#pewter purse

[gotham-ruaidh]

Who I Am - a 7x07 and 7x08 story

Set in the “Tell Me About Your Family” universe – where William visits the new Big House at Fraser’s Ridge together with Jamie, Claire, Brianna and Roger and their kids, Ian and Rachel and wee Oggy, Fanny, and Jenny Fraser Murray, in an imagined Book 9-ish timeline. He’s known that Jamie is his father for some time, but this is his first “family” visit.

Catch up on the story here:

Chapter 1 || Chapter 2 || Chapter 3 || Chapter 4 || Chapter 5 || Chapter 6 || Chapter 7 || Chapter 8 || Chapter 9 || Chapter 10

--

“I thought ye said ye were raised on a farm.”

Jenny Fraser Murray reached across to undo the knot that William had somehow tangled in the wool. “Here. Ye pull the strands apart like this, and then ye wind them together.”

William flushed but kept his head bent to his work. “I lived on my stepfather’s plantation for a time, but I was always busy riding or studying with my tutors or helping him entertain guests. I’m afraid I’m not much of a farmer, Auntie Jenny.”

She tsked. “So I assume ye never learned to clickit, either?”

“Pardon?”

“To make socks or scarves wi’ yarn using needles.”

Carefully he wound the strands of raw wool. “To knit? No, I never learned that either. Though I do remember my grandmother Dunsany had a basket full of yarn and thread and thimbles in her sitting room. I got into it once when I was a boy and she was not too happy with me.”

Jenny expertly tied off a handful of raw wool, and carefully took the wool from William’s hands. “Jamie and I learned to clickit from our Mam when we were bairns. My husband Ian – we grew up together, and one year for Hogmanay before we were courting, we knit each other hats wi’out knowing.” She smiled at the memory. “No’ like I needed one, mind. But it was a nice gift all the same.”

William gathered the tied-off piles of wool from the table and began stacking them on the tray Jenny had brought out onto the porch. “Was that before or after he lost his leg?”

“Oh, before. And he didnae lose the whole leg, just the part below the knee. He took grapeshot to the leg when he and Jamie were mercenaries in Flanders.”

That got William’s attention. “Da was a mercenary?”

Jenny nodded, stretching the cramp out of her neck and shoulders. “Aye, for the year after Father died. He had a price on his heid, so he needed to be somewhere else. He spoke French, so the choice was simple.” She turned to look at her nephew. “Did ye not ken that? Weel, I suppose there’s still a lot you don’t ken about my brother.”

William pursed his lips. “I didn’t know, no. It must have been his first time serving with an army, I suppose. And a foreign one, too.”

They watched a hawk glide soundlessly over the mountain. Smiled at Jem and Germaine sitting high up in the oak tree at the edge of the dooryard, swinging their legs from a high branch.

“He’s no’ spoken to me about it. Ever. Ian came home wounded, but Jamie didnae come back to Lallybroch wi’ him, on account of him being a wanted man. It took months until Ian was back on his feet, and while I mended him he told me a few things here and there about what it was like with the army. But then we turned back to running Lallybroch, and we were marrit not too long afterward, so…”

William stood, and extended a hand to help Jenny to her feet. Carefully he gathered the tray, now heaped high with wool. “Where may I take this for you, Auntie?”

--

It was a fine, crisp late summer evening. Roger supervised Jem, Germaine, Mandy, and Fanny washing the supper dishes at the trough in the dooryard, taking advantage of the last light. Jenny and Brianna’s voices drifted from somewhere inside the house, planning for the next day’s spinning of the raw wool into yarn. Ian and Rachel had retreated to their cabin with Oggy, who had fussed quite a bit during supper and clearly needed somewhere quiet to rest.

“Here.” William looked up to see his father holding out a pewter cup, took it, and shifted a bit on the bench to allow room for Jamie to sit beside him.

“I still can’t believe how peaceful it is here,” William remarked, watching the last rays of sun touch the treetops on the mountain.

“Aye. I’ve a short list of things I’m most happy about in my life. Getting the grant for this land is on it.” Jamie held out his own pewter cup, and William tapped it. “Slainte.”

“Slan-juh,” William echoed, taking a sip, feeling proud he did not immediately grimace.

Jamie smiled. “Good lad. We’ll have ye speaking the Gaidhlig fluently before too long.”

“You speak French?”

Jamie frowned, a bit surprised at the sudden question. “I do. And the Latin and Greek, a bit of Cherokee, and a wee bit of Chinese as weel.” He sipped his whisky. “And you, wee William? You must have the Latin and Greek, if your education was as good as Lord John has told me.”

“Yes. And French, and now some of the Prussian language as well.”

“Of course, on account of the Hessians.”

William nodded. Sipped his whisky. “I’m asking because Auntie Jenny told me today that you had served as a mercenary.”

“In Flanders. Aye. That was a long time ago.”

“Was that your first time serving in an army?”

Jamie stretched out his long legs, exposing his kneecaps as the drapes of the kilt fell away, pocked with scars.

“It was. I didnae have much choice, mind you. I had escaped from the English at Fort William, in the Highlands. I was being held for murdering an officer. I hadnae murdered him, mind you, but there was no reasoning with the garrison commander. That man had had me flogged twice in the space of a week, after all.”

William’s eyes bugged at this information.

Claire emerged onto the porch, medical apron tied over her skirts. “There you are. Is now a good time?”

Jamie shifted his pewter cup to his left hand, and extended his right hand over the rail of the bench. Claire pulled up a chair so that Jamie’s four-fingered hand lay in her lap, and pulled a jar out of a pocket.

William blinked, remembering his manners, and craned his neck to see. “What’s that?”

Claire opened the jar and set it between her knees. “It’s a salve I make for Jamie, on account of the pain he still feels in his hand. Helps to loosen the tension. Especially on days like today when I know he’s been using it too much.”

“Near every bone in this hand was broken when I was no’ much older than you,” Jamie explained casually, grimacing a bit as Claire’s sure fingers kneaded the salve into the tissue. “Pained me for years. And then at Saratoga I injured it again. Both times, Claire mended me. She promised me I’d have a working hand, and I do.”

“My first real surgery, this hand was,” she murmured, massaging the palm with both thumbs.

Jamie leaned over to kiss her forehead.

William cleared his throat. “I knew that Saratoga was not your first battle.”

“But it was yours,” Jamie interjected.

William took a sip of whisky. “Yes. I – I thought I would be better prepared.”

“There’s nothing that can prepare you, lad. I was but twenty years old when I fought my first true battle. I’d done the occasional cattle raid here and there, so I thought I’d be ready.”

“I wager you weren’t.”

“No. Drilling is easy. Knowing what to do in the heat of battle, right after you see your comrades die in front of you…that’s something else entirely.”

William watched Fanny and Mandy carefully carry a stack of clean plates and pewter cups across the dooryard and back into the house. Smelled the sharp, clean tang of the ointment.

“I am ashamed to tell you this, but I do not think I acted too honorably in the first battle.”

“At Saratoga, you mean?”

William nodded, looking down at his hands. “I froze. My comrade…my friend…took a bullet right next to me. All I remember is General Fraser screaming at me, but I couldn’t hear any of the words.”

He watched Jamie’s hand slide on to his, gripping it. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of, son. It’s the hell of a shock. I’ve experienced it myself, a time or two.”

“Prestonpans. Culloden. The war with the Regulators,” Claire murmured.

William swallowed. “I recovered, of course, and led the next charge. Though now I realize it was you and your men I was fighting, and that fact makes me absolutely sick to my stomach.”

Jamie squeezed his son’s hand. “Take that feeling, lad, and multiply it by the largest number ye can think of. And then you’ll know just how I felt, when in the second battle I shot your hat right off your heid.”

William raised his mug to his lips, watching the liquid slosh as his hand shook. Feeling his body seize up with tension. “Dear God.”

His vision swam. His pulse dropped.

Steps – Mother Claire. Gently taking away his mug, and resting her hands on his shoulders. “William. It’s all right. You’re here with us now. Breathe deep.”

Jamie’s hand gripping his. “In and out, lad. Follow me.”

Claire undoing his stock, settling a hand on the clammy back of his neck. “Slowly now.”

He did not know if it was minutes or hours that Jamie and Claire surrounded him, comforted him, soothed him.

But when he did return to himself, he was crying.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped.

Jamie squeezed his shoulder, and kissed his temple. “There’s nothing to be sorry for, lad.”

“It’s called a panic attack.” Claire felt his cheeks and forehead with the back of a cool hand. “Have you had them before?”

He licked his parched lips. “Yes, but never that strong. Only when I’m truly upset.”

“I can give you some guidance on what to do, should it happen again and we’re not here to help,” she said gently. “But there’s no cure. I’m sorry to tell you that even in my time, these things happen. Perhaps even more frequently.”

William swallowed. “Have men not discovered a way to end all wars, then?”

She knelt on the porch, still holding his pulse between her fingers. “I’m afraid not. You know that Jamie’s endured several wars. I endured a war of my own, in the years right before I met him. England and France and the Americans were all on the same side of this war, if you can believe it. Fighting the Prussians, in the fields of France.”

“They called it a world war,” Jamie added. “Men fighting each other wi’out swords, but with guns, and with bombs dropped from the sky.”

“I worked in an aid station, right at the edge of the combat zone.” Claire looked at him, but her eyes were so far away. “Patched up many men not too much older than you. So, I understand.”

William swallowed. “I – I am a soldier. Being a soldier is what I’ve aspired to for my whole life. To be like my stepfather, and the men in his family.”

Jamie and Claire listened, patient.

“But I like this – being with all of you, here in the quiet. Perhaps I’m more cut out to be a farmer. I love my men, but this life here…”

“We understand, William.” Jamie reached to cup his son’s cheek, for the first time in his life, as if he were a wee lad. “And we will love you and support you no matter what you choose.”

“The Americans will win this war, will they not?”

“They will,” Claire said softly. “Of that I’m certain.”

William set his jaw. “Perhaps I should start spending a lot more time here.”

“There’s nothing we’d love more. But you have a life outside of this place, William – we cannae keep you from it.”

“Being here, with all of you, this past week – it makes me wonder whether this life here is more important. I need more time with you, Da – and with you, Mother Claire – and with Brianna and her family. I need to know who I am.”

Jamie smiled. “You already do, lad.”

[hesbuckcompton-baby]

the ties that bind us -> bernard demarco x susie lamb (wars of the roses au)

au tags - @xxluckystrike @latibvles @p-polaroid @thoughpoppiesblow @derry-rain

word count - 2.4k

An almost uncomfortable silence hung over the hall, pierced only by the occasional clatter of cutlery against pewter plates as the pair ate their breakfast, seated at opposite ends of the lengthy dining table. In the weeks since they had arrived here, they had scarcely spoken more than a few words to one another, each day characterised by pointed quiet and a certain desperation to seek out the company of anyone but each other.

Susannah was frequently visiting and visited by her sisters, and Bernard hosted as many hunts as they could afford, surrounding himself with friends in an attempt to cleanse the sting that came from sharing a house with another whom you could not stand. It seemed this sentiment remained staunchly mutual.

He looked up as a loud whistle echoed through the room, Susannah's lips pursed together as she craned her neck to peer through the doorway behind him. The skittering of claws against stone floor grew louder, until the dog he had gifted her bounded into the room, tongue dangling from his mouth, which hung open in a merry, lopsided fashion. "Here, boy," Susannah called, punctuating the order with another, quieter whistle as she peeled strips of fat from the edges of her bacon. The beast had been bred as a hunting hound, but had never shown any aptitude for the sport - gifting him as a wedding present had been the only way to keep his father from drowning the poor pup. He pushed himself up on his hind legs, chin resting on the arm of Susannah's chair as she hand-fed him her scraps, tail wagging with satisfaction.

"You still haven't named him?" Bernard asked, a hint of amusement in his tone, the sudden words snagging her attention as she looked up from her plate.

"No," She hummed. "Nothing's come to mind."

Susannah had run out of scraps to feed the hound, and he had begun to whine, pushing himself higher up on his hind legs so that he could reach the table, attempting to nip at her plate. She pressed a palm to his nose, uttering her disapproval as she gently shoved him back.

"Bacon." Bernard stated.

She frowned. "Come again?"

"Bacon. For the dog."

"No, I'm not giving him any more of my-"

"No," He shook his head. "Not that. For his name."

The silence resumed as Susannah considered this for a long moment, brow arching as she narrowed her eyes. She had that penetrating stare of hers once more, the one that made him sweat in a way his father would certainly have mocked him for.

"... You want me to name our dog Bacon."

Our dog.

"Well, he'll certainly come when you call."

She laughed then - the sound involuntarily escaping her throat before she could reign it in, before she could recall how much contempt she held for the man sitting opposite her. It came in a short burst, hand raised to her mouth as if to push the sound back down. He'd never made her smile in earnest before - never made her laugh without ridicule. Clearing her throat, Susannah tried to quell the colour blooming in her cheeks as she noticed the way he had begun to smile back at her.

"Bacon it is."

It would have been so much easier if he had been humourless - detestable and dry, easy to loathe. Sometimes he was. When they fought they bore their teeth and screamed words so harsh they sent the house staff running, barring themselves in their separate chambers until their blood stopped boiling. But their mornings were quiet - tired, languid affairs, where one could divulge the day's plans to the other, and any objection was kept to oneself. In the two weeks since their wedding, this had been the way of things, a tedious cycle of bitterness and disinclination.

"The men will be here for the hunt after luncheon," Bernard declared after a period of silence.

"I shall visit my brothers - keep out of your way."

"Gale is bringing his wife," He pressed, an unspoken insistence that she stay. Susannah bit back a jab before it could roll off her tongue, nodding sharply.

"Very well. I'll go this morning."

The house they'd taken as their own was little more than a short walk from the site of her brothers' burials, the Lamb family's sacrifice in aid of the cause of King Henry - a sacrifice that had not gone unrewarded, as much as she often wished it had. If given the choice between restoring her brothers or retaining the family's newfound nobility, she would have rather lived as a vagabond if only they could have stayed with her. It stung to look at her husband - to remember how his family had once ridden for the usurper King Richard, whose army had cut down her own kin as if they meant nothing, as if taking a knife to her very soul had been an easy thing to do. Every hint of tenderness shamed her, every second she forgot who her husband was came as a blight on their memory.

But she did forget - all too frequently for her liking.

Susannah could not leave the house alone - this privilege was not afforded to married women, as much as she detested the fact. Instead, a pair of servants stood huddled together at a respectful distance, talking in hushed voices and pretending to themselves that they weren't watching her as she crouched in the grass beside the two mounds of earth, daisies and buttercups blooming from the dirt.

"I'm grateful that Eleanor won't marry as I have," She confessed to no one but the breeze, rolling the stem of a flower between her thumb and forefinger. "Her betrothed is loyal - his people took no part in the slaughter that took you from me. Not like my husband - it feels wrong to be anything but resentful towards him, but it does grow tiresome. I know the staff are watching me. I don't know if they talk about me to mother or to my father-in-law, and - to be frank - I'm not sure which would be worse. But I think my husband wants me to become friendly with his guests, so... I suppose we'll see how that goes. If either of you could actually hear me, I'm sure you'd be laughing at that."

With a sigh, she pressed her palms into the earth on either side of her, imagining it as an affectionate pat to her brothers' shoulders as she rose to her feet, brushing the dirt away against her skirts.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Returning to the house, Susannah's brow began to furrow, gravel crunching beneath her feet as she crossed the courtyard towards the open front door. Her husband stood in the entryway, deep in conversation with a combination of both staff and guests for the hunt, only faltering as one pointed over his shoulder in her direction. As he turned to face her, his brow furrowed, marching out to meet her in the square.

"You're late," Bernard whispered, a frown ageing his face.

Susannah shrugged slightly. "Apologies."

She moved to slip past him, but he stepped into her path, his body bumping against her front. "I told you when the guests were arriving - there's no reason for you to be late except to embarrass me."

He was right.

She wouldn't admit that.

"Well, if you Yorkists hadn't murdered my kin in cold blood I would not have needed to leave at all," Susannah hissed, jabbing her chin up at him. Bernard's eyes widened slightly, taking a half-step back. They did not talk about the war - had not so much as hinted at it since the very first time they'd met, the willful omission an unspoken attempt at pacifism. Even when they fought over a dozen other things, they refused to fight about that.

"Go inside, introduce yourself to Marjorie, and speak no more of this," He instructed, voice barely more than a grumble. His gaze flickered to her lips, and she could not ascertain if it was in anticipation of a retort or something else entirely.

"As you say, husband," She nodded, tone patronising in a way that made his jaw clench. Stepping deliberately around him, Susannah continued her path into the house, sweeping past the people gathered in the entryway without so much as a glance.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The two women sat on a pair of chairs out on the lawn, Bacon's head resting in Susannah's lap as Marjorie worked away on her embroidery frame, poking in and out through the linen as images of flowers began to take shape. "Does he not hunt?" Marjorie asked with a curious smile, eyeing the hound.

"He doesn't have the stomach for anything but growing fat and spoiled," Susannah chuckled, scratching behind his ear as his tail wagged contentedly. "He was a wedding gift from my husband."

"Ah," The blonde woman nodded. "He is fond of you."

She let out a titter of laughter, hoping the bitterness in her voice was not too apparent. "I certainly would not say that."

"Why? Whenever he attends our home she speaks very highly of you - always commending your wit and praising your beauty," Marjorie argued, smiling sweetly. She was certainly a beauty herself - and a happy wife, too, something Susannah considered foreign to her.

Shaking her head ever so slightly, Susannah forced herself to ignore the heat rising in her face. "He probably keeps a mistress of some sort - refers to her by my name to avoid suspicion."

Marjorie's eyes briefly narrowed at this, lips pinched in a frown. "If the pair of you truly cannot reconcile, at least you shall have your children someday. I know many women whose strenuous marriages are soothed by motherhood."

She hummed in vague agreement. No one could know that her marriage remained unconsummated - unbound in the eyes of society. Their wedding night had opened an escape that they sought all too often, frequently spending the night together to appease the watchful eyes of their household staff, when in reality they did nothing but sleep silently, backs turned to one another. The longer the arrangement went on, the more tenuous the charade would become - soon enough her blood would come, the maids would know, and it would grow all too clear that no effort to produce a child had been made.

"I'm sure you're right."

"And besides - then we could betroth one of your children to one of mine. Our husbands would certainly approve," Marjorie mused, taking another stab at her embroidery.

Susannah hummed. "I think I would allow my children to choose for themselves - I would not force them into a marriage like I was."

"It's not such a bad thing. Betrothals can result in love - mine certainly did."

The remark had been meant kindly - this she knew - and yet it still stung. Some people got all the luck.

"I want that for my sister. Her husband will be the Earl of Leicester one day, and I always pray that she'll be happy with him - that he'll be good to her."

Marjorie looked up, frowning slightly. "You don't wish it for yourself, too?"

Susannah considered this for a moment. Did she wish it? Would life not be better if she could relinquish her resentment - let herself laugh at her husband's jokes without cursing herself afterwards, speak with him as if she were anything but weary and rancorous? It felt naive even to consider it, although she had to admit, the idea was not without its appeal.

The sound of a horn echoed through the trees as the hunting party appeared at the end of the furthest field, horses galloping as a group as the men made their way back towards the house, boasting the spoils of their trip - rabbits and fowl and a single deer carried aloft by the servants that attended them. Marjorie was on her feet the moment they got close, crossing the lawn to meet her husband, the pair beaming at one another as he dismounted and placed a delicate kiss to her hand.

Bernard was the second to arrive, offering nothing more than a polite nod of acknowledgement as he stepped down, still in conversation with his friends. Susannah had risen from her seat, hands clasped across her front as she stood by, watching on in patient silence as the party made their way inside, Marjorie consumed in conversation with her husband as she too passed her by.

He had been about to walk past her, halfway through relaying a joke to John Egan, the pair laughing along together until Bernard's gaze fell upon Susannah once more. But in that moment, she suddenly struck him as so profoundly lonely that it almost broke his heart, guilt tearing at his insides. He had invited his friends to their home, all of them strangers to her, and vanished for the afternoon, leaving her alone with a woman she'd never known. Worse still, he'd scolded her for her lateness - for visiting the graves of her own brothers, for seeking solace in their memory when she had no one within these walls.

Faltering in his stride, her held out his arm to her. Susannah regarded him for a moment, and he almost thought she would decline, but then her arm slipped around his, the pair joined at the elbow, wordlessly walking side-by-side.

"You were right," She uttered under her breath, so softly that only he could hear.

"About what?" Bernard asked, mirroring her whisper.

"I was late on purpose."

She was utterly infuriating. And yet...

He shrugged. "No matter. Your family is more important than my hunt."

Susannah turned her head to stare at him, brow raised slightly. "...You're serious?"

"Yes, certainly. If they comfort you, you should go. And I plan to invite your family to visit us soon."

She could not quite fathom what to say to this, offering little more than a surprised scoff as they crossed the threshold into the house, the privacy of the moment gone as they entered the enclosed space. She disentangled her arm from his, but the movement was relaxed, gentle, not the jerking withdrawal of someone who did not wish to be noticed at his side.

Maybe not all walls had to remain.

Maybe not all tenderness had to be false.

[saintsenara]

scylla and charybdis - a snippet

severus snape/lord voldemort explicit graphic depictions of violence | major character death

I'm procrastinating something i need to do for a fest by writing more scylla and charybdis. featuring lord voldemort really getting into the swing of his organ harvesting era and snape being... into it.

The Dark Lord glided down the stairs, Severus at his heels.

The workbench which had been apportioned to him was even more elegantly equipped than it had been in December. A solid gold cauldron stood on a trivet, bluebell flames already flickering beneath it. Ingredients sat, already perfectly measured out, in small pewter dishes. The same magnificent knife he’d sliced and diced with last time lay, the jet cabochon embedded in the hilt gleaming dully in the cellar’s sepulchral gloom, on top of a piece of parchment. The Dark Lord’s looping handwriting was stark in black ink upon it.

There was an enormous porcelain jug - bearing a cheery blue-and-white pastoral scene, a buxom witch chasing after a nogtail which had stolen her hat - in the middle of the table. It was filled to the brim with a thick, viscous substance, the deep, heavy burgundy of expensive wine.

Severus approached the table and read the recipe. The Dark Lord swept - saying nothing - into the shadows.

The instructions he had been issued made no mention of what the potion was supposed to do, but it was easy enough to work out if you knew the theory (and Severus, unlike so many of the morons with whom he was forced to share a classroom, who just chopped-and-chucked and produced passable brews by sheer luck, knew the theory). The dittany would contradict with the rue, reversing its properties as a coagulant. The tansy would contradict with the rosemary, rendering its purgative effects useless. The foxglove essence would be near-negated by the kava root. The hawthorne and the garlic and the cloves and the copper sulphate and the leeches all made blood flow and vomit rush from the body. The shepherd’s purse and the ginger and the spiders’ webs and the oak leaves and the ajwain all prevented this.

The base of the potion was a perfect balance, designed to ensure a perfect stasis.

[One of the Dark Lord’s crueller inventions, Severus would reflect, years in the future.]

The liquid in the jug would be the thing that disrupted this stasis.

[A potion - one which tasted as harmless and nourishing as beef stock.]

The liquid in the jug which was - the Dark Lord had written with a careless flourish, the way pick up milk might be scrawled on a scrap of paper stuck to the door of a fridge - human blood.

[A potion which the wasted men and women, chained and degraded in the Dark Lord’s various dungeons, would gulp down, with the desperate immoderation the starving have for hydration and salt.]

[A potion which then kept them alive as their bodies were slit down the middle. A potion which held them in stasis - purging and retaining, bleeding and clotting; the gallons of blood which lurked - untasteable - in the liquid triggering a constant loop of haematic production, bone marrow working overtime to nullify what was being lost - as the Dark Lord tortured his prisoner with the slow unravelling of their viscera.]

[He would set up a table before them, deck it with ostentatious chintz - linens in pink gingham, plates with cherry blossoms painted upon them - and begin his interrogation, taking something away with each answer that displeased him. He would question them, and they would attempt to remain defiant, and he would simply smile and place their bowel, then their intestines, then their liver, then their stomach, then their lungs on the twee, willow-patterned cake stand on the table - a macabre afternoon tea made of glistening offal - until - at the exact moment that the potion wore off - he would wrap his long fingers around their heart and hold it - still beating - in a bloodied hand, watching in lazy pleasure as their brain caught up to the fact that its owner had been slowly exsanguinated and collapsed them into death like a veal calf.]

Not that this disturbed Severus.

[He should have run.]

He was simply excited - and, in being excited, able to remain unbothered by any sort of ethical conundrum - to be let loose on some interesting ingredients.

And - of course - he’d worked with plenty of blood before; all Hogwarts students did. They dropped salamander blood into a Strengthening Solution. They stirred sheep’s blood into a Deflating Draught. It would be a bit bloody hypocritical for him to have a conniption about using human blood in something when he didn’t bat an eyelid about using animal.

And a bit bloody stupid. If he wanted to study potioneering further - and the Dark Lord had intimated that he would encourage him in this aim - he’d have to use plenty of esoteric oozings daily. Dragon’s blood, unicorn blood, tiger blood…

And human blood as well. Human blood was used in plenty of perfectly legal things - healing potions, to prevent haemorrhage in childbirth or to cauterise lost limbs; forensic potions, which swept crime scenes for the minute flecks of a perpetrator’s identity; potions which stopped nightmares; potions which kept bank vaults secure.

Veritaserum could be resisted by tainting the vial with a small pin-prick of blood. An overdose of Draught of Living Death could be reversed with a blood transfusion.

[A Horcrux is created by drinking the victim’s blood, with eucharistic reverence, while the air around you glitters gold with an enveloping matrix of magic.]

The blood of someone who’d taken Felix Felicis had the power to bestow residual luck on anyone who came into contact with it.

[The blood of someone whose mother died for them, whose mother refused to stand aside, has the power to repel death itself.]

‘It has been sieved,’ the Dark Lord said, benignly, from his shroud of shadows. ‘To filter out any clots.’

‘Great. Thanks.’

‘And any mud.’

[the-real-housewives-of-waterdeep]

Alchemy 410 Chapter 10: Scientific Inquiry

Summary: Gale and Illyth play cat and mouse, dancing around their feelings of loss, anger, confusion, and longing, i.e. Illyth gets big mad.

Rating: M

Pairing: Pre- and post-canon Gale x OC

Word count: 1.5k

Chapters 1-9 are available on AO3

Illyth leaned against the wall outside of the classroom with her arms crossed, appearing visibly annoyed. Perhaps it was because of the stifling humidity of a Waterdhavian summer which caused her teacher’s robes cling to her pewter-toned skin or perhaps it was because the lecture hall reserved for her class was still occupied. The lecture before hers was running overtime and she could still hear the muffled yet enthusiastic voice of the instructor on the other side of the lecture hall’s heavy wooden door.

Just another person who loves hearing themselves talk, she thought to herself bitterly.

The professor’s voice was soon replaced by the din of shuffling feet, ruffling parchment, and murmuring students. Apprentices filtered into the hallway, talking amongst themselves as they meandered off to their next classes. Students stepped to the side as she cut through the crowd, walking with purpose.

At the front of the classroom, Gale was chatting eagerly with a student who hung on his every word. He demonstrated how to cast Mirror Image, providing a highly detailed, step-by-step explanation.

“Son of a drider,” Illyth muttered bitterly as she watched Gale with his student, who successfully replicated the spell. While she was irritated to see that Gale was cutting into her lecture time, Illyth had to admit that hadn’t seen someone so excited about teaching in a long time.

Gale caught sight of Illyth from the corner of his eye as his student departed. “Ah, Illyth!” he called warmly.

Illyth pursed her lips in irritation, attempting to ignore Gale’s greeting. It seemed as if he had no recollection of what transpired between the two of them; the unanswered letters, her confession… none of it seemed to faze him.

Gale was packing his travel-worn bag as Illyth reached the front of the room. “I didn’t realize you taught the Linguistic History of The Underdark,” he remarked with a broad smile. “Truly fitting of you, I must say.”

Gale cleared his throat as he slung his backpack onto his shoulder. “I read your book,” he continued, “‘Maiden’s Tongue: A Language of Loss and Displacement’. Impressive, albeit hackneyed at times.”

Illyth clenched her jaw, still avoiding his gaze. “Your lecture period is over, Dekarios,” she deadpanned.

Gale felt a pleasant chill run down his spine. She called him ‘Dekarios’. Not Gale, not Professor Dekarios, nor Gale of Waterdeep — just Dekarios, an arrogant university student of little to no renown. It was as if they were back in that alchemy lab, playing cat and mouse, fighting over minutiae, seeing who could one-up the other in a battle of wits and verbal barbs.

“Your acerbic wit is unchanged, I see,” he replied observantly. “I’d hoped for a warmer greeting from an old friend, but much time has passed since our correspondences.”

The tips of Illyth’s ears reddened as she swallowed the rising bile in her throat.

“I assume that we shall meet at the same time and place thrice per week,” Gale remarked with a wry smile. “Perhaps I may earn your good graces once more. After all, much has transpired since we last laid eyes on one another. I’m sure we each have our fair share of stories to tell each other.”

Illyth snorted under her breath and watched as Gale sauntered out of the room.

Pull it together, Illyth, she told herself as she organized her notes in front of her. The drow professor cleared her throat and adjusted her posture. It’s been a decade since we fucked and two years since we last spoke. You’ve no reason to be this irate.

“Welcome back from summer holiday, everyone!” she greeted her class, trying to ignore her aching heart that lay buried deep beneath her rancor.

✨✨✨✨

Their subsequent encounters played out exactly as Gale said they would, much to Illyth’s irritation; thrice per week, their lectures overlapped and thrice per week they taunted and danced around each other’s egos.

“I read your most recent publication,” Illyth began flintily as she and Gale stood outside of the lecture hall. Both of their respective lectures had ended and they were now loitering in the hall, facing off as rivals like they did so many years ago.

Her burgundy-red eyes locked onto Gale’s soulful brown eyes as she prepared to launch her salvo to Gale’s remark on her work. “I didn’t realize that The Candlekeep Press had dropped its quality standards.”

Gale snorted. “Oh, Illy, you’ve always been hard to please.”

Illyth narrowed her eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

“Not even for old time’s sake?”

Illyth didn’t reply. He’d struck a nerve, reminding Illyth of those nights when Gale would whisper his pet name for her in her ear, often followed by an affectionate love bite to her earlobe. Illyth would always tell him to stop calling her that, even though she secretly found it endearing.

“Isn’t your lecture over?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow. “Don’t you have something better to do, Mr. Hero of Baldur’s Gate?”

And there it was. Gale had managed to scratch the surface of her stony exterior, but his heroic reputation couldn’t be the entirety of her ire.

“You stole my gods damned research money,” she spat. “The chancellor reallocated my funds for a research expedition to Djerad Thymar!”

“What does that have to do with me?” Gale asked, knitting his brow in confusion.

“They reallocated the money to hire you!”

Gale froze. “They did what?” he asked incredulously.

“You heard me,” Illyth replied. “They wanted to hire an erstwhile Archmage turned Hero of Baldur’s Gate. Flashiness is more important to them than work of actual substance.”

“Certainly, I’m worth the salary I’m allotted, but to cut research,” Gale murmured in disbelief, “Ahghairon’s missing nose, no wonder you’re in a snit.”

“More than a snit, Dekarios, more than a bloody snit,” Illyth replied bitterly. “Do you know how hard it is to get the dragonborn mages of Djerad Thymar to trust a Waterdhavian drow academic? Do you even realize how insular they are?”

Her blood pressure was rising and she knew she needed to restrain herself, lest she cause more of a scene.

“I wish I was happier to see you,” Illyth admitted with her gaze downcast. “I wish the very thought of you didn’t piss me off.”

Gale’s intuition told him that there was more she wasn’t telling him, but he’d made more headway in the span of their five minute interaction than he thought he would. Before he could question her further, Illyth had stormed off to her office, leaving only the echoes of her bespoke leather boots in her wake.

✨✨✨✨

Gale spent the rest of the afternoon in his office. He planned to spent the final hours of the day revising a manuscript that he was hoping to publish in the Annals of Illusory Magic next year, yet he found himself unable to focus.

Illyth was always an acerbic person, that much was certain. Even when they laid in his bed, limbs twined together in a lovers’ embrace, her sharp tongue and quick wit were ever present. Her verbal barbs were laced with affection then, bordering on teasing; now, her jabs conveyed only contempt and bitterness. Illyth claimed it was the loss of her research money that soured their relationship, but Gale was certain that there was something else at play.

Gale would be the first to admit that all else fell to the wayside when his relationship with Mystra soured and he immersed himself in winning her back. He still hadn’t sorted through the veritable sea of letters sent by colleagues and hangers-on and he was certain that there were several letters from Illyth among that number.

Gale tried to think back to the last letter he read from Illyth. It contained a simple warning: “Deities are not known for their compassion in mixed-mortality relationships. This will blow up in your face. I can only hope that isn’t a literal outcome.”

“Focus,” he muttered to himself, pushing a strand of greying brown hair out of his face as he turned his attention to his manuscript.

After an hour of trying and failing to make his revisions, Gale pushed his manuscript away in frustration. “Gods above,” he breathed. While Gale’s ability to fixate on a singular problem made him an excellent researcher with a keen eye for inquiry, it often meant that problems of this nature would take hold of his mind until he sorted through them. Gale stood from his desk, locking the manuscript away in its enchanted drawer.

He had some serious excavation to do in the mountain of mail in his study. Barring intervention from Tara, he would likely dig all night long until he found Illyth’s letters. The answer had to be hidden somewhere in those piles of parchment.

[alexagirlie]

Fandom: The Last Kingdom

Series: Danger Days Series - Part 2

Pairing: Finan/Sihtric

Rating: E

Words: 3,753

Warnings: aftermath of battle. battle rage. beserkr. dom/sub. oral sex. face fucking. minor breathplay. anal fingering. anal sex. rough sex. teasing. begging. marking. mild painplay. spanking.

Summary: Finan looked forward to helping his lover settle his battle rage with a good thorough fucking as had become common practice after the first time following the battle at Bedanford. Where after their forces had defeated Cnut and Uhtred had avenged Ragnar's death the two warriors had snuck off in the woods and Finan had finally acted on the suspicions about how he could help his Beserkr.

Tags: @gemini-mama

Another battle, another Danish raid foiled across the river from their home in Coccham, and Finan was cursing the uselessness of Mercian Lords, one Lord in particular getting the brunt of his complaints. If Aethelred would do his duty as Lord of Mercia then Finan wouldn't be trekking through the night to fight his battles for him. At least the extra silver would help to pad his purse, winter was approaching and he would need it.

Luckily the fight was quick if a little brutal, the invading Danes had not been expecting them, they never were, and the fight was over almost before it began. In the end over 30 Dane men lay dead and the village and its inhabitants were safe.

As Finan sought out his lover in the aftermath he could see right away that the fight had not been long enough for Sihtric.  Had been just enough for him to sink into his battle rage but not exhaust him enough to climb back out. The look in Sihtric's eyes was wild and his muscles remained coiled and ready. He would need an outlet, and Finan knew just what he needed. 

He was just reaching out to grab Sihtric's arm and halt his relentless pacing when Uhtred announced they would head back to Coccham immediately after they had finished looting the bodies of the fallen warriors. Finan bit back a groan of frustration and frowned as his plans were delayed and he hoped that maybe the time spent at the oar would calm some of the restless energy in his heathen lover.

Finan rolled his neck with a sigh and reached out again to grab Sihtric's wrist where he was wearing a path in the grass between the crop of trees at the edge of the village, “Let's go get paid,” he spoke softly, rubbing his thumb against the soft skin at the edge of Sihtric's bracer. 

Darken mismatched eyes met his and Sihtric huffed a breath out before he nodded and Finan released his arm so they could separate and go collect their loot. 

The bodies of the Dane raiders had already been dragged to the edge of the field surrounding the village and arranged in a haphazard line so it only took a few minutes for Finan to collect his share. He added several rings to his collection, most were pewter but 2 were silver and 1 appeared to be gold, a bronze armband and a handful of silver coins. Not the best haul he had ever gotten but will still go a long way toward provisions over the winter.

He helped some of the men gather up any weapons worth scavenging and load them up in the back of the boat along with several shields to be added to their armoury before he joined Sihtric who was already seated at the oars. 

As they set sail back to Coccham Finan was too focused on his own place at the oars to keep track of his lover's mood but once they had arrived back home and had finished helping unload the boat they were able to slip off together and Finan could see that the exertion had little effect. 

The beast that woke up in Sihtric during battle was still there and Dane was practically vibrating as they made their way through the winding path back to their modest home in Coccham. It was a simple wooden structure near the edge of the village but within sight of Uhtred's hall in case the Lord had need of them.

Finan looked forward to helping his lover settle his battle rage with a good thorough fucking as had become common practice after the first time following the battle at Bedanford. Where after their forces had defeated Cnut and Uhtred had avenged Ragnar's death the two warriors had snuck off in the woods and Finan had finally acted on the suspicions about how he could help his Beserkr.

Finan had been correct then and Sihtric had responded beautifully to a firmer hand and he submitted so effortlessly each and every time since. He would get so pliant and his eyes would go hazy and he was always such a good boy for Finan. It took the Irishman's breath away to see the level of trust the Dane had in him and to watch that inner beast curl up and go back to sleep.

It felt like forever until they made it into their home and Sihtric found himself slammed against the closed door hard enough that the frame rattled. He groaned as Finan immediately crowded into his space and yanked his head back by his hair so the Irishman could bite at his throat. He moaned at the sharp press of teeth and the burn of his lover’s beard dragging across his skin. 

He cupped the back of Finan's head and held him in place and he bit and sucked at the skin under his mouth and Sihtric knew the marks would be dark and red. The possessive gesture helping to curb the urge to kill and main and turned it into a desire to get fucked until he couldn't walk. 

Sihtric gasped at a particularly hard nip of teeth and he grabbed a handful of Finan's hair to rip the Irishman's mouth from his neck and crashed their lips together in a heated kiss. It was hungry, more teeth than lips or tongue and Sihtric removed his hands from Finan's hair to grip him around the waist and draw their bodies tightly together.

Layer of leather and furs prevented them from feeling each other properly and after several minutes of frantic kissing Sihtric pushed Finan away so he could attack the laces holding his lover's armour together. They stripped each other hurriedly, hands tugging on laces and buckles, blood stained armour and clothing being left in a pile on the floor in their search for bare skin. 

Mouths explored each inch of revealed flesh, sucking and biting more marks to join the one Finan had already left on Sihtric's throat. Sihtric threw his head back and keened as Finan teeth clamped down on a perk nipple, the jolt of pleasure-pain going right to his cock which was already hard and dripping between his thighs.

Finan didn't linger on his chest and Sihtric whined in disappointment as the older man pulled away and spun them around so he could lean against the door with Sihtric in front of him. The Dane didn't fight as Finan grabbed a handful of his dishevelled braids and pulled him roughly to his knees. Sihtric's mouth watered as Finan took his ruddy cock in one hand, and stroked himself from root to tip, a thumb smearing the beads of fluid gathered there across the head until it glistened.

“Open up Boy,” Finan's voice was deep and hoarse with arousal and Sihtric shivered with excitement as he immediately followed the command and opened his mouth wide, letting his tongue hang out. 

Sihtric trembled and clenched his hands atop his bare thighs as Finan lined his cock up with one hand and teasingly ran the head across Sihtric's lips making the younger man whine. The sound was loud and desperate and he trembled harder as he fought the desire to move and take what he wanted.

Finan rewarded Sihtric's obedience by finally pressing the length of his cock into Sihtric's mouth. He was frustratingly slow and gentle to start, just pressing his cock in nice and easy. The salty bitter taste of his cock burst across Sihtric's tongue and he groaned as Finan fed him one inch at a time until he was buried all the way inside. He paused with Sihtric's nose pressed to his pelvic bone and the Dane struggled to swallow around his girth and not choke, just keeping his lover's cock warm in his tight throat.

Eventually it was too much and the Dane choked softly and tapped Finan's hip, signalling that he needed the older man to pull out and let him breathe. He took several wet, gasping breaths then opened his mouth wide and Finan slid in again. 

This time Finan began to properly fuck his cock into Sihtric mouth, pushing harder and deeper with each thrust until he was thrusting hard enough to pull soft wet noises from Sihtric's throat and Sihtric was dizzy with the lack of air and he could feel tears dripping down his face. He could feel the tension seeping out of his muscles and the racing thoughts running through his mind went quiet, all he had to focus on was breathing around his lover's cock and letting Finan take pleasure from his mouth.

The feel of Sihtric throat constricting around his cock was almost enough to push Finan over the edge and he was forced to pull away so he didn't spoil their fun so soon. He could go again given enough time but Sihtric needed better than that from him. 

He stared down into Sihtric's eyes and felt a curl of pride at the dazed look in the Dane's eyes and he used his thumb to brush off the tears clinging to his dark lashes. He used the hand still wrapped in Sihtric's hair to encourage him to his feet and claimed his mouth in a devouring kiss. He chased the faint taste of himself from his lover tongue before he playfully shoved the Dane in the direction of their bed. 

They stumbled over to the wooden frame piled with furs which served as their bed and Finan pushed Sihtric down on it. He crawled over the Dane and pinned his arms above his head, making the younger man grab the headboard tightly before releasing him so he could continue to work more dark bruises along Sihtric's throat and down his chest. His skin tasted of salt and the copper tang of blood but Finan couldn't get enough, nor of the sounds he pulled from Sihtric's throat. He squirmed and moaned so sweetly as Finan covered him in marks and the Irishman felt a surge of possessiveness at the sight of Sihtric so thoroughly claimed. Only a few of the marks would be visible when the man was dressed but Finan would know they were there and the thought caused his hard cock to throb.

Finan was jolted out of his observation when he felt the cold press of glass against his arm and he see's Sihtric holding out the vial of oil they keep by the bed.

“Ah ah ah, did I say you could move your arms?” He teased, a grin spreading across his face at the bashful look which crossed the other man's face. 

“I'm sorry…” Sihtric's voice was wrecked already, hoarse and scratchy from swallowing Finan's cock and Finan loved the sound of it, “please Finan..” 

Unable to ignore his love's sweet plea Finan took the small vessel and pulled the cork out with his teeth, the scent of walnut and rosemary filling the small space. He coated the fingers of one hand thoroughly with the slippery liquid before he pressed the tips of two fingers against Sihtric's rim. 

He teased the other man at first, running his fingers lightly around his hole until Sihtric whined and pushed back against the too light touch. Finan pulled his fingers away with a tsk. “You will take what I give you, understand boy?”

Sihtric nodded eagerly and forced himself to still completely, hands gripping into the furs under him tightly. He groaned loudly when Finan finally pushed two fingers inside of him, relishing in the burn of his rim stretching to accommodate. It was just the right side of painful and he moaned even louder when the feeling was combined with Finan pressing a wet kiss to the head of his cock before sucking it into the wet heat of his mouth. 

The dual sensations were almost enough to overwhelm Sihtric and he trembled as

Finan sucked him messily as he thoroughly prepared his hole to be fucked. The Irishman paused anytime Sihtric started to squirm or buck into his touch, the only outlet he had for the pleasure he was feeling was the noises spilling from between his lips. His groans and moans and calling of Finan's name.

Soon Finan was fucking him smoothly with 4 fingers, Sihtric whining each time those fingers pressed against his most sensative spot and his cock felt ready to burst down Finan's throat. He couldn't take it any longer, he needed Finan's cock inside him. More than anything, he wanted to come on the older man's perfect cock.  

“Please Finan,” he begged desperately, “please fuck me! I'm ready, please I'm ready!” He felt tears prickle at the edge of his eyes. 

Finan released the straining cock from his mouth and pulled his fingers free of the clutch of Sihtric's hole. “Sh sh sh, I've got you,” he soothed, “you want my cock boy?”

Sihtric nodded rapidly, not caring how desperate he was being and gasped loudly as Finan flipped him over onto his front. Sword calloused hands gripped his hips and yanked him back over the edge of their bed until his feet could touch the floor and he arse was on display.

Sihtric lifted himself on shaking arms so he could glance over his shoulder and shuddered with lust at the sight of Finan's broad shouldered frame looming over him. His bronze skin gleamed with a thin layer of sweat from the battle and the hard journey home and his lips were swollen and pink from sucking the Dane's cock. 

Finan grinned ferally at him before he pressed a warm palm between Sihtric's shoulder blades and pressed his chest down towards the bed, forcing him down onto his elbows. He felt the hot, wet  brand of Finan's tongue licking a line up his spine before his muscled chest pressed to Sihtric back and the hard length of his cock slipped between Sihtric arse cheeks and rubbed teasing against him. Sihtric dropped his head down so he could bury his face in the furs, using them to muffle the absolutely desperate sounds falling from his mouth as Finan finally pressed his cock inside. The stretch was perfect and he felt so pleasantly full as Finan bottomed out inside him. 

Finan tsked as Sihtric muffled his sounds in the bed and he pulled Sihtric's head back by the hair, “I wanna hear you, wanna hear how much you love taking my cock,” he whispered in the other man's ear before he nipped it sharply. He wanted to hear every sound he pulled from Sihtric's mouth, no matter who might walk past their home and overhear. Let them hear how good he fucked his lover while they ride the high of battle.

Sihtric could do nothing but moan loudly as Finan grabbed him by the throat, his fingers carefully cradling his jaw and used his hold to begin to fuck him, his other hand curled over his hip providing even more leverage.

The pace Finan set wasn't as hard as he knew Sihtric could take, not yet, but he did make up for the gentler pace by making sure to sink his cock into the hilt each time, filling Sihtric completely. Each thrust angled carefully to brush against his most sensitive spot and it took no time at all until Sihtric was whining, near breathless from the grip Finan had on his neck.

Finan felt Sihtric's weight shift then a soft tap against his hand that prompted him to slow to a stop and relax his grip on Sihtric's jaw. He caressed his sweaty shoulder instead and brought their bodies tightly together. 

“What do you need?” He asked against Sihtric's ear before he pressed a soft kiss to a dark red mark on Sihtric's neck.

Sihtric leaned his head back against Finan's shoulder and Finan buried his face in his hair and groaned as the Dane’s arse pressed back against his hips. His movement restless where Finan had his cock buried deep,  “More Finan! Give me more!” his begging sounded so sweet to Finan's ears but he wasn't quite ready to give in yet. 

“You want more?” he taunted, grinding his hips in small circles and pulling a small desperate sound from Sihtric's throat., “you better ask nicer than that boy.”

Sihtric's next moan was loud and downright sinful but his boy did exactly as requested, “Please Finan! Please, please, please!” 

Satisfied Finan released the hold he had on Sihtric and shoved him face down in the furs again. He brought one hand up then swung it down to connect firmly with the meat of Sihtric arse and the Dane gasped in shock before he moaned loudly as Finan did it again, and again, building up a steady rhythm in time with his thrusts as the Irishman resumed fucking him.

The sound of Finan's hand connecting to Sihtric's arse echoed through their home, accompanied by the pained moans which fell from between his red bitten lips and the wet sound of Finan's cock sliding into his hole. The sharp pain went right to his cock and he only needed another small nudge to go tumbling over the edge.

“Harder!” He begged desperately, not sure if he meant Finan's hand against his burning arse or his cock filling him so perfectly but in the end it didn't matter as all it took was Finan's voice in his ear telling him to come and he was spilling over the furs. His whole body went rigid and tense and he screamed wordlessly.

Finan pulled out and gripped the base of his cock hard so that he didn't fall over the edge along with Sihtric, he wasn't nearly finished with the other man yet. Once he had gotten himself back under control he rolled a still shuddering Sihtric onto his back and sank his cock back in. 

He rolled his hips steadily as Sihtric whined and squirmed, still sensitive from his orgasm but he didn't protest or ask Finan to stop. The Irishman kept moving until the younger man started to rock back with soft whimpers and his cock was straining and leaking between their stomachs once more.

“Good?” He asked gruffly, eager to move properly and give Sihtric the hard fucking he deserved.

Sihtric's eyes met his and he licked his lips slowly, the little tease, before he answered, “show me what you got” he taunted.

Finan grinned ferally at the challenge and hoisted Sihtric's legs over his elbows and thrust forward sharply making the other man keen. He gave no mercy and fucked him hard, leaning forward until Sihtric was almost bent in half so he could grab the headboard for ever more leverage. The bed creaked from the abuse they were giving it but Finan paid no mind as Sihtric's arms wrapped tightly around his neck, crashing their mouths together messily. The kiss was more teeth and gasping breaths and the desperation fed into the lust pooling in his gut.

Finan shifted his weight forward on his knees and it must have adjusted the angle of his thrusts just right as Sihtric threw his head back and wailed in pleasure, curses falling from his lips. Finan groaned as Sihtric's nails dug into the skin of his back, racking long lines up his spine and across his shoulders and the extra little bite of pain combined with the tight grip of Sihtric's arse around his cock finally pushed him over the edge and he came, hard. He buried his cock as deep as he could as it twitched and throbbed with each spurt of seed, painting Sihtric's insides white. 

Sihtric whimpered at the warmth which filled him and squeezed a hand between the hard muscles of their stomach to get a hand around himself. He managed to jerk himself a few times before Finan batted his hand away so the Irishman could wrap his own sword calloused fingers around Sihtric's cock. It only took a few strokes for him to follow the Irishman over the edge and he came a second time, making a mess between their bodies.

They collapsed in a pile of limbs, not even caring how much of a mess they had made of each other and their bed.

Finan pressed a kiss to the patch of skin under his mouth before resting his chin on Sihtric's chest and stared up at him as the Dane caught his breath. When Sihtric noticed him staring he smiled and Finan couldn't help but smile back.

“Feel better?” He asked, taking in the relaxed state of his lover.

Sihtric grabbed his hand and pressed a kiss to his palm before he answered, “much better, thank you. Going to feel it on the training yard tomorrow though.”

.

.

.

The next day they were gathered with Uhtred and the rest of the men for a day of training, the Lord allowed no slacking even after a recent fight. It was an unusually hot day so most of the men had stripped off their armour and were just training in their tunics or completely topless. 

Finan had worked up quite a sweat, sparring with several of their men as well as putting in a hard round in with both Sihtric and Uhtred before he moved to out Osferth through his paces. Finally giving in to the heat he pulled his sweat soaked tunic over his head and tossed it over a nearby fence post to keep it out of the dirt. He ignored the heavy feeling of Sihtric’s eyes roaming over his exposed skin. The heathen was never satisfied but Finan wouldn't let it distract him from helping the baby monk not die in their next battle.

Finan was just gesturing for Osferth to take his place across from him when Uhtred's voice yelled out across the training yard. 

"Were you mauled by a wild animal, Finan?" The Lord's voice was teasing, clearly knowing the origin of the marks decorating the Irishman's body and Finan's ears burned at the jest but he grinned good-naturedly, thinking of the marks he left on Sihtrics' body and how much worse they were.

Sihtric just laughed smugly and smirked over at Uhtred, not at all ashamed of being called out, one of his own marks from Finan mouth just peeking out over the collar of his deep blue tunic. "You're all just jealous Finan knows how to fuck properly," he taunted as he twirled his axe in his hand, "Now whose next?"

[andrigyn]

Chapter Five

Putting out two chapters this week for @nestaarcheronweek !

The Vanserras don’t exactly roll out the red carpet for their new house guest, but Nesta is fascinated nevertheless by Autumn. Cassian has trouble coping with the fact that Nesta is now gone, but he must set that aside to deal with the rebellion in Illyria.

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Link to AO3

Nesta recalled Eris’s parting words again, when he told her that she ought to look her best. She wasn’t sure what precisely he meant by that, but she picked out one of her nicer gowns to wear. It was pewter colored, with a neckline that swept just under her collarbone. The dress was simple, yet it was fitted enough in the bodice to accentuate the prominent curves of her chest and waist. She also decided to keep her hair in its usual coronet, but sat in front of the vanity to pull it loose and rebraid it. By the time she was finished, there wasn’t a strand out of place. 

She could tell by the time on the clock that Eris would be there any minute, and soon she heard his quiet knock at the door. “Come in,” she said. 

Nesta looked up from the mirror to steal a glance. He had changed into a more formal double breasted green coat with a white shirt peeking out from underneath. His hair had been tamed, and his pants were more fitted than what she’d seen him in earlier. It wasn’t just the clothes that made him look so utterly aristocratic, but they did help. 

She rose from her seat. “Do I look acceptable?” 

Eris’s gaze moved from her head all the way down to the hem of her dress. “Gray is such a drab color, but you are lovely enough to make it look elegant.” 

She raised her eyebrow and pursed her lips. “Flattery will get you nowhere with me, Vanserra.” 

“I don’t do flattery, I only tell the truth. We should go, we’ll be late as it is.”

She walked up to his side, and once he knew she was ready, he led her into the corridor. 

“Another piece of advice I have for you,” he said, flashing those deep brown eyes in her direction as they walked side by side, “is to stay silent unless you are addressed directly.” 

“Fine by me,” Nesta said brusquely. She thought she would have preferred scooping her eyeballs out with a rusty spoon than talking to them anyways. What could she possibly have to say? She found it exceedingly difficult to find any common ground with the inner circle, and the Vanserras were likely cut from the same cloth. How foolish she had been when she first came to Prythian, and assumed that her expertise as a human socialite would help her here. 

“I’ll do my best to answer for you when possible, because my father in particular can be rather sensitive, it would take you decades to learn every little thing that could set him off. Here, take my arm,” he said, extending his forearm. 

Nesta linked hers with his, and felt through the layers of fabric how solid it was. She couldn’t help but wonder what his arms might look like. He didn’t seem like the type to parade around shirtless like some certain males she knew, which made her all the more fascinated. The pair strode into the dining room together. It was a grand space with a vaulted ceiling. Colorful tapestries and pendants covered most of the stone walls, illuminated by the soft glow of candlelight. It was even more impressive to Nesta, because she now knew that each of those flames was lit by magic. 

Judging by the full table, they were the last to arrive. The Lord and Lady of Autumn both sat at the two opposing heads of the table, and Eris’s five brothers occupied the remaining places. There were two empty seats to Beron’s right, which she assumed were meant for the newly engaged couple. Eris led them there, and pulled out her chair. She sat down, and so did he.   

A servant came around with wine to fill everyone’s glasses, and Nesta instantly felt on edge. She was not allowed to drink anymore, and her first thought was that this could have been some kind of elaborate test. She assured herself that nobody from the Night Court was here to tell her what she could or could not drink, but even so, she did not want to take that first sip. There was no telling whether or not she’d be able to control herself if she introduced alcohol again. But on the other hand, it might be strange, rude even, if she refused. So she reached for the glass, and took the smallest sip she thought she’d ever taken in her life. She still felt guilty afterwards. 

“You’re late,” Beron remarked in an unimpressed fashion. He looked at Eris with a casual disappointment. 

“My apologies, father, we lost track of time,” Eris said. Hearing how docile his voice became once they were in Beron’s presence was unsettling to say the least. 

“But you’ve brought us the lovely Nesta Archeron, who needs no introduction.” The High Lord looked directly at her when he spoke, with a piercing gaze that made her feel uneasy. He stared at her so intently, that maintaining eye contact felt unnatural. She did it anyway though, and even offered an affable smile. 

“Does she speak? I recall her having more of a mouth on her the last time we met,” he said, turning to face Eris, who was looking at Nesta. She knew that she’d have to say something, so she let the words fall out. 

“I truly am quiet, please understand that stress got the best of me during the war. Once you get to know me better, you’ll see that.” 

“Are you questioning my judgment?” Beron asked. His tone shifted, but it was impossible to discern whether he was being sarcastic or not. 

Nesta wanted to throw her head back and laugh at the thought of someone so easily offended by an explanation that he wasn’t owed in the first place. There were so many things she wanted to say, as he was practically inviting her insults with a statement like that. However, before she could say anything, Eris kicked her leg softly with his foot under the table. She could sense that it meant something along the lines of ‘Stop talking’.

“Of course that isn’t what she meant. Nesta is deeply regretful of the way she acted during the High Lord’s meeting, and wishes for you to give her another chance,” Eris said. 

Nesta nodded in agreement, but she couldn’t miss the opportunity to kick the male, even if it was petty. Eris’s face didn’t change at all as he anticipated Beron’s response. She didn’t have to look around the table to know that the rest of the family was collectively staring her down, she could just feel it. 

“It shouldn’t matter anymore, Prythian was reborn after the war with Hybern. There’s no need to carry grudges into this new era,” Beron said. 

Nesta thought that was a strange thing to say. She took a real sip of her wine this time, because it seemed like she was going to need something in her system. Dinner was served eventually, and she took a few bites before pushing the rest of the food around her plate in silence. There was more conversation, but no one addressed her again, so she stayed out of it. 

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵ 

After the meal was over, Nesta and Eris left the dining room. Once they were in the hallway and out of earshot, Eris turned to her. “You need to choose your words more carefully.”

“That was me choosing my words carefully.” 

“Try harder next time, then.” 

Nesta scowled at him. “Why don’t you try harder to divert the attention away from me in the first place? Isn’t that what you said you’d do anyways?”

“You’re a novelty, get used to it. Or better yet, use it to your advantage.” 

“There are no advantages to speak of, I’d give it all up if I only had the chance,” she snapped. Just the insinuation that there was any benefit to being thrown into the Cauldron filled her with rage. It had broken her completely, to the point where she cried every time she took a bath, she drank to forget about that power lying dormant inside of her, begging to be used, as it slowly drove her mad. 

“Don’t be a fool, Nesta. You have been gifted with magic beyond what I could ever dream of possessing.” 

“But I cannot wield its power, Amren gave up on training me months ago,” she said. This was true, albeit not the whole truth. She did spend many long days with Amren, who took her on as a project out of curiosity. Through all of her exercises and tests, she was never able to perform, although Nesta had been holding back. 

“I never imagined that such an ancient being could be so impatient, but perhaps Amren just isn’t a very good teacher.” 

“The power has surfaced before, multiple times even,” she explained, “But it seems to be triggered by strong emotions, like anger, and I have no control over it.” Nesta recalled the first incident, when she incinerated her room in the Townhouse with silver flames. The fire blazed, and threatened to engulf the entire building before Rhysand put it out. All caused by one measly nightmare. 

“Would you like me to engineer a situation designed to make you angry, then? Is that what you’re asking?” 

“No, I don’t want that. You don’t understand how dark this magic is, it’s unnatural.” 

Eris smirked. “I urge you to reconsider, but when you change your mind and decide you do want my help, just say so. I still owe you a tour though, don’t I?”

“You do,” Nesta said, and those were the only words he needed to hear before his demeanor shifted. Perhaps he’d broach the subject of her magic again soon, but in that moment all he was concerned about was showing her the house. 

She thought that Eris must have loved the sound of his own voice, because in every room they visited, he regaled her with some story about it. She couldn’t complain, because she rather liked listening to him. This house was ancient. It contained so much history, because so much life had been lived here. 

“And this is the main ballroom, which is mainly used for special occasions.” 

Nesta nodded as they walked past the tall, arched entrance. They traveled to the end of the hall, and down another set of stairs. 

“And this is the library,” he said, pushing the door open to reveal a spacious room full of books. It was larger than the library she had come to know in the House of Wind, and there were no priestesses to tend to it either. The dark green walls were barely visible behind the rows and rows of dark wooden bookshelves. A large couch and some chairs sat in front of a large fireplace, and fortunately Nesta didn’t hear a fire crackling and blazing inside of it. 

“Nobody should bother you in here, my brothers are not exactly the intellectual type. They are far too busy with their hunting, drinking, and womanizing.” Eris rolled his eyes. 

This place would seem empty without Gwyn to keep her company, but at least she wouldn’t have to stack and organize books any longer. There were many things about this realm that she ought to know, but didn’t. She was allowed to be ignorant in Velaris, because the place was just an elaborate bubble, but those days were over. Now, she had endless time to conduct research, or to see how the romance collection here compared to the House of Wind. 

“And there’s one more thing,” Eris said, “Do you like dogs?” 

She nodded. 

“I should introduce you now then, it’s not often that they meet someone new… unless they’re attacking,” he said. 

Nesta’s eyes widened, and she couldn’t help that his words put her on edge. Despite this, she followed him through the halls and out the door. They came to a vast yard enclosed by a simple log fence. There was probably no fence that could restrain a magical dog, so she guessed it was a pasture for cows, or goats at one time. When she looked out, she counted twelve of them darting to and fro, more rapidly than she had seen any animal move before. 

“Don’t worry, Nesta, they only attack if I say so,” he said. Once the hounds realized their master was present, they ran immediately to his side. “So don’t piss me off.” 

She looked at him intently, and he only laughed. “Go on, you can pet them.” 

Nesta extended a shaky hand to stroke one of them, and once she felt comfortable enough that it would not bite, she scratched behind its ear. 

“Phobos is his name,” Eris added, although she wasn’t paying much attention to him. Nesta was fully focused on the hound in front of her, and once it seemed that she had shown she was to be trusted, the rest of them approached and nuzzled against her. She couldn’t help but smile at the attention, and there was genuine joy behind it. 

“Well they’re very cute,” Nesta said. Her voice was raised a few octaves, and she was still facing away. Eris couldn’t tell whether she was talking to him, or the hounds, but he looked pleased to see her so happy. 

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

It did not take Cassian long to realize that his days were now empty without Nesta by his side. It didn’t matter that he had spent hundreds of years without her company, because everything changed the moment that he first laid eyes on her. The regret that he felt for not trying harder to prevent her from being sent away in the first place weighed on him so greatly that nothing could ease his stress. The reason was simple: before she left, the mating bond snapped. 

It snapped into place, and all Cassian could think about was her, how he could stay close to her, touch her, smell her. If only they were still in the House of Wind, then they could, well… 

He was certain that Rhys could sense it as well, which was why the High Lord didn’t just tell him to go away. No, he pushed through the barriers of Cassian’s mind to compel him to leave, before he could act on the violent desires that now gripped him. And the thoughts of Nesta still overwhelmed him, but he had no means of seeing her, as the Autumn wards were too powerful for him to fly through uninvited. For now, his only outlet was training, although even Azriel was quickly growing tired of sparring so frequently. 

It wouldn’t be long before Rhys gave him something productive to do, although they continued to train the Valkyries. His orders were to travel to Illyria, and bring the High Lord’s royal decree to the camp leaders whom Az claimed were most disloyal. It had to be the general who was sent, because there was nobody else that was trusted and liked by the Illyrians, even if Cassian had already lost most of their respect. There was still time, after all, to quell the revolutionary spirit that was spreading in the north before blood was spilled. 

That was why he sat across from Devlon now, in a drafty tent, trying his best to explain why he should listen to his High Lord. The absurdity of the entire situation was made evident by the fact that Rhys would not simply come here himself, although Cassian noticed how reclusive he was becoming. He was not as difficult to spot as Feyre these days, but his absence was felt regardless. If the Illyrians decided that his focus was drawn elsewhere, why wouldn’t they rebel? 

“Things are not looking good,” Devlon explained, “I don’t recommend you travel further north, you won’t be welcomed by any of the camp leaders. They see you as a traitor..” 

“But I have brought their grievances before their High Lord, and he has agreed to the following concessions, in order to avoid a civil war,” Cassian said, passing the signed piece of paper over to Devlon. He inspected it for a moment before shaking his head in disapproval. 

“Lowering their taxes isn’t enough, why would they care about this when there is talk of forming an independent country? There would be no taxes at all then, no troop quotas… You’re better off touring the southern camps, and convincing them to remain loyal to the crown. This is a mockery-”

It was true that the south was more prosperous, and therefore far less likely to risk their security in a bid for independence. Not only did they have more flat land suitable for farming, but their camps resembled something more like the towns or large cities in other courts. They had real buildings, and were far more industrialized than their neighbors to the north, thanks to capital investment from Velaris and the Hewn City. However, the northern camps were not to be underestimated when it came to combat. 

“Those were not my orders,” Cassian said. 

Devlon raised an eyebrow. “I suppose I cannot stop you, but at least take one of my men with you if you insist on going. There’s safety in numbers.” 

He nodded in reply. Azriel would have journeyed this far north with Cassian, but he didn’t want to ask that of him. The trip would be sure to bring up old memories for the shadowsinger that ought to stay buried. 

“Balthazar!” the camp leader shouted, and a young male walked through the entrance to the tent. He was of average height and build, but his face had a boyish quality to it. 

“This is my companion? He looks like a child. Has he even completed the Rite yet?” Cassian scoffed. 

“Looks aren’t everything, general. He is to participate in the Blood Rite this year, but he is a skilled warrior who hails from farther north, so he will be an asset to you.” 

“I was born and raised in Stansonview, sir,” Balthazar said. He stood straight, almost too straight. Cassian wondered if he fought in the war, or if he was yet untested by battle. Although this mission didn’t require combat, the Lord of Bloodshed’s presence was meant to be a show of strength on Rhys’s behalf, and Balthazar didn’t quite look the part. 

“It’s your lucky day then, because that’s stop number three on my list. You can tell your mother how much you’ve missed her,” Cassian said. He rose from his chair and clapped the younger male on the back. “Are you ready to leave?” 

“Give me an hour to gather my things,” he explained. 

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

As soon as Balthazar was ready, the pair left. The trip would take a day and a half, so they spent hours and hours soaring in the air above the rugged terrain of Illyria. It was impossibly cold, but Cassian didn’t mind. In fact, this was exactly the type of distraction he needed so that he couldn’t focus on the fact that his mate was with another male. He could see it all unfolding so clearly, Eris would lie to her like the snake he was. He would turn her against the Night Court, and seduce her. Surely he would want to keep the female for himself, even after Beron was killed, because she was made. No, Cassian would raise hell before he allowed that to happen, and he would have the support of his family. Rhys would never stand by as his brother was separated from his mate. 

Once dusk fell, he signaled to Balthazar that they should stop flying for the day. Once the two males landed at the clearing, they began setting up camp. 

Balthazar stood above the pile of sticks he had just gathered, and worked at starting a fire. He glanced over at the general, who was pitching his tent. “You’re awfully quiet,” he said. 

“What would you have me say? You could very well be a spy for all I know.” 

The younger male shrugged. “I don’t know, it’s not everyday I’m asked to accompany the Lord of Bloodshed on a mission. I think that if I didn’t say anything, my friends would never let me hear the end of it.” 

“You’re little more than a boy, you’ll meet people far more interesting than me in your lifetime,” Cassian said. 

They finished setting up camp, ate a quick dinner, and retired early. At the crack of dawn the next morning, they set out again. The plan was to start in Windhaven, and move from camp to camp until they reached the northernmost settlement, but Telpont would be a good place to start. Cassian anticipated that they might not be too far gone. Perhaps they would listen to reason. 

Once they arrived, they were led by the sentries guarding the border to the only stone building in town, where the camp leader Faolan resided. The older, graying male was seated behind a table, which was covered in maps. Cassian walked through the room slowly, until he was standing at the edge of the table with Balthazar to his side. 

“I should have ordered my men to shoot you down from the skies when they saw you,” Faolan said. 

“But you didn’t, perhaps because you know that they are not capable,” Cassian said. His austere tone let the male know that he was indeed serious, although it was mainly his physical size that the general relied on to intimidate others. 

Faolan scoffed. “What I know is that life amongst the high Fae has made you soft. My men could kill you and the boy that you’ve brought along without breaking a sweat.” 

This type of posturing was not unusual among Illyrian males. Cassian wondered if people truly did think of him as weak, and made a mental note to ask Az and his shadows. This reputation that he had built for himself was all he had. He was certainly not of noble birth, and he depended on Rhys for all of the money and companionship that he did have. The only person who was truly his was Nesta, and the Cauldron has decided to play a cruel joke and rip her away as soon as he recognized the bond.

“Enough pleasantries, I’ve brought you a list of concessions from your High Lord.” 

Faolan laughed. “Concessions? Your Lord has nothing to offer me. Have you considered what your father might say if he were here, if he could see his spineless son?” 

Cassian was fuming at the mention of a father he would never know, who never had the opportunity to be proud or ashamed of his son. However, he didn’t let his temper get this best of him this time. He took the letter and slid it over to Faolan with a blank stare. “Don’t worry about what my dead father might think, worry about your people and their future.” 

“Believe me, I am,” he said, “Because I respect you and your position, I will allow you to stay the night, but you are to leave first thing in the morning. Do not return, and tell your High Lord that the people of Telpont do not find his terms acceptable.”

Tag List: @tuzna-pesma-snova​ , @majestythewraith​ , @acotardeservesbetter​ , @joonsbratz 

[evoblue]

@alolynn-heart & @gruusha asked: What is inside your muse's pockets/bag/purse/backpack/etc. right now?

While most of her clothing unfortunately lacks the practicality of POCKETS (curse you, women's clothes designers....) Blue does carry a TON of stuff in her daily bag, everything from assorted pokéballs to some rare stones and items required to evolve certain types of pokémon. She still has some Sinistea chips and Bronzor fragments left over from when she was working on evolving her Charcadets to their two different forms.

Other specific items include: her phone inhabited by her shiny Rotom, Romi. Some neutral-toned makeup and moisturizing lip gloss. A nail file. A journal where she documents her findings (her handwriting is nice but her sketches leave a lot to be desired, much to her chagrin). A couple of Ink Joy gel pens in various colors because they're her favorites. Her wallet. A slim tablet. A bag of Pewter Crunchies. A few hair ties. An omamori charm she got from her aunt. Some Hyper Potions and Full Restores. A bottle of water. A bag of berries. A small first aid kit.

Wow, good thing her bag is large!

[frozenwolftemplar]

Writer's Month Day 19: Clouds

Fandom: Tangled: the Series

Rating: G

Word Count: 735 (hey! I wrote something short!)

Summary: Rapunzel and Cassandra talk about clouds (that is a terrible summary, but it's really the best one I can think of)

I initially wrote this for Day 18 ('Free'), but decided that I'd rather do a different idea for that day. It all worked out, though, because the next day's prompt was 'clouds' and this fit perfectly! 😁

+++

“Have you ever wondered what it’d be like to be a cloud?”

Not faltering in her attack on the hardened remnants of eggs coating the cast-iron pan, Cass looked over at Rapunzel, blonde head tipped back as she gazed up at the sky and *not* drying the plate Cass had handed her five minutes ago. “Raps...” she sighed. “The plate...”

“I mean, look at them.” The only sign Rapunzel had heard Cass was the mechanical motions her hand was making over a portion of plate no longer shiny with wet.

Shaking the suds from her hands, Cass left the pan to soak (stupid egg might be more cooperative after a drowning) and came to stand alongside the princess, taking up a second still-dripping plate and rag on her way. Obediently, she craned her neck back to look at the mid-morning sky arcing high overhead. Sure enough, a plethora of clouds- puffy, tranquil, innocent- swirled overhead like paintings spread majestically across a chapel ceiling. the sky. They lazily moved across the blue, cottony wisps trailing behind like petals from a young girl’s haphazard bouquet, curling and twisting and changing their shapes so slowly it almost seemed to not happen at all.

“Might rain later.”

“Cass...” Rapunzel looked away from the sky to fix Cass with a playful grin. “Not like that. I mean-“ she turned back to the clouds. “-Have you ever seen anything so...free?”

Cass pursed her lips, tracking a rabbit’s powderpuff tail as it crawled westward. Her dad had always said artists saw the world in weird ways, and Raps was no exception (well, he said 'voyeuristic,' which she knew the meaning of *now,* but Raps wasn’t *that* kind of artist so 'weird' it was). Over the past year she’d grown accustomed to hearing the princess wax poetic about composition and shapes and colors ‘complementing’ each other and learned not to bat an eye at her doing or saying things that made no sense and served no practical purpose, such as spending the afternoon staring at the holly leaves in the gardens (they’re all prickly and all a nuisance to pick out of hair, whether bobbed or seventy feet and indestructible) or wondering if fish had thought lives (somehow more bothersome than the holly leaves since she got Cass wondering that too).

This one though...

Have you ever seen anything so free?

“Just floating around up there,” Rapunzel continued, oblivious to Cass's hand slowing on the pewter. “Drifting into any shape they want, seeing the world without having to worry about roads or mountains or oceans or...other things. Nothing stops them from going wherever they want, *being* anything they want...” She sighed dreamily, letting her plate and rag hang at her sides, completely forgotten. “You know?”

Cass didn’t respond right away, eyes still on the clouds, and Rapunzel listened to her silence with a smile frisking about the corners of her eyes. Cass...wasn’t the personifying type, but the clouds were so beautiful today, so blissfully free, how could anyone feel anything but-

“No.”

Rapunzel blinked, jerking back as though she’d been slapped. “No?”

“They don’t really decide where they go.” There was an edge to Cass's voice that caused the clouds above to freeze like a deer who'd just heard the hunter's footfalls, an idyllic existence coming to an abrupt end. “Or what shape they take. All they do is go where the wind blows them. They don’t really get a choice, so they're not really free. Now come on, Raps.” She turned back to the washbasin, not sparing a glance or a thought for Rapunzel’s slack jaw, and spoke quickly before Rapunzel could try and refute her words. “I want to get these dishes done before the guys get back.”

“O-okay.” Rapunzel nodded, swallowing the protest that had leapt to her tongue and setting down her dry dish in favor of a freshly rinsed one. Cass was back to attacking the pan, elbow-high suds flying as the egg cried uncle in the face of her soapy onslaught, and Rapunzel watched her curiously, more than a little caught off guard by the asperity that had prickled in her voice, the bite to her tone, the unforeseen sentiment they contained, and most of all-

"They're not really free."

-Most of all, the melancholy that had swirled beneath her final words, coloring them a deep, forlorn blue.

Who knew Cass had such strong opinions about clouds?

[fuckedprophet-arch]

The drink freezes a centimeter from the old cherry dining table; blue eyes shifting to spy Gloria perched in the kitchen’s doorway. Lips purse for a brief second before he's drawing a pewter coaster that they’d snagged at a flea market four cities over, the sweating glass of tea being left to rest. It's funny almost, to think how easily they fit their little roles. Where moments between them didn’t seem to be an act, but more real than anything. How when making breakfast, they now navigated around each other with ease of two people who’ve lived together for years, or when getting ready for work he’s quick to clasp her necklaces for her and she is at ease fixing his tie. There is humor all around them, that the very walls they painted together were only purchased to keep who they were once before buried. “ Sorry, I’ll be sure to pray for forgiveness to your great grandmother. I don’t need her resurrecting and strangling me over it. “ He never thought he’d be a domestic, be a husband and here he was smiling in every picture taken of them – instinctively wrapping his arms around her when they went out in public and even drawing her closer when they finally decided to share the bed. 

        Teeth chew the inside of his cheek for a brief second before he’s scooting his chair back and following after her into the kitchen, the sunshine yellow her choice and one he didn’t mind. It felt right, and seeing her with an apron and icing bag in hand – something in his chest nearly cinches. “ Hey, I forgot to ask – the company is having a small BBQ next Friday. Did you want to attend or – “ The question sort of dies on his lips as he watches her look up at him, the icing clinging to her chin and flour that sticks to her v neck shirt stealing his attention entirely.

@medicbled said: “Ah, can you put a coaster under that - it’s my ‘great grandmothers’ dinner table from the farm remember?”

[chilope]

do any of you know of a shop that makes purse frames similar to billyandcharlie.com but out of bronze instead of pewter?

[zmwrites]

Last Line Tag CCCIII

I was tagged by @kaiusvnoir! Thank you!

From the prequel to Poppet WIP:

“Your services are no longer needed,” Carlenne said primly, shooting her a distasteful look as she accepted her and Aleksander’s horses. 

Dutch crossed her arms. “I’m waiting to be paid.”

“I don’t have five hundred gold on my person.” Her tone was haughty, as though Dutch hadn’t already figured that out. 

“Hence why I’m standing here instead of just taking your coin purse,” she replied with a bland smile. “I’m curious to see how you’re going to conjure five hundred gold out of thin air.”

“And if I don’t?” 

She raised a brow. “Then your life will be forfeit for reneging on our agreement.”

Carlenne’s pewter cheeks went ashy.

I tag @aohendo, @justwriteyoudummy, @did-i-do-this-write, and anyone else who wants to play! As always, no pressure!

[alyssasoutfitdiary]

2023 03 06 Monday

What I am wearing today to the office.

Today is a transition day in weather, in two ways. Overall, today is the transition from the recent warmth to cold (more like cool, really) that is supposed to start tomorrow. The day itself is also supposed to transition, as the first part of the day is supposed to be sunny and fairly warm, while it is supposed to start raining later this afternoon.

I found an outfit that is a perfect transition look, in my opinion. My top will be bright and cheery, for the morning; my skirt will be mostly gray, but light, and with a print that is full of life, just like what is expected midday, for the transition; and gray nylons and black shoes, for the drab afternoon.

I started off thinking I'd wear black (to match my shoes) or gray (to match my skirt) earrings and necklace, but that introduces drab into the bright part of my outfit, so that doesn't fit. Silver, though, does match gray, yet is shiny, so that seems to be a better match for the theme.

End of day thoughts: We had more sun than expected. It clouded up a little by the time I left the office, but the rain held off until well after dark and I was already home. It was still a transition day, but I think a slightly brighter skirt would have been better for what actually was.

My outfit details:

Weather: Low 30s, sunny ☀️ (morning), Low 60s, cloudy ☁️ (afternoon)

Hair down

Pink button front shirt: Express

Skirt: Target @targetstyle

Pewter nylons (66 denier): Wolford

Silver chain dangle earrings: Target @targetstyle

Silver chain necklace: Target @targetstyle

Silver watch: Target @targetstyle

Beige blazer: Express

Black leather braided belt: Falari

Black purse: Target @targetstyle

Black coat: Target @targetstyle

[kaysuniverse-stl]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Nicole Miller Pewter Gray Glossy Shoulder Bag.

[verydesperatehousewife]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: B. Makowsky A200532 Metallic Pewter Pebble Leather Crossbody Convertible Purse.

[susangg9]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Unbranded chain mail crossbody purse bag.