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thedragonnerd · 4 years ago

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Ficlet: Betrayal

(Inspired by this lovely anon)

Namaari has never seen Raya so still.

She’s used to Raya being full of energy and tightly coiled reactions, running around finding things to do, people to spar with, or adventures to get lost within. Even at dinner, Raya cannot be motionless, instead jostling her leg or bumping shoulders with Namaari, and Council meetings are a lost cause when it comes to hoping Raya will sit quietly through the entire meeting without finding some reason to escape early.

But now she lies still, her eyes closed and her lips pale and drained of blood. Namaari keeps her eyes fixated on Raya’s breathing, where the slight up-and-down of her chest is the only thing that proves Raya is still alive.

The doctor has said that if she can survive the night, she will be much more likely to make a full recovery. Yet when Namaari places her palm on Raya’s cheek, the skin is cold to touch. Her other hand clutches onto Raya’s fingers, and she tries to share her strength through sheer determination, attempting to manifest Raya’s recovery into existence with her willpower.

‘Maari, are you almost dooone?’ Raya asks with a whine, her lips pouting dramatically as she flops down into the chair opposite Namaari’s desk. ‘I’ve been waiting for ages already.’

Namaari lowers her paperwork for a moment, peering across at Raya with a small smile on her face. Raya hates to sit and wait in her office, and the fact that she has been quietly reading for so long already shows her willingness to let Namaari work for the afternoon.

‘I’m sorry, dep la,’ she says with a sigh, wishing she could escape and spend time sparring with Raya instead, as she had promised. Duty always seems to call, however. ‘I have to finish signing off on these policies, and I’m only half-way finished.’

Raya groans, her head lowering to the desk until her forehead is resting on the table.

‘Why don’t you go and find something to do?’ Namaari suggests, recognising Raya will only get more and more restless from here on. Raya turns her head slightly, so she can peek at Namaari’s face through her hair.

‘Are you sure?’ she asks. ‘I don’t want to leave you alone with this tedious work.’

‘Absolutely,’ Namaari reassures her with a smile. ‘Go and have fun, and I’ll join you later.’

‘Great, I’ll go find someone to spar with for a while,’ Raya jumps up enthusiastically. ‘And if you haven’t reappeared in two hours from now, I’m going to come back and drag you outside. You need a break yourself too.’

She rounds the desk, grabbing Namaari’s face with both her hands, and kisses her deeply for a moment. Then she flees out the door with a backwards wave, Namaari watching her retreating figure with a smile.

Namaari throws herself into the paperwork with more vigour, determined to get it done so she can join Raya. She doesn’t even notice the two hours passing, so wrapped up in reading policy articles on fishing.

Raya never shows.

Virana comes to sit with her when the hour is nearing midnight, her arm resting around Namaari’s shoulders as they wait in silence.

‘I sent word to Chief Benja,’ she says softly after a while. Namaari nods, but says nothing else. Benja has trusted them – trusted her – to keep Raya safe during her visits to Fang. And yet here they are, Namaari without a scratch on her, whilst Raya fights for her life in the darkness. Would he ever be able to forgive them, if Raya dies? Would it cause a war between their lands?

Would Namaari ever be able to forgive herself?

‘I wasn’t even there to protect her, Ma,’ she chokes, unable to keep the tears from leaking out. The guilt is suffocating.

‘Raya?’ she calls, walking briskly through the palace. Dusk is beginning to move in; she feels bad for working so long without realising where the time went. Clearly, Raya also got distracted by her activities. Often when one (or better, both) of them are sparring, it draws a crowd of eager onlookers, so perhaps tonight Raya has decided to teach a lesson to anyone who wants to challenge her fighting abilities.

However, it’s been long enough that she’s also slightly concerned, especially when she sees most of the usual sparring partner culprits back in the palace, doing their guard duties or otherwise.

Still, her best assumption is that Raya will still be at the training grounds, so she hurries outside and makes her way over to the large open area.

‘Raya?’ she calls again, not seeing anyone moving in the evening light. It seems quiet…too quiet.

And then she sees a shape on the ground.

‘Raya, what-?’ she cries, racing forwards and dropping to her knees. Raya is lying still and pale on the ground, and it takes a moment for Namaari to realize the earth surrounding her is stained dark red from blood.

‘Raya…Raya, wake up,’ she pleads, one shaking hand sliding under Raya’s shoulders and cradling her close to her body, the other pressing down hard on the stab wound in her abdomen. The blood seeps through her fingers, trickling down her wrist as she desperately tries to stop it.

‘Somebody help!’ she screams into the night.

Ma leaves her at some point in the early hours of the morning, kissing her forehead before heading off to sleep. She doesn’t even try to ask Namaari to get some rest, knows that she won’t. Not tonight.

Not long after, there is a soft knock at the door, and General Atitaya peers into the room.

‘Princess Namaari?’ she asks quietly. ‘I can relieve you of your post if you wish to retire for the night. Keep watch over her, for you?’

It’s a wasted offer, and Namaari is already shaking her head before the other woman finishes speaking.

‘No thank you,’ she says, her eyes never leaving Raya’s face. ‘Her attacker is still out there, and I’m not going to leave her until they are apprehended.’

Besides Raya’s injuries, that is the worst part of this attack – that it must have been carried out by a Fang citizen, who has now willingly betrayed both their land and, on a more personal level, Namaari herself. She has dedicated her life to protecting her people, and the realization that one of her own could have done this leaves a bitter taste in her mouth, and anger in her veins.

Namaari doesn’t even notice Atitaya leave. Her two swords sit close, ready to reach in an instant if someone dares to try and attack Raya again, and she leans forwards, tension running through her muscles as she continues her vigil.

The rest of the night is quiet, with no-one else disturbing them besides the doctor, who checks on Raya sporadically.

And then, just as the warm rays of the sun begin to filter through the window, Namaari hears a sound.

‘Raya?’ she calls, up on her feet instantly and leaning over the bed.

Raya shifts her head slightly, emitting a slight groan, and then her eyes flutter open.

‘Maari, come back to bed,’ Raya grumbles, her voice filled with the scratchy tone Namaari only hears in the morning. She laughs softly at the sight before her: Raya’s disgruntled face peering out from beneath the covers, her hair in a massively tangled mess around her face, and her mouth turned down slightly in the corners as she sees Namaari already up and dressed.

‘I have a lot of work to do today,’ Namaari says apologetically, although she does take a moment to bend down and give Raya a proper kiss good morning. ‘Hours of paperwork that you’ll just find boring.’

Raya wrinkles her nose at this, and burrows deeper into the bed, dragging Namaari down with her, a tight grasp on her wrist.

‘Tell you what,’ Namaari continues, attempting not to faceplant into the bedcovers thanks to Raya’s pulling. ‘If you let me go now, I’ll try to get the work done as quickly as possible, and then we can go spar together this afternoon.’

‘Fiiine,’ comes Raya’s voice from the depths of the bed. ‘Go do your boring work. I’ll bring food and my own amazing company later. And after, you owe me a fight.’

She finds her in the barn, tying a heavily-laden bag to her serlot.

‘Atitaya,’ she calls, and the General spins around quickly, hand moving towards her weapon before she sees who it is and deliberately relaxes her stance.

‘Princess,’ she greets, head bowing in the appropriate manner.

‘You’ll be pleased to hear that Raya has woken up,’ Namaari continues, her voice deceptively light in comparison to the blood roaring through her veins. ‘Interestingly, she’s also able to identify her attacker.’

They stare at each other for a moment, neither willing to be the first one to flinch. Then Atitaya drops her gaze to the ground, and although Namaari had believe Raya instantly when she said the name, the confirmation still hits her like a stab to the heart.

‘Ati…Ati, why?’ she whispers, and this time she can’t help her voice shaking as she tries to hold back the horror and the tears. ‘We grew up together. I trusted you with my life – with HER life. How could you betray me like this?’

Atitaya’s expression darkens at this, and Namaari sees her mouth twist into an ugly grimace.

‘Because you betrayed us first, Namaari,’ she snaps, fists clenching. ‘You bring the Princess of our enemy into our land, into our palace. You trust her with all of Fang, share all our secrets. She is your greatest vulnerability, a threat to our people, and if I did nothing, I thought she would bring death to our doorstep.’

‘Raya isn’t a threat to us,’ Namaari counters. ‘She isn’t a spy; Heart isn’t our enemy. We aren’t at war any more, Atitaya. We haven’t been for a long time. The only person who risked changing that was you.’

Atitaya raises her chin in defiance.

‘I did what I thought was right for our people, no matter the sacrifice. Just like you used to be willing to do.’

Namaari always thought her anger ran hot, a passionate burst of emotion that drove her in fights. But in reality, her rage runs through her body like a chill, and her mind feels separate from her body as a deadly calm settles over her.

‘I should kill you where you stand,’ she says softly. ‘If Raya had died, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.’

For the first time, apprehension flutters across Atitaya’s face.

‘You’re lucky that Raya is more forgiving than I am,’ Namaari finishes, and then whistles loudly. At once, the barn is filled with soldiers, all training their weapons on their former General.

Namaari turns and walks away, refusing to look over her shoulder as voices ordering Atitaya to surrender filter up around her.

She doesn’t want to waste another minute here – she has Raya waiting for her, and she’s promised to entertain her through her mandatory bed rest, duties be damned. After all, Raya doesn’t like to be still for too long.

#rayaari #raya and the last dragon #ratld #raya #namaari #raya and namaari #raya x namaari #ficlet #ficlet: betrayal #sorry for making atitaya the villain #woopsie #angsty #but also sweet

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mandadoration · 5 years ago

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spoils go to the winner

summary: You’re one of the first friendly faces that Cara Dune sees when she first arrives on Sorgan after her early retirement, and now she thinks that this isn’t so bad, especially when you’re so pliant under her fingers.

word count: 3, 971

pairing: cara dune x reader

Warnings: smut, choking, fingering, praise kink, oral sex, overall debauchery, canon-typical violence

a/n: uhhh hehe enjoy

Read this on AO3

Sorgan was not the most attractive of places, especially when compared to Cara’s home planet of Alderaan. It was too humid in the summer and fall months, and winters were short, villages and towns were spread far apart, and if you wanted any luxury items, you would have to track someone down who was willing to bring supplies to you. The ground was in an almost perpetual state of too-soft, tracking mud wherever you would go. But Alderaan was no more, and the New Republic had designated her to peacekeeping and riot control. That was definitely not what she has signed up for, so she left in search of something else. She dabbled in mercenary work, but soon realized it was just not her thing.

So she would have to settle for Sorgan.

It wasn’t all bad, she supposes. Nobody thought twice about Sorgan. It was severely underdeveloped and villages and towns were spread all over the planet with a bare skeleton of a proper government. It would be easy to implement herself into daily life. Daily life just manifested itself into a local fighting ring at the tavern.

“C’mon,” the Zabrak growls. He makes an inviting motion with his hands, baring his teeth as they circle each other. He had been the reigning champion in this little town for quite a while, it seems like, seeing as how the villagers cheer for him and how they had bet on his win over her. The locals look at her with some disdain or with distrust, unsure of this new person that had dropped in. That was fine because Cara was determined in proving them wrong.

Cara uses the harness keeping them together to tug the Zabrak forward. Using that moment of him stumbling, she punches him, and her knuckles catch on the brow ridge. Unfortunately, he lashes out blindly at the same time, and he catches her jaw as he reels back. Cara’s teeth clack together uncomfortably, and she’s dragged forward as the Zabrak backs up. He’s trying to buy time as he tries to gather his thoughts and think past the pain and where she spots a trickle of blood get in his eye. Cara dashes forward, shoving him hard and hooking her feet under his ankles before he can react, and he goes down hard, hitting his head against the table behind him. Both he and Cara freezes when one of his horns snap off against the edge, eyes following its path until it rolls to a stop next to her feet.

The Zabrak howls, and lunges for her, but he’s telegraphed the move and she just moves out of the way, watching with disinterest as veins start popping out against his skin. Cara vaguely recalls how prideful Zabraks are of their horns. At this point, he’s not only fighting to win, but to exact revenge for his wounded pride. But in his rage, it’s easy to take him down. Cara merely blocks a sidekick, digging her nails into his leg and yanking him forward, slamming her elbow into his gut, following him all the way down and imagines herself trying to break through and hit the ground. The Zabrak goes down easily, the fight literally being beaten out of him as she feels the soft snap more than hears it, and he lays there groaning as the tavern goes silent at her victory. She strolls over to the table where the credits are, and collects them all.

Cara sits down, winded as she feels the tender spot on her jaw and the ache in her hands. Nothing she can’t handle, and with how she’s counting her winnings, she could indulge in a bacta shot if she really wanted. But the mark of a fight is something she prides herself in. Besides, the Zabrak was looking much worse for wear. A few of his friends, she assumes, is giving him a pep talk as the Zabrak glares at her from across the room with a venomous glare. For a moment, Cara thinks that maybe the Zabrak will come after her at some point during the night, and then Cara is reminded that she needs to find a place to stay before he could try and track her down. A figure blocks her view and a cup of some shimmering blue drink is placed in front of her. Cara looks up, intent on questioning, and comes face to face with a warm, inviting smile of you. Her mouth goes dry and all thoughts of the Zabrak are wiped from her mind.

“Spotchka for the winner?” you offer softly.

You look absolutely wonderful, with the light of the setting sun framing your silhouette in a halo-like glow. Wisps of hair escape from your carefully swept-up hairdo, sticking to your face and neck as a light sheen of sweat covers your body from the humid heat. To try and combat the temperature, she sees that your blouse is sinfully sheer and open at the top, where her eyes linger as she follows your breathing. Your sleeves are rolled up to your elbows, but she wishes that she could see more. Somehow, you make the awkward frock look good. Your eyes are sparkling, devoid of distrust or malice she’s seen in the other villagers, and Cara is sure you’re drinking her appearance in just as much as she is. If anything, there’s wonder and admiration in your heated gaze. And ever elegant, Carasythia Dune asks:

“What’s spotchka?”

Your laugh makes Cara uncharacteristically flush, face hot as your eyes crinkle. “Spotchka is a local drink on Sorgan. It’s good,” you insist, pushing the cup closer to her. You look around for your boss before you take a seat across from her, leaning forward eagerly. “You’re new, aren’t you?” you ask, voice low. There’s a local accent playing on your lips. “I’ve never seen you here before. Where are you from?” Your face shows such reverence that Cara can’t help but find herself wanting to answer every single one of your questions despite the fact she had come to Sorgan to forget most of her past.

“I worked with the Rebellion,” she says automatically, and your eyes widen, flickering to the shock trooper tattoo across her bicep.

“Wow,” you breathe. You gnaw on your bottom lip and Cara looks down to watch. Her grin is wolfish as she flicks her eyes back to yours. It’s clear from your curiosity that interesting folks didn’t come through here often, if at all. “Did you arrive today?” She nods. “How long… How long will you be staying?” you ask, leaning on your hand. A drop of sweat disappears into your cleavage.

“As long as you want me to,” Cara finds herself saying, and she preens at how you blush. The redness crawls from the tip of your ears all the way down your neck, and Cara knows she’s still got it. She wouldn’t say that she was a flirt when she was in the Rebellion, but she won’t deny that she had taken pleasure in knowing that there were plenty of individuals vying for her attention. Now, she was giving it to you with the barest of encouragement. “I’m actually looking for a place to stay. You have any recommendations?” You blink.

“There’s an inn a few buildings down,” you tell her, pointing in some direction that Cara doesn’t care to remember. “It’s a modest place, but I know the owner. I could get you a room if you would like.”

“That would be great,” Cara says. Maybe Sorgan wasn’t so bad. If you were here, of course, she could bear to stay for a few months while she got her credits and figured out a solid plan. Wooing you would just be a bonus. “What’s your name?” You give her that wonderful smile again, telling it to her, and Cara repeats it, trying out how it feels in her mouth. “I’m Cara.” She reaches a hand towards yours where it’s lying against the wooden table, and she sees you open your mouth to say something when--

A customer waves their hand and calls you over, interrupting whatever you were going to say. You stand up, and Cara immediately misses your closeness and realizes how close she actually was, having instinctively leaned in while you were talking. “How much do I owe you for the spotchka?” she asks, offering up some amount of credits. It’s definitely more than she actually owes you for a simple mug of spotchka. You push them back to her.

“On the house,” you murmur, and you linger your touch on hers for longer than necessary, feeling how coarse and rough her hands are compared to yours. “For the winner of the match.” You wink, flashing her a bright smile as you turn away to serve more customers.

Cara will win a million matches if it means she gets to see that smile again.

True to your word, there’s a room already waiting for her when she finishes the spotchka and heads over with her winnings. She settles down and puts what little things she has in the corner as she surveys her surroundings. There’s a bed pushed up against the wall on one side, two small nightstands flanking either side. A desk and chair is facing the only window opposite of the door, and a small wardrobe sits next to the door to a bath. Like you had said, modest. She pulls off her armor and strips down to her tunic and pants. At least the bed is comfortable, she thinks as she flops down on it. When she does, a dull pain throbs in her side. Cara has little faith in the medical prowess of such a small town, so she starts thinking of who could bring in medical supplies for her when a knock sounds at the door. Probably the owner, or maybe even the Zabrak she had beaten today. She thinks that maybe if she’s quiet enough, they’ll leave her alone, but scrambles up when she hears your voice.

“Cara? I brought some things for- Oh, hello,” you interrupt yourself, surprised when the door swings open. You’re holding rags and a bowl of water, and there’s a jar tucked under your arm. “Hope I’m not intruding.”

“No, never,” Cara says. She moves to the side and sweeps an arm out. “Come in.” You put your supplies on the desk and pull out the chair, moving it so that it faces the bed. “What brings you here?” You motion for her to sit down.

“You have a nasty bruise,” you say, shrugging as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Thought I would help you.” Cara laughs softly and takes a seat on the bed obediently.

“You help out all the winners?” she asks. You shake your head as you pick up a rag and dip it in the warm water, tilting her head up so that you can wipe away the sweat and grime on her face. It’s nice. Your touch is gentle as you focus on the dirt smudged across her nose, dragging the rag down to sweep across the purpling bruise on her jaw.

“No,” you murmur. “Just you.”

“Why’s that?”

You don’t grace her with an answer, just a quiet hum, as you turn around to drop the rag on the table and pick up the jar. Inside, there’s some sort of pale green cream that you take a dollop of and spread over the bruise. It tingles for a moment, but then dissolves into a blissfully cooling feeling as an herbal smell wafts up to her nose. You rub it in for a few moments before pulling away to wipe your hands on the rag. You come back and tilt her head again to see it better in the fading light.

“Are you gonna kiss it better?” Cara asks, breaking the silence, and although she has a joking tone, she wouldn’t mind if you did. You sweep a thumb over her cheek, a tender look on your face.

“You ask a lot of questions, Cara Dune,” you note coquettishly. She laughs, but the sound is quickly swallowed by your mouth capturing hers in a searing kiss. Cara immediately puts her hands on your waist, bringing you down so that you sit in her lap. Your mouth is wonderfully soft and pliant, willing and open when she prods her tongue in you. She digs her fingers into your hips, ears perking up when she hears you let out a small whimper, grinding down into her thigh. You thread your fingers through her hair, pulling back with a dazed look in your eyes as your chest heaves with each breath.

“Questions, hm?” she mutters, pressing fleeting kisses against your neck. “If I remember, you were the one asking the question earlier today.” You let out a breathy laugh that melts into a moan when she nibbles at a soft spot under your ear. You untangle your fingers from her hair to fully pull away. Cara lets you go with a final squeeze, disappointed but tries to mask it with a look of want. You must’ve seen it anyways because you smile coyly at her as you start untying the bodice of your frock with deft fingers. You had no intention of leaving.

“Lay back,” you tell her softly, slipping the straps off of your shoulders as you let it pool around your feet, leaving you in your sheer blouse and thin leggings. You kick your boots off, following Cara up the bed as she leans back against the pillows and pulling pins out of your hair to let it flow over your shoulders. Cara grabs the back of your neck and brings you down to kiss you again, tucking the hair curtaining your face behind your ears. She’s thankful that the nights on Sorgan are cooler than the days because she’s starting to sweat from how her body burns up. Still trapping you in a kiss, she trails her hands down your body, kneading your breasts for a short moment before she’s pulling at the hem of your blouse. Unfortunately, you have to pull away to take off your top, but you do so as fast as you can so that you can press a kiss to her jaw, the side without the bruise. As you do, Cara slides your leggings over the swell of your ass. She doesn’t bother with taking it off all the way before she cups her hand around your mound over your panties.

The moan you let out is just sinful.

You grind into her hand, sighing as you tuck your face into the crook of her neck. “Please,” you muffled voice says.

“Please what?” Cara asks teasingly.

“Touch me.”

“I am touching you,” she says, and digs the palm of her hand into your clit. You keen, high and whiny as you pull her hand away so that you can shimmy out of your panties and pull them and your leggings off, flinging them into the darkness of the room. As much as Cara wants to continue teasing you, one look in the dim light at your blown pupils and bruised lips convinces her to bring her fingers back to your clit. A ragged breath forces itself out of your lungs as she rubs it, bringing her other hand to play with your nipples, rolling the bud between her thumb and forefinger. The angle is awkward as you’re on top, so Cara flips you over, somehow managing not to roll the both of you out of the bed as you let out a surprised gasp.

Your hair splays under your like a halo, and Cara swears that angels must be real with how etheral you look. She resumes rolling and tugging at your nipples as she slips two of her fingers down to your wetness, spreading it all over your pussy as she grins at the hitch in your breath. She slips two fingers in, pumping it in and out languidly and teasing your clit with her thumb as you writhe under her ministrations. “That’s it,” she whispers, dragging her hand from your breast, up your neck where her rough hands wrap around your throat. Your skin is slick with sweat, and you let out a soft swear in a language she doesn’t know when she curls her fingers in you. Your hand comes up to grasp her wrist as the other one fists the sheets under you. “You’re doing so good, baby.” You whimper from the praise, and Cara slips another finger in you. Her pace quickens, rubbing in fast, tight circles as she keeps hitting that beautiful spot in you, marvelling at how you clench around her fingers. With how you’re moaning, you’re close. “You gonna come?” she pants. Cara tightens her grip around your throat, her wolfish grin widening when she can feel your racing pulse under her hand. “You gonna come for me?” Tears are glistening in your eyes as you nod desperately.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you choke out, hips bucking up as that tight coil in your winds tighter and tighter. “Please, Cara I-- Maker I’m so close--” Cara curls her fingers one last time, pressing your clit as she sucks a hickey right above your left breast as she commands you to cum. White explodes behind your eyelids as you groan in pure pleasure, digging your nails into her wrist as your eyes roll to the back of your head, letting a few tears slip through from the feeling of it all. She lets you ride it out, slowing down the pumping of her fingers as you start to wind down. Her hand releases its grip from your throat. You grab the hand that was just in your pussy, bringing up to your lips and sucking on her fingers, still wet from your cum as you moan around them.

“Holy shit,” she breathes. You look up at her through tear soaked lashes as you pop her fingers of your mouth. You lay there staring up at her with those doe eyes, chest heaving from the aftershocks, and Cara knows she’s not done with you yet. She pulls away from you light grip and slides down the bed, hooking her arms around your thighs as she drags you down until your hips are hanging off the edge, putting your legs over her incredibly built shoulders. You laugh, and manage to snag a pillow before she takes you too far, tucking it behind your head. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” you say, threading your hand through her hair again. “You’re very beautiful,” you murmur, almost absentmindedly. Cara’s body burns hotter at your words, and she dives right in at the apex of your thighs without any preamble, lapping at your dripping pussy as moans tears themselves out of your mouth. “Oh, stars--” Your toes are curling when she licks a broad stripe up, tugging at her hair.

“You’re so sweet,” she says. Then a pause. “Literally and figuratively,” she adds, and goes right back to devouring you eagerly. It was almost too much. You had barely any time to rest from your last orgasm, and here Cara was, bringing you closer to that precipice almost immediately. You take your fingers out of her hair to adjust the pillow behind you so that you can somewhat prop yourself up, and you let out another gush of wetness that Cara automatically laps up when you see her other hand has disappeared into her pants, playing with herself as she eats you out. With that image seared into your mind, and with how Cara was playing with your clit with her tongue, eyes dark with lust, it takes no time at all for you cum again, toes curling as you grasp at the sheets underneath you, the breath being knocked out of you.

Cara pauses for a brief moment to suck a mark into your inner thigh. You can see that her face is glistening all the way down her chin, and you curl up to kiss her to the best of your abilities, moaning again at the taste of yourself in her mouth. Cara surges up, pinning you against the bed as the hand in her pants move faster. Her other hand stays strong on your shoulder as she slips her tongue into your warm mouth. You whimper, running your hands over her, sneaking your hands up her shirt to scratch down her back. Cara growls at the action. She sits up, nearly ripping her pants off as she pushes it down her hips. This time, as she goes to down to chase after her own orgasm, you slip your hand down with it, rubbing that tight bundle of nerves as Cara stretches herself with her own fingers. “You’re so sweet,” she gasps, pressing open-mouthed kisses, wet and wanting. “Sweet, sweet girl, so nice to me, so willing--” She grunts, switching to the other side to plant more kisses. “You’d let me do anything, hm?” Even as you’re spent, legs still twitching, you feel more arousal build up.

“Cara,” you moan.

“Yes,” she hisses. “Say my name again, say it- say it again.” You call her again, a little more urgently, voice pitches upwards as you speed up until finally she cums, collapsing on you and biting down harshly at the junction of your shoulder as you cry out.

You lay there, panting as you lazily mouth at her neck, tasting the salt of her skin as you rub her back affectionately and pull your hand out from where it was trapped between your bodies. Sleep tugs at you, but you sigh and gently nudge her. “We have to clean up,” you say. Waking up still gross and sweaty for a Sorgan summer did not sound nice. Your voice is rough, and you’re sure you’ll have hand-shaped bruises and a variety of other colorful marks on you when the day breaks. “Would you like me to draw a bath?”

“Only if you’ll come with me,” she murmurs. Cara props herself on her elbows to look at you, at how you were glowing and still flush from the orgasms she had drawn from you. She frowns as she runs a deft finger over where she hid bitten you. “Sorry about that.” You smile and pull her in for a fleeting kiss before you wiggle out from under her.

“I like it,” you say quickly, and pad to the refresher, trying to ignore the self-satisfied smirk Cara has when your wobbly legs almost give out from under you. You feel wonderfully sore, and when you catch yourself in the reflection of the water, you see exactly how ruined you look. Your lips are red from bruising kisses, eyes still shiny with tears left unshed, and your hair is an absolute mess. Your neck looks like a battlefield, dark marks forming all the way down to your breasts and the one on your inner thigh. You run a finger over the deepest, darkest one that Cara had put on you. It’s sore as you press into it, but it makes you preen.

As the water heats up, you feel warm hands sliding around your waist, Cara sweeping your hair away and pecking kisses up the back of your neck. You stifle a laugh. “You are insatiable,” you say, but a warm feeling starts bubbling in your belly again. You slip from her grasp and go into the water to buy some time, and Cara follows straight after. She pulls your back flush against her bare chest as her hands start dancing downwards.

“You think you got one more in you?” she husks in your ear. You grin.

“Anything for the winner.”

#the mandalorian #cara dune #cara dune x reader #cara dune x you #cara dune reader #carasynthia dune #my writing #smut #cara dune imagine #will this flop bc theres no demand for cara readers?#probably

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what-the-floofin · 5 years ago

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Deal’s a deal I guess.

(me: *trips. words spill from my pockets. There’s 2127 of them*)

Lance had dealt long enough with living around that damn coat, his every attempt to have Keith just let him fix it turned down time and time again. Once he even managed to make the offer with no weirdness, no fumbling, no antagonising bites about it at all. Total stallion to stallion. Heart to heart. Or… something. It was damn cool, anyway.

(He’d deny having practiced a dozen times to the audience of his own reflection.)

Yet still Keith refused.

(And Lance did not sulk about it. Absolutely not.)

But he figured it out, after weeks of peripheral listening and observation and sheer determination to see it through. Keith wouldn’t accept reasons of ‘just because’ – not even from Shiro – but he would accept trades. So, Lance targeted the easiest one he could think of and caught Keith down one of many endless halls.

He’d spar with him for a full session – no complaints! – and in turn Keith would let him put a brush to his sides. Also with no complaints, though that part had been more or less implied since Lance was abiding by a strict no-button-pushing rule at the time.

Keith had pulled an odd face as he considered the proposal - finally mumbling something like an agreement after the longest, most agonising minute Lance ever had to wait in his life - and all while refusing to look any higher than Lance’s chin.

Lance only cared about that fact that he accepted and bolted at once to collect his things.

By the time they were making languid cool-down laps of the training deck, their sides lathered and legs shaking in the result of their sparring efforts, the giddiness of anticipation began to rise beyond the threshold of his control. It skipped his pace and littered his strides with prancing steps, kicking up waves of delight that manifested in half-restrained grins and more than once caused Keith to scowl obvious queries of why.

The instant they turned in towards the platform of the spectator stands, the single level they’d raised decked out with a box of water pouches and their discarded articles, Lance raced to his little bag and snatched it from atop his folded jacket, turning on a dime towards Keith and barely able to contain his eagerness to begin.

He was dismayed to find Keith had instead busied himself in removing the red binds from his legs, pointedly keeping his back to him and thin tail swishing quietly. Right, right, of course they wouldn’t jump straight into transition. That’s cool. At least Keith hadn’t just beelined for the exit. And they were still a little sweaty anyway, the wait would do them good.

Setting the pack on the floor Lance opted to follow suit. For it was, damn him, a good idea.

He thought himself incredibly patient as he watched Keith from the corner of his eye, strategically busying himself in removing his own blue wraps and guard pads to roll up the set, all while trying not to spend every other second tracking Keith’s languid progress. Lance found it impossible to match him he moved that slow, and yet Keith didn’t really seem to care much for winding the lengths of bind properly at all. Each looked more wadded up than decently coiled, and were dropped in a messy pile atop the half open duffel bag rather than in it. Which, if he was deliberately stalling, wasn’t what Lance expected.

Finally, Keith heaved a short sigh and tossed the last one amongst the rest, empty hands now tugging the hem of his shirt as he shifted weight across his legs, flexing them out one by one. He dallied a moment longer to take a water pouch, fiddling the straw between his fingers as his tongue flicked to wet his lips.

He was officially out of things to do. He had to be.

“Okay, fine. Get on with it,” Keith conceded, ducking at his own voice.

Lance dropped the wrap he’d wound up twice already and zipped beside Keith in a heartbeat, impatiently pacing on the spot when the mullet-head veered sideways in surprise.

“It’s about time this got handled! You’re in the hands of a professional now.” Lance beamed, immediately latching onto the fur of those scruffy withers as if he could possibly pull Keith back towards him.

“Uh… okay?”

Keith didn’t sound convinced but boy was Lance gonna prove it.

He sized up the full scope of his task, finger combing through pale hairs and flipping a hand over to find it covered in a fine dust, quickly concluding Keith had likely not seen proper care in yonks. Which was gross. And mildly horrifying. Jiminy crickets just the thought of letting himself get like that put a shiver down Lance’s spine.

He really, really wanted to tackle the remains of that old winter coat first now that he got a good look at it, for it was the clear culprit to all of his suffering. It just made the guy look so damn unkempt!

That is, until he realised the shaggy patches along his top line were as sleek and summer-fine as the rest. It certainly didn’t tuft and pull away when he clamped onto the strands and determinedly dragged them through. Lance had seen this coat uniformly short before – back in their Garrison days – so he was certain this was something new and it raised a whole plethora of questions that simplified to what the bloody hell. He stopped pulling when sturdy muscle flickered irritation beneath his attention. Keith gave a terse little grunt, turning just enough to glare from the corner of his eye.

“Pinching wasn’t the deal.”

“Hydration test,” Lance covered smoothly, straightening as he set both hands against the small cape of weirdly shaggy coat with a quick yes-all-good-here pat.

Keith just looked outright puzzled then, swerving his softly knitted frown from the water pouch in hand and back again.

“But I’m drinking. Right now.”

Shit, he was. Uh.

“Yeah- but uh, maybe it wouldn’t be enough! Those capri-suns are ridiculously tiny. Sheesh, whatever, okay, stay still.” Hands still braced over Keith’s spine Lance backpedalled the short step to reach his small pack. He hooked it with a back hoof, dragging it forward with enough force to flick it up and keep the strap over his foot. Despite the pendulum swinging it stayed put, allowing Lance the smug satisfaction of success as he twisted to meet his outstretched leg. Cradling the bag in the crook of his arm he dug through its contents, setting at least three different brushes atop the width of golden hindquarters before letting it thud back by his feet and pushing it aside. He cracked his knuckles and plucked up the round comb first.

The desire to chatter was a consistent tremble on his tongue as he worked the quick tight circles, but he wanted to play this cautiously. Safe-like. It had taken long enough to even get to this stage, and Keith… like, hated talk. And if he really hated it, he’d probably leave, deal or no deal, no hesitation about it. They agreed to grooming, nothing more nothing less. So! Lance was fully capable of not talking. Absolutely. For sure. Wouldn’t say a word. Easy peasy.

Instead he worked studiously to raise every bit of loose hair out of the light coat until Keith looked like a fuzzy dust bunny from withers to tail, every inch of fur rumpled up in every conceivable direction. The sheer volume he dislodged was appalling, really. Stars, how could the guy not be itching out of his skin running around like this.

Well, at least Keith wasn’t too much of a squirmer. He was tense and kind of twitchy, rocking away from the occasional sweep (ticklish, maybe?) and only once reflexively tail whipping him in the face, but otherwise Keith remained in reach. By comparison, trying to get this much work done with his niece and nephew was a riot. Lance missed this though, achingly so, for it had been such an integral part to his family routine. A deep-chested sigh suddenly rumbled beneath his hands and Keith shifted just enough to drop a third empty water pouch atop the raised seating. Third. Had that much time gone by in dead silence?

Surprisingly, Lance hadn’t found it all that unsettling. Huh.

He took up the broader brush then, running his palm against the stiff bristles and humming his satisfaction before setting into round two. He spent his time mulling over the relative silence, curious of the weird taste it carried and his uncertainty in what to make of it, and fastidiously focused on sentencing every discarded strand to flutter to the floor or tangle in the brush, every long sweep carefully following the grain. Glancing down as he crossed his hooves and side-stepped away from one very (and proudly, he could say) tidy looking shoulder, he could’ve smirked at the pale cloud collecting around the mullet-head’s feet.

It wasn’t until he’d worked down half the count of Keith’s ribs – still too prominent, did he even eat – that Lance noticed, and could only wonder when it changed. Keith had settled back, hip tilted and hind leg loosely bent, resting the tip of his hoof on the ground. Lance followed the dark line of his back then, careful to maintain all nonchalance as he noted how Keith’s forelegs compensated and his upper shoulders had taken on the gentle slope of a dozing lean.

Lance couldn’t see his face, but he was pretty sure Keith wasn’t looking anywhere but the back of his eyelids.

It filled him with a warmth that began in his belly and rapidly swelled up in his chest.

Hell yeah, he was great at pampering, and if he could get Keith of all people to relax like this then clearly he was a pamper god. It was all the proof Lance needed.

The feeling followed him the rest of the way through, chasing his palms and tingling in his wrists through every flick until Keith was – successfully and completely – brushed down. Truly, a marvel of his efforts. Lance was particularly proud of the delicate shine he managed to buff into the sandy gold, and could only imagine how much more it might show with a proper conditioned scrub.

He didn’t want to finish though. Not quite yet. So, sizing up his chances… he started over, running the soft brush in continuous gentle sweeps, too aware that any one of them could stir Keith and break the airy spell settled over them. Now and then Keith’s head drooped, the dark curls still drawn back in a ponytail bobbing on the return.

Lance saw the eventual dip too far that woke him – running a tiny jolt down the lean back that finished in an abrupt flick of tail – and guiltily whipped his hands away from their prolonged attentions. He stepped back as Keith twisted to study his work with a long, unreadable silence.

“Huh.”

That was it? Huh? Lance’s scowl vanished the moment Keith turned to him though, the smile on that face small and meagre but more than something fleeting. Lance found himself mirroring it right back in a heartbeat, staring as Keith finally moved off to pull on his jacket, and watching still while he fixed both cuffs and tugged the collar straight.

“Um, thanks.” Keith added, rushed and clumsy as if he’d just clicked to what Lance was waiting for. Lance huffed his amusement, hurrying at once to pack his things and stuff both arms into his own jacket, intending a quick exit himself now he’d gotten all he wanted. He didn’t put it past the mullet to suddenly decide locking him in here would be adequate payback.

Yet Keith remained a statue in his peripheral, duffel bag clutched in hand but held low between his forelegs. He swayed only once as if undecided in his departure.

“You should talk next time.”

“Next time?” Lance swung around, a bold smirk covering the simultaneous surprise and excitement of the prospect. He had expected a lot more than that to get here again.

Keith flushed at once, visibly scrambling.

“I mean, if that’s okay? After tr- the same deal. If you want- because you don’t uh… have.. to.” He scrunched his face and almost hid behind a hand, fingers curling against the air as he paused just long enough to suck down a breath and let it go again.

“Ugh,” he continued elegantly, hand dropping with a thwap against his side, “what I’m saying is- this was nice. But you should talk. It’s weird when you just… don’t.”

Lance was positively beaming, even brighter than the solar flare they once passed near Sh'gal.

“Sure. Next time.”

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thelure · 3 years ago

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ERNIE MACMILLAN: AN APP

so this is an app for one, ernie macmillan, on a time clash site (i promise i don't only rp hp but i've been in a nostalgic mood). anyway, i am posting it here because i'm proud i finished it (lol) and because i've had so much anxiety about my writing, if anyone ends up reading this for fun please tell me what you think <3

who are you anyway? a macmillan, so they say. but you aren’t one, not really.you bare another name, secretly hold it close to your chest. they might find it burnt into your bones but they would have to skin you for it first, you’ll be damned.so who are you? a macmillan, or so your mother says. it is up for you to choose but do you have a choice? not really.for who would willingly choose a father that refused to let your mother hyphen your surname? nothing but a shame on your paternal family’s house, on their pure blooded legacy, all because you were born a bastard before marriage. but weren’t they betrothed anyway?weren’t they getting married? mother reasons that it’s not so bad, that she had tried to love your father but couldn’t.mother reasons that it’s not so bad because for all her trying at least she got you.you’ve never been able to ask that big question: why. why couldn’t she love him? why wouldn’t he love her? but you think you understand that cold, hard, faraway look that glistens in her eyes when she talks about your father. the way her eyebrows furrow with a fierce determination. you think you understand that she was too good for your father. in more ways than one. so, who are you?ernest. ernie.pride is a fickle thing if you haven’t got the self-esteem for it and you’ve never had that problem. no. not you. for what better way to spite the family that rejects you? what’s really wrong with you anyway? just a bastard pureblood, raised by your single mother, but really, what’s wrong with that? for there was really no shame in the name ‘macmillan’ no matter what room it was you walked into. macmillans are truly not used to being anything outside of well liked and prominent. as far back as wizarding society could remember, only your untraditional birth is the ink stain on a perfectly fresh parchment. what’s wrong with being macmillan when it means you could walk into a room a black may be occupying while chatting with a werewolf — if the company might have pleased you — and toujours pur would still maybe even give you a quick hello under that nasty breath.(pride is what you hold on to as if it’s the last thing you do. you walk with your head high, you walk with your back straight. you move crisp and fluid, unaffected like a thick skinned boar.)mother’s love has always been enough. tall and willowy, gaunt faced mother who loves linen cloth and muggle records and wearing sheer glitter on her eyelids. who always smells like soap and fresh lilacs. who’s smile is as golden sweet as honey. as a small child you loved to watch her arrange flowers in a vase, freshly cut from her own garden, and the way she’d concentrate so hard the tip of her tongue poked out the side of pink lips. you sat there perched with one of her old first year books but it’s really her you study. engraving every inch of the moment down to the golden hour sun setting alight her hair through the window because you always wanted to remember this:to remember the way mother was always giving and good natured. to remember that she never walked around with a chip on her shoulder, holding grudges. that she was always considerate even to the tiny petals of the flowers she loved so much, ensuring that not even the limpest of them were ever mishandled.to remember how you swore to yourself every time in such moment, that you would always be her son. dutifully. that you were always going to choose to be the kind of man that made that kind of mother proud. you love your mother dearly, for all that she has done for you. so you choose to be macmillan.(not like you had a choice.)

ii.

if only you knew what i had been through, if you knew, you would rejoice too.but it’s hard. to look back and remember the beginning. such a peaceful, hopeful beginning, full of love and the addictive buzzing of an excited, thrumming heart. it’s a struggle but with a bit of effort — with a bit of conviction and sincerity — and the ghost of your mother’s smile, it comes back to you.(almost.)the moments that remind you what you’re living for.to remember that dark haired boy who couldn’t seem to quite make it past the first step on the hogwarts express, the panicked look he’d shoot to those behind him. waiting. watching. how it brought a smile to your own. for you were nervous too but you were always much more brave. much more prideful. you push through the older and the taller and when he makes another attempt to step down back on the platform you place the palm of your hand on the small of his back. firm but kind and encouraging. “up you go now, next foot forward. you don’t want the train to leave without you.”it’s your mother’s way of speech that comes out of your tiny mouth but it seems to be what he needs to continue moving. justin finch-fletchley. it rolls off your tongue. not as your mother’s words but your own that feel almost like a stranger to you. justin finch-fletchley. you repeat his name back to him before introducing your own. you repeat his name over and over again in your mind. it rolls around as you look into soft, kind eyes and you smile so hard it makes you both blush. you think before you know, before it truly manifests itself, that you would like to stay by his side forever.( he is beautiful. not like you. you who have become sharp and angular. you who bares scars, some uglier than others and the memory that for all your wounds, you’ve still seen worse. and maybe he has too. maybe his scars are hidden in his breastbone like the name you secretly carry. but he is beautiful, not like you. soft and gentle and like the foggy glow of a full moon reflecting in a midsummer night’s lake. and his eyes. somehow, through it all, his glittering, kind eyes stayed the same and you fear most that when he looks back at you he sees something different. something that’s changed. that something which has been lost to you. and yet nothings lost, not really. not when his eyes are fixed on yours and his body is so close. when despite all the metallic sweat and blood and dust, his lips are so sweet and warm— the only thing you taste. and finally— finally, you know he’s alive and you’ve got him in your arms and without even having to think, you know that from now on, you’ll be by his side forever. )if only you knew what i had been through, if you knew, you would rejoice too.but it's hard.hard to rejoice in the now when you remember what you had done it all for. the memories don’t come back in night terrors but rather like this: when the caressing summer breeze, folds around your face and the sun peaks out into a blue sky, so warm and so welcoming, it’s light seeps through to the bone and wraps around your soul. the innocent sound of laughter from children no older than eleven, the buzzing excitement of first time wands and school robes rings through your ears and one accidentally bumps into you sending their ice cream cup flying so you offer to buy them a new one. and like a flood it comes back. knocks the very breath right out of you and suddenly you are back on hogwarts grounds and right in front of you is a child, eleven. a child being punished with the cruciatus curse and your body moves faster than your brain can think, faster than your wand hand can jinx, and collides with a carrow. hands with a mind of it’s own shoving a face into wet dirt. a righteous fury burning in your heart. a group of first years silently horrified. like fighting through thick fog you blink your way back into the present but the glaze that covers your eyes doesn’t go unnoticed and you can feel them watching you when you awkwardly stumble away — with the ringing of screams in your ears and the pulseless wrists of the bodies you check on

your fingers and the smell of metallic blood in your nose as you help heal the wounded — because it is not your name they know or remember. and you don’t blame them. you’re not prideful any more anyway and you’re not bitter because for all your scars, you’ve seen worse.if only you knew what i had been through, if you knew, you would rejoice too that you're still here amongst the living.

iii.

bones stretch against hard surface that is as cool as the marble statues that haunt the old macmillan estate. hot flesh stings from the chill so that the sweat stuck to your back starts to make you shiver. you had sworn you could do this. where had that little boy gone? you swore that you were fine, strong enough to follow the seasons into the icy winter where wildflowers died waiting to be reborn. redefined with the melting renewal of spring. you got stuck in the winter of your life.( and how dare you feel this way, what gives you the right? how selfish and miserable it makes you feel when you know it could all have been worse. much worse. when you know how fortunate you are that at least justin and hannah and susan are breathing, and ginny, neville and luna, and god— harry! thank god for harry, who suffered most of all. )healing is a hard, thankless work and you feel the weight of lives in the bags of your eyes and in the bag you once called your body. and there you are scared to close them even for a moment because they are heavy and you fear you might not wake up again. for while you wrestle with the lives of the living, you feel like you're walking amongst ghosts. the resting of eyes so tempting and sweet, you could keep your body there: propped up against the walls of st. mungo’s where you melt under pressure and remain but a ghost along with them. he was cut out for this. you? you don’t know who you are anymore or where that little boy has gone. and all you want to do is cry out for mother (hold her a little bit, feel the stroke of her gentle long fingers, her soft voice as sweet as her honey sweet smile vibrating from her chest as your head rests on her shoulder, mother who would know exactly what to say) but you know she won’t hear you being just another ghosts too. one more casualty of war, a death kept close to your chest. he was cut out for this. you? what happened to you?where did you go?back to where you could feel the presence of mother in search of some peace of mind. back to the dusty boarded up shop, strategically placed right before diagon alley gives way to knockturn, where you begin to clean up the last of the aftermath of war in your life. the one thing you had yet to touch because it had hurt too much to see it. hurt to see the dried blood left over on bits of broken glass because she had not gone easily, your mother. and you try your best not to think of your father as you sweep up the dust and pieces of wood, or what he would have thought upon hearing the news. you don’t want to know which of the bastards had done it, try not to think of how many there had been to come calling once she’d been found out for helping muggleborns flee the country. most of all, as you fix the apothecary your mother left behind, you ignore the nagging thought in your head that maybe he had been here too.( in fact you try hard not to think of him at all. he’s always been a fragment rather than a memory. a looming presence like the dark side of the moon to which you know is there but as they say— out of sight out of mind. and what had he ever done for you to occupy a space in your mind anyway outside of conflicting you with a deep sense of loathing and a burning need to prove yourself better off. what had he given you other than small fragments, not real memories of being around for a christmas or two, and maybe he had taught you how to read on one of those occasions. been the one to show you that you pause for a breath after a ‘period’ so that your sentences weren’t all monotone and run on. but what did he really give you aside of a deep sense of shame?and possibly a memory, not just a fragment, of being the one thing that could always make your mother cry. )so what happened to you, where did you go?back to where love was more than a distant memory. something you knew of once in your past. for not even the soothing waves of the ocean that sing you lullabies and glitter against light like an omnipresent beacon could have given you such peace as this kind of love.where he smells like wildflowers and wet

earth in your bed and has a smile that is so warm and sweet, warmer and sweeter than even honey, that it feels like you’re being kissed by fresh spring sunlight after a dark, bitter winter whenever he fixes up the corners of his mouth. how could life be so pure with him that even the sight of the smallest potted succulent could have made your heart do flips. how come every place you went all you thought of was him. how he would like this and how he would want that. how was it possible that loving someone this way could have tempered your soul and suddenly you saw more — in everyone, young and old, every walking soul — of what people needed. you wanted to be kind like he was, much softer than someone like you could have been brought up to be. you wanted to smile at a stranger, to warm their heart and make their day, through the love that he has given you. it is not me you see but the man who loves me.justin finch-fletchley. (you’ll never forget that moment you saw him from across the great hall. how your body was ready to break and your heart swelled so large that it hurt inside your chest because there he was. brave and beautiful and my god- alive! you had spent every single day — waking and sleeping — thinking about the last time you’d seen him. how you watched his back until it disappeared in the train station with all the words you wanted to say boiling at the tip of your tongue and your hands tingling because they had wanted so badly to grab him and shake him and call him a fool, didn’t he know that it was all going to be different? couldn’t he sense that all your lives where about to change? but instead you watched him, silently let him go. and it dug in your brain like the worst, most sour kind of memory. and for every pain a carrow could have inflicted on you, it never felt worse than that image of watching his back fade away. but there he was brave and beautiful and my god— alive. and as your body had moved towards him you swore you would never leave his side. that you would stay there forever.)you think— you feel, as you put the pieces of your mother’s shop back together, that life should be simple like this. you had figured out that sometimes you could do more outside of the ministry and even further, you realized that sometimes you could heal others without healing work. sometimes you could heal them with some love, some kindness from a stranger.

iv. “give us a peace equal to the war or else our souls will be unsatisfied, and we will wonder what we have fought for and why the many died… “ - langston huges

you feel strange as you struggle to wake up from a dream that felt so tangible and real and you could have sworn that your fingers had been gripping justin’s hand— or was it susan’s? maybe hannah’s? with elation and excitement before the gravity that tethered you to the world breaks, pings melodically like the thread of a unicorn hair ripping apart, and your foot breaks through cement into a veil, like you are slipping through the crack of a sidewalk and it all goes dark. fuzzy. what had you been dreaming that felt so real? and why does your body feel so strange. knees burning with a sharp pain, spine twisted, a forearm pressing into a headboard so unfamiliar and yet too familiar. where did it go? this dream. why was everything in your mind so foggy and why does your heart feel so desperate like something is wrong. like something has been lost when finally all the pieces you’d been trying to pick up were reshaping into something exciting and new. you feel unfamiliar and familiar at the same time and it’s that familiarity which fills you with further dread. you stretch out old bones too big for the bed it’s curled up upon and instantly know where you are. home. and now you reason this must be it. this is the dream and you must have fallen asleep (so weird). so vivid and real but how else could you explain the unmistakable sound of the pan sizzling in a distant kitchen, and the sound of joni mitchell’s 'blue' album skipping where the vinyl was scratched, and the sound of your mother’s voice humming along. sweet as ever but off key like a little bird chirping at the wrong time of day. you stretch out your bones and your whole body cracks and that dread that you’ve been feeling seeps into where they’ve popped but you can’t help yourself. you must see it to the end. you jump up quickly, your childhood room not being spared a glance (but you wouldn’t have recognized it anyway if you had really taken a look and maybe that was for the better because it would have frightened you) and you run for that sound. the sound of home. of mother. and you tell yourself, very convincing of a job you do, rationalizing that you are trapped in a dream regardless of how it all feels so real. as real as the other dream. but which one is which? and your mother? her eyebrows frozen in a furrow at the sound of your footsteps tumbling through the house. the sound of a man’s body lumbering through. and the moment your eyes lay upon her you think, yes, it must be true. so your heart forgets that dread it had been feeling because she’s here. with you in this place. because you are home and you missed her so dearly. but her body feels too real, her heart hammering against your chest when in a thoughtless, childlike moment you hug her. you cry on her shoulder and you cry out the name ‘mother’ with such mournful sorrow she jerks away and it dawns on you she’s real. that she’s real but you’re real. but what does that mean? and oh, god— where is justin?

#character-dev*

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perditaalottachocolate-blog · 5 years ago

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Spring Fever (12)

@adrinetteapril 2019 story

Chapter: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | art | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | art | 18 | 19 | 20 |

AO3 / fanfiction.net

*****

Chapter 12. Confession

In which Adrien demonstrates how not to confess

Adrien knew Marinette arrived at the set before he saw her. And even if he misinterpreted the prickling sensation crawling all over his skin, the hint of a pull towards the entrance left no doubt that the object of his affection was near.

Plagg hadn’t bothered with disclosing the mechanics behind spring fever, evading that it worked in mysterious ways and there was not enough camembert in Paris that would give him strength and patience required to explain it anyway.

The profuse sweat Adrien had been dealing with since the day before earned him a few complaints from the make-up artist. There was nothing Adrien could do about it, at least not until he’d get the curing kiss, yet the thought of approaching Marinette about it made his hands even more clammy. He tucked the handkerchief into his jacket, pretending it was pocket square matched to the outfit, despite it being a different shade of blue. He didn’t want Marinette’s scent, still lingering on the material, to be tainted with his odor. And as far as odors went, Adrien had learned his lesson, so Plagg’s emergency food, which the kwami kept insisting to call ”lunch”, was sealed inside a zip-lock bag and put in another one for better measure. The containers rested in Adrien’s bag next to an ice-pack, to prevent them from melting into Eau de Plagg. The sprite had complained, of course, but his heart wasn’t in it.

Ever since the black cat had woken Adrien up from his fever induced dream, the boy was bracing himself for the inevitable confrontation with the love of his life. His stomach twisted into a tight knot and his head swam with possible speeches. He’d been rehearsing the words over and over again but they were almost all gone the moment Marinette walked through the entrance to the dressing area with Nathalie in tow.

It was as if suddenly a second sun appeared in the sky. The world became warmed, brighter, softer. A gentle breeze filled his nose with heady scents of magnolia, apple blossoms and earth. It mused the carefully styled hair on his forehead. It colored his cheeks peach under the foundation the make-up artist had applied. It sent his heart into a frenzy and poured fire into his veins.

He was so not ready to do this. He would never be.

Adrien felt a shallow bite of two needle-sharp teeth on his calf and he realized he’d been too wrapped up in daze to react in any way to Marinette’s arrival, except for staring and drooling (just a little bit).

‘H-hi!’ he squeaked, about two octaves above his usual timbre. ‘You’re h-here!’ he hiccupped eloquently.

‘Should I not be?’ Marinette sounded uncertain. She was fidgeting anxiously in her place. ‘You texted me?’ she reminded.

‘Yeah-h! Of course you should be h-here!’ Adrien cursed his twisted tongue. It had been functioning just fine until the love of his life manifested in this mortal domain. In four steps he was in front of Marinette and stopped himself at the last moment, before he would give her a welcome hug and a kiss.

Boundaries, Adrien scolded himself. It’s a thing.

What’s wrong with an innocent bisou? The fever whispered into his ear.

The boy wanted to argue, that right now he didn’t trust himself to do anything innocent in Marinette’s presence, but the girl of his dreams smiled at him and all the remaining thoughts evaporated from his sizzling brain.

‘So…,’ Marinette brushed a stray lock of her hair behind her ear. ‘How do you feel today?’ She discreetly checked if Nathalie already left, but when she noticed his father’s assistant still stood at the entrance, she wiggled her brows meaningly. ‘I hope the gift worked well for you?’

‘Yeah-h,’ Adrien vigorously nodded. ‘It worked like a ch-charm.’ He turned to the woman behind his guest. ‘Nathalie, can I… um… h-have a moment with Marinette alone, please?’

Miss Sancoeur cast him an even look. She clicked on her tablet. ‘The photoshoot is scheduled to start in 5 minutes,’ she informed him.

‘S-sure! I’ll be ready,’ he promised.

The woman gave a nod of approval and left, leaving the two teens to themselves.

Heavy silence fell over the room. Marinette moved away from Adrien, closer to the racks of clothes he was supposed to be showcasing that morning. He knew she would be curious, but she didn’t try to steal a peek nor shown interest in them, her attention solely on him.

Adrien took a deep breath. A breath that seemed to shorten the distance between them, as if he sucked up the air keeping them apart. Keep away from her, he reminded himself, do not touch her if you want to keep a relatively level head. She’s your drug now. Keep away. We’re all friends here, we’re professionals.

With that last thought he halted two steps away from her. His body screamed in big hot letters to close the distance, but he prevailed. For the sake of their friendship he still hoped to salvage. He willed his head to stop spinning, ignoring another wave of heat washing over him.

Here goes nothing.

‘Marinette,’ he murmured, 'I wasn’t honest with you yesterday. I didn’t tell you everything about the true nature of my predicament.’

‘True nature?’ she echoed. 'Is it dangerous?’

'No! Nothing of a sort,’ he assured her, noticing she didn’t ask if it was contagious, but only if it posed any danger. That line of thinking was something he was used to associating with Ladybug not with a civilian. Was there no end to all the ways Marinette would keep astonishing him? 'But I’m not sure how you’re going to react and the last thing I’d want is to hurt you,’ he said.

'Hurt me? I don’t understand.’ An adorable little wrinkle appeared between her brows. She tilted her head as she assessed him. Did she have to be so unbearably cute? Just like in his dream.

'I love you,’ Adrien breathed before he could stop himself.

A heartbeat, two, three. An eternity of silence, with metaphorical crickets chirping in the background. A silence so thick even the distant shout from the photoshoot crew couldn’t shatter it.

It was Marinette who broke first.

'W-whaaa?’

The panic that gripped him let his tongue loose.

'It’s the curse!’ he babbled frantically, the rehearsed speech long forgotten. 'It made me fall in love with you, up to the point where I can’t stand not being close to you. I think it’s magical, hence the literal magnet effect you witnessed yesterday. But it may be prone to suggestions since your idea for a talisman worked perfectly.’

'I’m sorry,’ Marinette drawled in bewildered whisper. 'You lost me at “I love you”!’

'I am’, he assured her solemnly, nodding his head like a maniac. 'Deeply, madly in love with you. It’s called spring fever and the only cure is a kiss from the object of my affection.’

‘A k-kiss? From me? To- to cure you from loving me?’

Her blue eyes were as big as saucers now, blinking in confusion. She frowned and pressed her lips into a thin line.

Ah, congratulations, Adrien, you already screwed this.

‘Oh my god, I’m sorry!’ he exclaimed. ‘I know how it sounds and believe me I wouldn’t be asking if I could function as a normal person, but there are some matters that I can’t really tell you about that require me being, so to speak, my own man.’

‘So you want me to kiss you and then you un-love me?’ she asked carefully.

‘Basically yes.’ At this point Adrien couldn’t stop nodding even if he tried, his neck set on autopilot out of sheer mortification.

‘Gosh, you must think I’m a terrible kisser,’ Marinette shook her head. ‘Well let me tell you, mister, I never had any complaints!’

Marinette kissed someone else? Was it Nathanael? Was it Luka? The possessive cat in him bristled at those thoughts. Adrien did his best to stop the growl that threatened to rip out of his throat. Marinette wasn’t his to be acting all jealous. He shook his head to get rid of those silly ideas.

‘I’m sure your kisses are the best in the world, Marinette,’ he blurted out. After all, he daydreamed about them for a whole day and was close to self combusting at the thought of them alone. He needed to prove his honesty. ‘In fact, I’m dying to find out because only the thought of kissing you makes me dizzy with excitement,’ he said eagerly. ‘I could wax poetic about your smile and your gorgeous lips. I could spend hours counting those adorable freckles on your skin-’

‘Careful, Adrien,’ she scowled at him. ‘A girl might get a very wrong idea when you say things like that.’

‘I knoooow,’ he whined. ‘I’m a walking disaster! I thought my love for Lad-, I thought I had it bad before this, but I had no idea love can be so powerful!’

Marinette glared at him for an uncomfortably long moment. Normally any sign of attention from her would be a nice boost to his ego, but not now. Not when he was on the receiving end of her scrutiny. He knew he was finally being 100% honest, even if his choice of words could have been better. But she had every reason not to trust him - starting with him trying to evade her questions yesterday, through his pitiful attempt at getting a kiss from her without disclosing the whole truth about his predicament, up to the “magical” explanation he had provided. Adrien couldn’t blame her, he sounded ridiculous to his own very red pair of ears. He gulped wondering what will he do when she inevitably turns on her heels and leaves his pathetic butt behind.

Finally the love of his life released a frustrated groan and hid her face in her hands. ‘Okay,’ she said.

‘Okay?’

‘Okay, I’ll do it,’ she repeated as she emerged from behind her hands.

Was it his imagination or did she shrink in the last few seconds? He could see the determination in her eyes, but there was something else lurking underneath as well.

Adrien hesitated as he searched her gaze. Sadness, resignation, pain. He couldn’t put it into words, but whatever it was, the weight of her stare made his stomach sink. Whatever it was, he didn’t like it.

‘But?’ He asked eventually, averting his gaze to the floor. Maybe she wanted him to figure it out himself, as he assumed there must have been something on her mind.

Marinette arched a brow. ‘Do you really think I would follow with a “but”?’

‘No, but…’

‘Exactly. No “but”,’ she repeated with emphasis. ‘If you need to do this, we’re doing this. No strings attached.’

Adrien had exactly two words left in him. ‘Thank you,’ he breathed.

First, came the relief and elation that Marinette agreed to provide the cure he needed. His chest was no longer tight with tension. Then, the gratitude curved his lips into a soft smile. His heart stuttered giddy with excitement that he’d finally get a kiss he’d remember! Adrien tried to swallow the spoonful of bitter guilt that he’d go back to not loving this wonderful girl in just a few moments.

‘So…’ Marinette’s voice cut into his thoughts. She wrung her fingers and stepped anxiously from one foot to the other. A fresh coat of pink colored her cheeks. ‘Do you want me to do this now or-’

‘Shouldn’t you buy me a dinner first?’ He murmured in an attempt to lighten the mood. Marinette looked nervous and god only knew how jittery he was right now.

She pursed her lips into a thin line, but the twinkle in her eyes told him it was to prevent her from laughing at loud.

‘Sorry,’ he grinned. He wasn’t sorry even a little bit.

Marinette bit her lower lip as if considering how to approach the matter. Then she stepped closer and climbed to her toes, gripping the lapels of his jacket for stability.

Adrien felt his heart hammering wildly in his ribcage, the rush of blood sent another heat wave through his system.

A breath of air that escaped her brushed his lips with warmth. The heady scents of spring surrounded him again, enclosing him in a personal bubble of bliss. Marinette closed her eyes with a sigh and leaned in. The last thing Adrien saw before closing his own was her tantalizingly perfect pink lips puckered into an adorable “o”.

This is it, he thought, tilting his head.

‘So this is how you save yourself for Ladybug?!’ A voice roared from the door.

#adrinette #adrienette #adrien agreste #marinette dupain cheng #miraculous ladybug #spring fever #perdita writes #adrinetteapril2019 #ml fic #confession #kiss

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malecsecretsanta · 5 years ago

Text

Merry Christmas, @mysteryuntamedmind!

I loved this concept, it was a joy to write, I hope you like it!!!

Read on AO3

*****

Lights Up The Skyline (To Show Where You Are)

There were many things that were common undertakings for those who had not yet manifested their soulmark. Indeed, it was fashionable for one to go on a grand tour upon one’s majority if they had not already found the manner in which they would find their soulmate. For, of course, the manner in which one’s soulmark appeared was equally as important as what the mark actually was. Whatever one was doing when their soulmark appeared was a portent: a direction, gifted by the universe to help the person pursue whatever life path would bring them to their soulmate. No matter what Alexander Gideon Lightwood did, nothing made his mark appear. He did his best to cling to hope, and, at the age of thirty, became extremely adept at maintaining his patient façade in the face of his devastatingly unmarked skin.

His siblings had gotten their marks in years ago, and Alec had been there for all of them. He had seen the magic of the colours slowly shifting to the surface of someone’s skin, and the inevitable joy as the person saw the mark of their soulmate. Jace’s soulmark had appeared one day when he had been playing piano in the early morning in the drawing room at Lightwood Manor.

(Later, Jace would explain why it was then that the mark appeared. As, for most of Jace’s life, piano had been a requirement, if not a weighted responsibility, attached to heavy strings of disappointment and punishment should his performance be less than exemplary in any way, but that morning, when the sun was shining in through the windows, Jace had been composing. It had been a new song, one for himself, and for the tentative, fragile happiness he’d found as the Lightwood’s ward. It was then, when his intention behind the piano had been of his own design, that the music was enough to call forth his soulmark.) (That was also why, when the crew had taken on a prize ship and found a piano forte in the hold, Alec had commanded it be taken to his quarters as the captain of the ship. He had then committed the sin of permanently affixing the piano to the wall of his cabin by whatever means necessary, but the reduced space and the lack of privacy that came from Jace’s frequent use of the instrument felt like no sacrifice whatsoever in the face of Jace’s happiness and his pursuit of his soulmate.) Isabelle’s mark had come from a distinctly more unorthodox venture, but Alec could only be grateful for that as well, as it was the event that had set Isabelle on a path that allowed her to accompany him out to sea. Alec was selfish enough to be honest with his happiness that he would never have to learn what it felt like to spend long months at sea without the company of his beloved siblings. Indeed, Isabelle was unsurpassed as a surgeon, never impeded by the limited supplies, equipment or surroundings. More than her sheer skill and ability, she had the vibrant, easy charm that made for a truly commendable bedside manner. It led to her being the ship confidante, as crew would come to her with everything from relationship trouble to medical advice for itching nethers. It was nearly unheard of for a woman to be a surgeon, and even more unheard of for a woman to be on a ship, but, of course, Isabelle’s soulmark had come in the day that she had been wading through Alec’s old clothes. Together, they had managed to locate some of Alec’s clothing from when he had been young and before he had gained the majority of his height. The plan had been to keep the clothing for Max, but Max had years before he would grow into the clothes, and Isabelle was determined to go to university. She had done whatever it took to gain entrance - whether it was bribery, extortion, or simply asking favours from tutors who were willing to shirk the system in her favour. Isabelle Lightwood was hardly about to let something as foolish as her womanhood keep her from pursuing her dreams of further education. With Alexander’s help, she had cut her hair and learned about the current men’s fashion from the city. She had taken Alexander’s basics and staple pieces, and created a disguise good enough to go into the city and buy new clothes that were more fitting with the current style. It had been that first day, when her new clothes had been delivered and her disguise was complete that her mark came in. She had been standing in front of the mirror, making sure that her appearance was as flawless as it always was, no matter what her intention was, and then there had been that familiar light, the bloom of colour, and Isabelle’s path was set. Her mark had come in to encourage her in her plan to sneak into university to attend medical school - not that she had needed any encouragement: she was determined enough on her own, but even so, the universe had seen fit to push her down that path to keep her on the trail to meet her soulmate. Alec had no such luck. He had nothing. There had been so many moments, when he had hoped. Days when he had practically run home, desperate to strip his clothes off and inspect his skin, hoping for any hint that a soulmate would await him, somewhere. He had first thought, perhaps, he would be deemed worthy of a soulmate when he first accepted his commission into the navy. When that had proved fruitless, he had once again managed to find hope when he’d gained his first captaincy. Upon the realization that professional success was not the way to meeting his soulmate, Alec had turned to personal matters. He had been hesitant, at first, in choosing to express to his siblings the direction of his romantic inclinations, but he had been clinging to the hope that perhaps in speaking this truth aloud, he would prove himself to be worthy of a soulmate. His siblings had accepted him with open arms, embracing him in love and support. The universe had not been nearly as kind, and Alec’s skin had remained painfully unchanged. There were the secret things as well, the dangerous, inadvisable things that Alec had undertaken as his desperation grew. Alexander had a reputation for steadiness in the face of adversity, and a distinct propensity towards bending to the pressures of societal propriety. In public, at least. Despite what would be said should he ever be found out, however, he could not help his explorations of his desires. When he was younger, he had kept his silence about such things, laying more importance in the social capital of his family name than in his own personal happiness. Watching his siblings pursue their paths, encouraged by their soulmarks, had moved something within Alec. On his best days, it was inspiration: courage, burning within him, pushing him to step out of the strict lines of expectation and towards something more of his own making. On his worst days, it was envy. Bitter and dark, turning his blood into tar. The last thing that Alec wanted was to begrudge his siblings their hard-won happiness. However, there was nothing in that truth that could do anything to dull the echo of the hollow ringing within him. What must he do to be worthy of his soulmate? What was left that he had not already done? Alec had still been young the first time that he had allowed himself to reach for his own pleasure and admit to the truth of his yearnings. He had lain naked in his bed, slowly exploring the fantasies that he had previously denied himself. He let himself dream of the touch of another man, of what it would feel like to be touched by someone other than himself, to reach out and find answering masculinity, echoing his own wants. The weight of the thought had felt like comfort and recklessness, existing in some strange clash of equal and opposite, burning like a storm in Alec’s chest. He had taken his time, learning the feeling of his own body, responding to the truth of the shape of his love. After, when Alec had caught his breath, he had been nearly certain that it had been enough. He could feel a difference within himself. Some fundamental component of his being had shifted, as if some gear that had previously been half a click out of rhythm had slotted into place. The sweet, sated relief of his afterglow was only matched by the dull, mouldering disappointment as he stood in front of the mirror, searching for any speck of the soulmark that he would not find. So Alec had tried again. He had tried with ice, lace, leather and metal. He tried candle wax and oysters and champagne and honey. He slipped out to illicit meetings. He joined card games and joined fox hunts, all in the company of those who also had proclivities of a certain persuasion. He had even abandoned his family for a season, telling them he was going to help a friend prospect a new shipping route, when instead he slipped out to the city in the dark of the night. What followed was a few months of every flavour of exploration that Alec could conceive of. He attempted teaching and business, as well as gambling, servanthood, and every manner of apprenticeship that he could find for himself. He spent a nights in opium dens, and boxing rings, and still nothing changed. He had found a natural aptitude towards hunting and trapping, stemming from his nearly instinctive excellence with a bow. He had hoped that perhaps his skill with archery would be enough, but even when he shot a hare at two hundred paces, his skin stayed the same hateful pale as it always had been. Now, as Captain of his own ship, and well-respected as a seaman and a leader, Alec found his life was a surface vision of success. Alexander, however, was nearly thirty, and in the quiet of the night, in the privacy of his own mind, it was devastatingly easy to admit that he was inescapably succumbing to defeat, and that the last dregs of hope were failing flickers that could only be seen when fair winds blew on the sunniest of days. *** Alec, Jace and Isabelle had weathered many things together, and when Max was finally old enough to join them at sea, they had met the opportunity with unconditional joy. None of them ever suspected how everything would change with a single storm. Alec did not see when Max was washed overboard, but as soon as he spotted the familiar form being tossed among the waves, Alec had no hesitation in leaping from the ship and into the dark, churning water. The ocean was unforgiving, but Alec was determined. He dove into depths, and finally spotted his younger brother, sinking steadily towards the ocean floor. Alec’s chest hurt from holding his breath, and he knew he only had enough air to either reach Max, or swim back up to the surface. For Alec, it was never a question. Swimming hard, Alec ignored the fire in his eyes, the pain in his ears, the way that his body was screaming for air. The only thing that mattered was reaching Max. Alec’s hand had barely closed around Max’s wrist when the world lit up, bright with lightning. Suddenly, Alec felt as though he could breathe. Max’s eyes opened, glowing bright in the dark water of the ocean. Both of them were lit by the bright shifting turquoise of an untouched lagoon. When they looked, the light was coming from a soulmark, shining clear from Alec’s arm. Once they returned to the surface, they were quickly rescued by the crew and sent to Izzy to be checked out. Once she had declared them uninjured, she prescribed rest, which they easily agreed to. Alec never would have let himself fall asleep if he had known that when he woke up in the morning, his soulmark would be gone. *** Lightning shot across the sky and thunder was loud enough that the windows rattled, and Isabelle could feel it through the floor. She sighed and forced herself to finish the explanation of the diagram on the page before marking her place and putting away the medical journal. She knew she would not be able to focus well enough to make it worth reading if the storm was going to be that loud. She was placing the book in its place on her desk when the realization caught up with her. A storm. Lightning. She dropped the book and went running, desperate to find where Alec was. She called for him, and there was no answer, and when she opened the door to his room it was empty. A sick feeling of dread filled her. “Alec!” She shouted again, even though she knew there would be no answer. She ran to the stairs, and found Simon halfway up them, ink-stained from whatever his latest missive was. “Isabelle? What’s wrong?” “Alec is missing.” She said grimly, before running past him to reach the main room. Clary and Jace were curled up together on the couch by the fire. They looked up as Isabelle clattered to the bottom of the stairs in her hard-soled boots. “Isabelle?” Clary asked. The look of Isabelle’s distress was enough to have Clary untangling herself from Jace’s embrace and moving to stand. “What’s wrong?” “Has anyone seen Alec?” Isabelle repeated her query. Understanding dawned on Jace’s features and he stood abruptly. “The storm.” Isabelle nodded, solemnly. Clary looked between them, clearly not understanding why it was a matter of such urgency, but the clear depth of their consternation was enough for Clary to move past her desire for questions regarding context, and to focus on the clear goal of finding the oldest Lightwood. “I saw him get a dinghy out earlier today, but with the storm that’s come in, I’m sure he’s back by now.” Her words caused Isabelle and Jace to go pale. “We have to go,” Isabelle said, and the terror in her eyes was obvious. “We must find him, and we must go now.” No one argued. It took a few short minutes for everyone to gather their things and clothes appropriate for the journey at hand, but every moment spent was another moment of fear and worry, building in the hearts of everyone. They rushed out to the docks, which had been abandoned due to the wild winds of the raging storm. It took all of the skill that they had to find their own dinghy they would be able to take out for their rescue mission. Simon even decided to stay on land, sensing that this was a mission beyond his skillset. He was determined not to be a hindrance when speed and competence were clearly the top priorities. He helped them into the small boat and then passed over the long length of rope they’d brought with them, just in case it turned to the worst, and they were forced to go diving as part of their search. The waves rolled and the sky cracked, and Isabelle, Jace, and Clary rowed steadily outward to sea. *** Alec stared at the oncoming clouds, finding a strange sense of peace. There was a hollowness within his chest, but it was lined with surety. This was his choice and his chance. His entire life had been failed attempts to get his soulmark to manifest. Now, when the closest thing that he’d ever seen to a glimpse of it had come from the night he was beneath the wild waters of a storm, too far into the depths to ever reach the surface, it seemed as though his only option left was this. The first drops of rain hit Alec’s face. He pulled the oars into the boat, securing them beneath the seats of the dinghy. The wind picked up, the boat began to rock in the waves, and Alec found the length of rope that he’d packed. He contemplated it, knowing both why he had brought it and also why he hesitated. The light, magical, turquoise blue that had lit up on his forearm that fateful day had only appeared when Alec had gone beyond his means to return. The other variable present that night had, of course, been Alec’s youngest brother Max, fallen overboard and sinking fast, no longer even fighting to swim. It was not a variable that Alec would allow to be recreated. Not for anything. If his soulmark only appeared when his family was in danger, then Alec would absolutely prefer to stay as he was, with his hatefully pale, unmarked skin. There was a wave large enough to nearly tip the dinghy, and Alec made his decision. He knotted the rope to a cleat on the side of the dinghy then tied the other end around his ankle. This way, even if he was not successful, if his sibling had to go searching for him… if they found him lost to the sea with the rope around his ankle, Isabelle would at least know that he did try to return. (He could not truthfully say that he would try to return to the surface, if he was honest with himself, but he was pragmatic enough to allow himself that option. Should everything go wrong, and his mark not appear, he would give himself the resources to at least attempt to save himself, even if he was not entirely certain he wished to continue on as he was.) With the rope knotted securely to his leg, the only thing left for Alec to do was to wait. The wind picked up and the storm grew in power, the sky dark and grey as ashes. When the boat nearly capsized, Alec fought his trained responses and let himself be taken over the side and into the water. The salt burned as Alec forced his eyes to stay open, and the current quickly pulled Alec down into the depths. His lungs burned and his ears hurt as he plummeted deeper into the darkness of the ocean. Alec searched, looking desperately at his skin, for any sign of his soulmark. He struggled in the water, fighting with the confines of his shirt, cursing himself for not stripping naked before he’d leapt into the water. His vision was blurry and painful, but his skin remained the familiar, dull, pale tone that it had been all his life. Alec tore at his sleeves, finally managing to get his shirt off even as he fell deeper into the water and farther away from his ability to reach the surface, and there was nothing. No blue glow of a name that Alec had waited his entire life to see. The pain in his ears reached a piercing weight, Alec’s lungs were burning, and he had no mark to show for any of it. He fell into the dark of the ocean and screamed. There was no sound, no effect at all except for the salty water to flood his mouth. Alec’s mind understood the consequences of his actions but his body still fought, and he swallowed, the burning sting of the saltwater entering his lungs, phosphenes creeping into his vision. Through the panic of survival that had flooded Alec’s body, he forced himself to search, one last time, for any trace of his soulmark. There, just as his vision went dark, the bright, luminous blue once again lit up on his arm. Alec tried to fight, struggling anew, attempting to see the mark clearly, but it was too late. He could no longer fight the pull of the water and sank into the sea. *** When Alec next opened his eyes… he was still underwater. The horrifying pressure was gone from his ears and the salt-sting was absent from his eyes, and even though he was somehow deeper into the depths of the ocean than he had ever been before, he had no trouble at all drawing breath. He groaned, and even that sound could somehow be heard through the water. Alec frowned in confusion and sat up, hissing at soreness caused by the motion. It was only soreness though. The stiffness of muscles that had been worked too hard but would easily recover with a day of rest. Alec had no idea how he was still alive. He stared at his hands for a while, then looked at his arm. The beautiful blue glow of his soulmark was vibrant against the white of his skin, and Alec let out a joyful shout, somehow in shock that his dream had come true. All of his decisions, any risk he’d ever taken, it was all worth it for it to end with him arriving in this moment in existence. Gently, he traced the mark with a fingertip, utterly entranced by the way the turquoise light of his mark seemed to shift with the ocean around him. He was so focused that he jumped when a hand settled on his shoulder. Alec turned, eyes wide, and was met with the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen in his entire life. The man before him was singular, with shining, dark hair that was just long enough to start floating in the water around him and well-formed muscles, flashing golden, cat-like eyes. His skin that seemed to shimmer and sparkle even as Alec watched. “Do forgive me,” the man said. The man’s voice was warm and welcoming. Alec nearly wanted to weep with joy from the sound of it. “I had wished to be here when you woke,” the man continued, “I apologize for causing any distress.” Alec shook his head, wanting to wave away any idea that he could possibly be distressed in any fashion by the situation he had found himself in. “Who are you?” Alec asked, reaching out, though not yet allowing himself to touch. The man looked amused, raising an eyebrow and smiling indulgently, glancing pointedly at the way Alec reached out, and the ever-so-small space between Alec’s fingertips and the man’s own chest. “I call myself Magnus Bane,” the man said, “I am not certain if you can read the mark on your arm, but–” “You’re my soulmate,” Alec said, summarizing the situation succinctly, but sounding dazed with awe at the same time. Magnus smiled again, and it lit up his entire face, his white teeth flashing brightly in the dark of the sea water. “It would appear to be so,” Magnus said in agreement, before finally taking pity on Alec and moving forward so that Alec’s fingers touched skin. Magnus had less hesitation in reaching out, first running his hand along the soulmark on Alec’s forearm and then moving to catch Alec’s chin in his hand. “What is your name, soulmate?” Magnus asked, kindly. “Ah– Alec.” The reply was a stuttering mess, but Alec was too entranced by the golden colour of Magnus’ eyes to notice. “Alec, or Alexander?” Magnus asked, and Alec shook his head as much as he could without dislodging Magnus’ grip on his chin. “Either– I don’t. It doesn’t matter,” Alec said, blinking up at Magnus, smiling and besotted. Magnus laughed and leaned forward to kiss Alec on the forehead, “well then, if it does not matter, I suppose I shall have to use both until a preference arises.” Magnus pulled away and looked Alec in the eye, and it seemed that it took only the merest second for all of the joy and humour to drain from Magnus’ countenance. “Alexander,” Magnus said softly, “my love. You should not have been down here. If I had not found you in time, you would have died. What possessed you to go out in a ship like that during a storm like this?” “I had to find you.” Alec said, unrepentant. He’d known the risks of his decisions, and if it had led to him being here, he knew he would never be able to find it within himself to regret. Magnus sighed and looked deeply, incredibly sad for a long moment. “I am sorry, then, that you felt you needed to come looking.” Fear flooded Alec at Magnus’ words. “Are– are you going to send me away?” He could not imagine anything worse than that. Terror flooded his mind, giving him images of Magnus explaining the reason Alec nearly had to die was because Magnus did not wish for a soulmate, or that Alec was somehow some kind of mistake. “Hush, my love,” Magnus’ voice broke through the mounting worry of Alec’s imaginings. “I would never, ever send you away. I have never been more happy than to find out that you have made your way to me.” Magnus’ other hand came up to stroke though Alec’s hair which was floating freely in the currents of the water. “Do not fret about such things,” Magnus said, “I have a soulmark as well. I have lived for a very long time without one, but now that I have, I would be very cross if I had to give you up.” Magnus looked at Alec and then kissed him on the forehead again. “Please, my love, Alexander. Know that you are wanted. I have never wanted anything more, in all my years of life.” Alec looked up at the gorgeous gold of Magnus’ eyes, and he had no end to the questions he wanted to ask, but with every strange, impossible breath that he took in this strange, underwater place, Alec knew that he would have time to ask any question that he could think of. For the moment, there was truly only one that was important. “Am I dead?” “No,” Magnus said, looking somehow both charmed and heartbroken at Alec’s question, “no, you are not dead. You are as alive and hale as you were when you rowed out here this morning.” Alec glanced down at his leg. The rope line that was attached to the dinghy was still tied around his ankle. “Is the storm still going?” Alec asked. Instead of a reply, Magnus’ eyes seemed to turn a brighter gold, and Magnus pulled his hand out of Alec’s hair and made some manner of incomprehensible gestures that Alec had no hope of being able to follow. “The storm is gone now,” Magnus said, once he was finished. “Did you– did you send it away?” Alec asked. Magnus simply smirked and raised an eyebrow. “Surely these are not truly the questions you had in mind for me.” Alec paused, considering Magnus’ words before he nodded in agreement. “Will you disappear again if I go back above water?” Magnus shook his head no. “Now that we have met, the bond is forged between us. It will allow us to accompany each other anywhere.” Alec wanted to smile, but instead he glanced upward. They were deep enough into the ocean that Alec could no longer even see the surface. “My - my siblings. If they noticed I was missing, they would have gone looking for me, no matter what the weather.” Magnus looked up and then back to Alec, before reaching out to take Alec’s hand. “No one else entered the ocean during the storm.” Alec had no idea how Magnus could possibly know such information, but at the same time he believed entirely that what Magnus was saying could only be true. “You wish to go see them,” Magnus said, looking at Alec carefully. Alec nodded. “They– they’ve been worried about me.” “With good reason,” Magnus said, sounding thoroughly unimpressed. “It was the only way I knew how to find you,” Alec protested, looking up at Magnus. “For that I truly am sorry,” Magnus said softly, not engaging with Alec’s defensive stubbornness. “I promise it will not be that way in the future.” “Because we have the bond now?” Alec asked, wanting to make sure his understanding of the situation was accurate. “Yes,” Magnus said, confirming Alec’s guess, “but also because I did not know before, what it would be like, and now that I have realized– now that I have felt even a fraction of the love you hold in your heart, I will never, ever leave your side unless I have no other options.” Alec stared, unsure of how to respond to such a sentiment. Magnus smiled again, then made another gesture, eyes glowing that incredible, molten gold colour. Once he was finished, he reached for the rope tied to Alec’s ankle. “Come along, then. I suppose it’s time for me to meet your family.” Alec moved then, guiding Magnus’ hand from the rope and to Alec’s own grasp, tangling their fingers together and squeezing tightly. “They will love you, just as much as I do,” Alec promised. Magnus leaned in and kissed him softly, properly, drawing their mouths together in a soft, lush, endless kiss, that still somehow managed to be over in less than a breath. “I look forward to it, Alexander. Now, take me to meet your family.” It took Alec several moments to gather his wits back, even after Magnus pulled away. He knew they did need to return to the surface as soon as possible, as his family would be searching for him. He wanted to kiss Magnus again, but he did not trust himself not to get lost in kissing Magnus for the rest of eternity in this beautiful, magical, impossible place beneath the sea. Alec compromised by pressing a kiss to the soft skin on the back of Magnus’ hand. “You are my soulmate, Magnus,” Alec said softly, “I shall take you up to meet our family.” Magnus looked sad and also wholly, unconditionally happy. “That sounds perfect, Alexander.” He squeezed Alec’s hand, “That sounds perfect.”

#mysteryuntamedmind #malecsanta19 #*fics19 #*gifts19

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brimstone-and-helianthus · 5 years ago

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Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh im excited this is my first exalted secret santa!! Ok first up:

Wind Erodes the Veneer of Dreams, a midnight caste abyssal and resistance supernal.

Her parents were lost eggs vying for prestige in the Blessed Isle, focusing their resources on their single exalted child. [REDACTED] became an Immaculate monk and was determined to make a place for herself. She was sent to Halta along with a group of Dragon-Blooded to investigate a rumored Anathema, and it basically amounted to a massacre. She got separated and wandered the Wyld for weeks, although from her perspective it was much longer. When Veneer finally found her way out, she was alone, mutated, and half mad.

Her newly acquired second set of arms tended to make people avoid her, so she remained on the fringe of society. She met some Shining Path cultists, which destroyed what little faith she had left. She found their obsession with not only death, but nothingness, comforting. The Wyld doesn’t scare her anymore; it’s just another manifestation of pain and terror. She gets murdered by bandits about a decade later, and as she contemplates the senselessness of her life and death, the Bishop offers her a choice. She takes it, of course.

Wind Erodes the Veneer of Dreams believes the only way to end suffering is to end life because they are irrevocably intertwined. She hates how she spent so much of her life tied to a faith based on lies. She wants the best for Creation, but she happens to think that the best thing to do is to send it into Oblivion. She tries to retain a mild, unaffected exterior, but in truth, she still cares a bit too much about the living. Veneer is a high priestess/assassin and knows Ebon Shadow Style. Her charms mainly focus on tracking, stealth, and lore.

Veneer is about six feet tall and built like a string bean. Her second set of arms starts at the bottom of her ribcage, and all four arms are just a touch too long to look natural. She has the hideous merit because she looks like a mummified corpse, all dehydrated skin and skeletal-ness. Veneer doesn’t have eyes, just a black void in her sockets that still see all too well. Her hair is long, straight, and dark, and is normally in a messy bun that is constantly falling apart. I imagine her hair breaks out of its bun and flows around at suitably dramatic moments. It’s hard to tell with her dehydrated corpse look going on, but being from the Blessed Isle, she looks East Asian. She normally dresses in layers of ascetic robes and a thick, fur trimmed cloak. She has two sets of robes, a white one for snowy stealth missions, and a dark grey and navy one for everything else. All her clothes are ragged, and there are multiple tears from fights. She has two sets of tiger claws: one is her nearly broken, original pair, held in her second pair of arms. The other is an artifact weapon, which look like fingerless gloves. When she flexes, the soulsteel blades come out. It’s a very catlike motion. Her anima banner is a cold, numbing void emanating from her head like a blasphemous halo. Everything sounds quieter than it should when it’s flaring.

Optional: She has an artifact called the Infernal Optogram (i put optograph in the ref but thats wrong sorry lol). It is a full mask made of white jade. It is rounded and featureless, except for five soulsteel sockets for eyes. The eyes of the dead or the living can be inserted into these sockets to activate evocations (im still working on these but it involves instilling fear, tracking, and investigation). It’s based on optography, the idea that the retina can be imprinted with the last thing it saw. She can be wearing or holding it, whatever floats your boat.

The Phantom Apiarist, a No-Moon caste lunar. Caste/favored are intelligence, wits, appearance, and dexterity.

I’m still trying to figure out a mortal name, but he was born in a group of villages in the southeast, where the riverland and forest begin to shift to mountains. His community worships a bee goddess, whose domain is fertility, community, and death. She grants plentiful harvests and safety, and in return the surrounding villages worship her. The Phantom Apiarist aspired to be a shaman under her guidance. Her tutelage culminated in the Heart Swarm, wherein he sacrificed his heart to show her devotion to her. She examined it and deemed it worthy. She placed a queen from her colony into his chest to start a new hive. This was his initiation into terrestrial sorcery. He’s really glad it worked, because if his goddess finds your heart lacking, she eats it and you die.

While he’s still recovering, his village is invaded. He still tries to fight even though he is a) half-dead, and b) does not know how to fight. He hasn’t even tried to use his control spell yet (I don’t have a clear picture of who would have invaded, I imagine I would flesh that out with an ST). Luna disguised themself as a marauder, and was very nearly taken out by a trap he set. She proceeded to thoroughly thrash him, and was like “you’ve got spunk, but you could use a helping hand. Try not to get yourself killed.” And exalted him on the spot.

He is grateful for Luna’s assistance, but expects that they want something in return, and is worried it would conflict with his own priorities. Which are keeping his home safe from an increasing number of raids and generally causing havoc to any Realm passersby. His control spell is blood lash, and his magic focuses on body transformations, insects, and necromancy. He has a fun thaumaturgy ritual where he tells bees secrets in exchange for their knowledge of the dead. His Tell is the beehive implanted in his chest. Where his sternum should be, you can see the nest and bees coming and going. They’re his familiars. He’s a trickster at heart, and his charms tend to revolve around loyalty, misdirection, and flirting. His anima banner is sweet-smelling honeycomb dripping blood and the feeling of a hot, oppressive summer’s day.

The closest real world ethnicity to match him would be North African, I’d say. His hair is very curly and goes past his shoulders. It’s normally pulled back with a few loose curls for flair. He’s faceless in my ref because I was really having trouble nailing it, but his nose gives him a very striking profile. His eyes are dark, and he usually has at least a small smile on his face. He’s on the shorter side, and nothing really stands out regarding his physique. His moonsilver tattoos are the major veins and arteries of his body. His main colors are navy blue and forest green, with bits of red-orange accenting. He wears a large sun hat with flowers continuously blooming and dying on it. The flowers themselves are mostly red-orange chrysanthemums with some smaller flowers and leaves. I’m not good at coming up with clothes, but he tends to wear things that are sheer and flowy. Feel free to do whatever with them. He’s trans, and since exalting has given him a body he’s way more comfortable with, he is very excited about all the loose, open shirts he gets to wear now. I imagine a lot of plunging necklines revealing his beehive. His main weapon is a giant war fan with a honeycomb pattern. It is easily the length of his arm.

#exalted secret santa #exalted

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tilltheendwilliwrite · 6 years ago

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Of Blood and Roses

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Master List | Loki Laufeyson Master List

Previous Chapter

Pairing: Loki x Lauren | Word Count: 8421 Warnings: none

Thor and Hogun paused at the base of the mountain to look the long way up to its summit. The sun had barely begun to lighten the sky at its peak, allowing the jagged crag of the spire to appear a dark scar against the deep velvet of dawn.

“Are you sure about this?” Hogun asked, dismounting from his horse alongside Thor.

“I am.”

“You are very secretive, my king.”

Thor glanced at Hogun and sighed. “I suppose you are right, but I can't, that is, I don't want to…” He sighed a second time and looked up the mountain. “I seek the First Gift.”

“First Gift?” Hogun frowned before peering at Thor. “As in a courting first gift?”

Thor could feel heat darken his cheeks. “Yes.”

“Who are you-” Hogun's eyes widened. “No!”

“She is very dear to me. She has always been dear to me.”

“I can't believe it. You two have danced around each other for ages! Haha! It is about time you saw our Sif as the woman worthy to rule at your side.”

Thor threw up his hands. “Did everyone but me know of Sif's feelings?”

“Fandral, he suspected. He may have mentioned something when he was drunk. Volstagg is oblivious. I assume Loki knows. He knows most everything that happens in Asgard. And as Lauren has been pushing our Sif from her armoured shell, I assume your lady sister is also aware.”

“They have been conspiring since nearly the moment of Sif and Lauren‘s meeting.”

Hogun chuckled as he tied up his horse. “Such is the way of all happily married females. Soon they begin working to see those around them also find such joy.”

“Well, now you know why I'm here, and why I must do this the hard way.”

“No one would fault you for flying to the summit. The journey is difficult.”

“The reward is in the difficulty. I will not degrade the gift by taking shortcuts.” Mjolnir landed with a thud as if to prove Thor's point when he dropped it to the ground.

“Then I wish you good hunting, my king. May you find the stone worthy of our fair Sif.”

“Thank you, Hogun.” Thor reached out and clasped his arm. “I appreciate you being my guide in this.”

From his side, Hogun held out an oddly shaped knife. It was thick with a tapered tip that curved back on itself. “You will need this to sever the root. Remember. You must dig down carefully. The Crystals are very fragile until you cut them from their mother. Once you remove it, they shall begin to harden, and the colour will darken. Place it in this,” Hogun held out a thickly woven basket with many layers of padding, “And get out of there before the sun sets. You do not want to face YipShi without your hammer.”

“I will attempt to do all those things,” Thor said as he took the items from Hogun and started up the path.

“And do a good job! Sif will make a wonderful queen. I'd hate it if you screwed up and chose a terrible gift!”

“Harhar, Hogun. You are so amusing.”

“And do not eat the purple berries, no matter how good they smell.”

That gave Thor pause. “Why?”

“They are YipShi's fruit. She will come for you and make you return them by ripping out your innards.”

Hogun's face showed no signs of jest. Thor nodded. “I will be careful.”

“You should allow me to accompany you.”

Hogan had been trying to convince him of that since Thor's early morning arrival, but Thor shook his head. “Your presence would influence my choice. I will not take that risk.”

Each stared the other down until Hogun finally bowed his head. “As you wish, my king. But your future lady will be most unimpressed if you are injured.”

Thor waved a dismissive hand and turned away. “She was already most unimpressed I refused her company.” But it wasn't possible for her to assist in this mission. It was one he must take on his own.

Mount Yammo lay before him. At its summit, the Cave of YipShi waited with it's dark, gaping maw, side by side with the Crystal Meadow of Mon Moshi. One of those fabled crystals was what he was after. They grew unlike any in existence, not within the confines of a cave, but in a grove like a field of flowers. Symbiotic with the mother crystal, Mon Moshi, each subsequent “bloom” grew out of the ground like a flower, fragile and soft. A strong wind could and had, damaged many a tiny crystal, but if they made it through their first few years, they slowly grew stronger and harder until they were miniature versions of their mother.

The Vanaheim had discovered the crystal's unique musical properties mostly by accident when a party of warriors had come up the mountain in exploration. They'd been enthralled by the sound when a gentle breeze had blown through the field, creating the most beautiful music ever heard. They'd stayed throughout the day, learning the fragility of the small crystals quickly, and studying Mon Moshi, the mother, protected by the crag of stone behind it. A few tender crystals were carefully harvested and packed away for further study once the explorers returned to their homes.

Unfortunately, they'd chosen to bed down for the night near the meadow and had been the first to encounter YipShi. Of the ten men who'd gone up the mountain, only three returned. The others had all been slaughtered by the venomous, two-headed YipShi.

The youngest of them, a nimble soldier called Pao, had managed to save the samples of crystals they cut only out of sheer luck and returned with them to the village.

People gathered around to hear the tale of their adventure, that of the YipShi, and to see these wondrous crystals, but when the three soldiers produced the marvels, all sang off key. The noise was atrocious, grating, and foul, until Pao brought forth the one he'd harvested personally.

He'd done so with the thought of his new bride in mind, knowing she would love the music they played. Pao took it from the basket and set it before Mia, and all held their breath waiting for the horrendous noise to being once more, but nothing happened. No sound, no resonance, nothing, until Mia reached out and touched the beautiful stone.

Then, the sound from heaven poured forth, amazing the crowd. The other soldiers produced their crystals, but, here again, the same horrible sound grated the air. Pao, a man curious by nature, asked questions of both his comrades, wondering if they'd been thinking of themselves or another when they harvested the crystal. As the men had sat around bragging about the fortune the crystals would bring them; he was sure he already knew the answer. All but Pao had chosen a stone for themselves, not another.

With time and further research, it became clear the crystals could not be harvest for personal want. Something about the magic within, cracked the resonance unless one of Mon Moshi's blooms was picked with another in mind. Of course, with YipShi living so close to the meadow, collecting such a crystal was dangerous work. YipShi hunted only at night and loved nothing more than fresh bones to munch. Thus, Vanaheim had never been able to capitalize on the Crystal Meadow of Mon Moshi for each stone had to be hand-picked by a giver with a pure heart and strong sense of the receiver.

Hogun had made the trek in his youth, harvesting such a crystal for his wife, who had been happy to play it for them - Thor, Sif, and the Warriors Three.

Thor remembered the look of shock and desire on Sif's face vividly when the sound had rolled through the room. She'd hidden it quickly, but Thor had never forgotten how stark the desire had been. The longing on her face had made his heart ache to provide her with such a gift, but it would have been too telling a present. The better a person knew, loved, and understood the receiver, the purer the sound. It was a true gift of love and adoration. It was a First Gift worthy of a woman like Sif.

With determination in his heart, Thor began to climb.

***

The sun was warm on his face as Thor paused for a moment to take in the view over the valley. Spread out before him was all of Vanaheim. It appeared peaceful and beautiful. Nothing but forests, mountains, and rivers for as far as the eye could see. It was a nice change to Asgard, not that he didn’t love the gleaming towers and cobblestone streets of home, it was just Vanaheim was beautiful in such stark contrast.

The quiet made him think he could be alone in the world. The wind whispered through the trees. Insects hummed in a gentle chorus. He watched a bee fly drunkenly from flower to flower and smiled. Thor didn’t want to rush her, but he would love it when Lauren felt ready to call the animals back to Asgard. To see insects and birds, rabbits, squirrels, and weasels, even deer graze through the gardens of home again would be such a joy.

Last night he and Sif had joined Loki and Lauren in the center of the garden, walking a path of wildflowers the likes of which he’d never seen before. With Lauren cradled in his arms, Loki’s look of pure adoration was something Thor had never seen before. Their love was so blinding, his brother’s happiness so pure, it filled Thor with envy until he’d looked at Sif and found her knelt in the grass playing with Lauren’s kitten.

Lauren’s power had manifest in the most fantastic way, turning spring to summer in moments. The Norn’s knew it had been years since anyone had seen such magic. The strength of her power was evident. Lauren would be a powerhouse of an Earth Mother if her gifts remained what they were, but if, as Loki suspected, there was more to his little sister, Lauren would become the greatest treasure Asgard had knowing in millennium.

An Earth Mother, Goddess of Creation, had more power than all the Gods of Asgard combined. The sweet, quiet, gentle woman who’d spent her entire life bowing to the will of her abusive family would never again have to bow to anyone. A Goddess of Creation had set the worlds in the stars and nurtured Yggdrasil into existence. Thor may be king, but Lauren’s gifts would far outdistance his own.

He found he didn’t mind that one bit. Lauren and Loki together could and likely would, ensure peace and prosperity for Asgard for centuries to come.

Thor shook himself free of such thoughts and turned back to the mountain. He wasn’t here to contemplate Lauren and her future, but to picture Sif’s and his own. The woman whose very presence could make him burn with lust. It had always been so, but with her apparent disinterest, Thor could ignore the way she’d made him feel. Now, he was not so lucky. Now he knew of her returned desire for him, and he could no longer control the things she did to his body.

Sif. His beautiful Sif. The woman whose heart was as fierce as any Fire Dragon. Whose skill with sword and shield put all others to shame. Whose strength was the stuff of legend, but whose soft, tender heart remained hidden from all but a select few.

He'd been granted entrance into those hallowed ranks but days ago. Shy, uncertain, gentle Sif had become his new obsession. He liked being responsible for the blush on her cheeks, adored being the one behind her plump, swollen lips. The taste of her had become a drug Thor couldn’t get enough of, and the more time they spent together, touching, laughing, learning the secret, hidden sides of each other.

For her, Thor relaxed his guard. He allowed himself to soften and become serene. Sif made him feel calm, calmer than any before her. Not even with Jane could he relax so wholly. With Jane, the pressing weight of her fragile Midgardian nature had always stayed his hand, but with Sif, he knew her capable of both protecting herself and watching his back. There was no need to remain always on guard with her.

But more than that, she knew him. She knew him when he’d been a too proud youth. She was aware of his flaws and faults, yet still, she found merit in him to admire to the point of having feelings for him. The dark beauty wanted him, and it made Thor’s heart yearn for the day she would look at him with her shining blue eyes and agree to be his wife.

The people would find no fault in her as his bride. A warrior of her skill could and would lead Asgard as the Queen they needed in times of trouble. And though it didn't matter in any sense of reality, Thor found the contrast between Sif his tall, strong, warrior maiden, and the smaller, gentler nature of Lauren most fitting. The ruling house of Asgard would be complete and stronger than ever.

Then it would be on to the joyous act of seeing his heir created. Thor had no doubt that his secondary title would come in handy. He planned on spiriting Sif away to the family's hunting lodge well back of the mountains on Asgard and remaining there for at least a week. His sweet, shy Sif would be well and truly initiated into the art of pleasure by the time they returned, and Thor would be pouring every ounce of his fertility magic into them both to see she quickened with his child before they returned.

For now, Loki was his heir, but he knew that was no longer Loki's wish. His brother had zero desire to ascend to the throne, wanting nothing more than to be at Lauren's side and follow wherever she led. That included waiting until she was ready to bear them their first child.

Thor had no such luxury. If Sif did not thicken with his child within their first year of marriage, their people would worry. After all, Thor was the God of Fertility. If he couldn't impregnate his own wife, it would call his abilities into question.

Still, Thor smirked at the clouds overhead as he followed the trail, no more than a goat path up the mountain. He hoped Sif didn't catch too quickly. The fun was in the trying.

With her face in his mind, Thor created the last ridge, and the Meadow came into view. Its beauty caused his breath to catch even as the dark maw of YipShi's cave made his heart pound. Not once in a thousand years had Thor come across a place that screamed malignant evil like this one.

He moved toward the meadow while keeping an eye on the cave. YipShi was said to hunt only at night, but Thor had also heard those types of stories before. If the creature were hungry enough, it would try and eat him no matter if the sun were up or not.

As Thor drew closer to the meadow, a light breeze played across his face. Then, the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard sang through the air. It was stunning and dropped him to a knee at the edge of the meadow, watching as the sun sparkled on stones and the music played on and on.

When the breeze ended, he shook himself as if rousing from a dream, finding his knee ached and the fabric of his breeks had grown damp. An oddity, he stood slowly, feeling an ache in his muscles as if he’d remained unmoving for some time and looked up at the sky. The position of the sun gave him a shock.

Thor had been knelt at the edge of the meadow, locked in the music’s thrawl for almost two hours.

He shook his head a second time and vowed to ignore the music should it spring up again. Hogun had said nothing about the crystals music being so mesmerizing. As he looked over the field again, Thor wished he had one of Stark’s cameras. This would be an image none would believe without seeing, and few had ever made the deadly, dangerous trek up the mountain to see it. But such stunning beauty real had to be seen to be believed.

The earth between himself and the high wall of sheer stone was cover in clusters of crystals in every shape and sizes. Some were as tiny as his thumbnail, while others were as big as a Bilgesnipe, but at the rear, right up against the stone, stood a tower of spires of humming crystalline rock. A ripple of rainbow colours washed through Mon Moshi, the mother crystal, and pulsed outward through the ground into each of her offspring.

Thor took his first tentative step into the field of crystal and felt the pulse of life and magic through his boots. “Blessed Mon Moshi. I seek an offering for my beloved. A gift worthy of her and no one else. Give me your blessing. Help me choose the right one.” No, he didn’t need to speak words to the mother crystal, but Thor found the impulse to do so overwhelming. He’d learned over the years to listen when those instincts spoke.

Another softer pulse, almost curious, fluttered through the soles of his boots.

“Her name is Sif. She is beautiful beyond words. Strong. Smart. Terribly brave. Once I would have said her invulnerable, but I have seen her softer side. I know of the insecurities in her heart now. I have learned the depths of the secrets she’s kept hidden. She is so wonderfully gentle. Her heart contains a tenderness I have been blind to for so long. I want nothing more than to make her as happy as she makes me.”

A sparkle of light caught his attention. One palm-sized crystal about thirty feet away was glowing. Thor made his way carefully toward it, skirting the smallest crystal blooms to avoid crushing them.

He knelt and placed the basket down beside him before gently brushing the dirt away from the base of the crystal. The spires were clear, their colour unknown, but that mattered little to him. If Mon Moshi thought this cluster his best option for Sif, Thor would accept her gift with gratitude. “Thank you,” he said to the large stone against the heart of the mountain and began to dig.

***

Lauren walked into the barn with an easy stride, happy to be back. Something about the cool, shadowed interior with its scent of dust and horse just made her heart feel warm. Back in riding clothes, this time she'd insisted Loki stop putting her in white, Lauren found herself garbed in black breeches and a dark green tunic. Double layered, it reduced the chill from the air. After the last few days, Lauren still found it wildly strange how cool the air on Asgard remained even at the height of the day.

Loki drew her attention when he placed his hand on her back. “You should eat first, my love. I don’t like the idea of you not eating before teaching the children.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “I agreed to work with the kids, but I haven’t talked to anyone about horses or tack. There’s too much to do.”

“Lauren.” He gave an exasperated huff of breath. “I informed the barns of your wish to teach Hedda the same day you made the offer, then increased the number of mounts when you decided to include Baron, and sent word last night when you offered to include Lady Anna’s daughter. The current assistant stable master sent a missive this morning. She will be setting aside five mounts for your use, all geldings, with gentle temperaments and dispositions. They’ve been stabled in the aisle closest to the arena to give the children easy access and keep them out from underfoot for the barn staff.”

Lauren stopped to stare up at Loki in the middle of the barn. “You did all that?”

“Of course, darling.” He gently brushed her cheek with his knuckle. “The idea of teaching Hedda brought you such joy. The time you spent instructing Baron did as well. I’d do anything for you, Lauren. Seeing you accommodate with your students was nothing.”

“It’s everythin’.” Lauren passed her hands over Loki’s chest, biting back tears. “You make me so happy, Loki.”

“That’s all I want, pet. Your smile gives me the greatest joy.” He brushed his thumb over her lip. “But I would be even happier if you ate something.”

Lauren rolled her eyes. “Fine. Make me a sandwich. I’ll eat as we go.”

“That’s not how it works, my heart.”

She started down the aisle and shot him a glance over her shoulder. “It’s that or nothin’. I've got an assistant stable master to meet, horses to look over, Sleipner to visit, and I want to get a ride in with Snøstrom before returnin’ to the keep and seein’ my…” Lauren let the words fade.

“See your what?”

She flinched. “Nothin’. Forget I said anythin’.” She should have known he wouldn’t let her get away with that.

His fingers curled around her wrist and drew her around. “You know better than that. Forget I said anything is in the same category as fine, Lauren. It is an unacceptable answer. Tell me what is wrong?”

“Clareon made my earrin’s. I was gonna send him a thank you note because, well, it’s only polite after gettin’ a gift, and the twins told me about my office, and keepin’ room, and parlour. They didn’t think I was ready to entertain visitors, what with me bein’ new and all, assumin’ I’d want a few lessons and stuff before that, but after dealin’ with Nesper they figured I’d be fine. Then after that thing with Sal today,” she hung her head, “maybe they were right.”

“Stop it.” Lauren lifted her head with a snap. “You spoke out in the most beautiful fashion, you comforted a boy you’d never met, and you stood up for a woman who needed a champion. Quite frankly, darling, if you’d told Sal to go to hell the people likely would have cheered you on.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Pet, haven’t I been telling you the laws are different here? This such as abuse of children or women or yes even men by those stronger than them is considered a heinous crime on Agard. That Sal could look at Mektild and side - albeit subtly - with Absalon set most of the court on their heels. You shone brighter than ever today, my little golden goddess, so if you wish to entertain visitors in your parlour, do it. You are no weak-willed woman to take anyone’s guff. In fact, I will show you your public and private spaces once you finish with your students and that menace of a stallion. I think, darling, it’s time we put a schedule together for you.” He shifted his hand to her back and escorted her through the barn.

“But I’ll still have trainin’ with Sif and Hogun in the mornin’s?”

“Yes, darling. I’m afraid this will put a dent in your downtime.”

“As long as it doesn’t put one in my Loki time.”

He gave a sharp bark of laughter and dragged her quickly into an empty stall where he spun her into a wall and held her there with a press of his hips. “Loki time, hm?”

“Just can’t get enough of you.” Lauren reached up and traced her fingers along the curve of one golden horn. “Especially when you’re wearin’ these. You ever gonna leave them on for me?”

He chuckled and lifted her, so her legs wrapped his waist. “You naughty, naughty girl.”

Now mouth to mouth with him, Lauren gave a smile worthy of his name. “Just the way you like me.” She closed her hand around the horn and pulled the crown from his head, then turned it around and set it on her own.

“Mischief-maker.” He nipped his teeth into her lower lip. “Those are mine.”

“But don’t they look better on me?” She batted her eyelashes and smiled.

“Such trouble you are.” The light of mischief filled his eyes. “Though, now that I am thus uncrowned, I can do this.”

His mouth fell to her throat where he worked his tongue over her pulse point until Lauren whimpered and gave a wanton moan. “Oh, peaches… that feels-” A loud hiss broke through the haze of lust Loki was building. They looked down at the same time to the snake whose head was peaking out of the satchel on Lauren’s hip. “Well… that’s gonna a be a problem.”

Loki chuckled and set her on her feet, the moment broken. “I think you’re going to have to find me a new endearment, my sweet.”

She gave the hair her fingers were tangled in a little tug. “You seemed to like it when I called you sugar. Maybe I’ll use that.”

“Whatever you like.”

He plucked the horns from her head and returned them to her own as Lauren encouraged Peaches back into his cozy satchel. His tongue flicked over her fingers and made her giggle before Loki led them out into the aisle as if nothing untoward had just taken place in the empty stall.

They rounded the final corner with Loki leading Lauren toward a young woman who was speaking quietly to the pretty chestnut horse whose head hung over the door.

“Dagny.”

She looked up when Loki called her name and hurried toward them. “Prince Loki. Princess Lauren.” The woman executed a court worthy curtsey. “I’ve everything ready for you, Highness.”

Lauren instantly liked her. She had the most vibrant orange-red hair Lauren had ever seen. It frizzed out around her in a wild mass of untamable tight corkscrew curls. A half dozen pins were doing their best to contain the mass in some semblance of order and failing miserably. She had skin like alabaster, but it was so thoroughly saturated in freckles one could hardly tell how pale she was. Bright brown eyes twinkled with merriment and friendly curiosity, and she smelled of horse and leather, just like Teddy at home.

“Thank you, Dagny. I hope it hasn’t been too much trouble?” Lauren asked.

“No, milady. Well, perhaps the requests for admittance have been a bit troublesome, but I said I wasn’t overloading your Highness until I had your permission to do so.”

Lauren frowned. “I’m sorry. What?”

“Oh, aye. A good dozen or so of the upper court have asked to have their children taught riding with you, but I cut them off at the first five. Miss Hedda and Baron of course, then Lady Anna’s daughter Maja. Lady Haddy’s son Knut, and finally Lord Aslin inquired if his daughter, Etsuko, might also be included.”

“Well, my stars. Isn’t that somethin’.” Lauren gave a tight swallow. “And there’s a dozen more you say?”

“Aye, ma’am. At least that many, though I’ve yet to check my desk today. There very well could be more. It seems word’s spread about what you did with Snøstrom. There are lots of people who’re interested in learning from you. Hell, I’d learn from you if you were want to teach a few of us older folk.”

She grinned big and wide and made Lauren snicker. Dagny had the way of a horsewoman about her. Simple. Earnest. Without preamble. Lauren definitely liked her. “Wasn’t like I did anythin’ special.”

“But you did, darling. Our horses are used for transportation, farm work, and to ride the hunt, but no one on Asgard has ever thought to put the animals over fences. Why until I saw you watching it on television at the tower, I’d never seen it before either.”

Lauren looked up at Loki in surprise. “Never?”

“No, darling.” He shook his head, bent, and placed a kiss on her cheek. “I must leave you in Dagny’s care, my heart.” But he turned over his hand and held out a napkin wrapped around what looked like a chicken and cheese sandwich on a thick bun. “Eat.”

“I’m gonna eat!” She gave an exasperated huff and took the sandwich. “Go do princely things, Loki, and leave us girls to talk horses.”

He stepped back and swept her a bow more suitable for a peasant to a queen. “Yes, my lady. Very well, my lady.”

“Get on with you!” Lauren laughed and shooed him down the aisle. She and Dagny watched him go with an air of amusement as he sauntered along, through the portal that opened, and was gone

“He’s so much lighter,” Dagny said. Then her eyes widened, and she turned toward Lauren in concern. “Begging your pardon, milady. Not to imply-”

Lauren waved her off with a raised hand. “No, I understand. He is much happier. A lot less broodin’ than he was when we first met. I can only imagine how people who knew him before are feelin’ seein’ him now.”

“It’s good. For him and Asgard. Already the air feels fresher. Lighter. Warmer.”

“This is warmer?” Lauren snickered and bit into her sandwich.

Dagny smiled and nodded. “Asgard’s run cold for many years. The winters have been harsher since the prince… well.” She shook her head. “Can I ask a question?”

“As I plan on askin’ more than a few of my own, shoot.”

“What’s the purpose of what you did? With the fences?”

“Well, durin’ Earth’s eighteenth century in England, a law was passed requirin’ people to fence their boundaries, but ridin’ a hunt and followin’ foxhounds was quite the sport so the riders had to acquire horses that could jump the obstacles if they wanted to continue with the sport. Eventually, it became quite the spectacle to see horses and riders flyin’ over fences, but how are spectators supposed to watch when they can’t follow the hunt? So they brought courses to enclosed arenas and made it convenient for people to watch and now its a multimillion dollar sport on Earth.” Lauren took another huge bite of sandwich.

“Wow.” Dagny’s eyes were big. “So it’s just… for fun?”

“Fun and competition.” As she ate, Lauren went on to explain about her family farm, the racehorses, and the hunter/jumpers they raised. She talked about Silver Belle and how she’d grown up riding in shows and competitions. By the time she’d finished the sandwich, Dagny was grinning ear to ear.

“Asgardian horses over fences…” She shook her head. “I never would have thought of it. I’m not sure we could make that work here though. Our steeds are bigger, stronger, faster. The obstacles would have to be as well.”

“There’s always Eventin’,” Lauren said, smiling at Baron when the boy appeared and made his way toward her.

“What’s that?” Dagyn asked, her voice loud with excitement.

“The same idea, but you run the course cross country with much larger obstacles, pits, drop-offs. The jumps are more natural than man-made. Horses and riders have both been seriously injured takin’ such risks at home.”

“Lady Lauren, you and I need to talk more about this.”

Dagyn’s excitement was infectious and made Lauren laugh. “I’d be happy to.”

“Our people look at Sleipner's children with two purposes. Work and leisure. The farmers have their heavier stock, culled and carefully bred to their work. Then there are those bred for travel. Hardy but lacking grace. Then there are the palace bred steeds. Ones like Snøstrom. The Wild Ones, and Mistral over there.” She flicked her fingers at the sleek black faced gelding. “They are the best of Sleipner’s children. Pure of blood, swift, strong, smart. Having you here, showing an interest, getting people excited about them again? That would be wonderful!”

“People aren’t excited about them? But there are so many!”

“Not like they used to be. The new generation has little desire to learn or ride when there are ships to fly to get places faster. Our horses are slowly losing their necessity. Something like you’ve described, competitions and fun may be what we need to bring it back!”

“I’ll gladly help where and when I can,” Lauren agreed. “Though some of this we may need to run past Thor.”

Dagny nodded enthusiastically. “Of course, my lady.”

“Now, before the rest of my student’s arrive,” she motioned Baron closer, “introduce me to the schoolin’ horses you’ve picked.”

***

Thirty minutes later, Lauren’s mind was full of horse facts, and she was standing before Mistral’s stall with Baron. The door was pushed open, but the gelding was content to stand and doze while Baron groomed her under Lauren’s watchful eye. The boy would be her helper with the other four. He’d remembered every step, every comment, every correction she’d given him from the other day to the point the big gelding damn near gleamed his coat was so clean.

Dagny had put out tack suitable for children, each horse had his own grooming kit, and a wheelbarrow and five pitchforks waited against the wall across from the five stalls. The assistant stable master had appeared both amused and mildly terrified at the prospect of having four noblemen’s children mucking out and cleaning tack, but Lauren insisted.

Hedda was the first to arrive, dragging Daven by the hand. “C’mon, mom!”

“The horses aren’t going anywhere Hedda.” Daven gave an exasperated huff when she saw Lauren and rolled her eyes. “Are you certain you wish to keep her? She’s been up since before dawn in excitement.”

Lauren chuckled softly and patted the girls back when she deserted her mother to skip over and hug Lauren around the waist. “I think we can handle a couple of hours together.”

“Goodbye, mother.” Hedda sent Daven a pointed look.

Daven sent one of her own in return. “Hedda, manners.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The girl nodded, her pigtails flying.

“Hm,” Lauren hummed after Daven had left. “Dagny?”

“Yes, Highness?”

The woman stuck her head out of another stall where she was busy spreading fresh bedding. Lauren figured it was prudent to move Snøstrom as well, saving precious steps that would cut into her riding time. “Do y’all use protective headgear when teachin’ your kids to ride?”

“We do not. Our steeds know better than to toss one of the little ones. If they do fall, it’s usually a slide to the ground on their bums. Even then, the horses usually catch the change in balance and either stop or give them a jig to get them back up where they belong.”

Lauren snickered and looked down at Hedda. “Well, that would have saved me many a sore backside when I was your age.”

Hedda giggled, her eyes bright. “Can we go? Can we start? Which one’s mine?”

“So eager.” Lauren tapped the girl on the nose, then held out her hand and led Hedda to the stall at the far end from Baron and Mistral. “This is Elf.” The dark chestnut had ears that were just a touch too long and very pointed, giving him his name, but his eyes were dark and soft, and he immediately nuzzled Hedda’s cheek.

“He’s darling!” Hedda squealed, ducking beneath the rope which kept Elf from leaving his open stall.

Usually, Lauren would have reined the girl in for rushing into the stall of an unknown horse as she had, but something inside her held Lauren back. When Elf turned his head to look at Hedda and the girl locked eyes with the horse, Lauren inhaled sharply. A small curl of pink flame flickered in the depth of Hedda’s pupil.

“He very much likes his name, Lady Lauren. We’re going to have so much fun together!” Hedda wrapped her arms around Elf’s neck and squeezed until Elf lifted her off her feet and made her giggle when she dropped back down on them.

“That’s good, Hedda.” Still stunned and wondering about what she’d seen, Lauren pointed to the grooming kit. “Do you know how to brush down a horse properly?” Hedda rattled off the names of the brushes in the proper order and then got to work without further prompting. “I’ll come and check on you in a minute.” The child was a whirlwind, but not the first of her kind whose enthusiasm when it came to horses knew no bounds.

She turned in time to smile at Lady Anna and her daughter Maja when they arrived only to have the smile fall from her face. “Lady Anna, I’m afraid your daughter isn’t properly attired for ridin’.” Slippers and a dress, fancy hair and far too much makeup on a girl who was at most ten, would not cut it in her class. “Hedda?”

The girl popped out of Elf’s stall. “Yes, milady?”

Lauren waved her closer. “I’ll need you to outfit Maja like this if she’s wantin’ to learn to ride.” She pierced the girl with a stern look. “You do want to learn, right Maja? There will be no airs in my class. No finery. You’ll come dressed to work and ride, or you won’t come at all.”

Maja nodded nervously and looked at her feet. “I… I want to learn.”

Lauren patted Hedda’s shoulder and sent the girl back to Elf. “Then it will be boots, breeks, and tunic. Dagny, have you anythin’ Maja could borrow in the interim?”

This time she didn’t even bother to stick her head out of the stall. “I don’t, but she’s close in size to Baron. Boy! You got any spare clothes lying around?”

“I-I-I…” Baron stuttered, his face white.

“You want my daughter to wear a stable hand’s clothes?” Anna gasped appearing faint and pale as she grabbed for the heavy jewelled collar around her throat. “First you tell me she must muck stalls, and now you want her to wear an orphaned boy’s clothing!”

The woman’s voice had risen substantially in pitch. “If she wants to set her behind in a saddle today?” Lauren lifted her chin. “Yes.”

“This is unacceptable!” Anna’s hands fluttered and face reddened in rage. “You’re supposed to be a princess of Asgard! Not some, some, filthy stable person digging in the dung!”

Anger ripped through Lauren. “I am the princess of Asgard. I’m also a horsewoman who knows the value of proper horse care along with equitation. And I can assure you, Lady Anna, I’ve had my hands in worse things than shit! I’ve birthed foals, I’ve scrubbed mud and blood outta a dumbass stallion’s hide when ran through a wire fence. I’ve held flesh wounds together and wielded the needle that sewed ‘em up. And when they turned septic, I was there to drain the puss from the wound, so yes, I’ve dirtied my hands with a lot worse things than horseshit, but I’d rather dirty hands after a hard day of honest work than the soft pampered ones of a lady not worth her salt in Thor’s court!” The satchel on her hip shifted subtly, and Lauren placed her hand gently against the agitated snake.

Anna gave an outraged squealed and grabbed her daughter’s arm. “Come, Maja. We’re leaving!”

The girl didn’t budge an inch. “I’ll take the clothes.”

Lauren arched a brow. “Baron.”

“Yes, milady.” The boy was off like a shot, running hard for his quarters.

“Lady Anna. You may return for your daughter in two hours.” She stared the woman down until she dropped into a curtsey and then turned to go. “For Maja’s next lesson, I expect her to be properly attired.”

Daggers waited in the woman’s eyes. “Yes… Highness.”

Silence weighed heavily on the barn as Lauren cast a glance around. There were far too many stable hands standing idle until she caught them watching. They all snapped into action and hurried on about their business. Two unfortunate souls ran into each other with a crash and a jumble of tack. Lauren bit her lip to keep from laughing and returned her attention to Maja. Over the girl’s head, Dagny gave her two thumbs up. Apparently, that was a universal action, for she’d never seen such glee on anyone’s face before.

“Have you really birthed a foul and, and done all you said?” Maja asked.

“I have.” Lauren nodded, smiling for the girl. “Are you sure you wanna go against your mama like this?”

“My mother is overbearing and too concerned with her appearance. Father is much more level-headed, and when I explain to him that she offered the princess of Asgard insult, he will see I am properly attired for next time.”

Lauren gave the girl a once over. Blonde with blue eyes, there was already the gleam of calculation behind the innocence. This one was already mostly aware of court politics and knew how to play the game Lauren was still learning. But it was clear Maja would rather endure her mother’s wrath than stand beside her when word of Lady Anna’s dressing down by Asgard’s Princess spread.

Still, Lauren would have an honest answer from the girl. “Maja, do you want to be here? Have you any interest at all in learnin’ to ride? Answer me truthfully, and if your answer is no, I won’t hold it against you. You’ll be free to leave without consequence.”

She bit her lip, worried it, and cast a nervous glance at the horses. “I’ve always thought horses were majestic and beautiful, but their size… frightens me. I want to learn, but I am scared.”

It was a genuine answer, and Lauren smiled. “Very well. When Baron returns, duck into the tack room there and change. Then, he’ll help you get to know Flekk.” She brought the girl to Flekk’s stall.

His black and white patches were beautiful to her mind, and Lauren gently stroked his cheek. “Here.” She dug a horse treat, something Dagny had in handfuls, from her pocket and gave it to Maja. “Hold your palm out flat and give it to him.” Lauren cradled the back of the girl’s fingers as she did so, and smiled when Maja giggled, learning the first joy of tickling horse lips. She needed little encouragement after that to pet Flekk’s cheek, and Lauren left her to whisper to the horse she was already falling in love with.

The last two of her students arrived together. Knut, the boy, was a strapping lad of roughly twelve. His smile was wide with excitement, but his mother looked less impressed. It appeared Lady Anna must have bent Lady Haddy’s ear about Lauren before their arrival, but if the boy had been concerned, he didn’t show it. He bowed to Lauren and smiled, speaking excitedly about learning to ride and how he was looking forward to it.

Again Lauren had a trickle of something like suspicion travel her spine. The boy read as false, and when she looked from him to his mother, Haddy blushed. “Y’all really need to learn to listen when I speak. I said it last night, and I’ll say it one last time. I don’t take kindly to false platitudes. If you have an agenda here other than your son learnin’ from me about horses, y’all can take yourselves from this barn post haste.”

Knut’s face fell, and Haddy’s went red. As one they turned and left, hurrying back the way they came.

Lauren turned her annoyed gaze on Lord Aslin. He dressed similarly to Hogun when the man had taken off his armour, and Lauren pegged him for a Vanir. His daughter, Etsuko, was a slip of a girl with long black hair and beautiful dark eyes. Approximately eight years old, she appeared serene but for the tight clasp of her hands in front of her stomach. At least her attire was correct, or more so than Maja’s had been.

Her boots were wrapped with leather from ankle to knee, keeping her loose flowing pants from moving, while a stunning split tunic worked with cranes and other exotic birds fell to well below mid thigh. It was a work of art, and silk, and far too extravagant for barn work.

“I apologize if I startled you,” Lauren said.

Lord Aslin smiled and bowed to her, surprisingly, so did Etsuko. “Fear not, princess. Though we did not mean to, we overheard some of what Lady Anna had to say to Lady Haddy. And I was also present last night when you spoke out about being a truth speaker. I see you were not exaggerating that fact.”

“No. I wasn’t.” Lauren turned her attention to Etsuko. “Tell me honestly, Etsuko. Do you want to be here?”

“Yes, your Highness.” It was barely a whisper, but it still rang true.

“I’m afraid my daughter is painfully shy, my lady. I was hoping classes with you and Lady Daven’s daughter, as well as - I see - Lady Anna’s,” he sounded intrigued by that, and maybe even impressed by Maja’s disloyalty to her mother, “would help her come out of her shell, and perhaps see her making a few friends.”

Lauren smiled, her heart softening with his words for there was nothing but truth and maybe a little hope in them. “And you are aware of my stipulations regardin’ entrance into my class?”

He tilted his head in agreement. “I am.”

“Then I sincerely hope Etsuko has somethin’ on under that…” She wasn’t sure what to call the exquisite garment.

“We call it a Kappe or Kimo if it is the longer women’s version, and yes, Etsuko can remove it for her lesson. It is simply a mark of her status as my daughter for her to wear it in the halls of Asgard.” With deft fingers, he helped the child out of it and carried it over his arm.

“It’s wonderful,” Lauren said, grinning down at the girl who smiled shyly. “Would you mind waitin’ a moment while I get Hedda to help your daughter get acquainted with Ørn?”

“I am at your service, Highness.” He bowed deeply to her again.

Lauren held out her hand for Etsuko who shuffled forward but didn’t take it. Not wanting to force contact on the child, she led the girl to the stall next to Elf’s where Hedda was laying on his back, face up. “Hedda!” Lauren snapped, causing the girl to sit bolt upright and nearly tumble from her mount.

“Yes, Lady Lauren?”

“Do you have permission to be on that horse?”

The girl shrank a little. “No, my lady.”

“Then should you be on that horse?”

The stern look she gave the girl had Hedda sliding swiftly to the ground. “No, my lady.”

“That’s right. You’re in my class now. Mountin’ a horse in his stall can be dangerous. I don’t care that they’re Asgardian and smarter than my Midgardian stock. You wait for permission to mount, and I’d best never catch you on Elf’s back in the barn again. Understood?”

“Yes, my lady,” Hedda whispered, staring at her boots.

“Is that clear to everyone?” Lauren called down the row.

Baron and Maja stuck their heads out of Flekk’s stall. “Yes, Lady Lauren,” they chorused together.

“Good. Now, Etsuko. Do you have any experience with horses?” The girl held up her finger and thumb close together. “A little?” She nodded. “Alright. Hedda, daughter of Volstagg, this is Etsuko, daughter of Aslin. I’d like you to help Etsuko in grooming Ørn. Show her the proper order of things. Can you do that?”

“Yes, my lady!” Hedda perked up at the prospect of meeting another horse.

“Alright. Get on with you.”

Hedda giggled and grabbed Etsuko’s hand, then slowed down when the girl tugged against her. “A little nervous?” Etsuko nodded. “It’s okay. I’ll help you.”

Lauren smiled at Hedda, proud of the child’s intuition, and returned to Lord Aslin’s side. “Thank you for waitin’.”

He tilted his head. “As I said, my lady. I am at your service.”

“Can you tell me a little about Etsuko? I find with the shy ones it can be easier if I have some background,” she explained quietly.

“Ah, well.” He cleared his throat. “Etsuko is my only child. For the first five years of her life, she was very cheerful and outspoken, then… her mother died.”

Lauren gently touched his arm. “I’m so sorry.”

He smiled sadly. “Her sickness was found too late on my homeworld. Had I known earlier, I could have brought her to Asgard for treatment, but once I returned to Vanaheim to find her ill…”

“That must have been so hard on Etsuko.”

“Hard. Yes. The move to Asgard was even harder. She loved Vanaheim. The woods and nature. All the creatures. Asgard has long been void of animals. Living here has been difficult for her, but my position is here, and I could not allow her to stay on Vanaheim alone. She is homesick. I hope the horses too will cheer her, as well as the companionship of children her age.”

Lauren looked where Aslin’s eyes had drifted and smiled at the heads of Hedda and Etsuko bent close together. “We will certainly try, Lord Aslin.”

“Your compassion is a gift, Princess. One I too hope you never grow out of.”

A blush coloured her cheeks. “Saw that did you?”

“Every word you spoke was inspired.” He offered her a deep bow and turned to go, but stopped and looked back at her. “No matter what anyone says, you are the Princess of Asgard. It matters not if your hands are soft and pampered, or covered in horse excrement. You make of your title what you wish it to be. Your place on Yggdrasil proves you are who and what we need. Asgard has been waiting for you, Lady Lauren. No one but you will do.”

Tears burned the backs of Lauren’s eyes, but she somehow managed to swallow them back and tilt her head. “Thank you, Lord Aslin. Tomorrow I plan on openin’ my door to guests. Your company will always be welcome.”

“My lady.” With a final bow, he walked away, and Lauren turned back to her students.

Next Chapter

#of blood and roses #loki #loki laufeyson #loki and lauren #loki laufeyson fanfiction #Loki x Lauren #god of mischief #god of mischief fanfiction #southern belle

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draculalive · 5 years ago

Text

Mina Harker's Journal.

6 November. -- It was late in the afternoon when the Professor and I took our way towards the east whence I knew Jonathan was coming. We did not go fast, though the way was steeply downhill, for we had to take heavy rugs and wraps with us; we dared not face the possibility of being left without warmth in the cold and the snow. We had to take some of our provisions, too, for we were in a perfect desolation, and, so far as we could see through the snowfall, there was not even the sign of habitation. When we had gone about a mile, I was tired with the heavy walking and sat down to rest. Then we looked back and saw where the clear line of Dracula's castle cut the sky; for we were so deep under the hill whereon it was set that the angle of perspective of the Carpathian mountains was far below it. We saw it in all its grandeur, perched a thousand feet on the summit of a sheer precipice, and with seemingly a great gap between it and the steep of the adjacent mountain on any side. There was something wild and uncanny about the place. We could hear the distant howling of wolves. They were far off, but the sound, even though coming muffled through the deadening snowfall, was full of terror. I knew from the way Dr. Van Helsing was searching about that he was trying to seek some strategic point, where we would be less exposed in case of attack. The rough roadway still led downwards; we could trace it through the drifted snow.

In a little while the Professor signalled to me, so I got up and joined him. He had found a wonderful spot, a sort of natural hollow in a rock, with an entrance like a doorway between two boulders. He took me by the hand and drew me in: "See!" he said, "here you will be in shelter; and if the wolves do come I can meet them one by one." He brought in our furs, and made a snug nest for me, and got out some provisions and forced them upon me. But I could not eat; to even try to do so was repulsive to me, and, much as I would have liked to please him, I could not bring myself to the attempt. He looked very sad, but did not reproach me. Taking his field-glasses from the case, he stood on the top of the rock, and began to search the horizon. Suddenly he called out:---

"Look! Madam Mina, look! look!" I sprang up and stood beside him on the rock; he handed me his glasses and pointed. The snow was now falling more heavily, and swirled about fiercely, for a high wind was beginning to blow. However, there were times when there were pauses between the snow flurries and I could see a long way round. From the height where we were it was possible to see a great distance; and far off, beyond the white waste of snow, I could see the river lying like a black ribbon in kinks and curls as it wound its way. Straight in front of us and not far off -- in fact, so near that I wondered we had not noticed before -- came a group of mounted men hurrying along. In the midst of them was a cart, a long leiter-wagon which swept from side to side, like a dog's tail wagging, with each stern inequality of the road. Outlined against the snow as they were, I could see from the men's clothes that they were peasants or gypsies of some kind.

On the cart was a great square chest. My heart leaped as I saw it, for I felt that the end was coming. The evening was now drawing close, and well I knew that at sunset the Thing, which was till then imprisoned there, would take new freedom and could in any of many forms elude all pursuit. In fear I turned to the Professor; to my consternation, however, he was not there. An instant later, I saw him below me. Round the rock he had drawn a circle, such as we had found shelter in last night. When he had completed it he stood beside me again, saying:---

"At least you shall be safe here from him!" He took the glasses from me, and at the next lull of the snow swept the whole space below us. "See," he said, "they come quickly; they are flogging the horses, and galloping as hard as they can." He paused and went on in a hollow voice:---

"They are racing for the sunset. We may be too late. God's will be done!" Down came another blinding rush of driving snow, and the whole landscape was blotted out. It soon passed, however, and once more his glasses were fixed on the plain. Then came a sudden cry:---

"Look! Look! Look! See, two horsemen follow fast, coming up from the south. It must be Quincey and John. Take the glass. Look before the snow blots it all out!" I took it and looked. The two men might be Dr. Seward and Mr. Morris. I knew at all events that neither of them was Jonathan. At the same time I knew that Jonathan was not far off; looking around I saw on the north side of the coming party two other men, riding at break-neck speed. One of them I knew was Jonathan, and the other I took, of course, to be Lord Godalming. They, too, were pursuing the party with the cart. When I told the Professor he shouted in glee like a schoolboy, and, after looking intently till a snow fall made sight impossible, he laid his Winchester rifle ready for use against the boulder at the opening of our shelter. "They are all converging," he said. "When the time comes we shall have gypsies on all sides." I got out my revolver ready to hand, for whilst we were speaking the howling of wolves came louder and closer. When the snow storm abated a moment we looked again. It was strange to see the snow falling in such heavy flakes close to us, and beyond, the sun shining more and more brightly as it sank down towards the far mountain tops. Sweeping the glass all around us I could see here and there dots moving singly and in twos and threes and larger numbers -- the wolves were gathering for their prey.

Every instant seemed an age whilst we waited. The wind came now in fierce bursts, and the snow was driven with fury as it swept upon us in circling eddies. At times we could not see an arm's length before us; but at others, as the hollow-sounding wind swept by us, it seemed to clear the air-space around us so that we could see afar off. We had of late been so accustomed to watch for sunrise and sunset, that we knew with fair accuracy when it would be; and we knew that before long the sun would set. It was hard to believe that by our watches it was less than an hour that we waited in that rocky shelter before the various bodies began to converge close upon us. The wind came now with fiercer and more bitter sweeps, and more steadily from the north. It seemingly had driven the snow clouds from us, for, with only occasional bursts, the snow fell. We could distinguish clearly the individuals of each party, the pursued and the pursuers. Strangely enough those pursued did not seem to realise, or at least to care, that they were pursued; they seemed, however, to hasten with redoubled speed as the sun dropped lower and lower on the mountain tops.

Closer and closer they drew. The Professor and I crouched down behind our rock, and held our weapons ready; I could see that he was determined that they should not pass. One and all were quite unaware of our presence.

All at once two voices shouted out to: "Halt!" One was my Jonathan's, raised in a high key of passion; the other Mr. Morris' strong resolute tone of quiet command. The gypsies may not have known the language, but there was no mistaking the tone, in whatever tongue the words were spoken. Instinctively they reined in, and at the instant Lord Godalming and Jonathan dashed up at one side and Dr. Seward and Mr. Morris on the other. The leader of the gypsies, a splendid-looking fellow who sat his horse like a centaur, waved them back, and in a fierce voice gave to his companions some word to proceed. They lashed the horses which sprang forward; but the four men raised their Winchester rifles, and in an unmistakable way commanded them to stop. At the same moment Dr. Van Helsing and I rose behind the rock and pointed our weapons at them. Seeing that they were surrounded the men tightened their reins and drew up. The leader turned to them and gave a word at which every man of the gypsy party drew what weapon he carried, knife or pistol, and held himself in readiness to attack. Issue was joined in an instant.

The leader, with a quick movement of his rein, threw his horse out in front, and pointing first to the sun -- now close down on the hill tops -- and then to the castle, said something which I did not understand. For answer, all four men of our party threw themselves from their horses and dashed towards the cart. I should have felt terrible fear at seeing Jonathan in such danger, but that the ardour of battle must have been upon me as well as the rest of them; I felt no fear, but only a wild, surging desire to do something. Seeing the quick movement of our parties, the leader of the gypsies gave a command; his men instantly formed round the cart in a sort of undisciplined endeavour, each one shouldering and pushing the other in his eagerness to carry out the order.

In the midst of this I could see that Jonathan on one side of the ring of men, and Quincey on the other, were forcing a way to the cart; it was evident that they were bent on finishing their task before the sun should set. Nothing seemed to stop or even to hinder them. Neither the levelled weapons nor the flashing knives of the gypsies in front, nor the howling of the wolves behind, appeared to even attract their attention. Jonathan's impetuosity, and the manifest singleness of his purpose, seemed to overawe those in front of him; instinctively they cowered, aside and let him pass. In an instant he had jumped upon the cart, and, with a strength which seemed incredible, raised the great box, and flung it over the wheel to the ground. In the meantime, Mr. Morris had had to use force to pass through his side of the ring of Szgany. All the time I had been breathlessly watching Jonathan I had, with the tail of my eye, seen him pressing desperately forward, and had seen the knives of the gypsies flash as he won a way through them, and they cut at him. He had parried with his great bowie knife, and at first I thought that he too had come through in safety; but as he sprang beside Jonathan, who had by now jumped from the cart, I could see that with his left hand he was clutching at his side, and that the blood was spurting through his fingers. He did not delay notwithstanding this, for as Jonathan, with desperate energy, attacked one end of the chest, attempting to prize off the lid with his great Kukri knife, he attacked the other frantically with his bowie. Under the efforts of both men the lid began to yield; the nails drew with a quick screeching sound, and the top of the box was thrown back.

By this time the gypsies, seeing themselves covered by the Winchesters, and at the mercy of Lord Godalming and Dr. Seward, had given in and made no resistance. The sun was almost down on the mountain tops, and the shadows of the whole group fell long upon the snow. I saw the Count lying within the box upon the earth, some of which the rude falling from the cart had scattered over him. He was deathly pale, just like a waxen image, and the red eyes glared with the horrible vindictive look which I knew too well.

As I looked, the eyes saw the sinking sun, and the look of hate in them turned to triumph.

But, on the instant, came the sweep and flash of Jonathan's great knife. I shrieked as I saw it shear through the throat; whilst at the same moment Mr. Morris's bowie knife plunged into the heart.

It was like a miracle; but before our very eyes, and almost in the drawing of a breath, the whole body crumble into dust and passed from our sight.

I shall be glad as long as I live that even in that moment of final dissolution, there was in the face a look of peace, such as I never could have imagined might have rested there.

The Castle of Dracula now stood out against the red sky, and every stone of its broken battlements was articulated against the light of the setting sun.

The gypsies, taking us as in some way the cause of the extraordinary disappearance of the dead man, turned, without a word, and rode away as if for their lives. Those who were unmounted jumped upon the leiter-wagon and shouted to the horsemen not to desert them. The wolves, which had withdrawn to a safe distance, followed in their wake, leaving us alone.

Mr. Morris, who had sunk to the ground, leaned on his elbow, holding his hand pressed to his side; the blood still gushed through his fingers. I flew to him, for the Holy circle did not now keep me back; so did the two doctors. Jonathan knelt behind him and the wounded man laid back his head on his shoulder. With a sigh he took, with a feeble effort, my hand in that of his own which was unstained. He must have seen the anguish of my heart in my face, for he smiled at me and said:---

"I am only too happy to have been of any service! Oh, God!" he cried suddenly, struggling up to a sitting posture and pointing to me, "It was worth for this to die! Look! look!"

The sun was now right down upon the mountain top, and the red gleams fell upon my face, so that it was bathed in rosy light. With one impulse the men sank on their knees and a deep and earnest "Amen" broke from all as their eyes followed the pointing of his finger. The dying man spoke:---

"Now God be thanked that all has not been in vain! See! the snow is not more stainless than her forehead! The curse has passed away!"

And, to our bitter grief, with a smile and in silence, he died, a gallant gentleman.

#vampires #dracula #draculalive

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fandomdragon20 · 6 years ago

Text

Missing Piece

Demencia was hiding in the trees above with the helpful advantage of her lizard grip features. Her instinctive prowling arched her back to shrink her form into the bush of green above the trees branches above her. She was scanning the forestry ground of the garden, this was one of the only times where her mind was in only one place. There was no manifestation in her mind that resembled anything but the subtle changes of the ground below her, not even Black Hat could break her concentration! Her eye sight narrowed in on one focal point at the ground below her, a contrast of white lapels and red converses entered her field of vision, unaware of the predator in the trees. The paper bag a top the doctor's head shifted slightly as he observed the area, evidently appreciating the clearness in the atmosphere.

"Now where could that bear be?" Flug wondered aloud, trying to humor his creation. Him and 5.0.5 were playing this game of hide and seek, allowing Demencia to participate.

The lizard instincts urged her to lunge into action,

And who was she to argue her natural huntress instincts?

Just as Flug rounded the tree, Demencia plunged from her hiding spot aiming to land directly on top of her poor victim.

"aAAARUGH!!" A frustrated outcry sounded from below her, giving Demencia a satisfied rush of comedic giggles,

"You crazy woman! You're supposed to be hiding from the Hunter!" Flug expressed angrily,

"Eh, the hunter becomes the hunted by an even better hunter!" Demencia answered refusing to let her captive free from under her immense and abnormal strength,

"That's not how the saying goes!" Flug exclaimed accusingly,

Demencia stuck out her tongue,

"Puh! Nerd..."

A glint in the Doctor's googles gleamed mischievously,

"Say that again...I dare you."

"Bet!" Demencia drew out the insult,

"NeuuRRD!,"

A sharp turn underneath startled her, causing Demencia to lose her balance

As if that wasn't enough, the doctor sprung back and lunged his legs to propel Demencia a good few feet off of him.

Now that was surprising,

But not as surprising as her retaliation, reaching in a swift kick toward his ankles and promptly throwing his balance to the ground. Landing on his behind, Flug quickly rolled backwards and dragged the lizard hybrid over himself by tugging her forearms and kicking upwards to her torso.

Now Demencia was not surprised the doctored taught himself basic defense, as all villains should, but was taken back a little when the Doctor was actually gaining the upper hand. Usually Flug preferred to fight strategically and clean-cut while Demencia went all out with her strength with little to no second thought. Now, it seemed Flug has matched her wits, fighting up close and dirty. By the look of Flug's expression through his goggles, he wasn't in distress or determined aggression but rather light hearted amusement, much different than most times when his work days often left him annoyed by the sheer sight of Demencia.

The fun was becoming contagious as Demencia relaxed and let her attacks fall short, by a little bit, as she still wanted to win.

Flug took off running behind the tree at some point and circled it with no real ambition to get away, Demencia following close behind and almost catching him a few times and started to scale the tree, scattering sporadically in circles around its trunk attempting to catch up with her prey, and passing him up a few times. At some point Flug slowed down to catch his breath and started heaving uneven exhales, Demencia sensed this as a weakness and gained upper ground to launch at her prey once more from the tree. She could see through her hood that Flug was still exhaling and inhaling spontaneously and clutching his stomach, Demencia only then realized that the doctor was laughing, and not in his usual maniac evil laugh but deep and wholehearted laughter that brought tears to his goggles. The laugh was also contagious as Demencia laughed louder having her presence known as she again launched her attack.

On the ground Flug was still clutching his gut as he rolled away from Demencia's grasp, "Ha! You lose! Face me, your conqueror, weakling!" Flug was still evidently smiling from under his bag which now was torn, no thanks to Demencia for that, but didn't seem a problem to the doctor at that moment as he was still coming down from his high still huffing the last of his laughter,

"I still have a chance at defeating you crazy lady, just wait!"

There was no threat or villainy in his tone, but rather playful that had Demencia almost feeling hopeful in Dr. Flug's confidence. Almost. Prideful? Of the scientist? Demencia twitched her eyebrow is curiousness, the Doctor still smiling and leaning back leisurely in the grass, mostly dead because of the third inhabitant of their house, but at the most part fluffy and comfortable as nature could get. Demencia was confused of this new feeling, it wasn't evil or real in the sense of rivalry like most times. This new feeling was almost connecting in a way that made Demencia favor the doctor's company more, now raising the tolerance level of Flug in her mind. If he was more fun like this, Demencia could see him more of a companion, a side kick even! But...side kicks were for heroes, and they weren't heroes at all! Was this something villains shouldn't be? Are they not supposed to be sitting in this grass laughing and having fun?

Just then, Flug felt his pocket and his expression fell then tightened,

"Aw! Demencia, you broke my model plane!"

The plastic toy was colored a bright red that glinted against the sun, one of the wings was snapped off reveling the white modeling plastic underneath, its front propeller was bent and limp at the opposite angle. Flug was visibly agitated but also slumped with remorse at the wreckage, "And it was really hard to find,"

It wasn't all Demencia's fault, he's the one who rolled around in the grass and tackled himself to bring Demencia to the ground,

But before Demencia could retaliate, a shuddering presence appeared from inside that house,

"What are you two doing out here?!" Black Hat demanded,

Flug tensed and stood up immediately still cradling the model in his hands,

"Nothing! Just, well...broke my model."

Blackhat inspected the damage and pulled a cruel grin,

"Well done, Demencia!" He praised, assuming she had broke it like most things she got a hold of, "Remind me to break more of Flug's model planes as well!"

"Wait, what?!" Flug squeaked in surprise as he followed his boss back in the house,

"Oh relax, Doctor, its only an agile piece of plastic!" Retaliated Black Hat,

Later that night Demencia snuck in the lab to find something to do or eat, finding the familiar red plane discarded on a desk, seemingly given up on. Demencia pinched the broken piece between her fingers finding the chip of plastic to fit just perfectly back on the plane like a puzzle.

Thinking to herself it should be easy to reattach it back on,

So she took it with her back to the personalized lizard lair.

For evil purposes of course! She attached a piece of duct tape to the side of the wing, sure it didn't match the color but it looked cool, like Demencia's metal bracelet attached to her leg, that was cool.

The plane sat in her lair overnight, the bright red color, now crimson in the dim light, lopsided and duct taped on one end.

That was two weeks ago.

Two weeks.

She was going to give it, honest,

If they didn't have to air a new commercial the next day and through the following week,

If Demencia didn't have to hunt down a whole group of heroes the next week,

If Flug didn't have to replace a dumb Hat Bot every few minutes,

And if half of their customers and the rest of the world's population didn't disintegrate into nothing.

If 5.0.5 didn't disappear along with them.

Or if Dr. Flug didn't disappear as well.

She would've given it back,

Now she just stared at it, her and the miniature red plane hiding in her lair from Black Hat, who is currently handling the Organization's collapse by himself.

No matter, what could Demencia do now?

Now Demencia wanted to grasp the model in her fist and chuck it at the wall, watch it break and crumble to nothing.

But why?

Why does Demencia care about what to do with a plastic toy?

Why did she feel this away about a model plane?

It shouldn't matter. It doesn't matter, plastic toys don't matter to villains. It's just a fact of life, villains move on, villains aren't sedimental,

Besides! Flug will be back, and so will 5.0.5, nothing Black Hat can't will into existence! So they'll just come back and the model plane will still be there and Demencia will return it, right? Simple as that.

Demencia could just leave the model be, simple as that.

Why wasn't it simple?

But things didn't get simple, after all it was the end of the world, and what goes is law,

Apparently a great loss, with a magnitude of this, sent the locals around Black Hat's lair into a frenzy, both heroes, villains, and civilians caught in a mob of distress and mourning with only one powerful entity to blame for their losses.

Of course none of them stood a chance, but all morals and logical conciseness disappeared along with the great genocide and that didn't stop them from setting the whole block a flame , hoping to extinguish the evil that they now accepted has plagued them.

Both remaining crew of Black Hat Organization had to flee, much to Black Hat's stifled pride.

The lab itself, made up of an entire airplane, was an emergency escape, serving as a get away jet.

Before taking off Demencia had pocketed the small plane model along with necessary weaponry.

The model plane had no use what so ever, couldn't be used to fight or provide, in Demencia's mind it was something to play with to occupy herself, since Black Hat wasn't one for socializing or companionship, but in her heart it was something different.

Something Demencia couldn't quite understand yet.

By the time both her boss and Demencia had landed, the sun had dropped to a low and molten red sunset across from where they came from, setting near a secluded mountain with a cave to conceal their aircraft and now live-in laboratory. There was smoke columns traveling upwards from the town, a few more following the neighboring cities, chaos pillaging the land would of set Black Hat off into an episode of cackling insanity. However Black Hat only remained silent, contemplating on the next step of what to do now that there was a new force at had that had easily swept through the globe. And now Black Hat had no clue on how to defeat this new foe.

That should never happen,

He should've ever let it happen!

"How dare someone else try to dethrone my reign of terror with an onslaught of their own?! And with what power do they hold to grant them this control? Only I possess that power, and we are going to steal it back!"

Normally, under normal circumstances perhaps only hours ago, would Demencia find his words fascinating and cherish his speech with fiery confidence,

Black Hat realizes that a lizard assassin had fell quiet in response, hunched over staring with devoted concentration to the object in her lap, fiddling with it in her hands.

Her eyes narrowed at the focal point of the object, only blinking her concentration away at the second remark that Black Hat threw her way,

"It's only you now Demencia, I expect a great deal of your minimal potential to contribute to our current predicament! I require that we start by maximizing our inventory strength, rebuilding the plane to a more suitable craft of villainy, weapons to deter any and every opponent that stands in our way-"

Demencia never had much patience but she had enough smarts to refrain from interrupting her boss,

She placed the model next to her then pushed herself up slowly to face Black Hat, shoulders slumped and arms limped to show no sign of hostility,

Black Hat paused at his employee's silent confrontation, giving Demencia room to speak,

"Black Hat, er...bon bon," the nickname added to show her devotion was still in place, "I know you don't get tired, or need food for energy, but for me to do my best job we need to lay back, just for tonight?"

"Are you trying to tell me we have to delay our retaliation to get back the company, because you are tired?!" Black Hat said growing visibily angry,

"Well, what can we do right now? We have a hunk of junk, a lab in a cave with no internet connection, and only a few working devices! I'm no scientist, but I'd say we're at a pretty bad starting point..."

The word "scientist" hung heavily between the two,

Or maybe it was just Demencia,

"I-It's best to wait tomorrow...Besides being a cold-blooded lizard, I could exhaust myself at night,"

Demencia could already feel the sun light dim to a discomforting temperature.

Black Hat only stared back with agitation then muttered something of an agreement,

Demencia didn't stick around to push things further and ventured back into the jet, seeking something to keep her from freezing.

#oof #Flug got Thanos Snapped #OOOOOOF #so did 505 #AAA #so basically a fan fic where Dem has to reevaluate her coworker relation with Flug #and experience mourning #im guessing demencia is pretty naive with loss #my thought on how she'd handle it #blackhat x demencia #hiGHLY lowkey??#whyyy?#dr flug x demencia #dementedpaper #brotp #loss fic #angst #villainous

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thesinglesjukebox · 5 years ago

Video

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BLAKE SHELTON - GOD'S COUNTRY

[4.17]

Well, at least two of our writers turned around their chairs for you, Blake...

Alfred Soto: "Blake's Country," judging from the fake humility. [1]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: A clever title given the song's subtext flips the definition of "country." Shelton is a 21st century pharisee here, and the vague spirituality that defines this is meant as a warning to all of the genre's heretics. Naturally, the reason this song can function successfully as a song about Real Country Music is because it follows the same tactics that are utilized to keep Real Christians so sure of their received convictions: Shelton looks to history, religion, and tradition to detail a future that needs saving. He explains that "the Devil went down to Georgia/but he didn't stick around," and if Shelton's having any say in this culture war, the same fate awaits the country devil incarnate: Florida Georgia Line. But really, saying "This is God's Country" (especially after saying "it ain't my ground") encapsulates the full breadth of why so many people support legislation like the heartbeat bills. It's yet to be seen if this will soundtrack any pro-life rallies, but really, the existence and success of this song already shows that its logic is already ingrained in countless Americans' minds. [8]

Katie Gill: I'm faced with writing a review of a song that attempts to talk about a specific place via rural imagery (one church town, dogs running in the wild) and country-western imagery (The Charlie Daniels Band, mentioning "Dixie") but is so generic that there is a Shelton-sponsored website with a "God's Country" image generator where you can say that literally any city, no matter the location or population, is God's Country. I don't care if "God's Country" is a state of mind or whatever mealy-mouth nonsense Shelton wants to use to try and sell this song north of the Mason-Dixon line, he mentioned "Dixie!" You don't mention "Dixie" unless you're trying to appeal to a certain demographic. Anyway, my review is just to link this Bo Burnham bit that I know I've already linked for at least two other country songs of this ilk but it's not MY fault they keep setting themselves up like this. [2]

Katherine St Asaph: Tolling church bells, seething guitars, cackling voices, twang cranked up to 11 -- all the elements of post-"Old Town Road" country camp. But instead of going the full "Mea Culpa" melodrama, "God's Country" shoves everything but the twang to the back of the mix, leaving up front the same old Southern rock. The conceit could've been a play on words, i.e., "God is country," which might actually be funny -- but again, instead the lyric's the same old mythologizing BS. As you may have heard, there's some big news ongoing with Georgia's abortion laws, and even if you don't think "this is God's country" is a big-ass dog whistle, the issue is such that both sides would find it compelling evidence that maybe the devil stuck around. Or if he didn't, it's because the uncredited female background vocalist belted him right back into hell; but she's also shoved to the back of the mix, so you probably didn't notice. [5]

Taylor Alatorre: Upon closer examination of the lyrics, there doesn't seem to be anything inherently reactionary about "God's Country," though I can't shake the feeling that at least someone involved in its production wanted people like me to think there was. I'm not even totally opposed to reactionary thought in music if it's done in an interesting way -- where are all the synthpunk songs based on Italian futurist principles or the concept albums inspired by Spengler's Decline of the West? Far from a full-throated declaration of cultural allegiances, "God's Country" is a damp squib of a psuedo-anthem that paints over its noncommittal core with a mix of bluster and overcompensation. I believe Blake Shelton has real pride in his small town Oklahoma roots; why does he sing like he's faking it? [1]

Jonathan Bradley: Country is having a Christian moment, and as a Southern music, its Christian moments are often best when there's a bit of hell in there too -- like Patterson Hood told us, Satan is a Southerner. But why would this song of community and salvation growl with such darkness and drag with such sick, hot menace? "God's country" is a phrase that denotes awe -- think of the expansive beauty in the similarly named U2 song -- but Blake Shelton's track turns it literally territorial: he is marking out the boundaries of a land and of the people who belong on it. It's hard not to suppose, then, that he might also be marking out the people who do not belong. Sometimes country music's esteem for tradition can leave you wondering what happens to the people who don't fit into it, but Shelton leaves less room to wonder. God's country sounds like a place you don't want to be caught in after sun down. [3]

Stephen Eisermann: The moodiness and dark aesthetic of this song are really sexy, as is Blake's rough vocal, it's just that there's this burning question in my mind: can someone remind me of which native tribe "God" belonged to? [4]

Isabel Cole: The church-bells melodrama comes across so dramatic and stark that I listened probably harder than I should have for a hint of some irony or complication that would make the idea of describing an implicitly white American setting as "God's country" in the year 2019 less than totally repulsive. And I'm open to someone more familiar with genre or artist telling me there's something I'm missing, but really all I hear is a song about how much reality TV star Blake Shelton loves farmers and manifest destiny. [3]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: I come from a tradition that has not, for much of its history, had a country to lend to God, so the sheer physicality of Shelton's worship music is appealing as a novelty. That's much more in the music than the lyrics -- the metal-leaning production job and Shelton's bombastic vocal performance complete their goals with more clarity than the lyrics, which feel more like an empty listing of signifiers and metaphors than a sermon proper. [5]

Iris Xie: "God's Country" is composed very strictly to accompany an unrelenting montage of images in its lyrics. The brusqueness of this approach honestly reminds me of when Phil Collins wrote his adult contemporary songs for Tarzan, and its overall determination to wring every possible emotion out of the images. The crunchy slaps and grunting guitars impart a type of stressful dominance which makes me wonder about Shelton's relationship to God and why it is so cortisol-spiking, but I guess if striking fear and awe is the goal of the song, it's not too bad. [5]

Alex Clifton: I like a song that fills me with the fear of God, and Blake Shelton comes very close to that here. "God's Country" is a foot-stomping revival song, but I wish he'd gone a bit further with it. The issue is that he sounds too polished when I want the grit and more devils, but I'm relieved this isn't a "God bless the USA!!!!!" song like I worried it might be. [5]

Ramzi Awn: Blake adds some spice to what could have been a dull song and surprisingly, "God's Country" more than makes its mark. Thanks to a rollicking vision and all the right bells and whistles, the track succeeds in conjuring up the danger Blake warns against and leaves you wanting a shot of whiskey. [8]

[Read and comment on The Singles Jukebox]

#Blake Shelton #country #pop #music #music review #writing

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mariellewritesalot · 2 years ago

Text

What the Water Gave Me

(Photo: me, in picture frames, decades apart)

NASA released pictures from the James Webb Space Telescope about a week ago, one in particular called the Cosmic Cliffs. Even without attaching it to this post, if you’ve seen the dazzling--almost trippy in its existence--photos, you probably know which one I’m talking about. It’s the one landscape that looks like mountains sprinkled generously with stars, some of them apparently galaxies yet to be discovered. It’s a breathtaking, humbling photo. Previously invisible, looking at these high resolution photos bring an immense feeling of being a speck of dust in an otherwise enormous universe. Nothing matters, I guess, in the grand scheme of things. Now, that sentiment could make you feel invincible or shockingly aware of your mortality. It’s beautiful in all respects.

In a semi-serious opinion: to get to know a person, you must have their natal chart on-hand and a grasp on how astrology works, or if not, someone immersed in the esoteric who can determine how placements can affect personality or compatibility. I’ve always subscribed to this belief, being in agreement with how seen I felt upon knowing what mine means. How I have had a sense of comfort in navigating through life with careful consideration and self-awareness of who I am as a person. Alongside that big three, a look into someone’s Venus, Mars, or Mercury placements in conjunction with mine gives me a general idea of how our interactions would occur, validating the hiccups, maybe even triumphs. A lot of people would be so unbelieving of the stars, but really: how are we to know?

The basics of a natal chart in layman’s terms rely on the big three signs: sun, moon, rising. I’ve always reveled in how my big three includes fire, water, and air. How I lack the grounding of an earth sign, the sheer coincidence that most of the people I consider to be my best friends have an earth sign as their Sun. I’ve always felt pride in being a Sagittarius sun, but somewhat irked about how much of a juxtaposition it is next to my Cancer moon, yet believable when you know that my ascendant is Aquarius. If I were to summarize how I am as a person, it’s probably someone who’s up for anything yet easily and heavily wounded emotionally, while having the rationality to avoid succumbing to my delusions. I’m always on some sort of high, tampered by feeling, and it sucks for someone just becoming heavy-handed with detachment to preserve my peace and sanity. I recognize that tendency whenever I feel so deeply I have no choice but to cry all night about everyone and everything. I could cut the bullshit and pin the blame on trauma, but really, why take the whimsy out of my misery?

Tears. A lot of them. I used to be so embarrassed being this way, quick to tear up. I feel myself cringing every time I remember myself as a high schooler, bawling my eyes out to friends and previously uninterested classmates in the vicinity, the moment I found out the guy I’ve been seeing had been two-timing me and his long-distance girlfriend while everyone knew and I didn’t. Every time I called a friend, crying, or even just gave anyone the satisfaction of seeing me cry or knowing that I do, in private. It’s so natural yet so...gross to me, this vulnerability that should have been reserved to me and some people who care. Never mind that my paleness is quick to manifest how red my face can get from the pressure, how my cheeks are hot and my nose a cherry. It’s shame in vulnerability, in knowing that someone or something affected me enough to cause a physical reaction--an undoing, unraveling, whatever. Maturity should feel like stone, but often, I find myself comparing it to wet mud. I crumble.

In recent years, tired of my theatrics, I’ve taken to trying to manage my big emotions; perhaps in an uninformed, avoidant way that does more harm than good. I would be too busy consuming media, exercising, or bending over backwards to ease my overachieving antics to even think too much to the point of tears. I would cry only a little to movies or books, but keep my tears from my experiences in a reservoir; my body. I imagine it sloshing inside of me, a noise I can’t quiet, waiting for release every time I do this. It’s not so exhausting when you’re a busy person, sometimes I think I’ve learned to live with/as water. I think of Frida Kahlo’s painting, What the Water Gave Me (Lo que agua me dio, 1938), also the Florence + the Machine song of the same title. Speaking of Florence, I think of another song, Never Let Me Go, with the lyrics: And the arms of the ocean are carrying me / And all this devotion was rushing out of me / And the crashes are heaven for a sinner like me / But the arms of the ocean delivered me. I think of the word, “cathartic,” how it feels in my mouth, my body. How it feels so real in the verge of tears when they finally fall. It’s probably why it’s hard to stop, a dam breaking throughout the night. The depiction of the color blue as anything water, despite transparency, or for that matter--anything sad.

So many remnants of art and pop culture could be connected to the act of crying that I can’t begin to count them, but I know that when I do it, it probably does not resemble Audrey Hepburn wearing that wedding dress in Funny Face (1957) with the tear cradled by her cheek, so elegant in her pain. I think about this desire for beauty, how it fractures every part of my being in more ways than one. How can crying be anything other than what it is, how can I make this poetic when all I feel at the moment is pain mingled with the shame of being made aware of it? I think of all the silent tears shed: UPD classrooms, Sunken Garden, running at night, my bed frequently, sitting next to people feeling like a time bomb unnoticed...the list goes on. I could qualify as a “crybaby,” I wouldn’t oppose to the title. Lesley Gore lives on: it’s my party, and I’ll cry if I want to!

Like stars, tears are perhaps unquantifiable. I sit on how complex feelings could get, how easily even memories of pain trigger tear ducts, and the pile up of unspoken or unrecognized hurts that leave my body in the form of water. It would be easy to cry on cue, I have a catalog of things that bring me to tears stored in my head. For example, Connell breaking down on the phone to Marianne in Normal People, after he recognizes he fucked up, and the weight of her absence starts to feel heavy, even on the viewer/reader. Thinking about my life, with its beautiful moments and incredibly hurtful ones, pulling out a repressed memory will have the same effect. I think about how my best friend Rona tells me I have a tendency to minimize my feelings. I wonder if rationalizing my emotions, in an attempt to regulate them or delude myself, is actually invalidating to me. A disservice. In other times, tears could come up through joy, but rarely. In truth, crying to me looks more like Logan Lerman as Charlie in Perks of Being A Wallflower (2012) during his breakdown. It’s raw, even numbing--dare I say it, ugly. We want to look away from it, as if seeing bright stars; that as much as we want to stare, we’re rendered unable.

Among other delusions, I also believe that I have high pain tolerance. Physically or emotionally, I feel that I am one of those people that take things well despite me knowing I can be spiteful most times, instead of inspiring as others would perceive. It’s really not an ode to my resilience. The decision to move forward and make the most of situations is merely survival mode, self-preservation. I do not know what the big 10 is on my personal scale, because even in deep pains I refuse to name it as the extreme. I live knowing that there will be worse pains in my future, but a consolation could be that there will be also be grander joys. If we’re so insignificant, why should it matter? However, I realize that in the wide expanse of the universe and everything else, I was made to exist. Among all else, we’re still here. It must account for something. It must be worth it, in this life, to shed those tears, disregarding shame and marveling in how we have that capability for release. To feel so deeply, in the unknown.

---

Happy Cancer season.

#daily life blog posts #marielle fatima tuazon #mariellewritesalot #what the water gave me

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toabyssandbeyond · 6 years ago

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Getting into witchcraft&witchery journal day #14:

personal notes but feel free to read

Tarot reading about my deities&descriptions of them afterwards:

So since last time I shared my thoughts here, I started my Grimoire and have built 3 altars for the three deities I worship... but seeing as our connection have changed drastically over the years I wanted to get to know them better. I decided to make a tarot spread (1st image), only that instead of asking randomly, I decided to ask each at their own turn.

note: if you’ve read my last entry about the deities I worship you’ll know that they aren’t known by others and are pretty much private, although they have parallels in other religions.

First was the deity I call Lady Fate. This is one I believed in since pre-school as this was my interpretation of god... An entity that pre-decides people’s destinies or at least the major milestones.

1. The entity: King of Swords

The King of Swords is a symbol of intellectual power and authority, and has the courage and intellect to accomplish all that he desires. He represents judgement, command, and rulership. His character indicates the stern leadership of a judge, lawyer, or military commander whose emotions must be kept in check under the pressure of battle.

(which you could or could not say fits a deity of fate/destiny...)

2. Their history: Page of Wands

The Page of Wands is similar to the Fool in that he is a free spirit who represents change and new beginnings. He has a true passion for life, despite his understanding of this world is not yet fully developed. He has not yet been weighed down by the burdens of the material world, coming and going as he pleases, and usually encouraging change wherever he goes. He is like the catalyst that inspires changes that might be impossible in any other situation.

3. Past Influences & experiences: Eight of Pentacles

The Eight of Pentacles is a card of apprenticeship and mastery. When this card appears in a Tarot reading, you are working hard to improve your skills and become a master at what you do. You may have recently changed your work, education or financial circumstances, and now you are applying your sheer determination and concentration to master the new skill that you are learning.

4. Personality, attitude & opinions: King of Swords (I mean... yeah it’s the same as the 1st question XD)

5. Their current status: Six of Wands

The Six of Wands is all about success, victory and public recognition. Not only have you succeeded in achieving your goals, you are now being publicly acknowledged for your efforts and your results.

6. Their health overall: Ten of Swords

The Ten of Swords usually symbolises a sudden and unexpected failure or disaster, whereby a power beyond your control crushes you without warning or mercy.

7. Their mental health: Death XIII

After a period of pause and reflection with the Hanged Man, the Death card symbolises the end of a major phase or aspect of your life that you realise is no longer serving you, opening up the possibility of something far more valuable and essential. You must close one door to open another.

8. What they like to do & have done for them: Page of Swords

This card shows you as a young and idealistic person, with lots of plans and ideas for the future. At this moment, you feel as though you could do almost anything. As a Page, you are just beginning to make your way in life, and it is important that you align with others who will not overwhelm you or stifle your direction and ideas. Instead, seek to align yourself with people who will nurture your ideas and will help you to manifest them in an organised manner. Choose a relationship that feels natural, with someone who will learn and grow along with you and give you a chance to develop your own personality and expression. You have an intelligent and sensitive nature, and you may suffer a lot if there is no outlet for your ideas and feelings.

(aw come on you’ll make me cry...)

9. Physical manifestation: Six of Cups

In the Six of Cups, a young boy leans down and passes a cup filled with flowers to a younger girl. The girl looks up to the boy with love and respect as he offers the flowers to her. Love, harmony and co-operation – all key elements of the Six of Cups – shine through this gentle act. The young children also represent childhood memories

The Six of Cups invites you to get in touch with your inner child and experience the fun, freedom and innocence that comes with being a young child again.

10. What to know: Ten of Pentacles

When the Ten of Pentacles appears in a Tarot reading, you are surrounded by wealth and are blessed with financial abundance. There is no ‘wanting’ any more – you have everything you need, especially within the material realm. You feel financially secure and trust that, as a result of your personal successes and accomplishments, you will always have what you need and desire. You express deep gratitude for fulfilling your material goals and dreams.

11. What to avoid: Ace of Swords

When the Ace of Swords appears in a Tarot reading, it is an excellent time to start a new project that needs your intellect, communication skills and mental power. You may be inspired to take a writing class, practice your public speaking skills, or get involved in activities that require more brain power than usual.

(so... I should avoid starting new projects?...)

12. Positive influences, friends or experiences: Six of Wands (yeah I guess this is the same question as no.5)

13. Negative influences, enemies or experiences: Three of Cups

The Three of Cups often indicates a very sociable period – perhaps a birthday, a wedding, the holiday season or a vacation with friends. See it as your opportunity to let your hair down and forget about your day-to-day commitments and obligations for a while. Instead, spend quality time with friends and family and enjoy yourself!

(so... bad influences in social situations? Or made enemies in social situations?... Not too sure...)

14. Conscious desires & thoughts: Ten of Cups

The Ten of Cups embodies happiness, joy, and emotional contentment, particularly in your relationships and family. You have created an abundance of love and happiness in your life, and you now share this love with others, expanding your heart even more.

15. Unconscious desires & thoughts: The Empress III

The Empress signifies abundance. You are surrounded by life’s pleasures and luxuries and have everything you need to live a comfortable lifestyle. You are in a period of growth, in which all you have dreamed of is now coming to fruition.

16. Hopes: Queen of Cups

The Queen of Cups is nurturing, caring, compassionate and sensitive. When you see her in a Tarot reading, you are embodying her ‘nurturing mother’ energy. You support others by listening with your heart, being compassionate, and caring for them deeply. You are empathic and can sense the needs of others by tuning in to your intuition, and you hold the space for others to express their emotions and be the truest, most authentic versions of themselves.

17. Fears: The Sun XIX

In the foreground, a young, naked child is sitting on top of a calm white horse. The child represents the joy of being connected with your inner spirit, and his nakedness is a sign he has nothing to hide and has all the innocence and purity of childhood. The white horse is also a sign of purity and strength.

(”The child represents the joy of being connected with your inner spirit“... I really hope it doesn’t mean what I think it means...)

So, exactly as I’ve always imagined her, Lady Fate is generally a young deity who’ve worked hard to be at the status she is right now. She wants me to know that I’m not lacking anything and should take control of my life and surround myself by like-minded people... Her health and mental health have taken a hit, and all she wants and hopes for is to be in a place of joy and emotional contentment as well as to be feminine, and to be a nurturing mother... Her physical manifestation seems to be a child. Now I hope that this is not how it looks, but she seems to dislike me connecting with my “inner spirit”... more on that later.

(side note- my heart was pounding extremely hard the entire time I was doing this reading and once I finished it calmed down and now I’m freezing...)

Next is going to be a deity I call Luck. I guess the equivalent in other religions would be Karma, or even “Balance”. (You’ll notice that I frequently refer to Luck as “it” or “them”... somehow their gender was never established...)

1. The entity: King of Wands

The King of Wands represents pure fire energy. Unlike the other Wands court cards, he is not so interesting in actual creation and creativity, or in dreaming up ideas and implementing them himself. Instead, he is more inclined to take an idea and change the world to match his vision. As such he is a natural-born leader of all kinds of people, and he is very visionary.

(That’s... actually extremely fitting, especially when you remember how many people believe in karma... Also another part stated that it loves challenges and adrenaline which from my experience is 100% right...)

(note: fire energy)

2. Their history: Three of Swords

When the Three of Swords appears in a Tarot reading, it is sign that you are feeling deeply hurt and disappointed. Your heart has been pierced with these three swords, through others’ hurtful words, actions and intention, and they have inflicted intense emotions of pain, sadness, grief, and heartbreak. These events feel even more painful because they are often unexpected and come out of the blue.

3. Past Influences & experiences: King of Cups

The King of Cups embodies the perfect balance between the executive and the heart. Not only are you able to assess and manage a situation logically, but you can also draw upon your intuition and understanding of human interactions. As a leader, you care as much about achieving your goals and objectives as you do about making sure everyone is happy and engaged along the way.

(So balance between logic and feelings as well... hm okay.)

4. Personality, attitude & opinions: Death XIII

The Death card has elements of a sudden and unexpected change. Death happens to everyone, no matter who you are, how much money you have, where you live, or what colour your skin is; it is the same with a significant change. So, the Death card can be a sign you may feel as though you are caught in the path of sweeping change and cannot escape its effects.

(an unexpected deity that acts suddenly and without a warning, it doesn’t who or what you are, it’ll find you. That’s luck/karma for ya)

5. Their current status: The High Priestess II

The High Priestess signifies spiritual enlightenment, inner illumination, divine knowledge and wisdom. She shows up in your Tarot readings when the veil between you and the underworld is thin, and you have the opportunity to access the knowledge deep within your soul. Now is the time to be still so you can tune in to your intuition.

6. Their health overall: The Tower XVI

Just when you think you’re safe and comfortable, a Tower moment hits and throws you for a loop. A lightning bolt of clarity and insight cuts through the lies and illusions you have been telling yourself, and now the truth comes to light. Your world may come crashing down before you, in ways you could never have imagined as you realise that you have been building your life on unstable foundations – false assumptions, mistruths, illusions, blatant lies, and so on.

7. Their mental health: The Star XVII

The Star brings renewed hope and faith, and a sense that you are truly blessed by the Universe. You are entering a peaceful, loving phase in your life, filled with calm energy, mental stability and more in-depth understanding of both yourself and others around you. This is a time of significant personal growth and development as you are now ready to receive the many blessings of the Universe.

8. What they like to do & have done for them: The Star XVII

(... likes others doing what they have been doing? Have hope and faith.)

9. Physical manifestation: Four of Cups

Sometimes this card brings the message, ‘Not now, but maybe later.’ While the man in the Four of Cups doesn’t accept the cups offered to him, he doesn’t wholly reject them either. You may be waiting for a sign or further information before taking an invitation or new project. Check in emotionally and spiritually before you say ‘yes’, to make sure the opportunity is a good fit and that you can commit to it in the long-term.

10. What to know: The Chariot VII

Now isn’t the time to be passive in the hope that things will work out in your favour. Take focused action and stick to the course, no matter what challenges may come your way – because, believe me, there will be challenges. You may be pulled in opposite directions and find your strength and conviction tested. Others may try to block you, distract you, or drag down the pursuit of your goal.

11. What to avoid: The Devil XV

The Devil card often appears when you have been tricked into thinking you have no control over your shadow self or these negative forces, and that you can never break free from their hold.

12. Positive influences, friends or experiences: Four of Wands

With the Four of Wands, it is the perfect time to get together with your family and friends and to celebrate all the wonderful times that you have had together. Often, this card reflects the holiday period where you get together with the extended family and join in a celebration. Alternatively, it may be as simple as inviting your closest friends over for an intimate dinner and a few glasses of nice wine.

13. Negative influences, enemies or experiences: Page of Wands

(... this is the same that I got for Fate’s history... Do they have a bad history with each other?)

14. Conscious desires & thoughts: Nine of Wands

The Nine of Wands is like the one last test or challenge before you can reach ultimate success. You feel as if you have come to the end of your fighting powers but you have the skill and determination in reserve. You are in a position of strength and by drawing upon all of your courage and abilities, you will prevail. Once the last obstacle is overcome, you are home free.

15. Unconscious desires & thoughts: Ten of Swords

The Ten of Swords usually symbolises a sudden and unexpected failure or disaster, whereby a power beyond your control crushes you without warning or mercy.

(same as Fate’s current overall health... did they want that to happen?)

16. Hopes: Two of Swords

The Two of Swords indicates that you are facing a challenging decision but you are unclear about which option to take. Both options may seem equally as good – or as bad – as each other, and you are stumped about which option will lead you to the best outcomes.

17. Fears: Six of Swords

The Six of Swords invites you to let go of whatever it is that is holding you back, be it from your past or your present circumstances. Instead look to your future and choose the best option that is most in alignment with your Highest Good and long-term potential.

So... this was interesting. Luck is a leader, knowledgeable, who likes challenges. It has been deeply disappointed/hurt but is now learning to have hope and trust in the future, and it wants others to do the same and take action. It seems to have a bad past with Fate and could even be involved in the reason of her current health. They appear as a man who’s given an opportunity (it’s also what they hope for) but doesn’t take it yet, as their fears are of moving forwards and letting go of what is holding them back.

(note- been cold the entire time of doing this reading, finished and now it’s super hot in here...??)

Next and last deity is my guardian angel, he’s been the easiest to communicate with since he appeared (when I was 15) but it doesn’t look like he wants me to communicate with other deities... And that’s why I want to do this reading, maybe he’ll explain me what is going on this way... (I’m keeping his name off tumblr intentionally)

1. The entity: Page of Cups

As each Page asks you to explore a new facet of yourself, the Page of Cups is asking you to explore your creative, emotional self. You may start a new art class, read books about how to express your feelings, or learn more about developing your psychic abilities. Dreamy aspirations race through your mind, and you may find yourself moved by simple things. Don’t be afraid to let your feelings show and wear your heart on your sleeve.

(well, out of the three he is the one I generally consider as a part of my being. That and also I’ve became a lot more creative and my psychic abilities developed a lot since he appeared...)

2. Their history: Queen of Cups

The Queen of Cups says you are highly intuitive, creative, and in flow with the surrounding energies. In your interactions with others, you can easily read other people to get a sense of how to communicate effectively, enabling you both to feel heard and understood. Others may come to you to confide their personal issues regarding relationships, emotions and feelings. They trust you and know that you always have the right solution. You can instantly tune in to what others are going through and can help them make sense of it. You may be a healer, counsellor or intuitive coach; or maybe just a good friend. You recognise the Divine in everyone you meet.

(also the card I got for what Fate hopes for...)

3. Past Influences & experiences: The Emperor IV

As the father figure of the Tarot deck, the Emperor suggests that you are adopting this fatherly role (regardless of whether you are male or female), providing for your family, and protecting and defending your loved ones. You may be the breadwinner or the ‘rock’ for those who rely on your stability and security.

4. Personality, attitude & opinions: Six of Cups

The Six of Cups invites you to get in touch with your inner child and experience the fun, freedom and innocence that comes with being a young child again.

(was also Fate’s physical manifestation hmmm...)

5. Their current status: Six of Swords

The Six of Swords indicates that you are in a state of transition, leaving behind what was familiar and comfortable and moving towards the unknown. You might be moving house, leaving a relationship, changing jobs, going through a rite of passage or feeling a mental shift of some kind. This change may be as a result of your doing, or forced upon you. You may feel sad and upset to leave behind what is so familiar to you, however you know that this move is essential for your growth and personal development.

(also what luck is afraid of)

6. Their health overall: Queen of Wands

The Queen of Wands is the dominant feminine energy of the element of Fire. She is highly energetic and leads a busy and active life. She radiates health and vitality and has an inner vibrancy that fills her with ongoing energy and inspiration. This Queen is a natural-born, intelligent leader who actively inspires others.

(note: Also fire element, like luck.)

7. Their mental health: The Hanged Man XII

When the Hanged Man appears in a Tarot reading, your projects and activities may be coming to an unexpected and abrupt halt. Don’t keep pushing forward, hoping that more force will drive you to where you want to go. Instead, surrender to the opportunity to pause and view it as your chance to reassess and re-evaluate where you are on your path.

8. What they like to do & have done for them: Nine of Wands

You may have experienced setbacks that now leave you feeling distrustful of others or even yourself. The turning point will come when you are able to leave the past behind you and to cultivate a more open mind about the future. While you have experienced losses in the past, it does not mean that you have to experience further losses in the future. Turn a new leaf and push on.

(Also Luck’s desire)

9. Physical manifestation: The Hermit IX

The Hermit stands alone on the top of a mountain. The snow-capped range symbolises his spiritual mastery, growth and accomplishment. He has chosen this path of self-discovery and, as a result, has reached a heightened state of awareness.

(more or less how I envision him as it is...)

10. What to know: Ten of Wands

The Tens in Tarot represent the completion of a cycle, and thus with the Ten of Wands, you have reached the end of a cycle after a period of struggle. You are finally reaping your rewards after investing a lot of hard work and effort. You have fulfilled a creative venture, realised a dream or accomplished a major goal, and now must deal with the consequences of that fulfilment.

This card can also mean that you are being oppressed by outside sources. You are over-worked, over-tired and over-stimulated. You have more on your plate than you can possibly handle and you have taken on too much at this point in time. In an effort to get to the finish line, you have found yourself overwhelmed with the extra responsibility and activity. You need to stop working so hard.

11. What to avoid: Justice XI

The Justice card represents justice, fairness, truth and the law. You are being called to account for your actions and will be judged accordingly. If you have acted in alignment with your Higher Self and for the greater good of others, you have nothing to worry about. However, if you haven’t, you will be called out and made to own up to your actions. If this has you shaking in your boots, know that the Justice card isn’t as black and white as you may think. A level of compassion and understanding accompany Justice, and although you may have done something you regret, this card suggests that you will be treated fairly and without bias. Be ready to take responsibility for your actions and stand accountable for the ensuing consequences.

12. Positive influences, friends or experiences: Six of Wands

The Six of Wands is such positive encouragement to believe in who you are and your accomplishments so far. Have faith in what you have personally achieved and how this will be received by others. Do not let fear or guilt stand in the way of your success. You ought to feel proud of what you have achieved and not afraid to hold your head up high and feel worthy of others’ attention.

13. Negative influences, enemies or experiences: Knight of Cups

When it comes to making decisions, the Knight of Cups is ruled by his emotions and his heart. When this card arrives in a Tarot reading, you are making decisions based on how you feel about a situation rather than what you think, even if others can’t make sense of what you are doing and why, and your intuition guides you in everything you do.

(which is interesting... because that’s the card I usually get as my representation...)

14. Conscious desires & thoughts: Six of Cups

(same as personality, attitude & opinions. Also Fate’s physical manifestation.)

15. Unconscious desires & thoughts: Seven of Cups

Often, the Seven of Cups can be a sign of wishful thinking and projecting into the future about what you would like to create, rather than taking action here in the present to make it happen.

16. Hopes: Temperance XIV

This card calls on you to remain calm, even when life feels stressful or frantic. Maintain an even temperament and manage your emotions. You have learned to keep composed in stressful situations.

17. Fears: Eight of Wands

This card is a sign to ‘strike while the iron is hot’. It is most definitely an action-oriented card that encourages you to move quickly to pursue the best opportunities available right now. There is no waiting around while the Eight of Wands is present so determine where your energy will be directed and get on with it!

Honestly? I feel like I already knew all of these. My guardian angel is one that wants peace, is very wishful in his thinking but doesn’t want to take action. He wants me to be creative and keep that childish hope alive but also there’s a possibility that knowing me is a bad experience for him(?). His origin seems to have something to do with Lady Fate, and it looks like originally they had the same desires/goals. His mental health seems to be “on halt” and I also noticed it lately, but his overall health is pretty good. He wants me/us to avoid justice, to not be put to curt... I can only imagine that it’s because I believe in “personal” deities, we’ve been worried for a while how other, stronger deities, would react to that... and now I know- he’s mentioned in both Fate’s and Luck’s fears- “connecting with my inner spirit” in Fate’s and mentioning his status in Luck’s.

My deities don’t get along. Great. -_-

Also my zodiac, palm, only crystal, and two deities are of fire energies...

Oh and I had to promise Luck that I’ll be productive tomorrow so that it’ll answer me... oh boy.

#tarot #journal #deity #witchblr

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