#carry on gift exhange

[yeehawpurgatory]

Luck and Warmth

❄️🌨Seasons Greetings!🏔🌬This is my RDR secret winter exhange gift for @danger-r-98-5 I hope you enjoy this!

🎄Merry Christmas & Happy Holidays to everyone 🤍💚❤️ 

I took inspiration from prompt #2: aka one kisses the other in the spur of the moment after a job gone bad, and momentarily freaks out until?…;)

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x John Marston

Summary: Arthur and John occupy each other’s spaces in a small cabin while out on a job—a job that doesn’t pan out the way either thought it would. They spend their time together, eating, sleeping, talking, and keeping warm. When their job goes wrong, they deal with it together too. Even when that involves free falling into a river for John, and giving into his feelings for Arthur.

Words: 5k+

@rdrevents

A cold wind comes down from Mount Shann, rustling trees and howling just outside; the two of them are held up in a small cabin just north of Strawberry. The windows are bare and the wood is soft in some places, but it’s finer living than Arthur and John had seen in the past few days.

��Finer, and real intimate. 

John’s standing in the corner closest to the fireplace. Naked as a jaybird, with the pride of a stray dog, he washes his body with a rag and water straight from the boiling pot, poured into a bucket which had surely seen better days. Arthur doesn’t bother teasing him about the predicament; John has a hard enough time bathing when it wasn’t ball shriveling-ly cold outside.

 It’s one of the only noises in the cabin—water ringing out of a rag, dipped into a bucket, squeezed, over and over; that, and the gusts of wind hitting the cabin. Howling outside. Water, wind, the crackling fire, and Marston’s off-tuned humming oh Susanna as he washes. A raspy sound, like a steam whistle through scrap metal pipes. A broken, damaged whistling sound. Arthur chuckles at the comparison he’s drawn.

     “Somethin’ funny?” John barks with no bite.  

     “Not really, no.” Arthur says as he hides his amusement from the younger man.

 Trelawny heard from a friend— who’d heard from their friend no doubt— something about a gaggle of boys down this way, robbing whoever they ran into on these roads. A small gang of about five or so men, mostly cow-milkers and shit-shovellers, all deciding to give the outlaw life a try. They were coming up from Strawberry in a few days supposedly. If the tip was good, then these boys carried with them weeks worth of loot they’d managed to steal.

With the camp well stocked, well prepared, and well fed, Arthur prepared for what was supposed to be a long solo trip; well in his territory. Only, Marston was sent along with him at the last second.

Hosea said it was a well needed trip for the two, that it could be a bonding experience of sorts. Of course he’d only said it whilst feigning ignorance. Arthur was sure Hosea conspired with Dutch to send both of them off to ‘mend their relationship.’ He’d caught them talking to each other as he packed, eyeing him and Marston all the while. This was an easy job, but nonetheless, they’d shoved John at him. Again. Probably in hopes that the two of them would rid themselves of the last bit of animosity they felt towards each other. 

Dutch had all but said it when he’d waved them off, “and don’t come back until you like eachother again!”

 A cold breeze sweeps the cabin. From the corner of his eye, John flinches. “Shit! It’s cold!” 

Arthur makes it a point to stare down at his lap. He’s perched on an old wooden chair cleaning his Schofield in front of the fire. John is awfully close to him, in this tight cabin they share.  

He swallows roughly when Marston cusses and stomps around bare-assed, now in his eyeline; the young man is oblivious to the funny feeling that starts to pool in Arthur’s gut, and travels lower than he’d like. Arthur clears his throat. 

He could make a joke. Or a snide comment. Something to cut the tension which only really exists in his own mind; but Arthur bites his tongue. 

 Thing is, something about their relationship had in fact changed. Though thankfully, no one else had noticed. 

 He can pinpoint the moment something had shifted in his interactions with the younger man. Shoulders heavy from burying two of their flock, eyelids drooping shut and threatening to freeze over; things had changed back in the hellish cold of Colter. There was something…something Arthur can’t explain, which took him over after they’d found John bleeding and starving and damn-near frozen to death.

That ‘something’ ached his chest every time he wound up in that cabin weeks ago, changing Marston’s bandages and spooning him watery broth. While he watched his friend fight off feverish infection, face held together by nothing but thin stitching thread. 

That sight of John is burned into his brain. In front of his eyes. 

Maybe it was seeing John close to his possible end, knowing death could come for any of them on that mountain, and knowing what it felt like to bury his friends in the snow— Arthur desperately wants to forget that feeling. 

Whatever took hold of him right now—for whatever reason, had him feeling some things Arthur used to hope and pray would go away. Feelings which plagued him as a youth, in the back of his mind, that despite the love surrounding him, he tried to bury deep within himself. Feelings which arose for Marston of all folk. It started some odd years ago.

At first he thought he was sick, then he thought he was crazy; unfortunately, he was infatuated.

     “Throw another log in the fire would ya’? I’m freezing my jewels off!” 

Arthur’s lip quirked up. He tossed another splintered log into the old fireplace. 

     “Need anythin’ else, your highness?” Arthur teased and turned to John, who was thankfully fully dressed now. Wearing some old thick trousers that had once belonged to Dutch, with a shirt and black coat over Arthurs own spare union suit. His scarf and gloves were set out to dry on the table by the fire. 

     “Could use some food since ya’ offered.” He hauled the washbucket outside, dumping the dirty water as Arthur stabbed a hunk of meat on a knife and stuck it over the open flames. 

    ________________________________________________________

 A while later they sat on their bedrolls eating their dinner consisting of a chunk of meat straight off the knife, a can of warmed beans they passed back and forth, and a stale bread roll each. 

Arthur had last hunted three days ago. The provisions bag had gone down considerably, they ate more than usual to keep warm, and for something to do to avoid too many moments of silence. Though, to credit them both, there hadn’t been a real tiff, or awkward moment between the two men this whole trip. 

John could even say they’d managed a few good conversations here and there. Arthur bit back his clever comments, and John held back a good amount of stupid questions, and as easy as that they were acting like old— if not distant —friends again. 

     “You want the bourbon or the gin?” Arthur asked after cleaning up and sitting down. The older man was bundled in his blue winter coat, wrapping it around his broad shoulders like it was a blanket. It was too damn cold to forgo boots and gloves in the evening, so he wore those too. 

     “Hand me the gin.” 

Arthur scrunched his face in disgust and passed the half-finished gin bottle John was working his way through. He sipped it while he contemplated.

When they’d left camp Arthur was miles away in his own head like he often seemed to be. At first John thought it was just because of him, his presence alone could piss the older man off. 

Or, it used to. 

Morgan was acting funny these past few weeks. Since the gang had left Colter, John noticed. Not funny bad, just…different. Friendlier . Like he was suddenly fond of John as he once had been; as fond as he were before John decided enough was enough, and ran off on his own. The worst of the animosity had run its course, John reckoned, because Morgan was acting downright soft with him these days. Thank God for this change, for whatever caused it. 

John had long grown tired of being hated by someone like Arthur. Someone he couldn’t deny he felt…strongly for. He ain’t one to label his emotions, preferring instead to let them come and go easy, like an unwanted visitor. What he felt for Arthur though, it couldn’t be ignored if he tried; and tried he had for too damn long.

     “Nasty thing.” The older man sipped on his own bourbon. A few drops slipped down his chin and trailed down his neck. John watched as the liquid disappeared down into Morgan's shirt. His mouth watered. 

     “That’s why you only need a few mouthfuls.” John took a swig and swallowed it with an exaggerated sigh. Hopefully swallowing down any indecent thoughts. 

John has suspicions about Morgan’s newfound fondness. Namely that it had something to do with Blackwater, when John sided with Arthur and Hosea’s judgement over Dutch’s. Or maybe it started when Morgan found him nearly dead in the snow. Maybe that gave Arthur a scare? Maybe it shocked him enough to make the older man forget his anger? To let it fizzle out, even? 

Lord knows it shocked him in its own way. John was sure Arthur hated him; the last thing he thought he’d see on the brink of death was Morgan showing up out of thin air and saving his ass. It weren’t even the first time, neither. 

     “Few more days.” John broke the easy silence and took another swig. 

He would be lying if he said he wasn’t sort of sad for the end of this job. This was the most time they spent together since before John left. It was oddly domestic, their little routine. Taking turns cooking and hauling fresh water from nearby, tending to the fire, drinking, talking, just shooting the shit like the old days. He’s going to miss this when they get back to camp, the quiet domesticity of sharing a space with Arthur alone. 

     “Few more days indeed.” Arthur answered him. John swore he sounded somber; he blamed the drink. “I’m goin’ hunting tomorrow. Might see if I can catch something nice for us.” He takes a big mouthful of bourbon. 

Despite the cold Arthur’s got the top few buttons of his shirt undone. It’s hard not to stare at the swirl of chest hair peeking though. It’s downright impossible for John not to notice the way fabric stretches and moves over Morgan’s muscled arms too. If he stared any longer he’d start drooling. Wouldn’t that be something?

     “Bout’ damn time. I’m awful sick of rabbit.” They’ve been eating rabbit at least twice a day for a few days now. John chuckled and took another swig. A pleasant heaviness had set into his limbs, he blinked slower. 

     “You got a special request for me then? Seeing as it’s my job to find em’, hunt em’ and cook em, there oughta be somethin’ for you to do then?”

Arthur’s ribbing was playful, gentle. John was still technically on the mend. His face was still raw in the worst parts, his arm and leg ache in the cold the way old wounds do. He sat around just as much here as he did in Horseshoe.

     “There is. Listenin’ to your big mouth and eating your shit cookin’.”

 Slow in his movement thanks to the drink, John couldn’t dodge the damp balled up sock thrown right at his head. Instead, he threw his damp drawers in retaliation.  

     “Mars—ah! You son of a bitch!” Arthur squaked. John outright laughed at the sound. 

He threw a spoon next; John dodged and threw the sock back. 

 Arthur swerved and tossed an empty can; John chucked a horsebrush. 

 Arthur picked up a tin cup; there wasn’t anything close enough for John to grab. 

           “Okay, okay!” John holds up his waving arms in surrender. Arthur eyes him considerably. Then slowly places the tin cup down as John lowers his arms. 

Nobody moves, and John lets loose the breath he’d been holding. “Thank you…” he sighs. 

Arthur’s still got his blue eyes watching John’s every move. 

The second he drops his guard John lunges forward—he tackles Morgan. 

     “That ain’t fair!” Arthur’s coat slips off. He fights against John’s arms wrapped around his middle, vying for leverage of sorts.

     “Ain’t nothin’ fair in life Morgan!” 

The two of them fall to the ground. They wrestle like boys for a moment. All messy limbs and wriggling, in seconds they’re cussing up a storm and huffing between their fit of growing laughter. Arthur gets the upper-hand and throws his weight around, pinning a wriggling John under him. They haven't done this in forever—scraping and wrestling just for the fun of it. John had missed this more than he thought; though eventually enough was enough. If Arthur didn’t stop moving and get off, John would have a big, stiff, problem.

Legs tired from kicking and arms pinned above his head, with a heaving chest and a toothy grin, John barks out, “YIELD!”

Arthur eases off him with a heavy groan, rolling onto his back just beside John. They’re both breathing heavily, chests rising up and down, the sound of their panting fills the cabin. John turns his head to look at Arthur. The older man was already looking at him, his lips pulled into a lazy smile. John hadn’t seen Morgan so content in a while. 

He looked damn-good too, with his hair dishevelled and shirt bunched up in odd places, a hazy relaxed look on his face. 

“Shit…” Morgan breathed out, still smiling. He pulled himself upright with a groan, arm feeling the ground around him for the bourbon. He took a long, slow sip, swallowing with a sigh. “Y’fight dirty,” he slurs. Taking another sip. 

John scoffs. “Damn right. Never stopped fightin’ dirty…” he trailed off. John reaches around for his own bottle and gulps down a shot when he’s sat upright.

 They drink some more together. When the world around John starts to spin he closes his eyes and lays back. 

 When he opens them next he’s carefully laid out onto his bedroll closest to the fire, his coat laid over him like a blanket. There’s a weight against his back, light snoring in his ears, and the familiar warmth only another person could give.

They’ve taken to sleeping like this for warmth in the chilly nights in the cabin, settling beside each other, that is. At first it scared him, the idea of being so physically close to the other man again, but all that went away when John had woken up in the morning; refreshed like he couldn’t believe, and happier than he’d felt in a long while.

 It’s the closest they’ve been in years, and John relished in every second of it.

______________________________________________________ 

A few more good days passed and it was finally time. 

 Arthur spotted a group of misfits matching Trelawny’s description of the gang they were after. Young looking, green looking. These kids wouldn’t be much of a fight. With John and him shooting, they’d be up and outta there in minutes. It’s that easy. 

They were still too close to Strawberry. It’s one thing outriding a bunch of kids, but the law was another issue entirely. Arthur shook his head and pocketed his binoculars. It wasn’t worth it to shoot too soon and risk drawing lawmen or armed townsfolk their way. 

They’ll have to trail them then. Be patient, that is.

Arthur led the way, the two men following a good distance from the small gang as they rode off path.

They just had to bide their time. It was going just fine.

Until it wasn’t. 

 “Arthur.”

John’s tone was urgent as he whispered. “Arthur, behind us, careful.” 

Between scouting for the gang between the trees and keeping a good distance away, Arthur paid no mind to the clopping of horses behind them. He took one glance over the shoulder and cussed. Why now?

 Bounty Hunters.

 He glances at John. The younger man held the reign with just one hand, the other hovered over his holstered Cattleman.

“Just keep yer’ head down, they might be here for them boys,” he tells John. Wouldn’t that be lucky? Even if they weren’t here for him or Marston, Arthur is certain they’ll be recognized. Him at least. He has Micah’s little shootout to thank for that; dammit—Arthur thought he’d been careful not to be seen around. 

If luck is in fact on their side, then these men would ride onward, past the pair and keep going. 

Unfortunately for them, the riders don’t pass by. One of the Bounty Hunters rode up close to them. 

      “Afternoon sirs,” the Bounty Hunter tips his hat. Another one rides up beside John. “You boys seen or heard anything strange about?” His tone is even and his expression is nearly friendly. His farce is betrayed by the pistol in his hand and the men who start to surround them.

 He looks at John. His jaw is clenched shut and his hand hovers. 

     “Can’t say we have, sorry.” Arthur tries to keep his voice low, his demeanour normal, but his fingers twitch of their own accord. 

The man nearest to Marston shifted in his saddle, trying and failing to discreetly look at John’s face. Something like urgency flashes in the man’s eyes. 

Arthur’s hand inches slowly to his own holstered weapon. 

     “Jesus, what happened to you?” 

 John stares angrily at the Bounty Hunter before spitting out his response, “wolves.” 

     “Speaking of, this area’s full of those bastards. And we ain’t seen nothing strange ‘round these parts.” Arthur spoke slowly, leisurely. Or attempted to. “So why don’t you boys check the main road might be that—”

A split second later—a pistol aimed right at Arthur’s face. He had no time to move, to think and—

  BANG!!!

 Blood spattered all over Arthur. His ears rang, and for a horrible moment, he thought he’d been hit. 

Another shot rang out. By now Arthur’s head caught up with what was happening. 

John had drawn and shot both men dead just then—and now they were running for their lives. 

 Goddamn gang of hoodlums couldn’t know just how lucky they were right now. 

 _________________________________________________

     “Leave em’ here, we’ll run up this way!” 

 John listened to him, he smacked his horse on the ass and watched it ride off. He followed Arthur up a steep pathway. The two braced on one another as they climbed uneven terrain and slippery rocks. It was Arthur who’d been out and about, he knew this area better and so he led. 

     “Should we split up?” John asked between breaths. His lungs were burning. After a few days of sitting pretty and smoking until his chest hurt, this was the last thing he needed.  

     “No—keep runnin’!” 

Arthur grabbed his arm and yanked him forward—forcing John to keep up even as his vision began to blur and spots danced in front of his eyes. His bad leg buckled. 

     “Shit!”  

John blinked heavily, trying to see clearly. When he did, his eyes widened. 

Arthur had led them to the edge of a hill overlooking a rapid river. The sight of the water made John dizzy instantly. He looked at Arthur, who looked at him, still clasping the fabric of his coat. 

     “John we—I think we gotta jump.”

 He stares at Arthur in pure bewilderment.

NO! He can’t! Arthur knows he can’t—John would take his chances running off on foot, or one on one with all those Bounty Hunters. Or lawmen. Or wolves. Or the noose—again. Just not this. 

     “John.” Arthur urges, voice stern, serious. Absolute. “We ain’t that high up.” 

     “I—I can’t. You know a—”

 The shouting of men is too close for comfort. 

      “Can’t we just shoot em?” John grimaces at the helplessness in his voice. At the shaking—the raw fear in his tone. 

Suddenly the rapids from below echo in his ears, making his head hurt. They weren’t that high up, but it’s not the height alone that scares him. Cold air be damned, John was sweating. 

     “Marston…” Arthur isn’t angry, but oddly sympathetic. “You know how big a group these bastards travel in. We can’t risk drawing more out, if we haven't already.” 

John’s mouth opens to protest, but once again, he can’t find the words. “Fuck.” His knees feel weak, he feels shaky, stiff, how’s he supposed to do this? How was he supposed to jump? 

     “Arthur, I…I can’t do it.” 

 The voices were so close, John was expecting them to show up any second. Fuck! What else could he do? Surrender?

           “John.” Arthur’s mouth is set rigid in a tense line. 

     “A-Arthur.” John can feel his lip curl down and begin to tremble, his eyes are already filled to the brim. Damn his weakness, damn his stupid fear. Fuck. 

Arthur’s hand trails lower, and lower, until he’s clasping John’s hand in an iron grip. John chokes at the resolve in the older man’s eyes. The protectiveness. 

 This is the man he trusts the most. 

      “If you won’t do it, then I won’t.” Arthur sounds completely sure of it. “They’ll shoot on sight Johnny, I ain’t leaving you here to face that alone.” 

The words take John’s breath away. If anyone would follow John to an untimely demise, despite there being a way out just a few feet away, it would be Arthur; It’s only right that John do the same. Nevermind he’s so scared he might puke or pass out.

He shakes his head, the silence is enough of an answer. He squeezes back, keeping Arthur’s hand in a vice grip. He hopes his shaking isn’t that bad. 

 “Here!” A man’s voice rang out, then Bounty Hunters were swarming around them. “Stop—!”

 The two men break into a run.

 They gain momentum. John is still holding Arthur’s hand when they jump off the ledge. There’s shots flying around them—but all John can hear is the sound of his own screaming and the wind whipping past his ears as he falls. 

 Still, Arthur hasn’t let him go. 

 ______________________________________________________

One two three…one two three…one two three…

      “C’mon, please, please…” He couldn’t pretend the wetness in his eyes was anything else but tears. John was limp, too damn pale, and Arthur couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not.

Arthur held John’s hand for as long as he could. He still held it tight when they hit the water in a breath stealing impact. Immediately, the cold water had shocked him; all it did for John was make him panic and flail. He tried. Lord. He did. Arthur tried to pull himself and John toward solid ground, but he couldn’t keep them both up, and also fight the rapids threatening to pull them in. 

 It was a Goddamn rock in the end. John had hit a rock, hard. Then he went slack. His hand slipped from Arthur’s and he was gone. Disappearing under water and making Arthur’s blood run cold. 

  …two three…One two three…One two three…one two—

      “Not like this, Marston, come on!...” He will wake up. He will. He had too. 

 One more round of pushing on John’s chest—and his eyes finally fly open. Thank the Lord. 

John gagged and coughed, violent spasms wracked his body. Arthur turned him on his side. Bouts of water came up, spilling out his cracked-slashed lips. He wretched, ugly vomiting, and gasping for breath. It was the loveliest sound Arthur had ever heard. Thank. God. 

Arthur tugged John upright, gathered him into his arms, trying to hide just how much he was shaking. He held a breathless John close, running his hands up and down the younger man’s arms and muttering soothing words as soft as he could manage. “It’s okay John. Breathe boy, you got it, easy, easy, yer’ okay John.”

He shushed John when he whimpered. Shushed him and held his hand again and squeezed. John squeezed back. 

“M’right here, I gotcha.” 

John clenches a fistful of Arthur’s soaking coat, pulling himself up with a cracked groan. The younger man leans on him, and for a moment they just breathe together. Then, John’s shoulders begin to tremble, and Arthur stills. 

“Marston?” John shakes his head. He hiccups, a breathy, wheezy, gasping noise. Was he crying? Was he hurt anywhere? 

“God.. damn!”

The fool was laughing.

“I can’t believe we just did that!” His laugh is one of disbelief. “Can’t believe I just…” he gasps. “And you—God!...” 

His heart pounded hard within his chest. Now that John was conscious, safe, in his arms, Arthur’s fear subsided. Absurd excitement took over. 

He was crazy…—

—he really jumped. 

John was crazy too, he jumped alongside Arthur. The two of them were crazy, lucky fools together. 

Oh but he survived, they both did. Oh Thank God. He pulls away just enough to cup John’s face and take a good look at him. His eyes were droopy, body tired from more than just heaving water. That, and he had a nasty looking bruise on his forehead.   

He trusts him. John trusted him enough to do this—to face his biggest fear. Arthur’s heart swells. Before he knows it, he’s peppering kisses all over John’s face. 

 One on his nose, one atop his slashed cheek, one pressed softly on his bruised forehead, on his chin, the other cheek… 

 Good God. He felt…he felt alive. Giddy in a way he’s only ever felt when he’s narrowly avoided death or capture. They did it!...

 He kisses John right on his lips. 

 Then, Arthur freezes. Ice cold dread fills his gut. Oh Lord…did he just? His stomach flipped...Oh no…

     “Uh-Arthur?” The younger man’s lips are parted slightly, eyes wide in surprise. John doesn’t sound horrified—or disgusted; but the utter confusion in his voice makes Arthur want to tuck tail and bolt. He can’t, he’s still the only thing keeping Marston upright, but the urge to run is there. It’s there and it’s strong. He closes his eyes to avoid staring at John. Oh you moron Morgan…

 …Arthur jumps when a gentle, calloused, wet hand trails up his throat, and around the back of his neck. Fingers tangled in his dripping hair, and John pulls himself, tilts his head up, and kisses Arthur right back. 

When they part, Arthur doesn’t speak. He can’t. His throat is too tight, constricted; but John sounds just fine now.

     “C’mere…” John kisses him again—and this time Arthur dips his head down, leaning into the kiss. He’s waited so long for this, to want and be wanted back—it was heavenly. A soft groan escapes his mouth. It’s embarrassing, his eagerness that is, but John smiles against his lips. 

When they pull apart next it’s with a gasp from both. He stares at John’s face, at his lopsided grin and his cloudy grey eyes. This time Arthur has some words.   

     “Yer’ bleedin’.” 

John must’ve hit his arm, there’s a small patch of blood near his shoulder. 

     “And yer’ freezin’.” John says with a goofy smile. 

    ______________________________________________________

It’s too big a risk getting a room in town. 

 Their horses beat them to the cabin. 

 The second they’re inside Arthur eases John in front of the fireplace. John’s hands stay clenched in Arthur’s soaking blue coat as he tugs at it. Morgan gets the idea and loses it, untucking his shirt and shucking his suspenders. By the time he’s naked the fire’s good and going. John is so fucking cold he can’t rightly appreciate the scene unfolding before his very eyes.  

Arthur’s hands are shaking just as much as his own as the two work on getting John out of his soaking clothes. When it’s done and he’s just as bare as Arthur, he grabs a blanket. John throws it over the other man’s shoulders, and rubs his arms up and down. 

      “What’re you doin’?”

      “Warmin’ you. Trying too, I mean.” 

 Arthur smiled at him. He grabbed an old dry shirt and used it to dry John’s hair in return. His fingers felt so good on John’s scalp, even with the barrier of fabric it was like a massage. John’s rhythm faltered as Arthur worked away the knots from his scalp to his neck. He dried him, and draped him in a blanket next to the fire. 

John sighs at the heat coming off in waves, he sticks his hands and feet as close as they could get to the fire. Warming fingers and toes through in seconds. 

      “Let me take a look at you.” Arthur’s drawl matched the fire somehow, red and hot. Warmth grew in his gut and spread through his body, making him feel good and heavy. Though, it could also be the tiredness setting into his bones. 

John freed his arm from beneath the blanket. Arthur surveyed the cut. With tender hands he cleaned and wrapped it, gentle assurances slipping past his lips. Not that it was needed, the cut was a shallow thing; but John wouldn’t trade Arthur taking his time with him, being soft with him for anything. Absolutely nothing.  

     “C’mere.” He says when Arthur finally stops fussing about. John lifts the large blanket up. It’s big enough for two men as big as themselves to sit side by side, both wrapped up; so long as they sit real close. 

 The last of the coldness dissipates. They leaned on each other. Warm and tight-knit. Arthur’s got his face hidden in his hair; John’s got his face hidden in the crook of Morgan’s neck. John might call this cozy, if the wind would just ease up a bit. 

He can’t possibly know what the other man is thinking, but John knows one thing. He’s never been happier a job fell through. 

     “I thought.” He pays attention when Arthur lifts his head and clears his throat to speak. “I thought you was gonna hit me or start cryin’.”

     “Almost did.” John chuckles. Arthur loosened the arm he had wrapped around his waist, making John bristle. 

     “Sorry. I didn’t mean to-uh…I shoulda’ asked if you were fine with…” 

     “Fine with…jumping off a God-damn cliff into running water?” 

     “No.” Arthur shook his head. It takes John a few seconds to catch up. 

     “Oh!...Oh Arthur you—you ain’t gotta ask me.” John swallowed thickly, hoping he weren’t about to humiliate himself or say something strange. “You can…M’telling you now, for future, you can kiss me anytime you want. I…I want you to.” 

John had never been good with words, but he hoped he was getting through to Arthur right now. 

The older man was shy in a way John had never experienced being. Too quick to get back into his shell, and retreat into himself and never speak his mind. So John would take the lead then.

     “Arthur. I want you, you want me back?” Quick and to the point. 

Under the glow of the fire and a spare oil lamp, John watched as the older man began to blush. It was a glorious sight. 

Arthur wrapped his arms around him and tugged. They changed positions, John straddled in his lap, Arthur holding his narrow waist, running large warm hands up and down his torso. Just taking his time looking and feeling; John did the same. His own hands traced over Arthur’s big arms, his shoulder, up his neck and to his handsome face. He’s still in disbelief that this is actually happening. How did he get so lucky?

He had an inch over Arthur, held up on his lap like this. John gazed at him; blue eyes clouded over with something fonder. Nearly loving, and all for him. It was his turn to show some love back. He kisses Arthur softly. 

One right on his crown and in his hair. One on his scarred nose, his chin. On one cheek, on the other; then John paused. His hands cupped Arthur’s face on either side. Just to be a little shit, John asks again; 

     “You want me?” 

Arthur groaned. His hands ran up John’s arms, one large palm cradled the back of John’s damp hair. 

     “God yes…” he breathes. A small smile tugs at John’s lips. Arthur’s baby blues are aimed at his mouth, breath shaking as he inches forward. They’re so close they breathe the same air; their lips hovering over each other. 

     “...Good. I’ve wanted you longer than I can remember.” 

     “Fuck-Johnny !...” It’s that declaration from John which has Arthur picking him up and laying him flat on top of a bedroll. 

Arthur looks at him with something so soft and sweet in his eyes, John’s heart swells. He’s never been happier than he is now, laying flat, trying to keep still while Arthur presses slow, gentle kisses on every part of his body. His arms, his stomach, his chest…The older man is on top of him now, looking down at John with utter adoration. His gaze is so intense it’s near unbearable. For the second time that day, John is wordless.

He’s not cold anymore, not in the slightest. Nothing could ruin this moment for him. For them. 

 A loud rumbling catches them both off guard. The sound fills the cabin, but they both know where it came from. They look each other straight in the eyes before they burst out laughing. Arthur falls on the ground beside him, shaking in a fit of giggles. 

     “Jesus Marston! You act like I’m starvin’ you!” 

     “You did! I ain’t eaten today!” John’s only half embarrassed that his stomach ruined the moment. “Wait, where you goin’?” 

Arthur shakes his head and chuckles a few more times. He grabs a bag and rummages through it, pulling out one soft looking apple. 

     “You want this?” When John scoffs Arthur smirks. “If not, I got some rabbit meat.” 

     “Oh fuck off.” 

 They eat a less than delectable meal of rabbit, cold canned corn and the last of their bread. The wind still enters the cabin from the bare windows, but the two of them manage to stay warm all the same. Their bedrolls are pushed together close to the fire, and they share the large blanket still warm with their body heat alone. 

When both men doze off, they’re wrapped in each other's arms, both holding the other tight as they can in their sleep. 

This trip wasn’t what it was supposed to be, but they're both grateful as shit it went the way it had. Though it went unvoiced and unacknowledged, the last of any hard feelings had long fizzled out; in its place was something funny, or rather, strangely good. 

 Something soft and fond, and oh so very warm. 

[candycane-hockeymom]

Dear Author of the Hockey Holidays 2023 fic exhange

Thank you for participating and yay for writing for me! I’ve always been super excited about every gift fic I have received, and I’m looking forward to the privilege of receiving the fic that you want to write.

That said, some guidelines on my preferences as a reader and some reasons why I chose the pairings in my request below.

I'm a Canes and Team Finland fan. That doesn't mean that I'd prefer you to write the Canes pairings or Finnish players in this exchange! Just a heads-up, when choosing side characters or secondary teams, please don't be too mean to my faves.

Likes: I like a mature, nuanced view on human nature, characters who have their flaws and shortcomings; characters with dubious morals but maybe sort of a good heart. I love good characterization and character dynamics, be it romance, porn or a gen fic studying personal development of an athlete in his sports career or group dynamics of a sports team.

As themes/tropes I like friends to lovers, fuckbuddies to lovers, enemies to lovers. I like my filth: scheming, pwp, Locker room gang bangs, Winner’s room. I love equal partners, but I also find status imbalances & age and size differences HOT.

Dislikes: a/b/o, mpreg, tentacles, body horror, gore, rule 63, suicide/self harm. I'm not into BDSM AU -- Dom/sub undertones, BDSM elements and kink in smut are very welcome but not the predestined dynamics universe stuff. I don’t want to see any mentions of Alexander Ovechkin. No slander of irl SO's or writing them as villains, but I’m OK with them existing in the story, even if it involves cheating the spouse with the ship partner. Fights aren't a huge turn-on for me.

If you're writing Finnish characters, please don't use google translated Finnish or phrases picked from a dictionary without consulting a native level speaker for beta help.

About AU:s: I like mundane, realistic AUs. I'm mostly into spy / politics / crime / war stories at the moment, and I like band AUs. No high fantasy, please. Some magical realism / supernatural elements are fine if they are what you like to write. Werevolves or vampires? Team vampires, definitely. (But you know what's WAY better: angels. I just might have a bit of a religious kink.)

Prompts for requested pairings (and one pairing that didn't make it to the exchange in time but would make my day)

Remember: these are mere ideas, not requests. Vaguely in order of preference, but pick whichever gets YOUR creative juices flowing, that'll make the best reading, too!

Blake Wheeler/Jacob Trouba: Ex teammates meet on a new team. Has the hierarchy between them shifted when Wheeler has now lost his captaincy over Trouba, and Trouba has established himself as a needed brutal force in his new team? I'd love these dynamics explored, and I don't mind if it has darkish, nasty elements. I don't mind unhealthy dynamics or even violence, but if you see the situation as a chance for healing, redemption and soft landing, go for it.

Esa Lindell/Jere Pöyhönen | Käärijä: Give me anything you have for this crazy ship, I want to see it all.

Sebastian Aho (b. 1997)/Teuvo Teravainen: I'd appreciate an updated look at the current state of my Finnish Cherubs OTP. Teuvo is having a monster season and the hottest stick (lol) on the team, does Sebastian reward him? Or is he jealous? Is he proud? (Please note that Sebastian is jacked, hairy and feisty on the ice but still so devastatingly pretty)

Teuvo Teravainen/Kimmo Timonen: Why not a melancholic story of Teuvo carrying on a relationship to an older married man for years? And for what? Does it ever reach a breaking point, and what then?

Sebastian Aho (b. 1997)/Justin Williams: These Tumblr text posts by @andreisvechnikov say it all: "he's a lot of things…kinda like daddy to me sometimes" - Sebastian Aho on then captain Justin Williams and watching Justin Williams get his Canes' HOF thing and knowing Sebastian "he's kind of like daddy to me" Aho was there because he loves him

Sebastian Aho (b. 1997)/Roope Hintz/Jesse Puljujarvi: I'm curious. Did they have a thing at Junior Worlds 2016? Or before that? Or after that? Tell me!

Sebastian Aho (b. 1997)/Brent Burns: Sebastian expressed a strong interest to be invited to Burnzie's ranch, saying he's "into that kind of stuff" and he'd "grab his own backpack and go". I'd love a messy smut version of how it went down over there. Dom Brent please.

Sebastian Aho/Brent Burns/Jordan Staal: Bottom Sebastian getting it good from two large men. That's all. But, like, a plot-driven war or spy AU could work too.

PLUS ONE: I totally forgot to nominate this crack pairing before it was too late: Roope Hintz/Sergei Fedorov. They look SO alike, don't they? I've always wanted to read an AU fic playing on their resemblance; they could be con artists, thieves, spies or whatever pretending to be father and son but being nothing of the sort. If this tickles somebody's imagination enough to prompt a tiny treat, I'd be ecstatic.

All of this is just to give you ideas, not to limit your creativity! Have fun writing and take care of yourself, Happy Hockey Holidays!

This is my hidden side Tumblr. The actual ones are @caixxa (main) and @badhockeymom (hockey).

If you have more questions, anon ask on any of these three blogs works.

[unrequitxd]

Snowbaz with a dog for the @coexchange for @nicomygaybabe !!

[satan-was-a-writer]

Well I have an Christmas request . Y/N giving Alcina a christmas present (It's a necklace that has a photo of people she loves in it) . Fluff

CW: Crying Alcina, Daniela Proposing, Cassandra Death Threat

Christmas arrives sooner than you think. Luckily, you had prepared your present for the occasion. You got Alcina for Secret Santa. You had planned the perfect present. "Baby, wake up..." Cassandra's sleepy voice can be heard next you as she rolls over and puts her arms around you. "It's Christmas, and we have to get up."

"Maybe if you get up, I will to." "No..." "Stubborn." "Who are you calling stubborn..."

After additional talk with sleepy Cassandra, the two of you get up and put on the matching outfits that Alcina had you all wear for Christmas. Cassandra, who is still exhausted, lifts you up in a bridal carry and glides you down the steps. Everyone else is already downstairs, sipping wine and conversing.

"About time." "Oh shut up with that. It's early." "It's twelve thirty." "It's too early." "Cass wakes up at two."

Daniela offers you a glass of wine before placing you between her and Cassandra. "I heard some sensual noises coming from Cass' room. Do you want to explain?" Cassandra flicks Daniela across the brow. "Keep your nose out of it, Daniela." Bela's eyes widen as she smacks her shoulder in response to Daniela's words. "Not in front of mother!"

"Let's just...get to the gift giving."

When you looked over, there was no more wine in Alcina's glass. "I'd prefer my gift to be the last." Having said that, everyone else exhanged their presents. "I've got a...ring for YN." Daniela grinned as she opened the black ring box. "I just want Cassandra to know that if she doesn't marry you, I will." She beams as she places the ring on your finger.

"I got a knife for Daniela to warn her that if natural selection doesn't kill her, I will." Cassandra smiles and flips the knife between her fingers. You take her knife and give it to Daniela. It was soon your turn to present Alcina with her gift. You withdraw the locket from your back pocket.

"It's not too much."

Alcina thanks you quietly as she gently accepts the locket. She manages to pry it open with her nail. She gets a little emotional when she sees what's inside. A photo of you and your sisters, all of you smiling. On the other side, words have been scratched in. "I love you. XX Y/N." She reads out softly. She smiles at the cute but poorly drawn heart beside your signature. She inhales as she discreetly wipes her eyes. "You're so thoughtful, draga."

"I love you, too."

[the-ginger-avenger]

Happy Holidays @grimm-rific! I was your secret person for the Sisters Grimm gift exhange! Here’s a fic attempting to expand on the books lore around magic, with a little bit of Redaphne. Inspired by that one time Canis told Sabrina that most Everafters were touched by magic, but Puck was a creature of magic. Hope you enjoy!

.

Five months after her parents disappeared, Daphne saw Cinderella for the first time.

It was the middle of winter, the sun long set, and the type of cold that was both numbing and sharp had settled over the streets. Her fingers and toes were numb stubs even under her mittens and boots, but the tip of her nose and the tops of her cheeks burned as though she’d dragged her face across a carpet. The warmth she had worked up from following Sabrina out the window of their third foster home and racing down the street had worn away, leaving nothing but a dragging exhaustion. She had started to stare longingly at the snow piled on the side of the road or pillowed under trees, thinking they looked like giant blankets, comforting and soft, when Sabrina pulled her into a stranger’s yard.

Daphne was supposed to keep watch while Sabrina dug through their trash for food, but the sound of voices and music drifting from the window caught her attention. Daphne stretched up on her tiptoes and peered through the window, her breath frosting the glass in bursts. The inside looked like a picture-book; a family huddled on the couch, two parents and two small children snug under a mound of blankets, a fire crackling in the fireplace. But Daphne’s attention snagged on the TV and the kind faced woman with the blue dress and big purple bow and the wand she waved in her hand, a delicate, glittering trail of light sparkling from the tip. Daphne watched as a dress materialized around Cinderella, watched the delight spread on her face, transfixed, not hearing Sabrina hissing her name until her sister grabbed her arm and they raced off into the night. But Daphne’s mind stayed with that glittering spark.

After that, Daphne greedily devoured every fairytale and magical story she could get her hands on; scraps of stories she overheard other kids in the orphanage telling each other, whispered on soft voices after lights out, snippets or movies or TV shows she managed to watch, books she read while she and Sabrina took shelter from the rain or snow inside a library.

Fairy godmothers, magic wands, wishes carried on shooting stars; she found herself drawn to the joy of magic, the wonder, the good of it. And when she found out that it was all real, though far more dangerous than in the movies, and that she was good at it, could handle it like a pro, she wanted to learn more. Wanted to test every spell, every magical item she could get her hands on.

But magic, pure magic, not bound or filtered through a magical item, was something entirely different.

.

The first time she felt it was when she became a part of the Three.

By that point she was used to dealing with magical artifacts. She was used to the way it felt, a rush through her veins, a tantalizing sense of control that she had always been able to ignore, and the way it could drain you if you weren’t careful, tugging at something deep within yourself and hollowing it out. But this was the first time she reached for pure magic, without the buffer of an object.

It felt like she had tumbled into the ocean. Disorienting, slightly nauseating, suddenly surrounded by a force her mind couldn’t focus on. It was deep and vast and thrumming with life, intense enough that it should have been burning or freezing but wasn’t and was both at the same time. A force that reached for her as much a she reached for it, with a ferocity that couldn’t be blocked. She could feel it looming, drawing closer, reeling her in and . . .

And then there was Bunny and Baba Yaga and this gossamer thread tying the three of them together, their voices weaving into one, their three wills binding a bit of that vastness, and it didn’t become manageable, didn’t lessen, just allowed itself to be shaped.

And the entire time, Daphne wondered how anyone could depict that force as a gentle sparkle of lights.

.

After the Scarlet Hand was defeated, Daphne spent as much time as possible learning everything she could about magic.

She didn’t see much of the other witches. Most of them had scattered once the barrier fell. She knew Bunny stayed, but she kept to herself mostly. Daphne couldn’t tell if she was mourning the loss of her eyes or the loss of Mirror. Maybe both. But it didn’t feel like the right time to badger her with every question about magic she had.

The thread was still there between the three of them, if a little fainter, and Daphne sent a cheerful greeting down it every morning. She received a bewildered but polite response from Bunny, but radio silence from Baba Yaga. The only time she felt anything from the older witch was the one time she bespelled an annoying bully who wouldn’t stop picking on Basil and felt something like a cackle of laughter echo down the thread.

Which, in all honesty, was fine. Daphne wasn’t sure she wanted to learn much about Baba Yaga’s particular brand of magic.

Without the help of the other witches, Daphne turned her attention to the books scattered across the house. It was difficult work. Granny’s collection was eclectic. Some books were helpful, some were written in a different language she didn’t think existed anymore. Some were vague and some provided too many of the wrong details. But there was a joy to be found in scouring through the books, like she was going on a treasure hunt for knowledge.

It helped, too, that most nights Red stayed up with her.

They fell into a companionable routine. Red started out meditating, and Daphne started out with a small, reasonable stack of books. By the time those books multiplied to cover almost every inch of the table’s surface, Red moved on to coloring, a cup of herbal tea by her arm, and Daphne moved on to her fifth cup of hot chocolate. Once Daphne worked her way through an entire box, Red would stop coloring and would listen as Daphne, hyped up on a sugar rush, would show her every little exciting thing she had discovered. Red would listen intently, no matter how wild Daphne’s babbling became. No judgement, no condemnation, mirroring the same excitement that Daphne felt.

It was nice.

Despite her research, she was still cautious about using magic without some kind of buffer between her and it. Carefully trying to pull from that swirling vortex as little as possible, not that it ever worked. There was no dipping her fingers in, it was all or nothing. And it always felt like to took something from her, and wanted to take more. Using a magic wand was like trying to keep her footing in the middle of a river. Using magic by itself was like trying to stand her ground in the face of an oncoming flood. It still felt too dangerous, too foreign, too much like it wanted to swallow her whole. And besides, most of the books she read talked about magical objects or spells that had already been tested.

But one night, she found a protection spell scrawled like a secret in the back of a book. A spell to keep those with ill intent from entering the house. The handwriting was neat and tidy, the letters curled into practiced cursive. She’d scoured the book to search for who would have written a protection spell in the back of a book about strange herbs, but could find nothing.

The spell itself seemed simple. It required nothing more than a few words, a hand motion, and a willingness to keep loved ones safe. She woke up before the rest of the house and carefully whispered the words into the corners of the house, starting on the fourth and final wall when a yawn caught her off guard halfway through, the words warping, and the wood turned an alarming shade of lifeless white. She exchanged a startled and guilty look with Elvis before shifting a stack of books over the spot and hoping it didn’t spread or cause any other damage.

Red’s nose puckered, a look of confusion flashing across her face, whenever she passed the spot, and Elvis refused to go anywhere near it, but that was all. No one else seemed to notice and it didn’t spread throughout the house like some nightmare creature from those horror movies Puck liked to watch. But that lifeless color, that pale, empty white, stuck like a warning in Daphne’s mind.

.

“It feels like . . .” Daphne hesitated, searching for the right words to describe magic, as her eyes tracked a bunny shaped cloud drifting by overhead. Grass tickled the back of her neck, her arms and legs, as she stretched out on the lawn. “Like the first big drop in a rollercoaster. Or like when you’re dreaming about walking down the stairs and you miss a step and your stomach does a loop-de-loop. Or like diving into the ocean when all you need is a single drop of water. It feels like . . .”

“Like drowning,” Red said, voice soft.

Daphne pursed her lips. As morbid as it sounded, it fit. No matter how little she tried to pull from that pulsing energy, it still felt like she was diving into the ocean, at risk of losing sight of where the surface was.

She turned her head to look at Red. She was still looking at the sky, a frown on her face, fingers worrying at the ties on her hoodie. The Wolf hadn’t made an appearance in the months following the end of the war, but Daphne knew it was a constant battle to keep it contained, and exhaustion and anxiety showed on every line on Red’s face. She wondered how much of the Wolf was made up of that same energy she had to fight with just to light a candle, and how terrifying it would be to always have a part of it inside you.

Not liking the tight look on Red’s face, Daphne nudged her with her foot and grinned. “Want to see how many of Granny’s hats we can stack on Elvis before he wakes up?”

Red grinned and the two of them raced into the house, laughing loud enough to wake a disgruntled Elvis who, unaware the fate about to befall him, huffed an annoyed breath and went back to sleep.

.

She was always careful with magic.

Except for the one time she wasn’t.

They were surrounded, backed against the far wall of a grocery store. Some people still shared the values of the Scarlet Hand, even with the barrier down. They still feared the Grimms would try to trap them again. Or believed that they were superior to humans.

And there were a lot of them. Too many. Blood streamed from a cut on Sabrina’s forehead, her lips peeled back in a snarl, standing in front of Granny and Canis with her hands, knuckles scraped and bruised, curled into fists. Red’s eyes glowed, teeth a little too sharp, a growl rumbling deep in her throat and the Wolf just inches away. And there were too many of them, pressing too close, and Daphne’s pockets were empty, no magical objects left for her to use.

It was pure desperation. There was no spell in her mind, no wand, no magical items, no coven, nothing that would handle that many people, but she could feel that pulse of energy just beyond her fingertips. The beat of heat and the thrum of life. She hesitated for just a second, her mind filled with that lifeless spot on the wooden floor, with the feeling of being drained or drowned, but she just needed a little. She was an Everafter, after all. She had magic in her too. She was a part of it.

That had to count for something.

So she stood in front of her family, vaguely hearing Sabrina shouting her name, Red’s voice more like a howl, and fell into that ocean.

And it burned.

She could feel it at the tips of her fingers, glowing as hot as coals. She could feel it pulsing out of her in a rush. The flood gates opened with no hope of closing.

And this was the Jabberwocky. This was the dragon. This was the black pooling across Puck’s eyes, the lightning at Titania’s fingertips. This was a whirlpool, sucking her down. Filling her chest with boiling water, her veins with ice.

This was how Daphne Grimm ceased to be. Every thread and piece of who she was torn and dissolved, until there was nothing but magic.

.

Waking felt like dragging herself through one of Puck’s slime concoctions. Something dark and viscous that didn’t want to let her go. She could feel it fighting to pull her back into the numbing unconsciousness, and just enough panic sparked in her chest to make her jolt, gasping.

She peeled gummy eyes open. Moonlight filtered pale through the room. Shapes dangled above her head, shadows heavy and dark behind them, and for a disoriented second she thought they were birds before she realized they were airplanes. She was back in her bedroom, tucked under a blanket that smelled familiar, like paint and incense and lavender. Red.

Some of her panic slipped away. Daphne blinked and tried to move before realizing that some of that sticky dark must have settled into her limbs, gravity and exhaustion conspiring against her. She managed to turn her head to the side and saw Sabrina curled on a chair beside the bed, cheek pillowed on the arm, as if she fell asleep keeping watch.

A furrow creased the space between Sabrina eyebrows and the corners of her lips were tucked down in the way that meant she was worried. It was a look Daphne had finally been seeing less and less of as the weeks went by, Sabrina relaxing in a way she’d never felt like she could before, and Daphne’s stomach knotted with guilt. She was supposed to be more mature now, capable of taking care of herself. Sabrina wasn’t supposed to be worried about her anymore.

A bobbing light drifted across Sabrina’s face and Daphne’s eyes tracked its lazy movements, drowsily thinking of fireflies before she realized it was a pixie. Which could only mean. . .

“Dang it, Marshmallow. The Old Lady told me I could dump ice water over your head if you didn’t wake up by morning. Way to ruin the fun.”

“Puck!” Her voice came out as rough as a frog’s croak and she winced. She turned towards the voice, a simple movement that seemed to take an infinity, and frowned, the excited greeting dying on her tongue. A chair taken up by a pair of dirty jeans greeted her, two ratty tennis shoes kicking up and down from the headrest, and it took a second for her muddled brain to realize that he was sitting upside down. Her eyes dropped to find him grinning up at her, blond hair stretching towards the floor.

“You’re supposed to be in Amsterdam.” The words came out thick, stuffy. She wasn’t sure why that was the most alarming part of the situation, but it was the only thing that came out.

Puck’s eyebrows drew together, an uncharacteristic look of concern on his face, made all the more ridiculous by how he was sitting. “Amsterdam? Marshmallow . . .you’ve been asleep for three years.”

“WHAT?” She fought the mountain of blankets pinning her to the mattress and fumbled for her phone on the bedside table, movements slow and clumsy. The light blinded her in the too dark room, and it took a few minutes of blinking and squinting, heart racing in her chest, before she could make out the date on the screen. The phone dropped from nerveless fingers to bounce against the bed, and she leveled a glare at him. “You’re a stinky little stink face.”

It hadn’t been three days. But it had been almost twenty-four hours, and something cold settled into her gut just thinking about all that lost time.

Puck heaved a dramatic sigh and twisted around in the chair. He didn’t quite make it all the way, lounging sideways across it. “I always forget about phones. Technology ruins everything.”

She tired to glare at him longer before realizing that it took too much energy. “Is . . .” She thought of that surging power rushing out of her and took a deep breath. “Is everyone okay?

“Oh, yeah, they’re fine. The Pup’s in her room meditating with the Old Man, the Old Lady’s been baking up a storm downstairs. Jake, your mother, and dad have been tearing the town apart for the last of those Scarlet Hand Wannabes. And fart-face over there is drooling all other the place.” He grinned suddenly, sharp and delighted. “Well, everyone’s okay except for those punks. Most of those guys are in the hospital. You should have seen what you did. Total destruction. It was awesome.”

“It didn’t feel awesome.” She twisted Red’s blanket between her fingers, trying to get them to stop trembling. “I couldn’t stop it. . . I felt like I. . .I  didn’t think I was going to make it.” She tried to keep the shake out of her voice but didn’t think she succeeded. Puck carefully started picking at a tear in the chair’s upholstery, fidgeting with a piece of stuffing until he could finally pry it free, not looking at her.

“You can thank Bunny. She felt what you were doing and stopped the magic from burning you to a crisp. She’s pooped now, though. Stuff like that’s supposed to be done by three people, not two.”

Daphne could feel Bunny’s exhaustion through the line between them, slow as molasses, and the guilt surged back up, almost choking. “What about Baba Yaga?”

“That old crone would sooner feed you to the magic than lift a finger to help. My guess is she wanted to see if you were strong enough to survive it on your own.”

“Why are you here?” She asked, abruptly. She didn’t want to think about Baba Yaga leaving her to be burned from the inside out. Didn’t want to think about being burned from the inside out. “Wouldn’t you rather be hunting down bad guys with Jake?”

Puck raised an eyebrow. “I’m here because you almost died pulling straight from the source of all magic and the Old Lady thinks I’m the best person to tell you why that’s a big no-no. Even though it’s actually kinda awesome.” He caught the look on her face. “Except for the whole almost dying part. That would have made it slightly less awesome.”

But why you? she almost asked when the moonlight glinted off his smile, teeth just a little too sharp, and his eyes, a green just a little too bright.

It wasn’t that she forgot, exactly. Puck wasn’t known for hiding his magic. The truth of it just sort of slid sideways through her thoughts sometimes, dancing just out of reach. There were times when he moved a certain way, nothing obvious, always subtle, but there was an unnatural gracefulness to it that made the hair on the back of her neck rise. Sometimes he would look at her and his features would be just a little too sharp and pointed, his fingers a little too long, a little too tapered at the ends. And then there were the few times she saw him truly angry, when the air around him seemed to crackle with energy.

But then he would grin and say something rude or gross and the moment would pass because he was Puck, and the knowledge that he was different, even from other Everafters, would sort of slip between her fingers. Puck was magic. He lived that violent energy, he breathed it, had it running through his veins.

It had always been hard not to feel jealous of someone who could turn into animals, but it was much worse now.

“What did I do wrong?”

Puck snorted. “What didn’t you do wrong? You bit off more than you could chew, Marshmallow. You tried using pure magic without taking any safety measures. You’re lucky it didn’t crush you like a tiny little bug.”

“But I’m an Everafter now, I though-“

“You’re a human who’s been touched by just enough magic to keep you kicking longer than normal. You can use magic, better than a lot of other people, but you are not of it,” he said, not unkindly. Just a fact. But Daphne still felt that squirm of disappointment in her belly. “There are things that are touched by magic, like a wand, and there are things that are magic, like me. You can use magic through a wand because some uppity wizard or witch went through the process of tying a small portion of magic to it, but you can’t use magic itself freely without being a part of it.”

“Could I become a part of it?” She wondered if she submerged herself in it, exposed herself just a little bit over time, she’d be able to build up a tolerance. Become something more.

“It’s not unheard of,” he answered after a while. “But the ones that do don’t come back quite right.”

“What about Baba Yaga?” The older witch seemed to breathe magic just as much as Puck did, albeit in a far more terrifying manner.

“No one knows what the Old Crone is now, or what she did to become that way.” He said Old Crone almost reverently, and looked at her sideways. “Besides, I didn’t think she was a role model of yours.”

“Guess not.” Daphne struggled to sit up but gave up halfway through, sliding back into a defeated hunch against the pillows. Her limbs still echoed with a fire that felt too much like a winter storm. “What does it feel like for you?”

He frowned. “What does it feel like to be human?”

“Right now? Not so gravy.” Daphne sighed and watched the airplanes gently sway overhead. One of the pixies kept bumping into them like a pinball. Heat stung her eyes, and she blinked, hard, trying to hold the tears back. “Guess I should go back to just using magic wands and artifacts.”

It shouldn’t bother her as much. Magical artifacts were pretty awesome. She had just started to believe that maybe she could have been more.

She could feel him watching her, stare heavy and unblinking. That was another thing about Puck that she often forgot. He didn’t blink as much as other people did.

“You know,” he said, abruptly, moving with that unnatural grace to sit crisscross-applesauce on the chair. “I knew a few witches back in the day. Some of them were pretty good pranksters. My father would get so angry whenever I would spend time with them, what with them being mere humans and all. Not even Everafters. You actually remind me of one of them. She was disturbingly optimistic too, and wouldn’t let anything stop her from doing what she wanted.”

His smile slipped, just a little, and his stare drifted around the room, fingers tapping an erratic beat on his knees, and Daphne stayed silent. For the first time since she had known him, she became acutely aware of just how old he was. How much grief could weigh four thousand years down.

“The thing is, even though she wasn’t an Everafter, she still found a way to use magic, even without a wand or a magic stone or a flying carpet.” His grin returned, wild and wicked. “Plus, she was always carrying gross stuff in her pockets. Frog legs, animal bones, bits of hair and fur, worms and spiderwebs.”

Daphne’s nose scrunched. “Why would I need to carry around frog legs?”

Puck wiggled his fingers. “She told me that magic was easier to handle with groups of three. One to shape, one to bind, and one to release. The witch is the one who shapes it, and then they use two other things to bind and release. Sometimes those things are frog legs or bug guts.” He caught the disgusted look on her face and sighed. “And the more boring ones are words and rhymes or a hand motion.”

Daphne mulled that information over in her head. It fit with some of the reading she had been doing. Most of the spells had rhymes of three, or three sounds that repeated three times. She thought of the way the magic had become less overwhelming once Baba Yaga and Bunny had joined her, but before she had thought it was because they were stronger than her.

“Bippity boppity boo,” she muttered, her mind whirling with the possibilities, but caught the look on his face. “But you didn’t agree with her?”

He laughed, and she wondered if she imagined the flash of grief in his eyes. “No, I told her she was an idiot. The three is less of a binding and more of a bargain. You can’t take something without giving something else in return.”

“So, frog legs are supposed to be enough to stop it from killing me?” She asked, dubious.

He shrugged. “Old house spirits used to be pleased with scraps of bread crusts and drops of milk. For some it was a certain phrase or a bow. Magic isn’t of this world, Marshmallow. Its rules are a little different. Think of it more as a sign of respect. A gift given and a gift received.” He looked at her, suddenly fiercely intent. “Try not to offend the source of all magic next time, okay?”

“How come I haven’t read about this in any of Granny’s books?”

“After the whole trial thing, most of what witches knew was lost.” Puck said, voice carefully indifferent. “The few that are left and know some of the older ways aren’t the trusting type.” Her disappointment must have shown on her face because he begrudgingly added, “But I might be able to find you some spells. Maybe.”

She grinned but then narrowed her eyes at him. “Those spells aren’t going to give me warts, are they?” It was dangerous to give him any ideas, but she wanted to get rid of that sad look on his face. To drag him back to the present.

His eyes flicked up to hers and he tilted his head, contemplative. “You could use a few warts.”

She pointed a finger at him, elated to find that she had better control over her limbs. “If a single winkle shows up on my face while you’re here, I’ll sick Sabrina on you.”

His stare shifted to Sabrina, still asleep, and if anything, he looked even more excited.

“And if anything happens to Sabrina, I’ll sick Red on you.”

Puck laughed and pushed himself off the chair, heading towards the door. He stopped in the doorway, a shadow limned by the golden hallway light, and even when squinting she couldn’t make out his expression. “You’re not a creature of magic, but you’re a smart little runt,” he said. “And annoyingly persistent. If anyone can make magic do what they want it to, it’s you. Just try not to die while you’re doing it. It would be annoying having to scrape what’s left of you off the floor.”

The door closed behind him before she could think to thank him. Daphne settled back into the pillows, took a deep breath of the incense lingering on the blanket, and mulled over everything he had said.

“He’s such a softie.”

It shouldn’t surprise her that Sabrina had been awake for at least some of that conversation. The Queen of Sneaks was the best at eavesdropping, after all.

“He was only that nice because he knew I couldn’t hug him,” Daphne mumbled, but she was determined to get at least three good hugs in before he left. Even if she had to sneak attack him to do it.

The bed dipped as Sabrina crawled onto it and wrapped her arms around Daphne. Daphne snuggled close like she hadn’t since she was younger, and waited for the lecture, the I Told You So, the demands to stop learning about magic. But instead, Sabrina just sighed and gripped her a little tighter. “Please be careful,” she whispered.

“I will,” Daphne promised, and meant it.

.

Daphne took to keeping random scraps of things in her hair. She already knew how to style it into a beehive to store things, thanks to Puck and his pranks, and there were spells that she could manipulate to make her hair almost like Mary Poppins’s bag. Pencils made from enchanted wood. Scraps of feathers, seeds and cloth and bags of sand, candle stubs and snake fangs and scales.

Tiny bones appeared one morning like gifts on her windowsill. She took them, even though it killed a part of her to think of something that small dying, but didn’t use them. At least, not yet. She wasn’t sure if it was worse to refuse a gift from Baba Yaga or to use it.

Puck sent her bits and pieces of spells and knowledge from the witches he and Jake ran into. Sometimes it would be entire notebooks, sometimes nothing more than a few words scribbled in his illegible handwriting on a piece of paper that looked like it had been dunked a few times in the river, and she and Red would spend most of the night trying to decipher them.

Bunny showed up the day Daphne finally worked up the strength to make it downstairs, looking vaguely embarrassed. Daphne wasn’t sure which of her family chewed her out for not teaching her more about magic in the first place, but from the meek look on Bunny’s face, she thought it might have been all of them. She started to teach Daphne her own ways to control magic, but Daphne found herself drawn more to the spells and methods Puck sent her. Spells and ways crafted by people who weren’t Everafters, who probably didn’t even know magic wands existed. But they had found their own way to magic anyway.

The first spell she tried was the first one Puck had left her. She found the note on her bedside table the day he and Jake left to travel the world again. It was old and yellowed, the ink almost completely faded away, and creased with lines, as if someone had kept folding and unfolding it. One late summer evening, Daphne led Red out into the forest, that note in her pocket. The sunlight turned the forest floor into a patchwork of light and shadow, the wind a whispering promise of a coming fall through the leaves, and Red looked curious but trustful when Daphne stopped them both in a small clearing.

It took a handful of sunflower seeds, a few words lyrical enough to sound like notes played on a flute, and her own joy sparking in her chest. The seeds turned to ash in her palm, dissolving under the burn of magic, the words were swallowed by the air almost as soon as they left her lips, and some of that joy dimmed, as though something had reached inside her and torn off a piece. But it returned full blast when she saw the delight spread across Red’s face, the awe, as the clearing around them filled with sparkling lights. Like glittering sparks on the tip of a wand, or maybe a witch’s interpretation of pixie lights.

Red’s eyes caught hers. “Gravy,” she whispered.

And Daphne grinned back, that source was still thrumming just beyond reach, still burning and freezing, and so very different from what her younger self thought it would be. But as Red laughed and grabbed her hands, spinning them around in circles, she knew there was still joy and wonder to be found in it.

[whyralltheusernamestaken]

S/O who likes to pick up shells

h/cs for bakugou with a s/o who always picks up shells from the beach when they go? and maybe on the class trip they make him a necklace with a super pretty shell on it

A/N : asdfghkl i hope you like it heehee

words : 1,279

Bakugou x reader

~~~

Sure Bakugou had never gone to the beach with you before, but he had a good idea of how much you loved the sea. 

He had come over to your house one day and nothing could’ve prepared him for the aquarium that was your room. 

The desk and shelves were littered with shells of all sizes, a fish tank sat next to the door and he had seen a good few chains of shell necklaces strewn across your bed. 

“Are you trying to become a fish?” he remarked, closing the door before picking up a few small shells on the floor and placing them on your desk, not wanting to accidentally step on them. He cared too much about you 

After the intial shock ebbed away, he grew to like some small features in your room, like how your light casted a dim blue against the ceiling and the photos of you laughing and playing in the sea. 

Bakugou had the perfect idea of where to go once the second year of school had finished, telling you it was none of your business before booking a hotel close to the sea. He wasn’t a huge fan of the satly water, given his quirk was explosions and much more fire based, yet he was willing to spend a few days with his S/O if it made you happy. Truely whipped

His friends had teased him to no end, him cursing at them at lunch on the last few days as you watched humorously from another table, eating away at your food. 

Your weekend getaway went better than expected, having close to no hiccups anywhere. Bakugou had managed to keep his temper down, now having over 2 years of his friends helping him release his frustration in different way, not that he was frustrated with you, perhaps more so the strangers who eyes lingered on you for a few more seconds than he liked. 

The only slight inconvience in his plans was your damn shell collecting hobby. You had nearly missed your hotel’s dinner slot as you spent the entire evening picking up shells. Bakugou still hadn’t understood why you took such a liking to them, they looked exactly the same, just like the next one over. 

But instead of complaining, he let you pick as many to your heart’s delight, training his quirk in the sea and rocks next to it, accidently blowing a few to pieces. 

Maybe he shouldn’t have let you pick so many. Two tote bags full? Where on earth were you finding these, he didn’t even realise there were that many on the beach to begin with. Still he carried the bags for you, watching as you ran up to the hotel in glee, waving your arms at the fairy lights and then the purple sky. 

Back at home, you framed a photo of you and Bakugou at the beach together, hanging a small shell bracelet on the corner of the decorated silver photo frame, before stepping back and admiring your desk. 

It was nearly the end of the third year at school. A school trip was more than certainly deserved. 

It was only a few hours bus ride to the beachside village, Bakugou grabbing both of their suitcases before following Aizawa. He was slightly dreading the day to the beach, knowing how some of the boys in his class where like, mostly just Denki since Mineta’s been replaced by my favourite boy Shinsou, he would be sure to bring along an extra hoodie and scare Denki into not teasing you.

Everyone had run off to do their own things once the class arrived, Kirishima dragging him off to play volleyball as you went with Tsuyu to explore the cliff area by the sea. 

You had only climbed a few steps when you misplaced your foot and slipped right into the water. 

Tsuyu had immediately reached her tongue in after you, finding your body after a few moments and lifting you back into the air as you turned to her in glee. 

“Look what I found!” you grinned, showing her a red tinted scallop shell, her placing you back onto the rocks as you squeezed some water out of your hair.

“Please be careful.” she said, before giving you a thumbs up at your excitement of the shell. 

“It matches Katsuki’s aesthetic.” you nodded to yourself, placing the shell carefully in your bucket and placing it far away from the tide. “Alright, let’s find some pretty shells.” you stated, Tsuyu gladly joining you. 

It was close to lunch time when you had manage to find the perfect shells. The red shell would be the center piece, adorned by two halves of a dark green coquina clam on either side and then the rest being coffee bean trivia shells. You began threading everything as everyone began to gather for lunch, Bakugou automatically making his way to you.

When he called out to you, you quickly shoved the necklace behind you, him raising his eyebrow as you looked up at him.

“What you hiding?” he asked, rolling his eyes as he pulled you to your feet. “It better not be another two bags full of shells.”

“No no, it’s better!” you answered, tugging him along to the class’s picnic before he could ask anymore questions. As much as you sitting with him, it would mean having to put his surprise present on pause, making you pout a little as he passed you a sandwich.

Returning to the lodging area, you rushed off to your room, telling him a quick ‘night’ and a hug before you disappeared for the rest of the night. 

Bakugou was beyond confused, you had been acting a little restless the entire afternoon, but his friends reassured him.

You were working late into the night when you finally finished it. A long, single loop necklace made from some natural thread and sea shells that matched your boyfriend’s colour pallete. You were beyong happy with the outcome, tucking it gently into a small gift bag before turning off the lamp and wishing Tsuyu goodnight, despite her being sound asleep already.

You woke up early the next day, exhilarated to see Bakugou, knocking on his door early as the rest of the class woke up for breakfast. 

“Morning.” he grumbled, walking down the corridor towards you instead of being in his room.

“You woke up early.” you said, grinning as you stepped aside so he could go back into his room. He unlocked the door, quickly grabbing his hoodie before closing the door again. 

“Yeah, might as well go for a morning jog.” he answered. “Give my your hand.” he demanded, placing a small object onto your palm before walking towards the dining area. 

“Oh my god.” you gasped. “It’s so pretty.” You ran after him, loopng your arm around his as you held up the iridescent shell to the hallway lights.

“Yeah yeah, found it outside and thought some shell maniac might like it.”

“Well this shell maniac absolutley adores it.” you replied. “Oh, we can have matching necklaces! I still have a few trivia shells left.” you said to yourself. “Since we’re doing the gift exhange so early, let me grab yours.” you said, rushing off further along the coridor and entering your room, picking up the small silk gift bag before locking the door behind you.

“Here!” you said, stretching your arms out in front of you as he picks the bag from your hands.

You watched in anticipation as he got out the necklace, his face scrunching up in a smile. 

“Thanks.” he said softly, pulling you in as he ruffled your hair. 

“Hey, come on, let go of me! Katsuki my hair!” you shouted as he refused to let go. 

[shastelly]

Langstron Halloween Gift Exchange 2021 - Lost - gift for hauntedwintersweets

The Voltron Supernatural AU that no one asked for but I wanted anyway. My giftee wanted some secret Latte, with big bro Adam and all the angsty whump I could dole out as long as I patched 'em up at the end...A gift for hauntedwintersweets on the Langstron Halloween Gift exhange 2021 (pinch hit so about a month behind, sorry)

Matt, Shiro and Dr. Holt disappeared from Dr. Holt's lab late one night. There were reports of dark smoke in the building. Pidge and Keith go after them, Lance, Hunk, and Lance's family join the hunt - who will be lost, what will be found?

What have we lost? What could we lose? I mean what could we lose and still be who we are, still be whole, still carry on?

"You were wrong." The twisted voice didn't even sound like her brother.

"Wrong?" Pidge squeaked, turning around, searching the darkness for any sign of him. She was the bait. They were going to get him back. The trap was set and she just needed to hold out a little longer. The demon inside of Matt would come for her. It wanted to hurt Matt. That's what they'd gotten out of the one that had been in Shiro. She cringed thinking of her friend in the hospital rehab wing still recovering from the loss of his arm. She couldn't dwell on that now though. Now she was going to get Matt back.

"You picked the wrong bait," laughter echoed in the darkness. "He doesn't care about you. Brat. Always following him around, always trying to be a part of his life - don't you get it? He doesn't want you there."

"You're wrong!" Pidge spat out trying to ignore the sting of the words. Lance had warned her that the demon would lie, that it would do anything and everything to cause her pain.

Continue reading on AO3  https://archiveofourown.org/works/35351434

[saint-severian]

"Aesthetics over morality"

I agree with the intended sentiment, but the statement itself is an impossibility, because aesthetics are morality. The two are equivalent, thus no subjugation is possible.

Someone once said that the most convincing argument for the existence of God was the human aesthetic sense. This is something which is so profoundly complex as to defy Darwinian models of utility and adaptability. It is something which can not be reduced down to a code or law, a system, or even a study.

The aesthetic sense is an emergent property of the basic, foundational human senses- touch, taste, sound, and image- especially image- combined with an instinct which collects these sensory data into a collage which we could call a "scene", and then passes or ascribes judgement to that emergent scene.

Certain neurological abnormalities may be linked to a failure to create and ascribe judgement to certain kinds of scenes- but insensitivity to some scene-patterns may cause hypersensitivity to others.

Imagine how the autist is eternally ignorant to implicit social convention (especially of the feminine variety) but may occasionally be gripped by an extreme reverence (revelation/inspiration) for something like the arrangement of numbers, geometry, the night sky, etc. He is blind to some scenes but others which do not exist to the neurotypical reveal themselves to him like hidden gods. Here we have the basis for shamanic animism, the first religious (metamoral) form rooted directly in the aesthetic sense, in the ability to perceive hidden scenes.

Thinking in this way, we find that "right" and "wrong" communicate what we mean when we say "good and bad" better than the latter can. You look at a piece of modern art, lets say some Basquiat bullshit- all messy and too colorful and full of ugly shapes and grossly obnoxious and looking like it was drawn by a stupid child- you look at it and, if you're honest you say "its just not right, something's very wrong here", in the same way you would speak about the revelation that there's a strange boy on your block that captures and skins squirrels alive.

Compare that to the feeling you get when you've spent hours climbing a mountain to get to the top and look out over miles of landscape spread out before you like it was made for you to admire it. It looks and feels "right". The feeling is the same as when you exhange gifts at christmas, giving and recieivng kindness from people you love.

The feeling of admiration of beauty and admiration of moral righteousness are the same.

The feeling of disgust and horror at a rotting corpse and the feeling of disgust at immoral behavior are the same.

The confusing mixture of disgust and reverence one finds in viewing erotic art is the same as the feeling of carrying out thise acts, or of engaging in any sadomasochistic "guilty pleasure" or indulgent scharenfreude.

All true ethical feeling is intuitive, not rational, as true moral judgement is indistinguishable from aesthetic judgment, judgement of a scene. "Does this look/feel good/right?" is exactly the same question with exactly the same process and consequence whether it is being asked about a new film or the decision to declare war.

"Morality" when divorced from this intuitive, image-based aesthetic aspect is not true morality but merely legalism.

[thirteenandten]

👻 and 🏅 please!

👻 Have you written holiday-themed fics? If yes, which is your fave? If not, what’s one holiday you’d want to write for, and which character(s) would the fic be for?

Only one that I can think of and it was actually a gift for a Secret Santa exhange: Love you better now. It's a football fandom fic set during Christmas and New Year's Eve, and it is an AU, because obviously it is.

I remember it was quite hard to write because I hadn't wirtten in English for a while before doing this, but I think it turned out quite alright.

🏅 What is the fic you’re most proud of?

I think I'm being super annoying with these fics but I'm crazy proud about them so I'm naming them again lol I'm talking about Breathe around the pain and The name on your lips, both from my Comfortember 2021 fics.

They are both barely 500 words but they carry a lot of feeling and I'm super proud to have accomplished that. I usually struggle with wordiness and with getting to the point of what I want to say or show, and with these two fics that were about small pieces of life, I think I managed to do just that in a very concise and effective way. So yeah, they are my pride.

Thank you so much Alex for the questions and sorry for the late reply!

from this fanfic ask game

[theoscout]

do not reblog

There's a channel called misha miraculous who uploads ancient film reels about a character named Whirl, who looks like a fantasy version of an anglerfish. He's a MASSIVE JERK for a cartoon, and I'd say he was made in around 194x (AFTER wwii). Acts like Woody Woodpecker does. According to his creator (Paul), he's a berberoka. Paul was originally aiming to be a horror artist to try and put the trauma he's suffered through life into artwork, however at the time most publishers only published horror comics of a particular style. Paul couldn't make his drawings that style, but he tried very hard and was left with a series of drawings that looked the same. Realising he could get into animation instead of horror comics, he repurposed the stories he had written about Whirl (real name Whirlpool but no one aside from Paul knows that) and began to make short films about Whirl.

Whirl is obviously a villian protagonist that people aren't intended to sympathise with. Instead, according to Paul, they are intended to sympathise with the people he hurts along the way. Paul said in interviews in the reels that sometimes there are villians in life that you can't escape from no matter how much you hate them or wish you could, and he wanted his work to show that. But he also wanted to show that said villians could be beaten and weren't invincible. Paul explains that berberoka in mythology are cryptids that would suck the water out of swamps and let all the dead fish lie at the bottom, to lure in fishermen to collect the fish. Once they were within range the berberoka would release all the water and attack and eat the fishermen while they were struggling with the influx of water. He designed Whirl to look like an anglerfish because they too lure in their prey before eating them. Whirl was never seen directly killing anyone in the cartoons, but he was a tricky kind of sadist who liked to pull people into playing awful kinds of games. (Whirl is magic and goes by whatever gender suits him at the time btw) She would do things like make miraculous inventions that in secret would make the lives of the person she sold them to far worse.

Whirl's inventions were like Wile.E.Coyote in terms of absurdity, but the difference was that they almost always worked perfectly until the victim figured out a way to turn them against her and escape his influence. So Whirl was quite a bit darker than most cartoon protagonists at the time.

Paul said that he had based Whirl off many people he actually knew, and that he didn't feel confident enough to write other central characters. He had anxiety which gave him self confidence issues and often led to him thinking of only the worst case scenarios which he would then fuel for his cartoon series. He argued against people who thought that having a berberoka as a character in a cartoon would be too dark for audiences by saying that the brothers Grimm would write tales far darker than what he did, and people tell them to their children all the time anyway.

Now for more on Paul and his family. Paul Fernsby was the middle child of a pair we shall call Mr and Mrs Fernsby. Their oldest child, Sean Fernsby, passed away around 5 years ago due to organ failure caused by severe stress and alcoholism. Their youngest child, Carrie Fernsby, is a mechanic. She struggled frequently in her job and school due to the stronger gender discrimination there, and as a result had to share a home with Paul in order to be more financially stable. Mr and Mrs Fernsby are AWFUL people. They aren't evil, they're the kind of insufferable pricks that think they're morally above everyone and that they're always right. Sean always wanted to be a dancer, for instance, but Mr and Mrs thought that was a job unsuitable for a man and refused to let him dance, instead forcing him to cut contact with all of his friends and force him to study to become a mechanic. Carrie and Paul both strongly believe that this played a major role in Sean's fall into alcoholism, but Mr and Mrs are still in denial. They insist that they *extended* Sean's life, and that Sean was just unhealthy to begin with and that a life on the stage would have killed him quicker. So they haven't learned anything about his death. What's more, despite opposing Carrie's early attempts to be a mechanic and trying to force her into being an obedient housewife for a future husband, when she finally got successful they took all the credit for her success and said that she was delusional and complained too much.

As for Paul? Well, Paul's a special case.

From a young age he had a special gift. The ability to see and hear things that no one else could. As a child he would frequently point out ghosts and fey that he occasionally saw in gardens or staring from nature reserves from a distance away, but no one else saw them so he kept his mouth shut. Originally his parents would yell at him for drawing when he could have been studying, so as a teenager he left offerings for the fey and asked for advice. And one day... something ancient and powerful began to answer him.

The creature identified itself as a pelagic god, but more specifically a ghost of one. According to the creature, it was once extremely powerful and was a tyrant of the land with it's powers thriving off the spread of fear. but eventually the people who once knew about it moved or passed away and it faded into weakness and irrelevency. So in exhange for making people fear it again, the god would grant Paul the power to live life as he pleased. Paul knew enough about fey to keep himself safe, and he kept the god a secret from everyone. The god didn't care what was going on in the cartoons, only provided that people feared her avatar. And Paul could provide for that just fine.

Eventually, Paul felt safe enough to confide in Carrie about the existence of the god, and Carrie built a special machine that would allow the god to communicate easier with people. They set very strict rules about how much communication there was, because neither of them trusted the god enough to let it close to them. Plus, with the success from the cartoons, the god was growins stronger.

The god granted Paul with massive viewer success the stronger it grew, and a lot of luck. No one knew about its existence, but the fear and awe from the cartoons would be enough to sustain it. Though they worked for each other in a mutually beneficial way, they still held a great deal of mistrust. Paul did not trust the god and some of her suggestions to problems he had were extremely disturbing. Plus, she had threatened to curse a number of people who 'got in the way' of Paul, and Paul had retaliated by threatening to stop producing the cartoon if she did that. Meanwhile, the god had been asking for Paul to reveal its existence so that more fear would be caused, or commit a crime, which he obviously refused.

Actually you know what? Forget the stuff I wrote about the pelagic god earlier, I got something that makes more sense.

Paul nicknames the deity the Unsiren because sirens are mythological creatures who sing to lure people onto rocks to drown, and the deity is a creature that screams from a cave to frighten away people and warn of dangerous currents. Unsiren was the deitiy who lived by the sea and was associated with fear, loud noises and the ocean. The tribe who lived there were constantly in danger from the sea, which they relied on for food but was too unpredictable for them to approach safely. Due to the geography of the underwater coastline, the tides were extremely unpredictable at random times of the day with little to no pattern. Think of the Bolten Strid from Britan- an innocuous looking stream which is actually a massive canyon filled with rapids that sucks you under and kills you the moment you set foot in it. That was how dangerous the water around the coast was.

But there was one way to tell about the danger. There was a cave in the side of the cliff, and at certain points when water would rush through it a certain way, the sounds produced sounded like whispering or roaring from some terrifying beast. At first the tribespeople feared the unseen creature, but eventually they learned to intrepret the noises of the ocean into ways that would lead them to fish safely. Their explanation for the sounds was that a massive creature who was too frightening to look at was trapped behind the raging rapids by some malicious fey, but then learned to use its frightening voice for good by warning people of the dangerous tide. So they prayed to the sea cave and the monster murmering behind the rocks to be there to warn of any changes in the tide, and would throw offerings of food into the sea in order to earn its favor.

But centuries of erosion meant that eventually, the sea cliffs that mutilated the dangerous currents and gave the sea cave its voice no longer existed. So with that, the stories of the great beast hiding beyond the rapids began to fade away, and so did their desire for the Unsiren to speak for them. The stories began to grow increasingly obscure, until one day the tribe went to war with invaders and suffered heavy losses. The few who still retained knowledge of the beast beyond the cave no longer existed to spread the story, and the creature faded into a strange purgatory.

The Unsiren isn't evil, but she is frightening by nature. She will go for the hard truth over any sugarcoated encouragement any day, and isn't afraid to speak up. Paul's ability to see into her realm and speak with the inhabitence there interested her greatly, and so did his desire to create. She made a deal with him to prevent herself from dying completely: provided that he could create a series that carried on her life's work, she would reward him with safety and stability whenever she could.

Her life's work was simply warning people about danger. More specifically water related dangers, but she could adapt to that. Paul designed Whirl in mind as a personified representation of the dangerous currents which now no longer existed, choosing him to be a berberoka because that seemed like the best fit. And Whirl's cartoons were made to warn about a variety of dangers, to children and adults. Abusive relationships, kidnappers, dangerous situations, peer pressure etc. The Unsiren had an avatar within the cartoon series, but that wasn't Whirl as the audience might be lead to believe at first. Instead, she's the narrator character. The voice of reason that usually goes unlistened to until the very end. The one who existed in title cards, and as a kind of voiceover narrating the episodes sometimes while using Paul as a medium. No one figured out how Paul was able to make himself sound like that, not even him.

Paul still didn't fully trust Unsiren at first, but she acknowledges that it was wise on his part. After all, it's in her nature to be frightening. Even if she is anything but evil.

[mechagalaxy]

Sten Hugo Hiller - 627184: Mountain Climbing Mecha Combat #1439

(By Sten Hugo Hiller - 627184) Mountain Climbing Mecha Combat #1439 Brought to you by ANN Highlighting the July 3368  Cannon Strike It came as no big surprise that the Gaming Authorities held a weapon enhanced event as the last blast before the war. But while many would have expected the war-featured Fire enhancements to be chosen as a last trial of strenght before the war, instead it were the Projectiles perfomances that were enhanced. Not really a great problem for me either way .-Or should I rather say, not a bigger problem. You see, while there are lots of Mechs in the hangar, there are only so many top models we can afford to keep in fighting trim. And to have the flexibility to adopt to most situations. the Mechs we have are fairly evenly distributed among the five major weapon classes. That is, their core capabilities do in general favor one weapon type over the others. And to play on their strenghts, the equipment they carry further enhances said weapon types. To round off, the top weapons we have are also more or less evenly distributed among the five weapontypes. Now, If we had the Niodes to burn, we might have gotten a some new equipment and weapons on the existing Mechs, but the purse was too slim for such extragavanzas. And putting secondary or tertiary weapons on Mechs focused on using other weapontypes would actually have lowered the damage output. However, if the enhancement in question had been to add say 50 speed instead of 80% damage to the chosen weapontype, we might have accepted the reduced damage to get the ordenance faster onto the target. So after some adjustment of the shileding, swapping out a few Mechs and a few dozen weapons we were as ready as we could be. As the scramble drew near, we made our way to the mountains. This time we were scheduled to fight on K4, and would be in the middle of the crowd licence vice. After signing in and being assigned a spot on the plains, a quick strike saw us claim a spot in the middle foothills. There was still some time until the scramble proper however, and it seemed a good idea to take a closer look at the opposition. The results were depressing. KiloToneRecoil from the Brotherhood of Arcane Dragons held the top, and had done so for most of the climb. Our chances of displacing him and holding the top against his counterattacks were a bit above zip, but any rounding with less than six decimals would give a zero. There were other strong Commanders there as well, and although none of them could hold a candle to KiloTone, they were still major obstacles to us. But it was time to fish or cut bait, so after some gift exhanges (great way to get hatorades, and only way to get supers), we started probing the way upward. It took a couple tries before we got past Darren Jackson from Myth and Legends Team Banzai, and another trio before we could oust Darth Spidious from Mad Scientist.7 from the slopes. Then we were stuck. Yes, we could perhaps have gone for a higher slope position, but to what point? The reward for one Silver is the same as for all the others. Instead we sent wave after wave against KiloTone in the desperate hope that we could displace him and have the event end before he counterattacked. Fourty failed attacks later, where the deepest we had gotten was his fifth line, I threw in the towel. We had just enough hatorades left to try reclaiming a slope spot, and had better keep them in reserve. The rest of the time was spent recording the scant action taking place on the rest of the tops, so when the light flashed we knew this batch of Nephilaxes would go to. Div 1 459+ (21 Commanders): Jaime Beltran, Knights of Avalon (10m,20s) 2: Bernard Johnson 3: Roy Cheah 4: Fabio Favaro 5: Mk Mathews 6: Jeff Haas 7: Sherriff Leary Wretham 8: Sal Vezzosi Jr 9: Gary Muenzel 10: Were Wolf Div 2 -458 (16 Commanders): Mike Wach, Odin`s secret chamber (1d,7h) Div 3 -357 (18 Commanders): George Warren, Odin`s secret chamber (1d,4h) Div 4 -228 (21 Commanders): KiloToneRecoil, B.o.A.D. (1d,6h) Div 5 -168 (20 Commanders): Jelloshots Suckeddown, T.B. BlackWatch (3m,20s) Div 6 -138 (23 Commanders): Jack Myers, Black Star Renegades (1d,6h) Div 7 -107 (27 Commanders): Jack Travis, TI.o.M.T. (14h,19m) Div 8 -74 (19 Commanders): Fredy Fransiscus, Murdermechs (49m,27s) Div 9 -44 (37 Commanders): Jindaporn Dinkel, *R.V.* (1d,4h) Total Contestants: 202 Total medals claimed: 135 (of 135 possible) Compared to the previous (lightweight) event, this event drew nineteen additional Commanders. And the balance between the tops were fairly even (although K9 had a bigger crowd than any of the rest), so all the prizes were claimed. The last half-hour saw only two Golds changing hands, while six Golds were held for more than two hours, -five of them for more than a day. Was this due to superstrong winners, or did most of the contestants focus more on the war than the climb? No way to tell, but a clue can be gotten by counting the number of medals held for more than 30 minutes in this event: .............Silvers......Bronzes Div 1 ....1 of 4.........7 of 10 Div 2 ....4 of 4.......10 of 10 Div 3 ....3 of 4.........9 of 10 Div 4 ....3 of 4.........8 of 10 Div 5 ....2 of 4.........9 of 10 Div 6 ....3 of 4.........9 of 10 Div 7 ....4 of 4.........7 of 10 Div 8 ....2 of 4.........6 of 10 Div 9 ....4 of 4.........7 of 10 The only top without successfull medal attacks in this event was K2. But although there were at least some action on the rest of the tops, none of them had enough mobility to change the majority of the medals. A total of ten Silvers(28%) and eighteen Bronzes(20%) changed hands, leaving the Gold turnaround of 22% in the middle. The only clan to bring home a double Gold from this event were Odin`s secret chamber. They succeeded on K2 and K3 this time. There were neither unaligned nor repeat winners this time Upcoming event: Front Line Fight The standard mid-war event. Only the Mechs in the front (rightmost) line will be involved in the fighting, so Trample is worthless. Be sure to put the best Mechs up front, and give them the best weapons and equipment. Event ends February 23 between 0500 and 0530 New York Time

[icyxmischief]

          KILI IS THE one who is most nervous. the boys are already swarming their mother with excited cries of ‘BIRTHDAY!’ – climbing up onto their parents’ bed and jumping up and down, up and down. ragni continues to jump, and jory crawls forward to stick his face into loki’s to see if he is truly awake. they each have their respective gifts in hand, and this time, they’ve made them without any help from seraphina. ragni is going through the stage where he insists on doing everything himself, and jory is becoming more adept with magic with each passing day.

          from ragni, a spider made out of volcanic rocks he scavenged from a part of mama’s lair he was not supposed to go. ‘don’t tell– don’t tell her!’, he peeps, as if seraphina doesn’t already know. 'it has a string attached so you can scare people!’ jory’s gift is less menacing. it is simply a small bag of sea glass, that when emptied and poured onto the floor, each small piece emits a musical note. 'i was experimenting with sound, the sorts i would hear in the ocean.’

           but kili hides against her mother’s leg, holding her simple gift with two nervous hands, as the pair stands just outside the door. the young girl stares at her brothers, and feels inexplicably shy. she retreats at first, pushing her head into seraphina’s thigh, which prompts the earth goddess to lift her into her arms with many a cooing sound. 'why are you nervous, sweetling? hm? he adores you, and will adore your special gift!’ a small pause, where kili’s voice is too faint to make out. ’…oh darling. i will make you a thousand of asgard’s gardens. thousands upon thousands.’

          seraphina purses her lips – for her beloved’s nameday does indeed come upon times that are different, and hard. not long ago these babies had been heirs to throne. not long ago, these babies had a home. seraphina has done the best she could to shield and shelter them, but the truth of the matter is, they are too smart to be denied their grieving. the boys take it better – jory spent most of his time on midgard, and ragni is still young. but kili has spent the most time in asgard. she remembers everything.

           so seraphina has to carry the poor girl into the bedroom, where her head is just resting against the crook of her mother’s neck. but she is placed right up against loki’s side, where she fussily shields her delicate gift from the excited jumping of the boys. seraphina places her hands on their little shoulders, 'shh, shh, be easy, let caecilia give her gift, as well. 'tis her turn…’

          …kili opens her arms slowly, still not having said a word, and what she reveals is a smaller, perhaps a little more feeble, version of what loki had first given to seraphina when they were first courting each other. it’s a jotun snowflower, placed beneath an enchanted glass dome. and she takes a deep breath, before placing her tiny hands upon the glass. her skin recedes to a deep blue, and patterns of frost crack along the container, eventually eliciting tiny flurries of snow to fall within the container itself. and once her task is done, she can’t help but hide her freezing blue hands in her dress, hiding from whom, she doesn’t know how to articulate, but hide them she does. 'i made it. i made the seed and then i grew it.’

Loki, having feigned sleep, now flashes mother wolf teeth in a snarly, affectionate grin, seizes both boys about the waist and rolls on top of them, “crushing” them both with a growl and many kisses to the cheek.  Ragni he especially abuses, blowing a raspberry into his naughty little temple.   It is their first celebration in diaspora, in exile from their home,  but it is a thankful thing that Seraphina provides a whole planet into whose arms they can flee.  The day remains one of gladness.  At length Loki releases Ragni and Jory and examines their gifts, with all the attentive gravitas–and yet merry glee–that this act warrants.        “I will frighten your uncle with this most delightful spider, wildling,        for he fears them so.  You will have to come and watch.  But please        do not go back to the volcano.  Are we agreed?” He butts his forehead into his fierce little fawn’s.  And then he places the eight-legged beast tidily on the bedside  table, after dangling it from its string. Next. he studies each individual piece of Jory’s sea glass.  He drops individual pieces lightly onto the table’s hard surface, hums in pleased comprehension and exhanges an eager smile with his hatchling.      “Tis beautiful.  Perhaps together we can string these into windchimes,       and listen to them to ease the spirit and sleep.” 

When Kili will not come to her father, who was a shy and receding  child as well, Loki looks up and is powerfully reminded of himself at so young an age, clinging to Frigga’s skirts and hiding from his own brother’s boisterous play.  If it kills him slowly, he will not be Odin to Caecilia, distant and impossible to placate, tousling with his more robust heirs.   So he reaches out a hand, palm up, to her, impervious for the moment to his boys’ squirming, and when she is placed against his side, he nuzzles her cheek with his nose.      “Sweet lamb, what have you?” he murmurs.  And when she presents the       flower, that is enough to elicit a genuine gasp.  But then Kili performs       Seidhr, and not any type, but the type of their Jotun heritage.  

Loki’s heart expands like a birthing star.

But when Kili hides her hands, that star collapses. No. Disarmed of his silver words, he only reaches out and takes those cold little blue hands again, and pulls back the beige veil over  his own.  Now their hands are the same shade, with the same scarifications of Frost Giant birth.         “It is beautiful,” he breathes, “but not nearly so beautiful as my         daughter.”