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zoesmp4 · 24 days

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FALLING BEHIND “everybody’s falling in love but im falling behind.” carl grimes x fem!reader

tags: fluff, kissing, use of y/n, e2l

@p1stach1oss + @gr7mes !! we both did laufey inspired carl fics so check out hers <3

a/n: this is my longest fic ever omg 😭 teehee i love adding him with cold hands🙏 this fic is inspired by falling behind by laufey, the lyrics r in between paragraphs or they’re in italic and bold !! i don’t know how to feel ab this one 😭

you felt like cupid was against you. “he called me pretty y/n. he called me pretty.” enid says, clutching your hand in excitement. you notice how the sunlight hits her face perfectly, no wonder she’s got ron all over her.

and my best friend’s found a new guy

you tried hard. really hard. it was practically impossible for you to get a boyfriend. sure, you had better things to worry about, but it was hard to stop thinking about it when you saw couples everywhere you went.

you were honestly desperate at this point. it was pathetic, really pathetic. but you just couldn’t manage anymore. you wanted to have someone who would let you cry into their chest when you were low, someone who would bend down to tie your shoelaces when they were undone, someone who would love you.

like a normal teenage girl, it was no surprise that you had a crush. of course, to your luck, you didn’t have even a slim chance with him. you were naive, wanting a boyfriend but crushing on the boy who hated your guts. you had fallen in love with carl grimes.

you and the boy weren’t exactly best buddies. when you were younger, he would tease you every chance he got. it’s not so different now. carl had made it his number one priority to make your life a living hell, and oh boy, was he successful.

he was tormenting you, but not in the way he’s trying to. he was all you could think about, and it was irritating. he could be making fun of you, and all you would focus on was his pretty face.

god, his eyes were like the midwinter sky, you could stare at them all day without getting bored. you often found yourself also gazing at his lips. they would be moving but you wouldn’t hear anything. it was hard to focus on things when you were around him.

“y/n? hello.. did you not hear what i just said?” enid says, eyebrows furrowing into confusion. “no, i did- sorry. go on.” you felt bad, you knew she was happy about this. so why couldn’t you just listen and be happy for her?

“whats distracting you so much? you’re really out of it today.” she says. “nothing, it’s not important.” “you sure? seemed pre-“ you watch as she glances behind you, talking instantly coming to a stop. you notice how her face flushes before she grins. you turn around to see ron, mr. prince charming, smiling at her.

“go, we can talk tomorrow.” you say, nodding your head in ron’s direction, a slight smile appearing on your face. “thank you, thank you, thank you! i promise we’ll talk later. you can tell me all about what you were daydreaming about.” enid exclaims, quickly rising to her feet, finishing her sentence as she walks over to the lanky boy.

lovers stroll without a care in sight

you were making your way back to your house, looking down at the ground beneath you. it’s not that you were completely devastated you didn’t have a lover of your own, but you were upset. “wait up loser!” you hear a voice call out from behind you.

your footsteps come to a halt and almost instantly, carl grimes is standing next to you. you felt your heart stop. play it cool y/n. “hi..?” you wanted to smack yourself right there and then. hi?? hi?!! you were so basic. “what’s got you all quiet? you’re usually so loud, you’re kinda scaring me.” he jokes, noticing how your usual smile was turned into a slight frown.

you found it kinda weird how he noticed the little things about you. you’d known each other for years now, and if you were being honest, he probably knew you better than enid did. boy, did it give you butterflies. if only he liked you back. “m’ okay. jus thinking about something. it’s really dumb though.” “everything you say is dumb. what’s up?” there it is. the daily insult.

“like i said, it’s nothing. don’t you have something better to do?” you say, looking him in the eye. “yeah, but i think this is pretty entertaining. now, can you please tell me what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?”

ooh, this can’t be right

you knew he was probably being sarcastic, but his words still made your heart beat faster. anything carl said made your heart beat faster.

“you really wanna know?” “have i not made it obvious enough?” he says, rolling his eyes playfully. you sigh. “don’t laugh, but it’s like- everybody’s falling in love and i’m falling behind.” “what do you mean?” he was.. interested in what you had to say?

“everyone is getting their perfect fairytale and i’m just there. enid keeps talking about ron, how he calls her pretty and everything. they’re perfect. meanwhile, no one has even had a crush on me. it’s hopeless. i’m only getting older, i’ve never had a shoulder to cry on.”

carl looked at you with sympathy. “you’re really clueless aren’t you?” he asks, chuckling. “huh?” “y/n, who do you think left the comic you really wanted on your doorstep? who do you think got you the heart locket necklace thingy for your birthday? you’ve never thought about why they were just laying there?”

“i dont- i thought it was just enid surprising me or something.” “i dont think enid sneaked out the week before your birthday to make sure you got a good gift.” he said, looking straight into your eyes. “are you saying- that’s impossible.”

“i am in love with you. that’s what i’m saying.” your eyes widened, mouth parting slightly. “but- how? you’ve hated me since we were like- i don’t even know.” “who said i hated you?” okay. what was going on? carl grimes, the boy who’s been tormenting you since you could walk is confessing his feelings to you?

he sighs. “i-i know i’ve been an asshole. and i’m sorry. i’ve just been scared.” “scared..?” you ask, a puzzled look on your face. “terrified. y/n, you’re the most beautiful girl i’ve ever laid eyes on. i don’t- i didn’t know how to express my feelings. so i’ve just been being a pain in the ass. i know you don’t like me, and tha-“

you closed the space between you two, instantly laying your lips onto his. you didn’t know what was happening, but you knew you weren’t going to waste this opportunity.

one of his hands found its way to your back, pulling you closer. you felt the other one rest upon your cheek. the only thing that was surfacing in your mind was how good the sensation of his lips on yours felt. it was purely euphoric.

as soon as you both parted lips, you already missed it. “what does this mean? w-what are we?” you ask, voice quieter than usual. his cold hands reached for yours, a nervous expression on his face.

“i really wanna be yours. only if you’ll let me.” his words rang throughout your head, the words not processing.

“i really want you to be mine, carl grimes.”

“then i’m all yours, sweet girl.”

everybody’s falling in love

#carl grimes #carl grimes x reader #carl grimes x y/n #the walking dead #carl grimes x fem!reader #twd x reader #twd #carl grimes angst #carl grimes fluff #carl grimes smut #carl grimes oneshot #carl grimes imagine #twd oneshot #twd imagine #the walking dead x reader #carl grimes fanfiction #carl grimes x you

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rosieofcorona · 5 months

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A Summoning

ANGELS, I've returned to serve you domestic fluff with a side of holiday mischief. Professor! Gale and Dad! Gale are everything to me so I have wrapped them both up in this story with a little bow on top. Also on AO3 if you prefer. As always, thank you for reading. 💕

Winter brings many things to Waterdeep– the sort of darkness that seeps into every corner of the city, the sort of snow that falls as heavy as a shroud. It brings a season’s worth of holidays, and with them, all their customs, all their visitors called home from every region of Faerun. It bring gifts and songs and lanterns, lit and hung in every window, their light shining off the snow like grounded stars.

Best of all, winter brings them Arabella.

In the girl’s first year at Blackstaff, Tav insisted Gale invite her home at Midwinter break. After all, she'd pointed out, Gale knew firsthand what it was like to be alone in the dormitories when the other students had gone home. It would be better, they’d decided, to have her stay with them in the tower, where they could spoil her and cook for her and help her with her schoolwork.

And so it was.

That first Midwinter came and went, and so did Fey Day and Fleetswake and Midsummer, Stoneshar and Last Sheaf and Feast of the Moon. Every holiday they invited her, and every holiday she came.

By the time Midwinter arrived again, there was no discussion at all. Arabella simply appeared at their door on the last day of school, and was welcomed in just before dinner.

For the most part, her visits brim over with happiness. Gale teaches her the rules of lanceboard and all his favorite recipes, and Tav reads to her and shows her how to pluck out a tune on a lyre. When Tara and Morena come for tea, they tell her stories about Gale’s childhood that turn him varying shades of red, depending on how often he has scolded Arabella for similar behaviors. There is no shortage of laughter or mischief or very late nights, which means also no shortage of noise.

In the mornings, Gale rises ahead of the girls, gathers all his students’ papers and heads to the library to work in uninterrupted silence. If he is lucky, he can get through a good deal of marking before he starts to miss the tower, all its chaos and its company.

No luck today.

He’s only been there for an hour when a family passes by the nearest window, a flock of children shepherded by their parents. They all take turns at catching snowflakes, huge and fluffy, on their tongues, and fall apart in fits of laughter when they miss.

They grin and wave at Gale when they see him, their cheeks flushed and bright with cold, and he waves back, and packs his things, and goes home early.

*********

The tower seems, at first, exactly as he’d left it– silent, sleeping– But they must be up by now, he thinks. It’s late enough.

He might expect them in the solar or the kitchen or the parlor, warming up before the fireplace or hovering over a lanceboard, but there’s no seems to be no sign of them, no sound of them at all.

It is too quiet.

Gale takes the stairs two at a time and makes a beeline down the corridor to their chambers, worry rising in his chest. He nearly rushes past his study when a faint exchange of words drifts through the door, followed by a commotion– a flutter of paper, a rush of footsteps, something dragged across the floor.

He’s almost startled when he reaches for the handle and it opens. Tav is standing at the threshold, bright as ever, smiling wide.

Gale catches sight of Arabella in the background closing a book, setting it back down on his desk with a little thump . Its cover– or what he glimpses– looks familiar somehow, like something he’d studied long ago and has since forgotten. The memory hasn’t fully formed when Tav interrupts it, her lips pressed to his in her usual greeting. She tastes like holiday sweets, like honey cake and mint, like tradition and family and home.

“Hello, darling,” she says. “You’re home early.”

“Hello, you.”

The lingering taste of her is nearly enough to distract from his growing suspicion, but there’s something off about the room that he can’t quite place, something mischievous in the way she’s leaning against the doorframe, shifting her body, tilting her head to obscure his view.

“Am I interrupting?”

“Of course not,” she assures him, in a tone so light and easy it’s almost convincing. “Arabella and I have just been reviewing some of her lessons, isn’t that right?”

“Yep!” Arabella agrees, too enthusiastically for schoolwork. The girl comes to stand next to Tav in the doorway, her hands clasped politely before her. The picture of a well-behaved child.

He is certain they are up to something now.

“And which lessons might those be?”

They stumble over their answers, the words colliding, knocking heads.

“Evocation,” answers Tav, while Arabella says, “Illusion.”

A guilty look, quick as a hummingbird, flits between them and disappears.

Gale raises an eyebrow. “Care to try again?”

“Well,” Arabella swallows, “I was saying you’ve been teaching our class about familiars, and how you got Tara, and–”

“Hang on,” Gale interrupts, a realization creeping over him. He points past them to the desk, to the text that she had dropped when Tav opened the door. “Is that my book?”

“I think you’ll find they’re all your books, darling,” Tav says quickly. “Don’t worry, we’ll put them back–”

But it’s too late.

With a flick of his hand, Gale passes through them like mist and reappears in the room beside his desk. He flips open the front cover– Advanced Summoning, stamped in gilded letters– and turns to a bookmarked page of detailed instruction, his own notes scribbled in the margins in a child’s hand.

“You certainly will put this back,” he says firmly, facing Arabella. “This is magic beyond your years.”

“But you were younger than me when you summoned Tara!”

“‘Younger than I,’ and– nevermind – you're right, but that was very different.”

Arabella wrinkles her nose indignantly. “How?”

“Well first of all, I didn’t need someone else’s private notes to do it. Now, if you’d like a book on familiars, I have a more appropriate one you can borrow–”He is moving in long strides toward the bookshelves on the opposite wall, crossing over the rug that’s been moved– It’s been moved? – to half-cover the summoning circle and–

Wait .

“Have–” he sputters, lifting his shoe off the chalky runes drawn on the hardwood. “Have you made a summoning circle ? In my study?”

“Well, not just me,” the girl protests. “Tav helped!”

“I did,” she cringes lightly, when Gale whips around to look at her. “I couldn’t let her do it on her own.”

“My love, she shouldn’t be doing it at all. This,” he says, turning back to Arabella, “Is complex and dangerous magic. One mistake and you might summon a pit fiend rather than a tressym.” “A very small pit fiend,” says Tav under her breath, but on seeing Gale’s scowl, adds, “Sorry.”

“ Gods,” he groans, dropping his face into his hands. “What am I going to do with the two of you?”

“Help us!” Arabella grins. “We were nearly done anyway.”

“We could use your expertise,” Tav murmurs, drawing close. “You’re the only one who’s done this before.”

He feels her soft hands on his, prying them from his eyes so gently that he almost forgives them right then and there.

“Pleeeease?” Arabella draws out the word like a sustained note. “I won’t ask for anything else all Midwinter.”

“Where on earth are you going to keep it, Arabella? They’ll never allow it in the dormitories, believe me.” The girls look first at each other, then back to Gale. “No,” he says firmly. “Absolutely not. It cannot live here.” “But I’m here all the time anyway!” Arabella protests. “I promise I’ll take good care of it. Besides, you’re always telling me I need to be more responsible.”

Gale sighs until it feels like all the air has left his body.

“And summoning a familiar is going to make you more responsible?” The child shrugs. “It might.”

It is all he can do not to laugh at that, at all of it, at the great karmic joke playing out in front of him. This must be what his mother felt like, all those many years ago. He thinks of writing her his most sincere apology.

After a great deal more sighing and shaking his head, Gale bends and tugs the rug away to reveal the extent of their work. He examines it deliberately, walking around and around, head bent, arms crossed, brow furrowed.

“Your runes are wrong,” he says at last. “Here,” he points, “and here. Let me show you.”

Arabella listens closely as he guides her through the process, far more closely than she listens in his class. She draws new runes in a steady hand, pausing each time for affirmation, and when she finishes Gale’s eyes are full of pride.

“The incantation now,” he nods, and stands and brushes the chalk from his knees.

He moves out of the circle entirely as Arabella takes the center, her command of the words unwavering and true. But for a long and silent moment, nothing happens. She looks from the circle to the book to Gale and back, her disappointment only tempered by confusion.

Then comes a sound like distant lightning, and a sizzling, crackling energy that makes the hair on all their arms stand up on end. A sphere of light appears above them, tears like parchment down the middle, and something tiny, something living tumbles straight into her arms. She nearly drops the book to catch it– a ball of fur with fledgling wings– and when she turns her eyes are bright with tears, a joy Gale still remembers.

#gale x tav #gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #gale x fem! tav #professor dekarios #arabella bg3 #gale fluff #holiday fluff #domestic fluff #arabella being a regular in gale & tav's home is everything to me #my fic

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broomsick · 5 months

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hi. im sorry if im bothering but you're a norse pagan and i am too but i joined recently and haven't been able to gain much knowledge yet. i have a few questions, if you would like to answer them i would be very grateful:

• other than the eddas, is there any book that can help me as a beginner to the norse faith or maybe witchcraft?

• yule is coming up and it is my first pagan festival so could you please help me understand how to celebrate it, is there any norse deities in specific that i should give offerings to? (i plan on making offerings to skadi right now)

• i'm may have some european amcestors cause im indo european but i doubt that any of my ancestors were norse...could i still practice norse paganism?

•lastly, what are blots?

Hello there! Thank you so much for the ask. And welcome to this faith! I hope this path is as fulfilling to you as it is to me.

You'll be happy to know there are so much great ressources for norse pagans to use for research. I've actually listed a bunch of them in this previous post, in which I identified what sources were books and which were online ressources.

Now, Yule is a very exciting celebration for heathens! We know that it was a major festival in Iron Age Scandinavia. Traditionally, there would be a toast made in honor of the ancestors, one made in honor of the One-Eyed, to ask for success (he is even called Jólnir, "Figure of Yule"), and one made in honor of Yngvi-Freyr and Njörðr, to ask for fertility and prosperity. This is why these three deities are most often viewed as the main deities of Yule in nordic tradition. Thórr also has some associations with Yule, primarily due to the traditional yule goat decoration still present in Scandinavia today, which may or may not have had ties with him due to his association with goats. Whatever the case, he is also a popular choice within modern practice when it comes to the deities honored during Yule celebrations. You could also very well include Sól in your practice around that time of the year. After all, winter solstice celebrations often serve to rejoice and welcome the return of the sun as the days grow longer once again. It's for this reason that lighting candles or bonfires on the longest night of the year is a popular way to celebrate Yule: it symbolizes the return of light and warmth as the second half of winter commences. There are a few accounts of some sort of "yule log", a very long log decorated with candles, being burned during the twelve days of Yule, though the veracity of this story is debated. Still, it can be fun for us to incorporate a similar tradition into our own celebrations! For example, by decorating a piece of wood and burning it during a ritual as our own yule log. Decorating using greenery (real or fake) is also a popular way to celebrate Yule! It's a way to remind ourselves that despite the cold and the snow, the earth still lives and nature still thrives! Traditionally, one would use plants such as holly, ivy, or any evergreen tree, which stay green throughout the winter. I also can't forget the eternal norse pagan tip: when in doubt, hold a feast! To invite your loved ones around a table and eat homemade food is always one of the best ways to honor the Gods, and this goes for any festival. So much can be done even if you prefer to celebrate alone, or with just a few close friends! Just treat yourself to a hearty winter meal, and save some of it to offer the Gods, along with a glass of the alcohol of your choosing (I generally go for winter drinks, such as mulled wine, warm ice cider and the like). There is only so much I can list at the top of my head, and there are countless ways for you to celebrate Yule. Feel free to dig around for more ideas, and to experiment with whatever feels right! I'll now direct you to this wonderful video, which I discovered a while back and which does a wonderful job of explaining everything we currently know about Yule and midwinter festivals in the nordic cultures.

Now, norse paganism is a fully open practice! Everyone is free to practice it, no matter their ancestry. Don't let anybody tell you otherwise, they would not be speaking the truth!

As for your last question, blót is an Old Norse term meaning "blood", which can seem scary when you put it that way, but it's nothing to be worried about! It merely refers to the act of sacrifice, or as we neo-pagans often say, offering. A blót is a ritualized offering made to the norse Gods! The celebrations around such an event can also be refered to as blót: the term "Yule" originally came from the Old Norse name for the main midwinter sacrifice, Jólablót, which is the name I give to my own winter solstice celebration. We know that during the Scandinavian Iron Age, there were many blóts scattered across the calendar! Among those: Þorrablót, or Husbands' Day, allegedly celebrating the God Thórr, Góublót, or Wives' Day, a celebration of the end of winter, Sigrblót, a festival to ask for victory, Alfablót, celebrated at the end of the harvest season during which offerings to the elves were made, Jólablót, and Dísablót, when offerings to the Dísir were made. Most solitary practionners of norse paganism do not celebrate all of these. After all, little is known about them! Scholars cannot even pinpoint the exact moment of the year when Dísablót was performed. For this reason, we are all free to practice them based on our own interpretations. Since I am a devout worshipper of Yngvi-Freyr, I offer to him along with the elves on Alfablót. Though Jólablót is arguably the most popular blót to perform among heathens, I have met practionners who did not practice it. The blóts you choose to perform are all up to you!

I have only scratched the surface of how norse pagan holidays can be celebrated! I hope you'll find as much information as you need to prepare for Jólablót, and I also wish for you to have lots of fun celebrating it! Do be sure to trust your gut when it comes to celebrating pagan holidays. It all comes down to you, your preferences and what feels right. Have a great rest of the day, and please don't hesitate to reach out to me if you have any other questions!

#ask #asks #norse paganism #spirituality #polytheism #paganism #norse gods #heathenry #deity work #deities #pagan #yule

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skinnyazn · 1 year

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Texas Sun

Drabble that takes place after The Masks We Wear and In the Bleak Midwinter Pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x F!Reader (Jaguar) x Johnny 'Soap' Mactavish Chapters: 1/1 Notes: EXPLICIT SMUTTY CONTENT 18+, I was driving with the windows down, wind in my hair, sun baking me face, so obv I had to write a fic inspired by it, and the song Texas Sun, takes place after The Masks We Wear but also works as a stand alone, all u need to know is Soap overheard Ghost and Jag banging in Italy a while back, u knew Johnny was gonna make a love triangle appearance at some point, I churned this out today and don't have a beta reader so enjoy

In the Bleak Midwinter | The Masks We Wear| AO3 | MASTERLIST

Ghost watched you from the back seat of the GMV; his signature skull mask snug across his face and sharp eyes on you. The vehicle kicked up red dust as you drove. Off-road and hot and somewhere in the desert. Warm wind whipped through the truck—a respite as it rushed against your sweat-stained tank top. Soap was in the passenger seat, chatting away.

“Ahhh good shite. Nothin’ like a job well done, ey L.T.?”

Simon grunted in agreement.

“Not too bad yourself there, bonnie. Glad I finally got to see you in action on the field—now I see why Simon’s obsessed with you,” the Scot laughed as he looked at you with something of a twinkle in his eye.

“Nice to see I’ve converted you to the Domination of Jaguar,” you joked back.

“Didn’t have ta convert me. I’d have come willingly.”

“That’ll do.” Simon’s voice was a bit too loud, a bit too terse.

You glanced at him in the rear-view mirror. The orange sun glinted off your aviators.

He’d been acting short with you the whole day, which was surprising since the mission was executed perfectly. And jealous Simon was new. The Brit was usually great at keeping his emotions in line—especially on missions. But you’d be lying if you said this newfound possessiveness didn’t do things for you. Each bump along the rocky terrain made the hulking man shift in his seat behind you.

“Ack. C’mon, Ghost. Shouldn’t have kept the mic on if you’re the jealous type,” Johnny replied, all humor void from his voice. His mohawk ruffled in the wind.

Neither of you had brought up the fact that Simon left the coms on that fateful night in Venice.

His large hands spread you, sliding his fingers inside while he ate you from behind.

Thassit. Need you to come for me, doll.

It had become some unspoken thing between the three of you. It had changed the dynamic.

You’d always liked Soap. He was an easy guy to get along with and he placated Simon, which earned your respect. And besides, there was some kind of chemistry between the two as well, but you never pried. During your first stint with the 141, you were hardly close with Soap. There wasn’t the time to know him that well.

Then after the comms incident, the three of you became closer. Some triangle of tacit intimacy. Sometimes testing its boundaries—like Soap was doing today.

Simon shifted again in the back seat. His large frame took up most of the space.

“Safe-house’s just up ahead,” you broke the growing silence.

_____

The sun was dipping to the horizon when you pulled in.

“Hope this place has running water,” Johnny said as he hopped out of the vehicle, slinging his rifle into his hands. Everyone smelled of dust and grit and sweat.

He did a quick sweep of the shack while you and Simon grabbed the gear from the back of the GMV.

“Everything okay?” you asked, leaning against the metal beam of the truck.

His eyes raked you in. “You tell me.” It came out gruff as he grabbed a duffle and made his way to the house. Well. Guess that’s where the line was drawn.

Ragged curtains filtered in the golden hour lighting, bathing the inside of the shack in a sepia tone. You set the bags down on the floor next to the worn couch, sporing a little cloud of dust, and looked around. At least there were no bugs… that you could see.

Simon had stalked off to investigate the bedroom. Johnny greeted you again.

“Lassies first,” he said, gesturing to the bathroom.

You smiled, but looked back to find Simon.

“S’alright. I’ll go an’ talk to him,” he rested his hand on your shoulder. It was so warm.

Once inside, you turned on the shower and undressed; your skin was still hot from the sun. As you stepped under the tepid water, you couldn’t help but wonder what was bothering Simon. Obviously Soap’s comment didn’t help, but even before that he’d been in some kind of mood. The water ran over your face as the dirt dripped down your body and spiraled into the drain.

An unnecessary bang interrupted your thoughts as Simon swung the door open. He stepped in and began to strip off his clothes. You watched the beautiful man from under the spray of the shower. Watched the rippling of his muscles as he lifted his shirt—the scars that littered his pale skin shifting as he moved to undress, until he was left with only his mask. You got wet just looking at him; it never got old.

He was already half hard when he stepped into the shower, taking up most of the small space.

“Hi,” you breathed as his hands stroked down your body. He pressed his erection against your stomach. “Is this why you’ve been acting like an ass toward me all day?”

“Y’ave no idea, doll. Watchin’ you work in that outfit… does things to me, Jag.” He rutted up against you, needing the friction. So he was just horny.

You reached to raise the bottom of his mask, exposing his perfect lips. “Gonna waterboard yourself in this, baby.” But he towered above the spray of the showerhead.

It had become second nature now, wrapping your arms around his huge frame for leverage and kissing him. You tasted the salt from his lips as you laved your tongue against his. Simon’s hands reached down and squeezed your ass, then started stroking your clit and folds, pulling a moan from you.

“Johnny’s gonna join,” he said as he slid a finger into you.

“I—What?” but he slid a second in and started undulating and curling his fingers so sweetly inside that your mind went blank. You reached for his cock to regain some control of the situation. He was rock solid now. “T-thought you were jealous back in the car,” you managed.

Simon groaned into your mouth as you worked him just the way he liked. “Just wanted ‘im to shut up before I made you pull over and fucked you in the back seat.”

So he was really horny.

“Saying I should wear tank tops more oft—” but he silenced the tease as he quickened the pace of his fingers inside you, making your knees weak and brining a heat straight to your core.

At that moment, Johnny walked in, taking in the scene of you getting finger fucked by a very hard Simon.

“Steamin’ Jesus…” he exhaled, frozen in place. You turned toward him, looking him up and down with half lidded eyes and a slack jaw while Simon sucked at your neck and continued to work you. Johnny started stripping.

But Simon already had you pressed up against the shower wall and your orgasm on the brink. You watched as Johnny walked to you, planting soft kisses up your arm as he reached for your breasts.

“Christ, look at you. So pretty as you take him," he breathed. "This ok?” You nodded.

His calloused hands squeezed, thumbing over your pebbled nipples. This was really fucking happening. Seeing Soap naked and having his warm hands play with your tits while Simon worked your now soaked pussy so perfectly was all too much. Your eyes flicked back to Simon’s as he sped up the tempo, knowing you were about to break. An orgasm pulsed through you and you dug your nails into his tattooed arm and Soap’s back.

“Fffuck, Simon!!” you ground out, clenching against his fingers.

He stifled your cry with his mouth while you rode out your orgasm. It was a sloppy kiss; when he pulled back, saliva strung between both your lips.

“Take ‘er, Johnny,” he said hoarsely, as he turned you around. You barely had time to recover.

With Simon, you, and Soap inside, the shower was severely cramped. Soap was under the spray of the water now, while you rested your weight on him. Your legs felt weak after the orgasm, but his hands smoothed down your waist to steady you. Behind you, Simon patted his heavy cock on your ass.

“So pretty when you cum, Jaguar.”

You followed the stream of water that traced down the Scotsman’s body. He was stockier than Simon, with less scars and more hair. You reached for his bronzed cock—a stark contrast from Simon’s perfectly pink one. He was already throbbing.

“Ahhh Jesus,” he breathed as you started to pump him.

“Did you get this hard when you heard us fucking through the comms?” you slurred, placing kisses along his neck. You watched him out of the corner of your eye as you bit softly into his meaty shoulder. He let out a sharp exhale and bucked into your hands.

“She asked you a question, Sergeant,” Ghost reached over you, thumbing Soap’s lips with his tattooed hand before sliding it into his mouth. You watched Soap suck as you squeezed the head of his cock—his precum dripped over your fingers.

Simon’s thumb made an audible pop as Soap pulled away and shook his head.

“Harder,” was all he said before taking Ghost’s thumb against the flat of his tongue again.

“You’re sick,” Simon breathed, but it was low and unravelled. And it clearly had an effect on your beast of a man because the next thing you felt was his cock pushing through into you, stretching you out so perfectly as it always did. You moaned and you pressed your forehead against Johnny’s chest.

The Scotsman reached for your hair, grabbing a fistful in one hand and pressing you firmer against him, while the other gripped Simon’s wrist. Your moans grew louder against Johnny’s chest while Simon fucked you hard, pushing deeper with each thrust. His right hand was leaving bruises on your hips with how tightly he was squeezing you.

You fisted Johnny cock with one hand while the other circled your clit.

“Jesus, Jaguar.” “Take me so fuckin’ good, luv.” The men said at the same time.

You couldn’t help but laugh before Simon picked up the pace and fucked the noise out of you; the sounds of your ass slapping against his massive thighs filled the small room. You weren’t going to last long.

Pumping harder, you used both hands on Soap’s cock now, trying your best to keep a steady rhythm while Simon pounded into you from behind. You burrowed into the crook of his neck, stifling your moans while sucking and biting at him. His hips were stuttering as he thrust into your hands. The water pulled your hair down.

“Jaguar I’m—feck,” Johnny thunked the back of his head against the shower’s tile. He let go of Simon’s arm and grabbed your face with both hands, crushing his lips against yours. His tongue vied for yours, kissing you open mouthed and messily, as his hot cum shot across your stomach. Johnny moaned against your lips as you pumped every last drop from him. You clenched around your lover.

Groaning, Simon took the opportunity to snake his free hand around and punish your clit, while sinking his entire length into you. It was his dirty little trick to always bring you over the edge immediately. Your legs buckled as another orgasm overtook you, but the men held you upright as Simon forced you deeper onto his cock. It felt like your organs were pushed into your throat. You cried in euphoria but no sound escaped as you rode out your orgasm on his punishing thrusts. With how tightly your pussy clamped around him, he finally released inside of you—biting into your shoulder as he filled you so full that he leaked out.

By the time everyone came down from their orgasms, the water had gone cold. It was a small miracle any of you were upright by the end of it. Johnny leaned against the wall, holding you to him as Simon slowly pulled out. Hot cum dripped down you leg and was washed away by the water.

“Jesus, Ghost, you made her bleed.”

Simon brushed the small beads of blood from the bite mark on your shoulder and placed his mouth over it, sucking softly. You moaned breathlessly into Soap’s neck.

“Sorry, luv."

Turning around, you rested your back flush against Johnny. Could feel his cock twitch as he reached around to caress your breasts. Simon closed the distance and kissed you, smoothing over the points of your hip bones with his thumbs. His mask was soaked under the water. Black streaks ran down his face from his eye makeup. And yet he still looked like the most perfect thing in the world.

“That’s okay, baby,” you sighed into his kiss. “Know how you can make it up to me.”

#kukukuku #my fics #my fic #Simon ghost riley #Simon ghost Riley x F! reader #ghost x jaguar #ghost x jaguar x soap #soap ghost #soapghost #cod fic #fan fiction #soap x fem reader #ghost x femreader #soap x you #ghost x you #oneshot

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umbracirrus · 4 months

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WIP Whenever 💛

Losing track of days this week, it has certainly been... something, to say the least. I've also not really had much chance to write this week until today, so it's certainly not my best but that's the nature of a work in progress, isn't it? It'll change, and it'll get better! 😊

With the excerpt I'm posting today, I've jumped ahead a few chapters in The Perfect Storm to the events of a festival in Whiterun - as for which one... Well, I've not made my mind up on it yet. Probably something like New Life... something winter-y or based around new year/midwinter at least!

Tagged by @thequeenofthewinter and @oblivions-dawn 💛

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Balgruuf frowned at the display of treats, not through dislike of the selection but rather through his inability to make a decision. Even then, his decision was not about what he wanted – his mind was set upon spiced fruit tarts following on from the earlier recommendation – but rather about what he would do afterwards. And just how many he would buy.

For a time, he pondered, going through his different options in his mind… at least until he realised that he was starting to receive concerned looks from passersby, both resident and visitors alike, for how he had been standing. Fortunately, his mind was made up by then.

An exchange of seven hundred (to be adjusted!) septims later – a price which he had no doubt was driven by the war across Skyrim – he found himself with two of the tarts, the sugar which dusted the top of them already getting all over his hands as a smile crept onto his face. The festival had been enjoyable, but it felt about the right time for him to go home. Whilst the city could be afforded the opportunity to make merry into the early hours, the same such luxury was not extended to its Jarl whose schedule the next day began before sunrise. That, and he had something which he wanted to do before he went to bed for the night.

Weaving in and out of the crowds filling the marketplace, he was glancing across all the people on the lookout for somebody in particular. He soon enough spotted her, though that was not after having to stop as he heard chanting from the direction of the Bannered Mare, and caught sight of Hrongar and one of the twins of the Companions having what appeared to be a drinking competition whilst an audience goaded them on. He rolled his eyes yet let out a chuckle as he shook his head, before approaching where Irileth was sat on a wall, her hand firmly placed upon a bow.

The housecarl acknowledged him with a quick glance, before her eyes darted back towards the chanting. "Yes?"

"I need you to keep an eye on my children for me until it is time for them to leave the festival, Irileth. Hrongar too, if possible. I'm returning to Dragonsreach. Keep them safe for me."

"But what about your safety, Balgruuf?" She called out, her full attention finally on him as he briskly walked away from her. He didn't respond. He didn't hear her over the cheer of a victor being declared for the contest. "Balgruuf?!"

He had a one-track mind as he made his way through the streets, following a path he had followed so many times before that it was a surprise that the stone had not worn thin beneath his feet or the wood give way to splinters on the bridge leading into Dragonsreach. It was only when indoors though that he exhaled quietly, and began to slow his pace into something more relaxed.

Soon enough, he made his way into the private quarters, then slowly approached a door which at first glance was closed, but upon knocking, creaked open. He didn't fully step inside, not knowing if he was entirely welcomed by its occupant, but made his presence known through clearing his throat.

"Are you still awake?" He asked, taking a deep breath as he thought on what say. "I… felt bad that you weren't able to visit the festival, so I brought you something that I think that you would like. May I come in?"

There was silence for a moment, before there was a quiet creaking of floorboards followed by the door opening fully. "Y… Yeah. You can."

#meg has done some writing #skyrim fanfiction #fic - the perfect storm #hmmm I wonder who Balgruuf has bought a tart for.................#and it was originally going to be hrongar having a drinking contest with lydia or uthgerd but then I thought 'ok but what about farkas'

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bleachbleachbleach · 4 months

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A meeting got put on my work calendar a week ago for 3pm today with no explanation about what it was, then several days later got changed to 2pm with also no explanation. I actually directly asked what the meeting was for and whether I should be, you know, preparing something for it, and my boss was like, oh yeah! I'll email you about it! And of course he didn't.

Just now this meeting was moved to 12pm (which is in 1.5hrs) and I still don't actually know what it's for, beyond my best guess based on the email addresses of those invited, but I DO now know that it has to be at 12 instead of 2 because now there's a midwinter ceremony that begins at 1 and I'm saying all of this because I'm pretty sure this is just big "I'm a Vice Captain in the Soul Society Arc" energy so I can expect my special wartime exception in the mail soon yeah?

#no brain just bleach #bleach larp

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legend-of-thyme · 5 months

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This was a secret santa gift that went up on a03 last week, but since it's also about the chain celebrating the winter solstice in Ordon, today seems like as good a time as any to cross post. I hope you enjoy and happy solstice!!

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Realizing they've arrived in his time is always a bittersweet experience for Twilight. The excitement of seeing his family and showing his brothers his home is sharply tempered by concern over the idea that danger has, once again, found its way so close to Ordon. But after scouring the woods for two days and finding nothing more dangerous than a nest of particularly irate baba serpents he's hopeful that this is Hylia giving them a chance to rest. Especially since it’s the third day of Midwinter.

He grins, a new spring in his step and kicks at the light dusting of snow. Tomorrow will be the peak of the Midwinter celebrations and if they hurry they’ll be home in time to help with set up and to join Rusl and Uli for family dinner. It’s a good thing he’s been picking up souvenirs for people as they go, because Colin had excitedly told him his own gift would be wrapped and waiting for him when he returned. It would break his heart not to be able to give him anything in return.

“Happy to be home for the holidays?” Time asks, pulling him from his train of thought.

“I wish we’d been here earlier in the week, but no one does the solstice like Ordon. You’re not sorry to be spending it away from Malon?” Time would never complain of course, not about something that truly upset him, but his smile reaches his eye and he chuckles as he ruffles Twilight’s hair.

“We’ve spent many Midwinters together, and we’ll have many more,” he waves him off. “Besides, I left a week's worth of gifts with Talon and he’s promised to hide them around the ranch for me”.

“Your solstice celebrations last a whole week?” Wind shouts, elation and jealousy warring on his face. “We only get one night! No wonder you were so excited to be home”.

Twilight slings an arm around the shorter boy’s shoulders trying not to smile at how the sleeves of his borrowed coat cover his hands and flop around as he gestures. “Nah,” he says and gently tugs Wind’s ear, “I’m just excited to have help carrying all the firewood and decorations”.

Read the rest on ao3

#linked universe #lu twilight #lu wild #lu hyrule #lu four #everyone is mentioned #but those are the guys that really feature #i meant to put this here last week after i gave it to its recipient #but i was on vacation and totally spaced

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littleperilstories · 1 year

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The Prince of Thieves: When You Play With Fire, Someone's Bound to Get Burned

Mood Boards | Chapter Titles | Also on A03!

Warnings: Fantasy-esque prison setting, infection, infected wounds, mention of abusive parent / physical abuse, mention of nausea (nothing happens), betrayal

THIS CHAPTER + THIS CHAPTER + today's chapter all have their origins in Whumptober Day 15 (lies, new scars, breathing through the pain), and while a surprising amount of the original prose stayed in, the actual details play out differently. Fun!

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Word count: 3080 || Approx reading time: 12 mins

When You Play With Fire, Someone's Bound to Get Burned

Teaser: I wish I could see her in brighter light, actually see the colour of her eyes as she watches me with worry on her face. Yellow torchlight, deceiving and dim, reveals so few of her features. All obscured by darkness, except the anxiousness she is not bothering to hide.

Will

“Fox!”

A voice, calling my name that is not my name from deep within inky darkness.

“Fox!”

I wish they’d stop, whoever they are.

“Fox, please, you’re scaring me.”

It is those last three words that catch me, sinking hooks into my skin and dragging me upwards from sleep. Opening my eyes reveals the now-familiar crack in the ceiling of my cell. It swims and dances a little.

“Fox.”

When I turn my head, I see Bree on her feet, manacled arm stretched taut behind her. She’s as far from the wall as the chain will allow, staring at me.

“What’s got you so worked up?” She looks distressed. I can’t quite puzzle out the reason.

“For heaven’s sake,” she says. “I’ve been trying to wake you.”

“Why?”

She points to the food and water someone must have dropped off while I was asleep. “You’ve been sleeping for hours. When was the last time you ate or drank?”

“I dunno.”

She gestures again, as if I didn’t understand the first time. “You need to finish all of that.”

The sight of it makes my stomach turn. I’m not sure I can even start it, let alone finish it. “You’re bossy, anyone ever tell you that?”

“Please,” she says. “You need to drink. And eat.”

God, I’m cold. Is the chill from outside somehow leaking into the cells? How long have we been down here? Did I fall asleep and wake up in midwinter? “You really woke me up for that?”

The hurt is gone from her face almost as quickly as it appears, settling into unbudging resolve. “I’m trying to help you.”

She reminds me of Colette, sharp-eyed and serious and annoyingly unwilling to back down when she thinks she’s right.

Sitting up ushers more chill to wrap around me like a bitter wind. “God, it’s fucking f-freezing in here.”

She doesn’t confirm whether this is true or if it’s just me. “Fox. Please.”

“I’m really n-not h-hungry.”

Is that me? Am I the one who’s stuttering like that? Shit. What the hell is the matter with me?

She doesn’t speak again or even sit down to give her stretched-out arm a rest until I give into her glare and take a sip of water. “You can’t just…not eat.” Her voice cracks.

“You sound like my b-b—” Fuck. Fuck. I clamp my mouth closed, catching the tip of my tongue between my front teeth and making it bloom with pain. What am I doing? I almost said, You sound like my brother.

Shifting back a little to put more slack in the chain on her arm, she winces slightly and runs her fingers over what must be bruised, irritated skin. “You’re not well. At all.”

The stupidity, the fucking obviousness, of this statement makes me choke. When I finish coughing, she’s gone white, pulling on the chain again.

“See?”

“It’s not a real cough,” I explain. “Relax. I’m f-fine.”

Fine except I’m cold and exhausted and yes, in pain, but that’s not so unusual these days, and not hungry and a little dizzy and…

Fuck.

“Fox.” I wish I could see her in brighter light, actually see the colour of her eyes as she watches me with worry on her face. Yellow torchlight, deceiving and dim, reveals so few of her features. All obscured by darkness, except the anxiousness she is not bothering to hide. “Let me see your back.”

“No.” I don’t want to know what’s lurking on my skin where I cannot see. If there’s infection there, I’d rather just let it kill me.

“Please.”

“There’s n-nothing you can do about it.” Michaelson made sure of that when he tethered her to the back wall. Perhaps, even more than that, I don’t want her to do anything about it.

I hate the way she blinks at me, like she’s trying to hide tears. Why should she cry? Die in here, die out there, it’s all the same.

“I couldn’t wake you up at first,” she whispers. I have to strain to hear her. “I’m scared you’re dying.”

Am I dying? Between the shoulder, the back, and now the burns on my arms, maybe something has wormed its way in and is now eating me from the inside out. Maybe…

Maybe that’s for the best.

She’s still staring. What the fuck am I supposed to say to her? I wrap my arms around my knees, trying to catch any warmth still left in my body.

“You’re shivering.”

“Y-yes.”

“Fox, please eat. I don’t—I can’t—” She’s fighting really damn hard not to let those tears fall. “Don’t leave me here alone.”

Her eyes widen and a few unintelligible sounds fall from her mouth like raindrops, as if she didn’t mean to say the last part. “I— I’m sorry— That’s selfish—”

It is.

It is fucking selfish. No one drags her out of her cell, smacks her around, brings her back with burns or bruises or cuts on her skin. Not that I want them to, but… It’s me, it’s always me, always me coming back and seeing her curled up by the wall, shivering and looking angry or upset but otherwise fucking unharmed, and she doesn’t want me to die and leave her here alone?

“It’s not up to me,” I tell her. “I’ve s-seen my execution notice. Already—already printed.” I swallow, my mouth suddenly gone dry. “Bulwell…showed it to me.”

This time, she can’t help it. A tear, shimmering in the flickering light, glides down her cheek, followed by another. “I didn’t know—You didn’t tell m—”

“I know.” I want to be angrier than I am. She has no right to wish for me to live so I can keep her company through the darkest of her days when my days are even darker. But I have to believe that it isn’t only selfishness fuelling that wish.

That maybe when she looks at me, she doesn’t see a stupid, reckless, moronic, fucked-up son of a whore like the constables do, but something else. Someone else. Someone more.

She has no right to beg me to stay alive for her, but she does it anyway.

I squeeze my eyes closed, because if I don’t, I’m going to be crying, too.

“I don’t want you to die,” she says. Her voice pricks through the darkness that I know will drag me back into unconsciousness if I let it. “You’re a good person.”

When I open my eyes again, she’s again straining against her chain. Her arm must hurt, and still she tries to close the distance between us, even though it is impossible. “You d-don’t know me.”

“You saved my life,” she says. “You had no reason to get involved that night, but you did.”

“Stop bringing that up like it means anything.”

“It does fucking mean something!” The snapping of the chain rings through the air. “I’d have been dead long ago if it weren’t for you! Nothing but a half-naked, frozen corpse—” She chokes into silence.

Shit. “I didn’t mean—”

“And the first time,” she goes on, not letting me finish, “the first night we met, you were with Sp—with her, and you whispered in my ear, you said it would be all right, you tried to make me feel less scared and you didn’t have to do that. I’d just stolen from your friend and we didn’t know each other at all, but you made sure I knew she wasn’t going to kill me.”

I’m blinking again, but this time it’s not to fight back tears. “What?”

“I know you don’t remember,” she says, “and that’s fine, it was a long time ago, but I do.”

Trying to recall whatever the hell she’s talking about is like swimming through a murky lake. “I don’t—”

“There was one other time,” she whispers. “Last summer. You never saw me. I wanted—I wanted to thank you then, for saving me, I mean, but you were across the market. I recognized you. You weren’t… Your face wasn’t covered.”

Last summer… Market…

“A child stole something from one of the stalls.” Finally, she drifts back again, letting her arm fall. “The vendor, he—he was about to beat that poor boy.”

Oh. I remember, I think. Geoff, I’m pretty sure, was there that day. He smacked me on the back of the head for being a reckless idiot, but he was smiling while he did it. And he didn’t go running to rat me out to Jamie, which was enough to tell me he wasn’t really mad.

“I saw you,” she says. “I don’t know how you did it, but you somehow swiped something else right from his stall and convinced him it was the one that boy stole.”

“That s-sounds very dishonest. Couldn’t have been m-me.”

“It was you,” she insists. “It was you, and you saved that boy from being beaten in front of everyone that day. And you sent him off with the bread, or whatever it was, so he wouldn’t go hungry.”

“All that fuss for a loaf of bread? Maybe I just d-didn’t like that vendor and I was trying to piss him off.”

“You’re an idiot.” Relaxing a little, she crosses her arms, fingers back where they were before, gently massaging the skin on her shackled wrist. “I may not know you well, but I know you’re a good man. And I told you—I haven’t met many.”

Despite everything—how much my body hurts, how truly rotten I feel, how if I don’t die in this cell I’m going to die in the execution square—I smile.

“If you’re c-calling me an idiot,” I manage, “then I guess you know s-something about me, at least.”

She laughs, and in the darkness, it’s almost like a light. “Don’t give up. Not yet. Please.”

Truly, I am not sure how much choice I have.

“Please.”

With a groan, I tear off a piece of bread, even though the sight of it still makes me feel ill. “Bossy and annoying.”

The ghost of a smile tugs at her lips. “I prefer persistent.”

I make it halfway through the bread before I have to stop. I have a feeling I will bring it up at some point. Closing my eyes, I breathe deeply, trying to settle my stomach.

“Fox?”

“I’m fine.” In. Out. “I’m just tired.”

Of course she doesn’t believe me.

“Don’t sleep yet,” she says. “Drink more water.”

I do as she says.

“Talk to me.” I’m still sitting up, but I nearly drop the cup after nodding off and jerking suddenly awake. “Keep talking. Tell me a story. It’s your turn.”

Bree doesn’t argue. “What kind of story do you want?”

“Tell me about you. Where did you come from? Why’d you join IA?”

The questions make her flinch. “That’s not a happy story.”

I gesture to our surroundings. “You don’t say.”

She smiles at the sarcasm, but her face is wan. “You really want to know?”

“Yes.” If only just to keep me awake a little longer.

She takes a long breath. “I grew up rich.”

“Lucky you.”

“Thanks.” The word drips with insincerity. “It didn’t last. I was eleven, I suppose. When…business turned bad. My father… He lost everything. And so did we.”

I nod. Jamie once worked for a family that went through the same thing.

“My father was always…horrible.” Her voice shakes slightly. “There was never a time when he was, well, kind.”

Good people. I haven’t met many of those.

“But he was so much worse after that. Humiliated, I suppose, by whatever terrible business decisions made him lose it all. And when you’re already a royal prick…”

I’m glad I can’t stomach anything else, because if I had just taken a sip of water, I’d have spit it out.

“I’m s-sorry,” I say. “It’s not funny.”

She watches me without irritation. Still concerned. “It’s all right. He was a royal prick. The first in a long string of horrible people who thought they should…”

Her voice trails off.

Suddenly, nothing she’s saying seems funny. “He beat you.” I don’t know how I know, but she confirms it with a nod.

“And my mother, yes.”

If I had more energy, I’d be fucking livid. “Fucking bastard.” My dad, before he died, would get mad sometimes too. But never, never, would he have ever laid a hand on me or Jamie or Ma. “If I thought I was getting out of here, I’d offer to kick his ass for you.”

She snorts. “No need. He’s dead.” The words melt into a sigh. “I remember one day in particular. The day he let all the servants go. He turned them out on the street.”

My skin prickles, and this time it is not because of the chills wracking my body.

“So many of them wept.” Rattling fills the air as she shifts again, drawing her knees to her chest and hugging them tightly. “Grown men, grown women. They had nowhere to go.”

Dreamy darkness slithers toward me as she talks. “There was one boy. One of the youngest who worked for us. I don’t remember what he looked like. Isn’t that awful?” She gives a humourless laugh. “If I ran into him on the street, I wouldn’t know him. But I remember that he shouted at my father, tried to demand that everyone get the wages they were owed. He was so angry. And so sad.”

No, I think. It can’t be.

I know this story. I’ve heard it before.

“I… I was so stupid. Naive.” She shakes her head, decade-old anger spilling into the motion. “I ran out, shouted at him, told my father he couldn’t be so cruel. I don’t know how old that boy was, fourteen, sixteen? Somewhere around there. Young.” She bites her lip. “James. That was his name.”

Breathing has become, quite suddenly, very difficult.

“I watched my father fling that boy…”

Into a snowdrift. It’s no longer Bree’s voice telling the story, but Jamie’s. The ice shards sliced into my skin. I found cuts all on my hands and face later.

She was the girl, then, who tried to stop the master of the house from turning my brother out onto the street. Just as she knew me from afar before she ever gave me her name, this girl is one I know only from story, from legend: the little girl with reed-thin limbs and a shrill voice who begged her father not to sentence Jamie to a life of destitution.

“I think I knew even then.” Her voice. No longer shrill and childish, now soft and weary and sad. “I knew I could never be like my father. That when the chance came to do something better with my life—something good—I would take it.”

I don’t know how Colette finds them. How she knows which folks, in their hearts, have this desire to do good in the world. How Colette found her.

Perhaps I’m glad she did.

“Father died,” she says flatly. “My mother was already dead by then, and when he was gone…” She swallows. Hard. “I was almost free.”

“Almost?” I’m surprised by how far away my own voice sounds.

“I was to be married.” Now she grows sharp, all blade-edges and knife-points. “I chose differently. I ran away, and I lived on my own for months. And then Spider… She… When the chance to do something good for people who had nothing, when that opportunity finally presented itself… That little wooden coin…” She smiles. Sadly. “It changed my life.”

I want to tell her that I probably was the one who whittled that coin. One of the few jobs Jamie was actually right to trust me with.

I want to ask her why she ran away from her fiancé.

I want to tell her I’m almost—almost— glad she got busted by Colette’s pickpocket trap and got tapped to be a runner, even though it led her here.

I want to tell her I’m glad she trusted me with her sad story even though I cannot tell her mine.

I’m so fucking tired.

I don’t realize I’ve fallen asleep, or maybe passed out cold, until I jerk awake, nausea pressing upon my tongue and stomach. I want to move, give myself a chance to retch if it comes to that, but I’m dizzy even though I’m lying still.

Muddled thoughts pool together, sluggish trickles in a drought-stricken river.

Her. It was her. Way back then.

I feel sick.

My shoulder hurts.

She knows Jamie’s name, but she doesn’t know she knows it.

Those burns are fucking driving me mad.

My back hurts.

I’m going to throw up.

Everything hurts.

It was her.

Just breathe.

Her voice cuts through the mud. “Tell him I’m ready to talk.”

It takes me a long time—too long—to understand what she means. Who she wants to speak to.

It’s only when he arrives, his body blocking out the maddening torchlight, that I start to comprehend.

“I want to make a deal,” Bree Cooper says.

Panic fights into my throat. No. I need to sit up, stand up. Stop her. Don’t.

“What do you think you have that you could possibly offer me, Miss Cooper?” Hatchett leans on the bars of her cell, arms crossed, watching her struggle against the chain that leashes her in place.

“Why don’t we have a conversation and you can find out?”

Move! I give my body an order. It does not obey.

Her voice is smooth as butter, slick and oily like I have never heard it before. “Don’t you want to know if I’m bluffing?”

Don’t.

This cannot be the same girl who tried to help Jamie all those years ago.

James. That was his name.

Does she know? Has she known, somehow, this whole time? Is my brother’s name the information she will trade for her freedom?

“Don’t,” I rasp. It’s the only word my tongue can form. She glances at me, but she doesn’t say anything. Her eyes are chips of ice, slicing into bare skin from the belly of a snowdrift.

Maybe she’s been lying to me this whole time.

They were right, I realize. Everyone who has ever said I was an idiot. Stupid. Brainless, reckless, impulsive, naive. They were right.

I know you’re a good man.

No. All I am is a bloody fool.

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Tagging: @starlit-hopes-and-dreams, @gala1981, @kixngiggles .

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thatmooncake · 9 months

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Ask game time! :D

12. what kind of day is it?

26. a scenario that you’ve replayed multiple times?

12. Yesterday was just the kind of day that you hate if you dread confrontation. Adrenaline burst, walk in the meadows, storm that turns into sunshine :D productive. Mixed mood. Rollercoaster. (We we’re gonna get food with family but it went south so we made other plans and finished up a bunch of stuff we were going to do in the old house)

Today we’re looking at cars because the car is busted. I hope it’s a good day!

26. Existential dread aside, I’ve replayed many conversations, I gear up for arguments that may or may not happen. I replay this scenario where a butterfly flapping at my bedroom window woke me up on Christmas morning. So weird because I never would’ve expected a butterfly to be there in the midwinter at all. Also every cute thing our puppy has ever done is always worth replaying - he bobs his head in the funniest way when he’s got a toy he wants you to chase him for :D

#fableasks

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emotionalcadaver · 8 months

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Part 19: In the Bleak Midwinter

Fandom: Peaky Blinders

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Grace Burgess x OC

Summary: The other women in the family are unhappy with being left out of the loop, and Tommy sends Lucy on an errand in London.

Word Count: 3,701

Notes: Warnings for depictions of mild sexual content.

Masterlists: Main • Series • Fic

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Chapter 12: Off Kilter

The car pulled to a stop unceremoniously at the side of the road, Lucy stepping out and following Tommy across the street to the shop. Though it wasn’t lost on her the way that he glanced over his shoulder at the car before heading inside where John and Arthur were already waiting for them.

Looked like their morning fuck had actually made them a little late after all. Oops.

“How was she, Tom?” John asked with a smug grin, and it took Lucy a moment to realize that he was talking about the previous night with Tatiana, and not broaching a rather inappropriate–and, knowing Tommy, potentially touchy–subject regarding her. While her relationship with Tommy was known amongst the family, it was also common knowledge that neither of them were particularly eager to discuss it with any of them.

“Talkative, yeah,” Tommy said.

“Hmm,” Arthur smirked. Tommy bristled.

“I was fucking working, all right?” he snapped, taking off his cap. Lucy patted his shoulder as she stepped around him, leaning her back against the wall and lighting a cigarette while he began to relay the information they’d gotten from Tatiana to the brothers. John rolled out blueprints of the house for them to all hunch over and examine. “Wait!” Tommy snapped loudly when their planning session was briefly interrupted by a knock on the door, finalizing their plans to get one of their men set up working in the Russians’ house so he could pass on information to them. At everyone’s nods to the plan, Tommy again raised his voice to whoever was on the other side of the door. “Come.”

The green door creaked open and Lizzie stepped in. “The executive committee of the union of bookies and allied trades will see you now, sir,” she said with a sly smile, stepping back into the kitchen. Lucy shot a look at Tommy, brow raised.

“What the fuck?”

He groaned, rubbing at his eyes. Arthur and John headed to the front door. Lucy followed Tommy dutifully into the kitchen, silently dreading having to hear just what damage Jessie Eden had done on the women when they’d stepped out on strike. Polly was laid up in a chair when they entered, her feet propped up on the table and a rag over her eyes. Lucy took one look at her and felt her eyes roll of their own regard, stepping past where Lizzie was sitting at the table on her way to the stove to pour herself a cup of tea. As she passed, she chanced a small, comradery squeeze to Lizzie’s shoulders, and was rewarded with a small, friendly smile from her.

Lizzie was often hot or cold with her, and it was never easy to guess exactly what mood she’d be in until Lucy actually broached interaction with her. Today was a warm day, apparently. Had it been a cold day she would have been met with a glare and sharp turning of Lizzie’s head away from her. Those days made her sad; she had always very badly wanted to be friends with Lizzie.

But she’d take what she could get. Besides, she couldn’t entirely blame her; she knew Lizzie’s feelings regarding her were complicated and conflicted. Understandable, considering she had the heart of the man Lizzie had been infatuated with for years. Lucy hoped that maybe the relationship with Angel had meant Lizzie had finally moved on from the torch she carried for Tommy. But apparently not.

Polly was moaning and mumbling something about giving speeches and breaking the capitalist system. She stood, pulling the rag off of her eyes and looking surprisingly alert for someone who had supposedly been smashed out of her mind the previous day. Lucy slipped past Esme, who greeted her with a much colder, biting scowl than the smile Lizzie had offered her. Lucy ignored it and plucked a teacup from the cupboard.

As Tommy and the other women continued to talk about the strike and Jessie Eden, she spooned in tea leaves and grasped the heavy kettle already on the stove, pouring the steaming water into the cup. Adding a single spoonful of sugar and stirring with gentle clinks of the silver spoon against the delicate China, she blew on her tea to avoid burning herself as she went back to the table, sitting across from Lizzie and taking a sip.

“You have to tell me what it is that you want and then I’ll know,” Tommy set down the leaflet that Lizzie had handed to him. Esme stalked towards him.

“Actually, we want to know about the robbery you’re planning. Not the factory robbery. The other one,” she said. Lucy froze with her teacup halfway to her lips, eyes darting panickly to Tommy. “The one you’re not telling the women about.”

“He’s told me,” Lucy protested softly. Esme shot her a look that could have curdled fresh milk.

“You don’t count.”

“Hey!” her voice rose unintentionally in offense. Lizzie shot her a sympathetic look.

“John has a big mouth,” Tommy mumbled.

“No,” Esme rounded back on him. “Arthur’s got a big mouth. Arthur told Linda, Linda told me.”

Lucy groaned, putting her teacup down in its saucer and dropping her head into her hands. Fucking Arthur. Of course it was Arthur.

She loved the man like a brother, and out of the entire family he was one of the few who had almost always been kind to her, but goddamn did she sometimes want to shake him.

And telling Linda of all people. Linda wasn’t like the rest of them. Who knows who she could fucking blab to.

Sometimes she wondered if she was the only member of the gang who actually knew how to keep her fucking mouth closed.

“Polly?” Tommy looked to his aunt from across the kitchen.

“Just read the leaflet, Tommy,” Lizzie half begged, clearly trying to diffuse the situation. Even pregnant, if she got angry enough Lucy wouldn’t be surprised if Esme tried to take a swing at Tommy.

“Ladies, why don’t I talk to Tommy privately and then I’ll report back to you faithfully,” Polly suggested.

But Esme wasn’t done, continuing to ramble, voice raising as she grew more frantic. “You’re not just going to take payment from the Russians, are you, Tommy? You’re going to clean them out, is that right?”

“Esme?” Lizzie tried again.

“So, what happens after, when they come for us?” Esme was getting right into Tommy’s face. “When I’m about to give birth?”

“Get out,” Tommy pointed to the door. Lucy breathed a sigh of relief. Had the complaining and hysterics gone on for much longer, she would have gotten a headache. Fucking people. “Get back to work.”

“Esme, come on,” Lizzie stood, prepared to shepherd her out of the room if necessary. Esme turned to Polly, arms crossed over her chest.

“Keep us posted, won’t you, sister?”

Lucy brows flew to her hairline at that. As far as she knew, Esme and Polly had never really gotten along all that well. Clearly she needed to be keeping a better watch over the wives. Things had begun to slip through the cracks a little, with Grace’s death throwing her so off kilter. She needed to get herself back to full form. Maybe have someone in the office bring her detailed reports of the women’s behavior for the time being.

Great. Yet another thing to keep track of.

“I will,” Polly called after them. Tommy shook his head.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath. “So Arthur tells Linda everything, eh?”

“You tell Lucy everything,” Polly pointed out.

“Yeah, but I know how to keep my mouth shut,” Lucy muttered, taking a spiteful sip from her tea. “Besides. It’s part of my job. Linda knowing things is a problem.”

“Yeah, well. She’s stolen his soul and taken it to a better place: the suburbs. Where men are honest with their wives,” Polly sat down at the same time Tommy dropped into the chair next to Lucy. Under the table, she rubbed the toe of her shoe along his shin in comfort. “We can trust Lizzie.”

“Yeah, but I can’t trust Esme. I can’t trust the fucking Russians to pay me or the army, and I can’t trust my own brother to keep his fucking mouth shut,” Tommy’s irritation seemed to increase with every word, gesturing furiously with his cigarette. Lucy put a little more pressure on his leg with her shoe, fighting back the urge to scoot closer and press her side against his.

“Did you make progress last night?” Polly asked. Lucy felt her hackles rise at the accusatory look in her dark eyes as she stared Tommy down. He clearly heard it somewhere in Polly’s voice too, his head lifting to stare at her.

“Yes.”

“John said the girl looks like Edna Purviance from the pictures,” Polly crooned, then tsked. “Be careful,” she turned that look onto Lucy. “Were you there too?”

“Leave her alone, Polly,” Tommy growled.

“Yeah,” Lucy cleared her throat, setting down her teacup. “I was.”

“Hm,” Polly pursed her lips, expression disapproving.

“She’s an excellent source of information regarding the location of the merchandise,” Tommy defended.

“Here we go,” Polly muttered.

Tommy was audibly grinding his teeth together. “You know, there is a general lack of discipline in this fucking company.”

“She stayed the night,” Polly wasn’t asking.

“I’m working, Pol,” Tommy mumbled tiredly. Lucy made a sound of agreement. It was true. Tatiana was just business. Nothing more. “I am working for the good of the company.”

“You’re grieving,” Polly looked to both of them, suddenly softening. Like she herself had just remembered that fact. “And when you grieve, you make bad choices. I know. I did it myself.”

Lucy stood abruptly from her seat, taking a final sip from her tea and carrying the cup and saucer over to the sink. Tommy and Polly continued to talk.

“Did you tell Arthur about the priest?” Polly asked.

“I only told you and Lucy.”

Polly huffed. “Thanks for the burden.”

Lucy raised an eyebrow. She personally was quite looking forward to seeing Hughes’s head mounted on a stick.

Polly exchanged a few more words with Tommy before heading out the door. Lucy listened to the sounds of her retreating footsteps while she rinsed off her teacup and set it aside, sniffing and running a hand through her hair. She heard Tommy mumble a curse, the chair he was sitting in scraping against the floor as he pushed it back and stood.

“We should get going.”

“Yeah,” she wiped her hands down with a towel and turned to face him. When he looked up at her his brows pinched worriedly.

“What’s wrong?”

Lucy bit her lip. It was probably stupid.

“How come everyone keeps saying that I don’t count as a woman? First Johnny, then Esme…” she glanced over at him in quiet alarm. “You don’t think that, do you?”

Tommy cocked his head, walking towards her with long measured strides. His hands landed on her cheeks, tilting her head up to look at him before sliding them down, along her shoulders, down her arms, clutching the swell of her hips for a moment before grazing them up her torso. She had to stifle a snort when he lightly cupped both her breasts, head tilted in mock contemplation.

“Hm. Don’t feel like a man to me.”

“You just wanted an excuse to touch my tits.”

He grinned at her wolfishly. “Maybe,” leaning forward, he brushed his nose against hers. “Don’t pay any mind to what the others say. You’re perfect.”

She reached up to take hold of his face, pulling him down an extra inch or two so she could kiss him. “Charming bastard,” she whispered affectionately against his lips. Tommy purred low in his chest, kissing her back warmly. His hands flexed where they were still cupping her breasts, groping her shamelessly while he pressed his body closer to hers. Lucy broke away from him with a laugh.

“Last night and this morning weren’t enough for you?”

“You already know the answer to that,” he half growled, lips ghosting over her throat, hips pinning her to the counter.

“Mm,” her core fluttered, squeezing around nothing. Eyes darting over his shoulder, to the closed door leading to the rest of the betting shop, she swallowed. “Not here.”

Tommy made a sound of agreement, but didn’t move, instead sucking a mark into her skin just below the line of her collar. Lucy traced her hands along his strong shoulders, sliding them into his coat to more easily feel the heat of his body.

“Okay, no,” she laughed, squirming away from him, and he let her go immediately, even though she could see the lust simmering in his eyes as he stared at her. Looking him up and down, she almost went back on her statement, the lust addled part of her brain trying very badly to convince her to just say fuck it and climb him like a tree.

He reached out to touch her cheek softly, practically looming over her. Tommy wasn’t actually that tall, but thanks to her–sometimes infuriatingly–short stature he had almost a foot on her. He licked his lips, looking her over appreciatively.

“I need to go speak with Linda,” he said, voice gravelly. Lucy swallowed hard and nodded. “And then, I’m going to go kill the priest.”

It probably indicated some rather concerning things about her that the mere mention of it was enough to have her aroused.

“I need you to go take care of a few things at the office for me,” he pushed a stray curl behind her ear. Her eyelids fluttered from the touch. “And then I need you to go to London.”

Her eyes flew wide open. “London? Why?”

“Because Alfie likes you. And I need you to ask him if he’ll be willing to act as an appraiser when we select our jewels from the Russians.”

“Surely I could just ask him over the phone.”

“I don’t trust the phones.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Even if I leave for London right this minute, and Alfie can meet with me straight away, it’ll be too late by the time I’m done to catch the last train back. I’ll have to spend the night.”

“Ada said you could stay with her.”

Lucy pouted at him. “You just don’t want me around while you kill Hughes.”

Tommy closed his eyes, sighing. “Love…” he trailed off, rubbing at his brow before dropping his hand. “I need you to be safe.”

“Yeah, well I need you safe too!”

“Lucy,” he cupped her cheeks. “Please. Please, love. I’ll be fine. And…I really do need you to go see Alfie.”

Her jaw clenched, silently hating herself for being unable to say no to him. “I don’t like it.”

“I know,” he stroked her hair thankfully. “But it’ll be okay.”

“I’ll call you from Ada’s after I’ve met with Alfie.”

“Right.”

Her palms flattened on his chest, forehead resting against his. “You be careful.”

“Of course.”

“I was looking forward to watching him die,” she huffed.

“I know,” he chuckled, hands circling her wrists, thumbs stroking tenderly along the exposed skin.

“Our jobs have reversed,” she observed. “I’m supposed to be the one going off killing people while you strike business deals.”

“Yes, well…I’ve been looking forward to this for a good while, love.”

“I know,” she stretched up on her toes and kissed him. “I mean it, though. Be careful.”

“I will,” he breathed against her lips. “I promise.”

∗ ∗ ∗

“Hello, Ollie.”

The kid looked up at her from the ledger he was making marks in, wide-eyed. “Miss. Winters. Hello.”

“Sorry for the short notice. Where is he?”

“In the back. Follow me.”

She followed him through Alfie’s bakery towards the back office, Ollie knocking nervously at the door until an affirming grunt could be heard from the other side. He poked his head in.

“Miss. Winters is here, sir.”

“Yes, yes, let her in.”

Lucy stepped past Ollie with a small smile. From the other side of the desk, Alfie set down his pencil and paper and stood.

“Been a moment since we’d heard from you, little demon, we was beginning to think that you and Thomas up and left to run around in caravans in the mountains,” he stepped around his desk, then shot a look at Ollie who was still hovering by the door. “The fuck you think you’re doing? Get out.”

“Mr. Solomons, I was just…” Ollie glanced nervously at Lucy. She rolled her eyes.

“If I was here to kill Alfie, Ollie, I wouldn’t do it with a small army of his men milling about.”

“Go on,” Alfie shooed him out the door, waiting until it had clicked shut behind him before he turned back to Lucy. She gave him a weak smile. “Hey,” he took a step forward, and gave her a hug. “How you been?”

“I’ve been better,” she sighed. Alfie patted her on the back and let her go, gesturing to a seat across from him at the desk.

“Thomas get my condolences?” he asked as he sat back down.

“Yes. Thank you,” she cleared her throat, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Such a shame he and his bride didn’t even get to celebrate their first anniversary. Didn’t even make it half a year, did they?”

“No,” Lucy mumbled weakly, looking down. Alfie softened.

“How’s the boy?”

“Charlie? He’s…he misses her. He still asks for her a lot.”

“And Tommy?”

Lucy shrugged. “As you can imagine.”

“And I imagine you have been a great comfort to him in his time of mourning,” Alfie leaned back in his seat. Lucy flinched, trying to remind herself that Alfie didn’t know the entire ins and outs of her and Tommy’s relationship.

“That’s not funny.”

“No. I imagine it isn’t. You were close to her after all, yes? To his wife.”

“Yes,” she nodded, realizing that she had begun unconsciously picking at the nail polish decorating her fingernails and hastily folded her hands over one another. “Very close.”

“Mm,” Alfie grunted, lips twitching, and the expression on his face told her that he understood. “Then I am very sorry for your loss as well, Lucy.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, adjusting herself in her seat.

“So,” he spread his hands wide. “What’s brought you all the way here to Camden Town, my dear?”

“We have a favor to ask of you.”

“Ooo. A favor? Favors aren’t cheap, love.”

“I thought that maybe you would do it out of the kindness of your heart considering our house’s state of mourning.”

“Ah, fuck off.”

She grinned. “We’ll pay you, of course.”

“Atta girl. Where is Tommy, anyway?”

“He had some family business to take care of,” growing more comfortable, she leaned back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other and pulling a cigarette from her case. Alfie tossed her a lighter that she caught with one hand, holding the flame over the cigarette until it lit and then tossing it back to him. “And then he has to go kill a priest.”

“A priest, eh? I thought that killing was your department.”

“In light of what happened to his wife, Tommy has since transformed into an overprotective fool.”

Alfie tilted his head back and let out a bellow of laughter. Lucy took a drag from her cigarette, grinning around it.

“It’ll pass,” she leaned forward to tap the ash out into the ashtray at the corner of the desk. “But until then I have to humor him or else he’ll get all cross and pouty with me.”

“Hm,” Alfie was still chuckling to himself. “The devil off to kill a priest. How fitting. Christian or Catholic?”

“Catholic. He has it coming.”

“Most Catholic priests do, I’ve learned.”

She shared a knowing look with him.

“So. What is this favor that you’ve come to ask me for?”

“We need you to appraise some jewels.”

“Jewels…” she could tell he was turning the thought over in his head. “What kind of jewels?”

“The jewels of royals.”

“You aren’t being all that specific, love.”

“When the time comes, we’ll call you to the house and give you more detailed instructions. Tommy doesn’t trust the phones anymore. I just need to know now if you can and are willing to do it.”

“Why me?”

“We trust you.”

He scoffed and gave her a disapproving look.

“We trust you on this,” she corrected, and he nodded.

“How much do I get?”

“Um…” she reached into her pocket, pulling out the slip of paper Tommy had scribbled a ballpark number on and given to her before she got on the train to London. “That would be the starting rate,” she said after she handed it to Alfie. “We could be convinced to go a little higher depending on circumstances.”

Alfie looked at the slip of paper, then back up at her, assessing. “You two aren’t fucking around with this.”

“Will you do it or not, Alfie?” it had already been almost dark when she’d arrived at the bakery, and she wanted to get back to Ada’s as soon as possible. She needed to call Tommy and check that everything had gone okay.

Alfie swung from side to side in his chair, fiddling with his pencil as he thought it all over. “Ah, what the hell? Why not, eh?” he spat on his hand, she did the same, and they shook their saliva covered palms.

“Thank you,” she stood.

“You staying with Tommy’s sister?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll have two of my boys walk you. It’s already dark out.”

“Oh, no. That’s okay–”

“Look, if something happens to you in my neck of the woods I’ll never hear the fucking end of it. Take the escort, Winters,” he said sternly, and had she not known any better she almost would have thought he was concerned for her.

“Thanks, Alfie.”

He nodded, scooping up the paper he’d been working on when she came in. Taking that as her cue, she went to the door, then hesitated.

“Hey, Alfie?”

“Mm?”

“Do you still know how to speak Russian?”

Thank you for reading! Please consider leaving a comment, reblog, or like. I always appreciate feedback and love getting the opportunity to interact with you and hear your thoughts!

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Masterlists: Main • Series • Fic

#tommy shelby #tommy shelby x oc #peaky blinders #lucy winters #lucy winters x tommy shelby #my ocs #my fanfiction #in the bleak midwinter #not an update

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riveroracle · 1 year

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Krampus: The Dark Shadow of Winter

By: Christina McCarthy

While many figures in pagan & witch folklore are shrouded in layers of mystery, some stand out as a little stranger than the others. The more I dig to uncover the true nature of Krampus, the more an ethereal snowy mist seems to gather, further obscuring him into the realm of whimsical Yuletide mythology. Perhaps this is how he’s come to inhabit such a unique place in the psyche of modern people around the world.

There is debate about how & when the Krampus legend came into being. Some say he’s a sort of pre-Christian deity, the son of Hel, Norse goddess of the Underworld, but evidence for this theory is nonexistent and appears to be a very modern addition to Krampus lore. Other sources say his festival in Germany and throughout Alpine Europe started only a few hundred years ago, a now faded older tradition from pre-Christian Germanic paganism adopted into its modern form by the Catholic church to subdue pagan influences around midwinter. Some classic depictions include chains, to show the power of the Christian god over the “devil”.

This famous depiction shows his one cloven hoof and one clawed bear foot.

Images like these, often featuring poems and season's greetings, come from Krampuskarten, or Krampus cards, often whimsical and humorous greeting & post cards which were exchanged around the holidays, starting in the 19th century. He is often depicted mischievously pursuing beautiful women in a Cupid-like fashion, punishing and chasing weeping children, and accompanying St. Nicholas.

His name appears to come from a combination of a Middle German word, “kralle”, meaning “claw”, and a Bavarian word “krampn” meaning dead, shriveled, or lifeless, connecting him with death mysteries. He is depicted as an often hairy, black or brown, therianthropic beast, part man, part goat, with cloven hooves, reminiscent of the satyrs of Greek mythology. He's also commonly shown with sharp fangs, a red lolling tongue, large bulging eyes, and a single clawed bear foot. There are other regional variations of this spirit, with similar features & mythic function - Knecht Rubrecht and Belsnickel in Germany, Schmutzli in Switzerland, Bartel in Austria, Zwarte Piet or "Black Pete" farther west, and many other midwinter demons. There's even a feminine version - the goddess Perchta lives on today through a similar tradition, Perchtenlauf, where the "ugly" and "beautiful" Perchte or Percht, her hoard of Krampus-like spirits, stage a mock battle in the streets as perhaps a symbolic battle between death and life occurring at midwinter. Some consider this to be a precursor to modern Krampuslauf celebrations, yet the Perchta tradition continues to exist alongside Krampus today.

The widespread prevalence of such similar traditions gives rise to the theory of a class of spirits like Krampus whose names and specific lore vary by local region.

This map shows Alpine Europe - the highlighted area shows the location of the Alps, but of course the Krampus tradition stretches beyond the exact borders shown.

Map source: https://alpshiking.swisshikingvacations.com/where-are-the-alps/

Regardless of his origin, today Krampus strikes a cheerful holiday fright into the hearts of children and adults alike. It’s said that he punishes the children on St. Nick’s naughty list, whipping them with a bundle of birch switches called a "ruten bundle" or sometimes a whip, or kidnapping them in a sack or basket on the eve of St. Nick’s feast day. The punishment is said to fit the crime - the lightest sentence being handed a single birch stick, as if a reminder of which path to choose, and the naughtiest children being dragged to hell or even drowned or eaten by Krampus! Instead of the Christmas Devil's lumps of coal and harsh sentences, good children would find little gifts filling their shoes from the jovial Saint Nicholas, who is often depicted dressed as a bishop with a golden ceremonial staff as pictured above. Sources below have more information about St. Nick if you want to learn more about the minor saint we now call Santa Claus!

In Germanic Europe, holiday festivities in December are first heralded by Krampusnacht, meaning “Krampus Night”, and Krampuslauf, the “Krampus Run”, where revelers dress up in extensive costumes with furs, masks, and horns to run the streets and terrify the townsfolk, inspiring Yuletide nightmares of the Christmas Devil.

This practice may have connection to the pervasive European myth of the Wild Hunt, where dark forces - often depicted as a hunter on horseback and his hounds, among other dark pagan imagery - parade through the skies around midwinter, carrying the souls of mortals over wintery skies to the afterlife. Both Krampuslauf and the Wild Hunt may partly be reminiscent of an ancient cleansing ritual where disguised townsfolk would run the streets, ringing bells and perhaps rattling Krampus's chains, acting as a hellish hoard to scare away unwelcome spirits. To extend the conjecture even farther, some draw a link from Krampus to the witches' horned god, due to his similarity to "wild man" therianthropic figures such as Pan, Cernunnos, and Herne.

Once the children have been sufficiently frightened into another year of their best behavior, the Krampuses traditionally drink alcohol in celebration. The drink of choice, for this after party and for offerings to Krampus, is schnapps. The Krampuslauf tradition is believed to be around 500 years old, and while many attempts to quell these celebrations have been enacted by oppressive forces, from the Catholic church throughout several centuries, to the Christian Social Party of Austria with their famous propaganda pamphlet titled "Krampus Is an Evil Man", to the Nazi Party, the Krampus run is alive and growing today.

From a Krampus celebration in Austria.

One of the most famous festivals takes place in Munich, Germany. Among their famous Christmas marketplace, filled with glittering lights and symbols of Catholic advent, caroling, traditional treats, and the glow of a modern city, Krampuses can be found running around giving folks a chilling holiday scare, reminding them of a time gone by when the fear of winter’s darkness kept everyone warm and safe inside their homes on the eve of December 5th.

Krampus in a getaway car! We often think of a tradition like this as distant history, so seeing a depiction made during a period of industrialization is a little mind bending!

I personally believe the modern resurgence of Krampus is related to a collective yearning, whether conscious or unconscious, to honor the darkness of the season. What’s become a heavily Christianized (and commercialized) “holiday season” of constant flashing lights and warm familial celebrations, was once more widely regarded as a time of death, darkness, and difficulty. In the depth of winter, when resources and warmth were scarce & daily life was focused on enduring the season, celebrations of the sun were an ode to survival and hope that life would return to the earth again. Krampus represents this inescapable reality of the darkness and hopelessness we experience when the sun is at its weakest, when all the earth holds its breath, silently praying for deliverance from night’s bitter shadows.

Sources:

Note: I'm loosely using Chicago style format, unless there isn't enough information to bother, in which case I will usually just post the link.

🕯️Bustamonte, S. (2018) Krampus Spaß, The Wild Hunt: Pagan News and Perspectives. Available at: https://wildhunt.org/2018/12/the-murky-origin-of-the-krampus.html.

This was an especially rich resource! It contained a lot of detailed information that I’ve never heard before, but most of the new content presented, I was able to verify by looking at other sources. It also lists a book source that seems interesting - books aren’t foolproof, their information should still be verified, but a website listing a printed source is a good sign the information is likely to be correct!

🕯️Krampus. https://brickthology.com/category/banishing/

This was an interesting resource with a wealth of information, which was not sourced and the author seemed to be a random unidentified person, so I still cross referenced the information. This person seemed to have a good working knowledge of the cultural traditions which may be from personal experience, and that kind of information is important in research about regional folklore.

🕯️ https://www.britannica.com/topic/Krampus

🕯️https://www.britannica.com/biography/Saint-Nicholas

For most projects, I use simple pages like these as a starting point for a quick summary of basic information. Brittanica has been around a long time, and I know the information on their site is usually accurate. I still cross-verify the information to make sure there aren’t any inconsistencies.

🕯️Christmas Market at Marienplatz: The Magic of the Christmas Season. Simply Munich. Available at: https://www.munich.travel/en/pois/markets-festivals/christmas-market-marienplatz.

I had some prior knowledge that one of the most popular Krampus Runs takes place in Munich, so I sought out an official Munich website to get their version of the information. What I found was context surrounding Krampus, seating him firmly in modern German customs, and that helps bring mythology to life.

🕯️Krampus, the Christmas Devil of Alpine Europe. The German Way & More. Available at: https://www.german-way.com/krampus-the-christmas-devil-of-alpine-europe/.

I didn’t strictly use this source in this blog post, but I found it to be a credible source that goes further into detail about regional Krampus traditions, containing photos, videos, and further links on related topics. I like to provide sources like this in my bibliographies for people to learn more than what I wanted to cover in the post.

🕯️Perchtenlaufen. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Perchtenlaufen

That's right, this is a wikipedia link! Sure, wikipedia can be unreliable. As long as you're checking the information with other sources, there's nothing wrong with using it as a starting point to break into information you're not familiar with.

All photos with sources not listed are under public domain.

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thequeenofthewinter · 1 year

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Work-in-Progress Wednesday

Follow along dear readers as the sky throws up the greyest of damp and depressing moods. Today, I glumly offer you an EmoUlfric(tm). I'd love to see what anyone else has. :) As always, no pressure to participate. @oblivions-dawn @blossom-adventures @rose-like-the-phoenix @a-midwinter-night-dream-86 @sneaksandsweets

The execution takes place at dawn the next morning.

It is a grey affair where not even the sun comes out to stretch its fingers to meet the day. Instead, the sky is blanketed by many thick clouds, and an unseasonably warm rain splashes down around the gallows placed in the main square of the Stone Quarter. It paints the snow in murky, ashy tones as swelling numbers of outraged feet trample their way through the slosh on the streets to see Windhelm’s traitor suffer firsthand.

Ulfric stands there in the middle of it, his stoic figure cutting starkly against the dismal sky as if daring the fates themselves to stop him—to stop this. Water droplets slide down his face in slow rivulets, soaking through his great bear cloak all the while he silently watches the scene before him with narrowed eyes. He is unbothered by the weather, the crowds, or even the early hour. What needs to be done will be seen through to the very bitter end even if they will whisper about his callousness later. After all, they are no better than he is. Are they not also here waiting for the spectacle to unfold before them?

Throughout all the movement and bodies around him, there is only one thing which he allows to hold some small part of his attention through this sordid demonstration: Dahlia’s trembling hand in his.

Ulfric told her that he would understand if she stayed in bed to wait for him instead of coming with him. Most people would. But she stubbornly refused, saying that she would rather stand next to him and support him in this decision so that the people know she is there, and she is with him in every sense and meaning of the word.

And so there Dahlia stands, holding her head as high as she can while on the inside she is secretly shaking. Never in her life has she ever attended an execution as it is something which never held any interest for her. This is especially the case now after seeing so much carnage and death in the war. Why anyone would elect to watch this morbid event is beyond her. If she could choose to be anywhere else, she would. Ideally, this would be back under the covers with Ulfric holding her tightly as she shuts her eyes in willing ignorance of what is occurring outside. Instead, she is here, eyes wide open and forced to watch because that is what being a responsible ruler and a loyal partner is all about: sacrifice.

#skyrim #skyrim fanfiction #ulfric stormcloak #ulfric x dragonborn #dahlia wintersnow

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wildhemlock · 1 year

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One of the biggest meteor showers of the year happens this month! Followed by the Winter Solstice, known as Yule in folklore, December ends with two beautiful astrophotography opportunities.

The Geminid Meteor Shower peaks on December 14th, and is one of the best displays of shooting stars all year. Over 120 meteors will streak across the sky per hour. The Moon will almost be to Third Quarter, which may impact how many will be visible. Learn more about its viewing prospects at WildHemlock.Com ->

On December 21st, the Sun dips down to the lowest point below the Celestial Equator, known as the Tropic of Capricorn, marking the shortest day and Longest Night of the year in the Northern Hemisphere. Thus begins Winter, and as the Sun slowly marches northward along its Ecliptic Path, the days grow longer and steal more time from the night. Also known as Midwinter and Yule, the Winter Solstice has been celebrated by many cultures for thousands of years. Yule was celebrated as a returning or rebirth of the Sun. Many Celtic and Norse traditions survive today as Christmas celebrations, such as the yule log and yule boar (the Christmas Ham). The giving of presents is believed to come from the Ancient Greece holiday Saturnalia. Many, if not all, ancient peoples celebrated or marked the winter solstice as a sign that spring will return soon.

*Waves hand in the general direction of Punxsutawney*

Learn More at WildHemlock.Com ->

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thepastisalreadywritten · 5 months

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Towards the end of each year, as fireplaces are lit and hot cocoa is made, Americans have made it a tradition to revisit their favorite classic holiday books, movies and songs.

And though ghost stories may seem out of place in present-day American holiday celebrations, they were once a Christmas staple, reaching their peak of popularity in Victorian England.

A Dark, Spooky Time of Year

Like most longstanding cultural customs, the precise origin of telling ghost stories at the end of the year is unknown, largely because it began as an oral tradition without written records.

But, according to Sara Cleto, a folklorist specializing in British literature and co-founder of The Carterhaugh School of Folklore and the Fantastic, the season around winter solstice, has been one of transition and change.

“For a very, very, very long time, [the season] has provoked oral stories about spooky things in many different countries and cultures all over the world,” she says.

Furthermore, spooky storytelling gave people something to do during the long, dark evenings before electricity.

“The long midwinter nights meant folks had to stop working early, and they spent their leisure hours huddled close to the fire,” says Tara Moore, an assistant professor of English at Elizabethtown College, author of 'Victorian Christmas in Print' and editor of The Valancourt Book of Victorian Christmas Ghost Stories.

“Plus, you didn’t need to be literate to retell the local ghost story.”

Effects of the Industrialization Revolution

It was in Victorian England that telling supernatural tales at the end of the year — specifically, during the Christmas season — went from an oral tradition to a timely trend.

This was in part due to the development of the steam-powered printing press during the Industrial Revolution that made the written word more widely available.

This gave Victorians the opportunity to commercialize and commodify existing oral ghost stories, turning them into a version they could sell.

“Higher literacy rates, cheaper printing costs, and more periodicals meant that editors needed to fill pages,” Moore says.

“Around Christmas time, they figured they could convert the old storytelling tradition to a printed version.”

People who moved out of their towns and villages and into larger cities still wanted access to the supernatural sagas they heard around the fireplace growing up.

“Fortunately, Victorian authors like Elizabeth Gaskell, Margaret Oliphant, and Arthur Conan Doyle worked through the fall to cook up these stories and have them ready to print in time for Christmas,” Moore says.

Industrialization not only provided tools to distribute spooky stories, uncertainty during the era also fueled interest in the genre, says Brittany Warman, a folklorist specializing in Gothic literature and co-founder of The Carterhaugh School of Folklore and the Fantastic. She adds:

"Interest was driven by the rise of industrialization, the rise of science, and the looming fall of Victorian Britain as a superpower.

All of these things were in people's minds and made the world seem a little bit darker [and] a little bit scarier.”

Stories Find a Wide-Ranging Audience

Telling horror-filled holiday tales continued to be a family affair in England, even when they were read rather than recited.

“We know from illustrations and diaries that whole families read these periodicals together,” Moore says.

The popularity of Victorian Christmas ghost stories also transcended socioeconomic status, according to Moore.

They were available to read everywhere from cheap publications to expensive Christmas annuals that middle-class ladies would show off on their coffee tables.

Their broad audience was reflected in the stories themselves, which sometimes centered around working class characters and other times took place in haunted manor houses.

“These upper class settings were intended to invite readers from all classes into an idealized, upper-crust Christmas, the type todays’ fans of Downton Abbey still enjoy as entertainment,” Moore adds.

Charles Dickens’ 1843 novella A Christmas Carol has forever linked the British author with the holiday season, but his contributions to Christmas in Victorian England — including the tradition of telling and reading ghost stories — extend far beyond Jacob Marley’s visit to Scrooge.

In fact, Cleto says that Dickens played a “huge part” in popularizing the genre in England.

“He wrote a bunch of different Christmas novellas, several of which involved ghosts, specifically,” she says, “and then he started editing more and more Christmas ghost stories from other people, and working those into the magazines he was already editing. And that just caught like wildfire.”

Dickens also helped shape Christmas literature in general, Moore says, by formalizing expectations about themes like forgiveness and reunion during the holiday season.

American Christmas Traditions: More Syrupy Than Spooky

Although countless trends made their way from England to America during the Victorian era, the telling of ghost stories during the Christmas season was not one that really caught on.

A Christmas Carol was an immediate best-seller in the United States, but at the time of its publication, Dickens was arguably the most famous writer in the world and already wildly popular.

The novella’s success in the U.S. likely had more to do with Dickens’ existing (massive) fan base than it did Americans’ interest in incorporating the supernatural into Christmas.

“American Christmas scenes and stories tended to be syrupy sweet,” Moore explains.

"There were a few American writers of the period trying to put Victorian-style Christmas ghost stories into American culture,” Warman says, including Nathaniel Hawthorne and Henry James.

Washington Irving made a similar and earlier attempt, slipping the supernatural into Christmas-themed short stories published in 1819 and 1820.

Warman theorizes that America’s reluctance to embrace the Christmas ghost story tradition had to do, at least in part, with the country’s attitudes towards things like magic and superstitions.

“In America, we generally had a bit of a resistance to the supernatural in a way that European countries didn't,” she explains.

“When you come to America, you come with a fresh start. You come with a secular mindset and the idea that you were leaving the past behind. And some of these spooky superstitions were thought of as being part of the past.”

Another reason telling spooky stories never took off as a Christmas tradition in the United States was because it became more firmly established as a Halloween tradition, thanks to Irish and Scottish immigrants.

“That really impacted culture here, because they brought with them a concept similar to Halloween and that became, for America, the time period for ghosts,” Warman explains.

Traces of the Tradition

Other than A Christmas Carol, there is another piece of pop culture that reflects the Victorian Christmas tradition: a single line from a song written and released in 1963 by American musicians.

First recorded by Andy Williams, the song “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” lists 'scary ghost stories' as one of the highlights of the holiday season.

Although it’s unclear why the writers of the song (Edward Pola and George Wyle) included the tradition, Cleto says that it’s possible that the lyric is a reference to Dickens’ A Christmas Carol.

“It's only the one text,” she notes, “but it's such a big deal here in the US and the UK, and is pretty much all that Americans know about Christmas ghost stories in isolation.”

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