenced ‘the lightsinger.’ Now what is a Lightsinger, you may ask? Honestly, I had no idea what or who they were so I found every book and story I could on them. The lightsinger’s, instead of being a title for a way to manipulate magic, like shadowsingers or daemati, were a race. A long-lost fae race said to be able to bend and create light with their voices and song. It’s said that they died out due to a conflict with the shadowsingers but every so often there are sightings of unknown nymph-like creatures in you’ll never believe where. The autumn court. Now I would only have 25% of lightsinger blood but magic is a fickle thing and some sources believe that when bred with high fae blood the magic intensifies.” Gwyn exhaled.

Azriel grinned victoriously, “It’s been 20 minutes.”

“Goddamn it, I didn’t even get to the interactions between shadowsingers and lightsingers.”

Now he was intrigued. “Well if you want to continue I certainly won’t stop you.”

“No no,” she yawned, “I lost which means I will be going to bed. But I do want to alter our deal slightly.”

“Oh?”

“I sleep now, you train me tomorrow.” The set of her chin and the look in her eye were enough to assure him of how serious she was.

“You want a male who specializes in darkness to help you master your light?”

“Certain theories believe that the mother gifted the light and shadowsingers their gifts to balance each other out and to remain harmonious.” She reasoned. “So yes there is no one I would want more to teach me.”

“I will not take it easy on you.”

“Wouldn’t want you to.”

“Alright Berdara, we meet Sunday at dawn, do not be late.”

“I’ll be there.”

——————————————————————————————————–

Sunday arrived and Azriel watched as Gwyn came down to the training ring in her leathers, with a white ribbon tied in her hair.

“Good morning Gwyneth.”

“So formal.” He shot her a look. “Oh alright ok my turn. Good morning Azriel, shadowsinger, spymaster of the night court, mate of the most amazing female to grace this planet.”

“Training is serious.”

“Of course it is. Shall we begin?”

“I want you to light up the room.”

“What? is it not already lit?”

He smirked and let his shadows paint the room black. Azriel himself became smoke, nothing more than a voice in the darkness.

“Az, az come on this is not funny.”

“Good, because it’s not a joke.” His voice came from every direction and every way Gwyn turned she was surrounded by endless nothing. “You must learn to sing the song of light the way I learned the language of shadow.”

“Speaking in vague melodrama feels like it’s not going to be that effective.”

Gwyn tried to back up only to find what was once the training ring now bled together with the depth of the sky.

“Let the light speak to you. Coax it, nurture it. Burn through the darkness and find the light.”

“How am I supposed to do that.”

Gwyn thought of the way Nesta harnessed her silver fire, the way her eyes became the flame itself. She concentrated and searched deep within herself, searching and looking for the light she knew she possessed.

All she saw was a hallowed chamber.

“No.” The word echoed throughout the room. “Our magic is not like others, we do not create out of nothing, we manipulate what is already there.”

“How am I supposed to manipulate if I’m in a room with no light?” Gwyn huffed frustrated.

“Just because the shadows are masking it, does not mean it is not there.”

He was so damn infuriating. She tried calling the light to her, she flexed her hands, she even tried speaking to it, all to no avail.

“As you said, magic is fickle and our elements especially. Light and darkness do not want to be bound or controlled, let the light be a friend, a companion, let it want to help, let it want to be influenced by your will.”

But how the fuck was she supposed to do that.

“Think of the first time it came to your call.” He whispered ominously. “What were you thinking. What were you feeling? Power often manifests through emotion.”

Singing. She had been singing. Was it really so easy that all she had to do was sing?

Turns out it wasn’t.

For hours she sang hundreds of songs. From songs in the old fae language that she sang at the priestess services to ones she had written herself. Nothing worked. Azriel had let her have a singular break when she desperately needed to pee and even then he was skeptical.  

He had left her to her own devices leaving his shadows to watch over her progress. When he returned he found Gwyn clutching her knees, rocking in the shadows. Her gaze was unfocused and she was humming to herself.

“You have officially broken me. I’m done.” She wanted nothing more than to sit in the library with her sisters and a book.

“No.”

Gwyn’s eyes snapped into focus, her breathing steadied, and she went predatorily still. “Excuse me.”

“You heard me. No.” Azriel laughed, a cold vicious laugh. “You asked me to train you. Gwyneth Berdara has never quit before and she certainly won’t start now.”

Gwyn was seething, but she remained quiet. “What?” He was toying with her. “A little darkness too much for you. Light up the room and we won’t have a problem.”

“Oh that’s right you can’t. 10 hours in and no light in sight. You’re pathetic.”

Her anger cleared her mind and in that moment of clarity a memory, buried deep within her, resurfaced as if it was resting, snoozing until its moment of need.

Gwyn was in her mother's lap, a black-haired girl sat across from her. Her voice pulled her attention. “My girls, Catrin,” She tickled her, resulting in a giggle from her lost sister, before she turned her head, “Gwyneth.” And also tickled her. Gwyn's small hands clutched at their mother, desperately trying to hold on. “My two beautiful daughters.” She sighed. “Your lives will be filled with so much darkness, darkness that you do not deserve. But I need you two to be strong, to stay with each other, and to find strength in the other.” ‘I don’t get it,” Gwyn whined.

“We are a part of a glorious and lost people, a people of light and song. But they fear us because they do not understand us.”

Gwyn and Catrin looked up at her, confused and innocent.

“It’s ok, you will. You know the song I sing to you every night before you go to sleep?” Gwyn and Catrin cheered, “Yeah.”  

“I want you to sing it with me, and I don’t want you to ever forget it. Can you do that for me?”

Their voices came together in a melodic lullaby. It was captivating and cold, those who heard could not look away. The song demanded to be heard, to be sung.

The words came tumbling out of Gwyn, they twisted around her tongue and lips as if finally home. Lost but not forgotten. Lost but born anew. Through the shadow and darkness, her eyes found the light, it heard her call and from every direction it found her. She pulled the brilliance of the stars to her and let the light paint the dark white.

The shadows retreated to Azriel who stood just two feet in front of her. Their eyes locked and he smiled, “there she is.”

The light flowed and flowed, and the room lit up in a blaze of pearlescent radiance. Her pale skin lit and she had once again become one with the stars.

But while the call came from her, there was another that drew her light forward. His shadows and her light curiously answered the pull. Finding each other between Azriel and Gwyn. One did not dissolve into the other like it should but instead mingled, swirling around each other in an almost playful manner. They became one from two opposites that never should have met.

As they blended together she felt a pounding in her chest and a throbbing somewhere lower. Her toes curled and she craved more. Their power was its own entity and yet connected to them. A push and pull, a desire to be close.

Azriel bridged the gap between them breathing heavily, pulling her against him as he’d never felt her before. “Az.” she gasped.

His eyes were on her lips as he licked his own, smiling, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so alive.”

“You’re the worst,” She said between breaths.

“I know.” And their lips met in a furious burst of passion.

He kissed her with a fiery hunger, a male starving. Her hands weaved through his hair, her fingers getting lost in the darkness. Gwyn wanted nothing more then to be lost in his darkness, as he wanted to drown in her light. Azriel gripped her waist, grinding his hardness into her causing her to moan.

“You make such pretty sounds for me.” He chuckled, ripping her shirt off.

“Fuck me.” It was an order, not a request.

“Gladly.” Their clothes were gone moments later. His kisses moved down her neck as he sucked and his fingers dipped to her cunt as he felt her. “Always so wet and ready for me.”

She wrapped her hand around his cock, “Always so hard for me.”

“Can’t help it.”

“Wouldn’t want you to.” He laid her down in the middle of the training ring and stroked his cock up and down her folds, pressing against her clit. “oh my god-fuck.”

With that, his control snapped and he buried himself to the hilt in her. Stroking once, twice.

He smirked, crooning, “look how perfectly we fit.”

His thrusts were slow and shallow, edging her on, basking in the feel of him in her, of her around him.

He then went harder, hitting her in the right spot every time, but Gwyn needed more.

“Faster.”  

“Your wish is my command.” Azriel fucked her hard and fast, and with every thrust she moaned in ecstasy, driving her hips forward, meeting him step for step.

“Oh my god fuck me.”

“Such a good girl, taking it so well.” He captured a moan on her lips, devouring her.

“yes, yes fuck.”

Where the light met the dark, was where Gwyn met Azriel. They were cocooned in a shell of power flowing between and all around them. They were a storm of blinding light and depthless shadow, the lines of what were and were not, blurred to just the other.

“Gwyn.” He groaned, nothing existed but them.

“Az I’m gonna cum.”

“Yes, my love, cum for me.”

Every thrust became sporadic and uncontrolled as if his pleasure had taken a mind of its own. He swirled his tongue around her nipple and ground her clit with his fingers.

It was all too much, Gwyn cried out as she came, her back arching, toes curling. Her cunt tightened around his cock as he fucked her past completion. She was everything and watching her cum was enough to send him over the edge as he emptied himself in her, collapsing on the ground next to her.

For a moment they were silent before Gwyn spoke, “would you like to hear what I learned about the interactions between Lightsinger’s and Shadowsinger’s” She smirked, “Apparently the sex is unlike even mate sex.”

“I can vouch for that.”

Gwyn laughed, and if it wasn’t the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard.

#gwynriel #gwyn berdara #azriel #gwyn x azriel #one shot #gwynriel one shot #smut #Gwynriel fanfiction

[murderousginger]

Gentle Giant

Arthur Shelby x reader

Word count: 1,708

Warnings: Adultery. Sex. They're criminals guys, they do bad things.

Requested by @caelys for this song.

You tried not to stare, but you failed every service. You resolved yourself to sitting opposite them in the circle of foldable chairs instead. Easier not to be seen breaking your neck over a married man, rising suspicions and idle gossip among the chickens.

The meetings were held in secret in the pastor's business. Quaker service was simple and pure. You all read the Bible together and discussed passages as the pastor mediated the flock if discussions got heated. Those of you with the urge could sing whatever the lord influenced you to. Or, you all sat in silence if no one felt compelled to talk.

You sang quite often. 

It soothed you and seemed to soothe others, so you were regularly called to sing at the beginning of the meeting.

You liked making others feel at ease and were often called on to welcome new members or talk to those that felt the need to talk to someone. 

As a widow, you often helped after service to put the chairs up or see to the children while their parents did the rounds of greeting others. You weren't there for the gossip or the social hierarchy that so many used these meetings for. You just liked being around similar minded people. 

And then Linda brought her husband around. 

They were dating at first. Arthur, following Linda around like a lost puppy with his hat wrung in his hands, was hard to ignore. His face was haggard in that same way most men that returned from the war was, but his eyes were soft. He kept his voice soft around everyone and often looked to the floor, but there was a sense of power hidden in his rough hands, his brow, his tense back. It was as if he was a lion hiding as a lamb in fear of being cast out.

Linda never particularly liked you; she never particularly liked anyone that she couldn't control or otherwise bend to her whims. She was a strong woman with a strong voice and the opinion it needed to be heard. You both stayed cordial but otherwise away from each other, but you couldn't help but be interested in him.

There were whispers. A Shelby, they said. Dangerous. 

But he didn't seem dangerous. He seemed lost. All too eager to follow Linda to whatever she dragged him into if it meant she continued smiling at him. 

He became a regular member, following Linda on her constant reach for more. You found yourself talking to him more than once as she made her rounds, and that's when you realized you cared about the quiet, strong man that was being overshadowed by his ambitious wife. 

Today, the smell of gunpowder and whiskey was stained on his clothes from the night before. His eyes still floated along as if he was half drunk. Linda held his arm in a vice grip as she dragged him along to make the rounds of greetings after service. Her smile was tight and never met her eyes. The honeymoon phase was well over.

"Y/N, so nice to see you!" Linda's voice raised in fake cheer. 

"And you, sister of the lord!" you answered back with equally fake cheer. "How are you both this morning? Late start?"

"Good!" Linda sung. "We are good. Nothing slips past you! Our resident songbird also has eagle eyes."

Your mouth fought to grimace at the dig, but you kept your smile plastered on.

"And you, Arthur?" you asked softly, ignoring Linda. "How did you find the service?"

"Your voice always brings out other's inner light to service, Y/N," he said with a smile. "It's a right beautiful way to start a Sunday."

You smiled, tucking your chin to your chest to hide your embarrassment at his comment. 

"Thank you."

"Really?" Linda said as she looked up to her husband. "Her voice always had a grit that I thought belonged in a nightclub rather than singing to angels. Oh look, let's go say hello to Mr. Peyton."

Linda dragged Arthur off by the arm as he shot you an apologetic look and you bit your cheek at her comment. His compliment bounced through your brain even as Linda's comment stung.

You started to gather the chairs, folding them and carrying a few at a time into the pastor's  office to pack away into a storage room. With almost 30 members, it would take almost a dozen trips to collect all of the chairs.

You turned around to make your way for another trip when the door swung open and Arthur came in with 4 or 5 chairs tucked under his arms.

"Thought you could use a hand," he said with a small smile. "Save you a few trips, songbird."

"That's very kind of you, Arthur," you smiled back. "Thank you."

You opened the storage door and let him set the chairs down with the rest. He patted himself, turning to you as you both stayed in the doorway.

"Sorta selfish, too," Arthur said hushed. "Helping you gets me out of the rounds today. I'm in no shape for pleasantries with Linda's friends."

You both chuckled.

"Well I won't tattle on you, Arthur," you chuckled. "It's not my cup of tea, either. That's why I offer to do these types of things. I like being helpful."

"It'll be our secret."

Your heart fluttered as he stood in the doorway with you, looking down on you with those soft, sad eyes. The whiskey made his breath hot and your mind race. You didn't want to think anymore.

You reached up on your toes and you kissed him, feeling him freeze under your touch. You pulled back to see a look of shock on his face but also a spark in his eye. 

"We shouldn't do this, love," he stammered, his hands finding your hips as you raised to your toes to meet his lips again. "I'm married to Linda. It's Sunday after a service. You're a good Christian woman."

"And you're a good Christian man," you replied as your hand found his chest. "You try to be, and that's all that God asks of us. It's Linda that demands more of you."

Arthur licked his lips and your eyes followed the movement for a moment as you bit your own. When you looked back into Arthur's eyes you noticed the spark grew brighter. 

"She's just trying to keep me from sin, love," he said hoarsely. "She's a good woman who took pity on a sinner and is trying to keep my soul saved."

"Or she's trying to control you, Arthur," you replied. "Just like your brothers do. I don't want to control you. I want to be beside you."

"What do you know of my brothers?"

You shrugged. 

"Church holds the spirit as well as a lot of gossip," you say. "Whatever they say about your business is not mine to judge you for. I only think that Linda is using the phrase 'love the sinner, hate the sin,' in the wrong way intended. Your inner light is valid."

"How old are you, songbird?" Arthur asks suddenly, his warm rough hand lightly caressing your cheek. "What do you want with an old man?"

"I'm two years older than Linda," you laugh as you press his hand into your cheek.

"You church girls always look so young," he murmured as you pressed closer to him. "Like sin ages a body."

"Kiss me, Arthur," you sighed. "You're stalling."

And he did. Hesitantly. Softly. His mustache tickled your nose but his lips were soft against yours. Your heart slowed, just like time did.

When a light sigh escaped your mouth -- the faintest moan of happiness -- Arthur's tongue grazed your lip and you happily allowed him access to explore.

His hands held onto you like you were an anchor. He pressed you backward out of the doorway until you were lifted clumsily onto the pastor's desk, knocking over a chair on the way. The noise made you both jump and freeze for a moment. Arthur's hands played at the hem of your skirt.

"We shouldn't," you said breathlessly. "Not here. Too many people could walk in."

Arthur kissed you again, trailing kisses to your ear and down your neck as his hands pushed your skirt higher. 

"We can be quick, songbird," Arthur growled into your neck. "An old man can make quick work of a beautiful lady."

"Arthur," you gasped as his fingers found their destination and he pushed your underwear to the side. 

Your head fell back as he pressed into you and growled into your chest. His hands gripped your hips roughly, surely causing bruises as he found a rhythm. 

"Say it again, love," he mumbled, pulling you back to the moment rather than being lost in the sensation. "Say m'name again, sweet like."

"Arthur," you said softly as you bit your lip. His thrust sharpened and you held onto him as your pleasure rose.

"Sounds like fuckin' music," he murmured.

"Arthur," you moaned louder before his hand clamped over your mouth to stifle the yell of passion you wanted to make as he got rougher. 

There it was, the beast that hid behind the softness. And he was glorious.

He buried his own head into the crook of your neck as you bit his hand and came, him following moments after. 

He stayed inside you, catching his breath over you before reluctantly stepping back and tucking himself away. 

"Can you find a reason to get away, Arthur?" You asked as you smoothed your shirt and stood up from the desk to straighten your skirt. "Can you visit me tonight?"

"Ayuh," Arthur nodded. His eyes looked clearer than before. "I'll tell Linda there's business and come round after dinner."

You nodded, guilt stinging you as he said her name. Your lip began to tremble as the realization set in.

"Hey," Arthur said, his finger tracing your lip. "None of that, love."

He kissed you softly, once again a lamb. 

"Tonight," he said as he kissed you. "We'll have time to be slow. Until you're hoarse from singing my name."

You smiled, feeling the bruises forming on your hips now that the thrill was over. 

"Tonight, then."

#arthur shelby x reader #peaky blinders #peaky blinder fanfic #storytime with murderousginger #arthur shelby

[five-rivers]

Pep Talks 12

I think this might be the longest chapter of Pep Talks so far...

(AO3)

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When Clockwork first took Danny on as an apprentice, he’d laid out some ground rules for when he unexpectedly found himself in an unknown timeline. As Apprentice of Time, Danny was more likely to attract anomalies like natural portals and the like, and when that was combined with his innate bad luck regarding portals, well… winding up in weird places wasn’t quite a weekly occurrence, but saying it was wouldn’t have been a huge exaggeration.

That’s all to say, Danny appreciated the rules. He didn’t want to wind up never having been born again, or, worse, making it so that one of his friends had never been born. Or causing an apocalypse. Or wrecking the future. Or—

There were just a lot of problems that he could, and had, caused.

If Clockwork were able to pick Danny up right away every time, most of the rules probably would have been unnecessary. But he wasn’t. Mostly because of physics-shaped problems involving paradoxes and how too many time portals in the same general area could screw things up, but also because of Observant- and politics-shaped problems. And, Clockwork had admitted to Danny, sometime Clockwork left him somewhere because he was supposed to be there.

The first rule was to lay low. Avoid people when possible, except to acquire basic necessities. Avoid major events, crowds, protests, and cameras. Avoid important-looking buildings.

Do not offer help unless asked first, or unless the person is a ghost. There was, evidently, a loophole that made it okay for Danny to interact with ghosts even in places where it wasn’t okay for him to do the same to humans. Clockwork had said ghosts fell under Danny’s ‘jurisdiction,’ a term that seemed just a bit too weighty with meaning for Danny. As for being allowed to help when asked… Well, Clockwork knew that Danny was incapable of not helping. Although he did ask that Danny be subtle and indirect about it.

He was also not supposed to fight anyone unless he himself was directly attacked, for similar reasons.

The fourth rule was to stay within the accepted rules of the world he found himself in, where possible. In other words, if people generally didn’t believe in ghosts or the supernatural, don’t challenge that belief by using his powers in public, but if superpowers were common, it was okay to use them.

The fifth was that, if he found himself in the past, leave civilized areas. With the threat of unpersoning himself hanging over his head, Danny took that one very seriously.

The sixth, the one that made Danny feel like a little kid despite his real age, was, if the previous rule didn’t apply, try to stay in the same general area he first found himself in.

There were others, of course, and special ones for special circumstances. For example, if he was captured by law enforcement, or injured, or actively in danger, or if he didn’t know what time period he was in. Different sets of rules prevailed if he was actually on a mission.

Clockwork had also told him that the rules no loner applied if it took him more than two weeks to find Danny. That, if he’d been waiting for that long, something had gone wrong, or Clockwork was unable to find him or pull him out.

It had been just under half that time, and Danny was starting to get worried. More worried.

He pulled his legs up, closer to himself. He didn’t need to conserve warmth, being what he was, but the action was comforting and the abandoned warehouse he was in was weird and creepy.

This whole timeline was weird and creepy. Also, semi-apocalyptic. They were going through some serious societal upheaval. Danny wasn’t entirely sure why, having only been here for six days, but he was pretty sure it had to do with the nascent ghosts partially overshadowing people and giving them power.

At least, that’s what it felt like. Danny wasn’t sure. The next nearest thing to this he’d ever encountered was a warlock, and that had been just one person. Ghosts were under his jurisdiction, but, like the warlock, the people with powers here didn’t quite feel like ghosts, and he wasn’t sure how trustworthy news sources saying that metahumans were all soulless degenerates were…

Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to find out. Hopefully, Clockwork would pick him up before another week went by.

He didn’t think the government here could actually catch him, but some of the things they apparently did to metahumans made his core ache. It was a very X-Men-like situation. Except, well, set in Japan.

Why Japan?

But! Eight more days. Tops. Clockwork would get him.

Before he’d finished the thought, something blew the door of the warehouse in and a ropelike appendage hurtled towards Danny’s corner.

He reacted. Rules were, if someone attacked him, he could respond in kind, and if superpowers were common knowledge, he could use his.

There were at least a dozen of them, all of them displaying an eclectic array of superpowers, some reminiscent of Danny’s ghostly enemies, others entirely novel to him. A fair few also had guns. One man even used multiple powers. Needless to say, the battle was incredibly one sided.

In Danny’s favor.

Hey, he’d been doing this for years, and he was very comfortable with his abilities. Most of these guys weren’t. Most. The multiple-power guy had been challenging.

Danny examined his captives. He should probably just knock them out, then go find a new hideout somewhere else, but he wanted to know why he was attacked, first.

“So,” he said, deciding that the curly-haired man with multiple powers was probably the leader, given the way the battle had been structured, “why did you and your goons attack me?”

“I heard you were like me,” growled the man, attempting to escape Danny’s telekinetic hold. “I’m looking for a power that can help my brother.”

Danny twitched slightly at the word help. “What do you mean, like you?”

“You can take powers, too,” said the man, staring up at Danny with desperate, hungry, red eyes.

Danny blinked, frowned. “You thought I could help you, or your brother, so you attacked me?” His frown became deeper. “Or did you attack me to, what, steal my powers?”

The man squirmed.

It was. That was such a ridiculous villain cliché, although the brother thing was a twist. People could get desperate about their families and do terrible things.

Including Danny. As had been proven many, many times.

His heart and stance both softened. This counted as a request for help, right? And the guy was sort of ghostly. On the other hand… Transplanting whatever it was giving these people powers willy-nilly couldn’t be healthy, especially if it was related to ghosts.

(Multiple ghosts in one body… It reminded him of his dark future self, which was never good.)

“Okay,” he said, dragging a hand down his face. “Alright. What exactly does your brother need help with?”

The man clearly hadn’t expected Danny to ask this question. “He’s sick,” he said. His eyes gleamed at the edge of tears. “His body is tearing itself apart, DNA molecule by DNA molecule. If I could just find the right ability, I could save him,” the man’s voice broke, “I knowit.”

Molecule by molecule, huh?

Actually… that was something Danny could help with. Crud. People had powers here, right? He was being asked for help, wasn’t he? He was staying within the rules. Especially seeing as these guys were like warlocks. He was only doing warlock stuff.

“If I help you with this—if,” he stressed when the man perked up. “If I help you with this, I need two things from you. Well, three, really. Actually, no, four.”

“Name them,” declared the man.

“Yeah, I was about to,” said Danny. “Anyway, first, you need to ask your brother if he wants this. If he doesn’t, you have to come back here and return it. Asap. As in, tomorrow.” He was pretty sure he could get Clockwork to give him a day, even if he came to pick Danny up right now.

“Those are your first two conditions, then?”

Danny nodded. “Yeah. Third one is, you have to stop taking powers from people who don’t give you permission. The end of that road isn’t pretty.” At least, he was pretty sure it wasn’t. All those little maybe-ghosts, slammed together… Even if it didn’t have any immediate effect on this guy’s personality, the resulting ghost could wind up possessing him. If the ghost vaguely wanted to go with him, that might change things. Maybe. At least, it’d slow things down.

If this worked the way he thought it did.

The man scowled. “And you know this, how?”

Danny rolled his eyes. “Look, you’rethe one who said I was like you, not me. Too much of these powers can mess you up.”

“If the number is the problem, it shouldn’t matter how I take them.”

“Do you ever get bad dreams?”

The man stilled completely. “What do you know about that?”

Danny shrugged. “Enough,” he said. “Do you want to be overwhelmed by your powers? Do you want to explode? It could happen.” Actually, Danny had no idea if it could happen or not. But it sounded good. “More importantly, do you want to help your brother or not?”

“Of course I do!”

“Great!” said Danny, clapping his hands together. “Let’s finish this up somewhere privately, okay?” He grabbed the man’s shoulder and phased them through the floor into the basement, which he lit with a ball of ectoplasm. “Okay,” he said. “Fourth thing.”

The man was staring at the ectoplasm with undisguised curiosity. “What is it? Money? A new identity? Passage out of the country?”

“Uh, no,” said Danny. What would he do with any of that, after all? “I need to know the full story behind you and your brother.”

“What? Why? Don’t you know enough?”

“So that I can be sure that I can help, first off. Also, the way I’d be doing it involved me giving you something rather personal, so…” He trailed off with a gesture that indicated he expected the man to talk.

He sighed. “My name is Shigaraki Hisashi. My brother’s name is Kazuki, and he’s been sick since we were children…”

Danny let him give a summary of his life up until this point. He had the vague feeling that he wasn’t being told everything of importance, but, then, not everything about a person’s life could be condensed into an hour or so of storytelling.

Apparently Hisashi had basically raised Kazuki, and once Hisashi’s meta power had come in as a young adult, they’d been completely abandoned by their parents. Hisashi had put together a group of freedom fighters (Danny skeptically recalled the guns, but also forced himself to remember the hints that there might be something like concentration camps for power users) to defend himself, his brother, and others with power. But Kazuki’s illness made him incredibly vulnerable, and as he was Hisashi’s one major weakness…

The feeling that he was living through an ‘X-Men Japan’ comic intensified. He felt so sorry for this guy. Danny knew what this kind of life was like.

“Alright,” he said, softly, finally, “I can help. And, this probably doesn’t mean anything coming from me, but that better world you were talking about? Where people with powers and people without can coexist? I think you’ll be able to make it happen. Just don’t let anyone stop you.”

“I don’t intend to.”

Danny nodded. “I can give you something to help your brother. A power,” he clarified. “But I need you to know, it could change him.”

“Change him?”

“His personality.”

“You were saying something about that before. Forgive me if I don’t agree with you. These powers are tools.”

“Okay, sure, but even just having more options can influence how a person behaves. Just warn him before you give it to him, okay?”

“Of course. I’m a man of my word, after all.”

“Right,” said Danny. “Give me your hand.”

“A handshake?” asked Hisashi.

“Not exactly.”

Danny let a minuscule, almost microscopic, piece of his core break free from the whole. It hurt like a knife to the chest, and some of his physical and mental abilities would be impaired for a while, but he had done it before, and it would heal before long. A fragment this size would give a power on par with those he’d seen so far in this world. It would also grow, of course, but it was unlikely for any human to live long enough for that to become a problem.

He let it pass into Hisashi, and the man shivered.

“That should strengthen his body without being too much of a burden on him,” said Danny.

“What kind of power is it?” asked Hisashi, reclaiming his hand and flexing his fingers.

“Uh,” said Danny, casting about for something vague that would fit. “A gradual stockpile of power. That enhances the user’s body.” That should be close enough. “Remember, ask first.”

“I will, I will,” assured Hisashi one more time. “And you can be sure I’ll be returning regardless, to thank you.”

“Uh huh.”

It took a while for Hisashi and his men to clear out. Longer still for Danny to find a new place to sleep. But he did.

He woke to a time medallion around his neck and Clockwork’s exasperated expression. “Daniel,” he said, “what did you do?”

.

Toshinori and Izuku stared at Danny with open mouths.

“You’re the original stockpile user?” yelled Izuku, pointing.

Danny smiled sheepishly. “Surprise?”

#danny phantom #bnha #dp/bnha #dp/bnha crossover #pep talks

[sopxhiea]

Lush

Alfie Solomons X Reader

Summary: The ropes are tied on both ends after their last meeting and the infamous wild girl keeps tugging at them, until a sliver of vulnerability seeps through and Alfie sees her for who she is.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

“Am I in trouble?”

“You play so hard to get...Will I ever catch you?”

The marble walls are cold. It’s sometime in december, hard to tell since the days seem to be morphing into each other as the clock ticks. The sun no longer shows, and it’s faint when it does. One sound from the large clock on the hallway and it’s the end of the week, the passing of time seems to escape the months.

Although no one seems to care as they dance through the night.

It was put somewhere in the calendar by Annabelle, and you vaguely remember the fading lines of your uncle’s smile as he told you he’d be getting married soon. It was hard to care, even harder to remember why you were standing there, in the corner of the lavish room while the music boomed through the fancy building.

There were many things to be said, but you’d keep them to yourself for the day.

The bride was a sham, you could tell from the way she didn’t even smile at your uncle. He was somewhat of a rich guy, although you hadn’t experienced any of the said money since he happened to be greedy guy who just wouldn’t share what he reclaimed to be his.

Much to your luck, you had no interest in his money or any of his property but the new bride couldn’t disagree more. Annabelle had sent you off an hour before the event started and it was school policy to get in before midnight but you never did, even when it wasn’t someone’s wedding and just a tuesday night.

She’s not supposed to tell anyone of your whereabouts but a little green bill and Annabelle turns into a song bird.

You smile at the guests as they dance, hand in hand as the slow song fills the air. It’s rather strange seeing you like this, some think. You’re usually the source of trouble, the one causing the mess and not the quiet girl you’ve been since the wedding started but you figure you owe your uncle that even though he had forcefully sent you to a boarding school and didn’t send you anything on your birthday.

You don’t hold grudges, you say to yourself.

With the strange passage of time, sometimes you can’t quite pinpoint where the reality starts and the dreams end but you know he’s real. The way he tries to play your little game, where most of the men either failed or simply gave up. He’s been holding up his end, you conclude, after almost a month of spontaneous visits.

Alfie, is his name.

You don’t call him that, although he insists but you enjoy the way his scruff covered face reddens way too much to do things the proper way. You hadn’t even kissed him yet, but he still came back for more. He was easily riled up by you and hated Annabelle and sou you figured, you wouldn’t drop this one.

It was easy, to get tired of men and it happened almost naturally for you. The first stages were far more than exciting, when you didn’t know anything about the bloke’s life or boring job he had but soon after that, reality would set in and you’d realise that the bloke you had your hands on was just another boring rich boy who was too good for you in his family’s eyes.

But not him, Alfie had proved to be quite the opposite.

There was blood on his hands and a weight that came with it, it was evident in the way he walked and spoke, he didn’t just do things out of spite like the young lads did. You didn’t even know how old he was, only that he was close to being twice your age as Ollie had told you one time without giving away too much but that didn’t bother you.

It bothered Annabelle, though. You could see it in her eyes.

Being the infamous wild lady had its perks and one of them was the way you had access to direct information on the town’s social climate. Sometimes it was a bitter, snotty girl telling you her best friend had gotten married to a bloke from Birmingham or the drunk lad you were dancing in the club speaking to you about the new club that was opening soon. It came in many forms but the most important part was that it was the voice of the youth around.

Apparently, Alfie’s gangster nature and piercing eyes had made him an attraction of sorts for the younger ladies. No one would say it except some of the girls you knew who worked in the brothel he had visited many times before. There was a line, the girl had told you under the dim light of the entrance, a line made of posh girls who wanted Alfie to fuck their brains out for the thrill of it.

It had almost made you smile.

You didn’t look down on any of the girls for the thoughts they were having, if anything you agreed but Alfie wasn’t just a bloke who lived around the corner from their posh apartments, you knew. He was in a dangerous line of business and very capable of snapping your neck in two if he wished to. It was thrilling, you would give the girls that, but he would need a lot of warming up to be the consistency you wanted him to be.

And that had been in the works, for the past month.

He was the one who came around, the one to seek you out and that put you in the higher hand when compared to him. You could say no, you wouldn’t but you could and Annabelle would just have to shoo him away with a regretful smile. There were a dozen girls worth half the trouble you were causing him but he liked the trouble, he had signed up for it when he brought you home the first night.

He and you had talked, answering all the questions this time but with a couple white lies here and there. You’d told him about your greedy uncle and about the paintings and he told you about his past and how he came to be the person he was. You’d lied to him when he’d asked you about the number of the guys you’d fucked and you’d amplified and multiplied it. He had just nodded and raised his eyebrows.

He’d lied,too, but you’d caught it.

He lied about before the war and the lost love he had but you saw it in his eyes. He lied about his family when you asked and also about what he did, at least some of the lines of business he was involved in but you didn’t push. He hadn’t shot you after pressing all his buttons and you didn’t have a death wish before solving the puzzle of Alfie Solomons.

You soon find yourself leaning against the exterior wall of the building, on the outside towards the street where there’s no one but you and a couple people walking by. The air is cold but you don’t seem to mind it after borrowing the bride’s fur coat, which she had no idea about as she danced inside. You’d return it when you went back inside but it felt warm against your skin and the material was pleasant.

Alfie thought you looked fucking beautiful.

Annabelle wasn’t supposed to give information about your whereabouts but all he had to was to shoot her an annoyed look and she would tremble under his piercing gaze. Her uncle’s wedding, she had said, she wasn’t so happy about it since the bride is just a little older than she is but she’s gone. Alfie had listened and furrowed his eyebrows before shouting at Ollie to drive to where the wedding was taking place.

And there you were, with rosy cheeks leaning against the cold wall of the building.

He didn’t know why he was there, he didn’t ask himself since he was afraid of the answer. He had felt something similar before, not quite the same but he recalled the pretty lass who’d managed to make his chest feel too tight for his heart.

He wouldn’t say it though, not to himself or anyone else.

He cleared his throat while you kept staring at your shoes. They were new, bought just of the occasion but they were damn uncomfortable so before he could utter a word. he saw you lean down and take the kitten heels off of your feet and step on the cold pavement of the ground. He chuckled in surprise which made you look up, he wondered where all of the hours of etiquette class had gone but he wasn’t complaining.

“Mr. Solomons.” you spoke in a breathy voice, a little less chirpy or seductive compared to usual and he saw it in your eyes too but you were far too quick to cover it all up before he could comment on it.

“‘ello, lass.” he spoke in his usual gruff voice and watched your pretty features scrunch up and stare up at him.

“It seems as though you always end up finding me.” you spoke, genuine suspicion in your voice and you continued with a smirk Alfie knew well. He was glad he had told Ollie to stay put in the car and was the only one to see you beaming up at him. “Are you having me followed?” you chuckled at the end of your sentence and he smiled at your words. 

He wasn’t, not intentionally anyway.

If he had been, you would’ve noticed. You snuck out nearly every night from the school and almost never got caught. Annabelle would hear things the next day if she was lucky but you knew the way the city worked, if someone had followed you, you would know.

“What brings you to this hellhole, then?” you spat out and saw the discontent in his eyes before he covered it up. 

He was almost as good as you in this game, almost.

“Just lookin’ to see the lass.” he spoke, eyes boring into yours as you stood in front of him, looking up since the man was twice as tall as you.

“Hm.” you nodded, looking at the familiar black car and then him. You knew Ollie was in there watching you and Alfie never just came to see you and leave, he was going to take you someplace like he usually did.

“’t’s not fuckin’ fun in there?” he spoke, signalling the large doors that opened up to where the wedding was taking place.

You smiled first and chuckled while you did so, it wasn’t the usual one but he’d take it. Looking at him through fluttered eyelashes, you spoke in a sweet voice that made him stay up all night dreaming of you.

“It’s not my cup of tea, Mr. Solomons.” you said in a breathy voice and he watched, just looked at you for a while.

“Ya’ wanna get out of ‘ere, lass?” he said, meeting your doubtful eyes which were often filled with nothing but trouble and he found that somewhere in there too but it wasn’t as obvious as the last time he’d seen you.

“Am I in trouble?” you spoke through a wicked smile, one Alfie knew well. Maybe too well for his own good, he thought.

“No, lass..” he spoke with a low grin, you could see the amusement seeping off of him. “You, yeah, are the fuckin’ trouble if ya’ ask me.” he spoke through his teeth and earned a wide smirk from you.

You were that, and both of you knew it.

“Well..”you spoke, clutching tighter to your new aunt’s coat as Alfie watched you through glassy eyes. “It’s a shame I didn’t ask.” you said with a lighter tone and it caused Alfie to chuckle loudly, which only made the corners of your lips twitch up in reaction.

You played the game too well.

“Where are you planning on taking me this time?” you spoke in a sweet voice, he saw you regain your usual attitude slowly after the laugh and he was glad it was coming back. He needed it to come back, even if he wasn’t able to admit that to himself yet.

He just shot you a smile and walked away after that, towards the big car where Ollie had been waiting for a while. You followed him, no questions asked or no feeling of fear in the pit of your stomach.

It took two to play this game and you had the upper hand, you always did.

----

It came as a shock to him.

The yards of soil coated in grass were now getting ready for the sunset. There were a few animals here and there, a horse and a group of cows that were nowhere near where Alfie was standing or the sign he’d told you to shoot. Ollie was left in the factory, Alfie had driven you all the way to the suburbs on his own and you felt like that wasn’t very boss-like but it didn’t matter.

“I know how to shoot.”

Your words echoed in his mind for a second.

You were half his age and size, he was sure you had been home-schooled or whatever the rich kids did. The posh people Alfie knew didn’t let their daughters within a one-mile radius of someone who had the possibility of carrying a gun let alone actually teach them.

“You fuckin’ what?” he spoke, a look of surprise coming over him which only made you smile at his expression in return.

Of course you knew how to shoot.

You were an expert at sneaking out and making trouble but that came at a price. Men liked to look at how pretty you looked while you danced but some wanted to touch as well, that’s when self defence became a priority. You could punch them or kick them in the nuts but some were strong so a pistol worked, or the small knife attached to your bra but you wouldn’t tell Alfie that.

“You really need to get your ears checked.” you said, visibly annoyed since he had done the same exact thing the last time he’d seen you. He scoffed at first and then walked over to you, slowly and you just watched.

You didn’t know who was the lion and who was the prey anymore. Not when you had a knife strapped to your bra and a gun in your hands.

“Where the fuck did ya’ learn how to shoot? A lass your age?” he said and you realised he was talking to himself and not you. You let him mumble away for a few seconds before stepping up and speaking. 

“Well, It seems as though I’m old enough for you to come looking for me every damn week so I assume I’m not too young....” you said, still pissed at his comments about your age. He had no problem fucking you with his eyes but brought it up when it had to do with a gun. “...and I learned on my own. For protection.”

He looked at you, from head to toe and nodded as his hands ran through his beard. The sun was slowly setting and the speckles of light caught his skin and beard, illuminating him in a way that you’d only seen in renaissance paintings before. You gulped but composed yourself quickly, you could show no weakness.

“I ain’t comin’ to look for ya’ every fuckin’ week.” he said and you smiled. Out of all the things you had said, he got stuck on the one thing.

“Why is Annabelle giving me so much trouble about your unannounced visits then?” you said, in a heartbeat and he smiled at you, just smiled for a solid second before turning away. You were quick to answer your question since you had found out that Alfie wasn’t a fan of doing that.

“Either she wants to fuck you or is genuinely annoyed.” you spat and he turned in one swift motion, facing you again with the ghost of a smirk you’d seen earlier.

“Eh?” he made a sound of encouragement mixed with confusion. Alfie was used to you being so forward but every now and then, it still caught him off guard.

You nodded as a way to confirm the first assumption and spoke again, you were walking next to him as he slowly moved towards the target he had told you to shoot. You looked too comfortable with a gun in your hand, he thought as he watched your lips move.

“You tell me which one, although I have a pretty good idea.” you spoke through a fit of giggles and he watched your features change under the afternoon light.

He was utterly fucked.

“Ain’t she a fuckin’ old maid?” he voiced his opinion and earned a sweet smile from you. You nodded again, a bit quicker this time and fought a fiddle of giggles before speaking.

“She is.” you licked your lips and spoke as Alfie stared at you under the setting sun. 

Your hair was all over the place, cheeks red due to the cold weather and he wanted to kiss your nose, warm you up but the game was still on so he composed himself, settled for the inappropriate dreams he’d been having for the past month since you’d been in his house.

“She’s about your age, I think.” you spat out without looking at him and he made a hurt noise, his way of saying that he was offended but the shocked face turned into a small smirk as he spoke, hand tugging at his beard like it usually was and for a moment, your eyes got stuck on his golden rings.

“I ain’t as old as you fuckin’ think I am, lass.” he spoke and you smiled at him. You knew he was significantly older but neither of you had voiced it before but you didn’t think it mattered. He could be as old as he wanted but he’d still be the only person who was able to keep up with you.

“And I’m not as young as you think I am, Mr. Solomons.” you spoke under your breath, eyes at your shoes as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. He wasn’t dangerously close but the warmth of his skin spread through yours.

He waited for a moment, looked at the delicate features of your face as you offered him a gentle smile, contrasting the cold air around. He knew you were older, you just looked younger and it didn’t bother him. If anything, he figured it was perfect since he appeared to be older than he was. 

The game was fun, he would admit. Like a breath of fresh air in the dull life he seemed to lead, although you would speak to differ since every act that came from the man was everything but boring. You licked your lips, ready to answer any question thrown your way with a bit of sass you carried around with you. He couldn’t figure you out for the life of him, it drove him mad to think about you yet it seemed to be all he was capable of doing those days.

“Ya’ play so hard to get...Will I ever catch ya’?” he sounded confused, convinced that it would never happen somehow but you would slow down at some point, he just didn’t know it.

Men liked chasing girls dressed in pretty lace and with bright, beaming eyes. You were that girl, had been chased by many but you’d never found it in yourself to stop and look back, none were interesting enough to do that. They wanted superficial things, a fuck or a dance or maybe the thrill of being with a girl every cockney banged on about but there was nothing real in those kind of relationships.

But you figured, since Alfie was proving to be nothing like those men, you’d slow down just a little.

Not now though, but sometime in the future.

“Maybe If your sciatica gets better, you might have a decent shot at it, Mr. Solomons.” you spoke through a beaming smile and the words and the redness on your nose caused Alfie to laugh. He still wanted to kiss you, he realised.

“‘s Alfie, luv.” he reminded for the countless time, but he knew it was useless. He liked the way you said it anyway, much better than anyone he’s heard.

“Sure it is.” you spoke through a half-hearted giggle and started walking towards the car.

He had brought you here to teach you how to shoot but you knew how to do it already, he felt an ease in his gut knowing that. Men around London were dangerous and although he’d speak to differ that you were more lethal than any man he’d seen, a woman could never be too careful. He knew.

He watched you get in the car without the usual help from Ollie, realised something along the way. If he were honest with himself, he had realised it some time ago but he wouldn’t admit to it, took all the fun in his eyes. He smiled at you before looking at the sunset one last time.

The thrill of this would pass but Alfie was sure it would leave a sweet aftertaste. The days were short now, the time washed over the clock like an unexpected tidal wave from a once calm sea. There was a siren calling out to him, enticing him with her words each time she spoke but the siren had no intention of killing him in a cruel way. She was too soft for that, although many saw her as a killer trap.

The siren was you, and you were so beautiful under the sunset as you waved at him from the car.

I might die, he thought. I might die and it would be because of her, he said to himself as he looked at your smile. He soon concluded that he didn’t mind that at all. He would prefer it to the slow bleeding of a knife wound or the quick and efficient house of a bullet in between his blue orbs.

That was how it started, with the handsome sailor ignoring all the warnings.

The amateurs didn’t see the warnings before the siren engulfed them, ate them whole and left no trace. The beginners would be fooled quickly but no, Alfie wasn’t new to this. He knew that the captains went to the sirens on purpose, not because they were fooled but because the siren was a new source of hope in a different world.

And the times had changed.

“Silly girl.” Alfie mumbled to himself after getting into the car. You were sitting quietly next to him, in an unusual manner where you were almost sulking.

You realised, once you sat in the car and gazed out the window to see the now fading orange sky, that until that very point it had always been Alfie who would seek you out. He’d mostly paid you unannounced visits at the school but sometimes, he’d catch you during your weekly shopping trips or even the library. Never during the nights when you’d sneak out to go dancing in the pubs.

Although he knew all about it, you knew the faces of his men by this point. The man who’d follow you in and out of school.

So you decided that it was time for a simple yet revolting change. You’d invite him out this time, in a less more proper manner than he had.

You had it all planned out and he had no idea. You let him drive you to the school, commenting on how boring his old man stories were and he just chuckled and mumbled something under his breath. You let him drop you off, a gentle kiss on your cheek and the cold feel of his rings against your hand as he whispered in your ear, “I’ll see you soon, luv.”. You waved at him as he left.

He had no idea of the hurricane that was about to hit him.

So you got ready, lace all over your body in a sheer dress. You wore your favourite kitten heels and just a simple lip just how Alfie liked it. It was time for a little play, something to tip his interest further. It wasn’t like you’d lost it but men were very easily distracted. So you’d created a masterplan to remedy the problem you thought you had. Your hair was let down, tickling your shoulders as you swayed your hips in the fur coat that had belonged to the new bride in your family but the wedding was long forgotten. 

You wouldn’t fuck him, you didn’t think.

Or maybe you would, you said to yourself as you approached his large house. The nerves were near but so was he and you had no intentions of fucking this up. He was an interesting one, one worth keeping and you would make sure of it.

Nine pm. The air cold around your shoulders as a smile graced your lips. You were supposed to be in the tea room, blocks away from where you were standing in front of a stranger’s door.

Well, not so much of a stranger anymore.

One knock, and then another.

His voice filled the other side of the door, a smile graced your lips and you braced yourself for the night, for the look of surprise that would surely be cast on his handsome features.

One inhale, one genuine smile and the swift motion of the door opening.

There he was, your handsome stranger.

And you’d kiss him that night.

-----

Tagging: @clairecrive  @parkbearum @sourirez  @vetseras​ @mollybegger-blog @babylooneytoonz @peakascum @fuseburner​ @r-rose08​ @innerpaperexpertcloud 

a/n: They will kiss soon and do more stuff :) so stay tuned pls and lemme know if you liked the chapter!! This somehow ended up being a slow-burn type of thing but oh well :)

and happy new year, dear ones! I hope it’s a good year for all!

#alfie solomons #Peaky Blinders #alfie solomons smut #alfie solomons scenario #alfie solomons imagine #alfie solomons fluff #alfie solomons series #alfie solomons fanfic #alfie solomons fic #alfie solomons x reader #alfie solomons x shelby!reader #alfie solomons peaky blinders #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinders fluff #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders fiction #peaky blinders smut #Tom Hardy #tom hardy alfie #tom hardy imagine

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

By the king’s hand 🐍 V

Warnings: warnings to be added as we progress but this series may contain non-consent, violence, death, and other triggers (this chapter, slight oral, handjob/fingering, degradation)

This is dark!fic and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You leave the capital but you can’t break away from your keeper.

Note: Hopefully I can work on my masterlist updates today! So keep an eye out on @darkmasterlistyouneveraskedfor​

Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

The king hadn’t been gone long before your departure was set and the palace set to readying the horses and their riders. Loki presented you with a maid’s dress and apron and had you dress the part for the journey to his brother’s manor of Thunder Lodge.

“Keep your head down,” he bid as you changed, “If any should wonder why you are unfamiliar, you will explain that you have recently been re-allocated among the staff. When we do arrive, if any do question your duties, you will say you tend to one of the lords.” 

There were a dozen servants in the cart with you, packed in among chests and other luggage.  As you rocked with its motion, you could see him and hear his voice still.

“Do not mention me. Once all is settled, you will join me and remain in my chambers until we return to the road.” He fixed his hair in the glass as he spoke. He was agitated as he continued to find ways to keep his hands busy. “And at last, I might show you truly the extent of your sentence.”

You squeezed your thighs together as you pressed yourself to the side of the cart. You could remember so clearly the way his tongue felt and that joyous flame which had overtaken our core. It made you sweat to think on it and his promises of more only added to your unwanted fervour. Your spite was splintered by your sinful want.

The secrecy made it feel worse. It assured you that it was wrong. Certainly, a bed warmer was not unheard of, mistresses far more common, but Loki’s insistence upon deception made you anxious. Perhaps, it added to his amusement. Or perhaps he was ashamed to lay with a commoner. It truly didn’t matter so you pondered little on his whims.

Camp was made just after dark. The moon beamed down on the party and you slept among the staff and the horses. You didn’t expect Loki to call for you nor were you disappointed. Yet you thought of him. You couldn’t shake him. 

Even as you thought of sneaking away, he lingered in your mind. He warned you that you would not go unobserved and you hadn’t. You noticed the guard and how he stayed close to the servants’ cart. His grey eyes as they found you amid the bunch. He was one of esteemed warriors assigned to the king’s personal guard and yet he wore the mail of the common palace sentinel. You both wore disguises and both knew each other to be interlopers.

The party rose with the sun. It wasn’t long before you were in the cart again. You dozed for some minutes but woke as you were jostled roughly. You watched the winding path and the trees peter out to tall grasses and fields of yellow, blue, and red petals. 

Your vision streaked as your head spun; something about this trip made you anxious, not that you had felt anything but in the last days. There was a foreboding deep in your stomach and it had you fidgeting as sweat beaded under the collar of your dress.

You had never been far from the capital, you never had the reason or the means. You were further then than you had ever been. The great stone pillars of Hammers Bough rose around you and opened up to the city that marked the threshold of Thunder Lodge. 

The oldest of the royal houses, Thunder Lodge was an implacable fortress said to be built on the will of the gods. It had once been the capital until a great storm swept in from the sea and flooded out the city. It had since been rebuilt but the royals and their court had since moved to the current capital of Starseed.

The gates of the royal abode were open as the king’s retinue approached and within, silks hung from the walls bearing the crest of the major houses of the realm. The sky was dimming as the sun began its decline and the August afternoon began to cool. The progression had made good time on the road but still with little time to prepare for the next day’s events.

At the rear of the train, you peered past the horses and the nobles and their carriages as a booming voice broke over the din. The blonde prince greeted his dark-haired brother before he could dismount and nearly pulled him from his saddle with his gruff handshake. Loki righted himself and slid down to his feet. The two men were similar in height, though Thor was twice as broad.

As the lords and their wives, daughters, and sons, began to deploy, you lost sight of the sons of Odin. You were forced from your haze by the servant next to you and you hopped down from the cart as the others began to unload the chests. You joined them, straining beneath the great weight as your skirts bunched between your legs with each bend.

You wiped your dusty hands on your apron as you caught your breath and readied to care a heavy chest up through the servants’ doors with another girl in brown wool. You paused as you caught the eye of the covert guard. He fingered the pommel of his sword as he squinted at you. The dented armor of his disguise did little to disassemble his stature.

You grabbed the leather handle of the chest and heaved it from the dirt. You followed the other girl along the line of servants to the doors. Inside, the resident staff directed the visitors and instructed them according to their master. The servants who had no specific liege, were to remain in the kitchens.

You let the other girl, Hanna, take the lead and left the chest in Lady Ulna’s chambers. You returned to the lower floors and exited through the same doors. Slowly, the toil was thinning as the nobles were welcomed through the front doors.

As you neared the cart, you were caught by your arm and thrust behind it. The armored guard shoved you against the wood as his hand returned to his sword.

“Stay,” he snarled. “Can’t have you getting lost.”

You stared up at him. A dark haired man with broad shoulders and a thick beard beneath his helm. He was similar to Thor in build, perhaps bigger.

“He thinks I will run?”

“He knows you to be a trespasser,” the man shrugged, “It is not beyond you to stray.”

“And you think I could outpace you?” You scoffed. “I haven’t tried upon this journey.”

“There has been little opportunity to do thus and I assure you, you wouldn’t make it two steps beyond my grasp, girl,” he glanced around and watched the other servants. “The king has assigned you as my personal duty. It is not what I’d prefer but I have always served well and you would not stain my reputation.”

You said nothing and crossed your arms as you leaned against the cart. He felt around at his belt and dug out a strip of dried meat from a leather pouch. He chewed and grumbled as the din of voices faded beyond the tall door of the palace and the servants went about their labor.

“Alright, best have you away,” he made to grab you again and you drew away.

“I can follow,” you assured him, “You don’t need to drag me.”

His nostrils flared and he shook his head. “I should like to,” he muttered but didn’t try again as he waved you back down to the servants doors.

Within, he asked a scullery where the king would be lodged and nodded at her directions. He continued on, prodding you back into step and strayed away from the path of other servants.

“She said the other way,” you intoned.

“I know my way,” he growled, “Now, quiet, girl.”

He led you up a winding staircase wordlessly, trailing behind you in his armour. When you reached the top, he ducked through the low archway and led you through the maze like corridors until he happened upon the more lively passages. A pair of doors was open as the guard approached the boy Hal who stood by the frame.

“Magnus,” Hal’s voice cracked as he saw the guard and his eyes peeked at you.

“The king does not want any suspicion. Keep her hidden in the bedchamber as the luggage is unloaded. I will be close.” He nudged you forward. “Hurry, before she is noticed.”

Hal nodded and waved you within. The boy was terrified of the much larger guard and you couldn’t blame him. You stepped through the doors as the servant scurried to open the bedchamber doors. Magnus lingered by the entrance as his armor clinked against the stone.

“Please, miss, the king would be unhappy if you are discovered.” Hal warned. “You must remain and keep quiet.”

You wondered at why such caution was being taken but merely nodded. The boy was only doing his duty and he was surrounded by cruel men. You walked the perimeter of the bedchamber and turned back to him.

“We both know the king to be mean-hearted,” you said, “I will do as you say.”

“I must close the doors,” he said as he retreated. 

You tilted your head and spun back. You went to the window as the doors shut with a click. You gazed out from behind the silk drapes and that same stone set in your heart. A foreign prison was no less a trap.

🐍

When the servants finished their work, Hal knocked and asked after you. He was a kind boy, not very talkative, and nearly completely silent in the presence of the king. You affirmed that you were as well as you could be and he left to return with a plate for your supper. You sat at the small round table in the bedchamber as he set down the covered dish.

“What duties await you now?” you asked.

He blanched and blinked. He lowered his head as his muddy brown hair fell over his forehead. “I will wait for the king.”

“Will you sit with me?”

He raised his head and gaped at you. “I don’t-- I don’t know that it is permitted.”

“You are not allowed to speak with me?”

“The king has never said it but I do not… speak with many.” He confessed.

“Oh,” you lifted the lid of the plate, “Well, there is very much food here and I have a small stomach. I will need someone to share with and I must admit, I am lonely for company.”

“I don’t know,” he rubbed his hands together nervously.

“I will take the blame for it, if the king is displeased.” You offered, “What good does it do you sitting in the next room alone?”

His brows drew together and he looked around. Cautiously, he pulled out the other chair and sat. You pushed the plate to the middle of the table and took a chunk of cheese. He shyly took a slice of the thick bread and bit into it. You could see he was nervous. You caught his eyes on you several times and a blush upon his cheeks.

“I’m not a whore,” you said sharply. “The king might put me in the position but… I am just a woman.”

“I didn’t--”

“Well, we both know why I am here but I can’t bear you looking at me so.” You reproached. “I used to make pots and the like. I worked in a shop. I suspect I am little different than you.”

“The king says you are a criminal,” Hal nibbled between words.

“Well, in a sense, yes,” you tapped the table with your fingertips, “I ventured onto castle grounds without permission but it is no great crime.” You bent your arm on the wood and cupped your chin. “Does the king say anything else of me?”

“Not to me,” Hal took a carrot from the plate, “He commands me, that is all.”

“As he does me.” You sat up, “We are both bound to his will.”

The boy glanced away guiltily. “I don’t think you a whore. I’m sorry.”

“It is fine,” you assured him, “I am not offended. I would not share my plate if I was.”

He chewed for a time and took another morsel from the plate. Finally, he dared to look at you again.

“I’ve heard him… hurt you.” Hal said quietly, “You shouldn’t goad him so.”

You chuckled and took a deep breath. “It is not hard to do so.”

“But if you were more amenable--”

“You are young. You can’t understand,” you wiped your hands on your apron, “But my resistance is all I have. And there is nothing the king can offer me but pain, so I’d rather meet it with gull than grace.”

Hal frowned. He thought but only looked more confused. He sniffed and shifted in his seat.

“I should go prepare for the king,” he stood, “He is of little patience when his brother is near.”

“Alright,” you sat back, “I will not mention this to him.”

“Thank you,” Hal neared the door and paused as he looked back. He smiled before he ducked into the receiving chamber and your lips curved slightly in kind. Then his words settled in your mind, ‘prepare for the king’. You would have to deal with Loki eventually.

🐍

The door slammed and had you rigid. You spent the hours since your arrival pacing the room and watching through the window. Hal appeared once more to clear your plate but didn’t say much as he returned to the task of unpacking the king’s luggage.

You heard Loki’s voice from the receiving chamber and you went to the bedroom door. You peered through as he swayed on his feet and Hal struggled to unclasp his cap from his shoulders. The king was barely aware of the boy as he drunkenly smiled at the walls.

Finally, Hal freed the length of green silk and hung it. The king staggered forward and caught himself against the settee. His eyes flicked up and caught yours. He smirked and stood straight. He raised a finger.

“Boy, you can go. I trust I can tend to myself tonight,” Loki declared, “And I have help should I require it.”

Hal bowed his head with a quiet ‘your majesty’. He peeked over at you as he went to the door. He reluctantly left you and the door closed gently in his stead. The king ambled forward and reached out for you as he stumbled. You could only catch him as he threatened to topple.

“Look at you, mouse,” he slurred, “Dressed as a maid. How silly!”

He leaned on you heavily and too afraid to drop him, you turned and angled him into the bedroom. His arms fell down your back and he squeezed your ass through the layers of wool and linen. You grimaced and managed to get him onto one of the chairs. He sat sideways and slumped against the back with an arm bent over the top.

He hiccupped and pushed his legs apart. He swung his leg as he looked at you and hummed.

“Do take off that ridiculous attire,” he slithered, “You will serve me but I expect more than a dusting.”

You stared at him and hesitated. You touched the apron across your front and he sat up and snapped his fingers.

“I am your king!” He proclaimed. “I have bid you undress for me, wench!”

He slapped his thigh and you flinched. You reached back and untied the apron. You turned and tossed it over the low bench against the wall. You undid the straps of your smock and shimmied out of the skirt. You left it atop the apron and removed the long white linen underdress. Your shift slipped easily down your figure as you spun back to him and raised your chin.

You slid your feet from your slippers and rolled down the stockings. You stood naked and glared at him as he admired you. Your crossed your arms as his gaze made you shiver and he grabbed onto the chair as he nearly fell over.

“Here,” he waved you forward with two fingers, “Get me out of this...” he pushed himself to his feet with effort, “Shit!”

His voice warbled between quiet and loud as the alcohol made him clumsy. You crossed to him and his hands clapped your shoulders as he held himself up. You looked up at him as he leaned dangerously and reached up to unbutton the high collar of his overcoat. His hands fluttered up your neck and cradled your face.

He bent and his nose touched yours. He smiled and swayed you with him. 

“You’re mad at me.” He sang. “I do love it when you sneer so.”

“I’m not mad,” you worked down the front of his jacket, “You need to stand straight so I can get this off.”

“I can hear it in your voice,” he stood and let his arms drop so you could push the brocade down them. “Or perhaps you are impatient. You wish a repeat of our last meeting.” He snickered, “Does your cunt ache for me?”

You tore his coat off entirely and strode away to hang it over a chair. When you returned to him, he bent for you to remove his tunic and his hands grazed you sides.

“I did expect a slap for that one,” he taunted, “I will only have to try harder…” He looked down, “Speaking of hard.”

His trousers tented as you unlaced them. He sat for you to slide his boots off with his socks and stood again as you pushed his leggings down. His erect member was hard to ignore as he was completely naked and unstable. You looked him in the face and narrowed your eyes.

“I am not angry at you because I despise you already,” you said, “It is hatred you feel from me.”

He chuckled and pulled you to him, his arms around your waist as he pressed himself to you.

“You hate what I make you feel because you are too proud to admit that you want me,” he purred, “And too afraid of what you’ve never known.”

“Oh, let go of me, you drunken fool,” you pushed on his arms. “You are like to have us both on the floor.”

He winked and slapped your ass again. He drew away but took your hand as he did. He neared the bed and sloppily snuffed the lamp with a blow. The chamber was dark as he flopped onto the mattress and dragged you down beside him. You snarled as he rolled you against him and stretched your arm across him. His other hand danced over the scars along your back.

“I am drunk,” he admitted and played with your hand, “I had to imbibe to bear my brother’s nonsense.” He guided your hand down and closed it around his cock. “And I do require a release as I find myself riled.”

You gripped him but did not move your hand as his fell away. You breathed darkly over his chest and his other arm hugged you tighter.

“Would you rather your mouth?” He taunted, he slipped his arm beneath yours and turned his body slightly, “Or you do long for reciprocity?”

He pushed his fingers between your legs and found your bud. You squeezed your thighs against him and he rubbed you roughly.

“Go on, don’t just hold it,” he hissed as toyed with you.

Slowly, you moved your hand up and down his length. Your legs twitched as your cunt slickened beneath his touch. He explored your folds as he held you to him and you stroked him almost without thought. Your hand kept time with him as he lured you to the edge and dangled you there. His breath smelled of wine as his grazed your skin and he pressed his nose against your hair.

“Come on,” he whispered, “Almost there.”

He shoved his hand between your legs and felt along your entrance. He pushed a finger inside and you gasped. Your rhythm faltered but he urged you on with a groan. You were too overwhelmed to stop. That unearthly delight began to gather in your loins, deeper as he slid another finger into and rocked his hand against your clit.

You rasped, then moaned, and felt his body begin to quake. The noise of your wet cunt underlined your heady pants and he had you on your back as he turned onto his side and kept you against him. Your legs splayed open around his hand and your eyes lolled back in your head.

You exclaimed as your walls clenched his fingers and you came. He climaxed in quick succession as warmth seeped down your palm and coated his member. He spasmed and pulled away from you as he grew overly sensitive but kept his fingers inside of you. He stilled his hand and sunk to his knuckles as he explored your depths.

“I can only imagine how you’ll feel around my cock,” he said. “But I should like to remember the first.” 

He slipped his hand away from your cunt and sighed as he rolled onto his back. He lifted his fingers to his lips and licked them. He purred and sucked them clean before trailing down to his pelvis. He tutted.

“I am a mess,” he said, “You’ve made a mess of me.”

You sat up, trembling and turned to climb off the bed. “I will fetch a cloth then--”

“You will not,” he grabbed your arm as you held your wet hand aloft. “You will clean me up yourself.”

“Wha--”

“Your mouth,” he pushed your hand towards your face. “Taste me.”

You stared at the silhouette of your hand in horror. You hoped he could not see your face. You gulped and brought your hand to your lips. You touched your finger with the tip of your tongue and reluctantly dragged it over your skin. He released you and pushed himself up on his elbows as he watched you in the dim.

One, two, three, four fingers and your thumb. You lowered your hand in shame and he nodded at his loins. You stifled a grumble and bent over him. His cum had cooled and was sticky as you closed your eyes to the revolting task. He groaned as you tried not to hear him and when you finished, he pet your head like an obedient dog.

“Ah,” he sighed and drew you up against him once more, “I feel it. You are mad now.” He yawned and tickled your hip, “Perhaps we might take it up on the morrow.”

“You are vile,” you sneered.

He snickered and pinched your ass. “I never denied such a claim, little mouse.”

#loki #dark!loki #dark loki #loki x reader #fic #dark!fic #dark fic #mcu #marvel #thor #by the king's hand #series #medieval #medieval au #medieval!au #king!loki

[marvelyningreen]

Aftershocks - Night 1

Night 1 | Night 2 | Night 3 | (deleted scene)

[Summary: Peter Maximoff is an unflappable sorta guy. He’d never let anything get to him before, and this recent misadventure will be no different. ...Right?

Warnings: mild language, references to injury, general trauma-related angst

Notes: Peter Maximoff x reader, of the established relationship variety. A ‘what if Fietro really was Peter?’ scenario. Same continuity/reader character from Linger and Late-bloomer. ]

On your first night back from Westview, you hesitate at Peter’s door. You’ve gotten so close to saying goodnight to each other half a dozen times, but here you still are.

“Why don’t you stay for a while?” Peter asks after an awkward few seconds of silence. “I’m not really all that tired. Are you?”

“Not really,” you lie.

Judging by the dark circles under Peter’s eyes, he’s not being entirely honest either.

It was late afternoon when you’d gotten back. Well, it was late afternoon here, at least. The passage of time in Westview was nebulous, to say the least.

Hank had been there to meet you when you all emerged from the portal – Peter, yourself, Mr. Lehnsherr and the professor, and the newcomers: Wanda Maximoff and her twin sons, Billy and Tommy. Hank summarily hurried you all off to the lab for debriefing, and also for a precautionary exam. Who knew what side-effects there could be from traveling between realities?

None, as it turns out. Wanda and the boys were just fine. Peter was a little dehydrated and underfed, but was otherwise in good health. You were ultimately the most scuffed-up from the experience.

In addition to the same issues as Peter, you’d amassed a fair amount of cuts and scrapes and bruises. Thankfully, the worst of it is just a badly sprained knee that’ll take several weeks to heal. Inconvenient, but bearable.

Peter has been pretty positive the whole time. If anything, he’s maybe a little too chipper, all things considered. But then again, he was immersed in playing cool uncle to the twins, and was probably just trying to keep their spirits up. They’d been through quite a lot, too.

“You should at least try to sleep, though,” you say, as you limp into Peter’s room.

Peter scoffs good-naturedly. “Are you trying to baby me?”

“Well, one of us has to be the responsible one.”

Peter rolls his eyes. Before you can blink, he’s changed into shorts and an old Pink Floyd t-shirt. He leans in to kiss you.

“I’ll try to sleep if you’ll at least sit down,” he says. “Deal?”

You smile. “Deal.”

As Peter climbs into bed, you settle yourself on the sofa. To say that it’d been a long few days would be understating things to a criminal degree.

You’d stepped through a mysterious portal to rescue Peter from wherever he’d been abducted to. You’d found that the culprit was a witch who’d taken him in an attempt to steal the power of another witch, and that witch is an alternate reality version of Peter’s sister… sorta? Or maybe not. You still aren’t completely clear on how any of this works.

Regardless, you’d ended up helping a woman named Captain Rambeau – who has powers like a mutant, but apparently isn’t one – to free Peter from the witch’s control. And then the young sons of Peter’s not-sister were in danger from some military creep, because said military creep had apparently made a cyborg zombie version of Wanda’s late husband.

Or something. Again, this was a lot to take in in a short period of time.

And no sooner had the business with magic and the military been cleared up than the professor and Mr. Lehnsherr appeared, intending to serve as backup. Luckily, there was no need.

Peter went to make his goodbyes and, in true Peter Maximoff fashion, wound up inviting Wanda and her sons to come back to the mansion with all of you. You weren’t the least bit surprised that the professor was fully on board with this. He’s always the first to reach out with compassion to a soul that’s lost and hurting.

What shouldn’t have surprised you as much as it did was hearing Mr. Lehnsherr do the same. Between the three of them, Wanda was convinced to come to the school and to learn about her powers in a place where she and her sons would be safe and among friends.

It was at this point that Peter was trying to be in two places at once – serving as liaison to Wanda and the boys, and also making sure that you were alright. He only succeeded in making everyone dizzy, until Mr. Lehnsherr stepped in. He instructed Peter to focus on guiding the newcomers and volunteered to look after you himself. You found yourself leaning on Mr. Lehnsherr for support as you limped through the portal and back to your own world.

“Y’know what I can’t stop thinking about?” says Peter.

“Hmm?”

He turns to grin at you. “Your strawberry rhubarb pie.”

“I know I canned some of that this summer,” you say. “Do I have any left…?”

“If you don’t, one of the students has plant manipulation powers. I’m just sayin’.”

You laugh, and the conversation goes on in much the same vein - talking about a hundred little things that don’t matter.

Westview isn’t brought up, and neither are witches and magic. Nobody mentions Wanda and her twin sons in the room down the hall.

Peter hadn’t been able to give very clear answers to Hank’s questions about his experience. He said that it was all pretty blurry, and chalked up to a side-effect of that weird mind-control necklace thing.

You aren’t sure whether this is cause for worry or not.

The conversation with Peter has been fading in and out for a while now. Typical sleepover experience, really. Silence for a few minutes, and then a bit of banter, and a scattered response here and there, and then more silence.

It’s… It’s actually been silent for a while now. And when did your eyes close, anyway?

You look at the clock to see that over an hour has passed since you last checked the time. But you’re awake now, and you find that you’re not tired anymore. Moonlight streams through the windows, falling across Peter’s bed. He’s still sleeping, thank goodness.

At first you think that the sudden sense of reassurance is just because Peter’s getting some rest. He’s had quite the experience, after all. But there’s more to it than that. You realize that you’re just glad that Peter’s home and safe.

You haven’t really thought about it before, but part of you had always seen Peter as, well, sort of invincible. He’s clever, and capable, and impossibly fast. He can outpace an explosion. He can redirect bullets as easy as breathing. Nothing outside of a godlike entity or an otherworldly power had been able to touch him.

But you can’t stop thinking about this other man – this Pietro. He was fast, too, and he was probably just as capable. That didn’t prevent him from being shot to death while saving the lives of two other people.

Odd coincidental similarities aside, Peter and Pietro aren’t the same. You know this. And yet… You’ve already almost lost Peter once.

In Westview, once you’d found yourself abruptly separated from Vision, you’d realized that you were in way over your head. There was something sinister going on, and you had no idea whether Peter’s kidnapping was a part of it, or if it was something else entirely.

You’d wandered the streets, trying your best to look like you were supposed to be there. At first glance, everything seemed normal. But the more you looked, the more things just felt… off.

It seemed to be summer, but there were no kids at the pool, or in the park, or riding their bikes up and down the block. All the cars looked just a little too shiny and new for a small town. All the yards were too perfectly manicured. Every single person wore well-coordinated outfits. It all felt staged.

Down the block, you noticed a mailbox labeled with the name “Vision,” and-

You hesitated. Maybe best not to go barging in, right? Leaning against a streetlight, you pretended to rummage for something in your bag while you kept an eye on the house. Again, the oddly regimented behavior continued. People walked past the house at intervals that seemed random at first, but weren’t quite. It was more like they were spaced out intentionally to seem random.

Aside from that bit of weirdness, nothing unusual had happened. You hadn’t seen any trace of Peter in your wanderings. This Vision guy was your only lead. Steeling yourself, you started walking down the street, intent on knocking on that door and figuring out the rest from there.

And that’s when somebody clamped a hand over your mouth and twisted your arm, pinning it behind your back. Before you had a chance to struggle or even scream, the scenery in front of you blurred and darkened.

You blinked. The world was still again. You were in a dark, oddly-shaped room. It might’ve been hexagonal, but you couldn’t move to look around. The person who’d grabbed you was still holding you immobile.

“So, they sent another one in, huh?” said an unfamiliar voice. “You’d think they would’ve learned by now, but that’s military types for you.”

The speaker stepped into view. It was a woman – middle-aged and dark-haired. She wasn’t worried like Vision had been, nor was she blithely serene like the other people you’d seen. Her presence was commanding, unconcerned. There was something about the way she sized you up that unsettled you.

“I’ve got it from here, thank you,” said the woman.

The other person released you, and you immediately felt some strange energy wind around you. It tightened around your wrists and ankles, binding them fast, and yanked you several inches into the air.

“Who are you? Let me go!” You struggled to free yourself, but you couldn’t budge the restraints even an inch. Even your powers seemed to glance off them ineffectually.

The woman raised an eyebrow.

“Now that’s interesting,” she said. “How did you manage to get into Westview with your personality intact? Even he was calling himself ‘Ralph’ at first. You’re not with S.W.O.R.D., are you? And I can tell already you’re not a witch. Let’s see…”

The woman made some complex gesture with her hands. A purple mist crept across your vision. You felt something wrapping itself around your mind – covering it like a net, humming like an electric current. You shook your head, trying to clear it away, but it clung like a spider web.

The professor. Just before you’d left, he placed some sort of psychic shielding around your mind, just in case. He wasn’t sure what sort of dangers you’d be facing. You doubt this was what he’d been anticipating, but whatever this woman was trying to do to you, the shield resisted it.

The woman’s eyes narrowed. You felt the web’s grip on your mind tighten, vice-like. At first it was just uncomfortable, but the pressure increased until it was a stranglehold on your consciousness. The edges of your field of vision started to go gray. There was a pounding in your head, a ringing in your ears. You tried to scream.

You couldn’t breathe.

You couldn’t breathe.

And then its hold released, leaving you gasping for air. If you hadn’t been suspended in midair like that, you would’ve collapsed. The woman watched you with something like fury in her eyes.

“What are you?” she demanded.

Dazed, you blurted out an answer. “I’m nothing. I’m nobody. I’m just trying to find my friend.”

You nearly ignored the movement in the corner of your eye as you tried to pull yourself together. You’d honestly forgotten that there was somebody else in the room. You looked up, and-

Your blood ran cold.

“Peter!”

He was there. He was alright! He-

No. No, he wasn’t. Something was wrong.

Peter watched you with the blank, nonchalant gaze of a stranger.

“Sorry, babe,” he said, shrugging. “Peter’s not here right now.”

“Wha… What did you do to him?!”

You wrenched uselessly at the restraints and Peter… he actually laughed.

“What, him?” said the woman. “He’s fine. I needed a replacement Pietro, and he was the best I could do on short notice.”

She eyed him critically, reaching up to adjust his hair like some sort of demented stage mom.

“Get your hands off him!” you snarled. “And who the hell is Pietro?”

The woman laughed incredulously. “You’re really not from around here, are you? You followed him from that other reality, and- Oh. Oh… I see it now. Oh, that’s too adorable. You’re in love with him.”

Her laugh turned into something that was almost a cackle, and Peter joined in. You felt sick.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to do to this town, but Peter’s got nothing to do with it. Let him go.”

“What I’m trying to do-? Oh, pumpkin, you have no idea what you stumbled into.” The woman shook her head in feigned sympathy. “Sorry, but I’m not done with my Fietro yet. And as for you… I won’t be able to get rid of you, but I can’t have you running around getting in my way. I’ll just have to put you someplace for safekeeping, and I know just the spot.”

The woman raised her hand again, and smiled menacingly at you.

“You can try to tell them who you really are,” she said, “But I wouldn’t count on anybody believing you where you’re going. Buh-bye, hon!”

Movement in the room catches your attention, drawing you out of your reminiscing.

Peter stirs in his sleep. He reaches out for a moment, and then his hand falls back onto his chest. He exhales heavily – not quite a sigh – and is still once again.

Then, his hand moves restlessly towards his throat, fingers gripping at nothing like he’s trying to pull at the collar of his shirt, or-

“No, please,” he mumbles, “Please…”

Your knee is stiff from being motionless for so long. It just about gives way under you as you scramble to Peter’s side. You stumble, falling rather than sitting on the edge of the bed.

You catch Peter’s hand in yours and smooth his hair back from his forehead.

“Peter?” You’re surprised at how frantic your voice sounds. “Peter, wake up!”

Peter snaps awake with a gasp. He yanks his hand free of yours, scrambling to push himself back towards the headboard and staring wildly around the room.

You hold up your hands where he can see them, careful not to reach towards him at all. “It’s okay! It’s okay. It’s just me.”

“You…?” Peter stares at you for a moment, as though trying to remember where he is. “Listen, I know this is gonna sound crazy, but can you tell me something only you would know? Anything. Please.”

For a second, your mind goes blank. Something only you would know? You’d spent enough time with Peter that there has to be…

You’ve got it.

You look Peter in the eyes, giving him a little smile. “Who else would know that you’re my hummingbird?”

Peter’s laugh is brief, but genuine. You’d called him that once as a joke – saying that it’d be a fitting codename with his speed, attitude, and love of sugar – and it’d since become your teasing pet name for him. You’d never said it in front of anyone else, though. You may only use it to get a rise out of him, but you never wanted it to become an embarrassing nickname for him or anything.

Peter’s initial panic is replaced by an apologetic smile, but you’re certain that his heart is still racing.

“Thanks. And I’m sorry,” he says. “Bad dreams, y’know?”

“No kidding. You wanna talk about it?”

“I…” Peter looks away, frowning slightly. “I can’t say I actually remember what I was dreaming about, to be honest.”

If you were unsure before, you’re definitely starting to worry now. You make up your mind to talk to Hank and the professor about Peter’s memory lapses. Maybe it’s nothing, but for your own peace of mind, at least…

Still, you don’t want to let on to Peter that you’re worried about him.

“Are you gonna be okay?” you ask. “Need me to get you anything?”

Peter musters up a grin. “Oh, I’ll be fine. And there’s no way I’d send you off to get anything for me with your knee all messed up. But… would you mind staying a little longer? Or you don’t have to leave at all. I mean, it’s already late, and it’s pretty cold out there.”

“I don’t have anywhere to be,” you say, smiling gently. “You just lay back down, alright?”

Peter nods. Once he’s resettled himself under the covers, you lean down to kiss him.

“I love you,” you say.

“I love you, too.”

Peter reaches over to hold your hand. He takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes again.

That Peter falls back asleep within the hour is a testament to how wore out he must be. As for yourself, you remember seeing the horizon brightening outside the window before you finally drift off.

#peter maximoff x reader #peter maximoff #peter maximoff fanfiction #x men fanfiction #wandavision fanfic #(I mean... it’s both and neither) #who ordered the angst? ... nobody? #well have it anyway. it’s on the house