#this is why lichens terrify me

[headspace-hotel]

Oh my god I'm sooooo mad right now

So. I have no business telling people not to collect wild plants/materials.

I do it all the time.

However.

The words "wildcrafted," and "foraged," even "sustainably harvested," are terrifying to see in an ad on Etsy or Instagram

There is a such thing as the honorable harvest where you ASK the plant if it is okay to take, with the intention of listening if the answer is NO. Robin Wall Kimmerer talked about this, She did not make it up, it is an ancient and basic guideline of treating the plants with respect.

Basically it is not wrong to use plants and other living things, even if this means taking their life. But you are not the main character. You have to reflect on your knowledge of the organism's life cycle and its role in the ecosystem, so you can know you are not damaging the ecosystem. You have to only take what you need and avoid depleting the population.

Mary Siisip Geniusz also talked about it in an enlightening way in her book Plants Have So Much to Give Us, All We Have To Do is Ask. She gave an example of a woman who was on an island and needed to use a medicinal herb to heal her injured leg or she would not survive the winter. In that situation she had to use up all of the plant that was on the island. This was permissible, even though it eliminated the local population, because she had to do it to save her life. But in return the woman had the responsibility to later return to the island and plant seeds of that plant.

And what makes me absolutely furious, is that there are a bunch of people online who have vaguely copied this philosophy of sustainability in a false and insulting way, saying "wildcrafted" or "foraged" materials to be all trendy and cool and in touch with nature, when it is actually just poaching.

If you are from a capitalistic culture the honorable harvest is very hard and unintuitive to learn to practice. I am not very good at it still. This is why it is suspicious if someone is confident that they can ethically and respectfully harvest wild materials with money involved.

So there's this lichen that is often called "reindeer moss." It looks like this:

It grows only a few millimeters a year.

This is "preserved" reindeer moss.

It is from Etsy, similar is also sold in many other online shops, many of which have the audacity to describe it as a "plant" for decorations and terrariums that needs no maintenance.

It is not maintenance-free, it is dead. It has been spray-painted a horrible shade of green. The people buying it clearly don't even know what it is. It is a popular crafting material for "fairy houses," whatever the hell those are. So is moss, also dead, spray-painted, and wild-harvested. Supposedly reindeer moss is harvested sustainably in Finland, where it is abundant, for the craft industry. However poaching of lichens and mosses is absolutely rampant.

It's even more upsetting because there's hardly any articles drawing attention to the problem. This one is from 1999. And the poaching is still going on.

There is a "moss" section on Etsy, and it is so upsetting

These mosses and lichens were collected from the wild. Most of the shops are in the Pacific Northwest or Appalachia, which are the major locations of moss and lichen poaching. There are some shops based in Appalachia selling "foraged" reindeer moss.

Reindeer moss may be abundant in Finland, but in Appalachia it should NOT be harvested to be sold on Etsy as craft supplies! Moss doesn't grow quickly. Big, healthy colonies like this took years to grow. Some of these shops have thousands of sales, all of bags and bags of moss and lichen, and thinking of how much moss and lichen that must be, I am filled with horror.

Clubmosses do not transplant well, and these ones have no roots. The buyers do not realize they have bought a dead plant because clubmoss stays green and pliable after it is dead.

This is especially awful because in Mary Siisip Geniusz's book she talked about clubmosses being poached so much for Christmas wreaths that they had almost disappeared from a lot of forests.

I don't even know if this is illegal if it's not a formally endangered species so I don't know if I can report them I'm just. really sad and angry

[botanyshitposts]

Have you ever read the Mars trilogy by KS Robinson? It has heaps of long passages describing lichens gene-edited to be able to grow on mars, it rules. But also have you ever thought about whether plants like lichens could survive on other planets?

ok first of all i will clarify that lichens aren’t plants but symbiotic associations of fungi and green algae, and this is important for me to say because i dont know how to tell you this but lichens are perfectly capable of surviving in the vacuum of space. there have been multiple tests with just putting The Lads into space (in one instance on the outside of the ISS) to see what happens and they just. survive? like there was one study where they had them in a russian satellite for ten days and when they came down they were either fine or recovered within three days of coming back to earth? there have been other studies too. coincidentally i made a shitpost about this about a year ago that has more sources if you’re interested in......uh.....the potential for invasion of other planets by The Lads. 

no gene editing required; to survive with that kind of symbiosis, apparently you have to be tough as hell. downside is that lichens can grow incredibly slowly to the point where they can be used in archaeology to date large exposed structures (this is slightly off topic but the lichens used to date stuff are mostly crustose lichens, some lichens can grow way faster; consider the common species Lobaria pulmonaria, lungwort, which is known to engulf whole ass trees. it’s also one of the fastest growing known lichens, with some individuals being recorded as over doubling their size over the course of a particular three-year study. to be fair, this still says a lot about what’s considered ‘fast’ lichen growth). there are also lichens adapted for antarctic and mountainous conditions; the species that survived being absolutely blasted by the unforgiving nothingness of space in the russian study (Aspicilia fruticulosa) are from the highlands of central spain. they’re literally everywhere. it’s very chaotic but yeah, in short they really beat us with the evolution game in my opinion

[thoughts-into-ink]

been thinking lately about how i tried so hard to leave alaska and alaska will not leave me. i wanted to leave since i knew leaving was an option, since i understood outside to be a place i could go. not just on vacation, not just rick steves red suitcase, mom's favorite travel tv man, not just to paris for a few weeks to drown in the smell of subway piss and since-burned cathedrals. since i understood that i could leave forever.

but of course, i can't leave. or rather, i cannot be left. during orientation week, they asked what home meant to each of us and i said the smell of tundra. how do you explain the smell of tundra, the feeling of it? the way you sink in and spring back and your legs burn with the effort, and clouds of spicy-sweet berry scent come pouring up from the lichens that contain no berries at all because i would never step on a blueberry plant? the rabbit on my chest is not a rabbit. it's a snowshoe hare.

i cannot take my home out of me. i wonder why i ever wanted to. once i was more afraid of returning than anything. i knew people who left only to come back, finding the rest of the world lacking compared to our home. i was terrified of being one of them. i hated it there. nothing ever happens, nobody lives here, it's just trees and more trees until you swim into the arctic ocean. and now, god, now, i find the happening exhausting, the people impenetrable, and god, i miss the trees. i miss the trees.

[delldarling]

request | ruaidhrí

male unseelie fae x changeling!gender neutral reader 2040 words lemon | teasing, cockwarming, mild exhibitionism note: the full release of last year’s kinktober teaser! The old teaser will be edited with a link to this post 💖

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The table stretches across the room, an unsettling puzzle of mismatched bone and grey stained wood, laid over with strange but opulent dishware. Everything is well polished and expertly folded, from the gleaming black faceted plates, to the delicate lichen napkins. The ivory candelabras are placed strategically, carmine flames burning bright over ash colored candles. It’s a shame that they’ll all be broken or torn to bits. You’ve always mourned the mess, even though they’ll be mended again before breakfast. Fixed in a snap and taken away to wash by the servants of the manor. You shouldn’t let it bother you, not when you know what will happen, but it’s difficult, shaking off human customs. It still feels like a waste.

“I fear I’ve been forgotten,” Ruaidhrí says with a sigh. His voice is quiet but commanding, easily filling the emptiness of the room. Your eyes lift from the table, drawn immediately to the scarlet handprint curled around Ruaidhrí’s temple and cheekbone, the fingers of the mark vanishing beneath the heavy curtain of his black hair. The flicker of a smile blooms on his silvery lips, a quick flash of blade sharp teeth. “Ah, not entirely then?” He goads, not even bothering to straighten from his lounging pose. He flicks a lock of hair away from his face, knuckle brushing over the red handprint on his face—the mark of someone who has come far too close to lying for many Fae to trust.

“You called for me and I’ve come. When have I ever forgotten you?” You cross the room, trailing your fingertips over the tops of the elegant mismatched chairs. Your chair, you notice, cushioned with velvety, pale green moss, is missing from its normal place at Ruaidhrí’s side. He isn’t cross with you—he wouldn’t have sent for you at all if that were the case—but you can’t help but wonder where it vanished to.

He tips his head, the black iridescence of his eyes focusing on some distant point, considering your question. “In your dreams, perhaps,” he says, and though his tone hasn’t changed, his mouth twitches downward. He doesn’t like the thought.

“In my nightmares,” you correct, and he scoffs. You come to a stop, prepared to ask about your chair, but your jaw snaps shut when you see why exactly he’s called you down, well before the normal dinner hour.

Ruaidhrí’s breeches are mostly unlaced, thick cock straining against the last of the laces. He’s stroking a single hand languidly over his length, silvery skin growing flushed and warm. He pauses, thumb pressing over the pink head while you stare and then strokes down, squeezing himself tighter until your lips pop open. “I have a… request.” He waits, expectant, fiercely pleased for having captured your attention so thoroughly. He’s always been hungry for this level of focus. You know it has something to do with his parentage, with the dark iridescent eyes that mark him as the child of a changeling and Fae union, but you can barely imagine someone turning away from him. He’s terrifying some days, and achingly lovely others, and… He’s made his home yours. He’s an Unseelie Lord, overly fond of a newly made changeling, a nobody and... And you would never willingly entertain the thought of forgetting him.

“Spoiling the dining room?” You breathe, eyes darting momentarily to the servant’s door. It’s still closed. You’re still alone, for the moment. “Oh, Lord Ruaidhrí,” you whisper, as if you’re scandalized by his proposition.

He rolls his eyes, fond of your teasing, but he lifts his chin, any hint of amusement vanishing rapidly from his face. “Bend over my plate, or you’ll risk one of our visitors catching sight of you.”

Visitors? You’re tempted to ask, to pepper him with questions, but Ruaidhrí is impatient. He seizes the hem of your tabard, pulling you close. A clear command, even without speech. Properly hastened, your hands dart to your breeches, tugging at the laces until Ruaidhrí can yank them down around your thighs.

“Bend,” Ruaidhrí demands, pushing at the small of your back. You place your hands to either side of his empty plate, jostling the razor sharp cutlery. You half feel like you should be stripping, or spreading your legs, but your breeches are laced at the back of your calves as well and Ruaidhrí hasn’t bothered with those. One of his hands—you assume the other is still stroking his cock—drags over your ass and then slides down, nails a gentle pressure on your skin. He knows what you like, how to play, to tease, and even though he’s moving a bit fast he’s still reading the cues of your body.

“Your request?” You breathe, attention caught by your reflection in his dinner plate. The new, soft iridescence of your eyes looks like pale fire, ghostly on the dark surface.

Ruaidhrí hums, soft stroking fingers growing a little bolder, and then there’s a soft clink of a noise before his touch turns slick and warm.

A quiet little “Guh,” escapes you when Ruaidhrí leans close, nipping at the top of one cheek. He doesn’t break the skin, but you can still feel it, long after he leans back in his chair, mark pulsing faintly with warmth. Slow, even strokes that leave you aching turn to the gentle press of fingers. He curls one inside you, and then you can hear the messy, wet stroke of his own hand around his cock. The noise seems to rocket through your bloodstream, pleasure making you tighten around the second finger, followed quickly by a third.

“R-Ruaidhrí. The requ-oh,” your words fade into a low moan as he fucks his fingers into you. He seems content with letting you stand, letting your legs tremble, fingers curling into the lacy lichen of the tablecloth. He works you over until you’re sure that you’re knees are going to give out, until you’re panting out a quiet plea to give you more. He withdraws his hand, careful not to leave any fingerprints on your tabard and grasps your bare hip, yanking you back until the head of his cock is pushing into the mess he’s made of you. The noise you make then is too loud, too long and Ruaidhrí has to let you sink back on your own, his other wet hand clamping over your mouth to muffle the noise.

Ruaidhrí breathes in sharply through his teeth, keeping his hands on your face and hip until you’ve fully settled on his lap. The stretch of him makes you want to roll your hips, to move, but you stay still until his hand falls from your face, until your breath has reached a steady pace and you can see straight again. He sets your clothing to rights, and takes his artfully folded napkin, shaking it open to wipe his fingers free of slick fluid before he tilts your face towards him. He’s soft, almost sweet as he wipes your face, erasing his damp handprint from your skin. “My request,” he says, eyes focused on your parted lips. “Is that you keep me ready.”

You blink, not quite understanding, but Ruaidhrí sees the confusion. He grins, setting his napkin gently over your lap and then tugs sharply at your hips, cock pressing just a fraction deeper. “I want you to keep me hard and aching while I deal with the mess of the other gentry.” He leans in close, licks a stripe over the rapid pulse in your throat and makes such a filthy noise of contentment that you whimper in response. “Give me something to look forward to, to focus on, while the lot of them argue and throw tantrums. Will you?” He breathes, chin hooking over your shoulder, arm curling around your middle.

You know what you must look like now, settled so close on his lap. It’s a declaration to anyone coming to the manor that you’re his, and not a trifle to be shared—though with the table shading your thighs, with the napkin spread over your lap and your tabard carefully arranged, no one will immediately guess that you have his cock inside you. Not unless your face gives it away. “Yes,” you whisper, even knowing that you’ll have a hard time of it.

Ruaidhrí rewards you with a rough, messy kiss, leaning back in his seat with a satisfied sigh as soon as the echoing noise of approaching feet fills the air. Dinner has begun.

Some of the attendees greet you with nothing more than a glance, but it’s more than most of the others give you. You’re ignored by the beetle eyed and bloody lipped Fae thanking Ruaidhrí for their invitations, and all the while you have to keep from letting them know. You have to stay still, to warm his cock and clench your inner muscles to keep from rocking yourself in his lap and- it’s so much harder than you would have thought.

Ruaidhrí is served the choicest bits from his larder, food fast filling his plate, but he keeps reaching, pressing his cock deeper as he plucks berries from a bowl, so crusted with sugar that they look frozen. You clench your jaw when he jostles you with his thigh, trying to keep from bleating out that you want more, that you want friction, that you want him to fill-

“Will you support the exchange with Autumn?” A haggard looking Fae says, the brown leaves of his eyebrows rising when Ruaidhrí jostles you again and you gasp.

“I’ve little reason to refuse,” Ruaidhrí says, and you want to curse for the lack of emotion in his voice. He picks his goblet up from the table and then tips it to your mouth, expression stoic as he watches you lick your lips. His cock pulses inside you though, a silent reply to your tease.

The rest of dinner passes in such a lust fueled haze that all you can feel now is an ache in your abdomen. You wriggle when you can, letting Ruaidhrí hand feed you like a silent doll, trying to keep yourself quiet while he discusses matters of Court. You desperately want the dinner to end, for him to fuck you, for you to do anything more than warm his cock, but you know that time is coming. You just have to wait, and Ruaidhrí has never been fond of making things easy.

His hand finds your hip after he’s finished picking at his food, and he pinches every time he wants you to squeeze him. You clench, and breathe slowly, looking away when a spikey headed Fae with no eyes tilts their head your way, like they know. There’s a hitch in your breath the next time he shifts and then fear blossoms. The dinners rarely end until the host is the one leaving, and you just so happen to be sitting on the host’s cock.

“Soon,” Ruaidhrí breathes, reaching for his goblet again. His thigh tenses, moving you just enough for you to enjoy a second or two of friction before he’s sitting back.

It’s hardly soon enough. Time ticks away like slow dropping grains of sand, conversation and arguments nothing more than a haze in your brain—and then Ruaidhrí seizes his chance. A cackling Wisp and a Blackthorn Fae get into a fight, drawing three or four more into the fray before the whole room is drowning in noise. Ruaidhrí quirks a finger at his steward, waiting for her to approach. “Take care of the mess, will you, Raonaid? I’ve more important matters to attend to than soothing feelings.” The dining room vanishes in a snap, and then you’re face down on Ruaidhrí’s mattress, his hand between your shoulder blades, hips pressed flush against your ass.

“Important m-matters?” You rasp, eyes falling closed as he rolls his hips.

“Don’t you think this is important?” Ruaidhrí asks, pulling back and then snapping his hips forward again. Your legs shake, hanging over the edge of the bed. “Or shall we return, and gain ourselves an audience?”

“No.”

Ruaidhrí laughs, his next thrust making you gasp. “Then I suggest you cheer on my efforts, and please, be loud, or I might not hear you over the ruckus downstairs.”

You do your very best.

༻ ————- ༻✦༺ ————- ༺

[melanielocke]

Lost in the Shadows - Chapter 6

AO3

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Taglist @nott-the-best @foxglove-airmid @alastair-esfandiyar-carstairs1 @justanormaldemon @styxdrawings

It took less than ten minutes to discover the identity of the boy from the lake. As soon as they had arrived home, Lucie had started up her laptop and searched for missing children in the area. There was a boy called Steve Johnson, twelve years old. Lived in the village, just like the boy had told her. Had gone missing only a week ago. Lucie skimmed through the newspaper article. She’d thought the boy might have been dead for some time already, but he had been only dead for a week. She suspected he’d drowned the day of his disappearance. The article mentioned that the boy was a competitive swimmer, which explained why he hadn’t considered the danger in going swimming alone, but still, how likely was it that a competitive swimmer drowned in a lake that was perfectly safe for swimming? There were no dangerous currents, no weeds one could get trapped in. Drowning was always a risk, but in this lake, Lucie would only expect that to happen to people who couldn’t swim very well. Definitely not the case with this child. Exhaustion, then? But there was an island in the middle of the lake, and it wasn’t big. Anywhere he could have been, he should have been able to swim at least someplace he could stand in the water.

The boy had said something about how every time he tried to swim close to the shore, he’d appeared someplace else. Lucie wasn’t sure if she should believe that, ghosts tended to be confused about their deaths. Many didn’t remember dying at all until they realized what they were, and even then Lucie had heard some odd stories that couldn’t possibly be true. It was usually more believable that dying played tricks on the memory. But if that were true, if something had trapped the boy in the lake, then it would make sense why a competitive swimmer had drowned.

‘If he drowned and no one found out what happened, then his body must still be in the lake, right?’ Cordelia asked.

‘I think so. Someone should go looking for him. If the police know he’s in the lake, they should be able to find him. The problem is, how do we let them know where to look? I can’t exactly go to the police station and tell them I spoke to his ghost.’

‘We can send an anonymous tip,’ Cordelia said. ‘Maybe claim we saw him go into the lake around the time he disappeared.’

Lucie frowned. ‘Would they believe someone only called now a week later?’

Cordelia shrugged her shoulders. ‘Could be that we didn’t recognize him at first, we don’t know the child. But after looking at the missing posters, we realized this was the child we saw go into the lake to swim on the same day he disappeared.’

Lucie started rubbing her wrist, something she usually did when she was nervous. Then something occurred to her. ‘If he went swimming and never returned, then he must have left his belongings somewhere, right? A bag, some clothes, at the very least a towel. There was nothing at the beach.’

‘Lots of places where he could have entered the water,’ Cordelia said. ‘Most would be hidden from sight, so a bag or towel would not attract attention there. You mean to say someone might have taken his belongings to cover it up?’

‘Maybe. Or maybe he put the bag somewhere hidden from sight and no one has stumbled upon it yet. I’ll call with an anonymous tip, and claim I just saw a missing poster and realized I saw that boy go into the lake, that he might have drowned.’

Lucie was sick with nerves, staring at the phone. Princess Lucinda, a fictional and much braver version of Lucie, might never have heard of a phone, but she would not be scared to make a simple call if she knew how. But Lucie was terrified of making phone calls. She knew it was a stupid fear, but it was so unpredictable what might happen after someone picked up. What they’d say, what she was supposed to say, how loud someone else was going to sound through the phone. If she could even understand what they were saying, no matter how loud someone was, Lucie often struggled understanding speech through a phone.

‘Do you want me to make the call?’ Cordelia asked.

‘I can do this,’ Lucie said, more to herself than Cordelia, and she picked up the phone and called the police station.

She hung up as soon as she was done, she wanted to avoid questions she couldn’t answer. Police received anonymous tips all the time, right? Would they be looking already? Would they find him?

‘Can we take a walk?’ Lucie asked. ‘For distraction.’

‘That’s alright,’ Cordelia said. ‘Do you think Thomas and Alastair are still out there? Alastair used to take walks of several hours, he can probably spend an entire day there and not get tired of it.’

‘Funny. Thomas did the same thing. His attempt to get away from overprotective family members,’ Lucie said. ‘I’m sure they’re having fun.’

Lucie knew Thomas’ family worried for him because he used to be so sick, and his parents and sisters had never really left the pattern of Thomas being the small sick boy who needed to be cared for. Thomas greatly valued time alone because of that.

Lucie quickly went into her bedroom and changed into something more practical for a walk. When she returned downstairs she noticed a note her parents had left, she’d been so preoccupied with finding out who that boy was she hadn’t seen it at all. Her parents had gone grocery shopping and would be away for some time since the village didn’t offer much vegan food. A couple of months ago, Thomas had decided to go vegetarian because he liked animals and cared about the environment and Lucie had decided to surpass him by trying a vegan diet instead. Thomas couldn’t stay behind and had joined her, leaving two sets of exasperated parents desperately trying to figure out what they could still feed their kids. Both Lucie and Thomas were ridiculously stubborn, so any attempt to change their minds had been in vain. Fortunately, the UK was one of the easiest countries to find vegan food. Lucie was especially proud of Thomas, she knew he struggled with making choices for himself that inconvenienced others and this was something he’d chosen for himself.

Lucie and Cordelia walked into the woods, and Lucie made sure to take in the atmosphere. If this were a scene in her novel, how would she describe the trees? They were tall, for sure, thick, allowing little light to pass through. There was lichen growing over rocks and trees. There was a fog that was worst in the morning but never quite lifted. If this were a scene in her novel, Lucie definitely would mention the fog. It was both beautiful and eerie, the backdrop for a dark or scary scene. There were some birds in the trees, Lucie couldn’t see them, but she could hear them. If the scene became creepy enough, they would fall silent.

‘Is there always a fog here?’ Cordelia asked.

‘Usually,’ Lucie said. ‘I’m not sure why, weather science is not my expertise. It’s worst in the morning. Makes for a nice atmosphere though. Mysterious, eerie.’

‘Creepy,’ Cordelia added.

‘That too,’ Lucie said. ‘If I ever write a gothic or horror novel, this forest shall certainly serve as inspiration.’

‘Now I’m getting nervous,’ Cordelia admitted. ‘What kind of creatures do you think hide here?’

‘Oh, probably nothing,’ Lucie said.

‘Well, if something attacks us I’ll have cortana to fight it with,’ Cordelia said.

‘You brought your sword?’

Cordelia put her hand around her golden necklace. Lucie realized she always wore that necklace, but it had never occurred to her that it was cortana.

‘It changes shape?’

‘Exactly. I can’t exactly walk around carrying a sword, so it changes into a necklace I can wear daily,’ Cordelia said. ‘I’ve never really used it to fight something, but if we are attacked, I can defend us.’

‘Has it always changed into that necklace? Now I’m picturing your father or uncle Jem wearing it,’ Lucie said.

Uncle Jem could look well with it, she guessed, but she couldn’t picture Cordelia’s father wearing a necklace.

‘It changes into something different for each of us. For my father, it was a fancy golden watch. For uncle Jem, it was a jade pendant.’

‘Has Alastair ever carried cortana?’ Lucie asked, curious what it would change into for him.

‘No,’ Cordelia said. ‘He did want it when he was maybe fourteen, but the sword chose me over him. I think he later realized it wasn’t for him anyway. He has his daggers in case something really bad happens, but apart from that he’d rather stay away from the dangerous parts of the supernatural.’

Lucie wasn’t sure what she wanted, if given a choice. Sometimes ghosts could be unsettling, especially when she discovered they had passed recently or asked her if she could solve their murders. She wanted to be a writer, not a hero, but at the same time, she liked being able to see people when no one else could and she liked solving mysteries. She liked being able to help, to give the ghosts some power. Unfortunately, many ghosts needed things she could not give them and reading them parts from her stories didn’t typically help them move on. Some did give useful feedback though.

‘Are his daggers magic too?’ Lucie asked. ‘Like cortana?’

‘I don’t think they can kill anything like cortana does. We don’t know, some are old and have a rich history and for all we know they were magic. Neither of us have been willing to test that though, and Alastair keeps them because he likes collecting them, he doesn’t intend to fight with them if he doesn’t have to.’

Lucie didn’t know the particulars of killing supernatural creatures, and according to her father much of it was trial and error. Cortana was special in that regard, since it guaranteed to kill anything, but for others they would just have to hope whatever weapon they have does something.

‘Do you think they have started looking already?’ Lucie asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Cordelia said. ‘Missing children usually have a high priority, so I guess they would have started already. Searching a lake for a body might take some time, even a small lake like this one.’

‘What are you doing here?’

Lucie and Cordelia turned around to see Alastair and Thomas. Alastair really looked tiny next to Thomas despite being average height, she thought. They both looked like they’d been here for a while, a bit sweaty, Thomas’ face flushed. Alastair’s usually meticulously styled dark hair was a bit messy.

‘We went for a walk.’

‘I thought you wanted to go swimming,’ Alastair said.

‘We did go swimming, but after that we came here,’ Lucie said. ‘For distraction.’

She decided the boys had better know the truth too, and summarized her encounter with Steve’s ghost in the lake and the story he’d told about being unable to get out of the lake.

Thomas looked unusually nervous, was he alright? Alastair looked concerned at most, but as far as Lucie remembered he rarely showed emotion. She wondered if Thomas and Alastair had had any fun during their walk.

‘Trapped in the lake?’ Alastair frowned. ‘There are stories of people getting trapped in certain places by powerful beings. Of course, no one knows if those are true since people who become victims of such things usually don’t live to tell about it.’

‘Perhaps we better return to grandma’s house,’ Lucie suggested. ‘Then we can explain everything, figure out if anything needs to be done.’

On their way back, Lucie did most of the talking. She asked Thomas and Alastair if they had any fun, but neither of them spilled much. Thomas mentioned something about them seeing a hedgehog and that Alastair liked them, and at some point Lucie fell into telling them all about her latest story idea. Only when they were home it occurred to her that Alastair might not care for her stories at all. Lucie could never tell, and when people politely told her something along the lines of ‘that’s interesting’, she tended to take that as an invitation to talk about her projects for the next hours. British people tended to be very polite, so they never said what they meant and left Lucie to figure out what they were trying to say. It was very annoying.

Not long before grandma’s house came back in sight, something caught Lucie’s eye. She stopped, Alastair nearly bumping into her, but she ignored him. Instead, she stared in the direction where she thought she might have seen something. There was a boy there. Not the one from the lake, but another boy of around twelve. Dark hair, light eyes, Lucie realized she recognized him.

‘Lu, are you alright?’ Thomas asked. ‘You look like you’ve seen a- never mind.’

You look like you’ve seen a ghost, except with Lucie that was often the case and it rarely startled her this much.

She’d known about her ability already when Jesse died, had known about for as long as she could remember really. She’d searched for him, in the forest where he’d died, at school. She’d even gone by his mother’s house, who had refused to let her in. She’d never seen him, never even caught a glimpse. He must have moved on already, she’d thought and although she’d wished she’d had a chance to say goodbye, Lucie was fine with the idea of him moving on. It was better than remaining as a ghost.

But here he was, and he hadn’t changed a bit since he’d died over four years ago. Still a twelve year old boy, and it hit Lucie just how young he’d died.

‘Jesse!’ she called out.

Jesse looked up. He had a haunted look in his eyes ghosts sometimes had. He didn’t say anything, nor did he move any closer.

‘Jesse!’ she tried again. ‘It’s me, Lucie! I can see you!’

Jesse opened his mouth as if he was about to say something, but then disappeared as if he’d never been there. There was no poof, no cloud of shadows or ray of light in which he disappeared. He was just gone, no evidence that he’d been there at all. But Lucie was sure of what she’d seen. Jesse Blackthorn had just appeared in front of her. But why here, so far from where he’d lived and what he knew? Why now, four years after his death?

‘What is he saying?’ Cordelia asked.

Lucie shook her head as she tried to get her breathing under control. ‘Nothing,’ she whimpered. ‘He’s gone. He disappeared. But he was right there, it was him.’

[love-and-monsters]

Siren Song

M monster X F human, 4,660 words

I initially had other plans for the story I was posting today, but inspiration really struck for this one, and I decided to write it as an early birthday gift to both myself and this blog! My birthday’s tomorrow and this blog turned three last week! Thanks everyone who follows me, it’s really nice to have so many people appreciating this little space with me. 

Anyway, this story involves a mysterious siren calling to you at night. But is he friend or foe? And can he really give you what you desire?

There was something singing in the depths of the castle.

You had been in the castle for only a few days. It was a job, a fairly unique job and one you took with no small amount of pride. The castle was undergoing restoration and you, along with several other people, had been called in to carefully restore different aspects of the castle.

You were repairing the beautifully embroidered tapestries that hung throughout the castle. For a couple of days, it had even been nice. The work was interesting, there were other craftspeople around the castle to talk to, and the pay was decent. Admittedly, the castle was warm (it was the middle of summer and there was obviously no air conditioning) but other than that, it was overall a great stroke of fortune that you’d gotten this job.

And then the singing had started.

At first, you’d thought it was something you were just dreaming about. You’d wake in the morning with the last notes echoing in your mind and the fading remnants of music-filled dreams. Exhaustion had followed you throughout the day, like your sleep had been restless. No matter how early you went to bed, you woke with a foggy head.

And then the sleepwalking started.

It started small, though that hadn’t really been that much less concerning. You’d woken up standing across your room, staring at a wall. For a time, you’d chalked it up to the stress of a new job and a new location and hadn’t told anyone.

But the longer you stayed in the castle, the worse it became. You started waking up in the hall. In other rooms. Waking up became a slower and more difficult process. You would become aware that you were up and out of bed, but the soothing, wordless singing that surrounded you prompted you to keep dreamily moving forward. There was usually a full minute of gradual awakening before you grew aware enough to stop yourself.

It really started to worry you when you woke up in a part of the castle you didn’t recognize. Technically, there were no areas that were off limits, but there were places that you just didn’t regularly go in the course of your job. And the dank, slightly moldy basement was one of them. There had been a moment of awful, gut-wrenching panic when you realized that you were in pitch-blackness, so dark that there was no difference between closing your eyes and opening them. Panic had seized you for a moment and you’d turned, fumbling in blind panic, and sprinted from the basement.

In hindsight, bolting down a damp stone hallway in pitch blackness wasn’t the smartest move you could have made. Really, it was lucky you didn’t slip and break a leg, or worse. After you got through your bolt of panic, you’d calmed enough to slow down and, a few seconds later, you’d come across the stairs. They’d led up out of a trapdoor and into a part of the castle you’d recognized.

It was relieving that you had found your way back, but the experience had rattled you. At the dinner you and some of your coworkers shared, you told them your problem.

“Dude,” said Monica, who was focused in furniture restoration, “that’s fucked up.”

“I know.” You slumped back, picking listlessly at your food. “I have no idea why it’s happening.”

Bennet, who was reorganizing the castle library, shrugged. “I heard that sometimes you can sleepwalk if you’re in an unusual location and really stressed. Are you really stressed?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t feel that stressed out.”

“It’s a big responsibility,” Cory said. You’d worked with him a couple times, restoring some of the old clothing in the castle. “Maybe you’re more stressed than you realize?”

“How can I be that stressed without realizing it?” you asked. “Look, I don’t know why it’s happening, I just want it to stop.”

“There’s a doctor in town,” Bennet said helpfully. “I got the number of the office when we got here. I don’t know how soon you can get an appointment, but it’s something.”

“Thanks,” you said. “Send me the number.”

“And,” Monica added, “we can keep an eye out for you, if you want. If we see you wandering around, we’ll wake you up.”

Admittedly, you didn’t have a lot of hope in that solution. Everyone was usually asleep when you were wandering around. But you smiled at her anyway. “Thanks. That’d be nice.”

“Could you move something in front of your door?” Cory suggested. “A big piece of furniture? Maybe if it’s hard to get out of your room, you’ll at least stay put.”

You shrugged. “I can try, I guess.”

There was a wardrobe in your room that you managed to pull in front of the door before bed. It was difficult enough to move that you figured you’d wake up before you managed to actually get out of the room. It was only a temporary solution, but given that the doctor’s office couldn’t even see you until next week, you didn’t have much of a choice.

You felt more secure as you got into bed, but there was still a nervous twist in your stomach as you got into bed.

Dimly, you were aware that you were moving. It felt like you were floating under the surface of a black lake, bobbing peacefully. Distantly, you could hear wordless song. It was mournful, but beautiful and utterly heart-wrenching. You moved toward it, the haunting sound of it tugging at your chest.

A voice whispered in the back of your mind. Shhh, it murmured. Come to me. It’s all right. Shhh.

The voice was soft and soothing, but you could feel that something was wrong. You weren’t supposed to be here. Where were you? Relax, the voice murmured. Just relax. It’s all right.

No, this wasn’t right. This wasn’t right! Panic surged through you and you blinked your eyes open, jerking out of your stupor. The voice started to speak, but as you woke, it grew faint and garbled before vanishing entirely.

You were in the basement again. The walls were still damp and stone, with a slightly fuzzy substance on them you really hoped was moss. You could hear water flowing from somewhere nearby. Behind you was completely dark, but in front of you, there was a faint bluish glow.

You had no idea where you were, but you were reluctant to head back into the gloom behind you. Hesitantly, you started forward into the faint glow.

The noise of running water got louder as you headed toward the light. The hall ended, stretching out into a long, perpendicular tunnel. A river ran through it, with only a thin bit of solid ground on either side. The walls were covered with some kind of glowing lichen. It would have been beautiful, if you had known where you were.

There was a loud splash from nearby. Your head snapped toward the sound, but all you saw was something slender and dark slipping under the surface. Worry tightened around your stomach and you started backing toward the hall.

One of your feet landed in a puddle of water and you felt your balance shift. You whirled your arms frantically, but you overbalanced and slammed down on the ground, hard. Nothing was broken, but something was definitely bruised and the wind had been knocked out of you. Groaning, you pushed yourself up.

Something was watching you from the water. You could see the upper half of its head poking up above the surface, dark eyes focused on you. It moved toward the edge of the water, shape growing clearer as it approached.

You were pretty sure you were still asleep. You didn’t feel asleep. You felt achy and cold and terrified. But there was no way you could be awake. Because the thing that was watching you from the water was a merman.

He had dark skin, but a sort of bluish-black rather than the brownish black of human skin. His tail swished through the water behind him, sleek and black. A long fin ran down the top of his tail, spreading into the long, surprisingly delicate-looking fin at the end of his tail. One of his hands slipped out of the water and you saw that it had short, sharp claws and webbing spread between each finger. His hair was long and, at closer inspection, probably not actual hair. It looked like the long, thin tentacles of a jellyfish, and you could see them twitching slightly in the water.

A thrill somewhere between excitement and terror passed through your stomach. You could feel your breath coming in shallow, quiet gasps. The merman looked at you for a moment, apparently sizing you up, then hummed a few notes.

The noise was ringing and bell-like, resonating in the hollow of your chest. “You were the person I heard singing,” you said, almost whispering. “You drew me here, didn’t you? It was your voice I heard in my head.”

The merman smiled. His teeth were all needle-sharp. Your breath caught in your chest. In a single, smooth motion, he placed both his hands on the edge of the stone side and heaved himself up out of the water.

You barely had time to register what you were doing before you were on your feet and fleeing down the hall.

You weren’t entirely sure how you managed to get out of the basement. It was a blur of skidding around turns and running down twisting halls. Eventually, you found a doorway and bolted up it into the castle.

When you got back to your room, you saw the wardrobe shoved haphazardly off to the side. Apparently, moving it aside had failed to wake you after all. Or perhaps you’d been awake the whole time and just been under some sort of spell. Either way, it didn’t seem like there was anything you could do to stop yourself from leaving your room.

You spent the rest of the day trying to think of a new plan. Just leaving was, technically, a solution, but it was one that made you sort of nervous. If you ditched this project, your employers would almost certainly trash you to others in the community, and embroidery restoration was niche enough that if you failed this job, you would probably never work again in the field.

Admittedly, weighing that against the possibility of dying and being eaten shouldn’t have been much of a contest, but you’d spent practically your entire life trying to get a job in a field you were passionate about. The fact that you were going to have to run from it because of some weird creature skulking in the basement of the castle was frustrating. You attempted to pack your bags several times, only for sour disappointment to stop you.

By the time evening rolled around, you had a different plan.

This thing was trying to draw you in for some reason. You were going to make it regret that.

The kitchen had a whole bunch of knives, because you were expected to make your own food. You took one of the smaller ones, wrapped it in some cloth that you stitched together in a sort of makeshift sheath, and returned to your room.

You’d always woken up around the same time at night. Tucking the sheath around your waist with another piece of cloth, you grabbed your phone and set an alarm for about 3 A.M. You weren’t sure if it was going to entirely wake you up, but it was something. Maybe it would at least be loud enough to shock you out of it.

Even with all that, you didn’t feel comfortable sleeping. You sat on your bed, legs tucked underneath you, staring out the window. The moon rose, nearly full, over the trees in the distance. The moments ticked slowly by. Drowsiness lapped at you, threatening to pull you under. Your blinks grew longer. Your thoughts slowed. You were so tired. You could feel your body falling asleep around you, drifting between sleep and wakefulness.

There was music coming from somewhere. Beautiful, wordless singing that rang like a bell. It was full of longing and desperation and a deep, endless sorrow. It drew you inexorably. You were moving before you even realized what was happening.

A distant part of your mind recognized that this, regardless of the knife, was a bad idea. But you couldn’t stop. The music pulled you in and dulled your conscious mind until all that was left was the desire to go toward that beautiful song.

Down the halls, through a partially-hidden passage, and into the basement. Your mind came and went like waves on a shore. A few times, you nearly woke up entirely, but then a swell of notes would push your thoughts back into sleep.

The deeper you got into the basement, the harder you fought against it. One of your hands slipped to the knife at your waist. Even with your hand on the knife, you were nervous. The song slowed your movements significantly. There was a solid chance you wouldn’t be able to actually use the knife before he got to you.

The sound of water grew louder and you stepped into the glowing blue hall. In the middle of the water. His mouth was open and from it issued the song that was ringing in your head. It was almost a physical presence this close, a weight you could feel wrapping around you.

A voice whispered in the back of your mind. Welcome back. Come to me. Join me.

You felt yourself kneel next to the water, bending over the edge. He swam up to you, pulling himself out of the water. One of his hands came up and cradled your cheek and chin. His skin was cool and smooth and his claws pricked against your skin like needles. The way he was holding your head made you feel like he was seconds from kissing you.

The song was still there, but it was fainter. Your will was seeping back into your limbs. Your fingers tightened on the knife and, in one swift motion, you pulled it out and pressed the tip of it to his throat.

He froze. The song stopped entirely and your head cleared. The knife pressed a little more firmly against his neck. “Let me go.”

He made an odd clicking noise in the back of his throat. I think I could say the same to you, no?

You’d heard the voice before, but this was the first time you really registered it as coming from him. It was almost as musical as his song, though it echoed exclusively in your head, not in your ears.

“If you don’t let go of me,” you said in a tense voice, “I will cut your throat right now.”

The hand against your face slipped away. You sat back. He eased his head back from your knife, then turned and plunged sinuously into the water.

He swam a short distance away, then poked his head up again to watch you. When he saw that you hadn’t left, he emerged further, watching you with clear interest. You stared back at him. There was a part of you that wanted to run, to get away from this obviously dangerous creature. But a larger part of you felt you had the upper hand, at least temporarily, and you wanted to end this. “You keep calling me here. Why?”

He plunged under the water, tail rippling after him. For a moment, you thought he had simply left, then his head broke the surface. There have not been people living in my castle for many years.

“Your castle?” you repeated, unable to keep incredulity out of your voice.

He moved closer with a powerful stroke of his tail. My castle. It is my home. My territory. He rolled onto his back, revealing a slim, muscular torso.

“Are you drawing us down here to get rid of us?” you asked. Your hand tightened on your knife handle. The merman looked at you, then plunged under the surface. If you focused you eyes very carefully, you could just barely see him swimming, long, powerful tail flexing and twisting like an eel’s.

Abruptly, he sprang from the water in front of you. With his hands splayed on the stone, heaving his upper body above the waves, he was taller than your kneeling form. You could see the individual filaments of his hair. The sharp, oddly pretty structure of his bones. The intelligent gleam in his dark eyes.

You are an interesting human. Such desires… Are you unique in your kind?

“What are you talking about?”

The merman slouched back into the water, still watching you carefully. I am a siren, my dear. We can sense your deepest desires and dreams.

“You’re psychic?” you asked, with cautious skepticism. The siren made a clicking noise again. You were pretty sure it was him laughing.

To an extent. I can sense your desires. They guide my song, help draw you in. He eyeballed you from the water, expression inscrutable. You are of interest to me.

“In what way?” you asked. The siren lifted his head close to yours. You hesitated. You weren’t sure how fast he could move and if he could get his teeth into your throat before you could swing the blade. Slowly, you pulled the blade forward. If he was going to try and take you out, he would come with you.

He didn’t seem to notice. I have seen many humans in my time here, though few stay for long. Human desires are often similar to one another. Accomplishment. Affection. Admiration. Simple things at their base. But yours… He squinted at you, tail swishing back and forth. You differ.

You sort of wished that was more surprising to you. But you were aware that you were somewhat different from other people. You were a loner. You preferred being in nature, separate from people. Sometimes, you felt something pulse through your veins, something wild, and you wanted more than anything to slip into the trees and shed your skin and be one with the world around you.

The siren’s eyelids fluttered and he tilted his head back. Yes. That desire. It’s unusual. It… intrigues me.

“And that’s why you called me down here?” you asked. The siren pulled himself closer to the shore, folding his elbows over the stone lip.

I saw your dreams for days. And I found them… attractive. Shimmering, pearly lights glowed along his side for a moment in a striking display. I have been here for a long time. But I have not had a companion. I have been wishing for another to hunt with. To be with. His hand moved out of the water and caught your face, holding it. The tips of his claws scratched lightly along your cheek, sending a pleasant tingling through your body. Your breath caught. I can sense your desire even now. I can sense your longing.

You sucked in a short breath. His face was so close to yours. He was handsome, oddly enough. And the sensual sound of his voice in your head was attractive. “How do I know you’re not going to draw me into the water and kill me?”

One of his hands struck out, seizing your wrist. The knife twisted from your grip. His body surged out of the water, other hand seizing your shoulder. His weight against you made it hard to move. But more than that, you were aware of his mouth at your throat.

His lips brushed your skin. You froze. For a moment, his lips worked at your throat, like he was nibbling without teeth. You felt yourself tremble.

If I wanted to kill you, I would have. You could not stop me. I could rip your throat out, pull you under and drown you. He pulled back. But I have no desire to do so. I wish for a companion. And in you, I sense a kindred spirit. One who belongs to the fierceness of the waves and the hunt. This is what you desire, is it not? A release from the restrictive human life? You need not worry about the minutia humans fret over. You can be free.

Desire welled inside you. You pressed your lips together, trying to keep your good sense in charge. “I can’t just… I can’t just decide that. I need time to think.”

Of course. Think on it. I will sing again tomorrow night. Come to me with your decision. With that, he turned and vanished into the water.

You seized the knife and stood. There was already no sign of him. With apprehension and desire fighting in the hollow of your chest, you turned and left the water.

Luckily, you remembered the way out. You climbed out of the basement and sat against the wall. Your legs were trembling. Already, what you had just experienced seemed unreal. But it had been real. You were sure of it.

“Hey, are you okay?” You looked up. Monica was peering down at you, concern written over her face. “Were you sleepwalking?”

“Yes,” you said. “Pretty much.” Monica offered you a hand and you took it, letting her haul you to your feet. You leaned on her a little bit as you headed back up to your room.

Monica walked with you all the way back to your room. “Are you sure you’re doing okay?” she asked you, looking cautiously into your face. You nodded. “You’ve got a doctor’s appointment about this, right? It’s probably not good to be wandering around the castle all the time. It’s not the safest place ever.”

You glanced up at her. “Can I ask you something that’s maybe a little weird?”

She nodded, sitting on your bed next to you. “What’s up?”

You took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It’s… okay, I know there’s not a lot of details here, but if you suddenly got this opportunity to do something you’ve always kind of wanted to do, but it was something you didn’t really have any experience with and it also means you have to leave everything you know behind, what would you do?”

Monica blinked at you. “Woah. That’s a lot. Did you get a new job offer or something?”

“Uh,” you said. “Yeah, I guess it’s something like that.”

Monica sat down on the bed next to you. “I mean, we don’t know each other that well, so I don’t think I can totally tell you what to do here. But I mean, maybe you should think about what you really want. If this is something that you really want, even if it means you’re giving up a lot, maybe that means something. If you think it’s really worth going, even if you’re losing a lot, I think you should at least go for it.”

“Even if it means leaving everything behind? And knowing you might never get any of it back?” you said cautiously.

Monica thought for a moment, tilting her head back. “Hm. That’s a really big decision. You can’t try it out for a little bit, see how it goes?” You shook your head. “Well… Like I said, I can’t tell you what to do. But I kind of think that maybe… if it’s something you really want, something you think you might never have another shot at, you should go for it. I mean, I think it’s better to regret a shot you did take than a shot you didn’t, right? You’ll never spend your life wondering what could have happened if you didn’t take it.”

You nodded. “Thank you.” She smiled and stood up, sensing that the conversation was over.

“No problem. I’ll see you later.”

You stayed in your room most of the day, fussing with your belonging. There wasn’t much in the way of things you could actually bring underwater, but you weren’t overly attached to most of it anyway. You hadn’t spoken to your living family in years, and the few objects you owned from them weren’t things you were all that inclined to keep.

The only thing left to do was to wait for night.

It was approaching midnight when you heard the singing echo through the castle again. There was no need to fight it this time. You let the music overwhelm your mind and followed it down into the basement.

The siren was there, waiting for you when you stepped into the glowing hall. He dipped his head slightly at you, eyes gleaming. I wasn’t sure you were going to show up. But I am glad you did.

You knelt next to the water. “You were right. I want to be… something else. I don’t think I belong in this world.”

No. You were built like me. For the swiftness and precision of the hunt. For the simple pleasure of moving with the current. For a life without the overcomplicated structure of humanity. He bobbed closer to you, stretching a hand up out of the water. You reached down to take it. His scaled skin was cool against yours. He tugged at your arm, gently but insistently pulling you toward the water.

“Hold on.” You stripped down to your underwear and carefully slipped into the water. It was a cold shock and you shuddered. The siren swam around you. His tail fins brushed against your bare legs and you felt his hand trail down your back.

Relax. His voice was soothing, echoing through every corner of your brain. Shh. Go under and I will help you.

He pulled at you abruptly and you sank under the water. It was too dark too see. You could only feel him swimming around you. His mouth pressed abruptly to your neck and you felt a thrill of fear. For a moment, you were sure he had lied, that he was going to tear out your throat and kill you.

His teeth, needle-sharp, sank into your neck. Something cold flowed from him into your veins. Your head spun. His voice echoed through your mind, musical as his song. Shh. Don’t fight. Sleep now.

There was no fighting it. You sank into oblivion.

You grew slowly aware of the world around you. Your eyes flickered, trying to open. Shh. No need to struggle. Let it happen.

You tried to move your legs, but they felt wrong. They were long, oddly long, and wouldn’t move separately. As you grew more aware of your body, you realized they weren’t legs anymore. It was a tail. A long, powerful tail.

You looked down at yourself. Not only could you see, but you could see fairly well in the dark water. Your entire body felt like powerful, corded muscle. Your mouth was full of teeth and you were super aware of the way the water shifted around you.

Awake, so soon? You are tough, aren’t you? You shifted to look at the siren and stopped. Beautiful iridescent lines and stripes ran along his body. It was beautiful. You couldn’t stop staring. The siren gave a clicking laugh. Like what you see?

I didn’t notice that when I was human, you said. Speaking was almost instinctive, as easy as pushing the words toward him.

No, I don’t think humans can see very well. He reached out, resting his hand on your hips. Were they still considered hips if you had a tail? You are striking yourself. He lowered his head, pressing your foreheads together. I was about to show you how to hunt. But perhaps that can wait for a bit.

We have time, you agreed. You wondered if he could feel what desires you had now. The motion of his mouth against your neck suggested that he could.

[lazyevaluationranch]

Why is it called lazy evacuation ranch? Are you a computer scientist?

Er, it's not that scientific.

But yes, both the Blue Haired Girlfriend and I sometimes convert our skills in Swearing at Computers and Typing Excessive Punctuation into money to buy fencing wire with.

We both grew up on farms - her family raised sheep, mine ducks - and moved to big cities and took up Computer Cussing For Money.  We met when I was attending a conference in Silicon Valley, thousands of miles away from the farms we’d grown up on. But there are strange things written on the mossy foundations of all our souls. I didn't understand the way to get home until I met the person with the other half of the map.

The blog name references:

 "lazy evaluation" - a feature of some computer programming languages where they do all calculations at the last possible moment, and skip anything you tell them to do if it turns out to be irrelevant later

"lazy [whatever letter] ranch," - a ranch whose cattle brand is [whatever letter] sideways, as if it were laying down 

Since that you've reminded me I am sometimes a Computer Swear Artist, I thought it would be fitting to convince an artificial intelligence to write some posts for this blog. I fed all this blog's text to the GPT-2 language model and asked it to generate some new posts that were similar to the existing ones.

Behold the Glorious Shining Future of chore blogging! 

7/7/2020 Here are the Goats Man Was Not Meant To Know:

The goat-pond is completely covered in goat poop

When we cut the goat poop in half, it was a pile of goat poop.

When we cut open the goat poop out of a goat-smelting furnace, it was a pile of goat poop.

The chickens love goat poop. The sheep love goat poop.

In case you were wondering, the peacocks are completely unrelated.

Tagged: no tags suggested

9/2 Today the bees tried to devour my skirt. Bees tried to devour my skirt. The peacocks tried to devour a goat butt.

Tagged: daily, goat, hen

2/28 Today the sheep decided to get angry and started attacking the fence and tree branches. I admit I have gotten quite used to it, actually." 

Tagged: daily, rainforest, sheep, poor sheep

NARRATIVE: A pair of small but mighty goat horns. And a bunch of mighty sheep horns, and a pair of giant sheep horns, and a duck butt butt butt butt butt. I dunno, that will be terrifying.

Tagged: daily, goat horn, cat, pigs, northern sky

7/20 The peacocks are getting smarter. They are eating all the lichen at random.

Tagged: daily, peacocks, lichen

2/31 Tesseract the Goat has been arrested for transporting more than two dozen kilograms of "delicious" mustard seed to the UN. This is a very serious crime.

Tagged: daily, blueberries, goat, blueberries

4/18 Goat drool is everywhere. And very clearly marked on every single thing in between posts: goat poop!

Tagged: daily, rain, duck

4/3 We are all doomed.

We will not be spared from your wrath.

Tagged: daily, soup nose, tesseract must have licked herself

And also, this line of immortal poetry from an AI-generated post that was too long to post in its entirety: 

We just can't find a nice, dry place to be a hundred per cent homestuck-free this year.

I think the AI did an excellent job learning the essentials of this blog: animal poop, fence repair, goats getting into trouble in deeply implausible ways, general feelings of doom, and the inscrutable irruptions of Homestuck fans on any post about how peacocks go HONK. 

I, for one, welcome our new robot overlords.

[thebad---catholic]

Poison Ivy for a Batman movie

It’s very important to me that poison ivy is fucking terrifying. Not the refined, lipstick wearing seductress we’re used to.

I want Ivy to be a wild woman. Messy hair, dirty body that’s covered with moss and fungi like lichen. She’s completely apathetic to human lives- as apathetic as we are to blades of grass we trample.

I guess her main goal is to murder businessmen of Gotham (Bruce Wayne included?) who’re trashing the environment somehow.

The only time she emotes is over her plants. She comforts them, talks to them, cries when they die. But it’s very clear that she doesn’t give a fuck about human beings. She doesn’t care about the pain she inflicts on others. She’s not a sadist, she’s worse- the only thing she gets from murder is the satisfaction that a parasite is dead.

—————

Batman is investigating the disappearances of some hikers. The police have a suspect, Pamela Isley. Batman thinks she’s partly to blame, but how could she have done this all by herself? There were groups of multiple hikers going missing at once- she had to have help.

We cut to ivy being questioned by two police officers. An officer is eating an orange. He offers one, she declines. He places the seeds on a napkin in the table. As the interrogation goes on she’s mostly stoic, but zeros in on the orange, irate at how disrespectful the officer is being by eating it.

Bruce is in the woods, trekking the hikers’ same path.

Police finally ask her straight out if she knows anything about the hikers disappearance. Of course she does, she’s responsible for them.

Batman is deep in the woods now. Only the moon illuminates his path. He’s being watched; and turns just in time to see an animal (Some kinda mountain lion? Idk something that’s gonna attack someone but not like a bear)

She killed them. Why on earth did she kill all those people? The officer is done his orange, all of the seeds in a neat pile. She slides the napkin toward her, absently turning a seed in her hands.

Batman runs for it, into a clearing. He falls, and just before the animal attacks, Bruce shines a laser pointer in its face and scares it off. He’s alone again; it’s quiet. Something catches hid eye. It’s in the foreground of the shot, but blurred.

“I was hungry.”

The camera focuses. Its a decomposed human hand. Bruce found the missing hikers.

The police are incredulous. They likely think she’s just crazy. Did she have help? No. Than how? She looks at one of the officers. Can she have a cup of coffee?

Everywhere he looks, the moon highlights carnage and bones. He throws himself against a tree, and something knocks to the ground. An eye. Slowly, he looks up. A body hangs in the tree above him, entangled in vines.

One officer leaves. Ivy throws a seed into the remaining officer’s mouth. Blood splatters everywhere. She grabs the seeds and leaves. The dying officer has a plant growing out his throat.

—————————

After she escapes and the plot happens or whatever, Bruce is on her trail on a motorcycle.

She runs into a building, and he skids to a halt. Before he gets off the bike, he reads the inscription.

It’s a botanical garden.

“Oh shit.”

The glass building explodes with plant life and ivy is at her most powerful.

————————

To beat her, Batman has to fight her on her own turf- the woods.

She’s taken robin and batgirl hostage. When she has him in a corner, he pulls something from his belt.

“It’s over, Ivy,” he says, his thumb hovering over a button. “The entire Forrest is rigged. Make any sudden movements, and I blow up everything in a three mile radius.”

For the first time, Ivy shows real emotion, and it’s horror. He can’t do this, it’ll kill her babies, her family.

“I’ll...I’ll kill the kids,” she tries weakly.

“And then I’ll kill you,” Batman says, “and myself, and the trees go up in flames.”

Ivy weighs her options but she comes up with no answer. She breaks down and surrenders.

—————-

She’s locked in the back of a van, with Jim Gordon on the phone, insisting that yes, remove all the plants from Arkham this instant.

Batgirl, Batman and Robin watch the van pull away.

R: hm. I kinda wanna salad.

BG: so uh...what’re you gonna do about the bombs?

Batman: huh?

BG: The- the bombs?

R: yea. How’d you even set them up so fast?

Bruce pulls out the detonator. The kids momentarily panics as Bruce presses the button- a little red light in the middle of robins forehead.

It’s the laser pointer. He bluffed her.

Batgirl and Robin proceeds to freak the fuck out for him risking their lives because holy shit were the odds not in your favor dude what the fuck.

——————-

So yeah. My pitch for a movie ivy is just an extremely misanthropic cannibal savage. Pretty rad I think.

[maverick-werewolf]

Opinion on the term "wifwolf?"

I think it’s extremely silly to use today, especially considering we never actually saw it used in the past. It’s a modern thing people made because they overthought the specifics of the etymology even more than the people actually speaking the language did. That about sums up my thoughts, hah.

I don’t think anyone should be shying away at all from using “werewolf” to mean a male or female werewolf. No one ever has before. We certainly don’t need to contrive yet another new silly term for werewolves - werewolf media is already over-saturated with those.

In fact, I don’t think anyone should shy away from using the term “werewolf” at all. It’s far superior to most modern tropey silliness that makes no sense, like “lycan,” which sounds like organisms growing on the side of a tree, not a terrifying monster. This is why I insistently spell “lycans” as “lichens” now, especially with Resident Evil 8 pushing this concept of “wolf gods of old” and then calling them “lycans” in the same breath, a silly-sounding word butchery that was invented in the early 2000s by Hollywood. Just - what?

Anyway, that’s irrelevant to the question...

We have plenty of stories wherein werewolf women occur, and we need to retake the word “werewolf” from these people who decided arbitrarily that it’s corny and bad. It’s a fantastic word. It’s my favorite word. Werewolves are supremely badass, and I hope audiences realize their potential to be that someday instead of seeing the word “werewolf” and often assuming that it’s a tripey B-movie or something. Using “wifwolf” would only make that about ten times worse, not better, because frankly it sounds silly to any average person who isn’t intimately familiar with the etymology. Honestly, it also sounds silly to me.

[musetta3]

for the hurt/comfort list! “Can you please come and get me?”

Hi @5lazarus! I present to you a FenHawke prompt. I wrote it so Hawke could be whichever Hawke you choose. Hope you enjoy!! <3 

This…wasn’t the way home? Fenris peered down the shadowy alley, trepidation setting in. He’d followed the directions Hawke had given him—they were right there, in the Notes of his phone. Left out the door, pass three intersections, a left, and then a right. He used those directions every day, and had memorized them. Fenris knew what was he was doing, why did the street look so different tonight? He stuffed the panic down.

“Alright,” he said, looking down the street, “let’s be rational. Retrace your steps.” He turned around and headed back the way he came. “If I turned right, then I should turn left, and then—” He stopped on some street, eyes wide. Despite his best efforts, everything got jumbled; even after looking at the directions in his Notes app, he was confused. Venhedis, he did this every day, why was this so hard?

‘You’re going mad,’ the voice in his head hissed, ‘the lyrium’s leaching; won’t be long until you forget everything, and Hawke will leave you—’ the brands flickered through his leather jacket, blue light weak against the brickwork.

“Stop,” he said, breath shallowing. “S-Stop it, I’m not listening.” 

There was truth to those words, he knew, an ugly truth. The brands were leaching, albeit slowly, the doctors said. They were doing all they could, going from specialist to specialist—Fenris’s pill boxes were filled from all the medications they prescribed for lyrium poisoning—but if they couldn’t find some way to stop the leaching soon, he’d end up in a retirement home for Templars… Those homes where the Chantry sent the useless, witless ones to eke out an existence before they forgot everything and death finally took them. And Fenris would join them. Fenris Hawke: thirty-something years old, author still in his prime, forgetting who he was and how to eat or drink. The thought terrified him.

‘You weren’t this bad before, you know. It’s getting worse,’ the voice said. ‘Only a matter of time—’

“Shut up!” Fenris held his head in his hands, his shout bouncing off the walls. An apartment window flew open above, a stream of expletives and demands for quiet floating down to him. A police siren wailed in the distance; Fenris looked around, heart pounding so hard, it made his head clench, took his breath away. He fumbled with his iPhone, trembling hands pressing the home button repeatedly in his panic. Siri pinged into existence, waiting for a request.

“C-Call Hawke,” he said, voice cracking.

“Do you mean ‘Colin Dock?’” she asked, once again not understanding his accent. Fenris bit back his frustration; he hated voice recognition software with a passion; it never worked for him.

 “Hawke. Call Hawke,” he said, voice going sharp. He huddled against a wrought iron fence, wondering where in the Void he was. The autumn wind blew right through his jacket; he shivered, and not just from the cold.

“Sorry, I don’t understand ‘colic’—”

“Fasta vass, you piece of kaffas,” he exclaimed. The world went blurry; Fenris wiped his eyes and raked his hand through his hair. A sob escaped; he slid down the fence to the sidewalk below. The concrete sucked the heat out of him, leaving him cold and hollow. He felt even more desolate. 

“Come on, get a hold of yourself,” he whispered, “one step at a time.” He tapped the Notes app, scrolling through entries “It’s here, I know it’s here…” He pulled up the document with the directions home and tapped the phone number. He was beyond grateful when he heard the dial tone. “Pick up,” he whispered. “Please, please, please, please—”

“Hullo?” Much to his dismay, the tears started again from sheer relief.

“Fenris? Fenris, are you alright?” Hawke asked, voice alarmed. “...Are you crying?”

“I—” How could he even voice his shame, that he was no better than a child? “C-Can you please come and get me?” he asked. “Hawke? H-Hawke, please—” There was a faint jingle on the other end, from what he assumed were keys.

“On my way. Where are you?” There it was, The very question he would’ve given anything for an answer to. Fenris’s breath hitched.

“I don’t know. I-I don’t know where I am—” His voice pitched, words tripping over themselves on the way out.

“Fenris, can you do something for me? Go to the nearest intersection and tell me the street names.” Solutions, Fenris liked those. He brushed himself off and jumped to his feet, hurrying towards the end of the block. The street names swayed on the traffic light wires; Fenris stared, letters scrambling into nonsensical lines and patterns before him.

“I can’t read this,” he said. “I-I can’t, Hawke. It’s not Tevene, I can’t do this—”

“Darling, remember what I said at the night school, hmm? When you’d just arrived in Kirkwall, and were learning to read Common?”

“‘One letter at a time,’” he whispered.

“That’s right. You can do this.” Fenris took a deep breath and concentrated.

“‘H-A-R-L-M?’”

“Harimann. Harimann and what?” Upon closer investigation, they determined he was on the corner of Harimann and DuPris, not too far removed from his route home. 

“Tell me about your day at work,” Hawke said, no doubt to distract him. “Was the paper busy?” The panic still scrabbled for purchase inside Fenris; it clawed at him before eventually ebbing away, leaving him exhausted.

“I-I wrote an article on Dwarven lichen bread today,” Fenris replied, sheltering against the wind in a doorway. “They brought some in for us to review. New flavor or something.”

“Ooh, from the TV commercial! ‘Fine dwarven crafts, direct from Orzammar: from our noble kitchens to yours, find us in your local bread aisle.’” Fenris laughed, wiping his tearstained face; Hawke always made the best impersonations of cheesy TV commercials. It was almost uncanny, how spot-on they were.

“That’s the one. Cinnamon swirl flavor,” he said, shivering.

“How was it? I’ve been curious.”

“Lichen-y.”

Hawke scoffed. “‘Lichen-y.’ Varric Tethras must have been desperate to hire the likes of you.” Hawke’s voice seemed louder, clearer. Fenris poked his head around the corner. He saw no one approaching in either direction.

“Behind you,” Hawke said with a laugh, “your escort has arrived, messere.” Fenris turned around, disconnecting the call. Hawke stood before him, coat over flannel pajamas and hair tied in a messy bun. Utterly glorious, in Fenris’s eyes. He held Hawke in the fiercest embrace he could muster.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “T-Thank you so much.” Hawke patted him on the back.

“One friendly neighborhood Hawke, at your service. I’ll send you my bill, at the end of the month.” Hawke grinned. “Come on, I need to get my husband home.”

‘Husband’ was still such a new, beautiful term, one Fenris never tired from hearing. It made his heart smile in the most joyful manner imaginable. He linked his arm in Hawke’s and walked home to their apartment, where Toby the Mabari greeted him with many ‘aroos’ and tail wags.

“Go wash up,” Hawke said, “dinner’s in the Crockpot.”

Fenris must have been colder than he realized, if the water burned and made his limbs ache. He changed into the warmest pajamas he owned and slid into his seat at the table. A bowl of mutton stew appeared before him. It was good, he decided. Not the curries he was used to from Minrathous, but warm and comforting, all the same. Between the warm food and the soothing cadence of Hawke’s voice, he melted into his chair.

“Fen,” Hawke called, “go to bed.” The spoon clattered out of Fenris’s hand, his head snapped back.

“But I haven’t seen you all day,” he protested, eyes unable to stay open.

 “You’re not seeing much except the inside of your eyelids, messere, go on.” Fenris grumbled, pecking his beloved on the cheek before crawling into bed. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

Sometime during the night—he wasn’t sure when without his glasses—he felt the mattress dip as Hawke laid down beside him. Fenris smiled into his pillow, pretending to be asleep.

“I won’t give up, Fen,” Hawke whispered. “I’ll find a specialist that can remove the brands, so you’ll never be afraid like that again. I swear it. I don’t care if I have to fly someone in from Tevinter and sell a kidney to pay for the surgery; I won’t give up on you.” 

Fenris cherished those words and held them close in his heart. Even if the future was uncertain, at least he had someone to meet it with. Words failed to express just how grateful he was for that.

[jjaybank]

𝐒𝐚𝐥𝐭 • 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐢𝐱

𝘚𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭

Masterlist

Pairing: JJ Maybank x Reader  (mentions of John B. x Reader) Summary:  You are a backpacker who has wound up staying in the Outer Banks for a while and being taken in by the Pogues. Starved of love, JJ struggles with the realisation that he’s falling for his friend. Hard.  In which John B is one of the best of friends  A/N: In my head The Pogues are like in their early twenties in this okay, so humour me.  It’s 4.20am and i’ve just finished this chapter pls don’t let it flop omg. Warnings: Some swearing, and passing mentions of drugs and alcohol Word Count: 2.7K

Taglist  @danicarosaline @sspidermanss @teamnick @x-lulu @pancakefancake @plantsarenice-love @mybnkjj @1believe-in-your-self1 @thistreasurehunter @pixelated-pogues @moldisgoodforyou @jellyfishbeansontoast  @otrbnks​

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You wake with a start.  You don’t really remember much of the previous night.  You know that at some point John B had convinced you to move inside, out of the storm.   You also think that he may have sat with you while you spilled your feelings for JJ out incomprehensibly.  You can’t remember exactly it was that you said, which horrifies you.  You scrunch up your face, slightly mortified at your display of emotions.  It was out of character for you, and you would have to apologise to John B for both the outburst, and the inconvenience your altercation with JJ was going to cause within the group.   Your heart sinks, recalling the dramatics of your standoff in the centre of the storm.  Your throat tightens at the memory of the blue-eyed boy staring you down with pure betrayal shining in his eyes.  You rub your face groggily and groan at the splitting headache that’s expanding within your skull.  That’s what you get for crying all night you think, pulling yourself reluctantly from the bed in John B’s spare room.   It’s a tangle of sheets and blankets, an illustration of how restlessly you slept. You catch sight of yourself in the grimy mirror that hangs lopsided on the wall.  Your eyes are so puffy and irritated from the tidal wave of tears they produced that your irises are barely slits in your face.  You laugh despite yourself; you look ridiculous and quite frankly, pathetic.  

The shack feels awfully quiet as you make your way through to the kitchen. The storm had almost subsided, only the odd sharp gust of wind now shook the windows.  A nice break from the incessant beating they received during the night.  You note that yours and Pope’s patchy attempts at strengthening the window frame with all that duct tape had worked, and smile to yourself at the small victory. There is, however, a massive leak in the roof of the living area.  That’s where you find John B.   He is standing on a wobbly looking chair, inspecting the damage.  He has a bucket in his hands and is attempting to catch all the rainwater that is draining off the roof and directly onto the sofa.  You watch him for a moment, a bemused look on your face.  He notices you suddenly, and almost topples straight off the chair. The bucket crashes to the ground, spilling brackish looking water all over the wooden floorboards.    ‘Fuck! He yells, ‘Y/N, you just gave me the fright of my life.’ He steadies himself by putting his palms flat against the ceiling. ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise my face looked quite that horrific.’ You quip, helping him down from the chair before going to the kitchen to find a mop.   John B hurries after you, backpedalling massively.  You realise that he’s looking at you in a way that suggests he thinks you could explode at any given moment.   You raise your hand in an attempt to calm his onslaught of unnecessary apologies, and he finally quiets.    ‘It’s okay, John B, I’m okay.’ You say, too brightly.   He looks pointedly at your puffy eyes and knotted hair, concern vividly apparent on his face. ‘Really.’ You reiterate.   You try to push past him, mop in hand, but he steps back into your path.  You sigh, exasperated. ‘Y/N,’ he says cautiously, ‘do you remember the things you said last night?’ A lump catches in your throat and a spark of fear flickers across your face.  All you can recall is a whirlwind of pain and the salty trace of tears on your lips. You shake your head warily. John B reaches over and takes the mop from you gently. ‘C’mon, I’ll make you breakfast.’  You sit on the kitchen counter nursing a mug of coffee as John B whirls around making you up some eggs. ‘You really want me to tell you everything?’ he asks for the third time.  ‘Yes.’ You try to say it firmly, but you still sense the waver in your voice giving away the nerves twisting inside and eating you up.    ‘Okay, so first of all you tell me you’re in love with JJ.’ Wow, you think, he’s really going straight in there. ‘How do you feel about that?’ He asks. The matter-of-fact tone in his voice shocks you a bit.  Why was there no surprise? No shock in this ground-breaking revelation.  He hands you a plate of scrambled egg and buttery toast.  You take it thankfully, but quickly realise you’re not really very hungry. You swing your legs nervously, avoiding his intent stare. 

‘I’m not sure if it’s love-’ you start, and John B shocks you both by audibly scoffing. He slaps a hand over his mouth, ‘no go on’ he insists. ‘Hang on, no, what was that?!’ you protest, aiming a kick at his shin from your vantage point.   He raises both hands in surrender before  running his hands through his hair and pushing his fingers to his temples.  You keep a scrutinising eye on him.  What on earth was going on?  ‘It’s obvious, Y/N.’ John B sighs finally. He leans against the counter next to you and picks up a half-nibbled crust of toast from your plate.  He chews at it thoughtfully, and you can almost see the cogs working in his brain.    ‘You and JJ, you have always had this, uh I dunno, a connection?  Would you agree?’  He points the crust at you. You nod slowly, chasing eggs around your plate with your fork. ‘Okay, so the two of you, I think, have very slowly developed something – feelings?’ You open your mouth to speak. ‘No, no- let me finish.’ You snap it shut again with a huff. ‘He was hurt by the idea that there was something going on here’ he was indicating between the two of you, ‘and you know JJ, with vulnerability comes fear, and he was afraid of being rejected.’ ‘Wait, what?’ ‘He’s scared of losing you, Y/N, and I think he feels he’s gotten himself in too deep.  But he’s not ever gunna admit that.’ Your mind was running a million miles a minute. When you can finally speak it’s barely a whisper. ‘You think he feels it too?’   ‘Yes.’ John B says confidently, and you search the boy’s eyes and are soothed to find that there is sincerity swimming in them. You sit in silence for a while, mulling over everything John B had said. How had you been so slow to notice what was happening between yourself and one of your closest friends?  Perhaps you were the same as JJ – maybe you were terrified of the prospect of loss. ‘Do you want me to tell you everything else you said?’ John B asks abruptly, breaking your train of thought. ‘Absolutely not. ~  You spend the rest of the morning helping clear up outside The Chateau.  There are branches and debris everywhere, it had taken you well over an hour to clear one small portion of the yard and you wish that you had more pairs of hands to help with the labour.    As if on cue, the VW rolls into the driveway. You feel a pang of panic in your stomach, bile rising in your throat, as you recall the events of the previous day playing out in the very spot you stood now. You look over at John B and he shoots you an encouraging look. JJ doesn’t look at you when he walks across the yard.   He’s wearing the same clothes as yesterday, and it pleases you slightly to see that he had also had a rough night.  He looks exhausted and his eyes are red.  Whether that’s from weed or tears, you can’t confirm, but whatever it is he does not look great. He doesn’t talk to either of you, but rather just starts helping you clear up.  You and John B exchange looks but don’t say a word.   You work in silence for what feels like an age before you’re pretty confident that most of the ruin has been either repaired or thrown out.   You slump down on the pontoon as John B and JJ haul the HMS Pogue back into the water.  The marsh is still fairly choppy but the little boat will be safe in there now. ‘Whatcha thinking, Y/N’ John B asks loudly, taking both you and JJ by surprise.  You look out at the horizon, chewing the inside of your lip. ‘I’m thinking that I ought to go and check out my place’.   You twist your face into a grimace and pick at a tuft of lichen that’s growing in between the wooden slats next to you.   ‘It’s gonna be wrecked after that belter.’ You run your hands over your face, attempting to mentally prepare yourself for the ruin. ‘Tell you what,’ says John B, ’why don’t you go with JJ and sort out your place? I can handle everything else here on my own.’ You both stare at him, mouths slightly agape.   Your heart pummels against your ribcage, and you think you might vomit.  ‘Look, you two have got a tonne of shit to talk about, and you’d be killing two birds with one stone.’   You get to your feet hesitantly, trying to make eye contact with JJ but he’s boring a hole into the ground with his eyes.   You roll your eyes at John B and climb aboard the Pogue.   JJ doesn’t move.   John B steps forward and nudges JJ in the back with his index finger.   JJ scowls at him.   ‘Oh, you know what, fuck this.’ You say suddenly, throwing your arms up in defeat.   You reach over to release the mooring lines of the Pogue from the jetty and experience a white-hot sear of pain as you clash heads with JJ.   John B winces and swallows his laughter.     You rub you head tenderly, settling in front of the steering wheel as JJ jumps aboard.   ‘If I’m coming, I’m steering.’ He says roughly and you shoot him a glare but make your way to the bow of the boat.  ‘Please don’t drown each other.’ John B calls, as he waves you off and hopes that this isn’t the last time he ever sees you in one piece. ~  The trip to your shack is a quiet one. You don’t even dare look back at JJ, you can feel his eyes wearing into the back of your head.  But when you do finally round the corner of the marsh you can’t help but let out an anguished cry.   The devastation that lies before your eyes was even worse that you had anticipated. Your tiny little home doesn’t really exist anymore, in the sense that the structure has completely gone.  You can see what remained of your belongings scattered along the beach.  Yours and John B’s efforts had been rendered fruitless, and although you had prepared yourself for the worst, you feel heavy tears stinging your eyes.  You wipe them away angrily as you approach the jetty.    Once you’re on dry land you instantly start up the beach, collecting sodden items of clothing and pieces of your house on the way.  When you reach where your little beach shack had once stood, you drop the little bundle that you had salvaged and drop to your knees.   The angry guise evaporates, and JJ is there in an instant - he always is. You feel his arm around you, and he pulls you against him as you let the tears fall. ‘I don’t really know what I expected,’ you laugh sadly, ‘it only had a little tin roof.’ You stick out your bottom lip as you spot said tin roof, discarded by the wind some forty feet away. ‘I’ll be honest Y/N,’ JJ says softly, ‘I’m surprised it lasted this long.’ You nod in agreement and the two of you get to your feet and begin rummaging through the wreckage to gather the few things that you didn’t take with you the day before. You recover a couple of books, they’re water damaged but you insist that you want to dry them out. You pull your old travelling backpack out of the debris and begin stuffing your few remaining items into it.   JJ pulls one of the flimsy walls away from the heap of the shack and starts going through all the accessible drawers and cupboards.  There’s not much left for him to unearth but he does find your trusty walking boots which he launches across the rubble at you. ‘Careful.’ You warn. But he doesn’t reply.  He’s frozen in place, looking down at something in his hands.  ‘What, JJ, what is it?’ You ask, trying to peer over his shoulder at what he’s holding. ‘You kept it.’ He says quietly, and you frown in confusion.   You clamber over the wreckage and kneel down beside him.  In his hands he holds a small but perfectly formed shell.  Your face lights up in an instant. Your mind flashes back to that first day on the beach, the day you became a Pogue.    You remember sitting in the soft sand, a slightly warm beer in your hand.  John B was trying to get a fire started and you were all laughing at him for how badly he was failing.  You’d offered to go and find more firewood and JJ had volunteered to come along.  Kie was slightly disgruntled as you were her friend, but JJ had been insistent.  ‘Can’t let the Touron get lost now can we’ he’d explained.    ‘JJ.  It’s a beach.’ You had retorted, deadpan.   The two of you had walked much of the stretch of the beach and you had a substantial bundle of firewood gathered in your arms. JJ had stooped suddenly and when he came back up to face you, he held out a simple yet perfect shell, ‘For you,’ he had grinned, ‘so you don’t forget about us.’ You had smiled so widely, and assured him that you would never forget them, not in a blue moon. He’d put the shell in your pocket for you, so you didn’t have to put down your collection of sticks.    ‘I hope you stay here for a while, Y/N’ he had said. ‘I do too.’  JJ was looking up at you now, under his floppy mess of blonde hair.  His eyes are swimming with questions, he looks like he might cry. ‘Why did you keep it?’ He asks.   His voice is so serious that you don’t know how to respond.  So you do the only thing you can think of.   You kiss him.  His eyes are wide with shock for a moment before he sinks into your embrace.  His lips are chapped, and he tastes like the ocean.   His hands find your face, your hair, but he never drops the shell.  It sits in his palm as his finger tangle themselves into your tresses.   You relax into him in a way you don’t think you ever have before – so utterly at peace. Like it is the most natural thing in the world.  Meanwhile you heart is bursting out of your chest and there are sparks flying around your head.  You wonder if he can feel them.  His lips move against yours so softly.  He brushes his tongue against your bottom lip ever so lightly, testing the waters, working out what is acceptable. You open your mouth to his, deepening into him, savouring him.   You wish for this feeling of pure bliss to never come to an end. When JJ pulls away his eyes are searching yours desperately.  He needs a confirmation, something solid.  You nod reassuringly, touching your fingertips to his face, tracing his jaw. ‘Say it.’ He whispers ‘I want you, JJ’ you murmur, running a thumb across his bottom lip, ‘I think I always have.’ His face lights up and he grabs your face in his hands, sending the shell skittering across the beach. ‘Shit!’ He gasps, leaping to his feet and scampering after it. You smile, your bottom lips caught between your teeth and you watch the boy who makes your heart skip a beat give chase after a shell.  ‘You better fucking find that.’ You yell after him.  And while there is still so much to work out between the two of you, you feel your first real breath of relief in weeks.  And amid the ruin of your storm torn house, you are so undoubtedly happy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I really hope you enjoyed this chapter. I really enjoyed writing it!!  I had to repost it because Tumblr just refused to work so I am so sorry about that!   Please let me know what you think x

[mrsalwayswrite]

Sunlight (Bucky Barnes x OFC)

I wrote this for @geekandbooknerd​ birthday challenge! Yay! I know its a bit early but happy birthday! 

My prompt was “If there is anything, there is us. You and me. No one else.”- Jennifer L. Armentrout, Onyx. 

It kind of turned into a Avengers/X-Men crossover. So some mentions of X-Men characters but mostly about Bucky & OFC. 

Warnings: slight angst, brief mention of torture, all the fluff! 

Words: 3400

"WHERE IS SHE?!" Bucky stormed up to his best friend, leaving terrified SHIELD agents in his wake. He did not care about the scene he was making in the hallway of the Avengers Compound. His fear and fury overrode his concern to stay calm.

 "She ran off. Soon as we touched down, I tri…."

 Bucky turned on his heels, ready to sprint. He had to find her. He could listen to excuses and rational later. His mind and body drove him towards only one thing- to seek her out and offer comfort...until a hand clasped his shoulder, keeping him still. 

 "I'm sorry, Buck. We thought...I thought…" Steve sighed, running a hand through his hair. He still wore his dirty uniform, not even having had a chance to clean up from the mission yet. "Things didn't go as planned. She did well. She...she was a help to have on the mission. Please let her know that."

 The brunet could only nod, every cell in his being screaming at him to go find his girl. Soon as Steve removed his hand, Bucky took off. 

 People practically leapt out of his way...which was smart on their account. He was not above running people over right now. He was used to his friends teasing him about his murder strut- their term, not his- about how it made people either run in fear of their lives or hyperventilate with lust. He tried to not think about it too much. Although it did have its uses on occasion. 

 Bursting out the nearest outside door, he ran using all his super soldier speed. He knew where she would be. More than one time she had called it a safe place, especially when it was sunny out. The buildings for the Avengers Compound flew by him. He vaguely thought he heard someone call his name but it did not matter. He had to get to his girl. 

 The first hints of autumn could be seen in the trees surrounding the Compound. Most were still green but swatches of color peeked through with their yellows and oranges. The underbrush made each step he took in his combat boots sound like a herd of elephants walked by but now he did not have to focus on moving silently. He wore tactical pants and a black t-shirt, having been working on extra security measures for the Avengers building when Steve called him. Immediately he dropped the StarkPad and ran, ignoring those he had been working with. 

 He passed the giant elm tree that always seemed otherworldly to him...then he could see her. He always wondered what made this spot special. There was nothing unique about it in the forest surrounding the Compound...except for a giant ass boulder. Deciduous trees surrounded the spot, creating an almost nature-made barricade around the small open area with the boulder in the middle. Sunlight shown directly on it, uninterrupted by branches or leaves. It almost looked like the eye of a hurricane, and maybe that was why she always came to this spot. It was peaceful. 

 And there she sat looking like a fairy from a children's story, minus the wings. Her Nordic blonde hair danced about her in the slight breeze, the long stands almost hypnotic in their movements. Her face was turned upward, facing the afternoon sun, like a flower seeking its warmth. Her slender arms were wrapped around her legs, her alabaster skin on full display with her bare feet, black leggings and navy tank top. She must have ditched the outer part of her uniform and ran, not even bothering to go back to her room to change first. 

 Standing just on the edge of the tree line, he could only stare, taken back by her beauty once again. He wished he was artistic like Steve to paint or sketch her. That he could somehow show her how gorgeous she was to him, to erase all those self-doubts she harbored still. Instead he strove to remind her every day in whatever way he could. 

 "Leyna!" He called out, having moved out of the trees into the open area surrounding the boulder. 

 She turned her head briefly to meet his eyes then turned her face back upward, soaking in the sunlight. 

 That quick look had been enough for him to see the dried tear streaks on her cheeks. He clambered up the rock, continuously amazed at how she was able to navigate the damn thing when she was so small. He was almost a foot taller than her and the stupid rock was tricky for him between the lack of handholds, lichen and moss that covered it. It was at least twice as tall as him, and three times as wide in some strange skinny oval shape. It vaguely reminded him of the kind of stones that were good for skipping rocks on top of water, but on a giant scale. 

 Once up, he walked towards where she sat in the middle, feeling the heat of the sun hitting him anew. Without a word, he sat behind her, placing himself so her back was to his chest, his legs outstretched and his flesh arm wrapped around her waist. Silently she leaned back into him, still facing the sun, eyes closed. He laid his cheek against the top of her head, his metal arm outstretched to stabilize them. 

 The only sounds were those of the birds singing around them, the occasional shout coming from the direction of the Compound and their own breathing. It was peaceful. Something both of them craved instinctively. 

 He waited for her, knowing this was more than just a quiet place to be. There was her place to "recharge", as she liked to call it, both physically and mentally. After several minutes, a faint golden shimmer surrounded her hands. Slowly she held out one of her hands and moved her fingers as if in a dance. 

 Watching her use her powers was one of his favorite things to do. She tried to explain it to him once, how her powers worked. Something how she could manipulate light photons and atoms to change their structure to become whatever she wished, either a solid creation or an illusion. It was about three PhD degrees above his head but he got the gist. He smiled remembering when she first met Bruce Banner and how the man almost wet himself, he was so excited to run experiments and lab tests on her and her powers. Bucky had never seen the man so thrilled. Then the time she met Loki and he learned she could do illusions also. He had jumped at the chance of a competition between them that left the Compound in a strange golden, greenish haze for two days because of the amount of magic used and atoms/photons messed with for the insane amount of illusions created. 

 Using both hands, she twirled and manipulated them in front of her, using the direct sunlight to create something. Sunlight was her life source. Yes, she needed to eat and drink like anyone else but she always joked she was like a solar-powered being. Without sunlight her powers faded to nothing and she would wither away. 

 His eyes remained glued to her hands as she worked, curious as to what she was making now. With a final flourish, a long dagger lay across her palms, dwarfing her hands. The handle was the deepest black while the blade itself had a slight curve and shone a brilliant silver in the sunlight. It had a slight etching on the silver that looked like artistic flames running along the outside. 

 "That one might be my new favorite." He nuzzled her neck, thoroughly enjoying the way she squirmed and giggled. He loved when she made him shiny, sharp things. 

 "Maybe I'll make you a matching set."

 He took the dagger from her, eyeing it hungrily before slipping it into his boot. Good thing the training room was open at all hours. He planned on experimenting with it later. 

 They sat in silence for a few more minutes before she spoke, drawing lazy circles on his arm still around her waist. 

 "Steve call you?"

 "He was worried." He kissed her hair lightly. "Wanna talk about it?"

 He could feel her hesitation then the story was whispered into the wind, her voice shaky. "There was a cell...I got separated from the others...Some...um, a few HYDRA soldiers managed to taze me, get me down...they covered my eyes...and got a chain on my wrist…" She took a deep breath, he squeezed her, knowing how hard this was for her. "Steve found me at that point, he took them out and helped me get away."

 "Oh baby, I'm so sorry." It was only after she mentioned her wrist, he peeked over her shoulder to see her right wrist that looked raw and red. Seeing her injury, he clenched his metal fist. Fury rolled through him like a steam train, anger at both HYDRA for trying to take her from him and himself for not being there to protect her. He pulled her closer to him with both arms, needing the reassurance she was still here, with him. 

 "I don't think I can do this anymore, Bucky." She suddenly choked out, tears falling afresh. "I don't...I can't go through that again. I'm not strong enough."

 "Leyna…we all have our triggers that remind us of our pasts. No one blames you."

 "I put the mission in danger."

 "Steve said you did well and that you were a help."

 She shook her head. "I don't think I can keep doing this."

 They sat in silence. He understood what was going through her mind. Hell, he dealt with it himself on a regular basis. The question of how much of one's past could still haunt their future. 

 Leyna had been found by the X-Men when they took down a cult who were kidnapping mutants. She had been chained to a wall in complete darkness, refused any source of sunlight or artificial light for months on end until she either gave them the information they wanted or she died. The X-Men had brought her back to the mutant school where she stayed to recover, since when they found her, she was barely conscious. When Charles examined her mind, he discovered she was not a mutant but an enhanced like Wanda Maximoff, though where she got her powers was unknown. Just over two years after being rescued and residing at the mutant school, Charles thought sending her to the Avengers would be the best for her and to begin creating a working relationship between the Avengers and the X-Men. Leyna was to be a sort of liaison between the two groups constantly saving the world. 

 It had been a year since she joined the Avengers and everyone acknowledged how quickly she fit it. Almost like she had been a missing puzzle piece that they had not realized was missing. 

 "Do...do you think they'll send me back? To Charles? He sent me here to help but…" Her voice dropped off, fear and uncertainty evident. 

 "I am sure the Professor would understand. And there are more ways than one to help. You don't have to be out in the field to be useful. I know I prefer when you don't go on missions. Sam had to sit on me this time so I wouldn't stow away on the ship and come with you."

 She giggled, her head resting on his shoulder. "I feel the same way when you leave for a mission. Wanda and I used to get drunk but after the...electrical incident, we're not allowed to anymore."

 He chuckled, "so that's what happened, huh? You guys said you tried to combine your powers or something."

 "Remember, we were drunk and apparently decided we wanted to have a dance party. So, I tried to create a disco ball and stroke lights while she was trying to do something with the music...but it all backfired."

 He openly laughed at that. "Doll, the two of you managed to blow out all the electricity in the Compound and even put FRIDAY offline for a bit. Tony was furious. Hell, I heard Wanda's room had to be completely renovated because of the power surge that went through it. Thankfully it had reinforced, special walls or whatever Tony calls them."

 "Why do you think she's been sleeping in Vision's room?"

 "That was...what, three months ago? And it's still not fixed?"

 She shrugged. "She doesn't feel rushed to return to her own room. "

 They lapsed back into silence, his arms still around her. Her face was still upturned, soaking in the afternoon sun. He watched her profile, in awe that someone as pure, selfless and fun would ever look at him twice. As he stared, he could see her lips pursing slightly while her brow furrowed. It broke his heart that she still struggled with such self-doubt. 

 "Leyna, turn around." At her hesitation, he ran his lips softly over the corner of her jaw. "Please."

 Slowly, she did. Turning around to straddle his waist, she wrapped her arms around his neck while his own hands gripped her hips to hold her. 

 "Look at me."

 It was only after his quiet command that she finally lifted her gaze from his chest. Her violet eyes always enthralled him, calling to some deep primitive part that wanted to bask in her light for the rest of his life. 

 "We're not gonna kick you out if you come off the field. Hell, you are one of our best at recon and observation. If that's all you want to do, the others will understand. Natasha will probably buy you a bottle of that Russian vodka that she loves cause she won't be the only one sent on those kinds of missions anymore. And even if that is too much, you have a great mind for tactics and seeing things others don't. You would be a benefit for working in the control room while we're on a mission. You'd have our backs still and could keep an eye out for things we might miss."

 "Charles sent me to help…" She hedged but he was having none of that. He gripped her chin, holding her gaze, hoping she would believe him and stay. Not just for the Avengers...but for him. 

 "And you would be. You've always been a huge help… Or would you prefer to go back to the School? Is that what you would prefer? I'm sure Logan would prefer that. He still hasn't forgiven me for having you be my girl."

 "He hasn't tried to kill you though."

 "What do you call what happened last time he came to check on you?" He demanded, eyeing her smirk. "Just a misunderstanding?"

 She laughed, massaging the back of his neck. "He only destroyed the couch. It could have been far worse."

 "Yeah, and I had been sitting on that couch! His claws were inches from my head!" 

 "Mmm...good thing you have such great reflexes." She leaned forward and pressed a teasing kiss to his lips. 

 His hands tightened on her hips. "Babydoll, you do that again and I'll show you what other great reflexes I have."

 "Outside?"

 "What? Ain't nobody around?"

 She swatted his chest, laughing before laying her head on his shoulder. "And if I just wanted to be with you? Not do anything...just be here with you?"

 "If there is anything, there is us. You and me. No one else." He lifted her chin to gaze into her eyes, the sunlight making them glow. "We can do whatever we want. Go wherever we want. Just us."

 "Mmm...and Steve." She hummed, tracing a finger lazily on his chest. 

 "What?"

 "You and me...and Steve. There is no way Steve would let us go off alone. He would miss his best friend too much and is too stubborn to let you go. He'd leave the Avengers first. Then Sam would be all offended and come along too since he and Steve are also best friends and I think secretly you and Sam are best friends but neither wants to acknowledge it. Natasha would hunt us down next. You know Peter would send us more of those little videos but they would be all sad and puppy eyes since wherever we are, I'm sure his Aunt May would not let him come. Plus, he's like the little brother I've always wanted… If Natasha finds us, Clint will show up eventually. Then Scott would too since Steve is with us. I swear I've never seen a bigger fangirl than Scott. Tony would crash at some point because well, it's Tony…"

 He cut her off, chuckling because however much he wanted to deny it. It was true. "Ok ok, I get the picture. Christ. I think we need some new friends."

 "Like Logan?"

 "I still can't believe you dated the Wolverine. I feel I should question your taste in men."

 "Hey! It was short lived and we both realized we were better as friends. Sides, if we're worried about my taste in men, what does that say about you?" She teased, a smile on her lips. 

 "You go for the tall, dark and handsome." 

 "That applies to Logan too...mmm...maybe I just prefer old guys?"

 "Alright, that's it!" He stood up, throwing her over his shoulder. "I come out here to take care of my best girl and what do I get...insults!" Carefully he jumped down to the ground, making sure not to jostle her too much with the impact. He started back towards the Compound, trying to control the smile on his face while listening to Leyna laughing over his shoulder. "See if I share my ice cream with you tonight."

 "Bucky…" she whined, wiggling against him, "that's mean."

 "Old guys...you've been spending too much time with Sam. Really need to get some new friends." He muttered mostly to himself. 

 "Put me down, Bucky."

 He set her on a nearby stump so she was actually eye level to him. Carefully he ran a hand through her blonde hair, loving that she let him play with it. "You know I meant it, what I said earlier."

 "I know, love." She cupped his face and pressed a kiss to his lips. 

 He eagerly kissed her back, diving into her affections without hesitation. He loved the way she fit in his arms, the way her lips glided against his, how his heart threatened to explode with joy with just the mere thought of her. Although they had not yet said those three little words to one another, he knew it was true for him. She was perfect for him, and although she had her quirks that annoyed him and her own haunted past that gave her nightmares, he would not change anything about her.

 Finally, they broke apart, both breathing a little more heavily and dopey smiles on both their faces. He would love to stay here with her, just the two of them and kiss her senseless or until he removed any self-doubt she still struggled with. The Avengers' part of his mind reminded him that she had run out to the forest before the debrief which would be a headache in itself if they did not return soon. He sighed, lamenting that this moment had to end. "Come on, doll. Let's get you back. Steve will want to check in with you."

 "Ok…"

 He stepped away for her to jump down but she did not move. 

 "Doll…" That grin on her face spelled trouble, he just knew it. 

 "I'm tired...can you give me a piggyback ride?"

 He raised an eyebrow at her. 

 She smiled sweetly, hands clasped in front of her and swaying slightly. Between the delicate features, small stature and purple eyes, she really did look like a damn fairy. 

 "Fine…"

 She squealed as she climbed onto his back, wrapping her arms around his neck. Just as he thought about protesting loudly, she smacked a loud kiss on his cheek then giggled. Who was he kidding, he would do anything for her. 

 If he had to give a few death glares and mild threats in the future to suppress jokes about the Winter Soldier giving piggyback rides…that was not his fault. 

[strawberrymeriadoc]

Some Merry angst no one asked for [this takes place before him meeting/rooming with Pippin in Minas Tirith]

Merry felt like he was gonna explode. He screamed at the top of his lungs into the dark green forest. The lichen on the trees silently answered him. After each scream there was a long echo in the old mountains that felt like it lasted ages. And then deafening silence. The trees stood solidly in the ground though their branches swayed occasionally in the elusive breeze. The boy screamed again-this time it was more of a screech and his throat began to burn with pain. Yes, he thought, more! Hurt more! He screamed again, longer than before. He let out all the air that had been filling his lungs for months of holding his breath-terrified to make a sound. He let out all the hatred and bile and disgust. It wasn’t clear to him if it was truly hatred at himself or hatred at his parents, or possibly both. 

Why did they do this to me? He demanded internally, eyes wide and scared but his brow furrowed with a wild anger. Once again the chartreuse lichen sat silent. It was unclear whether they were ambivalent or sympathetic. When at last the boy realized that no one was going to answer him, that he really was completely alone in this world, he sat down and cried. The hot tears had started slowly but soon they were streaming down his face. The boy cried and cried and cried until his stomach hurt. It was like the feeling you get after laughing so much but not nearly as fun. 

“Why don’t you love me anymore? I still love you! You said we would be friends forever. I still want that. I love you so much. I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry. Please don’t leave me. Please.” 

He was shouting down to the dry grass now--the yellow remains of the wheat crop. Jamie. It always came back to Jamie. No matter how much he tried to convince himself he was upset about something else or that he was over it, it would come up in his most intimate moments, when he was no longer lying to himself. 

Merry began to run out of tears and he began to feel less close to the pain. It was still there-a little orb floating around his core-but he had let much of it out. He sat for a while looking out over the valley. He could see the farm of his friend Dane. And the farm of Dane’s cousin, Kenton. He could just barely make out the main road far off in the distance, forming a streak on the distant hillside. Tall towers littered the otherwise pristine blue mountaintop-the farthest thing Merry could see. 

It was so silent and so lonely. But Merry was filled with love for the place. Love or regret or sadness. Maybe grief. It was such a beautiful patch of the Shire. To him, more beautiful than all the many marvells to be found in the world. But there was this lost, lonely feeling whenever he was there. Perhaps it was because he had no one to share the place with. It was his home, but in a lot of ways it was not. He had never been welcome there. The Brandybucks had always been seen as strange outsiders in the Shire. 

His parents had never created a space that felt like home to him either. So in effect he had never had a home-at least not growing up. But even today, he flitted between apartment and apartment meeting new roommates and having new quarrels with them all over again. What is the point? No one will ever hear my thoughts. Why am I thinking them? Why am I wrestling with this feeling? Why do I matter at all?

Merry put his head in his hands and closed his eyes. Birds were chirping and singing farther into the woods. The distant whirring of a car all the way at the bottom of the mountain could be heard making its way into the valley. Merry could sit there all day and he did for a long while. After the sun set behind him and the darkness began to gather, crickets took over the soundscape and the birds dropped out-returning to their nests. Merry liked this time of day. No hot sun, but enough light to see by. And the crickets added a sort of mystery to the scene. Merry let out a long breath and then finally stood up. He dusted himself off and walked to the top of the hill and then down the dirt road.

[bloodytimelady]

Whumptober 2020 Day 1 - Let’s hang out

Darren came to slowly, like waking up from a night of binge drinking with the guys from the Conclave. He shook his head, trying to free it from the daze and the weird pressure he felt. His ears were ringing, and his every muscle burning and tingling with millions of needles. His staff was out of his hands, even though the blindfold still seemed to be on his eyes. Not that it changed anything.

It was only when he tried to move that he found out he was unable to, and from the acute pain to his wrists and ankles, he drew the most logical conclusion: he was restrained.

Before he had the time to process what that implied, a new worry washed over him. “Aster?” He called out, anxiety rising in his heart.

“Good gods, it sure took you time to wake up, Master” answered a familiar voice to his right. The man relaxed, but only for a moment.

“I was starting to think that the gravity must have fried your brain”.

“Gravity?”.

He heard the girl sigh dramatically before replying:” Some thugs ambushed us on Cloverfield Road, a few hours ago. You were out as a light before you could even hear what was happening, and I couldn’t leave you there. Hence why we’re both hanging like Smart Sue’s underwear on Reaping’s afternoon”.

The man took some time to process the words. He couldn’t recall a single detail of what his apprentice had just told him, but the hanging part was consistent with the tingling and pressure he felt throughout his entire body.

“What did they want?” he said, and his voice was suddenly as cold as ice. If they’d done anything to her…

“I’m fine” her voice suddenly lost all traces of humour “I don’t know what they wanted. They were ranting about some kind of necklace, but I told them I didn’t know anything. They threatened to kill us, but one of them -the boss, I suspect- kept them at bay”.

Darren licked his lips, taking it all in and trying to think of a plan:” Where’s my staff?”. “A few feet to your left. They joked about it, but they didn’t suspect anything about it or yourself”.

“That’s good. Can you swing? I need a push”.

“What? Your hands are all tied up like-” Aster’s objection faltered when Darren raised his freed wrists above (below?) his head with a victorious smile.

“You need to teach me that some time” scoffed the girl, and a few seconds later the creaking of the rope announced the slight pressure of the girl’s head on his back. A few pushes later, and the tips of his fingers brushed against the grass. Almost when he was beginning to think he couldn’t stretch any further, he touched something hard and smooth.

He quickly seized it, and Aster let out a whoop of victory.

“Now what?” asked the girl eagerly.

“Now, my girl, be patient and quiet”.

Darren held the staff to his chest and tried to relax as much as possible. What he wanted to try was well over his usual practice, but their situation was a tricky one: from the chilly breeze, he could feel that the afternoon was about to end.

Neither of them was in the position to defend themselves against wolves, or any of the other creatures that came out by night. And there was the possibility that their assaulters had a change of mind about leaving them alive.

He clenched his jaw, trying to focus. The staff started getting warmer in his hands. He could feel the rustling of branches above his feet, the creaking of the rope, the faraway call of a mockingbird.

Suddenly, the world around him exploded in a fountain of light and sound. While the staff began burning, he became one with every living being around him, from the birds in the sky to the worms in the ground, to all the trees and plants and mushrooms and lichens in the forest. As always, the feeling almost swept him away. He clenched his teeth so much that his gums started bleeding, and fought for a direction, an opening.

“Darren? Is that you?”.

Aiden. Dear gods, thank you.

“Where are you? You should’ve been back hours ago. Is everything alright? Did something happen?”.

The old man sounded worried in his head. Darren explained quickly, as he felt his energy beginning to dwindle. He held on with a growl, but he didn’t have much time.

Aiden pushed gently against his mind. He gladly let his walls down.

“I know where you are, Darren. Otto and the boys are coming to get you. Hold on”.

Darren’s head was suddenly empty. The staff fell from his weak grip and clattered to the ground, but he made no move to catch it.

He let his arms dangle over his head, as exhaustion washed over him. The last thing he heard before losing consciousness was Aster’s worried voice call his name.

“He’s coming to, stay back. Give him space”.

Darren winced, a soft groan escaping his lips.

He felt horrible. His entire body was stiff and aching, and his hands were probably scorched, at least judging from the acute pain he felt. “A-Aster?” he whispered, trying to make out the girl’s voice among the chaos. He was lying on a hard, wobbling surface that he guessed was a cart, and all around them, the air was full of men yelling and horses neighing.

“I’m here” a reassuring hand closed around his shoulder. He sighed, feeling like a weight had been lifted from his chest.

Aster’s arms slid gently over his shoulders, lifting his upper body off the cart.

“Drink” she ordered, and he obediently took a sip of water.

“Otto and the others arrived a few hours after you lost consciousness. Don’t ever pull something like that on me again, Master. I was terrified. Master Aidan would surely disapprove of this use of the staff, and I’m sure we’d have managed without it just fine. The next time…”.

The girl’s voice got confused with the rest as Darren relaxed against her with a weary sigh. His head was pounding, and all he wanted to do was sleep.

Something cold and wet was draped over his forehead, relieving ever so slightly the uncomfortable pressure that had built up there.

“It’s okay. Sleep. I’ll wake you up when we arrive” Aster said, and her tone shifted from lecturing to surprisingly soft.

The man didn’t bother to reply.

[doritopaw101]

Arc1, book 2: Chapter 1

Icebelly felt Sandstorm shiver beside him as she stirred. Being thin furred had benefits in hot weather but with leaf-bare approaching it definitely had its downsides. He shuffled his forepaws on the hard earth and pulled Sandstorm closer with his fluffy tail, she narrowed her eyes for a moment then leaned into the touch. Her shoulder must still be aching despite the herbs Yellowfang gave her, not like the cut on his neck was much better, it was shocking how he didn't get an infection. The sky was finally growing light as dawn crept slowly in. But even though his paws were cold, Icebelly could not suppress a glow of pride. After many moons as an apprentice, he was a warrior at last.

Icebelly looked around as the clan woke. Sparrowpelt was one of the first. Icebelly could see the old tom moving among the shadows in the elder's den. He glanced toward the warrior's den at the other side of the side of the clearing. Through the branches that sheltered the den, he recognized the broad shoulders of Tiger-roar as he slept with Whitestorm on his left and Lionheart underneath him on his right. The golden tom seemed to be covering a large belly scar, from how he got it he didn't know.

At the foot of Highrock, the lichen that draped the entrance to Bluestar's den twitched, and Icebelly saw his Clan leader push her way out. She stopped and lifted her head to sniff the air. Icebelly could see the faint outline of a tortoiseshell molly. Her white tail draped over Bluestar's back it seemed she was whispering something to her that he couldn't make out. The tortoiseshell obviously looked like Thunderclan born. She bore scars on her back and neck fluff, it seemed to drip onto the ground and only him and Bluestar could see it. The molly seemed to be done because she disappeared as quickly as she came. Bluestar then padded silently out of Highrock's shadow, her fur glowing blue-gray in the dawn light.

It also appeared that the molly wasn't the only spirit roaming around. Icebelly saw Thrushpelt smile with pride as he watched Graypaw and Cranepaw playing. He also saw Goosefeather circle him "You've done well kit, let's hope that lasts for your path ahead" he started to fade and he saw why when he saw Leopardstorm pad over.

"Glad to see dawn, you two?" the pointed tom mewed, his eyes showed sympathy but also pride for them. For a moment, Icebelly thought he saw pity, it made his blood cold for a moment.

They both nodded in response. Icebelly resisted the urge to yawn.

Leopardstorm chuckled "It's alright you make speak now. Your vigil is over"

"Thank you, Leopardstorm" Sandstorm mewed gratefully as she stood and stretched her stiff legs one at a time "I thought the sun would never come up!"

"Get some needed rest or eat" Leopardstorm advised "Do either of you need your wounds checked?"

"I don't think so" Sandstorm replied "Mine have healed well thanks to Thyme and Yellowfang's healing"

"Are you sure? Those marks in your back look nasty" Leopardstorm pressed

"I'll check again after a nap" Sandstorm reassured

"What about you Icebellly?" Leopardstorm asked

"I'll mange" Icebelly mewed "I just want to sleep for a while"

"Very well" Leopardstorm nodded

Icebelly felt Leopardstorm place a paw on his shoulder "You saw them didn't you" he whispered "Thrushpelt and Goosefeather"

He only gave a nod in reply. "Bluestar was right, you are full of surprises" he chuckled as he padded over to Miststrike and Nettlemist who were grooming Seedpaw, Littlekit,Sleetkit, and Marigoldkit as they laid in the sunlight.

"I'm gonna sleep this off" Sandstorm padded over to the warriors den, her green eyes tired "You still coming or are you gonna chow down instead?"

"I'mma sleep," Icebelly replied. Sandstorm was easier to deal with when sleep deprived.

Him and Sandstorm made their way over to the warrior's den. Icebelly stuck his head through the low-hanging branches. Mousefur and Birchstep were still asleep on the other side of the den.

"Hey you two" he heard Cherrycloud call "Me and Embereyes made your nests, come over"

Him and Sandstorm didn't need to be told twice. Sandstorm crashed onto her nest with a small thump. Her nest was beside Chestnutclaw and Cherrycloud's by the scent. Her steady breathing turned into small snores.

Icebelly felt equally exhausted, his eyes began to close, and he gave in to his longing for sleep.

-Dream-

Icebelly could hear a roaring around him, like wind in tall trees. The acrid stench of the Thunderpath stung his nostrils, together with a new smell, sharper and more terrifying. Fire! Flames lapped at the black sky, throwing glowing cinders up into a starless night. To Icebelly's amusement, silhouettes of cats flitted in front of the fire. Why hadn't they run away?

One of them stopped and looked straight at Icebelly. The tom's night-eyes glinted in the darkness and he lifted his long, straight tail, as if in greeting.

He recognized the pelt, Duskstar!

-Dream ends-

"Wake up, Icebelly!"

Icebelly flicked up his head, startled out of his dream by Tiger-roar's mighty growl.

"You were mewling in your sleep" he mewed, his tone softer. He drew a quick lick on Icebelly's head "Everyone could hear you, we were concerned"

Icebelly sat up and shook away his daze "Sorry Tiger-roar" he didn't want the massive tom to wonder what he was dreaming about, dreams only medicine cats or seers should have. To be honest, he didn't want to worry his former mentor either.

"Are you alright?" Tiger-roar asked "I know it must've been horrible in Shadowclan"

"Y..yeah, just a bad dream"

Moonlight shone through the leafy den wall. Icebelly realized he must have slept through the whole day.

"You and Sandstorm are allowed to join the evening patrol" Tiger-roar asked him "Would you like to join?"

Icebelly took a breath then nodded "Yeah, I'll join"

"Let's go" the dark tabby turned and stalked out of the den. Icebelly quickly shook himself and followed after the two-colored tabby, he leaned against the older tom and Tiger-roar let him "Keep up Iceball"

/

The next night brought the full moon, the gathering. He tried to calm himself, he almost wished he agreed for Yellowfang to give him poppyseeds. He stayed mostly to himself throughout the patrol and embarrassingly stuck to Tiger-roar and Sandstorm like a kit.

He kept touching the scar on the side of his throat, he really didn't mean too. He didn't know why, it was a reminder of him. He couldn't even say his name in his thoughts.

"Thunderclan" Bluestar called "Tonight is the gathering, the cats joining us will be Nightshade, Tiger-roar, Fogtail, Gingerblaze, Brindleface, and Mossthorn. Elders are allowed to join if you wish" she glanced at Sandstorm then at Icebelly "Icebelly Sandstorm, do you two feel ready to go to a gathering?"

Sandstorm scoffed "Don't why you're asking me that" she padded over to the gathering patrol "I'm a warrior now, I want to hear my clanmates cheer my name for all to hear and the other clans quake in fear of me"

"The clans quake at our strength" Larkpaw mewed, her blue eyes gleamed with excitement

"Yeah, legs are shaking" Palepaw added

The clan's atmosphere got lighter with youth ignorance.

Icebelly honestly didn't want to go but he felt he owed it to himself to go to stick it to...Brokenstar and Dewflare. He didn't say the full extent of what happened to him and to his knowledge neither did Sandstorm. "She came back with minor injuries and slept most of the time" Thymepaw had said "The wound we were concerned about was the back scar"

Sandstorm wasn't saying anything, neither was he, at least not now. He padded over to the gathering patrol "Let's go" he mewed happily

Bluestar smiled "Alright let's go" she turned and led the other cats out of camp. At the top, he paused to catch his breath, his sides heaving. The forest stretched away before him. Beneath his paws he could feel the crisp crackle of newly fallen leaves. Silverpelt glittered in the sky like morning dew scattered on black fur.

The group had paused at the top of the slope that led down to Fourtrees, the giant oaks where cats from the four well three clans met in peace at each full moon. Though Icebelly knew the peace wouldn't last long with Bluestar and Brokenstar on the same rock.

Bluestar lifted her nose and sniffed the air. Icebelly sensed a tightening of muscles and prickling of fur around him. Then Bluestar signaled with a flick of her tail, and the Thunderclan cats plunged down the slope toward the Gathering.

Bluestar halted on the edge of the clearing with her Clan lined up beside her. Some of the cats from Riverclan and Shadowclan turned and acknowledged their arrival. Him and Cherrycloud stayed on the edge of the clearing. While Sandstorm sat beside him. she clearly didn't want to be stuck here but it was clear she didn't want to be anywhere near Shadowclan. Icebelly could easily pick out the apprentices from the other clans-their fur looked kit-soft, their faces round, and their paws plump and clumsy.

"Hey Icepaw" Silverpaw mewed "How've you been?" she flicked her tail and Willowpaw and Minnowpaw padded over.

"Good," he replied. No point in worrying Silverpaw about what he'd through, especially with so many cats around. "It's Icebelly now"

"That's great" Silverpaw purred "I got my warrior name too, it's Silverstream" she turned her head to her sisters "Meet Willowheart and Minnowpool"

"Congrats" he replied "Those names fit you three well, what's your day Silverstream?"

"Molly" the gray tabby replied

Icebelly saw Wetpaw nervously pad over to him with Littlepaw,Brownpaw, and Oak-kit well Oakpaw in tow.

"Hey" he mewed nervously. Icebelly felt his back fur rise slightly despite him trying to fight it.

"Hi" He felt Sandstorm tense beside him

"Stand a good bit away" she hissed

Wetpaw surprisingly obeyed "I got the name Wetfoot" he flicked his tail "Littlepaw is Littlecloud and Brownpaw is Brownwhisker now" turned his blue gaze on the apprentice "I'm sure you recognize Oakpaw, he's my apprentice"

Oakpaw looked up at Icebelly with wide, anxious eyes. "H-hi Icebelly'' he mewed. Icebelly moved his head forward and licked Oakpaw's head, the wound was mostly gone with only a small scar "I'm glad to see you, I'm glad that wound healed well"

"Splinter!" Icebelly turned his head to see Flame approach him, she already looked well fed on fish and she wore a necklace he knew Mallowtail made.

"Umm hey Flame, how's Riverclan life?"

"It's good, Mallowtail made me a necklace as a sign of good fortune" she mewed "though my mentor could be better"

"Who's your mentor?" Sandstorm sneered, her tail flicking

"Leopardclaw" Flamepaw replied, easily shrugging off Sandstorm's attitude from dealing with Princess, Luna, and Icebelly himself.

"Oh jeez good luck with that" Brownwhisker mewed with sympathy "She's one of Riverclan's strongest and meanest warriors from what I've heard, again good luck"

A yowl from the great rock made everyone in the clearing go silent. It came from Bluestar. She stood proud and tall.

"Thunderclan brings two new warriors: Sandstorm and Icebelly"

Icebelly saw Sandstorm puffing out her chest with pride, he stayed still aware of the stars on them but mostly wasn't going to risk looking into Brokenstar's eyes. Bluestar spoke again "Robinwing has given birth to Patchpelt's kits: Chivekit, Stagkit, Shrewkit, and Hawk-kit." she lowered her head "Sadly, Rosetail has died during an attack, I've named Redtail the new deputy of Thunderclan''

'She's not going to call out Shadowclan?' Icebelly thought with confusion

Stormstar stepped forward "Riverclan would like to speak now"

Bluestar nodded as she stepped back.

"Riverclan also brings three new warriors: Willowheart, Minnowpool and Silverstream"

Icebelly caught Silverstream's eyes, the silver molly winked at him earning a smirk from Icebelly.

"We have three new apprentices this moon in Flamepaw apprenticed to Leopardclaw, Grasspaw apprenticed to Skyeyes, and Vixenpaw apprenticed to Morningriver"

"We also are blessed with the promise of Mallowtail's new litter this moon and the birth of Greenflower's kits: Tidekit, Poolkit, Eelkit, and Heronkit"

Icebelly could see cats giving Frogleap their congrats on his upcoming litter, kits are always a blessing to a clan.

"Can't wait to get back to them" Silverstream mewed "I've been helping her take care of them"

"Already becoming a mom Silverstream?" he teased

"Brokenstar? you wish to speak?" Stormstar asked though Icebelly could tell it was forced.

"Yes" he replied gruffly and stepped forward "Shadowclan as well has new warriors in Sootmask, Houndbelly, Duskthorn, Wetfoot, Brownwhisker, and Littlecloud"

Wetfoot and Brownwhisker seemed to beam at their names while Littlecloud just shrunk at the attention. Sootmask smiled and let her sister Houndbelly hide her face in her shoulder. Icebelly found himself meeting Duskthorn's gaze, he nodded to the former housecat and he nodded back. It turned out Duskthorn was the housecat he nearly killed for his old collar.

Brokenstar purred "Shadowclan has seven new apprentices: Oakpaw mentored by Wetfoot, Pinepaw mentored by Badgerfang, Foggypaw mentored by Clawface, Foxpaw mentored by Lizardstripe, Marigoldpaw mentored by myself, and Viperpaw mentored by Mudfoot"

The apprentices smiled as their names were cheered.

"Shadowclan's nursery has many new members: "We have the promise of Whitethroat's new litter: Rippedkit and Burdock-kit as well as Newtspeck's new litter: Pricklekit, Whisperkit, and Copperkit. Fernshade, Lizardstripe, and Poppyflower are expected. Shadowclan also has welcomed Boulderpelt's mate, Amberfoot who's expecting his kits"

'So many mouths to feed' Icebelly thought with a shudder, he didn't forget that winter was on it's way and soon. It made him worry for the kits in Thunderclan, would they have enough to feed them.

"It's also why I again advise you Bluestar to share your hunting grounds with my clan, we need it" Brokenstar drawled

Bluestar glared at Brokenstar, she curled her lip "And I'd advise you to tell your mollies not to lift their tails every chance they get, or declare the no breeding code for the time being if your so worried about prey" her voice dripped with sarcasm at the last bit

Many of the cats gasped once more at Bluestar's words.

"Did..Did she just call them whores?" Willowheart asked, eyes wide

"I think she just did" Icebelly replied, just as stunned but chuckling a little

"Go mom" Silverstream smirked

"Excuse me?" Brokenstar looked confused and outraged at the same time. Stormstar stared at this display, his crooked jaw hanging in shock.

"Did I stutter Brokentail, over my dead body will you have rights to Thunderclan's hunting grounds and even then I'll come from Starclan and bury you so deep in the ground even the maggots won't get to you, you'll go back to your camp knowing how foolish and mortal Raggedstar was to make you her heir, I'll be death on a hawk's wings on every little piece of your self worth"

Brokenstar was left speechless for a moment then hissed profanities and Bluestar hissed right back

"Bluestar's really something" Wetfoot commented

"She was made leader for a reason" Sandstorm purred, her claws unsheathed a little "Shadowclan best remember that before they get burned"

Brownwhisker and Wetfoot hissed at her jab.

"How's Whitethroat?" Icebelly asked, turning his gaze to Littlecloud and Oakpaw "And the queens?"

"Whitethroat's okay as can he can be, the kits are healthy so far" Littlecloud replied softly "Mossclaw isn't much help of course"

"My mom says she misses you" Oakpaw chuckled "They all miss you"

"Tangleburr misses me?" Icebelly mewed in surprise then he smiled "Tell them I miss them as well, grow to be a great warrior Oakpaw"

Oakpaw beamed "I will"

"Look!" Yellowfang yowled her nose pointing at the sky

The two leaders gazed up and saw that the clouds began to cover the moon.

"Starclan are angry" Mudfur called

"Shadowclan to me" Brokenstar ordered as he leaped from the Great Rock. The Shadowclan cats quickly followed after their leader.

"Bye Icebelly" Wetfoot mewed softly he padded after his clan with Oakpaw in tow

"Well that was expected" Cherrycloud said

"No shit" Icebelly replied with a roll of his eyes

His attention was on Bluestar and Stormstar. Bluestar seemed to be stopping Stormstar from leaving, she was whispering something to the gray tabby. Something insulting by the looks of Stormstar's snarl. The Riverclan seemed to calm himself before muttering something to Bluestar.

Then and only then did Bluestar move out of the way.

[ineffable-writer]

New Year’s Eve: Aziraphale gets a wild idea about a question he’s wanted to ask for a while and Crowley does not understand why they’re going on holiday to Iceland.

I’m in Iceland for the new year (I’m posting this from 2020!) and of course I spent the last day of 2019 writing ridiculous fluff. Everywhere the Husbands go is real, and places I’ve been (though I did not get a luxury suite at the Blue Lagoon, I’m sad to say).

Previous installments are sweet but not necessary to read to understand (and can be found under the tag #PlaceWithoutPlot, although that’s not 100% true after this excerpt?). Excerpt here, full on AO3 or below the break.

--

The best crepes in Scotland were, undoubtedly, in a small café near the Meadows, which quickly became a regular spot for lunch on the days they wandered about separately. It was covered in tartan and old records, owned and operated by one man. The drinks were good and the crepes were divine.

“I was thinking, you know,” said Aziraphale, sipping a hot chocolate and relaxing into the tartan, “we don’t need to go back right away.”

“No?” asked Crowley. “Plants will miss me.”

“Oh, the Devices have nowhere to be,” said the angel. “Anathema will keep them alive and I’m sure they don’t mind a little reprieve.”

“You’re scheming,” Crowley lightheartedly accused, fighting to keep the smile off his lips. Aziraphale didn’t laugh or shoot Crowley a disapproving look, which meant he was legitimately nervous about something. The effort of hiding something distracted the angel, which meant Crowley could always tell when it happened. Crowley sat forward a bit: I’m paying attention. I know this is important. I’m listening.

“It’s just, well. We know Edinburgh. The whole island, really. We’ve lived here a very long time.”

“Understatement.”

“Yes. Well. So. I thought perhaps—if you wanted—we could go somewhere new.”

“New?” Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Everywhere’s new, angel. World keeps changing. That’s what we like about it. Remember?”

“I know! But it’s so easy to get around these days. No more horses, no more ships…”

“What’s wrong with ships? I like ships.”

“You never went on a trireme, if I recall,” said Aziraphale.

“No more triremes, I’ll give you.” Crowley raised an eyebrow. Aziraphale was avoiding talking about whatever he wanted to talk about, now. “Where did you want to go?”

“Iceland.”

“Iceland?”

“Iceland.”

Crowley bit back the why, the what in the world is in Iceland that makes you want to go there, the what has gotten into you lately, you’re always such a homebody, I literally moved right down the block from you because we both hate putting in more effort to go places than absolutely necessary. Aziraphale had something in mind, and Crowley had the sense that the wrong reaction would absolutely shatter the man. Besides, Crowley trusted him.

“All right,” said Crowley. “Iceland. What about New Year’s, then?”

-

Aziraphale insisted on being mysterious about his plans once they got to Iceland, so Crowley demanded the right to do the same.

“If you get a mystery,” he said, “I get a mystery too. And mine’s near the airport, so unless you’ve got a fantastic reason, I get to go first.”

They arrived in Keflavik—not Reykjavik, not on an international flight—and Crowley’s reasoning became apparent quickly. The flight didn’t exactly get in early, but this time of year the sun didn’t rise until noon, so it was the middle of the night when they landed at nine AM. They still didn’t have the Bentley (Newt was not to touch the car back in Sussex, and he was terrified enough of Crowley that Aziraphale suspected he’d form a permanent bond with the houseplants) but Crowley had managed a half-decent rental car. He convinced Aziraphale to get in before breakfast—“Trust me, angel, there’s food where we’re going!”—and they set out into the night. The weather was somewhat warm for the season. It was cold, but not freezing.

Iceland was famous for its stunning scenery and dramatic landscapes, but in darkness like this all they could see were black shapes against gray sky. As the sun rose, it cast long shadows over a broken landscape. The earth had cracked and crackled after centuries of volcanic activity, leaving fields that looked like the ruined cities of ancient giants. Trees here were short and grew in sparse copses—it had once been a forest island, but not after the Nordic settlers arrived—and the tumbling rocks were covered in silver-gray lichens and mosses. Here on the southwest corner, the mountains were mostly distant, framing the horizon.

Crowley peeled off the main road and drove towards an alpine cluster, and the sky grew lighter. He was sure Aziraphale would guess immediately—apparently the angel had been reading about Iceland—but it wasn’t until they drove past the first pools that Crowley saw his eyes light up. He’d picked this place for stupid, indulgent reasons, one of which was that the color of Aziraphale’s eyes matched the water exactly. (He also liked the idea of getting out of the chill for once, warming his serpentine bones, and that played into it.)

Hot springs. Deep-earth saltwater, heated by the volcano and pumped into what was essentially a fancy swimming pool by these brilliant, stupid human beings that they both loved so much. It was indulgent and warm and frankly good for their corporations and souls alike, and after doing things the Human Way for a bit he could use a little pampering.

There was a resort. Crowley had picked the top package, the one that came with free breakfast and facial treatments and daily yoga and guided hikes in addition to everything you could ask for at the hot springs. He’d booked a room for two nights, one with a view of the lagoons. It only came with a single king-sized bed, but honestly, so had every other place they’d stayed. Crowley was the only one who used it. Aziraphale just stayed up reading. Aside from a comment on the décor—“Clearly you chose this place, it looks just like the flat in London with a bit more natural light.”—Aziraphale didn’t mention it at all.

Aziraphale immediately ran off on one of the guided hikes, spouting something about history and geography. Crowley did yoga, taking a moment to try and guess what the angel was getting at with this trip in the first place. He was done first, and was relaxing in their suite with a silica mask when Aziraphale got back (grumpy from the physical activity, but excited about the geological history). Then there was dinner at the restaurant—a great wall of glass built next to the natural volcanic stone, with a table for two right next to illuminated volcanic pools and a plate of Icelandic cod for the angel—and a quick change into suits before they went into the main pool.

Public baths were familiar to them both—they had been around since the moment humans had discovered the delights of warm water—but there was something mystical about hot springs. The vivid water, as opaque and blue as a settled fog. The mist that rose and danced in the air as wind whipped around them, eddying in the rocks and around bridges. The open air, cold and wet with rain against the heat of the water.

The pool was an expanse. The far borders were lost in the mist, and patrons drifted through the water in various masks: mostly white silica, ghostly, with their laughter and conversations muted by the open space. The resort provided towels and bathrobes, so the bridges around the pools were inhabited by patrons in white as well, exploring the intricate landscape of the baths.

Crowley and Aziraphale hung their robes on hooks outside and darted to the water, laughing. They had both slicked back their hair with conditioner—the salt and silica stuck and dried it out—and Aziraphale looked ridiculous, his characteristic curls stuck flat to his head.  Someone took someone’s hand and they ended up drifting like the dead in the water, looking up at the darkness and locked together, holding tightly, refusing to ever let go.

 -

Crowley washed his hair in the private shower of their suite. The conditioner had done little to protect it, despite the spa’s claims that it had been specially designed for the water here. He could just miracle back the keratin, but some deep-down part of him liked the feeling of Aziraphale seeing him as imperfect. He slathered it in a keratin treatment instead, slicking it back against his head, before drying off and wrapping up in a robe. He’d get some rest and in the morning—

The demon’s wandering train of thought was jolted off its track as he came into the bedroom. Aziraphale was sitting on the bed. The angel was wearing pyjamas, silk beige ones with a gold trim, which was a sight Crowley had not ever thought he’d see. His hair was frizzy with silica and salt. He looked nervous. He jumped when Crowley closed the bathroom door.

“Ah. Hello.”

“Hello,” said Crowley, waving his hand in Aziraphale’s general direction. You’re in my bed, the gesture said. This is a new turn of events, please tell me what is happening.

“Yes. Well. I thought perhaps—so much has happened, lately. So much has changed. I’m… I’m tired, I think.” Aziraphale swallowed. “I’m quite tired. And I’ve never been much good at…” At trusting anyone, the pause said. At relaxing enough to let my guard down. Relaxing invites attack. Relaxing means I cannot avoid conflict once I see it coming. “…At sleeping. I thought perhaps I’d try it.”

“Am I on the couch, then?” asked Crowley, perhaps a bit more snidely than he meant it. It wasn’t so much that he was opposed to seeing the angel in pyjamas. He just assumed, at this point, that it was part of the Agreement that he was entitled to any bed in a room they shared, and he’d been looking forward to this one.

He’d give up any bed in the world for Aziraphale, but that was beside the point.

“No,” said Aziraphale.

“Oh,” said Crowley, surprised.

It was utterly impossible to sleep. The bed was warm and soft, and the rain pattered outside in a gentle white noise. Crowley rolled over, restless, assuming he’d see Aziraphale as a knot of blankets with a little angelic cloud of hair sticking out. Not the case: Aziraphale had turned to look at him, too.

Their eyes met. Gold to blue. Crowley breathed.

“You’re not very good at this,” said Aziraphale. “I thought you’d be asleep by now.”

“Sometimes it’s difficult.”

“Clearly.”

“You’ve messed with my usual routine,” said Crowley. “I don’t usually have distracting angels in my bed.”

“Distracting?” Aziraphale’s voice was prim. “So sinful.”

Crowley hit him with a pillow.

 -

The second night was clearer, and the private lagoon that came with their suite produced less steam. Crowley, who was beginning to doubt that he would ever sleep again, floated in the water and watched the stars for a while. There was some small light pollution from the spa and a nearby geothermal plant, but for the most part the sky was clear, and he could see the galaxy.

Aziraphale joined him. Crowley hadn’t bothered with a suit—no one could see them here and he still felt a little weird dressing up to get in a bath. Neither had the angel. He laid back in the water and joined Crowley without a word.

Crowley pointed. “Helped build that one,” he said.

“I know,” said Aziraphale. He pointed at a nearby cluster. “And those. And most of the structures around Ursa Major, didn’t you?”

“You kept track?”

“It’s not hard,” said Aziraphale. “You tell me every time we go stargazing. We’ve done quite a lot of stargazing.”

Crowley laughed. “Humans say, when they get old, their friends know all their stories.”

“And their partners,” said Aziraphale, and then he seemed like he was going to say something else, but he hesitated.

Crowley elbowed him. “Why are you so nervous?”

“It’s my turn tomorrow,” said Aziraphale. “You’ll find out then.”

 -

It was New Year’s Eve. They didn’t leave early, not until the sun was up. They needed to arrive after dark, Aziraphale insisted, and the drive wasn’t too long.

Bullshit, in Crowley’s opinion. Not too long was about seven hours from the resort, at the speed limit and with no stops. They drove north, touched the edge of Reykjavik, then swung east on Route 1 and took the Ring Road into eternity. And Aziraphale kept stopping for nibbles and photo opportunities. They took a detour north because he simply had to see Þingvallir National Park, and then he kept taking pictures out of the car window rather than just waiting for the lookout points, and then there was this lovely little farm-to-table place in Reykholt where they had to stop for a late lunch. It had a stunning mountain view, although it also had views into the actual barn and Crowley felt a bit odd eating a hamburger next to its still-living friends.

“Is this the thing?” Crowley asked, every time they stopped. Þingvallir was spectacular, great sweeping hills absolutely spattered with snowcapped mountains and boiling, broken earth. The barn food was good. The landscape was beautiful. But each time, Aziraphale shook his head. He was stalling, the bastard. Wherever he wanted to be, Crowley suspected he wanted to be there at midnight.

It was eleven-thirty when Aziraphale told him to pull over into a nondescript parking lot. They were a third of the way around the Ring Road. They weren’t even close to a town. (Hof didn’t count, it had a total of six intersections and five roads.) It was as godforsaken as Crowley was, and that was saying something.

“Just pull in,” said Aziraphale. Crowley was grumpy and tired. “I promise you, it’s worth it.”

Crowley obeyed. Wherever they were, Aziraphale had dragged them to the ends of the earth for it. Demons trusted no one, but Crowley trusted his angel. Always.

They parked and Crowley stepped out onto black sand. It was gritty and volcanic and nothing special, exactly: it covered the entire island like a blanket. It even pooled up at the bottom of the hot springs. They hadn’t traveled all this way to see sand.

Crowley turned around.

It was a minor miracle, he was sure, that the sky was still so clear and the beach was so empty. They were the only sentient creatures present for miles, and the stars spilled above them in a shining display that was almost as clear as the day Crowley had made them. They looked like diamonds, spilled across a sky of black velvet. And in front of him, in this perfect place, the beach—

“Behind us—they call it Glacier Bay. It’s full of icebergs that break off from the glaciers, and they all exit the bay through that small opening there. They break up and smooth down in the ocean, then get caught in the tide and pulled back here.”

“Angel…”

“They call it Diamond Beach because the ice is so clear and smooth, and the broken ice looks like diamonds on the black sand. One of the employees at the bookshop in Edinburgh went here, they showed me pictures. They do look like diamonds, of course, but I saw the pictures and I thought it looked more like—”

“Stars,” Crowley breathed.

Some of the shards were the size of Crowley’s hand; some were the size of Crowley. They were scattered along the sand like glass on ink, like stars on the sky, like diamonds on velvet, and it was freezing but it was beautiful, and this time Crowley knew exactly whose hand reached for whose. He’d taken Aziraphale’s and grasped it tight.

“I thought we could go for a walk here,” said Aziraphale.

“You brought us to Iceland for a walk?” He’d already started, tugging the angel along behind him. Down the slope to the beach, careful not to slip. Aziraphale cleared his throat and caught up.

“One could put it that way.” The angel extracted his hand from the demon’s in favor of tucking into Crowley’s arm instead. He was clearly trying to be romantic, to cuddle a little, but he was too nervous and his back had gone stiff. Crowley kissed the top of the angel’s head.

“I saw it and it reminded me of you,” said Aziraphale, clearly trying to segue into something. “You helped make the stars. It’s silly, thinking you’re older than me. I wasn’t around yet, not for that part.”

“Didn’t think I was older than you.”

“Not by much.”

“Not by much,” Crowley mimicked in a posh accent. He was teasing. Time as a concept didn’t really apply to angels.

“Hush, you. It made me think, well. You talk about them so much, and I think it was a happy time for you. I hope it was a happy time for you.” Complicated topic. But Aziraphale was building up to something, and Crowley wasn’t going to stop him. “And because, well, because it seems like a memory of a safe place, something important to you—a beginning, really. Not our beginning, not The Beginning—oh dear, maybe I should have done this in a garden—”

“Angel.” Crowley laughed. The sand sunk under their footsteps and the ocean—pure Atlantic, powerful and deep—beat steadily in the background. “Keep going.”

“It just seemed like a good place to ask you a question, that’s all. I didn’t have a diamond. This isn’t very well thought-through.”

Crowley paused. There was a feeling like warmth spreading through his chest.

Aziraphale took the opportunity to let go of Crowley’s arm and turn to face him. They stood there, eyes locked, twin points of light and darkness in a line parallel to the ocean. The angel breathed deeply, and the demon forgot to breathe at all.

“I need you to know what it is that I am asking,” Aziraphale said. “I don’t… There’s so much of this, of our relationship, that I never want to change. I enjoy our independence. I will never stop you from running off to see Bond Films at the cinema or saying unforgiveable things to your plants. I know that over the years we have both developed—ah—close relationships with humans on occasion, and I do not expect that to stop for either of us. I think those relationships, whatever they might be, are important to us.”

“Aziraphale…”

“I think our freedom, however we use it, is important to our dynamic. I don’t want anything to change between us, except perhaps for each of us to… to know. Crowley—Anthony—earlier this year I said something truly horrible to you, and I need you to know it wasn’t true. It has never been true, not really. I’ve been lying to myself. I think I’ve been lying to myself for quite a long time.”

The angel took the demon’s hand.

“I am on our side. Anthony Crowley—”

“Anthony J. Crowley—” It was a reflex.

“Anthony J. Crowley, I have chosen you for six thousand years. I have done so bucking and—and fighting, on occasion. But I have done so. And I know that you’ve done the same to me. In fact—in fact, I think I’ve lied to myself more than you’ve ever lied to me.”

“I’ve never lied to you,” said Crowley, holding that hand like it was the end of the world.

“What I’m asking you,” said Aziraphale, “is simply to… make it official, as it were. Say to each other, directly, that we are on our side and no one else’s. That we will choose each other over all future sides. All future… er, choices. All future loves.”

He removed his signet ring.

“When I say marriage—”

Crowley finally broke down. He wasn’t sure if he was laughing at Aziraphale’s monologue—was this a proposal or a contract?—or crying at the sudden rush of emotion, but he closed one hand around the ring and the other around Aziraphale’s waist and kissed him. Kissed him under the stars and among the diamonds, hours away from civilization, at the stroke of midnight.

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, you idiot, always yes.” Crowley’s hands cupped his angel’s face, drinking in the love that poured from Aziraphale like a fountain. “You’re right. I’ve always picked you above everything. Everyone. Always. Easy to be ourselves and still do that. It’s natural.”

Natural didn’t always mean easy—especially to Aziraphale, who could be loyal to a fault to all the wrong people. But they were free to be themselves. Free to live however they wanted. Free to choose each other. Crowley put the signet ring on his finger, already mentally sketching out a serpentine ring to match it.

This time it was Aziraphale who kissed him.