#but. here's the thing. i can use steel wool on a steel sink. or a steel shower for that matter

[seawitchkaraoke]

I'm finally properly cleaning my bathroom after far far too long and I'm doing great on the sink and the mirror and all that but the cleaner I have is just. Doing nothing to the soap stains and orange fungus(?) in the shower which isn't helped by the shower having ridiculous sliding doors that create nooks and crannies that are really hard to get at with anywhere near enough force to scrub properly

Should just get bleach and throw bleach at everything but also I don't know that I trust my adhd ass with bleach, that shit is intense

[yellowharrington]

jaded -- chapter 1, carmy berzatto x reader

pairing + fandom: carmen "carmy" berzatto x fem!reader (she/her pronouns used), the bear fx

warnings: sexual content, mention of unprotected piv sex, swearing, workplace relationship. minors dni with this story please.

word count: 1.4k+

a/n: guess who's back... back again... natty's back... tell a friend.... hey besties lol ik its been a year but i've been obsessed with the bear so i decided to write this. it will be a multichaptered fic and i will update it as soon as i've finished writing the chapters lmao. inspired by the song "jaded" by miley cyrus. pls pls pls enjoy

summary: fresh off of his breakup with claire, carmy needs a rebound. he just doesn't expect it to be his pastry chef.

masterlist | chapter 2

It starts with a ride home after service.

The sun had fallen down over the horizon, painting Chicago black with night. It’s chilly, middle of February, and you and Carmy are the only ones left at the restaurant. You’re both at the lockers, grabbing the last of your things and turning off the last few lights, leaving it behind you as you step out into the darkness of the street. Only amber lights are above you, illuminating Carmy’s face, along with the glow of his lighter around his cigarette. “How are you getting home?” He asks, looking down the alleyway. “Just the train,” you reply, gesturing towards the station a few blocks down the road. “Let me drive you,” he smushes the cigarette underneath the toe of his shoe, looking up at you, rather softly. “Oh, it’s not far,” you try to step the other way, before he grabs your shoulder lightly. “It’s cold, and fuckin’ dark, and there’s murderers. Just let me drive you home.” He was nothing if not protective. 

It really had been a short drive, slow tunes coming from his old car’s radio, drowned out by the sounds of the city around you. It was generally silent, Carmy’s hand on the gear shift. “It’s just up here,” you gesture to the building up the street. “Just take a right.” He does, obeying your action, pulling up in front of a 3-floored walk-up. “Thanks,” you grab your backpack by your feet, opening the door and giving him a small look before stepping out. “Hey, listen,” you start. His eyes are dark, sunken, tired. He’s wearing his usual wool jacket around a cozy navy blue sweater. “I was working on something before work this morning. A… a dish. Can I show you really quick? And you can tell me what you think?” He looked at the time on his phone, and then up at you. Baby blue eyes, peering from under thick lashes. “Sure, chef,” he says quietly as he puts his car in park and unbuckles the seatbelt. 

When you walk him up to your apartment, he’s endeared. You let him in, and your place smells of vanilla candles and laundry, from the load you’d done before work earlier that day. “Sorry about the mess,” you gestured to small pile of plates and spoons in the sink, and the aforementioned unfolded laundry on the couch. “You’d lose your mind if you saw my place if you think this is mess,” he laughed, pushing a hand through his soft golden hair. Your own coat comes off as you make your way into the kitchen, and he has to stop himself from staring. Your tight jeans fit your body perfectly, white t-shirt coming up over your hips only enough for him to see a dark tattoo on the back of your hip. You poured him a cup of cold water and put it in front of him, before firing up the burner on your stove and putting a stainless steel pan on the orange-blue flame. “Make yourself at home.”

He wandered around your apartment a bit, peering into your bedroom. Soft white bed, soft sheets, big fluffed pillows. An open window, letting a chilly breeze in, curtains slightly swaying with the night air. It reminds him of her, her soft sheets, big eyes, the nights he slept next to Claire and kissed her supple cheeks and pink lips. She was like this too; eager, clean, happy, simple. Easy to be with, and easy to like. You’d given off a similar energy the same day you walked into the restaurant on your first day, and you had reminded him of her. Kind eyes, warm presence, but with a different demeanour that chefs almost always had. A jaggedness, he thought. 

The sound of the plates being put on your small kitchen table snapped him out of his daydreams, as you held out a fork for him. “It’s a, uh, mango custard, bit of toasted cardamom and coconut cream in there, and, um, a coconut macaroon with a homemade chutney.” He raises his eyebrows at the dish before him, plated beautifully, and takes a small bite of each component. You seem to wait for hours as he takes his time, feeling every ingredient on his tongue before setting down his fork on the small white plate. “It’s tremendous, chef,” he says quietly, wiping the corner of his mouth. “Almost perfect. Could use maybe an acid, it’s a little sweet, but, wow,” he looks up at you to see your wide eyes, excited at his answer. This was, essentially, the highest praise from Carmy you could get. “Thank you,” you say quietly, watching as he takes another forkful of the dessert. 

“What’s the tattoo on your hip?” he asks, pointing at the right side of your body, where your shirt had ridden up before. He hadn’t stopped thinking about it since he caught a glimpse. “Oh, um,” your cheeks turned a soft shade of red, standing up to lift up your shirt and show him. “It’s, uh, a snake. It goes down my leg too,” you pull down the waistband of your jeans just enough to show him a bit more of the ink, further exposing the thin strap of the black thong you had on. “Got it a long time ago, in school. Just wanted to feel cool I guess.” He stands up, slowly, coming to lightly pin you against the counter. It’s safe, it’s easy, and suddenly it feels so fucking right to have him here under the dim kitchen light. “Can I see the rest of it?”

All bets are off, then. Your jeans are pooled around your ankles in a second as he’s feverishly kissing your lips, hands everywhere, his calloused palms against your soft ass. His sweater is off, along with his signature white tee, showing off the glistening gold chain against his bare chest. You’ve managed to push his jeans down just enough to slide a hand into his waist band, eliciting a soft, breathy moan from him into your mouth.

When you stumble back into your bedroom, it’s all a blur. It’s hot skin against hot skin, his lips leaving a trail of kisses along your neck as his hands work their way in between your wet folds. They’re so gentle, yet he knows what he’s doing, so the slow circles on your clit as he lets himself rut against you are making you unbelievably wet for him. “I want you so fucking badly,” he pants into your ear, letting a finger easily plunge into you as you open your legs wider for him. “Is this a good idea, Carmy?” you let your fingers thread through his hair, allowing him to look up at you. His usual baby blues were dark again, lustful and wanton. “No,” he says matter-of-factly, but the smirk on his lips is so unbelievable, a cruel man above you. “Should we do it anyways?” You ask, your own smile playing on the corners of your mouth, allowing your hips to rut against his fingers, fucking yourself to feel more of him. He takes a large hand to your breast, letting it slide up, thumb slipping onto your lower lip and into your mouth. “Yeah… yeah, of course we fucking should.”

It’s so easy with him, which is what makes it so hard. He knows right where to kiss, where to touch, where to love on your body. He knows to take his hands to your sides, pushing you into the mattress as he laps at your clit and kisses your inner thighs, looking up and watching you take your own tits in your hands, squeezing them together, looking down at him with such need. He knows to slide up between your legs, and to cradle your neck in his hand, his thick cock plunging into you and making you weak, making his thumb wet with his own spit and bringing you to your orgasm, spasming around him, moaning his name into his mouth like a prayer. It doesn’t take much longer after that for him to spill inside of you, warm and deep, lips locked around his as you helped him ride his orgasm out. And it feels right, and real, when he lays next to you and kisses your chest and arms before falling into a deep sleep, your soft comforter over his chest. It all feels so fucking right, that first time.

But the next morning, all you have is an empty bed. And it doesn’t feel right anymore.

[foodandfolklore]

Jar Folklore - Magsawi

Anyone else here guilty of jar hording? You finish a jar of pickles or jam and you're just like 'That's a nice Jar. I'ma keep that jar.' This seems to be a universal thing across witches and people just looking to reduce waste. Fun Fact, it's actually really hard to recycle glass. Not for the same reason as plastic; it's all the same material that can be melted down again and again. The problem is the colour. Clear jars are always made with new material because recycling can't realistically pick out the coloured bits. So reuse your clear jars!

One part that can be frustrating is the labels. Some peel off real easy once wet, others you swear were stuck on with rubber cement >.< You don't need a lot of stuff to get labels off of a jar. Just a decent amount of time.

Rinse out your empty glass jars. Begin to fill your clean kitchen sink with hot water from your tap. Apply and saturate your jar's labels with liquid dish soap. You can also add a little soap into your hot water if you want. Place your jar in the sink on it's side and continue to fill with hot water until covered. Leave your jars to soak for several hours; maybe overnight.

Once soak has completed, take jar and begin to pull label away. Label should come off easily with minimal force. Use your thumb nail or back of a wooden spoon to help with scraping. Scrub remaining bits off with wash cloth or sponge if needed. Once label is completely gone, give your jar a proper wash. I stick mine in the dishwasher. Now it's ready for use.

Tips: Don't put the jar in the dishwasher before the label is off. It will just seal it on harder, like stuck on food. -If the label is being stubborn, redo the soak. Or try letting it sit with a baking soda paste for a bit. -Do not give into temptation and try using something abrasive to scrub the label off. Steel wool and SOS pads can scratch glass.

I found a Filipino Folktale about Jars. Or rather beings in jars. It brought back memories of the days of making fairy jars or spirit jars. But it's always a good reminder about how Jars can contain great power. Even if others don't always understand it.

A great many years ago some Tinguian left their little village in the valley early one morning and made their way toward the mountains. They were off on a deer hunt, and each carried his spear and head-ax, while one held in leash a string of lean dogs eager for the chase.

Part way up the mountainside the dogs were freed, and the men separated, going different ways in search of game. But ere long the sharp barking of a dog called all in his direction, for they believed that he had a deer at bay. As they approached the spot, however, the object did not look like a deer, and as they drew nearer they were surprised to find that it was a large jar.

Filled with curiosity they pressed on, but the jar evaded them. Faster and faster they ran, but the object, disappearing at times and then coming into view again, always escaped them. On and on they went until at last, tired out, they sat down on a wooded hill to rest and to refresh themselves with betel-nut which they took from brass boxes attached to their belts.

As they slowly cut the nuts and wrapped them in the lime and leaf ready for chewing, they talked of nothing but the wonderful jar and the mysterious power it possessed. Then just as they were about to put the tempting morsels into their mouths they stopped, startled by a strange soft voice which seemed to be near them. They turned and listened, but could see no person.

“Find a pig which has no young,” said the voice, “and take its blood, for then you will be able to catch the jar which your dog pursued.”

The men knew then that the mysterious jar belonged to a spirit, so they hastened to do as the voice commanded, and when they had secured the blood the dog again brought the jar to bay. The hunters tried to seize it, but it entered a hole in the ground and disappeared. They followed, and found themselves in a dark cave where it was easy to catch the jar, for there was no outlet save by the hole through which they had entered.

Though that was many years ago, the jar still lives, and its name is Magsawi. Even now it talks; but some years ago a crack appeared in its side, and since then its language has not been understood by the Tinguian.

Sometimes Magsawi goes on long journeys alone when he visits his wife, a jar in Ilocos Norte, or his child, a small jar in San Quintin; but he always returns to Domayco on the hillside near the cave.

[ohimesama]

2.2.23 Thursday

5:44 am

Thank God for today though it is bad thursday... Is it a thursday crime??? Hope a positive crime...

Hmm... Still having the windblow trap cult of Manaloz...

About Anid,I remember she told me that our boss Ms Enaoj was crying on her and always asking for help on taking care of Mommy Adnil and on something???

Oh! The flush of our bathroom is ohkay now... the solution I made for it the dish washing liquid and hot water is very effective, on worst scenarios I have to buy sosa....

7:15 am but 6:55 am Punch-in!

First routine on going....Vital Signs done! Now, Mommy Adnil doing her morning gurgle...

7:36 am

Mommy Adnil's breakfast....Done,serving...

Rice,Fried Egg, and Hash Brown. Always give a fruit each meal and her meds... and I'm eating here in the kitchen,the same thing ;)

The system here with Ms Enaoj I can eat the same food except for the fruits. Fruits are always for Mommy Adnil only...

Sometimes,there are special food only for Mommy Adnil but there is a food an extra for 1 caregiver here but a caregiver can also bring their own food, if they want...

For some of you who is playing video games, if you angels are aware of house video game... It's like I'm a player here as caregiver will enter this Mommy Adnil's house or The House Of Catz! Or House with 12 big catz!

There is a doorbell,ding-dong! Hoping for a wonderful ding-dong! Coz Mommy Adnil had her ding-dong but Ms Enaoj wasn't able to have ding-dong but she got LJ her only daughter.

7:58 am

After breakfast... It is a caregiver responsibility to wash the plates and the plates that you used...

Since,I'm a special child ;) I always wear my gloves...

Remember,don't forget to give her meds or you will be killed in the game ;)

The meds are in the first kitchen sink, just get the right med cup each meal of the day on the top of medicine box.

8:09 am

Surprise2x Mommy Adnil requested to wash her face on her own...

Prepare her water basin and her creams and facial wash.

I got her facial wash and cream...Hmm.... Be careful... She asked me to open the facial cream and I just flipped the cap suddenly she got mad at me and said follow my instructions! Coz it is already cut in half and I said oh! Mommy I didn't know that is already cut in half...

She shout again,her first shout today... That I should follow her instructions...

She asked me to wash her basin, that I should used the steel wool in the kitchen and I did... She asked me to return all her facial wash and creams and her mirror in her drawer...

After that, she asked me to bring her tablet and don't forget to give her rosary coz it is morning meaning automatic....When she ask for her tablet after breakfast, give her rosary right away... Then, time to chill...Breathe in, Breathe out...

8:35 am

Then,I didn't notice the new washed clothes, face towels,towels and underpads are just on the chair thrown by Ms Enaoj. Mommy Adnil shout to fold it coz she said if she will not order me, I will not fold it. I said oh! Mommy I didn't notice... Then, just arrange it... ;) Just don't say a thing but oh! Mommy....Then,do the right thing...

10:26 am

I'm on the book it is kinda weird... Was it crime???

Still,having the windblow trap cult of Manaloz? Again, no matter what happens... There will always be a trial???

Everything is weird and puzzle pieces but I learned to embrace things that I have now... But I still have dreams to buy starbucks everyday and hoping to see a real donkey and camel and join a dog show... Oh! I'm always thinking of money.... But I learned life that I should flow and put some dream in the cabinet for awhile...

I wanna meet upper friends and still can't exist.... Taking time is God's way of saying wait,probably he is just fixing something.

12:37 noon

Sample lunch of Mommy Adnil, chiken and tofu adobo, orange again for lunch.

This is sample special food for mommy Adnil only and her meds.

1:48 pm

Again,I have the windblow trap hmm cult of Manaloz....

Again, I hate people who are judgemental on me and on other people's business... I know myself... I know people... I know how to give a verdict on someone...

I never interfere on someone's life, I hate women who feel prettier than me and making an agenda to control my life unfairly without my permission or without telling me... Have some respect on me... Know some manners!

I hate men who keep on talking that doesn't have manners on telling a particular story... Coz JP is really a gentleman...

Telling stories about other people it is either good intention or bad intention... Sharing stories to other people must have maturity...

2:21 pm

I used to have yaya and I was original... But I have a good heart and I had yaya's angels...

Time that we can open our AC...

I want gluta shots and scrubbing in God's time... Now, I feel fat and ugly...

3:20 pm

Relaxing, in a lil while will do a leg massage for mommy Adnil's mobility...

Done,60 pages on this new book....8 to 10 days I can finish this,if I'm not at work probably 5 days... But if I'm doing something 7 days...

Life art... Feed your brains angels...

6:15 pm

Kuya OJ will fetch me angels,in a lil while...

7:57 pm

Yehey! House already...Thanks tita Karen...

8 pm

Still,having trauma on whatever the gossip this week...

Kuya OJ fetched me and he was the one wearing a pepsi jacket that "eat bulagah" didn't know that I was spoiled and I had yaya's and my upbringing was different....We never smashed people time that we had enough money...

The "3 personalities of Eat Bulagah" had an issue of raping an old actress way back and they called it Pepsi!

8:46 pm

Mommy Adnil,I think having imagination or hallucination coz she told me that she saw a person... At the back and I told her there was no person, LJ was in her room and the 2 of us...

I tried to ignore it...

9:19 pm

The GR will be coming from India that's why I love arab people...

Weird thing... I have a clean conscience cult of Manaloz...

[clochanamarch]

" god's honest? i don't really know the singer names. " she confides with a rueful chuckle. the kids try to teach her, of course, but it's not an artist that she listens to. her playlists are what eli delicately describes as "chaotic disorganization". he's also made it politely clear that the disconnect between each song gives him a headache, which really lends a clarity to his decision to buy her earphones for christmas. " jennie? very fun! they're very talented too. it's a fun song, right? what are your favorite artists? "

the kids are a welcoming bunch, it's never been a concern of hers that they might make any newcomers feel unwelcome. but a new place, new people, new dynamics to understand... it can be overwhelming. and the last thing she wants is to stress anyone out. although, the longer she speaks with flori, the more she realizes that that won't be an issue here.

" that's good! actually, laszlo might be able to help me out with blood, anyway. or jimmy. either way, we won't let you go hungry! what kinda food do you like to eat, other than sweets? " she's started to scrub a particularly stubborn pot that kate had used to make lamb biryani with advik and edwina, carefully working the steel wool in small, neat circles over the caked stains. mentions of a friend and a fondly recollected location catch her interests again, and she lights up with a smile. " i'd love to go there, some day! if you're open to it, that is? willoughby, right? charlotte sounds like a wonderful person, i'm glad she's rid of the prick. i mean, hopefully he does go to therapy, but either way, it sounds like he's affected her life in a serious way. i hope you know, if you want to stay in touch with her or any of your friends, i'm more than happy to make the drive with you. "

research projects. the conversation is so relaxed and casual that she wonders at how quickly they've become accustomed to vampirism and other such subjects around here. the pan cleaned, she sets it aside to drain, then unplugs the sink, satisfied with the progress. " eli's a real whizz on the computers, you know. maybe he could find some books online for your research? oh, and laszlo has a tonne of old texts; i'm sure there's enough stuff in his books to cover the entire planet of vampiric cultures! we can chat with him about that in the morning, if you like? "

that's lovely. that's really reassuring, actually.

floribeth watches as aisling refreshes the sponge with a little extra washing up liquid and soaks the cutlery, cleaning out the bowls with a steady pace and a pop song.

a most familiar pop song.

"never pegged you for a blackpink type of person. but jennie's song sounds fun. this that pretty-girl mantra---" it's a quiet addendum to the song. very few people know she sings. she keeps it to herself. a shower-only thing, one might even say.

"yeah," she says, "i think so too." granted, that's the hope for all of the kids, ranging from advik to tina. floribeth wants to get along with everyone.

with a grateful smile, she takes the tea towel next to the draining rack and starts toweling the cutlery and bowls down. it reminds her of when she used to do that with her dad, way back when, while her mom relaxed on the couch, tired of a hard day's work.

"that's okay, thank you for asking. it's not rude. i can do both, actually. blood and food. and i like sweets. there's this really cool diner in willoughby, pennsylvania. it's appropriately named willoughby's. the owner's like me too. her name is charlotte zima. she was in this, um, situationship and it went all the way down-hill and six feet under. 'cause she loved a man so much she let him turn her, and he never did love her back. 'cause, honestly, i think that dude - the one who turned charlotte and was stringing her along - is incapable of it, otherwise he wouldn't have left her where he did. personally, i think that guy needs therapy to unpack his..." her lip curls down in distaste. "...everything, but that's just me."

and that's not really what aisling asked, is it?

"sorry, it's just - she's older than me by quite a lot of years but i feel quite protective of her; charlotte is not a grudge holder at all but i still feel so angry on her behalf. like, why do bad people happen to good people, you know?" a nod and then: "as for what i like, uh, i like books. i like to read. i like to research. i've got this whole passion project on eastern vampires, specifically. i think that's pretty cool."

oh, and she knows how to hack, too, but perhaps that's something for a later conversation.

[formulatrash]

this might be a really random question but since you're the resident car expert around here:

which is worse for the environment, an electric suv or electric sports car? I know you've said SUV bad before, but I was thinking about the tesla roadster earlier (random shower thought) and was just curious how that would compare to, say, a giant SUV EV.

the short answer is almost always the SUV, just for the sheer weight of materials and likely the size of the battery. but there would probably be outlier cases; an EV hypercar would, for instance, be worse than a Chevy Bolt, which technically comes in a crossover SUV format. whereas the Hummer EV SUV is always going to be worse than anything, bar the Hummer pickup, etc.

with any EV what you have to look at is the LCA or Life Cycle Assessment: that's how much CO2 goes into making the car and then at what point it starts to pay that back vs ICE, as well as what will happen to the elements of the car at the end of its life, in terms of battery recycling .

for emissions most EVs will always beat ICE vehicles. with the exception of when you look at two important and totally overlooked metrics, which is tyre particulate emissions and brake dust. in principal, regenerative braking should reduce the strain on brake discs and mean that there is less degradation to the pads - in reality, the relative amount of recovery vs the huge weight of most EVs currently being made, means that there is likely significant brake dust emissions, especially from larger and heavier vehicles like SUVs.

tyre particulates are worse the larger the tyre and the heavier the vehicle weight. particulates are just little bits of the tyre breaking off and they account for huge amounts of dust in cities and somewhere between 45-65% of ocean microplastics. to describe them as an environmental catastrophe is putting it mildly, if greenhouse gases were not such a priority problem right now then tyre particulates would be a huge scandal.

of course, all ICE cars emit both these things too. a lot of them much worse than EVs. smaller, lighter, more efficient versions of either an ICE or electric car will always reduce the emissions of both (take, say, my Twingo which I don't believe emits brake dust since she basically doesn't have brakes...) and I don't want to say that there are no benefits to EVs when there very clearly are. they are the most efficient way to use energy to travel and have significant benefits over any other private car, environmentally.

but anyway, back to the roadster vs SUV: where the sports car had a smaller, lighter battery and a lower overall weight than the SUV, it would always be better. unless it's being driven absolutely full-blast all the time, in which case of course it's going to be using more energy and running through charge quicker but let's assume that both are being used as average runarounds because I guess people do that.

it doesn't just end with the battery, either; SUVs likely come with luxury interiors and even in EVs, often have the option of leather. which is mindbogglingly destructive to the Amazon rainforest, where it's directly linked to deforestation for cattle farming (about the worst possible thing you can do for greenhouse gases, taking away a carbon sink and adding a methane creator) and car companies deserve to be held to account over it. but even if the interior is wool or pleather (which is more environmentally friendly when it comes to cars than it is in fast fashion) there's more of it than in a smaller car.

they're more likely to have large-scale infotainment, which means more rare earth metals and more circuitry, the overall carbon cost of creating a larger vehicle is higher because there's more steel and plastic. you get the idea.

SUVs in general are directly called out as a climate change accelerant in the dire warning UN scientists issued earlier this year. sports cars are also stupid as fuck and not exactly contributing to the environment but they've never become the default car in the way that an SUV has. it's now almost challenging to buy non-SUV cars, which is a big, big problem that governments need to step in and legislate against.

also they're ugly as hell and suck. why the heck have things that are boring, annoying and difficult to park become so popular.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Little Bones 6

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape, anger, humiliation, control.

This is dark! (biker) Thor x chubby!reader and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Series Synopsis: You’re a city girl stuck in a small town, but Birch isn’t as sleepy as it seems.

Sister series to Smalltown Bringdown and When the Weight Comes Down

Note: This is likely the second to last chapter in this series! I’m excited to have another Birch series finished in the near future! And then I can work on Loki’s installment because you all are so dang convincing.

Thanks to everyone for their patience and feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

MASTERLIST

Chapter 6: I can cry, beg and whine

Thor was insatiable. That was the only word you could think to describe him but it didn’t feel strong enough. His hunger, his persistence, his complete control over you was indescribable. He held your apartment, your job, your very existence in his grip. 

You woke up to him beside you in your double bed, too small for both of you but it only gave him a reason to be on top of you. You went to work late more days than not that week. And even when you didn’t go home to find him on your couch, he wasn’t long behind. 

There was no hiding from him in Birch and there was no way out. It was a truth you denied for too long because you weren’t from there. But it wasn’t about the town, it wasn’t the town that trapped you. It was the people, it was the attitude. It was those bikers.

Friday came and he was there waiting but he wasn’t sprawled out on your sofa as usual. He wore his colours, ready to go somewhere. 

He combed his fingers through the tails of his blond hair as you unzipped your jacket and set your bag on the shoe rack. He checked himself in the mirror that hung along the entryway and planted his hand on the wall as he leaned over you.

“Put on something nice,” he purred as he grabbed your chin and tilted your face towards him, “if it wasn’t so cold, I’d say something slutty.”

You didn’t have a chance to grimace before he kissed you. You swallowed your revulsion and waited for him to let you go. As you knelt to remove your boots, he tickled along the back of your head.

“Mmm, I’m almost tempted to let you stay down there,” he taunted, “but we’re already late.”

“Late for what?” you stood and brushed past him. He followed closely and groped your ass. You were almost used to his incessant touching.

“I got business tonight,” he said.

“Your business,” you insisted as you entered the bedroom. You made no move to change and sat on the bed as you rubbed your eyes, “I have no interest in whatever it is you deal in and I’m dead tired.”

“I know I’ve been… hard on you,” he smirked as there was no true remorse in his tone, “but how am I supposed to help myself?”

You looked at him sharply and snarled. “I really don’t feel like going to the bar--”

“We’re not going down there,” he interrupted, “but the girls are expecting you.”

He went to the closest and slid open the door. You shook your head at the wall and didn’t move. You knew there was no arguing with him. It made your blood boil. You hated that feeling of helplessness. You hated his kind of men and how they used women like things, painting their desires as your own.

“This is nice,” he tossed a forgotten pair of leggings with leather strips along the side on the bed and a silver top with trumpet sleeves slit along the inside, “bet your ass looks wonderful in those.”

“Can’t I have one night--”

“It’s business. The women have their time and we have ours. Get up.” He said sternly, “though I don’t mind helping you into these.”

He lifted the leggings and stretched the high elastic waist and bit his lip. You stood and snatched them from him. He did not leave, didn’t even back away as you turned and dropped them back on the bed. You stripped off your wool pants and the striped blouse. 

You wiggled into the leggings, embarrassed at how your ass jiggled and he purred in response. The top was tight across your tits and pushed them up dangerously against the neckline. You never wore it because that very reason; too much attention where you didn’t need it.

“See,” he snapped his knuckles against your ass, “sexy as hell.”

“You gonna tell me where we’re going?” you asked as you crossed your arms.

“Just a little get together,” he framed your face with his large hands, “with your Birch boys.”

He said nothing else as he latched onto your arm and turned to drag you behind him. You barely lifted your feet in your reluctance but you sensed his impatience growing. You contented yourself that in the least he would be distracted by other people long enough to leave you alone for just a few minutes.

💀

The motorcycle ripped through the early evening air and you shivered against his back. The air was still bitter but the roads were cleared of snow enough to maneuver the steel beast. He drove out of town and along the country roads, those were more treacherous than the main row.

You pulled up to the farmhouse, the old lot recently renewed as the house shone from within. Thor slowed and killed the engine. He flipped out the kickstand and nudged you. You climbed off and he followed your lead. He shoved the keys in his pocket and unstrapped his helmet as he let out a ‘brrr’.

“Come on,” he nodded to the porch steps as you undid your own helmet. 

You walked up to the house and he knocked. He took your helmet from you as you waited for an answer. You heard voices and the approach of footsteps from the other side. The door opened and Steve’s girl smiled out at you and pushed open the screen door.

“Oh! You’re here!” She chimed, “I used your mother’s lemon meringue recipe. And oh,” she beamed at you, “we haven’t seen you lately.”

“Work,” you said, it wasn’t exactly a lie, “it’s nice to see you, too. I’m sorry I didn’t bring anything, I--”

“I have everything under control,” she clapped her hands, “we’re just trying to figure out the shaker. Come in.”

She backed up and Thor held the door as you passed through first. You took your boots off at the mat and she beckoned you further in. “Thor, the guys are just in the living room,” she pointed to her left, “we’re in the kitchen,” she motioned behind her, “working on dinner.”

“Mmm,” you grumbled and nodded. Before you could step forward, Thor caught you and drew you back to him. He kissed you and you bore it in simmering humiliation.

“Have fun,” he squeezed your ass and let you go as he turned to find the other men.

You huffed and turned your attention to Steve’s girl as she waited awkwardly. She rubbed her hands together as she walked with your down the hallway. “Steve’s like that, you know? Touchy feely. I get so… embarrassed…” her voice trailed off, “sorry, I shouldn’t--”

“I always wondered about you and him. You’re an odd pair,” you said.

“Well, it’s not anything I expected but, um… well, this is our house--” she gestured around her as she led you into the kitchen, “you know, he bought it for me.”

“Hey, don’t change the subject,” you said a bit too tersely, “you said Steve embarrasses you but you--”

“And Thor does it to you so… you know that’s how they are,” she squeaked.

“All of them,” Bucky’s girl said and you only noticed her as she shook the metal shaker, “it’s why we need alcohol.”

You exhaled and came up to the counter as Steve’s girl went to the stove and lifted the lid on the skillet to stir the contents, “please, don’t put a lot of gin in mine. I don’t do well with alcohol.”

You leaned on the marble as you watched the other woman pour the bright pink liquid into a finely shaped glass on a stem, “looks better than last time.” She turned and set it beside the stove for the hostess.

“So…” you frowned as you thought and she began to measure gin and all the other ingredients before her, “why are you with them--”

“Why are you with Thor?” she interrupted, “we saw how much you hate him at the bar. We felt the same but don’t act stupiid like you don’t know what’s going on. These men are given everything they want and when they aren’t they take it anyway.”

“He takes care of my ma, though--” Steve’s girl intoned.

“And that makes it all hunky dorey,” the other sneered, “she sucks at saying it out loud but she can’t stand Steve as much as we can’t stand the rest of them.”

The other woman was quiet as she replaced the lid and reached for the drink. She fidgeted and looked down at her frilly apron. She was dressed like some housewife out of the suburban fifities, although her dress was still uncomfortably short.

“What good does it do to say it?” she mumbled.

Bucky’s girl mixed another cocktail and poured it pristinely before she slid it over to you, “I’m getting the hang of this but I’m happy the men are sticking to beer. My arm’s getting tired.”

You took the glass and tasted the drink. You hummed as it surprised you. “Aren’t you a bartender?”

“Server. I open beers and believe it or not but they don’t serve margaritas down at The Asp.”

You shrugged and kept drinking as she made her own drink and turned to rest her elbow on the counter lazily.

“I should’ve warned you. Not that it would’ve helped but I could’ve,” she said.

“No, it doesn’t matter. It’s like you said. They take whatever they want. Nothing we can do, is there?”

You were silent as you all sipped. The gin warmed your chest and you let it sink into your veins. Your commiseration was grim but comforting. To think that you weren’t entirely alone was as heartening as it was saddening.

💀

The alcohol heightened your irritation as dinner ended. You were left to help clear the table in your matronly duties with the other women. You were insulted at the outdated binary of the arrangements and it felt less like a get together and more of a job.

The men, Steve, Bucky, Thor, and Loki returned to the living room and their voices threaded the air as the dishes clinked in your grasp. The blonde biker’s brother was unexpected but he seemed just unhappy to be there as you. There were a few minutes during the meal where you sympathised with him as he rolled his eyes and failed to hide any ounce of his spite for Thor.

When you finished up, Steve’s girl took several more beers to the men before she returned to grab her glass of water. You took the vodka cooler, your third drink of the night, and went along with them to the living room.

You hung back as Steve’s girl neared him and was drawn down beside him impatiently, his arm around her shoulders as he almost spilled her water. Bucky’s girl sat beside him and tolerated his arm around her waist though he was less clingy than his accomplice. Loki stood by the window and stared out into the dull snow as Thor perched in the cozy armchair.

You went to sit beside Steve’s girl but you were stopped by a tut. 

“I’ve got a seat for you, kitten,” Thor slurred. The beer was thick in his voice, as potent as the liquor in your stomach. You turned to him as he rubbed his thigh.

“I’m fine, here,” you insisted and his smile fell.

“You know I wasn’t asking, kitty,” he warned, “come on and be a good girl. We’re guests. Let’s not make a scene.”

You stood in front of the couch and glared at him. You sighed softly and pushed your shoulders back. You marched over to him and turned your bottle to splash it over his front. You acted surprised at your feigned clumsiness and took a step back.

“Oops,” you uttered coyly, “how careless--”

He was up on his feet in a moment as he slammed his own bottle down on the small table beside the chair. He knocked yours from your hand entirely and the air stilled with tension. His blue eyes flared as he grabbed your wrist.

“Better help me get cleaned up,” he growled and looked over your shoulder, “excuse us.”

You resisted him for a moment but he yanked and nearly took you off your feet. He spun and kept hold of you as he forced you after him and stormed from the room. You stumbled out into the hall behind him and he flung you ahead of him. 

He gripped the back of your neck and ripped open a door to his right. He shoved you inside and you hit the sink as the clasp clicked loudly. He crowded you in the half bath as you braced yourself against the porcelain, the scent of beer tingling in your nostrils. You stared at his dark shirt, stained with his drink.

“I thought I trained you better, kitten,” he snarled, “just when I thought you were starting to purr.”

“Fuck you,” you said as the alcohol thinned the filter between your thoughts and your words.

“Oh, I can make that happen,” he hissed as he lifted the hem of his shirt and tore it off. He hung it over the towel bar and felt along his damp torso, “I can’t let you bite and not give you a good swat for it.”

“Don’t be an ass. It’s a drink. You can’t just talk to me like that. I’m not some animal--”

“Shhh,” he hushed as he covered your mouth and pushed you against the sink, “I’m not listening. That’s not how this works…” he leaned in and lowered his voice, “you realise how bad this is? You challenged me in front of men; I won’t have it. We’re past niceties, kitten.”

His hands slipped over your hips and to your ass. He scooped you up and rested you atop the porcelain as he crushed his body against yours. He grabbed your chin and smothered your lips with his as he rolled his pelvis against you.

His hand fell and crawled along your throat. You turned your head away and gasped as his fingers hooked under the elastic of your leggings.

“What are you--”

“Don’t play dumb,” he nipped at your throat, “we’ve done this enough.”

“Not here,” you pushed on his shoulders, “you can’t--”

“I can do--” his other hand fell to your waist and he gripped the elastic, “whatever--” his hands snaked around you as his fingers slid between the fabric and your skin, “I want.”

He ripped your leggings down with your panties and forced them down your legs. He pulled until your legs wet bent in front of you and you were curled awkwardly atop the sink as you struggled with him.

“Stop-- I’ll be good--”

“Too late,” he shoved his hand between your legs and felt around roughly. 

The fabric of your leggings trapped your thighs and kept you bent against him painfully as he hunched over you. He pulled his hand away to fumble with his fly and shifted as he pushed down his zipper. He set his feet firmly and hooked his other arm around you as he pressed his tip along your folds.

He guided himself blindly over your cunt, his beer-laced breath choked you as your head spun. He rested his forehead against yours as your head was propped up against the mirror. He lined himself up with your opening and thrust bluntly inside of you. You exclaimed in surprise as the intrusion blazed through you.

You were drunk enough that it felt good but you were aware enough of what was happening. You slapped him and his head snapped to the side. He pulled back and slammed into you even deeper. He brought his lips to yours again and kissed you sloppily as he rocked against you. The counter groaned under both of your weight as you tried to hold in your voice.

He sped up as your breath quickened in time with his. You closed your eyes as he once more descended to your through and kissed and nipped at your skin. His hips tilted into you steadily as you wriggled against him.

He pushed his hand between your bodies and pressed two fingers to your clit. He rubbed as he kept his pace and you murmured as your drunken body responded. You dug your nails into his shoulders and your feet arched as the ripple began to flow over you. Your peak rose fast and you cried out without restraint as it took you off guard.

His own grunts added the furor and he moved faster atop you. His knee hit the front of the counter and he sunk to his limit as he quaked. He stopped and held himself as deep as he could, sliding back slowly only to ease back in as he came in long strokes.

He stopped and rested his head in the crook of your neck, his blond hair falling forward as he caught his breath. You shuddered and nudged his shoulders until he stood. He slipped out of you and sent a chill up your spine. Your body fell limp and you dropped from the counter onto shaky legs.

You felt his cum trickle down your thigh as he reached for the toilet paper and wiped himself clean. Your vision hazed as you reached for some as well and kept the mess from dripping into your panties. He cleared his throat and turned to examine his wet tee shirt. You pulled up your leggings and sniffed.

 It was all so sudden it was as if nothing had happened at all. You held yourself up against the wall and a knock came from the door. He opened it without pretense and greeted Steve’s girl as she peered inside nervously and glanced at you briefly. 

She held a folded shirt in her hands as she blinked meekly. She knew, they all knew. You had no doubt that they’d heard it all.

“Um, hopefully this fits,” she said as she handed the tee shirt to him, “and, we… we’re just about to have dessert.”

“Great. I’ve got quite the appetite,” he replied, “we’ll be out soon.”

He closed the door and turned back to look at himself in the mirror. He brushed past you so you were flush to the wall as he pulled on the shirt. It was too tight around his thick arms and his broad chest. He tidied his hair and rolled his shoulders as he admired his reflection.

“I think now you’ll be good, kitten,” he winked and reached to touch your cheek cloyingly, “best not to get my hackles up again.”

[painless-innit-colourful]

Bit of a c!Tommy character study fic really. Tommy’s in Snowchester in that lovely bit of peace between his resurrection and Wilbur’s that I seem to love writing fluff in. Feat. Michael, Tubbo and Ranboo.

Tommy has many thoughts on many things these days. 

He supposes it's yet another after-effect of having been dead. He spent so long floating in nothing with next to nothing to think about- No, that's not it. It was more like he had been robbed of the ability to think. The dead have no need for thoughts or contemplation, so why not just lean back and let your mind wither into oblivion?

He shakes himself out of that stupor and reminds himself of what he was thinking about. The song emanating from the kitchen radio is pretty good. Ranboo has gotten really annoying lately. And there's an overly stubborn stain on the head of the Axe of Peace that is totally throwing off its intimidation factor. 

He's scraping at it with some steel wool he nicked from the sink - he's at Tubbo's in Snowchester - when he feels a tugging sensation. Still far too on edge for his own good, he springs to his feet and holds the axe as if to if to attack. False alarm: it's just Michael. 

Michael. The beloved son. 

He doesn't seem frightened by Tommy half-brandishing an axe at him - he seems to be trying to ask Tommy a question in a mix of half-formed English words and a babble of what Tommy can only assume to be Pigman Latin. The axe in his hands is suddenly heavy, and something twisted and hateful and not him briefly flirts with the idea of swinging, before he takes that thought out back, shoots it, throws it in a hole in the ground and drops TNT on it. Jealousy is a powerful drug and he hates himself for even thinking of harming this child. He discards the axe over his shoulder unceremoniously (scuffing the guest bedroom floor as it clatters to the ground; oh well) and sits down heavily, knitting his hands together and putting his head in them for a minute. The song changes, and he hates it. 

--- 

"Where's Michael?"

"Uhhhh-" After a slight interlude of Tubbo checking around his feet, there's a babble from the next room. "In with Tommy."

"Is he gonna be alright?" Ranboo's concern is warranted - especially considering what happened the day before prior to the disastrous mission to rescue Henry - but Tubbo dismisses it with a wave of the hand. "He's fine."

"Are you sure? What if he hurts him?"

"Which one?" Ranboo lets out a single exasperated laugh, quietens, thinks for a minute, then sighs. "If you say so." 

"Tommy's not like that, alright?" Tubbo turns to face his husband, spatula in hand. "Yeah, he's obnoxious and reckless and doesn't think before he does or says things and he's been a bit... out of sorts lately, but he's not- He wouldn't do something like that." The last part of his sentence comes out a lot quieter, as he looks past Ranboo, through the open door, where Tommy stands over Michael, holding the Axe of Peace. "And if he did," He amends with a hiss. "I'd kill him myself." Ranboo looks over, taken aback but not entirely surprised.

"With this," Tubbo adds as he waves his spatula around. Their attention is drawn back by the loud CLONK from the guest room, and Tommy's sitting on the bed as Michael struggles to scramble up with him. Tommy's hands - axeless - reach over and pull him up by the arms, and Tubbo leans back with a smile as Michael plops down next to Tommy and starts babbling. 

"See?" He says when Ranboo finally looks back. "Total confidence." The enderman-hybrid splutters. "You sure? What were you saying about that spatula?"

"Don't know what you're talking about!" He laughs loudly, almost loud enough to hide his racing heartbeat from himself. 

--- 

Tommy can't understand two words the pig-kid is saying, but he seems happy enough, so it makes up for contemplating his murder in his mind. 

"They love you a lot, don't they?" He says softly, to which Michael halts his ramble for a moment to listen. "Eythay ovelay ouyay ootay." 

Tommy smiles, still with no clue what he's trying to convey. "I can't believe I'm jealous of some toddler. How pathetic is that? The big man that I am, jealous of a baby Pigman."

"Iway ikelay ouyay." 

He chuckles, "Me too buddy. What did you want?" The kid seems to understand most basic English phrases, even if he can't say them, and his eyes (or eye) light up at this. He picks up these two wooden block-things - kid puzzle pieces - and bashes them together, showing Tommy. "Oh nice." He remarks, leaning back to avoid getting his nose pancaked. Michael stops whacking them together and lines up the interlocking parts, clicks them into place and then lets go. The puzzle is complete for a second, and then it falls apart and drops to the bed. 

"Ohhhh. That's why you wanted me." Tommy picks up the pieces, looking at the interlocking mechanism until he finds where it's broken: a chunk of the one side has splintered off and is rattling around in the other part. Convenient. "Are you sure Tubbo can't fix this be- No, y'know what? I got this." He places the pieces back on the bed, Michael's eyes following him as he walks out the room and down the ladder to the storeroom. A hop, skip and a quick rifle through the chests later, he returns with hands holding a grey substance. He rips off a little bit of clay and dumps the rest in Michael's hands with a "Please don't get that on the bedsheets, or your parents will murder me." as he warms the clay between his hands. It's a rudimentary solution, but it'll do. He balances the clay on the back of one hand while trying to get the loose piece out of the mechanism while also keeping an eye on Michael to make sure he isn't making a mess. 

Prime, watching a child is hard work. 

All tasks complete, he starts using the tiny knub of clay to stick the puzzle back together. The song in the kitchen changes again, and Michael babbles along, singing rather well as he messes with the clay. 

"Okay," He holds the puzzle up to the light to check his haphazard joining. "I fixed your thing, but you'll have to be careful with it, 'cause it'll probably break again-" He's choosing to ignore the irony that's slapped him in the face there. "So, uh, here." Michael takes it rather gently. "T'anks!" He holds something out to Tommy with his other hand and slowly makes him take it. It's crude, it's rough, it's definitely the work of a toddler: it's Tommy, with the outline of his shirt and everything, rendered in clay. It's like a smaller version of the statues he found outside his house when he finally got out of the prison. He likes this one better. He might keep this one. 

"Thank you, Michael," He sighs, wondering if there's room in his enderchest for this. "You're a good kid. You're a good kid."

"Ou'reyay ymay erohay, 'ommy." He sniggers. 

"I can't understand a word you're saying, and it's Tommy. T-ommy. Tommy."

"Ttttt-ommy."

"Tommy."

The kid squints. "Uncle 'ommy. Uncle 'ommy!" And not only does he say it, but he says it perfectly, meaning he's had to have practised, and he grins and hugs Tommy's middle quickly and runs off waving the puzzle in the air to show his dads and Tommy can't make his mouth work to tell him to be careful with it because he's still stuck two minutes ago with the clay model in his hand. 

--- 

"Oh, he fixed it?" Michael nods vigorously at Ranboo's question, twisting the puzzle back and forth to show him how fixed it is. Tubbo chuckles, "Tommy?" And when a minute passes with no reply, Tubbo turns the heat down under the pan and skips over to the door. "Tommy?" 

The blonde in question is still sat on the bed, one hand curled softly around an unpolished clay figure, eyes shining. "You alright?" His head snaps up, eyes blinking rapidly as he jumps to his feet. "Tubbo, hi."

He laughs a little, just a twinge of concern creeping in. "You alright?"

"Yeah, just- just hungry." 

"Oh god, the big man's appetite has returned!" Tubbo announces as he walks arm-in-arm with Tommy back into the main room. There's a small chorus of laughter as the song on the radio changes, and It Had To Be That One Didn't It.

"Oh no, you're staying right here," Tubbo says with a grin, pulling a mock-struggling Tommy towards the stove. "Man the food or dance with Michael."

"Are you KIDDING me."

"It's his favourite!"

"You've done this on purpose, I know it." 

Tommy heaves a great sigh and backtracks to the middle of the floor. "Let's see your moves kid." Michael chirps happily, Tommy groans into his hands and they both start hopping in unison. Halfway through the pre-chorus, he bounces over to Ranboo, "Yeah, you're not just standing there. C'mere."

"UH- Okay-!" 

Watching his best friend, husband and child all dancing along to Bruno Mars - and with minimal squabbling! - Tubbo has never wished he was recording more.

--- 

He's going to garrotte Tubbo for this. But Michael? Michael's just fine. 

"UGHHHHHH- Jump in the Cadillac!"

[sailorshadzter]

Jon and Sansa sniffing each other's clothes when the other has been away for some time .

okay anon but i loved this prompt!!!

so i hope you like what i came up with!!

as always

you can send me prompts here

She hesitates at the door, though she doesn't know why.

Steeling herself against the insecurities and pain, she pushes the door open, stepping inside the silent, darkened room. These are Jon's rooms she's in, familiar, yet eerily foreign without his presence within. She's used to these rooms being warm and bright, not just with a fire in the hearth, but rather his presence. But it's been nearly a fortnight since his departure for Dragonstone. She misses him so very much that the sheer thought of him quickens the pace of her heart and electrifies her pulse. The pain in which his absence brings her is unexplainable, unlike any other sort of pain she's felt before.

His room is as he left it that morning, the only exception the bed has been neatly made again. She will never forget finding him still abed that morning, the only moment he showed any sign at all that he wished to remain behind. His hand had been so soft... So warm against her cheek when she had settled down onto the edge of his bed, the moment bringing both of their worlds to a momentary stop. She wishes it were that morning again.

A sigh escapes her and she turns back, as if she means to go, but the sight of his rumpled shirt cast across the back of the nearest chair catches her eye. It was surely the one he'd been wearing that morning he'd left, left behind by a maid when the room had been last tidied. Pivoting back, she crosses the room and takes the well worn shirt into her hands. She smiles as the soft material caresses her skin, realizing it was one of the shirts she had made for him herself back in those early days at Castle Black. Bringing the shirt to her face, she inhales deeply, comforted by the familiar scent that fills her nose. It smells of him yet- of smoke and winter, a scent she cannot describe yet knows oh so well. She smiles again, her heart suddenly so full she wonders if it might even overflow.

Then she goes, though the shirt is not left behind.

[ x x x ]

It has been the most trying of days.

Jon sighs as he strips himself down to merely his breeches and white shirt, his doublet and boots thrown aside, even Longclaw is laid out across his table. Uncorking the jug of ale, he pours himself a goblet, though it tastes flat and does little to fill the void within his heart.

Though he thinks he might just sink into drunken oblivion, he moves to the other side of his chamber, to where his trunk sits. He opens it and reaches inside, pulling out from within something that does not really belong to him. At once he's bombarded with the memory of her... Of her sunset hair and sea deep eyes. Leaving her behind that morning was the hardest thing he's yet to do in this life and he's not eager to face the moment that could ever top it.

In his hands he holds the shawl she'd left behind that morning; he'd seen her wear it often in the chilly, damp halls of Castle Black. Though she wore it less within Winterfell, she had come to him that morning with it draped over her shoulders, laughing that Brienne had insisted as the winter chill was exceedingly cold that day. It's made from gray wool, a bolt of fabric he'd given to her within the first few days- from that bolt she had made her first gown, the leftover becoming the shawl he now holds. Bringing it up, he breathes her scent in, winter roses and warmth, and at once is full of comfort. Of happiness. He misses her greatly, more, he knows, then a brother should probably miss his sister.

"... Sansa..." He murmurs her name, wondering if she thinks of him as often as he does.

He finds that he hopes she does.

[seaswalllow]

how about some techno and dream allyship

((ah yes... the server’s god and the blood god walk into a bar...))

((this wound up being a Whole Fic, christ, am i sorry JLKDSHLKJH))

trap

don’t trust him

where’s tommy? trap trap don’t trust him where’s dream what’s he doing-

“chat, shut up,” techno hisses softly. hefts the pickaxe over his shoulder, sharpened edges glittering in the dying sunlight. 

all the while, his eyes never leave the bustling boardwalk. ranboo down below look he has a trident? when did he get the trident there’s tubbo besides him-

chat continues to swirl about him, sticking to the shadows; neither they nor techno quite subside, though. staring down at the banners proclaiming today’s festivities, techno thinks that the muted dread congealing in chat’s voices, and the deja vu rearing its head is well deserved. 

l’manburg has never been terribly original about its bloodshed. 

techno chugs another invisibility potion in a well-practiced motion, and feels the silvery weightlessness settle into his bones. checks for his armor in his inventory, checks his pickaxe and crossbow, and settles back to watch from the roof. 

he doesn’t wait for long, as it turns out. 

dream dream dream rip his mask off see if it’ll choke him on his blood blood for the blood god he’ll try to use you you should leave you should fight-

the edge of his pickaxe digs into his back. techno takes in a measured breath. watches as punz flickers in the shadows at a distance, watches as dream settles to a stop in front of tubbo, a friendly hand resting on the young president’s shoulder. 

it’s too far to hear the fine details of their conversation, and dream’s mask doesn’t lend itself to interpretation. techno watches the way tubbo holds himself, too loose, too friendly- and the way that behind him, fundy and quackity watch dream with something just short of naked anticipation. 

dream sees it too, if the way his gestures land too close to the axe strapped across his back are anything to go by. 

trap this is a trap nothing good at a festival

tubbo turns, gesturing to the podium. ribbons and banners flutter about; techno sweeps his eye across the open platform. there will be no trapping another president on that ledge. 

dream turns with him, but the arc is too wide, and for a moment, techno feels the full weight of dream’s eyes on him, even as the voices explode into a flurry of whispering. 

he saw us he knows not safe get out of there 

“be quiet, chat. of course he knows we’re here,” techno mutters under his breath. “he sent for us as his glorified security detail.” 

with the way that the cabinet watches him like strays circling a villager, there’s reason to it. 

techno watches, hawkeyed, as dream follows the trio up to the podium. there’s ranboo, hovering around the edges, gripping onto the notebook like a lifeline. wilbur- ghostbur- isn’t far off, one hand fisted into friend’s blue wool, an unusually somber expression on his face. chat murmurs uneasily, and techno does not look forward to discovering if similar situations will draw out similar poisons within the dead- or if certain things stay dead. 

he sweeps his gaze elsewhere, noting the distinct lack of armor yet the uneasy atmosphere. there’s a poster that niki and puffy are hovered in front of, whispering

to his credit, tubbo is good at the facade. years of necessity have worn the mask of pleasantry and politics into him like a second face; he treats dream like an old friend, the faintest hint of tightness around his eyes the only indication of displeasure. 

or pain, perhaps. 

the first festival was hard to forget, after all, especially for someone who was but a child. 

tubbo is turning now, sweeping his arms out wide before snapping them back to his side; too many familiar mannerisms, too many old scars. 

techno follows his movements, and pauses. 

enchantments have a tell, he’s learned. some stronger than others; a faint heat shimmer, a lingering smell of ozone, a muffled hissing. 

there’s a haze lingering above the wooden planks that fundy and quackity are shifting in front of. 

what are they planning they going to blow this up are they trying to die they will spill blood we will spill it first

a gentle ping cuts through the rising swell of chittering. 

<dream> not yet. 

let them make the first move, techno reads between the lines, and he grits his teeth. there’s nothing else to do except to shift to keep them in his direct line of sight, and sweep for any other giveaways. exposed trails of torches, oddly shaped rocks beneath the waves that now fill in the crater-

the soft hiss of redstone fills the air, and techno whips to face tubbo, who has stepped up to the podium. 

then he speaks, and techno realizes, oh, sam or fundy definitely had some hand in this as tubbo’s voice echoes above the waves. techno, admittedly, does not hear a good portion of the speech as the voics hiss and swell with indignation. 

a celebration of l’manburg’s independence, of l’manburg’s freedom, of shaking off so many chains of blood and tyranny, tubbo calls it. hypocrisy, techno thinks, as his eyes trace the pillar where the anvil used to stand. a shinier, sweeter form of the iron fist hovering above them in threat. softer, perhaps, gilded with noble intentions, but nevertheless a threat.

but first, tubbo says to the audience. but first, before we can truly celebrate our freedom, there is one more chain to be cut. 

techno draws in a breath. carefully, carefully eases his hand to his crossbow. dream is stock still; a deer in headlights, chat whispers. a hunter waiting to strike, techno sees. 

trap trap they never wanted peace where’s phil where’s tommy trap RUN FIGHT FIGHT-

the planks have been cut away. there is a chest, there are axes glittering in the cabinet’s hands. we’re sorry, dream, fundy says. i’m not, tubbo amends. quackity is no longer blustering. a potion bottle breaks at dream’s feet, and although he does not flinch, draws his axe, techno can smell the sickly sweet rot of poison from here. punz looses a trio of arrows before he leaps forward, gunpowder filling the air as he throws down stack upon stack of dynamite around them, while netherite cracks out a discordant tune against steel, dream meeting fundy, axe for axe.

blood for the blood god, the tides roar around him. his armor glitters as he draws his crossbow. quackity is the first to see him. they savor the fear, the indignancy in his expression.

blood for the blood god, he roars, as he rains fire down. 

two in one for the hitlist, he hears quackity shout above the explosions. he thinks he hears dream laugh as the next axe blow shatters wood and steel. who would let you, alex? fundy is nowhere in sight, and there is blood dripping into the waves, blooming above the coral, an axe lying abandoned. 

 is this the hill you want to die upon, icarus? flying up to meet the sun, only to burn? he slings the crossbow over his back, hoists up his pickaxe to block quackity’s axe. twists, locking one side of the pickaxe’s tips around the axe, and sends it flying into the water, uses the momentum to complete the arc and sink the other tip deep, deep into flesh. 

there is fear again, deep, deep in quackity’s eyes. they’ve laughed about his hunts before. quackity isn’t laughing now as he wrenches his shoulder free of sizzling metal.

blood for the bl-

-blade, hold your fire. hold your fire, dream orders, and for a moment, they all balk at the icy tone cutting through the battle’s haze. techno slams a hoof into quackity’s leg, sends him to the ground with the distraction, and hefts the pickaxe as he watches dream. 

“i came to act as a security guard, not a negotiator,” he informs the masked god, and dream laughs from where he has an axe levelled to tubbo. chat swells, unsure of who to direct their ire to as the shock subsides. techno ignores them.

“lucky for you, the job description won’t involve too much negotiation. you see- they’re both about to die, aren’t they? they’ve burned up all but one of their lives. if they die, they die here, with nothing to their name but failure. if they accept it, they can hold on to that last life.” 

quackity opens his mouth, and techno wiggles the pickaxe on his shoulder ever so slightly. 

quackity is quiet. tubbo is shaking, and techno swallows down the bitter feeling that roils on the back of his tongue. he remembers his battles that young, when the bloodlust wasn’t tainting the fear and fury. 

“surrender,” dream says. “surrender, or he will put that pick through quackity for a final time, and i will burn this city to the ground and bury you in its ashes.” 

silence. 

silence, and then tubbo’s axe clatters to the ground. quackity surges up, and techno raises his pickaxe, and dream calls “hold your fire, blade-”  

-and techno slams the pickaxe’s hilt into his head. quackity goes down, and stays down, but he stays there at their feet.

dream shakes his head. 

“look, it was either that, or stab him. you don’t want that second option, apparently.”

“because they have surrendered,” dream points out. “they’re not a threat.”

“did he look like he was surrendered? dream, did going for my throat look like he had surrendered?”

“please, he could barely get to his feet. no way he’d be able to reach your throat on a normal day, anyways.” 

techno snorts. “i think whatever they tossed at you messed with your perspective.” 

why is he laughing danger danger kill them all all of them are d a  n g e r-

dream is laughing, and it dawns on techno as he watches tubbo’s pale expression that they didn’t understand just how far out of their depth they were, going after a god with a potion and three axes. 

then again, he reasons, they stopped seeing how out of their depth they were the first time they raised their axes against him. 

“felt a bit like being splashed with expired milk, honestly.”

techno hums, noncommittal. he hoists quackity up onto his shoulder. “you said you had a place for them?”

dream holsters his axe at his side, and draws an arm around tubbo. the posturing leaves the chat hissing, but techno watches, impassive, as dream hums “a very special place, indeed, where they can’t be a danger any longer.”

[cocobwrites]

Pub Food and Southern Delights

Summary: Henry was many things. Deceitful being just another trait, and it is one that you cannot tolerate.

Pairing: Dark Henry Cavill x Black reader 

A/N: This is my first attempt at something dark. I’m not going to lie. My intentions for this are pretty heavy. Please, let me know what you think!

Warnings: Character Death, Murder/Suicide. Dubcon (later chapters) and I’m sure some other things. 18+

Chop. Chop. Chop. Your hands mechanically diced the red onions. The strong scent of the root caused your eyes to water and the sight of the oak cutting board to blur. You paused taking a step away to the sink, and wetting a cold paper towel to press against your eyes.  

You were stowed away in an unnecessarily large kitchen dicing vegetables for the evening’s dinner. State of the art stainless steel appliances, concrete counters, and ash wood cabinets surrounded you. The combination should have given off a warm and inviting atmosphere, but the gleam and too new look of the appliances left if too sterile and cold. Much like the relationship you found yourself in. Pretty to look at, but lacking in real substance.  

You leaned against the sink, the cold press of the metal pushing into your lower back and heaved a sigh. Tears that were initially caused by the onion were blending with tears caused by utter defeat.  

How had you been so blind? How could you have let it get to this point?  

On and on your mind went around how you allowed yourself to end up in the situation. In the beginning Henry was amazing, an absolute Godsend. He’d been the perfect mixture of gentleman and brute with just the right amount of freak you needed to keep you satisfied.  

Henry had swept you off your feet easily. All sweet charm and dazzling smiles. You’d been a goner the first time he’d pushed that pitch-black hair back winked at you.  

He was able to provide for you in ways you that you had only read about in romance novels. A powerful CEO, he was as rich as he was handsome, and he loved to lavish you with those riches.

Focus. You mentally chided yourself and pushed away from the sink to return to your task.

Henry maintained a love of pub food. Bangers and mash being one of his favorites. You needed tonight to go off without a hitch, hence you bringing out the big guns by way of one of his favorite meals. The onions started sizzling along with the bangers in the skillet. Your mind drifted reliving instances over the past year and a half that lead you here, particularly the events of three days ago.  

                                                    #

You could still feel the nervous hope budding in your chest, barely there, but enough to keep you moving. The voice of the GPS announced that you had reached your destination a full five minutes before, yet you remained in your car trying to muster the courage to walk inside.  

You had moved to open the door several times, but you could not keep your hand steady enough to grip the latch. It was a miracle you made it there at all. The glass and metal doors of the police station were less than 200 feet from you. Given your location it was not a terribly busy place. Which was exactly what you needed. You had driven an hour to get here. Hoping and praying that it was far enough away that you could get the help you needed to escape.  

After a few more minutes of mustering up courage and shaking off the feeling of eyes following you, you finally pulled the handle on the door. It opened farther than it should have considering you had only popped the latch and put no real weight into opening it.  

It only took a moment for your mind to register the long fingers curving around the frame, knuckles white in their grip. The rest of him filled your view. First his black loafers shined to perfection, pressed charcoal grey trousers came next as your eyes traveled up the length of him, before his black wool coat came into view, your head whipped up the rest of the way. You barely registered the suit jacket and navy button down exposed beneath his open coat.  

Fearful brown eyes clashed with icy blue that were cold with fury.  

‘No! No! No! No!’ You mentally chanted, and felt the distinct stinging at the back of your eyes. You scanned the parking lot wondering if you could make a run for it. It was of no use. A sleek black town car was parked behind yours.  

Henry must have registered your debate on fleeing and all but growled “Just get in the car.” Your eyes returned to his, and you could not stop the tears from flowing. You were so close, so remarkably close, and it was ripped away from you. Within seconds your shoulders were shaking, and you were sucking in air trying to keep from howling with the loss of your chance at freedom.

You heard Henry release a sigh, and then he said in a softened tone “Come get in the car, darling. We can talk about this at home.”

That car was the last place you wanted to be. That car would take you right back to the lie you were desperately trying to detangle yourself from. Henry leaned into the car, and unfastened your seatbelt before drawing you from the driver seat. Steven, one of the members of his security detail, caught your eye for a moment his gaze was sympathetic, and he gave a barely perceptible nod to Henry before taking your spot in the driver seat. He was complicit, they all were. They knew and would do nothing to help you.  

Henry’s hand was on your back, scalding where it touched you. You wanted to worm away from it, but it stayed gentle guiding you to the black sedan. The blacked-out windows of the backside passenger door reflected the sad sight you were. Your eyes were puffy, and your make-up streaked with tear tracks. More urging from Henry had you sliding into the backseat.  

                                                               #

It was the quiet snapping of the peas in your hands that called your mind back to the present. The smell of the bangers and onion was mixing with the aroma of the biscuits baking in the oven. This was your normal M.O., blending your cultures, and likes together. He loved those biscuits. It was a recipe taught to you by your grandmother. Shown to you with patience in the happy warmth of her kitchen and dulcet tones of her voice. You missed that time. Missed that place. You longed to be home, back in the states surrounded by the safety and protection of your family.  

That wasn’t a possibility. You knew that without a shadow of a doubt now.  

The food at this point was all but done. You left it warming in the oven while you set the table for two. The six chimes of the grandfather clock from the foyer let you know that Henry would be home in the next fifteen minutes.  

You looked down at the porcelain plates, their elegant waving pattern with gold trim. They screamed affluence, privilege, and old money. You wanted to hurl them to the ground, pull the ivory white tablecloth to the ground and send the flatware skidding across the floor.  

You must have stood there fantasizing for a long while, because you heard Henry calling your name, and announcing his arrival. He strode into the dining room, and the air immediately charged with tension.  

The doorway realistically was wide enough to accommodate two people side by side, but Henry always took up more room than he should. The weightiness of his presence filled the space between you in a suffocating manner.  

Four days ago, you would have easily returned the smile that he offered. You could feel the wrongness in your own. The muscles in your face ticked up uneasily when they attempted to remember how to move.  

He winced but the smile easily returned to his. Liar. “You look beautiful.” He said and closed the space between you. He was close enough that you could feel the heat from his body warming your face and the smell of his cologne filled your nostrils. Even with the knowledge you had now of who he truly was, you still craved him. Craved this.

You sighed and could not help but lean into him. You felt the familiar pressure of his mouth against the top of your head, and you let your arms wrap around him, squeezing gently. You would allow yourself this small pleasure. His arms wrapped around you in the same way yours had him.  

You felt his voice rumble in his chest when the words hit your ears. “We’ll get through this. Now that you know, it will be so much easier between us.” He paused and you could see he debated on if he should say the next words. “Everything I do.” He paused again. “Have done, was to protect you, keep you safe.”

It was the same thing he had said that night you found that all your text messages and emails were being shadowed onto his phone. Seeing that had solidified something you feared was happening throughout the course of your relationship. The nail in the coffin had been him showing up at the police station. That day the wool had been completely and irrevocably stripped from your eyes. The tracker on your car made it clear that his money was put towards more than helping your complete your master’s degree. What scared you the most was the realization of how isolated you were. Time zones away from your family, a long drive from your friends, and without a job you were dependent on Henry. He knew it. He wanted it that way.  

“I understand.” You said looking up to meet his eyes, and you did understand. He believed what he said which is why you had to finish this tonight. You patted his chest and said, “Why don’t you get washed up for dinner and I’ll finish setting the table.” He flashed that brilliant smile again and pecked you on the lips.  

                                                              #

You were going to miss that smile. Henry was very free with it tonight. It had been coming easier since he no longer had to hide the duality of his nature. Yours on the other hand had all but vanished.   “It looks delicious.” Henry said and helped push your chair in before sitting himself down. “Are those your grandmother’s biscuits?”

You nodded and motioned to his plate. “Dig in.” And dig in he did. You wondered how many bites it would take before he started to notice something was off.  

In three short bites Henry looked up at you and asked, “Did you do something different with the gravy?”  

You answered pleasantly “I did. Do you like it?” Your tone held something that should have sounded like a smile but was too icy. “I took something from the garden that I thought might add a little something extra.”  

He hadn’t stopped eating while you spoke. He was maybe five or six bites in before a light sheen broke out across his forehead. You watched him and took small bites of your own food. At first it was the shake of his head.  

“Is it spicier than normal?” He asked and you looked up to see his cheeks were tinged pink.  

“No.” You answered with a subtle shake of your own head. “Shouldn’t be.” Followed by a bite from your own plate.

His only answer after that had been a hum of acceptance. Not a solid two minutes later he started coughing, and you started talking.  

“I just want you to know that I understand. I understand that you would never let me go.” Henry’s eyes snapped to your face while he pulled at the tie around his neck desperately searching for reprieve of the coughing fit, he was experiencing.  

With a heavy sigh you continued “I just hope you can understand that I could never accept that.” Your head shook no, and your grip tightened on your fork. “This isn’t normal, Henry. It’s not normal to alienate the woman you love from the world and keep her locked away.” Your eyes never moved from his red face. Your eyes saddened hearing him gasp for air and seeing the veins in his neck and forehead protrude as he fought to catch his breath.   “This was my only way to be free.” You finished on a whisper, quieting as Henry quieted opposite you at the table.  

The plate of food in front of you blurred. The meal really was delicious, you didn’t want anything less for what you anticipated to be your last. You were amazed at your own resolve to carry through with the plan. You set calmly and ate large forkfuls of the bangers making sure to scoop up enough gravy.  

You soon followed suit with Henry. Your skin felt flush, your breathing becoming labored followed by the strong urge to cough. 

[noocturnalchild]

Of Thieves and Poets

Paterson X original female character 

warning: bad language, mention of abuse, mention of death, light depiction of violence. 

Summary: The night falls on Paterson City, A mourning bus-driver-poet saves a thief from her victim’s clutches, Will that simple gesture of kindness change the course of both their lives?

All the passages in italic are from a William Carlos williams poem : These. 

Chapter 1 

*

The bus exhaled a death rattle. The stars twinkled far above the cloudy night sky, unperturbed in their eternity. His eyes scratched the deep purple of the firmament and his tired lungs liberated a shaky sigh.

The year plunges into night and the heart plunges lower than night.

It still happened; the face floating before his eyes, in the crowded streets, the hem of her dress in the wind, the tinkle of her laugh, the sparkle in her brown, warm irises. All six feet under.  

It still happened when he set the table for two, when he dusted her nightstand, hung her dresses in her wardrobe, ironed and still smelling faintly like her, cupcakes and paint.

Paterson’s hands squeezed the wheel.

 “Stupid bitch!”

A slap.

A strident scream.

 All six feet under.

 It had been a while since Paterson had applied the brakes with such force. With panicked eyes he followed the scene unraveling through his rear-view mirror. What seemed like a serious dispute broke out in the rear of his bus; a dozen of passengers circling someone, beating someone up, insulting someone Paterson couldn’t see but only hear.

Sky piercing mewls of an abused animal.

Six feet under. Paterson’s eyes hurt. Paterson wanted to go home.

“Stop the bus! Are you deaf? Stop the fucking bus now!”

His hands stiffened around the wheel, it was slick with his cold sweat. He stood up and the noises ceased. Long strides, clean shoes, stopped right above where her head rested.

She was clutching to the Rolex for dear life. Fragile little fingers shaking, blood on her knuckles and on her nails and on the bus floor.

“Dirty little thief!” The man shouted, eyeing Paterson with disdain and pride “about to dash off the next station.” “Right in the-”

“You broke her wrist.” Paterson cut off the bragging man, kneeling already at the side of the little sack of bones, wailing in pain.

“She stole my Rolex, sir, what was I supposed to do!? Thank her maybe?!” The man fumed, high pitched voice from hell.

The crowd hummed in agreement, Paterson closed his eyes.

“Please, I think it’s best if everyone regains their seats now. I… I have this in hand” Paterson gently slid the Rolex from a cold trembling grip as the other passengers dispersed. Noses returned to phones, fingers furiously tapping the screens, eager to tell, to collect. Pity and compassion for sale.

“Here sir, your watch” He didn’t spare a glance to the man who appeared to still have many things to say.  

Paterson stared at her bloody hand. The little thing sobbed quietly, curled on herself, head inside her arm, broken wrist on display. A damaged, cheap porcelain doll.

Dirt and stains on her pale blue jeans, holes and scratches on her thin white crop top, ribs like knives,  hair like a sad abandoned willow nest. No, a chiffon doll, crumbling under old garbage in a basement, where no child would ever find her again, alone to rot and disintegrate. Paterson’s eyes hurt.

“It’s not over, scumbag, I’m pressing charges. Next station, she’s going with me.” The man puffed his chest, over checking his Rolex, disgusted and haughty.

“She is not going anywhere” Paterson stood, mimicking the man attempt at “Mr Menace”. But Paterson was a natural; the man quickly understood that, retreated in his fake fur mantle. You’ve either got big mouths or big balls.

“Sir, you have your watch, she has a broken wrist. I think you are more than even”. Paterson didn’t even has to rise his voice.

The man chewed insults but, like the others, regained his seat at last. The bus driver poet, knew always how to keep discipline in his wheeled kingdom, a natural gift he was barely aware of.

Now silence was only cut by quiet sobs, muffled hip hop notes, neon lights whirring, and Paterson’s gentle rustling as he tried to gather the little woman. One big hesitant hand on her back, the woman shuddered, recoiled, and her injured hand jolted, another sob of agony.

“I’m not gonna hurt you”  

The poet’s eyes softened. She sensed kindness, maybe, because now her head straightened up, and Paterson looked at himself. Eyes so watery he could see his reflection, dark golden beryl, just like his. Bleeding little nose and chapped plump lips, little high cheekbones and a greasy dark fringe swallowing a sweaty forehead, and for a moment, Paterson wondered if he looked just like her, if people could see how he truly looked like, if people could see the tears of his soul and the bleeding of his heart. If they could see all the bruises and the wounds and the decay. If when they closed their eyes, they could see her name on the grave stone, like he did.

“…It’s all good, just try not to move your wrist… there, let me just help you a little” Paterson muttered as he gathered her like she was nothing. Not even the weight of one of his blue tip matches… It was a bit of a surprise, the complete absence of resistance, she was yielding, completely defeated. Empty stomach and empty pockets. He sat her far from the others, far in the back. Not a sound emitted from her. The bus emptied little by little, he took off his jacket, covered her. She looked like she could fit all her puny self inside the warm wool of it. From time to time he stole a glance at the dark shape through his rear-view mirror.

Finally, the last passenger got off the bus, and finally she spoke.

“No hospital, don’t take me to the hospital” Her words came scattered, little voice uneven, like her hair, he noticed now. It was short, wrongly cut, as if someone had taken a handful of it and started slicing, with a knife, with anger, and a desire to do harm.

The bus was quietly parked in its nest of steel and red bricks, and Paterson could attend to her, at last.

“Your wrist is broken” He stoically stated, hands in pockets, considering his options in the back of his mind.  

“I said no hospital, you dweeb” Her eyes sparkled with defiance. It was a strange way to thank someone, to say the least, but Paterson didn’t flinch.

White plastic bags rode with the wind, like mad ghosts. The crime rate rocketed in town, Paterson had before his eyes one of the little thugs that populated the underground, the run-down warehouses and the bridges flanks.

“I’ll ignore that. It’s the hospital or the precinct” He sounded sorry.

Paterson had bad bags under his eyes, fruit of many sleepless nights. After her passing, he refused to spend the night, alone in the blue bed. He changed his shifts to night hours. Sleeping the few hours before dawn on his sofa, their room a shrine to her memory.

“Fuck you”

“It’s the hospital then”

*

The ER wasn’t flooded that night. Paterson sat quietly, in the waiting room orange plastic chair, while a diligent doctor wrapped her wrist in a cast, scribbled antibiotics and painkillers, asked the routine questions, did the routine job.

Laura would be proud of him. Laura was smiling, sat beside him in her polka dotted dress, she was taking his cold hand in hers, her warm brown irises thanking him silently. Laura.

Now Paterson was standing behind the pharmacist counter, prescription in hand and she was the one sitting, quiet, wrist against her heart.

Mina. 24.

Just that. Cold black on white.

He forced himself not to imagine her lonely two syllable name carved on a gravestone.

 “Where do you live?”

The warehouses, the subways, the streets, the basements, the bridges flanks. The rat holes.

The silence became awkward once out on the wet tiles of the sidewalk. Paterson switching his weight from one long leg to the other, still holding the bag of medicines, Mina looking at the orange flickering of signalization lights, his vest still on her shoulders. She looked like a kid from a dystopian   future, from the 80’s science fiction novels he used to read.

“None of your business” She extended her valid hand, waiting, impatience in her big amber eyes.

“You need to eat, and a bath, and the doctor said—”

“I know twat! You’re not my dad, gimme the fucking bag and fuck off!”

Her chin was wobbling. Paterson spun on his feet and walked away. Stoic and tall. Damn him.

“Hey!”

She knew she should run to catch his wide strides.

Mina rarely realized a mistake when made, and as she tugged on his sleeve to make the gentle giant stop, she wasn’t sure either. Her judgment wasn’t to be trusted. Her mind was a mess, just like everything, just like her life and her wrist and her hair, just like her heart.

“Your… vest”

“I know, you can… you can keep it, my place is just ten minutes away”

“Ok, let’s go then.”

She smiled.

to an empty, windswept place without sun, stars or moon but a peculiar light as of thought

*

“Wouha! Dude your place is cool”

Mina was everywhere, inspecting the living space and the kitchen with round curious eyes.

He laughed.

Dude. No one called him dude since the campus days. Dude. That was different.

“I… I have chickens wings… some broccoli, apple pie…”

He fetched the leftover boxes from his fridge and proceeded to put them in plates to reheat, but the little sack of bones jumped on the apple pie first, two bites and only crumbles were left on the counter.

“Mhm…goohd” Mouth and cheeks still full, she slid the cold chicken wings plate into her lap and attacked the tender flesh like a starved panther.

Paterson stood there like a stranger in his own house. A bit out of breath by the chain of events. The situation starting to sink in his lonely mind.

His routine was all shaken. He felt funny. Didn’t know if it was good or bad or just…ordinary. Laura was looking at him with surprised eyes. Laura was looking at the girl with amused questioning eyes. Paterson shrugged.

She deserves another chance, everyone does, don’t they, honey?

[writing-the-end]

LoL Chapter 41- The Forest of Memories

Masterpost

A Wizard Hermits tale (AU, designs, ideas belongs to @theguardiansofredland)

The Hangman’s Playground awaits.

_________________________________________

Standing before the tall, seemingly endless copse of trees, it looks like any other forest in Lairyon. It’s not quite as tall as the Evernight Forest, or bright as the Flowerfruit fields. To someone who didn’t know any better, this was a regular forest. But no one in Lairyon would dare enter this forsaken ground. Brambles grow right up to the edge of the treeline, not a single thorn cut, not a single leaf plucked. Even the most plump, ripe, delicious fruit goes unpicked among these trees. 

But the leyline they stand over, five hermits wide and pulsing with Ren’s imagination magic infused and glowing, goes directly into the Forest of Memories. All three major leylines run into the forest, but Grian noticed on their way here that a fourth one also radiated out, this time in a westernly direction. Towards the Ashioll sea. 

No time to explore the implications of that. Not after all the training, all the resource gathering they’ve done. No, there’s no more time to waste, no more preparing they can do. Today, no matter what happens, they will find out what Magistrate Dolios is hiding. 

TFC tries to psych himself up, despite every fiber in his old bones telling him not to go in. Ever since he was a boy, almost every story he was told warned him not to enter the Hangman’s Playground. The stories never quite explain what happens within these woods, but the tales of those who dare enter only got more horrifying as he got older. 

Grian, on the other hand, walks straight through the bushes and into the forest, much to the shock and horror of everyone else. He knows the stories, true and legend, he just doesn’t care. Soon after, Etho follows in, then Tango, Joe, xB, and Jevin. One by one, following after the cheerful angel, until only TFC and Mumbo are left at the forest interface. TFC places his hand on Mumbo’s back. “I wouldn’t recommend being last, with your back to the forest and all that.” 

It’s enough to get him moving, running to catch up with Xisuma. The Forest of Memories swallows the hermits whole, trees letting in only dapples of light across the ground. The smattering and ever changing light plays tricks with the hermits’ heads, flashes of things that shouldn’t be here appearing in their eyes, sounds that don’t belong in a forest playing distantly with the wind. 

They do their best to stay directly atop the red hued leyline of dark magic, Ren every so often recasting his spell to keep from losing the trail. They pass by a herd of goldhorns, grazing in a clearing alongside a wild herd of shleep. The night sky wool wisping into the air and playing in the distorted light. Zedaph almost runs off to join the shleep, were it not for Impulse holding him by the capelet. `Turuls and Anzus flit between full crowns of trees, the latter spitting water and breathing fire as it plays. 

It was a perfectly normal forest. But between every twitter, there was a scream. Behind every dappled ray of light, there was a world long gone. The Forest of Memories is sinking it’s teeth into the hermits. 

A flash of light blinds Stress, and she’s no longer in the calming, quiet forest, hiking with her fellow hermits. The sounds of birds and the breeze replaced by a low roar of voices and lush music. The snug, warm, and durable robes of her outfit is gone, rather feeling sterile, starch silk shift across her legs. She feels so exposed in the rich, beautiful dress. And when the light fades from her eyes, she’s standing in a grandiose ballroom. Her parents’ ballroom, full of people, all wearing similar dresses and suits. All wearing the same smile.

“What do you think you’re doing?” A shrill voice Stress immediately recognizes as her mother shouts. The tight bun of brown hair, the same shade as Stress’s own, leans down and hauls her skirts up. “These shoes are peasant wear! And look at your posture!”

“But mother,” Stress whimpers. 

“Don’t talk back! You are a lady, act like it!” 

“I don’t want to be a lady! It’s borin’, mother! I don’t want to use my magic to make swan sculptures,” She waves to the side, knowing that an ice waterfowl is just nearby. Of course she knows- this is her memories. “I wanna make something grand and beautiful! Something no one has ever made!”

The ball fades for a moment, like fog in the night, and her mother has been replaced by a different face. A face she knows, though is much, much younger. But his voice betrays the illusion. “Stress, stress! Snap out of it!”

Mumbo’s face regains his mustache, matching the grownup voice of her fellow nobleman, and something cold, smooth is pressed into her hand. The talisman fights away the illusion, until the mist has dissolved in the summer sun and her true family stands before her again. Twenty something concerned faces, BDubs and Iskall helping her stay standing. “I...I was back in Milliara, in ma family’s manor.” 

Xisuma shakes his head. “You were here the whole time. It must be the forest. It’s like what Queen Erlea mentioned, the forest uses our mind against us.” 

“Such a peaceful forest,” Cleo whispers. “Yet it harbors such dangerous magic.” 

“It felt so real. I knew it was a memory, but in the moment….” Stress shakes her head. “In the moment, I was trapped as a lady again.”

She runs her fingers over the talisman, then pulls it over her head. With the help of her friends, her true family, she regains her step and they move forward. But every shimmer in sunlight, Stress’s fears only grow. 

The forest isn’t after her. Xisuma is always the logical one. He’s deduced that the forest seems to play off people’s memories, latching onto their emotions. The ghost in Addows mentioned that she only thought happy thoughts, and the Forest didn’t have control over her. So Xisuma thinks happy thoughts as well, simple and to the point. He thinks of his fellow hermits, building his beloved tower. 

He built his observation tower with Ex. And just like that, the forest has found his weak spot.  He’s not standing among the trees, but rather in front of his observation tower. And only one other person was with him. Standing, hackles raised, was his brother. 

Ex’s white hair was luminescent in the sunshine of the Ashioll sea, red cloak discarded and tucked beside the wall of fresh, unweathered, and unblemished stone. No burn marks from Tango or Impulse, or mismatched windows after Grian would throw a rock just a bit too large. No, there were only two people on Eremita. 

Not anymore. “We can’t let any random person on our island! We hardly know anything about this poet guy, he could be working for the Council!” Ex waves his hand in the general direction, where their newcomer is tapping the end of his quill against his chin. Leaving an ink stain. “This is a place to hide, for us to be free, brother. You’re too trustworthy!”

“And you’re a coward!” X’s voice rises over his mask, forged by his brother to protect him from the sunlight. “You’ve blinded yourself with your own light, and you can’t see that we’d be stronger, safer with more. We can’t be a guild with just two brothers.”

“I never wanted to be a guild.” Ex surges till the twins are nose to nose, the supernova mage’s eyes burning with the heat of a thousand stars. Xisuma’s are as dark as night. “I just wanted somewhere for us to be free, aren’t I all you need?” 

The words fall from X’s mouths, stinging as he says them this time around. He should’ve never said them, but now he’s being forced to relive this horrible moment all over again. “I don’t need you, I never needed you!” 

Xisuma finds himself on the ground, his mask knocked loose. But the sunlight wasn’t the only thing burning his eyes. Blood falls across his face, perpendicular slashes oozing red ochre, and the same dripping from the end of his brother’s staff. 

In his foolishness, blinded by the sunlight, by his brother, Xisuma fights back. He summons his magic, and hurls twin lashes of void at his brother. Knocking him over, grasping against the frozen burns across his own face. Xisuma stumbles to find his mask, ignoring the blood. “An eye for an eye. You aren’t my brother.” 

The pain feels real, the sensation of the blood running down his face, the scent of ozone in the air feels real. But Xisuma remembers that day clearly- the worst day of his life. The day he lost his brother. And he knows he wasn’t crying. 

It’s not real. Xisuma reaches up, and feels the wet stain. It doesn’t coagulate like blood, the tears that run from beneath his mask. It’s an illusion, Xisuma.

Logic is Xisuma’s strength. He wasn’t logical that day, but he is now. And he cries, for the loss of his brother, his best friend. He focuses in on those teas, something the forest can’t hide from him. He closes his eyes, feeling the guilt and sorrow. Wishing he wasn’t so cowardly to reach out and make amends. 

Distantly, he feels someone touching his arm, his hand. But it doesn’t feel like his body. A cool metal band slips around a finger, and he can finally find his way out of the illusion.

When he opens his eyes, he’s in the forest again, the illusion shattering and sparkling like starlight in the sun. Like the tiny stars his brother used to make when they were boys. Xisuma jumps out of his skin when a hand lays on his arm, feeling all too real. Joe stood next to him, other hand retreating from the moodring on Xisuma’s finger. The first newcomer to the island. He offers peace, but Xisuma can’t find it within himself. 

The forest is in his head, twisting his memories and reminding him of all his wrongs. Turning his mind against him. He can only focus on walking, follow the line of hermits before him. Wishing for the horrible thoughts to end. And wishing for his brother to be at his side. 

Xisuma isn’t the only one who lost his family. But at least his is alive. Zedaph, Impulse, and Tango tried to steel themselves in preparation of what they knew the Forest of Memories would bring up. They thought they were prepared, able to fight off the Hangman’s Playground. Both physically and mentally. Even Zed thought he’d be able to shepherd away the intrusive thoughts.

The forest is smart, however. And it goes for him before the others. Zedaph feels the heat against his face, and closes his eyes. He will not see that night. Zedaph hears the screams, of his own guild dying around him, and he hums to himself. He will not hear that night. He tries to block it out, to block out the forest, to refuse it access into his head to hurt him further. 

“Go, Zed!” The voice is so crisp, so real, it’s not just an echo of a memory. He can’t help but look up, searching for his guildleader. 

And he sees scicraft burning. He watches as the fire hurls across the sky, and ash coats the massacre in a fine layer of dust. But he realizes, experiencing this night all over again, that it’s not just ash dancing in the air. Mixed with the burning embers are the fragmented pieces of husks- those attacking the guild. Husks before he even knew dark magic existed. 

Zedaph collapses to his knees, alerting the other hermits to his vision. Impulse falls victim next, his face red as the sensation of burning is played through his head. As, in his illusion, he’s running through the fire. Calling out for the other guild members, even though he knows there’s no hope. He’s trapped in the past, forced to relive the day he lost his family. Until all he had left was Zed, Tango, and a memory. 

Tango rushes to try and retrieve a potion, liquid happiness that was brewed to perfection by Stress. He digs his hand through the bag of supplies, until his fingers close around...fabric. Tango retreats his hand, no longer digging through his backpack, but rather digging through the ashen remains of his guild. He’s holding a torn, burnt cape, stained in blood. 

In one fell swoop and one horrible shared memory, all of Team ZIT is in the clutches of the forest. It plays with their mind, their memories. Turn them on themselves, blaming themselves for the loss. Survivor’s guilt. The other hermits try to snap them out of it, placing talismans on them and forcing potions across their lips. 

It’s not until Doc takes control of Zed, and uses his friend’s magic to dispel the thoughts are they able to get ZIT in any state of relief. Doc feels horrible, but it was a necessary evil. The ZIT trio hold each other close, the thoughts lingering like mist in the morning, whispers of the forest still controlling them. 

Doc looks at the others, their faces worn thin. The sight of their friends, their family struggling has weakened them as well. The Forest of Memories will claim them all if they don’t hurry. Queen Erlea was right- no amount of preparation could prepare them for this. Doc nods his head at the bright red leyline. “The longer we’re in here, the more Hangman’s Playground will toy with us. Let’s keep moving.”

[anoutlandishfanfic]

Metamorphosis Ch.26: Over the Sea

The Premise: What if Claire had conceived on her wedding night with Jamie? How would that change the plot points we all know and love?

We’re coming down the home stretch folks! Our get away car is in the harbor! We just gotta get em there! 

You can find a Master List of chapters here on tumblr or read the whole thing on AO3. 

February 21st, 1744; The Abbey, Scotland Jamie.

I stifled a groan in Claire’s curls as the church bell tolled three, my arms reflexively tightening around her as I tried to ignore the fact that it was time to get out of bed.

I hated to wake her.

The night had not been an easy one for my wife — were they ever these days? — and Claire only just managed to fall back asleep, but I knew she’d need a wee bit of extra time to dress this morning… as her appearance was vital to our ruse.

Smoothing the tousled curls away from her brow, I placed a kiss on her temple, then trailed one after the other until I reached the base of her neck. She stirred at my touch, her eyelids flickering and one corner of her mouth pulling upwards towards a smile, but didn’t wake. My hand lowered to her hip, then slid along the distended curve of her abdomen as my lips found hers.

Her own hands moved then, reaching and finding me in the darkness.

“Good morning,” I murmured into her palm, brushing a kiss across it as her hand drifted round to the back of my head.

One eye cracked open to scowl at me at this greeting, her words slightly jumbled but still coherent, “Thisn’t morning, y’oaf. Dark’out.”

I curled my lips between my teeth to keep from grinning at her offended expression, the innocence of slumber still lingering on her face and made her appear very much like a spoiled, pouting child.  

Claire felt my suppressed amusement and struggled to open both her eyes. Her brow furrowed with the effort it took to spear me with what I’m sure was meant to be her best look of consternation, but it fell short. I kissed her soundly in an effort to keep from laughing outright, rousing us both completely and bringing us directly back to why we’d risen at this inhospitable hour of the morn.

She sighed a moment later, a wistful look dancing across her now clear eyes.

“It’s time, isn’t it?”

“Aye,” I swallowed hard, excitement mixing with the fear of the unknown as my stomach churned.

“Time to leave.”

... Half past 4am.

The wind howled around us as we stepped from the shelter of the abbey out into the open courtyard, cautiously picking our way across the frozen cobblestones. It’s nasty chill bit at any patch of exposed skin it could sink its teeth into and my cheeks and hands were already red and raw from ensuring the rig was properly loaded with our things.

I hastily grabbed for the carriage door, lunging for it before it was really in reach as I was eager to get Claire out of the cold, but she was of a different mind.

“You won’t say a word if we’re stopped, will you?” she inquired, pulling up short and studying my face intently. “Or only in French if you must? That cap’ll do to hide your hair, but there’s no mistaking your voice.”

My hand instinctively went to the back of my neck, feeling the rough wool of my knitted hat. It would keep me warm, certainly, but pulled low as it was, it went a long way to hide the telltale auburn hair that was plastered all over my broadsheets.

“Aye, er, oui Madame,” I promised, squeezing her hand reassuringly with a forced smile as I helped her onto the first step.

Wobbly as a new foal, I steadied her as she picked her way into the dark carriage. Murtagh held his lantern high, giving her light to see as she eased herself into the padded cushions and meticulously arranged the folds of her cloak.

“The same goes for you, hmm?” Claire’s head snapped up to look at us, her gaze locking onto my godfather’s. Her eyes narrowed in a rather unreadable expression of consternation mixed with something akin to a challenge as she continued, “Not a word from the both of you. Let Francis do the work and the talking until we’re aboard ship.”

I caught the twitch of my godfather’s lips out the corner of my eye — despite his heavy beard and the early morning darkness — and marveled yet again at the relationship the two of them had formed while I was away.

“And I can quite handle myself, thank you very much,” she added in afterthought and under her breath, almost as if to reassure herself as it was to us.

Claire caught the mirth bubbling up beneath my gathering nerves and reached out her hand to me. I took it in an instant, leaning in and keeping my voice low, even though I was sure no one but our present company could hear us.

“May your brilliant mind and unbridled tongue keep us safe, my love,” I blessed her in French, then dropped my hand to the swell of our children. “And may you both bide until we are safe.”

She crossed herself, the barest hint of a shudder running through her, and I dove into the carriage beside her, pulling her into my arms and vowing, “No harm will come to you, Claire. I give you my word.”

“I know,” she murmured back after a moment and I loosened my grip.

Sitting back, she waved me off.

“We need to leave if we’re going to catch the tide,” she insisted with a smile that gained confidence by the second. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

I blinked at her for a moment, which made her laugh — a heartily welcome sound — and I shook my head with a smile of my own.

“Oui, Madame,” I stepped back onto the ledge of the doorway, “I am entirely at your service, my Lady Beauchamp.”

She nodded curtly and dismissed me fully, all but shoving me out into cold with a single look.

I grinned at her and exited the carriage, shutting the door firmly behind me. Turning, I moved to join Murtagh on the bench up top but hesitated a moment before climbing aboard.

That they might be safe… both she and the children.

My eyes slid shut, my heart offering up the rest of a prayer that I could not put into words.

“Come along, a bhalaich.”

Murtagh’s command was urgent yet gentle and I reflexively moved to do so, hastily crossing myself before climbing up beside him with a fluidity that hadn’t been mine since before my injury. I nodded to him and with a flick of the reins, he set us into motion.

I held my breath as we passed through the main gate and left our safe haven behind.

There would be no going back.

We hadn’t traveled long before we encountered the first crofter’s hut, still shut up and slumbering in the early morning dew. I scanned the road ahead and caught sight of a small copse of trees off to the left side. This particular stretch of road wasn’t bounded by forest, so it would make a perfect lookout post, should a soldier or two want to keep an eye on the comings and goings of the abbey.

And they certainly would.

My gut clenched as we approached, wishing the lanterns posted on the corners of the carriage were bright enough to see what we were about to ride into. The mare on the right snorted to her teammate and I flinched. It took everything within me to not grab the reins from Murtagh’s hands and turn us around.

“Steady,” Murtagh coaxed in the language Claire had instructed us… one I knew he didn’t particularly care to use.

To anyone listening, it’d be logical that he would have been speaking to the horses, but I knew it was intended for me.

… Claire.

The carriage began to slow and I spat out an emphatic, “Fuck!”

I bit down hard on my lower lip, the sharp pain competing against my rolling stomach and spasming back. The deep, frozen ruts of the lane did little to ensure a smooth ride to the harbor and the combination of my raw nerves and the carraige’s jolting, jostling motions were enough to set me completely on edge.

Lifting a hand to the ridiculous bonnet atop my head, I adjusted it slightly and then arranged my skirts around me. Our success was dependent on my looking every inch a respectable woman of wealth and I was determined to have everything in place when that door opened. We came to a complete stop long before I was ready and I forced myself to take as deep of a breath as was possible in my current state.

Here we bloody go, Beauchamp.

Male voices began to bark orders, sending a shiver down my spine, and I steeled myself for the gust of frigid air mingled with danger that was sure to come at any moment. I didn’t have to wait long, for the door opened in the next second and I saw the face of Lady Margaret’s most trusted footman, Francis.

His expression gave nothing away as he offered his hand in assistance — the as yet unseen redcoats obviously requested I present myself — and I donned my most affected air, slipping into the personage I’d crafted in my wakeful hours of the night.

“Tell them I wish to speak to their commanding officer,” I sniffed, drawing my cloak tighter around me, “and do shut the door, Francis, or I shall catch my death of a chill.”

One brow twitched and I caught the briefest of smiles flicker across the chap’s face before he disappeared back into the night, doing exactly as I’d asked.

More voices sounded in conversation outside the carriage, taking on an air of confusion as a whole, with the exception of Francis’ Lowland lilt.

“Ye better do as th’Lady asks, ye ken,” he warned and I couldn’t help but grin in the dark in spite of my nerves. “She’s not one t’bide... an’ she’s a ship t’meet.”

There was a shuffling of feet and a clanking of metal, but one person had obviously moved off and all discussion faded away into nothing. A few moments passed in anxious silence until a new disgruntled voice suddenly asked, “Have you found something, then?”

Bile rose at the back of my throat as I thought of them finding Jamie up above me, but I didn’t waver from my plan.

Negatory remarks followed the new voice’s inquiry and the officer — for indeed, he must be — was informed of the situation.

Francis opened the door again and I launched into my tirade, “What is the meaning of this inconvenience, Captain?! If my ship departs without me, I shall ensure that you are stripped of your position, paraded through the streets barefoot in nothing but sackcloth and ashes, and unable to find a place of employment as anything but His Majesty’s scullery maid!”

The officer stood slack jawed just outside the door in perfect response to my tirade, obviously not expecting a well-bred, highly enraged, loyal British subject on the road at this hour.

“Do come in and explain yourself,” I huffed, beckoning him forward, “you must have a reason for holding up honest traffic in the middle of the night like a Highland bandit.”

His mouth snapped shut at this and his brows rose all the way to the edge of his wig as he climbed inside, a lantern in hand. I blinked at the sudden brightness, but it only helped to permanently affix my scowl.

“Now, who do I have the pleasure of addressing?” I titled my head to the side, feigning interest while looking very much like an addled bird, I was sure.

“Captain George Brooks, my lady, of, ah, His Majesty’s Third Battalion,” he cleared his throat, stammering slightly. “I, well, I sincerely apologize for Private Richardsen’s rather forward behavior and, well, the delay.”

He studied me quite openly, his gaze taking in my fine clothing and warm cloak. The captain seemed to take me for what I appeared to be, for he quickly continued, “You see, Madam, we have word that an escaped convict has sought sanctuary within the abbey and are stopping and searching every conveyance that leaves the place.”

I stiffened at the word convict, but used it to my advantage.

“I must tell you, Captain, that I was the guest of the good brethren and can assure you no such man exists,” I leveled him with a look that made him squirm. “And, certainly, no one of such quality is among my men.”

“I consider the Scottish brutes to be a detestable sort and am on my way now to leave this godforsaken country,” I sniffed, forcing myself not to choke on the absolute fallacy of my own words.

Captain Brooks nodded at this, but it was clear from his gathering frown he had questions for me.

“There’s a respectable tavern in the village where my men are quartered,” he shifted, leaning forward slightly. “Why stay with the heretics when other suitable — and dare I say safer — lodging was available?”

I snorted, feigning disgust, “I’d rather sleep in the gutter than under the roof of a Highland villager, Captain… and as for the heretic Papists, you forget that a good many of His Majesty’s subjects are such.”

He caught sight of the jet rosary on display around my neck and had the good grace to wince.

“My apologies, Lady…,” he trailed off.

“Beauchamp,” I supplied for him, ready to rattle off my concocted scenario. “My husband is Lieutenant Commander Alexander Beauchamp of the Royal Navy and I’m meeting him in Portsmouth… that is, if you and your men will permit us to be on our way.”

My companion shifted uncomfortably once more, groveling, “Yes, well, I see there is no reason that you should not be allowed to travel on. I shall send a man ahead to alert the guard at the port. They’ll see that you board and depart without interference.”

“How good of you, Captain,” I commented, forcing a smile as a sudden wave of nausea overtook me.

Hurry up, Captain, or you shall be wearing my breakfast.

... Jamie.

The captain strode out the door of the carriage, nearly knocking Francis off his feet, and beckoned wildly to his lieutenant. I tensed, nearly grabbing the reins out of Murtagh’s hands, but instead steeled myself as I caught his orders on the wind.

“Ride ahead,” he motioned for a horse to be brought round, bellowing, “Tell Phillips to let them through without trouble and ensure no one delays their departure... And If I hear that so much as a seagull spoke out of turn to the Lady Beauchamp, I shall have both your head and your commission, Hawkins!”

Lieutenant Hawkins swung into the saddle with a barked yes, sir and was barreling down the path ahead of us a moment later.

I blinked in surprise, then let the darkness of the night hide the beginnings of a smile that warmed my face.

Well done, mo nighean donn.

…

Claire.

The remainder of the ride to the harbor was something akin to cruel and unusual punishment.

The road had gotten better some time ago — the carriage no longer pitching from side to side with every rut we hit — but I still felt every stone, every bump we drove over. The muscles of my lower back and left hip spasmed with a ferocity that I had never experienced, protesting their rough handling in a language that I could not ignore. My stomach rolled, my chest heaved, and it was everything I could do not to lose my cookies all over Lady Margaret’s velvet cushions.

Breathe, Beauchamp.

I slid my eyes shut. It was dark as the deepest cave around me, but somehow the feeling of closing my eyes still gave me a barrier to the outside world.

You did it.

We’d passed through the checkpoint undetected, sent on our way the very man in charge of the entire operation. I couldn’t let my guard down yet, though, couldn’t celebrate this victory until we were really, truly well on our way on the open sea.

I shook my head, trying to fixate on something steady, something outside of the tossing, tumbling barrel I was currently deposited in.

Jamie.

I did allow myself to smile then.

What did he think of it all? Of our walking through right under the redcoats' noses?

I was thankful he had Murtagh at his side through the whole ordeal, but I still wished I could have been with him. For my presence beside him to steady his nerves.

Who are you kidding, Beauchamp?

You couldn’t have climbed up there next to him if your life depended on it.

Well… maybe only if it truly depended on it.

My hands moved, my arms cradling the curve of my distended abdomen as I shifted against the seat cushions. Climbing aboard this conveyance had been interesting enough… I didn’t want to think of what getting aboard the Demeter would entail.

The footman Francis was a short, sender slip of a thing, and while that suited his career perfectly, it wouldn’t suffice should I need assistance boarding the ship.

No one would think twice of Jamie’s strong form helping me… would they?

My heart lurched to a stop, skipped a beat, then thundered on as the carriage began to slow and I realized the next hurdle was upon us. We didn’t stop, but continued to crawl along for many minutes, allowing me time to right myself and prepare for act two of my facade.

When Francis did open the door… I was ready.

… Around 5am, Aboard the Demeter; Jamie.

A dhia, what a woman.

I shook my head in amused astonishment as I watched Claire’s rigid form dismiss Colonel Phillips with a flick of her hand, then turned to the captain of the ship and pointedly asked for shelter from the cold. We hadn’t the time to inform him of her ruse before we boarded, but he gruffly acquiesced and motioned for her to follow him into the cabin.

Seeing that Phillips had disembarked and none of his men were looking towards the ship, I slipped into the shadows of the gathering dawn and trailed after them.

“I do apologize for my tone on deck, Captain,” I heard her sigh as I entered the small, cluttered room. “We sincerely appreciate your kindness and understand the risk you’re taking in bringing us aboard.”

“Aye, well,” he shifted from foot to foot, not quite sure what to make of my wife, “‘Tis nothin’ much… so long as ye stay within an’ out of my men’s way, ye ken.”

I’d gathered in our short time on deck that the crew’s opinion of my wife was something akin to an omen of bad luck — as a woman aboard ship often was — and had no intention of letting her out that door again until we were disembarking onto French soil.

Claire turned as the ship’s captain left, realizing I was there for the first time and her face completely crumpled. She looked as though her body was about to follow suit and was at her side in a moment, gathering her into my arms and tucking her head securely beneath my chin. I could feel her begin to tremble from head to toe against me and looked wildly around for a place for her to sit.

Not readily finding one, she clung to me as we stood in the middle of the room, swaying slightly with the motion of the ship.

“Ifrinn,” I muttered when I found I could finally speak, “I shouldna let you do tha’, mo chridhe.”

“We didn’t have a choice,” came her soft reply, muffled by the front of my coat.

I shrugged at this, knowing she was right, but wishing my heavily pregnant wife hadn’t had to be the one to navigate us through the lion’s den.

“But ye did verra well, indeed,” I had to admit, more than a hint of pride coloring my voice.

She snorted in objection to this and I grinned, turning back her hood and shedding her of that ridiculous cap in one movement. Placing a kiss amid her curls, my hand cupped the back of her head.

Lifting her chin, she looked up at me, fatigue evident in her eyes. I kissed her soundly then and she turned in my arms, looping her own around my neck with a contented sigh.

“Are you cold?” I asked, placing a kiss on her warm neck but had felt her chilled cheek against my own.

“No, not very,” she rested her head against my shoulder. “It’s much better in here.”

I nodded, agreeing as my gaze lifted and I began to examine the quarters we’d been given.

Captain’s quarters they may be, but it was also clearly a storeroom for a good portion of  his cargo. Crates stacked upon crates loomed around us like a forest of trees, with bundles and baskets cast about on the floor in unorganized chaos. There didn’t seem to be a bed to be found  in any resemblance of the word and this gave me no amount of disquiet.

Resigning myself to a sturdy crate that was roughly sitting height to my left, I slowly moved Claire in that direction, easing her down onto it as I went in search for better accommodations. She flapped a weary hand at me, encouraging me on my way as she loosened her stays and let out a shaky breath.

I wove in and out of the stacks of goods, desperate to find a place for my wife to lay down. There were large wooden trunks and canvas wrapped parcels, small wooden crates and barrels of various volumes and heights… but no bed. I discovered something resembling a hammock slung in one corner, but as that would never do, I dismissed it immediately and continued my search, doubling back and returning a different way than I’d come.

“Jamie?”

Claire’s voice had me leaping over a canvas wrapped bundle and grabbing for the bucket I’d caught out the corner of my eye. I reached her just in time for her to deposit her breakfast in the receptacle, her eyes wide and cheeks gone an unearthly pale.

“Christ, I’m sorry,” I gushed, keeping a stray curl from getting in the way of things. “I shouldn’t have left yer side… tis the same wi’ me, too.”

In truth, our current rhythmic motion was nothing compared to what we’d experience once we left the harbor, but I had the good sense to let that be.

Claire shook her head, glowering into the depths of the bucket and grumbled, “It was that bloody roller coaster.”

“Mhmm,” I commented noncommittally, not entirely sure what that was but fairly confident she meant the carriage ride here. “Aye, well, ye’re off it now.”

She retched again, as if the very mention of the conveyance had set her stomach into motion again.

“Shh, my own, it will be better in a moment,” I assured her in Gaelic as I knelt beside her, smoothing back the hair from her face and rubbing her back.

Offering her my handkerchief when she appeared to be done, I took the fragrant bucket from her and set it aside, though within arm’s reach should she need it again.

“Are you alright?” she squeaked, the color beginning to creep back into her cheeks.

I stared at her, my brows nearly to my hairline as I asked incredulously, “Me?!”

“Yes, you,” the frown was back, but I could see that the wheels were churning furiously behind those amber eyes. “You were just paraded in front of an entire battalion of redcoats… that couldn’t have been easy for you.”

I shook my head, shrugging off her concern, assuring, “I’m fine, Sassenach. They didna give me so much as a second glance, thanks to you.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

A slow smile tugged at my lips at her slow, deliberate enunciation of every syllable of this declaration.  

“Aye, I ken jus’ what ye mean,” I reached for her hands, twining my fingers between hers, “an’ I think ye ken me better than I ken myself, at times.”

She snorted at this, dismissing the notion.

“If I do, then it’s the same with me,” she muttered, wiping at her face.

I grinned, squeezing her hands tightly.

“Oh, aye, mo nighean donn… I do, indeed.”

[nightwingvixen23]

Pairing : DamiJon fanfic in their later teens

Little Vixen Side Note : Wrote this piece a few nights ago when I couldn't sleep and came across the dark version of Cant Help Falling In Love; which is what I wrote it to

Cheeecckkk ittttt ouuutttt

A speeding bullet of black, yellow and green. He blew ahead of me in a chase throughout the thick of winter. Skeletal remains of my heart began to drop, all signs of epic violence tittering around us in pursuance of the two malefactors we had just minutes prior unmasked who's carnage stained hands were laying hell into the legs of a screaming woman, in attempts at victimizing her to a two-sided brutality. And though be as it may, with her browbeaten crying, this ambushed petite woman of golden curls had torn like a vicious feline to free herself from the drooling lock jaws of famished wolves refusing to die in this wasted city. Then she'd stopped. She'd turned her head towards us. And it was with that act of final defeat, the deadlock of her blue eyes onto Damians, that had been a tethering of empathetic steel.

In that moment, I'd witnessed the city burn within his eyes. A revival of Pompeii, humans choking on ash; and it was by his hand that carried out was this biblical apocalypse. I mean, you can only stand to see so many weeds in your garden before getting tired of yanking them out by hand and simply just mowing over it all to start fresh.

I'd numbly watched Robin free the woman who'd scurried down the dark street (purse and shoe forgotten like a broken Cinderella) and analyzed where the rules of these unbidden streets lingered any longer ? A wasted land left starved of God's Love long ago, and so us as his children are outcasts in regards to just how mortality works. This is The Devils playground now where we've adapted into calling out Love, not by the blossoming virtue of a budding rose, but by the cut of it's petalless thorns; where the only splash of red comes at the blooming of our own blood. 

What else to do with pain than to make it our art form, our very own self worth. To turn it into a purpose and to make that purpose something beautiful.

⏳...⌛

A park.

Swings creaking with a glacial slow breeze as ghost children play games on the teeter totter. White fluff born from clouds shroud lost personal belongings from humans long past through, and will overnight, do it's best, to shroud the two bodies lay dead 'mid this park's jogging trail.

He stands between them; The Sympathizer, a crimson splattered god in which no Olympian can put a name to crowned in injustices and liberalizing duties.

Crows form a murder beneath these dark skies, dancing and entangling above our heads. Something cruel. Something elegant. Something in harmony with what I behold here and now; because somewhere off in Gotham City this man, that I've fallen in a surprise trust fall for, remarkably kept a young woman home-free tonight. Not from duty. But from instinct.

"Robin.."

He turns to me.

He sheaths his sword; and he smiles.

He smiles at me through tears.

He smiles at me through red blood.

He smiles at me through falling snow.

He smiles at me through the antagonism; and that has to be the most beautiful thing I think I've ever seen.

Regardless; i still wonder what chamber door, dusted with years of abandonment, had finally been gifted a hand to open it's rusted impasse come with what we'd witnessed tonight. What poisonous blend leaks out this door to flood his veins and pour fever into his eyes; clouding his vision against a better form of judgment on justice that has two miserable assed men, twice his size, laying slaughtered like pigs with him standing noble between them both ?

Even though the winter wonderland park is dead quiet, I've never in all my existence heard so much noise. So much all at once while staring at Damian, just now realizing that he'd removed his mask long ago: now raven's stare with deadly ink eyes in jealous passion at the too black fullness of that jet hair filled up in a shaven bun. Cat's whine in envy at the feline-like features of this clandestine face. Jade gems rust in sad defeat before such green eyes. He's the pristine vision of Talia al Ghul (nothing about him is Bruce anymore aside from the cut of his jaw) housing 9 lives amidst 100 secrets.

"I love you," like the many times I've voiced it before, it gushes from me all soft and rushed.

"You love me? You love me?? Don`t," and there is coldness in his stare. Floating all the while amongst the arctic, I've struck the iceberg. Sinking under. Cracked in two. And I've got to say, the embrace is haunting.

"Why."

"It is true that the lion coddled the lamb beneath its purring chin, bustling with a protective big paw. Be as it may, unbeknownst to the onlookers, once turned away; the lion gorged on the lamb. Feasted upon its frail body only to lick at its bloodied carcass and keep it close by. Not in memory, but as a trophy; for the lion`s former coddling of the lamb was nothing more than animalistic curiosity.

"Do you not realize Jon that we are all animals, you and I ? Instinct drives us, some however are more lethal, some run in packs, some run alone, and others...just….run." green devours me. Green tears through my flesh. Green swallows me whole. Perhaps I am but being gorged upon by the starving lion.

His lips curl into a sadistic sneer despite the tear tracks on his face and I'm all but floored by the fabric skin of this demon that everyone's tried to give a halo, "I will rip you apart, little lamb."

"Then by all means," I grab his hand to wrap it around my throat, it's cold but his grip is tight and his lips on mine are hot, "take my neck to slaughter."

Five fingers tremble in innocence against my throat; a golden token of humanity, honesty and clemeity. Making my wonder

just who really here is the lion and who is the lamb? Then he bares his teeth, rabid and wild. I bare my teeth back, standing ground in the middle of our Eden turned Jungle. Then our lips meet again. Our teeth clash. We fight to force the other into submission though neither backs down.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe, he is but a lamb that learned to evolve amongst the lions. And could it be that I am but a lion having learned to secret himself amongst sheep? Maybe that's why him and I fight more than find common ground, for the foolish costumes we were taught to wear in order to cover up what rightful creatures God bore us as.

We are different and the same whether it be his purity or my hidden away corruption.

The volcanic eruption of his anger and soothing temperament of my ocean meet. 

They form an isle.

A match to an ignition causes an inevitable explosion. But, sometimes, that match plus ignition can give birth to fireworks rather than a bomb; we've just gotta be patient and count to 3. I count to 2 before seeing the spark. And right at 3 comes the crackle then pop, a raining shower of diabolical color transcending the stark black sky.

Who ever would of known that 4th of July in the middle of December would  look so much like Heaven waging war with Hell.

                                               ⌛...⏳

No one is home execpt for me to answer the chipper knock at the front door on the next sun smothered day, and the florist that greets me is happy to do so.

In my hands I'd received my gift of a crimson rose bouquet;

and while up in my room i'd read the card written on with an elegant gothic flourish:

                     My Little Lamb.

These three words made the wool wearing prey in me seek sanctuary, and yet, caused the dagger toothed predator in me to roar.

 *END

[carelessgraces]

@urobouris​ said:   🎉 !!!   ( new year’s eve kisses | not accepting )

"Do you often work through holidays?”

     She smiles at the sound of his voice, but she won’t admit to that. Astoria sits back in her chair, realizing with a start that her tea has long since gone cold when she reaches for her mug and finds it like ice in her grasp. “Only for my favorite clients,” she answers with a laugh, “and only on the cases I like,” and it feels silly and juvenile but she likes looking at his name on her phone, and hearing the low rumble of his laughter on the other line. “How’d you know I was working?”

     “Lucky guess.”

     “Oh?”

     “Actually, I’ve been knocking on your door for the past ten minutes. I have yet to see you tune out noise so thoroughly for anything besides work. You said you wanted to talk in person? The sooner, the better?”

     Astoria nearly trips over herself getting up from her desk, and it’s a small miracle that prevents her from spilling that cold tea across her laptop. “God. Sorry. What time is it?”

     “Quarter past eleven. I would have come tomorrow, but you said it was urgent.” 

     “It is. Shit. I’m sorry. Hold on — ”

     Less than a minute later she has the door thrown open to admit him, and she tells herself not to notice that there are snowflakes clinging to the wool of his coat, or that there’s a hint of color in his cheeks in response to the cold, or that when she’s not wearing heels he’s a solid foot taller than her, or that all of these things have made her positively weak at the knees. He steps through her door and into her home the same way he does everything: as if he commands everything he can see, as if he is utterly untouchable. 

     Intoxicating. That’s the word for him: intoxicating. She’s been trying to sort that out for weeks, now, and hasn’t managed it until this moment. Commanding, certainly. Powerful, without question. ( Spectacularly unbelievably beautiful, sure, in her less professional moments, and this is proving to be one of them. ) Behind him, Albert closes her front door, flips the locks back into place, and when he turns to face her again, he has one hand removing his scarf, the other holding out a bottle of champagne. 

     “Since it seems we are to spend the New Year together,” he says, and there’s an unexpected hint of teasing to his voice. That’s... rare. Also intoxicating. Astoria clears her throat, gestures for him to follow her into the kitchen, doubles back to take his coat — so sue her, she’s only human. 

     He pops the cork, he pours the champagne into the flutes she provides, and it strikes her suddenly that he’s never seen her like this before. Her hair is a mess of curls, freshly dried from the melted snow, and she’s traded in her Louboutins and blazers for a sweater and a pair of jeans and bare feet. For a moment Astoria considers bringing him to her office, but — well, they’ve passed the point of constant professionalism, she thinks.

     ( She’d had the presence of mind to reapply her armor — the signature red lip, a slash of scarlet in the glow of the kitchen’s light. She had hoped it would make her feel more in control. She had been fooling herself. ) 

     So she leans over the kitchen island, elbows resting on the granite top, and she presses her lips together for a moment before she speaks. Across from her, Albert takes a seat, and he watches her curiously as he waits for her to start. 

     “Umbrella reached out to me today.”

     He says nothing, only watches her.

     “I was out tonight.” A date, actually, in a very vain attempt to distract her, even if only momentarily, from what she’d like to be doing. She doesn’t mention that part. “My — companion stood to go to the restroom and while he was gone someone else took his seat.” She reaches into her back pocket to withdraw the folded check she’d slipped there, and she pushes it across the island for him. “Apparently I should be considering whose side I’m on.”

     Albert takes the check and looks at it. One eyebrow rises when he sees the amount. Still, he says nothing.

     “I was reminded that if this goes poorly, it could be the end of my career. Nothing too surprising; vague threats, a few comments about how much more money I could be making if I were to take a step back, a promise that I can expect to see them again.” 

     That gets a response. Albert’s jaw tightens, and he asks, voice slow and deliberate, “Threats of what nature?”

     “Nothing particularly inspired. Your career will suffer, blah blah, all a woman has these days is her professional reputation, yawn. There was a comment about knowing where I live and where I work and what I drive, but... this is hardly the first time I’ve been threatened.”

     She’s leaving something out. He knows it. “And?” he asks, and Astoria clears her throat, stalls for a moment by taking a drink. It’s good champagne. She’s a little furious about that; she would have loved to find something he didn’t know inside out and backwards, and yet he continues, stubbornly, to impress. 

     And then she looks at him, all six-foot-a-million of him and his broad shoulders and the absolute control with which he carries himself. Not a hair out of place. Not a single reaction without his command. She thinks he could control the beat of his heart if he tried. 

     Astoria shrugs one shoulder, as if it’s nothing. It’s most assuredly not nothing. “There may have been a gun pointed at me under the table.” 

     Abruptly, Albert stands. 

     “And there may have been pictures of me. You know, walking home, getting groceries, one or two of me asleep, just to show that they do, in fact, know where I live.” Somehow, that doesn’t bother her; the big bad corporation knows how to use the white pages, shocking, really shocking... “When my date didn’t come back, I assumed that had been a setup, so I paid and left, and I called you.”

     He moves around the island to stand in front of her. In less than a second he has her jaw in his hand, and he tips her face up to his, as if he’s getting a good look for bruises or scrapes, but his eyes don’t leave hers. “Were you hurt?”

     “No.”

     “Did they touch you?”

     “Nothing beyond taking my coat at the start of dinner. I left it at the restaurant, just in case.” A shame, really. It was a nice coat. “I’m fine, really.”

     There’s something almost cruel to the set of his jaw, and to the tremor in his hand, visible only for a fraction of a second before he presses his palm against the granite. ( Her skin is hot where he’d touched her, and it takes more effort than she’d like to confess to hide that. ) Before she can think better of it, Astoria covers his hand with hers and squeezes lightly. 

     “Albert.” Usually it’s Dr. Wesker. Occasionally, sir, when she’s being a brat and she wants to see a flash of possessive pride in his eyes. Never his first name. Never this familiarity. “Really. I’m fine.” 

     He looks her over once, then nods, setting his eyes on the window over her sink. She follows his gaze; their reflection is dark, a little distorted by the glass. “What do you intend to do?”

     “I’m staying with you,” Astoria says immediately, before clearing her throat and amending herself — “This case, I’m staying with this case, as long as you’ll have me. To make an attempt like this... they wouldn’t bother if they weren’t worried about the damage that could be done.”

     He considers her for a moment, then — “You should learn how to shoot. And you should get a gun.” 

     “You’ll have to recommend someone to teach me, then.”

     “I will teach you.”

     “Ah.”

     The corner of his mouth twitches upward into a crooked smile. “Hardly enthusiastic.” 

     “Guns make me nervous.”

     “As they should. Are you frightened to learn?”

     “No.”

     “Do I make you nervous?”

     “Extremely,” she answers, and he laughs. The sound is a little strained, but at least it’s there. It makes her bold. In the hall, the clock chimes the changing hour. One.

     “You would really stay, despite the threat?” He nods at the check, still sitting on the island. The clock continues to chime. Two. Three. “Or the offer?”

     Four. “Of course.” Five. “I told you, I’m in this. I meant it.” 

     “For the case?” Six.

     She shrugs one shoulder. He slips his hand out from under hers, steps just a bit closer. Seven. Eight. “Sure.” Nine. ���Mostly, though — ” Nine. Ten. “ — for you.”

     For a moment she very seriously considers the merits of politely asking if he’d like to bend her over the kitchen table — eleven — but before she can talk herself out of anything he’s taking her jaw in his hand again, his grip tighter than before. “For me?”

     She nods. Twelve. The sound echoes in the hall, rings between them, and Albert leans forward, until he’s barely an inch from her, bows his head just enough to bring his mouth a breath from hers. 

     “Good,” he murmurs, lips nearly grazing hers as he speaks, and Astoria is a patient woman, she is, she knows that some things are worth the wait. He is sharp angles and steel against her, harsh and unyielding, and there is some animal part of her that sees the danger he poses and that almost wants to run — but she thinks she likes that. She thinks she likes that very much. 

     It’s light, chaste — a brush of his mouth over hers, and he holds her in place when she moves to chase him, lips curling up in a smile as he does. They stand there together for an hour, for a minute, for a hundred thousand years, and when he releases her and steps back there is a hint of scarlet on his skin, like a little smear of blood. 

     She wants him to break her, she thinks, and she very nearly asks for it — please, she wants to say, touch me, fuck me, do something, do anything — but he takes another step back from her and he watches her, simply watches her, and the words die in her throat. 

     “Are you safe here tonight?” he asks, and she nods wordlessly, as if she’s forgotten how to use her voice. ( That may very well be true. ) “In the morning, we can make arrangements to guarantee your security.” Without waiting for an answer he goes to the hall closet to gather his coat and scarf, and she follows, legs unsteady, worrying her lip between her teeth. 

     “You could stay,” she offers, and her voice is hoarse. He closes the closet door and winds his scarf around his neck, and he looks at her, and there’s something like amusement, something like affection, in the set of his mouth. 

     Her hands are shaking. He watches her for a moment, and he shakes his head. 

     “You should sleep,” he says finally, and his voice is, somehow, lower than usual. ( She wonders if she has any effect on him, if he’ll need a minute to catch his breath when he leaves. ) “Otherwise, I might.” 

     She locks the door behind him.

     ( In the morning, they don’t speak of it. )