#overturns Vikings

[meekamaye]

Skol, Jefferson and Cousins, Oh My...

Its Sunday. The weeks just seemed to fly by in the last year. Sunday in January means the last of the NFL season. The Minnesota Vikings have fumbled, overturned and lost key players this season. They have played musical quarterbacks and are always just shy of finding a new quarterback for the team. Kirk Cousins should be back next season but it will be a  surprise if he is wearing purple and…

[erlenzeisig]

@kylo-wrecked - SO IT STARTS!

[viking-raider]

SALT IN OUR WOUNDS - CHAPTER VII

Summary-> Receiving help from Pastor Zane draws out more than contact with Gus's men.

Pairing-> Gus March-Phillipps/Reader

Word Count-> 3.5k

Chapters-> I II III IV V VI

Warnings-> PG-13: WWII!AU, Language, Deception, References to WWII, Fluff, Use of the word Nazi, Angst, Confessions

Inspiration-> The one and only Chaos Major, Gus March-Phillipps.

Author’s Note-> This is a work of Fiction, pulled from my imagination. Had this chapter sitting in my Google Docs forever, just waiting for me to finish editing it.

Divider by->  @FIREFLY-GRAPHICS!

-> If you would like to get notifications for my writing! Just follow my Tag List blog, @VIKING-RAIDER-TAGLIST as well as my @VIKING-RAIDER-LIBRARY and turn on the notifications for it! It’s that easy!’ Ao3-> DRAGON_DWELLER

Gus felt speechless as you came downstairs, his mouth going dry, looking you over. Even elbows deep in a steaming bucket of soapy liquid or in a simple skirt and blouse, you looked gorgeous. But the navy-blue sailor dress you wore, accented by three white buttons running down from its faux wrap v-neck, with a matching belt and flats, had only enhanced your beauty in every way possible. It paired well with the dark blue suit and white dress shirt Gus had tailored the afternoon before. Its fabric, still smooth and warm from your iron an hour ago, paired with tan braces, shoes polished until he could use them as a mirror, and a gray tie that Edmund had kindly lent him.

“You look beautiful.” He rasped, gulping thickly.

You bit your lip and shyly glanced away. “Thank you. You look very dapper yourself.” You complimented him back, rubbing your bare arm. “Do you have what you need?” You asked, composing yourself as you took a step closer to him, reaching up to adjust his tie slightly.

“I do.” Gus nodded, lightly patting his chest, where two envelopes of an identical letter were tucked in the inside pocket of his jacket.

“Good.” You whispered back, clearing your throat and brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Then, we should go. We don’t want to be late, it’s impolite to keep a man of God waiting.”

“That’s what I’ve been told.” Gus chuckled, turning to grab your coat from the hook by the door and helped you put it on, before slipping on the overcoat the tailor had given him. “What is Pastor Zane like?” He asked, as the two of you started the walk to the modest parish church; a ten-minute walk away.

“He’s very kind and has a wit about him.” You replied, slipping your hands into your coat pockets. “He’s not much different from his sister, Mrs. Moulin. He’s a little younger than her, from what I’ve gathered over the years of knowing the two of them. He felt the calling of God, when he was a young man, after he and his father survived the sinking of a fishing boat. Proclaims that he and his father were clinging to the overturned hull, expecting to die, and did what any man in mortal fear would do; prayed to God. He begged the Lord, that if he managed to save them, so his sister and mother could have a provider, that he would commit his soul to him for all eternity.”

“I see his prayer was answered.” Gus stated, offering you his arm, as the two of you cross the road, passing by the fountain in the village square.

“It seems to have been.” You nodded, looping your arm through his. “Another boat happened to be sailing by and saw the sinking vessel, and it stopped to rescue them. Pastor Zane joined a seminary two years later, then returned here when he graduated to run the Village’s parish church.”

“And Edmund trusts him.” He asked, an edge to his voice.

You looked up at him, brow creased slightly, understanding his hint. “We all trust him, Gus.” You replied, protectively. “He’s a good man and he won’t betray you to anyone. You’ll see when you meet him.”

“I trust you.” He said softly, giving you a gentle smile.

The walk was refreshing. You pointed out little things about Saint-Thuney to Gus and greeted the few residents that were out and about as well, popping in and out of the bakery or salon. With a gentle bend, the Village’s paved roads and sidewalks transitioned into a well-worn dirt church lane, where the weathered stone building sat upon the crest of a small hill. There was a wire fence on the left, the backside of a small sheep enclosure. To the right were waist-high hedges, and just over the top of the emerald leaves, headstones could be seen from inside the Village cemetery.

“It’s a real Eden here in Saint-Thuney.” Gus commented, watching the wooly sheep graze.

“It really is.” You agreed, nodding with a small upturn at the corner of your mouth. “It’s almost easy to forget there’s a war going on.” You commented, as the hum of a plane moved overhead.

“Almost.” He agreed, feeling the weight of the letters in his pocket as you reached the top of the hill.

Gus pulled open the heavy, wooden door of the church and stepped aside, ushering you inside the quiet, cavernous sanctuary. The pews were mostly empty, minus a woman in the front pews, but she was motionless and lost in prayer. The flames of the lit votive candles on either side of the altar flickered with the Village's hopes and prayers. It felt both peaceful and eerie to Gus. He observed you pause before a Caen-stone stoup pedestal, dipping your finger into the still Holy Water and quickly crossing yourself; mumbling a silent prayer. Licking his lips, Gus repeated your action, not wishing to be disrespectful. You made your way down the aisle, towards the back of the altar, where, along the wall, was a huge, ornate confessional, and gestured to the only open door.

“You confess here.” You told him, with a light of intent in your eyes.

“Thank you.” Gus replied, nodding his head and casting his eyes piously to the polished floors. “It’s been some time since I’ve confessed.” He admitted, moving past you to the confessional.

“Pastor Zane will take excellent care of you, then.” You said, patting his arm, then left him to light a votive candle, carefully side-eyeing the praying woman.

Gus closed the door on the confessional, plunging himself in darkness as he sat down on the teeny, uncomfortable seat. The partition between the confessional stalls slid open and the dark silhouette of a man filled the grated gap.

“In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.” A deep voice rumbled. “Peace be with you.”

“Amen.” Gus replied, clearing his throat. “It has been some time since I’ve confessed, and I will tell you, Father, I likely have many things to confess to. But my most urgent confession is one that a mutual acquaintance of ours has enlightened you on already.”

“Yes, I believe so already, my son. I am Pastor Zane, and take you to be Gus, the one staying with Edmund’s sister.” Zane inquired, cutting to the chase.

“I am, Pastor.” Gus confirmed, removing the letters from his pocket. “I was told you would be able to send these letters to their destinations for me.” He said, tapping them against the screen.

Pastor Zane hummed, opening the screen and reached out for the letters, but Gus didn’t let them go readily. “I assure you, God as my witness, these letters will see the people they’re meant for.” He assured Gus, his voice steady.

“For a holy man, that’s more than I can ask.” He answered, letting them go. “How long will it take?”

“That will depend on how badly the Germans are hindering my contacts.” Zane told him, tucking the letters inside his vestments. “If all is well, then no more than a week and a half. If the Germans are being difficult, two or three.”

Gus sighed, slumping against the back wall of the confessional. “Not ideal. But I suppose it’ll have to do. Is there no way for you to get them there sooner? Telegraph, perhaps?” He inquired, cocking a brow at him in the dark space.

“If my men can not get your letters to them in a month, then they will wire them. But, this is our way.” Zane informed him, his tone immovable.

“Fine then.” Gus hummed, resigned. “Well, I came here under the guise of marrying that incredible woman just out there.” He said, nodding at the door. “What do we need to do for that?”

“Nothing, you aren’t truly marrying her.” Zane answered, shaking his head.

“People think I am.”

“And you will likely be gone in a month.” the Pastor countered, cocking a brow at Gus, curious as to why he was so intent on the subject. “I will simply say I gave you both my blessing to marry, should anyone ask. All the two of you must do is keep whatever charade you’ve been doing up.”

“Hm.”

“Unless, it is not one.” Zane dared to say, narrowing his eyes slightly.

“I-”

“This is confessional, my son, what is said here, stays here.”

Gus was quiet for a moment, before drawing in a deep breath. “I do find myself in love with her. But I know, for her safety, I can’t be.” He confessed, smoothing his palms over his thighs.

“The heart wants what the heart wants.” Zane said, his voice echoing an odd tone of familiar yearning. “But it is the soul that pays. As long as she doesn’t know your intentions, don’t act upon them. It will be easier that way. She’ll be able to move on, when you are gone.”

“I know that.” Gus huffed, standing up and exiting the confessional, agitated.

“Are you all right?” You asked, as Gus stopped beside you, seeing the deep valley between his brows.

“I’m fine.” He answered, picking up a wick and using one of the burning candles to light it. “It’s just been sometime since I’ve confessed; it touched a sore spot.”

“I’m sorry.” You said softly, reaching out to gently touch his arm. “I’ll be right back.” You told him, stepping away to slip into the confessional yourself. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been a week since my last confession.” You uttered, crossing yourself.

“In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.” Pastor Zane replied in a calm voice. “Tell me of your sins, child.”

You drew a shallow breath. “I’m unsure if it is a sin, Pastor Zane. Perhaps, it is, because it’s selfish.” You paused, brows drawing together as your heart thumped against your ribs, like a Blitz, your mouth working for a second, before the words finally found their way out. “I don’t want him to go. I don’t want Gus to leave.”

“I love him.” You confessed aloud, your voice breaking.

“Oh, my dear sweet girl.” Zane sighed, shaking his head. “No, and while our almighty Lord may consider that lustful, I do not believe that’s your intention. You are both young, living in a frightening time in our history. You did a brave and Christian thing, by saving him that day, and perhaps feel a bond with him for it. However, Gus must leave, when his people arrive to retrieve him. He does not belong here with us. He belongs back wherever he came from, and you must let him go.”

You scrunched up the skirt of your dress and let out a shaky breath. “I know. I doubt he even feels the same.” You mumbled, biting your lip. “Well, those are all my sins, Father.”

“Very well, my child.” Zane nodded, bowing his head slightly. “For your sin, I assign you the penance, ten Glory Be’s.”

Accepting your penance, You finish your confession and Pastor Zane sealed it with the sign of the cross and a soft amen, before you exit the confessional, only feeling slightly better about what you had told him. The door to Pastor Zane’s side of the confessional opened and the tall, robed clergyman stepped out, salt-and-pepper head ducked to clear the low door. He offered you a smile that almost instantly warmed your heart, his kindness evident in his expression and bright, coffee-brown eyes.

“How is your family?” He asked, the formality of confession left in the Confessional.

“They’re all very well, thank you.” You replied, nodding your head respectfully. “My father sends his respects as usual, and Edmund promised to come to the next services.” You informed him, watching his eyes move away from yours to something behind you. “As for Willa, she is her usual self.” You said, feeling the commanding aura Gus radiated and turned to smile up at him.

“Gus, this is Pastor Zane.” You introduced them properly to one another.

“A pleasure.” Gus greeted him, reaching his hand out.

“Quite.” Pastor Zane replied, taking Gus’s hand between his and giving it a hearty shake. “I am so excited at the prospect of the two of you wedding.” He told Gus, his eyes making a quick sweep of the church, spotting the still praying woman. “My sister will be so thrilled at having such joyous festivities in the village.”

You chuckled, knowing how much Mrs. Moulin loved throwing parties, when given the chance.

“I’m grateful you’ve agreed to marry us.” Gus replied, his shoulders somewhat tense. “Especially without knowing a jot about me.” He smirked, snickering.

“Ah, if this fine, young lady has such feelings for you, then you are truly worthy.” Zane assured him, waving it off and noticed the woman stand from her pew. “Well, I must return to confessions. We shall see each other again, for that special day.” He smiled, motioning the woman into the box. “Have a blessed day.”

“You as well, Pastor.” You bid him, grinning back. “See, that went well, didn’t it?” You said, looking up at Gus.

“You can say that.” He replied, his fingertips tracing the length of your spine. “Is there anything else you need to do here?” He asked, looking about the modest room.

“No, I lit the candles Papa asked me too.” You said, shaking your head.

“Very well, back home we go.” Gus declared, offering you his arm and turning you both towards the church doors.

The doors creaked open, the sound echoing, to reveal Remi entering as he removed his tan, newsboy hat and tucked it into his back pocket. He started, seeing you and Gus coming towards him from down the aisle of pews, but he quickly composed himself.

“What are the two of you doing here?” He asked, upon meeting the two of you at the stoup, dripping his fingers in.

A bashful smirk crossed your lips and you turned your face into Gus’s arm for a moment, feeling like a caught child for some reason. A chuckle rumbled in Gus’s chest, witnessing your shy gesture, and his hand came up to brush against your cheek, affectionately. Remi studied the two of you, setting his stubbly jaw at the close intimacy the two of you were displaying so openly.

“We came to ask Pastor Zane to marry us.” Gus confessed to the shopkeeper, his eye moving back to Remi’s.

“M-marry?” Remi choked, his resolve breaking with shock.

“Yes.” You nodded, biting your lip. “Gus and I intend on marrying. I think I’ve allowed him to wait long enough.” You said, looking up at Gus with a soft look.

“Years.” Gus cooed, holding your chin between his fingers and ducked his head to brush his lips against yours in a sweet kiss; stealing your breath away. “But now, I have you in my grasp.” He smirked, pulling back slightly.

“From the day we met.” You sighed, licking your lips and tasting Gus on them.

“Well,” Remi cleared his throat and dipped his fingers back into the stoup, crossing himself. “I congratulate the both of you on your engagement.”

“Thank you.” Gus nodded his head, politely. “It’s kind of you.”

“Quite.” You agreed, offering him an appreciative smile. “We’ll let you get to whatever you were doing, and I’ll see you later on.” You said, brushing past him and out the door, moaning softly as the cool ocean breeze rushed around you, cooling your heated skin.

You were in disbelief that Gus had been so bold as to kiss you, your mind a hurricane of thoughts and emotions, that you hadn’t realized he was speaking to you.

“I’m sorry?” You cleared your throat, shaking your head to focus on him.

Gus chuckled, looking down at you. “I was saying, it’s a really lovely day out.”

You frowned for a moment, before concentrating on the world around you. The sky was a lovely shade of cyan with streaks of clouds racing across it, yet not a drop of rain threatened to fall from them. The shining sun steadily crested from behind the church, its rays warming your back and shoulders, and glittered off the restless waves of the Channel below, like gold. The breeze that had cooled you continued to flow about you and Gus; rustling the Sycamores, Sweet Chestnuts and Hawthorns that populated the Church lane and Village. It filled your noses and lungs with the pleasant and fortifying scent of the ocean.

“It really is.” You agreed, a content smile upon your face.

Gus studied your face, before you looked back at him, he felt his heart swell. His love for you only grew with each second the two of you spent together. But the knot in his stomach tightened, knowing how much he had to go, especially now the more he fell for you. Gus would not put you in harm’s way. He’d rather throw himself back into the Channel than for that to happen.

She’ll be better off. Perhaps, once I’m gone, she’ll find someone that’s right for her. He thought, plastering a smile on his face as you looked at him. Maybe, she and Remi will fall in love. But, maybe, until then…

“Would be a shame to hurry home.” Gus pointed out, finding his voice again.

You blinked at him. “We could walk along the beach for a bit?” You suggested, cocking your head at him.

“Sounds nice.” He nodded, offering you his arm again and the two of you strolled back towards the Village.

Ignoring the turn onto your street, you guided Gus leisurely towards the beach, pausing on the sandy sidewalk to take your flats and stockings off, not wanting them to get sandy and wet. Gus followed your action, taking off his shoes and socks. Both of you left them there on the sidewalk, for when you returned on the way home. The breeze was stronger down on the beach, whipping your hair free of its pins and into your face. Gus slipped off his overcoat and draped it over your shoulders, giving you a wink as you glanced up at him.

“Thanks.” You mumbled, tucking your arms inside the toasty wool.

“I can see why you like to take walks out here in the mornings.” He commented, listening to the soothing sound of the waves crashing against the white sand, not another soul insight.

“The people of Saint-Thurney don’t really like coming here.” You confessed to him, casting your gaze out to the Channel.

“Why’s that?”

You chuckled softly. “Things have a habit of washing ashore here.” You explained, pausing to face the water. “Typically they’re dead.”

“But not always.” Gus purred, cocking a brow at you.

“No, not always.” You giggled, nudging his side with your shoulder. “But it disturbs them, so they don’t come here. The official office sends some men out once a week or so to comb the length and take care of anything they might discover.”

“You’re not worried about…well, I guess you’re not concerned with finding something, given what you did find.”

“I’m not. It’s a cycle of life.” You shook your head, brow pinching. “However, other than the occasional dead sea animal, you’re the first thing I’ve ever discovered on the beach. So, I guess either whoever's job it is to clear the beach of such things is quite good or the villagers are superstitious.” You hummed, pressing your lips together in thought, but shrugged. “Which wouldn’t surprise me.”

“Well,” Gus sighed, hugging his arm around your shoulders. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad that you found me.”

“Oh, are you?” You teased, smirking.

“Yeah!” He grinned back. “It was either dying, the Germans or you. I’d really rather not die and the Germans have such sour faces. But you, my love, are just right.”

“Your Goldilocks, am I!” You laughed, shaking your head.

“Indeed.” He cooed, daring to kiss you again.

“You are frisky today, March-Phillipss!” You gasped, breaking away from him, biting back a blush.

“What can I say? I love my fiancée.” He teased, winking at you.

You tisked at him, shaking your head. “Naughty boy.”

“Guilty.” Gus confessed with an impish grin, as his eyes moved over your head, observing something back towards home. “Suppose Edmund wants to know how everything went.” He commented, a gentle furrow between his brows.

“What?” You frowned, turning to find your brother coming up the beach towards you. “He seems a bit ants in his pants.” You noted the expression on his face. “What’s wrong, Eddie?” You asked, meeting him halfway. “Is Papa all right?” You inquired, feeling a cold twinge in your stomach.

“Pops is fine.” He assured you, waving it off. “But we have another issue all together.”

“What?” Gus asked, coming up behind you, his hand resting on your hip.

“Trottier is at the house.” Edmund informed you, biting his lip, and rubbing the link of his pocket watch in his agitated state.

“Oh, hells.” You whimpered under your breath.

“Who the hell is that?”

“He’s the Director General of the Village.” You answered, a lump in your throat.

“Rat fuck is in the pocket of the Germans.”

“Now, Edmund, we don’t know that for certain.” You scolded your brother, scurrying by him, anxious to get home before Trottier could traumatize your father without you there.

[doueverwonder]

The Visit

Y'all guess who's back to writing (finally); everyone say thank you to @hetagrammy for talking to me about IreNor which made me want to write again and for beta reading; she is a person of many talents.

Welcome back to world building the fics, couple of notes + human names;

Because I can I hc Faroe and Iceland as Norway & Ireland's kids; Alisdair has right to be worried he's not just an asshole.

Alisdair = Scotland Molly (or Máire) = Ireland Sigurd = Norway Ida = Faroe Islands

TW: for references to domestic/sexual abuse (character accusing another of it, nothing is actually happening)

ao3 link here

~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had been too long since Alisdair had seen his sister, a couple decades at least. He didn’t even know where she was living, what she was up to, if she were even alive. When you knew as many people as centuries of life could afford you it was easier to find someone though, he assumed she was living in an abbey still; which one he wasn’t sure but that was his first guess to start looking. That was the clue he had given: his sister Máire, she lived in an abbey, made her living writing manuscripts. Even threw in her goldsmithing hobby, and a rough description based off the last time he had seen her. As he was sure there were a thousand Máire’s who helped write manuscripts in Ireland alone.

This wasn’t what he expected, out of all the places in Ireland, Dublin, a viking settlement, was the last place he expected to find her. He had heard of the city, which seemed to be a rather large hub for the Scandinavians now. He couldn’t believe how many boats were in the harbor, they lined up endlessly. He remembered one of the last conversations he had with her, he had half begged her to stay away from the coasts; convinced himself the farther inland she was the safer she would be. As usual anything he, or Dylan, asked of her spurred her to do the absolute opposite. Considering this is where she was living maybe Arthur had asked her to stay away from the coasts as well, she would happily let herself get captured if it meant spiting Arthur. 

He kept his head down, not wanting to draw attention with all of them around here. Reasonably he didn’t trust these people, he had already lost Shetland, Orkney, Caithness, and Sutherland; not to mention the Isle of Mann. Four girls and a boy, all fathered by the Norse personification and promptly left behind. It wasn’t uncommon for nations to leave their children in their own land until they were older; didn’t mean he had to like how recklessly he had them; nor did it mean he couldn’t feel bad for the bairns.

He came to the house he had been told; it took far longer than he expected, and had to go through what seemed half the clergy in the country before someone knew where she was. Only finally finding out from a priest that seemed ten years too old to be alive, but here he was. It was on the outside of the city, a small house looking like it wasn’t made to be a long term shelter, there was a small area of farmland around it. He opened the gate making sure to close it behind him so the chickens that milled about wouldn’t get out. A cat sat on top of an overturned crate, gazing over him lazily. That surprised him, Molly had never been much of a cat person preferring dogs, said they were more useful. 

He dusted himself off as he stood at the door, he didn’t need Molly immediately scolding him over his appearance. He knocked heavily, she tended to daydream and not hear things too lost in whatever she was doing. He didn’t want to just walk in either lest he scare her, or he had the wrong house. The wrong Máire. He hoped not. 

The door opened, he smiled expecting his sister. Expecting for her to throw herself into his arms for a hug, they had never been apart for so long he was so excited to see her. His face fell, instead of his sister stood a man, just barely taller than him, blond with blue eyes, dressed as a northmen. The Northman, Sigurd, the source of all his troubles stood in front of him. Molly must have been here, it was too much of a coincidence there is no way he was here and she was not at some point. 

“Where is she” 

“No hello?” it infuriated him how calm the other was, Sigurd was always infuriatingly calm, even when facing Alisdair. 

“Where is my sister?” Alisdair started again, his voice firm but loud, “Where is Molly? What have you done with her, you heathen?!” he spat the word in his face. 

Sigurd looked upset, but was nowhere near losing his temper as Alisdair was, “She is fine, and I do not–” 

“She can not be fine if you are in her house I–” Alisdair stopped, a small voice, clearly inquisitive, asking something. He looked down, a child no older than four, maybe five clung to Sigurd’s leg. He was going to brush her presence off, Sigurd had plenty of bastards, all of which deserved to hear the truth about their father regardless of age. His gaze lingered on her just long enough for her to look up at him. He froze suddenly, the girl was blonde and blue eyed, just as her father was; but the shape of her face, the way the frizzy curls framed her face… that was Molly. Sigurd must have noted his new interest and he shooed her away. Alisdair’s trance broke as he watched her go. 

“Where is my sister?” he demanded again, this time peering over Sigurd’s shoulder trying to see into the house. He wanted to see the girl again, he wanted to see her closer, that had to be his sister's child. 

“I already told you” He stepped to the side to block Alisdair’s view, “She is fine, why are you looking for her?” 

“I’m not allowed to see her?” 

“I didn’t say that” 

“Then where is-” 

“Sigurd? Who’s at the door?” He froze, moments away from pushing the other man out of the doorway to get into the house. The voice was Molly's. He needed to see her, he needed to know she was okay, he needed her alone, he needed to know she wasn’t being kept with him against her will. 

Sigurd stepped to the side so Alisdair could see in the house, Molly came into view and seeing her face took some of his anxiety away knowing she was okay. Knowing she seemed unhurt. The relief was short-lived, his eyes fell on the small girl he had just seen now rested on her hip, he froze seeing her swollen stomach. 

Molly froze, she just stared at him for a moment, he tried to decide if that was a good thing or not.  “Alisdair!” the hesitation morphed into an almost forced looking smile, there was a panic in her eyes that he knew shouldn’t be there. “I thought I heard your voice, but I didn’t want to hope too much!” 

She moved as quickly as she could over to him, she handed the child to Sigurd and hugged Alisdair tightly, his eyes didn’t move from Sigurd, he put his arm around Molly not in a hug, but as if he were trying to protect her. It was impossible to not assume what he was, the stories he heard, the things he had seen, he wanted him dead. Everything played out in his head, he couldn’t touch him while he was holding her; the girl was at no fault for her fathers actions. 

Molly let go of him, though she stayed close, smiling up at him. “I swear it seems you’ve gotten older since we last saw each other, you have to tell me everything, how are you? How are Arthur and Dylan?” 

He opened his mouth to answer, but every thing that came to mind had to do with what was in front of him. Her smile wavered, she was always good at knowing what he was thinking, “Silly me, you’re probably exhausted, come in, come in, we can talk later” she hugged him again quickly, this time taking the chance to whisper “wait til Ida goes to bed” 

He tensed once she let go, swallowing heavily, he assumed Ida was the girl. He nodded, but put his gaze back on Sigurd. He couldn’t help but take note of how heavily Molly kept her grip on him as she pulled him into the house, how she kept her distance from Sigurd, how she had whispered instead of asking aloud. Every instinct screaming to get Molly and Ida away from him. But he stayed quiet as Molly took her daughter back from Sigurd. 

“Mo réaltín,” Molly held the girl up a bit to be closer to eye level with him, “meet your uncle Alisdair.” 

~~~~~~~~~

The sun had set long ago, Alisdair sat watching his sister, Molly looked exhausted, her head rested on Sigurd’s shoulder, his arm around her. It infuriated Alisdair, he hadn’t gotten an answer yet, he hadn’t been given reasons to not kill Sigurd where he stood. If he threw him in the sea, it would take him longer to come back. The only punishment Alisdair could see fit for what he had done to her. 

“She’s long asleep” Alisdair commented, hoping to spur the conversation. He had spent all day with the small girl going on about all the things she liked (playing tag with the children down the road, the pictures in the windows at church, when her father told her stories about the gods); her favorite foods (pickled fish among them); the names of all the chickens (though she noted she preferred the sheep). It was easier to talk to the niece he didn’t know existed, ignore how she had her fathers nose, and her smile was too much like the Danes’. Ignore how she spoke Norse, and stumbled over the bit of Irish she proudly tried to speak to him in. 

Molly sat up a bit, she looked over at Alisdair, “what do we need to talk about?” 

He hesitated, he knew she knew, “can we go somewhere else?” 

“I’ll leave” Sigurd said instead, “I’m not making my pregnant wife go outside at this hour” 

“Wife?” It pissed him off hearing him refer to her that way, he spoke as if Molly weren’t in the room “My sister wouldn’t marry a pagan, much less willingly carry his children.” 

“But she did, and she is, so apparently you don’t know her that well.” Sigurd didn’t move from Molly’s side, he felt he held more power over Alisdair with her in his arms. “And I don’t like what you're implying about me” 

“I’ll say whatever I want about you because I know the truth.” 

“And what is the truth?” 

“I know what you viking are like.” Alisdair stated it plainly, “You show up, and take what you want without asking. That’s what you did with her; you were tired of just trinkets, jealous of your men getting to take whoever they wanted.” 

“Alisdair, sto-” she started but before being able to get anything beyond his name out was cut off. 

“And you knew the best way to make her stay with you was to have something to hang over her head,” he threw one of his hands towards the other half of the house where Ida was asleep, before gesturing to Molly, clearly trying to accentuate her current state. “You would have a dozen children just to keep her with you” 

Sigurd’s face barely changed, but Molly could feel him tense. He sat up straighter, his jaw clenched tight enough she could hear him grinding his teeth to keep himself from saying anything, 

Molly knew Sigurd wouldn’t say anything, he wasn’t a pushover but he wouldn’t want to distress her or wake up Ida either. He would hold his tongue until morning. She stood suddenly, “Alisdair, outside. Now.” She turned to Sigurd, assuring him a small walk wouldn’t kill her. To spite her brother she took his fur with her, pulling the oversized garment over her shoulders as she followed Alisdair outside.

As soon as the door closed behind her she faced him fury in her eyes “What the fuck was that” 

“Molly you don’t have to pretend to—“ 

“I’m not pretending anything!” She huffed loudly, “He is my husband, I love him, he hasn’t done anything I didn’t give him permission to.”

Alisdair was desperate to get her to admit something, anything to prove Sigurd had done something to her, that he wasn’t just being rash. “How do I know you're not saying that because he’s still right there?” 

She huffed stalking off expecting him to follow her, he did right at her heels. Admittedly he was having a hard time keeping up with her, which was embarrassing to admit considering she was at least six months along already. 

They were well out of hearing distance when she started talking again, repeating her earlier statement: “Sigurd is my husband, I love him, he hasn’t done anything without my permission. We didn’t plan Ida, or this baby, but I love being a mother and he’s a wonderful father.” 

A silence fell over them, as they kept walking. Alisdair knew Molly had no reason to lie to him, not when he wasn’t around to hear her. But he couldn’t believe she would fall for him, he couldn’t rationalize with everything that had happened that she would be okay being with him. 

“We can wait a few weeks so he doesn’t suspect, we’ll leave in the middle of the night, I’ll carry Ida so she doesn’t wake up. He won’t know we’re gone until–” he ignored everything she said. He didn’t think she was genuine, something must be wrong. 

“Alisdair.” She stopped suddenly, turning to face him, “I’m in no condition to travel, and even if I was I wouldn’t go with you” 

“I’ll come back for you in a few months then.” 

Molly went quiet looking up at her brother, she didn’t know how to tell him what she needed to. “I’m not going to be here in a few months.” 

“You’re going back to Norway with him?” 

“No. Once summer comes, and once he’s able to go get the rest of his children we’re all leaving for Iceland.” 

“No.” he didn’t even need to think about it, he wasn’t going that far away, he wasn’t letting her go that far from home. He wouldn’t be able to check on her, he wouldn’t be able to come get her if something happened. 

She sighed, “You know that means nothing,” she turned around going back to the house, “I’m going with him, I’m sorry you don’t trust him, but you can’t throw accusations around, especially after he’s been nothing but kind to me” 

“Nothing but kind?” if Alisdair wasn’t so angry he would have laughed. “You call what his people do to you, to me, kindness?” 

Molly stopped, she looked at the ground sighing. She faced him, but didn’t move any closer, “Seventy years ago now there was a raid on the Abbey I was living in. For some reason or another they decided I wasn’t to die with everyone else and brought me here…” 

Alisdair thought he had it, he thought he had his gotcha. That Molly was finally admitting the horrible things he had done to her. 

“Sigurd paid them off and let me go back about my business, not asking anything in return. That is what I call kindness, Alisdair.” Molly sighed, “It’s been too long, because you think I’m stupid now, enough so to let a man manipulate me into things, even if he had forced Ida on me I would have found a way out for both of us. You should know that.” 

Alisdair was taken aback, he hadn’t been trying to imply Molly to not know what she was doing. His assumptions had nothing to do with her, everything to do with him. He just got here, he had only seen her for a day. He thought he would show up and Molly would still be the same as the last time he had seen her, he thought she would still be his little sister and nothing more; he supposes he wasn’t always right though. 

“I know I won’t be able to stop you; but I can’t stay around if you’re going with him.” 

“I can’t say I’m surprised.” They stopped in front of the house, “But I was hoping you would be around when the baby came.” She opened the front gate not looking at him, “you are welcome to stay for a few days, but I expect you to apologize to Sigurd if you do” 

“I’ll find somewhere else then.” 

Molly nodded, “I’ll get your things then, he may not want you in his house if you don’t plan on taking anything back.” 

“Wait.” Molly stopped looking at him, he came here to check on her. She might be insisting she was fine, but he didn’t trust Sigurd, he couldn’t start trusting him just on Molly’s word either. He couldn’t help but feel as though he was admitting defeat, but… “If I apologize you’ll let me stay?” 

“I will,” she shrugged, “But you’ll have to see what he says” 

“I’ll stay, if I’m allowed.”

[splep]

I saw someone type up the lyrics for the LiB song so i decided to type up Bully the Bully :D

((((disclaimer: some of this is definitely not correct and some parts i know this and put a question mark after so id appreciate it if anyone knows whats actually being sung in those bits :D))))

(Grace: We can do this!)

Grace: We're gonna bully the bully

We're gonna film him losing his cool-y

We're gonna make it spooky.

Pete: It's goofy

Grace: Got a better plan?

Richie: We'll make him shit his pants!

(Ruth: Jägerman?)

Grace: We're gonna invoke his fury

by making him freak prematurely.

Then we'll have him judged by a jury in the public eye!

He's just a nerd in disguise!

(Steph: Okay, why do you keep doing that?)

Grace: Petey got the blanket,

Ruthie you're on techie and

Richie tapes.

(Richie: What's our budget?)

Grace: Stephie gonna lure him in with her charm.

(Steph: I am?)

Grace: And once we get him walking in the haunted and ancient old Waylen place.

(rest of group: Yeah?)

Grace: Petey gonna jump on out!

Jäger gonna Jäger out!

All: We're gonna bully the bully.

We're taking him back to schooly, schooly.

We're gonna make a dirty movie where the losers win!

And the joke is on him!

(Some shout "Yeah!")

Grace: We got a fealty, a duty.

Richie: To standing for the nerdy, the prudy.

Steph and Pete: Overturning and dethroning the viking, gonna wreck his ship!

Ruth: We're gonna cut off his nips!

Richie: We'll spill his guts, we'll steal his lunch, we'll beat him up.

Grace: NO! We're gonna be real cool.

Rest of group: Oh!

Grace: To beat the Jägerman you can't beat him where he's most equipped

Rest of group: Can't beat him where he's most equipped.

Grace: He's twice our size. He's maximized.

But we know how to strategize and use our tools.

Rest of group: Aaah!

Richie: So we're not gonna kick his ass?

Grace: sigh Do you wanna conserve your mass?

All: We're gonna

Richie: Kick

Pete: Pop

Ruth: Splat

Grace: Be cool

All: We're gonna

Richie: Smash

Pete: Blam

Ruth: Spank

Grace: Stay cool

All: We're gonna

Richie: Boom

Pete: Attack

Ruth: Swarm

Grace: No we're gonna be cool beans.

We're gonna keep the beans cool.

All: We're gonna gonna keep the beans

beans the cool

keep the

beans the cool

keep the beans

bean school!

Beans school?

Excellent!

All: We're gonna bully the bully.

We're gonna gonna rule the unruly

He's gonna gonna dooky his booty

and the problem's solved!

Pete: And the problem's solved.

Richie: And the school can evolve.

Steph, Grace and Ruth: And the school will get involved.

Richie and Pete: We're gonna get the jock pleading.

All: Watch the incompetent conceding.

gonna make the nerdy, the new thing!

Ruth: Pull the pin!

Grace: Steph, get in position!

Pete: Time to thicken our skin!

Steph: One helluva mission.

All: Ww'll fight sin with sin!

Let the games begin.

EDIT: thank you to whoever sent me the fixed lyrics !!! ilysm /p :D

[ash-and-books]

Rating: 5/5

Book Blurb:

England is burning with Norman fires, and Tate—the youngest ever abbess of Far Hope Abbey—is determined to guard the abbey's ancient secrets with her very life.

Her life may be what it takes, however, for a Norman warlord known only as The Wolf is pillaging his way right to the abbey's doors. But when The Wolf arrives, Tate finds not the brutal man she was expecting, but instead a cruel and beautiful woman who leads her men with a ferocity to rival that of her Viking ancestors.

And after she sets eyes on Tate, it becomes clear that gold and silver aren't the only things The Wolf wants to carry off into the night…

Review:

A young abbess enters into a bargain with a warlordess... a bargain that will change both their lives. Tate is the youngest ever abbess of Far Hope Abbey, she is determined to keep the ancient secrets of the abbey for her entire life. Yet everything is overturned when a Norman warlord known as The Wolf comes pillaging right to the abbey's doors. Tate is determined to save her abbey and goes to make an offer to the warlord... but she never expects is that the warlord is actually a stunning and cruel warlordless who sparks something inside her. Their bargain is for three days.... and if The Wolf can't figure out the abbey's secret by then she'll leave... but maybe the real treasure she was seeking wasn't the abbey but Tate. This was such a fun F/F romance to read and the spice was fantastic. I also loved the ending for them so so much.

[iamnathannah]

This is why you vote in municipal and state elections; without Janet Protasiewicz embarrassing Daniel Kelly last year in the Wisconsin State Supreme Court race, we wouldn't have been able to turn back the legal Twister game the former 4-3 conservative majority (which is now a minority soooo sad that they can't get their way any longer) that was trying to justify the banning of voting drop boxes in Wisconsin, and abortion rights are a lot better than when Dobbs was overturned because the court said 'no, this cruel abortion law from 1849, when the 'brand new' state capitol building could barely be called 'habitable' and women only had the same rights as the family dog, really can't be enforced', and my local Planned Parenthood can help give women medication abortions again.

We also got fair maps, and for the first time since 2011 it's very likely we'll have an Assembly and Senate next year not ruled by gerrymandered Republicans who can't be arsed to listen to anyone but Moms for Liberty, Americans for Prosperity and the worst and most obnoxious lobbyists like Wisconsin Institute for Law and Liberty, who tried to scare a nearby village's school board from enforcing anti-bullying rules against students (and their parents) bullying trans kids. It'll be nice to get in my flag and Blue Book requests (and...other lawmaker things) to someone who cares for me and doesn't note me as 'disgruntled' for merely disagreeing with them on Twitter.

And if you're a Wisconsinite here, please vote no on all the amendments on the back of your ballot that are pretty much the GOP crying because Tony Evers is a good guy who wants to distribute money fairly, not because Robin Vos needs more and more power to keep down things this state wants like Medicaid expansion, legal weed and fair school revenue and drunk driving laws with actual teeth to them.

Things that Minnesota got because they got fair maps, fair representation and a trifecta that got them so many other things like free school lunch for all and enshrined abortion rights. The Vikings, Gophers and Twins might be our hated rivals, but Tim Walz is a good man like Tony who serves the public good.

[christiangittingsblog]

Judge rejects Viking Hoard Thief's appeal bid

//Well done this Judge, people who steal our Heritage and history should not be allowed to get away with it, but it is sad to hear, these objects can now tell us nothing about the site where they came from

Update the hunt continues for missing Viking hoard artefacts

//interesting article about the Herefordshire hoard and how it has sadly gone missing.

(I hope the Herefordshire hoard can be found again to tell its story to archaeologists about the site where they were found, but realisticly veiw would be sadly they are gone forever or now very hard to find) 

[johnjankovic]

DÚNEDAIN

Verily, verily I say unto you, unless a grain of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone; but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit. 12:24

The adherence of Christianity to a codex of ethics dispensing with society’s monomania for classical hierarchies where the hapless were otherized came to fledge into the raison d’être for the many orphaned by their kith and kin. A compass of virtue assimilating mercy and peacemaking made manifest in the Beatitudes of Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount would gainsay the narcissism of old with its attributes like glory or affluence. Pagans left alone in the wilds of polytheism thus began to find a truth wherein the universe was neither cold nor indifferent but rather warm and forgiving for what was otherwise a stark departure from past superstitions. Whatever omnipotent entity governed the cosmos it was anything but a passive timekeeper. Somewhere deep in the stuff of life there lived a God who commiserated with the lot of Creation insofar as He sent His Son into the world so that it might be saved through Him (3:17-8). Such heresy at the time unsettled a people who sought only power and celebrity. How could a God bleed? A harrowing death by Crucifixion betrays mortality which was atypical for the deities lionized by centuries of folklore. Lost on the layman however was the wisdom that a good shepherd layeth down his life for the sheep (10:11); that God is not secluded in some gilded palace atop Mount Olympus but rather walks amongst us in rags.

Jesus epitomized a tribune for the masses not a warlord akin to Islam’s Mohammed. Martyrdom was to be the alchemy of saving souls through one’s own persecution devoid of retribution or hate rather than its perverse definition of having coitus with seventy-two virgins upon killing infidels for sport. A barbaric practice fit for barbarians. How is Jihad any different from the afterlife coveted by Vikings fetishizing feasts in Valhalla in a quid pro quo for rape and murder? Colonialism’s legacy is not the reason why Muslim countries in Africa and the Middle East are time capsules for the Stone Age. Singapore and Honk Kong would agree. If a culprit is to be sleuthed out a reflection in a looking glass might be the place to start. A doctrine breeding animus for anyone outside of one’s ilk does not conduce to discovery nor peace but only a cycle of bloodshed. The Quran reads like a wish list scribed by an autocrat as inconsistencies abound: the Surah An-Nisa (4:24) condones the enslavement and rape of women; the Surah Al-Baqarah (2:191-193) and the Surah At-Tawbah (9:5) agitate for murder; the Surah Al-Ma’idah (5:38) lauds the mutilation of thieves. Such poison is easier understood when its author’s own scruples made bedfellows with evil. What a paragon of virtue was Mohammed who impregnated his nine-year-old wife — quite the gentleman.

Observe what grace was showed to an adulteress when Jesus stood athwart of a rabid lynch mob in His full-throated diatribe exclaiming ‘He that is without sin amongst you let him first cast a stone at her’ (8:7). This message sits as the polar opposite to the death worship of Mohammed who commanded in the Surah An-Nur (24:2) that a promiscuous woman should be lashed a hundred times in a public spectacle. Ergo the epidemic of ‘honour killings’ in Islam uniquely flummoxes the ignorant not the critical thinkers who are privy to the fraud. It is a prodigious feat of mental gymnastics to reconcile a man of God with a penchant for pedophilia abreast of the rape and slaughter of innocents yet Islamists insist on whitewashing their pedigree. Whilst it may be true Jesus bristled at sin by overturning tables in an apoplectic rage whereupon the zeal for Father’s house had consumed Him He was nevertheless anything but vindictive (2:17). A paternal disciplinarian sympathetic to the duality of man colours the instruction stenographed in the Gospels. Albeit His threshold of patience might have been scarce on occasion in virtue of man’s stupidity much like the admonishment reserved for a child prone to tantrums the impetus of love was never lost. To wit grace is a far better instrument of edification than meting out punishment (1:17).

It is unsurprising that a Hammurabi code of an eye for an eye finds expression in the Quran when Mohammed was a prolific marshal of war himself. Casting aspersions on the snake oil he peddled is one thing but the warmonger should be credited for his territorial aggrandizement whose cadence would arouse even the jealousies of Napoleon. Six centuries after the birth of Christendom Mohammed founded a faith to butcher us with terrible efficiency. In a single decade Islam annexed the Arabian Peninsula. Within an abbreviated timeline the caliphate further arrogated the Middle East in toto, North Africa and the Iberian Peninsula to its rule. Mohammed’s doctrine laid waste to the Holy Land and made apostates of our kinsmen who kowtowed to the ultimatum of conversion. Islam colonizes through the spectre of death not missionaries. 'Renounce thy faith heathen lest you should fall upon the sword' is quite the catchphrase for a religion of peace! The Surah At-Tawbah (9:29) explicitly calls for the persecution of infidels who resist such proselytization. It is no mystery why the carnage of rape, infanticide and immolation of entire families in Sderot next to Gaza was feted by satanists. Feigning victimhood under the guise of Islamophobia is the pièce de résistance peculiar to this faith just as it scapegoated the Crusades to explain away its provocations.

Today’s histrionics over Gaza likened to an ‘open air prison’ is a farce as mouth-breathers buy into its narrative: (1) the exodus in 2005 saw Israel unilaterally vacate that tract of land; (2) Gaza’s per capita wealth approximates $6.2k juxtaposed with Europe’s post-WWII reconstruction costs of $478 per capita from the Marshall Plan’s succour; (3) like a kleptocracy Hamas’ leadership class are all egregiously billionaires; (4) utilities remain gratis courtesy of Israel’s magnanimity; (5) work visas are liberally granted to Gazans analogous to North and South Korea’s Kaesong manufacturing park for the sake of rapprochement; (6) a marrow-deep deference for the Hippocratic oath was what excised the brain tumour that once beset the Hamas architect of the latest pogrom; (7) Gaza’s pecuniary resources are all ploughed into the labyrinth of tunnels whose entry points for terrorists lie beneath mosques; (8) Arabs account for a quarter of Israel’s demographics versus the Jewish extinction in Palestine; (9) it betrays ignorance to calumniate Jews with the misnomer of colonizer since they have inhabited the land for three millennia; (10) it was Roman Emperor Hadrian upon the Bar Kokhba Revolt who rechristened the landmass with the Palaestina nomenclature to make the Jewish identity verboten. How convenient it is to paper over history.

Israel should not escape criticism for its settlements in the West Bank nor should the community be immune to reproach about overwhelming Christendom with faux refugees via their NGOs. Nevertheless the half-baked hyperbole of Islamophobia needs to be retired. To wax lyrical about some coexistence of utopia with Islam is an exercise in futility. Christianity radiates a civilizing effect but upon a critical mass of Muslims the West’s legal traditions rooted in the Church will fall prey to the tyranny of Sharia Law. London, Paris and Milan portend this ominous future. History shall repeat itself. War informs Islam’s very DNA whereas the catechism of Christianity espouses unconditional and even unrequited love. Where the Quran vindicates violence the Gospels red-pill the masses into abstaining from it. ‘To him who strikes you on the one cheek, offer the other also. And from him who takes away your cloak, do not withhold your tunic either. Give to everyone who asks of you. And from him who takes away your goods do not ask them back. And just as you want men to do to you, you also do to them likewise (Luke 6:27-31)’. Our noblesse oblige exorcised slavery, misogyny and every other vile artifact proper to Satan from this world. Islam culls the opposite. No reconciliation can be had when one is the antithesis to the other.

[packernet]

New Post has been published on https://www.packernet.com/blog/2023/04/24/a-new-era-in-green-bay/

A new era in Green Bay

It’s finally official, Aaron Rodgers is a New York Jet. Packers’ general manager Brian Gutekunst has now completely overturned the Green Bay Packers. With help of team president Mark Murphy, or course. Long time head coach Mike McCarthy is gone. And now the legendary quarterback is gone. This is fully Gutekunst’s team moving forward.

One of the reasons Gutekunst stated for the trade was the Packers 8-9 record last year. “We need to get better,” he said. Certainly getting better includes the added draft compensation, but it’s clear the Packers saw the same Aaron Rodgers last year that I saw. But that is all water under the bridge now. The Jets will, for at least one year, get a quarterback the Packers didn’t get last year. One that attends the offseason activities to build chemistry with his new team.

I would imagine the odds to win the Super Bowl are going to change dramatically at Caesars NJ sportsbook. The Jets are going to be primetime darlings now. Might want to move fast or try one of the many other games available.

The road to the playoffs favors the Packers

We’ll see how it plays out, but for those who think the Jets are all of sudden a Super Bowl favorite, I have a house in Tuscany for sale. DM me. I think the Packers have a better chance to be there than the Jets. The Packers certainly have the easiest path to a division title. The AFC East has the Buffalo Bills, perennial Super Bowl challengers who you have to think will break through one of these years. The Dolphins made the playoffs last year and the Patriots will always be dangerous as long as Bill Belichick is head coach.

The NFC North doesn’t have anybody the likes of the Bills for the Packers to content with. The current favorite is the Detroit Lions. That pretty much is all you need to know about the NFC North. The Vikings showed they were paper champions in the playoffs last year. And the Bears are always going to Bear. Jordan Love will feast on them the same way his two predecessors did. I already bet on the Packers to win the division and I believe they will.

Maybe Pennsylvania NFL betting will have better odds for the Packers. But if not there are a wide variety of NFL betting options available. Jordan Love for MVP maybe?

Top three for sure

Rodgers will obviously go down as one of the best quarterbacks in Green Bay Packers’ history. I will put him number three. Bart Starr won five championships in seven years, that’s a no brainer. And I put Brett Favre ahead of Rodgers. They both had similar careers but Favre went to two Super Bowls and I think he did more with less. It’s a close call, though.

Other than the Super Bowl run in 2010 my favorite memories are mostly the wins over the Bears. The pass to Randall Cobb to win the division in 2013. Coming back from 20 down with 9:14 left in the third quarter to beat the Bears on a broken ankle. The hail-mary to beat the Lions. 2011 would have to be my pick for his finest season.

This is a very exciting time to be a Packers’ fan. We (as an owner, I can say we) have a young coach with four years experience now and a proven winner. Love will have some young weapons to grow with in Christian Watson, Romeo Doubs and others. And don’t ever forget the value Aaron Jones brings to the table. He is really the straw that stirs the Packers’ drink. If 33 is on the field, the Packers offense will be just fine. They do need to find a backup in his mold, though, but that is a story for later this week.

It’s going to fun getting to know Jordan Love and watching all the things head coach Matt LaFleur has up his sleeve for him. Get your popcorn ready!

[sisterspooky1013]

More Than A Feeling, Chapter 3

Rated X | Read it here on AO3

The sun sits high in a cloudless sky just before noon, the murmur of hundreds of voices seeping through the chain link fence that surrounds the fairgrounds as crowds gather in wait of opening day. The rides stand still and proud, each bolt and screw carefully installed, inspected, and tested by the crew, who sip ginger ale to calm their agitated bellies. The oil in the deep fryers is hot, the long curls of fries carved from impossibly large potatoes standing at the ready for their bath, while plain white sugar waits for its chance to be spun and dyed electric pink or baby blue. Each joint booth has been carefully hung with plush that sticks out into the Midway so it catches the eye of awestruck children and haughty teenagers, the agents ready with aprons full of change and the ability to tell a mark from a rube from an honest customer who’s just looking for a good time. Everything is ready; all they have left to do is open the front gates.

Mulder sits on an overturned milk crate, pulling deep breaths in through his nose and pushing them out through his mouth as he steals glances at Scully. She’s leaning against the side of the ticket booth, talking and laughing with Summer and Picker, her coveralls half undone and tied around her hips as the full heat of the day presses down on her bare shoulders around her tank top. She is, unsurprisingly, unaffected by the spin of the Music Fest or the swing of the Viking, and he has half a mind to tell her to put some sunscreen on that lily white skin, if not for the tumult in his gut and the fact that she’d probably tell him to fuck off just to keep their cover.

Tami steps out of what she calls her office, which is a small trailer towed by a pickup truck, and claps her hands, then rubs them together like she’s up to something devious. Jean stands from her seat in the shade of a joint booth and cups her hands around her mouth.

“SHOWTIME!” she hollers impressively loudly, and everyone scrambles to their feet or away from wherever they’d been leaning, gathering around the main entrance.

Mulder follows the lead of the other staff, lining the entryway to the park on either side to create a human tunnel that customers will walk through as they enter, corralling them towards either the ticket booth or the midway. Tami steps into the ticket booth and fidgets with the sound system until the familiar opening chords of “More Than a Feeling” tinkle through the monstrous speakers that are aimed at the entrance. She then runs out to the front gate, pulling it open and stepping aside as streams of smiling and excited customers push into the human tunnel and line up at the ticket booth or set out on the midway. Mulder mirrors what he sees others doing: welcoming people to the show, waving at beaming children, and tossing out empty recommendations like, “You gotta try the elephant ears,” or, “You look like you’d be able to stomach the Ring of Fire.” There is an air of excitement and promise, and the unadulterated joy of a once-a-year opportunity to eat junk and then get so sick you throw it all up, and walk out the door with a comically large teddy bear under your arm. The first wave of customers starts to thin out, and the ride jocks make their way back to their dog houses, ready to take tickets and dodge puke.

“First show?” asks the man beside him, who is taller even than he with weathered ochre skin and black square-rimmed glasses.

“Is it that obvious?” Mulder replies with a nervous smile, and the man nods knowingly.

“You look a little green,” the man says.

“Just started yesterday,” Mulder says, stuffing his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels.

“No, I mean sick. You don’t have to test the rides if you don’t have the stomach for it, son.”

Mulder feels his cheeks warm and nods gratefully. “Luke,” he says, extending his hand.

“Lenny,” the man says as he clutches Mulder’s hand and then pats him on the back with his other one. “I’m in charge of the joints. That’s what we call the games.”

“Any other advice you can offer a newbie?” Mulder asks.

“Yeah,” Lenny says, beginning to walk away. “If anyone asks you to find the key to the midway, tell ‘em to piss up a rope.”

Mulder doesn’t understand what that means, but he nods anyway, and then heads back to the cook trailer.

-

Within fifteen minutes of the gates opening, Scully’s walkie-talkie squawks and a warbled voice reports that the Chump Churner is making a weird noise.

“Mother fuck,” Summer says through her teeth, kicking the leg of a picnic table and cocking her head in indication that Scully should follow her as she takes off into the crowd.

“What’s a Chump Churner?” Scully asks as they weave through customers to take the quickest route to the back of the show.

“The Ferris Wheel,” Summer answers. “There’s nothing wrong with it, it’s just friction between the bearings and the spindle, but anything making a noise scares customers. We greased the shit out of that son of a bitch this morning but apparently it wasn’t enough.”

By the time they arrive at the ferris wheel, a long line of customers is grumbling at the “out of order” sign hung at the entrance, and the ride jock, Mickey, is practically shooting daggers out of his eyes.

“Do not fucking look at me like that, Mickey,” Summer warns him with a finger pointed at his face, and he bristles.

Summer goes straight to the main support of the ride, which hosts a criss-cross of metal bars that double as a ladder, and starts climbing towards the spindle at the center of the wheel. Scully looks around self-consciously at her large audience, the music pumping from the speaker mounted on the spindle vibrating her eardrums, and feels a sudden wave of nervousness. She’s used to death-defying stunts, but not with so many eyes on her.

“Time’s a wastin, Penny,” Summer calls down, and despite her nerves Scully begins to climb.

Within ten minutes, they’ve applied “enough axle grease to drown a hooker,” in Summer’s words, and are back on the ground so Mickey can start up the ride and verify that the concerning noise has been eliminated. Mickey pulls the “out of order” sign off the gate and the line cheers enthusiastically as Summer and Scully head back to the maintenance trailer.

“Is that pretty typical?” Scully asks, and Summer casts her an amused smirk.

“It happens enough that it keeps us employed full time,” she says, and Scully accepts this with a shrug.

“Sometimes we get a quiet day where things seem to go right, and then we get to fuck around a bit, but that usually only happens when it…” Summer stops walking and looks around, then steps close and brings her lips to Scully’s ear. “When it rains,” she says conspiratorially, then moves away and starts walking again. “Don’t ever let Tami or Jean hear you say the R word,” she cautions. “They think it’s bad luck to even talk about it.”

“Any other rules I should know about?” Scully asks.

“Aside from shit that should be obvious like not being drunk or high while the show is open, don’t let Tami hear a single note of a song that wasn’t released between 1970 and 1979,” Summer says with no trace of sarcasm.

“Oh,” Scully remarks with a mix of surprise and realization. “It’s by design that every song I’ve heard here is from the seventies?”

“Tami’s grand design, yes. She firmly believes that all other music is, and I quote, ‘tone-deaf garbage.’”

“Well, there was a lot of good music in the seventies, at least,” Scully says optimistically, and Summer barks a humorless laugh.

“See if you still feel that way when you’ve been here a full season,” she quips.

Before they’ve made it back to the maintenance trailer, they are called to look at a bumper car that’s sitting motionless in the middle of the rink.

-

“You got things under control here, Buddy Boy?”

Mulder lifts his head to see Madge leaning heavily against the door of the cook trailer, one eye squeezed shut.

“Uh, yeah, I think so,” he answers, looking around at the colossal mess he’s made working on dinner prep.

“Good, good. I’m gonna go lie down for a few minutes, okay? I’ll be back soon,” she says, her breathing labored.

“You okay?” he asks with genuine concern, and she waves her hand dismissively.

“I’m fine, just a spell. Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone.”

She slowly makes her way toward the boneyard, and Mulder sticks his head out of the cook trailer door to watch her until she disappears into her camper. Satisfied that she made it safely, he turns back to the list she made for him and realizes he’s finished, aside from cleanup. He pokes his head out again to see if anyone is sitting at the picnic tables and, seeing no one, he pulls the door to the trailer closed.

He begins opening drawers and cupboards, not quite sure what he’s looking for. He finds every cooking and serving utensil imaginable, pots, pans, and small appliances. Near the front of the trailer where it narrows above the tow hitch, he finds a drawer full of miscellaneous odds and ends: pens, scraps of paper, receipts from grocery stores and gas stations. There are lighters, cigarettes, nail clippers, sunscreen, and time-worn sheets of carbon paper detailing oil changes on Madge’s truck and maintenance done on the trailer. Underneath all the junk, he finds a photograph of a much younger Madge standing beside a young man with shaggy brown hair and a patchy mustache. Madge has her arm wrapped around his waist and she’s smiling broadly, while the young man looks wan and gaunt, his cheeks drawn and his skin pock-marked. He doesn’t look well.

The door to the trailer snaps open, and he shoves the photograph back into the drawer and closes it quickly, scurrying towards the prep area as Tami heaves an overflowing paper sack up and onto the floor.

“Here’s those condiments you asked for, Ma—” she starts, but then sees that it’s not Madge she’s addressing. “Sorry, what was your name again?” she asks with an apologetic cringe.

“Luke,” Mulder says with a smile, his heart rate slowing as he concludes that she hadn’t noticed nor wondered what he was doing when she walked in.

“Luke, right,” Tami repeats. “Glad to have you with us.”

-

Monday is the final night of their week in St. Joseph, and the crowd pops at 6:00 pm after parents get off work and agree to bring the kids out one last time before they lose the opportunity for a full year. At midnight, the music cuts and the flashing lights dim to nothing, only the glaring safety lights left to guide customers back to their cars. Agents begin to pack up their plush and everyone takes a break before the back-breaking and nonstop work of slough commences, and then the jump to Kansas City.

Scully is already waiting on the grassy knoll when Mulder makes his way over, lying on her back with her hands folded over her belly and her eyes on the starry night sky. He sits heavy beside her and she pushes up onto her elbows, looking curiously at the plate in his hands.

“Whatcha got there?” she asks with a hungry look in her eye, and he moves the plate away a bit.

“Madge asked me,” he says, and then pauses to clear his throat and affect an impersonation of Madge’s lopsided husk, “does that little lady of yours like peanut butter, Buddy Boy?”

“She does,” Scully says with an edge of irritation. “Hand it over.”

“Now hold on, Penny, I need you to know that I told Madge that the little lady does like peanut butter, but only creamy.”

“And?” Scully asks, her eyes ready to roll.

“Peanut butter and jelly pie sticks. Creamy,” he says with a flourish, moving the plate close enough for her to pluck one of the lolly-pop-esque treats off the plate with child-like wonder.

She takes a big bite and then closes her eyes and hums with satisfaction. Mulder watches her, gratified by her enjoyment of his cooking, which is an unexpected upside to this assignment.

“You know I’m going to make you cook things like this for me after we go home, right?” she tells him, wiping a bit of jelly off the corner of her mouth.

“I’m not sure I can produce the same results without Madge’s oversight, but I’ll give it my best shot. Looks like that might be tomorrow, huh?” he says, taking a bite out of his own little pie on a stick.

“Looks like it,” she agrees.

They haven’t gotten any indication either way regarding their continued employment, and with tonight being the last in St. Joseph it’s looking like they will receive their pay for the week and fly home to Washington with nothing to show. Chris, Damian and themselves are all alive and well, and while there are many gruff characters working for the carnival, none have demonstrated a proclivity towards homicidal tendencies, at least not that Scully and Mulder have been able to garner in the stolen moments between the real, hard work they’ve been performing.

A twenty something blonde woman struts by and winks at Mulder before shooting Scully a dirty look, to which Scully scoffs.

“Friend of yours?” she asks, and Mulder turns to look at her incredulously.

“Becky? The kissing booth girl? Is it anti-feminist to say I’m not interested in a woman who kisses strangers for a fin?” he asks reticently, using one of the many “carny cant” terms they’ve learned, this one representing five dollars.

Scully shakes her head dismissively. “Summer said that joint is gaffed, no one actually wins a kiss.”

“I’ve definitely seen her kissing a customer,” Mulder retorts.

“It’s always the same guy, that agent from the bottle game. He just knows how to get around the gaff and make it look like he won so the customers don’t get pissed,” Scully explains, and Mulder considers this.

“Would you kiss a stranger for a fin?” he asks, and she balks.

“I wouldn’t kiss a stranger for a double,” she says emphatically, “or even a half yard.”

“A yard?” he asks, upping the ante to one-hundred dollars.

Scully considers this. “Is he cute?”

“Who?” Mulder asks.

“The stranger,” she replies.

“It’s a hypothetical question, Penny. He doesn’t exist,” he says dryly.

Scully shrugs. “I guess it depends. If he’s cute…maybe for a yard.”

Mulder shakes his head, which she interprets as judgment.

“You wouldn’t? For a yard?” she asks.

“Oh, I’d do it for a fin,” he quips, and she slaps his arm.

Jean approaches, breathless and carrying a large flashlight.

“Hey lovebirds,” she teases, though by now they’ve become used to people commenting on what reads as a romantic connection between them that they’ve neither bothered to confirm nor deny. “Tami’s looking for ya, head on over to her office soon, okay?”

“Roger that, Jean,” Mulder says as he collects both he and Scully’s pie sticks and stands, then tows her up to stand as well.

They walk side by side across the darkened grounds, the buzz of the flood lights ringing in their ears. The constant noise from the rides, games, and customers starts to become unnoticeable after a few days, and it’s only when they stop that she realizes you can hear the chirp of crickets and the hush of highway traffic. A skinny yellow lab gallops up to them, and Mulder gives him a few pats on the head before telling him to go on. Summer told her they see a lot of strays hanging around no matter where they go, and figures they must follow the smell of the food until they end up at the fairgrounds.

When they enter Tami’s office, they find Chris and Damian already waiting in the two available chairs, so they stand awkwardly in the doorway of the small space. Tami is behind the desk, her hair wrapped up in a silk bonnet, and a Carhartt coat that is at least two sizes too big hangs from her shoulders.

“Okay, everybody’s here,” Tami says, collecting a stack of pre-filled checks in her hands. “Chris, Damian, you’ve done good, hard work this week. I thank you for your time, but we won’t be needing your services after tonight. You can clear out your bunks and head on home.”

Damian looks disappointed while Chris looks relieved, and they accept the proffered checks before leaving the trailer. Mulder and Scully remain standing, ready to take their own checks and go, but Tami gestures to the empty seats until they drop into them and look at her expectantly.

“Penelope and Luke, I hear great things from Summer and Madge. You’ve both got a lot of potential, and if you’re interested I’d like to invite you to go on with us to Kansas City. This isn’t a guarantee of full-season employment, but as long as you keep doing good work you should have the opportunity to stay on through September, if you’d like to.”

There is a beat of silence, and Tami narrows her eyes while a smile plays on her mouth, trying to discern whether they are pleasantly or unpleasantly surprised. Finally, Mulder speaks.

“Absolutely, Tami, thank you for the opportunity. I’d love to stay on,” he says.

“Me too,” Scully pipes in, remembering that this is the desired outcome. “That sounds great, thank you.”

“Perfect,” Tami says triumphantly. “This means you’ll help with slough. Nobody sleeps until we get the show loaded up and on the road to Kansas City. Penny, you’ll have to drive your trailer over there but Luke should be able to get some shut eye on the ride at least.”

“I can ride with Penny so we can drive in shifts,” Mulder offers, and Scully shoots him a look that tells him it was a too-familiar offer–Mulder speaking, not Luke. “If you want, I mean. Your call,” he adds, feigning disinterest.

“We’ll see,” Scully says, seeming similarly uninvested.

“It's only an hour to KC from here,” Tami comments, confused by the tension in the conversation. “Now that you’re regular crew, you’ll get a day off each week after we set up for opening at the new spot. If you need something to get you through slough, Picker is flush with beanies. Just don’t overdo it and get wiggy on me.”

They both nod, mutually understanding that whatever beanies are, they don’t want them.

“That’s it, get outta here and get to sloughin’,” Tami says with a wave of her arms, and they exit into the cool night.

On their way back towards the maintenance shed, in search of Summer and some direction regarding how they might go about assisting with slough, Scully sees the Princess Doraldina fortune teller machine sitting on a hand truck.

“Oh, have you seen this?” she says to Mulder, uncoiling the cord from the side of the machine and plugging it into a nearby power strip.

Mulder shoots her a skeptical look. “Have you gone to the dark side, Penny?” he asks, and she rolls her eyes.

“You know I don’t believe in it, it’s just fun. Do you have a nickel?”

Mulder fishes one out of his pocket and pops it into the machine, and they watch Doraldina begin to turn her head and wave her arm, her lifelike breathing making Mulder stick out his lower lip in a show of being impressed. The card pops out of the bottom and he reaches down to retrieve it.

“What does it say?” Scully asks, but as he opens his mouth to answer, Summer yells at them from several yards away.

“No, no no no, Penny, what are you doing?!” Summer says angrily, and they both turn to watch as she yanks the cord out of the power strip and moves to stand between Mulder and Doraldina.

“I was just showing him the fortune teller,” Scully explains, confused by Summer’s demeanor.

“I told you I don’t like just anyone touching her,” Summer says indignantly, leveling a glare on Mulder. “I don’t fucking know this guy.”

“I’m Luke, we’ve met several times,” Mulder says, confused.

“He’s my friend, Summer, it’s okay. He won’t do anything to her,” Scully elaborates, anthropomorphizing the machine as she’s heard Summer do.

“Did you put a nickel in?” Summer asks Mulder, and he nods, holding up the fortune.

“Cool. Don’t touch my shit again,” Summer spits at him, then strides off.

“I thought you said she seems even-keeled,” Mulder says to Scully as they watch Summer fade into the dark of night, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“She did,” Scully defends. “Until now.”

-

Twelve long hours later, the trucks are fully loaded and on the road to Kansas City. They, along with the crew in their personal vehicles, follow the directional arrows Jean left along the way when she set out hours ago to plot out the new site and clear the last of the permits needed for the show. Mulder sits behind the wheel of Scully’s pickup truck, the radio on low though he suspects not even a marching band in the seat beside her could wake her right now. Somewhere around 4:00 am they started to understand why beanies, or amphetamines, are a standard part of slough as the bone deep tired of a full day and then a full night of manual labor hit them. He being the one who fares better on lack of sleep made him the obvious choice for the one-hour drive to Kansas City, and Scully was asleep before they got to the highway.

He glances over at her, pink-cheeked from too much sun with remnants of grease still streaking her cheeks as she hasn’t yet showered and won’t have the chance to until the bunkhouse is set up at the new site. While the feeling he should have had when learning that they’d be staying on with the show is accomplishment for a job well done, he found that he was mostly just happy to get to continue seeing her this way: unpolished, dirty, rough around the edges. Some version of herself that he still hasn’t pinpointed as playing a part or just fully letting her guard down. Their midnight meetings on the grassy knoll quickly became his favorite part of the day, and the relentless teasing from other staff over their alleged budding romance made his heart swell as Scully blushed demurely. He feels like he doesn’t have to be so careful here, careful about what he says and does in her presence, how he touches her. He feels like he can just let his instincts drive, and those instincts tell him to soak up every second of her time he can manage, but not for any reason other than the joy of being near her.

She pulls in a deep breath, adjusting her head on the makeshift pillow she’s created out of a balled up sweatshirt and crammed against the door jam. He plucks the card he got from the fortune teller machine out of his breast pocket and taps it against the steering wheel, considering its meaning for at least the hundredth time since he got it.

True happiness lies on the other side of a leap of faith—if you are willing to risk the fall.

He puts the card back in his pocket, rolling his neck side to side for the stretch. The thing is, he’s willing to risk just about anything for a chance at something more with her, but he’s afraid that the one thing he isn’t willing to risk is the exact thing he’ll lose if he does take that leap. Her friendship, her trust, her presence in his life. He’s never understood the meaning of a catch 22 more than now, as he looks down the double barrel of this particular gun. One chamber holds the potential of getting to love Scully the way he truly wants to, and the other holds losing her altogether. The only way to find out which barrel will fire is to pull the trigger, to leap.

He knows he’ll do it, he has to. It’s become clear that it’s only a matter of when.

Tagging @today-in-fic

[lazarettta]

Misthios II

Characters (Mother Miranda, Reader, Lady Alcina)

Word count (3.1k)

Rating (M)

Warning (little NSFW, language)

Did you really think that Miranda was going to let you leave so easily? Again?

Anything italicized is a flashback...this is part two to Misthios

Your time with the Vikings was fun but all good things had to come to an end. Over the years, you hadn't been too keen on letting too many people in on your secret. Your friends and makeshift family were getting older and you weren't. You were still fit for battle and as young and strong as you were twelve years ago. You knew that you'd overstayed your welcome but you weren't ready to leave until there were too many comments about you not aging a day. It had taken you a week to get your steed ready for long travel and to make sure that you had everything necessary, including the coin to purchase more supplies should you need it.

You weren't above doing odd jobs during your travels if needed. The viking children ran alongside you and your stallion as you both trotted out of the village until you were on an open road. You saluted them before taking off into a run following the lead of your war horse, allowing her to dictate your travels until she decided that she needed a break.

You had all of the time and opportunity in the land.

You traveled like that for a few days until you were coming upon a village but the path was winding and would take some time but you had plenty of daylight and were in no rush. Everything was peaceful until you came across an overturned wagon and nearly trampled over a body laying face down into the soft ground. The dark puddle around him did not indicate that the man would be rising soon.

You were quick to draw your bow and arrow, a good distance from the fight and you had an advantage in case any of them came for you. There was a black flag on the ground near the wagon but it held an insignia that you didn't recognize but you knew royalty when you saw it. The soldiers had the upper hand but there were a few of them dead as well. On the other side, you saw one of the bandits jump on the back of a horse to leave.

Without much of a thought, you raised your weapon of choice and not a second later, you felt the smooth wood of the arrow slip between your calloused fingers and you watched proudly as it found a home in the base of the man's spine, effectively halting his escape but leaving him alive for the time being but he was not without suffering.

It was at that same moment the last bandit was struck down. The remaining soldiers turned to you with their swords raised but before anything else could happen, a sharp and clear but decidedly feminine voice stopped the misunderstanding before it could happen.

A woman with light-colored long hair stepped from behind a large oak tree with two foot soldiers in tow. She didn't seem to care about the ends of her dress being sullied by the mud and blood on the trail as she made her way towards you. You climbed down from your horse when she was closer, not surprised that you were taller than she was but she wasn't that much shorter than you really.

Most other women you met that were your height or taller were fellow warriors. Her eyes were what really startled you, they were so clear they were almost white. They did not have a clear color to them, not one that you could see.

“You are a very long way from home, Viking.”

“Yes, in search of a new one.” you glanced over her shoulder briefly to the soldiers dealing with the one who tried to escape, his agonized yelling startling a nest of crows nearby.

“You don't seem like the type to miss a killing shot.”

Your gaze fell back to her unwavering one and you fought the urge to fidget under her stare even though you were the one towering over her. Her posture was none threatening and her smile had a teasing tilt to it, but her eyes...they pierced your soul, pinned you. You were unsure if you wanted to run from them or figure out how deep they went.

“I figured your King and Queen would want one alive to question.”

“The King has been dead for a long time now.” The woman tilted her head back slightly as if looking at you in a new light and you straightened your back and pushed your shoulders subconsciously and the corners of her pale lips curled a little more. “Have dinner with me tonight, viking, as a token of my gratitude. Those bandits have been quite a torn in my side for a very long time now. Thanks to you, maybe now I will find their leader.”

~~

The physical ache you felt when waking up was around your throat, well your whole neck. Your skin had long since healed over but it took the aches and bruises a while longer to go away. You don't know how long you've been unconscious but even without opening your eyes you knew that you were no longer outside on the side of a mountain which meant that she didn't kill you. But she still hurt you. You didn't know if she showed restraint because you both knew that killing you would be pointless and temporary or she truly didn't want to see you harm even if she was upset with you. You knew that it was the former.

Upset being the understatement.

You opened one eye then the other, wherever she put you it was warm if not a little moldy and it was definitely dark, you weren't quite sure if the torch on the other side of your cage helped any. Maybe it wasn't meant for you to use to see but to ensure that you wouldn't go completely insane in total darkness. It made more sense, you wouldn't want your prisoner to look around either lest they find something to use to escape.

You moved so that your back was against the stone wall, mildly surprised to find that it was a little damp. Your neck was still covered in dried blood but you didn't bother trying to scrape it off, knowing from experience that it wasn't the most pleasant feeling and one you chose not to deal with at the moment though you did pick away the random straws of hay from your skin as you'd been laying on it.

If you had to guess then you were in a basement, whether it was hers or not—you couldn't just sit there. Your backpack was long gone, you didn't have to look around your little cage to know that much. You checked for your gun not surprised to find that it was gone...she even took the damn holster.

You checked for your knife on your waist...gone. You checked the one that was hidden in your boots, or was supposed to be but it was gone too. Even after all this time, she knew you all too well. But even without weapons, a small cage like this wouldn't be enough to keep you. You just needed a plan but you had no idea where the hell you were. You reached up to feel your neck where you remembered her nails digging painfully into your flesh...

Gold plated armor, soft leathers and the finest silk that currency could purchase found themselves haphazardly tossed about all over the floor of the room. They reflected nicely against the small flames of the candles around the room.

The room was temporary, a small stop during your travels across the sea—this was merely a supply stop, but with the weather so severe, the waves were slaves to Poseidon's wrath. The ship was safer docked but she wouldn’t spend another night on board if she didn’t have to.

And didn’t, neither of you did. You were her personal champion—you went where she went. She pointed, and you left a path of bloody boot prints. Her wish was your command.

She laid bare before you, it wasn’t a sight that many were blessed with and no matter what sin you’ve committed at this woman’s whim (hell, even your own), you always thanked the Gods for giving you sight.

The fireplace is the only thing lighting up the entire room behind you both, you could feel the heat of it drying up your sweat but not all of it. You were straddling her, knees on either side of her waist—one hand on her waist and the other by her head, fingers interlaced with the hand that wasn’t reaching back clutching you tight, nails digging into your skin but that slight pain only fueled you.

Her light hair was out of its strict confines and complicated royal hairstyle, now splayed across her blemish free back and the pillows.

This was your reward; having her. You did exactly as she asked, you brought her the heads of those who crossed her and bathed in their blood and in the blood of their loved ones. You left no stone unturned simply because it was her wish.

And in return…you got her, however you wanted. But even trapped underneath you—she was never not in command. You placed your other hand next to her head as well, feeling her cool breath ghosting over your fingers turn sharp and unsteady when your hips snapped forward without warning. Her fingers tightening around yours. She tried to push back against you to take back some control but you met her attempt with untamed energy. Miranda's breathy chuckle tapered off into a mix of a growl and a moan when you did it again and again…

Shaking your head, you let it fall back on the hard wall behind you with your eyes closed. You've longed since buried those memories but they were fresh, as if they were made yesterday. The ache in your heart felt fresh too.

Then you felt it. No you felt her. Her presence was so strong, nearly suffocating and that feeling of dread was crawling up your spine again and you suppressed a strong shudder. You reluctantly opened your eyes, knowing that those eyes you fell so hard for would be looking back at you—the same eyes that tore to shreds. Even after all this fucking time...

You exhaled slowly and heavy, content to just stare at your boots, “I didn't expect to find you here of all places...”

“Would you have come if you'd known that I would be here?”

You looked up and saw that her startling bright eyes were staring back at you, still just as clear as the day you first met, “Why am I in this cage and not dead in a ditch? Besides the fucking obvious.”

She didn't say anything to you for a moment, simply standing there staring at you—drinking you in, it made your skin crawl, both good and bad. If she was bothered about you blatantly ignoring her question, it didn't show—or at least that damn mask she was wearing hid it away from you. All those emotions you'd long since buried and thought you dealt with came bubbling back to the surface like bile in the back of your throat but you kept a tight rein on it. Your explosive temper never dulled over time but you got better at containing it.

But no matter how good you were with restraining yourself, Miranda always knew. You could see it in her eyes. You hated her for it.

“I felt you the moment you arrived.” she said instead after long minutes of unblinking silence, she edged closer to your cell, unconcerned with the fact that you could lunge forward at any point and grab her. “I'm relieved to find you're still alive...and in good health?”

“Either kill me and ditch me somewhere, or just let me go, Miranda. I'm not doing this with you.”

“I cannot and will not do either, (Y/n).” she responded coolly after another minute of silence, keeping your gaze now that you've given it to her, “I just got you back, I'm not going to let you leave me so soon. Not again.”

“You didn't really give me a choice the first time!” you snapped back despite what you told yourself earlier about keeping calm and breathing, but seeing Miranda now—even more beautiful than she was before? It was too much at once. “You made that decision for both of us.” you said, much more quieter but she was close enough to have heard you perfectly fine and you were finally able to look away from those burning eyes.

“You're different.”

“The world is different.”

“Time has made you soft.”

You scoffed, “Would you like to borrow some of it? I mean...what the fuck is this? Where am I?” She regarded you calmly as if she was assessing you, but her eyes were roaming too much to be a simple assessment and you just laughed, sharp and unforgiving, you couldn't help yourself, “Do you feel guilty? Did you ever?”

“I don't have time to feel guilty!” she answered a little too quickly and you saw how her shoulders shifted slightly beneath those feathers, always a tell sign of hers that you never failed to notice and honestly you were surprised that you still even remembered her tales. She was so obviously different, you both were but this dance? While off tune and tense, was still your dance.

“Right, I see.” you tried to ignore it, you really did, but a little piece of your heart fell away at her admission because there was still a small part of you that still longed for closure.

“(Y/n)...”

“Do you even remember what you're supposed to even feel guilty for?”

“Stop it! You're not being fair!” she growled at you, pressing closer against the bars—if she pushed anymore she'd probably break the damn things, or materialize right through them but that didn't stop you from scrambling to your feet to meet her head on, refusing to let her have the full advantage.

“Neither were you! I...” you stopped abruptly, literally choking on your words and you forced yourself to close your mouth and Miranda watched every single emotion drain from your face as if you had flipped a switch and her hands balled into even tighter fists at her sides, unsure what to say and you had nothing left to say.

You two stood staring at each other, once again. Eyes locked but not a word more was said. She reached up, one hand wrapping around an old iron bar, her engraved golden nails clinking softly against the metal.

“Mother Miranda.” a firm but sinewy voice echoed around you both, calling for your attention and it was feminine but you couldn't see who it belonged to. She was just out of range of the cell entrance and you'd have to move closer to Miranda to see who it belonged to—and that wasn't something you were interested in doing, “I apologize for the interruption...but we have a problem.”

“What.” Miranda hissed, her voice no longer soft and velvet—the only way you could describe it was deity like. Stronger, harsher and it would've been scarier if you didn't know the woman behind the mask.

“That fool Heisenberg let that man thing escape the forest and he's now roaming in the village.”

“I see.” Miranda's eyes fell to you again, radiating more power than they did earlier. You'd been so busy arguing with her, you hadn't heard the other woman approach and you wondered how much of that she actually overheard, “When you are ready to talk, I will be waiting for you, my little warrior.”

“Stop calling me that!” you spat, glaring at her irritatingly, “I'm not your anything...perhaps your enemy. You'd do better by just letting me leave, Miranda because you and I both know that killing me isn't an option.”

“And I already told you. I'm not letting you leave me, not again.” she was suddenly right in front of you, inside of the iron cage and you had no fucking idea how she did that but she was too close but the stone wall behind you didn't give away, no matter how hard you pressed. Her eyes were softer now, and you actually had to crane your neck a bit to see them, even at an even six feet, “Learn the truth then you decide if you wish to leave or to stay.”

“The truth?” you scoffed, well aware that you two still weren't alone, “The truth has long since past to be of any interest to me.” you lied straight through your teeth all the while looking into her eyes, you saw a speck of emotion but it was hard to tell when they were so alive, “I don't care about your truth anymore, Miranda.”

“You may not...but I do. Did our love mean nothing to you?” you both ignored the startled noise behind you, “All those late nights and early mornings? I think about them often when this life permits me to...I...do have regrets, (Y/n)...and wishes, most never granted.” she admitted, quietly—her deity voice gone for the moment, “One of my biggest regrets and my biggest wish was you, (Y/n).”

You didn't know how to unpack that in this moment because Miranda suddenly had both her hands on the wall, trapping you as she leaned closer—you knew what she was doing, hell she even knew what she was fucking doing? Was it working? Like the fool you were—it was.

“Allow me time to settle this issue and then we will talk, (Y/n).”

You could see the uncertainty in her eyes, and you almost told her to go fuck herself...it was on the tip of your tongue but your heart was still as stupid as it was thousands of years ago. You kept your lips firmly pressed together, but nodded curtly almost reluctantly. She didn't smile, not really, but that familiar curve of her lips made you tense a little. You were a fucking idiot, and you knew it.

“Lady Dimitrescu will house you. I will send for you when I am ready.” she lingered for a second longer, seeming to want to say more. Suddenly she pushed herself away from you and walking out of your cell with ease, pushing the heavy door out of her way leaving you bewildered.

Had it been unlocked this whole time? She hadn't even bothered to retrain you, but she knew you wouldn't make a move because now she had now something to keep you behaved long enough and you agreed to it.

Ayyye Alcinnaaaa! Idk who's playing but Donna's house scary as shit. Y'all fuck with this story?

[everlarkficexchange]

the song of my heart (plays in you)

Written by: @thelettersfromnoone

Prompt 108: Everlark fall for one another over a blood transfusion. It happens not once, but twice. His blood runs through her veins, and now hers runs through his. What are the odds they would save each other’s lives? [submitted by @mandelion82]

Rated: Teen and up; mentions of: car wrecks, physical and mental trauma, amputation.

Tags: One-shot, Soulmates, Time Jump(s), Blood-Oaths.

Word count: 2342.

Notes: Unbetaed. All mistakes are my own. Thanks to @javistg and @xerxia31 for being amazing hosts for this exchange ❤️

“The blood [of the covenant] is thicker than [the] water [of the womb].”

“Mama, tell the story again?” Grey eyes peek up shyly through dark eyelashes, fingers curling the folds of her mother’s nightgown. “ ‘bout the dream-people?”

“It’s late, darlin’,” Mama murmurs with a soft smile. She presses a kiss to her daughter’s brow. “Papa will tell the long version tomorrow, hm?”

The girl’s lower lip pops out in a pout- papa is the better storyteller, but she wants to hear the story tonight. She snuggles against her mama’s belly, whispering a ‘night-night’ to the baby they say is growing in there.

“There once was a boy who was called to war, to fight for a king in a land far from home. Though he survived many times in battle, one day, an enemy struck him, and he was hurt, something terrible. At death’s door, his friends brought him to a healer’s house, who saved his life. As he recovered, he grew to love the healer’s daughter, and she grew to love him. In time, when he was recovered, his king came calling on him again. Before he left, the boy and the healer’s daughter made a blood-oath. They drew their own blood, and held their wounds against one another. They vowed that, from that moment until they met again, the song of their blood would call out for one another, no matter how far.”

Her little hand reaches over to mama’s, pressing their palms flush. “Like this?”

“Mhm,” Mama interlaces their fingers, kissing her daughter’s knuckles. “Just like this. Every night, while he was away, all they needed to do was close their eyes, and they could feel one another’s feelings, and see through one another’s eyes.”

“Till forever?” The little girl’s eyes are growing heavy, a yawn coming in spite of her best efforts. “Mama, it’s til’ forever, right?”

Mama doesn’t answer straight away. When she does, it’s soft as a butterfly’s flight; “Till forever, until they found each other again.”

The little girl’s breathing evens out, eyes slipping shut. 

(She’s always wanting a happy ending.)

She’s twelve and using the computer unsupervised the first time she looks it up on a whim. She is meant to be researching poetry, but that quickly becomes dull. 

Instead, the rabbit hole of the web sucks her in.

According to the internet page that comes up, a Blood-Oath Soulmate is defined as a myth, steeped in legend: a couple who, when faced with separation, make a blood-oath that allows them to see, hear, and feel one another across the thousands of miles. 

The origin, exactly, is unclear. It’s a myth with several cultural variants- in her own region, Twelve, and in the northern regions of Åtta, Tio, and Tretton, the war is won, and the boy returns to the healer’s daughter. By contrast, in the southwest, they say the boy earned a glorious warrior’s death, and the girl grieves but honors his memory. In almost all the other regions, the myth is drawn out, many side-adventures and evils hinder the boy’s path home, and by the time the boy finds his way back to his love, amidst a continent of misery, they both are old and grey. It’s not clear where the myth started, some say it’s a retelling of an old Sumerian tale; others, that it comes from Viking oral lore. Some, still, argue that they all are true, that the same fate spreads itself throughout time, throughout the world, in different ways. 

All modern experts, essentially, concur on the matter of the story’s implausibility. The human body replenishes its blood count within weeks, one discussion board points out.

It was just a myth to make humans feel their love could be impermeable, or withstand the tests of distance and challenges, claims another. Or, one user with a profane avatar states, the modern meaning is just guess-work and the cultural context and any kernels of truth will forever be lost.

And everyone knows there’s no such thing as a soulmate.

Kat feels her stomach clench as she quickly exits the browser, lonely in the wake of her father’s death, and her mother’s subsequent depressive episode, and still clinging to her mother’s hushed telling of a love that is palpable down to the bone.

(She can’t decide if knowing it’s ‘just a story’ hurts or helps more. The veneer of childhood is always treasured for a reason.)

She is seventeen when it happens. 

A flash of a medical room. Harsh fluorescent lights. Thick, strong hands trying to block the light out. Starched sheets, scratching skin. A pinch of a needle and stifled shout- 

She wakes covered in sweat. 

Something is wrong, niggles at the back of her mind. Her pounding heart beats out wrong, wrong, wrong. She pushes it away, presses the thought down. She manages to lull herself back to sleep, a deep, imageless thing, but the wrongness sticks with her. 

The next night is nearly identical, except the stranger’s hands are tearing off the bedsheets. A stump of a knee rests where a leg should extend. A panicking voice, a nurse, shouts for help as the struggling and screaming begins-

“Where’s my fucking leg?!”

Kat wakes with a jolt, strangled gasps as she pushes her own blankets off, hands grasping at her limbs, the phantom terror and horror bringing bile up her throat. 

What was that?

A dreamless sleep doesn’t find her again, her eyes bruising with nights of nightmares and days of exhaustion. The hospital, the scratchy sheets, the nurses and medications and injections. 

One week, then another.

She’s in Civics class when it occurs to her. 

The blood drive, at the beginning of May. She’d turned seventeen, and finally weighed enough to donate blood.

Could it be…?

She sleeps in, one Saturday morning, when they are fitting a prosthetic on her stranger; crutches and halting steps as those beefy hands grip support bars.

“Just a step further,” a voice encourages. 

Shame and frustration, and a deep, croaking voice lashes out of the throat-

“I can’t!”

You can, you can, you can, she tries to will the stranger her confidence.

The figure stills, and for a moment, she thinks they can hear her. 

“I’m done,” they say, and in spite of the disappointment on the nurse’s face, a man in a white lab coat agrees, and helps them back into a wheelchair.

Kat feels the sinking failure, the desperate yearning to help this person, this stranger. There are only nurses and doctors, in her dreams. She knows what it means to be lonely, even when there are people around; what it means when you wake up in emotional pain, but have no one to share it with.

She wants to tell her stranger it will all be all right, but the weeks pass and she can only confide her secret to herself. They wouldn’t believe her, even if she could say it in person.

Where is your family? she tries to ask.

They never seem to hear her.

(Waking becomes harder, but she can’t confide in anyone that she wakes wishing she could live in her dreams without them thinking she’s gone mad.)

They are kneading dough, seated at a wood table in a cluttered kitchen. The prosthetic is fitting to the leg, tender today but not sore, exactly. She can smell the flour and feel the silky-smooth texture between her fingers. Smoothe jazz music is playing, from a radio over on the counter. She feels a hand squeezing her stranger’s shoulder.

“Looks good, Pete.” It’s a gruff voice, but not unkind.

“Needs to rise,” her stranger- ‘Pete’!- retorts. They don’t look up, but she can feel a flush on her ‘Pete’s’ cheeks.

“We got some coursework from the school, then.”

(She doesn’t realize this is the last she will dream of her stranger.)

The dreams evaporate, after eight weeks, as abruptly as they had begun.

In the aftermath of her first dreamless night in over a month, she wakes to the dawn breaking with no images from her stranger. 

‘Pete’. 

She tries to will herself back to sleep, compel visions back from the brink. It’s the first night she thinks to try and remember the names of the doctors and nurses, or the location of the hospital. The nametags are foggy in her memories, a nurse Jackie or Jenny and a last name they had abbreviated to, ‘A.’ 

The internet doesn’t help her any more than her own mind can. ‘An amputee named ‘Pete’ who likes to knead dough and is doing high school coursework at home’ doesn’t do much in a White Pages search. 

She writes it all down, then, each snippet and sound she can recall. She keeps the journal under her mattress, knowing her mother won’t bother, and her baby sister wouldn’t dare to look. 

Like a madwoman, she rereads her own accounts, adds notes to it every morning, hoping the dreams will start again. But every morning, the dreams seem more as if they were fantasies, and her journal reads like fiction.

A year passes. 

Her dreams now are either blank, or memories of ‘Pete’.

She could blame it on her family friend, and his stupid insistance that she attend Prom; or maybe the girlfriends she eats lunch with, who guilt her by saying that everyone needs a life outside of school, and after-school jobs.

Kat had only driven into town because she needed a damn dress. Two weeks later, and she would have been exhausted from Prom as she crossed the school stage, collecting her high school diploma.

Nothing pans out the way she imagines it will, though.

She’s alone in the car when a truck in the oncoming lane overturns at a curve in the road.

Pain bursts on her head. Flames against her skin. Crushed metal, and broken glass. In the distant fog of wailing sirens, she can hear first responders attempting to call out to her. 

The only thing she remembers seeing clearly, between the accident and the hospital, is smoke rising into a blue, cloudless sky, through a shattered windshield.

“You lost a lot of blood, Kat,” the doctor says, tone not unsympathetic. “We had to do a transfusion.”

“Oh.”

She blinks, a haze of morphling in her preventing her from fully comprehending. Some broken bones. A neck brace. Burns on her face and arms, but not as bad as they first had thought- she won’t need skin grafts.

All small mercies.

Her sister and mama are there, balloons and flowers and hugs a-plenty. Get-well-soon cards from several classmates and family friends.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” her mama murmurs, as the doctor leaves.

“Okay.”

Mama runs her fingers through Kat’s knotted hair, while her sister clings and tells her how much she loves her.

She’s not numb, not beneath the morphling. But she’s so damn tired and her skin itches under the bandages. 

(She can’t comfort her family while they try their hand at comforting her.)

She is washing her hands in the hospital room sink, when she feels a jolt, a compulsion; a chill down her spine and gooseflesh down her arms. She looks in the mirror, and feels in awe, feels a foreign elation. A burst of affection, a warmth. 

She can’t reckon with it, can’t justify it. 

It’s just… her own face. Sloppily braided dark hair. Healing stitches on her cheek, and forehead. Silver eyes, surrounded by a bruise, set in a narrow face. She gulps, leaning in closer, and trying to grasp the sensation. Out-of-body, might be the right term- dissociative, she’d read about once, for Health and Wellness. 

There’s a knock on her door, the nurse doing a check, and as Kat turns, the warmth dissipates.

The nurse comes in not long after, checks her vitals and asks a series of questions.

“My name is Katniss Everdeen.”

That warmth in her chest is back, the hair at the base of her neck stands straight.

She scrubs her hands over her face, focusing on the simple questions the nurse is asking.

“I’m eighteen years old. I’m graduating from PPH12 in Sommen in one week. I’m at Merchant Memorial Hospital.”

In the bathroom that night, she stares at her own reflection, and wonders if maybe that feeling of someone looking over her shoulder- more like looking through her eyes- if maybe….

She fogs up the mirror, and writes her room number. She stares at it, for a time, before scoffing at own ridiculousness, and wiping it away with her towel.

She only has one day left before being discharged, though she’ll miss graduation and the parties that would entail. She can’t say she is particularly disappointed; she’s never been a party person.

She’s awake when the door to her shared hospital room opens. She pays it little mind. The curtain around her bed is pulled taught, her roommate jabbering away on their phone about the food service as if this were fine dining, rather than a hospital. Kat is reading a get well card, this one signed by the whole senior class and class advisors.

There’s a thrumming in her veins, but that might be them weaning her off of the morphling.

Curtain rings scrape against metal, and she barely glances up, the nurse rounds due any minute now. Normally, though, the bubbly nurse who does the day-shift is already bustling with an overwhelming enthusiasm that makes Kat question how exhausted the nurse is at the end of the day.

Maybe it’s a different nurse or a doctor or mama, or- 

The blue eyes that are boring into hers are ones she has only seen in her dreams; she can finally see blonde curls framing them, familiar thick, strong hands brushing through the curls. 

“Pete?” she croaks, certain she’s finally lost her damn mind.

His eyes widen at the sound of his name, lips parting. 

“I found you.” 

A tone of surprise, as if he’d driven all this way, but in expectation of disappointment.

“Peeta,” he introduces himself, edging closer. His hand carefully takes hold of her own. “And… I’ve waited a long time to meet you, Katniss.”

(Her name has never been spoken as sweetly, and her heart has never felt so full.)

[athousandmorningss]

RE: the Damar Hamlin injury

I love football. I love that you never really know what will happen until the game is actually over: so much can happen in one minute, hell, in ten seconds. the vikings 0-30 comeback for a win a few weeks ago is evidence of this. I love the different ways players can score points, I love overturns and watching patrick Mahomes run the ball in and the minutia of ways a game can be played, lost, or go into overtime. It is my favorite sport, and I love watching it.

Put another way: I love to watch men, who are incentivized to play largely due to their million dollar contracts, destroy their bodies. I love watching (predominately) black male players sustain concussions, acl tears, broken bones etc. and be carted off the field while game soon after resumes play. I support the entire culture of football, one that allows players who have committed acts of domestic abuse and sexual assault to continue to play for their teams while making millions of dollars. I actively choose to ignore these realities in pursuit of my own pleasure and enjoyment of the sport.

[notreallyimportant]

The same white women who dragged Colin Kaepernick who kneeled during the national anthem in protest of police brutality… are going to kneel during the national anthem in protest of the overturning of Roe v Wade.

The same white women who said Black and Indigenous people wearing black and orange on July 4th, because this country surely doesn’t give a damn about us in 1776( with not much changing) are disrespectful will be wearing black to protest the overturning of Roe v. Wade.

Unoriginal as fuck. Literally the only original idea white women had so far was changing out of the Handmaid’s cloak( I’m going to be honest y’all would be wearing blue to brown dresses, not red), and dress up like vikings. That’s it. Y’all truly don’t know how to protest. And I’m not telling you how without financial compensation.

[cicatrise]

@putyourbabyfangsaway​ sent: [ laugh ] for your muse to laugh at something mine did {had to send something in when I noticed you followed me here. What is it you say, free real estate?} ► from this meme.

The noise that leaves his mouth feels foreign, but Ryu can’t help the almost laugh and the smile as he blurts out a, “What?”

It’s rare that he meets anyone who remembers him, much less anyone outside of the eastern seas. Yet this vampire had called him familiar and specifically brought up some memory from the Scandinavian side of the ocean-- a memory that Ryuujin himself had to root through two thousand years to pull back out, even-- and how he’d sworn he saw a dragon tail overturn enemy ships meant to destroy his home.

Ryu dips his head, bringing his hand up to touch his mouth and hide the smile. It feels strange wearing it, almost false. He’s not sure he’s ever smiled this wide in human form before.

Then again, in the old days, the Vikings and their love of adventure made them more than acutely aware of the gods. He wouldn’t be surprised if this one had felt his magic back then, even as a normal human-- and so he can’t say it doesn’t make sense that he’d recognise that magic now, even thousands of years later. Being a vampire might even make him more sensitive to feeling it despite Ryu’s curse, too.

“You... how old were you when you saw that happen?” His hand drops to keep his voice from being muffled. “Sorry. I just-- I almost can’t believe you recognise me even like this.”