#i have so many barter tokens. so many

[savage-rhi]

Oh boy-

I saw the most recent writing prompts and got SO excited. I had a really hard time picking. There were SO many good ones

But we need Ardyn with the protective writing prompt:

"Whether you like it or not, You're safest with me"

@sillylittlevulpine Thanks for being patient with me hon. I hope you like this, I haven't written for Ardyn in a while and I feel rusty AF. Hope it's okay!

Y/N was no diplomat.

They were a mere common citizen, fed up with the Lucian crown not doing enough to keep the people safe while many starved and were displaced by the war. They themself were on the brink, having lost everything they held dear in the recent skirmish between the kingdom and empire.

It was why they were smuggled amongst provisions on an Imperial air ship, a last ditch effort to try and make a difference on their own terms.

Y/N knew that the moment they set foot in the lands of Niflheim, there were a thousand ways they could die—a thousand tortures that could befall them. Yet the consequences were outweighed by the hope that somehow, out of the mouth of someone lesser, their words might bring an end to the calamities in Lucis, even if it meant bartering with the enemy. However pure their intentions, there were many things Y/N neglected to consider.

They didn't consider being found so soon on board, immediately being treated with contempt.

They didn't consider the welcoming of fists and weapons at their throat, being blamed for crimes they had never heard of—all because of where they had come from.

They didn't consider being paraded around in public, a spectacle to behold as the soldiers escorted them to the Imperial Palace.

They didn't consider the consequences of being brought to the feet of Emperor Aldercapt himself, who was more than willing to dispatch justice in the form of a grandiose beheading in front of his hundreds of guests amidst an Imperial Ceremony. He proclaimed the sudden intrusion as a sign of the Gods' favor, a sacrificial gift on the eve of Niflheim's name day, three days removed from the anniversary of Solheim's ancient calamity.

Out of all these terrifying events that unfolded so quickly, Y/N never considered that the Chancellor himself would step in to call off the execution.

Nor did they anticipate sitting in the man's very chambers at this moment.

It had been several hours since then, and Y/N's heart pounded heavily in their chest remembering what transpired. How Chancellor Izunia managed to undermine Aldercapt's authority and Niflheim's very traditions, but still kept the peace by appealing to logic, reason, and exploiting hundreds of years of superstition in the same breath.

"It's reasonable to assume a token of good faith by the esteemed six who watch over our endeavors. Yet I beseech the council and the Emperor to remember there is always a price to pay from accepting a boon from gods. Unwrapping such a precious gift could very much bring great misfortune to our feet, especially on an eve of celebration and remembrance. I believe on such a rare and auspicious night, that we let the people of the Empire decide our fate. What say you, excellency?"

The crowd erupted with so much enthusiasm, and so much vigor that Aldercapt had no choice but to bend the knee or lest he be cast unfavorably for weeks to come.

Y/N could remember the Emperors ire toward the Chancellor the rest of the evening, but the latter merely smiled and watched as thousands debated before settling on their choice: to let Y/N live, for now.

Y/N knew so little about the Chancellor, but in that short amount of time, understood he was very much a career politician as much as he was a man of the stars, and that made him perhaps more dangerous than anyone Y/N could've been at the mercy of.

Their breath hitched when the doors suddenly opened, and the very man came waltzing in. Y/N noted how his amber eyes seemed to glow under the dimmed light, casting a shiver down their spine.

"Ah, fancy seeing you still awake at this unholy hour!" He faintly smiled; stopping to let out a breath he had been holding.

"Considering the circumstances, how could anyone sleep?" Y/N murmured under their breath, surprised when he chuckled sincerely at their comment

"A fair observation if there ever was one," He remarked amusingly then gestured for Y/N to remain seated at the foot of the bed as soon as he noticed them adjust. "I don't care for curtseys or for you move an inch. It needn't take me long to get comfortable."

Y/N swallowed as the Chancellor walked across the room, watching him pick up a chair from a large desk. For a moment, an intrusive thought of the man throwing the furniture piece at them crossed Y/N's mind, and they were astonished to see the Chancellor gently place the chair in front of them and casually take a seat.

"You caused quite the commotion back there in the grand hall."

His comment took Y/N aback as they blinked; unsure of what to say. It almost sounded like he was complimenting them.

"I think you outperformed me there, Chancellor."

"Please, call me Ardyn."

Y/N made a face. "Ardyn?"

"An unusual name, I know." He grinned. "There's no need for formality in my own dwelling. You can speak freely, more or less."

More or less...Y/N felt a bead of sweat trickle down their head from that remark.

"I wasn't trying to offend or--"

"What do you call yourself?"

"Pardon?"

"What's your name, dear? Last I checked Lucian's could comprehend such a simple question."

And there it is...Y/N could feel the disdain in his words despite his tone being outwardly charming.

"It's Y/N."

"Y/N," Ardyn repeated it a few times to himself, as if allowing his tongue to grow accustomed to a new flavor. "Spare me of sob stories and gruesome detail, but what brings you to Nilfheim and so, so far away from home?"

There was nothing malicious in his words nor the question Ardyn imposed, but Y/N's muscles tensed as if there was nonetheless. It seemed in comparison to his public image—where he liked to draw things out, Ardyn wanted to get to the point. Neither did Y/N want to prolong this any further than necessary. Whatever the Chancellor intended on doing to them, Y/N had no doubts he would carry it out regardless after this conversation. There was nothing to lose or gain.

"I came to the empire for help."

"Help?"

Y/N nodded.

"And why would you do such a thing, in the middle of a war between our two nations no less?"

Ardyn looked so puzzled that it scared Y/N he was irritated. The confusion on his face seemed uncharacteristic of a man of his stature. The thought didn't stop Y/N from raising a brow, just as bewildered as the man himself.

"I thought you didn't want a sob story?"

"Are you being smart with me, dear?"

"No, no!" Y/N protested. "I'm just--!"

The way he suddenly laughed made the air in the room grow thick with tension, and as Y/N made a fist against the sheets of the mattress, Ardyn let out a content sigh and smirked.

"I'm merely speaking in jest." He said in his defense, letting out a faint but dark chortle. "You are right, however, I'd appreciate some context to our precarious situation."

Just get to the point...Y/N repeated to themself over and over, trying to ignore the sinking sensation that grew in their stomach at how he had been toying with them.

"I came here to talk to Imperials who don't want this war as much as I. There's nothing else to say. I'm not a spy, nor defecting my country, nor do I wish to gain anything. I just...want to talk. To get a conversation started, so we can end this."

The silence that hung in the air after Y/N's testimony was palpable to where not even a knife could cut the tension. It didn't help that the Chancellor's features went neutral, almost unreadable save for his eyes which Y/N noted seemed to dance to an invisible tune that no human could comprehend. The way he looked at them was scary in a manner Y/N couldn't describe, but feel on a cellular level.

Ardyn slowly canted his head, a look of wonderment crossing his face briefly as he studied them. "How most naive of you..."

"What's going to happen next?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Y/N gulped. "What's going to happen to me? Am I to be shot outside your chambers or taken to prison?"

"You have quite the grotesque imagination," Ardyn chuckled at their expense, shaking his head in disbelief. "You heard the people back at the Grand Hall, you're to live this night."

"And after?"

He went silent again, and Y/N tried not to avert their gaze from his as he hummed.

"That remains to be decided, that being said, I believe we might be able to help each other."

Y/N's pulse spiked yet again as Ardyn's smile grew, and his pupils expanded; nearly overtaking the orange that covered his irises.

"Contrary to what you no doubt assume, I hold nothing nefarious toward you. You can snuff out the flame of whatever ills are invading your head at this moment." Ardyn said as a matter of fact before continuing. "Perhaps your tale of woe is a boon from the gods after all."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Let's just say I've been looking for an 'in' to get back into the good graces of your king's court for negotiation." Ardyn debated with himself on speaking further, then uncrossed his legs and adjusted in his seat. He scooted the chair a little closer to Y/N, eyes locking onto theirs. "You and I seem to have a similar appreciation for the art of conversation, and I find this potentially useful."

It became difficult for Y/N to comprehend what he was saying now, as the fear that overtook them seemed to filter out Ardyn's words. They could barely hear their voice over their heart beating, blood pumping so loud in their mind that the noise began to drown out everything else.

"You're trembling."

Ardyn's faint murmur snapped Y/N out of their trance, and they shook their head in protest. The hidden maliciousness they had sensed earlier returned, growing even stronger as Ardyn suddenly appeared inches from their face. Y/N didn't have time to breathe, much less comprehend the seconds in between.

"Do I frighten you?" He asked, his voice low and dark.

There was no point lying to him, not when those eyes could see through anything.

"Greatly..."

"Good..."

"I'd like to be placed in custody elsewhere," Y/N whispered, trying not to blink out of fear they'd find themselves in the jaws of a predator. His little laugh made their nerves freeze over.

"After the trouble I went through on your behalf, you'd soon rather leave me than hear further of my proposition?"

Y/N nodded. "I would."

"Well, I must implore you to listen carefully," Ardyn's voice dipped as he glared for the first time. "So long as you remain in the Empire, whether you like it or not, you're safest with me."

"I..." Y/N's body picked up on something their mind had trouble feeling out. It didn't help that this played in tandem with their stomach churning in knots over the way he stared them down. "I don't believe you."

And just like that, a dark chuckle from Ardyn broke the atmosphere and Y/N stared in confusion as he backed away and stood, looking down at them.

"I shall leave you to your thoughts," Ardyn gave a soft bow with his head toward Y/N and smirked. "We have much to discuss tomorrow once I sort through how to keep you alive."

He was starting to leave his chambers, until Y/N called out, still bothered by something.

"Wait!"

"Hmm?"

"Why did you speak on my behalf in the first place? You didn't know my intentions until now. What made you put on that performance and keep Aldercapt from cutting off my head?"

Ardyn once more debated with himself, his confidence from earlier waning as he hadn't expected them to cut to the chase as much as he did with them. A faint smile graced his lips when he noticed the connection, furthering the wheels that had been turning in his head.

"The night was dull," He shrugged. "And I was bored out of mind..."

He departed without another sound, closing the large doors behind him.

Y/N didn't even get the chance to ask where they would sleep.

Meanwhile, Ardyn ventured out of his dwelling and into the main hall. Not far from the doors, Verstael awaited him. The older man held a weight of exhaustion in his aged face as Ardyn grinned and walked past him.

"I came down from the keep as soon as I heard what you did." Verstael called out, and began to follow his colleague.

Ardyn smirked, slowing his pace so Verstael could catch up. "You missed out my dear friend! The ceremony became quite a spectacle after that. One could argue I saved the day in more ways than one."

"Be it as it may the party is over," Verstael sighed, shaking his head. "What says Aldercapt now about your new little friend?"

"For now," Ardyn began. "The gods show them favor."

"Just the gods?"

The pair stopped walking, and Ardyn's gaze burrowed into Verstael's as the old man stared him down. The hall became heavy with unspoken words that yearned to bubble to the surface.

"Just the gods..." Ardyn answered bluntly.

Verstael let out a small huff and smiled. "Let's keep it at that."

"You're worried?"

"A man in my position can't help but worry, especially when a dear colleague of his days ago confided he had been missing his home and, what would you know, a piece of it comes stumbling to our doorstep."

"Don't make me ill," Ardyn sighed, trying to cease rolling his eyes. "A distraction is fun, but not the end game as we both know."

Verstael gazed over Ardyn a few more times before deciding he had enough interrogating for now. "Come. I'd love to discuss what your plans are with the Lucian we now have at our disposal."

Ardyn didn't say a word as he and Verstael continued their walk. There were many things he neglected to consider when he vouched for Y/N's life, but he never considered they'd still be alive after their conversation—for he had fully been set on turning his pent-up daemonic tendencies loose upon them after they said their piece.

Nor did he anticipate growing fond of them already.

He bit the inside of his cheek.

Y/N was no diplomat, but Ardyn loved the prospects that stemmed from the fact.

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[josefavomjaaga]

Joseph and Napoleon, again.

Still reading the correspondence between Napoleon and Joseph during the Peninsular War, and I can’t decide whom of the two correspondents I dislike more. Napoleon still boasting »I will in Spain find the Pillars of Hercules, but not the limit of my power«, while Joseph - who has warned him over and over that things are going really, really badly here - after the capitulation of Baylén is already on the road from Madrid back to the French frontier, running from an army of infuriated Spanish insurgents … that’s really hard to stomach and makes me pity Joseph, who sees much better how things really stand, but whose opinion, it seems, Napoleon never takes serious.

And yet I think I’m also starting to understand why, despite Joseph’s and Murat’s problems being so similar in nature, I have far more sympathy for Murat than for Monsieur Joseph.

This is from a letter Joseph wrote to Napoleon in 1808, when he had been driven from Madrid the first time, after Dupont’s capitulation at Baylén and literally only a couple days after he had first entered Madrid:

Joseph to Napoleon, Burgos, 9 August 1808

[…] I found here other people of my household who left Naples after it. I have been here since this morning; I have been thinking a great deal about the situation of Spanish affairs, about those of Naples, and about Your Majesty's letter of 3 August, in which she tells me of my fondness for the Spaniards. I disregard all intermediate ideas, and here is the result of my reflections:

1° Since much blood and money is needed to conquer Spain, France is entitled to find an indemnity for it, and to ensure that these peoples, who will long hold a feeling of animosity against her, cannot essentially harm her. For this, Spain must be reduced to the point of being powerless to give in to this resentment: joining the provinces beyond the Ebro to France, joining Galicia to Portugal, dividing up the Spanish possessions, would make what would remain of Spain descend to the rank of a third power; [...]

It would be possible, by returning the increased Portugal to the house of Braganza, and disposing of Spain and the Spanish possessions, to make them objects of compensation, the price of the war and the token of a general peace [...].

2° When I consider myself in this matter, it is impossible for me not to become at once a stranger to Spain. Honour, conscience, or finally that hidden instinct which is the motive of all my actions, […]

… Money? Or women? It has to be one of those two!

[…] would never allow me to remain on the throne of Spain, if that monarchy were to be reduced in the least part.

Of course. Ruling over a third degree power would be beneath one Joseph Bonaparte.

In the supposition that France would want to gratuitously lavish her blood and gold to place and maintain me on the throne of Spain, I cannot conceal from Your Majesty that I could not bear the idea that another than Your Majesty should command the French armies in Spain. Having become the conqueror of this country through the horrors of the war in which all Spanish individuals will take part, I will long be an object of terror and execration. I am too old to have the time to repair so many evils; and I would have sown too much hatred during the war for me to be able to reap in my last years the fruit of the good that I would have been able to do during peace, in the midst of preventions and calamities of all kinds.

To sum up: Joseph is not necessarily against using violence against the Spaniards – to the contrary, he is fully aware that a ruthless oppression will be necessary in order to get a hold of the country, and he even suggests that the country be split up, rendered powerless forever, and certain regions be used as barter goods with the Brits for a general peace.

He just does not want to be the one to do it.

In exchange for the priviledge to see his brother sit the throne of Spain, Napoleon please do all that ugly fighting and butchering and maiming. M’kay? Getting his hands dirty, that’s nothing for a person as delicate as Joseph. He wants to be seen as the good guy by his new subordinates, so he cannot be involved in any of the ugly stuff. But, hey, Naps, that’s precisely what you went to Brienne for, right? So just invest some fifty millions in money and some fifty thousand soldiers (Joseph keeps asking for this over and over, before he even has reached his capital), kill whoever you need to kill in order to make sure that the Spanish will not rebel again, and I’m all yours to wear that crown.

And in case Napoleon should adopt neither of Joseph’s suggestions (either split up Spain and make it powerless, or beat it into submission and then place Joseph on the throne), Joseph will do what any person in his right mind would do, call it a day and go back to his much more comfortable throne of Naples. Sorry, Naps, surely you will understand.

I can’t help but feel a lot of Schadenfreude at the thought that, when Joseph was writing this, Naples had already been given to Murat.

[bwv572]

2 Bitterly she weeps at night, tears are on her cheeks. Among all her lovers there is no one to comfort her. All her friends have betrayed her;  they have become her enemies. 3 After affliction and harsh labor, Judah has gone into exile. She dwells among the nations; she finds no resting place. All who pursue her have overtaken her in the midst of her distress. 4 The roads to Zion mourn, for no one comes to her appointed festivals. All her gateways are desolate, her priests groan, her young women grieve, and she is in bitter anguish.

5 Her foes have become her masters; her enemies are at ease. The Lord has brought her grief, because of her many sins. Her children have gone into exile, captive before the foe. 6 All the splendor has departed from Daughter Zion. Her princes are like deer that find no pasture; in weakness they have fled before the pursuer. 7 In the days of her affliction and wandering Jerusalem remembers all the treasures that were hers in days of old. When her people fell into enemy hands, there was no one to help her. Her enemies looked at her and laughed at her destruction.

Jerusalem has sinned greatly and so has become unclean. All who honored her despise her, for they have all seen her naked; she herself groans and turns away. 9 Her filthiness clung to her skirts; she did not consider her future. Her fall was astounding; there was none to comfort her.

“Look, Lord, on my affliction, for the enemy has triumphed.” 10 The enemy laid hands on all her treasures; she saw pagan nations enter her sanctuary— those you had forbidden to enter your assembly. 11 All her people groan as they search for bread; they barter their treasures for food to keep themselves alive.

“Look, Lord, and consider, for I am despised.” 12 “Is it nothing to you, all you who pass by? Look around and see. Is any suffering like my suffering that was inflicted on me, that the Lord brought on me in the day of his fierce anger?

Those who passed by hurled insults at him, shaking their heads and saying, “So! You who are going to destroy the temple and build it in three days, 30 come down from the cross and save yourself!” 31 In the same way the chief priests and the teachers of the law mocked him among themselves. “He saved others,” they said, “but he can’t save himself! 32 Let this Messiah, this king of Israel, come down now from the cross, that we may see and believe.” Those crucified with him also heaped insults on him.

1 Like as the hart desireth the waterbrooks, so longeth my soul after thee, O God. 2 My soul is athirst for God, yea, even for the living God: when shall I come to appear before the presence of God? 3 My tears have been my meat day and night, while they daily say unto me, Where is now thy God? 4 Now when I think thereupon, I pour out my heart by myself; for I went with the multitude, and brought them forth into the house of God; 5 In the voice of praise and thanksgiving, among such as keep holy-day. 6 Why art thou so full of heaviness, O my soul? and why art thou so disquieted within me?

42 They shall cry, but there shall be none to help them; yea, even unto the LORD shall they cry, but he shall not hear them.

33 At noon, darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon. 34 And at three in the afternoon Jesus cried out in a loud voice, “Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?” (which means “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”).

O GOD, wherefore art thou absent from us so long? why is thy wrath so hot against the sheep of thy pasture? 2 O think upon thy congregation, whom thou hast purchased, and redeemed of old. 3 Think upon the tribe of thine inheritance, and Mount Sion, wherein thou hast dwelt. 4 Lift up thy feet, that thou mayest utterly destroy every enemy, which hath done evil in thy sanctuary. 5 Thine adversaries roar in the midst of thy congregations, and set up their banners for tokens. 6 He that hewed timber afore out of the thick trees, was known to bring it to an excellent work. 7 But now they break down all the carved work thereof with axes and hammers. 8 They have set fire upon thy holy places, and have defiled the dwelling-place of thy Name, even unto the ground. 9 Yea, they said in their hearts, Let us make havoc of them altogether: thus have they burnt up all the houses of God in the land. 10 We see not our tokens; there is not one prophet more; no, not one is there among us, that understandeth any more. 11 O God, how long shall the adversary do this dishonour? shall the enemy blaspheme thy Name for ever? 12 Why withdrawest thou thy hand? why pluckest thou not thy right hand out of thy bosom to consume the enemy?

[notes-from-the-neath]

A diary entry

A slim volume with a dark cover lies upon a table, pen and inkwell tucked neatly beside it. A quick examination shows that it is a journal, presumably newly-purchased; it contains only a single entry, written in shorthand.

"The twenty-fifth of March, 1899 the fourth.

"I have been keenly feeling the need to record my experiences following my descent into this city, and at last I have managed to procure both a suitable journal and the privacy in which to write. Both had proven somewhat more tricky than I anticipated; while I had expected that I might find a somewhat different system of finances in Fallen London than the Surface, I admittedly did not foresee how much of it seems to involve barter in various kinds of gemstones. My initial lodgings were found with a fortunately charitable widow, where I made something of an acquaintance with a small urchin upon the rooftops; in the days since, I have come to realise that I rather overpaid him in bartering glim (a curious blue mineral) in exchange for my current writing supplies, but there was little harm in it, I suppose.

"I introduced myself to my host as Amphelite, and simply told her I was a newcomer curious to see what Fallen London could offer me; this is seemingly a common enough motivation that she did not question me further. Despite myself, I was somewhat surprised that she made no comment when I titled myself "Doctor" - a token of vanity perhaps, but for the efforts I made to gain that title I could not bear to abandon it. Perhaps it is simply a sign that more time will be necessary for me to fully adapt to this place - given all of the strange sights of devils and rubbery individuals about the streets are seen as unremarkable, it now seems silly to think that so little a thing would be commented on.

"Regardless of the kindliness of my former landlady, I quickly came to the conclusion that putting my thoughts to paper would need to wait until I was certain of my privacy. Secrets are a currency of their own, it would seem, and I am hasty to part with them carelessly. To this end, I had put off writing until today, having at last found accommodation of my own. It is hardly a fashionable address, but between the mushrooms and the periodic presence of wolves I doubt I will be troubled by many unexpected guests, which made the price of jade for it more than worthwhile at the moment. For now, after all, I will do best for myself by quietly observing until I am confident in my next steps.

"And now, the matter that brought me to this city.

"When I heard the tales of Fallen London and the Neath upon the Surface, I knew well that by all the standards of modern scientific understanding, they were nonsense. Not a scrap of credible proof could be found for a single claim. Yet an impossible thing had clearly occurred already; not a soul could argue that London had been pried from the Surface and bound for the Neath, despite the same modern scientific understanding offering no reasonable explanation for this having happened. This being the case, I came to believe that despite what was said by others - despite the lack of any proof - the stories could not be entirely falsehoods. Even if exaggerated, they must hold some grain of truth, and if I descended to the city myself I might be able to see what exactly that truth was.

"Now I am here, I am forced to conclude: it is likely that in those tales, hardly a word was untrue.

"I have walked the streets of a city in my dreams, my eyes made unclear by red dust and yet still able to witness such marvels as could only exist in a dream. I have passed walls written with scripts that drive passers-by to rave and claw at their own eyes, and I have not dared look too closely in my turn. I have seen men shot dead in petty games, only to return the very next day and repeat the very same folly. I have been forced to engage with a small army of sentient rats for the privilege of living in my own home, which at this point seems hardly noteworthy, all being considered.

"It would seem I have much to learn before I may come to any conclusions about what is truly 'impossible' in Fallen London.

"For the time being, I have sought employment as an inquirer of sorts, in the hopes that any knowledge I gain in the process shall serve me as well as my employers. Once I am better settled, I may start to progress my own investigations, as well as seek a somewhat less drafty residence. The timbers of the door are squeaking appallingly.

"Addendum: I was mistaken regarding to source of the squeaking. A few minutes past, a group of rats arrived at my door, bearing gifts in the hopes that my wrath will not trouble them again. Despite this, I find my inclination to move elsewhere remains."

[anon-e-miss]

For millennia Praxians had been little more than Vosian chattel. Many elite Seekers did not which to dilute their sparklines. Seekers did not have wells, though many Seekerkin did. Those that did not keep a Seekerkin broodcarrier kept and kept bred Praxians so that their fertile frames would produce the rich, sweet fuel the Seekerlings needed. This was the life Prowl had emerged to and the life he had given emergence in five times.  It was the life he had expected to live forever but Vos had gone war with Tarn and in the upheaval, he and many like him had escaped. Some had gone to Praxus, their ancestral home, Prowl had. Unfortunately, he had found no kinship with his free-emerged framekin. In fact, they had really not been framekin at all. Generations of selective breeding had altered their frames, their processors, their natures and in Praxus they had been looked down upon with pity or disgust.

Staniz, a little port town on the edge of the Polihexian Wastes had proven to be the perfect spot to start over. Praxians had no interest in the feral backwater and thus no one saw the stark contrasts between Prowl’s and proper Praxian’s frame. He lived free, fully free and he raised his creations the same. His eldest, Smokescreen was a bull and Prowl was relieved to not have to teach him to milk himself. It would not be long before Prowl would have to teach Strong but his first heifer was still a calf and Prowl had more time. It was possible that Strongarm would not need to worry about milking unless she carried. Prowl’s milk had come in as soon as he had entered estrous for the first time. Though his first energon had been thin and of poor quality, it had improved exponentially once he gave emergence to Smokescreen. The Seeker co-op who had owned him had been delighted by his production levels and they had ensured that as soon as his forge opened he was bred again. Prowl had never crawled out from under a bull with an open forge.

He was fortunate to have escaped that life with only four calves. After Smokescreen had come twins, Streetwise, a bull and Strongarm his first heifer. Bluestreak had followed them a few vorns later, whether his sweet calf would be a bull or a heifer would not be known for some vorns yet. It was a large family, Prowl knew, for Staniz. That his brother, Barricade had two of his own and that they resided together, the family only appeared that much more ridiculously large. As a single originator to so many, Prowl was looked at with pity or scorn depending on who was watching. Priests looked for bonding tokens or marks of widowhood and saw none and looked scornfully down their olfactory ridges at him. His neighbours clucked their glossas and shook their helms. Prowl did not care for their opinions. They were not his herd, not his kin. No priest would ever number Prowl as a member of their flock. No one dared look scornfully or pityingly at Barricade, he had no tolerance for sinners or saints.

They did not depend on the temples for sustenance. During their brief time in Praxus, Prowl had apprenticed under a baker designated Mirror. It had been she who had directed him to Staniz when it had been clear life in Praxus would be more hardship than plenty. With the war between Vos and Tarn over, herds that had settled too close to the Praxian, Vosian border had quickly started coming under attack by bounty hunters. Though he and Barricade and their families had settled in Petrex, there had been no telling how deep into Praxus those hunters would search. Prowl knew his owners would want to retrieve him; he had been their prized heifer.  The bakery he had started, just a small little shop at the edge of the market, had done well so far. Barricade was an asset to the operation. No one dared try to strong arm or scam him. They got their supplies without endless bartering and their invoices were always paid.  Their creations helped them after they got out of school. While their neighbours might have looked down at their family with pity, Prowl did not feel any need for sympathy. He adored his creations and the life they were building together.

“Hiya, Prowler!” Jazz greeted him with that silly nickname and Prowl flushed.  Though he had been leery of the farmer when they had first met, Jazz had grown on him. Like a rust infection was what Barricade said. His brother may have teased but Prowl knew he was just as taken with Ricochet, Jazz’s twin.

“Hello, Jazz,” Prowl replied. “Would you like your usual?”

“And one o’ yer peridot cobblers,” Jazz smiled brightly as he placed his order. “A bribe for Ori. I was hopin’ ya might wanna leave yer bits wit’m so we could have a lil date-cycle.”

“Oh,” Prowl said and he flushed a ridiculous shade of blue. He felt his internals tighten at the prospect of a dark-cycle with Jazz. “If Punch doesn’t mind.”

“‘M sure he won’t,” Jazz replied. “He’s been talkin’ bout how he’s teachin’ the lils to knit. He loves havin’ so many honourary grandbitties.��

“Your originator is so dear to them,” Prowl sighed and smiled, shyly. “They would be thrilled to have a charge-over with him. I’ll add some crullers, free of charge, to sweeten the pot.”

“Perfect,” Jazz grinned and he beckoned Prowl closer. “Hey, can I give ya a tip, Beautiful?”

“You do not need…” Prowl was silenced by a kiss on his lipplates. Jazz cupped Prowl’s face in his servos and Prowl sighed in his embrace. It was a sweet kiss. Everything was always so sweet with Jazz.

“I’ll pick ya up at close,” Jazz promised, voice rich and seductive. “See ya this dark-cycle.”

[tenthgrove]

omg can I gush for a moment because ahh the way you write Prosciutto.. he's so soft and sweet!! I'm so enamored with the way he feels like a sweet old man that takes care of you and please if you have any more thoughts about Roman General Prosciutto I would love to hear it 🤲 (thank you!!)

GREAT NEWS, I ABSOLUTELY DO

(TW for one mention of suicide + Several more unfortunate deaths)

So as it happens the Roman General thing is also my backstory for Prosciutto in the Vampire AU, but with a different plot to last night’s Drabble. I’ve talked about it before but not the x Reader element, which I’ve been talking about extensively with Possum, so kudos to them for coming up with half of this.

Prosciutto meets you while on campaign far from Rome. You are a commoner from an enemy land, but he is immediately taken with you quite strongly. Knowing the legion has to keep moving and not able to bear losing you, he abducts you and takes you with him back to Rome.

Given the circumstances, he is good to you. He treats you like a goddess and gets you all the luxuries he could fathom, whether you ask for them or not. Many great art pieces are commissioned for you as a token of his love. But you are unable to come to terms with your new life, or Prosciutto, and after a few months you take your own life.

Prosciutto is distraught, never recovering or marrying again. He lives in misery for several more years before the attempted assassination that turned him into a vampire. Now he has to endure life without you even longer.

That is, until the 10th century, when Prosciutto comes across a pair of Frankish nobles bartering over one of the lost mosaics commissioned of you. Enraged at how disrespectfully they treat your image, he kills them. Turning around, he realises he has a witness- a maid, who looks exactly like you in every conceivable way. You, reincarnated. You flee in horror, and as he tries to grab you to explain himself, you trip down the stairs and are fatally injured. Again, his selfishness has killed you. But now he knows if you have come back once, you likely will again.

Prosciutto encounters you a few more times throughout the centuries, but every single time he lays eyes on you, you are dead within the hour. Once he finds you dying of plague. Another, tuberculosis. Once you are burned at the stake for witchcraft before he can intervene, and most recently you were working at a field hospital that proceeded to be ambushed by gunfire. And one time, he sees you waving from a ship as it is cast out to sea, and by the time he has towed out to catch up with it, it is sunk against a rock and your body is floating in the water.

He’s been finding you more recently since the 1700s, for the simple reason of his friendship with Melone. Melone’s vampirism gives him a rare ability to help people find their soulmates, meaning Prosciutto can now find almost every one of your reincarnations. But his rotten luck still prevails.

Finally, he finds you in the present. He is of course, incredibly afraid something may happen to you. But as he watches over the course of a week, nothing does. You are not sick, you are not in danger, and your life is by all accounts peaceful. Could it be, that fate finally permits him to be with you?

He decides to make his move, but he has learned enough from his first couple of attempts to avoid forcing you to come with him. So he decides to use his other assets to his advantage, and asks you on some dates in exchange for a large amount of money. You ask if this makes him your sugar daddy, which confuses him as he doesn’t know what that is. All in all, you’re rather surprised that this wealthy, handsome man is offering you so much in exchange for just your time, and to be honest after a while you do start to wish for more. Exactly what he was planning.

(Ahh sorry that had almost no Roman General Pros but I’ve been meaning to tell this story for a while)

[tazwren]

My two cents on the devolution of fandom spaces...

As a former mod of a fandom space and a woman of colour, I do not feel safe.

Seeing what has been done to so many in this fandom, by a particular group of white American women, in the name of moral policing is both abhorrent and demoralising. As it also is to repeatedly see the same narrative being shoved at everyone as the gospel truth.

A narrative that very conveniently either becomes about fic or has nothing to do with fic, depending on how people want to swing things. A narrative that will accuse a person of Jewish heritage of anti-Semitism, a person of colour of racism, a practising Muslim of being an Islamaphobe. A narrative that will define for you and me and all of us comprising this myriad of multitudes in the world what generational or personal trauma includes and what induces the same.

Those of you who know me, know what I’ve been dealing with the past few days & why I haven’t spoken up before now. Before I logged out a couple days ago, I saw what looked like more of the usual nonsense by the same group of people I’ve kept my distance from once their true colours were revealed. What I didn’t expect is that they would think themselves so above the norms of human decency and accountability that they would go after not one but two women of colour this time around in their rabidity. And many others who spoke up, as it turns out.

It hurts to see what these women, that I know of, have had to endure and to see the passivity of the community, save for a few voices, in sitting back and letting the circus rampage through town. It hurt when I was at the receiving end of it and it hurts now.

Why? Because it shows me a microcosm of the world that I don’t really relate to, that makes no sense to me with the values I was brought up with, and which reduces basic human decency to a commodity to be trampled upon and for you to be seen as weak for having. Because people who willingly laud you for your art / writing / wit, meet you with effusive claims of love and affection and friendship, who have no qualms in taking your help when it suits them, will throw you under the bus and let the wolves ravage you when it doesn't.

Before I get into that, let me talk a little bit about what has transpired over the past few days to a week, and what has been systemically taking place over perhaps the past year in this fandom.

One thing is that everyone who makes a statement about anything suddenly has people in their mentions demanding they show what gives them the right to hold that particular opinion. A critical thing people forget about fandom is that it is a place where people hide their identity for a variety of reasons, all valid, and this approach to fiction and conversations where everyone has to reveal every part of their past and identity as a means of establishing their "credentials" in order to present their views comes in direct contradiction with how fandoms operate. It violates people's rights to privacy.

The other is that there has been an increase in the voices that purportedly stand up to “speak for” the marginalised, the abused, those discriminated against and those who belong to minorities who “need to be protected / kept safe”. An admirable sentiment, to be sure. If it weren’t for the fact that none of these groups of people needed saving, speaking for or the protection of this particular group of voices.

Voices who only want to define and use these people as "model victims" to hurt other white women and establish their supremacy over both them and other POC. Voices that will present their "truth" as they see fit and sans context or present you with screenshots of snippets of conversations held in supposedly secure spaces that they have no qualms in violating in the interest of the "greater good" and claim offense / silencing if the misdemeanour is pointed out or action is taken against them, Voices that will conveniently categorize you as a "token POC" or "white adjacent" when you do not support or align with their narrative. Voices that belong to a predominantly white American group of women, whose real agenda, as is evidenced by their modus operandi, has nothing to do with real altruism or a drive for justice or indeed to right wrongs.

No, their agenda is purely power.

To hold sway over groups of followers, to shepherd them as though they are sheep who cannot think for themselves, and to set themselves up as white saviours who call out those who step out of line, or are deemed to be problematic and toxic and unsafe. To be the owners of the only "safe spaces" in fandom and to drive other groups and spaces to be boycotted or worse.

Now, I've long wondered, who indeed are these women to decide that for anyone? In a world comprising multiple cultures, religions, groups, subgroups, genders and which contains multitudes, who are these women and what gives them the right to foist their puritanical standards on everyone, very conveniently disguised as concern for the moral well being of everyone and the consumption, of all things, of fiction?

Certainly, there are many things in this world that people regard with justifiably equal dislike / horror / sadness. At the same time, there is much that is not shared, that is particular to a culture and to a person’s background. There is a multitude of perspectives that make the whole. And the white women of the United States of America have not cornered the market on what those are, or indeed even own any curatorship or censorship of the same. They cannot, because each person’s culture and background and joy and trauma is their own, as are their ways of dealing with it all.

That being said, let’s talk about their pack behaviour and the devolution I’ve witnessed on social media as basic human decency is bartered for clout.

I’m all for standing up for someone who doesn’t have a voice or a platform, or maybe afraid of repercussions to voice dissent. I’m all for being there for our fellow human beings as they face struggles of often unconscionable and unfathomable proportions. I’m all for holding people accountable for their negative behaviours as they impact the larger community.

What I am unequivocally NOT for is treating such situations as an opportunity to preach, to virtue-signal, to shame and to put on blast the alleged wrong-doers. I say alleged because that’s what most accusations are on these platforms—allegations to do with things that disturb our sense of balance or make us wrinkle our noses or that we deem bad, and therefore make the accused deserving of the full force of the community’s misbehaviour and censure.

I ask you if you were found guilty of a crime in real life—you know, the one away from your phones and keyboards—would you not have an opportunity to retain a lawyer, to plead your case in a court of law, to acquit yourself? Or, if found guilty, would you not have the opportunity for correction and rehabilitation? Yes, you say? (If you say no, then that explains the spate of state-perpetuated injustices across the USA, but that is a different matter).

Why then are people treated so abhorrently in this court of public opinion? What gives you, me, any one of us the right to judge people so vilely and with a metaphorical gun to their heads? What gives anyone the right to say you better agree with everything I say, retract everything you said and grovel for it or we will eviscerate you in public, shame you, force you to change or delete the content that offends us and still ostracise you and in some cases even threaten you with bodily harm or death, or doxx you?

Why is there no grace in how people are approached or dealt with? Whatever happened to allowing people to learn from their mistakes, where applicable, or hearing them out and giving them a chance to explain their side of something we may not fully understand?

Why is there no accountability for such behaviour on the part of the accusers?

What makes the rest of you sit back and allow this to happen? What makes you think this is in any shape or form okay to watch? Today, it is a virtual stranger at the receiving end, one you can distance yourself from quite conveniently saying Oh, she just mods a group I am in, or I only read their fics a couple times or I only followed them for their art or jokes or whatever flavour of excuse you choose. Tomorrow, it will be one of your own - or it may very well be you. And you'd better hope there's someone left to speak up for you.

The irony is you will have allowed it to happen by letting the wolf in the fold. By letting these white women manipulate you, and the community you claim to be a part of, so unapologetically, so maliciously and so unashamedly that before you can do anything about it the cancer has taken hold.

If this was happening in the world outside of social media, they would have to follow due process, to present real evidence based on facts (not based on emotions, rumours or perceptions) and would have to allow the person they are accusing to present a counter-argument, to defend themselves or be defended. Failure to do so is a miscarriage of justice and, depending on whether this is a professional or legal proceeding, they would either seriously risk their jobs or have the case thrown out of court. If not face action themselves for attempting to derail the process of justice.

Why then are they permitted to range so freely through the landscape of fandom, snarling and biting at who they please, or who displeases them?

I have no shame in saying I was at the receiving end of their behaviour for defending a friend they put on blast and I will tell you right here and now, I am a woman of colour who feels unsafe and attacked by these so-called self-appointed white saviours of your social media experience, these so-called upholders of the common morality—whatever that means—who will fight for you the evils of problematic and toxic writers who dare to have an opinion not aligned with theirs and who do not bow to their clout. Not that they care, so long as they can ignore this fact since it doesn’t fit their narrative. So long as they can ignore what has just been done to so many people in the name of cleansing the fandom.

If any one of these women were truly interested in alleviating the troubles and pains of the discriminated, the marginalized, the trauma-affected, I invite them to please come roll their sleeves up and help in the multitudes of troubles that wrack this world, not just in the backyards of their minds. My country is amidst a struggle for the basics of human life in this horrific pandemic and, prior to that, for basic constitutional rights for religious minorities. Do not patronize me and lecture me on trauma and racism and discrimination. Do not marginalise me in your attempt to pontificate and set your pearl-clutching puritanical selves above the rest, or assuage your white guilt.

A largely American audience or fanbase in this fandom is purely a function of access and interest—other cultures have vast followings for things you couldn't begin to fathom—and it doesn't mean you are entitled in any shape or form to be spokespeople for the rest of the world. We have no interest in being colonized again by white oppressors.

If you disagree with what I have said, I congratulate you on being a part of their coterie and wish you much joy in being the sheep in their fold. Kindly unfollow or block me on the way off of this post.

[senashenta]

Crossroads

Title: Crossroads (for @witcher-trick-or-treat)

Prompt: Demon

Pairing: Lambert/Aiden

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: NSFW, Spit as Lube, Anal Sex, Dubcon if you squint real hard??

Notes: A SPN crossover. I fucking love Crossroads Demon Aiden. Read it on AO3 here if you'd rather. <3

CROSSROADS By Senashenta

Lambert knew this was a Bad Idea—capital B, capital I—even before he buried the cigar box full of tokens in the middle of the crossroads out in Gods’ green nowhere, but it was also his Only Idea. His brother was dying and he couldn’t let that happen. So here he was, summoning a Crossroads Demon to make a deal for Geralt’s life because of stupidity and carelessness during their last Hunt.

Geralt would have his hide when he found out about this, assuming it worked. Assuming he survived. So would Eskel, still back at base camp taking care of Geralt. Eskel had no idea Lambert was out there, about to barter with his soul, and would have kicked his ass thoroughly if he’d known about his little plan. No, this was definitely a Bad Idea…

“I know that look. That’s the look of a man who’s having second thoughts.”

The voice came from behind him, and Lambert whirled around, one hand automatically going for the knife on his hip even though he knew it would do him no good. He stopped himself before he could actually draw the weapon, though his hand hovered over it nervously as he eyed the demon that was standing before him.

He hadn’t expected him to be so… attractive. Then again, if you could choose any body to inhabit, why not a good-looking one? This one was maybe an inch or two shorter than Lambert, his skin a shade darker, with curly hair down to his chin. He wore too-tight jeans and a leather jacket and if he hadn’t been the spawn of the devil Lambert definitely would have been hitting on him.

The demon tilted his head, stark black eyes blinking, and offered a flirtatious smile. “Like what you see?”

Lambert snorted, but his hand dropped away from his knife. “Hardly.”

“Hmm,” the demon hummed and stepped closer. “What’s your name, Witcher? We don’t get many of your kind calling on us.”

Lambert took a step back when the demon moved closer but couldn’t keep backing away forever and eventually stopped and held his ground, letting the creature walk a slow circle around him before coming to a stop in front of him, a bare foot away. “My brother is dying. I’m here to make a trade.”

“You ignored my question.” The demon pointed out archly, one eyebrow lifting, then added; “my name is Aiden, for example, what’s yours?”

“Does it matter?”

“To me.”

“Fine, fine.” Lambert huffed and rolled his eyes, “Lambert. My name is Lambert.”

Aiden smiled, a dashing, charming smile, but also one that hinted that he’d probably already known Lambert’s name from the beginning—he was toying with Lambert, like a cat with a mouse. Now he blinked his eyes and the stark black disappeared, replaced by iridescent gold—Witcher gold. Lambert jerked in surprise, even as Aiden trailed a finger up along his chest teasingly.

“Your vessel—”

“Was a Witcher? Yes.” Aiden shrugged, “we made a trade, decades ago. I got the better end of the deal, if you ask me. He’s made an excellent vessel.” Then a smirk and he added, “plus it’s made my job easier, being this hot. Speaking of which,” his finger tapped at Lambert’s medallion lightly, “you’re not exactly hard on the eyes either, Wolf.”

Lambert wasn’t sure if he should be flattered or not. “Look, about my trade—”

“Your brother, yes yes, I know all about that.” Aiden sighed, smoothing his palm down Lambert’s chest to his ribs almost absently. He tilted his head and reached with his other hand to tuck a stray curl behind his ear, “and you’re wanting what, the standard ten-year contract, yeah?”

“That’s what Crossroads Demons pedal, isn’t it?”

“Usually.” A shrug, but Aiden smirked again, fingers toying with the material of Lambert’s shirt lightly. He eased closer, still holding onto Lambert’s shirt so he couldn’t step away and tilted his head up to brush a teasing kiss along the Witcher’s lips, just barely. “But I could be convinced to make a different deal, I think.”

Lambert hissed in a breath. “What—”

“You see, my Wolf, it’s been a long time since I’ve had a good lay.” Aiden shrugged and leaned in to nip at Lambert’s ear, biting lightly, “and you would do very nicely, Lambert. I could see my way to a different deal for your brother, if you’re… amenable.”

Lambert balked, blinking slowly as he digested what had just been said. Because Aiden was attractive, yeah, but he was a demon, Lambert couldn’t just… but then again, the other option was bartering his eternal soul, having Hellhounds come and rip him to pieces ten years from now when his clock was up. So maybe sleeping with the devil had its’ merits. And Aiden was pretty, it wouldn’t be a particular hardship…

Geralt and Eskel could never find out about this.

“So? Are you amenable?” Aiden was grinning now, mouthing along the curve of Lambert’s throat and making him swallow thickly. “If not we can do this the traditional way. Ten years.” A bite by his jaw; “either way I’ll take care of your brother for you.”

Okay, nothing to lose here, right?

“I’m… yeah. Yeah okay.” Lambert tilted his head into Aiden slightly and took a shaky breath, “I’m amenable.”

“Excellent.” There was a giddiness to Aiden’s reply, enthusiasm, and it struck Lambert that it must have been a long time if the demon was that excited about the prospect. Not that he was one to talk—it had been a long time for him, too. Months, nearly a year—since the girl in Novigrad after the vampire nest. Not that he planned to enjoy this, particularly, but if it got him out of the ten-year-contract deal…

Before he even had a chance to process what he’d just agreed to, Aiden surged up to kiss him properly, deep and aggressive, tongue pushing forward, sliding hotly against his own. Lambert fumbled for what to do for a long moment before finally kissing back, a little tentative even as Aiden groped along his chest and downward.

The next thing he knew a hand was groping at his dick, making him jolt, though he wasn’t sure why he was surprised that the demon was so forward. But Lambert had a competitive streak a mile wide, even in situations like this, so he brought his hands up to grab at Aiden’s hips, pulling him closer, and angled his head to kiss him deeper.

Aiden made a pleased sound in his throat and pushed forward, making Lambert walk back, continuing to kiss him hungrily the entire time—until eventually, Lambert’s back connected with something hard. He started, breaking away from Aiden to glance over his shoulder and—oh, a tree. That made sense, since they were still in the middle of nowhere.

“Focus, Witcher.” Aiden jammed a knee between his legs and rubbed upward, his hands now swiftly working at untucking Lambert’s plaid shirt, fingers fumbling with the buttons until he got frustrated and just yanked it open, the last buttons popping off in his impatience. Lambert didn’t even protest his wrecked shirt, too focused on the thigh that was grinding into his steadily hardening cock.

“Fuck… fuck.” His head falling back against the tree, Lambert let Aiden kiss and bite his way along his neck, even as the demon popped open the button on his jeans and pulled down the zip to slide one hand inside. Lambert bit back a moan because he wasn’t supposed to be enjoying this, Godsdammit. It was supposed to be a simple transaction—not that his dick got the memo, apparently.

“So hard for me, Wolf…” Aiden was breathing hard against his throat and bit down by his jaw, “will you be sweet for me, too? Bet your ass will feel amazing…”

Lambert made a strangled noise, his face flushing dark red. He hadn’t anticipated that he would be the one to bottom. Then again, why would a demon do anything but top? Aiden chuckled to himself over Lambert’s reaction, and Lambert shoved at him lightly before just turning around to face the tree, leaning his forehead against the bark lightly as he pretended he wasn’t hard as a fucking rock. “Just… get on with it.”

Aiden laughed, a sound like music. He pressed up against Lambert’s back, his own prick grinding against the Witcher’s ass, even as he reached to yank at Lambert’s pants, pulling them down over his hips and farther, to his knees. His boxers followed shortly after, and then Aiden was pulling at his waist, angling his hips out…

The sound of Aiden sucking on his own fingers was loud and lewd and made Lambert’s ears flush red, but he supposed he should be grateful that the demon was going to do his best to prep him, even if it was just with spit. It wasn’t as if either of them had exactly come prepared for this, after all.

The first touch against his entrance nearly made Lambert flinch, just because he wasn’t expecting it. As it was he pressed his forehead harder into the tree. Arching his back slightly, he pushed his hips out farther. “Come on.”

“Impatient.” Aiden accused in an almost fond tone of voice, even as he pushed the first finger past Lambert’s clenched hole and deep into his body. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Lambert barked out a laugh at that. “You’re a demon.”

“I’m not heartless,” he sounded almost hurt. “It’s no good if you don’t like it, too.”

Aiden was pumping his finger in and out, now, and then carefully added a second—and Lambert hissed and bit his lip at the sting. Real lube would have been more than welcome. “You’re just… not what I expected… that’s all.”

“And what were you expecting?” Crooking his fingers, Aiden dragged them across Lambert’s prostate, grinning to himself when the Witcher jerked and yelped out a cry. He did it again, just for good measure, before pulling back to slide a third finger into the mix, pushing deep and twisting his wrist, parting his fingers and stretching Lambert out the best he could without hurting him.

“Fuck… fuck…!” Lambert dug his nails into the tree bark and rocked his hips back into Aiden’s hand, his cock hard and heavy between his legs. He shook his head, “wasn’t… shit… wasn’t expecting a guy. Most Crossroads Demons are chicks, right? Wasn’t expecting you to be so—fuck!—f-friendly… wasn’t expecting you to be so damned good looking… oh Gods…! Definitely wasn’t expecting this.”

“But it’s good, right?” Aiden twisted his fingers just so again, rubbing them hard over Lambert’s prostate, and the Witcher panted out another curse, eyes closed and clinging to the tree for all he was worth.

“So good.” He agreed, panting.

“Excellent,” Aiden purred, even as he pulled his fingers away and quickly worked his own jeans open, pulling his cock out. He spit on his palm a couple of times to smear it over his prick, the best he could to considering, before lining himself up with Lambert’s puckered entrance and carefully, slowly pushing inside.

This time when Lambert swore it was to cover up a pained noise that tried to work its’ way out of his throat. He grit his teeth and took deep breaths as Aiden pushed into him, sinking his length in slowly and deliberately until he was buried deep in Lambert’s ass, their hips pressed flush together.

To his credit, Aiden gave him a minute to adjust before he tried to move. It was considerate, considering what he was, his nature. Then again he was doing a lot of things that Lambert would think contradicted a demon’s nature, so…

“You good?” The words were husked against the back of his neck, Aiden’s hands clamped and holding hard against his hips, and Lambert had to swallow a couple of times to find his voice before responding.

“Yeah, you can move.”

Aiden muttered something unintelligible against his shoulder even as he was carefully pulling his cock out—and then rolling his hips to rock it back in again, starting up a rhythm that was surprisingly slow and gentle, all things considered. Aiden’s grip on Lambert’s hips was painfully tight, though, a testament to how much he was holding back—and finally Lambert was the one to push things farther, shoving his hips back into Aiden’s next thrust, jamming them together hard. “Fuck!”

“Hnn!” Aiden grunted and turned his head to bite at Lambert’s neck hard enough to bruise—though the mark would fade in a matter of hours, of course—and just started fucking into him hard, in a jarring, almost vicious pace, leaving Lambert to rock back into his thrusts, clinging to the tree and panting breathless curses every time they came together.

His own cock, hard between his legs, was spilling precum in steady, sticky streams, and finally Lambert dropped one hand to grab at it, beginning to stroke along with the rhythm they had fallen into, hard and harsh and raw. (The best fucking he’d had in a long, long time, if he was honest with himself, which he rarely was.)

Behind him, Aiden’s thrusts were starting to go jerky as he edged closer to orgasm. Lambert just continued striping his own cock and rolling his hips back against Aiden’s, encouraging the demon to continue, to—what? Did he want him to cum inside him? Was that what he was angling for?

Either way, Lambert didn’t have much of a choice because it was only another moment or two before Aiden was slamming into him hard and holding there as he came, pumping hot cum deep inside of him with little “ah, ah” sounds against the back of his neck. Lambert moaned and ground back against him, even as he reached his own peak and fell over, cumming over his own fist with a stuttered groan.

Aiden’s forehead came down against Lambert’s shoulder, then, as they both panted to catch their breath.

“Knew you’d be sweet.” Aiden chuckled breathlessly after a moment.

Lambert groaned and thumped his forehead against the tree lightly. “Get out of my ass now.”

“Yeah, yeah. Grouchy.” The demon stepped back, pulling out and tucking himself back into his pants, fixing his own clothing and leaving Lambert to do the same. “By the time you get back home your brother will be taken care of. You’d better have a good excuse for his miraculous recovery.”

“I’ll figure it out.” Lambert quickly dressed himself again, trying to ignore the satisfying way his ass ached and the feel of Aiden’s cum leaking out of him.

“Mm. You seem like a resourceful guy.” Aiden agreed—and then grinned and leaned up to kiss Lambert, hard and deep, before stepping back again. He dug in one pocket and held out a card for him to take. “In case you ever want to get a hold of me again.”

Lambert took the card with a skeptical look. Glancing down at it, it was a standard business card with ‘Aiden’ in script on the front and nothing on the back. That was the opposite of useful. Frowning, he looked back up to ask what the fuck was with the card—but Aiden was gone, vanished into the night.

Taking another look at the card, Lambert rubbed his thumb over the embossed name on the front—and then pocketed it.

Who knew, it might come in handy some day after all.

[blankdblank]

Ash Pt 8

Any means for a private lunch was dashed in a debacle of a means by Prince Estel to plea his way out of his usual music lessons Elrond was trying to enforce upon him. Trailed by the entrance of a confused messenger who arrived with a pile of notes from Erebor that didn’t seem to make any sense at all thanks to the smudged outer envelopes. That while you finished the first then second helping of the warm honey butter rolls there the King had taken notice of the usual seals he gave lists of the few known possible recipients from those who had written them. Off they darted to try and leave the two bonding Nobles alone for a moment of silence in which the King timidly glanced your way and flashed you a quick grin before his move to finish his lunch and catch up to your emptied plate to snack on a roll on the way back to the clock.

Five pieces was all you managed to move before a hiss left him in a shake of his hand to signal the warning bite he’d been given the day prior that meant it was time to stop. “I suppose we might want to find your Elk then before our clock gets a hunger for your blood and we have to lock it away every night so we won’t find you half eaten by morning.”

Throatily he chortled and set the piece in his left hand down in a scoot of his chair to stand and help you to your feet. “What a colorful image of a monarchy under attack.”

“It would explain why there are no clocks here. Natural enemies, have to draw a line somewhere.”

Smirking to himself he stepped back to allow you at his side for the stroll to the front doors, “We have clocks. They are reserved for our families and beloved Ones, time is precious.” In a sweep of his eyes over your face he asked, “Were there a great deal of clocks in Nunieffe?”

“Oh yes, couldn’t go twenty feet without running into a clock. We might have been the cheese capitol but everything had to be punctual. Schedules for everything. You’d think the boat racers would have some freedoms from it but there’s timed arrivals and if you don’t meet them you’re disqualified no excuses even if by a second. Been a few uproars on that rule including my dad. Got booted half a foot from the finish line half a second past the final marker. No one won that year nearly had an uprise on their hands.” With brows risen he looked over your face in your step through the front door he had opened for you to do so.

“Over a race? It must be quite a prestigious title to win that contest of sailsmanship.”

“Well the race is 14 months long.” That had his mouth drop open in shock, “Trip around the world have to collect tokens from each Noble along the way and gain stamps for your travel papers. Not much of a prize beyond bragging rights and a spot in the naval forces that moves higher each time you participate and rank higher than the time before.”

“Naval forces are prized then?”

“Higher ranked you are the less likely they send you out in a row boat in the middle of a siege. Best winner came in first three times with five participation ranks above tenth place out of hundreds. He retired as a general and never had to leave the dock last war in his lifetime. Our lands are the sacrificial lambs up for slaughter. We bred faster and no one really wanted our ranks to win but we put the top social tier out of the race every time by the second stop. They already enter the wars in leader positions anyways why do they deserve another foot up away from the bloody ground.” Your eyes scanned over his steely face in a means to not cling to you for how miserable the fate your old world had dealt you and your kin. “Sorry. I get a bit cynical, and heartless about the top tiers.”

“You are not heartless. They are the ones who should hang their heads in shame. I am beyond comforted that you are free from that pit of death and despair.”

“More a chasm than a pit,” you replied and a smirk ghosted across his lips.

“Chasm then. Let us think of better things and enjoy a long ride on a fine day in this sun painted forest.”

“I see what you did there,” you said and he chuckled in the first step towards the stables away from his closed apartment.

“Did you not grow around many trees?”

“There were trees. Just not a lot higher than your shoulder, thirty feet at the most. Until you got to the outer edge of town but no one goes into those woods,” he glanced your way and you said, “Haunted and full of holes.”

“Ah, well no danger of finding holes today.”

Again you glanced up at him in a move that drew his eyes to yours for a pleased grin that had you ask, “I was meaning to ask, your throne has antlers on it?”

“Yes,” he said a bit puzzled about what the exact question was.

“I mean they aren’t like feathers that just come off on their own or wool that can be sheered,”

“Elk and deer lose their antlers annually.”

“Really?” You asked and he nodded with a relieved chuckle at what you might have imagined of their means to extract the antlers from the stubborn creatures and somehow still they would be left alive afterwards.

“Yes, in the spring I will remind you and we can set up a picnic and watch the herds startle themselves when they shed them.”

“But they seem so, like bones, you wouldn’t think they’d just fall off.”

“Nor do they until their first shed and still each year you’ll see them sneeze or reach a certain way to a bush or tree trunk and the antler will come loose and hit their side on the way down. Tuo nearly leapt six feet last year after his startled sneeze triggered loss.” He chuckled again to your amused grin, “within the next month the new set begin to grow and the meantime allows them safer head sparring practice with their young ones in the first signs of their first tips.”

“Why did you pick an elk over a horse? Are they faster?”

“Tuo was a difficult birth. His mother was found injured and barely survived the night after I helped ease her struggles. I helped to secure a female to nurse him with her own daughter however due to his father who was head of the herd none of them could claim him outright without his approval so until he deliberated a good match I spent most of my days and nights in the stable with him.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

Lowly he chuckled and stated, “I do have to admit Celeborn had just left from his latest trip to show off his youngest set of twins and I was a bit jealous and missed those parental moments. Thousands of years have passed since my son left my palms and shoulders.” Curiously he stole a glance your way and asked the question now burning in his head, “What were your dreams for a family, prior to the betrayal of course? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Truly I haven’t,” softly you sighed and in his full gaze on you with head tilted slightly for a better angle on your puzzle of an expression when you looked away. “We have Seers we are taken to when we are able to conceive, they tell us how many children we will have. They read it on our palms.”

“What did yours say?���

“She said my palm read sunrise. No number, just sunrise, and since it is illogical of an answer, I don’t know. I looked it up in a book and I didn’t have that line,” his eyes sank to your hand palm up in front of you in a tap of a finger on the other hand to what he took as just a normal wrinkle on your palm with meaning of nothing else past that now having him question what his own palm might say. “But now I do,” you sighed again, “Which according to the book now says sunrise and blue.”

“That is odd. If you had to guess a preference, had you imagined a son or daughter?”

“Um,”

“I myself was a bit baffled for a preference. A daughter however might have proven a bit difficult as my mother most likely would never have let me have a chance to hold her, as she always wished for a younger sister to raise alongside me. Though she would have been no less loved even from a distance until I was allowed to hold her again.”

“Maybe one of each, three are the usual goal expected of women but the husbands normally choose how many children-,”

“I can guarantee that will not happen here. You have full power here, did your father encourage that belief that you would be prey to your husband’s demands and expectations?”

“Well, my parents, my mother did what she was expected to even against her hopes to have had me with her child sweetheart,” that had his eyes on yours in a sharp shift. “They weren’t in love, and the longer it went without a son that became clearer to me when we weren’t in the shop where they seemed to be able to play happy couple for the public.”

“I am so sorry you had to face that.”

“He seemed pleased at least when I was taken.”

“I cannot ever imagine that to be a parent to a heart like yours that moment could be a father’s single proud,” softly he huffed in irritation, “To barter you off I assure you that afterwards there was ample remorse on the loss of his only child hefty sum of silver or not. Several of our people have various moments of pride for your person. Including myself, I am very proud of my dazzling One.”

In a smirk up at him you teased, “I am about as dazzling as an Elk is stable crossing a lake of ice.”

That had him chuckle and shake his head and then catch your eye again, “Deflection will not serve your case, a few stumbles and slides does not negate majesty from and Elk. Tuo is head of the herd and has gotten his rear end stuck in ample situations while growing and learning our forest.”

Upon being in sight of the stables your eyes shifted to his hands that above the slit on his maroon outer robe that button by button it revealed more of his dark silver pants that his white tunic was tucked into the waistband in a careful move to not lose his maroon and deep silver wrap folded over his forearms. “It has buttons?” That had him grin in the reach out to shift the front flap on the side closest to you over his arm while his other hand continued until he undid the jeweled clasp at his collarbone. “Oh, it’s thicker than it looks so it hides the buttons.” You said then gave his arm mild pokes to test the fabric on his arm for thickness to not be groping at his chest, “I suppose it helps keep you warm.”

“It does. While the cold does not normally affect our kin layers are comfortable for myself, though the length can bother Tuo while we ride.”

Down the steps you strolled with fingertips brushing the leather paneled skirt over your black pants contrasting your brown knee high boots. Comfortably in your pale orange blouse secured by a black and orange vest at least you seemed to be a good choice for a ride. Tuo already was on his way from the line of trees to join you inside the Elk stables you hadn’t entered before. Past the open front entrance towards the large section on the end with a crown etched into the half door that was propped open that you stopped outside of to watch his easy move to the cupboard inside he opened. Off his arms the wrap dropped to his fingertips that in front of him he folded in half then quarters and then eighths to add to its usual home next joined by his outer robe that was hung on the hanger inside he took the armored dark green robe that like the other had a split in the part that hung nearly to the knee.

The stare from you however in your stroll closer to his button of the robe had his eyes fixed on you right to the stop a foot away that had him smirk at your tap on the end of the hilt of his sword strapped to his right hip that was a twin to the one on his left. “I didn’t even see your swords.” Up to his your eyes shifted and you asked, “Are they heavy?”

Around the right sword his left hand fixed and in a smooth motion he unsheathed the solid metal sword that along the etchings in the top of the blade near the hilt your fingertips tapped. “Not heavy at all once you have trained enough to build up the muscles in your arms and wrists.” He said and eased it closer to your hand that was joined by your other to timidly lift the blade with fingers and palm fixing around the hilt with the other. Both you shifted up and down for an awkward feel of the balance while he finished buttoning up his robe.

Back to him you offered the blade and over the back of your hand his eased to take hold of the grip in its release that spread a grin across his lips that spread in the smooth motion of your hand to tap his middle to feel the solid armored layer he added while his sword was sheathed with ease. “What is this made of?” you asked with one set of fingers in a second press that was joined by your other hand that widened his grin at the innocent contact that didn’t come close to making him sway but did test the give of the scale like material that didn’t budge at all. “Feels like metal?” You asked and then turned your head to the layered plates that laid from the tops of the shoulders down the tops of his arms over a layer of more scales.

“They are made of mithril plates layered in thick green wool. Mithril is the strongest and lightest metal in these lands.”

“You need armor and swords for this?” You asked with eyes on him again and he shook his head.

“No, merely a habit. I can leave them behind if this bothers you.”

You shook your head then gave his middle another grin spreading poke and said, “No, if you’re comfortable with them it’s fine.”

Your poke however had Tuo upon his entrance bop the King in the chest with his snout to join in on the fun that had the chuckling King shift on his feet to say, “Let us get you dressed Tuo,” with a glance at you he asked, “Would you like to learn?” With a nod he extended his hand you laid yours on top of to walk with him to the large compartments along the wall where he said, “Tuo prefers his saddle first,” the leather saddle he lifted with ease and carried over to the Elk that turned sideways and eased over the Elk’s back. Every piece was explained while he adjusted it then reached down to grab the opposite strap that he said in easing it to the proper notch, “Not too snug but you have to ensure it isn’t too loose or you will spin down off their back. Usually a finger space between the belly and strap will be comfortable but some steeds prefer a notch looser and will make it clear to loosen or tighten the strap.” The stirrups were adjusted down straight then he collected the reins and bridle that he eased over Tuo’s head and helped you to secure the buckles then dropped a hand to your upper back that was used to guide the way to the saddle.

“I don’t think I can lift my leg that high,” you said eyeing the stirrup that made him smirk and ease his left hand over the back of your wrist to reach for the knot on the saddle, “Just reach up, I’ll lift you.” Around your hips his hands settled and with a warning lifted you to where you could plant a foot in the stirrup. “Now, ease your right leg over,” his hands remaining fixed in place until you were halfway over the saddle and when you had settled in place he stepped away to gather the reins that he crossed in your hands his had given a mild cup to release the hold of them.

In a step back he said once at your side when you moved your foot that had slid from the stirrup in its drop again at your leg being shorter than his to rest in them. “How do I not be in the way?”

To himself he chuckled and he replied in an ease of his raised foot in the stirrup, “You are nowhere near in the way,” his hand fixed on the knot over your arm. And fluidly up he rose and used his long legs to his advantage to move around your back to settle on the extended rear seat of sorts on the saddle that had come of use when Legolas was younger. With legs situated around the sides of yours over your shoulder he peered and reached for the reins that you released then promptly tucked your hands back and he asked, “Are you comfortable with the height?”

“Yes, just, not going to look down too often,” you said and he smirked in a low murmured confirmation to the watching Elk that looked forward and began to walk to the entrance.

“Just a slow trot to begin with,” he hummed near to your ear after a careful glance at your braid that hung to the saddle he ensured the curls in it or the jeweled beads tucked throughout would get caught on his outer robe. Straight to the trees while you remained straight as possible to continue not being in the way, “You are not in the way, relax you will not fall. When we get deeper on the path I can show you how to steer if you would like.”

“I don’t know where we are going.”

Again he chuckled and he said, “I am right here,” he said to your glance at the speckled mare that halted with a glare then turned back to storm to her usual pouting tree to lie down underneath. “I will not let us get lost should you take control.”

The first turn was taken and a rounded pathway was laid out for the trotting Elk and up your eyes shifted to the endless trees, “Were the trees always this tall, you said you moved here from your old home, have they grown? I can’t imagine they grow very fast. And they all seem even, so who planted them or did it just rain acorns one day…”

Again he smirked at the curious ramble from you and answered each that you could think up between shared facts and gestures to various things along the way. Hours you rode and chuckles soon gave warning to guards above on where their King had reached along the pathway and after a passing inspection of the guard post he had warned you where Thranduil helped you down to let Tuo take a break at a small stream. With hold of your hand Thranduil smiled in a head tilt to the side, “One more surprise.”

Curiously you smiled and strolled with the King away from the amused guards who chatted once you were out of earshot of the newly bonded Ones that had been kept so far apart for so long. Around a series of large boulders you hurried to catch his stride and then caught signs of the shift from tree surrounded grassy pathway to an open clearing that cut off to a rocky ledge that just led into the sky. “A cliff?” You asked and looked up at him when you stopped a bit afraid of what he brought you here for.

Widely smiling at you he said, “There are nests below, unless you wish to head back?”

Tentatively a few feet from the edge you stopped and crouched down with him inching closer to your side with his hand still clutched in yours just at the edge his arm extended and you saw the large nesting grounds of large owls that the parents were offering their catches to their chicks. “Our Great Owls nest here, sacred creatures none here dare hunt. We do not approach them but occasionally we are welcome to peer down at their home while when they fly over ours they do the same.”

“Does your brooding keep them away as well?” you teased and he chuckled again and joined you in a pull backwards.

“No, just merely an issue of territory.” He said in helping you to your feet again for the turn back again after your sweeping glance out into the endless sky and forest around you. “Tuo should be ready for us.”

“So fast?” You asked and he grinned at you.

“Elk can run for days at a time from our herd if need be. However for our steady trot he will have ample energy to get us back.” The Elk in question was pleased to see you back again and came closer to have you lifted on his back again knowing that for the broad looping path back the King would allow you to take control of the reins if you felt comfortable and once Thranduil was behind you Tuo turned for the path and heard Thranduil offer. “Would you like a chance at the reins?”

“Um,” Already your heart was racing in the velvety hum he had given near to your ear and down your eyes dropped to the reins.

Outwards he eased his hands for the reins to be seen resting on his fingers with palms out, a motion that had yours ease closer. Brief and gentle fingertips eased against his palms to shift against the leather straps that you almost let go of until his hands melted around the back of yours to guide them into the proper hold. Kindly he guided you on needless tugs on the reins for the next several turns in the path that Tuo could travel in his sleep but welcomed the chance to take part in lessons. Each turn widened your smile and lured soft excited giggles in the first stages of control for a steed. Though he hummed post chuckle, “There is a jump ahead, we will have to speed up though.”

“We can both jump?” You asked in the slack of your hands that eased back that signaled his left arm to leave the reins in his right to lay it across your belly to press you into his chest in Tuo’s change in speed. Around his hand and arm yours gripped in a melt around your back to keep you steady in the race up to, the leap and landing and afterwards in the calmer pace until the body in his hold untensed. Even then he still kept a loose hold until a clearing on the right had you bravely reaching out to change course to see the beautiful flower filled hideaway where some colorful birds were gathering food for their nests.

From far above a whistle had Thranduil hummed in a guide of the reins saying, “Ah, nearly time to ready for the feast.”

“I hear tonight is the big sparkle night.”

That had him chuckle again, “Yes, I presume our Seamstresses had created a dazzling gown for you to shine in tonight.”

“They did quite a job in the beading. Must have taken all of them to get it done in time.”

“Well they had completed everyone else’s attires months in advance there were ample hands free. I can guess it will look perfect alongside the swan crown.”

“I thought since it is the big sparkle night I should wear the larger crown, unless-,”

“The larger will be welcomed and I cannot wait to see the final look tonight.”

“Can’t imagine you having a much flashier robe than I’ve seen you in, Dew Drop.”

“You might have organized part of my wardrobe however there are a few pieces that you have yet to see.” He replied playfully not pressing the term you had referred to him by to subtly express an approval of its use, however puzzling as to the source or reason why. “Tonight there is a performance from our choral troupe tonight followed by our fable performers that will certainly add to the splendor of the evening with more performances in each night beyond this one.”

.

Pink, sleeveless, backless and beaded strips in angled and arranged to fit the curves on the full chest covering gown that hugged you to the pool of fabric around your feet with a delicate woven set of chains draped down the back opening. Teardrop stones surrounded by arched rows of lasgalen stones in an elegant arch formed the crown you had been gifted that sat gracefully on top of your hair that was braided back with shimmering decorations.

Back to your seat again beside the shimmering robe donning King with his same wrap from earlier to help disguise the shimmer while in the shows, that once the food was through and the performances began to a noticed shiver in the move of the tables he eased from around his back to yours. Nice and warm to the dim of the glow in the hall you settled in the oversized wrap with a failed try to withhold your dopey grin to the gesture. All of this was so odd and now near to the end of this month in this new home of yours for the first time since you had been taken now you were beginning to feel safe. Mainly due to the actions and time with your One who every so often through the performance would steal glances your way to ensure that you were enjoying the show. Subtle actions that had his son and Lord Glorfindel on his other side unable to keep from openly grinning for how the private bonding sessions had been doing wonders for the duo they knew to be a courting pair soon enough.

From a few blushing quick grins in caught gazes when you would look back at his staring breaks to the fable being performed that upon a certain point required a loud flash and smoke that had his hand daringly drop from the arm of his chair over yours to ease under your hand in time for it to be a welcomed thing to clutch until the jolt of your heartbeat had slowed to its former steady rhythm. Polite, again the doubts had sprung up and much like the deep ache you hadn’t realized to be there in the time on Tuo’s back in the arms of the King the hand that refused to let go with thumb bravely smoothing up and down the back of yours only locked you in place more. You couldn’t kiss the King again, he was being so polite, no matter what Ones did grow to be eventually for Elves it was only him being polite. Publicly you were known to be scarred and damaged by the husband turned captor and he was simply preventing a show disturbing meltdown. And still you couldn’t force yourself to take your hand away. Even if it was just a daydream of more than just a silencing hand to hold you didn’t want to let go, and to be completely honest that terrified you more than smoke or a sudden flash ever could.

Desserts in small bite sizes on foot came in a round of wine on the way back to the ballrooms that led to more dances through which an Elleth carried to hang up the wrap Thranduil had said you could leave in your chair that among the others was taken away to make more room for couples to dance. Another break for air however found you contrasting your fellow Wizard Radagast who was dancing excitedly in a hushed hum to the tune with eyes upwards mid twirling step that in a giggle ended to a plop back onto the bench there you didn’t know you were that close to.

“If you are cold I will fetch you my wrap, unless you merely wished to stir envy in the stars for your glow.” Thranduil hummed on his way over with two wine glasses in hand, yours still smaller and with your favorite blackberry wine while he sampled the newest cherry and strawberry blend his people had been perfecting to be sampled this year.

From his hand you accepted the glass offered to you and before you could scoot over he had turned and taken up the spot just big enough for him to fit and be snug against your side and took a sip of his glass you mirrored with yours. Once the glass was lowered and your lip loosening sip was swallowed onto his shoulder your arm shifted to drape there and down his back with a plop of your chin on his shoulder that had his sip halt so he could lower his glass and catch your gaze curious of what you were up to. Onto his chest a finger extended from around the side of your glass tapped and tugged the corner of his mouth upwards to your statement of, “You know, I figured out where I’ve seen the color of your eyes before.”

Once his head was turned and he swallowed his mouthful of the wine now among the bottom of his list of favorites to sample on he would tolerate to encourage the brewers to continue tweaking it to face the bitterness it was chased by. “Oh?” he asked truly curious if you were referring to some dream that had warned you of the travel here and to him with no expectation of what you would actually say.

“You’ve seen dew drops at sunrise,” there was that term again, dew drop and now he had something of a reason why. It was his eyes you had complimented and from a being with such impossible eyes as yours that meant something that stunned him to silence. “That chilly blue that has a hint of a glimmer to them unlike any other blue. Dew Drop.”

From the doorway to the gardens Elrond’s voice split the silence by asking, “Now the two of you tucked alone out here can only spell a plot is afoot. Spill your secrets now or we will be unrelenting in our payback.” The grin on his face doubled in his wife’s lean into his side with a plate of snacks she had gathered for the pair of them he chose a piece from that was popped between his lips.

Thranduil however replied to the rest of your cheek to his shoulder to look at the couple joined by Lord Glorfindel and his deepened smirk at the position you had relaxed into that made Thranduil almost lean in right there and kiss you on the top of the head and stroke the wrist attached to the hand holding the glass still rested against his chest. The King’s response however heightened that amused response in the widening of your eyes. “You are mistaken, Elrond. No espionage here.”

Right through the haze of the wine those words hit the panic button and in a lift of your head. Behind the trio an Elf you had promised a dance to arrived and you said, “Ah, Ringwe, I owe you a dance.” Up you stood and in mock ease to the waiting partner you walked with a trade of head nods once you had taken another sip of your wine as the question circled on if the King knew or not. He said he hadn’t, well, not exactly, he hinted he didn’t know. And to be honest, espionage was not that common a term to use day to day. The glass was taken along the way and several dances later to your apartment you strolled beside the King who managed to catch a signal you were about to leave who cut you off in the hall. This time he was lost to chatter from nerves and again with a press of lips to your knuckles the night was ended when he got you safely across that threshold.

Pt 9

@devilishminx328, @fandomsstolemylife00​, @lilith15000

[certifiedskywalker]

Are You Bored Yet? - Benjamin Poindexter

Anonymous said: Hi!! Can I request some more Poindexter x reader? I’ve read ever fanfic on this website and I’m so sad that the amount of fanfics for him is so limited! Maybe some more dark, Dex stalking the reader but the reader falling for Dex and everything goes according to his plan! I’ve fallen down the Dex hole

AN: It’s been a while since I’ve written for Dex! I hope I did him justice! (I will forever be bitter that we will not see him and DareDevil in the same way again)

This was not part of Dex’s plan. Hell, the idea of it set him on edge. With his occupation, his senses were used to overloads. The sound of gunfire and flashing lights did little in the ways of hindering him during his working hours. Outside of his schedule, well, it was different.

Different meaning near piercing. There was noise everywhere. Crashing, geering, shattering, all of it all at once. It took everything Dex had not to cover his ears. That day he learned that he hated arcades. There was nothing worth the smell, the sounds, any of it.

Except you. You were worth it all and that confused him. 

How could someone like you, all collected and cool, work at a place so obnoxious? The answer alluded Dex, taunted him, teased him with the tilt of your smile. When he learned where you worked, he almost lost his tether to you. Yet, he found himself watching you smile at people under the neon lights and assault of noise almost daily now. 

Dex pulled the brim of his cap down as he stepped further inside. You were behind the ticket counter bartering with a gaggle of loudly dressed children. Despite how annoying they were, how annoying Dex assumed all children were, you were smiling. It, no, you amazed him. If he could, he would watch you smile like that all-

“Fuck off, loser!”

“Hey!”

Dex forced himself to take a long, barely steadying breath before turning to face the high-pitched yelling. When he finally opened his eyes, his gaze was assaulted by the flashing, gold lights of ‘Shoot ‘Em Up Hoops’ and the pair of children fighting there. An older looking girl was pushing away a younger boy until the basketball in his hand fell. The orange ball rolled over to Dex, bouncing slightly, almost to the beat of the game’s music.

“You can’t shoot for shit.”

Dex reached down, hands gripping the ball tightly as he listened. The young boy was growing red in the face, tears welling up in his eyes. For a moment, Dex saw himself. He could feel the sting of rejection and twinge of fear as if it were his own. 

As if to prove that he was real, that the boy he once was was truly no more, Dex effortlessly threw the ball. His aim was sharp as always, the impact ever-so satisfying. There was a sudden silence around him as eyes turned to study him; but Dex was focused on the ball, where it had hit.

So neatly, the ball ran circles around the edge of the hoop before dipping inside. The older girl stared at him wide eyed as points were awarded to the younger boy. It was just enough to put the boy’s score ahead, winning the game. The children turned then, still in a stunned silence, to study Dex. The girl looked furious. 

Slowly, Dex walked up to the pair, crouching down before them. He locked eyes with the girl and he could see her resolve melting. Now the fear was hers.

“Cheating will get you no where,” Dex said lowly, “because there will always be someone better than you.” The children blinked at him, dumbfounded. “Run along now.”

Dex stood up as the two kids ran off. With a little more quiet, he found himself set a little more at ease. He turned his head only slightly to peer back at you. For a moment, in the din of jingling tokens and game sound effects, Dex swore you were looking at him. Yet, with his senses so overwhelmed, he convinced himself he imagined it and turned away.

Just leave, he thought, just fucking go. There was other things he could be doing, new regimes he could follow to distract himself from you. Hell, the new routines could even prove to be grounding. Dex needed stability. He turned to glance back at you.

You were talking to a frazzled looking mother and a very young girl pointing at a stuffed pony. Despite the obvious annoyance, you were smiling. It was a steady smile, one that Dex would have to practice in the mirror to get just right. You were the stability he lacked and Dex couldn’t leave you.

He let out a sigh and eyed the tokens that rest beside the ‘Shoot ‘Em Up Hoops’ game. The dumb kids left them there. They wouldn’t be back for them and Dex had time to kill before you shift ended. He would walk you home, well, a few paces behind, then. He had to make sure you were safe. There was too much going on, too much at stake.

Leaning down, Dex picked up one of the tokens and stepped up to the game. The coin slid into the slot and the game’s music started up again. He picked up the ball as the timer began and took aim. With an ease that never needed practice, Dex made a basket.

Many, many baskets later, and Dex took note of how much the noise in the arcade had died down. Most of the evening crowd had funneled out the door when the first stars began poking out in the dark sky. Now, it was a scattered few teenagers and desperate adults clinging to what they could; and Dex. Though, he was clinging to something, someone, too.

But your shift still wasn’t over yet so Dex continued racking up the points in ‘Shoot ‘Em Up Hoops’. It was so easy to get lost in the movement. Though, it wasn’t as fluid as throwing knives or axes. It reminded Dex of a simpler time. A time when-

“Are you bored yet?”

Dex felt a rush of heat wash over his back and shoulders. Slowly, he turned around to see you, with those eyes of yours, studying him. Dex gripped the basketball tightly as an automated voice entreated him to continue on with the game.

“I…”

“You’ve been shooting hoops for a while now and we’re closing in a few minutes.”

“Oh, sorry, I just,” Dex set the basketball down to mask the shakiness of his voice. He needed to get a grip. “I just lost track of time.”

“It’s alright,” there was that smile again. Dex felt his lips pull up too, just a little. Every other sound around you melted away then, leaving him just with you. 

For a moment, he thought maybe he could smile and mean it truly. Before he could, suddenly, your eyes widened and Dex felt like he was going to be sick. Did you recognize him from all the times he had snooped around? This was it. This was his worst fear realized: he was going to lose you before even knowing you.

“You have a ton of tickets! I didn’t even know that ‘Shoot ‘Em Up’ could grant that many! Do you want to exchange them?” Dex traced your gaze and saw the mass of tiny, connected slips of paper spilling out of the machine. How long had he been playing?

“I-sure. Yeah, I’ll exchange them.”

You were smiling at him again and Dex felt his chest tighten. Wordlessly, he followed you to the counter where he had seen you working before. The stuffed animals along the wall were largely picked over save for a large giraffe and a few colorful creatures Dex didn’t dare claim to know. The display case too was sparse aside from an array of tacky rings. As you moved behind the case, Dex piled his tickets on the counter. 

“Can you find the end of your tickets for me? I can put them in the machine to count them then.” You were cleaning up as you spoke and Dex couldn’t take his eyes off you. So close, so terribly close. When you turned around, Dex forced himself to look away. 

“Yeah, yeah, sure.” Dex began to fumble with the tickets. After a moment, you stepped closer to him, hands reaching out near his.

“Here, let me help you.”

You began skimming the edges of the tickets with your fingers, searching, as Dex was, for the stub-end. At one point, your hand brushed against his and he swore that a jolt of electricity jumped between your bodies. Eventually, you found the end of the tickets and fed it into the counting machine. The silence was filled by the sound of the tickets being eaten up with a horribly robotic crunching sound emanating from a nearby speaker. 

“I’ve seen you around here a lot.” You did recognize him. Dex tried to keep himself steady; something that came easier, somehow, with you so close. 

“Yeah, I, my friend told me about this place.” It was a lie that he had practiced. He thought of Nadeem. A friend. “His kid had a birthday here.”

“You have kids?”

“No,” Dex couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up his throat. It was a bitter one but he muscled through it. “I don’t. Probably shouldn’t.”

“After working here,” you sighed heavily, “I think you might have the right idea. They’re a handful. I mean, that kid you stopped from bullying the other one, earlier. Kids can be mean.”

“You saw that?” So, you had noticed him, watched him even. A spark of hope set Dex’s veins aflame. The feeling only intensified when he noticed a wave of shyness hit you. You were curling in on yourself slightly now and all he wanted to do was reach out to you.

“Yeah, they were causing a bit of scene. If it wasn’t for you, I would have had to go over and separate them. So, uh, thanks for doing my job. It was sweet of you too, defending that boy.”

You met his gaze for a long moment, only breaking the contact when the ticket counter read off a total that Dex would be embarrassed to admit. He had gotten himself into a zone, honed focus. ‘Shoot ‘Em Up Hoops’ had officially proven itself to be a dangerous game.

“How did you get that many?” You asked in disbelief.

“Would you believe me if I said I played sports as a kid?” Dex bit the inside of his cheek. It was really a lie. A partial truth. He couldn’t remember the last time he had played any sport. 

“I mean yeah,” you shook your head, “you might want to consider going pro.” Dex put on a smile, though it was easier with you to wear it. “If the arcade plans on hosting a tournament, let me know. I’ll be the first to sign up.”

“I could add you quicker if I know your name,” you pointed out. Dex couldn’t help but pick up on how soft your voice had sounded. Your lips formed the words so carefully, almost as if you too had to practice what you were going to say.

“Dex,” he replied. “Nice to meet you, Y/N.”

Your eyes widened. “How did you…”

Shit. Dex could feel the ground beneath his feet begin to crumble. His eyes danced along your face, your neck, your chest, and then he saw it. His way out.

“It’s on your uh, name tag.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry. I’m just-long day and all.” Dex smiled at your new nervousness, a smile that, for once, felt almost natural.

“It’s alright, you’ve got good reason to be paranoid.” You met his gaze then, an eyebrow raised in question. “Kids can be mean, and all.”

“Yeah,” you let out a breathy laugh, one that made Dex’s insides feel light as air. “So, you have a around a two thousand tickets. You can get just about everything, except for the giraffe.”

“Damn,” Dex leaned against the counter, trying to be more comfortable. “That was what I wanted. Just a few tickets short...anything you recommend?”

“Well, there’s these,” you pointed at the rings in the display case. “Perfect for a engagement, if you ask me, and then there’s these.” You stretched your arms up to the stuffed animals fastened to the wall behind the counter. “You could get a few of those.”

“Hmm…”

Dex felt a twinge in his stomach. There was pulling, a coaxing, in his chest. He knew most people called it bravery but Dex knew it best as adrenaline. It was just a chemical reaction in his body taking place as it should; but with you, he could almost believe is was something more.

“How many tickets for having coffee with you sometime?” The question fell from his lips without a second thought, something Dex started to regret as you fell silent. “That was...I was too forward. I’m-”

“A hundred tickets,” you murmured. Dex’s heart began to race.

“Just a hundred?”

“As long as you buy the drinks.”

“Coffee, tea, you name it,” Dex replied. A half smile pulled at his lips. There was no faking here, no mask in sight. Right then, it was just you and him. 

“Well then,” you held out your hand, “hundred tickets please.”

“Gladly,” Dex said, handing you what looked like a hundred or so odd tickets. It was finally paying off. The weeks of waiting, watching, and studying was all finally gathering into one moment. One agreement, one minute of Dex’s life that he would treasure forever.

You ripped off one of the tickets and grabbed a pen. Dex watched as you scribbled something on the tiny slip of blue paper. When you were finished, you handed it back to him.

“Here’s my number. Let me know when you’re free.” Dex took the slip from you, his finger tips brushing slightly against yours. 

“Thanks,” Dex said, gripping tightly to the paper. He looked up and met yours eyes. You were staring at him but not in the way he was used to people staring at him. Normally, when people looked at Dex, it was because he wasn’t normal. People could sense it and Dex knew that you could too; but you smiled, stared at him softly anyway. 

“I’m glad you didn’t get bored.” Dex’s brows furrowed. “Bored with ‘Shoot ‘Em Up Hoops’ that is. You stuck around.”

“Yeah, I am too.” 

Yes, Dex thought, he couldn’t have planned it better than this. He was willing to take this slow for you. Coffee first, stability later. He could never get bored with you. 

[e-outwiththeold]

”I love you so fucking much..” Death hadn't been what he'd expected. It did not come in the form of a warm embrace, nor in the form of his employer arriving to collect his damned soul. It was not quick, nor was it slow and steady. It was still, and unexpected, and compounded in emotions he could not begin to express. It was warm and cold and burning, frustrating and calm. He’d felt such great love and admiration, betrayal, understanding, and forgiveness. There was no light. Only the world around him, his world, fading until darkness consumed him. It was everything he deserved, and nothing. Gray Taylor had been a pariah. A creature of monumental errors and missteps alongside great triumphs and even greater failures. Very few appreciated his existence, and he certainly could never fault them for it. He preyed upon those less fortunate, raising them to great heights only to knock them down when they thought themselves to be Gods amongst men. It was cruel, and a choice he’d made for himself above all others. He lived in the past, carrying it with him as he brazenly walked into a predictable future that was unknown. He was a survivor. Only a young man when he was ushered into the Ghetto in the first wave, he'd done nothing to protect his family from their capture and subsequently slow torture. He hadn't fought to keep his mother and sister by his side when they arrived in Plaszow, nor did he try to get word to them within their expansive living grave. He thought of them, yes. He did not share the same desperation and hope as the others. He did as he was bid, burning the bodies of strangers that would later be known as victims of one of history’s greatest genocides. Only once it was too late did he sell the only thing that he could still call his own: his soul, for the survival of his family. As though they were an afterthought, Gray didn't know it was too late. It could be assumed, but he grasped at straws. He only knew his mother hadn't lived through it when the war was over, the camp was liberated, and he was reunited with his gaunt and sickly little sister. He never asked her what happened as he scavenged their way to health and safety. He never heard her tell the tale of how their mother caught death itself, and how Sarah awoke one morning in their crowded bunk to find their mother naught but a skeletal shell of the exceptional woman she'd once been, her corpse huddled against the girl’s back as if clinging to life lost. Sarah's choked sobs would never reach him, because he would never give her the chance to breathe life into them. He was a selfish man, no matter how desperately he tried to spin his vice into acts of selflessness. Gray took many friends over the course of his life, putting them before his remaining flesh and blood. A great many were mere stepping stones, while a few stuck with him, becoming a true piece of his history. Ra, the scarecrow of a man that he’d sworn to protect. So innocent and perfect, his death had ripped from Gray a piece of himself. He had to relearn everything, but not without protest. With Ra, went Sarah. Her blood would always be on this particular pariah's hands. Spring was an angry little woman. She had a foul mouth and a shit attitude, and scared the hell out of nearly everyone that she encountered. But he saw past her terrifying exterior, and just as she stepped into his life, she brought with her a whole family. With them came Autumn. His relationship with the fiery young woman was nothing short of heated and tumultuous. They were flame and ice and melted all that they touched. It was his first real jaunt in the realm of romance, and he’d been particularly horrible at it. She never asked him to change, never raised unrealistic expectations of him. She simply took all that she could get, and gave so much more. He ruined that, as well. Stubborn pride and fear pushed her away, and Gray paid the price. Even when presented the chance to apologize for his failure, he refused. It was Spring that gifted Gray with Jasper Thompson, as well. The furious young woman had a knack for bringing her friend to his knees, and Jasper definitely did just that. Their relationship had been pure passion. It was desire and want and a deep-seated need. It was Jasper that pulled from Gray just a few small words he'd never before dared to utter, and he held no shame for it. Despite their constant mutual dishonesty, they loved fiercely, crashing together again every time they fell apart. During this whirlwind, Spring died, too. It ruined Gray, and he was met with equal measure of support and seething hatred. It depended on the day and the source, but those who dared to question his dedication to Spring Summers were known. More than one person in his corner damned them and their ilk, though it brought him no comfort. Jasper had stayed with him through it all. He performed those sacred rites, and stayed close as Gray sung quietly her final passage, gifting her some bastardized version of the religion she had furiously claimed as her own. He wanted to blame Spring for taking Jasper away, though he knew the truth. Their demise was mutual, however differently driven. These losses stacked, cracking Gray beyond repair - and misery loves company. Another token of Spring’s generosity came in the form of a tall, dark, brooding man that could only ever be described as a human tornado. Victor made life hell for Gray, but with the very best of intentions. Where he was calculated and logical, Victor was irrational and quick to act. He might even call the man emotional, though such a claim would have been met with laughter or violence or both. They carried each other through their personal suffering, and came out on the other end with a fast and strong friendship. A brotherhood, in reality, as Gray could never really imagine a life without this monster in it. It lasted the test of everything and anything possible. In his misery, it was Jasper who gave Gray yet another undeserved gift, no matter how selfish he was in the giving. Claire, who selflessly welcomed Sarah back into his life. Claire was young and yet so very wise despite her short years. They were one and the same. Measured, careful, and cunning. She loved him in the way every older brother longs to be. Claire looked at him and he felt like her protector and guardian, a role model for one so inexperienced. Gray loved her like his. In doing so, he took for granted the very little sister who had been torn from the pits of Hell that he had condemned her to. Finally, his luck had turned and Bodhi Jones crashed into his life. Infuriatingly easy, hardly ever a quarrel between them, Gray fell fast and hard for the karmic man no matter how he tried not to. He fought it halfheartedly, constantly reminding himself of the last one he’d dared to love. But Bodhi gave him the gift of freedom, unconventional as it may have been. The push he needed, directive and clear in it’s message. It had been hard work on his part, and there was never any doubt in his mind that Bodhi had labored for their benefit just as much, if not more. He’d finally found his person. The one. The very air in his lungs and the beat of his heart. His world was allowed to revolve around his partner and Gray would thank God constantly for bringing them together. If only he were better versed, for Gray never felt as though Bodhi truly understood just how important and special he truly is. How could he ever properly explain to this wonderful man that he’d consumed and bettered Gray’s life, delicate and beautiful and dangerous as it was? It is all gone now, and there is not a chance to finally make himself clear. Gray has left them, though not by his own choice. He hadn’t wanted to leave. He’d begged for it not to be so, for more time so that he might truly live in the way so many desire but rarely accomplish. Countless meetings, hundreds of attempts to lengthen his life. He worked endlessly to undo the inevitable. He bartered and bargained and denied his grave away until it was thrust upon him by an unlikely hand. His last breath had been a plea for more, and despite the comfort that was offered to him, Gray Taylor left the world with fear and regret. There were so many things he’d never done, and opportunities he’d been too blind to see. He’d taken so much for granted… and now, he is stood in the back of a theater as he watches those last moments of his life from the perspective of the audience. He sees the way Bodhi breaks and the way his exit from this life only seemed to make things all that much worse for his sweet partner. There are tears and words lost to the universe, and Gray nearly drowns in the tidal wave of his husband’s sorrow. The screen goes black, the theater dark as it’s small audience sat in solemn silence. He needs to go back. It cannot end this way. This is just a bad dream, just like every other that haunted his nights up until now. “Bodhi,” he whispers, eyes stinging as he wills himself to wake up. He moves to make his way out only to find no doors. Gray turns to find one of the audience looking at him expectantly, his name upon their lips. Like looking into a warped mirror, those steel hues lock onto the familiar face and he feels the weight of his life settle down upon him like heavy iron chains and shackles. That life, named for so many, blanketed with a longing for the one person who managed to truly see him. Gray needs him. Bodhi needs him. Just as he begins to shake his head, the screen lights once more with a flickering countdown, and Gray watches on. Bodhi isn’t there. No one is. He isn’t sure how long he has been sitting in this theater. It feels like years, though it has clearly been days. He’d been slow to come to terms with his situation, hesitant to take a seat amongst this tiny sea of viewers when he knows what he needs to do is leave. Perhaps a dozen men and women surrounding him, at best. They’d clearly made themselves comfortable, but Gray is on the edge of his seat and dreading every minute of this. While they laugh and cry and everything in between as life unfurls before them, he remains stoic and disturbed. There is somewhere he needs to be, and someone he needs to see. A woman sat next to him had looked at him at some point, welcoming him and giving her name. “Rebecca. Rebecca Benson,” she’d proudly said. She expressed her pleasure at finally meeting him, and her sorrow at his passing. She had come just before him, she explained. Could hardly believe how long he’d lived and all he’d survived. What a love he shared, she practically swoons. Gray lowered his gaze, feeling the harsh pull of grief beg for him to stand and move despite knowing he couldn’t hope to go far. His jaw clenched, shoulders tight as it all became too much for him to bear. Rebecca took notice of the way he shut down, offering a supportive hand upon his arm before motioning to the screen with a hesitant, Cheshire smile. She has grey eyes much like his own, but they aren’t stormy; Hers are warm like mist in the early morning on a hot summer day. Whomever she had been, she must have been great. He feels comfortable in her presence, the desire to ask about the one he’d left behind strong but strictly held back. What good would it do to ask about the past? That is not where his interests lie. She watched in silence with Gray as the young woman upon the screen carried on, and it was only once he relaxed back in his seat that he finally opened his mouth to question it all in a measured fit of impatience. She’d been waiting for this. Called it completely normal, assured him they’d all gone through it, though none had taken it quite as hard as he has. “This is it,” she’d smiled. The afterlife. The truth of it. She is him, as is everyone else seated in this theater. And the girl on the screen - that is them, now. Then, she frowns, leaning in to whisper as though the others might be unhappy with her for sharing whatever it is she desires to tell him. “This has never happened before, though…” This is a new, but not fresh. This woman is perhaps in her mid-twenties, her life already well begun. She is English, but she lives in Rome. Works at a bookshop. No significant other to speak of, but is close to the owner, a portly, older man with a round nose and crinkly eyes. They seem to have a weekly ritual, dinner every Thursday evening and a bottle of wine. His wife passed away a few years ago, and his son is off doing god knows what, so she has stepped in to fill the void of loneliness. Cagey as his counterparts are, whispers are abound but no questions raised. Nothing of theirs is shared. Not those grey eyes, nor that wide, charming smile. Not their sandy hair, nor the air of confidence they each carry in their respective fashion. No quick wit, certainly none of that almost crazed cunning. None of this mattered to Gray. What mattered is that he has yet to see a single familiar face. He can feel his anxiety building, his fingers almost constantly fidgeting and moving to adjust the cuffs of his sleeves. No Spring. No Autumn. No Jasper. No Claire. No Sarah. No Victor. No Bodhi. Are they still alive, or are they in Hell or some random theater watching their own lives flicker upon a screen like a feature film? On the fourth day, the shop owner passes away, setting the scene for a downward spiral. While they all feel for the girl, there is no camaraderie, as Rebecca would call it. Gray can only think about how long he has been sat in this chair and wonder at where his person is now. Is he safe? Is he okay? Is he healthy? Is he taken care of? Is he taking care of himself? God, does he think he’s been forgotten? As if Gray could ever forget him. Of all the things he’s forgotten and likely going to forget, there is no part of Bodhi that he could ever displace. He just needs to get out of here. He has never heard of a layer of Hell quite like this one, but he would absolutely put money on it being the worst of them. By the time the old man is buried on the seventh day, this particular young woman can only be described as deeply troubled. The shop is open, left to the son who has yet to show his face. The young woman has little to no support as she goes through the motions and does all she can to keep things moving. Several times a day, she watches as a customer exits empty handed before doubling over in her grief. Gray almost feels sorry for her. He would, truly, if he wasn’t swimming in his own heartbreak. Thursday evening, she cooks their meal. Spaghetti and meatballs, the same as last week, as is their apparent tradition. The table is set for two, and two glasses of some labelless wine poured, and only one plate is set. She dines alone in silence, finishing off her drink and barely touching the feast before her. His glass meets her lips, as well. Then the bottle. She falls asleep at the table, her head rested upon folded arms. The next morning, it starts all over again. She wakes, she opens the shop, she tends it. It is after she closes for lunch that she steps out into the street and finds herself colliding with a car driven by a careless youth. There, in the corner of the screen, in the last moments of her life… Gray sees it. That very face he has been searching for, a familiar look upon him. The expression Bodhi has whenever he loses control and his nature reigns supreme, but the light is faded from those warm hickory hues. His person is empty, broken and without. It is as if they are staring at one another. He swears they are, swears that Bodhi sees him in that moment where the veil between life and death is so thin that it might just allow for a glimpse into the other side. Gray pulls himself to his feet as if such movement alone would break the man from his trance and they might find one another again. Bodhi’s name is upon his tongue, and he is desperate for this moment. The theater goes dark, pulling from Gray a tortured growl of a hum. And then, an exit sign flickers at the front corner of the theater. Gray glances at Rebecca before the others. None seem to notice, and none of them move. They simply sit, waiting for whatever comes next. As if this stranger they’d just watched die would show up in their theater, despite them knowing there is no way that it is them. Gray is a selfish man. He always has been, and he always would be. He is selfish because he loves deeply, and desires greatly. Thus, he moves, catching the attention of those around him as he walks toward this gift of freedom. This is it. This is the second chance he’d desired, the time he’d begged for, the very thing he’d attempted to buy but could never afford. How could he not take this opportunity? On the other side of that door, he might just be there, waiting for him. He could lay eyes upon that perfect face once more, and everything would be all right again. So he does. He walks through the door, and instead of grey hues opening to the world it would be pale emerald. It would be pain and fear and confusion. Yelling, talking, and sirens fill the air with clattering noise. Warm, dark eyes would be the only thing that stands out in the swimming surroundings. It would not be Gray Taylor, but instead the very person he’d just witnessed expire by his person’s hand. His second chance is here, but he would never know it. Meet Emma Foster.

@b-thecourageofstars

[2ofswords]

daniil learning more about town-on-gorkhon and how to live in it? trying to find a sense of home...

I got a bit carried away, so it is under a cut! Also I sure hope the story still fits the prompt... Thank you for it either way, I had a fun time writing this! ^^ 

The bartering in the town had always struck Dankovsky as a bare necessity. Sure, there seemed to be a tradition woven around it, but those were usually created to elevate a purpose. In a town torn from the rest of the country and dependant on regular trains, one had to rely on community in times of delay and the method of trading established such a network for basic needs quite smoothly. The days of plague showed as much albeit with a morbid connotation. One simply couldn't call children trading you morphine for needles the height of community values. Still he always imagined the tradition not to disappear but to… subdue. Yet, as always, his hypothesis was proven wrong and people cheerily bartered their sugar for meat the moment the trains continued their delivery. At first, continuing was more of a habit than anything else. There were still some raisins left in his pockets and Dankovsky himself never really had that much love for the small treats. The children were less enthusiastic about them as well, but he didn’t really need the soap they gave him, anyway. Then he remembered the beetles he had kept in his cabinet at Stillwater. An emergency stash he told himself, yet many such emergencies appeared and not a single insect left the house, unless as small tokens he uselessly carried around. A small sentimentality, reminding him that something beside the plague-ridden hell scape exists. Not that it actually mattered in the long run and now… Now he needed to move and the beetles… they would be hard to explain. So they had to go.

Finding a kid that would take them wasn’t very difficult. One of the small children wondered in awe at the collection, starstruck eyes staring at the delicate creatures while her fingers carefully danced over them and Daniil couldn’t help but notice the pull in his gut guiding his memory to times that had died long before his arrival in town. A happy and childish pounding, that broke his concentration long enough to not notice the kid question at first. “I asked, what you want for it.” “Oh… Um…” Maybe he should have thought about that. “You can just keep them. If you like them, they might be in good hands after all. Maybe add some to the collection. Or categorize them, that should probably be done…” The frown that graced her face signalled that his answer wasn’t quite adequate. Yes. This was still about tradition where trust in an equal trade was valued. One cannot disturb the children’s beetle and nut economy without repercussions, after all. “I have to give something back. I have to give you a part of my endurance after all. People say I have so much of it and I can hold my breath longest. Shall I show you?” “I believe you, it is fine. You do not need to… you are competing about holding your breath?” “U-huh. And I still have plenty of it until I reach second place. You seem like you could need some of it.” “… getting out of breath less often sound’s tempting.” He is getting too old for this and he still has a meeting with Burakh and Rubin in the afternoon. Now that the worst is over, he had proposed to take stock of the more harmless illnesses in town to order medicine, that hadn’t expired decades ago. “So you still have to say what you want. Aren’t you too young to always forget what I’m saying? Did the plague get to you?” “Watch your tongue, or you might really need that breath of yours.” “No need to get so defensive, old man. Geez. Don’t they teach you any manners?” Do they teach anyone manners? If someone ever bothered it didn’t have anything to do with the children in town. “So what do you have to give, little brat.” “Hm…” The child crossed her legs while contemplating the business deal. “I have a loaf of bread, I guess. These are a lot of beetles after all…”

A loaf of bread is acceptable. Or so it seemed, until he opens his mouth and noticed, how small exactly the arm was, that held the box of beetles protectively in her lap. How loosely the little dress hung from her body. A loaf of bread would sound fantastic, while he was starving or when there wasn't enough time to reach any of the stores. But this isn’t the case and he isn’t exactly in need of bread. “So do we have a deal or not?” He should close his mouth. Or better yet answer the question. “How about… you give me something else.” He couldn’t possibly take anything from a starving child. Shouldn’t. Ever, yet he had done so too many times. This has to stop, he shouldn’t be even considering it. He is a scientist and as far as he is concerned exploiting children wasn’t in the job description. “How about… a story.” Children like stories, right? They must be valuable in some way. “I mean”, he adds quickly, “the needs of our mind are as important as the basic needs of our body. So I demand you to accommodate my craving for… more intellectual affairs.” “I mean… sure. If you want to… grandpa.” At this point this kid was just testing his endurance. Motivating breathing exercises might also be a way to increase its capacity. “I do.” Her eyes wandered to the box and then back to Dankovsky. “I mean. Sure. Then let me tell you a story…”

He thought nothing of the trade at first. His beetles did after long last find their rightful heir. One objective cleared. Time to indulge in more important affairs. That belief lasted until evening, when he found one of the kids lurking at his doorstep. “Are you the doctor that trades in stories?” “I am the doctor. Are you hurt, is everything alright?” “Look, my friend has gotten himself a splinter in the foot! Walked on some wood, when we were trying to… ah never mind. Anyway, we –“ “Lead the way.” “- we only need some tweezers, but our shop didn’t have any to sell!” “I can remove the splinter. It’s a simple enough procedure and even a small wound needs to be properly disinfected.” “I don’t have anything on me. Maybe one of the buttons, but I only have three of them left. So I thought…” “It’s fine.” But it probably isn’t because everyone seems hell-bent on losing every small trinket in their possession. Does anyone even wear the charms that are made, they seem to change hands on a daily basis. “You can tell me the story while we are on our way. If it is a good one, I might not even tell your parents about it.” The child’s face lit up. “Then buckle up, because I do have a good one.”

The next day turned out to be a complete and utter mess. A mess made of excited whispers whirling hands frantically signing what words cannot convey and a lot of sugar filled food leaving his hands. “So. There once was this boy, who had a small wolf cub as his half …” “And then I saw this monster in the steppe! Not the Shabnak but an even bigger one!” “The bull talked! I swear it did!” “My granddad used to sew, you know, so I had a few needles at hand. And the guy really deserved it, so we –“ “Then a giant wave pulled us out of the facet and we all sat at the stairs, we were so surprised!” At some point in the afternoon he had to stock up on cookies and apples just to gain something to trade away. Utter nonsense. He should’ve demanded this madness to stop. The children were barely giving him enough space to move from place to place and their constant chatter did become… grating. Yet there he was, more sweets in hand, while his next unusual costumers were already waiting right before the shop. Do these brats even know, that he isn’t a walking garbage dispenser? Still. The thought about turning them away seemed just as wrong at this point. He was knee deep in this mess already. Might as well swim. And some of these stories were charming really. Somehow everyone seemed to have swallowed a poet whole and considering the local medicine that might not be that much off from the truth… Still. The constant talking was annoying. Distracting, really, a major inconvenience at best. Yet it was oddly charming to observe their desperate tries to up one another as if they expected Dankovsky to pull a secret cake out of his coat that only the best storyteller could get. They were trying. Inspiring one another, forming a chain of developing fantasies that were quite unreal – and quite frankly useless – but cheerful and… lively.

“There you are. I was looking for you.” “Aren’t you all?”, he answered before turning and noticing Clara leaning against a nearby building. Her smile was as knowing as ever. She couldn’t possibly look into other peoples minds, right? Of course not, utter rubbish. These story’s must have gotten to him after all. “What do you want?” “They say, you are giving out free candy.” “It’s not free. And if that is all, you might want to be on your way.” Of course she is following when he turns on his heels and tries to be on his way. “So, I have a story for you.” “I guessed as much.” He doesn’t even have to look at her to know she is pouting. When he finally does, she seems as happy as ever though. “There once was a prince who was locked outside of his house. When he wandered through the garden, he spotted a flower more gorgeous and beautiful then all of the rest. But the flower grew too large and everything that fell under his shadow withered and died away.” “That must have been quite the flower.” “Shh. I’m talking. So they send for a gardener, even if the prince had loved his flower very dearly. So he gave the flower his heart in order to protect it, when the time had come.” Ah. So that is where this was going. Charming. “And did he manage to save it?” “Of course not! What could a prince have done against the gardener’s shears? So the flower was destroyed and when it shattered the princes heart broke with it.” “… that isn’t a nice story. It doesn’t even have a satisfying conclusion.” “That is because the story isn’t over and you keep interrupting! Anyway, when the prince was left alone in the garden, he tore out the pieces of his heart and buried them into the ground for no one to see. He thought he had hidden it for good, but then it started raining and the pieces of his heart grew tine little stems and, slowly but surely, began to grow out of the ground.” By now they arrived at his doorstep. For a minute Dankovsky contemplated to invite the girl in. But that seemed a bit too forward. So he grabbed a small bag of sweets and some of the dried meat he had bought for himself. Who even knew how long Clara had lurked around town and when she really ate the last time. “So…”, this was getting uncomfortable. And quite frankly, ridiculous. “What did sprout out of the ground after all.” Her grin widened. “How about you tell me? I would trade to hear the end of that story.” “Hm… very well.” When he opened the door and looked back, Clara was already gone. Sighing he entered his own house and close the noise behind him. The town was still recovering, yet at this very day at least around the Bachelor it seemed to be filled with laughter, dreams and a future, where anything could be overcome with the right anecdote in mind. A piece of meat for a smile wasn’t such a bad trade after all. Still not a bare necessity… but something different. There was not really anything new to be heard. Not a real discussion no real bond to every single child who tried to steal his precious time. Still, there was meaning in a word spoken at the right space and time. There was meaning in the act of building sky castles together. Maybe he had once again underestimated the local custom.

[libertariantaoist]

Vietnam should remind conservatives that whenever you put your faith in big government for any reason, sooner or later you wind up an apologist for mass murder.

The revolution occurs when the victims cease to cooperate.

It is curious to note that when for reasons of conscience, people refuse to kill, they are often exempted from active military duty. But there are no exemptions for people who, for reasons of conscience, refuse to financially support the bureaucracy that actually does the killing. Apparently, the state takes money more seriously than life.

In a laissez-faire society, there could exist no public institution with the power to forcefully protect people from themselves. From other people (criminals), yes. From one's own self, no.

Laissez-faire capitalism, or anarchocapitalism, is simply the economic form of the libertarian ethic. Laissez-faire capitalism encompasses the notion that men should exchange goods and services, without regulation, solely on the basis of value for value. It recognizes charity and communal enterprises as voluntary versions of this same ethic. Such a system would be straight barter, except for the widely felt need for a division of labor in which men, voluntarily, accept value tokens such as cash and credit. Economically, this system is anarchy, and proudly so.

It is flawed by one thing: the abstraction of patriotism. People who will damn the government from morning till night, and oppose the State in a million and one ways will, at a time of national crisis, become incredibly patriotic, and begin to say they will do anything for the State. And they begin to talk of duty, service, sacrifice … all of the words that are the worst words in the world, it seems to me, in a human sense. … I don’t know why this is, unless it is that these are such good-hearted people that they really believe that the American state is totally different from any other state—and it’s certainly somewhat different. And they feel that it is important to preserve—they feel they’re preserving the country, but the only language that’s available is, to preserve the State. I have an idea that one of these days, there will be another language, in which we can talk about preserving the country—the landscape, the neighborhoods, the people, the communities—without talking about preserving the State. At which point there will be a lot of radical farmers, factory workers, and small-town residents in this country.

I loved education, which is why I spent as little time as possible in school.

Libertarianism is rejected by the modern left - which preaches individualism but practices collectivism. Capitalism is rejected by the modern right-which preaches enterprise but practices protectionism.

We do not want to lead or be led. We want to be free.

No person is so grand or wise or perfect as to be the master of another person. Teacher, perhaps. Setter of good example, perhaps. Genius, perhaps. But master, no.

We have the illusion of freedom only because so few ever try to exercise it. Try it sometime. Try to save your home from the highway crowd, or to work a trade without the approval of the goons, or to open a little business without a permit, or to grow a crop without a quota, or to educate your child the way you want to, or to not have a child. We all have the freedom of a balloon floating in a pin factory.

My own interest is the responsibility of people to be responsible for their own lives and, with their neighbors, for their public space and actions. To sing their own songs. To make their own inventions..To build and not just to envy. To light that candle which is so much better than cursing the darkness. To be as much as the human condition can sustain, rather than being only what a system can allow.

The Declaration of Independence is so lucid were afraid of it today. It scares the hell out of every modern bureaucrat, because it tells them there comes a time when we must stop taking orders.

For loving, working, and creative people to throw off the yoke of power it is necessary to abolish power itself, not merely to make the yoke comfortable. Where some have power, others do not, and the two classes persist. A free society is where all have power-power over and responsibility for their own lives, power and reason to respect the lives of others. This is also a society without classes, a society of human beings, not rulers and the ruled.

Liberty, finally, is not a box into which people are to be forced. Liberty is a space in which people may live. It does not tell you how they will live. It says, eternally, only that we can.

Everybody knows that the federal government promises a lot and delivers damn little, and pays for most of what it does deliver out of the earnings of individuals rather than the profits of great corporations.

All who love liberty are enemies of the state.

To survive, the people in neighborhoods are going to have to secede.

I am in total opposition to any institutional power. I favor a world of neighborhoods in which all social organization is voluntary and the ways of life are established in small, consenting groups. These groups could cooperate with other groups as they saw fit. But all cooperation would be on a voluntary basis. As the French anarchist Proudhon said. “Liberty [is] not the daughter but the Mother of Order".

Government programs aim at getting money for poor people. Our hope was that knowledge would in the long run be more useful, provide more money, and eventually strike at the system-causes of poverty. Government believes that poverty is just a lack of money. We felt, and continue to feel, that poverty is actually a lack of skill, and a lack of the self-esteem that comes with being able to take some part of one's life into one's own hands and work with others towards shared - call them social - goals.

The most revolutionary thing you can do is get to know your neighbors.

They [anarchists] spring from a single seed, no matter the flowering of their ideas. The seed is liberty. And that is all it is. It is not a socialist seed. It is not a capitalist seed. It is not a mystical seed. It is not a determinist seed. It is simply a statement. We can be free. After that it’s all choice and chance.

There is no better way to return the matter of taxation to full public discusssion than to repeal the withholding taxes on wages and salaries. Only when the American people are confronted with the enormous excesses of government in a personal and direct way - by an annual bill for services rendered - will they be able to make an informed judgment about which services they want and which ones they can do without.

Libertarianism is rejected by the modern left - which preaches individualism but practices collectivism. Capitalism is rejected by the modern right - which preaches enterprise but practices protectionism. The libertarian faith in the mind of man is rejected by religionists who have faith only in the sins of man. . . . The libertarian insistence that each man is a sovereign land of liberty, with his primary allegiance to himself, is rejected by patriots who sing of freedom but also shout of banners and boundaries.

What I have learned about corporate capitalism, roughly, is that it is an act of theft, by and large, through which a very few live very high off the work, invention, and creativity of very many others. It is the Grand Larceny of our particular time in history, the Grand Larceny in which a future of freedom which could have followed the collapse of feudalism was stolen from under our noses by a new bunch of bosses doing the same old things.

The fundamental question of politics has always been whether there should be politics.

Read More

[ivisite]

DRAGONBORN 30 DAY CHALLENGE

Day 5 - Backstory– Who is the Dragonborn Anyway?

Your Dragonborn’s place of birth: 

[ Gudrun Farm, The Rift ] The Gudrun farm has been in the family for many generations, so naturally when Saoirse’s mother got of age, her parents passed it down to her and her husband, whom was made to take the family name as opposed to her mother taking his. Location wise, it sits along the north bank of the Treva River, right between Riften and Ivarstead. 

Why did they come to Skyrim?: 

Fun story, really. After fleeing Skyrim in order to avoid the Thieves Guild and her past with them (and the debt she owes them, but I digress) she decides to skip out on Skyrim entirely at age 21 and travels around literally everywhere else in the years prior to 4E 201. Right before getting caught up in an ambush at a Stormcloak camp where she was trading potions and such for arrows, she was hoping to make it to Windhelm in order to take a ship to Solstheim. That didn’t work out, obviously, and instead she woke up in a cart with an attractive blonde that talked too much, a thief and the leader of the Rebellion. 

List your Dragonborn’s immediate family members:

[ Blood Family ] 

 Mother - Ailsa Gudrun, Father - “Sven”, Younger Sister - Geillis Gudrun

[ Adopted Family / Caravan ] ( Khajiit )

Matriarch “Big Mum” - Qu’Ra, Guard “Little Mum” - Ta’Zarja Adopted Sister / Orphan Buddy - “Snaggle”, Tradesman - Ta’Jiro  

After running off from her actual family because of the “thought I was through with my Forsworn days buT NOPE here let me turn you into a werewolf or at least try to” incident with her father, she runs off and manages to persuade a Khajiit caravan with another little orphan running around to take her in.

How do they feel about their family members?: 

As far as her Blood Family goes, she doesn’t know if they’re alive or not anymore. She hopes her father is at least dead or not involved with her mother and sister anymore but hasn’t a clue of what ever happened to them. She hates her father, for sure, but does sometimes think about traveling out to the old family farm and seeing whats left of it. 

Caravan Family wise, she knows they’re all doing well and in fact often bumps into them on her travels around Skyrim. Snaggle is married with a small kitten of her own running around the caravan and Qu’Ra has taken to fortune-telling, allowing Snaggle’s husband to take over the main trading business. She adores this little family of hers and has a deeply profound respect for the Khajiit culture having spent so much time with them and even going to Elsweyr once or twice with them.

What was their childhood like?: 

Up until the incident with her father dragging her out to the Reach and trying to turn her into a token for Hircine, she was a normal kid at the family farm. She was rambunctious, admittedly, always getting into things or trying to sneak out to go explore but nothing too crazy. 

Upon starting over and traveling with the Caravan around Skyrim around age 12, she was still mischievous, but had to take up learning how to barter and trade, as well as being the primary hunter as far as food went. She was good with a bow and light on her feet, so she did her best to make her presence worth having around. She carried her weight well and once she turned 16 or so, she was sent into cities to trade wares with the citizens since the Khajiit themselves could not. 

These are getting posted later and later bUT I am determined to not have to do a double post day, I’m going to keep up!

also this picture didn’t turn out like I wanted :/ but I suppose that’s part of drawing, doing what you can and then doing better next time. 

ALSO come on day 7 beCAUSE I CAN’T WAIT TO TALK ABOUT HER ANGStY lOVe LifE And LoVeR BoY omg

[inventors-fair]

Flavor of Plane: Entries pt. 2

Let’s go, kids.

@mistershinyobject​ — Aether-Rigged Vedalker // Blueprint — RUNNER UP

This is our only official runner-up for this contest, because it fits into both cool flavor and cool gameplay so well. You absolutely need to get rid of the “artificer” and just put “creature,” and that’s my only current suggestion. Is it broken, as you pondered in your entry? Not with the “once each turn” clause, and this ability is just so cool that it almost begs to be pushed. I’m getting a sense of creation, of stacking a bunch of Blueprints onto a single creature and turning it into an amalgam. Hm, maybe it would be better worded like Bestow? As in, untap this creature OR the blueprinted creature, something like that. This is an idea worth exploring.

@mydeergod-blog-blog — Proof of concept // Upcycling 1

I...am confused. So it’s tutoring for different cards, but they have to be the same type AND cost exactly, and you can only do it if you have a card with the same name? What is this trying to accomplish in terms of gameplay as a mechanic? Mechanics need to inform a set, and I don’t understand what this is informing at all. Do more “upcycling” numbers mean you need more of the exact same permanent for it to trigger? This contest was for a standard/draft set, and in most instances won’t trigger at higher rarities. I really don’t get why this is a mechanic and not a one-off. Even then, it’s immensely confusing.

@nine-effing-hells​ — Eighth District Militia // Cosmopolitan

I really am worried about this card, even though having played lots of Ravnica I understand how it could work. With this as a mechanic, would there need to be a higher as-fan of lands in your Ravnica set? Are gates enough? But if people are picking gates highly, what does that do to nonland cards? I don’t know, I know that this would work well in Ravnican things, and I probably shouldn’t be worried. I do like it, and I want to see it happen. This is a great card to go along with it, too. Just make sure that Vigilance comes ABOVE the ETB trigger.

@partytimesdeluxe​ — Sky Pirate’s Machinations // Prototype

You don’t need a hyphen between “Prototype” and the cost. The mechanic is good and reminiscent of Awaken, kind of. Might be a little pushed, then, but I do love how it creates ostensibly weak creatures that could die if not protected. So, you got that going for you. Problem: this card specifically. Why is it an artifact with that name? “Machinations” is an abstract concept. Coastal Piracy is also a concept, hence enchantment. Not sure if you misread the word or w/e, but it’s making my internal English major growl.

@piecesofliquid — Faithless Cathar // Bloodstained

This is our second of two Renowned-reminiscent mechanics, and I actually really like this card. I just wish that it was easier to get your creatures to stay alive during combat. There needs to be more research done into this: when do people chump-block? Would that happen more often under certain circumstances, certain players? If people know about Bloodstained, how does that change their combat decisions? So this card is asking a lot of questions. Flavorfully, BTW? This one’s probably my favorite of the bunch. Super cool vengeance. Just not sure how Bloodstained plays into larger combat concepts.

@reaperfromtheabyss​ — Soulfire Flamekin // Cinder Souleater // Light & Dark

I really, really wish there were better names for this than light and dark. I also wish that this was a single mechanic. This is going to lead to some immensely confusing board states because it triggers off of opponents’ triggers as well. Forcing all your creatures to one side or another is a cool concept, but I really don’t feel the flavor because of the generic names. The cards feel like Lorwyn, but the abilities don’t. Without light and dark, this is a great transforming card. With them, it doesn’t add anything.

@shakeszx — Well-Kept Knowledge // Barter

“If you would draw a card, you may exile this card instead” — from your hand? Graveyard? Top of your library? When do you get to exile this card? I’m not understanding the timing on that. Regardless, I like how this ability could play, and I think it’s an interesting take on cost reduction. Flavorfully, what you’re doing with this card and what the name is doesn’t make sense. “Barter” is something that you do with an opponent, another person, someone you’re trying to make a deal with. If you’re doing this by yourself, it’s more of a discount, a financial choice, something personal. I’m not getting “bartering” out of this. But! But. Good gameplay.

@snugz​ — Repair Kit // Salvage

There should by a hyphen between the 1 of Salvage and the (2) of the cost, like in Reinforce and Awaken. Aside from that: are you able to make more tokens with bigger Salvage numbers, or a bigger token? It’s not entirely clear from this card alone. I think that this card is fine? I would hope that there are better ways to get noncreature artifacts into you graveyard and all that, especially since this one is giving things indestructible. Maybe if it was a sacrifice trigger and a cantrip? I dunno. Regardless, this mechanic seems like it could be fun. I’m not super excited by this card specifically, but it’s a concept, so.

@strangestquarkwave​ — Luxa Shore Harvesters // Rebuild

Brick counters were already a thing on Amonket for artifacts, right? Why are players suddenly getting them now? Should Rebuild be a thing if you already know how many brick counters you have? Like, what really changes if you just get rid of the words “Rebuild 4″ on this card? Anyway, complaining aside, I think that if brick counters weren’t already a thing this card would be pretty cool. Unfortunately parasitic but that’s just how some cards go. At least it’s a mana dork. Brick counters and building are pretty flavorful. I think there are ways to interact with these kinds of cards in limited that would be fun.

@tmstage​ — Shambling Disentropy // Inviolate

I did indeed see the r/custommagic post that you made. And honestly? The card was better before. Until “changed” gets a definition in the comprehensive rules, I don’t know what this card does. When it read “This card’s characteristics can’t be changed,” I understood what you wanted to do so much more than this card. “Change” needs specifics — power, toughness, type, color, etc. Otherwise you’re going to run into situations where people are arguing what “changed” means. “This card can’t have damage marked on it, that would be changing it!” “Nuh-uh, it can’t die, that would be changing it!” You have to imagine all kinds of players playing your cards, and the most important demographics you have to keep in ind for confusing and powerful effects are: children and assholes. Kids who play Magic need to know what things do to learn about the rules before god-modding themselves. Assholes need to know all the loopholes, so you need to close them before anything weird ends up happening.

~

Thank you all for your entries! New contest tomorrow. FOL might be out, so I might be doing double-duty.