#that was only shoved in because there was no other excuse for them not plundering each other's gardens on the floor of that art exhibit

[tchaikovskygay]

the only reason they had lady danbury sleep with violets dad this series was to keep her from finally eating violet out

[aelinschild]

Maple Syrup

Main Masterlist | Other One-Shots

Apologies for the absence! Please take this shamelessly Canadian x Rowaelin drabble as a gift. The only way I'm going to cope with the fact that its supposed to snow next week, and then for the next six months, is if I pretend winter is romantic. Its not. Its cold.

SYNOPSIS: Keeping warm becomes an intense activity when the winter months approach, and in the thick of it, two lovers spend a chilly day recounting childhood pleasures. WORDCOUNT: 4.3k WARNINGS: Swearing, allusion to intimacy/sex, fluff lol

Inside frost-worn glass, a pair of lovers spend their evening. Curled up in front of the roaring fire, where the cold cannot permeate their warm embrace. The snow swirls in a light dance, not racing to reach the ground, merely suspended in the moment. Streetlights highlight the individuality of each flake, lighting up the path ahead as if it itself is the universe, each step propelling you through galaxies. The wind sleepily shushes the night, drawing around homes like a blanket, coaxing those inside deeper into snugness. 

Not hours before, were this pair out embracing the bite of Father Winter. Plundering the absurd coldness for all it had to offer. Though with eachother – shrouded in their warmth. 

–

It was a bitter morning as Aelin dragged herself away from the heat of her shared bed. Rowan was still asleep, taking up much of the bed – and her only moments before. Her husbands silvery hair was mussed with sleep, and his face relaxed. The muscles softening into a expression of innocence, far from the usual smirk or stoic gaze. Their bed was layered with an array of heavy blankets, capped with a down duvet. This was all a part of keeping warmth close, especially when the winter months fell upon the North. Rowan was wrapped tightly with the Hudson’s Bay wool blanket – the blanket that cost a small fortune, but was a staple in any Canadian home. Aelin wasnt so much of a fan of the traditional scratchy wool, but she couldnt disagree that it kept in much of the heat lost in the restless fits of tossing and turning throughout the night. Though she much preferred her personal heater, the soft skin of his body beckoning her back to bed. Alas, she had a exciting day planned – and though temptation was warping her minds ability to rise from the bed, she got up anyway. 

Immediately shoving her feet into the sherpa lined slippers, lest the cold freeze her toes, Aelin made her way to the curtains at the edge of their room. On any normal day, she would leave her slumbering husband in the full darkness, hesitating to open the blinds till both had risen. But given it was past the peak of winter, and nearing the shortest day of the year, there would be no sun to worry about. Dragging the heavy dark green curtains away from the frost covered window, Aelin got a glimpse into her backyard. Layered in nearly three feet of snow, and pitch black like the night hadnt yet crept away, her body yearned to go back to sleep. Winter always messed up her and Rowan’s sleeping patterns, but it also gave an excuse to lazily cuddle in bed, which was favorable in her opinion. 

The streetlights were still on, and would remain that way all day, as it never really got bright enough to excuse them. And the North star was visible from her back window, shining brightly among the other stars. Once the curtains were pushed away from the glass, Aelin took to the task of clearing up the condensation from the edges of the window pane. With the towels laid out for this exact purpose, she wiped the water away, and used her nails to pick at the ice that was beginning to form at the edges. Rowan was meticulous about this habit, not wanting to have to buy new windows because of the moisture eating away at the wood. 

Once she had finished, rising and grabbing the sopping towel –making a mental reminder to bring the oscilating fan into the room for the day, Aelin made her way over the the bathroom. Tossing the towel into the hamper, it lands with a wet thunk. She begins her morning routine of washing the night away. Cleanser, toner, serums, and moisturizers. Rowan loved to lean on the doorway, or watch like a hawk from the bed when she did her routine. He loved the intimacy of the moment, and Aelin loved his interest. Brushing her teeth, and rebraiding her hair, Aelin grabbed her fluffy pink robe and as quietly as possible slipped out of the bathroom. To her pleasant surprise, Rowan was still snoring away softly. 

Today was not going to be a morning where she wouldnt get out of her fleece-lined pajamas until she absolutely had to. Walking on near silent feet to the kitchen, she flicked on the coffee pot. Each night as her and Rowan wind down, wiping counter tops and washing dishes, they set out to make their mornings a little easier – like preparing the coffee machine so their mornings can begin at the flick of a button. 

While the coffee brews, Aelin groggily makes her way over the the thermometer. Raising it a few degrees before her husband relinquishes control. As she makes her way through the house, she peels opens more dark geen curtains, repeating the same process from the bedroom and collecting damp towels for the dryer. By the time shes set a new dryer cycle and the few fans the couple own are drying damp glass, the coffee has finished brewing and Aelin makes her way over to her saving grace. 

Grabbing her silly ‘Mrs’ mug, the one with a chip around the rim from when her and Rowans morning cuddles got a little too passionate and the cup was abandoned ungracefully to the floor, she pours the Christamas ‘flavoured’ creamer in first, then fills it the rest of the way with hot coffee. Whatever Christmas flavour means is lost on Aelin, she just knows it tastes fantastic. The warm liquid heats her innards, replacing the chill of the season with her favourite coziness. 

For a few moments, Aelin sips on her coffee and stares out the window situated above the kitchen sink. As much as she loathes the cold – despise is probably a better word, she cant help but love the beauty of it. The sparse tree branches reaching out into the bitter morning, reaching high, high, high. Touching the snowflakes that either come to rest upon the branches – building impressive piles that are extremely unforgiving when you walk underneath – or coming to rest near the other behemoth amounts on the ground. Glancing at her phone that she leaves charging out in the kitchen at night, Rowans stays in their room for safety reasons, she checks the current temperature. Minus thirty-one degrees celsius. A heaving sigh comes from the golden woman. The high of the day is negative eighteen. If she didnt love, downright adore, her husband, she would have been out of this country so fast. Unfortunately Rowan loves the cold, and so they stay where winters get cold enough to kill, if only for Aelin to watch the pretty snowflakes and force her brute of a husband to pull her around on a toboggan. 

Snowflakes land on the shelf of the window outside, and it takes Aelin back to her elementary school days where the class would get pieces of black constructor paper and a magnifying glass, then venture outside to catch snowflakes. Each individual piece was unique, and staring at the mythical little crystals – each with their own patterns and shapes – was a magical childhood moment for her. She wonders if she should go out and buy some black paper and magnifying glasses if only to recreate that magic with her husband. 

Once her coffee is half drunk, Aelin tops it up and sets out to start breakfast. She decides oats are the best way to start the day today. Her only dilemma is whether or not she should add cocoa powder and hazelnuts. Given that Aelin rose earlier than Rowan today, he is subjected to whatever she makes. Good or bad, he’ll eat it with a mushy smile, happy as long as his love is happy. Though, most mornings, Rowan’s awake before Aelin is even half conscious. He like to get an early morning workout in, the wake her up with coffee and bed. Depending on the mood, breakfast comes immediately afterwards, usually consisting of something outrageously healthy. Filled with things like ‘healthy fats’ and ‘protien’. Aelin rolls her eyes at the thought. Cocoa and hazelnut oatmeal it is. 

While she prepares breakfast, she starts a fresh pot of coffee. When the meal is done, Aelin grabs the special tray Rowan hand crafted for mornings like this. Made of the same pine trees from the forest where he proposed, it still smells like the moment. Settling the two steaming bowls, along with Rowans pitch black coffee, she sets off to her husband. 

She takes less care in silencing her footfalls, and as she shoulders the door open, the familiar smell of their bedroom – light but earthy, from her favorite candle – and pine green eyes meet hers. 

A sleepy smile is on his handsome face. Still sprawled out over the bed, his powerful body concealed by the mountains of blankets, he sets his eyes on the tray Aelin carries into the room. Kicking her slippers off when she nears his side of the bed, she crawls up and sets the tray in a safe position. Her husband hums as he rolls over, its gruff and sends a warmth all throughout Aelins body. 

“Goodmorning Ro,” She murmurs, carding her hands through his unruly, sleep mussed hair. Her painted nails scratch along his scalp and make their way to the back of his head, and Aelin leans down to smother him with kisses. His body rumbles with silent laughter underneath her, and he brings his naked arms up to encase her waist. Aelin kisses everywhere but his lips, and she can sense his frustration as she kisses brow, cheeks, and the corner of his mouth. 

His hands find her face, “You missed a spot,” he grumbles, and Aelin raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow before shes being pulled into a deep kiss. Her eyes close, and she lets herself relax against Rowan. 

Mornings like this mean the world to her. Moments where she can spend the most intimate parts of her day pressed against her forever home, her person. She feels herself melt into the kiss, her body conforming to Rowans, coming back to its final resting place. Theres no urgency here, just adoration. His hands dont grope or grip. He holds her like crystal, not because it could break, but because he respects her – cherishes her. The kiss stretches on into eternity, but the moment ends, breathlessly. Both partners sporting delighted smiles. 

Aelin pushes herself back up, her hands planted firmly on Rowans pectorals, and she scooches over to the headboard so they can sit side-by-side while they enjoy the meal she prepared. 

“Coffee. And breakfast.” Aelin says, reaching over to bring the tray onto Rowans lap. “Looks amazing,” he responds. Eyes tracing her features, and leaning over to place another sweet kiss to her temple. Aelin rolls her eyes and giggles while grabbing his bowl. The chocolatey smell has been tempting her to no end, and as devilishly handsome Rowan looks – all half-naked and groggy, she needs food. 

Rowan reaches over to his nightstand, grabbing his glasses. The man is desire personified, sitting next to her in bed, and Aelins sure he knows just as well, especially with the smirk hes currently sporting. Though the moment his eyes land on the oatmeal, the grow comically wide, and Aelin has to stop herself from choking on the chocolatey goodness as a laugh threatens to lurch from her throat. 

“Good gods Ae, what is this?” Rowan gasps out, completely bewildered by his wifes dessert/breakfast. He pokes and prods with his spoon, uncovering the hazelnuts sprinkled heavily throughout. 

Letting out a laugh, “It’s breakfast silly. Eat up, I’ve got quite the day planned.” And Aelin can almost feel her eyes watering from the happiness consuming her. She wants to cackle at Rowans bewildered expression, but she reins it in, leaving with a goofy smile that stretches ear to ear. 

He shakes his head. “This is not breakfast.” And, true to his nature, he sticks his spoon in with exceptional ferocity, takes a massive spoonful and eats all of it. A little is left in the corner of his mouth, and as he chews down the mouthful, Aelin watches his throat work, and the sheepish smile appear on his face. She knows he doesnt like it, but she loves him for trying. She loves him anyways, and so she reaches out and licks the chocolate off the corner of his mouth and kisses him. 

She loves him. 

-

Its later and the couple is bundled up accordingly. Thick woolen underlayers are hidden by down stuffed jackets and snowpants. Balaclavas cover pink noses, and scarves warm necks. Touques cover ears, and mittens shroud hands. Though, the layers are beginning to become sweltering. After breakfast was eaten, and the bed was warmed again, Rowan took one deep breath and decided the mornings workout would be shoveling. 

If theres one thing Aelin hated, it was shoveling. 

A workout like no other, impossible to ever complete. Given the fact that snow didnt stop for eight months of the year. There was at least a foot covering all sidewalks and the driveway, and their corner house gave them much more sidewalk to clear than any other house in the suburb. Its similar to shoveling sand, as in, its essentially useless. But Rowan disagrees. Granted, he has his reasons. If the snow isnt shoveled, it becomes ice, and falling on that ice hurts. Badly. So, like any good neighbour, the couple is out, still under the presence of darkness, shoveling. 

Aelin imagines she murdering someone with every shovel of snow. The ferocity of her movements makes Rowan laugh. 

Her head jerks up, and Rowan makes out a muffled ‘what’ from where she is. He just laughs again and shakes his head, and hears more grumbling coming from his wife. 

“Look love, were nearly done,” Rowans glove-covered hand gestures over their progress. The sidewalk has been cleared, and their both currently working on the driveway. Which is necessary if they want to leave their house. Since the direction of the wind last night pushed all the snow up against the garage door. 

“I,” a forceful shovel, “hate,” Aelin tosses the snow into their pile, “godsdamned,” another shovel, “snow!” She puts a little too much force into her swing, and end up throwing herself off balance and falling right onto her ass. 

Rowans immediately moving over to his wife's prone form, grabbing her under her bulky underarms, he lifts her up as he holds back even more laughter. Aelin emits a groan, and Rowan tugs her against his body. 

She feels his solid  chest moving with laughter, and despite the fact she just fell flat onto frozen concrete, she joins in. Leaning her hat convered head onto his bulky chest, and wrapping her arms as far around his torso as possible. They both cling onto eachother, giggling like children. Snow continues to fall, creating a little layer over the fresh sidewalk. Rowan is the first to recover. 

“Okay,” she can hear his smile. “How about you go make us something warm, and ill finish up.” And before Rowans sentance is even out, Aelins already scurrying away from this unforgiving chore. Rushing towards the door, and tossing the plastic shovel against the side of the house. Her mittened fingers struggle with the doorknob, but the moment she gets it, she rushes in. 

“Ice your ass!” 

-

It’s dark again, the short day having come and gone. Under the constant flurries, the sky wasnt overly remarkable, and so by the time the sun sets once again; painting the northern city into darkness, Rowan and Aelin are seated in their warm car, off on their way to the zoo. 

The city lights flash by as Rowan skillfully manuevers along the highway. This deep into winter, and especially without much light, driving gets scary. And the task is more often than not delegated to Aelin’s husband. Completely indiscernible to the naked eye, layers of black ice sheet agianst the road, and without the special winter tyres, this trip muight have ended much differently. But soon enough, the lights from the zoo make their appearance over the dash. 

Rowans hand is warm against Aelins snowpant clad thigh. She can still feel the heat from his large palm through the thick material. As much as she wanted to pick out a cute outfit to tour the zoo lights, the temperature had dropped dramatically back down. Even double layered fleece tights wouldnt have be enough to combat at the sub arctic weather of the evening. And at six in the evening, theres not a trace of the sun left in the sky, as if its also abandoning this frozen tundra. So she instead is dressed like a puffy marshmallow, kept warm by the layers. Rowan made sure to tell her she was a ‘cute marshmallow, yknow?’ whatever that meant. His tall frame elongated the layers, making him appear a little bulkier and imperceptibly taller, rather than puffy. But snowsuits are no new thing for the couple, having lived in Canada their entire lives. Just ask the parents. Theyll gladly pull out old photos of their smiling and frostbitten children, hunkered up in the most outrageous getups only ones whos lived through these winters could understand. 

The more mortifying pictures, though, are the ones where the children have their onepiece snowsuits on, and a halloween costume overtop. Aelin smiles at the memory of her being Princess Belle, though she was practically unrecognizable with the dress pulling a weird angles as it tried to fit over her little body. A knitted touque slung on top of her unruly curls, and mittens that didnt provide much grip for the pillow case of goodies she would collect that night. 

The Cristmas music hums softly on the radio, and Rowan skillfully reverse into a parking space, one handed. Aelin would be lying if she said it didnt wake some butterflies. 

Shifting the car into park, Aelin meets her husbands gaze. “Im so excited,” she breaths out into the silence of the car. 

“Me too,” he hums, unbuckling his seatbelt and grabbing his wallet from the cupholder to be put into an inside coat pocket. “Im glad they finally decided to bring back the lights. Reminds me of bein’ kids.”

She nods in agreement, but her starry gaze shifts to the entrance. “Let’s go!”And Rowans laugh follows her from the car, out to the bitter cold. 

The couple reunites in front of the car, and hand-in-hand they walk towards the entrance of the zoo. Snow crunching under their boots. Once they reach the teller at the front gates, Rowan slips his wallet out and pays for two tickets. The teller lets them know it takes around ninety minutes to walk this year display, and bids them a warm night. 

The zoo lights have been something Aelin has attended as far as her memory reaches back. Alongside the embarrassing Halloween snowsuit pictures, theres tons of Aelin with her parents at the light display. And its one of her favorite memories, especially the maple syrup stand. 

For about thirty years, their city has been transforming the zoo into a winter wonderland. When the cold gets too nippy for even the most climatized animals, they are all brought inside, or to sanctuaries where they will spend their winter, warmly. Except for maybe the penguins – they like the cold too much. But nonetheless, in support of wildlife conservation, millions of lights are set up around trees, in shapes of animals, into moving displays. Allowing for visitors to walk the regular path of the zoo at night, surrounded by twinkling lights all around. 

“I wonder of the penguins are out,” Rowan mused from her side. They were nearly at the end of the tunnel entrance, and that display was up first. 

“They might, those guys love the cold.” 

“Speaking of cold, can you feel your toes?”

Aelin let out a snort, “Not really, no.” And she snuggled up next to her love, giving her greatest attempt at puppy dog eyes. “But do you know what would probably help me to feel them?”

Amused, Rowan looks down. “Do tell,”

“Hot chocolate.”

“Of course, how did I not see that coming.” He huffs dramatically. And luckily enough, there at the end of the tunnel resides a hot chocolate stand. 

With a child-like jubilance, Aelin rushes out from Rowans heavy arm, instead grabbing his gloved hand and dragging towards the line for the chocolate goodness.

“So first you nearly kill me this morning with chocolate porridge, and now more chocolate?” He chuckles. 

“In liquid form. Very different, buzzard.” Aelin happily responds. 

Slowly the chattering couple makes it to the front of the line, ordering one large hot chocolate with extra marshmallows, and one small dark hot chocolate. And once the cups are in their possession, the night begins. 

Joined at the elbows, linked together, Aelin and Rowan stroll past display after display. Trees wrapped in string lights, varying in all shades. The lights flicker and wave, creating different effects upon every trunk and branch. Criss-crossing above their heads, white string lights glow, with dangling pieces meant to emanate icicles. The sway gently as the light chatter from other families fills the space. Displays of Flamingos in the brightest pinks light up a shallow pond. The lights shifting to display the birds bent over drinking, then standing, then standing with one leg. Zebras are mapped out in white and black lights, shifting from bent over and eating, to head proudly raised. A field of red roses lights up, the colour getting brighter in waves to mimic the wind and it flows through the icy field. 

Theres no speaking between the couple as they walk together. There's no need when the linked arms convey everything. The wind bites at their cheeks, but the warmth of eachothers presence ignites a fire that burns hotly inside them. 

Rowan walks past the displays, his wife’s arm in the crook of his elbow, and he finds himself getting distracted by the innocent laughter of the children. They scream with joy when a large tortoise lights up, previously being off. He’s happy, brimming with pleasure, as they walk through this moment, hand-in-hand with his memories and the prospect of a future family – a blend of him and Aelin, walking through here together. 

“Rowan,” Aelin gasps. “Look!”

His head follows the direction of her hand, and he sees the infamous tent. Decorated in trails of maple leaves, the tent is propped proudly in the middle of a clearing – beckoning them inside. 

“Lets go, lets go-” and shes pulling Rowan behind her, and he cant help but love this woman more and more. “Letsssss gooooo!!”

Dragging her husband over to the entrance of the tent, the aroma nearly brings her to her knees. This, this specific part, is the best part of zoo lights. Workers decked out in red snowgear are lined up around the edge of the tent, and other eager customers crowd around. Stainless steel tables, equipped with burners, have pots of one-hundred percent real maple syrup bubbling away. Reaching high temperatures, only to be brought back down upon being poured over the fresh snow. Through the back flaps of the tent, rosy-cheeked workers carry in new snow. Packed tightly into stainless steel baking sheets, the trays get deposited onto the table, and the family next in line wanders up. 

Rowan and Aelin watch as the worker instructs the little girl on what to do, pointing to the wooden sticks, and encouraging her to grab one. One shes made her pick, the worker grabs the boiling pot of syrupy goodness and pours a long strip over the fresh snow. Quickly, she tells the little girl to place the popsicle stick at one end of the syrup, then roll. Her small hands deftly roll the now congealed syrup, making a maple popsicle. 

Rowan and Aelin watch the little girl proudly display her treat, showing it off to the parents. And the couple share a sly look. The joy of the evening is contagious for everyone, apparently. 

“Are you two ready to go?” The kind worker asks. Twisting the baking sheet so the side with fresh snow faces them. 

“Ladies first,” Rowan says, coyly smirking at Aelin, who returns that with a massive smile. 

“Alright, grab a popsicle stick,” The worker points to the container of fresh ones. “You ready?”

“More than,” Aelin returns, with her popsicle stick in hand, she watches as the syrup get poured into the snow, immediately melting it down a few layers before it cools off enough to be one long strip. She cant even feel the biting cold, shes so present in the moment. Limbs warmed with joy. 

Placing her popsicle stick, she skillfully rolls the syrup around it, before raising her maple popsicle to glance at the snow decorating the sugary treat. Rowans up next, and he rolls his up artfully, before they both move outside of the tent to let other have their turn. Making their way over to one of the logs set out by bonfires, the couple snuggles in closely to eachother. 

“Ready?”

“Ready.” 

And they both take big bites out of the syrup. Aelin lets out a little moan at the taste. The soft syrup, with little maple crystals from earlier batches, and chunks of snow between the layers. Nothing can beat the treat. And she hears Rowan let out his own noise of appreciation. 

And as they both lean into the comfort of each other, surrounded by twinkling lights, and under a sky that's beginning to streak green, purple, blue with the Aurora Borealis, Aelin cant imagine anywhere else where she rather be. Cold and all.

Thank you for reading! As always; likes, reblogs, and feedback is extremely appreciated!!

[anthonybialy]

Backed Up Front

Consequences are mean.  Certain political factions hate noticing what’s next because they want to keep life as a surprise.  Careful planners conjured all these amazing communal notions that work like Joe Biden’s trains when actually tried.

Democrats aren’t as thrilled as expected about getting exactly what they backed.  Forcing taxpayers to rub the lamp shows government genies screw up wishes, which is just another unanticipated consequence.  Successes ended with winning elections as installed policies naturally failed.  It’s not bad enough that they have to live with their regrettable decisions: because of that whole way elections work, we do, too.  Involving politics in every life portion leaves plates empty.

Crime is America’s trendiest hobby.  The ruling party gave so many disaffected youths something to do, yet ingrates protest the end of idling.  The only way to halt the trend is by running out of stuff.  Friends of felons need semipermanent downturn to end so the downtrodden can keep thieving to fight inequality.  You might figure there’d be nothing left to take.

The Democratic dedication to spirituality means nobody has any stuff.  But ransackers ripped out the fixtures and copper wire after you thought looting would end once the last consumer goods vanished.  Government didn’t steal everything only because the leviathan is prototypically inept.

Foes of constitutional niceties would appreciate you discarding your long-term memory for the collective’s benefit.  Statist goons did so in order to forget who won the Cold War.  Pretending that cities have always been havens for pirates requires disregarding the uncanny overlap between unchecked plundering and the mayors’ parties.

Poor victims can tell exactly when progressive dreams become real nightmares.  Just watch election results.  There’s no greater hassle than moving from New York City, which makes Eric Adams prompting Knickerbockers to flee an accomplishment of sorts.

The only thing worse than results are excuses.  The president’s thin ranks of defenders pathetically blame corporate greed is the sort of predictable behavior sellers wish they could diagnose in buyers.

Lunatic conspiracy theories are the only thriving enterprise.  Conglomerates don’t raise prices when they install the despot of their choice because they cannily wait to harm their political foes.  Stores are anthropomorphically Republican, you see.  The inability to afford eggs stems from resentment over how much peddlers hate a Democratic president.  There’s no way conglomerates could profit by lowering prices to increase volume or anything.

It’s their fault.  We’ll stop blaming when voters who don’t trust the judgment of others for personal reasons stop selecting such objectionable alleged leaders.  Ceaselessly smarmy Democrats voted for this.  You might figure they’d be proud with their dedication to announcing how incredible what they believe is.  Somehow, the country ended up broke in multiple senses.

Lives dedicated to imposing solutions ruined those of everyone else.  Results are thrilling if trying to survive without being harmed or able to afford groceries is approached as a challenge.  The party determined to take all the worries out of existence helped create woe for you to overcome, and you ingrates don’t even thank them.  Don’t you enjoy developing character?

Government’s peculiar advocates scoff at the notion that the awful dolts they shoved into office by exploiting the urge to get rich without toiling might be our world’s biggest frauds.  Condemning the wealthy while trying to become the same without offering value shows just why they despise their enemy.  The fact the professionally jealous fail is supposed to make it okay to project bumbling on everyone else.

Easily swayed cultists who think government should and does run every life aspect are shocked when it actually happens.  Confiscating liberty doesn’t actually liberate humans.  The innumerable examples already accumulated apparently still aren’t enough to confirm.

Ghastly results are precise opposite of what they claim will happen, which at least is a victory for predictability.  Getting everything backward will have to count.  Announce what lottery numbers will cause the IRS to take your fortune.  Inflicting consequences they dodge makes it like everything else they believe.  Scheduled terrible times will also have to count as regularity.

You may not notice redistribution schemes supposedly assisting the underprivileged, which is why adherents do so as showily as possible.  Voting to make privilege quite rare is one way of installing fairness.  Presume it’s only straight white males who can get ahead to fulfill the prophecy.  Nobody can afford things like things.  Everyone suffers for parity.

They absolutely voted for this.  The guilty have learned their policies are phenomenally horrid.  Cause and effect upsets free market foes.  Everyone else suffers the effects of ironic punishment for hubris.  If you’re going to be arrogant, at least do so for a cause greater than letting Pete Buttigieg derail trains and ground planes.

It’s fine to cast blame when it’s clear who’s at fault.  Noticing who was in charge when society disintegrated like a zombie movie without the undead rising from graves might help prevent further rotting.  Liberals oppose barbaric rituals like trials for the arrested, not to mention obviously selfish reasons involving nervousness  about linking behavior to outcomes.  Surveying thorough poverty leads to perpetrators protesting that their glorious visions weren’t implemented correctly when the whole problem is they can’t see a thing.

[lovelyunholyc]

hey! this is NSFW; MINORS, AGELESS, AND BLANK BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED, so please don't interact!

content warning: fem! afab!reader, semi-public quickie, clothed sex /grinding, oral(m! receiving) / blow job

there's nothing quite like the look mammon gives you when you've teased him too much, and he's nearing his limit.

it's addicting to see, that flush across his lovely tan skin, the way his eyes dart around anxiously, a sheen of lust over them, as if he's hypnotized, as if you've put a spell on him and he can't keep still.

but it's not magic, not even a benefit of your pact. it's just you, and one of the most powerful demons in the devildom wrapped around your finger. the power you have over him is intoxicating - and unbelievably fun to exercise.

you stare intently at your glass of wine, swirling it once, twice, smiling to yourself before turning to asmo beside you and giggling quietly at something he says. some new trendy item or other, you aren't sure, because your attention is elsewhere, even as you lean in to hear him better.

and the toe of your shoe slides home, your leg extended beneath the table, unbeknownst to anyone else in hell's kitchen, nudging the protrusion in mammon's lap.

you all look up when you hear the clatter of his fork hitting the plate when he drops it and stands up, blushing brightly and stuttering out an all-too-telling excuse about needing to use the bathroom.

you hide your devilish grin in your napkin. the conversation continues as he stalks off quickly, and you wait a beat before touching asmo's shoulder and excusing yourself as well. "i'd better go check on him, he looked like he was gonna be sick."

of course asmo knows better, and gives you an amused little smile. "i think only you have the power to kiss him better, darling," he says with a wink.

you find him easily, in the private bathroom separated from the stalls across the hall. your knock is practiced, a signal you've used one too many times.

as soon as the door cracks open, you're pulled in by your collar, causing you to stumble a bit. mammon rights you instantly, pushing you against the back of the door and attacking your exposed neck in hungry kisses.

"what the fuck do ya think you're doing?" he murmurs between mouthfuls of you, his hands roving across your chest and pushing your shirt up over your breasts so he can bite at the supple flesh, shoving the cups of your bra down impatiently, greedy greedy greedy.

you hum appreciatively when his tongue circles your nipple, his fingers pinching at the other until the bud perks and he turns his attention to it. "i'm sorry, sweetheart, i just can't resist when you look at me so sweetly." you're breathless, already panting though he hasn't even kissed you properly yet. you tug him up to your mouth by his hair, and he comes up willingly, gracing you with a feral sort of kiss, all teeth and tongue and hunger, like he's trying to devour you, one hand coming up to the nape of your neck so he can hold you still and plunder your mouth like it belongs to him.

"you're never sorry," mammon pants when you part for air, taking hold of both your legs and attaching them to his waist so he can grind his clothed erection right into your center, where your panties are beyond soaked through beneath your skirt.

"nope!" you say sweetly, grinning playfully and wrapping your arms around his shoulders. you roll your hips towards him, meeting him in the middle, the line of his zipper hitting your clit just right and making you gasp, the hard curve of his cock beneath the fabric just enough to excite you and not much more.

"fuck, you're so pretty," he breathes into your skin, taking a moment just to pull back and admire you, the flush of your skin, the subtle shine of his spit where he couldn't resist biting and licking at you like a man starved.

"how long have you been this hard, baby?" you ask innocently, pouting a little before you kiss him again, softer this time.

"too long," mammon grunts as he continues his steady grind, rutting into you like an animal in heat. his hands don't stop moving, sliding everywhere from your chest to your ass, following your curves and pressing in where you're softest, addicted to your warmth.

you giggle softly at that, breath stuttering every time he nudges your clit. you need more, too, and he knows it.

"don't act all high and mighty like ya aren't about to ruin my pants fer me," he growls into your skin, his head buried back between your breasts as he licks, biting gently in admonishment.

he has a fair point, but you aren't going to admit it, you both know you're far too stubborn.

mammon slides his hand between your bodies and stills his hips for a moment, pushing his knee up between your thighs. slender fingers slip beneath your underwear, and he sighs, deep and awestruck. "shit, you're soaked," he murmurs, half-lidded eyes sparkling when he looks up at you again, his fingers gliding easily between your folds. he moves to slip a finger inside you, but you stop him with a hand on his wrist.

"fuck me properly when we get home."

mammon bites his lip, brows scrunching up as if the demand brings him pain. he wants you now, and he doesn't care how or who hears or at this point, even if you do ruin his pants.

"lucifer will kill both of us if we take too long, mammon, you know that."

"fine," he groans regretfully, though he believes that the worst kind of scolding from his older brother is worth every second of being buried in your perfect, perfect pussy. he takes his hand back and licks his fingers clean, but then smiles ruefully as he slips them back in your underwear, thumb finding your clit with practiced ease. "still wanna make ya cum, though."

you try to roll your eyes, but they roll back in your head instead, your hips twitching forward on his knee as his pace quickens and the steady build of pleasure becomes unbearably fast. he rolls his hips against your thigh all the while, the heat of his clothed cock against your skin making your mouth water, and it only takes a few infuriating strokes of of his fingers to have the pleasure take you, cumming into his hand with a cry that he muffles with his mouth.

it's a short-lived bliss, not nearly as satisfying as what you know he's capable of, but it alleviates some of the tension you'd carefully built up through the night. mammon licks his fingers clean with a satisfied hum and smirks into your neck as you catch your breath.

you stand up straight and push him back against the sink across from the door, and the surprised look on his face makes you laugh. "do you want to cum in your pants? i thought this was all about you not ruining them."

"yeah, but i-”

the furious blush on his cheeks is so adorable, you don't let him finish. you swallow up his sentence in a kiss, massaging your tongue along his, licking at his pretty lips until he's breathless, at which point you move down and kiss down his jaw, his neck, his heaving chest, thankful for once that he never wears his uniform properly and you can leave biting kisses on his skin without having to undress him fully. "i'm being merciful today, baby, just take what you can," you warn him playfully, nipping at his clavicle to punctuate yourself.

you get down on your knees and undo his pants in swift, expert motions, tugging his underwear down just enough to pull his cock out and let it sit heavy on your tongue, delighted at the little twitch it gives when you kiss lovingly at the tip and your lips come away with precum. you lick it off enticingly, kissing the head of his cock again in appreciation.

"fuuuuuuck," mammon sighs, drawn out and heavy, as if he can't find a better way to express the profound desire roiling in his chest. he passes a palm over his heated face and brushes your hair out of yours with his other hand, pausing at the back of your head, like a makeshift ponytail. "you're so fuckin hot."

you give him a mischievous grin before getting immediately to work, licking up and down his length and coating it in your saliva, finishing with a gentle suck to the head of his cock. "you're cute," you tell him when you pop off, smirk still in place.

"i'm not-" you interrupt his thoughts again when you take him fully in your mouth, uninterested in his argument. he's too cute when he tries to argue, too, like a yappy little puppy.

you relax your jaw and slowly take him in further, until your nose touches the patch of white hair at the base of his cock, tickling your skin, his fingers tightening on the back of your head. you move back to circle his crown with your tongue, toy with the slit and make him groan deep in his chest. you close your fist around the base before bobbing back down and setting your pace, and before long he's tensing, fingers twitching along your scalp in an attempt to hold back from pushing you all the way back down.

"'m so close, baby, please," he half-whispers, half-whines, and you love when he starts begging, when his voice pitches high and needy. you have half a mind to make him wait a little longer just to hear more of it, but the image of lucifer looking for you with an irritated look on his face springs up in the back of your mind, and you once again decide to be merciful. you'll have more time at home, anyway.

you quicken your pace, twisting your wrist for good measure, and when you feel the first string of his release hit your tongue, you swallow hard, forcing him all the way down your throat. his hips buck up on their own at that, and if your mouth wasn't busy, it would make you grin proudly. you swallow around his pulsing length dutifully, sealing your mouth around the head of his cock when he starts to tremble and sucking on it teasingly. you pull off of him with a soft pop, licking your lips and batting your eyelashes up at him.

mammon tugs you up towards him, still shivering, and grips at the nape of your neck to keep you still as he kisses up from your collar to your throat, licking up the mix of drool and his spend from your jaw before kissing you again.

you kiss and kiss and kiss, your greed seeping into him, and his into you, tangy yet sweet, until there's a soft knock on the door, a friendly warning from your next favorite brother.

"babes, i'd give you two more minutes before lucifer is reminded of your disappearance!"

[rocorambles]

A Boy You Used to Know

Pairing: Hinata x reader 

Genre: Yandere, Mafia AU, Murder, Torture, Stealing, Kidnapping, Implied NSFW, Implied Rape/Non-con/Dub-con

Summary: You desperately scan the face next to you, searching for even a hint of the man you once loved. But your search always comes out empty and in the end, you force yourself to sleep, temporarily escaping in your dreams of a radiantly warm and smiling orange haired boy you used to know.      

Requested by Anon

Hinata and you pant as you race down alleyways, dodge people, and frantically look back to see if you’d lost the officers chasing you. Adrenaline, fear, and hunger fuel your desperation as both of you clutch to the meager stale bread and near spoilt apples you’d stolen from one of the markets. It hardly makes sense that a squad of officers are chasing a couple of urchins like you for taking such low value items, but you both know better. You know they’re looking to make an example of the two of you. An example for the rest of the unfortunate poor that littered the streets. 

But although they’re bigger, stronger, faster than Hinata and you, they’re not as nimble, not as lithe and you use that to your advantage. The two of you slip under people’s legs, sneak through hidden nooks and crannies and you both sigh in relief when you near the edge of the inner city. Even if they bothered to chase you here (although you doubt they would...there are much worse things in this part of town than a couple of street orphans), they’d never be able to navigate the back alleys and lanes like you two. And sure enough, as you both cross the hidden line into the dark underbelly you hear their shouting fade in the distance as they curse you before turning back around and leaving you alone. 

The two of you keep on racing towards home and only when the two of you enter the abandoned warehouse and lock the doors do you collapse and ravenously eat your plunder. With the hunger pangs now at bay for a little bit, Hinata and you make eye contact and you smile. Smiles turn into laughter and despite the rags you wear, the dirt smeared across your faces and bodies, and the chill of the cold, empty building, the both of you take comfort in the fact that neither of you are facing everything alone. You still have each other. 

The years pass and now the two of you are young adults in your early twenties. The stakes are higher and the law isn’t as kind towards you, not that it ever was really kind. So, as the more responsible of the two, you find a job as a waitress at a dingy tavern a couple of blocks away from the warehouse you still live in. The pay isn’t great and sometimes the men harass you, especially in the middle of the night when they’ve drank too much, but it’s a honest job that brings in enough steady money for Hinata and you to survive. You can’t say the same for your orange haired friend, lover, boyfriend? You’re still not sure exactly what Hinata and you are. It’s a question that lurked and grew as the two of you became adults. All of a sudden sharing living quarters together and huddling together for warmth seemed to have a different connotation and neither of you miss the longing look in each other’s eyes, but you’re also now more at odds than you’ve ever been before.

You can’t even keep track of the fights and shouting anymore. You tried to bring Hinata in as a busboy or even a dishwasher at the tavern you work at, but no matter where you tried to find him a job, it just never panned out for various reasons. But you know better than to trust any of the excuses Hinata tells you. You see how his eyes dull as he repeats tedious tasks and the way he scowls at the pitiful pay for his hard work. You remember how his eyes used to light up when the two of you had still been kids stealing whatever your grubby hands could grab and how he’d grin when you went over your loot back at home. You know he’ll never be satisfied with a real job unless it can bring him the same excitement as his criminal ways. So you watch as he comes home from riskier and riskier runs with bruises and cuts all over his body and the two of you scream at each other, you sick to death with worry that one day he won’t make it back home and him frustrated that you can’t just be happy that he’s providing for the two of you. But at the end of the night, when both your throats are hoarse and there are no more words, you put your anger aside and hold each other tight, still grateful to have each other. 

Hinata carefully scopes the area outside of Ukai’s market. He’s grateful to the man and he has no plans to steal from him. Despite his rough outer appearance with his piercings and bleached hair, Ukai had kept an eye out for him and you, always sure to forcefully shove free food into your hands when he sees either of you around his shop. No, he’s not interested in biting the hand that fed him. He’s more interested in the men in expensive suits who he’s seen in increasing numbers, walking around the inner city like they own it and maybe they do. They certainly look rich enough to and Hinata isn’t blind to the way the local residents cower in fear when they walk past. But Hinata’s never been good at resisting the thrill of danger and he slowly inches closer to the men hovering around Ukai’s front door, careful to stay hidden in the shadows. His hand reaches out to a back pocket and he’s so close his fingertips can almost graze the wallet he sees sticking out when he’s slammed into the ground by a leather clad foot. 

A muscled man with brown eyes grins down at him as he shoves the heel of his shoes further into Hinata’s ribs. “Suga, you’re getting sloppy. You were really going to let this runt get away with stealing from you?” The silver haired man who Hinata had been reaching for just laughs and shrugs his shoulder. “Why do I need to be careful when I know your sharp eyes are always watching out for us, Daichi?” 

Hinata trembles in fear as the man on top of him, Daichi he supposes, pulls out a gun and points it at him. “I don’t like killing someone who’s barely an adult, but I can’t just let anyone think they can take from us. Sorry, kid.” Hinata shuts his eyes, but a loud shout interrupts them and suddenly he sees Ukai standing in between him and the barrel. 

“Wait, Sawamura. Please don’t kill him. He’s a brat, but surely you could find some use for him? He’s quick, brave, and knows this area like the back of his hand. I’m sure he could be an asset in your line of work.” 

Daichi hums in thought, but both Ukai and Hinata let out their held breaths as he finally tucks his gun away. “Come on, kid. We’re going to need to get you up to speed as quickly as possible if you’re going to be of any use to us. Welcome to the Karasuno Mafia.” And as Ukai watches the smaller male leave, sandwiched by the taller men, he wonders if he made the right decision and he sends a prayer to whoever’s listening to watch over the boy he’s grown fond of. 

Anxiety and worry eat at you as you restlessly twist and turn on the floor, sleep escaping you as you wait another night for Hinata to return. You haven’t seen him for days now and you had visited everyone you knew, every establishment you could think of that Hinata would be at, but the only answer you got finally from Ukai was that he was fine. He had refused to say anything more no matter how much you pleaded, but Ukai had never once lied to you, so his words brought some peace to you. Yet his words couldn’t replace the empty space beside you and your eye stays glued to the door, hoping to see it open and when it does, you scramble towards it, throwing yourself into Hinata’s arms before he can even fully enter. You release him when he laughs and tells you he can’t breathe, but you go still when you take the sight of him in. You instantly recognize the suit he wears having seen your boss pay his dues to the mafia on multiple occasions and you feel anger rise again within you.

“Don’t you know what they do?”

“Sawamura said I wouldn’t have to do anything if I didn’t want to.” 

“Oh, right, because the mafia’s in the habit of just letting you do whatever you want. Don’t be stupid, Hinata!”

“Why can’t you just be supportive of the fact that I’m bringing in more money for us? Aren’t you tired of living in this dump? Don’t you want to live in a real apartment? House? I’m doing it for you, for us.” 

It’s the same argument just with a new intensity behind it and you’re disappointed in yourself for giving in like you always do, but you’ve never been able to completely deny the big pleading eyes Hinata’s perfected over the years and with a resigned sigh you agree to move into the mafia complex with him, with a warning that you’d leave as soon as he went beyond his usual petty crimes. Surprisingly, it seems that Daichi keeps to his words and Hinata tells you about going around town collecting protection money and stealing things here and there. You roll your eyes, but hold your tongue. You still don’t approve, but you can live with Hinata acting as some type of tax collector and stealing. You know it’s the best you can hope for in the situation he’s in and if you’re honest, you can’t deny it’s nice to sleep in an actual bed and have more than two outfits to alternate between. 

Life continues on until you wake up in the middle of the night as a loud clap of thunder echoes throughout the room. Groggily you try to fall under sleep’s spell once more, but another roar of thunder crackles and you grumble as you sit up. You turn to see if the sounds have woken Hinata as well, but you’re stunned when you find the space beside you empty. You’re still not fond of walking around the mafia complex by yourself. The rest of the Karasuno mafia you’ve met have been pleasant enough, but unease stirs within you thinking of some of the unspeakable crimes they’ve committed. However, you’ve always been curious by nature, especially where Hinata is concerned, so you pad your way out of your room as you search for your rambunctious lover. 

You’re not quite sure where to go and you amble aimlessly down the halls until you hear a loud sound or was that just another thunderbolt? You pause but in between the familiar crackles of thunder you hear the sound again and your feet instinctively move towards it until you enter a wing you’ve always avoided. The wing where the group does most of their work. You hesitate, but as the sounds continue you can’t help yourself from inching forward until you’re right in front of a narrowly propped open door. You peek in and instantly cover your mouth with both hands trying to hold back the scream that threatens to escape. 

Crimson splatters. Agonized screams. Your body shakes as you take in the suited men pointing guns at the bound people kneeling on the floor. Well, the remaining ones at least. You feel yourself go faint at the pool of blood spreading from the figures already limp on the floor. 

“Hinata, why don’t you take the next one? It’s been awhile since your last kill.” 

It’s been awhile? Hinata’s killed before? Your thoughts are spinning as you keep on staring despite every cell in your body urging you to turn around and pretend this never happened, but it’s like you’re in a trance as you watch the man you love step forward. Your heart sinks as you see the feral grin that adorns his face and the gleam in his eyes as he cocks his gun. 

“My pleasure.” 

You bite your lip so hard it begins to bleed in an attempt to not cry out as you see his finger pull the trigger and another man collapses to the ground and you finally find strength in your legs to run back to your room as the men whoop and holler, congratulating and praising him for the clean shot. The next moments are a blur as your heart beats so strong, so rapidly that you think it might tear itself right out of you. All you can think of is getting as far as you can from here and your fingers tremble as you stuff a bag with the essentials. As you run out of the complex, for once you’re thankful for the thunderstorm, the thunder masking the sounds of your escape and the rain hiding your tracks and the tears that stream your face. 

It’s not easy starting life from scratch, but what choice do you have? You make the long journey to Nekoma. You’d rather not live in a place that has anything to do with a mafia, but the only places within traveling distance are all governed by one. At least Nekoma was far enough that you knew Karasuno wouldn’t have much reason to visit often, if at all. You find another job as a waitress and months pass as you settle down in the new city. You begin making friends, venturing out, and although a tiny sliver within you still misses Hinata, you know the Hinata you fell in love with no longer exists and you take pleasure in finally living your own life and learning more about yourself. 

Life is amazing and you feel your defenses lower. You begin to forget the fear that had you always looking over your shoulder and around you. You begin to forget the feeling of running from something, from someone. You begin to forget the nightmares of corpses and blood that ravaged your dreams for so many nights. So you think nothing of it when your doorbell rings and you open the door without even looking out of the view hole. In hindsight, you’ll regret that for many years to come. 

You freeze when you see the three men in your doorway. Daichi and Kuroo, the head of Nekoma, have always had an intimidating commanding aura about them, but it’s Hinata who’s coldly staring at you who has the most impact and you try and slam the door shut as a malicious smile begins to spread across his face. The familiar cocking of a gun makes you stop your futile struggling and you quietly reopen the door and Hinata takes that as his cue to draw nearer and tilt your head up to look at him.

“I’ve missed you so much.” Your heart flutters, but you try and shove his unmoving body away from you. “Hinata, please, I don’t want to go back. Just let me go. Whatever we had is over. How did you even find me?” You wince as his hold on your jaw tightens, effectively shutting you up. “Sawamura and Kuroo are good friends, so when I sent out a search notice for you in all the territories, it was only going to be a matter of time before one of his men recognized you. It’s funny that you think you have a choice in this, honey. You think you could just get away with betraying me, stomping all over my heart, abandoning me? You’re going to regret ever thinking any of that was okay.” You struggle to escape his hold, but a pointed jab of a gun in your side has you behaving instantly and instead you silently plead to the two bosses behind Hinata. Daichi shrugs. “Hinata’s become quite a valuable asset to the family. I promised I’d reward him.” Kuroo smiles. “You’re pretty, darling, but not pretty enough to start a gang war over. Your stay in Nekoma is over.” And with those final words, you sob as Hinata wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you along to the black tinted car parked outside your building.

You spend the entire car ride in Hinata’s lap, his arms practically squeezing the air out of you as he wraps himself around you, not allowing you to move even an inch. You tense at the feeling of his teeth and mouth latching onto your neck, biting, kissing, and licking every inch, leaving a collar of marks, but memories of what pain and malice the men around you are capable of keep you obedient. Even when Hinata drags you to your old shared bedroom and tears your clothes off, ruthlessly plundering your body again and again, reminding you exactly who you belong to, where you belong, you don’t fight back. Even when he drags you with him to his meetings and duties and gives you a front row seat of torture and death, you don’t think about escaping. Only at night when Hinata is soundly asleep and your used body lies limp beside him, painted with bite marks and bruises with every hole aching, do you desperately scan the face next to you, searching for even a hint of the man you once loved. But your search always comes out empty and in the end, you force yourself to sleep, temporarily escaping in your dreams of a radiantly warm and smiling orange haired boy you used to know.     

[galvanizedfriend]

KC Bingo 2020: Drabble

Because there were so many winners on the @klaroline-events 2020 Bingo, I'm helping out @itsnotacrimetoloveyou with some of the drabble awards. Hope you guys don’t mind this. You were in for an exclusive Luiza piece and instead you get me! lol I promise I’m doing my best.

This is for @klavscaroline and her GORGEOUS manip with the theme "Rome".

Years of fighting as a gladiator had Niklaus prepared when he is caught with the Emperor’s wife, Caroline, in the Sanitarium after dark.

So I have to clarify that my knowledge of Ancient Rome is extremely limited, and even though I DID consult with Prof. Google for some of the stuff in the drabble (like to find out what a sanitarium was and how Emperors and Empresses were addressed at the time), I'm sure it's all shades of wrong. Hopefully I'm not offending anyone, but just take this as a grain of salt, ok? Ok, then.

Also, I added a TWIST to the plot. lol Sorry? I think?

Your manip was way too gorgeous, @klavscaroline, and I could never match it, but I hope you like this. :) Also, congrats on your full card and THANK YOU for always making such amazing KC content!

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Caroline slows down her purposeful steps and smooths out the concern creasing her expression into practiced aloofness before she enters the sanitarium.

To her luck, there's only one patient there, accompanied by the physician who's seeing to his wounds. The other fighter was killed in combat at the arena, his body simply carried out to be ditched in a shallow grave somewhere.

The man has been undressed of his tunic, left in only a loincloth hiding his modesty. A light sheen covers his sun-tanned skin from the exertion, dirty blonde curls matted to his forehead. Normally, these would be sights that would make Caroline's insides twist rather inappropriately. Now, however, all she can focus on is the blood. All over the man's discarded tunic, all over his torso, gushing from a wound on his shoulder.

She swallows back the bile that rises to her mouth, suddenly raked with nausea. When his piercing blue eyes meet hers, her heart gives a violent lurch. Despite her nerves, she lets out a relieved breath. Thank the gods.

"My queen," the physician says, blinking with surprise. It's not common for the Empress to go down to the sanitarium, especially after a fight, especially on her own, and especially when there's a man being treated there. It’s not a very womanly environment, the smell of blood and sweat staining the air.

"The Emperor wants to know what's his best warrior's condition," she announces solemnly with as bland an expression as she can muster.

"Just a superficial wound, my queen," the physician offers. "No damage to the muscle tissue. Provided it doesn't get infected, he should heal well."

"Then what are you doing there, standing? His wounds need cleaning and dressing. Go see to it."

"Y-yes, of course," the man stammers, startling out of inertia. "I will be back in a moment."

The man scurries out of sight, leaving the two of them alone.

Klaus arches his eyebrows at her, an amused smile playing on his lips.

Caroline's pretense calm explodes into nerves. "How can you be so careless?" she snaps.

"Is that the Emperor asking?"

She simply ignores his attempt at a humorous jab and proceeds with the scolding. "You fight like a lunatic, Klaus. One of these days -"

"I will die. And so will every other man on this land," he says with a lightness that does not belong to a man with an open wound on his shoulder. "I can assure you, however, that my death shall not happen at the arena."

She huffs out in indignation. "Your hubris really knows no bounds."

"You say that based on a little scratch?"

"A little scratch!" she parrots, taken with heat as she walks over to him. The physician left a basin with clean water and a towel beside it. Caroline wets the towel and proceeds to clean the wound, being as gentle as possible, even though he hardly deserves it. Not that it makes a difference; Klaus keeps his too-sharp eyes trained on her, his features as bland and agreeable as ever. Doesn't even wince when she rubs the towel against the cut. It looks terrible, but it is definitely not as bad as she'd envisioned as she watched the combat from the stands. "Do you feel no pain?" she asks, a light thrum of fear coloring her voice.

"Of course I feel pain."

"Doesn't that hurt?" She touches the towel across the wound again, most of the blood now gone from his shoulder.

"Yes. But pain is good. Pain reminds us to be afraid," he says, lips curling upwards a tad more, eyes glowing with fire and danger. Oh, Niklaus..., she thinks. Such a force of nature. Caroline had no mercy on her poor heart when she got herself involved with him.

"Pain makes you reckless," she admonishes.

"No. What makes me reckless is the fear of pain. I try to avoid it."

She scoffs. "You could have me fooled." She puts the towel down, her fingers grazing over a pair of scars not far from the new one he'll likely get. Sometimes, at night, while he sleeps, she counts the scars on his back, his arms, his legs... There are so many. She swears he gets a new one every day, growing them as though one who grows hair. Some small and almost imperceptible to less attentive eyes, eyes not used to roam over the plains and valleys of his body with such regard; some so large they bring a chill to her heart, thinking of how close she's come to losing him. "Soon enough there won't be a single unblemished patch of skin on your body."

He holds her hand, presses her palm down against his chest, above his heart. Its strong, steady beats give her a measure of comfort. "Does that concern you?"

Caroline’s lips twist. "What do you think?"

With a swift and agile move, Klaus wraps his arms around her and pulls her up on to the gurney, rolling over so that her body is pressed down underneath his. A man with a gash on his shoulder and dozen other bruises should be howling in pain right now, but Niklaus merely smiles, a large and predatory grin that looks absolutely sinful on his rosy lips.

Still, Caroline's heart drums away in her chest, her eyes flitting nervously to the entrance. "What are you doing?" she grits out. "He'll be back -"

"In a bit," Klaus remarks with all the calm in the world. "He went all the way to the dispensary for his dressing items. The Emperor's best warrior can only be treated with the best. If I get an infection, it will be his head hanging outside the walls."

"Someone could walk in -"

"Yes?" he edges his face closer, his mouth hovering an inch away, chest to chest, hip to hip. "And what would you do?" he whispers, warm breath ghosting her lips.

"I would..." Caroline breathes out, the hand that should be shoving him away sliding up to his hair. "Scream."

She pulls his head down, cutting the final space between them, mashing Klaus' mouth against hers in a plundering kiss. All the worry, all the prayers she made for the gods to protect him, the breath she held as she marched down to the sanitarium after watching him being helped out of the arena - it all bleeds out of her in that kiss. She relishes the taste of him, that urgent and hungry tongue that wrestles her into submission.

Another day she could've lost Klaus; another day he lives to make her heart swell with joy and lust.

"Now would be the moment to scream."

Klaus jumps from the gurney like thunder, grabbing his sword in the process and pointing it straight to the throat of the intruder. Caroline's heart stutters to a stop.

The Emperor stands there, totally unfazed by the sharp sword aimed at his neck, his classic stoic expression unmoved. He merely cocks Klaus a curious eyebrow. "Not contented enough with sleeping with your Emperor's wife, Niklaus?" he asks flatly. "Are you going to commit regicide and fratricide all at once now to add to your list of misdemeanors?"

Klaus puts down his sword. The light wince as he does so does not escape Caroline's eyes. He's in more pain than he's willing to admit, the arrogant bastard.

"You know better than to sneak up on me like that, Elijah," Klaus grumbles.

"And you know better than to straddle my wife in a sanitarium, Niklaus." He turns his pointed gaze to Caroline, then. "I expect this kind of barbaric behavior from him, but you, Caroline? I'm disappointed."

She averts his gaze, her cheeks burning with embarrassment as she stands to her feet, fixing her tunic and her hair. "He grabbed me," she says, the excuse weak to her own ears. "I was merely here to check that he hadn't lost a limb or bled to death with his carelessness."

Elijah lets out a weary sigh. "You two are free to conduct your activities however you please, so long as it's away from prying eyes. That was the deal. I have far too many responsibilities to suddenly find myself dragged into a scandal between my wife and my brother." He fixes his dark eyes on his younger brother then, a smile finally breaking onto his handsome face. "I would so hate to have to punish you for your indiscretions, Niklaus."

"You don't seem fazed by the prospect, brother."

"Then don't test me. How's your wound?"

"A scratch."

"It's not just a scratch," Caroline cuts in sharply. "The physician said it's superficial, but it's at risk of infection."

"How much longer do you intend to keep putting your life at risk at the arena like you’re a common gladiator, Niklaus?" Elijah asks.

"How much longer until you find me a real war to fight?"

"I know you were far too restless to sit through our childhood lessons, but let me remind you that the general idea is to keep the Empire at peace."

Klaus snorts. "You and your philosopher's heart."

Caroline feels her blood boil at his derision. "Most men choose to fight so that they can preserve their lives and that of their families," she starts, spitting fire at him. "You, on the other hand, run in the opposite direction. Like a madman without a purpose, you chase mortal danger like that is the sole purpose of your existence. And then you laugh at your brother's concern - at my concern. Like we're idiots for even caring. If you can't grow yourself a philosopher's heart, perhaps you should at the very least grow yourself a conscience."

Klaus stares at her with wide eyes and parted lips, somewhat taken aback, while Elijah's mouth ticks up into a smile, a flicker of humor and warmth in his brown eyes.

"I am ever glad to have wedded such a wise woman. If my appeals fall on deaf ears, perhaps hers might reach you," he says. "I have business to see to. Please, refrain from fornicating out here. And Niklaus..." he waits until his brother has turned back to him. "Get this wound cleaned up and dressed, soon."

With all the grace and poise befitting of the Emperor, Elijah turns around and leaves.

Klaus gives her a near diffident look under his fair lashes, having the decency to appear guilty.

Caroline folds her arms across her chest. "I can't keep watching you challenge men to try and kill you every fortnight."

"I'm a warrior, Caroline. My brother's a diplomat, a ruler. I'm a fighter. He's the brain, I'm the muscle. You knew that when you married him... When you married us."

Caroline puffs out in frustrated derision. "I married him because I had to. Because it was the bargain he stroke with my father. But perhaps I made a mistake, then, when I fell in love with the wrong brother."

"Don't say that," he retorts, genuinely stricken. "You know I'm a jealous man."

"Oh? Are you challenging Elijah next, then?"

"Of course not. If I killed my brother, the Empire would descend into chaos and I would be forced to take his place and murder my way through countless political intrigues, which would leave me with little to no time for the one thing I'm truly passionate about."

"Arenas," she offers with disdain.

"You." Klaus' eyes soften then, no longer wild with raw excitement; something tender and gentle shining through the stormy blue. A look, she knows, only bestowed to her. It tugs directly at her heart, and she feels a glow of affection rising through the anger and the concern. "I'm addicted to you, Caroline. The arenas are a mere distraction. You are the sun of my life."

She bites back on a smile. The same wicked tongue that lashes out at enemies with the more depraved of curses can also worship and conjure the sweetest of promises. "If what you say is true... Then, as your queen, I command you to stay away from the arenas until your wound is fully healed and no longer at risk of reopening. You shall stay with us, at the royal chambers, where you can be cared for by the Emperor's physician. The Emperor demands so."

Klaus smirks lazily. "Well, we wouldn't want to vex the Emperor."

"No, we absolutely wouldn't." She checks that her clothes are all perfectly in place, squaring her shoulders and straightening her posture as she prepares to leave. "Now lie down and wait for the man to return. Then ask your servants to prepare your relocation. It might be awhile before you go back to your own home, so bring whatever you might need. I shall have a warm bath ready for when you arrive."

Klaus walks over to her, taking her hand and lifting it up to his lips. "That's very kind of you, my queen," he says, the thrum of his voice traveling through her like a lightning bolt.

"Yes, I am infinitely generous." She edges closer, narrowing her eyes with malicious intent. "And expect to be rewarded for it."

She waltzes out to the sound of Klaus' rich laughter. Oh, how she loves that sound...

[leapyearkisses]

Director’s Cut Commentary - Orbs Are Bad News Part 2

Second part of me blathering my thoughts all over this old story per the request of a very nice anon! I am still sleep-deprived, so yay~ Sorry, this commentary is probably way less interesting, since this part is just the sexy stuff, but if you have any particular questions, please send me another ask!

Happy to do any of my stories or just answer asks, whatever. I clearly enjoy reading myself talk XD

Comments in bold below the cut! This part is NSFW. Well, it’s all kinky but there’s also sex.

I forgot to mention this in Part 1, but the title of this story is because the homebrew campaign I ran for my friends involved magical evil crystal orbs. Hence they are bad news.

"Are you ever going to stop sneezing?" Remembrance asked.  At the same time, Cordes said, "One thousand blessings, Llewellyn, one for each."  The two of them were several yards ahead on the road, and only Cordes was looking back over his shoulder.  Right now, the four party members were the only travelers on this particular stretch, although as they got closer to civilization, they'd started to pass the odd wanderer, farmers with wagons, even a merchant or two.  The woods here were broken up periodically by stretches of arable land, clear-cut several decades ago and now waving with wheat, flax, or various vegetable leaves.  The fields were golden in the late sun.  Their shadows stretched behind them like taffy, rippling on the cobblestones.  The day was vanishing quickly, and Gerrit could sense his companions' impatience to move on even as he stopped again himself, drawing out his handkerchief in a now very familiar motion.

 Stick your people in a world. That’s my advice. Don’t have them just floating around in a no man’s land of generic scenery. (Also why I like period/historical snzarios and fantasy stuff, because reading about plain people in an apartment somewhere is boring to me.)

Llewellyn, for his part, could not answer them, face buried in his elbow as he ducked with another reluctant outburst. "Hahktschiu!  Hahh- happtsch!"

"Bless," said Gerrit, and he stepped in front of the elf to shield him marginally from view.  He laid one warm hand on the back of Llewellyn's neck and lifted the handkerchief with the other, capturing the next sneeze in the flannel folds.  He settled his fingers firmly around Llewellyn's nose.

This was an arrangement that had been born out of necessity three days ago when the party had raided a bandit camp's plundered stores.  Along with a good stash of gold and gems, they'd found a blue crystal orb, cursed perhaps, that had summarily become attached to both of Llewellyn's hands, rendering the sorcerer unable to do most anything... including take care of his cold on his own.

 On the last episode of Orbs Are Bad News...

Llewellyn blew his nose into the handkerchief, wetting the cloth and dampening Gerrit's fingers through it.  Originally quite opposed to such a display outside of the most private circumstances, the elf had been forced to put his pride aside and let Gerrit help him.  His fever had abated the previous day, but the frequency of his sneezing had increased, as if his body was insistent now on ridding itself of whatever illness remained.  It was a horrific prospect to Llewellyn to catch the resulting mess every time in the sleeve of his robes... so he suffered Gerrit to hold the handkerchief, even though they were walking along the road where any might see them.

Despite some initial teasing, Remembrance and Cordes had quickly grown accustomed to the practice and now cared not at all, except to complain.  "We're going to have to camp again," grumbled Remembrance.  "Five miles from Veigh and we're going to be stuck without a bath!"

 Is five miles a realistic figure here? No fucking clue! I frequently engage in excessive and specific research for my stories, but I didn’t look up how long one might hike for in D&D. Oh well.

"Is there anything I could do for you?" Cordes asked, somewhat exasperated.  The priest had made several herbal concoctions for Llewellyn over the past few days, but none had helped the elf's nose much.  Cordes's specialty was unfortunately not the curing of disease but the mending of bones and flesh.

 I will take any opportunity to make up an excuse as to why the snz cannot be contained. You’re welcome lol

"Ndo," Llewellyn growled, as fed up as the rest of them.  "I'm beyond heh- help. Hngtschiu!"

"Bless you, arimelda," said Gerrit, trying to keep his voice even.  He shifted the handkerchief so that Llewellyn could have a drier spot, trying to ignore a glimpse of slickness on the elf's face.  "Remembrance, Cordes, why don't the two of you go on ahead?  Find an inn, get a room, take a bath, whatever you want.  It might be prudent also to send a message ahead to the Mages Guild about the orb.  Will you do that?  Llewellyn and I will join you when we arrive."

 An elvish word appears! I researched this but not walking.

Cordes nodded.  "Yes, I'll draft a letter as soon as- Hey!"  Remembrance had grabbed his arm and was rushing ahead already.

"Let's go, man!" she said.  "Everyone loves a damn priest; you're my ticket to a good room, so may your god help you if you dawdle."  Her pointed tail swished as she practically jogged down the road.  Cordes spluttered but could no more stand up to her as to a tornado, so off they went.  It was a remarkably short time before the two of them were out of earshot, disappearing around a bend.

 And again, removed so that the main characters can bang, lol.

Gerrit sighed but turned his attention back to Llewellyn, who was blowing his nose again.  The handkerchief was running out of clean corners this late in the day, but the elf leaned back this time when he was finished.  "All set?" Gerrit asked.

"Yes."  Llewellyn rubbed his eyes on his upper arm, wiping away a spare tear from the effort.  "...My apologies."  He cleared his throat, refusing to meet Gerrit's gaze.  "We may arrive after dark."

"You're ill," said Gerrit, trying to fold the flannel in a way as to avoid his pocket getting wet.  "We'd move faster if you let me carry y-"

"No."

"Then I don't mind taking a more leisurely pace."  Gerrit smiled.  Even after everything, Llewellyn was stubborn.  Honestly, since they weren't really in a rush, he didn't really care when they reached Veigh; they'd only detoured here to try and remove the orb.  If Llewellyn, the most inconvenienced, didn't want to give up his pride and piggyback on... well, Gerrit found his noble hauteur inexplicably cute.

 Me too, buddy. Don’t worry, you can carry your elf later.

He also wasn't in a particular hurry because it was awfully uncomfortable to make any sort of time with his arousal pressed flush to his thigh.

A reminder that sex is usually going to be involved in my stories. The snz is not enough by itself.

Llewellyn coughed into his elbow and then started walking again.  Gerrit had pulled back his hood for him in the morning and braided his hair, and the crown of plaits caught the afternoon sunlight like an obsidian.  Gerrit tried not to let his eyes linger on the sorcerer's pale nape.  Or any other part of him.  He and Llewellyn had been travelling together for close to three years, working for their current patron in the capital, and in that time Gerrit had felt himself growing closer to the elf.  Wanting to be closer, anyway.  

Llewellyn shot a glance at him and caught him looking.  Gerrit flushed and turned his gaze back ahead to the road.

"You've been very accommodating during all of this," the elf said, tone carefully neutral.

Gerrit shrugged.  "It doesn't bear mentioning.  We're comrades."

"Comrades," Llewellyn repeated, an edge to his voice that Gerrit couldn't quite place.  "Is that all it is?"  He kicked a stick that had fallen to the cobblestones, sending it into the brush. Somewhere to the right, bumblebees droned over a meadow.

 Llewellyn is kind of a asshole and not super great at communicating with any level of affection, although he does get better.

Gerrit swallowed.  "Yes?  You and I, we've helped each other before.  I consider you to be a steadfast companion."  Eyes on the road.  Eyes on the dappled play of shadowed leaves and light on the ground.  "Why do you ask?"

"So shy," Llewellyn exclaimed, a tad mockingly.  "You've never been shy about taking me to bed, Gerrit."  Despite his short height, the elf seemed to find it easy to look down his nose at the much taller fighter.  "Has something changed?"

 Height difference is also personally sacred to me.

"Changed?"  Eyes on the road.

Llewellyn stopped walking.  "You called me 'arimelda.'  'Dearest.'  Did you think I wouldn't hear you over my sneezing?"  He couldn't cross his arms with his hands trapped by the orb, but the set of his jaw was determined and his firm brows were arched.  "I wasn't so distracted then as you seem to have thought."

Gerrit shoved his hands in his pockets.  He stopped walking but didn't turn.  "Apparently not," he muttered.  "Look, we can set it aside.  Doesn't have to mean anything – doesn't have to change anything.  I know a highborn elf like you wouldn't consider an official relationship with a half-elven bastard, and I've known that from the start.  For my whole life.  So... I care about you.  But it can just be as comrades, or whatever you want it to be."  Llewellyn was quiet, and after a long minute, Gerrit did turn on his heel, desperate to know what kind of reaction he'd provoked.

 The angst of the half-elven existence! Gerrit is a very typical half-elf in terms of D&D characterization, lol. Despite that, I do find these different-lifestyle pairings interesting, so they keep happening, cliche or not. There is a definite pathos in the elf/human relationship because of the different lifespans, of course - most famously depicted through Arwen and Aragorn, probably, although he’s not the exactly typical human. Anyway, it kind of varies how people like to determine elven and half-elven lifespans in D&D depending on the PHB and your DM’s weary forbearance lol, but Gerrit and Llewellyn will expect to live similar lengths because I’m a sap.

He saw Llewellyn standing with his eyes closed and head titled back, lips parted.  The elf's nostrils flared as he gasped.

"Are you going to sneeze again??" Gerrit asked.  He threw up his hands, then went for his handkerchief once more.  They ­did have an arrangement.

He strode back over to Llewellyn's side and tucked the cloth around his nose again, thumb and forefinger just resting on the elf's nostrils.  He started to rub Llewellyn's back.  "You have the worst timing, you know?  Here I am, spilling my heart to you and everything."  

 I laughed writing this part, too. You can’t always let things just be angst.

"Sh-hhuh-t up, I jh- just nih-" Llewellyn gasped again and gave in; he had no other choice.  "Hahktscht!"  He moaned and pressed closer into the handkerchief, thick congestion only aggravating the itch that remained inside.  "Hkktschtt!  Hngtscht!  Hahh- ah-- ankcxttschiu!"

 That sure is a bunch of letters crammed together!

"Easy... it's okay."  Gerrit massaged Llewellyn’s nose, tried to soothe the irritation.  He guided Llewellyn to the side of the road, and, in a moment of calm, settled him to sit on the grassy bank.  He followed, kneeling at the elf's side.  Llewellyn was tearing up again and his nose was twitching against the pads of Gerrit's fingers.  Gerrit felt electric all over.  He found himself wishing the handkerchief was gone so that he might touch the soft, heated skin of Llewellyn's septum, coax the elf to relax and loose his tension, sneeze into Gerrit's palm.  The mess didn't bother him; none of it bothered him.  He was supremely unbothered.  His cock was almost painfully hard.

It took several more minutes punctuated with more urgent expulsions before Llewellyn seemed to trust himself to speak.  His eyes were wet with unshed tears, eyelids tender and reddened.  His nose was brightly ruddy, running to chapped.  He had to take a shaky breath, collecting his thoughts.  "Gerrit."

 I’m a very visual writer. This kink is extremely visually-based for me. I wish I could draw as well as I want to so I could depict these scenes how I imagine them, but eh.

"Yes?"  Gerrit lowered the handkerchief, gently pinching as he did to clear any lingering moisture.  He wasn't ready to hear a rejection, nor did he feel particularly ready for a lecture or a tirade or even a logical exploration of why a relationship was a bad idea.  He wanted, if possible, to keep walking to Veigh, side by side, listening to the bees and dragonflies and songbirds settling in for the evening, feeling the light breeze on his face, replete with the scents of summer.  

"Kiss me."

Gerrit blinked, mental caravan bunching to a halt.  "What?"

 i am so funny omg

Llewellyn nudged him in the chest with the orb.  "Kiss me.  You're all worked up."  He cleared his throat.  "And judging by the state of you, you're not put off by my cold.  So?"  He tilted his head to the side, gently, closed his eyes.  "I want you to kiss me."

 An example of the B character not really forcing the admitting of the fetish but just kind of not caring. That is also okay, and I think it’s normal. People don’t just admit to all their kinks immediately upon entering a relationship.

Baffled, but feeling as though maybe all was not lost, Gerrit obliged, pressing their lips together.  His own eyes slid closed and he cupped Llewellyn's cheek, deepening the kiss, touching their tongues together, trying to convey how he felt.  Whatever had changed.  The kiss lasted for too short a time; Llewellyn broke away to breathe, eyes half-lidded, but he didn't lean away.

 I’ve never kissed anyone, but I consume media. I feel like I am pretty good at depicting things regardless of experience.

"I'm not going to dismiss you out of hand," he said.  "You or your feelings.  But I would ask for some time to think."  He looked up through his lashes.  "Are you feeling better?"

 Another thing I like in romance, even in kink short stories like this, is a more realistic portrayal of the confession than just “It was obviously meant to be~”

Gerrit could feel his pulse in every extremity.  "Not really," he managed, and he kissed Llewellyn again, this time sliding one hand under the elf's head and one at his hip and pressing him back to lay in the grass.  He moaned in his throat as Llewellyn kissed back, and when they had to break for breath, he started to kiss at Llewellyn's forehead, jaw, throat, wherever he could touch skin.  His hands roamed over the elf's body, smoothing over hip and thigh and belly until he could start to undo the buttons on Llewellyn's close-cut robes.

"Gerrit," gasped Llewellyn.  He moved the orb between them, jamming it into Gerrit's sternum.  "You are not going to sleep with me on the side of the damn road!  Get ahold of yourself!"

 He has standards!

Gerrit growled at the quick pain in his chest, then shook his head and leaned back.  He flushed deeply and pulled his hands away.  "Oh.  Oh, fuck, sorry.  I-"

"Pick me up."  Llewellyn lifted his arms.

"What??"  Gerrit's brain was having a hard time keeping up at the moment, all of his blood being elsewhere.

"There was a thicker copse of trees back about thirty feet, on the left."  Llewellyn waved the orb at him.  "Pick me up.  We can lay down there."

 His standards are NOT that high! But he does have them!

So.  So Gerrit ducked his head into the circle of Llewellyn’s arms and picked him up, holding him securely and setting off down the road again, back the way they’d come.  The elf was right; there, about twenty feet back from the bank, was a thick copse of pines, all grown together with wild geranium and maidenhead ferns.  Gerrit pushed through, shoulder first.  Despite its proximity to the thoroughfare, the inside of the stand was quiet and shielded completely from view.  This would do nicely.

 Told you you’d get to carry him soon.

He set Llewellyn back on his feet and made short work of undressing him, first freeing the sorcerer from his pouches and bags, then undoing the silver buttons on his robe from his collarbone to his crotch.  The rich fabric fell open appealingly.  Next, Gerrit freed the elf from his boots and leggings.  A long white shirt, woven from the finest of elven angora, still covered him, but Gerrit pushed the fabric up over Llewellyn’s belly, leaning in to kiss the elf again and touching him intimately.

Llewellyn moaned and nudged Gerrit’s hip with the orb.  “Now you,” he said.  “I want to see your body.”

Gerrit complied, making quick time shedding his cloak, pack, leather armor, breeches, boots.  Two daggers, two short swords, caltrops, a bow and quiver, a glaive, and a spiked whip followed.  He pushed them to the side as Llewellyn rolled his eyes.

This is another funny trope lol, like when a hero or assassin or someone has to go through airport security and the metal detector keeps beeping because they’re carrying 18 knives on their person. Fighters are proficient in every weapon, so why not have one of everything?

"You can't possibly have a use for all of those," the elf said, and then Gerrit captured his mouth again.

He laid Llewellyn down on the soft carpet of pine needles, using his cloak to cover the ground and double as a makeshift pillow.  The elf was beautiful in the shifting shade, skin flawless.  He had the orb resting on his chest and it glowed intermittently in the inconstant sunlight.  The gold chain netting that encapsulated both the orb and Llewellyn's fine-boned hands glimmered.  "You know," said Gerrit, smoothing a hand down Llewellyn's bare thigh.  "You'd look pretty good bound up in gold chain."

"This isn't enough for you?"  He scoffed.

Gerrit laughed.  "It would be fun to tease you.  I love it when you fuss at me.  So cute."  He dodged Llewellyn's elbow and settled down on his stomach, hooked one of Llewellyn's legs over his shoulder, and nuzzled the base of the elf's cock.  "Ready, arimelda?"  His own cock was under him, pressed to his stomach in the confines of his shirt.  He could feel his pulse in the head of it, quickening with the scent of his lover.

"Yes, you prick," sighed the elf, and he moaned when Gerrit started to kiss him and lave his skin.  His fingers flexed on the orb, longing to wind into Gerrit's hair.

 Licking is kind of thing, and I love writing about fellatio so. Yay~

Gerrit took Llewellyn into his mouth eagerly, fingers curled over the elf's thighs, fingertips pressing at the sensitive inner surface as he sucked and teased and swallowed.  Like this, he could focus on Llewellyn's pleasure.  The noises the usually stoic and prideful sorcerer was making were enough to make Gerrit moan, mouth full, and rock his hips.  Nothing pleased Gerrit more than seeing Llewellyn undone, seeing the elf flushed and open and undone for him.  And he shivered, all over, when he heard the elf's breath catch and his tone go wavery.  He thought he could come from this, listening to Llewellyn sneeze while pleasuring him implacably with a heated, well-placed tongue.

 This is also VERY IMPORTANT. Caretaking to the point of like, partner worship idk. It’s good!!

"Aa, aa, ahh- ih- Gerrit, I-" Llewellyn drew his knee up, curling, heel drawing along Gerrit's back.  "I nih- need to snih- hh-"

Gerrit drew his head back, let Llewellyn's cock free for a moment.  He didn't loosen his grip on the elf's legs, though, wound up and desirous.  "Okay by me, melda, it's okay.  Feel all right?  Want me to stop?"  He was breathless himself, had to force the words past the distraction of his arousal, but he would abide.

 Consent is the sexiest thing.

"No, don't stop," Llewellyn groaned, then turned his head to the side.  "Hpptscht!  Hah- Haktschiu!"

"Bless, bless."  Gerrit kissed Llewellyn's thigh tenderly, then nipped it, drew his tongue over the hurt, sucked a bruise to mark its place.  He swallowed Llewellyn down again as the elf cried out in pleasure and then bent with another helpless burst.  Gerrit wondered if he could make Llewellyn come simultaneously with a sneeze and what that might feel like.  The fantasy set him alight.  His abdomen was tight, his cock like a brand on his stomach. He redoubled his efforts.

Gerrit felt it first, when Llewellyn came, in the tightening of the elf's thighs and stomach, then tasted the salt of his release.  His world narrowed down to taking it in, swallowing, milking with his mouth while Llewellyn cried out, going until the elf was pushing him away, keening, oversensitive.  He didn't wait to lift Llewellyn then into his lap, cradling him with one arm and stroking himself with the other hand, desperate to come as well.  Llewellyn pressed his face to the junction of Gerrit's neck and shoulder, tightly gripping the cloth of Gerrit's shirt as they rocked together.  The elf's nose was gently wet and he was panting, sniffling.  Gerrit came with a shout, holding him close, shaking with an overabundance of pleasure.  He let go of his cock and embraced Llewellyn fully.  He had enough presence of mind not to confess to anything, but he couldn't stop himself from murmuring how beautiful, how soft.

 okay. o__o There’s only so much I can say about writing the porn lol. I write what I want to read.

Gradually the world came back.  Birdsong, first, and the bees, the sounds of the trees swaying in the light breeze.  The lingering heat of the day, dampened by the shade and the growing dusk.  The musty smell of pine needles and the sharper hint of sap, the scents of sex, the pressure of Llewellyn astride his lap, the bite of uneven ground against his knees.  Llewellyn was touching his cheek, trying to say something sweet, failing because of his cold again.

 I tried to write this part so that it would not be immediately obvious to the reader, as it is not to the characters, that the orb is gone.

"Ah- hh- Ttschgktst!"

Wetness against his neck.  Gerrit wound his fingers with Llewellyn's and kissed his jaw.  "Bless you," he said.  "I'll find you a healer in Veigh.  We'll get you well again.  Right after we free you from the orb."  He laid his cheek against the back of Llewellyn's hand tenderly.  Then he paused. "Wait."  Straightening, he brought his hands between them.  The right was laced with Llewellyn's left.  "The orb is gone."

Llewellyn straightened also, looking down at his hands.  His hands with no orb.  He lifted them both, amazed.  And then wiped his nose on his wrist, sighing in pleasure.  Gerrit tried not to blush despite everything.

 Me too, buddy.

"Where did it go?" he asked, looking past the elf's shoulder.  "Why did it come off?"

"Who even cares at this point??"  Llewellyn had let go of him and was stretching, running his palms over his body, touching his own arms and face and cock, finally able to move and feel again after three days of magical bondage.  He wiggled his fingers and then clapped his palms together, raising a small flame with their parting.  "I have my freedom back.  I can cast spells again.  I can-" He smiled brilliantly.  "I can touch you, too."  He dropped his hands suddenly to Gerrit's lap, nimbly taking Gerrit's cock between them.

Gerrit lost track of the orb immediately.

 Me too, buddy.

---

It was dark indeed when the two of them made it to the inn in Veigh, but both were in high spirits.  Gerrit had relinquished handkerchief duty back to Llewellyn with a great internal mourning, but he could always fantasize about this again in the future (he did, frequently), and he knew that Llewellyn, despite his best efforts, would catch more colds on the road (he did, more frequently than he would like).

I would love to play a fetish-friendly D&D campaign, but it would be way too embarrassing, probably. My current PC has allergies, but I have never mentioned them in-game and probably never will lol. God help me if my DM ever remembers that I wrote them into my character sheet.

Remembrance and Cordes had only been able to secure one room, it seemed, with two beds.  Gerrit resigned himself, going up the stairs, to sleeping on the floor. But... it was apparent upon entering the small space that... well, their priest and thief had ended up taking up only one of the beds, together.  Gerrit and Llewellyn traded glances.

"I don't think I want to ask," said Llewellyn, going for the free bed.

"Sounds like a plan to me," Gerrit replied, joining him.

The untold story, lol

In the morning, Cordes, with great dignity sprung from embarrassment (the cause of which he did not volunteer) informed them that a letter had not been sent to the Mages Guild yet.  He was immensely relieved to find that one was no longer needed and quick to congratulate Llewellyn on his newly regained freedom.  Remembrance just chuckled from the bed and took her time buckling her armor back on.  

Already in Veigh, the party spent some time stocking up on medicines and liquefying some of the heavier treasures they'd liberated from the bandit camp.  Gerrit sent a message on to their patron to expect them back in the capital in a couple of weeks, barring disaster.  They purchased horses and set out, ready for the next adventure.

---

The orb lay still in the pine thicket, nestled like an egg among the ferns, waiting for the next hapless traveler. 

 Faust’s Orb of Rope Bondage. Make a Will saving throw [DC 15] upon touching the orb with any body part, wearing clothes or not. Upon a failure, the orb will find its way to adhere to the hand of the hapless adventurer. If both hands touch the orb, they will both be stuck. If two people fail the save, one of each of their hands will be stuck. The spell can be broken only if each attached party has an orgasm.

I GUESS

[eirabach]

What was *that scene *in renegades?

Well since you askedddddd 😍😍

----

Grace leads her to a little treehouse away from the bustling centre of their town. It’s rustic - she’ll be picking splinters out of her hands for weeks probably - but it’s warm and dry, with a handmade chair and a straw bed covered with a thick wool blanket, so she doesn’t have to fake her gratitude when Grace shows her the balcony she can hang her damp clothes from, or the metal grate where she can light a peat fire.

It almost feels like a home.

Grace leaves her, and Emma finds herself pottering around the small space, sniffing distastefully at the slightly goaty cheese on the ramshackle table and fiddling with the kettle over the fire. Her thoughts constantly wander to what it might have been like to live in a place like this. To live a life like this, with warmth and food and someone to come back to.

A home.

“Don’t get comfortable.”

Hook lets the door slam behind him and it bounces off its hinges, once, twice, three times until the latch finally clicks into place. He still looks like thunder, and Emma eyes him cautiously, keeping the table between them until she can get a better read on what’s going on.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” she says. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

He lifts his chin and tilts his head to one side - but the smile he gives her is the one she’s seen him throw at half a dozen whores, the wide one with too many teeth and not enough lines around the eyes. It doesn’t fool her one bit.

“What makes you think something’s going on?”

She leans forward against the table and nods down to the curved steel peeking out from under his coat.

“You’re wearing the dagger and Roland’s still alive. Something is clearly going on.”

He looks down at himself briefly, seemingly almost bemused at finding the dagger there, then casts a rather desperate gaze around the room until it alights on the bed.

“This bed is looking awfully lonely. If you’ll excuse me I intend to rectify that at once.” He grins that terrible grin again, and sidles past her, casting off first his coat and then his sword belt before collapsing face down on the soft straw with groan of such pure ecstasy that Emma almost regrets the sneer behind her next words.

“Oh, you get the bed do you? It’s like that now.”

He rolls onto his back and folds his arms behind his head, looking at her with such wide-eyed innocence she’s not sure if she wants to jump him or brain him.

“You hate me being gentlemanly, so I assumed you’d want to take the chair.”

“You’re a bastard,” she snorts, and he gestures to his too-innocent face as if to say what, me?

“Not guilty. My parents were legally wed, more’s the tragedy.”

He wriggles his hips, pretending to get comfortable while simultaneously watching her like a hawk. Well, if he thinks he can distract her that easily… he winks - a pathetic, sleepy sort of thing - and she sighs in defeat. He’s probably right.

“Oh, shove over.”

He looks a little gobsmacked, and she can’t really blame him. She’s a little shocked herself. Yes, she’s lain with him in far fewer clothes than her chemise, and yes, he’s the one who started it by claiming the bed for himself, but it’s still different, squeezing herself into the space at his side sober. It’s different, they’re different. He’s different.

He’s hiding something, but then she’s starting to think maybe she is too.

“Swan…”

She grins at how horrified he sounds, pressing herself up against his side just because she can.

“Don’t get any ideas,” she drawls, “I’m tired.”

“Emma,” he warns in a low voice.

“I said don’t,” she says, but there’s no venom in it.

Very little truth either, in all honesty.

“No - I,” he swallows hard, so hard she can feel it vibrate down the length of her arm where it’s pressed against his. “I made a deal.”

“You don’t say.”

She smiles up at him, a bright, open smile that she hopes he’ll return with some openness of his own, but instead she watches as his face seems to crumple, his eyes squeezed shut as if he’s in physical pain.

“Emma, you have to go home.”

She blinks at him, gobsmacked into silence for a moment, before hot rage simmers its way through her veins.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. I shouldn’t have let you follow me in the first place, but you’re so bloody stubborn and I - well. It doesn’t matter, not anymore. Roland has agreed to help you make your way home. Whatever provisions you require - maps - ”

She shakes her head in disbelief, but now he’s started it’s almost like he can’t stop. As though he has to spit the words out before they swallow him whole.

“I have a few things you can take to ease your passage, I won’t require them so they may as well go to you, the Jolly is probably long gone, but if you find her I’m sure you wouldn’t be adverse to a bit of plundering - “

“Hook,” she tries, but he rambles on.

“Unless you’d rather stay? I can see the appeal, and no doubt Mr Hood would be delighted - “

“Killian!”

She's never used his first name before, not ever, and judging by the look of shock on his face he's probably forgotten he ever told her it. She presses her hand against his chest, half to ground him and half to reassure herself of the beating of his heart.

“Why are you talking as though you’re writing a will?”

He shrugs, his hand coming up as if to cover hers before he apparently thinks better of it and let's it drop to the blanket, his fingers twitching restlessly.

“Well. I suppose I am. Had to happen eventually, even to me.”

She tucks that weird bit of phrasing away for later consideration, and hoists herself up onto her elbow so that she can look him in the eye.

“Tell me. What the hell have you done?”

Hook closes his eyes and let's out a long sigh. He looks older, suddenly. His face tight and lined like a man who's seen too much horror and not enough softness.

She knows that look, knows how it feels, and she wants to kiss him. Wants to make him smile the smile that wipes it all away. She wants a lot of things, here in this secret space where there's no one but them, but then he’s speaking. So she pretends she doesn't.

“The Hood boy, he told me all about his parents. How they lived peacefully outside of the laws with others who had no place to go - no where to call home. He made it sound idyllic.”

“Yeah, he told me, too.”

“It wasn’t though, not always. His mother was killed by the Evil Queen when he was barely more than an infant, and that’s when his father began to build a world of their own, a place they could defend, where they could feel safe. She attacked when Roland was nine, razed the trees to the ground and disappeared into the night, taking his father with her.”

“That must have been awful,” she says, and means it. To have never had something, someone, is miserable enough. But to have it and lose them? Her fingers tighten around the material of Hook’s shirt.

“According to Roland, she ripped his father’s heart right out of his chest, and the man just followed after her - meek as a lamb.”

Emma balks, her face scrunched up in disgust.

“She can do that?”

“I’ve seen it done,” Hook says, and there's an undercurrent to it, something dark and angry that colours his next words. “It does things to a child, being left alone like that. Scars them. Makes them think a little differently, like they see the world through the bottom of a glass.”

“You think he’s wrong?”

Hook shrugs.

“Not sure what I think matters, Swan. But it explains what he’s asked me to do. In return for giving me the dagger, he wants me to kill her.”

Emma raises her eyebrows.

“And you don’t think you can?”

He shakes his head and let's out a puff of air that might have been a laugh.

“Oh no, I know I can. I will.” He says it casually enough, but his gaze is still fixed on the ceiling. “But you -”

“I’m tougher than I look,” she says, mildly offended, and the corner of his mouth quirks up slightly.

“And you look very tough indeed, but lass, this isn’t an adventure story. We won’t come out covered in glory. Only regrets and the blood of other people. I want better for you.”

“Maybe I want better for you,” she says, her hand creeping up his chest to cup his jaw.

She can feel the muscles twitch under her palm as he fights between the urge to press closer or pull away, so she rubs her thumb gently over his beard until he seems to decide, relaxing into her touch.

“I’m beyond saving, Emma,” he sighs.

She tightens her grip, turns his face to hers. “You can let me be the judge of that.”

They lie like that, noses almost touching, breathing each others air, for what feels like minutes. Emma finds herself cataloging every freckle, every eyelash, her fingers coming up to rest lightly over the cut he'd received in the battle with the knights back at the dock. It'll scar, she thinks, but she won't mind.

She has the sudden all encompassing feeling that she could look at him forever, scars and all.

“Why did you follow me?” he asks in barely a whisper, his eyes flitting hopelessly from her own to her lips and back again.

Emma smiles, and lets her hand move round so that she can run her fingers through his hair.

“Roland says you're my friend.”

He smiles back, genuine and soft, and shuffles his body just a little closer to hers, his hook resting cool and heavy on her hip.

“Oh yes? I'm not sure I've ever had one of those. What's that involve, then?”

“Nor me,” Emma bites her lip and watches his eyes flash dark. “But I think… Maybe something like this?”

It's a peck, a breath, just a lightning spark of lip against lip, but it's enough to send sparks flickering along her spine and set her heart pounding, and the little sound he makes - desperate and guttural right at the back of his throat - fills her with the burning need to hear him make it again, make him burn with her until he's hers and he’s hers and gods she wants to keep him…

The hammering on the door sends them flying apart, Hook landing ungracefully on the floor just as Roland bursts into the room.

“They've found you,” he gasps out. “The Knights. They've found the camp. You have to go, now!”

Emma scrambles for her clothes.

“They were following us?” she asks, furiously tugging on an overskirt. “Since when? We came by boat!”

“Not us, not as such,” Hook says, his face as grave as it ever was. “They're after this, still.”

He rests his hand on the dagger, and stares at her from under furrowed brows.

“There's still time to back out, Swan.”

“What?” Emma blows her hair out of her face and whips her cloak around her shoulders. “And leave you to get yourself killed? Not likely. You can't get rid of me that easily.”

“No,” he says with a hint of a smile. “I don't suppose I can.”

Roland looks nervously over his shoulder before beckoning them out of the door, the sound of shouting and the clash of ste echoing from somewhere below.

“Go North,” he says, thrusting something round and golden into Hook’s hand. “We’ll hold them off - keep going till first light and you should be safe a little while longer.”

“Oh, comforting,” Emma grumbles.

Roland flashes her a quick, apologetic smile before turning back to Hook.

“You won't forget what I told you?” he pleads. “You'll do everything as I asked?”

Hook nods once, then swings himself onto the nearest rope ladder.

“Coming, Swan?”

She spares Roland a smile and a friendly squeeze of his arm, and, taking a deep breath, she follows Hook into the unknown.

[scotiaeire]

GREED WAS DIFFERENT IN THE MIDDLE AGES.

(PLS EXCUSE CAPS, SIGHT ISSUES)

“ Stanford historian Laura Stokes is uncovering how attitudes toward "acceptable greed" have done a turnaround in the past 500 years. Self-serving behavior deemed necessary on Wall Street today might have been despised in medieval Europe. One might even have been murdered for using wealth as a justification for circumventing societal norms. “

I WAS RAISED IN RURAL SCOTLAND. SINCE SCOTLAND IS OWNED BY ENGLAND, THE CONCEPT OF GREED WAS ALWAYS AROUND. LARGELY IN THE FAMILIAR FIGURE OF “THE ESTATE”. THESE ARE LARGE TRACTS OF SCOTTISH LANDSCAPE NORMALLY OWNED AND HELD BY ABSENTEE ENGLISH LANDLORDS.

THEY ARE USED FOR FORESTRY (CASH CROP) HUNTING, SHOOTING AND FISHING (MORE “CASH CROPS”) AND AS THEIR OWN PRIVATE GETAWAYS. PRETTY MUCH LIKE BALMORAL, WHICH QUEEN ELIZABETH, SECOND OF ENGLAND, FIRST OF SCOTS (NOT SCOTLAND..THE SCOTS ACTUALLY HAVE TO GIVE HER CONSENT TO BE THEIR QUEEN AND WHATEVER FECKING EEJITS DID THAT NEED SHOT IMO) AND WHERE CHARLIE RAN AND HID WHEN THE COVID19 SURFACED, PRETENDING TO BE “SELF  ISOLATING” WHEN ALL THEY WERE DOING WAS SHOVING HIM SOMEWHERE REMOTE, SO THEY COULD PROTECT THE HEIR TO THE THRONE (DON’T BELIEVE EVERYTHING YOU READ IN THOSE TRASHY MAGS. ENGLISH ROYALTY HAS A SUPREMELY STRICT INHERITANCE STRUCTURE).

ANYWAY, AYE, *THAT*  KIND OF GREED. SO VAST AREAS OF LAND THAT FORMERLY BELONGED TO THE PEOPLE OF SCOTLAND, WHO ELECTED CLAN CHIEFS TO ACT ON THEIR BEHALF, WELL, ALL OF THAT CHANGED WHEN THOSE CLAN CHIEFS WERE BOUGHT  OFF BY ENGLISH GOLD AND WAYS AND INSTALLED THE ENGLISH FEUDAL SYSTEM.

NO, I’M NOT A FAN OF ENGLISH GOVERNANCE. IS ANYONE? IF YOU ARE, YOU’RE AN IDIOT OR A TORY. POSSIBLY BOTH. AND I’M LONG PAST THE AGE OF CARING WHAT FOLKS THINK OF ME.

SO, BACK TO GREED. WHAT THIS MEANS  IS THAT, IN SCOTLAND, ABSENTEE LANDLORDISM CREATES ISSUES BECAUSE OF GREED FOR LAND. THERE ARE NO NEW HOMES BUILT FOR LOCALS AND THEIR CHILDREN. THIS IN TURN FORCES THE CHILDREN TO LEAVE THE PLACE OF THEIR BIRTH AND GO TRY TO FIND WORK, OFTEN SO FAR FROM HOME MANY OF THEM NEVER RETURN. IT DEPOPULATES COMMUNITIES THAT ONCE WERE TIGHT KNIT AND FULL OF PEOPLE WHO CARED FOR THE COMMUNITY AS A WHOLE. A “TRIBAL” SYSTEM WHICH BENEFITTED EVERYONE, IN WHICH EVERYONE HAD A FAIR SHARE, DID THEIR SHARE OF THE WORK NEEDED TO SURVIVE AND THRIVE, AND ANSWERED ONLY TO THEIR CHIEFTAIN.

ALL THAT WENT WHEN THE CONCEPT OF ENGLISH GREED ENTERED SCOTLAND AND CHANGED THE ENTIRE STRUCTURE OF HIGHLAND SOCIETY. (I’M NOT EVEN GOING THERE WITH THE CLEARANCES OR I’LL BE HERE ALL DAY)

AND THAT, MY FRIENDS, IS THE SHORT VERSION OF “HOW ENGLAND FUCKED UP AND KILLED SCOTLAND”. BY GREED. (IT’S STILL GOING ON, IF ANYONE’S INTERESTED...AN EXAMPLE BEING, 98% OF SCOTLAND’S OIL PROFITS GO TO WESTMINSTER. NEXT TIME THEY SAY THERE’S NO CASH FOR THE NHS ASK BORIS WHERE THOSE PROFITS WENT)

SO, I KNOW FIRSTHAND WHAT AN IMPACT GREED, AS WE KNOW IT TODAY, CAN HAVE ON SOCIETY, FAMILY AND INDIVIDUALS.

MY HISTORICAL INTERESTS GO BEYOND THAT OF PRE-UNION SCOTLAND, AND INTO THE ARCHAEOLOGY, HISTORY AND CULTURES OF THE BRONZE AND IRON AGES. A TIME WHERE GREED AS WE SEE IT TODAY WOULD NOT BE CONDONED.

YES, THE VIKINGS PLUNDERED. THEN THEY TOOK WHAT THEY HAD FOUGHT FOR, SHARED IT OUT (WOULD *YOU* GO A-VIKING IF THERE WAS NOTHING IN IT FOR YE?) AND TOOK THE EXCESS BACK HOME TO IMPROVE YOUR LANDHOLDINGS AND SHARE AMONGST YOUR PEOPLE. (THERE *WERE* THE ODD EXCEPTION. THEY WEREN’T LOOKED KINDLY UPON)

SEE, FOR VIKING AGE PEOPLES, “FUN” WAS IMPORTANT. FEASTING, DRINKING, MORE FEASTING AND DRINKING, THAT WAS A SOCIAL CONSTRUCT THAT FORMED ALLIANCES, (OR BROKE THEM DEPENDING ON HOW PLASTERED A GUEST GOT TO THE POINT HE INSULTED THE HOST) AND REINFORCED FAMILY TIES. TO DO THIS...BECAUSE IN THOSE TIMES AND PLACES, A STINGY HOST WAS NO HOST AT ALL...WEALTH WAS NEEDED. BECAUSE OFTEN, THE ONUS ON GIFT GIVING WAS ACTUALLY ON THE HOST, NOT THE PARTYGOER. AYE, THAT’S RIGHT. THE HOST GAVE PRESENTS TO THOSE ATTENDING HIS FEASTS. AND THE MORE LAVISH THE GIFTS, THE MORE CHANCE OF CEMENTING THAT ALLIANCE, OR FIRMING THOSE TIES.

YOU MIGHT THINK THAT SHALLOW AND IN IT’S OWN WAY, GREED DRIVEN. BUT IT WASN’T. IN THE SAME WAY AS WOMAN (AND MEN!) OF THOSE TIMES WORE THEIR WEALTH, OFTEN WALKING OUT IN EVERY PIECE OF JEWELLERY THEY OWNED. AT  ONCE. SO THE WOMEN IN PARTICULAR COULD SAY “LOOK HOW STRONG AND GOOD AT PROVIDING FOR ME MY MAN IS” OR, YES, “LOOK AT HOW F*CKING GREAT I AM AT GETTING MYSELF SORTED* THEN THE LOCAL VIKING HERO OR CHIEFTAIN/KING WOULD GIVE THE MOST LAVISH GIFTS HE COULD. IT WAS A WAY OF SAY “LOOK AT ME. THE GODS FAVOUR ME. AND SINCE OUR GODS ARE KICKASS GODS, THINK HOW DAMN *GOOD* THEY MUST BELIEVE I AM, AS A KING, AS A WARRIOR, AS A MAN, TO BE SO FAVOURED. SO IT DOES YOU GOOD TO HOOK UP WITH ME, JUST REMEMBER THAT”.

(POTTED HISTORY OF WEALTH AND GIFT GIVING IN THE VIKING AGE)

NOWADAYS? WELL...I LOOK AT FOLKS LIKE THE KARDASHIANS, WHO CLAIM TO “WORK HARD” FOR THEIR MONEY BUT IN REALITY, HOW MUCH WILL THEY MAKE WHEN THEIR LOOKS GO? AND WHAT KIND OF A SOCIETY BUYS THEIR GOODS BASED JUST ON A PRETTY FACE? WHAT’S WRONG WITH THAT MINDSET? (I COULD TELL YE’S BUT I MIGHT BE LOCKED OUT OF TUMBLR BY DOING SO).

AND I LOOK AT CORRUPT POLITICIANS, LINING THEIR POCKETS AT THE EXPENSE OF SOCIETY’S MOST VULNERABLE, SO THAT PEOPLE DIE ON A DAILY BASIS OF STARVATION, LACK OF HEALTH CARE OF SHELTER, OR BY BEING ABUSED, MURDERED, AND WELL, YOU GET THE PICTURE. I’M SURE MOST OF YOU KNOW THE SITUATION REGARDING THE DISTRIBUTION OF WEALTH IN YOUR OWN COUNTRIES. CERTAINLY, IN SCOTLAND (I HAVE TO POINT OUT I LIVE IN IRELAND NOW, AS THE ENGLISH GOV WOULDN’T LET ME REMAIN IN MY NATIVE SCOTLAND BECAUSE I MARRIED A DISABLED BELGIAN MAN. BREXSHIT.) ENGLAND GETS THE BULK OF PROFITS FROM SCOTLAND’S NATURAL RESOURCES, TRADE AND INDUSTRY (EVEN TO THE POINT THEY REBRAND SCOTCH WHISKY WITH THE UNION FLAG AND CALL IT “BRITISH” WHICH KINDA MAKES ME FEEL....SICK....)

SO AYE, THIS ARTICLE’S WORTH A READ, I GUESS.

BUT WHAT MIGHT BE MORE IMPORTANT IS THAT THE UPCOMING GENERATION (SORRY GUYS, HAS TO BE YOU. WHEN YOU GET TO MY AGE YOUR ACTIVISM DAYS ARE BEHIND YOU. I JOINED CND AND MARCHED AGAINST NUKES BACK IN THE DAY. DID IT CHANGE ANYTHING? NOT ONE SINGLE THING. BUT DINNAE STOP TRYING PLEASE) ANYWAY, HOPING THE UPCOMING GENERATION, WHO ARE MORE SAVVY THAN SAID POLITICIANS AND ROYALS GIVE THEM CREDIT FOR ON THE WHOLE (KARDASHIAN WORSHIPPERS ASIDE) CAN CHANGE THINGS. BECAUSE AT THE ROOT OF IT ALL IS GREED. CLIMATE ISSUES..GREED FOR ENERGY. MILLIONS STARVING..GREED FOR NATURAL RESOURCES TO SELL ABROAD FOR CASH, GENERALLY. I WON’T GO ON.

AMASSING WEALTH ISN’T, IN ITSELF, A BAD THING. USING IT TO FURTHER STEAL FROM OTHERS IS. USING IT TO LORD IT OVER OTHERS AND DICTATE THEIR LIVES IS.

PERSONAL NOTE: THERE’S MORE OF US..THE POOR FOLKS...THAN THE RICH ELITE.

THEY’RE OUTNUMBERED.

SO SOMEONE TELL ME *WHY* WE ALLOW THEM TO DO WHAT THEY DO TO THE PLANET, TO US, AND TO OUR CHILDREN?

BECAUSE ALL THE “NON VIOLENT PROTESTS” IN THE WORLD CHANGES LITTLE. SOMETIMES, YOU NEED TO SMACK THE BULLY DOWN SO THEY DON’T GET UP AGAIN, SO THEY NEVER WANT TO BULLY ANYONE EVER AGAIN.

YES, THERE *ARE* TIMES WHEN VIOLENCE IS JUSTIFIED AND I MAKE NO APOLOGIES FOR SAYING SO.

SCOTLAND HAD AN INDEPENDENCE REFERENDUM IN 2014. ROUGHLY HALF OF SCOTS, SAID THE POLLS, WANTED FREEDOM. (SADLY, THE LARGE NUMBER OF ENGLISH SETTLERS IN SCOTLAND DON’T). THE REALITY WAS, WE WON. AND IT WAS STOLEN FROM US. BLANK BACKED BALLOT PAPERS (MINE, FOR EXAMPLE) WHICH WERE MEANT TO HAVE BAR CODES AND UNIQUE NUMBERS ON THE BACKS. MISSING BALLOT PAPERS (A WOMAN WHO FOUND A BUNDLE IN TRASH CANS HANDED THEM INTO THE POLICE. *SHE* WAS ARRESTED AND HAS BEEN MADE TO SIGN A SILENCE ORDER BEFORE BEING RELEASED. FACT.) POLITICIANS OPENING POSTAL VOTES BEFORE THE VOTING HAD EVEN ENDED, ON LIVE TELEVISION. (AYE, DAVIDSON, LOOKING YOU, WOMAN,,,) AND A CONSTANT BARRAGE OF ASSAULT ON THE OLD, BY THE ENGLISH MOUTHPIECE IN SCOTLAND, THE BBC, TELLING PENSIONERS THAT UNDER INDEPENDENCE THEY’D LOSE THEIR PENSION (LIES), THAT UNDER INDEPENDENCE FOLKS WOULD NEED PASSPORTS TO GO BETWEEN ENGLAND AND SCOTLAND (LIES) AND MORE, WHEN THE TRUTH IS THAT SCOTLAND’S RESOURCES SHORE UP ENGLAND’S ECONOMY.

NOW *THAT* IS GREED ON A GRAND SCALE. AND THAT IS WHY ENGLAND REFUSES TO LET GO OF IT’S OWN CASH COW...

WHATEVER THE FUTURE HOLDS, I HOPE THE UPCOMING GENERATION CAN COPE WITH IT. BUT MORE, I HOPE THEY CAN CHANGE IT. I HOPE THEY HAVE THE COURAGE TO DO WHAT IT TAKES. LOOK AT THE PAST, SEE WHAT OTHERS DID, DON’T REPEAT.

BECAUSE GREED IS WHAT’S KILLING US ALL, IN TRUTH.

ARTICLE SOURCE HERE: https://news.stanford.edu/news/2012/august/greed-middle-ages-080212.html

[the-fox-knows]

‘I’ll Tell You a Story’

Resigned, but not Hopeless (3)

Ragnar mayn’t have known the land intimately, but he knew that where there was a manor, a hamlet would be nestled nearby. It was there that they would find the supplies needed. The woman, Molly – he silently tested the feel of her name on his tongue – had made it clear that she had some preliminary knowledge in how to treat his wounds. After extensive fighting and some rather enjoyable acts, regardless of their authenticity (the taste of berries still sweetened his mouth), the gash he had sustained in battle was lancing pain through his leg. He would soon be unable to walk on it without losing every last ounce of breath. Even riding made him grit his teeth.

When asked, Molly confirmed his theory of a nearby village, relaying a quick route ere interrupting herself.

“You don’t mean to attack them, do you?”

As best he could, he spared a quizzical glance over his shoulder at the ridiculous assumption.

“If you think me capable of executing a one-man assault in my current state I fear you either give too much credence to my skill or believe me to be a fool.”

Behind him, she mumbled something unintelligible to his ears. Then she said a little louder and in a tongue recognizable to him, “they are only farmers after all.”

“You disabuse the farmers when you do not know them. Do not be so quick to underestimate farmers’ capabilities.”

“I disabuse the farmers because I know them,” she returned. “They are pitiful to watch when tax season is due.”

“Your master,” Ragnar began, “he is unkind to his tenants?”

“Extremely so,” she answered immediately. “His mother was better, but she died two years ago. But I no longer have a master,” she added, her tone full of derision and aimed at the back of his head. Ragnar indulged in a brief grin.

“If it is disagreeable for you to be without a master - I can be yours.”

“No you cannot!” and her arms withdrew from around his waist, giving him a rough shove to the back, causing him to wince. “And don’t you dare even think it!” Her tone was full of feeling as he felt her hands settle behind him, refusing to once more embrace him. He did not smile again, though his demeanor suggested amusement rather than the reverse.

After a time, Ragnar returned to their original point.

“I was a farmer.”

Silence followed this statement until Molly responded with a curt, “really,” indicative of acknowledging what he said without possessing interest.

“When I think of it, it seems now to belong to another life.”

While his goal was to draw her out, he could not help getting caught up in those not-too-distant memories of a simpler time when his only responsibility was for himself, his modest land, and any trouble Rollo might have gotten into.

Unknown to him, the object of his current interests was now fully listening to him as his words struck her with familiarity. The past was another life that belonged to another person; more care-free and ignorant of what would become of them.

“You say nothing to this?” Ragnar questioned, returning to the present. “I thought you would scoff or laugh or make one of those unintelligible sounds women are so fond of making.”

She made one now in response, though, she coupled it with an answer.

“You may have been a farmer, but you are, before anything, a Northman.”

“Why ‘before anything’?’” he inquired, curious at her sentiment.

“Because farmers tend the land and their families; they do not seek distant shores to pillage and plunder, to rape and kill.” After speaking her meaning she withdrew once more and he felt the stiffness of either fear or worry or perhaps even hatred enter her.

He could not deny that those actions named were unknown to the men of his community – of his country. But it was also true that what those actions provided in the long-term was future prosperity for his people and the beginnings of a security gained in the ever-vast and changing world. A foreigner’s ignorance could be excused. As it was, further talking was proving to be less and less enjoyable while stabs of pain cut him to the bone with every other stride of the horse.

Therefore, they both of them remained ensconced in their own thoughts for the remainder of their flight through the woods.  Once or twice they were forced to be still or pick around a less open path to avoid the approaching sound of a mounted guard, but other than a few close encounters they detangled from the low branches and, at times, unruly bush unmolested.

She would tend to him, and then he would find the way back to his camp. A string of well-aimed curses to be delivered to Horik circulated his mind, indulging in the foulest of insults simply because he knew he would never be able to use them and survive. His approach would have to be one of patience and cunning. He sniffed, swallowing back blood and mucus. It was nothing foreign to his nature. Had he not done the very same with Haraldson?

Behind him, Molly grumbled something.

She would be coming with him to the camp. And then…

He wasn’t certain.

He could try to tie her up again, though he suspected that she would be sensitive to any motions towards that and would slip away before he had the chance of hauling her pretty behind once more onto the boat. What a state of fury she would be in. In spite of his dark thoughts, he smiled at the image it conjured of her rich, long hair flying madly about her head, of her color rising with exertion.

Ragnar was not yet certain of how he would do it, but he was certain of wanting her. That was enough. Her words returned to him: ‘pillage and plunder, to rape and kill.’ It was what she expected from him, he realized. What she did not expect, however, was that his interest in her, while assuredly charmed by her physiognomy, was of a somewhat wholesome nature. Somewhat.

He no longer felt her book against his back; that item that had become something akin to a cumbersome talisman that he refused to part with. Now returned to its key, and the ultimate fountain that could spurt forth answers to questions that had had the chance to grow and multiply with the time given it, the book’s value was diminished only by its true owner. But only so long as he had the true owner.

“Give me your book,” Ragnar said without preamble. They had come to the eaves of the forest and could now see the quaint hamlet Molly had directed them to. It sat nestled in the lap of a small valley – a poor location if they ever needed to defend themselves, Ragnar automatically considered.

“No. Why?” She clutched it to her chest.

“There is something I would ask you about it.”

“Ask me now,” she persisted, unrelenting.

With a huff of impatience and a grunt of pain, he turned to look at her over his shoulder.

“Consider that your book has been in my care this past half decade,” he pointed out. “In your own presence are you so unwilling to let me handle its pages?”

He caught her eye, challenging her.

With a huff of her own, she exclaimed, “fine! Take the journal! Ask your questions. Kidnap me a third time, why don’t you!” Though, most of this was said in her own language, her general ire was felt without need of translation.

He accepted the book thrust into his lap, albeit with a small hiss of pain at her force, and then said, “thank you. Now off you go.”

“I beg your pardon?” She canted her head at the shooing motion he was making with his hand. Before she could wonder at his apparent changeability, he elaborated.

“Your neat little basket is not with us, yet we are still in need of the contents it held. That hamlet is our new basket. And this,” he grasped the book, “is my insurance.”

“Your insurance? For what?”

“For your return.”

He saw her quick comprehension and was glad for it. The pain was growing to an unbearable level, making his breathing a tricky accomplishment.

“I have not any money,” she said at once. “And I cannot go to them like this,” she added, looking down at her own bloodied state.

“I have no money either, and I am in an even worse state than you.”

After a heart beat’s pause, she stated, “you mean me to steal what we need, don’t you.”

When his answer was a curled lip, she continued.

“And on my own! What if I am caught? Your security will mean nothing then.”

“And if we ride in together do you suppose none will recognize me for what I am, and this beast for what he is, and come to the conclusion that we are unlikely friends?”

She sat silently behind him for several seconds before abruptly pushing away from him with a sound of disgust. She spat something out at him in her own language as she swung her leg over and landed with a thump beside the horse.

“Don’t forget to find yourself something pretty,” he couldn’t help calling after her. Her response was a hand gesture with her middle finger extended. He did not know its significance, but he felt confident in hazarding a guess.

. . .

It was perhaps the worst possible time to sneak around a hamlet in bloodied clothes and with the intent of thievery. The sun was full-up, the women were at work in their homes and the men busy in the fields or walking the many by-ways of little footpaths. Molly thought initially that she might turn her gown inside out, but a quick look told her that the rusting brown of the blood had soaked through to her chemise and had even tainted her skin.

With the constant evidence of recent violence etched upon her person, an impression of color on her very skin, Molly walked without the sense of walking. The weakness in her legs did not inhibit her progress, but it did give the feeling of numbness. She wouldn’t have known she was walking had she been devoid of her senses. As it was, those senses were at an absolute opposite of what they had been immediately following Emory’s death and her and the Viking’s mad dash to the forest. She was hyper aware of every little sight and sound; every movement that turned out to be only the wind caressing a bush or an animal prowling about on its own business.

She made deliberate strides towards the back of the houses, ducking around doors and windows, and all the while feeling a perverse sense of equal anger and amusement. It had never been a thought that this day would see her sneaking around as a pantomime spy, rigged up in the clothes of a time she formerly would have only considered wearing for Halloween or RenFests. She oddly felt a mixture of Inspector Clausue and Maid Marion within her.

Domestic humming was on the air and the squeal of a child startled her by its suddenness. It was not a squeal of discovery, but simply a child’s delight of having a voice and using it. There was no line of helpfully strung laundry as there usually is in those films catering towards thieves with a conscious. Nor was there a bowl of milk or a husk of bread on the windowsill that she might easily snatch. The likelihood of alcohol was near to none.

Molly sighed, bracing her back against the outer wall of the croft.

Was her journal truly this important to her? Why did she not simply abandon the Viking to his fate and discover a new one for herself?

‘Because I know that his words were true – I wouldn’t last a single night on my own. Not this time.’

Before, the danger had gone with the Viking’s on their ship. Presently, the guards of her former employer were symbiotic with the land; they knew its personality and, in return, it would sustain them. If only she hadn’t called out that warning to the Viking as he had battled Emory. If only she had not let herself be dragged away by the very man who had given her some of her worst nightmares, waking her in cold sweats. If only she had not submitted to his insane idea of false love-making, only to be the witness of two more murders involving the security of her former employer’s.

If only, if only, if only…

If only they had kept hold of that damned basket!

Taking a breath, she closed her eyes, psyching her mind in preparation of the crimes her body was about to commit. Momentary guilt crept on her that her worry stemmed more from the fear of getting caught than the act itself – and what it would mean to those she took from. What if this was their only supper? Their last pale of milk?

Too many considerations and not enough hours in the day. Thinking would be her downfall, therefore, she closed the door on that strain of morals temporarily and gave herself to the mantra of ‘action’.

The humming drifted in and out of hearing, sometimes near, sometimes further. It was during one of the humming’s absences that Molly stole her resolve and crept into the back door of the small croft. All at once, she could see nothing as the space was considerably darker than the brilliant day outside. The humming remained in the only other room of the home, however, so Molly did her best to sidle out of the doorjamb so as not to be haloed by its light. Within a few seconds her eyes adjusted and she could see that the mother was in the midst of preparing a meal; formed dough sat on the work table, flour spread around its surface and the smell of yeast in the air.

The humming flourished into abrupt singing of questionable talent, easily startling Molly in her current state. She froze where she was, an out-stretched hand hovering over a small clay cauldron. The singing continued, unabashed and contained in that second room. Molly breathed out and finished grabbing the cauldron. It was chipped and worn and by the looks of it, not much used if the layer of dust was any story to go by.

Now in possession of her first steal, the rest came a little easier. Food, clothes, milk if there was any; that was her grocery list. Over and over she repeated it until she had collected them all and was on the verge of departing with the stealth of an alley-cat when a pair of eyes arrested her escape. She and the woman were both frozen, yet those eyes and their inevitable descent to the blood stain on Molly’s gown, was the breaking of the spell. Those lungs, well practiced in singing ditties and country love songs, had little difficulty in raising the alarm with an ear-shattering scream as she came at Molly with whatever she had in her hand.

Practically electrified into motion, Molly ducked out of the way, awkwardly clutching all her goods to her chest and ran for the door. Her pace did not relent as she ran flat out across the land she had moments before been creeping down. Sounds of a village coming alive with panic and distress spurred her faster, though the incline of the hill snatched at her breath. She was practically doubled over by the time she reached the summit and the welcoming protection of the forest.

Momentarily caught up in prey mentality, she abandoned the Viking’s instructions of meeting him past the second spruce that crowned the lip of the hill, a large tree that provided sufficient cover, and ran straight for the immediate cover that the overlapping trees offered.

Fortunately for her the Viking had been waiting for her the moment he heard the first scream. The sound of pounding hooves reached Molly and, recognizing it – as well as the shout of her name – the flight left her. She slowed to a stop and teetering towards a tree so that her weight might be taken as she regained breath and balance.

The Viking rode up to her, the mar of pain clear on his features, though his next words a sign of his natural humor.

“I am impressed. You managed to rouse the entire hamlet with your glare and another’s blood alone. Most shield-maidens are not so successful their first time.”

That very glare showed itself now, peeking through her eyelashes and up at the mounted man she seemed unable to shake.

 . . .

 “Would you hold still? I’ve barely even touched you yet,” Molly entreated with utmost exasperation. The clay cauldron now had meaning in its inanimate life, as it was filled nearly to the brim with stream water and placed cleverly over designed sticks and branches to hang over a fire. It was a small fire, though the smoke still took some persuasion in exiting out the shallow cave’s entrance.

Cave was perhaps a generous word for Molly and the Viking’s current hiding place; it was more an alcove in the rock. Regardless of its proper term, it was a suitable declivity that had been discovered by Molly many years prior. A mere slip of an entrance that appeared non-existent when looking directly at it, but which had the width to accommodate a broad-shouldered Viking. It did not, however, have the space to entertain the horse they had commandeered. Commandeered and reluctantly returned. They could not have his presence outside the rocky cliff-face giving away their presence; therefore a hard slap to the stallion’s rear had sent him galloping off through the trees.

“Your hands are cold,” the Viking complained. He was laid flat at Molly’s command, one of his smaller knives in her hand as she tore away at the fabric around his leg. His propensity for cracks and half-smiles was causing an ache in her jaw for all the times she grit her teeth. Only he could draw this reaction from her. If it had been any other, in any other time, after any other experience she knew she would not be this sour – it was not her nature.

The trauma of the afternoon’s events had receded somewhat during her ‘reconnaissance’ mission; she’d had a goal, an aim that distracted other thoughts from fermenting. Before that, the return of her journal had been like a sudden beam of sunlight that no cloud could dampen for the brief moments of happiness it brought. But then the facts of her situation returned; etched in vivid detail as each came to the forefront of her mind.

“Shall I stick your leg in the fire, then? It will surely . . .” she intended to say ‘cauterize’ but knew not the term for it in her second language. Instead, she clamped her mouth and redoubled her focus on clearing away any obstructions around the wound - her jaw tight.

Along with the clothes she’d relieved the singing woman of, Molly had also snatched up a random cotton sheet. Presently it lay in torn strips, each awaiting their turn for a dip into the boiling water, while those already treated to the sauna were draped over a long branch, drying. Molly took one now, wringing out the excess water before applying its purity to the coating of dried blood. The Viking hissed again but was ignored as she pressed gently around the wound, teasing flakes and grime away. Slowly and with the help of the many cotton strips, Molly made progress in distinguishing between whole flesh and the clean line of tortured skin. It was not as deep as she’d anticipated, though its length was daunting. Stretching from just below his groin, it curved in a graceful arc until just reaching the side of his knee.

As she worked further up his leg, her eyes darted periodically to see where his were looking. She was very aware of his partial nudity and the fact that her hands were inching closer to a personal area on any human. Her disquiet easily took form as memory of the Viking between her legs came willingly to taunt her; his kissing her in a way she’d never been kissed before, and the fear that he might expect more.

For his part, he remained mostly silent; watching her work or fixing his gaze to random points of the cave’s ceiling. It was easy to tell that he was visibly exhausted. The weight of the day showed in every inch of his haggard form. Molly was then reminded that she only knew the contours of his day from the point of reunion. The events preceding that meeting (specifically why he was injured to begin with) were still a mystery to her.  

Seeing him as he was now - tired, quiet, though still marred by the scars of the day — the mud and blood that seemed a staple to his appearance — only confused her vision of him. It was a contradiction to see this frightening image of violence succumb to the weaknesses that afflicted mortal men; which in turn forced the admission that he was nothing more than a man. The fear of his violating her was real . . . yet, as she looked down at him in the fickle light of the small fire, a small voice in her head felt confident against that supposition. She couldn’t say why or that she even wanted to trust this voice in her head, but the grime that coated him notwithstanding, Molly almost considered him to appear vulnerable. She found it both reassuring and unnerving to view him this way. Despite her opinion of him - and the fact that he was the root of her current situation - he was also her only shield now.

“You are staring at me,” he said, his eyes swiveling to look at her. His voice was low in his throat.

Embarrassed at being caught, she deflected and asked, “how did you get this?” She referred to the thin line of red highlighting his thigh. Once healed, it would be only a faint scar.

“Someone mistook me for ingredients for their dinner.”

She looked back up at him.

“It’s fortunate they realized you were too tough to chew before choking on you,” she returned, not missing a beat. “It would be a shame to suffocate on something unpleasant.”

“Fortunate for me to be tended so nicely,” he returned, grinning. His first since she’d begun her treatment. She turned her gaze back to his leg.

“Where is that from? You didn’t have it earlier?” he asked.

The Viking was looking at her face, nodding his chin in her direction. His arms were clearly too exhausted to function.

“What are you talking about?”

“A scratch. On your face. You did not have it this afternoon.”

Molly straightened up and brought a hand to her left cheek then her right where she felt a thin line raised above her skin. With her fingers she traced the scratch across her cheekbone, feeling dry bumpiness and seeing no blood when she pulled her hand away.

“It’s nothing. I must have gotten it in the forest.”

She suddenly remembered exactly when she got it. The sound of her breathing clouding her mind; the leaves underfoot as she worked to get away; there was no escape, even as her legs sprinted past all hopes of expectations towards the illusion of freedom. The low branch struck her face, whipping past her as she flew by, not pausing for a moment as she ran from the Viking — his taste still potent in her mouth.

“It is not so bad, I think. The blood made it appear far worse than it was. It’s as well that you likely will not need stitches for I lack the skill for such an operation,” she said, turning back to his wound with methodical intent. With a will, she shut the events of the afternoon out of her mind. Hysteria was only a thought away afterall.

“Stitches? You thought to sew me up like a garment?”

“Not quite,” Molly said, amused in spite of herself at his assumption. “But very like. Had the cut gone deeper, the skin would have needed help in healing back together. Still, I need to – to . . . Oh! There is no word for it! I need to clean it so that . . . so that it can heal with cleanness.” Her frustration was apparent as more words failed her. Though, that frustration quickly turned to another train of thought as she suddenly considered that boiled water alone would not be able to enter his wound to disinfect it. She’d burn him terribly and cause more problems than what they were already dealing with. What she really needed was alcohol. Pure, straightforward alcohol. It would sting him most assuredly but the risk of infection would be considerably lower.

“If your furrowed brow is an indication of your thoughts,” the Viking began, distracting her from her worries, “you are either meaning to translate an uncooperative word or there is more to be said about my leg that you wish not to share.”

“It’s neither actually – or, well, mayhap there is some truth to the latter. I need alcohol – for your leg. Not to drink.”

“I remember you said. What is its purpose?”

“It cleans; ridding the wound of . . . germs, thus stopping infection and probable amputation due to gangrene,” she relayed, falling back on English words in her impatience. He watched her with a studied air. “Do not ask me to translate, I don’t have the words. What’s important is that alcohol is needed and we have none,” she finished.

“I have survived worse than this. I will likely manage without your medicine,” he said unconcerned.

Molly looked him over once more before turning her head – done with him for the present. Mindful of the fire, she situated herself towards the entrance of the cave and looked out. Night had fallen and the cool breeze that greeted her warmed cheeks refreshed her spirits.

There was much to think about . . . and yet, she wanted nothing more than to embrace a blank state of mind and let all the kinks of the moment sort themselves out. She was beyond the point of reasoning with herself over the wisdom of helping this Viking. She had made her decision – or rather, it had been made for her. She could not imagine returning to that terrifying existence of not knowing whose goodwill she could trust as she had done upon being received into her former Mistress’ employ. The Viking certainly was not one she could trust, but he was still the lesser of two evils.

At least she hoped it was so.

Something told her it was so.

Molly looked back at him to see if she could still see the horrible monster that had suffered exaggerated villainy through her imagination. He was asleep, or perhaps only his eyes were closed. His breath came evenly; his clothed chest rising and falling, creating mountains and valleys of shadows that shifted with each inhale. He was calm.

It surprised her to recognize the man in the nightmare, but so it was.

Again he had found her, appearing behind her and with that stupid cock-eyed grin that expressed much more than simple mirth. Was it fate that had drawn them together, she wondered. Fate was a thing far easier to believe in and turn to after having passed through the veils of time, and it was to that nuanced entity she reserved most of her questions. Was the Viking’s reappearance perhaps symmetry of her experiences these past six years? Was his presence - their meeting - the precursor to a miraculous return home?

Inevitably, thoughts turned towards the hypothetical and scenarios began playing out in Molly’s mind’s eye. She envisioned reuniting with her family and her friends; of what their reactions would be and what possible excuse she could give for having been missing for more than half a decade. As she ran down the list of plausible reasons and coming up with the grand total of nil, the hopelessness of her fate struck her anew. It was one thing to want something beyond belief, another to achieve that self-made utopia. She may return one day, to her time and her people – but there was no going back.  

“Why are you crying?” his voice came out of the quiet, breaking her musings, though, he spoke barely above a whisper. In reaction, she hastily wiped her face and denied the accusation.

“You may have fooled me had you not thoroughly rubbed away the evidence; the light is not so good so I may have been persuaded that it was not tears in your eyes, but a natural brightness.”

“Does it matter that I was crying?”

“I thought I would ask,” he shrugged, “you have been taking care of me. I would not like to think that the strain has emotionally exhausted you.”

Molly stared at him, mouth unsure of a forthcoming answer to his ridiculous statement, when suddenly, the purest sound escaped her. She laughed.

“That is an improvement to your scowling,” he remarked.

Ignoring him, she clasped her hands over her face, resting her knuckles against her bent knees and let the gentle chuckles waver between pent up hysterics. A giggle here, a masked sob there; it was the release that was coming all day - since the moment she had witnessed Emory’s murder.  

“Regardless of your health, an acquaintance with you is likely to exhaust anybody,” she resumed after a brief time; her voice thick.

“I have heard it said,” he smiled. She noticed that there was no double meaning in the current expression.

Prompted by the rawness of the moment, she asked, “what do you want with me?”

His smile broadened before assuming a more sober air. Bringing her journal forth, he considered the green leather of its binding as if viewing it for the first time. Turning it in his hands, his eyes met hers and held the contact.

“Out of all my . . . visits to this land I have never encountered a random meeting. I once met the brother of King Aelle. It was not a good introduction for him,” his tone possessed a matter-of-factness that attempted to disguise itself with an amount of playfulness. It only served to engage the listener the more, and Molly couldn’t help feeling intrigued.

“Yet, the meeting itself held purpose. We received our ransom. We also humiliated the King. In my heart I know that there are yet more meetings to be had with that King; whether by myself or with a horde of men at my disposal. It is the nature of Fate is it not? Those we are destined to have in our lives, weaving in and out of our tale, for good or ill. We will meet them . . . and sometimes we will meet them again.”

His gaze held hers strongly now.

“It is destiny that we have met again,” he said quietly, “for, as I know of unfinished business with Aelle, I have known that you are my key to something new. You were a woman from another land when first we met; with raiment foreign to the peoples of my lands and to the lands of the Christians; with mysterious treasures and a book of fine quality containing a script illegible to all – including my monk. You ask of me what I want with you, and I will tell you – I want to know what you know. I would have it all.”

Molly did not shy away from his gaze as an ensuing silence fell between them. The space they occupied in that small cave needed a moment of its own ere they began speaking again. The snap and crack of the fire was enough to fill the void at present as each felt a fresh wall of hostility evaporate in the stuffy space.

Slowly, Molly reached a hand out, wordlessly asking for her journal. The Viking didn’t hesitate in returning it once more.

It was a Celtic design on the cover, bought specifically in anticipation for her trip to the UK. She traced the Celtic knots and whorls, toying with the pages between as she psyched herself up for another glimpse of a life forever lost to her.

Opening to a random page she read the entry. The lines grew blurry as tears clouded her vision, but she would not blink lest the salty tear-drop smudge her writing. She managed a few paragraphs before decisively shutting the journal and wiping her eyes. She looked up to see that the Viking was watching her.

“What you ask of me is . . . personal,” Molly admitted. Her voice was hushed. “What you call a book is a journal, my journal. It is my writing in these pages.”

The Viking was surprised.

“And what is a – a gornull that women have the ability to write in them. What is written in them?”

“It is a place to record the events of a day; of the events of a certain time.”

“Why? What is the point of that?” he continued to search.

Molly stared at him, amazed at his genuine ignorance of why such a practice would be beneficial.

“For memory,” she explained. The Viking still did not look convinced of its usefulness.

“So a bunch of women are daily writing down the mundane routine of their duties and chores – “

“Men and women; and it is more than simply documenting the mundane. It captures the moments shared with people, of emotions and places. It is a thing to look back on when you are old and grey and share with your children and grandchildren.”

“They are your stories then?” he concluded, grasping at an explanation that made sense to him. He seemed eager now.

“Yes. They are stories – sometimes badly told,” she admitted, thinking of her own dismal writing, “but stories nonetheless.”

“Will you read them to me?” he asked, sounding hopeful. She hesitated.

“No. I don’t know. Not right now, at least,” she wavered. She was unsure of the rapid progress in their communications and felt the impulse to revert to terms of antipathy and suspicion.

“You need rest and I – “ she sighed. “I need to think.”

She said no more to the Viking that night, and he in turn followed her instructions. The cave eventually filled with soft snores as weariness carried the Viking towards the regenerative sleep he had required hours prior. Molly did not watch him, but she could not help but wait for that inhale every time he mumbled out an exhale through parted lips. She feared he would die in the night and leave her defenseless in, what was now, enemy territory.

The quiet night opened to her, stilling the ticking clock of Time in an illusion of gained hours in which to contemplate her new circumstances. Only the fire was an indication of movement during the dead of night when any tint of dawn would be impossible to disturb her ruminations.

Alcohol and death. Those were her present concerns. They existed in the immediacy of unraveling events that she perhaps had the power to prevent. Sentiments and hopeful thoughts could be appreciated only in the peripheral at present.

The consequences of his death implied various outcomes. Relying on previous information, Molly assumed that he must have been separated from his brethren, for she doubted he had made it all the way to Wessex on his own. Her concern lay not in returning his body to his kin, but in avoiding those kin should he perish. She must also take into consideration the as-of-yet nameless foe the Viking had engaged with before their meeting. It was also true that she could not know how long her former master would pursue the hunt, and if she was not careful she might become the easily caught prey between three fierce forces. The only difference of that scenario should the Viking live would be the assumed protection he would extend over her should they make it to his Viking friends.

‘But then,’ Molly continued voicelessly, pursing her lips and raising her eyebrows, ‘I would have to – again – find a way to escape him.’

The fear of the unknown and the half-guessed in regards to being taken to his lands raised a series of warning bells should he try to trick her onto a boat. Not least due to her own superstition of not leaving these shores. It was on this island that the doorway had opened for her unwilling passage. It was, therefore, this island that she must remain should that doorway ever open for her again.

Looking over her shoulder, Molly watched him. The flickering light cast by the diminishing fire nearly concealed the tattoos she’d earlier noticed on the sides of his shaved head, making the color appear as the first growth of hair after a buzz cut. He had aged since their first encounter. She remembered his hair being thicker atop his scalp and his beard not so long. There was some grey there too, and momentarily she wondered how old he was.

Her eyes traveled down towards his wound. Its redness had not faded, nor did she expect it to. Of course there was a possibility that it would not get infected, though, she felt that was a big ‘if’. Creeping slowly towards the fore of her mind, an idea was formulating into an impulsive sketch of a plan.

The gamekeeper kept a still near abouts. The bluff they sheltered at the base of was south of the manor. Molly knew the gamekeeper preferred height for his precious still; she had once come across it and was nearly chased away by his shouts and some farming implement she hadn’t had the time to inspect.

Turning her gaze back to the outside world, she craned her head to look up at the pitch night. It was unlikely that he would be there at this time. She was also encouraged by the lack of moonlight that would have highlighted her progress to any who may have been watching.

Reclining back into herself, Molly huddled her knees close to her chest, resting her brow against them. It was a risk. Was she willing to go that far in order to maintain her shield? She looked back at him, gritting her teeth, though not in anger or annoyance directed at him. It was a reflexive action against the fear of cowardice.

She did not like him; she knew plainly that her only interest in caring for him was selfish. Yet there was that spark of humanity that had been instilled in her through her religion. Sanctity for life. Unrelated to her own desires, his death was not something she craved. And if their second meeting was truly Fate she would never forgive herself for remaining passive when she had the power to act.

Chapter Four→

[ivywing]

part two of that thing i’m working on

so it turns out this is gonna be a thing.

Part One |:| Part Three

It’s early sunrise when Sarco awakes, to the sight of Pardinus pawing at her nose. She groans and picks up the lynx by the shoulders, glaring halfheartedly. “I’m up, I’m up, you lazy cat.”

Pardi licks her nose, purring as she puts one huge paw up. Sarco grumbles, carrying the lynx to the rickety window that faces the forest. She lifts the curtain, and Pardi hops out and down the scaffolding that leads to the ground, looking back after a moment. Sarco rolls her eyes. “I’m not going out, Pardi. I have to prepare for scavenging today.”

Pardi yowls in outrage, scratching at the dirt, but Sarco yowls back. “We can’t all eat mice, cat. Some of us have work to do.” Pardi grunts and stalks off into the underbrush, gone until sunset like she usually is when Sarco can’t go with her.

Sarco lets the curtain hang open, watching as sunlight hits the specks of floating dust. The fourth-story attic where she lives with her Babi and any passing Vultures is small, dusty, and filled to the brim with various items of varying worth. Some are her Babi’s, like the dented iron sword from that war when she was a baby or the rusty compass that never points north. But others belong to her, like the beautiful Pietersite amulet she managed to swipe from beneath the hooves of an ox, and the cold-iron armguard found in the scrap heap near the Armory.

She rolls up her bedroll, storing it away for the day, before retrieving the leftovers of their dinner last night. She splits the thick stew into two portions, storing the larger part for her Babi. It’s fine- she slips out of the apartment and returns with three ugly, but still delicious pink apples. She idly snacks on one while she portions the second up, spreading a bit of olive oil and jalapeno on it for flavor. Babi says that her tastes are strange, but she likes her food hot, and preferably with a bit of poison to it.

Once breakfast is over all-too-soon, she begins to dress. Despite the fact that Babi sleeps like a bear in the dead of winter, she still steps behind a curtain while she changes out of her sleepwear and into one of her nicer outfits- a matching salwar and kameez, both pale cream in color, and a traveler’s hood. 

“Babi!” Sarco grins as she pulls her hair back into a long ponytail, the last sign of her childhood. Her Babi has only been training her for a half-season now, but she gets better every time they spar, and she’s anxious to start scavenging with them instead of working on her weapons with Auntie Gyps or doing endurance training with Calvus.  She glances back and throws a mangled sandal at their torso. It lands on their hip, but all they do is grunt and pull their blanket over their head. “Babi, c’mon! Early bird gets the worm, is what you tell me!”

Babi groans, burrowing back into their bedroll. “It’s barely dawn, chickadee. There’s a few more hours before anything good to find.”

She whines, shoving at their shoulder. “Babi, c’mon!” They’re right about that much, she knows, but she wants to prove herself capable. ”There won’t be anything left by the time you get up!”

They sigh, finally getting up. “You’ll be the death of your parent, you know that?” They pull her into a warm hug, rubbing their scruffy beard on her cheeks as she squeaks in protest.

Sarco wriggles out of their grip, grabbing a clean towel. She wipes the sweat and dust from her face, before she grabs a scarf, winding it around her face and over the welting red birthmark on the left side of her face. Once she’s satisfied, she twists and turns, checking her reflection in the curved surface of her Babi’s shield. “Do I look good? Am I presentable?”

Babi snorts as they pull on a shirt. “You’re fine, chickadee. And if you don’t believe me, you can ask the other Vultures tonight.”

Sarco whines. “That’ll be forever! And I’ll look awful by then!”

“Well, whoever said a Vulture was beautiful?” Babi pulls their boots on, hand rubbing over their scalp. They groan, pulling out a shaving blade. “Damn, I need to keep better track of my head.”

Sarco rolls her eyes with warmth, grabbing the oil and cloth. “It’s not that bad, Babi. Or, well, not as bad as Fulvus.” The appraisal expert of the small band of scavengers, Fulvus’s shave is patchy and ragged, nearly an inch long in some spots. “Why is his shave so bad, anyway? Aunt Gyps said it’s because he won’t let anyone else come near him with a razor.”

Babi sighs, handing their daughter the blade. “That’s half the reason, anyway.” The two are silent for a few minutes as Sarco rubs down their scalp with oil, before cutting away the hair that she can. Babi hands her the pumice stone with a grunt. “A burst of sickness hit some apartments Uptown, and there’s nearly a dozen dead from it.”

Sarco grins wickedly. “Which means their stuff is ours for the taking.”

“No,” Babi cautions, their tone close to a growl. “The sickness is still in the air, and Barbatus is already checking that area out.”

Sarco groans, rubbing the stone a bit harder than absolutely necessary against their skull. “This is bull! C’mon, where are we scouting if not there?”

Babi swats her hands away gently, rubbing their scalp. “That’s the problem. I’m not entirely sure yet.”

She hums, tapping the toe of her sandal against the floor. "We could scour the marketplace, we could go check out the Haunted Wing of the Palace, we could raid the crematorium, we could check under the seats of the Coliseum-"

Babi grunts, standing up as they rub their head with the towel. "The crematorium is off-limits for a reason, chickadee."

Sarco groans in protest. "They’re already dead! I’m not going to take the coin from their tongue, what does it matter?”

Babi rolls their eyes, as they always do whenever she says sacrilegious things. “What matters is that we don’t stoop so low to rob still-warm bodies. You know better.” They reach out, attempting to smack her thigh.

Sarco pouts, dodging away from Babi’s hands. “You raided the battlefields back when the War was going on! Why is that any different?" Truth be told, she doesn’t have much to go on when it comes to the war- people don’t like talking about it, and Babi has always been tight-lipped on the details.

Babi glares and looks like they want to argue, but they simply pull a long-sleeve tunic over their head. "Because war has plenty of valuable things for living people. Nowadays we have to respect the dead, but when death surrounds you, you have to harden your heart." 

Sarco wants to roll her eyes at her Babi’s attempt at sounding philosophical. Instead, she hands them their belt before grabbing her satchel. They pull on some leather pants and stand, examining their face in the cracked mirror Sarco found two months ago. “Have you eaten yet?”

“Mhm!” She shoves their portion of stew to them, along with one of the apples. While he eats she gathers her things in her satchel, including her dagger and a vial of dry smoke- if she runs into trouble, she’d rather cause a scene than wind up dead. “C’mon, let’s go!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” They grab their bag, tossing it over their shoulder. "What do you say to some market-stalking?"

---

Sarco trails just a few meters behind Babi as they pass through the thick throngs of the market. It’s been a few hours after their departure, and the sun is already high in the sky, the shadows short and the heat beating down on her neck. In her satchel hides an ingot of copper, several handfuls of dates, and a spare set of sandals. While Babi insists that they scavenge instead of steal, Sarco’s not as stupid as they apparently think she is- uncle Fulvus has repeatedly taken her to plunder bits and pieces from the better-off citizens of the city. No point in sticking to their morals if it means they starve.

Babi doesn’t look back to her, and she tries not to look at them. It’s best if people don’t catch on to the closeness between the two, lest folks assume she’s their young wife, or worse- an escort. The first- and last- time someone had asked that, Babi had nearly killed the man at the assumption that their daughter was a prostitute. It had gotten bad enough that only the timely arrival of auntie Gyps and Neophron spared the man from being beaten to death. The look of rage in their face- she’d never seen anything like it.

As she passes by the spice trader, her eyes catch the faint glimmer of something shiny beneath the rickety table. Out of habit she bends down to examine what it is and cusses lightly as her fingers snag on what was apparently the edge of a sharp blade. She pulls her hand to her mouth, lapping up the blood that’s seeped out before it hits the dust. She carefully takes the handle of the blade, pulling out a dagger. She sits down to the side of the booth- she’s lagging behind Babi, but they’ll be fine without her.

She pulls the dagger from the hilt, marveling at the craftsmanship- unlike a lot of imitations, this blade was forged with the curve in mind. It’s a beautiful make, the gray-silver metal of the blade slowly melding into gold near the hilt. The hilt itself is bronze if she had to guess, engraved with some sort of writing system she’s unfamiliar with- the letters are all angular and sharp, instead of the flowing characters she’s used to. She’d almost think it were ceremonial if not for the nicks and scratches along the length- whoever lost this dagger, they use it a lot, and it’s too high-quality and much too expensive to just be lost without notice.

“Excuse me, goodsir?” She taps the merchant gently on the shoulder, careful to keep her veil up over her mark. “Is this yours?”

The man turns towards her, jerking a little at the knife. “No, no, of course not. What would I use a knife like that for?” He waves his hand, avoiding her eyes.

Sarco taps her foot, returning the dagger to its sheath. “Fine, then. Do you know who might have lost it, then?” The Vultures are already hunted enough, they don’t need the magistrate after them.

The spice merchant thinks for a moment, then snaps his fingers. “Ah, yes, there was one group passing through. Outsiders, the whole lot of them, and with a fae sense to boot. Stopped by here asking for cayenne.”

Well, they have good taste then. “Did you see where they went afterward? I might as well return this to them before I’m accused of thieving.” Plus, it might give her something smaller that she can reasonably take without them noticing.

“They said they were heading towards the town center. What for, I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“Thank you, goodsir!” She tugs her scarf a little more just in case it’s fallen loose and begins her way towards the center of the city. The roads become more and more choked with people the closer she gets to the center, but she knows this city like her mark, and a few strategic detours through alleyways and over roofs mean that she soon makes it to the Dunram Fountain.

She sits on the edge, enjoying the warmth seeping into her clothes from the stone. She’s never paid much attention to the installation before, aside from skimming it at midnight for coins, but the more she focuses the more she notices. Though the foundation of the fountain is white marble, the statue and spout are carved from white granite. The statue itself, Lord Dunram holding out two cups overflowing with the water of the fountain, seems harsher in this light, angrier than she’s thought before.

She shakes her head and turns towards people-watching, trying to catch sight of any foreigners. She fiddles with the found dagger, running her finger along the grooves as she looks. There’s the usual mix of folks- the white-clothed Vrainists mingling with Ceplons, a few masked Niirns foretelling the apocalypse- as usual- some visiting nobility dressed in gaudy velvet and satin completely unsuited for the wet heat of the city. All outsiders, the lot of them, but none that particularly fit the-

“Hey!” Sarco jumps as she’s dragged from her daydreaming and her spot, a firm grip on her upper arm. “Thief! That’s Alban’s dagger!”

A few tears spring from her eyes, and she gives a tiny shriek. “Stop it! You’re hurting me!”

The grip only tightens, shaking her roughly. “Shut up, thief.”

Sarco yelps and shoves the dagger at the person holding her. “I came here to return it! It was at the spice merchant’s stall, now let me go!”

The person holding her growls, but takes the dagger and releases her. Sarco rubs her arm gingerly, taking slow, deep breaths to try and ease the pain. They back off a few feet and Sarco curls into herself protectively as they continue. “What kind of story is that? No one goes to that much effort.”

“I did. Clearly, I shouldn’t have, if it meant you were going to hurt me.” She looks up at the man who attacked her, nearly a head taller than herself and with a mean look on his face. Probably from the Western continent, if she had to guess. His skin is a lot paler than most people who’ve grown up in this area, with pale yellow hair cut too short to be respectable.

“Lothar, what’s going on?” A young lady steps up, her skin as pale as her companion but with shiny black hair. “I heard yelling and came to investigate.”

Sarco glances around, noticing the whispers and stares of the crowd too cowardly to help a girl in trouble. She puts her hand up to her forehead, only to notice that her veil’s gone loose with the shaking she received. Her heart jumps into her throat, and she hurriedly fixes it while the two outsiders argue loudly about manners and such. Luckily, it looks like no one’s noticed her mark, as once the commotion is over people begin to dissipate.

Sweat rolls down her neck and back, her stomach twisting into tight knots at the thought of her mark being discovered. She still remembers the time an elderly Malachti had been discovered hiding in the sewers- the poor woman was little more than meat hanging off a skeleton by the time her neck finally snapped, the beatings from the guards that found her and the attacks from the citizens who’d gotten to her first left her flesh hanging off her bones like wilting leaves. The sight hangs in her vision, a mockery of Sarco. This is you. This is what you will be when they find you.

“Miss?” Sarco jolts as the woman taps her on the cheek. She skitters back a few paces, hand instinctively going up to cover her mark, but the woman has nothing but concern on her face. “Are you alright? You look like you’re about to pass out.”

Sarco nods, swallowing around a wave of nausea. “Yeah. Just- just lightheaded.” She sits back down on the edge of the fountain, letting the spray cool her off. “The knife is yours, right? I saw it beside the spice merchant’s stall. Thought I’d return it to its owner.”

The woman claps her hands together. “Oh, how kind! Lothar, you really should say thank you.”

Lothar, as the man is called, turns away. “Not my fault. Thought she was a thief.” He skulks off towards a few other foreigners, one dressed in deep reds and the other two in much more practical browns and gray.

The lady sighs, shaking her head. “I’m so sorry about his behavior. I’m Dáiríne MacMourna, and he’s Lothar Sigrunson. We’re traveling the continent for a while.”

Sarco tilts her head. “Oh, are you with a trading caravan?” If that’s the case, there may be some things she can skim off the top without hurting anyone- if it’s practical things, of course. If they’re transporting luxury goods like furs or gold, she’ll leave it be- no point in taking something she won’t use, and besides, they probably keep better track of those things.

Dáiríne shakes her head, seeming a tad more nervous now. “No, no, nothing of the sort. It’s a private matter, but an important one. We’re just stopping here for the night to rest and recuperate.”

Sarco nods in fake understanding. “Well, you have my good wishes.”

She turns to leave, but Dáiríne gently takes her hand. “No, wait! I-” she bites her lip, thumb running idly along Sarco’s knuckles. “Are you familiar with the area?”

“Yes, I suppose you could say that.” It’s an understatement- Sarco knows she’s a bit of an egotist, but she’s worked hard to hone her talents, and every part of the city and its surroundings is carefully mapped and marked in her brain, every hideaway, nook, and niche.

Dáiríne’s smile returns, all sunny and genuine in a way that Sarco wishes she could imitate. “Great! Could I ask for your help again?” She pulls out a worn and torn map, handing it over to Sarco. The parchment is local, smells like the gum of papyrus reeds. “See, we’re not exactly familiar with this continent- all from the West, you know how it is. We could use a guide until we reach the border with Msaad- after that, we should be able to manage.”

Sarco hums. “Honestly, it depends on whether you value speed or safety more.” She traces the lines of the Khasib river. “You could take the Spice Road to cross in Alsih, then use the canals to travel south into Msaad. You’d have to pay the tolls, but it’s safer than braving the mountain passes to go directly there.” She gives an involuntary shiver- the mountains are home to true bandits, men who would gladly kill a brother if it meant another coin in their pocket. There’s a reason the Vultures don’t travel there.

She hands the map back to Dáiríne. “I have to ask, though. Why would you ask me, and not an experienced guide?” She knows that turning away potential money is a poor business practice, but Babi taught her to be a good person as well. “It can’t be that more expensive, and you’d certainly avoid anything unexpected.”

Dáiríne gives a soft sigh. “Honestly? You’re the first person to go out of your way to help us so far. Everyone else either wants something for themself or was out to trick us.” Dáiríne gives a soft laugh. “Plus, it’d be nice to have another girl on the team for a while, especially a girl my age.”

Sarco blinks, surprised. Surely the woman can’t be that young? Unless she was fae-blood, but even then, the protections on the city gates would keep out any arcane… She shakes her head, focusing on the woman again. “How old are you?”

“Nineteen since last March. And you?”

“Eighteen today, actually.” Sarco gives a soft laugh. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look much older than nineteen.”

“I get that a lot.” The woman- girl, though she doesn’t look it- runs a hand through her long black hair. “It’s the hair, I think. Haven’t cut it since I was nine.”

“Uh-huh.” Sarco rubs her neck, shrugging. “I’d have to ask my Babi if I could go with you, but otherwise I don’t see why not.” Babi’s always pushing for her to experience different things, whether that be baking or clayware or what be it. “Though, I would be missing some work…”

“Oh, don’t worry about that!” Dáiríne takes her hands, grinning from ear to ear. “If you’re joining us to Msaad, I’d be happy to pay you!” Her smile falls quickly, and she pulls away slightly, mumbling, “though I’d have to get the money exchanged, I don’t know the current exchange rate for this area- what currency does this area use?”

Her energy is infectious, and Sarco gives a soft laugh. “We use the Dinal, same as our neighbors. And I’d be happy to if you’re paying- a girl has to eat, after all.”

Dáiríne’s smile returns. “It’s a deal, then! Can we meet you here tomorrow, at sunrise?”

“Sure thing, Dáiríne.”

“Great!” She gives a soft look, and Sarco melts. “And please, call me Dái.”

[cupcakezys]

Protect

Part three of three! Is here! :D

First. Previous.

Read on AO3.

Pairing: Merlin/Arthur. (It!!! Happens!!! Finally!!!)

Warning! This one gets a bit violent, nothing too graphic, but proceed with caution.

Summary: “Have you always slept on the floor?” Arthur asked quietly that night, mindful of the people sleeping around them. He could tell Merlin was grinning, even in the darkness. “Yeah. The bed I've got in Camelot's a luxury by comparison.” He flapped his arms as he spoke, and Arthur tried to imagine what it would have been like, growing up in this small village. “Must’ve been hard.” Merlin hummed, arms dropping back down. “It’s like rock.” “I didn't mean the ground.” Arthur shoved him lightly, and left his leg resting against Merlin’s. “I meant, for you. It must've been difficult.”

Merlin hummed again, and to Arthur’s delight, didn’t pull away. “Not really. I didn't know any different.” He shifted closer to Arthur, and for a moment the backs their hands were touching. Then Merlin pulled his hand away. “Life's simple out here. You eat what you grow, and everyone pitches in together. As long as you've got food on the table and a roof over your head, you're happy.”

Arthur could see it, could almost taste it. A good life, a simple life, away from the pressures of court and fathers that murdered the innocent simply because they were different. “Sounds… nice.”

Merlin snorted. “You'd hate it.”

Arthur smiled, small and weak. “No doubt.”

They trailed off into silence. It was a comfortable silence, for a time. The longer they lay there, side by side, the more aware Arthur became of the points where Merlin’s body pressed up against his. Their legs just barely touched, while their arms were pressed together from shoulder to wrist. Really, they didn’t need to be that close, but, well. Arthur wasn’t moving.

Finally, the silence got to be too much.

“I wanted to say thank you.” Arthur whispered. “For earlier, with the bandit.”

Merlin chuckled, quiet but no less entrancing. “Finally admitting I saved you?”

Arthur turned onto his side so he could face Merlin. He could just barely make him out in the dark. “You’ve been saving me for months Merlin. I owe you my life, probably more times than I can count. I’m only sorry I can’t give you the recognition you deserve for it.”

Merlin turned too, leaning close until they were breathing the same air. “That’s not why I do it.” He whispered fiercely. “I don’t save you for any recognition, I don’t want it. You owe me nothing Arthur, not one thing.” Arthur expected a joke, a jab, a something, to break this seriousness. There was none of those things. “What matters to me is that you’re safe. You, Arthur, not the Prince of Camelot. I want you to be safe because I-“

He cut himself off, biting those pretty lips, and Arthur ached to hear the end of that sentence. “You what?”

“You don’t need to worry about it.” Merlin whispered. His eyes dropped to Arthur’s lips, something he almost missed in the darkness. “It’s not important.”

“I’m the prince, Merlin.” He mumbled, not even sure what he was saying. His hand came up to cup Merlin’s cheek of its own accord. “I’ll decide what’s important.”

“Spoiled prat.” Merlin breathed, eyes still on Arthur’s lips. Arthur felt a thrill go through him. “I want you to be safe-“

Arthur leaned closer. “Uh huh.”

“Because I-“ Merlin licked his lips.

“Yes?”

Arthur grinned at Merlin’s gulp. “I-“

“Spit it out Merlin.” Arthur whispered, so close now their noses were touching.

“Oh to hell with this.” Merlin grumbled and finally, finally, closed the distance between them.

Arthur sighed into the kiss. It was quick and gentle, just a press of lips really. That was okay with Arthur. Merlin’s lips were as soft he imagined, and at the same time nothing like he could have imagined. His hand slipped down to Merlin’s shoulder and gripped tightly. Merlin made a small noise in the back of his throat, loud in Arthur’s ears. There was a hand in Arthur’s hair, and his eyes had closed at some point, and then Merlin was pulling away and Arthur was blinking his eyes open again.

Arthur’s heart felt ready to beat out of his chest. “Oh.”

“Oh.” Merlin agreed.

Arthur chuckled. Merlin snorted, and then they were kissing again. Arthur cupped Merlin’s face in his hands, pulled him closer and licked at Merlin’s lips in question. The hand in his hair tightened, startling a quiet moan from deep in Arthur’s throat, and then Merlin’s mouth was open, and Arthur was free to plunder and explore to his hearts content. Merlin’s other hand tugged on his hip, pulling him closer until he was on top of him.

Arthur broke off the kiss with a gasp.

Merlin was breathing heavily underneath him, lips swollen and eyes blown wide. Arthur stared at him and found he couldn’t look away. Merlin stared back, breath hot in their shared air. After an eternity, Merlin swallowed and looked away, towards where everyone else was sleeping.

“Everyone’s asleep.” He whispered.

Arthur nodded dumbly, tracing his lips with his eyes. “Uh huh.”

“Will is going to be waiting for us.”

“Okay.” Arthur whispered, moving instead to trace those lips with a finger.

Merlin grinned and pressed a kiss to his fingertip. “We need to go.”

“Right.” Arthur blinked slowly. “The bandits.”

Merlin quirked an eyebrow. “Yes, the bandits.”

Arthur reluctantly pushed himself up and off of Merlin. They both scrambled in the dark, trying to find their armour and swords without waking anyone. They managed to find everything and make their way out of the house within a couple of minutes, and, thankfully, without waking anyone up. Arthur wasn’t sure what excuse he could give for the two of them sneaking off into the night.

Actually, he could think of several excuses, but none he would ever want to say aloud to Morgana, let alone to Hunith.

Will was waiting for them, his father’s too-big chainmail hanging awkwardly from his shoulders and his sword clutched in hand. He straightened when he saw them coming, face determined but nervous.

“What the hell took you two so long?” He hissed.

Arthur watched in amazement as a bright red blush bloomed across Merlin’s cheeks, continuing up to the tips of his ears and down underneath his neckerchief. He had to fight the desire to pull it off and see just how far down it went. Instead, he forced himself to look to Will and answer his question.

“The others took their time falling asleep. I didn’t want to risk waking someone or have them follow us.”

Will shot a him a skeptical look. Clearly he wasn’t the only one that had noticed Merlin’s blush. Arthur stared him down steadily, daring him to call him out on the lie.

Will shrugged. “Well, now you’re here, let’s go.”

They ran quietly through the dark streets of Ealdor, the moon their only source of light. Arthur found his eyes drawn to it more often than not. He could hear it whispering to him again, telling him to let go and change. He focused on putting one foot in front of the other. The moon may have control over him when it was full, but until then he was his own man. He would not give in to it tonight.

They slowed when they entered the forest. Merlin took point, as he seemed to know it best. He knew of a small river nearby, with a clearing along one side that would be a perfect base for no-good bastards to set up camp. Will agreed, and Arthur had to admit it was a solid idea. He gestured for Merlin to lead on, and they melted into the underbrush near silently.

It occurred to him when they arrived at the very edge of the large clearing that Merlin must be doing some sort of magic. Their footsteps were silent on the forest floor, and despite them being close enough to the clearing to hear the quiet murmur of voices, no one seemed to have spotted them.

Arthur grabbed the other two and gestured for them to stay as he moved forward to push the last of the bushes out of the way. He held his breath and peeked out into the clearing.

There must have been at least twenty tents clustered closely together in the clearing, each big enough for two or three men. Several fires were scattered between the tents, casting flickering shadows over the whole area. He counted a dozen horses grazing by the river, and about half a dozen bandits roaming the camp, some stumbling around drunk and some clearly on guard duty. He stared for a few more moments, a plan forming in his minds eye.

Slowly, he inched back to where Merlin and Will were waiting for him.

“Alright, here’s the plan.” He whispered. “Merlin, I’m going to need you to set fire to the tents. There are twenty of them, all clustered together. Can you do it?” Merlin nodded, determined, so he turned to Will. “Their horses are grazing near the river. If you stick to the trees for as long as possible and then swim your way over to them, you shouldn’t be spotted. I need you to let them loose as soon as you see the first tent go up in flames.”

Will frowned. “What good will that do?”

“It’ll mean they won’t have a quick escape, and it’ll be another distraction for them.” He reached out and gripped Wills shoulder. “It’s dangerous. You could be spotted, and we may be too far to help if you find yourself in trouble.”

Will’s eyes grew determined. “I’ll be fine.”

Merlin was worried now, glancing at Will out of the corner of his eye. “And what are you going to be doing?”

“I’ll be hunting down Kanen.” Both of them looked ready to argue, so Arthur quickly raised his hand. “Without their leader they’ll scatter. At the very least, it’ll buy us some time before I can convince my father to send some knights out here. At best, they’ll never regroup and leave you alone.”

“Arthur.” He could hear the warning in Merlin’s tone, knew what was coming next.

He held up his hand again. “As soon as you’ve set all the tents aflame, I want you to meet up with Will. Once that’s done you can both make your way to me. If I haven’t taken Kanen down by then, you’re free to step in. Alright?”

Will gripped his sword tight. “Sounds good to me.”

Arthur’s eyes were still locked on Merlin. “Merlin?”

“Fine.” He finally said, though it was clearly reluctant.

“Good.”

Merlin leaned closer to him, suddenly agitated again. “How are you even going to find Kanen?”

Arthur grinned. “I’ll look for the biggest tent.”

Will snorted and Merlin groaned, shaking his head. “Alright, fine. Let’s go.”

The three of them crept towards the clearing. Arthur motioned towards the horses, saw the moment Will had planned a way to get to them unseen. They nodded to each other, and then Will melted back into the trees and was gone. Arthur turned to make his way around the clearing, eyes on the biggest tent, set up in the dead centre of the clearing.

A hand on his stopped him, and Arthur suddenly found himself staring into worried eyes as blue and endless as the ocean. His mind and body froze.

“Please be careful.” Merlin whispered, so quiet if Arthur didn’t have a wolfs heading he wasn’t sure he would have heard him at all.

He squeezed Merlin’s hand. “You too.”

Merlin hesitated, then pressed a quick kiss to his lips. It was over before Arthur could even respond, and then Merlin’s hand slipped from his and he too disappeared into the trees. Arthur was left unable to move for a moment, a hand on his lips where Merlin kiss still tingled.

He shook himself and turned, quietly drawing his sword.

He stuck to the trees for as long as he could, keeping an eye on the few guards walking the perimeter. He waited until the patrolling bandit passed his hiding spot before quietly sprinting into the mess of tents. He kept one eye on the largest tent, the other on his surroundings. The last thing he needed was to turn a corner and slam into a bandit because he wasn’t paying attention.

Thankfully, no one was patrolling the middle of the camp, and Arthur managed to reach the tent without incident.

A shout went up, and Arthur heard the whoosh of fire before he saw the tents on the other side of the clearing light up in flames. He spared a moment of worry for Merlin and Will, and then he ducked into the tent.

It was through sheer instinct that he dodged the sword that came sailing towards his head. He let himself drop and roll, further into the tent, before he sprung up and spun around, sword at the ready in front of him.

“Pendragon.” Kanen snarled at him.

Arthur’s grip tightened on his sword. “Kanen.”

The man yelled and charged. Arthur grunted as they locked swords, the bandit leader stronger than he had thought. Arthur shoved him back and an instant later was forced the defend against a flurry of blows. He dodged a strike to his left, blocked a swipe at his leg and yelled as Kanen kicked him square in the chest. He went flying backwards, rolling out of the tent and into smoke filled air.

Kanen followed him out, such rage and murder in his eyes that Arthur found himself scrambling back to his feet as fast as he could.

Arthur blocked strike after strike, stepping carefully backwards as he went. Kanen advanced on him, a maniac grin on his face. Arthur blocked another strike, saw Kanen stumble slightly, and immediately pressed his advantage. He fought quick and hard, eager to get this fight over with so he could get back to Merlin. Kanen cursed and stumbled under the onslaught, his grin gone and eyes wide in fear.

Arthur feinted a strike to the leg. Kanen, clearly tiring from their fight, dropped his sword to block. Arthur changed direction at the last second. His sword cut deep along Kanen’s middle, and Arthur felt a detached satisfaction as the bandit gasped and fell to his knees. Kanen glared at him one last time, clutching at his chest, before he fell forward and went still.

He glared at Kanen’s body for a moment before turning to find where Merlin and Will had gotten to. They needed to get away from this place before they were overwhelmed by the sheer number of bandits Kanen had managed to gather. He took a step towards where he had last seen Merlin.

“Look out!”

Arthur spun around at the cry, watching as Will ran at him full speed, making a valiant effort to reach him. For a split second he didn’t understand why, and then he saw the arrow heading straight for his chest. His eyes widened as he recognized Kanen, bleeding out from his wound, but nonetheless alive and holding an empty crossbow pointed directly at him. He tried to twist out of the way, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to dodge in time, knew Will was too far away to reach him, knew his chainmail would be nothing to such a bolt.

Arthur closed his eyes and prepared for the pain, even as he tried desperately to throw himself out of the way. He felt a wave of something rush over him, protective and comforting. It made his eyes blink open.

The bolt had frozen in the air, just in front of his heart.

Arthur released his breath in one long exhale. The arrow hovered for a second, and then dropped to the ground. Kanen collapsed with it, dead. The warm feeling – magic – disappeared, leaving him feeling empty and vulnerable. He shivered.

Will finally reached him, heaving for air. “You alright?”

“Thanks to Merlin.” Arthur muttered, standing at Will’s back. Another wave of bandits, three dirty men that looked like they hadn’t bathed in months, ran at them. Arthur lifted his sword and struck at one’s side, so fast the bandit almost failed to block him. Will grunted behind him, his back pressing hard against Arthur’s.

Arthur glanced around the battlefield. He hadn’t seen Merlin in far too long, and it was making him anxious. He blocked a strike at his head and danced around a second blade, Will moving with him. And then, he finally saw Merlin. The idiot had gotten himself trapped between a flaming tent and five bandits. He cursed and locked swords with a bandit, only to push him away as hard as he could a moment later. In the same instant he grabbed Will and hauled them away from the fight, giving them a second’s reprieve.

“Go help him.” Arthur said, shoving Will away. Will sent him a look, one he couldn’t be bothered deciphering, so he pulled out his prattish-prince voice that everyone but Merlin obeyed. “Go!”

Will shot a glance Merlin’s way and cursed. “Don’t die, or Merlin will kill us both.”

Arthur laughed and spun his sword, blocking a bandit’s swipe at his middle. Will shoved another approaching bandit away and slashed him through the chest before sprinting to Merlin’s side. Arthur turned and concentrated on the two bandits left.

It didn’t take him long to finish off the pair. It would seem Kanen had been relying on sheer numbers to intimidate, because some of these bandits could hardly hold a sword right. He turned to Merlin and Will, eyes widening as four bandits ran at them together.

Merlin held up a hand and shouted a string of words in the Old Tongue. A fierce whirlwind rose from the ground beneath his fingertips. In a second it had engulfed the bandits and flung them away into trees and burning tents. Two ran screaming, one desperately tried to put out the fire crawling up his body, and the fourth didn’t rise from where he had slammed into the ground.

Arthur whooped and held up his sword in victory.

And then everything went wrong.

“Get them you cowards!” He heard someone yell, right by his ear, and then there was an all-consuming agony starting at his side and flaring outwards like a thousand knives.

Arthur screamed.

He heard a cry, a shout, so desperate it broke his heart. He knew whose voice that was. He struggled to fight the pain, to push it down like he had been taught, but every breath seemed to send another spike of agony through him. He grasped at his side with one hand, the other fisting the grass, and oh, when had he fallen to the ground?

A boom of thunder shook Arthur, so loud he could feel it. It shocked the pain away, just for a moment, and he was able to lift his head.

What he saw made his breath catch.

The clearing was in ruins. The tents, still burning, had been flung every-which way, as if tossed there by a huge storm. The ground itself had been ripped up in places, deep gashes that looked like they had been made by an angry beast. Then there was the storm. It was unlike anything Arthur had ever seen, rolling and furious as if the world had wronged it in some way and it was out for revenge. Thunder flashed in its center.

And in the middle of it all, Merlin. Merlin, with his eyes glowing gold and furious. Both of his hands were thrown in the sky, and Arthur felt a jolt of something – awe and fear and pure disbelief – go through him. He’d never seen Merlin use such powerful magic.

A group of about a dozen bandits drew his attention, standing about halfway between Arthur and his manservant – friend? lover? – and looking terrified. Arthur couldn’t blame them.

One bandit, the biggest of the lot, had a knife in his hand. It dripped blood onto the ground, and a flash of thunder had it shining pure silver. Pain ran up his side again, and his head fell to meet the ground. Silver. Well, at least the intense pain made sense now.

He wasn’t sure what happened next – there was a few more booms of thunder, and what he could only describe as the crackle of lightning along the ground followed by screams and shouts of pain. He tried to look and see what was happening, tried to understand what he was hearing, but he just couldn’t. His head was spinning too hard to make sense of anything.

Then he was being dragged, away from the noise and the screaming and the fighting, and Arthur had enough awareness left to know that might not be a good thing. He wiggled and kicked weakly, trying to get whoever it was to let go of him. There was a grunt, and then the hold on his arms gripped him tighter.

“Stop fighting me!” Was hissed right in his ear, and it took Arthur a moment to recognize Will’s voice.

“Silver knife.” He muttered back, because that was important, it was critical information. “Stabbed me.”

“Yeah yeah.” Will puffed, out of breath. “How dare someone stab such a royal prat as yourself, right?”

Arthur was laid down against a tree, surrounded by soft grass. He forced his head up, saw Will desperately sending worried glances back the way they had came. He grunted and shook his head, succeeding in gaining the other man’s attention.

“No.” He slurred, and oh dear, he was slurring already. That wasn’t good. “Was silv’r.”

Will frowned. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

Arthur opened his mouth, then shut it in a panic. Will didn’t know. Will couldn’t know. No one could know. No one but-

“M’rlin!” Arthur desperately tried to look for him, he needed him. “Where…?”

“He’s-“

“Arthur!” A shout cut him off. “Will!”

“Over here!” Will yelled back, and Arthur relaxed against the tree.

A second later and Merlin was there, eyes still swirling with gold, and he was the most beautiful thing Arthur had ever seen. He reached out a hand for him, leaned into Merlin's side when he took it and pressed himself close. Hands roamed down Arthur’s body, found the break in Arthur’s chainmail where the knife had pierced him. Arthur moaned as the touch sent a wave of fire up his body.

“Silv’r.” He managed.

Merlin paled instantly. It made him look ethereal in the moonlight. Like one of the forest pixies his nursemaid used to tell him tales of, although Arthur knew this pixie would never harm him. He leaned into him more, tried to ignore the way the pain only seemed to be getting worse.

“Merlin.” He heard Will say. “Merlin, silver only effects one creature like this-“

“Shut up Will.” Merlin growled, and Arthur hissed as his hand pressed against his wound again.

Will, remarkably, did shut up. Arthur wondered if it was because it was Merlin doing the commanding, or because he was processing the fact that the Prince of Camelot was a werewolf. Oh god, Arthur might be sick. He knew.

He must have blacked out for a moment, because suddenly he was lying down completely in the soft grass, and Merlin was examining his side. His chainmail had been taken off of him, somehow. He blinked dazedly at the gleaming metal lying in a heap next to him.

“Arthur.” Merlin’s voice was urgent, face set. “I think the tip of the knife broke off when it was pulled free. I can see it.”

Fingers pressed deeper at the wound, and Arthur whimpered. “Hurts.”

He should be ashamed of how fast he had succumbed to the pain, really. He was a prince, damn it, he should be able to stand a little stab without crying like a child. But- well. Honestly, Arthur felt like he was dying, so having a shard of silver wedged inside of him made a lot of sense. It probably was killing him.

“I’m going to have to pull it out.” Merlin said, and Arthur almost panicked.

It hurt just pressing against it, for Merlin to actually reach in and-

But the silver had to come out. He shifted, bared his side so Merlin could reach it easily. “Quick.”

Merlin’s hands pressed on either side of the stab wound. Arthur tried to keep the panic down, tried to breath and hold still. He wasn’t sure if he could. Maybe he said it out loud, or maybe Merlin had learned how to read minds, because magic washed over him, warm and loving, and he was held completely still. He whimpered before he could think to stop himself.

Merlin muttered a few words he didn’t understand, and then his side was alight with agony once more. It was like being stabbed all over again. Arthur tried not to scream, letting only whimpers and small cries out as Merlin guided the shard of silver out with his magic.

He felt it when it finally, finally left his body.

He felt like he could breathe again. The agony disappeared almost instantly, and he was left with the familiar deep hurt that came with being stabbed. The magic surrounding him retreated, making Arthur shiver.

“Arthur.” Merlin breathed. “Arthur say something.”

He groaned and opened eyes that he hadn’t even realized had fallen shut. He found Merlin in an instant, pale and scared and desperate. He grunted and lifted his hand to trail his fingers along Merlin’s cheek. He mumbled Merlin’s name, the best he could manage.

Merlin smiled, tears in his eyes, and gripped his hand against his face. “Hey. There you are.”

Arthur shifted slightly. He caught something out of the corner of his eye, and a jolt of surprise hit him. Guinevere was sat next to him, a sword in one hand, staring anxiously at the clearing Will had dragged him from. Arthur followed her gaze and tensed. Morgana and Leon were fighting off the few remaining bandits, back to back. Will was fighting a particularly nasty looking bandit, who kept throwing murderous looks Arthur’s way.

He turned back to Merlin, confused. “What?”

Merlin smiled and run a hand through his hair. “They just got here. Most of the bandits have run off, but some looked like they were ready to try and finish you off.” His hand squeezed Arthur’s and his eyes flared hard and golden. He lowered his voice to barely a whisper. “I would’ve liked to see them try.”

Arthur grunted and shook his head. He used his free hand to prop himself up, intent on sitting up so he could properly see what was going on.

Merlin squawked and tried to push him back down. “No no no- Arthur! Lie down!”

Guinevere had turned around at Merlin’s admonishment and then there was a delicate hand on his shoulder, pushing far more insistently than he had thought her capable of. “Please lie still sire. We still have to bandage you up.”

Arthur groaned again and flopped back down. He couldn’t fight both them and the pain. “The others-“

“Can handle themselves.” Merlin cut him off, ripping up the bottom of his own shirt. “Now hold still.”

Arthur, for once, did as he was told. Merlin’s hands shook, but he worked quickly. Guinevere pulled his tunic up and out of the way, hissing a little in sympathy when she saw exactly how deep his injury was. A quick glance told Arthur all he needed to know. He was bleeding steadily, from what didn’t look like a big stab, but he had known men to die of smaller cuts than this before. He looked away as Merlin began bandaging him up, Guinevere helping where she could.

“We need to clean this as soon as we can.” Merlin muttered, more to himself than anything. “Mother should have some clean water we can use. Not the best, but better than nothing. And she knows how to stitch people up, so you’re going to be fine.”

He had finished now, out of scraps to wrap him in, and his hands were fluttering anxiously over his body. He grunted and grabbed Merlin’s hand. Their eyes locked, and Arthur had to clear his throat before he could talk.

“Help me stand.” He whispered. Merlin immediately looked ready to argue, so Arthur squeezed his hand hard. “Please.”

Merlin huffed. “Fine, but you lean on me. No trying to be a tough guy.”

Arthur snorted. “Yes sire.”

Merlin’s lips quirked into a quick grin. Arthur counted it as a win. Merlin slowly helped him up, supporting him on one side, while Guinevere helped him from his other side. He sent her a grateful smile all the same, a smile that quickly turned into a pained grimace as he forced himself up and onto his feet. It took a lot of silent curses and gritted teeth, but eventually he was standing, his arm over Merlin’s shoulder as he leaned against him.

The sound of sword meeting sword had died out in the time it had taken Arthur to stand, and he looked up as Morgana, Leon and Will came running over. All three eyed him with concern, eyes flickering to his bandaged side.

“Are you alright?” Leon asked.

Arthur nodded, a little breathless. “I’ll live. The bandits?”

“We’ve killed at least half of them.” Leon grimaced. “The rest escaped into the woods, but I don’t think they’ll be giving Ealdor any more trouble.”

Arthur nodded and was about to respond when Morgana cut in, stepping forward and glancing between Merlin, Arthur and Will.

“What was that before?” She asked, equal parts fear and wonder. “The storm? We could see it from miles away! And the clearing- it’s in ruins!”

Arthur shook his head and leaned on Merlin more heavily. “Morgana, don’t-“

“It was magic, wasn’t it?” She asked, and oh, she was really getting excited now, wasn’t she?

They were doomed. Absolutely, totally, doomed.

“It was me.”

Everyone turned to Will, open-mouthed and shocked. Will stared straight at him as he spoke, like he didn’t dare look at anyone else. From the shocked-angry-guilty look on Merlin’s face, Arthur thought he understood why.

“It was me.” Will repeated. “I used magic.”

Leon, his ever loyal knight, looked to him even as he brought his sword up. Guinevere had a hand over her mouth, glancing between Will and Arthur so rapidly he worried her eyes might fly from her head. Morgana was varying between glaring at Arthur and looking at Will in awe. Merlin was shaking his head slightly, biting his lip to stay quiet yet pleading with his eyes all the same.

“Sire?” Leon asked hesitantly.

Will tilted his chin up, a challenge in his eyes. To anyone else it would seem as if he were daring Arthur to fight him, to call him evil and kill him as his father had taught him, but Arthur knew better. That look was not for him. It was daring Merlin to correct him, to reveal the true sorcerer, as if Arthur would ever let Merlin put himself in that kind of danger.

“The magic used here today saved my life.” He started before Merlin could say anything, staring at Will and also not daring to look at anyone else. “It saved all of our lives, and the lives of everyone in Ealdor. I cannot punish such an act.” There was a sharp intake of breath from Guinevere, and a disbelieving look from Morgana. He cleared his throat. “Besides that, Ealdor is not in Camelot.” At this, he turned his eyes to Leon, looked pointedly his sword. “As such, the law does not apply here.”

Everything was silent for a moment, and then Leon nodded, lowering his sword. Merlin’s hand was shaking slightly where it was pressed against his chest, holding him upright, and Arthur squeezed his shoulder. He hissed slightly in pain as the action pulled at his side. Merlin shot him a look full of worry and visibly drew himself up.

“Let’s go.” Merlin said, firm and commanding.

Arthur nodded. They turned together, away from the carnage they had created, and headed back to Hunith’s.

She was awake and waiting for them when they finally returned. She took one look at Arthur, who was being all but carried by Merlin and Leon at that point, and ushered them into the house. Arthur was deposited into Hunith’s bed and in seconds Hunith was sat next to him, unwrapping his bindings and wasting no time in examining him.

“Merlin, go get me some clean water.” He scrambled off instantly. “Guinevere, there are bandages in the kitchen cupboard.”

“Alright.” She said and raced away.

“Is there anything we can do?” Morgana asked, and Arthur would tease her for the worry in her voice, but now hardly seemed like the time.

“Yes. Will- I lent your mother my needle and thread. Could you and Morgana go retrieve it? I fear this will need stitches.”

Will nodded, even as he sent a wary glance at Morgana, but she was already eagerly making her way to the door. Will followed her after a second’s hesitation. Leon watched them go, gripping his sword hilt tightly, clearly uncomfortable. Arthur sighed and laid back, let Hunith work without any complaint. He’d have to talk to him sooner rather than later.

Guinevere arrived back first, a large pile of bandages in her arms, and Hunith smiled distractedly. “Thank you dear. Sit them down and go sit by the fire. You look frozen.”

And she did, Arthur realized. She was shivering where she stood, though she tried not to show it, and Arthur felt a moment of confusion. He was far from cold, though perhaps that had more to do with his injury than the actual temperature. The night was cool without any fire to warm it this time of year.

Guinevere went, and dragged Leon over with her as she did. Then Merlin appeared, two buckets of water in hand and stumbling, and Arthur felt something even flare in his chest, making him even warmer than before. He groaned when Hunith pulled at his injury, and then she was gently cleaning it and he had to bite his lip to stop himself from crying out.

He wasn’t sure when Morgana and Will got back, but he felt it when Hunith started stitching him up. The feeling of needle through flesh was as familiar as it was uncomfortable. He hissed as his skin was stitched back together. At least Hunith was gentler than Gaius ever was, and wasn’t scolding him for being careless.

“That’s all I can do for now.” Hunith announced a few minutes later, standing and gathering the extra bandages. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you to take it easy while you heal.”

Morgana and Merlin snorted in unison while Leon coughed into his fist and very pointedly stared into the fire. Arthur flushed and mumbled an ‘of course’ to the blanket. He waited until Hunith was out of the room and stuck his tongue out at Merlin, which only got him a cheeky grin in return.

They were all given food to eat and an order to rest from Hunith, though the sun was beginning to rise into a clear sky. Will was shoved out the door and escorted home as Hunith left to start her chores, and Merlin dropped down at the foot of the bed, yawning and already half asleep. Guinevere curled up by the fire, a blanket over her shoulders and a pack under her head. Arthur envied them, for no matter how much his body craved sleep his mind would grant him not rest. And neither, he suspected, would the two pairs of eyes glaring at him.

He sighed, watched Merlin’s breathing even out as he slipped into sleep. “I don’t suppose we could do this in the morning?”

“It is the morning.” Morgana hissed out, and any worry she had for him before was gone and now only fueling her anger. “What were you thinking Arthur? Did you finally lose what little sense you had? I mean- three men against forty, how could you even-“

“Morgana-“

“You didn’t even take Leon!” And Arthur couldn’t help but flinch back from her tone and the look his knight gave him. “I can understand you not taking Gwen, and I know you think I shouldn’t fight, but you didn’t even take Leon!”

“And what was I supposed to say?” Arthur hissed, mindful of the two still asleep. “That I planned to storm an enemy camp with only two other men? That one was a sorcerer, that he had offered to help, and I trusted him to fight for his home without worrying he might turn on me? That I wouldn’t punish a man for doing what he could to protect his own?” Arthur snorted. “You would have thought me enchanted, or mad.”

Perhaps you still do went unsaid, but he was sure they heard it.

Morgana’s eyes had softened now, and Arthur remembered all the times she’d fought the laws on magic and thought perhaps she understood. Perhaps she even approved, under all the worry and anger.

“Why did you trust him?” Leon asked, brow furrowed, because he was a good man, but a lifetime in Camelot had taught him all the wrong things.

“Because.” Because you’re thinking of the wrong man, because he’s Merlin, because I love him. “Because he’s Merlin’s friend. He trusted him, and I saw no other way to defeat Kanen without risking the lives of every man, woman and child in this village.”

“So you just risked your own lives instead?” Morgana snapped, but there was less bite now, and Arthur knew she understood.

Sometimes you had to do what you thought was right and damn the consequences, after all.

“Yes. And I would do it again, without hesitation.” Arthur said seriously.

Morgana sighed and sank down where she stood, arms wrapped around her. Leon still looked like he was struggling with all that Arthur had said, but one look at Morgana had him pulling off his cloak to wrap around her. She took it gratefully without looking up.

Arthur frowned as a thought struck him. “How did you even know we were gone, or where to find us?”

Leon looked straight at Morgana. Arthur watched as she twisted the fabric of Leon’s cloak in her hands before her head snapped up, pale green eyes hard as ice and yet scared as a newborn deer. “I- I had that dream again. If you fighting, and losing. I saw you get shot with an arrow, and then the dream changed and instead the arrow dropped to the ground.” She sucked in a sharp breath, sent a quick glance at his bandages side. “And then you were stabbed, and I woke up screaming.”

“It woke us all up.” Leon said quietly, no looking at either of them. “And then we noticed you and Merlin were missing, and Morgana insisted we go looking for you. I had my suspicions, and your tracks were easy enough to follow.” He winced, glanced at Arthur. “Not that we needed it, when that storm started up.”

Morgana’s eyes sparkled at the mere mention, and Arthur had to wonder how Uther’s lies had never gotten to her, had never blinded her to the innocence of magic. “It was incredible.”

“Yes.” Arthur agreed, because above all else, the magic had been incredible. He fought not to glance at Merlin. “Yes it was.”

They all laid down to sleep after that, in silent agreement that they needed the rest. Arthur found his thoughts spiraling in his head, chasing each other around and around until he realized he wasn’t really thinking anything that made sense anymore. He snuggled deeper into the blankets and fell asleep not long after.

It was, unsurprisingly, Merlin that woke him the next day. Arthur groaned and tried to fall back asleep, not wanting to face the real world just yet, but his stomach cried for food and a certain someone wouldn’t stop poking his face, so it was with great reluctance that he opened his eyes.

He immediately wanted to go back in time and stop himself from making such a foolish decision. Midday light streamed into the little hut, hitting him square in the face. He hissed and closed his eyes again, whacking Merlin’s hand away before it could poke at him again.

“Go ‘way Merlin.” He grumbled into the pillow.

“Terribly sorry sire.” Merlin said, not sounding terribly sorry in the slightest. “But it is time you wake up. Not even princes get to sleep in all day you know.”

Arthur peeked out from under the pillow, a plan stewing in his mind as he pouted up at Merlin. “Not even injured princes?”

Merlin laughed and waggled a finger at him, even as his cheeks blushed pink. “Nope.”

Arthur shot his hand out, lightning fast, and grabbed his finger, used it to pull the other man closer. “Could you make an exception?”

Merlin choked, stumbling over half formed words and nonsense as Arthur pressed little kisses to the tips of his captured finger. It was only when Arthur let him go that he seemed to regain the ability to speak full sentences.

“Alright.” Then he cleared his throat and gave Arthur a look. “But that means you stay in bed all day. No more exceptions, sire.”

Merlin sent him a wicked grin. The feeling of success died in his chest as Merlin went to get him something to eat. He got the distinct feeling he had just been played for a fool, even though he was the one trying to do the fooling. He frowned and sat up.

“You are aware that I’m the prince here, and you can’t actually tell me what to do?” Arthur drawled, his stomach rumbling as Merlin came back and handed him a bowl full of stew.

“Of course sire.” Merlin sat on the side of the bed, his own bowl in hand. “Eat.”

Arthur snorted and raised his spoon to his mouth. He quickly devoured the food, despite its bland taste, as he realized how hungry he was. Merlin ate at a much slower pace, eyes hardly ever leaving Arthur’s face. Arthur let the bowl drop to his lap when he finished, and they sat in silence before Arthur hesitantly reached out.

His hands landed on thin hips, and Merlin sucked in a soft breath. “Is this okay?”

Merlin nodded and pushed back slightly, until his back was pressed up against Arthur’s side and Arthur was leaning his head against Merlin’s shoulder. He sighted happily, shifted until his chest was pressed along Merlin’s back and his arms were wrapped completely around his waist. His bowl clattered to the floor, the spoon joining it a second later. Merlin hummed contentedly, stew going cold in his hands.

“You were amazing last night.” He whispered, clinging to Merlin tightly. “I’ve never seen you use magic like that before.”

“Of course you haven’t. I didn’t want to scare you away.” Merlin whispered, and Arthur’s arms tighten around his hips.

“Never.” He swore quietly. “I’ll never leave you.”

“Nor I you.” Merlin promised.

Silence fell, this time heavy with words and promises they both knew they couldn’t keep, not with the lives they lived, the people they were, the secrets they held.

“What are we going to do?” Merlin whispered.

Arthur frowned. “What do you mean?”

“About us.” A hand found one of Arthur’s and interlocked their fingers. “I seriously doubt anyone is going accept that- that we’re-“

“That I’ve fallen for a peasant farm boy without the use of some devious love spell?”

Arthur felt Merlin’s hand tighten around his, heard the choked off words. “Y-Yeah.”

Arthur smiled into Merlin’s shoulder, turned slightly to mouth at his neck. “What’s one more secret?” He asked, and really, hiding this, this need to touch, might be the hardest thing Arthur’s ever had to do, but he’d do it to keep Merlin close. “And besides, it’s not like it’s unheard of for a royal to take a bedwarmer.”

Merlin sighed, stroked his free hand through his hair. “Is that what you’ll tell them?”

“If you agree it’s best.” Arthur pulled back slightly, met blue eyes flecked with gold. “I’d tell all of the five kingdoms how I felt about you if I could Merlin.” Merlin gasped, and Arthur smiled. “But I think that’s going to have to wait.”

Merlin nodded, rested his forehead against Arthur’s. “Yes, that’s probably for the best. If anyone asks, just tell them-“

Tell them lies.

Arthur pressed a gentle kiss to Merlin’s lips, losing himself in the touch and the taste and the smell, and it lasted a lifetime before Arthur pulled away. He kissed him again, this one quick but no less loving, before he stopped and rested his head against Merlin’s again. It felt so right, like they were in their own little bubble, and Arthur wished they never had to leave.

Wishes, however, were things not often seen come true, and within minutes someone knocked on the door to the hut. Merlin startled in his arms, and they both turned their attention to the door.

“Merlin?” Will’s voice was muffled, but no less recognizable. “You in there?”

Merlin huffed. Arthur knew that look. It was Merlin’s ‘you’ve interrupted me, keep doing so at your own peril’ look. He had learned fast that when Merlin was concentrating on something – really concentrating on something – it was best not to disturb him. Not if he wanted a proper meal the next time Merlin served him.

And while Arthur loved that Merlin would rather stay with him, he knew their time here was limited. He could have Merlin all to himself in a few days. He didn’t want to take away what time he had with his friend, and he especially didn’t want to take away any time he could be spending with his mother.

“Go on.” He whispered, letting him go at last.

Merlin frowned. “Arthur-“

Arthur caught his chin, gave him another quick kiss. God, but he’d never tire of kissing those lips. “We’re only here a few more days Merlin, and I’m not sure when we’ll be able to visit Ealdor again.” Merlin's lips thinned, and his eyes looked torn. Arthur leaned back in the bed. “Go on. I’m under strict orders not to leave this bed all day. You’ll know where to find me if you start to miss me too much.”

Another knock at the door, and Arthur nodded his head towards it, eyebrows raised expectedly.

“Coming!” Merlin grinned and with a flash of golden eyes Arthur’s empty bowl was stacked on his in his hands. He kissed Arthur, one last time, and then he was racing first to the kitchen and then to the front door.

Arthur relaxed into the bed, and while he normally hated the idea of sitting still for so long, he thought perhaps today he would enjoy it.

He was drifting off into a light doze when the door opened again. It startled him to awareness, had him automatically reaching for a sword that wasn’t there. He threw a glance at the closing door, surprised to see Will standing there awkwardly. They stared at each other, unmoving, and Arthur’s mind started creating all sorts of reasons as to why Will would wish to speak with him now. The most obvious answer had his heart beat fast in anticipation and fear.

“You fought well last night.” Arthur finally said, more to break the silence than anything.

He got a smug grin in return. “Better than you knights?”

Yes, Arthur thought, and it wasn’t as startling as it would have once been. “I think you have a natural talent with the blade, something a number of my knights certainly lack.”

Will blinked in surprised, caught off guard by the honesty. “I- thank you.”

“I’ve come to learn nobility and honour are not traits passed down through blood.” He said carefully. “Any individual could meet the requirements of knighthood, even if their blood says otherwise. Perhaps, when I am king…”

He let the statement trail off, clear in its meaning, and Will nodded dumbly, looking shocked and slightly overwhelmed at what Arthur was suggesting. What he was offering. He let the conversation trail off into silence, knew Will had come here with something to say and knew he wouldn’t be able to distract him forever. Worry and fear flared up in equal measure, but Arthur beat it back.

Eventually Will cleared his throat, and Arthur cocked his head in silent question.

“I’m sorry for how I treated you.” Will said as he leaned back awkwardly against the door. “It wasn’t fair of me.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Did Merlin tell you to say that?”

Will rolled his eyes and pulled a face. “Of course.”

Arthur barked out a laugh, though the nervousness hadn’t left him. He swallowed and shifted on the bed. “Is that all you’re here for?”

“No.” Will said, dashing any lasting hope Arthur had of getting out of Ealdor without having this conversation.

He sighed. “Out with it then.”

Will pushed off of the wall and walked closer to him, dropping his voice when he spoke again. “I want the truth.”

Arthur’s defences raised instantly. “And why should I give it to you?”

“Because you’re taking my best friend with you.” He said, and Arthur couldn’t say anything to that. “I just want to know he’s safe.”

“I would never hurt him.” Arthur growled.

“And when the full moon comes out?” Will shot back, and Arthur immediately felt a twinge of panic in his chest. He fell quiet, trying to wrestle away the feeling, and Will sighed into the silence, drawing his attention back to him. “Look, I think you’re a good man, alright? You might even make a decent king one day. I understand why he wants to be by your side. But he’s like a brother to me, and I can’t spend every full moon worrying about him any more than I already do.”

Arthur studied Will for a moment, before finally inclining his head. “As I’ve already said, I would never hurt him.” He paused and put as much emphasis on his next words as was possible. “No matter what form I may take.”

Will breathed out a long sigh and nodded. Arthur hesitated, then drew himself up as much as he could in the bed, back straight and every inch the Crowned Prince.

“You must never tell anyone what you know.” He commanded. “There’s only one other person that knows, and quite frankly, that was already one too many.”

“I’m not an idiot.” Will snorted. “I know how to keep a secret.”

Arthur thought of Merlin, of Will claiming his magic as his own so Merlin wouldn’t have to expose himself, and knew he spoke the truth. Something in him settled.

“That was the secret, wasn’t it?” Will asked suddenly.

Arthur frowned. “What?”

“You said that you both had secrets to tell.” He explained. “When Merlin told you about his magic, I mean. I didn’t think there was anything that could rival his, but. Well.”

Arthur chuckled, dry and with no humour. “Yes, well.”

“You’re in just as much danger as Merlin, aren’t you?” Will asked, and his eyes were far too knowing for some random village boy. “Even more, maybe.”

Arthur dropped his gaze, fist twisting in his blanket. “Yes.”

Will sucked in a breath. “You don’t think-“

“The law is clear.” Arthur said, looking back up. The steadiness of his voice surprised him. “There can be no exceptions. I’ve no doubt what my father would do if he found out.”

Silence filled the room, until Will broke it by moving a step forward. His eyes were like fire when Arthur looked up. “Then he won’t find out.”

“I sincerely hope not.” Arthur said.

-

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The next part is up and ridiculously fluffy. :)

[sehun-smut-blog]

Take It All - Sehun [M]

“Come on. Slut like you, I expect you to know what to do when a man puts something in your mouth.” Sehun growled, giving his fingers a slight wiggle, as though to remind you they were there in the first place. “Suck them.”

And you complied. Forced against the bathroom wall, still feeling the bass pounding behind you, Sehun’s fingers shoved expertly between your lips, was a once-in-a-lifetime pleasure you weren’t about to deny.

Plus, Sehun is calling you a slut. Of course, you were never one to disappoint.

word count; 3.2 k

contains; slut shaming, bathroom sex

req by @oshwifeu luv u <3<3

It had began innocently enough. You promise! Never one to hardly flirt with a guy, it was a whirlwind to how you had even reached this point, arms thrown around some strangers neck, bumping and grinding to the beat of the music. Sweaty bodies surrounding you, it was dizzyingly warms as you latched onto the stranger’s body, trying to remain upright in your drunken stupor.

“Really getting close, aren’t we?” He panted in your ear, arms travelling down your backside. You didn’t do anything but giggle in response, instinctually letting out a stuttered moan when his grip on your ass tightened.

“Maybe we should take this somewhere else?” The man muttered in your ear, hand continuing to massage you through your thin, skin tight red dress. “My place is five minutes from here.”

Now, foremost, you were never one to flirt.

But secondly, you were also never one to disappoint.

“Yeah, sure.” You said, a smile twisting on your lips to hide your nervous excitement.

The man’s smile grew in response. “I like an eager girl. Come on, let’s grab a cab.” He said, leaving your ass and hand winding around your wrist.

Ignoring the thundering of your heart, you allowed yourself to be guided throw the sea of bumbling people dancing around you, neon purple lights the only thing illuminating your path. You just followed the man’s grip blindly, hoping that he would be able to make it out better than you could.

Finally, a cool rush of air notified you that you had broken free of the hot, pulsing mass of people. You could actually see now, the tables and chairs indicating that you had returned to the actual bar section, rather than the heavy-bass nightclub area. Quickly, your eyes darted around, trying to find even one of your friends, to notify them of your swift departure.

Soon enough, you finally spotted Sehun, halfway to Timbuktu across the bar. His tall, lanky figure was hard to miss as he leaned onto the bar counter, probably waiting for his seventeenth rye and coke.

“Hold on…” You said, tugging against the strangers grip in an attempt to slow down. He complied quickly, although his eyes flashed in slight annoyance, as you could already see a semi straining against his jeans.

“I just need to let him know.” You said, pointing towards Sehun quickly. “So he knows I’m leaving.”

The man glanced in his direction quickly, before shooting you a tight lipped smile, and a nod. “Okay, I’ll go with you.” He said, before nodding for you to lead the way.

Smiling back, you wiggled your arm from his grasp, before beginning to wind through the tables and chairs towards Sehun’s gangly frame. Struggling to maintain your balance in your skyrocketing heels, you gripped onto every chair within your reach as you plundered towards him. Sehun and you were good friends, great even! Nothing could break you apart, you were sure of it.

Even that drunk hookup a few months ago, but the two of you didn’t talk about that. You could barely even remember it, other than the fact you struggled to walk the week following the encounter.

Finally, you managed to wobble beside him, hands quickly gripping his arm for balance, making him jump. “Sehunnie!” You cooed, grinning at him quickly. “I’m going home, okay?”

Sehun glanced at you quickly, before his gaze worked towards the tall stranger still standing behind you. You watched as his gaze dragged from his face, to his shoes, and all the way back up. “And who, exactly, is this?” He asked, eyebrows furrowing slightly.

“I’m-” The stranger began, before Sehun shushed him rudely.

“I was talking to her.” Sehun snipped quickly, glancing back at you. It wasn’t hard to see, even in the low lighting, just how steely his gaze was.

You squirmed uncomfortable under his glare. Having known Sehun for almost a year now, you had never seen him be so intimidating. Always gentle and soft spoken with our friends, you had never witnessed someone so commanding of the atmosphere.

“He’s…” you started, before glancing at the man sheepishly. Jesus, how embarrassing that you about to go hook up with him, without knowing his name.

“I’m Chanyeol.” The man - Chanyeol - finished for you, offering Sehun a lopsided grin. “Sorry, we kind of just met.” He said with a laugh.

Sehun, however, didn’t laugh. In fact, he didn’t even chuckle, or break a small smirk. His glare remained stony, flickering between Chanyeol and yourself with a cocktail of emotion brewing behind his gaze. “You just met?” He said, finally breaking into a small, twisted grin. “Sorry Chanyeol, but she’s not going home with anyone.” You glared at him quickly, eyebrows furrowing harshly. “Sehun, what the fuck?” You snapped, shooting him the harshest glare you could muster.

“Yeah man, come on.” Chanyeol said, tone laced with annoyance. “I’ll be good to her.”

Sehun just laughed lowly in response, fingers drumming along the wooden bar countertop. “I don’t give a fuck dude, she’s not leaving with you.” Rolling your eyes, you huffed out a sigh. “Sehun, I’m going to do what I want.” You protested,  hand reaching out to grip Chanyeol’s forearm. “You can’t stop me.”

Maybe subconsciously, you knew that move would make Sehun snap. You were damn right too.

Sehun’s hand was on you in an instant, tugging you closer to his side. His grip was tight and unwavering, eyes growing from cold and steely to burning anger. You nailed his side quickly, breath being knocked out of your lungs with the motion. “Sehun, what the -!”

“You. Stop talking.” Sehun said, voice nothing but a bitter growl, pointing at you harshly with his free hand. The motion itself made you tighten up, eyes growing wide.

“And you.” Sehun said, moving his finger to point at Chanyeol. Even Chanyeol was visibly shocked, straightening with equally wide eyes. “You, are going to go home, and forget she even exists.”

Chanyeol’s lips turned downwards slightly, opening his mouth instantly- in protest, you assume. You would never know however, because Sehun bristled at even the idea of Chanyeol retaliating. Chin raising defiantly, you watched his jaw work as he stared Chanyeol down, eyes just begging him to do something, anything, to give him an excuse to beat Chanyeol senseless.

At that, Chanyeol glanced downwards, shrinking back from Sehun’s dominating gaze. He didn’t need to say anything, but you knew he had given up the pursuit.

“Now you. Come.” Sehun said, his grip unfaltering. Quickly, swiftly, he led you through the crowded bar, winding around tables and chairs with calculated confidence, much unlike your own stumbling behind him. The only reason you were still upright was Sehun's hold, a vice clamping you to reality, as he lead you to the bathrooms, neatly tucked away to the left.

Throwing open the door, he stormed inside, you quickly in tow. “Sehun, this is the guy’s room!” You yelped, but if he even heard you, he didn’t let on. As soon as the door shut behind you, he released his grip, now throwing open the stall doors with hash kicks and shoves. He didn’t even look at you, gaze stoic as, one by one, he checked each stall for signs of life.

“Fuck you Sehun, I just wanted to have some fucking fun for once in my goddamn life -” You snarled at him, voice thick. All the dancing, running, and near fighting in the past fifteen minutes had sent you reeling, leaving you adjusting the hem of your dress, which had worked scarily high without your adjusting.

Finally, once the bathroom was cleared, Sehun turned to look at you, adjusting your dress against the wall. You shot him a harsh glare, pissed off enough without him being a stupid idiot, kicking doors open for fun.

Sehun just gave you a once over, before groaning to himself. “Fuck, Y/N, what were you doing.” He said, snapping in front of you too quickly for you to even react.

“Filthy slut, going to fuck some guy you barely know?” He growled, pinning his arms around your body harshly. Even the motion made your breath falter. “Going to suck some other guy off, without even offering me your service?”

“Sehun, I-” You began, but was cut off by his rough kiss, making you melt into the wall. His hands quickly found themselves in your hair, running through it quickly, before giving it a harsh tug. Your head snapped backwards with the motion, leaving your neck available to Sehun’s mouth. He used his advantage fully, kissing and sucking your neck harshly, to your own moans.

“You really wanted to fuck him, when I was here and waiting for you? You wanted to go fuck him instead, you little whore?” Sehun said, biting at your collarbones harshly. His voice sent tingles down your spine, making you purse your lips through a moan.

“I - I just…” You tried to start, but couldn’t even finish before Sehun’s fingers found themselves in your mouth.

His eyes glowed in triumph, a smirk lighting up his features. Your lips instinctually closed around his digits, eyes growing wide. No matter how much you could deny it, being degraded, treated like a common slut, was inexplicably hot.

“Come on. Slut like you, I expect you to know what to do when a man puts something in your mouth.” Sehun growled, giving his fingers a slight wiggle, as though to remind you they were there in the first place. “Suck them.”

And you complied. Forced against the bathroom wall, still feeling the bass pounding behind you, Sehun’s fingers shoved expertly between your lips, was a once-in-a-lifetime pleasure you weren’t about to deny.

Plus, Sehun is calling you a slut. Of course, you were never one to disappoint.

Following orders, you began to swirl your tongue around his digits, eyes keeping their firm contact with his. His gaze never faltered, instead growing more aroused as he slowly, firmly, began pushing them in deeper.

Deeper and deeper he went, eyes obviously waiting for me to gag, or choke, or both. Joke was on him though. You had always prided yourself on your gag reflex - or lack thereof.

“Damn, not even a tear. You must take big dicks down here often.” Sehun said, fingers still searching for the spot to make me falter. You just raised your eyebrows in response. Of course you didn’t, but to fit his hot whore narrative?

What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

All too soon, he slipped his fingers from your mouth, now using them to grip your jaw quickly. “You really are a common whore, aren't you?”

Your own saliva coated his fingers, now wiped against your own smooth skin. You could feel it - the flush of your cheeks, lips certainly already a flushed pink. Finishing the image painted in your mind, you batted your eyes at him sweetly. “Only for you, Sehunnie.” You said with a sickly sweet smile.

“Fuck.” Sehun groaned, before leaning back in for another sloppy kiss. His tongue wrestled yours quickly, tasting of rye and spearmint. Oddly, it suited him.

You kissed him back just as roughly, hand wandering to his groin, with a firm squeeze. He was already half hard, you could feel him twitch under your grasp. Breaking free from his lips, you panted, “Aw, you’re a little stiff, baby. Need me to help you out?”

Sehun’s head rolled back at your motions. “Do you say that to every guy you bring in here?”

You just smirked. “Only the extra special ones.”

Sehun groaned at that, grabbing your hand from it’s massage over his jeans. Even the stilling of your actions made him bite his lip. “Are you going to tease, or are we going to fuck?” He asked, eyes meeting yours. At this point, his pupils were blown wide, flushed pink under your ministrations.

Grinning, you just dropped to your knees, hands instantly flying to undo his pants. His groan was audible, echoing against the bathroom tiles harshly. “Oh, that was easy. Doesn’t take much, I guess.”

You didn’t slow your work, instead tugging out his cock firmly. Flushed and thick, even the sight made you bite your lip. Jesus, no wonder you were so sore last time.

“Well? Are you going to stare, or are you going to suck?” Sehun snapped at you, watching you from above. “Take it all, slut.”

Core tightening, you bit down a grin swiftly. “Whatever you say, baby.” You hummed, before enveloping his shaft in one fell swoop.

Sehun hissed a breath through his teeth, watching little ol’ you sucking his hard cock so naughtily. Your eyes glanced up through your lashes, lips suctioned tight around him, making him go crazy. “Sucking off all your other boys made you good, jagi.” He moaned in satisfaction, hands moving to wind in your hair roughly. His grip tight, he forced you to work lower, lower, until his whole cock was enveloped in your pretty pink lips. “Fuck, no one has ever taken it all before.” He panted, grip now becoming more lax.

You used the opportunity, popping your mouth off of him quickly, letting your hand take over the work. “Oh, so you’re saying there’s been plenty of others?” You smirked up at him, making him roll his eyes.

“Shut up and suck me.”

“And you call me the slut.” You mock-chastised, tsking quickly before taking him back into your heat.

Sehun bucked into your mouth quickly, nailing the back of your throat firmly and making your eyes tear up. You glared up at him quickly, sucking more harshly around him. He just smirked in response, breath falling out in pants. “I like you better with my cock stuffed in your mouth.” He said, giving a few more thrusts to remind you.

As you were about to take him deeper, you heard it before you saw it. The shoes stumbling down the hallway outside made your eyes widen, as you snapped off Sehun with a pop!

“Shit.” Sehun hushed, grabbing your arm to pull you upright. Quickly, just as the doorhinges began to creak, he tugged you into a stall, slamming it shut behind you, and forcing you against it to hold it shut.

Whoever entered didn’t let on that something was amiss, even if they had noticed. The only sound you could hear was the running of the tap, and your own harsh breathing. Already facing the door, you adjusted, sneaking a glance at a short man, stood at the sink, rinsing off an apparent spill on his pant leg.

You almost forgot that Sehun was even behind you, until a soft grab of your dress made you jump slightly.

You felt him before you even had the chance to try to turn, his large hand forcing you harshly against the door. You could feel the tip of his cock brushing against you from behind, making you wiggle against him, in an attempt to get some friction against your dripping core.

“Fucking slut like yourself should be used to getting fucked from behind.” Sehun whispered in your ear, slight stubble brushing against your ear. “The real question is, how quiet can you be while I do it? Can you handle it?”

Head spinning, half dead that you weren’t even able to look at him, for christ sake, all you could do was nod quickly. The threat of getting caught loomed over you, making your lips seal shut. All that kept you grounded was the running of the tap as Sehun slowly, slowly, slid into you.

You couldn’t help but let out a muffled whimper, Sehun’s girth stretching your walls harshly. He let out a content sigh, rocking back and forth slightly, enough to make you crazy but not enough to give you any pleasure. “Shit, you’re tighter than I remember.” Sehun groaned into your ear, his front meeting your back harshly. His arms looped around you, tugging down your strapless dress quickly and taking hold of your breasts. “How are you so fucking tight?” He asked, voice growing slightly louder, and making your stomach twist.

“Shh.” You hushed him, instead flexing yourself around him quickly. The action made him gasp, his hold on your breasts tightening, much to your delight.

“Fuck.” He groaned, one hand moving to cup your mouth quickly. “Remember, good sluts stay quiet.” He whispered to you, hips moving backwards before snapping forwards quickly.

Sehun kept up his thrusts, slow and steadily grinding your g-spot, as you pursed your lips and bit down your moans.

By now, the tap had stopped running, leaving the two of you lying in wait, for the door to slam and signify that your impromptu visitor had left. Sehun continued fucking into you slowly, until footsteps slowly, yet surely, meandered back to the bar.

As soon as the door slammed shut, you thrust back against Sehun’s form, ragged gasps falling from your lips. Sehun was equally enthusiastic, hand dropping from your mouth to your hips as he ground against you.

“Shit.” You moaned, eyes rolling shut as you let yourself go to Sehun’s actions. He started thrusting again, a renewed vigour at the ability to be as loud as he damn well pleased. “Yeah, what a fucking whore you are, taking my cock in the bathroom.” He moaned, fingers tightening against your waist. “Beg for me, filthy whore.”

“Fuck me Sehun.” You panted, slamming back in time with his thrusts. “I fucking need you so bad, shit.”

“Yeah, take it all.” Sehun groaned, thrusts growing sloppy. I could feel myself nearing my own release, vision going fuzzy.

“Are you going to be a good slut, baby? Going to take all my come?” Sehun asked, his thrusts now sloppy but strong, each one hitting my g-spot perfectly. He even used the opportunity to reach around, fingering your clit with each one of his motions and making you see stars.

“Yes, I’m about to -” You started, before you could feel yourself shudder to release. Eyes rolling backwards, you crumpled against the doorframe, flexing around his thick cock with every wave of pleasure that passed through your body. Sehun continued thrusting through your orgasm, drawing it out longer than you ever thought possible, until he shot his thick load deep into you.

You could hear his panting, whining when he pulled out of your oversensitive core. Your panting filled the sweaty cubicle, the two of you crumpled against your own respective walls. You were still bent over knowing fully well you were exposed to him. You could feel his come, warm and thick, dripping down the inside of your thigh, highlighted by his own hand ghosting over your milky ass and thighs.

He sighed in satisfaction, hand delivering a harsh and unexpected spank, making you wince. “That,” He said, grabbing your waist and spinning you around. His eyes glassy, he grinned at you lazily, positively glowing. “Was for being a little slut.”

“I just fucked you and you’re still calling me a -”

He tugged you into a fierce kiss before you could finish your sentence, making you squeak in shock. While the previous ones were lustful, hungry, this one was different. This one made your toes curl, smiling slightly against his soft lips.

[necrowriter]

Fog and Fire: 1.2

The two of them had been there for some half an hour or so, quietly minding their own business, when a number of people came around the corner very angrily. One of them was wearing extensive regalia that seemed to mark him as a person of some import; among the others were a pinch-faced man with thinning blond hair and one of the librarians from the dais outside.

Both the student and Mr. Vervain looked up in alarm. The student quickly contrived to look innocently confused, while Mr. Vervain put his book aside and sidled behind the nearest shelf, his fingers working rapidly back and forth.

The man in regalia bore down on the student like a brilliantly-colored hurricane and snatched the cap and scarf away, revealing long braids carefully coiled together and held in place with bronze pins. One braid had been dyed in a flashing swirl of red and gold. This seemed to mean something to the approaching crowd.

“You see?” the pinch-faced man said. “I know that hair. That’s her alright.”

The student sighed heavily and shot a poisonous glance at her accuser.  The man in regalia was puffing and snorting and seemed ready to combust.

“In all my years here I have never heard the like,” he said. He had a surprisingly quiet voice, although not a terrible pleasant one; it sounded as though it were under pressure, like the hiss of a kettle about to scream. “Alteration of your own student identification, impersonation of another student, all to illegally gain access to the inner library-”

“Excuse me,” the student said. She had lifted her head up and was looking back at the head librarian calmly and steadily, although Mr. Vervain could see that her hands were clenched beneath the table.  “I think you'll find you're mistaken there.”

The head librarian looked so comically and dramatically shocked that Mr. Vervain laughed quietly to himself.

“I impersonated no one,” the student went on, “Nor did I alter my badge. I am a fourth-year student at this university. I have the right to use the library.”

“You misrepresented yourself-” the head librarian began.

“I put my hair up,” the student said. “And wore a cap. Because, in case you haven’t noticed, it’s raining rather hard outside.”

“But your badge-” the librarian began.

The student reached into a pocket and produced the badge in question. It was a small, embossed piece of metal held within a leather case on a braided string. From his vantage point Mr. Vervain couldn’t see any of the details, but something about it clearly made the pinch-faced man upset.

“That is not your case,” he said. “I know that for certain-”

“No, it’s not,” the student said. “I lost mine. A friend loaned me this until I could get a new one.”

“I suppose they also loaned you those clothes?” the lesser librarian sneered. His cheeks were rather flushed, and he had the air of a man desperate to make sure that someone else in the vicinity was more humiliated than he was.

The student shrugged. “Perhaps. I wanted to look nice. Is there a rule against that?”

“But you did lie about your reason for admittance,” the pinch-faced man said triumphantly. “Even Fairtree would not assign practical study to a lower class.”

“It was a broad assignment,” she said. “I thought some practical research could improve my work, so I took the initiative-”

“Enough.” The head librarian spoke with absolute finality. “This...impertinence does nothing to help your case. You have committed a grievous crime against this university. Attempting to usurp knowledge to which you have no right-”

“I contest that,” the student said hotly.

“I said enough,” the head librarian snapped. “This is not a debate. We are not here to discuss matters with you. You are to come with us and be detained until a proper punishment has been decided upon.”

The student sighed, carefully closed her book, and stood up. “May I at least have my scarf back?” she asked.

The head librarian wadded the scarf into the cap and shoved both into the pocket of his voluminous robe before turning and stalking away. The student sighed again and followed him, with the lesser librarian at her side keeping a tight hold of her arm. Mr. Vervain sighed as well and trailed after them, a quiet and unobtrusive shadow.

The student was taken to a small room near the inner ring of the library. It might once have been a workroom, or the study of a long-ago magician, but whatever it had been it was now empty of anything but a single table and accompanying chair. It did have a large and impressive door, though, doubtless the reason for it having been chosen.

“You will wait here,” the head librarian informed the student. “I expect it will be some time,” he added nastily.

The student slumped down in the chair. Mr. Vervain, feeling that this last comment had been rather unnecessary, took the opportunity to lift the hat and scarf from the head librarian's pocket being slipping inside the room as well.

The door was shut with a heavy and final thud. The sound of the lock clicking resonated within the room.

The student's face crumpled. She put her head down on the table and gripped the sleeves of her jacket with tight fingers, locking rather as though she was about to cry and hated it.

“Well,” she said to the room in general, “that's torn it, then.”

“I agree the situation seems dire,” Mr. Vervain said. “But there is always room for hope.”

The student shrieked in alarm and jumped so badly that she knocked over the chair and went down in a tangle of furniture.

“Oy!” someone cried from behind the door. It sounded like the lesser librarian. “You stop that! Breaking things isn't going to help you any!”

Mr. Vervain walked over and helped extricate the student from her chair. “Please, madam,” he said gently. “I do not think making a great deal of noise is advantageous to us right now.”

“You-you startled me,” the student said.

“Yes, I do apologize for that. I'm afraid I couldn't find a way around it.” He offered her a hand up. She took it, still looking completely bewildered. “I only ask that if you are, as I suspect, about to swear at me, you do it in a low voice.”

She squinted at him, then shrugged. “That's reasonable enough, I suppose.”

Next moment she had grabbed him by the lapels of his coat and pulled his thin face very close to hers. She had a long, poised sort of face with high cheeks and a solid jaw, and, currently, a steely-eyed glare that was rather intimidating this close up.

“Who the fuck are you?” she demanded, in what was indeed a low voice.

The movement jostled Mr. Vervain's glasses almost completely off his face. For a moment the student saw his eyes. There was something strange about those eyes, although she couldn't quite work out what. They were tired, certainly, shadowed and bloodshot, but it wasn't that. The color was unremarkable, something pale-blue, probably, or maybe gray. Before she could figure it out he gently adjusted his glasses, hiding his eyes once more.

“Mr. Vervain, at your service,” he said. “I'm afraid I was engaged in a rather similar activity to yours. Your effects, madam,” he added, handing her the cap and scarf.”

She took them confusedly. “You mean-you were sneaking into the library as well?”

“Indeed.”

She stared at him a moment longer, then burst out laughing-quietly. “What are the odds? They say no one's tried it for fifty years-and now two of us go for it on the same day.”

“Fifty-seven,” Mr. Vervain said, a little absently. “But yes-rather odd, that.”

She shook her head and sat down again, toying with her scarf. “So how'd they get you?” she asked. “I would have thought I'd've heard about it if they caught someone. Before me, that is.”

“Well,” Mr. Vervain said, “in point of fact, they didn't. As such.”

He turned and began to examine the walls, running his fingers across every stone. She stared at him, agape. “What do you mean, they didn't?”

“They didn't catch me. They don't know that I'm here. Although,” he added, looking around him a bit sorrowfully, “the effects do seem to have been rather the same.”

“What-but-” She swallowed, and then got up and began to pace behind him, as if hoping this might reveal some answers. “But-what are you doing in here, then?”

“I followed you in.”

“But I didn't see you at all!”

“Well, yes,” Mr. Vervain said. “That was rather the point.”

She looked him over very carefully. “I don't understand,” she said at last. “How did you get in?”

“I'm afraid I was using your assistance. The library wards are extremely strong, but not terribly subtle in some ways. I think the men who created them were expecting more in the line of plunder and fiery raids than low-level duplicity. So I shadowed you.”

“You-what?”

“You were supposed to be in the library-or at least, so I assumed at the time. I simply borrowed some of that aspect. Everyone who might have seen me simply felt that I belonged there-so much so that they didn't notice me at all. It works much better than invisibility,” he added thoughtfully. “People always bump into me when I try that.”

The student was staring at him now as though he had suddenly caught on fire. “You mean...you used magic?” she whispered hoarsely.

“Mhmm.”

There was a long silence. Mr. Vervain examined the door closely.

“Who are you?” she said at last.

“I told you,” Mr. Vervain said mildly.

“You told me your name. Not anything else.”

“There's not a great deal more to tell.”

“But-you're saying you’re a magician! A real magician! Like the old kind- ”

“Not a terribly good one, but yes, I suppose I can claim that distinction.” He shrugged, as if this were no more noteworthy than being a milliner or perhaps a calligrapher at most.

She watched him a while longer, but Mr. Vervain gave no more clues as to his nature. He seemed to now be primarily interested in the lock on the door.

“Why did you follow me in here?” the student asked at last.

“Well, I confess I didn't have a great deal of choice in the matter.” Mr. Vervain peered through the keyhole. “I had to stay close to you for the spell to work. That was why I picked you, you know-you were going to the same section that I needed.”

She laughed a little to herself. “And that just happened to be the one person who wasn't supposed to be in the library at all.”

“That does seem to be what has happened, yes,” Mr. Vervain mused. “Strange how these things work out.”

She shook her head in bewilderment at his calm. “But now you're stuck in here!”

“Well,” Mr. Vervain said, “that's a matter of opinion.”

If the student had thought she could not be more surprised and perplexed at Mr. Vervain, she was mistaken. “You mean you can get out?” she demanded.

“Quite possibly.” Mr. Vervain straightened up, evidently done with the keyhole. He took out his notebook and began to leaf through it carefully.

She waited for him to add something to this, but he did not. After a moment she cleared her throat. “Will you take me with you?”

Mr. Vervain paused briefly over a particular page. “Well,” he said. “Hm.”

She straightened up and looked him in the eye, or as near as she could get. They were more or less of equal height, but she held herself taller. “If you don't,” she said, “I will tell them you are here. I'm sure you won't find it so easy to hide when the librarians know about you.”

“I doubt they would believe you,” Mr. Vervain said absently. “But you misunderstand me. I don't have any objection to it. I'm simply trying to work out if I can do it at all.”

“Oh.” She seemed to be at a loss for words after that. “Well...alright then.”

A moment later Mr. Vervain looked up. “Is there something I can call you?” he asked. “I wouldn't wish to be so rude as to ask your name, but a moniker of some kind would be helpful.”

“Hm? Oh,” she said. “Harcourt. Eliza Harcourt. That's hardly rude.”

“Among magicians it is terribly so,” Mr. Vervain said. “Or at least, it used to be.”

“Well, you needn't worry about that,” Ms. Harcourt said. “I'm no magician.”

“No?” Mr. Vervain returned to leafing through pages. “You attend a university of magic.”

“I rather think I did attend a university of magic,” Ms. Harcourt said wryly. “But at any rate the university hasn't produced any real magicians in years and years. Not like...uh...your sort. They'd be scandalized if you suggested they did.”

“Hmmm,” Mr. Vervain said. “If you are so inclined to follow the university's way of thought, why go to all the trouble of gaining illegal access to the library?”

“I didn't say I agreed with the university,” Ms. Harcourt said, sounded deeply offended. “In particular I don't agree with their attitude about who gets to look at their books. And it wasn’t illegal. I didn’t break any university rules. Just-university traditions.”

“Oh?”

“There aren’t any official restrictions against non-accredited students using the inner library. They just won’t let us into any classes that require practical study. But Fairtree-well, his instructions tend to be open to a lot of interpretation, so…” She shrugged glumly. “I hope I didn’t get Fairtree in any trouble. I do like him. Most people don’t.”

Mr. Vervain looked up. There was an expression on his face that Ms. Harcourt didn't quite know how to read. “What’s this about non-accredited students?”

“You know.” Ms. Harcourt's mouth twisted in something like amusement. “Not everyone has the blood to be a proper magician. I certainly don’t. If you pass the tests-and have enough money for the fees, of course-you can study to be a real magician...erm...as close as it usually gets these days. The rest of us are just here to learn some theory.” She frowned at him. “I thought everyone knew that.”

“I didn't,” Mr. Vervain said.

Ms. Harcourt stared. “How are you a magician if you don't even know that?”

“Sometimes I wonder,” Mr. Vervain muttered. “I know about the license system, but what could possibly qualify one person for it and another not? I’ve been told by a reliable source that no one does magic in this day and age, so one wouldn’t think aptitude for it would matter a great deal.”

“I couldn’t really say. I don’t think anyone understands the tests, except the university. It makes sense to them,” Ms. Harcourt said. “Not that it really matters in my case. My family could never afford the accredited tuition, even if I did pass the test. Which I didn’t. Failed with flying colors, they told me.” She smiled tightly.

“Hmmmmm.” Mr. Vervain shook his head slowly. “I take it your...manner of clothing has something to do with this?”

“Aye. They don’t really check if you’re accredited, not as such, because there’s not actually a rule. They tend to just assume that if you’ve been assigned something requiring the inner library, you must be in an accredited class. I just...thought it wise to help that assumption along. If I didn’t look rich enough to be accredited, well, they might get suspicious. And of course I had to take a few pains to not be too recognizable, either, in case someone knew me.” She gestured vaguely with the cap and scarf.

Mr. Vervain was looking at her with something between irritation and disappointment.

“Erm...if you’re going to tell me off-” Ms. Harcourt said hesitantly.

“What? Oh, no. I’m just...annoyed. I’ve clearly overestimated these people. Their security is borderline legendary, or supposed to be.” He shook his head disapprovingly. “It just goes to show. One should never ride too much on reputation.”

“Oh...well, they don’t check if you’re accredited, but they certainly check if you’re a student, and a fourth-year. I’ve heard some stories of people trying to alter their badges. Didn’t end pleasantly.”

“True. And I suppose they did catch you rather quickly.” He paused. “Oh, sorry. That was rather rude, wasn’t it?”

Ms. Harcourt shrugged.

“But I still have to ask. If you're so certain you have no use for this knowledge, why go to so much trouble to obtain it?”

Ms. Harcourt opened her mouth and then closed it again. “I...well...I still want to know things. That is...well, of course no one is going to actually perform magic these days. No matter if they get fully accredited or not. But the university still says there's some use to studying the practical texts, and maybe some of it’s only useful for the practicing ones, but some of it is just...knowledge. Understanding the way things were. And there are things I want to understand better.” She coughed. “Well. I didn't think anyone performed magic these days.”

Mr. Vervain frowned slightly and then lowered his glasses a fraction. For a moment she could see those strange eyes again, looking very intently at her, and yet not quite at her, as if he were seeing something beyond her. Then he made a noise between his teeth and pushed his glasses back up.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “May I ask what you were looking up in particular?”

“Erm,” she said. “Well...”

Mr. Vervain waited patiently.

“I...I was going to try something,” she muttered. “Divination...well, that's not quite the same as magic, is it? It's still done sometimes. To get a proper look at the old magic that’s still around.”

Mr. Vervain's pale eyebrows went up further. “You were going to try divination?”

“Not me,” Ms. Harcourt said hastily. “Feverfew. We made a deal with him, if I could get into the library and find the right sort of thing, he would try it, and we could all take a look...”

Mr. Vervain was looking more confused by the moment. “We?”

“Some friends and I. I'm not the only one...Feverfew was going to be accredited, but his family lost all their money and now he can't afford the fees, so they bumped him down. But we all thought there was no reason he shouldn't be able to still divine. He was really good at it before, and it's the peerage that matters, isn't it? I mean, if you have the right history to you, if you passed the tests, it shouldn't matter whether you have any money, should it?”

“I wouldn't think so,” Mr. Vervain said dryly. “But what was it you were trying to do?”

“Well...we thought that...maybe if we could find the right spell...he could divine the library itself. Then we would only have to sneak in once and afterward we'd have access to all of it for as long as we wanted.”

Mr. Vervain stared at her. “My God,” he whispered. “That's...brilliant.”

“Is it?” Ms. Harcourt looked uncertain but pleased. “We all thought it was a rather good idea ourselves, but we weren't certain it would work.”

“Well...it probably wouldn't,” Mr. Vervain admitted regretfully. “Not from outside the library. The old magicians wouldn't have wanted anyone to be able to steal their knowledge from afar. Protections against that sort of thing are built very deeply into the wards.”

“Oh.” Ms. Harcourt slumped a little. “It's not very brilliant, then, is it?”

“It's still clever thinking,” Mr. Vervain said. “But...from outside the library is one thing. From inside the library...” He pulled an old pencil stub from his coat pocket and began to scribble frantically in his notebook. “If I modified the old Blackmoss incantation for place-speaking...with some of the Papyrus modifications for a human-engineered location...did you happen to find anything?” he asked, looking up at Ms. Harcourt. “Anything that seemed like it would be useful for such a spell?”

Ms. Harcourt stammered, a little taken aback by this sudden enthusiasm. “Well...I thought I might have been onto something, but that was when I was interrupted...”

“Right.” Mr. Vervain closed his notebook with some finality. “That certainly settles the matter.”

“Does that mean you'll get me out of here?” Ms. Harcourt asked eagerly.

“If that is what you wish. It is the more dangerous option, I warn you-after all, if, as you say, you broke no actual rules, you may be better off waiting here. Perhaps the university will be lenient.”

Ms. Harcourt sighed. “Do you really believe that’s likely?”

“Well,” Mr. Vervain said. “No.”

“No, neither do I. And if I’m going to get in trouble, it might as well be for a good reason. So get me out of here.”

“I’ll certainly make the effort. Although currently the door remains an obstacle.”

“You don't have some spell to unlock it?” Ms. Harcourt said. “Or to just...take us away? Or walk through the wall?”

Mr. Vervain grimaced a little. “I'm afraid such things are beyond both my skill and inclination. The door has both a physical lock and a lock-spell on it-a holdover from the old days, presumably.. I believe I can handle the magical element, but I confess the physical one remains a problem.”

“What, is that all?” Ms. Harcourt walked over and peered at the lock for herself. “I think I can pick this.”

Mr. Vervain looked nonplussed.

Ms. Harcourt straightened up and pulled a couple of the pins from her hair. She held them in her teeth as she tied the scarf back over her braids, pulled the cap down over it all, and then grinned at Mr. Vervain. “I wrote all the papers for Baines from the alchemical department for half a term so he would teach me how to pick locks. Clever chap, Baines, but he can't concentrate on writing anything for so much as five minutes. ”

“I see,” said Mr. Vervain. “You do seem to be adept at breaking quite a few rules.”

“You can't do much of anything at this university if you follow all the rules. Written or not.” She nodded at the door. “Should I go ahead and try?”

“No...hold on a moment.” Mr. Vervain seemed to be considering something. “Do you have something you don't mind leaving behind? An article of clothing, that sort of thing?”

Ms. Harcourt thought for a moment and then smiled slyly with a sudden inspiration and pulled her student badge from its case. “Would this work? I don't think I'll be needing it much longer.”

“Ahhh. Perfect. Both for magical and thematic purposes.” Mr. Vervain accepted the badge and laid it neatly on the chair. “The key will be to both hide our presence and to make it seem as though you are still in the room. As you said earlier, we are rather less likely to be found if no one is looking for us.”

Ms. Harcourt watched curiously as he held the badge for a moment, his eyes closed tightly. Nothing at all appeared to happen, but after a moment he straightened up and nodded.

“But...it hasn't done anything,” she said, trying not to sound disappointed.

“Ah, but you are not who it is intended to fool.” Mr. Vervain crossed to the door. “Now we can open this...or at least attempt to. I think we will have to dispel it and unlock it at the same time. If you would be so kind as to tell me when the lock is about to open...”

“I'll do my best.” Ms. Harcourt knelt down in front of the lock. Mr. Vervain laid his hand against the door and closed his eyes again. There was a moment of tense, heavy silence, broken only by the very faint rattle of pins and tumblers as Ms. Harcourt worked.

“...Now,” she said.

Mr. Vervain let out a very small breath. The lock clicked open.

“Did it work?” Ms. Harcourt asked hopefully.

“Perfectly.” Mr. Vervain smiled and offered a hand to help her up. “I congratulate your skill.”

“Oh...erm...it was nothing, really.” Ms. Harcourt threaded the pins back into her hair. “So-now what?”

“Now...I am going to try something.” Mr. Vervain took off his gloves and carefully tucked them into a coat pocket. His hands were long and spidery and splashed here and there with faint splotches, like ink stains. There was something Ms. Harcourt found vaguely uncomfortable about them, rather like his eyes. She watched nervously as Mr. Vervain took out a small pot of some dark substance, dipped a finger in it, and drew a strange little sigil onto the nearby wall.

He tucked the pot back into his satchel and offered his other hand to her. She took it hesitantly, uncertain of those long fingers. Mr. Vervain pressed the palm of his free hand directly onto the sigil and began to murmur rapidly to himself, in words she could not quite make out.

She was not certain when, exactly, the magic took effect, or how it did so, only that the world seemed to shift around and make a new place for her. The air suddenly seemed stiller and heavier, as if everything were moving more slowly, and the light from the room's sole lamp took on a slightly different feel.

Mr. Vervain took his hand off the wall, looking mildly pleased with himself. There was no trace of the sigil on the wall now, but there was a clear outline of it on his palm.

“What did you do?” Ms. Harcourt's voice sounded a little strange to her own ears, as if it were coming from farther away than it usually did.

“Made us a part of the library, for a little while,” Mr. Vervain said. “A rather more effective method of concealment, but not something I could do from outside the library. And, to be perfectly honest, not something I was entirely sure would work.”

“Oh,” Ms. Harcourt said. She cleared her throat a little. “Do we...er...have to keep holding hands?”

“Oh. Well. Yes, I'm afraid so.” Mr. Vervain looked rather embarrassed. “It lets me keep the spell on you, you see...I hope it's not terribly uncomfortable for you.”

“Under the circumstances, I think I can bear with it for a while,” Ms. Harcourt said, though in truth she found the feel of his cold dry hand against hers to be rather disconcerting. Well, never mind that now. “Shall we go do some research?”

[multiplefandomfics]

Grimes sisters chapter 13

So one last chapter for tonight maybe I’ll manage to post more tomorrow.

Pairings: Shane x Fabienne; Daryl x Alex

Warnings: walker attack, blood, angst

Words: 1962

Rick POV

I had thought a lot about Alex‘s words.  My behavior was destroying our little family piece by piece and maybe I’d even lose someone. And one thing was for sure we had already lost enough people. I sighed so Alex strokes lovingly over my arm smiling. She looked so happy and being happy in this world wasn’t natural. That’s why we were supposed to always enjoy moments like that as long as they lasted. I was sure that we would build us a future there because I trusted everyone there with my life. They were family.

After our shift was over my stomach rumbled terribly which makes us both laugh loudly. “you hungry, huh?” she asked and playfully shoved my side. Nodding in agreement we both walked back over to the building. Entering the common area we noticed that we were late because only Carol, Fabienne and Shane were still present. A second I was worried about Carl but he was surely caring for Judith.

Smiling at us Carol asked: “Well, how are you two?” She was definitely the good soul of the group. “We’re fine just starving.” I confessed so she brought us some food.

We really enjoyed our food because honestly, we deserved that.

“Shane? I wanted to go for a run tomorrow. Mostly searching police stations for weapons and ammo. If the governor decides to attack then we’ll need it. Would you accompany me? We know those stations better than anyone.” I tried to sound as neutral as I could.

I wanted to take Alex's advice to give the whole thing another chance. He looked up from his bowl of food and answered: “Yeah sure. I’m positive that we’ll find something useful.” In the back of my mind a small voice whispered that I could always count on Shane.

Yawning Fabienne announced that she was tired and was gonna go to bed. She was right it had been a long and hard day. To say goodnight she went around the table and gave her sister and me a kiss on the cheek and shot Shane a glance. He saw, scrambled to his feet and also excused himself to bed. “We gotta get up early tomorrow so… See ya.” Shortly before leaving the room Shane put his arm around her middle and pulled her closer to whisper something into her ear but before I can overthink that I got a push in the ribs again from Alex who chastised me not to stare at them so hard.

After finishing food I went back to my cell where I discovered Carl and Judith sleeping soundly so I put a blanket over them and whispered “I love you so much.” Laying down in bed I noticed how exhausted I was and fell asleep quickly.

Shane POV

Fabienne really surprised me that day. First she was cool and rejecting and then she couldn’t wait herself to get close again.  “Please be careful tomorrow and have an eye on Rick, will you?” she whispered to me and gave me her best puppy dog eyes. I nodded in agreement “Of course. You can always count on me.” after that we just gave each other one last kiss for the night and went to sleep in our respective quarters.

Rick and had left at dawn and we already sifted through one station but that one had unfortunately already been plundered so we kept on driving. Sitting together in a car felt like nothing had changed and we were still deputies on patrol. “Like ol’ times, right Rick?” we started laughing and nothing had felt that normal and relaxed in a long time. “You can really be proud of Carl, Judith and your sisters. They’re really good people.” I remarked and he suddenly looked thoughtful. I just hoped I didn’t say anything wrong. “I guess you’re right. Especially Carl. He has had to grow up so fast and he manages so well. Caring for his sister and all. I just sometimes wished he wouldn’t have to take so much responsibility. He’s still only a kid and I would have wished him to stay innocent and carefree for much longer. Ya know?” he poured his heart out to me and I nodded in understanding. I wasn’t sure what else to say to that. Wasn’t really my topic of expertise.

We stopped at the next armory and fortunately we found some guns and ammo but there had also been people before us. I only hoped that the last two on our route weren’t gonna be as empty as the last ones. We really needed the weapons in case of an attack. Getting back into the car we were just happy that nothing had sprung on us yet.

“Rick?” I asked after a moment of silence which got his attention before looking back on the road ahead. “please be assured that I’ll always take care of your sister. I promise you that.” I just wanted him to know that he could always count on me no matter what. “I know that I was an idiot and maybe I still am but Fabi makes me a better person.” I continued to make him understand that I definitely didn’t wanna stand between Fabienne and him as my best friend. In the end he was like a brother to me and I loved him. We first met each other in police school so many years ago it felt like an eternity.

“I’m trying my best to trust you both.” he mentioned shortly and a little bit agonized. Then silence fell once again over us.

The third Police station is a bust again but fortunately there is a police car parked outside with a full tank and some weapons inside. Jackpot! “Rick what would you think if I took the other car back? We could use a new one.” I suggested. “Good idea. Let’s do this.” Rick agreed. He got back into his  truck and I took seat inside the new one. I trailed after him and to our luck the last place was still packed with everything we needed. It laid at the ass crack of nowhere that probably saved it from plunderers. I loaded everything into our vehicles while Rick held some walkers back. Another reason why no one had dared to come out here. “You done Shane?” Rick suddenly asked kinda out of breath and I stormed out the door, through the biters and to our cars. Driving away this time I took the lead.

At first everything was normal and calm but suddenly, as I looked through the rear-view mirror, I saw Rick lose control of his car and drive down a ditch. Immediately I stopped my car, grabbed my gun and hobbled over to him. My leg was still hurting like a bitch but I didn’t care in that moment. When I arrived at his car there had already a few walkers gathered around which I quickly shot hoping no more would be attracted by the gun shots. The car windows were broken and the airbags had popped and when I called his name he didn’t react which got me worried. Pulling on the door handles the door didn’t budge so I tried it from the inside and carefully pulled Rick out. The biter wave didn’t let up so between grabbing bags of weapons out of the wreck, half carrying Rick to my car and killing walkers on the way, we made it over the other vehicle. I pushed him onto the backseat and on my way of turning around to get to my seat a walker had crept up on me and we fell to the floor. Laying there like that I saw my life flash before my eyes one last time when I suddenly heard a shot and blood splattered all over my face. The walker laying dead atop me.

Rick had pulled himself up and taken the shot. Without another thought I climbed back into the car and drove off. Completely exhausted I drove us back to the prison as fast as I could.

Carl opened the gate and let us through. When I stopped I jumped out and called for help. Daryl and I helped Rick out of the car to lay him down on the floor and check for bites or scratches but fortunately there were none.

Fabienne and Alex who had come by were fighting with their tears. Too shocked to understand what had happened and that it probably wasn’t a big deal. Exhausted I let myself fall to the ground. The adrenaline finally wearing off.

“Just some scratches and bruises. He’ll be good as new.” Hershel said after closely checking on him. Fabienne crouched down next to me “What happened?”

“We took two cars and then Rick lost control over his and there were biters everywhere. One had almost gotten to me in the end but Rick shot him.” I explained.

After getting back on my feet Daryl and I carried Rick into his cell and to his bed. He really needed some rest. Alex and Fabienne were so worried they even sat at his bedside. A few hours later and we had our old Rick almost back. “How are you feeling?” I asked him standing in his door. “Well, could be better but I’ll be fine. Thanks fro saving my ass out there.” Alex and Fabi are both sitting by his side leaning their heads on each of his shoulders. “No I have to thank you. If you hadn’t been there I’d be walker food by now.” We finally agreed that we could trust each other again.

The moment I wanted to step out I got held back by a small hand on my arm. “Are you really okay?” Fabienne asked me. I just nodded and smiled when she stroked over my cheek.

Alex had also joined us “Rick is gonna take another nap and I wanted to get the weapons inside with Daryl.” she offered and I silently thanked her.

“Come on and sit down. You need to rest too. I’ll be back soon.” Fabienne helped me sit down and then took off. Only a few minutes later she arrived back with a wet washcloth and wiped the blood off my face. After that she pulled me into a tight hug “I was so afraid I was gonna lose you.” she mumbled into my neck while I stroked her back reassuringly.

Alex POV

Relieved that Rick and Shane were alright after the accident and that their injuries were limited to a few cuts and bruises I walked outside with Daryl to retrieve the guns from the car. Daryl immediately noticed that something wasn’t right and that I was still completely wrecked because of what could have happened so he came close to me, put his big strong hands on my face to pull it upward. His calloused fingertips stroked my cheeks lovingly “They’re fine.” he reassured me. And I immediately felt better. He pulled me closer and kissed my forehead lovingly. I wasn’t able to tell him yet but I was so happy to have him by my side maybe there were more than minor feelings.

Then he let go of me “Come on. let’s get that stuff inside before dark.”

When we had gathered everything inside we looked through it. “i think we could get quite far with that stuff.” he wasn’t always that optimistic but when he was that meant something.

Of course no one of us really hoped that that asshole of a governor would attack us again but if he was, we would let up so easily...

[apathetic-revenant]

alright, I figure I can probably manage to keep this updated about once a week, so...Wednesday? Wednesday. 

CHAPTER ONE: A HEIST UNDERWAY

In Which Rare and Daring Deeds Are Attempted and Absolutely None of Them Go According To Plan

Part 3

The two of them had been there for some half an hour or so, quietly minding their own business, when a number of people came around the corner very angrily. One of them was wearing extensive regalia that seemed to mark him as a person of some import; among the others were a pinch-faced man with thinning blond hair and one of the librarians from the dais outside.

Both the student and Mr. Vervain looked up in alarm. The student quickly contrived to look innocently confused, while Mr. Vervain put his book aside and sidled behind the nearest shelf, his fingers working rapidly back and forth.

The man in regalia bore down on the student like a brilliantly-colored hurricane and snatched the cap and scarf away, revealing long braids carefully coiled together and held in place with bronze pins. One braid had been dyed in a flashing swirl of red and gold. This seemed to mean something to the approaching crowd.

“You see?” the pinch-faced man said. “I know that hair. That’s her alright.”

The student sighed heavily and shot a poisonous glance at her accuser.  The man in regalia was puffing and snorting and seemed ready to combust.

“In all my years here I have never heard the like,” he said. He had a surprisingly quiet voice, although not a terrible pleasant one; it sounded as though it were under pressure, like the hiss of a kettle about to scream. “Alteration of your own student identification, impersonation of another student, all to illegally gain access to the inner library-”

“Excuse me,” the student said. She had lifted her head up and was looking back at the head librarian calmly and steadily, although Mr. Vervain could see that her hands were clenched beneath the table. “I think you'll find you're mistaken there.”

The head librarian looked so comically and dramatically shocked that Mr. Vervain laughed quietly to himself.

“I impersonated no one,” the student went on, “Nor did I alter my badge. I am a fourth-year student at this university. I have the right to use the library.”

“You misrepresented yourself-” the head librarian began.

“I put my hair up,” the student said. “And wore a cap. Because, in case you haven’t noticed, it’s raining rather hard outside.”

“But your badge-” the librarian began.

The student reached into a pocket and produced the badge in question. It was a small, embossed piece of metal held within a leather case on a braided string. From his vantage point Mr. Vervain couldn’t see any of the details, but something about it clearly made the pinch-faced man upset.

“That is not your case,” he said. “I know that for certain-”

“No, it’s not,” the student said. “I lost mine. A friend loaned me this until I could get a new one.”

“I suppose they also loaned you those clothes?” the lesser librarian sneered. His cheeks were rather flushed, and he had the air of a man desperate to make sure that someone else in the vicinity was more humiliated than he was.

The student shrugged. “Perhaps. I wanted to look nice. Is there a rule against that?”

“But you did lie about your reason for admittance,” the pinch-faced man said triumphantly. “Even Fairtree would not assign practical study to a lower class.”

“It was a broad assignment,” she said. “I thought some practical research could improve my work, so I took the initiative-”

“Enough.” The head librarian spoke with absolute finality. “This...impertinence does nothing to help your case. You have committed a grievous crime against this university. Attempting to usurp knowledge to which you have no right-”

“I contest that,” the student said hotly.

“I said enough,” the head librarian snapped. “This is not a debate. We are not here to discuss matters with you. You are to come with us and be detained until a proper punishment has been decided upon.”

The student sighed, carefully closed her book, and stood up. “May I at least have my scarf back?” she asked.

The head librarian wadded the scarf into the cap and shoved both into the pocket of his voluminous robe before turning and stalking away. The student sighed again and followed him, with the lesser librarian at her side keeping a tight hold of her arm. Mr. Vervain sighed as well and trailed after them, a quiet and unobtrusive shadow.

The student was taken to a small room near the inner ring of the library. It might once have been a workroom, or the study of a long-ago magician, but whatever it had been it was now empty of anything but a single table and accompanying chair. It did have a large and impressive door, though, doubtless the reason for it having been chosen.

“You will wait here,” the head librarian informed the student. “I expect it will be some time,” he added nastily.

The student slumped down in the chair. Mr. Vervain, feeling that this last comment had been rather unnecessary, took the opportunity to lift the hat and scarf from the head librarian's pocket being slipping inside the room as well.

The door was shut with a heavy and final thud. The sound of the lock clicking resonated within the room.

The student's face crumpled. She put her head down on the table and gripped the sleeves of her jacket with tight fingers, locking rather as though she was about to cry and hated it.

“Well,” she said to the room in general, “that's torn it, then.”

“I agree the situation seems dire,” Mr. Vervain said. “But there is always room for hope.”

The student shrieked in alarm and jumped so badly that she knocked over the chair and went down in a tangle of furniture.

“Oy!” someone cried from behind the door. It sounded like the lesser librarian. “You stop that! Breaking things isn't going to help you any!”

Mr. Vervain walked over and helped extricate the student from her chair. “Please, madam,” he said gently. “I do not think making a great deal of noise is advantageous to us right now.”

“You-you startled me,” the student said.

“Yes, I do apologize for that. I'm afraid I couldn't find a way around it.” He offered her a hand up. She took it, still looking completely bewildered. “I only ask that if you are, as I suspect, about to swear at me, you do it in a low voice.”

She squinted at him, then shrugged. “That's reasonable enough, I suppose.”

Next moment she had grabbed him by the lapels of his coat and pulled his thin face very close to hers. It was a long, poised sort of face with high cheeks and a solid jaw, and steel-colored eyes that were looking rather intimidating at the moment. 

“Who the fuck are you?” she demanded, in what was indeed a low voice.

The movement jostled Mr. Vervain's glasses almost completely off his face. For a moment the student saw his eyes. There was something strange about those eyes, although she couldn't quite work out what. They were tired, certainly, shadowed and bloodshot, but it wasn't that. The color was unremarkable, something pale-blue, probably, or maybe gray. Before she could figure it out he gently adjusted his glasses, hiding his eyes once more.

“Mr. Vervain, at your service,” he said. “I'm afraid I was engaged in a rather similar activity to yours. Your effects, madam,” he added, handing her the cap and scarf.”

She took them confusedly. “You mean-you were sneaking into the library as well?”

“Indeed.”

She stared at him a moment longer, then burst out laughing-quietly. “What are the odds? They say no one's tried it for fifty years-and now two of us go for it on the same day.”

“Fifty-seven,” Mr. Vervain said, a little absently. “But yes-rather odd, that.”

She shook her head and sat down again, toying with her scarf. “So how'd they get you?” she asked. “I would have thought I'd've heard about it if they caught someone. Before me, that is.”

“Well,” Mr. Vervain said, “in point of fact, they didn't. As such.”

He turned and began to examine the walls, running his fingers across every stone. She stared at him, agape. “What do you mean, they didn't?”

“They didn't catch me. They don't know that I'm here. Although,” he added, looking around him a bit sorrowfully, “the effects do seem to have been rather the same.”

“What-but-” She swallowed, and then got up and began to pace behind him, as if hoping this might reveal some answers. “But-what are you doing in here, then?”

“I followed you in.”

“But I didn't see you at all!”

“Well, yes,” Mr. Vervain said. “That was rather the point.”

She looked him over very carefully. “I don't understand,” she said at last. “How did you get in?”

“I'm afraid I was using your assistance. The library wards are extremely strong, but not terribly subtle in some ways. I think the men who created them were expecting more in the line of plunder and fiery raids than low-level duplicity. So I shadowed you.”

“You-what?”

“You were supposed to be in the library-or at least, so I assumed at the time. I simply borrowed some of that aspect. Everyone who might have seen me simply felt that I belonged there-so much so that they didn't notice me at all. It works much better than invisibility,” he added thoughtfully. “People always bump into me when I try that.”

The student was staring at him now as though he had suddenly caught on fire. “You mean...you used magic?” she whispered hoarsely.

“Mhmm.”

There was a long silence. Mr. Vervain examined the door closely.

“Who are you?” she said at last.

“I told you,” Mr. Vervain said mildly.

“You told me your name. Not anything else.”

“There's not a great deal more to tell.”

“But-you're saying you’re a magician! A real magician! Like the old kind- ”

“Not a terribly good one, but yes, I suppose I can claim that distinction.” He shrugged, as if this were no more noteworthy than being a milliner or perhaps a calligrapher at most.

She watched him a while longer, but Mr. Vervain gave no more clues as to his nature. He seemed to now be primarily interested in the lock on the door.

“Why did you follow me in here?” the student asked at last.

“Well, I confess I didn't have a great deal of choice in the matter.” Mr. Vervain peered through the keyhole. “I had to stay close to you for the spell to work. That was why I picked you, you know-you were going to the same section that I needed.”

She laughed a little to herself. “And that just happened to be the one person who wasn't supposed to be in the library at all.”

“That does seem to be what has happened, yes,” Mr. Vervain mused. “Strange how these things work out.”

She shook her head in bewilderment at his calm. “But now you're stuck in here!”

“Well,” Mr. Vervain said, “that's a matter of opinion.”

If the student had thought she could not be more surprised and perplexed at Mr. Vervain, she was mistaken. “You mean you can get out?” she demanded.

“Quite possibly.” Mr. Vervain straightened up, evidently done with the keyhole. He took out his notebook and began to leaf through it carefully.

She waited for him to add something to this, but he did not. After a moment she cleared her throat. “Will you take me with you?”

Mr. Vervain paused briefly over a particular page. “Well,” he said. “Hm.”

She straightened up and looked him in the eye, or as near as she could get. They were more or less of equal height, but she held herself taller. “If you don't,” she said, “I will tell them you are here. I'm sure you won't find it so easy to hide when the librarians know about you.”

“I doubt they would believe you,” Mr. Vervain said absently. “But you misunderstand me. I don't have any objection to it. I'm simply trying to work out if I can do it at all.”

“Oh.” She seemed to be at a loss for words after that. “Well...alright then.”

A moment later Mr. Vervain looked up. “Is there something I can call you?” he asked. “I wouldn't wish to be so rude as to ask your name, but a moniker of some kind would be helpful.”

“Hm? Oh,” she said. “Harcourt. Eliza Harcourt. That's hardly rude.”

“Among magicians it is terribly so,” Mr. Vervain said. “Or at least, it used to be.”

“Well, you needn't worry about that,” Ms. Harcourt said. “I'm no magician.”

“No?” Mr. Vervain returned to leafing through pages. “You attend a university of magic.”

“I rather think I did attend a university of magic,” Ms. Harcourt said wryly. “But at any rate the university hasn't produced any real magicians in years and years. Not like...uh...your sort. They'd be scandalized if you suggested they did.”

“Hmmm,” Mr. Vervain said. “If you are so inclined to follow the university's way of thought, why go to all the trouble of gaining illegal access to the library?”

“I didn't say I agreed with the university,” Ms. Harcourt said, sounded deeply offended. “In particular I don't agree with their attitude about who gets to look at their books. And it wasn’t illegal. I didn’t break any university rules. Just-university traditions.”

“Oh?”

“There aren’t any official restrictions against non-accredited students using the inner library. They just won’t let us into any classes that require practical study. But Fairtree-well, his instructions tend to be open to a lot of interpretation, so…” She shrugged glumly. “I hope I didn’t get Fairtree in any trouble. I do like him. Most people don’t.”

Mr. Vervain looked up. There was an expression on his face that Ms. Harcourt didn't quite know how to read. “What’s this about non-accredited students?”

“You know.” Ms. Harcourt's mouth twisted in something like amusement. “Not everyone has the blood to be a proper magician. I certainly don’t. If you pass the tests-and have enough money for the fees, of course-you can study to be a real magician...erm...as close as it usually gets these days. The rest of us are just here to learn some theory.” She frowned at him. “I thought everyone knew that.”

“I didn't,” Mr. Vervain said.

Ms. Harcourt stared. “How are you a magician if you don't even know that?”

“Sometimes I wonder,” Mr. Vervain muttered. “I know about the license system, but what could possibly qualify one person for it and another not? I’ve been told by a reliable source that no one does magic in this day and age, so one wouldn’t think aptitude for it would matter a great deal.”

“I couldn’t really say. I don’t think anyone understands the tests, except the university. It makes sense to them,” Ms. Harcourt said. “Not that it really matters in my case. My family could never afford the accredited tuition, even if I did pass the test. Which I didn’t. Failed with flying colors, they told me.” She smiled tightly.

“Hmmmmm.” Mr. Vervain shook his head slowly. “I take it your...manner of clothing has something to do with this?”

“Aye. They don’t really check if you’re accredited, not as such, because there’s not actually a rule. They tend to just assume that if you’ve been assigned something requiring the inner library, you must be in an accredited class. I just...thought it wise to help that assumption along. If I didn’t look rich enough to be accredited, well, they might get suspicious. And of course I had to take a few pains to not be too recognizable, either, in case someone knew me.” She gestured vaguely with the cap and scarf.

Mr. Vervain was looking at her with something between irritation and disappointment.

“Erm...if you’re going to tell me off-” Ms. Harcourt said hesitantly.

“What? Oh, no. I’m just...annoyed. I’ve clearly overestimated these people. Their security is borderline legendary, or supposed to be.” He shook his head disapprovingly. “It just goes to show. One should never ride too much on reputation.”

“Oh...well, they don’t check if you’re accredited, but they certainly check if you’re a student, and a fourth-year. I’ve heard some stories of people trying to alter their badges. Didn’t end pleasantly.”

“True. And I suppose they did catch you rather quickly.” He paused. “Oh, sorry. That was rather rude, wasn’t it?”

Ms. Harcourt shrugged.

“But I still have to ask. If you're so certain you have no use for this knowledge, why go to so much trouble to obtain it?”

Ms. Harcourt opened her mouth and then closed it again. “I...well...I still want to know things. That is...well, of course no one is going to actually perform magic these days. No matter if they get fully accredited or not. But the university still says there's some use to studying the practical texts, and maybe some of it’s only useful for the practicing ones, but some of it is just...knowledge. Understanding the way things were. And there are things I want to understand better.” She coughed. “Well. I didn't think anyone performed magic these days.”

Mr. Vervain frowned slightly and then lowered his glasses a fraction. For a moment she could see those strange eyes again, looking very intently at her, and yet not quite at her, as if he were seeing something beyond her. Then he made a noise between his teeth and pushed his glasses back up.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “May I ask what you were looking up in particular?”

“Erm,” she said. “Well...”

Mr. Vervain waited patiently.

“I...I was going to try something,” she muttered. “Divination...well, that's not quite the same as magic, is it? It's still done sometimes. To get a proper look at the old magic that’s still around.”

Mr. Vervain's pale eyebrows went up further. “You were going to try divination?”

“Not me,” Ms. Harcourt said hastily. “Feverfew. We made a deal with him, if I could get into the library and find the right sort of thing, he would try it, and we could all take a look...”

Mr. Vervain was looking more confused by the moment. “We?”

“Some friends and I. I'm not the only one...Feverfew was going to be accredited, but his family lost all their money and now he can't afford the fees, so they bumped him down. But we all thought there was no reason he shouldn't be able to still divine. He was really good at it before, and it's the peerage that matters, isn't it? I mean, if you have the right history to you, if you passed the tests, it shouldn't matter whether you have any money, should it?”

“I wouldn't think so,” Mr. Vervain said dryly. “But what was it you were trying to do?”

“Well...we thought that...maybe if we could find the right spell...he could divine the library itself. Then we would only have to sneak in once and afterward we'd have access to all of it for as long as we wanted.”

Mr. Vervain stared at her. “My God,” he whispered. “That's...brilliant.”

“Is it?” Ms. Harcourt looked uncertain but pleased. “We all thought it was a rather good idea ourselves, but we weren't certain it would work.”

“Well...it probably wouldn't,” Mr. Vervain admitted regretfully. “Not from outside the library. The old magicians wouldn't have wanted anyone to be able to steal their knowledge from afar. Protections against that sort of thing are built very deeply into the wards.”

“Oh.” Ms. Harcourt slumped a little. “It's not very brilliant, then, is it?”

“It's still clever thinking,” Mr. Vervain said. “But...from outside the library is one thing. From inside the library...” He pulled an old pencil stub from his coat pocket and began to scribble frantically in his notebook. “If I modified the old Blackmoss incantation for place-speaking...with some of the Papyrus modifications for a human-engineered location...did you happen to find anything?” he asked, looking up at Ms. Harcourt. “Anything that seemed like it would be useful for such a spell?”

Ms. Harcourt stammered, a little taken aback by this sudden enthusiasm. “Well...I thought I might have been onto something, but that was when I was interrupted...”

“Right.” Mr. Vervain closed his notebook with some finality. “That certainly settles the matter.”

“Does that mean you'll get me out of here?” Ms. Harcourt asked eagerly.

“If that is what you wish. It is the more dangerous option, I warn you-after all, if, as you say, you broke no actual rules, you may be better off waiting here. Perhaps the university will be lenient.”

Ms. Harcourt sighed. “Do you really believe that’s likely?”

“Well,” Mr. Vervain said. “No.”

“No, neither do I. And if I’m going to get in trouble, it might as well be for a good reason. So get me out of here.”

“I’ll certainly make the effort. Although currently the door remains an obstacle.”

“You don't have some spell to unlock it?” Ms. Harcourt said. “Or to just...take us away? Or walk through the wall?”

Mr. Vervain grimaced a little. “I'm afraid such things are beyond both my skill and inclination. The door has both a physical lock and a lock-spell on it-a holdover from the old days, presumably.. I believe I can handle the magical element, but I confess the physical one remains a problem.”

“What, is that all?” Ms. Harcourt walked over and peered at the lock for herself. “I think I can pick this.”

Mr. Vervain looked nonplussed.

Ms. Harcourt straightened up and pulled a couple of the pins from her hair. She held them in her teeth as she tied the scarf back over her braids, pulled the cap down over it all, and then grinned at Mr. Vervain. “I wrote all the papers for Baines from the alchemical department for half a term so he would teach me how to pick locks. Clever chap, Baines, but he can't concentrate on writing anything for so much as five minutes. ”

“I see,” said Mr. Vervain. “You do seem to be adept at breaking quite a few rules.”

“You can't do much of anything at this university if you follow all the rules. Written or not.” She nodded at the door. “Should I go ahead and try?”

“No...hold on a moment.” Mr. Vervain seemed to be considering something. “Do you have something you don't mind leaving behind? An article of clothing, that sort of thing?”

Ms. Harcourt thought for a moment and then smiled slyly with a sudden inspiration and pulled her student badge from its case. “Would this work? I don't think I'll be needing it much longer.”

“Ahhh. Perfect. Both for magical and thematic purposes.” Mr. Vervain accepted the badge and laid it neatly on the chair. “The key will be to both hide our presence and to make it seem as though you are still in the room. As you said earlier, we are rather less likely to be found if no one is looking for us.”

Ms. Harcourt watched curiously as he held the badge for a moment, his eyes closed tightly. Nothing at all appeared to happen, but after a moment he straightened up and nodded.

“But...it hasn't done anything,” she said, trying not to sound disappointed.

“Ah, but you are not who it is intended to fool.” Mr. Vervain crossed to the door. “Now we can open this...or at least attempt to. I think we will have to dispel it and unlock it at the same time. If you would be so kind as to tell me when the lock is about to open...”

“I'll do my best.” Ms. Harcourt knelt down in front of the lock. Mr. Vervain laid his hand against the door and closed his eyes again. There was a moment of tense, heavy silence, broken only by the very faint rattle of pins and tumblers as Ms. Harcourt worked.

“...Now,” she said.

Mr. Vervain let out a very small breath. The lock clicked open.

“Did it work?” Ms. Harcourt asked hopefully.

“Perfectly.” Mr. Vervain smiled and offered a hand to help her up. “I congratulate your skill.”

“Oh...erm...it was nothing, really.” Ms. Harcourt threaded the pins back into her hair. “So-now what?”

“Now...I am going to try something.” Mr. Vervain took off his gloves and carefully tucked them into a coat pocket. His hands were long and spidery and splashed here and there with faint splotches, like ink stains. There was something Ms. Harcourt found vaguely uncomfortable about them, rather like his eyes. She watched nervously as Mr. Vervain took out a small pot of some dark substance, dipped a finger in it, and drew a strange little sigil onto the nearby wall.

He tucked the pot back into his satchel and offered his other hand to her. She took it hesitantly, uncertain of those long fingers. Mr. Vervain pressed the palm of his free hand directly onto the sigil and began to murmur rapidly to himself, in words she could not quite make out.

She was not certain when, exactly, the magic took effect, or how it did so, only that the world seemed to shift around and make a new place for her. The air suddenly seemed stiller and heavier, as if everything were moving more slowly, and the light from the room's sole lamp took on a slightly different feel.

Mr. Vervain took his hand off the wall, looking mildly pleased with himself. There was no trace of the sigil on the wall now, but there was a clear outline of it on his palm.

“What did you do?” Ms. Harcourt's voice sounded a little strange to her own ears, as if it were coming from farther away than it usually did.

“Made us a part of the library, for a little while,” Mr. Vervain said. “A rather more effective method of concealment, but not something I could do from outside the library. And, to be perfectly honest, not something I was entirely sure would work.”

“Oh,” Ms. Harcourt said. She cleared her throat a little. “Do we...er...have to keep holding hands?”

“Oh. Well. Yes, I'm afraid so.” Mr. Vervain looked rather embarrassed. “It lets me keep the spell on you, you see...I hope it's not terribly uncomfortable for you.”

“Under the circumstances, I think I can bear with it for a while,” Ms. Harcourt said, though in truth she found the feel of his cold dry hand against hers to be rather disconcerting. Well, never mind that now. “Shall we go do some research?”