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the-dark-swan · 4 years

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On My Side

“I was under the impression I was an ‘insufferable, territorial bastard’,” he mocked in a terrible impression of her voice. “You can’t have it both ways.”

“No, you can’t have it both ways, Mister Don’t-Touch-Me-Like-That,” Aelin spat at him, crossing her arms protectively over her chest.

the Pandemic AU that literally no one asked for. i wrote the entire thing because of two lines of dialogue that popped into my brain (bonus points if you can guess which ones).

i’ve never shared anything i’ve written for the TOG fandom on tumblr before so here *chucks story into the void and runs*

(also available on ao3)

“I swear to every god that is listening I will choke you next time I see you, Rowan Whitehorn,” Aelin snarled, leaning her face dangerously close to her computer’s camera.

The speakers emitted a cacophony of howling laughter. She saw Rowan in the little square showing his camera feed, a shit-eating grin on his face. A beat passed, as he waited for a pause in the din of noise. His grin turned feral and he replied, “Do you promise?”

More laughter shrieked through the speakers, only broken by a choked gagging sound, no doubt from her cousin Aedion. “Could you guys keep it PG for more than 5 minutes at a time? I am begging you,” he groaned.

This all had started as an innocent way for them all to see each other again during their cities’ respective stay-at-home orders. Fenrys, ever the ring leader, had suggested in lieu of their typical March Madness bracket arguments, they could make brackets for other, more mundane things, then argue and vote on them via video chats. The first bracket they had done was MLM power-rankings based on the product and likelihood that Lorcan (the most cynical among them) could be convinced to join. It had taken them two hours before they had reached a conclusion, but for the most part it was goofy and civil.

Today’s debate was more personal: who among them was more likely to start a brawl in a bar. Instead of not wanting to be the one chosen, the group had immediately started vying for the position of most likely to. The current debate was between Aelin and Lysandra. Rowan had just given his two cents that not only was Lysandra more volatile when drunk, she was also more likely to cause a fight. Aelin was positively furious.

In the camera, Rowan spread his hands in a gesture of mock surrender. “Sorry, love, Lysandra is more likely to start a fight,” he knew she hated when he used pet names on her, “If the question was who is more likely to finish a fight, I would most certainly have picked you.”

“That’s it, Buzzard, I don’t care about social distancing…” Aelin leaped up and out of the screen.

Her friends couldn’t see her, but she stormed out of her apartment, practically ripping the door off its hinges. She took the steps to the third floor two at a time. One right turn and two left turns brought her in front of Unit 343. There was no resistance as she turned the handle and shoved the door open. Somewhere in the back of her mind, the rational part of her puzzled at what reason Rowan could possibly have for having his door unlocked.

Aelin stalked through the long hallway that opened into his loft apartment and found Rowan sitting on the ground, back against his couch, the laptop still open in front of him. Through the speakers, she could make out Fenrys’s voice.

“... twenty dollars says she spits directly into his eyes from Aedion. Lys has an additional five dollars down that Aelin will bring up the incident from New Year’s…”

Rowan reached forward calmly, pressing a button on his laptop, then finally raised his head to look at her. Pine green eyes roved up her body, making Aelin suddenly very aware that she was barefoot and actually wearing a shirt of his that she had stolen months ago.

“Was there something you needed to say?” he asked.

From the computer, someone asked, “Oh my god, Rowan, is she in your apartment?” to which Rowan responded by turning the volume down.

“Technically, you shouldn’t be here,” he added, his voice rumbling in that way that did funny things to Aelin’s heart.

Before she could stop the words, she shot back, “Technically, I thought you were supposed to be on my side, not Lysandra’s.”

“Did he mute them? I can’t hear anything,” a voice complained through the computer speakers.

He cocked his head at her, ignoring the laptop entirely. “You’d sound jealous if I didn’t know better.”

Aelin opened her mouth, but no words came. “Does anyone read lips?” Fenrys asked through the speakers.

“I was under the impression I was an ‘insufferable, territorial bastard ’,” he mocked in a terrible impression of her voice. “You can’t have it both ways.”

“No, you can’t have it both ways, Mister Don’t-Touch-Me-Like-That,” Aelin spat at him, crossing her arms protectively over her chest.

Rowan went still, in that eerie, preternatural way of his. From the computer, someone murmured, “I think she just brought it up.”

The New Years’ Incident. Nausea rolled through her stomach every time she devoted any thoughts to it. The memory of Rowan yanking her hands away from his face, growling “Don’t touch me like that,” while everyone around them counted down the final seconds to midnight, was not a memory she liked to dwell on.

He rose to his full height, unfolding long, muscled limbs from where he sat on the floor, towering tall enough that Aelin swore he had his own gravitational pull. “Are we finally going to talk about it?”

In her chest, Aelin’s heart took off in a nervous gallop. Did she want to have it out with him over it, finally? Three months of carefully maintained distance from Rowan had been painful. Sidestepping him when he went to touch her, letting their inside jokes die on her tongue, sandwiching herself between Fenrys and Aedion at shared meals like they were bodyguards. Now that she thought about it, this was the first time they had been alone together since that night, despite living in the same apartment building.

Across the room, Rowan moved slowly, rounding the coffee table that separated them in measured, calculated steps, as if he was approaching startled prey. Aelin remained rooted to the floor, swaying a bit as he came within arm’s reach. This close, she had to tilt her head back to look him in the face.

“I’m sorry, Aelin.”

She shook her head, swallowing around the lump in her throat. “You don’t really even have anything to be sorry for. It was nothing.” In her head, ‘Don’t touch me like that’ played on a loop.

“It wasn’t nothing, Aelin. You won’t let me within three feet of you. And I miss you. Although, given the pandemic, maybe that has been for the best.” He paused for a beat, raising his hand out towards her. When she didn’t retreat, he moved closer, reaching for her hand and grasping it gently. She offered no resistance as he lifted it towards him and pressed it to the curve of his jaw.

Beneath her hand, his mid-day stubble bit into her palm. “Rowan,” she started, but he shook his head, cutting her off.

“Lately, it feels like the world is ending, and I keep thinking how you might have never known how much I miss you and how sorry I am,” his voice cracked and he swallowed roughly. “I didn’t mean it, what I said. I got… I got scared, Aelin. You mean everything to me. Everything. I thought if I… if we… if we kissed, it would ruin everything. I couldn’t risk messing everything up and losing you, but then I did that anyways.”

Her body rocked into his gravity of its own accord, her other hand automatically bracing against his chest. Talking over the pounding of the blood rushing in her ears, she said, “You didn’t lose me. I trust you, always. And if friendship is all you can give-”

“No,” he interrupted gruffly. “No, Aelin. I’ve had three months to be honest with myself and this has never been just platonic.”

A shuddering breath stuttered through Aelin’s chest at his confession, hope clogging her throat, preventing any more words from escaping. Rowan left her hand on his face, moving his own to cup the back of her neck and tip her face further up. This close, she saw the way his pupils had swallowed most of the green of his irises. She licked her lips and his eyes tracked the movement.

Just as he started to drift towards her mouth with his own, a voice startled them both. “Do you think they’re kissing or fighting? Lorcan had ten dollars on a brawl, Elide had twenty on a make out.”

“Could you excuse me for one moment?” Rowan whispered, his breath ghosting across her face. Removing his hands from her, he marched over to where the laptop sat open on the coffee table, bringing his face back into view and unmuting it.

“If you would kindly stop interrupting us-”

“I’m sure there’s lots of talking-” the unmistakable voice of Lysandra quipped.

“Like I said, there's money down on fighting or fucking pick your-” Fenrys added unhelpfully.

“Shut up ,” Rowan growled, leaning his face nearly all the way into the camera. “If you could shut your traps and stop trying to profit off of your friends’ love lives, that would be great.” Aelin slapped her hands over her face, a blush spreading like wildfire across her face. Love lives? Love? She hadn't dared to acknowledge the way that word rattled around her brain when she looked at Rowan, yet here he was casually throwing it out into the world. Through her fingers, she saw Rowan note her reaction.

“Goodbye, fuckos.” He snapped the laptop shut unceremoniously.

His steps were near silent as he made his way back to her, wasting no time drawing her back into his arms. Aelin brought both her hands up to his face this time, letting her thumbs drag over his cheekbones. His thumb brushed across her lower lip, as if to remind her where this moment was headed.

“Did that word scare you?”

She shook her head. “Nothing about you could ever scare me. Like you said, I don’t think this has been platonic for a long time, if ever.”

He considered her again for a moment, eyes tracking across her features. “What if you deserve better than me?”

“Don’t tell me what I do and don’t deserve, Buzzard.”

“Gods, you’re such a brat,” he murmured, and then his lips were on hers.

#throne of glass #rowan whitethorn #aelin galythinius #the-dark-swan-writes #sarah j maas #and they were zoommates

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donteattheappleshook · 4 years

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Of Cars and Bars Chapter 6/13

After literally more than a year and a half, here is chapter 6. In a miraculous turn of events though, Chapter 7 is already written and will be posted next week. Chapter 8 is half done and will be posted the week after that. I promise I have not abandoned this fic.

As always, thank you @kmomof4 for fixing my terrible grammar and being so supportive of this fic <3

Summary:

When Emma Swan is offered the chance to go on tour as an opener for one of the most popular up and coming bands of the decade, the last thing she expects is to find that the lead guitarist is the stranger she had a one night stand with five years ago.

This started out as a smutty two shot about Emma Ruby and Mary Margaret going on a road trip and has evolved into a slow-burn mutual pining angst-fest.

Read it from the beginning on Ao3 and Ffn because tumblr eats all my italics.

Chapter 6 - Roll Away Your Stone

You told me that I would find a home / Within the fragile substance of my soul / And I have filled this void with things unreal / And all the while my character it steals

The first show had gone great, really great actually, better than she’d expected. She’d been so nervous. It had been so long since she’d been up on stage - a real stage, not just open mic night at a bar or a club but a real honest to god show where she got to sing more than one song, where the audience was there for her… well okay, technically they’d been there for Abandon Ship!, but she really felt like she’d won them over in the end. At least that’s the feeling she got from the standing ovation they’d given her.

And to play with Mary Margaret and Ruby, god she’d missed that. When Ruby had told Liam a few weeks ago that they were her band she hadn’t exactly been lying. They were her band, it had just been a very, very long time since they actually backed her up. More than anything, it had been a way for her friends to guarantee that she wouldn’t have to go on this tour alone. But the last time they’d played together they had been teenagers, Emma had just barely gotten her driver’s license; Ruby had braces. She’d missed it. She hadn’t realised how much she’d missed that part of their friendship, how much it had meant to her - before he showed up and ripped it all away.

She’d honestly been really impressed with how quickly her friends had learned her new songs. She had a sneaking suspicion that they may have been secretly watching her little late night skeevy bar shows more often than they’d admitted to. There had been very little discussion about it really though, the songs that is. They couldn’t play most of her old songs for reasons that Emma didn’t like to think about. And well the other ones, the ones she wrote after everything happened, she couldn’t play those. Those hurt worse. And so, they were left with her new songs - well, newer. She hadn’t written much in the last couple of years. Work, life had gotten in the way. It was hard to come home at 5am after a stakeout and find the motivation to sit and write when her bed seemed like such a better option.

It was fun, really fun, to play with her friends, to have people enjoy her music, to see them dance and try to sing along to songs they hadn’t heard before and she got to share that with the most important people in her life.

Tonight was a good night. She was glad that they’d had this show. She’d been worried at first about having to perform only a few hours after they touched ground in LA but Belle knew what she was doing. She’d booked them a performance in some bar that was so non-mainstream that it had become incredibly mainstream but hadn’t put the word out until an hour before the show with a post to the band’s social media accounts. Within thirty minutes they were turning people away at the door. Nothing drew a crowd like exclusivity.

Despite the raging fans, she was happy the show had been in a small venue. It was almost like a dress rehearsal, a trial run to a show tomorrow that would change her life forever. They were playing the Hollywood Bowl, the fucking Hollywood Bowl, the seventeen-thousand-five-hundred seat Hollywood Bowl. The show was sold out.

Emma’s hands clammed up just thinking about it. She hadn’t realised when she’d agreed to go on tour with Abandon Ship! just how big they were. Yes, she knew a few of their songs, had heard them on the radio, had a few of them on her phone, saw their album promoted on Spotify, but somehow she’d failed to grasp just how popular, how famous the guys were rapidly becoming.

Their album was number one in the country - in most countries in fact - and there were rumors of Grammy nominations. The only reason they still managed to have some semblance of anonymity was the fact that their music was - thus far - more popular than their faces, but that was changing too. Emma had googled them… well, she’d googled him. It had started with the band really, but then she’d noticed a few fan sites and then stumbled on “Jones brothers thrist tweets” and then “Killian Jones thirst tweets”. It had been a rabbit hole from there.

She watched them now, playing the final few songs of their set. They looked so good up there, so natural. Liam had an incredible voice. Had he gotten better since she saw them play all those years ago? Or maybe it was just the songs they were playing, the ones everyone knew, the ones that made them famous, everyone was singing along. Every single one of their songs was fantastic, annoyingly so. The music was sometimes exciting and upbeat and lifted your heart up and sometimes it was heart wrenching but the lyrics made her feel like they had been written about specific moments in her own life. They brought back bittersweet memories and she wasn’t sure how to feel about that. She’d never quite connected to anyone else’s music like that. It was jarring.

She could hear Killian singing as well, it seemed they had decided to start sharing the lead singer role since Emma had last seen them play. She was sure he looked great up there too but she couldn’t know for certain since she was actively avoiding looking at him - had been for the last hour and a half - had been since they stepped out of the elevator six hours ago. She remembered though, remembered the last time she watched him play, watched him sing into the microphone like he was trying to seduce it - or at least trying to seduce every woman in the room. Her, she was reminded, he had been trying to seduce her.

She thought again about the show tomorrow, the size of the stadium and the number of people who would be watching and her palms started to sweat. She thought about playing there with Killian watching from backstage and her heart started racing. She stole a glance at him now. Big mistake. Suddenly she was back in the little bar in New York, she was back in the dressing room, and then she was back in the elevator this evening. She clenched her fists. Why had she agreed to this again?

“Hey! Why the long face?” Ruby demanded as she set their drinks down on the table and then threw herself into the booth beside them. “Mary Margaret! Why is she looking like she’s gonna pass out? You were on Emma duty. You’re supposed to be watching her and preventing grand escapes. Look at her! She’s about to bolt.”

Mary Margaret’s eyes snapped up to her friends and her face instantly flushed bright red. “I’m sorry!” she practically squeeked out, “she was fine a minute ago. I was watching the show and I got… distracted.” She was stealthy in her glance but not stealthy enough for Emma (and she suspected Ruby) to miss the way her eyes flickered to David before fluttering around as though she were actively trying to look anywhere else.

Ruby’s grin was enormous. “Mary Margaret, I’m shocked. Ignoring your Emma duties for a pair of pretty blue eyes?”

“I wasn’t -” she tried to defend herself but it fell flat.

Emma smiled despite herself as she watched her friends. Right. This was why she was here. They were why she was here. Wasn’t that always the case, her friends dragging her into insane situations and her left wondering how she’d managed to be dragged?

“If you could all stop talking about me in the third person that would be great,” she said but her annoyance also fell flat. “I can take care of myself,” she grinned, “so Mary Margaret can oggle drummers all she likes.” Her friend turned even redder.

“And what about you, then?” Ruby asked with her own shrewd smirk. “What’s got you in a cold sweat? Is it the show tomorrow or a certain guitarist with a penchant for eyeliner and an aversion to buttons?” Emma just glared at her, which only served to make Ruby laugh. “Thought so.”

They sat through the rest of the show, Emma sulking with her arms crossed over her chest, Mary Margaret actively looking everywhere except the stage, and Ruby throwing them shit-eating grins every chance she got. When the boys were on their last song of the night, Belle hurried over to their table to rush them backstage.

“They’re gonna do one encore, maybe two if they feel up to it, and then we’ll head out the side door where there’s a car waiting for you to take you back to the hotel. There will be people out there, they’re already lined up waiting to get autographs. You don’t have to say or do anything but a little ‘look how much they like their fans’ publicity is never a bad thing. Got it?” She said all this matter of factly, as though it wasn’t absolutely insane that there would be people outside hoping to get her autograph. They couldn’t possibly want hers, Belle must have meant they’d be wanting the boys’ autographs.

Ruby gave Belle a thumbs up and Belle nodded. “Great. I’ll get in the car with you guys and the boys will get in theirs and we’ll meet back at the hotel. There might be people there too although as far as we know word hasn’t leaked about where we’re staying.” Emma listened to all of this in a daze. This couldn’t be her life could it? This couldn’t all actually be happening.

By the time she had come back to the world around her she was being ushered out the side door behind the guy’s band and her own to a crowd of waiting fans all of whom were taking pictures and shouting “I love you’s”. She froze like a deer in the headlights, staring out at flashing lights and people who somehow knew her name and were shoving papers and pens at her. She froze, as though she’d lost control of her body. She knew she should be walking, that the gap between her and the others was growing wider but she couldn’t make her feet move.

Her heart was racing in her throat and she was just considering the fact that she might throw up when suddenly a hand grabbed her own. She recognized that hand, the warm, soft palm and the long, rough fingers that were wrapped around her own. She focused on the hand for a moment before focusing on it’s owner. Killian’s expression was soft though he was looking at her with some concern. He was always looking concerned around her, she realised. She felt bad about that.

He gave her a small nod and one side of his mouth quirked up when she met his eyes. “It’s okay, they don’t bite,” he said, giving her hand a little squeeze. “Usually.” He winked and it made her feet seem to suddenly remember they were connected to her brain. “Come on,” he coaxed. He led her through the crowd of people, through the shouts and the lights to the car where Belle was waiting holding the door open, Ruby and Mary Margaret already inside. He helped her into the car like she was some frightened Victorian damsel being helped into a carriage by some Austenian hero. He leaned in, checking that she was settled and turned to head to his own car without a word.

“Hey!” Emma called after him, speaking for the first time in what felt like hours. He looked back. “Thanks.”

He smiled, just a little thing. “It gets easier,” he promised.

“You know that’s going to be all over the internet tomorrow don’t you?” she heard Liam scold as Belle shut the door and jumped in the passenger seat. She saw Killian shrug, sign an autograph, and jump in his vehicle.

Once they were far enough away that she couldn’t see the boys or the venue anymore, she turned to her friends for the first time since getting in the car. They all looked nearly as amazed as she felt, though perhaps not quite as shellshocked.

“Holy fucking shit,” Ruby said and Emma laughed. She didn’t even know why she laughed, it was probably adrenaline or something but she couldn’t stop and soon all three of them were in hysterics, even Belle started giggling in the front seat. Holy fucking shit indeed.

***

They all ended up in Liam and Belle’s hotel room as they were all still riding the high of the show and Liam and Belle had the biggest room - which Killian gave his brother a hell of a lot of flack for. “Get yourself married and then you can have the big room,” Liam taunted his brother in retaliation.

They were finally winding down after what had been one of the longest days of Emma’s life. Between the flight and the soundcheck and the show she hadn’t had a minute to stop or to herself since yesterday afternoon. Usually, she would have found that incredibly draining, and she did on some level, but not in the way she expected. Part of the reason Emma had chosen her job was because it allowed her to work alone. That was how she liked it. Being around people all the time, having to be ‘on’, to have to interact and socialize with people exhausted her. People always expected something from her and when she didn’t live up to it they were disappointed. Ruby and Mary Margaret were, of course, the exception to that rule. But, for some reason, despite having spent the entire day surrounded by near strangers, Emma felt surprisingly… good.

It was strange how easy it was to be around Belle and the boys. Liam and Belle were adorably in love and, it turned out once they were out of the public eye, they were almost disgustingly affectionate. Still, she couldn’t help smiling at them, Belle curled in her husband’s lap, his arms wrapped around her as they sat on the carpeted floor, backs against the sofa.

David and Graham had instantly shifted into big brother mode - or what Emma imagined having big brothers would have been like. The two were one joke after the other while mercilessly teasing each other and occasionally Emma as well. She found she didn’t mind the teasing and had felt a sort of proud thrill at their excitement when she’d given it back just as hard.

And Killian, she didn’t know what it was about him but somehow just being in his presence made her feel relaxed, made her feel calm. It was like something that radiated from him, an openness and a gentleness that she’d been too distracted to really notice before. She could see that the others felt it too, even his brother, despite his constant put-on airs of indignation at Killian’s almost unshakable lightheartedness.

Calm, until he looked at her. When he looked at her, her heart suddenly started racing and her breath caught in her throat for a second before she composed herself and snapped out of it. This was new territory, feeling comfortable and on edge around someone at the same time. She didn’t know if she liked it. It scared her.

Only four of them were sat around on the floor now. Mary Margaret and David had disappeared into a corner somewhere where it looked like she was trying to teach him how to twirl a drumstick between his fingers. He was failing miserably, though Emma suspected he was exaggerating his incompetence so that Mary Margaret would keep scooting closer and readjusting his hand. He smiled everytime he dropped the stick and she laughed.

Killian’s phone had been plugged into a little portable speaker and music filled the room now. Ruby had somehow managed to convince Graham to dance. Well, she was dancing, he was kind of standing there, swaying awkwardly and letting her hold his hand and twirl while he watched her with a big dumb grin on his face.

The song switched and it took Emma a second before she recognized the guy’s first single. She smirked at Killian.

“You have your own song on your most played?” she teased. She’d meant it as a joke but Killian quickly reached for his phone to change songs. “You don’t have to change it,” Emma said, feeling bad now. “It’s a good song.”

“Put the song back on!” David demanded and Killian rolled his eyes but conceded when Graham, Mary Margaret and Ruby joined in the chant.

“A lot of your songs are good,” she said, addressing the group now. “I didn’t realise how many of them I actually knew until the show tonight.”

Killian laughed. “So nice to be recognised,” he teased and she felt better that he was laughing with her.

“I’m just saying, you guys are really good. Like yeah, your songs are catchy but they also have depth you know? Substance.” She felt herself get red at her awkward attempts at a compliment.

“That’s all Killian,” David called from the back of the room. “He’s the songwriter. The real poet of the gang. The bard of the band,” he singsonged and Emma laughed wondering how many drinks David had had tonight or if Mary Margaret had just met her match for the title for cheapest drunk.

“It’s not just me,” Killian insisted. “Liam writes too. We all do.” Modesty. Emma was shocked and she said so.

“Hardly,” Liam countered. He looked at Emma, “I dabble.”

“He wrote this one,” Killian countered, referring to the song still echoing through the speaker. Liam gave Killian a look that Emma couldn’t read but he didn’t say anything.

“You’re so lucky, Belle,” Ruby sighed from where she was now swaying along with Graham to the slower melody.

“How so?”

“To have a song about love at first sight written about you.” Oh boy, if Ruby was getting romantic it was definitely time to get her to bed.

“It’s not about love at first sight,” Killian said almost instantly and everyone turned to him. He looked up shocked, as if he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. He looked to his brother.

Liam cleared his throat. “He’s right. It’s not just about that,” he agreed. Emma couldn’t make sense of whatever unspoken conversation was happening between the Joneses at the moment. She blamed it on the rum. “It’s also about allowing yourself to be open to love again, to believe you deserve it.” Killian stared at his brother and Liam looked back as though daring him to say something.

Finally, David broke the tension. “Heavy, man.” That was enough to make everyone laugh and the awkwardness seemed to pass. He and Mary Margaret retreated back into their little bubble as did Ruby and Graham as the song switched to something more bluesy and she did something incredibly intentional and incredibly captivating with her hair. Graham just stared, awestruck. Poor boy, Emma thought. He doesn’t stand a chance.

“Speaking of great music,” Liam said, drawing her back to the conversation they’d been having. “You guys were great up there.”

“Yeah?” Emma asked and then wished she could snatch the words back. That had sounded so pathetic. She’d been so nervous though, it was nice to hear that it had gone well from an outside point of view.

“Hell yeah!” Belle answered for her husband. “You’re already trending on twitter,” she said, pulling out her phone to show her a video someone had taken of the concert with captions like ‘Emma Swan out of nowhere’, and ‘the next big thing?’ written underneath. Emma just stared, slackjaw. She didn’t know how to react to that. This wasn’t even in her wheelhouse of possible situations to have possible, reasonable reactions to. She handed the phone back to Belle who turned to Killian.

“Killian, you hadn’t heard her yet right?” He gave a hesitant shake of his head. “What did you think?” she prodded.

“Yeah, it was good,” he said, noncommittally, not looking her in the eye. Emma felt it like a blow to her chest.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Emma demanded.

“Nothing,” Killian insisted. “I said it was good.”

For some reason she didn’t understand, a part of her wanted him to like it. And was crushed that he didn’t. She wasn’t even aware of that want, that need until now. She was surprised by how much his rejection hurt, how much she had hoped for his praise. That feeling scared her. She’d never needed anybody’s praise, never needed anyone to make her feel valued, never needed to depend on anyone for anything and yet here she was, devastated because some guy had said ‘yeah, it was good’. It scared her, and when Emma got scared or hurt she got angry. And now she was both.

“If you don’t like my music you can just say so,” she snapped. “I’m a big girl, I can handle it.”

“I don’t not like it,” he said hesitantly and she crossed her arms over her chest, daring him to elaborate. He sighed, like he didn’t want to say what he was about to say. “Look, do you want me to be honest?“

"No, I want you to lie to me,” she snapped sarcastically.

"The songs you played tonight are fun, they’re catchy, people like them and you play really well.”

“But?” She wasn’t letting him off.

He let out a heavy sigh. “But your lyrics… they’re not about anything.” She jumped back as though he’d slapped her.

“Killian!” Liam started, but he went on.

“I just mean that they don’t reveal anything about you or have any depth beyond -”

“Killian. Stop.” Liam was insistent now and Killian looked at him for a second then shut his mouth.

“No, it’s okay,” Emma said to Liam. She was furious - furious because of how hurtful, how cruel his words had been and how much it hurt that it had been him that spoke them. And a small, very small part of her was angry because she knew it was true. She hadn’t written anything real in a long time; she hadn’t written about herself. She wrote about other people, told their stories but there was no emotion tied to it. But she had her reasons. She had her reasons and he didn’t know anything about them and he’d just…

“Not every song has to be some soul bearing journal entry,” she said, her voice bitter and quiet. “Music can just be fun.”

Killian looked at her for a long time, long enough to make her uncomfortable. She wasn’t sure what he was trying to get out of her. It felt like he knew something, something about her that he shouldn’t know and it had her on edge.

“You’re right,” he said finally. “I’m sorry.”

“Forget it.” Emma stood and made her way to the door. She didn’t want to stay here anymore, didn’t want to put up with anymore of his crap.

“Emma -” he started but she dismissed him.

As she left the room she could hear Ruby and Mary Margaret saying goodbye and rushing out after her and she could hear Liam speaking to his brother.

“You are an absolute dick.”

He sighed. “I know.”

She reached her room with her friends right on her tail. She didn’t have it in her. She couldn’t deal with the ‘it’s okays’ and the ‘he’s totally wrongs’ that they would have for her. Because the truth of it was that it wasn’t okay and he wasn’t totally wrong and having them try and defend her would just make her more upset about how deeply his words had cut her.

“Guys, listen, I just want to go to bed okay?” Her friends were hesitant to leave her alone. “Seriously, I’m tired and I’m pissed and I just… I just want to go to sleep and forget about it. Alright? We can talk tomorrow.” They hesitated for a minute longer but recognized her resolve and agreed. They each wrapped her in a giant bear hug before saying goodnight and promising to check on her in the morning.

She couldn’t sleep though. She tried. She roughly pulled on her pyjamas, fumed while she washed her face, and brushed her teeth with unnecessary aggression. She threw herself onto the mattress, pulling the comforter over her head in the hopes that she could block out all the thoughts in her head and silence the rage and hurt rushing through her veins. She lay there for exactly forty-five seconds.

Emma threw off her blankets, kicking her feet free before sitting on her bed, letting her head fall into her hands as she tried to calm down. When she looked up, having failed to stop picturing multiple ways she could murder Killian and not get caught, she saw her guitar sitting across the room. She stared at it for a long time, briefly considering if she could use it to murder Killian, before letting out a frustrated groan.

“Fucking damnit,” she snapped as she stood and snatched the instrument, falling back onto the mattress. She brought her fingers up to the frets but her hands were shaking too hard for her to play. No depth. Fuck him. She used to have depth, she used to have meaning - in her songs, in her life - but then he’d come along and ripped all of that away. Now all she was was empty. She could fill it sometimes with happy melodies and fun lyrics to try and patch up the hole left inside of her but whenever she tried, dug into the hole and tried to find something, there was nothing. Only pain, a pain so overwhelming that she would do anything to bury it again. Eventually she’d stopped digging.

She remembered the last time she’d tried, when she’d pushed through it long enough to find something worthwhile inside herself but it had been too much and she’d been overwhelmed by the memories - a hotel room, Nashville, playing with him, being with him, waiting for him… she let the guitar fall out of her hands to the floor. She just can’t.

Fuck you, Killian Jones.

#captain swan #cs fanfic #cs fanfiction #captain swan fanfic #captain swan fanfiction #cs smut #captain swan smut #killian jones #emma swan #liam x belle #cs #cs manip

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saltlordofold · 4 years

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Tumblr ate the ask because of course it did but a good while ago @ma-suranas prompted me with number 50 from this great list of cliché tropes and prompts by @bucky-plums-barnes : “ I’m scared but won’t admit it so you take my hand,” for Alistair and Aedan.

I went a bit all over the place with this but it’s been so long since I posted any writing, i thought this was a good time to get it out at last XD Thank you for the prompt!!!

Characters: mainly Alistair and Aedan Cousland (oc), rest of party briefly featured (Wynne, Zevran, Leliana, Morrigan, Shale, Sten, Oghren)

Pairing: (Unresolved pining) Alistair/Aedan

Raiting: G

Warnings: Pining, Unresolved emotional tension, claustrophobia, scotophobia

Words: 2007

>Read on Ao3

Alistair had no clue what it was that caused the carved vault to collapse. It could have been anything, really: a shift of the terrain, a sudden whim the many miles of rock and dirt above their heads, a trap laid by the Spawn, or even simply, for all he knew, the sound of their footsteps, heavy with armour and supplies, echoing too loudly against the stone corridors of a dwarven thaig left so silent and still for so long. Not that the why mattered much: all that Alistair had needed to know was how, with just a dusting of warning pebbles and a long, worrisome groan of stone, a whole section of the ceiling had come down in one swift, murderous go, and it was all Aedan and him could do but to pull each other out of the way of the deadly weight plummeting down.

Gravel drummed and trickled down the back of Alistair's armour. The air was full of a fine-grained dust that left a trail of fire down his throat at every inhale, forcing him into a painful coughing fit. Under him, Aedan seemed to be in no better condition, because his voice sounded more a rasp when he grabbed Alistair's shoulder and asked, between two hacks of his own:

“Are you hurt?”

Alistair wanted to say something like “what do you think?” and “you're asking me?”but after counting, he was pretty sure he could feel all his limbs, which was enough to warrant a mumbled “'think so” instead. Alarm rung loud in his ears, a dangerous buzz, and in an effort to not give in to it, Alistair forced himself to push up, which he managed more than precariously. Still, Aedan didn't turn down his offered hand to help him do the same, and as soon as he was standing, the Warden was already stumbling to the wall of rock that now closed off the corridor they'd just been walking.

“Zevran?” Aedan called, with as much breath as he could manage, “Wynne?”

The second that followed felt as frozen to Alistair as the sweat pooled down his back. In the trembling flame of their weakened torch, half-buried under rocks on the ground, he could see the worry on Aedan's dirt-plastered face, and there was no doubt in his mind that he wore the exact same expression on his own.

But the crease between Aedan's brows soothed down at once when friendly voices mercifully started answering from behind the wall of rubble.

“We're all fine, here,” Wynne's voice carried first, “Are you boys?”

Aedan dipped his head in relief, hand resting against one of the largest rocks. Somewhere behind it, Dog was barking, distant and muffled.

“Yes!” Aedan replied, while Alistair closed his eyes for a second, letting relief wash over him too, “Yes, we're alright, both of us. Maker be thanked.”

The corner of Aedan's mouth tugged upwards at the sound of Zevran's voice.

“So much for fine dwarven stonework,” the elf jabbed, from behind what felt like meters of rock.

Oghren's answer soon followed, short of both breath and patience, to deliver the curt yet eloquent response of:

“Sod off, elf.”

Ever the good sport, Zevran did not seem to take too badly to the blunt answer.

“Would that I could, my friend,” he simply said, “but sadly it seems my way to do so has become quite impracticable, has it not?”

“Would you both shut it?” Morrigan sneered, “Just for once? My head is hurting enough as it is without you jabbering in my ear.”

“Maker,” Leliana said, very purposefully cutting the bickering off before it could spread, “What a mess. It'll take a while to move all this rubble...”

Sten's voice sounded as stern and level as always, as if pounds over pounds of deadly rock hadn't just come close to sealing them all into an unmarked tomb.

“Not if the Golem puts her back to it.”

“The Golem has a name,” Shale drily reminded, “not that it cares much for it.”

Oh, they were all alive and well alright. Alistair would have managed in a quip of his own, but Aedan urgently cut him off.

“Don't!” he shouted, “Don't try to dig through. We don't know how sound the tunnel is, displacing the rubble could bring it all down again.”

A sullen silence followed that realization, and Aedan wiped a hand down his face, grimacing and blinking away the dust best he could.

“Walk back to the crossroads and wait for us there,” he instructed, “We'll find a way around.”

“Are you sure?” Wynne asked, “You might get lost.”

Aedan glanced Alistair's way, who returned an uncertain wince. He remembered the way, sort of? They were leaving a Thaig, and he was pretty certain there had been more than one tunnel connecting it to the main Deep Road. If they managed to find one such way, they could meet with the rest of their party there. Granted they found it too, of course. And made it there safely. Given where they were, and in what sort of company, that was everything but guaranteed.

Overall, not much of a sound bet, but the only bet they had, nonetheless.

“We'll be fine.” Aedan said, managing to sound sure of it, somehow, “Hurry back, now, and stick together. It's dangerous to linger here.”

“Very well,” Zevran said, “But don't be too long.”

He had to keep his voice raised to be heard through the collapse, but Alistair still heard it soften as he added:

“Or I'll have to come look for you.”

The light was growing too dim for Alistair to discern the exact expression on Aedan's face from where he stood, but the hint of a smile was easy to hear in his reply.

“Understood.”

Slowly, the rustle of footsteps and Dog's worried barks subdued, leaving behind only silence, and Alistair knelt down to recover their torch. Ever so carefully, he picked it up, making sure to hold it angled just so it would keep burning best it could. Which wasn't well, but still a lot better than not at all.

“I don't like them alone,” Aedan said, quieter now that they were the only two left, and without a mount of rock to shout over, “They can't sense them coming.”

Aedan often confessed things to him as such, Alistair had noticed. Low, when it was just the two of them, out of reach of the others' ears. Granted, it was rarely under such extreme circumstances, but it had happened more than once. Worries. Questions. Doubts he wouldn't share with the others.

For the life of him, Alistair couldn't understand why Aedan would want to do that with him, who so rarely had a smart answer to supply.

“Even if they don't, there's more than enough of them to hold against Spawn, should any show,” Alistair still tried, doing his best to sound reassuring, “They'll be fine. They can handle themselves.”

After a moment, Aedan sighed.

“You're right,” he said, a sentence that Alistair only wished he could say as well about himself, and with as much conviction, at least once in his life.

The torch finally recovered some health, making it safer for Alistair to hold it straight. Without the flame of the others' beacons, though, and the eerie glow of Shale's crystals and Morrigan's and Wynne's staves, the light didn't reach to much more than a few arms around them.

After it, there was pitch black, total darkness. Alistair tore his gaze from it to focus it on Aedan instead, who had come closer. Much closer, actually. The bubble of light was faint and tight enough around them that if they wanted to see clearly, they had no choice but to practically brush shoulders under it. Alistair could count the specks of dust caught in Aedan's lashes, as the man rustled beside him, still blinking out dirt as he tightened a loosened fastenings on his belt.

“Bloody Void,” Aedan muttered under-breath, “I hate this place.”

Despite the circumstances, and having to refrain the urge to brush away the small rocks he could see stuck in Aedan's curls, Alistair couldn't help but scoff.

“You steal the words right out of my mouth,” he said.

Mouth which was still full of dust, he realised, and grimaced at the unpleasant taste and crunch of dirt under his teeth. Luckily they had some water with them, and Alistair reached for it. They would be wise to save it, just in case, but a sip to wash the taste away couldn't hurt.

“Good thinking,” Aedan said, grateful for the offered flask.

They sipped in silence. Slowly but steadily, the weight of the situation was starting to fall on Alistair's mind, an uncomfortable blanket, clinging to his shoulder like a wet cloak: Maker, but this could have been it. They could have died, right there and then, crushed by the mountain in less then the blink of an eye. It was a miracle they hadn't, really.

“It could have ended like that,” Aedan said, as if reading his mind.

His look was to the distance, his voice quiet.

“The lot of us, under rubble.”

Alistair swallowed hard. His ears still rang from the noise of the collapse, he realized. In the silence, the high-pitched whistle felt painfully loud. Despite the torch, the darkness around them seemed to inch closer.

That would have been the last thing they saw, wouldn't it? Darkness, and then nothing but more of it. And then nothing at all, eventually.

“Yes,” was all he found in him to say, “It could have.”

Shaking himself, Aedan breathed in deep, and landed a hard pat on Alistair's back. He even managed to throw him a hint of his usual grin, which gleamed fleetingly in the flickering light of the torch.

“But it hasn't,” he said firmly, “So let's keep at it.”

Adjusting the shield on his back and the sword to his side, he started in the direction they had come from.

“Come on, let's hurry around,” he said, walking off at his brisk pace, “We're not much safer here ourselves.”

Walking off. Into darkness. Just a few steps away from Alistair, and the wall of shadow had already started to swallow Aedan away, licking past his shoulder like the surface of deep, dangerous waters.

“Don't!”

Alistair had moved before even realizing it, and his voice had rung far too loud in the enclosed space of the corridor. He winced, embarrassed.

“Stay close,” he said, quieter.

His hand had grabbed Aedan's forearm, without him meaning for it to do so, but rather than letting go like he should have, Alistair tightened his hold instead.

“I can barely feel you on most days,” he whispered, “so with this all Corruption around us...If you wander off, or if this torch goes out, I might not be able to find you anymore.”

And that terrifies me, he thought, but did not say aloud. All at once the idea of that dense, cold shadow engulfing Aedan and leaving the both of them wandering, alone and lost, in those cursed tunnels, had sent shivers down Alistair's back that even shame wouldn't let him hold back.

“Right,” Aedan said, “Of course.”

Alistair fully expected him to step back, but instead, he raised his armored hand, and firmly landed it on Alistair's.

“Let's stick together,” he agreed, “It's safer this way.”

Alistair could only nod back.

Soon the small, dark tunnel would give in to a larger corridor. The faint gleam of deep mushrooms, exposed lyrium veins, as well as a a few surface rays, expertly-guided to the Thaig's hall by the Dwarves' engineering, would allow them to see clear enough to let go of each other and walk normally side by side.

But as they did, and even, much later on, as they finally joined back with the rest of their party, Alistair could not shake from his head - just like he couldn't shake the ringing from his ears - the firm touch of Aedan's hand holding his back.

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fanfic-scribbles · 7 years

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20. Costumes

A/N: Sooo…maybe this is the beginning of a bunch of connected drabbles because when I was absently planning out what I might be able to do for the prompts I got a little story thread going. Ahead: some angst, some drama, and eventually some well-earned fluff. Also, I hope you like this one, but if not then stay tuned, I will do better. No joke I tried to write this two other times. I think I threw out about 2k words before I even wrote this beast >.>; Also also: thanks to the lovely people enjoying this/reblogging/liking/commenting. I’m still getting the hang of messaging on Tumblr but I’ll try to reply when/if I can. Writing these every day takes a large chunk of my time, so please forgive my lack of social graces <3

Words: 1758

Warnings: Crowley crushing on Reader. Use of a princess nickname but in a way that doesn’t necessarily denote the reader’s gender. (I hope. I’m trying real hard and will continue to do so.) Pining for Cas and mentions thereof but no actual Cas (gasp).

“Phantom of the Opera” has lied to you.

So has “Labyrinth.”

Masquerade parties are dull as shit.

Case in point: you have found, through the under-appreciated art (Dean) of eavesdropping that this party is at least a third, if not half, attended by supernatural creatures, while the remainder are trust-fund (figurative) zombies. This should be an interesting fact, maybe a little anxiety-making, but you’re so fucking bored that you almost wish a vamp would jump you. At least then you’d get to do something other than itch under your mask, but no.

Your eyes skim over the crowd. You see Dean charming the hell out of two young socialites and the top of Sam’s head, but not who he’s talking to. You sit at a tall table and absently swirl the wine in your glass. It’s probably fine but at a party with such mixed clientele, you don’t tend to take chances with food and drink. Especially considering the people currently throwing the party…

“It is covered by angel warding,” Cas said.

“But this guy’s house is where those things came from?” Dean said, looking at the map.

“Did you not hear what I just said?” Cas was edging toward anger.

“That just means we need to check it out even more,” Dean said. “Rich asshole collecting monsters? Why?”

“Private zoo, apparently,” Sam cut in, tapping away on his laptop. “Charlie hacked into his emails, financial records…she’s still sifting through the info but get this: Hugo and Alex Ellison are brothers, inherited a fortune and are basically socialites. They throw parties and show off their money.”

Hugo and Alex haven’t been apart all night. They have a little posse up on a dais and they seem too concerned with their immediate little world to care about the party at large. Unfortunately, security is fairly tight so you also can’t get close enough to see what kind of monsters they are, or if they’re witches. Maybe demons. Because rando rich dudes don’t know the kind of things that make Cas sulk and pace outside.

You puff out some air. Can’t get to the high and mighty revelers, can’t go check a few of the ‘pets’ they brought along, can’t shoot silver into that handsy fucking dog that walked by you earlier. This is turning out to be a total waste of time and you’re about ready to throw in the towel and make a break for it.

You rest your elbow on the table and your head in the palm of your hand. You wish Cas could be here. Not really for protection, because you can handle yourself, but you think he would have looked good. Uncomfortable, but good. A nice fitted suit and bright blue eyes piercing out of an old, ornate mask. You smile at the thought.

Though, hell, even if you couldn’t have Cas looking all dapper, Gabriel would have been nice to have around. Say what you will about him, the guy knows how to make his own fun. Instead, you’re sitting at a table with a very drunk, pretty young redhead who looks like she’s either going to make an important existential observation or get sick all over the table. Both seem pretty repugnant to you right now but at least if she throws up you don’t have to fake politeness to excuse yourself.

“Hey…heeeeeey.” She smiles like she’s only just realized you’re there and you fake a smile back. “Have you seen the ami-al- the an-i-m-a-l-sss?” She giggles. “They’re wild.”

“I’ve heard about them.” Apparently some people –mostly drunk humans, and pretty boys and girls at that– have been chosen to go see the small selection the Ellisons have brought to the event. You’ve been hearing all sorts of animal parts and have sort of tuned it out.

“I only got to see, like, two before I got tossed out.” She pouts and holds up her silver bracelet. “I accidently…well, “accidentally” fell into that cutie Hugo. He fuh-reaked. How was I supposed to know he’s deathly allergic to silver?!”

Hugo is possibly a shifter. That’s interesting, and more than you’ve gotten otherwise. Huh. Satisfied with that tidbit, you smile politely and eye the crowd again for Sam and Dean. This might be enough to get you out of here.

“Hey.” She leans in closer and licks her lips as she eyes you. “What’d’you say we go slip off these masks…and maybe a little bit more?”

“No thank you,” you say and slide out of your seat. The woman, though, has a strong grip on your hand. Too strong, in your opinion, for someone who looks drunk enough to be a floppy noodle. She keeps her hand on yours and comes around the table to sidle up next to you. “Come on, Hunter,” she whispers and flashes her fangs at you. “We could have some fun, and you smell delectable…”

“Oh sweetheart, don’t lose your head,” you say with the sweetest smile you can muster. She snarls. “No sense of humor. Sorry, but that’s why it won't work out between us.”

She grips your hand tighter. “Eating the human guests is strongly discouraged but I bet I wouldn’t be–”

“Oh, hello Love.”

Can this night get worse? you ask yourself and for once you aren’t worried about jinxing yourself. The Monster Zoo somehow getting loose and running amok would actually improve things, in your opinion. You look at Crowley and his bodyguards but your exasperation only serves to make him smile wider. Of course.

“I’m sorry, love, but we’re busy,” Vampirella says.

“I wasn’t talking to you, leech,” Crowley says and looks at her with derision. He flits his hand. “Shoo.”

She growls, but leaves in a huff. You rub your now-sore hand but Crowley quickly steals it and purrs your name before pressing a kiss to it. “I always knew you’d clean up nicely.”

You always tried to be cordial in your dealings with the King of Hell but right now his flirtations are even more annoying than usual. “Crowley.”

“And what is my favorite little hunter doing in a place like this?” Crowley says and takes a seat next to you. You remain standing and keep skimming for Sam or Dean because fuck where are they?

“Just enjoying the atmosphere. And you?”

“Oh, accepting an invitation from a friend. Mingling. Networking. Saving a hunter from a vampire.” He smiles smugly at you. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

You narrow your eyes. “I can handle a–”

“My love I know you can, however, half the crowd is some form of “monster” themselves and the other half hasn’t even had a papercut.” Crowley sips his wine. “All of them are decidedly not on your side should you come back covered in blood.”

You roll your eyes. He has a point. Damn it. “Then thanks. For saving my outfit,” you grumble.

“You’re welcome. You do look quite fetching in it. Now, since you and I are both here and bored out of our respective skulls, fancy a dance?”

“Actually, I was just about to leave. Nice seeing you,” you say as you finally see Sam and Dean. Just as you take a step though you see that they’re being cornered by intimidating guys in suits. Who may or may not be human. Though…why go human when you can get stupidly strong demons or vampires to do the job for you? Your stomach drops.

“Moose and Squirrel have done it again, have they?” Crowley puts an arm around your waist. “You know…I could get them out of here.”

You glance at him. “In exchange for?”

“Oh, I love it when you get right to business,” Crowley says and overacts a shudder. Ew. “I’ll get your boys and you out. In exchange, you will be my date for the remainder of this dreadful party.”

The suited men (or somethings) are trying to drag Sam and Dean away. “For the rest of the party I will be your date. In return Sam, Dean, and I leave here, alive, our souls intact.”

“Let’s seal the deal then,” Crowley says. You try not to think too hard about it when you…ergh…kiss Crowley. It’s just business, it’s just business and God damn it Dean and Sam Winchester you two fucking owe me.

You pull away (and look away from Crowley’s self-satisfaction) and in the next second you’re in between the guards and Sam and Dean.

“Crowley?” Dean says and Sam hisses your name. You sigh and turn to them while Crowley schmoozes with the guards.

“I have to stay for a little while, but you two are leaving,” you whisper.

“The hell you are!” Dean says.

“Well, sort of. It is part of the deal she made to clean up your little mess,” Crowley says and wraps his arm back around you. “You can go hang out at Denny’s with your giraffe as far as I care. Your partner will be out at midnight.”

“Not a fucking ch–” Dean disappears mid-rant, as does Sam, and you jolt. The teleportation thing is something you never get used to.

“They’re with dear Castiel. Shall we have that dance now?” Crowley says and lifts a hand. You brace yourself for the next few hours, and accept it.

The party picks up a little bit and Crowley seems to enjoy having you on his arm, which is a weird thing that you can’t quite figure out, but you go along with it because that’s the deal. He also doesn’t seem to mind you’re otherwise crappy company, and you try to tune out when he talks about souls and deals, though he doesn’t make any while you’re around. You’re grateful for that, because you don’t want to make him get pissed and void the deal.

You’re feeling fairly tired by the last dance but all you can think of is getting home and crawling into bed. And of Cas. Crowley leads the dancing and you wonder what it would be like to dance with Cas. You’d have to figure out how to teach him but this seems easy enough. Cas in his suit and mask, holding your hand. Cas moving with you, moving closer to you…

“Such a shame, Cinderella; your carriage is about to be a pumpkin,” Crowley murmurs and kisses you, deeply. There’s no deal, no joke, and just as suddenly as it starts it stops and you find yourself outside on the street in a lightly drizzling rain, your flimsy coat over your shoulders, wondering what the fuck just happened.

#cas x reader #castiel x reader #cas x you #castiel x you #spn fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fanfic #supernatural #spn #fanfic #october challenge #crowley #masquerade

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viktuurificwriters · 7 years

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Viktuurificwriters reached 2, 000 followers today! To thank you for all your wonderful support these past three months, we present to you our new project, Spotlight.

Spotlight is the “Fic Assessment” thing I promised to make back in June (I finally thought of a good name for it). We, the Mods, will select ten authors from each batch of the Weekly Authors whose works have not yet reached 1, 000 kudos and promote them again for more exposure. We will also make a little fancy banner with the author’s name to go along with the article.

Well, we’re done with reviewing the authors for batch 1… so here are the ten lovely authors we have chosen:

(Authors are listed in random order.)

Haircutnamedarthur ( @haircut-named-arthur ) –They are the author of Original Finish Plastic, a story where Yuuri is a nerdy model horse collector and Viktor is a model who really wants to impress him. It is fun and fluffy–a good light read for one of those stressful days.

The author knows how to be funny without trying too hard and the amount of research they did really shows through in the story. You can enjoy learning a lot about model horses in no time.

Sarabel also commends how the plot is paced–it doesn’t rush to the point that it feels unnatural nor does it build too slow to the point that it bores its readers out.

Mythmaker ( @catamight ) - Author of Take these Lies and Make them True and Sympathy for the Devil.

Mythmaker portrays emotions as if she is painting a picture. Readers are drawn to every brush stroke she makes because each of them all contribute to the overall quality of the picture. Every line in her stories are carefully thought out and are there for a purpose.

Take these Lies and Make them True is about Yuuri never going into professional figure skating because he is too anxious to try. One day, however, his friends and family bought him a ticket to a skating summer camp in New York City and there he gets to meet his idol Viktor.

In Sympathy for the Devil, the story is about Yuuri turning into a vampire after the Grand Prix Final banquet because of some unknown reason. He then tries to live his life as normally as he can while Phichit helps him find a way to quench his thirst for blood without becoming a monster.

Orchids_and_Fictional_Cities ( @orchids-and-fictional-cities ) - Author of Lullaby of Birdland and And Miles to Go before I Sleep. This author can write fics so beautifully that it makes you cry.

Lullaby of Birdland is more than just a romance story. It’s a story about depression and anxiety, a story about hope and getting back up after a hard fall, a story about how love can mend broken hearts and make it easier to live life again.

Viktor’s struggle with depression and Yuuri’s fight against anxiety–the author portrays them so well in LOB. The angst doesn’t suddenly crash on you all at once. It slowly builds up in each chapter before the author throws in the final blow that can really make everything fall apart. (But don’t worry, the author promises a happy ending for LOB).

Copperwings ( @worldofcopperwings ) - Author of Something for the First Time and Void. Copperwings has beautiful themes in their stories. No matter how simple the plot, they know how to make it meaningful. I personally recommend to check out Void. It’s only a one-shot, but it’s so beautiful that it makes me want for more.

Void is set in a world where tattoo-like images appear on people’s skin. These “tattoos” help a person determine their path in life. However, Yuuri Katsuki does not have any tattoos and this makes people regard him with suspicion and fear. People without tattoos–Void, as they call them–are said to have no soul and future. Yuuri then runs away from his hometown to carve his own path in life.

imaginary_dragonling ( @imaginarydragonling ) - Author of What Makes us Human.

It is evident through the writer’s work that they enjoy doing research a lot. What Makes us Human is a science fiction AU where Yuuri is an engineer who is assigned to teach AI!Viktor what it means to be human.

Despite the amount of information dump at the beginning of the story, it’s still a good read. Once you get to main part, all that information you have learned will be really worth it. This AU is set in space and it’s very believable that it is.

Imaginary_dragonling has a good grasp on each of the characters’ personalities. Sarabel likes how they portray Viktor despite the limitations that comes with Viktor’s character in the story. Even though he’s an android, he doesn’t seem to be out of character.

Llythl - Author of That April (You were Knowable).

Llythl is an amazing writer, now I wonder where they are. The only work they have published for YOI is that one fic, which was last updated around March. (I don’t know if they have a tumblr, but if someone does then please tag them in the replies.)

That April (You were Knowable) is a wonderful presentation of how Yuuri and Viktor may have started out in getting to know each other. It’s not an overly dramatic or a whooping emotions-ride, but it’s soft and the pacing of the story is just right.

totaldislocation @potclean – Author of 20 Days (of you and me) and I Didn’t Know I Was Lonely Until I Saw Your Face

Totaldislocation has a straightforward-style, jazzed with nuances from the original show that spark a familiar nostalgia.

20 Days (of you and me) offers an interesting insight into the life of Viktor and Yuuri, through twenty days in St. Petersburg. Vikto and Yuuri are getting through the challenges of language barriers and establishing where they are in their relationship. The author does a fine job with showing the contrast between cultures, and it feels like you’re taking a step into their world.

thepurpleeyedone (@japansace) – Author of Intermission and Gentleman Caller.

Thepurpleeyedone has a beautiful way with words. Their writing is simple and delicate, with a characteristic flow in both of the works they have written. Their characterization feels very real, intensifying the whole reading experience.

Intermission is a set of in-between moments that fills in the gap the anime left behind. On the other hand,

Gentleman Caller contrasts the fluff we see in Intermission with the mutual pining and angst of a 17th century courting universe!

siberianchan – Author of Favorite spots and Sing for me.

Siberianchan has a straightforward approach. With bits of witty humor sewn in to add a zest to the characters’ personalities, their works make for an enjoyable read. The writer has a detached way of writing, which adds to the interesting commentary between characters and the scenes that follow-up. Sing for me was an interesting choice with the musical flair and the theatrical strings that were in play throughout the piece, and siberianchan handled the AU spectacularly!

QueBae (@que-bae) – Author of Love is Coming Home and The Ties That Bind.

Though the writer tends to get a bit flowery with their descriptions and with setting the scene, the author has a knack for capturing the atmosphere through the characters’ eyes. There’s a nostalgic-feel in how the author writes, and it leaves a strong impression when you sit back after a cozy read.

The Ties That Bind beautifully portrays a ballet!AU, and though Joey knows nothing about ballet, he was captivated by the characters’ movements. QueBae also knows how to lead strong with a first impression.

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theroseofthorns · 7 years

Text

Rose Hips | A TAMB/MTnY fic for Tumblr

Part IV of IV: She Flies Ever Homeward

(Part I, Part II, Part III)

We arrive home on a drizzly Monday, stepping from Alice's side into the rain. Chise offers her a cuppa, but Elias is already in the doorway and Alice declines. She's carving her alchemists' sigils into the ground on which she stands, crystal gifts from Chise serving as fuel in her palm, by the time Chise has made it three steps. She's well and gone by the time Elias reaches us, sweeping into the mist to draw his robe around Chise’s shoulders, and her body into the shelter of his.

I run on ahead. Silky will want to bathe the smell of sea salt off me as it is, but should I come in with the added “reek” of wet fur, she'll have it in her head she needs to blow dry me immediately. Infernal invention. I shake off what I can in the open doorway before making a dive for the fireplace rug.

Chise and Elias drift into the doorway soon after.

They pause in it, Chise halting to wrestle off her shoes with Elias’ arm still about her shoulders, as if the rain might reach out and drag her back into its reach at any moment. With the grey world behind them, midmorning sun diluted to a light without brightness, the door frame rising up around them in dark silhouette, they look posed for a photograph.

Chise, released from her shoes, looks up at him from beneath the shelter if his arm and robe with the glimmer if the rain reflected in the green of her eyes--bright against the backdrop of him and the grey world beyond. Her hair is barely damp, droplets running from the crown of her head like a bleeding halo. Elias is eerily dry, being of shadow that he is, as much corporeal as not.

They look at each other for a long moment. Chise speaks first.

“How are you?”

“Better, now that you're back. I worried.”

“I did, too . . . I don’t like making you lonely. Did anything interesting at least happen when I was gone?”

Elias looks up for a moment as if genuinely trying to recall something he may have forgotten before uneventfully declaring that he'd decided the borage was read to cut. Chise smiles.

“We'll have to get some flowers for Silky while we're working, she can put them in the ice cubes again.”

“She does love such decorative detail.”

A beat of silence ensues. The rain outside is loud compared to them. It's a chilly rain, the late summer sort come early and the salamander looks like a cat got into the cream, curled in the fireplace, puffed up with his own usefulness. I've half a mind to chase him around a bit.

“Did you enjoy your trip?” Elias finally asks. I prick an ear, searching for any indication of whether he cares about the answer, or is asking to be polite.

“It was great,” Chise says, “it was so relaxing, it was almost boring, when we weren't in the water.”

“I’d have thought the water would get repetitive.”

“That’s the first time I've been to the ocean.”

A fact which showed when the first moderate swell knocked her clean over while Alice snorted her oft-tempered laugh.

“I'm glad you liked it. Perhaps we can go back, sometime.”

Maybe for the honeymoon.

Chise flushes.

Shut up, Ruth!

“That would be nice,” the chagrin she shows me in her mind carefully contained and thus undetectable in her words. “We found a restaurant I think you'd like. . . Oh, by the way, I brought you something.”

Elias cocks his head.

“A souvenir?”

“. . . I suppose you could call it that, if you want to. Here, just give me a moment. . .”

She turns to the slightly dampened suitcase she's dragged in, only half on its wheels as it tumbled along the path, and wrestles for a moment with the outermost zipper before withdrawing the little gift she’d found him the third day. When she'd insisted on walking the cold dawn beach alone. She's wrapped it in, of all things, her swim cover up.

“Here,” she says, attempting to pass it into Elias’ gloved palm. He falters before taking it and after a moment’s pause, shrugs off his robe to pass over her shoulders while he inspects her gift, requiring both hands to unwrap it.

He must have jumped up quickly when we arrived, or slept late again: He's once more in his shirtsleeves, dressed beyond that only in the tie she once gifted him, and his vest.

He accepts her gift with his now free hands, and studies it for a moment before slowly picking the fabric free from its surface. Once revealed, he holds it up, high over her head, to view it in the muted sunlight. Chise hugs his robe closer around her shoulders, though I know she isn't cold.

“This is impressive,” Elias says of the gift, “it's rare to see a stone so glassy on these shores. It looks volcanic excepting the color. Where did you find it?”

He lowers the stone, dished as though the sea had chosen to fashion them a little bowl, a green so dark as to rival pine, between them again.

“I was wading out by the end if the beach. I saw it up on the sand still holding some water, and it made me think that, even though it's small, it could be used for scrying. . . So Ruth helped me link it to this.”

She touches the pendent hanging from her own neck.

“I'd appreciate privacy, of course, but . . . Well, I thought, when we're apart, you could use it to see where I am, if you're ever worried.”

“Chise . . . That is . . . “

He pauses, instead of finding words, speaking in the sudden gesture of pulling the hand not cradling the stone to his body and pressing a flat palm and clutching, digging fingers over his breastbone while his jaw hangs open, wordless. Stricken by more emotion that he knows what to do with.

“Elias?”

“I,” he struggles to articulate, “feel like something is clenching up my chest. My heart . . . It hurts.”

Chise reaches up and takes his hand, curling her fingers around the edge of his palm, at the base of his little finger, so that he's clutching her fingers to his chest as much as his own hand. He stares at her, still speechless, holding her hand to his heart.

“It's an excellent gift,” he manages to say, and Chise leans in to throw her free arm around his waist. It's a firm embrace, her cheek against his vest—a smooth texture, and cool, his hand rather warmer—and one he does not return so much as collapse into. Elias put his arm around her middle back, clutching the stone in his hand, and falls across her shoulder like a liquid, muzzle tucked into her hair, torso curled around her so that he's stooped almost low enough to lean on her shoulder.

I can feel the swelling in Chise’s chest as they hold each other, and I elect to look away until Elias straightens up again. Chise doesn’t let go of his hand.

A year has brought so few real solutions, however many false starts. So often, it seems comforting each other is still the best they can do, and I know she doubts as well as I do how effective that comfort can be, given what they face.

. . . Perhaps I do understand Silky’s rush to fast their hands: Elias is only just beginning to fathom his own emotions, and barely so, but grief, surely, he will come to know all too well someday, however distant or near that day may be. Perhaps she’s seeking to maximize what time they have, that the agony of bereavement might be worthwhile.

Elias breaks their eye contact to glance through the open door.

“Let's get you away from the cold,” he says, and ushers her further into the room with an arm around her shoulders, her gift still clasped in his hand.

Someday, you stubborn fools, you will realize how much you love each other.

***

“Tell me about your trip,” Elias says, as Chise drops in a heap onto the couch beside him. The silver one bustles over to place a cup of tea in front of her on the table, they exchange smiles before she retreats again, returning to her sorting of Chise’s luggage and laundry.

“What do you want to know?” Chise asks, rolling her head along the back of the couch without lifting it as she turns to him.

“What did you do, aside from wading down the beach your own?”

Chise feels flush for a moment without it appearing on her cheeks. Her surprise at his too-knowing jabs is milder than it used to be.

“You weren't watching me the whole time were you!? We talked about this.”

“I didn't have anyone or anything follow you,” he assures her, “as I promised.” However reluctantly. “But I do know you too well to believe you would be reasonably cautious for three unsupervised days. Ruth, did she even bring you?”

“I have no comment.”

“As I thought. But that wasn't my question, anyway, was it?”

He wraps his arm around her shoulders and pulls her against his side, waiting for her story. I feel something fuzzy in my chest which says the tune of my thoughts are in sync with hers as he really does want to know floats through my head.

“Well,” Chise begins, “we spent almost all of the first day at the beach. When we got to the hotel, our room wasn’t ready, so we had to leave our bags. We thought we might just go for a walk, but we were talking about swimming, I mentioned that I'd never been to an ocean before, even growing up in japan, and she wanted me to try it as soon as possible after that.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Um… I mean, yes, it just took some getting used to.”

Elias leans down and around, bringing him eye to eye with her.

“How so?”

Chise, to her credit, rarely looks truly sheepish, and so looks terribly endearing when she does.

“Well, I didn’t really realize how…uneven the seafloor is off the beach. It's so smooth on land. I suppose it's silly, looking back on it, but I tripped into a dip in the sand from the waves because I wasn’t expecting it.”

Elias’ impassive skull cracks open at the jaw, teeth parting to allow some expression of concern that even I can predict, if only through the change in intensity in that void sensation of his form.

“It was fine!” Chise hurries to assure him, and his teeth lace shut again. “only I was on my knees still when the next swell came, and so I got a face full of water. Ruth had to rescue my hat.”

Given that all is well that ends well, Elias finds this enormously funny.

In the slow moments between tasks and duties and teaching and musings that make up much of their days together, provided his mood hasn't been consumed by worry or thought in that way which is not quite brooding, but distant to the point of appearing aloof, he can be rather quick to laughter—provided it’s his kind of joke. Little misfortunes amuse him greatly, as does a certain degree of posturing some people consider to be wit, as does irony, the obvious, the disconcerting of others (though that much Chise’s own sharp and oft bitter wit has greatly tempered) . . . The list is a stunningly long one.

Chise smiles, too.

“I got a mouthful of saltwater. It was disgusting.”

He sniggers rather louder. Elias has an odd laugh, at best. Hissing, almost, when it escapes up his throat and out his mouth. When it rumbles in his chest, however, a pang that isn't pain and a swelling that isn't hurtful sometimes resonates so soundly in Chise that I feel one of us must have some wound to lick. Or, at least, an itch.

That is not, however, how she feels just now. The swelling of her quiet, still often-cautious joy stops short, and instead becomes a dull and gut-deep tightening that somehow, incongruously relates to a different tension in her face—some reflexive feeling in her mouth that makes her press her lips together when they would rather press out, a memory tingling across them of an awkwardly executed moment in the snow.

Should she find out about this, the Silver One is going to lose her senses.

If I’m tempted to say anything to either stop or encourage her in the face of this momentous possibility, I don’t allow it to seduce me completely. I look at them out one eye, just barely cracked, not so much feigning sleep as allowing genuine tiredness to show. It seems a subtle enough approach, as neither of them, even Chise, glances my way to measure my reaction to the electric tension they both must surely feel as she sweeps her eyes across the curves and dips and jutting edges of his skull, perhaps asking herself once again where precisely is most appropriate to kiss someone without lips. I can feel the memory of her last attempt at this burning on her lips, the texture of him smooth and neutral as stone, if inconceivably warmer, rather than the sometimes slick, sometimes splintered feeling of long-exposed bone one might expect. She has her eyes set on a smooth space above the jagged line of his teeth and below his left eye orbital.

Elias’ laughter quiets less steadily than it came. He doesn’t raise his head, or pull further away.

“Chise?” he asks, and she releases a breath she’s been holding in a fevered huff, blinking rapidly, her wandering focus broken. You poor, idiot pup.

“Yes?”

“What is that look on your face? It’s new.”

New to you. She doesn’t usually look at him that way when he’s looking back. She probably doesn’t know that she does it at all--ignorance, however, does not undo the fact that it happens more frequently with every passing month.

“Oh? I don’t know, I think for a moment I wasn’t really thinking.”

“About anything?”

“Not really.”

Elias’ pilot lights burn at her from inside their sockets. She shifts a little. Evidently, this reminds him that his arm is still around her shoulders, as he lifts it awkwardly away by a millimeter or so, still touching her in several places.

Chise clears her throat.

“I guess, I might have been thinking that I . . . like it, when you laugh,” she confesses. A warmth floods her cheeks that she can feel acutely, but which is not quite visible.

Elias stares at her wordlessly, except to hum to himself. But his arm resettles around her shoulders. Chise swallows unspeakable, confounding words she can’t quite parse within her mind, and looks away.

In the beat of silence that follows, she leans in against his side.

You two, I chastise her, fulling expecting confusion as her response. I receive no such thing.

Maybe next time, she replies within the confines of her mind.

Despite her moments of shyness, I believe she’s growing bold. What advice can I give to her, knowing this?

I settle on: Don’t wait on him any longer than you want to.

Shadow is ageless. Surely, he’s been around long enough that he’ll be able to figure it out.

Her head resting against his rib cage, she promises me that she won’t.

#TAMB #the ancient magus bride #MTnY #the ancient magus' bride #chiselias #chise #elias #ruth #A/N: I am obviously not English and fucked up their vacation location in previous chapters #Like an ass #So for those of you who read this and went 'what beach in Bath?'#you are right and I was wrong just pretend with me while I edit the previous chapters #XP #anyway IT'S FINALLY DONE NO THANKS TO THAT NEEDY GHOST #I'm serious about the ghost thing #fic

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hyperesthesias · 7 years

Text

Loki x Sigyn

Love Never Dies | Part XVI

Rating: G

Words: 3.664

Summary: Thor approaches Loki about his suspicions of his behaviour -- but can Loki keep Sigyn from him for long?

Notes: for some reason, tumblr isn’t showing my last chapter, so you can find it here. also i love the bro-angst in this one ok, enjoy!

Thor watched his brother retreat to his suite: straightening his clothes, smoothing his chest, running a hand through his hair, as he took in a deep breath, before he vanished near soundlessly behind the door. Loki had always been a well-groomed creature, good mannered when he wanted to be, choosing to ignore such pleasantries when it suited his boredom, but to see him so careful when there was no one present to impress struck Thor as only mildly odd -- for surely, Loki meant not to impress him; such would be nonsense. Thus, Thor lingered for only a few beats, thinking of his brother’s seeming increasing oddity from the conversation which had just ended between them, to the change in his mannerisms; and how he had been used to seeing Loki prepare himself to enter his own suite in such a way when Sigyn was with him, waiting patiently on the other side. It had been the topic of a brief conversation between them at one point: Thor asking why he always made certain his clothes were even, his cape well adjusted, his duster straight and fitted against him, while his hair without a strand out of place before he went in to greet her, to which Thor had never forgotten Loki’s response: ‘If you love someone, you always want to present your best to them.’ He’d always regarded them as wise words from an arguably unwise man. Then again, Loki was the one who had married happily before him, so he wasn’t entirely sure what that bode about himself.

Nonetheless, Thor decided to follow his brother’s advice -- to his own shock and surprise -- and before he knocked on Jane’s door, ensured his tunic was not wrinkled, and that his hair wasn’t more of a mess than it usually was, but more of an ‘organised mess’ as Loki liked to say. And once he finished primping, he knocked a little lighter on the door than he was used to -- heeding Jane’s request not to ‘scare the daylights out of her’ with his heavy hand. But he knew how to be gentle when needed, and listened quietly for when she bid him inside.

And when she had, he opened the door to greet her with a smile, raising the book to show her as he closed the door behind him. “I found one!” he said victoriously, joining her by her side, where he sat on the edge of the bed, opening the book on his lap, suddenly realising he was mimicking his father when he’d asked him to read him something before sleep. A wide grin parted his lips as he flipped through the pages. “I asked my father to read me a story of our victory every night,” he chuckled upon remembering, letting the pages fall to a particular story that had been well-read.

“Did he?” Jane craned her neck over his arm to see the writing and illustrations, glancing up at him with a glimmering curiosity.

He shrugged. “Only when I begged hard enough,” he simpered. “Father was a busy man -- he had a Kingdom to rule. Not much time for bedtime stories,” a saddened dip in his voice, as he thumbed through the story. “But Mother was more indulging, we saw her more often.”

Jane felt a familiar pity she hadn’t realised was there when he finished -- she hadn’t been able to see her own father very often because of his work. Nothing like ruling a Kingdom, but there was a part of her that felt some relation. She didn’t get many bedtime stories, either, with no mother to substitute in her father’s place, but when she did, she always insisted it be one of the NASA children’s collection books he’d gotten her for her sixth birthday. One of them was a pop-up -- that one was her favourite.

She hadn’t realised her own grin had widened greatly, until Thor had turned to her to inspect her curiously and happily.

“What is it?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Nothing, nothing it’s just -- everything’s so different here, but...so much the same,” she answered with a wistful breath. “Although, I can’t say I ever had a bedtime story book about battles.”

“Victories,” he corrected with a playful finger outstretched.

“Victories, right,” she repeated with a chuckle.

“Loki did not care much for this book, though -- or many night time stories. He preferred the quiet,” he scoffed with amusement, more to himself, as he reminisced, eyes skimming over the words, remembering them in his father’s tones -- before he abruptly realised Jane had gone unusally quiet. She was, to be fair, a rather quiet person, though only so talkative when she was either nervous, or thinking far too fast than her tongue could carry her words. He bent his neck down to see her face, as she’d turned it away and barely looked at him. “Jane?” he beckoned. “Have I done something?” his immediate reaction.

“Hm? What? No! No, not at all. You haven’t done anything -- you never do anything -- I mean, what I mean is, you’re...” she trailed off, realising her habitual tongue had left her mind without her guidance and she shook her head as she tried to stuff it back in her mouth. “You’re fine.”

He narrowed his eyes only slightly as he closed the book and set it beside him on the bed. “Is this about Loki?” making the other most obvious connection -- she’d only begun to squirm when his name was mentioned.

She drew a sharp breath, raising her head to him, but refusing to settle her eyes directly on him. “Loki? No, I don’t...know anything about Loki.”

“I thought Mother said he had been your escort these past weeks while I was gone,” he furrowed his brow, now fully suspicious of both Loki and Jane.

“Well, I mean...he was.”

“What did he do to you?” he started, his tone drying to darkness, already thinking of ways to make his brother pay for whatever it was.

“‘Do’? Why -- What -- Why does he always have to be ‘doing’ something?” she scoffed, throwing up her hands.

“Did he hurt you -- was he coarse towards you?” he demanded again, this time more to find out what she was hiding -- unable to make sense of her sudden defence of him.

“No -- no,” she shook her head. “He was...a lot nicer than I expected him to be. He really wasn’t too bad, all things considered.”

This did not console Thor -- not in the way he wanted. Glad as he may have been to hear Loki had not harmed the woman he loved, the void of suspicion only grew, leaving more and more room for possibility. “Then...what happened? While I was away?” he asked, his voice more uncertain now, not as steady as he would have liked, neither were his thoughts.

“I can’t...I can’t tell you...” she confessed quietly, in all but a whisper, her head bowed as she stared at her fingers resting on her lap. “But he didn’t do anything, okay?” she looked up at him, her voice -- while not very strong -- more firm this time, hoping to allay whatever fears were within him.

But this was not enough. Thor said it was, if only by nodding in acceptance, and taking another piece of Loki’s advice that came into his mind as he saw tumultuous Jane sitting beside him: ‘If you do not know what to do when a woman is upset, keep your mouth shut, and embrace her.’

Thor’s arm wrapped around her, and he pulled her close to his side without saying any thing -- something had happened, something not meant for open light, and while he intended to find out, he wished not to press her further at the moment. Only embrace her, to allay her as well.

But he had every intent on getting it out of Loki.

And if all ended relatively well, to ask him for any more advice.

Loki entered his suite, setting aside the ire his brother had riled in him, and the worry that wished to entice his mind, and instead felt a breath of sweet air when he neared his wife, still resting in their bed. Gently, he parted the curtain to see her, hoping he hadn’t woken her when he saw her turn towards him.

“Hello, my love,” her quiet voice called to him through the silence.

“Hello, my darling,” he whispered, and parted the curtain just enough to sit beside her. “Were you sleeping?” he asked, placing a hand near hers.

“No,” she rasped, struggling to sit up, “I find...as ironic as it may be, that I cannot sleep,” she strained a chuckle.

He helped lift her to sit up fully, and he covered her legs with the blankets. “I am sorry, my love,” he mourned. “Perhaps there is a tea I could make you before bed,” he mused, eyes mindlessly wandering away from her.

It did not go unnoticed by her, and she placed her fingers atop his, caressing his nail beds, tracing each shape with delicacy and knowing. “I’ve no need for tinctures,” she assured him. “Only your arm around me.”

His attentions were brought back to her, while the worry did not leave his stony features, a smile was etched among them as he took a deep breath and ventured to lie beside her, along the small edge of the bed. “Then my arm you shall have,” he said at last, placing his head along the crook of her shoulder, and his hand round the shape of her waist.

Sigyn looked down at her husband’s figure resting against her own and took a deep breath, with it, feeling everything was at last right: perhaps not that all was well, or that all was perfect, but whatever she had been missing, and whatever he had pined for in her absence, that gap was filled as they fit against each other -- as though they were made precisely for each other. In quietness, she continued to stroke his hair, combing her nails gently along his scalp -- knowing he was unlike her, that his hair could not feel, but she always accommodated for such differences between them, never shunning him for his foreign mannerisms, neither the colour of his true skin. In such contrasts, she found beauty -- she always had, whether in her husband, or in her people: asymmetry was a gift, an accentuation of the balance of life, and she revelled in the notions of things unlike her. Yet, she had no want to be any different than she was, her love was not lust of others’ selves, but unadulterated admiration. In this, she found she was very different from those around her, herself, and it was rare that others shared or admired her gift. But for all his chaos, Loki saw this part of her and relished it; and she believed it was only because of his chaos he was able to cherish her gifts, and sometimes share them -- whether he wanted to admit it, or not. She knew him even better than himself at times.

And while he rested there, along her shoulder, his eyes closed, his breathing nudging against her ribs, his locks of blackened hair falling through her fingers -- she thought on how lucky she was to love and have a mate who loved her just as dearly.

But her gazing upon him was cut short by the sound of heavy knocking at the door, and Loki started fearfully awake from his brief dozing.

She quieted his fears, placing a kiss on his brow as he groaned with dread and suspicion -- which only garnered a small smile from her. “You should get that,” she whispered into his skin.

He had half the mind to pout and ignore it completely, until he heard his brother’s voice on the other side:

“Loki, I must speak with you.”

“You know he will not relent,” she continued, ceasing her fingers’ motion as she looked at him.

He only let a louder groan, and turned on his back. “Very well,” he replied without moving a further muscle, and willfully created an illusion of himself to answer the suite’s door.

Sigyn could hear the conversation in the distance, beyond the bed curtains, though their view was obscured and their voices muffled:

She heard a pause from Thor as Loki’s illusion answered the door, and she presumed that familiar face of suspect on his features as he craned his neck to see inside Loki’s suite -- ever distrusting of his brother. “What are you doing in the dark?” Thor asked, both somewhat surprised, somewhat worried.

“I thought I made it clear I was not well,” Loki answered, “I much prefer to rest.”

“You can rest after we speak,” Thor demanded.

She heard a sigh both from Loki’s illusion and Loki lying beside her, and she could not help a quiet grin.

“Then speak! -- and make it fast,” Loki insisted, but did not let his brother past the threshold of his doorway.

She heard another pause from the older, as he presumably thought on how to continue. “What did you do to Jane?” he began without further hesitation, for there was no question in his mind Loki was responsible for some event in her life, for which he would answer.

A scoff from the illusion and he grumbled slightly. “I did nothing to the girl,” he replied, honestly. “And if she has said anything to accuse me, I resent it.”

“That is what worries me: she refuses to speak at all of what happened while she was left with you,” he growled, his voice becoming lower as a footsteps passed them by in the hall.

“And you immediately think I had some hand in harming her,” Loki’s indignation palpable, even from behind the curtain.

“I immediately think of your reputation of deceit and violence,” there was a brief pause between them before Thor continued with a mild scuffle: “I wish to enter.”

“I refuse it,” Loki persisted, and Sigyn could hear him bolster the door with the strength of his arm as the scuffle intensified:

“I do not wish to discuss this so publicly --”

“And I do not wish you to enter my presence.”

“What have you to hide?”

“Much that I will not share with you --”

“Brother, let me pass --” Thor presumably tried to push Loki aside to enter, but Sigyn could hear the distinct sound of Loki’s magic vanishing upon the touch of another, and Thor was left alone at the doorway.

Another quiet breath of dismay from Loki beside her, and he glanced to her in the dark, to which she returned the sight with a nod as she let him go.

“Brother, where are you?” a disheartened voice called from beyond the curtain, uncertain whether Loki was even there, nonetheless, he stayed, glancing around his suite, waiting for him to appear, if he would.

Loki swung his legs over the side of the bed, as he opened the curtain just enough for his lithe frame to slither through without revealing the bed’s precious cargo behind it. “I told you I was not well,” his voice rang as he approached his brother by the sofa.

A brief silence between them as Thor read his brother carefully: “What happened with Jane?” he said once more.

“If something happened to your little beloved, I knew nothing of it,” he bit back.

“Then what is it you hide? I will not ask again,” the other threatened.

Sigyn felt her heart sink within her, for she hated to hear them this way; there had been a brief time during which they were cordial with one another, but such things do not last, not when wounds run so deep, she thought. Though she wished it were not so. She wished she could pull back the curtain, jump out of bed, and place herself between the two to cease their bickering and accusations -- for neither one of them would stop: Loki would never relent in protecting her, as Thor would never surrender his desire to protect Jane. They were much more alike in ways they would not admit.

But she could hear the growling beneath their voices turn to snarling as they defended their own actions, and the snarling turned to raised voices, which turned to grappling with each other -- and so the cycle repeated itself.

“I’ve no need to tell you anything!” Loki snapped back.

“You know why Jane refuses to speak -- I know you well enough to know when you hide something!”

“You know nothing of me,” a growl.

“You can tell yourself that for however long you would like, but you know it is not the truth,” a hiss.

“I deny nothing of myself.”

“Then why do you hide here, in the dark, feigning illness?”

Loki had to quickly construct a lie to protect that which he could not protect before -- he would have to take the bullet this time, in place of the one that had pierced the heart of the one whom he loved. “You rather me here, and you know it,” he said at last.

Thor fell quiet, and Sigyn could only hear the breaths of the brothers as they thought on words both brought aloud and those unspoken. “I rather the truth you will not give me.”

“And what truth is that? That I am naught but some villain for you to blame? Some fool on which to place every impetuous deed?” Loki’s voice hung in the vacuous air, his words a black hole for even the breath that was just there. “Is that what you want to hear? That I involved her in some scheme of mine? Then yes -- I am guilty! I beseeched her help on a benign project of mine, and swore her to secrecy. And do you know why?” he shifted a foot closer to his brother. “Because I was afraid of this very accusation -- that you would call me a criminal, and herd me before Odin’s feet once more as cattle, and I would be punished for some imagined sin.”

Sigyn was just as breathless as the pair of them, listening to her husband’s anguish as she could do nothing to help. Her fingers wrung in the blankets, saying some silent prayer that peace would waft between them somehow.

She could hear Thor shift as he thought on his brother’s words.

“I never hurt her -- I would never hurt her. You know that more than well,” he finished, and all at once it seemed there was a collective intake of breath between the three of them, as though the vacuum was suddenly gone. “You...” Loki stopped and a thick swallow could be heard. “You were always kind to Sigyn. And for that, I owe you a debt of kindness towards the woman with whom you give your heart,” his words, though sincere, were nearly indistinguishable.

Though she could not see him, Sigyn felt the air around Thor soften as his brother spoke, and she heard his footsteps lighter as he closed the space between them:

“Thank you, Loki,” he murmured.

Another lengthy pause as Thor cleared his throat: “I apologise for my assumption of your character -- but I will not apologise for your reputation,” he warned as he made for the door.

A small grumble before Loki conceded, showing his brother out, “That is fair.”

And as quickly as the entire skirmish had begun, all was silent and Thor had gone -- leaving Loki to tend to his wife who waited for him behind the curtain.

He collapsed on the bed, this time on his own side, with a great and treacherous sigh as he placed a hand over his face. “I cannot wait to be rid of other company besides our own.”

Sigyn could only chuckle with a breath. “And here I thought you were getting along.”

He only looked at her between his fingers.

Thor made his way back to Jane -- a thickness wallowing in the pit of his stomach from Loki’s words. Despite what his brother may have thought, their heated exchanged never brought him joy neither resolution or comfort. The only comfort he drew this time was the knowing that Jane was not in any danger, neither had she been harmed, and that all she had wished was to maintain her integrity by keeping a promise.

He returned to her suite with a quiet sigh -- hoping not to sound too dejected in her presence -- but if he had, he hid it with a smile.

“Hey, how did it go?” she asked cautiously, having heard not the words, but the intensity of the scenario behind the conjoining door.

He nodded as he sat beside her again, the bed groaning beneath his weight as he placed his hands on his knees. “Loki told me everything,” he started.

“He did?” her eyes widened, setting aside the book he’d left with her

“I know you wanted only to keep your vow of secrecy -- I, of course, do not blame you,” he assured her.

“I’m...I’m so glad he told you! That’s great!” she beamed, jumping to her knees on the bed, shaking her fists happily.

He hesitated, unsure why she was so happy, but he presumed she was glad she did not have to keep anything from him -- an admirable trait, to be sure. “Yes! Yes, I am glad, as well.”

“So, did you see her? How is she?” she pried, curiously, knowing it probably wasn’t her place, but she wanted to know how the Queen was, especially after her fall the other day.

But Thor only frowned at her, tilting his head as he tried to reason what she meant with what she said: “Who?”

#logyn #loki x sigyn #sigyn x loki #ship: logyn #*#fic: love never dies

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castlepinesmusic · 6 years

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Proletariat Punk Rock

Punk Rock Proletariat

A Modern Music Manifesto

We use it everyday, consciously or not, you are absorbing it like air in a restaurant or coffee shop. In our times of grieving and drinking ourselves to sleep it is there. When we wake up and rub the boogers from our eyelids we use it with a cup of coffee to invigorate us.

We use it when we have dinner, when we have sex, when we attend sporting events, when we graduate from high school, when we learn to drive, when we kiss our first time, when we are withered and gray and draw a final, shallow breath it is there. Film and movies, all the things we use to distract us from the realities of life would not be the same without it.

It is music.

Music is a conundrum for me to think about. It is one of the greatest joys of my life (apart from my wife) and music is also one of the greatest so-called thorns or banes in my side. Why?

To jump into its creation is to wade into the deep. It is dauntingly massive and too much collective knowledge to understand every facet in one life time.

To record it, to make it a tangible thing with 0’s and 1’s in the digital realm and to share the product of hours of anxious creation to the world is another difficult task. Thats why we are here. To create and leave a legacy. But why I am currently writing this is another matter entirely.

We as consumers, western or non-western, affluent or poor, need a better understanding of the model of music consumption that we presently face. For an artisanal craft, usually passed down from sage to student throughout its course of history, Music has been devalued, defaced and devoid of any commercial value or integrity for more than 99% of those that create it. We bastardized one of the most beautiful of human creations. Millennia of culture, folk lore and traditions have become the plastic bullshit bargain bin “throw away”, one and done, mass produced flavors of the week. And I am calling it out. We need to be better.

We will be better.

Much like the food industry complex, we spend and consume, waste and throw away without knowing the painstaking process of creation. The growth from the seed in the dirty earth, cultivated to become a singular tomato for us to scoff at its flavor.

Music is this exactly.

Years of tribulation, tumult and doubt of whether or not we will harvest. For those of you who are music creators, you know exactly of what I speak of, time seemingly wasted in a vacuous industry where only Drake and corporate controlled radio stations shovel their sonic fodder with monstrous finance budgets. The independent artist is a drop of sand in the swirling sea of constant consumption. This leaves the humble, working musician distraught and disappointed, angry at the status quo and at the constructs of which their precious art is lost in the digital void of oblivion.

Even when the musician or collective manages to birth an album or song, there are mavens, gatekeepers and tastemakers who have the pseudo”final say” as to what is good. The blogs, the critics, those that judge from their screens, another hurdle to pass on an unmapped road to reaching your audience. We actually made a video for our new song “Woo Hoo” that brings light to this very issue. We took all the negative reviews and petty comments from blogs and record labels and slapped them on some footage from our friend Are Jay.

Watch it here:

https://youtu.be/pFju7IXsXII

It is how we consume, how we interact with Music. I am not calling out all users of whichever poison they picked, whatever platform suited your fancy be it Spotify, Google Play, Apple Music, Soundcloud etc. There are those that are active seekers in the endless noise. But it is the majority, the groupthink mentality of glazing over the details and not engaging with the art they are consuming. It is a tired argument “Spotify only pays 0.0001 per play!” This is the current climate and technology the masses use to listen, and instead of griping about it, lets use the advantages of its convenience as an asset. Don’t believe the tired “Rock Star” American Dream Story of rags-to-riches from yesteryear. That age is dead, and we live in the working class musicians era, where we have the tools and the means to create our own history, our own legacies.

I started recording music, not knowing what I was doing with my friend Blake Miller when I was 22 in a garage littered with stale beer and cigarette ash. I saw Wilco and Radiohead in concert at Golden Gate Park, and the muse of inspiration lit inside me and I wanted to make an audience encounter the same things I felt when I was stoned in a large crowd. Ten years have passed since then, after forming a band called Castle Pines with my friends, playing greasy dive-bars and recording several albums, I have the memory and legacy of these moments embedded in me. A much different reward than I thought I would obtain when I was a young, dumb 20-something.

I went through homeless years, living out of my car years, drunk years, years with court cases, assaulted years, meandering years of self doubt and whatever meaningless office art thats says “Discovery” years. And throughout these years I had the comfort of faith and music. I have seen the transition from buying albums and music in person at a record store to the digital streaming model, and although they are very different, the latter can still hold value and provide somewhat of a living for the millions of creators that can’t turn a buck.

How do we consume music ethically and consciously?

3 Rules:

Rule # 1: if you appreciate the art, show gratitude to the artist.

As self-serving and indulgent as it sounds, the common trope and meme of “artists need to eat too!” is true. If you can, buy the song or the album. If you can’t share it. We are constantly engaged in the dribbling faucet of social media, so share the music, how it effected you, how it made you feel a certain way at a certain time. Share the emotions a song illicit in your everyday, and this is an invaluable and free method of support. We live in this weird period, where the most popular music being consumed is being infiltrated by corporations where it is repackaged and sold in the vein of authenticity. You need a lot of money to turn a head, and financing to get attention. This is the arms race for “Cool”, the stock market of social transactions peddling less than desirable lifestyles to the youth and the world.

The popular green, sustainability movement of eating and shopping locally should be applied here. The rise of the microbrew beer and etsy shop, handmade craft should be a lesson we use in listening. Listen small. Listen to the handcrafted and the workers.

Rule #2, stray off the beaten path.

This is one is hard because it asks something of the audience. You skip the lines and fervor of the industry giants if you do a minimum amount of research and discover. Whatever you use to listen, dig deeper and find something new, it could be the best song you’ve ever heard by a band that you’ve never heard of.

Rule #3, Know what you like and grow it.

I don’t know if it political divisiveness, social constructs of genre affiliation or what, but I do know that EVERY single genre, style and practice has VALUE. We can go into how rock and roll, Hip-hop and mainly Black American artists formed the modern musical language and how we don’t appreciate or know where it comes from. But all we need to do is “Anthony Bourdain” it, try a new dish, or flavor or something you are scared of. Only listen to Rap and R&B? Put some Black Metal on and listen to it without prejudgement or preconceived notions on what it should be. And vice versa, whatever genre you are stuck in, break out of it and try something completely new. You are doing an injustice to yourself by going to the same party everyday. Your music tastes are a combination of that nature nurture thing, your environment, what mom would play when you were still in the belly and what you heard at junior high dances.

Grow your musical genre vocabulary.

I see so many artists, creators and musicians get discouraged or feel downtrodden, and I hope this brought some levity and lightness to your struggle and journey. We are all in this together.

Our next song “Swim Team Sucker” drops Friday, September 14. Pre-save it here:

https://distrokid.com/hyperfollow/castlepines/etyX

Thank you for all of your support, and remember

Castle Pines is for life homies.

#CPporVida

WEBSITE: https://cpporvida.com SMART URL-ALL MUSIC: http://bit.ly/woohoo-cp FACEBOOK: https://www.facebook.com/CastlePinesMusic/ TWITTER: https://twitter.com/cpporvida INSTAGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/castlepines/ YOUTUBE: http://bit.ly/castlepines-youtube SPOTIFY: http://bit.ly/FollowCastlePines-Spotify iTUNES: http://bit.ly/iTunes-Castle-Pines SOUNDCLOUD: http://bit.ly/cp-soundcloud BANDCAMP: http://bit.ly/Castle-Pines-Bandcamp Hype Machine: http://bit.ly/Castle-Pines-Press TUMBLR: http://bit.ly/Castle-Pines-Tumblr EMAIL: [email protected]

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