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kimistorm · 3 years

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Poetry and Capitalization [Nathaniel X Reader]

It was another normal day at Françoise Dupont High School. Students were slowly trickling into the first class of the day and you were sitting quietly in the back hidden behind a slightly battered copy of your favorite manga. You heard footsteps come your way and you glanced up to see Nathaniel coming back to his seat. You gave him a quick smile (which he returned) before turning back to your book and pushing back up the glasses that had started to slide down your nose. You really needed to get those adjusted. Laying on your side with your glasses on was not the best of ideas.

That was how most mornings went. The two of you silently in the back of the class. Sometimes you wished that you could strike up a conversation with him, so you could get to know each other, unfortunately, you were too nervous to. You might've had a small crush on the red-head next to you. Okay, maybe not small. Try...head over heels in love with him. He was just so pretty, and talented, and you could go on and on. You didn't want to make the mutual 'sitting silently next to each other' feeling awkward. Plus, making a conversation was hard.

The bell rang and Ms. Bustier called the class to attention, "today we'll be working with partners on a project." You inwardly sighed and you heard other students actually sigh. Working with people was such a pain sometimes, and you dearly wished you didn't get partnered up with someone difficult to work with. "Don't be all cranky just yet," she frowned and waved her finger in a scolding fashion, "you'll be working with your table partners." Immediately the class was much happier. You turned to look at Nathaniel next to you and gave a small, somewhat awkward wave. He mirrored it. "Now I want you to analyze and annotate this poem by e. e. cummings. [love is more thicker than forget]" Ms. Bustier explained as she handed out the paper. "You'll have the rest of the class to work on this." She finished and the class bustled with activity.

You cleared your throat and ended up coughing into your hand. Why were you so nervous all of a sudden? This was just a school assignment. That you were working on with a partner. Who happened to be Nathaniel. The boy you were totally head over heels for. Oh. That explains it. "So..."

"Let's read it first, then we'll talk about it." Nathaniel suggested and you readily agreed with his suggestion. The two of you lapsed into silence as you read the poem. When you finished reading, you took out a writing utensil to make notes.

"It's a love poem." You declared once Nathaniel had finished reading. He nodded in agreement. "Well, obviously. He says it straight out in the title."

"He describes it as something that's kind of everywhere." Nathaniel added his own thoughts.

"Yeah, even in the hearts of teens." You muttered under your breath.

"Huh?" Nathaniel squinted at the paper in confusion, "where?"

"Uh nothing!" you answered hastily. You didn't want to make things awkward. Or make him think you're weird. And you definitely didn't want your confession to come out through the poetry of some old man who didn't care about capitalization. "It's everywhere but also it's minuscule. Since he describes how love is lesser than a lot of things."

"I wonder what he means by 'and more it cannot die'?" Nathaniel pondered.

"Maybe it's something like how my love for you won't fade even if you never notice-ah-I mean it's everlasting." You felt your face turn the color of his hair. What was this? First you were coughing over just thinking about talking and now words are spilling out of your mouth without you thinking about it?

"Do you believe love is everlasting?" he seemed to have not noticed your huge slip-up.

"Well yeah, if you find the right person. I think it's hard to do that, even harder to find mutual everlasting love." You nodded, you let out a silent sigh of relief. You didn't spill out your entire heart to him just then.

"What about unreciprocated love?"

"Like how I feel about you?" you clapped your hands over your mouth and stared wide-eyed at Nathaniel. You were certain he caught that. He looked at you in shock. Oh how you wished you could hide behind your manga, glasses weren't very good shields. Maybe you should take a leaf from Nathaniel's book and get bangs to shield your eyes. Or maybe you could wear prescription sunglasses.

"What?"

"Uh nothing!" you mentally cried at how your voice had just jumped a pitch, you were sure everyone in the class could hear you.

He smiled, "it's alright to tell me. I won't laugh at you."

"No no no, it's fine. I mean it's nothing. Nothing. Really." You wanted to bash your head on the table. What were you doing? "Have you ever thought about how nearly everyone in this class has some sort of crush or romance?" you died on the inside. You were certain by this point someone had control over your body. You were never like this. "Nevermind. That was a silly thought. Do you think mad could mean angry or insane?"

Nathaniel blinked. He looked like he needed a couple minutes to digest what had just happened, and to be honest, so did you. "Are you feeling alright?" he asked in concern, "you're not normally like this."

Inside you were squealing. He noticed you enough to know what you were normally like? Maybe your love wasn't in vain. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just, I'm not used to talking to my crush." Okay, now you were dead. "I never said that." You whispered and face-desked but immediately regretted that because your glasses started to press uncomfortably on your face.

You felt a piece of paper push its way to your face and you sat back up to look at the paper. On it was a few words written in Nathaniel's scrawl. 'I like you (f/n).' Your face turned into a tomato and you looked at Nathaniel quizzically but he was pointedly ignoring your gaze while an equally bright blush covered his cheeks. "Flip it over." He muttered. You did what he told you to and gasped. It was a drawing of you sitting at your desk with a manga held in your hands.

"Wait what?" you questioned in awe.

"Nevermind it's obvious you don't like me back I thought that maybe you did and maybe it was a good time to show you-" you didn't know his face could get to the exact same shade as his hair.

"Wait no! I do like you! You're an adorable tomato! Wait, that's not a compliment." You guessed that your face was probably the same shade as Nathaniel's hair as well.

The two of you made eye contact and then started to quietly laugh, "so you do like me?"

"Of course!" you affirmed, "I have for a while now." You added quietly.

"Good."

"You owe me twenty bucks!" You heard Rose squeal and you and Nathaniel looked at her mortified. Juleka sighed but handed her the money anyway.

"Were they betting on us getting together?" you whispered.

Nathaniel looked shell-shocked, "I think so."

You turned back to the poem in front of you, "this is still a thing we need to do."

From under the table you felt a hand timidly hold your own and you quickly reciprocated the action, "do you think this was intentional?" Nathaniel wondered as he looked at Ms. Bustier who was busy helping some students at the front of the room.

"I'm not about to give credit of this to a man who doesn't use capitalization."

Masterlist

AN: Okay, a bit of explanation about the capitalization jabs at e. e. cummings (and yes, he often writes his name like that). He commonly doesn't follow normal capitalization rules or even just writing rules. He likes to use the words to create "aesthetic movement" (source) Example.

#my work #my writing #fanfiction #mlb #miraculous ladybug x reader #mlb x reader #reader insert #miraculous ladybug #x reader #fanfic #nathaniel x reader #nathaniel kurtzberg #nathaniel kurtzberg x reader #nathaniel mlb x reader #from 2018 #kimi's writing

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bluemoonjazz · 2 years

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Blood and Snow, part 1.

Genre: fantasy, action, mythology, viking/nordic themes.

Warnings: blood and gore, violence, werewolves.

Eirik and Eija Sturmborn of Angle Inlet, Minnesota, are twins, newly eighteen, and their coming of age has been largely unsatisfactory thus far. Born to an ancient tradition of nordic wolf-shifters who settled in northermost America hundreds of years ago, the twins have yet to so much as make their first Change, and time is running out. Rival packs, other families of shifters throughout Minnesota are starting to whisper about how the Sturmborns are vulnerable, their young never even turned, and now is the time to wipe them out and assert dominance over all the northern wolves of the region.

This would all be enough of a situation, but to exacerbate the twins’ troubles are their complicated love lives - Eija, wildly in love with her best friend since childhood, the Danish witch Sara Larsen whose power is beyond what anyone ever expected. Eirik’s heart, meanwhile, belongs utterly and entirely to the increasingly aloof newcomer to the Inlet, the alluring and brilliant Julian Hassan. Clues slowly begin to reveal themselves about their pasts, their futures, and the death cult that may or may not have killed their long-dead older brother Sven. Sometimes they feel helpless, but then other times, fangs and fur might seem far away - but feathers and talons, not so much. Odin has another plan for the twins, and soon the bond of blood will be tested by the Allfather’s call.

“All religion is only ever a desperate search for the freedom and relief of not being held accountable for your own life, your own future, your own actions,” Eirik told his sister once, huffing the words into a cloud of sawdust as he’d hunched over his current project - a kitchen table for upstairs. “The trick is finding the right god to apply to your personal aesthetic, the right doctrine to inspire your vanity and ego. You have to find the god that’s willing to tell you what you want to hear, who looks the way you think god should look. Once you do, of course you’ll die for them. The mass appeal of Christianity lies in how malleable and forgiving it is, and churches and cults alike all feed on growth. That’s why the Buddhists are so welcoming to any ignorant white college student with a “namaste” bath rug, they’ve figured it out. It’s the same reason romance novels with empty, undefined characters always sell the best. People like to see themselves in things, I revere the old gods as much as anyone, but I’m not stupid. We are nothing if not our own egos. It’s the invite-only religions that you ought to keep an eye on.”

Eija had laughed, the inhalation of a lungful of sawdust of no concern to her. They were woodworkers and potters by trade, the Sturmborns. Her own callused palm was slowly working out a thick pine splinter from a week ago. “So now my brother is a philosopher,” she’d observed, stealing his iron beer stein for a healthy gulp. At eighteen apiece - twins, they - technically the state laws of Minnesota frowned upon such indulgences. But the town of Angle Inlet was also acutely aware of the elective and social power of its enormously Scandinavian population, who poured beer and honey wine out at winter gatherings for everyone present, including their young. Such was their culture, and they’d been raised into responsible sorts. The ale of tonight was a heady, oaky blend with a thick head of caramel foam, heavily scented of smoked apples.

“Hardly, but it’s something I’ve been thinking about.” Eirik lapsed into a comfortable silence without further elaboration, another habit to which they were prone. She eventually retrieved some homework from under their longest work bench, history tonight, and settled cross-legged on the basement’s gritty stone floor while her brother worked. He was sanding the chair smooth by the time she looked up again, rising to his considerable height - both of them quite tall and sturdy like their parents - to tap her on the top of her head. Her nearly-buzzed snow-blonde hair scraped his fingertips like velcro, and she lifted her head without comment. His own was much longer, down just past his shoulders in thick wheat-blond waves. “It’s getting late.” He handed her the last of the beer stein to finish, which she did, bringing it upstairs to wash later.

The house was quiet, still. They hadn’t seen their parents in weeks, which was not unusual. The wolves had come calling in September, as they were wont to do, and Kaspar and Emma Sturmborn had bolted from the house one night at last, howling and wild and tearing at their clothes. They’d returned once or twice before the autumn chill had cracked the damp haze of summer, naked and soaked in blood, flesh scored raw with gore and gashes that healed in a day or two. On the last night of September though, their mother had been snappish and restless at dinner. Their father’s profoundly sexual longing for her had oozed through his attempts at polite conversation, the occasional baring of teeth suggesting that marital relations weren’t the only carnal craving he was experiencing just then. The blood moon had come.

The howling, the clicking of claws on their porch, the soft whuffing and whimpering of the pack had kept the twins up that night, and in the morning their parents had been gone, lost to the woods with the front door swinging open in the slight breeze. Every year the pack came, and every year they stayed away a little longer. But Eija and Eirik knew hunting, knew canning, fermenting, cooking and cleaning. They knew how to make and repair furniture, ceramics, clothes. They knew how to maintain embers in the wood stove to keep the house warm, and they knew how to play chess to keep each other entertained. Every year they were fine whenever their parents returned, and this bred a sense of confident abandonment in Kaspar and Emma. No questions were ever asked, no details ever offered.

The matter of Sven though, was troubling.

Sven had been their brother, once. He’d been tall and thick like them, pale and blond with a strong jaw and ice-colored eyes so light and glittering they were nearly colorless mirrors. He’d turned with their parents early, tumbling around the woods as a pup and laughing at the way his body had shifted so fluidly from yipping gray wolf to boy and back again. Sven had never stopped laughing, in fact - he’d been funny, loud and bright. He hid Eija’s shoes and teased Eirik into putting his hand into a box full of shaving cream to find out the “secret.” His hugs had always been warm and tight, and one day he’d bounded out the door with his parents and the pack to chase the blood moon and he’d never come back.

There had been a hunt, their parents had explained. A fight, an accident, Sven’s blood splashed dark across the trees and snow. He’d never come back from the woods, and they’d never spoken of him again. Eija though, she kept his sweaters at the back of her closet and would occasionally put one on, for bad nights. She still had Eirik at least, who was steady and intelligent without any of Sven’s lively humor but all of his sturdy support and dependability. Their parents would not speak his name, as if to acknowledge that he had once been would invoke some darkness, violate some pact. Still, on the night of the Friggablot every May, after honoring their mother with dinner and gifts, the twins would slip into the wolf-woods to light a sacred fire for their lost Sven. He never found it, no matter where they camped.

Eirik’s nighttime routine was a quiet one, as was Eija’s. They shared a dinner of beef stew and bread, and Eirik brewed them warm root tea as the sun sank. Wordlessly, they washed the dishes side by side with Eija scrubbing and her brother drying, and he pressed his lips to her temple before they separated for the night. “Drom sott,” were his only words, and she smiled faintly, squeezed his hand. Hausblot had already passed and the nights were going brisk and chilly, but their northern blood was ready and she didn’t bother leaving the woodstove lit. Instead, she waited for Eirik to finish his bath before taking command of the upstairs bathroom herself, the scent of his wood-and-mint soap lingering soothingly.

She’d cleaned and laid out the old pelts for her bed the month before, in preparation for northern Minnesota’s half-year deep freeze, but even snuggling down under at least ten pounds of fur and fabric couldn’t lull her to sleep. Normally this was not an issue for her, but a buzz filled her brain that wouldn’t be silenced even as the night wore on. It was around midnight that she finally abandoned all pretense and let her mind find Eirik, who was not in his bed. He was in fact, directly over her head.

The roof of their log home was flat to the east side and angled to the south, with a lip of log rising up around the perimeter that acted as a sufficient barrier to prevent one from rolling off in their sleep. This had led to some years of the twins sleeping on the roof when there was no rain predicted, and she found him up there several minutes later via the ladder hooked to her bedroom window that only asked for a little swinging and dexterity to get there. The air was sharp and cool, the sky swirling dark, the milk-dense moon casting the world in a pearl glow. An icy, pine-sharp breeze bit through her soft pajamas, and she shivered, tiptoeing across weathered roofing to him.

He’d laid out all of his own thick bedding, his pillow, and in his flannel pajama pants and long-sleeved black henley he looked as comfortable as anything indoors. Eija tossed her own pillow, managing to land it just beside his head so that he didn’t stir, but when she crawled into their now-shared nest of furs and blankets he silently slid an arm around her shoulders to draw her close. His heartbeat steadied under her cheek when she rested her head on his chest, the cool air sweeping out toward the woods unable to cut into the warmth of them, and finally she slept.

A cold, gray-soft dawn had broken when she next opened her eyes, the loss of Eirik’s soothing heat abruptly jarring. He was sitting upright beside her, leaning forward a little and peering out toward the woods. She opened her mouth, but before a breath escaped her he silenced her with a raised hand and pointed. “Look.” His voice was a whisper, strange considering that they were at least ten miles from their closest neighbor. The word floated away from his lips on a cloud of steam as it met the frigid air, his breath dissipating even as she obeyed.

The tree line of the woods surrounding their house began after roughly half an acre of wild growth that served as something of a kitchen garden - their parents had taught them how to grow potatoes, carrots, turnips and herbs to sustain them when trips into town became a snow-packed luxury in the winter months. Eirik’s pale eyes were fixed upon the space now, and after a moment of bleary adjustment, Eija came to understand why. A small collection of people were emerging into the burgeoning light, spilling out from the woods like a tiny swarm of rolling bugs out from under a lifted rock. They were all in dark hooded robes obscuring their faces, but their heights suggested men, women, maybe even children.

“What were they doing in our woods?” Eirik’s hand tightened around her forearm, where it had fallen moments before, and he shook his head to silence her. No one had noticed them yet, they were likely too far away. There were at least ten of them, and the way they moved together felt familiar. A rival pack then, maybe the ones who had challenged their father for his alpha position and killed Sven - laughing Sven - years ago. Eija’s teeth bared themselves and she tensed all over, but Eirik was only alert, watching. The group slowly broke apart, crossing their land on silent feet in the earliest possible morning, several heading west toward the Lost River, others east into town. It wasn’t until the last of them was no longer visible that Eirik seemed to exhale, lifting his hand from Eija’s arm.

Something about what they’d seen felt profoundly wrong, despite the robed figures having done nothing particularly threatening. “It wasn’t a blot,” Eirik said quietly. “Hausblot’s done, they’re quite late if they’re observing out there at this point.”

“Erik the Red’s day?”

“Couple of days too early. Maybe. I don’t know.”

They rolled their bedding in silence and carried the piles back into the house through her bedroom window, where Eirik laid them neatly back across their beds. He slept below Eija’s attic room, down the hall from their parents’ empty bedroom. She realized as she was inhaling deeply of the cold forest scents still clinging to her furs that part of her had hoped their parents would be among the strange hooded figures, on their way home from a few months with the pack. But none had crossed the kitchen garden to enter their house, and some natural instinct had held her back from calling out to the group to ask for them.

Angle Inlet High School was a teeming miasma of hormones as most were, but a certain Nordic sense of hardy self-sufficiency persisted as a result of the local culture. Teenagers in this town were born into families that taught them a kind of stoic pride and competence that often led outsiders, rare as they were, to remark upon how “mature” the youth around here were. Drama and gossip were comparatively minimal, but the Sturmborn twins were still known for being “weird. One of those old Norwegian families who probably have like, ancestral land out here, living all by themselves on the edge of the woods. They make all their own stuff and they’re the sort who still celebrate the old holidays. You know the type.”

As a result, they were largely left alone with the exception of a few curious befrienders and secret admirers scattered among their peer group. Julian Hassan was among them, and now he was waiting for Eirik by his locker. Julian had been met with some scrutiny upon arriving in Angle Inlet two years ago with his family, his elegantly dark skin and jewel-black eyes and hair like ink spilled across silk were an anomaly in snow-white Minnesota where the children of Vikings reigned. The tenuous and casual racism he’d been met with originally had dissolved quickly thanks to the pervasively younger and younger population choosing to keep to the wild places instead of escaping to Minneapolis as soon as possible, fortunately. The old assholes were suspicious of “other kinds” moving to Angle Inlet, but they’d be dead soon and Julian’s peers had come to respect his sharp intellect.

He and Eirik were friends in a way that suited them both and their introverted natures - they would spend time together at school, sitting at lunch and talking little but radiating a sense of comfortable companionship together. Eirik would share his smoked and fermented fish, and Julian always offered him a stuffed grape leaf or spoonful of chickpea salad. He rarely came to the house, but when he did, Eija would sometimes find them in his room, quietly reading or learning some new thing together. Once, Julian had made some witty remark that had caused a completely unexpected laugh to burst from her brother, and for a fleeting moment Sven had lived again.

Julian nodded to them, and the three of them made their way to homeroom. Angle Inlet’s student population was small, less than two hundred teenagers, many of whom were packed into Mrs. Jorgunsson’s classroom at the moment. It wasn’t until significantly later, after they’d reconvened for lunch with Julian and Sara Larsen, who had vibrantly copper hair wound into a messy braid draped over one shoulder, who wore bright red lipstick as defiantly as a middle finger, that Julian mentioned what he’d seen the night before.

“I was playing my violin in the sunroom,” he explained, the four of them tucked into a corner table in the concrete-bound outside eating area. There were generally less people out there, even if the cold tended to be inconsequential to the local population. “It faces the back of your woods, it must have been about ten PM. It was dark enough that they were mostly just shadows, but they weren’t - they were people, in long coats or something. Several of them, and they were walking into your woods together. They were carrying bags or something, I couldn’t really see.”

“They came out the other side, toward our house,” Eija supplied. “We couldn’t see much either, but it was around five in the morning when we saw them.”

Sara, who had been raised among Danish kitchen witches, tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I could get you some black salt and juniper to sprinkle around your property,” she suggested. “If they’re up to anything sinister, that’ll keep ‘em off your cocks.”

“See, I would have said allspice and a pig heart wrapped in the wedding shroud of a dead bride.” Julian’s tone was so bland that it took them a moment to realize he was kidding. “I was thinking we could all dance naked by the light of the full moon to protect the house from these dark spirits.” Sara flipped him off, and he grinned, his peace offering of a stuffed grape leaf in her direction ignored for only a moment to maintain her pride. Julian’s mother was an excellent cook. “I’m teasing, I’m teasing. You love me.” She huffed, but accepted the fig cake he offered next.

Eirik watched the whole scene unfold with a faint smile, and then rose to his feet. “Beowulf calls.” He stuffed his well-worn copy into his backpack and gently rubbed his sister’s bristly head in passing, making his loping way across the grounds and back into the school’s main building. Julian excused himself shortly thereafter, heading in the same direction as Eirik, and Sara took the moment of privacy as dense gray clouds began to roil and churn over their heads with the icy threat of a slanting winter’s needle-rain to offer Eija a gift.

“Julian makes fun, but I made this for you last week. I’ve been having dreams that were making me worried for you.” She’d found or bought a smooth, gleaming oval of blue goldstone and managed to drill a hole near one end, carving a rough rune into the center and stringing it on a slim leather thong. The algiz, a powerfully protective rune with which Eija was fairly familiar. The scents of incense and rosewater swept over her when Sara leaned forward to drape it around her neck, soft fingertips brushing her skin lightly as she adjusted it. The dying sunlight caught her hair and set it on fire, lighting the honey-amber of her eyes up like a candle’s flicker. For a moment, in that courtyard, there was only them and their closeness, the gentle press of the pendant between Eija’s collarbones. Their eyes met and locked, and Sara licked her lips a little anxiously.

Eija’s heart throbbed. “How long have we known each ot--” but her words were cut off, sliced clean from her by the abrupt crack of thunder that shook the sky, the clouds going darker and more violent, a moment’s warning before they erupted. The rain burst like a million pricked water balloons all at once, flooding the air with a sudden gushing downpour. They were immediately soaked and shrieking, half with the wild joy of such a majestic natural display, even pausing halfway back into the school when a particularly vibrant knife of lightning split the sky with a blinding flash. “Oh, god! Oh god, look!” Sara was shouting, laughing, and their clothes were done for anyway, so she lifted her hands into it and spun once, twice.

“I love you,” Eija said into the storm, watching her, the words drowned in the chaos of it all. “Oh god, I love you.”

For one chest-clenching second, she thought Sara might have heard after all. But then she was laughing more, grabbing Eija’s hand and pulling her inside. She unwound her braid to wring it out all over the hallway floor, but then thought better of the slipping hazard and darted into a bathroom for paper towels to clean it up. Her face was rubbed dry and pink when she emerged again, her clothes wrinkled from being wrung into the sink. “We can’t go to last period like this, wanna ditch?”

“And go where?”

Sara shrugged. “Back to my house, I was thinking.” Her voice went a little shy. “I really do have some herbs and stuff that might be useful to you right now, plus...where else are we gonna hang out on a day like this? The Llwellen almanac says it’s going to rain all day and night.”

Last period was history, in which Eija was currently pulling an A. After some consideration, she shrugged. “I’m in,” and she hoped her tone was as casual as she was attempting to make it. Sara never wasted time on such pretenses however, and she squealed happily and grabbed Eija’s hand to tug her through the halls and out a side door intended to be an entrance to the football field’s cluster of storage sheds behind the school. The walk to her house was short, fifteen minutes at the most, and as long as they moved fast with their hoods up it wasn’t too unpleasant. They were soaked again by the time they reached the Larsen home though, a small cottage-style affair with its back to the Lost River, the stretch of woods lining it, and a far more impressive garden dominating its property lines than the Sturmborn’s.

“Gran!” But Sara’s grandmother was either out or sleeping, and so she led them up rickety stairs to her sprawling bedroom, which had once been an upstairs practice room for a budding pianist - “her name was Ella and she died at nineteen years old, her ghost still hangs around here,” Sara had once explained. Now, it had been repurposed into a large bedroom overrun with plants. Plants hung from the ceiling in strung pots, sprouted from heavier planters on every available bit of floor space, little plants lined the windows. Ivy that burst from a heavy stone planter that she must have dragged in from the garden was thriving, slowly climbing up her bedroom wall and winding around her bedposts. She had Danish tapestries on the walls and an enormous bookshelf stuffed to bursting with books on herbalism, magic, tradition and worship. Candles were everywhere, unlit, but now she set about lighting them because the overhead lamps fighting for space on the ceiling weren’t enough to combat the soaking darkness outside.

“Why are you so tall? Stop that,” Sara complained, ruffling through her closet in an attempt to find some dry clothes to fit Eija. Finally she produced an old Salem, MA t-shirt that said “witch city” across the front, the words arching over the silhouette of a woman riding a broomstick over a crescent moon, and a pair of clean gray sweatpants that still only fell just above her ankles. She grabbed a brown patchwork skirt and a raggedly knitted olive-green sweater for herself, stripping out of her wet clothes without hesitation. A burst of heat swept through Eija at the sight of a sudden wealth of exposed flesh, the gentle dip of her back when she bent over to pull on the skirt, and she swallowed hard.

Sara gathered their wet clothes to bring downstairs for the dryer, leaving Eija to flip through one of her books on healing recipes until she returned. “So.” She flopped onto her own bed once she had, extending a hand out toward her bookshelf like a reigning queen beckoning a servant. “Bring me the one with the black binding.” It turned out to be a large, heavily-bound book titled Shadow Creatures and Malicious Entities. Eija settled beside her as she paged through it, the warmth of her effectively banishing the chill lingering in her bones from the storm. “Did either of you smell sulfur when you saw the things coming out of your woods?”

“I didn’t notice that, no.”

“Hmm. How about any strange noises, lights?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well give me something here.” But then her stomach growled, and Sara groaned. “Look at me, I’m the worst. Let’s go get some food.” In the kitchen downstairs, it was discovered that Sara’s grandmother had left her a note advising her that she was spending the night in town with the local brewmaster, a man named Magnus who owned and operated their most popular ale house and who had been Bruna Larsen’s paramour for some time now. He had an absolutely dapper silver mustache and the body of a man much his junior thanks to years of the physical labor involved in every step of the brewing process. Sara laughed, slapping the note to the kitchen counter. “Damn Gran, get some. If he breaks her heart though, I’m gonna have to hex his ass.”

“They’ve been running around the Inlet like teenagers in love for two years now, I think this one might last,” Eija suggested, pulling things out of the pantry to make toasted beef and mushroom melts. The storm raged all around them, shaking the creaky walls of the little cottage in an entirely pleasant way. Her brother had texted her twice to make sure they were all right, and she responded an hour later with a stab of guilt as they were feasting upon a baking tray of lemon muffins with honey glaze. They cleaned up after dinner and Sara took them back upstairs to check on the storm water she was collecting in glass bottles that she’d placed on the little shelf protruding from her bedroom window for that very purpose. Eija was content to lay on her back in Sara’s bed, on top of the patchwork quilt her Gran had made for her long ago, and watch her as she fussed over what herbs and crystals to add to the water. Her hair had dried into a wildly curly mess and the wet air pouring in from her open window had whipped her cheeks red. She tumbled into bed with Eija with a satisfied sigh after pushing it closed.

“Got a lot of lightning water tonight, that’ll come in handy later.” She snuggled close with a happy sound in the back of her throat, wrapping both arms around Eija’s middle to soak up her body’s warmth. “Hmmm.” She murmured like a contented cat, even nuzzling into Eija’s shoulder a little. “Sleep with me tonight.”

She had to have felt the abrupt tension that seized Eija in that moment, but if she did, she ignored it. “You sure I won’t be in the way?” was all she could manage, and Sara laughed, pressing the lengths of them together and yawning hugely. The light buzz that the weight and soothing heat of her sparked under Eija’s skin, all over her body, made sleep elusive but eventually attainable. Four texts from Eirik woke her in the morning, and Sara made a resentful noise when she rolled out of bed to respond despite the earliness of the hour and the fact that it was Saturday.

#writeblr #vikings #nordic #odin #asatru #werewolves #wip #fantasy #scandinavian #norway #denmark #magic #witches #minnesota #lgbt #gay #writing

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quiet-kunoichi · 3 years

Text

[ @suck-my-tomato | Autumn Festival Oneshot | verse; post-modern ]

Shakily, she exhales. Truly, it’s a wonder she ever got this far dressing herself over the last two decades ( she was nearly 25 but the Foster Care Facility kids all donned the same gray uniform so technically she couldn’t account for that ). Smoothing the front of her .. dress, Kimiko takes a quick glance to the clock: Fifteen minutes to spare — and surely enough, the calendar read .. August 24th? That wasn’t right .. was it?

Transfixed on her possible lapse in sanity, Kimiko presses the heels of her palms into her eyes until the spinning shapes and colors on the inside of her eyelids bleed away into one encompassing darkness. Her heart is stuttering, trying its damnedest to keep up with her brain as it reels back over the supposed events of the last few days. Just what got her standing here, with an obnoxiously oversized sweater brushing just above her knees , the turtled neck — no, she’d taken that one off, it felt like a cage of fingers strangling her throat — a golden chain hanging a tear drop of amber beneath the fabric and between her collar. That’s right, she’d first started in a dress; one that Maeve thrifted for her 22nd birthday, but now felt too exposing of her every flaw — she’d scrambled out of the fabric as quickly as she’d put it on.

Peeling her hands from her eyes after pressing a little too hard, Kimiko let’s her vision pepper back in from the sides and stares at her reflection, neck-down in the body mirror. It wasn’t really August 24th, was it? She’d attended the most recent meeting just four days ago, where she’d earned her “4 months clean” sobriety chip. After her short and strained little speech, Kimiko had escaped to soothe her nerves with a stick of cancer. Shortly after, she was joined by Sasuke. It wasn’t a surprise; the two had found a routine in joining one another for a sip of nicotine before, during, or ( sometimes and ) after their weekly meetings. What had started as small talk on her part, in which she mentioned the autumn festival in the next town over — turned into a.. date. A proper one this time, apparently. Not just a late night drive in amicable silence, not an unplanned takeout dinner and falling asleep on the couch, nor a check-in phone call turning into three hours and the unscratched itch desire to just hang up and drive over to see the lips that passed along a voice into the speaker. He’d insisted on picking her up, being her ride — which, Kimiko realized after an admittedly bashful agreement, would mean that he’d have to drive her home after the festival, too.

Gods, she’s getting herself all worked up over probably nothing. It likely won’t even that big of a deal — even if he did call it a date, himself. A date. They’d been on .. hundreds, probably ( hundreds of thousands throughout their unknown lifetimes ) and yet she stood plucking at the frayed edges of her ripped jeans and looking at her cherry-red reflection with uncertainty. Did she feel more excited than anxious? It was getting hard to tell — she should’ve finished her banana and toast that morning, because now her head was spinning. “You’re doing it again.” Kimiko huffs at herself, turning from her mirror and heading to the sink to wet her cottony tongue.

Another glance to the clock, a check on her phone to determine the quick subtraction from when he texted that he was on his way and the time it took to drive from his place to hers.. 10 minutes left to spare. That was definitely enough time to smoke a cigarette to help smooth over her prickly edges, but.. She still didn’t feel confident in how put-together she was. Should she put some earrings in, maybe? The trip to the bathroom resulted in more nit-picking of her overall aesthetics: Should she keep her oversized sleeves rolled past her wrists or hide half of her hands beneath them? Ultimately she decides on a swipe of mascara — which she internally promises that she’ll remember to remove before succumbing to sleep later tonight — and a soft slip of garnet tinged chapstick.

By the time Kimi had become sick with the worked up and mousy person staring through the mirror, a knock sounded off at her front door. It made her jump right out of her skin. Checking her phone ( left by the kitchen sink ), the Tamashi confirms: Sasuke had let her know he was parked out front .. 7 minutes ago. Shit-fuck-goddamnit.

Kimiko is unlocking her door ( which takes a few extra seconds ) and swinging it open with apologetic fervor just moments after her realization. Had she fucked it all up already? “ H-hey! Uh— ‘m sorry, I meant to come straight down. ” A quick scratch to the skin beneath her ear turns into a tuck of loose hair behind her ear. She’s yet to even make eye contact, for fear of seeing the telltale signs of anger ( or worse, disappointment ) there. Instead, Kimiko plucks her shoulder satchel from the hook on the wall and fastens it over her shoulder, hands wringing the strap just above her navel.

At last, golden globes swing up to catch him in her careful stare. “ So, ..are we still on? ”

#suck-my-tomato #gimme the anxious bittersweet ‘first date’ vibes #yeeee #it looks ugly cause: mobile replies #mobile reply;#verse; post modern #oneshot;

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marjansmarwani · 3 years

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Trouble Will Come

11.6k || ao3

Ever since TK had been caught up in Austin's latest serial bomber's attack, Carlos has thrown himself into looking for the mysterious bomber. He had watched his boyfriend almost die at the hands of this maniac, and he needed to do everything he could to make sure that never happened again. It makes him feel better, helps to counteract the helplessness he felt in that moment.

What he didn't expect was to actually find him, and to be trapped with him and a bomb in another abandoned factory. Now he just wants to make it out alive, because he is pretty sure TK will find a way to kill him if he doesn't.

--- Sequel to Trouble Will Not Take Me

I ended up rereading this today and decided to repost it because I don’t think I ever got around to making a masterpost of the chapters when I first finished it and just because I really like it and we could always use some more Carlos fic. So enjoy this shameless bit of self-promotion and a reminder of an older fic in lieu of anything new since I am still fighting my way through some writer’s block.

-----------------

“Wow,” Mya deadpanned as they pulled up to a dilapidated abandoned factory building, “you take me to the nicest places.”

“Next time we have a serial bomber I’ll be sure to mention to him that he should aim for sites that are more aesthetically pleasing,” Carlos replies drily, already unbuckling his seatbelt.

“I’m just saying, would it kill us to not have chosen the place on the list most likely to give us tetanus by just looking at it?”

Carlos merely shrugged in response because honestly, he couldn’t disagree with her. It had been just over two weeks since Austin’s most recent serial bomber made his big splash by blowing up a building with firefighters inside. It had been only been two years since the last bomber and everyone was on edge. The memory was fresh enough that the majority of the police department had been there, had watched the last bombings unfold. To see it happen again didn’t sit well with anyone, especially Carlos. He had vivid memories of the last time, of the fear and uncertainty that had reigned over the city. This time he had his own fears to add to the pile; his own nightmares to haunt his days. It had been the 126 who responded to that call, it had been TK and Marjan trapped inside the last building when it exploded. That had been 15 days ago, and every day since APD had poured a significant amount of its resources into identifying likely targets and patrolling them regularly. Carlos had been volunteering for every shift - this case was personal.

He still saw TK’s limp and battered body being pulled out of the collapsed building every night when he closed his eyes. The first few nights, when TK had still been in the hospital, he had resisted going home because he knew he wouldn’t sleep anyways. Even now, weeks later, he still had those dreams; still woke up in a cold sweat. Only the presence of TK besides him, soundly sleeping and breathing and alive was enough to calm him. So yeah, maybe he was taking this one a little personally.

Fortunately, Mya was completely on board. She had been right by his side the entire way: in the waiting room of the hospital, in their sergeant’s office volunteering for extra shifts. He hadn’t even had to ask her. The first day he showed up to work, once TK had finally been out of the woods, she had materialized in front of his desk. “They’re going after this guy,” she had said, “I want in and I am sure you do too.” He had barely had time to nod before she was leading them to the sergeant’s office.

It was times like this he was so grateful for his partner. She was a force to be reckoned with on a regular day, and she cared just as much about TK as she did for Carlos. To say she was feeling spiteful would be an understatement: “If some asshole bomber thinks they’re going to almost crush my friend to death and get away with it, they’ve got another thing coming,” she had said fiercely.

Carlos almost felt bad for this mysterious bomber - almost.

That didn’t change the fact that this was the 12th abandoned building they had checked out this week and while it certainly wasn’t the gnarliest building they had been in, it wasn’t winning any home and garden awards.

“Just think,” he said as they drew closer, “if we ever decide to give up this whole cop thing, we’ll have a jump start on real estate to enter the haunted house business.”

“I know you’re joking, but that’s honestly not the worst idea I’ve heard.”

Carlos shook his head fondly, “You ready to do this, again?”

Mya nodded, “Twelfth time’s the charm, right?”

“We can only hope,” he muttered as the entered the structure. “Structure” may even be a generous term for it; there didn’t seem to be much standing. They looked around the entry: it appeared to have been a lobby of some sort at one time and it opened up into two diverting hallways. “Looks like we’re splitting up. Do you want left or right?”

“I’m feeling left today. Be careful though, will you? Wouldn’t want you getting into trouble without your partner to watch your back.”

“You too. Radio if you find anything?”

“Always.” With a quick salute, Mya was off, disappearing down the hallway to the left. Carlos quickly followed suit and entered the other hallway. It was dark and quiet. He pulled out his flashlight and looked around. It looked like your typical, nondescript, dilapidated hallway - just like the other eleven they had searched that week.

Still, it warranted a cursory investigation. If only to cross it off the list, to eliminate another possible location. The reigning theory at the precinct currently is that the bomber had been scared off by what had happened with the last bomb. The only casualties of the first four bombs had been the buildings themselves. Never before had there been victims of the bombs, and only luck and talented medical professionals had prevented there from being any fatalities. Normally Carlos would have been grateful and left it at that. But TK had almost died - Carlos had thought he was dead for several heart-stopping moments. He wasn’t over it, and he was bringing that baggage with him. Logically he knew that he should have recused himself from the case, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He needed to be a part of this, he needed to know he had done everything he could to bring this maniac to justice.

It was coping, he supposed.

He continued down the hallway, shining his flashlight into the dark corners. He moved carefully, keeping his eyes moving and his ears open. He froze as he heard a sound up ahead. It was probably just an animal, or a piece of the crumbling ceiling falling, but Carlos was still on high alert as he turned the next corner. He frowned when he saw a weak light cutting through the surrounding darkness. He moved towards it. It was a lantern, shining dimly on a makeshift table. The rest of the table was covered with paper and blueprints. Carlos could feel his heart rate increase - this was it. This was the work of the bomber they had been tracking. He went to reach for his radio, to tell Mya that he had found something, to tell her they had the guy and to get here now; but it was then that he realized he had made his first mistake.

“What are you doing here?” a harsh voice behind him demanded.

Carlos froze - hand hovering just above his radio. He slowly turned around to find a middle-aged man with a scraggly beard, wild eyes, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, and a gun pointed at him. He slowly raised his hands up in surrender, even as he cursed at himself.

He had forgotten to clear the room. He had made a rookie mistake and had let this guy get the drop on him. Now there was a gun pointed at him and he was in deep shit.

He spoke slowly and evenly, even as his heart thudded in his chest, “My name is Carlos Reyes, I am an officer with the Austin Police department. I was investigating a report of suspicious activity at this location.”

The man continued to glare at him, “Are you here alone?”

Carlos shook his head, “No, my partner is here too. She’s on the other side of the building.”

The man didn’t say anything to that, he simply looked around Carlos, towards the table. Carlos cursed himself silently. He had moved the papers and blueprints around; it was clear that he had seen them. The man clearly came to the same conclusion as his expression had grown darker as he looked back at Carlos. There was silence for a few long moments before he spoke, “This needs to be done, you can’t stop me.”

Carlos swallowed, but took care to keep his expression even, “Why does it need to be done?”

The man scowled at him, “No questions. Just, keep quiet until I figure out what to do with you.”

Carlos nodded, and the room lapsed into silence. His mind was racing, trying to find a way out of this that didn’t involve a bullet in his head. He didn’t know if this man would actually use that gun he had pointed at Carlos, but it was safer to assume that he would - which took all plans of action off the table. Trying to talk him down would be his best bet, but he was still too on edge from the unexpected appearance of Carlos to start pressing his luck by breaking his mandated silence so soon.

They stood at an impasse, silently staring each other down until the sound of Carlos’s radio sliced through the heavy silence.

His radio beeped and Mya’s voice broke the tense silence, “I just finished my sweep, a whole lot of nothing - again. I’m heading back to the entrance - you done yet?”

Carlos didn’t move. He maintained his eye contact with the strange man, and spoke slowly, “That’s my partner; she’s wondering where I am. If she doesn’t hear from me she’s going to start looking and then you’ll have two of us messing up your plans. Can I respond to her?”

“Tell her to leave.”

“Okay, I’m reaching for my radio to do that,” Carlos slowly lowered his right hand to reach for his radio, heart hammering in his chest. He switched it on and responded, taking care to make sure that his voice was even, “Negative Officer Esquilin, proceed to the next location without me.”

He released the button and took a deep breath. He desperately hoped that she would be able to read between the lines. Somewhere between the formality and the fact that there was no next location, he had faith she’d figure it out. She was smarter than he was, after all.

When her response came, it was much more clipped than usual, “Please confirm last transmission Officer Reyes, you will be staying on scene?”

“Affirmative, Officer Esquilin.”

“Has there been any progress on our current objective?”

Carlos looked back up at the man in front of him, “Affirmative.”

There was a pause, a several second delay before Mya spoke again. When she did, she had dropped the pretense, “Carlos Reyes, you do not get to do something stupid without me.”

“Just get out of here, please.”

“I am not going anywhere! If you think for one second I am going to leave you behind you have clearly not been paying attention!”

The man in front of him put out his hand, “that’s enough, hand it over.”

Carlos clenched his radio one more time, “I’m sorry, Mya.”

Then he unstrapped his radio and tossed it to the other man. Even as it sailed across the room, he could still hear Mya’s voice coming through it, calling him all sorts of things. Her words were jumbled, but heavy with fear.

“Reyes if you die on me I swear to god I’m going to—“

Whatever threat she was making was cut off by a foot smashing his radio.

“I can’t have all that noise,” the other man said irritability, “I have to focus.”

He slid the duffel bag off his shoulder onto the ground between them. He slid down the zipper and pulled it open, revealing a mess of wires and mechanics that Carlos could only assume was a bomb.

Maybe it wasn’t but given how today was going, he wasn’t too hopeful.

Well, he thought wryly as he stood in a crumbling room of an abandoned building with a gun leveled at his chest; at least he had found the bomber.

[read the rest on ao3!]

#911 lone star #911 lone star fic #carlos reyes #when I asked jamie if I should repost that she said why not? and she's right so here #not going to tag the usual suspects thought because that does feel like a lot

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ivarthebadbitch · 3 years

Text

Strange things can happen

Chapter 13 summary: Aldreda breaks the news to Ivar, and Ecbert gives Ivar “the talk.”

Canon divergent, everybody lives, arranged marriage AU after 4x14. Read this chapter on Ao3.

Previous chapters: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12]

On Ao3: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12]

Pairings: Ivar x OC, Ivar vs. basically everyone

Warnings: Semi-explicit discussion about sex (blame @volvaaslaug for this one)

Word count: 2386

Tagged: @youbloodymadgenius @heavenly1927 @nukyster-blog @bae-roman @adhdnightmare @danisnotsosecret (let me know if you would like to be tagged)

CHAPTER 13: Misunderstandings and miscommunications

It was late in the afternoon by the time Aldreda was alerted to the return of her father and her husband. She had spent the better part of the day pacing around in her room after speaking with Judith and her grandfather, trying to figure out the best way to break the news to Ivar. It would hurt his feelings to some degree; of that she was certain. But in time, he would see the sense in her decision. And even if he didn’t...well, he would just have to get used to the idea.

She tried once again to gather up her courage as she waited for Ivar to arrive. There was really nothing to be nervous about, she told herself. She had Judith on her side, her father surely would understand too, and between them, they could convince her grandfather it was the right thing to do. Yet somehow her hands were cold and clammy, and her heart was thumping in her chest.

She jumped when she heard the knock on the door. To her surprise, when she got up to answer it, she found that it wasn’t just Ivar being held up by some guards as usual. Her father carried him in on his back, and they both looked tired but exuberant.

Aethelwulf dropped Ivar on the bed with a groan and then pulled her into a tight hug. “All is well,” he murmured in her ear before turning to Ivar. “Show her?”

Ivar grinned and pulled her mother’s necklace out of his pocket with a flourish. It was stained reddish purple and smeared with dirt, but she was so happy to see it in his hands that she let out a sigh of relief.

“Thank you,” she said, and meant it.

“Ivar was the one who found it,” her father said, beaming with pride.

“With a little help from your father,” Ivar added, which felt like a major concession coming from him. He handed over the necklace with a slightly apologetic look on his face. “...it was in a puddle of wine. Sorry about that.”

That did not quite explain things, but she supposed there would be time for that later. Her mother’s necklace was sticky and stank of stale alcohol but it at least appeared to be intact. “And Father Wilfred?”

Ivar glanced at Aethelwulf. “The priest was already gone.”

“I see.”

An awkward silence settled over the room, with none of them entirely sure what to do next. At last, her father cleared his throat and held out his hand. “I will see to it that the necklace is cleaned properly,” he said, and she handed it back to him with a nod of thanks. “You should both rest. It has been a long day for us all.”

That was certainly true, and the day was about to become even longer. She let out a small sigh of relief as her father kissed her on the forehead and took his leave. Judith would break the news to him, but Ivar was her responsibility.

Once the door was closed, she turned to Ivar, still sitting on the bed with a broad grin on his face. “I have asked my grandfather for an annulment,” she said. No reason to dance around the subject, she had decided. Better to get this over with as quickly as possible.

She had expected him to be angry. She hadn’t forgotten their first night together, and the grip of his hand around her wrist. Or if he wasn’t angry, then she thought he would be sullen and resentful, like he had been in those first weeks of marriage when he had barely even acknowledged her existence. She was prepared for all of that.

She wasn’t prepared for him to look so hurt.

“What?” he asked, blinking in confusion. “Why?”

“You said you never wanted to marry me,” she explained. “I understand. I didn’t want to marry you, either. But we have a chance to fix this now, before it’s too late. You’ll be able to go home to your family.”

He stared at her, mouth hanging open. “You...you told them?”

“I did.”

He looked utterly bewildered. “But I don’t want to go back to Kattegat. I want to stay here.”

She frowned. “You just tried to run away two nights ago!”

“I changed my mind. Today.”

Now it was her turn to be confused. She sat down on the bed beside him. “What are you talking about?”

“I like you,” he blurted out. “I want to stay married.”

“You...you decided this today?”

He nodded. After a moment of hesitation, he reached for her hand, but she moved away. His expression turned sour. “I don’t want this annulment. I won’t allow it. You shouldn’t have said anything. You had no right to do that.”

She crossed her arms. “Well, it’s not up to you to decide; it’s my grandfather’s choice. And it’s mine.”

Now he glared at her. “I got your necklace back for you!”

“And I said thank you!” She could feel her voice getting higher and the words spilling out of her faster and faster. “I asked you what you wanted before and if you wanted to stay married, and you didn’t know. But you never asked me what I wanted! It never even crossed your mind! So maybe I decided to make a choice for myself and do what I wanted for once. Maybe I’m tired of pretending. Did you ever think about that?”

“Shut up,” he snarled. Now that the initial shock had passed, his expression grew darker. “You told them.”

“I did,” she said coolly. She wasn’t about to back down. He could bully servant girls, but she was a princess of Wessex and the granddaughter of the king. If he put his hands on her, he would pay dearly for it.

However angry he was, he knew it too. He opened and closed his fists a couple times without taking his eyes off her. Then, all at once, he seemed to crumple. He buried his face in his hands and let out a low sob.

She suddenly felt like the worst person in the world. She hadn’t meant to make him cry; no more, she supposed, than he had meant to make her cry the night after he had tried to escape. But the damage was done and there was no going back for either of them. They just needed to get this whole ordeal over with, and the sooner, the better.

“My grandfather wishes to speak to you,” she said tiredly, after a few minutes of listening to him sob. “I suppose he will ask you some questions about our marriage so he can decide whether the annulment will proceed.”

Ivar wiped his nose. “I don’t want to speak to him. Or you. Or anybody else.”

“I understand,” she sighed.

He looked at her sharply. His eyes were red and swollen. “You don’t understand anything.”

After that, he turned away and refused to talk to her. He stayed seated on the bed and sulked while she moved to her desk on the other side of the room and retrieved her embroidery. If he wanted to ignore her, that was fine: she was perfectly capable of doing the same. She threaded the needle and went to work putting the final touches on the cat she had started with Alfred. For a few minutes, the room was blissfully silent.

Of course, this was Ivar, so the silence didn’t last very long. “Oh, so you’re just going to ignore me now?” he demanded indignantly after several minutes, shifting himself around to face her direction.

She looked up from her embroidery. “I thought you didn’t want to talk to me anymore.”

“I don’t. I have nothing to say to you.”

“Well, you started this conversation, not me.”

He glared at her, but it wasn’t like he could argue with that. They lapsed once again into a tense silence, with Aldreda stabbing away furiously at her embroidery and Ivar glowering at her from across the room, until at last, there was a knock on the door and the guards came to take Ivar to speak to Ecbert.

Once he was gone and the door was shut behind him, Aldreda set aside her embroidery and took a deep breath. The thing she was quickly discovering about making her own choices—the thing she hadn’t realized would be so hard—was having to live with the consequences of those choices. Some part of her was filled with misgiving and dread. Already, she could feel events moving beyond her control at an alarming speed.

Had she made a terrible mistake?

Ecbert had taken a liking to Ivar from early on, and not just because he was Ragnar’s son. He found the boy to be clever and observant, albeit rather stubborn and impulsive at times, but those were not necessarily sins. And besides, Ivar had inadvertently given him considerable insight into the political dynamics and weaknesses of the Northmen—information that was sure to be useful at some point or another.

So it had come as a considerable disappointment to him to learn that, after assuming no small amount of risk, the match between Ivar and Aldreda had evidently been unfruitful thus far. It was an untenable situation: calling off the marriage would be a massive embarrassment and a blow to the new alliance with Kattegat, but it was hardly reasonable for his granddaughter to continue a marriage that could not be consummated when there were other suitors who would be eager for her hand. Beyond that, it remained to be seen whether or not Ragnar had been aware of his son’s unfortunate issue, and whether it was something that could be fixed.

He summoned Ivar to his library late in the day, just as the sun was sinking below the horizon. The light filtered in gently through the windows, casting the entire room in a warm red glow. Ivar did not seem particularly appreciative of the aesthetic, however: after being given his seat at the table across from Ecbert, he gave him a sullen glare and then quickly looked away.

Ecbert cleared his throat. “I heard that you and my son successfully retrieved Aldreda’s necklace, and for that I am most grateful,” he began. “It is unfortunate that Father Wilfred escaped justice, but it is not the most urgent matter at hand. I am sure that by now, Aldreda has told you that she has requested an annulment.”

He paused to give the boy a chance to respond. Ivar was staring at the table in front of him and picking intently at a splinter in the wood.

“Between a man and a woman, there can be misunderstandings and miscommunications of all kinds,” Ecbert continued after a few seconds of silence. “Not because of any ill intent or desire to deceive, but because of language, or age and experience, or simply the nature of the situation. So before I make any decision on the matter of your marriage, I must clarify some things with you, even though they may cause discomfort on your part. Is that understood?”

The boy gave him a sulky look and then lowered his gaze once again. “I understand, King Ecbert.”

“Wonderful,” Ecbert said blandly. “First, Aldreda told me that the two of you have not had marital relations, nor has any attempt been made. Is that true?”

Ivar’s jaw twitched. “Yes.”

“I was further informed that you told her that you were incapable of having such relations. That the problem was not that you lacked knowledge or will, but the ability. Is that correct?”

There was a very long pause. When Ivar spoke, his voice was barely more than a whisper. “Yes.”

Ecbert regarded him for a moment. The boy’s face was filled with shame. “Was your father aware of this?”

Ivar quickly shook his head. “I didn’t tell him. I couldn’t—I couldn’t.”

When it was clear Ivar was not going to say anything more, Ecbert sighed. “I explained to Aldreda that the consequences of having this marriage undone were immense and likely unforeseeable,” he continued. “The impact goes well beyond just the two of you. Our trade agreement with Kattegat in no small part depends upon your marriage—and, to be blunt—on your ability to consummate it. However, I am hesitant to give permission for the annulment to proceed, unless and until some new arrangement can be reached with your father. So in the meantime, I must ask you to try.”

Ivar looked up at him in dismay. “But—”

“I am not insensitive to the challenges involved,” Ecbert interrupted, holding up a hand. “Many young and inexperienced men find themselves daunted by the prospect of pleasing a woman—well, I never was daunted myself, but I know that is sometimes the case. Perhaps you are self-conscious and fear judgment, and that has affected your performance. But I am prepared to coach you through this myself, starting today.”

Ivar’s eyes grew even wider and his cheeks turned bright red. “That—that won’t be necessary,” he sputtered.

“Oh, I disagree; if it was unnecessary, we would not be sitting here, would we?” Ecbert folded his hands in front of him and cleared his throat. “But we must begin with the basics, so there is no question in your mind as to how a man gives a woman a child.”

Ivar’s face turned even redder. “I know how,” he mumbled.

Ecbert ignored him. “In order for a man to give a woman a child, he must penetrate her first,” he began. “The usual method is for the man to lie on top of her, but there are many other ways this can be achieved. She may lie on him instead, for example. It is largely a matter of comfort and preference, but I must say that personally, I find that second way to be the most pleasurable. Regardless of the method, after successful penetration, the man must ejaculate—”

There was a sharp knock at the door. Ecbert looked up in irritation as a guard poked his head inside. “I am speaking to my grandson-in-law. I said I was not to be disturbed for any reason.”

“Apologies, my lord king,” the guard said breathlessly. “Ragnar Lothbrok and his son Ubbe have just arrived from Kattegat unannounced. They are waiting for you at the gate.”

#vikings #ivar the boneless #fanfiction #fic: strange things can happen

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ktheist · 4 years

Text

an empire of lies | kth

muses. ability type!taehyung x heir!reader

synopsis. taehyung usually comes knocking on your window - yes, window - at something a.m. every once in awhile. it’s the closest you get to being that girl whose crush throws pebbles on her bedroom window and serenades her with a song played on his guitar.

except taehyung comes around to rummage your fridge and free load for a couple days before disappearing like the thin air that always seem to blow when he’s around.

oh, and your apartment is on the 19th floor.

words. 2k

note. this is a spinoff drabble from my partially written draft. can be read as a standalone!

“why are you covered in blood?” you ask, curiosity no longer being a distant concept after knowing the man for almost a decade now. the gust of wind that always seem to be around the corner whenever he pops up in front of you, now greets you in a burst. forcing your eyes to flutter shut from its force.

the saint laurent article that you would usually see on him, is missing. instead he tears the tubes prodded deep inside his veins, the once pristine white hospital gown now marred with crimson blood, joining them on your recently mopped floor a second later.

“it’s not mine.” he says simply. if you were younger and didn’t know any better, you would have freaked out. scenarios would have filled your brain and made you consider calling the police on this inhumanly attractive man that’s walking around in your kitchen, half-naked with his pants hung low around his hips.

a sigh escapes you as you pick up his discarded items, tossing them in the trashcan next to the counter before bumping him with your hip as you tell him to move away from inspecting the content of the fridge, “this is the last time i’m cooking for your free loading ass.”

you don’t miss the way taehyung nods and walks away instead of shooting you one of his boyish grins and showering you with empty compliments for being such a good host.

“it’s more like feeding a stray dog that comes around every once in awhile.” you would remark whenever praised you for your kindness. just to set a line and ground yourself to the fact that this tall and handsome as hell man is only here because your late grandmothers happened to be best friends.

“you got any beer?” he asks some time after a passing of silence and the first sizzle of the pan.

to say you’re surprised is an understatement - you spend a good one minute staring at taehyung’s tanned back, marred with scars he’d never talk about, as he pries your cupboard open one after another.

if there’s anything kim taehyung is, it’s wine, high designer fashion and everything along the refined way of living. and the beverage he’s asking for couldn’t have been so far shoved on the other end of the spectrum.

but you know not to mention that - not right now when he looks like he just came from a hunt. who and what, you’re fine not knowing.

“i can make a quick trip to the grocery store and see if they have some.” you offer, but quickly add, “i’m running low on strawberry milk anyway.”

just so you wouldn’t come off as going the extra mile for him. which is something you never usually do. but taehyung’s lack of smile is neither an unusual sight.

the aforementioned man lets out a noise, something like a chuckle that gets blocked by a tired sigh, “you and your strawberry milk - you do know they didn’t add real strawberries, right?”

you shoot him an accusatory look, “do you also go around telling kids that santa doesn’t exist?”

his shoulder line shakes as he chuckles - a real, actual one this time. hands held up in surrender, “don’t shoot the messenger.”

“well, the messenger better sit the fuck down or i’m turning off the stove and you’re left with half boiled pasta and half cooked salsa.” you huff, going back to adding a half cup of cilantro.

his “yes, ma’am” is a tad dull, obscured by the dark clouds hovering over his eyes yet not so much in need of a cut.

with that, you see him shuffle out of your periphery. seconds later, the squeaky sound of the chair hits the air, sticking out like a sore thumb against the fine sizzle of the salsa.

“you really need to get this chair fixed,” he comments, but you bet your memories of your grandmother that if you’d turned around, you’d see him sitting on the same chair he criticized while there are possible two more good ones on either side, “better yet, buy a new one.”

“if i buy a new one, i’ll have to buy the whole set otherwise it’ll look awkward as hell and ruins the aesthetic.” you shrug, as in to say, oh well, it’s a squeaky chair but it’s my squeaky chair. and apparently, taehyung likes that chair too.

silence lapsed between you while you cook - you don’t know what taehyung is doing to fill in those fifteen minutes until you finally plated a pasta for a serving of two, when you turn around, however, you don’t expect the sight before you.

the man has his arms folded over the counter, head propped over. his eyelashes flutter just the slightest bit from the movements of his eyes behind their lids. probably dreaming.

you set the plate a few inches away from him just so he wouldn’t end up dipping his hand into it out of surprise when you go around the counter to tap his shoulder, “taehyung?”

but your palm never touched his skin. instead, you find yourself staring at a pair of mesmerizing brown eyes. never mind the much larger hand wrapped around your wrist midair - you can barely feel it as you fall down down the rabbit hole and into his never seemingly ending gaze.

it’s in that moment that your phone rings, bringing you back to the reality of it all - that though taehyung makes himself approachable and puts on a friendly facade, at the end of the day, he comes and goes like the winds blowing through cities.

“so you weren’t sleeping.” you find yourself asserting, pulling your hand back as though his touch is molten lava, “eat up. i’ll get you some fresh clothes - well, they’re yours from the occasions you actually remember to bring a spare.”

but just before you get to take any step forward after turning your back on him, a pair of muscled arms wrap around you, holding you tight yet tenderly. like a glass case around a plucked rose.

his breath is hot against your neck, his head leaning on your shoulder. even when he’s sitting, he still manages to make you feel like a child. short. tiny. defenseless.

he’s everything your mother, a strong woman who raised you until the age of ten before her untimely death - your grandmother never said it, but you knew your mother didn’t die in her sleep, had told you to run away at first sight.

“never, never meddle with classes, ___ - promise me you’ll live a normal life, like a human.” at the time, you thought she meant the people adorned with golds and diamonds with a whole lot of money to spend and a lack of cause to spend it on. you thought those people had lost their humanity along the line as they chased for fame and wealth.

it isn’t until you met taehyung - the boy whose eyes were always drawn to the clouds and on one fine day, got lifted off the air, up to the tree to save your cat and bring it down to you with a silly grin - that you realized she meant those people. the ability types.

taehyung doesn’t say it, but you suspect he’s at least a second class.

“i really missed you.”

you couldn’t believe your ears. not after the still silence that follows suit. as though he didn’t say anything. as though your mind was playing tricks on you.

“what happened out there?” the question finally hits the air, not sharp enough to cut poke or even hurt the elephant in the room, but loud enough to be heard, “what happened to you?”

you tumble a step back as taehyung pulls you closer until his thighs encase your hips and arms wrap around you too perfectly, “i can’t tell you - i promised granny cheong i won’t rope you into this - not when you have a real chance to live a normal life.”

your shoulder line stiffens at the mention of your grandmother - the image of a fifteen year old taehyung by her deathbed and the subtle sound of her telling him something, floods your mind. it was then, you were so sure - she made him promise to leave you alone just like she knew she was about to that night.

on nights you stayed back at the office, you still wonder why she’d deliberately made sure the only other closest person you had to a family, left you too.

now, you don’t know what you and taehyung are.

your hand covers his arm that’s banded around your tummy, noticing the slight tremble in his bones. heart racing, mind making up a million scenarios for what you’re about to say.

he could recoil - he could leave you like he did right after you graduated high school. and this time you might not see him again but something inside you writhes with a desire that you’ve pushed to the very pit of your stomach all these years but if you don’t say it now, if you let taehyung leave this place and disappear for another six month-

“what if i don’t want a normal life? what if i want to be with you? classes or not.”

he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t pull away like you’re a made of fire either. yet your heart seem to palpitate faster than before.

“should we run away? just the two of us?” his voice is oddly calming - that’s how you know he’s only entertaining you for the sake of not offending you.

“stop that.” you force out despite the lump in your throat.

“stop what?” and he still chooses to pretend like everything’s fine.

“don’t tell me you’ll run away with me and let me wake up to an empty bed in the morning-” your breath falls short, “-that’s too cruel, taehyung.”

he doesn’t say anything for the longest moment. and within that moment, your thoughts run rampant. and you actually thought, for one sweet second, that he would tell you he means it. that he’ll leave everything - whatever shit he’s in - and hop on the plane with you to wherever land.

“i have to settle something first.”

the first scoff hits the air like vapor against heat, “there’s always something - just... just let me go, taehyung.”

you push his hands off you, not caring if he wanted to take refuge here or if he’ll leave. all you know if your car keys are in the bowl next to the door and you own a whole building in case push comes to shove and you end up without a home. well, your home will still be here but taehyung won’t by the time you return.

or so you’d planned.

but nothing ever seem to go your way. not since your mother brought you to tokyo and raised you there only to leave you and have an elderly woman show up at the orphanage that you spent a week at and claimed that she was your grandmother.

not since that grandmother raised you with the boy who had the brightest smile and left you with a scar so deep, you’re never really the same again.

as soon as taehyung’s warm arms releases you, the sudden chill of the something a.m. breeze engulfs you. but it is short lived as you find yourself staring at the man who spun you around with one hand and a another on your back, pulling you flush against his body.

you hate yourself for melting into him like an ice cream on a bright summer day.

all of a sudden, you’re both 11 and trekking down your grandmother’s backyard that makes up a whole private forest reserve.

“it’s always been you.” his voice trembles. as though he’s a push away from falling into pieces, “everything i did - it was to make sure they won’t touch you.”

“t-the organization?” it’s purely reflex - you know who they are. the causes of the deaths in your lives. timely or not. “why would they want to have anything to do with me? don’t they hate me? because i’m ordinary?”

the chin resting on your head shifts as he shakes his head, arms encompassing you so tightly, it’s almost hard to inhale and yet breathing isn’t a priority at the moment, “it’s in your blood - you may be ordinary but you were born from a long line of first classes. they can’t rule out the possibility of your kids being ability types - maybe even zero’s.”

“taehyung,” your hand clenches into a fist over the area of his chest where his heart palpitates underneath. his gaze pierces into your soul when you crane your neck to look at him - he always felt like a fresh air and open meadows.

until now.

now, it feels like you’re trapped in the heart of the hurricane. whirling and writhing in a vortex of emotions you’ve never allowed yourself to be acquainted to before.

“what exactly did you promise grandma?”

it’s the way his eyes shake and brows twitch even though his face remains neutral - unmarred by the creases of tension that no doubt graces your own features.

the only indication that he’s reluctant to respond is the pressing of his lips together before he breathes out the softest sigh. as though bracing himself. but his voice has never been so sure.

“i promise i’d kill you myself if they ever approached you.”

#bts smut #taehyung smut #bts scenarios #bts fic #networkbangtan #taehyung scenarios #taehyung fics #taehyung fanfic #taehyung fanfiction #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #bts #taehyung #kim taehyung #kim taehyung smut #excerpt from a fic i’ll never write

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thereluctantinquisitor · 3 years

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🍏💙💜🌺 for Calayne, please! :D

JUMBO ASK GAME!

🍏 Does your OC have any triggers? What is the history behind these triggers and are they related to any disorders or mental illnesses? In what ways does your OC react to being triggered?

Honestly, her own rage is probably the biggest trigger for her (although I’m not sure trigger is the right word for it). She is trying hard to overcome the side of her that raided and murdered for centuries - and is renowned for it - so whenever she lapses back into that mindset she takes it as a deep personal failure. It is probably more of a regret than a trigger, now that I think about it, but it’s the closest thing she has. Her reaction is typically to spiral into self-loathing and introspection for a while, and vow to do better next time. Though, the more she fails, the more she feels like she is just lying to herself and can never truly change.

💙 What did your OC want to be when they grew up and why? Did they have any lifelong dreams or ambitions they never got to work on or are they currently working to achieve this dream? Has their life taken a very unexpected turn and put all these plans on hold for a while or have they given up on any dreams?

She always wanted to be a military leader, but it’s not clear if that was actually her desire or just the expectations placed upon her due to her mother’s success. Given the history of the Irethani, they are heavily focused on might and warfare and power through conflict. Any other life would, to her, have felt like wasted opportunity, and she has never been one content to live in the shadows. She wanted to fight for her people, and work to regain what had been stolen from them. What else was there?

Her life did take an unexpected turn when she realised that her people were not as ‘born to rule’ as she had always been taught. The first time this became clear was when the Rhaiz, their leader, started using lower-rank Irethani for experimentation (having moved on/run out of prisoners). Calayne realised she couldn’t justify essentially torturing their own people - that the means did not necessarily justify the ends - and that was like the first crack in a pane of glass. After that, she started finding it harder and harder to justify a lot of what she did, until it reached a breaking point and she chose to leave the people she had spent her life fighting for.

💜 Music or Silence? Swords or Spells? Cities or Nature?

Silence (mostly out of habit - she likes to have an awareness of what is happening around her). Swords (although she does practice the thaumic arts in combat, they’re not ‘spells’ per say). Cities (she is used to being among people/leading, so cities are actually where she feels more relaxed. Out in nature, she is left more to her own devices, and that is difficult for her. This makes the fact that she is now seeking a life of isolation even harder).

🌺 Does your OC have any tattoos or other body art? Does their body art have any specific meaning behind it? Do they have any scars? How did they get those scars? Any birthmarks?

All Irethani have dark facial markings, typically resembling those of their parents (with individual variations - the same way children in general tend to resemble their parents but are not carbon-copies of them). There is no real meaning to them, however Irethani who wish to sever ties with their family often alter the pattern (via tattooing) as a kind of statement. And some alter their markings just for the aesthetic, although this is considered quite indulgent and vain.

#reluctant replies #calayne #thank you for asking!#<3 #the-fluffynug #jumbo ask game

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nyxedcreation · 3 years

Text

It’s long but if you want, read my sappy, not completely edited unsent letter to mark and ethan i guess??

It all began with a black and white spiral interrupting three scary games. There was an echo of cult-like chanting and an hourglass with skulls. I was intrigued, pulled in. This strange aesthetic struck a note with me. I immediately dove in to see two videos. One was that same black and white spiral; the other was, well, it was cooking with sex toys. I was confused, and experienced my first Unus Annus induced whiplash, but more than ready to hop on what I knew would be a wild ride. Cliche and classic, but, little did I know how much those two idiots and their project would mean to me.

The year flew by faster than I would have liked. More happened this year than I expected. Through all the apocalyptic shock, there was one stable, consistent thing in my Thanos-snapped life that I found myself leaning on time and again. Their steady, every day chaos was something I think many needed, and soon realized they needed as more and more piled on our shoulders with each passing month. I am eternally grateful for this gift of a temporary thing they gave us.

Now I cannot say I loyally watched the videos every day, but I did not miss one. I found I liked letting the videos pile up and save them for a rainy day, though I knew that was not a habit I could keep forever. I peacefully played Minecraft while they went on internet scavenger hunts and validated the beauty of every woman (specifically Zak Effron). I slouched or curled up in my bed after a long day at work, giggling at their antics during collaborations and pulling things I should definitely not try at home. They brought a small, immeasurable joy in my life, which I held like one would hold a handful of fresh stardust. The warmth and humor they gave nestled itself in my veins and helped me power through so many changes that have created a whole new person I can proudly call myself.

I moved thousands of miles from my family and friends and began working my first real job. I am building myself up and working towards becoming a functional human being for once in my life. I feel myself changing and growing every day, and they have been there every step of the way-- guiding me in some, strange way.

I feel this project has inspired me in more ways than I could have possibly imagined. With each memeable, perfectly chaotic video, I learned time is precious, mortality is a gift from whatever one may believe in, and every opportunity should be taken with hungry hands and a hungrier heart.

I am excited for the future for once in my life, excited to see what I can accomplish with this new, taught mindset; excited to unleash this burning hunger and pour myself into everything precious to me. I have my own projects all lined up, waiting for me to give them color. I have a whole new internet personality to discover and support and watch grow; there is an endless hallway filled with doors of opportunity for me to open. These new things are all blooming and thriving from the decay of a digital channel. Such are cycles and life.

The day the livestream aired, I was met with jumbled nerves and a racing heartbeat. I trembled and worked faster than I ever had so I could leave earlier than everyone else (though I’m not sure if my boss was too happy). I was able to slide into bed with a light meal seconds before it started. I sat through all twelve hours, determined to see this through to the end and feel that sense of completion. I knew I would never feel complete if I missed a second. The rollercoaster of emotions were thrilling, I knew they would make for great inspiration in my writing. I laughed, cried, reflected, reminisced. I thought back to what I felt in the beginning and how my attachment grew so strong it hurt.

As the clock sped down toward inevitable doom, I passed my parting words in silent, choked back sobs and clammy, trembling fingers holding my arms in a self-embrace. The clock passed into the final minute and I leaned forward, shaking my head, a silent no on my lips, betraying my composed nature. 10 seconds, and my mind flashed back into speeding film reels of Ethan and Mark doing goat yoga, shooting archery, shooting each other with paintball guns, using neti pots, creating disgusting food and drink combos, making holy and unholy water, playing nutball, attempting to paint, pasting the face of Benjamin Franklin on a ketchup bottle, hydro dipping a baby, bobbing for chunks of tuna, running from bears, hunting HeeHoo, holding one another and saying how much they loved each other. 5 seconds and my body dropped into ice, my stomach curled into itself, my eyes widened with tears and before I could whisper goodbye, the screen violently thrust me into darkness.

I have never heard such deafening silence.

My goodbye still stuck in my throat, I slowly closed my laptop and pretended I was fine. I lapsed back into my usual coping of pretending I’m okay when I am very much not okay. The perfect cocktail of absolute elation and bone breaking sorrow has made my heartstrings refrain from playing their usual tune. All is still inside me, though the world rushes by. I know I am in mourning, and I know it will last a while.

Every time I will blink or let my mind drift, I will be met with wave after wave of memories, dripping in that golden chaos they created. I know out of habit I will look for their channel notifications, only to be met with nothing, only to remember their channel died. I know I will ask where they went when I forget that 12 is no longer marked by their uploads. It will be a journey, trying to forget Unus and Annus no longer exist in this material world. Their ghosts will haunt me for months, shadowing my every move. They will lurk in corners, watch me from afar, making sure I truly learned what they taught. They will whisper incessantly, reminding me death is inevitable and the clock is always ticking; they will chant and make mantras of nihilism until one day, their whispering will cease, and I will have lost them all over again.

Thank you, Mark and Ethan. You will never know my name, and you will never know how much your channel together changed me. The silly videos you made helped me more than I will admit out loud, and I can hardly wait for what the future holds for the two of you. I am now learning to hold hope and excitement in my own future. I am taking initiative in my life and seeing everything I take control of for myself pay off. I can only hope my future is as bright as yours. Thank you, again; the impact you have is so great and so positive. You will make history. I look forward to the end and what lies beyond. See you on the other side.

Memento Mori.

Unus Annus.

tl/dr: :( but also :)

#unus annus #we were here #memento mori #goodbye #markiplier #crankgameplays #unus annus is over party #unus annus out of context #unus annus livestream #writing #My writing #ive read this fucker like 8 times #and its still not done #anyway im sad #and happy #guess ill cry

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villlainarc · 3 years

Text

see the stars || empty sky || spark of gold || a night so bright || city lights || starlit kisses

the day logan leaves the city is also the day he happens to see janus again.

it had been four days since he’d arrived in the city at that point, and logan had long since rid himself of that damning pocket watch. undoubtedly, some lucky person had stumbled upon the box he’d dropped it in by now, dug out the watch, and made a pretty penny by selling it off to some pawnshop or black market. he pities them, in all honesty. there’s no way they would have gotten as much money for it as it’s worth.

with the last tie to his previous life gone and a week of observing the entirety of the city under his belt though, logan is sure he looks as unassuming as possible. there is no way he’ll be targeted by someone like that thief again. he’s safe now, and all he has to do is find a way to get out.

he’d wanted to see the stars, after all, and it’s impossible to do so when every bit of the sky is blocked out by towers as tall as the one he’d lived in.

logan has a plan to get out though, a plan to stow away at the back of an old fashioned train, and then he’ll be out and he’ll be free. he truly can’t wait until the it arrives back at the station tonight.

so he waits in the gloom of the alleyways again, this time careful to keep an eye on the narrow path behind him. he’s not going to be snuck up on again.

and he isn’t—not really, at least. the thief appears behind him again, silent as a shadow, but this time logan spots them long before they can make their approach.

“you’re not going to fool me twice.”

“i didn’t expect to. you’re very clever, after all.”

“then why are you here?”

the thief doesn’t speak for a moment. “did you know that these days, it’s more common than you’d think for a criminal to return to the scene of the crime?”

logan feels cold fear spread through his chest as he follows this discussion to its logical conclusion—they found the watch. they know who he is. “and why is that?” he asks hesitantly, keeping it face neutral by some miracle.

“by returning to the scene of the crime, they’ll catch anything they may have left behind, any incriminating evidence that’s easy enough to make disappear, the like. and even if someone spots them, it’s always shockingly easy to make them believe that only a moron would return and risk capture when really, they’re a genius for having done so.”

“what’s your point?”

again, the thief ignores his question. “logan, was it?”

“yes.”

“and you didn’t give me a last name now, did you? you weren’t that foolish.”

logan decides not to answer.

“of course you weren’t,” they continue. “could that be because you were taunting me?”

“whatever do you mean?”

“don’t play dumb with me. not just anyone is able to stop me from pickpocketing them. not just anyone is going to be in possession of something as valuable as this.” with that, they pull logan’s pocket watch from a jacket pocket and hold it in front of them, letting it swing back and forth on its chain. “not just anyone is in going to be in possession of tien koh’s pocketwatch.

“so, logan, who are you? if you’re this skilled of a thief, why have i never even heard of you?”

logan nearly laughs out of relief, but he manages to stop himself just in time. this thief thinks he stole that pocket watch, not that he is—was—the owner of it. it’s almost too perfect, but logan can’t bring himself to lie to them. “i’m not a thief,” he says instead.

“oh? then what sort of pretentious name do you have for your occupation, my dear, sweet logan?”

“no,” he sighs, “i didn’t steal it at all. i found it, just the same as you did. i was going to sell it, but once you tried to steal it and it had dropped on the ground, i saw the name engraved on it and figured it would have been more trouble explaining how i’d acquired it than it was worth. i left it there for someone else to find and sell, someone who’d be genuinely clueless about the true value of it. i’m no actor; i wouldn’t have been able to fake knowing what it was for the life of me. the real question,” logan adds upon realizing that he easily turn the tables on this thief, “is why you didn’t sell it. you seem like the type to be good at playing dumb.”

they blink at logan for a moment, apparently trying to decipher what he meant by that. shaking their head, they avoid mentioning the second part of his statement. “to be quite honest, i kept it around for dramatic effect. a little bit for proof as well i suppose, but i don’t think that would have landed as well if i hadn’t pulled it out of my pocket at the moment i did.”

logan tilts his head to the side, watching at them suspiciously. “really.”

under his scrutiny, the thief blushes ever so slightly. “yes, really. what’s the point of life if it isn’t lived dramatically?”

logan can think of several thousand answers to that, but he chooses not to give them. “if you insist,” he says with a baffled shake of his head. they lapse into a brief silence before logan speaks again. “was that all you wanted to ask me about?”

“why, do you not like talking to me?” they pout, lifting themself up backward onto a stack of boxes near the wall of the alleyway where they let their feet swing carelessly through the air. “am i not interesting enough?” they ask, pout growing in intensity with every second that passes. “not pretty enough?” they try again.

“you wound me,” they conclude, letting their pout fall after a short silence during which logan finds himself staring at the way a single strand of hair has escaped from beneath their beanie. he’d never noticed the color of the thief’s hair before, never noticed the lovely golden hue that looks like pure sunlight when they shift into the light of a street lamp. it is… aesthetically pleasing.

he looks away.

“earth to logan,” the thief says, an eyebrow raised at him and the barest hint of a smirk on their face. “you still with me?”

“ah, yes. my apologies.” he clears his throat, collecting himself mentally as he straightens his jacket.

“so? do you not like talking to me?”

“it’s not the worst thing i’ve ever done.”

“is that all i’m getting?”

“i’m afraid so.”

“hm,” they hum, sliding off the stack of boxes and landing softly on the ground again. “you’re interesting, logan. i look forward to seeing you again.”

they turn to walk away, and logan has half a mind to call them back and tell them that no, they won’t see him again, he’s leaving the city, and wouldn’t it be nice to say goodbye?

he isn’t sure what he expects to come of that though, so he ignores the thought and lets the thief walk away.

besides, if they really want to see him again, logan has no doubt that they have their ways. they’ll see each other again, whether logan wants it to happen or not.

(and maybe—just maybe—he thinks he does.)

#sanders sides #loceit #logan sanders #janus sanders #light up the dark au #fic.txt #ephemeral #love how this is all under a tag that's just a fancy word for short and yet the series keeps getting Longer #it's my brand i simply can't escape it

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ambvrs · 4 years

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𝐉𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐏𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐀𝐘𝐃𝐈𝐍 / 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐬.

𝒃𝒖𝒊𝒍𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒈𝒆𝒔 — @opalsmedia !

𝒊. 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒕 𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒔 ; open to anyone .

( ♫ ) — josephine’s life between scotland and strathmore is vague at best, other than she moved into her own place after graduation and spent a year working in london before her first year at strathmore began ( a time frame that puts her in line with the opals first year / immediately pre - strathmore prodigies ). a bond formed from a chance encounter by the river’s edge one summer or fall evening, two strangers simply sharing company and conversation before strathmore or the society or life had the chance to intervene. one meeting turned into several, someone she might consider one of her first friends in the city and they became more of a rock in her life than she would ever admit to them, letting her forget the darkness of the world for even a short while. perhaps time, and strathmore and society duties, have created distance between them that they’re not sure how to close. not in a bad way, of course, but in the way that life always seems to.

aesthetics : the warm glow of the street lamps as blue skies blossom into shades of flame, shoulders brushing against one another as steps fall in tandem, quiet laughter that melts into clamoring of the crowd, the same sense of ease that accompanies picking up long - forgotten novel, secrets shared the same as clandestine smiles, cobblestone paths that lead to nowhere in particular, the twinkle of an excited gaze, the comforting press of fingertips into the crook of an elbow, a collection of polaroids tucked away like perfect memories.

𝒊𝒊. 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒔 𝒘𝒆 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 ; open to anyone .

( ❤ + ❤ + ❤ ) — two people that, under any other ( or relatively normal ) circumstances, would certainly not have considered themselves friends. but recent circumstances have brought them closer and they’ve found a sort of solace in one another. separately, they’ve seemed to function just fine on their own, or they’ve simply done everything they can to keep it all to themselves. perhaps it’s a slow - burn friendship, they didn’t like each other all too much starting out or simply butt heads over the most trivial of things, but they slowly grow to lean on each other for small things, figuring there are worse people to rely on. or perhaps it’s been a friendship that’s been blossoming slowly, both caring a great deal about the other ( even if they never really talk about it ) & who they trust to talk about secrets, feelings, the society, you name it without worrying about repercussions or what they may think of them. two people that come to rely on each other, one way or another, and will do anything to help them succeed. platonic twin flames who know each other almost as well as, if not better, than they know themselves.

aesthetics : pinky promises shared in an empty room, waiting with baited breath as quiet confessions are offered, hesitant smiles, hours of long conversation that slip into comfortable silence, trusting someone to keep a secret you would’ve taken to the grave, arms embraced in a hug that borders on almost too tight, a knock on your bedroom door at two am, long night drives with no destination in mind, shared blankets under a starry sky.

𝒊𝒊𝒊. 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒔𝒐𝒇𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒄𝒓𝒖𝒆𝒍 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 ; open to anyone .

( ✧ / reversed ) — josephine is truly soft - hearted, down to her very core, and is often far too kind and compassionate for her own good. she chooses to see the best in people, even if it’s not always there. that being said, they aren’t being friendly just for the sake of being friendly and whatever sort of ‘ friendship ‘ they have is formed for the sake this person’s own gain, be it academically, as a bit of romantic payback, or even because they feel she can benefit their growth in the society. there’s a lot of room for creative liberties here ( and plenty of angst, if we wanted ), but i think it would do her some good to face the truth behind typical rose - colored glasses, even if she’s completely oblivious to it for now, for a while ? forever ? perhaps she knows but will simply pretend she does not see because she’d rather live in the illusion than face the truth.

aesthetics : smiles that do not quite reach the eyes, lies veiled beneath honeyed tones, the steady rapping of raindrops on window panes, gifted roses already on the verge of wilting, bribes offered in the way of i - owe - you’s, rain check texts one hour after a read message, the slip of smoke through outstretched fingers, large sunglasses shielding disinterested gaze, company offered out of convenience rather than genuine desire, the dying embers of a flickering flame.

𝒊𝒗. 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 ; taken .

( ♫ + ❤ ) — two people that dance a fine line together, and perhaps they’ve been dancing it since the beginning of her first year up to joining the society ( or maybe they still are ). push and pull, always like two moths to a flame, this connection is the prime example of what could be if life wasn’t in the way. the two have obvious chemistry, but there’s something that’s keeping them from being together - could be the society, their parents or friends, or some other outside influence. physical or emotional boundaries aside, they are the epitome of the right place at the wrong time and perhaps they’d be together if they could but instead they fight against it, flirting the line of you could be mine and it’s just not the time. perhaps they’ve already put it behind them, but they both just have that knowledge that in another life.

aesthetics : fleeting glances shared across a crowded room, grazing fingertips in a fleeting touch, the lingering tendrils of darkness in the break of dawn, the way the moon controls the tides, harmless invitations for coffee that grows cold in conversation lapses, knowing coffee orders like the back of your hand, shared smiles hidden in the crooks of necks, faded photographs of a simpler time, handwritten notes tucked neatly between book pages.

𝒗. 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒄𝒓𝒂𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒏 ; open to anyone / one - two people .

josephine tends to her friendships like a neat little garden, cares so wholly for each of them in their own special way. but in light of recent events ( and moving forward amidst a still missing society member ), it only makes sense for a couple of her close relationships to start fraying at the seams. whether they consider them friends is neither here nor there, she’s taken to applying that term to pretty much everyone in the society, truly. their friendship is well on its way to dissolving, or at least a very close breaking point, whether it be because of the stress of everything going on ( or went on or will go on ), or they feel that she’s somehow betrayed their trust in some way ( could be trivial, could be completely valid ), or perhaps they’ve come to learn that she’s played a part in previous disruptive rule breaking.

aesthetics : fraying ends of a friendship bracelet, the bitter taste of black coffee, dark bags under tired eyes ( no, they’re not prada ), the ache of a disappointed gaze, the torn pages of an old notebook, waves cresting the shore to simply retreat again, empty roads at 4am, a table for two but party of one, the crinkling static of a tv left on too long, four missed calls and a ‘ we need to talk ‘ text, curtains drawn in once familiar windows.

𝒗𝒊. 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆'𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒖𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 ; taken.

the two had dated previously, prior to either of them joining the society. whether it happened during her teen years, the lull between life and strathmore, or right up to their time in the society - it’s very much open - ended. josephine has always loved too deeply, and it could have been their downfall or what had kept them together as long as they were. i imagine they didn’t end on the best of terms, but she still cares deeply for them and their well - being, regardless of where they stand now, and perhaps there’s lingering feelings that they both simply deny.

aesthetics : tba.

𝒗𝒊𝒊. 𝒘𝒆 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒐𝒇𝒇 𝒂𝒔 𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒔 ; open to anyone.

someone that josephine has history with; either they’ve kissed or hooked up a few times, or just went on a couple casual dates but there was nothing ever really there. no hard feelings at all, they mutually decided there was nothing between them and they were better off as actual just friends. they’re probably pretty close because of the fact and it’s just something that they joke about now.

aesthetics : tba.

𝒗𝒊𝒊𝒊. 𝒚𝒐𝒖'𝒓𝒆 𝒈𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒖𝒏 ; open to anyone.

they were sleeping together out of convenience at some point, perhaps they’d turn to each other on a lonely night or they’re hanging out and they don’t mean for it to happen, but they end up tangled together in one of their rooms, gone in the early hours of the morning before the other ways. or perhaps it was a one or two time thing, a moment of weakness or split decision that they pretend didn’t happen. truly no strings attached, neither of them expecting anything from the other because it’s not supposed to mean anything, so they’re always gone by morning, before anyone can see them, because there’s nothing casual about deep conversations when you’re half - asleep, bodies pressed together and hands intertwined.

aesthetics : tba.

☆ 𝒃𝒐𝒏𝒖𝒔 ☆ ; aka a collection of six - word stories / musings that would also be fun plots but i simply did not have the brain cells to type up .

i. 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒎𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒔 ; ii. 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏'𝒕 𝒔𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒆 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 ; iii. 𝒊 𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒚 ; iv. 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓, 𝒅𝒐 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 ; v. 𝒉𝒐𝒑𝒆 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒅𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒅𝒐𝒖𝒃𝒕 ; vi. 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒊 𝒔𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒊 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒔 ; vii. 𝒕𝒘𝒐 𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒊𝒏 ; viii. 𝒊𝒇 𝒘𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒎𝒆 ; ix. 𝒊 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒂𝒏𝒚 .

this + this + this + this + this .

#opalsplots #enjoy this collection of six word story plots #this is simply So Long #any of these can be added to our current plots or they can be whole new plots !!#or we can brainstorm somethin just as spicy lmk just @ me #by the end i just think i have 3am jokes #if u see typos ...... yeah me too

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moonlightchess · 4 years

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The Winter Wolves (1)

Eirik and Eija Sturmborn are twins, born to a long local tradition in northernmost Minnesota, of winter wolves and pack wars and family bonds as deep as they are destructive. Things are changing as of late, and worse, not changing at all - they’re adults now, and they have yet to shift into the wolf-skin their wild-bred parents should have passed on to them long ago. Wholly human they remain, albeit strong and hardy and ready to die fighting back the howling rival packs threaded throughout their family’s Gray woods as rumors spread that the Sturmborn twins are never going to make the final change and now is the time to strike, to wipe out the Sturmborn pack entirely so that their dwindling bloodline will finally cease to be a threat in the inevitable statewide pack war that has been simmering for years.

There’s also the death of their lost brother Sven, years ago, killed in an alpha fight during a wolf run with their parents when the twins were children - as the story goes, anyway. Details are emerging, cults are stirring, and the twins can’t stop dreaming of ravens and death. The Danish Larsen witches to the south who claim Eija’s dearest friend and heart’s desire Sara have no idea that she’s been using her magic to aid the twins in uncovering what really happened to Sven and holding off the Karlsen and Jorgunsson packs for as long as possible. Meanwhile Eirik’s continued clumsy attempts to woo the elegant violinist, the newcomer to Angle Inlet Julian Hassan, are not going well at all. The brutal tragedy and burgeoning madness stirring in their land and their blood are nothing compared to the battlefield of human longing, a truth more evident every day.

Eija had laughed, the inhalation of a lungful of sawdust of no concern to her. They were woodworkers and potters by trade, the Sturmborns. Her own palm was slowly working out a thick pine splinter from a week ago. “So now my brother is a philosopher,” she’d observed, stealing his iron beer stein for a healthy gulp. At eighteen apiece - twins, they - technically the state laws of Minnesota frowned upon such indulgences. But the town of Angle Inlet was also acutely aware of the elective and social power of its enormously Scandinavian population, who poured beer and honey wine out at winter gatherings for everyone present, including their young. Such was their culture, and they’d been raised into responsible sorts. The ale of tonight was a heady, oaky blend with a thick head of caramel foam, heavily scented of smoked apples.

The matter of Sven though, was troubling.

She’d cleaned and laid out the old furs for her bed the month before, in preparation for northern Minnesota’s half-year deep freeze, but even snuggling down under at least ten pounds of fur and fabric couldn’t lull her to sleep. Normally this was not an issue for her, but a buzz filled her brain that wouldn’t be silenced even as the night wore on. It was around midnight that she finally abandoned all pretense and let her mind find Eirik, who was not in his bed. He was in fact, directly over her head.

“What were they doing in our woods?” Eirik’s hand tightened around her forearm, where it had fallen moments before, and he shook his head to silence her. No one had noticed them yet, they were likely too far away. There were at least ten of them, and the way they moved together felt familiar. A rival pack then, maybe the ones who had challenged their father for his alpha position and killed Sven - laughing Sven -years ago. Eija’s teeth bared themselves and she tensed all over, but Eirik was only alert, watching. The group slowly broke apart, crossing their land on silent feet in the earliest possible morning, several heading west toward the Lost River, others east into town. It wasn’t until the last of them was no longer visible that Eirik seemed to exhale, lifting his hand from Eija’s arm.

“Erik the Red’s day?”

“Couple of days too early. Maybe. I don’t know.”

#vikings #nordic #fiction #modern fantasy #lgbt #gay #original writing #writing #writeblr #guys i'm actually close to finishing a novel here #please be kind i was so anxious to post this first part #are y'all feeling this? should i keep posting more?#let me know

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renaroo · 4 years

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Thinking Positive

Disclaimer: Doom Patrol and associated characters are the creative property of DC Comics Warnings: internalized homophobia, depression Rating: T Synopsis: In order to heal, Larry will have to work on being more positive. It’s a long and difficult journey.

A/N: I watched Doom Patrol last year and to say I loved it would be a major understatement. But the thing that took me by surprise the most was just how meaningful Larry Trainor’s story was to me, someone who also grew up surrounded by a lot of homophobia and feels like openly living with pride is still a difficult and ongoing struggle into my adulthood.

And with global quarantine being what it is, I’ve had a lot of strange and curious time on my hands to work on things so far as mental health is concerned. And it’s had me thinking a lot about how sometimes negativity and cyncism is a coping mechanism that’s easy to use but damaging in the long run. I tend to take that perspective away from Larry’s story rather than the way the show sometimes dismisses valid personal fears of outing and shames closeting. So this rambling story came barreling out of me. I hope it makes some sense.

Larry dismissed himself from dinner with the rest of Doom Manor’s residents.

It didn’t take much more than some dismissive words on his part, easily ignored over the rambunctious antics of Jane and Cliff, or the attempts to quell said antics by Vic and Flex. Rita was the most difficult to escape, considering Larry was her main outlet for commentary, but even she was willing to let him go when he stressed that he was tired.

He had tired rather easily over the last few months, and Rita knew why even more than the others.

In some ways, it was like therapy. In other ways, it was like torture. But that had always been Larry’s dilemma. He was rarely allowed to have one over the other.

Even before the Negative Spirit melded to his very soul.

When Larry attempted to frame his fears in less selfish designs, he framed his need for more energy as being there for the others. Cliff needed to have someone counter his gutsier instincts. Jane’s sarcasm needed someone equally verbose in it. And Rita, of course, counted on Larry’s counsel more than anyone’s. But it was easier, lately, with each other, with the others like Vic and Flex and even Dorothy, young in appearance and still finding her place as she was.

Besides all that, Larry had made a promise to himself that he wasn’t going to blame his reluctance on others anymore.

Which led to the closing of the thick lead door behind Larry. The slow removal of his protective bindings as the Richter scale crackled in the decompression port. The daily walk through his metal room and his radiation proofed furniture.

It was funny to think that his room had changed so little from the minimal aesthetic it had when the Chief first offered him a place nearly half a century ago. Funny, but also uncomfortable. Like it was wrong and stupid of him, but it had been so long that it would be weirder if Larry attempted to make any big changes.

He laid down on his bed and made himself comfortable, his hands rested over his chest, close to his heart.

Larry gazed at the ceiling and felt the rumbles deep in his body which let him know that the spirit was aware of what time it was.

“Hey there, buddy,” Larry said, voice low and tired. “It’s that time again. The one where I try to get stuff off my chest.” His hands tapped rather nervously over his shirt. It was light enough that the nerve damage kept the tips of his fingers from truly feeling more than the slight pressure of it. “Literally.”

For the life of him, Larry couldn’t figure out why he always started out so nervous and uncomfortable every day.

Then again, Larry had lived his entire life nervous and uncomfortable. It was hard to break habits formed over a century, he supposed.

“Okay, well, here goes nothing,” Larry sighed, closing his eyes and preparing himself. Idioms aside, it did not feel like nothing, it felt like everything every time.

“Start from the top? Positive things?” Larry asked out loud. With his eyes closed, the rumble from the negative spirit felt even stronger, more enthusiastic perhaps. “Of course, you eat those up. Alright.

”Today my azaleas began to bloom early. I got some rhododendron seeds in the mail. Chief is offering to get me a new greenhouse on the property, to expand things. Dorothy made me a flower crown. She didn’t use any of my flowers. I think she used paper and then with her, ah, powers turned them into real flowers. Usually, her using her powers is disturbing, like the whole thing with the puppets. But this was, you know, cute. I liked it. I mean it’s quicker to use a Snapchat filter, but…”

The negative spirit rumbles more abruptly. It gives Larry a sense of warning or disapproval.

“I know, I know, staying positive,” he sucks in a deep breath. It’s the sort of deep, lung filling breath that he’s only capable of thanks to the negative spirit’s possession of him. Their temporary separation reminded him of that. That, however, was an unspoken positive between them.

“I tried a new recipe, everyone seemed to enjoy it,” Larry continued. “It’s curried roasted eggplant with smoked cardamom and coconut milk.” He couldn’t resist the huff of a laugh that escaped him as a result. “Sheryl would’ve never believed it.”

There was a numbness that spread out from his chest. It was an overwhelming sense, but Larry considered it a good development.

He and the Negative Spirit both took a long time to have a response to his ex-wife being invoked that was anything other than overwhelmingly negative.

Still, it was best to trade subjects and not linger on old regrets. As natural as it was for Larry to do that.

“With all the new residents, this place has really gotten lively,” he said, arching his neck back more comfortably on the pillow. “I know I’ve let you out a few times to explore that for yourself, but you probably miss a lot of the little things.”

A gentle hum radiated out from his chest. Positive? Affirmation? Larry was still deciphering the finer bits.

“It’s good for all of them,” Larry concluded. “They fit together well. Well, not fit. The whole point of this place is that fitting is…”

He trailed off, catching his own turn toward negativity long before the spirit had a chance to disrupt him.

“It’s nice, seeing how meaningful it is for Cliff and Jane to have someone…” Larry scowled and lifted up one of his hands from his chest to scrub at his face. Doom Manor was so hard to contextualize sometimes. “Not younger. She’s older than all of us. Smaller? It’s nice to see Cliff and Jane both have someone smaller to look out for. Daughter. Little sister. However it goes.” He lowered his hand down to his side, away from his chest where he’d more acutely feel the rumbles of the Negative Spirit’s responses. “Did I mention she made me a crown? That was nice.”

Larry lapsed into silence, his eyes unfocused as they stared at his ceiling and past it toward all the feelings and regrets of a long life.

He never felt the need to regain a sense of fatherhood like Cliff was haunted by. But he had been a father, too. He had been a father of two.

And he never saw either of them again. Never tried.

Sheryl had taken them away to a better life. Maybe she remarried, to a man who could love her the way she deserved to be love. Maybe the boys got a father who could teach them all the things about being a man that were beyond Larry’s comprehension.

It probably would have been simple enough to find out, if Larry had asked questions or reached out.

But he hadn’t. He forfeited that part of his life, just like he had forfeited so much else.

In some ways, he hoped Sheryl had told the boys he had died. That way they never grew up wondering why Larry hadn’t reached out. So they didn’t have the accurate picture of what a coward their fearless flyboy father had been.

There was no telling how much time he was prepared to spend down that path before his body jolted.

Not without warning, the Negative Spirit seized through Larry’s body with force and separated. His eyes rolled back into his head and everything went limp and dark.

When Larry woke with a gasp, he already knew what had happened, but he sat upon his bed all the same and grabbed at his head in frustration.

“Look! This is part of it!” he yelled toward his chest. His heart was racing, equal parts the Negative Spirit’s pulsing and Larry’s own anger. “I know, I know we need to work on being positive, but you got yourself paired with one of the most naturally negative sons of bitches on the planet. This wasn’t just about you, alright? We’ve talked about this before. I was born negative. I’ve been looking at the dark side of things since I was seven years old and that’s not changed in a century. You have to work with me here if we’re going to get anywhere.”

He was answered only by the creaks and groans of Doom Manor.

“I’m allowed to remember bad things, you know,” Larry continued to argue. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe everyone’s right and I’ve been letting them rule me. I-I know you’re all right about that. But completely avoiding and ignoring negative things doesn’t keep them from existing. It’s dangerous. And it’s wrong.” His frown deepened. “I’d be more of a monster than I ever dreamed myself being, if I thought anything less than the fact that the boys didn’t deserve what they had to go through. Alright? They may be old men now, but they are still my boys. And they deserved not losing everything they ever knew. And they didn’t deserve all the secondhand anxiety and paranoia from me. Those are just facts. Even if they were unavoidable.”

Finally, the Negative Spirit hummed again.

“What? That’s what you wanted from me?” Larry asked, splaying his hands against his chest to feel the rumble more. “You wanted me to say it was unavoidable? Look, how many times do I have to learn these lessons until you’re satisfied?”

There was quiet once more.

“If it’s until I believe them,” Larry’s voice softened to a murmur, “we’ll be doing this every day for a long time. Maybe until the day I finally die. And even then it might not be enough. You know that, right? I’m pretty majorly fucked in here, and a good amount of that came with the package before you joined in, buddy.”

The hum was unmistakable that time, Larry felt it through his core.

Okay.

“Okay,” Larry repeated, laying back down. “Stop having fits the second we go into some territory you don’t like, I’ll try to respond quicker.”

There was another unmistakable hum through his chest.

“If you’re wondering about the conversation with Rita about Flex, then you probably were already aware of most of it,” Larry snorted. “I’m coming up on one hundred years old, I don’t want to repeat what I said to my best friend about someone else’s quads.” He tossed his head a little from side to side and then sighed. “They are nice, though. And admitting it out loud didn’t light me on fire, so, who knows. Maybe being gay does get easier with practice.”

That seemed to satisfy the spirit, and it did Larry, too.

Small victories — victories so small that a previous version of himself might have argued they weren’t worth celebrating, not for the amount of time it took for him to get to that point. But he felt the accomplishment all the same.

There were so many regrets and so much fear in his life that was still there, and he still didn’t believe that erasing all of it was the fully responsible or realistic thing to do.

But he could make himself lighter, in whatever small increments he could. And that was surely worth the battle alone.

#writing #dc fic #Larry Trainor #Negative Man #Keeg Bovo

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lesbian-jo-march · 4 years

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Hamlet Act 5 Scene 2 directed as informed by My Chemical Romance/”Emo” aesthetics

(After so many “Hamlet is an emo” jokes studying the text, I put my money where my mouth is. Thus, this is less a joke itself than an attempt to run a joke to a somewhat informed conclusion.)

Introduction - defining emo

Modern productions of Hamlet such as Olivier’s or Hansguther’s have often cut or reduced the final scene of the play, which broadens into the tragedy of state post-Freudian productions tend to extract a personal and familial tragedy out of. Modern productions should ideally consider both psychological turmoil and tragedy of state. It is not enough for Hamlet to ‘theorise modern selfhood’ (Emma Smith), but it should utilise a modern aesthetic and philosophy which encapsulates both personal and political turmoil, which are inextricably linked throughout the play. The answer is obvious: emo. Unlike punk, it cannot effect meaningful political change but self-exploration, frank to romanticised descriptions of mental health issues, collapse of gender roles and the anxiety of a generation growing up in the instability of a post-9/11, post-recession America are all key tenets of emo perfect for the themes explored in Hamlet as a whole, especially the final scene.

Emo as a genre is much contested but here, I am basing my understanding of emo as that espoused by mainstream fans, so My Chemical Romance who describe themselves as pop-punk instead are considered emo. My focus will be on My Chemical Romance specifically because they are the most popular and recognisable “emo” band. The genre is tied to the collapse of gender roles, society and the self. My Chemical Romance is the best example of this, formed after lead singer Gerard Way was travelling into New York when 9/11 occurred. This stimulated him to check up on old friends and eventually to form a band together.

Prince Hamlet and emo

Hamlet initially seems to be tied to the genre of emo by his depression and suicidal tendencies, clear sexual confusion however that is interpreted, propensity towards wearing black, and inaction taking the form of malcontent’s satire rather than meaningful action. However, by Act 5 Scene 2 there are several more reasons in which he should be tied to the genre. L.C. Knight describes Hamlet’s suicidal desires as ‘a desire to lapse back from the level of adult consciousness’, a common theme for Gen Z explored in the book ‘iGen’ by psychologist Jean M. Twenge who adds colour by her research by pointing to the billboard success of Twenty One Pilot’s song ‘Ride’ containing lyrics ‘Wish we could turn back time, to the good old days’ and ‘Out of student loans and tree-house homes we all would take the latter’. Hamlet ought to be placed in that generation, following Robert Cohen’s convincing arguments that Hamlet is intended to be sixteen, and especially in conjunction with Hamlet’s weltschmerz Eduard and Otto Devrient described as containing (in translation) ‘all the thousand things which betray youth and excuse it’.

(Among these, Hamlet’s ‘pessimism born from idealism’ in particular speaks to the impulse of the young and discontented.)

After Hamlet’s excursion with the pirates, however, he returns with renewed purpose and has to move past this constant clinging to the past. Jon McRae would argue Hamlet has to shed his black clothing by this scene to show he has moved on, since there are no mentions of Hamlet’s father in this scene and Hamlet reaches some kind of acceptance: ‘if it be not now, yet it will come’. Then – should Hamlet shed his emo attire by this point?

I would not agree.

Direction of Act 5 Scene 2

The purpose of Act 5 Scene 2 is to resolve the themes of the play and it does not make sense for Hamlet’s melancholy to just disappear for empty catharsis. Instead, I would argue that while he acknowledges at the beginning to Horatio ‘in [his] heart there was a kind of fighting’ he settled upon the fact that ‘there’s a divinity that shapes our ends’. There is a kind of peace he finds within himself, especially compared to the fact that he initially saw that world as an ‘unweeded garden’, suggesting a distant and uncaring God.

Thus, in this scene Hamlet should be wearing the military jacket worn by My Chemical Romance during the ‘Black Parade’ era. This album is arguably the best in the genre, ‘Welcome to the Black Parade’ is a cultural staple and the music video for that song alone is one of MTV’s ‘50 Greatest Music Videos of the 21st Century’. It is extremely recognisable and will conjure to mind the themes of this album, which is a rock opera about a character dying of cancer and his afterlife. Specifically, the final song of the album ‘Famous Last Words’ is a defiant cry of acceptance and confidence in one’s own individuality which sings ‘I am not afraid to keep on living/ I am not afraid to walk this world alone’. In order to accept death Hamlet must reject suicide, the same way that emo does as a genre. The military aspect and black of mourning also recall Hamlet’s father while putting a twist on the masculine, feudal ruler that Old King Hamlet represents – emo, unlike Hamlet, is unabashedly more feminine. The duel is a parody of the martial world of Old King Hamlet, and although Hamlet makes no reference to his father, he does revenge the murder of his mother. Metatheatricality is a key theme which is resolved in the final scene, this is a show battle and Hamlet, dead, is lifted ‘high on a stage’ and the actor takes his final bow. ‘The Black Parade’ is a masterwork in theatre and is visually striking. Bold stage makeup would add to this sense of theatricality as well as showing a completion of Hamlet’s self-fashioning which happens throughout the play. The more feminine aspect hardly absolves him of his blatant misogyny but should tie him to Gertrude as in many ways his fatalistic approach and composure mimic her in Act 1 Scene 2, and it is her death which spurs her revenge.

Claudius should be in a suit; a corrupt, corporate politician, who, like current leaders like Trump and Johnson, has negative qualities mirroring the society he presides over. Direct compromise to either is inadvisable and would not fit, but in an era of increased populism and focus on individual leaders over party policy, the language of corruption of the ruler as in the state in Hamlet definitely mirrors the state of current politics. His grey suit should mirror his ambiguous morals.

However, Laertes, who was previously in a suit, should be in a black one. He is a step closer to Hamlet and while not completely aligned with him he should be visually distinct from the (moral) grey of Claudius and instead share the doomed black of Hamlet as both will die.

The pivot of the scene is Hamlet’s death. It should be focused on with a spotlight over him and Horatio, with the ‘warlike noise’ in the distance muffled. The audience should be drawn into the moment between the two of them, and after the line ‘the rest is silence’, there should be a fade into darkness and silence to mirror Hamlet’s death and suggest that this is indeed the end.

However, it is important that after the cathartic collapse of the family and state there is a new dynasty in place, unlike the bleaker endings such as the ones in the Olivier production. Fortinbras is able to marry both the martial skill of Old King Hamlet and the diplomacy of Claudius in his rhetorical skill. (To demonstrate the latter, ‘I have some rights of memory to this kingdom’ should be emphasised as it is a final comment on the manipulation of history after the hope is raised Hamlet might be correctly remembered after his death). Unlike Hamlet’s role as an outsider malcontent, Fortinbras is a perfect embodiment of someone who can make the system work well. The final line ‘Go, bid the soldiers shoot’ shows how he efficiently takes control of Elsinore, and should be delivered with natural authority. The line could allow the interpretation that the surviving characters, including Horatio, are killed and purged by Fortinbras. This is perhaps overly bleak, but it is important that Fortinbras is a foil to Hamlet who stands apart from both him and the previous kings.

As Fortinbras becomes the new establishment he leans back into martial power and thus although it would be comforting to align him with the black of Laertes and Hamlet so all the foils are visually connected, he should be more closely connected with Old King Hamlet and Claudius. He is a new order between martial power and political manoeuvring, so it would make sense for him to be surrounded by soldiers in actual combat uniform but to contrast them by wearing ceremonial dress. In contrast to Hamlet’s black he should be visually striking in a vivid red.

Legacy

Emo and alternative music like punk have made a recent resurgence to combat the rise of the right globally, with Billie Joe Armstrong speaking out against Trump and the recent My Chemical Romance reunion concert taking place against the background of the Angel of the Waters statue, an important LGBT monument. Palaye Royale style themselves after the rock movements of the sixties up to inspiration from My Chemical Romance and focus on authenticity and philosophy conveyed by their music and a magazine made up of fan poetry and writings.

While Fortinbras co-opts the symbol of the military jacket for himself, he twists it, and twists Hamlet’s legacy as a ‘soldier’. He is perhaps a provider of a more stable dynasty than Claudius, but Horatio, left with the legacy of Hamlet and bound like Hamlet by the promise of memory, stands against Fortinbras’ erasure of the very near past. Although Hamlet and the old emo movement bows off the stage, as long as there is an establishment there will be counter-movements.

Therefore, though Fortinbras has the final line and control of the stage, the final image of the play should be Horatio, taking up Hamlet’s jacket not as an act of military resistance but the insistence of vigil, mourning, and awareness of tragedy which emo represents.

#hamlet #shakespeare #my chemical romance #emo #literature #tw mention of suicide #tw death

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veridium · 4 years

Text

stolen

Well, friends, what kicks off a weekend better than a College AU update? Titled after one of my favorite songs of all time, and definitely one of the best kinds of love songs to describe Cass and Liv, the dashboard confessional classic. :)

Fall Carnival fun pt. 2 commences now!

last chapter // fic masterpost

There’s walking on glass and eggshells, and then there’s the week Olivia has leading up to the fall carnival. Ellinor deserves a medal of service for dealing with her each and every day, hour by hour, every time something unsettles her anxiety. She had told her everything was fine when they were shoving sushi into their mouths and laughing about fish puns. If only she could hold onto the same kind of half-optimistic, half-resigned sensation she felt then.

It’s not that Cassandra is mean, or even insensitive. Despite Olivia’s incessant ranting and brooding, she can’t really say it’s because of cruelty.

The day after her and Ellinor’s sushi date, she texts to check in. Cassandra replies, answering her questions, and nothing more. Olivia once again restricts herself from prodding, and comes back to her dorm to complain to Ellinor. That night she receives texts from friends insisting that they meet up at the Carnival at some point to take a fall aesthetic selfie. The dread grows.

Then it’s Thursday. To her surprise, Cassandra texts her first.

Cassandra: Hey, will you be around at 12? I have office hours, I thought we could have lunch.

The cup runneth over -- too bad her request collides with a final project meeting, and by God, Liv will not give her team more of an opportunity to disappoint. She was the one who scheduled it, set up the shared Google Doc, and delegated responsibilities. If she ducked out, the whole thing would come apart. So, as much as it makes her want to cut four of her fingers off, she tells Cassandra no. Of course, Cassandra isn’t one to give grief.

Cassandra: No problem, just thought I would offer. Have a good meeting!

Later that night, Olivia takes some initiative. The Carnival is the next day and if Cassandra isn’t feeling it, she would rather go alone or not go at all than try to force it. Cute pictures would never be worth it, and Olivia has grown up experiencing enough cringey, orchestrated “outings” to last a lifetime. She paces the floor of her dorm after sending the text, expecting one of dozens of possible reasons. After all, who wants to endure a Carnival with an ankle boot on?

Apparently, Cassandra does.

Cassandra: Yeah! Cullen and the team have been looking forward to it for weeks. I don’t see why not.

Olivia stares perplexed at her screen. Okay. Okay? Okay. That’s it, then. They’ll go, and it’ll be great. Except it won’t be, because in that split second, she’s already charted in her head all of the awkward and potentially conflictive situations that could happen. What if Cassandra gets there and her mood changes? What if she wants to get on a ride, but can’t because of her injury? What if she loses at a Carnival game and it sets her off? What if someone makes fun of her? What if she trips and falls?

As if by divine providence, she gets a phone call during her spiral. And it’s none other than Theia, finally getting back to her after over a week of radio silence. Olivia doesn’t waste time asking what happened between her and Josie, but Theia doesn’t have much to offer:

“It’s a break. That’s all I can really say,” she says, voice going low while she’s on speaker phone. “It’s a long story. I’d rather not get into it tonight.” There’s a loopy sound, like the swig of a bottle.

Olivia, scrunching her face while she sits on her bed, figures she should change the subject. She tells Theia she needs to vent to someone else besides Ellinor about what is going on with her, and Theia is the only other person who’d understand. The only other person who would be able to provide any insight as to what is upsetting her so viscerally.

When she gets to the bottom of it, Theia doesn’t speak immediately. The quiet pondering scares her, like the ominous stillwater before a gator attack on those Discovery channel shows.

“Liv,” Theia finally says, reluctant like she’s a Doctor about to break some terminal news, “you’re gonna hate me for saying this.”

“What? No!” she disagrees. “Not at all, please, help me out here. I’ve been stewing all week.”

“Well…” she chuckles nervously, “you sound just like you did when I first met you.”

Theia doesn’t have to elaborate. The phrase is code for “a couple years ago,” which comes with its own subtext, one everyone who’s gone through what she has can understand. The phrase has grown from “a few months,” to “last summer,” to “last year,” and now she’s here. Time sucks ass. At least in Theia’s use of it, it doesn’t come with the same feigned accepting grief that Olivia’s Mom has when they’re at “gatherings” with “loved ones” who Olivia hasn’t ever seen before.

Her cheeks go hot and she tosses the phone onto the comforter and looks away, as if she’s eluding the discerning gaze of a close friend. Theia knows better.

“I know you hate me,” she says, vindicated. “But, you know. The fretting, and the worrying about things that haven’t even happened to her. You’re trying to figure out her needs before she even says them. That’s how you sounded every time I’d be on the phone with you during break. You’d just...completely turn everything on for him, then your Mom.”

Olivia criss-crosses her legs, and picks at the tufted fabric of her old pajama bottoms. “Yeah.”

“Hey, you good?” Theia is quick to check, her tone more concerned. “I’m sorry. I should have warned you.”

“Warned me for what?” Olivia smirks and rubs her neck. “Trigger warning: your own damn life?”

“I mean...yeah. That’s kind of how it works.”

“Not always,” she replies, and picks up the phone. “It’s fine, Theia. I appreciate your honesty.”

Theia lets out a discomfited sound. “Maybe you should...I don’t know. Maybe it’d be best to tell her. Unless you think you can figure this out on your own. It’s up to you.”

“Yeah, it is,” Olivia nods, trying to convince herself simultaneously. All this time she’s been so worried about getting to the bottom of Cassandra’s issues, she’s scarcely thought about the consequences of her own. As if only one of them had baggage to bring around. No shit, Olivia owns her own baggage terminal. Silly for her to believe it would just go away if she just cared enough about someone else’s problems. No matter how many times she tried that trick, it never worked.

Her and Theia manage to wrap up their talk on kinder, easier terms. Both of them acknowledge they aren’t in a place to be fully open. Agreeing to be patient with each other, they hang up, and Olivia collapses back on her bed to overthink things while staring off into the ceiling.

This can be a really happy time, if you just let it. She thinks it, over and over, like a song lyric. Just let it.

The next day, Ellinor’s glee and the prospects of fun lighten her up. She puts on one of her favorite dresses, a tea-length button-up dress with short sleeves and a ribbon around the waist. It has a print, blue and white small flowers, and flows at every little move she makes. When Ellinor sees it, she damn-near tips over.

“You’re wearing that?” she asks, slipping her coat on. “It’s been a while, huh?”

Olivia smirks, and the back of her throat stings with nerves. She locks the door to her dorm and then drops them into her black denim jacket. Just a little touch of the normal aesthetic.

“It’s the carnival!” she replies, “gotta dress to the occasion.”

“Hah, well, Cass will probably...hey,” Ellinor tries to say something funny, but seeing the immediate change on Liv’s face, she stops herself. “Everything okay?”

Olivia blinks. “Yeah! Yeah. Just distracted by something. Um,” she checks her phone. No messages. “Let’s hurry, parking will be a nightmare.”

Whatever Ellinor meant to say about Cassandra’s reaction, she was likely spot on: the minute they see each other in their kitchen, it’s like the world freezes. The first time she’s seen her all week, and Cassandra looks just as beautiful as she looks in Olivia’s memory. Black leggings and a knit, sangria-colored sweater with a dress shirt underneath, all neat and fresh looking. They stand facing each other silently while Cullen and Ellinor are off somewhere making various happy noises, giggling and joking.

Olivia feels the strap of her string purse slipping and adjusts, her grip on it atop her shoulder turning deadly. The way Cassandra is acting confirms it: she knows its strange, too, that it’s been this long. But, as she always does, Olivia finds the words.

“Y-ou ready?” she asks, offering a smile.

Cassandra returns it. “Yeah! I just have to go and get my jacket.”

“Oh, you want me to--”

“No, no, don’t worry,” she says kindly, “I’ve got it.” She’s walking easier than she did the first day. Still an uneven sway, but she’s about as fast as she would be without it. She goes and comes back from her room, a fresh new team jacket over her arm. Shit, they must have got their team jackets?

She’s met in the living room with Cullen and Ellinor, who are also ready to take off. And so, with grins and happy laughs from all, they head out.

The entire drive Olivia is trying to walk herself back off the mental ledge. Now that she’s aware of what she’s doing, or at least more aware, it’s almost worse. How can she tell her new girlfriend that she’s lapsing into something that’s taken her 3 years of on-and-off counselors for her to know is even real? When she’s not thinking about that, she’s thinking about how she should have been more honest with her, especially when Cass was raw about her own issues. Then she feels unreasonable for her expectations, and then…

In the middle of it, her gaze wanders to the center console, and then to the left, where Cassandra is seated. She’s sitting there, and then she feels Olivia’s gaze and looks over, and she smiles. She’s smiling, and she’s looking so happy in the sunlight shades changing so fast as the car goes fast downtown.

Hands gathered against her waist like a kid on a school field trip, she grins back.

Next thing she knows they’ve arrived, and Ellinor and Cullen are romping in the parking lot like spring yearlings, egging each other on for donuts or something. They’re so happy it almost rots her teeth. Ellinor tries to stick with the group, and before Olivia can ask her to stay, Cassandra surprises her and waves them off. That’s all the lovebirds need to fly off.

Olivia takes a stiff breath and slips her aviators on. Who would have thought being alone with Cassandra after the week she’s had would be the exact opposite of what she wanted?

“Well, we better catch up, right?” Cassandra smiles again -- she’s smiling so much -- and slides her hands in her jacket pockets.

Olivia looks over, nods, and goes forward. “Yeah! Yeah.”

“Everything okay?” Cassandra asks as she starts walking. “You seem anxious.”

“I...I am, a bit.”

They’re near the entrance when Cassandra stops. Olivia jerks and turns around, immediately admonishing herself. “Am I going too fast? I’m sorry, shi--”

“No,” Cassandra shakes her head. She’s reaching into her pocket. “My wallet is just stuck in the pocket. Give me a sec.”

Oh. That’s...that’s okay. Ok. Everything’s good.

“You don’t have to worry about getting your wallet out,” Olivia says, grabbing her purse. “I got us!”

Cassandra furrows her brow and meets her gaze. “What? You sure? It’s not a big deal, I…”

“Nah, it’s fine.” Olivia puts in the effort for a sweet smile. She already has her wallet out and ready by the time Cassandra gives up grabbing hers.

“Oh, okay then.”

They get in through the ticket stand without trouble. Once they’re in, it’s a marathon for the senses: spices and sugary treats freshly made and slathered lace the air, groups of people in bright autumnal hues exchanging cotton candy and stuffed animals. Music plays low and abundantly on speakers staked throughout, echoing the party of the open dance floor and festival stage somewhere through the fray. Machines and games ring out their sirens, with all the bells and whistles. Far beyond the front is the ferris wheel towering over the rest of the park yard and its sea of striped spotted tent roofs. It’s paradise for a bunch of young hearts with sweet teeth and salty energy levels from a semester nearly concluded.

Olivia and Cassandra walk at a glacial pace. Cassandra looks just as endeared, scanning slowly from side-to-side, a carefree expression on her face. She looks so much more content than the last time Olivia saw her in a celebratory crowd. She’s cooler than cool. They walk beside each other so closely their shoulders bump, and ever so often one glances over and the other smiles in reassurance.

Then, because of course, they are hollered at by familiar faces.

“Cass! Liv!”

Lysette is walking over -- no, sauntering -- complete with what looks to be a giant inflatable hammer under her arm, and an ember-colored soda bottle in the other. She looks like a fabulous lumberjack, flannel, belt, boots and all. And a smug face of victory.

“High Striker champion strikes again?” Cassandra asks with a clever laugh.

Behind Lysette, a man looking like Rylen...or, sounding like Rylen, the way he’s cussing, is taking his turn at the game. Surrounded by several other bros, all chuckling and gesturing towards him as if to give pointers. Pointers he’s definitely not taking.

“Agh, what can I say,” Lysette shrugs, looking over her shoulder. “He’ll be the last to call himself a loser.”

“That’s for sure.” Cassandra tilts her head, brow raised. “He’s lucky I’ve retired.”

Olivia gapes a little at the tall machine. “You played that?”

Lysette laughs and hits Cassandra playfully on the shoulder with her balloon trophy, which Cass brushes off while smirking. “Cass taught me the magic,” she corrects proudly and takes a swig, “it’s from her that I inherited this heavy crown.”

Olivia’s brows lift into outer space as she looks over at her girlfriend, thinking of course she would, and Cassandra looks modestly self-satisfied.

“Eh, well--” Lysette is interrupted by Rylen’s roar. They all turn around and see him, huffing and puffing like the wolf from the three little pigs story, strike hammer in hand.

“Lys, you get your ass ov--h-hey! Liv! Cass!”

Olivia waves a little sheepishly. Cass nods. Lysette takes another glug of her beer. Poor Rylen couldn’t be gesturing toward a more unimpressed crowd of women. But, never one to be discouraged, he struts over swinging the thing like a baseball bat.

“Either of you wanna take me on for the Striker?” he asks it generally, but his eyes stay on Olivia. The petite dancer, of course. Easy target.

“Almost didn’t recognize you in the dress, Liv. C’mon,” he says, holding it out to her. “Take a swing!”

Olivia lets out a cautious laugh, and gently pushes the hammer away. Before she can give an excuse, Cassandra inches closer to her, until their sides are up against each other. It sends an excited chill down her spine.

“Don’t get her caught up in your losing streak, Rylen,” Cassandra defends her.

“Yeah,” Lysette snickers, “no need to pull innocent lives down with you, dude.”

Rylen looks sincerely confused at this disrespect, spreading his arms out wide to puff out his chest. “Ya’ll just don’t want to mess with the hometown glory!”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Olivia giggles, taking the opportunity to slide an arm around Cassandra’s waist. Cassandra is steady and warm. Irresistable.

“We’re going to walk around some more before getting looped into games,” Cassandra says to Lysette, who happily nods and side-steps toward Rylen.

“Come on,” she says, nudging him, “I’m not done with my streak.”

Liberated, Cassandra and Olivia turn to the left and walk on, her arm staying around her and Cassandra sending hers over Olivia’s shoulder. It’s one of the first acts of public affection they’ve done in a place like this. Well, that is, as a definite couple. The milestone is not lost on Liv, who for the first time since waking up in the morning has started to let the anxious “what if’s” slide. Cassandra isn’t dodging her, nor is she ignoring her. She’s here, she’s cheerful, and they’re here, together. The way Olivia’s head fits against the crook of Cassandra’s neck is perfect.

“He was right about one thing,” Cassandra says as they walk down an aisle of stands. “You in a bright blue dress feels like a rarity.”

Olivia smirks and folds some wisps of hair behind her ear. “I live to shock and amaze.”

“That you do. You hungry?”

“Actually, kinda. I was hoping we could go to--”

“--the funnel cake stand?”

Olivia freezes and pulls away just a bit, just to be able to look up at her with eyes wide and mouth open. Cassandra looks back at her, a bit surprised.

“Yes…” Olivia says slowly, “but the only flavor that is valid is…”

Cassandra, catching the hint, chuckles softly. “Strawberry.”

“Agh!” Olivia lays her head back and smiles, leaning into her some more like before. “See, babe, it’s the little things that get me.”

Cassandra’s chuckling continues to bubble as she wraps her arms around her. As she pulls her in, she mumbles a soft caution: “careful, easy on me.”

Olivia is eyes closed and latched onto her like a koala when she hears it, and immediately backs off like they’re suddenly magnet ends.

“Oh my gosh, I’m sorry! Ugh, I forg--”

Cassandra tilts a bit in reaction to the sudden shift of weight, and takes hold of Olivia’s flailing hands before they make her airborne. “Hey! Easy!”

Hands secured and attention obtained, Olivia once again freezes in a state of stress.

“Liv, I’m okay,” Cassandra comforts with confidence. “I’m not a piece of fine china.”

Olivia can feel the embarrassed blush as she relaxes her arms. They stay linked, Cassandra rubbing the back of her hands with her thumbs.

“I...I know that, I so know that,” Olivia repeats, “I’m sorry. I’m s--”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Cassandra adds, further dispelling the worry.

“No, yeah. Yeah,” Olivia shakes her head fast, almost dizzying herself if not for Cassandra’s close presence. “Um, listen. Uh, hm…”

Cassandra blinks. “You okay?”

She looks so open, so understanding. Liv could tell her, she could just say it. Or, she could have a bit more mercy for her and not unload all of this on what is supposed to be a good, lighthearted night out. But would it help the stone in her gut, or the noiseless but deafening sensation in her head, between her ears? Will it make the dull but deep sense of dread subside?

“Cass, I…” her voice shakes a bit. Now she’s starting to become overwhelmed by all of the sensory overload and busy energy around them. Her cheeks go from hot to cold.

“Olivia,” Cass says softly, coming closer. There’s a new look in her eyes, one that is least lost and confused. “We should go over to the picnic tables, okay? Just hold onto my hand and follow me.”

Olivia follows the instructions to the letter. After all, it isn’t exactly an unthinkable task holding onto her and letting her take the lead. Cassandra leads them over to where a few picnic tables form a semi-circle facing the venue, all but one taken up by people. It’s as if the last empty one was reserved especially for her unpredictable episode should she need it.

But this isn’t an episode, right? God, she hopes not.

“Have a seat,” Cassandra requests. Olivia, ever the dissenting queer, sits on the edge of the picnic table rather than the bench seats on either side. Her hands clamp on the wood while Cassandra stands in front of her, taking off her prized new jacket.

“W-what are you doing?”

“The thing that happens in every teenage romance film pre-dating 2005,” Cassandra replies. She then loops the jacket up and around Olivia’s shoulders. It’s a size or two bigger than she would wear, which makes it perfect. Olivia’s spine goes straighter than she’s ever been in her life, and she clutches the ends of it against herself like a blanket.

Cassandra rubs up and down Olivia’s arms, slow but vigorous. The athlete is showing. “There.”

Olivia, feeling so sheepish she could be cast as an extra for a Charlotte’s Web remake, stares and rolls her lips shut. She feels better, but if she doesn’t let herself breathe, it’ll all surely get worse.

“Are you in a place to tell me what’s going on, or should I just distract you?”

Olivia’s fast becoming enthralled in just how prepared Cassandra is. If only she could say marveling at her was distracting enough without sounding corny. Yet, she’s asked the million-dollar question: can she say it, or should she? Without thinking, her gaze flashes to either side of Cassandra’s shoulders toward the crowds. Cassandra notices and immediately hooks a finger under Olivia’s chin.

“Olivia, don’t worry about them,” she says and guides her attention back to her. Butterflies.

Olivia parts her lips and lets herself sigh. “I can’t.” She takes hold of her hand and guides it to rest in both of hers in her lap. “I wish I could, but I can’t. I don’t want to. Not here. We’re supposed to be having a good time.”

“What we are supposed to be doing doesn’t matter.”

“I know, but, I’m okay. I just need a second. I promise.” She says it honestly. She can enjoy this, if she just gives herself permission to without scolding at every turn for mistakes she had no intention of making. “Just a minute to cool down.”

“Okay.” Cassandra turns and slides onto the table right next to her, for which Olivia gladly scoots over. She lets go of her just so she can hold onto the jacket again. The sun is heading toward the mountains in the distance, but the evening is still far out.

After a moment’s silence -- well, silent as one can get amid a fall carnival -- Olivia takes her first solid breath. The feeling in her throat is cooling down, and the tension in her chest is releasing. Her wandering eyes go across from the horizon to the next tallest thing: the ferris wheel, where it looks like a couple very similar to Ellinor and Cullen are in one of the carts. If only she could see past the obstruction of a giant stuffed animal.

Knowing them, that probably confirms that it is, in fact, them. It makes her snort.

Cassandra picks up on the reappearance of good humor. “Feeling better?”

In return Olivia looks over and gives her perhaps the first real and relaxed smile of the entire day. “Yes, a lot. Thank you.”

Many yards away, near a ring toss stand, two people begin to wave. Olivia zeroes in and sees that one has a beautifully-crafted side-braid of black hair and a fabulous ruffled coat. The other is a less-familiar face, but not a stranger’s.

“Oh, Josie!” Olivia says, and waves back. Josie is holding a smaller stuffed animal, bright pink, looking like a teddy bear. The other person says some words to her, looking like a question.

She looks happy. That’s good.

“Where’s Theia?” Cassandra asks, sticking a pin in the moment without even knowing.

Taking another breath, Olivia leans her shoulder into hers and groans.

“Am I missing something?”

Olivia sighs. “You and me both. I’ll explain later.” Her phone dings from her bag. She looks up and sees Josie and her company gone, only to look down at her phone and have an answer:

Josie: I hope we can link up before either of us leaves and take a pic! You both look adorable!

She hums in speculation, and replies:

Olivia: Yes please!!

With one click and toss, her phone is back in her back, and her sense is back in her head. Ariana Grande’s song “Tattooed Heart” has started to play on the Carnival DJ speakers.

“I love this song,” she smiles, and sways a little to the beat. “How are you feeling?”

Cassandra rolls her shoulders as she leans back a little. “Great, I have no complaints.”

“Really?”

She takes one look at Olivia’s hopeful look and bites the side of her lip. “I mean, I still have my expectations. Firstly, the funnel cake. Secondly, I do want to see you take a swing at the High Striker. Third, I--”

“Oh, what!” Olivia scoffs playfully, “That hammer looks taller than me and about as heavy!”

Cassandra smirks. “With me coaching you, Love, you can’t lose.”

Butterflies, part two. “I...suppose you have a point. But if it’s gonna happen, I’ll need that funnel cake to help hold me down.”

“Deal.”

Love. I like that nickname. Hell, I’d change my name to it, why not?

She hops down with her spirit anew, and helps Cassandra back onto her feet. Just a little help, as a treat, since Cass is right: she isn’t fragile, and Olivia doesn’t have to worry. Watching the people she depends on for strength deal with physical limitations doesn’t always have to be a crisis. It might have been in the past, but the here and now is what matters. And she is allowed to believe that.

They hold hands that gently swing as walk back into the crowds. It goes from feeling like a minefield to that scene in Rapunzel where she and Eugene are frolicking among the city folk. Friendly faces turn and offer smiles and “hello’s,” and they wave back. It’s easy. It’s effortless and thrilling at the same time. The popping and bell sounds are no longer menacing. The heat of the day is no longer suffocating.

And, at last, they find their way to the main event: that beautiful funnel cake truck, with its beautiful plates bigger than her faze of fried dough, strawberries, and whip cream. After dousing it in powdered sugar because, of course you douse it in powdered sugar, she approaches Cassandra with a bit of purposeful mischief.

Smart to the look, Cassandra raises a brow, holding her fork in ready. “You pull anything, Sinclair, and it’s war.”

“Whaaat?” Olivia asks coyly, pinning her own fork between her teeth and smiling. She’s holding the plate in both hands like a holiday pie.

“You know what. Don’t even think about it.”

“I just thought maybe you could do a little taste test a--AAH!” she can’t even get the tagline out before Cassandra strikes the first blow, scooping a dollop of cream onto her fingers and smearing it across Olivia’s nose and cheek. She squeaks in a pitch nearly at Ellinor-level, and stands there, shocked and holding the pie while her fork falls from her mouth onto the plate. Eyes wide, mouth agape, and face whipped.

She can’t believe it. Cassandra, standing there, smug and unable to run. But it’s not like she would, anyway. The woman stands and is judged for her crimes just as she is for her wins.

“I…” Olivia huffs, “Did you just seriously…?”

Cassandra, folding her arms with one hand going to her mouth as she only half-conceals her kind of playful grin, only plays dumb: “What? I have no idea what you are referring to!”

“Is this revenge for the ice cream?”

“I would prefer to call it a preventative measure.”

“Preventative...for what? I was only going to feed you the first bite!”

Cassandra’s eyes narrow. “Sure, Olivia, sure.”

“I was! Dammit, I was being a nice girlfriend! I swear!”

“I suppose we will never know, now,” Cassandra laughs and takes the napkins Olivia has in her hand, the ones she’s forgotten about during this heinous act of assassination. Carefully she unfolds it and hooks her finger under Olivia’s chin like before, only now she tilts it to the side so as to get the prime angle.

“Hold still,” she’s still laughing a little as she wipes off most of the whip cream. Olivia’s eyes are adrift to the floor but she can’t resist glancing. Glancing turns to staring. A brief moment in time where everything is messy, but everything is wonderful. Cassandra looks so thoughtful, so kind.

Such a pity, since she’s in for it.

Striking just as quick, Olivia leans her cheek in and rubs it across Cassandra’s mouth and tip of her nose. Most of the mess is already off her face, but they can still share in the stickiness.

“Ha!” She beams, bouncing back. “Rules of engagement are rules of engagement, Pentaghast!” She grabs her fork and points it at her like a defensive weapon.

Cassandra chuckles and folds the napkin she had in half, looking down at the floor modestly like she knew it was coming. She isn’t mad, though. Far from it. And she definitely isn’t mad when Olivia offers to take the napkin from her and pay her due, cleaning off her face.

“You know, sometimes,” Cassandra says more quietly, as Olivia finishes with one last brush along her chin for good measure, “I...I can be very bad at allowing someone else to take care of me.” The silliness has slipped from her tone.

Olivia goes still, her hand full of scrunched, stained napkin still caressing Cassandra’s jaw. Their eyes meet, and in the hazel hue she can see it. She can see the recognition, the apology for the amount of little things that have become a pile of a bigger thing. She knows. She knew in the kitchen earlier that day, and she knows now. And for some reason Olivia, who has always been team “an apology means saying the words,” this feels like it means something deep. Something trusting and vulnerable.

Something definitely forgivable.

And so, tossing the napkin to the trash a couple feet from where they stand, Olivia grins wide and cuts into the plate of precious funnel cake until she skewers a perfect bite-sized piece of cake, cream, and berries. Then, holding it up for just a few seconds, she then stuffs it into her own mouth. She then holds the plate out to Cassandra, who grasps the plate edge with one hand.

“Don’t worry,” Olivia says with a mouth half-full, “I suck sometimes at letting others care for themselves. Maybe we both need to learn when to just stuff our faces and let things happen.”

Cassandra, looking relieved and with fondness, begins to dig in with her own fork. “You might be onto something, there.”

Though she can never not overthink things, Olivia is happy to think ahead with this one: their edges and sharp points aren’t what they used to be. The intuition she had to just ride the wave and let things play out proved vindicated. It’s uncertainty that isn’t tragic. It’s hopeful. Is this what it feels like, then, to be falling in love?

Bring it on, Hammer Strike.

#college au #modern thedas au #olivia sinclair #college!olivia #ellinor trevelyan #friends fic #chapter update #fic update #CARNIVAL FEELS

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