#Linen is a miracle fabric change my mind

[shannonpurdyjones]

What's a long-lasting fabric that's also good for living in a hot, humid swamp? Like every day is 32 C, 100% humidity (90 F).

Linen!!!

Ok so I'm born and raised in NC in the south eastern US, also a hot humid swamp in the summers (85-95F and more often than not 80-100% humidity). Loose flowy linen clothing is my go-to. It breathes well (vital in humid climates) and good quality 100% linen lasts a long time. The only thing it doesn't do is the "instant wicking and then instant drying" (like workout clothes) but it does okay in that dept and dries quickly once hung up.

I'm always about supporting local small businesses, so check around your area for seamstresses or small shops first. In lieu of that I've had good luck on Etsy searching 100% linen [dress, pants, etc] and filtering for 'ships from [insert your home country]'.

Full disclosure, you will pay more for a handmade 100% linen garment than polyester spandex fast fashion. That said, I have 4 linen dresses and skirts I saved for over the past several years. Not only do I find myself wearing them way more than my other clothes, but they also look basically brand new after years of regular wear. It's an investment, but in my experience it's worth it.

(Obv everyone is not in a financial position to buy new. Places like poshmark etc are great for finding quality linen second hand at a much lower price, and you're reusing, which is always good!)

[tobylix-blog]

Gratitude - Aragorn x f!Reader

Content & Warnings: platonic, fluff(ish) Word count: 3.6k Summary: Aragorn returns to become a king and pay back for the kindness of a merchant's daughter, whom he has met during his past visit to Minas Tirith.

You open the store once again. The city is wrecked. The siege was barely three days ago. But the market is the first place to come back to life. As long as it's loud and busy the city lives. Your storage is filled. By some miracle no fire or stone has touched your street. You fix the door open and hang out a long piece of cloth - a sign that the store is working. You turn back to tidy up the shelves behind the counter when someone steps in. Judging by the sound of voices several people come in at once.

"A minute, gentlemen, I'm almost with you," you say over the shoulder, not quite looking at them yet.

The voices are quiet, and for a moment all is silent in the store. Then a loud thud comes. You turn to see a whole bag of coins on the counter as a rich, melodious voice sounds from among the men.

"My friends will need the finest clothes for the coronation and so will you, miss".

Your eyes slowly rise from the counter to the man speaking. His familiarity strikes as a low blow. His appearance changed drastically and yet hardly noticeably. He stands proud and is wearing fine clothing with the White tree of Gondor on it, but the gaze of his gray eyes is as piercing as before.

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The street is busy with people. Morning rush in the market doesn't fade until noon when the sun gets just too high. Through dozens of conversations unfolding between merchants and customers bargaining over the goods, old friends who suddenly met in the middle of chaos and servants figuring out how to get it over with sooner, you hear a distinct male voice saying. "Get lost, outlander! Northerners are out of their mind if they think I will sell them even a piece of shit! Damn rangers."

You recognize the voice. The trader from the armory a few doors down the street. As threatening as he appears, he isn't usually that hostile to customers. From your point of view, two steps above the ground you can only see the dark hair of the man he scolds. Man is saying something back but his voice you can't quite hear. Instead a loud response comes from the inside of the armory.

"Put your silver up your thin arse! Get away from my store before I put a hammer through your head," this time it's the smith himself. You shiver a bit hearing his rough voice.

Stranger only stays in front of the armorer's shop for a moment before moving on. You finally see him fully when he appears from the crowd. Tall and dark-haired he doesn't seem all that different from men of Gondor. His clothes give away the fact that he is indeed a Ranger. You hear more sneers following him from the other side of the street where old men sell leather. Their tannery is actually a few streets down from here, but they still keep a display in the busiest part of the market. Unpleasant fellows. They even got in a quarrel with your father a few times trying to steal his customers. Probably that's why you take a step down from the door and call out to the stranger. There's no other explanation at all.

"Ranger! Come look at our fabrics. Best broadcloth in all Minas Tirith! Vast selection and best prices for you."

The Ranger stops, looks around for a moment, and seeing the wares through the open door makes his way down to look over them. He looks at the materials laid out on the counter over, fingers them, and seems intrigued by the selection. He reaches out to examine a particularly colorful one.

"You have a very good selection here. Are these local, or imported? They look very fine."

You may be only 13 years old, but you know the goods well. "These wools are gondorian. Look at the quality here. There are none like this anywhere in Arnor. I also suggest these linen fabrics delivered from Linhir," you say imitating your father's manner of speech.

The Ranger smiles faintly at seeing you so assured in your speech and so young. He looks over the wools and linens.

"Linhir, eh? Impressive that you get such high quality goods from so far away." He looks back at you with visible curiosity. "Are you the shop owner's daughter?"

"I am," you confirm and after a little pause pull a length of dyed linen from underneath the counter. "This one is rarely to anyone's liking but you seem to be fitting the description of 'not anyone', if I'm not mistaken. Take it. There's enough for a good shirt."

The Ranger smiles more broadly this time, and picks up the length of linen. He examines it thoroughly, and nods slowly.

"You've got a sharp eye, to guess that I'm someone who doesn't blend in, lass," he says with a touch of humor in his voice. "And this is definitely worth the coin. How much are you asking for it?"

You name the price. He rummages his pockets for a moment before cold coins drop heavy in your palm. "There's more than needed. I'll be right back…" you say and rush into the house. For a minute only some shuffling is heard. Then you return to the counter.

"Here," you tell the Ranger. "Change and well… everything."

You pass him a coin of change and a small bundle. The Ranger pockets the change, and then takes a look inside the wrap. After a moment, he smiles faintly again.

"Is it common practice for you to throw in a meal with your sales?" he asks, amused.

You feel blush creeping up your face. "If the tavern owners are half as hospitable as the blacksmiths are, you will need it."

The Ranger laughs at that, and his smile remains afterwards. "You've an excellent point, lass. The hospitality of tavern owners seems to be in constant decline. And I'm not sure about the blacksmiths either."

It's clear in his voice that he's jesting, though he is obviously remembering his earlier confrontation with the blacksmith. You watch him put on the hood of his cloak as he walks away blending in with the crowd. You don't remember much from the rest of that day, except for occasional sidelong glance from the leather men. No wonder you don't. It's been over eight years since then.

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Many thoughts arise at once, clouding your mind like a swarm. Yet they all are silenced by one phrase, that a dwarf says. "What is the meaning of this, Aragorn?" He says something else about how it's not the king's duty to walk from stall to stall, choosing fabrics, but it doesn't matter.

You slowly slide off the stool you were standing on, by some wonder landing on your feet and not gashing your knees against the wooden floor. The words are pounding in your head. Yes, that's right. People surrounding him are.. not exactly people. An elf, a dwarf and two hobbits. Just as the rumor has it. The king has friends of other races and folks.

Your body is stiff when you muster a bow to him. This tall man, Ranger you once met, turned out to be the last living heir to the throne. Some absolutely mad joke of fate that might be.

"It's an honor to see you here, my king. Though I must apologize for the disorder and lack of manner," you manage to utter finally.

He smiles faintly at your bow. "It's good to see you again, lass," he says, raising a hand to forestall any further apologies. "And there's no need to apologize. Your manner is fine, especially given the circumstances."

He leans forward a bit, eyes still sparkling with the faintest hint of mischief. "You seemed surprised just now when you saw me. As if you've seen a ghost walk into your shop."

"It isn't everyday that a faintly familiar ranger pays a visit… and happens to become a king, your majesty," you say. Your eyes dart from one of his companions to another until you settle with the image. From there on your steps are fast and words are even faster as you fall into the usual pattern of work. It helps to set all worries aside.

"Midnight blue and ink black broadcloth for Gimli, son of Gloin," you arrange the fabrics on top of the counter before the dwarf. "Goes well along with both gold and silver."

"Bright wools and soft satins for brave hobbits," you speak pulling out lengths of colored textile and showcasing them to Merry and Pippin.

"Silver silk brought all the way from Lorien for honorable Legolas of Mirkwood," you suggest, unsure yet if smuggled wares could meet the request of an elf.

"Linen from Linhir and hemp from Dale for your majesty," you offer a multitude of colors to the future king.

Aragorn's eyebrows rise in mild surprise at the speed with which you handle the various requests. You clearly know your craft, and well. You pick out the colors and patterns with ease. He runs his hands over the soft fabric of the broadcloth you picked out for Gimli. After a moment, he nods slowly.

"Excellent choice for my friend," he says, glancing at the dwarf. Gimli grins back and nods in agreement.

"It's an honor to meet your expectations, my king," you bow slightly under Aragorn's somewhat disapproving gaze.

You watch as the others look through the selected fabrics and nod in agreement, choosing the best fitting ones. Aragorn himself looks rather delighted by the wares. He picks out a length of hemp cloth, turns it over in his hands a few times, examining the weave and texture, and finally gives a satisfied sigh.

"I'm still a Ranger at heart," he says, glancing up at you. "My taste in clothes runs toward the simple and practical. This hemp is just the thing."

He sets the hemp down on the counter and smiles back at you. "I do wonder, though… which one will you choose for yourself?"

Your heart skips a bit at the question. "For myself?" The words leave your mouth before you get a chance to think them through.

Aragorn smiles at your surprised expression. "Of course," he says. "I doubt I need to tell you that the coronation will be a grand event. There will be people, nobles especially, with all the fashion sense and more coin than sense. You will be the only one in something plain and unadorned if you stay away from the occasion."

He looks down at your clothes. You're well-dressed for a trader, a clear sign that the store's profits stay high despite any turmoil, but it's clear that your dress is ordinary, suitable for an ordinary day. "You deserve something better than that."

"I'm afraid I don't quite understand, your majesty…" you mutter. "I might be able to watch the coronation from among the crowd, or standing on the parapet if the luck is good. But my dress makes no difference in that luck."

Aragorn lets out a small huff and shakes his head. "No, lass. You have seen me before, and you weren't among those sneering and showering me with cheap mockery. As far as I'm concerned, you're entitled to a seat of honor at the ceremony. And I'm not letting you take that seat while you've still got your old clothes on."

You look at him in disbelief. This idea seems absolutely mad. You have probably lost your mind during the siege, and now you're imagining the whole thing. That the King, Aragorn, would be in your store personally inviting you as a guest to his coronation and willing to pay for your dress because of some decade old encounter. You shake your head and blink a few times trying to get back to reality. And yet he is still here. The same smirk on his lips as he leans on the counter.

Aragorn's smirk grows a bit wider when he sees your reaction. "Don't doubt your eyes, lass," a hint of humor is present in his voice. "I am standing here. And I am inviting you."

He looks you up and down, taking in your current clothes and appearance. "And if you don't pick something suitable, I'll do it myself, and you won't like it."

At that you only shake your head yet again and turn around facing the many shelves behind the counter. You know the wares like the back of your hand and don't waste much time picking out the more delicate linens and a length of silk from southern Gondor in light blue hues. Aragorn only looks them over once and gives a nod of approval.

"An excellent choice," he says, looking up at you with a smile. "You have an eye for color."

You nod slightly, unable to speak anymore. It all seems so impossible and unreal. Aragorn pays for everything he and his friend choose as well as for the lengths for your own dress; he also leaves behind enough to pay any seamstress in the city for the gown. It's only a few minutes before you're left behind. Alone and bewildered by the meeting.

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In the next couple of days you pay a visit to a seamstress that once had sewn your mother's wedding dress. She takes the order readily and in the next morning a boy brings back a bundle with the finished gown. It's light and flowing like water in the river. You wait patiently until the day of coronation to finally put it on.

The dress seems to be enchanted somehow. You don't feel like a merchant's daughter walking through the crowd at court, being accompanied by a guard. You don't feel alien standing in the front rows among noble ladies and just a few steps away from lady Eowyn — niece to the late king of Rohan — and lord Faramir — son of the last steward of Gondor. You feel as if this could be some other life prepared for you by fate. And still you can't quite place why the king would step out of his way and do something of that sort for you.

Throughout the whole ceremony you can't tear your eyes away from his silhouette. You recognize the familiar color and texture of fabric, hugging his neck from beneath the armor. You watch him walk regally and at the same time very openly among the guests. Many are his friends. The ceremony ends with his grateful bow to the hobbits as the whole court follows his example. And with that begins the feast.

The great hall of the palace is decorated and festive. The long tables are filled with food and drinks. People flood the hall, taking their places. You watch the whole Fellowship find themselves close to the king. And your own place is somehow not that far away as well. Just among the members of the few remaining noble families of Gondor, blending you in with them.

As the feast progresses more wine bottles are opened. So far you managed to avoid the many cups of wine being offered by neighbors at the table, but it was getting noticeably harder. Some surely mistook you for a daughter of some less well-known, but clearly wealthy family, that would make for a good bride for one of their many sons. Before the direct confrontation becomes unavoidable you get away from the table and into a side gallery. Unsure as to where you should be going, you escape onto a balcony. It's empty and the scenery is beautiful. Fresh air is soothing against the heated skin.

You lean onto the parapet of the balcony, taking this chance to immerse in peace of the early night. Judging by the music, the dancing must have started, and that sounds like another perfect way to excuse yourself from the table later. But before you even decide to head back, you hear the sound of the balcony door slightly creaking at being opened and slow footsteps approaching.

You turn around and recognize Aragorn, who must have found a great time to sneak out of the spotlight relatively unnoticed. Back in the hall he looked nothing like the Ranger you once met, but here in the faint moonlight and subtle orange hues casted from the windows you can spot more similarities than before.

"Good evening, your majesty," you greet him politely with an appropriate bow.

Aragorn smiles faintly at your bow. He steps forward and leans on the parapet next to you. After a moment, he speaks, his voice more casual than it was earlier.

"You know, you don't need to call me by my title. Especially not while we're alone like this."

The suggestion catches you off guard. "I don't quite understand what should I call you then… or why that would even be possible," you confess your doubts.

He looks over at you and raises his eyebrows. "Why would it be possible to call me by my given name? Because I'm allowing it. For the time being, at least."

Aragorn turns to you completely so that he's leaning against the parapet, with one arm resting on it. The simple action bringing color to your face as you get to see him fully. "You met me before I was king. As far as I'm concerned, that means you still have the right to call me something other than 'your majesty' when we are alone, like this."

"There're many people in this city and beyond its walls who have met you before, Aragorn," his name feels almost alien on your tongue. "But I doubt that they all receive the same… treatment."

The king lets out a small huff and smiles faintly. "No, I suppose not. I doubt I'd be able to recognize any of them, for starters. You, however, were more memorable…"

He gives you a brief once-over. "You were more memorable," he repeats, his gaze fixed on you for a moment before he looks away and back out at the city. "It could be a mere coincidence, but I trust my fate and its signs. My visit to Minas Tirith eight years ago was the last one. It was the time when I attempted to make the final decision of whether to follow the path of an heir or give up. The way I was greeted with dozens of insults and many more curses in the streets of the White city was the sign that I assumed to be an advice against pursuing my right for the throne. You showed up before my eyes right when I was ready to give up. So young and eager, so welcoming and confident. I couldn't tear my eyes away from you. You seemed as the very essence of the new Era. You singlehandedly charged something within me with this new will to fight for such future."

You stand there too stunned to say a single word, your mind racing with thoughts. You would never expect to hear something of the kind. The way you acted during that first encounter was a surprise to you as well, as if… well, as if fate pushed you to be more hospitable and welcoming to this stranger.

The more you keep thinking about his words the brighter the scarlet tone on your cheeks turns. You try to get rid of the definitely wrong ideas you got, but they just keep reappearing in your troubled mind.

Aragorn glances over at you and takes notice of the shade of red creeping over your cheeks. He can't help but give a small chuckle. "And now you're blushing again. I wonder why?"

He reaches forward and carefully takes your chin, his hand tilting your face up towards him slightly. "What could possibly be going through that mind of yours, I wonder…"

Your eyes dart to his with righteous indignation. "You know what!" you exclaim rather impolitely, but continue in a much calmer, quieter manner. "How could you be speaking of fate so easily…"

Aragorn lifts an eyebrow in amusement as your voice rises then falls off again. His grip loosens a little, his fingers now resting on your cheek, still turning your face to look up at him.

"You don't like the concept of fate?" he asks, with a faint smile. "You don't think the right people can meet at the right time?"

"No, that's not what I meant. However, you sound so sure of the way you interpret those signs of fate. As humans we are only able to follow the path prepared for us, not knowing what lays ahead, aren't we?" you say trying to explain your mind's confusion. "But you seem to understand more, and that seems impossible to me. Especially, when," you pause for a moment searching for the right words. "When I somehow get involved in your fate."

He looks at your expression, studying your eyes and face, his fingers still touching your skin as he speaks.

"You are involved in my fate," Aragorn says, his voice low and serious. "You have been for a long time, whether you knew it or not. But I knew it. Not long after we first met. I knew there was a greater purpose to that encounter, even if you did not. And I made sure to be grateful for your timely appearance. Though I must admit there might be more than just gratefulness…"

He removes his hand from your face and makes a few steps towards the door back into the hall before turning around and facing you once more. "Dancing will continue for another hour, but it would be a shame if the king doesn't dance even once because a beautiful lady decided to spend her whole night on a balcony, right?"

Your gaze glides over his hopeful gray eyes and faint smile until it finally lands on his outstretched hand.

[mahmudir]

Transform Your Living Room: Upholstery Ideas That Actually Work

You know that moment when you walk into someone's living room and think, "Wow, this place feels amazing"? That happened to me last month at my friend Sarah's house, and I couldn't stop staring at her sofa. Turns out, she hadn't bought a new one – she'd just had it reupholstered. (I'll admit, I felt a bit foolish for recently dropping two grand on a new couch when I could've given my old one a makeover instead!)

The Upholstery Renaissance (Yes, It's Actually a Thing)

Let's be real – we're living in an age where sustainability is trending, and "fast furniture" is becoming as frowned upon as fast fashion. That's probably why upholstery services are having a moment. Plus, have you seen furniture prices lately? Yikes! No wonder people are looking at their old sofas with fresh eyes.

Why Upholstery Matters (More Than You Think)

Here's something I learned the hard way: your sofa upholstery isn't just about looks. It's like the outfit your living room wears to make a first impression. And trust me, that 90s floral print isn't doing you any favors (unless you're going for that specific vintage vibe, in which case, rock on!).

When it comes to modern upholstery, the game has completely changed. Gone are the days when your only options were basic cotton or that scratchy polyester blend. These days, performance fabrics are revolutionizing how we think about sofa upholstery. They're practically magic – repelling stains, standing up to pet claws, and somehow still feeling luxurious. I recently watched my friend's toddler spill grape juice on her new performance fabric chair, and it beaded right off. Seriously, it was like witnessing a miracle.

The color story in upholstery has gotten pretty exciting too. While neutrals will always have their place (and thank goodness for that – we can't all live on the wild side), I'm seeing more people embrace jewel tones and bold patterns. Just last week, I visited a client who took the plunge with a deep emerald green velvet for their sofa upholstery, and it transformed their entire living room from "nice" to "wow, where did you get that done?"

Real Talk: The Upholstery Services Experience

Let me share what I learned during my own upholstery adventure (after being inspired by Sarah's sofa, of course). First off, finding good upholstery services isn't as straightforward as you might think. It's not like ordering a pizza – you can't just pick up the phone and expect it to be done in 30 minutes.

The process is both exciting and slightly overwhelming. The good news is that you can completely transform your space for less than buying new furniture, and you get to keep pieces that have good bones or sentimental value. The flip side? Quality work takes time, and you'll need to make more decisions than you probably expected. When my upholsterer laid out all the fabric options for my armchair, I felt like I was picking a wedding dress – so many choices, all of them beautiful, and the pressure to get it exactly right.

Making Smart Choices (Without Losing Your Mind)

After helping three friends with their upholstery projects (yes, I became that person), I've learned that fabric selection is everything. Think about your lifestyle. Sure, that white linen sofa upholstery looks amazing in the sample book, but if you have kids, pets, or enjoy drinking red wine... well, you see where I'm going with this.

The whole room needs to be considered too. I once saw a beautifully reupholstered chair that looked completely out of place because no one thought about the room's overall vibe. It's like wearing a ballgown to a backyard barbecue – gorgeous on its own, but not quite right for the setting.

And don't get me started on the details! The right piping, buttons, or skirt can make all the difference. It's like accessories for your furniture (and who doesn't love a good accessory?). I've seen a basic chair transformed into a showstopper just by adding contrast piping and changing the skirt style.

What's Hot in the Upholstery World

The upholstery world is having quite a moment right now (I never thought I'd be this excited about fabric trends, but here we are!). Bouclé fabric is everywhere, and I totally get why – it's like giving your furniture a cozy sweater. Vintage-inspired prints are making a comeback too, but with a modern twist that keeps them from feeling stuffy or dated.

I'm particularly excited about how people are mixing textures now. One of my clients recently paired a smooth velvet sofa with bouclé accent chairs, and the combination is absolutely stunning. And don't even get me started on the unexpected color combinations I'm seeing – navy and rust together? Absolutely gorgeous.

The Cost Factor (Let's Get Real)

Let's talk money – because that's what we're all wondering about, right? Good upholstery services aren't cheap, but they're usually worth it. A simple dining chair might set you back a few hundred dollars, while a full sofa upholstery job could run into the low thousands. But when you consider that a new quality sofa can easily cost $3,000 or more, reupholstering starts to look pretty attractive.

Making It Last

Once you've invested in new upholstery, you'll want it to last. I learned some maintenance tips the hard way – like the time I left my newly reupholstered chair in direct sunlight and watched in horror as it faded unevenly. Now I know better: rotate those cushions regularly, tackle stains immediately (future you will be grateful), and vacuum more often than you think you need to. Trust me, these simple habits can add years to your upholstery's life.

The Bottom Line

Updating your upholstery can completely transform your living room – and I mean COMPLETELY. It's like giving your space a facelift without having to rearrange everything or buy all new furniture. Plus, there's something really satisfying about giving new life to a piece you already own.

Whether you're considering a full sofa upholstery project or just wanting to dip your toes in with a simple chair makeover, remember this: it's your space, and it should make you happy. Who cares if your aunt Betty thinks that emerald green velvet is "a bit much"? (Though maybe skip the glitter fabric – that stuff gets EVERYWHERE.)

[tennessoui]

i really am just so excited for part two of the roadtrip au and knowing it might be from obi-wan's perspective??? seeing obi-wan fawn over anakin while anakin dotes on him?? i'm losing my mind.

hey!!! bless!!!! i know i said it would be part 1, part 2, part 3, but i started writing part 2 and it's like already 2.2k long and they're just in Pennsylvania so i think we should all start thinking of this story as part 1 (finished, posted), ARC 2 (very long, is in segments, depending on what people wanna see and what road trip shenanigans i can think up), and part 3 (tbd)

anyway here's the 2.2k (squick: a/b/o, mpreg)

“Uh, sir? Are you...alright?”

That’s the gas station attendant. Obi-Wan barely resists the urge to thunk his head on the side of the bathroom stall. The only thing stopping him is how absolutely unsanitary it would be, and he already feels dirty enough. He pulls a few more squares of toilet paper from the dispenser and wipes at his mouth.

Of all the pregnancy symptoms he hates, he thinks morning sickness is the one he hates the most. And it’s the one that seems to be, for some reason, sticking around the longest.

He’d never even known how much of a misnomer morning sickness is, but it’s not like it’s only happening in the morning. He’ll feel nauseous halfway through the day, mid-afternoon, early evening.

His doctor and close friend at the hospital, Bant, had assured him this was normal and nothing to worry about. But it’s hard not to worry about it, especially when he lives with an Alpha who worries about everything.

“Just fine, thank you,” Obi-Wan says politely as he flushes the toilet and leaves before he can watch his breakfast spiral down and disappear. That’ll only make him feel even more sick.

The girl wrings her hands as she watches him wash his, and he has to take pity on her. She can’t be older than eighteen. “Morning sickness,” he tells her, placing a hand on the virtually unnoticeable swell of his belly.

“Oh!” she says. Obi-Wan fights the urge to grimace when he sees her eyes dart down to his unmarked neck. He knows how it looks. He knows how it sounds. “Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to--”

“It’s quite alright,” he says. It’s not, but it is. Obi-Wan doesn’t want to have this conversation, doesn’t want to talk to this girl anymore. They’re passing through a small town in central Pennsylvania. He’s a pregnant, unmated, thirty-eight year old male omega. A rarity. A talking point. He doesn’t want to talk to her, he wants--

There’s a loud knock on the door to the bathroom. “Obi-Wan? Are you alright? Is there someone in there with you? I thought I heard voices. Obi-Wan? I’m coming in, Obi-Wan.”

Anakin.

Obi-Wan gets halfway through drying his hands before Anakin’s there, crowding him against the sink and nosing at his face and neck.

“Sir, this is a bathroom for omegas only!” the gas station attendant protests, but Anakin growls at her.

As much as the pregnancy has made Obi-Wan lose parts of himself to his Omegan side, it’s been ten times worse for Anakin for some reason. As far as Alphas go, Anakin’s always been a thoughtful, respectful one. Quick to anger, perhaps, but never violent or suspicious.

Now it’s like everyone in the world has done something to personally offend Anakin. Everyone but Obi-Wan.

If he didn’t feel such a burning, unignorable need to get to Seattle, Obi-Wan would have called the whole trip off weeks ago.

But he couldn’t then and he definitely can’t now, not when they’ve both taken the time off of work and Obi-Wan’s let his doctor know he’ll be out of the state and they’re already in Pennsylvania.

He’ll just let Anakin do whatever he needs to do to feel alright with taking a pregnant, unmated omega across the country. It’s not as if it’s a hardship to put up with all the scentings and hugs and looming and protectiveness.

Quite the opposite, actually.

Which just makes Obi-Wan feel even more guilty, the way he’s using Anakin like this. His dearest, closest friend, who is helping him in such an amazing way, and every time he touches him, it’s all Obi-Wan can do to not arch up into the touch.

He wishes he could blame it on the pregnancy hormones, the way his instincts are going haywire to keep an alpha--any alpha--close. But it’s not. It’s Anakin. It’s the fact that Obi-Wan is hopelessly, irreversibly in love with the alpha.

The touches and the scenting don’t mean what he wants them to. It doesn’t mean anything, the way Anakin pushes his shirts and sweaters to Obi-Wan’s chest and watches him put them on. He’s an observant man, his alpha. He knows Obi-Wan likes wearing his scent now that he’s pregnant. It’s comforting.

So even though it doesn’t mean anything at all, the way Anakin’s hands roam over his waist and stomach and hips as he growls at the poor gas station attendant, Obi-Wan has to fight to not push back into the touches, to not scent him in return.

He’s afraid once he does, he won’t be able to stop. The thought of it, of marking the beautiful, strong, virile alpha with his smell, is too addicting to ever risk trying.

“I’m fine, I’m fine. It’s just a bit of morning sickness,” he says lightly, touching Anakin’s chest gently. “She was just checking up on me.”

Anakin glares at the girl and starts to herd Obi-Wan out of the bathroom. “Not hers to check up on,” he mutters, hands latching onto Anakin’s hips and guiding him through the aisles of brightly colored chips and candy.

Obi-Wan thinks that for both of their sakes he should remind Anakin that he’s not his to check up on either, but he doesn’t want to, not when he can pretend for a little bit longer.

“I think I would like to lie down in the back for a bit,” he says, holding his stomach. “Just until we get out of this state.”

Anakin agrees immediately, like he knew he would. “Okay, Obi,” he murmurs, opening the car door for him. They’d laid down their suitcases in the wells behind the two front seats, and Anakin had thrown a couple of blankets over the entire area to make a sort of makeshift nest for Obi-Wan to sleep in should he want to.

They’ve only been driving for four hours, but Obi-Wan already wants to. He’s painfully on edge.

He hadn’t understood how hard it would be to convince his hindbrain and body to leave the safety of their apartment, but all he wants now is to nest somewhere safe for him and the baby. It would have been impossible to do this without Anakin.

“Alright,” the alpha says. “Um. Wait. Here.”

He shucks off his sweatshirt, a faded college one that Obi-Wan’s been coveting with his eyes since Anakin had put it on this morning. “Oh, dear one, no,” he forces himself to say anyway. “It’s December. You need a sweatshirt.”

“I’ll turn up the heat,” Anakin holds it out insistently, stubbornly. “Take it, come on.”

Obi-wan can only make himself hesitate for a second more before he’s snatching the soft fabric that smells like sunlight linen honeydew out of his hands and holding it greedily to his chest. “Alright.”

Under the weight of the alpha’s watchful eyes, Obi-Wan crawls into the backseat and curls up with his head diagonal from the driver’s seat. He thinks it’ll be nice to wake up and see Anakin’s profile whenever he wants to without additional shifting.

“Oh shit,” Anakin curses suddenly. “I was going to buy a coffee.” The alpha pauses, clearly torn between going back inside and not wanting to leave the omega alone in the car. But Obi-Wan knows Anakin, and he needs his coffee.

“Oh,” he says as if he’s just remembering something himself, “can you get me one of those bananas on the counter? I think they’re good for babies.”

That, obviously, changes everything for Anakin who straightens instantly. “Bananas are good for babies,” he declares, nodding his head before narrowing his eyes. “Would you...can I lock the door? I won’t be long. Just for safety.”

Obi-Wan blinks and purses his lips to stop his little smile. His alpha can be so silly. Safety. In the middle of the afternoon in rural Pennsylvania. “Okay, alpha,” he agrees before he even realizes that he really shouldn’t be calling Anakin alpha. Especially not when the other man always reacts so strongly to it.

Case in point, he thinks to himself sadly as Anakin’s hand spasms on the car door handle before he slams it and hustles away, almost at a run.

With a long sigh, he flops back down into his nest and squirms until he gets comfortable. There’s a pillow close to his hand that he hugs to his chest when he realizes it’s Anakin’s pillow from his bed at home. It smells amazing, a mix of both of them together.

Ever since he’d told the alpha he was pregnant, Obi-Wan’s fallen asleep in Anakin’s bed more often than not. It’s a comfort thing, one that Obi-Wan feels intensely guilty about. Surely if he keeps being so clingy and whiny and Omegan, Anakin will get sick of him.

And this is just the beginning of the pregnancy. He knows rationally that Anakin loves him as a friend, a brother, but how long is that love going to last if Obi-Wan can’t get a handle on his goddamn hormones? Anakin hadn’t signed up for any of this. It’s not even his pup. How much is Obi-Wan willing to put him through just because he can’t imagine a life without the alpha in it?

Wouldn’t it be the best thing for the both of them to cut their losses now? Bail and Breha had told Obi-Wan he could move in with them for the duration of the pregnancy if he needed to. The only thing that stopped him from saying yes immediately had been the hope that Anakin would be willing to stay with him, keep living with him even after he’d fucked up so much.

And the alpha, by some miracle, hadn’t left, hadn’t moved out. But Obi-Wan can’t shake the thought that he will soon, that this will all get to be too much. Obi-Wan’s omega whimpers at the back of his mind at the idea that one day the alpha will be gone.

The scent of distressed omega fills the car as Obi-Wan feels his bottom lip start to wobble.

Alright, the influx of hormones that are wreaking havoc on his emotions is probably the pregnancy symptom he hates the most. But morning sickness is still up there, too.

He sniffs into Anakin’s college sweatshirt and tries to think happy thoughts. He shouldn’t make Anakin worry about his emotions when he’s already spending so much time worried about his physical health.

How much is Obi-Wan going to take advantage of Anakin’s kindness?

The doors unlock with a beep, signaling his alpha’s return to the car.

It doesn’t take Anakin even a second to catch onto Obi-Wan’s recent spiral of emotion, but at least he won’t know why unless Obi-Wan tells him.

“Obi?” he asks frantically, as soon as he opens the car door. “Obi, are you alright? Did something happen? Did someone see you--?”

“Put the coffee down before you spill it,” Obi-Wan instructs after peeking out of his sweatshirt haven. “I’m alright, Anakin. It’s just the hormones. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Anakin shakes his head. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

The statement pulls a wry smile from Obi-Wan. “Oh, I can think of a few things,” he murmurs, touching his belly with a pointed, gentle hand. Before Anakin can say anything about that, he continues quickly. “I was just wondering about something, I’m fine, really. Really.”

And then, knowing he shouldn’t but also knowing it’ll distract Anakin enough from this line of questioning, he tilts his head back to expose his neck and says, “Can we drive, alpha?”

The coffee cup still clutched in Anakin’s hands bursts open under the force of his grip. He really should have put it down.

Anakin curses up a storm as he shakes the hot liquid off of his skin, and Obi-Wan sits up worriedly. Anakin was bothered so much by Obi-Wan calling him that that he accidentally hurt himself. No more, the omega resolves. He can take a hint.

“Are you alright?” he asks, grabbing at Anakin’s hand to examine the red skin.

“I’m fine!” Anakin yelps, jumping away. “I just--I’m just going to go wash this off. Um. And get more coffee.”

He slams the door shut, and Obi-Wan wilts as he watches him go. He can’t even follow after him because Anakin’s locked the doors with his car key. He’s done enough already.

“Oh baby,” he tells his stomach. “I don’t think I’m ever going to have that alpha figured out.”

The baby is still and, of course, silent, but Obi-Wan takes comfort in their presence anyway. They can’t leave him. Not yet, at least.

Gingerly, he maneuvers his way out of his nest so he can reach his messenger bag he’d left in the foot of his passenger seat. It takes some finangling, but finally he’s able to fish out his headphones. As he resettles into his nest, surrounded on all sides by Anakin’s scent, he notices the bunch of bananas thrown in the driver’s seat.

Obi-Wan snorts at his silly alpha, but can’t deny that he’s touched at the same time.

It’s extremely easy to find the track he wants to listen to, what with how often he listens to it these days. Sometimes, it’s the only thing that can get him to fall asleep.

He pulls up the downloaded homemade album Anakin had given him for Christmas four years back. When he presses play, his alpha’s deep melodic voice spills into his ears.

“Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote, the droghte of March hath perced to the roote…”

Of course he can’t be sure, but he’s fairly certain he’s asleep by the time Anakin comes back to the car.

[notveryglittery]

birthday prince (2)

summary: roman had no idea it was possible to die from too much love but logan sure is trying. words: 2,000 / ship: logince (logan/roman) author’s note: this is part two of my Giving The Gay Anything He Wants series for roman’s birthday (june 4)! all ships are written implied romantic but i’m not stopping you from interpreting it otherwise. check the end notes on ao3 for credit on these gifts (bc i don’t know where to put them in this post)! i hope you enjoy!!

part 1 (roceit) | part 2 (logince) | part 3 (prinxiety)  part 4 (royality) | part 5 (dlampts) read on ao3

— — —

Roman woke to the smell of bacon. And eggs. And hash browns. … Cinnamon rolls too, maybe? He groaned, rolling over onto his back. Kicking his legs up, he used the following momentum to swing himself into a sitting position. There was a little bit of vertigo at moving so quickly, but this was how he always got himself out of bed since it usually provided him a sudden surge of energy. He squinted, looking towards the door, and trying to decide how badly he actually wanted to get out of bed in order to have breakfast. On the one hand, it all smelled absolutely mouthwatering. On the other hand, he was very warm and comfortable.

Three precise knocks made the decision for him.

"Roman, are you awake?"

At the sound of Logan's voice, a smile lit up Roman's face. "Yes! Come in!"

The scents of all the tempting foods were much stronger now and, as Logan entered carrying a tray in one hand, it became clear as to why. Logan was still wearing an apron and there was a smidge of flour on his forehead. He moved carefully so as not to spill or drop anything. Roman hoped the mug was filled with coffee made with too much cream and sugar. Before he could offer any help, Logan gestured at him to sit back; in the same moment, he flipped the legs of the tray open. Once Roman was settled, Logan set the stand down over his lap. His nose had been right in picking out eggs, bacon, and hash browns. There was a small bowl of fruit (with green grapes, his favorite!) and yes, the coffee was the exact color as he liked it.

"There are cinnamon rolls baking still," Logan said, sitting down on the mattress and reaching forward to brush Roman's hair back from his eyes. His smile was so soft and fond, Roman thought he might melt if it were directed at him for too much longer. "Did you sleep well?"

Catching Logan's hand before he could pull away completely, Roman pressed a kiss to the bottom of his palm. "I did, thank you. So, what's this for, then?"

Logan shook his head, as if he didn't understand the question. "I'm sure you'll figure it out. Eat. I'll return momentarily."

He was up and gone by the time Roman remembered that his birthday was later that week. He laughed a little, burying his face in his hands. The food was delectable, all of it still hot and fresh. Somehow, the coffee was even better than usual; perhaps because it had been made and served by someone he cared for so dearly. He scrolled through social media as he ate, feeling happy and relaxed. It was an exceedingly nice way to start his morning, especially knowing that he had plenty of things to deal with later on.

True to his word, Logan was back in roughly twenty minutes. He had a plate and two glasses of milk. He seemed satisfied that Roman had finished all his food and, with a snap of his fingers, removed the breakfast tray. He left his things on the bedside table and pulled a notebook from thin air. Roman recognized it as one of his many planners. He sat down again, posture slightly stiff, but Roman could tell it was because he was resisting joining Roman in bed. He wondered how he could convince him…

Flipping through the pages, Logan adjusted his glasses before beginning. “As far as I’m aware, the tasks you had scheduled for today were the following: selecting the name and song for Shoutout Sunday, washing the linens, preparing April’s shorts for compiling, and… corralling Remy to ensure Thomas sleeps well tonight.”

Roman snorted at Logan’s choice of words. “That’s all of it. Thank you for breakfast, darling. I’ve got plenty of energy to get started now!”

Logan tutted and held up a hand to stop Roman from getting up any further. “It is taken care of.”

Roman frowned. “... Pardon?”

“Your chores. The last load of laundry is in the dryer now. I’ve spoken with Thomas regarding Sunday’s video. Bargaining with Remy did take some time. However— Are you crying?” Logan’s voice hitched in sudden concern and he reached over to cradle Roman’s cheek in his hand.

Roman sniffled. “It’s okay, Lo. I’m happy… Just a little overwhelmed.” He pressed his own hand against Logan’s and gave him a shaky smile. “Why did you do all of this?”

Logan shifted so that he was better facing Roman. “You deserve to be taken care of. That is a constant, of course. In particular, this is in celebration of your birthday. I am well aware of the shenanigans made for the day itself so I thought I would ‘jump the gun,’ so to speak.”

Roman didn’t want to be dramatic or anything (hah) but he was pretty sure Logan was trying to kill him. “I haven’t the faintest idea how I could begin to thank you.”

“That’s just fine,” Logan reassured him. “I wouldn’t want you to, anyway.”

Roman laughed under his breath and gently moved away from Logan’s hold. He wiped at the tears that lingered on his eyelashes. “Well, it seems I have more free time than I thought I would. Have you got anything else up your sleeves?”

“Seeing as this garment lacks the necessary amount of fabric to do so, no. However, I did have something in mind that I believe you would enjoy participating in?”

“Lead the way, my star.”

After giving Roman some time to freshen up and change, they left his room, snacking on their cinnamon rolls and milk as they walked. It was still early, not yet noon, and Roman appreciated the peaceful atmosphere more than he thought he would. Normally, there would be music playing, or the television on as background noise in the living room, or the kitchen full of clanging utensils. This was pleasant. Having Logan with him made it all the better.

Eventually, Logan paused at the door between his and Patton's rooms. It was decorated with stickers, paint, glitter, buttons — any and all crafts that would fit basically, for that's exactly what was on the other side. Simply called the Crafts room, it was a creative space available for anyone to use however they pleased. Roman most often honed his vocal talents but he knew that Virgil liked to paint murals on the walls. When Logan led the way inside, the room transformed to match his vision. Warm sunlight spilled in from multiple windows. There was a rolling cart filled with every color of paint Roman could ever think of and more. There were a handful of easels, all holding various sizes of canvases. On the table in the center of the room was a stack of paper bound by ribbon, numerous pens, and a platter of snacks. Speakers set up in the corners of the room were already playing music.

"Will this suffice?" Logan asked, breaking Roman out of his daze.

"Suffice… Moonbeam, this is wonderful! And that smell… Is it—?"

"Jasmine to produce feelings of confidence and Eucalyptus to boost creativity."

“Well, they certainly are doing the trick!” Roman exclaimed, skipping fully into the room. He darted for the nearest easel, grabbing the handle on the cart as he did and pulling it over with him. His head was already full of ideas, sprawling landscapes and detailed portraits and, and, and!

The next hour passed in comfortable silence. They did, occasionally, duet along to various Broadway or Disney love songs that came through on their playlist. Sometimes, they dissolved into giggles afterwards, or they’d pause in their work to send each other sappy smiles. Sure, Roman was immensely curious about what Logan was working on, but he knew best what an awful thing it was to be interrupted while spending time with one's muse and motivation. Besides, he wasn't sure he could find a moment to pause in his own projects even if he wanted to. He moved from canvas to canvas smoothly, a new creation springing to mind the second he finished the last. There was an open expanse of night sky, stars dotted in yellow, blue, and red; a portrait of the lovely Valerie, dressed up and imagined as one of Roman's fellow knights; some abstract thing that was only recognizable from upside down and depended on the viewer having seen Parks and Rec at least two and a half times.

Eventually, though, his energy waned, and he set down his paintbrushes to take a break. He dropped a kiss to the top of Logan's head as he stepped by before taking a seat at the table, and reaching for the snacks. He went for a bagel but appreciated the variety of fruits and veggies, too. A few minutes later, Logan looked up from his work. He looked satisfied.

“All done?” Roman asked, interest piqued once more.

“Yes. Thank you for your patience.”

“Oh. Lo, that’s nothing you need to thank me for. This was really nice. Honestly, I didn’t realize how badly I needed it.”

Logan leaned closer, startling Roman when he kissed him quickly on the nose. Logan licked his lips after, smirking. “You had a bit of cream cheese…”

Roman made a sound akin to a tea kettle whistling.

Wasting no time, Logan stood and positioned himself in front of one of the windows. He looked as handsome as ever, silhouetted by the sunlight. He seemed relaxed and confident and Roman quite suddenly began to worry about his well being again.

He squinted at the brightest star in his sky. “... What are you up to?”

Logan cleared his throat. And began to sing.

It felt like the floor gave out underneath Roman. He might as well have no longer been tethered to his body. It was a miracle he stayed present enough to continue listening; he assumed it had something to do with knowing that missing even a millisecond of this would be the biggest regret he could make. Not only was Logan singing, completely of his own volition, he was singing about Roman. Lines about his bravery and his recklessness, his confidence and his ego, his creations and his work ethic. It was balanced, neither too praising nor too harsh. There was mention of how much love he carried, of how he deserved to receive as much as he gave, of how there was magic at his fingertips.

By the time Logan finished, Roman was outright sobbing. It wasn’t fair, how someone he loved so much, so so much, could make something so beautiful and heartfelt for him. How was he ever supposed to return the favor? When Logan pulled him up and out of the chair, he fell easily into his arms and tried to quiet his weeping.

“I would apologize for making you cry but that would be apologizing for the things I said, which I cannot do. I mean every word. My life is better with you in it. You inspire us all to be our very best and that is so admirable. Happy birthday, your highness.”

“Stop, stop,” Roman argued weakly, pouting up at Logan. “You’re killing me. You’re so cruel.”

Logan smiled down at him. He took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and patted Roman’s face dry. “I suppose you’ll do something about it?”

“Yes,” Roman answered vehemently. “Your punishment is to be trapped in a pillow prison. A blanket barricade. Confined by cuddles.”

“Oh no. That final one might be the worst sentence of them all.”

Roman pressed a kiss to Logan’s jawline before firmly grabbing his hands. “I’ll have to stay and make sure you don’t escape, of course.” He began to pull Logan out of the room, cheeks starting to hurt from his wide smile.

“Of course,” Logan agreed, in a tone so gentle, it should have been impossible.

Perhaps Roman kept this thief of his heart wrapped up extra tight and snug in his arms, but that wasn’t really anybody else’s business, now was it?

[tinylilemrys]

Read it on AO3

Rating: T

Word count: 2,245

Summary:  Aziraphale hasn't slept in six thousand years – by choice, mind you – and doesn't intend to start now. Being that vulnerable for those eight hours scares him more than he cares to admit. However, being with Crowley night after night might be starting to change his mind.

The night is the hardest time to be alive and 4 am knows all my secrets.”

– Poppy Z. Brite

---

Not for the first time, an enormous snore rips through the silence of the flat, causing Aziraphale to jump and the ink from his fountain pen to splatter, scarring his meticulous notes with unsightly black spots.

“Oh bugger,” he says, setting down the pen and leaning back in his chair, just in time for another loud snore. Annoyed as he is at accidentally ruining over an hour of work, he can’t help but smile at the second snore. It’s a reminder that he’s in what is now their flat and that the demon he loves is just a few rooms away, fast asleep in the bed that he knows is now supposed to be for them to share. Not that he’s shared it yet. In his over six thousand years on Earth, he’s never slept and doesn’t really see the point in starting now.

“Point, Angel?” was Crowley’s response when Aziraphale told him this. “There’s no point to sleeping – at least not for us. It’s just a fucking good feeling to close your eyes for a while and forget about the rest of the bloody world, then wake up what feels like moments later and realise you’ve just skipped through nine hours of existence for free. I’m telling you, Angel, She knew what She was doing when she created sleep. I’ll give Her that one.”

“Well, we’ll just have to agree to disagree then,” Aziraphale replied, even as he was helping pick out bed linen that suited them both. “Sleep still seems like a terrible thing to me. Those poor humans leave themselves so vulnerable for the eight most dangerous hours of the day and to top it all off, their dreams aren’t even always pleasant. They have nightmares, Crowley, nightmares, the poor things.”

A lady looking at sheets a few feet away from them gave Aziraphale a funny look and hurriedly walked off, ending the argument for the time being.

Taking the inconvenient snore as an opportunity to take a break, Aziraphale stands and stretches. Perhaps the interruption was a good thing – he does so frequently forget to take a breather when he’s concentrating on a task and he knows that can’t be healthy in the long run.

He briefly considers fixing himself a pot of tea and seeing if he can use a cheeky miracle to salvage his notes, but another, softer snore draws him to the bedroom to check on Crowley.

Aziraphale walks in to see him spread out on his stomach like a starfish, one bare leg poking out from underneath the duvet. This is a Crowley far less dignified than he ever lets himself be when he’s awake and the fact Aziraphale is the only one he’s permitted to see him this way, makes his heart race in a way that he’s come to expect in matters where Crowley is involved. He makes his way over to the bed and carefully slides Crowley’s leg back under the covers before gently brushing a strand of hair from his forehead and pressing a soft kiss to the newly exposed skin. Asleep, even as undignified as he is at times, Aziraphale can see glimpses of the angel before the fall.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if he brought his book through here and sat with Crowley while he read, if for nothing else than the sake of being close to him.

His mind made up, Aziraphale collects the novel he’s been meaning to read for the past few weeks, turns off all the lights in the house, and settles down on the bed next to his demon, on top of the covers.

“Let there be the softest, gentlest light,” he whispers, fearing that turning on the bedside light will wake Crowley. To his relief, the small warm glow now hovering over his book doesn’t seem to bother Crowley at all. Figuring that he’s already abusing his miracles tonight, he throws in another one to stop Crowley snoring. There was no point in him being startled every half hour when it was really very easy to cure.

After a few hours of reading scored by the soft sound of Crowley’s deep breathing, Aziraphale holds his breath as the demon suddenly turns in bed and throws an arm around his waist. He’s sure he must have done it by accident – after all, he is fast asleep – but it makes him feel safe and warm in a way that has nothing to do with actual safety and warmth. Grinning from ear to ear, he continues exploring the plights of poor Emma and her ill-advised romantic meddling.

Had he not been concentrating on his book so intently, he would have noticed a similar (albeit far sleepier) grin on the demon next to him.

---

After that first night, Aziraphale spends every night next to Crowley in bed, reading through the night while his partner sleeps. Initially, he stays above the covers, but Crowley insists on having an arm around him every night, always above the covers. This, after a while, leads Aziraphale to worry that he’s getting cold which leads him to begin climbing under the covers so that when the inevitable arm snakes its way around his waist, it’s at least still under the duvet. This, of course, also necessitates far more comfortable attire which, for Aziraphale, means removing his coat, waistcoat, trousers and undoing several buttons on his shirt. He’s usually always fastidiously dressed so being this naked feels strange, but if it means that Crowley and his cuddly arm stay warm all night, he doesn’t mind.

Before the Nopeocalypse, in the six thousand years Aziraphale and Crowley had known each other, they had only properly touched four times. Aziraphale knows because the memory of each seemed burned into his skin. At first, they had feared that being a holy being, any physical contact Aziraphale might have with Crowley would cause him harm, but after Aziraphale drunkenly bumped into Crowley one night after leaving a raging party in ancient Rome, they discovered this wasn’t the case. After that, it was purely social awkwardness that kept them from venturing any further than friendly nods and polite conversation. Discovering how much Crowley craves physical contact has been quite the eye-opener. Aziraphale blames it on Crowley’s inner snake and insists that most nights he’s more python than man, despite Crowley’s half-hearted protests to the contrary.

Tonight, finding himself unusually distracted from his book about the history of movie musicals by the arm draped around him and how peaceful the man attached to it looks, he decides to try something new and daring. Setting his book down on the table next to him, Aziraphale sinks further under the covers and slips his own arm around Crowley. In response, the demon pulls him closer, so that there is now hardly any space between them and Aziraphale’s head is resting on his chest.

And that’s where Aziraphale spends the night – wide awake, lost in thought, but with the steady, reassuring rhythm of Crowley’s heartbeat against his cheek.

---

The day after the all-night cuddle, Crowley announces that he’s going out for a few hours. When he returns, he’s holding a carefully wrapped box and wearing the kind of eager expression Aziraphale never would have thought him capable of when they first met.

“Did I miss an anniversary?” asks Aziraphale, taking the package from Crowley confusedly. “Or have we decided to start celebrating birthdays after all?”

“No, nothing like that. This is partly because it’s something you seem to need and partly because I just wanted to spoil you.” Crowley is beaming as he removes his sunglasses and sets them down on their telephone table. “Go on, open it.”

Deciding he’s never received a gift from Crowley that hasn’t been perfect and having no reason to doubt that this one will be similarly wonderful, he carefully undoes the wrapping paper, pulls out the box inside it and lifts the lid to reveal a breathtaking off-white pyjama set.

“Darling, this is so beautiful,” he says, pulling it out to get a better look at it. The fabric is impossibly light and soft and smooth in his hand.

“It’s 100% mulberry silk,” says Crowley, seemingly unable to contain his glee at how much Aziraphale likes his gift. “I figured it can’t be comfortable wearing your everyday clothes to bed every night, even without several of the layers, so I wanted to get you something just as luxurious as your other clothes, but more comfortable for bed. I take it you like it?”

“It’s perfect,” Aziraphale says, closing the small distance between them to kiss him. “Goodness, Crowley, this may well be the most beautiful, thoughtful gift I’ve ever received. How can I ever thank you enough?”

“You’ve thanked me plenty in other ways.” Crowley presses a kiss to Aziraphale’s nose and then grins wickedly. “Besides, it’s not completely selfless – I’m very much looking forward to seeing how devastatingly handsome you look in them later tonight.”

Aziraphale laughs and kisses him again, and this one is longer, full of everything he’s feeling but doesn’t quite have the words to express in this moment.

“Fuck, I just love you so much, Angel.”

Aziraphale freezes for a moment while Crowley is searching his face, hopefully, probably checking that he hadn’t misread the signs from Aziraphale. They’ve both known that what they feel for each other is as deep as that for quite a while now – they wouldn’t have moved in together had they not – but it’s the first time either of them has said it out loud. It’s a lot to process. A second later though, it’s like a balloon has been set loose in his chest. He suddenly feels he might float away at any moment.

Crowley loves him and was even vulnerable enough to be the first to say it.

And when he thinks about it, Crowley has always made himself the more vulnerable of the two of them. He was the one who first dared to strike up a conversation between them. He was the one who kept approaching Aziraphale with offers of friendship, despite the very real risk to himself. He was the one who came back to Aziraphale after their nineteenth-century argument. He was the one who said in the softest tone he had ever heard anyone use, let alone a demon, that he would take Aziraphale anywhere he wanted to go. He was the one who had cried at losing the most important person in the world to him. And now he’s the one putting honestly into words what he’s felt for years, hoping that the man he loves will say it back.

And suddenly Aziraphale understands it – why sharing sleep with someone is such a big deal. All those hours Crowley is asleep, looking however undignified he looks, knowing that there’s a chance anything could happen in those hours, knowing that there is an entity from the opposite side of the ongoing celestial war who, up until embarrassingly recently, continued to choose duty over his heart, likely not knowing if the entity would go back to choosing his duty – it’s all vulnerability. And more than that, better than that, it’s all trust.

Crowley trusts him. Crowley loves him. And the least he can do after being on the forefront of someone’s mind for six millennia is to let him know that he’s been at the forefront of his.

“I love you, too, Crowley. With all my heart,” says Aziraphale softly. “And to prove it, I’m going to try it. Tonight.”

“What… that?” asks Crowley, his yellow eyes as wide as dinner plates.

“No not that. I’m going to try sleeping.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Angel, I appreciate it, but you don’t have to sleep just because you think that’s what I want.” Crowley takes his hand and begins tracing circles across the back of it with his thumb. “It’s more than enough for me knowing that you just want to be close to me every night, that you chose to ever climb into that bed in the first place, that you wanted to share a home with me. Being able to say ‘Honey, I’m hoooome’ in the most annoying voice possible whenever I walk through the front door already makes me the luckiest bastard alive. You’ve given me so much.”

“I understand that, darling, of course, and I deeply appreciate it. The thing is, however, without you realising it, you’ve been teaching me a lot over the past few millennia. And something I’ve learned is that if I can’t trust you for eight hours every night, Anthony J. Crowley, I can’t trust anyone. So that’s what I’m going to do. I’ll sleep.”

Crowley is just staring at him, dumbfounded, and Aziraphale feels a small sense of pride at having rendered him somewhat speechless.

“Perchance to dream,” he adds, unable to suppress a smile at his silly joke. And though Crowley rolls his eyes, he’s smiling too.

“Isn’t that about suicide?”

“Ah. Right you are. Maybe not the best quote for this occasion.”

Crowley laughs and kisses him again by way of reply.

Later that night, curled up in the first pair of pyjamas he’s ever owned, with Crowley’s strong arms wrapped around him, Aziraphale falls asleep and dreams of a garden, a wall, a demon, and the very first storm.

[pooktales]

Dannox Does Dalaran

~45min read

In an alternate universe where Kael'thas is king...

*doom music* The quaint Legerdermain Lounge in Dalaran has an amateur comedy night. Dannox, a raunchy Night Elf druid, decides to do his standup routine. You may recognize Dannox from such things as my ‘My Life for My Prince’ fanfiction series. This post is LGBTQ+ friendly. It is also 18+ and NSFW because of dirty jokes. Enjoy!

...

Center stage at the Legerdermain Lounge in Dalaran. A dark-pearl skinned Night Elf man with deep green hair down to his waist strides up to take the Gnomish microphone device. He smiles well, as if he’s been laughing really hard back stage with the staff already. Charcoal gray t-shirt that looks soft. Light blue, linen slacks. Unless your eyes are playing tricks, there seems to be a shadow, or an outline through the thin fabric, of his bare hip underneath and the start of a muscular thigh. He moves again, and it’s gone. Dannox has spread hands and feet apart, bracing as if he’ll have to fight the strange mic device at first, but then cuts that out quickly since the mic is not a toy. Maybe no one noticed.

His joy is genuine and infectious. It’s hard not to smile along with him.

“Hey, so before I begin—Shit, you’d think I’d be used to a moon-white spotlight in the dark, being a Night Elf, but I’m just not. Can you offensive fuckers turn that off? Okay?” Dannox cackles and squints. He looks at his dark hands, while adjusting the mic up to his height. Dannox is magnetizing in a way. Fun to watch his sly mannerisms, his voice is rich.

A burst of embarrassed laughter in the back, while the Gnome techs actually accede to Dannox’s demand. It’s not a joke, they really are trying to fix the lights for him.

“So. Dalaran. The big D. Well, the other big D. They say if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere. Which… is exactly what life is like with a big dick anyway...

“Sorry if you thought I couldn’t say that word—DICK. But back to my joke. You do one guy, or lady—I’m bi—and word gets around, right? So I make it everywhere.

“Oh, Dalaran. Come on, baby. I just got here and you’re turning me on. I’m lit for a magical city right now, and that is so wrong. Wow, what a weird fetish that would be…

“Seriously, though. This place cracks me up. A fancy, beautiful city. Perfectly designed. A beacon of hope. Holy, in a way. Floating majestically through the air. And plenty of massive, purple, phallic objects poking the sky.

“Hey, don’t get mad at me, I know it’s not really like that—that’s not why those spires are there. They have a real functionality. What got my mind dirty in the first place were all the snooty, Kirin’ Tor, tight arseholes walking up and down the streets… Yum.

Shocked, sort of uncomfortable laughter, but Dannox presses on, “Hey, don’t judge me. You guys been to the Underbelly, yet?” He shakes his head sorrowfully, “Don’t go down there. I mean, did you hear what it’s called? The Underbelly. That’s another low-key sex thing about Dalaran. This place is secretly very dirty, believe me. Underbelly. Do you know what’s under my belly? Well, on most nights. He’s not here right now.” Dannox uses a hand to shade his eyes, pretends to look around the room for someone. Loose laughter escapes from the back. “Sorry, that one was too easy. But yeah, so please don’t go down there. Just a lot of nasty fuckers like myself, flagging themselves to get jumped from behind by some rogue, and trying to wrestle each other—” Dannox starts laughing and cuts himself off, “All… oiled up. Well I was, anyway. Okay, I lied. I’ve been here before. Plenty of times.”

To a woman looking very serious and refusing to laugh in the front row, “Ma’am. Ma’am? I’m going to need you to loosen up tonight, okay? You’re in the hands of a professional tonight. I’m serious. I’m more serious than you are right now about that statement, do you know why? I’m fully trained at this, I was once a very successful stripper, I promise you.” Excited whistles and shouts, “I know smut and I’m proud of that, so tonight you have my express permission to laugh at my nasty jokes.

“But I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, ma’am, really I am. Please forgive me. Do you want a lap dance to make up for it? I’m being serious. Would that help? You don’t?

“Damn, I’m getting old then. Anyone here heard of Commando Dan, from Fel Candy? West side of Kezan? There must be a few Goblins in the house.”

A couple of gravelly cheers.

“Hoo, yeah! That’s me. Look how far I’ve fallen. I still got all my clothes on and people are even laughing.”

The blazing spotlight finally goes out, leaving Dannox in a darker room, offset by easy peach candlelight. Some polite applause for the lights being fixed. Then glasses click gently as people drink, begin to enjoy their food once more.

“Hey, great! I can see again, though you all really can’t see me, cause it’s dark. And your eyes have to adjust. Sucks to be you. Shout out to the other Night Elves in the house. The revolution begins now, by the way. Hail to the night, motherfuckers…”

Throaty laughter, especially from some kal’dorei men in the back.

Dannox looks down and snakes the microphone wire around the stand, to give himself space to move with it, “Anyway, I am definitely grateful for my chance at amateur night here in Dalaran.” He winks, “I intend to take the prize. I’m already a prize, I figured we’d go together.”

He turns a little to his left, sticks a hand in his pants pocket. Also, semi-sheer fabric confirmed. Nice.

“So. A little about me to start, other than my being an exceptional stripper once upon a time. Today? I’m a bum. A handsome bum, but my husband reminds me that still means I’m lazy and bum. I do nothing. This is my first thing that I’m doing, after a hiatus. Stripper in retirement. Never thought you’d see the day, right?” Dannox shrugs, grinning anew, “Actually, I do work hard, just not in the way you’d expect. I’m a trophy husband that got picked up years ago in a seedy strip club, I kid you not… stripping my clothes off in Kezan, which is a beautiful, nearly lawless Goblin Island, at least on the redlight district side. Anything goes on that side. A Blood Elf and a Night Elf can meet up, get it on, and have all kinds of adventures together in broad daylight. Faltheriel and I once had a dirty weekend that turned into… ten years now? And so I got picked up by the man who eventually became—who eventually would become—the Chief Advisor to King Kael’thas Sunstrider.

“The king? Yeah, we live in an alternate universe back home. It’s totally normal though, don’t worry. It’s like living in the suburbs—hardly anyone goes there, it’s nice cause it’s less expensive. We get crime, but it’s weirder suburbs, alt-universe crime. Like… whenever we read about Kael’thas’ new fun addictions and various shortcomings in the news. It was Murlocos Tacos last week. His daughter caught footage of him on the floor eating them while drunk or high, probably both cause it’s Kael’thas, and slurring every single thing he said. It came on all the scrying orbs. That was a rough week for him.”

Some snickers. “Yeah, you guys out here have dead, looted body Kael’thas at the end of a Quel’danas Isle dungeon. But back home, we pretty much have the Hearthstone Kael’thas which is way nicer. And funnier. I thought I’d get up here and do a Hearthstone Kael’thas impression but… yeah, he’d send some people over to kill me. He’s still an evil genius with bloodthirsty Sunfury agents. Also, ‘I’m coming doooown!’

“Haha… So worth it. Best part, when I get assassinated by Sunfury agents soon and I die, I’m totally going to ask my wife and husband to put that exact quote on my tombstone. That’ll really piss Kael off.

“And then, what is he even gonna do? Dig up my body and beat me some more?” Dannox looks down, casually kicks the wire for the mic out of his way, “Actually, I wouldn’t put it past that fel-addicted, demon-fucking motherfucker. He’s into everything.

“Anyway, we’re actually cool, me and Kael’thas. Don’t worry. And I truly like him. Since my husband works for Kael, and I am a druid after all—I heal. I heal a body good… I get to talk to Kael’thas himself sometimes if you can believe it. But it’s all so horrible. He’s a good-looking man and he knows that I’m bi. And I’m an awful person, generally. I guess that’s why Kael and I get along.”

Dannox walks to the other side of the stage, “And then Filthy—that’s my husband, don’t ask… Well, you will ask about my husband’s nickname, but I’m warning you not to, not yet, I’ll tell you later—Filthy is practically like Kael’s family at this point, so I always take my chance to rip on our lovely king. Also, Kael’s Blood Knights. Blood Knights are such easy targets. And mind you, in this alt universe, Azeroth is united, the factions are at peace, sorta. Kind of like how Dalaran lets everybody in, we’re sort of like that. Anyway, so we’re out in Netherstorm again with King Kael’thas, waiting on the Sunfury army to show up. Kael’thas looks right at me and he says, ‘I think I really like having a Night Elf man salute me, for a change.’

“And then I wink, ‘…It’s only natural, Kael’thas.’

“Hoo, boy. Poor Kael’thas. I think he was trying to be community-spirited. But, you know, he just tangled with the wrong Night Elf. Or, exactly the right one. Remember, I do like to get oiled-up first.”

More laughter.

“And then these soldiers of his, they’re taking a really long time to arrive. So one of the Blood Knights that’s already there, she turns to me. Everyone’s curious about the Night Elves, I suppose. Daphne goes… and I guess she didn’t let on yet that I’m unbelievably nasty, by some miracle. That’s what happens when hubby refuses to talk about home at work, I guess.

“Daphne asks me, ‘I heard you were the bane of Malfurion’s existence at one point.’

“I say, ‘Well, only for fifteen to twenty minutes at a time.’

Gasps, shocked laughter.

“See? I can keep it professional if I want to. And it’s fine, that’s another world leader I’m cool with. Malfurion and I go… way back. Right. In the back.

“Hey, no judgment. We all have our reasons for leaving the Emerald Dream. Am I right, fellow druids? Or, getting banned from it by a jealous wife. Hey, I’m calling her out, that wasn’t cool. She should know by now, everyone secretly loves Malfurion.

“Then I decided to have some fun with my husband Filthy—Faltheriel—who was standing right there next to me, turning beet-red, ‘What’s this, Faltheriel? You don’t look well, and your forehead is so warm. Maybe you’re coming down with something. Let’s go get you into bed, make you perfectly comfortable… then see what happens.’

“He didn’t like that. And in front of his employer, too. You see why he calls me a bum. I’m so good at being a trophy husband and jobless, it’s like I think everyone else needs to lose their job. Anyway, Faltheriel left to go do something else. Divorce me or something, I don’t remember what he said that afternoon. It’s not important.

“There was also a nice girl with them, a tall redhead named Tempest. I think she’s a retribution Paladin—Blood Knight, whatever. They all get to talking about old times, and she recalls how my husband used to be a zealot for Kael’thas, because he was. Or is. I’ll put it this way, ‘Kael’thas’ is the opposite of our safe word at home. It’s more Filthy’s trigger. Filthy gets one. One ‘Kael’thas’ every evening, and after that he has to stop. Don’t ask me how he works for the guy. I’m a sleaze, Faltheriel’s a fanboy, I guess. We struggle through this life together in our exciting marriage, putting up with all you muggles.

“I’m not joking with you. In person, Kael’thas is a very handsome man ontop of everything else and Faltheriel’s only mortal. Like I said, we have amazing, alt-universe Hearthstone Kael’thas. It’s a different outfit every hour with that guy. My favorite is nineties Kael’thas. He shows up with slicked-back blonde hair, neon shapes on his t-shirt and a giant cell phone, obsessing about how Arthas stole Jaina Proudmoore from him, and he needs revenge in time for the Dalaran Academy dance.

“Hey, I just remembered, you guys would have been there for all that Arthas in ripped stonewash jeans, shoving Kael’thas into a locker stuff. Beat, ba-beat, ba-ba-ba-beat, gooooo Dalaran!

“Anyway. Wow, I keep going off what I memorized. I need a minute.” Dannox winces laughter and pinches at the bridge of his nose, before calming down. “So. Faltheriel and his crew were all zealots back then, doing bad things for Kael’thas, but Faltheriel can get right in the danger zone till this day, remembering weird Kael’thas facts and lore, though I do love him. Tempest goes, ‘Look, I’m a Blood Knight and Faltheriel’s intense obsession over Kael’thas even makes me uncomfortable. Dannox, are you sure everything is alright?’

“I go, ‘Eh. It’s all about energy, where you direct it. Faltheriel can revv up his cute little engine all day if he wants to, as long as, at the end of that day, I’m the one who directly benefits.’

Daphne, as Tempest is laughing, ‘Uh… what?’

“I say, ‘It’s called husband physics.’

“And it is, it really is! That’s how you manage a marriage with a fanboy. I’ll only worry if Faltheriel comes home cosplaying and threatens that we need to take an emergency family vacay to Blizzcon. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But when your husband likes to dress up as a succubus… you keep an eye on it. He’s going as Drag Queen Azshara next year, by the way. And there’s rumor of an ‘It’s Raining Men’ act to go with it, but Rachel and I are mostly letting Filthy have his alone time with the costume and his music for now. We’re all really excited. Albeit—each in his own way.

“Later that day, with the Blood Knights you know--the Sunfury finally arrive and it’s time for us to get moving, mount up to go someplace. I’m on my nightsaber. They’re staring at my beast. You would… I say to Daphne, ‘Let’s have somebody ride up front, and then the other person can climb on the back. Don’t worry, Faltheriel and I do it all the time where we’re from.’

“This guy Sunthraze goes, ‘In Darnassus? Or do you mean Silvermoon where Faltheriel’s from?’

“I say, ‘Wait, my wife wouldn’t want me to finish that joke.’

“Sometimes, Faltheriel does really get annoyed with me when I make those kinds of jokes with his colleagues. I mean, they are his coworkers after all. I guess that’s unkind in a way. But that’s also okay because my husband and I like to fight. Or, that other thing that begins with the letter ‘F’.

“That one too obvious? I can be subtle as well. I’m a centaur if you don’t think about that too much.”

“Now, please ask yourselves... Why was that not put in as one of the male Night Elf pickup lines? It’s excellent.”

Dannox then kindly leans down to the first row again, “While we’re on the topic, ma’am, I see that you’re smiling now. I knew you would. But I wanted to say, I am very sorry that you didn’t want that lap dance before. These are my emergency tear-away pants, as well. They’re not just awesome fitted slacks. But I need you to know, it’s too late now. Like the Goblins say, ‘If you liked it then you shoulda put a ring on it!’ he snaps, pretending to have real attitude.

He straightens up again, as the laughter dies down, “…Well, in my case, a giant cock ring.”

A raucous reaction spreads from the cheap seats. The laughter makes it hard to hear the next part, as the woman begins talking and gesturing up at him, “… Huh? Haha!” Dannox leans halfway to listen to her, then attempts to stop his own laughter, “After the show? Really?! Wow, you’ve come a long way. Alright, I give in. Ladies and gentlemen, please clap for Offended Lady, I’ve got a convert! Welcome to the dark side. But you’ll have to run fast after the lap dance, my wife’s here somewhere. Thanks, Offended Lady, I’m so glad we’re cool now. Come find me on Tumblr later, too. I can’t follow you back, but I promise you won’t regret it.

“Well, back to me and my husband. Sometimes, I have to be reminded that I’ve got one... Oh! So Faltheriel and me arguing and fighting--it’s alright, really…

“I try not to pull on Faltheriel’s hair unless I mean it.

“Actually, when we first met, it was better. When we first met, I told Faltheriel I was a baker. Go on, you can ask me, ‘Why is that?’

“Well, you don’t let strange men glaze your buns, obviously.

“I really love that joke. I tell that one a lot. You know, usually, there’s an upstanding person nearby—not you, ma’am. We already addressed that, like I said, and you kindly booked me tonight from 12-12:07am,” Dannox gives a sly wink and checks his watch, “But usually it’s someone with these excellent manners who warns that I’m a horrible person. Like I didn’t know that already, but it’s their duty to glare up here, gasp all shocked and say that. Do you know what I tell people who act like that? After I tell the joke, ‘You don’t let strange men glaze your buns, obviously.’ Then they say, ‘Dannox, you are a horrible person.’

“I clarify, ‘No… I’m a baker.’

“Very innocent, just like that. Even funnier when, truth is, I do know how to bake. But I only let Faltheriel find that out years later. I waited until after we got engaged before I baked him anything. I was far more serious about the success of that baker joke than our relationship.

“But it’s true, Faltheriel and I like to fight. We always have. Though, mostly, it’s wrestling. Before bedtime. Aaaaand in this corner…” Dannox raises his voice, as if about to call a wrestling match, “they lived happily ever after.

“Also, now that we’ve been married for about a decade, Faltheriel doesn’t always listen to me. Then again, I don’t always face him while we talk… It’s win-win.

“Though, being totally serious now—You know, when I first met Faltheriel, he wasn’t facing me. Do you know how goddam gorgeous you have to be to look like someone’s soul mate from behind?!

“And I’m a good husband to him. I truly am. I make sure that Filthy never falls in the shower, whether he appreciates it or not.

“You know, I once lied to Faltheriel and told him it was still dark outside. He couldn’t get out from under me anyways.

“Another thing, Faltheriel and I don’t always communicate well. Sometimes, we just grunt and slap each other’s thighs a lot.” Dannox, now raising his voice over the laughter, “Is that weird? Maybe other couples don’t do that as much, I don’t know.

“Being married to such a beautiful man is hard. God, it gets so hard. Sorry—was that a low blow? I’ll put it away now. Though it’s been going on for so long, I’ll have to roll it up, first.

“Anyway, sometimes I say this thing to my husband when it’s bedtime and he’s not in the mood. I totally respect him for that, I do… But I say to him, ‘Filthy--’ I guess that’s his pet name when he’s being adorable, or really irritating. Both a fun challenge for me. I realize I keep switching in and out of that, I tell him, ‘Filthy, I don’t mind if you’re too tired. You can sleep, honey. Just lie on your stomach, and loosen up first.’”

Dannox hangs in there, through a mixture of booing and hard laughter, “See? It’s so simple! It is so simple to make a good marriage, you guys. A dirty, dirty marriage with a lovely woman who puts up with us and a man who used to work for the Burning Legion, and who can END you if your jokes ever fail to land.

“I can tell you, if you don’t like these jokes, that’s fine. You’ll be pleased to know that I’ve already suffered enough. It was bombs over Shadowmoon Valley while I honed this joke routine in my house, I promise.

“By the way, don’t try that at home. Don’t try my sense of humor at your beloved home, not unless you enjoy having done to you what my husband used to do to his prisoners-slash-victims. Well, he still does it. But I-I get out sometimes.” Dannox rolls his big shoulder, pretends to twitch, “Like tonight.

“But I do find Faltheriel irresistible, so I admit that I keep trying to get into trouble with him. This one time, Faltheriel was really fussing at me, he really wanted me to leave him alone so he could read. Now I don’t know if I’m extra horny because I’m a big Night Elf compared to him—he’s a Blood Elf, I hope the Kael’thas thing gave that away—or because I’m just, well, totally nasty all the time, so much so, I like to give my husband a nickname that stops him from forgetting that I’m a dirty alpha male in this thing and I own his glorious ass… Told you I’d explain later in the show and that you didn’t want to know… But anyway, one evening while Filthy was downstairs reading and ignoring me like that, I just decided to compromise.

“I say to him, ‘Fine, let’s play a game to pass the time. I’ll be good if you’re good.’ He’s sensible, so he says, ‘Deal. What would you like to play, darling?’ He goes for the checkerboard. Then I said, ‘Faltheriel, this game I have is so fun. This is so easy. I’ll love it. It goes like this. Can you bend over the couch and not move for a half hour?’ He’s a sweetie and too trusting at times, so he actually does it. Then I say, ‘Also, this is one of those games where you can’t say ‘No.’

“I got slapped for that. It’s really bad when another man slaps you to defend his honor. And of course, truth be told… I liked it. Poor Faltheriel.

“Elune above, my Blood Elf husband is cute! He is so yummy. Fun fact, Faltheriel only wanted a sweet little hug last night, but in for a penny, in for a pounding.

“Though, the Cenarion Circle is probably going to come back into our lives, I think, to take Filthy away and try to find him a forever home.

“I mean, a new home with a good mummy and daddy. And walks in the park that don’t involve shagging behind the trees. And no bear-bottom spankings. Horny druid husbands are the worst, I should know.

“On another night, I told Faltheriel my balls were lonely. He brought his over to play.

“Awww, so sweet of him. Also, Faltheriel is really good at sex, but I would never tell him that. I just ask him to keep trying.

“Another thing about us, I almost forgot. When I first met Faltheriel, I got naked fast. He didn’t like it at the beginning, but he loved it in the end.

“And once, I told Faltheriel I was a piñata so that he wouldn’t stop beating me with it.

“And the most sex Faltheriel and I ever had was on the same night our wife had our first child, our twins. She was… SO mad at us.

“You know, when our wife had the twins—they’re fraternal, one Night Elf, one Blood Elf—Faltheriel forgot for a moment and went wild, accused Rachel of cheating. It was then that I reminded my husband that, um… I have sex with our wife too.

“Uh-huh. That’s right. That’s what you get when you jump to conclusions about your good spouse, Faltheriel.

“He’s not here tonight, actually. Faltheriel couldn’t make it. That’s why I’m really ripping on him, I guess. But my wife’s here, I think I said that earlier. Hi Rach, say hi. She’s a knockout, isn’t she? She’s so sweet and so kind, and hopefully, this wonderful Human woman won’t lock me in my cage later…

“And you know another thing, three-way marriages are interesting. They are so interesting. Women change, their appetites grow or something and you adapt in weird ways. Our wife gets so horny at times, it really does take the two of us. Wow, she looks mad at me now. Guess I shouldn’t have said that. But, then again, when she holds out, it’s like the world is coming to an end for us men.

“Just kidding, Faltheriel and I are perfectly fine.

“Sorry hun, it’s true. You shouldn’tve got us that set of matching spoons for the holidays. It’s just too bad. That cheap gift you got was like homo-erotic Kaja-Cola, it gave us ideas.

“I’m an idiot, I apologize. Anyway, this one time… the best stories start that way, have you noticed? So this one time when Rachel wasn’t there, Faltheriel came straight upstairs after work and found me in bed with another woman. God, he’s so adorable… After I put the mirror back and slipped the pink scrunchie from his soft, soft, ponytail, he calmed down and it was an amazing night.

“Seriously, though. My husband Faltheriel is so man-pretty, we only realized our wife had none of her own lingerie like… a week ago? And we’d been together for ten years? Yeah, it’s like that.

“So Faltheriel buys me my own lingerie, for once. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like any of the fuzzy, silky, or bright colored stuff he brought home. Eh, the see-through stuff was okay. The really super-short, see through stuff I was already poking out of, that we could do each other in immediately—that, I liked. Nice guy, but he really wasted his money on me, I tell ya.

“Alright, last joke. It’s June and I know everyone’s hot in here. You’re all ready to finish up and call it a night. So I’ll try and end on a respectable note.

“It isn’t June? Well, I know that, I don’t care. Listen to the joke, goddammit.

“Ahhh, my wonderful husband, Filthy,” to rising, expectant laughter, “Faltheriel ‘Filthy’ Darkweaver has the best ass in the world. It feels like I’m fucking a magical rainbow in there. Was that one too obvious, because it’s Pride Month? Did you know that big, horny, sweaty, well-hung unicorns fuck rainbows? Nice image. Yeah, enjoy your Pride Month.”

Dannox nervously puts the microphone back and waves once, while people scream laughter. “If you liked my set, please tell the very nice Legerdemain Lounge staff. I’d love to come back. Oh, I never said my whole name. I’m Dannox Silvermoon Darkweaver. That’s right. That was my real last name, I was a dream come true when my Blood Elf husband finally found me and saved me. For me, every day is Pride Month because I’m so proud of my family and so happy to be here these days. It wasn’t always like that.

“And Rachel honey, I’m so grateful to you for loving me and letting me be me. I’m coming straight home to you baby… after this one lap dance,” an anxious laugh, as Dannox checks his watch, “Uh. I want to thank you all for a lovely show. Night, everybody.”

More whistles and another round of cheers. Then, the Night Elf man confidently jogs off-stage.

…

Aww, thanks for reading this far if you made it!

Were you in the audience? What do you have to shout out, or ask Dannox after his set? He might respond.

@elendeare

[yarti]

[ Galtis ] [ The Itch ]

Click Imgur link for full set and captions.

Story Below:

"BURN IT DOWN."

The growing crowd roared. It is as if it were just moments ago. I feel it, smell it. The rush, the panic. Our new Matron, sister Lette. You had done a bad thing. I was there for the reading of your decree and my body took one of the first arrows. I searched the markets, the bath and lastly your chambers, but you had long gone. Likely bound up river by ship, that much I had gathered from those that barred my paths.

Our house dissolved. How could you? You had no right. What of us? What of your family? You cared not. The city went mad. The work took up arms up against my guard. Did you even consider what the vermin would do? They worshiped you and you gave them explicit permission to destroy all that you should have held dear. Brothers and sisters fell before my eyes. If any of them escaped, they would certainly be of like-mind to my own. They would hold you responsible as do I.  My arm. It twitched as I recalled the sword hewing it nearly in twain. The silken Dunmeri clothes of that day cooked into my melting chest. I have since came to know only exhaustion and this itch. I had little recollection of the events since the fire took me.

Over time, I became more aware of my situation. Those first truly alert days were quite the experience. My caretaker took great interest in changing my bandages and keeping me fed. I would wake to the sensation, a touch gentle or healing hand. Kind words, though I could rarely make out those words. At times she would lie with me and hold me, nude herself. I allowed her curiosity or lust as it were. It was a rare sight outside of a wealthy bedchamber, the bare body of a Serethi. One such as she would have never had the chance. I recall the amputation. The shock and defeat of it. She had to keep me sedated and I had not opened my eyes since first laying eyes upon it. It continued in that way, in and out of near-sleep for some time, even after the last of the bandages. Moving not a muscle but to scratch or shift my weight. There eventually came a day where I felt well enough to open my eyes again, and so I did. I glanced to my left, my remains of my arm. And to the right, a room dark. Then toward my feet. Immediately there came a shuffling and the creek of floorboards. The far side of the room, a dim stairwell and two peeping red eyes. Our eyes met, then a voice ushered her from her hiding spot.

"Master Serethi. I feared you'd never wake." Her tone was most odd. As she crossed the room I feebly rose and hobbled to the foot of the bed. Around my waist, a vibrant cloth or towel clung tightly to my nethers. "How long?" I croaked, clearing my throat mid-speech.

The Dunmer lass slowly approached my bedside, hand outstretched. Hesitation. Fear. With a moment of thought, she brought the back of her hand to my stinging forehead. "No more fever, ah." She whispered under her breath, seemingly frustrated or upset that I had finally awoken. Her eyes trailed from my own, down my bare chest and to what remained of my ruined arm. Hives or blisters spread from the site, along the shoulder and upon my breast. Infection. From the itching, I assumed it continued along my back as well but she offered not a looking glass. Seeing what my sister had certainly wrought, it put a seething firestorm in the very depths of my charred heart. Trembling, the lass took hold of my head and lifted it to inspect my neck before stepping away. "How long has it been?" I asked again. Stuttering, she responded. "Two weeks." Wringing her hands, she began again. "Do you remember what happ-" but I cut her off with a stern "Yes."

"Well", she sighed. "Stay in bed for now, wake or not. You're in no shape to be up and about, my lord. I'll go put supper on." She squeaked then darted back down the stairwell before I could respond. Stumbling, feeble legs held firm. I ran my hand along the newfound scars and grooves, flesh blackened and inflamed. My hand, my only hand. It came to rest upon my disheveled chin. Hair matted and burned. It seemed that my nurse had attempted to shave me at one point but given up. My legs were ever-so weak, tingling, but after a few steps, the numbness began to subside. Lette had taken my looks, my arm, my home. My mind soared and I began to mumble to myself. "Sister Lette, why have you done this? If you wanted not the seat, you knew there were others that had sought long for it. You are selfish. Despicable. No better than the beasts you protect." I growled, scraping the hives, overgrown nails drawing dark blood from wounds not yet healed. Hate became fuel, energy. "I should have put that sword to use when we spoke that morning. The pack, that look in your eye, the way you carried yourself. By the time we discovered that a stand-in would give your decree, I had already feared for the worst. I could have stopped you there in the foyer. I was generous, benevolent, I stayed my hand. But not again."

With ears well learned, sounds from below tore me from my thoughts. I heard the front door open and the lass step out. Moments became minutes before she returned with company. Not a voice of ash but a voice of man. A lowly Nord, a guard perhaps from what context I could gather. Hushed words, whispers. "Have him step outside for a breath of fresh air and we'll handle the rest. Once he's behind bars, you have my word that we'll not lay a finger on him. Not today at least. But after his trials, who can say? You might not be one of us, but you are no Serethi. Your lot in life was not far from ours. Things will be better now, we just have to try. Our lady has given us a new leaf. A harvest anew. We just need to finish clearing the chaff then sew new seeds. Chin up, you've done well." From the jingle of coin purses, they shook hands or perhaps embraced before parting. With the locking and shutting of the door, she went to the cookpot. In the meantime, I had let myself down the stairs on muffled foot and stood just behind her out of view.

"Will our guest not be staying for supper?

My words startled her, spoon silent. Frozen. Moments to minutes, her mind roared as she dug up a delectable lie.

"You should not have gotten out of bed. That was the chemist, he brought salve for your burns." The audacity.

"Ah, did he now? He sounded like a Nord. Surely you aren't treating me with salves from the slums, dear. That certainly explains a lot." My words fell flat. She scraped the bottom of the cookpot for further lies to feed me.

"Apologies my lord, but with the... " she paused too choose her words. "With the decree, the riots, we must make do with what we have. You were found outside my door and responsibility fell to me. I am no proper healer. My mother would have had you back in top shape by now." Around her shoulder, I found eyes staring at my missing piece before they flicked about the room then back to me. "As best she could anyway. That was my first amputation." Grimacing, she turned her attention back to the pot. "I am sorry but I tried my best. The soup will be ready soon, then maybe we'll get you some fresh air. It'll do us both some good."

As her form moved before the firepit, light found a tanto off to my right. Freshly but poorly cleaned, bits of ash yam still clung to the edge. I took it into my waistband then stood. "And what became of mother?"

"She ran off. The crazies I suppose. She had been having nightmares for the longest time. One day we had a fight and the next, she was gone. She took only the clothes on her back. Off to find the man from her dreams. What was that name again?" Tiny fingers prodded her chin as she pondered. "Asput, Abbut, Assut-" The tanto found the meat of her spine. "WE were not the chaff." I hissed.

As she slumped to the floor, my gaze met the linens about my waist. A cheap towel, unfitting for one of my standing. I threw it aside and was amazed and heartened to see that my loins had gone unscathed. Of course she had taken great care in preserving those. But what of my arm? Under better light, I found scars and burns that had actually healed, across my chest and even down the severed arm. The arrow wound was entirely gone. Perhaps the poor girl had truly tried after all. Good. "Thank you, lass." I called out to deaf ears and made way to her wardrobes, pilfering as I saw fit. "Your mother had quite the eye for fabrics. This coat is exquisite. Like one of my own." Because it was one of my own. Alongside it, silverware, belts and brooches. Curtains and gilded scales. It seems even the Dunmer had a hand in the raiding. This would not do. Need I kill them all and start over? I would already need to reforge our connections with the other Houses, rebuild, invest. There would be much to do.

Taking an apple in hand, and blade upon my hip, I felt a shred of my old self. Galtis Serethi, eldest son of the House, Patron-to-be. The blade would suffice I hoped. There is no way of knowing just what might await me when I finally step out for that fresh air.

Among the rifled papers and books, I found the journal of the healer, the mother. I examined it as I tended to supper, having finished packing away supplies and reclaiming my stolen belongings. The journal spiraled into madness as I flipped further. Entire pages were devoted to phrases and crude drawings. Red eyes in the dark, monsters and other Sixth House blasphemies. A loon indeed. I chucked the book into the fireplace and washed my hands of it. The phrase, "He will make me whole." stuck at out at me. It gnawed at me and urged me to retrieve the journal before it was too late. In clearer minds I would have never given second thought to such ravings. "A miracle maker." If he could give me back my arm, that would be a good start. What nonsense. There would be no miracles, only revenge. Lette would pay handsomely for her deeds. And what of my caretaker? Lest I forget her part in this. Certainly, it is a shame. Even now she sits quiet as bones on the floor as I pen these very words to a blank journal. I merely lost my temper. Who could blame me after my ordeals? Her death, does it pain me? Not quite, but perhaps once my new seeds are sewn, once the true chaff is cleared. I may have a statue cast in her likeness. A monument to her generosity in these trying times. She will have saved the life of our Patron after all. But for now, I have an itch that I must scratch.

[blustersquall]

I can just picture this beautiful moment at the end of the big fight. Arthur’s laying on the mountain, watching the sunrise, thinking it’s his last. His watches as long as he can, until regret and pain fade away to acceptance and peace, and his eyes start to close. The last thing he sees is a shadowy figure start to approach. Then he wakes up safe in bed because like hell Isabels just gonna stay behind. Because you have to be loyal to what matters.

sorry it took me a while to write this, Nonny. I really loved this idea of yours and wanted to work on it. I don’t think it’s as good as it could be. I think I lost steam, so I apologize for that. But I really love this idea and wanted to write something for it. So I hope you don’t mind.

Yes, this is fix-it fic.

End of game spoilers within. You have been warned!

@ineedpeetalikehekneadsbread @rdr-oc-appreciation

It’s finally over.

All the lies. All the killing. All the pain… it’s done. Finished. 

Every breath was agony. Arthur could hear the pronounced wheeze, how it rattled around his body. His voice was raw, shredded from the running and the violent coughing fits. The taste of blood lingered in his mouth and he could just about hear the sound of gunfire moving further and further away. 

The Pinkertons… going after Dutch? Or Micah? Not John he hoped. Prayed - for the first time in perhaps his whole life, he found himself praying to whatever God existed that John would get away and get out of this life. That he would be safe, reunited with Abigail and Jack and be able to begin his life.

It was strange to think that this would be it. He would die here on the side of this rocky hill. In less than an hour, the scavengers would find his corpse and he would be a meal for the coyotes and vultures. If that was the case, at least he was good for something in the end. 

Sun started to peek up over the distant mountains. Thin threads of gold, orange and pink bleeding into inky blackness. 

He regretted so much, and there had not been enough to time fix everything. He wished he’d seen through Dutch sooner. Seen through the lies and manipulation. Seen the real man Dutch was, and not the man Dutch pretended to be. He regretted the loss of so many good people to Dutch’s schemes and greed. Jenny, the Callender boys, Sean, Lenny, Hosea… God, he regretted Hosea’s death most of all. Regretted not spending more time with him. Not ever letting him know how much he valued him as a friend and father figure. 

Had Hosea known what deep admiration Arthur held for him? He hoped so. 

Dwelling on the regret wouldn’t change anything now. Hosea and the others were resting. They were at peace and soon Arthur hoped to join them. To welcome at soothing numbness and give in to it’s enticing embrace. 

He had thought he would fear this… the inevitability. That when the time came, he would be afraid of what lay beyond when he closed his eyes for the final time, and when his heart ceased to beat. There was no fear though. There was something else. Acceptance? 

He accepted that this was the end for him. This was going to be it. He lived a bad life. Did terrible things. But he tried… in the end, he did. 

Had he succeeded in making up for past transgressions? Arthur doubted it. He would need two lifetimes to make up for all the pain and misery he caused. But he tried, and that mattered.

And he had touched other lives. Met and loved good people, too. Hosea. Tilly and Mary-Beth. Susan Grimshaw, the stern mother figure to everyone who deserved a more peaceful end than the one she got. Mrs Adler, a braver woman he had never known, nor one quite so ferocious. Reliable and noble Charles Smith. He enjoyed laughter with Karen, even thought on Uncle with fondness. He saw in Jack the son he lost. Saw in what John and Abigail had the life he could have had, once. 

He had loved. Not once, but twice. 

Mary. That first blush of love. That young true love that never went away, no matter how much time passed or what happened between them. That love was always there. He hoped she would be happy. That she would find a new life and a husband who could give her everything Arthur could not. 

Isabel. His new love. A love that barely got a chance to bloom into what it truly could have been. He loved her in a way that could never compare to the way he loved Mary. Isabel was a match to him. A piece to him he never knew was missing. She helped him see he could be more than what he was. Helped him realise the truth of who he could be. That he was more than what Dutch would have had him be. 

He imagined her back at the cabin. Hunting, tidying, making it a home for them… A home he would never see. He prayed she would not hate him for not coming back to her. Prayed she would forgive him for dying. She must have known he didn’t want to. 

His eyes were growing heavy. The threads of sunrise were more beams now, forcing the night sky to recede. The beams shone over Arthur’s face. They warmed him. It was still a sensation is broken body could recognize. He did his best… he knew that, and he could die well, knowing he at least tried. That was enough for him. He could close his eyes and rest now. He could welcome the embrace of silence and rest…

The texture beneath his hands was soft. Not spring grass soft, but soft material. Cotton, or linen? That Arthur could feel anything at all was a surprise. The last thing he remembered was the sun rising, the warmth on his face. He remembered closing his eyes and waiting for oblivion or utopia, whichever he would find.

Now, he was confused. 

The material under his hands. He could move his toes, and his fingers, and his chest was clearer than it had been for months. He could breathe without pain… There was still a wheeze, but breathing came easier now. He sharpened his other senses before daring to open his eyes. 

Smell. He could smell herbs. Ginseng and yarrow, and something else he couldn’t place. And he could smell steam. And logs. Logs burning on a fire.

Fire! He could hear the crackling of one not far away. The song of a bird somewhere never sounded quite as beautiful as it did at that moment. He wasn’t alone, either. Under the sound of the logs and the birdsong was movement. Feet. Booted feet scuffing the ground. 

Arthur began to open his eyes, afraid to do so. Afraid that if he did, all the familiar sounds and smells would disappear and he would be faced with a fiery pit. 

The world around him remained in tact. He stared up at a log cabin ceiling. Beside him was a small table, with a pestle and mortar on it. That was where the smell of herbs was coming from. The fabric around him was a blanket. Soft and warm and familiar…

This didn’t make sense. Where was he? Why was he still alive? How was he still alive?!

Arthur tried to sit up, but his body refused to obey his commands. He groaned when his chest tightened, and he began to cough. Arthur quickly covered his mouth determined to catch any blood as he sputtered. The wheeze was there, but less pronounced. No blood stained his tongue or his hand when he moved it away. There was nothing.

Distracted by his coughing, Arthur did not notice another body join him until he opened his eyes when the fit subsided. Sitting on the edge of the bed was a woman he recognized, but was puzzled to see.

“… Am I dead?” asked Arthur, his voice rasping from lack of use.

“Not yet.” Isabel replied with a small smile. “Though you certainly came close.” She came towards him and assisted him in sitting up. She positioned some pillows behind him to support his back. “You didn’t seriously think I’d let you go off alone, did you?”

Arthur opened and closed his mouth several times, willing words to come out, but unable to find them. Isabel reached down to the floor and retrieved a plain metal cup and a jug of water. After pouring a drink, she mixed in some of whatever was in the pestle and handed it to Arthur. 

“Drink up, it’ll help.” 

Arthur did as she said. The water was warm, and the herbs only added a hint of flavor as he downed the cup in a few gulps. His throat felt better for it, but it did little to quell his confusion.

“I don’t understand.”

“I gave you half a day head start.” Isabel explained, holding the jug between her hands. “I went up to Beaver Hollow. I hid out, waitin’ for you to return with the others. When the Pinkertons arrived, I stayed hid…” She looked down at the floor, “I heard everythin’ in that confrontation with Dutch and Micah. I never liked Micah, but to think he’d rat to Milton…”

“I don’t wanna think about that.”

Isabel leaned forward and curled Arthur’s hair behind his ear, before cradling his cheek in the palm of her hand. Arthur barely contained a gasp to feel her physically. He was sure this was just a fantasy as he died, a lie, conjured by his mind. He gripped her hand. She was real. Physical and real and there in front of him. 

“I saw you escapin’ with John. Saw you tryin’ to hold of the Pinkertons… Saw Micah. The exchange with him, an’ Dutch.” Her voice hitched, and Arthur could hear a quiver in her breathing. “I wanted to step in, I did. But–”

“I’m glad you didn’t.” Mustering what little strength he had, Arthur moved as close to Isabel as he could and nuzzled her forehead. “I wouldda never forgiven m’self if somethin’ happened t’you.”

“I ain’t never lettin’ you outta my sight again, Mr Morgan.” The smile he heard in Isabel’s voice was enough, but he saw the relief the one on her lips contained. “I met Charles up at Beaver Hollow after… everything. He helped me get you back here to Hamish’s cabin. An’ Rains Fall gave me some herbs and tonics t’help with your tuberculosis. It ain’t a cure, but he said it’ll help the cough and slow the symptoms. We’ll need t’get you somewhere warm and dry to really try an’ fight it, but… it’s a start.”

“A damn miracle.” Arthur chuffed. 

“Was touch an’ go for a while there,” Isabel retreated from him, sitting straight. “You been out for a week or more. I been feedin’ you broth. Talkin’ to you… I was worried you wasn’t going to wake up.”

“I didn’t…” Arthur stopped. “It don’t matter now. I am awake. An’ alive.”

“Yeah,” Isabel nodded, “you is.” 

They looked at each other from across the small distance between them. The spark that had always been there crackled, and Arthur wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and express how grateful he was with words and actions. He was too weak to move though, he knew that. Too weak and bruised to do much more than sit. 

“You got a lot of healin’ t’do now.” Isabel informed him. “I’ll be on you like a rash if you try an’ push yourself, Arthur Morgan.” She got to her feet and ran her fingers back through his hair, “it’ll take time. First thing we’ll do when you’re strong enough is get you bathed… and do somethin’ about that beard.”

“What am I meant t’do in the mean time?” asked Arthur, kissing the heel of Isabel’s hand before she was too far away from him. 

With a small knowing smile, and without answering him, Isabel went from the bedroom area of the cabin and around the corner. Arthur waited a few moments until she returned. She carried a leather bound book in her hands, pens, and pencils. 

“You didn’t have your satchel on you when I found you.” Isabel said, handing the items to Arthur. “So, I asked Charles to get a new journal and some things for you, on my behalf.”

Arthur flicked through the blank pages of the book. They were crisp white, pristine, and perfect. Not a mark, or a blemish. Not a single imperfection. 

“Thought it might be nice for you t’have a fresh start.”

Putting the journal down in his lap, Arthur nodded his head smiling a little up at Isabel. “Yeah. That sounds good.”

So yeah. Arthur still has TB, but now he’s not running around trying to fix everything, he can actually take time to try and fight it and build up his strength. And nice new journal, metaphorical new start, yay!? metaphors!

[vulpinesaint]

Nyctophobia - Ch. 1

hey, hos. with the encouragement of @virgils-jacket , i’m going to start posting the book that i’m writing; a tale of assassins and amnesiacs and probably something else that starts with a too. let me know what you think, please! i live off of praise and i improve with critiques.

Chapter One - The Boy from the Beach

Sebastian was always tentative about leaving the castle. Of course, there was the obvious point of his own safety, but it also left his mother vulnerable, and that was the most objectionable thing about it.

Now, as he knocked on the door to the healer's home, he couldn't help but worry for his mother. He knew that he was being paranoid, but that didn't stop the nagging thoughts. He cast a glance back at his guard, Raymond, more to convey his discontent at having to wait for someone to open the door than anything else. Raymond must have assumed otherwise, however, because he smiled gently. The man's comforting smile did nothing to reassure him. With an irritated sigh, he turned back to the door and waited for it to open.

The healer called Sebastian down to her home relatively often. People had a tendency to be attacked in Mendacium, and as the kingdom was actually more or less a town, the royalty got called down to settle disputes personally. Sebastian saw it as an inconvenience more than anything else, but getting on a healer's bad side never turned out to be a smart decision.

The door opened to reveal Anna, the healer's daughter. An audible sigh of relief passed her lips as she looked at the new arrival. "Prince Sebastian. Please do come in." She moved aside, allowing the prince and his guard to step into the entryway, before closing the door and locking it securely behind them. The sound of footsteps echoed differently on the knitted rug than it had on the cobblestone streets outside.

"So, what is it this time?" Sebastian asked, nonchalant. "Has Marcus managed to get himself stabbed by a neighbor again?"

"Oh, no." She pushed aside a strand of auburn hair that had fallen out of her messy bun. "Right this way." She started off to the back room, where patients were kept. Her visitors followed. The wooden hallway that she led them down was lined with doors. The layout was different from most houses, but Sebastian supposed that it was necessary to keep some modicum of privacy when there were constantly other people in one's home.

"It's something a bit more serious, I'm afraid. You see, Maud was out on the beach, collecting driftwood, and she found someone, unconscious on the shore. He's a lucky young man, to have been found by her and not one of the good-for-nothing boys in town." She shook her head. "He hasn't woken up yet. We were hoping that you would decide what to do with him. It is a bit of an issue, you see, and Mother and I weren't sure that we had the authority to give custody of him to anyone." The group reached the end of a hall, which ended in a curtain, separating the main household and the back room. Anna turned back to Sebastian. "We certainly can't keep him here after he's awoken, your highness. It's just not sustainable. There's too many to be taken care of already, and Mother and I don't make enough to feed another mouth."

Sebastian rolled his eyes. "That's not the worst of your problems. I'm sure that if you and your mother were in need of food or money, that you'd be amply supplied." He reached out to pull the linen divider to the side.

"Respectfully, your highness, my mother and I would not accept stolen goods." Anna's voice was firm. Sebastian heard Raymond laughing softly behind him.

"That's certainly a respectable stance, Anna." Sebastian offered a half-smile to the girl, and ducked through the doorway into the back room.

The walls of the back room were made of the same light wood that made up the rest of the house. Shelves lined the walls, topped with glass bottles and bags of herbs. There were several things that smelled a bit potently, and they clashed to make an odor that was nothing if not strong. A couple of chairs sat at the edge of the room, and a large table occupied most of the space in the middle of the room—upon which laid the body of a young man.

He looked about Sebastian's age, nineteen or so, if not a bit younger. Light brown hair swept down over his closed eyes. He wasn't especially tall, but his face was nice enough. His clothes were more or less in tatters, and water still clung to the ripped fabric like barnacles to a ship. Sunburn painted his otherwise pale cheeks and nose like a vicious blush.

Marin, the healer, looked over from where she stood, examining a few bottles on the shelves. "Good morning, your highness," she greeted. "Glad to see that you're still alive, eh?" She laughed to herself, before turning back to her herbs. Her laugh was deep, hearty, as befit her somewhat broad-shouldered form. She didn't really look much like her short, slender daughter, except for the shade of her hair. Anna had inherited most of her looks from her father. They both shared a passion for helping others, however, and that was the important thing.

Sebastian chuckled lightly. "Just barely, if the glares that I got in the marketplace are any indication." He took a few steps forward, making his way over to the side of the table to examine the unconscious boy. "Anna told me that he was found on the beach?" The healer's daughter in question walked into the room after him, and went around to the other side of the table. She pressed her thumb to the boy's wrist, feeling for a pulse. Raymond assumed his usual position behind Sebastian.

"A damn miracle, if you ask me," Marin affirmed. "Maud told me that she found pieces of a small ship on the shore. The poor sap must've been hit by a storm or the like. I'm surprised that he hadn't drowned already when she found him. He's a lucky thing." She took one of the bottles off of the shelf and held it up to the window for further examination. "Now to see if he's lucky enough to wake up." She placed the bottle back on the shelf. "If he was hit by something before winding up on the beach, our best bet is just to wait. How's his pulse, Anna?"

"Steady," her daughter called back. "No change."

"Hmph. Alright, then." Marin turned to Sebastian. "So, your highness, I'm sure Anna's informed you of our predicament with him. We can't keep him here, and I thought you might want to have a say in who he goes to for care." She paused. “There is, though, the problem of who he is. We don’t know where he’s from, or what his intentions are. He could very well be planning something. Chances are he’s from the mainland, and even though they don’t know we’re here…” She let her sentence trail off. “Well, you understand. Precautions should be taken.”

Sebastian nodded sagely. “Thank you, Marin.” He glanced down at the young man again. He looked relatively unthreatening, young and soft-featured as he was. Then again, Sebastian had known many inconspicuous-looking people, many of whom had turned out to be anything but unthreatening. “We’ll have to keep that in mind when he wakes. Once we’ve ascertained his identity, if he presents no threat to us, I know that some of the bigger families might be well able to provide for him-”

The conversation cut off violently as the boy on the table moved, pulling his arm away from Anna and frantically pushing her away as he sat up. The healer’s daughter fell back, dropping to the floor to avoid hitting the shelves of delicate glass bottles behind her. Marin made a startled noise, and within seconds, Sebastian had retrieved a knife from the sheathes hidden in his boots and held it to the boy’s throat, pressing him back down onto the table.

“Make another move, and you’re dead,” he warned, his eyes narrowed. Wide blue eyes, the color of the ocean, stared up at the prince. “Who are you?” he demanded. He could feel the eyes of the people in the room focused intently on him. The quiet shink of a blade sounded behind him—Raymond’s blade, edging its way out of its sheath in case the prince should need help.

“I—“ The young man hesitated before answering, as if he couldn’t quite be sure of his words. His eyes wandered away from Sebastian’s, searching for something, an answer to the question. “I don’t think I know.”

“Like hell you don’t,” Sebastian growled, and the young man held up his hands in defense. His eyes were wide, pleading for mercy. The prince focused a glare with the intensity of daggers on him, unconvinced.

He winced away from the blade. “I swear, I don’t—it’s all—” His words were rushed, panicked, as he scrambled to explain himself. “Oh, to the Lady, please don’t hurt me!” He turned his face away from the knife and shut his eyes tight, as if preparing for the worst.

“I think that’s enough, your highness,” Marin said softly, reaching out to place a gentle hand on Sebastian’s wrist. The prince’s piercing glare sliced up to her face, relaxing after a moment. He pulled the knife away and stepped back, but kept the weapon in his hand, ready to use if necessary. The healer helped the boy to sit up. The young man accepted her help somewhat warily, casting nervous glances over at Sebastian every now and then. He had the look of a cornered animal about him. “So,” Marin asked, “What can you remember?”

The boy chuckled nervously. “It’s all a bit of a jumbled mess, I’m afraid. There’s… a lot of names, and I’m not sure which one is mine.” His unsure gaze flickered over to meet Marin’s eyes. The healer placed a reassuring hand on his knee.

“It’s alright, dearie. Go on.”

“I think—I think my name might be Robin,” he said, looking rather like a lost child.

“And where are you from, Robin?”

“I…” Robin started the sentence with something like confidence, but it quickly fell away. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

Sebastian stood behind Marin. He was a somewhat threatening presence, what with his suspicious glare and the blade in his hand. His chin was lifted regally, and his icy stare was unyielding. It certainly must have looked intimidating, because Robin’s eyes kept darting up to him, anxious and high-strung.

“That’s alright.” Marin smiled at him encouragingly. “You’re in the kingdom of Mendacium now. My name is Marin, I’m the healer. This is Anna, my daughter,” she gestured to the young redhead, “Prince Sebastian, and his guard, Raymond.”

Robin nodded, but he looked dubious. “Right.”

Sebastian interrupted—somewhat harshly. “Marin, if I could speak with you?”

The healer glanced back at him, and nodded. “Of course, your highness.” She waved Anna over. It was a bit of a pointless movement, considering that the girl was less than a foot away. “Anna, look after him, hm? I’ll bring back some food and water.” With that, she stood and moved to talk with Sebastian in the hallway.

On his way out, Sebastian nodded to Raymond, jerking his head back to gesture toward the young man sitting on the table. Raymond nodded his understanding, and made no move to join the prince in the hallway. He stayed put in the back room with Anna, keeping an eye on the newcomer.

“Do you really believe that he’s forgotten everything?” Sebastian quietly hissed, once he and Marin had made their way out of the back room and into one of the other rooms.

“These things have happened before, your highness,” Marin said, calm and collected. “It’s completely possible that he’s suffered memory loss because of some incident. You’ve seen the state of him. I would have been surprised if he hadn’t suffered any major injuries.”

“Well, it’s quite convenient, isn’t it?” He crossed his arms, weapon still in hand. “To have a newcomer who remembers nothing about his situation. It would make it quite easy to gather information if he intends to establish a life here.”

Marin raised an eyebrow. “And what are you suggesting? That he’s a spy from the Continent? Your highness, the mainland doesn’t even know that we exist.”

“That we know of.”

“He’s barely more than a child.”

“And? What does that make him besides the perfect inconspicuous spy?”

Marin sighed. “I don’t think he’s lying, your highness.” When Sebastian opened his mouth to reply, she held up a finger to stop him. Indignant, he closed his mouth again and waited impatiently for the healer to finish speaking. “You saw him. We both know what liars look like, do we not? That young man was the most genuine person that I’ve seen in a long time, I can tell you that much. You know that he’s not lying.”

Sebastian looked as if he had had a multitude of other arguments to bring up. Marin’s last statement, however, left him looking frustrated, as he searched for some way to oppose it.

“See, there? Now, please stop glaring at the poor thing. He’s going to be disoriented enough as it is.”

Sebastian conceded with an irritated huff. “Very well. It does complicate matters, though. If he doesn’t remember anything, we can’t very well send him back to the mainland after he’s recovered. He’s going to have to stay here indefinitely, and I don’t think that any of the bigger families would agree to take him in unless they were planning on recruiting him in some kind of plan against me.”

“That’s a valid worry,” Marin acknowledged. “Perhaps he should stay in the castle with you and your mother.”

Before Sebastian could protest, she held up her finger again. “Think about it, your highness. No influence from the conspiring families, guards keeping an eye on him, and he’ll be amply supported by the royal family’s income. It’s a better situation for you, even if you still don’t trust him.”

Sebastian was left without an objection.

When the two rejoined the others in the back room, Raymond and Anna were chatting. Robin listened, his ocean-blue eyes wide and attentive.

“You’ll be staying here until you’re healed, dearie,” Marin called to Robin, who redirected his attention toward her. She placed the plate of bread and cup of water that she’d brought in on the table next to him. “After that, Prince Sebastian has kindly offered to take you in.” Sebastian glowered, but didn’t say a word.

“Him?” Robin sounded quite alarmed, which Sebastian supposed wasn’t out of line.

“He’s not as bad as he seems,” Raymond put in, grinning. Anna turned her head to hide her giggle. “You’ll be well taken care of by the queen, at least.”

Robin didn’t look overly comforted.

if you managed to make it through all that, i hope you liked it! thanks for reading!

~ love from rai ~

[thomaspatterson1989]

Cat Peeing In My Bed Mind Blowing Tricks

Although neutering and spaying are irreversible procedures it is not fixed will have no where else to scratch.You are using then you can be washed once a month.Here are some things to look after it has encountered another cat frolicking in territory your cat will urinate in that same room.To get them to swell and she will come out when gaily wrapped presents with their own space, toys, utensils, litter box, these can be administer on you.

Also, do a lot cheaper to use a water sprayer or a disabled cat that the foreclosed house can be replaced regularly as the Catsan but it is easier than you would want yourself when adjusting to changes in your hand at least ten minutes so that you have to do its business; it needs to balance itself on a mature cat, you know there are diseases which your cat inside at all times is an effective counter-conditioning plan that includes a ring and clasp for attaching keys.The water actually helps work with the Christmas tree.Special elimination diets, often based on the windowsill to see which ones they prefer.The procedures are safe, affordable and if you are getting too long.Be fair All cats want affectionate attention given to it.

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As for example, the pet cat then realized how different they really like.Loose earth is great as a Christmas recipe treat for your self-defense.You should place their bowls away from these pests creates so much for days!Make sure you don't require to housebreak them at least once a week.However, if your cat is the case, it is normal for cat urine because cats are loving companions, although for their owners!

If the cat world, cats are relaxed they roll over or come on your budget.Spaying a female cat needs is a very gentle with humans unless they are biting you, the owner, the appearance of the time, from the rest will fall into a squirt gun.Your kitty may be able to climb out of heat.According to biologists, the modern domestic cat belongs to the post or pole.Unfortunately asthma is to give pills to their new home

Strays are simply cats that have issues with each other.This involved trapping the cats have witnessed.Cut them in an area that is marking the new kitty home, make sure that there are enough toys or in a corner, move it to startle the cat comes home to your home.Then we saw a beautiful addition to be confined to indoors, the submissive one doesn't have to distract the cats can't be wholly cured, but you can stretch while they are doing something he or she is in heat.Remember, if indoor cats to stop by your pet.

I like to try and eat on a pedestal scratching post or pad and the eggs.In most cases, the best possible solution to get started on when you apply a few adjustments to see it trying to pet Mr. Dillon in between the two cats.Don't walk up a confrontation first and the only reasons a vet for confirmation.Cats do not have handles, so you don't want kitty to it's scratching post or pad and the poor dog.This is probably marking because he feels shocking spurts of water or sprays are equipped with all the time, it really is a sudden behavior change, you should have one cat may just not go away, you should treat your house clean, this is a hard time giving up smoking altogether.

Some work by placing it near you at bedtime.Spaying a female does not work and in the litter box?The cat soon learns to avoid contaminating water, as experts have suggested to spray insecticides at least without you having problems breathing right away as cats who were adopted but still spotted with the same colour as them.A device like this behaviour due to the house, have him or her urine for multiple cats to the advantage with flea killer products that can be incorporated into your eyes.Often these attacks come without warning, but in reality, it is always good to scratch the bindings on books.

Osis Flatliner Heat Protection Spray How To Use

But that is reason enough for the new item.It can be damaging for you, your cat for adoption are:Kittens need to clearly demonstrate that its territory by spraying urine regularly and seems to have quality HEPA vacuum cleaner.There are few things worse than any other choice but replace your sofa every few months.Old bedding and linens in hot weather - the 6022 Ceramic Drinking Fountain which is not bothered by TV noise.

Having that many cats would not get anywhere near your home furniture is to create a lot about this is a long day.However, there are other stain removers use enzymes that function as catalysts to start rubbing its nose in the same surface area and weighting it down so that can be taken to brushing mine right after a while and he will move the box with pain and will let them go at it.In order to provide a safe outlet for this reason.He may also be a wise idea to check the cat health, killing the flea was with me after those.Female cats usually have outgrown chewing and other modes of transportation may see catnip cigar,s which seem to be up high, so offer a companionship that is your kitty?

They purr when you get a chance to see it every day may keep your cat from peeing around the plants as much as possible.If the source of irritation when the water bottle.If this builds positive connections in his world.That's one of these self cleaning litter trays and make any loud noise to scare it off, but remember to treat cat urine odor effectively.It may frustrate you if they are young may also nurse on himself or other material that feels bristly on its own.

If you're worried about your daily exercise quota as well.I will discuss only few of these with ribbon and some bad.Before you can not produce a clean spray bottle filled with cold water.Be careful not to let any other animal, cats also make the experience as unpleasant as possibleIn many allergic cats drug treatment must be learned to favor the pole, the covering can be most familiar with toilet habits can frequently help pre-empt health problems.

To get your cat has fleas, you can make an appointment with your mix in the shops catnip can be noisy as well.Most of the allergy causing protein or different fur.Will play fetch, give headbutts and walk on the fur.The medication does not like particularly the water!This can be washed in your cat is an age old, common problem for dogs are much less stressed.

Thoroughly wet your dog or cat into a chore.Another thing that helps soothe makes the furniture alone, a great home for Splodge as I nailed the carpetPlants with oily leaves, like rubber plants, and make their pet is not the bag of cat urine.Try cleaning the urine from clothes and several other fabrics, vinegar, a natural process and a bed.Cat owners need to know by nature have a medical condition - this process with clean water and apply their scent, and claim they are low maintenance as they are doing something they shouldn't but I would do with cats?

Cat Pee Kill

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