#Tree Trimming Orange

[gellymark-blog]

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[foundationsofdecay]

fruits!

[hazyaltcare]

A stimboard for a Daniel LaRusso (Cobra Kai) fuzztive.

🌳 🥋 🚗 / 🌳 🥋 & 🚗 / 🌳 🥋 🚗

Mod Haze (🎮Greyson)

[selwlsa]

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[ziggy-pop]

Industrial Landscape - Pathway

[inf3ct3dd]

HARD WORK.

summary: your grandmas retirement to hawaii finally let you escape the annoying city life. but as it turns out, being a country girl aint easy work. luckily a hot stranger with a truck full of rakes and hoes has taken a liking to you.

gardener abby x black!oc

warnings: I AM A FREAK FOR GARDENER ABBY. little bit of creepy perv behavior, stalking, SEX

wc: 4.6k

authors note: heyyy guys miss u 😈 if anyone gaf i’ll post a part 2 cuz yk how i be… ts long as hell

abby noticed your presence about a week after you had moved.

she had recognized the yellow house, a familiar sight when she went on her drives to clear her head. it was certainly a sight for sore eyes. it was one of only three houses on the block, recognizable by the pale paint and the burnt orange front porch. she often wondered how the owners maintained it, as it was full of plants and trees. a big front yard with wildflowers, a cherry tree by the garage, and flower pots galore. its gorgeous. she also dreamed of what was behind the big door to the backyard, but she could see the faint sight of green trees from the top of it. its a beautiful house, no doubt. and the foliage was always kept perfect. bushes trimmed, lawn mowed, and the trees left the perfect shade for the summer time. she’d love to work there, but it seemed that the owners had it under control.

until you moved in.

after a while, she noticed the lawn becoming slightly overgrown, the bushes losing their shape, and the tree was dropping cherries all over the adorable pink slug bug in the driveway. she had taken that the original owners had moved out, but she had no idea who had replaced them. and clearly, that replacement had no idea how to tend to that house.

and then, she finally caught sight of you.

it was around about 3:30, if she remembered correctly. give or take five minutes. she was on her usual drive, exhausted and irritated from having to tell a woman that her grass would take at least a month to grow back from its butchered state. a bad raccoon problem left the entire yard torn, holes and dead yellow grass everywhere. but she had that off her mind now. she turned on her car stereo, old dad rock silencing her thoughts as she drove. the road you have to take to drive by the house is basically inside the forest. big, green trees on each side, a bumpy gravel road, and big hills. it was always a smooth ride, and the cool breeze from her window was a relief after sweating for 5 hours straight. she always hung her left arm out of the window, so much so that its slightly tanner than the other.

when she finally got to the house, she forgot everything she was thinking about. she even forgot where she was for a moment, making her stop the car.

she finally caught gaze of .. you. bent over the grass, seemingly trying to weed the garden. all she could see of you was your ass, and she wasn’t exactly complaining about the view. the denim shorts you were wearing left absolutely nothing to the imagination. along with the booty shorts, (the name very fitting), you had on a green spaghetti strap that clung to you like a wet suit. you had clearly been out there for a while, sweat pooling on the shirt and a drop sliding down the obvious cleavage in your shirt. she tried so hard to pull away, to leave you alone and not be a creep, but she couldn’t. it was like everything was moving in slow motion as she was eyeing you, and she slowly made her way up to your face after staring at your tits for an inappropriate amount of time. you had thick, black curls, that were pulled up haphazardly into a high ponytail. probably to get it out of your way while you worked. its clear you take advantage of how remote your house is, sitting in the yard looking like that. its unsafe, what if a weird freak comes over and stares at you from his truck?

abby quickly realized that she was the weird freak in question. even with the headphones in your ears, you noticed the presence behind you. you felt the rumbling of the truck through the ground, given the fact you were barefoot. you turned around to look at her, moving a curl out of your eyes and behind your ear. you raised a brow at the truck, confused. you couldn’t make out the person inside, with your glasses resting on the porch. you squinted and saw a rough image of some..blond person? you stared for a while longer, almost considering walking up to them . what’re they looking at? were you that bad at gardening?

abby was frozen the second you turned around. she definitely stared longer than she should have, not even noticing that you were staring as well. you had a confused look on your face as you squinted over at her. it was almost as if you couldn’t see her. when she thought the two of you made eye contact, she instantly started driving away. she tried to pull away slowly, to not be suspicious, but she zoomed down the road like a derby horse.

fuck. did she see me?

almost as soon as you saw the car, it drove away. they must’ve noticed you caught them and got embarrassed. who is that? you had seen a blob that sort of looked like blonde hair, but not much else. it was hard to discern anything from that, so you focused on what you did see. you felt like you had seen the car before, but then again, so many people have black pickup trucks around here. and its not like it had any significant details you’d remember it by, it was just a plain truck. not even a funny bumper sticker or something! its like the exact opposite of your car, the back of your beetle is covered in cute stickers, and you even got heart shaped rims. their car was different. it was so…rugged. whoever it is probably does some sort of hard job, like construction or something.

you shrugged off the whole thing, getting a bit too sweaty for your liking and heading inside. you wondered to yourself if they’d stop by again, maybe you should keep an eye on your window!

while you were pondering over who the mysterious figure in the truck was, the figure herself was freaking out. she couldn’t stop imagining you on that lawn, seeing your confused face and glossy pout as you stared at her. did you even realize someone was looking at you? did you feel weird and scared now? was that the absolute most pervy thing she could’ve done?? and most importantly, would you notice if she did it again? she shook the thought as soon as it came. she was practically berating herself, mumbling “don’t be weird” under her breath. she tried to think about other things. the smell of the trees lining the road. the tree in your front yard. fuck, this is difficult.

eventually, she settled on thinking about your yard. she tried not to focus on the image of you bent over in front of it, and her behind you, and she slowly remembered something. you could not garden for shit. you had missed a bunch of huge strips mowing, the bushes were lopsided, and you were knee deep in weeds. it was obvious you had no idea what you were doing, and she knew it would be so easy to fix it.

“looks like you need some help.” she uttered from behind you on the front yard, and you turned around, puzzled.

“you think so?” you stared up at her, doe eyes nearly punching her in the chest. you were still sweaty, in the same tank top.

“yeah, you look hot. let me cool you off.” and with that, she grabbed at the bottom of the shirt. “can i”-

“abby. cut it out.” she pulled herself out of the daydream, realizing she had stopped her car once again. thankfully, the road was completely empty, so she kept driving. there wasn’t anything worth staring at over here, so she kept it pushing. freak.

she tried to push whatever happened earlier to the back of her mind all day. but its like she got hypnotized. she drove up to her house, and she stupidly expected to see you in her front yard. she went inside, and she wondered what the inside of your house looked like. does she have carpet? what color are her walls?

she quickly shut down the thought of “walls” as an…untasteful image appeared in her head. she took a shower, a near freezing one, and she imagined what type of showers you like. or if you were even a shower person, maybe you liked baths. you’d probably shriek if you stepped into the shower and it was the wrong temperature. she imagined you sitting on the edge of the tub, letting the water run over your fingers until it was justtt right. she imagined you sitting down in the tub, and - nothing. she didn’t imagine anything else.

she cooked herself some pasta for dinner, and sat down on her couch to eat. do you like spaghetti? she started thinking about that scene in the lady and the tramp, except you and her replaced the dogs. once again, she shut that down right after she started. she ate her food and threw her dishes in the sink, almost running to her bedroom. because she was tired. no other reason.

you had gotten a call from your grandma a little while after you went inside. you didn’t necessarily want to talk to anyone right now, but you owed it to her after she basically gave her house to you for free. she talked for what felt like forever, about her new house, the beach, everything. and after a million “really”s and “oh wow”s, she asked you to show her the house.

you showed her around the inside first, panning around the living room, kitchen, and all the rooms, she was very satisfied with how clean you kept the house. its easy to take care of when its just you making the messes, and not an aggravating messy roomate. you felt like a lonely housewife who’s husband left for war.

afterwards, you went out into the backyard. her smiling face turned into a confused grimace within seconds.

“honey, who did the lawn?” she asked, so much concern in her voice you’d assume she just walked in on a crime scene.

“i did! doesn’t it look good?” you chimed, confused on why she sounds like you’ve just killed a man.

“…no. it looks like a hot mess. you missed like, three spots! and lord, what did you do to my bushes?” she let out a loud sigh.

“…i trimmed them?” your pride was wiped off your face, a small frown replacing it.

“i don’t even wanna see the front. you know what, you need to find a gardener. someone. as long as its not you. ill pay for it myself, just…don’t touch anything.”

“at least my plants aren’t dead and the grass is still green.” she mumbled under her breath, hanging up the phone.

where the hell are you gonna find a gardener?

with your spirits crushed, you sat with your computer and your glasses resting on your nose, “how to fix a messed up lawn” reflecting on the glass. r/lawncare said to leave it and let it re-grow before mowing it again, evenly. wait at least a week or two and keep watering it. but don’t touch it.

so, you decided to listen. the gardener hunt could wait till later, you were sleepy. you ended up dozing off on the couch watching chopped, and you had forgotten all about it by the morning.

abby however, can’t forget anything.

after a long, sleepless night, abby was running out of things to distract herself. why was she going borderline insane over some random girl? she’s seen hot girls before. were you a witch or something?

she went through her day with the same irritating questions going through her head. what does she listen to when she drives? what does she order at the coffee shop? whats her name?

she realized by the time she was on her lunch break she needed to answer at least one of her questions. she already knew where you lived, whats the harm in knowing your name?

she had slightly known your grandma, only the fact that they owned the farm that was down the road from the house. and that it was named after their last name. small town advantage, am i right?

after googling the last name, a facebook profile showed up. presumably exactly who she thought it was. she scrolled through pictures of her at the beach, on family vacation, unfunny memes,and a post that made her chuckle for a whole minute.

she knew she was in the right place now.

after scrolling for a while longer, she found exactly what she was looking for: a picture of you and the woman, your arm slung around her shoulder. you looked like you were at a wedding, all dolled up in a green satin dress with your hair down. you were wearing glasses, too.

“so she probably didn’t see me.”

you looked just as gorgeous as yesterday, and the picture was captioned “my beautiful granddaughter r ♥️💐😘🥰” and there was many more of her old lady friends and relatives calling you gorgeous. didn’t she know it.

she typed the name , your name, into facebook yet again, and there you were. the profile picture was of you as a baby, little black curls pulled into two pigtails as you grabbed at the camera with a cheesy smile. albeit, you only had two teeth, but it was definitely a smile. you’ve just always been cute, huh?

she looked down at the bio, and found everything else she needed to know. whos idea was it to make people give facebook all their personal information?

it was obvious this account was just for family, as it was mostly just reposts of your relatives posts and pictures she would deem “family friendly.” but the pictures were mostly of things other than you, like cats and pretty buildings you saw. it gave off the perfect, innocent impression to anyone who’d come across it.

but after finding your facebook, it didn’t take her much longer to find your instagram. and your tiktok. and your tumblr from when you were in highschool? maybe she was digging a little too deep.

your instagram wasn’t that stark of a contrast to your facebook. add a little more cleavage, and a much more active..social life, and it was basically the same. you hadn’t posted much with your friends in a while though, only stills of your plane and you relaxing in your new home. tough time making friends over here?

she snooped even more into your following, and at first there wasn’t anything really interesting. some music artists you liked, random cat accounts, and baking accounts. cute. but, after a while, she recognized something. the name of the place you worked at that she saw on your facebook. a veterinary office. the profile mostly had pictures of cats and dogs and some smaller animals, but when she saw a post about the offices pet fundraiser, she immediately recognized your face. cheesy smile, holding up a small kitten to your cheek. it was adorable.

she looked up the address in the account’s bio, and she saw that it was a 5 minute drive from her house. perfect coincidence. alice would love to take a walk after work today, wouldn’t she?

her snooping was interrupted by the alarm she had set for the end of her break. startled, she slightly jumped out of her seat before swinging her door open and plopping her phone in her back pocket. she knew what her plans for this afternoon were.

while abby was scheming up her stalkerish plans, you were just.. bored. you sat at the front desk, doodling one of the dogs you saw come in earlier with one earbud in your ear, fleetwood mac giving you soft background music to the emptiness of the lobby. with it being tuesday and all, it wasn’t very busy. your shift didn’t end for a few hours though, and you would rather be bored than busy.

you decided to people watch outside the window for a bit. you saw an old lady walking around with another old lady, holding coffee cups from the cafe down the street. they were engrossed in conversation, and you tried to lip read, but could only make up a few nonsensical words before they disappeared out of your view. a man walked by with his disgruntled teen daughter, headphones pulled over her ears with an annoyed grimace. once again, it looked like the father was saying something, but you had no idea what.

after a few more people walked past, you saw someone who actually…caught your eye. it was a tall blonde woman, hair weaved neatly into a braid that rested on her right shoulder. she had on a black tshirt that showed of her toned arms, and grey cargo pants with green grass stains on them. you tried to glance at her face, but she was facing the side. all you could really see was the outline of her curved nose, and the soft shape of her lips. her side profile looked perfectly carved, like a statue. she had on black over the ear headphones too, and she was holding a leash to a big german shepherd. shes hot, and she has a dog? you subconsciously started fixing your hair, just in case she was walking in here. she stopped near the door, and you nearly pounced to greet her. but your excitement was cut short when you saw her walk slightly further, and pull out a small stack of papers and a roll of tape. was she putting up fliers?

you watched her place one on the light post outside your building, holding the tape in her mouth as she did so. you tried hard not to drool all over your desk as you watched her. you couldnt make out what the paper said as she walked away, and you wasted no time going outside to see what it was.

and when you finally approached it, you felt as god himself was giving you an offering. the flier read "abby anderson gardening services.” there was a small graphic of a pretty flower, and an even more captivating image of the woman who had put up the flier. abby, that’s a sweet name.

you quickly ripped off one of the small pieces of paper on the bottom of the flier, placing it in your sweater pocket before skipping back into your work gleefully. a hot girl who was gonna save you from your gardening dilemma? somebody pinch you.

abby hadn’t had the smallest confidence her plan had worked. her heart was practically beating out of her chest, and the questions kept on pouring in. did she even see? will she even notice? what if she did see, and she recognized me as the freak who was ogling her outside her house? she planned all this perfectly. she spent 3 hours last night making those stupid fliers. scrolling through a million different fonts, searching through her camera roll for good pictures, she needed it to be as believable as possible. she had parked her truck well out of view a few blocks away, carried extra fliers, and brought alice with her to try and hide her true intentions. normal gardener walking her dog and putting up fliers, thats all she was. definitely not a weirdo that saw a girl pruning her front yard and got so hot and bothered that she devised a whole plan that would maybe get her to call her.

she shook her head, practically trying to shake away her thoughts, and she kept on walking.

you were telling yourself that you’d call her right when you got off work.

and after sitting on your bed for 5 minutes staring at her number typed into your phone, it was tomorrow.

and then tomorrow, it was the day after that.

the fear made absolutely no sense to you. you’re calling a gardener! whats the worst shes gonna say? ‘oh no, im not gardening for you because you’re stupid and also im going to run you over with my lawn mower.’ its her job to do this!! you had even saved her number in your phone as “hot gardener” so you wouldn’t forget her.

you were silently hoping that youd see her around somewhere. she’d approach you, start some dumb conversation, suddenly bring up the fact that shes a gardener, and then you get your “really? i’ve been looking for one!” moment. perfect meet cute.

but its like she vanished into thin air.

every time you went to work, or even out shopping, you were dolled up for no reason. wearing shirts with extra cleavage, making sure you have on lipgloss constantly, you were not taking any chances. even when you were doing the most mundane activities, you swiped on a layer of mascara before you left the house. just in case. but your luck wasn’t striking you at all. does she not live in the neighborhood?

abby definitely lived in the neighborhood. after checking her flier and seeing a missing phone number, she spent the whole night waiting for her phone to ring. she did anything and everything to try and keep her busy, which included cleaning her entire apartment and stalking your instagram. you had posted a picture of your cat on your story. cute.

after almost 5 hours of waiting around, she was pacing around her living room like a tiger in captivity. every notification she got she pounced at her phone, but she was continuously disappointed. no manny, i don’t want to go out tonight. dont ever text my phone again and also i hate you.

it was around 12:45 when her phone finally rang. she picked up instantly, barely letting it ring. she cleared her throat and tried to feign nonchalance in her voice. but instead of your sweet voice asking about her lawn, it was a telemarketer. she threw her phone on the couch and collapsed on her floor. it was gonna be a long night..

the next day, she knew she needed to check on you. what if something had happened? or, worse, what if you weren’t even the one who took the phone number? she came back the same way she did the first time she saw you, driving a liiiittle too slow past the vet office. and low and behold, you were perfectly fine. sat at the front desk talking to some girl with a cat. and when she looked at the flier, there was still only one slip missing. maybe you forgot?

she drove away, a childish pout on her face. it was pathetic , really.

when she was at the grocery store on the second day of waiting , that she definitely didn’t drive an extra five minutes to because it was close to you, she nearly had a heart attack when she saw you in the cereal aisle. cute hoodie and shorts on with your hair down. you seemed like you were having a hard time deciding between two cereals, holding the boxes next to each other and squinting. she imagined herself going up to you and delivering some smooth one liner about cereal that she was still trying to come up with, and carrying your groceries and you to your car. but as much as she wanted to, she kept her distance. heavily. she was looking around every five minutes like a shoplifter so she wouldn’t bump into you.

but not touching didn’t mean she couldn’t look. she saw you finally chuck the fruity pebbles into your basket, squeeze half the mangos on the display before picking one, and you last minute deciding to buy a pack of gum when you were checking out. she tried her hardest to not be jealous of the scrawny bag boy you smiled at, and when she finally saw you check out, she remembered she was supposed to be getting stuff for dinner. shit.

and the day after that, when she stopped at the gas station by your street because it was ‘cheaper’, she recognized your beetle in two seconds. she watched you step into the little mini market, clad in a pair of jean shorts and a random t shirt from a theme park , and she watched you walk out with a bag of hot cheetos as she pumped her gas. she had gotten a closer look at your bumper stickers, and she saw a small heart with a sunset flag. she couldn’t help but do a little fist pump when she got in her car.

none of her research was giving her any clarity though. she kept driving past her flier, day after day, and not a single other person had picked up a slip. was it even you who took it? are you gonna hire some other stupid gardener you found on your phone?

and on the third day, she had stayed home. she was beginning to give up hope you’d ever call, and she would never make a move first. especially if you had accidentally seen her on one of her little ventures. so, she cleaned her house again. she even dusted, thats how bored she was. the thoughts of you were constantly plaguing her. she almost took up mannys offer to go out tonight, try and get her mind off things.

but her mind stayed in the exact same place. her mind replayed the memory of you in the lawn yet again. she remembered the sweat dripping down your chest, the way your shorts were riding right up your thighs. she shoved her hand down her pants and imagined that they were yours.

she remembered how nice and smooth your voice sounded on the videos she saw. even though you never said much, even her imagining it made her even wetter. she kept rubbing her middle finger up and down her clit, picturing you whispering in her ear.

“you’re such a fucking creep. you keep watching me at work, following me around, and now you’re fucking yourself to me? we’ve never even met. you’re acting like a desperate slut for some random girl, you’re not embarrassed?”

the dialogue she was imagining in her head was getting her further and further. she almost imagined you saying it, the voice being strange and inconsistent to her. still, she moved faster, hearing the noise her slick covered fingers made as she moved. she kept letting out heavy breaths, flexing her hips upwards onto her hand.

“you know, you could’ve just come up to talk to me. how pathetic are you? can’t even talk to a girl?”

she imagined your breath on her neck, watching her. if she focused enough, she could feel the indent in her bed of you next to her. she started moving even faster, letting out loud moans as she pressed down on her clit even harder. she arched her back as she did, pushing her head against her headboard. she could feel the pressure building in her lower stomach, and she was practically humping her hand. she got sweatier and sweatier, the blanket covering her lower half not making it any better.

“are you really this desperate? you could-“

abbys fantasy was interrupted by the sound of her phone ringing next to her. right when she was close. fuck. she nearly abandoned the phone call, but then the thought crossed her hazy mind. what if it was you?

so she wiped her hands on her boxers , took a deep breath, and answered her phone.

she tried not to get her hopes up, worried it might be another telemarketer. annoyed at the fact that she gave up cumming for some random person.

“hello? is this..-abby?”

[beansprean]

Lil comic from chapter 1 of Alethophobia by @jay-auris! Character designs by the incredible @pejntboks!

(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: 1a. Distant shot from behind a white van parked on a patch of gravel and dirt with its rear doors wide open, pine trees in the distance against a darkening sky. Human Nandor is rummaging around in the equipment in the back of the van, muttering angrily to himself. He is wearing a green flannel with rolled sleeves over a white tee shirt tucked into cut off blue jean shorts, white knee socks, and hiking boots. The side of Guillermo's face appears in closeup in the foreground, looking at him. 1b. Shot from inside the van as Guillermo comes up behind Nandor, both now facing the viewer. Nandor has his graying hair down and hanging messily in his face as he scowls, sweat beading on his forehead. He wears a silver medallion around his neck, orange tasbih prayer beads around his right wrist, has two orbital piercings with silver hoops and a silver conch stud in his left ear, and silver vertical studs on his right eyebrow. He continues glaring at the equipment and shuffling it around with his left hand as he thrusts a camera bag out behind him with his right, snapping, "Leave Laszlo to pack everything like an overgrown child. Here, pull out the extra batteries so I can put them in the actual fucking battery cases we own." Guillermo looks down at the bag in surprise as it is thrust towards him, hands coming up automatically to take it. He is wearing a black tee shirt with a gray symbol on the chest under a sleeveless unzipped dark blue hoodie with red trim, black leggings, red sneakers, a black fidget ring on his right middle finger, and a silver cross around his neck, tucked into the shirt. 1c. Close up of Guillermo as takes the bag and removes the batteries, aiming a concerned look at Nandor as he does so. He asks, "Are you okay?" 1d. Waist up of Nandor from Guillermo's POV as he straightens up and wrestles his hair back into a messy bun with quick, angry motions. Still glaring down at the equipment, he snarls, "I dislike long car rides; I dislike being out of the city;" 1e. Reverse shot, close up of the back of Nandor's head with its painful looking bun in the foreground as he continues, "I dislike laszlo's laissez-faire attitude towards the security of our expensive equipment..." In the background, Guillermo frowns as he observes Nandor's hair.

2a. Repeat. Guillermo interrupts Nandor's venting by pointing toward his hair and asking, "Can I fix that?" Nandor's head in the foreground turns toward him, asking, "Huh?" 2b. Wide shot facing the rear of the van as Guillermo says, "Your hair, just- c'mere." Guillermo takes Nandor by the shoulders, turns him around, and pushes him down to sit on the bumper with a small, unassuming smile. Nandor looks shocked and not a little flustered, shoulders tense under Guillermo's hands. 2c. Close up on Nandor as Guillermo pulls the rubber band from his hair and lets it loose around his shoulders, covering his eyes. Guillermo combs his fingers through the strands and Nandor stills, expression hidden but cheeks going red. 2d. Close up of Nandor's face from the nose down in profile as Guillermo's hands gather his hair behind his shoulders. 2e. Close up of the back of Nandor's head from Guillermo's POV as he pulls all of Nandor's hair together neatly at his crown.

3a. Close up on Nandor's side, elbow to hip, as Guillermo's right hand leaves his head to tap two fingers on Nandor's jeans pocket. Nandor pulls his elbow away in surprise. 3b. Repeat. Nandor's other hand obliges, pulling a second rubber band from his pocket and offering it to Guillermo, who hooks it onto his finger. 3c. Waist up of Guillermo as he steps back with a hesitant grin, hands clasped together at his sternum. He says, "There. Better?" 3d. Close up of Nandor's right hand as it lifts his phone and unlocks it with a thumb. His phone case is a Lisa-Frank-esque close up of a white horse with purple, blue, and pink spots on a backdrop of a blue sky with clouds and a rainbow.

4a. Bust of Nandor as he raises his phone up to take a look at himself in the camera, expression now softened from his earlier frustration. His hair is now twisted up into a neat, round bun at the crown of his head, one stubborn strand loose at his temple. He raises his eyebrows, liking what he sees, and says "Huh. That's very good. How did you do that?" 4b. Zoom out to knees up, Nandor still perched on the bumper of the van. Guillermo stuffs his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and leans back against one of the van doors, flushed and grinning as he aims his gaze elsewhere. With a humble shrug, he replies, "Sister taught me. She said that if I wanted to impress a girl one day, I should learn how to do basic styles." Nandor lowers his phone and drapes that arm over his raised knee, left hand palming the other to balance himself as he turns his torso towards Guillermo with a grin. He says, "Well, color this girl impressed." /end ID

[thoughtsafterdark]

Hospitals and Airports are the closest modernity can come to reaching the Divine

Have you noticed how some places seem immune to time and social conventions. Like airports, those monoliths of now. Harsh lights burning and souls criss-crossing, tongues melting together into a writhing throng of humanity, a steaming cesspit of consciousness. Steeped in camaraderie yet drenched in isolation. The electric blue arrivals sign glares with neon brightness at 3am, a beacon that signals the end of the road.

Here comes a family of 4 on their way home, crossing through automatic doors into the balmy drizzle of a British night, carrying their loot of straw hats and cheap pendants, tan lines and peeling red lobster skin. A girl no older than 5 limps after her parents and older brother. She lugs her bright pink unicorn behind her and hugs the hood of lilac pyjamas close, rubs the sleep out of her eyes whilst her mother shouts at her to hurry. Soon she’ll tuck herself into bed, in the attic of their ordinary red brick London row house, and she’ll watch the sun peak over the trees in the back garden for the first time in her life. It will become a core memory she will think fondly back on for years to come.

By the first class lounge they hurried past, a man in an impeccable suit (Sheep’s wool, the finest money can buy. The grey colour of the Thames on an early morning) paces back and forth restlessly, briefcase in hand, phone in another. Gold amber eyes like a hawk, close cropped black hair and neatly trimmed beard, square pocket matching the deep tan of his shoes (authentic leather). He is barking orders to someone in Arabic, closing deals, building empires. A bloodied napkin he used to stop a nosebleed earlier falls out of his pocket and winks up at the scaffolding exposed ceiling, high and arching like the dome of a cathedral. He’ll make the sale, then visit the airport bathroom again before hailing a cab to the closest 5 star. In the morning, the maid who took the job to send money to her ailing mother in the Philippines will find his cold stiff body and scream. She’ll call the police and be taken in for questioning. She never signed up for this.

At the hospital coffee shop – two streets and half a lifetime away - a 4th year med students sips on a cortado like her life depends on it. Caffeine surges through her veins, bracing her for the day ahead. Unbelievable how exhausting trying to take up as little space as possible can be. She hates the spiel, it’s the same every time. A new dawn, a new face, a new team. The introductions, the smiling, the grovelling, the headache. She’s 5ft flat with bright orange hair, aspirations for Neurosurgery and a bright pink notebook, so why would they take her seriously.

It’s 8:30, and she’s scheduled for 9am clinic, so she has time for a hurried breakfast today. (Eating any earlier makes her gag). Small mercies. The off-red stained scrubs she nicked from the theatre changing rooms cling to her like a second skin preparing to moult. She squirms in them, the comfort undeniable. They make her feel like she belongs. They make her feel like an imposter.

Her table – she comes here so often; she thinks of it as hers - sits right by large windows overlooking the main entrance and staircase. She sees it all from here, her quiet unassuming throne. The doctors and nurses, physios and pharmacists. Rushing rushing, running, stressing. Wishing, hoping, waiting, waiting, waiting. For the shift to end, for the time for bed. For this rotation to change, for the exam to pass. We’ll go on that holiday next month, next year. When money isn’t tight, when things are more settled.  Before they know it they’ve wished their lives away.

Their patients understand, all too well and all too late. The same father with the IV drip and the metal stand comes down here every morning to see his daughters. They run up to him, he holds them close and beams. But his grip is getting weaker, smile is getting thinner. He doesn’t answer when they ask when he’s coming home. It’s funny what we can’t hear when we’re too busy wearing stethoscopes. Next month she (I) will be stationed on the Psych ward. We’ll have to do it all again, but maybe they’ll hear me this time. Maybe it’ll get easier.

Between them all and among them, if you squint and unfocus your eyes during one of those ungodly hours at the Starbacks across from Boots and WHSmith, leaning against a grey white pillar you might see him.

He is the spectre that haunts airport lounges and waiting rooms alike, the handsome stranger with the black snapback and the beats headphones and the khaki shorts. The one who lives out of a rucksack and wears a travel pillow like a crown. With the kind eyes and crows feet, and honey chestnut curls. He is that boy from your high school everyone liked, with a kind word for everyone; the one with a charmers smile and the charisma to bullshit his way through anything. The one who – when pressed for future plans, would laugh and shake his head, looking down bashfully. “I just want to travel for now, see where it takes me. I want to see the world”, he’d say, eyes twinkling with the possibilities. On someone else, the words would likely merit a telling off, they’d be seen as the paper thin excuse to fuck around and get high. But he seemed so genuine, and his teeth were such a dazzling shade of brilliant white when he smiled, even the strictest careers advisers couldn’t resist.

He lives in those moments, the liminal fabric between worlds that’s so hard to put your finger on. Blink and you’ll miss him in the old alleys of Rome, the spark of his cigarette lighter blending amongst the city lights.

You’ll find him among the most remote hiking trails of the Peloponnese, laughing with local shepherds and German tourists alike, sitting on jutting rocky cliffs and admiring the blue Mediterranean below. If you really pay attention, you’ll see his staff isn’t like the others. Something suspiciously like a pair of snake slithers up and down. You could swear you heard them whispering just now, but when you look again it’s just a wooden stick.

He is the patron of us wanderers and travellers, those of us with movement in our blood and restlessness in our hearts. The ones who beget the will of changing winds and shifting tides. The ones who can’t allow themselves to sit still, lest the dust settle and the coffee get cold. The mortifying ordeal of being seen and known. Or the ones that carry a hearth with them, in the bottom of a suitcase, in the heart of a trailer. The ones who move and weave through the Earth not because they are running but because they are coming home. He dances and jokes with the kids amongst campfires, always welcome, always a pleasure. And if he helps them pick the odd lock, swearing solemnly to secrecy, who are we to judge.

His bronze skin smells of cinnamon and nutmeg, vanilla and cedar and a thousand other spices. He reeks of incense and market stalls, moles and freckles tell the story of trading routes and old silk roads, of cotton shawls from Alexandria and silk from Pekking. His fingers and eyes twinkle with the good-natured mischief of petty thieves and sleight-of-hand magicians, tricksters and circus performers. He picks apples from behind ears, presents jewel necklaces to his lovers.

She sees him now, amongst the patients. He helps an old lady up the steps, pulls a balloon out of his back pocket to the delight of a sick child. She locks eyes with him and they nod at one another She has been seen now, and known. Perhaps she’ll find him again one day, if either stop running.

[fartcushion]

Mile High Sub

You stowed your bag in the overhead compartment and sat down in your seat. Glad to finally be settled after being stuck in the airport for near 3 hours, uncomfortable and bored. Other than the occasional stand to let your neighbours take their seats, window and middle, you were finally able to begin to relax.

Scrolling the film selections to pick out what you might watch on the journey, struggling with the poor selection, you started to watch the cabin crew get ready for take off. You hadn't noticed one of them when boarding, but you had certainty noticed him now!

The man was walking down the aisle checking the over head compartments. His face was stern looking, not like the overly polite air stewards you were used to. His beard was trimmed and styled immaculately. Kept short, with fades and cut lines. He could have been a model. His brown skin was complimented by the colours of the uniform; a cream shirt, chocolate brown trousers and waistcoat, with burnt orange accents.

The uniform itself you noticed must have been at least one size too small for this man. His tree trunk legs were risking splitting the sides of the trousers, the shirt showed off his impressive biceps and the waistcoat held taught. As he neared your seat you knew you had to check out the back. A man this built in clothes like this, that ass was going to be worth a look.

As he got to your compartment you first checked out the bulge. He'd obviously made sure to not be too on display, but there was a meaty package bundled in the front. But as expected the ass was the main show. When he moved to the next compartment you followed him. That ass was godly. The trousers, struggling with the thighs were pulled taught across his huge globes. The clothes you realised must have been tailored, because despite the tightness, there was enough material to fully envelop both cheeks and go right up his crack. You could only imagine how those trousers would smell after this 10hr flight.

The sight was worth the look, but too late you realised he'd stalled at the next compartment to fix something and in doing so had caught you looking. As you glanced up you caught his look. He gave nothing away; no potential anger, flattery of the attention, nothing. Quickly you sat back in your chair and started tapping at the screen, pretending to pick up your film search. You could hear he'd started to move on and you relaxed again. That was too close.

You made sure to avoid eye contact as he carried out that rest of the checks and before you knew it it was time for take off. You did have to watch him do the safety announcements which was awkward, but he never once looked at you and was ever the professional. Assured he'd not taken offence you relaxed again and tried to settle in to a film.

After about an hour the crew started to run down the plane handing out meals to those who'd order special options; vegetarian, halal, etc. You took the opportunity to enjoy as he waddled his ass up and down the aisle. On the next one he stopped at your row, and started speaking to the lady next to the window. He leant forward to hand her meal, his bulk forced you to lean back to give him space. His size was so imposing and you could feel his natural authority seeping from him.

As he straightened back up you followed him with your eyes, and they fell upon his name badge where it read, 'Amir'. You then met his eyes. He lingered for a moment, towering over you staring down as if assessing you. Before walking off. Heart racing you tried to stay calm, and more importantly hide the erection that was growing.

A short while passed and you could see him now working on the main meal service. Walking backwards pulling the trolley, joking with a colleague who was on the other side pushing. They served meals to the passengers ahead, working their way down the plane. Once they got to the rows just in front you were treated to his ass inches from your face. Turning this way and that as he handed out meals, you got to see it from all angles. You tried not to stare having been caught once, but you couldn't resist.

The chatter from Amir and the other steward grew louder and you looked up to see them both laughing. You didn't understand what was being said in the language, but the other steward looked at you then back to Amir and nodded. Amir said something and they both laughed.

While getting something from the trolley, Amir bent forward pushing his ass out and towards you. You didn't hear anything, but a second later you smelt it. Covered by the smell of the plane food that was being released with each meal lid pealed off, Amir had released a silent fart in your face. He said something in his language to his colleagues and they both burst out laughing.

Your cheeks turned red. It was unbelievable what had happened. Should you tell someone? But who? And say what, that you, a grown man, had been farted on by another man. It was too embarrassing.

Amir turned to you, the laughter gone and the imperceptible face returned. He asked your neighbour what meal option they wanted and handed it over. The moment of dread came, when you'd have to speak. But instead of asking the question to you, Amir placed a tray in front of you.

"...what... is it?"

His tone was cordial. "It's your special dietary meal".

"Oh I didn't order anything, I can just have the regular chicken."

"This was prepared especially for you". The tone never changed but his eyes bore in to you, as if daring you to challenge him further.

"So-sorry. Thank you."

The two stewards laughed as they moved on, saying something you couldn't understand.

Looking at the meal you knew something had been done. The water bottle had been opened, could he have spit in it? The foil lid had been put back but you were sure it had been lifted, what had been done there? The bread roll, looked as if it had been squashed. Maybe sat on. You gave the food a sniff. The strong smell of all the airplane food made it had to detect anything, but you were positive you caught the faintest hint of a familiar smell, of Amir's fart.

[serpentface]

Brakul Red-Dog was a decidedly handsome man, though soft featured and fishbelly pale in complexion. He was tall and thickly muscled, with a heavyset wrestler’s build that spoke to years of bodily conflict between hard labor and good eating. His hair was a striking orange-blonde, which he always kept shorn close to the scalp. His brows, beard and mustache were darker in color, bushy but well-trimmed and fastidiously maintained. He always spoke slowly and with great care, less for Wardi being his second language and more for the gap between his front teeth that would whistle, rather embarrassingly, were he not careful. He was born of the Hill Tribes, specifically a clan of farmers and cattle drivers on the north side of the Erubin river valley. If Brakul's hair and accent wasn't enough, his tattooing made these heathen origins abundantly clear. Trailing down beneath each deep brown eye was a vertical line bordered with four dots apiece. His upper arms were braced with alternating banded patterns of lines, dots, and square whorls. Most eye-catching was on the left of his broad chest, where a figure of a dog seemed to bound majestically over his nipple.  Brakul would often be seized by a nostalgic melancholy in drunkenness and set about explaining his markings to his Wardi compatriots, tracing over his skin and identifying each point in his slow, deep voice. His arms and face, apparently, contained exhaustive detail about his family tree; fathers and grandfathers and brothers and brothers-in-law and uncles and great-uncles and second cousins and so on. The nuances of how some circles and rectangles could do so always eluded Janeys.  The dog was fresher, the ink black where the rest faded blue-gray, and its meaning simpler. It was a bit of a bitter joke, a nod to his war name ‘Red-Dog’. Apparently, his people would tattoo the symbol of their clan's name over the heart upon final initiations into manhood. Brakul never got the chance, given he’d left his brothers, wife, and child for foreign causes and a foreign lad, and as such had been thoroughly disowned. The dog was the only name he had left. Janeys knew of people who oh-so-creatively derided Brakul as ‘Haidamane’s dog’ and chinmachen based on this. These were, of course, absolute fucking morons. Anyone with half a brain and the barest observational skill would know the man was completely and utterly ganmachen, ox-faced by both temperament and birthsign. Hardy in nature, placid and quiet under most circumstances, stubborn to a fault, and dangerous when pressed.  It was Janeys who was born under the dog stars, though this he kept secret, implying himself to be his dear Faiza’s twin when asked. The two of them looked much alike after all, and were born just over a year apart. It took only this small, harmless exaggeration to claim her far more auspicious birthsign as his own, which was well worth the risks of dishonesty. Janeys had enough problems - and more than enough scathing epithets - without the addition of ‘bitch-faced’ to his good name, thank you very much.

Janeys' POV introducing Brakul Red-Dog, himself, and (loosely) the Wardi zodiac system

[gellymark-blog]

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[silassinclair]

Hi!

Can I request Maddox with a darling who lives to read, maybe he catches her reading some old romance books in an abandoned house they shack up in or something like that

Btw I live your writing ♥️

As someone who loves to read I am obligated to write for this req 😤🫡 Thanks for the request tho!! Hope you like it :-)

Yandere Wild West Outlaw x Bookworm Reader

CW// Maddox is annoying, Reader being a little perv Masterlist Here!!

The new house Maddox found was lovely. It had decently okay furniture and a vast collection of old books on the shelf. It's small with only two bedrooms and one bathroom but it was charming. But what caught your interest was the big oak wood bookshelf. You couldn't even remember the last time you picked up a book. Being on the run with Maddox made time fly.

"Who would leave all these books behind? They're all in great condition." You mutter to yourself as you take a blue and purple book with gold trim off the shelf. Tracing your fingers down the spine of the hardcover novel you appreciate the craftsmanship. It was clearly expensive, something you could no longer afford. Your Dad bought you many books like these but now you were pretty much broke. You only had Maddox to rely on now.

Speaking of Maddox you had no clue where he was. Which you didn't really care, he always disturbed your peace. Cracking open the book you sit down on the loveseat and start reading. It was a romance book about a huntsman who fell in love with a duchess. The story was beautiful as it was exhilarating.

"Oh wow, you into that kinda stuff?"

You snap the book shut instantly, a mini cloud of dust poofs from the pages. Maddox chuckles huskily behind you, leaning down and resting his chin on the back of the loveseat.

"Oh don't be embarrassed princess, it was getting to the good part. What did it say again? Oh! Ahem-"

Maddox coughs into his hand and smirks. Deepening his voice he quotes the passage in a deep, British-like accent,

"He caresses the duchess' milky thighs, her womb felt of silk wrapped around his ma-"

"OH HUSH!" You whip around and smack the outlaw's head, his hat nearly flying off. But he only laughs at your flustered state.

"You're filthy." You groan and put the book back on the shelf where it was. But Maddox follows behind you and takes the book into his own hands and opens it up. Skimming through the pages he smirks.

"I'm filthy? Sweetheart you're the one readin' this junk." Maddox shuts the book and puts it back. Putting his hand up on the shelf he leans against it while looking down at your shorter self.

"Well it is a romance book." Rolling your eyes you choose a different book. This time you pick a title you're familiar with, Pride and Prejudice.

"Now leave me alone you brute. I'd like to relax for once." With that you walk away and go outside. Finding a nice tree you sit beneath it and read the book. Reading reminded you of home, the home that was ripped from you. In a way it was escapism which is unhealthy but a girl can dream right?

Hours pass and the sun begins to set, casting an orange glow across the cloudy sky. The words on the page become harder to read as the sun sinks lower and the moon rises. You didn't want it to end. You know you could read inside but that damn outlaw was inside. You just wanted to stay out here forever with the natural ambience of wind and birds.

Footsteps approach you and you already know who it is. Looking up you see him. Black denim jeans, a burgundy vest, twin revolvers around his waist, and a dark brown cowboy hat on his head. And of course that bandana covering the bottom half of his face. Anytime you asked him about his face he got ticked off so you avoided the subject. But you couldn't help but be curious.

"You're starin' sweetheart." His husky voice breaks the silence. There’s a hint of a Spanish accent mixed in with his Southern drawl. You can't help but think about what it would be like if you and him met under different circumstances. Would he save you from bandits? Offer to buy you a drink at the saloon?

Would you two have a storybook romance just like in the books you adore?

"Hey."

He's right in front of you now, crouched to your height. His gloved hand pets your hair and you're frozen. He has you in a trance that you make no effort to free yourself from. His dark amber eyes are crinkled in slight concern over your unusual silence.

"What..?" You say softly.

"It's gettin' dark. Unless you wanna be dinner for the coyotes then I suggest comin' back in. I'll cook up some beans so hurry your little bum up."

Well there goes the moment. You groan and get up off the grass, your back cracking as you stretch. Your eyes watch as Maddox walks back into the house. His hips sway as he walks, you never really payed attention to that before. His ass looks pretty round in those pants to-

"Ugh, what is wrong with me.." Groaning, you follow after him.

[selwlsa]

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[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Sticking Point 5

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon, possible violence, illness, death, bullying, ableism, and other elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are sent in the place of your ailing sister to marry a stranger. (Regency AU)

Character: Loki

Note: Three day weekend but I got coursework.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me 💞

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

Banished from the library, you refuse to slink back to your rooms and hide. Your position might remain tenuous but you are meant to be the lady of this house. One day. Soon enough. So much as you dread it, and Lord Laufeyson does too, it is inevitable. 

You retreat down the hall and descend the grand staircase to the first level. You pass between the serpentine statues and cross the airy space of the entrance hall. Several servants observe your passing but retain their propriety and silence.  

The doorman lets you out into the sunshine. You might have brought a parasol but it is too late now. You come down the steps onto solid earth and peer around at the lush green gardens that further bolster the estate's name.  

You retrace the path Odin led you on the previous day. You stop to admire roses in canary yellow and the orange tree transplanted from some faraway land. As he showed you it all, you could hear the pride which made this place so coveted. There's a peace that comes with the medley of colours and scents that mingle in the sprawl of curated gardens. 

As you reach the hedges higher than your own head, you become disoriented. You do not to clearly remember which way to turn. Certainly you cannot lose yourself enough to not find the route back. 

The statue of the lady in repose is familiar and the bird bath trimmed in stone lilies similarly nostalgic. You try to fathom that it is all meant to be yours. It is no easy plight to reconcile the duke’s loathing with expectation: your own, those of your parents, and society in itself. 

You tarry by the circle of benches around a weeping tree. The curtain of branches has you curious to delve into its arches and yet the webbing of spiders keeps you from mussing your dress. As all things, your caution keeps you from action. 

You turn back as the sun shifts and the clouds crawl over the sky. You wind around and come to stare down a wooden archway twined in vines and moss. You do not recollect that from Odin's exploration. You must have lost your way, you are not headed back to the estate but away from it. 

Uncertain, you spin back again and your feet turn fleet as worry mounts. You veer this way and find yourself at a wall of hedges, you turn that way and find yourself circling around back to the same place. You cannot make sense of it. 

You begin to weary as the sky dims further and a coolness settles in the air. Time passes and you remain trapped in the labyrinth of branches and brambles. What should happen might you truly be lost? 

For a moment, the premise is not so unhappy. It would assuage many malignancies. The duke would no longer be bound to your horrid existence, nor would you be vowed to face ridicule for the years to come. He might even let himself smile to think you gone, if not perished. 

You fall onto a bench and hold your head in your hands. Edith would love these gardens. If it were her, would she invite you to see them? Would she chase you as if you were still girls? Would the duke not fret so much for you, ignore you as so many others do? You would be only an occasional nuisance, not a pair of shackles to constrain him. 

You make yourself sit up as your sister's ghost drifts away from you. You should like to hear her voice one more time. You miss her songs and her laughter. You miss talking to her, the way she listened, the way she never falter at the errant whas or whoas of your affect. 

You rise and set your feet straight. What were those words she said to you? That she believed in you. That you could do this. Perhaps, this is what you wished for. That you take her pain instead. Would the duke have been kinder to her or just as cruel in his resent? 

You promised her. You don't care what you swore to your father or mother, but for Edith, you will do it. You will be as brave as she thought you to be. Even if you aren't. Even if you're terrified. 

You walk without a thought, twisting and turning, eyes set, steps decisive. You march into the open, away from the walls of foliage and into the sunlight that appears from behind the sheet of clouds. You turn your face up. 

You cannot be your sister, you cannot truly replace her. But you can be you and the duke will just have to accept it. After all, how can a second son begrudge a second daughter? The disparity between you is not so great after all. It cannot be if you are to be wed. 

You trod around the front of the estate and shake out your skirts, errant leaves and twigs untangling from the hem. You push your shoulders back as if your mother is their to rebuke your posture and you take the stairs with a straight spine. The doorman once more lets you past and you thank him, aloud, with more than a nod.  

You proceed through, chin up, and ascend the staircase with your eyes ahead, not on your feet. As you come to the top, you do not falter, but another does. You glance over at Lord Laufeyson as he leans back on his heel, scuffing to a halt as you breeze by. He arches a brow and you mimic his expression, a moment of reflection between you before you pass and carry on. 

You do not look back, keeping your shoulders square, and you stop before your rooms. You can sense his silhouette looming by the staircase though you do not know if he watches. You hope that he does and that he sees that you will not disassemble so easily. 

🔹

The banns are read on Sunday. You sit in the pew with your betrothed as he refuses to acknowledge you. It is not as big an insult as he may believe. You are very much acquainted with being ignored. You often prefer it. 

Upon your return to Jade Park, lunch is served. As the meals prior, you remain silent as you sit among the Odinson clan, still yet to be permitted into their ranks.  

Your appetite is as sparse as your voice. You poke at a pastry but don’t taste it. As Lord Laufeyson stirs his tea repetitively, likely out of agitation, you find the clink of the small silver spoon tweaks your already fraught nerves. 

The banns will be read once more; they were first sent to the church the Sunday prior to your departure - and must be proclaimed at least thrice before you are permitted to marry. Should you not undergo the necessary pre-marital purgatory, there may be whispers of scandal. Why should anyone rush a marriage if not for good reason? 

It is certain that you will face gossip at it were. If Lady Jane’s reaction is anything to measure by, not to mention your own fiance, then you wouldn’t like to add to your plate. Your fork sinks through the pastry and scrapes the porcelain egregiously.  

Without hesitation, Lord Laufeyson reaches over to clutch your wrist, “please.” 

You wriggle in his grasp and retract. You put your fork down and hide your hands in your lap. Your stomach is a maelstrom of emotions. Your eyes wander up to meet Odin’s as his own flit away from his son as Frigga chews behind tightly sealed lips. She swallows and clears her throat, taking a sip from her teacup. 

“So, as we await the nuptials, it would be high time for our lovely lady to debut, hm?” She declares as she perches up a little straighter, “it should be done before the wedding, I think. It wouldn’t be very fair to her should she face her wedding guests as a stranger.” 

“If you insist, you may take her to one of your ridiculous luncheons,” Loki taps his spoon on the edge of his saucer and his father sneers. Their eyes meet and the elder tilts his head dangerously. The younger plunks the spoon back in and starts to stir again. 

“Well, Loki, surely you would want to accompany her yourself,” his mother insists, “the Countess Kyringfort is holding a banquet the night after this. Perhaps we all might be free of these walls for an evening.” She offers a gentle smile, “and dear,” she looks at you, “I know you would be grateful for a distraction. Have you any letters from home since?” 

You frown at the elusion to your sister’s tragedy. It’s still raw. At the same, your sadness feels intimate to the point you are possessive of it. How can anyone who didn’t know Edith speak of her as they miss her? They all just mourn what could have been. They could have had a proper lady there in your place. 

“Naw,” the end of the word strays despite your effort, “my motha must be too distwaught to white.” 

Loki sighs and the table jerks on its legs as Odin glowers at his son. The younger flinches and gives a grunt. His father’s eyes narrow dangerously. 

“You will take your betrothed to the banquet and stop being such a petulant child,” Odin grits out. 

“Husband, he hadn’t even said--” Frigga begins.

“She is a gentlewoman. She needn’t his side eye and his sighs,” the grand duke insists. 

You’re struck by his defence of you. Your own father would only have commiserated with Lord Laufeyson’s irritation. Most would share a laugh behind their hands at your expense, and certainly they will at this banquet. 

“Lady Ky—Kyw—Ky--” you begin, trying to get it right. 

“Kyringfort,” Loki utters as if it should be simple. 

“Kywingfowt,” you insist on saying it yourself. If he will not speak to you, he will not speak for you. “I’ve never hawd of haw. You said she is a countess?” 

“Oh, she is lovely,” Frigga preens, “and an old friend, right, Loki?” 

“Yes, so she is,” he agrees, “more fond of my brother than myself.” 

“And who can hardly blame her,” Odin rebukes hotly.  

Laufeyson shakes his head and his brow arches as his nostrils flare dangerously. As unkind as he has been to you, you are empathetic to the constant reprimands from his father. You recall how Lord Thor and Lady Jane also took no issue in reproaching him. If he’d listen, he might learn that you know well what that is like. 

“Yes, he is rather amusing,” Loki mutters. “As eldest sons are given leave to be.” 

“Oh, I’ve never known a groom so gloomy,” Odin retorts. 

Laufeyson scoffs. He stills the spoon and leaves it to rest against the brim, fisting his hand on the tabletop, “do I complain?” 

“You mope like a beat dog,” Odin accuses, “my oh my, a banquet and a new wife, and you act as if you walk to the gallows.” 

“Father, you do always see the worst in me.” 

“I see an unthankful rascal. You have an estate and I ask one thing of you. The same duty of any lord and you would act as a prisoner. Well, son, you have your choice. Find a morsel of gratitude in that blackened heart of yours or seek your place at some parish,” Odin warns as he jabs a butter knife in the air. 

Tension roils in the air between the men as they glare at one another. Laufeyson snarls and it rolls up his throat. Before the noise can become words, you sit forward and touch your throat. 

“If I may, Lawd Odin,” you cheep, your voice nearly whistling in the tightness of your airway, “your son has been vewy hospitable. I have enjoyed my time at Jade Gawdens thus faw and I look fawad to calling it home. It is beautiful.” You glance over at Laufeyson as he watches you with stunned dismay, “and as we awe still stwangas I think we need some time to become ac—acwauinted.” 

You smile as best you can. It is a bitter lie. You don’t know why you should tell it but you feel as if you must. Frigga’s cheeks shake as she holds her smile and Odin scowls. 

“You lie well for him,” he shakes his head, “and still he does not see how fortunate he is.” 

Odin sits back heavily and takes his glass of sherry, downing it in a single swig. Laufeyson picks up his spoon and stirs once more, only to drop it and stand sharply. He brings his hands up, his long fingers extending, and he sputters before swiftly spinning and stomping away. 

“Next time, don’t waste your breath, lady,” Odin chortles, “you’ve better use of it.” 

[fairy-verse]

“I bear no love for the Big Folk, yet their strange traditions of setting lights out in the night and hanging dried oranges, sticks of cinnamon, and stars made of wood in their windows have their odd charms. Many decorate their trees of pine with strings of paper and glitter, and there are ornaments of deer, goats, ice crystals, and men and women with woollen clothing and red hats and scarves.

Some of the Big Folk even appear to dress in either grey or deep red clothing trimmed with fur of white, and they sing and hop around as they carry sacks that jingle and chime.

They are all so… strange, yet I find it all so… endearing. Perhaps it is time for a comfortably cold and clear winter’s night they can all enjoy.”

Artwork created by the wonderful Kinotura over on twitter. <3

Fairy Error created by valacre

Fairy Error design created by lunnar-chan

Error by loverofpiggies

[pearlwithgirl]

Legato, Staccato

Ghoap x gn!reader

Fluff - 981 words

The barest hint of smut. Something soft and sweet.

The snow is coming down like falling cotton while the wind howls like a banshee, but it still doesn’t stand up to all the warmth around you.

Johnny will be meeting you outside any moment now and Simon will follow soon after. It’s hard not to spend hours perusing the carefully curated shelves of books, and a happy Si is a happy triad. There are plenty of new works from local authors, but it’s the older finds that draw him in - crinkled and delicate with intricate illuminations and richly coloured bindings. 

It’s a quaint place - warm oak and brass inside, cornflower walls with creamy white trim on the exterior. There are twin waves of built up snow curling in from the flaked paint of the window frame, swirling fractals meeting in the middle. You’d like to scratch at the tiny needles, to run your fingers through the glassy little stalactites hanging from the sill. 

You could reach out and place a warm palm on the window to feel the crystals morph and melt around your palm, put your own mark amongst them, be a part of something beautiful. You wouldn’t want to ruin it, though.

“Your mind’s wanderin’ again, hen.” He always sees right through you. You were so lost in allusion that you didn’t even hear him come out.

He scoops up a little dollop of powdery snow and blows it at you, flakes catching the wind like the wispy fluff of a dandelion. Your noise crinkles as a giggle trickles out of your upended frown. His gaze follows yours to the pattern on the window.

“Mm, pretty, isn’t it?” There’s a fondness in his voice, but it’s light. Thoughts floating like a silvery feather as opposed to your own, which carry the weight and overinflated gravitas of a lead ballerina. 

He presses a thumb into the crunchy ice until it gives way and runs down the window in a frigid rivulet. He grabs you by the hand, pulls off the mitten, and presses your thumb down to melt a little heart into the window. A golden orange light flickers and thrums through the joint fingerprints from a candle just beyond the pane.

As he turns to you, there are fluffy flakes clinging to his lashes, and his cheeks are a little rosier than before. He’s not alone in that - you feel the blood rushing to your own face as he tips your chin up, appraising you under the streetlamp’s light. 

He brushes his lips against yours, and the moment crescendos fast. It doesn’t let up, and you can feel the sizzle and pop as you heat up. His tongue meets yours and you feel lost and completely tethered all at once.

Your reverie is interrupted, but it’s welcome. Simon exits the shop as a little bell chimes above his head. Warmth floods you as he strolls closer, and you don’t know if it’s the heat escaping the building, or if it’s just *him*.

There’s a brown paper bag under his arm, folded up tight to shield new books from the blizzard. He looks at you, then at Johnny, off toward your frozen heart, and back to Johnny again. His eyes crinkle at the edges, a telltale sign that the knife-kissed edges of his mouth are quirked up under the mask. In the dim of the night, their faces are lit up like a Christmas tree. 

Simon squints at the print that’s slowly frosting over and melts it anew, splaying his whole hand out beside it. He crowds you against the worn, wooden facade and frees his mouth from behind the fabric. It’s a soft kiss, languid and warm. Comfortable. A hand creeps up beneath the wool of your coat to draw you even closer, and it’s fucking *freezing*. You stiffen and squeal into his mouth before he barks out a laugh and presses another kiss to the powdery crown of your head. He retracts his clammy hand and gives a gentle swat to your rear. 

“Time to go, sweetheart.” 

You’ll go to that cozy little nook for a pint while they prepare your takeout order. Something hearty, something sticky and saccharine for dessert. Maybe ragout and blueberry bread pudding. Extra butterscotch sauce.

You’ll lean into Johnny while Simon pays the bill, licking the last sticky drop of cider from your lips. He’ll taste the cinnamon on your tongue as he loops an arm around your waist to pull you out of the booth.

You’ll fill your belly as you sit on the floor cradled between broad, jean-clad legs, and probably get rich sauce on your sweater after being roused by some ridiculous quip. It’s not the tv that makes the viewing fun - it’s the commentary.

You’ll fall into their bed to be disarmed and disassembled, laid bare. It’ll be a sweet cacophony between the three of you, a symphony of harsh grunts, soft sighs, and wails of pleasure. A resplendent choir will resound in your head at that staggering peak. A myriad of colours will align and blind you with pure octarine and bright white light. They’ll put you back together again with a care you’d never have expected. 

You’ll fall asleep bracketed by two exhausted hunters, pomarine and polar, hunger fully satiated once more. 

How do they look so soft? 

You’ll wake up to the smell of coffee and honeyed cream, bitter and sweet. There will be bright mandarin in the air - preserves, fried eggs and briny bacon to pile onto buttered toast. One more layer of trepidation will crumble away as the morning routine dictates. 

It’s tangible - you can feel yourself falling into an easy rhythm with them. You don’t know how they do it, how they always know the right time for legato or staccato or when to break you out of the shell of a nagging thought. 

You suppose you could get used to it.