#a vodka fic

[shushmal]

The latest Family Video customer is barely through the door before Eddie explodes, "Ugh, Tyler."

Beside him, Steve scoffs in agreement, nose wrinkled with distaste. He's so hot. "Yeah, exactly, uugh."

"That should be his middle name. Ugh," Robin chimes in. Eddie's so glad they're in agreement about the bleach-spiked punk guy that graduated three years ago but is still bumming around Hawkins. "Steve, I can't believe you dated that guy."

Seriously, Tyler is the worst— Wait, what—?

"Wait," Eddie says, gaping at Robin. "What?"

"You could barely call it dating," Steve huffs.

"You were together for a month and a half," Robin says. She's got this evil grin on her face and is pointedly not looking at Eddie who is very desperate for Robin to look at him right now, please. "You drove that bum to Indy every weekend. He broke up with you on Valentine's day."

Eddie's weak "Tyler? Tyler Teaks?" gets completely ignored.

"I—" Steve says with haughty emphasis. "—broke up with him on Valentine's day. Don't get it twisted, Buckley."

Robin snorts and finally glances at Eddie. "Steve only broke up with him because the guy blew him off. On Valentine's Day. Which is basically getting broken up with," she tells him, and ignores it when Eddie whimpers at her.

"Yeah, but I'm the one to ended it!" Steve insits.

Eddie, finally, finds his voice, and says, "Tyler Teaks?! Harrington!"

"Ugh," Steve says, slumping against the counter. "I know." He cuts a glare over at Eddie after a moment. "I blame you for this."

"Me?!" Eddie shrieks, incredulous. He's pretty sure he's stepped into another parallel world. Perpendicular world? A world where Steve apparently dates guys—and guys like Tyler Teaks, no less. Eddie's sure he's gone completely batshit insane. "What the hell did I do?!"

Steve stands, cocking his hip the side, and looks down his handsome nose at Eddie. "You wouldn't be my New Year's kiss at Tina's party," he says. "So I had to settle for Tyler Teaks instead."

"What the fuck?" Eddie says, completely lost. "What—? You—? Tina—? KISS—?!"

Beside them, Robin is grinning, laughing, eyes going back and forth between them, munching on a stolen back of skittles—her own personal dramedy on stage before her.

"Yep," Steve says, popping the P. He looks distinctly bitter. "Pulled my best moves on you, and you turned me down."

"Steve," Eddie breathes. He reaches out, places both hands on Steve's shoulders, intent. The eye contact he forces Steve into is desperate. "I don't even remember getting to Tina's New Year's Party." He takes a deep breath. "I woke up in her mom's pantry the next morning with no shoes and no memory of how I got there."

Finally, Steve cracks, a big smile stretching his face. Robin cackles. "Yeah, I kind of figured as much," Steve sighs, wistful now. "You told me, and I quote, 'Steve Harrington, you are very beautiful and I want to have a summer wedding because you'd look beautiful-er with sunflowers'—"

"Don't forget the 'you look so hot in that sweater' part."

"—'But actually, I am a very straight man. So very super straight.' And then you crouched down on the floor and crawled away." Steve is biting his lip now to keep from laughing. Robin is not so nice. "Like I couldn't see you, and the handkerchief flagging in your pocket."

"Oh my god."

"Don't worry, it was really cute," Steve says, grinning. "But, I still needed a New Year's kiss, and unfortunately for everyone involved, Tyler was my only willing choice."

"Oh my god."

"Totally duped me though, he was super sweet the entire night," Steve sighs. His mouth is twisted into genuine regret now. "Plus, the next week, you acted like you'd never spoken to me before, so—"

"OH MY GOD."

Steve and Robin give him twin grimaces. Robin's is a lot more sympathetic. Steve's is confused. "Listen, man," Steve tries to soothe. "I'm sure that's pretty embarrassing, but it was a cute story! No hard feelings, I promise."

Robin's sympathetic grimace deepens.

"No," Eddie says, standing up straight. "I refuse. There is no way I turned down Steve Harrington for a New Year's kiss. There is no way."

"Wait—"

"Eddie, where—"

Eddie marches for the door, digging his keys out of his pockets. "Good-bye friends, I must go see a supergirl about time travel."

[bowtiepasta]

SAVE A HORSE, RIDE A COWGIRL ⛰︎ ོ you know what they say… only a woman knows how to treat a woman right. “got any cowgirl in ya? want some?” — SHOKO IEIRI

smut! 𐚁 minors and ageless blogs do not interact. indulging: afab and f!reader (she/her), arranged marriage, fingering, oral, thigh riding, drinking, you wear a skirt, #wlw

word count: 1,397

romy’s note: lesbians eat what?!

tomorrow, you’d be a wife. tonight, you were just a girl with shaky hands and a good liver.

“you planning to marry that poor boy hungover?”

her tracks are muddy, faint half-moons against the floor your mother scrubbed every morning. you wipe your palms down your skirt, eyes on the swinging doors, expecting a wobbly stray to storm through.

“I’ll rally,” you say, voice rough from too many shots of your father’s gutrot whiskey. “done worse.”

shoko hums, flicks ash out the window. the cigarette tip lights her profile soft orange. she smelled like everything familiar and terrible and good — like old afternoons, salty tears, and the stale shampoo they keep in the bunkhouse showers.

“you sure?” she mocks. “he’s gonna be real happy when you puke on his boots at the altar.”

“you shouldn't be here,” your fingers twitch toward the shuttered window out of habit. sherrif’s boys were known to stay out late wandering.

she shrugs like she wasn’t a dead man’s name on a dozen bounty posters pinned to fence posts from here to god knows where.

“came to wish you well,” she counters, a white lie. “and maybe get drunk enough to forget you’re marrying that twitchy little banker.”

you smile despite yourself. it made your mouth hurt.

“why?” you ask, voice cracking at the ends. “you didn’t stay to say goodbye the last time.”

her mouth pulls taut. something like guilt, or maybe just the bane memory of it.

“you were never gonna leave this place,” she says, tipping her head upward, where the piano had faintly started up again, crooked and sad. “I was.”

she pushes off the doorframe and walks in until she stands on the other side of the bar. the heavy smell of stale beer and woodsmoke lived in the bones of the place and seeped into your skin.

you swallow. the air between you stretches thin, sticky with all the words you hadn’t said two years ago when she first rode out and never came back.

“you could’ve asked me to go,” you breathe.

shoko leans close, palms braced flat on the wood, close enough you see the subtle scar along her jaw, new since you last saw her.

“you’d have said yes,” she says in an undertone far too lonely for your liking. “I wasn’t gonna do that to you.”

with her injured horse stabled down the street and nowhere else to turn, she figured a quick stop wouldn’t hurt. and boy, was she wrong.

she looks at you, as if remembering her own name.

“c’mere.”

a beat.

“c’mere, sweetheart,” she repeats, tired, thumb dragging over your knuckles. “one last time.”

you did. stupidly fast, pressing your forehead into her shoulder and looping your fingers into her belt loops.

her fingers fit into the dip of your waist like she’d known exactly where they belonged this whole time.

you yank her belt loose with clumsy hands, the heavy buckle thudding against her thigh. she laughs into your cheek, and you swear you feel your heart stop.

one hand braces at your jaw while her thumb rubs at the hinge of it, nails short and uneven from where she’d chewed. shoko tilts your face up and examines you, checking a calf for broken bones.

she lifts you back onto the bar stool — it rattles the screws. “you’re gonna get me killed.”

you smile, starting on her buttons.

“wasn’t planning on letting you live forever anyway.”

her palms leave dry prints on your hips, and when she kneels between your legs, the floorboards creak under her knees. the piano upstairs doesn’t stop.

outside, a dog barks once, sharp and distant. the fan keeps spinning. shoko doesn’t stop.

the bar digs into your spine, her hands already up your skirt, callouses skimming up your thighs. she works fast, but not rushed — the way someone does a job they know by heart.

“fuck,” she shudders, finding you already slick when she pulls your panties down. you kick them off blindly, heels dry-scraping the tablesides.

“gonna make you forget your own name,” she mutters, almost to herself. you hear it all.

her mouth is on you before you could say anything smart, biting a line up your legs, marking you like the goddamn animal she was.

you tug her hat off, toss it onto the floor. her hair’s damp at the roots, stuck to her forehead where the night heat had decided to settle.

“thought you were here just to drink,” you gasp.

shoko grins against your hip, teeth scraping sensitive skin. “changed my mind.”

she pushes a finger into you, palm grinding the way she knew you liked — the way she remembers.

it’s filthy, the wet sound of it, loud in the quiet remains of the closing hours. someone upstairs laughs— a sharp bark — makes your heart nip at your ribs and bottom lip bleed.

“stay quiet,” she shushes, kissing up your stomach, smudging her lipstick all over. “or don’t. might be the only good story I leave this town with.”

you bite your own hand to muffle the sound when her fingers curled just right, rough and sure inside you. she watches you the entire time, catching every little twitch, every whimper.

“still so fuckin’ pretty,” she slides up, kisses you again — deep, open-mouthed, desperate. so desperate.

your hands fumble at her pants and she helps, hitching her hips to shove them down for you.

you wrap your legs around her, dragging her in. the first press of her hips against yours punched a sound out of you that you barely recognized.

you shove at her until she gets the hint, letting you manhandle her onto the other stool. it creaks under her weight, one of the legs uneven — it’s been needing fixing for months.

shoko leans back, pants open, shirt rumpled, thighs spread loose. she cleans you off of her mouth, eyes glittering under the low lamplight.

“c’mon then,” she tilts her head, ever the cocky bastard. “take what you need.”

you climb into her lap, skirt bunched up around your waist, straddling one of her bare thighs. you move once, dragging your cunt along the muscle of her thigh, and your whole body jerks at how good it feels.

shoko hisses through her teeth, clawing at your hips, locking you down onto her.

“juuust like that,” she coos, voice wrecked.

you grind down harder, chasing the friction, the bone sliding right against your clit, relentless. the room tilts around you, too hot, too loud in your own head.

shoko slips a hand between you, fingers sliding through your folds, thumb catching you right at the top. she barely had to do any work with the way you were rocking against her.

“you’re dripping all over me,” she says, smug.

you come grinding against her thigh, thighs trembling, breathing like you’d been shot. shoko keeps her hand on you, pressing through every little aftershock until you sagged entirely spent against her.

but she wasn’t finished.

shoko steadies your thighs over her shoulders like she was settling into church pews.

her tongue laps through the mess she’d already made, nosing into the soft parts, tongue flicking away because she’s cruel — always has been. you whimper, try to close your legs, and she just tightens her grip, nails digging in enough to sting.

“you’re gonna be a good wife,” she sighs, bitter while inside you. “better get used to being taken apart.”

you barely hear her — too far gone, legs trembling, toes curling in your boots.

you come again, hips bucking up off the stool. she holds you down with her whole damn body. doesn’t stop, doesn’t even slow, working you through it ‘till your thighs are spasming by her ears.

when you push weakly at her shoulders, she finally pulls back with a small, satisfied noise, chin glistening. she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, grinning up at you like the kid she still was.

you gripped the edge of the bar behind you, the wood worn smooth from years of your father’s hands, and realized hers would never be allowed here again.

“you’re an outlaw,” you said matter-of-factly. “you’re wanted in three counties.”

“four.” she pulls the gold band off of your ring finger and kisses the bruise it leaves.

“but you always did love trouble.”

hello from april 28th i’m in the trenches and seasonal depression is kicking my ass. need a hot lesbian cowgirl to lasso me up and take me away asap. hope you enjoyed xo

side note i see all the comments you guys leave on my works i swear i do </3 trying to get better at replying to them but i see them weeks after they’re put up and i get embarrassed bc i’m late lmao. but i see them and appreciate them so so so much i’m sloppy kissing you all on the hot mouth rn

do not copy, edit, or repost, any of my works on any platforms.

[fishareglorious]

for the first time ever vila gets drunk in one of lilya's drink alongs and proceeds to say this in full earshot of. windsong who was also drinking with them

[tide-locked]

ok, you know what, fuck it, fic recs post. historically i try not to rec works in progress or things i haven't commented on and i'm throwing that fully out the window for this because honestly, fucking whatever.

if you're on this list and i haven't been fully unhinged at you in the comments, please know that it's because (1) i'm the worst and (2) i'm trying desperately to calibrate so i hit 'enthusiastic' and not 'kind of frightening, actually'. i swear that i have written at least several sentences of a comment for every fic on this list, it's just that i'm genuinely impossibly slow, sometimes. it's me, not you.

my previous rec post is here, in case you missed that. as a bonus, special for this rec list and as a concession to the horrors, i am attempting to guess how much any given fic will fuck up the average person. obviously this is a ymmv kind of situation, but i'm trying, at least?

everything else under a cut because i am longwinded.

and found by @dangerouscommiesubversive, explicit, every possible combination of di feisheng/fang duobing/li lianhua | li xiangyi; bless, but i am not typing all that out. starting off with a wip where i haven't left a comment in like four fuckin' chapters, breaking those rules real good. this fic is a fucking ride. i will admit that i wasn't entirely convinced by the premise when i saw the blurb, but i am nothing if not willing to admit when i was wrong, and i was—once again—totally wrong. this is the fic where i was like 'ok but…is anyone really, like, desperate for gen z li xiangyi?' and then i read it and i was like 'ohhhhhh fuck yeah, ok, i get it, i was actually fully desperate for gen z li xiangyi.' he is. such a little prick. i love him. there has been something unexpected and delightful in every single chapter of this so far, plus a number of impressively memorable one-liners. this fic is fun and distracting and at least as of chapter seven, i'm gonna say it's not even gonna fuck you up. (please note that this is only through chapter seven!)

and the days are bright red by @junemermaid, explicit, di feisheng/fang duobing/li lianhua. rip to my beloved tumblr mutual @junemermaid, because they're getting called out twice in this list, but: tough. this fic is so delightful. featuring: memories of slut era li lianhua, the mortifying ordeal of being known, an entire box of historically accurate sex toys, fang duobing and di feisheng communicating (sometimes silently) in a way that unsettles li lianhua (back from his months-long sojourn), some very hot sex that is both very much about sex and also about trust and being perceived, casual intimacy, and fledgling tenderness. there are Emotions in this, and they get moderately intense, but it's a very kind and surprisingly gentle feel-good fic.

a drink under a clear window by @momosandlemonsoda, explicit, di feisheng/fang duobing and fang duobing/qiao wanmian. a fic that tackles the dreaded v-shaped polycule and makes it work. it seems like perhaps it shouldn't: fang duobing as the hinge, with di feisheng and qiao wanmian on either side, but actually it works perfectly, and is a lovely little glimpse at who they could become and the relationships they could have. i love the thought of qiao wanmian having come into her own as a leader in her own right, as more than just the representative of the ghost of li xiangyi, and this does a wonderful job of letting her be her own person. also, yes, ok, passing fang duobing back and forth like a party favour. this is a post-canon fic in which li lianhua is dead, but the fic itself a straightforward delight that is not at all fucky uppy.

the floating clouds, no resting place, again by @junemermaid (not sorry), technically gen and no ship, but functionally pre-di feisheng/fang duobing/li lianhua. the hair-washing fic. ohhhhhh. i started jotting notes for this post the day that i finished this fic, and i really thought that they were in any way comprehensive, but instead, what i typed and left as a note to myself was this:

and honestly. you're right, hypothetical reader, that doesn't totally make sense, but i stand by it regardless, because i apparently had that thought in [checks date i last saved the file] fucking august, and i'm still nodding along with myself. that is that this is like. this fic is very beautiful and will make you ache and will leave you slightly better at the end of it than you were at the beginning. it may also make you cry; this seems to me a fair enough trade.

the floating lotus by @anndramarama, not rated, di feisheng/li xiangyi. pre-canon stuff doesn't always work super well for me, but i really enjoyed this one, featuring di feisheng and li xiangyi when they're both so young and arrogant and full of themselves—and stupid and naïve and young and almost hopeful in a way that they're often not, in fic, for all that they were barely but children at the point of the donghai fight. they just seem…vulnerable, i guess, in this, in a way that i find touching. seasonal bonus: a ghost story, of a sort. given that this is set pre-canon, i think it's hard to come in any softer than bittersweet, which this very much is.

from here one's hand could pluck the stars by @howlingmoonrise, explicit, di feisheng/fang duobing. sex pollen fic! also featuring, a little surprisingly, given the premise, incredibly explicit and enthusiastic consent. look, this does what it says on the tin. di feisheng gets sex pollened. fang duobing is left to stay with him. the obvious ensues. unfortunately, it is also devastatingly charming? fang duobing is earnest and sweet; di feisheng is suffering beautifully terribly and trying so hard not to impose on fang duobing. they're both trying so hard to be respectful of what the other person needs, but they're also still bratty and argumentative and exasperated/exasperating, and it's very entertaining. this will fuck you up none percent, and may even make you laugh.

my war is done by @orchisailsa, explicit, di feisheng/fang duobing/li lianhua. another wip, with the first of three chapters posted, but please understand that this chapter is nearly 15k and so fucking good and compelling. li lianhua lives! and returns to find that things have changed in his absence, and perhaps that he has also changed in his absence, and now wants things that he had told himself he didn't mind not even having to lose. bonus: road trip and—delight!—only one room at the inn. also some other stuff that i'm not spoiling, but that made me absolutely gleeful. this is definitely a work in progress, and while i don't think there's anything particularly upsetting in the chapter, it does end on something of a cliffhanger. i personally do not feel that this is an upsetting cliffhanger, given the information about the fic that's presented in the tags, but it is technically a cliffhanger.

awkward paragraph break, but it's also important, i think, to mention the absolutely stunning (and not at all safe for work) companion piece to my war is done, you'd be there calling my name, by saki the cup bearer, who i don't think is on tumblr. it's fucking incredible; i am very decidedly not an artist but i cannot begin to imagine how much effort went into this. just. holy shit.

not unlike him in shape and form by @philologicalbat, explicit, fang duobing/li lianhua. ok look. i fucking love when things are deeply emotionally messy, and this is so emotionally messy. li lianhua who's been attracted to fang duobing and not doing anything about it, then discovering that fang duobing is shan gudao's son and is very much going to do something about it. he wants in this, and he's cunty and manipulative and mean about it, and sometimes also almost sweet, almost tender, and i love that, because i feel like li lianhua is very often an object of desire and very rarely gets to desire. i love how human he gets to be in this fic. this is not a sweet or gentle fic, but it does end in a moderately tender place that is tentatively hopeful, i think.

unbecoming heir by @bettercostume, explicit, di feisheng/princess zhaoling. i am taking your hand in mine and begging you to trust me. i know what this fic looks like. it's noncon and a weird pairing and you might look at it and expect it to go in the obvious direction and: it does not. this fic is so good that it makes me angry. it makes me miserable and everyone in this fic is trying so miserably, miserably hard, and it's fucking devastating. i spent literally thirty minutes earlier today yelling at my wife about it. i cannot rec this fic strongly enough. this is not a happy fic, but it is a good fic. it will absolutely fuck you up. this is very complimentary but also you will be fucked up.

until you are its primary evidence by @ilgaksu, mature, di feisheng/fang duobing/li lianhua. the single most effective use of what is effectively a prologue that i've ever seen in fic, are you kidding me. this fic is nothing at all like what i expected it to be, and is something far better than what i could have imagined. it's fang duobing's point of view, which is a rarity already, and it's so well done, and it allows him so much humanity and so much anger and grace alike. there are so many tricky things about this fic—the prologue, the fact that it's set in the amnesia arc, fang duobing's pov, the fact that it actually addresses canonical disabilities and illnesses without being fucking weird about it, the tension between the three of them—and it's all balanced so well. this has some emotionally heavier moments but ends tentatively happily; tentative only because it's set during the amnesia arc, and, well. we know what comes next.

as a final note: if you wrote one of these fics and feel that i've wildly misinterpreted the emotional tenor of the ending, please message me in whatever way you prefer and i will correct it. i would not normally presume to guess how things are likely hit people, as i am in many ways not anyone's ideal reader, but today it seemed like it was kinder to at least try.

[viccyfics]

6 Turnov x Caboose? (preferably touch starved Turnov) 🙏

Thank you for the prompt!

(prompt list)

READ UNDER THE CUT OR ON AO3

When you build a strong, tough, and resilient persona for yourself and use it to push your brand further, it can start to cause a few issues.

But sometimes he couldn’t help but wish it wasn’t like this.

Issues that Turnov should have seen coming, or maybe he did, and he just refused to see it, or the problems it would bring, but it was too late to fix it now.

This was who he was.

So to say he was touch-starved might have been an understatement.

Wished he wouldn’t ache when he saw a couple on TV kiss, or when he saw friends hug, or even watching someone take hold of another person's hand.

He could barely think of a time he did anything more than give a firm handshake that lasted longer than a few seconds.

But he could live with it right? Everyone knew Turnov the Russian National hated physical contact, that was just his brand, his image, his persona, but as he looked over at CB and Greaseball, the two sitting next to each other on the couch, thigh to thigh, with Greaseball’s arm around CB’s shoulders, his fingers playing with the ends of CB’s curls that were grazing his neck as they talked, he grew jealous.

He knew there was no reason to be, Greaseball and CB didn’t like each other more than friends, and considering the big jewel now sitting on Dinah;s finger, that wasn’t changing, but still, Turnov was jealous.

But he couldn’t figure out who he was more jealous of.

Was it Greaseball for being able to comfortably run his fingers through CB’s hair without anyone judging him, pulling the small caboose against him and just holding him with no cares in the world?

Or was it CB for being able to just let himself be touched like that? For leaning into it, for not pulling away, to let himself relax against someone’s touch.

But would that make him look weak?

Then he glanced over at Dinah who was too busy staring down at her left hand with a smile to notice him. Starlight…Turnov was jealous of her too.

He wanted someone to love him so much they would want to spend the rest of their life with him, and wanted to prove it.

And anyway, he couldn’t race with a ring on, but neither could Dinah…and she couldn’t cook with it on could she? Food would get stuck in the gaps between all the little crystals wrapped around the band, which meant Greaseball got her a ring knowing she’s not going to be wearing it more than she would be, more than she wanted to be, judging by her face, just because he wanted to prove his love for her, for his love to be somehow even more obvious.

Turnov wanted that…he was jealous of all three of them.

“Right,” Greaseball said, pulling his arm back and standing onto his wheels, “I’ll be back in a minute, don’t run off.”

CB chuckled watching the diesel leave the room.

Of course Turnov could wait, wait until they were back in CB’s shed, or when he was alone and could cry into his pillow wishing it was CB instead, but he didn’t want to wait, he couldn’t wait anymore, so he made his way over to the couch and took Greaseball’s spot.

“I was wondering when you were gonna come over, the dinner table doesn’t have the most comfortable chairs-”

“Hold me.” Turnov whispered, interrupting CB.

“I- what?”

“Hold me,” Turnov whispered again, staring into CB’s eyes, “Please.”

CB blinked, caught off guard by what Turnov was asking, in CB’s mind he was so used to touching people, others touching him, that he’d never considered someone almost begging to be touched, to be held, especially not Turnov who CB assumed was against physical contact.

“Alright,” CB responded gently, his voice quiet even though Dinah still wasn’t paying attention. He shifted without hesitation, opening his arms, C’mere.”

At first, Turnov put his arms around CB’s waist, holding onto the other, but kept a gap between them, and CB didn’t try to pull him closer like he was expecting, the caboose only closed his arms around Turnov’s back and waited.

Waited to see the emotion on Turnov’s face, waited to see if he needed to let go.

And then it happened, Turnov pulled his legs onto the couch and curled up, pushing himself up against CB’s torso, closing the gap between them.

CB’s eyes widened in shock, rubbing slow circles on Turnov’s back with his right hand, his left holding Turnov tighter.

And Turnov broke, tears sliding down his cheeks,

Not loud, not that anyone would be able to tell. He’d gotten good at crying without people knowing over the years, but CB knew, he could feel Turnov’s shoulders shaking, his jaw clenching to try and stop himself from sobbing, his eyes clamped shut, his hands grabbed onto CB, scared he would disappear.

CB just held him tighter, the thought of letting go of Turnov made him feel ill.

“Shhh, hey… it’s okay,” CB whispered, continuing to rub circles against the back of his trembling partner, “You’re okay, I’ve got you.”

Turnov didn’t know how long they stayed like that, it could have been only seconds, or minutes, hours, but it didn’t matter, he felt safe, and for the first time in years he felt complete, that horrible nagging feeling he always had in the back of his mind was gone.

CB had fixed him, saved him.

He pulled back, pushing his body away from CB and took a deep breath, noticing Dinah was gone and Greaseball hadn’t come back, they must have noticed him and wanted to give them their privacy, but CB was smiling softly at him, in a way no one had smiled at Turnov in years.

“Do you feel better?” CB asked, even though he already knew the answer.

“Can we do that again?” Turnov asked, his voice trembling, making CB want to cry.

“Of course we can…I love you.”

“I love you too.”

[medeaaasworld]

I'm a part-time comedian

[jtl-fics]

Surely please xx

WIP Wednesday 9/4/24 (Closed) | Surely (1/10)

Aaron doesn’t say anything in response to that, merely nods his head in acceptance and the two of them return to watching how double A batteries are made. The next time Aaron gets up he does grab Neil’s empty glass and without Neil needing to ask he makes him another one and hands it to Neil.

“To our moms.” Aaron holds his solo cup up.

“To our moms.” Neil taps his cup to Aaron’s.

[rosenbergamot]

Something about a bottle of vodka that (almost) jogs your memory

“Scar…” Grian’s exasperated voice rings through monopoly mountain. He quickly peeks down into the first level. His friend is holding the bottle of vodka he had managed to find ages ago. “Where on earth did you find this. How on earth did you find this. What even are you doing with this.” 

None of his ‘questions’ are actually questions; his inflection does not go up, as Grian is not actually curious as to where he got the alcohol, rather he is tired of his shenanigans and trying desperately not to lose his mind. Scar kicks his feet and giggles, his hair leaking over and dangling in the air. 

“Why, I got it from the village, of course! Before I burnt down that house— you remember the one, don’t you, Grian? It seems those pesky villagers knew how to distill alcohol. Have you ever seen that before, Grian? Distilling alcohol? In a village? It’s madness!” 

Grian’s beady little eyes glare up at him from the ground floor. “Scar, I don’t think either of us have seen villagers before we got here. There’s not much we’ve seen.” 

Of course they have. They’ve had to. It was only natural— he knows it in his heart. But they can’t remember this fact. When Scar tries to hold onto the memory, it floats away from him. Things he should know dissolve between his fingers. Things he shouldn’t know linger on the back of his neck. 

He picks up his cane and walks downstairs. The slats of the window are tiny but if one squints and tilts their head in the right direction, then they can see the entire desert and forest sprawled out in front of them. The sands sometimes hold their footprints until the wind blows them away, covers the paths they’ve taken. They’re still working on building up a cactus wall as defense. 

The sandstone awards them a bit of coolness in the day. At night it becomes unbearable, as they both flock upstairs to try and conserve as much heat as possible. There’s always a careful distance they keep from each other in the day, but during the night it becomes impossible to do so. When Grian grumbles and pushes his nest towards Scar’s sleeping bag, curls up right next to him and nudges at his arms until they open and he can be enveloped by him, that’s when Scar truly feels like he’s back to being a person again. 

If they could mend the self inflicted rift that exists in the daytime… well, maybe Scar wouldn’t feel so prone to drinking. As it stands, though, Grian’s found his bottle of alcohol and he is not looking impressed.

“Say, have you ever had a drink before?” He asks as he peels the bottle out of Grian’s hand. He smells like the sun. He’s been out all day. 

Grian scoffs, his pretty features twisting a bit as he obviously thinks about it. “Of course I have! I-- well, I haven’t had one here, but I can only imagine I have before. In another life.”

In another life. If only they got to have that. Another life seems like an intangible dream. 

He hums thoughtfully. He’s only had a few drinks from this bottle. Just enough to stave off the gnawing anxiety and bloodlust that grows underneath his skin everyday. 

He starts to toss the bottle from hand to hand, watching the way the liquid inside jostles. “The taste was at least a little bit familiar to me when I tried some. I’ve definitely had it before! No clue when. I wonder what I liked to drink before I got here? That guy… the other me. I wonder what he was like.” 

He laughs but it doesn’t have much humour. 

And Grian’s eyes look softer when he finally peels his stare away from the droplets racing down the bottle. “Yeah, it would seem that bits of our past bled through into this life. Like, I can’t resist pressing a button or flicking a lever no matter how dangerous it may be. Other me must’ve been a right moron, don’t know how I lived to be… here.” A hum. “And redstone makes me… sad. As if I’ve lost something close to me. Something really important." His face falls. “I don’t get it.” 

Normally Grian only gets like this when the sun falls. Normally he’s guarded, witty, sharp; and Scar is much the same, each of them trying so desperately to preserve what little bits of dignity they have left here. Prideful people. Pride is such a sin, he can see it now. 

He sits down, stares at the swirling shapes of the sandstone on the wall. “Sometimes I can feel my brain try to remember my memories. Things important to me. People important to me. But it’s like there’s a… a block.” 

A strange warble comes from Grian. He makes those sounds sometimes-- bird sounds, that is, which makes a lot of sense given that he is a hybrid, but they only happen in specific circumstances. They’re different each time, from chirps to melodies to whistles to clicks. It happens when he’s bored, when he snuggles up next to Scar at night, when he accidentally hurts himself, when Pizza is being extra cute.

This sound is sad. It rings in his chest. 

“I’ve tried to ignore it.” Is what he admits after a few minutes. “I, um… grabbing this gave me one of those feelings like you described. It was as if I’d done this before. Not just with anyone. With you...” His voice gets real quiet at the end. 

Scar fights to keep his voice even as he responds. “Do… do you think we knew each other before?” Before we got thrown into hell. 

For Scar, the answer to that question is obvious: yes. He felt it as soon as he saw all of them. He felt something deep in his chest when he saw Grian, flashes of memories trying to bubble up to the surface but unable to. When Bdubs first spoke to him, he felt an immediate instinct to comment on his height-- which would have been very rude of him! They’d just met, after all!

Except they hadn’t. They’d known each other before. An election. A moon. A home. What even is he trying to remember? 

“I…” Another sound worms its way out of Grian. It’s more desperate, uncomfortable. He laughs it off awkwardly. “Can I try a sip of that alcohol? I think I suddenly need it.”

For the first time since they began talking, Scar really looks at Grian. His face is tight with stress, eyes shiny, nose flaring. His feathers are all fanned out, his ears twitching. In another life, Scar thinks maybe he also had wings. He can feel an absence on his back, like something has been missing all along, a vital piece of him.

Grian’s wings don’t work. None of the avians have actual working wings that can sustain them for a long period above the ground; they can all flutter, sure, but it’s as if their bodies aren’t made for it anymore despite them having these traits. 

He tries to make his smile as gentle as possible as he passes him the bottle. “Of course, of course! Would be downright cruel of me to make you handle this while sober!” He aims for a humorous tone, but the situation is so fucked up and strange that it falls flat. His smile is pulling painfully at the edges. 

Grian unscrews the bottle, smells it. He makes a face. He looks at him.

“I recommend not smelling it.” 

He rolls his eyes, then takes a swig of it. The face immediately turns to disgust. He swallows it, gagging, coughing, pounding his fist onto the table. It looks just like he did when he tried for the first time. It makes him start to laugh. 

“Scar!” He wails. “It tastes horrible!” 

“It does.” He swipes it from Grian, steeling himself before taking a sip. He only flinches a little bit this time. He looks to see if it impressed Grian, but the avian is flapping his hands, eyes screwed shut. Dangit. “It’s not supposed to taste nice, Grian! Because then you would drink all of it and it would be horrible. It’s the alcohol’s defense mechanism, y’see? It makes itself so bitter when you first take a sip that you run away immediately! That way you don’t drink it all right up and end up gettin’ yourself killed! But it doesn’t work on me.” 

For better or for worse.

Peeling his face off the table, Grian turns to glare at him. “Well, it could stand to taste a little less like… that. Maybe then it would hurt less people.” 

“I guess.” He studies the way the bottle glints in the diminishing daylight. “So… are you gonna have anymore?”

“Are you kidding me?” He scoffs. “Of course I am. Pass it here.”

[damianabsinthe]

Psychic Sobriety Chapter Two

            18+

This is the latest chapter of my fic! It features sexually frustrated Leon, and you two drinking together. There's about 10k words in this fic so far, so I'm posting these when I go back to edit.

Tags for this chapter: drinking, cigarettes, angst, pining,

word count: 2,484

◍◍◍◍◍◍◍◍◍◍◍◍◍◍◍◍◍◍◍◍◍◍◍◍◍◍◍◍

Leon couldn’t sleep. He was too close to you, could smell you too clearly. You smelled like the earth, like musk, too much like yourself for his heart to stop beating erratically. He was fine until you decided to curl closer to him in your sleep, blissfully unaware of his predicament. He felt much younger, in the most uncomfortable way possible. 

            When he was younger, he didn't understand how the world could be so unfair. His naïveté cost him, but it died as much like his joy after racoon city. He couldn’t save everyone. The deaths weighed him down so surely that he knew they would never go away. But they are accompanied by goodness whenever you are near. You made him feel happy, made him forget his regrets. 

            One thing he could not forget was the current pressing need to touch. But you were so skittish- almost repulsed by his touch. This was not how he wanted you to spend the night in his bed. He wanted you satisfied and sleepy from making love to you- no. Give up on that thought.

            Leon was not the casual sex type in his youth. He got too attached too quickly.  But now he looked for you in the backs of other people. He wanted your body, your hair, your smell. No one else was you. So, he fucked strangers- in the dark, from behind, imagining they were you. And now here you are, in his bed, both in the dark and on your stomach. It gave him a good view of the slope of your ass. Damnit.

            You shifted slightly closer to him. Leon prayed to the god he gave up on. It wasn't the first time he had slept next to you, long nights passing a bottle between the two of you will do that. But tonight was different, your demeanor changed. You got sloppy well before him. You kissed him before he knew what was happening. Then you begged him to take you- to make you cry. It was a lot to take in. The dynamic had suddenly shifted without warning. He wanted to bring you flowers, take you to dinner, and officially ask you to be his. And you would either say yes or no, but at least he would know. 

One thing he knew- he would save this friendship. Even if you didn’t mean it. Because you must not have. You wanted to be loved. But he didn’t want anyone else to love you like he did- he didn’t want anyone else touching you. He wanted every part of you, to have and to hold- no. 

He quieted his mind and paid attention to your breathing- sturdier than your waking breaths, with a jagged undertone. You smelled different when asleep. Were you having a nightmare? Your breaths became ragged, sweat collected on your brow. He nervously put a hand on your arm, the part covered by his shirt. God, the way you looked in his shirt, the way your smells blended... No. You are in trouble. No time to admire you. He gently shakes your arm. You stir quickly, waking with a panicked breath. 

“Are you okay?” Leon asks.

“Fuck.” You say, in lieu of an answer.

“Not tonight, dear.” He smirks at you. You merely look at him. You look uncomfortable, put on the spot. Leon regretted waking you up until you asked your question. 

“Can- Can we hold hands again?” Your voice sounded so small. And despite his better judgment, he allowed your hand to press into his. He didn’t need sleep anyway. Your hand felt perfect in his. Like they were meant to go together.

“What was your dream about?” He asked.

“Nothing good. Thanks for waking me.” You responded. 

“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” Leon said, voice soft. 

“It wasn’t the type of dream I’d like to relive. You were dead.” Leon was no stranger to losing people in his dreams. The amount of times he had woken up with the urge to call you, hold you, make sure you were alive, likely outnumbered yours. But you’ve been through hell in your own right. 

”I’m here.” He said dumbly. “And I’m not going anywhere. It’s been a while since I’ve been in the service.”

”You’ll stay here?” You ask, eyes wide, “With me?” He nods. He desperately wants to stay close to you. You had been the air bubbles escaping his mouth to show which way is up, which way to swim in an ocean of sadness, how to drown while holding your breath.

”I’m here now, aren’t I?” He asks. “Here, listen to my heartbeat again.” But instead of putting your hand on his chest like he expected, you pulled your entire body over top of his, letting your ear listen to his heartbeat. Leon tried to monitor his heart rate and breathing. You lay over top of him like you belonged there- and you did. He ran a hand over your hair, feeling the softness of the strands, feeling the shape of your head. 

            Your breathing evened out after a few minutes. He wondered how you could be so peaceful with him, with his hands in your hair like this. Don’t you know what these hands have done? 

            Your head was on his chest, leg strewn across his hip, as you rested completely unaware of his predicament. 

            This predicament was the pressing need between his legs. He adjusted you slightly so your leg wouldn’t make contact with his hip- almost groaning as it backfired on him, and you rubbed a leg directly over his crotch. The friction was a horrible sweetness. You were full of them, your hair was soft, you smelled so good, and you laid over top of him like you trusted him. 

            He desperately tried to suppress the images flashing through his mind- you riding his dick as you moan above him, kissing you goodnight as you lay tangled and naked together, moaning in your ear as you raked your nails down his back. His pulse quickened as he thought about his cock going into your tight, wet hole, made just for him… Fuck. He breathed hard, then stilled, worried about waking you. You merely kept sleeping, oblivious and gorgeous. He imagined his hand going down to his waistband, slipping it in, stroking himself while you lay asleep on top of him. He felt disgusting at the thought of violating you like that. Think, Leon… You’re underneath your best friend, the horniest you’ve been in years, and they have no idea. You can’t touch yourself without waking them up, and you can’t move them because you’re a selfish asshole that wants to memorize the feeling of their skin on yours. He cursed. Telling himself what a creep he is wasn’t helping, if anything it’s making the problem worse. You flexed your hand over his chest, wanting to feel the rise and fall of his breathing, even while asleep. Your hand moved along his nipple, and he whimpered like a bitch.

He had to move you. 

Your hand stilled over his other nipple, breast, his brain supplied unhelpfully. How could you possibly lay closer to him? He should have made a pillow wall. Not that he had enough pillows to make one. But it seemed like the kind of thing you would have done if you hadn’t wanted his closeness last night… fuck. Was he taking advantage of you? Was there a chance you would wake up the next morning regretting the feel of his skin on yours? He cursed again, more determined to switch your position without waking you. You had finally gone back to sleep, quicker than usual for you, and he didn’t want to disturb that. Cautiously, he took your hand and moved it to the side. Then he slid your body closer to your side, and further from him. You were now on your side. His body missed you. He wanted physical closeness with you again.

He sat up, planting his feet firmly on the floor. He looked in the pockets of his sweatpants absentmindedly, before remembering he didn’t want you to take his flask out of it when you were already too drunk. So it was still in his jacket, in the living room. 

He slunk out of the room quietly, hoping you wouldn’t stir further. After closing the door, he breathed a sigh of relief and walked normally out to the living room. He spotted his leather jacket slung over the back of a chair, and rifled through the pockets, forgetting which he stuck the bottle in last night in his drunken haze. After locating it, he twisted the cap off and took a sip of whiskey. It felt buttery smooth in his mouth, a testament to how much he needed it. He was desperate for a drink after his rush of hormones and unpleasantness of having them. He was getting too old for crushes. He needed to fuck you and get it out of his system. But he couldn’t, because how could be content with one time? How could he be happy when you leave him with the taste of yourself on his lips and the cold shock of your absence?

His cock was still hard. No amount of whiskey could give him the limp dick he needed to communicate his feelings to you effectively. He could always show you, get his dick wet from your eager lips or desperate cunt… but talking should come first. Talking should always come before he does. He took another swig of whiskey. It burnt his throat as it filled his stomach with warmth. They say lonely people take hotter showers, to feel the warmth they lose from their solitude. He imagines drinking is the same, you replace the warmth of life with the burn of alcohol. 

Leon’s mouth felt dry, his cock still achingly hard, heartbeat erratic. He needed to touch himself. Would you hear him if you woke up? He knew he had to be quiet. He leaned back on the couch, where you had drunkenly kissed him several hours before. It still smelled a bit like you. He wrapped his hand around his cock beneath his underwear, sighing. He took himself out fully, letting the cold air kiss his cock. He was desperate for you. Your cunt must have been so wet to ask him to fuck you… and he wishes he could have taken care of it. He imagines grabbing your hips instead, saying absolutely, you can have me. All of me. Saying I will make you scream so hard you’ll forget everything but my name. 

He stroked himself harder, imagining a world with your cunt around his throbbing cock, wet and eager to be filled by him. He imagined you moaning his name, bouncing on his cock, taking what you wanted. He let out a stifled moan. He was always a loud one, letting his pleasure be known. But now was not the moment to be seen-or heard- by you. You were asleep just a few hundred feet away. Your mere presence in the building shouldn’t be enough to get him up, but it's happened multiple times before. 

He brought a hand up to his mouth, silencing any further moans from slipping through. His other hand was busy with his cock, mind going through pictures of your body- from behind, from above, watching you bend over, and imagining you sucking his cock. He let out a loud moan, then cursed himself for it. Moaning loudly was not a desirable trait for most male partners to have. He hoped you liked it loud. Not that it should matter what you liked, because if he wakes you up and you come in here, he will never get to know. He imagined you walking in now, all sleepy and curious. Seeing him here working his cock, you say would you like some help? And he would say hey, I've got a job for you, babe. Or- something smoother. Damnit Leon, he thought, be cool.

“You look like you need a hand,” you say, licking your lips.

“Hey dollface,” Leon replies, smooth as a whistle. “I didn’t wake you, did I?” You shake your head. Then you look at his dick and come closer.

“Mind if I join in?” You ask. Leon nods. You come over and sit between his knees, mouth open and waiting. He feeds his cock into your mouth- no, you kiss the tip of his cock before asking:

“May I?” he nods, you slurp- no, you gently take it in- no, you-

“Ugh.” Leon was broken out of the spell with his own nervousness, unsure of what you would do or even want to do. He hated the shame of thinking of you like this. As if you were only for his pleasure, for him to use- God damnit. 

            It had been almost ten years since las plagas, and he hasn’t been the same since. He hasn't been the same since most of his missions. He takes the hand off his mouth and uses it to take another sip of whiskey. If you were here, he’d offer you a chaser. You hadn’t been the heavy drinker he is. It was only recently that you started getting further into it, not knowing where to stop, or ignoring your limits entirely, as if you were trying to drown something out. Leon knew that feeling well and didn’t want to pry- you would tell him on your own time. 

            He ran his hand absentmindedly down his length, imagining it was your hand. He moaned again, so small he was sure you wouldn’t hear. He let himself fall into his fantasies.

You’re wearing your customary all black ensemble, clothes hugging your body as you take a shot of whiskey, chasing it with a drag of your cigarette. You’re on the balcony, body heat pressing into him.

“Those things will kill you; you know.” He jokes, you roll your eyes to look up at the stars.

“That’s kind of the idea.” You reply. He looks past your sadness.

“Have you ever considered that there are people that want you to live?” He says. You scoff.

“It’s a little too late for that.” You say, a tinge of regret in your voice. You pass him the bottle. He thrusts it out to the moon. 

“To being too late.” He cheers. You take out your cigarette and gesture it to the moon. 

“To being too late,” You echo. He takes a large sip. You take a long drag.  Your mouths are busy but not with each other. 

Leon came three times that night imagining those lips wrapped around his dick. But the night he sat on the couch with his dick in hand as you slept in his bed, he merely palmed himself, frustrated. 

[courtanie]

Okay but like there's a fundamental problem with the common headcanon/wish for the show where Husk gambles Valentino for Angel's soul. (Mind you this doesn't apply to AUs where Husk still has his soul, this is regarding the canon timeline, but I digress.)

Husk would (or SHOULD) know better than to go that route. How did Husk lose his soul again? The man knows how severe the consequences are when you lose that gamble. And Alastor owns his soul so he can't put that on the line, so it's literally going to be 'does Val get full ownership of Angel's soul or none of it'. That is an insane amount of stakes, no matter how confident he is that Val's stupidity will outweigh the potential for his loss. But before 'Loser, Baby' when he's talking to Angel about his loss to Alastor, he's speaking of regret, of understanding the consequences that he inflicted upon himself. So WHY would he potentially put Angel through that? Yes on one side is freedom, but on the other is him knowing that he caused Angel to become completely ensnared. (Great for angst fic, horrible for actual canon plotline god can you imagine.)

And furthermore, giving that role to Husk really belittles what is looking to be a main arc of Angel's character, which is him gaining his agency back. Listen, I want Husk involved in his freedom coming to fruition, desperately, (and vice versa), but Husk shouldn't be the main cause of said freedom. Angel shouldn't once more find himself as just a pretty little toy with no real say in his fate. We can make an argument that Angel could be the one that asks Husk to do that so it's technically "his" decision, but that would detract just the same I feel. Like sure, let the fight start with Husk, but Angel needs to be the one to finish it.

Angel learning to trust is another important part to his arc, but there's a difference between trust and handing over the fate of your soul to yet another person. Such a scenario would come with an underlying feeling of owing Husk something even if Husk insists he doesn't, and what could make their relationship so special is neither of them feeling obligated to be with the other one, they just want to be. That's a freedom neither of them have had for a long time and taking that opportunity from them, even subconsciously, just seems cruel.

[lulublack90]

New chapter. The girls are back and Sirius makes a plan.

[quatregats]

Barbara Wellesley deserves her own series I need to see into her messed-up mind as well

[iridescentis]

- a bad egg and a feminist lesbian 💚🤍

It's Mischa's seventeeth birthday, and he spends the early hours of it on the roof of the Saint Cassian dormitories, with a drink and an unlikely new friend.

It's a day late, but here is a short barely-a-celebration Mischa birthday oneshot! It's barely over 2k, probably not that coherent but it's a new AU! I kinda love this AU ngl it's so cute and could be a cool thing to revisit in more oneshots perhaps 👀Tell me what you think and I hope you enjoy!

Link

[smallsinger5901]

i feel like a gambler like TODAY will be the day i finish the gevanni backstory fic i swear… no..? Well then TOMORROW

[thethyri]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐎𝐟 𝐖𝐮𝐥𝐟𝐰𝐲𝐧𝐧❟ 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞❟ ❝ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐥𝐟 ❞

𖦹. 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ₊̇*⸼ The day Wulfwynn was cruelly torn from the life she had always known was a crisp day of autumn. When the green leaves of the trees turn brown and the wind grows colder. The day Wulfwynn miraculously stumbled upon Uhtred and his companions in the depths of the woods was a cold day of autumn. When the lakes are blanketed with frost and the fields are bare. And yet, despite the frost and the wounds, Wulfwynn met her destiny that day.

𖦹. 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 *𖧧₊‧ Days and days. Cold night and colder days yet. Days running, fleeing. Fearing for her life. Until God sent her Uhtred and his men.

𖦹. 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏𝐒 ₊̇*⸼ Finan x Wulfwynn of Northumbria (Original Female Character) x Sihtric Kjartansson, Finan x Wulfwynn of Northumbria (Original Female Character) x Sihtric Kjartansson x Uhtred of Bebbanburg, Finan x Wulfwynn of Northumbria (Original Female Character), Sihtric Kjartansson x Wulfwynn of Northumbria (Original Female Character), Uhtred of Bebbanburg x Wulfwynn of Northumbria (Original Female Character), Osferth x Ealhflæd of Cent (Original Female Character), Leofric x Mereswyth of Wessex (Original Female Character).

𖦹. 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 *𖧧₊‧ Alternate Universe, Canon Divergence, Show Divergence, Not Canon Compliant, Not Show Compliant, Canon Rewrite, Show Rewrite, Show Dialogues, Canonical Character Death, Non-Canonical Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Multiple Graphic Descriptions of Wounds, Multiple Graphic Descriptions of Battles And Post-Battles, Blood On Several Occasions, Period-Typical Sexism, Slow Burn, Sexual Content, Mild-Sexual Content, Multiple Graphic Smuts (Ratings Specified In Concerned Chapters), Multiple Non-Graphic Smuts, Protective Finan, Possessive Finan, Finan Needs A Hug, Finan Backstory, Protective Sihtric, Jealous Sihtric, Adorable Sihtric, Sihtric Backstory, Protective Uhtred, Uhtred Is A Little Shit, Soft Osferth, Adorable Osferth, Osferth Backstory, Leofric Lives, Clapa Lives.

𖦹. 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 *𖧧₊‧ Mild-Graphic Description of Bruises And Injuries.

𖦹. 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 ₊̇*⸼ 2,912k.

𖦹. 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐘 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 *𖧧₊‧ Just so you know, my timeline is just a bit different from the books and show. At first, I had planned to stick to the books' timeline, but it would have made Uhtred (and therefore Finan and Sihtric) too old for Wulfwynn. Well, I speak of Finan and Sihtric but, in the books, Finan's age is not precised (nor is Osferth's) and, as for Sihtric, when he meets Uhtred, he does not know his own age and Uhtred apparently guesses that he's somewhere around 14 years old. The show's timeline encapsulated two books per season, meaning that by season 3, Uhtred would have been between 34-44 years old (yes, because if we follow that logic, it means that each season stretches on a period of time of 10 years, which, you will agree, is clearly not the case). That is why I decided to twist the timeline a bit and rearrange the ages to my own preference. No, about Finan. It is my own headcanon that he is not younger than Uhtred, but just slightly older than him by 3 years. For Sihtric, I wanted him to younger than both Uhtred and Finan (as in the show and books) and therefore closer to Wulfwynn's age but still older than her. Now, about Osferth, in the books we know he is already born when Uhtred spies on Alfred at the age of 10 but it is not precised when he was born. So I just kind of guessed and twisted things again to make him the age I liked when he joined Uhtred. And, for Clapa, to me (in the show, at least, because I have only read the first book at the moment) he was clearly older than Uhtred by, at least, 9 years.

That being said, this story still contains huge age gaps. Uhtred is 16 years older than Wulfwynn, Finan is 19 years older, and Sihtric is 6 years older. Adding to that the gap that already exists between Uhtred, Finan and Sihtric, since Uhtred is 10 years older than him and Finan is 13 years older. In real life, these differences in ages would be quite problematic, but here, we are in a fictional story and as long as these examples are not transferred to real life, it is still acceptable.

Also, I mean to stretch my story from season 3 to season 5 and even perhaps to the Seven Kings Must Die, but I do not know yet. So I will keep a timeline updated in the notes at the beginning of each chapter so you do not lose yourself too much ahah!

𖦹. 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄 ₊̇*⸼ 892-895 AD ⵓ 6th November 892 AD - 9th November 892 AD ⨾ Uhtred is 34-37 yo ⨾ Finan is 37-40 yo ⨾ Sihtric is 24-27 yo ⨾ Clapa is 43-44 yo ⨾ Osferth is 29-32 yo ⨾ Wulfwynn is 18-21 yo.

THE VODKAS MENU. + THE SERIE MENU. + CHAPTER TWO. + Archive Of Our Own.

SOMEWHERE BETWEEN CIPPANHAMM AND MELKSHAMM, WESSEX, 892 AD.

            Fear. Dread . It crept its way into the heart, maliciously, viciously, its hideous claws jagged, and hooked, burrowing in its throbbing flesh. It gnawed venomously into the guts, tangled into hundreds of hundreds of tightly knitted knots. It crawled malevolently into the lungs, its coarse scales scraping, and into the throat, its rugged tongue scratching. It soaked bitterly into the bones, into the marrow, cold, terribly cold.

            Wulfwynn was devoured with fear. Wrecked with dread. She felt the ache in her limbs, the burn in her lungs. She felt the cold whipping at the crusted scratches that littered her knuckles, her palms, her knees and her muddy heels. She felt the soreness of the swelled bruises that dotted her thighs, her arms and her wrists, her neck and her ankles, and her cheeks. They scattered across her body, mingled with her freckled flesh, scarlet and maroon, melded with her delicate moles, purply and olive.

            Wulfwynn felt utterly terrified.

            Twiddled branches and tangled roots scrapped at her calves and knees as she delved into the depths of the woods. Breathy sobs escaped her chapped lips, while the cold that chilled her lungs licked at the salty tears that soaked her cheeks. The writhed birches swallowed the misty, gloomy skies, engulfed the pallid gleam that shimmered between their leaves. And they’d swallow Wulfwynn too. They'd swallow her whimpers, and they'd choke her with their branches, they’d throttle her with their roots—

            Wulfwynn sobbed panickedly, as she whisked hurriedly between the pines and the bushes, her heart onto her tongue.

            They’d scratch, and scrape, and rasp, and snarl and sneer and—

            A strangled yelp choked in her throat as she stumbled onto a root. She swayed abruptly and fell. Whimpers and whines of throbbing anguish and nauseous panic swirled through the cinnamon and crimson leaves that twirled around Wulfwynn as she hurtled down the muddy hill. And she gasped breathlessly as she slammed into a thick trunk.

            Wulfwynn clutched the bark, chafing her fingers, and wobbled, then rose quiveringly, but rose nonetheless, before her heel slipped in the mud and she tumbled again. She grunted as she fell, and fell, and fell, down the hill, down, down, until she landed into the dirt. Wulfwynn laid into the leaves and the dirt, perhaps an eternity, perhaps an instant, furled and shuddering, her heart throbbing into her temples and her knees and elbows aching.

            But, though she struggled, arose onto her palms. Bitter tears fell from her reddened cheeks, from her chin, onto her scratched, scarred fingers and between her knuckles. And then, a shout resonated through the pines, 

            “Lord !”

            Fear gripped at Wulfwynn’s heart with it crooked claws. She fumbled panickedly with her kirtles and skirts, shuffled and tumbled, and wobblily arose, but fell onto her knees with a frustrated whine. She huffed shakily.

            “Lord !” Wulfwynn prayed. She prayed fervently, as the worried yell swivelled in the chilly whiff. “Are ye— Are ye alright?” She’d have chuckled, but Wulfwynn merely sobbed. “Ye’re— Uhtred !”

            She peered hesitantly and her glance landed onto the cross that dangled before her teary eyes. A heavy huff tickled her cheek.

            “Ye’re alright, lass, ye’re alright,” He murmured quietly as he knelt. She felt his pity, his gentleness and his kindheartedness, and she sniffled. Her heart swelled. “Ye’ll be alright, I promise.”

            Wulfwynn nodded meekly. His soft promise poured onto her sore scratches and scrapes, syrupy and smooth and warm. Her heart seared with a sour tincture of gratitude and lament, with a driblet of reassurance and a splatter of solace. Her glance anchored into umber orbs, tinged with warmth and kindness, and worry.

            “Finan.” A whistle tickled Wulfwynn's guts. “ Finan !”

            “Lord,” Finan startled, as he leapt onto his muddy boots. Wulfwynn shivered as the chill tickled at her neck. "She's hurt, Lord."

            “Hurt?” The Lord —Uhtred, she assumed— inquired, with doubt and incertitude. And a tinge of scepticism. “Quite hurt.” Finan affirmed, and nodded.

            A chiffchaff chirped. “Lord?” Queried a soft murmur. “She indeed seems quite unwell.”

            The Lord’s glance landed unto the salty tears that streaked her cheeks, unto her bruises, and her scratches and scrapes, and she felt oddly, yet agreeably, absorbed into the frosty depths her eyes plunged into. His stare felt cold, but she embraced that cold. She felt queerly reassured, comforted, shrouded into that cold. The Lord hummed quietly. And nodded. Wulfwynn huffed a breath of relief.

            Finan knelt beside her, his knees in the mud, and she felt his warmth caress her as he wrapped an arm around her waist. Wulfwynn grabbed her tattered kirtles, and Finan muttered, “ Jesus .” as he glanced at her legs. She grasped his hand, hers frail and fragile in his callused palm. She grunted with anguish, as she struggled to arise, but her knees buckled.  

            Finan's hold tightened, "Gently, gently." he reassured her softly, "Osferth!" he beckoned with a whistle and a nod. Saddle buckles rattled, leaves rustled and an arm slithered across her back. “Apologies, Lady.” and Wulfwynn uttered a quavery huff. 

            “Gently.” Finan repeated as Wulfwynn arose slowly. “Alright. We’ll get ye onto Sihtric’s horse.” 

            Osferth nodded. He gently took ahold of her elbow, and they strode to the horses. They approached Sihtric’s horse, and Wulfwynn glanced at the silhouette sat astride its saddle, shrouded in furs, as Sihtric’s stare anchored into hers. She felt Finan’s warmth fade when he stepped back and unbuckled his cloak's buckle, before he wrapped the warm, woollen garment around Wulfwynn’s shuddery shoulders. 

            “It’ll keep ye warm.” Finan murmured as he tucked the hood on Wulfwynn's messy, tousled curls and tresses. “Ye’ll ride with Sihtric. Alright?” 

            She nodded. Finan approached the horse and leaned down. He cupped his callused hands, fingers knotted, and Wulfwynn grasped his arm as she hesitantly placed her heel in his palm. "Alright. I'll hoist ye there and Sihtric will get ye, huh?" Wulfwynn hummed and, quite facilely, Finan lifted her. She gracelessly threw her leg across the saddle and, as he told her, Sihtric grabbed her. “Ye’re good?”

            “Good.” Wulfwynn muttered with a nod. Finan’s eyes widened at the hoarseness of her mutter but he nodded nonetheless. 

            He and Osferth hopped back onto their horses. Wulfwynn fidgeted a bit, and grabbed Sihtric's thick, woolly ebony mantle with her fingertips. But he felt it and turned, and gently grasped her wrist before he wrapped it across his chest. 

            Wulfwynn jolted when he softly spoke, “You may hold on.” And, although timidly, Wulfwynn slipped her arms around Sihtric’s waist. Her fingers gripped the crisscrossed leather of his cotte, and her fingertips stroked the fur that flanked its edges. The scents of cinders and smoke, of dust and caked mud and hay tickled her nostrils. Yet she felt oddly soothed as she faintly breathed into the heavy wool. 

            “We ride!” then hailed Uhtred. 

            Wulfwynn’s legs dangled from the horse’s rump, and swayed slightly with his sturdy strides. The muffled thud of hooves as they rustled dead leaves, the snorts of the horses, the chirps of the birds and the warmth of Sihtric's furs cradled Wulfwynn. And slowly, as she fell into slumber, her head lolled and bobbed, and then, settled between Sihtric's shoulders. 

            And Wulfwynn slept, as much as she hadn't slept in weeks.

₊‧𒀭⋆₊

            The noisy hustle and bustle of Wintanceaster was quite pleasant. With the yells of its merchants, as they tempted the villagers with their trouts and lampreys, their hot loaves of oat breads, their goat cheeses, and their turnips and parsnips, and their pears. The bright, merry talks of the villagers. The jolly chuckles and giggles of the children. 

            Wintanceaster was noisy and Finan basked in its noisiness.

            He particularly appreciated this noisiness, as it differed considerably from the howls and yells that engulfed the field. As well as the smells. The scents of mud sodden, thickened with blood, of tangy sweat and barf were, at Wintanceaster, the scents of roasted pork and latterly brewed barley ale that wafted from the taverns. 

            Yet, this bustle hadn't awakened the lass, whose scratched and scraped arms were wrapped across Sihtric's chest, and whose reddened, bruised cheek was squooshed against his back, although she was shrouded with Finan’s hood. But Sihtric wasn’t bothered in the least. 

            “We'll take her to mine." declared Finan, as they strided towards the stables. 

            A snort. "Really? Huh." Clapa chuckled wickedly. He glared at the Dane. "Well, we're not gonna get her to yers, are we?" Finan retorted. 

            “He’d frighten her.” Uhtred sniggered, as he glanced at the giant. Clapa smirked.

            “Frighten her? I’m but meek, sweet and gentle as a lamb, Lord.” He protested, and Uhtred chuckled, “Huh-uh.”

            They approached the stables and alighted from their steeds. Finan felt the soreness in his legs as he neared Sihtric’s horse. He nodded towards Clapa, “Can ye take her?” and the Dane contourned the horse. He held his arms towards the lass, and Sihtric gently peeled her hands from the crisscrosses of his cotte, before Clapa slithered an arm across her back, as she slipped into his arms, and then slithered a hand beneath her legs. “I’ve got her.”

            "Alright." Finan nodded. The muddy strands of straw of the stables crumpled beneath the soles of Sihtric's boots, when he leaped from his horse.

            The lass’ forehead was nestled in Clapa’s neck, and the hood had flopped back a tad from her head. Finan’s glance fell onto the maroon and olive bruises that dotted her cheeks and chin, the scarlet slit that carved in the slope of her nose and the split etched into her plump, chapped lip.  

            He then turned to Osferth, “We’ll need yer balms and herbs.” 

            “Aye.” he nodded and hurried to fetch the leather satchel on his saddle. 

            They then took her to Finan's. He didn't quite considered it— well, considered it what? A haven? His? His haven? Nah, his haven was Coccham. This was but a humble, wooden hut, scarcely adorned, with a bed padded with straw and wool, draped with a few woollen and linen pillows and blankets, and a few furs. A table, scattered with bowls, melted candles and a hutch of trinkets, stood in the corner, with three stools. Light linen sheers flanked the walls, near the bed, while a wooden chest sat beside it, and a bench stood in the corner, near the entrance. 

            Clapa settled the lass onto the bed, with greater gentleness than Finan had hoped, and, with care, Finan unbuckled the buckle of his coat and slipped the wool from the lass' frail, delicate silhouette, before Clapa laid her tousled head onto the pillows. 

            “‘Tis still as modest as it was the last I was here.” enthused Uhtred, as he entered the hut with Osferth and Sihtric. 

            Finan stared at the lass an instant, and then turned to Osferth. He startled and hurried to the table and, amongst the wooden bowls, grabbed the dusty pestle and mortar. He then brought the herbs onto the table from his satchel, and glanced at the sleeper before he took the yarrow. 

            They stared quietly at the monk, as he grabbed the pestle and mashed the dried yarrow into the mortar. He then grabbed a bowl and poured a quaff of his gourd, and sprinkled the dried plant. Osferth then took the bowl and told Finan, “It’ll soothe her body.” 

            Finan took the bowl and nodded. Softly, he knelt onto the bed's edge, and slowly tickled the beverage between the lass' chapped lips. 

            “Then?” Sihtric queried as he neared the table. Osferth took the bowl back. "Then," he mumbled, as he tossed plants in the wooden bowl, and took the pestle, "I'll tend to those scrapes and scratches with chamomile," he grimaced, as though he was scraped and scratched, "and soothe her bruises with nettle." 

            Sihtric glanced at the lass and the frown between her brows. And a tinge of concern tickled his chest. Osferth grinded the chamomile and the nettle in the bowl, and then poured a quaff, “She’ll heal.” he assured, as he approached the bed and settled on the edge. 

            “But she’ll need a while. She’s quite enfeebled.” he murmured softly, and placed the bowl onto the woollen blankets. “But she’ll heal.”

₊‧𒀭⋆₊

            Wulfwynn felt cradled. 

            Shrouded in the softness of the wool of Cynefrith's sleeves across her hips, and swaddled in the warmth of Eadgyth's skirts and kirtles, her legs entangled with hers. She felt utterly well.

            She hadn’t felt well in quite a while. But between Cynefrith and Eadgyth, she felt soothed. 

            Yet, Wulfwynn stirred in her slumber. She nestled her nose in Eadgyth's tangled and tousled tresses, and hummed with contentment when the scents of chamomile tickled her nostrils. She felt Cynefrith’s gentle breath tickle the back of her neck. 

            Wulfwynn sighed with delight. She laced her fingers with Cynefrith’s, and Eadgyth wrapped her arm around them, and cuddled them. 

            And an ache clutched at her chest.  

            Wulfwynn’s brows furrowed. She huddled and clutched Cynefrith's lithe fingers, and snuggled into Eadgyth's neck. But she gasped as her chest tightened. 

            And she sobbed. Whiffs of cinders and embers, of nettle and of dust swamped her nostrils and tickled her guts. She sobbed, and sobbed, as the ache clawed at her heart. 

            Sleep left her, slowly, so slowly it felt an eternity. 

            Her sight remained blurred a moment before she discerned the shutters, and the pale gleams of the morn that crept between them. Then she glanced beside her. But Eadgyth was not there. And when she turned and peered above her shoulder, Cynefrith was not there either. And then, she remembered. 

            The yells, the tears. The lake. The sobs, the pleas. The plains. The blood. 

            Cynefrith was not there. 

            Eadgyth was not there.

            They were not here.

            Wulfwynn whimpered. There was neither Eadgyth nor Cynefrith. There were not their embraces, merely linen blankets and furs. There was not their warmth, just a woollen and straw mattress. They were not there. 

            She sobbed, her hands clutched at her chest. She sobbed, her scraped and scratched knees beneath her chin. She sobbed, muffled into the blankets. She did not hear the squeak of the wooden door and the creak of the boots onto the floorboards. 

            “Lass?” 

            Wulfwynn perked and winced. "Ye're awake, at last." Finan huffed, as the concern that etched his face melted into relief. Wulfwynn's tears trickled from her cheeks and wetted the blankets. Finan approached the bed. 

            “Ye’re alright, lass. Ye’re alright.” he reassured her. But Wulfwynn wasn’t alright. 

            Her lips quivered, “I,” she huffed quietly, feebly, “I fled, but I—” and faltered, “I fled,” 

            “Hey, hey,” Finan neared her, and she felt her heart thump, "I— I fled but I—" she sobbed, "But—" And Finan gently seated at the bed's edge, “Hey, ye’re alright, lass, ye’re alright.” he repeated. “Ye’re fine,” he murmured softly. 

            Alright. She was alright. Wulfwynn nodded. Was she alright? She wasn not quite. But she nodded nonetheless. Her sobs ebbed. She felt, as she had felt with Uhtred, oddly, yet agreeably, comforted and reassured when her eyes anchored into Finan’s. But she felt terribly feeble too. And sore. 

            “Ye shouldn't tire yerself too much. Ye're still weak and ye haven't eaten yet.” he uttered prudently, as though he feared he might frighten her. “Ye’ve slept quite a bit and Osferth has tended to yer,” he swallowed, “wounds.”

            Wulfwynn glanced down at her hands, wrapped in thin strips of linen, folded around her thumbs and knotted in the crook of her palms. The whiffs of chamomile and nettle wafted to her nose when she wiggled her fingers. She noticed she was no longer garbed in her shredded skirts and kirtles, drenched with sweat, sullied with guts and smeared with mud and dust, but a linen shift that smelt of sage. Hence why she had felt so comfortable in her slumber. And she frowned. If she’d been changed, then had they—

            “We haven’t.” Finan assured, halting her thoughts, as though he knew what she was wondering. “Osferth merely tended to the wounds on yer arms and legs. Yer virtue is untarnished. Lord Uhtred's sister and Abbess Hild tended to those he couldn't. And then changed ye.” 

            She nodded shyly. “W-Where,” she licked her lips, “Where are we?” 

            “Wintanceaster, Lady.”

            He stood from the bed and went to the table, in the corner, where there were three stools and, scattered onto the table, dusty baubles and wooden plates, bowls and cups. “Have I,” she straightened slightly and grimaced, “H-Have I slept long?”

            He picked a goblet and grabbed the jug, near a plate in which there were the scraps of a meal. Wulfwynn then wondered if they had remained there while she slept. “About three days. Since we arrived.” 

            “Oh.” she murmured. Finan returned to the bed and handed her the goblet. She whispered her thanks, and wondered if he had heard her, but as he nodded, she thought he must have. She took a sip and felt the soreness of her throat. 

            Then her stomach rumbled.

            Her cheeks dusted with embarrassment and she coughed. She had not eaten but a few berries in days, and had eaten aught but stale bread in weeks. The mere sight of the scraps of a meal had her stomach growl. 

            "Ye must be famished." Finan frowned, as if concerned. He then nodded, as though approving a thought he'd just had. "Alright. I'll get Hild fer ye and we'll take ye to the tavern. I'll be quick." 

            He then turned on his heels and strode out of the hut.

CHAPTER TWO. + Archive Of Our Own.

©TheThyri. All rights content belong to @thethyri​​. Do not repost, translate or plagiarize my works in any way or on any other platform without my permission. Gifs rightfully belong to @dailytlk.

[viccyfics]

Still on the tracks

chapter 9: what's better, revenge or an apology?

Dinah and Greaseball try to help, but how does CB actually feel about Turnov now?

(please read the notes)

READ ON AO3