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[raajrajasharma]

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[nopanamaman]

What’s up with the City?

Loredump. September 2023

What do we really know about the City the characters inhabit? Aside from it being located right next to the Zone, not much. And to be fair, the song series format doesn’t leave a lot of room for exploration.

But it’s an interesting place in its own right. Today we’ll learn a little bit about its history, life, and how being right next to the strangest area of the planet has affected the lives of its 400,000 inhabitants. Let’s dive right in.

View of the City’s edge in winter. Unexciting.

Where is the City located?

The City has no concrete location: it can be placed on almost any territory within Russia, Belarus, or Ukraine. Despite a lot of the realia and places within it being drawn from my own lifetime in Minsk, it’s not meant to represent it specifically.

The City is part of a larger totalitarian state. Housing hundreds of thousands of citizens, it used to be the largest settlement in the vicinity of ЦКР-5 (TsKR-5), a closed town declassified after its own destruction and the emergence of the Zone.

Closed city TsKR-5. In reality, the military town Knyaze-Volkonskoye

Who lives in the City?

The City is mostly inhabited by people of various slavic nationalities. The main spoken language is Russian, though there are folks who know and communicate in other slavic languages. The government treats those who do so with suspicion, so it’s not common practice.

Smoke above the City. In reality, Nekrasovka, Moscow

The majority of people living on the periphery of the town are employed in factories. A significant industrial centre before the Zone’s emergence, it remains a stable producer of vehicles, electronics, and environmental waste.

However, the proximity to the Zone and the massive research centre have attracted a lot of scientific talent and entrepreneurs to the place. The latter usually choose banditism or smuggling as their business model. Unsurprisingly, the crime rate is high.

Most of the population, adult and child alike, has had some contact with gangs. It’s not uncommon for kids to actively want to go into banditism, as it’s seen as one of the few avenues for achieving some sort of financial stability.

How is the City affected by anomalies?

The City is no stranger to bizarre meteorological, metaphysical, and otherwise logic-defying events. One day it can rain tar. Another day the air will smell a little sweet. Another day a dead pet will rise from its grave. Another day a street will distort, then go back to normal. Another day everyone born on May 11th will cough up ammonia.

Sky anomaly. In reality, a mirage above Jiangxi

There are at least a dozen anomalous events every year. It’s generally believed they occur because of precipitation, affected particles and/or artefacts travelling outside of the Zone, as well as City dwellers unknowingly ingesting anomalous particles into their bodies.

Few environmental anomalies outside the Zone are permanent or dangerous, but some do require containment. On paper, public access to any life-threatening anomaly needs to be cut off as soon as it becomes known. In practice, places deemed dangerous often get little more than a police ribbon and a couple of warning signs around them.

What are some restricted anomalous areas within the City?

The Lazurny (Azure) Pool

The most notable one in the context of PAFL itself is the pool KT inhabited during her two weeks on the run. Abandoned, but neither guarded nor fenced off, the building had all its entrances and windows welded shut and left at that.

Mosaic by the main pool

The reason for its closure was the main pool’s basin becoming what one could only call a bottomless pit. Its water cannot be drained or pumped out, and everything alive entering it disappears underneath, never to be seen again. Only pieces of plywood, garbage, sports and research equipment now float atop the surface.

The Anomalous Forest

As far as less relevant places are concerned, the workshop Ivan and Arthur work at overlooks a large restricted area just on the edge of town. It’s part of a bigger forest that fell victim to the local wind rose: a lot of clouds coming from the Zone have rained various suspicious liquids on it.

As a result, the treeline became ridiculously uneven, with some parts looking lush with greenery, some being inappropriately naked, some standing pale and sickly, and some even emanating a faint glow come nightfall. There is little official information about the dangers of local flora and fauna, but more than enough urban legends. Though, most seem to agree that eating anything from the pale zone results in awful diarrhoea.

Affected trees. In reality, the Drunken Forest in the Curonian Spit

A popular theory for why such areas are never cleared or properly restricted (aside from money pocketing) is that the facility uses them for resources.

For instance, a pine tree whose needles cause people to develop tumours can be a valuable asset for various research, medical or otherwise. Or take a small stretch of an impossibly warped landscape – that one can be a great place to test the physical attributes of anomalous objects. Would be a waste to make those things nearly impossible to access, no?

What about the artefact trade?

As was stated multiple times before, unregistered possession of anomalous artefacts is strictly against the law. The only exceptions are the anomalous souvenirs produced and sold in the Facility and shops around the city (small floating toys, balls of glowsmoke, standing needles).

Sorting of artefacts (batteries) in False Disposition

Actual artefacts are acquired and sold illegally by stalkers. They are usually traded to either gangs, police, or government officials who, in turn, resell them to faraway regions or abroad, where they go for an even higher price.

This is a large part of why crime continues to flourish in the City: the underground trade is simply too profitable for everyone involved, including those who are supposed to fight against it.

Where do the main characters live?

All of our main characters live on the edge of town, in an area that’s relatively close to the Facility located just outside of the City. The rough map of the main locations would look something like this:

Approximate map of the area. Apartment blocks sure look crazy from above

Yura and Sanya live about 15 minutes away from each other with Sanya’s house, in turn, being a 10-15 minute walk away from the Molodzyozhny club. Following the road South from Molodzyozhny will lead you to the orphanage, Ivan’s house, and his dad’s workshop overlooking the anomalous forest.

Following the same road North will have you pass by Nikita’s house and eventually lead to Olya’s – though, she lives relatively far, being around 35 minutes away from Sanya’s place by foot. Yana lives even farther, in the city centre way to the West.

Going to the East will lead you to a more forested area. That’s where the abandoned Lazurny pool is located. It’s also where buses and railroads travel through to get to the Facility located right on the border of the City and the Zone.

The estacade in False Disposition

The estacade where Sanya catches up with Yura in False Disposition and, subsequently, the meeting spot with Olya and Nikita are also located off the little map (sorry): they're to the East of the orphanage, next to the train tracks.

The road to both the Facility and the Zone has plenty of buildings on the way (industrial and otherwise), but getting to the border checkpoint by foot from, say, Yura’s house would take at least an hour and a half. It’s not somewhere you wander to by accident.

[luveline]

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

you start to second guess your relationship when eddie doesn't waylay you with his usual abundance of kisses after work. meanwhile, eddie tries to work out what's upsetting you, how to fix it, and most urgently, how to ask you a super important question. fem!reader, 5k

cw: eddie skipping meals at work, suggestive flirting

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

Eddie's borrowed headphones slip down your head as you dance. Nothing dramatic, a shoulder wiggle as you do the dishes. You can't hear the racket you're making, plates crashing into one another on the drying rack, the hot water pounding the basin, the clip of your sock-clad foot against wooden slats as you tap it. 

Your hands burn at the high temperature. Your fingertips are pruned, palms chapped as you finish washing Eddie's mountain of dishes. His whole apartment was in similar disarray before you arrived, laundry to the eyes and one of his haphazard book towers collapsed in the bedroom. The dishes had been scraped and rinsed but not washed, the laundry designated to one corner of the bathroom; Eddie's not unclean, necessarily, but unfocused. 

You had time. You don't mind coming over to help him out. 

Though if he knew you were here doing this he'd blow a gasket. I don't want you wasting your time doing shit I should've done a week ago, he'd say. 

It isn't time that matters to you. You'd take a couple of days out if it helped him, if it meant he could enjoy the place he lives to the fullest extent. Plus, you spend time here too. And you get to borrow his Walkman the whole time. Eddie has the best tapes. 

You hum along to the finishing line of the song and set the last clean cup upside down on the draining board. Satisfied at a job well done, you wipe the sink basin clean, drain suds from the sponge, and turn off the water. Cool air floats in through the open window, kissing your lightly perspiring skin hello. 

You dry your hands on a cloth and push Eddie's headphones carefully down to your neck, more than careful with his things. He works hard for everything he has, days and nights and any shift they want him to take. Most of it goes into his savings account. His spare change gets dropped into a washed out pasta sauce jar on the sill for a forthcoming rainy day. Ridiculous amounts of it get spent on you, and if you asked Eddie he'd say it was perfectly reasonable, sweetheart. 

You're not asking him. You don't think new clothes and sweet treats nearly every time you see him counts as reasonable, but you'd be a liar if you said you didn't appreciate it. 

Hence your unsanctioned use of his spare key. You buy him treats too, but money can't buy the satisfaction of a clean home. (Well, it could. Hiring a day maid might've been quicker and cleaner in the end, but would a day maid have put their heart and soul into dusting his figurines with a makeup brush for fifteen minutes?)

You turn around with Eddie on your mind, feeling grateful and tired at once. Your thoughts stutter at the warm body standing casually in the doorway, his shoulder pressed to the jam, a rucksack and a carabiner of keys hanging from his curled fingers. 

"Hey," Eddie says. 

You flinch like he's coming at you, startled by his sudden appearance. 

His laugh is apologetic, at least. "Woah! I thought you heard me, where's your head?" 

You slap a hand to your racing heart and huff out a breath that fans up your face. Eddie straightens from his cool guy slouch, dropping his keys on the counter and sliding his bag beside them. 

"It's around here somewhere," you say through a smile, trying and failing to glare at him as he puts his hands on your waist. "You scared me bad." 

"It was accidental." 

He pulls your hips to his and leans back. A close pressure without being particularly sexual. It's obvious that he's looking you over, like you might've miraculously run into harm in the sixteen hours you've been apart. 

"I didn't think you'd be back yet, sorry," you say breathlessly, still recuperating from your scare. 

"I'm the sorry one." 

He brings a hand to your face. If there's one thing you can count on with your boyfriend, it's that he's going to find an excuse to touch your face at least once a day, whether it be with the back of a ring-heavy finger trailing down your cheek lightly, or a flat, hot palm, calluses scratching ever so slightly as he squeezes it into whatever shape he feels like. Never cruel, but melding. 

He's in a mood. 

Not salacious. Teasing at most, he pulls a rough line down from the corner of your eye to your lips. 

"Why are you doing my dishes?" he asks. 

His hands smell like citrus scrub and white vinegar. They must've had him cleaning in the kitchen at work again. 

"So you wouldn't have to. I know you don't mean to let them pile up." 

"I'll find my laundry in the dryer, I'm guessing." 

"Nope. Folded in your dresser, more like."

He pulls your chest to his, the heat of his breath kissing your nose. It smells like the spearmint gum he chews obsessively during his morning shifts. Eddie has a theory that eating in the mornings is breaking a seal —you'll be much hungrier for the rest of the day than you would've been otherwise. Better to wait for lunch. 

You hate his theory (three meals a day plus as many snacks as he needs would be perfect,  if he could find the time) and his gum for what it represents. It reminds you that he likely hasn't eaten today, and you're quick to start brainstorming ideas for dinner from the ingredients you'd seen while cleaning. He has ground beef, enough eggs to make pasta, and a tupperware of frozen soup from last Wednesday. The world's your oyster. 

"What are you thinking about?" he asks. You don't have time to answer. "I wish you didn't do all the laundry, babe. Those stairs are a fucking killer." 

He leans that last inch. A kiss is coming any second now, your pulse capering between your ears. A hundred kisses shared between you and you wait for the next with the same calibre of excitement as you did for the first. 

"I owe you a deep tissue massage, right?" he murmurs. 

You beam at him, pushing the heel of your palm against his chest to widen the distance between you into something a little less heart-pounding. "You haven't eaten today, have you?" 

"I'm pretty hungry," he says, his voice smooth as angora silk. 

He looks, again, like he might kiss you. His eyes dip to your lips, a molten brown shining in the kitchen light. You wait, and you wait, but he doesn't close the gap. 

You push your smile to one side, your eyelashes twined in the corners from the force of it. Your smile isn't entirely genuine. It's cool if he doesn't wanna kiss you… sort of. He can do whatever he likes, of course, you'd never force him to kiss you just to keep you happy or for any other reason, but you're a little down at the idea that he doesn't want to. You love how they feel. You're used to them as both hello and goodbye. 

Eddie might not want to kiss you, but he isn't putting on a show, his amorous smirking a reality you battle with (read: give in to, enjoy, daydream about) on the regular. Perhaps he isn't eager to ravish you after a full day bussing tables. That's more than okay. 

However he might be feeling, you aren't going to let him go hungry a minute longer. "Dinner?" you ask. 

"I was thinking sloppy Joes," he says, his hand running down your arm. He turns for the fridge. You follow. "Brioche buns?" 

You step in front of him, the fridge door a cacophony of glass rattling as you tug it open. "I'm making them." 

Eddie wraps his arms around you, moving you bodily to the side. It's too quick for you to dig your heels in. 

"You used to be a gentleman," you complain. 

"No, I didn't." He taps your ankle with the rubber toe of his converse. 

You make dinner together, to each other's chagrin. Eddie steals spatulas and frying pan handles from your grip. You bump his hip away from the stove grill to toast buns. When you sit down together on the couch, it's at war, elbows digging into soft spots and cups placed out of reach on the coffee table. 

"Dick," you say. 

Eddie takes a bite, says, "You're the dick, dick," and starts shovelling fries onto your plate. "Giving me more fries is ridiculous. We should eat the same portions, we're the same age." 

"But one of us had breakfast and lunch, and one of us didn't," you say, using your fork to give his gifted fries straight back. 

And here's where you get the first inkling that something's making him not want to kiss you, emphasis on you. 

Eddie loves kissing you when he feels loved. For obvious starters, whenever you tell him you love him he makes sure to kiss your lips. When you make him laugh, when you wash his hair in the shower, when you draw stars into his palms, all those things garner a fond peck to the temple. He kisses the space just under your ear so often you're sure there's a contusion in the shape of his mouth there, permanent and purpling, his go-to whenever he's laying on top of you or hugging you from behind. 

You can count on a mildly greasy kiss no matter the meal. Eddie loves eating dinner together. He waits for you to get home, sometimes for hours, to share a plate with you. You've never not indulged him with a kiss. Tonight, he doesn't ask. 

It would be here. Name-calling dripping in affection, you elbow glancing off of his as you cut into your sloppy Joe, and the TV failing to cover the sound of a quick kiss before he digs in. You're gutted at the lack and surprised to have noticed it, but you don't go so far as to mourn the loss: Eddie's likely too hungry to think about kissing, that's all. Right?

Despite attempts to convince you otherwise, he's hungry. He finishes his plate in what feels like five big bites, hair tucked behind his ears, an innocent but far off look about him as he wipes his fingers in a piece of kitchen towel and leans back into the couch cushions with a small groan. 

"We should stop eating on the couch," he says. 

"You told me you wanted to sit here." You're confused. 

"It's like, testing fate. I'm a mess. I'll ruin it and have to get a new one I can't afford." 

You chew on a fry. "I mean," —you put your hand over your mouth, pleased when he turns to you with a ready-made smile, like the act of just looking at you is one he enjoys— "even if you drop something on it, we can Didi Seven it. Or get one of those fancy water vacuum things." 

"It's my couch," he says. "You wouldn't have to clean it." 

"You're my boyfriend," you respond, "so I wouldn't mind." 

"I'm your boyfriend," he says, his head tilted ever so slightly to one side. 

His lips close, his eyes tracking up and along the lines of your features with an unnameable emotion in his gaze. You'd like to say that it's love, but you're starting to think it's something else. 

"Don't say it like that. You sound too unsure," you say.

Amusement dances across his face. "Are you finished?" he asks, opening his hand for your tray. 

"No," you say, faux-stroppy. You take another fry. 

Eddie grabs his tray. He skirts around your legs and stops at your side. In his more dopey moods, he'd take your face into his hand again and hold your head still as he kisses your crown. 

He squeezes your shoulder. "I'm not unsure about anything," he says warmly. "I'll get you a drink, yeah? Ice?" 

A chuck under the chin with his forefinger and he's gone, leaving you sitting there wondering what's wrong with him. Home an hour now and not one single kiss? Is this the end of the honeymoon phase? How do people survive this shit, you think. It's agonising.

Your chewing turns morose. 

You and Eddie go through phases, waxing and waning, as most people do. There's always love there, but sometimes there's so much of it you don't know what to do with yourself besides lavish in it. Only yesterday morning he'd been in your bed, shirtless (as you often wish he'd be), dark ink like bruises in the low light where it climbed the lengths of his arms and his bare chest. You were lax under his touch, his nose and lips pressing to your skin as he kissed you from rib to soft tummy. Slow, kissing you as though he had nowhere else to be but there. As though his next shift wasn't thirty minutes around the corner. 

You were mortified when he blew a raspberry. Now you're thinking you might peel out of your shirt and ask him to do it again if it means he'll kiss you in any definition. 

"What are you thinking about?" he asks as he returns, his hand sliding along from your shoulder to the other while he steps over your legs. 

"What are you thinking about?" you ask. 

"Feeling very repetitive today, are we?" he teases, no consideration for your dinner tray as he collapses into the seat beside you. 

You're expecting his cheek on your shoulder, his hair tickling your upper arm. It doesn't come. Worried he's discouraged by your tray, you place it on the coffee table and sit back. You really want him to kiss you. 

Kissing someone isn't something you thought you'd want to do before you met Eddie. To be kissed, sure. To give a chaste peck, absolutely. But to have someone put their weight on you, to press at the seam of your lips with their own and to wade in like a steady wave, one breath at a time, until you're unsure where the boundary of your mouth begins and his ends, that was all new. Eddie kisses like he loves, loud and brash, rough and eager. Gentle when he needs to be but arduous. 

He makes you feel wanted in a thousand ways and the first is his greedy penchant for stealing a kiss or three at every opportunity. It's weird that he hasn't kissed you yet. He's acting weird. 

"You're being super weird," you say. You feel like a pressure cooker with steam pouring from the release valve. 

Eddie smirks at you. "That so? Any explanation attached to that, or are we name-calling? I have some names for you, if we are." 

"Oh, I have to know." 

"Figured you would." He throws his leg over your thigh. The firm muscle of it tenses as he wiggles his foot. 

"What were you gonna call me?" you prompt impatiently.   

"Sweetheart. Angel." He turns his cheek into the back of the couch, bringing his pinky to your face and drawing a line from the smoothest skin under your eye outward. "Pretty. Very pretty." 

"Says you," you murmur. If he thinks you're so pretty, why won't he kiss you? "I can't work out your angle today." 

"Am I acting differently?" he asks, seemingly unperturbed. 

No. He just hasn't kissed you. There might have been a moment when he first came home where you thought he was hesitating to kiss you, but since then he's acted exactly as he usually does (minus kissing, therefore making it unusual). 

You sigh, half serious and half wanton sadness. "No." His nose twitches. You startle. "What?" 

"Nothing." 

"What, do I have bad breath?" you ask, bringing a hurried palm to your mouth to try and test it. 

Eddie pulls your hand down, admonishing through a laugh, "You obviously don't. You know I'd tell you, babe." 

"Oh." 

"I got gum though, if you want it." 

You bat his chest. "I bet you do… I don't know what it is, then. I give up." 

"What's what?" he asks. He takes a curl of his hair around a painted fingernail. It coils on his finger, where he pinches the end, bringing it up to your chin and drawing a smile under your lips with the tip. 

"I… do I have something in my teeth? A zit? What's the issue?" you ask, lost. 

"There's no issue!" He laughs, and he curves his hand gently around your neck. "Why do you think there's an issue?" he asks. A thread of his voice wavers. Impossible to notice if you didn't know everything about him, down to the stray hair. 

"No, because," —your voice shrinks— "you're being off with me." You won't cry, but it's impossible to stop the doubt that seeps into your voice. "You're not…" 

Eddie strokes your neck with his thumb, growing serious. "I'm not what?" 

"You haven't kissed me." You avoid his eyes. "Not since you saw me." 

"I'm sorry," he says, immediately dipping forward. 

You pull back. "Wait–" 

Eddie waits. "What?" he asks. 

"I don't want you to kiss me just 'cus I asked you to." 

Eddie pushes his hand upward, his index finger shaped to your jawline. He rubs a quarter circle from your chin to your jaw tentatively with his thumb, an awful sorry look in his eyes that he gets whenever you're upset. "Well, I always want to kiss you," he confesses. His eyebrows furrow. "You know that, right?" 

"But you haven't, today." 

Is that pathetic? you panic. Noticing, caring, it feels so, so silly all of a sudden, you can't believe you spilled it that easily. You may as well have written clingy loser across your forehead in glaring pen. 

Eddie sees it. He doesn't cringe at you like you fear he will. 

"Ah," he says, almost humming, his lips barely parted, "that's just not okay, is it? My girl waiting on a kiss." 

He leans in. You shy away, wanting his kiss but wanting the run up more. Eddie follows your lead, keeping space between you, rubbing a diligent and affectionate circle into your cheek. His touch is soft enough to tickle. 

"I'm not trying to act desperate, I just figured– I thought there was a reason you hadn't," you say. 

Eddie asks you in his softest, most genial tones if he can kiss you. 

You don't say yes so much as you lift your chin and close your eyes. Your relief is sharp as he closes the fizzing space between you, as he guides your face to his and holds it there like a treasured pearl cupped in two palms. He makes a sound at the back of his throat that kills any doubts of his affection stone cold dead. Your lips part a millimetre if that, and Eddie slots into the gap, his hands growing less and less careful by the second, the pressure of his touch amping up. He moves back only long enough to turn his head, your noses bumping, another breathy sound slipping past his lips. You smother it gracelessly with a rougher reciprocation. 

It's not your longest kiss, but it works. It's the reassurement you needed. Eddie pulls away to suck in a harsh breath, the feeling foreign against your tingling lips. His face dips, his eyes out of view. His hands move in twin down the slope of your neck, languish, feel along the thin layer of your t-shirt as though he's looking for some secret answer. 

"I'm not trying to act weird around you, I'm just nervous," he says.

You feel your back aching, stiff as a rod. "Nervous?" you ask quietly. 

Eddie rests his forehead on your chin. He whispers a cuss, and then he sits up very tall and looks you in the eye. 

It takes him five seconds to tell you what it is that's making him anxious. In that time, you come up with a handful of things. I lost my job. I don't want to be with you anymore. There's someone else. There's no one else, but you did something that pissed me off/made me uncomfortable/disgusted me. I'm sick. None of your guesses are good, and none prepare you for what he asks next. 

"Would you wanna move in with me?" 

His hand meanders along your thigh. An awkward smile catches his lip like a fish hook, tugging it up on one side. 

"I… what?" 

"I think it's a good idea. I was trying to ask you yesterday, and now today it didn't feel right. I don't want you thinking I'm asking because you did my laundry." His hand warms your thigh, a pervasive heat. Your face is similarly hot. "We could split rent, and you could keep saving. You wouldn't have to deal with your shitty neighbours. You'd be closer to your job, and– and to me. It's a good idea," he repeats. "There's a ton of reasons it would be good for you, but I'm asking 'cus I missed you so bad last night I couldn't sleep. I wanna be with you whenever we can be." 

"You'd really want me to?" you ask. 

"You'd never have to wait for a kiss again," he says hopefully. "I know it's a big move. I get it if you're not ready." 

"I'm ready," you say. You don't know it's true until you've said it aloud. 

Delight sparks and catches like sun-dried tinder. Elation lights his eyes. "Holy shit, yeah? You want to?" 

"Yeah," you say, nodding emphatically, trying not to yell. "Yes, I want to. I'd love to! That would be–" 

"A dream," he finishes, snatching your waist into his grasp, basically yanking you into his arms.

"Amazing," you say, your arms forced over his shoulders. 

You wrap your arms around the back of his head, curls that smell of almond oil and a generous dollop of hair mousse crushed to your face. Your eyes slip closed. You suck in an inconspicuous breath, though your self-indulgent action is interrupted by a groan, Eddie squeezing you hard enough to make the bones in your back click three at a time. 

"I can't believe you, sweetheart. I don't kiss you for an hour and you think there's something wrong?" He laughs.

"I'm spoiled," you say sheepishly. To draw his attention, you add, "I can't believe you, afraid to ask me that! Why would I say no? I love you." 

"I love you, too," he says, pulling the small of your back tighter still so he can dig his nose into the side of your head. 

He kisses you all over the side of your face until you're painted in little warm patches from overexposure. A loved up mess, and dizzy with relief.

Relief and excitement. "How soon do you want me in here?" you ask, sitting back. 

"How soon do you want another kiss?" he asks. 

"Will we be stealing each other's questions all day?" you ask. 

"For the rest of time, if I get my way." 

"That's so corny," you whisper, ecstatic. 

Eddie pushes you down onto the couch cushions. You know before he so much as pulls up a knee that he's going to climb on top of you. You make room for him, your heart feeling like it could breach through your ribs one bone at a time. 

"What are you doing?" you whisper with a smile. 

"Making up for lost kisses."

—

Two Weeks Later

Eddie wakes to a kiss. 

Your arm thrown over his waist, your hand feeling greedily at the trim curve atop his hip, you've well and truly wrapped yourself around him. Like an octopus. He imagines the popping sound of your suckers if he tried to detach you (not that he'd want to). 

You're dotting shy, soft kisses down the column of his throat. "I love you," you say softly between them, a melody that turns him to jelly. "I love you. Love you, love you, love you." 

Your kisses are a compromise —after the general holy fucking shit-ism of your conversation a fortnight ago, Eddie put his foot down. He was out of his mind knowing his apartment was about to become yours, but he was also incredibly unhappy about the faces you'd made before he asked. He remembers your voice, your apprehension as you mumbled, "No, because, you're being off with me."  

Eddie had been totally off trying to figure out how to ask what was potentially the second most important question he could ever ask you; he was distracted enough by it that he totally forgot about kissing you senseless. And your worrying asked a totally new question he hadn't thought of before. Why does Eddie always kiss you first? And why had the lack of a kiss been seen as a bar, and not an invitation? 

Hence Project Kiss Me, Stupid. Or Project Kiss Me Stupid if he's feeling particularly in love (because you aren't stupid at all, but you may have made an unintelligent assumption (Eddie not kissing you for a few hours did not mean even slightly that he isn't gross in love). 

The project was more like a proposal. Eddie decided you should be making the first move more often, so you weren't ever left feeling like something was wrong between you for lack of a kiss again. "If you ever think I'm mad at you, plant one on me. I promise I won't be mad much longer," he told you.

You're passing with flying colours, as far as he's concerned. Eddie thinks your moving in was gift enough, but fuck, all these kisses? He's been a walking vestibule of love, and lust, and sickening fondness for two weeks now. Project Kiss Me Stupid is the best thing that's ever happened to him. He's a genius.

"Good morning," you say into his neck, a hint of teeth scratching him with the greeting. Eddie cups the back of your head with a weak, tired groan as your lips close over his pulse.

"Morning," he says. His voice is thick with the grit of sleep. 

"This is okay?" you ask, pausing in your kiss. 

Eddie tips his head back heavily into plush pillows, your pillows, fresh with new bedding to match the nightstands you'd decided on together. "Please," he says. His arm slides behind your back to belt you in. "I'm gonna think you don't like me anymore if you take any longer." 

"Very funny," you murmur. 

He knows he's forgiven for teasing when your face dives back into the crook of his neck. His eyes shutter closed, blissed, thinking, God, I could get used to this, when you nip him. 

"You didn't like my joke, I take it?" 

"It was funny," you say, giving him a scratching kiss.

"That's counter-intuitive," he warns. "I like it rough." 

You fall away from him to cover your face with both hands. He knows he's rubbing off on you at the sight, your head shaking a theatrical side to side that fails to hide real embarrassment beneath it. You look especially tortured. 

Eddie knows exactly how to fix it. 

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

thanks so much for reading! I really hope you enjoyed!

[abigailywrites]

frostbite [han solo x reader]

ao3 / ko-fi

rating: t word count: 4k warnings: none

Han’s frequent trips to the medical bay since the transfer to Hoth stop surprising you eventually. He’s a regular, coming in for every scrape and bruise. Usually, it’s only ice that he needs… on a planet made of ice. Still, he likes to insist you treat him whenever he can if only to assure him there’s no concussion or sprain. At this point, you’ve even stopped looking up when he struts through the doors. Why would you need to? You have a sixth sense about him at this point. 

This time is no different. When you hear the hiss of the door sliding open, you know it’s him coming through. Of course, it's him. He’s a master at choosing inopportune moments to command your attention, and you can feel his presence in your bones.

“Captain,” you greet him, pretending to take stock of inventory. Pretending you hardly notice him. You don’t even look up from your datapad. You don’t even say his name.

“Doctor,” he returns, leaning against the rack of supplies. “Give me a hand, would you?”

“I'm on break in ten minutes,” you tell him after checking the time. "Find someone else.”

He leans in. "I would’ve asked someone else if I could’ve. Two seconds, doc. That’s all I’m asking for.”

You drop the datapad into your satchel. “Fine,” you sigh. “What can I do for you?” 

He extends his left hand, revealing a swollen welt on the base of his thumb. “Luke suggested I get this checked out,” he explained. “I don’t think it’s that bad, but I thought what the hell?”

You seize his hand gently and hold it close for inspection. “How’d this happen?”

“Lost my gloves outside yesterday,” he says.

“Numb?”

“Pins and needles.”

You drop his hand. “That’s frostbite, Han,” you tell him. “It is that bad.”

Han cradles his hand to himself. “No need to get snippy, sister,” he says. “What do I do about it?”

Ten minutes until your break... But you’ve never been able to refuse Han, and Dak will understand if you’re late to lunch. 

You sigh and lead Han to a basin of warm water. “Give me your hand,” you instruct. 

He complies, resting his hand palm-up in yours. Slowly, you submerge his hand under the warm water, trying to ignore his pained hiss when the water hits the frostbite.

“Keep it warm. Keep it covered. Do not rub or massage it,” you tell him. “What did I just say? Repeat it back.”

“Warm, covered, no rubbing,” Han repeats.

You nod and pull some gauze out of your satchel. “I’ll write you a prescription for anti-inflammatories. Set an appointment with me within the next couple of days to check up. Alright?”

“Well, aren’t we in a rush today?”

“I told you,” you say. “My break is in ten minutes, and I’m meeting Dak for lunch. Hand.”

Once again, his hand is in yours. “You ever not meeting Ralter for lunch?”

Slowly, you begin to wrap the gauze around his thumb into a sort of fingerless glove. “Occasionally,” you answer absently. “Why? Does it suddenly bother you that I eat with my friends?”

“No,” Han responds immediately. “You and Ralter are pretty friendly, though.”

His meaning isn’t lost on you, and it gives you a moment’s pause as you look up at him. He has this idiotic smirk on his face like he’s got you pinned down and dissected. It’s infuriating. As if you and Dak Ralter of all people would be involved. As if there was anyone for you besides... “Yeah, of course, we’re friendly,” you tell him. “We’re friends.”

“‘Course, you are,” Han replies. The smirk doesn’t leave. 

You study him for another second before dropping his hand. “Do you have something to say, Solo?”

He folds his arms over his chest and leans in. “Do you, doc?”

The sudden proximity is a little too much. Maker, you can feel his warmth. “Impossible man…” you grumble as you straighten yourself and walk away.

“Would you have me any other way?” Han calls after you.

“Yes, I would!” you shout back over your shoulder. You could waste hours describing the various ways you would have him, but you’ve had enough of Han Solo for one day. You’ve never been able to understand how someone so… pretty and charismatic can be such a nuisance. 

When you reach the mess hall, you collapse on the bench across from Dak. “Sorry, I’m late,” you mumble.

“What kept you?” Dak asks, pushing your rations across the table to you.

“Solo got frostbite,” you explain, stabbing at your rations.

“Oh?” Dak says with a conspiratorial look. “Did he beeline for you like always?”

“Stop it, Dak,” you say through a mouthful. You swallow before continuing. “It’s not gonna happen. He’s obsessed with the idea of you and me together.” 

Dak nearly chokes before he starts laughing.

“Yeah, I know,” you say as a smile creeps over your face.

“How doesn't he know about me?”

You shrug and shake your head. “He’s an oblivious idiot?”

Dak nods. “Either that or I’ve got to try harder,” he muses. “Why not tell him it’s never gonna happen next time?”

You stammer before a coherent sentence leaves your mouth. “Oh, right. Right, of course. How does this sound? ‘Hey, Han, you’ve got the wrong idea about me and Dak. You can fuck me through the floor now.’ How about that?”

Dak is silent for a moment. “I love how that’s where your mind immediately goes,” he says. He takes a bite of his rations. “You need to make out already. Before the end of the week.”

“Ha ha.”

“No, I’m serious,” Dak says. “I dare you.”

You almost cough up your food. “No!” you say. “Not that stupid game!”

“You owe me a dare! You said so yourself.”

“That was over a month ago!”

Dak wields his fork at you like a weapon. “Fair’s fair,” he insists. “You’ll thank me later.”

“Doubt it,” you grumble.

But Dak waves off your doubt and moves on. It’s easy for him. He doesn’t think about it every day.

You, on the other hand, think about it all through lunch. You think about it through the end of your shift, dinner, and on the way to the barracks. The mere thought of simply kissing Han plagues you when you brush your teeth and change into nightclothes. It cuts into your sleep.

Which explains why you're so tired at your shift the next morning, slumping into the medbay and making caf before attempting conversation with anyone.

"Doctor?" Harter Kalonia approaches you after your first sip. "Are you ready to start?"

"Yes," you sigh, lying through your teeth and reaching for the datapad she’s holding out to you. One look at the name at the top of the info sheet and you want to bash your head against the wall. "Who let Captain Solo schedule his appointment for first thing today?"

"He insisted," Kalonia replies. "He's waiting in the examination room right now."

"Of course, he is," you grumble. "Let's get this over with."

When you walk in, he’s sitting on the examination table like he’s not sure what to do with himself. His frostbitten hand is pinned between his knees while his other is propping him up, and there’s a scowl on his face that’s almost comical.

“So,” you begin, “I guess I should’ve specified not to book me for the very next day.”

“Well, doc, you seemed a little too busy to elaborate on much of anything,” he says, sounding as irritated as he looks.

“I told you to go find someone else,” you point out.

“And I told you that there was no one else,” he counters.

“Nevermind,” you say with a roll of your eyes. “Let’s see it.”

He holds out his hand and lets you gingerly unwrap the burn. It’s something you should take your time with, but the closeness is making everything foggy. His head is so close to yours, and you’re both looking down at your hands, observing the way your fingers brush up against his now and then. If both of you were to look up at the same time, you would be nose-to-nose. There isn’t anything you want more than to be over with it. Nevertheless, you push through every agonizing second until his hand is bare before you.

“It isn’t the worst I’ve seen,” you explain. “Fairly mild, in fact. Keep taking your meds, and it should heal up within a few months. So… more appointments, probably. Not tomorrow. Give it some time to progress.”

“Sure,” he agrees.

“Good thing it’s your left, huh?”

“I’m left-handed.”

“No,” you protest. “You shoot with your right.”

“I shoot with my right,” he confirms. “Everything else I do with my left.”

It would be laughable if you weren’t mortified. “Funny how the only person I know who wears two jackets indoors managed to get one of the most inconvenient frostbites on base,” you mumble.

“I see nothing funny about this,” he counters.

“I promise you it’s hysterical from this side,” you say, making appointment notes on the datapad.

Han furrows his eyebrows and practically pouts. “Well, I’m glad I could amuse you.” 

He’s being childish, and you’re sure he doesn’t think so. For once, you smile at how ridiculous he is. And then you look up to notice that his eyebrows have unfurrowed and his face has lost its hardness as he looks at you. You stand that way until your smile fades, and you realize that you’re standing nearly nose-to-nose as you feared. If you wanted to, you could move just a couple inches forward and… Dak’s challenge immediately comes to mind when your eyes flick down to his lips, and the backward step you take is almost involuntary.

“Right,” you say, swallowing hard. “That’s it for today. Set an appointment for about two weeks from now on your way out, alright?”

“Aren’t you gonna wrap this up?” he questions, waving his hand.

“Oh, yeah,” you mutter, reaching for fresh gauze from your satchel.

You’re halfway done wrapping his hand when he speaks up in a low voice. “You’re doing it again,” he says.

You spare him a glance before returning to your work. “Doing what?” you question. 

“Rushing. Like you can’t wait to get away from me. You treat all your patients like this or am I just special?” 

“You’re imagining things,” you say, shaking your head. This isn’t a safe conversation. 

“Yeah?” he asks, closing his hand over yours and making you look him in the eye. “Then how come you walk in here without so much as a hello and try to leave without so much as a goodbye?"

It takes you a moment to work up an answer to that. How are you supposed to explain to him that the only reason you keep him at arm’s length is because of how badly you want him closer all the time? How could you ever possibly explain something you don’t fully understand yourself? “I-I’m not trying to. I’m just...”

“Busy?”

“Busy,” you confirm.

Han nods, lets you finish wrapping his hand, stands, and takes a deep breath. “Figures,” he says. “Say hello to Ralter for me.”

“Maker—” you start, your hands curling into fists at your sides. “I— You— You are so oblivious sometimes. For your information, I’m not even having lunch with Dak today.” 

“Alright, I get your point,” he says, heading for the door.

You don’t think he really does, but you still don’t know how to explain it to him. You don’t know if it would matter. It doesn’t stop you from calling his name before he can step through the door. “Han.”

He stops dead in his tracks and hesitates a moment before looking back at you. “Yes, doctor?” he sighs.

You don’t know. Honestly, you were saying his name just to say it. You close your eyes and take a deep breath. “Just…” you start. When you open your eyes again, he’s still staring at you. You like to imagine that you can still see some of the softness in his features that he showed you a moment ago. “Please… Take care of yourself?”

He swallows hard before answering, “What do I rely on you for?” He’s out the door before you can answer.

At the end of your shift, Dak meets you outside the medbay to go to dinner.

“Hey,” you greet him.

Whether he knows by the tone of your voice or the way you’re walking, Dak cringes and says, “Was your day that bad?”

“Well, I had an appointment with Solo if that answers your question,” you answer. You hold up a finger. “And before you ask, no I didn’t.”

Dak smiles and shakes his head as you begin to walk. “At this point, it’s like you don’t want to.”

“I do!” you answer a little too quickly and a little too loud. Quietly, you repeat yourself. "I do…"

"Then why don't you do something about it?"

"Because," you sputter. "It's just… It's not that easy. I mean, what if he didn’t kiss me back?"

"Is that it?" Dak asks. "Am I being stupid or is this the same guy who comes in for every stubbed toe and doesn’t let anyone else treat him?”

“Because I’m a good doctor!”

“Yeah, but you’re so mean to him,” he answers. “Look, you’ve got nothing to worry about. And besides, fair’s fair. So—”

“No, Dak,” you say, turning serious. “That’s just it. If something happens, I want it to happen because I want it. Because he wants it. This is a real part of my life, not a game or a joke. It’s just— It’s too important.”

Dak is silent a moment before whispering. “Holy kriff, this is beyond a crush for you, isn’t it?”

You walk with your head down and don’t answer.

“Okay,” Dak continues. “Okay. No dares. You do it in your own time.”

“Thank you,” you say. Then you smile. “Now, can we talk about something else? I have had enough of Han Solo for one day.”

Dak wraps his arm around your shoulders and squeezes. “Absolutely.”

It’s the end of the week, and your shift is nearly over when your comm buzzes.

“Hey, doc, do you do house calls?” Han’s voice asks the minute you pick up.

“Solo?” you say. “How did you get this frequency? It’s for medical personnel only.”

“Pulled a few strings. Do you do house calls?”

“Technically, yes. But it’s—” A deep breath. “It’s the end of my shift.”

“It’s not for me,” he says. “It’s Chewie this time. Can you swing by the Falcon?”

A moment’s hesitation. “Give me two seconds,” you say before flicking off the comm and gathering your med bag.

You know exactly where the Falcon sits. You pass her every day on the way to the mess hall and try not to think about the captain, but you’ve never been inside. There’s no time to consider that as you climb the ramp and navigate the halls to where Chewie sits. Han is standing over him like a protective parent which almost makes you laugh considering how often it’s the other way around.

“Finally!” Han says, waving you over. “Tell her what’s wrong, Chewie.”

Chewie says… something. 

“I don’t speak Shyriiwook,” you tell Han. “You’re going to have to translate.”

Han nods. “He caught his wrist and twisted it working on the power couplings. Says it hurts something awful.”

So it went that you would ask Chewie a question and Han would translate his answer. Chewie had sprained his wrist badly, but you fixed him up with a sling and instructed him to rest it. “And I mean it,” you said. “I know you work hard, but you need to let it be for about two weeks. Got it?”

Chewie nodded and said something that sounded like affirmation before standing and retreating down the hall.

“Ah, he’s gonna go get some sleep,” Han explained. “Been a long day for him.”

“Him and me both,” you sigh, leaning against the wall and trying to stretch out a kink in your neck that’s been there all week. 

Han swallows hard and reaches for a cabinet on the wall. “Drink?” he asks, retrieving a bottle of brown liquor from the cabinet and pouring two glasses before you can answer.

“Guess I’m off-duty now,” you concede, accepting the glass with a nod. You take a sip and let the burn of the liquid settle in your stomach before speaking up. “So, why’d you drag me out here? He could’ve come to the medbay with that.”

“Well, uh,” Han begins, swirling his drink and not meeting your eyes. “Don’t tell him I told you, but he’s sweet on one of your nurses and didn’t want to embarrass himself. Harter something.”

Your eyes widen. “Harter Kalonia?”

“That’s the one.”

“Oh,” you say. It comes out as a giggle. “Well, she’s cute.”

“Yeah, she is,” Han agrees and takes a swig of his drink.

That response doesn’t sit right with you. Before you have a chance to think, you blurt out, “You wouldn’t stand a chance with her, of course.”

Han raises his eyebrows, folds his arms over his chest, and leans against the wall with you. Less than an arm’s length away. “I wouldn’t? What makes you say that?”

“Well,” you scoff. “Reason one: Kalonia isn’t a nurse. She’s a first-year resident on her way to being a doctor. Reason two: she’s a very no-nonsense girl. Level-headed. Not your type. Reason three—”

He holds up a hand. “Whoa, hold on,” he says. “How do you figure who’s my type and who’s not?”

“I—” you begin, struggling for a good explanation besides the fact you figured his type was anyone not like you. You take a swig of your drink and swallow. “I assume—”

“Yeah, you assume,” Han says. “And I venture to say that your idea of who my type is is a lot different from mine. But go on. Reason three?”

You take a deep breath before continuing. “Reason three: Kalonia wouldn’t hold with your… style.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that I don’t think you could seduce a woman without yelling at her.”

“Oh, you think so?” Han asks, leaning in. “Bet I could surprise you. You oughta make it part of that dare game you play with the pilots.”

You almost snort. “Yeah, I think that game effectively ended a couple days ago.”

“How come?”

He’s looking at you with the same softness you saw in him before, and you wind up staring at him so long that you almost forget to laugh off the question. When you do laugh, it comes out awkward. “Something stupid Dak dared me to do, that’s all,” you answer, pushing yourself off of the wall and gathering all of your supplies back into the bag. “Thanks for the drink. I’m off.”

He calls your name before you reach the door. Not “doctor.” Not even “doc.” He says your name, and even though you squeeze your eyes shut like it hurts you, it’s one of the nicest things you’ve ever heard from him.

“There you go again,” he says, irritation lacing his voice. “Running off without a goodbye.”

You turn back to face him. “Why do you care so much?”

Now, he pushes himself off the wall and walks over to you. His shoulders are hunched, and he looks like he’s at war with himself. “What was the dare?”

“None of your business,” you answer.

“It’s just between you and Ralter, isn’t it?”

Exasperated, you throw your hands up. “What is your obsession with me and Dak?”

“It’s not an obsession! I just wanna know what’s going on!”

“He dared me to kiss you! Is that what you wanna hear?”

That shuts him up. Considering that was more information than you ever planned on volunteering, it shuts you up, too. 

It’s a full minute before Han says, “I thought he was in love with you.”

You roll your eyes. “He’s not in love with me,” you answer. “Dak Ralter doesn’t like women.”

Han goes silent again as he processes the new information. Finally, he speaks again. “And you turned down the dare?”

“Of course, I did,” you answer immediately.

“Of course, you did,” Han repeats. “Why would I think anything different?”

"What are you talking about?"

"What am I talking about?" he responds. "I'll tell ya, sister. I'm talking about how I've had just about enough of this for one day."

You laugh in his face, trying to hide how his words sting. "Oh, you've had enough? I've had enough of you from day one!"

“Fine! See if I come by your office again! I won’t! Weren’t you leaving, or something?”

“As a matter of fact, I was,” you snap and march out the door. 

The minute you leave the Falcon, you stop dead in your tracks. The outside cold hits you like a slap to the face, but there’s cold under your skin too. You’re shaking, not shivering; and your own words are gnawing at your mind. You can’t bring yourself to take another step forward. In fact, you want to turn back around. You want to look him in the face and argue with him until the sun rises. You want to feel his hand closing around yours again. You want to sit in total silence with him for hours. Yes, he’s a storm that makes your bones ache with his presence, but you’re a liar if you say you’ve had enough of him. You’ve never had enough of him. You never would.

The beginnings of a scream rise in your throat before you spin around and march back up the Falcon’s ramp. 

You collide into his chest in the hallway, just as he’s storming out of the lounge. When you regain your bearings, you both start talking at the same time. Then you both stop. Then you both start again.

You slap your hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry,” you say. “I would take it back if I could.” Then you drop your hand. Oh, but your fingers glide over his lips and down his chin so you curl them into a fist once they’re back by your side.

“So, you’re saying you would take the dare if you had another chance?” he challenged. “Alright, I dare you.”

You stare, horrified. “Have you lost your mind?”

“Slightly,” he admits. “I don’t know… You’re a doctor, right? Can you explain why I can’t even think straight when I’m in the same room as you?”

“What?”

“I just said I can’t think straight,” he repeats. His hands are on your shoulders before you can register that he’s reaching for you. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t been able to go a whole day without thinking about you for months now, and I’d like to know what’s wrong with me. Have any idea?”

You don’t know what’s wrong with him, but you sure as hell know what’s wrong with you. So you answer, “A little…”

“It means something to you?”

“Um,” you start. His fingers are gripping your shoulders so tightly, it’s dizzying. “A little.”

It’s not the answer you mean to give, and by the way he sighs and pulls his hands away from you it wasn’t the answer he was hoping for either. A little too late, your mind clears, and you realize that he’s slipping away. And maybe it’s the alcohol taking the edge of fear off, but you’re so sick of letting your chances pass you by. So you grab him by his sleeve and pull him back to you.

You’re nose-to-nose again, but this time it’s on purpose. Your neck has to crane to look up at him like this, and he has to bend his head down. He could move right now, you realize. If he wanted to, he could step away. But he doesn’t.

So you kiss him, grabbing him by the lapels of his jacket and pulling him in. The cold in you shatters, making way for burning, melting warmth when he wraps his arms around your waist and hoists you closer to him. It’s still not close enough, but it’s better than you dreamed. You had never quite gotten the details right in dreams. How could you have imagined the texture of his hair at the nape of his neck where your fingers comb through or the unexpected softness of his lips against yours? How could you have imagined the way his arms around you are both strong and gentle. How could you have imagined him not letting go even when you pull away? How could you have imagined such warmth in a frozen wasteland? 

It’s a moment after you pull away before you dare to open your eyes, but when you do, you find him staring at you, soft and dazed. 

“Okay?” you ask as though a kiss is a sufficient explanation.

But then again, maybe it is, because he swallows and nods. “Okay…”

With a smile, you kiss him again — quickly and sweetly — before wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him into an embrace, your hand cradling the back of his head. You can feel his smile, warm against the curve of your neck.

You stand that way for what feels like an age, and the warmth never leaves you.

[omnomnomdomcaps]

Louder than Words

Yet another remastered story, everyone! And yes, I'm still here. - ONND

***

Ann stared in vain at the screen in front of her, lingering on the clock in the corner. She had told her boss - the firebrand lawyer that she aspired to be like - that she could have her report done by Monday morning, and yet for the past three hours she had accomplished absolutely nothing. It was as if a fog had set over her, and she knew exactly who to blame.

In one furious motion, the diminutive blonde rose from her seat, stomped through her apartment hallway as loudly as her five-foot frame could, stopped, and pointed, as sharply and as angrily as her finger was capable of pointing.

“YOU!” she bellowed, her face bright red.

“Yes?” Richard, her boyfriend, turned in his swivel, utterly unfazed, resting his hands in his lap as he looked up at his fuming visitor.

“Don’t play dumb with me!” the girl bellowed, “Your stupid fucking hypnosis bullshit has been messing with my head all night, and I’ll remind you that I have a lot of work to do.”

“My… stupid hypnosis?” he repeated softly, raising an eyebrow, “But… I thought that hypnosis didn’t do anything?”

“Oh shut up, smartass,” Ann barked, “it doesn’t. But all your yammering on about figuring out the trigger” - she added air quotes as she mocked - “and how revolutionary you seem to think this bullshit is has been giving me a fucking headache, and now I can’t focus on my goddamn work.”

“My oh my,” the man shook his head in his seat, “such rude words. As I said before, I’m quite proud of this new file, and I’m very appreciative that you would let me test it out on you. I just thought you should know that it’s trigger-based, in case that helps you manage it. After twenty-four hours, I’ll be happy to remove it if you just ask, but I need to collect a few observations first.”

“I don’t need you to remove shit,” she snarled, “It doesn’t do anything, and I wish you’d stop wasting your time on it. Just tell me what the stupid trigger is or whatever, so I can focus on more important things. Christ.”

“Oh, but where’s the fun in that?” Richard smiled, “Besides, if the file really isn’t doing anything, then it’d seem to me that you just need a simple distraction. So why don’t you take your mind off work a few minutes, hmmm? Relax a little?”

Ann growled, but eventually released her pointing hand and exhaled. She wasn’t one to admit it, but perhaps, she thought, he was right - a simple distraction was what she needed.

The girl left her boyfriend’s office and made her way to the kitchen, where she quickly came upon some lingering plates and cutlery from the night’s dinner. Once more, she took a deep breath, before taking a sponge and turning on the faucet, immersing herself in a simple, productive task to clear the fog in her head.

And within just a few moments, that fog seemed to start to clear. The girl felt calmer and more at ease, and didn’t even show annoyance when a familiar face came in to join her.

“Aww, thank you!” her boyfriend remarked, “You didn’t have to do that. Maybe I can help?”

“I can handle it myself,” she said without turning, “but thanks.”

Indeed, it seemed she was almost done with the work anyway, only one plate left to scrub off and place into the couple’s dishwasher. But then, that plate slipped from her hands.

In a moment of sudden panic, Ann scrambled to regain a grip on the wide dinner plate, her wet fingers grasping madly at the air over the sink. Finally, she was able to regain a hold, but it came at such an awkward angle that she ended up diverting the full pour of the faucet towards her body, blasting her with such force that she had to drop the ceramic into the basin below.

The plate shattered into pieces, and Ann just stood there, trying to make sense of what had just happened, and what had come of it. She was drenched - the burst of water had reached her face, her t-shirt, and the front of her pants. As her boyfriend stepped calmly in front of her, turning off the sink and beginning to collect the shattered remains of the plate, the girl erupted once again in frustration.

“Fucking seriously!?” she yelled out, “Why the fuck did you have to distract me again? I was finally starting to fucking relax and you had to get up behind me and…”

“Whoa there now,” he gestured, as if trying to rein in a horse, “no need for that kind of hostility. I’ll just take care of the little mess here, and I think you should probably focus on getting yourself cleaned up?”

Again the girl growled, balling up fists as she walked away. Part of her wanted to keep arguing, but she knew there would be nothing to gain. Plus, she knew he was right - she needed to get herself cleaned up. Her shirt was sopping wet, and the stain on her pants had soaked her underwear as well.

As she changed herself out into dry clothes in their bedroom, Richard once again came to join, tapping her ajar door before peering in.

“You gonna be alright changing yourself there, babe? Maybe I should get you something a little more absorbent, in case you have another little mishap?”

“Real funny,” she rolled her eyes, “I can keep my pants dry just fine, as long as someone doesn’t keep distracting me. Now could you please leave me alone?”

“Alright, alright,” he acquiesced, and walked away.

Ann, dressed in a fresh set of clothes, took several deep breaths to try to calm herself down, hoping that she might be able to focus enough to get her work done. But as she stared again into the screen, she found herself again veering away from her task. She played games, watched news, checked social media, and did everything except the thing she was supposed to do, until a familiar feeling finally pulled her away from her seat.

“God fucking damn it,” she muttered under her breath, shaking her head as she walked away from her laptop. She wondered why she had been so ineffective - she’d never been one to struggle so much with writer’s block or procrastination before, and she didn’t really care about the stupid hypnosis trigger, did she?

But then, only a few feet from her chair, Ann felt something strange. The urge that she had, that had started as a simple need for a pee break, seemed to be developing unnaturally, growing stronger and stronger each second. But it had gotten beyond even that.

The girl looked down, unable to believe what she was seeing. There, at the front of her fresh pair of shorts, spots were appearing. They weren’t some burst of desperation, but small, uncontrolled drop, leaking through underwear, and beginning to drip onto the floor.

“Fuck!” She launched into a sprint for the bathroom, but it was already too late. The drops had turned into a full-blown stream, flowing down across the legs of her shorts and forming puddles on the hardwood below, with her muscles unable to stop anything.

She finally did enter the bathroom, but there wasn’t much left for her to do there. She tossed off her ruined shorts and panties - her second such set of the day - and sat half-naked on the toilet bowl, mulling her situation, cursing until her face turned red.

And then, like clockwork, he showed up, carrying a crinkling package in his hand as he waved to his girlfriend from the bathroom’s entrance.

“What the fuck do you want!?” she balked, “And why do you even have that?”

“Occupational hazard,” he chuckled, “different hypnoses affect people in different ways, and sometimes these h-”

“NO!” she pointed, glaring suddenly, “Don’t say that word - that word that rhymes with ‘yelp.’ That’s your fucking trigger word, isn’t it? Isn’t it?”

Richard smiled and shrugged, and then began to answer. “A good g-”

“No!” she cut him off, “You know what? Don’t fucking say anything. Don’t talk to me tonight. Sleep on the fucking couch. Okay?”

The man standing in the hallway nodded, raising his free hand up to gesture for calm. He said nothing.

“But,” Ann went on, her voice turning timid, “could you leave the package here? Thanks.”

Her boyfriend tossed the package towards her before proceeding to walk away once again. Ann, after a few moments, reached to bring it closer to herself, shuddering as she examined the contents.

Diapers. A small, mostly empty bag of thick, adult diapers. Ann wondered if she really needed them, or if she was simply letting Richard’s riddles get in her head. Either way, she figured, it would be easier to just put one on. Tomorrow afternoon, she reminded herself, she would be done with this insanity, free to go back to her normal life. And she would never agree to let that man hypnotize her again.

With a sigh, the girl took a garment from the bag and unfolded it, trying to make sense of front and back. This will be over soon, she reminded herself, and she stood to wrap the diaper around herself. It was an alien feeling, and she winced as she heard the plastic crinkle. Still, it wasn’t all that uncomfortable, and she was able to ease into the sensation as she walked back towards the bedroom, carrying the remainder of the bag in her fingers.

Richard had gone to sleep on their sofa, as requested, and Ann flopped onto their bed alone, thoughts from the previous day racing through her mind. She was too tired to try to do work any longer, and she reminded herself that it would be a waste of time anyway. Within a day, this would all be over, and that thought calmed her as she drifted off peacefully.

****

Some nine hours later, Ann rubbed her tired head as she tried to adjust to the new day. She wasn’t used to sleeping so long, and she certainly wasn’t used to the new sensation between her legs.

“Oh, Christ…” she mumbled, tossing off her blanket and covers to reveal a sopping diaper underneath.

“Good morning, sleepyhead!” Richard waltzed in, a wide smile on his face, “Ready for breakfast?”

“Could you not be so fucking loud?” she whispered, holding the side of her head, “i literally just woke up. Jesus…”

“Oh my,” he said, speaking more softly now, “looks like someone’s had a busy night, huh? I suppose I’ll just leave you to it, then.”

And for a few moments, he did, working away in the kitchen while the girl tried to orient herself. Slowly, Ann was able to untape her worn diaper, wrap it, and toss into their wastebasket, before pulling another from the bag - the last, she quickly realized - and setting it around her hips.

“Need any… assistance there?” Richard chimed in from the kitchen.

“No!” she balked, “I can change myself. I don’t need you using this as an excuse to humiliate me any more.”

“Suit yourself, then.”

This time, however, it seemed the tapes were baffling Ann. Try as she might, she simply couldn’t fix them around her waist, no matter if she was lying down or standing up, no matter how she tried to position her hands.

“Are you sure you don’t need any help?” he finally asked again, peering into the bedroom door.

“I told you not to… ugh…” the girl scowled, crossing her arms and turning her head. “Fine! Go ahead and fucking change me already. I hope you’re happy, asshole.”

“Always!” he answered cheerily, whistling to himself as he fastened the blushing girl’s diaper.

“Y’know,” he said, just as he was finishing the work, “I think I might have to pick up a few things at the mall today. Would you care to join me?”

“Fine,” the girl replied, her head still turned away, a scowl still covering her face, “whatever.”

Breakfast was a silent affair - flapjacks and scrambled eggs, which the girl ate, to her relief, without incident. All the while, her mind continued to race through her current situation, as she struggled to accept the profound effects the hypnosis seemed to have had on her, and wondered how much further it would go before the day was through.

Soon, the two were in the mall lobby, watching Sunday crowds scuttle about around them. Ann had chosen a light blue sundress to wear - the one clean item she had that wouldn’t leave her with an obvious bulge - but she was still highly self-conscious of what was hidden underneath.

“So what did you want to get here?” the girl asked, nervously maintaining her hands at the hem of her dress.

“Well,” he began, “I did notice that package I gave you was running a bit l-”

“Oh my fucking god,” she cut him off, “You fucking asshole. You just brought me out here to buy diapers, didn’t you? You just want to fucking humiliate me, is that it?”

“Now, now,” Richard answered calmly, “no need to make a fuss. Yes, I may have needed to pick up a few of those, but I’m also happy to go shop for anything you like. My treat - it’s my way of thanking you for -” he paused and grinned, anticipating her grimace at his next word, “helping me with this project.”

Ann’s face turned red as she clenched her teeth. She wanted to scream that this was some trap, but she fought against the urge, not wanting to call attention to herself in this state. Plus, if he was being honest, this could be a chance for her to salvage her situation with a bit of material compensation.

And so, the girl led her boyfriend without a word to an upscale clothing outlet, handing him a basket to carry. For the next hour, she would fill it with anything that caught her eye, smiling gleefully as she snatched up the most extravagant items in the store. And Richard, for his part, said nothing.

That was, until he heard the girl’s stomach emit a familiar rumble.

“Uh oh…” he teased, “looks like someone’s gotta go.”

“It’s fine,” Ann rolled her eyes, “I can wait. I’d rather not deal with a public bathroom right now.” And with that, she went back to picking clothes, as her boyfriend shrugged silently and averted his gaze with a whistle.

It was only a few moments later, though, that a sudden and powerful cramp struck the girl, causing her to nearly drop the dress she was holding. With wide eyes and blush cheeks, the girl looked nervously around before admitting a change of heart.

“Berightback,” she blurted, and she darted off into the mall. And after putting their overflowing basket aside, her boyfriend ran after.

For a moment, Ann stopped and turned. “Don’t follow me!” she yelled, “I don’t need your fucking help, okay? I - I - oh god…”

The second cramp that hit, it seemed, was far more forceful than the first. There, in the mall’s corridor, Ann grunted as she felt her body pushing and pushing, a massive, mushy mess filling the back of her diaper.

She wanted to cry.

“There there, sweetie,” Richard said softly, “it’s okay. Why don’t we just make a quick run to the pharmacy, and then we’ll be off home and get you nice and clean, ‘kay?”

“You…” she grimaced, but she held back. Don’t make a scene here, she told herself, not here.

And so she went along, swallowing her tongue and her pride as he took her by the hand over to the mall’s small drugstore. But against his word, Richard seemed to be taking his sweet time, whistling as he carefully looked through the packages in the diaper aisle, before settling on one he liked.

“Oooh, this is perfect! A nice big package for you. Can you read how many diapies are in here?”

“Fuck off,” the girl whispered through gritted teeth, “I can read fine, asshole.”

“Oh?” the man countered with a condescending smile, “Go on, then.”

Fuming through her nose as she tried to contain her rage, the girl let her eyes drift to the package, finding nothing but incomprehensible symbols on it. Then, those eyes began to dart around the aisle, finding only the same on every other package and sign. And when she realized what it all meant, Ann snapped.

“WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO TO ME?” she yelled, stomping her foot against the store rug, “WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO TO ME??”

“Now now, sweetie,” Richard smiled, putting aside the package he was holding, “there’s no need for that kind of language. Don’t forget we’re in a store now.”

“Fuck you,” the girl retorted, her face beet red as she landed another stomp on the floor, “Fuck you fuck you fu-”

In an instant, the girl found herself looking down at the floor, positioned with her full diaper facing up over her boyfriend’s knee.

“Tsk tsk tsk” he shook his head, stern but calm, “How many times did I warn you?”

*SMACK*

“Little girls like you shouldn’t be using such foul language.”

*SMACK*

“And now, this is what you get.”

*SMACK*

“Is that clear?”

Ann nodded behind watering eyes as she was let down onto her feet, her hand reaching to support her sore bottom as she winced at the sticky mess that had been pressed against it.

She would be silent for the rest of their mall trip, hiding her face behind her hands as her boyfriend checked out the new package of diapers, and looking away as they drove home. It was almost over, she told herself, remembering that there were only a few hours left before the day was up. This nightmare is almost over.

That only made it more shocking, however, when he led her back into their apartment to reveal what was once his office, redone completely into a full, adult-sized nursery, complete with a giant crib, soft pink-colored walls with infantile decorations, and a changing mat, onto which she found herself being placed.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he smiled, “I did a little redecorating while you were asleep last night. Thought you mind need this.”

“What the fuck,” the girl seethed, preparing to burst once more, “You fucking psycho…”

“Now, now,” he chided, “what did we say about naughty words?”

“I can say whatever the fuck I want!”

“Can you, now?”

The girl was ready to go off once more, but she was interrupted by a strange feeling. Her tongue, it seemed, was lost in her mouth, and all of the sounds she wanted to make seemed impossible.

“Ga…” she mustered, “ba… da…” but she simply couldn’t formulate a word.

“Oh, too bad,” Richard commented, unable to fully hide his chuckle at the girl’s state, “Seems like someone’s lost her train of thought. And it’s such a shame, because I’m sure you really wanted to ask for me to undo this hypnosis.

“But that’s not going to happen now, because you went and said those words again - I can. So sad, really - you could have probably figured it out when you were still smart enough, but instead you went and insulted me and my work, thinking you were so much better than all of it.

“I guess it can’t be helped. I guess that’s just the girl you are - or at least, the one you were. Thinking you were better than everyone else, thinking you could do anything. And that’s exactly why I had to teach you this lesson.”

Ann lay in wide-eyed shock as she soaked in the revelation. Her mind raced as she tried to find a way out, a way to escape being this oversized baby, unable to speak a word, being changed out of a full, wet, messy diaper before being put down into her crib for a nap.

But she couldn’t.

[the-fiction-witch]

Scrubber Girl

Media Artful Dogder

Character Jack Dawkins

Couple Jack X Reader

Rating Flirty AF

first fic post show release for Jack Dawkins!

I would like to formally welcome him to the roasta and thank everyone involved in artful dodger!

I hummed myself a gentle tune as I folded laundry away into the upper cupboard when suddenly this smell, this stench! this utter aporance! met my nose. 

"Ohh my-" I gasped turning to see if I could see what on earth had happened only to see a strange sight indeed. 

As Resisdent Dr Jack Dawkins came trudging up the stairs dressed in his shoes, socks, his undergarments and a dirty old coat, with a look of anger and frustration his body coated with dirt, blood and... frankly I didn't want to know what else. His whole body stank enough I could smell him before he even reached the top of the stairs.

I met his angry eyes, then his... undergarments utterly in shock grabbing a yet folded sheet to hold over my eyes

"ahhh goodness gracious! Dr Dawkins!" I yelped "What on earth happened?"

"Don't ask." He snapped heading to his room, 

I quickly finished the laundry and took my dress in hand to scamper along behind him to his room quickly going in before he stopped me 

"What on earth happened?"

"I don't want to talk about it" 

"Alright, You need a bath. You utterly reek"

"I'm fine" he said stripping the jacket off and washing his face from the basin by his bed

"Jack you need a bath." 

"I'll deal with it in the morning Y/n I know you trying to help but It's been a long day I just want to get to bed." 

"I just clean those sheets jack, No absolutely not." I said moving to stand in front of his wardrobe to prevent him from getting clean clothes

"Y/n."

"I will ask you nicely once Jack, and I will ask you rather bluntly a second time. Do not make me ask you a third." I glared 

He rolled his eyes "Run me a bath." 

"Thank you, I will add some extra bubbles just for you" I smiled going to scamper away to run him a bath but he grabbed my arm "Yes?" I asked his response like normal was to merely rub his nose on mine "Not on your life while you're smelling like that doctor. Once your bath is finished I will consider it" I told him before I hurried down to the bathroom running the large tub with a nice fresh bar of soap, some fluffy towels and extra bubbles and soon enough he arrived wrapped up in his jacket with a fresh set of clothes "You're bath awaits you, Dr Dawkins" 

"Thank you y/n." 

"You're welcome, now come on let's get rid of that horrid... whatever it is." I told him 

He smiled and stripped off what remained of his clothes before climbing into the tub "Ahhh hot,"

"if its not hot your not clean" I giggled "Enjoy your bath" I smiled going to leave but he grabbed my arm and tugged me back "Yes?"

His response was to lean on the side and give me puppy eyes 

"Alright" I rolled my eyes sitting on the edge "What on God's green earth is in your hair?" I asked 

"You don't wanna know" he sighed relaxing a little 

"I worry about you sometimes." I sighed picking up a rag from the side getting a good rub of soap and starting on his matted hair filled with chunks of... ehhh I don't wanna know "You get into another fight again?"

"No."

"You trip over the surgery waste bucket again?"

"No. And I can do it myself you know" He pouted 

"Alright I'll go" I laughed trying to get up and leave but he grabbed my arm and pulled me back

"Ohh no you don't" He smirked tugging me back so much I almost fell in his bath with him 

"Jack let me go!" I giggled 

"How am I ever meant to get clean without my little scrubber" He smirked 

"Jack!" I giggled pushing him off before he really did pull me in his bath with him "Not while you still covered in... Ohh my- Is this flesh in your hair! How- what- when-"

"I told you, you didn't want to know." 

"Let me guess some crack pot scheme of you boys downstairs gone horribly wrong?" I asked having to work a bit harder now I knew what it all was getting the good scrubbing brush 

"More or less" He shrugged "While your at it scrubber girl I have a terrible itch on my back" He complained arching his back so I could use my long scrubber 

"I protest to being labelled your scrubber girl" I complain playfully but still decently hitting him on the head with the wooden steam of the scrubber 

"Owww" He complained "Sorry scrubber girl"

"One of these days, your going to call me that and I'm going to push this scrubber slightly further down and end up shoving it right up your arse. Like to see your quick fingers get you out of that"

"You'd be amazed what my quick fingers can do" he smirked "I suppose you wouldn't be surprised. Would you scrubber girl?" He smirked leaning back to playfully wink at me 

"You want me to hit you again? cause I'll do it. and it'll be much harder."

"not the only thing getting harder." he smirked 

"Okay. You asked for it." I glared fetching the hard brush the one often used for the bottom of your feet, calus hands and stubborn merky mud. I dabbed a bit of soap and before he could argue or protest I shoved the brush down his chest until I met his crotch and scrubbed like I was cleaning off old boots to which he squealed like a nine-year-old girl has lost her dolly and immediately he scampered himself to the other end of the bath sheepishly holding his legs to his chest

"No." He warned "Noo. put the brush down."

"I'm not sure, a scrubber girl needs to scrub" I giggled jumping to the other side and trying to get him again but he again moved in fear 

"ahh no! no. okay... I apologise." He said, "Just put the brush down."

"Alright," I giggled setting the brush down "What am I?" I asked 

"My scrubber girl" he smirked 

"Jack," I warn going to pick it up again

"Alright! Alright, Your y/n. my very sweet little laundry girl." he smiled moving over to be close to me leaning on the tub a little "Not the scrubber girl"

"That's better" I smiled fixing his hair a little and giving his lips a soft gentle kiss he tried for more But I pulled back 

"Would my lovely laundry girl like to join me?" He suggested

"After what's just come off your body Jack you have more chance of getting the virgin Mary herself coming through that door to give you blow job" 

"I mean... you can empty it and re-run it if you feel that strongly about it"

"Just put some pants on Jack before I really do shove that scrubbing brush up your arse" I warn getting up and throwing him a towel to it hit him in the face

"Thank you-" He sighed 

[starshideurfics]

Captive, Captivating, part 2

part 1

into the steddie-verse, omegaverse, dubcon, we’re all in the same imperial rome/war prize gutter together, mdni 🔞

It takes nearly three quarters of an hour for Geta’s knot to go down, and he smiles smugly as his pretty little omega wriggles in place. The way he shifts just so, startling at his body’s reaction, the clench and pulse of being stretched open so perfectly for the first time.

Geta pets over Stepan’s flank, cups the firm cheeks of his round bottom, thinking about how nice it will feel to slam his hips against that plushness when he has his omega present and takes him from behind. How deep he will be able to delve into that sweet cunt to sow his seed. Deep enough it has to catch.

He refrains from slipping his fingers between those cheeks, no matter how much he wants to stroke over the tight furl of Stepan’s asshole. To make him shiver. To whisper, ‘All your holes will be mine, and soon enough you will beg for me to fuck you here.’ His barbarian prince has been through enough for the morning, Geta does not actually wish to terrorize him, especially not with all he has planned for the rest of the day.

Once he finally slips free, Geta plucks up Stepan’s cast aside loincloth, the linen roughspun, and uses it to wipe his cock clean. He smirks when he notices the pale streaks of red mixed with the slick and seed; their couplings will be easier now his maidenhead is broken.

Stepan has curled up on his side, legs squeezed tightly together, arms wrapped around his chest. Geta grips his knee, whispers, “I need to see, mellitus. Make sure the bleeding has stopped.”

He does not speak, simply allows Geta to lift his leg and bare his cunt. The lips are puffy, must be sore, and he’s careful as he gently feels around Stepan’s entrance, pleased to only find slick and seed when he pulls his fingers back. He sucks the shine from them, revels in the taste of them both mixed on his tongue, bitter and sweet and musky, and slowly lowers the omega’s leg. Draping the sheets back over Stepan, Geta stands, pulls on a robe, and goes to the entrance to the tent, ordering hot water and a wash basin be brought at once, along with food to break their fast after.

Sitting at his desk, Geta looks over the reports that will leave with the morning’s courier. He considers scribbling a note to his mother, to tell her of his plans, but quickly thinks better of it. There is little she can do for him from the capital, and surprise will be far more helpful to him when it comes to his brother.

When the water arrives, he tends to himself first, only really worrying about his groin as he washes away the last bits of drying cum. Then he returns to his bed, offering Stepan a hand, and helping him to his feet. Geta has the omega stand in the basin, and drags a warm, wet cloth over his body, washing away the dirt and sweat and slick. He’s nearly finished when Stepan stops his hand, trapping the cloth at his hip. “I can see to myself, Dominus.”

Geta preens at the word, how easily Stepan has begun using the title. My lord. Master. “And I care for what is mine.” Still, he passes the cloth to Stepan, watches as he wipes gingerly between his legs. It’s such a waste, washing all that beautiful slick away when Geta would happily lap it up and swallow it down. But there is not time for such indulgences.

Fetching a larger cloth, he wraps Stepan in it and squeezes his shoulders. “Dry well,” Geta orders, going to dig through a trunk and retrieving a tunica in deep, rich blue, tossing it casually onto the bed. He plucks a wooden comb from a side table, and returns to Stepan, careful as he pulls the fine teeth through his hair. He starts at the ends, working his way up to the roots, breaking up strands held together by sweat and oil, detangling a small knot at his nape. Once he’s satisfied with his work, Geta turns him towards the bed. “Dress. Quickly if you do not wish Caius to see your pretty ass when he brings our food.”

Geta does not take his own advice, robe open and showing off his soft cock, unbothered by his servants seeing him in any state of undress. His focus is again on compiling his reports, rolling up scrolls and slipping them in the courier’s case. He hands the case to Caius after he sets down the tray of roasted goat, bread, dates, and wine that is to be the morning meal.

Caius bows as he is dismissed, casting a furtive eye over to Stepan, the omega looking every inch a prince now he is so richly dressed. Geta suddenly desperately wants to gild him—gold at his throat and wrists, on his fingers, at his ankles and on his head, a chain dripping rubies and pearls around his waist…

Soon enough he will show off his prize, but first, he must stick to his plan.

Which first now means filling his stomach. He takes one chair next to the small table, nods to the other. “Sit. Eat.”

Stepan does as he’s told, his bites small. Even with his nerves quelling his appetite he must be hungrier than that. But Geta does not worry. He will ensure his omega feeds himself properly at the evening’s feast.

His own hunger sated, Geta retrieves a tunica for himself, this one in imperial purple, dressing to meet with an equal, even if Ricardius Spear-Handed is a lesser king of a small kingdom. He finishes with a gold circlet in his hair. He almost realizes too late that Stepan is barefoot, and fetches him a pair of leather sandals that tie in place at his ankle.

“Come, Stepan,” he whispers, offering his hand again, which the omega lightly grips, fingers loose. “A runner has already been sent ahead, and we had best be on our way. Your father will be expecting us.”

🌙🏛️🌿

The roman puts Stepan on a gentle mare, the horse following easily behind his own stallion. Silently, he takes in the familiar forest road, the verdant life and scents of his home in summer surrounding him. At least for the length of the journey he can pretend that this is any other day—that he will go home to sleep in his own nest when night falls, and this will all have been a strange dream.

But it’s not so. He will leave with the romans and almost certainly never return to his homeland. And he shall do so gladly if it will buy safety for his people. If it will keep his siblings from being sent into a losing battle.

His father’s hall comes into view and Stepan wants to leap from his horse and run inside. To fling himself into his mother’s arms and weep against her breast.

The dull ache between his legs is a potent reminder of why he cannot. His master has despoiled him, his value now locked to what this one alpha wants with him.

Fortunately, they do not need to wait long, his father’s personal guard coming out to meet them and escort the romans before their king. But Dominus is the one to offer Stepan his hand and help him from the mare’s back. “I have not chained you to my side, little prince,” he whispers in his ear. “You may go to your parents when we enter the hall. They are sure to be worried after your wellbeing.” He presses a soft kiss just below Stepan’s ear, like he can’t help himself from taking this small liberty. “Show them you are unharmed.”

“Yes, Dominus,” Stepan whispers back, dropping his hand and turning toward to doors.

Yakiv waits there, Master of the Guard, the man who taught Stepan how to hold a sword, to defend himself with a dagger. The one who carried him home when he fell from an apple tree at 8 years old and broke his arm, the one to hear Ravna’s shrieking when all he could do was lie on the ground and whimper in pain.

Stepan keeps his pace even as he crosses to meet him, Yakiv grabbing him by the shoulders as soon as he’s close enough. “Oh, pup, what did you do?”

“I was only… I know the woods so well! I only wanted to come back with information, but-” Stepan stops, swallows, lowers his voice back to just above a whisper. “I was angry. And I thought it would be more help than it was, and I got caught.”

“Yes. You did.” The disappointment in Yakiv’s scent burns in his nose. “You’re lucky you weren’t killed.”

“I know. But the romans knew of Father…”

“And your Latin is good.”

“Yes. And I’m an omega.”

The disappointment turns to concern, but Yakiv does not ask. He simply gathers Stepan to him in a bear hug, then ushers him into the hall.

His parents sit on their thrones, waiting, but as soon as he’s through the doors, his mother—stepmother, but the only mother he can remember—is on her feet, rushing to meet him. She kisses his cheek and wraps her arms around him. “Styopa, my heart, what happened? We’ve been sick with worry.”

“I’m sorry, Mama.” He hides his face against her shoulder. “But I’m all right. Everything will be all right now.”

“Styopa…” His mother doesn’t say anything more, she simply strokes his hair, kisses his forehead, and leads him back to the dais. She takes her seat, and he stands behind her, at her left shoulder.

Even though it is normally beneath his duties, Yakiv announces the roman’s entrance, Dominus followed by his own guards and contingent of soldiers. “My king,” he calls, “Caesar Septimius Geta thanks you for your hospitality and for welcoming him so quickly.”

Stepan’s blood turns to ice as he finally understands.

He is Emperor Severus’s younger son. Brother to Emperor Caracalla. Heir to the whole of the Roman Empire until his brother finally has children of his own.

And he wants Stepan.

The room tilts on its axis, and Stepan only stays upright by clutching at the backrest of the queen’s throne. His father will surely reprimand him for the disrespect, and for showing weakness in front of a foreign ruler. If only his father knew how weak he has already been before Geta.

How little he has to hide.

“Well met, Caesar!” Rikhardt calls, smiling as the roman advances. “Your emissary claims you come with terms of peace. Terms far fairer than our neighbors have been granted.”

Geta smiles with too many teeth. “I do, Rikhardt Spear-Handed. Bend the knee to Rome, and retain all your rights and sovereignties as king here. You will have the protection of Rome without giving up any of your lands or powers.”

Stepan looks to his father, sees his skeptical smile, knows the offer sounds too good to be true.

“And what do you ask of me, Septimius Geta?”

“I, of course, require that you offer hospitality and safe passage to any roman citizen passing through your lands, that you give quarter to legionnaires on campaign, and…” Geta pauses, glances around the room, dark eyes locking with Stepan’s for a long moment before he turns his attention back to the king. “I ask for your eldest son’s neck. I wish to take Stepan as my mate.”

A mating is more than a marriage, especially amongst romantic nobles as far as Stepan has learned. A marriage is an arrangement between families, built on politics and trade rather than attraction or intimacy. Stepan had not thought he would even be offered marriage, just the comfort of being a pampered concubine, one who could be a spy because who cares what is said before an unlearned foreigner.

But a mating—

“Stepan, come,” Rikhardt says, motioning with two fingers, and Stepan rushes to comply, certain he’s missed some of the conversation as he circles around to stand beside him.

“Yes, Father?”

Rikhardt takes Stepan by the hand, looks up into the eyes that match his own, and asks, “Do you accept this alpha’s offer for your neck?”

Stepan does not hesitate in his answer. There is no other choice. “I do.”

“Good. Then it is what shall be!” Rikhardt stands, puts an arm around Stepan’s shoulder, and turns his gaze back onto Geta and his wolfish grin. “We shall prepare the wedding feast, for tonight you will marry him before our gods, and then his neck will be yours.”

Part 3

[go-on-eat-shrooms]

IF THE STARS SAID YOU COULDN'T LOVE ME PART 3

Warning: +18

Contains:  Blood, mentions of Braavos, faceless men, Temple of the many face god. Foul language. Thinking you are tripping balls. Lord of light is coming.

Music to listen to: A day to remember: 2nd sux

Summary: Training begins for Benijot Blackwood and even for you. There is no mercy given to both of you for the dire betrayl you caused both the Brackens and the Starks. Rumors spread like wild fire of where you two must of gone. But both of you are in the safest place you can think of. In a place not even Satan dare not enter. Even Satan's face could be sliced off and used.

"Morning" you awoke almost choking from the cold water thrown on your face.

The waif was looking at you with deep loathing.  You wanted to punch her until all her teeth were knocked off.

"I believe you had enough rest, you are not here to drag your feet around. Get up!"

"Here are the clothes we use here. Get dressed quickly. You are no longer any sort of lady of title within these walls."

Be quick and follow me. After dressing. The waif guided you into a maze of cold stone with dimly lit corridors. With faces lining the arches of those corridors. Mouths gaping, torn holes where eyes should of been. Yet the faces seemed moist and freskly carved. You were taken to a large room which would be an exaggerating thought really. As Benji stated a room full of pillars with human faces. Pillars skyrocketing towards the ceiling. You could see hundreds upon hundreds of candles lit around, not just the pillars but around statues of death and the old gods.

In the much far distance, you could see women, children, elders, surrounding a large basin on the floor filled with water. Their faces illuminated by candle light, filled with grief, relief, peace and surrender.

"If you don't want to end up like them pay close attention or you'll never leave this place. At least with breath still in your lungs."

"How old are these faces" You asked

"Some since within the past ages.even before we were not a lustful thought in our mother's minds." Stated the waif.

You met up with jacken and the familiar face that brought warmth and hope in your heart. As well Benji was wearing the same tunics as you. A plain navy blue tunic with sandals.

"I believe in wasting no time and we begin now."

Pacing away from the pillars of never ending masks of flesh the anxious feeling would not leave your stomach.

Once again tho to your sour thoughts. Benji disappeared with jacken.

"Did you think this was a couples travel? You need to stand on your own and no longer rely on him. Or you will die quickly. From now only you belong to the many face God. He is your partner, the reason why you even breath."

The waif threw a spear at you and swung hard towards you. The move was so swift you didn't see your side begin to drip with blood. Looking down you seen this girl was in no way planning to actually help you but to kill you.

"There is only one god, and his name is Death. And there is only one thing we say to Death: 'Not today'."

The waif moved without warning and spun around. Once more slashing your ankle. More blood.

Swing after swing she never missed until your body was sweating blood more than actual sweat.

"Observe the movements and slow them down in your mind. It's the only way you'll learn to block me; from carving you like the rotted cheese you are."

From day after day, you got your ass kicked by the waif. Coming back to your chambers with blooming bruises and fresh wounds. 'Slow your movements down in the mind' you said to yourself.

On the other side of the spectrum, Benjicot was also fighting to getting to the point to breath normally. Yes, he was great in war. But jacken was no mere human. And he gave no sympathy. Blood poured down his forehead. Clouded vision from the blood clots blocking his sight.

It felt like jacken was eight different men in one. With different fighting styles. A cut throat swords man from Kings Landing:

Swinging his sword with the thirst of a rabid wolf. Catching his forehead. Which exploded into blood running down his face.

a swift water dancing spear master from Braavos:

Moving so swiftly with such grace and knocking Benjis sword off his hands in the blink of an eye. The initials S.F. written in blood on Benjis left forearm. Blood trickled down his fingers. The lines repeated

"There's only one God and his name is death, and what do we say to the god of death dear benij?" A man with a white blouse and brown toursers and boots to his knees whispered.

"NOT TODAY!!!!" Benji screamed.

A Darth Raki solider :

Screaming the battle cry for blood lust and a sense of rape in his eyes. Tanned and covered in blue war paint. Grabbing Benji and slamming him on the ground with one pull. Trying to tear off his tunic for a better access to rape. Benji was pinned on the ground blood and saliva mixing on the cold stone. Benji had one chance. He swerved and sliced the Darthriki in the eye. Crawling away to stand up, all Benji could do was sway. With nothing to hold onto.

A trained unsuli:

In the stance of a true soldier afraid of nothing. Death was an honor, no balls, but more balls than most men. A spear can at benjis face. Striking his cheek in a heavy blow.

The myths of the white walker king:

The air became very cold. Benji could see his breath. All around him everything turned to ice. His lungs ached every breath he took. This was the feeling of death. A blue monster with blue eyes gleaming, picked Benji up once more and started choking the life out of him. The cold air felt like it was going to melt his face.

But the three most unexpect were his brother Davos, his own father Samwell....and Benji himself.

"You must learn to trust in no one, not even yourself. For a boy thinks he knows his character, but that can change in a second. Depending on mercy. Here you shall lose mercy. For strangers, loved ones and yourself. Your greatest fear and Opponent is you."

Jacken once more changed his exterior to one of an old man with no eyes. His hair completely gone in the most poorest of frocks. You seen he had no shoes and his toe nails were missing. The smell of rotting flesh was unbearable. Benji vomited to the side.

The old man spoke, "You are still showing weakness. A boy must be nonchalant to any condition."

As his last sentence came to an end. The old rotted corpse flung himself at Benji. Dripping in worms that landing in benjis  hair and hands. The old man's blood so rotted, he just admitted green pus. Dagger in his hand, he aimed for benjis throat.

Benji swayed to the right avoiding his demise.

"Good, but not good enough." Jacken cackled. his father appeared. Benjis eyes grew wider. Merciless benji said under his breath. His father was burning holes into benjis eyes.

"My dear boy, you must learn to die before you can breath again." His father said softly.

Pulling out a family sword from his sheath Benji recognized all too well. He took the same exact swings and turns as his father had taught him as an actual child. But no longer as a lesson but as threat of death.

"You are no son of mine until you can slay me. Your father, the father that gave you the admittance to even breath!!"  Yelled the plain murderous look of the illusion of his father.

Benjis father faded...what came next was even more heart wrecking.

Davos, his beloved twin brother slaughtered at the battle at the mill by a fucking Bracken. Face and body soaked in blood. Holes in almost ever inch of his tunic. Blood sliding into the stone floors forming a pool.

"Dear brother, we shared a womb I kicked your pathetic ass then and I'll do it again!"

Swinging  with a force of a kissed by fire wilding. This force was too powerful but Benji had to keep his ground. He was losing footing with the rage of his past twin. Benji managed to kick Davos in the face. Dodging his brother moves more precisely.

"Getting better you dumb cunt." Davos grinned and disappeared.

Standing infront of you was you....

Blinking your eyes to not be driven into madness. The 2nd you began to grin.

"Look at you, fighting and thinking you can change your stars. For a girl that's just like any other common whore from a brothel. Ruining your future ruling of your house. For what? A common whore?!"

"Benji" You said softly in shocked wide eyes. Jacken lunged towards you with a familiar dagger made out of valerian steel.

Benji ran towards you in such a speed it scared him. Benji flung you into a pillar. You bounced off hard onto the stone floor. A dagger was pieced through the very pillar you just should by. This really was no game. Neither the waif nor jacken wanted to help you.

Jacken shifted into your brother Areon.

"Sister, where have you gone, what have you done to us to father to Cregan. All for this reckless. Worthless craven fuck."

Your eyes grew wide and shiny as if they were made out of glass. You couldn't believe what you were seeing.

Before anymore thoughts arose, the illusion of Aeron paced towards you, dagger in hand.

Benji ran towards you only to be slammed into a wall by the waif.

Still covered in blood, you stood up a dagger in your own hands and swung.

"You are not my brother!!!"  You screamed.

The masks one the walls and the pillars made a loud sound of screaming in unison as they glowed in a shade of crimson. The most horrible noise you and Benji ever heard.

You and Benji both felt your ears dripping. Blood flowing from the sides of your necks.

The dim light from the torches burst into raging fires.

Jacken turned back into Benji.

"How much would you say you love me? Would you die with me? Would you die for me? Your just a stupid little girl who thinks a prince would come to save you. But your very fairly mistaken. Remember when I told you I did things bc I was bored? Well you are one of them. My little escape from boredom. Your body, your voice, your face. My escape until I find another object to extinguish my lack of faith in having a dancing monkey. Your body replaceable, your memory replaceable, your very essence of existence! All replaceable! This is real life you dumb cunt! No one matters, no one cares! Only you, you poor bitch."

"Idk what this is, but you are not Benji."  You said sternly.

"Noooooooo!!!!!!" Benji screamed.

Benji screamed in slow motion. The waif had gone behind you and speared your heart. Falling to your knees, eyes filled with tears, you collapsed on your side.

"You must die before you can live." The last thing you heard from jacken. His voice trailing softly away as you closed your eyes and heard bejis voice one last time screaming your name in agony. Before everything went dark.

"To retrieve her back you now must earn the right to see her breathe again." Jacken looked at you with blank eyes.

"The lord of light will be on their way. Tonight you shall not rest until you prove your worthy of the heinous wars to come."

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

Don't Go Blindly Into the Dark

Summary:

To hide that he can't read, Jan Van Eck has been forcing his son to pretend he's blind since he was eight years old. Wylan is now attending Ketterdam University, and meeting Jesper Fahey may very well be about to change his life. But is he safe to tell Jesper the truth? And what will Jesper say if he does?

Jesper is struggling to weigh up his life in the Barrel and his life at the University of Ketterdam, and there's a good chance that his growing debt is about to make the decision for him. He hasn't attended class consecutively for months, but maybe that will change when his newest project includes partnering up with Wylan Van Eck. But can he really leave the Barrel behind him? And how long can he keep up the pretence of who he thinks Wylan wants him to be?

Tags: @justalunaticfangirl @lunarthecorvus

If anyone else would like to be tagged let me know :)

Content warnings for this chapter: death, violence, implied sa references, trafficking references, abduction

AO3 link

Chapter 33 - Nina

Nina walked up the stairs of the Slat balancing a small basin of cold water between her arms, knowing it would not be enough. The swelling in Inej’s knee was not decreasing on its own and a simple damp cloth was going to do little, but Nina had no idea how to reduce it herself - only that ice and compression would help the process. Once Inej was back on her feet, Nina would demand she let her wrap her leg in tight, elasticated bandages, but for now a cool compress was going to have to do. She wasn’t expecting to walk almost straight into Kaz at the top of the stairs, and stumbled slightly so the water in the basin swished back and forth on the verge of spilling.

“Don’t bother helping me,” she grunted, glaring at him, as she struggled to readjust herself without dropping the bowl and throwing water all over them both.

Kaz just watched her, and as soon as she’d moved enough out of the way began to make his way down the first few steps. 

“Oh - Kaz,”

He turned back, looking at her expectantly. 

“Do they sell ice year round here, or just store it?” 

He shrugged. 

“Not a big market in the colder months, but it’s available. Not enough Grisha around for sellers  to store it on site though; you can only buy it in the Warehouse District,”

“I want to ice Inej’s knee,”

“I didn’t ask. Don’t waste your own money; there’s a couple of kruge in the safe at the Crow Club earmarked for medical, you can  pick it up before you go back if you have time, if not I’ll reimburse you afterwards,”

She nodded, though somehow she felt suspicious. 

“What do you want?”

He raised an eyebrow. 

“What do any of us want?”

And then he was gone, and Nina was staring exasperatedly at the empty space where he’d just been standing. She sighed. 

If Nina was to be entirely honest, she might not have minded delaying herself from seeing Inej for a second longer. She was still shaken by their conversation earlier, about the death of Liesbeth Stoevelaar. 

When Inej had fallen asleep in Kaz’s office at the Crow Club and Nina lifted her onto the floor to lay down properly, she’d been exhausted and in pain and almost definitely in shock. She’d killed someone, spent fifteen hours alone with a dead body whilst Nina thought she was sleeping, and dragged herself across rooftops and over the canal on a leg she could now, without the wild and screaming adrenaline coursing through her, barely take her own standing weight on. And then, half-asleep with her weight in Nina’s arms and her bare toes dragging across the floor like she was trying to dance through a hazy dream, she had mumbled so quietly that Nina had barely even heard her: 

“I’m gonna kill him,”

Nina was taken aback. Quite considerably, actually. She had never heard Inej express the actual intent to kill anyone before - and Nina also didn’t know who she was talking about. 

“Did she say something?” Kaz had asked, frowning, from where he stood on the other side of the room.

“No,” said Nina, soft and light, still gently lowering Inej towards the floorboards, “She just groaned,”

About two hours ago Nina had finally gathered herself together enough to ask Inej if she remembered saying it, and what she’d meant. Now she was shaken, and she knew Inej was too. 

“I don’t remember saying it,” she’d admitted, on a slow breath, letting Nina fluff her pillow and encourage her to lie back even though she didn’t look very happy about it. She yawned, “But I stand by it,”

Nina restrained the eyebrows she wanted to raise as she stepped back and returned to the little chair she’d pulled up to Inej’s room last week. She didn’t know what to say and for a long time it seemed like Inej didn’t either, but then she whispered:

“Riesen; The Black Tips’ boss. I don’t… No, I stand by it. I’m going to kill him,”

The conversation spiralled in a more emotional direction after that. Nina gripped Inej’s hand in hers, rubbing her thumb in a little circular pattern near the top of her knuckles. The rough skin of Inej’s fingers brushed against the back of Nina’s hand, like tiny, soft little scratches. 

“Do it,” she said, what felt like hours later, her free hand fumbling through her pockets because she was sure there was a handkerchief in there somewhere but apparently it was avoiding her, “Cut his heart out,”

Inej smiled softly through her tears, gratefully accepting the handkerchief once Nina had pulled it triumphantly from the inside of her sleeve. Her free hand stretched slowly to where her knives were lying neatly arranged on top of the tiny nightstand, and softly tapped the long dagger with engraved roses growing up the metal.

“With Sankta Lizabeta’s blade,” she promised. 

As Nina knocked on the door now - though knocked may be a generous word, she kicked it lightly for not being able to actually knock without setting the basin down - it was a moment before a reply came and she briefly wondered if Inej had fallen asleep. But then the soft response floated through the door, asking her not to come in yet. Nina waited. After a few minutes had passed, she ventured: 

“Inej? Are you alright?”

Inej had no longer been crying by the time Nina left her, and they’d left most of the conversation behind them, but it was clearly still holding her in a tight, unrelenting grasp. If Inej was struggling she probably wouldn’t want anyone in the room with her, but Nina could try to talk to her through the door. 

“One minute,” she managed, “I’m okay,”

Nina still felt a touch nervous when she was eventually bid entry, but once she was done wrestling the door open through the water basin she stepped inside to find that Inej was sitting up on the bed, steadying herself with a palm planted flat against the wall, and had changed into a set of soft nightclothes. They fitted her well and even though she was clearly not her usual self, Nina could tell how much more comfortable Inej was in these pyjamas than her previous set immediately. She did look small though, Nina thought, even without the oversized nightclothes shrinking her; she actually looked fifteen, if that, in this pale pink cotton, with her dark hair loose and spilling down her shoulders to outline her against the light leaking through the window. She actually looked like a child. 

“I can’t get my leg back in the sling,” she said a little sheepishly, eyeline dipping towards the duvet. 

“I’m impressed you managed to get changed,” Nina admitted, encouraging Inej to lie back as she lifted her ankle and slowly guided her back into the sling.

Inej winced a little as she bent her knee under the direction of Nina’s hands, so she could manoeuvre herself into position. 

“It wasn’t easy,”

“And your pretty new pyjamas?” asked Nina, as if she didn’t know the answer. 

“Kaz,”

Nina did her best to conceal her little smile behind her shoulder as she straightened out the fabric of the sling, quickly smoothing out her features as she righted herself again. 

“Well then we should all be concerned about the impending apocalypse,” she teased, “The machines are learning,” 

It was the early hours of the morning when Nina left the Slat; Inej had finally drifted to sleep and Jesper, though Nina knew full well his shift had finished hours ago, had finally appeared to sit with her for the night. Nina slipped out and hurried back up the Staves towards the White Rose; she had a client at 3 bells, the Barrel knew no traditional working hours, but then she was free right up til early evening. She was going to take the nap to end all naps. 

The streets of West Stave were busy, of course, and Nina had to wind her way through the crowds to draw herself a path. The Suli girl was outside the Willow Switch again, her hair spiralled so tightly that it was tugging at the corners of her forehead. The front pieces had been run through with some sort of gel to stick them in swirls against her skin, creating a pattern distinctly similar to the swirls of the tattoo on her forearm. She stood on the side of the canal in her alarmingly thin scraps of silk, waving prettily to the odd member of the crowd as the same magician Nina had seen make her appear from thin air a few weeks prior shouted to the tourists and beckoned for their attention. The Shu girl she’d performed with last time was notably absent. 

Nina paused for the briefest moment, glancing at her watch - two bells. She could afford to spare a minute. Because even from here she could see the tiny smidge of discolouration marring the acrobat’s cheek, and she knew. She’d been Tailored, and she’d been Tailored quickly. Nina took a slow breath, straightened her cuffs, and - even as her own thoughts shouted at her to just keep walking, turned sharply to her right and stepped through the gilded double doors of the Willow Switch. 

The girl behind the desk was about the same age as Nina but a little shorter, Shu but not the girl she’d seen before, with loose, dark hair and glitter painted on her eyelids. She looked up at Nina through thick black lashes, a coy smile dancing on her lips.

“May I help you?” she asked in honeyed, accented tones.

“The girl out there,” said Nina, “the acrobat-”

“She’ll be available later on, but I’m afraid the show can’t be interrupted,” she tilted her shoulder, drawing attention to the slip of her dramatic neckline, “But if there’s anything in the meantime…”

Nina swallowed. The mask slipped easily into place. 

“I saw her before, with a Shu girl,” she leant forwards and sat her elbow on the desk, so she could plant her chin in her palm, “Is she here?”

Behind the crook of her elbow, Nina’s free hand moved in a slow, secret circle. The girl’s smile stayed in place, despite a brief tick in her jaw.

“Not tonight, Miss, I’m afraid. She’s not working for a couple of weeks,”

She was telling the truth. 

“Can I ask you why?”

The girl stiffened briefly and Nina felt her heartbeat rise. 

“She’s not here right now,” she said, “but if I can help you-?”

Nina placed her free hand flat on the table. 

“What’s your name?”

“Kheja,” she murmured, eyes briefly flicking around the room as though someone might be watching her, “Or anything you want it to be,”

“Kheja,” said Nina, “I’m going to tell the truth now and I want you to hear me out,”

Kheja leaned back a little, the first time her own mask had truly fallen, eyes once again flitting about them both before she glanced quickly over her shoulder. She was framed by a curtain of weeping willow branches, floor to ceiling, trailing on the fake hardwood floors. Nina had assumed there was a wall behind it, but as she looked properly she could see light and shadow filtering beyond the leaves. 

“Are you allowed to speak in Shu?”

“If you want me to,”

Nina switched languages like she was slipping into a new pair of shoes; she hadn’t practised Shu in a long time and was maybe going to suffer blisters for it, but she would be able to walk just fine and last for the most part with reasonable comfort. 

“I’m a Heartrender. I know that girl’s been Tailored,” she said in Shu, nodding vaguely towards the open doors and the street behind, “What happened to her? Where’s the other girl?”

“I don’t…”

“I’ll know if you’re lying to me, Kheja,” Nina lifted her hand up from the desk a little, and the girl swallowed tightly, “What happened?”

“I can’t tell you,”

“Kheja-”

“I told you,” she said smoothly, switching back to Kerch and letting her voice drift back to full volume, “Jeluna is not here. But if you are interested in Shu girls…” she smiled, her hand closing over Nina’s on the desk, “I’m sure we can find something else to entertain you,”

Kheja’s fingers began to chase up Nina’s arm, dancing across her skin. Her fingertips were smooth, her nails perfectly rounded and shimmering with gloss. Nina’s eyes drifted slowly upwards, for a moment studying the lines of kohl that had been reapplied below Kheja’s eyes; the vaguest remnants of a dark smudge left beneath them. She pulled her hand sharply away. 

“I really had my interests set elsewhere,” she said, also in Kerch, quickly sliding the tiny piece of paper Kheja had slipped her up inside her sleeve. 

“Then I suggest you take your interests elsewhere, Miss,” Kheja replied, and Nina noticed that her accent slipped slightly when she let her tone take on a sharper edge, “There’s nothing here for you tonight,”

She nodded quickly at Nina, her eyes betraying something that her face or mouth could not. Nina gave her as close to a nod as she dared to, then turned and rushed the last of her journey. She didn’t unfold the little piece of paper until she was upstairs in her room at the White Rose, with half an hour to get ready for her next job and a cup of tea sitting in front of her on the vanity. The paper was slightly crumpled and when Nina looked at it properly she realised the folds weren’t only from shoving it in her sleeve but at least some were older wounds the card had already borne when Kheja gave it to her. It was a Kerch business card, painstakingly copied printing that probably cost a fortune at one of the presses in town, for some legal firm in the Zelvar District. Someone must have dropped it or left it behind at the Willow Switch, but Nina paid it little heed as she turned the card over and let her gaze slip over the Shu characters inked on the back. Just three words, when she translated it. 

When had Kheja had time to write anything? The note must have already been written before she gave it to Nina; a pre-prepared cry for help, maybe, or a last desperate vouch to try to save Jeluna? Nina swallowed. 

The door swung open, there was no lock and knocking was a foreign concept to Feliks, and Nina was taken by surprise. She jumped, trying to shove the note out of sight and managing to knock her mug of tea straight on top of it. 

“Try not to ruin my furniture, Nina,”

She looked up to see Feliks’ impatient frown, hurriedly righting her cup and yanking the sodden paper up her sleeve as she apologised, before ringing the little bell for a servant.

“Did you want something?” she asked, glancing back to where Feliks was still just standing there, watching her. 

“What was your job on the Geldstraat the other week?”

Nina frowned. 

“Mister Van Eck asked me to keep it private,”

“You don’t work for him, Nina, you work for me. What was the job?”

“I work for Per Haskell,” said Nina, smooth as butter, “and for Kaz Brekker. If you want to know anything about my job then you are more than welcome to take it up with them, but my clients’ business stays with me,”

For a minute she thought he was going to protest, but then he just shrugged. 

“Fine. But whatever it was, he wants you back there tomorrow night. Good money,”

Nina tried to hide her surprise - and her panic. What did Van Eck want with her now Wylan wasn’t home? Did he somehow know the Dregs tried to stop his attempt on his son’s life? She felt her jaw tighten. 

“Will I see any of it?”

“Five percent commission on Tailoring,” said Feliks, “Everything else is salary,”

Five percent commission on Tailoring was absolute shit. But it was as much as she could get, and barely back from suspension for attacking a goddamn client in the middle of the lobby Nina knew she shouldn’t push her luck. She did anyway. 

“It’s a private job,” she said, “And to your own bad luck I can read Kerch, Feliks, I actually know what my contract says unlike half the-”

“Easy,” he growled, his eyes flitting darker. 

“Fifty percent of all private jobs is mine,” she pushed, “And you still owe it back to me for the last time I went,”

“You also missed the second time he wanted you to go,”

“Because you suspended me,” she snapped, “Whilst I was supposed to be there I was stuck in your office with Brekker swinging my feet off the edge of my chair like a schoolchild who got detention. That’s my money, and you’ll pay up,”

A very long moment hung in the air. 

“You go back to the Geldstraat tomorrow night,” he said, eventually, “And if you come back willing to tell me what the job was, you’ll get your money for both times then,”

Nina took a slow breath. It would be a good sized lump sum, half of it would be enough to keep her running for a month and the rest could go a long way in the savings for Matthias’ legal fees, if she ever managed to argue her way that far. She’d rather get what she was owed now and know that if she managed to find a way to skip out on returning to Geldstraat she’d still made some cash, but she knew really that she’d only end up with no choice but to do the job. She wouldn’t be able to have Inej tail her this time, but maybe she could have Jesper or someone walk with her to and from at least. 

“The deal is the deal,” she said, eventually. 

Feliks nodded. 

“The deal is the deal. Now get your damn kefta on, you’ve barely got twenty minutes before your next appointment,”

And before Nina was even finished biting back her argumentative response, he was gone. Adrian appeared not a moment after and Nina helped him clear up the spilled tea before she shoved herself into her uncomfortable fake kefta. The little business card fell out from the sleeve of her blouse, now sodden and tea stained beyond recognition. She threw the remnants away; there was no need for them now, and she doubted anyone would be able to make out the message even if they tried. She remembered it, and she remembered Kheja and Jeluna’s names. Hopefully that would be enough. She kicked her wastepaper basket back beneath the vanity and out of sight before she slipped downstairs to meet her client, as though if it had been visible the words would have bore right into her, burned across the room, screamed out loud. 

They took her. 

They took her.

They took her. 

[sodiumpentothol]

Some really bad ideas for a shitpost Hollow Knight x Resident Evil AU I randomly conjured

Here's the very poorly written outline I have for this thing:

Precursor to downfall of hallownest, umbrella (needs a different name) formed by soul master after pale king yeets the infection at them and goes "find cure." This is before the infection gets all wacky silly and publicly known, so soul master and the soul twisters sorta poke around with the infection and go "huh y'know this would make for a great weapon against the deepnest beasts" so they begin fucking around with that. Chris and Leon are both city guards that are vibing around when a sector of the City of Tears is overrun by the T-virus after an outbreak, they both end up having to stop it and both manage to resist the infection which piques the Pale King's interest. Jill and Carlos also make it out alive. Sherry and Claire are there too I guess. Pale King goes "yo dudes you survived the infection I think ima assign you guys to deal with this infection bullshittery" so they're all forced to do infection bullshittery stuff as it gets worse. RE4 is just a corpse creeper outbreak in fungal wastes or something, hornet is kidnapped and PK goes "holy shit if we don't get this child back then i'm gonna be in deep(nest) shit" so they all go and grab hornet. RE5 I don't even know, that was a fever dream and same goes for RE6. Ethan supposedly lost Mia in the initial infection outbreak all those years ago, but in reality Mia managed to escape with a void construct created by a rival gang of angry deepnest weavers. Void construct of course is Eveline and Mia and Eveline manage to flee to deepnest where they meet a nice little family of survivors. Eveline does her bullshittery and takes over everyone, weaver gang breaks lucas out and makes him their spy.

Meanwhile Eveline makes Mia send Ethan a letter to come and find her, thus starting RE7. Ethan goes to deepnest and gets his shit fucked up big time, immediately dying and being resurrected by the void. Blah blah blah, kill baker family, blah blah, get mia back, blah blah blah blah blah kill eveline, something something oh hey PK's Infection Cleanup Crew (TM) is now on the scene and here to deal with the outbreak. Ethan and Mia are pulled out and placed into witness protection in the Ancient Basin by the White Palace. RE8 happens when Mirander comes along and steals Rose. Mirander's still trying to revive her kid, but she's also the leader of the angry weaver gang and she has plans to kill PK. She's been gathering forces n shit for the revolt, also they're all infected with void and have wacky void powers too. Mirander steals Rose a little more blatantly, pretty much just breaking into the winters' house, fucking shit up, stealing the baby, and leaving. Ethan is reasonably pissed and goes all Seek And Destroy on Mirander, killing literally everything in his way. First he rampages through deepnest, killing four of her infected subordinates one by one before he makes it to the Abyss. At this point in the timeline PK has been dabbling a little in void bullshit so there's definitely evidence of him being around here, maybe a couple thousand dead children or something. Mirander is hiding out in the abyss, blah blah blah she and Ethan duke it out blah blah they both fucking die blah blah blah rose grows up to be very OP, PK briefly considered using herasa backup HK but Rose has a mind to think, a will to break, and a voice to cry suffering so she's automatically pitched from the plan and ends up being trained to like kill the fucking radiance or something, maybe she gets put into stasis or whatever because she was too powerful and PK felt threatened by her.

Something something hallownest falls something something main HK game takes place and the knight is now in the picture. Leon, Chris, Jill, and Carlos have taken it upon themselves to keep everybody in Dirtmouth safe and regularly dive into Hallownest to look for survivors. They meet Hornet sometimes but she's too badass to vibe with them and she fights them. They all survive of course and they learn to respect each other but Hornet never really joins them. She's like Ada that way. Anyway the knight comes along, yadda yadda yadda HK game happens

[sailtomarina]

In Absence of Towels and Rules

Hermione had always been more of a shower person.

The idea of filling a gigantic basin full of water only to dirty it up, empty it, and fill it once more to rinse and soak seemed extraordinarily wasteful. There were droughts out there, for goodness sake! People dying of thirst, crops drying up, and perhaps even most mind-boggling of all, the entire endeavor taking entirely far too much time—all of it was unacceptable.

She’d heard of the Prefect’s bathroom even as a firstie, of course. Rumors abounded around legendary ladykillers like Bill Weasley and Thorfinn Rowle. When Harry got his first taste of the bath and described the experience to her in detail, she thought it sounded far too elaborate. Who needed so many types of soap bubbles? She certainly didn’t fancy the idea of a mermaid watching her scrub away the day.

So when doing her rounds as Head Girl late one night she noticed a trail of footprints heading towards the notorious 5th-floor room, Hermione assumed what anyone else would have assumed. Students were obviously hooking up.

This was one of the parts of being Head Girl that she hated most. Catching students out of bed after hours was a given—she shooed snogging couples away from the castle’s nooks and crannies all the time. Usually, she didn’t have to deal with anything more explicit than that. Most students had the common sense to conduct their more extensive explorations in complete privacy. In the rare case that she actually did catch sight of more—she’d never look at Blaise and Luna the same again—she felt like every bit the intruder that she was. Why couldn’t they just do the sensible thing and shag behind doors, preferably with iron-clad locking and silencing spells?

Like this person. The footprints marked a clear path to the closed door and, given the nature of them, were fresh. There was an oddly sweet scent in the air, but she attributed it to spillover from the bathroom.

Readying her wand, she strode up and was just about to knock and announce herself, when a loud moan froze her solid.

“Mmmmmmmmfffffffff.”

Did they not even have the decency to cast a silencio? Whoever was in there should be caught and punished for the simple failure to cast the obvious spell.

“Fuck, that feels good.”

Her stomach dropped as she recognized that voice.

Going against the voice screaming in her head to do her duty, Hermione cautiously cast a muffliato on her person and unlocked the door to nudge it open just far enough to peek inside. It was hard to see past the steam that filled her view, but she could make out what looked to be one figure in the water.

Well, she’d already come this far. She might as well go all the way.

One disillusionment spell later, Hermione slid through the doorway and along the wall of the bathroom. She wasn’t going to stay long; she just needed to confirm the student was who she thought it was.

Peeking over the cubbies and squinting past the fragrant clouds, she could still only see one body. 

Odd. Where was the other student?

She arched up onto her toes to look at the water’s edge closest to her, partially hidden by the very cabinet she stood behind. Hermione didn’t account for the shadow she cast on the wall.

How the student could see through the steam when she could not would later bother her. As she leaned over to look along the pool for any hint of another body, that same voice cried out before she could react.

“Petrificus Totalus!”

The spell hit with deadly accuracy, and Hermione found herself toppling to the side with a resounding thunk onto the tiles. The sound of someone emerging from the water and walking over to stand above her only compounded the shame that burned deep in her gut. Not only had she been found out, but she now looked like some kind of voyeur.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Granger.”

To her surprise, she felt the spell release and she scrambled to her feet to confront her attacker.

Draco Malfoy stood before her in all his sodden glory, platinum hair slicked back, water dripping down his broad chest—several scars marring the otherwise smooth surface—and a fluffy white towel wrapped around his torso.

She tried not to let her eyes linger on the lower half of his body, but she couldn’t help staring at the rest of him. By the time she got a hold of herself and snapped her eyes back up to his, a knowing smirk graced his face.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of the Head Girl’s presence?” His drawl lacked any concern, as if it was only obvious that he’d bathe at such a late hour.

“Where are they, Malfoy?”

The crease that formed in his brow was too natural to be an act. “Where is who?”

“Whoever you brought in here with you!”

“We’re the only two people in here, Granger, unless there’s someone else sneaking a peek. Theo gave me the password to wash off the muck from our potion.”

While his stance remained relaxed, he did glance around in curiosity. Hermione could feel the claws of mortification creeping up her neck, threatening to betray itself in a brilliant shade of red across her face if she didn’t get out of here soon.

“I’m sure you’re aware, but it’s late. You can’t be here after curfew.”

His attention swung back her way, and the upward curl of his lip returned, eyes scanning her from head to foot in a manner that had her shuffling in discomfort. She wasn’t sure what he was thinking, but it couldn’t be anything good.

“You’re here.”

“I’m on my last rounds. I’d be in my room by now if I hadn’t noticed the trail you left behind.”

Stepping closer, he continued to hold her gaze, his smile only growing wider as she fought every instinct to bolt for the door.

“There’s nothing stopping you from leaving now.” His voice had dropped to an aggravating purr, like a gentle flame licking at the edges of her well-maintained border.

“I can’t just ignore you in here, Malfoy,” Hermione insisted. She had duties, rules to uphold. She was simply following through on the trust the teachers had placed in her. She was absolutely not interested in studying the suds running down his chest, or the slashes from Harry’s sectumsempra.

“Why don’t you join me, then? I’m still covered in soap.”

He chuckled at her gasp, and she tried not to miss his warmth as he stepped back towards the water. Keeping an eye on her, he tossed aside his towel–no, she did not look down–and descended slowly like some kind of water nymph hoping to lure Hermione to her death. He then turned his back to her and waited.

There was no way she could join him.

It wasn’t proper.

She was Head Girl.

She was supposed to send him to bed.

His words kept replaying in her mind. She couldn’t send him to bed still covered in suds, could she?

She might as well supervise him until he was finished then escort him to the dungeons afterward.

The entire time Hermione fought with herself, he maintained his position. Only once she started to remove her clothes did he shift, raising one pale arm to smooth his hair back. She caught sight of the dark mark along the forearm before it vanished beneath the bubbles. Hermione wrapped a towel around her head in hopes of keeping her curls dry.

“I’m coming in.” Her voice trembled, try as hard as she might to sound confident.

“Just tell me when I can turn around.”

To her surprise, the water wasn’t scalding like the hot tubs she’d experienced on family vacations. The bath was a perfect temperature that tugged you into its embrace and loosened your muscles all at once.

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhh, oh!” She squeaked when she realized she had audibly sighed. Well, now his earlier moan made sense.

She spotted Malfoy’s shoulders shaking, and for a moment she was concerned that there was something wrong. It wasn’t until she stepped closer and caught the sharp intake of breath that she realized he was laughing at her.

Her slap on the water sent a wave over his head, ruining the slick tresses. In a flash, he spun around to smack water back her way, and she sputtered at the bubbles that filled her mouth.

“Mmmmmmmf, bloody hell, Malfoy!”

“You started it!”

“You were laughing at me!”

“Yeah, well, did you hear yourself?”

That earned him a whole armful of water, which he avoided by ducking. A second later, Hermione’s eyes widened comically at the hand that grasped her ankle before she was yanked under the surface.

Her hair!

The grip on her leg had disappeared the moment she went under, and she surged upward with a roar of fury.

She was going to kill him.

“Malfoy!”

Hermione didn’t anticipate him standing quite so close, nor did she notice the angle of the floor at the edge of the pool with its upward slope. It was only once she stood above the water that she realized her breasts were not only completely exposed, but level with Malfoy’s very open eyes.

“Ackkkkkk!”

She thrust herself backwards into the safety of the water, submerging herself almost up to her nose. She didn’t know it, but her curls floated around her, giving Malfoy the impression that he was facing an angry tentacle monster intent on strangling him.

“Um. Sorry about that.” He cast his eyes off to the side, his throat bobbing and pale skin flushed pink.

“You saw nothing.” Even her hiss sounded like a sea creature.

He nodded, still not looking at her.

“And you’ll say nothing.”

This time he looked over in exasperation. “Of course I won’t say anything, Granger! Who do you think I am?”

“I don’t know, only the biggest, most boastful prat in existence.”

He rewarded her glare with one of his own, his irises darkening along with his tone. “Look here, Granger, I don’t kiss and tell—”

“We didn’t kiss!”

“—and I certainly don’t share.”

Hermione wanted to die of embarrassment, wrapping her arms defensively around her chest. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” he swam forward to crowd her space, “that I don’t want anyone else to see your magnificent tits.”

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He had to be joking.

“You said you didn’t see anything.”

“No, you said I didn’t see anything.”

She made to shove him for his snark, but he caught her arm in a firm grasp and didn’t let go. Hermione’s eyes traced along the subtle flex of his pectorals, to the tense muscles in his neck, and up to the eyes, still so dark, that held fast to her own. She couldn’t help licking her lips in nervousness, catching her breath when his gaze flitted down to watch the movement. His hold on her arm tightened and he shifted closer.

“Malfoy…”

“Tell me to stop.”

He still stared at her lips, and she realized she didn’t want him to stop. She let them part in an invitation, and he immediately accepted.

Hermione had kissed before. There had been Ron, adrenaline pumping through their veins and pressing them into a kiss that felt like a natural flow from which they found themselves stumbling not long after.

There’d been her neighbor, Shawn, before that, their tentative explorations a series of firsts. Theirs had been a safe curiosity, and fleeting.

There was Viktor, dear Viktor, whom she’d met up with once more after the war. Now both adults, he taught her to not be ashamed of her sexual impulses. They hadn’t gone beyond touches, and their parting brought with it a sense of finality.

Draco’s kiss was like none of the others before it. It consumed her in dueling temperatures of heat and frost. He tasted of peppermint and ice, but the warmth of his tongue gliding along hers and the arms that moved to pull her against him fanned the earlier flames into an inferno. She was simultaneously terrified and exhilarated by the immediate yearning that filled her to capacity.

Fingers tangled in her hair and a palm caressed upward, brushing the underside of her chest. Alarm swept through her.

“Wait!” 

She wasn’t sure why it surprised her as much as it did when he immediately stopped all movement. He remained close, though, breathing heavily into the crook of her neck.

“What are we doing?” she whispered.

Hermione wasn’t an idiot. She knew exactly what they were doing. She wanted to hear his explanation, as if that would make what they were about to do acceptable.

She couldn’t help the gasp that escaped her as he latched his mouth to her neck and left his signature before answering.

“What if I said we’re fulfilling a fantasy I’ve had for a long, long time?”

It took a moment for the words to sink into her muddled mind and for the meaning to make itself clear. She tried to jerk away, but he refused to let her go. He at last looked up at her, the silver in his eyes glinting strangely.

“What, to shag someone in the bath?” she said, afraid of his answer. Here she was, about to become another notch on the bedpost of Draco Malfoy, all of her own volition.

“Yes, and no,” he replied slowly, the tension in his own voice tight.

She tried in vain to yank her arms away once more, but they weren’t going anywhere. She’d likely have bruises to show for it in the morning. “Well, which one is it?”

“Yes, I’ve dreamt about shagging in the bath, and no, not just any witch. Just. You.” He punctuated the last couple of words forcefully, like they hurt him to say.

“Well, thanks, that’s so romantic,” she spat before continuing. “What shall I do next? Bend over the ledge?”

His eyes darkened with each word that sprang from her mouth, but she was too focused on her own hurt feelings to notice.

“Or how about over there, on the bench? We could go through an entire yoga set’s worth of poses–”

His lips crashed down on hers, silencing her tirade. Still in the depths of her indignation, she bit at his lip.

“Fuck! Granger, just stop.”

“I will not let you use me as you like, Malfoy!”

“I’m not trying to use you; I’m trying to get it through your thick skull that I like you!”

She stared up at him, mouth open and finally devoid of any further insults. His confession was the very last thing she had ever expected to hear. It certainly beat hopes she had about Harry and Ron returning to Hogwarts, or of any of the castle elves speaking with her again after her S.P.E.W. campaign.

Hermione knew the wards hadn’t been completely repaired following the Battle of Hogwarts and that apparition was currently possible, though prohibited. 

She might enforce the rules, but she did a piss poor job following them. 

She apparated straight to her dorm in an attempt to escape, not taking into account that Malfoy still held her arms, that they were both stark naked, and that they were completely wet. They dropped heavily onto the couch, instantly soaking through the cushions.

“What the bloody hell, Granger!” Malfoy bellowed at the top of his lungs.

“Why didn’t you let go of me?” she screamed back.

“You can’t just panic apparate! We could have been splinched!”

“You basically splinched my fucking head!”

“Uh, guys?”

The sound of a third voice snapped their attention around so quickly, it was a miracle their heads were still attached. Theo Nott lounged in his armchair next to the fireplace, legs crossed and wearing an expression of distinct amusement.

As Head Girl, Hermione shared a private dorm with the Head Boy, who just so happened to be the same Theo who had given Malfoy the password to the Prefect’s bathroom. In the time it took for the naked duo to process his presence and place blame at his feet, they came to the same terrifying conclusion.

“Wait, what are you doing? Stop it! Stay back!”

Hands still joined, they ran at the terrified brunette and grabbed onto him with their free hands.

“Your go, Malfoy.”

“With pleasure.”

Theo’s scream sounded high and long as they disapparated and reappeared in the air above the same bath from which they’d just escaped. The trio fell with a splash that drowned out his cries. Hermione knew just how much time her roommate spent on his immaculate curls that made her own best efforts look like the perfect imitation of a bird’s nest.

As the three students screamed and laughed, sending waves of water towards one another in a storm of steam and hot bubbles, the mermaid in the nearby portrait yawned and went back to sleep. She’d seen far more ridiculous things in her years on the bathroom wall, and as pretty as she thought Draco, she preferred gingers like that de-li-cious Charlie Weasley.

Hermione could keep the Malfoy boy, and perhaps that Nott one, as well. They’d do well together, if only they could get out of the bathtub.

Cross-posted on AO3

WC 2899

DHRMonth Prompt: Week 1 - Hogwarts, September 5 - Prefect Baths

I actually had so much fun with this prompt, even though I ended up having to bend the rules a bit regarding apparition on Hogwarts grounds, but Hermione wouldn't mind some rule breaking, right?

I snuck in a hint of TheoxHermionexDraco - I can't help it!

Smut almost happened, but I yanked it back from the precipice because I want to give everyone blue balls, myself included.

[catreginae]

Me, whenever you offer a morsel of your fanfiction: It is I, a humble peasant, can you please spare me some good food for me and my family? We are in need of your good works.

Here you go! A snippet I don't know what to do with! This was written with "overworked/exhaustion" as a prompt and also writing for the "modern" TSNF (in the future with no Ganondorf but also in the past?). TW: Warriors practising bloodletting on himself.

It was the first time in a long time that Link felt truly exhausted. He was used to sleeping a lot more these days, but even when he was jumping through portals and fighting alongside with people he regarded as brothers, he was still sleeping at least a little bit every night.

At it was currently, he was on his third night of no sleep. Even if Ash was stable, he was too anxious to even sleep. He never turned anyone before. He wasn’t sure if his method was even viable but biting her might result in her death instead of actually saving her. She would die anyway if he did nothing but if he watched her carefully, she would have a second chance at life. If she lived, all of the work and sleepless nights would be worth it.

Link dipped his bowl into a basin of water and scrubbed at it with a clean rag gently to remove the dried blood from the previous session. Once he was satisfied, he retrieved a little brass box, cocked the lever, then turned it upside down and pressed the side with a dozen small lines against his arm. He pressed the button on the side and hissed as the little box did its job of making a dozen small incisions in his arm.

He wasn’t completely sold on the medical benefits of bloodletting but at least the tools were useful for the extremely niche purpose he needed it for. He gently put the box down, turned his arm over the bowl, and watched his blood fill the bowl for a whole thirty seconds before his regeneration kicked in and Link had to squeeze his arm to get a little bit more blood out before the injuries healed enough to stop the bleeding entirely.

At least it was more blood than he got yesterday.

He brought the bowl into her room, walking carefully so he didn’t waste a drop of his blood. If Link felt tired, he couldn’t imagine how Ash felt. If she wasn’t busy coughing up a lung, she was trying her best to sleep for however long she could, which was never more than a couple of hours before her illness woke her up.

“I have more blood,” he muttered as he walked inside and set the bowl down on the night stand. He shifted her to a sitting position, as she was too weak to do so herself, tilted her head back, and when he was satisfied, he retrieved the bowl and slowly tipped the blood into her throat.

Much to his surprise, she drank all of it. That was already better than yesterday where drinking half the bowl made her gag. Maybe feeding her his blood was working after all.

She slumped back into her pillows. “That was... not bad,” she mumbled as her eyes dropped.

“Just try to get some sleep. I’ll be back later with some more blood.”

Ash said nothing, as expected. She was already asleep. Her face seemed a bit more relaxed but maybe that was just his wishful thinking. He pulled her blankets up and tucked them in around her thin body, then stumbled his way back into his temporary bedroom. He collapsed into the chair, even though the bed looked pretty tempting. He didn’t dare fall asleep yet. He would sleep when Ash was better.

So, fun fact! Warriors is using a scarificator on himself and it's purpose was bloodletting. I can't imagine it's easy to clean though.

[mariacallous]

In the mornings in Varanasi, the air on the banks of the Ganges fills with the scent of burning bodies. On the steps of the Manikarnika ghat—the holiest of the city’s stepped riverbanks, upon which Hindu dead are cremated—the fires are already lit, and mourners assemble by the hundred to accompany their loved ones at the end. Pyres of sandalwood (for the rich) and mango wood (for everyone else) are already burning; on one, a corpse wrapped in white is visible in the flames.

Down at the river, where I’m watching from a boat, some families are engaged in the ceremonial washing of their dead, the corpses shrouded in white linen and decorated with flowers. A few meters away, a man from another family (usually, the honor is bestowed on the eldest son) wades into the water, casting in the ashes of an already cremated relative so that the Ganges might carry their spirit onwards to the next life or even moksha, the end of the rebirth cycle, and transcendence.

The funeral ceremonies, held against the backdrop of the ancient city, are undeniably beautiful; but the same can’t be said of the river itself. The water’s surface is flaked with ashes; ceremonial flowers linger in the eddies. Just downstream, a couple of men are diving for discarded jewelry. Not 50 meters upstream, another group, having finished their rites, are bathing in the filthy water. An older man, clad in white, finishes his bathing with a traditional blessing: He cups the fetid Ganges water in one hand and takes a sip.

The Ganges is one of the most densely populated river basins in the world, providing water for an estimated 600 million people. But to Hindus, it is more than a waterway: It is Ma Ganga, the mother river, formed—according to the sacred text the Bhagavata Purana—when Lord Vishnu himself punctured a hole in the universe and divine water flooded into the world. Water from the Ganges is widely used in Hindu prayer and ceremony; you can buy plastic bottles of it from stalls all over the subcontinent—or order one on Amazon in the UK for as little as £3.

And yet despite its sacred status, the Ganges is one of the most contaminated major rivers on earth. The UN has called it “woefully polluted.” As India’s population has exploded—in April 2023, it overtook China to become the world’s most populous country—hundreds of millions of people have settled along the Ganges’ floodplain. India’s sanitation system has struggled to keep up. The Ganges itself has become a dumping ground for countless pollutants: toxic pesticides, industrial waste, plastic, and, more than anything, billions upon billions of liters of human effluent.

It’s March 2022, and I’ve come to India while reporting my book, Wasteland, about the global waste industry. And few issues in waste are more critical (yet less sexy) than sanitation. In the global north, sewage is a problem that many of us assumed was more or less fixed in Victorian times. But access to clean water and adequate sanitation remains an urgent global issue. Some 1.7 billion people worldwide still do not have access to modern sanitation facilities.

Every day, an estimated 494 million people without access to flushing toilets and closed sewers are forced to defecate in the open, in gutters, or in plastic bags. The World Health Organization estimates that one in 10 people consumes wastewater (aka sewage) every year, either via unclean drinking water or contaminated food. In India, the result is that 37 million people are thought to be affected by water-borne illnesses such as typhoid, dysentery, and hepatitis every year. Worldwide, poor sanitation kills more children annually than AIDS, malaria, and measles combined.

Sanitation is one of those amenities that most of us in the global north don’t think about until something goes wrong. In the UK, sewers have lately dominated news headlines for the wrong reasons: Many of Britain’s rivers and beaches are being polluted by sewage overflow and farming runoff. According to the UK’s Environment Agency, water companies discharged sewage into English rivers on 301,091 occasions in 2022, totaling more than 1.7 million hours; on Britain’s beaches, sewage is reportedly making swimmers sick. Britain’s sanitation woes have been caused by years of neglect: systemic underinvestment by profit-chasing ownership; austerity-starved and ineffectual regulation; and the ever-widening expansion of our concrete urban spaces, which divert water away from natural soaks like soil and wetlands and into our watercourses.

In India—like much of the global south—the issue is the opposite: In most cases, the sewers were never there in the first place. In this respect, the Ganges’ pollution is a strange mark of success. When Prime Minister Narendra Modi was first elected in 2014, among the first things he did was launch the Clean India Campaign, a nationwide effort to install sanitation and modern waste facilities in a country that had previously lacked them.

Even those critical of Modi’s government—denounced for alleged Islamophobic policies and oppression of the press, among many other things—have to admit that the numbers since have been astonishing. Between 2014 and 2019, by one official estimate, India installed 110 million toilets, providing sanitation for an estimated half a billion people. Little more than a decade ago, India was known for having the highest rate of open defecation (that is, shitting in the open) in the world. Thanks to this massive expansion of public and private toilets, that rate has reportedly plummeted. The issue is that with so many new toilets, the sewage needs to go somewhere.

In that sense, India is like many rapidly urbanizing countries in the global south. But India is also unique, in that Hindu culture places rivers at the center of religious beliefs. And it’s for this reason the Modi government, alongside its Clean India Campaign, launched an expensive infrastructure plan to clean up the national river: the Namami Gange (“Obeisance to the Ganges”) program. It is by no means the first attempt. Previous governments have been launching “‘action plans”’ to clean the Ganges since at least the 1980s. But past efforts, beset by alleged corruption and mismanagement, rarely got far.

To date, the Namami Gange program has cost over 328 billion rupees ($3.77 billion) and promised the construction of more than 170 new sewage facilities and 5,211 kilometers of sewer lines—enough to cross the Atlantic Ocean. It is a fascinating test case in the global effort to clean up our rivers and seas. After all, if you can’t clean a river sacred to hundreds of millions of people, what hope do the rest of us have?

The offices of Varanasi’s water board, are a traffic-clogged drive west from the cremation ghats and the old city, in one of Varanasi’s increasingly busy commercial neighborhoods. When I arrive there is construction work and activity everywhere. In his air-conditioned office, Raghuvendra Kumar, Jal Kal’s general manager, explains that this is one of the challenges that the Namami Gange project has faced. “This city does not sleep,” he explains.

Kumar, a neat man with a side parting, in a black leather jacket and surgical mask (when we speak, India is not long out of a Covid spike), has been at Jal Kal since 2018. “When I joined, the situation in the city was much worse, because the work was still in progress,” Kumar says. “Sewers were flowing everywhere. It flowed into the streets.”

Varanasi is among the oldest inhabited cities in the world. It is situated at the confluence of two rivers: the Varuna and Assi, both tributaries of the Ganges, which join the river course here. The city’s spiritual and tourist center, on the western bank of the river, is a warren of alleyways, many too narrow to move cars down and often blocked by stray cows and market stalls. The city’s original trunk sewer (the main sewer, into which smaller pipes feed) was built by the British in the early 20th century, but local officials explain that the precursor can be traced back to the Mughal Empire.

Until a few years ago, much of the city’s sewage was released untreated into the Ganges via public drains, or nullahs, which discharged along the same bank as the ghats, where people habitually bathe. Since 2016, the center of the city has seen the installation of several kilometers of new sewer lines, connecting pipes that once spewed straight into the river to a new intercepting sewer, which now carries much of the flow off to one of three new sewage treatment plants. Out of 23 known drains that previously carried raw sewage into the Ganges, Kumar says that 20 have been capped, with the rest in progress. Later, on the same boat that took me past the cremation sites, I see it myself: The city’s most notorious drain, Sisamau, is now capped. Only a steady trickle remains.

In a city that has seen near-constant civic engineering work going on for the last two decades, the sewer project has not always been popular. (“Changing the mindset of the people is a very difficult task,” Kumar says.) To improve uptake of the new waste regime, Jal Kal and the state’s Pollution Control Board put out a series of local adverts; the city ran public announcements over loudspeakers from garbage collection vehicles, warning against open defecation and asking inhabitants not to pollute the river and new drains with garbage. “In the last three to five years, it has come into the habit of the citizens that we have to improve our lifestyle, we have to change our behavior,” Kumar says. “And now it has become the habit of the people.”

It’s not the only change that has taken place in Varanasi. The temple flowers that once clogged the banks of the Ganges after cremations and religious festivals are now collected on the banks in marked bins and in the river using floating barriers; the remains are composted or collected by a local startup, Phool, which converts them into incense sticks. The city’s wider green policies have helped cut pollution levels: Varanasi has passed laws banning certain plastics within the holy city and launched a scheme mandating that more than 580 diesel-powered boats on the river be converted to run on compressed natural gas, reducing oil slicks on the water’s surface. The city also set about “beautifying” the ghats, employing teams of workers to collect leftover waste for recycling, and artists to paint murals celebrating the Namami Gange campaign. And most importantly, 361 public toilets have been built, connected to the new sewers, to reduce the rate of open defecation.

Among the Namami Gange projects inaugurated by Modi himself are a new sewage treatment plant in Dinapur, to the northeast of the city, designed to process up to 140 million liters of effluent per day. Similarly, as the city has expanded, so by necessity has the sanitation system. The day after I visit Jal Kal, I am given a tour of a brand-new sewage plant in Ramnagar, on the river’s west bank, where the population is booming. On the road to the plant I’m surrounded by building works, formal and informal; at one point, we pass a group digging up bricks from a newly laid road, presumably for housing construction.

I’m met by Shashikari Shastri, an engineer in charge, who shows me around. The sewage treatment plant is a modern and pleasant place (at least, as pleasant as sewage works get), with pale green buildings and neat rows of trees in the flower beds.

Most sewage treatment plants work in a similar way. To grossly simplify: The bigger solids (i.e., feces) are screened out in large, often open tanks, and those solids that remain are allowed to settle on the bottom of the tank or float to the surface, and are removed. The remaining water is then passed into a series of tanks and mixed with bacteria, which digest the leftover organic matter and kill off remaining pathogens. The ponds are aerated to encourage digestion. (The result tends to be bubbling lanes of sewage which, if you close your eyes, could sound like water fountains, were it not for the smell.) At this stage, any lingering solids are again settled out. Different technologies exist for third and even fourth steps to clean the water further—UV light, chlorination, etc.

The older sewage treatment plants in Varanasi work using an activated sludge technique, in which some of the solids removed during the settling process are reinjected as a kind of bacterial starter. Ramnagar, however, uses a modern A20 (anaerobic-anoxic) design, in which the effluent is passed through additional tanks to reduce dissolved nitrogen and phosphorus. “Our focus is to minimize eutrophication, because last year lots of algae and eutrophication was found [in the Ganges],” Shastri explains. Eutrophication is when a body of water becomes overly enriched with nutrients and minerals, leading to an explosion of algae, which can choke the river of aquatic life.

We arrive eventually at the outlet pipe, a cascading series of tiled waterfalls at the river’s edge. By now, Shastri says, the treated water is far cleaner than when it arrived. This is measured using biological oxygen demand (BOD)—the amount of dissolved oxygen in the water that bacteria need to remove any unwanted organic matter, a proxy measure for how much waste is in the water. “The BOD at the inlet is 180 mg/liter,” Shastri explains. “At the outlet, it’s 5 to10 mg/liter.” Down on the sand, children are playing. Another group is mining sand (illegally, most likely) for building materials.

The sewage treatment plant—like several that I visited along the Ganges reporting my book—is an impressive place, if small. (Despite asking, I was not permitted access to the city’s largest plant, in Dinapur, during my time there.) Still, I couldn’t help but feel that its minuscule size was woefully inadequate for the task in hand.

Size is not the only issue. The rosy image of the Namami Gange campaign, painted by the city’s civil servants, does not always match the reality on the ground. While almost everyone I spoke to in Varanasi was positive about the effect of the campaign on the river and the city, it’s clear that despite the rapid pace of building, the Ganges is still far from clean.

One afternoon in Varanasi, my fellow reporter Rahul Singh and I walked over to the banks of the Assi River (or “Assi nullah [sewer]” as many people still colloquially refer to it). Despite the Namami Gange project’s efforts, the banks of the Assi were buried ankle-deep in plastic waste: microsachets, bottles, packets, pots. I met one of the city’s waste pickers collecting PET bottles, which he can sell for 10 rupees (less than 10p) per kilogram. A little further upstream, floating barriers have been installed in the water to help catch the garbage; so much trash has built up on them that it has created reef-like islands midstream.

When the Assi reaches the Ganges, it passes through a pumping plant, designed to filter out solid rubbish before transferring the wastewater downstream to a sewage treatment plant. But when I visited, the pumping station was barely manned and operating at a fraction of its capacity. One of the metal screens for trapping garbage was broken; inside the facility, plastic and other waste trickled slowly off a conveyor belt and into sacks to be carted away for recycling or incineration. One of the staff (who I agreed could remain nameless) told me the plant extracts a ton of plastic waste per day.

The creaking reality of some of the infrastructure goes against the government’s line on the Namami Gange campaign, which it tends to portray in rapturous, nationalistic tones. The reality is that nearly 10 years after Modi first unveiled the project, the Ganges in Varanasi, and along much of its stretch, remains polluted.

According to the government-run Pollution Control Board’s own figures, in 2020, samples of the river water collected in Varanasi far exceeded India’s own recommended limits for fecal coliform and fecal streptococci bacteria—the latter exceeding the limit by more than 20-fold. The same was true when I visited the industrial city of Kanpur, known for its chromium and heavy metals pollution. It’s not just the Ganges, either: The Yamuna, in Delhi, registered fecal streptococci readings at 10,800 times the recommended limit. All across India, there are reports of rivers foaming with toxic waste or lakes catching fire.

This is the reality of a country like India, that is growing at such an astonishing rate: The risk for India’s civic planners is that by the time new infrastructure—sewage plants, waste facilities, roads—are built, the population is already greater than their capacity. (It is also, it should be said, not solely an Indian problem. Every major industrial country—from China in the last two decades, to the US and other Western countries several decades ago—has faced river pollution crises.) But the continued failure of the government’s schemes to clean the Ganges is a wedge issue for religious campaigners, to whom the issue of cleaning the Ganges is more than practical or political. It’s moral.

One evening in Varanasi, I head back to the ghats, to meet with one of the Namami Gange project’s most outspoken critics. Vishwambhar Nath Mishra is an intense man in his fifties, with white hair and a thick mustache. Mishra is a professor of electronics engineering at Banaras Hindu University, and also mahant (high priest) of Varanasi’s Sankat Mochan Hanuman Temple, a position he inherited from his late father, Veer Bhadra Mishra. Mishra’s father was a lifelong campaigner for the Ganges, and back in the 1980s he set up the Sankat Mochan Foundation, an NGO focused on protecting the river; when we meet, in a room near the foundation, there is a picture of the elder Mishra on the wall, smiling happily. When Mishra Sr. died in 2013, Vishwambhar inherited the foundation, along with his religious duties.

For Mishra, that combination—of engineering, campaigning, and religion—gives him a unique perspective on the requirements of cleaning the Ganges. “The use of this river is entirely different from other river systems,” Mishra says. “People come from distant places and worship Ganga like their mother. A few [of those] people come and gently touch Ganga water and put it on their forehead. A few people come and take a religious bathe in the river. And a few take sips of Ganga water.” This sip is a sacred ritual part of the daily bath in the river taken by many devout Indians.

“Now, if people are sipping on the water, that means the quality has to be potable water quality; there has to be no compromise,” Mishra says. For him, it’s personal. As a religious leader, one person expected to sip Ganges water during their daily bath is Mishra himself.

Mishra’s weapon in the fight for the Ganges is a simple one: data. In 1993, the Sankat Mochan Foundation established one of the few independent labs to analyze the quality of the Ganges’ water in Varanasi. “That’s why they [the government] are scared,” Mishra says. “We have a database that speaks the reality of how healthy the river is.” Ever since, the foundation has been keeping track of the water—bacteria levels, oxygen demand—and has seen the river’s health decline with India’s growth.

According to Mishra and his fellow activists, the government’s own figures when it comes to sewage in Varanasi don’t add up. The largest sewage treatment plant, at Dinapur, has a stated processing capacity of 140 million liters a day (MLD). “Now as a matter of fact, I know that in [the Dinapur plant], they are able to carry only 60 MLD of sewage,” Mishra says, growing more animated as he talks. “At Goitha, where the capacity is 120 MLD, a few months back when I asked those people, they are able to transport only 10 to20 MLD of sewage. That’s all. So as a scientific man, you can just calculate the efficiency.” Similarly, Mishra claims that the government’s assertions that drains are no longer discharging into the river is not true. “Five years ago we found 33 locations discharging [sewage] … That has reduced to 15 or 16,” he says. (The Uttar Pradesh Pollution Control Board did not respond to requests for comment.)

Whereas India’s religious and environmental campaigners like Mishra hope to make the Ganges drinkable again, the Indian government has to date only declared an intent to make the Ganges in Varanasi a Class B river—fit for bathing only. Even by that standard, Mishra says, the project is failing. “We have scientific parameters that if Ganga is a Class B River, then total fecal coliform count should be less than 500 per 100 ml,” Mishra says. (Fecal coliform bacteria are a strong indicator of other pathogens being present.) Mishra shows me a ream of paper, upon which he has printed charts of the lab’s water quality data at numerous locations, going back months. “Right now [in March 2022], where we are sitting at Tulshi ghat, the figure is 41,400 per 100 ml. At the end of [Varanasi], where a big channel is discharging, it is 51 million.”

(While I could not independently confirm these numbers, even the Indian government’s data shows that pathogen levels in the Ganges at Varanasi are many multiples higher than its safety targets.)

Back in 2014, before the launch of the Namami Gange program, Mishra sat with Modi to discuss his hopes to clean the Ganges. Mishra’s foundation has since presented its own proposals for treatment projects, but has been ignored. The Pollution Control Board and state government dispute the foundation’s data; Mishra, meanwhile, says that the government’s figures, which are averages of samples taken from across the width of the river, do not reflect the reality experienced by bathers on the ghats, where sewers discharge into the Ganges and the water is slower. “They will never recognize our laboratory because they know that it will be a big trouble for them. But we have all the data since 1993.”

Mishra also claims that commercial interests are preventing the government from taking even more decisive action to cut pollution. “Ganga happens to be a very fertile cow. So, everybody’s milking in the name of Ganga,” he says. (Allegations of corruption have plagued India’s many Ganges cleanup campaigns, although Mishra didn’t share any specific evidence of corruption. India’s Ministry of Jal Shakti, or water ministry, did not respond to WIRED’s requests for comment.)

Most politicians and engineers in India, when asked, will tell you that a totally pure Ganges, of the sort that Mishra is aiming for, is almost certainly impossible. (“Religious people don’t follow logic,” SK Barman, a project manager for the state water company’s Ganga Pollution Prevention Unit, told me. “We have to achieve salvation somehow. Moksha, moksha, moksha.”) But in driving the conversation, it’s also clear that without Mishra and the countless other environmental activists across India campaigning for the Ganges restoration, the issue would be worse.

A year since I was last in Varanasi, it’s clear that India’s sanitation drive is still far from where the government’s narrative would have the public believe. According to a public information request by the Indian news organization Down to Earth, in 2023, 71 percent of the Ganges’ river monitoring stations were reporting “alarmingly high” levels of fecal coliform bacteria. Over 66 percent of drains in the state of Uttar Pradesh, where Varanasi sits, still empty into the Ganges and its tributaries.

There is no doubt that the Namami Gange project has made progress, and not just in the number of toilets installed and treatment plants made operational. Nearly every member of the public I spoke to in India—in Varanasi, Kanpur, and in New Delhi—confirmed that anecdotally, pollution issues are improving. It wasn’t that long ago that dead bodies would be regularly found in the river, and sewage in the rainy season flowed up onto the ghats. Today, there are increased sightings of aquatic life, such as the Ganges river dolphin.

And at 2022’s state elections, Modi’s BJP party remained in power—a significant sign ahead of 2024’s presidential election. In March 2023, Modi’s government confirmed Namami Gange Mission II, an additional $2.56 billion of expenditure on expanding the program and continuing to complete already commissioned infrastructure.

As for Mishra and the other activists advocating for a clean holy river, their campaign continues, no matter how unpopular it makes him with the government and Modi-leaning press. “I have heard, ‘Why? Why don’t you say the Ganga is clean?’ Mishra says. “I cannot say that. We are totally committed to the Ganga, and we cannot mislead people. For me, the Ganga is the medium of my life.”

It’s a holy mission, I say.

“It’s a holy mission, and it’s a scientific mission.”

[bumblebeeappletree]

Emma and Edo were once a hotel stage show dance team, until they quit to live out their dream of rescuing animals (Emma) and farming (Edo) on the island of Tenerife. They bought cheap land and began to transform the rocky, dusty soil into a lush homestead.

In the beginning, it was just Emma, Edo, and some family toiling on the land to create basic accommodation. This was at a time of bare basics, with no electricity, running water, or toilets. Soon they were joined by volunteers, and they got creative building homes out of old vans, hillside caves, mud and clay, and scrap materials (including a lot of old pallet wood).

After a couple years, they had expanded beyond an animal sanctuary into a full-fledged community with 40 to 50 volunteers living on-site who all worked to live as lightly on the land as possible. The Tenerife Horse Rescue community is completely off-grid, using solar power, but also clever inventions like a horse poo water heater and a pedal-powered washing machine.

Since the average rainfall on Tenerife is between 11 to 30 millimeters for most of the year, all water is reused. Kitchen and shower water (greywater) is filtered with natural materials like pebbles and papyrus. Toilet water (blackwater) goes through a more rigorous process of biofilters. First it goes into tanks where it is oxygenated to separate liquids and solids, then it flows into a biofilter basin which works as a hydroponic pond (gravel, water, plants but no soil). Then it goes through a biofilter basins which use gravel and papyrus to trap particles and compounds after which it is finally clean enough to water the garden.

To feed what has now become a small village of people and animals, the villagers have graduated from dumpster diving to “freeganism”: they have an established relationship with a local supermarket to collect all damaged, ugly or out-of-date food. Every day, three volunteers pick up new van loads of food, it is then sorted for humans or animals.

To be sure that nothing gets wasted, and to give back to the community, they’ve gone one step further by registering as a local food bank so they can distribute food to local low-income families and other animal sanctuaries.

To volunteer: https://tenerifehorserescue.com/volun...

To donate: https://tenerifehorserescue.com/

More videos on the Tenerife Horse Rescue channel: / @tenerifehorserescue

Drone footage of Tenerife: @madairadventure5201

On *faircompanies: https://faircompanies.com/videos/coup...

[bardic-tales]

30 DoWB: Day 4: Cataclysms

Today's exercise was about creating landmarks that would appear in the world. I went into this knowing a few things that I wanted to add to Cirel, but I never really planned the reason behind their formations.

This is where the map I'm creating helped. This is only the first part. There will be a second part to this tomorrow.

Exercise 1: Features and Scars

For 15 minutes, jot down some of the Really Big Land Features you want in your story and just think "what if that were made by…." Write down a couple of causes for those features and scars. Stick it all into your notebook. Which scars are slow-force scars (like plate tectonics), and which are fast-forces (anything that takes less than 10,000 years is medium-to-fast in geological scales).

The following landmasses are not included: the Dragontalon Mountains, Ley-line Tears, the Olessan Basin, Northern Ocean, Sea of Fangs, and some of the rivers that I haven't talked about yet.

Crimson Tears - Formerly Nyskel Lake as the lake was destroyed by the Children of Eternity using blood magick in Flight of the Dragon. Rich with Iron and gives it its bloody appearance. Guarded by Brennan Draig, the once proud Silver Dragon. He now watches over the ruins of Adwen ferch Afan castle, a statue, and tomb. Magi on the shore treat the water through magic and a waterwheel, turning it into drinking water. Fast force

Frigid Wastes - Large Space debris hit this area. Plunged Cirel into an impact winter over a 60,000 year span. Lead to the decline of the red dragons but lead to the rise of the Black and Silver Dragon clans who became adapt at surviving in the cold. Elder Dragons are drawn to this place to pass onto the ven plane. slow-force

Northern Glaciers - During the impact winter, ice formed on the mountains to the North, leading to glacial formation. There are still glaciers within the mountains separating the Eastern Kingdom (placename) from the Drakl Empire. This is what created the landmasses and ice sheets the Drakl Empire lives upon. Slow Force

Nyskel Lake - Rumor has it that this lake was created by Amés’ tears. This lake, however, was created by the Northern Glaciers moving south and retreating. It was to the island that Adwen ferch Afan castle was built upon. Home to the Draig flight, an ancient clan of Silver Dragons that date back to the impact event. Slow force

Olessan Peatland - As the Glaciers retreated and the Olessan Region became warmer, slow-moving rivers formed. Over time, the basin became wetter and became suitable for only certain plants to grow. These plants are hard to break down, so their remains accumulate and become peat. Fast force.

Ruins of Eneth - Alystin Torrath, Brennan Draig, and their allies stopped the Enethians from using dragon tears to fuel their civilization. As the Enethians fought back, their magic would act as a mana bomb and explode their continent, exterminating all life. fast force

[mollydsails]

October 15 - And just like that the boat show is over. What a difference in the harbor. Molly D was docked at the Annapolis Yacht Basin. From that marina all we could see were boats and tents. A different story since 5:00 yesterday when the show ended. No time is wasted in moving boats out, taking down tents and removing docks.

The harbor during the show

The morning after the show

During our time in Annapolis, we met up with people we’ve previously met and we made new acquaintances. Of course, we spent many fun hours with Wendy and Bob.

I did not get the memo on the shirt color. Lol! Bob and David were “twinning” with the exception of their footwear. Too funny!

A catamaran in the harbor was in the Halloween spirit with their pumpkin fender covers.

David and I gave some of our time to helping out at the Island Packet booth. I guess it’s in our blood to do that.

We enjoyed good meals at Potato Valley, O’Briens and Market House. Thanks to Bob and Wendy, we discovered a good grocery store a bit over a mile from downtown. An easy walk. On our way back from the store we passed a couple on the sidewalk. They stopped and talked to us because they noticed that matchy-matchy Bob and David were wearing Island Packet hats. The couple were former Island Packet owners. After a 10 minute gab session we were on our way.

Molly D was scheduled to depart on Monday but high winds prevented that thought. Plans always change. Lucky us, we got to spend more time in Annapolis!

Here are some photos of our stay.

Morning sunrise

We found the Great Pumpkin!

Excuse me, but your building is a bit crooked!

Morning departure

Sol A Maya, our former Molly D

Thomas Point Shoal Lighthouse