#he's like soaked in bog water

[elemmeno-p]

This isn't a yap blog anymore give me a prompt and I will draw you shitty art (shitty)

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

Wait-

What about your Human AU, when does Eddie get into the lake?!

uhhhh *rolls dice* the group gets Shitfaced™️ and Eddie wakes up on a partially flooded raft in the middle of yeah, the lake <3 no idea how he got there <3

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 93

Part 1 Part 92

Eddie feels the hands around Will’s throat like it’s his own. Steve’s hands. Around Will’s throat. He gasps on the ground for a second as Barb and Mama Byers scrabble at him, trying to pry Steve’s hands free.

Will’s tugging at him, pulling at them both hard enough that Eddie swears he can feel his ass sliding on the tile toward him. Like he wants both of them to save him, even now, with Steve’s hands squeezing the life out of him. Steve’s pulling back, like they’re a fucked up little triangle ready to go out together.

Always, always together. If not in life, Eddie’s ready to stay by their sides in death.

“Will!” Mama Byers cries, bending one of Steve’s fingers back far enough that Eddie hears something within it popping free.

It doesn’t matter – once she lets go of the digit, it springs back, to hold on, crunching like the little bones beneath his skin are rubbing with every movement.

The sound, that terrible, horrible sound is what breaks Eddie free from his shocked huddle in the water. He sloshes upright, boots filling with heat as he lunges toward Steve, bogged down by the weight of his now-soaked clothes.

He joins the fray, yanking Steve’s hand for all he’s worth. Will’s still pulling on them both, he can feel it tugging at his sternum, pulling the strings of his heart like only the two of them can. But it’s getting weaker already. Steve’s is growing weaker right alongside it.

Like, Steve’s hands are choking the life out of Will and taking him along with it. Like, even hidden where he is, he knows he can’t live in a world where his hands have done such a terrible thing.

Eddie can’t breathe.

“Move!”

Barb jumps back without hesitation at the sound of Perkins voice booming around the small space. No one else does.

Eddie shifts his eyes toward her, wild and frenzied and they stick. She’s got fucking oven mitts on, a cute turquoise pair with lace cuffs, and she’s holding a steel pot between her palms, Like she’s making mashed potatoes for Thanksgiving and not watching her best friend choke a kid’s life right out of his eyes.

Eddie doesn’t see her move, doesn’t even comprehend what’s happened as something scalding drips onto his hands, so shockingly hot that he jumps back. He looks down at his hands, watches them turn bright red and blister.

Mama Byers is clutching her own face as Will drops, coughing into the water. She snaps out of it, reaching out with desperate, grasping hands to pull him away from where Steve stands, water sloshing as its violently displaced.

Only Barb remains unscathed.

And Steve, he writhes, wet and seizing, black bleeding into his veins.

Behind him, Perkins stands, oven-mitted hands still clutched around her now-empty pot.

Steve drops.

Water splashes around him, soaking everyone further as the water begins to creep out of the bathroom entirely, soaking into the Harrington’s pristine white carpet.

Eddie doesn’t care. He’s frozen where he stands.

Steve’s back arches macabrely, throwing his neck back far enough that his mouth is briefly submerged, bubbles coming out of his mouth in a voiceless scream.

It’s the swimming pool all over again. Steve was always going to drown, and Eddie was always going to follow right after him.

But then he seizes again, and his head’s above water.

Perkins drops the pot with a clatter, dropping to her knees to cup Steve’s face absurdly between her oven-mitted hands.

She’s muttering too quietly for Eddie to hear until he drops down beside her, holding the back of Steve’s head to stop him from going back under.

“Be okay, be okay, be okay,” Perkins mutters, less a plea and more a demand, like she can reach into Steve and rearrange his insides if need be. She’s snarling, feral and wide-eyed.

The blacks traveling up the veins in his arms, peeking out from his clothes as it moves, inexorably to coalesce in his chest. For a wretched moment, Eddie thinks this is it – the smoke will choke out his heart, and there will be no more Steve.

There’s a cry building in his throat, kept down only by the sheer force of it.

But then it continues, bubbling through his heart, and up, up, up into his throat, bulging the veins there enough that Eddie’s afraid they’ll burst.

 Smoke pours out, black and choking. Eddie and Perkins stumble back, instinct taking over as Steve falls unimpeded into the bathwater with clattering splash as his head hits the running faucet on the way down.

The smoke dashes around the room looking for new bodies or an escape. Eddie doesn’t care. Because Steve’s face is submerged and he’s not getting up.

Eddie lunges, meeting Perkins and Barb halfway as they all scramble to get Steve out of the tub.

It’s an uncoordinated slide drag pull, limbs bouncing off porcelain and tile. None of it matters, though. Because Steve coughs, dispelling normal, clear water from his lungs, no black in sight.

Steve Harrington opens his beautiful, beautiful eyes. They flit around, dazed, brow wrinkled until they land on Eddie. He smiles, just a little, like a reflux to seeing Eddie’s face.

“Hi, angel,” Eddie calls, reaching out to stroke his cheek.

“Ow,” Steve whispers, voice cracking from his ruined throat, but it’s all him.

Eddie laughs, just as Steve slumps into a dead faint, splashing back into the water for the umpteenth time.

Will sighs. “That’s definitely him.”

They’re all soaked and beat to hell, but this is the happiest Eddie’s ever been. He pulls Steve into his arms, pressing his face into Eddie’s neck so he can feel his puffing breaths.

Proof of life.

Taglist: @deany-baby @estrellami-1 @altocumulustranslucidus @evillittleguy @carlprocastinator1000 @hallucinatedjosten @goodolefashionedloverboi @newtstabber @lunabyrd @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @manda-panda-monium @disrespectedgoatman @finntheehumaneater @ive-been-bamboozled @harringrieve @grimmfitzz @is-emily-real @dontstealmycake @angeldreamsoffanfic @a-couchpotato @5ammi90 @mac-attack19 @genderless-spoon @kas-eddie-munson @louismeds @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @pansexuality-activated @ellietheasexylibrarian @nebulainajar @mightbeasleep @neonfruitbowl @beth--b @silenzioperso @best-selling-show @v3lv3tf0x @bookworm0690 @paintsplatteredandimperfect @wonderland-girl143-blog @nerdsconquerall @sharingisntkaren @canmargesimpson @bananahoneycomb @rainwaterapothecary

Eddie Munson cries.

Part 94

[bonezone44]

Beneath the Mire (18+)

Ezra x Swamp Monster!afab!Reader

Word Count: 3162

(Ezra img from pedropascalsx)

Dead Dove, Do Not Eat. Tags: Non-con somnophilia. Blowjob. Unprotected p-in-v.

Summary: You're a human-turned-swamp monster and a man crashes into your corner of the bayou. 😈

A/N: I'm too lazy to edit this, lol ! ENJOY!

—--

Heavy storm clouds rolled inward and a highly motivated Ezra couldn't get back to shore fast enough.

He had been out on his jon boat in the bay, fishing all by his lonesome and without much to show for it. Some days, the fish just aren't very hungry, he reasoned to himself. But it was no matter to him. He was the kind of man who loved to bask in the biosphere. He let the sound of the swaying grasses on the shoreline brush along his eardrums. He watched herons snip at bugs in the water and gobble them up, one by one. The chirping crickets and singing birds added to the chorus of croaking toads hopping around and splashing in the mud puddles. He enjoyed the symphony so much, he allowed it to lull him to sleep, slouching in his seat with his fishing rod in his hand. He figured the tug of a fine catch would rouse him from slumber. He wasn't even that tired. He only wanted to rest his eyes. But as he said himself, some days the fish just aren't very hungry.

Ezra was instead awoken by a loud clap of thunder. His eyes grew big and worried when he saw darkness engulfing the southern horizon. He scrambled to the back of his boat and started his trolling motor. It was weak and feeble against the untenable waters and he barely made it out of the bay before the rain. The rain, when it fell, fell like it was being poured outta buckets and straight onto Ezra’s head. He tried as he could to move his boat steady, but the wind and waves tossed him up and down and around in all the wrong directions. “This is not the end of my tale! This is not how I depart!” he growled to himself with crazed ferocity. One hand gripped the aluminum seat beneath him and the other clung to the starboard edge. He cursed the storm. He cursed God. He cursed his own dead Momma for testing him with such a treacherous event. He swore to not only survive, but to become stronger, more cunning. He swore to check the goddamn weather report before falling asleep all alone on his boat. "Goddamn piece a shit trolling motor," he groused, adding that he'd buy a better one of those if he survived, as well. 

His heart and body were long weary by the time he made it into your little corner of the bayou. And when he crashed against the knobby roots of one of your favorite cypress trees, his spirit seemed to vanish right before your very eyes.

----

You had been in the swamp for many years now. Too many to count. You had been banished there at a young age, having been deemed unfit for the world of humans. But the swamps… they loved you. They embraced you. They evolved you into something wretched and powerful. 

It began in the mazey waters of Louisiana's bayous. In the thick clouds of humidity that soaked the air between the land and sky. That was where you transformed-- where you were born anew. Your skin grew a coat of slimy, green algae and fuzzy gray lichen. All the hair on your head had fallen out and was replaced with short grasses and leafy clovers. Your eyes developed second eyelids: A yellow film that illuminated the world around you in darkness--even allowing you to navigate late at night and through debris-filled, murky waters. 

Your friends were the alligators. Together you hunted deer and wild turkeys. After so many meals of bloodied meat, your teeth turned sharp and vicious. You could stick out your tongue and taste your prey in the damp, night air--taste their pheromones and dander. You would sense them from miles away and then go running madly through the bogs, chasing with pleasured vigor until you bit into their flesh and rendered them asunder. 

Parts of you were still human, though. Your intelligent mind. Your lonely heart. In your early years as a newborn creature of the swamp, you would sneak around the towns and watch them–the people–talking to one another and going about their days. You would listen to them tell stories and talk shop and chit chat. You would hide in the tall grasses or beneath the shoreline piers. You would follow the fishermen in their boats, the lovers in their canoes, swimming with your alligator friends through the waterways. And when your body burned and craved for human touch, you would wrap your legs around the knobby roots of the cypress trees and rub yourself til your body shook and both your eyelids drifted shut.  

But too much time around humans only made you ache more for them, so you resigned yourself to nature. Where they had banished you. And where you believed you truly belonged.

—-

You were relaxing in your shack when you first saw his approach. You loved storm season. The summer heat would give way to cool breezes and chilly water would shower down from the heavens. And if the winds were gusty and there were flashes of lightning? That just made it all the more exciting for you. So your eyes were already watching the rain show, enraptured in the chaos of nature when you saw a man in his boat intrude upon your swamp. Your home. Your safe haven from the human world that had rejected you. You wanted to stomp and roar. You wanted to bare your teeth and swing your paws and shove him and his boat back out to where he came from.

But something inside of you sank into your belly when you saw him crash. Something tender and fearful swelled behind your vision. You weren't sure why, but you needed to make sure this man would be okay.

You pulled him from the wreckage and dragged him to your hovel. It was made from parts of broken boats and sheets of metal that you had collected over the years. It wasn't much, but it was dry enough for a human like him. You rested him gently on your bed woven from moss. 

Outside the storm wreaked havoc, but as you closed the door to your little shack beneath the strong canopy of cypress trees, a calm and peaceful quiet took over. Droplets of rain sang sporadically on your tin roof. The ground beneath you was covered in planks of wood decking that you had tied together with strong kudzu vines. Rusted scraps of metal hung like chandeliers from the ceiling--like moss hanging from the oak trees.

The poor man was out cold. Well, that was how the saying used to go anyway, when you were around the humans more.  It had been many years since you had seen a man this up-close. You had forgotten all about the pores that dotted their faces. The hairs that protruded from around their mouths and chins. And even how their noses had hair coming out of them, too. 

This man's hair had a blonde patch above his right temple. And little white hairs peppered along his jaw. He had a pretty nose with a strong curve resembling the bow of a boat all turned upside down. His top lip looked like it had been curled and there was a divot at the center of his bottom lip that was deep enough to hold a whole puddle of water in it. There was a thin scar on his left cheek that looked like a fish hook. You traced it with your finger--leaving a trail of slime behind. Your touch caused no reaction from him. 

You wonder how he got so far from the rest of civilization. Maybe he was like you–all alone and aching. Who would go fishing all by themselves when the cloud patterns foretold stormy weather? Who could be so oblivious to the dangers of nature? You held his jaw and brushed your thumb along his cheek. This poor man… he had to be pained. He had to be hurting. There had to be kinship between the two of your despondent hearts. 

Why else would your beloved swamp allow a man to trespass its tangled gates?

You sighed with relief.

“A gift,” you smiled to yourself. 

At long last, the swamp that had first embraced you so long ago has offered you a companion. Another banished human to mold and articulate into an amalgamation of photosynthesizer and carnivorous beast. Another banished human to sate the needs of its first ape-turned-slimy-hybrid (you). 

You leaned forward and pressed your lips into his. His soft, dry lips. You giggled when you pulled back–his mouth now green with your algae. He would be even more appealing once the swamps began to turn him. But for now, it was enough to have him donning a small coating of you. You kissed his cheeks. His forehead. The empty patch along his jaw. Each caress of your lips grew the fire between your thighs.

His neck was long and his veins were like pulsing rivers--veins that disappeared beneath a soaking wet t-shirt that clung to his skin. You looked down further and--oh! Right. Men have nipples, too. You saw them budding hard like cypress roots and something about it made your lips point and pout--made your teeth want to bite and chew. And although his face remained expressionless, you knew your betrothed. You knew he would enjoy your affection. He would understand your ache and your need–for it exists the same in him. It has to! How could your swamp gift you with anything less?

You tongued his right nipple through his shirt. You pinched and toyed with it, rubbed it in circles with the pad of your finger. It made you burn, but you didn’t want to stop. It had been so so long since you were with another human. It had been so so long since you allowed yourself to ache in this way. You wanted to revel in the rarity. Bask in your hunger. You wrapped your lips around his left nipple and sucked it into your mouth, pulling it between your teeth. You sucked in the salty, brackish water from the cloth of his shirt. You huffed. It wasn’t enough. You pulled his shirt upward and there it was–bare for you! A deep russet color and sparsely circled by coarse dark hairs. Oh! The taste of his skin was something immaculate. You sucked his nipple into your mouth again and pulled your head back, yanking it with you—

!!!!

His body twitched and you immediately released him. Air caught in your throat as you froze in place awaiting his waking eyes, but… 

Nothing.

You sighed in both disappointment and relief. You wanted to meet his eyes and hear his voice, but you were also very pleased to continue sating your curiosity. You were too eager to cease indulging your human-side’s desires.

His chest moved slowly and evenly with his breaths. His belly, too. His arms laid flaccid at his sides and you picked up one of his big hands and held it in your own, wondering how he got so many little knicks and scars and calluses. You kissed each one–coating them in your slime. Soon it would be his slime, too. 

You laid his hand back down and that was when you saw it. 

Something you had long forgotten about. 

Something hypnotizing and stupefying. 

Something that... bulged below his waistband.

Saliva pooled on your tongue. You tugged and yanked desperately on his pants–which were soaking wet and clinging tightly to his skin. You grappled with the strange fastenings that kept them secure. You fiddled and fussed until finally his bottom was as bare as his torso and the bulging thing you desperately sought was set free.

You swallowed thickly at the sight of it. Nearly as russet as his nipples. The muscle stood tall and thick, engorged with rushing blood. A bulging sack of skin hung around its base. Your body shook with temptation and confusion. You wanted to swallow it whole and you wanted it deep between your legs. You wanted to lick and taste the skin and massage it desperately with your hands. You rested your cheek against it, longingly. Hungrily. Cravingly. You breathed deep his cloudy musk with your nostrils–moaning and pouting to yourself. 

You positioned your head above his cock and wrapped your long, forked tongue around it. Viscous saliva rained from your lips as you licked and squeezed his hardness. The world around you disappeared as you drank and devoured. Warmth expelled from your cheeks, heating the room. He was delicious! He was succulent! The salty syrup that oozed from his tip made you dizzy with lust. You sucked him all the way into your mouth so you could feel the fullness of him–taste him on every sensor in your maw.

His flavor was elysian.

You looked up briefly from your inebriated haze and gasped–his heavy cock falling from your tongue. 

Your man! Your betrothed!

His lids had risen to reveal blurry brown eyes!

“My gift!” you cheered.

He didn’t respond–not verbally anyway. But his eyes did move from side to side. His breathing was heavier than it had been before, but he was not fraught with panic. He blinked.

“My gift!” You praised again and kissed his cheeks with your wet lips. “You’re safe!” Tears welled in your eyes and you felt as if something was soon to burst from your chest. “You’re home now,” you smiled and pressed your cheek against his own. Small noises escaped his lips, but no words. You pulled back and saw his brows pull tight and his lips twitch. “It’s okay,” you soothed. “We’re not alone anymore.” You leaned forward again and kissed him more deeply this time, slipping your tongue into his mouth to taste him. He choked and coughed and you startled. “I’m sorry, my gift!” You shrank away with shame. “My-my tongue is different than it was when I… when I was… just a human like you.” Your face shined bright. “Soon, your tongue will be just like mine!” You opened your mouth wide and let the muscle roll from your lips. It went down past your chin and you could almost touch your own chest with the forked tip. His eyes slightly widened and you threw your head back, laughing. Then his eyes looked past you, looked down between his legs and your gaze followed. You giggled shyly. “I’m sorry, my gift. I couldn’t wait. I knew you’d understand what loneliness I felt,” you sighed. You held your bottom lip with your razor-sharp teeth and your eyes glittered. “May I finish?” you asked. “The mouth between my legs is hungry, too,” you grinned. You didn’t wait for a response. You didn’t need to. You knew he’d understand.

You scurried back down his body, which had become smattered with green splotches of you, and straddled him. You pressed your clit against his thick member and moaned. “Oh, my gift, you feel so much better than the tree roots. Oh you feel so good,” you spoke through gritted fangs as you moved your hips back and forth. Your hands were planted firmly on the moss bed beneath him. The man hissed and panted–his fingers twitched. His eyes remained blurry and searching. You whimpered above him, chasing your pleasure until your insides clenched and spasmed. Waves of delight pulsed through your body and you looked at your half-naked gift with loving tenderness and passionate desire. 

“I waited so long for you,” you said tearily. “My gift. My love.” You leaned forward and kissed his lips. As you moved your hips, you felt the tip of his member catch on your hole. It startled you–it invited another appetite for feasting. Your upper half rested against his torso as you reached down and took his member in your hand. Your hole drooled with slippery filth and when you sank onto his cock, loud squelches echoed around the metal walls of your hovel–along with your gift’s deep, guttural groan. You whimpered, “Oh, your voice! I want to hear you. I want to hear everything!” You bounced your lower body up and down, maneuvering in whatever way made him make the most noise. Pained and raspy sounds expelled from his pursed lips. His breaths were shallow and rhythmic. “Is this good? Is this good, my love?” you asked with your chest high. He nodded and you shook your head with glee. “Yes!” you hissed. “My gift loves me! My gift adores me! I am his gift, too!” His thick fingers wrapped around your slimy thighs and although his grip was weak, it was fervent. He nodded more steadily and you fell to him–cheek-to-cheek–and rode his thick cock–chest-to-chest. “Forever, my gift!” you hissed in his ear. “Together until the end of time!”

He groaned and grunted, although you were doing all of the real work. His hips were hardly thrusting, but his noises were that of agreement. “S–ss—” was the closest thing to words he expressed, but you knew he wanted you. He wanted you just as deeply. Just as infinitely. 

You cried out sharply with your orgasm–a tension snapping from your body and billowing out. You sighed delightfully and rested your body on top of your new companion. 

“...no…” he whispered.

“What?” you were shocked and excited to hear real words.

“....d-don’t…” he swallowed. “.... stop…. don’t… stop.”

You leaned back with confusion. 

“k-keep…. goin….” he rasped.

The realization hit you and you bashfully covered your face. “I’m so sorry, my gift!” You giggled. “Now it’s your turn!” You reached down with your free hand, keeping your eyes on his. You gripped his hardness, which was coated in your green mucky slick, and mimicked the movements of your hips. You moved your hand up and down as you stared into each other’s eyes. 

“yes… yes… yes…” he whispered into your lips until suddenly his eyes squeezed shut. 

You looked down and a creamy white ooze dribbled heavily from the tip of his member. You could taste his salt by simply sticking your tongue in the air–but it wasn’t enough. You licked up his release as it mixed with the remains of your own. So delicious! Every part of him made you hunger.

You sighed contentedly. He seemed rather content, too, as far as you could tell from his soft eyes and deep breaths. “It is good to rest after a satisfying meal,” you told him as you laid your head on his chest. “When the storm is over, we’ll add your boat to our home. And I will show you how to hunt the deer and you will meet all of my friends and we will be very happy.” You wrapped your arm around him and snuggled close. “You are my gift and I am your gift, too.”

++++++++++

[inuhalfdemon]

Out by the Bayou for No One Can Know...

RadioApple Week 2024

Day 7 Prompt: Day Out

Word Count: 2,289 Words

Part 1: Down Day

Never knew how much that muddy water meant to me...

But I learned how to swim, and I learned who I was

A lot about livin' and a little 'bout love.

A lot about livin' and a little 'bout love."

- Alan Jackson

Lucifer groaned, “Why are you making me do stuff today…Charlie said we could have a few days off from our responsibilities with the hotel!”

“Yes, she did,” Alastor allowed; he opened the door to his hotel room and stepped inside, Lucifer following him. “But, that doesn’t mean we don’t have other things that we could be doing.”

“I want to go back to bed!” Lucifer was actually whining.

“We were in bed all day yesterday. You’re feeling better today so I’m not just going to let you mope around.”

“I wasn’t mopey!” Lucifer got defensive.

“You had a low day – we spent yesterday doing what we both needed and wanted to then. This is today. You have more energy; you look brighter. Time to be less…

“Lazy?” Lucifer frowned.

“…reluctant to do things.” Alastor finished; carefully.

Lucifer groaned again.

Ignoring his moodiness, Alastor walked over to the sofa he had set against the wall – Lucifer saw that there were things laid out across the cushions of it and the coffee table beside it.

Alastor sat down on one of the free cushions; reaching for a rucksack.

“So…what exactly are we going to be doing today?” Lucifer asked him.

“We’re spending a morning out in the bayou.” Alastor told him simply; digging into the rucksack and pulling out a pair of denim jeans. He tossed them to Lucifer.

“Uh…I don’t really look good in jeans, Al. They make me look too boyish and like I’ve got no butt.”

“Well, we are going for functional, not fashionable. Besides; I’m sure you’ll find those will fit you just fine...make this Louisiana boy’s heart go pitter-patter.” Alastor’s voice slid into a smooth, southern drawl and Lucifer’s ears burned hot at the tips.

Alastor began taking off his shoes; tossing them and his socks aside. He slipped into his own jeans – rolling up the cuffs so that they rested snug against his upper calves. Lucifer followed suit.

“I’ve got fresh coffee made,” Alastor nodded to the two thermos’s he had set out on the table: none of that tea business this morning. We’ll take it to go and – yes, before you ask – there’s an obscene amount of creamer in the one that is yours…just how you like it.” Alastor made a disgusted face.

Alastor came over to where Lucifer sat; kneeling down – he tightened the rolls to Lucifer’s jeans against his calves. He did the same with Lucifer’s shirt sleeves; rolling and bunching them firmly the man’s arms, just above the elbows. Then, he reached up and smoothly undid the bowtie from around Lucifer’s neck.

“I’d never say that bowties don’t have a place in the bayou…a fine bowtie belongs anywhere,” Alastor chuckled, “But, let’s spare ours from the muck of things today.” He tossed it aside; loosening Lucifer’s collar. His hands slid down; unclasping the first buttons to his shirt – exposing the skin around his neck and upper chest.

Lucifer’s heart started skipping.

“Down, boy.” Alastor told him, pulling Lucifer’s face in and kissing him warmly on the mouth. “I’m only helping you to look the part.” Alastor mussed up Lucifer’s hair and laughed as he stood back up.

Lucifer rolled his eyes; reaching back for his socks and his shoes.

“Nope. Those stay here.” Alastor told him; gathering up the rucksack and reaching for another that looked full, heavy and was soaked in dark stains at the bottom.

Alastor shot Lucifer a coy smile; throwing the rucksack heavily across his shoulder and turning for the bayou. 

Lucifer very nearly gagged when his feet sank into the bog; smelling mud squelching and bubbling up between the toes of his hooves. He wasn’t used to this kind of getting down and dirty stuff but Alastor…Alastor was perfectly at home here.

Alastor led the way through the swamp - the heavy rucksack swinging against his shoulders – he whistled some jaunty southern tune that Lucifer had never heard before. His deer tail was poking out from the hole Alastor had made in the jeans and it wagged and twitched happily as they walked along. Lucifer swatted at bugs and stumbled over things as they went but Alastor moved easily through the bramble; perfectly content and at ease.

The longer they went though, Lucifer found that the mud between his toes felt…kind of nice. As they skirted the edge of the swamp; the weeds and branches of thick brush poked and dragged across exposed skin…but, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Frogs croaked; crickets sang and there was birdsong from all around. The air was hot and it was humid, but it was fresh and Lucifer was feeling better than he had felt for….a long time. 

“Where are we going?” Lucifer asked him from behind.

“Just to this bend in the channel, up here,” Alastor told him; not looking back. “I’ve got some friends of mine that I’d like you to meet.”

“Some what now?” Lucifer asked and Alastor laughed.

Coming to the bend; the swamp opened up to a wide channel of muddy water that bent sharply to the right. Alastor pulled aside a clump of reeds; allowing Lucifer to step through easily so that they were standing at the edge of an embankment that sloped easily down and into the still water.

There was a loud splash; something moving heavily into the water from the further down the bank, but when Lucifer turned; he only saw the ripples along the water’s surface.

Still whistling, Alastor threw down his rucksack and began rummaging through it. His hands came out bloody and holding clumps of rotting meat; lifting them from the bag.

“Oh, yuck…” Lucifer spat out his tongue. “What is that!?”

“The less savory bits…” Alastor told him; stepping from the sack and toward the channel. Ripples and waves disturbed the water’s surface; two log-like heads poking out of the muddy water – simultaneously.

Gators.

One of the heads tilted up; long jaws opening – revealing rows of impressively large and white teeth; the gator hissing loudly. The other head didn’t move; staying very still beside it instead.

“These two lovelies are Mildred and Henrietta.” Alastor announced; tossing a chunk of the rotting meat easily into the gator’s open mouth. The jaws slammed shut and the gator disappeared beneath the swirling water. The other gator’s mouth slowly opened and Alastor repeated his throw.  The gator caught the meat – throwing it’s head back, it gripped it’s meal and submerged itself slowly out of sight.

Lucifer starred at Alastor; watching him walking away from the bank and returning for the rucksack. Alastor reached back in to the bag; pulling out a huge, and fully intact heart now. Turning back, Alastor walked down the embankment – actually stepping into the muddy water now; wading up to his knees and waiting.

With eyes wide, Lucifer watched as the biggest alligator he believed anyone had ever seen drifted slowly up and to the surface. Its great snout broke through the muddy water and the huge reptile groaned and grunted in deep tones.

“And, this…” Alastor called back happily. “This is Petey!” Smiling, he lifted the heart. The gator’s mouth opened and Alastor dropped the organ into the huge reptile’s gullet. “A very picky eater this one. Only the hearts of my enemies, will do for him.” The gator lifted his head; throwing it back and swallowing his gift whole. The gator’s grunting turning into gurgling rumbles. “Who’s a big, bad bull gator? Petey is!” Alastor talked to the alligator like it was fucking chihuahua; his claws scratching underneath the bull gator’s chin and eliciting more rumbling from the giant.

This guy might just be…lonelier than I am. Lucifer thought, watching him with the gator.

Petey snapped his jaws; snorting loudly before twisting and diving back under the churning water. His tail swept roughly through the water; splashing a laughing Alastor before vanishing completely. Alastor washed the blood from his hands in the muddy water, wadding out and walking back up the embankment.

“Should you be fucking feeding those things!?” Lucifer asked him.

“Best that I do.” Alastor told him; gathering up the empty rucksack. “We’re going to be wading in this part of the channel over here and better that they’re not hungry when we do. Those things have a rather nasty bite when they decide to take a taste of you.”

“Fuck…” Lucifer breathed and Alastor laughed again.

The rest of the morning was spent with Alastor and Lucifer getting muddier and muddier.

Alastor first showed Lucifer the traps he had made and set for catching crawdads; a series of carefully woven willow branches that interlocked in such a way that the crayfish could work their way into the bundles for the bait but then ran into difficulty trying to get back out. They pulled up each one – emptying the crawdads into a rucksack and setting the traps aside to use for another time.

Next, Alastor took him to a spot in the channel where the current slowed and the bottom dipped to a deeper depth. He had poles set into the mud of the bank there and he showed Lucifer where they were placed and how to tell if they had been set off – with a catfish caught and held fast at the end.

A sharp and piercing chirp sounded overhead and a beautiful osprey glided into a low-hanging branch nearby. Lucifer appreciated the bird; smiling at the way it ruffled its feathers in agitation.

“Another one of my regular fee collectors.” Alastor told him. “That there is Matilda.”

“She’s pretty.” Lucifer complimented.

“Flattery won’t get you very far with her.” Alastor laughed, “Here, take this catfish. Do two, slow sweeping swings with it – let her see that you have it and what you’re doing; and toss it straight up.”

“Seriously?” Lucifer asked.

Alastor nodded. “She’s got mouths to feed so she’ll appreciate the break, I’m sure.”

Lucifer stared at him, just holding the catfish.

“Go on,” Alastor shoved him and smiling Lucifer did just what Alastor had told him.

On his last swing down; Matilda had knew what was coming and she bent her wings in preparation. Lucifer tossed the catfish straight up into the air and the female osprey jumped from the branch; tucked in her wings and dove nimbly down. Catching the catfish with curved talons; she hoisted it close – letting out a chorus of singing chirps before wheeling overhead and disappearing out of sight. 

They were finishing up with their checking of the poles, when Alastor called Lucifer to a spot in the bank, wanting to show him something. Not giving the angel any reason to his actions; Alastor directed him to kneel with him into the water. Taking his hand – Alastor guided it down and forward. Alastor pressed himself closer, leaning against him and stretching his arm further out in front of them – doing something with his fingers. Lucifer felt the tips of his ears burning again just before something clamped uncomfortably and heavily around his arm.

Lucifer shrieked and Alastor cackled as the man was nearly drug straight underwater.

“Hold on…that’s a big’n.” Alastor laughed; pulling Lucifer by the waist. Lucifer was hauled back and when his arm broke the water an enormous catfish came with it; its mouth clamped firmly around his hand and refusing to let go.

Lucifer began screaming and Alastor nearly dropped him from the amount of laughter that he had at the whole ordeal.

Packing up all they had into the rucksacks, Alastor and Lucifer started out from the bayou.

Alastor told Lucifer about the plans he had for making a true, southern-style dinner for everyone at the hotel with all that they were bringing back with them. Lucifer watched Alastor happily talk to him about recipes and ingredients and just like manman used to do’s… He never got to see Alastor so raw and purely….himself before.

Lucifer’s heart was so full and happy in this moment…it felt like could very well burst.

Alastor suddenly stopped mid-sentence – one ear laying off to the side; turning.

Excitedly, he set his bag down – encouraging Lucifer to do the same, he took the angel by the hand and led him down a worn game trail; closer to the channel.

Carefully, Alastor moved them slowly to a place where there was small grouping of trees set against the bog. Alastor shifted; then moved Lucifer closer beside him – pointing out the hen wood duck that was paddling in the water – cheeping incessantly.

Lucifer watched the hen; wondering what her fuss was all about and why it had drew Alastor’s attention.

A quick movement caught his eye and he saw something fall from one of the trees. A small ball of fluff landed gently in a pile of old tree leaves; a wood duckling chic…bouncing from the fall it took from its bold jump from the nest, but clearly unharmed. Eyes shining, Lucifer watched as seven more ducklings took the same brave leap – gathering at the edge of the incredibly high burrow and throwing themselves out; driven only by the amazing trust they already had in their mother; and in their own instincts. Each chick bounced, then waddled away – no worse for wear; scooting into the water and following the hen out to a deeper part in the channel.

Alastor lifted his head; watching them go.

“She’s been on that nest for a while…I had hoped it would be today…” He tilted his head; “Great falls can lead to great things…wouldn’t you say?”

Lucifer’s heart clenched and he swallowed hard.

Alastor pulled him to him; sighing deeply.

“The low days will still happen for you, Luci….I can’t change that. But, I can give you days like this too….And, I’ll give you as many of them as I can…I promise.”

Taglist: @helluva-simper

[eggedbellies]

This is one of my dealer's choice commissions! Thank you anonymous, this was fun!!

Title: Midnight Search Wordcount: 1848 Kinks: tentacles, eggs / oviposition, suspension Synopsis: Jackson is a cleric with a job to do; get some flowers for a healing potion. Of course, they only bloom at night - and it seems something moved into the bog whilst he was away...

“Now ain’t this a damn fine idea?” Jackson heaved a great sigh from the very bottom of his chest, striding across the slightly boggy ground, deeper into the darkness. His bleeding heart had, once again, driven the cleric off in search of an unusual herb. There was no doubt that this stubborn curse required a very specific potion and, like the fool he was, he’d not ordered in any of the dried and powdered one for quite some time. No doubt a result of the particularly muggy summer, cracking open his reserve had revealed rather a fragrance of rot. Just wonderful. So now, here he was, letting his good boots get soaked with muddy water, heading off to find a flower as night truly fell.

“S’better fresh, at least,” he mused, wondering if he should’ve dragged on armour over the standard robes he’d taken to wearing. But getting a ponytail into a helmet was a nightmare, and whilst the bog was not the most pleasant place to take a trek, well, monsters were few and far between out here. Sure, he’d fallen off of the adventuring life and settled, it seemed; let himself soften down a bit, get a bit of a belly. But that was the nice thing about living out here, just being a local cleric, taking care of his community. Jackson was proud of what he did, dangit, and he wasn’t going to let a little thing like having to venture out to get ingredients stop him from making a cure.

The light was fading rapidly, but that wasn’t a bad thing – this particular bloom only opened it’s petals at night, but it was easiest to spot in the twilight. His boots squelched, the sucking water-mud mixture drawing his legs down with increasing power. Last time he’d been along here, he didn’t remember the bog being quite so deep… the edge of his robe was soaking quickly, unpleasantly sticking to his legs. Eugh. Gross. Murmuring a low incantation, sunlight glowed softly from his hand, casting the twisted trees around him, creating distorted shadows that he stoicly ignored.

Driving onwards, the trees got thicker and thicker, and still there was no sight of the soft pink glow of the flower that he needed. Damnit. There had to be something – this was definitely where he’d found them wild before. Casting his eyes up into the canopy, searching for any hanging by slender vine, he missed the roots that were rising just above the surface of the water – and with a yelp, his foot caught in it, casting him straight down into the pool with a loud splash. A moment later, cursing loud enough that a few birds took flight, he managed to drag himself onto a higher patch of ground, shaking water roughly off his robes. But it was too late. Soaked to the skin, Jackson reached up to squeeze his ponytail, grimacing. The light had flickered out, his concentration lost in the fall.

“Damnit to all Gods and Hells,” he muttered. This might be a lost cause. And now there was something wet and cold on his leg, probably a leech, which, ew. His hands began to reach down, searching for the offending insect, just as it occurred to him that whatever it was – it was far too big to be a normal leech. Eyes starting to adjust more to the dark, they caught the sight of something thick, shiny, rising out of the water, winding up his ankle – and then everything was cold and wet, liquid rushing up his nostrils as the cleric squirmed and fought, unable to cast a spell as he was yanked unceremoniously through the water. Just as he accepted that consciousness was about the fade and death might be around the corner, he was thrust into open air.

Gasping raggedly, he scrabbled hard, hands gripping at rock, mud, trying to pull away from whatever the hell was still wrapped around his leg. Twisting around, he aimed a kick, but succeeded in nothing more than entirely losing his boot. In here, there was a soft glow – from where he had no idea, but it suffused the small cave in an eerie pink light – and the air was unexpectedly warm, even if it was still damp. There, rising out of the water in front of him, a mass of lumbering tentacles. No beast he recognised, or had ever seen before - “What in the Gods-damned hells,” he gasped, coughing and spluttering, “are you?!” aiming another kick, even if it was bare foot, he wasn’t sure what was going to happen here. He didn’t know many violent spells, a healer by trade, but as he tried to summon up a simple ‘ignis’, it was too late.

They were everywhere. Soaking and slimy, and yet unbelievably strong, binding his wrists, jolting him up towards the ceiling. The ragged gasp was choked off, body covered in a writhing mass in what felt like a split second; one forcing it’s way into his mouth, coated in sweet water as well as something intensely earthy and natural. The sensation of his clothes being torn away was barely perceptible, all he could feel was every inch of those strong tentacles sliding over his body. Thick, pressing in to every part of his body, rubbing between his legs, spreading his cheeks, cupping his balls, stroking along the length of his cock… around his torso, over his thighs, and arms, and neck, not an inch of him was being left untouched. Struggling to gasp in air past the one that was wriggling into his throat, unable to get out a single word, more focused on just breathing, Jackson let himself relax.

There was no way out of this. And seeing as his cock was getting harder and harder, body tingling all over, he might as well enjoy it, right? Actually, the tingling was getting more intense by the moment, fogging everything over with a veneer of pleasure – whatever this damn thing was, it must have some kind of aphrodisiac in it’s slime – he had to get out of here – but as the goo oozed into his mouth, he was sucking on it like it was the sweetest nectar he had ever tasted. He couldn’t seem to stop, by the gods, it felt so good – something wrapping around his cock, now. It was drawing it down into something cool and so very, very wet – and all that thought went out of the window as the first tentacle began to push it’s way into his pucker.

“Oh, fuck -” he groaned, although it came out more like a garbled “hfh” because of the tentacle oozing down his throat. The tentacles were spreading his legs further, as if to gain more access, inch by inch of surprisingly thick tendril working it’s way into his orifice. His cock twitched, rock hard as the petals wrapped around it began to pulse and tug. He cried out again, trying urgently to roll his hips into it, needing more, more – but the tentacles were holding him tighter, forcing his trembling body to stay entirely still as tears rolled down his cheeks – not pain, but bliss, his body entirely accepting it’s invader. And still it sunk inexorably deeper – before releasing a spurt of cool fluid that made his whole body shudder as one, burning so hot that the coldness of the tendrils felt like a blessing.

It seemed happy with the depth it had achieved, now, starting to thrust. And oh, Jackson had never felt so much like a toy – it was using him, fucking him, like he was nothing more than a hole. It felt so good – his brain was lost in the fizz of aphrodisiac goo and the deep pleasure of being fucked hard. His cock twitched again, then again – and he came hard, right as the tentacle struck deep again. Every drop was drunk down, but he didn’t seem to go flaccid; whatever the hell this thing was doing to him, it seemed like it was going to drain him dry. The thought sent a cold thrill through his spine, legs twitching erratically. Fuck, hell, damns and gods, he never wanted it to let him go. The thrusts were rough, bouncing him despite the way he was being held. His body was relaxing, allowing him to stretch, taking a thickness he never imagined. Eyes rolling back, everything became just a wash of warm light and being used…

And then, suddenly, it froze. Totally still. Whining, Jackson tried to wriggle, to grind, but it wasn’t moving. Just as his eyes were starting to open, wondering if it was about to digest him, something began to press hard against his pucker. It was thicker than even the tentacle, bulging it out, but there was no doubting it was going to come in. It pressed inexorably, millimetre by millimetre, and then – with a faint pop – the egg entered him. Shuddering violently as he released a pittance into the tube around his cock, Jackson went utterly limp – not that it made a damned difference to the grip around him. But there was nothing to do. Slowly, it rolled up inside him, shockwaves of pleasure before it popped loose and settled deep inside him.

Then there was another. And another. Before long, a whole parade of round eggs were squeezing into his body. Jackson shuddered. The tendrils started to loosen their grip, just enough to allow for his rounding belly. A rough gasp escaped past the drooling tendril in his mouth, struggling to get enough air before let alone now that it felt like his very lungs were being compressed. Pop, press, release, swell – he rocked in the grip as best he could, starting to feel like a balloon, the tentacle sliding in deeper with his sheer weight. As the last egg popped inside, Jackson shuddered through a completely dry orgasm.

And then the tentacle began to loosen. He was being lowered. The grip around his body began to drop – thinking that he was falling, his arms flailed, grabbing at anything – and then he was being pulled again, dragged through water. Enough forsight this time to inhale first. The rush, now somewhat reduced by the size of his over-swollen belly – his sore hole, twitching spasmodically – the feeling of the water pressing on him – he almost came again just from being rushed back to where he was found. Dumped unceremoniously on the stream, he panted in air, crawling just a few steps away before his legs spread. Overstretched as he was, it took only a few strokes of his overly tender cock before all the eggs were rushing out, splashing back down into their pool. When he could think again, rubbing his tender belly with one hand, Jackson looked up at the starry night he could see through the gaps in the trees.

Then, languidly, he lifted up his other hand, still clutching whatever it was he’d grabbed from the ceiling of the cave. The soft pink glow of the flowers stared back at him.

“Oh, you’re fucking kidding me --”

[summervale]

「The Hound and The Vulture 」

Part 5 (and a half)

Third person reader-insert! After weeks—or had it been months now?— on the road north, the Hound and the vulture can finally withstand the cold rain no longer and turn to an inn for a single night of reprieve. And, of course, there is only one bed.

Contains: Reluctant pining, teasing, mature situations

Words:  4,871

Tags: @lunnybunny12 @supervalcsi

Notes:  The overused, cliché, worn-out trope of “and there was only one bed.” Let’s have it one more time, then, once more from the top. 

This is half of Part 5. Parts of the second half are already written, but I wanted to go ahead and get this finished, edited half out for everyone who has been so supportive and so patient! Thank you all for your kind words.❤️

The town was dismal at best. But still, there was an inn. Any respectable person from any respectable keep would have spat on both the inn and the town, but neither the Hound nor the vulture were in any position to turn away a warm bed. Even the thought of a damp straw mattress and a bowl of dubious brown stew warmed the vulture inside—just a little.

They plodded their way down what they could only assume was the main road of the town, though it was currently little more than a bog. The mud sucked at their horses’ hooves as they went; gods forbid the northern reaches of Westeros go more than a day or two without getting rained, snowed, or sleeted on, or any miserable, abysmal combination of the three. Sometimes they were met with all three in one day–those were the worst days, soaked to the core and chilled to the bone–but still, Sandor would not let them rest.

The rain had let up to a cold, ever-present mist when they reached the village. Everyone is staring again, thought the vulture. They’re always staring. She had half a mind to run the staring people down from time to time. Everywhere they went, the Hound drew stares. Children often fled, sometimes they laughed. Sometimes they asked questions. The adults were no better, and often the vulture found herself wondering how many times the Hound had been recognized. She half expected to be seized by the white cloaks themselves in the middle of the night. Sandor could fight them off, no doubt. She’d seen him do some serious damage in their time together.

And though he could defend himself blindfolded with one arm tied behind his back (of this the vulture had not a doubt), it was the people who stared who bothered her the most. The brute of a man was somehow too nice to send the staring children away with a “fuck off,” easy as it may have been. The vulture was less nice in this regard.

Wait. She turned in her saddle to look at him. He raised an eyebrow at her but said nothing—an expected interaction by this point. When did I start caring if they laugh at him? Why would I want to defend him? She’d had her moments of weakness, it was true. But she was not one to chase love unrequited. Especially not from a mongrel like Sandor Clegane. It had been the cold and the dark and the rain that had gotten to her before, or so she could tell herself. She would have wanted any man. And he saved her, too. No matter who he was, he had saved her and he had not forced himself onto her. It was a noble act. Of course she’d wanted him, it was almost instinct.

And yet…

“Boy, get over here.”

She was wrenched from her thoughts by Sandor’s voice. There was a boy a few strides away from the stables of the inn, shirtless and shoeless even in the cold, and dirty, too. Had he not had such a nasty look of revulsion on his face at the sight of the Hound, the vulture might have pitied him. But she didn’t.

“You the stableboy?”

The little cretin’s face twisted further. “No, I’m here for fun,” he japed.

Sandor paid the comment little mind. “Take these horses. See that they’re brushed and watered. And that they have oats.” Sandor began to dismount as he spoke, and the girl followed suit.

The ground was miserably soft and wet below, mud from the rain and muck from the stables. Her nose wrinkled as she swung one leg over the saddle to dismount, bracing herself for the ankle-deep plunge into the filth. Please hold, please don’t come apart, she prayed silently to her boots. If there was any place for her only pair of boots to be ripped apart by the mud, it would be this hole of a town, though, and the vulture was anything but optimistic.

“Easy there.” The Hound was aside her, suddenly, and before she knew what he was doing, the mountain of a man had lifted her from her horse. He took her with the ease an average man would use to lift a child.

The sudden act of kindness caught her off guard so badly that all she could think to say was, “What are you doing?” He held her, navigating the muck of the stables with the small woman in his arms. Without thinking, she draped one arm over his shoulder and held fast to his chest with her other hand, holding onto him as if for dear life.

“No point in both of us getting fuckin’ muddy,” he grumbled. It was, it seemed, to be the most begrudging act of kindness ever. But still, it was an act of kindness nonetheless, and the vulture found herself oddly fond of the Hound in that moment.

Said moment was cut short when the Hound unceremoniously all but dropped her back onto drier ground. The well-packed earth beneath the overhang of the inn rose up to meet her boots, and when she was no longer entwined in his arms (his big, strong, protective arms…) the young woman snapped back to reality.

“Thank you,” she said, still dazed. All she received in response was a grunt of acknowledgement—not that she’d expected anything more.

The inside of the inn was significantly better than the outside of the inn. Hells—it was better than the whole town. Or maybe it had just been that long since they’d lived like civilized people, sleeping in barns that had been put to the torch with only their cloaks for comfort, hiding out beneath crevasses in hillsides. The inn smelled of rabbit stew and hot spiced wine, and within moments of standing in the doorway it was undoubtedly the warmest the pair had been in weeks.

The woman behind the bar eyed them suspiciously. “What do you want?” she asked.

Before the Hound could answer, it was the vulture who stepped forward. “Two rooms, please. And two meals, and some wine.” She thought for a moment. “And two baths as well.” They had the coin to spare, after all, having sold their third horse to the farmer and selling the bits of armor the vulture was so good at scavenging from the many dead soldiers they encountered. Stark, Lannister, Frey…it was funny how the houses they died for didn’t matter anymore when they laid dead in the dirt with a woman ripping the armor from their bodies for whatever coin it might bring. A futile fight with a fitting end. Often it sold for a few coppers at best, but the stew and ale it would buy was worth a hundred gold dragons to the pair.

The innkeep eyed the Hound. “It’ll be double the cost of the bath for him,” she said. “I’ll have to heat and haul twice as much water.”

“Done,” the vulture answered for the Hound. She could feel the scowl he was boring into her head behind her.

“I’ll get you your food, have a seat. But there’s one problem,” said the woman, who was already shuffling off to the kitchens.

“Seven hells. What’s the problem?” The Hound finally found his voice, it seemed, and joined the conversation.

“There’s only one room. Big bed, though, even for the likes of you,” the woman never looked over her shoulder. “I’m sure you can share.”

Beside the vulture, the Hound huffed. “I’m sure we can share,” said the small woman, half-mocking the innkeep, half-teasing Sandor.

Her traveling companion, ever silent, said nothing. He strode off for the dining area, no doubt in anticipation of the promised wine. The vulture scowled. They’d shared a bed once at the farmhouse. Something inside of her fluttered at the memory. It hadn’t gone anywhere, though, and she’d be a fool to expect he’d feel any differently about her at an inn than he would in a farmhouse or a cave or a barn or anywhere else they had been or ever would be.  It was cliché, to be sure, having arrived at an inn with only one bed vacant in the whole damn place. But it made no difference. The vulture could strip herself of her clothes and present herself before him bare; she could climb on top of him, she could do and say whatever she wanted. The Hound would not have her.

The small talk they made over their dinner was as bland as the stew. The Hound wasn’t one for conversation, much less when other prying eyes and open ears were nearby. The stew was thin and watery and the cook had skimped on the rabbit. But the radishes and potatoes were cooked well, at least, and though the wine was more brown than red, it washed the stew down all the same and warmed them to their core. They mopped at their trenchers with bread that was not quite stale but would be soon. Yet, they cleared their plates. By the time they’d finished, a serving girl appeared at their table’s side.

“A bath for the lady?” asked the girl. She seemed nervous, her eyes darting back and forth from the Hound to the vulture to the floor, then back again. “It’s ready. The bath. For the lady.”

“A bath for the lady.” The vulture nodded in agreement. She drank down what was left of her wine in one swallow and replaced the cup to its original spot on the table. “Hear that? I’m a lady,” she said to Sandor.

He grunted. “Could have fooled me.”

She didn’t dignify him with a response. Instead she stood and followed the girl, who led the way up the flight of stairs and to a store room where a copper tub had been half-way filled. The water was tepid, as mediocre as the meal they’d been served and the wine they had drank, but just like the meal and the wine it served its purpose, and for that the vulture was grateful. The girl helped the traveler out of her clothes and into the tub. The vulture allowed herself to relax the slightest bit; the serving girl dutifully and silently washed her hair (a pity, as the vulture would have appreciated a good conversation) while the vulture set to scrubbing her body.

When all was said and done, the serving girl provided the vulture with a shift made from plain, undyed wool and promised that her clothes would be washed and dried before the night’s end—a service the woman had gladly allowed herself to be upsold on for two extra coppers. Warm and clean for the first time in an undetermined amount of time (even the vulture had since lost track of how long they’d been traveling) she retired to the room they were given. The last room at the end of the hall was where they’d been situated. It was a small room with a large bed that took up the majority of the space. The bed was large and sturdy enough to sleep four, there was a small square table with a single chair, and an iron brazier in which the innkeep had so kindly started a small fire. The innkeep had been right: they could share without problem.

After a moment’s time warming her hands at the brazier, the vulture settled into the bed, choosing the side closest to the wall. It was heaven. The Seven themselves surely had a hand in crafting this wonderful, glorious room in this wonderful, glorious inn. Never before had the vulture been so relieved and comfortable as she was here.

That was an exaggeration. It was a dank inn in a shithole of a town. The vulture knew this. But she knew that she was warm and comfortable, too, and she knew that she’d spent months sleeping in caves and barns and open fields even, and that this was better than anything. She closed her eyes. She was safe and warm. She was comfortable. And soon Sandor would be at her side.

Sandor…

Beneath the covers, her body was warm. Her mind was fuzzy. Sleep was taking her. He’ll have a bath, and then he’ll join me. Soon, so soon. She, in the moments before sleep when the mind is both the most absurd and the most honest, anticipated the feeling of the mattress sinking beneath his weight as he climbed into bed beside her. She wanted the heat of his body beside hers. She wanted him to settle in and pull the blankets around them, to feel his chest rise and fall against her back with every breath he took. She wanted him. She wanted him. She wanted him...

The door closed quietly, but loud enough to wake her nonetheless. The world was dark. Outside the small window the whole sky was black and starless, so the only light came from the single brazier on the opposite side of the small room. It was raining. The rainfall made a quiet patter on the roof, in the same peaceful way the wind whipped against the wooden siding of the inn in the night.

Sandor stood near the door he’d shut. “Were you sleeping?”

“Yes,” she said, though for how long she’d been sleeping she could not say. Long enough for the sun to go down, at least. She was comfortable, and though she couldn’t remember it now, she’d been having some sort of wonderful dream.

The Hound said nothing. He was just standing there almost awkwardly. The vulture sat up, her eyes adjusting to the darkness, and in the dim light of the room she could see he was squinting back at her. She realized at once that it must have been a foreign sight to him to see her look so…not feral. On the best of days she could easily be taken for a wildling, like some creature who’d come raiding from north of the wall or an escapee from a hill tribe. He’d never known her as the maid who loved to sing and dance, who baked bread and had once wreathed her hair with summer daisies. He knew her as what she had become. He knew her as the vulture. In their time together she’d huddled beneath a mourning cloak of black with her hood drawn, changing between the two skirts she had (both of which were also black and worse for the wear) with her hair unkempt and her skin hidden from the cold beneath her many layers.

The woman staring back at him must have been a stranger. Her hair was soft and clean and dry, as was her skin, and she smelled of soap instead of horses. Her black cloak was replaced with a thin wool shift. And for the first time, her guard was down.

Sandor was still Sandor, though, just a little cleaner than usual. This is probably what he looked like when he was one of the white cloaks, she thought, studying him.

After a long moment of silence, he said, “Throw me a pillow.”

That struck her as odd. “What for?” she asked, and though she gathered one in her arms, she hesitated on passing it to him. 

Even in the darkness he was looking at her like it was the most obvious thing in the world, which he punctuated with an impatient huff. “If I’m going to give you the fucking bed, you’re going to give me a fucking pillow.”

“Give me the bed?”

“Though I have my doubts about it, you’re a woman. I’m not making a woman sleep on the floor.”

She stared at him. He stared back. “Why would I sleep on the floor?” she asked. “Why would you sleep on the floor?” The question only resulted in more staring.

“So you can have the fuckin’ bed,” Sandor told her at last though it clarified nothing and was circular reasoning at best. “Now give me the pillow.”

“You’re being ridiculous. We’ve shared a bed before.” She clutched the pillow more tightly to her chest. “There’s no need for you to sleep on the floor when this is the first time either of us have had a good bed in—”

“Seven hells, give me the pillow.”

Her eyes narrowed. “No.”

With a signature annoyed grunt, Sandor stomped the few short strides to the bed. “You’re a lady, you get your own fuckin’ bed. Give me that.”

“No!” She pulled back as he reached for it. “No, you beast!” He grabbed for the pillow, but she was faster, lurching backwards onto her haunches. Her win was momentary, though, as for the first time in their time together, he outsmarted her. He reached past her and around her, grabbing the pillow she’d previously been sleeping on.

He pulled away successful in his endeavor and tossed the pillow onto the floor. Sandor knelt, pushing the pillow against the wall and going to his knees to get comfortable.

“You’re being ridiculous,” she reiterated. “We’re paying good coin for this bed. There’s no reason for you to lay down there and catch a chill from the draft.”

He propped himself up on his elbow to look at her. “Do I have to tell you to go the fuck to sleep every time we go the fuck to sleep?”

If he wants to be ridiculous, we will be ridiculous. The vulture swung her legs from the bed so suddenly that even Sandor looked surprised. No sooner did her feet hit the floor than she pulled the other pillow from the bed. She dropped it on the floor with a muffled thump.

“What in the gods’ name are you doing?”

“If we’re wasting money on the bed, we’re wasting money on the bed.” She let herself fall back against the pillow. It really is cold down here, she realized, suddenly unsure whether she had the constitution to win this game or not. She didn’t want to be cold. She wanted to be warm in bed, but she wanted to be warm in bed with Sandor.

And seven hells did she hate admitting that.

“Get up there.” Each word the Hound said came out punctuated with evident frustration.

“No.”

“And you think I’m ridiculous?”

“Yes.” She was looking over at him, at his hulking form in the dark. The room was small save for the bed, so they were left with only two or three feet between them. Even with those two or three feet she could feel him thinking, scathing, fuming. If she was good at nothing else in this life, she was good at frustrating Sandor Clegane.

Truthfully, she wasn’t sure if he’d care enough to join her in the bed. He might just let her lay there and be cold. Even on the floor with no blankets, this was the warmest they’d been in a long time. They were in no danger of freezing, and if she wanted to make herself miserable, no doubt Sandor would let her.

That’s why it came as such a surprise when Sandor first pushed himself back onto his knees, then stood.

She watched him wordlessly. He closed the gap between them until he was standing over her. And then he descended on her.

“What are you—oh!” The vulture’s objections were cut short when the great beast of a man stooped and lifted her for the second time that day. Though helping her from the horse had been almost graceful, this was unceremonious but equally effortless.

The bed rose up to meet her when he dropped her. “Get in the fucking bed and go to sleep.” 

“You get in the fucking bed,” she told him. And quick as that, she was out of the bed again.

A game was afoot. He grabbed her, catching her in the ribs with his forearm. Her feet left the floor as she found herself tossed like a doll back onto the bed. In the brief pause that ensued, the faintest, most brief smirk played at Sandor’s lips. The vulture silently admired it. But the game was not so easily won, not for him at least, and in a blink she was up again. This time she anticipated his movement and ducked beneath his arm, dancing away from him. He whirled and grabbed for her, catching her by the elbows before she could take her spot on the floor again.

It was ridiculous. The whole thing was ridiculous, she’d called it right from the start. The vulture didn’t even attempt to suppress the laugh that escaped her lips when he caught her. Though at first it seemed he was going to yell at her, her laugh changed everything. They stood there, Sandor holding her by her shoulders inches from him as she laughed and laughed in the darkness. How long had it been since she’d laughed like this? Had he ever seen her laugh? Had he ever seen her have fun?

Frustrated though he may be, he said nothing, instead lifting her again. He turned, and once more made to drop her onto the bed. This time she didn’t let go. She tightened her arms around his shoulders, a move he was not expecting, and he halfway toppled down with her when he dropped her weight. His knee buckled into the side of the bed and he caught himself with his arms, pinning one on either side of the small woman whose arms were still tangled around his neck.

She was laughing again.

“Fuck you, woman.”

And in the dark, with her face inches from his, with her arms around his neck and her chest pressed to his, she could hear her own voice ask, “Is that what you want? To fuck me?”

Why did I say that? A thousand thoughts rushed to her mind in an instant’s time. Why did she say that? Was it the wine? She could easily blame the wine. But the blame didn’t matter. He was him and she was her, and her attempts to sway him in the past had failed, and now she’d fucked up and he was going to pull away, and she’d ruined a perfectly nice moment, and—

And…?

He wasn’t pulling away. He wasn’t moving at all, actually. He was still there, still so close to her. He stayed that way, too, studying her in the dark. Without thinking, she silently and gently—so gently—brought one hand to the unburnt side of his face. With her thumb she brushed his hair from his eyes. His hair was surprisingly soft, if not a little damp still from the bath, and so close together he smelled of soap and spiced wine. He didn’t stir, and she didn’t breathe. For a moment she thought he might kiss her.

“I’ll get in the fucking bed if you go to sleep,” he told her. He didn’t back away, though, and she watched his lips when he spoke.

You didn’t answer my question.

“Okay.” She’d been subdued. Don’t let me go, please don’t let me go, she thought as he let her go. He gathered their pillows from the floor and tossed them to her one at a time. She settled back into her spot nearest the wall, watching him move through the dark as he made his way back to the bed. Outside, the rain was falling harder as if to hush them.

Sandor’s movements were awkward but still somehow brusque as he found his way beneath the covers. The vulture remained still as he settled in, pulling the blankets this way and that to accommodate his size. When at last her companion was still too, she allowed her head to rest against her pillow. There were few ways to bother him now; the game was over and she had won. At this realization, she let her eyes close for a moment.

He didn’t pull away, she thought. He didn’t answer my question.

She kept her eyes closed, replaying their fight, however brief it may have been, in her head again and again and again. The way she’d laughed and spun as if dancing, the way he’d smiled, too. If her winning had meant the game was over, she’d rather have never won at all. When at last her fantasies were over and she could replay the scene no more, she opened her eyes again. Minutes had passed, but not too great of a time.

Even in the fading light of the brazier, she could tell he was watching her. Sandor was laid on his side facing her, which in itself was rare as he usually chose to sleep with his back to her when they huddled together beneath a cloak at night. She couldn’t see his eyes, as he was just a shapeless black silhouette in the night, but she knew nonetheless. She could feel it. She stared back.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“What question?”

She was silent for a long time. You didn’t pull away. Try as she might, she did not have the courage to ask again.

It was Sandor who spoke. “If I want to fuck you?”

Her heart skipped a beat—or two or three or four—and she realized she was holding her breath, scarcely breathing at all. Had she not been laying down, the world may have gone sideways. “Yes.” Her face was hot, suddenly. Her whole body was hot.

“You think I look at you like some common whore?” That was not an answer to her question, though. He was avoiding it. Was that a yes? A no? What did that even mean? The answer frustrated her. She was not a whore, no, but she was no maid, either, and he knew that. She’d been married, however brief it may have been, so what did it matter now if it was a farmer or a hound whose bed she shared? She was no maid, no high lady, and no whore. She was nothing. She was a vulture, and he was a hound. And she wanted him, try as she might to suppress it.

This was not the time for anger; this was the time to get what she wanted. What she wanted, and what she knew he wanted, too. It was time to stop denying themselves.

“I wish you would,” she said. “Then you might give us what we both want.”

“Is that what you want? To be treated like a whore?” Through his aggression, the vulture couldn’t help but wonder if Sandor truly thought it was that unbelievable for a woman to actually want him.

“You’re making this awfully hard on yourself for someone with a woman trying to sleep with him.”

There was a pause. It was his turn to be at a loss for words, and she let him. After a moment, he asked, “Is that what you want?”

The question had been turned on her. “To fuck you?”

“Yes.”

Unlike him, she could answer. “Yes.”

He was still for a long time. Silent, too, saying nothing. He was silent so long, in fact, that the vulture thought he may have made the decision to ignore her. But still the tension festered, growing stronger and stronger as that one single word, “yes,” hung between the two of them. 

Sandor’s movement was so quick and hard that it was over by the time she’d processed what was happening. He brought one arm up and around her, pulling her body to his with fierce strength. Her chest to his, her head craned up to look at him. Instinctively, she parted her thighs and draped one leg over his as their bodies were pressed so tightly together, their legs entwining, one of his hands in her hair. She shuddered when his lips grazed hers, and again when she felt his thigh press hard and deliberately between her legs. 

His hand tightened in her hair when he finally kissed her–really kissed her, hard and rough, passionate; he kissed her with the fervency of a man who had been meaning to kiss her for quite some time now, who had been looking at her and thinking of kissing her, with all the passion of a man who laid awake at night at her side and wondered what it might be like to hold her this exact way and kiss her this exact way in the darkness. She kissed him back, too, and with her arms pinned to his chest, she grabbed helplessly at his tunic, as if she could somehow pull him closer than he already was, or never let him go at all.

When he finally pulled away, she tried to force herself closer, never wanting the moment to end. Sandor was unpredictable, and the possibility that he’d never kiss her again was real. But she wanted him, she wanted him so badly. At least he wanted her too, if nothing else. 

With his lips brushing hers, he murmured, “Yes.” 

“Yes,” she repeated dreamily. She would have said or done whatever he wanted in that moment; her Hound, her knight. 

“I want to fuck you.” 

She did not hesitate. “Then do so.” 

He was on top of her before she finished her sentence.

[cloudwhisper23]

Completely disregard the time between the last story and this one please. XD. Yet another prompt done for @grow-bettah's Grumbo Month event!

Day 12: Bickering

It was meant to be a calm evening. Nothing but fishing was on Grian’s mind as he sat on the dock. The shimmering surface of enchanted books provided the only glow as he continued to fish, his clawed feet slowly changing into webbed ones.

That was when he heard a rowboat cutting through the water.

Gem shot him a look from her own perch on the rocks surrounding the lighthouse. She clearly didn’t appreciate the disruption either, and based on the blocks in her hands, she did not need someone to stir up the waves.

A feathered ear twitched, but Grian pulled his line out of the water as his feet changed back. Water dripped from his body as he shoved his boots on and flew to perch on top of the crane. His wings protested, so unused to flying after so long, but he ignored the pain. Grian needed to find the boat before they got too close.

Spotting the shape of the rowboat in the water, Grian launched himself into the air in what could only be described as his roughest takeoff since season 6. He crashed into the boat directly, flipping the boat and drenching the one passenger in cold seawater.

Grian’s clothes already started to bog him down, but he gripped onto the fabric of the other hermit’s shirt as he forced the boat back into a regular position. He pulled the unfortunate hermit into the boat with him, both of them soaking wet.

“Can’t go through the river right now,” Grian said gruffly.

Mumbo coughed, blinking aggressively. “Couldn’t you have just sent a message?”

“Didn’t recognize you from this far out,” Grian answered with a wing spasming.

“Right.” Mumbo shook water from his hair before realizing that his wings had torn through his shirt. His suit jacket was long gone, lost to the depths of the water. “I was trying not to have to fly home, but apparently that’s not an option.”

Grian smiled. “Aww, did you get your little bat wings wet?”

“They’re not little, Grian. And I’ll have you know, it’s perfectly fine for me to get my wings wet. Unlike yours, which are so very clearly drenched too badly to lift you so much as an inch.”

“I have strong back muscles,” Grian shot back. “I could beat you back to shore easily.”

“What do I get if you lose that race?” Mumbo met his gaze, eyes gleaming. “Are you finally going to show me those redstone projects you’ve been working on?”

Grian’s mouth opened and closed. He realized quickly that made him look more like a fish than a bird, so he flicked his wings out to appear irritated. “My projects are none of your business, Mr. Jumbo.”

“Right, I’m sure whatever redstone you’ve been up to has just exploded in your face.”

“It most certainly has not!” Grian huffed. “You’re just trying to rile me up.”

“Is it working?”

“It was.” Without another word, Grian launched himself from the boat, knowing full well he’d be feeling it in the morning.

Mumbo made a strangled noise before jumping into the air after him, wings unfurling much easier than Grian’s had. Still, even with the disadvantage of the river water soaking deep into his wings, Grian made it to the door of his house before Mumbo even reached the shoreline.

He sat heavily on the floor, exhaustion finally setting in hard.

Mumbo peered down at him. “Good thing you didn’t decide on what you wanted if you won the race. Really overdid that one, you did.”

Grian couldn’t do much more than scowl at his friend. Mumbo was being a menace on purpose.

“Of course, I could get you a change of clothes, so you don’t become a fish inside your house,” Mumbo said, his teasing tone vanishing as gills emerged from the sides of Grian’s throat.

“Please,” Grian said, much whinier than he’d meant to be. The shape of his talons had already changed, much more akin to flippers.

Mumbo scooped him up to deposit him by his fishing fire, hurrying off to gather dry clothes.

Grian peered across the river again, looking for a glimpse of Gem. She winked at him before pulling herself out of the water to walk in the direction of her base. How rude.

“You faring alright there, mate?” Mumbo asked. He was holding a familiar red sweater, folded neatly over the rest of the dry clothes.

Grian’s only response was to pull the straps off his shoulders around his wings before reaching for the sweater. Then he glared at Mumbo, who rolled his eyes before turning away.

Grian stretched by the fire. “You can look now.”

Mumbo hummed at him. “I don’t see Gem.”

“She just went back to her base.”

“Are you sure this wasn’t just some excuse to try to drown me?” Mumbo asked.

“Don’t be silly. It’d be a waste of my time.”

“How’s that?”

“Being drowned by a fish in the water is nothing compared to being pushed ‘into the danger zone’ by a llama.”

“I think the fish has merit,” Mumbo said, deliberately challenging Grian’s statement. His eyes twinkled as he leaned more into Grian’s space. “Although, considering how slippery the fish has been this season, I doubt he’d be able to hold me down.”

“Not as easily as he could drop you with a fishing rod,” Grian agreed. “Maybe when it rains, we can see what’s more effective.”

“Are you threatening me, Grian?” Mumbo asked. His wings folded neatly as he sat up straighter. Grian pointedly did not look at the way the wet shirt clung to Mumbo’s skin.

“Maybe I am. What are you going to do about it?”

Mumbo tapped his chin thoughtfully, mustache twitching. “I could always mess with your redstone.”

“Mumbo!” Grian nearly screeched. “You can’t use my own threats against me!”

“Yes, I can! If you’ve started doing redstone, that means its in peril from me. Those are the rules!”

Grian gasped dramatically. “My redstone is being threatened by my own best friend. I cannot believe this betrayal.”

Mumbo grinned. “You better believe it, buddy. Because it just happened.”

Grian sighed happily. Even with the threat over his hard work potentially looming, he was just glad to be here with Mumbo.

Maybe the curse hadn’t taken everything from him after all.

[factorialsotherfandoms]

QSMP AU, Pac and Mike do chores.

The chores list is written two weeks in advance, and updated every Wednesday. It comes with a little flexibility, in case of missions or injuries, and has some bias for interests and talents. Everyone is supposed to do something, amounting to a couple of off-call periods week; one or two each will involve assisting the kitchens, the rest could be anything from laundry to grocery runs to cleaning. Tech repairs come under usual duties for the engineering team, and the scientists clean their lab, but there's a whole damned airship, and fifty-odd people's worth of living.

It's a little like prison chores, except not in a prison, and everyone from the lowest to the highest is on the rota, and it is Felps not Cellbit who gets priority on kitchen duty.

So, maybe more like the orphanage.

Mike is yet to work out who actually writes the schedule, but thinks it might be one of Tubbo's engineers from the constant grease stains on the papers. Whomever it is, they do at least know to keep him and Pac close. Sometimes they share grocery runs, or kitchen shifts, or assigned cleaning the same, large room. Or adjacent smaller ones.

This week, it is laundry instead; Pac has the linens and other domestic laundry, while Mike has the clothing.

It is the best job, and also the worst job. The ship itself has no laundry room and only just enough water for life, tech, and showers; laundry, like groceries, involves a trip down to the land. One of the resistance camps - not one of the important ones, really - is in the ruins of an old industrial unit. One of its prized posessions? A full sized industrial launderette.

The Order's engineers maintenance it and their scientists provide detergent, and in return they can make use of the equipment. The equipment was loud when new, and needs ear defenders now it is old. One of the locals taught them how to operate it, and supervises the pair, but otherwise its the two of them, and two trolleys full of laundry.

At least Mike's with Pac, though; they're the only two people who can talk without sign language in the place.

While they are split as clothes and domestics, most of the machinery takes two to operate anyway. It's a little different to the equipment for the prison launderette, the place they learnt to use these sorts of things; there, you needed four people to operate the machinery, and a guard to every team breathing down your neck.

It is just before dawn when Rosaline lets them in. She doesn't stay, knowing they know what they're doing and being needed on the farm, but she gives Mike the keys as she leaves. The trolleys are upended in the sorting area, where Pac gets to work. Mike leaves him to it, already over and prepping the machinery; there was a mission recently, so there is more bloody clothing than normal. Everything for the infirmary has to go separately, as does the lab equipment. Jumpsuits all get thrown in as one - or at least sorted by staining not colour - though people's nightwear, underwear, and off-duty clothing still need sorting.

They try not to pay too much attention to what belongs to whom, but sometimes it is obvious

As he thinks that Pac, with cracking, elbow-high rubber gloves, mentally laughs and nudges him. Mike turns, and looks, and sees him holding up one of Roier's jumpsuits, utterly soaked in dried mud.

That's going to be a bitch to get clean.

But, the memory of him falling face first into the bog is pretty funny.

Pac gets a little shove back, the memory attached, and they laugh together. With the machinery Mike cannot even hear things played in his ear defenders, but Pac's are wired up to an old MP3 player. Practiced at this, Mike slips into Pac's mind as he works, the pair of them both humming along to whatever music the original owner was into; they had found it in some rubble one time, and kept it about since. They added some of their own music, sure, but leave the original playlist intact. A little tribute to the owner, or something.

By the time the washers are ready for use, Mike has a long set of safety keys on a lanyard, and the mp3 player is playing some old Korean pop music. He double checks everything is working, then does a quick maintenance check for the other machines they'll need later, and heads back to Pac.

Pac gives him a wave, barely even thinking as he gestures Mike towards the largest pile. It is already more than even these machines can take so Mike splits it, weighs it, and dumps it on a cart. He drags it back through and loads up the first machine, measuring out the detergent for the combination of weight and soiling.

The bed linens are some of the most annoying, but also the easiest; standard formula for the cleaning products, and just blast them on the highest heat.

With a couple of trips all of linens are washing, and Mike is caught up to the finished piles. So, he sits opposite Pac, presses their toes together, and helps.

Each piece gets checked, and judged, stain remover gets applied to the worst of the damage, and a few stitches so damage will not tear more. Someone else will fix it up, but they mark the damage in bright threads just to be sure someone will.

With each load added to the machines, things get louder and louder. The launderette draws water from the river, at least, so there are no worries about that.

Still, they are Pac and Mike - they settle into one another, not gossiping so much as resting into one another's memories. Pac starts examining the upgrades Mike and Tubbo made to the propulsion system - Mike feels him turn it over and curiously examine the changed in the memory even as he swims in the thoughts of laughter, and sparring with Etoiles, and tales of nonsense after. They are not apart often, but even when they are, those parts of themselves remain shared.

They share it anyway. It is easier, like this, not to fall into memories of before, of the same work on different machines and with a guard breathing down their backs. Where if they were too slow they would be punished, but too fast and... Well, Pac was not the only person they knew who lost a limb in prison.

And the military wasn't much better; nobody breathing down your back, but surrounded by idiots who had no idea how to operate anything instead.

Here, though, just them, and with the launderette all day? The heat might be a lot, and the sound is loud, but they can go just as fast or as slowly as they want. Safety first, unlike with chores before.

Soon all of the machines are full. There are still a few more runs worth of laundry, but nowhere to put it yet. They pile it up in its groupings, and Mike scribbles notes on the whiteboard with the chemical maths.

With a bit of time between loads, but unable to leave the machines unattended, they take the one bit of time they will have to rest. There is a bench by the entrance where they sit, hand in hand, and watch the machines go.

It is hot - extremely hot - in here. They both have masks and ear defenders for safety, and neither is helping with that. Mike shoves a straw under his mask, using it to sip at his already warm water, while Pac just sits, and sweats, and Mike can feel Pac's mind drift into nothing but a slight ooze.

Stupid Pac.

Mike flops against his side, tucking his head onto his shoulder. Pac startles a little, drawing himself back in.

Back in, and then he rests his head atop Mike's, and shuts his eyes.

It's five minutes. They have nothing to tell each other that they do not already know, having swum in one another their entire remembered lives. Instead they just rest, preparing for the work to come as sweat drips together, and they press their heads together. Mike wraps himself around Pac and Pac wraps himself around Mike, and they float in the nothing between. Not one, not two, some combined sum of their parts which overlay and shift and rest.

And then the first of the washing machines pings to say it is done - washed, spun, and drained.

It is not the first they loaded, but rather one of the sets of clothing; bedlinens take a longer, hotter cycle, and hospital or lab gear even hotter still. Bleach, too; nothing like bleach and boiling water to sterilise clothing.

Neither Pac nor Mike open their eyes, but they stare at each other nonetheless.

It is Pac's body which rises, driven by an amalgamation of them both, dragging themself over to the washing machine, swaying slightly to the music in the headphones even as the other machines try to drown it out.

They collect up the laundry, moving it to the dryers. It is not a tumblr dryer here, not really, but first a press and then a heat rack.

Mike pulls himself out of Pac, and pulls himself to his feet. As Pac untangles the laundry, he grabs another of the piles, and sets it up to start washing.

It is loud, it is so loud, and gets only louder as more and more of the machinery is turned on.

The press and the rack take two to safely handle; it's another safety key needed. Pac is the better height for it, but still dancing; Mike nudged him over to the other body, and takes over.

Pac takes Mike's body to the other side, soul dancing too much to be trusted to keep his fingers from the rollers; Mike in Pac's body feeds the items in, and Pac in Mike's body collects them on the other side. Once collected they are laid out to, for better words, bake on a rack over a heated plate; there are tumble driers here, but they need the clothing to last. And, well, it's only fifty people's worth of laundry, not an entire hotel.

They are the two most dangerous jobs, and so Mike turns off the music. Pac keeps singing in his mind - music to focus is common, for sure - while Mike zeroes in with absolute intent.

There is also the other bonus of doing this in each other's bodies; Pac and Mike might be reckless with their own healths, but they would never dream of getting each other hurt.

By the time one load of pressing is done, another few machines are ready. Running all of the machines should really have a fleet of people on the press and rack, but there are only the two; Pac and Mike pick up the pace.

Then, once there is space, Mike takes Pac's faster body to collect and change over the laundry, while Pac uses Mike's to take the dry items from the racks.

This is not a launderette with machinery to do everything, but a set of metal frames and levels helps keep the folding neat.

And, once folded, it gets put back in the trolley; lab and kitchen and lab wear get their own bags, but everything is tossed in to sort later.

It takes hours. By the time everything is clean and folded and dry, Mike has no idea which body he is in, only that it is dizzy and thirsty and tired, and he even feel the sweat in his shoes. The other body catches him, and they curl up on the floor by the trolleys.

"... I should get everything turned off," Mike says, not moving. "You up for it, bro?"

Pac in the other body groans, and shakes his head. Pain spikes and flashes, and Mike eases himself back together until he is entirely contained within only his body - then nudges Pac out of it.

Back in his own body, Pac curls up and sips at another bottle of water; Mike leaves him to sort himself out, and picks back up the keys.

Turning things off is much faster than turning them on. Checking everything is correctly turned off and returned to its proper place takes longer, but not so long.

Upon returning, Pac looks a little more alive. Mike accepts the water bottle, finishing it off as Pac double checks his working, and also that they have everything loaded up.

And then... Niki will come get them when she comes and gets them. The laundry stays - loaded back onto the trolleys - in the storage room, while the two head outside. Rosaline takes back her keys, and the two of them find somewhere quiet to sit.

Not that anywhere in this camp is exactly quiet, but away from the machinery it could not possibly be called loud.

"I prefer groceries," Pac says.

"Hm?" The statement does not confuse Mike so much, rather than the fact there is talking at all. "We actually get to see sunlight then."

"Right, not in a warehouse all day. Again."

"At least we do daytime missions, usually; Bad doesn't see the sun on missions or on chores."

"Pretty sure he never saw sun before the invasion either, though."

Pac giggles, Mike grins, and they sprawl themselves out across the decaying tarmac to wait.

[mimilind]

Stranger of the Falls - Part 3

Pairing: Boromir x Reader

Rating: T

Chapter Word Count: 1700

Warnings: Graphic injury, blood

Parts: [ < Previous Part ] [ Next Part > ] [ Masterlist ]

Full story: [ AO3 ]

※※※

3. Healing

The man had not eaten anything substantial for two days so the strong potion kicked in almost immediately. You made use of his temporary lack of awareness to feed him a large bowl of nourishing broth and a jug of water, and he wolfed everything down hungrily. 

You waited until Maja had fetched Ludde before you began. A bouncing, playful puppy distracting you was the last thing you needed.

Then you uncovered the swollen area. Bracing yourself for the pain you must inflict – the drugs could never take away it entirely, just make it more bearable – you willed your hand to be steady and forced the hole open so you could sink the knife into it.

The sharp blade cut easily through muscle and flesh.

“Hurtsh!” he slurred, tears breaking out in his eyes and sweat on his forehead. 

“I am sorry; I know it hurts. I dare not give you more poppy extract but you may have mead if you like?”

He nodded. 

A large jug of mead later you continued. 

His fingers feebly scratched the mattress and you knew he forced himself to be still. A low, strained groan slipped from his clenched teeth.

Cold sweat had broken out on you as well now and your shoulders became stiff from the effort. Each grunt, each gasp from your patient felt like a slap in your face.

Yet you continued.

You had cut out most of the festering tissue but there was so much blood. You could not see the shard. But it must be there, this inflammation was much beyond a normal arrow wound.

You used a wad of your new bog moss to soak up blood. There… at last! Something black, deep down. With a pair of thin pliers you tried to pinch the edge, groping through the frayed tissue.

The man howled and his whole body tensed. “Uuuckk!” He was panting heavily, sweat trickling down his forehead.

You tried again. And again. His groans and writhing limbs made you want to cry, but you did not. You continued, and finally you caught the splinter. 

“I have it,” you mumbled. “This was the worst. The worst is over now…”

Slowly you pulled it out, afraid to break it in more pieces.

“Nnnggg…” He clenched his hands into fists.

You wanted to cry again, this time with relief. Wiping your damp forehead, you coated the wound with a generous amount of ointment and covered it with clean bog moss and linen.

Främling was breathing calmer. He looked exhausted and dizzy from poppy seed and pain. Before he dozed off completely you fed him a bowl of rich broth with potatoes mashed into it.

Not long afterwards he was fast asleep.

He slept soundly all night. You did too, completely drained, both mentally and physically.

In the morning the fever was gone, but Främling did not seem happy about that at all. On the contrary, he looked murderous, and when you brought a bowl of morning broth he actually managed to sweep it out of your hands. The earthen bowl cracked in halves, spilling its contents on the floor.

“You tricked me,” he growled in a slightly less slurred voice than yesterday. “Tricked me to eat. Uck you!”

“I did not trick you,” you bit back, suddenly angry. “I gave you broth and you ate. It is my task to feed patients if they cannot eat themselves. I already told you, I will not idly watch you die!”

He scowled darkly at you.

You forced yourself to calm down. He was entitled to be annoyed at being helpless in your hands. Yet, he was so much better already; it must have taken quite some force to swat the bowl away. He would be up and walking soon, you were sure of it.

With a softer voice you tried to reason with him. “See, I understand you are upset; I would be, too. But starving yourself to death is not the way. It is a difficult, slow, painful method. You are a strong man in your prime and your body will not allow you to kill it that easily. It will work against you, undermining your resolve until you are so weak you cannot resist the food offered. And that will set you back to square one. The same cycle will repeat itself and it will only be painful and frustrating for both of us.” You started to clean up the mess on the floor and threw away the shards. “You need to accept I will do my best to keep you alive, and your own body will do the same. When you are fit to leave from here, it is up to you what you do with your life, but until that day comes I will give you food and treat your wounds.”

You brought another bowl of broth, holding it out so he was sure to feel the aroma. “Come on,” you coaxed. “I am a good cook. You liked it yesterday, did you not?”

He looked at the bowl. His stomach made an encouraging sound. Then he looked at you with an air of defeat – and self-loathing.

“You win,” he said bitterly, opening his mouth.

Spoon by spoon he quickly emptied the bowl. His ability to swallow appeared to be restored, and though he opened the left side of his mouth more, he could move both sides now.

When he was done you fetched another one, mashing down potatoes and bread in it to make it thicker. He gulped that down too, obviously ravenous. 

He looked expectantly at you.

“I think this will have to do for now or your stomach will hurt.” Instead you fetched the mead and held the flagon to his lips. He managed to take hold of it himself and emptied it too.

When he was done he burped unapologetically and leaned back, looking unusually content. As if he had finally come to terms with the situation and would allow you to have your way.

Well, that was a relief, for sure!

You decided to use his new cooperation and let him help you change the bloodied sheets. It was a bit tricky to manage with him still lying in the bed, but when it was done you both were relieved to be rid of the evidence of last night’s painful operation.

Afterwards you fetched a bowl and began to wash his face, using a soft cloth and warm water from the stove. He seemed to enjoy it. His face became relaxed and the furrows in his forehead smoothened out. 

You admired it while you worked. Such dark hair, beard and eyebrows were so unusual around here. His lashes were dark too. They rested peacefully against his cheeks.

He was strikingly handsome. 

You moved on to the part of his torso that wasn’t bandaged. Now that you paid attention, you noticed many small scars, healed nicks and cuts from past sword fights. A trail of dark hair disappeared under the linen bandages. You followed the length of his arms with the cloth, fighting down an inappropriate twinge at the feeling of his defined muscles. This close, his scent wafted up; soap, warm skin, and something masculine. You liked it.

When you reached his flat stomach you hesitated. Suddenly it did not seem as routine to clean his private parts, but…

“No.”

You looked at his face and met his stern gaze. Secretly relieved, you pulled the blanket back up. “Right. Enough washing for today.” Instead you took a bone comb and began to ease the knots out of his long hair. 

He closed his eyes again. 

It made you glad that he liked what you did, and you prolonged the moment needlessly. When you finally put the comb down his hair shone.

“You have beautiful hair,” you said without thinking. You instantly regretted it and felt your cheeks heat up. You were his healer and not supposed to think about any part of him in any other way than strictly medical.

Thankfully he did not react with anger over your blunder; he just looked at you with his clear, gray eyes.

You tried to hide your embarrassment with small talk. “It feels strange to keep calling you ‘stranger’. What is your name?”

He did not reply.

“Why the secrecy?”

Still nothing.

“You know, with your mobility returning, you need to practice speaking.”

He gave you a sharp look. “I do not.” He spoke without even a hint of inarticulacy, clearly making an effort to pronounce the words correctly.

His stubbornness made you want to laugh, and something in his eyes told you he was equally amused. But he did not move a muscle in his face.

※

Your patient obediently ate anything you offered him during the rest of that day, and looked increasingly less weak. With the poison gone from the wound you felt hopeful he would soon be up and walking.

Meanwhile, you went on your usual rounds in the village. Visiting the elderly, providing potions and small talk, changing the bandages of a bedridden grandfather, checking on Maja’s mother Sigrid who was pregnant again, making sure she followed the nourishing diet you had prescribed. She was over forty and needed to be extra careful. 

In the evening, when you as usual slumped down in your chair, you felt him staring at you.

“What is wrong?”

“No bed?” he asked.

“I sleep well in the chair, it is no trouble.”

He frowned and indicated the bed he lay on. “Yoursh?”

“Well yes, but…”

He moved back, wincing slightly, until there was an empty space beside him. “Lie down.”

“I cannot; you are hurt, what if–”

“Lie,” he repeated. He said it in the voice of a man used to commanding others and not accepting no for an answer.

You obeyed.

Though you tried to stay at the edge, you acutely felt his warmth along your side. His scent filled your nostrils.

You fidgeted with the fraying hem of the blanket. This was awkward. How did he expect you to sleep like this? 

“So… It pleases me we are on speaking terms,” you said, trying to hide your nervousness. “I wonder, were you an army officer? You seem like someone who gives orders.”

He did not reply.

“A sergeant, perhaps?”

“No.”

“A captain?”

Silence.

“Where are you from? You came down the river; are you an exiled northern prince?”

He sighed and put his hand over your mouth. “Shut up and shleep.”

You lifted it with some effort. “Rude. But I am glad you are so much stronger already and your speech sounds almost normal. That is good news, indeed.”

“Jusht be quiet.” He turned his back to you.

※※※

A/N:

Why do people never have an extra bed in fics? :D

※※※

Parts: [ < Previous Part ] [ Next Part > ] [ Masterlist ]

Full story: [ AO3 ]

[pinnithin-writes]

The Hunter Hesitates

Scene rewrite of the Gandrel encounter in Act 1, written from Wyll's point of view. 2223 words. Read on Ao3.

Every great adventurer has moments in their life where time seems to stand still. They’re elusive, ephemeral moments, and one has to be paying close attention to catch them. A thread frays from the tapestry of time, and something about the brain and the heart and the way the world is positioned allows one to reach out and grasp onto it, to hold it for a few seconds and render those seconds ineffectual against the pellucidity of space and matter.

Wyll had experienced a handful of these moments, and they had always been spontaneous, unexpected things, moments he caught by accident but remembered in acute clarity. One such time was when he was eight years old at his favorite fishing spot, his legs dangling over the open air between the Wyrm’s Rock bridge and the Chionthar. He could still vividly recall the dappling of light reflecting off the water, the chill against his skin, and thinking to himself that he was experiencing every Summertide day that had ever happened and ever would happen all at once. 

A few were not so pleasant. Time had also frayed for him the day his father returned from Elturel. Even now he could hear his words, pick out the abject horror on his face in perfect crystalline detail, the scarlet Flaming Fist banners fluttering behind him. That exchange had only lasted a few seconds, but in Wyll’s mind, he had been seventeen for centuries, rooted to the spot with a devil breathing down his neck.

Sometimes Wyll felt he was still timeless, still seventeen, still eight or ten or twenty-four, stuck on the axis between the person he once was and the person he now spent his waking days justifying.

Much of the past several years had been a comparative blur of memories, and he could not recall a time since his exile when the world around him slowed to a halt, allowing him to chart every detail like a fractal of clarity bursting in his occipital lobe. He expected it would happen again one of these days, the next time unbearable pain or childlike awe compelled the world to still – whenever that may be. As of late, not much in his life had afforded him a glimpse at the ephemeral or the elusive. He’d been much too busy chasing after the reputation he’d created for himself, and it was hard to stop and look for frayed threads on the tapestry of time when the song of blades and the scent of blood occupied his senses. 

At present, the chase was on pause. Or at least delayed somewhat, while he wandered the Sword Coast wilderness in search of something to alleviate the awful wriggling behind his eye. The mind flayer had even slipped it in behind his good eye, which somehow added insult to infection. Finding advocatus diaboli was still his priority, and he still kept his nose keen for the stench of sulfur, but he had to consider the needs of the group now, and the group, frankly, did not care overmuch about tracking down a war devil. Which is how Wyll found himself calf deep in swamp water searching for a hag instead.

The sun-soaked wetland had revealed its true nature to him through some fortunate glimpse through its illusory veil. A nudge from Mizora she would expect repayment for, or perhaps he had just gotten lucky. In either case, it was a precarious walk; they stepped delicately around redcaps and rotting remains and razor traps half-submerged in black, murky waters. Wyll could feel the utter weight of the lives lost in this place, the warm wet air clinging to his skin like dead fingers. This was a corpse bog, a hag bog, and he had half a mind to turn around and walk in the other direction had those boys not charged in headfirst after their sister. Gale, Shadowheart, and Astarion were uncharacteristically silent throughout the trek, matching the swamp that decomposed furtively around them. The slosh of water and the buzz of flies were the only sounds, a supernatural quiet that promised pain to those who broke it.

Happening upon Johl and Demir’s bodies, fresh and bleeding, finally set Wyll’s nerves tingling with that danger-sense cultivated from spending years on the Sword Coast’s fringes. There was always a certain threshold of peril about his life, but he had developed an eye for what tipped a threat from latent to immediate. His hand went to the hilt of his rapier of its own accord and his heart rate quickened.

Up ahead a dilapidated shack squatted in the mists, waiting patiently for them to wander into its mouth. Danger radiated from it like a beacon, so powerful it muffled a closer, secondary danger that Wyll nearly missed. A man stood on the nearby hillside, dressed in traveling clothes and bearing a heavy utilitarian crossbow on his back. He seemed perfectly ordinary, save for the strange, sickly-sweet smell about him - and the fact that he was camped in such a forsaken place to begin with. But this man’s presence wasn’t so indicative of danger to Wyll as Astarion’s sudden change in behavior was.

Astarion possessed a very high level of danger-sense for someone who should be a predator, Wyll observed. It hadn’t been more than eight hours since he’d caught the elf trying to make a meal of him while he slept, and he was still processing that night’s implications. The world was coming to strange times indeed to see a vampire walk in sunlight, and stranger still to see that vampire willingly travel with the Blade of Frontiers. Wyll’s neck ached, and he tried not to dwell on it. Ultimately, he had offered himself up both as a way to spare the others and to monitor Astarion’s activity – returning to sleep after learning his true nature would have been impossible otherwise.

He should have killed him. That is, the Blade should have killed him, but Wyll had not, for reasons inexplicable even to himself.

It had been a rather sobering experience for Wyll and an intoxicating experience for Astarion, but in the morning the elf was still treating him the same way he had before, wrapped in niceties like a sheathed dagger wrapped in leather. He had been courteous and thankful, saying exactly the right words necessary to assuage everyone’s suspicions, quoting from the same script the lords and politicians back home studied. Wyll knew better than to take people like him at their word, so he kept a close eye on his actions, instead.

Still too early to tell, he had at least been cooperative thus far. Astarion had begrudgingly complied with Wyll’s decision to plunge into the corpse bog, just as he had complied with his promise to assist the refugees. Much of his behavior compared to what Wyll knew of vampires didn’t fully make sense to him. Yes, he was manipulative, but it was blatant to the point of caricature, rendering it nigh ineffectual. There was an alertness about him, Wyll had noticed, a trademark watchfulness often observed in the eyes of hunted creatures. Always the first to anticipate an ambush, the elf’s vigilance had been literally lifesaving on more than one occasion.

No matter how complicated his opinion of Astarion might be, Wyll had grown accustomed to the pale shadow at his shoulder, so it was something of a surprise to feel him step abruptly away to approach the figure on the hill.

A pause to exchange glances with Shadowheart and Gale – they looked as perplexed as Wyll was – and he followed suit. The man introduced himself as Gandrel, and he remained genial and composed in the face of Astarion’s flippant bigotry. A fellow monster hunter? Wyll let the grip on his hilt relax, but he paid mind to how Astarion stood as taut as the bowstring on his back. The fact that he stepped forward to speak with the hunter before Wyll could even open his mouth made him reticent in his responses, and he chose his words carefully.

Then Gandrel uttered Astarion’s name, and Wyll suddenly noticed that glimmer of a frayed thread of time, that indicator of the ephemeral, visible to him after so many years. Before he could speak another word he tangled his fingers in that moment and yanked, hardly daring to breathe as everything slowed to a crawl in between his heartbeats. 

He felt the wound in his neck, still throbbing at his pulsepoint, where Astarion’s mouth had been only hours before. The cavity of his sinuses carried the sweet wet decay of plant matter, the bodies that quietly rotted around them, and the stranger’s repulsive powder. A line of sweat slid between his shoulder blades as he perspired in the balm. His companions at his back vibrated the air with their tension, watching, breathless, as they all realized Gandrel’s quarry stood right beside them. And Astarion, oh, Astarion’s face held a prey-fear, an animal fear, there and gone in a blink as he covered it with a signature smirk.

Wyll processed this all in the space of a few seconds or years as time caught in place. He needed more information before this encounter became one or more of their deaths. Gandrel mentioned the hag of these lands, indicating he could see through the veil also, past the shimmering sunlight to the black water lapping beneath. What else did the gur see?

Considering this, Wyll eventually found his voice. “And when you find this ‘Astarion,’” he asked warily, “you’ll kill him?”

“Not this time,” Gandrel explained. “My orders are to capture him.”

Dread crossed Astarion’s eyes for the briefest of seconds, and Wyll only caught it because he was looking for it. Whatever awaited the elf in Baldur’s Gate, death seemed a preferable alternative.

Wyll then remembered himself, remembered his role. Perhaps he could defuse this. Was this really worth the chase? Astarion was only a spawn, after all, and didn’t pose the same threat a true vampire did.

Aforementioned spawn’s words became knives as he retorted, “I don’t know. I’m sure a vampire spawn could still rip your throat out if he felt like it.”

Wyll had to rein in a longsuffering sigh. As Gandrel launched into an explanation of why a spawn was indeed a most deadly quarry, Wyll took stock of the company he kept. Shadowheart’s quiet, calculating presence lingered at his shoulder, likely running the same numbers he was. Gale tactfully kept silent, but he’d proven to be the type who follows the group’s decision when push came to shove. If this were to become a fight, the odds were in Astarion’s favor, provided the Blade was on his side.

The Blade certainly was not on Astarion’s side, but Wyll was still making up his mind about it. He straddled a precarious line between defending his principles and defending an ally - an ally he had bared his neck to only the night prior, an ally he had given his word to protect. Time continued to crawl. Things were never as simple as he’d like them to be, but with all factors taken into consideration, he knew one thing for certain: a cornered animal will kill, and there was little one could do to stop it.

It was Wyll, not the Blade, who spoke next. “Interesting. Astarion, what do you think?”

He had to admit it was rather satisfying to watch Astarion completely freeze in place. Even his breathing stilled. Wyll could feel his grasp on the frayed edge of time loosening, and he watched in fascination as everything began careening into motion. He saw the disbelief cross Gandrel’s face as the façade fell away with just a few words. He felt the restlessness of his companions, tensing to defend themselves. The bog decayed around them, hushed and waiting.

As they all hung suspended in time, Astarion angled his head ever so slightly in Wyll’s direction.

“May I?” he asked lowly.

Now it was Wyll’s turn to be surprised. He had expected Astarion to spring into action the second his cover was blown, but instead he’d asked permission. He’d asked his permission. The restraint was unexpected, but not unprecedented. He was letting Wyll keep him in check, fighting against every instinct flooding his nervous system, just as he had allowed Wyll to push his newly warmed body away from his exposed throat. Wyll found himself remembering the complicated backward glance Astarion had given him the previous night, a storm of unsaid words aimed over his shoulder. This is a gift, you know, his measured voice echoed. I won’t forget it.

He could still back out of this, but Wyll realized he didn’t want to. Later he would justify himself, as he was so well trained to do. He would come up with a hundred reasons why it was the practical decision - how the monster hunter would only track him down later, how his companions would have been collateral damage, how someone who turns to a hag for help can’t be trusted to do the honorable thing - but none of those crossed his mind in that evanescent moment. Something had simply shifted between him and Astarion, and he followed that shift like a dance partner’s lead.

He let go of time and it raced to catch up with the world. He nodded. 

[tadpoledyke]

For those of you who asked, here's the first of my lesbian knight fantasy short stories and I hope to write more.

Lady Deleilun, eldest daughter to King Meuric of Guineda. Rumours surrounded her as thick and tangled as the black locks that cascaded and bounced around her face.That her real father was a fairy king, a Kelpie, or some other terrifying otherworldly being. That she came from the peat bogs, birthed by the mud itself, and if one looked her directly in her deep brown eyes, they would sink into the ground where they stood, slowly engulfed by the warm earth. When a baby with skin like spiced mead is born to alabaster parents, people start talking.

She was never to be a reagent though. Seven years after Deleilun, when her hair was just beginning to grey, Queen Eira birthed twin boys, fair of skin and hair. Siors and Steffan would then grow up to fight. First for their father's affections, then the throne of Guineda.

This had left the young princess to spend her formative years in solitude. While the royal household slept, she would steal manuscripts to read by candlelight, curled up at her windowsill. On warmer nights, if she felt she could get away with it, she would ride into the woods on horseback with a dagger strapped to her thigh.

A lady of her calibre usually had plans of betrothment in the making the minute they procured their first blood. Often, even before that. Gangly, underdeveloped girls wedded to equally immature and awkward boys all for purse and politics. But the rumours around Deleilun kept suitors at bay. Every monarch for miles knew that no dowry was worth angering the faefolk.

That was until swordsmen on their patrols started to see an embodiment of Áine herself instead of an unrefined youth. The twigs in her hair were now more endearing than unkempt, and the whisperings of her beauty, political knowledge and charming manner were starting to outweigh any fear of fae curse. By the time Deleilun turned twenty, the proposals were coming in thick and fast.

Among the nobles from across the lands that tried, there was nobody who could spark even a flicker of interest in her eyes. With most noble ladies her age already married and bearing children, her parents were apprenhensive.

A windy autumn eve, three days to Mabon. The wine, simmered with honey and fruit of the season just as the princess liked, was flowing like water. Lords and princes from as far south as Brittany had displayed their skills with swords, bows and quills: reciting poetry in praise of their lands, themselves and the lady of their affections.

Then came the turn of Prince Cain, heir to the throne of the neighbouring kingdom. Twig-armed and squeaky-voiced, it seemed a miracle that he could even pick up a sword. With a smug smile, he began his verse.

Honor’d thy womb would be

to hold and bear mine fiery seed

Not a second did pass before Deleilun’s jewelled goblet clattered to the floor.

You wretched men with eyes like wolves!

With bile for blood!

Wine soaked into the hem of her dress, staining the soft white wool red as she strode across the court.

Where I see maiden you see meat!

You want not wives nor mothers!

Accursed is the woman who shares your bed!

Accursed is the daughter she shall then bear!

Cain reached for his sword but a steely gaze from one of his knights stayed his hand.

If you so think my womb be a coffer,

So help me God,

I shall see that it will never be filled.

this maiden betrothes herself

To the rich, wet soils

The wrinkled trees

The blossoming flowers, the babbling brooks,

sweetest of fruit that Guineda bears,

And the providence from which they come!

And thus, she shall never lay with a man!

I declare with all thee and God as my witness!

I will never lay with a man!

Meredydd inhaled sharply, trying their best to maintain a knight’s stoic expression. There was more poetry in the fair maiden’s outburst than there was in any of the verses the nobles had recited that night. And what a maiden she was too. A hallowed sight. Earth brown skin glowing with passion, fire behind her eyes and a single tear rolling down her plump rosy cheek.

This was the same girl who had regularly awoken them in the dead of night to steal candied ginger and almonds from the castle confectionery. These were more than simple midnight treats, though. They were currency to bribe the stable-hands with, should they be spotted trying to sneak her horse out.

Her face would flicker in the weak lamplight and Merydydd’s arms would ache. Sore from training, those arms would still labor. Hoisting the princess onto her horse, picking her up when she would Tumble into the creek. Over years of this midnight ritual, she had learnt to control her horse with just her legs, the way knights did to keep their hands free for weapons.

How long before I can hunt pigeons with you and the other squires then, Didkins?

We don’t hunt pigeons, your highness. You need a falcon for that and even father doesn’t have one.We shoot deer on horseback, sometimes boar and pheasant. All things you will be able to do when you stop snapping your bowstring at my arm.

Keep calling me that and I’ll keep doing it, Didkins!

She laughed and snapped her bowstring once more. And by God and all his divine creation, Merydydd could never forget that laugh.

A gentle tap on their shoulder brought the esquire back to reality. Most of the guests and the royal family had left the great hall. The torches were starting to dim, and nobody was bothering to top up their grease.

Merydydd. I am assigning you to Lady Deleilun’s quarters tonight. Inside. I know it is not customary but the King insists. After tonight…

The older knight trailed off, trying to find the proper words to describe the unspeakable

Yes, Sir. His Majesty is right to worry. Nothing men want more than a woman they can’t have.

Sir Ivor placed a heavy hand on Merydydd’s shoulder.

No blunders tonight, son. If the Lady is hurt her father will have my head.

Yes, Father.

It was just past midnight when Merydydd gently opened the heavy oak door to Lady Deleilun’s room. The first thing they sensed was the warmth from the fire, which bathed the whole room in a flickering orange light. A cool autumn breeze whistled through the gaps in the window shutters, made from beautifully carved deer antlers. Deleilun’s ladies in waiting cuddled up on a soft hay mattress on the floor, while the princess herself was fast asleep in her elaborate bed, lost within the pile of pillows, blankets and a soft bearskin for warmth. Her beloved tomcat Llew paced around the bed, yellow eyes alert to any vermin that may emerge from the walls.

The young soldier propped themselves up on the window ledge and gazed out over the castle grounds, determined not to fall asleep.

It was difficult. The fire was warm. The gentle rhythmic snores of all three ladies was comforting. Merydydd took to pinching themselves every minute or so to keep awake.

A sudden rustle and the sound of tiptoed footsteps made them start and jump from their post. They spun around, ready to draw their sword.

I thought sleep would have taken you by now, soldier.

Merydydd could not decide where to look as the firelight flickered delicately across her bare skin. The only thing that covered her was the soft veil over her hair, from which dark, curly tendrils emerged. The rest of it was in two long braids that fell over her chest.

It was hard to think of the chivalrous thing to do in this moment.

Lady Deleilun squinted a little, and then smiled softly.

Didkins?

Merydydd’s face only got redder as she approached.

Hand me that dress before I freeze my tits off. Where’s all that knightly chivalry?

She teased as her old friend rushed to grab the woolen robe she had pointed out.

Merydydd finally spoke.

Do you need the chamber pot, my lady?

Deleilun shook her head and turned around, motioning to Merydydd to lace her dress up.

They did, trying not to think about the way their fingers felt brushing against her soft skin.

I’m restless. I need to go to the chapel.

It’s not safe, your highness! There’s a reason I’m here.

Come with me then. You’re armed aren’t you?

Merydydd placed a hand on the hilt of their sword and nodded. Deleilun smiled and grabbed her Didkin’s hand before they could object. The pair crept from her room, tiptoeing down the stone steps and across a small stretch or garden to the chapel.

Deleilun knelt before the altar and quickly made a sign of the cross as Merydydd tried to light one of the old, half-melted candles. The castle had a few chapels and this one was the least used. Covered in moss and ivy, it was hardly appropriate for nobility, but she liked the solitude it provided.

He finally got a flame going and sat to the side, avoiding eye contact.

Merydydd’s training for knighthood had intensified in recent years, putting a stop to their midnight adventures. Deleilun remembered all of his complaints about the weapons the squires had to train with; purposefully made to be heavier than those used in combat. They certainly did his biceps good. The presentations of proposals had given her an excuse to look at him from afar. He had grown into a fine man of honourable stoicism.

What she saw now was the Didkin she was accustomed to. Bashful, boyish charm. Hair the colour of autumn leaves, tousled by the wind that brings them. Innumerable freckles dancing in the light of burning tallow. In contrast with his muscular frame, his face was still soft. Grey-green eyes wide, with beautiful long lashes that curled upwards like new shoots.

She sighed and turned her eyes back to the wooden cross. Symbolism of the Son of Man aside, it was a calming shape. So simple. Drawing the eyes in a repetitive motion.

Do you think I’ll miss out, Didkin? On copulation, that is.

He replied without looking up from the candle flame.

I wouldn’t know, my lady.

She raised her eyebrows.

Really? Young handsome squire like yourself?

His cheeks flushed at her compliment and he turned his face upward, away from the candlelight so as to hide it. Once it subsided, he turned to meet her expectant gaze for the first time that night.

It’s not that simple, Deleilun.

He whispered. She could not help but smile slightly at his use of her first name. Just as he used to do in the days when they would play in the paddock, muddy from spring rain. Running and tripping and rolling and wrestling, alongside the other children of the noble households and the hunting hounds.

You remember picking llygad y dydd for me? Almost every day, in the seasons that they grew. The little white ones?

He nodded.

You are a good man, Didkin. You always have been.

Didkin looked at the cross, then at Deleilun, then back at the cross.

There is something I must show you, Deleilun.

He sighed, voice quivering a little as he slowly crossed himself. In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost. He then stood up, kicked his boots off and started pulling his trousers and leggings off as well. Once those were off he gathered the clothing covering his top half, and lifted it up over his chest as his friend looked on, alarmed.

Goodness Merydydd what-

Look, Deleilun. Please just look.

Her eyes scanned his form, every curve and crevice more pronounced in the yellow candlelight. She was about to ask, what injury warranted the swaths of bandages around his chest, when her gaze landed in between his sturdy thighs. No phallus extended from the bramble bush of pubic hair.

Put your clothes on before you catch your death, you sheep’s dick.

Merydydd nervously put their clothes back on, never taking their gaze off Deleilun. She had turned back towards the altar, lips pursed in thought.

I’m sorry, your highness… I… should not have … I can explain …

Deleilun smiled slightly and shook her head

You can’t surprise me with much, Didkins.

Father’s mother, somewhat prophetic. Before she died, told mama she would birth a girl destined to be a knight… I suppose that’s me.

Deleilun turned to face them, grabbing both his hands.

Are you a girl though, Didkins?

Merydydd bit their lip as the princess continued

When I was born, so many thought, from the way that I looked, that I could never be my father’s daughter. Some people still fear that. Even I don’t know the truth.

He sighed.

The truth is I don’t feel a woman. But I am no man either: only as much man as it takes to pick a lady’s favourite flowers.

And teach her to ride? And handle a bow?

Deleilun added, smiling as she made little circles around his knuckles with her thumbs.

She giggled as she met eyes with the squire and pulled him closer. Merydydd smiled slightly, already feeling the rumoured pull of her peat-bog eyes.

[elephant-in-the-pride-parade]

Ooo your fic writing asks list had a lot of fun options! Imma go with #19: What's the most interesting topic you've researched for a fic?

This is really really hard 😂😂😂

So the thing about interesting topics is that they often sorta come about as collateral to whatever I was trying to research. Usually I have an idea for the plot. I only need to do enough research to confirm if the idea is scientifically sound or if I need to include some supernatural hijinks to make it plausible. And then I wind up down a rabbit hole of a bunch of other things I did not intend to research, but here we are anyway.

Needed to know how long a body would take to decompose / what evironments would preserve it best and oh wow. Did you know how toxic modern embalming can be for the environment. (Also if you ever need to engineer a mummy for a story. Try freezing, sealing in a dry environment, or soaking in a bog for best results).

Needed to know if my characters could dig a well in a high desert. Oops accidentally read half of a 50 page report on an Arizona geological survey. And by the way did you know that the deepest Depth-to-Water in Arizona is over 2,000 feet down. (I had to scrap a plotpoint after that discovery).

Honestly by far the most interesting discovery was that salamanders can breathe through their skin, and regrow their limbs (weirdos) these being tangential discoveries from the initial point of the research. Which was that Janeway and Paris probably did not do the horizontal tango to make their three salamander children. More likely he dropped a sperm packet on the ground. And she "internalized" it. 🦎🦎🦎

This next one is a spoiler for an upcoming chapter so under the cut...

Only in Star Trek do you need to ask the real questions. Like what if a cold blooded character was gestating a warmblooded hybrid child (no one tell me Cardassians aren't cold blooded. I am 80,000 words in. It's too late now). This took a jigsaw puzzle's worth of google searches to piece together. Differences in Cold vs. Warmblooded species. What organs contribute to warm-bloodedness. Can thyroid hormones cross a placenta. I digress - Did you know that the same evolution that spurred the development of warm-blooded circulatory systems also leaves the body more vulnerable to cardiac damage. (I forget exactly how I found myself at this discovery but good god damn did it come in handy).

[nbkuhn]

The Siren's Lover Ch. 1

The day Matty met his husband started like any other. He took a picture of the sunrise and sent it to Ruby, even though he knew she’d never look at it. Instead of dwelling on that, he started his lap timer and took off running. Once he came back to the same place he started, he finally glanced at his phone. He’d gotten better at drawing this out. No notifications besides a smiley face from the app tracking his workouts. His personal best time.

Matty’s hand tightened on his phone; he wanted to throw it against the ground and grind it into dust beneath his foot.

"You know, I'm starting to get curious what you see each morning," said a voice from behind him. Matty jumped.

The speaker came into view—a male siren, clad only in black trunks and a white towel draped around his neck. He was soaked, droplets of water tracing patterns down teal skin, freckled with dark blue. A swimmer's lean muscle marked every inch, and his long, fluked tail wrapped around one leg, defining the curves of his strong thigh and calf.

Matty met his eyes—pure black, like a lake without a bottom—and his heart stuttered a beat in his chest. Until this moment, he believed such a feeling was only an expression. "Sorry, what?"

The siren flashed him a cool smile, barely friendly enough to be polite, and took the towel from around his neck to wipe off his arms. As he dried himself, the gills at his neck disappeared, along with the tail and the webbing between his fingers, leaving him almost an ordinary human in teal body paint. Except he wasn't. Matty always knew another beast when he saw one.

"I'm sorry—I shouldn't have startled you.” The siren’s voice was deep, low and resonant in his chest. “I've seen you run this way every day for a week. Every time you finish, you take out your phone and stare like it's breaking your heart. I don't believe it's your mile time, since you keep speeding up. I barely had time to get in the water before you came by this morning."

Chewing on his lower lip, Matty slipped his phone into the back pocket of his running shorts. "It's not my mile time.”

"Mm, I didn't really think so. Unless you were trying to slow down. Now there would be a story I'd like to hear." He laid a finger alongside his nose. "Not that you'd probably tell me, considering we're strangers. But sometimes I find anonymity appealing. We’ll likely never see each other again, so you can say anything you want, and I could do the same.”

Had his alarm had gone off this morning, or was he having a very strange dream?

Yet he wasn't walking away, and not because he was wiped out. The siren had a point. This wasn't Lugosi Falls, where everyone and their mother had known him since he was a chick fresh from the nest. He could be anyone he wanted. Maybe somebody who wasn't so bogged down in bullshit. Or somebody who took weird questions at face value instead of walking off. "Well, what would you tell me? You first."

The siren slid his finger down to tap the side of his cheek. "Excellent answer. Let me see." Matty found himself staring at his own reflection in those fathomless eyes. "Ah. How about my worst quality? If we remain strangers, I can be unburdened of my guilt, and if we don't, you'll already know the most terrible thing about me."

Matty had twined his own tail around his leg; he made himself relax. Why was a simple conversation leaving him so on edge? Sure, the siren was—intense, to put it lightly, but Matty was trying to learn to chill the fuck out around new people. Even hot ones. Though he wasn’t sure he had ever met a hot person who skipped so quickly to the weird shit. "Sure. And I'll tell you what's pissing me off."

"Come sit, then. There's a bench over here with the most glorious view of the sunrise." The siren led him down a path to the edge of the beach. Here, they had a perfect view of the ocean, and this early in the morning, no one else was around. The waves crashing against the beach, gleaming gold and red in the early morning sunshine, drowned every other sound.

The siren sat down on one side of the bench, and Matty took the other.

"See, look there." The siren pointed to the first true rays of dawn poking over the waves. More beauty than Matty had seen lately, but the light creeping into the sky was not what held his eyes. The faint lines of pink light shimmered over the siren’s skin, highlighting his dark freckles.

"Anyway." The siren put his backpack on his lap and laced his fingers over top of it. "I could tell you what others believe my worst quality is, but I would be cheating. Here's what I know about myself. I like the work I do better than the people I love."

Matty blinked, but the siren was still watching the sunrise, his expression unreadable. "That was... heavy.”

“I told you it was the worst thing about me.”

“Where do you work?"

"I'm the artist in residence at the local university.” Now the siren glanced at him, his regard a physical weight on Matty’s shoulders, making him want to cringe away. Or maybe stare back with equal intensity. “I've believe I’ve seen you around campus. Not a lot of beasts in a small town like this. Especially not a griffin running around in his human skin.”

Matty's tail twitched. He tucked it behind him where it wouldn't cause any trouble. Technically, he could disguise nearly all his unique parts. After moving to a city full of humans instead of beasts, he'd done that for a while, when he was still trying to know what was and wasn't safe, but it was worse than holding his breath, since he would never get to inhale again. And his eyes, the bright gold of a new wedding ring, always told on him anyway. "My dad would say I’m a human who puts on a griffin skin, but yeah, I'm a grad student. Physical therapy."

"Ah. Hence the running."

Matty nodded, still chewing over what the siren had said. He soaked in the cold salt air and the sound of the tide advancing and retreating, and the words slipped out: "Is liking your work so much really a bad thing?"

The siren blinked once, both regular eyelids and the nictitating membrane. As if Matty had said something interesting instead of blurting the first thing that came to mind. He cupped his chin in one hand. "Another new one for me, though I've never told anyone that particular detail. What makes you say so?"

Matty bit back a comment about the professor voice the siren had suddenly slipped into. He’d never told anyone this before; the answer was too personal.

Then again, sometimes it felt like he could scream at the top of his lungs and no one in his life would ever hear. In that case, why not talk to a stranger?

"Well... I don't do art for a living, but I play music in my off time. My dad used to get on my case about it, ask me why I spent so much time messing around with a guitar when I couldn’t make a living that way. The answer is I never wanted to. My music is for me. If somebody else likes it, fine, but I need that time for myself, or I’d go even crazier than I already am." His mouth twisted down. "Some people might think it's selfish, but... I don't think being selfish is a bad thing, not all the time. Not about protecting something important to you."

He cut himself off before more nonsense came out, but the siren turned sideways, resting his elbow on the bench, the better to study him.

No one ever looked at him with such fascination when he went and blurted out an essay. (Well. One person. But he wasn't thinking about her.) For a second, Matty saw himself the way this siren might see him—someone cool, mysterious, athletic, not a nervous bundle of feathers only running because flying would get him in trouble. Someone who sat on park benches and watched the sunrise over the ocean and had deep conversations with complete strangers.

The siren's lips curled in a more personable smile. He had dark blue freckles, six on each cheek.

Matty's heart stuttered in his chest again. He must have pushed himself too hard running this morning.

"Well. I'll have to think on your thesis. I don't know if I agree or if I'm simply looking for an excuse to dismiss my own faults." The siren propped his cheek on his hand. "Your turn." He spoke with so much emphasis, like he had considered each word for hours.

Matty found himself staring at the siren's mouth and quickly looked back at the sunrise. "My turn—my phone." He rubbed his jaw, the frown creeping back onto his face.

When had it even disappeared? Sometime during this talk, he'd calmed down, maybe because this was so fucking weird. Now his shoulders tensed up again, right at the place where his wings would sprout if he could wear them out.

Then again, showing off his wings would mean prancing around shirtless in front of this handsome stranger. Oof.

"It's my best friend." He resisted the urge to glance back at the siren. "Are you one of those people who say women and men can't be friends without sexual tension? Because I don't want to tell you what's going on and then get the same shit I've been hearing since I hit puberty."

The siren tilted his head. "My species is ninety-nine percent female. If I didn't think women and men could be friends, I'd either have very few friends or be attracted to a lot of people." He paused. "The last part is true anyway, but it has nothing to do with friendship."

Matty's stomach lurched, as if his wings had given out on him halfway through a dive. "Sorry. I knew that about sirens. Bad question."

"Bad questions don't exist. I strongly dislike it when anyone says otherwise in front of me. Now, you were saying?"

Usually, that phrase was a cliché, but the siren's tone was so firm even Matty couldn't argue. "Uh. Well. My best friend is a woman—a human. I don't know if that's relevant, but everyone around here assumes I've never met one before."

The siren's lips quirked with familiarity, both reassuring and deeply annoying. Matty could shrug off those little irritations; he didn’t like to think of the siren dealing with the same bullshit. "Or that you know every beast in existence?"

Matty nodded. "I don't know which I hate more. Anyway, we've been best friends since we were kids—our parents went to college together." He rubbed the small white tuft of fur on the end of his tail, but this time, he couldn't make himself stop. Even the echo of the waves didn’t help him calm down. "I moved out here for graduate school last semester. And ever since then, she's been—ignoring me."

"Do you text her every day?" From someone else, that would have been judgmental, the response Matty was expecting. But the siren’s tone was totally neutral.

Matty's hand tightened on his tail, hard enough to hurt. He unclenched, slowly, and rested his palm flat on his thigh. "Yes. She's—she's in a really bad relationship, and a lot of our other friends have... stopped talking to her. Because they don't like her girlfriend."

He never knew how to explain exactly how much life Ruby’s girlfriend Tansy had robbed from her without sounding like he was jealous. He was, but only because Tansy was hoarding Ruby for herself. "I don't want Ruby to think I'm going to give up on her too. But she never answers. She probably deletes them—her girlfriend hates me."

"That does sound difficult." Matty hated to hear that from his friends or his dad. The phrase only meant they hadn’t been listening, or that he hadn't managed to make himself clear.

The siren’s voice, though, was so heavy and sad Matty couldn’t help but trust his sympathy. "All the same, I think it's good of you to keep reaching out to her. Even when a decision is clearly the right path, you cannot force another person to choose it. You must simply make it known you will be waiting when they do."

Matty's heart stuttered a third time—now not because the siren was disarming or handsome or even because of his deep voice, raising goose bumps on Matty's skin, but because...

He swallowed against a sudden tightness in his throat. "Thanks. I—I think I really needed somebody to say it's okay to keep giving a shit. Everybody else in my life is waiting for me to move on. But she never gave up on me, and I'm not giving up on her. A text is the least I can do."

The siren nodded, considering this. "I don't think it's ever wrong to care, or to show someone that caring," he said, after so long a pause Matty's knee joggled from nerves, from the intensity of his dark, reflective eyes, shining with the arc of the rising sun. Here he hadn’t thought anything could possibly make a sunrise more beautiful. "As long as it’s truly a free choice, I would rather lose myself trying to do good than live forever doing nothing. I think it can be powerful, to know love has teeth and place yourself willingly into its jaws all the same."

"Do you always talk like that?" Matty blurted.

The siren's hand came up to cover his mouth, eyes crinkled in a smile. He didn't appear embarrassed, exactly, but his tone turned less serious. "I'm sorry. It is very early in the morning, and I sleep little when I'm in the middle of a project. I'm probably speaking complete nonsense."

"No, I didn't mean—" Matty shook his head. "I like it. I was trying to ask—do you read random people for filth every day of your life?"

At this, the siren actually laughed, and Matty felt a strong, surprising surge of pride for breaking his grave demeanor. "No, absolutely not. I far prefer to listen. But there's something about you."

He propped his cheek on his hand again, dropping his voice to a low murmur like he was whispering in Matty's ear. (Matty thought of lush teal lips hovering near his cheek, soft breath ruffling his hair, and bit back a shiver.) "This is the part where I admit I've been watching you run for, oh, a week at least? You always take the path past my favorite area for a morning swim."

"I mean, I'm the one who runs in public, so..." He shrugged, the movement of his shoulders reminding him of his wings hiding beneath his skin. It felt like an inadequate answer, but he could hardly say, I don't mind the idea of you watching me do anything.

A small smile crossed the siren's face. Matty desperately wanted to be let in on the secret hiding behind those lips. "So forgiving. How kind of you. Nevertheless."

He straightened. Now the secret hid in his eyes instead of behind his lips, even more enticing. "I've been watching you for a week, and we have both shared something complicated and troubling. I believe we should be introduced, don't you?"

He held out his hand, each finger topped with short black nails carefully ground down from sharp points. "Land dwellers can't pronounce my name, but you can call me Finch."

Matty opened his mouth to give his nickname—but did he really want this handsome stranger to call him that? Someone who took him seriously, someone who asked him difficult questions and listened when he responded?

"Matthias." He took the offered hand. Finch's palms were cool, smooth and lineless. "Matthias Beckett."

"Well. I am glad to finally meet you properly, Matthias Beckett." Finch withdrew his hand. Matty had to flex his before he put it back on his thigh, the texture of Finch’s skin lingering. "I'm not certain this was what I was expecting, but you won't find me complaining."

"What were you expecting?"

"You to ignore me, not play along. I did ask a complete stranger a personal question in the strangest way possible. Though even when I try to make small talk, land dwellers find me off-putting. I may as well lean into it instead of away. I'm an artist. I'm not supposed to be easily understood."

"If it works for you, it works." Matty glanced at his watch and swore. "Shit, I've got to get back to my place so I can change." He jerked to his feet, then hesitated. "Uh—"

But Finch only stretched his arms out on the back of the bench, his lips curved in another enigmatic smile. "Well. I'll be here tomorrow."

"Same." For once, Matty didn't regret spitting out the first thing on his mind. "See you around, I guess." He jogged off before he could blurt out something stupider. As he ran, Finch started whistling a tune Matty didn’t recognize.

Usually, meeting new people left him feeling flat-footed. He wasn't cool and collected like Ruby or commanding and sure of himself like his father. But with Finch’s tune echoing in his ears, he didn't feel bad at all. He felt like someone else, but in a good way.

Matthias, not Matty.

The song Finch had been humming followed Matty his whole walk home, echoing in his head like the crash of the waves against the beach. Even that small snippet intoxicated him as much as Finch’s dark, gleaming eyes. He needed to get it down on paper.

Trying desperately not to forget the notes, Matty didn't think anything of walking into his apartment and barged in on his roommates having breakfast. He had three: all white, all brunet, all human, and, most importantly, all named Josh. They weren't related, but they were best friends.

Medium Josh looked up from his eggs. "Oh, hey, Matt."

Matty froze for a couple reasons. Hearing Matt after Matthias was disconcerting, especially since nobody ever called him Matt at home. It was always Matty with a Y, the same way it was always Matty and Ruby.

For another, part of him wasn't here in the room—he was flipping through his sheet music, trying to think of anything even vaguely like Finch's song.

And also he'd forgotten his roommates would still be home. After his run, he usually headed straight to campus.

If Medium Josh noticed his awkwardness, he was nice enough not to show it. He was chill, one of the reasons Matty moved in with a strange group of humans he'd never met. (His dad was less okay with this idea, but his dad didn't get to drive his life anymore.) "You want some eggs? I can make more."

Matty's tail twitched as he consulted his careful tally of how many times he said no to social events. He always accepted study groups so he could always turn down nights at the bar or clubs. Where did breakfast fall on that scale? He wasn’t looking for friends, but he also couldn’t offend people he would be seeing in class for the next few years.

But if he said yes, he would forget the song. The idea of letting anything from his morning with Finch slip through his fingers decided him. "No, that's okay. Thanks, though."

"You sure? I know these two chuckleheads finished everything off, but we've still got two hours before class. I can make you more." He gestured at the other Joshes, who had both politely been pretending their eggs were the most interesting things in the world. Small and Tall Josh both seemed a little more unsure about Matty, both as a stranger and a beast, so he hadn't tried to push it with them.

"Nah, I had trouble sleeping last night, so I want to crash while I can." He ducked in his room before Medium Josh could keep going. His roommate would gladly talk until the four lords of fairy returned from wherever they’d gone.

Once his bedroom door was safely closed behind him, Matty rushed to plug in his headphones and his guitar, sketching out the basic notes on paper, then trying them on the strings.

Matty brought his guitars with him out of habit more than anything; he hadn't touched them since high school, not with any real intent. The feeling of his fingers moving across the frets was too tied to other memories: Ruby's hand on top of his, correcting his form. Her singing voice, low and rich like honey made thick by the cold. Her laughter, raspy and raucous as the caw of a crow.

He wanted to hate those memories. They should have upset him. But instead of frustrating him the way they would have even this morning, he heard Finch's voice instead, his gentle admonition to care. And then he remembered the song again, and he was back to the loop, the burning need for his guitar.

He worked until Medium Josh banged on his door, reminding him they all had class to walk to. When he picked up his phone, he realized he hadn’t checked it in hours.

Chapter two?

[amorgansgal]

Of Swampy Dreams

Well as promised, here's my little fic based on the dream I had where Arthur shoved me through a window into a swamp, in order to escape from a house we were robbing! Anyway hope you all enjoy!

‘Aw shit,’ you heard Arthur mutter behind you, as you were rifling through a drawer. Thus far this home robbery had not proved fruitful. The most you and Arthur had found was a couple of dollars, some brass candlesticks, a few cans of food and that was about it. Evidently, the tip Arthur had received from a thief he had helped escape the law, was either deliberately wrong or he had mixed up the houses.

‘What is it?’ you asked, glancing over your shoulder.

‘We got company, dammit, why the hell is he back so early?’ Arthur barely let you push the drawer back into place, when he was already hurrying you into a back room. Dusk was creeping in rapidly and you could barely see anything apart from what little light was let in from a window. The window was set quite high up in the wall and there was no other way of getting out what looked like was a glorified store cupboard.

‘Well shit,’ you whispered, ‘How are we going to get out of here?’

Arthur rolled his eyes and pointed to the window.

‘I can’t reach that!’ you snapped.

‘I’ll give you a leg up, but hurry up, quit yappin’!’

He forced open the window and cupped his hands together to form a little step. You sighed heavily and then placed your foot in his hands, while grasping the window frame and inelegantly hoisting yourself up. You were busy muttering under your breath about this all being a pointless waste of time, when you realised as you were wiggling out the window that the murky, stinky swamp of Lagras was right underneath rather than any wrap-around porch or solid ground.

‘Arthur, wait!’ you hissed.

‘We ain’t got time to wait!’

‘The swamp is-!’ But he had already shoved you through the window and you landed in the swamp with a squelchy plop. You were lucky to have taken a breath before you entered the murky water, but as you breached the surface you wiped away the weed and mud from your face, as Arthur landed beside you.

‘You goddamn ass-!’ you began to exclaim, but he was already dragging you off.

‘C’mon, don’t want to wait to get caught, hardly be worth Hosea breakin’ us out of jail. And I assume ya don’t want to get eaten by an alligator?’

You squelched your way out of the bog, sticking to the reeds and bullrushes, so the homeowner would not spot you both. Though you doubted very much he would even notice the missing two dollars and would probably think he had misplaced the candlestick. You made it to the road, though you hated the way your boots were stuck fast to your feet and your clothes were drenched. Arthur whistled for the horses and you glared at him.

‘Some god damn robbery this was!’ you muttered.

‘Look, it don’ always go to plan.’

‘We may as well have pick pockets in Saint Denis or played poker, we’d have earnt more money!’

Arthur sighed and caught your horse’s reins as she ambled up to you both. Lacey nickered softly and Arthur gave her neck an absentminded pat, before gesturing for you to mount up.

‘C’mon, we’ll ride back to Rhodes and I’ll pay for you to have a bath,’ he said.

‘Rhodes? Ride back to Rhodes? I’ve got to ride all the way back-!’

‘Well how else you goin’ to get home?’

‘We are finding a god damn stream or river and I am washing the worse of this off. You can grumble all you want, but you aren’t soaked from head to toe in stinky swamp water!’

You mounted Lacey, without Arthur’s help and he stomped off. You barely waited for him to mount up on Topaz, instead kicking your horse into a quick canter and riding off down the forest path. You heard Arthur mutter something under his breath as you passed him, but he soon caught up with you. The sun was just sinking below the horizon and the hum and whine of insects was slowly growing louder, the boggy warmth from the swamp was cooling rapidly. You knew you weren’t far from the Kamassa River and even though the water would likely be very cold, you would be glad to wash yourself off.

There was a small island ahead of you, right in the middle of the river, and you pushed Lacey across to reach it. Once you had reached the middle, you jumped off Lacey and began to strip off your dress.

‘Woah! Easy!’ Arthur yelled, then quickly turned away as you caught his eye.

‘What am I meant to do?’ You snapped. ‘You get a fire going, so I don’t freeze to death, while I wash off.’

You stomped off over to the river, though you heard Arthur mutter under his breath about you being ‘So goddamn dramatic!’ First you gave your clothes a good wash, though to get out the smell you would probably need to wash them properly back at camp, but a thorough scrub removed most of the mud. Once you were done, you headed back to the fire Arthur had got going and flung your soaked dress over a nearby tree branch. Arthur was determinedly focusing on adding more twigs to the fire and you rolled your eyes at his stubborn back.

‘Not like you ain’t seen Karen or Mary-Beth in their underthings!’ you muttered. Half the women would walk around in the evening and early morning in their chemises or combinations, you included. You didn’t know why Arthur was making a big show of respecting your modesty all of a sudden!

You carefully dipped your toes into the river and hissed at how cold the water was. You bit your lip hard, so you wouldn’t shriek as the water lapped at your calves, then your thighs and your belly. This would be a quick wash and no mistake! You took several breaths, then counted in your head ‘1, 2, 3…’ and dunked yourself under the water. You let out a small scream in the water and quickly surfaced. God damn, it was freezing! Your head felt like it was full of icy needles. You scrubbed yourself furiously, then sloshed your way to the shore.

You suddenly realised that you had been a bit of an idiot. You didn’t have any other clothes and your combinations were completely drenched. You would need to strip off and wear your blanket wrapped around you, hopefully Mr Morgan would not faint in shock!

You darted through the small camp, grabbing the spare blanket from Lacey’s back and making your way into your tent.

‘I thought you was just goin’ to wash yourself off?’ Arthur said, you saw him look up at you, then quickly avert his gaze. Granted you’d forgive the modesty act this time, seeing as your combinations were sticking to your skin and you could easily see your nipples through the thin cotton material.

‘Well I did!’

‘I thought you was just going to wash your hands and face.’

‘Hey, you were the one who decided we should rob a house with nothing in it in a damn swamp! And then you shoved me through a window into said swamp! You don’t get to act like we’ve both been making great, smart decisions here.’

Arthur let out a small huff of laughter and lowered his head. ‘Alrigh’, sorry. But get out those things, ya goin’ to catch ya death.’

‘As if I didn’t know that!’ you grumbled, then walked over to your horse and pulled off the spare blanket you had. You began to strip off your wet clothes and scrubbed yourself dry. Once you were dry and tied your hair up, you wrapped the blanket around you. You brought your combinations with you and flung them over the tree branch. You took a seat by Arthur, next to the fire, and tried to get yourself warm, though you kept shivering with the cold.

‘Yer a damn fool,’ Arthur muttered, bringing out some dried meat and a can of beans he left near the fire to warm up.

‘You’re the one who decided to rob an empty house!’

‘I had a tip!’

‘Oh yeah, and it was a really good one! We’d have made more money shooting an alligator or getting their eggs and selling that in town.’ You managed to say through chattering teeth.

Arthur sighed, then began to rub your arms, almost making you lose your grip on your blanket.

‘Hey, easy! Thought Great Aunt Arthur Morgan was going to faint if he saw my tits!’ you exclaimed.

‘Great Aunt what now?’

‘What? Most men would be quite happy to have a naked cold woman all alone in a wood with them, but you act like you’re going to faint because you saw my ankle!’ you grinned, even though you were cold and Arthur’s hands on your arms were very warm. You couldn’t help wriggling closer to him, in an attempt to get warm.

‘I ain’t like most men and I ain’t goin’ to faint on seein’ your goddamn ankle, just… just tryin’ to be respectful, that’s all.’

‘Oh Arthur, you really are a gentleman, shoving ladies out of windows into swamps and then almost pulling their blanket down when trying to warm them up.’

‘Do you ever shut up?’

‘Only when I’m being shoved through a win-‘

He suddenly cupped your face and pulled you in for a kiss. His hand slipped behind your head, tugging you in closer and you felt your cheeks burn, as his lips met yours and you almost went to put your arms around him, but then remembered the blanket you were still clutching to your chest. He was so warm and smelt of whiskey and smoke and something earthy and sweet. You almost wanted to wrap yourself up in his jacket. Your heart was racing, every nerve ending alive with electricity and he was still kissing you, passionately, deliciously. Finally, he pulled away, though his hands still gently cupped your face, as he gazed into your eyes and a shy smile graced his lips.

‘Sorry, ya still stink of the swamp,’ he said.

You smacked his arm, though you couldn’t help laughing. ‘Well you owe me a new dress!’ You smiled gratefully as he pulled off his jacket and draped it around your shoulders.

‘Sure, think it’s the least I can do.’

[that-banhus]

For the wip ask: king of infinite space coda! I love that series

I don't think I'm doing a wip ask game at the moment, (edit: ooooh, I see, I forgot cause that was a while ago. my bad anon! Thank you for question! :) ) so I'm a little uncertain what the question is here, BUT! I am always happy to talk about WIPs. The thing is I'm both terribly distractible and very determined to finish WIPs (cf. Local Habitation being two chapters six months apart) so I am absolutely finishing this, I'm just bopping back and forth between this and two other projects.

Anyway, it's Dream PoV for three times Hob got injured and required fixing. (Chubsthehamster requested whump, and a PoV change on the bit in Infinite Space where Hob has the tar kicked out of him and gets mended in the Dreaming, which YES I WILL OBLIGE.)

Here's a chunk from the beginning:

Hob Gadling’s unconscious body presented a problem.

His spirit was easy - human souls travelled to the Dreaming all the time. Human bodies were… complicated. They resisted the transition. Dream stared down at the bone-and-meat vehicle for his friend’s soul, and nudged gently at Hob’s beer-soaked sweater with the tip of his boot. The electric lights knitted into the Christmas tree on the back flickered listlessly. Matthew hopped down next to Hob and tugged at his forelock with his beak, then coughed.

“Oh, yeah, that’s whisky. We should get out of here before the cops come. Chuck him back in bed, let him sleep it off.”

Dream ignored him and knelt next to Hob. His breathing was even enough, if savouring intensely of peat-bog, though two of his knuckles were swollen, and he was curled up on his side like a wounded animal seeking shelter. His lip was bleeding sluggishly, and blood dripped from the side of his mouth onto the pavement. Dream hooked two fingers inside his mouth to feel, and found an ugly gash on the inside of his cheek, as well as a loose tooth. When he withdrew his hand, it came away smeared red. Hob survived things that would kill a mortal man, but he still healed as slow as any mortal did.

There was a specific kind of torture mankind had invented where they strapped one another down, and poured water onto each other’s faces in slow, endless, drips. The gods had taken the thought and twisted it further - tied Loki down with his own entrails, set a snake to drip venom on him - but originally, it had just been mankind, and the subtler torments of a thousand drops of water, chipping away at the mind a millimetre at a time. Hob endured the thousand torments of human flesh. Dream would not add to them.

“If we left him, he would need a doctor,” Dream said to Matthew. “He will be in pain.”

“I mean, he wouldn’t really need a doctor though, would he? He’s immortal, right? He’d just wake up tomorrow and go ‘oooh, shouldn’t do that again,’ and then forget about it the next time he’s on a night out. That’s how hangovers work.”

Dream ignored Matthew. There were places in the Dreaming where the transition was easier; spaces that did not recognise the divide between soul and body, between now and then and always. Even then, it would take power, but - the moths had returned, the great works had been restored. The Dreaming was meant to be a shelter to mankind, a place of rest. What else was it for?

Gently, Dream lifted Hob’s head from the ground, and cradled it agains his shoulder as he swept his cloak of night over them both.