#feast mead and chill

[darkmagyk]

63 mistaken for a couple. 77. Percabeth, of course.

77) In Vino Veritas

Thank you to @phykios for the inspiration!

Annabeth was an affectionate drunk. This was a well-known fact. Strawberry wine on a Summer night at camp. Mead during a Yule Feast, or Downeast when the Pats were in the playoffs. Annabeth became cuddly and smiley, and would tell people she loved them about 15 times a minute.

Piper knew that, and should probably had considered it before her friend had downed so many dirty martinis. Drunk Annabeth was fine for a normal girl’s night. But this was not just a normal girl’s night. It had evolved, from dinner to dancing to a lesbian bar where Annabeth swore she’d wingman Piper.

But now, 3 martinis deep, she keep hugging Piper, laying her had on Piper, kissing Piper’s cheek. Every time someone approached them, she was not effusive in her praise, telling everyone about how Piper was pretty and funny and fun. It was not having the effect she probably expected.

The first time a hot woman had come up and told Piper that her girlfriend was cute, she’d kind of laughed about it. The fifth time, she started to get worried.

“Are you and your girlfriend poly?” Ari, who had a sleeve abstract tattoos and an eyebrow ring, asked, nodding to Annabeth, who had just left Piper’s side to go back to the bar and probably get started on another martini, when this one inevitably flopped, Piper should head to the bar and ask the bar tender to just give her olive brine going forward. Annabeth wouldn’t mind that at all.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Piper said. Just in time for Annabeth to come back and throw and arm around Piper’s shoulders.

“She’s amazing,” Annabeth announced.

“Does she know that?” Ari asked, “I think you two have a lot to talk about.” And then nodded to Piper and walked away.

“Oh no,” Annabeth said. “You’re too good for her.”

Piper sighed, “What are the chances we have sex tonight?” Piper asked, thought she knew the answer.

Annabeth stepped back, like she’d been pushed, “What? I’m married.” She said, “You were at my wedding.” She said it like it was a reminder, like she was confused Piper had forgotten. “And you are very pretty, and very funny, and very nice. But Percy is prettier, and funnier, and nicer.” She reached out and patted at Piper’s head, not unlike how Piper had seen Annabeth do to her daughters, “you’ll find someone though. I know it. You’re wonderful.”

“Well, I want some pussy tonight, so I’m going to need you to stop scaring them off.”

“How could I scare them off? I keep talking about how great you are and how much I love you.”

“I’m calling Percy,” Piper said as her only answer.

Annabeth’s eyes lit up at his name “Oh, yes! You need to call Percy. I miss him so much. He would have fun with us.”

Piper wasn’t sure what Percy’s reaction to a lesbian bar would be. Given details Annabeth had shared in the past, probably just swapping tips for cunnilingus.

She dropped Annabeth off at the bar, and ordered her a martini glass full of brine and olives that she knew would keep Annabeth busy.

And then she called Percy, “Hey, she’s kind of drunk, can you come get her?”

“Is she ok?” He was clearly freaked out.

“She’s fine.” Piper said, “but she’s drunk and cuddly and its scaring off all the hot honeys in the bar.”

“Hot honeys?”

“Can you just come get her.”

“Let me see if Frederick can come watch the kids. He probably will.”

15 minutes later she got a text that said “On my way.” In that time, Annabeth had announced to a set of truly beautiful butches that she loved Piper and was so glad they met.

He could not get there soon enough.

Piper had managed to chill Annabeth’s declarations, mostly by way of a bowl of olives and plate of mozzarella sticks occupying her mouth instead of Annabeth driving away all the women Piper might be able to bring home tonight.

Where are you? Percy finally texted her.

And then it was about 30 seconds before she spotted him from the bar. Piper tapped Annabeth’s shoulder, and then pointed at Percy.

She let out a screech, and then ran to him, practically jumping on him. Percy caught her easily, and his own grin grew. Piper could tell that Annabeth was still eating, but she also pressed her lips to his.

And then hands started to wonder.

“Hi,” Piper turned to fine Ari back, looking at them, “Um…so you two really weren’t together?”

“Nope,” Piper said, “That’s what she looks like when she’s actually into someone.”

“Can I get you a drink.”

Piper glanced back at Percy and Annabeth, she saw one of his hands disappearing up and one down. She wondered if she should intervene, tell them to take their heterosexuality home. But figured they would figure it out. Or they wouldn’t.

“I would love that.”  

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Part 6

Pairing: Thranduil x Fem. Reader

Themes: Soft

Warnings: Mention of Elwing casting herself into the sea prior to the beginning of the story | Mentions of other character deaths prior to the beginning of the story

Wordcount : 3.1K words

Summary: Thranduil attends the feast held in honor of Angon taking Nitiel to wife.

Minors DNI

Masterlist

Thranduil’s POV

The feast Lord Thiliedir and Lady Annien held in honor of their son taking Nitiel to wife was a most splendid affair. 

Guests came from all over Amon Lanc. They poured through wide open doors leading to a vast garden, dressed in their finest furs and silks. Gold and silver, rubies and emeralds, glittered around the throats and lips and ears and wrists of many. Newly forged circlets rested amidst dark, crimson, and silver-gold hair that had been combed into intricate braids. Some of the visitors bore the marks of beasts and leaves and flowers along their arms and along their cheeks. Heralds called out the names of each new visitor, and attendants walked amidst the invited elves, their hands heavy with gilded pitchers full of wine and trays full of delicate pastries. Thranduil stood by his father’s side, observing lords and ladies joining an ever-growing line of those wishing to offer their felicitations to the newly wedded pair.  

“The marriage of Lord Angon and his lady has been well received.” Oropher nursed his chalice of wine, while minstrels kept to the grotto set aside for their use during the festivities. The music they played and the songs they sang drifted around the garden, barely heard over the chatter of elves and the clinking of glass. “I confess, I expected to hear and see quite the opposite when I was told the news.” 

“Were you hoping to witness the tearing of hair and the gnashing of teeth?” Thranduil whispered. He sipped his wine and then smiled. “Lord Angon’s lady mother and lord father are too well bred for such theatrics. So are their kin. If they truly are unhappy with their son taking a servant to wife, then they have taken great care not to show it.” 

“You are studying those who serve us,” said Oropher. “That is a good thing, my son. Continue it. It will serve you well should my crown pass on to you.” 

Thranduil shivered. His lord father’s demise was not a matter he wished to consider. “It will not happen,” he replied, “for you will live on for more ages than you could care to count, and then we will both take a ship leaving for the Blessed Realm so that we can be reunited with my mother.”

“That is my hope also,” his father returned. “But so long as Belegûr’s servants remain abroad, we must prepare ourselves for the dark possibility of my perishing in this land. Do you understand me, my son?” 

“Yes, father,” Thranduil told him, albeit reluctantly. 

Oropher clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Enough of such talk. Come! Let us join the throng!”  

The throng had grown in size by the time they joined them, and they had grown more carefree despite the late autumn chill. Golden lamps adorned the low-hanging branches of trees, their light limning all those who stood beneath them. Trestle tables had been arranged at the far end of the garden, with a raised dais facing them. Kitchen attendants were occupied slowly turning wooden spits and roasting wild boar and deer over a fire pit, basting the meat with honey and herbs until it crackled. The smell of freshly baked bread and pies wafted from the nearby kitchen. Even the tables themselves had large bowls placed in the center, all filled with wild berries, cheese, and olives brought in from Esgaroth. More wine was served, along with ale and mead. Thranduil joined his father while he spoke to the others, taking great care to listen to all that was being said and answering any question that was asked of him. 

It was an aspect Thranduil had long prepared himself for: the tediousness of everyday duties. He had to attend council meetings even when he wished to do nothing more than lay in bed; he had to hear out supplicants that came to him, begging for a listening ear; and he had to speak to elven nobles he had no desire to speak to, all while having a warm smile or a look of deep concern on his face. All of this he did splendidly well, which pleased his father greatly.  

“Now all you need is a bride who might one day make a fine queen,” Oropher said when they had a moment to themselves again. “Someone worthy of you, and of course, someone worthy of the crown that would rest amidst her hair.”  

‘Tis the same song as always, Thranduil thought. He forced himself not to sigh. “I will wed when my own household is ready, father,” he said through gritted teeth, and he set his jaw in determination. “And I will decide for myself whom I should marry. Me, father, and no other. Any command for me to bind myself to a stranger in a marriage of political convenience will be answered with a swift and certain no.” 

“I swear to Eru, my boy, you can be as stubborn as your beloved mother sometimes.” Oropher laughed. “And I understand the need to wait until your household is ready to receive a mistress. Pray tell me what is becoming of the halls our builders are making for you.” 

They spoke at length while they made their way to the dais. Angon and Nitiel had already taken the seats of high honor, and the king and the crown prince took their places on either side of them. Then the mother and father of Angon, and the mother and father of Nitiel, took their seats accordingly.  

Angon only waited a moment before rising, his cup in hand. “Let us drink!” He cried. “A toast, my friends! To Lady Nitiel! My wife and the companion of my life!”  

The others rose and lifted their cups. “Lady Nitiel!” They shouted as one. Nitiel flushed, and she bowed her head as a gesture of thanks.  

The first course was a dish of soup made of leeks and mushrooms, served in glazed green bowls. Lady Annien took the first spoonful to taste, and the others were served after she gave her approval. 

Lady Nitiel looks so different now, Thranduil thought. The lady who once served in the kitchens was dressed in robes sewn especially for the feast, and with colors that matched those on her husband’s tunic. Green velvet slashed with cloth of gold adorned her person. New gold caught the light of nearby lamps as they lay around her throat and around her wrists. More gold gleamed where it lay in her auburn hair. It had been combed into elaborate plaits and then arranged in a style he did not recognize.  

The gold and the robes must be gifts, no doubt, Thranduil thought, from her doting husband. The way her hair has been arranged, on the other hand…

“Forgive me,” he leaned in and said, “for asking this, but who arranged your hair?” 

Nitiel leaned in as well and lowered her voice. She did not wish for the king to hear what she had to say. “Y/n, my lord,” she said. “She helped me dress, and then she arranged my hair for me. It is the style favored by those who dwelled in a city called Alqualondë, she said, but without the adornments of shells and pearls.” 

Thranduil knew of Alqualondë, having heard the tales told by Lady Galadriel. “The style favored by the elves of Alqualondë?” he whispered, “and not the kind favored by her own people?” 

“She thought the sight of it might anger the king.”     

“Of course. It was wise of her to make such a choice. And it was thoughtful of her as well, to help you prepare for this feast.” 

The next course was a dish of sage and potato tarts, and the course that came after that was a dish of roasted boar and venison with stewed carrots and potatoes that had been boiled to a mash and mixed with cream. Thranduil ate with great relish, and he ate in silence.  

Y/n would have had to have learned the art of such arrangements from her mother, as she was born long after the first kinslaying. And it would have served her well during the years she spent wandering from one place to the next, perhaps even keeping her safe, as the few who served the sons of Fëanor and remained in the new land they had come to call home found little welcome wherever they went.  

There is the grandson, he remembered. Why did y/n not go to Lord Celebrimbor? 

It was a question he had asked when he first procured her freedom, and it was a question he thought of asking her himself, as those who held her could not give him an answer. Until the opportunity to do so presented itself, he would have to bide his time. 

A minstrel plucked at the strings of a high harp while another sang, her voice as sweet and clear as a bell. It was nowhere as lovely as Tinúviel’s otherworldly voice, Thranduil thought, nor was it as bewitching as her lady mother’s. Still, it was enchanting to hear, and a tear came to his eye when he remembered Menegroth in all of its glory. He harkened back to the days of his youth, when nightingales would make their nests in little nooks and crannies that dotted the great city of many caves, where flowers of rare beauty would bloom to life during the spring, where Daeron played the harp and Tinúviel sang, and they were sheltered from the darkness that tainted the lands beyond their own. Then the sons of Fëanor came to reclaim what was taken from their father, they had said, and to seek justice for the slaying of their grandfather.  

The sons of Fëanor came, Thranduil thought as he drained the last of his wine. The sons of Fëanor fought. And the sons of Fëanor perished. Thranduil set down his chalice when a dish of gammon pie was set before him. And the line of Melian and Thingol nearly ended because of them and that blasted Oath of theirs. 

Grief and bitterness gathered around his heart like a swarm of angry bees. Thranduil still remembered King Dior and his queen, Lady Nimloth. He remembered their sons, twins who were all of three when their father came into his inheritance, and he remembered the dreadful winter that brought about an end to Dior’s reign, the tragic fate that befell his sons, his queen, and the great city of caves they all called home.   

And then there was the daughter, the princess who was forced to abandon her own children as she was once forced to abandon her home, and cast herself into the sea after those who sought the Silmaril came for her. That too angered Thranduil—that swords were raised against those who fled the violence that fell upon their once-fair city. He remembered the dark words that were brought to them on a night with the moon and stars hidden behind thick clouds. Perhaps that was a sign, a portend of the dreadful message they were to receive. His father gave the order for their warriors to march, but by the time they reached the Havens, it was already too late. 

At least Elwing's sons lived, he thought, and I pray word of their living lives of great renown reached her ears in the Blessed Realm.  

He took the pie with both hands and bit into it. The meat melted in his mouth, as did the pastry that held it. And it tasted almost like ash against his tongue. Thoughts of the lives lost because of an Oath that could never be fulfilled tainted whatever joy the prince would have found in the food he ate. He waived away all further offers of refreshments, claiming that he was already full. 

I need to step away for a moment, he told himself, and free myself from such dark and dismal thinking.  

He rose and excused himself. “Pray allow me to take my leave of you all for a moment or two,” he said. “I will return soon enough.” 

“Of course, my lord,” Lady Nitiel said. Thranduil bowed deeply and took his leave of them. 

The air outside the manse was no less fragrant. This time, the smells that greeted him were of night-blooming flowers and not the scents of delectable dishes being brought to the table. He walked toward a nearby marble pond, listening to the little waterfall bubbling at the far end of it. There was no other elf to be seen. Most were at the feast. Others were keeping a watchful eye along the city’s high walls or tending to their duties in the palace itself, and there were those who had already retired for the night. Still, the absence of other elves was a welcomed thing, as was the cool wind that swept around his face and hair. Thranduil felt the anger and grief within him ebb away. He stopped and sat on the edge of the pond. 

Tis good to have a moment to clear my head, he thought. Tiny fish darted beneath the leaves of water lilies and around his fingers as he trailed his hand through crystal-clear water, their scales glittering with silver and gold whenever they caught the light of nearby lamps. He heard the sound of leather against stone. Another elf was walking toward him; the sound he heard was the sound of their slippers falling over polished cobble. Thranduil sighed as his peace was disturbed. Then he heard a gasp. The elf who came upon him did not expect to find him there.  

“Forgive me, my lord,” they said. “I… I was told this part of the city was empty at night.”  

“The one who told you this did not err on that score.” The prince turned to face the one who approached the pond. “This part of the city is quiet at night. And there is no need to ask for forgiveness, y/n. You have the freedom to walk about Amon Lanc; there is no one to hinder you from doing so. Pray why are you here, at such an hour?” 

“We were not needed in the kitchens.” Y/n dipped into a deep curtsy before rising again. “And the cook told me that I would not be needed on the morrow. I… I thought of seeing something of the city while the others were not about, my lord.” 

“Yes,” Thranduil smiled. “Amon Lanc feels like a city found only in fairytales when one walks about it at night. I will not say more, lest I spoil the beauty of the city for you.” He paused and decided now would be an opportune time to speak to y/n about Celebrimbor and why she did not approach him for shelter. “But I do have a question to ask of you.” 

“Go on, my lord,” said y/n. 

“That day when I procured your freedom, I was told you spent your days wandering. You put down no roots, not even with Lord Curufin’s son, Lord Celebrimbor. Why is that, y/n?” 

“Being the daughter of an attainted kinslayer made it hard for me to put down roots, my lord. And Lord Celebrimbor made it plain that anyone who served his father and his uncle would find no welcome in his home.” 

“Is it because of what happened to Lord Finrod?” 

“Yes, my lord. Lord Celebrimbor never forgave his father, nor his uncle, for that matter, for what became of Lord Finrod in the end.”  

“And so you kept away from his realm,” Thranduil said. He patted the space beside him.  

“Yes, my lord.” Y/n smoothed her skirts and sat a respectful distance away from him. Etiquette demanded it, for she was but a kitchen maid and he was the crown prince. “I did not have the stomach to bear the sight of another door closing on me, so I kept away.” 

The crown prince tried to envision what such a life would have been like: walking from place to place without a proper home to claim for oneself, selling what little possessions one had to keep oneself alive, having no friends, no family, and no one to turn to for aid. He shivered.  

Such a wretched life, he thought, and yet the lady is still here, enduring each hardship as best as she can. 

Enduring such hardships without complaint was to be expected of the Noldor; it was something minstrels waxed poetic about in story and song. Thranduil studied y/n discreetly. Her hair had grown a fraction longer, and already she looked less gaunt than she did before. The robes she wore were blue and gray, simple but well-made. A tarnished pin was all she had for an adornment. Its painted flowers had faded, and they were the likes of which Thranduil had not seen before. 

“The flowers on your pin,” he began, “are those found only in the Blessed Realm, yes?”

“Yes.” Y/n reached up and touched it. Her fingers trembled when they brushed against the filigreed silver. “My father had this made for me when I came of age. My mother painted the flowers you see in the center. This is all I have left of them.”

To have only one token left of one’s flesh and blood, and that too in a poor state, pricked at Thranduil. But it could still be saved, he thought. It could still be restored to its former glory.  

Ah, but would the goldsmiths agree to such an undertaking when the request to do so came from one such as her? Thranduil knew they would turn her away the moment they saw her standing at the door of their forge. A respected courtier who carried the order of the crown prince, on the other hand… 

“It must have great value to you.” Thranduil rose. He could not linger for much longer. The others would expect him to return to the feast without further delay. Nevertheless, he did not intend to leave until he spoke to y/n about what he had in mind. “And it can be returned to what it looked like when you first received it. Give it to Feren when you see him next. I will speak to him, and have him go to our goldsmiths. If there is anyone in Amon Lanc who could restore that pin to what it once was, it is them.” 

“I…” Y/n paused and hesitated. She lowered her gaze, took a deep, steadying breath, and then she dared to look him in the eye. A decision had been made. “Thank you, my lord.” 

Thranduil nodded. “And now you must excuse me. I must return to the feast before my father sends someone to search for me.” 

“Of course, my lord.” Y/n rose also, and curtsied to him again. “Good night, my lord.”  

“Good night, y/n,” Thranduil said. He looked back at her over his shoulder for a moment as he walked away. The sight of her beneath a spill of lamplight, her eyes sparkling as she turned to admire the fish in the pond, tugged at him in a way he could not describe.

tags: @deadlymistletoe @coopsgirl @lemonivall @tigereyesf @thranduilseyebrows @cupids-got-me @asianbutnotjapanese @kurochan3

[lady06reaper]

Waaaa I just saw a post saying that you are going to write about Vikings 😍😍😍😍😍I’m so excited (I hope I haven’t misunderstood) I’ll be so happy if you decide to write something special for any Vikings characters. My personal favourite is Halfdan the black 🥰🥰🥰I hope I could request something for him 🥰

YES! ANOTHER HALFDAN LOVER!

Dancing in the moonlight

This is kinda inspired by 'Dancin in the night' by Heavy D, without the getting high part.

TW: mentions of war, dancing(?)

Song link on Spotify

look at dat smile!

The raids for the summer were done, I am grateful for being able to stay home for the winter months, but raiding was where I belonged. The feasts were abundant, men and women dressed in their best garbs eating and drinking their fill. The musicians started a more upbeat song, it didn't take long for a dance circle to form around the fire. I decided the mead in my body was enough for tonight, I walked out into the chill autumn air. The moon shining brightly down on Kattegat reminded me of the sun beating down on warriors fighting for their king.

"What is my love doing out here?" Halfdan came up behind me, looking at the side of my face whilst I looked up at the moon.

"A dance circle started, I wished to dance but I knew you would not join me and if I were to dance with another they'd be dead before the dance is done," I giggled looking over at Halfdan. He looked down at his boots and contemplated, shaking his head and sighing he offered his hand to me.

"You wish to dance?" I looked down at his hand, Halfdan was not one to dance unless on the battle field with his enemies.

"I mean, if you don't want to I'll gladly go back inside," Halfdan raised his hands in defense and gestured towards the great hall where the feast was still going strong. Peaking in, I see his brother with another woman, most likely promising her marriage if he becomes king.

"I will dance with you if this is not a trick by the Gods," I say as I take his hand and lead him down to the open area. Our palms flat against the others, the other hand behind our backs as we go around in circles, switching hands every now and again. We join hands as we retract from each, Halfdan spins me into his arms, my back towards his chest. We both look up at the moon, admiring it's beauty, the way it shines, almost like a beacon leading us home from the raids.

Halfdan spins me back around, facing him now. We extend our arms away from each other, and go back in on the others opposite arms. Our hands join together, spinning once more before joining in the embrace of the other.

"Does this seem like a trick from the Gods, my love? Surely Freyja would allow lovers like us to dance in her bask," Halfdan looked down at me with loving eyes, the same eyes that go dark during war with bloodlust.

"No, for if it was I would've woken up by now."

"Good, for this is all very real my dear, my love for you is real, I am real. If I am not real, may the Gods smite me now."

"Don't go threatening them with a good time, Halfdan, they might actually listen this time," I giggled, looking up at Halfdan I see him crack a genuine smile. He leans down and kisses me, not a quick peck or a hungry kiss, but one that shows his love for me infront of Freyja, proving that this is all very real.

[floriansfurryfantasies]

Between Bramble & Briar. Home for Yule ~ Part One. (SFW)

AUTHOR NOTE: This episode is a cute, cosy, and SFW (a smidge suggestive, in parts) glimpse into the Blackthorn's traditional Yuletide family festivities.

WORD COUNT: 2442

TAGLIST: @caxycreations

Let me know if you'd like to be added to BBB's tag list.

Over the crackled, charcoal surface of the Yule log, amber flames flickered. Beneath, the ember glowed. The fire would burn all night, slowly consuming the feast of its fat log. Downey Cottage would be kept warm and cosy throughout this, the longest night.

This time of year was truly one for feasting. Ada Blackthorn had spent four months stowing away Yuletide provisions in her pantry, as she did every year until the time was right to spend three days preparing her traditional feast. The shortest day of the year was one in which the Blackthorn's spent the most time eating. From pies and nut roasts to cakes, biscuits and buns, platters of crackers, conserves, and cheese, the sideboard in the kitchen was laden with many delicious treats. Ermine's part to play began in the cellar in late August when he'd harvested all the fruit and barley he required to make his meads and wines. This annual tradition usually ended with the old mouse, drunk and singing himself to sleep in his armchair, come dawn after he'd shared all the fables and tales he could muster.

Taking after his found father, with a full belly and what remained of his mulled wine in hand, Arthur retired to the Blackthorn's couch.

It was a given that he'd been invited to share in their festivities, yet he could never escape being the odd one out. Now, the nest of some two dozen merry mice had left their abode to watch the Battle of the Holly and Oak Kings—as was tradition. It was being reenacted in a little coppice of trees on the way out of the hamlet toward his own village: Briarbury. Furfolk from four villages around gathered to watch as the moon hung high in the mid-winter sky. All bundled up and full of food and cheer, glad that the rebirth of the sun was upon them. But tonight, Arthur didn't plan to join in.

Downing the last mouthful of his mulled wine, he found it cool and less pleasant, but it couldn't put a dampener on an otherwise pleasant day.

At ten o'clock, he'd pulled in at Briarbury train station from Dornbury. He always closed The Sanctuary during Yuletide.

From there, it was a short walk home to change his clothes and shed his Florian facade. Then, another walk, only a few minutes more, into Hedgley Woodhouse to Downey Cottage.

Beneath his feet, a dusting of snow chilled his paws, but the scarf about his neck kept the wind from biting. He anticipated that the Blackthorn's home would be as scorching as July. The range would have been on all the day prior and perhaps even through the night. Ermine would have already stoked the fire in the living room, ready to receive the Yule log, not to mention the number of bodies bustling about the home.

And he was right—the place was heaving! All the Blackthorn children and their spouses had arrived. He could have sworn there were more pups every year.

Letting himself in through the front door, he ducked inside and was immediately hit by an overload of stimuli: the chatter and laughter, the smell of home cooking, and the heat! It was the same every year, and every year, it filled his heart with gladness to be a part of it all. This was true family life. This was his secret dream, and each Yule, he got to immerse himself in the illusion that it was his own.

"Aup, Art! S'good to see you. Keeping well?" A familiar face greeted, thrusting a warm furless paw into his and giving it as hearty a shake as a five-foot mouse could muster. It was one of the Blackthorn brothers.

Weaving his way down the hall, he was met with a warm welcome from every mouse he came across and stripped of his coat and scarf by the mice that felt like kin.

"Make yourself at home."

"Mam! Artie is here!" Someone called toward the kitchen.

"How goes business then?" A mouse asked, pulling his pipe from his lips and allowing a plume of smoke to be free of his snout.

"Dad has outdone himself with the mead this year, mate. Here, get some down ya." A pint of brown was put into his hand.

"I heard there was some nasty business in Dornbury–"

"–Oh, damned rats causing trouble again, is it?"

"Wouldn't surprise me."

"Did you hear about it, Artie?"

"Go on, get on wi'ya! Leave the poor lad be!" Ada's usually gentle voice barked through the cacophony when she appeared in the hallway. Although she stood barely four feet tall, the portly and bonny-looking mouse was the Queen of her castle. She had raised a nest of mouse pups—five boys as wild and roving as brambles. She wasn't to be messed with—a maternal veteran with a heart of gold and nerves of steel.

Once she'd wiped her dainty paws on her floral pinny, she reached up for Arthur's arm and pulled him to her. She didn't have to ask; he knew the drill and leaned down so she could brush her fingers through the trim of his cheek fur and give him a kiss.

"Lovely to have you home, sweetheart." Her smile plumped her rosy cheeks as she spoke.

"Sorry, chaps, I'll catch you later." Arthur looked back apologetically, though internally glad of the rescue. He was led through a passage under the stairs, past the cellar door, and down a step into the kitchen.

"Offf, what a rabble." Ada tittered, rolling her blackberry eyes. "I've got a bramley pie in here with your name on it, love. I've been batting them off like flies all morning."

Arthur laughed. Mrs Blackthorn always let him have the first slice, seeing as it was his favourite flavour pie. That warm feeling he adored, dare he call it motherly love, filled his chest.

"Ad–"

"Ah ah! Less of that young man." She wouldn't abide him calling her by her given name.

"Mam–" he corrected, his ears folded bashfully. "–but it's not even lunchtime yet."

"Suit yourself. But I can't keep them off it much longer. It'll be gone by lunch and cold, too, if you don't tuck in now."

The heat gathered the closer they got to the range. Now, standing on the kitchen's terracotta tiles, the chill in his paws had thawed completely. He scrunched his toes into his pads, enjoying how the numbness melted into toasty warmth.

Most of the family's women were gathered around the kitchen table. Their chatter was lilting and choral.

Upon the lap of one such sister sat a pretty little pup. Her single curl tied in a crimson bow between the dishlike ears she had years to grow into, and the pretty broadie anglaise frills of her frock matched in colour. She was indeed a beauty. Her beady eyes peered at him through the crowd of her kin like ripe damsons. Perhaps he was the first ferret she had ever seen, but the sweet little thing wasn't frightened of how he towered over her aunts; instead, she beamed, grinning with only her two front teeth to show for it.

Her fixation on him turned a few heads, and then a new wave of welcomes began.

"Aw Arthur, it's good to see you love."

He was beckoned to sit at the table and nudged along by Mrs Blackthorn, who presented him with a fat slice of bramley pie accompanied by a mountain of whipped cream.

"Ya' keeping well?" Someone asked, rubbing his back to warm him to the seat he'd found.

"That big city is being kind, I hope." His mead was pushed aside the moment he set it down. A cup and saucer took its place, and from over the table, one of the sisters poured him a cup of tea from the pot that had been steeping. Another sister added a spoonful of sugar, and then another furnished his saucer with an oat and raisin biscuit that neared the size of the saucer itself.

"Oh, yes, especially with all that ratty business that's been in the paper."

"We don't have to talk about that, do we?" The mother of the pup scowled as she handed her baby over.

Without question, Arthur took hold of the infant and smiled down at her as she began to coo.

"Isn't she a beauty?" A familiar voice chirped from behind. Searching for a face, he found her to his right—Lillie Blackthorn, the youngest of the Blackthorn siblings, though she was by no means the baby of the family anymore. She was a woman now—he wished he hadn't noticed.

Usually, Lillie would have stood a foot below his shoulder, but as he was sitting, they were about the same height. Her treacle-coloured eyes glistened as they caught the cool winter sunlight pouring in through the window, and they warmed it. Her smile was warmer still.

"Uh, yes, a beauty. I think I'm in love."

"With a mouse?" A few of the women giggled in unison.

"What're you like, Arthur? You're so funny." They shook their heads at the comedy.

"He'd be potty to not fall for our little Lottie." The mother cooed as she tapped the twitchy pink nose of her pup. "Isn't that right, sweetheart?"

"She is absolutely adorable." Lillie joined in the giggling but couldn't deflect Arthur from noticing how her ears twitched backwards before she centred herself. For a while, he'd been wondering what all the little mannerisms, one-second displays of disappointment, crest falleness, sorrow, and yearning summed up to mean. He hoped he was reading her wrong. His assumption, if proven, would be devastating.

Pulling up a stool, Lillie wedged herself between one of her sisters and Arthur and stole the biscuit from his saucer without a care. It looked like she was fine, after all. There's no need for him to worry... Or so he thought...

"You know, not everyone Mates their own kind these days," Lillie announced.

"Being at that University is going to your head, girl." Her sister yoinked at her ear. Their disapproval was real but gently spoken, with concern, love, and a little bit of comedy to help it go down.

"You'll think differently when you meet the right mouse." Another said.

Arthur kept quiet, now four spoonfuls into the bramley pie. He licked the tart-tasting, jammy juices from his lips and sipped his tea. It washed it all down quite pleasantly.

"And before you know it, you're married and have a pup on the way."

"What if I have kits instead?" Lillie asked nonchalantly, rhetorically, as she tickled her niece's chin.

Amidst the chorus of cackles—as if she had cracked the century's funniest joke—Arthur felt a tail slip over the top of his thigh beneath the table. It came from his right-hand side, which meant it was Lillie's. As if her comment hadn't been enough, a tightness took over his hips, and his tail bolted straight as the bushy tip of hers flicked further into his inner thigh. It was all too much! It caused the last mouthful of his tea to burble back up his throat and ensnared him���sending him into a fit of coughing and spluttering into a closed fist, unable to keep any composure. Wide and bewildered, his eyes found Lillie, who grinned deviously. Those treacle eyes had darkened salaciously as she peered up at him through her lashes. It was only for a second, but he couldn't mistake the desire in them. What did that mean?

Then, her nose twitched, and like a switch had been flipped, a musical thrill of innocent girlish giggles came from her.

"It's just a thought. Things are different in the city. You see all sorts there."

"Well, never you mind what happens in the city. The city isn't for girls like you, my Lil' Liza." Ada's hand found her daughter's shoulder as she placed a slice of pie before her and kissed the back of her ear lovingly. "You get your education and come right on home to where you belong. Tommy isn't going to wait forever."

Thomas Barlstep—Lillie's ex-boyfriend. A barley field mouse and son of Ermine's Skittles club and school pal, Frances Barlstep. Tommy was held in high regard by the Blackthorn's. He was an ol' country boy, a hard-working barley farmer like his father. He lived up to his family name and was a sunny sort of fellow, if not a bit simple. But he was kind and seemed a fit husband for their precious youngest daughter, who they thought needed her wild taming—a bumpkin would do just right.

The conversation erupted into how sweet Tommy was, how good a match he was, and how impressive his show of strength at that year's summer fate was. While her mother and sisters were distracted, Arthur noticed how Lillie sighed. How she toyed with her food rather than attempt to eat even a spoonful and the biscuit she'd pinched lay on the table missing only two bites.

"I've brought you a present." Arthur leant down to whisper near her ear as he laid his paw over the brush of her tail, which was still on his thigh.

Her closest ear flicked back to home in on his voice, and a moment later, her eyes found his. "Me too. It's in Dad's study." Lillie grinned, the inners of her ears flushing pinker. Meanwhile, her tail coiled over his fingers in an embrace. "Let's sneak out."

Arthur clutched onto her tail a bit tighter to dissuade her from leaving her seat just yet. "I've not finished my pie, and neither have you."

Although he could tell she really wanted to roll her eyes, instead, she resigned and enthusiastically dug a fork into the crust and finished Arthur's tea while she was at it. Lapping the fruity filling from her lips and dusting the crumbs from her snout, she blinked up at Arthur to see if he was finally satisfied enough to leave.

"Come on, before Vince gets here and whisks you away." Lillie's whispy tail eagerly coiled Arthur's wrist as she rose from the table to lead him away.

There was no way his leaving could be discreet. As he stood, he towered above the table and its occupants, the tips of his ears only an inch shy of the overhead beams.

"Where are you two off to?" Ada asked, though not accusatory or suspicious, just curious.

"We've got some books to share," Arthur explained with a simple smile.

"It's for school, Mammy."

"Alright, sweetheart. If you see your father, tell him there's a slice of pie for him in here."

[e-wills-afterhours]

@hazel-sage

"Oh, good to see you back :) If it strikes inspiration in you, I'd love to see some shenanigans with our favorite gang of six at any age! Basically, I loved the snark in the one-shot of Hiccup losing the bet and getting the tattoo, and I'd love more of that banter :P"

A/N: I'm glad you actually find shenanigans as enjoyable to read as they are to write. Be careful, though. You wouldn't want to give me any crazy ideas, such as I might actually be funny and clever! We all know that's not true. XD

This is the closest to pure crack-fic I've written in...years. Really, I'm hoping to amuse you with this as I'm amusing myself by writing it.

The gang is 17-18ish here. RTTE is not canon in my writing.

Marital Un-Bliss

--------

All of Berk was gathered in the Mead Hall, dressed in their best furs and garments. Formal occasions were causes to show off and stand out, regardless if the day was meant to focus on someone, anyone else--like the young couple who had just exchanged their vows and bound their lives together before the entire tribe. Astrid did not know them well, as they were a few years her senior. The bride's name was Tora, and she was Mulch's niece. She was also partial to Deadly Nadders. Whereas the groom, Brigir, was Gustav Larson's second cousin, and he favored Thunderdrums. That was a much as Astrid really cared to know.

The ceremony was beautiful enough, against the backdrop of reds and oranges consuming the forests of Berk in the distance. There was a slight chill in the air, but beneath the extra layers of wedding finery, it was not unpleasant.

What really lifted the spirits was the feast that came after. Wedding festivities in their village lasted for days, as any proper Norse wedding should, with the attire growing less stifling and restrictive, until all pretense faded away by the end of the celebration.

But even the prospect of copious drink and frivolity could not spare Astrid one day of her friends' complaining.

"This sucks," Tuffnut grumbled, conspicuously adjusting the crotch of his best pants. He went right for it too, by the handful, tugging and palming at himself.

A few people glanced disapprovingly at him, too sober to pay him no mind. The barrels had not yet been cracked open. By nightfall, Tuffnut could probably streak through the Mead Hall with half the tribe failing to notice, and the other half wouldn't much care. But he did not need any ideas to get him going.

"Could you stop that, maybe?" Astrid hissed, slapping the elbow of his offending hand.

Tuffnut rolled his eyes. "It's simple anatomy, Astrid," he replied, matter-of-factly, pointed emphatically between his legs. "You see, for us guys, when the seam on your crotch is too tight, it really strangles the--"

"I'm going to strangle you, if you don't cut that out."

"Did you even try on your formal clothes before the wedding?" Fishleg asked. He was wearing snug long sleeves, which he often found constricting over his large arms, but he had the sense not to whine about it. "I mean, we only have to endure them a few times a year."

Astrid shook her head, answering for Tuffnut, "No, that would be too practical. Sensible, even."

"Now he's stuck with pants that are two sizes too small," Snotlout snickered.

"Kind of like your brain, huh?" Astrid retorted.

"Haha, yeah!" Snotlout chortled. He paused for a beat, brow furrowing darkly. "Wait. What?"

Astrid swept her braid back over her shoulder. "I rest my case."

Snotlout opened his mouth to fire back, but was mercifully interrupted by Hiccup, making his way toward them through the sea of bodies. It was quite easy for him, as everyone readily made a way for his dragon.

Astrid's heart skipped a beat when she saw him. He dressed so unassuming normally, and only donned elaborate leather garb when flying might be involved, which was admittedly often. Only on their most formal occasions did he wear the finest tunics with silver and gold embellishments. She had not seen him in furs since their younger days, when any such cloak might swallow him. The leather he wore for now the pageantry of it, like his belt or his bracers, were classic and dignified.

"Sorry! I got away as soon as I could," he said, with a wary glance back at his father, who was busy chatting up the newlyweds in high spirits.

"Hey! That's okay!" Astrid replied, giving him a quick hug that he gladly reciprocated. "You're here now." She turned to his dragon rubbed his snout, crooning, "Hey, Toothless."

Snotlout made a sour face. "Please, don't you two start. I'm all romanced-out enough as it is."

"Start what?" Hiccup asked.

Snotlout gestured at the two of them vaguely. "You know."

Astrid smirked. "Oh. You mean this?"

She grasped Hiccup by the fur cloak pinned around his shoulders, pulling him in until she could snag him in her arms, dipping him low as one might do to a swooning maiden. He let out an indignant squawk before she silenced any burgeoning protests with a deep, theatric kiss.

Some wandering children shrieked and giggled to see them, pointing shamelessly. A few more responded with "EWW!" before running off into the crowd.

Snotlout and Tuffnut made loud retching noises while Ruffnut cackled. While the two boys found public affection between Hiccup and Astrid nauseating, Ruffnut cheered them on with great amusement.

She wolf-whistled then shouted, "Yeaaah! Get it, get it!"

"Okay, you guys," Fishlegs muttered, casting anxious glances at people nearby.

The hypocrisy was not lost on Astrid. Only moments before, she had scolded Tuffnut for lacking decorum. Now the eyes of judgment were on her. But as long as she got to kiss Hiccup and make Snotlout uncomfortable, she couldn't care less.

People began to move away from them, seeking a healthy distance from the teens' shenanigans. It was for the best.

Astrid released Hiccup and grinned, pulling him back onto his feet.

"You could warn me next time," he said, a little red in the face, pointlessly smooth out his neat and tidy tunic.

"But then it's no fun," Astrid teased, gently hip-checking him.

He cracked a smile in return.

"I need a drink," Snotlout grumbled.

He turned and strode toward the barrels of mead, quite surly. The other teens followed him with no provocation, joining the line to receive their liquid merriment; it would undoubtedly be the first round of many.

They took their drinks to an open table, dodging their parents, Berk's many dragons, and the wayward wing or tail. Toothless cleared the path ahead of them, and no mead was spilled. A feat in and of itself.

"Skol!" they shouted in unison, clinking their mugs together before knocking them back for a long gulp.

One swig became several, and Berkian mugs were crafted to be deep, and the mead was strong. As the volume of the hall around them continued to rise, so did their speech, inversely of their inhibitions.

Snotlout, in particular, was cockier the more he drank, forgetting his limitations for the confidence of a nice, steady buzz. Perhaps that was why he thought it good fun to challenge Astrid to an arm-wrestling contest, though he had not beaten her since they were thirteen. Astrid all too eagerly accepted, as the other teens, apart from Hiccup, placed their wagers. Fishlegs bet chores and the Twins bet silver; Hiccup refused to make a bet, saying it was not sporting if he already knew the outcome.

Sure enough, Snotlout's arm was leaning and trembling beneath the pressure from Astrid. Further and further, it went. He pleaded aloud, his inevitable defeat playing out in almost slow motion.

"No...no...NO!" he cried.

His arm hit the table with a dull thud, and the other teens erupted into cheers or boos, depending on which side of the wager they fell. Hiccup caught their teetering mugs before mead spilled out across the table, Tuffnut and Ruffnut each handed Fishlegs a piece of hack silver.

"Have you ever challenged her?" Snotlout asked his cousin, rolling the shoulder strained by the match.

"Why would I do that?" Hiccup asked, as if the idea was as absurd as standing on his head.

"To assert..."

"My...dominance?"

Hiccup and Astrid shared a glance, then burst into laughter. Fishlegs and the twins joined in. Toothless regarded the teens as if they had all lost their minds. Snotlout just rounded his shoulders and sulked.

"Contrary to what it may seem, I do not seek out pain and suffering," Hiccup replied, reaching for his mug.

"Then why are you dating?" Snotlout fired back.

Hiccup ignored him, drowning any retort in mead, while Astrid flashed him the middle finger.

"They seem a great deal happier than you," Fishlegs pointed out.

"Yeah, a regular dicking will do that to a person," Ruffnut mused.

Hiccup choked on his drink mid-swig and had to turn away quickly to cough and sputter into his elbow. Astrid patted his back and his dragon watched with great concern.

"I can help you with that," Snotlout offered, wiggling his eyebrows at Ruffnut, paying no mind to his flustered cousin.

"Ew, no," she dead panned.

Snotlout gestured at himself as if to insinuate he was quite the specimen.

"First, you might need to figure out how to treat a lady," Fishlegs teased.

Ruffnut whipped around scowling and Fishlegs shrunk back.

"Who are you calling a lady?" she demanded.

"Oh, and you know how to do it right, then?" Snotlout asked, sneering.

"Sure, I do!" Fishlegs answered, a little pink in the cheeks.

"Your mother doesn't count."

"Okay! You know what?" Fishlegs snapped, puffing out his chest. He rose to his feet.

"Finally! A worth opponent!" Snotlout declared, cracking his knuckles. He slammed his arm down against the table, poised in the arm-wrestling stance. "Let's go!"

Fishlegs produced a stack of the dragon cards he had made himself, throwing them down onto the table. They were functional as a game, with damage and protection points based on the natural stats of the dragons painstakingly recorded on each card. They were as practical in a tabletop battle as they were educational. Much to his friends' chagrin.

Snotlout glanced down at them. "What the actual Hel?"

"I challenge you to a game of dragon-knowledge!"

"No, I'm not doing that!" Snotlout protested, pushing the stack of cards away in disgust.

"Oh, yes you are." Fishlegs retorted, sliding them back toward him.

"Get that nerd bait away from me."

"Snotlout--!"

The two of them began to bicker, shouting over one another simultaneously, to overtake the music and dull roar of conversation, as well as each other.

Astrid rubbed her temples, leaning over to whisper to her boyfriend, "Want to dance?"

"No," Hiccup replied. Then he took her hand, swinging his legs back over the bench. "But actually, yes."

They escaped the inanities of the other riders by weaving toward the center of the chamber that had been cleared for dancing. The long tables were pushed off to the sides and the back of the Mead Hall, while the firepit blazed on in the middle. Several couples were already leaping and swirling about to the fast and cheerful music, including the bride and groom. Silent Sven beat the drum furiously to the melody of the rebec and lyre: like the enthusiasm of a summer rain, coursing through every fiber and rushing in the blood. Free from distraction, one simply had to dance.

Hiccup gestured for Toothless to stay put on the periphery, and the dragon merely cocked his head at the dancers spinning and hopping in laps around the firepit.

Astrid placed one hand on Hiccup's shoulder as he drew her close by the small of her back. Her other hand was firmly settled in his. They took a second to count the beat, and they joined in at the next measure.

The Mead Hall turned into a blur of colors and faces as they skipped forward and back, as if on a track, in one large circle around the floor, following the other couples. Hiccup twirled her at the right intervals, and Astrid beamed. Her dress fanned out as she spun, only to hug her legs once more as she moved in close to him again. Her jewelry felt heavy as she bounced on her toes, but the clacking of the beads against her chest was oddly satisfying.

"For all your reluctance to dance, you're not half bad," she told Hiccup, when she saw him smiling too.

"I never said I couldn't dance. Only that I don't purposefully seek out pain and suffering," he laughed, spinning her again.

"Aw, babe. Don't worry. There's no way you can dance with two left feet, on account you only have the one."

Hiccup let out a "Ha!" and the song came to an end. All of the dancers and several of the crowd applauded the band for their contribution. Immediately, they struck up a new chord, and the next song began, as lively as the one before it.

Astrid felt a tap on her shoulder, and she almost jumped.

Tuffnut was standing right behind her hand outstretched.

"Mind if I cut in?" he asked with a mischievous grin.

Hiccup gently pulled Astrid toward him with a frown, saying, "Yes, I do m--"

Tuffnut grasped her by her free hand and skipped off anyway, wrenching her out of her boyfriend's arms, leaving Hiccup standing there in empty-handed bewilderment.

"Here we go!" Tuffnut cried gleefully, guiding her along.

He at least had the sense to avoid placing his hands anywhere that would earn him a black eye. Then, Astrid heard Ruffnut call out, "Come on, string bean!"

She looked back to find the other girl leading a very reluctant Hiccup along after them. It became clear, however, that the twins were by no means intending any offense by their actions. They only ever meant chaos and hilarity. As Astrid settled into a cadence with her new dance partner, she just rolled her eyes and smiled. She saw that Hiccup came to the same realization. He was now dancing along with Ruffnut, with the two of them laughing at the absurdity of it.

Tuffnut whooped aloud as they pranced around the firepit, and Astrid echoed him. Several other calls and whistles responded from the observing crowd, as the drinks were now flowing freely.

When it came for time for Astrid to spin, she felt Tuffnut let go of her. As the world came back into focus and she found her footing, she was in familiar arms.

"Oh, hello," Hiccup said, holding her up against him.

Astrid looked to see that Ruffnut and Tuffnut were now partners, bouncing along like two shuffling Gronckles. She beamed from ear to ear.

The four of them continued to dance, switching up partners occasionally, until Astrid even danced with Ruffnut, leaving the boys to twirl each other around in overly dramatic fashion. Upon their third rotation around the floor, Fishlegs and Snotlout joined in. They announced their arrival, running into the fray with hands aloft, clapping loudly in time. The music played on, and Astrid suspected it was being looped for their benefit.

Forgoing partners completely, the six of them locked arms and hopped along to the beat in a chain. They had taken over, as they so often did; like the music was played just for them. Even the newlyweds cheered them on with great amusement. Astrid's face hurt from a persistent smile and breathless laughter. She could not recall another wedding she had enjoyed so thoroughly.

Gustav tried to link up with them at one point, but Snotlout held him at arm's length and mouthed, "Not you."

Astrid decided then she could tolerate the stifling formality of fancy clothes and the others' incessant whining; and all the decorum of thousand weddings if they could all be as memorable.

[asymm3]

half asleep brain strikes again

this time with a rex/savage au

prepare yourself for incoherent ramblings that turn slightly more coherent as i wake up

so we got uhhhhh rex on dathomir. do i know how he got there? no, no i do not

he’s been captured for Reasons and cannot escape bc mother talzin has done some weird magicky bullshit to his heart

it kinda looked like what the briarhearts have going on from skyrim? with the whole not-quite-open-wound-but-you-can-see-the-heart-beating thing? with the giant threads across? her magic has put a stasis thing on it so if he leaves or whatever it’ll disable and he’ll essentially die immediately bc giant open chest wound

rex is given to the nightbrothers for minding bc the nightsisters are all eW gRoSs MeN

(i guess this is pre-ventress? or ventress never did her Selection thingy and is just chilling)

but anyways rex ends up in savage’s custody. savage does not appreciate this. savage has a whole village plus a feral to be taking care of. savage does not want the small angry human. small angry human keeps trying to bite him with his baby omnivore teeth. zabrak skin is too strong for that. savage definitely does not find this biting endearing after a while. nope not at all.

after rex is a bit more healed from the open chest wound, aka it’s not actively bleeding but you can still see his heart beating which is gross but also cool, and he’s stopped actively trying to bite savage, he has to help out with the village chores and shit bc they don’t have means to support another person. a lot of the nightbrothers have suffered under the nightsisters, so a mostly-able-bodied person does have to contribute or else they are going to starve. it’s also easier for savage to keep an eye on rex is he is with him.

through interacting with the nightbrothers and working alongside them, rex learns a bit of nuance, bc not everyone that is a part of your Enemy is actually your enemy. he knows this but doesn’t Know This, yanno? it’s also easier on the psyche to generalize your Enemy as all one bad conglomerate

there is an awkward accidental vouyerism scene, aka sharing a small house and somebody is trying to jack off quietly. rex has the most confused boner bc Hot but also Imprisonment. savage thought rex was asleep. he is feeling guilty about it bc rex is a prisoner but he also keeps trying to bite savage which is Doing Something for him.

while on a hunt with savage, feral, and some others, rex ends up saving feral from a predator or some shit. he fuckin yeets a spear into that bitch. yes that scene from the zygerria arc lives in my head rent free

yay feast time! they’re not gonna waste good food! they’re also celebrating feral not dying! ft. the innate homoeroticism of drinking wine or mead and making eye contact over the rim of the cup while the other person is laughing and lit up by firelight. rex and savage are both having Big Feelings. i’m having Big Feelings. you’re maybe having Big Feelings?

they end up having nice nasty filthy sex with a side of a size kink and voice kink. (maybe also biting kink) bc savage is Proportional and likes to hear men whimper. me too bud. savage freaks out the next morning bc rex is A Prisoner and he feels guilty and like he coerced him or something. rex acknowledges the power dynamic thing but also that he very eagerly consented and would appreciate if savage didn’t disregard his autonomy please and thank you.

rex also starts to emphasize to savage that he and his brothers deserve more than the slavery and abuse they suffer under the nightsisters. which savage already knows but an outsider’s perspective and knowledge that there will be something kith there for them kinda catalyzes it for him.

there’s definitely another Morning After where rex isn’t up for breakfast and savage goes to get some for them and bring it back bc it is Polite to do so after rearranging your man’s guts and turning his legs to jelly. good natured teasing from feral and the others ensues bc that’s what younger siblings and friends are for.

but uh oh spaghettios, the nightsisters return for rex bc dooku/mother talzin wants to use him for nefarious purposes. like a sleeper agent type thing, creating some latent mind control with Magic tm and then using him to kill jedi or something (listen plot isn’t my strong suit)

savage really can’t do anything to stop them from taking rex and is big mopey man until feral and a few others show up armed to the teeth bc they are going to get rex back. savage can either go with them or sit around and mope but they are getting rex back whether he likes it or not bc rex is Their Human Too.

meanwhile, rex is getting the everliving physical and mental shit tortured out of him. cuz whoopsies, he doesn’t break that easily and he’s got someone to stay sane for. nightbrothers attack the nightsisters, action shit happens, they get rex back. my original thought was to have feral die, but that feels mean and i don’t like it so he maybe loses an arm. or some fingers. prolly gets his horns broken with a side of head injury. who knows

uh oh spaghettios part 2, the stasis on rex’s weird heart wound thingy starts to fail. very sad. we cri. savage is cradling a dying rex while rex pets his horns. savage is crying and begging rex not to die. then ventress shows up bc she’s had enough of this bullshit (somebody’s jedi upbringing kicking in a little?) and she’s able to prolong the stasis. rex is alive but not doing too hot, so they take ventress’ ship (which is somehow big enough to hold an entire village shhh stop asking questions) and they go pick up the rest of the nightbrothers that stayed behind.

ngl i have no idea where it would go from here. like if they go to the jedi for help, both for rex and the nightbrothers, realistically they’re gonna lose rex back to the GAR. however, the mental image of ventress dropping off an entire ship of refugees and a dying subordinate to obi-wan is hilarious. but if they don’t go to the jedi, they’re not gonna have the support the nightbrothers need.

so i guess ventress drops them off at obi-wan and then dips? it’s like they have a weird custody battle going. ventress is the semi-deadbeat dad.

so rex doesn’t die (yay) but now they have to deal with a whole “rex is still property of the GAR” kind of thing. maybe a convenient loophole? since rex has been “dead” by GAR standards for a hot minute. or if he is married to savage by nightbrother standards he’s a free person (inspired by @/blackkatmagic’s marriage-loophole fics bc they are my favorites) (not gonna tag them bc i am Shy and do not want to be A Bother but go read their stuff it’s amazing and big inspiration, especially for rarepairs)

anyways they get a happy ending bc i say so

[atopvisenyashill]

this is a very unserious question im sorry(hence the anon)!!!!

but has any dish/meal mentioned in asoiaf stood out to you?

im personally still thinking about the bomb-ass chowder davos had in ADWD

all the love xx

noooo this is a fun one!

for anyone who forgot, i believe this is the famous sisters stew anon is referencing:

The beer was brown, the bread black, the stew a creamy white. She served it in a trencher hollowed out of a stale loaf. It was thick with leeks, carrots, barley, and turnips white and yellow, along with clams and chunks of cod and crabmeat, swimming in a stock of heavy cream and butter. It was the sort of stew that warmed a man right down to his bones, just the thing for a wet, cold night. Davos spooned it up gratefully.

it does sound good as fuck. with the crabmeat and butter and vegetables. mmmmmm.

it happens a lot but i always love when they just mention having some bread and cheese for dinner, maybe a protein - jon does this a lot at the wall which makes sense bc it’s easy to preserve bread and cheese by freezing it. i am a charcuterie bitch lmao so whenever a character is like oh just a lil carbs and dairy, idk, i think it’s kinda cute and funny.

i have always loved the feast bran throws for his guests in bran iii acok because i love the descriptions of how differently the various houses in the north eat throughout the chapter. i also looooove seafood and the seafood the manderlys bring sounds so good:

Lord Wyman had brought twenty casks of fish from White Harbor packed in salt and seaweed; whitefish and winkles, crabs and mussels, clams, herring, cod, salmon, lobster and lampreys. There was black bread and honeycakes and oaten biscuits, there were turnips and peas and beets, beans and squash and huge red onions, there were baked apples and berry tarts and pears poached in strongwine. Wheels of white cheese were set at every table, above and below the salt, and flagons of hot spice wine and chilled autumn ale were passed up and down the tables.

I love honeycakes descriptions as well - i LOVE honey, i am a honey fiend, i love going to farmer’s markets and buying the lil sticks and getting organic types aksksk so i love when honeycakes are mentioned too. Like this breakfast description here, makes me soooo hungry, rich people really know how to do a good breakfast spread:

In the Queen's Ballroom they broke their fast on honeycakes baked with blackberries and nuts, gammon steaks, bacon, fingerfish crisped in breadcrumbs, autumn pears, and a Dornish dish of onions, cheese, and chopped eggs cooked up with fiery peppers. "Nothing like a hearty breakfast to whet one's appetite for the seventy-seven-course feast to follow," Tyrion commented as their plates were filled. There were flagons of milk and flagons of mead and flagons of a light sweet golden wine to wash it down.

And the dornish hot sauce!!!!!

The best snake sauce had a drop of venom in it, he had heard, along with mustard seeds and dragon peppers.

I love hot sauce and it sounds like a spicy mustard! Having venom AND peppers?? HELL YEAH LETS GO BARBECUE!!!!!!

[miniaturemoonheart]

Litha

Yummy food suggestions for your celebration

Traditional fare includes bread, cheese, edible flowers, citrus fruit, mead, wine, milk, ale and vegetables. More recipes are offered in Pagan Celebration of Midsummer/Litha – the Summer Solstice.

Faerie’s Kiss:

Shake together 2ces each white Crème de Cacao and white Crème de Menthe and 4 ounces cold milk. Pour over ice chips. Garnish with mint leaves and Maraschino cherries.

Non-alcoholic version: Blend 1 cup chocolate milk and 1/2 teaspoon mint extract.

Rock Cornish Game Hen with Tarragon: 1/2 cup margarine in sauce pan. Add 1/2 cup dry white wine and 1-1/2 tablespoon crumbled dried tarragon. Simmer for five minutes. Put 4 ( 1 pound) Rock Cornish Game hens into baking pan. Pour wine sauce over. Roast at 375 degrees for about 1 hour or until done, when juices, when pricked, run clear, basting frequently. Serve with wild rice.

Sautéed Carrots and Pecans: Sl1 pound carrots diagonally and gently boil until crisp. Drain and set aside. Melt 2 tablespoons margarine. Add 1/2 cup chopped pecans, 1 teaspoon sugar and carrots. Mix well. Sauté until carrots are golden.

Penne with Blue Cheese: Cook the 1 popenne until done and drain. Return to pot. Add 6 ounces crumbled bleu cheese, 4 ounces margarine and 1/4 cup sliced Kalamata olives to the penne. Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly until cheese is melted and ingredients are blended. Serve immediately.

Summer Salad: Toss together 1/2 poundh sliced raw pea pods, thinly sliced raw mushrooms, sliced cucumbers or zucchini, sliced radishes, 1 (16 ounce) can sliced artichoke hearts and 1/4 cup slivered almonds. Dressing: Blend together 1/4 cup olive oil, 2 tablespoons freshly-squeezed lemon juice, 1/2 teaspoon honey mustard and a pinch of coarsely-ground black pepper. Refrigerate dressing overnight.

Citrus/Blueberry Compote: Blend toget1/2 cup water, 2 tablespoons marigold petals, 1/2 cup sugar and 1 teaspoon grated lemon rind. Boil, stirring until sugar dissolves. Cool. Combine 1 1/2 cups each orange, lime and tangerine slices and 2 cups blueberries. Pour water mixture over fruit and chill overnight. Serve over lemon angel food cake

Feast of Faeries: Afterglow Celebration

Relax after dining on fine food and drink. Contemplate the personal power within your Higher Self. Reflect on the symbolism of the Sun and the Divine guidance that is given.

Recognize that that the power of Summer is the gift of attaining all that you want to manifest, through the grace of the Divine, is yours to bring into fruition now. Thank the Fae for their gifts. Abundance will be yours.

[skyler10fic]

Wonder: Ch. 2 - By Night

Summary: This magic AU ends with Daisy and Carol making their relationship official at a bonfire party under the full moons, followed by an intimate moon festival tradition. ;)

Ch. 1 rated G, this chapter rated M for sexy times

Read on Ao3

-------------------

In the forest clearing known as The Feast, young adults gathered to celebrate the full moons. Legend had it that when both moons shone in whole, any number of new possibilities were born. Bonfires crackled, providing light and warmth against the chill of the night. Mead and ciders flowed from barrels on the tavern cart, and music enchanted all to put aside their worries and inhibitions. Beautiful witches danced in colorful but sheer dresses, revealing a tantalizing amount of skin and flowers in their hair. Daisy’s was braided with her namesake woven in, and as she approached the party, she shed her black silk cloak to reveal a deep purple flowing skirt and midriff-baring top she’d designed herself, of crossing fabric holding her breasts in place while she moved. She scanned the crowd for Carol but didn’t see her, which wasn’t entirely surprising given Carol’s last flight would have only landed just before sunset. 

Daisy refused several offers to dance from all genders and orders, but she anxiously kept watch for Carol as the small talk persisted anyway. One, a friend of Fitz’s named “Deke,” even went so far as to put his arm around her in a drunken sign of affection. 

“It’s mind-blowing. Boom! We’re all just part of this big world, you know?” he slurred. “You and me and the stars up there.” He sloshed his drink as he gestured to the sky. 

With him blocking her view, and their friends gathered around them laughing at Deke’s drunkeness, Daisy couldn’t see Carol arrive. After a bit of this, she growled under her breath in frustration but tried to stay polite in front of everyone to avoid trouble. “Actually, my girlfriend is coming soon, so I better get her a drink.” 

Daisy shrugged off Deke’s arm just as Carol broke into their circle. Daisy was so happy to see her, she practically launched herself into a hug. Carol, in turn, glowed with happiness at the sudden full-body contact and Daisy’s enthusiasm. Just as quickly, Daisy led Carol off by the hand to the tavern cart. 

“Girlfriend, hm?” Carol asked as soon as they were out of earshot. 

“Sorry, I know we aren’t actually courting, but he was just so frustrating and I am really, really happy you’re here,” Daisy rushed out, panting and smiling at her own obvious lovesickness. 

“No, no, girlfriend is good.” Carol pulled Daisy out of the drink line and off to the side where the dark edge of the forest met the light of the party, then wrapped her arms around Daisy’s waist and stroked the bare skin on her back. “Lady Daisy of the House of Shield, may I initiate this courtship with a dance?” 

“I’d be honored, Captain of Mar-Vell,” Daisy teased back in equal formality.  

Their first dance was a bawdy jig, but the musicians eventually slowed into a romantic ballad that put Carol’s lips close to Daisy’s ear. 

“You know,” Carol said softly, “I was afraid for a second when I saw you with that warlock’s arm around you that I’d gotten it wrong about us. But then you saw me…” 

“Yeah?” Daisy pulled back and hummed in happiness. “Figured it out by the attack hug?” 

“No, just before that. Your whole face changed. It was like you were glowing too. But not literally like I do, you know what I mean.” 

Daisy laughed gently. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“Good to know I’m not the only obvious one of us,” Carol laughed in return. 

Daisy leaned in, hypnotized by the combination of Carol’s touch, the music, the firelight, the crowd, the moons… “I think this should be obvious enough for everyone to see.” 

She laid a hand on Carol’s cheek and drew her in for a searing first kiss. Carol melted into her and they stopped swaying to the music altogether, lost in their own personal fairytale. When they parted, they were brought back to earth by the clapping of their friend group, including a sheepish Deke who had been put in his place and magically sobered up by Jemma.     

The dances returned to full party mode and all exhausted themselves trying to keep up with the tunes of the fiddles and flutes. The Feast’s main event, its namesake meal, was served at midnight, and soon after, couples and small groups began wandering off down a moons-lit trail to the ruins of an abandoned castle and stonehouse village nearby. 

During the next slow romantic dance, Carol asked Daisy to go “on a walk,” and Daisy’s heart raced, knowing what she meant and where they were going. It was hard to calm down, hearing muffled noises of pleasure as they walked along, shadows of motion from behind trees or around corners hinting at the source.  

They found a small house off the main path that still had a door for privacy. Daisy cast a locking spell and a soundproofing spell while Carol started a fire in the fireplace. When they were done, they turned back to each other, nervous and unsure of how to get started. 

“Um, so,” Carol began, “your mom came to see me at work today?” 

Not exactly the erotic opening line Daisy had been expecting. 

“Oh no,” Daisy sighed. She took Carol’s hands. “I am so sorry, whatever she said to you.” 

Carol shrugged. “I’m not worried.” 

Daisy’s expression told her perhaps this was an error of judgment. 

“Okay,” Carol clarified. “I mean, she is intimidating, yes, but she said she wasn’t going to try to keep us apart and she knew you would just court me anyway, so instead she threatened me if I harmed you. But I could never do that, so I’m not worried.” 

“Yeah?” Daisy searched Carol’s eyes for any regret or hesitation at getting mixed up in her intense family. “And just so I’m prepared, am I going to be getting a similar visit from Mother Mar-Vell?” 

Carol laughed. “No, no, she’s all on board. She thinks after a while, when we’re a boring old couple, we’ll stop being so obsessed with each other and everything will be back to normal, go to work, come home, report to the order, just ordinary life.”

Daisy worried her lip. “You know I don’t have an ordinary life, right? My House is always moving. We come back here, yeah, but I won’t always be home at the end of every day. That’s not what I do.” 

Carol shrugged. “I’m a pilot. Maybe we travel together, with you selling your wares and me flying it to places your parents wouldn’t have reached with the eagles flying slower and closer to the ground. Maybe we coordinate our travel schedules so we’re in town on the same days and apart for a few days. We’ll figure it out. This is only the first night of the rest of our lives.” 

“But the last night we’ll have together for two weeks,” Daisy reminded her. The eagles flew her House caravan away at midday tomorrow. 

“Then let’s make the most of it,” Carol teased, running her hand under the fabric of Daisy’s top. Their hands fumbled as they kissed, loosening their garments but too unpracticed to get them off while so distracted. 

Carol backed Daisy against the smooth, worn stone wall of the house and her hand found its way under the loosened fabric to palm Daisy’s bare breast. Daisy bucked her hips in return and moved her thigh between Carol’s. Their lips gave way to tongues and moans and desperate mewls as they grinded against each other, hands under tops and in hair and pulling hips closer. Carol tugged Daisy’s skirt up for better access while continuing to grind against Daisy’s thigh, and Daisy cried out at Carol’s hot but gentle touch. Daisy began trembling, starting to lose control. 

Carol kissed her and whispered, “Doing okay?” 

“Yes, yes, please don’t stop,” Daisy begged. 

“Okay, just making sure.” Carol increased the speed and pressure of her strokes, watching Daisy carefully. 

“I’m good. Notice how it’s just me shaking, not the walls?” Daisy panted and glanced down to Carol’s trousers. “Take those off. You’ll like it, I promise.” 

Carol did as instructed but immediately returned to their rhythm of grinding and fingering. Without the extra layer of fabric, she understood what Daisy meant about her vibrations. The wonder and pleasure on Carol’s face told Daisy all she needed to know. 

Carol moved her fingers faster with one hand while gripping Daisy’s hip with the other. Daisy felt like she was going to explode, building up to an ecstasy like she’d never experienced with a partner. 

“Fuck, yes, UnHhhh!” Daisy’s orgasm crested and washed over her, making her whole body shake more intensely, overwhelmed by pleasure. Carol only needed a second longer and grinded herself against Daisy’s thigh with a cry of release in kind. They touched and stroked and devoured each other with kisses until they were nearly too tired to stand. 

“Mmm,” Daisy giggled, love drunk, “I know what can help.” 

“New legs?” Carol joked and moved to lean against the wall next to Daisy in exhaustion. 

“This.” Daisy pulled a wand out of the magically enhanced pocket of her skirt. “Wanda made a Washer Wand that’s for skin. She called it ‘cleanup on the go.’ I’m pretty sure she meant to use it for babies, but it works just as well for adult activities.” 

Carol laughed, and Daisy freshened them up so they could redress, look innocent enough to rejoin the party, and eventually make it home without raising suspicion of what they had actually been up to at the Feast. 

Daisy looked up at the moons and squeezed Carol’s hand as they wandered back down the path to the party. “The first night of the rest of our lives, huh? Seems like this life is going to be a pretty amazing one.” 

“A life with you? Of course it’s going to be wonderful.” Carol stopped to kiss her sweetly before they rejoined their friends and the Feast, just in time for dessert.

[tilosecretbirb]

A stay Over in region 2 would include...

if the company stayed over in region 2 before entering mirkwood here's what they could expect.

Dwelbit pebbles and offshoots crowding around all wide eyed and smiley. Bouncing around them. Examining their clothes. Asking them questions.

They would get climbed on like playground equipment.

Thorin would get extra attention all the little ones would follow him with super wide eyes. He's The Mountain King!!!!

Whenever he would turn around they would scatter giggling excitedly. They'd make him big flower crowns

Upon hearing Fíli and Kíli are his nephews they would get big flower crowns too. They're the mountain princes and they get followed around too but it's far more blatant. Most likely to be attacked by hugs to the knees.

Bilbo would get a daisy flower crown and special pipeweed.

Balin, Óin,Bombur, Glóin, and Dori would all get such preferential treatment at tea time

Mead. Plum wine. Mead. Wine. Mead. Mead. Wine. Mead. Mead on a loop the whole time.

Pebbles and offshoots ask bilbo for stories because He's A Hobbit!!

Party deer hunt followed up by feasting all night long

Dancing so much dancing.

Dwelbit games like willow ring and raven toss

They all get flirted with. All of them.

They all get sweet talked and asked to bed by at least 5 people.

Once the party is over the daily life continues and things settle down and they can just chill.

They can play with lambs and go for walks

Read and craft and play instruments

Go to learn stained glass or to the forge

Or just sit around and relax

everyone ggets new clothes and new weaponry when they leave

[sciencestyled]

Skalds, DNA, and a Winter So Cold It'd Freeze Your Horns Off: Ragnar Lodbrok Spills the Mead on Our Ancestors' Epic Survival

Ahoy, Tumblr kin! Gather 'round our digital campfire, for we've got a tale that'll make your modern-day struggles look like a walk in Valhalla. You see, Ragnar Lodbrok here, yes, the Viking hero of old, has taken a break from raiding to narrate a saga so epic, it'll make your ancestors' bones rattle with pride.

Picture this: 900,000 years ago, Earth was gripped by a winter so brutal, it made Jotunheim's frost giants look like icicles at a summer feast. Our ancestors, those plucky predecessors of ours, were facing a deep freeze that could freeze the blood in their veins. Not your everyday chill, but a freeze that would make the bravest warrior shiver in his fur boots.

You're probably scratching your head, wondering how a battle-hardened Viking like me knows about such ancient times. Well, I've been chatting with some scholarly types, like Nick Ashton and Chris Stringer. These brainy warriors have been scouring the past like I've scoured seas, using their smart-people tools to uncover secrets about this icy epoch.

During this frosty era, known as the Middle Pleistocene transition, our world transformed into a frozen wasteland. Forests bowed to the relentless march of ice, and creatures either adapted or kicked the bucket. Our ancestors, a hardy bunch, but not quite Vikings, were a leaner breed of human, struggling to survive in a world turning against them.

Ashton and Stringer, these scholarly heroes, say this merciless winter caused a 'population bottleneck.' Imagine trying to pour mead through a narrow horn, and only a trickle gets through. That's what happened. Their numbers dwindled, squeezed by the frosty grip of this endless winter, until there were only about 1,300 breeding warriors and shieldmaidens left.

These few, these brave few, clung to life like barnacles to a longship's hull. For almost 120,000 years, they battled this frigid foe. This wasn’t a battle of axes and swords, but of will, grit, and a burning desire to survive against the odds.

What's more, this chill left its mark on us, in our very genes. These modern-day seers have used FitCoal (Fast Infinitesimal Time Coalescent) magic, reading the runes hidden in our DNA to find traces of this struggle for survival.

So, raise your horns to those ancient warriors of survival. Their battle against a winter that would chill the bones of Ymir himself is a story we should never forget.

Now, let's talk about FitCoal, the seer’s tool more cunning than Loki. It's a method to peer deep into the past, using our genes. Think of it as a longship, not with oars and sails, but with the power to voyage back through the murky seas of time.

FitCoal is like having the sharpest-eyed raven in the skies. It looks at the patterns in our DNA and relays dispatches of our ancestors. They found that our forebears' numbers dwindled down to a mere 1,300 souls. For 120,000 years, they clung to life, their numbers as scant as leaves on trees in the dead of winter.

But how did these transformations occur? It was the result of unflinching pressure, the kind that turns coal into diamonds. This period of hardship may well have been the forge in which the chromosomal fusion, a hallmark of our species, was crafted.

Our ancestors' trials shaped our genome, carving out traits that would see us thrive in a world that was constantly shifting. Our capacity for adaptation, our unparalleled knack for survival, is their gift to us.

The future skalds, the scientists and storytellers of tomorrow, have yet to write their revelations, their discoveries yet to be told. The scripts of the past are a guide; it's their hand that will carve the scripts of the future.

So, there you have it, Tumblr folks. A story of survival, resilience, and icy battles that makes your winter woes look like a tropical vacation. Skål to our ancestors, the true heroes of humanity's saga! 🍻🗡️🛡️

[bewitchingbooktours]

Dancing Vampires by Cornelia Amiri #HauntedHalloweenSpooktacular

Samhain—Halloween’s Alluring Ancestor

Samhain, (sow-in) is the Celtic New Year, and it falls from October 31st to November 1st. It was also a magical day. The ancient Celts believed that since Samhain fell between the old year and the new, it was a day without time. That diminished the veil between the earthly and the ethereal (the worlds of mortals and immortal—the dead and the living).

We get many of our modern Halloween traditions from ancient Samhain lore. To celebrate the new year, the ancient Celts feasted on fresh picked turnips, apples, and hazelnuts, and left plates of delectable food, mead, and treats out for their ghostly kin visiting from across the veil for Samhain.

Let’s talk about those turnips. The ancient Celts also masterfully sculptured mangel-wurzels, a hearty turnip, to look like skulls, and placed candles inside to light them within. Sounds like the modern-day tradition of jack-o’-lanterns, doesn’t it?

And those apples. They were as big a part of Samhain as today’s caramel apples, candy apples, bobbing-apples. But on Samhain, you had to keep your apples away from pucas. Those mischievous, shapeshifting fey would spoil any apples left after the feast. Even now, I’d think twice before biting into an apple plucked post-Halloween. A sneaky puca might be lurking around.

And what about hazelnuts? It was believed they gave wisdom and vigor to anyone who ate them. Maybe I should eat a handful of two on Halloween to seek ancient insight.

But the ancient Celts weren’t vegetarians, a big part of the Samhain feast was boiled and roasted meat. As autumn bid farewell, livestock not fit for winter’s chill met their fate, ensuring a table heaped with rich meats. And to wash it down? Nothing less than the most intoxicating ale or mead.

But the feast was just part of the rowdy Samhain festival. The Celts also celebrated with lively games, from thrilling hurling matches to exhilarating horse races.

The main event of the evening was the massive, roaring bonfire. In Ireland, the druids ensured that each year, when the sun went down on the hill of Tlachtga (Hill of Ward) about 12 miles from Tara, they ignited the grandest fire—its flames reaching out to the inky night freckled with sparkling stars and crowned by a silver crescent moon. 

Dancing Vampires 

Cornelia Amiri

Genre: Fantasy Romance

Publisher: Cornelia Amiri 

Date of Publication:  ‎April 30, 2017

ISBN: 1545309116

ASIN: B06ZZS5S8R

Number of pages: 422

Word Count: 111,673

Cover Artist: Kyra Starr

Tagline: Remember when you were having the best day ever and, in a flash, it turned into the worst one?

Book Description:

This is the complete six-book novella series of Dancing Vampires: Dance of the Vampires, Vampire Highland Fling, A Bonnie Vampire Dancer, Vampire Waltz, Valkyrie Vampire Sword Dancing, and Some Vampires Shimmy.

Remember when you were having the best day ever and, in a flash, it turned to the worse one?

Coming from the pub with your brothers, having a laugh, you see seven stunning women standing in the road. One starts dancing with you. Her sexy red fingernails turn to talons, and she shreds your back.

No? Maybe stuff like that just happens to me and my brothers… and a few other guys in the Scottish Highlands.

Ian’s right. I’m Sorcha, the one he danced with. My sisters and I are vampiric-fey. We were hunting men. But we only went after the McDuff brothers, a god, a bagpiper, an IT guy, and a steampunk musician. That’s it.

We decided to forget about drinking their blood and try loving them instead. But even with all the sizzling passion Ian and I and my sisters and their lovers have for each other… they’re obstacles to forbidden love.

Two big ones are:

The war goddess Morrigan. You do not want to make her mad.

And the Valkyries. Those you-know-what’s are bananas covered in nuts.

To find out if my sisters and I conquer them all and end up with the men we love, hit the Buy Now button above and come dance with the vampires.

Amazon      BN     Apple     Smashwords     Kobo

      “What?” Mordak asked. Me? Love a human? Of course not. “By the goddess, you’ve lost your minds. I just want this one’s blood for myself. Run along, get your own. We’ll meet at the portal before dawn.”       “See you back at the cairn.” Fuamnach tilted her chin in the air and vanished.       Aithbhreac disappeared as well.       Mordak shifted her eyes back to the mortal. His mere presence commanded attention. What would be wrong with having a tryst with him? Goddess Morrigan has affairs with humans all the time.       I thought they’d never leave. She fixed her gaze on the tall, striking man, and swinging her hips in a saucy fashion, she sauntered toward him. As she “drew near him, she batted her eyelashes and flashed a smile to draw him in. Dancing with him would be even more fun than usual.       A noisy, whoosh-like, shaking sound caught her attention. What now? She gasped with shock. This cannot be.       Three women descended from the ebony sky with the wings on their bronze helmets flapping like a bird’s.       What is happening? She hadn’t drunk any heather ale today. “The vanilla-blond women landed smoothly on their feet, the wings stopped flapping and laid back on their helmets, now totally still. All three women glared at her with glacier blue eyes.       Her palms were damp with sweat, she felt shaky. The earthly realm was such a crazy place. Why did she send her sisters away? She needed them now. Whoever or whatever these tall creatures in plate armor corselets, flimsy white skirts and fur-topped boots were, they weren’t smiling at her.       She noticed the human checking out the women from the rear and glancing at her as well. He had a huge grin on his face, as if his dreams had come true. Mordak, however, faced a nightmare.       The statuesque blonde in the center tilted her chin in the air. “The man is mine.”       “Yours?” Anger pulsated through Mordak’s body. “He’s not yours.”       People couldn’t just fly down from who knows where and claim the man she liked. Mordak schooled her face into composure and met the woman’s gaze. “Just who or what…are you?”       “Randgrid.” The tallest of the blondes didn’t break her stare, not even one blink. “I am a Valkyrie.” With a thin, tight-lipped expression, she set her hand on her hip. “Be gone, baobhan sith.”       “Me. No, no…you’re the one in the wrong place.” Mordak shook her hand at the Valkyrie. “This is Scotland, not Denmark or Valhalla or wherever you think you are.”       “He’s a Gunn.” Randgrid jerked her head toward the man. “So, he is ours.”       “Of Clan Gunn?” She glared at the silly woman in the winged helmet. “The word clan is the whole point. He’s Scottish. He’s mine.”       Randgrid and her two sisters said together, “Gunn is the point. The descendant of a Viking hero is ours.”

About the Author: 

Cornelia Amiri was introduced through books to the woman who became her favorite historical character, Boudica. The Celtic Warrior Queen made her start writing professionally. Cornelia loves history and in reading a book about the dark ages, she came across the rebel queen, who inspired Cornelia so much, she started jotting down notes, but they were fiction, visions of her involved in the Boudica revolt. Before Cornelia knew it, she’d accidentally written a rough draft for a novel. And she’s been writing books on purpose ever since. Drawing on her love of a happy ending, Cornelia has written over 40 published romance books.

Now, for the more mundane stuff — Cornelia Amiri and her muse, Severus the Cat, live amid the hustle and bustle of sultry Houston, Texas. When not writing, Cornelia loves to read, watch movies, and attend comic cons. She is currently working on a sequel to Rare Finds and a sequel to The Brass Octopus, which she is renaming and republishing as The Librarian and the Rake.

Website https://corneliaamiri.com/

Twitter https://twitter.com/CorneliaAmiri

Tiktok https://www.tiktok.com/@corneliaamiri2

Facebook https://www.facebook.com/CelticRomanceQueen 

Instagram https://www.instagram.com/celticromancequeen

Goodreads https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/475961.Cornelia_Amiri 

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[libidomechanica]

Lowder had his wide oppen the doctor, says

A sonnet sequence

               1

While her than foe: who touch wit is my gossyb wente, for with holy watery wight, and therwith! It was o’ the great? And chast, and shake, thought be, but for to money, consider, I pray the saintly straying. That when I spak never debaat. Fair pledges of give, singing to me. And play at here liued thirdly, commence into the corniced shape: tis preservation; and gather’s eyes around him, and tumbled at the long? Whispering I knew how insane the writes with grasse, the same who limit much more at all, thy loves her, she feasts. It sings, which doth use you that the Fauns from their tongue with snow.

               2

She spake came back to light, and the postboys fastened the youth of shepeheardes outgoe, wither’s finger of candidates request, as might. To find to the scope to deck herself from the dim fields of building away, when as a yoke appearing a forest could hope to die. On her god day: but priuely prolling lips are five way physician, as the one return, and Hoigh for a reminiscence. Inside of my foe, the turn from whence that happed in thy silver proverbe though I leaves are alike to bear to the same seas, nor death. Its scent of inwardly dies, the tears. This is to seek and queers?

               3

And let me have some alchymic fur. Self- same day that first if a Woolfe were forsook for love! Perhaps she epistle, they’re silent voice crie al this is swayed: Ay—there’s glorious, and second wedlock; and Rome keep the moonbeam entertain grief pre-scorches mixt; with miserably crave. For that gan weepe: for even me, choose. From whence to Sidyngborne that matter when it has no been with the moon. Wed in this. True loved her Am I your his lyf. Thy memory frontier of age,—the feeldes walke another kings had caught: had my friend: the blade of intricately as thou, with those mead so chill.

               4

I snap the hung just skipping o’er treasure? Father sapphires, and walke or witty, shal berė hym on lyve! In the forgo, maugree the pills. Moves but fairer to dighte Seint Joce! Had also like a lady’s grace to look, O shine cold elements warp us of this pack, and spring at a dusky colours of cold presence our great wall; and, without the simmer season. Striped like seraph’s winged hem keepe your eyes around then I prayed. Four for t espye, and tell by the old! Old England is the breath aloud, and faire to give your branchise designed to endured. She wear, play ye die! That Socrates him mad!

               5

How eager all his lanterne; he who waits in a folding his wyf. Blooms, it is whispering to tae that she, off, with my tirade. Led for me thy love, then what Fortune once against my windings to itself verdantly still were thy yellow’d him between each night and brought I may find one weirs, the his darkness forgets, arising out of sleep I sawe a shall had slipping o’er there was, is the air, to march, in gazing heard a devil mocks they ever them. It chanced, as men and rhyme and Becket’s blood runs out of my foe, they are call, at London winter will search of bread: no hungry gorge.

               6

A tenderneath thee and Rotten goods and spoke, then shepheards to thee, robed in suc secure— she in pieces with the grass-grown wearied of his fix’d upon a condition, till not hides his alone has voued themself had caught was her, must allowed away, for Lover call our last peak of other pride I beren hem remayne, no such was not a moon is in myn housbonde fort, coward: you turn that tongue would then she were! The sphere, but who level, when long traueile I ween: an exquisite? Any manere long starvings fresh one—hawk’d about: weel, sine that shall see raised, her arms she was a morning breasts.

               7

I’ll leaves lie huddled and bene very friend would charming mortals general, awful package, and keep you, than weddyng, in his happy men to her love, too, by the Kirke pill of thilke same lovely lady so youthful. Then he had in fresh aray? For ever twiste. Will bringen in his owene hours: the same shouldst thou liggen in years of thilkė tonnė that shall appoint with women: howsoever set? Were manere. The trees, comes into play hiss hence, and grass, the less to hye. In feelings to have chosen that sholde I taken of my limbs with the mery money. Wildly on Sir Leoline. If though heroes.

               8

How we have his main. The sea, and syne he kissed the night hear. The peace and here robben one delit. Is not eares, but not all as further blesse his more Foole for an inch, but one cool hours better spreads to spill, then why not my staggering heart is calm, tho’ wretched plight to know they muddle along his condition growes one is solid, like Banquo’s offspring o’er her mind can never less thy sweet flowers. Any moe. For Rights of love the one for their charge, which that have anyone out. And seyde, Deere so level, such confine, that my bower? And thus seistow, olde suffix was of hem scorne.

               9

From source of Thirst. But one came on my cheek, be for a woman, as I were eek ther wise travell’d his homes of sapless nor can integrity our lowd desires reuenge, is a rose; but a parade; the great song to your gown to keep eek my love, thy father lips asunder at needs twenty-nine doth your visions private paining. My sire shrewėd Lameth, and a flatt’ry so low upon his hauty hornes dim in the walke another blessednesse, and in flowres of fauour, and rhyme, exceeded not recall that if that doesn’t matter; that cheeks unprofan’d by the hand cast over is the year and so from a wing a conversation through THAT Love and the right of Albion’s birth, it covers bene very paper, my saucy bark in nor dare with force, charmingly fair guests, or good in mildnesse, endlesse and with circulation of the Spring cry, from his through a descendant.

               10

I don’t want to hem ful bitterly, in no foully rude, thankes, he heat burnt from the numbers kept there, from Oxford up your noble scions were sometimes a piece of a shrewe! We loved through he was, I trow, the lamp will not how so yellow-green, and thus again. For the Nereids fair wind it out for his eyes with a wood society is not forgot his own, and iolly sheepe, for he had told men may no while there, from that Fortune meanes, but little of a caste pissed on my face, and by prodigy full gaze, and there. And for why should death. Good at my feign’d page. If thou goest sail’d by the world.

               11

You had but if he had hem so a werkė, by my soul’s imagine, she could no dice;— save God on he heard him sing in that the immortal looks odd in Vernet’s down the herbs under the samė wordes bitwene the lady pass my verse, under the moon. Such il, as God hadde a povre womman was glad to speken of martyrs awed, as mortals generation, there marriage; for the dove’s pinion, in a treasure! On you the grass, stood half her death-bed she goes, bene all the embosom’d tree, able to inhale the devilish doctrine of the rose his adjunct pleasure; men love is to lose thee?

               12

That erst perfumes keep open my dream, with a grand arms I put on seventeen. May ne’er womman makes me dead? Window. This younglings it be better steadfast, still see more could pour my syde, that I go, shal nat with a passions, airs; ’gainst odds to join the close showed, thy gentle Juan was not clear stream, and high condemned, which shrinks, some stick a needle through in the thou truth.—But me why the chain so sure: her hair spread out in the othere waning mucks at a beauty off in which that strong; what could feel most twig that made a stranger yet on her arms o’ the pointer wheels. For pittied is me! Lulled they boast here!

               13

Rife with feather, father’s pocketbook. While Europe’s eye, and fleet as transitory perhaps from Egina isle fresh from danger, freedom a drug of wine and yet God dispart its little earliest of virtue slumber sheepes clothing shadow loud, now my discover, and nought seemeth ay greater rolled her for to me. The Gate her give one for Annie turnpike road, detain, but my heart has been raise of snarlings frae his transportation of all the better, and by my feet, his best dream of the dove itself shall went down, and the reform’d a dreams of the shepheards sorowe, that rage outside immortal work his sheepe ah seely she drank wyn, though ne’er was gone: she also, that he begins to reveal feelings like sand, the church’s seat of the capital, whiplash through many othere seen me go: take the right, whom those, on his card, was give me in thee and cupp’d him Rx Pulv Com gr.

               14

Gone retort have prated the midnight, to stombling is broken bigge Bulles of Salt, and gladly, nyght I wept for our scanty but rued the royal harlotte Street, Home, Euclid, Decatur, Union, o’er kings, all shoe thy hand home in themselfe was you wear the blue night did it woot, he show’d what peace has rouse: and shall price, which o’er their miscreaunce, heaping allusions for me thy sacrifice: the foote. But soft sheepe both seal’d with a passport for his does knowe a femele from mountains, and rank’d with his anthem, where be found, save this is allyes—thus much wrestling rill to thee, and the cell; sir Leoline!

               15

To wedde me to the lofty lady, surpasseth, saue the sun like a boon so greet chiefe fall from out of my fourty, if I can, I will now,—death’s neighebores wyf go roule about a little feuds, at the cock has paled with thee alone as we see or sell, what sacred majesty your ends promove: o no! Stretch for a cave, and to permitted ferry’s flown, many a morning Contemplation. Has earth forget such peers by express water poured pearls complain, whose Honours to comfort both; but what is then sight honest melody they that oxen, as wel after my self I lye.

               16

And thus began to her moist comes and thus seistow that hour halls, and in the maiden, to some few slight come, my body, in the sea: where presence into fonts met in course, nor Captain of a slight, your name was water, save from hearsed the steeples peeping in such a web or two days, robert Burns: leeze me once, and event. For, love, and of mine when you thinke of charm, these her bright thus she leant on a chance, hath the samė wordes writeth Ptholomee; rede in his chalky, whil that Crist hymself and to make me in time, you shalt behold, and ivy dun round my staggering to your housbondes han sold thee henceforth, with his head of Proserpine still I not well might, the lady bower-door, at least, dun and wide, will doe, as myn herte despitus. Want a glow, instead of generative error the dungeon-ghyll so foul break no squares by no distinction the brightest hour with thin gray beards swaine.

               17

Which for a return no more could not lovers do. Mouths of gifts appeal; black hole in honde he meadows bathe thresholds, in a vision on the glen sae rashy, O, aboon the ocean is, this your best, open they nould a man that end is the samė wordes bitwene the fewer Woolues yrent, and, from Egina isle fresh from weary night at you beginning a part with the memory of the pane I know you had been a dreme. In summer’s soule doth weep, like Caractacus in the watch the slabbed steps, and cupp’d hills her eyes, by youth, north, those stealth, and Sir Leoline tallest of all ther neck.

               18

Com neer, my self grew to burn; and, swiftly spreads the thine ear. For Right thus, God omnipotentates, summon, ah! And moved, as one down by Saul Bellow When we meet again, and thy light star! And the cause my bed- feet. I love is single with hem emong, and all the well! Wept the ocean breeze is well drench. Life reach me so that, but behold! And tell exactly tread, and made my ioye shepheards sorowe, ne lenger agoe, I sawe in the eastern high wood, he had thy love. Flame, who did not catch, mething quite by the whole of inward feathers of mind, which that nightly pass there was melted and my head.

               19

A kind of his fo; lucia, like despair, na langer too? Amid this Geraldine, I prated and having shadow lour’d of the skies, where juniper expres worthy to nurse at first attempt even they lose here thing’s first this tribulacioun be without abhorr’d: how eager face the fashion deck’d; also my land thother kind of the self-kill’d. To come, and stretch form the time, and I love you could ne’er sae fu’ o’ wae! That Jankyn, oure clerk, was pray, since I vowed with honoured of snow upon occasion, was to knowe though such is dumber, an old man vsed to thy faces, where Laura’s head.

[volmarrsheathenism]

AI Generated Yule Poem

Winter’s chill fills the air As Yule approaches, we prepare To honor the gods and goddesses In the old ways of our ancestors Frigga, Frey, Thor, and Odin too We pray to them, our hearts full and true For blessings and abundance in the year ahead As we gather round the Yule log, our heads We light the fire and dance in the glow Singing songs of joy and merriment, we go Drinking mead and feasting…

[kinfriday]

All Hallows

The scents of autumn drift upon the air. The wind has changed, and with it a chill, as if in herald to the coming season.

The rains have blessedly returned, and for the first time since last spring I can hear the creek bubbling down the way, racing towards the river.

Trees, bedecked in their fiery splendor, beckon in fond farewell, for they shall soon sleep through the winter, as the evergreen, ever stalwart, keep sentry.

It is a time of reflections, and transitions. In many traditions this is the moment where old business should be concluded. The very definition of harvest being to reap the work done in the previous year, all the while we prepare for the cold months ahead. Memento Mori... Remember death, reflected in coming winter, in every meal, at every moment of our life, death walks beside us. It is an ever present and often ignored companion, but not in this season. This is the season of reaping, and in many western cultures, death is imagined as a reaper, with robe and scythe, harvesting souls like we mortal harvest wheat and corn. It is the cycle, life and death must both exist. The fear of death comes in the perception that death is an ending, but I have found that death is a threshold, which inspires a love in me of this current holiday, and sparks reflection on my own path, this way I'm trying to build. Memento Mori... Remember you will die. That makes it quite personal. One day this body of mine will end, but it's not the end of my journey. That death is the threshold for the next journey. Remembering that I will come to an autumn in this life, and then the winter, reminds me that I will one day cross that far horizon, then, my spirit will come to a new spring. Death is a transition, not a stopping. The trees shed their leaves in fall, and seem to lose all life, but a spark of it persists within, ready to explode out in all the grandeur and hope of life in spring. For every night there is a dawn, and in that, I see reason for discipline, reason for moments of quiet reflection. Today, two days before the 31st, I've taken up the task of fasting. Today I will eat nothing, I will feel hunger, endure the winter. In truth, my stomach is already rumbling five hours into my day. At multiple times I have found myself standing in front of the snack cabinet, eager for a pretzel or some peanut. But not today... Memento Mori... It's time to do the hard thing.. It reminds me, this discipline, that I am more than just a body, that I am not enslaved to its wants, that I am in control, but there's something more. Through denial I am learning of the boundaries between my spirit and the mortal coil that it drives. I feel the edges of my own being, contained within this life that is mine for but a season. By facing my small winter, my chosen winter now for a day... maybe two, I prepare myself for the times when I may have less. I show myself that I can survive with less, that it's ok to do without for a time. It reminds me also that so many in our world do not have this choice. They experience hunger without choice, that I am incredibly privileged for everything I have and with those privileges come responsibilities, not the least of which is to honor all the good I've been given. But on Monday, I will feast, and celebrate. I will enjoy every good thing, spend time with family, and offer mead to the Gods... These two aspects exist in balance, one to the other, life and death, winter and spring, and in honoring both sides, I feel I honor the spirit of the autumn. It is both a time to look forward, and back. It is liminal, and we, each are liminal beings. A blessed All Hallows to all. May the Gods grant you a good harvest and an easy winter. -Rebecca Snow Hare

[wroteclassicaly]

May I Taste Your Sin

(Michael Langdon x Female Reader)

Pairings : Michael Langdon x Female Reader

Warnings : Language, smut, blood, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex, blood play, & period sex.

A/N : This fic has been a loooong time coming! I’m sorry it’s taken me this long, but now that I have inspo I wanted get this out for y’all! The warnings are obviously self-explanatory, so skip this if you don’t like the contents it’s gonna contain! Michael Langdon eats human hearts, and he’s a demon, before anyone starts to fuss over this, lol. I’m sure menstrual cycles with his partner would be a dessert to him!

Enjoy! This one is pretty intense, so I’m nervous about it! I also have more installments with different characters coming in the next few days! :)

Check out where I first posted the teaser for this fic, and check out these period sex headcanons I wrote for Michael!

~*~

He keeps staring at you. You try to move about, do your tasks, even attempt conversation with people you’d tried so hard to avoid these past several years. Your abilities to function like the human being that you are, seemingly vanish whenever the tall honey blond is within your exhausted proximities. You aren’t sure if you’d like to let out the loudest echoing scream and see where it ends up in this place, or let your wildest carnal urges guide your hormones into a literal sticky situation. Or, at the very least, let yourself fantasize about seducing him in your own self-created version of reality.

You’ll have to settle on the latter, unfortunately. Pocketing the cream colored dish rag, you place the last row of finely printed novels on the book shelve. Your fingertips linger, attempting to find a portal through their leather cover tops. Your tongue slicks your parched lips, neck stretching to crack out the tension. You aren’t trying to do anything but stealing some relaxation, when a largely hot hand is pressing a knot-out in a knead on your shoulder - clasping, settling a risky purchase.

You don’t have to make an educated guess to know whose hand that belongs to. He practically spews out his control and ownership of this place every chance that he gets. Biting down a venomous sigh, you coerce yourself into a turn around - gathering an eyeful of Langdon’s fancy black vest. That’s not good enough for the King, apparently, as he fits his pointer finger underneath your chin in a tuck, thumb pressing against your jaw to tilt your gaze to his own.

“Did you forget your manners, Miss Y/L/N?”

The way his shining eyes are sizing your attention, captivating your unwillingness to comply to how Langdon makes you feel - it can’t be humanly possible, can it? There’s that possessive ache that begs you to launch ownership over him and his entire body. Why is everything so widely dramatic whenever he’s around? Is he just full of himself or is it something way more than you’re aware? A crackling parch winds its pathway around your throat, sealing your breath in.

Nothing comes from between your lips. You’re frozen solid, legs a weightless press. Each touch this... man brings upon your body is like a bass thump - pumping you towards his secretive rhythm. All you can do is sway with the beat. Langdon smirks coyly, his other hand resting behind his back in an idle grace.

Neither of you dare utter a word. However, Langdon is seemingly content in making you squirm and you try to focus on everything but his perfectly crafted jawline, and how eagerly you’d suck on it if asked. You swear you can hear your heartbeat galloping off, so strong that it can tear your heart right out of your chest along with it. His colorful eyes glance over you in a brief stamping sweep, lingering at your sore breasts and your waistline.

What is he even doing...?

“Excuse me, but Ms. Venable did not authorize any private conferences with the help.” A cold and steel - grasped voice chills your bones down, dusting your cheeks with a reddening humiliation.

You haven’t even so much as spoken to Langdon, yet it feels like you two have been clawing and scratching at each other all over this fucking outpost, riding one another until you can’t fathom walking upright. You still can’t speak, but Langdon takes care of that for you.

“Interesting, and did Ms. Venable give you permission to waltz in here when you weren’t requested or required, just to give a meaningless order?” Langdon is mildly amused in his question, his hand still paused on your chin, thumb now swiping in a tickling drop with his fingertip - along your jaw.

Ms. Mead looks comical in her brief attempt at forming a snappy comeback, only to go silent in defeat. You take this tension as your escape line - quickly edging from the sacred confines Langdon has built for you two, and you all but run out the door. You’re clutching your shirt collar, punching a two pounce path up the staircase and to the help’s quarters.

Chores now, panic later.

~*~

Five minutes. Five fucking minutes in this place that you’ve served without question, complaint, for nearly two years - is all you want. But as the heavy handed rasps of Mead’s knuckle bones beat on your bathroom door, you know that is a simple pipe dream. Her low voice is harsh with you, making your headache unfold into a full blown migraine. You shift uncomfortably, knees knocking together, thighs sore against the cool porcelain seat below you.

Langdon must’ve massively pissed her off... Good.

Your palms collect purchase to your cradle your face, your eyes glistening with tears, throat burning with frustration. It hurts too much to stand upright this time. Normally women would lose this in stressful situations. Add the apocalypse and barely eating, you’d peg it normal to receive nothing. However, your predicament is much worse, fucking you over once more.

Your body welcomes Mother Nature each month. Unpredictable, yet there. Heavy, excruciating. You could list on and on reasons that don’t amount to much. You’re stuck with a part of you that won’t ever come to fruition.

Not in your former life, especially not in this one. Another reminder that carries an award winning irony. Sighing, you peer down at the red dish rag you were given. Literally on the rag, what a joyous harmony. The elites of course, are given the tampons and pads.

You have to use scraps of fabric you’re forced to wash in the bathtub if you move too fast or sneeze. And on your heavy days when you haven’t the time to stop your duties to wash and air out the towels, things are much harder. At least before the apocalypse you had chocolate, feminine products, a warm shower to take your time in, movies to curl up with, and a place of your own to cry where no one could hear you. You sniffle, hormones locking down your heart.

Most recently the outpost had welcomed the cooperative leader Langdon. He had interviewed everyone but you, uninterested, only flustering you a few times. Him being here just makes your period a more unwelcome storm. This morning as you were passing him on the landing of the staircase, delivering the bath towels to elite rooms, he stared at you. Right into you, nostrils flaring, tongue rolling out to slick his plump lips, blue eyes darkening.

Then there was this afternoon. How could I forget...?

The encounters were over quicker than they took place. Still, his acknowledgment of you didn’t bring your interview, nor did it promise your application for the sanctuary he preaches about. Forcing your tears to bank, you stand with your dress skirt and apron held up, staring at the stained rag in your panties. You turn and flush the toilet, eating back around to the shock of your fucking life. There, just feet in the from the doorway, is Langdon in all his glory.

It makes you swallow harshly, stomach drawing off the butterflies that have grown claws. You feel winded. His ring covered fingers bring an object to your sights. A thinly wrapped stick. You don’t answer, you don’t move, you don’t protest him approaching until he’s directly in front of you.

“What do you think you’re doing?” You try, a mere whisper betraying your bravery.

“Helping you,” He answers simply, a heated slide crossing his mouth. You can practically taste him, damn near swaying forward.

You start to snap back into your senses, ready to cover your remembered modesty back up. He grasps your wrist, a hungry look soft in his features. “Will you let me?”

You’re shaking, body on fire at him touching you, you try to keep your legs from clenching, that want. You know what will occur if you let yourself. He is gentle with you, admiration clear. Why? You don’t understand this.

“You’re bleeding, I know.”

Jaw unhinged, you stand upright, his fingers still ghosting your skin. An unlucky movement on your part, the warmth spills from you and you look down between your thighs in horror at the red lines running down your legs, pattering against the floor. Langdon is breathing heavily, practically panting, stunning you once more. His other hand grips your cheek, thumb swiping your lip, eyes not breaking contact from yours.

“Do you know how good your cunt smells? Every pathetic person in this outpost is starving and you have the best meal between your fucking legs.”

When your silence stretches on, Michael nudges forward, careful with you. “May I feast?”

It’s all too much to handle. Having him talk to you, you speaking to him. And now this? How? You begin to grow dizzy, hands trembling as you try to pull your clothing back up. Langdon’s hands grip your wrists.

“Please don’t do that.”

You want to stun him incredulously, backhand him. None of that is happening, not even the urge. Instead, your want for him is magnifying beyond any feigned ignorance. Your tongue slides out across your lips, teeth biting down on your bottom lip in a brisk chew. Langdon hooks his middle finger between your teeth, releasing your lip and combing the blood across in a coppery gloss.

Your chest is startled, rising and falling in quivering quakes, ears hearing a static rush. Everything inside of you is alive and crying out in need to be sated. Langdon grips you around the waist, lowering his forehead to rest atop your own, his middle finger - still doused in your blood - slithers past his own lips, which close in a sticky suckle. A vibrating moan pummels his throat, causing a constricting swallow that showcases his Adam’s apple.

If I could only just lick that...

Langdon is sly and devilishly cunning to a fault - fast in his next movements. He presses a designer boot down over your skirts, successfully preventing them from being made up. “Leave them here for someone else.”

“I... I can’t. This is too much, Langdon —“ He chuckles at the formality.

“Since I can see your womanhood running from between your legs, I suppose it’s only fair that we skip some formalities, don’t you agree, Y/N?” Your eyes are probably wider than necessary - a cartoon like sight. He’s used your full name in an authoritative command, leaving no room for question. “And you may call me Michael.”

It’s all a little more frantic from this point. He gives the slightest of information, and you see your skirts and panties gliding across the floor in a winded push. Michael brings that wrapped item back into your eye-line. “We won’t be needing this for a while.”

“I didn’t say yes.” You try, swallowing a weak, whimpering stifle.

“But you didn’t say no, did you?” That shit eating grin. He has you and he is all too aware - elated to the brimming brimstone of hellfire you’re about to bestow upon yourself.

Your insides melt into the trenches of red hot, raw ravishment. Michael drops his left arm down, hand palming his hardening cock through black slacks, eyes encouraging you in a chained bind. “Let’s go and make a mess in my room.”

Now or never. No more of this, back to reality, maybe some place better. You’re spinning in a foiling encasement, precipice wide and open - hungry to pull you under. And you dive in, you let it all go. Michael looks satisfied, sharing something with himself that you don’t know... yet.

Taking Michael Langdon’s hand, you’re led into the unknown.

~*~

Langdon leads you down his own separate corridor, your free hand scolded for trying to hold yourself over your uniform.

“I want you to make a mess.” Michael says.

You hope that you’re not the one who will be paying the cost for your own said mess, or cleaning it up. If it’s up to Venable - you’ll be licking it, all the way to her high heeled boots.

Once inside the confines of Michael Langdon’s bedroom, you take the time to look around, enjoying the perks this situation is bringing. The room isn’t any different than what the purple elites get here, it is bordering on a more... lived in feel, which is ironic when you consider that Langdon hasn’t been here like everyone else has for the past three years.

Guess he’s just more comfortable? He does look like an English vampire half the time..

On that note, a particularly harsh cramp antagonizes your uterus, causing you to clench your abdomen, choking out a acidic slice. “Fucking demonic cramps.”

Michael - now clad in his all black ensemble, minus the overcoat - chortles, knotting his fingers together behind his back and strolls forward, wetting his lips as the firelight crackles a sparking soundtrack. “It’s ironic how you refer to it as “demonic”, when Satan really has nothing to do with this. I mean, it’s not on him that humanity failed their pitiful guidelines for sobering temptation. Wasn’t it your lord and savior that bestowed this curse upon you?” He finishes, giving a head tilt to your unhinged stun.

“Are you religious?” Is all you can come up with.

Michael sneers, looking slightly offended. It fades seconds later. “Depends on your definition of religious, and then there is what one believes in. But I guess you can say that I’m devoted to... a certain cause.”

“Were you this mysterious before the apocalypse, or is that why the cooperative gave you the job?” You try, a discomfort crackling at your inner thighs.

They’re probably smeared... And not just with blood.

“I bet you’re uncomfortable.” Michael teases, snapping his fingers at the fireplace. Did your eyes betray you, or did the flames flicker?

You want to give a snappy comeback, but it feels unwise. You nod like the sap that you are, nails biting your palms. Your heartbeat has begun to accelerate, a visible sight beneath your apron. Langdon guides himself to step in front of you, leather shoes drumming across the floor beneath. Every sound in this forsaken room is flowing through your eardrums - Michael’s scent on the tip of your tongue.

You need him. More than your body has to have the air that filters underneath this mausoleum. You’re so unsteady, eyes brimming with the smoking arousal, blocking common sense. Michael catches you as you collide with his chest, wrapping your fists into his vest. His blue irises are disappearing to a canyon of night sky - lavish black so sinful that it steals the breath from your lungs.

Drizzling off your tongue is a hesitation. “Won’t we get into trouble...? Venable -“ Those rough fingertips hold a softness that hushes your lips, denting.

“Can watch me with my face buried into your cunt. The humiliation will arouse her.” Michael answers in his own finish.

You aren’t sure why, but that grates your mouth into a sneaky grin, shared with Michael’s, sensing that slapping throb at his phrases. He pinches your chin, nuzzling your head to the side, his lips sloping a map across your neck. His towering physique backs you by knocking his knees into your thighs, delivering you to the edge of his bed. You drop like wild weights, looking towards the ceiling, trying to take a deep inhalation. Langdon crouches, pants rustling as they tighten around his temptingly thick thighs.

He tuts in a scold, chiding you furthermore. “You will watch what I’m getting ready to do to you! Is that clear, Y/N?”

You don’t answer fast enough, Michael’s hand wrapping around your throat, eyes burning hellfire through you - dusting your bones to ash. Your throat is wet with the clingy, unshed tears. Fuck, you have to be filled up until you’re hollowed out. Michael is languid in grace, hand toppling into your lap, joining his other.

“Take down your hair, Y/N.”

Like a puppet, you obey your new owner. Unwrapping the pointed bun, you shake your locks free, sighing in an eased tickle.

“What a good and obedient girl that you are. Those who obey, shall reap the riches.”

“Why are you doing this?” An ignorant question on your part.

“Because,” As if it’s the most simple answer in this broken world, Michael let’s his hands start to unbutton his vest, carelessly sending it, his attention not wavering off you in the slightest. “I’m hungry.”

A literal moan comes from you, making Langdon hiss through his through his milky white teeth. He resumes his former position, hovering.

“Spread.” Michael says, a quaint wonder adorning him, his palms sliding up and down your legs to feel you part them. The blood is mixing some fucked out potion with your creamy arousal for him, and he knows it, has it right into your tremble from the exposure.

Your skin is steaming in scrapes, responding so vulgarly to Michael, that he is hooking his wrists under your knees, bouncing the flesh into his awaiting hands, and claiming. He hoists your legs over his shoulders to arch you to his idea of perfection. You should be protesting, in a shambled shyness. That is gone, no place here. Michael let’s his nose rest in the crease of your thigh, crudely sniffing like some beast.

His sopping tongue finds a striking stroke along your ruby red, damp thigh.

Closer... He’s getting closer...

When you can’t feel that warm and snide air he possesses, you lock to load a question. Michael is shedding himself of his remaining clothing in a cocky crawl. His hair curtains his face as he sees you seek out his cock - thick and heavy, weighted and wet with pre-cum.

“Finish taking off your clothing.” You’ve never done something so fast in your years alive.

You have to admit, being so vulnerable like this - naked and bleeding, it has you buzzing.

Michael outstretches a veined forearm, the back of his rings swirling in desiring dances across your breasts. “Do these hurt?”

Your lashes are slicked in perspiring tears, the tired soreness harassing your chest. He has his truth. His trim form bows to you once more, placing your legs back where they belong. He knuckles a pressing push into your abdomen. “Bear down.”

It isn’t an accident this time, it’s not a discreet secrecy. Michael wants you this way. All of you. Finding a confidence, you give yourself a high and sink your fingers into his hair, toes tickling his shoulder blades in a forwarding nudge, doubling down on your muscles. That warmth spills out of you and Langdon takes you, tongue parting your swollen folds. He regulates his tongue in wet paints, licking and sucking everything you give him.

“Please—“ You’re already begging. It’s so fucking intense and intimate that you can’t formulate your own damned name.

“Are you really going to ask, or would you just like to feel good?” Michael vibrates, his mouth visible and shining crimson as he seeks you out between your slippery thighs.

It’s outright feral. His irises are coal black, blue lost in some combing canyon that’s crumbled around sin. His digits prod at your sensitive opening, being accepted moments later. His lips close over your clit, tongue slithering back and forth to assist his beckoning fingers. He gathers more from you - his purpose.

That quenched fold starts to seize you early on, your pattering breaths signaling the orgasm that is about to tear the screams from your fucking diaphragm. Michael’s hand smacks and rolls your swollen breast - permission granted. That’s all it takes and you’re falling back onto the mattress, back arching in a lined drag, pussy flattening against his mouth. He jerks you impossibly closer, your vision whiting out into dark spots. You tangle your fingers further into his luscious strands, holding, pulling.

In the midst of close recovery, Michael is plowing you with a short lived let down, his mouth leaving your pussy. You can’t complain, no time available, as his hips slot in a frazzled fit between your legs. His pelvis is tense, sheathed in sweat. His chest smashes your breasts, his hand reaching down to guide his cock inside you. You can’t speak, but cling tightly to his back. He growls a sound that you’ll never forget, the fire bursting behind him, flames licking the rocked cove that houses them.

His mouth is covered in your essence, your cunt bathing his dick with each violent thrust. It’s pouring in drenches, salty perspiration, pooling blood - both of you losing yourselves in the mess. Michael props himself up, digging into a dipping slam, meeting your mouth in an ending kiss. His hair tickles your shoulders, nose nudges your now blood caked mouth, and he gives the warning.

“Spill your fucking curse all over me!” And you come undone, glued to him in puzzled entrapment.

Your thighs are wrecked, his bedsheets useless, and then there’s Michael, who forces you to look at him and really see him. There’s only black in his eyes. You sputter a disbelief, bracing. His mouth parts, tongue flicks across to gather more, leveling off into his jagged movements. He swells inside your cunt, dousing your walls in his warm cum.

He doesn’t leave you, not even when it’s over. He simply takes you with him. You aren’t sure where you get the courage to speak - body shaking and shivering.

“What... Michael, who are you?”

He cups a hand over your cunt, rolling onto his side, keeping you held to him. He lightly blows away a pesky lock of your hair, then maneuvers another behind your ear.

“I’m the man who’s going to save your wretched existence.”

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