#a drop to a dram

[tinyshe]

[littlest-bugz]

I GOT FUCKIGN RICKROLLED BY SPOTIFY HELP

[wtf-tfw]

though my French accent is incredibly thick, it is still possible for you to hear a glimpse of my mustache, dingling is way through the veil ⚓ 🍥

[condescending-jerk]

wine drunk

at almost 30 i’m proud to say that the only hangover i’ve ever experienced was after junior formal when i was 16.

a few months later i moved back home and i learned that if you don’t mix drinks you don’t wake up with a headache the morning after.

so now i drink guinness for the conversation, beer for the sake of it, gin for a good time. and i drink wine when i want to think about dying.

i wonder if that’s what the girlies mean when they talk about being wine drunk.

[azzibuckets]

Paper Rings [Part 7/10 | Paige Bueckers]

paige bueckers x fem!reader

summary: you might be falling for paige again. or not?

word count: 1.5k

masterlist w/ previous parts

PRESENT DAY

True to her word, Paige stayed away from you the entire night, boxing herself into a small group of freshmen that you’d never met. You were glad she wasn’t bothering you, but there was a small part of you that craved her attention, and missed the way she used to be all over you in settings like this.

“So,” Nika grinned. “How’s life been?”

You tipped your glass of Coke to your mouth, enjoying the sensation of the cool liquid running down your throat and awakening you with the bubbly sugar. “Alright. I’ve missed you guys. I’m sorry I haven’t really reached out.”

Nika patted your leg. “Don’t even worry about it. You know you can always come hang.” She looked around before whispering under her breath, “I know Paige is killing herself right now trying not to talk to you.” She nodded to the corner of the room, and you looked to see Paige sitting gloomily, all hangdog and staring at her hands. You both laughed, and Paige’s eyes snapped up, meeting your gaze from across the room.

You held eye contact with her for a beat longer than you should’ve, and a small smile crept onto her lips. You forced yourself to avert your eyes back down to your coke, taking another swig to strengthen your resolve. You didn’t come to Nika’s for Paige, you reminded yourself.

The gathering slowly started to die down. One by one, the coaches and other student volunteers that worked for the team left, until it was just the players and you. That was when Aaliyah called for everyone’s attention. “Girls,” she announced. “Guess what I got.” With a conniving glint in her eyes, she pulled out a white keycard from her pocket, and everyone started going feral.

You nudged Nika. “Am I missing something?”

Nika flounced up and grabbed the key card from Aaliyah. “This,” she said, shoving it in your face. “Is the key to the pool deck. Aaliyah’s been talking to a guy who keeps bragging about he stole it from a janitor and now has 24/7 access to the pool, and she finally got it.”

Everyone hollered in celebration, and started to eagerly move like a pack to the door. “Whoa whoa whoa,” Paige said. “Where are we going?”

“Come on, P, it’s time for a night swim!” Nika cheered, grabbing Paige by the shoulders and moving her towards the door too.

You’re gonna end up having seizures trying to keep up with the pace of this team, you thought to yourself. You rushed after the group of girls, praying that you wouldn’t have to save anyone tonight.

———————-

You don’t know how a loud and rowdy group of fifteen girls managed to make their way across campus and sneak into the pool deck without getting caught, but before you knew it, everyone was stripping their clothes on the deck into their bras and underwater. You joined them with no qualms. The water was your safe place, and it would be refreshing after the day that you’d had.

Wrapping your hair up into a bun, you were about to dive into the enticing blue of the water when you saw Paige hanging in the back, away from the other girls with all her clothes still on. Your stomach dropped - you had totally forgotten about Paige’s fear of swimming, and you felt like a terrible person.

Reaching to undo your bun, you made your way past the girls. Paige was now sitting down, leg jumping nervously.

“Hey.” You hesitated for a second before gently sitting down next to her. You made sure to leave enough space so that there was no way your elbows or legs or any of your body parts could touch. You weren’t sure what you’d do, if you would be able to control yourself, if your bare skin made contact with hers.

Paige slowly inhaled, leaning her head against the wall. “You can get in, Y/N. I think you might have to play lifeguard tonight.” She laughed at her own joke, but it was dry and artificial.

“I can play lifeguard from outside the pool. That way it’ll be more dramatic when I save them. You know, with the whole running and diving and all that.” Your tone was light-hearted, and you noticed Paige’s eyebrows quirk.

She wiped her hands against her sweatpants. “I should probably get in,” she muttered. “The girls are gonna wonder why I’m still sitting here.”

“You don’t have to,” you replied softly. Paige loved being confident. She hated being seen as anything but bold and fearless, so she was always embarrassed about her insecurities. It was an issue you had to work through with her, to get her to show you her vulnerable side because she had such a hard time opening up to anyone. But you had done it, and Paige had confided in you; and although it was easy for most other people, it took a lot for her to admit that she was deathly scared of drowning. She’d begged you not to tell anyone, and of course you’d sworn not to. You understood her fears, but you’d hated how she looked down on herself and refused to show any weaknesses.

Paige vehemently shook her head. “No, I want to.” Her tone was still uncertain, but you knew not to question her when she was set on doing something. “Let me, uh, change.”

You licked your lips. “Oh, yeah. Just, um, let me know when you’re done. I’ll get in with you.” You situated yourself at the edge of the pool, with your legs dangling in the water. Most of the other girls were already in, splashing around and doing handstands in the shallow end (thankfully).

Paige slowly waded into the pool through the stairs, and you hopped off the edge, plunging yourself into the water. You gave yourself a moment to submerge yourself completely underwater, loving the peaceful feeling when all the voices and noise disappeared, and all you could hear were the bubbles around you. Without bothering to come up for air, you swam to where Paige was and popped up right next to her.

Paige shrieked and toppled back, but you grabbed her hand before she could fall back. “You’re okay,” you murmured, instinctively bringing her closer to you. Droplets of water clung to her long eyelashes and made their way down the sharp edge of her jawline. Her hair was slicked back with water, dark now, and the muscles of her biceps glistened in the lighting. Paige’s hand glanced down your waist, and you were suddenly aware of your bodies pressed flush against each other.

“Ayo, Paige! Y/N! Stop making googly eyes at each other and come play chicken fight!”

Blushing, you hurriedly separated your bodies, pushed away from the blonde and swimming to the rest of the girls. They had all formed a messy circle, jostling around. “I wanna go against Paige,” Azzi challenged, poking the blonde’s shoulder.

You saw Paige give you a nervous look. Despite all the bitterness and resentment lingering between the two of you, you knew you couldn’t abandon her like this. “I’ll pair up with Paige,” you volunteered. Her shoulders relaxed and she sent you a grateful smile, and you could’ve kissed her right there.

As Azzi chose her partner, you whispered in Paige’s ear. “Don’t worry, okay? You’re not gonna drown. I’ll be here the whole time. Or, you know, on top of you,” you assured her. Paige’s eyes widened before she remembered that you were only talking about chicken fight. Get your mind out of the gutter, she chastised herself.

You got onto Paige’s shoulders, and her arms came up to grasp your legs firmly. One hand ran down your thighs and down your knee, and you gasped at the unexpected sensation, before Paige’s hand flew back up as if she remembered that she wasn’t supposed to touch you like that. Exhaling, you placed your hands on her head for stability, and you could feel her shiver.

Azzi, now atop Aaliyah’s shoulders, faced off with you. You took turns pushing each at each other, with the two girls wobbling beneath you, but Azzi was strong, and in the end she managed to catch you off guard and send you crashing into the water.

You felt two hands wrap around your hips and guide you up as you resurfaced. “You okay?” Paige breathed. She couldn’t help but lightly squeeze your hips, her thumb tracing circles across your skin.

You’d never wanted to kiss Paige more than then, when she was looking at you with so much concern and worry in your eyes. Her bottom lip was slightly jutted out, and you wanted to sink your teeth into it. All her hair was swept over one shoulder, her other shoulder exposed. It was tight with muscle and shining bare, and you wondered at what the skin there would taste like.

No, no, no. You could not be thinking of Paige like this. This was the same girl who had used you, who had ended your friendship after she’d slept with you, as if the only thing she’d cared about was taking your virginity like a notch on her bedpost.

You placed your hands over her hands that were still on your waist, gently removing them. “I think I need to go,” you mumbled. You needed to get out and create as much distance between you and Paige possible. She was breaking your inhibitions again, and you couldn’t, you wouldn’t allow yourself to fall to her traps again. Your heart throbbed as a shadow of disappointment fell across her face, but you turned around with finality to say goodbye to the other girls.

[onceuponastory]

first footing - bucky barnes x reader

Plot: Bucky thought he was going to spend New Year's alone, just how he likes it... until Y/N showed up. Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader Warnings: A few mentions of alcohol and being drunk. There's also some light mentions of Bucky's past as TWS. But as always, if I miss any triggers, please let me know! Notes: Happy New Year my lovelies! In Scotland (where I'm from if you didn't already know) we have a tradition called first footing, where the first person to enter your house in the New Year brings luck with them (and usually alcohol, hahaha). I realised I wanted to write something with Bucky and this tradition (because lord knows he needs the luck) so here we are! Consider this fic me first footing you all ❤️

Also, incase you're wondering, a dram is a small measure of whisky. Not beta'd (I wrote this quickly bc the idea hit me like an hour ago), so any mistakes are my own.

“Happy New Year!” The TV host announces, cheering with the crowd behind her, and Bucky rolls his eyes, switching it off. He hates this time of year. He knows that the old him, the Sergeant, would be out there wooing girls, with a promise to kiss each of them as soon as the clock struck twelve. He misses those days. Back when the worst thing he had to worry about was looking good for his dates, and not… everything that’s happened to him in the last seventy years. And although New Year’s exemplifies change and bettering yourself, Bucky still hates it. Sure, everyone can make a change. He’s living proof of that.

But New Year’s is just so… loud now, and there’s so much pressure to better yourself, to change something about yourself. It symbolises everything he hates. God, he really is an old man.

Or maybe he hates it because he’s spending it alone, like usual. Or that despite the amount of personal growth he’s done over the year, each new year always seems to be a horrible reminder of everything he once was, and everything he’s lost.  

Now that’s not to say Bucky hasn’t been invited to things tonight. He’d just… rather do everything but. All he wants is to go to bed and pretend tonight never happened, like the old man he is.

Suddenly, a knock on the door cuts through the air, causing Bucky to frown. He’s not expecting someone tonight. He can tell who it’ll probably be though - Steve or Sam, telling him to stop being boring and to get over to Tony’s party with the others. The knock sounds again, the person clearly impatient. “Alright, alright!” Bucky groans, making his way to the door and opening it. “Steve, I told you I’m not- Y/N?”

“Took you long enough.” She teases. Bucky’s mouth drops open, and his mind goes blank. He’s speechless. All he can do is look at her. The snow caught in her hair seems to sparkle in the light, and the way she looks at him, her trademark bright smile on her face, makes his heartbeat increase and his stomach flutter. 

God, she’s so beautiful.

“Happy New Year, Buck.” She smiles, holding up a bottle of whisky. 

“What…what are you doing here?” Bucky gasps in confusion, yet he still can’t stop a relieved smile from gracing his lips. He doesn’t have to spend his New Year alone with his thoughts. This time, he gets to spend it with his favourite person. But another thought, one that makes his heart skip a beat, hits him. Y/N chose him. Out of all the options she had, including a fancy Stark party with the others, who are most definitely more fun than he is… she still chose to spend time with him. And that makes Bucky Barnes feel like the most important person in the world.

“Well, I was going to first foot you.…” She chuckles. “But I can’t do that if you don’t let me in.” Still frowning, Bucky steps aside and helps Y/N take her coat off. 

“You’re going to what?” Y/N laughs, another burst of laughter that Bucky swears is improving his mood by the second.

“First footing. It’s a tradition where the first person to enter your house after the clock strikes twelve brings good luck with them.” She grins. “So…here I am.” 

“Y/N, you don’t have to be here. I know spending tonight with an old man like me isn’t very fun. Go party.”

“No way!” Y/N shakes her head, heading to his kitchen. “There’s no place I’d rather be than here, with my favourite person.” She calls. Bucky’s heart almost goes into overdrive.

“Thank you.” He smiles, watching her go. “It means a lot.” More than she’ll ever know.

~ * ~

“Here we go.” Y/N grins, passing Bucky his dram of whisky. “Cheers Bucky.” 

“Cheers, doll.” He chuckles, clinking his glass against hers. Together, they down their drink. Despite the minimal amount of alcohol, and the fact the serum means he can’t get drunk, Bucky still feels the familiar warm feeling pooling in his gut, and the heat spreading across his cheeks. And especially how all he wants to do is smile.

But that could just be the beautiful woman sitting opposite him, the candlelight casting a soft glow over her features. The one who chose him over everyone else. The one he’s so deeply and irrevocably in love with. He swears he could just kiss her right there and then. He just can’t bring himself to do it, or even tell her how he feels. Despite how much he loves Y/N, Bucky swears that the pain of losing her and her friendship would be enough to finish him off right there and then. So, he stays quiet and lets the pain of not telling her, and the thought she could be with someone else eat him up inside.

“Any other traditions for me tonight?” Bucky raises a brow. 

“Other than finishing this whiskey? Nope.” Y/N chuckles as Bucky pours them both some more.

“Thanks again for tonight, Y/N.” Bucky smiles. “I mean, I wasn’t going to spend it alone. I wanted to go to the party, but-” He lies, trying desperately not to sound so lonely and pathetic. But a gentle, reassuring touch on his forearm stops him. Despite the gentleness of her touch, Bucky’s skin burns under it.

“It’s alright.” Y/N smiles. “I know.” What did he ever do to deserve someone like Y/N in his life? Perhaps he was a saint in a previous life. But even that wouldn’t be enough, make him anywhere close to worthy of having Y/N as a best friend. She looks at him intently, staring into his eyes. Bucky feels the heat on his cheeks deepening. “You know….” She chuckles.

“Mhm?”

“I know you think resolutions suck, but I have one this year. And there’s no better time than half twelve in the morning on January 1st to do it, huh?”  

“I don’t think they suck, they’re just not my thing.” Bucky corrects her, but he can’t stop his brow from quirking up. “What’s your resolution?” Y/N leans in, so close Bucky can feel her breath against his skin. It’s enough to drive him crazy.

“To not let anything pass me by, to take each opportunity as it comes.” She grins.

“That’s a good resolution.” Bucky nods, regretting his words almost immediately. Why the hell would he say that, of all things?

“So. Here it goes.” Y/N takes a breath. “This may be the whisky talking, but… I refuse to go another year without telling you this. I am in love with you, Bucky Barnes.” Bucky almost keels over. He almost asks her to repeat what she just said, or even to pinch him. But then she continues. “I don’t care if you don’t feel the same way… well, it would hurt a lot, but I just have to tell you because I couldn’t bear another day without you knowing.”

Bucky chuckles, cupping her chin. “I’ve been wanting to tell you that for so long.” He smiles, and Y/N’s grin grows just as wide. “You know….” He whispers. “There’s another New Year’s tradition I can think of.” Leaning in, he softly presses his lips to hers.

Something tells him this year is going to be pretty damn incredible.

~ * ~

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[thequeeninyellowlace]

Jaskier was being forced to return to Lettenhove—he got word that his cousin died, and he needed to be present for the service. Geralt could tell he’s miserable and afraid at the thought, so he agrees to go with Jaskier.

Jaskier’s mother and father are rude to Geralt. No shock there. Geralt can tell Jask is offended for him, but uncharacteristically, he doesn’t say anything. After an uncomfortable and cold dinner with Jaskier’s parents in a formal dining room that smells like dark wood and old misery, Jaskier and Geralt are ushered into a smaller study with his father.

Jaskier carefully, precisely, pours them each a measure of whiskey. He’s stiff and he smells all wrong. He serves his father first, and the man takes the tumblr as if it were filthy, glaring down at the fine liquor and at his son. “Still can’t measure a dram, I see,” he snipes. Jaskier keeps his eyes on the floor as he passes Geralt a tumblr, and Geralt does not like it. This scared young man is hardly recognizable as his bard.

Jaskier’s father looks him up and down. He looks vaguely disgusted. “Still dressing like a whore.” Jaskier clenches his teeth. Geralt squeezes his glass. Jaskier is wearing his favorite doublet, the blue one that makes his eyes glow.

“Father,” Jaskier starts.

“Shut up, boy,” his father snaps, and Geralt stiffens. “I can’t believe you had the gall to return here. You ruined our names. Shamed us all.” The man begins a diatribe, listing every imagined sin Jaskier has committed against his family.

Jaskier shrinks in on himself. He hunches his shoulders under his father’s tirade. Geralt growls. He drops the tumbler on a small table.

“And you!” Jaskier’s father snaps his eyes to Geralt. “I should have known my slut of a son would take up with a mutant monster!” Jaskier jerks upward, suddenly enraged. He jumps forward, into his father’s face.

“How dare you! Do not speak to him like that!”

Jaskier’s father’s hand snaps up, and his fist strikes Jaskier across the cheek. Geralt sees red. Jaskier falls to the floor as Geralt unsheathes his sword and swings.

Jaskier’s father’s head thumps to the floor. His body follows it.

Jaskier screams.

Geralt drops his sword. He did not means to do that. But the mark on Jaskier’s cheek is blinding him. He scoops Jaskier up off the floor.

“Oh god, Geralt, what did you do? Oh my god!” Jaskier begins wailing, and he clings to Geralt as he sobs.

“I’m so sorry, Jaskier! I didn’t even mean to—he hit you! I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Jaskier is gasping, and Geralt sees his eyes are fixed not on his father’s head or the pool of blood, but on his father’s hand. The count’s ring of office is still on his finger, its shape matching the mark on Jaskier’s face.

“Oh no. Oh god no.” Jaskier moans.

“I’ll tell them what I did, Jaskier. You won’t be in trouble. Don’t worry. We’ll leave and never come back, not if you don’t want to. And I’m so sorry for killing him. I know you…loved him.” Jaskier’s eyes meet his, and Geralt is shocked at the desolation he sees there.

“I hated him. And he hated me. I’m glad he’s dead.” He glances down at the ring on his father’s hand again and shudders. He squeezes Geralt tightly, and he smells of an agonizing, confusing grief.

“Geralt, now I’m the count of Lettenhove.”

[lawsofchaos1]

Malec Promptlet: Alec learns magical theory

Or the one where you can't actually live with the High Warlock of Brooklyn and not learn at least a little bit of magic.

Alec adores sitting in his spot in Magnus’s apothecary and watching him make potions or transcribe texts while Magnus absently commentates on everything he does. Magnus has never before allowed anyone such unfettered access to this space before and is constantly surprised at how much interest Alec takes in his work and the intelligent questions he asks once he’s sure he’s not bothering Magnus by asking.

Catarina comes by one day and is shocked that Alec automatically follows her and Magnus into his apothecary and even more shocked when Alec not only clearly has his space there, but Magnus isn’t  fluttering about uncomfortably with someone intrudingin the magical heart of his lair - he’s moving around as though Alec belongs there.

Magnus begins teaching Alec basic potions when he realizes how much Alec loves helping him in the apothecary, usually fetching and carrying ingredients. (The first time Alec pops up his side with a vial of angel’s fern in hand, Magnus blinks at him in confusion wondering how in Lilith’s name Alec had known he needed it. Alec grins. The potion is a healing one and Magnus had just put in three drams of fire lizard blood, a toxicant he knows from last week’s batch of burn serum can only be neutralized with angel’s fern. Magnus is both a little bemused and vaguely proud.)

Jace and Izzy come over one day and need a basic healing potion. They say they’ll wait for Magnus, but Alec just walks into the apothecary (asking his siblings to wait at the door since Magnus isn’t there) and begins gathering ingredients and preparing the workspace. They’re very confused. Magnus comes home in the middle and wraps his arms around Alec from behind, burying his face in the back of Alec’s neck and muttering something sotto voce that makes the Shadowhunter blush. Jace and Izzy cackle in delight.

In the middle of the Institute cafeteria one day when Magnus is visiting, Catarina and Magnus get into a spirited debate on the use of mundane ingredients in healing potions. When Alec comes to joining them at their table, dropping a kiss on Magnus’s cheek as he sits, the listening Shadowhunters are nonplussed when their Head has very definite opinions on this topic.

[sgiandubh]

Pecunia non olet

When the Roman emperor Vespasian reinstated Nero's very unpopular tax on the distribution of urinals' waste, sometime around 70 AD, his son and heir, Titus, complained about it, thinking it was vile and disingenuous. Vespasian shoved a golden coin under his nose and asked the young fool if he still felt offended about it. Pecunia non olet - money doesn't smell, son. This very gold comes from, well, urine. Live with it.

I once comforted a whole orphanage, in Moulmein, Burma, for three weeks, with about 500 well-spent US dollars, at the local bazaar and shops. From rice to fruits to the strange, exuberant vegetables of the Tropics, meat and eggs and chocolate, and for good measure, aspirin, band-aid, antiseptic wipes, notebooks, pencils, socks, shoes, Tshirts, skirts and trousers. Filled three rickshaws with all the boxes and bags and went for it. The St Joseph orphanage was run by five formidable Anglo-Indian nuns, who took care of about 40 children, aged 5 to 16, whose parents died in the horrendous floods that followed the Nargis cyclone, in 2008. They had nothing. When they asked me who I was, I honestly told them it did not matter. Non nobis, Domine, non nobis.

Make no mistake. I am not a saint. I smoke like a chimney and swear like a drunken sailor and sometimes have to professionally, elegantly lie, because such is the nature of my job. I am cynical and short-tempered and yes, less impatient now than at 20. That day in Moulmein will always shine bright in my mind and in my heart for its absurd joy. And also for the feeling the real generosity was not mine, that day, but theirs.

Last week-end, about 200 women I would probably find perfectly insufferable paid from 2000 to 5000 US dollars each, to meet and greet and fawn and take #silly pictures with three guys who happen to be part of the cast of a certain TV series. With only one of them, in reality, but let's not trouble the waters. Apparently, they had a good time. I am not sure about the guy: he's not exactly the Svengali type. I very much doubt that this event will go down in history. It was as good as it gets, with the people it could attract. Entitled? Maybe. Sad? A bit, if you ask me. But above and beyond all of this, it was transactional. I pay, you drop by. I pay, you take a pic and smile. I pay, I ask a stupid question. I pay, we have a dram. For our mutual benefit.

I have no idea if these people maxed out their credit cards to be there. In theory, this is all about disposable income, cash that can and will be well... disposed of, somehow, whether it's a horrendous pair of mauve shoes or the last gadget or hey, a meet and greet. If I were Marie Kondo, I'd even dare say that parting with cash brought them joy.

Can we compare the two moments? Of course not. But both of them are the result of a (hopefully fully aware) choice.

It's been a long while I also chose to never set foot in such places, for such things. Not my circus, not my monkeys.

Stating the opposite is pure hypocrisy and pearl-clutching.

Sunset on the Salween River. Moulmein. Burma. August 2010. Taken by me.

[theawkwardterrier]

Wednesday 100: How We Hurt and How We Heal

He's poured a dram to help get through the late-night work with the ledgers, even raised it to his lips, when a tiny squeak stops him: not a mouse, but wee Joan peering 'round the doorframe, staring like he's revealed himself as a beast.

Understanding takes a moment. When it comes, he opens the window and drops the glass through, closing it again so she cannot smell the liquor.

He crouches, saying softly, "It's alright, a ghràidh."

As she finally lets him hold her, he thinks of the cracks in this family, wondering how — whether — they can truly be repaired.

[chaussetteblanche]

baby, it's cold outside

my requests are open, if you want me to write something, feel free :))

pairing : violet x gn!reader summary : based on the song Baby it’s cold outside, when spending an evening at vi's place, the night turns cold and snowy, and she convinces you to spend the night word count : 931 warnings : none

"I really can't stay," you insist, looking down at the mug of steaming hot chocolate in your hands. Violet looks over from where she stood in the kitchen, grabbing a few cookies out of a jar and popping one in her mouth. You remember those cookies, you had made them together some time last week while listening to Christmas songs. Memories of spilled milk, clouds of flour and sugary kisses flooded your mind as she trudged back to where you were sitting on her couch. "But, baby, it's cold outside," Vi spoke. And it was true. By the time you'd arrived to her place, your cheeks and nose were red from the frosty weather. You suspected it would start snowing any minute now. You winced, clutching your hot chocolate tighter to your chest. "It's just that my mother will start to worry," "Didn't you tell her that you were spending the evening here ?" Vi asked, grabbing a blanket from a cupboard. "Yeah, the evening, not night," Your eyes trailed over her figure as she sat down on the couch next to you. She laid the blanket over both your legs, her hand lingering on your thigh for a second.

"Mind if I move in closer ?" she asked, leaning towards you. You playfully rolled your eyes. "I do, actually," you grinned. "Too bad," she scoffed and moved closer to you anyway, leaning against your side. You laid your legs across her lap, lazily grinning up at her. She rested her hands on your thighs, leaning her shoulder against yours. "Okay, I'll finish my drink and then I've got to get home, alright ?" You felt like you were reasoning with a child. Vi pretended to think and shook her head. "Baby, you'll freeze out there," She picked up her own hot chocolate and brought it to her lips, taking a long sip. You thought back to your mother waiting for you at your apartment. She knew Vi and that she wouldn't let anything happen to you, so would she really worry that much ? It definitely wasn't the first time that you'd spent the night at her place.

You both put your focus on the TV screen as you decided on what to watch. You finally made up your minds on a cooking show (you both loved watching people's cakes and desserts fall apart). You gasped as a contestant dropped the cake he was supposed to present before the judges and fell to his knees next to the remains. "Oh my god," You clasped a hand over your mouth, holding back a giggle. "Okay, so I like, totally feel bad for him, right ? But also- that was kind of..." "Hilarious ?" you suggested, raising your eyebrows. Violet let out a laugh and nodded. "Yeah," she chuckled, gently squeezing your thigh, "exactly."

Before you knew it, the show had ended and it was dark out. You sighed, looking down at your empty cup and at your forgotten jacket in the entrance. It hadn't been snowing when you'd made your way over, which is why you hadn't brought you winter coat. "I've got to get home now, love," you spoke sadly. Violet looked at you with wide eyes before gesturing wildly to the window again. "Baby, look out the window at that storm," she tried to reason. "It's up to your knees out there !" she cried, "And all you've got is a leather jacket !" She was right, of course, it was snowing so hard you couldn't even see the street below. You could even hear the whistle of the wind due to the building's poor isolation. "I'll be quick, I promise. I don't even live that far, you know." You didn't even believe yourself as you spoke. You didn't move from your position on the couch, either, which didn't help your cause. "And what if your caught pneumonia and died ? How would your mother feel about me then ? Letting her unconscious daughter go out in such weather !" she exclaimed. You laughed at her antics. "You're so dramatic, Vi," "Oh, come on, don't pretend like you don't want to spend the night, Y/N," She looked at you with a knowing look in her eye, a strand of pink hair falling in front of her nose. You brushed it away and tucked it behind her ear, tenderly looking into her eyes. She leaned forward and kissed your lips. You closed your eyes, cupping her jaw as she cradled the side of your face. She pulled away, licking her lips and smiling when she tasted you. "We can cook, watch a movie, have those cookies we made for desser, take a a bath and, y'know, have sex," she wiggled her eyebrows at you. You sucked your teeth, looking down at the empty cup in your lap. "I'll make you breakfast tomorrow morning if you stay," she added, trying unsuccessfully to hold back a victorious smirk. She knew she'd won when you groaned and threw your head back. "Okay, fine, just another drink, then,"

Another drink turned into two, then three, dinner, dessert and soon enough it was too late to go home. "You're very pushy you know ?" You bit back a smile as she pulled you towards the bedroom, eyes dancing with mirth. "I like to think of it as opportunistic, actually," She pecked your cheek. She turned away from you to head into the bathroom. You heard the bath start to run and smiled. "Babe, are you coming ?"

Suddenly, you felt thankful for the cold weather outside.

[booksbeansandcandles]

Magical folk, don't freak over big words.

ALL PLANTS, especially flowers have "VOLATILE ORGANIC COMPOUNDS".

(Be sure to say that in an ominous thundering Darth Vader voice to make it sound even scarier).

How many of y'all know what a "Volatile Organic Compound" actually is?

Well if you took Biology or Chemistry you should remember.

If you don't remember, or never took chemistry:

Volatile - describes how easily a substance will vaporize (turn into a gas or vapor). A volatile substance can be defined as (1) a substance that evaporates readily at normal temperatures and/or (2) one that has a measurable vapor pressure. The term volatile usually applies to liquids.

Organic - Carbon based compound ... carbon atom bonded to one or more other atoms, often hydrogen.

Compound - a compound is a substance made up of two or more different chemical elements combined in a fixed ratio

So the definition of a Volatile Organic Compound:

Compounds that have a high vapor pressure and low water solubility. High vapor pressure at room temperature means that they boil very easily (move from liquid to gas state). VOCs give the scent to flowers, plants, perfumes, etc. Some VOCs are natural, and some are man-made.

So, VOCs have a low boiling point and often a low flashpoint. Boiling point where the point where a liquid changes to steam. The boiling point of water is essentially 212 degrees or 100C. Flash point basically means the temperature at where the gas can ignite ... some VOCs can ignite on their own but these are the man-made chemicals.

VOCs are what gives things SCENT (ODOR - SMELL).

VOCs can be NATURAL, they can be man-made, and they can be man-made copies of natural VOCs.

If something smells, there is a VOC.

Essential oils have VOCs.

Even Peace Lilies have VOCs.

Essentially oils are extremely concentrated essences of plants and yes, they have a high concentration of VOCs. It takes obout 10,000 pounds of rose petals to make 1 pound of rose essential oil. It takes about 66 pounds of lavender flowers to make 1 pound of lavender essential oil. You only use a drop or two at a time OR highly dilute an essential oil in a carrier. You don't rub an entire dram (1/8th ounce) of essential oil on your body at a time - that is DANGEROUS. DO NOT PUT ESSENTIAL OILS ON BABIES OR INFANTS - only super diluted ... 2 or 3 drops of lavender oil in 2 or 3 OUNCES of carrier (almond oil, grapeseed oil, olive oil, vegetable oil, mineral oil, jojoba - this is a natural plant wax which is liquid at room temperature and great for the skin). Don't put essential oils on premature babies especially those that are just at 6 months!!!!!

So, now hopefully you aren't terrified of the term Volatile Organic Compound.

Yes, there are some VOCs that are harmful or deadly - especially man-made substances.

Yes, essential oils have VOCs ... again, ALL plants have VOCs.

[staghunting]

The actual "staghunter" Orion Black/Harry Potter side of this blog is incredibly niche because I am basically writing and ranting about my own personal headcanon of an AU of an AU of an AU, which means it's basically original fiction at this point. However, I can't in good conscience write an original story when the dynamic is based on characters from the Harry Potter franchise (as someone who clocked AtIas S/ix not knowing the author was a dram!one BNF), so dump and rant here it is.

However, posting a briefer here— the staghunter dynamic punnett square!

my shit handwriting aside, these characters basically are Harry Potter and Orion Black:

as they are in book canon (any info about them gleaned from things outside of that, including official film and stories penned by the terf themselves, will be called extra-canon from here on)

the same canon characters if they were born a girl

(the above both residing on the premise that harry time travels to hogwarts in the 1940s)

itruns!Orion, which is basically the philandering patriarch version of him written by the amazing metalomagnetic in her Sirius/Voldemort story It Runs In the Blood. It is my favorite version of Orion in fics so far since metalo is a very good writer and the character depth is deep as it is heartbreaking

ephesus!Harry which is my version of Harry (in a story I haven't published) where her and Hermione's consciousness are reincarnated/sent back in time in order to stave off or prevent the heat death and total obliteration of magic in the 21st century through committing acts of extreme magical environmental conservation and interspecies liberation from wizards in the 40s. and both of them are considered dangerous terrorists by the ICW

Harry born as a normal Muggle in the 1940s

Orion born as their generation's family Squib

Prescient!Harry, by which she is a pureblood witch born to Fleamont and Euphemia but due to some ~family curse/inheritance~ she remembers all her past lives and possible futures a la Alia Atreides

And then Metamorphmagus!Orion, heir to an ancient and noble wizarding family that FUCKIN HATES non-wizards

I like the idea across some fans that the Potter and Black families are tied in some crazy intergenerational curse somehow, like one is doomed at the hands of the other and the other is also their saviour type of stuff, and it is only when they choose each other that their houses are saved from eternal doom (like sirius&james bffs forever, or charlus & dorea's marriage, or narcissa sparing harry's life)

There's soooo much potential for a romeo + juliet vibe here because the point of R&J is that they are houses both alike in dignity - they are on equal footing, no fucked up power dynamics affecting them badly (although those are fun to explore taken in an extreme way. like yes ex-convict sirius would marry his goddaughter in a heartbeat in order to keep the power-hungry vultures off of marrying either of them and getting a child with either of their genes, family name, fortune, and magical inheritance before harry dies. hell, a marriage would mean he could make harry his heir! winwin! is it a bonus that she looks exactly like her dad- his soulmate and other half- but with her mom's eyes? sure!)

anyway as an explanation. harry in any universe would absolutely ruin orion in any universe— it's the type of ruination that varies.

(and the fact that orion has no canonical traits except for "rich, magical blood supremacist father" is a perfect little sandbox for anything)

anyway, explanations for each square under the cut!

canon Harry:

W/ canon orion - friends to lovers. harry is in different emotional states for each book so it would depend when he'd teleport but even if you picked the angriest, most done version of him to drop off in the universe it would work. I love tomarry- platonic, romantic, antagonistic and fucked up in any universe- and putting the honeybadger version of Harry with one horcrux head boy tom riddle is sooooo nice it would be entertaining for all involved. especially when you go into canon that voldemort and walburga would be head boy by the time orion would be in 5th year. Personally would love to see Tom fume that Harry made friends with Orion & other Slytherins effortlessly by being his angry, vicious self while he had to be polite and lose his cockney accent and be this composed guy who would never get the respect of the real purebloods even after his Slytherin heritage was revealed

with girl orion- friends to lovers. orion would have loads more baggage being the heir-that-could-never-be since she was born a girl, and she would totally rebel in a beatrice horseman (née sugarman) way. except that harry would do right by her and actually respect her so not as tragic as that

ItRuns!Orion for me is a straight, straight dude who longs for affection. Harry is kind in canon, but they don't have a shared history- why the fuck would he give affection to an asshole like him. now would orion have a sexuality crisis over the hot new transfer who doesn't give a shit about his name and treats him like everyone else? yes. would harry ever answer or indulge that question? no. not pre-sixth year harry anyway. however, harry who is still grieving for his recently dead godfather would totally fuck the guy who looks like him. repeatedly and with aftercare. orion is ruined either way. it would be the most intense, soul-shattering, life-changing emotional and sexual relationship of orion black's life and he will never bring it up or share it to anyone ever.

squib orion would resent canon harry so much. but oh, stranger things have risen from such a large pool of emotion

metamorphmagus orion, specifically one actively hiding his creatureness from his family, would definitely be harry's ride or die. canon harry has a weird relationship with his celebrity and last name because both are the reasons for his being an outcast. he would be in the best place to teach orion to deal with and possibly learn to love that part of himself

I'll explain the other ones in a different post since I have work and school to get to but yeah! Fun!

[direwarg]

( @p-aladin )

MINTHARA BAENRE WAS UNSURE IF SHE WOULD EVER ADJUST TO THE OVERWORLD. The Underdark had been her home, it was her home. She would not go so far as to say that she missed her people, because missing.was such a weak emotion, and Minthara Baenre was far from weak. She would say, though, that she did crave the power she held in Menzoberranzan and she did wish that surface dwellers had just an ounce of the self control and intelligence that her people held.

Her trip Above Ground had been rooted only in curiosity about these Absolutists. The audacity they had to come to Menzoberranzan had piqued her interest, though since then her trip had been rooted in disaster. Brain parasites, filthy goblins, torture beyond measure. Memories played on repeat in her head, as the tadpole in her brain wriggled about.

Every night, she had prayed to Lolth. For strength, for power, for a memory of home. Lolth seemed to have forgotten her. Perhaps Lolth saw the weakness and patheticness in the pit of Mintharas soul, perhaps this was all a test from the spider queen. Either way, Minthara found her faith waning. It was a despicable thing, for a drow of such high birth to turn away from their goddess.

Then, as though it was a cruel mockery from some god, Minthara had been saved. She had been pulled from Moonrise Towers, by a half - elf. One that she could recognize, Dram'szin. Minthara had seen him train, decades ago it felt, and had pushed for his promotion. On the battlefield, he had been a master. Each slash, stab, punch, kick, was all carefully practiced. Watching his attacks were like watching a beautiful dance. The blood he wore after made the scene all the more entrancing. Dram'szin was talented, strong, and intelligent, for a half - breed at least.

AND YET , HE HAD LEFT HER. Dram'szin had left Minthara in Moonrise Towers once before. Minthara cursed him for his cowardice, and revered him for his self preservation. It was a bundle of complicated emotions, even if Minthara was sure she too would've left him if the roles had been reversed.

These days, Minthara had found herself in a camp of filth. Though they were better than the goblins, they were still beneath Minthara Baenre. Vampire spawn, cleric of Shar, githyanki soldier, warlock, wizard with a bomb in his chest, tiefling with a bomb in her chest... and Dram'szin. But the party was marching on Orin the Red, and Minthara wanted nothing more than to separate Orins spine from her body. That it what she told herself at least; that it was a matter of convenience, and not that she was growing weak and seeked a comfortable refuge as she adjusted to this new world.

The moon was high in the sky, and the stars were twinkling brightly. Even the nighttime was too bright for an Underdark dweller. The torches and camp fire that were constantly lit did little to help the drows dark - seeking eyes.

Freshly bathed, and wearing a fine silken nightgown, Minthara stood just outside of Dram'szin's tent. The others were nowhere to be seen, not that Minthara would ever allow them to see her so exposed. Without knocking, without announcing her arrival, Minthara pushed into the tent. Her eyes immediately landed on Dram'szin, the only remnant of her past life.

Dram'szin was not repulsive to look at. He did lack the glorious blue tinted skin of a drow, but his freshly tanned skin was not hideous. She couldn't help but notice how the sun had given him an almost honeyed complexion, a stark difference to the pale porcelain that he had been in the land without light.

“ Dram'szin. ” she spoke the name with finality, and she did not dream of calling him Dram as most people seemed to do.

Minthara had never felt a drop of nervousness. Not even when she had been locked away in Moonrise Towers, not even when Orin the Red was having her way with her. Yet, here and now, standing before Dram'szin the words got caught in Minthara's throat.

“ My hair needs to be braided. ” Dram'szin would understand, surely he would. In Menzoberranzan, Minthara had always kept her hair in many intricate braids. Courtesy of her handmaidens, of course. The last few weeks had given her a severe lack of help, and even fewer people she could trust with a tedious task such as this. Letting someone braid your hair was no small feat. It was a proclaimation of utter trust from yourself, and utter devotion and loyalty from the other. Leaving your back to someone and your neck exposed was a quick way to be quickly killed in Menzoberranzan. “ I am not seeking anything too difficult, not from your hands at least. However, I do wish for one tight braid, and you would seem to be the most equipped for this task. ”

There were words that Minthara would have to leave unsaid, there was much left to the subtext. If only Dram'szin noticed. She could not outright ask for help, though she was in no place to demand it either. This was no simple attempt at comraderie, this was her handing her trust to Dram'szin on a silver platter, spoon feeding him forgiveness for leaving her once before, and also asking for his own forgiveness for the cruelty from the Underdark.

She was dancing around the subject, hoping for Dram'szin to understand her. He was always rather intelligent, even if he was foolish at times. Rather than speaking more, and adding the true question, Minthara simply stared at Dram'szin with a neutral expression that she could only hope did not show her internal conflict and desperation.

[polutrope]

Beacon

for @silmsmutweek Day 2, Prompts: Canon ships, Established relationships, Pregnancy, Teasing, Tender sex, word: trace, and Writer Challenges #1 and #5. Also tagging @nolofinweanweek.

Eärendil returns to Sirion after his latest sea voyage, and Elwing's anxieties about her pregnancy are soothed in the loving arms of her husband.

Rating: E | No warnings Words: 2.3k Relationships: Eärendil/Elwing Genre: Fluff, Light Angst, Smut.

On AO3

Eärendil was at sea when Elwing discovered she was carrying their child — children, it was now clear, for in only seven months her stomach had swelled to enormous size. Four little feet, four tiny fists, twin flames kindling inside her.

Though she had wished for it, the thought of bearing children into this fragile world had filled Elwing with dread, at first. She imagined herself a young tree branching too soon. Her roots, which she had believed were mighty and deep, now seemed brittle and famished. When the storm came — and it would come — the gales would tear her from the earth, and her new branches, starved for nourishment, would crack and break in her fall.

So Elwing had cast her thought out like a beacon over the seas, searching for Eärendil to tell him, seeking his comfort. But it had never been easy for them to share thought in the way of the Eledhrim, and she had not found him. As new life increased in her womb, so too did her fears.

The searching tendrils of her thought at last caught his when Alphovral docked at Balar on the way back to Sirion — but already the news had found him, for by now the rumour of the arrival of not one but two heirs of all the Houses of Elves and Men had reached every dock and every home on Sirion and Balar, a dram of hope for a parched people. So it was that when Elwing found the current of Eärendil’s thought it was already whirling like an unruly tide, choppy with excitement, spitting up foam like shouts of joy.

Early the next morning, Eärendil flew off Alphroval even before her mooring lines were cast ashore, his sea legs nearly tripping over themselves as he ran to Elwing. Then she was cocooned in his strong arms, and his lips, sun-chapped but warm and smiling, opened to hers. After kissing her mouth, he dropped to his knees to cover her round belly with a dozen more. This was all much to the delight of all those who had gathered to witness their Lord’s return, but Elwing knew it had not been for their benefit. Eärendil never feigned or performed. He did not need to; he had simply to be himself and he was admired for it, as though he we born to be loved.

For all the thrill of their reunion, exhaustion claimed them both as soon as they fell into bed. Eärendil slipped into sleep with the conclusion of a story left untold, and Elwing followed shortly after, not bothering to tuck herself beneath the sheets.

She found she had been swaddled in them in the morning, when she blinked open her tired eyes to see Eärendil’s brilliant blue ones gazing back at her. She had not slept so well in all the months he had been gone, and the joy and warmth of the moment burst forth as laughter. Hot tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.

Eärendil brushed them away with a thumb and kissed the dampness from her cheeks. “I made you breakfast,” he said. “Fruits from the south: pomegranate, melon, and honeyed lemon water.”

“Good. I am famished,” Elwing said, then added with a glance down at her belly: “They are famished.”

Eärendil grinned and caressed her stomach, gently tugging her nightdress up with the motion. He slid one rope-calloused hand over her bare skin. He was dressed in nothing but his sleeping trousers and she could not keep her hand from straying to explore the hard, smooth plane of his chest. Her fingers trailed up to feel the trace of a beard — never more than a trace, and now that he was back among his people, he’d soon shave it off. (“Alas!” he would say. “I will never look the part of a thick-bearded lord of Hador’s house. I fear no one would accept a boy as Lord of Arvernien, so Elda I must be.” But boyish or not, the scruff of a beard on her lover had always delighted Elwing.)

His other hand grazed the inside of her thigh, and she drew in a sharp breath at the frisson of pleasure it elicited; but when he leaned in to nip at her lips with his, she gently kicked him away.

“Enough!” she laughed. “I said, they are famished!”

“Of course, of course. No sympathy for their father’s needs,” he said teasingly. He pushed himself off the bed.

“No, nor for their mother’s.” Elwing smiled, one hand instinctively reaching for him. It fell to the sheets, still warm from the heat of his body.

Sleep had conquered them both the night before, and now a ravenous need for food put off the fulfillment of other desires. But stars! she did want him. She had been as an unquenchable flame these past few months, and no matter how she tried to bring herself pleasure her body demanded more. Now it thrummed in anticipation.

He appeared in the door frame holding the promised tray of fruits and lemon water, as well a generous helping of cheeses and bread.

“Thank you,” she said, and, “Love you,” when she realised she had neglected to thank him before.

Eärendil set the tray down on the bed beside her and crossed the room to prop open a window that had blown shut in the night. The air that drifted in was cool but not unpleasantly so.

Even in the coldest nights of winter, they had once curled up in nests of pillows in Lady Idril’s solarium, every window open. He’d said, with a troubled crease between his brows, that it was because walls reminded him of mountains, and mountains were a trap. Perhaps, in some deeply buried place, walls had reminded Elwing of caves. But she had told him that she liked the air because it was in her blood to love the open sky. Her mother had been a Wood-elf, she said — and had Eärendil heard the songs about her grandmother Lúthien, who danced beneath the stars? She was the most beautiful Child of Ilúvatar! But Eärendil was a boy of ten then, and simply nodded, not knowing how her girlish heart had secretly hoped that he would say he could not believe that, for—

“You are the most beautiful woman to have ever lived.”

Elwing, deep in recollection and with a large mouthful of bread halfway to her mouth, froze and slanted her eyes to the side. Eärendil was propped on his hands against the window frame, watching her with a rapt expression.

“Do you know that?” he asked.

“Stop watching me eat!” Her protest was muffled by the bread and the back of her hand over her mouth. But she returned his smile with her eyes.

Eärendil came to sit on the edge of the bed beside her. “Do you not like the melon?” He popped a cube of the green fruit in his mouth.

“I do,” said Elwing, “but our babies tell me they do not.”

“Ah, well, we won’t argue with them.”

“Tell me about the journey,” Elwing suggested. “Before you fell asleep you were telling me...” She could not remember. “Something about the deserts?”

Eärendil smiled, the timid way he always smiled when he was about to talk of some aspect of his life she was not a part of.

“Stop pretending you’re not excited,” she said. “I know you’re dying to tell me.”

“I am not pretending, izray.” He tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear. "It was not all excitement. Many long and windless stretches with nothing to do but best Aerandir in Ýneg again and again. The man will not admit defeat!”

“Much like someone else I know,” Elwing said, then more sincerely: “It is good. Such a trait is precious in these times. Keep him close.”

Eärendil chuckled and took another piece of melon before launching into the full tale, growing increasingly animated as it went on. First he talked about the strange lands they visited along the southern coasts: of deer striped gold and black, and insects as large as his hand, and lagoons bursting with pink birds; of deserts with dunes high as mountains. No, he answered when she managed to slip in a question, nowhere suitable to settle, not yet, but they were close, next time. He was sure.

Then their journey took them further out to sea, and his tale turned to talk of stars and currents and winds that Elwing might have been able to follow if she’d paid any attention to Círdan’s lessons in their youth, but she was more interested, as she had been then, in observing Eärendil’s gestures and the pink glow rising on his cheeks as he spoke of them.

“…Captain Ríaras believes I am ready to captain my own ship,” he said at the end of one breathless sentence, and paused for Elwing’s reaction.

“Oh?” Her voice came out tremulous as the sudden skip of her heart.

“But not now!” he hurried to add. “No, no, nothing about ships until our babies are born, and then not for some time yet.” He set aside the tray of food, which Elwing had finished picking over, and stretched himself out in the narrow space on the bed beside her, tucking his feet beneath the blankets and tangling his legs with hers. “But never mind, we can talk of that later.”

Elwing swallowed around the tightness in her throat. It should not have been a surprise, but she realised she had been indulging the hope that their children might anchor his restless soul. The sea was ever in his thoughts, and after his father had followed its call West, it had taken hold of him more fiercely than ever. The voyage of Alphroval, one of the few Falathrin ships to ply the open ocean, had been for him but a step towards a greater ambition.

Once, he had dared whisper that ambition: that he might reach the Blessed Realm and plead with the Belain for forgiveness and aid. It was bold, brazen even, to entertain such a thought. To Elwing, it was no different than wishing for death. She had awoken screaming the night he shared it with her, shivering, her vision blurry with the memory of soaring through bitter cold darkness.

She reached between them and threaded her fingers with his. “Yes, later.”

They held each other’s eyes, close enough that she could feel his breath on her skin, and he leaned in closer still to touch his nose to her cheek. Her lips parted, inviting him to claim them, but he hovered a moment longer, fingertips trailing down her spine, pulling her closer and fitting his hips around her belly so she could feel the evidence of his want for her.

“I love you,” he whispered, grazing her lips with his.

The light, teasing touch sent a gale of pleasure whipping through her, flushing out all trace of doubt and fear, and she tightened her arms around his shoulders, arcing her hips, shuffling to fit the firmness of his arousal between her thighs. They were both already panting, grinding hips, hands racing over clothing to expose more skin. Eärendil explored the new shape of her, and everywhere he moved she chased contact with his body, straining for friction.

Her chest bared, her sensitive and swelling breasts pushed up against him and she gasped, forced to pause at the dizzying rush of desire that unfurled inside her.

“It’s so much,” she said.

Eärendil chuckled, pulling back and clasping her hands in both of his. “Slower?” he asked.

“No, no,” she said, “I need you.” And indeed, her pulse seemed to throb through her entire body, but especially in the aching mound between her thighs. Her lust took command of her actions, and she tangled her fingers in his hair, pushing down. “Now.”

Through hooded lids, she caught him grinning up at her as he slid his palm over her, rubbing and pulsing through her braies.

“Ah! Aah!” Elwing cried. “I’m going to—!” Already she was shuddering towards completion — but just as the surge of her release reached a peak, he removed his hand, tugging her braies down to her ankles. She kicked them off, narrowly missing Eärendil in the process.

“Careful!” he laughed.

He pulled up her knees and supported her trembling legs with his hands on her ankles. His head ducked down, nothing but his mussed-up golden curls visible above the curve of her belly. Elwing’s eyes squeezed shut, she clutched at the sheets, mouthing curses. He had her still teetering maddeningly on the brink of climax.

One cheek scraped along her inner thigh, gentle as sand dragged from underfoot by the retreating surf. Eärendil reached up with one hand, feathering the lower curve of her breast with his thumb, and in the same moment fitting his lips over and around her. The pressure of his sucking stole her breath, and she could not keep from rutting against his mouth. He squeezed her breast and thrust his tongue inside her. A spike of pleasure pushed a cry from her lungs, loud enough she was sure it carried through the open window to the street below, but she could not care. She cried again, and again, as he withdrew his tongue, fluttering, then plunged into her once more. One hand continued to tease her breast while the other forced its way beneath her to grip the yielding flesh of her ass. He held her hips firmly against him as he carried her up, up to an impossible height of pleasure, suspending her there in weightless flight above the earth.

Her fall, when it finally came, was gentle, easy, like sliding into a pool of still water. Entirely sated in spirit and body, she sank into the bed and drifted back to sleep in his enveloping embrace.

[lacrymatoryao3]

Redemption Was Just The Beginning

Chapter 9: January, 1900

[1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8]

To the world, Arthur Morgan is dead. As he tries to face the idea, in a lush valley in Ambarino he comes face to face with a woman from his past, and they must reckon with an era long gone. Especially when she has secrets of her own.

(Rated explicit simply because eventually there’s smut in this.)

Tag: @photo1030

3,075 Words (AO3 Link)

Arthur wasn’t sure what time it was, or much of anything for that matter, when Ana burst into his bedroom late in the night… Or was it early morning? Either way, the dawn had not yet broke and Arthur was jerked out of a deep sleep confused and disoriented.

“What, what?! What’s the matter?!” He shouted bewildered, reaching in a crazed manner for a weapon like his old instincts dictated.

Ana was hurriedly dressed, with a piece of paper with instructions scrawled hastily on still drying ink, “Owen was just here. Rosaline is in labor and I need to go over there. I don’t know how long I’ll be so I need you to take care of the house and Arthur Francisco. I wrote everything down… And please, use the stove this time when you cook anything. I already made lunch for him, it’s in the ice box.”

Arthur did hear pounding, but he had assumed it was something in his dream. He grunted rubbed his face, finally checking the clock on the end table. A quarter past 3 in the morning. Why did babies need to come when everyone was sleeping?

He saw her off, trying to shake the tiredness by standing on the cold porch until he couldn’t see her anymore. It seemed every man besides Mr. O’Hogan was doing the same thing, Mrs. Liang followed Ana not too soon after, then Mrs. Johnson in the distance. At least they all knew how babies were born. The only woman who had any real idea to help poor Abigail was Susan, and she had never had any of her own.

Arthur did sleep a bit more, sitting in the living room after getting the fire going, until the clock started to chime at 5. He practiced his usual morning routine and went into the kitchen, grabbing any cook books he could find. Ana had plenty of little recipe cards, however she had naturally wrote them in Spanish. He sat down after getting the coffee going and scanned the table of contents in each book to see if he could find something easy enough for him to make without it becoming a disaster. So many of the measurements they listed made absolutely no sense to him. What the hell was a ‘scruple’? Or a ‘dram’? He only knew a ‘gill’ as something fish had. He found one simple enough that didn’t have any of those, with the instructions understandable for someone as stupid in a kitchen as he felt like he was. Poaching eggs seemed simple enough. Making toast was easy.

He filled a small pot with water, setting it on the stove when it was hot enough for it to boil. As he waited he put a pan on the neighboring burner and dropped a spoonful of butter into it, letting it melt and cover the bottom. He cut some slices of bread and slapped them in, turning them every few minutes until they were crispy and a light brown. He put them onto a plate and into the warming shelf above the stove. The water was bubbling and steaming by then. According to the recipe he just needed to crack the eggs into the water and let them go until they set. He just watched them float in the water, the whites wrapping themselves back around the yolk like an overly complicated soft boiled egg. He strained them out with an odd looking utensil that looked like a metal spider’s web on a stick. He put them with the toast in the warming box.

Arthur went up and knocked on the door to Arthur Francisco’s room. When he went inside the boy was still snug in his bed. He almost felt bad needing to wake him, gently tapping him on the back until he opened his eyes.

“Hey.” Arthur whispered, “Time to get up and around.”

Arthur Francisco looked at him, baffled that he was the one there to rouse him, “Where’s Mama?”

“She’s with Mrs. O’Hogan. Her baby’s comin’ soon.” Arthur replied, silently thanking Ana that she already took the boy’s clothes out, “It’s just you and me today.”

Arthur had no idea what he was even supposed to do other than make sure the boy got out of bed. He was sure he knew how to take care of himself, he didn’t need to be supervised. On top of it he felt awkward just standing there as the child washed and dressed. He did note what Ana was talking about with him being like Arthur. It was in the way he fastened buttons, especially on his shirt when he left the two top buttons open as if he didn’t like the collar close around his neck. He moved his arms around to make sure his suspenders weren’t tight sitting on his shoulders. Arthur could really put a word on how it made him feel… The closest was a melancholic happiness, if that even made sense.

Even more like Arthur was he didn’t speak much in the morning. He mutely followed Arthur to the kitchen and sat down in his seat.

“Now, don’t expect anythin’ fancy like your mama can make.” Arthur said to him while taking out the poached eggs and the toast, sprinkling the eggs with some pepper. He absentmindedly poured the boy his own cup of coffee, before questioning if that was something Ana let him drink. He didn’t see any wrong in it. He was drinking coffee that young… Then again, he was smoking and drinking a few years later. None of it killed him, so one time for the kid wouldn’t hurt.

Arthur Francisco didn’t complain. His first few tastes of the drink gave him a puzzled look on his face, but he enjoyed the meal more than Arthur expected him to. Both ate in similar ways. They broke open the eggs with their forks so the yolk would bleed over the toast and dipped up the excess on the plate with the crusts.

In the stable the boy tended to his own horse, while Arthur helped the throng of other children. He got onto her on his own, he was still light enough to use only his arms to hoist him up into the saddle. Damn, Arthur wished he could still do that.

The youngest O’Hogan girl, Arthur believed she was called was Jane or something, went up to Arthur Francisco and asked if she could ride with him. He instantly and eagerly agreed. Arthur went over and helped her onto the back of Josefina, putting her legs on the same side so she didn’t wrinkle up her skirt.

Making their way through town more children joined. They sure did talk a lot, and all at once. Arthur found it to be a little too much noise for so early in the morning, it was like the girls giggling over coffee but tenfold. He tired to tune most of it out, staying focused on what was ahead and making sure the group didn’t run into each other’s horses or anyone in the street.

It was hard to believe the schoolhouse fit so many children. It looked like a two room shack at most with a covered bell tower and only one teacher standing on the porch to greet the pupils. Arthur assumed she was the other Svensson sister Ana had told him about.

He ushered and helped the children put their horses in the covered paddock in the yard. He made sure they had everything they needed, especially Arthur Francisco.

“All right.” Arthur said to him, “I’m heading off. If I’m back before the day ends I’ll come meet you. If not make sure everyone gets home safe.”

Arthur Francisco nodded, “Yes, sir. See you later.”

Arthur lit a cigarette watching everyone else go inside out of the elements. He sighed, turning Delfina to the direction of the sheriff’s office and jail.

[*]-----[*]-----[*]-----[*]-----[*]

Mrs. O’Hogan laid in her bed that was covered by old rags. She let in sharp breaths and slowly blew them out, making attempts to regulate the pain ever contraction brought to her. Ana and the rest of the women – including Bridget, the O’Hogans’ soon to be 16 year old daughter – did what they could to keep her comfortable as they waited for Dr. Anderson and the local midwife, an older woman the town mothers affectionately called Nurse Henry.

The air when a baby was expected was a heavy and bittersweet one, with so many potentials that overwhelmed the mind if thought about too deeply. There was excitement, the coming of a new life and a sore buy joyous mother. There was fear, no matter what birth was a dangerous affair for both. Ana had Arthur Francisco there, as did Mrs. Liang with her youngest son Caihong, and Mrs. O’Hogan herself had Jane and Adam and Nicolas in the same bed in the same house with no major or worrying troubles. With all the religious and superstitious trinkets from different backgrounds surrounding her, there was high hopes the good luck would continue.

They tried to keep the mood light, if only for Bridget’s sake. The young woman was more nervous about the ordeal than her mother was. Mrs. O’Hogan occasionally muttered that she hoped the doctor and nurse would make it before the baby did. Mrs. Liang and Mrs. Johnson agreed, with Mrs. Johnson remarking her second son Emmanuel nearly came out as soon as her labor started.

Dr. Anderson and Nurse Henry arrived just shy of 4 in the morning. Her jovial nature relaxed some of the anxiety, opening her little bag and getting right to work. Dr. Anderson was mostly there in case pain relief was needed or the birth would need to become a surgical one. She did offer Mrs. O’Hogan something called Ether, a way to reduce the discomfort, that Mrs. O’Hogan waved off with a comment that she went through it 5 other times without it and she doubted it would be any different the current time.

Then, 3 hours went by…

They kept Mrs. O’Hogan relaxed, letting her rest in any position that she deemed comfortable. They gave her plenty of juice to drink. Every woman in the room took turns walking around with her several times. In between each action to help things get going Nurse Henry would look underneath Mrs. O’Hogan’s shift to check how her dilation.

The sunlight broke and brightened the room by the time the baby was ready. Mrs. O’Hogan sat at the edge of the bed, leaning back so the nurse and doctor could kneel below her with blankets with Bridget behind them to see what it all entailed. Ana messaged Mrs. O’Hogan’s back as she pushed, Mrs. Johnson holding her hand, and Mrs. Liang dabbing her face with a cool damp cloth.

The shrill cry of a baby was a delight to everyone’s ears. Nurse Henry wrapped the baby quickly and took it closer to the furnace to clean them and keep them warm.

The nurse evaluated the baby, “You got yourself another healthy baby girl, ma’am!”

“Oh thanks be to God!” Mrs. O’Hogan cried in relief.

Once the afterbirth passed the women helped Mrs. O’Hogan affix a washable sanitary belt between her legs for any bleeding then removed the rags to tuck her into bed. The nurse gave her the tightly swaddled baby girl. Mrs. O’Hogan didn’t need instruction on what to do. Everyone watched, quietly taking in the small creature who latched onto her mother’s breast.

Ana didn’t want the experience to be sullied for herself. She smiled away the envy. Her reflection on being pregnant wasn’t the most positive one, but it seemed completely worth it once she held her son years ago. Growing up she was taught she would have several children, like every woman around her in Mexico did. Yet there was only one.

The baby was put into her cradle, rocked until she fell asleep. Mrs. O’Hogan took the chance to do the same. The lull was a welcome one for everybody. Once Dr. Anderson and Nurse Henry departed, the rest of the women returned to their stations in the room, collapsing and closing their own eyes.

[*]-----[*]-----[*]-----[*]-----[*]

The sheriff’s office looked like most others in every backwater town Arthur had found himself in, a wooden built and sided construction with one half heavy impenetrable stones where the cells were. He hitched Delfina to the side of it. He didn’t know what was compelling him to walk up to the door. He didn’t like nor trust the law in any capacity any more than he did. He didn’t need the money. That was the only thing that made him take the bounties before. He knew how easily, despite being considered dead, how it could be him running from these vultures again. What was it? To get the rush he once savored? To prove to some unseen judge he was a changed man?

He opened the door, interrupting whatever conversation Sheriff Strange was having with the three. bored looking deputies.

“Of course, if we ever get that goddamn rail line they’ve been promising-… Oh! Good morning Mr. Callahan.”

Arthur tipped his hat, “Sheriff.”

“Taking me up on bounties?”

Arthur nodded.

Sheriff Strange handed him a piece of paper. It wasn’t exactly what Arthur was expecting, just a scrawled note with a name, their crime, description of the person, their address, and the cost to turn them in alive.

“Now he isn’t the most high profile one we got around here, but how you handle him is how you earn my blessing.” The Sheriff explained, “Earl Harris is just your run of the mill card cheat. He’s mostly a thorn in my side, coming in every few months for the same offense. Check the saloon first. He’ll go easy unless he’s had liquor, but he’ll talk your ear off.”

The goal: find some old card shark and take him back to the jail. Probably just to spend whatever time he owes and get released to start it all over again. $2.50 wasn’t anything to sneeze at anyway. He left the Sheriff and his lethargic seeming deputies. Closing the door Arthur heard him chide them, for one of them to whine ‘Oh come on, Pa!’ in response.

He took a bundle of rope from one of Delfina’s saddle bags, attaching it to his belt just in case. He left her at the hitching post, the saloon was a convenient walk down the street. Arthur leaned against a support post, making himself look like another patron who had drunk until the morning. He nonchalantly looked into the large windows.

The card table was in the middle of the room, always within eye shot of the bar. The saloon was mostly empty except for a few stragglers from the night before, but there was a large group looking like they were playing a round of poker. He studied them. One that had his back to him seemed to fit who he was sent to search for – thin build, ill fitting denim overalls, long stringy white hair and from his vantage point what looked to be a matching beard, a tattered wide brimmed straw hat. He sort of reminded Arthur of Uncle if he had skipped several meals and was far more energetic.

Arthur pushed through the double swinging half doors and walked up to the table to his potential target, “Excuse me, partner. Are you Earl Harris?”

“Yeah! What’s it to ya?” The man replied, turning in his chair to Arthur.

“You think we could step outside? I have some business with you to speak about.”

Earl Harris excused himself to the other players. As he set the cards in his hand onto the table, a bundle of other cards slipped out of his sleeve for everyone to see. There was the evidence Arthur needed. It was so easy it was almost insulting.

One of the men against Earl Harris slammed threw his hand to the table, “You son of a bitch!”

Arthur swiftly led Harris out of the saloon as the men rose, taking off their jackets and rolling up their sleeves. The fight wouldn’t have been a fair one for them, Arthur was a head taller and twice their sizes, but the Sheriff wanted Harris alive and in all probability unbeaten.

“What’s this all about?!” Harris mumbled stumbling down the stairs at Arthur’s hand on his shoulder’s urging.

“Well, I’m afraid Mr. Harris you’re a wanted man.” Arthur explained, “You’re going to have to come with me to see Sheriff Strange and I’m hopin’ we could do this like gentlemen.”

Harris blinked and gave a mostly toothless grin to him, “Aw hell! Why didn’t ya just say so?”

The short walk felt like an eternity. The Sheriff wasn’t kidding about how incessant Earl Harris could talk. Arthur was audience to his entire life story and whatever detour he decided to focus upon before returning to the point. He had no concern about his impending incarceration. In fact, Arthur started to suspect he actually liked it.

Walking by Harris gave Delfina a hard pat on her rump, “Fine horse ya got here! Got the goddamn Gardener brand! Ya must be mighty close to that lady!”

“That’s no one’s concern but my own.” Arthur replied.

Harris didn’t take the hint, “Bout time she got herself a real man! That ol’ husband of hers weren’t much of one, if ya catch my drift!”

Arthur grabbed him buy the shoulder, his patience wearing thin, leading him into the Sheriff’s office. Harris gave a jovial greeting to them. He instructed Arthur what his preferred cell was. He gladly shoved him into it, getting as much distance from Harris as possible or he was at risk of getting Arthur’s gun handle across the head so he’d be quiet for a while.

“Told you he was conversationalist.” Sheriff Strange chuckled seeing the exhausted expression on Arthur’s face. He put the money he was owned on the desk. Arthur took it and made a gesture of thanks and goodbye.

“Tell Mrs. Gardener I said hello!” The Sheriff shouted after him, “Treat her right! She’s a fine, fine woman!”

Arthur took a deep breath to calm himself when riding away on Delfina. It made his skin crawl, not liking that any more than he did at the party.