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ohforficsake · 1 month

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Summary: Orpheus and Eurydice. A Blacksmith and a Warrior. A Lawyer and the Lady He Meets at a Bar. Two souls fated to find each other across lifetimes. Here are just a few of those stories.

Pairing: Ezra x f!Reader. Reader is able-bodied and takes many forms. Described as having hair that can be pinned back in one instance, generally open description in others.

This is my submission for @wannab-urs Hozier Drabble Challenge! My character was Ezra, and my prompt was "Talk" off of Wasteland, Baby!. This was such a fun challenge, thank you so much for organizing it, Gin!

Word Count: ~5.8K (I blew past drabble, I'm so sorry)

Rating: Explicit 18+ / brief fingering / brief handjob / unprotected piv / language / main character death / Minors DNI

A/N: This was so incredibly fun to write and I actually had a huge smile on my face when I finished it that I'm pretty sure is still there. I'm incredibly happy with how this turned out. I've never written for Ezra before, so this was a really interesting exercise in finding the voice of a character that I found quite challenging to get to the heart of. Ezra folks, I really hope I did your boy justice.

Notes on literary references and the source of Orpheus' speech (not written by me) included at the end.

I'm also kind of just launching this super hot off the press, so please forgive any typos you may find and definitely message me about them once you're done reading.

Massive thank you to @beskarandblasters for the beautiful cover art for this story! 💚 Go hit Kel up if you're looking for a lovely header for your work!

Dividers by @cafekitsune!

Part I: The Darkness of the Night

He’s called Orpheus in this lifetime. Blessed with his mother’s tongue.

No way of knowing he forever will be.

A twist of phrase. A glint in the eye.

A white patch at his hairline is the only mark of his father. As if licked there by the rays of Apollo’s creation.

And he is his mother’s boy, plucking at lyre strings and humming low, branches bending to his ambit as he harmonizes with the rush of Zephyrus’ wings through tall grasses.

But you are a rich distraction indeed.

A distraction perhaps of the West Wind’s own making, for the god has always been a soft touch.

The breeze toys with your chiton as you drift in and out of dreams.

Molding gossamer to your form.

A promise of something just for him.

Orpheus reaches to run his knuckles down your arm, awaiting your stirring before he takes fingers over your shoulder, up to cup your cheek.

You turn to press against the warmth of his hand. The pad of his thumb softly skimming your bottom lip.

It sends sparks racing across your skin.

He hums a laugh and fits closer to you, warmer now than the midday sun. You slant your eyes up at him, greeted with a smile before he bends to press a long kiss to your mouth.

His lyre is discarded in the grass now, wildflowers poking up through its strings.

The hand on your cheek moves to pull at his red linen handkerchief around your neck. Tied there in the morn to guard the late-hour transgressions of his lips from judgmental stares.

Again revealed to him now.

He tucks the cloth into his zoster before his fingers dip under the gauze of your robes, cupping one breast before his lips replace fabric.

“The dryads, my darling,” you whisper a warning into the heated hollow of his mouth.

“Fret not, my love,” he chides with a whisper.

And you whimper a wanton, insincere protest as his hand adjusts to move lower still, nimble fingers inching your hemline up until your thighs are bared to him.

“Surely such creatures would sympathize. Look favorably on newlywed dalliance.”

“For they understand pleasures such as these,” he murmurs as his fingers slip over your core.

"The nymphs haven’t our flesh," you gasp against his curls as he bends to nip at the lush of your breast.

"They have our desires."

"The nymphs know fertile things in ways we never shall, my darling Eurydice," ghosts hot against your skin.

"And surely they know what comes of something flush with want."

The press of his length against you causes your hips to tilt into his hand as your languid knees fall open.

"To deny that nature is to deny the nymphs themselves, little dove."

He tips his face to brush petal-soft lips against your frantic pulse as he shifts over you.

"For you see, they don’t care."

And the breach of him causes your back to arch, nails digging into the corded muscle of his arms.

You bend enough for your eyes to land on the grove of oak trees.

Unsure if begging forgiveness.

Or reveling in their jealousy.

But there are other eyes on you this day. Watching the deft way your husband wrings pleasure from your form.

The way he rolls you over on a bed of meadowsweet to press deeper still.

Holding your body to his as he pulls music from your throat.

Other eyes, indiscreet in their desire and relentless in their pursuit.

Other eyes that lead to your journey across the Styx.

Lead to Orpheus’ torment.

They say there are ways to speak with the dead.

But words will not pacify the poet when the possibility exists to feel you beneath him again.

A body that writhes under his own. Skin soft against the way his burns.

The way you welcome the thick weight of him.

All of him.

Into the warm clutch of your wet cunt.

And Orpheus, driven by his desire and blessed with his mother’s gift, marches boldly into the depths of grief.

“You powers divine of the subterranean kingdom, where all of mortal creation must one day sink to our doom, if you will give me permission to tell you the truth unvarnished by shifty pretenses…”

“I’d hoped to be able to bear my loss and confess that I tried.”

And the dance of his fingers over gut string pricks the ears of the damned as he gives verse to his flesh’s torment.

“In the name of these confines of fear, in the name of this vast abyss and your realm of infinite silence, I, Orpheus, implore you, unravel the web of my dear Eurydice’s early passing.”

A prayer for relief.

“This is the place that we all are bound for, our final dwelling, and yours is the longest reign that the human race must endure.”

Through vulpine teeth.

“Eurydice too, when her due of years has been ripely completed, shall own your sway. Till then, I beg you to let me enjoy her.”

And it moves the hound to cease its lashing.

Moves the one eternally punished to rest upon his stone.

Moves the dead of Winter to cave to the tender brush of Spring’s hand.

And you are called forth by a voice between what should be your ears.

And Orpheus begins to move.

Daring to hope for your sweet clutch again as your footsteps grow louder against stone.

As you take the form he knows, more corporeal with every footfall.

The tenderness in your ankle made manifest with flesh.

And his cock throbs with the thought of you.

His wife.

His muse.

But there’s a pause in the lilting cadence of your step.

Where you’ve stopped to grab for the fallen handkerchief that slipped from his belt.

And the panic flooding his breast moves him against all hope.

And he turns.

And you reach for him.

Before disappearing for the final time.

With forgiveness swimming in your eyes.

Part II: Pilgrim, Stranger, Wanderer

He’s called Doran in this lifetime.

A name you learn upon ducking into the blacksmith’s workshop with another man’s name on your lips.

“Callum!” You call, greeted instead by a shock of white hair where blonde should be.

Round brown eyes where you expected green.

“Apologies,” you offer, “I am looking for the smith.”

“Callum was called away to his family in the north country.”

His answering voice like honey just starting to crystalize.

“I’m called Doran,” he bends his head in customary greeting.

And you note the broad spread of his hand against his chest.

“I apprenticed under Callum, in what feels like a lifetime ago now, I admit.” He offers a small smirk. “He asked that I mind the forge in his absence.”

And you give him your name but not your full belief in this story.

“May I help you with something, dove?”

You straighten against the rake of his eyes. “My horse requires particular shoes. She is of a larger breed and nothing standard will suit.”

And you turn your back to him leading the way outside.

Doran whistles low at the sight of your mare, a sturdy Friesian glossed blue in the morning sun.

“She is a stunning creature,” he purrs, gently taking his fingers over her strong neck.

Pausing to thumb the iris stamped into the leather of her bridle.

“She’s no delicate thing,” you watch as he circles the horse. “Her grandsire was a draft who pulled the High King’s carriage.”

He fits one massive hoof between his knees, gently brushing away the feathers at her ankle before she starts fighting his touch.

He adjusts her gently, inspecting her irons before she protests in earnest.

“It’s apparent,” he says, quickly dropping the horse’s foot and jumping aside before she stamps and shakes her head, “that her blood runs hot.”

“She does not favor the touch of men,” you answer, soothing a hand over her hindquarters. “I should have forewarned you.”

“A fair lady is entitled to her opinions when she is that beautiful,” Doran gives her a wide berth.

And takes his eyes over you instead.

“You are the nobleman’s daughter.” He squints against the sun. “The warrior?”

“I am.”

“Now,” he pulls a rag from his pocket and rubs at his hands, “I know well the dangers of feminine beauty but a warrioress is altogether new to me. You are not riding into battle soon, I pray?”

“One in my position exists in a constant state of preparation. But there is no rumble of battle on the horizon.”

His smirk dimples one cheek now.

“I shall have the shoes for your láir within the week. And I shall pray you need not fly away before then, little dove.”

“May I make half the payment now for your services? This was the custom with the old smith.”

“The only payment for my services I can insist upon is merely the chance to sit in your presence a moment longer. Would a fair lady allow a humble blacksmith that much?”

And you see straight through him. Through to the tools on the wall.

But the broad set of his shoulders under ash-smudged linen. The way he moves, lithe and light on his feet as he dances between his stock of iron bars and his cache of hammers. The bright wideness of his eyes that betray sincerity or something of its kin.

A humble one no. But this one, perhaps.

You drop a pouch of coins onto his anvil. “Where?”

“Meet me here. In the morrow?”

And you tell him “maybe” in the moment as you climb into your saddle.

But you arrive on foot the next morning.

_____

You meet him three mornings in the week it takes him to forge your mare’s irons.

On the first day he tells you of his travels through Spain and France. Of scrambling up the masts of the ship that brought him to your shore.

On the third, he recites The Bard’s work with such nuance that you’re not entirely sure he isn’t the man himself.

On the fifth day he leads you out to the ruins of an old monastery, up a winding staircase until you’re forced to stand so close on the crumbling parapet that you can feel the heat of him at your back.

Your head spins from something other than the height.

On the seventh day he places four horseshoes, lovingly wrapped in burlap and bound with hemp cord, into the hand he has cradled in his own.

Warm and worn.

“Can I see you again?” He murmurs, barely a foot between you.

“Is that wise?”

“I have been mistaken for many things, little dove.” He brushes two knuckles over your cheekbone. “Nary a man has included wise among them.”

And you scoff but press into his touch all the same.

“Forgive me my boldness,” he takes his fingers under your chin, “but I must pose the question.”

“Your mare does not favor the touch of men.”

“But,” he purrs, “do you?”

And your lips form the word “goodnight” but you don’t dare move.

Your eyes flash with a want that does not go neglected.

“Must you take your leave?” He thumbs your bottom lip.

“I must.”

“But what of my payment,” he hums.

“As I recall you beseeched me pay with my time,” you tilt your head, reveling in the brush of warm breath against your skin, “I dare say I’ve tendered more than my share.”

“And yet I am in debt every time you take your presence from me,” he smirks. “There is something of you, little dove, that I fear has a hold on—”

You steal the words from his lips with your own.

And the unabashed delight dancing over his features when you part makes you kiss him again.

You fling your arm to rest the irons on the first surface you can find, desperate to wind your hands in his hair as his fit to your waist.

He urges your mouth open with the soft slip of his tongue. Humming when you let him inside.

“Little bird,” he pants when he tears his lips from you, forehead thumping hard against yours. “I confess if you stay past this moment I shall not be able to exercise any measure of restraint.”

“Is restraint what you desire?” You angle heavy-lidded eyes up at him.

“Not in the slightest,” he swallows hard, fist still gripping at your hair. “But you are a gentle lady with a good name, and I—”

“I want you, Doran,” you murmur. “This.”

And his head falls back on his shoulders with a tight, pained hiss.

“I confess I have given in to the fantasy of hearing that fall from this lush mouth many nights since first we met.”

And he expects heat to rise to your cheeks at his admission. But the hand that cradles your neck finds no such warmth.

“Do you know how it works?” He hums low, running his palm down your sleeve to lace thick fingers with yours. “Pleasure?” He brings your knuckles to his lips, eyes glinting in hearthlight.

And there is sincerity evident in his gaze.

For you are a gentle lady with a good name.

“Mmm, have you felt this?” He takes your hand, gliding it over the rough wool of his trousers.

To the hard line of his length underneath them.

Your breath skips.

You are no stranger to amusement of the flesh. But never before have you felt so—much.

“Feel me, birdie,” he hums, rolling his forehead against yours, “what you do to me. I fear there isn’t any blood left for the rest of me.” He kisses you again. “Only for you. This. Just for you.”

“Your bed, Doran,” you murmur against his mouth.

The hand over yours encircles your wrist and he leads you through to his chambers.

He pulls you tight to his body again, mouths locked as his hands roam your form, unable to settle upon what features his fingers must traverse first.

You push the braces from his shoulders and he helps you with the buttons of his shirt, your hands skating up the smooth expanse of tanned skin before tugging at your own shirttails.

Your lips find his neck as he unbuttons his trousers. You’ve already stepped out of yours.

“So eager, birdie,” he wraps you in his arms, and your skin burns with his touch. “Surely you’ve seen it with beasts, yes?” He salts your neck with kisses. “It’s quick with them, you see. It doesn’t have to be. Doesn’t have to—”

A moan cuts off his babbling from where you’ve taken him in hand.

“Although I may yet need to beg your forgiveness,” his hips buck into your hand, “my stamina may yet waiver, upon this first time.”

His tongue slips into your mouth again and finally he finds himself enough to back you up until your thighs meet his bed.

“It’s been so long. So long, birdie, since I have held a woman.” He leans you back with his body as your hands fly to his hair. “Longer still since I have held one as soft. Supple and pliant as you.” His lips map your collarbone, nose skimming the valley of your breasts as he takes one in hand.

“Never before is a long time indeed.”

He sucks at tender, pebbled skin, drawing an arch in your spine as he shifts to settle between your legs.

“I give you my word that I will indeed take my time with you but I offer a preemptive apology in the instance that I fail upon this first time.” His fingers slip down to toy with your folds, groaning against your ribs at the wetness that he finds there. “Perhaps we are no different than animals indeed.”

You hear only half of his babbling.

The static of anticipation under your skin crackles in your ears as your hips tip into his hand. His thumb slides over your clit and you cry out.

“You see, sometimes a man just needs to bury himself deep.”

He slings your legs over his hips and sits up on his knees, stroking his length with your borrowed wetness as your hands find his thighs.

There’s a dark edge to his voice now. Heavy-lidded eyes locked on the core of you.

“This need. It’s far stronger than I ever will be.”

“Now, Doran, I need—”

He doesn’t make you wait.

And he keeps his word in the moments it matters. Slowly rocking his hips to stretch you open on his cock before your body begs him deeper.

Large palms settle around your waist as he builds in pace, alternating slow with fast. Tenderness with force that drives the bedframe to knock against the wall. When his thumb winds circles against your clit you cry into the night as pleasure rips through you. Greedy lips crash against yours as his weight blankets your reeling form. Fevered moans in his chest thrum through you as he savors the way your walls pulse around him.

He buries his face against your neck and you feel the bite of his teeth as he snarls, drawing closer and closer to the edge.

He cants his hips just so at the last minute, pulling himself from your heat a moment before his seed streams hot over your thigh.

You soothe a hand over the nape of his neck as his hips spasm with the last of it, wide hand cradling your jaw and tipping your face to his.

Kisses softer now.

Grateful.

“You are a rare bird indeed,” he murmurs against your ear, lips ghosting over your neck.

He finds himself enough to rise from bed and kneel on the floor, searching for his handkerchief amongst the tangle of his clothes.

Yours peeks from the pocket of your trousers, red against brown wool, and you lazily twirl a corner of it around your finger and draw it out.

Doran catches it from your hand, gently cleaning your thigh of his spend before pressing a kiss there.

“I shall return this to you clean,” he holds it up briefly before craning to press a kiss to your lips. “Don’t trouble a hair on your head with moving, birdie,” he bids you before disappearing to the kitchen.

You trouble the hair on your head all the same as you pull the jostled pins from it, tousling it out of the style your nurse had so meticulously placed it in this morning.

Doran returns with two glasses and a bottle of whiskey. He fills them as you prop yourself up on your side and he settles on the floor. One arm slung up on the mattress.

Adoration in his eyes as he tips his glass against yours.

“You didn’t tell me this was not your first time. Although I do find it rather a pleasant surprise,” he rubs a hand over the curve of your waist with lust-hazed eyes.

“I could scarcely utter a word amidst your chatter,” you tease with a grin as you take another sip of your whiskey.

His smile dimples his cheek.

“Are you—”

For once he hesitates to speak.

“Are you promised to anyone?”

You catch his hand and bring it to your lips, pressing a kiss to his palm before he thumbs your cheekbone.

“None but myself. And my duty.”

He hums in acknowledgment.

You finger the white patch at his hairline, twirling a clinging curl.

“Angered a horse as a child and she made it known with her hooves,” he offers. “Frightened the color from that spot, I’m afraid.”

“There’s character in it. I’m quite fond.”

He turns in and rests his chin on the bed, hand back to trailing over your curves.

“Dove?”

And you frown at the nickname.

“I am nothing so delicate, Doran.”

“A shrike then, perhaps,” he smirks, knuckles ghosting over your stomach.

And something about it makes your heart preen.

“Has a man ever,” his fingers dip lower over your abdomen, “put his mouth on you?”

It sends a fresh jolt of pleasure racing up your spine. You turn onto your back without thought, basking in his touch as fingers trail over your mound.

“Right here?” The pads of his middle and ring fingers wind softly against your clit.

“No,” you gasp.

“Then may I have the pleasure of being the first?”

And he is the first in a way that has you wishing for him to be the last.

The only.

_____

Your handmaid was sympathetic to your cause, having been driven from her own house for true love. They share a small cottage on your father’s land now.

Your mother, though she did not know the intricacies of your continued dalliances with the blacksmith, knew the shift in your demeanor was a man’s doing. And she always was a soft touch for love.

Your father.

Was your mother’s concern.

And so your nurse covers your footsteps with a tickle in her throat that needs clearing.

Ushers you back into your chambers before morning light with a knowing smile.

“I always thought you would make a pass for the stable hand,” she confesses one day as she pours heated water over your hair. “The blacksmith is a surprise.”

“An unpleasant one?”

“Not in the slightest. He’s handsome.”

You can tell there is more to the sentiment.

“Yes, and?” You ask with a raised brow.

“Rakish.”

“Perhaps rakish is what I need,” as you rub water from your eyes.

“No lady with sense needs rakish, my darling girl,” she chides as she rubs soap at your scalp. “But a lady with sense should indulge in it from time to time.”

This draws a smile across your lips.

“He treats you well?”

“He treats me to pleasure the likes of which I have never known. If I offer this kingdom the breath in my breast every time I leave its gates, the least I may be permitted is the choice of a lover.”

And so she fixes you bitter tea every morning that you return from your rakish man.

_____

The pair of you take to late night meetings at the old groundskeeper’s shack on your parents’ land.

Where the splashing of the brook over rocks and the churn of the water wheel stifle the way he makes you cry out in pleasure.

And for one so verbose, he does excel at discretion. Raking ashes from the forge through the patch of white in his hair. Bending shadows around himself as he slips from town and into the forest at the edge of the estate.

The pair of you carry on for months. Until summer sun yields to the darkening blanket of fall.

A welcome change that lengthens your stolen hours.

“I’d wager that we were lovers in lives past,” he muses one night, lips pressing kisses against a scar on your shoulder. “You know me, little bird. The very depths of me.”

“Perhaps,” you roll over in a luxuriant stretch, “you are easy to know.”

“The Townsfolk would perhaps beg to differ, my darling.” He rests his hand on your cheek as you curl into him.

“Must you go in the morrow?” He asks softly.

“I’m afraid I must. For it is my duty. To ensure the safety—”

“—of the kingdom,” you both finish.

“In that case, I have made you a gift.” He reaches over your form down to the pocket of his cloak, and produces a small canvas pouch.

He sits up with you, pulling your back to his chest, arms around your middle as he watches you.

A small silver disk threaded on a chain falls into your palm. An iris stamped into the pendant.

“Doran, it’s beautiful. You made this?”

“It is perhaps more crude than a silversmith’s work,” he helps you fasten it around your neck, “but I wanted you to have something to remember my touch in the absence of it.”

You turn towards him such that he can see you in the firelight. Ash on your jaw from where you held him to your neck, perched atop his hips while he ground deep.

Silver pendant hanging just above the valley of your breasts.

“Beautiful,” he smiles, pressing a kiss against your lips, thumbing at the smudge on your chin. “I have always thought there to be something undeniably sensual in the furl of iris petals,” he rumbles, “how fitting for them to be your favorite.”

“Your imagination is swift, Doran.”

“You have not beheld what I have, dearheart,” he pulls you down against the bed linens once more.

Holding you against his heart.

And he is quiet for a long while, fingers running softly over your stomach, nose buried in your hair.

“What of my safety?” He asks.

A plea to keep you here.

“What shall I do?”

“I have no doubt you will find another iris that unfurls for you in the meanwhile,” you hum. Eyes slipping closed.

“There is only one, my love. I shall wait for your return.”

_____

A grand crowd lines the streets as you and the men of your battalion ride towards the village gates the next morning. Full of cheers and blessings.

And you offer the customary wave and nod.

But your heart hammers against chainmail.

Eyes darting through the crowd.

Willing a shock a white to appear.

And as you near the gates he greets you.

Warm brown eyes and a grin of pride. He rushes to push through the crowd as you approach on your mare, eyes never leaving each other.

You slip one foot from your stirrup and he jams one of his into it and stands, briefly.

Long enough to cup the base of your skull and lay a parting kiss against your lips.

You hurriedly pull your red handkerchief from behind your breastplate, pressing it into his palm as he drops away.

Crushing the cloth to his heart as you slip through the gates.

And it will yield the ire of your father and the warm, joyous tears of your mother.

But they matter not.

For you do not return home under your own power.

You return home under a shroud.

Your nurse slips into the night, treading your path with your necklace in hand.

“She was found with her hand over her heart. And this underneath it.”

And the blacksmith.

Wrought with grief.

Is never seen again.

Part III: The Helper. The Protector.

He’s called Ezra in this lifetime.

Brought to this bar by a group of associates keen on celebrating his win in federal court this afternoon.

And he knows it’s an excuse to drink on the firm’s dime.

He was an associate once too.

But they helped draft the brief that saved their client $44 million. A few drinks is a small thanks.

Ezra sticks to the corners, entertaining chatter only when approached. Kindly redirecting the advances of a first year who’s too young to realize flirting with a partner is career suicide.

He’s content tonight to sip his bourbon and observe.

“Okay, but I told you that Bismark case was horseshit and the judge was going to see that!” One associate who is two drinks too deep roars.

“That was so fucking risky, I still can’t believe you put so much weight on that,” another chides.

“Fucking WORKED though!” And the first man spreads his arms wide.

Knocking you into the sip of red wine you were about to take from your seat at the bar.

“Jesus, fuckin’—” you start before taking a deep breath and glancing down at the patch of deep burgundy beginning to spread on your white blouse.

Fuck.

“Boys, boys, this lovely lady didn’t consent to hearing your opinions on bullshit 4th Circuit rulings, okay?” Ezra appears, stretching an arm between you and the men. “Let’s be a little more careful, take it to a booth, yeah?”

“Miss, I apologize on their behalf,” he starts and you take another centering breath because you really are not here for some hotshot lawyer’s apologies. This is your spot, and they’re fucking with your Thursday night nightcap.

But the brown eyes you’re met with are wide and sincere.

And something at the very core of you thrums momentarily with something you can’t name.

“Please, allow me to replace your wine and cover your tab for the night.” He’s already calling the barman over before you can assure him that’s really not necessary because they’ve fucked up your night already and you just want to go home.

“Could you please arrange a fresh glass of wine for this lovely lady, place her tab on the card I gave you, and may I have a shot glass of white wine. I need the white wine as quickly as you can, please. Thanks very much.”

And you’re still staring at those brown eyes.

Bristling and dumbstruck at the same time.

“Ezra,” he holds out a hand in belated introduction, and you offer a firm shake and your name in exchange.

“Sorry, a shot glass of white wine?” You quip as the bartender places it in front of Ezra.

He slips a red pocket square from his jacket and dips a corner into the shot glass.

“Apologies, may I?”

And inexplicably you turn in towards him on your bar stool as he dabs at the stain on your shirt.

Just over your heart.

“White wine will keep the stain from setting,” he proffers.

You crane your neck to the side, trying to settle your focus on cut glass bottles and not the stranger tending to the fine layer of cotton just above your left breast.

He’s gentle though. Respectful in a way you perhaps didn’t anticipate.

He smells of hinoki wood and worn leather.

“Right as rain,” he announces and takes half a step back before offering you the handkerchief. “If you want to hold that there to blot some of the excess.”

“Um, yeah, thank you. Thanks,” you hold the cloth over your heart as the bartender returns with your fresh glass of wine.

Ezra settles on the barstool next to you.

“How…did you know that?”

“About the wine?” He swallows a sip of bourbon. “Must��ve read it at some point and it just stuck.”

“Seems you’re a good man to have around in a crisis then,” you smile and tip your glass in his direction. He gently touches the side of his against it, before tapping the heavy base against the bar and taking another sip.

Everything he does is briefly fascinating.

“I apologize again for these kids,” he reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, producing a business card which he slides over to you face-down. “You should be all good with that,” he gestures at the handkerchief, “but I insist on you sending me the dry cleaning bill. If I’ve recalled incorrectly and it does stain, I will procure a replacement for you, you have my word.”

“That’s really not necessary,” you start and yet find yourself unable to stop, “and I’m not even sure it’s possible this is vintage—”

“Alexander McQueen, I know.”

You turn all the way towards him on your barstool now.

And his eyes glitter with your fascination as he runs his hand through the patch of white at his hairline.

“What are you reading,” he tips his head to the side as if to glimpse the cover of your book but he doesn’t break your gaze. Cheek dimpled with a half smile.

“Ovid. Metamorphoses.”

“For fun?” There’s a hint of surprise in his voice but it’s far from belittling.

“It’s…” you start before a smile splits your face, “yeah. For fun.”

And he echoes your grin.

“I re-read it for fun last year. I think the passage about Orpheus’ death is my favorite.”

“Fascinating,” you swallow a sip of your tempranillo. “Why that one?”

“Well, I believe it’s a commentary on both the unbridled rage of passion and a testament to the obstinate nature of true love.”

“Obstinate?” You incline your head incredulously. “That’s quite a choice.”

“And yet it holds true, does it not? Orpheus, arguably one of the most talented figures in Greek mythology,” and he’s gesturing broadly now, “able to enchant the very souls of feral beasts and move trees to bend their limbs just to be nearer his music.”

He jabs his finger into the bartop between you, “he moved Hades, both the realm and the deity himself, let’s not forget, correct?”

And you nod, amusement playing across your features.

“The earth and the underworld fell at his feet. And he shunned it all out of love for Eurydice.”

“And so what moral value do you place on obstinacy?” You ask.

“Obstinacy in love is the only way to experience it. To feel it so completely that you forsake everything else. Defy the world. For love. Fidelity to the wife that you betrayed by turning back.” Brown eyes are wide with his conviction.

He adds, “even Shakespeare said let it be virtuous to be obstinate.”

“Okay, in a COMPLETELY DIFFERENT context!” Your turn to erupt now, with arms thrown in the air where you’re met by his wide smile. “You cannot cherry pick that out of Coriolanus choosing to abandon his family out of sheer stubbornness, and frankly, contempt for his own people, to extol the virtues of love! Let it be virtuous to FORSAKE that love, is the whole point of that line.”

And this is the moment.

That Ezra falls in love.

And you’re not far behind.

Time slips from this point on. Patrons file in and out. More wine and whiskey is poured. Associates drunkenly clap him on the back as they make their way home, but none of it registers.

The world spins around the pair of you.

Until finally the bartender insists that he close his tab.

And you both step out onto a city street wet with the aftermath of a brief summer downpour.

“Thank you,” Ezra starts, “for the absolute pleasure of your company.”

He holds a tentative hand out, which you shake with a heartfelt “likewise.”

“Oh, your handkerchief,” you pull it from your pocket and hold it out to him.

“Keep it.” He smiles.

And you both spin on your heels. Proceeding in opposite directions.

But the warp and weft of the red cotton square that you keep rubbing between your fingers forces you to stop in your tracks.

You turn around.

And look back.

Meeting Ezra’s gaze from where he hasn’t moved a step.

He thumbs the corner of his lips, brown eyes locked on yours.

And you both move.

Urgent steps pulled by Fates’ string.

Colliding as you throw your arms around his neck and he locks you against him with biceps around your ribs.

Lips crashing together with the relief of a thousand lifetimes.

Lifetimes that you’ve known each other.

Lifetimes that you’ve lost each other.

And this lifetime. Having found each other again.

Taglist of folks who may be interested, as always, please do let me know if you'd prefer not to be tagged, or if you'd like to be added!

@morallyinept @iamskyereads @tinytinymenace @for-a-longlongtime @legendary-pink-dot

@oliveksmoked @nerdieforpedro @julesonrecord

Subpart headings are the meaning of Ezra's name in that section.

Orpheus' monologue included herein in italics is quoted from David Raeburn's 2004 translation of Ovid's Metamorphoses, published by Penguin Classics. The text of this translation just felt so Ezra that I had to include it in that form. If you'd like to hear it read by Hozier himself, head on over to his instagram circa summer 2020's Poetry Fridays for this and some other wonderful work.

This story references the version of Eurydice's death as precipitated by Aristaeus.

Láir means mare in Irish Gaelic.

"Let it be virtuous to be obstinate" is quoted from Coriolanus by William Shakespeare.

#prospect ezra #ezra prospect #ezra x reader #ezra x female reader #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal #hozier drabble challenge #ohforficsake #talk refined

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munsonmuses · 6 months

Text

Noise Complaint

Modern day AU

College Boy Eddie Munson x RA Reader

Inspiration credit to my dear friend Bug, who listens to my ramblings about being an RA at my teeny little university. And dropped the idea of Eddie being a resident. Thank you @munson-blurbs

Warnings: Shameless smut with light buildup, definitively just a bunch of hate fucking, p in v, oral (reader receiving) reader has female anatomy but isn’t referred to directly as a woman, light choking, creampies, light amateur bondage, Eddie is a shithead and kind of a bully (and kind of a kinky mf)

Word Count: 2.6k

This is mostly to tide y’all over until the next chapter of Spiritual Reserves

——

You carefully walked your weekly Thursday night rounds of the building, each floor more boring than the last. A menial task between desk shifts, programs, door decs, duty phone calls and staff meetings. Lightly drumming your hands along your hips as you listened to your music through your earbuds. Humming along to Moonwalker as you finished your rounds on the fifth floor. Keying into your room and flipping down on your bed, going to close your eyes.

Until violently interrupted by the incessant ringing of your duty phone, picking up and frowning deeply to yourself. “Thank you for calling the Creel Hall Duty Phone, what seems to be the problem?” You spoke in a customer service voice, carefully waiting before hearing a familiar sigh as you quirked a brow. “Nancy?”

Your coworker, Nancy Wheeler worked the front desk while you did rounds, and called you every Thursday around midnight. Each time it was the same thing.

“Hey um, Jason Carver called again, about being unable to stay in his dorm room, as his roommate is playing music too loudly, as always…” she spoke softly as you pushed yourself to sit up, sighing in frustration.

“Room three forty nine right? Down the west wing…it’s Eddie Munson? Again?” You asked, earning a confirming hum as you wished her goodbye and pushed to your feet. Slipping on your house shoes and making the trek down to the third floor.

As you descended the stairs, the loud screeching of an electric guitar through a well abused amp grew louder. Causing your brain to rattle as you grit your teeth. Pushing down the hall and stopping at the door. There was a white board stuck to the front, with a messily scrawled poll on it, something that changed each week. Likely Munson’s doing. Although a bit of a social reject, he took attention in any way he could get it. Much to your chagrin as you pounded on the door.

And again…

And again.

By the third knock, the playing stopped as the door flew open, Eddie Munson stood with a shit eating grin. Currently chewing on spearmint gum that wafted on his breath as you crinkled your nose. Wearing nothing more than black sweats wearing the schools logo, his rings, and his hair in a low bun. Tattoos littering his arms and chest, a tattoo of gnashing fangs on his ribs as you rolled your eyes.

“To what do I owe the pleasure? Did someone narc again, or do you just wanna see me that bad, trying to sneak a free concert mmm?” He asked with a grin as you cleared your throat.

“You do this every goddamn Thursday. If it’s not loudly playing music? It’s you and your idiot friends racing the halls. Or you holding the main lobby hostage, or losing your id and getting locked out. It’s only ever on Thursdays. If anyone wants to see anyone bad, it’s you wanting to see me-“ you hissed as you jutted your chin towards the inside of his room. Signaling you wanted to be let in as he gallantly threw his arm out, gesturing for you to enter as he bowed lightly. Earning a sneer from you as he relished in your contempt. He drew a sort of joy from your anger in him, the attention was invigorating. In being refused love so much by his peers in high school, he’d learned to adore the hate that was sent his way.

Hate festers, it meant he was always in the minds who despised him, like a catchy commercial jingle from the early 2000’s.

He watched as you poked around his half of the room. Littered with posters, lewd art, and piles of clean and dirty clothes. The light smell of sweat, spearmint and pine coming with him as you scoffed lightly at him.

His amp was in the center of the floor right by the foot of his bed, something you clearly missed as you fell, landing flat on your stomach and chin on the cold tile with a sturdy thud. Groaning in pain as Eddie’s smile faltered and he immediately walked over, offering a hand to help you up.

“Holy shit I am so sorry, are you okay?” He asked as he held his hand out to you, watching as you took his forearm in your hand, before yanking him down as he met the same fate. Harshly hitting the floor as you laughed at him harshly. Snorting at him as he held his mouth, his two front teeth having lightly punctured his lip. Not enough to split it, but enough to draw blood.

“You are the only resident I have problems with…” you started as you glared at him harshly. “You’re loud, messy, pushy, you torment the hall-“ you continued as he glowered at you while sitting up.

Licking the blood from his bottom lip, he looked at you bitterly as he quietly listened, cutting you off.

“You’re a prissy, shrill, overly sensitive brat-“ he hissed, big eyes dark as he looked you over as you hummed.

“I’m doing my job Munson, I get paid to do this-“ you hissed as you looked at his lips. Full, pouty, with the crimson stain of fresh blood.

“You need to get fucking laid, maybe then you’ll pull the stick out of your ass-“ he snapped as he leaned in closer. “Stuck up bitch.”

“Idiot.” You hissed back, getting closer as you bumped the tip of your nose with his own, earning a growl from Eddie.

Your skin was prickling with heat as you stared him down. Trying not to fold as you felt his breath fanning across your lips.

Before you could fully process, he pushed his lips against yours. Harsh and feverish as you groaned into his mouth. The light taste of iron mingling with the spearmint in his mouth as you shuddered lightly. Letting him pull you in tight by your sweatshirt as you ran a hand up the back of his neck. Undoing his bun as you tangled your fingers into the base of his scalp, brown trellises of hair tangling around your fingers.

“I fucking hate you,” you hissed as you pulled back for air, glaring at him as he rolled his eyes. Discarding his gum and pulling you to stand with him.

Backing you up, he pushed you up against the metal and wood bed frame that held his shambles of bedding. Continuing his kissing at you as he pawed at your sweatshirt, getting it off and over your head as you shuddered. His hands so warm opposed to the cold trapped within the room.

“For a total bitch? You have great tits…” he murmured as he lightly took hold of them. Large and calloused hands groping and squeezing, earning soft whines and heavy breaths from you as he laughed. His thumb and forefinger taking hold of your stiffening nipples, lightly pinching and twisting as you whined out his name, clearly worked up as he laughed lightly to himself.

“You’re a lot nicer to listen too when you’re not bitching at me…” he mumbled in your ear, lightly nipping at the lobe as you shuddered harshly.

Trailing your hands down his chest, you worked your fingers down, stopping over the stiff outline of his cock as you lightly ran your hand over him and earned a light but deep groan from him. Working your other hand into his waistband as you went to work his sweats off. Earning a harsh pinch on your left nipple as you looked at him.

“We’re doing this my way. I’m in charge now.” He insisted harshly. “Now, up on the bed.” He pat your hip to motivate you, watching as you used the step stool to get up and sit on the mattress. Watching as he rooted around in his closet quietly.

He apparently found what he was searching for, coming over with a well worn black belt in hand. Quietly climbing into the bed alongside you as he hummed.

In silence, he took your wrists, wrapping the belt around them firmly, and around the wooden bar at his headboard. Pulling tight as he checked to make sure they weren’t so tight he’d cut off circulation. Once sure, he hummed in approval and lightly pat your cheek. “Good, you look so pretty like this…” he cooed down at you, watching as you chewed on your lower lip and nodded lightly. The confidence in you dwindling.

“You’re a lot prettier when you’re not making everyone’s ears bleed you cu-“ you were cut off by a harsh kiss, his hand lightly making its way up your stomach and chest. A gentle pressure applied to the sides of your throat. A gentle choking sensation applied as you moaned lightly into his mouth. Feeling his cock twitching against your thigh as you gave into the kiss.

Eddie pulled back for air, lightly patting your cheek as he released his light hold on your throat. Sliding his way back down to the edge of the bed.

His hands took hold of your waistband, working off your shorts and underwear agonizingly slow. Eyes trained on yours as you whined lightly.

“Hurry the fuck up-“ you hissed out as Eddie smacked your inner thighs lightly. Glaring at you as he rolled his eyes. “You’re so fucking impatient…” he muttered before working his hand further in, humming as he lightly cupped you in his hand. Running his middle finger up your slit. Stopping at your clit as he worked in small, circular motions. Watching your face as your lashes fluttered and your mouth formed a soft ‘o’ shape. “There we go, see? I can do a lot more with these hands besides playing guitar like a fucking god…” he hummed out softly as he continued. Drawing soft moans from you as he nodded.

Applying a bit more pressure to the sensitive bundle of nerves, he laughed lightly as he gently worked on getting you relaxed. He was a dick, but he was considerate. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt you.

“You look so fucking gorgeous like this…all pink in the face, mouth open…let’s give them some real noise to complain about,” you could see him cringe a bit at his statement, cocky and a bit cheesy.

He pulled your legs apart slowly, bowing his head down as he placed soft and deep kisses along your inner thighs and trailing inwards. His lips stopping at your clit as he pressed a slow and deep kiss to it, humming lightly as he tentatively listened for your reaction. Wanting to make sure you weren’t uncomfortable or unhappy with his actions.

“Eddie don’t tease…fucking hell.” You hissed as he laughed lightly. Taking it a step further as he lightly sucked on your clit, circling it slowly with his tongue and applying tentative amounts of pressure. Earning a full moan from you as he carefully worked on his middle finger. Pressing in slowly as he curled and flexed his finger. Getting you to cum first was his goal.

He kept his ministrations going, refusing to let up unless asked as he laughed lightly. Sending vibrations through you as you arched your back lightly, pressing further into his face. “Fuck! Eddie keep going-“ you demanded as he eased in a second finger. Beginning the slow thrusting and curling. Flexing his fingers apart as he increased the pressure on your clit. Feeling your walls flutter around his fingers as he sped up. Getting a bit overeager as your thighs clamped around his head and squeezed.

Your eyes rolled back as you cried out desperately, babbling. Eddie was right, you did need to get laid. The stress of the job was melting off your shoulders as the knot in your lower abdomen came undone. Earning a desperate cry from you as you came, soaking his mouth and chin as he hummed. Pulling his fingers out as he worked in his tongue slowly, humming as he made his way back up and eventually pulled away entirely. Sitting up as he looked at you.

“So fucking good…” he eased both fingers into your mouth, urging you to taste yourself as he hummed. “See sweetheart,” he crooned, laughing lightly to himself as he pulled his digits from your obedient mouth. Patting your cheek lightly and getting to work on removing his own bottoms.

His cock was undeniably hard, unable to be ignored as he hummed and slowly stroked himself. His other hand grabbing your chin and tilting your head down to get a look at him.

“Watch me. Don’t take your eyes off of me, I want you to watch me fuck you…” he ordered as you nodded your head lightly, watching as he lined himself up, and got to work.

Pushing into you, he groaned lightly. Watching as your mouth fell slack and lashes fluttered. Grinning in pride as he eased in inch by inch. Panting and rambling praise as he bottomed out within you. Holding your hips firmly in his hands as he lightly rolled his hips.

“So fucking gorgeous, you take my cock so well honey…” he took hold of your calves. Bending your legs up and back before pulling them upwards over his shoulders. Pressing light kisses to your ankles and calves, before biting down lightly as he took a deep and long thrust.

Your head fell back, eyes rolling back as you moaned desperately. Unable to fight the pleasure that washed over you in overwhelming waves. Moaning desperately as you clenched your fists and whined desperately. “Don’t fucking stop, good god-“ you growled out as you took each bruising thrust. Eddie was filled with lust and stamina, his hips knocking into the backs of your thighs as you grinned. “So good-“ you whined lightly.

Eddie laughed to himself as he listened, his thrusts deep and overdrawn as he rocked into you. Each thrust felt deeper than the last, the pressure building up was addicting. His necklace thumping with each thrust against his chest. Your breasts lightly bouncing as he drank in the sight of you. You were gorgeous underneath him. Fucked out and pliant as he pat your cheek.

“Don’t stop looking at me sweetheart. Look at what you do to me…look at how good you make me feel.” He ordered as he felt himself getting worked up, losing a bit of control as he grinned to himself:

He leaned forward, pressing your legs into your chest as he angled your hips upwards. Causing him to reach deeper inside you, grinning. “You’re squeezing me real good, see, you can be real nice to have around…nicer to look at from this angle at least~” he cooed in a patronizing manner as he grinned.

The cacophony of moans, thrusts, panting, and the creaking of the mattress felt ridiculously loud. Flooding your brain and making your brain feel like putty as the pressure in your abdomen grew. Stomach growing tight as you whined.

“Eddie? I’m gonna cum-“ you whined as he laughed lightly.

“Not yet honey, not till I say…” he insisted as he kept his thrusts going. Making sure to hold you firmly in place beneath him. He was drunk on you.

“I’m getting close sweetheart, so what you’re gonna do is cum with me…okay? Can you do that?” He punctuated each question with a harsh thrust as you nodded your head obediently. “Good-“ he hummed as he carefully sped up, leaning down ad he pressed impossibly deeper.

Nose to nose with you, he hummed. His breaths growing ragged as he held onto your chin. “Now-“ he pushed.

You let go, whining as a searing white wave of pleasure rolled over you. Your orgasm rocking you as you whined. Coming back from your delirium as you felt the heat of his own orgasm filling you. His light rutting causing some to spill over as you whined and groaned.

Pressing a light kiss to your lips, Eddie hummed. “Same time next Thursday?”

——

Taglist: Open

@munson-blurbs

#eddie stranger things #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader

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gwiyeounsonyeon · 15 days

Text

Growing Pains CH2 (MWC Day 8!)

Pairing: RE2 Leon Kennedy x Male(Intended) Reader Summary: College AU/Meet-cute(?) The cute guy that Claire hangs out with finally works up the courage to talk to you. Words: 1,662/200 Warnings: a few curse words but that's to be expected. Notes: Leon is super shy and awkward, I haven't read through it but when I was writing the dialogue and the text between it felt pretty chunky so if anyone has notes about that please let me know, I'm experimenting a little with the paragraphs, let me know if you liked the smaller ones better.

☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ��︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Friday felt like it would never end, like you’d never be able to catch a break. You had to feel grateful, though, it hadn’t rained yet and your weather app told you it would be sunny all day. The extreme difference in the weather kept you reeling, back home the temperature and weather were usually consistent with the month, but after moving closer to school you'd noticed that the weather was a lot more sporadic here; yesterday it had been freezing and pouring for the majority of the day, getting as low as 10 °C with a warning for hail. Today was the complete opposite, the temperature had been between 26 and 32 °C with absolutely no clouds in sight. The extreme (and unwarranted) differences in the weather had left you staggering to catch up, you’d woken up that morning absolutely drenched in sweat and blinded by the sun. Having set your thermostat to keep up with the freezing temperatures outside and the poor insulation of your cheap apartment, since it had been cloudy all week you never bothered with your curtains or blinds but clearly that was a mistake.

You probably shouldn't say you hated Chicago, it was nice sometimes and the students here were pretty respectful. You could count on one hand all of the times you’ve actually had a bad customer experience and all of them centered around finals or exams. You look up as the bell dings and a customer enters, he’s huge, completely dwarfing you in size. As soon as he steps up to the counter you recognize him, his pale skin, and the weird markings on his face. You’ve heard Claire complaining about him time and time again, he was apparently so strict that no one in his classes has ever passed.

You highly doubted that no one’s ever passed but since she never gave you his name, and only referred to him as the Evil Tyrant of the West Wing, you could never fact-check her. Evil tyrant or not, you still had a job to do and money to make so, you put on your best smile and greeted him politely. He orders a black coffee and a triple shot of expresso, you’re a little intimidated by his voice, and maybe his order but you know plenty of guys with his stature and intimidating aura who are actually sweethearts. The order is simple, youve made it so many times for the poor professors who used to come by in the dead of night, it's pure muscle memory at this point. Getting his order made and totaled up on the register takes little to no thought, he waits like he's got better things to do, and before you can tell him he tosses the exact total onto the counter, paying without thanking (or tipping) you.

He scoops up his two drinks before marching out of the shop. His footsteps are loud and heavy, clunky boots dropping down hard onto the linoleum like you used to do as a pubescent 16-year-old throwing a tantrum, you think about how every time you did that your mom would call you disrespectful and she’d take away your phone. At that thought small smile forms on your face, you can't help but feel a little amused at the image of your tiny, 5’4 mother disciplining a man about as tall and wide as a skyscraper. “What an ass.” You huff and glance back down at the tip jar, it was a measly four bucks and some change, mostly quarters. You’ve had worse tips, at least this could buy you a water and maybe some peanuts or sunflower seeds if you chose right.

You lean against the counter and cast a glance out of the big windows at the front, the guy Claire eats with is out there looking like a terrified puppy, he’s gripping the handles of his bike tightly as the tyrant guy chews into him for something you can only imagine. You watch as the tyrant storms off, pretty dramatically, Claire's friend puts up his bike and locks it to the pole before coming inside, he flinches when he sees you watching and shakily pulls off his (stupid-looking) helmet. “You- uh… Did you see all that?” His voice shakes slightly and he fidgets with the helmet nervously “Maybe.” You shrug wanting to cut the guy some slack. “Was it something you wanted me to see?” He shakes his head and you go back to the register, “Then I guess I didn't see anything.” He visibly relaxes but his steps toward the counter are a little shaky, you’re already tapping his order into the register by the time he gets up to the counter. “I didn't even order yet…” He sounds a little flustered and you look up to see that his cheeks have gone pink. “You get the same thing every time.” You counter, tapping the green total button on the register, “What if I wanted something different.” His voice evens out like he's getting more comfortable. “Did you?” - “No.” You chuckle at the absurdity and shake your head.

“2.95 big guy.” There's a pause and you look up expectantly, he's looking at you star-struck but as soon as you make eye contact he fumbles for his wallet, dropping his helmet in the process. “Um- im so sorry…” He apologizes quickly, handing you a five and bending to pick up his helmet. “S’fine.” you pause to put his cash into the register and pull out his change. “Two-oh-five is your change.” You hand it back only for him to drop it into your tip jar, he smiles and takes his cookie when you hand it to him. “Is- uh. I mean- is Claire not here today?” He fumbles a little, tearing off pieces of his cookie.

You shake your head “Nah, not yet. Summer’s always slow.” He nods along with you, it's obvious he knows Claire isn't here. You look over at the windows again and check your watch, it's just about closing time. “Why is that?” He breaks the silence as you log out of the register, you look up at him a little caught off guard, “Hm? Why what?” His cheeks go pink and he fumbles for words- “Um… I mean- uh. Why is summer always slow?” You nod, understanding what he meant, and go back to the register with a shrug, “Luis says it’s ‘cause of the heat, no one wants hot drinks.” He nods slightly and finishes off his cookie, crumpling up the napkin as he lingers. It's not hard to see that he wants to keep talking to you and you almost feel bad for him, you finish logging off and nod in the direction of the trash can. “Bet you a free drink you can't get that into the trash from here.” You know you shouldn't be handing out drinks but he's too cute and it's the first thing that pops into your head.

He visibly lights up, his eyes get wider and his back straightens “Alright.” He looks back at the trash can by the door, taking his attention off of you. You can't help but admire him while he lines up his shot, he's got a cute side profile, he's pretty tall, and his hair looks nice and soft. He raises the napkin over his head and tosses it in, you tear your eyes away from the muscle in his arms to see the balled-up napkin bounce off the window and into the trash. He looks back at you with a shit-eating grin on his face, you shrug and smile back while turning to grab a cup. “I was on the basketball team in high school.” He says sounding more confident than he had earlier, you snort as he reveals this crucial information after he wins your little game.

“Guess I set myself up then, huh?” You get a cup and turn back to him, “Whatchu want?” He looks proud of himself, his shoulders relaxed and held back confidently. You can't help but think he looks handsome when he’s confident like this, the worry lines on his face disappear, his brows unfurrow, and he actually looks his age. “What if…” He trails off, his demeanor turning anxious again. He swallows hard, his adam’s apple bobbing with the effort, “uh- w- what if… I got your number, instead of a drink?” A smile forces its way onto your face, he looks so nervous he might give himself an aneurysm. You huff playfully, unable to resist, this has to be the highlight of your week.

You turn away from him to brew an iced coffee, It might be a little mean for you to draw this out, to make him worry more. “You want milk and sugar?” But you’ve always struggled with self-control. There's a long pause, before- “Ye… um yes please.” His voice is small and there's a slight shake if you listen close enough. You feel a little bad for doing this but you continue, you never pussy out. You finish brewing his coffee and in a smooth, well-practiced motion, you slap a sticker on the side and mark it with your name and number, putting a little x underneath.

You hand it to him and without giving him time to think or breathe you herd him out of the shop. “Gotta close, call me later.” You shut and lock the door as he stands in front of it bewildered, his brain takes a while to catch up and you see him look down at the coffee in his hand and start to turn around but you’re faster; turning off the open sign and closing the blinds with a speed that you should be using for more important things, like getting dressed when you’re late to class, or finishing an essay that's about to be overdue, not being mysterious to the cute guy who still hasn't given you his name.

☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

A/N: it's getting easier and easier to write already, it didn't take half as long as yesterday's did to get 1,000 words. It feels so much good to actually feel happy writing. I can't help but feel worried it's not going to last forever with my fluctuating mental health but I've been looking up a few books to help improve my writing, grammar, flow, and punctuation and I've been seeing a lot of these writers saying that it's okay for you to be worried about that and to just push through.

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archangeldyke-all · 5 months

Text

chapter 3 of my big fic coming out on the 24th as a final little teaser for all my readers <3 :)

men and minors dni

Your first month at The Last Drop is spent healing. You spend a lot of time with Jinx, coloring and listening to her chatter. You spend a lot of time polishing glasses and watering down liquor bottles at the bar on off hours. You spend a lot of time alone, in the silent corners of the giant building that is Silco’s headquarters.

You become fast friends with Lock, the giant tattooed man. He’s got a killer sense of humor, and most of his job consists of looking tough outside of Silco’s office. So when you’ve got nothing better to do, you’ll go visit him to chat. You get to know the names of the rest of the crew too.

Theriam works behind the bar. He’s a cool guy so long as you don’t make a mess on the bar top. Ran-- or as you and Lock call them, Bangs-- is a savant with numbers, geometry, and angles. They’ve never lost a pool game, they’ve never made an incorrect mental calculation, they’ve never missed a target, and they have a photographic memory. They also love karaoke, a fact you and Lock were delighted to find out one late night after the three of you split a bottle of bourbon. Singed is Silco’s doctor and shimmer guy, always tinkering away in his lab, playing with his various creatures. Deckard spends most of his time with Singed acting as a human guinea pig, trying out variants of the drug. And Sevika.

You don’t know anything about Sevika. From time to time you see her walking out of Silco’s office, but you’ve never spoken. She’s quiet and gruff, and she avoids you like the plague. You think maybe she was really emotionally attached to the boots you barfed on or something.

You’re often put on what’s referred to amongst the crew as ‘Jinx duty.’ You seem to be the only one who can tolerate her besides Ran and Lock. She’s a cute kid-- if a little disturbed. You haven’t figured out the full story about how she ended up in Silco’s care, but you get the gist. Orphaned children aren’t as rare as they should be in Zaun. You take her quirks in stride, or at least you try to. She seems to like you, though, so that’s all that matters.

Silco’s headquarters are big enough to house the whole crew. Singed and Deckard stay in the basement where the lab is. Lock, Ran and Theriam have rooms on the ground floor, behind the bar. Silco and Jinx have their quarters on the second floor in the east wing, and you’ve been staying in the west. Your room is sparse. A mattress on the ground, a dresser and bookshelf opposite it. You’ve managed to buy yourself new clothes and a few books but besides that, the room is empty. The green stained glass that lines the far wall is your favorite feature. You love watching people wander in and out of the bar all night, love watching the citizens of Zaun live their lives from your perch. You’ve started pinning up some of Jinx’s drawings on your walls to liven up the space.

You don’t know where Sevika stays. You think maybe she has her own place.

Once you get the all clear from Singed that your ribs won’t puncture your lungs if you move too vigorously, you start getting daily assignments. You get to join the rest of the crew in Silco’s office each morning as he gives out commands. Most of your assignments are Jinx related. You’re starting to suspect you’ve been hired as a nanny. You aren’t complaining.

Today, you and Jinx spent the day practicing self defense skills. Silco was adamant that she practice once a week, much to her dismay. “I just don’t get why I have to learn fighting with my hands when I can fight with guns and stuff.” She’d said.

“Tell you what… You do all your practice without complaining and I’ll teach you how to properly hold a knife.” You said. She agreed eagerly. After her hand to hand practice, an oath that she wouldn’t snitch to Silco on you for giving her a knife, and some basic grip practice, Jinx got bored and decided she wanted to color in your room. You agreed with a shrug.

“Do you ever talk to dead people?” Jinx asks you suddenly. You look up from your drawing of a dinosaur.

“Not anymore.” You say with a shrug. She looks up at you.

“You used to?”

“When I was about your age, yeah.” You say. She hums.

“Who’d you talk to?” She asks. You gulp.

“Uh, my parents mostly. My baby brothers, sometimes.”

“You had brothers?”

“Yeah. They were twins.”

“Cool!” She says. “Twins are super freaky!” You laugh. “I wish I had a twin. You know they have telepathy?”

“I think that’s just a myth.”

“No way.” Jinx says. “They totally do.” She returns to her drawing, humming.

“Who do you talk to?”

“My brothers. Sometimes Vander.”

“‘S that your dad?”

“No, I don’t remember my parents.” Jinx says. Your heart breaks for the poor kid. She’s clearly been through a lot. “Look!” She says, holding her paper up for you to examine. Two stick figures are framed by a rainbow of squiggles.

“You and Silco?”

“Yeah.”

“Nice. I like your hair in this one.” You say, pointing to the blue spikes sprouting from picture-Jinx’s head. “Where’s the rest of the crew?” You ask. Jinx pulls her page back and scribbles away to squeeze in some more figures. You watch in amusement as she draws. Ten minutes later, she finishes, turning her drawing around for your inspection. You laugh at the additional figures she’s added.

You can identify Singed and Deckard by the purple squiggles on their skin. Ran’s bangs make them easy to spot. The figure holding a bottle is obviously Theriam, the one with a red splotch on her neck is you. You particularly admire Jinx’s choice to color Lock’s tattoos green. You point to a figure with horns. “Who’s that one?” You ask.

“Sevika, duh.” She says. You laugh.

“What’s with the horns?”

“She’s evil.” Jinx whispers to you. You chuckle.

“What makes you say that? Silco likes her.”

“She hates me. She’s mean. She calls me ‘booger brains.’” You snort. “It’s not funny!” Jinx screeches.

“Sorry, sorry.” You say. “You should show that one to Silco. He’s gonna wanna hang it up.” You say.

“You think!?” Jinx asks, excited. You nod. She launches to her feet and takes off. You laugh as her little footsteps fade away as she runs to the other side of the building.

You slowly push yourself off the ground to follow after Jinx, your sides aching. You shuffle out of your room and start down the hall. When you finally catch up to her, she’s already standing beside where Silco sits at his desk, shoving her drawing in his face. He’s enamored, pointing to various figures on the page and listening to Jinx’s explanation of who they were meant to be. You smile from outside the office at the sweet family scene. Behind you, someone scoffs.

You whip around. Sevika’s looming behind you, watching the pair with a grimace.

“Hi.” You say. Sevika’s eyes flick to you, then back to Silco and Jinx.

“We’ve got a meeting.” She gruffs out, not looking at you.

“Oh. Cool.” You say. She scoffs again.

“You stupid or something?” She asks. You freeze.

“Sorry?”

“Go do your job and get the brat to scram so we can get to our meeting!” Sevika says. You blink in shock.

“My--wha--you--” You start, trying to figure out where to even begin with a reply to her demand. “You do it!” You spit out. Sevika finally looks at you. “You’re his personal assistant, you’re the one who’s gotta keep him on schedule.” You say.

“I’m not his fucking personal assistant.” Sevika growls, taking a step toward you. “You’re fucking lucky you’re--”

“Sevika!” Silco calls out from his office. Sevika freezes, two inches from your face, her face in a scowl. “Come in, we have to go over these numbers before our meeting.” She growls, then turns, hip checking Jinx when she passes her. Jinx grunts and stumbles, then turns around to stick her tongue out at Sevika. Sevika flips her off.

“Did you see that?!” Jinx asks you, scandalized. Sevika rolls her eyes.

“Jinx, Sevika, please. Some civility.” Silco grumbles, massaging his temples.

“She pushed me!” Jinx exclaims.

“If I pushed you, you’d be flat on your tiny ass.” Sevika snaps. Silco rubs his temples.

“Come on Jinx. Let’s go see what kinda juice Theriam’s got on tap.” You say. Jinx slinks out of the room, and Sevika’s eyes flick to yours. She scowls at you.

“Is she always like that?” You ask Jinx as you lead her down the hall toward the stairs. Jinx lets out a long suffering sigh.

“Always.”

taglist!

@lesbeaniegreenie @fyeahnix @sapphicsgirl @half-of-a-gay @ellabslut @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner @shimtarofstupidity @love-sugarr @chuucanchuucan @222danielaa @badbye666

#sevika #sevika imagine #sevika arcane #sevika x reader #sevika x you

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dearestones · 11 months

Text

Trouble in the Bathroom (Jade Leech and Reader)

Warnings: N/A.

Anonymous Request: Hi devin, i wish you all my congrats on the 750 :)) i hope the enormity of the number hits you! Like a train! Politely! Because the crafting of your words and character introspection is truly something to love :) a feet kicking, hair tearing, love. Thank you so much for all you write!!! With that, may i please request Jade Leech and "Did you want to be alone?" I was thinking the reader as the one asking the question, but whatever works :)) have a wonderful day <333

It’s not often when you find yourself with a bit of free time all to yourself. On most days, it seemed like you were forever bombarded by tasks that needed completing. Sometimes, it was the Headmage giving jobs tasks because he couldn’t be bothered to fulfill his duties to the school. Other times, it was because your friends needed help and had mastered the art of guilt-tripping you into doing them. You can’t say you were mad that you were made to do these things, but you would be lying if you were all right with lots of people taking advantage of you.

Had you been stronger, you would have stood up for yourself more, but at the moment, survival was at the very top of your priorities.

Today, you decided to leave the comfort of Ramshackle and take a walk around Night Raven College. You were well acquainted with most of the campus grounds, but you found that there was always something worth discovering. The last time you had gone on a walk, you found an abandoned classroom with a busted lock that you would often use as a little hideaway whenever you were feeling overwhelmed. On another occasion, you had wandered a fair way into the forested area behind Ramshackle and found that the silence there, while eerie, was peaceful and free from the prying eyes of your fellow students.

Over time, your wanderings had culminated in a vast network of sanctuaries that you could retire should you become weary of life as the magicless Prefect.

For now, you wanted to see where your legs would take you.

After deciding upon a direction and aimlessly walking forward, you found yourself heading towards the main campus building. Perhaps you would find a passageway behind a painting or maybe even a door that could lead you to another world! You could only hope; the last time you checked, the Headmage was up to his ears in reference texts and maps, but you were gradually losing faith in him. As you made your way up the many steps to the school doors, you found that there were a few other students milling about.

There were no particular dorms that dominated the students available, but you were quick to pick up on the fact that they were part of some club. What was it again? One of those culture clubs with a niche interest in mind? You apologized for interrupting their impromptu meeting before you began wandering the many winding halls within the main campus building.

As always, your curiosity led to your exploring the different classrooms along the west wing of the castle. Most of the classrooms were left unlocked and if you were to knock and open the door, you were either greeted with empty desks and chairs or you would find yourself ducking out the door with bashful apologies leaving your lips. There were even two classrooms–two!–in which you found yourself interrupting professors in the middle of a private tutoring session or grading a series of papers. Thankfully, the professors were mostly gracious and forgiving, and as a bonus, they were teachers you didn’t normally associate with because they mostly taught third year subjects.

As you braved the hallways again, taking time to rattle the doorknobs here and there, you caught sight of someone slipping into a nearby men’s bathroom. You happened to catch a glimpse of a broad back and teal hair before the door shut rapidly behind him, the sound of the door slamming reverberating in his wake.

You blinked, a little stunned.

There were very few people who fit that profile: tall, broad shouldered, and with a head of teal hair.

If your instincts were right, then maybe…

It had to be one of the Leech twins.

One question still remained, though: Which one?

As you traipsed through the hallway, taking the time to take a quick peek inside, you pondered your situation. Even though you spent a few days on Octavinelle’s wrong side after the release of the exam scores, you were confident that you were… amicable.

On good terms.

Sure, there were days when you could see one or both of the twins skulking at the edges of your periphery, but they didn’t bother you and you didn’t try to antagonize them either. In fact, there were times when you had enough money in your pocket that you even went to the Mostro Lounge of your own free will. If they were your servers, they often teased you, but treated you as well as they would with any other guest.

(Was it because Azul was using them to keep an eye on you? Perhaps, but again, you were still on relatively good terms. As long as you didn’t sign any golden contracts, you would be fine).

Well, if either Leech twin came out of the bathroom before you could leave this particular floor, you decided you would say hello and see where that would take you. After all, you didn’t have much to do anyway and it was guaranteed that either of the Leeches were keen on making things interesting.

As you reached the end of the hallway, the final classroom door revealed a student from Pomefiore taking a nap on one of the desks, a pile of textbooks serving as his pillow.

You stifled a laugh and began to leave the floor altogether when you began to hear a strange sound. At first, you thought you were hearing things, but as the sound became clearer, you began to realize that it was distinctly…Wet. And heavy. Almost as if something was slapping against the floor in a frenzied and confused manner.

You stopped in your tracks, instincts somewhat honed after several incidences of Overblot. If there was one thing you learned from this school, it was that you couldn’t play the hero. At least, not all the time. If this was a situation where a student was Overblotting or something close to that severity in nature, you needed to get help. You were a Prefect, sure, but that meant nothing.

You were human and worse, magicless.

It was that point, when you were only seconds away from bolting and finding the nearest professor for help, that you found yourself stalling in front of the bathroom door.

This was where the loud, heavy sounds were coming from.

This was where one of the Leech twins had made his grand entrance only minutes before.

And this was where you were going to leave and have someone else deal with the problem.

Yet–

You couldn’t do that. Night Raven College’s culture had taught you many things about self preservation and had hardened your kindness to something resembling steely pragmatism, but you couldn’t leave anyone you knew in trouble. It was in your nature. It was a calling for you: you had to, you needed to help.

Carefully, just like you did with the classroom doors from moments ago, you knocked on the bathroom door. Almost instantly, the sounds stopped.

But then another one started.

It started out as a growl before it was followed by a chittering sound. Chills ran up your spine as you heard something drag across the floor, as if whoever was on the other side was trying to carry something heavy and wet along the tiles. As alien and foreign these sounds were in conjunction with each other, you knew that you couldn’t just leave. You were given a job as Beast Tamer by the Headmage (whatever that was), and that usually meant that you couldn’t leave things like this alone.

For all you knew, one of the Leeches could be in trouble–a thought that never seemed plausible until now.

You knocked again.

The growling and chittering grew louder, almost manic.

“Hey, it’s me!” You raised your voice, careful to remain placating and calm. On the other side, you heard the growl abruptly cease, almost as if the one who growled was surprised. That’s good. You can deal with surprise. “Ah, are you hurt? Can I come in?”

A pause where all you heard was the sound of something slapping once more on the floor before someone deeply sighed.

“I am in no condition to open the door, Prefect.”

Ah, with the low, professional tone of voice paired with the formality of using your title, you knew it was Jade. Relaxed because you now knew who was on the other side, you pulled out your phone from your pocket, a quick call to Azul already on your mind.

Still, though, you wanted to make sure.

“Is it okay if I text Azul? Or maybe Floyd?” At Jade’s confirmation, you punched in a text message to both Azul and Floyd. Hopefully, one of them understood the urgency of this situation. Satisfied that someone outside of yourself knew that Jade was in trouble, you sat with your back against the door, careful not to accidentally open it. “Did you want to be alone? I can leave if you want me to.”

For a moment, you thought that maybe Jade had fallen asleep or was going to ignore you completely, but eventually, you heard that same, horribly wet and heavy sound drag along the floor. And then–

“Do keep quiet when you open the door. We wouldn’t want to disturb the student sleeping in one of the classrooms.”

Brushing aside the fact that Jade knew that you weren’t the only one on this floor besides himself, you stood up from your crouched position and opened the door. Like approaching a wild animal, you inched the door open slowly and as quietly as possible. There was only so much patience Jade had, and right now, in a situation as precarious as this, you didn’t want to chance getting hurt. Floyd may be the twin to revel in his violent tendencies, but something inside of you knew that you didn’t want to cross Jade today of all days.

As you moved inside the bathroom, the door quickly shutting behind you, you kept your eyes low so as to give Jade a semblance of privacy should he change his mind. The first thing you noticed was that the floor was slick with water and globules of what looked like slime. Or was it mucus? You couldn’t tell because the lights within the bathroom had been turned off, the only source of fluorescence coming from a small window high on the wall.

Furthermore, as your eyes traced the tiles beneath your feet, you could hear the telltale sound of running water… which was accompanied by the horrifying visual of all of the sinks in the bathroom overflowing with a stream that spilled over the porcelain sinks and onto the floor.

Instinctively, you ran to the sinks, mindful of the growing puddles under your feet that wet your socks and the hem of your uniform. However, before you could turn off one of the faucets, you felt rather than heard a monstrous mass slither behind you, the same dragging sound in full clarity.

In a voice that was more growl than intelligible speech, the monstrous mass hissed, “Don’t touch it.”

It was Jade.

Your hand, which had been confidently pressed onto the faucet’s knob, shook as you practically tore yourself away from it–as if you had accidentally touched a searing hot stove. As you forced your arms to relax at your sides, you raised your head and stared directly into the mirror.

Behind you, Jade was curled into himself, as if he was trying to make himself appear taller. However, the illusion fell flat because the way he curled in on himself looked uncomfortable bordering on painful. You had seen his true form a few times before, but on those occasions, he was safely in his element: free and sprawling. Here, in the dank confines of a bathroom that could only afford him puddles and a makeshift waterfall, you could see that he was struggling.

You turned around and took a few steps before bending before him, your lips pursed into a thin line.

“And here I thought Floyd was the irresponsible one.”

Jade chuckled, or at least, he tried to, but you noticed that the gills on his sides were flaring and heaving with every breath he took. Talking, or actions close to talking must have hurt him! No wonder he was so volatile even when you sent for help!

Before he could say anything or growl again, you took off your uniform blazer and headed towards the sinks. The cloth was easy to soak, but it was not an easy task to wrap your blazer around Jade’s sides. Perhaps it was old instincts rearing in him again–to not trust someone who clearly had the upper hand even if he was an apex predator in his hometown–but you were wary and a little bit insulted that he would think that you would hurt him.

Scolding him gently, you combatted the hissing and swift snapping of his jaws with a stern look. “Come on, the cloth is soaked and filled with water. It’ll keep the skin around your gills moist.” You watched as he took in your logic before he begrudgingly nodded his head in defeat.

No words yet, but you assumed that he would be teasing you and your attempts at intimidation later.

Carefully, you wrapped the blazer around his side after rehydrating it with more water. Once he was moist again, you directed him to slide or flop closer to the sinks so that he could lay under the makeshift waterfalls. It exhausted him to move closer to the sink, the massive bulk of his body hindering his speed and power, but you were available to push or drag him around the tail.

“Geeze,” you muttered more to yourself than to him. “What’s the point of having the sinks overflow if you won’t stay underneath them?”

“Because,” Jade gasped, his head tilted back so he could allow the water to flow in and around the fins that replaced his ears, “I didn’t want to block the doorway.” His bright golden eye flashed open and pinned you to the floor with his piercing, knowing gaze. “You wanted to stay, correct?”

Before you knew it, you dashed some water from the sink and straight into his face, not at all caring how he spluttered from the sudden barrage. “You didn’t want to be alone,” you taunted.

His tail whipped behind you, muscles thick and strong, but not once did you feel like you were in danger.

Jade’s eyes seemed to soften, but you dare not think that you were out of the woods yet. The gold in his eye was all the more deadly in the low lighting of the bathroom. “Violence doesn’t become you, Prefect.”

“Quit with the teasing and I won’t resort to violence.”

He bobbed his head in concession, a low hum emitting from his throat. “Then I suppose I should thank you for your services rendered this afternoon.”

“Oh, hush. You’re in no condition to speak now, even if you have running water. We can talk about payment later.”

Jade’s smile grew cold, but wide nonetheless. “So the Prefect does have fangs after all. May I have a hint as to what you want in return?”

You plopped on the ground, too tired of crouching at his side after your physical exertion and the tension that lined this encounter. Your pants and socks had long since been soaked, but now, underneath the sink’s waterfall, you were waterlogged as if you spent your time in one of the Octavinelle pools.

“You either wash this uniform or you get me a new one.” One of your fingers darted out as if to poke the blazer that still lay on his gills, but a warning growl made you stop in your tracks. You rolled your eyes, but obeyed the command. “Also, I want a promise that you won’t forget your transformation potion again. I already have had heart attacks with the Overblots. I don’t need you to add to that stress.”

“Two wishes for only one act of kindness?” He whispered the word kindness as if he was uttering something foreign to him. Perhaps it was. “You ask for too much.”

You shrugged before pinning him with a malicious grin. “I learned from the best.”

He chuckled before he finally allowed his head to rest along the tiled floor. Vulnerable now, you could easily step on his windpipe or gouge out his gills if you were quick enough.

But this act of trust spoke volumes.

“It’s a deal then, Prefect.”

If you want to donate a Ko-Fi, feel free https://ko-fi.com/devintrinidad.

TWISTED WONDERLAND MASTERLIST

#twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland jade #twst jade #jade leech #twisted wonderland jade leech #twst jade leech #twisted wonderland reader #twst reader #jade leech and reader #twst jade and reader #twisted wonderland jade and reader #gender neutral reader #gn! reader #dearestones #devintrinidad

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fizzyxcustard · 1 year

Text

Christmas Memories.

Fandom: Robin Hood (BBC TV series)

Pairing: Guy of Gisborne x Fem!Reader (slight)

Warnings: Very, very slight sexual reference.

Summary: From the imagine, "Imagine telling Guy about your 21st century Christmas traditions." Requested by @whoooooisthis

Comments: If you would like to be added to or removed from my tag list, please let me know. I hope you enjoy, and Merry Christmas! <3

A blizzard had blanketed the whole of Nottingham in a vast coverage of cold white. Everything was white. And the wind swept around you, its bite scratching at your skin. Your cheeks were tinged red as you escaped the freezing gloom and alighted onto the ground floor of the castle.

Guards were posted everywhere, ready to strike at Gisborne or the Sheriff’s demand. In your time here, however, you had come to know many of them. They knew that you were new to Nottingham, having come from lands afar. Little did they know, that far off land was time, approximately nine hundred years in the future. Everyone just assumed you were from another town or city within England. And you had gone along with the story, lying to everyone.

You made your way towards your bed chamber, which was situated in the west wing of the castle. Employment had come to you quick and easy; you were a maid in the castle, attending to laundry, general upkeep of rooms and cleaning duties. It was fair work, offering you enough money to maintain your room and buy food, and maybe the odd piece of clothing from the market every other week.

The chill was inescapable and felt as if it were cocooning you. It made you run down the hall, needing to get into your chamber and start a fire.

Inside your chamber and you were shocked to see Gisborne there, having started a fire already. “I thought you might need some warming up,” he said with a sly smirk. That smirk could make even the coldest part of your body begin to feel warm. It began as a little ball of warmth in the pit of your stomach and then ignited, spreading outward. “I’ve called for some food, too,” he continued.

“That’s very sweet of you,” you replied. You hurried to the open fire and placed your hands a few inches from it, palms down. The heat was so soothing. “That is so much better.” You groaned with pleasure that the heat brought you.

Guy smiled to himself again and felt a stir further south at the sound of your groan. If only he could hear that sound again, with you wrapped around him. But he pushed that thought away…for now.

“Just like a winter wonderland outside,” you pondered, speaking out loud. “It reminds me of Christmas.”

Guy raised his eyebrow. “What is that?”

As you remained crouched in front of the fire, Guy sat beside you. He watched the gold and orange hues dance over your beautiful face. They highlighted your eyes, making them sparkle like a long lost gem.

“Oh, it’s um…” you began. You’d momentarily forgot where you were. Could you even begin to explain to Guy where you had come from? Would he believe such a far-fetched story? You doubted it. “It’s a festival that we celebrate at the end of the year, where I come from I mean. We give gifts to each other and decorate trees with little ornaments.”

Guy merely raised his eyebrow, but continued to watch you, hoping that you would continue speaking.

By now and the wind had gotten up outside. You could hear the howl of the wind, sounding like a banshee flying around in the night air.

“I’ve always loved Christmas, although I doubt I’ll ever celebrate it again,” you said sadly. You looked to your right hand side to see Guy’s silver blue gaze locked on you.

“Why do you say that?” he asked.

“I can’t ever see myself going home. It’s too far away for me to go.”

“You got here, so why can you not go back? Maybe you could celebrate this Christmas here? We could, perhaps, celebrate together?”

Beneath the cruelty and greed that everyone saw within Gisborne’s outer shell, was an optimism that he only ever seemed to show when in your company. It was as if you drew out the dreamer within him. The hope in his eyes made you smile, but soon after you looked away in embarrassment, not able to maintain eye contact.

“That was stupid of me to suggest,” Guy hissed, aggravated with himself. He had taken the sign of your smile to mean you were amused by his proposal.

“No!” you exclaimed. “You’ve made me feel so welcome here, and I’d be honoured to celebrate with you. No one has been as interested in me or my life back home. You’re the only one who has asked any questions.”

Guy reached out and brushed his fingertips across your hand, feeling that spark within him come to life so much more powerful than before. He kept his gaze locked on yours, praying that you wouldn’t break contact like you usually did. Then he moved his head closer, acting on the sign that you were still watching him. Your head was also moving forward, and he exhaled quietly.

Suddenly a tap at your door pulled you from the spell that had surrounded you. Guy growled and got to his feet, ready to answer the door.

***

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#Guy of Gisborne #BBC Robin Hood #Richard Armitage #Guy of Gisborne x You #Guy of Gisborne x Reader #Guy of Gisborne x Fem!Reader #Christmas

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tamurilofrivendell · 1 year

Text

Beauty and the Beast | Chapter 24

Previous Chapters [1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23] Read on AO3 [x]

Pairing: Thranduil/Fem. Reader Summary: A Beauty and the Beast inspired tale with Thranduil the Elvenking and a human reader from a nearby village Taglist: @captainchrisstan, @rebleforkicks, @yjrevolution, @majahu, @honey-wine, @accio-boys, @achromaticerebus, @solomonssimp, @tired-ass-show-girl, @dreamlessnight, @daddy-long-legolas, @sleepyamygdala, @coopsgirl a/n: This chapter is less of an event and more of a little look into both Thranduil and reader’s minds as they continue to realise their growing feelings for each other.

Once the queen’s begetting day was behind him, Thranduil resumed his duties and was all business as usual. At least outwardly. Inside, he was still attempting to quell the rising emotions that he was becoming more aware of with each passing day. Emotions regarding you. Part of him could still not quite get over the way you had come into the West Wing the way you had, seeking him out if only to see if he was well. Why would you do that? He couldn’t help but wonder.

He had seen flickers in your eyes over your time here, during the days you and he became... close. Flickers of emotion and unspoken words. Thranduil had dismissed them every time, chalking it up to his own imagination. Though why he assumed his imagination would conjure up such things he did not allow himself to study too closely. Still, in the back of his mind, he knew it was there. You had started to look at him in a way that he could not fully ignore. There was... yearning. Sorrow. Love?

No, he dare not think that possible.

Thranduil told himself not to be so foolish. First, he should not even be entertaining such ludicrous thoughts. Second, it was only a dream... an enchanting little dream, but a dream nonetheless. Nothing more. He had become so fraught with rage and despair and darkness since his wife’s passing. You had witnessed all of it firsthand many times over and, while you seemed to be a lot more comfortable with him, he could not delude himself.

You could never love such a beast.

You had come to him as a prisoner, a human no less, and he reminded himself of the fact he had been so certain he could never again feel for another, not in the way he had his wife. His broken heart had been frozen in a block of unbreakable ice for the rest of eternity and it could not be thawed. Not at his will and not by the likes of a little human.

Still, sometimes, he found himself entertaining the idea. Frustratingly, he found himself seeking the thought out, as if it brought him some sort of... comfort. Thranduil could no longer fully understand himself. These sorts of emotions and thoughts had been locked up in a secret part of him for centuries. He had not even recognised them at first... but he was beginning to now.

He did not know how to feel about it.

The king threw himself into his duties to avoid falling into the trap of fully entertaining the entire fantastical notion. He had councils to attend, people to look after, defence of the borders to oversee. Not to mention a feast to ready himself for. It was one of his favourite things, to see all of his people come together in joy. Dancing and drinking and laughing the nights away. Despite his often stony exterior, Thranduil very much enjoyed seeing his people finding the light and the love in this kingdom, that had become so dark.

It always reminded him that they would endure.

You were excited about the upcoming elven festival. You had managed to glean that it was a winter festival. The snow had almost all but melted away, not having stayed more than a few days after you and Thranduil had your excursion into the garden, but winter had not yet given way to the coming of spring.

The elves referred to it as Mereth Di a Rhîw Menel, which you were told meant, literally, ‘Festival Beneath a Winter Sky’. No matter how many times somebody told you, you always forgot it. Still, you were eager for the days to pass and for the festivities to get here. The excited energy you could feel around you was infectious and you liked seeing everybody looking so light and free.

You also could not quite stop thinking about Thranduil and the queen’s begetting day. Your heart felt heavy every time you did so. You felt so bad for him, losing his wife at all, but the way he had told you that she died was beyond your comprehension. The way he explained that he had been lured into a trap meant to capture him and, depsite his efforts to fight back, his queen had been brutally slain before his very eyes. He had not been able to protect her, or many of his people. One had caused him to shut away his heart and one had caused him to shut away his entire kingdom. You did not think you would have still been walking around, you would be catatonic with grief... he was incredibly strong.

It did not escape you. That Thranduil opening up to you had been something incredibly significant. When you first arrived in this realm, everybody had been incredibly quick to draw your attention away from the queen’s chambers but had never stated why. She had not been mentioned at all. Without anybody having to tell you in words, you just knew it was because Thranduil had probably forbidden it. He had been so stricken by his loss and his guilt, you realised, that he had forbidden his own wife from being so much as whispered about in his halls.

It did not strike you as an act bidden from a heart of stone, but that of a broken soul who did not know how to deal with the pain and so shut it out to the best of its ability. To carry that around for centuries as he must have? You could not fathom.

You had been so wrong in your first impression of the king. He hadn’t given you much room to see him in another light, of course, but there was something in him that you simply had not seen. You understood him a lot more now and... you felt for him.

Indeed, it seemed that for the both of you, your impressions had been so beyond what either of you had believed to be true.

Thranduil had seen a mere mortal girl. Unimportant and of no real use. Perhaps a little below him and his kind. He thought all life precious, this much was true, but when faced with mortal kind Thranduil had, over the years, began to withdraw... even look down his nose just a little.

His lack of trust in those outside of his own realm had grown and festered until it was simply too big for him to control. The race of men was weak, with little regard for those around them, even their own kind at times from what he had heard. There were some who were noble enough of heart, he supposed, but as a whole they were insignificant and he kept them at arms length, as he did with dwarves, even wizards.

However, you had been a complete surprise. He had looked upon you, at first, as a means to an end. He had wanted your father punished for the attack on his son and for the death of that precious Starfire Rose, and it mattered not to him how that punishment was dealt. Keeping you here would obviously hurt your father just as much as if he had kept the man here himself, he had been able to see that right away. The bond between the both of you was a true, deep one. So he had allowed it, swapped you out for your father, satisfied in the knowledge that it would indeed still be a punishment.

Then things had changed... he couldn’t even pinpoint the exact moment that they had, the moment his own feelings had changed, but they had all the same.

You, too, had at first only seen a cruel, callous dictator who revelled in his own power. A horrible beast of a creature, who lived only to deal out despair and sorrow upon those around him, who did not listen to reason and who seemed to thrive entirely on spite. He had frightened you. Terrified you, even.

Then he had saved you from those orcs and you had saved him in return and... that seemed to have been the turning point. Then, that day up in the West Wing, when he first showed you the roses and explained everything, you had felt a massive shift. You started to feel at home here... at home around him.

You had both seen things in each other that you had not noticed before, simply because neither of you showed them and neither of you had been looking.

#thranduil x reader #thranduil x you #thranduil fanfic #lotr x reader #lotr fanfic #hobbit x reader #hobbit fanfic #beauty and the beast

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alby-rei · 2 months

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Comte's Ghost Mansion (IkeVamp; Luig's Mansion AU) Part 4

a/n: What do you mean this silly ghost AU has LORE??? What will you do against a playful ghost who can split himself into multiples? Only one way to find out! Happy reading~ ✨

Tags: Humor, Crack treated seriously, Luigi’s Mansion AU, Spooky scary spectral vampires, Ghostbuster MC Word Count: ~1900 words Characters: You, Sebastian, Ghost!Arthur Previous: Part 3 Next: Part 5

~*~

You returned to Sebastian, retelling the events of your incursion. The rain had stopped by now and the clouds parted. He scrawled furiously in his notebook, like your words were made of gold. You expected him to be mad at you for capturing a couple of his esteemed residents.

“While I should be, I’m more impressed that you succeeded at all. They’ll be fine. Keep up the good work.”

He took the Poltergust off your shoulders.

“I suppose an explanation is in order,” he said.

“About time, yeah.”

“Follow me.”

Sebastian ushered you into the garden shed. It was a lot bigger than its exterior suggested. Sebastian unlocked a compartment at the bottom of the machine. Two portrait paintings emerged, one for each captured resident. The musician maintained the scowl he wore upon capture while the trapeze artist smiled ear to ear with his eyes closed.

“He’s a writer actually,” Sebastian corrected you regarding the latter.

“A clown-ish one,” you added.

Sebastian chuckled. “It’s part of his charm. Come, I made you some food. You must be starving.”

“Yes, please!”

He asked for your choice of beverage, impressing you with the variety he listed. Alongside it, he brought you some bread, cheese, and a handful of washed grapes.

“I grew them myself in this garden,” said Sebastian, referring to the grapes.

You thanked him for the food. While nowhere near a full meal, it regained some of your energy.

“How long till the sunrise?” You asked.

“Not for another six hours or so.”

This was going to be a long night.

A yawn escaped past your lips, but you had no desire to sleep. You returned the conversation to the portrait paintings. Sebastian explained that the residents weren’t originally ghosts, but some mysterious event caused their spirits to roam at night.

One of the residents, a bright-minded inventor, built the Poltergust 1899 to take care of that. As the only unaffected human, it was Sebastian’s job to capture them, lest they escaped the mansion and never returned.

Every night, Sebastian patrolled the halls. And every morning, he placed the portrait painting above their bed to return the spirit to its vessel. When the residents woke up, they retained no memory of their ghostly wandering.

“And what made you think it was okay to put me in harm’s way?” You said, quirking an eyebrow.

“Harm? They won’t hurt you. Unless you disturbed them in some way, like I had specifically instructed you not to.”

You mumbled some excuse, but Sebastian was not convinced. What you had not noticed before were the dark circles under his eyes. Fighting off those ghosts was not so terrible, you persuaded yourself, and you had nothing else to do for the next six sleepless hours. It was kind of fun, in a strange way. A far departure from your regular life. And if it all turned out to be a dream, you wanted to see it through till the end.

After a good while of rest, you asked Sebastian to hand over the refueled Poltergust.

He raised his eyebrows. “You’re willing to go back in?”

“You, sir, still need to find me a way home. But until then, I’ll take care of it.”

He thanked you profusely and became quite animated. Upon seeing your shocked face, he pardoned his excitement and returned to his stoic self.

To ease your journey, he replaced the residents’ belongings in your pouch with a master key and a map.

You decided to explore the west wing this time. The first unlocked door revealed a massive library with aisles of bookshelves on two floors.

You’ve come to realize that everything in this mansion was so…grand. No wonder the butler looked tired. If he held sole responsibility for the whole manor’s upkeep, of course he would jump at the opportunity to enlist your help.

Walking by the bookshelves, your bookworm heart could not help but inspect the titles of each aisle. Most of them were written in French, some were in English, and the rest were new to you.

Something skittered down from the ceiling. It was a colony of cotton-like creatures with little bat wings and dotted black eyes. You waved the tube of the Poltergust at them, but they weren't affected by your presence. They seemed harmless. Cute, even.

"There you are, Sebas!" A voice called out behind you.

You tried to turn around, but you could not move, as though you were tied up. "Oh dear, you're not Sebastian at all." The voice lilted, sounding amused rather than disappointed.

"Let me go!" You wiggled as hard as you could. As you did, the invisible rope around you took shape as two tweed-covered arms.

"Easy there, dove. It wouldn't do for a pretty bird to injure itself in its haste."

You pushed your elbows as far back as you could; you just needed to reach the switch on the machine.

"Where are my manners? The name's Arthur, mystery writer at your service, but you can call me anytime." He winked.

Another writer, another clown. But some things were better left unsaid, you reminded yourself. You implored him again to release you.

“Humor me, why don’t you? I’ve been deprived of good company for so long.” You could practically see his pouty lips and puppy-dog eyes matching his tone. “Oh, I’ve got it! Let’s play a game, shall we?”

He let you go. Just as before, when you reached for the doorknob, it was locked. You readied your Poltergust 1899, bracing yourself for whatever he may throw at you.

When you turned back around, there were three of him. Three separate, identical copies of him. They all wore the same blue three-piece suit with a loose tie, just as they all wore the same cheeky grin.

“Turning your back in a duel may prove a fatal mistake, my dear,” said one of them. “But I am nothing if not a gentle-ghost. Here’s how this game works: Only one of us is the real Arthur. If you can catch the real me, you win. If you catch one of my clones, we get to play again.”

A one-in-three shot at nabbing the right one. Not the worst odds, you reckon, but choose incorrectly and you may find yourself stuck here way longer than your patience would allow. You had no negotiation power in the matter.

“Fine, I’ll play your little game.”

The three ghosts beamed excitedly, zipping around with incredible speed. They roamed freely in and out of the bookshelves. Every now and then, they would look back at you, like puppies making sure their master was still playing along.

It was one thing to play spot-the-difference when hovered side-by-side, it was another thing entirely when they were zooming around like children riding out a sugar rush. There must be some way to slow them down, you thought.

Your first attempt was to brute force it—aim at the nearest one and see what happens. You caught one on his path out of a bookshelf, but a well-timed levitating book took the hit and blocked the vacuum tube, allowing him to escape. It was a copy of ‘A Study in Scarlet’.

“Cheeky,” he lilted. “But I won’t go easy on you. Unless you could offer me something enticing in return.”

With every word he uttered, your desire to put him in his place only rose.

More books were pulled out of their stations to shield the frivolous phantoms. You tried to move them out of the way, similar to how you did with the violins, but these books were too light and stuck to your tube instantly. There was not enough resistance to redirect their course.

You needed a way to shoot them far enough to secure a capture.

You leaned against a bookshelf between the aisles to catch your breath. You had been running around with little success. Seeing you dispirited, the flirtatious triplets hovered around you, leaning out of the bookshelves with arms crossed.

“Well, this is no fun,” said the first in front of you.

“How about a hint?” said the second to your right.

“And a prize for your efforts!” said the third to your left.

While they chatted over ‘prize’ ideas, you look at each one properly. There actually were some differences between them. One of them, floating in front of you, pushed up his square-frame glasses, and you wondered if it had always been there. The one to your left wore a golden earring at the top of his right ear. It did not seem incorporeal like the rest of him. Like he wore it specifically for the occasion. The last one wore gloves of midnight black.

The earring bearer spoke next, “I can confidently tell you that I’m not the real Arthur.”

The one wearing gloves added, “In fact, he’s the real Arthur.” He pointed at the glasses-wearing ghost.

“Me?!” The accused shot back. “I say that’s a bold-faced lie!”

“And the best part,” said the third. “Only one of us is telling the truth. Good luck!”

And they were back to their zooming selves. The machine weighed you down the longer it remained on your back. It’s low rumble went from soothing to distracting as you tried to think.

If the second one is telling the truth…then the first one is lying.

There was also the issue of the troublesome books that each one kept near and dear. You kept trying anyway. Each book that you caught was replaced by another. Half of the bookshelves were emptied by now. You wondered if there was a limit to their range. All the while, the frivolous phantoms observed your strategy with intrigue.

But if the first is lying, then there would be two real Arthurs. A contradiction.

The glasses-wearing one had a tendency to loop like an infinite symbol, like his course was predefined. The earring bearer always stayed in your vision, but just out of reach.

On the other hand, if the second is lying… then the glasses-wearer was telling the truth.

Another book obscured your aim. A copy of Bram Stoker’s ‘Dracula’. In your frustration, you reversed the strength dial a little too far, and it shot the book up onto the second floor of the library.

And if that’s the case, then the first is lying, too. It’s worth a shot.

“Hey! That was one of my favorites,” said the earring-bearing ghost. He turned to fly after it, and that’s when your opportunity arose.

It must be you!

With a strong conviction, you cranked up the strength of the Poltergust and aimed at the retreating ghost.

“Looks like turning your back was your fatal mistake, sir.”

As soon as his tail was caught in the machine, the other two phantoms vanished in a show of smoke.

You heard something clank against the floor. It was the golden earring, and beside it was a little treasure chest. Inside it was a brilliant blue gem, and a message saying, ‘Best two out of three?’

You rolled your eyes, trying your best to push down the smile that made your cheeks hurt. The click of the library door signaled that it was unlocked again. You sighed with relief and made your way down the hall to the next target with Sebastian’s map as your guide.

~*~

Tagging: @starlitmanor-network

Back to Masterlist

#ikevamp arthur #ikevamp arthur x reader #ikemen vampire #ikevamp fanfiction #ikemen vampire arthur conan doyle #ikevamp writing #arthur x reader #arthur x mc #arthur x you #starlitmanornetwork #alby rei #ghost mansion au #luigi's mansion au #ghostbuster mc #spooky scary sparkly vamps

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tomorrowusa · 7 months

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Too many liberals in bubbles have this peculiar view of US politics that it's supposed to be like the Oxford Debating Society where the person with the soundest argument wins.

Such people need to quit watching reruns of "The West Wing" on auto-repeat. 😆🤣😃

Whether you like it or not, if you are personally attacked by your opponent then the most effective thing is to hit back in kind twice as hard. That's what needs to happen to Trump.

And nobody is as vulnerable to personal attacks as Donald Trump. Late night comics and political cartoonists did more to defeat Donald Trump's re-election bid than all the terabytes of position papers and political analyses combined.

As I argued last time around, the best hope may lie in messages that Win It Back hasn't been as eager to test. They must strip him of the strongman persona he tries so hard to create: Use ads that portray him as a laughingstock and paint his supporters as chumps. Make it embarrassing to support Trump—so that wearing a MAGA hat in public feels like wearing an advertisement for your favorite hemorrhoid cream. Trump's been walking right into that potential trap in recent weeks by delivering rally speeches that sound like complete gibberish, peppered with verbal flubs that Fox News would base entire news cycles around if it were a Democrat making the gaffe. Any ad campaign looking to prove Trump to be a bumbling clown clinging only tenuously to his own persona would have ample material to work with. Republican primary voters don't mind that Trump tried to overthrow the government, because Republican primary voters think that, well, maybe they ought to be able to do that if Black Americans keep insisting on their rights or if Fox News throws up another B-reel of migrants wading across the southern border to ask for asylum. But Republican primary voters do care—a lot—that so much of the rest of the country considers them to be muleheaded saps.

You might think that all the voters have seen all the derisive stuff about Trump. But not everybody has the same media menu that we do.

Of course the hardcore MAGA cultists will stick with Trump even if he personally poops the digested remnants of well-done steak with ketchup on them. But there are some squishy backers who are just going along for the ride. And there are also low information voters who don't pay a lot of attention to politics who need to know that Trump is an unstable crackpot who kept classified nuclear secrets in boxes next to his toilet.

The more personal, the better – though such interjections probably need to have at least a small grain of truth in them so they can't be completely refuted.

With numerous elections in states that are decided by less than two percent of the vote, every little bit helps. Just referring to Trump as a "nut" may go a lot further with some people than a long-winded explanation of how his poor response to the COVID-19 emergency led to hundreds of thousands of deaths and a terrible hit on the US economy.

Nobody wants to be associated with a loser. Making personal fun of Trump in various ways will go far if done propitiously.

#donald trump #make fun of trump #mock trump mercilessly #personal attacks #republicans #election 2024

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foxghost · 1 year

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Joyful Reunion

Translator: foxghost @foxghost tumblr/ko-fi1 Beta: meet-me-in-oblivion @meet-me-in-oblivion tumblr Original by 非天夜翔 Fei Tian Ye Xiang Masterpost | Characters, Maps & Other Reference Index

A Bird’s Eye View of the Realm2

“Duan Ling! Duan Ling —!”

Riding on Wanlibenxiao, Wu Du charges all the way out of the capital of Jiangzhou. He stares at Duan Ling with an exasperated look on his face. On a side road just beyond the capital’s walls, Duan Ling turns his horse around unhurriedly beneath the star-studded night sky with a brilliant Silver River cutting through the background. Edged with starlight, Duan Ling smiles at Wu Du.

“Let’s go?” Duan Ling says.

“Let’s go? Your emperor uncle is going to skin your lord and master!” Wu Du’s not sure if he should laugh or cry.

Duan Ling heaves a sigh and nods with a frown, ready to head back to the city with Wu Du. But seeing him like this, Wu Du just can’t bear to make him go back to the palace. It’s almost like if he could wipe that frown off Duan Ling’s face, it’s worth getting himself skinned.

“Come on then … Where’d you want to go?” Wu Du says, “Come on over here.”

Duan Ling’s frown disappears, turning into a smile. “Seriously?”

“Where to?” Wu Du asks. “The sun’s going to come up soon. What could be so important that you couldn’t forget it by the time you wake up again anyway?”

“To the ends of the earth,” Duan Ling says, slowly approaching Wu Du on horseback.

Wu Du shoots a glance at Duan Ling. “Let’s go then. I’ll let you go wherever you want, even to the ends of the earth.”

Duan Ling puts his foot into Wu Du’s stirrup, and with a swing of his leg over Benxiao’s back, he’s sitting in front of Wu Du. Now that they’re sharing a horse, Wu Du shakes the reins and shouts, “Gup!”

Benxiao runs on four hooves as though stepping on clouds, onto a Jiangzhou highway swirling with mist, kicking up a great trail of dust. The humidity of morning mist brushes them by, and the stars of the Silver River above gradually fade away until they all vanish in a flash of morning sunlight. A red sun surges above the horizon at the end of the Yangtze, bestowing this world new life.

“Whatever happened last night?” Wu Du whispers, putting his arms around Duan Ling so that he’s encircled, and protected.

“Last night’s stars and last night’s wind, west of the painted tower east of the hall …” Duan Ling recites smilingly.3

“We lack a butterfly’s wings and thus cannot fly as one, but my heart and yours will sing as one —” Wu Du follows by reciting the next line.

“We play pass the hook and drink warm spring wine, the shell game is fun and the candles are especially red …”

His memories gradually take him back to a time in the Illustrious Hall, and the voices of children reciting poetry join him in unison.

“Ah, I hear the nightwatchman’s clapper signalling roll-call — I spur my horse onwards but my heart only spins in place.”

Curled up in Wu Du’s arms, Duan Ling slowly nods off. Upon exiting the Jiangzhou highway, the ponds to the left and right of the road are blanketed with the remnants of lotus leaves. The morning breeze sends a ripple through the water, its crystalline lines reflecting the boundless blue sky.

Wu Du brings him all the way north, fording the Yangtze, turning into a gust of wind as they gallop past golden rice paddies, past the wide open prairies with the returning geese flying overhead, through puddles big and small left behind by the autumn rain, kicking up the fresh scent of the earth as they continue north. The mountains and clouds above them and the fields and forests they travel past are no longer black and white like an ink-brush painting but have gradually filled in with colour.

This sky, this earth, they seem to become a fast-moving painted scroll, multicoloured, fresh and elegant. Duan Ling slowly wakes from his sleep, and he looks up from Wu Du’s embrace to feel as though he’s travelled from early spring to midsummer, then through the cries of cicada and lush greenery, into gold-foiled late autumn.

Spring weeds grow lush in a land now vanquished; summer palace ruins lie buried beneath mounds of dirt.4

“Is this where you wanted to go?”

“No.”

— Thus they cross the Southern Chen border and pass through Runan.

The geese fly south but no letter came; the bamboo by the River Xiang is stained with tears.5

“How about here?”

“Not here either.”

— Thus they leave Luoyang without stopping to rest.

Finally, tracing the path he took north many years ago, Wu Du takes Duan Ling all the way to the outskirts of Shangjing. Whatever wounds that war had given this capital of Great Liao had healed long ago, and the biggest city in the north is also populated again.

The sun is beginning to set. Bells toll in the distant mountains, and the autumn wind rustling through the yellowing leaves already feels a bit chilly. A pale full moon hangs at the horizon, seemingly blending into the dark red sky. Wu Du stops halfway up a mountain, quietly watching Shangjing from above. Lights flicker in the city as every household hangs its lanterns.

It’s the fifteenth of the Eighth Month, the day of the Mid-Autumn festival. The Mongolians don’t celebrate this holiday; many years ago, the Han passed slips of paper in their mooncakes, and in the name of “resisting the barbarians” had risen up in rebellion, commencing a fierce battle beneath Mount Jiangjun.

Of course, the Mongolians don’t eat mooncakes, and they don’t celebrate this Han festival either, but the Khitans do. They say that at every Mid-Autumn Festival, Yelü Zongzhen’s seasonal palace in Zhongjing would be hung full of decorated lanterns so that he may reminisce fondly about old friends.

“Do you want to go take a look inside?” Wu Du crouches before the cliff’s edge in his white martial artist robes, looking into the distance like a white tiger in the night staring at the excitement and hubbub of the mortal world beneath the mountains.

They already came all the way so of course they ought to go inside and have a look around, but knowing Duan Ling as he does, Wu Du thinks sometimes all Duan Ling wants to do is to see it from a distance.

And as expected, Duan Ling says, “Never mind, let’s just leave.”

“We’re not leaving,” Wu Du says, turning to Duan Ling with a smile.

Duan Ling suddenly finds the sight of Wu Du’s back extraordinarily reliable, so much so that he decides to throw himself on there, and sprawls over his back. Wu Du smiles, saying, “Let’s go home.”

A gush of warmth rises from Duan Ling’s heart unbidden. Carrying Duan Ling on his back, Wu Du looks around him before slowly approaching the city via a small footpath. Shangjing is no longer the strictly defended stronghold it used to be, and it’s no longer the most important city in the north either; when Wu Du gets to the city gates, he takes Duan Ling’s hand, and when Duan Ling tells the soldiers at the gates in Khitan that they’ve come to visit relatives, the soldiers don’t press him for more details before letting them through.

“It’s reunion night,” Duan Ling says, standing at the city gate, facing the city of Shangjing in the midst of a festival. On either side of the main street are maple trees with leaves as red as blood, and underneath the lanterns, the street is bustling. A bright moon sits on the horizon.

This is clearly the Shangjing he remembers, and it has never changed; he takes Wu Du’s big hand and crosses the main street with him, walking towards his home. When they pass by an apothecary, the two of them stop automatically.

“I’ve been here before,” Wu Du says.

“I’ve been before as well,” Duan Ling replies.

Wu Du picks up the apothecary’s door and shoves it aside. Duan Ling goes behind the counter and notices that the place has been in a state of disrepair for a long time already — the drawers that used to hold herbs and medicinal ingredients are lying all over the place, whatever used to be in them long gone. Duan Ling picks up a half stick of candle left on the counter and lights it. When he stands it back up on the counter, the room is immediately suffused in a warm glow, casting their shadows onto the window lattice.

“Let’s go out this way,” Duan Ling says, taking Wu Du out of the apothecary through the rear courtyard. Just before leaving, he takes a glance behind him. The entire apothecary looks to him like a giant magic lantern, reflecting all the mortal world’s joys and sorrows, its many partings and reunions.

After the calamity that befell this city, people haven’t moved back in to fill all of its houses yet. Duan Ling walks through the alley that leads to his house and pushes open the two redwood doors that have almost rotted off their hinges to find the courtyard covered in lichen. A water bowl sits on the table still, left behind by Cai Yan just before they departed. It’s filled by half with rainwater.

I’m not a very good cook. I don’t have Zheng Yan’s skills. Someday when you taste better food than this you won’t think much about this table full of food, but for now you’ll have to make do.

It feels like Lang Junxia is still busying himself in the kitchen. Duan Ling sticks his head in for a look and asks smilingly, “Lang Junxia, where’s my dad?”

Lang Junxia looks up, glances at Duan Ling, and replies, “Your dad should be here by the time the peach blossoms bloom.”

Duan Ling turns around and walks into the courtyard. Wu Du is lying on a lounger Li Jianhong once used. He says to Duan Ling, “Come over here and look at the moon.”

And so Duan Ling goes to Wu Du and leans back against him. They lie there without a word.

“Mud all over your hands, and you wipe them all over your dad’s face.” Li Jianhong says, smiling at Duan Ling as he passes through the gallery.

Duan Ling thus quickly gets back on his feet, but all he hears is a gust of wind moving through the gallery, setting the rusted wind chines clanging.

Wu Du asks, “Are you hungry yet?”

“I’m hungry,” Duan Ling says. “Let’s have a walk around. I remember a shaobing place around here that was pretty tasty.”

Wu Du puts away his sword and leaves the house with Duan Ling. When they get to the main street, Duan Ling walks along the city wall. As they cross the river in the middle of the city, Wu Du can’t help but keep staring at the water. Duan Ling knows he’s remembering how he’d had to jump into the frozen river years ago, and teases him about it.

Soon, Wu Du picks up Duan Ling and leaps onto the roof. Stepping along the roof tiles, he jumps from roof to roof for an entire street, then he lands and buys them two pieces of shaobing, two catty of beef, and four taels of wine. Holding all that with one hand, he leaps onto the roof again and heads down to another street.

As they arrive at the Illustrious Hall, Duan Ling is surprised to find that the place has been renovated, and school is in session again. Right now though, the children have already gone home for the holidays. The gatekeeper is someone new as well; an old man, tipsy from drink, who left rather early.

“I’ve been to this stable,” Wu Du says as they walk in through the back door.

Duan Ling is chewing on a shaobing, and upon hearing this he almost spits it out. “You also crashed through the roof of the main hall.”

Wu Du laughs so hard that he doubles over. He grabs Duan Ling and takes a running leap onto the roof. The two of them lie down on the roof, and facing the bright harvest moon at the horizon, they drink and gaze at the moon.

“Milord,” Duan Ling says.

“Yeah,” Wu Du replies, drinking his wine. “The moon is particularly round in the north. I’ll take you to Shangzi next year.”

“Sure. There are still lots of tall mountains and great rivers still, and I want to see them all.”

“There’s plenty of time. Did you leave a message for your uncle?”

This concerns Wu Du’s skin after all. Duan Ling smiles as he says, “I left one when I left the palace that day.”

They look up at the sky, and as the moon rises to its zenith, there is a sudden squeak from the back gates as someone pushes them open. The sound is followed by a familiar voice.

“I never thought I’d run into you here,” Batu says.

“Jiangzhou … couldn’t go there,” Helian Bo says as he waves his sabre around fancily. “So I thought I’d … keep His Majesty … company. Have a walk … around.”

“Let’s call a temporary truce on my account,” says Yelü Zongzhen’s voice. “Borjigin, it’s not like you can come all this way here all the time, and you don’t have many guards with you either. Starting a fight inside the city won’t do you any good.”

Batu turns his nose up at the idea. “If you people hadn’t ambushed me I wasn’t planning to show my face anyway.”

“This trip is a trip down memory lane, so let’s just say we’re having a reunion dinner. See? We were meant to see each other again,” says Yelü Zongzhen. “Get someone to bring us a couple of catty of wine, and we’ll drink it here. We will raise our cups to Duan Ling in the far south — the moon is full and our table is full, and no matter the distance, we’re looking at the same moon.”

Duan Ling stares at them without a word.

Wu Du takes one look at Duan Ling, and as he’s just about to jump down there, Duan Ling grabs him and puts a finger in front of his lips, letting him know that he shouldn’t act without thinking. Then, while Yelü Zongzhen’s guards go around to secure the Illustrious Hall, Wu Du picks Duan Ling up sideways and walks to the end of the flying eaves like a great big cat. The two of them conceal themselves in the shadows of the next building over, quietly watching those in the courtyard as they gaze at the moon and drink their wine.

Helian Bo, Yelu Zongzhen and Borjigin Batu drink to each other beneath the moon, while Duan Ling and Wu Du sit still against each other on the roof. Time passes, and the silver disc moves across the sky, shining its bright light into the world. Three rounds of drinks later, Batu suddenly starts singing a bold, heroic tune.

His voice is forceful and unruly, startling the crows that have been sitting still on this moonlit night so that they fly off towards the horizon. Helian Bo and Yelü Zongzhen beat their cups with chopsticks, making a rhythmic clanging.

It’s a Mongolian pastoral song, and Duan Ling can understand the lyrics; with a full moon above the prairies, the wind blows through a sea of grass, sending waves in every direction, and yearning, like south-flying geese, has returned again.

Batu lets out a long sigh at the end of the song, but then they hear a flute start to play. It comes from above them, faint and barely there, lingering from the rafters to the horizon. All three are startled by the sound and look up together. All they can see is a young man’s pitch-black silhouette against a bright, clear moon, sharp like a paper cutout, while another man stands on the flying eaves protectively at his side.

The guards make to step up, but Yelü Zongzhen raises a hand to stop them. Slowly, Batu stands incredulously and walks to the centre of the courtyard to look up at that silhouette.

Duan Ling’s flute playing is melodic and bright, and through the years he has spent with Wu Du, he has finally learned how to play this song. It may be a bit shaky, but the music is more or less piercing with a wintry air.

Compared to Wu Du’s way of turning his tempered, steel-like strength, into the softness of a feather touch, Duan Ling plays with a lot of power, and the song inevitably takes on a strong resonating tone. The music sounds like a farewell, and it also sounds like regret; and finally, beneath the moon, it fades away until it can no longer be heard.

“Duan Ling?” Batu says, his voice trembling.

Wu Du becomes a black shadow, and with Duan Ling in his arms, he leaps from one uneven rooftop to another, leaving Shangjing behind. They get on Wanlibenxiao and gallop away from the city.

Just before he leaves, Duan Ling looks up at the bright, clear harvest moon above.

“Let’s go home!” Duan Ling says.

“Let’s go home. Gup!” Wu Du urges Wanlibenxiao on and takes Duan Ling away from there as though riding on the wind, looking down at ten thousand miles of the realm.

This translation is by foxghost, on tumblr and kofi. I do not monetise my hobby translations, but if you’d like to support my work generally or support my light novel habit, you can either buy me a coffee or commission me. This is also to note that if you see this message anywhere else than on tumblr, it was reposted without permission. Do come to my tumblr. It’s ad-free. ↩︎

The title is from a poem by Xin Qiji, and like many of Xin Qiji’s poems, may sound like it’s about yearning for someone while being a poem that yearns for a lost homeland, as it was written during the Southern Song dynasty. The whole line that the title came from would read: I wish to ride on the wind and get a bird’s eye view of the realm. ↩︎

A poem by the Tang dynasty poet Li Shangyin. The second line that Wu Du recites is so famous that it’s essentially an idiom. ↩︎

This poem opened chapter 1. ↩︎

Another poem by Li Shangyin. This one is about yearning for someone far away. ↩︎

#相見歡 #fei tian ye xiang #joyful reunion #xiang jian huan #fox translates things #LAST UPDATE #!!!!!

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peculiar-archives · 1 year

Text

Below is a letter I received several years ago, and recently rediscovered in my drawers, dated 1711:

Ms. Starling,

I’ve come upon something most intriguing. Attached are photos relating to the mysterious events, and I hope that after reading, you could respond to me with advice. I’m rather at a loss.

I appear to have forgotten my manners. My apologies, here is an introduction if you’ve not heard of me. My name is Ms. Iryna Petrel, and I am currently in charge of a loop in Crete, Greece. We reside in a manor, which has since been destroyed through an arson, committed four days after I began the loop. As I and my wards have made a home here continually since November fourteenth, 1711, I’ve had many traveling peculiars stop here as not to age forward. Some famous, many simply looking for a place to stay and rest. It’s been almost two hundred years (In actuality, it has been one-hundred-and-ninety-nine years and three-hundred-and-thirty-five days since the loops beginning), and the most trouble I’ve encountered was a group of peculiar raiders. That is, until now.

Early yesterday morning, four peculiars entered my loop. They carried the body of another, very obviously deceased girl. The rest had sustained major injuries. At first, when I’d seen them enter our loop (The signal for entry is rather bright, and happens to be outside of my bedroom window), my thought was that they’d want me to save her. Even from two stories, it was clear that she’d suffered much damage to her stomach, nearly her entire body being drenched in blood.

Their injuries were much worse in person than they appeared from the window. Upon running across the the manor to reach them, it was clear that they were in urgent need of medical assistance. I showed them to the west wing of the house, which is our teaching and medicine area. I then awoke three of my wards who excel in medicine, and the peculiars told me their story.

The three living were Georgia (appeared 23, true age 26), Xenia (appeared 11, true age 112), and Chrysanthos (appeared 17, true age unknown, assumed to be just under 190). The dead peculiar’s name was Artemis (appeared 9, true age 12). They had fled here from a loop in Cyprus, which had only been open for around three years. Xenia and Chrysanthos had been forced to flee from two previous loops, the second of which they were in together for over 70 years. Chrysanthos referred to Xenia as his younger sister, and was very concerned about her safety for the whole time they were in the medical wing. Georgia and Artemis were siblings from Cyprus who decided it was safer to reside in a loop than out in the open, risking Coerlfolc discovering and possibly killing them. By the time my wards had healed them appropriately, it was well into the morning, and I could hear a large collection of my wards waiting outside of the door to the medic room. I told them to come in, and the other fourty-two wards in my protection walked through the door. Since it could not do to to have them all in a singular room lacking much ventilation, I took my wards (as well as the three new arrivals), into the garden. Georgia required a chair to sit on, as whenever her bare skin touched plant life, it would grow up to ten times its original size. She apologized profusely for this, explaining that she couldn’t control it when she was stressed.

The three peculiars began to tell their story. I’d advise reading this outside of the company of any wards, as it is rather violent, and I would not like to be responsible for traumatizing anyone under your protection. I’ve written this part with help from Chrysanthos, so I missed no details.

They had lived in a loop in Cyprus for three years, led by Ms. Chukar. It was a small loop, occurring in a hotel basement just outside of Georgia’s village. Ms. Chukar was a young ymbryne, but a very powerful one nonetheless. On one night, she welcomed in a man who claimed to be an echolocator. He claimed to be named Jonathan, although, it could easily be a falsehood. His eyes were blank, so we all assumed it was true, and he was simply blind. He came with a gun, claiming that he needed to protect himself on his travels. He stayed for two days and became quite a favorite of the younger children, with a quiet and kind demeanor. That made it even more startling when he turned his gun at Ms. Chukar and fired on his second dinner in the loop. She fell out of her chair, assumed to be dead. There were sixteen peculiars (including Ms. Chukar) in the loop at that time. In my panic to leave, five other shots were fired. There is every reason to believe they were lethal, as only ten of us left from the only exit of the basement. They all attempted to leave the loop, scattering in many directions. The man walked casually towards the entrance to the loop, shooting two more wards in the process. None of them, outside of Chrysanthos and Artemis had peculiarities that would help with combat, so Artemis stayed behind to buy the rest of them time, while Chrysanthos protected the main group. She used her ability to create winds up to 150 km/hr to keep him pressed against a wall while we left the loop. On the other end, there was a sort of monster that waited for us. It was invisible for ten seconds, until it grabbed two wards with two long tongues, and ate them in one horrible bite. It looked like a rotting grey corpse, with loose skin folds, and oversized eyes. It moved using three monstrous tongues, and it had teeth that appeared over 25 cm long. It managed to eat almost all of the peculiars, only two (Georgia and Chrysanthos) making it back into the loop, even though we’d sustained injuries. We’d made it back through to see the man with white eyes slash Artemis’ stomach with a knife, him finally having overcome her miniature hurricane.

The next paragraph is entirely written by Chrysanthos, as I (Ms. Petrel) know how difficult it is to put one’s own peculiarity through the words of someone else.

After Artemis had fallen, held by her sister on the rock, I did something that I’d never known I was able to do. My abilities normally extended to simply telekinesis and in the past few years, I’d discovered that I was able to turn quantities of a certain matter into another - a piece of metal into the same amount of water - but only with intense concentration. I, in a state of panic, instinctively pushed the man to the ground. I held his arms above his head, and power rush through me. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I felt the blood rushing through his body. There was a small cut on the back of his hand from where I’d pushed him down, and that was enough. I turned all of the blood in his body into stone. His mouth was frozen in a pained scream, and his eyes wide in terror. I’d no idea I could do that. I fell off his body. I was picked up by Xenia, who was yelling at us that we needed to go. Apparently, another one of us (who’s name I will not disclose out of respect for the dead, but I was very close with him romantically) had gone through the loop entrance again, dying, and told Xenia what happened. Xenia had a fight with Artemis earlier that day, and was too angry to attend dinner, but ran downstairs after she’d heard gunfire, fearing the worst. Artemis was still alive, but barely. Georgia carried her to a boat that we had, and Xenia piloted us towards Cyprus. We made it here in under five minutes, thanks to Artemis. It was this effort that killed her. We all stepped off of the boat, in shock, and found the loop, thanks to Xenia’s ability to sense other peculiars and loops, amongst other things navigational.

I (Ms. Petrel), am writing again. I beg for your assistance in future endeavors and advice with how do deal with the new arrivals. Xenia says that she can sense two of them from the loop on Cyprus alive, and I am going to travel there. While I am gone, my loop will be maintained by Ms. Phoebe Spoonbill, an injured ymbryne currently under my care until she is able to find a group large enough to start a loop. If I am injured and unable to return, she will be in charge of my loop. I will report to you with any changes.

Please advise,

Ms. Iryna Petrel

P.S. - Attatched are some images that Georgia brought with her.

I - The loop entry in Cyprus, with a normal light flash

II - The strange light occurance in the hallway when the man entered, very abnormal

III - A picture taken of the hotel where the loop was

IV - A closer look at the hotel room where the man was rumored to stay during the day. Dark prints on the side wall are most likely blood

V - An unknown room, from the hotel, picture found on the dead man

#mphfpc #miss petrel #ymbryne letters #1711

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