#At the Surly Wench

[apologiesnope]

Current WIP - Fantasy/Action Novel

copyright 2023-2024 C.B. Hoffman, All rights reserved

Feel free to read and, hopefully, enjoy. All comments welcome.

Jorric paused when he reached the rutted street leading through the Mud Gate and into the East End, rubbing a hand wearily over his face. God, but he was tired. It had been a long night and his ankle had grown more stiff and sore with each passing hour. He wanted nothing more than to get his boot off and get out of his wet clothes. His home wasn’t far—a few minutes’ walk down the maze of muddy streets and alleys that comprised the East End—but first things first. He needed to to be paid for his night’s work.

The hour was still too early, however, and the shops were not yet open. With a sigh, he moved with a slight limp to cross the threshold of the White Bull as the early-summer sun began painting the river gold. The tavern was old and as rough as the district that housed it. Though it smelled of food already, it was early and the public room was empty. He went to his favorite table, which stood in perpetual gloom in the back corner. There, he settled onto the battered wooden bench and pulled Ashleigh’s book free of his pack before tucking his belongings between his feet.

In addition to being a collector of art, Ashleigh had apparently been a collector of books, and Jorric had taken one, Ancient Myths and Artifacts. He didn’t know if it held any value, but he had thought immediately of Martan when he saw it, and such a book might contain information of interest for future work. Artifacts, he’d discovered, held a certain allure for the wealthy.

Shifting to find a comfortable position for his aching ankle, Jorric waited impatiently for the hap’ench. Not that anyone ever called the alewives or serving-girls that gutter term to their faces, no matter how commonly it was used. Not unless he wanted to have his ears boxed. Or find himself taking a hearty swallow of vinegar or rat poison, even though many of them truly had been the “half-penny wenches”—cheap whores—to which the term referred. More than a few of them still were.

A short, thick woman a dozen years his elder eventually appeared. She was the proprietor’s wife and Jorric was no stranger to her. She had little use for him, it seemed, whether it was his face or his demeanor. There were plenty of thers who shared her view of him: With his slight, wiry build and sharp features, he had been called weasel-faced more than once, and he had never been much interested in friends. He was surly enough sober, and moreso on the rare occasions when he was drunk. He made it a point to not stir the pot with her, though, because she was only an inch or two shorter than he was, she probably outweighed him by half, and she was just as capable of putting a halt to any mischief as was her massive bear of a husband. Now she greeted him with a censorious frown. “It’s unholy hours you keep, Jorric,”

“Fitting enough,” he replied. “Farsian. Half, not a quarter.”

A moment later, she brought it and set it down without a word. He settled back to enjoy it. He had a great appreciation for Farsian Ale, an ironically mild name for a drink that was no kin to ale. A liquid with only the faintest amber tint, it lit a fire in one’s throat that burned all the way down. For the uninitiated, Farsian Ale also kicked harder than a tin-miner’s sledge-horse. Like brinna, it was served in a quarter-glass rather than a mug or tankard, since most drinking a full mug of either would find themselves on the floor.

Even without Samuel’s preaching, Jorric had quickly realized that drunkenness was a liability for a fellow in his trade, so it was a vice he seldom indulged. He preferred being sober and free to being drunk and in chains. The burn was welcome now, though, for he had spent the better part of the night in wet clothes. The trip back across town had been a slow one, courtesy of his ankle. He had taken pains to remain completely unseen rather than let himself be spotted and forced to outrun the Nabs.

Another couple of swallows, and the clamminess of his leather jerkin and breeches started to fade a little. The tail of his brown hair, turned black now that it was thoroughly wet, had fallen over his shoulder to drip down his chest. He pulled it free of the leather cord and shook it back, hoping it would dry faster. Time to cut it.

His gaze drifted across the empty room, still dark and shadowed despite the early morning. He purposely sat with the wall at his back and with a clear view of the door. The Nabs weren’t the only ones around with reason to dislike him. The Old Quarter and East End fell within the area in which the Red Hand thieves’ guild operated. The head of the guild was a man named Durmond, a squat stump of a man with a foul temper who had taken Jorric in a for a bit when he was was younger.

In his head, Jorric scoffed. At the time, he hadn’t known he was jumping off the hook and into the pot. He had fled the chimney sweep not long after his ninth birthday, only to be approached by the Sentires, a shadowy society that acted as the guardian of some mystical “Balance” in Creation, a balance between the "conuming fire of light" and the "drowning evil of darkness." Founded by a handful of serious, religious zealots, it supposedly guarded the world from destruction by angels infuriated by the rebellion of God's creations and the demons eager to speed those creations along the path of corruption.

He had cared little enough about that, but had cared considerably about keeping food in his stomach. They offered bed and board in return for him joining their adherents, and he had willingly done so. He had stayed with them for just over two years—enough time to learn to read and write, and to decide that he had no interest in their strictures or their cause.

Only weeks later he had been recruited by Durmond. His time with the Sentires had caused him to forget just how grim life on the street could be. For two years he'd had a bed and regular meals, but he had thrown that away. One morning he had awakened hungry, not having had an actual meal in three or four days. Hunger had made him careless, which led to him being caught stealing pickled eggs in the market square. The man selling them had snagged a thick fist in Jorric’s tunic, his mustache bristling as he had literally dragged Jorric across the square to an oblivious Watchman. The merchant had verbally eviscerated the Nab for his inattentiveness, shaking his fist for emphasis so that Jorric had been shaken like a rat by a terrier. He had then thrust Jorric under the Nab’s nose and stalked back to his stall.

Jorric had spent a few days in the watchhouse, only to find himself suddenly released one afternoon with a rough shove and the words, “I see you back here again and I’ll split your skull.”

Jorric had scurried away from the watchhouse, amazed at his unexpected good fortune. Durmond had come up to him a block away, and had told Jorric that he’d slipped the watchman a few coins to release him, because, “It was just bad luck, and I could use someone like you, my boy.”

Fresh out of gaol, less than a dozen years old, Jorric had been easily convinced to let himself be taken under Durmond’s wing. He readily admitted that he’d learned a bit, and the Red Hand’s “guild hall” had provided a place to sleep out of the weather, and regular meals, too, as long as one never grew tired of mutton stew that was mostly broth with a few tired vegetables and the occasional, token piece of mutton. However, he had barely even started growing a beard when Durmond had tasked him with killing a man. Though a thief-lord presiding mostly over a group of burglars, cutpurses, and pick-pockets, Durmond also had a reputation for having little aversion to anything that put coin in his purse.

For his part, though Jorric had no qualms about helping items find new owners, he found he did have a few when it came to murder for hire. He was old enough and smart enough to know that bodies tended to draw a great deal of attention. Apart from that, he knew some of those more willing fellows, and didn’t like what he saw. It made no sense to Jorric to risk the notoriety of killing a man, often for little more coin than he would get for far more petty—and far less visible—efforts. He certainly hadn't been willing to embrace that level of risk for Durmond. Besides, Jorric had come to realize that every time he gained his freedom—from his father, the sweep, from the Sentires—he kept surrendering it back up, this last time to Durmond. Jorric was questioning why he was risking his neck to put gold in another man’s purse.

He had refused the job. Durmond’s attempt to punish this challenge to his authority by thwoing his fist in Jorric's face, as he'd done countless times before, was thwarted. He had actually been shocked when Jorric had planted the toe of his boot firmly in Durmond’s stones.

Jorric had found it necessary to move about a bit after that, for he knew Durmond wouldn’t let it go unanswered. He had even left one of Durmond’s new favorites, who apparently did not draw the line at murder—or at least, at Jorric’s—dead in the street. It was no surprise, then, that Durmond had made it clear to his Red Hand lackeys that anyone who stuck a knife in Jorric would be rewarded.

He gave a mental shrug. There was nothing he could do about it, now. He flipped open the book, the leather binding stiff with age, and skimmed through it. After just a moment, it becaome clear that the book was mostly useless drivel, dressed up in a scholarly tone. Most of it dealt with the origin of a handful of legends, most surrounding the early Church, the Isles of Porthia, and the Old World demi-human races of Gottlings, Sylvans, and Steddards. Only one artifact was mentioned in any detail: the Staff of Danos.

According to the volume he held, no doubt highly-reliable, the staff had been given directly by God to one of the most important figures of the early Church—Saint Danos. It was, Jorric read, imbued with, “the power to purify” and showed “the misguided” the proper path by, apparently, “turning the hearts of the utter wicked to dust.” The staff was fashioned, supposedly, from the heartwood of a Blood Oak, a rare tree that figured prominently in early-Church lore. Jorric read:

The wood, striated red and honey gold, represents the blood of life and the radiance of God,” he read. “Six feet in length, with three bands of gold evenly-spaced, the foot tipped with silver, and the short, narrow crook weighted with a large ignas gem to represent the very eye of God.

He slid the book back into his pack, as Martan would still likely find it of interest. He emptied his glass and stretched, wincing as the movement served to remind him that he had skinned down what had seemed like a furlong of slate. The hap’ench was nowhere in sight, and he gave a short, piercing whistle through his teeth. “Here now!”

She appeared, scowling. “What, then?”

“I’ll ‘ave another.”

“James’ll be draggin’ you out to the alley.”

“You’ve got my coin, and none of your affair how many it will be, and if you’re that worried over it, you can add a plate of your shepherd’s hash, then.”

She rolled her eyes as she went to comply.

He had awakened in alleys once or twice, but he was nowhere near that point. And he didn’t really want another, but it was still too early to pay a visit to Connor. He was Jorric’s fence, a fellow who knew a lot of folks who looked to discreetly buy, along with those who looked to discreetly sell. His biggest customer was Durmond, but he did a quiet and careful business with the very few independent thieves in the city, as well. Connor’s shop stood on the edge of the Old Quarter, perhaps a stone’s-throw from the gate into East End.

Jorric’s glass was about half full when a couple of local tradesmen came in and took a seat halfway down the room. A moment or two later, another man entered. He wore a charcoal-colored, sleeveless jerkin over a faded red shirt, and his breeches, once black, were faded to grey. The hood of a black chaperon fell down his back, leaving his greasy, light brown hair to fall almost to his shoulders. He had a good-sized knife at his belt, but then, so did Jorric. Given the district, so did just about everyone else. Jorric knew the man, and studied him from the corner of his eye, watching him hesitate when he spotted Jorric before moving casually toward him.

The man’s name was Keenan, and they had both come of age under Durmond. They had become friends of a sort, frequently working together, with one of them serving as a distraction as the other cut someone’s purse, or purloined items from a merchant’s stall. Their paths had crossed several times in the years since Jorric had left the Red Hand, though they’d exchanged words a handful of times. He had seemed willing enough to live and let live, but Jorric still kept a careful eye on his approach. As Keenan drew near the table next to him, Jorric, his tone deliberately casual, asked, “Are we right and tight?”

Keenan’s expression was smooth as he gave a slight shrug and said, “Sure. Why wouldn’t we be?”

Jorric also shrugged. “Things change. Durmond’s still sore, and most of his fellows aren’t too friendly where I’m concerned. You still with him?”

“Aye,” Keenan scooted the bench out with his foot and sat down at the table next to Jorric’s, facing him. “Why?”

“Just wondered.”

Keenan gave his order to the ha’pench and leaned back. He ran dark eyes over Jorric and said, “You worried? We’ve never had a problem.”

“Maybe not, but Durmond does, and Durmond’s problems have a way of becoming every Red Hand’s problem.”

With a faint, wry smile, Keenan admitted, “He’s pushed me pretty hard on occasion—figured I could get closer to you than some o’ the others—but I wasn’t up for that.”

The ha’pench set Jorric’s food down in front of him with a thump. After she had departed, Jorric asked with mild curiosity, “Heard anything lately?”

Keenan snorted quietly through his nose and said wryly, “Really? You expect me to take coin out of my purse and put it in yours?”

“Bah. You and I don’t go for the same jobs. Just wondering if you’ve heard anything of interest lately is all.”

“Nothing really, though I expect you’ve heard about the traders from Vethri.”

“A word here and there. Not much. Why?”

Keenan pursed his lips as he looked at Jorric for a few seconds, then finally replied, “Word is, they were attacked by bandits at the border between Calandra and Numis. Fended them off, mostly, I heard. They almost turned back to Vethri after, but decided t’ sail from Bismuth to Hebris.”

Jorric scoffed.“That’s a cartload of shit! Everyone knows Vethrians are afraid of water and don’t get on boats.”

“You know Vethrians! They’re more afraid of not chasing down every last copper t’ be had. Came down to choosing whether to turn back with most o’ their goods and lose out on the coin they’d have brought, risking being robbed along the road coming south, or avoiding the bandits entirely by going by boat. They were so worried about missing out on some coin that they decided to sail down. Supposedly they’ll be coming the same way from Hebris down here to Ketrick, with whatever they’ve got left to sell.”

“Hard to say what of worth they’ll have left, if anything.” Jorric dismissed. But he knew that if they continued on to Ketrick, they would have at least some items of worth. “Have they made it to Hebris yet?”

Keenan shrugged, one corner of his mouth compressing as he replied, “Hard to say. There’s no way of knowing how long it took ‘em to find a boat willing t’ bring ‘em, for no doubt they haggled the price of passage down to bone and marrow.” He ran an assessing eye over Jorric’s damp clothes and hair and commented, “You were out last night.”

Jorric returned his look. It seemed Keenan was in a hurry to change the subject, no doubt regretting having mentioned the traders at all. Jorric answered, “You weren’t.” Keenan’s clothes were dry and, while not overly clean, he’d obviously not been out in the streets overnight. With casual curiosity, Jorric asked, “Aren’t you tired of having your nose up Durmond’s arse?”

Keenan’s lips stretched in a flat smile, his eyes narrowing slightly. “It’s easier.” With a barely noticeable shrug he continued, “He’s always got jobs, and tosses a few coins in the Nabs’ purses so they don’t bother us much. If we do get pinched, then he tosses ‘em a few more coins for our freedom.”

“Easier. Hmph. Those coins he tosses to the Nabs could be in your purse, you know.”

Keenan rubbed the back of his hand over the dark stubble that was only a day or two away from being a proper beard. “My belly’s full. I have a place to stay, and I've nothin’ much to worry about.”

“Mm-hmm. Your belly’s full now, maybe. When you walk out of here this morning, what’ll you be walking out with? I wager you’ll be going to Durmond looking for a job, and that, if he doesn’t have one, by the week’s end you won’t be eating.”

Keenan’s face tightened. There was an edge to his voice when he replied, “I can take care of myself, Jorric! Besides, you know there’s always a pot o’ somethin’ on at The Black Pony. I do all right, and at least I don’t have to worry about Hempstead. Or Grimelthdane.”

“Sure. Just wondering if you’ve asked yourself what’ll happen when you get too old or too busted up to bring in the gold Durmond expects. You think he’ll still be throwing coins to the Nabs for you then?”

“Hmph. And what about you?” Keenan asked harshly. “At least Durmond’s all I have t’ worry about, while you’re worryin’ about him and trying not t’ wind up stewing in your own piss in a cell somewhere.”

Jorric leaned on an elbow and, with a bite of food halfway to his mouth, shrugged and said, “Well, it’s your own business Keenan, and surely not my cow to milk. But I’m planning on the day when any job I take is because I want to, not because I need to.”

Keenan’s face reddened slightly as he focused narrowed eyes on Jorric’s face and said, “You always were a bit a bastard, Jorric. Hope all that works out for you.”

Jorric smiled. “Always did put a twist in your tail whenever I was right.”

“Hmph! You’ve always been so damned sure you’re right! And you’re not always!”

Jorric emptied the final swallow from his glass, and the bench scraped loudly against the floor as he pushed back from the table. As he got to his feet, he said with faint irony, “Well, thanks for the pleasant chat and all, but I’m off.”

“Aye, sure,” Keenan muttered.

With Keenan watching, Jorric fought to not favor his ankle as he strode through the room and out into the street. Keenan had always been easy-going, a fellow unburdened by any great ambition or wit. Jorric thought that it really wasn’t his affair how Keenan chose to conduct his business. Still, it was a shame for him to spend his life as one of Durmond’s faithful dogs, waiting for the occasional bone tossed his way, and spending the rest of his time with tail between his legs.

Jorric scratched at a jaw that always seemed to sport only a couple day’s growth no matter how long since he’d last applied a razor. A grin twitched his lips. If he could stir up trouble between Durmond and some of his boys by poking a hand in, that was fine, too. The grin faded. Best not to be so foolish as to think that things won’t ever get hard enough for Keenan that he wouldn’t serve me up on a plate for Durmond.

[antbearsden]

“I don’t get it” the surly barbarian scratches his chin.

“Look at it this way, Aaron. Where do you prefer to fight?”

“In the arena.”

“And where do you prefer to drink?”

“In the pub.”

“And I prefer to read in the library. See how that works?”

“It’s not a library though. It’s a dragon lair. Dragon lairs have treasure. You slay the dragon, you get the treasure.”

“You saw what it has there, Aaron, and there is no possible treasure in there that you would be able to substitute for a comely tavern wench or a new shiny implement of destruction to satisfy your bloodlust. Also, I refuse to attack a sentient being solely in order to satisfy some tired cliché.”

You know the huge, hairy man means well, but you’ve had to answer these questions for a while now. You await the inevitable followup.

“Why give him more books though?”

Aaron seems genuinely curious, so you answer sincerely.

“He’s a creature that has lived for hundreds of years, heard all of our best plays, read our best books, absorbed our most penetrating ideas. If you met Hercules wouldn’t you want to ask him what he thinks of your skill with the axe?”

He still seems confused, but nods.

“Anyway, I have to go, Aaron, see you in the pub later. Good luck with your bouts, not that your abilities are in any doubt.”

“Bye, Hazzad.”

He turns around and strolls to the pub. You pick your leather backpack and head into the forest.

You’d understand why your newest friend would make his way further away from the town. Not everybody shares your open mind and curiosity, and superstitions run strong on the frontier. Also, people just make too much damn noise all the time, and that doesn’t help a soul read.

A small spell lets you find your way through the thicket and the command word lets the thorns around your destination know that you are free to come in. Even after several weeks the massive old mansion still fills you with awe and appreciation of the beauty and craftsmanship that has persisted through the ages. The ebony walls, stained-glass windows and wrought iron ornaments look pristine and are only overshadowed by the massive tower in the middle, curiously lacking a roof.

The owner here doesn’t particularly need to worry about trespassers, and he definitely doesn’t need a door. The guest entrance – an elegant archway- brings you in through a long corridor with beautifully detailed sconces, holding torches, shimmering with soft yellow light.

You enter the massive library.

There are more books in here than in this kingdom and the next three over. All different kinds of literature are carefully curated, labeled and preserved in their own separate alcoves. Natural history and science books with strict, uniform covers, stare against a collection of treatises on the arcane, each bound in a special material, presumably to contain the secrets within. You are always awed by the “Lost” section, containing masterpieces, lost to time to the rest of the world, but your favorite part of your visit is finding a niche filled with some completely unexpected facet of your new friend’s boundless curiosity. On your first time here, you were greatly amused that he has a massive collection of cookbooks from around the world.

You make your way to the center, right in the middle of the massive tower. There, comfortably reclined on a huge wooden chair, you see a huge dragon with scales in every shade of silver, immersed in a newer-looking tome that was obviously enlarged with magic.

“Greetings, Straszmodan, oh, Great One, I am once again humbled to be in your presence”.

“Hello, Hazzad, it is always a pleasure.”

It is still a little unnerving to see a dragon smile, but the majestic creature seems genuinely happy to see you. He closes the huge book, which shrinks to its normal size, and you recognize it. It is always a compliment to arrive to your host reading one of your gifts.

“I have to admit, this Brandon fellow certainly seems to have some interesting ideas.” the dragon continues. “It is fascinating to me to see what new stories have been put forth into the world while I sit here in my lovely abode.”

You bow.

“Oh, stop that. Come here and show me what you have for me today.”

You approach, fishing from your sack for a small brown tome, bound in cheap scraps of lamb leather – really, the only thing the local tanner could scrape together. You clutch it nervously, shaking in anticipation.

The dragon looks at you curiously, noting your discomfort, then takes the little book, and reads the title.

“Big and small hearts” by Hazzad the Brown.” His gazes fixes your eyes again. You are unable to read the ageless eyes, but his voice seems strangely thankful.

“It is not everyday that someone comes here and gifts me with a piece of their soul. I will treasure it.”

Whenever you visit the dragon’s lair, you give some treasure instead of taking some. People think you are crazy for doing this.

[astoryisaloveaffair]

My Mercenary Bold - Part 2: Off the Deep End

Pairing: Pero Tovar x Mermaid!Fem!Reader

*race and weight inclusive, see moodboard <3*

Read on A03

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Chapter Summary: Pero decides if he should try to see you again, damn the consequences

Word Count: 6,500K

Rating: Explicit, 18+

*If you click Keep Reading, that means you agree that you’re the age to handle mature and explicit themes and kinks. Additionally, you understand and acknowledge warnings may not be complete in order to avoid spoilers for the story*

Chapter Warnings: scary, mentions of mermaids eating people, blood, cussing, SPOOKY & CREEPY, fingering, teratophilia (monster fucking)

A/N: I rise from the dead for five seconds to post this update! Finally! I’m gonna be honest, this only got done because 3/4 was already written before I went AWOL. I’m going on vacation and hopefully reset. No beta, we live and die like Oberyn Martell <3 M.

Suggested Song: “Shallow” cover by Fleurie & Tommee Profitt

*mermaid credits: Mermaid Skye

The next morning Pero woke early, calling for a maid to bring him a bucket of water and a mirror so he could finally shave. He used his dagger despite protestation from the maid, a buxom wench that easily would have pleased him in the past. He had no interest in her now. 

After bringing a bucket for William to do the same, the two head up the steep hills of Positano in the direction of the Franzese Winery, the potential job they were told of in the pub the previous evening.

The main house was set up on the crest of the hill, overlooking the sea and the town below. A long, tiring dirt road leading up to a moderately sized house, surrounded by a remarkable amount of acres of grape vines. Set off to the side of the main house were three more smaller buildings, presumably where the storage and cellars were.  

Pero and Will made their way to the front of the main house, pausing when they saw an older looking woman walking through one of the closest plots, periodically checking plants as she went. They wait patiently so as not to scare her, it would not do to frighten a woman alone, and she notices them as she ambles closer.

“Buongiorno!” [Hello!] She sang, a hand raised and a brilliant smile on her face. She was a handsome woman with a beautiful voice, hearty and round with long white hair braided into a sloppy crown on her head covered by an ill-fitting bonnet, sparkling eyes that reminded Pero of the ocean and a healthy blush on her cheeks from the sun. “What can I do for you, good sirs?”

Will steps forward, knowing never to trust Tovar and his surly attitude to make a good first impression. “Good day. My friend and I have unfortunately landed far astray from where we intended to travel, and we are out of coin for the remaining journey. We asked around town, someone in the pub suggested we come up here. He said you might have some work?”

She smirks, rolling back on her heels as she crosses her sun-tanned arms. Then, she calls out a name, so loud and bellowing that it startles Will. “Denis!” She looks back at the pair of men. “I am calling my brother, he will want to meet you before we decide.”

Will hears Pero grumbling behind him and turns abruptly to glare just as a thin older man wanders around from the back of the house. 

“Denis, these men were inquiring about work.” She clues him in, the two of them looking Will and Pero conspiratorially. 

“Where are you from?”

Will takes the lead once again. “I am from Ireland, and my friend here is from Spain. We are mercenaries for hire, and we had journeyed far East and are trying to make our way home. We set sail to Naples but there was a storm and our ship wrecked. We came ashore here.”

“Very lucky you did not die. Many have died in that sea.” Lady Franzese says. She did not sound surprised at all to Pero, and he found that odd “Were there no other survivors?”

Will shook his head. 

“You must be very strong to have found your way to shore. A blessing from God, surely.” Says Mr. Franzese.

“We had help.” 

Everyone’s eyes snapped to Pero, who had been so quiet until now. Will glares at him again. 

“I am sorry, my friend got his head knocked a bit and is still confused on what happened. We are very lucky to have survived. We are still trying to make it to Naples and then back home, but we no longer have the money to do so. It is doubtful anyone needs our help fighting their enemies, but this is work we are surely capable of doing. We are strong and used to hard work, little sleep, and we keep to ourselves. I assure you, you will not be sorry.”

The older brother and sister whisper to each other, then invite WIll and Pero to get acquainted with the property while they decide. 

The farm is beautiful, and Will takes his time taking in every single part of it, but Pero only settles himself on the crest of the hill, looking in the direction of the cove where he met you. He can’t stop thinking about you, even after last night’s dream, his mind comes back to you no matter how hard he tries to push it away.

He’s not an idiot. He’s heard tales of sirens and mermaids, all beautiful creatures capable of hypnotizing an unassuming man and dragging him to his doom. That certainly was true of the creature in his dream. But he did not feel the same way about you.

You had been scared of him. You’d had plenty of time that you could have put him in a spell, it would have been so easy. But you didn’t. You had sat with him and simply looked upon his face, allowing him to touch your hand. All the power and fear you could instill was not shown until you felt threatened, and instead of attacking, you fled. He was a warrior, he knew what a defensive action was and what wasn’t.

But he was still unsure. He remembers how you cupped his face, how you began humming to him and it made him feel a little fuzzy. Not out of control, but more relaxed. You’d closed your eyes and moved closer to him and…it felt like…maybe you were going to kiss him. His heart is hammering in his chest so hard that when he hears his name he jumps and almost rolls down the hill. He turns to Will with a glare. 

“Sorry. I didn’t realize you were…lost in your thoughts. Come. They’re going to take us on. They want to show us around.”

Their quarters are attached to the back of the cellar, it was a cozy but clean room with two beds on opposite walls, both filled with sweet smelling hay. It would do for the time they would be here, and the Franzeses leave the two mercenaries alone to get settled before supper. 

A heavier sleeper than Pero, William takes the bed furthest from the door, as usual, and Pero settles himself onto the bed nearest to it, ripping his boots off with a sigh and stashing the last weapons he had under the mattress and his dagger under his pillow.

The meal was even more delicious than the pub, another strong bowl of seafood stew but with fresh bread and the best wine Pero has ever drank. Spending time with the brother and sister is more pleasant than Pero thought it would be. They are a jovial pair with a brusque manner and plenty of stories to tell from their long lives, intrigued about his and William’s story without being nosy, and Pero is surprised to find himself enjoying their company and slipping into a state of ease. They talk late into the night, and Pero is pleasantly drunk when he collapses into bed. He can’t remember the last time he felt comfortable enough to do so.

The next morning he wakes with William bright and early, settling themselves on the stone fence before the main house for direction. He might be gruff and quiet, but Pero was always punctual, and when he intended to do something he committed himself completely. They spent the morning following around Denis as he tended to the fields, showing them the methods they used to nurture, weed, nourish, and harvest the vines. It became clear how the pair could need help, the amount of fields they had to do alone was overwhelming. Pero couldn’t imagine the two of them having to do this alone. He asks about it during lunch, launching Marena into a detailed outline of how they rotate which field is worked on which day, and how now that they were here it would be worked in the future.

After lunch, Marena brings the two men into one of the buildings they had noticed the day before, which ends up being the fermentation cellar. She shows them the different areas for freshly picked but not sorted grapes, then picked and sorted, as well as several massive barrels filled with grapes for crushing, some for red and some for white. The men spent the rest of the day here, learning what to look for when sorting the fruit and the best way to extract the juice (by foot!). That was Pero’s favorite part.

From there, William and Pero were shown the fermentation, clarification, and bottling processes, ending the day in the storage cellar used for aging the final product before selling. Early evening was left for their own devices, and they were given the option to join for supper or see to themselves. They chose to dine with the siblings. The food Marena made was too good to pass up, and the company was excellent. 

But after supper, once again, Pero found himself at the crest of the hill, his eyes gazing longingly in the direction of your hidden cave lagoon.

The next week settles the two men into their new routine, waking with the sun to tend to whichever field was next in rotation, followed by assisting Denis and Marena in bottling preparations. They each found what they enjoyed or were good at, and Will was happy to leave Pero to stomp on grapes to his heart's content while he helped ferment the results. Occasionally they would go down to the village in the evenings, together or separate, but most of the time they continued dining with the Franzeses. They went to bed every night exhausted and sore, but content and feeling fulfilled.

They learned much of the older siblings, born of a French father who had found himself in the village by chance and ended up staying when he fell for a local, a beautiful woman who loved the sea and couldn’t bear to be taken away from it. So he stayed for her, building a business and raising their children together. Pero noticed that Will had seemed very taken with the story.

And every single night, Pero would perch on his lookout until it was so dark he couldn’t see anything, let alone a hint of you in the ocean from so far away. William learned to leave him alone and not ask questions as Pero preferred to not speak about it.

He couldn’t stop thinking about you. It was a yearning he’d never felt so strongly, incomparable to the pull of a favored whore or willing bedmate he’d had on the road. He felt like his chest was collapsing in on itself more as each day passed without seeing you again.

He made it two weeks. Two weeks until he made a great show about how tired he was, waiting patiently for Will’s heavy snores and the lights of the main house to be blown out before getting up once more and creeping into the yard. He paused near the stone gate, turning back to make sure no one had heard or seen him.

He’s surprised at how easy it is to find his way back towards the cave. The stars are bright, his lantern is steady, and the moon is three quarters full, but the night’s still dark. Yet it seems like his feet just know where to go. 

He takes extra care as he enters the switchback path that leads down to the cliff edge he’d almost fallen from before, holding his lantern arm straight in front of him for balance, other hand gripping the dirt and rock of the hill as he shimmies along. The sound of the soft waves below him tells him what would happen should he misstep.

He stumbles at the end, his heart almost flying out of his mouth as he trips over some rubble and dives forward, thankfully landing on the grass of the cliff's edge. He curses, gathering his wits back and righting his lantern before entering the cave.

The going is slow, he can’t see anything, and there is no moonglow or star shine to even light a bit of his way. He’s more careful than before, reaching his foot out farther than his normal gait at every step to see if there’s any rocks or boulders in the way to trip on. After what feels like hours, he finally sees the soft and barely visible glow of blue from deeper in the cavern.

He hopes it’s you.

In excitement he trips and stumbles once again, his free hand flinging out against the walls of the cavern to catch himself so he doesn’t bash his brains out upon the rock floor, but his grip on one side lands awkwardly. His palm slides forward against something sharp and he feels a piercing burn as his palm slices open on the wall. 

When he gains his footing he kneels, holding the lantern against his palm. His hand is bleeding profusely, but the cut is not too deep. He quickly slices a piece of his undertunic and ties it tight to staunch the flow, only looking back up to the pool when he’s done.

You aren’t there. The blue-ish glow was from the water itself and the moon shining in from the cracks in the ceiling above. Pero sighs in disappointment, crawling forward towards the edge of the water, lifting his lantern out to try and see if you’re hiding behind something.

“Sirena?” He whispers into the dark. But the only noise he hears is the barely audible sound of the ocean water meeting the rocks. He pauses, realizing if you did come and he was wrong about you, he would be defenseless. He sets the lantern down on the ground beside his leg, pulling his dagger out with his dominant hand.

He waits for a long time, softly calling, wishing for you in the case you were telepathic and could hear him from where you were. Just before he’s about to give up and go back to the winery, something urges him to reach out his hand, slipping it into the cool water as if he could summon you to his palm.

He immediately regrets it, forgetting about the cut on his hand and the salty ocean water stings like a thousand little knives all over the surface of his skin. But before he can withdraw, a scaled hand with sharp, pointed nails bursts out of the water and grabs his wrist. He gasps, falling back on his arse as he tries to force the mystery hand to release him. He can feel the water and blood dripping down his wrist and onto the hand, the salt water having cleaned the injury and re-opening it, and he panics when he realizes he’s probably about to be eaten.

The hand does let go, and he scoots backwards as two hands emerge from the water and grasp the rocks, heaving you up and onto the rock floor. 

He recognizes you instantly and moves towards you. “Sirena!”

You hiss softly, grabbing his wrist and pulling him close, his nose almost bumps into yours and he can see the translucent glitter of your skin sparkling in the moonlight. You push him back and pull his bloody hand in front of his face. “You go!” Your eyes are wide and look like the night sky and he doesn’t understand. 

“Sirena, I-” You shake your head, dropping his hand and pushing him back forcefully on the chest. “What are–”

“We EAT. They EAT!” You point again to his hand, and then back to the water. “YOU LEAVE! Be SAFE!” You look absolutely terrified, and as you grimace he sees the flash of your long pointed teeth. And it clicks. 

Those are the teeth of creatures that eat meat. Ripping, tearing, shredding. 

There’s more mermaids. They’re hunters. And he just put his bloody palm in the water.

“Fuck.” He scrambles up, snatching his dagger and lantern as he backs out of the cave. Before he leaves, he whispers to you. “Sirena, what of you?”

Your blue lips tremble. “You leave. You safe. Go!” With that, you leap back into the pool with a massive splash, turning quickly and putting your hands over where your ears should be. You pat them repeatedly. He doesn’t understand what you’re saying. “No.” You pat your ears several times again and repeat yourself. “No. Okay?”

Your attention is pulled away from him, and you look back towards the water with concern, disappearing from view without another word. Pero turns to run out of the cavern, miraculously not falling at all the entire way out to the cliffside.

He skids to a halt, placing his lantern on the ground haphazardly as he leans over with his hands on his knees to catch his breath. His heart is racing and he kneels, trying to beat the vertigo coursing through his system. When the swirling stops, he lowers himself fully to the ground on his belly, shuffling forward to be able to look over the cliffside into the dark ocean crashing against the edge below him. He hopes to see you, and for a moment his heart soars as he sees the soft glow of multiple blue lights shining from beneath the surface. But…the lights are coming from the wrong way, and then there are more, and more, and even more beyond that so it looks like the whole ocean is lit up. There were too many lights for just you.

“Mierda…” He whispers to himself, pushing himself away from the edge as they came closer faster than he ever could have imagined, rolling to his feet and grabbing his lantern to traverse the little path, shimmying the same way back as he came. 

And then he heard it.

[the mermaid’s song]

At first it sounded like a woman sighing in the breeze, cresting into a chorus of song so haunting it sent shivers up Pero’s spine. There were no words, just a trilling harmony that grew so loud Pero would be shocked if the village hadn’t heard it, so loud his head was buzzing and he couldn’t hear anything else but the beauty of it. He halts in his steps, closing his eyes as he grows confused and his nerves start tingling.

It builds quickly, a swelling of euphoria from the tips of his fingers and toes shooting through his nerves and veins until they slam into his chest. His knees almost buckle and he instantly becomes hard as the cliff he’s clinging to, a long whine releasing from his lips as he is overwhelmed with such a need, he can’t think about anything other than relieving it.

He presses his back to the cliff, his feet sliding forward slightly on the thin path but he doesn’t even notice as he reaches down to take himself in hand, squeezing and pulling at the throbbing bulge there. He’s about to rip his laces apart and shove his pants down when he hears the soft call, slightly familiar, sweeter than honey. 

It’s unintelligible but not, calling his name, but he can’t actually hear his name called. Regardless, his feet move of his own accord, he couldn’t stop them even if he tried. He pushes himself off the cliff wall and turns, intending to head back the way he came, back to the beautiful woman calling for him, who needs him so desperately he won’t even consider denying her.

He walks right off the side of the cliff in a haze, barely missing jutting rock pieces that could have impaled him, and he doesn’t even feel the chill of the water when he drops into it. He turns to swim towards his woman, only going a few feet when out of the shadows of the murky water, a blob forms, coming fast and close. At the last moment, it swerves and whizzes past him, but grabs him by the arm and yanks him behind it. He’s so out of it he can’t even feel the pain of his shoulder almost dislocating.

He struggles, it is the complete opposite way he wants to go! He has to follow the sounds, he has to be together with the one calling his name. But the creature holding him is too strong, it tugs him down and around the cliff face, aiming straight for the shore of Positano. It hugs the cliffside, using the overhang above to keep to the shadows as it approaches the shore without slowing down at all. The inertia carries it through with the aid of a wave, flinging it forward as it beaches itself further up in the sand. 

It pulls Pero up to sit and grabs his face with slimy hands, forcing him to look at it. He can’t register it, can’t even process what he’s seeing before him because the voice calling him is so fucking loud it actually is painful. He winces in pain, folding in on himself because it feels like his head might explode. He’s so cold, violently shaking, but not from the ocean. It makes him almost cry out, but the slimy hand clamps itself over his mouth.

“No.” A voice hisses. “SHHhh!”

He can’t recognize it’s you, can’t realize what he’s doing at all. You flip him onto his back as the ocean crashes against your tail, pinning him to the ground as he struggles.

“Man. No. Shhh.” You coo but it doesn’t work, even though the sounds of your sisters are fading away. His trembling intensifies and you sigh, knowing you have no choice. You tilt your head down pressing your cheek to his as you sing as soft as you can right into his ear. He soothes immediately and shifts his focus to you with wild eyes, his arms wrapping around you and touching you everywhere, large cold hands up your sides, to the sides of your breasts. You can feel how he is reacting to you.

You sing to him until your sisters are gone, holding him close as he mindlessly kneads your chest and licking and nipping at your breasts. When you end your song it doesn’t take long for him to recover, the tension in his body releases against you, his eyelids lower in a more natural position, his heart rate slowing. You stay with him until he finally notices you, your tail flipping absently in the surf.

“Sirena?”

You hum, looking back down into his eyes as you lay beside him. He looks different, the blackness around his mouth is gone revealing white skin from chill. You find that you like how he looks without it. 

You sit up, releasing him to cover your pointed ears with both hands, patting your ears several times for emphasis, staring at him with wide eyes. You point to the ocean, remaining patient as you try to communicate with him. 

“Cover your ears.” He whispers beside you, and you can tell he understands now, the dawning on his expression barely visible in the dark. “Sirena…you save me again.” He touches your arm hesitantly, then cups it with his palm and slides down to your hand which he grasps inside his own. “Thank you.”

You don’t know what he’s saying but you feel it, and he scoots forward in the wet sand to get close to you once again. He slowly reaches to take your chin between his fingers and meet his eyes. 

He finally has the chance to see you up close, take you in as long as he wants. You were eerie, yes, but he also found you to be the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen, land or sea. Wide eyes with an odd shaped pupil, jutting cheekbones and the longest eyelashes he’d ever seen.

The spell breaks and you jerk your head out of his hand, rolling to pull yourself back to the ocean.“No no, please, let me.” And then you are up in his arms, your own naturally falling around his neck. You softly thread your long pointed fingernails through his salty hair. Your tail trails on the ground as he takes you down the wet sand and wades into the water until it’s at his hips, but he just can’t let go of you yet. “Sirena…I…I wish to see you again. I do no want to say goodbye.” His arms tighten and you press your cheek to his chest. 

After several bittersweet moments he finally releases you with a sigh. You plop back into the water with a splash. He laughs, and he looks so beautiful to you, the way that smile lights up his face. You want to see it more. You point in the direction of the cave. “You go.”

“Go…go…again? Go back to that place, si?”

You tilt your head, pointing once more. “Go.”

He cups your face. “Bueno, Sirena. Till next time.” He pulls away, and you take one more look at him before diving under the next wave and disappearing.

He doesn’t realize until you’re gone that he has no idea how to call for you.

Sopping wet, Pero walks in silence down the main street of town, turning away from the cobblestones and onto the dirt road that leads farther up the hillside to more homes, less wealthy merchants, and farms. Everything at the winery had remained as it was when he left, no one had noticed his absence.

He sighs, heading to his own quarters and slides through the door quietly, immediately pulling off his drenched tunic and breeches and reaching for a new one that the Franzese’s had loaned him. He crawls into bed with a groan, already feeling the soreness from his ordeal spreading across his muscles.

Up in the main house, Marena turns from the darkened window and slides back into bed with a smile on her face.

The next day can’t go by fast enough for Pero. He finds himself having to pause and try to calm himself multiple times during his work to keep from rushing through and making mistakes. He barely comprehends what he’s doing and the moment everyone has gone to bed, he throws the quilt off him and all but races to your cave.

But when he gets there, he has no idea what to do. How does he summon a mermaid? And not any mermaid, just you? He racks his brain for stories and legends he may have heard throughout his life for some means to call you to him, but he recalls nothing, and he finally opts to just sit on the rocky floor and wait for you. He’ll wait all night if he has to.

After about an hour, his back is tired and his muscles are sore. He’s not a patient man and he feels himself growing frustrated. But he won’t give up waiting. You said you’d be here. Pero pulls a knee up to his chest, resting his cheek against his knee while he waits, drifting in and out of sleep. 

A soft bubbling rouses him, but when he looks up he sees nothing, no disturbance in the water, and he can only see about a foot down into the dark depths. But he hears the sound again, so he leans over the water, praying for that beautiful blue glow from your fins.

Suddenly, something explodes out of the water and before he knows it, two arms are wrapping around his chest as he is yanked back down as it sinks underwater again. It doesn’t let go, he is held tight with such strength he doesn’t even need to tread water, and a tinkling giggle sounds in his ear as you push him back from you to look into his face. 

His surly expression immediately breaks, a wide smile and a huff of laughter as he recognizes you. “Sirena!”

You grin back at him, sharp teeth shining with the small amount of light, a soft bubbling coo escaping your lips as you pull him to you again, hugging him close. Pero sighs, an arm cautiously moving to grasp your waist so as not to touch your spiny fins, the other hand cupping the back of your wet hair as he folds you into him. 

“Are you well, mi ángel?” He whispers. He’s already growing cold, he’s only in breeches and his night tunic after all, but he ignores the shivers as he rests his chin on top of your wet hair. His chin rests on something hard and he pulls back, fingering his wet hands through your hair to see that you have tiny little shells and twining wrapped in the braids of your hair.

When he meets your eyes again you’re staring at him with an overeager expression that he finds adorable and sweet. Nothing like the monster in his dream. He opens his mouth to speak to you once more, but stutters as a strong shiver runs from his head to his toes and fingers. “Fuck, Sirena.” He pulls away from you and he sees your face fall as he turns around and heaves himself back up onto the rocks, yanking his sopping wet shirt off and laying it out on the rocks to dry. He motions for you to come join him. 

You pull yourself up shyly, he thinks maybe you are hesitant to stray too far from the edge, so instead he moves back to you. “You need not fear me, Sirena. I would not hurt you.”

But that’s not it at all. He was…you don’t know, you’d never felt this way before looking at someone, a pinching in your chest and a warmth growing near your sex at the sight of his broad form. Rivulets of water drip across the skin and you suddenly feel the desire to want to lick them up and off of him.

Instead, your hand darts out to him, fingers spread, but you pull back when he startles away from you. You consider for a moment singing to him once again, calm him down so you can touch him, even kiss him, but before you push that thought aside his large hand encompasses your wrist, fingers carefully avoiding your sharp arm fins. He tugs your hand back slowly and places it palm flat on his chest. “It is okay, Sirena, you can touch me here.”

You close your eyes and hum, sensing the hearty blood running through his veins, the heartbeat quickening under your scaled hand the only indication he feels any fear at all. It is a lot for him to give you trust, you can sense it immediately. His torso is riddled with scars and circular wounds that have long since healed, similar to the best warriors of your own pod. He was a fighter as well. You trail your fingers from his chest up, following the path of a very large and wide scar rounding over his shoulder to his back, leaving his skin only momentarily before you inspect the scar over his eye. You touch it too, oh so gently, you know your hands and arms are weapons and you don’t wish to startle him. He sighs and closes his eyes at your touch. You run your fingernails through his beard stubble as you take them away from him. You wish you could touch him forever, be adjoined to him always.

But it was impossible. You look down abruptly, trying to stave off the tears burning under your eyelids, but a rough finger pad taps you under the chin, forcing you to meet his eyes once more. 

“Do no be shy, Sirena. You are beautiful.” He reaches out then, mimicking what you did to him so you would understand, careful not to align his hand with your chest. It takes everything in him not to constantly stare at the water running down them, how hard your nipples always are. You were not a whore, it was not right to stare, and for some reason Pero suddenly gave a fuck about that.

He meets your eyes instead. “Can I touch you, mi hermosa criatura?” You simply stare, and he tries to communicate with his eyes his good intentions as he takes your hand in his, turning it so it is palm down in his own. 

Your hand is slightly slimy, scales merging with skin around your wrist and up your arm surrounding your arm fins. The color is impossible to determine, they look like pure opal, able to reflect any color under the sun. They glimmer in the light too, and he slides his thumb over them to feel the texture. They are sharp, but don’t cut him and he continues up your arm to your wrist fins, knowing the spines are capable of being so much longer than they are now.

Pero holds your arm up close to his face to inspect it, an iridescent membrane supported by six spines in an arc when he spreads the fin gently. It reminded him of a ship’s sail, it could be open or closed, used to swim or protect. 

“Quite impressive weapons, Sirena.” He chuckles, letting your arm go. Your eyes are sparkling with mirth and he can see those sharp teeth through your grin. He crosses his arms in an X in front of his chest. “Come, let me see. Let them out.”

You tilt your head and he carries on, mimicking slashing something up until you giggle and push his arms down. He takes your hands in his, holding them in his lap as your fins lift and expand, growing longer the spines are almost a hand long instead of half of one. 

“Que bonita.” He admires. “Now, let me see the back.”

He motions for you to turn around and you do, a shiver running down your flesh as he fingers and caresses a similar but much larger dorsal fin on your back. Finally satisfied again, he turns you back in front of him and cups your shoulders, fingers sliding across shimmering scales.

“Eres magnifico…may I see your lights Sirena…I have dreamed of them most nights since I first saw you.” He motions with his hands once again, it takes a few moments to understand him but once you do you close your eyes, pushing the energy out so the ends of your appendages, pectoral fins, and several more protective spines all the way down to your massive tail fins swirling around in the water.

Pero’s face lights up with the blue glow bathing the entire cavern, completely swallowing the warm light of his small lantern and  you can’t help but smile with him as he instructs you to let him hold your entire tail in his lap to look closer. His hands are large and rough, yet they feel…

The way they slide down the muscles of your body makes you feel a warmth low in your gut start growing, burning stronger and stronger as he continues down, petting and cooing, spreading out your fins and fingering the webbing between them with such care you sigh out in a gasp. 

When you open your eyes again he is sitting and staring at you with such a hunger you would have thought he might eat you, his fingertips sinking into the scales of your tail in a way that should hurt, but only makes you more overcome with the feeling. You hadn’t realized you had moaned.

“Does that…feel good, Sirena?” He husks, sliding his hands back up your tail, the rough backsides of your scales grazing against his palms. You can’t move, your jaw simply drops open as he shimmies closer to you. Hands glide over hips, against your waist, settling neatly on your abdomen. Your heart is racing and you’re panting and you don’t understand why.

His thumbs hesitantly brush against the underside of your breast and you look down at his hands, remembering how he had touched you the day before. He hadn’t meant it, and you were too occupied trying to save him to really register how it felt. But you find that you want him to touch you like that again.

You take his hands in yours and guide them up to your breasts, and he heaves a sigh of arousal as he cups you in his hands, massaging and squeezing until he feels you are receptive enough for him to tease your nipples. When he’s certain you enjoy it, he increases his attentions on them, pinching and rubbing the cold skin, almost cumming in his breeches at how pretty you sound for him. 

He launches forward, his lips fastening to one of your nipples as he continues playing with the other, tongue swirling and nudging and nibbling on the sensitive flesh. You moan loud, the sound echoing off the cavern as you arch your back, presenting yourself more to his groping. Your fingers slide into his still drying hair, gripping it hard to keep him where you want him.

You can feel it happening abruptly, and the moment it does you understand. The little fins below your hips opening and revealing the small slit of your entrance. He was trying to mate with you, peeling you open like a clam and readying you for his seed. And you find that you don’t object to that at all.

But this…is not how it’s supposed to be. When you come of age you must choose your own mate, but you had never once heard of coupling with a human. Yet he instinctively knows, a hand sliding back down your body, fingers searching and searching for something. When he finds it, he slows down and observes you.

You’re a wreck. Overwhelmed and panting, it feels like your brain isn’t even working correctly and it scares you but doesn’t. You don’t know what you’re doing, you’ve never done this before, yet you don’t want to stop…

“If I were to touch you Sirena…would it be here?” His eyes flick upwards as he circles his finger around your sex, gently nudging a fingertip inside. You cry out and he withdraws, making sure you are not in pain. “I am sorry. I…I forgot myself hermosa. Lo siento.”  

You sigh, your body slumping slightly as he pulls you to him and cradles you in his arms. 

“I know you can no understand me well. Did I hurt you? Did I scare you?”

“No.”

“Bueno.”

You spend the next two hours in his arms against his bare chest as he cards his fingers through your hair, listening to him speak even though you only understand a few things until you pull away from him with no warning and slide back into the water.

“Oh. You must go?” Pero feels his heart drop into his stomach, only to swoop back up as you slap your hand on the rocks. 

“Go.” You point your fingertip to the cave floor, then gesture around you at the walls. “You go.”

He smiles, pointing to the ground as well. “Here?”

You blink rapidly, your lips twisting as you say the word. “Here.”

He nods. “Yes. Here. I go here tomorrow.”

He gives your hand one more squeeze before you dive back beneath the water.

Pero spends the next few weeks visiting you every evening. He teaches you his name, tells you about his life, holds you close and the two of you often simply lie on the floor of the cave in silence staring into each other’s eyes.

He never tries to touch you again. Two weeks pass full of frustration until tonight, when you take matters into your own hands out of desperation, grabbing his hand and firmly pressing it onto your breast. 

You’ve never felt anything like what he does for you tonight.

--

He smiles as he heads back to the winery, his head so in the clouds thinking about the way you moved, the sounds you made as he made you cum around his fingers, he doesn’t even see Marena until he all but slams into her. 

“Come.” She snips. “We must talk. Now.”

-----------

Post A/N: Hopefully the descriptions of all her fins make sense, if not, here is an idea! Her tail is the color you want it to be <3

[you-remind-me-of-the-babe]

For the writing prompt asks: “You never believe me! If I told you right now that I love you, would you even believe me?”

Thank you for the prompt!

Here's a magical coffee shop AU ❤️

A Prickly Disposition

Rating: T, Word Count: 1900

You’d think holding a conversation with a 200 year old vampire would be fascinating, but Basilton Pitch isn’t the type to regale you with compelling stories of his past.

He’s one of the regulars at Mummer’s Cafe, which caters to magical beings of various sorts. Basilton has a habit of coming in on most weekdays, bright and early. He orders a mocha breve, sits by the fire and reads or writes in his notebook.

Simon Snow usually ends up being the one to serve him, as the other employees find him surly. Simon rather likes him, prickly disposition and all, and has taken it on as his personal mission to find a way past Basilton’s walls. He always greets him with a warm smile and tells him stories while he fills his drink order. And he never seems to be fazed when Basilton merely grunts one or two word responses as he takes his drink and retreats to his corner next to the hearth.

“You’re wasting your time,” Penny tells him when there’s a lull in their shift. “Ebb says he’s been coming here for years and never talks much to anyone.” But Simon only hears the challenge in these words.

Occasionally, Simon will try bringing him samples of scones, claiming to be working on new recipes, and that he is looking for feedback.

Basilton relents, and usually makes his opinions brief.

“Too sweet,” he says, when Simon asks him to sample one with chocolate chips.

“Too sweet?” Simon says incredulously. “You order the sweetest drink I’ve ever heard of every morning!”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I like everything to be sweet,” he replies. Simon laughs and tries to ask him his thoughts on alternate flavors but Basilton already has his nose in his book and pretends not to hear him.

“Can you blame him for being antisocial with Mages?” Penny asks. “Vampires were persecuted and forced to live in hiding for years. They’ve only recently been granted civil rights, and for older vampires like him, it’s not so easy to just forgive and forget.” Simon gazes over at the vampire, dark hair falling forward as he bends down towards his notebook. He looks as if he’s the same age as Simon, and it boggles his mind a bit when he tries to think about all the life Basilton has lived. Simon’s heart aches just thinking about it. No one could live that long without experiencing loss and loneliness. He resolves to try harder to break down the vampire’s defenses.

The following week, Simon decides to try asking Basilton questions about himself. Maybe he simply would rather someone took an interest in him instead of trying to talk his ear off.

“How’s your book?” Simon asks, as he pours Basilton his drink.

“Riveting,” Basilton replies in a voice that sounds like it’s anything but.

“What’s it about?” Simon hands him his drink and wipes his hand on a towel draped over his shoulder.

“Pirates,” he replies. Simon can see as much from the picture on the cover of the book.

“Is it a romance novel?” he asks, tilting his head to get a better look at the muscular swashbuckler with his arm around the waist of a busty wench.

Basilton frowns and takes his drink without answering.

The next day, Basilton returns to the counter moments after taking his drink to sit at his normal corner.

“Someone left their book on my seat,” he says, depositing a shiny hardback near the register.

“It’s for you!” Simon calls, as Basilton starts to walk away. He pauses, then turns back.

“What?”

“It’s one of my favorites, I thought you might like it,” Simon says, feeling a bit nervous under the vampire’s stare. Basilton looks back at the picture on the cover. Two men on a ship are fighting with swords, but the playful smirks on their faces indicate they aren’t adversaries.

“It’s a queer romance,” Simon explains, “and it’s got a really interesting mystery plot line. Plus, it’s really character driven, which is something I like in books.”

Basilton’s brow furrows. “How did you know I was queer?”

“I didn’t,” Simon says. “But I am, which is one of the reasons I was drawn to it. But honestly I recommend it to anyone who’ll listen.” He smiles at Basilton, who takes another step towards the counter. After staring at the cover for a moment longer, he reaches out hesitantly and takes the book.

“Sour cherry,” he says.

“Huh?”

“You should try sour cherries in your next scone recipe,” he says, heading back to his table. Simon grins as he watches him settle in his chair, the glow of the fire lighting up his face.

Simon isn’t exactly sure when the mission turned from merely trying to be friendly with the vampire to actively working up the courage to ask him on a date. He thinks the book was perhaps the thing that shifted everything. It still took a while for Basilton to open up, but gradually Simon found him engaging more, talking about what he was reading or asking Simon for more book recommendations. Eventually, Simon began to sit with Basilton during his breaks, bringing a sour cherry scone for each of them (which had become quite popular at the cafe after Simon took the suggestion into consideration).

He finds that they occasionally fall into a flirty banter, but whenever Simon tries to hint that he’s attracted to him, Basilton always shuts him down.

“You’re quite lovely when you smile,” Simon says.

“You should see me when I show all of my teeth,” he says, cocking an eyebrow.

Simon laughs. “I’m sure you’d still be lovely.”

Basilton frowns at that. “You aren’t supposed to find creatures of the night attractive.”

“You’re not a creature of the night,” Simon says. “You’re an early bird. You’re always here at the crack of dawn.”

Basilton simply changes the subject.

Another time, when Simon tells Basilton how much he enjoys spending time with him, he responds that Simon needs to get more friends. And when Basilton finally lets Simon read the poetry that fills his notebook, he brushes off Simon’s compliments, stating that Simon was just being polite.

“I mean it! They’re really powerful, and I like them a lot.” He’s starting to get tired of Basilton’s constant desire to push him away anytime Simon gets too close.

“I’m your customer, you have to be nice to me.”

“You're more than that, Baz. A lot more,” Simon says quietly.

“I’m not, Simon. And you’d do well to remember that.”

On a Tuesday, Simon decides to make a bolder attempt.

“There’s a poetry reading at the bookstore down the street on Friday. Care to go with me?”

“You don’t want to go with me,” he says, eyes fixed firmly on the fire.

“I very much do want to go with you,” Simon says. “That's why I asked you.”

“I’m not someone you’d want to spend more time with than we already do.” Basilton’s eyes are hard when he meets Simon’s gaze, and Simon has had enough.

“Why do you say things like that?” Simon growls, tugging angrily at his curls. “Whenever I try to tell you how much I like you, how much you mean to me, you never believe me! If I told you right now that I love you, would you believe me?” Simon hadn’t planned on saying that, but once the words left his mouth, he realized that they were true, so there was no point in taking them back.

Basilton is frozen, eyes wide, lips slightly parted. Simon waits for him to say something, because Simon has said quite enough already, thank you.

“Why?” he murmurs, and Simon is barely able to hear it.

“Because I love talking to you about books and hearing you read your poetry. Because every time I eat a cherry scone I think of you and my heart swells. Because your smile makes me blush.” He reaches his hand across the table and sets it on top of his. “Because seeing your grumpy face every morning was the best part of my day long before you let me in.”

Basilton laughs a bit at that, but it sounds as if he’s choking on it, and when he looks up at Simon his eyes are watery.

“I can’t,” he nearly whispers.

Simon closes his fingers around his and tugs gently. “You can.”

Basilton looks as though he might relent for a moment, leaning forward slightly. But then he’s on his feet, bolting towards the door before Simon can blink. Basilton exits the cafe into the pouring rain, leaving his coat on the back of his chair. In an instant, Simon grabs it and runs after him.

Basilton is walking entirely too fast, and Simon is out of breath by the time he reaches him at the corner.

“Baz,” he pants, grasping his blazer and trying to get him to turn around. He does, and Simon is baffled by how he looks even sexier sopping wet.

“You’ll catch a cold, you numpty,” Basilton says, frowning down at him. A drop of rain rolls down his nose and drops to the pavement.

“That sprint will be the death of me,” he says, hands on knees and wheezing from the exertion. He takes a few deep breaths and then stands. He steps forward and holds the coat up to Basilton, reaching his other hand behind him to pull it tight around him. Instead of putting his arms through, Basilton simply grasps the fabric, holding it around him like a blanket. Simon keeps hold of it too, because it forces them to stand close.

Simon runs his finger over his knuckles. “Can’t you give us a chance?” he asks, blinking back the rain on his lashes to focus as he looks up into gray eyes.

“Simon, I…” he pauses, and Simon waits, because he wants to give him the space to find his words. “I’ve been alone for so long. I’m not sure if I know how to do this anymore.” Basilton’s expression is soft, and it only makes Simon want him more.

“We don’t have to have all the answers right now,” he offers. “I just know I want to be with you. More than anything.” Basilton is looking down at Simon’s fingers on his own, and Simon tugs on his coat gently to force him to look at him. “Can I kiss you?” he asks softly. Basilton nods, and he still looks so scared. Simon cranes his neck to reach him, wet lips meeting. He kisses him and Simon feels like he could burn from the inside, despite the freezing rain. Basilton moans slightly, and their tentative kiss suddenly becomes more desperate, tongue and teeth and soggy clothes rubbing up against each other.

When they’ve had their fill they finally pull apart, resting their foreheads together. “So, does this mean you want to be my terrible boyfriend?” Simon asks.

Basilton pulls back. “Let’s start with the poetry reading and see what happens after that.”

Simon takes his hand, walking him back to Mummer’s Cafe. “I think that’s a great plan.”

Basilton grins at him, and Simon, freezing and wet, feels like there’s nowhere he’d rather be.

Prompts from this list

[devil-hunter66]

"...Please, mere allergies are nothing to us...But if that is what you want, then I shall oblige...ahem! in...ANY case...Yes, I would like but a half dozen of those. And you can have this in turn. He said, making sure he had plates carved from the stone walls of this cave. Dante had essentially formed a makeshift sink using King Cerberus's ice so there was much washing to be done before these plates could be considered usable. He takes a few slabs of demonic meat that he personally seasoned with salt-like growths that he found in the underworld. It was not like the salt in the human world...It had something of a..."bite" to it...He had gotten used to it and has steadily adjusted to demonic cuisine since. Dante??...NOT SO MUCH. "UgGGhhh...Your STILL cooking that stuff? Blegh! At this rate I'd much rather STARVE to death. Eating demonic meat is the WORST...Well...that, and next to motorcycling my way through six tons of volcanic rock but STILL not as bad as the damn TASTE." Dante remarked, his face wenching at the smell while Vergil simply set up his and River's plates with content on his face.

"If starving is what you wish, then by all means be my guest. River and I are going to eat...It is best to save our strength for what's to come." "Ugh, yeah well YOU have fun with that. I'm gonna go and stand watch from outside the cave!...UgGGghhhh...What I wouldn’t give for a large slice of Pizza and a Strawberry Sundae right about now...T3T...I'm giving the dinner services down here a hard 0/10..."Hells Kitchen" be damned..."

Vergil sighs, all before he grabs a makeshift knife and fork he had also forged with the edge of his Yamato blade. He sliced deep into the demonic meat...The smell was..."something"...to be moderately considered...At least it was edible...That was enough for Vergil to continue.

"Sigh...I must apologise on behalf of my Brother. He was never QUITE adapt at..."being open to new tastes"...He has always been rather picky with his food, and only eats TWO things...JUNK FOOD...and MORE junk food...If I'm not the one that ends up killing him, then THAT will surly do him in..."

@devil-hunter66

River's wings felt heavy as the half-blood soar over Tartarus. She followed the river Acheron until she reached it. The crack in the ground where the water had been draining.

The half-blood just wanted a normal summer vacation at camp half-blood. Of course, that wasn't going to happen. The underworld at some point had been thrown into chaos, creatures from Tartarus finding a way to flee and raise hell upon the rest of hades. Now it was up to her to figure out the issue.

"Alright. Father said this should be the way to hell." The half-blood check to make sure she had everything one last time. Rations? Check. Nectar? Check. Tools to maintain her prosthetic if it gets damage? Check. Weapon? Check. River took a deep breath and dived bomb down into the crack to hell. The quest prophecy ringing in her head.

She wasn't sure how far she was falling, or for how long. But eventually the air change. She opened her eyes to find herself in the demon world. Hell. "Okay..." She landed on the ground. "Now, how the hell do I find who I need to?" River said to herself.

With no better answer, she began walking deeper into hell. Keeping her scythe in it's cube form. But a hand around it just in case. She wasn't sure how long she had been walking, but it was at least felt like a few hours, until she finally found something else down here.

[borisbubbles]

ESC 2021 Preshow: 08. France

Barbara Pravi - “Voilà”

Autoqualifier

France going from 3rd last on my ranking / likely last place in the finale to 8th place in the ranking / probably top 3 in the Grand Final. 😍 WHAT A GLOW-UP.

So, “Voilà” is epic, obviously. Yeah I will skip the theatrics, each and every one of you know this song and we all know it’s probably the best French entry in ages. 

Funnily enough, I didn’t care for “Voilà” when I first heard it lmfao. It felt similar to the song Patricia Kaas went to Eurovision with and while “Et s’il faillait le faire” has its fans, I was never one of them. Worse, the internet immediately resorted to refering to “Voilà” as a “masterpiece” which is probably the pretentious statement you can make about Eurovision songs. Guys, it’s an Edith Piaf-inspired tribute act. Calm the eff down. Still, even at this early a stage I was instantly charmed by Barbara’s introspection and pluck even if I didn’t care for the music at first. After all, Barbara was the mastermind behind jesc HITS “Bim bam toi” and “J’imagine” and if she wants to bring a song that puts HER SELF at the forefront, she’s perfectly entitled to do so. About fucking time. On top of that, I thought the ending was sublime, even in studio version. “Why can’t the entire song be like that”, I thought. And then, E:CVQD arrived and Barbara SERVED, OUTSOLD, SLAYED, etc every superlative under the sun. 

So remember when I aired my critique regarding Gjon? “Tout l’Univers” is an “Objectively Strong” composition in that it employs music theory to conjure up a song that sounds impressive on first listen. But behind that academic skill lies virtually nothing of interest. I cannot connect with it beyond a base level because what does it tell me about Gjon or his story? Technique without a heart or a soul is merely pretense. But I suppose it can sound sophisticated to someone who doesn’t know what “sophistication” is. 

Barbara, however. Her personality just SPRINGS FORWARD on an approachable level from the first note. “Voilà”s’s technical expertise and Barbara’s own perfomance talents carry this vibe, this SERVE of personality, through the full three minutes without ever getting boring or tedious and they leave me craving for another listen. ALL OF THESE ARE AMAZING TRAITS IN A EUROVISION SONG. And this is just from the studio version, the live stage show makes it even better. 

So yeah, homeboy’s got his work cut out for him because if this is his competition he’ll have to graft hard for his victory.

NF Corner -  C’est Vous Qui Décidez

In what would become a running theme amidst countries this year, France led the charge in a personal project called #OperationForget2020, in which every trace of last year would be subsequently memory-holed. To acheive this, they revived their NF, gave it a new name and pretended it was ~The First NF of Its Format~ (so basically doing what Lithuania did last year when they rebranded Atranka into PiN).

INCIDENTALLY, this would also wind up the best NF of the year, pretty much by default because France had the most to win. Even though Barbara was the obvious winner from the instant the songs were revealed, the French had some excellent back-up options in their arsenal. Let’s rummage through them shall we?

LMK - “Magique”

R&B Trap wench <3 “Magique” starts off pretty and cute for fifteen seconds, before whiplashing hard into kick-ass tropical house territory. Her Slovene spirit mothers Raiven and Lea Sirk are so proud of her <3 She definitely deserved much better than the result she got (being NQ with the audience O_O), but lol it’s France, they ain’t NEVER crowning a sexually confident sassy woman, let’s not kid ourselves. 

Céphaz - “On a mangé le soleil”

This Hat God had me at that title. “We have eaten the sun” 😍😍😍😍. More songs should adopt a fatalistic environmental angle by using consumption-related metaphors à la “we’ve devoured out planet :burp:, MOAR”, and then set this suuuuper cynical and depressing text to an upbeat and optimistic soundtrack <3 The “Hey ya” tease of it all. 😍

Amui - “Maeva”

So cheerful it turns a surly cretin such as myself into a blundering mass of uwu. It’s like a nillies Eurovision semi NQ’er suddenly wandered into the set, so derivative and repetitive and tacky but SO fun and happy-go-lucky <3 The entire premise of “Maeva” is basically like: “VISIT FRENCH POLYNESIA, WE ARE THE MOST HOSPITABLE PEOPLE ON THIS EARTH” <333 using this message in the middle of a worldwide viral pandemic <33333333 Normally fun-trash like this would be murdered at first sight by any jury, but whoops “Maeva” turned out a massive televote hit HEHEE 😛 and finished third in the televote despite being last or second last with the jury. Those Tahitian diasporia votes coming through <3

Adriamad - “Allélujah”

TACKY EUROTRASH <3 Lol when I think of it, did I like this NF because it was good or because it was so fun-trash. Anyway, this display of diversity would normally be on my shitlist but it’s honestly SO OTT in its ~People Of The World Of All Colours Are Equal~ message it circles back into funny. The eye gimmick, the hammy choreography, the obnoxious fusion of several cultures into a nondescript ethnotrash hodgepodge, the fucking LYRICS everything is so funny and so entertaining it’s giving me LIFE. 😍 I’d say it deserved better but “Allélujah” stranding in the demifinal (not a typo) is honestly a much, much more satisfying result <3

Predicted Journey - France

Barbara is going on that Mahmood trajectory, I see. Early fave who gets near unanimous critical acclaim, rules solely on top until the other contenders show up and is then put on the backburner because she’s an autoqualifier and therefore isn’t a part of the “who will qualify?” discussions. Then, the rehearsals will happen and everyone will remember “hey, that French chick we almost forgot about is actually REALLY good” allowing her to pick up momentum again, catapulting her into the top five. So it is written, such it shall be.

The question is... Can she win? 

The answer is: yeah, possibly? At this point we have three potential contenders: Gjon for Switzerland and Destiny for Malta are the main rivals and I’d say Barbara has one big advantage over Gjon and Destiny: She already has a great live performance to back up her potential winner status. In fact, Barbara is a fave to win because we know what she’s going to bring in Rotterdam.  Gjon and Destiny could theoretically still bomb if their staging is off (and both are getting theirs done by Sasha Jean-Baptiste, soooooo) and their contenderness is based on things such as hype and expectation. Barbara meanwhile already had her baptism by fire when she competed in E:CQVD, which she handily won.

The problem though is Gjon Muharremaj. For the average eurofan, France and Switzerland have similar entries and it will result in a tug-of-war between which of them has the better song. Either could win this televote bout, and whoever does could beat Malta.. .but that would require Malta to have a disappointing televote result and with each passing day this is starting to look less likely. (Jury results matter less because they’re probably the top 3).  Personally I don’t really have a preference between Barbara OR Destiny as a win for either would push Eurovision in a better direction (A Gjon win though... I am TERRIFIED that may result in a 2022 contest filled with Vincent Bueno’s and Vasils), but if these three are indeed the top three, Barbara’s position is the most secure although she’s probably also the least likely one to actually win. Pray that I’m wrong though and we can all meet at her flat in Montmartre for a covid-proof afterparty. 

Projected placements:

> Grandfinal: 1st-5th (predicted Runner-up)

THE RANKING: 

01. 02. 03. 04. 05. 06. 07. 08. FRANCE - Barbara Pravi - “Voilà” 09. BULGARIA - Victoria - “Growing up is getting old” 10. LATVIA - Samanta Tina - “The moon is rising” 11. GREECE - Stefania - “Last dance” 12. SWEDEN - Tusse - “Voices” 13. IRELAND - Leslie Roy - “Maps” 14. CROATIA - Albina - “Tick Tock” 15. MOLDOVA - Natalia Gordienko - “Sugar” 16. ITALY - Måneskin - “Zitti e buoni” 17. ALBANIA - Anxhela Peristeri - “Karma” 18. UNITED KINGDOM - James Newman - “Embers” 19. LITHUANIA - The Roop - “Discoteque” 20. ESTONIA - Uku Suviste - “The lucky one” 21. FINLAND - Blind Channel - “Dark side” 22. AZERBAIJAN - Efendi - “Mata Hari” 23. the NETHERLANDS - Jeangu Macrooy - “Birth of a new age” 24. CZECH REPUBLIC - Benny Christo - “Omaga” 25. DENMARK - Fyr og Flamme - “Øve os på hinanden” 26. SLOVENIA - Ana Soklič - “Amen” 27. SWITZERLAND - Gjon’s Tears - “Tout l’Univers” 28. ROMANIA - Roxen - “Amnesia” 29. SERBIA - Huricane - “Loco loco” 30. POLAND - Rafał - “The ride” 31. ISRAEL - Eden Alene - “Set me free” 32. GEORGIA - Tornike Kipiani - “You” 33. PORTUGAL - The Black Mamba - “Love is on my side” 34. SPAIN - Blas Cantó - “Voy a quedarme” 35. NORWAY - Tix - “Fallen Angel” 36. CYPRUS - Elena Tsagrinou - “El Diablo” 37. AUSTRIA - Vincent Bueno - “Amen” 38. NORTH MACEDONIA - Vasil - “Here I stand” 39. GERMANY - Jendrik - “I don’t feel hate”

[stormyleighblog]

The House of Cyn Burlesque Show is this Friday and I’m beyond excited to start off the Halloween season with this wildly and wickedly wonderful show! 🎃 See devilish, eerie, ghoulish and mysterious burlesque acts with incredible costumes and makeup, ornate headdresses, glittery gowns, whirling and twirling tassels, and much, much more!!! 💀 This cast has gone all out to make this a night to remember and we invite you to join us for an evening of amazement, amusement, and enchantment! The opportunity to perform the art of striptease for an appreciative audience is a thrill beyond compare - Burlesque is my passion! It is my sincere pleasure to collaborate with award-winning Surly Wench First Fridays Burlesque, featuring Tucson and Southern Arizona’s most entertaining performers in House of Cyn Burlesque Show. I thank each and every one of you for your support! Yours cruelly, Stormy Leigh, The Tasseled Tornado #surlywenchburlesque #stormyshouseofcyn #tucsonnightlife Follow Surly Wench Burlesque @surly_wench_burlesque https://www.instagram.com/p/CUYFl0GvItc/?utm_medium=tumblr

[samthemarvelfan]

Graveyard: Chapter 2

-Coming Up Empty-

Summary: How could someone who once held your heart, be so heartless?

Pairing: Loki Odinson x OFC

Warnings: Sexual language, innuendos, threatening, Loki is a dick. Degradation.

A/N: Flashbacks are italicized. This chapter gives a brief look into why our reader is feeling the way she is. Enjoy! <3

After your much-needed, albeit not exactly relaxing bath, you felt 1000 times better. The grime and filth that had cemented into your hair and under your nails was gone, and you began to feel like yourself again.

Loki had given you privacy to get ready for dinner with the Grandmaster which, in turn, kept you from punching him in the face.

You’re still shaken. Shaken from both this place and the God with whom you’re stuck. It’s like he’s erased you from his memory. All the time you’d spent together, the memories...it means nothing to him. He’d kill you, you know he would, if you got in his way.

You’d have to survive. Survive just long enough to get back to Asgard and help your people. Then you would strike, when the time was right.

The dress he’d created for you was stunning, and it fit you like a glove. The silk felt like a mother’s hug around your body. It’s deep emerald complimented your skin tone beautifully, there was a very, very high slit over your left leg, and a sweetheart neckline to enhance your bosom perfectly.

Compliments of the God of Lies, no doubt.

After doing what you managed to call styling your hair, you’d found a toiletries bag hidden in a cupboard. Comb, toothbrush, deodorant, perfume and a few other bits and bobs.

For a nutjob he’s pretty hospitable to his guests.

“I’m ready, let’s get this trip to hell over with.” You gripe, stepping out into his room with your hands on your hips.

Loki is stood by the door, and when scans your body, he smirks.

“And what, may I ask, is so funny?”

Loki simply grabs his cloak and throws it on. “Nothing. You look like the perfect little wench. Let’s go, we shouldn’t be late—I watched this man melt his cousin.”

After quickly gagging at that sentence, you pressed on.

The walk to the banquet hall is silent, as you’d expect. What in Odin’s name were you suppose to say? So, how are things since you murdered your father? Cast any fun spells as of late? Does my home—our home lay in ruin?

It was hard to believe there was a time when you’d have done anything for Loki. The memories make you retreat into yourself, to a time when you weren’t one of the fiercest warriors in all of Asgard...

...but to a time when you were his.

“If you even think about trying that move on me, Loki Odinson, I can assure you I’ll be more than happy to cut off your favorite horn.” You threaten, holding up a dagger.

Loki laughed, “Why would I want to do anything that might scar that pretty face of yours, Ellaria?”

You feel the heat rise to your cheeks. “Stop using my full name—you know I hate that.”

His daggers vanish into his sleeves, and stalks towards you slowly, keeping your gaze the entire time. When he reaches you, you look down and cross your arms, using the gesture like a shield from him.

Loki thumbs your cheek, “...and you know I think it’s a beautiful name, for a beautiful woman.”

The butterflies soar in your stomach. “Loki...” you warn meekly.

“Yes, darling...what is it?” He whispers, and cups your face with both hands.

“What if someone sees?” The words are barely audible, but they don’t have to be—they’re only for him.

He smiles softly, “Let them. One day, I will be King, and anyone who dares interfere with my heart will be for the sword.”

“Your Father—“

“My Father...” Loki starts hatefully, but he calms, and lets his hands fall from your cheeks to hold your own, “Even he cannot stop my love for you. No one can.”

The sound of a whistle brings you back to reality.

“Ooo-hoo! Someone certainly looks like they’ve been worn out.” It’s the Grandmaster—mere inches from your face.

When did we get here? And why the hell is this guy so theatrical?

Loki’s arm snakes around your waist, “Indeed. I’ve decided I’d like to keep this one, Grandmaster. If that’s acceptable. I quite enjoy having a pet around”

The sickening grin on his face is enough to make you wretch.

“Of course! It’s so rare that you find the perfect consort to satisfy. And she’s so put together, not used like all of mine. What a shame I didn’t get to her first. Topaz, isn’t it a shame?”

The surly beast of a woman is once again stood by his side. “Mmm.” She grunts.

An incredibly painful silence falls between the group of you, before Grandmaster speaks. “Where are my manners? Dinner is served, please take a seat anywhere.”

Loki grips your arm yet again, and you wince. He either doesn’t know his own strength, or he’d doing it purposefully because it hurts much more than it before.

“Sit.” He commands, pointing at a seat. Ever the gentleman, he pulls out his own, but not yours.

Asshole. You think loudly, and his gaze returns to you.

“I thought you’d be grateful, pet. Not many masters allow their whores to dine with them. Isn’t that right, Grandmaster?” Loki’s asks, not breaking your eye contact.

Ouch.

The insults flowing from his mouth are coming far too easily, almost as though to make them clear he means them.

He probably does mean them. You think.

The GM—your new nickname for him, is at the head of the table. “No way. In fact, most of my ‘pleasure providers’ eat off of the floor in the corner. I can have a server bring her—“

“No, no.” Loki assures, “I only mean to condition her, so she knows just how fortunate she is to have been found by such a benevolent God.”

Taking you’re seat, you feel everyone’s eyes on you. Why are you so bothered? You’re a warrior, tougher than half the men on Asgard. But right now you’ve been reduced to nothing; simply a whore in a nice dress.

The ravenous appetite you’ve had your entire stay on Sakaar vanishes. All the while Loki is seemingly basking in the adoration he received for being a ‘king’. No matter what degradation or humiliation was tossed your way, he simply smiled and agreed with them.

How could you? You think loudly, but you know you’d never get an answer. This Loki felt nothing; no remorse, guilt, or love—he’s empty.

The strain in your throat made your bottom lip quiver. No, Ella. You curse yourself. Not here, you will not be made to feel this way. Not by him.

The evening dragged on, and on...and on. You were starving by the end of it, regretting not eating earlier, but you refused to let anyone know that. Besides, would they care? You’re just a pet to them after all.

“So, will you and yours be joining us on the pleasure vessel? I hate to brag, but my orgies are known far and wide to be absolutely wild.” The GM says giddily.

Loki’s smile is one of obligation, “I’m afraid not. I have high standards, and she doesn’t meet them yet. I wouldn’t want her embarrassing me.”

That one knocked the wind out if you. You felt your eyes watering and had to bite back the tears. He doesn’t remember...or he doesn’t care too.

You want to go home. Back to the warmth of your bed. Where your people were, your friends...you want the life you once had back.

You want Loki to be Loki again.

Once back in Loki’s chambers, you head straight for the bathing room, ignoring his protests and snide commentary.

The overwhelming severity of everything hits you suddenly. Your hand flies to your mouth, muffling the sob trying so hard to escape your lungs.

You slide down onto the floor and weep. How long has it been since your cried like this? You couldn’t remember. Your body racked with grief as you attempt to come to grips with your new normal.

The Loki you knew is dead. The memories you have from all those life times ago mean nothing. You mean nothing—not to him.

The sound of footsteps getting closer to the door silent your sobs. You stand quickly, attempting to wipe away any evidence of your cry-fest.

Loki barges in, dressed in black silk nightwear. “Here, I had the servants bring you something to sleep in.”

You still haven’t spoken, or looked at him. Holding a hand out, you clear your throat. “Fine.”

He tuts, “Perhaps a ‘thank you, my liege’ is in order.” He’s jesting, you know he is. There’s no mistaking that tone.

But you don’t care, not right now. You look up at him with swollen, red eyes. “Thank you, sire. Would you like me to fawn at your feet? Perhaps do all of the unspeakable things you’ve allowed that psycho to presume I’ve been doing, hm?”

Loki is almost taken aback by the state you’re in. “Ellaria,” he says in a tone you hadn’t heard in years. Warning, but not threatening.

You cry out. “I’m not your whore! You’ve known me our whole lives, and yet you degrade me and humiliate for sport. You allow these people to believe you’d have no problem discarding my body once you’ve gotten all you can get out of it.”

His face is unreadable as always. His emotions are in complete control, as is his tone. “You are all of those things here,” He says harshly. “It would do you well to remember that.”

Your heart, along with whatever scrap of care or hope you had for him, breaks.

 Loki—your Loki, is truly gone.

“Dress. You need to sleep.” He mumbles, leaving you to it.

The tears return, if only for a moment. You let out a long sigh, and will your self the strength to get through this hell.

Once dressed in your sleepwear—a black, silk nightgown, you exit the bathing room to see Loki laid up in his bed. Content as ever.

You’d searched the room and spotted a chair across from the windows. That’ll have to do. You lay across it as best you can, not fitting entirely, but enough so only your lower legs hung off.

Still better than a cell floor.

“What are you doing?” Loki calls, his eyes still closed.

You ignore him, and shut your eyes as well.

“Answer me. I don’t like repeating myself.”

You sigh, “I’m going to sleep. Leave me alone.”

You twist on the chair, attempting to find some kind of comfortable relief, but there isn’t any. You both know it.

“Come here. Now. Do not test my patience again.” He commands.

You stand, walking to the foot of his bed. “What now? What could you possibly have left to say to me?”

Loki’s nostrils flair, “You may join me.” He gestures to the bed.

You scoff. “No thanks, I’d rather take the floor.”

You spin around, about to settle into the carpet, when you’re suddenly scooped up and thrown onto the bed.

“Loki! Stop it!” You shout.

He ignores you, and get in as well. You scoot as far away as you can go.

“Sleep. You need your rest.” He says quietly, throwing an arm over his eyes.

You wish you could hide the content sigh that escaped you, but this bed was heaven. Soft, warm, and so big. You could spend days here just recovering on all the sleepless nights you’d had.

“Next time food is presented to you, you will eat.” Loki warns, “I don’t need you withering away to nothing...not when I need you.”

Damn curiosity got to you. “What do you need me for, Loki?” It comes out like a whisper, but you couldn’t have mustered more strength if you tried.

He chuckled lightly, “You, my dear pet, are going to help me get back my crown.”

tagging:

@jessiejunebug @babyboybucky

[rzeqvrtz]

&&. cauldron above, ( saria young ) was just spotted in the fae lands — word has it ( she ) is affiliated with ( the winter court ). ( she ) is a(n) ( 70 / appears 21 ) year old ( lesser fae ). it’s been said that ( she ) resembles ( freya mavor ). ( she ) has been said to be ( friendly & earnest ) but also quite ( shy & clumsy ). ( she ) is currently serving as ( tatiana valentina’s handmaiden ).

                                               ~*{ run, doe eyes }*~

full name: saria elizabeth young

born: september 27th | libra

aesthetics: oversized sweaters, new spring buds, freckles that look like constellations, the smell of old books, barefeet, hidden glances, longing looks, red cheeks, pastel pink, fresh baked goods, nervous giggles, sleeping in until noon, clean laundry, gardenia flowers, hummingbird kisses

basic physical stats: 5’4 | gold-blonde hair | blue eyes |

distinctive features: freckles | full breasted | curly hair

notable connections: arielle deerling, hazar korkmaz, the spring court, the valentina family, the winter court

wings

biography:

It is not often that the Lesser Fae of Astralis are anything other than what their name entails; lesser than the other great fae species on the magical continent, living their lives peacefully together and one with nature. But, from time to time, fate throws the normal out into the wind. A twist of fate is what began the lonely life of Saria Young, starting with her mother and father.

Both of Saria’s parents were lesser fae, but it was her mother who belonged to a family who existed slightly higher than the rest. Lesser fae lived together in sprawling towns and villages across the Courts of Astralis, and her mother’s family was no different, yet her grandfather had managed to make a name for himself within their commune only several miles away from Deerling Castle and the Avalon City. A cutthroat man with little regard for the struggles of others, he quite literally fell into a fortune when he happened upon a dragon’s cave lair some three hundred years ago while out exploring Cloverwood Forrest, though he did not slay the dragon himself. Rather, the dragon appeared to have passed on to the next life because of old age. Her grandfather took all the gold and jewels he could carry and brought it back to the small home he shared with his wife. With their new found wealth, Saria’s grandfather and grandmother quickly invested in trade and commerce, and over the next several decades, would become one of those few lesser fae who were able to climb the social ladder. Though her grandparents would never be close to the status of a lord or lady, they were still influential merchants all the same, and her grandfather would eventually become something of a local legend and leader of their small village.

After their wealth and life had become solidified, Saria’s mother was born — a picture of sunshine golden curls, freckled skin, and soft spoken brown eyes. As she was a daughter born into somewhat better circumstances than other lesser fae like her, Saria’s grandparents expected her to marry someone who was not lesser fae, instead setting their sights on the other, more renowned species of Astralis fae. But it is not uncommon for children to rebel against parents who try to plan their child’s life for them — and while it is from she who Saria gets her shyness and gentle charm, her mother could not help but rebel, though not intentionally. Once upon a time, a handsome lesser fae man with crystal blue eyes hailing from the Winter Court happened upon their village. 

Their love would not last. Rather, it was nothing but a game to the strange man — he seduced the young blonde over several weeks, and when they finally shared a night beneath the constellations together in the warm embrace of Spring, he was gone the next morning without a trace. Heart broken and ashamed that she had been tricked into giving herself to someone who did not love her, Saria’s mother finally agreed to do as her parents willed. But before she could be married, she soon discovered she was pregnant. Saria’s grandparents locked her away in the hopes that nobody would notice, that they could be rid of the bastard child born of lust, and eventually marry their daughter to the fae of their choosing.

Saria’s mother became ill during her pregnancy, and though the midwives thought they would lose the child, the mother was lost instead. Just as Saria took her first breath, her mother took her last. Her grandparents were heartbroken. Saria might have had an easy life, might have grown up with a loving family to call her own… Saria looked so much like her mother that her grandparents considered raising her as their own. But soon, Saria would open her eyes for the first time, and that imaginary life was shattered. Blue eyes, like her father — crystal blue eyes that ruined the illusion that Saria might be the daughter that they had lost.

Her grandfather ordered their servants to get rid of her — but her grandmother knew what that might entail, and behind her husband’s back and surly the opposite of what he wanted, and in her guilt she paid the servant to find a place where Saria might grow up happy. That is how Saria Young arrived in Avalon City, left in a swaddle of fabric outside the entrance to the kitchens of Deerling Castle, and where she would grow from child into young woman.

Saria’s childhood was not an easy one — though her fellow servants in Deerling Castle were kind, it could not be helped that Saria was an outsider. The other servants her age thought her strange because of her shyness, and she had never been good at making friends — her voice would shake whenever she tried, and try as she might to run and play with the servant’s children her own age, she was too small to keep up and too meek to participate in their banter. Many had a hand in raising her, but none of them ever truly considered her family — there were many nights where Saria tucked herself into bed, and many more where she fell asleep wondering about the family who had left her behind.

Once she was old enough, Saria became a kitchen wench in the kitchens. Though she was not at all a fine cook, she found solace in baking every sweet under the Spring sun. In the kitchens, she could hide herself away and clean the pots and pans, and use the ovens once everybody had fallen asleep. It was in these years that Saria would grow from an awkward teenager — a phase that seemed to last well past her 50th birthday — into a beautiful young woman. Over time, Saria had managed to make true friends within the castle… including a handsome knight whom made her cheeks warm and her heart flutter. Finally, the cook — one of many who had helped raised her, and the closest thing she had to a father figure despite that their relationship consisted mostly of his chastising — decided Saria’s skills would be better used elsewhere. 

This was how Saria became a chambermaid to none other than Princess Arielle Deerling — a ray of sunshine who Saria was several decades older than. Saria had always had something of a softspot for the young princess — it was Saria who knew her favorite sweets for desert despite not yet having met her — because she knew what it was like to grow up without a mother. Saria did her best to make the princess as comfortable as possible, quickly learning how to fluff her overstuffed pillows and arrange her luxurious duvet just so. As Arielle quickly grew into a beautiful young nymph right before Saria’s very eyes, they became close friends — and though her elder brothers Ares and Apollo made Saria extremely nervous with their womanizing ways, nothing made Saria happier than watching the Deerling siblings interact and laugh with one another. For a decade, Saria remained in Arielle’s service, and it was no surprise that the two were fast friends. During this ten or so years as a chambermaid, Saria was happier than she’d ever been in the kitchens, despite that she would still sneak away in the night and return in the morning covered in flour. 

Saria was perfectly content to spend the rest of her life as a servant to the princess, but even though she had no complaints about her life, Saria could not help but wonder about her own family and what might have been. Who was her mother? Did she look like her? Was her father a brave knight like the one she watched so closely with a racing heart? These questions simmered and simmered in her golden-curled head, until she finally gained the courage to ask the cook what he might know of her past. The cook was not able to tell her much, instead directing her to the woman who had found her outside the castle; the one who had taken her from her grandparent’s servant. Knowing Saria would come asking one day, she told her what little information she could. Her mother had died giving birth to her, and her father was nowhere to be found… but she had kept up with rumors over the years, and was able to find out that he was a lesser fae of the Winter Court. With this new information, Saria could not help that her curiosity grew until it was a tremendous force that would not leave her mind. 

It was no surprise that Princess Arielle could tell something was bothering her friend. Saria would eventually tell her of her thoughts of her father — supposedly living and the only true family she had in the world. Excitable as always, Arielle eagerly declared that it was Saria’s destiny to find him. During her service to Arielle, Saria had met the High Lord and Princess of the Winter Court, Viktor and Tatiana Valentina. Though she would be sad to see her go, Arielle encouraged her to travel to the Winter Court and work as a handmaid for the Winter princess. Mortified, Saria tried to turn down the idea. How could she work for Tataiana, when secretly she had been watching Viktor for years? They had only spoken briefly, of course — nothing like the conversations she had with her knight, though he had left Deerling Castle — but…

But Viktor Valentina was a dream, one that constantly visited her in the night as she slept. A man she always asked after in the softest voice possible, checking her reflection in polished silver each time she knew he would be visiting Spring. She loved her knight, though she did not know the complications of their relationship until much later, but Viktor? Viktor was always kind to her, with his dark eyes and curly dark hair… the man she wished would fall in love with her, just like in the stories of common girls and princes finding their hearts were one. 

Despite insisting she remain, it was not long before Arielle secured her new employment. Everything happened in such a whirlwind after that. One minute, Saria was basking in the glow of Spring, and the next, she was packing her meager belongings and arriving in Matovaya Zemlya with her delicate hummingbird wings tucked into warm furs. She has only been a citizen of the Winter Court for a short time — a handmaid, now, and working all the more closer with the man of her dreams — and doing all she can to find her father… but Saria has a secret that she is too embarrassed to reveal, and believes her goal might be unachievable. How can she find any written proof of her father’s whereabouts in Winter when she was never taught to read?

Though her time in Winter has not been long, Saria is determined to prove her worth to the Valentinas; specifically to Princess Tatiana. The Princess, closer to her age than Arielle, is certainly a handful, though Saria has always enjoyed her visits with Arielle. Saria has vowed to be the best she can be because of Arielle’s kindness, and hopes that she and Tatiana can become just as close; the friendship has already begun to blossom, and Saria — despite her initial reluctance — is thrilled to be a member of her household. Fate is a fickle thing, and somehow, a lesser fae commoner — a servant in every form — has managed to gain the trust of not one, but two giggly, excitable, and eternally kind princesses. Though she has left the Spring Court behind, little does she know, familiar faces run wild in her new frosted home...

[craykaycee]

imagine the theatre kid starts to show itself in them when they get frustrated

tag urself I'm an unmuzzled motley-minded dewberry

[Text version under cut]

Column 1: artless, bawdy, beslubbering, bootless, churlish, cockered, clouted, craven, currish, dankish, dissembling, droning, errant, fawning, fobbing, froward, frothy, gleeking, goatish, gorbellied impertinent, infectious, jarring, loggerheaded, lumpish, mammering, mangled, mewling, paunchy, pribbling, puking, puny, qualling, rank reeky, roguish, ruttish, saucy, spleeny, spongy, surly, tottering, unmuzzled, vain, venomed, villainous, warped, wayward, weedy, yeasty

Column 2: base-court, bat-fowling, beef-witted, beetle-headed, boil-brained, clapper-clawed, clay-brained, common-kissing, crook-pated, dismal-dreaming, dizzy-eyed, doghearted, dread-bolted, earth-vexing, elf-skinned, fat-kidneyed, fen-sucked, flap-mouthed, fly-bitten, folly-fallen, fool-born, full-gorged, guts-griping, half-faced, hasty-witted, hedge-born, hell-hated, idle-headed, ill-breeding, ill-nurtured, knotty-pated, milk-livered, motley-minded, onion-eyed, plume-plucked, pottle-deep, pox-marked, reeling-ripe, rough-hewn, rude-growing, rump-fed, shard-borne, sheep-biting, spur-galled, swag-bellied, tardy-gaited, tickle-brained, toad-spotted, unchin-snouted, weather-bitten

Column 3: apple-john, baggage, barnacle, bladder, boar-pig, bugbear, bum-bailey, canker-blossom, clack-dish, clotpole, coxcomb, codpiece, death-token, dewberry, flap-dragon, flax-wench, flirt-gill, foot-licker, fustilarian, giglet, gudgeon, haggard, harpy, hedge-pig, horn-beast, hugger-mugger, joithead, lewdster, lout, maggot-pie, malt-worm, mammet, measle, minnow, miscreant, moldwarp, mumble-news, nut-hook, pigeon-egg, pignut, puttock, pumpion, ratsbane, scut, skainsmate, strumpet, varlot, vassal, whey-face, wagtail

oh golly I rly typed all of that

I have a sudden need to see Sun/Moon use Shakespearean insults

[the-lupine-sojourner]

A Bond Not Easily Broken [Thorn Oakenshield/Elf!Reader]

Here is another request! This one is from @queenofmankind​ who is a very very sweet person and a joy to work with. :) I tried to include everything from our discussions, Queen! 

Anyway, this fic is loosely based on the song Gemini Feed by Banks. 

Alrighty! Let’s get into it! Please note that this is being put up with not much proofreading cus I’m tired lol. 

I do hope you guys enjoy it anyway! :) 

God Bless and Good Day!

~The Lupine Sojourner

You never would have thought it possible, but now there was no denying it. 

Your love, your One, was a surly, easily angered Dwarf King leading an attempt to reclaim Erebor from Smaug. 

The trouble was, he didn’t care about the fact that the pair of you were likely supposed to be as One being before Iluvatar. 

Thorin had been nothing but bad-tempered, gruff, and passive-aggressive toward you from the moment you’d joined the Company. 

Balin had told you Thorin held an old grudge against the elves for failing to come to the inhabitants of Erebor’s aid when Smaug forced them from their home.

While that was a tragic tale, seeing the way he acted toward you soon banished any empathy you had held for him. 

At first, he had the sense to at least grumble about you when you were on the other side of the camp where you could barely hear what he was saying, but within weeks he’d taken to insulting you and all elves to your face. 

You tried to fight fire with fire, but that only enraged him more, so you tried to give him a better impression of elves by being nice. 

You would set up his bedroll for him, make sure he got the first helping of the food, and fill his waterskin for him, among other things, but he’d only gruffly dismiss you with a ‘Thank you’ that was anything but sincere. 

At the peak of your frustration and anger at the dwarf leader, you’d turned to Balin, who’d been a boon, accepting your role in the Company (something of a negotiator/ambassador from Rivendell) with the good grace you’d hoped for from Thorin.

You and Balin had discussed the emerging bond between you and Thorin, and you asked him if he was aware of the bond. 

Balin shook his head. “If he is, and he likely is, he’s not going to be easy to win, lass. He feels he has been betrayed by Elves and his heart is hardened toward them.” That information helped you understand where Thorin’s attitude toward you came from, but it did nothing to ease your anger and frustration. 

You yourself had been orphaned at a young age when orcs and goblins had attacked a band of elves who’d been searching for a new place to settle. Lord Elrond had heard of the tragedy and offered you and the few other survivors sanctuary at Imladris.

Why could you rise above your past when Thorin drowned himself in it? Couldn’t Thorin see the damage he was inflicting on himself by continuing to hold on his grudge?

You soon decided that, since Thorin was not acknowledging you, you decided to get to know the others in the band, to various degrees of acceptance. 

Fili and Kili, Thorin’s nephews, were a charming pair, you found, and you felt at ease around them, often riding or walking beside them and talking about many different things. 

You would sometimes notice Thorin glaring at you and the boys from the head of the Company, but you didn’t understand why he was so opposed to you talking to his nephews and thus continued your friendship with them. 

And then, when you and the Dwarves had finally arrived at Erebor, it all came to a head. 

He became positively nasty, lashing out at any who dared question him, and to you he was downright harsh and cruel. 

No longer was he passive-aggressive; he was not hiding when he insulted you and your race. He even targeted you specifically more often, and his words were like knives in your heart. 

No amount of talking and pleading from you and the Company could snap Thorin out of his foul mood. 

Bilbo, that dear little Hobbit, had done his best to comfort you, but even he was dismayed at how intense this ‘Gold Sickness’ Balin spoke of gripped Thorin. 

That evening, after the gruff but honorable bowman from Laketown (Bard, wasn’t it?) had tried and failed to negotiate terms for honoring Thorin’s oath that ‘all would share in the wealth of the mountain’, Thorin was in the worst mood you had seen yet. 

It had been a foolish idea for you of all people to bring Thorin supper, but there you were. 

“Leave it there. Begone!” Thorin barks, nodding toward a table nearby. 

You set your jaw as you set the bowl down. “A simple ‘thank you’ would be appreciated.” You grumble without thinking. “Honestly, Thorin, I don’t know why you seem to hate me, but- -” 

“Did you not hear me?” Thorin growls, rudely interrupting you and stalking closer to you. “I said ‘begone’!” 

“I heard you. I am not leaving. You have no right to treat me the way you have, king or not!” You had suffered his ill will long enough. It was time to fight back. “I have tried to be gracious and give you time to adjust to my presence, but you have only grown worse! This mountain has driven you mad, Thorin. We’ve all noticed it. You are not yourself!” 

“And what do you know about me, wench?!” Thorin roars, eyes narrowed dangerously. 

“I know enough!” You retort hotly. “I know Fili and Kili admire you, though I can’t see why!” 

“Do not speak to me of my sister’s sons!” Thorin snaps, drawing away contemptuously. “The traitors.” he grits his teeth, whirling furiously on you, “I have seen the way you ingratiate yourself to them, and my company. Even the burglar has fallen to your charms. They shall soon see your true nature and break off your friendship, but at present they are still blind and foolish.” 

You back up a step. That...that had hurt more than you thought it would. “And just what, may I ask is my true nature, since you apparently know me so well?!” You demand, all pretense of control of yourself long gone. 

“You and your kin are all oath-breakers and cowards!” Thorin’s voice had risen in bitterness and fury, his eyes blazing with hatred. “Elves claim allegiance and swear fealty, but when the moment arrives for that oath to be fulfilled, you turn your back! You leave those you swore loyalty to suffering and in need!” 

“I’m from Rivendell, you asinine Dwarf!” Your voice, too, had become bitter and harsh, the bottled hurt and emotions now flooding out. “It was Thranduil’s decision whether or not to help you defeat Smaug! Given his previous battles against dragons, he elected not to risk his subjects to dragonfire and slaughter! You hold a grudge against Thranduil, and perhaps it has some merit, but you cannot extend that bitterness to all elves, and you know it!” 

“Elves are always the same! Lord Elrond claimed to know my grandfather, and yet no aid came from him when we had to forsake our home and flee!” 

“He was too far away to offer aid!” You counter, pointing out what you thought was obvious. 

But Thorin was too far entrenched in his anger to even notice you had spoken.

“The elves care for nothing beyond their affairs! Oathbreakers, every one of them!” 

“I have stood by my oath to offer my services, in case you have forgotten!” You thunder, unwilling to stand by and be insulted.

“For my gold, no doubt.” You shudder subtly at the way Thorin’s voice became something of a hiss, “You and Thranduil are so alike, only offering aid when it results in riches or favors. There is no true loyalty in elves.” 

The insult to your sense of loyalty, which you had always tried to uphold, was the final straw. 

You draw up to your full height, eyes filled with furious tears and hatred. You could no longer believe that Thorin was truly your One, your love. 

Fate must surely be mistaken. 

“Then you will not be surprised when I take my leave.” Your voice was icy, concealing the hurricane of hurt and fury beneath it as you spoke with forced calm. “From the moment I decided to travel with you, you have been nothing but cruel and filled with hatred toward me. I have stood it thus far, but no longer. Do battle with Thranduil and Bard if that is your desire. Be slaughtered with your entire Company. I no longer claim allegiance or affiliation with you, Thorin Oakenshield. I sever my ties to you and your company.” You turn on your heel before the tears fell, cursing him in Elvish inwardly though your treacherous heart was almost willing to turn back, to see what effect, if any, your words had on Thorin.

His guttural, enraged Khuzdul, which you assumed was his own curses to you, made up your mind for you and you stalked from the room, tears falling down your cheeks and sobs wracking your throat as you retrieve your belongings hastily, unable to bear staying in Erebor a moment longer. 

“Where are you going?” You jolt and spin to see who had spoken, the pack slipping with a dull thud to the floor. “You can’t just leave.” 

Poor Bilbo was standing there, confusion and hurt in his eyes. You embrace him. 

“You, Fili, Kili, and Balin were my only comfort on this venture, but I was wrong to leave Rivendell, I was wrong to think- -” You shudder at the thought of rejecting your one chance at love, but it had been made so painfully clear Thorin had rejected you first, so there was no hope for your happiness now. “I can’t stay.” You croak, voice half-strangled by a sob as more tears flow. “This place is torturous! I can’t stand it!” 

“Please don’t go.” Bilbo’s voice breaks what little was left of your heart after Thorin had shattered it. 

“Oh, Bilbo. I wish you the best of luck, but I cannot remain here. I cannot.” You lean down and retrieve your pack and the last few items, shoving them inside and securing the flap over the sack before slinging it onto your shoulders. “Please give my regards to the others.” With that, you string your bow across your shoulders and force yourself to leave without looking back, even though everything in you longed to find a way to stay, if only for Bilbo’s sake. 

=#=#=#=#=

You chose to sneak into Thranduil’s camp rather than simply walk in, not expecting to find Gandalf in the camp. 

You’d been passing Thranduil’s tent when you heard the wizard’s voice. 

From there, you wait til he emerges and ask to speak to Gandalf privately.

“I see things did not happen as I intended.” He muses sadly when you explain yourself. “I had hoped he could resist his petty prejudices and the Gold Sickness, but they were more persistent than I realized.” 

“What do you mean?” You ask. 

“Have you not felt the thread of fate connecting you to Thorin?” Gandalf asks. 

“Like a shackle.” You confess, tears brimming afresh at all the things Thorin had said and done in his rejection. “He has rejected it.” 

“I am not so certain, but that remains to be confirmed.” Gandalf comments shrewdly. “I am truly sorry you could not find happiness, [Y/N].” 

“I was a fool to think I could love him and he love me in return.” You were so exhausted from the day’s events you couldn’t bring yourself to feel much of anything anymore. Gandalf’s kind arm went around you as your eyes begin to drift closed. 

“Do not give up hope just yet, my dear. Thorin Oakenshield may surprise you yet.” Was the last thing you heard as sleep overtook you. 

=#=#=#=#=

The next morning was agony. 

Your heart, that treacherous organ which had been trod on and abused so harshly, yearned for the Company, and perhaps to continue attempting to get through to Thorin despite your words yesterday. 

You noted in despair that overnight the dwarves had barricaded the entrance, doubtless on Thorin’s orders, so any entrance to Erebor was now impossible unless Thorin wished it. 

The Company had foolishly shut the secret door once Smaug had left and now the only other entrance to Erebor was barricaded.

You couldn’t go back to the Company if you wanted to, now.

There was, perhaps, a part of you that had said the harsh words in the hopes that it would come as enough of a shock that Thorin would break free of the sickness that gripped him and beg you to stay.

You had hoped, should he have broken free at your words, that he’d become the dwarf Fili and Kili described from their childhood. 

That version of Thorin, surely, wouldn’t have treated a lady, much less his One, the way the present Thorin had. 

You hoped he might have gone after you, but it seemed Thorin was as cold and impassive as ever.

There were only two options in regards to the fragile bond between you and Thorin; you could either miraculously work it out and come to realize how happy you could make each other (highly unlikely) or you could sever the bond and live without the feeling of being with your One the rest of your very, very long life and perhaps even in the Grey Havens, should you be premitted to journey there.

When the thought of snapping the bond occured to you, you paled, clutching your aching heart. It seemed even now your heart clung to hope in Thorin, but you couldn’t see why.

But still, perhaps your heart knew things you did not, so you decided to wait it out, refusing to sever your one chance at love.

=#=#=#=#=

In the course of the day, things took an ill turn when it was revealed that the Arkenstone had been delivered to Bard and Thranduil as a bargaining chip for the promised gold. 

Thorin, if it were possible, grew even more foul tempered, demanding the return of Arkenstone and vowing death to those who held it. 

His eyes then glared over the army of elves and fishermen gathered before Erebor, and somehow he spotted you standing in the first few ranks of elves, unable to help yourself. 

He grew so livid you thought for sure he would explode from the sheer force of his anger. He cursed you and all elves so thoroughly, tears sprang to your eyes. 

“I was right about you!” Thorin roars, “Oathbreaker! Coward! Traitor!” He heaped insults in english and Khuzdul onto your head in utter contempt and fury as you stood shaking. 

It’s then something happened that turned the tide of events yet again. 

Bilbo spoke up. “I gave it to them.” Is all he said. “Leave Y/N out of this.” 

Your heart clenches as the dwarf king’s fury and wrath were unleashed on the poor Hobbit. 

Bilbo bravely stood his ground, berating Thorin for being so cold and cruel to you, and the company, and remarking that the dwarf he had met at his house would never have acted this way. 

That was the final straw, Thorin declaring that Bilbo should be thrown from the ramparts. 

You squeak in horror, tense seconds creeping by as no one moves to execute the unthinkable command. 

Thorin then grabs Bilbo and prepares to carry out his own orders, Bilbo leaning precariously out over the edge when Gandalf materializes next to you, magic increasing his voice’s volume as he strides forward. 

“If you don’t like my bulgar, please do not damage him! Return him to me.” The wizard’s presence seems to shock Thorin enough that Bilbo slips away unheeded. The dwarves tug Bilbo to the side and attach a rope to the wall, sending Bilbo down to Gandalf before Thorin could remember his wrath at the unfortunate Hobbit. 

As Gandalf remarks at how poor Thorin’s performance as King Under the Mountain was, Bilbo races toward the wizard and you, who had stepped up to offer comfort to your friend after what had just happened. 

Bilbo buried his face in your abdomen in fright, shaken at nearly being killed by a dwarf he had called friend. 

Once you had clung to the hope that, given time, Thorin’s heart would soften toward you and he would accept you as his One.

Now...that hope had withered near to the point of death. Soon enough, it would succumb to the bitter venom Thorin had unleashed on you and it would die and you both would forever live with no other lover, no other person that you could love like your One. 

Then, as tension rose higher still, an army of dwarves arrived, with a particularly rowdy dwarf at the head. As Thranduil ordered his army to face the newcomers, Gandalf explained that the rowdy dwarf was Thorin’s cousin, Dain, Lord of the Iron Hills. 

And that, of the two dwarves, Thorin was the more reasonable.

You swore under your breath. There was absolutely no chance of peace now.

After a brief skirmish that quickly turned into war between Thranduil’s army and the dwarves’, there arose out of the earth a monstrous creature Gandalf called a ‘wereworm’, a nasty thing that ate earth greedily and left a tunnel in its wake. 

It disappeared to continue it’s feast, and from the exit in the tunnel emerged a grotesque army of Orcs, some of which rode large evil wargs toward the dwarves and elves, who had stopped fighting in shock at this turn of events. 

The battle was grim and gory and all around you was pain and death until the sound of a bell tolling out offered a brief respite. It came from the mountain and out of the hole the bell had made in the barricade came Thorin and his Company, charging the army of Orcs as the remainder of the Dwarf army regrouped around the King. 

The battle continued on and, though you fought as well as you could, you knew it was only a matter of time til you were overcome. 

Then you saw Thorin and a select few others (Dwalin, Fili, and Kili) riding toward Ravenhill, where the Orcs’ commander was stationed. 

Shortly after that, despite your misgivings, you find a mount on the strange goats the dwarves rode and take off after them. 

If the dwarves had not cleared the way, you would never have made it. 

You watch as Thorin searches for the orc commander in vain. You stayed back, having left your mount at a distance so you could come upon the group stealthily. 

You had no idea how Thorin would receive you, and you didn’t want to find out yet.

The orc commander (or so you assumed) then appeared, just as the group was preparing to retrieve Fili and Kili from the tower they’d been scouting, the large orc dragging Fili by the hair. 

Your heart was pounding as you grab an arrow in your quiver. Sighting along the shaft, you released it swiftly. The arrow sunk into the orc’s chest, near the shoulder, not where you wanted, but it was enough that Fili was released to drop a worrying distance. 

Luckily, Fili was able to survive, with a few minor injuries, by rolling. You sent another arrow into the commander during the chaos you created. This time, the arrow sank into the orc’s throat, and he gurgled, then fell. 

That had the desired effect; the orcs retreated, dragging the body of their leader behind them. You jog out to meet the others and find Thorin staring at you as if you were a ghost. 

You pressed forward, unwilling to stay and see what reaction he would have next as you race to find Kili. Fili was searching too and you soon found him. 

You brought the boys back to the others, who embraced them and were generally thrilled to see the dwarf princes alive and well. 

“I thought you disavowed yourself from myself and my company.” Thorin’s voice was shocked, but not angry, coming from behind you. Your heart hammered as you make yourself slowly spin. 

“I...saw you ride up here. Something came over me. I’m not sure what.” You explain, unsure how to take his reaction. The orcs were still retreating, and behind you you see the large eagles that had borne you from the orcs after your escape from Goblin Town arrive and make quick work of the orcs before they could regroup and decide to attack again. 

You were suddenly free to talk further with Thorin, or leave. 

For some reason, your feet refused to move. You felt rooted to the spot. 

“I owe you my gratitude and sincerest apologies.” He murmurs softly, more softly than he had ever spoken to you. You take a step back. This was a new side of Thorin and you weren’t sure how to proceed. “You saved my sister-son. But, the way I treated you within Erebor and at the gate this morning...it disgusts me to recall.” You know he means it but...there’s a part of you that tortures you with the thought that this isn’t real.

“It wasn’t entirely you in Erebor. That gold...the sickness…” You're unsure what you’re saying, but Thorin sighs heavily, head hanging in what might be shame. You weren’t sure. 

“Aye, the sickness was there, but many resisted. Had I been stronger, I would never have yielded to the sickness. That, and I owe you still more apologies for my actions and words toward you along our road here. I have never once treated you as you deserve, and for that I am forever ashamed of myself.” 

“Thorin…” You can’t help wanting to comfort him as he bares himself to you. 

The others retreated, offering you and Thorin what privacy they could. 

“No, please, Y/N, let me finish.” Thorin mumbles, genuinely contrite. “I have always strove to be an honorable dwarf, respectable, a worthy leader of my people.” 

One of the things I admire about you, you muse inwardly. 

“Mahal knows I’ve made a fool of myself many times, and failed to uphold the standard I wished to achieve. I refused to see the reason in the elve’s actions after Smaug came, allowing myself to be consumed by bitterness and hatred for far too long. I unleashed that bitterness and prejudice on you and I can never make amends for it.” He slowly takes a step forward. 

Your heart begged you to embrace him, but your mind, still hurting from all the terrible curses and words Thorin had hurled at you, bade you stay where you were.

“If you would allow me to start anew, I should like to regain your trust and show you the way dwarves display their love.” His hand slowly reaches for yours and you can’t find it in you to resist. 

You even allow him to lay a gentle, feather-like kiss on your knuckles, your skin prickling pleasantly at the sensation. 

This was all you wanted, to love and be loved. 

“...I think...I think I would like that, Thorin Oakenshield.”

[the-girl-in-the-high-castle]

Jaime: Gods, you’re my heavenly match...

Brienne: What?

Jaime: ... I said you’re such an ugly wench! Yes, that’s what I said!

Brienne: ...

Jaime: Damn it, I wish she would kiss me...

Brienne: What did you say?

Jaime: ...erm... I said if you tried to hit me you’d surly miss me! 

Brienne: ...al...right...

Jaime: Gods, those beautiful eyes...

Brienne: ?

Jaime:  Ha ha, I said you look like one of the guys!

Brienne: ...if you say so.

Jaime: My heart is yours, it will always be yours...

Brienne: What did you just say?

Jaime: HA, I said if we had sex now you’d make a lot of noise!

Brienne: What?

Jaime: What?

Jaime: AGH!

[libraryofvenus]

Middle Passage - Robert Hayden

I Jesús, Estrella, Esperanza, Mercy:       Sails flashing to the wind like weapons,       sharks following the moans the fever and the dying;         horror the corposant and compass rose. Middle Passage:               voyage through death                               to life upon these shores.       “10 April 1800—       Blacks rebellious. Crew uneasy. Our linguist says         their moaning is a prayer for death,       ours and their own. Some try to starve themselves.         Lost three this morning leaped with crazy laughter         to the waiting sharks, sang as they went under.” Desire, Adventure, Tartar, Ann:       Standing to America, bringing home         black gold, black ivory, black seed.               Deep in the festering hold thy father lies,                 of his bones New England pews are made,                 those are altar lights that were his eyes. Jesus    Saviour    Pilot    Me Over    Life’s    Tempestuous    Sea We pray that Thou wilt grant, O Lord,   safe passage to our vessels bringing   heathen souls unto Thy chastening. Jesus    Saviour       “8 bells. I cannot sleep, for I am sick       with fear, but writing eases fear a little       since still my eyes can see these words take shape         upon the page & so I write, as one       would turn to exorcism. 4 days scudding,       but now the sea is calm again. Misfortune       follows in our wake like sharks (our grinning         tutelary gods). Which one of us       has killed an albatross? A plague among       our blacks—Ophthalmia: blindness—& we         have jettisoned the blind to no avail.       It spreads, the terrifying sickness spreads.       Its claws have scratched sight from the Capt.'s eyes         & there is blindness in the fo’c’sle       & we must sail 3 weeks before we come       to port.”               What port awaits us, Davy Jones’               or home? I’ve heard of slavers drifting, drifting,                 playthings of wind and storm and chance, their crews                 gone blind, the jungle hatred               crawling up on deck. Thou    Who    Walked    On    Galilee       “Deponent further sayeth The Bella J       left the Guinea Coast       with cargo of five hundred blacks and odd         for the barracoons of Florida:       “That there was hardly room ’tween-decks for half         the sweltering cattle stowed spoon-fashion there;         that some went mad of thirst and tore their flesh         and sucked the blood:       “That Crew and Captain lusted with the comeliest         of the savage girls kept naked in the cabins;         that there was one they called The Guinea Rose         and they cast lots and fought to lie with her:       “That when the Bo’s’n piped all hands, the flames         spreading from starboard already were beyond         control, the negroes howling and their chains         entangled with the flames:       “That the burning blacks could not be reached,         that the Crew abandoned ship,       leaving their shrieking negresses behind,       that the Captain perished drunken with the wenches:       “Further Deponent sayeth not.” Pilot    Oh    Pilot    Me       II Aye, lad, and I have seen those factories,   Gambia, Rio Pongo, Calabar; have watched the artful mongos baiting traps   of war wherein the victor and the vanquished Were caught as prizes for our barracoons.   Have seen the nigger kings whose vanity and greed turned wild black hides of Fellatah,   Mandingo, Ibo, Kru to gold for us. And there was one—King Anthracite we named him— fetish face beneath French parasols of brass and orange velvet, impudent mouth whose cups were carven skulls of enemies: He’d honor us with drum and feast and conjo   and palm-oil-glistening wenches deft in love,   and for tin crowns that shone with paste,   red calico and German-silver trinkets Would have the drums talk war and send   his warriors to burn the sleeping villages   and kill the sick and old and lead the young   in coffles to our factories. Twenty years a trader, twenty years, for there was wealth aplenty to be harvested   from those black fields, and I’d be trading still   but for the fevers melting down my bones.       III Shuttles in the rocking loom of history,   the dark ships move, the dark ships move,   their bright ironical names like jests of kindness on a murderer’s mouth;   plough through thrashing glister toward   fata morgana’s lucent melting shore,   weave toward New World littorals that are   mirage and myth and actual shore. Voyage through death,                               voyage whose chartings are unlove. A charnel stench, effluvium of living death   spreads outward from the hold, where the living and the dead, the horribly dying,   lie interlocked, lie foul with blood and excrement.       Deep in the festering hold thy father lies,         the corpse of mercy rots with him,         rats eat love’s rotten gelid eyes.       But, oh, the living look at you       with human eyes whose suffering accuses you,         whose hatred reaches through the swill of dark         to strike you like a leper’s claw.       You cannot stare that hatred down       or chain the fear that stalks the watches       and breathes on you its fetid scorching breath;         cannot kill the deep immortal human wish,         the timeless will.               “But for the storm that flung up barriers                 of wind and wave, The Amistad, señores,               would have reached the port of Príncipe in two,                 three days at most; but for the storm we should                 have been prepared for what befell.                 Swift as the puma’s leap it came. There was                 that interval of moonless calm filled only                 with the water’s and the rigging’s usual sounds,                 then sudden movement, blows and snarling cries                 and they had fallen on us with machete                 and marlinspike. It was as though the very                 air, the night itself were striking us.                 Exhausted by the rigors of the storm,               we were no match for them. Our men went down                 before the murderous Africans. Our loyal                 Celestino ran from below with gun                 and lantern and I saw, before the cane-               knife’s wounding flash, Cinquez,               that surly brute who calls himself a prince,                 directing, urging on the ghastly work.               He hacked the poor mulatto down, and then                 he turned on me. The decks were slippery               when daylight finally came. It sickens me                 to think of what I saw, of how these apes                 threw overboard the butchered bodies of               our men, true Christians all, like so much jetsam.                 Enough, enough. The rest is quickly told:                 Cinquez was forced to spare the two of us                 you see to steer the ship to Africa,                 and we like phantoms doomed to rove the sea                 voyaged east by day and west by night,                 deceiving them, hoping for rescue,                 prisoners on our own vessel, till                 at length we drifted to the shores of this                 your land, America, where we were freed                 from our unspeakable misery. Now we                 demand, good sirs, the extradition of                 Cinquez and his accomplices to La                 Havana. And it distresses us to know                 there are so many here who seem inclined                 to justify the mutiny of these blacks.                 We find it paradoxical indeed               that you whose wealth, whose tree of liberty                 are rooted in the labor of your slaves               should suffer the august John Quincy Adams                 to speak with so much passion of the right                 of chattel slaves to kill their lawful masters                 and with his Roman rhetoric weave a hero’s                 garland for Cinquez. I tell you that                 we are determined to return to Cuba               with our slaves and there see justice done. Cinquez—               or let us say ‘the Prince’—Cinquez shall die.”       The deep immortal human wish,         the timeless will:               Cinquez its deathless primaveral image,                 life that transfigures many lives.       Voyage through death                                     to life upon these shores.

[fluke-fanzine]

MNRL CVLT TUCSON ZINE HUNT! GO FIND THEM: *Wooden Tooth Records *The place on 4th Ave where Black Flag & Misfits played *Goodwill *Surly Wench *Pop Cycle (at Tucson 4th Ave) https://www.instagram.com/p/CMaQ3MCjC-H/?igshid=fpmr4bdmzbv9

[pinkbutterfly84]

Quintis Text Conversations

I often think in the early stages of any relationship do much is said over text as its easier then face to face. I think this would if been true for Quintis so below are some Fanfic text conversations I think would if happened after some of the episodes:

1.05 Plutonium Forever

T - Hey Happy how you feeling after today?

H - Fine

T - Come on today was tough you can talk to me about it

H - what so you can shrink me, no thanks

T - no that's not what I'm doing, just talking as friends no shrinking involved. Promise 🤝

H - OK

H - Collins is a nut job who always cause trouble and Walt taking his side over mine was messed up

T - there you go that was easy

H - TOBY!

T - OK, listen Collins knows how to play mind games he did it with Walt, he got in your head and he makes Sly so nervous he sanatizes his hands more than normal

H - what about you?

T - I'm too clever for him to get in my head

H - are you saying were not clever, hello lowest IQ on the team is yours!

T - harsh Hap, what I'm saying is as a Harvard trained behaviourist I know all the tricks 😉

H - well he's gone to the looney bin now but Walt better not pick him over me again or I'm off

T - dont say that Happy I'll miss you and surly you'll miss me?

H - night Toby

T - night Happy sweet dreams

1.07 fathers day

T - How you feeling Happy after today?

H - you dont need to keep checking on me after every bad day

T - its what friends do

H - im fine, just feel for Ralph

T - Paige will do right by him she's a good mom

H - not if she listens to Walt

T - walt doesn't want any competition, I sense some feelings brewing there

H - really???

T - yep 😍😍

H - well dont get involved its between them

T - but im great at match making im an expert in human emotions you know

H - well your love life ain't been all that great

T - things are looking up now

H - why your ex-fiancee giving you the time of day?

T - No I'm completely over that cheating wench, got my sights set on someone who outshines her completely

H - who?

T - night Hap, sweet dreams

H - Night

There are 2 to start, thinking of doing 1.08 Risky Buisness and 1.10 Talismans next

[peppymint1986]

Who needs a laugh, or some advice

Source: http://www.eviloverlord.com/lists/overlord.html

I highly recommend going to the site and checking out the ones that did not make the top 100 list.  

Peter’s Evil Overlord List

My Legions of Terror will have helmets with clear plexiglass visors, not face-concealing ones.

My ventilation ducts will be too small to crawl through.

My noble half-brother whose throne I usurped will be killed, not kept anonymously imprisoned in a forgotten cell of my dungeon.

Shooting is not too good for my enemies.

The artifact which is the source of my power will not be kept on the Mountain of Despair beyond the River of Fire guarded by the Dragons of Eternity. It will be in my safe-deposit box. The same applies to the object which is my one weakness.

I will not gloat over my enemies' predicament before killing them.

When I've captured my adversary and he says, "Look, before you kill me, will you at least tell me what this is all about?" I'll say, "No." and shoot him. No, on second thought I'll shoot him then say "No."

After I kidnap the beautiful princess, we will be married immediately in a quiet civil ceremony, not a lavish spectacle in three weeks' time during which the final phase of my plan will be carried out.

I will not include a self-destruct mechanism unless absolutely necessary. If it is necessary, it will not be a large red button labelled "Danger: Do Not Push". The big red button marked "Do Not Push" will instead trigger a spray of bullets on anyone stupid enough to disregard it. Similarly, the ON/OFF switch will not clearly be labelled as such.

I will not interrogate my enemies in the inner sanctum -- a small hotel well outside my borders will work just as well.

I will be secure in my superiority. Therefore, I will feel no need to prove it by leaving clues in the form of riddles or leaving my weaker enemies alive to show they pose no threat.

One of my advisors will be an average five-year-old child. Any flaws in my plan that he is able to spot will be corrected before implementation.

All slain enemies will be cremated, or at least have several rounds of ammunition emptied into them, not left for dead at the bottom of the cliff. The announcement of their deaths, as well as any accompanying celebration, will be deferred until after the aforementioned disposal.

The hero is not entitled to a last kiss, a last cigarette, or any other form of last request.

I will never employ any device with a digital countdown. If I find that such a device is absolutely unavoidable, I will set it to activate when the counter reaches 117 and the hero is just putting his plan into operation.

I will never utter the sentence "But before I kill you, there's just one thing I want to know."

When I employ people as advisors, I will occasionally listen to their advice.

I will not have a son. Although his laughably under-planned attempt to usurp power would easily fail, it would provide a fatal distraction at a crucial point in time.

I will not have a daughter. She would be as beautiful as she was evil, but one look at the hero's rugged countenance and she'd betray her own father.

Despite its proven stress-relieving effect, I will not indulge in maniacal laughter. When so occupied, it's too easy to miss unexpected developments that a more attentive individual could adjust to accordingly.

I will hire a talented fashion designer to create original uniforms for my Legions of Terror, as opposed to some cheap knock-offs that make them look like Nazi stormtroopers, Roman footsoldiers, or savage Mongol hordes. All were eventually defeated and I want my troops to have a more positive mind-set.

No matter how tempted I am with the prospect of unlimited power, I will not consume any energy field bigger than my head.

I will keep a special cache of low-tech weapons and train my troops in their use. That way -- even if the heroes manage to neutralize my power generator and/or render the standard-issue energy weapons useless -- my troops will not be overrun by a handful of savages armed with spears and rocks.

I will maintain a realistic assessment of my strengths and weaknesses. Even though this takes some of the fun out of the job, at least I will never utter the line "No, this cannot be! I AM INVINCIBLE!!!" (After that, death is usually instantaneous.)

No matter how well it would perform, I will never construct any sort of machinery which is completely indestructible except for one small and virtually inaccessible vulnerable spot.

No matter how attractive certain members of the rebellion are, there is probably someone just as attractive who is not desperate to kill me. Therefore, I will think twice before ordering a prisoner sent to my bedchamber.

I will never build only one of anything important. All important systems will have redundant control panels and power supplies. For the same reason I will always carry at least two fully loaded weapons at all times.

My pet monster will be kept in a secure cage from which it cannot escape and into which I could not accidentally stumble.

I will dress in bright and cheery colors, and so throw my enemies into confusion.

All bumbling conjurers, clumsy squires, no-talent bards, and cowardly thieves in the land will be preemptively put to death. My foes will surely give up and abandon their quest if they have no source of comic relief.

All naive, busty tavern wenches in my realm will be replaced with surly, world-weary waitresses who will provide no unexpected reinforcement and/or romantic subplot for the hero or his sidekick.

I will not fly into a rage and kill a messenger who brings me bad news just to illustrate how evil I really am. Good messengers are hard to come by.

I won't require high-ranking female members of my organization to wear a stainless-steel bustier. Morale is better with a more casual dress-code. Similarly, outfits made entirely from black leather will be reserved for formal occasions.

I will not turn into a snake. It never helps.

I will not grow a goatee. In the old days they made you look diabolic. Now they just make you look like a disaffected member of Generation X.

I will not imprison members of the same party in the same cell block, let alone the same cell. If they are important prisoners, I will keep the only key to the cell door on my person instead of handing out copies to every bottom-rung guard in the prison.

If my trusted lieutenant tells me my Legions of Terror are losing a battle, I will believe him. After all, he's my trusted lieutenant.

If an enemy I have just killed has a younger sibling or offspring anywhere, I will find them and have them killed immediately, instead of waiting for them to grow up harboring feelings of vengeance towards me in my old age.

If I absolutely must ride into battle, I will certainly not ride at the forefront of my Legions of Terror, nor will I seek out my opposite number among his army.

I will be neither chivalrous nor sporting. If I have an unstoppable superweapon, I will use it as early and as often as possible instead of keeping it in reserve.

Once my power is secure, I will destroy all those pesky time-travel devices.

When I capture the hero, I will make sure I also get his dog, monkey, ferret, or whatever sickeningly cute little animal capable of untying ropes and filching keys happens to follow him around.

I will maintain a healthy amount of skepticism when I capture the beautiful rebel and she claims she is attracted to my power and good looks and will gladly betray her companions if I just let her in on my plans.

I will only employ bounty hunters who work for money. Those who work for the pleasure of the hunt tend to do dumb things like even the odds to give the other guy a sporting chance.

I will make sure I have a clear understanding of who is responsible for what in my organization. For example, if my general screws up I will not draw my weapon, point it at him, say "And here is the price for failure," then suddenly turn and kill some random underling.

If an advisor says to me "My liege, he is but one man. What can one man possibly do?", I will reply "This." and kill the advisor.

If I learn that a callow youth has begun a quest to destroy me, I will slay him while he is still a callow youth instead of waiting for him to mature.

I will treat any beast which I control through magic or technology with respect and kindness. Thus if the control is ever broken, it will not immediately come after me for revenge.

If I learn the whereabouts of the one artifact which can destroy me, I will not send all my troops out to seize it. Instead I will send them out to seize something else and quietly put a Want-Ad in the local paper.

My main computers will have their own special operating system that will be completely incompatible with standard IBM and Macintosh powerbooks.

If one of my dungeon guards begins expressing concern over the conditions in the beautiful princess' cell, I will immediately transfer him to a less people-oriented position.

I will hire a team of board-certified architects and surveyors to examine my castle and inform me of any secret passages and abandoned tunnels that I might not know about.

If the beautiful princess that I capture says "I'll never marry you! Never, do you hear me, NEVER!!!", I will say "Oh well" and kill her.

I will not strike a bargain with a demonic being then attempt to double-cross it simply because I feel like being contrary.

The deformed mutants and odd-ball psychotics will have their place in my Legions of Terror. However before I send them out on important covert missions that require tact and subtlety, I will first see if there is anyone else equally qualified who would attract less attention.

My Legions of Terror will be trained in basic marksmanship. Any who cannot learn to hit a man-sized target at 10 meters will be used for target practice.

Before employing any captured artifacts or machinery, I will carefully read the owner's manual.

If it becomes necessary to escape, I will never stop to pose dramatically and toss off a one-liner.

I will never build a sentient computer smarter than I am.

My five-year-old child advisor will also be asked to decipher any code I am thinking of using. If he breaks the code in under 30 seconds, it will not be used. Note: this also applies to passwords.

If my advisors ask "Why are you risking everything on such a mad scheme?", I will not proceed until I have a response that satisfies them.

I will design fortress hallways with no alcoves or protruding structural supports which intruders could use for cover in a firefight.

Bulk trash will be disposed of in incinerators, not compactors. And they will be kept hot, with none of that nonsense about flames going through accessible tunnels at predictable intervals.

I will see a competent psychiatrist and get cured of all extremely unusual phobias and bizarre compulsive habits which could prove to be a disadvantage.

If I must have computer systems with publically available terminals, the maps they display of my complex will have a room clearly marked as the Main Control Room. That room will be the Execution Chamber. The actual main control room will be marked as Sewage Overflow Containment.

My security keypad will actually be a fingerprint scanner. Anyone who watches someone press a sequence of buttons or dusts the pad for fingerprints then subsequently tries to enter by repeating that sequence will trigger the alarm system.

No matter how many shorts we have in the system, my guards will be instructed to treat every surveillance camera malfunction as a full-scale emergency.

I will spare someone who saved my life sometime in the past. This is only reasonable as it encourages others to do so. However, the offer is good one time only. If they want me to spare them again, they'd better save my life again.

All midwives will be banned from the realm. All babies will be delivered at state-approved hospitals. Orphans will be placed in foster-homes, not abandoned in the woods to be raised by creatures of the wild.

When my guards split up to search for intruders, they will always travel in groups of at least two. They will be trained so that if one of them disappears mysteriously while on patrol, the other will immediately initiate an alert and call for backup, instead of quizzically peering around a corner.

If I decide to test a lieutenant's loyalty and see if he/she should be made a trusted lieutenant, I will have a crack squad of marksmen standing by in case the answer is no.

If all the heroes are standing together around a strange device and begin to taunt me, I will pull out a conventional weapon instead of using my unstoppable superweapon on them.

I will not agree to let the heroes go free if they win a rigged contest, even though my advisors assure me it is impossible for them to win.

When I create a multimedia presentation of my plan designed so that my five-year-old advisor can easily understand the details, I will not label the disk "Project Overlord" and leave it lying on top of my desk.

I will instruct my Legions of Terror to attack the hero en masse, instead of standing around waiting while members break off and attack one or two at a time.

If the hero runs up to my roof, I will not run up after him and struggle with him in an attempt to push him over the edge. I will also not engage him at the edge of a cliff. (In the middle of a rope-bridge over a river of molten lava is not even worth considering.)

If I have a fit of temporary insanity and decide to give the hero the chance to reject a job as my trusted lieutentant, I will retain enough sanity to wait until my current trusted lieutenant is out of earshot before making the offer.

I will not tell my Legions of Terror "And he must be taken alive!" The command will be "And try to take him alive if it is reasonably practical."

If my doomsday device happens to come with a reverse switch, as soon as it has been employed it will be melted down and made into limited-edition commemorative coins.

If my weakest troops fail to eliminate a hero, I will send out my best troops instead of wasting time with progressively stronger ones as he gets closer and closer to my fortress.

If I am fighting with the hero atop a moving platform, have disarmed him, and am about to finish him off and he glances behind me and drops flat, I too will drop flat instead of quizzically turning around to find out what he saw.

I will not shoot at any of my enemies if they are standing in front of the crucial support beam to a heavy, dangerous, unbalanced structure.

If I'm eating dinner with the hero, put poison in his goblet, then have to leave the table for any reason, I will order new drinks for both of us instead of trying to decide whether or not to switch with him.

I will not have captives of one sex guarded by members of the opposite sex.

I will not use any plan in which the final step is horribly complicated, e.g. "Align the 12 Stones of Power on the sacred altar then activate the medallion at the moment of total eclipse." Instead it will be more along the lines of "Push the button."

I will make sure that my doomsday device is up to code and properly grounded.

My vats of hazardous chemicals will be covered when not in use. Also, I will not construct walkways above them.

If a group of henchmen fail miserably at a task, I will not berate them for incompetence then send the same group out to try the task again.

After I captures the hero's superweapon, I will not immediately disband my legions and relax my guard because I believe whoever holds the weapon is unstoppable. After all, the hero held the weapon and I took it from him.

I will not design my Main Control Room so that every workstation is facing away from the door.

I will not ignore the messenger that stumbles in exhausted and obviously agitated until my personal grooming or current entertainment is finished. It might actually be important.

If I ever talk to the hero on the phone, I will not taunt him. Instead I will say this his dogged perseverance has given me new insight on the futility of my evil ways and that if he leaves me alone for a few months of quiet contemplation I will likely return to the path of righteousness. (Heroes are incredibly gullible in this regard.)

If I decide to hold a double execution of the hero and an underling who failed or betrayed me, I will see to it that the hero is scheduled to go first.

When arresting prisoners, my guards will not allow them to stop and grab a useless trinket of purely sentimental value.

My dungeon will have its own qualified medical staff complete with bodyguards. That way if a prisoner becomes sick and his cellmate tells the guard it's an emergency, the guard will fetch a trauma team instead of opening up the cell for a look.

My door mechanisms will be designed so that blasting the control panel on the outside seals the door and blasting the control panel on the inside opens the door, not vice versa.

My dungeon cells will not be furnished with objects that contain reflective surfaces or anything that can be unravelled.

If an attractive young couple enters my realm, I will carefully monitor their activities. If I find they are happy and affectionate, I will ignore them. However if circumstance have forced them together against their will and they spend all their time bickering and criticizing each other except during the intermittent occasions when they are saving each others' lives at which point there are hints of sexual tension, I will immediately order their execution.

Any data file of crucial importance will be padded to 1.45Mb in size.

Finally, to keep my subjects permanently locked in a mindless trance, I will provide each of them with free unlimited Internet access.