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dragonswithjetpacks · 3 years

Text

The Best Thing About Mornings

-dragonswithjetpacks

Summary: Astarion was used to being alone. Stalking dark and empty rooms, sleeping in his own bed, waking without a worry but his own. There was never a time he considered otherwise. Not while sunlight was fatal. But now, things are different. He can not only wake with the sun... but possibly with someone next to him... as awful as it sounds.

Read here on Ao3.

Ferelith read over them for what felt like the hundredth time. Even then, she felt the chilling touch of apprehension slither down her spine. The lines were raised on his back, prominent against his pale skin from deep and persistent carving. Though it was her eyes that crossed them, she was still familiar with the way they felt when her fingertips slid down his back. She could almost recall in detail the way each symbol was curved just by the touch. Her hands had caressed him enough times during the night that she was certain she could now sketch the scars in her sleep. Perhaps she would have written them somewhere in her little black book if it were not for the regret she felt when she looked at them. There were times she considered that she did not deserve to touch them, to be the gentle trace where cruel instruments were used to curse his skin. Becoming intertwined with him was one thing, but to try and touch him when he was vulnerable in front of her, as he was now, was something she would never dare to do. He would not allow it, or so she assumed. It was likely he would even become cross at the mere suggestion of it. No, the only time she was permitted to feel them was when she was beneath him, engulfed in his embrace with her hands stretched wide across his back so that she could outline every word beneath her fingers. And as many times as she had seen them, read them, and felt them, she could never gather enough courage to tell him what they said. Studying them all the while knowing how oblivious he remained only added to her guilt. They bent between his shoulder blades as he shifted, his arms flexing as he slid his pants over his legs.

“You’re leaving?” she asked, tucking the sheet around her exposed upper body.

She admired his profile as he glanced over his shoulder. He held it there, unable to look at her. Her eyes slid down the shape of his nose to his slightly parted lips. He looked away, feeling her examining his face again. Astarion felt like part of her research as she was always intent at staring into him. She had picked up on his ques, knew when he was lying, and often made him feel slightly uncomfortable with a single glance. As flatted as he was to be known it such a way, it was also problematic.

“Yes,” he replied softly.

“It’s still early,” she said, laying her head on the pillow.

He rose onto his feet, pulling the rest of his breeches to his waste, pondering the idea that she was right. They had not waited very long into the night to seek each other out. And though they had tried to be quiet, he was certain there was a loud rattle as he had slammed her against the door to her room only an hour ago. The others surely knew he was there. But the insatiable feeling in the pit of his stomach told him if he was going to make it through another long night, he was going to need the fuel to do so. He reached over to a stool where his shirt had been thrown- or rather, torn off.

“You can always stay,” she suggested when he did not respond.

This time, he was brave enough to look at her. But the sight made him weak. She was embracing the pillow, the sheet wrapped around her, almost glowing in the moonlight that came from the window. Some of her dark hair flowed over her shoulder. And though she was beckoning him for another enticing round of nightly activities, her eyes looked tired. Then again, she always looked tired. He wanted to crawl back into bed. To entangle himself in her again. He knew if he did, he would be tempted to feed from her. And fighting that urge was difficult enough as it was. Still, the way her pale yellow eyes sparked with mischief when he looked at her… it made him pause as he reached for the buttons on his shirt.

“A fine offer,” he smirked. “But you know I can’t.”

“I meant the night,” she replied, causing him to stop all together. “Once you’ve finished your hunt, you’re more than welcome to make a return. If you wanted.”

An invitation left open for him to decline. In most circumstances, he was quick to turn down such an offer. Astarion was never the sort to watch the sunrise with another. One, because seeing the sun would have meant his death. And two, he was usually gone before he was able to do so. There had been one exception, and only one that had occurred recently. That was the night of the party with the tiefling refugees. And it was with Ferelith. Conscious chalked it up to a long night of drinking and spoiling one another, their minds far too busy to acknowledge the time. Then again, he did recall dozing off on the forest floor with her at his arm. It was nothing like sharing a bed, but more like ending a long and restless night as one would after festivities much like the ones they partook. He had never imagined sharing his sleeping space with another. He had never wanted to. Thinking about it, about being so close to someone willingly for that amount of time without any sort of sexual desire, almost disgusted him.

“I’m afraid I’ve pushed myself too close to starvation, darling,” he shook his head, looking for his doublet to avoid making eye contact. “I’ll likely be out all night.”

The sly yet knowing smile trickled across her face and she rolled onto her back with a sigh. Astarion glanced up to catch her full face in the moonlight. It wasn’t the decline of her offer that bothered her. It was the lie. Still, he didn’t see enough reason to be truthful about not wanting to stay. And he didn’t want to leave her lingering on that thought. He tossed his doublet onto the bed, placing both his hands on the mattress to lean over her. He avoided her face, kissing the side of her neck down to her shoulder.

“Patience, darling,” he purred into her ear. “We’ll get to have more fun soon enough.”

Ferelith’s frustration was well hidden as she turned her head, kissing him above the ear in response to the tender brush of his lips. She was aware she did not have to be vocal to show her emotions with him any longer. He knew her just as well. Besides, her stubborn nature made her agree that showing him that he caused her grief would only make her appear soft; a sentiment she wanted to avoid. It was bad enough he knew how to make her crumble into the palm of his hands. He did not need to know that her want to crumble was growing stronger with each night they spent together.

She nudged him away and when he was pleased with her reaction, he reached over to collect his doublet.

“I’ll try not to be so aggressive next time,” she said as he finished dressing.

“Oh, no, it’s quite alright,” he made his way over to his boots. “I rather enjoy your ravenous hands. Perhaps waiting will be a better option?”

“You tease me any longer than you already have and I cannot promise your safety.”

“Hmmm,” he hummed in thought and eyed her carefully. “Idle threats fall on tempted ears. You best be careful.”

“You best be careful,” she grumbled in a mocking tone as she rolled her eyes.

He stomped each foot into his boots, shooting a warning glance but a teasing grin in her direction. She bit her bottom lip with her finger tracing her chin as she knew the way she often mocked him was enough to start a small fire. It made him just angry enough to please her.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he said sternly.

“Have a good hunt, love,” she slid her hands beneath the pillow behind her head, watching him as he reached for the door.

Turning the handle and stepping through, something didn’t sit right leaving her with those words. He looked back, her upper body sprawled out with that sheepish smirk planted on her face. He shook his head, wondering why he let her get into him. Her eyes were burned into his memory, her laugh echoed in his ears, and her smile haunted his every move. She was but a bad habit that gave him joy in misbehaving. And when she turned to catch him leaving, he gave her a small nod.

“Sleep well.”

Ferelith watched him disappear behind the door. He knew she wasn’t going to sleep well. She never did. She would rest for a few hours, only to get back out of bed to study or read. Or sometimes write. She didn’t need sleep like the others. And even if she did, there were only dark dreams awaiting her.

“Foolish man,” she murmured under her breath, still feeling the aggravation from before but chuckling at his attempt to make up for it.

She looked out the window into the sky littered with clouds. One crawled across the moon, only half full. A few more days and she would have to call on her patron. He had been patient and quiet as of late. But there was usually a reason for his submissiveness. She would learn of his concern when the time came to summon him. In the meantime, she would have to keep working and preparing. Her long nights with Astarion had distracted her and she still had much to do. She tucked the sheet around her as if it were robe and drug her nightstand closer. It would have to act as a desk for the night. And it was going to be a long one.

*************************************************

Astarion was careful to re-enter the inn. The front door to the bar was far too loud and he knew opening it would alarm the keeper. He did not want to deal with questions or judgmental eyes. Plus, he was certain he had gotten enough blood on his collar to raise concern. And avoiding that conversation, in general, was going to be troublesome if it happened to occur. Instead, he found an open window near the kitchen. His feet were nimble, but as he climbed onto the table under the window, he stumbled as he nearly caught the end of a spatula beneath his foot. He managed to balance himself in the window sill, just at the edge, and hopped down onto the floor before he caused any abrupt sounds. Getting to his room would be much easier, so he figured.

He walked into the small dining hall where the front door remained tightly shut. It was dimly lit and empty, giving it an odd eerie feeling when you looked into it. Rooms that were usually seen full of bustling folk completely drained and dark had a way of doing that. Astarion was admittedly used to this side of things while stalking the night. It was almost peaceful being alone. He circled around to the railing of the staircase, taking one last look behind him to ensure no one was awake and watching. As he was certain he would not be noticed, he took off up the stairs, the wooden planks creaking beneath the tips of his toes. He winced but quickened his pace. The sooner he found his bed, the better.

Rounding the corner on the second floor, he found the hallway lined with doors to be completely darkened. The only light came from the far end of the hall where a small window allowed the moon to shine through. He walked slowly toward it, looking back and forth trying to remember which door was his. He was certain it must be the last one on the left. He could not recall for certain since he had not yet stepped into it. He had been… occupied upon their arrival. In remembering the incident at Ferelith’s door, he paused as he reached it. Her lantern was off. She must have been tired of waiting for him. More than likely, she had not waited at all.

There wasn’t a second thought as he crept past it, looking down and trying to focus on reaching his room. But then something tapped him in the back of his mind. Like an impatient finger would on his shoulder. It felt so honestly real that he turned, looking back to Ferelith’s door. He listened for a moment… but heard not a thing. No stirring. No voices. No footsteps. It was odd, he swore something was making him stop. The poking subsided and he pivoted quietly to continue. He made it to the door, opening it and finding another dark and empty room. He leaned against the frame. The bed was neatly made. Nothing had been touched. And though he wasn’t entirely tired, he knew he needed to rest. But he did not want to.

He looked back down the hall. Her lantern was still off. He thought about her in bed. If she was awake just staring into the dark. No, she definitely wouldn’t be waiting for him. Surely if she was not resting, she was working. Perhaps she would have some ritual to prepare for. Or perhaps she had eaten something delightful and was relaxing with the night and some wine. She did not need a lantern for that. His eyes fell back onto his bed. His bed. This was his room. And his bed. Then why did it not feel like his at all? Why did he feel more compelled, more interested in her room than the peace and quiet he would have in his own? And why was that finger coming back to tap him? As if it were some kind of reminder. What did he have that was so important that just when he had forgotten it, it was there once again to remind him?

Ah… yes… loneliness.

There was a heavy sigh that came from his mouth as he became reacquainted with an old friend. And it was all her fault. She should have never placed the idea in his head that there was even a slight possibility of sharing a bed. Not just for entertaining purposes. But for the simple fact of being there next to him. It was not even an outright suggestion. It was the subtle mention that planted the seed. And now it had grown, branching into his thoughts. And poking him persistently. With the budding idea of feeling lonely… the curiosity of waking up with her… the urge to bed her in the morning. It was all there, bursting like early morning spring.

Ferelith had won. And though he closed his door like it was a heavy burden, he did not feel entirely defeated. For when he went to her door and opened it to see the back of her, something lifted from his shoulders. He quietly shut the door behind him. Slid his boots from his feet, unbuttoned his doublet, and began to unfasten his breeches. The sound of his clothes hitting the floor made her stir, but she had not turned around. He heard her sigh in her sleep, bringing a coy smile to his lips. He crawled into bed behind her, the warmth of her skin exciting him. She had not put anything on after he left. She felt the embrace of him at her waist, pulling her close to his chest and she subconsciously grabbed his arm. He kissed her shoulder, her neck, the side of her face and she smiled as she blinked sleepily up at him.

“Back early?” her voice was raspy as she slowly regained herself.

“I am,” he whispered. “There was a rather large pig in the market. Someone is going to be very upset to find it dead in the morning.”

“Oh,” she said softly. “Shame.”

“We can watch their despair later. It looks like there was a small bakery nearby.”

“I can get some bread,” she smiled.

“My thoughts exactly,” he kissed her shoulder affectionately. “Now, hush. I would like to get some sleep.”

Ferelith chuckled, keeping her retort to herself. She would not ask him what brought him to her that night. It was unexpected, but she would let his own reasons settle with himself. There was no doubt he was unsure why he was there. And that was alright with her. In truth, he knew the reason why he was there. And he held it tightly against him as he told those thoughts to quiet down as well. There may have been a few things he had lied about. But his need for rest was not one of them.

*************************************************

The sun had cracked just over the edge of the windowsill, bringing the room into a reddish hue. He opened his eyes, as he was still unaccustomed to feeling the sunrise at dawn. He blinked, stretching his arms out as he lay on his back. But stopped as he felt a hand on his chest. Ferelith was still next to him, her head resting on his shoulder. And there was nothing disgusting about it at all. Not like he imagined. Just her. Pressed against him. He lifted his arm gently in an attempt not to wake her. But she was used to waking at the rising sun as well, and the moment her head left his chest, she strained to open her eyes as she rolled onto her back. Astarion propped himself up on his elbows with his head against the wall, looking down to watch her awaken. She blinked several times, looking down at the foot of the bed. Something seemed strange to her as she realized he had not left like she had expected him to. She looked up at him, somewhat in disbelief. And he gave a half-shrug as if he knew. It had been too long for either of them to remember what it was like waking to someone else.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked to fill the silence.

“I did,” she replied. “And you?”

Astarion thought on it for a moment, worried about how he might respond. Surprisingly enough, he had slept fairly well. But he struggled with that fact because he had imagined he would not have been able to sleep at all. She stared as he said nothing. He looked at her, diverting his gaze away for a few seconds, then looked back. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He nodded slightly with another shrug. Ferelith, who did not seem to understand his hesitance but did not care, became utterly amused at his confusion. The grin was slow to start but her cheeks tightened with how wide it had grown. Astarion struggled to hold back his own amusement and together, they began to laugh at how foolish they seemed; two adults who hadn’t the slightest idea of how to handle the embarrassment of the situation.

“Let’s just get dressed to start,” she said, sitting up and placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Let’s not,” he leaned over her, forcing her back into the bed.

“We’ll be late,” she looked up at him, matching his devious grin.

“I… do not care…”

After all, what was the point of waking up next to her if he could not have her the moment he woke? Perhaps… he had been wrong about sleeping next to someone. Or perhaps he had finally met someone he was willing to tolerate enough to share a bed with. Either way, the feeling of her wrapped around him made his thoughts consider that the sunrise was no longer the best thing about his mornings.

#astarion #astarion fluff #astarion fic #i'm so sorry #it's so gross #astarion x mc #astarion x pc #astarion x oc #astarion x ferelith #ferelith #ferelith moonshade #don't yell at me about it being out of character #I KNOW #it's not too far off #just a bit too fluffy #bg3 #baldur's gate 3

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missdawnandherdusk · 4 years

Text

Rita Skeeter’s Scoop

Draco X Gryffindor!Reader

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12

Part 13 Part 14

Summary: All is fair in love and war, but why did it have to be a war? And when did you say that you wanted to fight?

Archive of Our Own Link

A/n: Hello my darlings! Welcome to the next part and honestly it took me a while to figure out where I wanted to take this, so please enjoy the angsty fluff of this chapter and I’m happy to introduce Susan! (you’ll understand later). I love you guys so much you have no idea, please don’t stop commenting, reblogging and liking, you have no idea how much it excites me and motivates me to keep writing. ALSO GUYS TOM FELTON IS GOING TO BE AT THE COMICON NEAR ME AND YOU BET YOUR GALLEONS THAT I AM DROPPING COLLEGE MONEY TO GO AND MEET THAT MAN

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BLOOD FEUD GONE HAYWIRE AT HOGWARTS?

By Rita Skeeter

“Albus Dumbledore, eccentric Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, has never been afraid to make controversial visitor decisions, writes Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent. Over the summer of this year it was decided that the Triwizard Tournament was to be held at Hogwarts to many parents’ dismay as their children were entered into the Tournament without their permission. The Tournament is notorious for the fatalities that it has inflicted among many young unexperienced wizards thirsting for glory. However, this looks responsible and kindly when set beside the fiasco Dumbledore claims to be the Yule Ball.

The Yule Ball, only held upon the year of the Triwizard Tournament, was held upon the Christmas holiday at the school endorsed by Dumbledore and his staff. This year, however, the guest list was not so carefully taken to, endangering the students of three wizarding schools.

A young naïve and foolish fourth year Hogwarts student was taken under the Imperius Curse and forced to do the bidding of the assailant. It seems that this was in place because of a disgrace among pure-blood families. While Dumbledore turns a blind eye, this disgrace has largely affected every student in the school along with its visitors claiming it’s “very shameful.”

“I was coerced as well, and my friend Draco Malfoy was only afraid of the blood traitor that he had to play along with her plan unless he too wanted to be cursed,” says Pansy Parkinson, another fourth-year student. “We all hate her, but we’re too afraid of her family to say anything,”

Y/n Lupine has no intention of ending this scourge of disgrace and intimidation, however. In conversation with her family, she admitted manipulating Mr. Malfoy in what she has dubbed the “Consentire Animi Pace,” an outdated excuse for coercion from a desperate lover. This bond, however, is overlooked by the Ministry, and they have not confirmed that there has been a case in over four hundred years. Lupine, however, considers herself to be above such petty notions.

The Consentire Animi Pace was an old tradition that has faded into prophecy and is a poor excuse for the forceful attitude from Lupine. Not but a few months prior to the Ball she and Mr. Malfoy blatantly hated another. “They were at each other’s throats,” Another student comments. “It was a peaceful day when they didn’t see each other,”

So how did these two, descendants of powerful pure-blood rivals go from enemies to lovers at a Ball in a matter of months? Some suspect the use of the Imperius Curse inflicted upon Malfoy by Lupine against his will. It is known that the students of Hogwarts were taught the Unforgivable Curses in class weeks before the two ‘lovers’ got together. The relationship of Lupine and Malfoy are frowned upon by Malfoy’s parents. “She is a filthy blood-traitor and has seduced my son into this relationship for her own personal gain. It is known that the Lupines always held a grudge against the Malfoys. This must be a new tactic for a new generation.””

.......................

My hands shook as I finished reading the article.

“Are you kidding me!?” I screeched. “Who... how does she even...” I exclaimed and threw the paper down, pacing the common room, Harry, Ron, and Hermione’s eyes on my frantic form.

“No one believes it,” Hermione clarified quickly. “Everyone here knows what really happened,”

“Do they?” I snapped. “Do they really?”

She looked down and I took a deep breath, rubbing my face. My thoughts spiraled. Everyone in the wizarding world would be reading this and apparently make me out to me some sort of whore of Babylon trying to seduce Draco to be with me.

“I... I have to find him,” I realized. “I...”

“Y/n, just think about this a moment,” Hermione interjected. “This Skeeter woman is out there, and as soon as she knows you ran to Draco after reading her piece, what is she going to think?”

“I don’t give a flying fuck about what she thinks!” I screamed.

They all stared at me in shock and a few lingering first years scurried away—I never cursed, in front of anyone, ever.

“Y/n,” Harry began.

I narrowed my eyes at him letting him know he was on thin ice.

“Take my invisibility cloak and map. Go find him.” The olive branch startled me.

“What?”

“I know what it’s like to be talked about in papers.” He sympathized. “You don’t deserve this. Not after what you did, or rather didn’t do,”

I wanted to cry at his words.

“Thank you, Harry,” I got out, sinking back onto the sofa as he went up to his room to collect the promised items.

I went to pick up the article again, to reread it, but Hermione stopped me, taking it from my hands.

“You don’t need to reread it and get worked up again,” She chided softly.

“I’m sorry I yelled,” I whispered, glancing over at her.

“It’s alright. I’m just as furious as you are. That... cow of a woman.” Hermione shook her head. “We’re going to get to the bottom of this alright?”

I nodded and my eyes darted up as Harry came back, placing the map and cloak in my hands.

“You know how to work the map?” He clarified.

I nodded, fastening the cloak around my shoulders and taking out my wand.

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” I muttered darkly, tapping the map, watching the paper come to life. “Thank you, Harry, he’d appreciate it too,”

“Just go,” He ushered, and I was off under the safety of the cloak led by the marauder’s map.

It didn’t take long for me to find Draco. His footsteps showed me that he was just outside of Snape’s office and heading my way. He probably went straight to Snape about the article and didn’t have the two cents from his friends about tact.

“Mischief managed,” I hissed before tucking the map into my robe.

Rushing down the chilly hallways, I hissed Draco’s name before grabbing his hand and pulling him under the cloak, quickly covering his mouth before he could scream in surprise or fear. He relaxed when his eyes landed on me. Nodding, I dropped my hand.

“Y/n, I swear I’ll fix this,” He hissed softly. “That Skeeter is going to regret ever messing with me and hurting you.”

“Draco, we don’t exactly have a lot of power here,” I argued. “With your father against us as well as this Skeeter, whatever we say, will be twisted and it’ll get worse.” That was the hopeless thought that dragged me down. “We really can’t fix this,”

“So, what do we do? I won’t let her do this to you or your family!” He insisted.

Shushing him, I took his hand and led him down the hallway to the Gryffindor Portrait. Unveiling myself from the cloak, I said the password and the portrait opened.

“Go,” I hissed softly, praying that Draco got the hint as I lingered about half a minute then hopefully followed him through the door, closing it behind me.

“I didn’t mean bring him here!” Harry huffed as I handed back his cloak and map.

“Sorry,” I gave a weak smile. “But I don’t feel safe talking about anything outside in the halls.”

“Do you understand what you’ve done?” Hermione nearly shrieked. “What’s going to happen when Skeeter finds out that Draco’s been in here at night? What were you thinking!?”

Dread weighed like a thick blanket over me. I sank into a chair and stared at the fire, not seeing a way out of this.

“Lay off!” Draco scolded, kneeling beside me. “She can’t spend every moment questioning everything she does!” He defended me, taking my hand and rubbing it softly.

“I wasn’t saying that she should—” Hermione began and was silenced by a cold glare from Draco. I could almost hear the insults that he wanted to hurl at her, like they were tangible.

“It’s okay Dray,” I soothed. “She’s worried and looking out for me. They all are. Please... don’t fight. I can’t handle fighting right now,” My voice was shaky as fear played like a broken record in my mind.

I stood, Draco rising with me, his hands resting at my waist, an anchor in the midst of this hell storm. I laid my head on his shoulder as silent tears slipped out. Hermione was at my other side, rubbing my arm.

“We’ll sort this out Y/n,” Harry promised.

“I’m so stupid,” I mumbled. “This is all my fault,”

“This is not your fault,” Four voices joined together.

“It’s this wretched Skeeter woman,” Hermione hissed.

“And my father,” Draco snarled, his grip on me tightening.

I could feel the anger and betrayal radiating off of him. We hadn’t really talked about his father’s hand in all of this. I didn’t want to bring it up and he didn’t want to mention it, so it left us at an impasse. Maybe we should have talked about it sooner.

I wiped my tears away and took a deep breath.

“Okay, so what are we going to do?” I asked, turning to my group of friends.

“You could give her an interview,” Ron suggested.

“No, she couldn’t,” Hermione rolled her eyes. “Whatever Y/n says is going to be used against her,”

“We can write to the paper, tell them that it’s wrong,” Harry pointed out.

“And how bad will that look on us?” I retorted. “New headline ‘Seductress tries to cover the truth.’ No, I don’t think... I don’t think there is anything we can do,”

“What?”

“I... I can’t do anything, we as a group can’t. All I can do is hold my head high and know who I am and what’s true,” I intertwined my fingers with Draco’s.

He gave my hand a gentle squeeze as impressed looks fell upon their faces.

“Well, I know that Skeeter is banned from school grounds, so just be careful I guess,” Ron chimed in.

I nodded and took a deep breath.

“You won’t be alone, Y/n,” Draco remarked. “I’ll be here, we all will,” His eyes swept the room. “We know who you are too,”

I nodded.

“And that’s all that matters,” I whispered weakly.

It was easier said than done, however. After taking Draco to his dorm under the cloak and heading back, curling up into bed, I finally broke down into tears, each of Rita’s words like a stab to the heart. It tore me up inside of how cruel she was to me, and I had never even met her. Hermione, if she heard my cries through my pillow, didn’t prattle me. Instead, she left me in peace to fall apart, and I was grateful.

The next morning, McGonagall called me to her office, to get the true story and to reinforce that I was not alone here at school, and if I needed anything to come to her and she would see that it was done. It took a lot for me not to break down in tears again in her office. With a biscuit she sent me off to breakfast.

Then the mail started to come in. From people I didn’t know and addresses I didn’t recognize. I didn’t dare to open any of them. Instead they were thrown into the fireplace without a second thought. The only letters I opened were from my mother or Mrs. Weasley, or anyone I knew well enough to care about what they thought. Most offered their sympathies. My mother was furious, as to be expected, but I wrote her back quickly before she did anything rash.

The fear always lingered, however. And with Pansy still miraculously walking the halls of Hogwarts, I felt smaller than ever. I hesitated to hold Draco’s hand or show any form of affection towards him. I know he didn’t hold it against me, but it was a new layer of guilt on my soul.

_____________________________

Draco gave you a week to find a new sort of normal and to stop moping—not that he’d tell you that’s what you were doing because you’d argue with him, but you were moping.

It was that Monday morning that he had enough. You were fine with doing nothing and taking all of the hate and living in fear, but he wasn’t. It killed him to see your flame so dull. He missed you, the real you. Not whatever front you were putting up.

So, after writing a very strongly worded letter to his father and mother alike, he took your hand on the way from breakfast and pulled you to the trail that led to Hogsmeade. You had said you weren’t going, but he wasn’t having that. You were his girlfriend and hell be damned if he wasn’t going to show you off.

“Draco, no,” Your voice wavered in fear. “I can’t.”

He turned and cradled your face in his hands.

“This fear needs to stop my love,” He crooned softly. “I miss you, the real you. I hate that she’s doing this to you. Please, go out with me. Let me show you off and buy you ridiculously expensive things and overpriced chocolates, that you won’t eat because you don’t like chocolate,” He amended quickly.

A smile played at your lips, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes yet.

“Please Y/n, I don’t want you to be afraid. I want you to be with me, I want to kiss you in public and have you on my arm. I want you to be my girl and I want everyone else to know that. I don’t give a damn about what the papers say. You’re mine and I love you and I’m not letting you mope anymore,” He panted softly, awaiting your response. “Please go out with me today,”

You blinked slowly, as if you were clearing away the haze in your eyes as you beamed up at him, jumping into his arms.

“I don’t want anything that expensive,” You muttered, and he laughed, the first time that he had a week. “Let me go get my jacket and what not and we’ll go,”

He waited for you outside the common room and you came out, wrapped in his scarf, the jacket and gloves from your mother and snow boots on that had to be new.

Offering his arm, he grinned as the two of you made your way down the hall cozied up together, smiles on the faces of those you passed.

“Long live the prince and princess!” George shouted as you two walked past him and Fred on your way to Hogsmeade.

A laugh escaped your lips for the first time since the article came out and it was the most wonderful thing that Draco had ever heard. You looked up at him, snow on your eyelashes, your nose and cheeks pink from the cold. You were beautiful when you smiled, and he would never take it for granted again.

______________________________

Draco and I ducked into Madam Puddifoot's tea shop and I welcomed the warmth with open arms. For the first time, the article faded from my mind and I allowed myself to be happy with Draco—even though he did order me a ridiculously expensive tea and so many little cakes. To be honest, they were the most enjoyable things I’d had in a long while.

The company was quite enjoyable as well. Now that I wasn’t... moping (I’ll admit it, I was) I realized what Draco had meant by missing the ‘real’ me. I could tease and taunt him, then go red when he’d take it a bit too far and make it slightly inappropriate, before kissing me softly as an apology.

We strolled about Hogsmeade, when my eyes lingered on a storefront for a bit too long, Draco would pull me inside and let me look around. I was cautious to pick things up however, in fear that he might actually take up on his words and buy me things.

However, I tripped up on my caution as a miniature Spindle Tree grew beautifully in Dogweed’s shop window, victim to a shrinking spell, but all the beautiful just the same. Draco rolled his eyes, smiling, dragging me inside, letting me cradle the small plant as he paid for it. The shop tender assured me that it would grow in any conditions and if I had any problems to bring it back.

“I think I’ll name her Susan,” I mused, holding the small pink plant to the sun. “What do you think?”

“You’re going to name it?” He laughed.

“Of course,” I grinned. “So... Susan?”

“Sure love,” He chuckled, wrapping an arm around me. “Whatever you want,”

Part 16?

Tags: @un-limiteddd @geekysimmerthings @coffee-addicti @ilikestuffproductions @msmcsmutt @ravn-87 @artemismohr18 @whygz @crazywritingbug @dolphincommander @bisexualbumblebeesstuff @fuzzy-panda @bitemebro522 @zombiesnips-blog @jillanaholland @shookyungsoo @savingdraco @welcometomyworldwithoutrules @akari180 @slytherin-emerald @chaotic-good-gemini @memalfoy-spidey @theres-a-dog-outside-omg @queenfeatherwings @fanficflaneuse @go-whovian-universe @spicyshenanigans @darling-im-not-okay-i-promise @dietkiwi @katsukink @takemetothekingdom @strangerr-things @tmnt-queen @mccloudchloe @hxneybgb @justsomerandomgur @belcvayelena @moviesbooksandfandoms @howdycharlie @littlethingsinmymindla @xtrashmouthxtozierx @cocochanelthepupper @ninacotte @mccloudchloe @braelynn-j @jiggllyy @honeymarvel @go-whovian-universe @darcypottah @atomicpunkrock

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tarithenurse · 4 years

Text

Stolen - 10

Pairing: Loki Laufeyson &/x fem!gifted!reader Content: Angst. Feels. Plot. Regerts. Fluffy inclinations. Mentions of torture. References to past MCU events. A/N: *radiates love to everyone* *begins singing Tina Turner’s “You’re simply the best”* Ask or reblog if you want a tag.

10. Leave a Scar

… Reader …

Two days later and you’re still praying that Loki has no idea what you’ve heard even if the chances seem remote. He’s grown quiet. Brooding. Most of the time he’s off somewhere without you but when he returns he finds a secluded corner and a carafe of wine to wash down his gloominess with.

He’s plotting how to kill me. It makes sense – haven’t you done what he wanted you to? The talk about keeping you safe must have been nothing but a ruse to eventually break your spirit completely before delivering the final blow. On the other hand, it seems like an awful lot of trouble to go to if he was just going to waste the effort by being emo. Plotting to kill someone else? Now, that would make sense considering his track record.

On and on your thoughts run in circles and not even the beautiful view from the balcony can provide enough of a distraction today.

“Tell me, mortal.” His voice startles you, coming from right behind you. “What’s plaguing your mind, hmm?”

There’s nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide from those piercing, green eyes boring into the back of your skull. Pulling at the sleeves of the purple dress (kindly lend to you by the Älfir), you consider how to out-lie a liar.

“What...what is going to happen now?” you manage to ask, forcing your voice past a lump in your throat.

The sigh that fans your shoulder is chilling. “It seems I have to change my plans.”

Unsure of anything, this isn’t what you had expected. Turning towards him, the somberness clings to his face and cuts his already sharp features from ice. Only now do you realize that there had been a spring in his step and a softness to his gaze a short week ago but since then something has extinguished the light.

Your hand twitches as you restrain yourself from reaching out to stroke his cheek. “What’s happened?” Did he see that?

If he did, nothing in his demeanour divulges anything as Loki steps as close as he can without the mossy greens of his clothing brushing against purple. A thousand worlds could come and go that second and you would never have noticed because the Asgardian’s presence is all-encompassing, sucking you into his personal vortex of pride and pain, stubbornness and deference.

“Why would you care what has happened?” His words are cold like blades of ice, but this time you see through it and wait him out. He resigns. “The Älfir’s magic is not strong enough. They cannot restore Jotunheim.” Deflated.

“If they could’ve then they would’ve healed the Priestess too.” Biting your tongue off suddenly feels like a really good idea.

The silence is oppressing, drawing out the seconds as the man looks you over as if you just dropped from the moon. Like he’s seeing me for the first time. The sensation is far from comforting, something that’s enhanced as the thin lips begin to curve into a crooked smile revealing white teeth.

“You did that.” Man, you hate the way he practically purrs.

“Barely.” You step backwards, bumping into a pillar.

Even now, you can’t help but notice how smoothly he moves as he follows in your footsteps. “But you did.”

Somehow managing to sidestep the god, you make it two steps into the shade of the room before his hands have gotten hold and you’re twirled, forced against the cold wall.

“Don’t -”

“Shush.” He places a cold finger on your lips, making you comply automatically. “We all have sacrifices to make.”

A smidgen of logic in the back of your skull is screaming at you to shut up, to let him have this victory while you figure out a way to get out of the situation. Of course you don’t listen to it, deciding instead to pull yourself up to your full height (as unimpressive as it may be compared to Loki) and glare at him. There’s even a moment there where you impress yourself by how calm your voice is when you answer.

“No. I won’t be your puppet anymore.” Black eyebrows shoot upwards at your words. “And if you kill me, at least I know you’ll still be crying every night.”

That’s the instant the sense of heroic pride dies.

The emerald eyes you secretly admire change into a sea of blood while a flood of blue, broken by ridges and lines cover what skin you can see and causes you to gasp, drawing in air so cold you can feel the lungs crackle in complaint. If at least Loki would snarl or growl, then it would somehow make sense, but he just smiles, the white teeth suddenly similar to the fangs of a predator. A wolf...and I’m the lamb.

“Mortal. Pet.” A claw traces along your cheekbone before scraping down your throat. “I thought we were coming to an understanding? You would obey my every wish in return for the life of those you love?” Nodding is the only option. “Tsk tsk. Perhaps I have underestimated you, wench, thinking you had a soul, a heart. Hoping you would recognize real evil when held up against the light of truth.”

Well...I’m already doomed. “You told a story -!”

“A story?!” This time he does snarl. “I’ll show you story!”

The cold of his hands burn the skin on your forehead, wrist, and palm as he slams your hand against his brow and mirrors the movement.

... Loki ...

The first glimpses are simple until the events fully unfold. Falling – he will hate the sensation forever. Falling through nothingness for half an eternity until he lands more dead than alive...except this time he’s watching it from the outside. We’re watching it. Though the Jotun can’t see it, he knows that [Y/N] is there with him, a spectator without the option to look away when the actor is found and brought to the Titan.

What were months or maybe years at the mercy of Thanos and his Children flash by in a few minutes, perhaps. Torture, mind games, hatred twisted and turned until it points back to the outcast prince and penetrates his soul, leaving it to fester before he finally succumbs to the touch of a sceptre. From there the events unfold in a blur only occasionally brought into focus when a part of the fallen god tries to rebel against the shackles.

It’s only when the Loki they watch is lying at the feet of the Avengers that clarity is fully restored, though one kind of shackles is replaced by another. Then: a speck of blue grants an opportunity impossible to dismiss.

A vision. A memory. A nightmare.

Loki’s hands fall to his sides. It’s over. The wall in the Älfir temple looks less real than what [Y/N] and the Jotun have just witnessed, but the wide eyes staring up at him brings reality back like a kick in the balls. She knows. Everyone knows when they witness the recollections of someone else – no amount of so called rational thinking can convince them they have hallucinated because they feel it as if they lived it themselves.

“[Y/N]...”

Tears are welling in her eyes, lips quivering as she tries to root herself in the present. “He...y-you...” What I wouldn’t do to take away your pain. “That was -” A sniffle interrupts her.

He hates it. Hates the despair she’s drowning in at his hands. Truly, he has proven to be the monster he claimed not to be. Losing control and forcing [Y/N] through this nightmare serves no purpose at all.

“I will...I will ensure your safety and then you will never hear from me again,” he promises shamefully, “now...get some rest.”

...

Flat on his back and with the hands behind his head, Loki’s gaze is fixed on a point far beyond the ceiling above. Dawn is nearing yet sleep has evaded him, chased away by memories and guilt. It served no purpose. Priding himself of his logic, the turmoil raging inside his heart is has pushed the Jotun to act rashly and he hates it because he wishes to be more than a beast that simply lashes out when cornered. He doesn’t want to be the monster he behaved like. No, the man in him has to find a way to -

“Loki?” The whisper is hesitant, almost too quiet to hear. “Are you...are you awake?”

He sits up, bare feet on the stone floor as if to ground himself. The covers slides from his chest, revealing the pale skin in the darkness but [Y/N] probably can’t see it with her human eyes as she stands in the doorway.

Draped in the soft-flowing silk from a borrowed shift, she could almost pass for one of the ghosts from the fanciful tales children enjoy to fear. Loki can see her better than that. He can see her face straining as she tries to find him in the dark, and her arms wrapped tightly around the ribs below her bosom perhaps to find some comfort.

“Yeah...I’m awake,” the god rasps softly in return. Is that regret or relief in your sigh?

Sitting there, waiting for the unknown, a tension begins to permeate the air and send tendrils to every nerve ending of Loki’s body. A coil tightens in his chest and it becomes nearly unbearable when [Y/N] tentatively walks towards him, her feet careful as they seek out the right path. A few steps before the goal, her hands reach out to locate the Jotun and he has taken them before thinking to stop himself.

Steeling herself with a deep breath, the mortal braves the silence. “This doesn’t mean we’re okay, but...I believe you now.”

“[Y/N] -”

“Shut up.” He does. “I’m trying to say that...that I get it a-and I trust you.”

Loki has no answer. Gaping slightly at her, he tries to come to terms with the woman’s foolishness. Once or twice a sentence nearly forms in his mind only to dissolve before it can be uttered and the task increases in difficulty as she shyly shifts her weight from one leg to the other, toes intertwining as best they can while she bites her lip.

He obviously startles her as he stands. Yet you don’t run, my dear? A shiver rolls through her the moment he embraces the lithe form.

“Oh! Oh, we’re...hugging? Okay, we can hug,” she babbles, unknowingly making the god smile into her hair.

It’s impossible to say how long they stand like this or when [Y/N]’s warm fingertips start a slow dance across his naked back. Then again, time hardly matters as the Jotun pulls back enough to study her face, smelling her hectic breath that fans against his skin.

“Thank you,” he says, but means I think I love you, “you should rest.”

Her hands retreat, and right away Loki misses the scalding touch and the heat of her body as she navigates the darkness to find her own bed.

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ericsonclan · 4 years

Text

A Looming Reality

Summary: Violet and Prisha discuss what their options are once winter is over.

Word Count: Over 1000

Read on AO3:

Notes: This is chapter 22 of the au.

Start from the beginning of au:

“Violet?” Prisha’s head popped out from the edge of the barn loft. “Do you need a hand?”

“I’ve got it,” Violet grunted from behind a massive pile of quilts. She and Prisha had grown sick of trying to find a private corner in the house or braving the cold outdoors in order to have some alone time together. With no preexisting options they’d decided to make their own space and thus Violet found herself returning to the barn. This time however, she was looking forward to being up in the loft.

Prisha made a tsking sound as she leaned forward and reached out her arms. “Don’t be silly. There’s no way you can climb up here with both of your arms full. Hand me a few,”

“I can do it,” Violet insisted, taking a step onto the first rung of the ladder. She tried to wiggle one of her hands free in order to grab onto the ladder, but only succeeded in causing her blanket pile to tip. In her efforts to correct the leaning tower of blankets, she slipped off the rung and fell to the ground, the blankets scattering to and fro across the barn floor.

“Violet!” Prisha’s tone was worried as she hurried down the ladder and pulled away the blanket covering Violet’s face.

Violet looked away with a sheepish frown. “I’m fine. Nothing hurt but my pride,”

“Pride is a foolish thing anyways,” Prisha replied, beginning to pick some of the blankets off the ground.

“Says the girl who won’t leave her bedroom each morning until she’s brushed and braided her hair just right,”

“Now Violet, how would you know that unless you’ve made a habit of waiting outside my door?” Prisha’s smile was almost cat-like as she looked toward Violet.

Violet could feel her cheeks flushing. “The girls talk you know. That’s all,”

“Mhm,” Prisha’s tone was still teasing but Violet knew if she protested any farther, she’d only be digging herself a bigger hole. Prisha turned round to face her once more with an armful of blankets. “I’ll start with these. We can take multiple trips if need be. There’s no rush,”

“Someone might come looking for us if they need us for some chores,”

“Then we’ll simply hide under the hay together,” Prisha quipped, looking down from the ladder with a coy grin.

Violet hid her face behind her blanket pile, too flustered to think of a reply to that.

It took a few trips after all, but eventually they had brought all the blankets up and formed a sort of nest for themselves in the middle of the hay in the loft. Pulling some of the blankets on top of them, Prisha lay back upon the hay with a satisfied sigh. “It will take a few minutes for our body heat to build up enough under the blankets to truly keep us warm, but now we’re set,” She reached out to take Violet’s hand, gently running her thumb along it. “Are you comfortable?”

“Yes,” Violet lied. In truth she was petrified. Cuddled up under blankets alone with Prisha… Violet’s mind was in overdrive. She didn’t know how Prisha could lay there so comfortably. It reminded her of the night she took Prisha. Violet had been a fumbling nervous wreck while Prisha seemed cool as a cucumber when she asked to be taken. Then again, Prisha had later confided in Violet how frightening the night had truly been for her so perhaps under the surface Prisha was feeling nervous as well. Hesitantly, she gave Prisha’s hand a soft squeeze. Prisha gently squeezed her hand in return.

“So,” Prisha said, turning on her side to face Violet, “Any plans for Christmas? I figure it must be quite the event with so many siblings,”

Prisha was thinking that far ahead? This past month and a half, Violet hadn’t let herself think beyond tomorrow. “Umm, I dunno. Omar always makes a great Christmas meal and we all stuff ourselves senseless. As for presents, I just try to put together whatever shit I can that I think my brothers will like. A drawing for Tenn, a song for Louis, some sorta weird rock for Willy…”

“You can write music?” Prisha’s eyes sparkled in interest.

“Just some basic stuff. Louis taught me. He wanted someone to duet with and he roped me into it,”

“I’d love to hear you sing sometime. You know, I have some background in music myself. I took voice lessons when I was younger,”

“Really?” Violet’s heart fluttered inside her wondering what Prisha’s singing voice was like.

Prisha nodded eagerly. “I’m an alto. Let me guess – you’re a soprano?”

“Yup,” Violet’s throat felt dry. Prisha was so close, her legs touching Violet’s under the blankets.

“Oh, how wonderful! That means there’s a slew of songs we can sing together! To think I didn’t know this about you! There’s still so much for both of us to learn,” Prisha caught Violet looking down at the floor, awkwardly picking straw off her blanket. “Do you not like the idea?”

“What? No, I love it. I just…” Violet’s voice trailed off. Something about Prisha’s mention of Christmas had sent a train of thought going in her mind, one she’d been suppressing for quite some time but now that it had been unleashed she could no longer hold it back. Before she fully realized what was happening, Violet’s lower lip was quivering.

“Violet? Are you alright?” Prisha reached up, cupping her cheek. She felt so warm against the chill of the barn air. Violet leaned into the touch instinctively, feeling a tear roll down her face as she let out a shaky breath.

“It can’t last, can it?”

It only took a moment for Prisha’s eyes to widen in understanding before falling. “Vi…”

“This right here,” Violet said, gripping Prisha’s hand, “Is perfect. But that snow is gonna melt and when it does…” a lump in her throat cut off Violet’s words. She gulped harshly to force it down. “They’re gonna take you away whether you want it or not,”

“I won’t let them,” Prisha declared fiercely. Her grip on Violet’s hand tightened. “I’ll hide, somewhere they can’t find me. I’ll go up to the hunting cabin. That’s miles from here and only your family knows its location. There are supplies up there too and we could build up more to last as long as we need. You can come get me when it’s safe,” Prisha paused, “Or we could stay up there together,”

Violet shook her head. She’d already considered that option. “I couldn’t just leave my family behind like that, not when they’d be at the mercy of the angry citizens of Richmond. Who knows what sort of things they’d threaten to do to Kenny if they couldn’t find you, and Katjaa…” Katjaa had announced her pregnancy to the family the other night. Everyone had been elated for her including Violet, but it did make her even more worried for what would happen when the Richmond families came up to the farm and Katjaa had to face them several months pregnant.

“You can’t risk it,” Prisha said, her tone somber. “I understand. I couldn’t bear if anything happened to your parents and siblings because of me. But I won’t go back either,”

“Prisha-”

“No,” Prisha’s eyes were hard as steel. “I can’t go back. The girl who you spoke to that winter night, she was dying inside. Every real, true part of me was withering away as I followed the path that had been set before me for a life and a future I wanted no part in. I’d never broken from it because I figured that was my lot in life, I could do no better. And then I met you,” Prisha’s voice warmed at those words. “Meeting you and knowing you wanted me , it gave me hope. So I told you to take me and I’ve never looked back. I won’t return to who I used to be,”

She was so beautiful, speaking with such passion and conviction, her eyes burning with an inner fire. Letting her emotions take hold, Violet leaned forward and captured Prisha’s lips in a kiss, one Prisha immediately deepened, her hand sliding to the back of Violet’s neck. That kiss melted into another kiss and then another, both girls becoming lost in each other and the heat of the moment. Eventually however they pulled apart, just far enough for their foreheads to touch, their eyes closed.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Violet murmured, feeling her throat ache with emotion. “I haven’t fought to keep a lot in life – never had much to lose. All I’ve ever had is my family and now you. I don’t know what I can do to stop them from taking you, but I’m not just going to lay down and take it. I’ll protect you,”

“Violet…” Prisha leaned forward, kissing her again. “I’ll protect you too. We’ll figure something out – a plan that will keep everyone safe. Rather than burying our heads in the sand until the day arrives, we’ll prepare for it. Together,”

Violet nodded. She didn’t have a single idea on how they could prevent the worst from happening on that day, but seeing the light of determination in Prisha’s eyes gave her hope as well. The two smiled at each other only for the moment to stretch into awkward silence all to quickly. “So…” Violet cleared her throat, “Are we planning now, or…?”

Prisha looked round at the blankets and hay and warmth that surrounded them in their cozy little nest. “What you said before, about this moment being perfect, let’s not let that be lost. This still is a perfect moment. We simply have to reclaim it,” Her hand slipped down to intertwine with Violet’s once more. “There’s time for plans tomorrow. For now, let’s enjoy what we built,”

Violet could feel a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Leave it to Prisha to change gears so easily. She was right though. They’d put all this work to get to this moment together – might as well enjoy it. Shifting closer, she let her head rest upon Prisha’s shoulder. “I like that thought,”

“So… would you be willing to sing for me?”

“Now?”

“If you’re willing,”

“My throat’s a little sore,”

“Then we can simply talk. That’s fine too. Or perhaps I can sing for you,”

“R-really?” Violet’s eyes grew large at the offer.

“Of course. It would be my pleasure. Now, what to sing…” Prisha’s face scrunched in thought before brightening with inspiration. “I have just the thing,” Clearing her throat, she began.

Come where my love lies dreaming,

Dreaming the happy hours away,

In visions bright redeeming

The fleeting joys of day.

Prisha’s voice was low and warm as she continued, her tone taking on an almost dreamy quality to match the song.

Soft in her slumber;

Thoughts bright and free

Dance through her dreams

Like gushing melody;

Light is her young heart,

Light may it be;

Come where my love lies dreaming.

Violet felt so warm, so happy, so peaceful listening to Prisha sing. They had found their escape from the world here - even if only for a time – and they were happy. Softly, she began to hum along to the tune. The smile on Prisha’s face grew as she heard Violet’s voice joining hers. They continued to sing together, their voices intermingling in the crisp air of winter. And in that one moment, everything was perfect.

#twdg #twdg violet #twdg prisha #twdg privet #fanfic #bless yore beautiful hide au

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smallvince · 4 years

Text

Train ride, mid July. Anja was resting her head on my shoulder, the rhythm of her silent breathing tamed the summertime entropy. I raised my eyes and looked over her hair as it was being painted by the sunset light. The hills of inland Slovakia were not too dissimilar from those one can see in Molise, the Italian region where I am from. I wonder if, when two beings are nurtured by the same scenery, they move past each other more easily when the time comes to do so. The old couple sitting across from us had familiar features too. They were not speaking, not using phones, not reading or entertain each other in any other way. They just happened to be there, their mind seemed to be empty as they kept their eyes low - like one does when one doesn’t want to be noticed. Did their quiet sceneries find a way of conversing without speaking? Or were they pondering on bad news they had just received in the city, on their way back home? Difficult to tell, as only too often pain and happiness graze in the same meadow. The only thing I could tell for sure is that I felt like I knew they’re stories, intertwined as they were with the change of seasons. Anja used to speak about seasons all the time. ‘You are a new and beautiful season in my life’, she used to tell me, but her tender expression turning into an open smile always distracted me from the simple truth - seasons change.

We were not travelling heavy - certain kinds of travelling require to invest in nimbleness in order to be really prepared for what’s to come. Our bags were stashed rather unsafely in the upper compartment of the cabin, with the exception of the ‘snack-bag’ which laid half empty just next to us. ‘They are fine like that, don’t you worry’, Anja said, pointing with her eyes to the bags swinging wildly above our heads. Then she finished the cheese sandwich I had prepared for her and she found my shoulder again. I believed her because I had been on these kind of trains before - their wooden bulkhead and green leather seat with lacquered brass edges. This train spoke a different and ancient language altogether, one that I used to know. Anja didn’t know that I had seen men stuffed with Buprenorphine climbing the walls of those cabins as if they were asylum seekers desperate to break in a church in the Middle Age: for them, the upper compartment served both as bunk and a practical hideout from the ticket inspector. As I was thinking of them, a ticket inspector came to check our tickets. I went to rouse Anja and as if the present moment was nothing but the smallest doll to be found inside of a Matryoshka set, I snap out of my daydream as a ticket inspector walks down the aisle of the carriage I am otherwise alone in. I had never seen a ticket inspector on a Eurostar train, let alone a night train like that one. He doesn't even bother and after throwing a look of disappointment at me, he leaves. This whole train must be completely empty. I guess people are following governments’ advice for once and avoiding travelling. I press my face onto the cold window, searching in shapeless blackness for the same thing I was searching for during that mid July train ride. Every journey is a journey to the edge of happiness.

What only happened this morning feels as if it happened years ago. As I walked up the road to meet Lisa near the train station, it was as if I had all of a sudden found a different kind of energy. After two weeks of being quarantined in my house (just like the rest of the country), I discovered myself nimble again, my strides were quick and effortless. The feelings of exhaustion and anxiety that had so far ruled my days were gone, everything was calm. This sense of focus, a protection from the harshness of daylight, suddenly melted away as I raised my eyes from the greyness of the sidewalk and noticed Lisa waiting for me at the other side of the crossing. She was laughing. ‘Oh don’t you worry, I brought some for you also’, I said, ‘you gotta wear them too’. I handed her a pair of surgical gloves and a face mask. With my great surprise, she happily accepted my ‘isolation-gifts’ and we walked together to the supermarket - objective: buy as much as we could and get back home still in one piece, which is not to be taken for granted given the current situation the world is experiencing.

‘How was your morning? How’re you feeling today?’, Lisa asked while we were queuing for our turn to enter the supermarket. She asked it in such a way that her question already contained my answer in it. Nonetheless, I felt compelled in giving a non-verbal reply - which must have been quite difficult to read (as most of my face was hidden buy the green mask) cause I actually had to start dancing around like Mr. Bean in order to make her grasp what kind of insanity I was in the grip of.

‘Ahahah what is this supposed to mean?’ ‘That I’ve got an idea’ ‘…right. What idea? What do you mean?’ ‘It’s a bit of a crazy idea…’ ‘Wait, does it involve…who I think it involves?’ ‘Yee’, I replied. My dancing skills started to earn me some fans in the queue. ‘Oh my God, what is it?’ ‘Well, I am thinking of going there. I have worked out the itinerary, I could go by train as far as Prague and then I’ll wing it from there’ ‘Are you fucking serious?’ ‘What do you mean? What makes you think I am not serious right now?’, I said, as the dance intensified. ‘Do you understand that this is insane? She will probably think you’re crazy and will get you locked up!’

I am now thinking back to what Lisa said, sitting on an Eurostar night train to Bruxelles. I left the house just after her and her boyfriend went to bed. The three of us joked about this foolish journey I wanted to undertake for the whole evening. ‘Ahahah so we are going to find a letter explaining the reasons why you left?’, Lisa’s boyfriend joked. At the end of the day, this whole idea came about as just a joke. However, things have a way of falling into place when there’s nothing left to fall back on, when you surrender to the simplicity of your emotions and act accordingly. That it’s exactly how I was feeling as I walked up the road towards the station, for the second time today, invested with purpose and focus. I felt the same way when I left for London, almost 6 years ago - like I didn’t have a choice, because what I was doing was simply the right thing to do. Every journey is a journey to the edge of happiness - we just never fully know which way we are coming from. While sitting on this train, sinking deeper in the Earth under the Channel’s billions cubic meters of water, I realise that only from here it would be possible to stare directly at the sun without burning one’s eyes. Is it possible that all I have been doing in the past year and a half is searching for what I already had - but was not able to see? If that is true, then there is not much difference between this train ride and the one in mid July. Just that I am on my own this time.

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thiswasinevitableid · 5 years

Note

Sternclay 46 for the writing prompt? (Also I love your writing it's all amazing!)

Aw, thank you!

“What happens if I do this?”

Barclay lifts Stern by his lapels so that the FBI agent is pressed against the wall with his feet dangling off the ground. From the look on his face, he was expecting Barclay to back down or acquiesce to his demands for information, rather than pin him like a helpless butterfly.

No, not helpless, Barclay has to remember that. There’s a gun on Stern, he knows that much, and the man is neither foolish nor weak (although he stands no chance against Barclay in a fair fight).

“Then you are assaulting a federal agent and interfering with government business.” Stern fixes him with a glare. It only intensifies when there’s the sound of some part of his jacket ripping.

“That so? Then tell me, agent, what happens if I make sure you never leave this room?”

“You wouldn’t dare.” He’s sure of himself, knowing only the gentle, soft-spoken side of Barclay (up until ten minutes ago) has made him careless.

There is a kind of protectiveness that comes with finding a home and a family after being alone and outcast for so long. It’s a feeling, half love of your home and half fear of losing it, that spurs one to do whatever it takes to keep that home safe.

That’s what Barclay feels for the lodge, for Mama. Stern doesn’t know that. If he did, he’d have the good sense to be afraid.

“You have no idea what I’d dare. There are places we could put you that no one would ever find you. Or your corpse.”

“And then what? If I go missing, they’ll send in other agents to find out what happened to me. The place would be crawling with them. You wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Barclay arches an eyebrow.

“You sure about that. We got, how was it you put it a minute ago? Oh yeah, ‘secrets coming out our ears.’ And let me tell you, those secrets haven’t ever been found out. What happened to you would just be one more of them.”

There it is, finally, a flicker of fear. That’s all Barclay needs. If he can scare Stern into leaving, he won’t have to do anything else. He won’t have to hurt him.

“I’m a federal agent of a specialized division, not some random tourist or conspiracy theorist who no one will miss. They won’t stop until they have answers.”

“Are you willing to bet your life on that?”

Stern hesitates a second too long.

“You aren’t, are you?” Barclay keeps his voice low, almost soothing, “You know what they think of you back there. You know half of them think you’re out of your mind and the other half think you’re obnoxious. Sure, they’d come and take a look and ask questions because that’s what they’re supposed to do. But I’m betting they wouldn’t look too hard.”

Sterns’ breath catches in his throat and the fear moving behind his eyes stays put this time. Barclay lets him drop to floor but keeps his grip tight, drags Sterns wrists in front of him and traps them there with one hand. He brings the other up to press a line across Sterns throat with his thumb, it’s meaning unmistakable. Let’s the anger creep back in to his voice.

“Tell me the truth Stern, if you never left this lodge again, is there anyone, anywhere who would miss you?”

The pulse under his thumb quickens and Stern shuts his eyes, takes a breath (the shakiness of which visibly annoys him).

“No.”

Barclay smiles without humor, contemplates his next move.

“Well? Was that enough to clear your conscious, to assure you that you’d be taking nothing from the world by killing me? Or am I supposed to beg and plead now? Perhaps you’d like to insult me more.” Stern snaps, and there’s hurt mingling with the fear and anger on his face now.

Barclay unholsters the gun hiding under Sterns jacket, chucks it to the other side of the room. Wraps his hand back around the shorter mans throat just as he tries to headbutt him.

“There is no part of this that I like, Stern, and hurting you is the last thing I want to do. But I’m running out of ways to convince you that there are some things you just cannot know right now, or maybe ever. You’ve pushed your luck too far barging into my room in the middle of the night and trying to interrogate me.” He growls.

“I find it difficult to believe hurting me isn’t the main thing you want to do.” He’s twisting his wrists in Barclays grip, tries to knee him. Barclay retaliates shifting position so he can pin Sterns leg back under the weight of his own.

“It isn’t, not even close.”

“Then perhaps you can enlighten me as to what is?”

He shouldn’t meet the challenge in Sterns eyes, should focus instead on getting him to leave and never come back.

He crushes his lips against Sterns, feels teeth tugging at his lower lip before Stern deepens the kiss. Barclay draws his hand around to the back of Sterns neck, threads his fingers into his hair. Stern is still trying to free his own hands but Barclay, aroused as he is, isn’t that careless.

With more force than is necessary he yanks Sterns head back, drags his mouth down the length of his neck before sinking his teeth into the skin under his collar.

“Fuck! Yes.” Stern moans and Barclay laughs, low and rumbling, against him before biting down again.

“If you, you keep doing that I’ll agree to w-whatever you say.”

“Liar.” The word is barely out when he catches a glimpse of the look on Sterns face; there’s a new emotion there, one perilously close to affection.

“I suppose I deserved that, and it was a tad hyperbolic. But, well, I, that is, I want, or rather I don’t want you thinking this is me trying to get something out of you.”

Barclay blinks at him.

“You wanna run that by me again?”

“I like you, Barclay, very much. So much.” He’s getting pinker with each word.

“I’m listening.” He kisses Sterns forehead, works his way down as the other man continues talking.

“I’ve thought about kissing you more times than I can count. I want to keep kissing you but I ah!” he gasps when Barclay nips at his ear, keeps going, “I don’t want you to think I have an ulterior motive. I want to do my job and do it well, Barclay, but I’d never lead someone I cared about on for the sake of it. Am, uh, is that, oh.” Barclay kisses him softly on the lips, releases his hands from where he had them trapped. They immediately find his own again, intertwine their fingers.

“I get the gist, yeah.”

Stern shudders suddenly, presses himself against Barclay and buries his face against his shirt.

“I’m sorry, I behaved like an absolute ass, I shouldn’t have come in here accusing you of things and insulting people you care about.”

Barclay eases a hand out of his grip, wraps an arm gently around his shoulders.

“And I’m real fucking sorry for threatening you. Eesh, that sounds even worse out loud than it did in my head. Also,I didn’t mean all that shit I said, I was trying to scare you into easing off. Bet there’s lots of folks who’d miss you if something bad happened to you, myself included.”

“I believe we may have set the record for worst possible prelude to a kiss.” Stern mutters into his flannel.

Barclay can count all the ways this goes bad, all the things Stern doesn’t know that could bring anything that grew between them crashing to the ground. But there are other ways it could go, that much be believes, and if he doesn’t try for them he has the distinct feeling he’ll regret it.

“Guess we’ll just have to do something real sweet and romantic before the next kiss to balance it out.”

Stern smiles up at him, a hopeful and happy thing.

“I’d like that. Very much.”

#sternclay #prompt fills #agent stern/barclay #considering making either a continuation or variation of this that is *bounces eyebrows suggestively

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lafiametta · 5 years

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@libertines76 sent in this Jopson/Little prompt: “Little/Jopson making out (or more!) in a supply closet (for example) and get caught by someone cool- like McDonald. But he’s super chill and like, ‘Oh, boys…just gonna grab what I came in here for and leave you to it.’ And he does. And they’re not scared he’s going to tell anyone b/c he’s hella awesome and doesn’t care they’re together. So they keep at it. (I suppose this could pretty much be the opposite of what happened when Irving caught Hickey/Gibson together).”

What a smashing idea, I have to say, and I hope I’ve done it justice! :) And fair warning: there’s a racier bit just below the cut!

(An authorial tip of the hat to tautline-hitch’s fantastic post on homosexuality and the British navy, which helped inform some of Little’s thinking.)

His mind contained nothing resembling rational thought as he pressed Thomas up against the paneled wall of the otherwise deserted wardroom, his hands grasping, greedy as an impatient child. The steward widened his stance to allow Edward closer, heat and desire quickly blossoming in the narrow space between their hips, fierce enough to rival the searing warmth of lips and tongues as both collided in shared need.

It had not been a planned encounter, but rather one of opportunity – something they were afforded so rarely aboard a ship as crowded as Terror. The captain had convened a brief officers’ meeting following the midday meal – it ended, as they almost always did, without resolving much of anything – and as Edward stepped back into the passageway, he had caught a glimpse of Thomas through the half-open wardroom door, stacking the sauce-stained china into neat piles upon the table. The steward had been humming something under his breath, utterly absorbed in his work, a length of dark hair falling rakishly across his pale brow.

In truth, he had been watching Thomas for most of the meal, his eyes continually drawn to the steward like a lodestone, but seeing him in the wardroom – entirely alone, his handsome features illuminated in the warmth of the lantern light – was enough to arouse a wave of lust that Edward felt powerless to ignore. Succumbing to his urges, he had slipped past the door and tugged it shut behind him, and then without prelude reached out and pulled Thomas into a dizzying kiss.

It was frenzy and madness, heightened by the knowledge of how little time they had, how easily they might be discovered – and yet they could not stop, breath overturning rapidly, desire coiling deep within the belly, fingers slipping past fabric and encountering smooth, uninterrupted flesh. With a fumbling hand Edward undid the first few buttons of Thomas’s trousers, and then pushed aside shirttail and drawers until the prize he sought was just within reach. Thomas panted, a low keening sound emerging from the back of his throat as Edward palmed him tenderly and then began to stroke.

His forehead fell against Thomas’s, skin feverishly warm, their lips meeting again and again in breathless desperation, the rhythm a soft echo of the steady movement of Edward’s hand. The steward’s grip grew tighter along his upper arm, urging him onward, fueling his own aching need—

With no apparent warning, the door to the passageway slid open, and, startled from their reverie, the two of them hastily broke apart. Thomas barely had time to pull his coat closed over his partially unbuttoned trousers before the doorway revealed the fair-haired form of Dr. McDonald.

He glanced over and took them both in, and Edward could feel his racing heart begin to still with icy fear, for while they had been quick enough not to be caught outright, it would no doubt still seem suspicious that they were together in the wardroom, engaged in some private activity, the door shut tight. Moreover, one look at Thomas – cheeks flushed, collar tugged out of place, lips pink and ripely swollen – and the doctor could easily guess what had been taking place just before he arrived.

The fog of lust quickly dissipated from Edward’s mind as it began to fully dawn on him what real danger they were in. Were Dr. McDonald to mention to the captain what he saw, or even make a formal accusation, as well he might, the consequences would be swift and unquestionably severe. Edward had once known a sailor hung for sodomy – he had been a young midshipman then, wide-eyed and impressionable – and while there was no proof to support such a charge against himself or Thomas, they might easily be found guilty of lesser offenses. At worst, a verdict of uncleanness could see him stripped of his rank, and Thomas of his position, and the both of them flogged, perhaps even imprisoned in the confines of the hold until they finally returned home.

It was a possibility almost too terrible to contemplate, not just for himself, but especially for Thomas, who was guilty of nothing more than being in possession of an overly generous heart. And to imagine him disgraced, back bared to the whole of the ship’s company as the lash came down, bloody stripes marring that lovely pale expanse? Edward could not bear it. At that moment he decided, no matter the outcome, he would not allow Thomas to be held responsible for their actions. Before that happened, he would confess to having forced the steward into such intimacies by prerogative of rank or else by making some crude, uninvited attempt upon his person.

And yet as Edward carefully watched the expression on the doctor’s face, he could see no indication that the other man had observed anything out of the ordinary in the wardroom.

“Ah, Lieutenant, Mr. Jopson,” he said, cheerfully as ever. “I seem to have misplaced my spectacles at some point after dinner. I’ve searched the sick bay with no luck, and then wondered if I might have left them here.”

Thomas, to his credit, appeared entirely calm, taking a step away from the wall as he fastened a single button on his coat to close it, a tiny, inconspicuous slip of the fingers that would draw little attention, despite its necessity.

“I haven’t seen them on the table, sir,” he offered, “but is it possible you might have left them in your own cabin? Perhaps before dinner began?”

The doctor nodded, pursing his lips as he considered the possibility, and then skirted the edge of the table until he reached the door in the center of the wall. He pushed it open, disappearing for a moment into the relative darkness of his cabin, and from there emerged a small sound of satisfaction.

“Yes,” he said, as he reappeared in the doorway, clutching a pair of round spectacles. “I had forgotten them on my writing desk. Very good, Mr. Jopson. You’re a credit to your profession.”

He slid his cabin door closed again and took several steps forward, only to pause just across the table from Edward and Thomas. Was this when the accusation would come? Edward wondered, his chest growing tighter with nervous dread. Had the doctor simply been waiting to collect his thoughts before he made it clear to them what he planned to tell the captain?

“I’m pleased to find these,” Dr. McDonald finally said, as he absently tapped the metal rim of his spectacles against his open palm, smiling a little to himself. “At the risk of my own vanity, I’ll confess that I’m nearly blind as a mole without them. I can’t see much of anything these days, even at a distance. In fact, I’m surprised I was even able to recognize you both when I came in.”

He turned his gaze towards them once again, his expression open and direct, as if he did not want them to mistake his meaning.

“And were I to come across the two of you in some other place, at some unexpected time,” he added, “I’m certain I would have absolutely no sense of what I was seeing. If pressed, I would only be able to report seeing you engaged in some form of polite conversation.”

“Of course,” Edward offered, not knowing how else to respond. The doctor did not reply, but simply nodded in acknowledgement, that wry half-smile still lingering at the corner of his mouth, and then made his way back through the wardroom door, pulling it shut as he departed.

As he stood there, some part of Edward did not understand what had just happened – he and Thomas had been caught in clear violation of the Articles and yet there would be no punishment, no consequences at all? – but mostly he wanted to weep with relief at his good fortune, even as he was certain he had done little to deserve it. He glanced over at Thomas, who undoubtedly was thinking the same as he, and watched the color as it returned to his pale cheeks, for a moment reminding him of what they had been doing just before they had been interrupted. His desire was still there, right below the surface, but the fear that still coursed through his veins made him cautious, and it seemed foolish to risk fate twice in one afternoon.

So instead of pulling the steward into his arms, as so much of him longed to do, he reached down and clasped his hand, intertwining Thomas’s warm fingers with his own.

“Come to my cabin tonight, during first watch,” he murmured, feeling an anticipatory smile bubble to his lips, “and we might continue where we left off.”

#the terror amc #the terror #fanfiction #thomas jopson #edward little #jopson x little #alexander mcdonald #libertines76 #joplittle

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douxreviews · 5 years

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American Gods - ‘The Greatest Story Ever Told’ Review

"Peace is a beautiful, but sh*tty idea."

A series whose intrinsic premise revolves around new gods forming around things that Americans actually worship finally gets around to the most obvious example. Hello there, Money.

Also, Mr. Nancy brings all the real.

Let's just get this out of the way up front, because otherwise the rest of the review is just going to be me marking time until I can bring it up.

Every single word of Mr. Nancy's monologue is amazingly written, outstandingly performed, and should be played on repeat in every single social studies and civics class in the United States until the country as a whole finally decides to do something about fixing things. I can't imagine that it won't be available to view on its own on YouTube within the next 24-48 hours, and when it does you should absolutely go watch it. Over the course of a few uninterrupted minutes, Orlando Jones lays out slavery, human trafficking, the alt-right, systemic violence and institutionalized failure, the school to prison pipeline, knee taking and the NFL, and more. It's angry, and it's powerful, and I expect high school speech competition judges will get tired of hearing it in a few years.

I've been a little focused this season on noting the things from season one that we lost with the transitions behind the scenes, but I've neglected to mention one thing that the new season has really improved. That's the interactions between the Gods themselves. In the first season, that interaction was almost exclusively limited to Wednesday and whichever old god he happened to be making his sales pitch to that week. We saw Czernobog and the three sisters in their home life together, but they were already from the same belief system and closely intertwined. This season we're starting to see how the other gods relate to one another just on a day to day basis, and it's really been great.

Which is how we get to Mr. Nancy's speech, and its context gives it its real edge. Mr. Nancy, Bilquis, and Mr. Ibis have gathered at the Ibis and Jaquel funeral parlor, and have a good, solid talk about race. This is in itself amazing, as television has a pronounced tendency to avoid a real and messy talk about race. We have three African gods, all played by actors of color, two of which seem to have made the choice to let things in America continue as they are, only to have the third one essentially sit them down and say, 'Here is what is happening, what has always been happening, to the descendants of your worshipers. How can you possibly be all right with this? How can you look the other way? How can you let this happen?' That's just not something you see on television. And I could not look away.

Meanwhile, in the A plot, Wednesday and Shadow head out to track down yet another new American God in order to persuade them to join Wednesday's side in the war. This time they're trying to track down 'Money.' Unfortunately, his trio of security girl scouts won't give them access, because Shadow has never had a line of credit, and Money hates that. Yes, you read that correctly. Security Girl Scouts. OK, technically 'Penny Scouts,' so as to avoid getting sued by the Girl Scouts of America. They are selling candy named 'Payback,' because not all of the metaphors in this show are subtle.

And on the other team's bench, Mr. World sends Technical Boy to find a replacement for the recently murdered Argus. TB goes to Silicon Valley to find someone who isn't named by the show, but is the head of a company called Xie Comm, so one assumes his name is Xie. This same CEO is the boy we saw in the opening sequence, playing video games and practicing Bach, until he realizes the link between music and math, programs software to write new Bach-like music, and apparently brings Technical Boy into being to play electronic classical music at his father's funeral. It's actually a really well structured and meticulously pieced together dissertation on the interrelationship between faith, love, music, and numbers, and it works all the better for throwing us into it without giving us any context or information whatsoever. I'm not always a fan of the cold open on this show, but this was really well done.

Technical Boy refers to this man whose name we have to assume is Xie as his friend. What's more, he refers to himself as being Xie's only friend, and we're given no reason to doubt that statement. Which makes it all the more heartbreaking when World shows up, uses New Media to steal Possibly-Xie's attention, and then leaves Technical Boy to die.

Oh, yeah. Technical Boy dies.

I did not see that coming. But we did have an extended discussion with New Media earlier about whether old Media had died or just been reformed, so maybe that was foreshadowing for New Technology. I hope not though, because Bruce Langley was fantastic in a part designed to be unlikable, and it would take away from his shock death if they just brought him back again. "I was literally your only friend..." he says to Possibly-Xie. But it seems much more likely that what is breaking his heart is that the reverse was also true. Goodbye Technical Boy. I spent a lot of time hating you, and then you made me cry for you, and then you died. RIP. Unless of course I read the situation wrong and he isn't dead. Then I'll feel foolish for writing this paragraph.

So, having 'retired a god' in Technical Boy, World gets past the sinister Girl Penny Scouts, and he and Wednesday both sit down in front of Money, or 'The Bookkeeper' as he's credited, to make their sales pitch. Money gives a hard pass to both of them and leaves. Neither Wednesday or World seem that miffed about it, so it was probably more about preventing him from joining the opposition than getting him to join the team.

Quotes:

The Father: "This is Grief. And yet, the rising notes of joy shattering his own rules. Can you hear it?"

Ibis: "Like any formative life experience, death changes you."

Bilquis: "A woman’s heart should never be so hidden in God that she cannot hear her own truth."

New Media: "I wonder if the next version of me will feel me inside of her."

Mama-Ji: "You think America was eager to hand over her moneybags to the hungry, the tired, and the poor? We battle for every goddamn scrap."

New Media via a sign on a wall: "You’re only as good as your last win." Technical Boy: "Eat a giant bag of dicks."

Bilquis: "This country has not been kind to my face." Ibis: "You are as perfect and vibrant as the Euphrates."

Nancy: "Y’all done yet? ‘Cause I’m getting bored watching this bullshit."

Bilquis: "Suffering is not sacred."

Bilquis: "This country has done things to us." Nancy: "We have done things to us."

Wednesday: "I’m gonna win this one. People like me more than they like you." World: "I prefer to be feared."

Bits and Pieces:

-- A note for the pedantic. Yes, technically Bilquis is from Persia, and as such is not technically an African God. However, Ibis greets her as his queen, and he's clearly from Egypt, and Nancy refers to all three of them as African Gods, so I'm going with that read. Besides, our understanding of the Persian Empires geography is far from clear.

-- Is it strange that Jacuel/Anubis wasn't anywhere to be found for the discussion of African God's obligation to fight racial injustice?

-- It's strongly implied that Wednesday was instrumental in getting Bast to have sex with Shadow in his dreams, possibly fulfilling his promise that Shadow would wake up feeling great. That felt gross and robbed Bast of her own agency, which is particularly egregious in her case.

-- On that note, this is a rare case where without reading the book it would have been very difficult to know what the Hell was going on during the sex scene. They sort of half-explain it afterwards, but I don't think I would have understood it at all.

-- The direction of the sex scene was telling. In season one it would have been far more graphic, laying everything on screen in a non-exploitative and almost clinical way. See, for example, Salim and Ifrit's sex scene in 'Head Full of Snow.' Here it's directed much more conventionally, right down to Shadow having the sheet discretely draped over his personal business afterwards.

-- I wish they hadn't leaned so heavily into the Asian father who makes his son practice music thing, but it was really the only way to tell the story of how music and math intersected in the boy's life to create Technical Boy, or at least his friendship with Technical Boy. It's just kind of a tired trope.

-- Speaking of, and just for the record; music and math are incredibly connected. In many important ways they're the exact same thing. A software program that can be taught to understand and recreate Bach isn't unfeasible by any stretch of the imagination. It probably already exists, I haven't googled it.

-- It's a little messy, structurally, that Wednesday got Shadow to the funeral home only to take him away on a day trip right away so that Bilquis could stop by and have an important conversation. That feels like a vestigial remnant from the book, i.e he goes from the train to Cairo there, so that's what he does here.

-- No Laura or Sweeney this week. Looks like they're back next week.

-- It also appears that next week we'll see more of Bilquis' new friend Ruby Goodchild. I liked Ruby a lot. She felt like a real person.

-- The actor playing Money was William Sanderson. You might know him from literally every movie and television show ever made.

A really great episode that leaned into the new regime's strengths as opposed to leaning away from the previous ones'.

Three and a half out of four Emmys for Orlando Jones. Please, can we get an Emmy for Orlando Jones?

Mikey Heinrich is, among other things, a freelance writer, volunteer firefighter, and roughly 78% water.

#American Gods #Shadow Moon #Mr Wednesday #Mr Nancy #Mr World #Tech Boy #Bilquis #American Gods Reviews #Doux Reviews #TV Reviews

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