#and instead I receive a combination call out and FEAST

[ringworldbuilding]

People, Part I

The Djosé

The Djosé are a tall, fur covered humanoid with two horns. To us, they would look like a bison-person in the same way a minotaur is a bull-person and a fawn is a goat-person. Despite their size and relative strength they are generally peaceful and gentle people, unless provoked.

The Djosé of the Great Stone Desert and the Moody Mountains of the northern Dawnlands have no gods, they are ancestor worshipers. Due to their unique physiology, they don't breed and have children like we do, they die, and eventually the body regenerates and is born again with no memory of the previous life. They quite literally reincarnate as a means of reproduction. A quirk of this method is they have need of only one gender, or to be more precise, are genderless.

Djosians believe that you as a living individual only exist in the speck of time when your soul (or Djo) and your body (or Sé) are combined. When you die your body awaits regeneration and your soul moves on to a new body. Therefore, all individuals you ever know or come before you are truly unique. A death is therefore both tragic and wonderful, and the Djosians hold those who have died with great regard (hence Ancestor Worship).

The purpose for existence, they believe, is to experience every possible thing through the eyes of every possible person. They believe that one day the universe woke up and went mad from the sheer immensity of everything, so it split itself into shards (Djo) to better understand itself, and that one day, all souls will have lived in all bodies, and the souls shall combine into the Great Djo (essentially the first "god") and the bodies shall combine into the Great Sé (essentially a new world).

The Djosé have a very significant funeral right that each individual begins at reincarnation (birth). Each Djosian will build an intricate stone stack throughout their lives, into which they will incorporate items or carvings to represent pivotal times or experiences in said life. Upon death, a Djosian is tied in a funeral sack filled with a specially bred moth that dehydrates the body and organs, preserving them. The moths are then released, never to be reused, and the body is intermed in the stone stack to await its next life.

This process is timely and difficult, as the stacks are not in specific locations such as a cemetery, but a location of significance chosen by the Djosian who builds it. The stacks, once vacated, act as memorials and shrines at which the living meditate.

On very rare and momentous occasions two Djosians might meet who's souls and/or bodies once formed another individual, a common Ancestor. This Reunion is very special, as Djosians can't remember past lives, and this chance encounter allows both of them to commune with their common Ancestor. Such a meeting is marked out by their horns starting to glow as they get closer to each other. Such events occur once or twice in a generation, and are celebrated in a holy festival known as Séjoar in Djorian (their language).

Both individuals meditate and receive three visions, a shared memory that they both see, and one separate vision each. By tradition they must never speak of these visions, except for the shared memory. This is followed by feasting and celebration.

The Djosé come from the harsh Stone Dessert, that according to legends was swept clear of all earth and vegetation by a thousand years of rain that wore the mountains flat. The Djosé are the only race hardy enough to call it home, and live off lichens and mosses, which is about the only things that grow there. The stone desert resembles a real world mesa dessert, but instead of warm reds and terracotta oranges, it is coloured grey blue slate, with bands of green and turquoise, laced with fine golden veins. The area's mineral resources are of great interest to outsiders, if they could only figure out a way of surviving it.

On the rare occasion a Djosian might venture beyond its homeland, it might discover it is known by another name; Troll.

[queen-esther]

Please forgive me and ignore if this is too personal to ask. I converted to Catholicism a few years ago. I find the Orthodox church very beautiful and intriguing. I'm curious what your reason was for converting.

No worries at all! I enjoy talking about this. :)

My main reason was really looking at early Church history and realizing the Catholic claims about the papacy aren't as cut and dry and "obvious" as many Catholics would have you believe. I looked back and didn't actually see a single, unified force backing the pope in the very beginning, and Catholic attempts to argue around this by insisting there was "development" in regards to the pope's leading and universal authority over all of Christendom just stopped making sense and came across as suspicious after a while. The Bishop of Rome did have a leading role among the other bishops in the early Church, but there were limits to how much authority the other bishops accepted from him, and the Great Schism didn't ultimately happen just because those pesky and heretical Eastern patriarchs up and stubbornly decided to stop submitting to Rome one day.

If I have to give the entire situation my honest assessment, the massive distance between Rome and the East, combined with the difficult logistics surrounding communication and travel over time, caused a rift in everyone's understanding of the Bishop of Rome's role over the rest of the Church. By that time, the Roman Church had gained an insane amount of power and influence over the Western world, so the pope grew to see himself as having more authority over the rest of the Church than the patriarchs of the Eastern Churches understood him to have. Now that I have taken a more honest look at pivotal moments in Church history instead of just blindly following the Catholic talking points, I happen to agree with the Eastern side of that conflict.

Along with that, the more I learn about Orthodox theology, the more it just...connects? Makes more sense? I see more of God's forgiveness and compassion in the East than I did as a Catholic. There are a lot of aspects of Catholicism that are very rigid and legalistic. That's not to say rules are bad, nor is it to mean Orthodoxy doesn't have its own laws and practices, but the approach in Orthodoxy just feels different, more accepting of the fact that everyone falls short, but should try our best to live Christlike lives anyway. The concept of Confession seems a lot more like going to the doctor to be healed. There isn't this detailed idea of, "You committed X type of sin, so you must not receive Communion until you have fulfilled Y obligation." You don't do X amount of prayers or visit Y parish on a feast day in order to have Z number of hours removed from your time in Purgatory. Our priest described Confession more along the lines of, "If there's a particular sin you've been struggling with, you should go ahead and confess it. But you shouldn't hold yourself back from receiving Communion unless your spiritual father sees avoiding the Eucharist as a beneficial move towards overcoming a particular sin, because consuming the Body and Blood of Christ is largely about healing your soul, too. It's not a 'reward' you get for doing a good job."

And there are other aspects, too. The Orthodox argument that the bread becomes ONLY the Body of Christ and the wine becomes ONLY the Blood of Christ lines up perfectly with how Christ talks about this in Scripture. Christ doesn't say, "Take this, all of you, and eat of it, for this is my Body AND Blood," nor does He hold up the wine and go, "Drink it, for this is my Blood AND my Body." In the Bread of Life Discourse, Christ specifically mentions eating His Flesh and drinking His Blood. Speaking of Communion, I 100% think having babies receive the Eucharist is the right call, and when I found out this was how the Catholics did it in the early days, too, I was like, "Hmmmm," and stopped buying the "age of reason" argument the Catholic Church uses now pretty much on the spot. I'm also impressed with how the Orthodox Church has maintained rich history and Tradition through the Divine Liturgy.

This response is longer than I thought it would be, but that more or less sums it up! I do regret not looking into all claims about Apostolic Christianity back before I first decided to convert to Catholicism, because I feel I didn’t give Orthodoxy the fair shake it deserved when making my decision of which branch to follow as a Christian. I’m fairly certain I would’ve gone Orthodox in the first place had I known more about it at the time.

[kookscrescent]

A Needy, Desperate Fuck Up (m) │ pjm

❒ pairing: jimin x female reader ❒ summary: jimin’s desperation leads to a fuck up. ❒ prompt: "Fuck fuck fuck fuck, that's not fucking good!" and "Fuck! I'm not on the pill!" ❒ rating: nc-17, 18+ ❒ genre: smut, pwp ❒ warnings: unprotected sex, oral sex (female receiving), dirty talk, cursing, accidental creampie, rough sex, multiple orgasms, slight overstimulation, choking, crying, Jimin is neeedyyyy for that puzz puzz ❒ word count: 3.1k │ unedited ❒ release date: may 8th 2021 ❒ disclaimer: This is all fiction! Nothing mentioned/written are facts and/or real! So please just keep that in mind when reading and enjoy! Thank you ♡

The door to your bedroom barely has a chance to close properly before Jimin has you pressed flat against the wall. The coldness of the exposed brick wall has goosebumps rising on your rapidly heating skin, and you shudder at the contact.

But you don’t care. All you can think about is the way Jimin feels pressed against your body – the hard panels of his toned chest and abdominal muscles, not to mention his hard length growing against your leg.

You can’t help but moan at the feeling. It’s been way too long since you and Jimin have had sex! He’s been extremely busy with recording for the new album, and his schedule is almost jammed packed every day, and on the rare occasion that he has a few hours of free time, you would much rather have him spend it on catching up on some rest.

But something had come over him the minute he opened your front door and stepped inside. Like you normally would, you’d yelled out a hello to him, letting him know you were in the kitchen, with your hands buried in the dirty dish water as you were cleaning the few dishes you had neglected since the day before. You hadn’t heard him call back a hello to you like he normally would, but you thought he might just be tired and didn’t really think anything of it. However, you did hear him entering the kitchen and stopping just behind you. About to ask him if he was hungry and if he wanted you to make him something, you’d dried your hands on the nearest rag, but you didn’t even manage to get a proper look at him before his hands were in your hair and his lips were claiming yours in a hard kiss.

It took your breath away. Literally. The rag fell to the floor without a sound and without pulling away to question his sudden behavior you grabbed his face in your hands, trying to bring him closer. He took the hint and stepped forward, pushing his chest and pelvis against your body. he was hot and cold at the same time. His clothes cold from the slight breeze outside, but his hands and lips warm and hot against your skin.

Things escalated pretty quickly from that point and you honestly can’t really remember the journey from the kitchen to your bedroom. Every breath you each take is rushed and breathy, and all you seem to recall is hands frantically trying to remove pieces of clothing and said clothing landing haphazardly on the floor in a line behind you. Hard and wet kisses to your lips and neck, and your hands desperately trying to undo the string on Jimin’s joggers.

At this point you’ve both managed to get each other undressed, both of you now lying naked on the bed, Jimin hovering above you, your legs caging him in and his hard cock resting between your soaked folds as he slowly grinds himself against you. Your mouths are a hot mess, lips slipping and sliding over each other and your tongues erotically dancing.

It’s like all hell have broken loose and the both of you have just lost it. You have no idea what has spurred on his sudden desperate need to claim you, but you can’t say that you mind one bit. You’re equally as desperate to have him, not having felt him inside of you for almost three weeks!

Throwing your head back, you groan as the tip of his cock nudge your clit. “Shit, that feels so good!”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah!” You find his eyes, hoping to god he won’t stop moving against you.

He leans down for another kiss. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed your sweet pussy!” He rumbles, lifting to his hands so he can watch his cock effortlessly slid between your folds, your slick coating every thick inch of him. “Fuck, I need to taste you baby.”

With a jerk he moves down your body, your legs automatically parting wider to make room for him. Once settles between your legs, Jimin looks up at you from under lust clouded eyes, his pupils so dark and intense that you become slightly nervous. Pressing a kiss to the juncture of your thigh, he gently and ever so slowly runs the tip of his pointer finger down your slit, collecting your juices before sucking his finger clean.

He groans and you almost dissipate on the spot. His finger returns to your heat as another kiss is pressed to the juncture of your thigh. He repeats his previous action – running his finger down your slit, collecting your arousal, but he stops at your entrance, teasingly circling your hole. He pushes in just an inch before retreating and you mumble a frustrated please. You lock eyes, just as a second finger joins the first and he pushes in all the way to his knuckles.

Your head hits the pillows in a sigh of relief. He pushes in and out of you in a slow and tantalizing rhythm. It has your head swimming, and you need more.

“Please Jimin, please! Don’t tease me.”

“Don’t tease you baby?” he repeats and following with a kiss right above your clit. “Why not?”

Arrogant shit, you think!

“It’s been so long…” you mumble, your voice muffled by the pillows when he begins to pick up the pace. “Make me cum!”

“Hmmm,” he places another kiss above your clit, so close to touching but never enough to give you the relief you want. He begins scissoring his fingers inside of you, and the familiar fire starts in your stomach. “Want me to make you cum with my mouth babygirl?”

You nod frantically! “Yes yes yes ye- ahhhh!” You’re abruptly cut off by the feeling of Jimin’s tongue finally making contact with your clit. He gently licks it – long fat swipes with his warm tongue.

The sounds coming out of you is only spurring him on. Two fingers turn to three and he sucks your clit so violently it has your hips rising from the bed. He easily folds one arm across your lower abdomen, holding you down as he continues to suck.

The fire picks up, and your cries grows louder and louder with each suck of his mouth and each thrust of his fingers. You can’t remember a time where you’ve ever wanted, no needed, to cum so desperately. You can almost taste the release on your tongue. So close.

You can feel how eager Jimin is to make you explode on his tongue as well. He pushes the entirety of his face into your soaked pussy. His tongue working you so feverishly, his nose bumping your sensitive clit.

You grasp at his hair, pushing his face deeper into you and he groans in respond. The vibration sending a wave of tingles through your clit and all the way down to your toes, making them curl. You feel like your brain is no longer connected to the rest of your body, your legs and hips having a life of their own – bucking wildly against his face, trying to reach your high.

Slipping his fingers out of you, he reaches up to press your hips to the bed with both of his hands, making you completely immobilized.

You’re about to whine at the loss of his fingers inside of you, but Jimin is quick to replace them with his fat tongue instead.

“Ah…ah Jimin- oh god!” You moan.

He continues his feast. Slurping and sucking every inch of your wet pussy. You’re so close, so fucking close to cumming, every nerve in your body is on high alert, ready to explode in a fit of euphoria.

Jimin moans between your legs. Loving the way your sweet juices cover his face and tongue. If he’s not careful, the mere taste of you on his tongue combined with the way you sound when you’re losing control, he could probably cum.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop!” You plead, digging your fingers deeper into his scalp, yanking at his hair.

He doesn’t stop. Jimin keeps going, your moaning pleas urging him to go even faster, and he throws his fingers back into the equation. Plunging two fingers into your tight hole and working them at the same fast rhythm as his tongue on your clit.

When your grip on his hair becomes almost too painfully tight, he knows your cumming.

“Shit shit shit shit shit! Ohhhhhhh…!!”

He keeps lapping up every inch of you until he’s sure you’ve ridden out every small inch of your orgasm. Only when your hands fall limply to the bad, does he ease up.

You’re panting, trying to catch your breath as Jimin kisses his way back up your body. He seems just as out of breath as you are, but you can tell that he’s no way near finished with you.

And you would be sourly disappointed if he were.

*

“God you’re so hot!” Jimin breaths, lips hovering above yours, barely touching. He thumbs your lower lip, drawing it down before flicking his tongue across it. Locking his eyes on yours, he holds your gaze as he works his hips between your legs.

Supporting himself on one elbow, he lets the other arm travel behind your body to roughly grab onto your ass cheek, squeezing it tightly as he grinds his pelvis against you, letting his pelvis rub against your still sensitive clit as his cock is nestled deep inside of you.

Lifting, you reach for his mouth, your breast pressing against his sweaty chest. You whimper into his mouth as he slowly begins drawing back his hips and pushing his cock back inside with a hard thrust. He repeats this several times. Each time pushing a little deeper and thrusting a little harder.

Nibbling at your bottom lip, he whispers, “I’m gonna make you cum so hard on my cock.”

“Please!”

“Would you like that?”

“Yes! God yes!”

He forces one of your legs over his shoulder as he moves to sit on his knees, trapping your remaining leg between his. This automatically causes you to roll to your side, changing the position and making him go deeper.

Fisting the sheets, you hold on for dear life as Jimin begins fucking into you at an almost violent pace. He kisses your shin as he uses your leg as leverage to push himself faster and deeper inside of you.

It’s a bruising pace – hard, fast and rough.

“I-I… Jimin!” You hoarsely call out his name as heat washes through your body and the knot in your stomach begins to tighten.

“Shit! Are you gonna cum baby?” His eyes zero in on the way your pussy swallows his cock so desperately, your wall tightening and sucking him in. “Fuck you’re getting so tight!” He whines almost painfully.

You cry out, your orgasm crashing through you like a volcano erupting. Your entire body is convulsing and tingling with the sweet feeling of the release you’ve missed so much. And even when you’re spend and don’t think you can take much more, Jimin keeps going. He fucks you through the waves aftershocks till they subside, and you feel a new knot of fire starting to form.

Your pussy spasms around his cock and it feels like he’s splitting you open. “Oh my fucking god!”

“Fuck! How do you keep getting tighter?!” He throws his head to the ceiling with a deep growl, his fingers digging into your flesh and he slows down to let your both catch your breath.

“Kiss me please,” you manage to stammer out the few words, needing to feel him close to you again.

With your leg still over his shoulder, he leans down on his elbows till he’s able to slot his lips over yours in a sweet kiss. You claim his mouth, your hands cupping his cheeks as your tongue licking its way inside. It’s wet and messy, and Jimin switches his rhythm to match the pace of the kiss. Slowly, he grinds his hips against yours as your mouths make love. It’s a complete switch of mood from what it was mere seconds ago. But none the less, the know forming in the pit of your stomach keeps on growing.

Jimin pick up the pace once again. Frantically, desperately snapping his hips against yours – the sound of your skin slapping together and the squelch of your juices as the pumps in and out, filling the room.

“Fuck,” he breaths and finds your neck, licking a fat stripe from your ear to the juncture between your shoulder and neck. He bits down softly and your face contorts in pleasure, hands scratching down his sweaty back.

You don’t know how he’s able to keep going like this, but you’re not about to tell him to slow down or stop. Not when the tingling feeling of another orgasm starts spreading through your body. But before the feeling can take full flight, Jimin stops to sit up on his haunches, and you whine loudly.

“Noooo!”

He laughs, running a hand through his thick wet locks. “Don’t worry babygirl. I’ve got you.”

And he does. He doesn’t waste a beat and immediately pick up where he left. He spreads your legs wide, his eyes focusing on the way he sinks his cock into your sweet heat, the way you drink up every inch of him. The sight nearly makes him cum on the spot and he has to concentrate real hard not to blow his load inside already. He’s not done with you yet!

Having gone so long without being inside of you, he’s not ready for this to be over!

“Jimin- ah ah ahhhhh- hnnng!” Your back arches off the bed as the crown of his cock rubs against your sweet spot. Jimin responds with his hand on your throat, putting just the right amount of pressure. You can feel your eyes tearing up at the intense amount of pleasure running through your body, he’s everywhere! You can feel him everywhere! And you don’t know how much more you’ll be able to take, feeling spend and used after 2 orgasms already.

“Baby please,” you beg him teary eyed. “Need you to cum!”

Jimin shakes his head, his hair falling over his eyes as determination takes over his features. “Gonna make you cum again!” he rasps, throwing his other hand into the mix as well – using his thumb to draw harsh circles on your clit.

Your hips buck against his touch and the fire in your stomach intensifies to the point of pain. “I-I can’t…” you sob, and you desperately try to find something to grab onto, eventually settling on Jimin’s thighs, your nails digging into his skin. You’re sure that will leave a mark in the morning.

“Yes you can!” Jimin growls, teeth biting into his bottom lip and he begins pounding into your so ruthlessly and desperately. He fucks you so hard and fast, that you’re almost positive that the bed will break.

He squeezes your throat a little harder, making the tears stream down your cheeks – wetting the pillow below you.

“Fucking cum! Cum around my cock baby!” he breathes, leaning down to kiss the tears from your cheeks.

The slight change in position, has his cock reaching so deep inside of you. Your eyes roll to the back of your skull, fingers clawing into Jimin’s back – trying to hold on for dear life as he pounds you to your third orgasm for the night.

“Jimi- fuck…ahhhhhh!” you cry hoarsely, as you cum so hard that spots start dancing in front of your eyes and your breath catches in your throat when Jimin tighten his hold on your throat the slights bit – adding fuel to your already too intense pleasure.

“That’s it,” he grunts, continuing his abuse and fucking you through your orgasm, now chasing his own as well.

“Oh my god, please!”

You’re so desperate to feel him fall apart, to feel him lose control as much as you are. Wrapping yourself around him, you pull him as close as possible, your hands grasping his ass, pushing and pulling him towards you and your hips matching him thrust for thrust.

“Yesssss! Fuck ____, just like that. Just like that,” he chants, and you cry out in relief when you feel his muscles tensing up under your fingers and his cock twitching inside of you as he cums in hot spurts.

He continues to swirl his hips slowly as you both come down from your high. He finds your lips, placing small, sweet pecks of love over and over again as you both try to find your breath.

“That was…” you mumble against his lips.

He cracks a smile, “It was.”

Eventually Jimin stops moving completely, just lying on top of you with his arms caging you in and his hands running lovingly through your sweat soaked hair. You really need a shower before you go to bed. But you stay like that for what feels like an eternity. Just kissing and touching each other. You’re pretty sure you won’t be able to move once you have to get out of bed, your legs feeling completely numb. But at this rate, you’re not even sure you want to get out of bed at all – the way Jimin feels on top of you, his weight pressing you down, the way his cock feels inside of you and his warm cum still filling your-

“Did you come inside of me?” you ask him abruptly, your eyes going as big as saucers.

He looks down to where your bodies are connected, confused for a second. “Did I? I guess I did.”

“Jimin!” You begin to panic, your voice going up an octave. “Fuck! I’m not on the pill!”

Jimin’s entire body stiffens upon hearing your words. “What?!” He still asks, not sure he heard you right.

“I’m not on the pill right now!”

“What? Why? You’ve always been on the pill!” He says, sitting up and pulling out of you. You wince at the slight sting he leaves behind from pounding you so thorough and good.

“Yes, but remember last month when I had my doctor’s appointment because I was having really bad cramps? She told me to stop taking them for a while to see how my body would respond! I clearly remember telling you this and that you needed to wear condoms!”

“WHAT?!” he practically screeches in disbelief, watching as his cum slowly leaks out of your abused entrance. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck, that’s not fucking good!”

[rosy-cheekx]

Alone Again, Naturally

Three times Martin should have called for help.

(I twisted my ankle on Sunday and was bummed bc I missed my partner so…this happened…oops.)

-

1.

Martin’s phone was missing, though he was pretty sure he knew where it was. That thing, that wormy, writhing mass of a woman had it. Destroyed it. His only chance of rescue from this nightmare. Replaying the image of dropping the phone, abandoning it as he ran, would do him no good. His coworkers hadn’t noticed he was missing, or if they had noticed, they hadn’t stopped by. And they shouldn't, of course, it would only put them in danger. But still, it stung a bit, to know that he’d been gone for what, three days now? and no one cared.

He could become a statement from this, Martin realized, his death narrated in Jon’s smooth, clipped voice, and then they would finally learn what happened to that large, oafish researcher who was transferred to the archives with them and disappeared overnight.

Martin sighed through his nose noisily, as if he could expel the dark thoughts with the sound. “Christ, Blackwood. Getting awful morbid there.” Talking to himself had become a staple of his isolation. For one, it drowned out the ever-present knocking on the door and the squelching rustle of the worms. He honestly wasn’t sure whether the sounds were still real or if they had become such a constant that his brain just filled them in anyways.

His voice was the only other sound available to him with his computer not working and his phone gone. His clock radio had played static on every channel, and he had been grateful for the white noise at first. But the longer Martin left the radio on, the sound began to morph from the hissing of dead air to a choir, indecipherable and haunting. There were no words and yet he could understand the message: come home to us. We need you, we miss you, let us show you how much we love you. With us, you’ll never feel lonely again, we promise. Martin had come to, hand on the doorknob to his flat, radio in hand. After that, he had removed all the batteries from anything that could make noise. Since then, he could only trust his own voice; everything else was a trap.

The can opener, unfortunately, had been electric too. He had been so proud of his purchase, a real attempt at adult cooking. (He never seemed to use the manual ones and could never get the grip right.) With the power out, assumedly caused by Prentiss, he had to get creative when it came to “making dinner.” For Martin, this meant sawing open a tin can with a serrated knife, eating it with a fork, and praying no metal shavings were lurking in each mouthful. Tonight’s feast: another can of tinned green beans and the last can of pineapple. He didn’t even like green beans, why had he ever bought these?

Martin gritted himself against the awful sound of metal on metal as he cut into a tin of beans, hissing sharply through his teeth and letting his mind wander. Maybe he could strain the beans? Let them dry? It would probably be better than the wet and soggy mush he was bound to find. Maybe he could put some crackers on them for a crunch? Pretend it’s a bad soup? As he was finishing his indelicate surgery, Martin tipped the can into the sink a little, hoping to strain the bean juice and improve the meal even a little. As he removed the last of the lid, he saw it.

There, in the sink, wiggling its way out of the drain. Another worm. Martin shrieked and jumped back, dropping the can in the sink with a clatter. He grabbed a roll of paper towels and began to stuff them down the sink, plugging up the drain as best he could. For extra measure, he plugged the faucet as well, suddenly terrified of accidentally swallowing one in a glass of water. Once the adrenaline rush had passed, Martin felt it: a stinging in his palm. They must have jumped at him, must have bitten him. It would be over soon, he knew it. He would be like Prentiss, a mass of tiny bodies. He braced himself to feel something, but nothing changed. Martin frowned, chewing on his lip in confusion, and hazarded a glance down to his hand. There was no worm in his palm, nothing wriggling and biting deep into his muscle, just a slice along the flesh of his thumb, dripping blood from where he must have cut himself on the tin can.

Sheepishly, Martin rolled his eyes at his defeatism. Did it hurt like hell? Yes. But he wasn’t going to become a worm monster. Not today. Grabbing a few more sheets of paper towel, Martin hissed in pain as he pressed them to his wound, making his way shakily to the paltry first-aid kit he kept in his bathroom. He was clumsy in his wound care, only able to use one hand to open the kit and the individually wrapped plasters, while the other pooled blood in his palm uselessly. The antiseptic had stung like hell and the plaster was off-center, but eventually, the job was done. Martin had managed.

“See?” He asked himself softly. “All better. We didn’t want the green beans anyways.” Martin was alone, but he would be fine. He could take care of himself.

——

2.

Martin’s phone had become less and less useful since his time in the Archives. Sasha and Tim had been distant in the end, their group texts dwindling into occasional messages regarding whether not someone had contacted so-and-so regarding their statement. He and Jon had called and texted quite a bit, before the Unknowing, when Jon had been in China, America, and wherever else Gertrude’s breadcrumbs had led him. But since the explosion, their messages lay at a standstill, a “good luck! come home safe :)” still waiting to be sent to “Jonathan Sims--Boss.” He used to call his mother every week, but the outgoing calls had dwindled as she returned less and less of them, until he received an apologetic voicemail from Steady Waters Care Home a few months ago.

Now, the only messages he received were his work emails and an occasional text from Peter with a request or two regarding The Magnus Institute. Not even spam calls reached him anymore. That was all fine by Martin. He was busy running the institute; he didn’t have time for social calls, even if he wanted any, which he didn’t. Martin had taken to leaving his phone in his work office, knowing he wouldn’t need it outside the building anyways. It was becoming something like a desktop mouse to him in its versatility.

It was a Thursday, and it was late--Martin’s watch read 11:09. Thursdays were Martin’s days to deliver paperwork to the archives. He could only ever do it at night when he was sure Jon had either gone home (or was asleep at his desk at the very least). Peter Lukas had been working Martin to the bone with all the paperwork he would hand off with a wave of his hand and an “I’ll be back next week Martin. Please don’t call me,” and this week’s stack of statement requests, financial approvals, and quarterly reviews would fall to Martin instead. Who knew running a front for feeding an all-seeing eldritch deity would require so many business expenses?

Martin. Martin knew. He had reviewed and approved each and every one.

It was the week after Halloween, so the list of those eager to give a statement was longer than usual. Hellweek, Tim used to call it, a grin on his face as Jon would frown and shake his head. The stack of folders Martin carried in his arms eclipsed his eyesight as he carefully made his way down the hall, the Lonely silencing his footsteps and the shuffle of his clothing. The elevator was broken this week, thanks to a visit from one of the Fairchilds. Martin clumsily opened the door to the stairwell, turning to the side slightly to see the steps that descended into the basement he knew so well. Cautiously, he began his way down the stairs, arms clutching the stack of paperwork and binders tight to his chest. The basement was eerily silent; even Martin’s muted steps echoed in his ears.

The door to the Archives creaked slightly, and Martin realized his mistake: he hadn’t propped the door. The thin streak of light that painted his way down the steps thinned and faded in time with the slow squeak of the door. The click of the latch sealed his fate: Martin was in the dark. He didn’t mind the dark, in principle, though his new awareness of the Fears heightened his concern considerably. He stepped down slowly, feeling for the steps with his foot as he went.

Halfway down the stairs, Martin heard a soft flutter as a few papers shifted in his stack. He hoisted the pile and tried to readjust it as he stepped once more. The combination of the changes in the balance of the papers and his weight combined were too much for his brain to process at once and he overcompensated on his step, putting his weight down a little too early. Martin felt the rush of adrenaline as he tried to catch himself, hands clutching uselessly at the paperwork in his hands as if it could save him and he felt himself tumble to the ground. Falling sideways, he hit his shoulder hard on the steps, momentum carrying him down the remaining steps to the floor. The loose papers not held in binders and folders scattered in what Martin was sure was every direction.

Martin was frozen on the floor, pain pulsing through his shoulder. He sat up tentatively, patting himself down as he set down what remained of his stack of folders. He wasn’t bleeding, but his ears were ringing and his arm hurt like hell. Listening carefully for the sound of anyone reacting to his presence, he rotated his shoulders carefully, wincing as throbbing radiated up his arm. He must have dislocated it. Patting his legs down, Martin found his phone in his pocket. He must have forgotten to put it on the charger. He...he could call someone, should call someone. His shoulder was dislocated.

He could call Jon.

He pulled up his text messages, the cursor blinking back at him, blinding in the dark. Jon was surely awake, he knew that man’s sleep schedule was worse than his.

good luck! come home safe :)

safe :)

safe.

“Shit.”

He couldn’t call Jon. It would undo everything he and Peter were trying to build up. It was all for Jon anyways, to keep him safe, to keep them all safe. No. He had to do this alone. It was best that way.

Martin sat himself up carefully. He had taken enough first aid courses (rather, he had watched them for free on the internet) to know how to set it back in place and he knew it would not be pleasant. He drew his right knee up, and clumsily unknotted his tie, using it to secure his arm to his knee. Martin closed his eyes tight and leaned away from his knee, rotating his shoulder as he stretched away, wincing in anticipation until he felt the wet pop of his arm slotting back into place. Sparks shot through his vision, his only grounding point in the dark, and he huffed out a cross between a moan and a curse.

He carefully made a fist with his re-set hand, tensing the muscles in his arm. Determining it to be good enough, Martin felt his way to his feet and grabbed the wall to steady himself. He knew there was a light switch somewhere--ah.

The light clicked on and he winced at the sudden change, letting his eyes adjust behind the safety of his lashes. When he opened his eyes again, he surveyed the mess of his paperwork, gathering it methodically. It took him another half hour, back against Tim’s old desk, to resort his files before setting them in the file basket he had installed on the door to the Archivist’s office, the rest going on the desk of Jon himself. He would see them all in the morning. At least Jon was home, resting.

When Martin emerged from the Archives, he glanced down at his watch, wondering if it was too late to hail a cab. He frowned at his watch; the face was cracked, the hands stuck at 11:11. He must have cracked it in his fall. “Make a wish,” Martin mumbled to himself, rolling his eyes. He was pretty sure his wishes were out of reach, hopeless. As long as he would be safe after all this, Martin could sacrifice a few wishes.

——

3.

Martin was on a walk. He had been doing that a lot, since his and Jon’s escape to Scotland. There was something comforting about the long stretches of rolling hills and rocky cliffsides, utterly devoid of menacing fear entities or bosses hellbent on destroying the world. Jon would come with him sometimes, especially in the early days when leaving each other’s presence was challenging to say the least, but Martin sometimes just needed the space. He loved Jon, he knew he did, and Jon did too, but sometimes the presence of another would build up and stifle him, an unbearable heat radiating off of Jon until Martin had to just go for a bit.

It was raining today, a bassy rhythm beating down on Martin’s umbrella as he walked a familiar cliffside path. He could see a rocky beach below him, waves made of roiling ink, more black than blue. The rain was comforting to him, distinguishing this ocean spread before him from the ocean of the Lonely and drowning out any thoughts that passed through Martin’s head. He stepped around a patch especially muddy gravel, glancing down and seeing a ghost of a reflection staring back at him.

Martin had been in a cold place today, withdrawn from the rest of the world. He had felt the fog blossoming over his mind and had known he needed to go for a bit, center himself, remind himself he was real. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and neither would his sense of self again, though he was making progress. Jon understood that sentiment, perhaps better than anyone else in the world, and had kissed him softly at the doorway, squeezing his hand in an unspoken promise. Martin tensed his own hand in a fist, still feeling the heat of Jon’s calloused palm under his, reveling in the idea that someone loved him the way Jon did, that someone loved him the way Jon did and that Martin loved Jon back. Martin felt his body solidifying under the rain, felt the wind buffet against him rather than pass through him.

Martin was thinking about going home when it happened.

Home, or Daisy’s safehouse, was a humble affair: reinforced windows, minimalist, a few guns hidden in the floorboards, lots of fresh fruits and vegetables from the village down the hill. It had been easy to reassign this place in Martin’s mind as home. He hadn’t felt at home since...well, definitely not since Prentiss. Maybe not before either.

The rain was letting up, and the brolly was forgotten in favor of letting the rain drop down into his hair, sopping his curls and plastering them to his skin. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so content to be in the rain. Things weren’t good, but they were the best they’d been in a while.

The next thing Martin knew he was on the ground, ankle twisted and both shins scraped, blood and dirt mingling on his legs. He tried to stand up and cried out as his ankle immediately gave way, the hope of putting weight on it dashed on the rocks of the beach far below him.

Martin Blackwood crawled to a tree, leaning his back against it, not minding the dirt that was sure to collect on his back and rump. He winced and massaged his ankle, already feeling it begin to swell under his fingertips. With his free hand, a silver scar shining between his forefinger and thumb, he reached for his phone from his jacket pocket, hands shaking as he clumsily dialed the only number in his list of favorites.

“Martin?” Jon’s voice was warm through the tinny speakers. “I hope you’re well.” It was carefully not a question, though Martin caught the notes of careful concern.

“Tch-” Martin sucked air through his teeth. “I fell, Jon. I twisted my ankle, I think? Can’t-ah-can’t walk.”

“Oh. Martin, dear,” Jon’s voice was softer, and Martin could practically see his love’s fingers, itching to do, to fix. “Do you need me to—I can come get you, if you like. I haven’t…I haven't looked. But I can, if you want me to.”

Martin smiled despite himself, hearing Jon’s cautious phrasing. “Please, yes. I’m pretty sure I’m near a picnic park, if you want to drive there and get me? Not sure this is a drivable trail.”

“Did you pass anyone?”

“…no?”

A pause. Martin heard static crackling through the phone. “No one will be there. I Know where you are, Martin. I’ll be there soon.”

Ten minutes and enough ice packs to ease the pain of a full rugby team later, Martin was laying in the back of Jon’s small car, heat blasting on him to dry his now-soaked clothing. There were perks to having an all-knowing partner, it turned out.

Later that evening, Martin was tucked into the couch, his head pleasantly nestled in cushions and his feet in Jon’s lap, who was carefully massaging his feet and ankles, probing for any long-term injuries with his Eyes. A mug of tea grasped between his hands, Martin sighed softly and felt warmth flood his face. He hadn’t been alone this time. He wouldn’t be alone ever again.

[tomakeitbeautifultolive]

Something I've been wondering about: If Jon comes back as a fire wight like Beric Dondarrion and unCat, will he be able to get it up? Blood won't really be flowing in his body anymore, so would his dick be powered by fire magic or something like that?

I, too, have spent a great deal of time pondering Jon Snow’s dick, Anon. 😏 Jokes aside, I will admit right off the bat that most of what I have to offer is total speculation, but over-thinking the most minor details of ASOIAF happens to be my favorite pastime, so let’s go!

Like pretty much everyone who read the quote, I was totally thrown off by the “fire wight” revelation. Here’s the quote for reference:

“..poor Beric Dondarrion, who was set up as the foreshadowing of all this, every time he’s a little less Beric. His memories are fading, he’s got all these scars, he’s becoming more and more physically hideous, because he’s not a living human being anymore. His heart isn’t beating, his blood isn’t flowing in his veins, he’s a wight, but a wight animated by fire instead of by ice.”

So, an important distinction to make here is that this quote is about Beric Dondarrion specifically, not Jon Snow.

The condition of Jon Snow’s corpse might matter

George can be very clever with how he words things. Note that he goes into Beric’s deaths, describing multiple resurrections and how he’s falling apart before stating that his heart is no longer beating. It could be that a fresh “fire wight” might still possess bodily functions—at least at first. Catelyn, too, was a very sorry looking corpse by the time she was reanimated, therefore not a great comparison, either. Especially since it’s Beric rather than Thoros who, with very little life force to lend, resurrects her.

If nothing else, Jon will be “fresh”, and his location at the Wall means the low temperatures will help preserve his body even if the resurrection takes some time. 

And speaking of the Wall… there happens to be a special lady there who could help Jon, and whose powers happen to be amplified by the magic of the Wall...

Melisandre is profoundly more powerful than Thoros of Myr

Thoros may be a red priest, but otherwise he seems to be a pretty normal human man. We get a clue about when he converted from Jaime:

“Jaime had once heard Thoros tell the king that he became a red priest because the robes hid the winestains so well.”

Relatively recently, one might guess, as most children aren’t yet drunks. Further, he was never very dedicated to his faith, even questioning it at times.

Melisandre, on the other hand...

“Melisandre had practiced her art for years beyond count, and she had paid the price. There was no one, even in her order, who had her skill at seeing the secrets half-revealed and half-concealed within the sacred flames.”

While we don’t know much about her, this confirms that she spent countless years studying her craft, and no one in her order can match her skill. And no one believes in their faith more than Melisandre. Like in the television series, it’s a safe bet that she’s actually much older than the natural human lifespan, particularly if she managed to lose count of how many years she’s studied magic.

If Melisandre is the one to resurrect Jon Snow, she might not use a ‘last kiss’ method at all, or, if she does, it could be more powerful than anything Thoros is capable of.

Unlike Beric, Jon Snow is probably the prophesied prince

Speaking of Melisandre’s ability to glimpse secrets in the flames… there’s someone she sure seems to see a lot of:

“I pray for a glimpse of Azor Ahai, and R'hllor shows me only Snow.”

“Skulls. A thousand skulls, and the bastard boy again. Jon Snow.”

“The flames crackled softly, and in their crackling she heard the whispered name Jon Snow. His long face floated before her, limned in tongues of red and orange.”

I know. There is some contention about who the Prince that was Promised is. Regardless of whether you agree that it’s Jon Snow, you’ve got to admit that Melisandre is seeing him in the flames for a reason. And if he’s not the prophesied prince, then perhaps his blood has something to do with it. It’s likely that, for some reason, the combination of Targaryen and Stark blood matters. At least, Rhaegar Targaryen seemed pretty convinced...

Whatever Jon Snow’s business is in Westeros… it’s unfinished. And part of that unfinished business might just involve becoming a father.

The emphasis put on Jon fathering a child is notable

Let’s go back to Jon’s first chapter ever. It opens with Jon at Robert’s feast, the author uses Jon’s eyes to describe the setting and multiple characters. And then enters Benjen Stark. This is when we really get to know Jon. When you read this passage, really consider the author’s intent here:

"You don't know what you're asking, Jon. The Night's Watch is a sworn brotherhood. We have no families. None of us will ever father sons. Our wife is duty. Our mistress is honor."

"A bastard can have honor too," Jon said. "I am ready to swear your oath."

"You are a boy of fourteen," Benjen said. "Not a man, not yet. Until you have known a woman, you cannot understand what you would be giving up."

"I don't care about that!" Jon said hotly.

"You might, if you knew what it meant," Benjen said. "If you knew what the oath would cost you, you might be less eager to pay the price, son."

Jon felt anger rise inside him. "I'm not your son!"

Benjen Stark stood up. "More's the pity." He put a hand on Jon's shoulder. "Come back to me after you've fathered a few bastards of your own, and we'll see how you feel."

Jon trembled. "I will never father a bastard," he said carefully. "Never!" He spat it out like venom.

Suddenly he realized that the table had fallen silent, and they were all looking at him. He felt the tears begin to well behind his eyes.

This is how George R.R. Martin chooses to introduce us to Jon Snow. And gods, that always hits me right in the gut. It’s absolutely supposed to. Jon’s trembling, venomous anger is palpable. You feel the deep hurt and resentment in his words, right down to his core. Jon says he doesn’t care—but the bite in his words and the tears welling in his eyes tell us otherwise.

Jon Snow easily embraces his vow of celibacy. At first. And then comes Ygritte. And after getting his first taste of love and later flirting with the idea of becoming a lord when it’s offered to him by Stannis, Jon Snow begins to imagine what it might be like to have a wife...

“I might someday hold a son of my own blood in my arms. A son was something Jon Snow had never dared dream of, since he decided to live his life on the Wall.”

And look what happens the moment he does dare to dream of it...

“I could name him Robb. Val would want to keep her sister's son, but we could foster him at Winterfell, and Gilly's boy as well. Sam would never need to tell his lie. We'd find a place for Gilly too, and Sam could come visit her once a year or so. Mance's son and Craster's would grow up brothers, as I once did with Robb.

He wanted it, Jon knew then. He wanted it as much as he had ever wanted anything. I have always wanted it, he thought, guiltily. May the gods forgive me. It was a hunger inside him, sharp as a dragonglass blade.”

And the feeling transitions into an almost tangible hunger felt by his wolf, Ghost.

Speaking of Ghost…

Grab your tinfoil! ‘Cause Jon’s life might’ve already been ‘paid for’ ...By Daenerys

First… in case you didn’t know, Daenerys is probably a skinchanger:

“The slightest pressure with her legs, the lightest touch on the reins, and the filly responded. As she turned to ride back, a firepit loomed ahead, directly in her path. A daring she had never known filled Daenerys then, and she gave the filly her head.”

Basically, it goes like this:

As Daenerys wanders the Dothraki Sea in search of food after being whisked away by Drogon, she hears a wolf’s howl.

“Will (Ghost) howl for me when I'm dead, as Bran's wolf howled when he fell?”

Feeling lonely yet no less hungry, she eats some strange green berries. Her stomach begins to cramp.

“My flesh will feed the wolves and carrion crows, she thought sadly, and worms will burrow through my womb.”

Unfortunately, Daenerys then experiences some horrible diarrhea. Poor girl! I don’t bring it up to be crass, but because this purge bears striking resemblance to an earthly drug called Ayahuasca—a substance that, aside from emptying your bowels, is often used as a means to ‘open your third eye’ (Just as Bran does in the crypts, and he can finally reach Jon and Ghost…)

Dany falls asleep and begins experiencing trippy dreams about her brother—perhaps even achieving contact with the other side? Then...

“When she woke, gasping, her thighs were slick with blood.”

Assuming it’s nothing more than her period, Dany begins to wonder the last time she bled—hinting that it might’ve been a little while.

“The sight of so much red frightened her. Moon blood, it's only my moon blood, but she did not remember ever having such a heavy flow.”

Maybe a bit of a stretch, I know. But… this wretched and graphic scene of Dany’s loose bowels really made me wonder what in seven hells George was thinking. I was so embarrassed for Dany that I HAD to figure out why he’d do this to her.

And my best guess is that she’s using these latent skinchanging abilities to tap into this strange connection with the “blue rose” over at the Wall of Westeros and the silent wolf who finally howled for help upon his death… And so, Dany’s miscarriage may be the death that will pay for Jon’s life.

I might’ve found some more evidence to back this claim up, this is very new ‘evidence’, so bear with me:

“Fire”, in the world of ASOIAF, often translates to “life”. As is seen here in Sam’s speech following Aemon’s death (thanks, bridge4!):

“He was the blood of the dragon, but now his fire has gone out.”

Further, according to the wiki:

“When a follower of the Lord of Light dies, priests fill their mouths with fire and breathe flame into the deceased”

In the House of the Undying, Dany receives a series of chilling prophecies, one of which happens to be about fires:

“Three fires you must light, one for life, one for death and one to love”

I know, I know. Drogo’s pyre, the Khals, etc etc. But George might be playing with double meanings here… So, if we think of fires as conceptions, this could maybe mean:

One in exchange FOR the Dragon’s lives (Life)

One in exchange FOR Jon’s resurrection (Death)

One conceived (likely with Jon) and carried to term (TO love)

Food for thought! Especially considering that, like Jon, Dany possesses the blood of Old Valyria, and these sacrifices are probably all the more powerful as a result. But even if I’m dead wrong about that prophecy, well, fire still broadly means life, which bodes well for our brooding ‘bastard’, who might just end up as a “fire wight”.

Hopefully something in this drivel has given any Jon fans reading this a little bit of faith that, despite the slight setback of death, Jon will still be able to exercise his, uh, virility when he finally meets Dany. 😅 Thanks for the ask!!

[fuchsiagrasshopper]

Falling Together Part I

Author’s Note: After receiving such kind words from Tall Tale, I had another idea that I ran with. There will be a part two, so if you want to be added to the tag list for this as well as future works to come, please let me know. 

Summary: You enter into an arranged marriage with Ivar, a marriage of convenience, but can you both come together to make it more?

Pairing: Ivar x Reader

Word Count: 3137

Warnings: Language, mild angst

"You need to fuck your wife, brother."

Those were the words that came out of Hvitserk's mouth after they had been sitting in silence. How he longed for better advice from Ubbe, but his eldest brother remained back in Kattegat with Torvi. They had parted as equals, peace finally coming to the sons of Ragnar. For Ivar, Kattegat held only pain and misery, so he had taken to the sea with a handful of ships and a map to Ireland, and once again Hvitserk had chosen to remain at his side. He didn't know what inspired such loyalty from his brother, but he was grateful for his company, most days. Today was not one of them.

"Are you listening, Ivar? I said--"

"Yes, I heard you," Ivar interjected before he could repeat himself. "I'm just choosing to ignore your advice."

Hvitserk shrugged as he pulled meat off of a chicken bone with his teeth. "Alright, but you know I'm right. She's going to want someone to warm her bed eventually, and she won't wait around for it to be you."

"Christian women don't like sex," Ivar said with a huff.

"Not the ones I've been with," Hvitserk said, smirking around a mouthful of meat. "They don't like sex with devout Christian men, but we are not such men."

Ivar frowned into his mug of ale as he thought about you. You were his wife in name only, an alliance forged with your father for lands in the first few weeks they had arrived in Ireland. The wedding had been small, in accordance with Viking tradition, not Christian. You weren't as devout as the Saxons of England, but you had insisted on keeping your cross.

There was no love in your marriage. At first you had appeared hopeful if not reluctant to be sharing in this union, but as many moons had passed, you'd begun to realize you were alone in your efforts. Ivar didn't hate you, even if you were a Christian, but he did not want to be in love again, not after Freydis. She was everything he had ever wanted, and she had betrayed him.

"Why the sudden interest in what goes on in my marriage?" Ivar said, setting down his mug as he watched Hvitserk.

"I'm sure King Conall will be starting to wonder about grandchildren soon," said Hvitserk, leaning back in his chair. "And you have a pretty wife. Others have taken notice already, and she might start to consider picking one. Women don't like to be lonely."

Ivar scowled, hating the apprehension his brother's words stirred up. "She is free to take a lover if she wishes." His voice wavered. Even he didn't believe himself.

"You have changed, Ivar, but not enough that I don't believe you wouldn't kill the man she was with."

Hvitserk wasn't wrong. He still lacked self-confidence as far as women were concerned, and he would take it as a personal slight if you humped some lesser warrior in his army. You never voiced any discontent in his presence, and Ivar was sure he would notice any man becoming too enamored with you.

He rose from his throne, a sudden need to get away from the doubts that the turn in conversation had brought up. Hvitserk looked at him with a grin while folding his arms back behind his head.

"Going to take care of your wife?"

"Be silent," Ivar grumbled. "My marriage is a solid alliance. There's nothing that needs fixing."

"If it's as you say, then forget what I said," said Hvitserk, returning his attention to his plate of food.

Ivar growled as he started for his chambers. He hated not getting the last word in, but nothing he could have said would've proven Hvitserk wrong. Truthfully, he knew little about you or how you spent your days. When he was preoccupied with the duties of ruling, you were off amongst the people, though not without a guard. Ivar was surprised that you had taken an active role in being Queen. Freydis never had, nor had his mother. Your father was a great King, and you must have studied under his exemplary tutelage. 

His crutch ticked down the corridor with each slow step, the damp causing his legs to stiffen. Ireland was greener than Norway, but the warmth of the sun would disappear for days behind a wall of grey cloud that brought heavy rain. The long torrents left him miserable with agony, something he fought to conceal from his men.

He leaned on the door as he came into his room, the fire low since the last time it had been tended to by a slave. The bed was empty. This had remained the same since the wedding night. There was a smaller room attached to his main chambers, meant to be used for any future children you birthed. Instead it had become your own personal wing, with no one growing wise to the fact that you slept away from your marital bed.

Ivar slept better alone. The space allowed for him to shift about if the pain became unbearable. Tonight was different. He couldn't keep his eyes from the door to your chamber, even as he eased himself down onto the furs. Reaching for his crutch, he rose again, letting out a low hiss as he forced his body forward. Just one peek would be enough to satisfy him. 

Ivar doubted you'd bring any man to your room, as it meant you'd have to drag them past his bed first. Hvitserk's comments had burrowed into his head however, and he needed to be sure. He eased his way through the door, and took a step into your space for the first time. It was a smaller room, not meant to be used as sleeping quarters for an adult, but you had made it into something personal. There was no hearth for a fire. You kept warm under a pile of furs, twice as thick as he needed. There you slept in the middle of the small bed, unaware as he watched this private moment of solitude.

You didn't appear to be in despair. A ghost of a smile sat on your lips. It was a look Ivar was familiar with, even if he hadn't been on the receiving side of it for some time. At first you had tried to smile for him, all attempts to forge a bond with your new husband. He didn't know when you had stopped trying, but now it was a smile you only reserved for others. You never referred to him by name anymore either. It was always 'My King' or 'My Lord', the latter of which he detested.

He breathed a sigh. This was not how he imagined his life would turn when he set out to new lands. There was still the desire to grow his father's legacy, and thus far his Kingship in Ireland was progressing much better than it had in Kattegat. He had been driven by blind ambition and false beliefs that he was anything other than a crippled mortal. The loss was humbling, and even with his new found success he refused to rest on his laurels. 

Now that his curiosity was satisfied, he pivoted back towards the door to leave. The thin light coming from the fire in his room illuminated the table beside your bed where you kept your cross. There was something else there as well, a small thing that stopped Ivar in his place. It was a hammer of Thor, whittled from wood and tied to a piece of twine. The craftsmanship was poor, but the meaning of it was something else entirely. Someone had gifted it to you, and you had kept it in a place within reach.

He wanted to inspect it further, maybe even take it back to burn it in his hearth, but he wouldn't risk Thor's wrath, or the chance that you could wake up. Hvitserk's warning about you taking a lover came back with a vengeance and had his stomach feeling like it was filled with rocks. He would have to sleep with this knowledge until he could question you about it, a conversation he did not desire to have. How to broach it would be more difficult still, and combined with the pain in his legs, Ivar found no rest that night.

ooOOoo

Ivar was behaving strangely. Your father had come to visit, which meant there was an unspoken agreement between you and your husband to behave cordially. You had done so many times when the situation called for you both to act as united rulers, but the efforts on your husband's part had never felt this...forced. 

During the feast his hand kept pawing for yours beneath the table until you gave up and let him cling to your limp fingers. He was attentive, patient, and even addressed you by name. You concealed your frown as best you could between bites of food. One glance down the table at Hvitserk and you understood that he was perplexed by Ivar's behavior as well. It pleased your father to witness such fondness from your husband towards you, and that had you holding your tongue. You would give your King an earful later.

"Daughter," Your father said, raising his arms to embrace you after you had managed to pry out of Ivar's iron grasp. "You are a smart match together, I am glad you are happy."

"Thank you, father," You whispered into his ear before parting.

"Might I see a grandchild soon?"

You flushed from what looked like embarrassment, but was actually shame. It was a constant hurt inside you, that you had failed to be desirable to your husband.

"Maybe, if we are blessed," You said evenly.

"I'm sure you will be. This is a successful alliance, and I have no doubt your union will be fruitful. We have a son of Ragnar on our side, that is no small thing, but remember you are my daughter, and you will always have a place in my court."

He placed his large hands over your shoulders, as he often did when you were a small child. His cheeks were flushed as red as his beard from drinking, and a merry grin was upon his lips. It had just been you and him for so long, after your mother had passed from sickness a lifetime before. You used to think you could tell your father everything, but now that you were a Queen, your loyalties had shifted to protect your husband and the integrity of your new settlement. 

With your practiced smile and a reassuring hand upon his arm, you eased whatever burdens he felt for giving you away to heathens. "I am well father, and my place is here with my people."

"Then I shall depart, and leave you with your husband."

"Hvitserk," You called, and he stood with uncoordinated abruptness. "Please escort my father and his men to the gates."

He seemed to understand your true intentions, shooting you a nod to confirm. You had grown fond of your brother-in-law in a short time, and had come to see him as someone you could rely on. He had no qualms about answering anything you wanted to know. If you had asked, he would have spilled every secret about Ivar as well, but you had refrained from going down that path. You would rather get the truth from the horse's mouth as it were, and now you were about to be alone with him.

Ivar's eyes did not lose the mischief behind them. They were cold blue, like the winters of his home you thought. But the patient smile you had been rewarded with at dinner had vanished, replaced with something shrewd.

"What are you playing at, husband?" You stressed the word as you steeled your stance against him.

"I'm not sure I understand, (Y/N). It is a husband's duty to dote upon his wife as he sees fit," He remarked while his hands gripped tight to the armrests of his throne.

"You can stop pretending now that we are alone. Lord knows I have," You mumbled the last bit, but Ivar had heard. Maybe you had wanted him to.

"Come sit, and talk with me," He said, indicating to your throne next to his. 

The seriousness of the request left you with little choice, and you gathered up your skirts while keeping your head high as you made your way beside him. There was a constant cloud of anger that seemed to follow your husband wherever he went, but you didn't think he would hurt you. Sometimes when he would look at you, a wave of sadness would fall over his face, and it was as if he was seeing through you to something else.

"What do you wish to speak of, My Lord?"

Ivar winced, but he recovered by bringing his hand down on top of yours. This again. You kept your hand still as he laced your fingers together, the roughness of his palm stroking against your soft one.

"Are you happy here?" He asked, and the hesitation in the question was tangible. 

"Yes. The people are content, and the settlement is thriving."

"That's not what I asked." His tone was curt and to the point. It seemed he wanted to discuss the nature of your marriage, but the timing of it was mysterious to you. "I know the people talk of an heir, as I'm sure your father also mentioned."

"The people will always talk, My Lord. All you have to do is listen and decide what's worth hearing," You said, feeling your fingers start to tingle as his grip held firm. "As for my father, he is as any old King would be. Anticipating a grandchild so that he can pass from this world knowing his blood will live on."

His brow was furrowed into a frown. "When we are alone, call me Ivar."

"Alright...Ivar," You said, sampling the feel of his name on your tongue. You hadn't addressed him as such since your wedding.

"If we had a child, would that make you happy?"

His eyes were downcast as he spoke, which you were glad for, as he didn't see how his words had embarrassed you.

"I never said I was unhappy," You remarked. "And I don't think a child is something we are ready for yet."

"Because we are not in love," He sighed.

"Well, yes and no. I always knew I would marry a stranger with whom I wouldn't be in love. But marriage is a tool to strengthen kingdoms, and spread prosperity to its people. If you have that, you don't need love."

His eyes scrutinized you with something indiscernible, and he let go of your hand. You thought that perhaps your words had hurt him, but you didn't know why. When you had first been brought forth by your father to meet with Ivar, you had thought he was handsome. Perhaps a bit too quick to act in anger, as you had witnessed during the meeting, but you had hoped he was a man you would grow to love. Months later, and you were sleeping in separate beds with your virtue still intact, so it frustrated you to see him be upset by what you had said. 

"Is that why you accept gifts from other men," His tone was harsh, and you thought he hated you then by the dark look in his eyes.

You jumped up from your throne, and rounded on him with fury. This marriage had insulted you long enough. "What are you accusing me of?"

He searched for something just beneath the collar of his tunic, and what he showed you was the hammer pendant of one of his Gods that hung from his neck. "I know you have one. Which man gave it to you? I will not have my reign tarnished by a whore Queen, not again."

Your stomach burned from the insult, and much of what he said you did not understand. His insinuation had stung, and you had little care for finding out about what he meant by 'again'. 

You pulled the small bracelet out of the sleeve of your dress. The twine was too short to be a necklace, but you wore it all the same because it was special to you.

"You mean this I presume. How you came to discover it, I can only assume you have entered my chambers without my consent."

"I'm your husband, and King, I don't need your consent," He shot back.

"Then let me tell you about the man who gifted it to me one day while I walked the market. His name is Einarr, a son of one of your warriors. He is eight years old, not even old enough to have an armring yet."

You took a small bit of satisfaction to see him struggle to retort. Whatever argument and claims he had built up against you in his head disappeared after your explanation. He sunk back in his throne, and you were pleased to see he had the humility to look guilty.

"Then why keep it hidden?"

"It's special to me, proof that even as a foreign Queen to your people, I can be respected. We haven't established a relationship to share such things," You exclaimed, everything that you had been holding back spilling out in an instant. It took a deep breath to calm yourself, to bring you back to the matters at hand. "I think we should stop...for now. Our alliance has thrived by us acting separately, and perhaps that is how it should stay."

"I regret the things I've said," Ivar hurried to say, his voice now thin from weariness. 

It was a small comfort, and you both knew it. "If there is nothing else, My Lord, I should like to retire?"

There was nothing he could have said in that moment that could have kept you there and not made you resentful, so with a wave of his hand, he dismissed you. 

When you were far enough away, you let your shoulders sag, and let out a quiet sigh of defeat. Despite how he had hurt you with his words, neither of you walked away the victor. The hill to surmount in your marriage had just become a mountain, and you weren't certain it could ever be conquered. Judging by the crashing and shouting coming from the Great Hall, Ivar's black mood had returned. Maybe he felt the same. You held the small wooden hammer in your hand all the way back to your chambers, praying to any God that would listen to guide you on your way to mending your marriage before it was too late.

Tag List

@blah-blah-fuckit-shit 

@tgrrose

[sxfterhearts]

34. [12:48 am]

➳ pairing: bambam x oc

➳ genre/warnings: mild angst, trainee!bambam, trainee!oc (+ a bit of fluff)

➳ word count: 1,369 words

➳ summary: 34. “That’s okay, I bought two.”

➳ author's note: honestly,, this sort of wrote itself. this is purely a figment of my imagination and i just ran with it, but i hope you’ll enjoy it regardless! :) (psst i might make a pt 2) ((disclaimer - oc wasn’t written based on anyone in particular))

➳ song inspiration: a little braver by new empire (such a good song thank you jinyoung for this rec)

//

There was, in fact, a time when the song that currently filled all four corners of the stuffy practice room instilled tingly sensations of excitement, rather than shivers of dread. The cheery memories were vague, a little bit hazy even, but Bambam remembered.

All he wanted to do right now was to yank the speaker cord out of his phone to stop the incessant throbbing in his temples caused by the song’s strong, heavy bass.

It was their very first performance on national television. The entire dance crew was beyond hyped, and he was a hundred percent certain that none of them got a wink of sleep the night before. They practiced for days, weeks, months, from the moment school finished until the depths of the night to perfect their dance. Every move was rehearsed over and over again to ensure that it was as sharp and as powerful and as synchronised as it could be. Bambam, being their main dancer, took the liberty of practicing after hours, skipping meals if necessary, just to harness the same amount of stage presence and fluidity as his idol, Rain.

That year, Rainism took Thailand by storm. It was a unanimous decision to cover it for their slot on primetime television, and to hand Bambam, their star member, the leading role of Rain. Looking back, it would’ve been a huge weight on the shoulders of any normal seven-year-old, but Bambam was determined. He took it all in his stride, like the professional he strived to be, and did everything he could in his power to do his dance crew proud.

To say that the performance was a success would be an understatement. The five kids, both her and Bambam included, immediately rose to fame. Offers for performances, interviews and commercials presented themselves left, right and centre. Not only did companies want to get their hands on a piece of Bambam, who had earned himself the nickname of Rain Jr., but they also took great interest in the four backup dancers, the other equally talented members of his crew.

The crew continued performing on news stations, reality shows and even charity concerts. They expanded their repertoire to encompass a larger variety of songs, both K-pop and otherwise, but they never really strayed far from their hip hop roots.

Like any other night after a huge performance, the crew got together for a huge feast to debrief and wind down from the tiring, adrenaline-pumping night. The younger members had a curfew, so they had to leave much earlier. Bambam remembered offering to walk her home, like he often did, as their houses were just two streets apart.

It was awfully humid. The tar roads they were strolling leisurely on were radiating waves of heat, a reminder of the melting temperatures from mid-afternoon. His arm came up to swat away a fly that was lingering a bit too close for his liking. He could taste the faint saltiness of his own sweat at the edges of his lips. It made him long for–

“Ice cream?”

“Let’s get ice cream!”

Their excited voices overlapped as they turned to face each other. A knowing look passed between them. Without exchanging a single word, the two of them sprinted towards the nearest convenience store at the corner of the street, their carefree laughter and giggles echoing throughout the sleepy backstreets of outer Bangkok.

She got distracted by the newly painted swing set right outside the convenience store, and ushered Bambam to buy the sweet treats for her while she tested them out. The park wasn’t too far from her grandmother’s house, and she would frequent it quite often, especially before the rise in popularity of their dance crew. She wrapped her hands around the once-rusty chains and sank heavily onto the seat. All of a sudden, her desire to swing as high and as far as she could evaporated into droplets of reluctance and anxiousness, carried away by the stifling breeze.

She realised she would miss this.

“Hey!” Bambam called from behind her. She could hear his footsteps approaching the swing and the faint rustle of a plastic bag full of snacks. “I got you the icky green ice cream.” He announced, thrusting Wall’s Solero Split ice cream towards her.

“I’ve told you like a thousand times before, it’s not icky. It’s lime and vanilla, a classic combination that you and your childish tastebuds don’t know how to appreciate.” She retorted, promptly peeling the packaging. She let out a satisfied hum when her tongue came into contact with the refreshing lime flavoured sorbet shell.

Bambam scoffed audibly. “Chocolate and vanilla is the king of flavour pairings. Panda ice cream reigns supreme, I said what I said.”

“I must disagree, you uncultured– Oi!” She screeched, her beloved ice cream diving towards the floor and landing with a splat when Bambam suddenly pushed her on the swing. “I really wanted to eat that, Bam…” She whined.

She raised her hand, ready to shove him away, but he quickly stepped out of arms reach and placed another ice cream in her empty hand, replacing the fallen green soldier. “It’s okay, I bought two.”

Although a tad surprised, she continued to stare daggers into the back of his head as he walked merrily towards the dinosaur seesaw which he had already outgrown. He began to bounce violently on the poor equipment, his joyous, infectious shrieks teasing an involuntary smile out of her.

She would miss him.

She didn’t tell him that, though. Instead, she waited until he had settled down onto the swing beside her to break the news about her departure. The words she worked so hard to keep inside since she received the acceptance letter spilled out of her mouth uncontrollably, like a fast-flowing river. Her ice cream began to melt and trickle down her fingers as she talked and talked, trying to explain her choice of signing with a Korean entertainment agency and to justify her actions of leaving Thailand behind.

As much as he tried to, Bambam couldn’t forget the night she left him behind. He remembered every single detail – the exact words she used to express herself, the tiny gasps of air she took when she talked for too long without stopping, the nervous tapping of her right foot against the playground’s floor.

Performing Rainism was never the same after that, for obvious reasons, of course. The new backup dancer that replaced her lacked her energy and kept missing the beat at the start of the song. It also didn’t help that it was the last song he ever performed with her. Every single note, every single beat gave him an unwanted flashback of a time they spent together. A rainy afternoon when they learned the chorus for the first time under the shelter of their instructor’s garage. A rushed dinner of instant noodles when he just wouldn’t stop singing the catchy verses, earning him a kick in the shins. A short nap he enjoyed on the practice room floor, the song playing on loop as she continued to practice beside his lifeless body.

The memories before she left were hazy, but the memories that came after hit him like a truck. Fast forward another ten years, the tangy flavour of her favourite ice cream still lingered in his mouth whenever he heard the song that started it all. It was ironic, he thought while downing a large gulp of water, so ironic that he was performing this song again for his final trainee evaluation. The song that made him, could also break him.

Moving to Korea to chase their dreams was something the two of them used to talk about, yet for a long time, that was all it ever was – a distant dream. And here he was, a day before the Big Test, reliving the agonising memories attached to the song of his dreams, and remembering the girl who melted and slipped through his fingers like liquid ice cream.

But he had come so far. He had sacrificed so much. So Bambam wiped himself down with the already-drenched towel and restarted the song, from the top. He was going to give it his best shot.

[frosty-talks]

Feast of the Winter Star

Hey y’all! I finally dusted off my laptop and got to writing again! Though this time it’s with a twist as I wrote my first proper fanfic in years. With Christmas and other holidays upon us I got into the mood to combine two favorite fandoms of mine: Stardew Valley and Miraculous Ladybug. Thank you @medic-eliza for editing this for me, it couldn’t have been done without your help!

Coat. Hat. Scarf. Gloves. Boots. Yup, everything needed to face the cold winter air. She tightened the scarf once more before glancing over at a wrapped box on her kitchen table — small, wrapped in festive paper, and topped off with a simple green bow. Her gift for the Feast of the Winter Star.

Every year in Pelican Town, the citizens got together to enjoy food and give presents to a randomly assigned person. This was Marinette’s first year in the Valley, her first year to participate. She sighed and plucked the box from its place, tucking it under her arm before opening the door with a shiver. The cold December air creeped in and cooled her warm cabin down.

The door was quickly closed on her exit and she looked out on her empty field. In the summer, it was filled with all sorts of crops: melons, blueberries, corn, and tomatoes. However, in winter, she had to get by without those precious crops and get by she did thanks to making enough money to last until spring’s harvest. Marinette walked through the barren field and trudged through the snow in front of her cabin, past the still broken down bus stop, and paused at the town’s entrance.

Once she arrived, she’d be in the middle of the festivities  and she most likely wouldn’t be able to get away until late at night. She felt nervous. She’d skipped the other festivals the town had held. This one she decided to go to as she didn’t want to disappoint whoever she's got for her secret gift-receiver. But at the same time, there was the slight chance that they wouldn’t like her present and the thought made her involuntarily step back…

‘Snap out of it, Marinette! You can do this!’

The mental kick was just what she needed, and she confidently entered the town’s center. She marveled at the giant tree in the middle of everything, its long branches decorated with ornaments, lights, and tinsel. Children ran around without a care with an occasional snowball being thrown. Despite everything being outside, she couldn’t help but feel warmth all around.

“Hey, girl!” A voice called out to Marinette’s left. “Come join us!”

It was Alya! One of the first people to welcome her to the Valley, she had become a best friend of sorts to the newcomer. “Oh, hey Alya! You don’t mind?”

“Why would I ask you to join if I did?” The brunette grabbed Marinette’s arm, tugging her to her family’s table. “Just get over here!”

Currently only Alya’s father was seated, his attention being entirely focused on Alya’s younger twin sisters, but Marinette could see her mother setting out food nearby. “We’re so happy you could make it. We were worried you’d stay home.” 

“Ah, well… I thought about it.” Her face turned red a bit as she held up her gift. “But I didn’t want to leave someone without a gift.”

She could see the faintest bit of disappointment in her friend’s face though it was quickly replaced with a smile. “Doesn’t matter, you’re here and that’s all I care about! So who did you get?”

Marinette sighed and revealed the tag. “Chloe.”

“Oh good luck with that.” 

Chloe. The mayor’s daughter and the spoiled brat of the town. Hard to please and easy to annoy, and of course she was Marinette’s secret gift-receiver for the year. Chloe was a high end shopper with all clothes being designer, ate only the best food, and never lifted a finger to help unless it benefited her. Marinette was dumbfounded when she got the letter, how was she supposed to give Chloe a present when she was a farmer? All her money went to making sure she’d survive the winter with almost none left over to spend on personal items, much less items of a more expensive taste.

“Well, hey, maybe she’ll be in a good mood?” Her friend offered.

“When was the last time Chloe was in a good mood?”

“I’m only trying to help.”

A huff and the present was set aside, quickly forgotten as the friends chattered on about how the day could go. Soon enough the call for everyone to grab their food went out. Everyone rushed over and clambered to get the best bites, despite being assured by the cooks that there was plenty for everyone. With the townsfolk settled, the mayor of the town himself, Mayor Bourgeois, stood up with his glass raised in a toast. 

“Another year is almost done and now we celebrate everything that has changed in our lovely community. The biggest one being that the farm down the road has finally been cleaned up and is now in use once again, thanks to our new farmer: Marinette Dupain-Cheng.”

The small claps from the gathered townsfolk caused a blush to creep up Marinette’s face, and the farmer to duck down to avoid all the attention.

“With that out of the way I declare that the Feast of the Winter Star may now begin!”

The food was delicious, unlike anything Marinette had tried before. From the honeyed ham to the sticky toffee pudding, the farmer couldn’t help but devour everything she could until she was full. A look around even proved others had the same thoughts on it, Nino shoveling more onto his plate, Ivan looking like he was going to pass out from eating too much. 

The mayor watched the trays of food slowly dwindle away until he was sure everyone had gotten their fill. Another success for the holiday. Now onto the best part. “With the feast itself out of the way, it is time to move onto the next part!” Mayor Bourgeois stood with a present held above him. “Secret gift givers, it is time to exchange!”

A whistle and everyone was awake and alert. People rushed to be the first to give their gift away while others waited until things had calmed down. Marinette instead went right up to the mayor’s table where Chloe waited, bundled up in a stylish but thick, yellow coat, white sunglasses still atop her head despite the cloudy weather.

“Ugh,” The compact mirror snapped shut, disdain evident in Chloe’s voice. “What do you want, Dupain-Cheng?”

She took in a breath before holding out her present. “I’m your secret gift giver! I hope you like it.” Fat chance she’d admit to liking it. 

The blonde considered the present for a moment before snatching it away. 

“Fine I guess I’ll see what you got me.” First the bow, and then the paper, finally leaving the box to open. With a flourish of her hand, the lid was off and a moment of silence surrounded the two girls. “Uh, what is this?”

“A scarf? It’s winter and I’ve never seen you wear one so I thou-”

“Well you thought wrong!’ The box was unceremoniously dropped on the table. “Ridiculous! Utterly ridiculous! I don’t need a scarf!”

Just what she thought. Marinette turned and trudged back to Alya’s table with a sigh. Even though she knew Chloe wouldn’t like the gift, she had hoped there would’ve been some appreciation for it But no, just ridicule. She plopped herself back in her seat with her head slamming down on the table.

“Didn’t go well?” Alya had come back, a new phone case replacing her old one.

“As well as you’d expect.”

“Well get back up because I have something that will bring that smile back!” Marinette gasped as Alya grabbed her arm, pulling her out of her seat and around the decorated tree. Her friend then skidded to a stop and covered the farmer’s eyes with her hands. “Okay, don’t peak.”

“Alya, what’s going on?!”

“Marinette?” 

She stiffened at the new voice. No way. She had to be dreaming. Could her gift giver really be…?

She took Alya’s hands and lowered them down. In front of her stood none other than Adrien, a somewhat nervous smile on his face and a tiny box in hand. He took a step closer and coughed to hide his steadily reddening cheeks while handing over the box. “Surprise, I guess, I got your name in the mail. I had a hard time deciding what to get you so I… Well, it’d be better if you opened it.”

She took the box with a shaky hand. In all the time she’d wondered who got her she had briefly considered Adrien, but threw the notion out as it would be a miracle if he just so happened to get her. Yet, here she was facing that slim possibility. All she had to do was open it… 

There wasn’t much, the box itself had a festive pattern to it, the lid following the same pattern, and a tiny bow taped in the center. A slight tug pulled the lid off to reveal a small handmade bracelet inside.

“It’s a friendship bracelet.” The blond explained. “You’ve been mostly keeping to yourself So I thought maybe I could give you something to show we’re friends. Look-” 

Adrien rolled up his coat sleeve, another bracelet having been hidden from sight; this one’s colors being a slight variation on the one just gifted to her. “I have one too.”

She couldn’t think of any words to say. She had been distant from most everyone, wanting to focus on her work and not ruin another friendship like when she’d been in the city. Holding the bracelet in her hands, seeing Adrien and Alya’s hopeful expressions, maybe it was time to consider a different approach to her new home.

Marinette couldn’t help the small tears that creeped up as she pulled both of her friends into a hug. “Thank you. I love it. And I’ll do better to get away from the farm more.”

The other two joined in the hug while the Winter Star itself shone down on Pelican Town’s residents, another festival coming to a close.

[orthodoxydaily]

Saints&Reading: Sat., Sept. 12, 2020

Commemorated on August 30, November 23_Old Julian Calendar

The Holy NobleBorn Prince Alexander Nevsky( 1263)

     The Holy NobleBorn Prince Alexander Nevsky (in monastic-schema Alexei) died on the return journey from the Horde at Gorodtsa on the Volga, on 14 November 1263, and on 23 November (under this day is located the account about him) in 1263 he was buried in the Cathedral Church of the Nativity Monastery in the city of Vladimir (there is set up there now a memorial to the holy prince; yet another memorial is set up in the city of Pereslavl'-Zalessk). Veneration of the nobleborn prince started right at his burial, whereof was a remarkable miracle: the saint himself extended his hand for the absolving prayer. Great Prince Ioann Ioannovich (1353-1359) in his spiritual testament written in the year 1356, left to his son Dimitrii (1363-1389), the future victor of the Battle of Kulikovo, "an icon of Saint Alexander". The undecayed relics of the nobleborn prince were opened, on account of a vision, before the Kulikovo Battle – in the year 1380, and then were set forth for local feast-celebration. For the prayers of the holy prince, glorified by defense of the Fatherland, Russian commanders resorted to in all the following times. On 30 August 1721 Peter I, after a lengthy and exhausting war with the Swedes, concluded the Nishtad Peace. This day was decided upon to hallow by the transfer of the relics of the NobleBorn Prince Alexander Nevsky from Vladimir to the new northern capital, Peterburg, arranged on the banks of the Neva. Withdrawn from Vladimir on 11 August 1723, the holy relics were greeted at Shlissel'burg on 20 September of that year and remained there until 1724, when on 30 August they were placed in the Trinity Cathedral of the Alexander Nevsky Lavra (Monastery), where now also they rest. By an edict/ukaz  on 2 September 1724 there was established a feastday on 30 August (in 1727 the feast was discontinued by reason of non-church matters, and involved clique-struggles at the imperial court. In 1730 the feast was again re-established).      Archimandrite Gavriel Buzhinsky (later Bishop of Riazan, + 27 April 1731) compiled a special service in remembrance of the Nishtad Peace, combining with it a service to Saint Alexander Nevsky.      The name of the Defender of the borders of Russia and the Patron of Soldiers is famous far from the regions of our Native Land. The testimony to this: the numerous temples dedicated to Saint Alexander Nevsky. The most famous of them: the Patriarchal Cathedral at Sofia, the Cathedral church in Talinin, and a church in Tbilisi. These churches are a pledge of friendship of the Russian National-Liberator with brother nations.

© 1996-2001 by translator Fr. S. Janos.

NobleBorn Prince Daniel of Moscow (1652)

Holy Nobleborn Prince Daniel (Daniil) of Moscow was born at Vladimir in the year 1261. He was the fourth son of Saint Alexander Nevsky (Comm. 30 August and 23 November) and Righteous Vassa. Two years after birth he lost his father. The date of his mother's repose is not indicated in the chronicles; it is known only, that she was buried in the church in honour of the Nativity of Christ at the Vladimir Uspenie monastery (the Princess monastery), and the people in the surroundings venerated her as "Righteous" ("Pravedna").      In 1272 holy Prince Daniel received as his allotted portion the city of Moscow with its adjacent lands. The holy prince built on the banks of the River Moskva (Moscow) a church (and alongside it a monastery) in honour of his same-name patron saint, the Monk Daniel the Pillar-Dweller (Comm. 11 December). The Moscow principality was during this period small and unobtrusive. While growing up, holy Prince Daniel strengthened and expanded it, not in manners unjust or coercive, but instead benevolent and peace-loving. In Rus' it was a time of unrest. Fratricidal strife amongst the appanage princes was rife. And often, thanks to holy Prince Daniel, and his incessant striving for unity and peace in the Russian Land, bloodshed was averted. In 1293 his brother, the Great-prince Alexander Alexandrovich, together with Tatars summoned from the Horde and headed by Diuden ("the Diudenev Host"), laid waste to Russian cities: Murom, Suzdal', Kolomna, Dmitrov, Mozhaisk, Tver'. Prince Daniel decided to adjoin them to Moscow, to save their people from perishing. There was not the strength for resistance. Together with his people, the prince braced himself for terrible destruction and pillaging. Standing up for his rights, Saint Daniel was compelled to come out against his brother near a place, called Yur'evo Tolchische ("Yur'evo Threshing-Mill"), but here also the yearning for peace won out in him, and bloodshed was averted.      In 1300, when the Ryazan prince Konstantin Romanovich, having summoned Tatars to his aid, was occupied in secret preparations for a sudden assault on the lands of the Moscow principality, Prince Daniel went with an army to Ryazan, and beating the enemy, he took captive Konstantin and destroyed a multitude of Tatars. This was a first victory over the Tatars, though not a tremendous victory, but it was noteworthy nonetheless – as a first push towards freedom. Having beaten the Ryazan prince and scattered his confederates the Tatars, holy Prince Daniel did not take advantage of his victory to seize foreign lands or take booty, as was the accepted custom during these times, but rather he displayed an example of true non-covetousness, love and fraternity. The holy prince never resorted to arms to seize the lands of others, nor did he ever snatch away the property of other princes either by force or by treachery. And for this the Lord saw fit to expand the boundaries of his princely realm. Ioann Dimitrievich, prince of Pereslavl'-Zalessk, a nephew of Daniel, was gentle and pious and benevolent towards the poor, and he esteemed and loved his uncle; dying childless in 1302, he bequeathed his principality to Saint Daniel. The Pereslavlsk lands together with Dmitrov were, after Rostov, foremost in number of inhabitants, with corresponding fortification befitting a major city. Pereslavl'-Zalessk was well protected on all sides. But the holy prince remained faithful to Moscow and did not transfer the capital of his princedom to the stronger and more significant seat of the Pereslavl' of this period. This annexation moved Moscow up to be numbered as the most significant principality. And here was set in place the principle of the unification of the Russian Land into a single powerful realm.      How wondrous over the expanse of ages was clearly manifest the Providential Will of God concerning the Russian Land and its destiny!      Grateful in remembrance of the constant Blessing of the Hodegetria ("Way-Guide Mother of God) both in his personal life, and also in the life of the Russian realm, Saint Daniel's father – Saint Alexander Nevsky, had expressed it in the words: "God is not in might, but in right!".      In 1303 Saint Daniel fell seriously ill. He assumed the monastic great-schema and commanded that he be buried at the Danilov monastery. Through deep humility he wanted to be buried not within the church, but in the common monastery cemetery. The holy prince died on 4 March.      Within the passage of less than 30 years after the repose of holy Prince Daniel, the Danilov monastery founded by him was transformed into the Moscow Kremlin, the church was transformed into a parish church, and the cemetery became non-monastic. During the time of Great-prince Ivan III (1462-1505), the Monk-prince Daniel gave reminders of himself to his forgetful descendents. As a stranger he appeared to a youth attendant on the great-prince and said: "Be not afraid of me – I was a Christian and the master of this place, my name is Daniel Prince of Moscow, and by the will of God I am here. Tell about me to Great-prince Ioann (Ivan) saying: thou delightest thyself while yet having forgotten me, but God hath not forgotten me". And after this it was that the great-prince established the singing of cathedral panikhidas for his ancestral princes. During the time tsar Ivan the Terrible, at the grave of Saint Daniel was healed the dying son of a barge merchant. The tsar, struck by the miracle, renovated the ancient Danilov monastery and established a yearly church procession, made by the metropolitan to the place of burial of the holy prince, serving there a panikhida.      In 1652 holy Monk-prince Daniel was glorified with the uncovering of his incorrupt relics, which on 30 August were transferred to the church in honour of the Holy Fathers of the Seventh OEcumenical Council.      The holy relics were placed in a reliquary "to the glorifying of the Holy Trinity and for the healing of the infirm". The Moscow metropolitan Platon (+ 1812), in the Vita of the holy prince compiled by him, writes: "This original founder laid the foundation of present-day majestic Moscow, going about this with quiet steps upon a small foot-path. And thus as with any edifice, built not with extreme haste but the rather instead with great artifice and skill, doth receive a particular solidity and doth stand indestructible for a long time; and just as a tall tree growing for many a century, and having started first of all with a small sprout, and thickeneth little by little, with its branches spreading about far around, so also was it needful for this city to grow from the small, but solid root, in order that its first glimmer not beshadow the eyes of the envious, and that initially it not be disturbed or felled early on, but rather grow up to its true height. Thus did this founder prepare the great city given him; though small, but shining uninterrupted by any wafting of the wind, he did bequeathe the great glory of its rise to his son Great-prince Ioann (Ivan) Danilovich, called Kalita".

© 1996-2001 by translator Fr. S. Janos.

Matthew 23:1-12

1Then Jesus spoke to the multitudes and to His disciples,2saying: "The scribes and the Pharisees sit in Moses' seat.3Therefore whatever they tell you to observe, that observe and do, but do not do according to their works; for they say, and do not do.4For they bind heavy burdens, hard to bear, and lay them on men's shoulders; but they themselves will not move them with one of their fingers.5But all their works they do to be seen by men. They make their phylacteries broad and enlarge the borders of their garments.6They love the best places at feasts, the best seats in the synagogues,7greetings in the marketplaces, and to be called by men, 'Rabbi, Rabbi.'8But you, do not be called 'Rabbi'; for One is your Teacher, the Christ, and you are all brethren.9Do not call anyone on earth your father; for One is your Father, He who is in heaven.10And do not be called teachers; for One is your Teacher, the Christ.11But he who is greatest among you shall be your servant.12And whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and he who humbles himself will be exalted.

Galatians 5:22-6:2 (St. Alexander Nevsky)

22But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, kindness, goodness, faithfulness,23gentleness, self-control. Against such there is no law.24And those who are Christ's have crucified the flesh with its passions and desires.25If we live in the Spirit, let us also walk in the Spirit.26Let us not become conceited, provoking one another, envying one another.

1Brethren, if a man is overtaken in any trespass, you who are spiritual restore such a one in a spirit of gentleness, considering yourself lest you also be tempted.2Bear one another's burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.

[sneksue]

Official Post About Lifestyle Changes

The date is January 28, 2021. 

I have not had chickens for a while. It will be 2 years in August. I have been meaning to write something here about all of it, but I either have not had time, or the willpower to go through with it. I was in grieving. 

In June of 2019, I took a trip from my shared homestead in Mississippi to Colorado to do some long distance hiking. I left all of my animals in the care of my ex husband’s mother and her then boyfriend. 

I trusted them to at least do the bare minimum in my animal’s basic care. 

That didn’t happen. They failed night after night to close and lock the coop’s door. They wouldn’t change their water during the day and they did not collect eggs. 

When I had service on my phone during the hike, I checked in with them to find out that because they had not closed or locked the coop door at night, several birds were “missing”, with more missing every day. 

Instead of simply closing the door and providing a safe space for my dear, darling animals to sleep at night, they decided to buy a game camera to see what was happening to them at night. 

Their reasoning had absolutely zero logic, and I was pretty pissed.

They found that raccoons were simply just waltzing into the coops and grabbing birds. The raccoons would drag them away into the woods and feast. 

By the time our trip was almost over, all of my ducks were gone. There were only a few chickens left, and the guinea fowl were all intact due to roosting 50ft up in oak trees. My cat was also “missing”.

I was heartbroken, devastated. I had spent so much money, time, energy, and love to build this flock. I wanted to provide my “family” and myself with sustainable, renewable food in case of a natural disaster. No one seemed to value my efforts, or even care to see what my end goal was. 

On top of grieving for the loss of my feathered babies, my then husband’s younger brother decided to GO OFF on me during our drive back to Mississippi. He claimed I was selfish, psychotic, uncaring, and manipulative. He screamed at me while we were all stuck in the car. He called me a bitch, he called me a liar, he called me a leech. I was stunned in silence. I had been struggling with my mental health for years, and had contemplated suicide more times than I could count. So, it is no surprise that while we were driving 70mph on the interstate, I seriously contemplated opening the car door and leaping out into traffic. 

I turned to my husband, my partner, the love of my life, my support system, to back me up. Defend me. Tell his brother that he was wrong. My husband did nothing of the sort. He remained silent as the verbal barrage from his brother continued. 

Everything clicked for me then. My mother in law was a complete nutcase, she blamed me for all of my husband’s shortcomings. She viewed me as a failure for not being the perfect housewife. She only saw me as a burden on her son’s happiness. My husband maintained an emotional distance from me for several years. He refused to be intimate towards me. He never showed an interest in me, my thoughts, my feelings. He never stood up for me or was proud to show me off. He never commended my strengths and triumphs, he only pointed out what he viewed were my failures. My brother in law was more of a nutcase than his mother, physically abusing his dog and neglecting his cat, leeching off of his mother and getting handouts at every possible opportunity, spending his days smoking hundreds of dollars of marijuana, drinking booze, playing videogames. 

I had no social life, I wasn’t allowed to have a social life. 

I had no friends I could hang out with, all of my friends were online. 

No matter how much I did for these people and how much I excelled at everything I did, nothing was ever enough. I was never enough. 

No wonder I struggled with mental health, eh?

I came to this realization instantaneously, and demanded to be dropped off at my dad’s house in Westminster, CO. 

I had none of my personal belongings besides my hiking and camping stuff. I didn’t care, I just had to get away from these toxic monsters. 

My husband and I loosely decided that this would be a “break” for our relationship, and that he would go back to MS to work and save up to move here with me. I agreed and I began working and saving up myself. 

We both knew he was never going to come here. We were never going to be together again. 

We remained in close contact for a few months after the separation. But the contact and our conversations became fewer and less substantial. 

One night, as I was walking home from work, I called and told him that I thought we should break up. He admitted to me that he had removed his wedding ring over three weeks prior. I was understandably hurt by that, but I did understand. 

He also informed me that all of the birds were gone or dead except for a couple roosters. 

I was more devastated by the loss of my birds than the loss of my marriage. If that doesn’t tell you enough, I don’t know what does!! 

My cat never returned. 

I asked him if we could keep in contact, and he told me he did not want to talk to me or hear from me for several years. I was once again hurt by this, but with his own mental health issues, I again, understood. He did say he can see us being friends in the future, but now that its been some time, I don’t want to be friends with him. I want the best for him, but I can’t bring myself to expose my mentality to his toxicity and negativity. 

I asked again and again, over a period of months, for him to return my belongings. He kept putting it off. I told him I was going to drive down there myself and gather everything i could and dispose of the rest. 

He agreed, initially, then banned me from coming only after I requested the time off from work and had friends to accompany me on the journey, He promised he’d send all my stuff in several shipments after he sold my car. I told him he could keep the profit from the sale of my car and use it to send me my stuff. 

He ended up sending me ONE box of my stuff. And most of it wasn’t even mine. I was appalled and disgusted that he’d be so careless and inconsiderate. 

I sent him messages and requested SPECIFIC items after I received the first box. I got no reply, and no more packages to this day have been sent. 

He and his family stole my property, killed my pets, and broke my heart. 

Thieves, liars, and extremists, the lot of them. 

I grieve daily for the loss of my animals and the torture I was put through for nearly 6 years. 

All of that out of the way, let me move on to tell you what this blog will now feature. 

I have obviously had a change in lifestyle. I no longer live on homesteading land, I live in a roomy two bedroom apartment with my AMAZING fiance. 

My love of chickens, I discovered, was a love for reptiles in general. Cuz birds are reptiles and all that jazz. 

When I met my fiance, I was already blown away by his attitude, confidence, and view on life right off the bat! He inspired me, made me want to be better to myself. 

Meeting him felt weird, at first. It felt weird because I was waiting for this amazing person to... have a catch. There’s gotta be a red flag somewhere. And if there isn’t... he is probably a psychopath who will eventually turn on me and kill me. No one is that... good. 

So I thought to myself, “Welp, gotta find out. I’ll go to his house!”

He had a couple little snakes in his room which I demanded to play with. He happily got them out and I was like “THAT’S the catch? Nah, this just convinces me this guy is... my kind of guy.” 

I’ve had a love of snakes since early childhood. Not an interest of passion, but I truly loved interacting with and watching them. I’ve never had an innate fear of any insect, (exclude honeybee, because I didn’t know better at 6 years old), or animal. I love them all and everything they do to contribute. All they experience. 

I used to catch wild garter snakes and rat snakes in nets, pet them, show them to my mother occasionally to freak her out, and release them. Then watch them. 

There were a mating pair of Oteekee Corn Snakes in my HS yard. Every summer we’d see them, out and about hunting, hiding, climbing... growing. They were bright red and jet black with specks of yellow. I could tell these guys were pretty smart and maybe there was more to snakes than I really thought about ever. 

So, being sold on this amazing guy, we up and moved in together. Nice. My paycheck kept going up and up. I was saving a ton. I wanted a car and an apartment as soon as possible. 

I got bonus after bonus for working hard at my job and everyone hitting labor targets. 

We got a place. Nice. 

Both got steady jobs. Nice. 

There’s uh, a lot of room in this new place. Nice. 

Hey it’s my birthday and I can get myself a snake. I have more than enough for supplies and the animal itself. 

I browsed on morphmarket for what felt like ages.... 

I had no idea that there were.... so many complicated genetics with ball pythons. I was highly interested, because if you know me, you know I’m interested in genetics and selective breeding. 

I found there were THOUSANDS of genetic combinations, each with unique names. It was like alien code. The animals were beautiful but I had no idea what I was really looking at. 

One night while going to our local reptile store to get feeder rats, I was looking around at all the glass window babies, as I usually do. 

I made my way around the scorpions, tarantulas, cave scorpions, frogs, lizards, the store’s companion burmese python, and my eyes landed on a little... adorable puppy-eyed baby ball python. The signage stated that it was a Puma. Seemed simple enough. Easy name to remember. I looked into the glass at the lil noodle, and talked all baby talk and shit. The sweet little thing came right up to scope at me, then yawned. 

I called an employee over and said I’d like to handle this animal right here. The employee obliged and I fell in love. Sexed as male. Easy buy. 

I cried on the way home, It was amazing. I have one picture on here of him a few days after I got him. His name is Mallow, and he is bigger now, but still just as sweet. 

So yeah. It went from there. Now, including the boa and ball python that are my fiance’s, and Mallow, we have added 3 more to our family. We are done now, as these animals may live a loooooong time. And they require space and attention just like any other pet. They’re not expensive, and they’re low maintenance care is nearly brainless if you set it up right. They’re statistically and actually safer than dogs or cats, and are absolutely therapeutic and entertaining. 

This blog will from this day forward be dedicated to snake content, reptile content, and a lot more fun, actually good pictures. I will also share genetic related stuff I find relevant. 

Not having a shitty phone camera is pretty great, tbh. 

TLDR: No more homestead. Ex is evil (yeah yeah), New place new animal new me. SNAKES! SNAKES!!!! SNAAAAAAAAAKKKKKKKKEEEEESSSSS!

I know this post is just for me but whatever, if I make myself laugh. Cool. G’night. 

[toartemis]

Come on Love, Draw Your Swords - Part 3 & 4

For my own sanity I’ve chosen to combine these chapters on here.

Read on Ao3 here. More info and music recommendations can be found in the tags/chapter notes on there. 

Part 1, Part 2.

Summary: 

Sing to me, Moonlight For you, dear, are honey-tongued I dream just for you.

Or: The one where Jude finds out she's pregnant, and Cardan begins collecting a thousand plants.

Word Count: 6,675

Warnings:  There is a depiction of a panic attack in this chapter. If you would like to skip it, stop reading at “But I never knew how to love,..." and continue at, "It's ages before she settles..."

Preview:  She knows she should be thrilled. She is, deep below the surface. But her anxieties are almost overpowering, now, and she can’t keep shoving them away.

-------

Awareness comes to her slowly, the pull of sleep is heavy behind her eyes. The sun is just dipping behind the horizon, twilight lingering between the trees. Jude rolls to her back underneath a blanket of fur and her hands go to her belly without thought. She freezes, pangs of anxiety going through her. It always happens this way when she first wakes up; she has a few moments where she doesn’t remember. Of course, it’s hard to forget for long, now.

She started to show—really show—around a fortnight ago. It happened fast, like she could fit into all of her clothes until she woke up one day and couldn’t. That was when they announced her pregnancy. 

Naturally, a large feast was held, one that neither she nor Cardan attended, opting to stay with each other in seclusion. It was a nice night.

Soon after she broke the news to Cardan, he got into the habit of pacing, which is still one of the strangest sights Jude has ever seen. It was short-lived, though, because it took him merely a week to fixate upon a new hobby that now takes up much of his free time.

To Jude’s absolute disbelief, Cardan began collecting plants. In the most non-magical, wholly mortal type of way. He disappeared once and came back hours later with an arm full of pots from the mortal world, as well as supplies Jude assumes are used to help them grow. She’s still stumped as to why he started it, but he has been faithful to them, shocking her and those closest to them. 

It was ridiculous to her at first, and reminded her of Aleena. Back when she and Vivi first moved in together, their home was suddenly decorated top to bottom with greenery and has been that way ever since. Jude never cared for stuff like that, and she assumed Cardan didn’t either. When he first started, she was sure the plants wouldn’t survive, either because they weren’t meant to grow in Faerie or because Cardan couldn’t possibly keep them alive without magic, but she was very wrong. They’re healthy and decorate their bedroom and the windows throughout their apartments. 

She still doesn’t know what happened to them over time, whether he enchanted them in some way or they just adapted, but they became magical, bit by bit, and now they’re lively little things with big tempers. Jude doesn’t question it, only keeps her distance so she doesn’t get poked or snapped at. When she finds Cardan pruning or re-potting them, a look of child-like concentration in his features, she marvels at how calm they are in his presence. The plants like him. She quietly leaves him to his tending whenever his schedule calls for it.

As endearing as his new pastime is, Jude wonders if it has gotten a bit out of hand. Now, as she slips out of bed, hand still on her stomach, and makes her way to the large, polished mirror across the room, she bumps into one of the newest additions to Cardan’s collection. It’s at the foot of their massive bed on top of a small, decorative chest. The plant almost tumbles to the ground, but Jude manages to catch it in time and sit it back upright. It’s a mystery, really, how she never sees him acquire any new ones, but they always appear in different spots. 

She really needs to convince Cardan to put them all in an extra room somewhere else in the palace. Or a greenhouse, maybe.

Distraction taken care of, she glances at her husband to make sure he’s still asleep before continuing to her destination.

Mirrors frighten Judeas of late. She’s never been particularly interested in her appearance, per se, but now she tends to avoid them altogether. Her face looks the same as always, save for the rosy flush in her cheeks that seems to accompany her everywhere. Her eyes are tired, but her skin is clear and glowing even in the dim light. 

It’s not her face that bothers her, but her body.

There’s no mistaking that she’s pregnant anymore. Her midriff doesn’t merely look like she’s put on weight. It’s obvious that she’s with child. The roundness of her belly turns all eyes to her form when she’s in public. It’s even more attention than she usually receives as Queen. 

Cardan’s face brightens every time she’s in his sights, and when they’re alone he can’t keep his hands away from her stomach. Jude tries very hard not to let any of this bother her, but she can’t help it. It’s not that she doesn’t feel some sort of strange excitement deep within her at the thought of carrying and someday meeting her child, but she’s mostly just overrun with terror.

Jude is afraid and she can’t fix it. 

The more time passes, the farther along she is, the more she can’t ignore what’s coming: she’s going to be a mother. And she’s scared. 

She remembers what it was like to have a mom, misses her terribly, but she feels like after all she’s had to change about herself and adapt to that she’s lost the part of her that would be capable of raising a child in a healthy manner. Day and night, she’s plagued with visions of holding her baby and feeling nothing but cruel numbness. Or her child coming to her with some trivial problem, and Jude losing her temper. Compartmentalizing too much; dealing with them in the detached way she does everything else; neglecting them; not being able to show them the affection they need.  

The list goes on. Jude’s anxiety grows. It always does in these private moments.

She loses track of the time she stands there, fingers caressing her stomach, but Cardan begins to stir at some point and she snaps out of her trance. 

She says nothing of her fears and plants a small smile on her face. It’s not disingenuous, but it isn’t not a mask, either.

-------

She’s sitting on her throne when one of her personal guards approaches her. Cardan is late, probably off with his plants. Jude still doesn’t know what to make of that, but she’s grown used to his occasional disappearances at this point. She expects the message the guard gives her to be from him, not a request for an in-person and private meeting with her from Taryn. 

The first thing she does is sigh. She’s allowed that much. Taryn, though Jude didn’t know it back when everything happened, could be as conniving as Jude is. Not as bold as Jude, never that, but cunning in her own way. 

Jude almost tells the guard, Astor, to deny her. Instead, she agrees.

“The guest chambers in the Western hall, thirty minutes,” she commands quietly. Astor nods, disappearing into a hallway to her left. Jude folds her hands in her lap, trying to come up with what to say as to not start a fight or insult her sister. She barely sees her, now, and each time she does, Jude thinks that they look less and less alike. Or, maybe that’s just what she likes to tell herself.

Thirty minutes gives her enough time to make the decision to put on a more fanciful gown or dress down a bit. She does neither, opting to stay in her velvet dress the color of midnight blue. Gold beading is laid throughout it making it look like a shifting night sky from a distance. Jude likes this one. It pairs well with her crown.

She arrives at the last minute announced by the knights stationed at the door to the guest rooms. Jude strides in with her head held high. She always does. Taryn is already seated at the small, ornately carved table. A mountain of fruits and pastries stacked onto a three-tiered platter sits in front of her. She bows her head to Jude, not quite the standard that is to be expected for the High Queen, but both of them are under no illusions that Taryn cares much about showing respect to her. 

The fireplace flickers, casting a lively glow into the room. Lanterns hang from the ceiling. The moonlight spilling in from the windows seems to bend and follow Jude’s form as she makes her way over to the table. 

“Taryn,” Jude greets, voice neutral, and she sits. 

“Jude,” she says back. 

“How have you been? I haven’t seen you in some time.” Really, how long has it been since they’ve spoken like this? Two years? It seems like a lifetime. 

“Yes, well, you do seem busy.” Taryn smiles sweetly. Jude says nothing. 

Straight to thinly-veiled hostilities, then. 

It’s been like this for years. They could never make up after everything. Jude is horribly stubborn, but so is her sister. They are twins, after all. 

Silence fills the air. Jude refuses to fill it until Taryn does. She is not the one who summoned her sister here; she will wait. Eventually, Taryn’s carefully masked features soften slightly.

“How… is the pregnancy?” She asks. Jude’s defenses go up, she can’t help it. 

“It’s fine. All going smoothly.” 

More silence. 

“How far along are you?”

“Eighteen weeks,” Jude says. Taryn looks at her. Really, really looks at her. 

“I still have trouble believing it. I never thought you were one for children,” she says. 

“Neither did I.” 

Taryn lets out a hollow laugh. “It’s almost comical,” she says, sarcasm in her tone, “You never asked for any of this, yet you have it all.” She stares at Jude, jealousy rippling clearly across her face. “I wanted a place here in this world  and I did what I had to do to get it. And I’ve always wanted children; a family, but no matter how much I plead, I can’t have it.”

Jude knows this. She knows Taryn wants children, but Locke doesn’t. Even if they fit together, Locke with his horrible schemes and Taryn with her love for watching them play out, they’re not very compatible in the ways that matter to Taryn. Eventually, she’ll get what she wants one way or another. Jude suspects it’ll be soon. 

“Yet you got it all without trying, without wanting. It just fell into your lap,” Taryn grits out. 

Jude is stunned. Taryn is never so plain with her; never so aggressive. 

In the most indifferent manner she can muster, Jude says, “I beg your pardon?” 

And Taryn lets loose. “I fought so hard to be where I am. I only ever wanted a place among the Court. I kept to myself, I never got in trouble, I found Locke, and you… You loved stirring it all, loved blowing it up in our faces, and you still ended up with everything, didn’t you? The most beautiful lover, a prince at that; the crown; the child.”

Jude takes it all in, and at first she’s furious. Taryn was always supposed to be the wiser of the two, and Jude is shocked at how twisted her point of view is from all of these years of tense silences and no communication. Back then, it was different. It was treachery and secrets, but that’s because it had to be, and Taryn had made her choice of which side of Jude’s she wanted to be on. Now, however… Jude is astounded as to how her sister came to that conclusion when she knew how much Jude wanted a place in the Court all those years ago, she knew Jude was lost and spiraling. 

“You know nothing of my life, do you?” Jude asks calmly. And really, she is calm somehow. All traces of her anger have vanished, leaving only cool disbelief and an inkling of pity. “Nothing of it from the moment they pushed us into the river with the nixies… Or was it the mock war and tournament?” 

“I know you were a spy for Prince Dain,” Taryn says, and there is a sweet distaste to her words. 

“That’s right, I was I spy.”

“And you seduced Cardan.”

Jude barks a hideous laugh. Taryn glares at her, cheeks flushing.

“If I seduced Cardan, it wasn’t on purpose. How was I supposed to know he liked me threatening him? It was all with honest intentions of defiance, not seduction.” 

Taryn looks puzzled and slightly scandalized. Perhaps it was the implications. Jude leans forward and says, “I didn’t seduce him. I never even liked him. We hated each other.”

“But the night of his crowning, you planned–”

“Yes, I did. I had a plan, one that I devised with my spy friends in our spy lair where I tied Cardan to a chair and pushed a knife against his throat.”

Taryn crosses her arms. This all seems like brand new information to her, and Jude is confused. She thought maybe that Madoc had told her more of Jude’s relationship with Cardan, or Locke knew some of the story, or… something. 

“You really don’t know?” Jude asks. Taryn doesn’t reply, she just looks lost, even a little nervous. Jude is struck with a sudden sadness. She does not feel regret, no, because Taryn did things that were entirely her own fault, not Jude’s. But it is a deep hurt for the forfeited time between them. 

There was a point where Taryn was her mirror, her best friend, her biggest confidant. The game of princes and crowns broke them apart. Jude can understand her sister’s motives back then. It’s much clearer now than it was. 

So Jude decides now. She decides to try despite everything, despite the years of silence and awkwardness and her sister kneeling at her feet at the occasional revel. Jude will give it a chance. Her will has always been strong, but seven years is a long time to hold a grudge. Jude has forgiven betrayal before. She can do it again.

So she takes a deep breath and starts with, “Cardan had… some sort of feelings for me. I didn’t know. My honest thoughts of him were that it’d be better if he were dead and gone from my life. He was the bane of my existence.” It seems so funny now. Her hand goes to her stomach. Taryn looks bewildered at the fact that she’s even speaking. 

Keep going, she tells herself. And she does.

Jude tells her sister of Prince Dain and his offer, his geas and the rules, her weeks of training and missions. She tells her of Valerian and his threats, his attempt at murdering her. 

“I think I knew that part,” Taryn interrupts her, shoulders slowly relaxing then tensing again as if realizing what her words meant. Jude lets it go, trying not to dwell on them.

She recounts her side of the massacre, the Greenbriars falling one at a time, how terrifying it was for her future. She tells her of finding Cardan under the tables, escaping together, and taking him to the Court of Shadows.

Jude acknowledges that she’s never told this to anyone. None of it, really, except some bits and pieces to Vivi. If anyone knew, they didn’t know it from her. It’s exhausting to be so open with someone, especially when trust is so scarce. 

She hesitates before the next part of her story, but trudges on.

“I knew I had to come up with something. I had the most valuable thing in Faerie right in my grasp. He just happened to be horrible. That was the night I found out how he… felt.” Jude looks up from the spot on the table she has been staring at and fixes her eyes on the wall behind Taryn. She remembers the moment vividly, especially the kiss. “I never seduced him. I was never his creature. I tricked him. I tricked him into becoming king,” she says. She isn’t guilty, but she isn’t proud of herself. 

“How?” Taryn asks. After a moment, Jude tells her. 

“I persuaded him into swearing himself into my service for a year and a day and lied that I would let him have a life free of the Court,” she says simply, gaze shifting to her sister.

“He never wanted the Blood Crown.” A look of soft understanding spreads on Taryn’s face.

“No, he did not.” Jude says. There’s a moment where she breathes deeply, pressing one of her hands into her belly over an ache. Taryn’s eyes follow the movement. “The night he was crowned was the night I became the Shadow Queen.”

“The role of seneschal was a ruse, then.”

“Partially,” Jude admits. “I still performed those duties occasionally.”

“Any other duties?” It’s harmless, not even quite teasing, but Jude reacts anyway.

“I told you I was not his creature,” she says snappishly. Taryn raises her eyebrows. Her poster stays straight and stiff, a sharp difference from Jude, who leans over the table, fingers drawing swirls into the surface.

“But the clothes… The way you both acted around each other.”

Jude huffs. “Cardan is dramatic. We were fools.”

The silence returns, but it isn’t uncomfortable; only weighty. Jude waits, hoping Taryn will offer her something else. 

“Then when did it happen?” Taryn sounds unsure of her question, but it’s the first time she’s spoken that reminds Jude of how they used to be. It’s curious and open. It sounds like it’s meant to be asked between sisters. Jude is not the High Queen in this moment. She hasn’t been since she started her tale.

“Us?” Jude asks. Taryn nods.

“Somewhere along the way,” Jude says, recalling the exact moment they snapped, pressing up against each other, breathing into each other’s mouths. Taryn watches her, a small smile on her lips. Jude hopes she isn’t projecting.

“Before or after the Undersea?” 

Jude succeeds in holding back a flinch at the mention of it, her mind flashing to what she did down there to survive. That, she won’t tell her sister. That is for her and Cardan. 

“Before,” Jude says, “But he asked me to marry him after.” 

“So that was true? I didn’t know if you returned and were married or did it privately before your… time away.”

“My exile, you mean. Yes, I was the Queen before. I wasn’t lying when I was embarrassed in front of the entire Court. It happened the night before, right after I murdered Balekin.” 

Taryn’s eyes are comically wide. Jude laughs.

“It sounds so dramatic when I put it like that.” 

And Taryn laughs too. “It’s dramatic put in any way.” 

They giggle together like they used to when they were younger. Jude’s heart feels light. Just for a moment their past is behind them both. When they stop, there is silence. Taryn stares while Jude continues her patterns on the table. 

“I missed you,” whispers Taryn. 

And it’s not as hard as Jude thought it would be to say, “I missed you too.”

It doesn’t fix everything; it doesn’t erase the last years and bad faith and hard feelings. But it’s a start. 

Jude finishes the rest of what she feels is necessary to be told now that she’s gotten this far. Taryn tells her bits of her own life and the moments she’s been happy, along with the moments she hasn’t. It isn’t fully comfortable, nor easy, but Jude is glad. And if she has a moment where she wonders what her sister’s motives are, Jude tries to think of other things and let herself enjoy her time. 

And she does. She really does.

When Taryn leaves, Jude reaches to squeeze her hand within hers. 

----

The sound of strings carries throughout the hall. Leaves sprout on the ceiling and fall, raining softly on the crowd. The Folk dance and writhe and drink before two thrones. The smell of faerie fruits and spiced wine curls in the air, enticing. 

The ball is a magnificent one, Jude can admit. She’s wearing a new gown just for the occasion, many layers soft lavender fabric with white smoke patterns, hugging her just so to accentuate her features but hide her stomach a bit. Even Jude thought she looked lovely in it; healthy and youthful. Her belly looks less shockingly round hidden beneath the waves spilling from beneath her breasts. Her shoulders are bare and her sleeves graze the floor. 

Cardan looks obscene in his pitch black silk clothes, shiny chains made of small gems swooping around his shoulders, white cape contrasting beautifully. His collar reaches up his throat like a shadow, his jawline and cheeks contoured with a smokey silver. The kohl around his eyes looks iridescent at some angles. 

After so many years, Jude thought she couldn’t blush at something as simple as his appearance, but she was very wrong. 

Indeed, all eyes were on them when they entered through heavy double doors earlier that night, sometime after the festivities had started. Jude had not been out publicly for weeks at that point, so when the whispers started up as the Court caught sight of her, she was ready for them. She was very obviously nearing her due date. Cardan, unfazed as always, prowls his way to their matching thrones atop the dais, Jude’s arm hooked gently in his.

This is where she finds herself, feet tucked beneath her, Cardan beside her, the ball in full swing around them. At some point he leaves her to speak with who she remembers to be a high ranking war master from far off. The crowd swirls around him, simultaneously avoiding him but inevitably drawn in as well. That’s exactly what it’s like to be near Cardan; he’s like gravity, unfathomable and too beautiful to touch. 

Jude touches, of course.

Looking at him now, he chuckles at something, a genuine smirk on his face as he sips his wine. Something changed over the years, perhaps it was simply the passing of time, but he’s become much more open and inviting during these public events. The aura of authority is there, and he still acts the same as he did years ago, but the difference is in his stance and the way he looks at who he’s talking to. His shoulders are relaxed and pulled back, he leans forward ever so slightly. 

It’s nice, Jude thinks. She likes seeing him work, watching him, because he is hers to study. 

She remembers when he first became High King, how he would lounge on his throne without a care, drowning in wine. She loved him then. She loves him more now. 

Jude shifts under the gazes of the Folk, becoming increasingly unsettled. She knows she looks big, but up on her throne in front of so many people and with Cardan somewhere in the crowd, she feels like a mouse in a sea of wild, hungry cats. Sweat gathers on her brow. She places a hand on her midriff. 

It’s mere seconds later that she feels a dull twitch beneath her ribs, causing her to gasp lightly. Her pulse quickens, heart fluttering as she moves her hand to press down on the spot. Nothing meets her touch, for a moment, then it feels as if her entire stomach tumbles briefly. Her gasp is much louder this time, both hands cradling her belly.

She startles at the sight of Cardan kneeling before her. She could have sworn he was just–

“Are you alright?” His voice is rushed and quiet, one hand covering hers where is lies on her middle. Jude sees there are many stares pointed at them, and realizes she must have caused a small commotion. 

“I’m fine,” she says, and makes to stand, swinging her tingly legs out from beneath her. Cardan tenderly takes her hands to help her up. “It’s okay, just movements.” 

His eyes brighten at this, a small, private grin on his face when he looks at her belly. 

“I’m going to retire for the night,” she continues, glancing from the crowd and back to her husband, anxiety coming up her chest and into her throat. She tries to swallow it down and put on a neutral face. Cardan looks as if he is about to say he’ll accompany her, but she shuts him down before he starts. “Don’t worry about it. You stay here. I’m going to take a bath.”

His squeezes her hands just so, the gesture barely there but warming her heart just the same, then he flicks his wrist in the air and a group of his personal guards appear behind him. She loves it when he does that, it never works so smoothly for her. 

He presses a kiss to her cheek, one that has her eyes fluttering closed, and he murmurs, “I’ll come find you when the night is over.” Jude nods, a smile tugging at her lips despite the nerves, and she makes her way off the dais, a crowd of armed guards surrounding her and parting the swarm of bodies.

She keeps her composure until she’s alone, the doors to their chambers sliding shut behind her. She rips her crown off and sets it on her desk in the main room, and begins shedding the pieces of her attire. She reaches for a knot of fabric on her side, but it’s in a weird spot she can’t reach across her stomach, and she needs both hands to undo it so that her gown can loosen where it’s cinched at her ribs and can fall right off. She huffs, tearing out her earrings instead and ripping the braids out of her hair. Again, in her and Cardan’s bedroom this time, she tries for the knot, but it won’t budge without any help, and suddenly she’s so worked up and frustrated that she feels tears forming. 

Stupid. Crying like a child.

She decides to lift the dress off of her instead, but the damned thing is too heavy, and her stomach keeps getting in the way and her skin is pulling and she feels too large to even breathe. 

The first sob comes quickly. Jude drops the fabric, face crumpling. Then she’s sitting on the end of  her bed, her dress swamping her form and piling around her. It just makes her feel worse. She cries so easily now and it’s infuriating, she hates it so much that it only makes her tears come faster. She doesn’t have the control that she desperately needs, everything is spiraling, she’s going to have this baby soon and she’s so afraid she won’t be good enough.

I can’t do this. I can’t do this.

Her breath comes in short bursts. She’s lived most of her life dealing with things like they’re a job or a plan, but this… This is something she doesn’t know what to do with. Putting off the thought of it being real worked for the first few months, but now the day is getting closer and closer, and she’s going to be a mother.

I can’t do this. I can’t be what they need me to be.

Another sob breaks free, and she buries her face in her hands, willing herself to calm down.

She thinks of her mother’s voice, and tries all the breathing exercises she knows of. After a long moment, she shuts her mind off enough that they work. 

She’s still sniffling when she feels another flutter in her belly. By this point, she’s so tired she could fall asleep where she sits, so she doesn’t mind the feeling. The whiplash of her emotional state is jarring, but she doesn’t want to think about it, or anything, at the moment, so she unclasps a heavily jeweled necklace from her throat, kicks off her leather slippers, and lies down on her side right where she is at the edge of the bed. She falls asleep as soon as she gathers the fabric of her gown in her arms and squeezes, tension sliding out of her body and sleep taking over.

When Cardan finds her like that a bit later, his eyes soften. Jude barely wakes up as he unties the knot at her side and gently maneuvers her around, slipping her arms from her sleeves and working the heavy gown off her body leisurely. She doesn’t stir when he lifts her farther up the bed and covers her with the fur blankets she likes. And when he kisses her forehead, his palm splayed on her side, fingers dancing over the soft skin where her stomach meets her ribs, she sleeps through it all. 

-------

Twinkling water rushes over smooth stones, the sight lulling Jude into a trance. She sits on a stone pew by a small pond with multiple swirling pools, the smell of wet grass filling her senses. It’s high noon, but the sun seems soft behind the clouds. Many Folk are asleep, but Jude is too nervous to attempt to settle her mind.

The midwives came to see her before the moon set. They say she has six weeks left. As soon as they were out of sight, Jude left her chambers and Cardan behind and escaped to her private garden. 

She knows she should be thrilled, she is, deep below the surface. But her anxieties are almost overpowering, now, and she can’t keep shoving them away. There’s no time left, the days are ticking by quickly. She’s run out of things to distract herself with. All there is is her swollen belly and her headaches that never leave. Her thighs tingle and she can’t even put on her own shoes. If not for the team of human girls—willing, of course, and happy to help—that help her dress throughout the day and for different events, she would be barefoot constantly. 

Jude never developed much of a liking for idle chatting, but she participates even less than she ever has, too caught up in her thoughts and the fatigue that follows her every step. She gets dizzy when she stands, now. It all makes her feel weak, and she hates it. It’s not entirely bad, though. The few moments she’s able to push her nerves away, she truly is excited to meet the child she has been carrying. There have been times that she’s almost gone to the mortal world to set up an appointment and figure out the sex of the baby.

She never does. She likes it this way. And, maybe, she thinks it would become too real if she knew. Denial has her closest companion these last months.

Cardan is visibly ecstatic. Jude never thought she would see him this way. Her heart does flips when he kneels next to her before bed, splaying his hands across where their baby sits. He presses kisses to her temples and cheeks at random, fingers gliding along her neck. When she bathes, he sits behind her, nose pressed into her neck, thumbs digging into the aches she has in her lower back. 

He’s doting on her like never before, and truthfully, Jude would find it annoying if he wasn’t so unbearably charming. 

Though it’s unconventional for a High King of Elfhame to share his apartments with his newborn child, they’ve both turned one of their rooms into a nursery. Besides, Cardan and Jude aren’t like normal rulers, anyway. Obviously. 

Cardan seems overjoyed about it, and even takes a few of his smaller, gentler plants from his greenhouse—because, yes, he did move those disastrous things eventually—and places them along the large window in the room. Faintly sweet-smelling flowers sway from vines on the ceiling, and the walls are enchanted to seem soft and bright. The atmosphere is warm, like a blanket. Jude’s heart aches when she enters it, so she stays away more often than not.

She spends a lot more of her time in her garden the closer it gets to the due date. 

Cardan leaves her alone there most of the time. That’s why she’s here now, he had seen the panic written across her features when talking to the midwives and she knew he would ask about it. He’s tried to get her to open up lately, but she brushes him off, not wanting to ruin his joy.

It only makes her feel more alone. The dynamic is strange. All of Elfhame seems excited for the birth of their child, mostly because that means lots of festivities, but Jude doesn’t know how to handle what her life is about to become.

Butterflies erupt in her stomach, nerves panging beneath her skin, and Jude wants to cry thinking about Cardan’s face when she stormed out of their room—as stormy as she could manage with a waddle in her step—before dawn. She’s nearing her breaking point. It’s not that she’s unraveling, anymore, like a complicated knot being pulled at. No, she’s completely loose. 

She pushes herself up from the stone bench, back cracking, feet hurting. 

Why couldn’t I have an easy fucking pregnancy? Or is this an easy pregnancy? 

She huffs and walks back into the palace, personal knights flanking her movements. Jude wants someone, anyone, to understand what’s going on in her head. 

When she comes upon her chambers, she waves her attendants off when they try to open the doors for her, not once, but twice. She needs to do something by herself. Pushing the doors open does strain her, but she feels better when she steps in and they close behind her. 

She makes her way into her bedroom, expecting to sleep the rest of the daylight away, but when she enters, Cardan is sitting upright at the edge of the bed. The sheets are strewn haphazardly around, his tail is swaying in the air, gold cuffs and jewelry dangling from it. If she listened closely enough, she knows she would be able to hear the small tinkling sounds coming from the metal. Her heartbeat quickens. He’s staring at her, hands clasped in his lap, the Blood Crown lying beside him. 

“I’ve grown tired of listening to you lie to me, Jude dearest,” he says, exhaustion in his voice and no malice to his words. Jude swallows thickly. “Will you be candid with me? Please?”

She frowns. She doesn’t want to do this. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she says, holding his gaze. The sigh he gives is dramatic. 

“We will discuss this, I won’t leave you alone with whatever is tormenting you any longer.”

Jude flinches, though she tries not to. 

“You see?” He says, gesturing to her, “It’s in everything you do. I’ve been going mad trying to give you space, waiting for you to come to me.” He stands, now, hand wiping across his forehead. “I can’t keep going like this, I want to help.” 

And, really, with how fragile she feels, Jude’s not surprised that her resolve crumbles immediately when she sees for the first time how this has been affecting him too. 

Silence hangs between them for some time, the sound of their breathing fills the air. 

“I’m scared,” she says.

He just looks at her, worry in his eyes.

“I know.”

Something flares in Jude’s chest, emotion choking her. She feels like she wants to scream, like she wants to burst out of her own skin, and it’s so sudden that her carefully placed mask falls from her features, desperation and anxiety showing through. Cardan takes a step toward her, but she backs up two. 

“Jude.” And it’s soft, laced with pain, like a question.

“No,” she says, voice watery. “I’m not just scared, I’m terrified.” She stares into him, willing him to understand all that she means in that one word. When she sees that he doesn’t, the words that follow build up on her tongue like her muddled thoughts have since the day she first took those tests in the mortal world. 

“I don’t know what to do, or what to say. I’m– I’m– I can’t do this! I can’t. I don’t even know how to handle myself, or even what to do when we argue. How am I supposed to handle another living thing, with a mind and a heart and–” she sucks in a breath, tears forming.

“You have me,” he says, brows furrowed. “We’ll do it together.”

“But I never knew how to love,” Jude says, voice frantic, “After Madoc took us––stole us away, I just… Shut it all out. I never wanted children because I know I’m not capable, I didn’t even know I could, I could–” and she can’t breathe.

She can’t breathe.

And she can hear her heart pounding in her ears. She turns away from Cardan only to catch her reflection in the mirror on the wall near her and all she sees is her stomach and she needs to sit down immediately or she knows she’ll fall over. 

“I– I can’t–” and she sobs, collapsing to her knees, hand grasping at the small writing desk beside her, sitting back on her feet. Cardan is on the ground before her in the time it takes her to blink. He’s right there, hands cradling her face, thumbs stroking in soothing motions. He looks panicked, and Jude feels all the worse for it. He’s saying something to her, but Jude can’t understand what. She just cries and cries. 

In time, Cardan gives up on calming her down. He wraps his arms around her and pulls her into his lap, holding her tightly and gently rocking back and forth. When one of his hands wraps around the back of her neck, she fists her hands in his loose shirt, trying to bury herself within his embrace. 

It’s ages before she settles, first by regaining control of her breathing, then by ceasing her sobs. Silent tears flow, breath hitching in her chest like a stutter. Eventually, she only sniffles, exhaustion pulling at her eyelids.

And for some time, all is still, a hush over the room. Jude doesn’t even realize that she’s falling asleep. 

When she opens her eyes, she blinks blearily, and it takes her a minute to adjust.The sun has set outside of the windows. Moonbeams caress the stone floors, bright enough that even she can see clearly. Her head is cradled beneath Cardan’s chin. They’re against the arched doorway to their bedroom, Cardan leaning against the frame. Her heart aches when she realizes he’s probably been sitting like this for hours and he hasn’t moved so as to not disturb her. 

His tail is curled underneath her belly. Jude’s hair is out of it’s updo. She can feel Cardan’s fingers tracing the shape of her ear. The rise and fall of his chest almost soothes her back to sleep.

“Do you not know that I doubt myself as much as you?” His voice is not angry, nor accusing, just resigned. “Have you not considered?”

Truthfully, Jude hasn’t. Shame twists in her gut. Cardan continues.

“I knew nothing of love as a child. Only loneliness. Desperation–” Cardan takes a long breath. Jude hears his heartbeat beneath her ear, tracks of tears dry on her face. “Despair of the deepest incarnation. The type of sorrow that one would hide behind rancid grins and hollow laughs. That is all I knew,” he says, a shakiness to his voice. He pushes his nose into her hair and tightens his arms around her.

“Now, each time I wake up, I am haunted by the thought that I will become my father, or Balekin, to our child.”

Jude feels more tears fall at his words. An ache spreads through her chest. She grieves for him, for herself, too, for how life was cruel to both of them.

“We will do this together,” he murmurs, quiet, but every bit determined. “We can do it. You can. I’ll be with you, always. I’ll be there for our child, always.” 

And Jude relaxes into him. He slips his arms underneath her and lifts her as he stands, walking them over to the bed. There, they fall asleep, wrapped around each other, limbs tangled, breathing in tandem.

-------

Thanks for reading! 

[365daysofsasuhina]

[ 365 Days of SasuHina || Day Three Hundred Fifty-One: Envelope ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hyūga Hinata ] [ SasuHina ] [ Verse: Like Magic ] [ AO3 Link ]

He still remembers receiving his letter with pride. No matter how many times his brother, his mother, and even his father assured him there was no question of its arrival...he still had his doubts. Not that he didn’t believe them...but rather, he didn’t believe in himself.

Only once he read his name and address on that envelope did he know.

The prestige of purity means traditions to uphold and honor to maintain. The Uchiha are a longstanding line of notable witches and wizards, long tied to the house of Slytherin within the walls and halls of Hogwarts.

To say that it brought a feeling of pressure and anxiety was...a bit of an understatement.

Not only that, but his family itself was one of accomplishments. His father, positioned in the Ministry, was well-respected (if not a little feared). And his mother was the author of many a magical tome, specifically those regarding modern charms for everyday use.

Itachi, his elder brother, showed talent and prowess for magic at the tender age of four, and could both cast and control his magic before ever receiving his first wand. A skill that his parents praised him heavily for.

Sasuke...was never quite that advanced as he grew. In most regards, he seemed completely...average.

And it bothered him.

While his typical displays of magic before being properly trained were a sure sign he’d grow to be a wizard, his lingering doubts when compared to his brother meant that he wondered if he’d ever earn a place at Hogwarts. Surely if someone were to look between the two of them...they’d choose Itachi every time.

His mother assured him again and again that such things weren’t what got a person accepted into the school. Proclaiming his father a late bloomer (a secret kept between them), she did her best to allay his fears.

And come his eleventh birthday that hot July day...his letter finally came.

Though he allowed himself to act pleased and excited, he kept the true extent of his reaction to himself, hidden away in his room and laugh-crying into his pillow in relief. Finally he knew for sure...he’d get to go.

His first ride on the Hogwarts Express was taken with his brother, who patiently and eagerly showed him around the platform, and the train. Itachi even sat with him, taking his little brother to the carriage he always sat in with a handful of friends. They were from all houses, and even Itachi himself had somehow defied tradition and ended up in Gryffindor. Though it had been a surprise, neither parent was angry or disappointed. Just...confused.

But Sasuke secretly hoped he’d be in the same house as his parents. He wanted to make them as proud as possible. Maybe there were some things he couldn’t do as well as Itachi, or at all. But being a Slytherin he was sure he could manage.

Upon their arrival, however...he had to be separated, taking the traditional ride across the lake with the other first years. Anxious at being alone, he nonetheless gaped up at the castle in awe with the rest. Everything was a surprise. The castle, the hall, the feast…! And of course, the Sorting.

Slytherin, as predicted.

The common room and dorms were amazing, Sasuke regretting the dark and being unable to see out into the lake from the large windows in the main room. Too excited to sleep, he’d woken after a few hours, groggy and confused.

Classes were another avenue of anxiety. Would he do well? He’d glanced over his textbooks before the year began, gleaning very little given their lack of context.

But it was one of his first classes where he made his first friend.

And not one he expected: a Hufflepuff by the name of Hinata Hyūga. They had Charms together, and just so happened to be seated together, and get along well.

It was the beginning of something he’d treasure always.

She wasn’t his only friend, but she was the first. Her saving his life (or at least a few broken bones) during their first flying lesson was also a plus. He later met those like Sakura Haruno, and Naruto Uzumaki. An odd little quad with a member from each house.

And oh, the adventures they got into...most of which centered around vanquishing evil, namely the Dark Lord himself.

And the one thing that blighted his family the most.

The excuse he heard over and over was the formation of a clan of witches and wizards centuries ago, all taking the same surname as a sign of brotherhood and solidarity. It wasn’t necessarily a notion of blood, and though the branches intermingled to keep the assembled pure bloodlines clean, Fugaku and Mikoto both were adamant - especially after his downfall - that neither were directly related to the one called Madara Uchiha.

The allegations - unable to be proven - nevertheless stuck. And they typically invoked one of two reactions. Fear...or respect. Or at times, an odd combination of both.

It was a subject that was eventually broached in their circle...namely due to the connection it bore to the loss of Naruto’s parents, and the formation of his whisker-like scars: marks from the blast of the rebounded killing curse that swiped across his cheeks as an infant. Both he and Sakura had been openly suspicious of the boy for a time.

...but not Hinata.

By that time, she’d known him the longest, and vouched for him without question. Even if he were related to Madara, that didn’t make him Madara. And there were plenty of good witches and wizards, she had read, who had come from Slytherin. And if the notion of being pureblood meant believing in the superiority of it, then...didn’t that include her, too?

Her vehement but gentle counters quickly settled the matter.

After all, Sakura was Muggleborn, and Naruto was halfblood. If either she or Sasuke had any prejudice against so-called ‘dirty blood’...why would they be friends?

When Naruto and Sakura excused themselves for the afternoon, the latter having agreed to help the former with some course work, Sasuke had taken Hinata’s wrist as she made to leave the bench they’d claimed in one of the courtyards for their discussion.

“...Sasuke…?”

Expression unreadable save for its somber tinge, he found himself unable to look at her for a time. Mostly due to lingering guilt and feeling awkward at the previous exchange, but...also something else. They were in their fourth year at that time, and schedules weren’t the only things changing.

“...I just...wanted to say thank you.”

Her eyes flickered back and forth across his face, still unable to meet his. “...you don’t have to thank m-”

“Yeah, I do. I…” He sighed, glancing further aside. “...the subject’s a sore one, and...I knew that one of these days, it’d have to be addressed more...thoroughly between us. And I really was afraid of how it would go. Not very many people believe me when I try to explain, so…” Sasuke then dared to look to her briefly. “Your support, it...it meant a lot. And...I think it did a lot, too.”

Softening, Hinata slowly retook her seat beside him. “I’m sorry about how they reacted.”

“No...they have every right to. Sakura has a lot to be afraid of because of Madara and his followers - their plans. And Naruto, well...he lost everything because of Madara. If I have any connection to him -”

“But you don’t. Your parents said -?”

“My parents said, yeah. But the alliance in the clan, it...it led to a lot of bloodline records being lost or fudged. Some Uchiha are even half or quarter blood due to things getting spread thin. In reality...we can’t really know for sure. So...I can’t blame them for being wary.”

“But, Sasuke…” Easing from his grip he had yet to break, she instead gently cupped his hand with both her own. “You’ve already p-proven what kind of person you are. How many times have we s-stopped Madara’s plans? If you ever had any doubts, you had several chances to turn on us. To help him. But you never have. And...I know you never will. Just because you’re Uchiha - just because you’re pureblood, or in Slytherin - d-doesn’t make you a bad person. Your choices are what matter. Okay…?”

Though he listened to her words, Sasuke also found himself distracted by the warmth of her hands on his. A light shade of pink dusted the bridge of his nose and the tips of his ears. “...I know. I guess I’m just...used to being thought of that way. I’ve accepted it.”

“Well...you don’t have to. You’re my friend. I trust you, and I b-believe in you. Just keep making those good choices, and...soon, everyone else will, too.”

“...yeah. Thanks, Hinata…”

Giving him a soft smile, she abandoned her grip and stood. “...well, I b-better get my work done, too. Have...have a good evening, Sasuke. See you in Transfiguration tomorrow.”

“All right. Night.” Watching her go, he sighed once she vanished, not quite ready to leave yet.

...he couldn’t help but notice how cold his hand felt without hers.

                                                   .oOo.

     (This is a sequel to days 28, 230, 299, 316, 324, 327, and 330!)       More Harry Potter crossover because...it's all I could think of for this prompt xD Not much happened, but we got a bit of backstory, and some fluff between the two of them. I wanted to do more but it's late and I'm v tired aha~      Anyway, that's all for today. Golly I'll be so relieved when I'm finally all caught up! Thanks for reading~

[the-sun-shining-on-thorki]

The arranged marriage trope (Grandthorki) (Chapter 2 is up!!)

Warning: Grandthorki, Frostmaster(?), dub-con

This is what I imagine would happen had Grandmaster visited Asgard in Thor and Loki’s youth.

The ruler of Sakaar paid an unexpected visit to Asgard.

Chapter 1

The first time Thor saw the ruler of Sakaar was after a hunt with the Warriors Three.

Frigga’s loyal handmaidens ushered Thor into the royal hall, with the prince still muddy after a successful hunt. And there he was, slumping casually on a chaise longue while Odin sat on the opposite side with Frigga. Loki was standing behind their father, meticulously dressed. He frowned at Thor’s late entry and, with a soft gesture with his palm, signalled Thor to greet the stranger.

“Ah, Grandmaster, may I introduce to you my eldest, Thor. You must pardon him for his state, he was not notified of your arrival when he left for a hunt this morning.” Odin stated, and Thor could hear the subtle accusation his father had for the guest’s unannounced and, clearly, untimely arrival.

“Have no fear, Odin, I love surprises, especially the exotic kind.” The bizarrely-dressed man did not even spare Thor a glance, not did he take note of Odin’s displeasure. His eyes laid focused on his brother, who was fidgeting with his hands at the attention. Thor swore he saw the guest wink at his brother.

The next morning, Odin announced during breakfast that Loki, with less royal duties, would show their guest around Asgard.

———

Having a guest was not exactly a strange experience for Thor, especially when he, as a prince, was constantly tasked with touring various royal guests and diplomats around. However, the arrival of Grandmaster had proven to be more upsetting than any previous visits.

The ruler of Sakaar did not praise Asgard’s golden architecture, nor did he show any interest in the lavish feasts his mother had spent hours preparing for every night. He studied every part Asgard had to offer like a man studying the grass underneath his feet.

That was, except Loki.

Thor never found the library interesting, despite how much his brother insisted the opposite, but their guest spent hours there with his brother. Instead of asking to be toured, Grandmaster seemed to find great pleasure in sitting next to Loki, listening to his brother as he dug through volumes of books for new discovery. As a young sorcerer, Loki often shared with Thor the newest potions he had discovered and tested. Such sharings often fell on deaf ears, a trait Thor was guilty of because he had no interest in sorcery.

Seeing Loki’s slightly flushed face at Grandmaster’s attention, Thor could not help but felt his negligence might have paid a part in encouraging Loki’s increased reliance on their guest.

So much that Loki seemed to have lost the awareness of Thor’s presence whenever he was with their guest.

One late afternoon, Thor quietly entered the library, only to find the ruler of Sakaar whispering to his brother. The elder allowed his finger to softly trace down Loki’s. Thor nearly shouted when, with a gasp, Loki’s reflex sent a burst of strong magic from his palm.

With suppressed glee, Thor thought that their guest was finally meeting his demise after overstaying his welcome.  

One can imagine his shock when Grandmaster, with a flick of a wrist, dissolved the potentially fatal blow. He seemed to have absorbed the potent energy into his body, without changing his posture.

Grandmaster did not seem offended. Instead, he gently held up Loki’s hand and, with soothing words, calmed the prince.

It wasn’t long before his brother’s face, which was pale with shock, turned rosy pink when their guest landed a kiss on his hand.

———

Thor felt his world spiralling out of control when his father informed him one morning that the ruler of Sakaar had proposed a marriage alliance between both states.

Chapter 2 

“Oh Loki, you could have chosen anyone you want, why him?” Thor asked, who could feel an impending headache making its way to his temple. He had pulled a reluctant Loki from the hall into their private study, where he could talk to his brother for the first time in weeks. 

Loki refused to look at him, instead, focused on his shoes,

“Haven’t you heard what they say? Sakaar is the place where all the unloved things end up in, and our people find me most fitting.”

Thor slammed his mug of ale down onto the table, sending its content splashing on the surface. Loki flinched but said nothing,

“I will not hear such nonsense. You are a prince of Asgard, and always will be. If this is your way of getting back for some imagined slights, you are a bigger fool than I thought.“

Upon seeing pain flashing in his brother’s eyes, Thor softened his gaze and gently laid his hand on Loki’s shoulder,

“The Grandmaster is way older than both of us combined, and a stranger too. I know he has shown you affection, but I am sure you will receive them from another more worthy of your love. As your brother, your happiness is most important to me. I...I don’t want him to hurt you.”

Loki seemed touched for a moment by Thor’s words, but his determination soon returned and his face hardened once again,

“If my happiness is your greatest concern, then you shall be happy about my marriage...with En.”

Loki quickly removed himself from their shared study, leaving Thor to ponder in his sorrow.

Frigga was doing what any mother would do when her son was about to go on a journey, making sure he was well-equipped. She instructed a wardrobe of clothing to be made for Loki, trying to incorporate as much Asgardian style into the Sakaarian clothes. She remained courteous to the Grandmaster, or at least on the surface. It was only when Thor and his mother were alone that she revealed suppressed anger and fear for her youngest,

“I have heard, from court gossips and letters with Vanaheim, that the Grandmaster is rather permissive with a lot of things we look down upon. I tried to let Loki know about this, but he remains convinced that it is only a rumour, and that he has the power to, how should I put it...to change him for the better.”

Thor had already run out of words to say, preferring to remain silent as a way to show his displeasure at Loki’s naivety. With all his intelligence, Loki ought to know better than to put all his trust in his future spouse.

However, looking at the chests of clothing, potions and books ready to be locked and brought all the way to Sakaar, what could they say?

—————

On the day of the wedding, Thor was tasked to help his brother as he prepared. Loki did not slick back his hair, but instead wore his hair in soft, short curls, “the way En likes it”. He looked polished, serene, beautiful. Dressed in the finest blue silk decorated with Asgardian armour pieces, he stood in front of the mirror, appearing taller than ever with his radiant smile.

Before departing for the hall, Thor felt an impulse rushing through him and there, he grabbed his brother’s hand.

Shocked, Loki turned to look at him.

“Whatever Father says, you are always a part of Asgard. If anything happens in Sakaar, I will always welcome you back with open arms,” Thor uttered, feeling his own words had offered him closure after weeks of sorrow and false hope.

A flash of vulnerability appeared and disappeared in Loki’s eyes, and he smiled softly before saying,

“Well then, give me a hug, Brother.”

Thor gave him one of the tightest ones he had ever given.

————

The wedding was smooth, a bit too rushed for Thor. Despite his love for the dramatic, the Grandmaster seemed to have little patience for the rituals a couple must go through to finalise their union before all. He allowed his hand to be tied to Loki and gave his vow hastily as he winked at his new husband.

Odin soon brought his sceptre to the ground and announced his son wedded to the ruler of Sakaar.

————

Thor could not stop observing his brother during the wedding feast as he was seated with his new husband.

After landing a light kiss on Loki’s hand, the Grandmaster poured another pint of ale into his consort’s cup. It was the fourth time when the ruler had taken the initiative to refill Loki’s drink.

Loki was clearly overwhelmed with joy when it was technically the first feast held in his honour. Thor had his when he reached adulthood and was named the crown prince, but his brother had never had any. Mother said when Loki was born, they never got to celebrate because he was born frail and feared loud noises. The Grandmaster seemed to find the occasion amusing, preferring to whisper in his new husband’s ear that ended up bringing a soft blush to Loki’s face.

Another hour passed before the ruler of Sakaar suddenly stood up, alarming the guests of the hall. He gently pulled Loki to his feet, despite the latter being slightly wobbly after so many drinks,

“Asgardians, we thank you for attending our wedding feast. It has been a lovely day, especially when I finally can call Odin’s youngest my consort. But we are approaching the morning, and as you can see, Prince Loki and I have duties to perform...”

As the hall echoed with laughs and sneers from the guests, the Grandmaster smiled,

“Yes, I think we all know what I need to do tonight. Prince Loki and I shall leave you to enjoy the rest of the evening.”

Thor clenched his teeth and felt Frigga grabbing his hand under the table when Loki was dragged away from the hall with drunken steps.

————

Thor had always been sensitive to sound, especially when he had a brother who liked sneaking up on people.

That was what woke up him during the early morning after a night of feasting. He had left his table soon after Loki’s departure with his husband, preferring to sulk in his room.

He heard sounds of heavy breathing and stumbling.

Rubbing his eyes, Thor sat up on his bed only to find his brother in his balcony, trying to throw up.

“Loki, what is it?” He whispered, quickly crawling out of bed to walk to his brother.

Loki was dressed in a short, thin shift that did little to conceal his body under the moonlight. With his hair messy and his face sweaty, he appeared unaware of Thor’s calling as he made another poor attempt to throw up. He ended up with nothing.

Thor brushed back Loki’s curls to check his eyes, only to find them unfocused as his brother mumbled,

“I need...I need some air.”

The red bite marks on his brother’s neck and collarbones did not escape Thor’s attention.

“Loki, where is your husband?” Thor asked frantically as he struggled to catch Loki’s attention, or at least find traces of his brother in the stranger before him.

“En...he told me to go back once I got rid of the vomiting. I need to go back...” Loki slurred, which quickly turned into moans of pain when Thor’s hand landed on his waist to support him.

“It hurts...” he cried, and Thor swore he saw something trailing down Loki’s legs that glistened in the moonlight.

[queenbirbs]

waiting game | Ethan Ramsey x MC

AN - Literally couldn’t get this oneshot out of my head last night, so therefore I spent most of my last day off before Easter Hell Week writing it out. Because of course, why not? WC 3701 There’s a special place in hell for Harper Emery.  

It’s the fourth time the phrase has entered his head, but it hasn’t lost the fire behind it. He’s the leader of one of the country’s best diagnostics teams, he’s done a few tours with Doctors Without Borders. Last year, he even went back home for Christmas dinner with a family who would honestly rather receive more postcards from Mozambique in lieu of seeing him in person.  

And yet, this is possibly the most stressful thing Ethan’s ever dealt with. Wading through feces and garbage in a rural country would be more preferable at this point.  

The event room around him is gilded to the tee. Every table is draped in the finest cloth, the silverware sparkling in the light of the chandeliers, the plates filled with the highest quality catering. Extravagant centerpieces explode from the center of the tables, white orchids and white hydrangeas and white lilies spilling out from crystal vases. Some type of curly branch winds up toward the ceiling, breaking up the overwhelming glare of white.  

In the beginning, he tried to position himself just so, hoping the floral arrangement would hide him. Sitting down only served to make him an easy target, though, where any of the sharks could circle his table and feast upon him at will.

Glancing down at the scotch in his hand, he wonders how many more metaphors he can make before he has to cut himself off.

His current strategy is to keep moving, keeping himself between them with large, immovable objects. He learned his lesson with George Kadinskee, who shoved a table and chairs out of the way to get to him. It’s like being in a furniture store or a car dealership, watching the sales people discreetly chase after him.  

It’s all rather pathetic (and childish) of him, but he didn’t become a doctor to get hounded by insurance reps. And yet, here he was at a Banner Health function on a Friday evening, dressed in one of his finest suits, waiting for the earth to swallow him up.

He really just wants to go home to his dog and a documentary.  

“Doctor Ramsey!” a voice calls from behind him.  

Allotting himself a wince and a sip of his drink in preparation, he sucks in a breath and straightens his spine. It’s a good thing, too, because when he turns around he needs to cling to all the composure he can.

“Rookie,” he greets, taking another sip to wet his dry mouth, “what are you doing here?”

Sloane raises an eyebrow at his tone, but doesn’t comment on it.    

“Doctor Emery invited me. She said that the hospital could use some... younger representation.”

It’s his turn to shoot her a look.  

“Are you calling me old?”

“I think the polite term is ‘experienced’ now,” she responds with that low, pretty laugh of hers.  

He doesn’t choke on his drink, but it’s a damn near thing. “I’m sorry I’m late, though,” she continues, saving him from responding, “I had to get cleaned up and get all…” she trails off, waving a hand over her ensemble. “And my post-op was having some complications. I wanted to stick around until he got settled.”

Clinging to the life-raft of shop talk she’s handed him, he asks her about the patient, relieved when he catches the glint in her eyes, that bright flicker of discussing something she loves. Hospital talk saves him from making the inevitable ‘you look nice’ comment, which would be a paltry choice of words. She looks absolutely gorgeous, wearing a royal purple gown with a deep vee neckline. The material looks soft to the touch, the rich color complementing the russet shade of her hair. She normally wears it up, but it’s nice to see it down. His eyes follow the soft curls to the waist of her dress, where a section of thin lace does little to cover her pale skin, before the rest of the skirt continues down.  

“You should go get us another round.” At her stilted tone, he glances at the half-finished glasses they both hold.

“Why?” he drags the word out, blaming the alcohol for how playful it sounds.  

“Because there’s a middle-aged man that’s been eyeing you across the room for the past two minutes.”

He’s definitely blaming the next sentence out of his mouth on the alcohol.

“Are you sure he isn’t eyeing you?”    

Something akin to delight crosses her face, before she breaks into a chuckle and shakes her head.

“Oh, no, trust me. He’s definitely been admiring your backside this entire time, not mine.”

Ethan pointedly keeps his eyes up, because he’s a grown adult, and shouldn’t be tempted with the idea of admiring hers. (He’s done so before, but only from the comfort of the nurses’ station, and only when she’s distracted enough not to catch him. He is a grown adult, after all.) 

“Does he look like he plays golf instead of attending mandatory meetings?”

“Oh, yeah,” she nods, her gaze narrowing just beyond his left shoulder. “And his idea of a good time is yelling at wait staff.”

He chuckles at the matter-of-fact tone.

“You can tell that from across the room?”

“I waited tables in the Upper East Side in college. A sizable chunk of my debt is from buying new white button-downs when people like him threw food at me. I can read people like him a mile away.” Her eyes widen when she adds in a rush, “And he’s headed this way. Here!”

He takes the glass she all but shoves at him, steps around her, and tucks himself into the crowd hovering around the bar. Chancing a glance back, he sees her intercept George with an enthusiastic handshake. He watches as she lets herself be pulled out to sea into the awaiting sharks.

+

The bar takes longer than anticipated, but Ethan manages to secure two fresh drinks (and seven new business cards, which he will promptly throw in the recycling bin when he gets home). Fifteen minutes is a long time in the world of work functions, though, and he has lost sight of Sloane by the time he makes it back to the dining area. Across the ballroom, a live band has replaced the jazz playlist, and couples are moving across the dance floor.

Scanning the crowd, he finally spots a flash of purple, then a curtain of red flickering between bodies. She’s dancing with Anthony Fenton, Banner’s HR assistant and owner of three Teslas, which Ethan only knows because Anthony told him four times within their twenty-minute conversation earlier.

The song that’s playing crescendos, then eases down, the couples slowing as it peters out to a calmer song. Anthony’s hand moves from her waist to the small of her back, gathering her close to sway with her. Sloane settles a hand onto his chest, pushing back to make some space between their bodies.

It’s funny, because Ethan doesn’t see the venue change the lighting, but everything goes red for a moment.

He moves closer to the dance floor, trying not to feel like a chaperone at a school dance. Sloane is an adult, and a smart one at that, and is capable of making her own decisions. So, if she wants to dance with annoying assistants, or flirt with visiting paramedics or the other diagnostic interns, then she’s perfectly free to do so.

It doesn’t matter to him at all. (It does.)

He’s glad he’s watching them, though, because he gets to see the moment Sloane notices him. It’s been a few months since she started at Edenbrook, but it still gives him that same little thrill, that bite of pleasure, when she comes across him in the hallway, or in the cafeteria, or at Donahue’s, and he gets to watch her face light up.

“S.O.S.!” she mouths, begging for a save.

After she rescued him from George, he can’t just leave her to fend for herself, right?

Setting the drinks down on a nearby table, Ethan moves through the dancers with ease and sidles up to tap Sloane on the shoulder.

“May I have this dance, Doctor McTavish?”

She unwraps herself from Anthony and takes his offered hand within the span of one beat. Ethan thinks he mutters a dismissal to Anthony, but isn’t entirely sure about it.

Because he clearly didn’t think this part through. Enjoying Sloane from a permitted distance was one thing, but having her in his arms is a whole different ball game. He wonders if she can feel his heightened pulse where her hand grips his. (She can’t -- her fingers aren’t on his pulse point, but the curve of her lips says otherwise.)

They move in tandem with the crowd, more swaying than actual dancing. The music is just low enough for murmured conversation, which Sloane starts up with a suggestion of turning his people-watching skills on the dancers around them.

He points out the divorcees, the slackers, the ones that should be promoted and the ones that should be demoted. They bicker about an older couple near the very edge (she thinks they’re married, he thinks they’re just business partners). The current song slows and the two men in question share a gentle kiss, the shorter nuzzling the taller’s chest.

He runs out of observations soon after, too caught up in his private thoughts about the woman in his arms to spin any more yarn.  

“Wouldn’t you normally bring a date to a function like this?” she asks, honest curiosity in her voice.

He deploys his best weapon: deflection.

“Couldn’t I ask the same of you?”

She hums, tipping her head to the side as if in agreement. The action sends a cascade of curls to lay against her neck, that floral perfume of hers hitting him again.

“To be fair, I did ask someone, but he works fourth shift tonight and couldn’t make it.”

His brain doesn’t know how to handle that information; he gets a wave of disappointment that she tried to bring a date, then gets another wave of admonishment at himself for wanting her all to himself.

“You wouldn’t want to put anyone through this schmooze-fest, anyway,” he reasons.

“You’re right,” she says. “In the twenty minutes you were hiding at the bar, I was offered to go on three company cruises and seven golf trips. And I’m pretty sure one of those was a combination of the two.”

Ethan makes a face at the idea of a golf-cruise combo.

“I was not hiding. They only have two bartenders working for a full venue.”

“Your mouth is moving, but all I’m hearing are excuses, Ramsey,” she chides with a grin.

The tempo of the song they’re dancing to swells. Neither say anything, but both seem to know exactly what to do. He drops his hand from her waist and twirls her out, her dress floating out into the open space with her, before she comes back into his arms, holding tight to his hand.

There’s a callous on her right ring finger, resting just below the nail, from the way she holds her pen at work. The perfume he detected before drifts up to him, stronger now that her body has heated up. He spots the flush that blooms across her chest and neck, a result of the swing music the band has started up.  

He does not consider what it would be like to lay his lips there at the base of her throat and have a taste of her, to see if that pretty flush of hers would follow the trail of his lips.

“Let’s get some air,” he suggests, once the song is over and Sloane is panting from exertion and he is not thinking about other ways she could become breathless in his presence.

More dancers have joined the floor since they did, making their path out difficult. Ethan puts a hand on the small of her back, keeping her close to his side as they maneuver their way out of the crowd. Her skin is pleasantly warm under his fingers and covered in a light sheen of sweat from their activities and the close quarters of the dance floor.

She heads for the open balcony across the way and he follows, a moth drawn to her flame.

+

Outside, the city stretches out before them. To the south, Back Bay is a faint glow, leading the eye to continue left, where downtown shines bright. Cars are small dots of light underneath them, moving right and left, heading in and out of the city. Just on the edge of the balcony, Longfellow Bridge casts out into the darkness of the river. Despite the heat of the day, the cool night air rushes up to meet them.

Ethan catches Sloane rubbing her arms to keep herself warm and gives her his suit jacket to combat the cold. She tries to protest, but he silences her with another look, and helps her slip into it.

“My dad used to be the handyman for the local hospital where I grew up,” she tells him as she moves to stand at the edge. “During Christmas, they’d put these trees on top of the roofs, and he’d take me and my brother up there every year. It was only five stories high, but to us, it might as well have been the Empire State Building.”

“That sounds nice.”

She tears her gaze from the view over to him. He resists the urge to straighten his shoulders, suddenly feeling as if he’s been appraised.

“It was.” She seems to shift, as if deciding something unknown, and smirks up at him. “And then, you know, I was sixteen and wanted to impress a girl, so I stole my dad’s keys and took her up there with some hot cocoa and Bailey’s and one thing led to another…” she tips her head to the side again, laughing when he clears his throat.

“Well,” he starts, then realizes he has nothing to say to that (at least nothing that won’t seem like he’s offering to perform a reenactment out on this very public balcony with her), so he tries again. “Well.”

Nope, he’s got nothing.

Sloane takes pity on him and reaches out, patting him on his arm that rests next to hers on the railing.

“I’m glad I came,” she says, her face turned towards the open air. “I had a good time.”

“Despite Anthony and his two Teslas?” he can’t help but tease.

“Don’t forget his third one, though, back at his house in the Hampton’s.”

“Ah, of course. How could I have forgotten.” Finishing his scotch, he charges ahead: “I’m glad you came, too.”

He’s very glad he limited his alcohol intake, because when Sloane turns to smile at him, he can’t help but note that her eyes rival the sparkle of the city. And if he’d been drunk, he might’ve actually told her that. 

Instead, he offers his arm. “I think we’ve made a sufficient appearance. We should be able to escape from captivity now.”

Sloane sets her empty glass on a nearby table and links her arm through hers.

“If I’d had another three of these, I’d make a tiger noise right now.”

“Well, thank god for that.”

They make it to the elevator and down to the front lobby of the hotel without any incident. They, of course, have an argument at the curb about her borrowing his jacket for her trip home, since she forgot to bring a coat in her rush to get to the function.

“Here, at least let me get you a Lyft,” he offers as he hands off his ticket to the valet.

“Oh, no, that’s too much. It’s a nice night, despite the wind.” She slips free of his jacket, handing it back to him. “It’s only a few minutes from here to the T.”

“How far do you live from here?”

She glances back to the street, as if checking for something, before she answers, “I’m all the way across town, over near Fan Pier Park.”

He goes over her route home, recalling that the closest station to her is back on this side of the channel. Which means she’ll have to walk at least ten minutes to get home after her stop, all alone on a Friday night. “Don’t worry,” she continues, as if that’ll stop him, “I do it every night. We’re not that far from the hospital right now, and I make that walk at all hours of the evening.”

You’re usually with your roommates, he wants to point out.

She’s already angling her body towards the street, readying to make her journey home. “I’ll be okay, Ethan.”

“I’ll drive you home.”

“You live in the heart of downtown. You could throw a rock and hit City Hall.”

“It’s… on my way.”

He gets another eyebrow raise for that lie.

“It’s not even remotely on your way. You’d have to backtrack.”

“Barely over a mile. That’s not the end of the world.”

“Doctor Ramsey--” she tries, but the valet interrupts their argument, waving over to where another woman has brought his car around.

“Come on, McTavish.” He doesn’t glance back to see if she’s following -- he can see well enough in the lobby’s tall windows as she huffs out a sigh and trails after him.

+

“It’s nice here,” she comments as they wait at a stoplight somewhere along Congress Street.

He’d opted for the side streets, instead of taking a chance with the highway and its propensity for wrecks inside the tunnel. It certainly has nothing to do with the route taking longer the way he’s chosen, thus an increase in time of being in Sloane’s presence.

“In my heated seats? Of course it is. Beats the hard, plastic ones on the T any day.”

“I meant here as in the city, Boston. It’s a nice change of pace from the… constant-ness of New York City.”

“Constant-ness is not a word.”

“It is a word when I’ve gotten off a fifteen-hour shift, then had to walk around in these heels all night, and then was bullied into a car.”

“I did not bully you--”

“Okay, you didn’t bully me. How about: arrogantly demanded?”

He hums, as if in consideration.

“I’ll concede to arrogantly demanded.”

That sparks another chuckle from her, grinning over at him from his passenger seat.

“But yes, I lived in New York City. Therefore, I get to say what it was or was not.”

“It’s rather constant here, too,” he points out. A chorus of honks back up his statement as two cars blow through a red, blocking the intersection when the traffic ahead stops.

“New York was such a high turnover city to me. I had seventeen different roommates when I was living off-campus my third year of med school. People would come from all over the world to chase their dreams. By three weeks in, they came to the realization that it was going to be a lot harder than TV made it out to be. Why would they bother trying to live in one of the world’s most expensive cities being a temp or a waitress, when they could be back in Minneapolis or Nashville or Rochester doing the same thing.”

“That’s… rather depressing.”

She shrugs at his summation.

“It’s just how it was. And why I love living here in comparison. Here, everyone seems a lot more… rooted. I mean, barring unforeseen circumstances, I’ll be here for three years for residency. It’s nice to have that, to have friends who are in the same boat as me.”

His mind unwillingly travels three years ahead, when Sloane inevitably goes off to Johns Hopkins or Vanderbilt or Seattle Grace, and he never sees her again. “People come here to stay here,” she continues, unaware of his sobering thoughts. “I like it.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that, not trusting himself to ask if she can see herself staying here permanently. If she can see a place for herself on his team, because if she keeps at it like she has been, he can easily see her joining him.

He doesn’t want to hear her plans if her answer to that is no.

Instead, he flips on the radio. He taps along to the bass drums as she hums in time with the string instruments and he reminds himself that he cannot fall in love with her (not that it does any good).

+

“Nice place,” he says, and means it. The apartment building faces to the north, with a spectacular view of the harbor to the west. A doorman waves at Sloane as she starts to climb out.

“Thanks!”

“It might be rude of me to ask, but when I was in residency, I lived out of a shoebox. How did you all manage to secure a place like this?”

She glances over to the bay, biting at her lip, before meeting his curious gaze.

“We might have ganged up on the landlord and convinced him that our competition were communists.”

“Wow.”

“Well, ganged up is a strong term. But...yeah. First time I’ve ever been thankful I paid attention in that American History class in undergrad.”

“I have to admit, I’m impressed.”

“Oh, Doctor Ramsey,” she says with a shake of her head, that familiar smile making its appearance, “if you’re impressed by that, you should see what else I’m capable of.” With that, she grabs her purse from the floorboard, thanking him again for the ride, before rushing up to the double doors.

Ethan stays, wanting to make sure she gets inside safely, and watches her chat with the doorman for a moment. He can tell when she notices him still at the curb, and flicks a hand up at her when she waves to him. He waits a moment longer, watching her turn and head deeper into the lobby, until she disappears into a waiting elevator.

“I can’t wait to find out, Rookie.”

[thehouseofoctober]

Halloween History - Soul Cakes

--

Samhain.

The ancient ancestor of Hallowe’en; the final harvest; the end of the pagan summer and the start of the cold, dark winter months.  A time of bonfires and feasting and remembrance.  A time when the veil separating our world from the land of the dead is at its thinnest, and the spirits of our ancestors and malevolent ghosts can walk freely among the living.  As the summer sun makes its annual descent into the underworld, children and the poor, dressed in costumes to ward off ghosts and the dark fae, go from home to home begging for treats, lest the occupants receive a trick instead.  The beggars were then presented with a soul cake, placating mischievous visitors and angry ghosts alike.

By the eight century, Christianity had reached the land of the Celts and, like all the other sabbaths, began to absorb the traditions of Samhain into its fold.  Samhain became All Soul’s Day, and the soul cakes were consecrated and blessed before being given to the beggars.  Now, instead of the cakes being used to appease the restless dead, the recipient took the cake in exchange for a promise to say a prayer for the soul of a recently departed relative of the giver.

The giving and receiving of soul cakes is still practiced today among Catholics, neo-pagans, and wiccans.  There is no single recipe for soul cakes; they can range from being cake-like, cookies, shortbread, or biscuits.  Here are two different recipes you can try for yourself.

Traditional Soul Cakes

2 cups all-purpose flour

½ teaspoon ground nutmeg

½ teaspoon ground cinnamon

½ teaspoon salt

A generous pinch of saffron (there are a number of shops on Etsy where you can buy saffron at a fraction of what it might cost you at a supermarket)

½ cup milk

1 stick (8 tablespoons) unsalted butter, softened

½ cup sugar

2 egg yolks

½ cup dried currants

For the glaze: 1 egg yolk, beaten

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.

Combine flour, nutmeg, cinnamon, and salt in a bowl and mix well with a fork.

If you are using saffron, crumble the threads into a small saucepan and heat over low heat until they just start to become aromatic; take care not to burn them! Add the milk and heat until just hot to the touch; it should be bright yellow.  Remove from the heat.

Cream the butter and sugar together in a separate bowl with a wooden spoon or an electric mixer with a paddle attachment.  Add in egg yolks and blend together with the back of the spoon.  Add the spiced flour mixture and mix together as thoroughly as possible; the dough will be dry and crumbly.

Begin adding the warm saffron milk, one tablespoon at a time, blending vigorously with a spoon.  When you have a soft dough, stop adding the milk; you probably won’t need the whole half cup.

Turn the dough out onto a floured counter top and knead gently, with floured hands, until the dough is uniform.  Gently roll the dough out until it’s about ½ inch thick.  Using a floured 2-inch round cookie or biscuit cutter, cut out as many rounds as you can and set on an ungreased baking sheet.  Gently gather and re-roll the scraps until all the dough is used.

Decorate the soul cakes with the dried currents and brush with the beaten egg yolk.  Bake for 15 minutes until just golden and shiny.  Serve warm.

Buttery Soul Cakes (plus other great Samhain inspired recipes)

Two sticks of unsalted butter, softened

3 ½  cups of flour, sifted

1 cup sugar

½  teaspoon ground nutmeg

½  teaspoon saffron (optional)

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1 teaspoon ground allspice

2 eggs

2 teaspoons malt vinegar (I have also seen recipes calls for apple cider vinegar)

Powdered sugar

Cut the sticks of butter into the flour.

Mix in the sugar, nutmeg, saffron (if using), cinnamon and allspice.

Lightly beat the eggs in a separate bowl and add to the dry ingredients.

Add the malt (or apple cider) vinegar and mix until a soft dough forms.

Knead the dough on a lightly floured surface for a new minutes, then roll out into a disk approximately ¼ inch thick.  Use a cookie cutter or the rim of a glass to cut circles roughly 3 inches in diameter.

Place the cakes on a greased cookie sheet and bake at 25 minutes at 350 degrees.

Sprinkle the soul cakes with powdered sugar while they are still warm.

Sources

Photo source: Lavender and Lovage

[kimekaim]

From Anonymous, to You (Chapter 1)

"I have a delivery for Miss Julia Drossel! Is anyone home?" I persistently knocked on the door. Spring had truly started to show it's colors. Even though I was one of the busier gentlemen those days, I didn't quite mind waiting in front of a beautiful garden under an even more beautiful sky. The red-brick buildings that lined up along the clean stone road were a new and unusual sight for me, but I'd grown very fond of them. The joint melody produced by the rustling of leaves and the chirping of sparrows was suddenly disturbed by panicked footsteps originating from beyond the door. "Just a moment!", a raspy voice echoed from inside the house. As the footsteps got louder, I started hearing panting. "Seems they've realized I've been kept waiting long enough", I thought. The door opened to an expected sight. "I apologize for the wait. Please, do come inside!”, a woman gestured me to enter with a smile. I was not surprised at her appearance. Usually when you hear the word "Novel writer", a person sporting unkempt hair, and oversized clothes comes to mind. You imagine their burdened eyes having thick glasses over them and bags beneath them, practically begging to get some rest. A weak and exhausted appearance is not out of the picture either. This woman—my client, fulfilled all those generalizations. Even though I was the one who had waited, I felt bad for making this poor little creature run and sweat on her way to the door. I dropped my delivery at the entrance as she led the way and I followed. She took small, quick steps, like a child. I could see her messy auburn hair bouncing up and down as she hurriedly made her way to her sitting room. Judging from the crashing and rustling I heard as I was waiting outside, and the fact that her sitting room was oddly cleaner in contrast to the rest of the house, I deduced that she had quickly cleaned up her room while she kept me waiting outside. The room consisted of a dining table, and another, smaller table surrounded by some couches. Dozens of pages were littered all over the small table, accompanied by a typewriter. Miss Drossel extended her hand towards the nearest couch. "Please sit, I'll be right back with some tea", she said as she left the room, her voice having cleared up, her panting subsided. As I took the seat, my eyes scanned the room. The floorwork was intricate, the room was decorated with quite a few cabinets, each housing decorative utensils. The room contained a fireplace and multiple windows. Each window was covered with vines, and the room took on a green-and-yellow hue as the sunlight passed through the vines and illuminated the walls. My attention soon shifted to the object closest to me. The Underwood No. 4 desktop manual typewriter. It was manufactured in 1915 by the Underwood Typewriter company and quickly became the industry standard. It's been called the "Weapon of choice for working class women", though, it was also the preferred weapon of some men, including me. Next, my eyes fell on the unavoidable mess in front of me. Dozens of dozens of typed papers accompanied by even more crumpled up scraps lay on the table. I had started reading them before I even realized it. My curiosity was to be blamed, for the name Julia Drossel had been known to me for some time and enticed profound interest. She was a newly emerged author who had taken the literature world by storm. While other authors wrote stories with the themes of war, love, and honour, Miss Drossel wrote stories which were completely in the realm of fantasy, filled with fearsome, fire-breathing dragons, heroes, princesses, and monsters of every type. She had provided people with fresh, underused themes and she had recieved universal acclaim in return. That's not all of what contributed to her fame, she was apparently an eccentric figure, preferring to stay in seclusion instead of interacting with her fans. Moreover, she was awful when it came to meeting deadlines, and the general consensus was that she was abysmal at work management. Seeing her slovenly appearance and hearing her drop utensils in the kitchen when faced with the simple task of preparing tea did good to convince me of the truth of these rumors. Miss Drossel soon returned with two cups of tea, and let out a breath of relief as she finally sat down and got a chance to relax. "Forgive me for taking too long, writing has left me feeling more exhausted than usual these days", she remarked as she took a sip. "It's nothing. Thank you for the tea." "You are Mr. Eberfreya of the postal company, correct?" "Yes, madame. I take it that I'm to be tasked with assisting you in writing your novella?" Upon hearing those words, her expression drowned. I could empathize. I wondered if it was her frustration and lack of progress that drove her to request a typist. "Yes, that is correct. My work has slowed down to a halt since the past week, so I'm in rough waters right now." It was just as I had deduced. "I'm assuming that you need an extra pair of hands in order to be able to meet your deadline, ma'am?" I questioned. “I wish that were the case, but no, that’s not it. I…..need you to ghost-write for me”. That was strike two. My deductions proved correct twice in a row, but I still found it hard to believe what I was hearing. My deductions were but a hunch, a mere feeling that I followed. This was the last request I had expected to receive from an author of this caliber, who had proven their skill with the pen time and time again. I did a poor job at hiding my surprise. Miss Drossel must have expected a reaction. She gazed down at the floor in slight embarrassment upon witnessing my noticeably open jaw and widened eyes. “Ye—Yes of course! Please instruct me and I shall put your feelings into words.” The words came pouring out of my mouth, which was forming an awkward smile. I wanted to end this uncomfortable silence as soon as possible. The timid lady in front of me took a sip of tea and turned her head towards her window, sporting a dreaming expression as she gazed outside. The collective chirping of birds and clicking of insects coming from outside combined with the yellow and green hue of her meticulous sitting room created quite the memorable ambience as we sat there in complete silence. “My feelings....... I want to write a story that’s capable of pulling tears, touching hearts, being empathized with, and bringing forth a change of heart in every soul that reads it.” “Got it. You want to write a fantasy story with a greater focus on emotion rather than action this time.” “No.” She snapped back. She hunched forward, resting her elbows on the table. She made a stern face. This clumsy and petite young woman had an admirable seriousness when it came to her work. “I want to write a story that will leave its mark on the readers’ hearts for years to come. Such an effect can never be achieved through a fantasy story. People read those stories because the charisma of the heroic protagonist compels them to. They read it for the thrill they get when they see the twists and turns that the hero faces throughout his adventures. They read it because they crave action. Such stories carry no emotional weight. I have learned that because I have failed to achieve that effect.” And I agreed. But what was she going towards here? “This time…. I want to write a story that embraces realism. I cannot reach the hearts of my readers through the charming princes I write, or the shining knights I conjure. If I hope to capture their hearts, I must write stories that relate to them. I must create characters that they can empathize with.” Miss Drossel sat back on her couch, and continued, “Empathy……Empathy is what I want to write about. Do you know what the meaning of empathy is, Eberfreya?” “I think…. Empathy is when you acknowledge the pain that others are going through”, I answered. Pardon me for not being the most well-spoken person in the room. “Correct, but that’s not all there is to it. A wise man once said, ‘Empathy is about finding echoes of another person in yourself.’ The word empathy not only refers to acknowledging the pain of others, but also putting yourself in their shoes. You try to imagine yourself as that person, going through the same pain”. “In other words, Eberfreya. Empathy is the mother of understanding. And understanding breeds kindness. What do you do when you see a weak-looking cat outside your house?” I went into deep thought. What would I do if faced with such a situation? I would obviously be annoyed if I saw a malnourished feline waiting for me at the door. What was I supposed to do? Upon seeing me perplexed at this simple question, Miss Drossel opened her mouth to reveal the answer. I could spot some concern on her face. “Feed it, perhaps?” I quickly spoke. I had never fed a cat before, nor had I even had the notion of doing so. Thinking of cats and what to do with them, I was reminded of my boss. An obvious cat enthusiast, he would order separate milk bottles daily, reserved solely for the neighborhood cats. He had made it so that the company employees and the cats shared the same lunch break. Everyday at 2pm, while we ate our lunches inside, he would step outside and enjoy his time with the cats as they feasted. Remembering him was what enabled me to finally answer the Miss’ question. “E-Exactly! You would feed the cat because you’d deduce from it’s thin stature that it’s probably not been getting enough food. That is empathy. You imagine yourself as the cat, and you think about what you want if you were starving like that cat. That allows you to gain an understanding of that cat’s situation. That in turn, gives way to kindness on your part.” The lady conversing with me was making a dumbfounded expression. Perhaps she expected me to be educated in this matter. I was quite the opposite. “I...I see” My face was like that of a toddler trying to understand a difficult concept. Empathy led to understanding, which made acts of kindness inevitable. I need just imagine myself as another being, another soul, and I would become capable of kindness. That was all I understood from this schooling I had just received. Perhaps being kind was not the arduous task I thought it was. “I have written my fair share of fantasy. My readers will never truly empathize with characters which do not trudge paths which are similar to their own. My readers must have characters which are comparable to themselves. My characters must be human, like my readers. My story must be realistic enough that one may even be forgiven for mistaking it for non-fiction.” I had already figured out what she was trying to say. People who will be flipping through the pages of Miss Drossel’s next work would be anticipating excitement and action, yet all they will receive will be constant, merciless pulls on the strings of their hearts. Miss Drossel desired to put something new in store for her loyal fans this time.

After taking her last sip of tea, Miss Drossel decided to the beat around the bush no longer.

“Eberfreya, You are to assist me in creating a modern spectacle. This year, the imagination of the common man shall not be dominated by archaic tales and folklore, as it has been for so long, rather, we shall breathe new life into the world of words and expose the literary masses to new and foreign wonders.” “Well then, madame”, I spoke as I removed my leather gloves. “May we shake on it for good fortune in our upcoming endeavor?” Perhaps pleased with my quick uptake on the task at hand, the Miss responded with a smile as we both reached forward. Our hands met in agreement above the typewriter and hundreds of blank papers waiting to be filled, two weapons powerful enough to bring about a cultural revolution. Two stories interwined Prologues unknown, Epilogues unknown Their past was nothing but a disheveled thread of fate Will it unravel, will it become known?