#another arthur nonsense spewing

[owchie-wowchie]

Barneston is important because Tom getting in a relationship with Becky shows that he's moving on from Jane and beginning to heal while Becky feels like she's unforgivable and awful for what she did but Tom's love for her disproves that

[boriwave]

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐋𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐔𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 — An Arthur Morgan X Reader fic

Wip, it's still a draft. The full thing will be posted in a month or two.

The gentle but bright arms of Mother Sun snuck through the cracks of that old tent and shook the outlaw awake. With an annoyed groan, he peered his eyes open, only to stare at the ceiling of that tent.

“God damn it…” He cursed to himself, considering if going back to sleep was a good idea, after all, if he did, it would mean seeing you again.

You, that young thing with the most captivating eyes he’s ever seen; you, who always had your hands covered in dirt from slaving away in your father’s farm; you, who he hasn’t seen in well over ten years.

It was strange, Arthur hadn’t even thought of your name in a long while but the moment the gang moved camps again, to an area surrounded by a forest, you appeared in his mind like a ghost.

At first, it started with little mnemonics showing up in his dreams, followed by your scent carried in the wind, to finally culminate in a repetitive dream he couldn’t escape from. A dream, that’s more of a memory of the day he lost you, that’s been hunting him for over two months now.

Arthur wasn’t sure what to feel about said dream, he didn’t even know what to feel about you— he never did. He knew he felt something but whatever that was was explained away as he was using you as a mere distraction from Mary. However, that didn’t explain the storm of butterflies that was once present in his stomach, or how he could get lost in those gentle but exhausted eyes of yours.

“Get yourself together, Morgan…” With one last rub to his eyes, Arthur forced himself on his feet and got ready for the day. He followed the same routine as always: get dressed, wash his teeth, trim his beard, eat and try to escape Dutch’s usual morning yapping, in which he failed at the latter.

Like usual, the new found memory of you didn’t leave his brain throughout the morning. Maybe that’s why he stuck around to whatever nonsense Dutch spewed that morning instead of finding whatever excuse he could find to walk away— even now, being nowhere to be seen, you had that ability to make life a bit more bearable.

Time blurred as Arthur made his daily chores, even going out of his way this time around to help out with the horses— really, he found himself doing anything and everything to escape those beautiful memories of those feelings, whatever they were, but to no avail.

He wrote about his feeling, or tried, but even your image— or whatever he could remember — plagued those yellow-ish pages. He couldn’t escape you no matter what he tried.

Was this his punishment for leading the life he did? For being so cruel as to use your being as another distraction from the woman he was so deeply in love with? Because that’s all you were, a physical wall to keep his aching heart from thinking about Mary— or, at least, you were at first.

Time went by quickly and before Arthur knew it, he found himself staring up at his tent once more with his mind racing with memories he thought were locked and buried deep inside his conscious.

“This is the best day of my life.” Your voice, as sweet and gentle as the first day he met you, echoed in the chambers of his mind, forcing him to stay awake. “Promise you’ll never leave me, Arthur…”

Those words from a time long ago rang through his mind like church bells during early sunday morning. The irony of it all was sickening— wicked even.

And Arthur could do nothing but resent and love you all the same.

[haiky-u-lously]

King Kuroo and the Red Knights (11)

Summary:

A Camelot AU where King Arthur is Kuroo Tetsuro, and the Knights of the Roundtable of characters from seasons 1-4 of the HQ anime. Eventual Kuroo X Reader.

Themes:

Action/fighting/killing, dead bodies, Fluff, Angst, Humor, Eventual Romance

Warnings:

Mentions of stalking and abuse of power, Language, Angst in feelings, Gore and fighting, mention of explosion, mention of seeing dead bodies

Word Count:

For Chapter: ~3800words                     

Questions/Comments/Concerns/Ideas welcome as always.

Teru v. Satori

Miya twins fight.

Who wins the first bout of the tourney?

I know, I've disappeared for awhile. And I truly am sorry, but life gets in the way, right? And that issue from summer 2020 has persisted and made life mostly...not worth appreciating. But I decided if I can push past the pain on the daily to do things I dont like, I can find a little bit of time throughout the month to do something I do also. Thus my decision to start writing for this once more came to fruition and I am able to present this chapter update. I don't think chapter 12 will be done until end of next month, but I think monthly updates should be agreeable as its better than nothing...

As Always, questions, comments, concerns, ideas and such are always welcome! Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy.

–Admin Red

Chapter 11: Round 1A

You and Suga approached the stadium set up for the first round of the tournament, large crowds of Camelot’s citizens overtaking the grounds and standing around the tents put up for the fighters to use before and between bouts.

“Oi! Sugawara!” You’d heard called, both your friend and you turned to the person calling for his attention. “I was just sent to find you two. Kuroo wants you up in the space he’d prepared for Yuurei so you can enjoy watching the show as much as the residents of Camelot. Follow me if you will.”

Suga nodded before motioning for you to follow the attendant’s lead first. Both of you taking in the sights along your path.

The small flags and banners flying in the sky, attached to sticks or just held by the people attending the tournament, hearing the screams of excitement as passerbys tried to get into the stands--for what you presumed were attempts to get good positions to watch the fights that were about to begin--it was a lot to take in.

“Is it generally this crazy come tournament times?” Suga yell-asked the man weaving your pair through the throngs of civilians.

He smiled back at your companion before answering with his own scream, “Nah, we just haven’t had all the knights of Camelot fight in the same tournament in a long stretch, so this is a pretty big occasion for its citizens.”

You waved to Suga as you sent your question to his mind so he could ask for you.

“Ah, the Red Knight wants to know what the different flags are for, that everyone has!” He screamed just as your trio broke through the group still pushing for entry into the stands.

Futakuchi laughed as he pointed out the tents littered around the ground and then back to the flags, “Basically it’s who the citizen’s are rooting for to win.”

“Really?” Suga asked in disbelief, mirroring your expression despite him not being able to see your face.

“Yea, see. Different knights have those they prefer to work with, so the first time we’d had a tournament like this Kuroo set up groups for the people to pick and choose who they wanted to cheer on by their colors. And, to all our surprise the citizens got really into it.” 

Futakuchi laughed, still leading your pair around to your destination. “Some are alone, like Teru’s, all his fans carry the mostly yellow flag and he gets the yellow tent. But others are one unit, so the people cheer for everyone, like Yamagata, Ushijima, Semi, and Satori. See their tent, the flags used to cheer for them are also purple and white.”

You laughed to yourself before nudging Suga to get his attention, then thrusted your chin towards Futakuchi to show you wanted to know who he had as cheerleaders, if any.

“Ha!” He cackled out, shocking the brunet leading you and making him face your friend questionably, “Does anyone cheer for you? Which color flag represents your fans?”

“Wow, rude. To think I went to all the trouble to make sure you two would be represented with flags and fans as well.” He tsk’d back teasingly in return, “Just so you know, I am grouped with Aone, so all the white with dark teal flags and banners represent our fans.”

Suga nodded, playing impressed at the statement, “Aone’s fans sure are nice to cheer for the King’s servant alongside him.”

“Yea, they are---oh shut up! You have no room to talk since none of Camelot’s citizens have even seen you fight!” It was funny that the other magician had initially taken Suga’s words as a compliment, only to realize he was still teasing and you appreciated that the pair could be so friendly with one another after only having met a week ago.

He stormed off and you followed once again. Only this time checking the other colored groups and trying to connect which colors indicated which knights. 

Seeing the orange and black flags, you pieced together that those probably indicated people wanting to cheer for Daichi or Asahi as you’d watched them head into that tent. You’d seen Bokuto leave the tri-colored tent and assume that meant his fans were the ones carrying the black-yellow-and-white flags. You saw half white and half black flags but couldn’t think who that would mean since you hadn’t seen a similar tent around the grounds. 

“Oh-!” Suga gasped out, backing up from accidentally ramming into a group of citizens running across the field to try a different entrance into the stands.

“Apologies Sir knight!” One of the men turned and yelled back, the white and turquoise flags sticking out of his pockets waving behind him as he ran further ahead. His friend stopped to give a more formal apology, “Sorry for running into you sir. We are in a rush to get inside before they close the gates for the first fight. Please forgive us.”

Suga smiled sweetly at the young man, thankful that he’d kept his helmet off after getting into his borrowed gear for the fight. “No problem, really. But can you tell me who your flags mean you’ll be cheering for?”

The boy’s eyes shined brightly as he explained their choice to win was the knight Iwaizumi, “He is one of the strongest knights of Camelot’s courts and definitely one of the most strategic fighters. He’ll for sure place top four if he somehow doesn’t win!”

“Oi!” Futakuchi yelled, hearing the praise for the knight. “Don’t you know you are speaking to Iwaizumi’s opponents for the day? Don’t go around spewing nonsense!”

The boy laughed, stuck his tongue out at the King’s servant and ran to catch up with his friend.

“Well, let’s hurry.” Futakuchi said to you and Suga, “Kid’s right that they will close the gates to the stands before the first fights begin. And they should be closing them in a few moments now.”

Finally arriving at the gate you needed to enter, you noted the giant black and red banner. Running the few steps to tap on his shoulder, you pulled Futakuchi’s attention from just leading you straight under the fabric lined passage.

“Oh, yea. I guess color wise, we told the citizens that red would mean our guests or Kuroo. Since he normally has a monopoly on the red flags and banners we just thought it’d be easier to group your pair with him. If you fight, someone will make an announcement to say not to use the colored gear.”

You bowed your head in thanks for the explanation and thought back to the half black and half white flags, which you hypothesized to mean the twins Atsumu and Osamu after having figured out everyone else’s fans’ colors.

“Well, here we are. You can watch the rounds you aren’t fighting in from there,” Futakuchi smiled at your pair. “This is the royal’s private viewing box, so there is a bit of a buffer between the seats and the crowd of citizens in the rest of the stands. And it splits the grounds so you should be able to see both fights easily.”

“Are you not staying?” Suga asked.

Futakuchi smiled before answering, “No, I have to get some things together between fights, and make sure Kuroo’s gear is all well and good before my own bout. You both enjoy though!”

With that, the attendant left down the passageway you’d just come. You shrugged to Suga before pushing back the curtain and stepping into the space you could view the fights from.

_____________________________

“Ah, welcome welcome!” King Kuroo called, seeing you come in the mostly enclosed space, “I have seats for both of you. Thanks for joining me!”

You nodded to be polite as you took one of the seats he wasn’t standing in front of. Suga took the seat on his other side and the King sat down again.

He waved his hand in the air and in the corner of your vision you watched the guards leave the space. “I am probably as excited about this as the citizens are. It’s been a good while since everyone fought in the same showcase, let alone fight one another so explicitly. And having our guests as prime competitors doesn’t hurt the excitement levels at all. How are you two feeling? Thrilled as well I hope.”

You shook your head despite the wide grin on your face, not wanting to give in to his animated-ness, but Suga just laughed and said, “Despite his reaction the Red Knight is just as delighted by all this fanfare. We look forward to the fights, both watching and participating. Thank you for your inclusion, your Majesty.”

Kuroo waved away Suga’s mannerisms and clapped his hands together before shouting for the citizens to calm themselves, “AAAAAHH-TEEEEN-TIOOON!” 

After a short stretch of time where the people quieted one another down, he smiled at everyone in the stands, watched as their hands clutched around flags and banners that supported the knights they loved, and grew even more excited at what laid out before him. The twins stood just a few feet apart on one side, facing the king in full armor, one having a black box painted on his gear while the other had a white box painted on his. You couldn’t tell which twin was which with their helmets on, but you were excited to watch them fight. The other side saw two knights, also with blocks painted on their backs, one having a plain yellow box and the other purple with a white stripe crossing from one corner to the other. Using Futakuchi’s explanation from before you knew the knight with the yellow block had to be Terushima and having memorized the fighting line-up, the other had to be Satori. Another fight you should have your eyes on. You smiled to yourself, agreeing with Futakuchi that these two would be very entertaining.

“Let me just say, thank you! Camelot, your knights fight for their honor. Cheer for the winners, cheer for a good fight. Cheer for those you believe in as these are the men always putting their lives on the lines to protect your livelihood!” The screams across the makeshift stadium made you sense the amount of love and support the citizens felt towards the knights and Kuroo as their King. He held his hand up and waited for the crowd to quiet down once more before continuing. “Today we will also see our guests from the Red Knight Order fight our beloved Knights of Camelot! Be sure to wish them luck against our men!” The cheers carried across once more and Kuroo laughed at his own antagonizing words. “Then, last thing! Today’s bouts will be the first and second rounds. Tomorrow we will see the final three rounds that will determine the overall victor!” Another pause for cheers to circle the crowds, and Kuroo grinned from ear to ear before finally shouting out, “LET THE TOURNAMENT BEGIN! Fighters...START!”

As soon as the king shouted, one of the twins shortened the distance with the other and swung his shield, pushing his opposers’ sword out of the way as he moved to strike.

The attacked knight blocked the flying blade with his own shield before swinging his blade around to attack the headpiece of his opponent. Making a clean hit against the helmet before the knight could push his arm away with their shield.

The black marked knight spun with his sword out as he used the weight behind his shield wielding appendage to force the white marked knight to protect against the larger chunk rather than the thin blade, taking the hit from the sword against his back as the current attacker continued his spin. 

Stepping onto his back foot, the white marked knight lifted his toe from the grounds and momentarily tripped the black marked knight, hitting his helmet with the shield as his opponent stopped himself from falling face first into the dirt from, and tried to protect himself from the pressure while getting up.

Standing up straight, the black marked knight pushed his arms out against those of the other and made a clear path for a strong kick into his twin’s abdomen. After getting kicked, the night steadied his footing and swung his blade at his brother. The force behind the swing was strong as the black marked knight barely deflected it with his shield, the audible thunk could be heard despite the screaming crowd.

The back and forth continued between the pair and you felt your vision get pulled to the fight opposite. Between Terushima, marked in yellow and Satori, marked in the purple and white.

You were shocked to realize that both knights carried two swords rather than a sword and shield. As Terushima swung one sword down from above his head, Satori crossed his blades to catch the attack’s force. Spinning out from the exchange and hitting away the opposite blade Terushima had swung at his side.

Satori swiped at the shoulder of his opponent with one blade only to be blocked, then maneuvered to swing his other sword at the greaves of his opponent, probably in hopes to get Terushima to fall to his knees in way of protection, but the yellow marked knight side stepped and half spun to catch the balde with his own and force it into the ground.

Watching the two fight, you felt like you were watching an elegant dance. The pair played off one another with ease, obviously it wasn’t their first time facing off against one another. You waved to catch Suga’s attention but realized quickly that your friend was entranced watching the pair you’d just pulled your eyes from.

“It’s hard to pick who to watch, isn’t it?” Kuroo asked you, seeing you wave to your companion. All you could do was nod as you brought your sight back to the twins’ fight.

The black marked knight had just rolled to avoid the downward swing of the white marked knight’s blade, and you realized he must have fallen over while you were watching the other pair.

“Sugawara is watching Teru and Satori, perhaps you should watch the twins and you both can compare notes later.” Kuroo leaned in and whispered to you, probably to be heard over the shouts of the audience, but it still caught you off guard. You held your thumbs up to indicate you’d heard him but kept your helmet facing the twins’ fight so as to not feel embarrassed from having someone other than Suga be so close to you, even if it was only for a moment.

The black marked knight stood once more and threw his shield out of reach, this made you realize that the white marked knight no longer had his shield either and you wondered if throwing the shield aside was meant to say they would fight in the same manner.

The white marked knight seemed to get angry by this action and rushed the black marked knight. Blade swinging in cross cuts and varying angles as he tried to overwhelm his opponent who was now only dodging and shielding with his own blade.

You blinked and suddenly the attacker was on the defensive as the black marked knight was striking just as fiercely as he’d defended against. The sparks flying from the connecting metals washed around the pair as if a shining rain was falling around them. It was beautiful to watch, even if it was a different beauty than a fight that resembled a dance.

The bout continued, and with a harsh swing up along his chest plate, the white marked knight swiped away the helmet around his brother’s head, showing everyone who was whom in the fight.

Osamu shook his head out after getting his helmet knocked off before adjusting his footing and holding his blade with both hands, ready once more for an attack from his brother.

Atsumu rushed his twin, blade just below his navel as steady hands held it ready to swing in either a straight or upward trajectory. Turning his back to let his pauldron catch the attack, Osamu bent down in a half squat. Realizing too late to resist the caging, Atsumu could only feel as his brother wrapped his arm under his leading foot and over his swinging arm as he was lifted into the air before being released and flung to the ground.

He coughed against the dirt as he swiped his gloves at his helmet to get the obstructing metal out of the way of his airways.

Osamu however, just righted his footing, and stood ready to attack or defined with his lone sword once more.

The blonde twin seemed to growl through his clenched teeth as he staggered to stand again, dragging his sword to use as a prop-up, before readying himself.

You felt eyes on you and glanced at Osamu again, watching as he smiled to Kuroo before loosening the grip on his sword’s hilt, even as his twin screamed out and rushed him. You felt yourself stand and grip the edge of the private viewing box you were in, as you watched the gray haired twin turn a serious face back towards his opponent but not take a stronger hold against his blade.

Atsumu swung in an x pattern over and over again, and watched as the sword in Osamu’s hands began to falter until he parried around it, knocked his twin back onto the hard ground with a shove, and held the tip of his blade against his opponent's neck. “Do you concede, Samu?” The blonde asked teasingly, believing he’d won the bout.

Osamu just smiled as he pushed the blade away from his collar, “Yea yea Atsu, good job.” The blonde twin laughed before standing and holding out a hand to help his brother up as well. Both men waved in appreciation to those who’d cheered for them, but then Osamu stepped back to allow his brother to accept more praise as the winner.

You shook your head in disbelief as you returned to your seat.

“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” Kuroo asked you, but you just looked at him, pushing for further information. “Osamu always lets Atsumu win these things because he doesn’t care about the fanfare or being called the strongest. He just wanted to fight alongside his brother and help him achieve his dreams. I’ve never actually seen him fight to his fullest extent against his twin.”

It really was hard to believe, but thinking upon it further you felt you kind of understood. Looking at Suga’s smiling face as he watched the other fight that still continued, you knew he’d probably thrown more than a few fights during your training sessions to encourage your own working towards your goal. You appreciated your cousin even more from that thought, but only moved your attention to the fight that was still going.

Terushima’s blade crossed parallel to one another and the ground against Satori’s breast plate, forcing him to take a few steps back to protect his arm from getting caught by the attack. Satori spun, both arms outstretched as his blades extended his reach and they twisted, pulling dirt up from the tip sending the earth into the sky as his turning angled the blades opposite one another, in a move to try and kick up the dirt as cover, though light as it would be.

Both fighters stood, they seemed to catch their breaths as the dust around them began to settle. After his short pause, Satori went on the attack and swung his blades against Terushima’s helmet, the defender just a bit too slow in reacting to place his blades between his opponent and his protective gear. He turned his swords to sit against his shoulders as he steadied his upper body and kneed then kicked Satori away from him, causing the purple marked knight to retreat a few steps and attempt to stop himself from doubling over. He went on the attack again but moved too quickly, as he started falling from tripping over a protruding rock, Terushima kneeled down and swung the falling knight over his shoulder, making him land on his backside and crossing his own blades over his opponent’s neck. Trapping Satori against the earth unless he wanted to risk the blades cutting the chainmail against his collar.

Satori tapped out against the blades crossed above his neck, giving the victory to Terushima who jumped and yelped in his excitement before removing his blades and helping his friend to a standing position.

“Good fight Satori, but you lost again!” You heard the tease despite the blonde still sporting his helmet.

Satori ripped his own protective gear from his head before tsk’ing in response, “We’ll see how long this sudden winning streak lasts you, Teru. Just wait and see.” Moving to leave the grounds in front of the onlookers, Satori grumbled to himself about how he really did not want to deal with the new recruits after all. Terushima followed his friend out of the main arena, but laughed at his expense. Sending out teasing comments to antagonize him further. The pair disappeared down the tunnel of the exit and you finally turned to the King and Suga beside you.

“Well that was entrancing!” Suga exclaimed excitedly, “I’m sad I couldn’t tear my eyes from them, I wish I could have seen the twins’ fight also!”

Kuroo laughed before saying that he understood what your friend meant, “I told the knight to watch their fight solely because we both recognized you were already pretty attached to watching those two face off against one another.”

You smiled behind your helmet but nodded in agreement with the King’s statement.

“Well didn’t you two become chummy while I was distracted.” Suga teased you point blank, “Maybe I should cheer for Asahi during your match. We are childhood friends after all.”

Rolling your eyes, you held up an L sign with your hand, indicating your feelings towards his tease which caused your friend to laugh and Camelot’s King to mumble in confusion not knowing what was going on between your pair.

“Fine fine, I’ll keep my mouth shut for your fight. But do try and take it easy on him.” Suga caved to you, laughing out against your motions.

“Take it easy? Hells no!” The King shouted, facing you with a grin and a hint of mischief dancing in his vision, “I want you to beat that late comer like he is fresh cow manure. It’s his punishment anyways.”

It took all your concentration to not laugh out at Kuroo’s words, but you just nodded before exiting the partitioned area and moving to enter the main arena from the tunnel the prior fighters had just left through.

_______________________________________________ Table of contents:

Chapter 10                                                   Chapter 12

[pellicano-sanguino]

Read this lesbian retelling of romance between Guinevere and Lancelot. It’s ok. Wish I could have liked it more, but due to some personal preferences I found it a bit underwhelming.

I like Arthurian legends and chivalric romances, and I like the story of Guinevere and Lancelot. Yes, I’m very much aware most people think it’s a story done to death and Lancelot is considered a boring Mary Sue. I make no attempt to hide the fact that the 2011 Takarazuka musical about the subject is like 98% of the reason I like the story. 

I can’t read about Lasse and not picture Makaze Suzuho in a silvery leather overalls armor.

The story is being told in first perspective, from Lasse’s point of view (now my nickname for Lancelot is truly fitting, because in this story she is a lass, heh heh). This is just a personal preference, but I don’t like this style. I prefer to see the story objectively, now Lasse passes her own judgment and opinion on everything and I can’t help but feel that it’s limiting. Also, damn does Lasse self monologue in a weird, cryptic manner. I know Arthurian myths aren’t known as stories grounded in reality and I know poetic language is to be expected. But sometimes Lasse’s thought process is hard to follow and she just says plain weird things. I get flashbacks to Rose of Versailles and Andre spewing out some nonsense about his love becoming a fossil encased in amber.

I do wonder if the writer is into Wicca or paganism, because there’s some pretty heavy anti-christian pro-paganism messages in the book. Lasse holds great respect for the old religion and one of the reasons she doesn’t like Arthur is because he is a Christian king. Which, for storytelling purposes, is understandable. The way Christianity wiped out the pagan religions of Europe by swordpoint (convert or have your head cut off) is a tragedy that isn’t often talked about (because there are other, more violent examples of forcibly spreading Christianity that tend to get the spotlight more). Of course Lasse, who was raised by Lady of Lake, a creature of old myths, would resent having this new religion replace all the ancient wisdoms she’d been taught and seeing the new faith shamelessly slap their holidays over the pagan festivals. 

The clash of these religions is an interesting part of world building. But Lasse’s view of the old religion as something sacred and flawless and perfect is naive and childish. It’s like reading the thoughts of someone who was brainwashed by a cult at a young age and so is incapable of finding faults in the doctrine or criticizing anything related to the practices. Pagan religions could (and often would) be used as a tool of power and be rooted in the same harmful ideas as Christianity. For a woman, it makes no difference if the one commanding her to “know her natural place” was a patriarchal male God or a sacred pagan Goddess, her freedom to choose for herself is still being taken away by a religion who wishes to control her. 

Lasse is secretly being raised as a boy, Rose of Versailles style. This means that once she is maturing, she must go through “an initiation ritual” meant for boys. This ritual? A fucking date rape. They make her drink some sort of drug or love potion and then provide a woman for her to sleep with so she can “become a man.” Once Lasse sobers up, she feels awful about what happened. And yet, even in this moment, realizing that she was drugged and made to have sex she didn’t want, she will not question the old religion. She will not criticize this disgusting practice, believing that though unpleasant, it must have been necessary for her to become adult. Yeah no, I’m sorry, but whenever religions start including sex in their rituals and pressure people into participating, a siren starts wailing in my head CUUUUUUUULLLLTTT! IT’S A FUCKING SEX CULT! GET THE MINORS OUT NOW!

I was happy, that the drugged rape doesn’t get described in detail. Sex is never described in detail in this book. In a way, I can see a scene where Lasse gets drugged to have sex could be a nod to the begetting of Galahad (which obviously won’t be happening in this version of the story). But still, I would have greatly appreciated if there hadn’t been a rape scene at all. The only kind of sex scenes I want in my books are the Sober and Enthusiastic Consent ones.

I once saw someone make a post that Lancelot and Gawain are the Arthurian version of Team Edward/Team Jacob. I must say, there’s a seed of truth in here. When you have a story where Gawain is the best knight and main character, Lasse tends to be painted as a selfish adulterous asshole who ruins everything, and when you have a story where Lasse is the leading role and painted as super virtuous, Gawain tends to gear up his negative traits. It’s like you can’t have both of them be likable at the same time. In this book, Gawain (and a whole bunch of other knights) get the asshole makeover treatment. Well, Gawain and Lasse do end up becoming friends but Gawain doesn’t stop being a jerkface and doesn’t really deserve Lasse’s friendship (If someone called my mother a whore, I would simply not forgive and befriend them. Rip to Lasse, but I actually care about my mother more than I do about some entitled dudebro.). I find this kind of writing a little lazy, making other characters pointlessly rude just so the main character looks better in comparison.

Ok, I’ve talked about the parts I didn’t like. Here’s some things I liked.

The book is illustrated. The art isn’t particularly fancy, but I liked it. I wish more books had illustrations, not just the books for kids.

The relationship between Lasse and Guinevere begins in their childhood, before Gwen is married to Arthur. I prefer love stories that give the characters a long period of time to develop their feelings for each other (as opposed to stories of them falling in love overnight Romeo&Juliet style). Also, it reminded me of the zuka musical.

Another thing I liked is that the relationship between Gwen and Lasse isn’t adulterous. They are very much in love with each other, but they won’t have sex. I would have forgiven them if they did, since Gwen didn’t have any say in her marriage and so it turned out a loveless political marriage. It’s a whole different thing to romanticize cheating and to understand that women in forced marriages had no other choice but to seek love of someone who loved her as a person, not as a moneybag. But Lasse and Gwen are virtuous, so they are above such thinking. When she married Arthur, Gwen made a promise to be faithful to him, and despite not loving him, she will not break this promise. Well, not until Arthur divorces her in favor of the False Guinevere.

Which brings me to the thing I probably liked the most - Gwen has an evil twin. And no, this isn’t the writer slapping some modern trope over a classic tale, this is a genuine legend. There are stories where Guinevere has a sister who seeks to replace her. Seeing a lesser known legend get adapted brought a smile to my face. We can tell a story of Gwen and Lasse without using the same old stories of Grail quest and abduction of Guinevere. It was fascinating. 

Once the False Guinevere has convinced Arthur that she is the real queen, Gwen is cast out (well, after Lasse has to fight for her honour to save her from death penalty). Lasse and Gwen travel to Galehaut’s place (a friend of Lasse’s) and there, freed from her promise, Gwen finally has sex with Lasse. And only now, very close to the end of the book, is it revealed that Lasse is actually a woman. Saving this plot twist to so near the end feels a bit unnecessary, because I’m pretty sure 9 out of 10 people who buy this book already know about it and, much like me, bought the book exactly because of it. I can’t really imagine there being very many who managed to get to the end and actually be surprised.

The book kinda has a happy ending, but that’s partly because it ends before shit hits the fan re: Mordred. Mordred is in the book, but he’s only discussed about, never seen. There’s plenty of hints and foreshadowing that Arthur’s reign will come to a violent end some day. But the book leaves that to our imagination.

This is a decent book. If you’re into women and chivalric romance, go for it. But if you prefer a love story with more overtly sensual take on the intimate scenes, you might be happier with some other book, this one is very chaste. Also, you have to be willing to only see the story from Lasse’s perspective, and you have to be ok with Gawain being a prick. But all in all, it’s not a bad read. 

[arigatouiris]

revenge is a fool’s game // arthur morgan — [04]

pairing: arthur morgan x female!reader

word count: 1941

warnings: strong violence, emotional distress, mentions of torture, rape and sexual abuse, explicit sexual references, a whole lotta angst, cowboy stuff;

notes: i don’t get that many notes on this story but that’s okay! i love arthur, and i love writing so i guess i don’t need notes to update this fic. but, it would help a great deal if you guys would let me know if this story is worth reading? it’d be a boost for motivation as well. anyway, for marvel fans, i’m also writing a bucky barnes fanfiction that’ll be out soon, so be sure to look out for that! 

not following a taglist for this, i can’t seem to keep track of people who ask so just check on my masterlist~

masterlist in bio~

Chapter Four: The Wild West is Filled With Bastards

○

John was slowly making life difficult for her. (y/n) knew that John knew, and even if his words weren’t taken seriously, there was not another soul out there in the world who knew (y/n) was still alive and was disguising herself a woman. John would pass dirty glares at her as she did her regular chores as Riley, forcing Mrs. Grimshaw to smack him a couple of times for slacking off. Sure, (y/n) felt bad for the boy—frustrated that no one took his words seriously, and having everyone believe he was spewing nonsense. 

But, what if someone one day listened to him? What if they get to know that she’s a scrawny little woman who’s after something women shouldn’t be after?

Chills went down her spine each time she thought of such an aftermath. She would have to do something about John, she knew. She would have to worry and think of a plan that can perhaps convince John that she was a man. I can’t convince him, I can’t show him a penis that ain’t there, she thought, frowning to herself as she stacked the pile of hay in front of Dutch’s horse. She was slowly rising into panic, and she knew it was only about time before John loses it and yells that she’s a woman.

However, before any of that could happen, Hosea had a request. Hosea’s request made (y/n) want to almost leave the group, but considering how Dutch insisted as well, she knew she had no other choice.

“Take John wit’ ya. He’s slackin’ off most of the time, and there ain’t much out here that he can do. Buyin’ groceries and medicine might do ‘im some good.” Hosea’s kind voice and kind smile made her feel bad that she was lying to him.

“I ain’t goin’ with her!” John protested, visibly looking livid.

(y/n) felt her insides do a flip. Her gaze turned to Arthur, who chuckled once before slapping the boy’s back.

“You still on with this nonsense, Marston?” Arthur asked.

“It ain’t nonsense, Arthur! Like ya’ll ever believe me. Ask ‘er! Ask ‘er to show ya’ll her penis—”

Another smack.

“That’s enough from you, Marston.” Arthur sighed.

(y/n) was perhaps the only one who was possibly shitting her pants. However, going to town with the boy might change things. To either good (which, she highly doubted) or bad, which was possibly the case.

“Take Arthur’s horse for now. But here,” Hosea came forward and gave (y/n) some money. “Buy yerself a new one. You’ll need it—”

Her eyes widened and she shook her head, before returning the money. She pressed her lips together before pulling out her small notebook.

I don’t want to buy a horse. “Buying” sounds wrong. It’s life.

(y/n) blushed before showing it to the man, who chuckled a couple of times.

“Well, then. Let’s hope someone gives one to ya, then.” Hosea joked before turning away.

Arthur didn’t catch hold of the note. John’s words stuck on, but he knew the boy wasn’t being serious. But, to let a joke continue on for so long? Arthur frowned before eyeing Riley from top to bottom, finding no hint of him being a woman like John says so. The baggy shirt that he was wearing was messy, but there was no sign of womanhood on the boy. Sure, he looked ragged and scrawny but he had seen his fair share of scrawny boys. The wild west wasn’t really a place where all boys grew to be men.

He shrugged his thoughts away before minding his own business. If it was anything, then it was Riley’s problem to deal with. Not his.

○

“I hate bein’ paired with you.” John said, frowning.

Because (y/n) had chosen not to take Dutch’s horse, they had taken the carriage instead. John sat beside her, not really wanting to, but there was only so much he could do. Sure, he put up a fight when it came to actually cooperating with her, but (y/n) knew he wouldn’t so much as to raise his voice or disobey Hosea or Dutch. They had raised him, after all.

“You ain’t foolin’ no one, lady.” John said, hoping to instigate some reaction out of (y/n).

She didn’t budge. She kept her gaze straight and her eyes didn’t waver. If only John didn’t pose too much of a threat, she’d have smacked him on the head, herself.

“I don’t get what yer tryin’ ta prove.”

You’ll never understand, either way, she thought before maintaining her composure. She licked her lips once before catching a glimpse of a small town in the front—Fogmount. Tiny, but sufficient. She had the list that Mrs. Grimshaw had given, and she hoped John wouldn’t run off.

She looked at the boy who shot her the meanest glare a 15-year old can conjure, and turned away from him.

“I ain’t runnin’, don’t get yer panties twisted in a bunch.”

Oh, I really wanna hit him now, she thought before frowning. After stopping the carriage near the entrance, she gestured for John to follow. The boy grunted before choosing not to say anything more. The two of them walked inside town, earning a few looks from the locals—for not having seen them before.

This kind of attention sometimes doesn’t sit well with a lot of people. To the naked eye, (y/n) and John, who went by Riley and John, seemed harmless and almost invisible. But, to a crowd that wanted trouble, they seemed like targets. She caught sight of a nasty crowd of men, standing aside and drinking in public, which was quite odd since there was a saloon not too far from where they stood. The men seemed like the type to hit on women that passed them by, making people uncomfortable was what sat well with these folk. 

However, what pissed her off even more was the fact that they choose to drink and cause a fuss in the middle of the day, when no one really expected shit like this to go down.

Her hand flew to John’s wrist, which John only shrugged violently before spitting on the ground in haste.

“I don’t need yer help, lady!” John was a bit too loud, causing her eyes to widen and the other bunch of men to listen.

“You need ta’ stay the hell away from me!”

(y/n) tried once more to pull John away, now noticing the men approaching them, laughing and chortling on their own. John once again pulled back, now stepping back in retaliation, before his back collided with one of the men. There were three in total, but was enough to cause a distraction. She really didn’t need this right now.

John gasped before the man grabbed his collar from the back, and yanked him aside, forcing John to stand straight and put an arm over his shoulder.

“Ya heard the little man, lady,” the man mimicked John’s insult. “Leave ‘im alone.”

The men behind him laughed, but John wasn’t. A sudden rush of adrenaline hit the boy, and she had hoped that the situation wouldn’t escalate. Another man approached her before grabbing her collar.

“Why’s a mangy mutt like yerself in our town?”

“Yeah, never seen ‘em before.” Another one joined in.

John struggled, in the meanwhile, knowing (y/n) couldn’t talk back. However, when she didn’t reply, the man holding her collar, punched her squarely in the face. John froze before seeing (y/n) fall to the ground, blood coming out of her mouth. If there was any bit of anger that was in him, it went away as he watched her get back up and plead for John to be released.

“Ya can’t talk or somethin’?” The man who punched her mocked.

“Get away from ‘im, you bastards!” John screamed, before kicking the man’s foot, and running to (y/n).

“Let’s get outa’ here, Riley.” John sounded scared, but he didn’t want to seem like it.

However, that wasn’t the men’s plan. One of them grabbed John again, but before John felt the punch come, (y/n) had kicked the man’s shin and pushed him to the ground. Before a second thought, her fist went flying to the man who punched her, and hit him squarely below the jawline, shocking him, and using her other hand to hit him again, knocking him to the ground.

The third man who had held John, rushed forward, but she was too quick. She went behind the man and grabbed his hand before twisting it uncharacteristically, and kicking him behind the knee, knocking him down. She used her right hand and hit him hard on the nape of his neck, knocking him down as well.

She then turned, grabbed John’s hand and rushed back to the carriage. She knew now was her chance, and feeling terrible about not getting Mrs. Grimshaw’s things, (y/n) sat John down beside her and raced back to the camp. John, not having said a word the whole while, didn’t know what to say. He looked at (y/n)’s bleeding mouth and nose, bruised face, discolored and ugly from the punch that sent her to the ground, and turned away with shame. It was his fault. This had happened because he failed to cooperate.

There were always going to be terrible goons in the world. And he was saved by someone he had teased constantly for being a woman. John wouldn’t admit it, he had seen the bandages inside her tent one night, but had never told anyone. Perhaps, for saving his life that day, he wouldn’t.

He wouldn’t apologize to Riley. He just wouldn’t aggravate the situation as he had earlier. It was not his call to make, whether Riley was a woman or not. Even if she was a woman, she had saved his life, knocking three men twice her size down to the ground. And if he had any self-respect, which John believed he had, he would not make her anymore uncomfortable than he already had.

When the two of them reached the tent empty handed, Mrs. Grimshaw wanted to yell. But, once her eyes fell on Riley’s bruised and bloody face and John having been untouched, she knew what had happened. Riley gave her a helpless smile, a smile that hurt him as he stretched his lip, Mrs. Grimshaw shushed him.

“John, be grateful.” Was all she said, before grabbing Riley’s scrawny wrist and leading him away to mend him.

Dutch and Hosea noticed Riley’s face and scolded John, demanding him to tell them both what had happened. John was quiet, and it was only after Arthur came and placed a comforting shoulder on the younger boy did John even begin to speak. Tears pooled in his eyes, but he dared not to let them fall.

“Riley helped me. There were these bastards,” John sniffed before continuing, “Drunk all of ‘em. He beat ‘em to the ground. He saved me from bein’ beaten too.”

His hands were clenched and John hated the position he was in.

“No girl coulda done that,” Dutch said, laughing.

Arthur noticed John’s expression. John wasn’t just feeling helpless, the boy was feeling regret. Regret for being bullied? Nah, Arthur thought before heading out of Dutch’s tent and looking at Mrs. Grimshaw mend Riley. He didn’t believe John’s words before, he knew that for sure. There was no reason for a woman to dress up like a man and go around asking to kill Colm o’Driscoll. If there was something, then there was something more than what Arthur could figure out on his own.

It was not his problem, he told himself in the end and let it go.

[somethinwickedthiswayrides]

Arthur ask’s Reader to model for him

Another part in the set of Ask’s by @madnessismylover Asking for Arthur to model for him!

It’s a bit short, I just woke up and got right back to writing! So I hope it’s ok and not some bleary half asleep nonsense I’m spewing out. lol

Lets face it, by the time this man asks you to model for him he's already got about 20+ doodles of you in his journal.

Including the cougar incident if you want to.

Would most likely ask you after he's had a couple drinks

To 'work up the courage'

In reality he just wants to blame it on the alcohol then drink his embarrassment away if you say no.

But why would you?

This sweet man wants to draw you? Daww, how cute!

He takes you just outside of camp so you wont be disturbed

He sits you down on a rock, your legs tucked in under you

And you go still, letting the man work.

And he draws, and draws, and draws some more.

Trying his damnedest to capture every little detail of how amazing you are.

When he's done he looks so proud of it.

And you're just sighing in relief cause you were starting to cramp up.

He shows it to you and it looks just amazing!

From the soft smile on your face to the way the tree leafs were splashing you in shadows.

He thanks you for doing this for him.

And you just gave him a kiss on the cheek and say 'anytime'

The man flushes a bright red and proceeds to melt.

[matrixaffiliate]

Quarry

Chapter Update! FFN and AO3

Chapter 4

James:

Sirius was right, but James still couldn't calm the nervous energy inside him enough to sleep. He was so close. They were almost there. They would have answers in a few short hours.

How on Earth did Sirius except him to sleep?

When James assumed the throne he didn't realize how confusing it would be. He had members of court spewing all sorts of stories. Some of them James could easily get to the bottom of. James was good friends with King Arthur and Queen Molly of Ottery. Queen Rosmerta in Hogsmeade had him over once a quarter to talk shop, and reminisce about how much she'd respected and loved his mother. And King Cornelius of Diagon at least was concerned enough with keeping his throne, after having assumed it when his cousin died childless, that he was always honest with James.

King Borgin of Knockturn was best just left alone. Thankfully, Knockturn was pretty consistent in throwing the good things they had out and keeping the bad things in.

But Privet was weird.

After the new King and Queen assumed control, the communication between Godric's Hollow and Privet came to a complete halt. It hadn't necessarily been amazing the years preceding the heiress' assumption, but James found records showing there was at least the occasional letter passed between his father and the former king. But after a messenger his parents sent had been informed the Queen was dead, the new rulers told them they'd be in touch if they needed anything. That was nearly four years ago.

Then randomly about a month ago, one of Privet's messengers shows up asking if James would be interested in having their princess to wed, no strings attached other than he absolutely could not send her back. This combined with the rumors that Privet wasn't safe for magic users left James feeling uneasy.

Something was weird and James intended to get to the bottom of it. He rolled over to try and force himself to sleep, feeling confident that he'd find the answers one way or another.

And then someone screamed.

It was the kind of scream that makes your blood run cold. James jumped up only to be beat to the tent entrance by Sirius. How that man went from dead asleep to full action still baffled James.

Sirius motioned James to stop at the tent flap, glaring when James pushed the flap open far enough to see. Then the wards went off, and out of the darkness came two figures. One was running backward as it fired arrows into the black forest, the other was casting spells with one hand while the other held a rapier battling off a large winged beast.

James pulled his wand and ran out to help.

"James!" Sirius called but James didn't turn back. He wasn't going to let these two travelers get eaten by, well, whatever those were.

He heard Sirius curse and come running behind him as more of the beasts came out of the night. Then the four of them were fighting the attacking flock. James found himself almost back to back with the archer as they plucked the beats from the air one by one. It was over rather quickly. Once the beasts started falling from the sky they decided that the chance at a meal wasn't worth the cost and retreated back into the trees.

It was then that James bothered to really look at the pair of travelers, and noticed they were women, most specifically that the archer was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Her red hair shown in the dim light of their wands, but then she stepped closer to him and his wand light caught glimpse of her green eyes. James wanted to know everything about this archer, preferably not while they were defending their lives against monsters.

"Lils, give me your arm," the blonde woman pulled her companion closer.

"It's nothing," the archer pulled back.

"Lils I swear on Merlin's grave I will march us right back to your dear sister if you don't let me look at your arm!"

James stepped back, the blonde sword wielder definitely looked like she was ready to stab something. He didn't want to appear too available.

"We, we have a tent, just over there," James stepped back again.

"James," Sirius interrupted but James held up his hand.

"You're welcome to come in and treat any wounds you might have."

Sirius huffed but James ignored him, focusing on the archer. She smiled at him, and James felt his heart jump in his chest.

"Thank you, we'll take you up on that tent. We won't stay too long."

"Nonsense," James shook his head, "you're welcome to stay as long as you need."

She held out her hand, "I'm Lily."

James took her hand and turned it, bowing slightly as he brought it to his lips, "James."

"You mentioned your tent," the blond woman pulled Lily back.

"Right this way," James turned, noticing Sirius immediately stepped between him and the women. James sighed, Sirius was going to be cross with him now, but a part of him didn't care in the slightest.

Lily was coming back to his tent.

[a-writing-bear]

[NedCan] Valentines Exchange 2019: Loving you through our Time Together

This is a Gift for @a-cool-canadian for the @nedcan Valentine Exchange event!!! ʕ♡˙ᴥ˙♡ʔ Please enjoy it!

Note: Happy Valentines Day Jess! My inner history buff got excited- apologies for any inaccuracy and vagueness, I don't really know much and researched a little bit. I hope you enjoy this piece as much as I did writing it and it brings a smile  :)

Ao3 Link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/17783909

This Has been cross-posted onto FF & Ao3 under Aliases: BearBooper

Fandom: Hetalia Axis Powers

Word Count: 3,272

Age Rating/Mature:  All Audiences :)

Prompt:  “Fluff moments and historical events”

It had been cold. That was one definite vivid memory he could recall when reminiscing over the long conceptual relationship he had nurtured with the Canadian. The cold dusty air of new land had the taste of excitement, and his hair had been ruffled from his pack and belongings when he first landed in what was not yet known to be the North American continent. It was a time before such modern (or what is considered to be ‘modern’ to a nearly immortal entity like themselves’) names like Matthew could be granted, let alone the title of ‘Canada’. The 1500s were a messy time, and especially considering by then it was only a mere measly 500 years of Lars officially donning ‘Holland’, his experience of running a country was dictated by his teachings of his seniors- the germanics had not yielded much besides the importance of strategy on him and the need for expansion and exploration came to him naturally, like the waves back to the shores pulling him in. His expedition to the Indies had been quite the effort and it wore Lars through and through, so his focus during 1605 was far from ogling Matthew- he was unaware of Matthew’s presence on the pristine territory entirely.  He had barely spotted a distant figure on the landing, a small one too far to be someone of importance- let alone a new country he would meet within the next few centuries. Little did he know such a blurry figure, the one that barely piqued his interest, would have morphed into an infatuation to span a lifetime.

The first formal introduction to the former-colony had been egged on by momentary passing remark from England and France, Both of which were fervently arguing over ownership of the young nation for nearly a millennium. The Netherlands, being the ever-snarky and enterprising man he is, had been engaged in some rather boring trade and naval control wars with the Englishman- the man had this rather short and delicate youth following him around some lost pup, or a deer too heavy and endearing to carry the weight of the world on his own. Too eager to impress, Matthieu (as Francis had spelt it) had the dazzling purple eyes and a smile so sickly sweet that Lars couldn’t help but pray for the youth’s survival under the Englishman’s imperial rule. No matter whose side he was on, Lars was sympathetic to the young nation as he too could remember the strife and difficulties that came with being under control of someone else. The back and forth of the many anglo-dutch wars were more of an annoyance, but Lars appreciated the interested, if not slightly concerned, glares he would receive from the colony hiding behind Arthur’s chair whenever he came to bicker over imports. He remembered the first time he had a proper conversation with Matthieu- he had been visiting some former citizens who had decided to share Dutch farming techniques to their new landowners when they had migrated to the British Isles.

“How is it you allow this?” the small voice had spooked the Netherlands as it seemingly came from nothing until his eyes trailed down to his chest to see the colony glaring at the book in his rough hands- a manual on new crops and selective planting. He recognised the being, that fluffed out hair that crowned Matthew's youthful face and those eyes that were so intensely ingrained in Lars’ memory.

“Pardon?” Lars- even though he exemplified the youthful mortal age of a 20-year-old and was still morphing with the development of his own land, was surprised to see how much Canada had grown since the last time he had seen him: Matthieu almost looked like the typical pre-teen that one could witness working in the fields of family farms and no longer the child that sat in the corner of some estate.

“Why do you allow us to take your techniques? Doesn’t it help us…? You fight with Mr England all the time but you’re allowing your skills to be taken and no offence you’re well known for your fighting” His face was soft despite his rational confusion; the questioning had put Lars in an uneasy position but who was he to deny explanation to someone still learning?

After much thought and a pause that seemed to engage Matthieu, Lars voice rang out with no wavering: “Political concerns like land and trade should not interfere with the wellbeing of anybody. People deserve to eat and to survive regardless of the disagreement between myself and your superior. I like fighting- however, I don’t see the need for unnecessary suffering”. The contemplation on the colony’s face had been so clear and mesmerised. At the time Matthieu had not only absorbed such information but a hunger for more advice panged in his chest; the blonde’s youth shone towards Lars- the honest and honourable considerations of him juxtaposed the usual nonsense that had been spewed to him by Francis and Arthur. Ít was at that moment Mathieu realised the wish he had for himself...and his respect for the older country stuck with him alongside his secret interest in the mysterious private dutchman.

Years since that interaction had passed, and the news of revolution spread like wildfire throughout Europe. There was no lie that it brought a smirk to Lars’ face once he heard of British colonies throwing fits; he had only read of the conflict in his news and heard from various leaders of the tantrums over in North America, his mind flickering to the prospects of Canada and wonder over what the intention of the ‘new world’ would bring. Despite Alfred’s brash and busy nature, Matthieu had been more reserved and diplomatic in his attempts of freedom and by the time Lars had run into Canada at the time, he had grown into a much older personification and donned a rather complimentary vest that screamed professionalism and diplomacy. Lars was thankful of his ever-present striped scarf that trailed over his neck and covered his red cheeks as he bumped into Matthieu: He had grown extremely attractive, and the taller man could no longer deny that his old innocent platonic admiration of the man had now been replaced and solidified into a more romantic notion of admiration of that glorious smile and French-tinged accent.

“Hallo Matthieu, I’ve heard you are now autonomous? Has Arthur really given up his conquest of the world?” His Dutch voice almost stuttered uncharacteristically as he breathlessly watched the man fiddle slightly with his sleeves, almost wrinkling the paperwork that was stocked in hand.

“Ah- Mr Netherlands! Yes! It is very exciting- Alfred had pushed me to change my ways and govern myself, but I’m more of the talking types so I’m on my way to negotiate some more over the British North America act!”

“That’s...uh... Gefeliciteerd Matthieu-Congratulations I mean..I know it must be time-consuming.”

“Oh, very much so Mr Netherlands- what brings you to Arthur’s home? I suppose it not another war again.” Lars almost tripped over at the accusation before he saw the glint and twitch of teasing that the other had possessed.

“Ah no just some business and...call me Lars, we are equals, consider this our proper introduction. The Country of the Netherlands” His hand had been outstretched, the sleeves of his tan coat straight and eager despite Netherland’s signature poker-face saying otherwise.

“Then...Hello Lars, I am Matthew- spelt with an ‘e-w’ now, I’m the Country of Canada.” the gentle hands had a strong grip much to Lars’ surprise, and the keen thankful demeanour of Matthew warmed Lars’ soul more than he’d like to admit.

He had never been more interested in the ‘New world’ than then.

Unfortunately, the next run-in with the Canadian had been one of the unhappy circumstances rather the usual fleeting meet cute. Neutrality had allowed Lars to scrape by during the first world war and it seemed as though fate would dictate that German invasion during the second would interrupt his peaceful intentions. To this day Lars shudders at the atrocities he had endured, the suffering had left him even more remorseful with his immortality than patriotism over his survival. Finance had always been a strong factor in his strategy It seemed as though selling weapons and food had been useless in comparison to the past... occupation was a depressingly painful experience and while he has moved on from the grudge, it still bubbles up in his soul even though a century has passed. When his dear sister Belgium had been pressured, and her land trampled, the Dutchman swallowed his pride- a swell of nervousness overrode his ego as he called his allies for support. Perhaps it was futile and blissfully over hopeful for him to think any troops could have made it in time. He watched the bombings over rotterdam with gritted teeth and his calloused hands which were used to the smooth finish of coins and the flora of green valley had clenched with an anger that he was unable to work out as ‘fortress holland' had been taken. Rotterdam was cursed as he was forced to sign those ‘surrender’ agreements; everything, while blurry, was so achingly heartbreaking. Lars was consistent with the intelligence he shipped off to his allies but there was a bitterness in the fact he was left to his own devices- isolated with only the company of his enemy plaguing his land. Although the understandable ‘sorry’s of his allies rang loudly in the various calls and letters; it was the undeniable fury of Matthew that uplifted the forlorn dutchman. In contrast to the reserved nature he had conveyed- Matthew was a tactical and unwavering genius; his words of assurance was so lighthearted despite the grim situation they had found themselves in”

“I promise you Netherlands. I will keep them safe for you. I will hide them from the world If i have to.” The plan was risking everything. How on earth were they expecting to smuggle part of the government and the royal family abroad without a disaster? His mind was riddled with constant worry and the usual calculating and deadpan man was rambling with anxious desperation; They had planned for evacuation to the UK and Canada for a while but executing such an escape was now expected to be more than just spoken agreements.

“Canada I don-”

“ Lars. Trust me. ” if it wasn’t under such dire consequences, Lars would have shuddered at the way the Canadian had pronounced his name; it was melodious in its powerful statement and the seriousness of the tone stole his heart piece by piece- Matthew didn’t know how grateful he was and forever will be. They had grown close due to European deals and although the two were regularly sending mail to each other, they always referred to each other at a distant title of ‘Mr’ or ‘Sir’ - to hear the utterance of his name signalled to him Matthew’s genuine care. This was an agreement between the two of them. Not their countries. There was personal tinge to it and it made him gulp at the overwhelming insinuation of it all- Matthew was his saving grace at this point. While Canada was just another ally, The man before him known as Matthew, on the other hand, had become everything.

Matthew had kept his word and by 1943, Princess Margriet had been born in Ottawa civic hospital- and to go the extra Mile Canada had made sure the ward had been registered as international territory to secure Dutch succession rights in the interest of Lars. He was beyond grateful. If he had not admitted his feelings for the man before this, then surely this act alone was the one that tipped his pure love for his dashing saviour. Hunger winter the following year was his most pitiful hour and it almost felt humiliating to watch the sadness glow in Matthew’s wearing and exhausted eyes when he had arrived at Lars salvation; the food in his arms was more than the Dutchman could ask for. Canada had never held that moment of weakness against him and instead caressed his cheek when he found the man slumped off the wall of some building in Randstad. He could remember the tired grasp they shared, the hug so warm compared to the cold he had been fighting, the blush on both their lips barely recognisable due to the dirt and grime that covered them both. the hasty and sudden taste of Matthew’s lips on his own, his starvation being replaced with nothing more than starvation of Matthew’s long-awaited affection and contact- he was so hopelessly in love.

The liberation of the Netherlands was practically inseparable to Dutch-Canadian relations and it was no big deal when a commemoration over such sacrifices was announced. Tulips came flown in by the thousands and Matthew was more than welcoming when his house had been adorned with tulips of all types. Lars was adamant to admit his obsession to give so many bouquets stemmed from much more than appreciation over his liberation yet the moment he had once again met Matthew, any anxious uncertainty over the gift disappeared.

For once he had stepped foot in the Canadian’s homeland, and by the time he had gotten to the doorstep of the personification, his assistant had made him aware that Mattie had tried to phone him on the diplomatic line countlessly. Lars' feet shuffled, the soles of his boots grating on the wicker mat that sat judgmentally at the front door of his crush’s cabin; The flowers that seemed perfectly trimmed in His hands were a bundle of specially grown tulips, bright red in their beautiful bloom- a private batch grown in his own home rather than his national fields. The doorbell was cut off as the door flung wide open extremely quickly, Matthew’s furrowed brow jumping into a more expressive and exhilarated look of astoundment.

“Lars?! Wh-how- I was just calling you to say thank you for the flowers!”

“I’ve uh...Brought you some more..” he almost melted as Matthew broke out into a wide smile, showcasing those pearly teeth in a grin. Despite their kiss back in 1944, the two were ridiculous in their courtship, shy in their advances and had not done much but spend nights talking to each other since. He had shed his jacket as he stepped into the strawberry blonde’s home, whom of which was quickly procuring a vase for his gift before offering some drinks.

“I...missed you. We’re grateful...I’m grateful for you Mattie.” Thank fuck for his practised poker-face in making it easier to say such words, and Matthew’s close nature meant that the Canadian could tell he was being sincere regardless of the straightly-lined announcement. The two caught up, pleasantly satisfied with each other’s company. Neither of them said anything as they found themselves snuggled up on a seat, hands and legs intertwined for ‘warmth’.

The modern era was rife with issues, issues that were starkly different from those of the 15th century but stemmed from the same themes of protectionism. The creation of NATO and OSCE, as well as their positions at the table of the UN, allowed them to speak more often and technologies like phones did nothing but encourage pursuing a relationship. Yet in the millennium of beating around the bush over their relationship, neither had said anything of the relationship between Matthew and Lars. It was always just the business side of Canada and the Netherlands that interacted, the close brush of shoulders being nothing more than a lingering with of unsaid meaning.

“Why don’t you two just go make out right now?” Alfred had cornered Matthew during a lunch time break, and his new tailored suit had become unbearable as his brother tormented him with mentions of his love life. It was not that they didn’t want to enter a relationship things were just... complicated. Being a nation was complicated. He had known Lars for so long, harboured feelings for him for just as long, what if Lars found that discouraging? Besides they had kissed...not that America knew that. God. Matthew internally rolled his eyes at the fact his brother was gossiping like some teenage girl.

“It’s not that simple Al. Lars is...he might not be interested anymore.” Insecurity had got the best of him and although he was always socialising with the dutchman - whether it be at olympic games or just stately visits - there was not much to go on from besides the looks they shared. Alfred whistled in disbelief, his brother must of been blind to not see the tripping over that Lars does unconsciously for him. The Netherlands had become the 8th highest destination of canadian exports and not to mentions the countless treaties and trade deals that the two had signed. Nothing says romance more than free trade and visa exemptions right? Everyone had seen the two squabble and tiptoe around the facts, making excuses like ‘diplomatic friendship’ and ‘international cooperation’ when it was clear as the light of day that these were more just benefits to being able to visit each other freely and often. As if god wanted to torment Matthew, Lars had come over, the clicking of his shoes loud with such a fast walking pace. Alfred ‘coincidentally’ had affairs to attend to at that moment and the two were left alone besides the table of coffee and refreshments.

“Hallo schatje, How are you? Was i interrupting your brother?” Matthew flustered at the nickname, he still wasn’t quite sure what it meant and the last time he asked Belgium and luxembourg for a translation they laughed and refused to let him know what the dutchman had been naming him. “I’m alright, alfred was just gossiping again, how are you Lars? Still waiting for springtime i suppose?” he nodded, the two quickly dissolving into gleeful conversation and it was always quite the spectacle to see the usually harsh and blunt european to break out an unlikely smile in the company of the quieter sheepish north american; he only really did so with his siblings and even then it was supremely rare. It was only when Matthew had turned to pour himself another cup of coffee did he hear a mumbling of the Dutchman obviously struggling with his inner thoughts: “fuck dit is stom en moeilijk, maar ... God, wees genadig...just say it…” Under his breath and muffled slightly into the cotton scarf he heard the dutchman swear to himself.

“Is everything alright Lars? Is this about the new-”

“Would you like to go for a...date after this...this meeting...?” Matthew was speechless. His free hand straightened his tie and he tried to formulate his answer- one that was clearly a yes. As he stared into those bluish eyes and the blonde’s avoiding look, he faltered. Every thought and hesitation to pursue a relationship was obliterated by the look on Lars’ face. Lars, embarrassed by this whole attempt had tried to cough his way out, nearly retreating, ready to beat himself up at fucking up a milleniums worth of friendship…

“Thank fuck. I thought you’d never ask.” Lars’ mouth stretched into an ‘oh’ before rapidly mentioning many apologies of his romantic incompetence but Matthew paid no attention as he tried to stand on his tippy toes. With his new height barely able to reach up to his lover’s chest, His hand grasping at the scraggly orange tie Lars had chosen that day and pulled him down into an overdue kiss.

“I’ve loved you for all of history Lars.”

[unkindnessofone]

5SOS. Ice Cream

This story gets a touch smutty in the middle. Just a warning. It was fun to write, please enjoy and let me know what you think! This story takes place right after Primal & Primal 2

"I don't like this." Sounding like a little kid just put on a time out in the corner, Ashton muttered to Simone as he stuffed a small white plastic spoon into his dish of half eaten frozen yogurt. 

"Really?" Very concerned, Simone looked up at him. "Do you want to go back?" She stood still on the sidewalk for a moment, patting the phone in the pocket of her sweater as it had been buzzing all day. "We could switch. The hazelnut is quite nice." She offered up her dish to him, reaching it closer to his face.

"Not the frozen yogurt." He frowned and scooped himself up another bite of French vanilla with cookie crumbs. "This." He motioned to the walking couple ahead of them, Molly and Flynn, under the transforming sky. 

"Oh, come on, Ash." She huffed at him with a head shake. "I thought dinner was lovely." Somehow throughout their meal, Simone had slipped deeper into her most posh English accent. Ashton figured it was because Flynn practically interviewed her about what it was like to grow up in Maida Vale and some of her favourite old London haunts. 

Truthfully, Ashton couldn't really complain about dinner. His salmon was cooked to perfection, his wife didn't answer a single text, and Molly's partner came across as genuinely in awe of her. Most importantly, she was obviously happy. Ashton wasn't sure if he had ever seen his daughter beam before, but across from him at their corner table he saw her face radiate joyfully every time Flynn said her name or "Molls" as he had taken to calling her with great affection. He showed a plethora of interest in Ashton's latest musical adventures, Simone's company, and their son's current opening act gig. It was clear that Flynn had been raised in a house where manners reigned supreme. He shared with them, well Simone mostly, about his mother's Samoan background and learning to fish and play rugby with his Dad over in Perth. Ashton knew he should have been thrilled. His intelligent daughter had once again made an excellent choice for herself, but he wasn't happy at all. He had a cup full of frozen yogurt, but a pout that not even a picture of his beloved dogs could improve.

"They are so fond of each other. It's sweet. It's nice to see Molly branching out and dating." She never mingled much in high school. Her goals went beyond sexual attraction and beach dates like many of her fellow classmates. While Simone was always proud of how tenacious and focused her eldest was, she still wanted her to make connections and find a partnership somewhere. 

"I don't care for it." Like a grump, he snarled. Ashton was generally such a pro at finding the silver lining, but this felt like was walking through feet upon feet of fog. He stared with squinted eyes at the young couple ahead of them. He watched as Flynn tossed his cup out in a recycling bin they passed and then draped his oversized arm around Molly's shoulder. At dinner, he showed how gentle he was, but all Ashton's mind could do was strange a list of all the easy ways Flynn O'Malley could hurt his precious daughter.

"Exercise some trust. Molly's very smart." Playfully, Simone jabbed Ashton in his side. "Well, at least when she isn't tying herself up into trees, she is." Simone would be trying to make sense of that decision for a while. 

"I can trust her and not like something she is doing at the same time." Ashton liked being the only good guy in Molly's life as selfish and, perhaps, demented as that was. He knew kissing frogs and meeting new people was part of being a very young adult, but that didn't change how badly he wanted to keep her safe from how painful those novelties could be.

"You're right." Slipping her hand into Ashton's once they passed by the recycling bin and she had disposed of her litter, Simone bent. "My dad didn't like you at all in the beginning." However, Simone remembered feeling that at the time he also really didn't trust her because of that. 

"What?!" That was enough to pull Ashton away from painting a mental bullseye on Flynn's very chiseled back. "Arthur loves me!" He nearly shouted as he looked at his beautiful wife like she was spewing nonsense. 

"He didn't always." Frowning with a shrug, Simone practically swore. "He wanted me to focus on my business and saw a rockstar from Australia as a waste of time and reckless. He called you all kinds of horrible things." They were not impressed by what they collected about Ashton through online gossip. Her parents had always imagined she would take up with someone who was Eton educated and knew the difference between a salad fork and an entree fork. 

"Simmie, this is already a horrible day, why are you telling me this?" Very seriously, Ashton asked her. He always looked at her dad as a father figure to himself. He truly respected Simone's parents and had always strived to do right by their daughter. It was news to Ashton that for even a moment, Arthur Telford thought he was scum. 

"Because he knew you made me happy and that we were good together!" She continued. "I know your mother thought I was stuffy at first." 

"No, she didn't." Shaking his head, he insisted.

"She told me years ago that she did." Simone didn't mind in the slightest. "My point is that we don't get to pick who Molly and Connor take up with. We raised great people and we are going to love them through whatever choices they make even if they choose to tie themselves to trees or pine after Penelope Hemmings." 

Like she almost always was, Simone was right and Ashton knew it. It was just an adjustment that he hadn't arrived in Canberra ready for. He was still internally burning that she didn't rush into his arms and thank him for saving her. His hero complex that Molly always indulged was left unfufilled. 

"He flew from Gold Coast to be here. He missed a training day to be there for her." Sim leaned into Ashton as he squeezed her hand, smiling at her daughter up ahead as she caught a glimpse of her grinning at something Flynn said the way she used to on the way to the zoo. "Reminds me of an old boyfriend I had." She waited for Ashton to look down at her before grinning back up at him, not at all hiding how happy their memories made her. "Look past the rugby player physique and everything else, just to try to be happy that right now she's happy and is with someone who seems to think she is perfect." 

"Haven't we talked about this?" With his cup in only one hand, the contents inside mostly melted, Ashton tossed his arm around his wife's shoulder and let go of holding her hand. He craved her much closer. "You're not allowed to be right more than twice per conversation." Ashton didn't always find it so easy to admit that she was right and he was wrong. They had really come so far together and been through a whirlwind. 

He noticed Molly turn around and check on them and instead of scowling, Ashton just shot her a dorky thumbs up. He knew he and Simone had a healthy marriage, albeit strange, and he knew that Molly would not settle for less than what she deserved from people. He just had to get with the program and then everything would be okay. 

*****

For a girl who loved to be clean and carried around alcohol wipes and hand sanitizer in her purse, Simone wore her dirty hands proudly. Three was nothing quite like an afternoon tucked into her studio where she slipped into a work rabbit hole and fulfilled orders or new creative ideas rolling around in her mind. It took less than ten minutes each time for her fingers to be coated with black oil and shiny grey grime from widdling together her different jewelry pieces. 

She was concentrating so contently on creating one of her most beloved ring stacks, the Palisades, with ethically sourced diamonds over its usual peridots for a custom order that she hadn't noticed the sun had stopped floating through the window. It was almost ten o'clock and it took a terrifying thud against her front door followed by the bell ringing repeatedly to make her look up from her work and realize that she hadn't eaten since tea with her mother earlier in the day. 

She wasn't expecting guests, but Simone wiped her hands on the rag closest to her and checked her cell phone for any missed messages. There was only notifications for emails through her website. She didn't have any missed calls or texts, not even from Ashton, her best friend, or older brother or younger sister.  She hummed curiously to herself and kept trying to wipe at her filthy hands with the rag as she moved out of the spare bedroom that she had transformed into a studio and went to answer the door that was still being abused. 

She checked in her peep hole to see who in the Hell was making so much noise. Simone felt a even, but complicated mixture of relieved and worried when she saw Ashton on the other side. Was he okay? Why was he even here? Her mind raced as she hurried to unlock the chain on her door and then the deadbolt. Her internal monologue also contemplated how dreadful she currently felt. She had been fighting off a tickle of a sniffle for a couple days. She and Ashton had only been together a smattering of times and known one another for a few months, Simone realized this would be the first time he would see her without makeup on. She had on black yoga leggings and an oversized Chelsea FC tshirt on that had been gift from someone who didn't know her terribly well. Why couldn't he have come before when she was still in the business casual outfit she put together for tea? 

"I'm about to open the door." Holding the knob, Simone informed him. He was knocking with one fist so frantically that she felt confident he would fly forward and crash into her if she just swung it open.  Once the banging ceased, she pulled it open and revealed herself in all her casual glory. 

Ashton stood nervous in front of her, anxiety and exhaustion slicked over his face, but he looked like he was melting as his smile brightened and eyes softened at the sight of her. Simone didn't realize, but her cheeks began to hurt from grinning as hard as she could when she saw him. It took her a handful of seconds to realize that his non-knocking hand was holding a bouquet of autumn hues as it was just October as of two days ago. The sunflowers, coral roses, and orange alstroemeria shone brightly in his hand. It was bizarre that she had noticed his toothy nervous smile first. 

"I thought you were in Canada or something." Simone relaxed and shared. She was in the middle of stepping out of the way when she heard Ashton take a huge deep breath. She looked up just in time to spot his face right in front of hers, coming forward in one single motion to kiss her madly. He was like a sailor back home after being away for months at a time. The brown paper holding the flowers crinkled against her back as they moved deeper into her flat, their lips never parting as their hands gripped at one another's shirts. Behind Ashton, her front door slammed, but it was practically distant background noise to him.

"I don't want to be away from you anymore." His forehead leaned against hers and Ashton took his first breath away from her mouth to admit that. She was occupying all his thoughts in a way that nothing besides music and boobs had before. He always wanted to check in with her, he didn't like ending his day without hearing how hers was going first, and he had started considering how she would feel before he did just about anything that wasn't playing the drums, signing autographs, or taking his morning piss. She had devoured his thoughts despite rarely getting to spend more than a couple days together at a time. They were casual thanks to the travel aspect of his career, but he wanted so much more from the jewelry designer.   

"As soon as the show was done, I hopped on a plane and flew here." He explained, laughing in his uneven breath at how crazy the last seven hours had been. Ashton truly didn't know what time it was anywhere. "I missed you, Sim." He sighed and kissed her again. "Oh shit, I brought you flowers." He had picked them up from Heathrow as soon as he landed, wishing he had brought all the small things he had picked up along his travels for her. Ashton fisted them forward, making them the only thing between their bodies.

"Thank you." For the first time, Simone looked away from his engaging stare and took in the bouquet he picked, breathing in the scent and admiring the colours. It made her long for a Sunday roast with some kind of spiced pie, but she kept that to herself. "You could have just called." Shaking her head at him, Simone tried to inform him of what he already knew. She slinked away from him in order to rest the flowers on the black coffee table. "You didn't have to fly all this way -" With his schedule, she knew they probably only had a handful of hours together.

"Then I couldn't do this." From behind, Ashton wrapped his arm around her waist and turned her to face him. In one swift movement, he indulged the adrenaline that forged ahead of his exhaustion and picked her up so her legs wrapped around him. Her delighted gasp only made him feel more encouraged as he walked them both into her immaculately kept mostly white with some champagne tones bedroom. His mouth was stretched open on her neck the whole eleven steps in before he dropped her off somewhat in the bed's center.

The two of them had slept together before, just a handful of times. Ashton had felt surprised by how sexual Simone was. He had expected a good girl who would be repulsed by some of the positions he liked best or even his darker fantasies, but she really was his match. In some ways, she was his match with better stamina. She encouraged his fingers to dig in deeper, for his hands to push her into the bed harder, and for his mouth to call her a bevy of names that he would never associate with her outside of the bedroom. Ashton had finished himself off more times than he could count at the memory of perfectly polished London girl removing her red skin tight La Perla  thong and then stuffing into his mouth before going down on him. While Ashton loved that she was just as turned on by rough sex as he was, he had something else in mind. Simone had long since stopped being a woman he was infatuated with. He had finally given up on the notion that she was too good for him and would soon catch onto that. Ashton knew that he was so deeply in love with her that he was almost drowning. He wanted her to know that now. 

Simone inched up the bed, searching without looking for pillow, as Ashton climbed onto the mattress and followed her. He leaned in over her and inhaled deeply right above her hips before running both his palms over her legging covered thighs.

"You smell like home." He told her in a longing moan before he started to peel off her bottoms, bringing her black underwear from Primark with them. She felt so desired that she could have been wearing a hospital gown and felt sexy. Ashton's hands had a way of making her feel like she was the most important person in the room. His thumbs pushed into her thighs and he used his grip to push her legs back, bringing her bare knees to her stomach. He took his hands off of her long enough to fish his arms out of the sleeves of his denim button up and then pulled his white undershirt over his plane hair. Ashton's hands returned to under her thighs, holding her legs back before he pushed himself in and kissed her warm pussy just as he had kissed her upon arrival. Ashton had every intention of going slow, nibbling around her legs and teasing her entrance with long licks and rubbing at her small clit with two fingers the way he knew she couldn't help, but love. Once he saw her revealed to him, he couldn't control himself. He just had to devour her like she was his first real meal in days. Ashton practically sucked at her walls before sliding one finger in, curling it upward and grinning proudly into her as he felt her tighten and ass come closer. She was whispering his name up to the ceiling fan and Ashton knew she liked it. He let her stretch out her legs before running his free hand over her vulva. He thought it was so cute that even though they hadn't been around one another in almost a month, she still kept herself trimmed and tidied for herself. A small strip of hair right above where her clit was hiding. There was nothing he didn't notice about her from her patch of freckles under her belly button, to the way her whispers moved into slurs when he lapped at the bottom of her opening, to how she said she liked one sugar in her tea and didn't seem to notice she always put in two packets. Ashton could pen a book about the jeweller and, right now, he was using his tongue to write it inside of her. 

"Baby, let me look after you." She struggled for a second and then hoisted herself up on her elbows, watching him as he dedicated his jaw to her pussy. She had been amused before, but now he had her dripping wet and sparkling off of his stubbly chin. "I want you in my mouth." It wasn't so much about returning the favor. Simone just liked hollowing out her cheeks to fit him. It made her feel powerful to work him with her tongue and lips, to have lose himself just because of the way she flicked at his tip over and over like a hungry orphaned kitten. Besides, he had flown all the way there. A blowjob seemed like the least she could do despite how much she wanted to.

"Soon enough, babe." He moaned between her lips before raising himself up and crawling over top of her. Ashton snaked up her shirt with both hands to help it over her head. He had noticed when she opened her door that she wasn't wearing a bra, but he appreciated it more so now as he had full access of his favourite parts of her to fondle. "I'm going to have you on your stomach," he growled into her ear before sucking on the top of the line, feeling the shivers it always created suddenly grow from her skin. "And on your sides and with your face against the window above your bed," Ashton rattled off all the places he was going to take her tonight, each position. They didn't have a lot of time and he would make the most of what they did have. "I want to be sure you can still feel me when I see you again." It was supposed to be in another week and a half, but he seriously doubted he could make it that long.

"That better be a promise, Ashton Irwin." Her head had been turned on the pillow to better hear every word he was saying and feel every kiss he put on her cheek, jaw, clavicle, and now over her erect nipple. At the sound of words and the way she fidgeted her chest. He bit down on he left breast and didn't let go until after her gasp had disappeared in the room. 

As Ashton moved back down, squeezing her sides slowly and kissing her hip bones as he did, Simone forgot all about her dirty fingers and reached down to grip his hair and play in the near-curly locks as he went back to his very private conversation with her pussy.

****************************

Ashton could have slept right away afterwards. The thrill of seeing Simmie fled his body when he finally released his load and now he was struggling to keep his eyes open under her covers. His body was used to five star hotel beds by now, but her mattress was plenty comfortable for him. She had memory foam and he swore it could recall the shape they took together cuddling on their sides the few times he had managed to stay over before. Simone was reinvigorated with energy and inspiration. Ashton had made her cum three times, the final blowout along with him which felt intense and ardent, and now she could invest herself in a home renovation or attend an exercise boot camp. Instead, she walked through her apartment naked and went to make tea for their afterglow as well as find a vase and water for the flowers he brought her. Simone entered the room again with the flowers in front of her face, placing them down on the window sill behind the headboard of her bed. She glanced down at Ashton's most sleepy face, fighting with himself to keep his eyes partially open.

“I'm a fan of this.” In a low tone, he told her as her breasts hung in his face. She wished they could be perkier, but at the end of the day, she was quite happy with her  body and all it's dimensions and surprises. Simone had a beyond healthy dose of self confidence and it was, perhaps, the most appealing thing about her. Ashton also loved the way she could talk to anyone, handled her business, and could make any curse word sound like a compliment.

“How much time do we have?” She slid down under the covers that he opened for her and let him move in to rest his head on her bare chest. It felt better than any feather pillow ever could. Instinctively, she combed at his hair with three fingers and stared off at her wall, bare since she had moved her whiteboard, bulletin board of inspiration and thank you cards, and her most recent family portrait into her office. Ashton's eyes were shut as he breathed in the smell of her sweet hair mist her hair fallen around her shoulders.

“I have a flight at about 4 in the morning.” He had wanted her, no, required her so badly before that he hadn't wanted to mention it and cloud their time together with a ticking clock. “We have a show in Calgary.”

“Well, this was a very nice surprise.” She nodded and chose to look on the bright side. He was her with her right now.

“I'm in love with you, Sim.” He yawned, turning to make himself more comfortable and sandwiching his face between her breasts.

“I know. You said so about three times during sex.” She giggled freely and kissed the top of his head. While things were moving fast, she understood that this was novel ground for them both. “I'm quite crazy about you as well.” Simone rested her cheek onto the top of his head.

“That's good enough for me.” Ashton yawned again. “It doesn't change the fact that I'm going to marry you very soon, we're going to have five kids, two dogs, and a place here, in Sydney, and probably one more. You do a lot of work in New York, right?”

Simone had to tell herself not to howl with laughter. Ashton was taking being adorable while being sleepy to a whole different place.

“Well, where's my ring?” Playing along, Simone asked with her face still squished against the top of his head.

“I've looked.” He admitted openly through his drowsiness. It was fast, all his friends thought so, but Ashton knew that it was her for him. He didn't care that it would be the last beautiful girl he ever bedded or that it would change his life entirely. In fact, with her, that was what he wanted. “It's very hard to find a ring when the girl you want to marry designs jewelry.” She was always wearing her own creations and he couldn't exactly blame her. She was talented and her pieces were in demand.

“Well, you could just design something and I could make it.” Sweetly, Simone suggested.

“Maybe.” Ashton yawned and blew his warm breath against her right breasts before sinking deeper into sleep. The battle to stay awake was barely being fought anymore. “I've never designed a ring before.” His mind did have plenty of ideas to create from though. They always had that in common: their endless creativity.

“Just rest, darling.” She sat up a touch straighter and kissed the top of his head. “Wait, Ash?”

“Hm?”

“I love you too.” She decided now was the right time to say it. It was what she was feeling. He was the reason she was being bubblier than usual. He was the one she anticipated talking to every day. He was the joy between a frustrating meeting or phone call.

In response, Ashton wrapped his arms around her stomach like she was a body pillow and kissed her breast, softer than before.

Simone knew the kettle was going to start whistling in her kitchen soon, but she was trapped under Ashton and she didn't want to move.

[clockwerksorcery-blog]

Fiction - These Things Take Time

Welcome once again, Facebook freaks and fiends! This week, we delve a bit deeper into our mysterious set of circumstances and the effects of the outre gently pushing into our minds.  In this twisted, gothic tale of Vrt Lrhian pathos, our friends, the walldwellers, bless a landlord couple with their glorious presence and cradle them in depths of gloom. Enjoy... or... something...

                                         These Things Take Time

                                              by Arthur Cullipher

   Randall didn't know how long he'd been sitting there, staring at the wall. It hadn't moved and neither had he, for hours it seemed. He would sit there for many more, if he could. His bones felt heavy and he had no real desire. Sometimes, if he waited just a little longer, his momentary awareness of his situation might pass. But not now. Not tonight.

   She would call for him again tonight. She would peek half of her yellowed face out behind the doorframe and call those dreadful words.

   "Randall, it's time."

   He wanted to hate that. He wanted to hate her for making him hate it, for making him do it. But these days it was such a chore to feel much of anything, even hate. It was much easier to just do what she asked and when it was done he could sit, leaving the horrible squalor of this reality behind. But in these sour moments of awareness, of real thought, he was mortified at what had become of him. And what was becoming of her.

     "Randall, it's time."

   He leaned in his chair and looked down the hall. His eyes caught Greta's face peeking out from behind the doorframe and, for an instant, he saw a sparkling reminder of who she used to be. A dark twist of hair hung down the side of her face, curling in the hollow of her cheek. A flicker in her grey eye. Was she smiling? No. Nor did her skin seem as vibrant as a moment before. Her eye had gone flat as the walls. She was growing impatient. He made his slow, uncertain rise from his creaking, wooden chair and moved timidly toward the hall. Greta retreated into the dim light of the bedroom. His legs awakening from a deep sleep, he found it difficult, painful even to creep as he did. He could smell the room at end of the hall, past their bedroom. He knew he would have to clean in there again soon.

   Randall stood in the doorway, his eyes adjusting from the dark hall to the smoked yellow light of the bedroom. How odd, unwholesome it seemed to him now. He only came in here when she called on him for this task. He wasn't allowed in here at any other time. Hadn't been since they'd found that first one, years ago, not long after their first child was born still. It was her room, not theirs. She had been in here ever since. Piecing together nonsensical devices of what exact purpose or nature, though he had his suspicions, Randall could never quite discern. Nor did he wish to. He left her meals and the materials she requested outside the door. He was supposed to deal with the tenants and the delivery boys. It was his job to pay the bills, maintain the apartments and their bank account.

   He dared not tell her how five of their eleven units had been trashed and abandoned for months, how he had not replaced the tenants and had not bothered to clean. He never spoke to her of the buildings structural problems or the hate mail he received with the existing tenants’ rent checks, calling him a slumlord, complaining of rats and snakes and untraceable, fetid odors. It was his burden to bear, not hers. That was the way she wanted it. That was part of his duty as her husband. Part of his penance for having sperm that gave her a dead child. The dead child that gave her the hollow grief. The grief that caused her condition.

   He looked at his wife, lying stiff, naked on the bed. She had grown _so_ very thin. He hoped it was only the room's lighting that made her skin look that way. Like jaundiced ash, parched and cracking. Only the light that made her eyes seem to recede, her belly so sunken. But he knew from the large remains of her barely touched meals that she hadn't been eating well. Leaving the meat, hoarding the bones.

   She stared at him blankly, with her flat, cloudy eyes and slightly ajar mouth, as he wearily undressed beside the bed. He didn't want to look at her. His eyes pretended to scan the room, but he didn't really want to see anything else in here either. Old and newly fashioned instruments littered the tops of small tables and shelves and spilled onto the sticky floor, all bearing the slightly disturbed aura of recent use. Bizarre contraptions formed from greasy animal bones, broken mouse traps and baby doll parts, glass ampules filled with dried, white carcasses of strange, many-legged bugs, and the reconfigured innards of countless dismantled music boxes. He had never told her about the similar items he’d found and half-heartedly toyed with in his meandering inspection of the vacant units. He never asked her what these things were for or what caused her to build them. He didn't want to know what she did in here. He didn't want to know the morbidity that had afflicted his wife with its touch. He didn't want to have any understanding of why the air in this room was thicker now than in the rest of the apartment, why the walls seemed so... damp.

   He heard a splashing sound near his wife's head. Greta's eyes never moved from him, or the indefinite point in space she was staring at beyond him. He looked past her to the nightstand and for the first time, he saw the jar. He wished he didn't know what that abhorrent thing in the jar was. Didn't want to know anything about what it meant that it was writhing in the yellow fluid the jar contained on their nightstand. But he did. He had known before she had even called his name.

   She had coaxed another one of those damned things out of the wall. Kept in her own urine. Blessings, she called them. As was common of these matters, his stomach sort of lurched when he saw this one. He thought that it must have over sixty of those ugly, little eyes. All of them tiny, black, festering, jiggling beads, all engorged in a headskin plum of smooth, purple fat, all leering at him, laughing. He could taste the putrescence of their lust at the back of his throat. He knew he had been promised to it. His muscles tensed and puckered as he watched it swaying its dark, eel-like tail through the yellow liquid, flexing the opulent rings of thorny spines that stemmed from just below the rim of its disgusting, bulbous head.

   "Touch it." Greta commanded through tight, barely open lips. As if she thought she might tear her paper skin by opening her mouth any wider. Randall timidly did as she asked, hoping this would be all it took. The past couple of times it hadn't been enough. He'd had to do the other. The thought made his testicles feel weak and sick.

   All it had taken was a touch, when they found the first one sticking out of the wall that day, years back. Back when he still had a couple of vertebrae and some scattered remnants of dignity. Before she had torn it all from him. He had put death in her womb, she said. Worthless, dead sperm that she swore she could still feel clinging to her insides. Infuriating excuse for a man, spilling his loveless poison inside of her. That was it. He hadn't loved his wife enough to keep their baby alive. It was his fault. She told him their daughter's name would have been January. Did he know that? Did he care? she'd  screamed.

   Randall knew that the moment he heard his wife speak their stillborn daughter's name was the same moment that he lost the ability to gain an erection. And her resentment of him grew into a continuous assault on his manhood. "If you could call it manhood." she'd said. Pathetic, ugly, puny, limp, dead chickenskin. Any real man could not only get it up and give his wife the beautiful, living baby she deserved, but could give her an orgasm in the process. Randall had never even done that for her, she told him. And he probably never would from the cancerous rot between his legs.

   Randall would just sit there. Day after day, wishing she would stop driving these guilt-tipped nails into his skull. Wanting to lash out at her, scream, something. Yet, he seemed only able to sit there, staring down at his hands in his lap. He knew she was right. It _was_ his fault. Him and his defective equipment.

   The day that they had found the first of those horrid little creatures, Greta had been in the process of, yet another, discourse on his seemingly boundless inadequacy. She had been so infuriated with him. She had smacked his face three times. And when he did nothing to stop her, she grabbed the object his fingers had been fiddling with and smashed it against the wall. Only when dead, twisted tones began to chime, light and sick in the rage-heated air, did she realize what she had broken. The little music box Randall had bought for her and for their child when he found out that she was pregnant. Once upon a time it had played "Somewhere, My Love", but as it laid there in pieces, the hollow, tin garble that was plucked from it shrieking, as the coil unwound, was unrecognizable as any but the most torturous music.

   This, he knew, would also be his fault. His head sank further into his rib cage, like a turtle retreating into its shell, as he prepared for Greta to spew another unfaltering torrent of blame from the bottomless well that she held in her heart. And, perhaps, she had started to do just that, but few words escaped her lips before she fell into silence. Something else had captured her attention. Over the tops of his eyes, he saw her jerking her head to look around, sniffing at the air or cocking her ear, as if she were trying to capture some distant noise beyond the mockery of the music box ruins.

   He looked up at his wife, almost questioning why she'd stopped. Not that he wasn't grateful. Greta put a finger to her lips and hushed him, even though he had said nothing. He waited for a moment, confused. Her eyes darted, searching. Then, from some indistinct place, some vague corner of the apartment, he heard it. Like a wet finger skating the rim of a wine glass, yet it left the image in his head that the glass was screaming.

   Out of the corner of his right eye, he saw something. On the wall. A shadow. Moving. Gone. He tried to look straight at it and it vanished. No, wait. Over there. And another on that wall. And in the hall. The walls seemed to be dampening. Though the direct line of his vision still feigned the relative normalcy of a minute before, the horizons and conjunctions of his eyelids told him differently.

   Everywhere in his periphery the walls were crawling, swarming with slithering, dark things, wormy shadows gaining a slow, apparent solidity. His nose was invaded by the scents of licorice, and of rotten cherries, snagging in his throat like noxious, bitter thorns. The screams of the wine glass evolved into a small, backwards, tittering kind of laughter. And the air grew more dense by the second, as if a sort of fog, tepid and invisible, were settling into the apartment. Thick and stifling, making it hard to breathe.

   Randall looked into his wife's bewildered eyes and she into his. He remembered feeling nauseous, more than just to his stomach. Sick to his soul. Their mouths fell agape with want of speech, but their voices had run from their throats thin, formless. Too hard to speak. Difficult enough to breathe. Just breathe. In. Out. That's nice. Sighing. So nice. Soothing. Comfortable. Their heads grew heavy and began to loll to the side. Staring at one another, sighing together rhythmically, up to the disfigured, final note of the unwound movement. As the storm of discordant melancholia receded, so, too, did the shadows dissolve into the walls. The fog lifted instantly. The sickly sweet scents of filthy candied things departed from their olfactory. The laughter into a whine. The whine into a hum. The hum into silence. As their normal senses of awareness returned to them, their eyes searched the room for some, for any explanation of what had just happened.

     Greta saw it first. On the wall, by his desk, something like a large slug. They moved closer to inspect it. Smooth, slimy, but not a slug. Not a common one anyway. Neither of them had ever seen a slug with a posterior of plump, fingerlike tubes that degraded into wet, stringy tendrils at their ends. And never one so bright a gray. Randall had poked at it with a pencil from his desk a few times. It didn't move. Greta had said maybe it was dead. He agreed. He got the point of the pencil underneath the thing, trying to pry it from the wall. It fell. And he caught it.

     He hadn't intended to catch the thing and he thought that his immediate reaction should have been to drop it. But when it was there in his palm, he realized how much he had wanted to touch it. It had seemed so soft, pliant. Its texture, so full, voluptuous, like the flesh of a baby without muscle or bone. And the gray of it, the rich, sensuous gray of it. Warming in his hand as he stroked it with his thumb. The strangeness of it faded. He turned it between his fingers like a bauble, coming to the conclusion that whatever it was, it was not a whole animal. Where he had pried it from the wall, there was some kind of ruined, fatty material, like a mangled slice of orange and of similar color. And even that had its allure and its rewards for touching it.

   He had squeezed it, played with it, wondering what it tasted like, wanting to feel it give between his teeth. Greta looked at him in shock, but her disgust was only feigned. She shook her head and screwed up her mouth when he said she should touch it. But it didn't  take much persuading to make her giggle at the grossness of it and admit that she wanted to know what it felt like. He held his hand out, offering the thing for the approval of her senses. She placed her middle finger on it, letting it slide down, petting it, petting as he took hold of her other hand and moved it to his groin.

   She looked up at him wide eyed and a smile crept up her face. Her eyes narrowed and she squeezed his erection hard. He grinned. She licked her lips. They kissed with more passion, more lust than in the whole of their relationship. Tempted to bite each other, wanting to eat each other all the way to the bedroom, clothes quickly becoming scarce.

   Randall remembered that day. The first time he had imagined his wife without bones. A gluttonous, floppy, quivering form of tender moldable flesh, easily contoured to his every desire of her. A pillow of meat in his mind. He could not break her, no matter how hard he threw himself into her, pounded her or beat her with his body. There was nothing to break. And how he wanted to devour that slutty, boneless, debased thing.

   Randall remembered that day. All it took was a touch. The next morning she had told him she was pregnant. She knew it. He doubted that she could know, but she insisted. And indeed she was. It wasn't so important while she was pregnant, that he couldn't get it up anymore. They barely wondered what had become of that precious gray slug. They were going to have a living, breathing baby and that was what was important. Until the baby came, living, breathing.

   Randall looked now to the wretched, new wall thing in the jar on their nightstand. His knuckles were white around it, like he was trying to strangle it. It only pulsed and lengthened. His eyebrows wrinkled as he looked down in horror at the shame of his flaccid penis hanging like a dead worm. His eyes, welling with tears, turned up to Greta's. Hers said "You're weak." Her frail, dusty form lied there stiff, unmoving, yet brimming with contempt. He began to cry, simpering and sniffling.

   "Pathetic little boy," her voice was full of gravel and glass. "Be an adult, Randall. An adult man knows what has to be done and he does it! So don't just stand there and piss yourself, you scrawny little shitbag. Our perfect child is waiting. Don’t you want January to be with us?"

   Randall gripped the walldweller in the jar good and tight. He would do it. No matter how degrading. His fleeting manhood could suffer another blow just to quiet her and relieve himself of this accursed awareness, returning him to the elysian fields of his chair, his wall, where a thousand music boxes played at once behind visions of a happy life, a beautiful daughter and a healthy wife. He removed the creature from the liquid and bent at the waist, facing away from Greta. Randall looked down at his feet, watching stray tears splash on his toes. Greta looked at the ring of ten festering, upraised sores around his anus and smiled as her husband plunged the squirming blessing inside himself.

   Randall could feel its sharp spines extend and puncture him. He couldn't remove it now if he wanted to. But he didn't want to. The nectar was seeping in. She could see its dark, slippery tail still protruding from him. He turned to her, his eyes alight with an animal ferocity. His erection was raging. She spread her legs with several creaks and pops. He mounted his wife's breathing corpse, glancing for only an instant at her flaking, yellowed vulva and its sparse, patchy hair before punching himself into it. Dry and rough as sandpaper. It scraped him and hurt, but that was of no matter now. The thing was driving him into her, harder than was possibly comfortable. She just lay there very still. A peculiar cleft was developing on her face, denting the tip of her nose and drawing in her chapped upper lip, revealing the cakey gum area of her most recent tooth loss.

   He saw how easily her face could cave in. How kissing her would be like having a mouthful of ashes. He could feel, he could hear her bones clanking together as he assaulted her, as the creature assaulted him. He wanted to hurt her. He wanted to fuck and crumble her little body of brittle chalk into dust and powder. And she just lay there, expressionless, emotionless. He couldn't hurt her. He couldn't please her. He didn't care.

   He came like he was pissing away his awareness into her parched vagina. For a moment, he let his body relax, felt the limp, walldwelling thing slip out of his clutching anus and gave her the full weight of his body. She patted him on the back.

   "You did fine. You did fine, Randall."

   He knew there was condescendence in her voice, but what did it matter? Again, it was done. That was all she needed from him. She said nothing more to him as he climbed off her, gathered his clothes into his arms and walked out, shutting the door behind him.

   He leaned against the door, in the dark light of the hall, listening to the quiet sobs and mewling coming from the room at its end. He could hear metal clanging, scraping against metal. They were waking up, moving around. The stench was becoming overpowering. He strolled into their room to see how big of a mess he would have to deal with. They would probably be hungry. He hadn't made them any food in a while. They began to grunt and hoot when they saw him. They moaned and tried to rattle their cages with drooly, unfinished limbs. Their toothless mouths gummed shapeless greetings and hopes that their father had brought them some sustenance.

     Randall looked at the six cages, three stacked on three, and the ominous empty seventh, waiting, with its door sprung open. He gazed upon his children, hairless, sweaty, wriggling, slopping in their own excrement. Each one misshapen, malformed. Calling for him, with their sickly bleats. He could never seem to remember their names anymore. Oh, the burden of memory, slipping, like everything else. The one with the head like a bloated prune, he thought, the one with the filmy eyes, the absent spine. That was the first one, he was sure. Little Randy Junior. Didn't seem to be moving like the others. Just sort of lying there, shaking. The gnats swarmed by his thick lips, lapping up the foamy, pooling spittle. Must still be asleep. Probably in the midst of some spastic dream. He could scarcely remember if either he or Greta had bothered to name the other children. This next one could have a name. This one might be January.

   Randall looked down at his sorry member, dangling like a drunk’s head after a vomit. He yawned a heavy lungful of fetid air, bundled his clothes tight against his naked stomach, hugging them pitifully and turned to leave the room. Maybe this one wouldn't need to be kept that way. Maybe it would be normal. Maybe it would be perfect. Just like Greta wanted.

   For the moment, he was tired. He wanted to rest in his favorite chair, in his favorite place, in front of his favorite wall. He didn't feel like cleaning in there just now.

[theinvisiblestudio]

Week 8

Early middle ages and Romanesque

The medieval ages are my favorite timeline. The renaissance would be particularly my absolute favorite because it was simpler back then. During the early middle ages was the fall of Rome, being Roman was popular that people, who never been inside the old Roman Empire, they thought they were Romans. Romans were trying to save money so they hired Germany to be a part of Rome’s army. Eventually the German soldiers settled down to live in the Roman Empire. While that was happening England had a different ruler known as King Arthur who tried to keep out the Vikings, Angles, and the Saxons. They moved into the Roman Empire as well. The Roman emperor Justinian tried to diminish the invaders and rebuild the Roman Empire. His armies recaptured North Africa from the Vandals and other places.

During 542 A.D. the bubonic plague struck Constantinople and spread all over. Thus killing many people, more than a million people died from the plague. The bubonic plague spread from Europe to North Africa.  The bubonic plague started by animals, insect bites, or stings would spread to people. The plague infects lymph system which becomes inflamed. Some other symptoms include fever, headache, chills, weakness, and swollenness. Some fun facts I found on the history channel where during the Middle Ages the churches didn’t conduct with hunts. The churchmen gave no regard to magic and thought it was foolish nonsense that doesn’t work. Another fun fact people didn’t have to get married in a church. England was invaded a lot during the medieval times. Gargoyles were drains for churches. The churches thought of them as warding off evil spirits. But they were mostly used as water drains and the water would spew out of the gargoyle’s mouth. Churches are influential. They collected tax from people and held sums of wealth. Churches also helped in making the laws. They owed their allegiance to the Pope over the king. Art was considered bad unless it had God in it. Plus people could buy forgiveness. If they paid money, a monk would pray for that person and after the person died the monk ensured the person made it to heaven. Peasants had to work for the church as well. People would donate days of labor, free of charge and pay taxes in grain.

 The Romanesque era is around the 10th to 12th century. The architecture of Romanesque was founded by Edward the Confessor. It may have started in England and slowly crossed Europe to Italy. The architecture was more brightly colored. The buildings of the period were meant to be huge and more often in awe inspiring. The buildings weren’t just churches and monasteries there were also castles.

For the painting, I choose a Vikings picture. It’s the Vikings first voyage and it shows that they are talking to the villagers. It looks like they are trading or packing it. There are tusks, bowls, furs, and other things that I cannot describe. The chief villager looks like he is pointing out the ship. The painting looks like its full of color.