#mild - but have erred on the side of caution

[therosepetalrps]

@riiese ・❥・closed starter

Blip. Blip. Blop.

A few fat raindrops fell through the canopy of leaves above, splattering against the inside of her book. Ink tears slid down the page, smearing the directions the inn-keeper had scrawled in the margins of the index. Well, they were anti-directions, really. Belle had asked him to detail paths frequented by hunters, patrolling soldiers, and merchant caravans. And, with that knowledge in mind, she had set off in a direction untouched by any of them.

・・・

When Belle was twelve, she asked her papa why the giant-slayers had to lure the monsters from the forests. There were some years when the wolves would gorge themselves on elk and grow too populous, turning to the villages to satisfy their flourishing numbers. These were years when pelts would hang from every market stall. The hunters did not go to the wolves, the wolves came to them. Thus was not the case with giant-slayers.

This thought lingered - vague, but persistent - in the years to come, nagging at her every time she saw a tapestry depicting a mob of intrepid heroes cutting down a beastly giant.

・・・

Of course, she had no intention of finding the creature. Even she wasn't so foolhardy to wage battle against a giant when her sharpest weapon was her wit. It was evidence she was in search of. A creature of such size must have a voracious appetite. She'd read that, in days long past, a single giant could devour an entire village before the militia had time to rally a single man.

And if it was not raiding villages, it had to be eating something. Would she find a horrific slew of animal carcasses, half-eaten and rotting? Wagons crushed by colossal fists, cast aside bones the only proof that there had been any riders at all?

She leaned back against the thick trunk of the oak tree, feeling sore and damp and more than a little defeated. She sighed, embarrassed by her own thoughts. Was she really disappointed to have not stumbled upon some scene of carnage? She'd gotten one, or two, or ten steps ahead of herself, as usual - having journeyed so deep into the wood with the thought of rushing out again, boasting her own story to tell. One that would not be written in running ink.

Belle felt a sudden rumble that started in her feet and carried upward until her teeth seemed to rattle from it. She could not tell if it was thunder from above or a vibration through the ground below.

[thedgeoftheuniverse]

ROTTEN. | astarion

pairing: astarion x gn!reader

warnings: healthy dose of angst and self-loathing, mild sexual descriptions and references, wrote this in less than 2 hrs so give me a break, mainly astarion's pov idk it just happened that way

word count: 2.6k

For a moment, his voice tries to betray the weight of this confession, but he knows there is no softening the blow of this—of both a confession of love, and an admission of guilt, and he is unsure if one is enough to outweigh the other. He knows this is the end; he knows you will finally see him for the wretched thing he is, and he will once again find himself alone and lonely.

He's using you.

He knows he’s using you; since the moment he laid his eyes upon the weathered lines of your face, you were his newest target—the first one of his own choosing. He initially planned to kill you; you couldn't turn on him or drive a stake through his ribs if you were already dead, and he already had enough to worry about without adding additional fuel to the already burning fear he had for his life. Not to mention, he was hungry and getting worse by the minute. He planned to call for help—play the damsel like he did countless times before, catch your attention for only a moment, just long enough to get close enough, and slit your pretty little throat.

Every step played out perfectly. You approached him just like he knew you would—his pretty face has always granted him the illusion of being a safe person; you answered his calls for help, just like he knew you would. All you had to do was get close enough, and he would take care of the rest.

Though he was completely thrown off kilter when you offered to help him, rather than leaving him to the ‘things’ in the bush. In a split second, his plan changed. If you were willing to help a stranger in the mess that the pair of you found yourselves swept up in, what would you do for someone you thought was a friend? A lover? Perhaps the wizard of—at the time—unknown power, quite frankly threatening incineration, were his knife to continue its trajectory, did encourage a modicum of restraint and de-escalation on his part, though he will never give him such credit.

However, the most unexpected change in plans was the direct, albeit slightly painful, mental link shared between him and you. You were infected—same as him—by a Mind Flayer parasite, ready to take over your body and destroy your mind in an alarmingly short timeframe.

You were an ally—a useful one and tentatively worth sparing—so long as you could continue to benefit him.

So, he started with a simple introduction: “My name's Astarion.” Spoken with a dramatic flair and a sickeningly sweet undertone that could only be found after two hundred years of charming pretty faces and innocent minds. In the moments between his introduction and the offering of your name, while the words still clung to the empty air between, Astarion formulated a new plan. It was brilliantly simple and borderline foolproof. All he had to do was convince you to fall for it, and his safety was nearly guaranteed.

(He now knows that hindsight always paints a clearer portrait than the present, and he is a fool in more ways than any would dare to calculate.)

He started small, coated his words in honey, and never oversold the part—playing into the role of the mysterious charmer that he had perfected all those years ago. He was honest, reliable, and always came to your aid during battle; he made you believe he was someone that could be trusted, no matter what your instincts may have convinced you otherwise. He was charismatic. A stolen glance here, an accidental touch there, a subtle look in his eyes that betrayed far more debaucherous intentions than what a gentleman such as himself would ever dare voice in the presence of someone as pure as you.

Perhaps, though, he erred too close to the side of caution and played his part too carefully. Vampirism is no easy condition to conceal, and the lesser creatures he managed to feast on during the night were horribly unsuitable to sustain him in the midst of such a perilous—and quite frankly, exhausting—journey. He was in a rapidly deteriorating state and worsening by the minute; he needed an intelligent, thinking creature to sink his teeth into if he wished to be of any use. He could not imagine a universe in which he would be allowed to remain in the company if he could not pull his own weight in battle or the camp.

He obscenely and undeniably fucked up when he chose to attempt to sink his fangs into the supple skin of the pretty little neck he nearly mared just a few weeks prior. He could not identify exactly why he believed he could get away with such an act undetected; his extreme hunger could be to blame, though he could not deny that the sweetness of your blood caused an insatiable stirring in his gut—he could smell it from six feet away. It permeated the air around him, nearly making him dizzy with the want—no, the need—to taste you. If hunger had driven him mad once again, then you were to blame, and therefore you were responsible for paying.

All thoughts of your reparations, however, were thrown from his mind the moment your eyes opened and he remembered that you possessed the ability to end his unnaturally long “life.”

“Shit.” His mind was completely blank. “It- It’s not what it looks like. I swear.” He could only hope that his performance would award him a standing ovation and the momentary benefit of the doubt: “I wasn't going to hurt you. I just needed... well, blood.”

It was not the confession he hoped to perform for you. He was meant to come to you, fully conscious, and present the idea as his own—he would choose to come to and confide in you. (I feel as though you and I have a… strong bond. I believe I can trust you. I cannot bear to keep this from you a moment longer.) with pretty words and round eyes. Instead, he was on his back foot and practically begging you not to ram a stake through his ribs.

And that is where his brilliantly simple plan began to pay off…

For a time.

You offered your body to him in more ways than one, and he intended to take full advantage of them all.

The sex was easy; it came to him perhaps more naturally than his flirtatious demeanor. He gave you the performance of a lifetime—he fed you borderline godly pleasures on a silver spoon while you dug your nails into grassy forest beds and moaned his name into the treetops. He knew exactly what to do to your body; he hit every single pleasure point with beautiful precision, used his mouth in all of the right places, sprinkled in the perfect praises, and made you beg just enough to make you believe you had to work for the pleasure of being underneath him and you deserved to be rewarded for it. He made sure every little word from his mouth was almost as perfect as what his mouth could do to you.

(Gods, you're beautiful.)

(Tell me how you want it. Use your words.)

(It’s as if the Gods made you to ruin me.)

He did not mean a single moment of it…

He knows he didn't. He knows, without an unparalleled doubt, that he did not mean a single sugar-coated word when he spoke in those intimate moments. He knows how vile he felt before, during, and after; he knows the suffocating self-loathing that consumed him for days after your first late-night tryst and every single night after that. He knows that, deep down, he wants you to see him as more than a sexual being, though he is not sure what else he could possibly be if not this. He knows that his manipulation was calculated and intentional; you were meant to be nothing more than a means to an end. You would help him remove this cursed tadpole embedded in his brain; you would help him kill his former master; and you would help him grasp a power that has never before been held by another vampire. You would hand him the entire world because he convinced you that he deserved it, and then he would dispose of you, as he did with the rest of his victims.

It was a brilliantly simple plan, and yet it all managed to fall apart. He is sure he played out every step perfectly, and somehow, you managed to change his plans once more.

It was never more apparent to him than right now.

Right now, as he watches you saunter around the camp, offering various greetings and the most beautiful smile he believes he has ever seen in his two hundred years of life, he realizes that you are the most incredible being he has ever gazed upon. And never has it been more apparent to him that he is a rotten thing—nothing more than a bloodthirsty monster that pretends he can believably wear the mask of a man. He thinks this is the closest thing to love he has ever felt, and even now, he will never be able to show it to you in a way that means something.

How could he have been so stupid?

How could he not have anticipated this outcome?

How could he have been so ignorant of the pining in his heart and wound up in such a situation?

His inner turmoil must have been more obvious than he would have preferred, because when you approached him, your face screamed with worry. “Astarion?” You questioned, “You look... stressed.” He was unable to find the words to respond. Something about the light shining on the hard lines of your face, leaving a shadow that danced across your cheekbones, captivated him, and he lacked the strength to look away—he doesn't think he wants to. Perhaps he could spend one hundred years gazing on the wonderful imperfections and blemishes on your skin until he has memorized every detail through the end of time, so that when you are no longer breathing, he may breathe your life once again himself, so that when another one hundred years have passed and you are nothing more than ash in the ground, he will be able to recall every minute detail of your face.

“Are you okay?”

He is on another plane of existence until the sweetness of your voice walks him back into the present.

“I… I think we need to talk.” His voice betrays him, just as his face did moments before.

You respond as you always have—with care and concern and a compassion running so deeply through your veins, it would be impossible to fabricate: “Are you alright?”

And he realizes the answer is no. He realizes that no matter the intensity of his devotion (or perhaps, is this what love is supposed to feel like?), he can never undo the damage he has caused. He can never change the sweet little lies he whispered into your ear late at night as you exposed your body to him; he can never change the intentional manipulation behind his words as he told you of your beauty; and he can never remedy the fact that he took advantage of you. You—who is made of honeysuckle and mandarins, who he has grown to so deeply care for, who he will ruin in a heartbeat if he were to ever truly love you. And perhaps he will never be able to love you. Perhaps if you are not a target, then you will never truly be anything to him; he is far too damaged to ever love you in a way that is pure and without the promise of personal gain. Perhaps he has always been and always will be a monster and deserves such treatment. He will never be able to share your bed without feeling disgust and hatred for himself. He will never be your lover, no matter how desperately he now knows he wishes to be.

“No—Yes, I just… feel awful.” Your face tells him he owes more of an explanation. He knows you are owed it. “Look, I had a plan. A nice, simple plan—seduce you, sleep with you, manipulate your feelings so that you would never turn on me. It was easy... instinctive.” For a moment, his voice tries to betray the weight of this confession, but he knows there is no softening the blow of this—of both a confession of love (is this what love is supposed to feel like? I think I would rather choose the stake.) and an admission of guilt, and he is unsure if one is enough to outweigh the other. He knows this is the end; he knows you will finally see him for the wretched thing he is, and he will once again find himself alone and lonely.

(He now realizes these are two very different states of being.)

“All you had to do was fall for it.” Your face is twisted into something resembling grief. “And all I had to do was not fall for you… which is where my nice, simple plan fell apart.”

“Why are you telling me this now?” Your eyebrows are furrowed together, and your face has morphed into something entirely unreadable, but you almost seem relieved.

“I…” Another sigh: “You deserve something real.” He cannot bring himself to look into your eyes.

A heavy sigh escapes your mouth as your eyebrows relax. “I only want you.”

“Why?”

“I don't believe you to be the monster you think you are.” If he had a heartbeat, he is confident that would have stopped it. He cannot fathom a universe where he is more than what his master made him to be.

“You don't know me.”

“Then show me who you are, Astarion.” He isn't sure when you managed to get so close to him. “Let me be here for you.”

“You don't know what you're asking for.” He can feel the tears welling up in his eyes. He will never be able to give you what you’re asking for, yet you still seem to want him all the same. He knows that he is no good, that he will never be more than the image Cazador sculpted him in; he is capable of tenderness no more than the Gods are capable of answering his cries for help. And yet, here you stand—headstrong as ever, practically begging him to give this a chance, and he desperately wants it. “It’s rotten work.”

“Not to me.” Your hand reaches into the space between you to gently cup his face.

“I can't give you what you want. Being close to someone—any kind of intimacy—was something I… performed to lure people back for him. I know this is different; we’re different, but it still feels… tainted.”

“I already told you what I want.” His eyes met yours for the first time since you approached his tent. “You. Whatever it is you have to offer, I want it. It's not a dirty job; it's just you.”

For a brief moment, Astarion is able to lose himself in such a fantasy; your eyes shine as though galaxies were constructed in your irises, and he can spot no inkling of deception. Your hand is soft against his cheek as he leans into the warmth of your touch, and it does not go unnoticed that you choose to keep your hand placement modest—as though you were a gentleman dancing with a lady in a fancy ballroom while all the guests silently stared.

“I don't know what to do from here.” He places his hand over yours and leans into your touch even harder—he almost resembles a wounded dog, searching for any ounce of tenderness he can find in this midst of such an ugly world—”But I know that this... this is nice."

As you wrap your arms around his waist and nestle your head into the crook of his shoulder, Astarion believes that this is something he may be able to get used to. 

Thank u for reading !!! Prob making a part 2 that is more .... idk angsty and more "I'll take care of you" if yall want it

[syoddeye]

bespoke

ghost x transmasc!reader | 1k words tags: brief, mild mentions of transphobic experiences. simon riley's terrible and dirty jokes. brief scene at the end with makeshift restraints. otherwise, fluff. a/n: got hit with a wave of dysphoria. wrote this. bon appétit. 💀

He ties your tie. Insists. 

It’s not like you don’t know how. You do. You walked a tightrope for years. Lived through the height of twee and dapper, collected and wore neckties and bowties unironically. Tried and suffered through all types of aesthetics and accessories to find your style. But this is the first big to-do since you hard launched your ‘new’ identity. The first time you’ll wear such an outfit where you don’t force a laugh or tightly smile as others call it a gimmick or costume. Where your family isn’t around to call it the ‘offbeat’ fashion of a quirky niece or an eccentric daughter.

When you dressed, hands shaking with excitement, perhaps you messed up the knot. It looked passable. You weren’t about to ask him to check it. A lifetime of teasing and backhanded compliments led to a fierce independent streak. Nobody could pester you if they couldn’t get close. ‘Course, nobody could help, either.

But because it’s him, you allow it.

It’s been a long, lonely road. Worth it, though, in the end. To find and carve out your path. To meet the man who’s served as your most steadfast support, confidant, and protector. Whose hands smooth your lapels and straighten the knot. Whose eyes catch you staring and soften when he sees how glassy yours look.

“We don’t have to go.”  

“I want to.”

“You’re upset.”

“Believe me, I’m not. Far from it.” 

You wipe a pesky tear and survey yourself in the mirror. The secondhand suit fits like a glove, modified to perfection. The result of someone’s pestering. An indulgence difficult to accept when originally agreed upon but a triumph in the moment. It pays its dividends in confidence, making you stand straighter and feel as though you might float.

Simon bends, tucking his chin over your shoulder. The silk mask obscuring his face matches his suit, pure black, of course. His eyes drag down your reflections as his arms thread under yours, tugging you backward into his chest. 

“We clean up nice.”

“One of us does.” You smile, a bit pained from his continued sweetness. “I look like I raided my dad’s wardrobe.”

You regret it the moment you say it because you know how stupid it sounds. Hours of tailoring and craft adorn you. Enough care and attention to detail for it to appear completely bespoke and custom—not stolen or borrowed.

A big hand skirts up, fingers and thumb slotting over your face. He gently squeezes your cheeks. A habit when he thinks you’re acting foolish or chirping incessantly. He presses until your lips fold in an artificial pout.

“You got a mouth tonight.”

“‘M told s’good f’kissing.” You force out, not bothering to even try and remove his hand.

Simon squishes your cheeks a moment longer, staring hard in the mirror. Studying. He lets go and presses his lips to your temple. 

“Think you’re funny?”

“You usually laugh.”

“Not when you joke at your own expense.” 

The pout that appears on your face is genuine this time, and so is the instinct to flee. It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve tried to run away from the kindness of Simon Riley. It’s certainly not the first time he flexes his muscle, molding himself to you.

“Settle. Talk t’me.”

You shake your head and try to squirm free despite knowing all the good that’ll do.

“We’re going to be late if we don’t leave now.”

“Then we’ll be late.”

“To a wedding? Simon we can’t be the people that walk in after the bride.”

“I’ll walk her down myself if ya don’t start talkin’.”

It’s anyone’s guess how serious he is about that. Erring on the side of caution, you fuss a second more, then finally voice the fears eating you alive. The laundry list of worst-case scenarios and what-ifs. Your thoughts bend to dread like flowers track the sun.

“If anythin’ happens, we’ll handle it. Together.” Simon pinches your hips. “Or alone, in the small hours, after I drop you at home.”

That isn’t a joke. Simon doesn’t make empty threats. Not about that.

“Simon—“

“How many times do I gotta tell you, to get it through your skull, hm?” He murmurs, littering emphatic kisses over the side of your head. Nipping your neck. If he wasn’t holding you, you’d be a puddle.

“You can’t get rid of me. You got me, love. Let me worry about the hard things.” A squeak tears out when a broad hand skims down the front of your suit and cups the front of your trousers. His grip pulses over the packer, and you nearly skyrocket through the ceiling. “If you’re good and check in with me like you’re supposed to, I’ll have a nice hard thing for you later.”

To save face, as if you aren’t practically drooling at that, you shoot him a look in the mirror. Wrinkle your nose and curl your lip. The glint in your eye is unmistakable, however. 

“Simon,” You groan in feigned disgust. “You’re terrible.”

“Don’t I know it. C’mon.” He releases you entirely, stepping back to adjust himself and his shirt collar in the mirror. “Price’ll kill me if we’re late.”

Hours later, back home after a night of celebration, he ties your tie. 

Tight enough to keep your wrists together, loose enough to feel safe. He strips you slowly and thoughtfully. Takes his time setting each element aside. He inflicts sweet torture, showering you with praise and echoing compliments paid to you at the reception.

So handsome. Lookin’ braw. Don’t let the bride see ya.

Usually, such words would do you in. Gnaw and bite like flies, make you assume the worst. Assume people were just being polite and lying. But…Simon wouldn’t lie. As he looms over you, hooking a leg with one arm and bracketing your head with the other, he tells you to settle. Reminds you to let him worry about the hard things.

And because it’s him, you allow it.

[oncewhenalongtimeago]

Wildflower pt 3

Pairing: Unrequited!Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III x Fem!Fiance!Reader

Words: 4,152

One out of many, almost slightly different and yet always completely the same- today, you attend battle practice.

Tags: Mild age difference, fem!reader, heavy exposition, non-canon politics, original characters

<Previous - Next>

“Go left!” You snapped sharply, voice raspy, sweat racing down your jaw as you lunged, feeling it run down the side of your face, wetting the cloth under your arms and down your back, and over your elbow as your arms strained against the force of a full handle.

You bore your teeth viciously as you felt the thunk of metal against flesh. You fought past the dull, catching feeling of your blade beating against hide, slicing past flesh and nearly falling stiff against hard muscle, and yet- ‘slice’ must have been too sophisticated a word- it had been split, cleaved.

The beast tried to force itself forwards as you pressed your foot against its snout. With your heel, you forced its mouth shut again.

It was a smaller one- a fully mature adult, though still young. Its head was not large enough to dwarf your size or to even get past your shoulders standing on all four of its knobbly limbs. It was a fear-shuddering, swaying, crouching animal. Its eyes were frenzied, undulating in both slit form and size, looking cowed as if it knew it was about to meet its end.

Its throat glowed, molten rock threatening to spill over, to render you lame even as it speared itself further on your blade, Its elbows, bent, jerked back and forth as if it could not figure out whether to bust forwards or backwards; it was erratic, irregular, as if, past panic, you might have reached some animal brain with your blow. 

It did nothing but wound itself further.

The thought was almost encouraging.

There was a struggle of wills, the force of its move forcing your own, urging you to lean forwards lest you lose your balance.

With a final heave, the strongest force you could muster, you pushed it back and roughly into the ground. Its legs, already bent, lost grip as it was forced all the way down, jaw thunk-ing against hard stone.

The muscles in your arms screamed as you wrenched your axe blade from its head, blood spraying violently as you began to beat your weapon past slabs of slightly twitching meat, thick and raw in the place just behind its bulging eyes. 

Your arms burned, the shift of the weight of your axe was precarious, blunt as it broke skull, scattering it like parts of an eggshell, burying it deep into soft, liquid mear; soon the beast would still, but you erred on the side of caution, digging and piercing your way deeper and deeper as it struggled and crowed and gurgled. 

You would suffer no extra loss for the excessive violence.

Your life was just as on the line here as it had been out on the battlefield, despite the sturdy walls of the arena, despite the casual nature of your comrade’s distracted chattings, despite the easy atmosphere. Here, on Berk, you fought for your life, both day-in and day-out at every single moment.

 Even in a controlled environment, any dragon was no less dangerous and, fortunately, you were a warrior worth your salt. You’d see to the job until it was at its end.

Most of everything was nearly dull to your ears, hidden under the sound of your own panting and gasping. Something in your chest pulsed, hands feeling suddenly light, something deep and foundational shivering just below your chest. 

You stared down at its corpse, torn and ripped like the seams for a thick sleeve, old and rendered to tatters.

You could feel the Gronkle's dull-pointed snout through the sole of your boot, pressing into the place where your foot’s arch began.

There was a cut just beside where one of its wings lay limply. It was just on the opposite side of an already festering wound, a leftover from the battle the night before, oozing a clear, yellowish liquid, swollen, each end of it pressing upwards like a fracture, the blooming, cracked surface of a fresh loaf of bread except much, much darker. 

It was a very deep gash, though it hadn’t reached anything vital. It was aggressive, it was shocking, and more than enough to hurt and scar. Even if the beast had somehow managed to get away, it would not have been able to evade recapture. 

Some of the Thorstons sometimes dabbled in cheap poisons, nasty plants ground to a hasty, lumpy paste and spread along blades. Effective, if not primitive. The more sophisticated spinning of chemicals and herbs was a talent of the Ingermans. They’d all run rampant last night.

If they’d caught wind of it, they would have wanted to claim its kill.

What you’d done-... Some might call it a torture- a younger version of you might have thought it a cruelty. If you had to call it anything now, you might’ve called it a mercy- or, more precisely, a job well done.

Something red and burning oozed up around its gums and slightly open maw, jaw unhinged, exaggerating an already intense underbite. It burnt through pink flesh.

You turned your head away.

Someone else would get rid of it later. You didn’t care for it. 

You didn’t have a reason to, not any more than the fields’ farmer felt for cutting down his own swine; he didn’t care whether it had been skinned or served up for dinner or prepared it for sacrifice after the deed had been done, nor he didn’t feel poorly for culling his own rooster, who had done well but had also since behaved poorly. 

It was no different from the slaughter of his sheep, except there was no wool nor mutton to gain from its death- instead, the currency was entertainment; bloodlust.

Practice, pleasure, leisure… It was the way of things. If it wasn’t them, it would have been you. Of course, if there was something to be gained from the act- a moral, a universal truth to hold near and dear, something to lean and to live by, it was this one fact; it was still better than clean-up duty.

 A ways away, your metal shield still clattered, shivering with the force of its discard against the wide, cracked stone arena floor.

Leaning back, you pulled. The still straight-standing handle of your axe came from the dragon’s head with a thick, wet quell.

With narrowed eyes and a hard heart, you examined the gore dripping off its smooth end.

Everyone else on this island was just as rugged, you were sure, with iron in their chest and something crusted and jaded where the rest of the world was abhorrently soft, like sun-heated fats, probably just as gooey and unpleasant to the touch… Or maybe more thick, sinewy, like tensed meat. 

In that moment, your stomach lurched, though not with sickness… but with hunger.

Panting through the mouth, a line of sweat dripping down the side of your face, you stepped back.

It had been a while since you’d last eaten.

You looked to the side, where, on the floor, sat the guarded form of your comrade. 

He was a boy of about one less than your age. 

His knees were up and his arm shielding his face, as if he somehow expected the Gronkle to rise from the dead, to heal from the fleshy heap it made and to gore him, or as if he expected you to suddenly lunge at him, and to do onto him what you had done to it.

Stress burned red blotches down his forehead, his mouth open as his chest beat and fluttered and heaved.

You huffed with amusement.

You were practiced enough in battle to be relatively clean about most damages. However, he had a splatter of blood across his face, nearly matching the shape of the one across your arm, which you rubbed against your side, both smearing and cleaning in equal measure. 

In one hand, he held his own sword, deep, nearly-black beading down slightly dull silvers and grays, unpolished in a way that made it look as if it was just merely stone. 

You nodded in approval, face blank.

In every gaggle, there was always someone who could use some growing. While still not the best of his peers, he was a manageable warrior, if not quiet in a way that made his past obvious, shedded timidity giving way to gentle unease just as it had revealed some burgeoning identity to the world.

He’d put himself through his own tests, had forged his own way without the requisite care or guidance. You were, perhaps, pleased at his success. He had come a long way.

His shoulders dipping, he nodded back, hair bobbing from where it had been swept and flown and frayed in bits, long and draping down his shoulders.

“Stand up.” You commanded, stepping forwards leisurely, offering him one hand. 

He took it surely.

Once, he’d been a stubby boy, not pudgy enough to be called round, but thick and ungainly and not so good at anything, who’d stepped unsurely, stumbled and failed in the arena, and had no allies, though not due to any failure of character.

 It would have been easy to cast him aside just as much as it would have been dishonorable… of course, he was a Hofferson, so they didn’t. For a long time, it was only through name that he’d ever made it so far in the arena and on the field, and yet somehow, at some point, that thickness had become muscle instead of simple baby-fat.

In contrast, where he had once been deemed unworthy by the others, your own trial by ordeal had been held by the court of your own opinion, flaws clearly ironed away and your self purged through physical labor in private so you might be proved worthy enough to exist without a skeptical eye or any harsh word.

He was Finn, the second of his name.

You leaned back after a moment of hesitance, pulling him up roughly, heaving him upwards, gooseflesh prickling on your arms as the morning sea breeze blasted past, razing against infinitesimal baby hairs.

You were very numb to it, now. 

Sweating deeply and standing tall, you turned and heaved your axe onto your shoulder, the weight of its metal head falling against the wood handle which pressed aggressively against the place where the meat of your shoulder and your clavicle met.

Around you, weapons of many shapes and sizes stood mounted along wooden boards, hooked onto the wall. The weapons were of all types of make, wooden bodies and heavy chains hanging stiff, feeling just as prominent in your subconscious as the gazes of your fellow warriors. 

Most were old, chipped, cared for and fostered under this very chain roof for decades, centuries- and also sometimes in new places, tended to by two revenant, skinny hands and lightly grazing fingers. 

Some of the newer, more complicated ones were inspired by the hands of your very own fiance. It was something not many people knew- it was quite the detracting factor.

While not so utilized in active battle, there was some testing that occasionally happened in the arena. It was a fun, violent pass time for some. Many warriors made conversation about it- how destructive the machines were over heart pints and raucous laughter in the square, among children, old women and family. Sometimes your fiance watched.

There were many more blades up now than there had been when you were in training. When the next class came in, most of them were sure to be taken down again. 

As you walked across the stone floor, your eyes glanced over those of your fellow warriors.

There was a younger Njal Albertson with wide shoulders, standing at a height that was unbelievably stubby. He also had an axe over his shoulders, though it looked more suited for wood-cutting , the narrow, on the other side of it, a blunt square end. 

Most of the others were a bit younger than you by a winter or two and only a fraction of which had attended the larger dragon-slaying classes, which had happened during harvest. 

Not all who needed it -meaning those who could afford to go and not suffer hardly any losses- had come, many falling victim to the woes of parents who deemed it more important for their children to build endurance and to dedicate skill to menial farm-tasks instead of battle, which was a commodity available to them at nearly any time.

Of course, there were still those who worked hard and made the incredible effort to show up despite the fact. Those were the most admirable.

Beside Njal, surprisingly, there was a Gro Fjorgyn there, too. She had no last name and she wore a plain dress, elbowing him hard on the shoulder.

She elbowed Njal hard on the shoulder and shoved against a young Astrid at the same time, who paid her no mind.

She was the lengths of two Vikings away, holding a rag in two nearly-limp arms, clean, not so much offered as it was decoration. Often, she took the excuse of offering help and clean water to stand still along the edges and admire the warriors, to take in as much as she could with greedy eyes- You’d overheard a conversation in the grasses.

It was the goal of a few to persuade you to help her train for Thawfest. The chances of you taking up the offer were small- she was a promising girl. 

Still, it was a fat chance.

The small girl looked on with a serious expression and admiring, covetous eyes, and a prized fervor that might have made anyone else on this island feel uneasy.

You looked away, raking the side of the arena with your eyes, looking for a space to settle. There was the occasional stray gaggle of others mingling warmly, yet also a great deal of open space. You envied them.

Still, even as you examined the faces of other men and women, you thought of Gro Fjorn.

The first time you’d seen her, a long, long time ago on a semi-sunny morning, again wearing a simple beige gown whose details had been lost to you through time.

The first thing you’d noticed was that she’d had a long snout for a girl -awfully long and thin- and dull, straw-like hair with a voice as raspy as you’d ever heard it. It was slightly ugly, her laugh especially, though also quite pretty in the oddest of senses, sort of boyish in a girlish way.

She spoke and moved and bobbed infectiously, in a way that didn’t quite lift your heavy heart and limbs or even shift or wobble the sinking-feeling rock in your chest. It gave it a hearty push though, a bony back fighting impossibly against weight and time and impossible circumstance. She was celebratory even now, an open lover of life and life’s pleasures, even with her dead father and his long will.

You must have disappointed her with your unwillingness to mingle, your standoffishness, though if you ever had the thought to make some first friends way back then, you thought it would have been her. You always thought she might be distantly related to the Thorstons, though you’d never cared enough to ask.

“I fear- I fear…” You heard a weak voice crow.

She was not near small Astrid nor particularly close to anyone else but you, groups of young Viking men and women too deep in conversation to do anything but give her a wide berth.

She was twitchy, fiddling, folding long pieces of cloth between her fingertips, looking to be in a haze, not particularly reaching for you but calling to you, though you couldn’t fathom why.

Hilde.

She made no effort to make sense of her words- she had worked herself into a frenzy, it seemed. Too nervous and too panicked for anything clear, as it was in her nature to be when confronted by hard things.

She had never picked up a blade- it was a wonder why she ever showed up, the soft lass.

You gave her a nod- one not of pride, but acknowledgement. Then you walked past, respectfully deaf. 

You might be called heartless for it, though you’d never see anyone else offering anything different besides harsh looks and cruel, casual words, whispered and shared between one another in the darkest of nights.

You looked up, your shoulders square, stopping by the beginning of a short wooden barricade. 

There were a few rags hung over there and a bucket for weapons cleaning. It was no one’s specific duty to bring them out, but when gatherings and things like this took place, there were always those generous enough to set up some to share.

Looking up, you caught the glimpse of a someone looking down into the arena, brown hair resting over brown coat with furs framed by the long, chained-and-barbed cage fencing.

You fought the urge to grimace, feeling suddenly apprehensive.

To be watched by someone who had such a hold on your life, who was so anchored to the inner workings of your personal affairs felt nearly pervasive. 

It was as if you were holding a play, and he was merely peering in from behind the back curtains, viewing with greed what had never been meant for his eyes, though you couldn’t make them out from so far.

You furrowed your brows.

You couldn’t help but to ask yourself what he might have thought of the blood running up your arm, of your bloody blade… If he was afraid. You knew the answer immediately. He wasn’t so timid, even if he did keep to himself.

Hearing the sounds of shouting and the clash of blades behind you, play-fighting and jeering and laughter and the sounds of heavy iron poles grinding behinds, the thick, deep creaking and groaning of wood and gate as the next gigantic cell was opened, you sighed sharply and turned away. 

You felt something curl cruelly in your chest, pulsing behind your ribcage as you stifled a yawn, forcing back tensing jaw muscles and hard air.

In the privacy of your mind, you urged that he leave you be. 

Sometimes it was difficult to wish kind things on the boy. 

When you looked up again, he was gone.

Turning your eyes over to the creaking hinge of a large metal door you blinked slowly.

You had slept out in the floors nestled between long fronds of grass, hidden. You did not fear ticks, for ticks were a far lesser evil than the bother you were bound to endure if you had slogged your way back up to the Chief’s hut.

The idea of laying back down onto hard ground gave you pause. Still, perhaps it was time for a nap.

It had been merely two nights since you’d arrived on Berk.

You knew nothing of hunting dogs or puppies and yet… You thought he was like a pet or rag doll, the kind that had been described to you yet never given, too much for weary hands and thin pockets to procure.

You weren’t sure how to feel about him, bundled up in your arms as he was, too large to sit comfortably over your lap, past twitchy bones jabbing at your legs as he shifted. 

You supposed he wasn’t too bad, in terms of seeing over small, russet-haired heads, though that was a field in which you had very little experience.

He rested chubby cheeks rested over your arms, crossed and folded neatly over the table. 

Also similar to a doll, the boy didn’t seem to mind as you shifted, content to just sit in your grasp and listen to your chidings, just as he had been at the end of the last night, even if your words came almost unwillingly.

You weren’t sure how to feel about him yet. 

He snuffled, the tell-tale sound of shifting fabrics coming paired with the feel of him moving his arms over yours, the digging of his elbow into the thicker meat of your arm signifying an intention- a raise of hand.

You were eight winters, the boy to your front at five. You’d only… how many tens of more? 

It was a long life that you’d been born into.

You weren’t quite sure how to feel about that, either.

You shifted your arm under his as if to nudge the boy, to gently scold him, watching the man -your future father-in-law- as he tended to the dead fires, the put-out coals, the pit in a square shape, stone embedded steeply into the earth.

The larger man seemed not to give you much besides a long, blank look.

You returned it.

You and the man both slept on the bottommost floor of the hut on opposite sides. 

He had a bed. 

The boy had an even larger bed of his own in a room at the top of the hut’s loft, levied high up by a set of steep stairs, the end of which you hadn't yet seen. 

You knew because you could hear him padding around from your spot below the stairs at night, your own bedding frame-less and make-shift, thin bundles of cloth easily visible from here.

It was a fitting place for a bride sold and forgotten.

It was abhorrently cold in the night, the kind of cold that brought shivers and hollow feelings, and seeings-yet-not-seeings of cool wood in the darkest of tones, nearly blue.

Now, you felt what was maybe not an internal warmth, but a physical one.

This house was one that surrounded you on all sides, just as empty as it was closing-in.

You did your best to keep your eyes still and unblinking. They buzzed slightly in a way that spoke of both tiredness and soreness as if you’d just finished weeping despite the fact that there were no tears to be had.

It was hard, sleeping- in the nights, one side of you had always been cold, the other toasty as you lay snuggled up to your mother’s bosom. 

This house was oppressive. You missed that chill.

“No snot.” You scolded as the boy began to shift over you again, baggy trousers and snuffling snout quite loud over the sound of shifting coals and metal and leather over stone. 

Be clean. Once more, and I’ll never touch you again.

That was a thought you never voiced. It was a weak threat, not because you wouldn’t do it- oh, you would. No, a man never threatened a boar with a staff- it was a tool of lesser value, even unused, easily broken and discarded. Worthless, in a way, if worth could be measured.

 If you thought hard about it, there was no real way to measure yours. 

Not yet. 

You were sure you’d rather not.

You blinked upwards. 

The Chief’s hut seemed much more crowded than your own despite its sparse occupancy and awning ceiling. You could tell easily that there had been generations here.

Their essence still lay trapped within its walls, old and musty-smelling as it was, scratched like patterns drawn into the wood of the walls, deep into the meat of the table, knots and weaves and claw-like things.

You came from a life of weaving- of threads, of seams, of thoughts kept and thrown into empty air and feelings left floating. The practice was your effigy, a golden boar, and yet this place seemed wholly unfamiliar to you still. 

In the darkness of the morning, you tried again, eyeing the larger man expectantly, looking for perhaps more direction, looking at him with hope from behind a stony face. Another command, maybe, or something to underpin what you’d asked of the boy, childish though it felt.

‘No more snot.’

He didn’t react at all, his back turned, grunting under his breath as his boot caught over uneven flooring.

Of course. You’d shared only a few words so far, sure that was all you’d be allowed, and all that you’d allow yourself. This man- he’d not want for another child and you knew that, and you’d not want for more parents. But if you’d not been meant for words or for loving, then what was it that he called you here for?

You blinked miserably.

Labor… that was the job of a wife, wasn’t it? Fortunately, that was not yet your calling, though in a way, it was still your duty. 

It would be, it was, had been- what was the difference? It seemed to all overlap here, anyways.

You hadn’t yet had so much responsibility loaded onto your small shoulders.

Now, your station was more guest than statuette. Soon, you knew, it would be more.

You’d be an easy child, not that it took too much of an effort from you to be in such a state.

There was a tension in your heart. 

The boy snuffled. 

Your limbs stayed stiff.

This was your life now.

[hexehaus]

Salve Veneficium

Double flame candle for a client. He will get be very successful. He has already received three fat checks from the VA. For serious!! Before our ritual was complete!

What does this oleum do? It's great for chilling and opening up for psychic vision, divination - especially scrying & channeling though it makes tarot reading wild & fun, too. Veneficium just refers to 'poisoner.' To me, veneficium refers to as a person who knows much about herbs & medicine as well as the natural world. And someone who knows their plant poisons, like ME.

You will need:

Pork fat

Olive oil

Beeswax

Or, raw cocoa butter, shea butter, whatever is ok & vegan for you folks & can be melted

Fresh Foxglove

Fresh Wild Lettuce (it grows all over and probably in your yard!!! Also known as "lettuce opium")

Fresh Mugwort if you can. If not, use responsibly with fresh Wormwood. If you want an Artemisia, like Mugwort or Wormwood, for erring on the side of caution, you can try Tarragon. Dragonwort, or Tarragon, is a very spiritual herb, it smells heavenly & it's a culinary herb. The other Artemisias are not, like Southernwood, for example.

Belladonna flowers - if you have access to the little purple flowers with the yellow middles, get some, carefully. Don't squeeze. If brave, you can get berries, but its more risky & messy.

Onto the SALVE!!

Remember to take out your beeswax to soften.

To begin, if there are dried herbs, it is best to boil them in the fat and Olive oil for no more than 15 minutes, under *constant* supervision. Use only 1/2 cup of oil to about 1 tablespoon of each of the herbs (yes DRIED!!! I'll keep repeating!!) Do NOT boil on high! Use your stove's lowest boil setting. The Salve should be a bit colored, but not dark. If there's no herbal trace, put in some more herbs and oil & boil for 12 minutes over medium boil. If too fast, turn down.

If the dried herbs suck, either the herbs are old, or well, get fresh ones! It ain't supposed to be easy!! 😉

If the herbs are fresh, use 1 cup of oil to 1/2 cup of herbs. Boil for 5 minutes and check every 5 minutes until it looks done (like the color or odor has changed). Boil no longer than 14 minutes.

Drain herbs out of the oil carefully. Do NOT let cool!!! This is time to add to the pork fat, Olive oil, and beeswax together (microwave beeswax very carefully). Do the same with cocoa butter, shea butter & other vegan options. I cannot stand by the vegan recipes though, because these options have not been tested by me. Only pork fat, Olive oil & beeswax.

Add a scent if desired. My recipe for Demonic Sight oil is perfect! Or try Cajeput, Juniper and Lavender for a invigorating and focusing scent!

Make sure you have tins or other packaging for your salve to go into!!

For those who want just a simple tincture to be scary or dangerous or get a mild high with, here's the basics with the measurements!

Potion Veneficium

Pint jar (or larger, make your recipe!)

Fresh herbs - fill jar 2/3

Dry herbs - fill jar 1/2

Alcohol (80 proof; brandy, vodka, rum)

Put the herbs in loose, do NOT pack in. Pour in alcohol. Place parchment (kitchen paper) or plastic at lid so it doesn't rust. Close it well. Put it in a dark & cool place. Check for mold & the alcohol level & shake every couple of days. You may have to add a bit more alcohol to the brew.

It is done at 8 weeks, but it can go longer, though carefully check the fluid level and for mold.

Strain the herbs from the finished tincture. I still prefer cheesecloth. I'll never like metal strainers. I'd likely put my finished tincture into Amber or Blue Boston round bottles for protection from light (UV).

A note about tincturing roots - Length of time depends and ratio as well. I used 1 cup Orris root with 16 oz of rum - potent, I also used 1 large High John root with 16 oz. rum - very potent smell. They each took on odor in about 6 months, but my High John is still keeping after 10 years!

Remember, I'm not a licensed health professional of any kind and these recipes call on poison plants. Please use your discretion and wisdom before wearing or imbibing anything you see here. I am just a curious wanderer among the plants, a veneficium sharing my knowledge with others. - HexeHaus 💀

[arwenlalaith]

Between the Blues and the Pinks (Ch. 1)

Ship: Alex Blake/Emily Prentiss

Summary: The Baby Blues: The temporary feelings of sadness following having a baby. Also known as Postpartum Depression. The Baby Pinks: The mild mania experienced following having a baby. Also known as Postpartum Euphoria.

Warnings: Mental health issues, postpartum mood disorders.

Word Count: 574

Author's Note: First of all, I would like to warn anyone who reads this that this will not be a happy fic. It's going to deal with mental health issues and it's going to get kind of dark. It does have a happy ending, no one dies, everyone gets better...but it goes through a pretty grim place to get there. I'd suggest erring on the side of caution if that kind of stuff triggers you.

Tagging: @ssa-tahlia-obsessions bc I promised her a chapter of something today.

Alex fidgeted in her chair. Not because it was uncomfortable...though it was. Not because the baby was pressing against her ribs...though it was.

It was because of her therapist's expectant stare.

It had been exactly eight and a half minutes since either of them had spoken. Alex knew because she'd been watching them tick by and wishing they'd move just a little faster.

In spite of herself, Alex blurted out, "Your clock is two minutes and seventeen seconds slow..."

Her therapist – Dr. Tara Lewis – asked, "Alex, is there a reason you're avoiding the question?" She raised a curious brow, flicking her pen back and forth.

"What was the question again?" Alex asked meekly. She'd been so caught up in timing the slow clock that she'd forgotten.

"I asked why you think it is you're not excited about your twenty week ultrasound..." Tara repeated herself.

A beat.

"Oh..." She heaved a sigh, remembering why she'd been avoiding the question in the first place. Unfortunately for her, though, she'd more or less run out of excuses. "I suppose...it's because I'm afraid of what the doctor will tell me," she confessed.

Tara nodded. "And why is that?"

"Because of Ethan," she said softly.

Tara nodded, wrote a note in her ledger. "Ethan's condition wasn't apparent on ultrasound?" she asked. When Alex nodded, she continued, "What makes you think this baby will have Ethan's condition – or, indeed, any condition?"

Alex began gnawing at her cheek until she tasted blood, reticent to say. But she knew that, ultimately, she needed to be honest... "Because I don't deserve a healthy baby."

Tara began writing furiously. After a moment, without looking up, she said, "What happened to Ethan is not your fault and the universe – or whatever you might believe – doesn't dole out cosmic feedback like that."

"It was my fault, though," Alex insisted, "I carried the defective gene. It's my fault he died."

Nodding, Tara suggested, "My advice is that you discuss this with Emily. And together, you should discuss amniocentesis."

"I'm upstairs!" Emily hollered when she heard the front door open and close. But before Alex could come to her, Emily appeared at the top of the stairs, wearing her painting clothes. At Alex's quizzical look, she teased, "I figured it was faster to come to you..."

Alex smiled softly for the first time that day.

Coming down the stairs, Emily met her in the foyer, stole a kiss. "How was your session?"

She'd kind of been hoping Emily wouldn't ask, even if she knew it was inevitable. "It was good," she said, a half-truth.

Emily smiled encouragingly. "It's helping?"

Alex nodded. Another half-truth. "She, umm... She suggested we talk about doing amnio," she stammered.

"I think we should do it," Emily immediately agreed.

Her brows leapt up her forehead. "Really?"

Emily nodded. "If it will give you some peace of mind, I think it's worth the risk." Alex seemed a little surprised by her sudden agreement. "Al, I know this is a huge part of what's been troubling you about this pregnancy and if this is going to help, I say we do it. I'd do anything to make this easier on you; if I could go back in time and wave a magic wand to undo my uterine scarring, I'd carry the baby for you."

Smiling fondly, Alex kissed her again. "It's things like this that make me fall for you all over again."

[mindsmade]

The touch of her hand affects his entire being. It does not stop at the back of his hands, there along his knuckles — it moves him from head to toe. It feels almost like that single hand is everywhere at once, most prominently on his heart. She has it in a chokehold, and Aphanarû is left to wonder if she even realises it. If her wisdom thus far is anything to go by, she does.

He would only doubt the depth of her awareness in response to her remark, had she said it under any other circumstances. Instead, he laughs — at himself, not unlike she does. She is right. ❛ That is the first time I have ever been accused of such. ❜ Indeed, he is not the sage holed up in his study that many might prefer to see for a man in his position. He is one for action, often unthinking in his ways and in favour of intuition. So, too, he has been with any others upon taking a more personal interest in them. Though he has never truly claimed a person, he has had others, not generally erring on the side of caution in leaning into his desires ( and that of whoever else was involved at the time ). His interest in the sapthêth is of a different sort, however — or perhaps simply more profound.

His reticence and thoughtfulness may well only exist around Berúthiel, inspired by the earnest respect her presence demands. She rather reminds the Prince of the very same britti that passes through his gardens from time to time; the britti she so admires — it will be beheld, but not held.

Aphanarû realises there is truth to her statement when he realises he has indeed been rather caught up in his own mind. The swift passage of time between her hand finding his, a gesture he so would have wished to reciprocate more aptly, and the withdrawal of her touch is a testament to it. So, too, the cause of her prod at his sudden pensiveness becomes known just as swiftly. A frown not too subtle in its expression of concern ( and mild displeasure ) shoots across his forehead.

It ends in inevitable surrender. Trust is an invaluable thing, and she is asking for it — but she has earned it, so she will have it. An almost sullen grunt leaves him as he braces the heel of his palm onto his thigh, elbow jutting out. With the other hand, he stills his tongue with a sip of still-scalding tea from the metal cup. He briefly winces after swallowing, suppressing the cruder urge to backpedal on his commitment to the drink entirely. ❛ All right. I trust you, so I will let you do as you deem wisest. Of all people here, you are most qualified, ❜ he concedes with a nod, managing a wry smile at last. ❛ Until then, let us rest. We have many an hour left until the sun sets. Perhaps we ought to catch up on sleep whilst we can, once our tea runs out. ❜

Berúthiel turned her silent gaze upon Aphanarû. The conflict in which the man was mired was so obvious, at least to her. His face remained polite only, interested in what she imparted; and yet his mind was a busy place of chaos and consideration. He was loud, was the princeling, his mind all a muddle of what he wanted, what he desired, what he knew was right, what he wished not to do, offenses he wished not to give, liberties he wished dearly to take.

The sapthêth laughed at him. Gently, quietly, she laughed. And gently, softly, she laid one hand over his own. The shock of the touch went through her and she thought it likely struck him as well; his skin was warm, darker on the backs of his hands where the sun more often kissed it; she imagined if she turned it over she would find the roughness of callus on his palm and fingers from the reins of his horse and the hilt of his blade. She did not do so.

“Aphanarû-phazan,” she said aloud when the echoes of her laugh had faded back into the edges of the tent, “you think too much.”

She took back her hand, slowly. She folded it upon her lap with the other, shifting her weight among the cushions. 

“What happens,” she said quietly, “will be what happens. I do not doubt you will protect me just as you would protect any member of your retinue. And as a member of that retinue, however… unofficial my position might be… I will serve as is appropriate. I ask only that you trust me in my dealings with them, even if at times what I must say or do seems to you strange, or frightening. Some of those whom we might meet will not be very like your people, prince of Umbar.”

[delusion-of-negation]

this is your regularly scheduled reminder that tagging too much is functionally eventually a horseshoe with not tagging enough, and I think that's not talked about enough. I've said it before re flashing warnings - that tagging every single moving thing with one will lead eventually to a situation where to see any gif we'd have to not hide posts tagged with that. it's the same if even phobia and triggers end up tagged when they just don't apply - just because you were really stretching everything in your brain to potentially cover every base. I would rather one mild thing slip through the cracks every now and then, than have to see more severe things more regularly because I was unable to block the tag without having functionally unrelated things completely blocked. it's something worth thinking about when you decide how to use these warnings, there's no easy answer when you have a thing in the grey area - but there's erring on the side of caution, and then there's being over-cautious, and then there's an additional grey area that there's, again, just no easy answer for. I do tend to get asked "well, when should I warn?" when I say stuff like this, and I really can't give you an infallible checklist for that. part of the problem is this need for a simple answer leads people to go "movement? tag it" instead of "movement? okay, how likely is the way this moves - any flicker, any flash, etc - to actually cause a seizure here?" and it's the same with "hole? tag it" when the phobia they're tagging is usually actually triggered by many small holes together, not a crater on the moon. it was a big problem with eyes several years ago on tumblr, because back then practically every image with a person in it was tagged with that phobia, when most of the time those pictures wouldn't've affected people with it.

[waterspoutskies]

8, 16, and 37 for the writer ask thing please and thank you ^u^

Hi Silver!

8. Share a snippet from one of your favorite dialogue scenes you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

Oh no. I KNOW full well you've done this on purpose. Ahhhhhhhhhhhh let's see... I will give you two. One is targeted at your feels, one is slightly more general

1)

“Don’t tell me they wouldn’t blame me!” “They wouldn’t.” “I know that, and you know it too. Call it a father’s intuition.” “But they should.” “Son.” “You were their brother. They would have given anything for you. And I would have had to break up a fight at ungodly hours of the morning over you blaming yourself." “I loved him." “And now he’s dead. Because I failed.” “Link, I don’t think there is a goddess among any of the realms that could have changed that boy’s mind about saving you once he decided he loved you, certainly not you. You were made to be each other’s brightness and shadow. His choices are not your failure.”

Why do I appreciate this one? Weeeeeeell- I think the reason may be implied. But also, it works whichever way I use it, which always entertains me. I'm NOT beating a dead horse this one is set very much further ahead than any current time.

2)

“Wolfie?!” The soft, gravelly exclamation could have only belonged to the still essentially nonverbal Wild. Time swiveled his gaze to their newest member with a mild flicker of shock. It made some sense, sure. The wild hero having experience with wolves? Not out of the realm of consideration.  Of course, this was Twilight, not any wild wolf in the forests. Not that any of them were particularly fond of or friendly to those anyway, though it seemed the exception now stood among them. Twilight had had to work with extreme caution to build the tentative trust that bridged the gap between his wolf form and the rest of the heroes. Silently, Time hoped that this one would be easier.  “You can’t…” Wild snatched up his slate, flicking through screens faster than Time could keep up with at range. Wolfie’s ears twitched and he left a keenly attentive Four’s side to make his way up to their newest. Whatever Wild found on his slate seemed to satisfy him and he looked up to meet Twilight’s blue eyes. “You left.”  Wolfie froze. Time blinked.  “Wild?” Sky edged his way closer to the confrontation, conversation with Warriors abandoned. “This is Wolfie, he’s, uh, Twilight’s friend we think?”  “Probably,” Legend drawled, not so subtly reaching for his sword. Time held up a hand in warning, and most of the others relaxed, watching the standoff in the camp with considerably less concern than they had a moment before.  “I know who he is.” Wild’s soft voice dropped nearly to a growl and he reached over his back for a nonexistent sword. Twilight glanced over at Time and let out a soft whine, Time’s own confusion reflected at him from bright blue eyes.  “I don’t know who you think you are, impersonating him, but this is a crueler trick to play than anything Hylia has forced on me,” Wild hissed. Wolfie lowered his head and Wild bared his teeth, not unlike a wolf himself. “Stay the fuck away from me.”

I have an agenda and I do not make apologies for it, actually. I just really like the conflict here and I was experimenting with Time's POV as well and thought it came out fairly nicely! Plus, there's just so much that can be done if we just twist canon just a little bit to the left...

Annnnd the rest of this goes under the cut!

16. If you only could write one pairing for the rest of your life, which pairing would it be?

Uh, in fanfic? Er... Time and Malon probably, or our favorite gay boys (no one is surprised)

In my own stuff, truly my favorite relationship I have ever created is the one between Rally and Will, because it's a pain in the ass slowburn and they communicate almost exclusively through making scientific insults back and forth to each other. Also, I need this one or I'll get yelled at for not having a romantic subplot.

37. Talk about your current wips.

Alright square up we're fighting now

Beneath the Skin - Chapter 3 is standing at ~6500 words, just over 16 pages, and with all but one major scene complete. Granted, there are a lot of words in the middle that are crossed out so it's probably a lot closer to 5k at least as of now. The biggest problem currently is that Shadow and Legend are refusing to cooperate/be introduced and I AM UPSET ABOUT IT.

MAKE IT WORK YOU IDIOTS.

Look I have plans, ok, and they involve finishing up in Four's Hyrule finally, and Someone is being a bitch about that, and it's not fucking Shadow, it's Legend, who was essentially kicked out by Fable five days ago and he is making it EVERYONE'S problem, more on that later when I feel like getting to how Legend joined the chain.

Dot's not happy with anyone involved at the moment, which is roughly half the chain- Four gets picked up sixth in my canon, so there's five boys there to cause chaos and ruin peaceful adventure recovery times and she is ready to yeet all of them out of her castle.

Dot and Shadow arguing and bantering with each other is also taking a long time, and even though they've kind of earned it, I would like them to hurry it the fuck up too.

I have secret reveals to get to, dammit.

The Theory of Everything - It's happening, it's nearly done, I just really want to have all of it ready so I can keep it regularly updated, especially now that I'm going back to school officially!

Also, Green is turning out to be the biggest problem, which is not usually how things go. Anyway! I'm very much looking forward to having this one complete. Doing such an intensive character evaluation from so many angles has been quite the challenge, but one I've really enjoyed! And I had to make it really hard for myself and do it from both Beneath the Skin and regular canon. I have no life.

I can officially reveal all the chapter titles as well~

Whole numbers are Shadow chapters, halves are Four chapters!

I'll Meet Your Eyes (For the Very First Time, For the Very Last) - This story name is long and I tend to abbreviate it to Meet Your Eyes. This is a companion to Thoughts Like These which was originally a gift for dummy! Whom I adore very much and will continue to shower with love and appreciation because I will win this battle of attrition throwing all of my work at them dammit.

So Thoughts Like These was originally intended to be a three part story, and those other two parts will still make their way in (Titled Out of Time and Out of Place and Into the Woods, Take Me Home respectively), but then Twili posted a prompt about a pair getting flustered from close contact in like, combat training or something and I went oh! I wrote this! Sort of! Meet Your Eyes is my reaction to that prompt, and it's actually Flora's POV of the scene after they both exit the room and Wild convinces Flora to fight a bit to let off steam.

It's important to note with this that it doesn't change the fact that Thoughts Like These is still written and intended to be read ambiguously as to what kind of relationship Flora and Wild are in. They can be friends, QPR, romantic, strangers getting to know each other again, however people see it individually. (I personally prefer Wild x Flora, hence the way Meet Your Eyes will be written with Flora being more notably flustered, but not in the timeframe of LU and certainly not before LU. Make of that what you will.)

Once Upon - Series update! I've got the next two partially done, which will be Hyrule Z1 and Wild, not necessarily in that order but probably. Hyrule Z1 is 80% done and mostly needs some fine tuning to ensure the tone is consistent and struck right throughout, Wild is 30% done and is taking forever because as it turns out open world adventures don't translate well to fairytales. Wow. Who would have thought.

The next after that should probably be Sky, according to my document it will be Sky, but Time MM is the only one with anything actually written for his adventure so we'll see? Yeah, not OoT, which would have to come first. MM. The only game I outright refuse to play. I don't control my brain.

Ok I'm gonna call that good lol

Thanks Silver but also I'm still mad at you <3

--- --- ---

Asks are from this post~

[archonanqi]

consequence / pt i

⛔️ Warning: This is an exploration of Zhongli’s manipulative tendencies that we see glimpses of in his archon and story quest. Absolutely no part of the relationship depicted here is healthy or consensual. Please proceed with caution. 

🔖 [info] [next]

—

pt. i of iii

Looking back, you should have noticed that something was wrong the moment Zhongli had insisted on treating you and Aether to dinner. 

You and Paimon tried to stop him, of course — far too many of his shopping sprees in the past had ended with the Millelith involved or your pockets emptied of Mora (usually both, really). Yet today, he’d produced a wallet lined with gleaming coins, and any protests died quickly on Paimon’s lips. 

“Wow, that’s enough to buy—” she marvelled, staring as intently as though her gaze itself could start pocketing the Mora, “at least… TEN Golden Crabs from Wanmin Restaurant!” 

Zhongli chuckled, the sound still sending pleasant shivers down your spine even after all the months you’d spent traveling with him. “A little more than that, Paimon, but a good guess nonetheless.” He turned his amber gaze to you and your brother, who had not strayed a foot away from you since the Abyss released its hold on him. 

Aether had kept an easy smile on his face for the past few days, but you’d known him long enough to pick out the signs of guilt, despite your reiterated reassurances that what the Abyss did to him was not his fault. It would take a long time for him to feel alright again; and you’d be there for him for as long as it took. 

“And as for you two?” Zhongli continued, “will Wanmin Restaurant be agreeable? Though of course, if you believe that such a momentous reunion demands something a little more extravagant, I’m sure that Xinyue Pavillion is still taking reservations—”

“No, that’s not—” you weren’t sure why you were hesitating. So what if he mysteriously found himself without enough Mora by the end of the meal, and you ended up having to foot the bill as usual? It stung a little to think about, but it wasn’t as though you’d have any need for Mora after tonight. “That’s not it. After everything you’ve done for us during our travels, I couldn’t possibly accept more from you, Zhongli.”

Couldn’t possibly bear sitting at a table with Zhongli, knowing that it’d be the last time you’d ever see him. This was why you’d always tried to leave each world with a clean cut. This was why, at the break of dawn, you and Aether would leave without telling anyone — not Jean, not Cyno, not Dainsleif, not Ajax. Not even Zhongli, with whom you’d spent the bulk of your past year.  

“Oh, no,” Zhongli replied, brows arching upwards, “I’ve told you, have I not? The pleasure of our travels were mine to enjoy.” 

“Er... well. I’m sure Aether is also tired and wants to rest,” you prompted, squeezing Aether’s hand. Aether nodded quickly — no matter the world, you’d always been able to count on him to pick up on your nuanced signals. Though he might not know why, he knew that you were uneasy with going to this dinner, and that was enough.

“Hmm,” Zhongli pondered this shortly, then turned to your brother. You’d seen that look of calculated determination on his face before, in front of basha stalls and souvenir stores across the continent. A look that meant Zhongli would get what he wanted. “I had rather been looking forward to getting to know the sibling of my favored travel companion. Are you certain? Wanmin Restaurant is quite the gem of Liyue Harbor, and I’m certain that the food here will be a fair few notches above what the Abyss Order has been able to offer you.” 

There was a slight, amiable smile on his face, but bringing up the Abyss was a painfully low blow and you had no doubt that Zhongli, the lord of contracts and negotiations and everything in between, knew it. You watched in mute horror as the guilt and regret danced on Aether’s face, before he finally gathered it all back into an apologetic smile. “Of course, Mr. Zhongli. Far be it from me to refuse a dinner with the former Geo Archon himself, especially with all the trouble I’ve caused you...”

—  

Even after traveling the seven nations, you’d never once stopped pining for the savory, hearty flavors of Liyue cuisine. The spice of the black-perch stew that Xiangling taught you to cook had kept you warm through many a Snezhnayan blizzard, after all. Basking in the familiar scent of Wanmin Restaurant with a stomach full of hot food, and watching Paimon devour skewers of meat five at a time, you began to feel much better. 

The anger you’d felt at Zhongli’s manipulation of your brother had also since faded into contentment. After all, negotiation, you found, came as naturally to Zhongli as breathing; he had likely meant nothing by it.

Maybe it was okay that you spent just one more night with Zhongli. Maybe it would turn out to be the closure you need. 

You glanced at the man in question; he was teaching Aether how to use chopsticks, of course, and you were grateful to see that the haunted look in Aether’s eyes had given way to exasperation for now. By the time your brother had snapped his third pair of wooden ones, he was smiling and Paimon was just about rolling around on the ground in glee. As you stifled your own laughter, Zhongli set two small bottles of wine on the table.

You tried not to let yourself think about how the string lights of Chi’hu Rock glinted like stars in his eyes. 

“What’s this?” You joked, referencing Zhongli’s anger from the one time he’d seen Venti get you drunk. “Are we all to become disgraces to the arts tonight?”

Zhongli’s lip curled into a small smile. You couldn’t remember when his smiles had started coming more and more frequently, but you’d learned to savor each one. “Ordinarily, I would not condone such strong drink, but today is the most special of occasions, no?” 

As you watched, a goblet began to form between his fingers, golden, black and resplendent. You’d seen similar ones before, buried deep within the Domain of Guyun Stone Forest — an Archaic Petra Artifact, a Goblet of Chiseled Crag. According to Zhongli’s stories, the very same ones that he had created for the Seven to drink from in celebration, before all but two of them had vanished from this world. 

The cruel irony was not lost on you. 

“Besides, this is nothing like the watered down Mondstadt alcohol that that young bard partakes in,” Zhongli said, gloved fingers masterfully plucking the cork from the first bottle and pouring it into the goblets. “These two bottles contain the finest wu’liang’ye spirit that Liyue has to offer. They’ve been aged for well over decades with a technique passed down from the goddess Guizhong, whose mastery over grain and crop transcends even my own today.” 

“We’re—  flattered,” you bowed your head. The matter of Guizhong, the late Goddess of Dust and Zhongli’s good friend from when the Archon War still ravaged the land, was but one of the many things that you’d wanted to talk to him about. If only you had more time. “Thank you, Zhongli.”

He passed you the first goblet, then the second to Paimon. “Please, let’s forgo the formalities tonight. You are a dear friend to me, and so, by extension, is your family.” The second bottle was opened, its contents split between Zhongli and Aether. “Let us drink, to the happy reunion of loved ones, to the fruitful friendships you have forged in this world, and to all the triumphant adventures to be had still.”

The wince you hid was only partially from the burning drag of liquor sliding down your throat.

It had not escaped your notice that Zhongli had been staring at you all night — more intently than usual, and that was saying something. 

“y/n, I think—“ he began, as you met his gaze. By the Archons, the way he said your name—

“ Paimon thinks there should be less talking, more drinking! Ganbei!” Paimon screeches, downing half her goblet and immediately falling down to the cobblestone road, spluttering and choking at the heat. 

“This is… very strong, Mr. Zhongli,” Aether was the first to speak after. “Wonderful liquor. What gives it its mild bitterness?” 

“Bitter?” You asked, letting the drink roll on your tongue, “where’s the bitterness? It tastes mostly sweet to me.”

Aether took another long drink, thoughtfully. “Definitely bitter. Here, try a sip?”

You took his goblet, but as you pressed it to your lips, you felt it begin to violently vibrate. Quickly, you pulled it away from your face just in time for it to shatter in your hand, gold and black shards falling to the floor as what little drink left in the goblet splattered across the table. 

“Goodness,” Zhongli said, after your surprised yelp brought Paimon stumbling back to your side, her cheeks still stained scarlet from the liquor, “I must apologize. It’s been quite some time since I’ve had to construct something so small and intricate — I am out of practice, it seems.” 

“Oh! That’s quite alright, I drank most of it already—“ Aether glanced over your shoulder, “by the Archons, Paimon has a knife!”

As you watched Chef Mao try to wrestle his knife back from a cackling, red-faced Paimon, you recalled the crystal hairpin Zhongli had forged two months ago — when you’d complained of the Natlan desert wind blowing your hair into your eyes. It had been just as intricate as the goblets, and much, much smaller. One of the few belongings you were planning on bringing with you.

You wondered what reason Zhongli had to lie. 

— 

“Maybe it was a good thing your goblet shattered,” you told Zhongli, prodding Aether with one of your chopsticks. He had stopped even groaning in response. And though Paimon was still conscious, she looked as though she would much rather not be, sitting forlornly on the table with her head in her hands. “Look at them. Drunk as skunks.” 

“Maybe,” Zhongli replied, “though I did not expect these two to have such low tolerance to alcohol. It was a miscalculation on my part.” 

“Paimon’s always like this —you know, remember that bar in Snezhnaya?— but Aether’s usually better at holding his drink,” you sighed. “I should probably get him back to Wangshu Inn.”

“Let him sober up a little here. It’s a long trek to the inn, and you don’t want him making a mess of his dinner on the way back.” Loathe as you were to admit it, Zhongli was right. It seemed that the fates were demanding that you spend a little more time with him, after all. He stood up, his tremendous height still a little startling to you. 

“Will you walk with me for a little, y/n?”

It wasn’t fair, really, the way he said your name. “Where are we going?” 

“I’m not sure,” he answered. “The harbor for a breath of fresh air perhaps, or Bubu Pharmacy to fetch a remedy for Aether. Does it matter to you, where we go?”

Going anywhere with him was a pleasure, one that against your better judgement, you yearned to partake in one more time. “No,” you admitted. “Let’s go.” 

--  

“It’s been so long since we’ve walked through Liyue — a year, almost. Do you remember? It was my birthday, and we walked for hours through the harbor.” Zhongli chuckled, the sound a deep rumble through your bones. “You wouldn’t let me buy dinner that time, either.” 

The nights of Liyue, its rolling hills and monumental mountains, were a peace you’d never known before coming to Teyvat. The city was uncharacteristically quiet tonight, and by the time you got to Yujing Terrace, you realized that it was the emptiest you’d ever seen it. The usual evening crowd of kids out of school and elderly taking strolls were nowhere to be seen — not even the Millelith guards usually standing by the gate were there. 

“ That time ,” you corrected, swallowing your unease at the silence of the city, “you didn’t have a single Mora to your name.” The strides you had to take to keep up with Zhongli’s long, long legs were huge, and you struggled to stay by his side. “Look me in the eyes and tell me that I wouldn’t have had to pay the entire bill if we’d actually gone to Wangshu Inn for dinner that night.” 

You immediately regretted it when he turned his golden gaze upon you, and it took everything within you to not avert yours. “Perhaps that may have been the case,” Zhongli allowed, “though I would have returned your investment tenfold over the next week. Have I not proven as much throughout our travels?” 

His vast knowledge of valuable gemstones and herbs — and more importantly, his uncanny ability to get any deal he set his mind to — had kept you and Paimon fed for many a week during your trek through the caves and jungles of Sumeru. You had to give him that. And that wasn’t not even counting the number of boulders, traps, swords and ravenous winter wolves that his shield had protected you from—

“Fine, I’ll admit, it was nice to have you around, you bourgeois parasite,” you said, playing on his joke back from when you’d first met. Then, after a brief silence, “Zhongli, in all seriousness, thank you.”

“Hmm?”

“I know that you’ve accompanied many adventurers on their journeys,” you explained, “but you — you dropped everything and journeyed with me, and you’ve done more for me than anyone else. I could never have found Aether without you.” Zhongli was being uncharacteristically quiet, and so you hurried along to fill the silence, “We— we made a great team together. And I will never forget everything that you’ve done for me. So, thank you.” 

“A great team together...” he repeated, voice lower than a whisper. “y/n, this sounds like a farewell.” 

Your breath caught in your throat. Even in silence, you were breaking the most important rule you’d learned throughout all your travels. Never let them know you’re leaving.

Zhongli turned to face you, and his full attention is a force that you had not yet learned to endure. So instead, you turned your attention to the koi darting about among the lotus reeds as he continued, “I’ve noticed that you’ve been more careless with your Mora lately. And as for your hard-earned weapons, artifacts, and resources, you have given them all to the Knights of Favonius, correct?” 

“I gave some to the Millelith too,” you objected quietly.

“You know that is not what I meant,” Zhongli said. You did know. “Are you planning on leaving this world, y/n?”

“I have to,” you heard yourself say, “we don’t belong here.” 

As though he heard the waver in your voice, the Lord of Contracts honed in on it like a Sumeran jaguar. “Do you remember the first Lantern Rite you partook in? Though you had just arrived in Liyue, and though the Millelith, Qixing and Adepti each gave you reason to distrust them, you still chose to spend the festival helping people.” 

“I didn’t help that many—” 

“Twenty-six people,” he corrected, and you cursed yourself for not thinking that he would remember. “A dozen more, if we are to count the young and elderly of Qingce, whose lives were brightened by the festivities you brought to the village. And hundreds above that, if we acknowledge every person in Liyue Harbor, whose Lantern Rite would have been ruined had you not stopped the thief who tried to steal the Mingxiao Lantern. Am I correct?” 

“I did it for the compensation,” you retorted, determined not to let yourself think about the people you’d helped. Who would help them after you left? 

“Hmm.” Zhongli rested his gloved fingers against his chin, and you could tell that he didn’t buy your bluff, not for a moment. “Anyone else, I may have believed. But you, y/n, who have begged me to stay my hand against fleeing Hilichurls? You, who could not bear to attack the Mitachurl that sits alone on Mount Tianheng and watches the harbor? You, who gave it a name ?” 

“Okay,” you finally relented. “Okay, I like helping people, and I don’t want to go. But that doesn’t mean I can stay. It’s— it’s not good for Aether to stay here, after what this world has done to him.” 

“With time, I believe your brother can adjust—”

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be, Zhongli,” you begged, and the tone of your voice finally made him take notice. He regarded you for a moment, and you thought you saw his eyes glow bright. 

“The last thing I wanted,” he sighed, reaching into his coat, “was for it to come to this.” 

Your first reaction was to reach for your weapon — it wasn’t there; you’d given Festering Desire to dear little Bennett just before you’d left Mondstadt. Still, you felt the bright burn of shame when the only thing Zhongli pulled out was a piece of parchment, folded into a perfect square. How could you think that after everything, Zhongli would ever hurt you? 

“Do you remember this contract of ours?” Zhongli asked as he carefully unfolded the paper, handing it to you. You stared down at the neat lines of calligraphy, punctuated by your name in your own handwriting. 

Of course you remembered: the moment you had approached Zhongli at Wangsheng Funeral Parlor, after your expedition into Havria’s domain. The day you’d asked him to join you on your travels.

“ Oh? A new contract? I'm still on leave, but I can accompany you for a while. ” Zhongli had mused, as though he hadn’t just sent butterflies soaring through your insides. “ What name should I use on the contract? I have a great many names, though when on leave... I tend to go by Zhongli. And you, Traveler? What name will you be signing on this contract— ?” 

The following contract had been quickly printed in his swift brushstrokes — simple terms: he would lend his strength and knowledge to your endeavor of finding Aether, and you, in turn, would simply keep him in good company. 

Even at the time, you’d wondered what was in it for Zhongli — the terms of the contract had seemed rather imbalanced, but in your euphoria at having gained Zhongli as your new travelling partner, you had not thought more on it. 

—

The same terms stared back at you now, and you were quickly realizing what was going on. 

For thousands of years, I have made countless contracts. If the deal was of no benefit, then I certainly would not be inclined to agree to it. 

The day you discovered his identity, Zhongli had said this to you. He’d never signed a contract before that did not benefit him wholly; and you were a fool to think he would’ve made an exception for you. 

“By keeping you in good company,” you said, numbly, “you don’t mean— forever ?”

“In the circumstances that the duration of a contract’s term is unspecified—” Zhongli held out his hand for the parchment. Briefly, you debated tearing it up and scattering it to the koi, but you knew well enough that it would not void the contract — one of the hundreds of thousands that Zhongli had undoubtedly seared into his memory. You handed it back to him silently. “Well, it would be fair to say that you are obliged to uphold it, until I personally release you from it, no?”

The first thing you felt was: fear, deep and chilling. You hadn’t truly believed that Zhongli would hurt you — until now. Until a contract had come into play. Until you realized you were poised to break one.

“You can’t be serious,” you said, but you’d known him long enough to know that he was. “I found my brother. I’m not from this world, and so I have to leave. I have to go home.” 

“Has Teyvat not provided you enough of a home? You have made friends here, allies who would die for you in a heartbeat. And as for Liyue — Liyue will always be as much of your home as mine. You have your own room in Chi’hu Rock, you are on a first-name basis with the Qixing and the Adepti would spar with you as though you were one of their own—”

You could feel your resolve trembling, but it was not enough. You would not ask your brother to compromise his wellbeing in a world that had not been kind to him. “I’m sorry,” you said, and you understood fully what was coming. “I can’t stay.” 

“After everything we have gone through, my friend, you would leave... me?” And there it was. In that moment, the former Archon — the oldest being in the world — looked so lonely that you almost broke down, almost apologized, almost reassured him that you would never once again put him through what he’d gone through far too many times: the loss of a friend. 

“I’m sorry,” you repeated. “My family comes first. I can’t stay.” 

Zhongli’s expression became unreadable. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, there was a peaceful silence that you savored. You had a feeling that it would be the last one you’d ever have in Liyue. The seconds crawled by, and briefly, you let yourself hope that Zhongli might relent, might make an exception for his close travel companion. 

“Well then, my friend,” Zhongli finally said, holding out his right arm. Sparks of energy gathered in his palms, forming a wicked, golden spear. The Vortex Vanquisher. You’d seen it countless times, marveling each time at its beauty and strength. You never thought you would one day be staring down the end of it. “You must know what comes next.” 

—

On your journey, you’d witnessed many a broken contract between Zhongli and other people — an Inazuman merchant whose greed for an extra trinket got the better of him; a Sumeran scholar who just needed to grab that last book from the hidden ruins; a Snezhnayan soldier whose loyalty to the Tsaritsa transcended his gratitude to you saving his life— 

None of them had escaped unscathed.  And each time, after delivering the punishment required of the situation, Zhongli would ask you the same thing, uncharacteristic frustration in his voice: 

“ To get people to abide by a contract, and act in accordance with the guidelines set out within, is simply to ask them to respect the concept of fairness. It is not a large request. How are there those who still do not understand such simplicity? ”

Each time, after you’d cheered him on in his reckoning of justice, you would nod and agree sympathetically. None of their contracts, you thought, had been particularly difficult to uphold. And each time, you would thank the heavens that you had more sense than to break a promise between yourself and the God of Contracts. 

It seemed that today, you were going to learn of what happened when you did. 

You took a step backwards as Zhongli took a slow, calculated one towards you. Having closely watched him rain destruction down upon your foes for the past few months, you knew with certainty that you, lightheaded from the wind and the still exhausted from your fight with Aether, would not be able to keep up with his speed and technique. 

And even if you weren’t, how could you even hope to compete with six thousand years of experience in war and strife and carnage? No; fighting him was not an option.

“Come on now, Zhongli,” you pleaded, taking another step and discovering, to your horror, that one more step backwards would have you falling into the koi ponds. You had nowhere else to go. “Aren’t we friends?” 

Even as the words left your mouth, you knew that they would fall on uncaring ears. Friendship had never stayed the hand of the victor of the Archon war.

Zhongli took another lazy stride forward. 

“Are we really going to fight in the city? We’ll destroy half the harbor.”

“While I appreciate your concern, I am quite confident that it will not come to that,” Zhongli said, the ‘because I would long have you pinned under my spear before then’ unspoken but tacit. “And besides, most of Liyue architecture is of stone. It would be nothing that I could not easily fix.” 

Fair enough. You switched gears, praying that two millennia of walking amongst the mortals had given him some vestige of human empathy. “Please, I need to go back and check on Aether. What if he woke up and found himself alone? Who knows what Paimon’s done to him by now.”

“Aether,” Zhongli said, “will not wake up for another day or two.” 

You pause, letting that register. “What?” 

The first bottle: you and Paimon. The second bottle: Zhongli and Aether. You remembered how carefully Zhongli handed you the first goblet, though Liyuenese etiquette would have mandated that he pass the first drink to the guest at the table. The way the goblet had shattered suddenly rang clear in your mind’s eye. His lie. How adamantly Zhongli must have been trying to keep you from drinking from Aether’s cup— 

“The herb I placed in his drink was but a very mild… sedative. He will almost certainly not die from it, but it can take mortals up to two days to regain consciousness.”

“ What ?” You could barely breathe. “You’re joking. You drank from the same bottle he did.”

“You need not concern yourself about me. My body has always been much more resistant to poisons than that of mortals.” 

The rage made your throat tight; it had been a long, long time since you had been so angry. “Congratulations, you know that there’s absolutely no way I’m staying now, right?” 

“Even before our confrontation today, I could tell that your mind was already made up,” he explained, as nonchalant as ever, as though he hadn’t just poisoned your fucking brother . “Naturally, the next course of action was to prevent you from breaking your contract by any means necessary, so that we could further negotiate. I did not want—” 

You would never learn what Zhongli didn’t want, because the fury in your lungs erupted outwards in a burst of elemental energy. You reached out, grabbing one of the last swords in your arsenal — a dull blade that you had been keeping around for enhancement fodder — but it didn’t matter, didn’t matter didn’t matter didn’t matter. All that mattered in that moment was making Zhongli pay . 

The familiar warmth of the element you were attuned to channeled through the sword, and you swung it as hard as you could in the direction of the former Archon. A wake of hardened earth ripped through the stone brick of the terrace, circling Zhongli in a jagged cage of rock and crystal. A little too late, you realized your folly.

Zhongli absently reached out, resting his gloved fingers against the earthly fangs you’d entrapped him within. Even through the haze of your anger, you could see a smile — a kind you had never seen on him — forming between his cheeks. “How ironic,” he said, “that you would use the powers that I granted you against me.” 

You could see the glow of Geo flowing from your constructs towards his outstretched palm. Vaguely, you knew that you had to run . 

“And how endearing—” he continued, and you could hear the rumbling beneath your feet, even as you turned to flee, “—that you truly thought it would work.” 

From behind, a shockwave of Geo more powerful than anything you’d ever felt smashed into you, throwing you off your feet and slamming you against the wall behind the pond. You crumpled like a paper lantern, cheek hitting the cool stone floor. As you struggled to keep your eyes open, the last things you saw were Zhongli’s intricate boots, gleaming in the moonlight before you.

[t4t-lumpygrab]

Fanfic Drabble Requests (Rough FAQ I will update as time goes on)

ID: screenshot of Lemongrab 1 from Adventure Time smiling and punching the air with his left fist. ED. 

Current status: Requests open

Examples of requests I’ve done so far: 

Fluff:

LSP and Lemongrab play minecraft (770 words)

LSP and Lemongrab pick a movie to watch (fluff with minor hurt/comfort elements, 705 words) 

Lemongrab and Treetrunks hang out (1600 words) 

Hurt/comfort: 

Lemongrab experiences fatigue and LSP looks after him (1440 words) 

Lemongrab deals with phantom pain and is helped by a lemon subject (hurt/comfort, 1000 words)

Fern and Lemongrab hanging out (mild hurt/comfort 1200 words)

General Rules:

-I work to a word limit of 500 words minimum and 1000 words maximum. (But I may go over if I feel like it this is fun for me)

-Please request a maximum of 1 fic at a time per person! Otherwise Charlie will overheat like a computer and die. 

-If requesting use the word please. I don’t want people to just send a list of what they want y’know! It feels a lil rude even if it’s unintentional. 

-So I am a Lemongrab/LSP obsessive first and a human second, so I’m gonna limit requests to stuff that features these two (Lemon people also fine though I love those lil creatures). This doesn’t mean you can’t request additional characters like Fern and Marceline, but the blorbos are mandatory. 

-I expect some sort of interaction after I post a request - :youtuber voice: please reply or reblog! (asks and dms also fine!) Thank you :)

Will Do! 

-Fluff, hurt/comfort, and angst. 

-Physical affection like hugs and kisses :) 

-Aus! Gonna try my hand at these 

-Gore: cannibalisms, amputation, wounds, body horror, basically anything that appears in the show. Though I ask people lean on the lighter side and not request very heavy gore. Plus I will probably shy away from graphic descriptions for fear of overstepping. If people are requesting gore feel free to list any limits you have! Like for example, someone might request a character getting injured and bleeding but not want any organ damage or bone exposure. Bit of a specific example but it’s to illustrate what I mean, though I will be erring on the side of caution. Also see Won’t Do for my personal limits.  

-Abusive dynamics: So I’ve written for lg1 and 2 before that’s basically what I mean! Those guys are fucked up but they also fascinate me… I guess in terms of potentially upsetting content, the same rules apply as for gore! Feel free to list any limits.

Won’t Do! 

-self inflicted wounds (self harm) and suicide, and character death that doesn’t happen in the show. (like lg1 and 2 being dead is fine but lg3 dying is no)  

-Genderbends (this is a Fionna and Cake hate zone sorry) 

-Crossovers. I’ve never rlly understood the appeal sorry. 

-I view Lemongrab 1 to be a villain and an abuser, so if I get a request like “please write him to not be abusive” I won’t do it because those aspects of his character are intrinsic to who he is! You’d have to change his entire life story, family and personal history, personality and values - basically, you’d have to create a completely different character. One which is, in my opinion, less interesting and a sanitised version of a character who can be used to explore some truly interesting horror themes. This isn’t to say that I don’t think he loves his family, and that he hasn’t been nice to them ever and spent time with them, but if I do get requests for more light hearted stuff I will probably drop hints that he sucks. 

-I guess elaborate/long things? I’m working to a 1000 word limit so stuff that has plot aside from just “1 thing happens” won’t fit my set word count.

-Sexual things. This goes without saying but no incest or fetish baiting. Don’t think I won’t notice we can all tell. 

-I obviously retain the right to refuse any request! 

How to request: 

You can reply to this post, or send an ask! Just keep in mind that I will not do anonymous requests (various reasons like it makes me anxious and also people you have blocked can send anons) :) 

However, the way I post requests is by making a post and then @ing the requester in a reply (as opposed to responding to an ask*) so if you don’t want your url attached to a request (which is totally fine and I won’t ask for any reasons or judge you!!)  - just say and I won’t do that!

*this is bc I’ve done requests in the past for people who ended out to be transmeds and other nastiness, and now the thing I made has their url attached to it :/ 

[rowansparrow]

By Any Other Name: Chapter Three

Summary: Rex follows you to the back room of the bar to check on you, and you trade stories about what used to be.

Chapter Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: mild drinking and cursing, a bit of gambling? 

Ships: Rex x Female!Reader, Fives x Female!Reader, Clone OC x Female!Reader, other ships tbd.

Tags: #ByAnyOtherName, #BAON

Word Count: 1.7k

A/N: It’s going to get much spicier after this chapter. Once again, bless @fat-zygerrian for being my beta reader!

Comment if you want to be tagged! Reblogs are SO appreciated!

Chapter One Chapter Two

You had not expected to see him again.

Of course, a part of you had been hoping you would run into him at 79’s again. But what were the chances he would be there? Stars, what were the odds he’d have even remembered your name?

You entered the bar with measured caution knowing you didn’t have your girlfriends with you this time around. Although they didn’t really offer you much in the way of moral support the last time you’d been here for a night out, it still felt so strange to come alone. You hesitated, looking around for Rose, wrapping your arms around yourself and suddenly feeling incredibly anxious when he didn’t immediately appear. 

This had been a stupid idea. 

You shook your head. If you were already second guessing yourself maybe it was best to just leave and save yourself the embarrassment. You turned back towards the exit quickly, ready to get out. Whatever little gods out there must have been watching over you that night, because just before you stepped through the doors, somebody crashed into you.

“Ah, kriff, sorry ma’am!” The clone chirped, careful to steady the multiple glasses in his hands as he shifted quickly around you. You recognized the handprint on the trooper’s armor. He had been one of the two men who pulled Rose away from you the night you had met.

You stood on your tiptoes, eyes trailing him to a round table pushed into the back corner of the cantina. The trooper hurried over and slid into his seat, distributing drinks and then passing one of the amber drinks to the man on his right. You recognized him too. Even from a distance, the goatee and numeric tattoo on his temple were hard to miss.

The troopers appeared to have been waiting for the replenished drinks, because as soon as the soldier with the handprint on his armor took his seat, the tattooed one immediately began dealing out cards. 

You inched closer, trying to catch a glimpse of the other players while not being too obvious about it. Maybe coming here was a good idea after all...

“No, no, you dealt last hand, di’kut.” A trooper with a Republic cog tattooed on his face swatted at the other man’s hands. “It’s my turn.”

“Did not!” He protested. “Echo had the last one. Then he got drinks so now it’s my turn!”

“The entire point of me getting drinks was so you could deal while I was gone.” The one named Echo drawled.

“Quit bickering and just deal the damn cards.” Another clone griped. “Force knows I’ve already lost enough hands to Rose. Let’s get this over with!”

Your heart skipped a beat. Rose. You tried to look inconspicuous as you shifted even closer to see the rest of the table.

“Ah, don’t be such a sore loser, ‘Case. You’d have better luck with your cards if you’d stop flashing them at me half the time.”

“That’s cheating!”

“Then hold your kriffin’ cards up, vod.”

Rose’s laugh was what finally made you turn fully to face the table. He was not in full armor this time. Instead he wore armor below the belt, but the upper half of his body was just the black bodysuit the clones wore beneath the plates. The top of the suit had been unzipped slightly, showing off a triangle of Rose’s chest and what appeared to be tattoos adorning the bronze skin. Something about the tease of flesh was enough to make your mouth go dry, a more tantalizing intimacy than if he had been naked to the waist.

You suspected Rose must have sensed your staring. As the trooper's gaze shifted from his cards, those beautiful eyes of his darted directly to you. Then for a moment you froze, jaw opening and closing in a panic as you tried to think of something to say, an explanation for why you had been lurking in the shadows, just watching them.

But Rose beamed at you.

“Hey! I know you!”

The men at the table turned and you felt heat creep up into your cheeks.

“I was just – I’m sorry, I-I didn’t mean to intrude -.”

“Nah, come here! We’ve got room.” He reached over his shoulder, grabbing an empty chair from a nearby table and swinging it over effortlessly. He placed it right at his side. “Y/N, right?”

You nodded in response; your voice gone for now. He remembered your name?

“Boys, this is Y/N,” Rose waved at the men around the table. “Over there, that’s Fives and Echo.”

Echo gave you a little wave and Fives smiled, offering a small, two fingered salute.

“This is Jesse, Kix, and -.”

“Hardcase,” The trooper immediately to your right introduced himself then offered you his hand. You took it and he shook it with vigor. “You know how to play Sabacc?”

“Er.. no.”

“You’ll pick it up fast. Rose can coach you! He’s a natural.”

“That’s because he’s a strategist and cheats at cards.” Jesse mumbled, taking a long swig of his drink. Rose scrunched up his nose and flashed Jesse a little smirk. Fives then dealt the cards out to everyone and when each man had a full desk, Rose handed his cards to you. 

“This here is the hand pot,” Rose explained, gesturing to a little pile of what looked like junk in front of him. “And that bigger one is the Sabacc pot. Hand winners get the hand pot and whoever wins the game overall gets the Sabacc pot. Make sense?”

You nodded, trying to follow along. “What’re you betting?” You asked, picking up a small canvas bag off the pile closest to you. You risked a glance inside and were surprised to find two hard candies.

“Contraband.” Hardcase replied conspiratorially. “Or whatever else we’ve got. Not like we’ve got credits to bet.”

“Cards up, darlin’.” Rose told you, reaching around to the back of your hand to tilt your cards back up towards your chest. Even through his glove, you could feel the heat of his palm against your knuckles. You glanced up at him and he gave you a charming little smile.

“Alright, Fives dealt.. so Jesse should lead, yeah?” Kix nodded towards the table. Rose shifted so that he was sitting slightly behind you. His arm settled around the back of your chair and he looked at the cards over your shoulder. He moved his head low, his lips just barely brushing against your ear as he spoke.

“Your goal..” Rose murmured in a voice meant only for you. “Is to not break twenty-three. Each card has a different value.”

You felt a shiver run up your spine and tried to focus on the game as Rose coached you quietly from behind. Hardcase was the first to bomb out, theatrically tossing his cards on the table in a huff. Jesse, Kix, and Echo were eliminated when none of them broke twenty. Then it came down between you and Fives.

Fives studied you from across the table, cocking one eyebrow up. He drew a card and smirked, holding his deck close to his chest.

“You’re at twenty.” Rose whispered in your ear. “If you draw anything higher than a three, you’ll bomb out. You can choose to stand and hope your hand is higher than Fives’...or you can draw.”

“What do you think?” Fives grinned while tilting his head at you. “Do you feel lucky?”

You glanced up at Rose again for guidance but he just shrugged his shoulders. You smiled, turning back to Fives.

You drew a card.

~

You pushed your way into the back storage room, bracing your palms against the shelves while trying to steady your breathing. You simply couldn't catch your breath; your chest squeezing tighter with every raspy inhale you attempted.

You sank down to your knees, hands steepled behind your head and curled in on yourself as you fought for air.

You briefly registered the door opening and closing again behind you. The sound of rustling of armor properly caught your attention as Captain Rex knelt down in front of you. He gently guided your hands off the back of your head.

“Breathe.” He murmured. “C’mon. In with me, out with me.”

You tried to match his breathing, tears streaking your cheeks and ruining your makeup.

“In… out.” Rex repeated, reaching up with one hand to brush your tears away.

“Don’t!” You snapped, jerking away from his hands. Rex held them up in surrender, sitting back on his heels.

“Y/N, I need you to breathe or I’m going to have to find Kix.”

You closed your eyes, trying to ground yourself. Blood pounded in your ears, and you sucked in another sharp breath.

“In… out… in… out… that’s it.”

Slowly, your breathing relaxed and you leaned back against the wall, head thunking against the durasteel.

Rex sighed and sat cross-legged opposite you. “I’m sorry. I… I shouldn’t have come.” He said softly. “I never wanted to upset you.”

“It’s not your fault.” You said finally while rubbing your hands down your face in exhaustion. “It’s just…” You took a deep breath. “Hard.”

You sat in silence together for a long time. The distant thrum of the music and shouting from the cantina was the only sound around you until Rex finally spoke.

“He was one of the few I could stand.”

You let your head loll over towards him and raised an eyebrow.

“Rose, I mean.” Rex said, looking at his hands. “I love all my brothers. But the boys in Torrent… they can be insufferable.”

You chuckled. “I can’t imagine. Fives is bad enough when he’s planet side and comes to bother me. You’re stuck with him all the time.”

“You have no idea.” Rex cracked a small smile and picked at the fabric of his glove. “Rose… he’d act like the others, sometimes. Get into mischief with Fives and Echo. Do something stupid on the field and wind up with Kix, sure. The usual stuff. But Rose…” Rex shook his head fondly, as if he was recalling some far-away memory. “Rose was kind.”

You pulled your knees up to your chest and closed your eyes. A wave of relaxation calming you as you listened to the clone Captain.

“He was the kind of soldier who the shinies would always flock to.” Rex’s voice carried through the little room and you hummed softly, picturing Rose talking to the younger bright-eyed vode fresh off Kamino.

“He’d take ‘em under his wing. Show ‘em the open bunks.. tell ‘em where to stash their gear. After their first battles, he’d be the one to sit up and talk until they fell asleep.”

You cracked an eye open upon hearing a dull thunk. Rex had shifted to lean against the wall beside you, his eyes closed too, his face relaxed as he spoke.

“He was a good kid.” Rex mumbled. “And stars... did he love you.”

“Don’t.” You whispered while shaking your head, giving him a small, sad smile. “Not… not right now.”

Rex understood and put his hand over yours in an affectionate gesture. He gave it a small, reassuring squeeze. Then he seemed to suddenly remember who he was talking to and quickly pulled his hand back. Rex cleared his throat and rose to his feet.

“So,” He grabbed his helmet off the floor then began awkwardly inching towards the door. “I’ll ah – I’ll leave you alone. Congratulations on the opening. You did good.”

He quickly left after that and you lingered in the back, staring up at the ceiling and thinking of the past.  

TAG LIST: @fat-zygerrian @ladydiomede @pro-fangirls-unsocial-life @threevie @cheesemachine44 @bubblyace @fivedicksinatrenchcoat @loverofclones @starwarsgarbage @crazygirlwithasword

[nordic-language-love]

Hei, mate.

You know any really nice or particularly interesting norsk idioms, sayings, or stock phrases.

Ta.

I guess it depends on what you mean by nice/interesting - I know a fair few idioms/stock phrases etc. Here's some off the top of my head that I like:

hulter til bulter - higgledy piggledy (a total chaotic mess, everything everywhere, absolutely no organisation whatsoever)

i hytt og vær - completely randomly (I've also seen «i hytt og pine», which is a mashup of this phrase and «død og pine», which is like a v mild non-swearing swear. Crotchety old prescriptivists will get cross if you say «i hytt og pine» but everyone will know what you mean.)

i bøtter og spann (lit: in buckets and pails) - in large amounts

to alen av det samme stykket - two of the same sort, cut from the same cloth (I want to say "two chips off the same block" which is absolutely a malaphor but I can't think what the correct phrase is and it's driving me nuts)

saken er biff - the matter's in order (biff ≠ steak in this phrase; it's actually a shortening of Swedish «bifallen», meaning «approved»)

å ha alt i boks - to have it in the bag (to have assured success)

å bite i seg - to hold in (eg a feeling)

å komme på kant med (noen) - to get on the wrong side of (someone)

å være på kanten - to be a bit inappropriate (språkrådet's dictionary defines it as «on the verge of indecent» - often used about jokes, but also people)

å gi på båten - to give up, to throw out the window, to do away with, to throw to the wind (as in, if you were to say «han gir all forsiktighet på båten» I'd translate it as "he's throwing caution to the wind")

å ha tenna på tørk (lit: to have one's teeth out to dry) - to have an overbite

i helsvart humør (lit: in a hell-black mood) - in a really, really bad mood

å snakke med (noen) under fire øyne - to speak privately with someone (just two people)

som fot i hose (lit: like foot in trousers) - easy, child's play

å ikke være med sine fulle fem (lit: to not be with one's full five (senses)) - to not be in one's right mind

Hope those are nice/interesting enough! Feel free to ask about anything more specific :)

If I've made any mistakes or typos, please let me know so I can fix them!

[theonetheycallhannah]

The Treatment of Captain Syverson-Chapter 14: No Call No Show

Characters: Shane Benton (OFC), various other original supporting/secondary characters

Summary: We find out where Shane went Monday after work and exactly why she hasn’t been responding to any attempts at communication…and unfortunately, she’s not just taking some “me time.”

Want to reminisce about when this was just a happy little fluffy romance? Return to chapters past, or look at my other smutty drabbles here!

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings:  SHANE FIGHTS BACK, BUT DEFINITELY GETS HER ASS KICKED, SO FAIR WARNING, IT’S VIOLENT. Language, mature themes, emotional abuse, mention of narcotics (morphine), vomiting, foreshadowing and mention of potential future violent/non-con/dub-con activities, but if those acts occur, they will not be portrayed on the page, but rather between chapter or section breaks, so don’t worry. Also, I use the “R” word, but not to discuss non-con, but rather to add an educational note about why one should yell “fire” when one is being assaulted. Basically no Sy material whatsoever, but he’s mentioned, so I’m tagging it as such! Shane being somewhat blasé about her mortality. I really don’t want to trigger anyone, so please read with caution or wait until you emotionally are ready to deal with our girl going through the shit.

Author’s Note: Really REALLY nervous about this one. This is not the resolution you are looking for, my friends. In fact, it’s not a resolution, at all. Lol. I foresee many people disliking this chapter for some reason or another. That’s actually okay. It’s not a chapter you’re meant to “like” per se. I don’t “like” it. I’m prepared for it to get very few notes, and I’m positioning it anyway. I think it’s some of my better writing, but I hated putting Shane through the ringer like this. It’s just one of those chapters you “get through.” And honestly, if you truly didn’t like it please give me feedback so I can improve and tweak. {For reasons other than “My beebeeeeee!” or “never mention anything less than consensual ever again kthxbye” because a) of all, MY beebee too, and b) of all, that’s what warnings are for and why they should be read.} That being said, I hope it at least tides you over until the next chapter. At least you know where she is…not that THAT’S a big relief under the circumstances! Lol!

Disclaimer: Unfortunately for me, Henry is not mine, le sigh, and all mention of him, his characters, any characters from his films, or his precious doggy, Kal, are strictly for transformative and recreational use. I neither ask for, nor accept payment for the work I post on Tumblr or AO3. Unbeta’d because this is for fun and escapism.

Tags: 

@onlyhenrys

@cavillryarchive

@summersong69

@titty-teetee

@bloodyinspiredfuck

@agniavateira

@oddsnendsfanfics

@omgkatinka

@thisismysecretthirstblog

@misslaland (apparently deactivated, idk what’s up with that)

@speakerforthedead0

@tumblnewby

@suavechops

@radkesgirl83

@wheretheriversrunintothesea

@heartfelt-pen

@auds24

@geekycanuck 

@lunarstarknight

@wilma-g 

@coldmuffinbanditshoe

Hope I’m not forgetting anyone! If you want to be notified when I post a new chapter or work, I’ll be happy to add you to my tag list! Stricken blogs are getting personal messages from me when a new chapter is uploaded because Tumblr’s faulty tagging system will not stand in the way of me delivering what the people want!(?) lol! (Although…their lackadaisical notification system might…sorry for that. I have no control. lol!)

X@X@X@X@X@X@X@X@X@X@X@

Previously, in Virginia…

"Shane left work Monday and hasn't been back since. No one has seen her. Apart from you, I presume. "

"I haven't seen her in about a week and a half. I'm training out of state for a job. I've been away from my phone since Monday, and I just got back to it now."

"She isn't…with you? I assumed…"

"Well, you know what they say, Susan. I'm coming back early if I can manage it. See if I can do something to help find her."

Three days earlier, in Missouri…

Shane blinked her eyes open to little avail. She couldn't tell where she was, other than what seemed to be the back seat of a fairly new-model large vehicle, like a Suburban or a Tahoe. She thought it was new because the new car smell was still overpowering the nicotine and tobacco odor of at least one of its occupants. She could also smell the sickly sweet stench of artificial cherry permeating the cabin. The source must be very close to her nose as she lay there helplessly restrained while the vehicle jostled down the road. The smell reminded her of the horrible liquid pain reliever her mother would give her as a child when she had a fever or leg pains. She had taken enough of it then to make her averse to most cherry flavorings as an adult. She wanted to retch.

She could also make out the faint glow of a dashboard lit with LED lights, brighter and softer than those of older models. But she soon had to shut her eyes again. Her head was throbbing and her memories were fuzzy. She remembered very little of Monday…was it still Monday? But she was trying to think, despite the pounding of many drums in her cranium where a brain should be.

She remembered staying at work late to finish notes. She remembered heading home…and she remembered forgetting her phone at her desk and deciding to turn around to get it…when suddenly she was surrounded by vehicles and unable to move without having an accident. Had she known the circumstances then, she would have tried to muscle through. The horrific events came flooding back in traumatic flashes like lightning, or the pulse of passing streetlights in an unfamiliar city.

She remembered…

The glass by her left ear shattered. A hooded, hulking figure reached in through the new opening, fumbling for the handle to open the door. She'd had the presence of mind to fight back there. To punch at the probing extremity. But the extremity hit back, landing a solid smack against her left cheek, stunning her for long enough that the cruel apparition found the unlock button, pressed it, and opened the door. She didn't go quietly. She fought like the hellcat her mother always told her to be. Her foot found the odd solar plexus and groin before enough dark nemeses arrived to overpower her. They dragged her away from her car and out onto the pavement of the church parking lot she'd used to turn around. She did not make it easy for them. She kicked and punched and tried to twist out of their grips like vices. She yelled "fire" as she was taught as a young woman, not knowing the men's intentions, but certain they weren't kind, and knowing that yelling "rape" was not always effective at summoning help. Either way, it didn't matter. She could have shouted anything. No one was near enough, or cared enough, to come to her aid. As soon as her soft hands hit the gritty pavement, though, the violence intensified. She lost count of how many times she got kicked in the back, stomach, ribs. One asshole even kicked her in the tit. She'd find out who that was and he'd find himself in a special brand of pain…if she ever got out of this alive. She heard them calling her awful names that she was sure she hadn't earned, and especially not from these guys. About six of them, she thought. She hardly knew six guys. She certainly didn't know six guys that would want her roughed up like this. She heard one of the men start to say "Come on, guys, we better save some for--" and with that, she blacked out to the tune of the distinct "thunk" of a wooden baseball bat making contact with the back of her head.

She wanted to forget…for it to be a terrible nightmare…to wake up.

But she was awake. This was a waking nightmare. The cold leather on her cheek was made colder by the harsh air conditioning blowing toward her from above and below. She shivered from the chill and from the terror she was trying to suppress. Where were they taking her? For what purpose? And for whom were they leaving parts un-bruised…though it didn't feel like it.

She finally felt them slowing, heard a turn signal clicking, the courtesy of which she applauded despite her position in the active abduction taking place, and felt the gentle displacement of her body toward the driver side, knocking her head into the door. A right turn. Not that it would matter too much, but at least when she escaped, and she made herself think "when" and not "if," she would know which direction to turn to get back to town.

The blow to the head had left her sensitive to light and sound. As she was yanked from the back seat, all she could see was the glow of a dusk to dawn light above them. Normally a soft, guiding light, this one just as well have been the sun itself the way it stung her tender eyes. She squinted against it, thankful as she never would have thought to be, when a shroud was placed over her throbbing head. She could still hear the power coursing through the bulb and fixture, though. Normally a dull hum, in the state she was in, it was as loud as accidentally switching your TV to the snow channel at full volume.

"Bring 'er inside." She heard an unfamiliar male voice say.

Two strong, ruthless hands grabbed her by the armpits, causing her to cry out in pain. Such a tender place to bear weight, and why even big strong Sy hated crutches…Sy. Would she ever see him again?

"Shut up, bitch, or we'll knock you out again." She believed them, and being fairly certain she had at least a mild  concussion, she wasn't sure what a second blow of an indeterminate velocity might do to her brain. She dealt with the stabbing pain as the men dragged her across what sounded like gravel, then grass, then something hard and smooth, maybe the slabs of an old, sunken, and somewhat uneven footpath. Soon, she felt the pain of her knees hitting what she assumed were porch steps. One, two, three of them. She was trying to concentrate through the fog now setting in, and maintain consciousness. Paying attention to the sensations, she told herself, was not only helpful for that task, it might help her escape. Remember the scents, too, she reminded herself. She tried to shake off the nauseating cherry and cigarette stench from her olfactory glands and take note of the bouquet around her.

Burnt leaves…gasoline…engine grease…the tang of sappy, just cut firewood…straw…manure…this seemed to be a farm. With a barn nearby…perhaps with horses. She loved horses. If she could find a gentle horse in the night…escape might be easier than she'd anticipated.

Entering the house was a noisy affair. There was a metallic keening from the spring of an aluminum screen door. She imagined it had one of those big swirly cross beams like her grandma's used to have that she always though was supposed to resemble a butterfly. A heavier, wooden door creaked open as the three figures muddled their way in, and the floorboards protested, as well, at the weight of her captors. So, she thought, not only a farm house, but an old farm house.

"Where do you want her?" the man on her left asked into what she only knew as the void, so far.

"Take her to the cellar. I've got things set up down there." a familiar voice chuckled and growled. How did she know the voice? Was he a patient? She couldn't think of anyone she'd treated that would want her abducted and brutalized.

"You got it, E." Ugh, for some reason it bothered her when guys referred to each other by their first initials. Girls, no big deal. But bros…there was something so thoroughly douchey and…familiar about it all…

"Hold on." the man called "E" said, and she heard footfalls approaching her. As he got closer, she smelled…patchouli and incense…and the sea…and it brought back a rush of pain from past trauma followed by literal pain from his punch to her gut. She hadn't been expecting it. Obviously. The wind had been taken out of her. Literally and figuratively. She did know this man…all too well.

"We've got some catching up to do, sweetheart." the pet name dripped like venomous honey from the tongue of the snake before her.

"Elliot." it wasn't a question. She coughed the name out like a pill that had gone down sideways.

Her escorts continued their transportation of her prone body to its destination…she didn't want to think FINAL destination, but the more she learned about her situation, the more she worried that she wouldn't make it out alive.

They had to get creative in carrying her down the narrow staircase to the cellar. They argued for a moment about who would take the top half and who would go backwards.

"How about the one who takes my top half goes forward and the bottom half goes backward?" These idiots. Where did Elliott find clowns like this who needed to be told by their prisoner the best way to sort out their domestic dispute.

She thought she felt them shrug, and silently take her advice as she felt herself being lowered down the stairs, feet first, panic threatening to overtake her restrained limbs.

When they got to the bottom of the stairs, they stood her up to remove her shroud, and cut the zip ties from around her ankles and wrists. She then noticed a small cell that reminded her of the ones in the sheriff's offices in some westerns she'd seen. She started to freak out, anticipating her future in that horrid place.

"Guys, please. No. Please don't do this. I don't know what Elliott's told you about me, but I'm a good person. I don't deserve this. I have a job and friends and a family who will worry sick about me. I am begging you to let me go. Please!"

"You're wasting your breath, lady." one of the men said, gruffly.

"PLEASE!" she appealed, desperate to get through. "Don't you guys have wives or girlfriends? Mothers, sisters, aunts, or female cousins? What if a woman you cared about was in this situ---" and before she could finish the question, one of the men punched her for what felt like the thousandth time tonight. She fell to her knees, vomiting. And the world went black again.

~~~~~~~

There were no windows. There was no clock. There was just a small twin mattress in one corner of the cell, and a bedside commode in the other. As accommodations went, it was hardly a Hilton, but it could have been worse. It was all lit by a 60-watt bulb in one of those hanging fixtures her dad had always called a trouble light situated on a hook on the side of one of the exposed joists outside the cell. He'd had a similar one for the longest time. He and mom will be worried sick before long, if they aren't already, she thought. The light was aptly named for these circumstances she was in. Trouble. A heap of it. And no idea of how to get out of it.

And honestly, no idea why Elliott would want her here. How he could do such a monstrous thing as having her kidnapped. How he came to live in this place when he never worked a day in his life. She was so confused. She hoped at the very least, he'd give her answers before he murdered her, if that was his plan.

She had woken up on her side, almost her stomach, with her right cheek on the scratchy surface of the bare mattress. Whoever put her to bed had been wise to position her like this given the likelihood that she might puke again. She noticed a small bucket, presumably for that purpose, next to the mattress. There was a caseless pillow next to her head, but she hadn't found that comfort during her nap of…she couldn't tell how long. Not that it mattered. The more she slept, the less time she'd have to process this horror movie she was currently living out.

She heard the door open at the top of the stairs and Elliott shout at one of his flunkies, "What do you MEAN you didn't get her phone?" a pause while indistinct words came from said flunky across the room, or maybe the house. "Well, find it. Tear that piece of shit Explorer apart if you have to. I want that phone." She took exception to her sweet little Norah getting called a piece of shit. That was her Millennium Falcon. And yes, she'd gotten flack for naming her Norah the Explorer, but she didn't care.

Elliott stomped down the stairs, grinning the most infuriatingly happy grin she'd ever seen on him. She wanted to maul him. To tear those stupid eyes out of their sockets with her own fingernails. But she controlled her anger and resisted even acknowledging his greeting of "Hey, sweetheart."

She ignored him.

"It's good to see you."

Silence.

"I missed you."

She stared right through him.

"I heard you and that meat head soldier broke up."

She scowled at him.

"There she is. There's my girl."

"I'm not your girl, Elliott, and I haven't been in years. Why am I here?" She broke. She couldn't take it.

"We'll get to that why soon enough. First, let's talk about why you and Cap'n Crunch are no longer breakfasting together? Soggy cereal? Limp toast? Was he letting you leave the table unsatisfied?"

"As if you ever satisfied me when we were together." She spat back, calling Elliott out on his notorious selfishness in all aspects of life and relationships.

"I've changed."

"Bullshit." she rolled her eyes.

"It's true!" he insisted. "I can give you references."

"I honestly don't give a shit. We're not together. Sy and I are. Happily. And you better let me go soon. He was expecting me at his place after work. He's probably out looking for me right now." she lied. It was worth a shot.

"Now it's my turn to call bullshit, because I know that isn't true." He looked at her with that patronizing stare he had.

"You don't know shit, Elliott."

"I know that your boy took off over a week ago for Virginia and hasn't come back, at least not the way he left. I believe he's supposed to be gone at least a few weeks. Maybe a couple of months. He wasn't sure at last report."

She was literally willing him to burst into flames before her. Her gaze revealed her hand.

"Told ya. You think you're the only one with connections at the fort? I've got me a sweet little sergeant who works in ATC over there. She can out-squat anyone else on base…and let me tell you, it shows." he lifted his eyebrow, lasciviously.

"You disgust me."

"Why? You never seemed to mind my…sexy imagination." he winked at her.

"No, I'm happy that you're getting it good on the regular from an ass that won't quit. But come on. You clearly only got with this girl because you thought it would give you the upper hand against me."

"Well, that's very self-absorbed thinking."

"Really, Elliott? Do you see where we are right now?" they looked around at the dank cellar and he shrugged, unable to deny or rebut. "And this woman. Does she know about this little scheme?"

He gave her one of his more evil grins. "Who do you think kicked you in the tit?" Okay…she was new levels of pissed off now.

"Why…the actual FUCK am I here, Elliott!?"

"Well, Shane, you embarrassed me with that little stunt at the bar a few weeks ago. You thought you were hot shit, parading your sasquatch of a boyfriend around in front of me, in my town, humiliating me as all of my friends watched. And then that dickhead sucker punched me in the parking lot. I shoulda pressed charges. But him being a veteran, I knew how that woulda gone in this town. I didn't have a snowball's chance. So I waited. And I planned. And I was patient. And I watched for my moment. And it finally came. I've been watching you leave work every night for the past week, and you're always with someone, or headed somewhere else, or going straight home. Last night…last night I knew was the night when you didn't leave until after 7. You were the last one out, and I knew that it had to be then. The plan, not that you need to know, is to plaster your social media with humiliating photos, piss off everyone that you love, including your precious Sy, and alienate everyone you've ever cared about until you're miserable and alone."

Shane was crying now. She thought she might be sick again. She reached for the bucket. The delusion of this man thinking that anyone in that bar besides maybe the ones that were there with him that night gave a shit about him. Thinking that the town was his. He was a nobody there. He hadn't grown up there, he didn't work there, he didn't participate in community events. He was kidding himself if he thought anyone cared enough about him that he should feel shame over her relationship with Sy, especially five years after their relationship with each other had ended.

"How's that for a 'why,' sweetheart?" he boasted.

"It's making my ask myself a lot of questions. Like why I ever agreed to go out with you all those years ago. Why I didn't see the signs that you were a psychopath sooner. And why I put up with your terrorism for so long thinking you'd ever really change. I can't believe I ever slept with you, you absolute barbarian." and she heaved into the bucket, non-productively. She hadn't eaten since lunch, and that had to be well over twelve hours ago.

"Well, ya did. And ya can't change the past. But I'm about to take your future into my hands. As soon as we find your phone, we're gonna have us a ball, little girl."

"You honestly think I'll cooperate with any of that?"

"You won't have a choice." he held up a little glass vial. "Morphine. A tiny dose of this stuff, and you'll do anything I tell ya."

"Please. Just let me go now, and I won't press charges. I won't go to the cops, at all. I'll call in to work with a headache, or something and you can live your life with Sergeant Squats and we can leave each other alone."

"A good offer, but I need to get something out of this. I need my pride back."

"And you're gonna get that by dragging me through the mud online from my own Facebook account? Is that really the way you wanna do this? When you could just show me what a great life you've built for yourself. This is a great place here, it seems, I mean, I only smelled it, and felt how big it was while I was getting dragged around the place. But, Elliott, if you had just told me about all this, I would have been happy for you!"

"This place is Sasha's."

"Oh." she grasped for something, anything to make him see how insane he was being without saying the words. "Well, I'd still have been happy for you finding an established woman with a great job. Why couldn't you have just written me a letter telling me that? An email! Something."

"This is how it's getting done, Shane. Because this is the only way that truly ruins your life in the process. Because at the end of all of this, the backlash is going to be too much for you, and you're not going to be able to handle this life anymore…"

"No. Elliott, no."

"Yes. You're gonna take one last hit of the morphine and drive that shitty Ford right into the lake."

"You used to care about art. About beauty. You used to be sensitive. You used to have a soul. What happened, Elliott? What happened to your humanity?" Shane asked, crying, in mourning for the man he used to be. The one that she used to care for.

"I fell in love. And she broke my heart. And nothing has been the same."

"Elliott, I didn't mean to…"

"Oh, fuck, not you, don't be stupid. No, Kara. I met her right after you kicked me out, and SHE broke my heart." he  turned and started up the stairs, pausing to look over his shoulder and say, "I'll be back when I have your phone. And I'll bring friends." before he ascended, shutting the door firmly behind him.

She had never been so relieved to NOT have her phone in her life. Hopefully, her coworkers had it safe and sound, and locked up at work.

Up Next: Chapter 15-Recon

[jovialyouthmusic]

Two’s Company - Changes

Drake and Brad go camping overnight while Lucy is away, and they both remember times past.

Word Count 3626

A/N No warnings, just fluff and very mild angst. 

9 Under Canvas

‘So, Lucy’s gone for the day’ Brad said as he bit into his toast. ‘What shall we do?’ Drake stopped shovelling oatmeal into his mouth.

‘You don’t have any official business?’

‘Well no, the doctor said I’d to take it easy after yesterday. No signing papers, no telephone conferences. Luckily there’s not a lot on and the council can take up the slack.’ He poured coffee for both of them. ‘That’s the advantage of handing more power over to the people’

‘Yeah well, don’t forget the ball next week. Lucy wants us both to go.’ Brad smiled ruefully.

‘Of course, the old houses will enjoy that. They miss all the pomp and circumstance, the endless round of balls and tea parties and ceremonies. Charity events are fine, but folk’s pockets are only so deep’

‘Says the man with a palace in the capitol, a manor out in the sticks and another one with a huge apple orchard’

‘Low blow, my friend. You know plans are in force to turn Applewood into a folk museum, and Valtoria belongs to Lucy. The Palace is a national treasure and will be open to the public once we’ve worked out the security aspects. I still want to hold official Council meetings there until the government buildings are ready.’

‘Sorry, just making a point. You know I never liked all the fancy stuff. I’d be happy just with a cabin in the woods.’

‘You know my family has been accountable for the prosperity of the country for decades. Letting go of that kind of responsibility doesn’t happen overnight. Change has to happen at a manageable pace.’ Brad looked at him sharply. ‘Don’t you think I’d be happy with that cabin too? I know the whole country will be thrilled to have a new heir and I’m not abolishing the Monarchy, but he or she won’t have such a heavy burden as I had when I was crowned.’ Drake snorted.

‘Hey, you need a lot of practice to be able to last a week in a cabin without me.’

‘It’s not long since we were out there’ Brad said, neatly stacking their dirty plates on the trolley to go back to the kitchen. ‘No food, we ate what we caught…we didn’t sleep under the stars, though.’

‘Yeah, and the tiddlers you caught wouldn’t keep a mouse alive’ he grinned. Brad scoffed.

‘Practice makes perfect. We could go down to the river to fish, take bivvy bags with us, come back in the morning for when Lucy gets back’ Drake remembered that trip to the cabin only too well, as he’d broken down under the pressure of waiting for Brad to remember Lucy on his own, and the two men had become intimate. He wasn’t sure if he felt fear or desire for that happening again without their wife around.

’You really should get together with Hana’ Drake remarked ‘She’ll be busy with the twins soon, but you should meet up before the Ball, see if it triggers anything. She’s become somewhat of a nanny substitute, so she’ll probably come help when our own little tiddler makes an appearance.’ Brad frowned.

‘Stop trying to change the subject. Are you in or not?’ Drake sighed. He could just picture Brad in pristine plus fours and waxed jacket wading into the river to retrieve his catch and falling in.

‘I’m in’

------

An hour or so later the SUV drove away from the river bank, leaving the two men to set up their gear. This time Drake had opted for a tent rather than the relative luxury of the cabin. Just like their last trip they planned to eat what they caught, but had brought a few luxuries to make up for having only canvas to sleep under. Drake sent Brad off to look for firewood while he scouted out a good spot on the bank to fish from.

Before long they were sitting waiting for a bite. Drake had engineered for them to be far enough apart for him to keep an eye on Brad, but too far to talk. The time before they had sat in a boat on the lake, and it had been difficult not to talk to each other. He wanted to be quiet, and thought that would be good for Brad too. Enough time to talk later as they prepared, cooked and ate their catch, and the evening and night under the stars stretched before them.

Brad’s rod was brand new, top of the line whereas Drake used his father’s old gear, put into store some twenty years ago but still serviceable. He’d stumbled across it one day when he was moving his own gear out of his boyhood room in the tower at the Palace and gone down to the cellars to put it in storage with some things his mother – and as he’d then realised, his father – had left there. It was well used but Jackson had put it away carefully and in perfect order, and he had taken it down to the creek alone and sat in silence remembering what he could of him.

‘That’s it, son. Nice and slow. Bring it in carefully, you don’t want it getting too agitated and escaping, or snagging the line’ His father gently guided his hand on the reel and helped him turn it slowly and smoothly. The fish wasn’t big, but it wasn’t small fry either. Finally it came out flopping and twitching onto the bank, glassy eyes staring as it gasped for its watery breath.

‘Look Pa, I did it!’ he cried eagerly, not quite sure what to do despite having sat quietly and watched him before. It was different now it was his prize, and his heart beat wildly with excitement and pride.

‘Good job, son. Now ease it off the hook – careful, make sure it goes in the catch net, don’t let it go. Normally I’d let one this size back, but you caught it, so we’ll eat it. Next time you can bring it in on your own’ They had gone on for his Pa to catch bigger ones, and true to his word they had cooked his modest catch later, before taking the rest back to his mother.

‘No s’mores this time, son. We’ll save that for another day when Savvy’s with us. Mom has apple cobbler for dessert – Prince Brad’s joining us for dinner while the King takes Leo to meet his new tutor.’

‘Can Brad come fishing with us next time, Pa?’ Drake ask as he trotted beside him on the way back to the Palace. Jackson reached down and mussed his hair.

‘Sure thing son, if the King okays it’

But that day had never come, and Jackson’s belongings had been thrown out or put into storage by his grieving widow. The two boys had each lost a parent in quick succession, and that common experience had thrown them together more and more. When Constantine questioned Bianca’s right to stay on with her children, Brad defended him and fought for them to stay, and when she fled to the States he had stood firm and enlisted Bastien’s help to plead his case. Until Drake left for college they hadn’t spent more than a few days apart, the only exception being when the Royal Family went on State visits. Sometimes Brad stayed behind, as Leo was Crown Prince and heir to the throne.

Drake’s escape to the States had been short lived due to the assassination attempt that had followed Leo’s refusal of his role in the succession. When Brad had married Lucy, he had slunk away to lick his wounds, and he had to say that time of desolation came second only to the loss of his father. He had lost his best friend and the woman he loved, and Brad’s solution of the making the Cordonian marriage legal again had saved his sanity and made him whole again.

Not that life wasn’t complicated now, he thought ruefully. But he was taking it one step at a time, and so far things weren’t so bad. Lucy was the shining light in his and Brad’s life and he couldn’t picture a future without her.

He looked upstream to Brad, who appeared to be talking to himself as he sat waiting for the line to twitch. It was good timing, as the line started to vibrate. Drake left his line and made his way swiftly to his friend’s side.

‘I got a bite!’ Brad said excitedly ‘Look, Drake!’ He shook his head. He’d been exactly the same on the lake. Every time he reacted like it was his very first fish, reacting with childlike delight. Calmly Drake stood behind him, and Brad leaned back into him a little. He reached around…

‘That’s it, Brad. Nice and slow. Bring it in carefully, you don’t want it getting too agitated and escaping, or snagging the line’ He gently guided his hand on the reel and helped him turn it slowly and smoothly, and as the line got shorter the fish broke the surface, wriggling and thrashing. It dangled in the air as together they swung it in over dry land and into the keep net, where Drake gently took the hook out. It was a good size, not too small and not too big. Brad grinned at him triumphantly and Drake shook his head, laughing.

‘You’re something, Brad’ he chuckled, his heart swelling with joy to see his friend so happy and carefree. They carried on through the afternoon before putting their tackle away and preparing the fish to cook. Brad was a little clumsy at the messy prep but he persevered and Drake let him be. Soon they were enjoying the rewards of their labour as daylight waned.

‘How do you think Lucy will manage the pregnancy?’ Brad asked ‘I know she insisted she still wanted – you know, to be intimate, but will that change?’ Drake shrugged, putting his empty plate down.

‘I have no idea. I suppose every pregnancy’s different, but she’s always been very - playful’

‘It can’t be easy keeping two men happy’ Brad mused ‘How has she managed so far? My memory’s not good enough just yet’

‘Well, we had been keeping each other satisfied when she’s away or sick…’

‘Funny, I can’t work out when I started to have feelings for you. I pretty much pushed them down’ Brad mused, and Drake blinked in surprise.

‘You mean – before Lucy?’ he asked incredulously ‘Before I joined the marriage?’ Brad looked up, the firelight flickering, eyes glittering.

‘When I look back and I try to be honest, I suppose I always envied you at least’

‘Me?’ Drake was amazed at his friend’s confession. ‘You’re a prince for fuck’s sake, why would you envy me?’

‘You had no obligations – no lessons in diplomacy, protocol or dancing. I wasn’t expected to be King, but Father always erred on the side of caution. I wonder if he realised Leo would never buckle down, but he was competitive, didn’t like to be outdone by his baby brother.’ He poked a stick into the fire, stirring up the embers ‘I used to sit in those long boring lessons about how to sweet talk diplomats and make trade agreements and think about you outside, or in the stables or down by the lake.’

‘I had school, Brad. I had to look after Savvy. Life wasn’t a bowl of cherries’ he said shortly ‘Bas did his best, but he worked full time, and Connie wasn’t that helpful at providing relief childcare’ Brad looked through the flames at him, a hint of sorrow on his face.

‘I’m sorry Drake, I didn’t realise.’

‘Yes, well. I suppose I thought you were enjoying all your royal privileges, so maybe we’re even’ They sat in silence for a while, but what Brad had said niggled away at him.

‘Is there any more you’d like to share?’ Brad sucked his breath in and moved closer to the fire. Shadows wavered, shortening and lengthening with the flames.

‘I’m still trying to work it out. I always felt – comforted – I suppose, when you were around. I wonder what happened when Lucy came along.’

‘Perhaps she fulfilled my role, replaced me.’ he answered. ‘I have to tell you, it hurt like hell when you chose each other. You told me you’d still have time for me, but I felt like I was intruding. I loved both of you in different ways and in the end I left. I hit the bottle, hard. It was Bastien who found me and picked up the pieces, then Lucy came to me with your – proposition’

‘Damn that accident’ Brad cursed ‘I was hurrying to get back, or so they told me. If Iwaited a few minutes I could have had a driver bring me back. I may have fallen asleep at the wheel – and so close to the manor. How could I have been so stupid?’

‘Brad, what happened, happened. There’s no point beating yourself up. Just accept where you are and let things happen naturally.’ Drake reached down to get his rucksack, rummaging inside and bringing out a plastic food container. ‘I thought we could take ourselves back to our childhood’ He said, opening it up and holding it out for Brad to see the contents. He stared incredulously for a moment, then broke into a broad grin.

‘Smores? You brought the ingredients for smores?’

‘I certainly did, my friend. Hopefully it will remind us of more carefree days’ Brad moved around to sit closer to Drake,  who handed him a stick. The two friends worked in silence, placing the crackers and chocolate ready as they carefully toasted the marshmallows. Their skill was evenly matched and Brad needed no prompting to get the confection perfectly toasted before assembling the whole thing. He sucked his sticky fingers before squeezing the sweet treat just so, the marshmallow and chocolate merging together between the crackers without overflowing or dripping.

‘Mmm these are so good’ he mumbled through his mouthful ‘I’d forgotten. Remember that time we took Livvy out camping?’ Drake chuckled.

‘I sure do. Bas had to trail us, make sure we didn’t get eaten by wild animals or fall off a cliff. She hated how sweet and sticky the smores were. She caught and skinned a rabbit instead, and spit roasted it over the fire’

‘So she did. How is she? Should I know anything that would be embarrassing to have forgotten?’ Drake shrugged.

‘She’s as tough as ever. The only detail I can think about are rumours that she’s having a fling with her driver’  

‘She always did have an eye for good looking staff, but I can’t see her settling down with anyone. Knowing her it will be a brief affair.’ Drake wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Oh I don’t know, it’s been over a year now.’ Brad raised his eyebrows, getting out a crisp clean square of linen to wipe the sticky residue of their feat.

‘Interesting. I should catch up with her at the next council meeting. We go back a long way and I’d like to know how life is really treating her. She never was one for wearing her heart on her sleeve’ He laughed ‘Though come to think of it, that term is kind of appropriate for a fierce warrior like her’ Drake nodded in agreement.

‘More smores, your majesty?’ he asked, picking the box up.

‘No, I think one’s enough. Don’t want to OD after such a long time without them’ They fell silent for a while as the stars started to come out in the clear ink black sky.

‘I think I’ll sleep outside’ Drake said ‘It’s a warm night’

‘Have you ever taken Lucy out camping?’ Brad asked. He shook his head.

‘No, and I don’t think it’s a good idea. I think she likes her comforts to be honest – can you see her crawling into a tent to sleep?’

‘Ha, not really. She’s not fond of bugs either’

‘It might be a good opportunity to snuggle up – y’know, keep her safe’

‘I’m so glad I can remember how we met’ Brad smiled fondly. ‘All this is a bit like trying to put a jigsaw puzzle together without the picture’

‘We, you got a few edge pieces and a corner’ Drake grinned ‘Now I think I’ll get my gear and settle down if that’s okay with you’ Brad smiled.

‘Of course. I’ll just sit and watch the fire for a bit. Do we need to keep it going?’

‘We don’t have enough for the whole night, so it’s up to you. You can feed it or leave it, whatever suits you’

‘Will I disturb you?’

‘Nah, I think I can tell you from a wild animal’ Brad laughed in reply.

‘Well thank goodness for that, though I can’t remember any dangerous beasts roaming the wood around here’

‘You never know. Remember Maxwell’s secret zoo?’ Brad nodded as Drake set out his mat and unrolled his sleeping bag.

‘Bertrand went ballistic when he found out. How he’d managed to get a live mink I’ve no idea. Luckily it was rehomed, and didn’t add to the Cordonian wildlife gene pool’

‘Are you sleeping out?’ Drake asked.

‘No, I think I prefer the tent. With you out here to guard me I’ll sleep like a baby’

‘That’s a term we might have to rethink in a few months’ Drake pointed out. He wriggled into his bag, balling up his rucksack as a pillow and lay on his back looking up at the stars. He was lulled by the crackling of the fire, a gentle breeze picking up every now and again and rustling the leaves of the nearby trees. The smell of the earth and the campfire smoke, a faint tinkle of running water from the nearby river all combined to make his eyelids grow heavy. He could hear Brad moving around from time to time, and drifted gently off to sleep.

--------

As Drake’s eyes closed and his breathing grew steady, Brad stared into the fire, triggering a memory of a beach fire, the shouting and laughing of friends, the swoosh of waves on sand. Lucy’s face appeared in his mind’s eye and he remembered her scent.

‘It’s my secret spot, so I’m trusting you’

‘I’ll do my best to be worthy of that trust’ The others had managed to start a fire and were searching for more driftwood, leaving him alone with her. ‘So what should we do?’

‘Jump in the ocean!’ her smile disarmed him and her sense of fun shone out.

‘Won’t we get soaking wet?’ As the words left his mouth he instantly felt like a killjoy. Too timid to let go, always the buttoned up Prince, now heir to the throne.

‘You’re not afraid of a little water are you?’ He looked out at the black water, moonlight dancing across the shallow waves, then gawped as she kicked off her shoes and set off at a run.

‘Wait up!’ He plucked up courage, determined to meet her challenge, taking off his shoes and socks and hurriedly rolling up his pants, rushing to catch up. The water was icy.

‘Cold!’ he spluttered, his senses coming into sharp focus with the stimulation.

‘But worth it, right?’ She spun around, setting off ripples that playfully splashed her legs and his. Something in him woke, bubbling and surging like the waves, sparking waves of joy and freedom and undreamt of possibilities. A broad smile spread across his face.

‘I’ve never felt more alive!’

The memories continued to play in his head – warming up by the fire, revealing his identity to her, the drive to the dockside, the boat trip to the Statue of Liberty, his sense of wonderment at her playful and generous nature, her fearlessness. At the point of leaving the Big Apple his memory faltered. What had come after that remained a mystery. But perhaps soon he would find out.

Looking over at Drake he felt himself grow sleepy and crawled into the tent, taking his shoes off at the entrance. It was just a three man tent, nowhere near tall enough to stand up in. Drake had taught him that unless it was really warm weather it was better to sleep in the day’s clothes if they were clean enough, in order not to lose too much body heat. He could change in the morning – perhaps he would take a dip in the river, cold though it would undoubtedly be.

He unrolled his sleeping bag and slid in, pulling the top up around his head. The airbed was deep and comfortable, unlike the thin mat Drake preferred for the firm surface and protection from rough surfaces and sharp stones. He had often teased Brad’s liking for the comfort of an airbed.

‘Princess and the pea, Brad – Princess and the pea’ he would chide with a shake of his head. He sometimes deliberately hid an object underneath his mattress and would gleefully reveal it in the morning if he complained of an uncomfortable night. He took it in good humour, grounded by being treated like a normal human being instead of the pampered prince he was. He grinned to himself, thinking also of Max, who would no doubt say he looked like a caterpillar or a cocoon. He would zip himself up too, and crawl around the tent until Drake yelled at him to quit it or he got too tangled up to move any further.

He turned on his side and curled up. Safe with his childhood friend outside and with happy memories to comfort him, he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

@sirbeepsalot @fluffyfirewhiskey @katedrakeohd @dcbbw @camillemontespan​ @kingliam2019​ @texaskitten30

[chroniclackofselfpreservation]

Creatures of the Night

Chapter 13 - gone far away into the silent land

Back to the Beginning   < Previous chapter / Next chapter >   

AO3

Masterlist

(TW: mild graphic imagery, death/dying)

(The title of the chapter comes from “Remember” by Christina Rossetti)

“Patton, really, I’m fine. We don’t have much longer before—”

“Nonsense!” Patton said, brandishing a serving spoon. “If we’re going to be out all night running through the forest, we better not be hungry while we’re doing it!”

Roman sighed, laughing a little as he did. He knew that Patton was freaking out inside. They all were.

Roman was going to die tonight.

And come back—hopefully. If Patton’s dream was anything to go off of, Logan had already removed the amulet and Roman hadn’t woken up. Upon hearing this, Logan had adamantly voted against the excursion, claiming that not only was it dangerous, but they had adequate reason to believe that it wouldn’t work. Roman, on the other hand, was quick to point out the fact that Patton had only seen about ten seconds of what was going to happen. Maybe it took a little longer to come back from death.

Roman would be lying if he wasn’t infinitely more nervous, but he would also be lying if he said he didn’t want to go through with it. This was the only way. If it didn’t work, he’d be dead sooner than later anyway. It was a grim thought, and he figured against mentioning it to Patton, especially when he was already stress-cooking as it was, but he couldn’t deny the truth of it.

The dinner was amazing, as they always were, but Roman couldn’t taste any of it. He smiled and complemented Patton on his cooking. He joked and laughed, but despite his efforts, it was painfully obvious to the rest of the table that he was compensating for the fact that he may not be returning to said table.

Logan spoke softly, occasionally giving into Roman’s baiting remarks and going off on a tangent, but the way he sat and speared leaves of lettuce with his fork as if stabbing something through the heart betrayed his unease.

Virgil was far less subtle about his discomfort. He barely spoke, and when he did he only gave short, one-word answers. He particularly avoided looking at Roman—which Roman went to great lengths to not grow offended at. He'd realized, as Logan had rebuked them all in the living room, that he wasn’t mad a Virgil.

He was mad at the situation. At Ursula. Yes, Virgil might have assisted in getting him his curse, and Dorian might have killed his mother, but ultimately, there was one person behind all of it, forcing everyone else to take the blame.

Roman stared down at his dinner with enough anger burning through him, he was surprised he didn't melt his fork. So, yes, he understood why Virgil might think he was still angry with him. Roman would have to properly forgive him for it later—as he was quite certain the familiar would be beating himself up about it for the rest of his seemingly immortal life unless he did—but for the time being, Roman let it simmer.

                                                * * * * * * * * * *

The walk through nighttime-Wakeby was different with three of Roman's best friends by his side. He was nearly vibrating from a combination of nausea, excitement, and absolute terror. Patton spoke softly with Virgil, wanting to know more about sibyls, and Virgil patiently obliged. Roman watched out of the corner of his eye as they walked down the street, not caring about subtlety at the moment—glad to see Virgil appearing less grief-stricken and back to his normal, albeit tense, self.

Logan stared straight ahead, walking with the seriousness of an army general.

Roman nudged him. “Lighten up, Specs. You look like you’re going to a funeral.”

“If that was an attempt at humor, you will have to try harder,” Logan replied, his expression unchanging.

“Geez. I know I’m dying and all that, but really, Lo.” He sobered a bit. “I’m coming back, aren’t I?”

“Presumably.”

Roman swallowed. “You really aren’t one for cheering a guy up, are you?”

Logan clasped his hands behind his back as they walked, blinking. “No. I’m not.”

                                                * * * * * * * * * *

Patton didn’t like this situation. He didn’t like the dark. He didn’t like the pit growing in his stomach. He didn’t like watching Roman’s back and not having to imagine what he’d look like dead, because he’d already seen it. He hated how comfortable and calm Roman was in the pitch-black forest. Patton found himself walking side by side with Virgil so closely their arms brushed every now and again. There was a sort of silent acknowledgement of their mutual discomfort, and neither of them drew away from the other.

Roman, quite obviously trying to mask his nerves, laughed and joked and gestured grandly, as if showing them around his bedroom. “I broke that branch up there—see? The one that’s snapped off half way? Yeah, Dorian chased me up a tree, and let me tell you, it was not exactly my idea of a fun time. It snapped as I was climbing and, man, you’d have thought he would have swallowed me then and there…” he rambled, like an old man recounting war stories. Virgil grew stiff beside him, his eyes glazing over and his steps becoming halting.

Not wanting to fall behind the other two, Patton ignored the nervous pounding of his own heart and slipped his hand into Virgil’s, hoping to comfort him in some way. The act seemed to snap Virgil out of whatever stupor he'd been in and he shot a grateful, if not slightly flushed, look Patton’s way. The gesture also soothed Patton’s nerves somewhat.

“Oh! Here we are! Dorian!” Roman called, jogging out into a large clearing. Virgil’s grip tightened and Patton looked up, his heart crawling up into his throat and lodging there.

An enormous snake sat in the middle of the clearing—and by enormous, Patton didn’t mean it was just big. It could easily constrict a bus the same way an anaconda would a small animal, if not crush it entirely. How in the world had Roman survived fighting this thing for so long? And why was he running up to it like it was some kind of old friend of his? Logan was in a similar situation, frozen at the edge of the meadow, trying to register what he was seeing.

“Come on, guys. He won’t bite—he promised,” Roman shouted. Patton tugged a little on Virgil’s hand and they both stumbled forward into the clearing. Logan trailed behind them, muttering softly to himself.

The giant serpent inspected them all, his head mere inches from Roman’s side.

“It has been a considerable amount of time since I have been amongst more than two humans at the same time. Although,” he purred, “it seems there are fewer true-blooded mortals here than I expected. You did not tell me you hosted a sibyl in your company, little prince.”

“Yeah, neither did I until about three hours ago,” Roman laughed.

“Um, hello,” Patton managed, giving a small wave. He wasn’t quite sure how he should act. He certainly wasn’t about to be all buddy-buddy with the creature that almost murdered one of his best friends, but from the way Roman was behaving, he wasn’t so sure how to feel. He erred on the side of caution, and went for politeness.

Roman put his hands on his hips. “So, how’re we starting this party, hmm?”

Dorian glanced at him. “I can smell your fear, little prince. Do not play coy with me.”

Roman’s countenance faltered. “Right, well, um, let’s get on with it then, shall we?” He ran a hand through his hair and faced Dorian.

“I cannot simply bite you, little prince. That would constitute fatally injuring you, and exceeds our contract.”  

Roman’s eyebrows knit together in confusion, “But, if you can’t bite me, how—”

“You will have to prick yourself.”

Roman paled.

“This is insane,” Logan breathed, still trailing a few paces behind Patton and Virgil. Patton had to agree with him, though he wouldn’t deny how relieved he was that he wasn’t going to have to watch Dorian actually bite Roman. He probably would have fainted.

“There has to be another way,” he demanded, stepped forward, though still keeping a healthy distance from the demon.

Roman’s shoulders dropped, “Lo, come on. We talked about this.”

“I’m not—I can’t just watch you die, Roman! There has to be some other option we aren’t looking at. I’m sure I can come up with something if you just—”

“There isn’t another way,” Virgil muttered. “Ursula’s isn’t some one-off, throw-away spellcaster. Her curses can only be broken by fulfilling the demands.”

Roman shuffled his feet a little. “If you really don’t want to be here, Logan, I understand. You don’t have to watch.”

Desperately hoping his fear didn’t show on his face, Patton marched up to Roman, coming so close to Dorian he could feel the air whip past him as the serpent’s forked tongue wagged next to him.

“We are not letting you do this alone, Roman.”

Roman looked over Patton’s shoulder at Logan, and from his steadily softening expression, Patton assumed Logan had admitted agreement.

“Fine, but if anything happens to him…” Virgil growled, meeting Dorian’s eye, unwavering.

“I assure you our goals are mutual, familiar, but I’m curious. Please, elaborate on what you’ll do to me exactly,” Dorian rumbled, rising up ever so slightly. Patton stepped behind Roman with a barely contained squeak.

“Dorian, please,” Roman sighed. Virgil and Dorian stared at each other, unblinking. Patton could practically feel the protectiveness wafting off Virgil, though his hands shook. Logan looked nearly as angry, but put a firm hand on Virgil’s shoulder and muttered something in his ear. Patton hoped he could step in with some diplomatic words and ease the situation before it escalated. He wasn’t too keen on getting eaten by a giant serpent tonight.

“I can’t believe I forgot how insufferably arrogant mortals are. You may be a witch’s familiar, but they taint you with their idiocy.”

Virgil pulled against Logan’s hand. “Yeah? Did you also forget that one of those insufferable idiots managed to beat you every single night?”

“Virgil!” Roman barked, and Patton couldn’t tell if he was telling him to stop, or was upset that Virgil called him an insufferable idiot. Probably both.

“Look,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose, and turning to Dorian, “I get it. You don’t like us. We, frankly, don’t like you either, but we had a deal. I’d like to get this whole thing over with before I’m sixty-five, if you don’t mind.”

“Very well,” Dorian grumbled, lowering down. “You are wearing the amulet?”

“Yes.”

In response, Dorian bore his fangs, a chilling hiss leaking from his all-black throat. Now, Patton did let out a small, terrified shriek. Logan and Virgil both inched forward to be closer to Roman.

Trembling, he held out his hand and placed his palm against the bottom of the needle-point fang, right below the thumb.

“Roman,” Patton whimpered softly, more to himself than anyone else. Roman sucked in a sharp breath and his hand jerked upward. The fang sank into the meat of his hand, dark blood seeping sluggishly down his arm.

He pulled away, swallowing thickly. Dorian closed his mouth, the fangs folding back like he was sheathing a sword. Roman opened and closed his fist, looking down at it with an unreadable expression.

“I… need to sit down,” he said, sounding a thousand miles away. He swayed, leaning heavily on Patton.

“Okay—um, let’s see,” Patton said, unsure what to do or how to feel. “Lo, help me sit him down.” Logan responded at once, grabbing Roman under his arms and slowly lowering him down. Patton went down with him, cradling his head in his hands, silently telling them to stop shaking.

Roman winced as his entire arm spasmed, the muscles reacting to the venom.

“Are you in pain?” Logan asked, his hands fretting uselessly about Roman.

“No.”

“Roman—”

“It’s fine, Specs. It’ll be over soon,” he said, waving his hand away. Patton’s chest seized.

Virgil paced furiously through the grass, nibbling on his fist. “This was a bad idea. It isn’t going to work.”

“Verge, please,” Patton managed around the lump in his throat. He really wasn’t helping the situation. Another spasm, this time Roman’s entire shoulder, and a bit of his neck—his head twitching to the side. His breathing picked out a fast rhythm.

“Remember to take the—the amulet off, guys. Okay? Don’t forget. You can’t,” Roman said, squirming in discomfort on the ground.

“We won’t forget, Roman.” Patton said sweetly, running a hand across his hair. Tears welled up in his eyes, blurring the outside world into smears of indigo and green. “We could never forget you.”

“Patton is right. The odds of us forgetting the single most important step of tonight’s escapade is astronomical,” Logan said.

Roman nodded, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’d hold your hand, Padre,” he chuckled, “but I can’t move it anymore.”

Patton cursed himself for shaking. Roman was probably terrified. He shouldn’t be worrying about him right now. Patton felt something cold on his hand and looked down. Tears were streaking down Roman’s face. His breath was slowing, though Patton figured it wasn’t because he was calm. The venom was working through his system.

Dorian had retreated a few feet away, coiled up and watching silently as Roman’s life ebbed away. His reptilian face betrayed no emotion, and yet Patton was sure he felt something when he met the demon’s eyes.

“Hey, Teach?” Roman mumbled.

Logan leaned forward. “Yes?”

Roman’s eyebrows creased as he worked the words out of his mouth. “You know the thing you do with Charlie Frown, over there? The… reading?”

Patton looked to Logan, who seemed to understand what Roman meant. “Of course. Any requests?”

Roman snorted weakly out of his nose, and shook his head.

Logan gave a wet smile. “I built a tiny garden in a corner of my heart. I kept it just for lovely things, and bid all else depart…”

Patton gave up trying to hold himself together, balling gentle fists of Roman’s hair in his hands and bowing over him. Tears plopped from his nose and chin, dotting Roman's still face. Patton bit his lip to keep from outright sobbing so hard he tasted blood.

“And ever was there music, and flowers blossomed fair.”

Roman grew still. His chest rose.

And fell.

“And never was it perfect, until you entered there.”