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pjohoo-reclists · 9 months

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Outsider POV Fic Recs

A list of fics where mortals get glimpses of the greek world and/or demigods. Last updated on 8/8/23. Enjoy!

This is War by Tibbitoo

Gen | 1.1k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Paul Blofis

Titan War, Violence, Angst

Because even though the movies get it all wrong, Paul Blofis knows. War is war, and seeing those demigods fighting for their lives, seeing the fallen on the ground, made him finally understand. This wasn't a dream, but a cruel reality where Good and Evil clashed in a bloody battle. This wasn't a book where Good always won. This was a real war. It was reality. His stepson's reality.

Start Over by RainKiss

Gen | 1.5k | Complete

background Percy Jackson/Annabeth Chase

Goode High School, poor education system, Paul is a good dad

Mr. Morelli is not a nervous person by character, but the file in front of him gives the scholastic transgressions of the new kid, who has been allowed to attend Goode High school—the place where he works.

Um.... Oops? by grainjew

Gen | 2.8k | Complete

background Percy Jackson/Annabeth Chase

Identity Reveal, Post TLO, Pre HoO

Scarlet Williams, sophomore at Goode High School, was stretched out in the back of her friend Percy's car when a twelve year old materialized in the passenger seat. The next thing she knew, apparently Greek mythology was real and liked trying to kill her friend. Great.

Riding on the Rolling Tide by mrthology

T | 3k | Complete

Jason Grace & Percy Jackson

AU, Slice of Life, Crack Treated Seriously

“I think that’s Percy Jackson!” “Who?” Sarah rolled her eyes. “The kid who jumped off the St Louis arch years ago, and then there was all that weirdness,” she added, waving her hands for effect, “with a kidnapping or something.” “Oh, the one that’s a demigod?” “Yeah,” she said. She still wasn’t sure if she believed in gods or demigods, but it was hard to deny it at this point. Monsters and worse walked among them, and Sarah hated it. At first, she’d thought it was some strange publicity stunt for an upcoming show or movie—studios had done stranger things to draw crowds, after all—but she knew better now. Gods were real, and so were monsters. ... After the Second Giant War, the Mist falls. The results aren't what anyone expected.

Someone to You by mrthology

Gen | 3k | Complete

Percy Jackson, Triton, Amphitrite, Paul Blofis' Parents, Estelle Blofis

Triton is a Good Sibling, Big Brother Percy, Slice of Life

Anna wasn't sure what to think of Percy Jackson, truth be told, having only met him twice. She adored her daughter in law Sally and her little granddaughter, but there was something about Percy that put her on edge. She had no idea what - he was a kind boy, eager to help with his baby sister when most teenagers would run for the hills and clearly adored his mother - but there was just something about him, something about his too-bright eyes that made her feel uneasy. ~~~ Or, Paul's parents are taking care of Estelle for a few days. When picking her up, they meet Percy again as well as his older brother (what was his name? Tri?). At this point, Anna just wants to know what the dad looks like to have kids that look like THIS. Especially when, several days later, they meet the stepmother as well.

Here On The Sunny Side by mrthology

Gen | 4k | Complete

Percy Jackson/Apollo

Post Trials of Apollo, New Rome University, Attempt at Humor

“Just talk to him.” Cody blinked. He could do a lot of things, but approaching Percy Jackson and just talking to him was not one of those things. “We can’t just go and talk to him!” Aida yelped, shifting nervously in her seat. Cody agreed. Percy Jackson was nothing if not intimidating. He’d done so much for Camp Jupiter and walked with more gods than Cody could begin to fathom. There were even rumours that Jupiter (or, Cody supposed, Zeus) had offered him godhood when he’d only been sixteen. Everyone in New Rome knew he spent time in his father’s realm below the sea, and even the Praetors seemed to defer to him at times. No. Cody couldn’t just go up and talk to Percy Jackson. Not many in New Rome would dare. ——— Or, Percy’s part of a group project at NRU. His group mates aren’t exactly sure what to make of him. Or of his mysterious paramour.

A Thin Barrier Between Two Worlds by Skywalking_through_life

T | 5.7k | Complete

Percy Jackson, Hudson River Spirit

Post Gaea & Second Giant War, Canon Compliant, Eavesdropping

"'Man, If I avoided everyone with a bone to pick with me, I'd be a hermit. But I haven't figured out what I'm supposed to have actually done this time?" He could only see half of Percy's face, and even that at a distance, but there was no mistaking the lazy smirk he was wearing, or the way his arms were casually folded across his chest. He wasn't scared of this guy, which didn't make a lick of sense, because just the guy's voice was scaring Giovanni. What could the rest of him look like? "Don't play stupid, kid, it ain't a good look for you. You know good and well what you did." A sudden thud shook the wood of the old dock, making it creak and sway and causing bits of plank to fall. When the dust cleared, Giovanni bit down hard on his tongue to stop himself from gasping, because now that he could see both people above him, he wasn't sure the person opposite Percy was, in fact, human. In which Giovanni learns that there is such a thing as knowing too much about the world around him...

The Overwhelming Specter of Your Mothers Book Club by 60sec400

Not Rated | 5.9k Complete

Sally Jackson/Paul Blofis

Meeting the Parents, Sally Jackson is a Good Parent, Oneshot

Martha Blofis stared at her son in shock. “What do you mean,” she said slowly, “that you’re married?” Her son fidgeted nervously. First, he ran a hand through his peppered hair, and then his eyes flickered down and away. Then he lifted them again and smiled meekly at her. “Paul,” she said, “I need you to tell me what in gods name you were thinking.” “Her name is Sally Jackson?” Paul said, his voice lifting as he weren’t quite sure what the name of his wife was. AKA Paul tells his mother he hasn't seen in four years that he's married. Really, the only thing she can think about is what she's going to tell her book club.

Percy Jackson and the Scrutiny of his Coworkers by pqrker

Gen | 6.4k | Complete

Percy Jackson/Annabeth Chase, Percy Jackson & Original Characters

Marine Biologist Percy Jackson, Adult Percy Jackson

Jim turned back to the tank and looked at Marcie the seal, who was now staring at the spot his coworker had been standing just moments before with that same strange look of reverence in her eyes. Percy Jackson truly was the oddest person Jim Elpool had ever worked with. or 5 times percy's coworkers were confounded by his fish magic, plus 1 time they try to figure it out.

More Things in Heaven and Earth by Skywalking_through_life

T | 7.1k | Complete

Percy Jackson/Annabeth Chase

Post-Gaea & Second Giant War, Canon Compliant, High School

"Sticking her head further out of the light of her doorway and into the dark hallway, she peered left and right, trying to catch a glimpse of movement in the shadows beyond the dim glow of the emergency lights. Nothing. But as her eyes fell on the bank of lockers outside her classroom where the first thud had come from, they widened in horror. A long smear of blood, thick enough to start to drip down the dented metal, stained two of the lockers." Ms. Lafayette is a teacher, not a detective. But that doesn't mean she's not curious - and concerned - when a trail of blood appears in the hallway outside her classroom in the early hours of the morning...

good doesn't equal Goode by vani_em

Gen | 7.3k | Complete

Percy Jackson, Paul Blofis

off screen Percy Jackson/Annabeth Chase, BAMF Percy Jackson, good dad Paul Blofis

One thing was clear: Percy Jackson was not Goode High School material.

In a Field of Dandelions by mrthology

T | 7.5k | Complete

Percy Jackson/Annabeth Chase

Future Fic, Kid Fic, Domestic Fluff

"You okay there?" she asked once she was closer, smiling in what she hoped was a welcoming manner. The man smiled back, still looking a bit confused. Nicky's breath caught in her chest when he met her eyes. His gaze was a little too vivid, his bone structure a little too perfect. He seemed a little too much more than human. Part of her wanted to run, while another part wanted to follow him to the ends of the earth and beyond. "I think so," he replied, breaking the spell. "Just trying to figure out day one, I suppose. I'm Percy!" ----- Percy and Annabeth's eldest child starts school. Percy inadvertently causes a bit of a stir, and Annabeth isn't jealous, not at all.

[conduct] not unbecoming men who [strive] with gods by Skywalking_through_life

T | 8k+ | On-going as of 8/8/23

Percy Jackson/Annabeth Chase, Sally Jackson/Paul Blofis, Percy Jackson & Paul Blofis

Post Second Giant War, Slice of Life, Identity Reveal

"Some students find it hard to find a poem that they identify with," she said simply, even tone belying the gravity of the look she was giving him. "I…I can imagine that you, perhaps, might be one of them." For a moment, he just stared back at her, heart now thumping almost painfully fast as he tried to decide how to respond to that. She was right of course, but now that the moment he'd been waiting for had definitely arrived, was he really prepared to do this? "Are we talking about poetry?" He finally asked, mouth dry, as though he didn't already know the answer to his own question, "Or are we talking about…something else?" Or, a week in the life of Percy's senior year, featuring: a poetry project, a swim meet, prom, several identity crises, and maybe, just maybe, a long-overdue conversation with a certain sharp-eyed teacher.

some have entertained angels unaware by Skywalking_through_life

T | 21k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Sally Jackson, Percy Jackson & Paul Blofis, Minor or Background Relationships, Percy Jackson/Annabeth Chase

Post Second Giant War, Field Trip, Powerful Percy Jackson

"Slumping at the table next to his now slightly raspy stepfather, Percy decided to make one last appeal. "Paul, you can't seriously think me dying of frostbite or exposure on the way to see the Statue of Liberty for the eighty-millionth time is a good death, right? Like, I could do so much better." Paul shrugged, eyes dancing. "I'm not the expert on death in this family, Perce. But I do imagine it's probably more heroic than dying of boredom in US Government class?"' Percy didn't think there was a god of field trips, but if there was...he was pretty sure that they hated him.

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artemisandhersilverbow · 4 days

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Just thinking about the line from My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys:

I'm queen of sandcastles he destroys

A lot of people have touched on Taylor using castles and palaces as a symbolic representation of her career, body of work, specifically those stolen works and versions of herself. They're locked away in a high tower and separated from Lover - TTPD Taylor.

The tension at the end of Bejeweled, when she walks smiling onto her balcony only to quickly show her castle on fire was, in my opinion, easily overlooked. Was she burning it down or had it already been burning down without her noticing? A stone castle on fire would require some orchestration.

Fast forward to TTPD, the line above from MBOBHFT stuck with me because the "boy" here is destroying her sandcastle. Sandcastles are a study in impermanence. We build them as an incredibly basic recreation of the real, impenetrable, almost indestructable thing. But we do so knowing they can't last, they won't. Eventually the tide will wash them clean away or the wind will erode at the structure until it turns back into sand.

That means "the boy" in question is preemptively destroying something that wasn't supposed to be forever anyway.

The first thing about this song that lit up my brain like a firework was the lyrical parallel to Cruel Summer. I mean, if Taylor uses the word "toy" in a song you know it's gonna be sassy af, ok? A girl takes notice.

Fever dream high in the quiet of the night You know that I caught it Bad, bad boy Shiny toy with a price You know that I bought it -------------------- The sickest army doll Purchased at the mall Rivulets descend my plastic smile But you should've seen him When he first got me My boy only breaks his favorite toys

Now, I have had my speculations (as have many others) about Cruel Summer not being a love song, but a PR-ing song. I almost immediately thought the same of MYBOBHFT.

Fortunately, the Barbie movie covers a lot of ground for the "why is using a kind of Barbie-Ken like dynamic excluding a romantic narrative?" Because she's Barbie, he's just Ken, Ken is basically an accessory. Anyway I think this song is absolutely talking about several people or experiences/problematic Hollywood structures etc. in a very smart twisting narrative.

"Fever dream" is playful here in the same way she uses "sickest. " The doll isn't sick and the narrator of Cruel Summer isn't running a temperature. "Shiny toy" and "sickest army doll" feel like even clearer parallels — one "with a price / You know that I bought it" and the other "purchased at the mall." I like the reversal of "You know that I caught it" and "When he first got me" because catching isn't as active as buying. Something happens to you if you catch a fever or something is thrown at you - and that feels like an entirely different he that "got" her. Another play on words because that sounds like ownership and tricking.

I was so confused by sickest army doll at first because she sings it in such a (Lana coded) morose way. I was trying to imagine a sickly Army Barbie? But I think the smart way she's written these lyrics (please read her lyric booklets they are incredibly sneaky, brilliant works of poetry) she's not referring to the "me" as an army doll. In fact what's an "army doll" little kids think are rad? Hm... a G.I. Joe?

The bait and switch of it all, the sandcastle-like metaphors, continue with the above. It sounds like "there were so many reasons why we should have been together forever." But word choice is where this poet shines.

"Litany" is one of those words that always registers to me a "a list" but it's actually got religious roots (of course - this album has so much of that): a form of prayer used in services and processions, and consisting of a number of petitions.

It can also mean "a prolonged or tedious account," which is why you hear an expression like "litany of complaints"... Got it so you had a tedious amount of prayers and petitions *checks notes* for why you could have "played for keeps" THIS. TIME. Have there been other times? Oh right, yes, she's "just repeating herself."

Play for keeps is another one of those terms we use, but don't always know it's full definition. One such definition is "to do something seriously and without showing any mercy."

This sounds less like holding onto a lover who wanted to leave or mistreated you, though I think that should also another lens to view this story... perhaps change lover to authority figure... and more like two people who struck an agreement (one that upheld some good christian values?? too far?) to battle something together... and one of them couldn't stick it out. Perhaps because "he saw forever so he smashed it up"? He was a Bolter too.

So she just wants to be put back on her shelf so she can go through the cycle all over again. In fact, pull a string and she'll repeat the lines she knows so well. Copy+paste.

"I used to switch out these Kens, I'd just ghost" to "I felt more when we played pretend / Than with all the Kens" with her GI Joe? I mean lumping a "lover" into a category with Kens and any kind of doll purchased isn't the most loving way to refer to them lol. And I can't help but notice she's only ever played pretend with all the Kens. But what do you do with your shiny toy when they don't want to play anymore?

The lyric video is simple, but each line comes up one at a time and "breaks," floating pieces falling out of frame. At the end we pan down to see the collected debris.

A pit of broken words.

Also worth noting you can see among the blurred graveyard of words a couple of them are crisp/hidden. They're "Boy breaks his only favorite" or "favorite only"... or his Favourite?

Anyway, we come back 'round to the sandcastle metaphor that got me started. I don't think Taylor's princess castle and her sandcastle are a perfect one to one match symbolically. A stone castle was built with the intention of lasting forever, if it catches on fire that would be surprising... more akin, to me, to her career or Taylor TM?

A sandcastle, however, can't last forever, it's not meant to, but you still build it knowing that. Like an arrangement, contract, role, etc. business or otherwise. For someone to snuff out a sandcastle before time or tides or the inevitable does that for you seems needlessly harsh. Even a short-lived imitation can mean something if you enjoyed building it. In fact, that's the only part that gets to live on once a sandcastle is washed away. And it seems like even that part was ruined.

#friends of dorothea #TTPD #lgbetty #my boy only breaks his favourite toys #he's just ken #lyric analysis #lyric video

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rachel-of-autumnbow · 6 months

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5. Mermaids

Day 5 of @fanovember (im delayed already and I already assumed I will not complete the list, let's just vibe)

Vax reencounters the mysterious creature that saved him during the last storm in the sea...

Probably grammar mistakes. I may have gone a bit overboard with this, idc. Vaxleth again cause I have clear preferences. Cute. Enjoy.

Day 5: Mermaids

“Get over it, Vax, it’s been weeks.”

“No. I know what I saw. I know what saved me.”

“Yeah, the tide, like it did with everyone else.”

“The tide doesn’t have hands, Vex'ahlia!”

"Again with that fairytale. Mermaids don't exist, Vax! You dreamt it!"

"I did not! I saw her! I heard her! She is real! Why can't you believe me!"

Vex crossed her arms with a disapproving look in her eyes. Vax groaned, stormed out of the room and ran through the corridor until he got out of the Whitestone castle.

He kept running swiftly to the shore. The sun was still high and rocks covered the water's edge. He jumped from one to the next one and sat in the middle of them. Vax took a small stone and threw it to a nearby rock.

The sea was as still as a lake, quite the opposite of what it looked like the last time they were in the open ocean. He took another pebble.

"I know I didn't dream it. I could never come up with such a beautiful face, or voice." He threw the pebble in a different direction.

"Auch."

Vax darted up, gripping his dagger handle. He silently jumped towards the rock that talked, crouched on top and quickly his blade made its way to a throat, not breaking skin. A gasp.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" He murmured.

"I-I'm sorry, I was looking for something and then you popped out. You weren't supposed to see me, so I hid."

Then, realization hit him. That voice. "It's you." Vax retrieved the dagger. "You saved me." He could remember now. Eyes as green as a forest, scales shining like an emerald treasure.

She chuckled nervously. "I-I guess I did…" she said, curling a lock of her red hair around her fingers. "Glad to see you're feeling better."

"Yes…" He couldn't believe he was seeing her again. "I owe you my life."

"You really don't—"

"I do. I'm bound to you now"

"Oh. Uhm… okay. I'm Keyleth."

Vax shook her hand and tried not to turn red at the memory of those soft fingers stroking his face. "Vax'ildan, or Vax, for short."

Keyleth smiled. "That's a cute name."

That time he couldn't help becoming a boiled shrimp. "Uh… yours too. Ahem…" There was an awkward moment in silence in which both of them had to look away in different directions.

"So… about that bound…" Keyleth finally said.

"Yeah?"

"What does that exactly mean?"

"It means I must aid and protect you until my debt is paid."

"And when is that?"

"Whenever I save your life just like you did with mine."

"I see, then… can you help me find what I'm looking for?"

Vax hesitated. Looking for things wasn't the usual thing one would ask when someone tells them they’re bound to them. "Of course, what is it?"

Keyleth put her hand inside a little bag she was wearing on her shoulder and took out a small object. "I was trying to find the other half of this."

Vax took the object, that looked familiar to him. "Hey, that’s my compass. I lost it when… well, when we met."

"Oh, sorry it's broken."

Vax carefully observed the compass. "It's not broken, surprisingly."

"Isn't it? But I have this other one and it has another piece."

"Another piece? No, this is complete and working.” Vax took a look at the other item Keyleth was holding and he couldn’t help but smile. “That’s a watch, it’s a different thing, see?” He placed both objects side to side.

“What’s the difference?”

Vax leaned a bit towards her. “This one has numbers around, and the other has letters, it tells you the direction you’re going.”

“And what does the one with the numbers say?”

“Time, but yours is broken. Here.” Vax took out his own watch and showed her. He chuckled a bit at her surprised gasp.

“What’s that sound?” Keyleth took the watch to her ear. “It ticks. None of mine tick.”

“Yeah, they usually break underwater.” He put his watch back to his pocket and gave the compass to Keyleth.

“But is yours.”

“You can keep it, I already asked for a new one.”

“Vax!”

He looked back at the shore. Vex was walking towards him with Trinket by her side. “Oh, shit!”

“What?”

“That’s my sister.”

“I-I should go.”

Vax caught her hand before she could leave. “No, wait, she thinks I’m making you up, could you…”

“I’m sorry, Vax,” she interrupted. “No one should know I exist. Not even you.”

After a short second, Vax sighed. “All right, I won’t tell a soul, I promise.”

"Because you owe me your life?"

Vax chuckled again at her same beat. "Yeah."

Before he could say anything else, or move, he felt a wet kiss on his cheek, along with a soft hand on the other side of his face. "Thanks"

"Vax!"

"Coming!" He said. When he turned back to the sea, there was no trace of Keyleth. He went back to the shore.

"I knew I would find you here. Were you looking for your mysterious mermaid?"

"Yeah, about that… I…" Vax glanced at the ocean. "I thought you may be right, if mermaids were real we would have found them by now."

"Hm… I don't trust that sudden change of mind, but we're late for our meeting with Percy, let's hurry."

"Yeah." Vax's eyes wouldn't leave the sea.

"Come on!" Vex jerked his ear and walked back to the castle. "If you fall in love with the ocean it will swallow you up!"

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softcabur · 1 year

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₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊ the en bloc collective

pairing: idol!soobin x reader

genre: fluff, crack, childhood-best friends to lovers, idiots in love

summary: you and soobin are the bestest friends in the entire world, you dare those in doubt to ask anyone (OK, maybe not anyone, just those who've signed the NDA). but in the wise words of olivia rodrigo, it's brutal out here -- and maybe even more so in the world of idols and their secret best friends who are desperately in love with them. but it's cool, chill, neat and dandy, because for soobin, it's all worth it. you'll just have to fight the tides one mystery girl scandal a time.

MASTERLIST

L/N Y/N: 22, tattoo apprentice first, college student second. you major in english-korean translation at SNU (your mom likes to brag about it to the knitting club). you met soobin at the local playground, where both you and your moms became 4 lyfers. you made your private a soobin fanpage because it annoys him as much as makes him blush, and what are you if not a loser who’s love with in their best friend.

yunjin: 21. she was classmates with you and soobin in high school, where you guys were all part of the same friend group, but she became closer with you after soobin left to become a trainee thus him and you stopped being a package deal 😕 fights with soobin for the “best friend” title daily (all in good humor… at least soobin thinks hopes so, because if not it’s on sight). she was also majoring in translation at uni, but dropped out in freshmen year because fuck school and became the self-titled receptionist of en bloc. dreams of becoming a nail artist though, she has some ambition!!

wooyoung: 25. cousin of yunjin, resident at and owner of the en bloc collective. a mother’s worst nightmare (seriously, he was big talk of the local knitting club when he got his first tattoo of many at 16). a big-time ladies man with no filter, who very publicly beefs with the artists of his old parlour on twitter, so it’s just a matter of time until he gets cancelled for something. has the word “rizzlord” tattoo’d on his left hand because he drunkenly made a bet with a stranger then lost the game of rock-paper-scissors (and an idiot, because… it was a bet with a stranger?? they never met again??)

chaewon: 23. tattoo artist and piercer at en bloc, came after wooyoung from the old studio. biggest sweetheart you will ever meet, the simple proof of that is the fact that half of the parlours regulars came back in the first place because they fell in love with her!! she’s helplessly in love with woonwo, though still in denial about that fact. dropped out of law school when she realised it’s not like how it is in how to get away with murder.

minji: 18. full time college student with a part-time job at the café next-door to en bloc, the corner café. she met you at freshmen camp where you were the instructor of her group, then became fast friends with you at a seminar (why was she at the same seminar as a senior, you ask? because she’s a genius with too much confidence, that’s why). baby of the group who really wants a butterfly tattoo on her neck but none of her en bloc friends are willingly to do it for her because she’s a BABY.

mingyu: 25. quiet, handsome, mysterious, and computer illiterate, nobody knows a thing about him besides the fact that wooyoung begged him to come work for him (despite the fact that he literally CANNOT use twitter, man has insane clout on the app) every day for six months straight and then managed to win him over with a mysterious favour that’s being kept as confidential as a state secret between the two men. replies to the groupchat bi-monthly then dips.

masterlist | next

FUN FACTS!

• the tattoo parlour’s name “en bloc” was inspired by the fact that me and one of my friends from uni have this fantasy of opening a bar with this name if we end up not getting any jobs with our comm degree lmfao

• mingyu didn’t actually sign a NDA with BigHit, so technically he isn’t supposed to know that Y/N knows soobin and the guys, but everyone forgot about this fact when they made him a private twitter. although, he logs on so sproadically that the gang’s not even sure if he’s put two and two together yet (better question: has he even heard of txt?)

• chaewon used to be one of the old collagues that wooyoung bullied online. (chaewon flamed his ass though).

• english is my second language so please consider the typos characters flaws 🫶🙏

#soobin #choi soobin #soobin x reader #soobin x you #txt #tomorrow x together #soobin fluff #soobin smau #txt smau #soobin fanfiction #txt fanfiction #fic: invisible string

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stop-weighting-for-change · 10 months

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UPDATE 9

Hi!! So ok wow, it’s been yet again a lot of time passed since I last posted (exactly a year and week to the date of UPDATE 8 lolllllll).

So A LOT of shiettttt has changed so I’ll just begin:

-I kinda moved to new york city and got my dream job. The dream job I was devastated about not getting and posting about this time last year- HOLY SHIT. I always felt like in my heart it was supposed to/going to happen but it hadn’t allllllll the other (5 times) i applied and I told myself when applying the time I got it that it would be my last time bc i just needed to move on and... i got it. HOLY SHIT. -Although it was not as fast as I would have liked for it to have been, I’ve lost 21lbs in the last year- TWENTY ONE. Last June I weighed in at 195 again and as of THIS MORNING I’m 174.5. I NEED to keep it off this time. I WILL keep it off this time. -While i definitely do still suffer from anxiety, body dysmorphia and depression, I overall feel like things will work out this time. THEY WILL. -I miss my family (who live back on the west coast of the usa) more and more and more every single day. But I’m getting through it. The tide has been high but I’ve been holding on. -Diet Coke by Leanna Firestone is my anthem, my church, my everything and I feel v grateful to that song. -I miss my old coworkers bc while I have my dream job at my dream company I realized since being here that a lot of the glamour was built up in my head and it’s HARD to find a group of strangers bound together by work who are supportive and wonderful and funny and genuinely care about you. So when you have that/find that, TREASURE IT! Because it’s temporary. and compared to my last job, the new jabronies I work with aint shieeeeeeeet (:). -Finally I had a stellar 4th of July in The Washington Dictrict of Columbia with two of my favorite people and it was sooooooo needed.

That’s what I have in terms of updates which is pretty major: now looking towards the future!!

I get to see my mom and brother in 13 days and I could cry, i’m so happy. and i get to see them two weekends in a row!!!

AND THEN i’m meeting my family at wdw for a couple days and were gonna ride all the rides including COSMIC REWIND AT EPCOT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I can’t believe that last time I updated I hadn’t rode that ride yet........ wow what last July me didn’t even know what she was missing. Srsly if you haven’t rode that ride before ur missing out, i’ve never had that kind of serotonin boost before ever in my life.

Finally, I’m attempting to Chloe Ting again and become a runner (pray 4 me).

That’s it for now, but I forgot how good it feels to literally write this shit down even if -14 people read this. IT”S MY JOURNEY AND THIS IS FOR ME :’).

P.S. I need to pick up a library card- I signed up for one in March and haven’t gotten it yet. WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME.

P.P.S. My love life (or last there of) is a disaster but what else is new. At least I’m getting my hair braided for the first time in a few decades and I’m v excited!!!!!

#weightloss #weight loss #weightlossdiary #thinspo #gettingstronger #getting stronger #getting healthier #gettinghealthier #losingweight #losing weight #feeling positive

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cjbolan · 10 months

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Up to Chapter 7 of Emily Windsnap and the Tides of Time...

*WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD*

LOOOOOVE the suspense of this book so far!! It’s so creepy and takes its sweet time, as Emily spends several chapters panicking and slowly realizing that she’s in the future.

All that glitters is NOT gold. Also love how it showed Brightport becoming richer didn’t automatically make living there better. In this future, it’s more a playground for the rich than a community for all. Very relatable today.

Liz Kessler REALLY hates public schools. I think Brightport Junior High is a public school? In her world, public schools are a place where school principals sneak in vodka to deal with the stress of working overtime with mountains of paper, and teachers sarcastically speak down to their pupils. Mandy said it best, it’s “95% paperwork”. Having worked in public schools I can relate. I know a lot of kids’ books make school look like a nightmare, this book may be the first to show school being a nightmare for teachers/principals, as well as students. It’s like if Captain Underpants made Principal Krupp the protagonist, instead of Harold and Billy.

Mandy’s secret vodka stash in her office is both funny and sad. It’s kinda funny because she’s the school principal and should know better. But it’s also sad, because earlier she mentioned her dad “pretending it’s not happening and spending most nights in a bar”. Now Mandy’s picked up his bad habits of getting drunk as a coping mechanism. Like father, like daughter.

Brightport has an incredible amount of moral restraint... after Book 4, Brightport could EASILY have exploited the merpeople there for a quick profit, like the Rushtons tried to in Book 2. And yet, Brightport still being in economic shambles means they attempted no such thing. It means that Brightport saw and respected the merpeople as fellow intelligent beings, even at Brightport’s own expense. Gotta admire Brightport for that.

Some clever callbacks: Emily pinching herself awake to see if she’s dreaming (like she did to Jake in Book 1), the Rushtons’ theme park selling doughnuts like Mr. Beeston’s, also Mandy saying “Yes really” like King Neptune did earlier in the series.

Speaking of doughnuts...would Brightport even want doughnuts? I think after discovering Shiprock, they would also discover Mr. Beeston was drugging them with doughnuts all along. Thanks to Mr. Beeston, everyone who knew him is probably afraid of doughnuts. And by “everyone” I mean all of Brightport, because he is Chairman of the Board. Doughnuts may be yet another failed business venture for the Rushtons.

Yay more Greek mythology references!! With Midas Enterprises and all, and their tagline about turning everything to gold. I talked about this before, the series has a ton of Greek mythology references: Neptune, Sirens, Penelope, and now Midas. Maybe there’s more I just never noticed.

I’m suddenly curious about Medieval Brightport. Because when Emily’s Googling “History of Brightport”, her first search results were “mostly about medieval times”.... what was Brightport like in medieval times? Was this before or after Neptune’s “no-marrying-humans” policy? Did Brightport know back then about merpeople and got memory-wiped later? Did Shiprock exist at the time too? What did Brightport in medieval times think about merpeople? Was Aurora originally from Brightport? What if Emily Windsnap lived in medieval times? *imagines a Medieval AU*

I’m surprised Mr. Beeston is still alive after twenty years. Given how old he’s supposed to be. Either he takes good care of himself or he’s blessed with really good genes. Maybe partnering with Midas got him lots of money for exceptionally good healthcare. Why do I have a bad feeling this book is going to end with him dying?

VERY Spiderverse vibes to this book. Emily literally says the words “alternate universe”. Funny this book was written in 2020, right when the multiverse trend in movies took off. I know MCU kicked off the trend, but I like to think Liz Kessler influenced it too.

Humans are now the main stars. What makes the last three Emily books (including this one) unique is its greater focus on humans. From Forgotten Island to the Pirate King’s crew and now back to Brightport, it’s finally showing the human world can be just and fantastical and magical as the merfolk world. Which is only fitting after the earlier books were all about the world of the merfolk.

Humans Drink “Respect Women” Juice? These last 3 books make me think human women have way more equality and opportunities than mermaids do. In the human world women hold all sorts of authority as...

Queens (Pirate Queen)

Sea Captains (again the Pirate Queen, maybe Mary Penelope)

School Principals (Mandy)

Goddesses (Terra Mater)

Tribal Leaders (Ella though she’s technically just second-in-command)

Business Owners (Mystic Millie, Mrs. Rushton)

Meanwhile the only mermaid authority figures we see are...

Schoolteachers

Schoolteachers are important too but, compared to human women...mermaids don’t have many options. Also everyone working for King Neptune is male, maybe Neptune doesn’t allow mermaids in politics?

I can better see why Mary hated Allpoints Island. She went from a world where women can be anything, to a world where women can be only teachers or stay-home housewives.

Mary Penelope: “...look at my life here. What do I do all day? Sunbathe, comb my hair, maybe go to synchro swim a couple of times a week. This isn’t a life for me, Jake. I want more than this.”

(Emily Windsnap and the Castle in the Mist)

I wonder how shocked Jake would be seeing how much more Brightport women can do.

I’ll stay tuned to find out how Brightport got to where it is!

#emily windsnap #emily windsnap and the tides of time #reaction #review #recap #mermaid #liz kessler #middle grade fiction #middle grade series #middle grade books #tw sexism

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danny-logan · 2 years

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meet the catalyst: danny logan

Welcome to Coolsville, the best little small town in Ohio.

…except for right now, but that’s not really DANIEL “DANNY” LOGAN (JOE KEERY) fault, is it? Known as the CATALYST around town, HE is just your friendly neighborhood BARTENDER. Sure they can be HEADSTRONG and CHILDISH, but they can also be LOYAL and DETERMINED just like any other 25 year old. That doesn’t mean they have anything to do with our string of recent chilling events, though… right?

tropes: the himbo, the klutz, upper-class twit, cosmic plaything, the bartender

Back to Basics:

Name: Daniel “Danny” Logan

Age: 25 big ones baby

Gender: Cisgender Male

Sexuality: Known Disaster Bisexual

Height: 5′10 (he does lie and say he’s 5′11 frequently though)

Dig a Little Deeper (tw implied not so great family dynamics)

Danny knows he’s privileged. He grew up in the perfect house into he perfect neighborhood with parents who could give him everything he wanted. He was their prized little boy and when his sister was born they were paraded around town, to church functions, to community events in their little suit and dress.

He was the perfect doting brother. Whenever his sister would get lost or get herself into trouble he would find her and guide her back to the path.

Everything was perfect, until it wasn’t.

Things were okay in elementary school. He was easily excitable but for the most part everyone overlooked it. It wasn’t until middle and high school that his grades started falling enough that his parents took notice.

Can you really be diagnosed with ADHD if your parents refuse to acknowledge it? The general feeling with Mother and Father Logan was that if we don’t say tell anyone, it’s not real, so Danny continued to struggle in school, being forced to listen to angry and aggressive tutors most of his life.

When he got into college, he struggled more. His parents hired Darcy (years younger than him) to help him stay on track and even then he graduated a year later than he was supposed to.

And when he walked out of that building with his business degree? Well he might as well have burnt it for the look of horror in his parents eyes when he announced he was moving out of their house, into an apartment, and would be working as a bartender for the time being.

The tides changed after that. Danny, no longer the prized pony in the race, was turned into the family’s black sheep. All focus turned to making sure Dani was going to fulfill their dreams of being the perfect golden girl. And she’s done a great job of it, really, and her big brother is proud. But ever since his family basically turned their backs on him, their relationship has been incredibly strained.

But now she’s missing. She’s missing and all Danny can think about is that one time she got lost in the antique shop and he found her crying amongst the crystal glasses, terrified that if she moved something might break and their mother would yell. All he can think about is how she clutched onto his shirt and told him she didn’t think he would find her.

All he can think about is what he said after that, the promise he made at 13 years old that shouldn’t feel like a burden on his shoulders 12 years later.

“Dani, I’m your big brother. I promise that I’ll always find you.”

WANTED CONNECTIONS PAGE

#mysteryintro #about

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littlemisslipbalm · 4 years

Text

Little Border Town

Summary: It begins with a man and a woman, as it always seems to. One lives in France and the other lives in Italy, technically, but they’re also neighbors. Various issues arise between these two and they can’t ever seem to see eye to eye on anything. Will they ever move past their petty fighting or is the little town they live in doomed to only gossip about what Harry and Y/N are fighting about today?

AKA: Harry and Y/N are neighbors that fight all the time, the whole town wants to know when they’ll just fuck.

Featuring italrry as well as mustachrry! and running italrry... I hope y’all like! this is just part one, so much more is in store so pls let me know what you think :) lots of love - first fic that’s not named from a quote said in the story I’m shook!! the growth, the range...she has it apparently! side note: i had to change the gif from italrry/mustachrry bc something is whack with the formatting and either the keep reading or the title keeps disappearing so i tried some stuff to resolve it *sobbing*

Word Count: 8.5k | Warnings: swearing, mentions of relatives death, bickering, otherwise tame for now?

Pt. 2

There’s a little town that straddles the border between Italy and France. It’s just a little ways from Nice on the French side and Ventimiglia on the Italian side. The population is rather small and the tourists who come are usually either returners or are very very lost. One street you’re in France and the next you’re in Italy. It can be confusing to newcomers, but the locals love it -- for the most part. These streets are easily delineating as French or Italian by the little country flags that hang above all the shops or in the windows.

It’s a coastal town with cobblestone everywhere and bright painted buildings. The water is a soft blue and the wind barely ever brings any waves greater than a foot high. There’s a shop for everything and it seems to be frozen in the past from the outside, thankfully if you step into the tiny bed and breakfast there is wifi. The sun almost always shines down on this sweet piece of paradise, the winter does however bring gusting winds and thunderstorms. Those storms rattle the little town and afterwards you’ll find the residents picking up the pieces that have fallen off the shops.

Now, this little border town, with its streets separated by French and Italian customs, well almost all of them, it seems imperative to mention. There, in the exact middle of the little town, is one street that is split down the middle, half in France and half in Italy. The locals from the French and the Italian sides love that street the most because it has this certain dynamic spark of change that brings them together, makes them unique. Except for two locals that seemingly hate this street. These two locals aren’t actually true locals either. They both moved there a couple years ago.

Harry, from the Italian side, owns the shoemaker and repair shop. He hailed from England and moved to the little town when his great uncle, Joe, had sent him a letter pleading for him to take over his shop so that he could retire. Harry, ever the traveler, hopped on the next flight out to Italy and then traversed by train and bus until he reached his Joe’s home. Like most of the shops, there was a living space above the shop area. Harry lived there with Joe until he passed away a few years back leaving Harry to tend the store alone. He didn’t mind too much, being left there alone. He had always loved Italy and to get to live in the countryside in a little cobblestone town and own a shop was a dream come true. After living there for two years, he had bought a sailboat that he would take out when the shop was closed. He also had bought himself a motorcycle that he would ride to the next greatest city if he was ever in dire need of more of a nightlife as a 26 year old. He loved it, his own slice of paradise… except for his thorn in his side.

Y/N, from the French side, owns the bookstore, which carries lots of vintage books and records. She had moved there after college. In school, she had studied French and taken a year abroad in Paris and had traveled down to Nice for a month. While in Nice she had made a few friends and one of them had come from the little border town. They had insisted they all go there for a weekend. When Y/N stepped foot onto the street she now lived on a few years before, she fell in love. Seeing the little Italian and French flags in the windows and potted plants with a view of the sea had been so endearing to her.

She was drawn to the bookshop and had chatted up the old French woman who ran it. The woman had reminded Y/N of someone but she couldn’t quite place her finger on it. It was strange for her because she often found these connections with older people, she felt like she had known this woman her whole life. Y/N went back into the store the next two days she was there to talk to the woman again, Marie, she had learned. Before she left the little town she left her number with Marie and kept in some contact with her. After about a year though, their communication fell off. Y/N was sad but understood that life can be busy for people and that she obviously wasn’t the most important woman in the little border town bookkeeper’s life. Or so she thought. In the middle of the summer after she graduated college, Y/N was backpacking through Iceland and got a call from who she assumed was Marie. She was ecstatic and answered the call immediately. Sadly, it wasn’t Marie, instead a friend who had been given her will to execute. In her will she had left Y/N the bookshop. Her reasoning was similar to why Y/N had liked Marie so much, she said that Y/N had reminded her of her sister who had died unexpectedly in her teenage years. Being so far from home at the time and completely consumed with love and loss, Y/N had agreed to take over the shop without any hesitation.

She got home and informed her parents of her choice and moved to the little border town as soon as she could. She lived in the little area above the shop that Marie had also gifted to her and she tended the shop downstairs. The living area hadn’t really been cleaned out and Y/N had found an old collection of vinyls in the corner of the bedroom. As much as she wanted to keep them to herself, she thought it would be a good addition to the shop and had made a section for records in memory of Marie. She loved France and the coast, she bought a little car and would drive to Nice every so often or to the more sandy beaches along the French coast. It was quiet and different from the life she had maybe expected, but taking over a bookshop because a kind stranger had gifted it to you as one of their dying wishes wasn’t something Y/N could ever turn down. Her soul was too sweet. At least it was for most people, not for her neighbor though.

Her neighbor was the shoemaker, Harry. Their shops lived against one another even though he was on the Italian side and she was on the French. They were located exactly at the split between France and Italy. With less than a foot between the buildings, they saw a lot of each other. On their first interaction, Y/N had seen too much of her neighbor, meaning she had seen all of him. Their shops were similar to track homes, meaning they were built completely the same only mirrored. This meant that the windows of their bedrooms matched up exactly, she wondered who had thought that was a good idea after her first night. When Y/N had first moved in it was August, she left her window open and without the shade down to let as much fresh cool air in as possible. With her jet lag, she had found herself wide awake at about three am. Pacing around her room in the pink silk tank dress she had decided to sleep in, her eyes froze on her window - or rather, who she saw through her window. The light from her room and the moon were strong enough to illuminate the tanned and tattooed skin of the naked man in the room next to her. He held a bowl in his large hands that he seemed to be spooning cereal into his mouth from.

His half-lidded eyes flickered to the light coming from the place next door. The bookshop had been closed all summer and no one had been living in the upper area for a little longer than that so he had gotten into the habit of leaving his window open. He was half drunk after stumbling his way home from the tiny bar down the street. He had decided a naked cereal run would be a good idea to tide over his cravings. But upon seeing the girl wearing lingerie a mere two feet away from him, separated by the screens on their open windows, he realized that wasn’t actually true. His eyes widened only slightly as he saw her, his drunkenness allowing him to keep his blushing to a minimum. His drunken confidence kept him from covering himself as he lifted a single brow and made a salute with his spoon hand before going back to his bed.

She stayed at the window for a moment after the naked man disappeared and then quickly ran back to her bed. She shut off her light and tried not to think about everything she had seen. She tried to not think about his toned arms that flexed as he moved around his food, or the tattoos that lined every part of his body (the tiger and ferns seared into her mind specifically), or his tousled chestnut hair, or his searing green eyes, or the full mustache that held a little milk from his cereal. She tried, she really did. But how was she supposed to face her neighbor ever again after that. Maybe he wasn’t her neighbor, she reasoned, maybe he was an acquaintance her neighbor had just spent the night with. That wouldn’t be better! Her hands grabbed her other pillow and shoved it over her face trying to force herself to go to bed.

The next day, she had been working out front of the bookshop, beginning to repaint the windowsills of the shop with some navy paint she had found in the back to give it an updated look. It was early and she hadn’t expected to see anyone at all. Her jet lag still ailed her and caused her to be up bright and early. This was her second run in with the shoemaker, this time though, both to her dismay and joy, he was fully clothed. He wasn’t watching where he was going and almost toppled the both of them over as he left his store front, locked the door behind him, and then set off down the street. His large body, covered in short black running shorts and a mesh grey tank top, bumped into her almost immediately. He was still fiddling with his music on his phone as he began his run. She jumped back and dropped the paintbrush from her hand. She yelped as his body collided with hers and he stopped in his tracks. His eyes scanned her and took in the light wash cuffed jeans and moss ribbed tank top she was wearing. They widened when he recognized her face, the expression of shock similar to that of last night when she had seen him in his bedroom. He smirked and took out one of his earbuds. She grabbed her paintbrush from the ground as he extended his hand to her.

“I’m Harry,” his hand is greeted with hers. He speaks to her in English and she decides it’s probably best to follow along with whatever someone else began with. She worried that she’d run into a lot of Italians who didn’t know French or English and she’d have some trouble. His eyes flicker to the bits of blue already littered on her hands and in her hair.

“Y/N.” She nods, avoiding eye contact with the man she had already seen too much of. At least he’s not your neighbor’s lover, he’s just your neighbor. She also notices how he doesn’t apologize for running into her.

“You were spying on me last night,” his hand returns to his side and his smile quirks up again as he watches her face flush. His nicely groomed mustache twitches, trying to contain his laughter.

“I was not!” She finally looks up at the taller man and takes in his tanned face that is even more attractive in the morning light and up so close. The hat he wears is funny, a blue trucker’s hat that read “If you ain’t a fisherman, you ain’t shit!”, and she would laugh if she couldn’t already tell he was going to be extremely annoying.

His smirk continues and he barks out a laugh. He removes his sunglasses to really look at her now. “It’s alright, I work hard for this,” he gestures to his body, “glad someone appreciates it. Just means I’ll need to be installing a shade now, I guess.”

“You don’t have a shade and you walk around your room naked?” She ignores his first bit of conversation. She can’t think about his body or how it had looked last night. She sets down her paintbrush and folds her arms across her chest, trying to figure the man in front of her out.

“No… but it’s not all my fault. You had your shade open too! Who’s willingly up at that time of night anyway? I was just fixing myself a snack after the pub.” He raises his brows triumphantly at her, feeling confident that he has gotten the upperhand in the conversation.

She narrows her eyes at him as she finally registers that his accent isn’t Italian or French. He’s British and she wonders what he’s done to get himself in this little border town. He also seems to own the shop beside her since he locked the door behind him. He was peculiar, but she couldn’t dwell on what she thought about him since he had just accused her of being a peeping tom.

“Someone is up at that hour because she just moved and has terrible jet lag and can’t sleep. The place has been completely closed up for months and I needed to get as much cool air in as possible before the hot day. That’s why I was up and that’s why my shade wasn’t down.” She stands up straighter and rolls her eyes at him, muttering something in French to herself about annoying men. She smiles to herself when Harry doesn’t seem to understand. He obviously can tell she said something, but he doesn’t know exactly what. He could understand a good bit of French and he could speak some, but if someone spoke quickly and quietly, like she had just done, he wouldn’t be able to make it out. He figured it was something rude, though, with the way she sounds and begins to turn from him.

“Are you here to stay?”

“Yes.”

“Well, welcome to the best place in the world. It was so nice, two countries couldn’t decide who got to keep it and decided to split it.”

His arm sweeps out around him, gesturing to the street around him. She smiles up at him before following his arms movement. His arm had more tattoos than she had realized from her eyeful last night. She noticed the intricacies of all the black ink and again she had a million questions that she had to keep to herself. He was arrogant, conceited, impatient and a little bit odd and she knew all of this after barely one conversation. At least they could agree on one thing, they loved this town.

He looked back at her after scanning the street and saw her smiling in wonderment at everything around her. This brought a fleeting genuine smile to his face, knowing she was happy to be there. He had known Marie and was sad to see her go less than a year after his great uncle. He had always thought that Marie and Joe were both secretly pining over each other. Constantly stopping into each other’s shops and waving from their windows at each other, but Joe had always shaken his head at Harry when he mentioned it.

His smile faded when her eyes came back to his fac face face. Her smile disappeared as well. “Right, so, see you around…?” He said, already forgetting her name. She scoffs when she realizes what happened and then repeats her name. He nods curtly before replacing his sunglasses and single airpod and starts running again. She calls after him, “Thanks for the apology!” and then mutters to herself, “le con” knowing she shouldn’t shout that down the street where other people speak French. He doesn’t hear any part of it, his music up high enough to drown out the sounds of the world.

Y/N settled into the bookshop fairly easily, but she never failed to mention how unhelpful Harry had been:

“Yes, well, it’s been going pretty good...except for this one man. Well, I’d hardly call him a man - a boy. My neighbor, actually, he owns the shoe shop...no, nevermind that, he practically made it his mission to make my move the hardest thing in the world...Harry -- yes, that’s his name, Mama… well I don’t know, It’s just Harry. - it doesn’t matter! He’s been in my way at every turn… yes, both physically and metaphorically...I’m not kidding! And I’m not being dramatic… Well, It was nice talking to you. Love you, talk soon.”

That was her first telephone conversation with her mother since arriving in the little town. Maybe ten days after she arrived. Naturally, she had it in the downstairs area of her home, the bookstore. And naturally, Harry had wandered in, to discuss one of their shared planters, and overheard her entire side of the conversation and gathered the rest from his own imagination. When she had laid eyes on him after setting down her phone, she rolled her eyes at the smirking Chesire cat look on his face.

“You would be the kind of man to eavesdrop, hm?” She restacked a group of books that were already in order.

“Thought I was a boy?” his smirk remained on his face. He strided closer to the counter she stood behind.

“Like I said...What can I help you with?” Her voice drips with venom as she finally turns her eyes to look at Harry. His smirk still remains on his face now that she is making eye contact with him. He’s clad in a t-shirt that has some baseball team on it with burgundy corduroy flared jeans. She notices the strain of the shirt over his chest and biceps and avoids the scoff of how vain he must be to keep himself in that good of shape for tending a shoe store in the South of France, or rather Northern Italy…

“Right, Thought I’d pop in and tell you that one of our planters is shared. So you’ll have to talk to me before replanting anything. I noticed you coming in with tulips the other day.”

“The ones on the front of the street?” He nods as her head turns to glance out the front window. “Why the hell do we share a planter?”

“Because, my late great Uncle Joe and Marie fancied each other.” Her eyes went wide at his words, trying to think of Marie having a crush on someone. “They were never together, never admitted the fancying, but they always did the planters together. They each had one of their own and then bought the third together, said it made sense to make the shops look nice...I know it was just so they had more to tend to - together.”

She hums, taking in everything that he said and how his eyes shine slightly just at the mention of his uncle. His voice had perked at the story he had just spun for her and she smiles thinking about the idea of love and loving someone so much that you’re content with simply planting flowers together. It seemed really old-fashioned to her, but it also brought even more charm to the town she now called home. Romance was still alive here, or so she hoped.

“Okay, I’ll make sure to let you know when I’ve decided what flowers I want to put in there.” She turns around, assuming the end of the conversation and getting back to work. She doesn’t really find a reason to entertain Harry anymore than necessary. Like she told her mother, he was constantly in her way or being naked in his room, something she had chosen to leave out of her conversation with her mom.

“You’ve misunderstood me. Maybe my English is getting rusty, I rarely speak it since everyone else knows Italian.” She flips around at his rude comment, eyes alight with fire once again. “If you want to replant anything, which I don’t understand why you would, the flowers I put are wonderful, we’ll have to discuss it. It’s not you just telling me you’ll be doing it. We own it equally and I won’t let you bulldoze my hard work.”

“On a planter?!”

She sticks on a sickly sweet smile as she tries to refrain from laughing. “I guess the countryside really can make some people enjoy the simpler things in life…” With that she walks to the back of the shop, leaving the stunned Harry to see himself out of it. When the little bell rings, her stifled laughter can be heard among the books.

It doesn’t matter what it is, Harry and Y/N are able to make a fuss about anything and the whole street, if not the whole town, had quickly figured that out. No one had a problem with Y/N, they welcomed her with open arms. Marie had told the entire French side and a good amount of the Italian side how wonderful and tenacious she was. How Y/N reminded Marie of her sister and upon meeting her, many agreed. But the first time Harry and Y/N had a public row, at the bakery in the center of town, on the French side, everyone was quick to realize that there was bound to be trouble between the two. It was a stark contrast to the loving comments and endearing looks the previous owners had always engaged in when they were still alive. This fight was maybe a few days after the planter business and Y/N had tried in the following days to get him to change the planters to no avail so she was in an especially pissed off mood towards Harry.

“Could you be taking any longer?” Y/N rolled her eyes as she stood behind her tall neighbor, her foot impatiently tapping a beat against the stone floor.

Harry stood hunched in front of the display case, scanning for exactly what he wanted and desperately trying to remember what he had come here for. He was a bit more dressed up that day, his mother had been coming to visit him for the first time in a while and he wanted to look nice and have a special treat for her when she arrived. His trousers were a deep navy that matched the navy of the stripes on his sweater vest, the blue pinstripes of the button down underneath was a slightly lighter shade, but blue nonetheless. He had rolled up his sleeves past his elbows, showing off his various tattoos and sinewy arms. As his eyes scanned over the case again, he ran through his mental list and bit at his lip, knowing he was forgetting something. He barely even heard her drawl out her insult, the tapping of her foot eventually getting his attention due to its faltering.

She straightened upright from her hip jutted position when he didn’t even bite at her unkind words. Her foot stopping its melody. As she was about to give another go, Harry turned around and she gave him her full look of displeasure.

“Country life requires a bit of patience. I doubt you’ve ever had to wait your turn in your life, but you’ll have to get used to it here.”

Her eyes roll instinctively. She noticed that they seemed to do it just at the mention of his name or the sound of his voice. She had always thought herself a lover of the British accent, citing Downton Abbey and various famous musicians - Freddie Mercury, George Harrison, Elton John, etc. - as members of that little island who were formative to her identity, loving them for their talents as well as their accent. Yet with Harry’s deep meandering British voice, she found herself wishing to be anywhere but in its presence. She found that he took so long to ever get out an actual full thought and when he did it was barely coherent. He also never failed to let his sarcasm or smugness drip into his tone, causing her to audibly be aware of the smirk on his face even if she couldn’t see it. The image flashing across her mind no matter what.

“You’ll have to let me know when you’ll be here again…” His eyebrows quirk at her odd response and it’s her turn to smirk up at him. She’s already satisfied with her quip even though she’s only gotten half of it out. His mouth opens to question her, but she finishes her thought. “That is, so I can plan around you. If I have to alot a whole day to the boulangerie just waiting for you… I’ll never get settled.”

Harry scoffs and a fleeting expression of actual offense flashes across his features before turning around to finish his order. The others in line and the worker are all equally wide eyed and she hears some hushed whispering behind her, but it’s in Italian so she can’t make it out. The worker eyes Y/N as she rings up the rest of Harry’s chosen items. The worker smiles softly at Harry, feeling for the man she had known long enough to know that he wasn’t as rude as he was being with Y/N. She was also taken aback at Y/N’s response, but hadn’t seen her be rude otherwise so she had to assume it simply had something to do with the man.

When Harry is all set, he turns to leave and pass Y/N again. His eyes narrow and his words once again are turned nasty. “I wouldn’t mind if you never got settled,” he said before muttering something in Italian under his breath and leaving the store. She assumed it to be nasty as she eyed the couple behind her giggling, before walking to talk with the worker.

She shook her head trying to rid herself of her cold exterior that she kept having to conjure up for Harry. Now smiling, she asks for her items in French, happy to be speaking the language that brought her so much joy rather than English which seemed to be reserved only for Harry now. She hadn’t gone to the Italian side very much yet and the people she had met over there so far had spoken French to her once she had introduced herself.

As the worker finished with Y/N’s order, she asked in a hushed tone, in French, “How do you know Mr. Styles?”

“Harry?” Y/N guessed, not actually knowing Harry’s last name until now. The girl behind the counter smiles quickly before nodding. “Mon voison” she sighs and contains the accompanying eye roll when she sees the girl blush at the idea of being neighbors with Harry. “He’s a brat,” she continues and the girl laughs lightly before saying, “I think he’s rather sweet… not bad to look at either.” She looks out the window of the shop wistfully, like Harry’s still there and Y/N whips her head around, afraid he knew that she was talking about him. Thankfully, he was gone and Y/N laughs to herself when she feels the anxiety that had gripped her for a moment dissipates. Shaking her head at the girl, she grabs her items and change from her before making a break for the door.

It was soon after that incident that Harry and Y/N’s squabbles became notorious throughout the little town. Drama wasn’t common there and any sort of excitement was the talk of the town. It made sense that this was snapped up by the gossipers from the French and Italian sides alike.

Anne, Harry’s mother, was stopped the next day, when she was out for coffee and Harry was still at the shop, and was asked why her son was so angry at the new bookshop owner. She thought it made sense for her to drop into the bookshop next to her son’s shop after hearing that. Walking into the shop, she was greeted with the smell of lavender and the sweet melody of a love song. She immediately smiled at the charm of the bookstore, feeling like there was a bit more life in it then there had been the last time she had come in. Harry had told her that Marie had passed, but not that someone new had taken over and she was eager to meet them, especially now that she had been told about the town gossip.

A messy haired, but bright eyed Y/N came trotting out of the bookshelves at the sound of the door opening. A smile beamed on her face when she saw the mature brunette woman standing just inside the doorway. “Bonjour! Bienvenue!” She greets as she smooths some of her unkempt hair. Y/N had been digging around the back shelves of the store searching for a specific book one of her other customers had asked about yesterday. And much to her dismay, she wasn’t being very successful. When the woman only says “Bonjour” and makes no inclination that she plans to speak more French, Y/N believes it’s safe to assume she’s a tourist and switches to English. “Can I help you?”

Anne laughs happily to hear English and walks over to the counter that Y/N had walked behind. “Yes, Hi! My son lives here and I’ve just come to visit him. He didn’t tell me someone had taken over Marie’s shop.” Y/N perks at the name of Marie and she smiles sincerely at the woman now. Not quite a tourist, yet not quite a local, she noted for herself.

“Yeah, I’m Y/N. I was a friend of Marie’s, so to say, and she left me the place.” Pausing, Y/N turns over the vinyl that had just finished side A, and then returns to her place at the counter. “I’m still really new, but it’s a small town. I don’t know of many other people who weren’t born here who live here, though, who’s your son?” She rests her elbows on the counter and leans on them while staring at the kind woman. She had noticed the British accent, but hadn’t connected the dots yet. It wasn’t uncommon for people to have a British accent when they spoke English so it didn’t necessarily mean she was from England. But maybe Y/N should have noticed the light eyes and brown hair, maybe that should have been an indicator as well. Or the way she had said ‘my son’ and nodded in the way of the shoe shop. But no matter what, it came as a shock when the woman with the coffee in hand said what she said next.

“My son is your neighbor! He runs the shoe repair shop. His great uncle, my ex-husband’s uncle, left it to him a couple years ago.” Y/N’s eyes widen so much so that she has to blink a few times to assure herself they haven’t popped out of her head.

“Harry...is your son?” She speaks slowly and Anne smiles at the girl. She nods and Y/N nods back, taking the news in. He has a mother...she guessed she should have expected that. It had been unlikely that her theory of him being sent straight from hell to make her life just like it was accurate.

“Here you are mum! What are you doin’ in here?” Harry rushes through the door when he sees his mother inside from the window. Y/N rolls her eyes on cue, but still notices the soft adoring look on his face while he gazes at his mother. She supposes she can concede that he isn’t the spawn of satan now. His look hardens when he turns to Y/N, who has straightened up to her full height upon his arrival.

“I was just meeting the new bookshop owner, Y/N!” She looks between Harry and Y/N. “What’s this about you being angry with her?” She asks more to Harry, but Y/N hears easily. Harry’s eyes flash at Y/N and her eyes widen once again, but shrugs to Harry, having no idea where his mother had gotten that idea.

“What did you say-”

“I didn’t say anything! I’d just realized she was your mother right before you walked in!”

“It’s true. Someone said something about it to me at the coffee shop. Of course, I didn’t even know the book shop even had a new owner, so I decided to come by.”

“It’s nothing, mum,” Harry insists.

“Harry and I...we just don’t exactly see eye to eye. But, I’m sure we’ll warm up to each other eventually,” she easily lies through her teeth, knowing she really couldn’t see herself ever being friends with this prick. “Feel free to look around the shop, it’s not exactly to my liking yet, but then again, I am just getting settled. Otherwise, you two should enjoy your time together. I’m sure it’s not often you can make the time to journey all the way out here.” She smiles sweetly at Anne, choosing to ignore Harry completely.

“Thank you, Y/N. Harry can be an acquired taste for some, but just below that exterior of his, he’s a giant softy.” Harry groans at his words, Y/N’s smile only grew.

“Au revoir! Good Day!” She calls when they leave the shop rather swiftly. It seemed to her that Harry was desperate to get his mother out of the shop as soon as possible, while Anne was happy to browse and look at what had been changed in the shop.

Their early unhappy encounters were now months ago. But encounters of a similar caliber happened at least once a week. It’s hard to avoid a neighbor who you seem to find anything they do to be an annoyance, even their existence. They saw each other around town and at their shops and in their bedrooms. Even though they didn’t particularly like each other, hated was actually the correct word, the drawing of the shades was a near impossible task with the heat that plagued the little town between August and Mid-October.

They had fought over who could leave their shade open and who couldn’t because Harry believed only one of them had to close it to maintain privacy but then he wouldn’t settle on an agreement on taking turns closing shades. Y/N argued that they could both leave them open if he would agree to stop walking around his room naked all the time, but he refused that as well, at first. He conceded after a week of having his shade drawn that he would wear boxers. Therefore, practically every night, Y/N and Harry would see each other before bed since they actually seemed to have the same sleep habits. Sometimes she would have to yell at him to close his window if he came home with a guest and he would yell at her to turn off her light if she was reading or watching television in bed too late.

Thankfully, it was approaching the end of October and the weather would begin to change. There wouldn’t be a reason to have the window or shade open and they at least wouldn’t have to see each other right before bed.

This morning, Y/N is up early, she found it amazing to wake up early here, something she had never done before this little border town. It was teaching her new things about herself and changing her, but she liked it. In deep forest green flared pants and a long sleeved rainbow striped shirt, Y/N is watering the planters in front of her shop as well as the little ones attached below the windows. It was always a little cool in the mornings, but she had checked her weather app and seen that it was actually going to be the first cold day of the season. The first cold day since she had arrived actually. As much as she liked the sun, she also loved fall and winter, so she was excited to experience them for the first time in the little border town.

She smiles to herself as she moves around gracefully. In her back pocket, her music plays softly, Paul Simon sings lovingly to her. She hums along and moves to deal with the planter at the edge of the sidewalk. But she’s foiled by a man she seems to think about far too much for how much she says she dislikes him. Harry jogs back a half step upon realizing he has run into her yet again. One would assume that one of them would either change their routine or know to step out of the way or really just be a little bit more aware of their surroundings with how many times this has happened since Y/N’s arrival. Of course, their stubborn personalities actually require them to be unrelenting in this area of their lives as well. Much like the shade debate, the who was in the way of who debate is still majorly undecided.

“Oi!” He looks down at his shirt and it has a substantial wet spot on it. She had spilled some of the watering can’s contents.

“Excuse you!” She says simultaneously, not realizing she’d gotten water on him.

“I’m not the one who just threw water on someone.”

“Neither am I. You ran into me, it’s not my fault you never look where you’re going.”

“You’re just always in my way. This has been my route for ages, I’m not going to change it just because you moved in next door.” His hands fly around in annoyance and anger.

“You’re unbelievable!”

“Well! I can’t stand you!

“Clearly!” “Cleary.” They’re both huffing out insults that don’t seem to really be going anywhere. Harry has straightened his posture for once and she actually finds his true height slightly intimidating. They both breath for a moment, finding no other words to fill the tranquil morning silence that they had just disturbed.

“Are we ever going to have a conversation where we’re not at each other’s throats?” She sighs, feeling upset that the nice Fall day was suddenly ruined for the rest of time just because of this.The bickering with Harry was tedious and she couldn’t keep going like this. Being in a completely new place and running a small business was hard enough as it is. Something snapped in her just then, hoping to squash a part of her life that is causing her stress and exhaustion.

Harry’s expression falters, his eyes losing that glint of angered passion for a moment, he wasn’t expecting that response. It wasn’t necessarily mean, it was more like she was resigned. Simply done with the conversation. He felt his anger and annoyance slip away rather quickly at her question. She sees his mustache twitch, which she realized happened when he was either amused or confused. She didn’t think what she said was funny so she presumed he wasn’t sure what to make of what she had just said. Her head tilts to the side and waits for his response. Her watering can falls to her side now, making herself a little more comfortable and leaving only a small amount of air between her and Harry.

“Tired out already? Thought you were more of a competitor than that.” He mirrors her by tilting his head as well.

“I didn’t realize we were in any sort of competition.” She stepped forward and straightened her posture a little, feeling challenged by the tone he had taken. She may have a kind and soft exterior for most, but she was nothing if not fierce in her core. She was an Aries afterall. She wondered what Harry might be, she wasn’t super into astrology, but she was sure that he wasn’t an Aries. Aries were fiery and passionate and were very unwilling to admit defeat, so he had just hit the exact right note to keep her from squashing their now long-standing quarrel.

“We’re not. I just thought I had met my match, guess I was wrong.”

He looks off in the distance to be nonchalant, like he wasn’t trying to bait her even if that’s exactly what he was going for. Sure, he found her annoying, for whatever reason. But he had realized when she had posed the question, that he hadn’t had this much excitement in a while. Nothing and no one really challenged him in the little border town, his work was easy enough, money wasn’t tight, friends were easily made, and partners for the night were easy to find. He didn’t dislike any of those facts, truly, he counted himself lucky and was overjoyed that he lived there. But the verbal sparring he engaged in with Y/N fulfilled a need he hadn’t realized was going unsatisfied. He would never admit it, but she was often a highlight of his day. Getting into a little quarrel with her brought a smile to his face when he recalled it later. The bird she had started to flip him before bed made him genuinely laugh. He liked it, so when she seemed to want it to end, he did what he knew would make her change her mind. Tease her.

“I see...bonne journée, cul.” She decided to bid him farewell, knowing he didn’t plan on apologizing any time soon. She turned her body from him and Harry understood enough French that she had ended the conversation with a “good day”. He also knew that she had called him an “ass” as well. His brows raised for a moment at the insult before giving a flicked salute in her direction and jogging off for his morning run.

For some reason, after a moment of knowing Harry had gone she glanced up in his direction and watched his retreating figure. And for some reason she found herself looking back down at the flowers and smiling to herself. Somewhere inside her she was glad Harry hadn’t given into her veiled request to stop fighting. It was a strange sensation because as tiring it was to bicker with him, she feared if they stopped then they would stop talking at all and her heart panged at the thought. She didn’t know why and she didn’t care to know why either.

The bell of the book shop chimes and Y/N pops up from behind the counter. She had been crouched out of sight trying to organize the books of notes on customers Marie had left that Y/N had only just found. She hadn’t realized the cabinet existed in the counter so when she accidentally slid it open she was a little taken aback. Still, she was quickly distracted by the new customer. Her cream collared shirt was unbuttoned to where her collarbone and decalotage were on display, some gold medallions hanging around her neck today. Her worn light wash blue jeans were barely visible behind the counter due to her height. In her hair was a classic red bandana, pulling back her hair out of her face save for the strands that worked themselves free on their own accord.

Her smile was wide, happy to see the first customer of the day as she pinched at her shirt to make sure it was in place. Her posture slumped immediately when she realized that her first customer wasn’t a likely customer at all, instead who else but Harry. A mischievous glint in his eyes as he strolled in and right up to the counter. He leaned his large body down to rest his head in his hands and look up at her. He crossed one ankle over his other, getting comfortable as he stared wickedly up at her.

She wet her lips and took a step back. It was her first look at him today, apparently missing him on his morning run. Maybe she should have thought something of that after their encounter yesterday, but she didn’t. Like most days, his trousers were high waisted, Gucci likely - how he afforded them, she had no clue - and his usual shirt had now been accompanied with a striped red, black, and yellow open cardigan. His hair looked wet like he had just taken a shower, most of it was pushed up but a few strands fell over his large forehead. His mustache looked freshly trimmed and the rest of his facial hair had yet to leave any shadow after his obvious shave.

“Harry.” She says definitively, regarding him with even contempt.

“Ice Queen.” He levels, eyes narrowing.

She scoffs immediately. “At least give me something original...or accurate maybe. I may not like you, but ice queen? Hardly.”

He genuinely chuckles at her quick response and nods, agreeing easily with her for once. “You’re right. It was weak, I’ll admit. Feel like you need a nickname though, thought something really rude might upset you.” He smirks cheekily. His agreement doesn’t make her feel like she’s won at all, unsurprisingly.

She rolls her eyes at his comment. “Care to let me know why you’re gracing me with your presence today, Mr. Styles?” Moving around the counter, she begins to walk to the back of the shop, assuming Harry would follow her if he needed to. He apparently did and walked after her after realizing she wasn’t coming back.

He gives a half-laugh, “Yeah, I came in for a new record. I saw you decided to restock them...thought I’d pop in. It’s easier to get them here than order online...Curtain-hater.” He adds the name as an afterthought.

She glances at him from the bookcase she’s standing at, her eyes shifting to meet his. A smile fades into her features as she can’t contain the giggle at his new attempt at a nickname. She then wrinkles her nose, “That isn’t good either, but proficient try, I guess.” She gives him points for actually relating the name to her in some way, but it still doesn’t incite any anger in her which she knows is what he is going for. She probably should question herself why she’s helping Harry to nickname her something rude, but alas, she doesn’t. He nods solemnly, knowing she’s right again. He needs to find a nickname for her and he doesn’t know why, but he’s glad she seems alright with him giving her one, so long as it is fitting.

Her body shifts from the bookcase over to the boxes she had gotten to hold the vinyls. She had a small collection since the place was small overall, but Marie’s old collection had sold successfully so she had restocked afterwards, this time choosing some of her personal favorites.

“I’m not sure of your taste...I know you bought Marie’s Ella Fitzgerald album last time.” She sifts through the records, trying to find something she thought he might want. Like she said, she didn’t know what he liked, but she prided herself on knowing music and as an owner helping a customer, she wanted to please Harry. She knew he liked Ella from his previous purchase and she knew he liked Marvin Gaye in the evenings when he had guests - how very cliche she would add. “I mostly got in 70’s/80’s rock...Elton, Queen -”

“Got any Paul Simon?” Harry cuts her off and she looks at him surprised. Her fingers stopped when she looked up at him, their tips placed on the peaks of the albums covers. “Thought I heard it here the other day?”

Her face perks up at the mention, she loved Paul Simon. “That was on my phone, but I do actually. Well, it’s Simon & Garkunkel. I can order something from just Paul Simon whenever I have to order again if you want?” Their gazes are holding each other’s, her fingers still rubbing over the pointed edges of the two albums she had between her hands. Harry’s watching her and leaning against the table the boxes sit on.

He nods after a moment. “That’d be great.”

“You’ll have to tell me which records of his you already have so I can order something new for you.” She grabs the Simon & Garfunkel album and flips it to Harry so he can look it over.

He regards the Parsley, Sage, Rosemary & Thyme cover reading over the fine print with all the tracks listed on the bottom right. “Thanks,” he mutters out after another moment of silence. It was rarely this quiet between these two, so it was different. “I’ll take it, Shrimp.”

“Oh my god!” She gasps before bursting into a fit of laughter. He had actually made her laugh and his eyes widen at the sound, almost confused that she hadn’t scoffed. Her laughter was far louder now then the half-hearted chuckle she had given earlier, which really was probably just another scoff. This laugh was loud and unbridled, but melodic and fun. In the back of Harry’s mind, he noted that he liked it. The first bullet point on a list that was likely to grow. “That works, just the perfect amount of rude. I love and hate it at the same time.” She finishes before walking back to the front. Harry saunters after her, pleased with himself.

“I’d like to say I wasn’t looking for your approval, but I guess I sorta was,” he ponders out loud as she takes the record back from him to type in the correct spelling into her relatively new computerized system. She twists her mouth to the side of her face to refrain from smiling anymore and then hums. Her eyes flit back up to Harry’s triumphant smile and for once she doesn’t want to slap it off of him.

“People-pleaser…” She prods him easily. His smile falters only slightly, not out of unhappiness, but of borderline jealousy.

“How do you come up with that so easily? It just rolls off the tongue,” He asks seriously, confused by the woman before him. This time she laughs as she hands him back the record and a copy of his receipt.

“I’m well read, that usually helps, but maybe it’s just my intrinsic wit that gives me an edge,” she raises her brows slightly, before beginning to walk off now that their exchange is done. She’s surprised she doesn’t want to rip her hair out after that encounter, but she figures she should simply count her blessings. “Au revoir, trouser-boy!”

He rolls his eyes as he turns on his heel and exits the shop, amused rather than annoyed with the bookkeeper.

enjoy! lmk what you thought :) part 2

#harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fan fic #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you #harry styles fluff #harry styles smut #once the slow burn ends #harry styles angst #harry styles oneshot #harry styles one shot #harry styles imagine #enemies to lovers!harry #enemies to lovers #slow burn #the france italy one is a fever dream au #little border town #not proofread at all

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sylverstorms · 3 years

Text

Miss Fortune x Reader ----Salt-Crusted Heart

For an easier read, head to Ao3.

Another day. Another hunt for a fetter.

Feels like this is your life now, your present and your future. It feels like this war against the ever-spreading mist and Viego will never end. Your days as a trainee Sentinel, where the tough schedule of the Academy was your only problem, seem so far away now it’s like they belong in a dream. Like that was a different you.

And it was, wasn’t it.

That ‘you’ hadn’t ever slashed at anything other than a training dummy. Now you’re out here –with a very dysfunctional crew of lunatics— fighting mist monsters.

Said dysfunctional crew is, once again, arguing amongst themselves on which way you’re supposed to be headed next. Everyone’s got their own opinion and somehow it never matches with anyone else’s. You don’t even know how they manage that.

It takes a few light years for the majority to agree you’re heading to Bilgewater.

By the time you Wayfinder them there, you’re not surprised that all you see is darkness and sickly green mist. Half the world has gone to shit already and you’ve come to terms with that. More or less. Probably less.

“Wow.” you say as you take in the ghostly-looking town ahead of you and the armada of ships at the port below, blocking this side of the island off completely. Not that there’s a lot to block because the place is a ravaged hellhole anyway.

The environment has this wrecked, haunted vibe that would be super interesting to see in a movie with an apocalypse theme. Perhaps not so much on an actualapocalypse, though.

“Likin’ the view?” Graves asks, the corner of his lips sealed over his cigar.

“No, it was more of a ‘this is so much worse than I could have imagined’ type of wow.” you explain.

“It really is.” Riven agrees.

“Funny thing; the mist ain’t changed it all that much.” Graves laughs.

“Hey. Focus.” Lucian chastises. This guy, you’re convinced, is allergic to lightening the mood. He’s also not someone you dare say this to. “See that?” he points at the sea, to the massive ship there, towering over the rest.

You’re so focused on its fine craftsmanship and the little details you keep finding the longer your eye remains on it, you miss his point entirely, at first. Then you blink and look closer –at the thin, telltale trail of green-black smoke floating upwards from its deck.

There’s no mistaking it; a fetter is on that vessel.

“Now, listen up, everybody. Big Ol’ Graves is a legend around these parts, so my name will get us on that beauty. But. People here can be a bit… unfriendly towards new faces.” he begins. “Let’s not walk up there like an attack force and end up riddled with holes, ye?”

“Good idea.” you nod.

“Rookie, Graves, you’re heading up first.” Lucian motions with his chin.

“Bad idea.” you comment, but his skewering glare has you agreeing with the plan the same second.

“Signal if you need help.” Senna adds.

Graves only laughs heartily and grabs your uniform with his large hands, pulling you along. You know you won’t like what you hear when he leans down and whispers to you:

“We won’t have time to signal if they decide we’re not worth listening to but let’s not tell them that, Rook.”

“That’s… just what I needed to hear.” you grimace.

“Ha! Which means you’re goin’ up first. Chances are they won’t instantly shoot your pretty face off.”

“Wait… what about that ‘my name will get us up there, no trouble’?” you ask.

“Hah! That was just to impress Vayne, kiddo. My name is far more likely to get us killed in these parts.” he laughs but you don’t. “Did she look impressed?”

“No.” You shake your head. “No, she didn’t, mate.” Nothing has ever moved Vayne other than when she kills monsters in a particularly violent way.

“Ah, shit. Maybe next time.”

Yeah, if there is a next time.

Your chances aren’t looking good as soon as you step onto that deck and every weapon imaginable is suddenly shifted to you.

…

Graves tells you to put your ‘social skills’ into good use. You are not aware that was one of your talents, so it’s probably more of his bullshit. Either way, death by a thousand bullets gives you a solid motivation to turn the charm on and talk.

“Gentlemen, I’m sure we can all come to an agreement here. No need for all that firepower.” you say, totally not sweating at all underneath your white jacket. “You have something that we need and I’m sure we can negotiate a profitable deal for everyone.”

Jackpot. Bounty hunters want money more than anything. And there is not a sweeter sound to their ears than the promise of wealth. Even if you’re just talking nonsense to save your ass.

“If I could just speak to the captain—”

“The captain is listening.” a commanding voice says from up ahead. Some of the crew members part to let her through…

And.

You see a vision in this nightmare.

The woman that walks forward stands out like fire over water, like stark color on Bilgewater’s salt-washed palette. Maybe it’s the vivid red of her flowing hair, stark against the gold-trimmed black of her hat, or the emerald green of her eyes, or the way she holds herself, a queen on this deck. Whatever the reason, you cannot tear your gaze off of her.

Tongue-tied at the moment, you let Graves do the talking. Big mistake.

The goddess’ visage darkens when she sees your company, who she addresses in a less than pleasant tone: “Look what washed in with the tide. Malcolm Goddamn Graves.” You wouldn’t want that glare directed at you, ever.

“Fortune? Ah, hells, naw.” he curses. “What are ya doin’ here? How did ya get a whole damn fleet a’ warships?”

“A lot has changed since we last met. Fools around here decided to challenge me for control over Bilgewater. I locked this place down until we can resolve this inconvenience.” she says, like cutting off half the freaking island is not a big issue.

The sound of her heels on the wooden floor is downright ominous as she approaches. Her eye scans you lightning-quick, then the entirety of her attention is on Graves. The very next second…

A blunderbuss pistol is pointing right to your face, same as his.

“Whoah.” you gasp.

“What’s Gankplank paying you?!” she demands.

“I ain’t workin’ for that bastard! I ain’t even on speakin’ terms with his orange-eatin’ ass! Ya know that!”

“What I know is you came onto my deck with fancy new equipment and a whole team of mercenaries at your back. You know, just in case you thought you were being subtle, in all that silver and white sticking out in Bilgewater like a sore thumb.” She has a point. “That getup isn’t cheap and there’s only one cretin around here with that kind of coin. Now tell me what he’s planning, of you’ll be smoking that cigar through a new hole.”

“Um –ma’am? He’s telling the truth.” You almost regret speaking up when her piercing stare lands on you. “And we’re not mercenaries. We’re Sentinels of Light.” you add.

“You put on a convincing performance, cutie.” she says.

In any other scenario, a goddess like that calling you cute would make you blush. But the gun still very much in your face makes it difficult to really register the word.

“Like you’ve never heard of the ‘Saltwater Scourge’, ‘Reaver King of the High Seas’… ‘Scum-sucking Hagfish Who Takes All You Ever Cared About’…”

Oh, okay. So, she’s got a screw loose as well.Not surprising considering the company you attract, lately.

“Nope. Kiddo’s right, Sarah. They’re Sentinels, alright.” the very familiar voice of your boss, which normally doesn’t make you happy to hear, has the opposite effect now. Lucian walks up behind you to save the day.

“Lucian?” she asks, finally lowering her weapons. “…this is your crew?”

“Yep. And I’d appreciate it if you kindly refrained from killing them. Need about every gun we can get.” he replies.

“Follow me.” she says. “It seems we have a lot to discuss.”

…

Captain Fortune does not drive an easy bargain.

From what you hear later, she’s given Lucian a real hard time with negotiations. And even now, she’s the one who holds all the cards.

If you are to defeat Viego and make it clear to Bilgewater it was her who made it possible, she is willing to trade with the fetter and even let you stay on her ship in the meantime. Otherwise, if she gets the feeling it’s him who gains ground and holds the power in this place, you’re basically screwed.

The others are uneasy. They’ve suggested multiple times you steal the fetter from Fortune and dash for your lives after. Thing is, with how close she keeps that relic, that plan is looking impossible.

Which brings you to where you are right now, all the Sentinels and Miss Fortune gathered around the same map, planning your next action.

“Yes, but if I help you get there, what’s in it for me?” she asks.

And really, you don’t have anything to offer her in return. Even Lucian looks to Senna for help. Who, in turn, looks at you.

Why do they keep doing that? What have you done to convince these people you are good at talking? Especially to women like the captain.

“How about the… moral reward of helping save people from these monsters?” you suggest.

Her green eyes –and holy shit are they green— look at you like she wants to both scoff and laugh sardonically. “Tell me that is a joke.”

“It –it really isn’t.” you reply.

She huffs. “Look. I’m sure you’re all nice people. But nice people here get their throats cut.” She motions with her hand. “The cutthroats get the spoils. That’s how it works. I only care about the spoils.” she states. “So, if you want things from me and my crew, you need to make it worth our time.”

Their time sure isn’t cheap.

You know you don’t have anything at Headquarters with the kind of value she’s looking for. Definitely no coin and no gold for her services. But. You’ve heard multiple times during classes that the materials the Sentinel outfits are weaved from are extremely durable and therefore, extremely desirable.

“Would you and your crew be interested in a wardrobe overhaul?” you ask. All eyes are on you, but hers are the most intense. “Every prestigious fleet has to look the part, no? Plus, these clothes…” you say, grabbing the nearest knife and dragging it across your sleeve. The fabric is not so much as scratched. “…are pretty cool.” you tell her.

Miss Fortune leans back in her captain’s chair with a pretty smile painted on her –very attractive— lips.

“Now you’re talking my language, cutie. I’m sure we can work something out.”

…

On one hand, you have Gwen sewing day and night –your fault, you feel bad for it— while the rest of you handle the fighting. On the other, you do have a ship taking you wherever you need and making your job of clearing the darkness ten times faster.

Even Lucian has given you a pat on the back for that one. That was certainly unexpected.

“We need Fortune to take us here.” Senna points on the map. “Rookie, you go tell her.”

You almost choke on your water. “Why me?” you ask.

“Because you’re finally making yourself useful.” Lucian replies. Ouch.

“I’ve been very useful from the start!” you argue. The others look amongst themselves. “Hey!”

“I mean… points for effort.” Diana comments.

“Moral support is useful, I agree.” Riven smirks at you.

‘Asshole’ you mouth, rising from your seat. Her grin only widens.

You send them a narrowed, unimpressed look over your shoulder on your way out. Some of the crew members that see you walking towards the captain’s cabin whistle your way. You’re sure there’s tons of colorful comments behind your back but you have bigger things to worry about.

Like… the way a certain redhead looks leaned back in her plush chair, a queen on her throne, toying with a gold coin that flips over her nimble fingers with effortless ease. Focus on the mission. The mission, I say. Oh, Gods…

“I love how they send you in to ask for extra.” she says. “So. Are you the silver tongue of the group?” There’s something in her little smirk and the way she says ‘tongue’ that gets to you, but that’s probably just your vivid imagination.

That and the months you’ve spent without any outlet for your stress other than fighting, on top of more fighting.

“No, the others are just that terrible at basic social interactions.” It’s the truth.

Fortune gives a small chuckle. “Let’s see how good you are, then, Sentinel.”

You pleadwith your hopeless lesbian brain not to fry on the spot. “We sort of need you to get us further than discussed. While hoping that… the scenic route will be its own reward?”

“Cute.”

“Does that mean you’ll do it?” you perk up.

“No.”

“I’ll send Lucian here next time so he can bore you to death until you agree.” You never claimed to be above blackmail.

“A bold statement.” she replies. “Tell you what. If you demolish a few of my enemies’ ships during your hunt for the mist things, then deal.”

Sentinels aren’t supposed to do that. And if you tell Lucian, that will be his exact answer. You can already hear his unpleasant voice in your head. However, you’ve already figured out the world doesn’t work by the Sentinel Code, so…

“Accidents do happen on the battlefield.” you say.

Sarah gives you that slow smile that makes a certain part of you feel hot under your outfit. “And don’t bring any of the others in here to negotiate. I’d rather look at your pretty face.”

Uh.

Um.

By the time you exit the cabin, all you can think is, what just happened?

…

Combat is a rush, sometimes. As is knowing you’re getting stronger and faster by the day. You still don’t hold a candle to the rest of your group, but you can finally say you’re helping them out.

Being further up in the enemy’s face, though, is also petrifying. You see a twisted reflection of yourself in every mist wraith’s dead eyes. There are nightmares that come hand-in-hand with the experience… and then there’s physical pain.

You’ve been hurt before. Their talons can slice through even your magic-reinforced outfits. Still, every time feels worse than the last. The laceration you’re currently sporting on your side is burning like the fires of hell.

You’re trying not to scream by the time Riven lowers you onto the deck. Your vision is blurred with sweat and the tears you’re fighting to keep at bay.

“What’s going on here?” you hear Fortune’s voice in your haze.

“Tell me you have a healer on board!” Riven shouts.

“And they can get here fast!” Senna adds.

You’re not sure how much time passes. It feels like light years until someone kneels beside you and starts working on your wound. The healing magic pulls and sears at you. Every muscle in your body is taut with the effort to keep still.

“Isn’t …a healing spell supposed to numb the pain, first?” Diana asks.

“Look, blondie, I’m no professional here, ye? Just picked up a few things from mah old man. If ya wanna criticize, come here and do it yourself.” he answers. And it’s …not the best feeling in the world to hear your healer say that.

“No offense. Just worried for our teammate.” Senna adds. At least one of your bosses cares about your wellbeing.

The other just benches you for the next mission.

…

Out of all the people you expected to come see you while you’re recovering, Sarah Fortune is the last who came to mind. You’re almost shocked mute when the captain comes to sit on the edge of your bed, graceful and fluid as ever. Gorgeous as ever, too, while you’re sure you look pale as a ghost, eyes sunken as a shipwreck.

“Hey, Rookie.” she greets.

“Ah, great. That nickname’s never gonna come off, is it.” you roll your blue eyes.

“How’s the battle scar?”

“I’m not bleeding all over your fancy deck anymore, at least.” you say. “Guess I should be glad for that.” Although you are a bit frustrated that the ‘healer’s’ hand was so shaky there’s a scar left there now, permanently, when it could have been avoided. “And that the dude wasn’t drunk bad enough to stitch my organs to my skin.”

“Yeah, luckily he was only a little drunk.” she nods.

“That makes total sense for a healer. Who, from what I know from four years at the Academy, should always be sober.” you cannot keep it in any longer.

“That’s… a tall order here.” Yes, of course, the place is far too shitty for that.

“I gathered.”

“Come, now. Don’t be upset about the scar.” You’re upset about the pain that could have been avoided if the damn guy just didn’t drink his ass off in the middle of the day. “…Want me to kiss it better?”

You’re so far up your mind –filled with thoughts of being a dead weight on the team on top of your dead classmates because of Viego— you don’t even hear her. Your head is pounding from the pressure the memory causes you, a killer mix with the effect of the painkillers you’ve been on, all evening.

“I’ll be fine, thanks.” you reply, your voice hoarse and alien to your own ears.

…

You and Fortune talk a bit more on the two days you’re out of commission.

You learn a few things about her, like the fact you have a common interest in psychology. Like the fact you shouldn’t ever ask about her past or her family, unless you want her to close up tighter than a clam, at the speed of lightning. In the meantime, if it feels like she may be throwing more smirks your way than when she talks to anyone else, you blame that on your wishful thinking.

That woman is way out of your league.

It is one in the night and everyone on the ship is either well asleep or completely passed out from booze. You wake up from a nightmare, then fully register the way the ship is swaying from the angry waves. The resulting nausea has you completely losing the desire to fall back into the land of dreams.

You thought you’d be the only one awake when you walked up to the deck, yet you quickly realize that’s not the case when the sound of heels approaches from behind. You already know it’s her. The night breeze does a wonderful job of carrying her perfume straight to your nose. As if she wasn’t already fatally attractive without it.

You keep your eyes on the waves, so dark blue they look black.

“Oh, this is a surprise. Such a romantic soul, admiring the sea in the dead of night.” she says. The slight –sexy as fuck— slur to her words must have something to do with the bottle of whiskey in her hand.

“Yeah, my thoughts are not that deep.” you chuckle. “More like ‘fuck this constant motion under my feet’.”

She gives a small, airy exhale that could pass as a laugh, leaning on the railing next to you. Kind of close, too. “Ah and here I thought Sentinels didn’t swear.” she says. “And that they don’t drink. Unless you care to prove me wrong there, too.”

She takes a swing of the bottle and passes it to you. The smart part of your brain tells you it is a bad, bad idea. The rest of you is seduced by the promise of the buzz and the challenge in her eyes.

Well. Since you’re not really getting anywhere closer to where her lips are in anything other than your very private fantasies, you think may just take the chance for an indirect kiss that’s presented.

The gulp you take from the bottle –you intended a sip but the fucking ship moves so much— burns a trail down your throat and past your insides. You almost cough. How heavy is this thing?

“Ahem. So.” you begin. “What’s keeping you out late?”

“I have great company.” At first you think she means you, then you realize it’s the bottle that’s lucky. Hah, fell right into that one. “And… my cabin is very cold tonight.”

It’s really chilly, yeah, but it’s not that bad, you think. Maybe the two of you are just used to different climates, though. “I’m… sorry to hear that.” you reply.

“Well. Guess I should head in or it will never warm up by itself.” she says.

You nod and bid her goodnight, turning your eyes back to the inky waves. But then you feel her weight softly crash into your back, ample chest pressing against you, one of her hands on your waist and the other on the railing next to yours for support. Her lips are right by your ear, so close you feel them brush against the shell as she says:

“Oops.”

Then she’s gone, taking her extremely sexy perfume with her, while your stomach drops to the sea and sinks right to the very bottom. It takes a few moments to realize you’re still holding the railing so tightly your fingers have gone white.

What the…

You go back to bed trying not to think about whatever that was.

The next day, you have no idea why she’s not speaking to you at all, or why she doesn’t even look at you when she addresses the Sentinels, none-too-pleased with your progress.

…

When one of the crewmates tell you the captain has summoned you, you do a double take and ask if she really means you. Fortune has been in a weird mood towards you since that night, to say the least.

You are mentally braced for the worst when you enter her cabin. You’re already tired from fighting mist wraiths all morning and you don’t think you can handle whatever it is that’s going on with her at the moment.

Scratch that. You’re sure you can’t when she gets up from her seat, walking almost in a circle around you, like a shark. You lean back against the wooden surface of her desk, waiting. Cautious.

“Have I not been clear enough, all these days?” she asks, as if wondering out loud.

“Um…. excuse me?” you question back. Has the mist gotten to her? It has been known to cause strange behavior after prolonged exposure.

She’s at the door now, facing you without really looking at you and it makes you feel trapped. Your one escape is blocked. “You’re not from around here, so I thought it was best not to be… Bilgewater-forward.” she says. “On the other hand, I don’t think I’ve been that subtle?”

“…I’m. I’m not…sure I follow.” you speak, quietly.

“Do you really have no idea or are you just trying to be polite?” She finally looks into your eyes.

You shake your head ‘no’.

She licks her lips. “What, was I supposed to give you a formal letter inviting you to my cabin for sex the other night?” Your jaw, you think, hits the floor and shatters. Your whole body shivers and goes rigid. “If you don’t want to, just say it so I won’t wait around for nothing.”

You… don’t know what words are at the moment. The ground has disappeared and you’re a falling mess. It is the worst case of freezing on the spot you’ve ever experienced.

“That’s not… that’s not… the case.” you manage to say.

“Good to know.” she nods, casually, then strides up to you and grabs the front of your high-collared Sentinel jacket, bringing you lip-to-lip. “Is this clear enough for you?” she breathes against you.

It’s more than clear enough when her plump lips seal over yours, tasting of sweet-flavored lipstick and alcohol and sea-salt. In fact, it is clear like a nuclear bomb going off on the back of your head.

The heat wave burns down your stomach violently and it only gets worse when she pushes her tongue into your mouth, licking over yours, her hips practically straddling you with how tightly fitted you stand. Every movement of her mouth or her body echoes all the way down yours.

It’s beyond anything you could have ever conjured in your head, having her angle your chin however she wants it while her hips slowly rock against you. It’s almost too hard and too fast and too good –and you get too close.

But then—

A knock comes on the door.

“Captain?” someone asks from the outside and it’s both a blessing and a dark curse.

Sarah tries to catch her breath, every exhale tickling your ear. “One moment.” she calls over her shoulder, sounding every bit the captain she is, as if the past minutes where you were literally dry humping each other didn’t happen.

She pulls back from you with a satisfied little smirk at how wrecked you no doubt look, pulling your outfit straight. Her thumb wipes off the smudge of her lipstick on the corner of your mouth, then she goes to a nearby mirror to reapply hers.

When she walks back over to you, your knees shake at just the sight of her. You don’t know how you’ll ever calm down from this. Safe to say she’s ruined every kiss you’ve ever had or will have.

“My bedroom will be open to you tonight. Consider this your formal letter, yes?” her long fingers brush over your jawline, as she stalks back to her seat.

“Come in.” she calls, poker face on, sounding bored.

You make your escape as tactical –and dignified— as possible and don’t look back until you’re practically off the ship.

…

To say you are distracted for the rest of the hours until night completely settles over Bilgewater is an understatement. Your head is in the clouds and you have no idea what’s going on around you. The whole world could catch fire and all you’ll be thinking about is Fortune, Fortune, Fortune…

“What’s got you so quiet tonight, little Sentinel?” Riven asks.

Only the best damn kiss of your entire life. Plus the fact you’re living a dream and you don’t want to wake up. “Maybe I’m just trying to imitate Vayne. From now on you’ll hear my voice only when we kill stuff.”

“Ha, ha.” Vayne comments in typical Vayne style from her seat, hunched over her weapon and making calibrations.

“All I’ll say is, be careful.” the Noxian lowers her voice a bit, the words kept between the two of you.

“Of what?” you play dumb.

“Just in general.”

You don’t know what Riven suspects but you can’t really bring yourself to care. You’ve been through a lot these past months. You deserve to feel something good once in a while. Your love life is none of their business unless it interferes with their business, which it won’t because you’re sure this won’t mean anything beyond Fortune’s bedroom.

You wait until everyone on the ship is asleep and take a liquid courage boost to sneak to the captain’s cabin.

…

One knock. That is all your knuckles manage, one contact with the door, until it swings open and a familiar hand grabs at the front of your outfit, pulling you in.

You’re pressed back against it as soon as it shuts, crimson lips hot on yours before you can even think to say anything. Gods, is she always so insistent?You could melt into a wet puddle on the floor from the way she presses into you alone. This woman knows exactly what she wants and how to take it.

Somewhere in the back of your head you hear the sound of a lock turning.

“Took you long enough.” she whispers when you break apart.

Once again, whatever you were about to say is cut off by her tugging on the high collar of your jacket. She either has a thing for it or for pulling you around in general, you think. No complains, whatever the case.

“Won’t you give me the tour around, first?” you ask, playing coy only thanks to the drink you’ve had. Otherwise, you’d be your usual self; a mess.

“Oh, sure.” she says as she shoves you into her bedroom, illuminated by a single candle. “Wardrobe, guns, bed.”

Well. It still feels like the best tour you’ve ever had when she walks you back until you’re falling on her very comfortable mattress, with her perched above you like a predator. She gives you a little smirk as she straddles your thigh and sits up, undoing the taut buttons on her shirt, painfully slow.

Oh… It would be very awkward if you died from a heart attack now, yet it feels like you’re on the verge of one.

“Nothing smart to say now, Sentinel?” The confidence comes with her looks, you’re sure. She knows she’s hot as fuck.

You shake your head, speechless, eyes travelling from her toned midriff to her perfect chest, to her hypnotic eyes and the sensual way her hair spills like a red waterfall across her shoulders. This is a dream, it’s not real life, but don’t wake me up ever…

Fortune leans back down, taking your chin in two fingers as she studies your flushed face. You don’t know what she’s looking for, but something in her visage softens a fraction.

“If it’s too much at any point, tell me.”

“If I can talk, I will.” you say, mesmerized by the way her eyes look under the dim light.

Your next liplock is a little less rushed than your previous ones. She takes her time exploring your mouth and you gradually get bolder with where you touch her, fingers grazing up her sides to her stomach, to the underside of her bra.

Her lips leave yours only to burn a trail down the corner of your mouth, across your jawline and to your neck. Deft fingers undo the clasps and pull down the zipper of your white jacket, guiding it past your shoulders without taking it completely off. She definitely has a thing for it. You’d comment on that, too, if you could think about anything other than how good she smells.

Clothes come off while she sucks on your neck, teeth pressing against you just shy of leaving marks. When both of you are down to your underwear and breathing heavy, her fingers caressing dangerously low on your waistline, her lips come near your ear.

“So… I want to make you beg, but I can’t help but feel like I’m already corrupting you a lot.”

Corrupt away. you want to tell her.

“Does that turn you on?” you whisper in her ear and feel her response with how her hips press down harder onto yours.

“Yes.” That breathless admission becomes your undoing.

You get lost in her lips after it and the sensation of her fingers on you –inyou— working you up towards what could be simultaneously your ruin and your salvation. You touch her in turn, filling the room with both your moans and gasps, until that glorious peak of white-hot pleasure where the whole world comes to a stop for a few moments.

There is a time limit to your time together, now and generally, you are aware. But you allow yourselves a few quiet moments together as you lay there with the excuse of catching your breath, even if you already have.

Tough game you’re playing here. The smarter part of your brain says. It’s all too easy to get addicted to having her atop you like this. The better the dream, the more bitter the wakeup.

When Fortune lifts herself off you to slide under her heavy covers, you register the chill of night. You dress almost sluggishly, your body so very exhausted from the activities of the whole day.

Kissing her goodnight is almost an urge you fight under control, not wanting to make her uncomfortable if this was all she wanted out of your dalliance.

“Well, my bunk is calling.” you turn around to tell her, trying not to blush when you see her with her elbow resting on her pillow, cheek cutely pressed on her fist, watching you like a languid cat.

“Hate to watch you leave but I love to watch you go.” she smirks at you.

You roll your eyes. “Goodnight, beautiful.”

…

It is after a long damn day of fighting that you get to finally sit down and enjoy a meal and drinks.

The crew was cold and distrustful towards you at first, but they seem to have opened up more over the course of weeks –especially today, after you secured them a chest filled with gold coins left behind by wealthy people who were running from the wraiths. From the corner of your eye, you subtly watch Sarah Fortune interact with her men, hoping it’s not obvious how badly into her you are.

“So…” Riven begins from the chair next to you and you know that’s not going to be good.

“What?” You face her, playing cool.

“I’m sure you don’t need me to say that she’s bad for you… but I will, anyway.” You give Riven a blank stare that absolutely doesn’t fool her. Shit.

“Like how do you even know.” You finally break.

“It wasn’t obvious since day one there was something there?” Yeah, maybe to everyone except you.

“Wait.” Hold on a second. “Does everyone know?”

“I think everyone except Diana has pretty much figured it out.” That certainly explains the looks Lucian has been giving you all day. Double shit.

“What? The thing between Fortune and Rookie, here?” Diana asks from behind you.

Triple—

“Scratch that. Everyone knows.” Riven tells you. “And we all agree. She’s bad for you.” You hate the emphasis on that. “As in the worst.”

“I getit, Riven, thank you.” You shake your hand in her face while the other covers yours.

“I mean I know ruthless, player redheads who can and will absolutely murder you without a second thought are, like, a kink of yours—”

You don’t think your face gets any redder than this. “What—” you nearly choke on air. “That –how do you figure that out? That’s not even true.”

“Dude. When Katarina Du Couteau was brought into our conversation you nearly gasped and fangirled for the next hour.”

“I just heard a lot about one of our biggest Demacian enemies and wanted to know if it was all true!” you defend yourself.

“You asked me if she’s as hot as rumor has it, not about her war achievements.” Riven laughs.

“And you didn’t answer! Well, is she or isn’t she?” you ask. For… scientific purposes.

“I’m not going to answer that!” Riven lifts her hands up.

“She is.” Graves says as he slides into the seat next to you, drink in hand.

“Thank you!” You pat him on the shoulder.

“We should totally have her join the Sentinels.” he adds.

“Hah!” A vein pops at Riven’s temple. “And the answer will be something along the lines of ‘bold of you to assume I give a single fuck about the world’.” comes the imitation.

“Whoa, that’s exactly how she sounds like.” Graves says.

You’re glad the conversation has shifted away from you, at least.

From the opposite side of the room, you feel a familiar pair of eyes on you, yet they’re averted the second you raise yours to meet them.

…

They may know about your one-time thing with Fortune and heavily scrutinize it, but they still send you in now that they need to ask for more from the captain. With that, your teammates lose every right to comment on what you do and don’t do with her.

“We’ll get you the coin from that ship –well, Graves will, since they already hate him—and you help us out here. Deal?” you ask her.

There. You can be a professional and negotiate terms with the most beautiful woman in the world, who you also happened to have had mindblowing sex with, without constantly looking at her lips.

“Deal, but…” she begins. “You’re sitting all the way over there… why?”

So much for keeping your mind out of the gutter. “Um.” You lick your lips, unsure of what to say, while she smirks slow, like the cat that got the canary.

“Come here.” A pat on her desk, right in front of her chair.

Against your better judgement, you walk around the furniture and lean there, really, really close to her, especially when she stands, towering over you in her heels. You can tell she likes it, too.

“Don’t look at me like that, we leave in ten minutes.” you say. It doesn’t even phase her.

Her fingers move to the zipper of your jacket and although you should stop her, you don’t. “Really?” she leans closer, closer still, until her tantalizing mouth is a hair’s breadth from yours.

“…really. Nine, now.” you waver.

“Guess we have to be fast, then.”

She lightly pushes you onto her desk and starts undoing your belt buckles. The thought of what you’re about to do alone could make you come on the spot. It’s not just the thought that’s threatening to do that, when you feel her cool fingers slide right where you need them.

“You’re going to ditch me for your little Sentinel friends, who don’t like me?” she asks in your ear.

Oh, Gods…

“Ah, I like you enough for all of us, Fortune.” your lips move against her jawline as you speak. A little further down and you can feel how quick her pulse is. You wouldn’t have guessed, with how composed she looks fingering you on her desk.

“Sarah.” she holds your chin with two fingers as she says it, like a secret between you. “Call me Sarah when you come.”

You do.

…

It becomes a nightly thing after that, your visits in her bedroom.

She’s insatiable and she makes everything bothering you go away for those precious hours. But. The more you see of her, you cannot help but feel like something’s very wrong with Sarah.

Underneath the visage of the ruthless captain, the queen who can just reach out and take anything she wants, you see… cracks. She doesn’t sleep well. She drinks. You’re pretty sure you’re another distraction –coping mechanism?— although it doesn’t bother you. She’s the same for you, isn’t she?

It’s not like you have feelings for her.

…Right?

No, no that would be terrible. You definitely don’t. You are allowed to love the way her fingers are running lazy circles on your thigh right now without any sort of complicated emotions involved.

“You should quit while you’re ahead.” she tells you, half muffled into her pillow, stark black against the red of her hair.

This or the Sentinel war? You wonder.

“You have little cuts everywhere. They don’t even have time to disappear before new ones open on top of them.” she moves the back of her pointer to the biggest visible line near your knee, then up your arm, until her hand rests on the crook of your neck. “Leave the others to deal with the mist. It’s not your problem.”

“The world’s problem is my problem. Guess where I lived and what region fell to Viego first.”

You refrain from telling her how many people close to you met his blade before that. How many of the classmates you ate and trained with for four years you had to see skewered by him, on his insane quest for his ‘love’. You don’t want to sour your time together with your burdens. Your pain, your nightmares, are your own to deal with.

“If you keep going you’ll fall to him first.” she counters. “You’ll die protecting one of those idiots in your group or some random civilian.”

“Thanks, Miss Fortune-teller.” you say, a tad irked at her blatant disregard for anyone who isn’t herself.

“I don’t have to be one to tell.” she gives you a sad smile. “It’s always the good ones that die. It’s always the monsters that win.”

You can’t help but wonder…

What made you this way?

…

You see now why emotions are considered a distraction on the battlefield. Even as you kill monsters, all you think about is her.

Come to think of it…

You’ve never seen her smile for real. What you’re looking for is a far cry from those smirks she throws around to bring people to their knees, or the sardonic ones she levels Lucian with. Even those she offers you behind closed doors have a shadow underneath them. It makes you wonder about what would make her happy enough to give a genuine smile.

When you happen across a shipwreck filled with valuables, you think this may be it. The Sentinels take what they need and agree to give the rest to Fortune to stay on her good graces.

Her whole ship lights up with the joy of riches. The crew is ecstatic. Laughter and cheers fill the deck.

And yet.

Her glee is pretend, just for the sake of her men. Her eyes are hollow.

When she eventually retreats to her cabin, you follow her and knock on her door. “It’s always open for you~” she calls from the inside, already in the company of a whiskey bottle.

You turn the key behind you, then lean forward with your hands on her desk, staring at her.

“Why this serious, sexy?” she asks. “Need me to help loosen you up a bit?”

“You need to part with the fetter, Sarah.” you state. “It affects you in ways you won’t notice or understand but it always does.”

“Ah, part with it so you and your crew of misfits can steal it from me? Hmm… no.” she chuckles.

“I care more about what it does to you than the fetter itself right now.” you try again. Only to fail again.

“That’s sweet, but I don’t trust you.” Talk about words being sharper than knives, sometimes. “Don’t take it personally; I don’t trust anyone.”

“What a joyful life this must be.” you bite back.

“Coin is joy for me, sweetheart.” she leans back in her plush chair, taking another swing from the bottle.

“You didn’t seem very happy to me, back there.”

She gives you a look and finally sets the whiskey down. “Come here. I’ll tell you a little secret about me.” she says, a tad more serious than before.

Cautiously, you step around the desk until you’re in front of her seat. Her hand shoots up like a bullet, then, taking hold of your jacket and dragging you down until the two of you are eye-level.

“You know what would really make me happy right now?” You feel her leg move up the inside of yours, deliciously slow, as she speaks… until she hooks her calf behind your knee and makes your weight fall onto it. “For you to shut up about fetters and concerns and go down on me.”

Fuck.

Deep down, to a small part of you not ruled by your hormones, you know using sex to avoid any sort of deeper conversation between you is unhealthy. You know an arrangement where there’s no trust is unhealthy.

Then again, the circumstances that brought you together are anything but healthy.

And what sort of pretty flower can burst forth, really, from a corrupted seed?

…

When you return from your mist-slaying, late in the evening, the crew is uneasy.

“Don’t bother the cap’n right now.” One of the men says. “She ain’t havin’ the best o’ days.”

You later find out that they had a run-in with an enemy fleet. That the Reaver King has resurfaced and is looking to claim Bilgewater for himself. Major shit is about to go down, the bounty hunters tell you and you do not want to be outsiders caught in the middle when it finally hits the fan.

You give Sarah her space until the need to check up on her becomes overwhelming.

One knock on the door. “Leave.” she hisses from within the office like a tensed cat. Another knock. “You have ten seconds before I put a bullet through your skull!”

“Can’t imagine I’ll be very attractive then.” you reply.

The door swings open; her eyes are the epitome of a raging storm. You’ve never seen her like this, so hateful and distressed… and it hurts to witness. “My ‘leave’ applies to everyone. You, included.”

“Cool.” you nod at her. Pause. “So… can I come in now?”

Sarah throws her hands up in exasperation, pivoting with an angry, whispered ‘whatever’. She paces across her cabin, an agitated lion one step away from pouncing. Her hands run through her fiery hair as though they cannot keep still.

“You need to leave Bilgewater asap and never come back.” You don’t know if she’s talking to you or thinking out loud. “You need to go. With or without the rest of them, I don’t care, just go!”

“What’s… gotten into you?” you dare ask.

“He’s back. He always comes back, no matter how many times I sink the bastard. It’s like he cannot die. He just won’t die!” her voice is raw with her rage. “You Sentinels fight the darkness but you don’t kill evil. Evil will still be here –rooted here— even if you win.”

You open your mouth but can’t find anything to say.

“I have to win my own war. I will be victorious no matter the cost, no matter the bloodshed.” Sarah goes on. “But I need to know that you won’t be here. Do you understand?!”

You just look at her, sad and frozen, trying to understand. There’s nothing you can say to ease what’s hurting her and nothing you can do. You’ve seen this wretched thing eat away at her every day since the moment you met. It’s too deeply engraved in her heart for you to hope to change it; and it has little to do with the fetter in her possession.

Sarah crosses the room in two large strides and grabs your biceps. She looks like she’s ready to throw you off her ship herself…

Until.

She pulls you into her arms, instead.

Tight, like she’s afraid you’ll be gone the moment she lets go, she holds you close. Her head is tucked into your shoulder, her nails press hard into your back. You slowly bring your hands up to encircle her waist in return.

“I’ve lost everything. He took everything from me. I won’t give him the chance to take you away, as well.” she says.

Oh. you think. She cares about you, after all.

If only that was a good thing for either of you.

…

You feel it, when the moment comes.

Maybe you’ve always felt it and just didn’t want to admit it.

When Sarah stands in front of Viego offering the lot of you up along with the fetter in exchange for his ruined power, you know the agony you feel, like a blade splitting you down the middle, is your own doing. There is nobody but yourself to blame for it. The others warned you. Your own instinct warned you.

You didn’t listen.

You wanted to trust her. Maybe even to love her.

But her hatred runs deeper than whatever measly thing you were to her.

As the mist shrouds Fortune and turns her red hair luminescent blonde, as it eats away at her colors until they’re all black and sickly green, until the eyes you knew turn cold and unfeeling, you feel something in you crack. Maybe it’s your faith. Maybe it’s your heart.

There’s a lesson to take from this, you’re sure, despite how your emotions choke you. Right now, though, you focus on avoiding her bullets and having your teammates’ backs in the rain of chaos that follows.

You end up deep in the water, bleeding, defeated. You and the other Sentinels have never been crushed by your losses, but it will take some time to pick up your pieces and continue onward until the end of your war.

You allow yourself one scream muffled in the dark sea.

When you swim to the shore and pull your body out of the mud, you are silent.

“Are you okay? I know that was harder for you than it was for us.” Riven lays a hand on your shoulder.

“I’m fine. I’ll let it hurt after we get Viego.”

For now, you can’t afford taking the pain of a broken heart with you on the battlefield.

Sarah. You later think. Now I understand why hurricanes are named after people.

#miss fortune #sarah fortune #miss fortune x oc #miss fortune x reader #sentinels of light spoilers #league of legends #fanfiction #creative writing #riven

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starfallvalley · 2 years

Text

The Bachelors

Took me a while to get these all nailed down, still unsure on a few of them. Not my strongest ideas overall but I’m making it work. One or two may get retconned in the future; the aquatic concentration is especially high with this group. I gotta settle for now to meet my deadline, though. So without further ado, here they are!

Alex - Shark Dude

Weights clanged against the ground, the last reps finished for the day. Alex wiped the sweat from his brow, heaving. He’d gotten a new personal best every day for the past week; he was on fire. Maybe working out this much wasn’t too healthy, but hey, it took his mind off things. George had gotten a cold earlier in the spring, and… well, lifting was meditative. Plus, this new aqua-protein diet thing seemed to be working out great. Nothing like fresh salmon. He may be looking a little gray around the gills, but that was supposed to be normal. The fins, maybe less so, but he wasn’t about to stop now. Maaaybe if the tail got big enough to throw off his lifts.

Elliot - Merman

Inspiration. Such a fickle thing. He thought the Gem Sea would provide, but she was a cruel mistress, and the only thing he received from her was the swirling beauty of shells. So when the local farmer announced a trip out to one of the nearby Fern Islands, he leapt on the opportunity to sail into the great unknown! An adventure surely would draw out the inspiration he truly desired! Or maybe he’d just end up vacationing in a slightly damper and windier shack than the one back in the valley. Truly, what a predicament he’d landed himself in! Despair, dismay, it was all quite dramatic, truly, just ask him. As soon as he’d given up hope, walking across a rainy beach, a sight struck him: a mermaid, resting upon a stone out in the sea. Inspiration! He dove into the sea, fighting the pounding surf to reach it! He didn’t really expect to make it that far; he also didn’t expect the fish tail he ended up with. But hey, inspiration is inspiration, and his new opera is coming along quite well.

Harvey - Bio-Clockwork Kirin

Ever the optimist, Harvey hasn’t quite given up on his dreams of flight, despite their impossibility. He’s managed to get a real pilot on his radio once or twice, even. It must have been aging poorly, though; whenever he tuned it past a specific point, there was always a faint… click. So strange. He couldn’t find the source, even when he tried for hours on end, and the radio itself seemed perfectly fine. But it felt so loud, sometimes, so close. If only he could just find the right frequency…No one’s quite sure what happened, least of all him, but Harvey emerged from his room days later, frazzled, tormented, quite a bit more equine, and letting off a faint tick of his own. Despite the somewhat horrific appearance, he’s got just as much medical expertise as before, it seems. Just don’t listen to his heartbeat for too long.

Sam - Satyr

Sam knew good music when he heard it, and this was good music. Ephemeral, unknowable; an absolute bop. He had to find whoever was playing it. Was that a… pan flute? What a weird choice, but it worked! He hadn’t really planned what to do when he found the musician, but he also hadn’t planned on ending up at the base of one of the town’s cliffs with the tide coming in, so a lot of things had gone wrong, really. He got himself back up eventually, after removing his shoes and finding some goat hooves; those things could stand on anything. His mom was gonna be furious about all the mud he tracked inside, though.

Sebastian - Just Kinda Fishy

The best frogs came out during spring rainstorms. Those were the ones who sang with a glee that Sebastian couldn’t understand, but loved to hear. His family acted like he was uninterested in science, like his dad and Maru; that was entirely untrue. He just wasn’t interested in their science. Frogs were way cooler. So when he saw just about the biggest frog ever chasing after some tadpoles, he knew he had to catch and identify it. Mist is a tricky force, though, and that “frog” turned out to be the biggest fish ever. Also, that log he wanted to jump on didn’t exist, so there was that. Robin let out quite the shriek when her son flopped through the door with fins and slime, but seeing as there wasn’t much to do at that point, she just sent him off to his room with some desiccants. He still likes to hang out with the frogs, but now he gets to lead the chorus, too. He and Alex seem to be getting along quite well, these days.

Shane - Raptor

Blue chickens. No one had quite seen anything like it. They were fierce, protective, sharp-beaked, but around Shane all the birds became loving little balls of fluff. He just had a way with them. Even their eggs carried a slight blue tinge, with an extra savoury tang in an omelette. One of his prized birds seemed to have gotten her claws on a weird, speckled egg; Shane left it for a while, but kept a close eye on her, unsure if it was a cuckoo or not. Fortunately for him, it wasn’t; unfortunately for him, it was a dinosaur egg instead, and during the… ranch incident, it made quite a mess of things. He came out unscathed, but now that he’s lower on the evolutionary ladder than his flock, they never let him hear the end of it. At the end of the day, he’s the one with the feed, though, so they know better than to tug at his feathers or scratch up his scales.

And there’s the bachelors! Again, not quite sure on these, but it’ll do. Next up I’ll probably do the kids; after that will be the rest of the adults, split into two or three posts. At that point I’ll see about making a master post and get that pinned with links to everything. Until next time!

tl;dr Alex is an unapologetically furry anthro shark. Elliot is a merman (and first thus far to have changed on Ginger Island). Harvey is a partially-clockwork kirin. Sam is a satyr. Sebastian is just kinda fishy. Also quite slimy. Not his fault. Shane is a mix of bird-raptor and dinosaur-raptor.

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klance-fics · 3 years

Text

My all time fav fics:

Broken things

“I am going to kill you.” Lance was seeing red. His fingers wrapped so tightly around the blade in his hand, it felt like an extension of his own body.

“Not today, little lion.”

“If you fucking touch him I will –“

The Galra was suddenly leaning down – his yellow eyes only inches away from Lance’s. His words, a whisper in Lance’s ear: A threat; a promise. “Oh, I am not going to touch him. He is the half-breed son of the woman who murdered my sister. He is the leader of Voltron. No, I am not going to touch him…I am going to break him.”

Or: Two years after season 8, a Blade mission goes wrong, and Keith is perceived to be dead. Lance refuses to believe that, and goes in search of him. What he finds, however, is worse than anything he imagined.

flesh and blood (you deserve to be loved)

Lance is melting under the intensity of Keith’s words, the sincerity of his voice, the softness of his heart. Falling for him all over again, but in different ways--not just for his smiles and his hands and his iridescent eyes, but for his heart and his voice and the way he makes Lance feel--tender and warm and deeply, deeply in love.

Keith is like the ocean, Lance thinks, in that he is incredibly deep and beautiful and dangerous and dark. And when you get too close, he pulls you in like the sinking tides. Whether or not you embrace him is up to you.

☆ﾟ. * ･｡ﾟ

Or, Lance dreams of Earth's oceans to put out the fire raging within him. Falling in love with Keith happens somewhere along the way.

sweetheart

“Sorry, babe,” Keith says. He even smiles, no doubt proud of himself.

And Lance knows it’s his fault. He started it, after all, but at least the biting term of endearment made sense when he was the one doing it. Keith had been talking to him like they were some old married couple. The kind who’ve been married too long and don’t love each other anymore and gripe over meaningless shit, only managing to piss each other off even further.

That’s why Lance called him dear. Because it made sense in the situation. It was a calculated insult. A strategic jab.

Keith, on the other hand, is weaponizing the term of endearment without any rhyme or reason, simply to get back at Lance.

Or: Keith and Lance have gotten into the habit of using pet names as condescending insults. They're not really terms of endearment.

These Walls have ears

Before Lance’s friends arrive at his apartment for their weekly movie night, Keith is in Hunk’s car on the phone to Lance, trying to explain why they’re late, again.

Mid conversation, Keith drops his phone under the seat. Assuming Lance has hung up, Pidge and Hunk start pestering Keith about certain feelings that he may be harboring, leading to some quite personal confessions.

Little do they know, Lance has not hung up, and is listening in on every word. Shenanigans ensue.

That Won’t Last, He’s Gay and She’s an Alien

Lance didn’t know what he’d expected to see when he came onto the Garrison’s training deck, but it definitely wasn’t this.

Keith was panting with exertion, pinning someone to the ground with the edge of his training sword just brushing their neck. And by someone, Lance meant Acxa, one of Lotor’s old half-Galra generals.

Or, Lance walks in on Keith and Acxa sparring. He has not-so-mixed feelings about it.

You never stood a chance

lance to hunk ♡

>i’m gonna fukin die hunk oh mygod i sent

>keith a work out selfie that i wan supposed to fcukin send to you and you know what it said

>”BET YOU WANNA LICK THESE NIPS”

>HUNK I WILL NEVE BE ABLE TO FCE HIM AGAIN I WANT TO DI E

(Or, Keith is beautiful, Lance has a crush, and there's lots of shirtless selfies)

A healthy dose of Denial never hurt anyone

There was a cough behind them. Keith and Lance both turned around and found the other players looking at them in amusement.

One of the guys said, “Look, we’re happy for you, but you two are giving us diabetes.”

“Yeah, not everyone here is into PDA. Get a room.”

“What? What’re you talking about?” Keith asked.

“We know you’re dating, but there’s a time and place for everything.”

“We aren’t dating!” Keith and Lance both said at the same time.

---

Or: 5 times Keith and Lance deny they are boyfriends, and the time they finally don't

plot-twist: the waiter is the date

Lance is going on a blind date at the café Keith works at, but his date never shows up. What happens next will warm your heart.

let me melt under the heat of your sun

He begins to seek Keith out in a crowd without meaning to. Eyes occasionally following him like they were magnetized, looking for the familiar waves that barely brush the high uniform collars. He looks for dark hair and dark eyes, crossed arms and a silent frown, stark against the sea of enthusiastic, starry-eyed cadets.

He feels drawn to him.

(Or, Lance falls in love with Keith during the time they spent together at the Garrison.)

#klance #klance fic rec #fluff #angst #5 plus 1 #canon divergence #modern universe #diner au #pining keith #pining lance #i probably missed some so ill add them later

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mylifeisactuallyamess · 3 years

Text

Epilogue

General Hux x Female Reader/Kylo Ren x Female Reader

A/N: This is it. The last time I will post about this story (unless I visit them in a one shot.) I am so sad but so grateful at the same time, this fic got a lovely following and I appreacite anyone who took the time to comment/like/reblog any or all chapters. This fic spawned from a Writer Wednesday prompt months ago, so thank you @autumnleaves1991-blog for posting that picture of the brick arch and pond all those weeks ago! Here we go!

Warnings: PTSD mentions, war mentions, none of them are ok.

Word Count: 2284

Read the Epilogue here on AO3

Masterlist

The air was crisp, carrying the tang of the salty sea and wrapping it around you, ruffling your dress. You shielded your eyes against the dipping sun, seeing the light refract off the water as it heaved below you, the sounds of the waves crashing into the cliffs boomed up to you creating a sound like thunder. The tide was high and that meant they’d be back any moment. You looked back at the cottage behind you, the white walls and the pretty flowers were picture perfect, it was everything you’d ever dreamed, the makeshift hangar sat to the side and it housed the X-Wing you had from your time with the Resistance. Next to it was another larger more recognisable ship, you had some visitors and you needed to prepare Armitage before he saw them.

A giggle carried on the breeze that swirled around you and your face softened into a smile, first you could only see your daughter's head on the path as they came up the steep hill, her long bright red hair caught in the wind, the long tresses flowing around her and glowing with the bright light of the sun. She was giggling, looking down as she plastered her hands all over your poor husband's face. You stifled a laugh as he pretended to stumble, or maybe he really did because she kept shoving her fingers in his eyes.

“Phasma! I can’t see!” You heard him cry followed by more peals of laughter as she continued her assault. “Oh look! It’s Mummy. Hold on!” She squealed as he began to run, holding her legs in place on his shoulders, so she bounced happily full of laughter and smiles until he came to a stop before you. His chest heaved and he let out a loud huff. “You’re getting a bit heavy, little one!”

“Shush Daddy, I am not.” You cocked an eyebrow making a mental note of how much she sounded like her father. Armitage leaned in and gave you a kiss on the lips.

“Who’s here?” He asked quietly.

“Well, it’s Poe, Finn, Rose, Mitaka and….” You paused, not sure if he wanted to hear his name or not.

“And?” He pressed.

“And Ben.” You saw the blank expression fall over his face and you inwardly sighed. “Look they’re not here to cause trouble, the war is over, it has been for a few years now.” You ran a hand through your daughter's hair as she clutched your leg. “We barely see anyone. It's nice for them to drop by.” He moved away, putting a hand in his pocket while using the other to run through his hair. Even after all this time he kept it in the same style, just a habit you guessed or maybe he’d just never experienced another style.

“There’s a reason we don’t see anyone,” he said stiffly. You dragged Phasma with you, coming to stand next to him.

“Armitage, do you forget how I was the one who discovered Finn and Rose. I brought them to you.”

“And I ordered them to be executed and Finn…” he glanced down at his daughter. His hand resting on top of yours in her hair as she gazed at him with big green eyes. You knew he wanted to say Finn killed Phasma, but you felt like pointing out the war was responsible for everything that had happened. All these people had been puppets for someone else, made to believe in something that ultimately influenced their actions and choices.

“It’s over now.” You needed him to acknowledge that, the war was over. You supposed it would have been harder for him than the rest, being brought up and beaten into a person who should always strive for glory and control. Finn managed to break free, even Ben but then he had a loving family for the first few years of his life. He had a taste of normality, as did Poe, Rose had her sister until the evacuation of D’Qar. But Hux had no one, except Phasma and Mitaka and even then he was their General, their leader. He was alone for so long you didn’t know how to get him to see they were all just people now. What they had all been through was horrific, you just knew for Armitage, it was harder to adjust. He didn’t say anything else and you crouched down to Phasma’s level.

“There are some very special people in our house to meet you including Uncle Mitaka.”

“Me kaka?” She screamed in glee, fisting her hands under her chin in joy before tearing off to the house. Hux watched her go, a strange expression on his face. You stood, taking his hand and holding it tight. You made him look at you, feeling the stubble on his cheeks which he let grow now. The red dusting covered his chin and cheeks making him look rugged and even more handsome.

“They wouldn’t have come if they were going to be rude or start a fight or accuse you of things that happened years ago. They are here to see us, as a family. If they can forgive Ben they can forgive you.”

“But Ben is clearly a new man now…” he started and you cut him off by putting a hand over his mouth.

“And look at you. No uniform, no hat, you have a daughter, Armitage, you live in a bloody cottage.” He sighed against your hand and you knew you had won this round.

You stepped away from the cliff edge tugging on his hand and he reluctantly came with you, dragging his feet slightly. You went through the back door Phasma had left open and shut out the dusk that was settling on the cliffs around the cottage. Voices plus your daughter's laughter came from the main living area and you squeezed Hux’s hand reassuringly before walking in. A chorus of greetings met you both and even though you’d said hello before you went round and hugged them all again, pleased to see Hux shaking hands with Poe and Finn. You held your breath when it came to Ben who was sitting in your biggest armchair with Phasma perched on his lap.

“Armitage,” Ben said and held out his hand. The moment stretched for longer than you liked but eventually your husband reached out and shook it. Everybody sighed with relief and you asked if anyone wanted a drink, taking Hux with you into the kitchen. He helped you prepare some drinks in silence, listening to laughter and banter from the others mingled with your daughter's cries of joy as someone was clearly tickling her. Hux carried the drinks and you handed them out, a pleased feeling began to fill your chest as Poe engaged him in conversation. Mitaka stoked the fire and a flare of heat blazed into the room making it more cosy.

“How has he been?” Dopheld asked you quietly.

“The nightmares seem to have eased, it helps that he has Phasma with him nearly all of the time,” you looked over seeing Armitage still in conversation with Poe, your daughter now nestled in his arms sucking her thumb as she gazed at the curly haired pilot. “She seems to know what he needs when he needs it.” You felt a hand on your shoulder and threw a smile at Finn. “Hey you, how’s the Trooper Rehoming going?” He shrugged.

“There were a few we managed to trace back to their families but the majority have made their own settlement out on Yavin 4. You should come visit sometime.” He offered.

“I’d like that but…” your gaze flickered to Armitage. “Maybe it will be just me and Phasma….” You trailed off making a face. “Maybe not,” you chuckled.

“You would all be welcome,” he reassured you before heading over to sit with Rose. Your gaze drifted to Ben who seemed captivated by the fire, but you recognised the signs. The clenching of his fists, the tightness in his jaw, the vase on your mantelpiece fell and shattered drawing everyone’s attention. The fire flared behind you and you looked up to see Hux clutching Phasma to him and backing away slowly. Poe went to approach Ben as the very walls of your house began to shake matching the quivering of your insides but you threw out a silent hand to stop the pilot. You didn’t say Ben’s name, not wanting to startle him instead you crouched before him, placing a calming hand over his forearm and his hazel gaze swung to you.

“Come on, I need you to look at my X-Wing. I think it has a faulty fuel line, Armitage says the circuit breakers are burnt out but we aren’t mechanics.” You could hear the house settling as you pulled his attention away from his thoughts. You didn’t wait for an answer, taking Ben’s hand and shooting a look at Hux. He wasn’t happy, you could see it in his face and the set of his shoulders but you’d rather Ben put his mind to good use than accidentally destroying your house. He had to duck slightly through the low doorways as he followed you outside. Your feet didn’t falter, you’d travelled this path so many times in the dark when you couldn’t sleep. Every time you’d calmed Armitage from a nightmare you had come in here, just to tinker to take your mind off everything. Sometimes it worked, other times you came in here and cried, releasing your pent up emotion alone.

“Here,” you gestured to the hangar and stepped aside. “Wreck it, tinker with it, just don’t ruin the inside of my house, please.” He nodded, moving to touch your tools on the bench gently with his finger tips.

“You come in here often.” It wasn’t a question.

“It is my place to spend time on my own and process everything that happened,” you confessed knowing you couldn’t hide anything from him. “I am coping better than Armitage.”

“Are you though?” He asked bluntly and you blinked. You thought you were, dealing with Phasma kept you occupied during the day, you stayed up late most nights keeping an eye on Armitage so you didn’t have much thought space until you knew he was ok.

“Yes, I am keeping myself busy.” Ben smirked at your reply.

“Looking after two other people does not mean you are coping.”

“Yeah well, someone’s got to do it.” You turned and walked back to the cottage. The conversation was still flowing in the living area but you walked past to go to the kitchen and maybe prepare some food. Armitage appeared within moments, he tried to hide his displeasure but you could read him like a book.

“How’s Phasma?” You asked.

“Asleep on Mitaka.” He replied and you nodded, opening the cupboards trying to find your guests something to eat but you didn’t realise your hands were shaking until Hux gently slid his over yours. “It’s ok,” he whispered, coming up behind you. “He will be gone soon.”

“I really wanted to be ok with him, I just want to be ok.” You looked up as Mitaka appeared at the kitchen door and you smiled at the way Phasma’s arms hung over his shoulder, her little face buried in his neck and he pointed to the stairs. “Just take her straight up, she’ll stay asleep when you lay her down.” He nodded and slowly made his way up the wooden steps. You quickly wiped your damp cheek but Poe then appeared and you felt Hux’s increasing frustration that he couldn’t comfort you in private.

“We’re going to head off in a bit, we need to drop Finn off at the settlement. Do you guys need anything? I need to swing this way on the back so I can grab some supplies?” You nodded enthusiastically, already rattling off a list, since the X-Wing refused to start, you were stuck with what you could find here and in the small local market.

“Ok wow, maybe I’ll get you some spare parts for that ship of yours, if you want I can bring BB8 next time?”

“No need.” Rumbled Ben as he stood in the doorway. “I fixed it, loose connection so it couldn’t connect to the engines.”

“Thank you Ben. Alright out go, too many massive men near my tiny kitchen,” you ushered them out, including Mitaka when he chose that moment to come down the stairs. Finn and Rose were already outside looking up at the stars as everyone filed out and the goodbyes started. Ben was last, enveloping you in a big hug with a quick knowing squeeze before he headed to the Falcon. Poe clapped Armitage on the shoulder promising he’d visit more often, Mitaka echoing his sentiment.

“Just be careful, all of you,” you called. They all waved as they disappeared up the ramp and you felt Armitage put his arm around your shoulders.

“As much as I disliked them all at one time, I’m glad they visited,” he said in a soft tone.

“I’m sorry, but seeing Ben slip like that….” You put a hand to your throat feeling the familiar constriction in your chest. “Just brought back memories,” you whispered.

“We’re all broken, one way or another.” You looked up at your husband. “But I wouldn’t want to try and repair myself with anyone else.”

“I love you Armitage.”

“And I love you and our quiet life and our daughter.” You leaned into him accepting the kiss before letting him lead you back inside the warmth of your cottage.

After all, war does not determine who is right. Only who is left.

#general hux x female reader #armitage hux x female reader #star wars fanfiction #echoes of the heart #kylo ren x female reader #armitage hux x you #general hux x you #my writing #mylifeisactuallyamess

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teaspoon-full-of-sugar · 4 years

Text

a flower for a flower

pairing: harry styles x reader

warnings: smut (i want to say pure smut, but i also ramble a lot, so it’s not just smut—close to it though), food innuendos and other cheesy things, fluff, harry in his pimp daddy outfit, oral (f & m receiving), exhibitionism (mentions of voyeurism), teasing, soft!dom feels, praising kink, a couple of good girls thrown in there

word count: 3.8k

synopsis: a walk on the beach leads to more

author’s note: hi, i hope you're doing well :) sorry the synopsis sucks, but you know what i mean! xx hope you enjoy

masterlist

—

She’d never been the type to like the beach.

Granted, she had never been to an actual beach, like the ocean kind of beach, until she was well into her twenties, but that’s beside the point.

Then, she met Harry.

Harry, someone who has nothing but kindness and love in his soul, open for anyone who’s willing to take him, scared her when they first met. She has always been anxious, riddled with insecurities and tension, and to meet someone who breathed and exuded nothing but unadulterated confidence was absolutely terrifying. At that moment in time, she thought she could never be with someone who was like that, thinking that it would be difficult to keep up with someone like him.

And she was never one to take risks.

She will be forever grateful for finding someone who is able to open her eyes and give her the opportunity to see and do things that she never even dreamed about. It definitely helps that he is the way he is. She doesn’t think she would have ever found the courage to be the woman she is today without him being just him, kind and patient.

Now, the beach is their safe place. The ocean is their escape from the world around them, a peaceful place for them to simply be with each other.

It’s a little past noon, the sun high in the clear sky, with only a couple of clouds shrouding the beautiful day. She’s been sitting on the sidelines underneath a fluttering umbrella, working on some unfinished assignments she has for her classes. She hasn’t gotten much work done, however, not only because she gets easily distracted in general but also because of the teasing looks Harry shoots her.

She watches him through large sunglasses, a chipping gold coloured wire surrounding fading pink lenses, as he sits at the table once again, setting down a plate of watermelon atop the terribly ugly tablecloth. He told her how important this shot was before when they were driving to the beach location. With jittery hands and giddy eyes, he told her about how it was going to be the teaser that would be posted a couple days before the big release. Getting the “perfect” shot hasn’t been going too well, especially since Harry knocked over the glass of orange juice in the very first take.

Despite his pleas and the biggest pair of puppy dog eyes, she declined his offer to be a part of the video, opting to sit and watch from afar. She has never been one to put herself into any situation that forced the attention more on herself than necessary. Besides, when their relationship is in the public eye (it’s, sadly, an inevitable part of their journey), she doesn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea about their relationship, that she’s simply using him to better herself.

The director calls for a quick lunch break before the next couple of scenes, and Harry took it as an opportunity to spend some time with her, having been distracted and busy for the better part of the day. He tugs her up from the worn chair, a brittle little thing that had been sitting in the patio of her rental house for what looks like centuries (she was honestly surprised when it didn’t crumble beneath her). Watching their footprints spread and sink and die beneath merciless waves as the tide rolls further and further in, they walk to a more isolated part of the beach.

A pair of green sunglasses, large and shaped like hearts, are perched on his head, pulling back the stray curls that always seem to fall onto his forehead, and the necklace she gave him for their anniversary sticks to the skin of his chest, just barely tucked beneath low swooping neck of a dark orange tank amongst an array of dozens of dangling charms and shells.

His eyes are crinkled form the blaring sun, but he still doesn’t move the glasses from his hairline; they don’t cover much of anything anyhow. His feet are still bare as he kicks through the sand, swinging their connected hands between them. The sun beats down on his freckled shoulders, and he savors the warmth. She stops suddenly and turns to face him, a faint smile creeping over her features as her nails tease across the green stitching of the tank.

“Ya know,” she begins, making him turn to face her. He has such a sweet little grin on his face, and she can’t help but melt at the sight. It never gets tiring being able to see Harry in his element.

He’s been beaming since they woke up this morning, especially since she told him she would be joining him at today’s shoot. While his other songs are very dear to him, they don’t hold a candle to Watermelon Sugar because it was made because of her; it was a culmination of everything he’s been through in the past two years, the highs and the lows.

It signifies his new beginnings with her.

When he met her, on that dry summer night, she made everything seemingly fall into place. And later that night, after a couple bottles of wine and a riveting game of twenty questions, he kissed her, her lips, soft and supple, tasting like cheap moscato and strawberries, and he felt like he was breathing for the first time; it was all very new and exciting and dangerous. He knew, after having just gotten out of a relationship, he shouldn’t put his heart so entirely on his sleeve, for fear of having it absolutely shattered. He fell for her hard and fast, despite his reservations and fears and common sense.

Looking back on it now, he’s glad he didn’t listen to his common sense. Then, he wouldn’t be walking with his soulmate on a beach now.

“You look really hot in this,” she says, her hands smoothing along his hips before connecting right above the curve of his bum. He cups her cheek, thumb tracing along the heated skin.

“Yeah?” His lips curl into a teasing smirk.

“Oh, yeah,” she returns the light tone, her nose just barely grazing against his. When she catches his lips, they’re sweet and sticky. She holds him steady by the cheeks, feeling the slight stubble. Hands grasped tightly to her bunched dress, he backs her up against a rock as her hands travel toward any piece of open skin she can feel, from his biceps to the tips of his fingers digging into her waist. She feels a rush of anxiety settles in her stomach as he hikes up her dress around her waist, his crotch grinding into hers.

While they used to fill her with dread, these nerves leave her eager and wanton, and she wants so badly to melt into him and have him take her however he wants, but that little voice, the one that always reminded her of every little thing that could possibly go wrong, is screaming at her to stop him. Harry, ever the pusher, who holds her hand and guides her through the things that she never thought she would before, would tell her to shove those fears back, that this is their moment to just be and live, just him and her, together.

Through her inner turmoil, she still focuses on her sensible side, and she hesitates.

“H,” she moans, tugging on his hair. He presses his lips to her neck, tongue dipping out to wet her skin, tasting, savoring her.

“Not that I’m not… loving what you’re doing, but—” Her voice breaks a little as he nibbles and sucks just below her jaw. “We could get caught,” she says breathily, and he pulls back, his hands still tucked in the hollow of her neck and her waist.

Despite the beach being very private, she can’t help but be worried that someone would catch them in such an intimate way, but he just gives her a comforting smile, their fingers interlacing at her hip, and she can feel her worries melt away. She still can barely believe that he can make nearly all of her nerves dissipate with just a simple look or touch.

“Isn’t that a part of the fun?”

Her heart jumps into her throat. Now, all she can think about how someone could catch them at any moment; all she can think about is how stupid and reckless it is for them, especially for him. It’s risky and nerve wracking, but her pussy still throbs in her underwear, wetness seeping into the already stained fabric. She could only imagine the person’s surprise if they rounded the corner to see him on his knees before her, her fingers tracing through his still wet hair as he works his mouth on her.

They’re hidden behind a set of pale rocks, plentifully dotted with dark moss. He nearly covers her, his thick arms resting on the rocks behind her, blanketing her in his shadow. He grinds his hips into her. She tucks a hand beneath the dark orange top, her thumb running along the fleshy meat of his hips, his sun kissed skin smooth beneath her touch. He spreads kisses down to that same weak spot beneath her jaw, still tender from his earlier ministrations.

“Okay,” she hums, finally sinking into him. Despite the heat from the burning sun, she embraces him, tugging and pulling him closer until they’re nestled close, chest to chest, his knee settled between her spread thighs, against the rock behind her.

“You jus’ gotta be quiet,” he mumbles.

That makes her chuckle.

“Me? I’m the loud one?”

Compared ot beginning of their relationship, she has learned how to be more expressive and emotive and assertive when it comes to sex, often telling him exactly what she needs, how she needs it, and when, but she still isn’t near as loud or talkative as he is. He could chatter her ear off about any just anything while he’s fucking her. Initially, it was odd; sex was never an experience she considered to be something that was really open or comfortable, if that makes sense. She always saw it as something that was supposed to be taken very seriously, and it was somewhat of a personal experience, despite it being between two people.

But, perhaps, that was just her anxiety telling her that it’s not a good idea, or it was because of her innermost fear of embarrassing herself.

However, it’s moments like these, where she can barely comprehend the world around her, only being able to move her head slightly, the words completely caught in her throat, that she’s glad that he talks her through everything; she’s glad that she can bear witness to the filthy words that leave his lips, words that make her tremble and quake with anticipation.

He cups her through thin panties, his nails tracing her swollen lips. His rings offer a different kind of friction, one she yearns for, rigid and relentless. She hooks a knee around his waist, and he cups the back of her thigh, the cotton of her dress pooling around his elbow. He pushes the panties to the side with his free hand.

“Your poor little peach,” he pouts teasingly, voice soft. He pinches her puffy clit, and her hips buck against the sudden, harsh touch. “So wet and swollen. ‘M sorry, babylove. If I knew you were feelin’ tingly, would’ve taken this walk earlier.”

He kisses behind her ear, fingers spreading her wetness over her folds, paying special attention to her painfully hard button, throbbing and aching from his faint brushes across her sensitive skin. She whines, head sinking against the rocks, eyes fluttering closed. He pulls her lips apart, until she’s full open to him, her tight, clenching hole seeping with arousal.

“What got you this worked up, lovie?”

Her thighs tremble and shake, her knees threatening to give at any moment.

“Was thinking about… you,” she admits softly, sweetly, and she can feel his bulge thicken just a little more against her.

“Me?” He has an incredulous tone, but the darkening edge to the laughter that punctuates it makes her thighs close around his hand. “Little ol’ me?” A flare of pink has started to form on the rounds of his cheeks, probably from the sun, but it looks cute on him.

“What were you thinkin’ ‘bout?”

“This,” she chokes out. That’s all she can really say at this point. With the pressured circles he’s kneading into her poor, swollen clit, she can’t think coherently. It’s not enough to make her come yet, but it’s enough to keep her satiated, just enough for her to teeter on the brink of insanity.

“Dirty girl,” he says, “thinking ‘bout me eating your pretty little peach out here, where anyone could see, your honey drippin’ down your thighs.” She clenches, aching and throbbing at his words. She can feel her arousal slip down her thighs. “Anyone could see us out here, sweetness.” He tuts, tapping the tips of his fingers against her poor bud, her hips buck at the slight friction, and she whines pitifully.

“Or is that what you wanted?”

He cocks his brow. He strokes his fingers along her swollen lips, nails slightly grazing the tender, pink inside, which makes her hips jolt into his touch. Breathing ragged, the meat of her thighs tense from his gentle touches, teasing and fleeting.

“Maybe you wanted someone to see us. You wanted them to watch me make you come with my mouth. Maybe they’ll think about those pretty noises you make while they come. Is that what you wanted?”

He sinks two fingers into her sopping pussy, stretching and filling her, and she cries out at the sudden relief. The burning ache inside her is quelled just a little bit more as he curls his fingers into her little spot. She slips, the rough rocks grating against the skin of her bare back; the pain lingers and heightens her senses, the throbbing pleasure from his movements sinking deep into her bones. He catches her before she can fall, knee still holding her up.

“Yes,” she whines, grinding into him. He sinks to his knees.

“So pretty, babylove,” he praises as he pulls back the hood of her clit. “Such a perfect little peach.” Suckling and nibbling at her swollen bud, her hips buck in time with his lips. He runs the flat of his tongue along the underside of her clit, her taste making his cock stir in his pants. Her walls clench around his fingers, sucking and pulling him deeper inside her. He pulls his lips back, his thumb pressing harshly into her bud, a stark contrast to the warmth from his mouth. He kisses the inside of her trembling thigh.

“Can you take another?”

She nods desperately, her hips grinding against him. He easily slips another finger, and he smiles as more arousal seeps down to his wrist.

“Never taken three, have ya? My good girl, so fuckin’ wet f’me,” he says, pulling at her swollen button with his free hand.

“What else were you thinkin’ ‘bout?”

She struggles to speak, her world still spinning and blurred from her impending orgasm. Her pussy tightens near painfully around his ring-clad fingers.

“Tell me,” he coaxes her, fingers fucking into her at a brutal pace, leaving her breathless and incoherent. She mumbles something through broken whines, her heaving chest stuttering. She can’t even keep her eyes open as she chases her coming high, her wetness squelching between his fingers.

“What was that?”

“Wanna choke on your cock,” she says through ragged moans. He smirks against her thigh.

“You want me to pull your hair back and tell you how much of a good girl you are while you take my cock in your pretty little mouth?”

“Yes, please,” she whines. She can actually feel her mouth water at the thought of shoving his cock deep in her throat with him moaning and claiming her and taking what he wants.

“Come for me, babylove, and then, you can have my cock,” he coos.

Her high takes over her with a burning fire, igniting every vessel in her body with ecstasy, sending waves of tremors and chills through her muscles, until it settles to smoldering embers, leaving her hungry and eager for him. She tugs him into a biting kiss, teeth tugging at his teasing lips. She wants to rip that orange top from him to feel his glistening skin against her, from the hardness of his chest to the soft little pooch that settles around his hips and stomach. She can’t now, but she’ll definitely have to play out that fantasy some other time.

He sits on his bum, the burning sand shifting and settling up around his thick thighs, but he doesn’t take much notice in that as she pushes his thighs apart, eagerly tugging his pants down. There’s a pretty red, nearly purple, hue to the head of his cock, precum slipping from the slit.

The fabric of his pants bunch up tightly underneath his balls, but it offers the perfect amount of pressure whenever his hips buck up. Her tongue traces along her lips, bitten and puffy, her eager eyes taking in everything he has to offer. His cock jumps a little under her gaze.

“Take it, lovie,” he moans.

And take it she does.

She licks the little divot of his balls, wetting the pliable skin before massaging her thumb into him, the way she knows he likes it. His eyes roll back. She presses the head into the soft skin of her cheek, making them puffed and protrude. She sinks further and further down, her wet lips tight and absolutely perfect against him.

“So pretty, baby,” he sighs, eyes fluttering closed as her throat tightens around him. Her teeth just slightly graze the throbbing vein on the bottom part of his shaft, making him twitch.

She grips tightly onto his pleated pants, twisting the thin fabric in little fists as she takes him entirely this time, choking her. Saliva dribbles from her lips to the swell of his balls, and he cups them, spreading the wetness over his sensitive skin. When she lets up, a string trails from her lips to the throbbing head.

“Such a good girl f’me,” he moans, brushing some wetness from her chin. He can feel himself twitch again at the sight of her, lashes clinging together with unshed tears, lips soft and plump and wet—she looks ethereal, absolutely divine. Her breasts are pressed tightly together, shifting slightly with every move of her wrist.

“My best girl.”

She jerks him in quick, wet strokes, the obscene sounds nearly muffled by the crashing waves nearby. A swell of wind brushes through, rustling his hair, and it sends chills down his spine, leaving his thighs quivering.

“Gonna come?” His sweet’s voice is raw and wrecked, and it makes him throb. She breathes sharply through her teeth, wiping her lips crudely with the back of her hand. She lets a thick drop of saliva slip past puckered lips and onto his swollen cock, and his hips jolt up as it trails teasingly down the ridges until it stops in her hand at the base of his cock, nestled tightly against the fine curls. Her other hand teases along the tip, just barely slipping it through her loose fist.

“Please, wanna taste it,” she whimpers, and he swears he could black out. His body is overwhelmed by his racing heart; he can feel it everywhere, from his ears to the tips of his toes, blood rushes through him, heating his skin. She wraps her lips tightly around the head, her cheeks hollowed, and she looks at him with hooded eyes, begging, pleading with him.

Her tongue suckles at that special spot on the underside of the tip that makes him see stars. With trembling hands brushing back the flyaways from her forehead and his face scrunching up, eyes closed, a toe-curling, all-consuming orgasm rushes through him and leaves his hips bucking and skin sticky. She laps at his cum, her pretty, puffy lips still wrapped around him to coax him through his high.

He pulls her up, his hands cupping the back of her neck, and she straddles him, his softening prick lying between them, still twitching slightly. He tugs her lips onto his, molding them together with swollen lips, saliva, and sweetness, twinged with salt and sex. He pulls their lips apart to finally catch his breath, but she continues to press her lips to his tender skin, her comforting kisses bringing him out of his euphoria induced lull.

A cute little purple flower catches the corner of his eye. It’s the only one sprouting beneath a heavy layer of sand, just barely peeking beyond the surface. He picks it.

“A flower for my flower,” he says sweetly, and she takes it, her eyes soft. She looks it over.

“I’m pretty sure this is a weed,” she laughs, rolling the stem between her fingers, and his eyes widen in offence.

“No, it’s a native wildflower.” He tries to defend himself, but she isn’t having it, soft billows of laughter falling from her swollen, wet lips. He pouts. “Fine, then, jus’ take my gift and completely squander it.”

Ever the dramatic one.

She stands up, brushing the sand that accumulated in the folds of her dress.

“Put your cock away. We should head back before everyone gets suspicious,” she says.

“After everything I do for you, you still make me put my own cock away,” he scoffs, teasing smile still curled over his features. He shakes his head.

“Last time I did, you said I was bein’ too rough,” she says, brow cocked and hip jutted. He concedes to her and tucks himself back into his slacks. “C’mon, sugar butt,” she says, pulling him onto his feet. He stumbles, standing more onto the heels of his feet to get used to the heat of the sand. She has the flower tucked behind her ear.

If anyone noticed their beaming smiles or their rumbled clothes or the scratchiness to her voice, they don’t say anything. They don’t say anything then, or when Y/N parts from him with a quick peck on the cheek and a pinch to his bum. They don’t say anything when he gives her even more teasing glances when he’s in front of the camera or when he stops by her after a quick wardrobe change and gives her a deep kiss, followed by a whispered promise of more to come.

—

#such a pretty title for such a dirty fic lol #harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles x reader #harry styles smut #harry styles one shot #ellie writes #ellie writes fluff #ellie writes smut #gif not mine #credit to owner

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phykios · 3 years

Text

i meant to have this up on friday but i didn’t bc i’m lame anyway, this is dedicated to my dearest dearest peyton 💙💙💙💙💙💙💙 one year ago last friday i had the distinct pleasure of sliding into her dms on discord, several fics and 72 separate aus later, here we are. so, for our friendiversary, have a sexy origin story for percabeth 😁

Say So, for @darkmagyk [read on ao3] rated E for sexual content (spicy!!! pls be advised!!!) cw: recreational drug use, experimental bondage, and an accidental hit during intercourse

“I don’t think it’s working,” Annabeth says.

“Just give it a minute.” Sofia sounds gone already, hazy and dreamy.

She gives it a minute.

“Am I supposed to feel something?”

“Yeah.”

“Well I’m not.”

“You gotta be patient,” says Jordan. Throaty and full, her already deep voice is even deeper, almost vibrating in the air.

Annabeth blinks. “Maybe they gave you actual grass. Or maybe I’m too much of a square for it to affect me.” Sofia snorts. “I’m serious. You know at my summer camp they started giving me counselor responsibilities when I was twelve? Percy always said I wouldn’t know what fun was if it hit me in the face. And it’s not like he was wrong, like I spent most of my childhood reading ancient Greek or learning how to use a knife but there were some pretty ridiculous extenuating circumstances and I really wanted this older boy at camp to like me, and why am I talking so fast?”

Masako giggles. “You’re stoned.”

“I am?”

“Stoned,” she confirms.

“High,” says Sofia.

“Intoxicated!” sings Jordan.

“Oh, wow.” She can feel every blade of grass beneath her, tickling along her bare legs, the wind caressing her face, the sounds of Berkeley--frat boys playing Ultimate, rush-hour traffic, a thousand different conversations about nothing and everything--muffled behind a glass wall. “I’m high.”

Sofia laughs. “How does it feel?”

“It feels…” She licks her lips. They taste like avocado fries and sunshine. “It feels like…” Slow. The turn of the earth so soft and gentle, like the tides in the lake when Percy is in a good mood. Like the liminal space between sleepfulness and wakefulness, when you’ve taken a nap and can’t remember what year it is. Like wading through a magical time spell, but warm. “You know what I mean?”

“Annabeth,” says Masako. “You didn’t say anything.”

“What?” She raises her head, looking over at her friend. Her eyes are closed, her hands running along the grass of the quad. “I didn’t?”

“Nothing.”

Annabeth lets her head fall back, thumping the earth. “Oh, theoi, I’m high.”

Overcome, Jordan starts laughing, curling onto her side. The rest aren’t far behind.

Soon they’re not laughing at her anymore, they’re just laughing to laugh. Laughter is fun, she realizes, her breath and blood whooshing through her body, every muscle and bone in her body united in one single pursuit of joy. Her eyes are squeezed shut, cheeks aching from the force of her smile, her body curled in on itself, wracked with euphoria.

Sofia giggles so hard she snorts, setting them all off again.

Wading through an onslaught of laughter, high and squeaky, Annabeth gasps out, “Why am I laughing so much?”

“Because you’re high, girl!” Jordan crows. She has turned herself over on her front, her face pressed against the grass. “Have you really never gotten high before?”

“Don’t tease her,” says Sofia, awkwardly patting Annabeth’s knee. “You know she hasn’t done anything.”

She has done stuff, she almost says--before she shuts her mouth with an audible clack.

“Not even at your camp?” Jordan asks, befuddled. Befuddled is a funny word. “No one ever snuck in some alcohol or whatever?”

Thoughts running at a snail’s pace, she has to seriously rack her brain to think if one of the Hermes’ kids ever brought in any illicit substances. Soda, minor monsters, the most powerful weapon ever created--but not any alcohol or marijuana. She thinks. “Our camp director was really strict about alcohol.”

“Lame,” says Masako.

“I mean, he was in recovery,” says Annabeth, her go-to story about Mr. D, just in case anyone ever asks. “It was a whole thing. He couldn’t have it, so we couldn’t have it.”

“Not lame,” she amends.

“Okay, I think,” she says, a memory appearing out of the fog, after Gaea, after all that nonsense, “I think my co-counselor Katie made some joints out of bay leaves once.”

The younger kids had gone to bed, sent off with a healthy dose of Clovis’ dream magic to ward away any nightmares, but the older campers had stayed up, huddled around the central brazier into the wee hours of the morning. Still so exhausted she could barely see straight, falling asleep on top of Percy, he had hauled her away to bed, but not before he had declined something for the both of them, something small and white and made to be smoked.

“You can get high off of bay leaves?” Sofia asks.

Annabeth nods. “That’s how the… the fucking…” the word was on the tip of her tongue. The thing that Rachel did. But long ago. Oracle! “The Oracle, she got high, in ancient Greece. With bay leaves. She’d smoke them and receive prophecy.”

Jordan lifts her head. “Cool. You got ancient Greek high.”

Annabeth nearly says something about Olympus, or maybe Blackjack, an amazing joke about being high and Greek just on the tip of her tongue, but she has just enough self control not to. “No, I was tired. Percy and I went to bed.”

“Laaaaaaaaame,” says Masako.

It’s just good-natured ribbing. And they’re all high as kites. But Annabeth still frowns. “I’m not lame.”

“You’re amazing, don’t get me wrong,” Masako says, “but you are so lame. You’ve never gotten high before, you’re probably going to marry your first boyfriend… you are so vanilla.”

“And we love that about you!” Sofia jumps in.

Annabeth can’t feel bad right now, but she can feel a little lost. “But I love Percy,” she says. “Why wouldn’t I marry him?”

Percy is perfect. He’s handsome and kind and powerful and funny and brave and handsome. He’s more than anyone could hope for. And he loves her.

“You’re really going to marry him?” Jordan asks. “Like, for real?”

She shrugs. “Yeah, but he says he can’t propose before he finds the perfect ring. He promised he wouldn’t make me wait too long. I don’t want to have Chase on my diploma.”

“Oh my god,” Masako giggles, “you’re even more vanilla than I thought.”

“The dick can’t be that good,” Jordan muses, examining a particularly long blade of grass.

It is, but they don’t need to know that.

Sofia snorts. “It is?”

Oh, fuck. Annabeth giggles. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

“Tell us!” Masako sits bolt upright, eyes wide. “Tell us everything!”

She slams her hands over her face. “Noooo,” she laughs, curling in on herself further. “I can’t.”

All at once, they scream, like the three Erinyes swooping down onto an unsuspecting prey. Or the Cabin Ten campers when someone gets too close with any stray ketchup.

“Spill!” they shriek. “Spill!”

No one has ever demanded to know the details of her sex life before. Even at camp, she and Percy are given a wide berth. Something about walking through Tartartus with your partner apparently takes your sex life from giggle-worthy to kind of intimidating. That’s the biggest difference between her demigod friends and her mortal friends, Annabeth is finding. Other than that, they’re pretty much exactly the same. “What do you want to know?” she asks, naively.

The floodgates open.

“When did you guys first do it?”

“Where?”

“How was it?”

“What does he like?”

“His abs though--”

“Is he good at head?”

“Favorite position!”

“His dick is big, I just know it--”

Over and over, overlapping, a whirlwind of questions, she can’t process them nearly as fast as they are coming--all she can do is laugh, breathless and airy, until they all dissolve into giggles once again.

She’s getting a little tired of this constant laughing.

Even that thought makes her start all over again.

“Okay,” she gasps, “okay, I can’t--I can’t answer all of those.”

Jordan waves her arms. “Me first! First time!”

Annabeth shrugs. “Um, it was… the weekend of Thanksgiving, a few months after we started dating. His parents were at a mixer for their writing group, and I was staying with them during my school break.” What else is she supposed to say? That they’d been talking about it for weeks? That Annabeth had been so excited she’d forgotten to even ask him about condoms? That Percy had been so concerned with making sure he got her off and didn’t hurt her that he’d spent almost an hour fingering her?

They squeal in unison. “His parents’ house!” Sofia gasps, hands on her face. “So scandalous! How was it?”

Annabeth blushes. “Amazing.”

And it had been, as amazing as a first time can be. Any person could only ever dream of having a partner as attentive and respectful as Percy for their first time.

“If he’s the only one you’ve ever had, how do you know it was that good?” Jordan asks. “I thought my first boyfriend was good, too, right up until I started dating Julie.”

“I think three consecutive orgasms counts as being good,” Annabeth drawls.

Once again, the screaming.

“Three?” shrieks Masako.

“Three.”

“Your first time?!”

“He was really really really concerned I wouldn’t get off!”

Sofia collapses on top of her, hands scrabbling for her shoulders, and always, always giggling. “You marry that boy--you marry him right now!”

“I’m trying!”

“And it’s still good?” Masako’s eyes are as wide as saucers.

Normally, she might be a little reluctant to share--even with Piper. The eighth of this edible, though, is certainly helping grease the wheels of conversation. “It’s always good.”

Jordan groans, throwing a handful of grass in her face. “Bullshit.”

“Always?”

She frowns, really thinking about it, trying to remember a time it was bad. It’s surprisingly really hard. “Sometimes we don’t have time for three orgasms.”

“How often do you fake it?”

“What do you mean?” Annabeth asks Masako.

“You know… fake it.”

“Why would I fake it? If I fake it, he won’t know I haven’t come yet.” She laughs, more than a giggle but less than a guffaw. It’s so silly. Whoever thought of faking an orgasm? “How would I even do that?”

“You’ve never faked it?” Sofia is incredulous, her jaw hanging open.

Annabeth sits up, flailing a little, reaching forward to touch her toes. Just because. “Of course not. Do people actually do that?”

“Sure,” says Masako. “Sometimes.”

“Why?”

“I hate you,” Jordan moans, “I hate you so much, you and your stupid sex god boyfriend who makes love to you every night like you’re in some trashy period drama with the…” Her hands come up, weakly making a wavy shape in the air. “The things. You know.”

Masako tilts her head. “Hoop skirts?”

Sofia pitches forward, hands coming flat on the grass. “Okay, Annabeth. Prove to us you’re not vanilla. Craziest place you’ve ever done it.”

All three girls lean in, now, expectant, hungry.

Annabeth frowns.

Where was the craziest place they had done it?

They’d done it a lot in the last few years. His apartment in the city, Cabin Three, her boarding school room…

Oh. Right.

She flushes.

They lean in even closer.

Well, she can’t tell them about the time they had sex in the temple of Neptune in New Rome, but she can tell them about--“One time, at camp,” she mumbles, playing with a shoelace, “we… Percy is in charge of the boathouse, because--because he’s so good at sailing, you know? So, one day, we both passed our chores off to a couple other counselors, then he took out one of the canoes, rowed us out into the middle of the lake, and…” She glances up, bashful.

Cue the screaming.

Annabeth covers her face with her arms, falling back down onto the quad.

“At your summer camp!” Masako cries, gleeful.

“My word!” Playfully kicking her ankle, Jordan pretends to fan herself, like Hazel still does sometimes when she’s startled by something really risque. “Imagine if the children had seen you!”

The children hadn’t seen them, but the naiads definitely had--and had tried to capsize them for their trouble. She hadn’t been able to do any lake-related activities for a week without getting soaked by a stray wave which, coincidentally, managed to avoid hitting everyone else.

“What else?” Sofia asks, practically vibrating. “Craziest kink!”

“Um…” She frowns, screwing up her face so she thinks extra hard. Have they… done anything kinky? They have sex a lot, yeah, and not always in their bedrooms, but other than that… “I… don’t… know…”

Sex with Percy is always amazing--that’s not a lie. But, maybe it’s gotten a little… same-y.

“Well, well, well.” Sofia slow-claps it out, her rings clinking together. “I think she’s ready for the big leagues, don’t you, girls?”

Through her fingers, Annabeth glances at her. “What do you mean?”

“Bondage.”

“Bondage?” She blinks. “Like, tying each other up?”

Annabeth doesn’t think she’s ever been tied up before. Well, except for the time she wanted to hear the Sirens, but Percy had left her with her knife, so that didn’t really count.

“Last time I met up with Skylar, we went back to his, and he has this old-timey bed frame, with the slats, right? So I took the belt from my dress, and--”

“Okay, okay,” Annabeth cuts in, covering her face again. “I get the point.”

Maybe her friends have a point. Maybe she is a little vanilla.

Sofia pats her knee. “Next time you guys have sex--”

“So, in like, three hours,” Jordan snorts.

“--take a scarf or a tie or whatever and tie his hands to the headboard. Trust me, he will flip. Out.”

Annabeth nods, taking mental notes. “Hands to the headboard. Got it.” She’s not sure if he even has any ties, but she’s resourceful. She can cobble something together. “And… then what?”

Sofia shrugs. “Kiss him. Do a striptease. Leave him there. I dunno. Whatever you want.”

Masako scrambles to her feet, windmilling to keep her balance. “The Bon Me truck just pulled up,” she gasps, “and I am starving.”

And thus, that particular conversation is over, thanks to the munchies.

***

Truth be told, she kind of forgets it pretty much entirely. Most of that day is gone, the finer details swallowed up in a haze of heat waves and peanut sauce.

That is, until New Rome’s annual pre-Saturnalia mixer: dress code, lighter side of formal. Whatever that means.

“Hey, babe?” Percy pokes his head in the bathroom, button-down half undone. “I need your eye for a second.”

She grunts around the bobby pin held between her teeth, sliding another one through some hitherto-unknown dimension to hold a curl in place.

“What do you think, this tie with this jacket?” He holds the two of them together, the black and white Greek key pattern contrasting nicely against the navy blue fabric. “Or will that cause an incident?”

“Probably an incident,” she says, slowly, slipping the bobby pin from her mouth. Then, a thought poking at the back of her skull. “How long have you had that?”

He glances at it. “The tie? Paul gave it to me for graduation.”

“That was nice of him.”

“I’m pretty sure he got it from the Met gift shop, but yeah.” All smiles, he slides the jacket on, tie crumpled in his balled fist. “You’re right, no tie.”

She grunts, noncommittal, gaze sliding away as she tries to remember… something.

“You good?”

“...Yeah,” she says, eventually. “Just spaced out for a second.”

“Alright. You about ready to go?”

She glances at her hair in the mirror, the makeup on the counter. “Give me twenty.”

“Sure thing.” Then he goes out, a few moments of silence passing before she hears the sink turn on as he takes care of the dishes.

How in Hades did she end up with the perfect man? Truly.

Percy continues to exude perfection at the party, despite the fact that he is clearly less than comfortable, not that she can blame him. Some of the older citizens of New Rome are a little less reserved with their opinions of the Greeks, Percy’s hand clenching around his glass of sparkling grape juice every time someone badmouths camp, their home, but they both relax as soon as they finish making the rounds of NRU’s board of trustees and other college officials, peeling away to find Frank and Reyna and the rest of their friends.

Still, Annabeth can’t quite focus.

“Hey.” Percy leans in, his hand against the small of her back, murmuring into her ear. “Are you okay?”

“Hm?” Gods, his hand is so big and warm. All that time in the gym is paying off, too, the weedy, skinny teenager she fell in love with blossoming into a young man, broad shoulders and firm chest like a Phidian sculpture.

“You’re just kind of quiet tonight. Did you sleep okay?”

She blinks at him, thoughts coming back into focus. “Uh--yeah, I’m good. Just--”

“Spaced out for a second?” Making a face, he grins back at her, unrepentant. “You wanna ditch the party?”

“Do you?”

He looks around, eyeing Hylla Ramirez-Arellano as she loudly boasts about being Jeff Bezos’ findom. “A little.”

Well, Annabeth is happy to be his excuse.

Citing a (completely fake) headache, they make their graceful exit, walking back to their apartment in the cool California night, hand in hand, Percy carrying her heels as she walks barefoot down the sidewalks.

It’s a quiet night. Percy squeezes her hand every few steps, and she squeezes back, lifting her face to the clear night sky, thoughts she can’t catch slipping through the cracks like wisps of clouds across the moon. But that’s okay. She’s pretty sure they’re good thoughts.

“You sure you’re alright?” Percy asks as they get home, closing the door behind them. “You've been kind of out of it all night.”

Kissing him on the cheek, she shrugs out of her nice coat, slipping it up on their makeshift coat rack, fashioned from a piece of driftwood that had nearly conked Percy on the head the first time they ever went down to the beach. “I’m fine, Percy, promise. Just kind of a bleh day, you know? Nothing a few cuddles and a movie won’t fix.”

At that, he beams, dropping Annabeth’s shoes on the floor. “I’ll get the popcorn!”

"Let me shower first," Annabeth says. Hopefully a shower will clear her head a little.

It doesn't.

Changing into her pajamas, she ruffles her curls with her microfiber towel, frowning as she comes out of the bathroom. Percy's good habits are rubbing off on her; she's left a lot of crap lying around that needs picking up. Collecting stray bobby pins from the vanity, a curling iron from the top of the dresser, and an alternate dress option from where she had left it on the bed, she putters about the room, tidying as she goes, when she stops. Percy's tie lays crumbled at the head of the bed where he had tossed it earlier.

She picks it up, running it between her fingers. It's not exactly silk, but it's still a decently strong weave, machine-made for mass production, inoffensively soft. Annabeth wraps it around her finger, pulling tight, and a flash of heat rushes through her, like a wave off the lava climbing wall.

“So there’s this guy on Youtube who makes popcorn with Lao Gan Ma spicy chili crisp, and it sounded absolutely amazing,” says Percy, walking into their room, popcorn bowl in hand. Annabeth whips around, the tie crumpled in her fist. “I tried to keep the spice level down, but let me know if it’s too much and I can make another one.”

Annabeth blinks, momentarily uncomprehending. “Uh--sure! Sounds good.”

“Did you pick a movie while you were in the shower?”

“Um…” Was she supposed to? “Your choice.”

“The Sopranos okay?” he asks, climbing onto their bed, twisting around to grab his laptop from the side table. His shirt rides up a little, a sliver of waist and hip peeking out at her.

“Sure.” She likes The Sopranos. It’s a little soapy, but usually she has no problem following along.

Keyword being usually.

She’s tucked herself into Percy’s side the way she usually does, her head against his, his arm around her shoulders, his thumb ghost along the bare skin of her bicep. He smells really good today, sea salt and cinnamon and chili oil, a testament to his busy day in the kitchen. He’s so warm, always, six feet of dense, packed muscle practically radiating heat. Annabeth could fall asleep right there. She often does.

Shifting for the sixth time in what must be five minutes, she snuggles into his chest, curling and uncurling her toes. There’s no denying it--she can feel herself getting hotter, a flame in her center, soft and pulsing, reaching every part of her.

How she wishes she could blame it on The Sopranos.

Annabeth presses her nose into his neck, breathing him in, laying a kiss under his ear. Then another on his jaw. And another at the corner of his lips. And one on his mouth, tilting him towards her for better access. He goes, easily, without resistance.

At some point, the popcorn bowl is moved.

Then, Percy shuts his laptop closed during Livia’s wake.

“Hey,” Annabeth murmurs into his mouth, draped over him like some kind of blanket. “I wanna try something.”

He hums, kissing her again. “Okay?”

She reaches behind him, beneath the pillow. She’s not sure why she had stashed it there, rather than hanging it back up in the closet, but she pulls out the tie, holding Percy’s gaze without breaking. “I thought,” she breathes, pressing her chest against him, incentivizing, “you know... if you want to."

His eyes darken, even as his face tries to give nothing away. "You wanna tie me up?"

Lip between her teeth, she nods.

Slowly, controlled, he blows his breath out, bringing a hand up to cup her cheek. "You sure?" he asks, desire rumbling in his chest.

She frowns. "Yeah." Does he not want to?

"Okay," he says, twisting a curl around his finger. "Just want to make sure we’re on the same page here.”

Or maybe worse, does he think she can’t? “Okay.”

Straightening up, she straddles him. He lifts his arms obediently, never breaking eye contact, bracing them against their headboard. It’s not really conducive for this sort of thing, but she threads the tie through the wooden slats easily enough, tying his wrists together, leaning in closer than she needs to so that her chest pushes up against his face.

There. All tied up and ready to go.

She leans back on her knees, taking in the whole pretty picture.

Rhythmically, subconsciously, Percy tests the strength of the bonds, flexing the muscles in his arms. His mouth hangs open, his hips shifting beneath her as he tries to get comfortable, cock hard through his sweatpants.

Annabeth scrambles off him, and he tries to follow, chest jerking as the tie holds him back. He grunts, surprised, shoulders straining, before he falls back, defeated, huffing angrily, a low growl which connects to the pit of her stomach. “Nice try, Percy,” she smirks, sauntering around to the foot of the bed, keenly aware of his gaze as it tracks her, hands on her hips. “It’s my show tonight.”

“Your show, huh?” He settles back against the headboard, wine-dark gaze boring into her. “By all means, then. Give me a show.”

She glares, grinding her teeth. Doesn’t he know she’s calling the shots right now?

Well, fine. If he wants a show, he’ll get a show.

Annabeth is… not a particularly graceful person normally, but on the battlefield, she knows she shines. Give her a knife and an enemy, and she can put the greatest dancers to shame. Well, in this case, Percy is the enemy, and… her clothes… are the knife. Or something like that. It makes more sense in her head.

Slowly, she grasps the hem of her sleep shirt, peeling it up over her chest, the fabric blocking her vision for a brief moment as she slips it over her head. When Percy comes back into view, his eyes have darkened just that much more, almost straining with the effort not to stare at her chest, even as it’s presented for his explicit viewing pleasure.

Annabeth does not have much in the way of breasts--never has. It doesn’t seem to bother him, which is nice. Besides, Percy is more of a leg man, as he has expressed several times. So, legs next.

Her sleep shorts aren’t very sexy, old, threadbare things which had once been yoga pants. When she started gaining a little more weight, and the pants could no longer reach her ankles, she had cut them in a fit of impulsivity, stretching the fabric and sewing herself a new hem, giving her skin more room to breathe. And giving Percy more space to slip his fingers up, the horny bastard.

She turns around, lamenting the loss, as she so wanted to see his face as she bends over, sticking out her ass, slowly slipping the waistband down. From behind, she hears a faint pickup in breathing.

Over her ass, down her thighs and her knees. She thinks she hears a groan, muffled behind a bitten lip. She lifts up one foot, then the other, leaving the shorts in a puddle by her feet. Clad only in her panties now--black, lacy, but not due to any pre-planning on her part, unless you count the laundry just about overflowing in the closet hamper--she straightens back up, her hands going to her hair, running her fingers through it in some kind of approximation of sexy.

She turns around, and is greeted with his look of naked longing, his throat working as he swallows, full lower lip firmly in his teeth. His fists are clenched, the muscles of his forearms big and bulging, his heels pushing into the mattress.

She takes a step forward, her fingers teasing the edge of her panties. She won’t take them off, not yet, just torment him a little, lifting the fabric and letting it slap back down to her skin, then she’ll climb back on top of him, hump him through his sweatpants until he’s begging--

Annabeth catches her foot on the fabric puddle. Tripping, she throws out her hands, aiming to catch herself on the decorative chest they keep at the foot of their bed, her weak ankle buckling as it tries to keep her steady--then she jams her toe into the metal strut. Hard.

“Mother fucker!”

She goes down.

“Annabeth!”

Through the white hot haze of pain, she can barely see, but she can certainly feel it as a pair of strong arms picks her up from the floor, laying her on the bed, a big hand taking her weaker foot, fingers delicately prodding the offending toe, skimming over the sensitive skin. “Percy?” she moans, seeing stars. “What--”

“Nothing feels sprained,” he murmurs, kissing her ankle. “Looks like you just slammed it. Let me get some ice.” And he leaves her for a moment.

Wasn’t he tied up a minute ago?

The bed dips beside her as Percy takes her foot again, carefully laying one of their smaller ice packs across the throbbing flesh. Her vision clears, blink by blink, and as his concerned but fond face slowly comes into focus, she also spies something trailing from his wrist--a strip of black and white fabric.

His tie. Snapped in half. Still attached to him. “Did you…?” she trails off.

He flicks his eyes down to his wrist, and flushes, lightly. “Oh. I, uh, guess I did. I didn’t even notice.”

Annabeth’s body grows hot in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with shame.

“Anyway,” he coughs, dry and useless. “Um, maybe we should call it a night?”

Hiding her face in her arms, she nods.

***

They try again the next week.

While dictating her notes via speech-to-text, Annabeth had spent the last couple of days occupied with making her own rope, stronger and softer than the ones she had seen in her Incognito Mode searches while doing her business in the bathroom. BDSM rope is surprisingly really expensive, especially the less abrasive stuff, but more than that, she feels kind of… well, it’s weird, the idea of spending money on bondage shit when they’d only tried it once, and not very successfully at that. Like, how about they make sure they actually like it first, says the little Percy in her head who occasionally keeps her from making too many impulse purchases, and then they can upgrade their gear?

Also, she’s confident her stuff is on par with the really expensive gear anyway. Plus, it’s blue!

And when she dangles it in front of his face, straddling him once again as she slides her wet pussy over his briefs, practically soaking them, he lifts his arms again, a quiet acquiescence, even as his jaw clenches in the barest hint of displeasure.

Every day Percy does something new to make her fall in love with him. That he trusts her so much to let her tie him up, immobilize him, take away his control like this, even though he’s so clearly hesitant about the whole thing, that’s just today’s thing. She kisses him, soft and sweet, over and over, and he responds in kind, straining his neck to meet her. “You good?” she asks, a whisper into the space between them, and he nods. “It’s not too tight?”

“It’s fine.” She feels more than sees as he flexes his arms again, testing the strength of her rope.

“Good.” She kisses his nose. No way he’ll be able to break these.

The second time is already going better than the first. Having divested herself of her clothes beforehand, there’s no danger of her tripping and injuring herself as she lines herself up and sinks down on him, shuddering at the angle as she slides him inside of her. She just sits there for a moment, rocking back and forth on his lap, enjoying the way he fills her nooks and crannies, brushing up against the sensitive skin, closing her eyes against the sensation as she lifts herself up, sliding back down, up and down and up and down and up and down.

“Fuck, Annabeth,” he moans. “Oh, fuck.”

It’s good. As always. It’s so good.

But… something is missing.

She squeezes around him, and he hisses, bucking beneath her.

Why isn’t he touching her?

He groans, frustrated, his head making a muffled thump as it drops on the pillow.

Oh. Right.

Usually right about now he’ll go for her tits, his big hands covering them completely, deft fingers pinching and twisting her nipples in the most perfect way, so she decides to show him what he’s missing, bringing her own hands up to her chest, rolling her thumbs over her nipples, smiling as he practically growls. Unfortunately for her, for whatever sick reason, she’s not nearly as good at this as he is, her touches not really doing enough for her. And after a few minutes or so, Percy takes notice.

“Oh gods, Annabeth,” he pants, pulling his legs up behind her, the force almost tilting her forward, and she throws out her hands to catch herself, his abs tensing beneath her as she lands on them, her chest right up against his face. Quick as anything, he lifts his head up, mouth headed for her left nipple before she manages to pull herself back.

She narrows her eyes, falling back on his lap even more heavily, pushing a grunt out of him. “Nice try.”

He only grins back, shark-like, eyes dancing. “Had to give it a shot.”

Of course he did. Percy treats rules like [clever metaphor], easily broken and discarded. And now Annabeth has to punish him.

Shit.

What are you supposed to do for punishment again?

Her mind draws a blank.

Percy stares up at her, waiting, brow raised in challenge.

To stall for time, she squeezes around him.

She’d watched a handful of pornos for research, and in a lot of them, the dominant would strike their partner. Percy’s tough, a bit of an adrenaline junkie, and he likes his rough-housing with Clarisse and Frank and the war kids, so he’d probably like that, too, right? If someone did that to her, Annabeth would probably like it.

So she raises her hand, and she brings it down on his soft, untensed, unprepared tummy. Hard.

He jumps so high that he actually manages to buck her off. “OW!”

“Percy!” she cries, scrambling back over to him. “Oh my gods, I’m so sorry!”

“The hell was that for!” he gasps, curling in on himself as best he can with his arms still tied above his head.

“Sorry, sorry,” she gentles, almost frantic, hands hovering over his body. His belly is rapidly turning pink, the outline of her hand stark on his skin, practically radiating heat. “I just--I mean I thought--fuck, I am so sorry!”

He groans in response, eyes squeezed shut.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck--”Let--let me get you some ice, or--” she stammers, sliding off the bed.

“Can you at least untie me first?” Percy wheezes.

“Oh my gods, yeah, hold on.” Despite her shaking fingers, the knot comes undone easily, practically falling apart, and Percy curls himself into a ball, forehead touching his knees.

Returning with an ice pack wrapped in a dish towel, she kisses his shoulder in apology, slipping it between the taut, tight bends of his body.

He is in real, actual pain. Fuck. “I am so, so sorry,” she says again, her voice wobbling.

Squinting up at her, he tries for a reassuring smile, but falls far, far short, a pained grimace painted across his face. “It’s okay,” he rasps.

It’s really not, but saying that isn’t going to be so helpful right now.

Instead, she lies down next to him, resting her hand on his arm, gently stroking back and forth in hopes that it might distract him a little. She knows that whenever her ankle or her shoulder act up, all she wants is Percy’s hands on her, repetitive and soothing. Hopefully she can give back a little of the comfort that he gives her.

After a while, he starts to uncurl. “Goddamn,” he moans, still clutching the ice pack to his stomach. “Remind me never to badmouth the Yankees again.”

She forces out a chuckle for his sake, ducking her head against his. “How is it? One to ten.”

Hissing, he straightens out a little more. “Probably a four,” he says, “but a really spicy four.”

“Percy, I am so--”

“It’s okay.” He knocks his head against her chin. “Maybe just warn me next time?”

“Yeah,” she says, uneasy. Next time is not looking so likely. “Here.”

Slowly, she helps him into a sitting position, applying extra pressure on his stomach, her hand on top of his. They breathe together, letting the sting fade away until Percy drops his head on hers.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

“How are you?”

“How--” she snorts, a little wet. “I’m fine, Percy.”

“Good.”

“I’m sorry about hitting you,” she says. She can’t help but look down at his stomach, pinkness peeking above the ice pack, at his dick, well and truly flaccid. “That was… not my best idea.”

“Can I ask you something?” Tearing her gaze away, she turns back to Percy. “Why are you pushing for this so hard?”

She blinks, taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“Just, you’ve never really expressed an interest in kinky stuff before.” He takes her hand, cold from the ice pack, rubbing his thumb against hers, sweet and intimate.

“Yeah, well,” she cuddles into Percy a little harder, curving her body around his shoulder. “Some of the girls at Berklee were teasing me about being a little vanilla.” None of it was mean-spirited or anything, but it had stayed with her for a while after it had resurfaced that night. Annabeth Chase, despite having run away from home at the age of seven, was a square, a teetotaler, unadventurous, the kind of woman who spent her Friday nights playing board games with a woman who typified 1930s values. Annabeth Chase, after her short, entirely too eventful life, was going to settle down, and marry the first boy she ever kissed.

It had struck a nerve.

“Being vanilla isn’t a bad thing,” he says, something like concern lacing his voice. “But, are you… not satisfied? With the physical stuff?” The unspoken ‘with me’ hangs between them, and Annabeth pulls back, looking him in the eye.

“Percy.”

“Mm?”

Reaching up, she kisses him. “Of course not. I could never not be satisfied.”

Something in him eases, almost imperceptible if she didn’t know him as well as she does. “So…”

Shrugging, she lays her head back down on his shoulder. “I dunno. It’s just--like, I’m pretty sure you’re going to be the only person I ever sleep with--”

“Pretty sure?”

She nudges him with her foot, and he laughs, hissing a little as it jostles his stomach. “You know what I mean. I just don’t want to miss out on anything, is all.”

“Like what?”

“Like--” she gestures to the rope, lying forgotten, tangled up in the sheets. “Stuff like that. Kinky stuff.”

“Okay,” he says, slowly. At least he doesn’t think she’s crazy. That’s always nice. “I guess I’m just wondering if you’re actually into bondage and stuff or if we’re just… you know, trying it out.”

Draping a leg over him, knees pressed together, she shrugs. “It sounded pretty fun,” she mumbles into his arm. “You know. Tying you up.”

She feels him swallow, jaw working as he chooses his next words carefully. “Tying me up,” he asks, “or tying you up?”

That… gives her pause.

“Maybe…” He turns his face towards her, nose in her hair. “We could swap?”

She frowns. “Swap?”

“If you want, I mean,” he says, quickly. “If you’re not--I would never make you do something you didn’t want to, obviously, but, I mean… if you wanted to try?”

Annabeth, for lack of anything to say, rubs her toes against his calf, comforting and grounding.

Does she want to be tied up?

Her first instinct is to refuse, obviously. She’s a warrior. Immobilization is death. And what if a monster attacks? She has to be ready for anything. That was the promise of Athena’s progeny, that they were eternally poised and ready to respond to any problem or threat.

And yet…

The summer she turned thirteen, she had decided that she was strong enough to hear the siren’s song in the sea of monsters. At her request, Percy had tied her to the mast so she wouldn’t be able to jump in and swim to her death. He had forgotten to take her knife, and when she had, inevitably, fallen prey to their song and cannonballed right into danger, he had jumped in after her, holding her back until she had been able to pull herself out of the magic spell.

It had been humiliating, and humbling. She hadn’t even begun to realize that she liked Percy as more than a friend at that point. But, years later, the clearest memory she has of that day is not how her pride had reared its ugly head, but instead just how safe she had felt in Percy’s arms, at the bottom of the ocean.

Here, in New Rome, in their apartment, with Percy… Well, what’s the worst that could happen? “Sure,” she says, perhaps a little more confident than she actually feels.

“Sure?”

“Sure. Why not?” Looking up at him, she searches his gaze for any hesitation or fear, and finds none, and that, more than anything else, settles her. “I’m game.”

He looks for the same in her, and he seems to like what he finds, because he cracks a grin, laying a soft kiss on her lips.

Gingerly, still mindful of his stomach, he reaches over to grab the discarded rope. Taking her hands in his free one, he loops it around her wrists, tucking the ends into itself, tight but not constricting. Comfortable.

Her breath catches in her throat.

“You good?”

Nodding, she flexes her wrists outward, just to feel the tension--and she sighs, a breathy moan slipping out of her without her permission.

They freeze.

Annabeth slams her eyes shut, praying he didn’t hear her.

“...Okay then,” says Percy.

Gods, his shit-eating grin is practically audible. “Shut up.”

“Excuse me?” He leans in, kissing her ear. “Did you just try to tell me what to do?”

She shivers beneath his warm breath. “I…” She is suddenly full of apologies and excuses bubbling up out of nowhere.

Percy hums. “You what?” Slowly, agonizingly, he slides his hand down the length of her body, ending on her tight, just above her knee. He squeezes, featherlight, and she shivers.

“Um,” she says, watching his hand creep higher, his fingers dipping between her legs. “I…”

Then he stops. He stops, that big hand still wedged halfway to her vagina.

“Are--” she stutters, almost yelping as he kisses the sensitive spot beneath her jaw, teeth scraping over the skin. “Are you going to finish?”

“Dunno. Was thinking about it. But maybe I won’t. Maybe,” he chuckles, directly into her ear, his nose pressing against her cheek. His other arm comes around, slipping beneath her bicep, fingers finding her nipple like it’s a damn beacon, and he pinches it, smiling into her skin as she jumps, grunts, and flushes. She wants to touch him so badly, but the angle of her arms is so weird and she’s kind of on top of him, and she can’t reach his cock or his hair or--“Maybe I’ll just get you worked up, and then I’ll go to sleep.”

What--but--he can’t--“I--you--”

“Say you’re sorry,” he teases, pressing his cheek to her head, “and maybe I’ll reconsider.”

Sorry for what?! She almost snaps. Percy’s hand between her legs plays just at the edge of her sensitive spots, teasing with soft touches, driving her crazy. “I’m--I’m sorry, Percy,” she pants, squirming. Maybe if she shimmies down, his hand will move up--

But he won’t be moved. “Sorry for what?”

“For--” he digs a nail into her thigh, a sharp, sweet bite of sensation, like a campfire ember accidentally landing on your skin, bright and pulsing. Fuck, what is she apologizing for? “For hurting you earlier.”

Shaking his head, he chuckles again, moving his hand further away. No! “Close,” he mumbles, “but no cigar--”

Oh! “For telling you what to do!” she blurts. “I’m sorry for telling you what to do!”

He bites her earlobe. His fingers slide up to her pussy, stroking her labia as they open up to him. “There we go.”

And as he jerks her off, bringing her to the finish with the kind of efficiency and skill that only comes after ten thousand hours, he kisses her, wet and hot, mouth insistent, taking her lip between his teeth, and he mumbles: “Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl.”

She breaks, crying into his mouth.

After a while, he slides his fingers out, giving her one final pass on her clit, and she shudders, whining. “Sorry,” he mumbles, warm. “You good?”

Her tongue heavy in her mouth, all she can do is nod, panting.

But when he slides his other arm out, making to untie her--”Don’t,” she mumbles, pulling back.

He starts. “Don’t?”

“Don’t.” Turning into him, she snuggles against him as deeply as she could, her bound hands only making it a little bit awkward, though they do come to rest on his stomach, about the perfect distance for her to reach down and take care of him. “Your turn?”

But he just shakes his head, slinging a leg over hers. “Still a little sore,” he admits, not quite meeting her gaze.

She drops her head onto his chest, relishing in the warm, steady heartbeat beneath her ear. “Sorry.”

“You can make it up to me later,” he says, taking her hands in his, thumb tracing along the edge of the rope. “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

#my fic #percabeth #pjo fic #darkmagyk #PLS HEED THE RATING OK

19 notes · View notes

bibliocratic · 3 years

Text

tread softly

S4 Canon Divergence + Mythological Creatures AU Mermaid!Sasha, Pheonix!Tim, Selkie!Martin

cws apply - see tags

Peter Lukas has always prided himself on the timing of his entrances.

He is not there, then he is. The ward slips colder, down into single digits. Martin gives a jerking shoulder-hunch motion when he notices his unexpected arrival, coupled with an intake of breath. No noise this time, no jumping, no explications of suddenness or surprise. Martin Blackwood takes well to both shock and silence with a delightful sufferance, and Peter is indulgently proud.

The lad is, as expected, by the Archivist’s bedside. Crone-backed, ringed with an satisfying corona of misery. It’s after visiting hours, but Martin likely hasn’t even realised that the gaze of the ward staff and orderlies has simply grazed past him when he came up, when he took his traditional post, when they do their rounds. Martin has not wanted to be noticed, so he won’t be.

Peter idly watches the machinery and tubes threaded though the Archivist like mechanical embroidery. This one seems eminently more worse for wear than Gertrude ever was. Stronger, though. Peter watches Elias’ chosen as he lies still and sedate for all he stalks the landscape of dreamers, and wonders if he might see the Eye’s favoured come to fruition in a way Gertrude never did.

All the more reason to talk to Martin, it appears.

“What do you want?” Martin says. Dulled, thick-throated. He’s wiping his face free from damp with his baggy jacket sleeves, glowering at Peter with a delayed annoyance, as if he’s interrupted some no doubt tender petition for waking. The antiseptic stench of the hospital worsens the tension in his bones.

He is perfect for their God. Peter’s so pleased the Archivist wasn’t so careless to have lost this assistant like he nearly lost both of the others. Elias told him that the Corruption had already sought to burrow into the debris of this lost soul, that Martin has taken the mantle of archivist well, while Beholding’s chosen was indisposed. And it is true that Martin’s gaze is more assessing than he would like. But Peter knows that Forsaken has long laced Martin’s lining with mist and dew-damp cold, filled his stomach with fog far longer than those petty chancers have tried to have him in their maw. That his God’s touch has been settling like thronging, subdued snow in place of Martin’s sealskin.

“I wanted to see if you’d thought about my offer,” Peter replies genially. Pushing his hands in his pockets, ignoring Martin’s radiating desire to be left alone.

Martin has. Peter doesn’t need Elias’ pretty little parlour tricks to know that Martin has likely thought about little else.

“I’ve been a bit busy.”

“Oh right!” Peter says after a moment’s pause. It visibly annoys Martin that it didn’t come to mind faster. “That spot of bother with the Flesh. All sorted now, I’m sure!”

“Why didn’t you do something to stop them?”

Peter crinkles his face in a deliberate confusion. Casting out his line.

“Why, what should I have done?”

Martin takes the bait with ease.

“It’s your job, isn’t it?” His voice pitches with accusation. His hands ball into fists, and he moves to standing, the chair complaining as it’s pushed back. “It’s your responsibility! You’re in charge now Elias is gone.”

“Thanks to you,” Peter replies smoothly. “And your companions seemed to do a good enough job. A few bruises here and there, a few near misses. Nothing they won’t heal from.”

Peter slides closer. Just a step. It makes his skin sing discordant at the proximity, but Martin stiffens, an anxious intake of air despite himself, and Peter knows he’s paying attention.

“I could ask you the same question,” he says.

“What do you mean?”

“Why didn’t you do something to stop them?” Peter doesn’t sound judgemental. He doesn’t have to, Martin will paint on layers of meaning without overdoing this particular nuance of his game. “It was very impressive, watching you all. They all held their own very well. Except you. You could argue I suppose, that it’s not the same. That you’re not like the mer or the firebird or the sphinx, no added little genetic extras, and you don’t get any boost from any old helpful Power like that police officer, or the angry one touched by the Slaughter. You’re just Martin. And that’s… that’s the problem, isn’t it? Just Martin. Nothing to offer in the fight, no way to protect them. Holding them back. They could have been hurt, and you wouldn’t have been able to do, well, anything at all.”

“I…” Martin says, and Peter takes another step.

“The Extinction is a pressing threat. There isn’t time for me to wait while you finish your grave-side widow routine. I need you to help me, and it would be only fair, in return, for me to help you.”

“Oh, what, you can fix me then?” Martin snaps.

“Not at all,” Peter says. Smiling, because he is so funny, with his rage sputtering in a fog that seeks to tamp it flameless, stumbling headlong and blinded into the conversational pitfalls Peter’s dug behind him. “No, no, I’m afraid you’re broken, Martin. I speak from experience when I say you’ll never grow your skin back.”

Martin freezes. He looks Peter up and down like he’s expecting to see something different, the scales fallen from his eyes, but this is the only skin Peter has worn for so long now, and he endures the slightly prickling gaze of Martin’s Eye-touched observation.

“You… You were – ?”

“A long time ago. Before the Lonely granted me a better shroud to cloak myself in. It is not a selfish God, Martin. It offers gifts, or payment, if you prefer that way of understanding it, to those who work in aid of its ends. Benefits that could protect your friends, should something as unfortunate as the Flesh’s assault occur again.”

“And what about Jon?”

“He’ll wake up. Or he won’t.” Peter replies cheerily. “Either way, you can’t do anything for any of them like this.”

Martin gives him a scowl. Peter lets it pass over him. He knows, before Martin even opens his mouth, that he’s won.

Sasha avoids the sea.

She does not know why. Its pull is no lesser through her absence. She has dreams of sinking and never coming up for air, and she does not know if it is serenity in the ceaseless drop or despairing surrender. She marks the high days and festivals of her people alone and unremarked upon, speaks to her landward kin infrequently and vaguely. She needs to be here, she tells herself harshly. She can’t go off when there’s so much to do, when she’s in the process of losing so much. One of her family cold and vanishing, one breathing through a machine, and one… he died, died properly, and although he came back purged of something poisonous, the shrapnel scarring of collapsed masonry on his skin and the reddest, warmest wings sprung from his back, this does not settle her terrors.

She cannot leave. Not when she could lose sight of her splintering shoal so easily. Not when she’s unsure the temptation to dive down and out, deeper, further away, wouldn’t ensnare her to cowardice.

She finds the first scales in the shower. It’s a myth that any water will have the skin of her legs go slick, then bumpy, fusing into one muscled tail with her scales folding outwards. She can have showers and baths without impact. It’s the sea, that is the essential component. The same for most deepwater kin. Not the sea, maybe, or exactly, but what it represents in the change. It’s something about floating out into endless space clad only in human skin and human lungs and trusting not to drown. The letting go of one form with the tide and permitting the waves to bring forth another.

Her scales are dimmed, like they’ve smudged. Their colour diminished.

It’s not a molt. Her people don’t. Tim does, normally annually. Before they travelled to Yarmouth, he’d been dropping feathers around the office almost continually with stress. Nesting, and growing in new and painful sections of wing, snapping with a yo-yoing temper.

Tim notices. Maybe because he’s the only one left. Basira is holed up somewhere of course, as is Melanie, but it’s not the same. They weren’t here before, they don’t have the context for how much their group is diminished, falling to pieces slowly like her own skin is.

They’ll be visiting Jon later. She hasn’t seen Martin in weeks.

Tim approaches slowly. Looks at the flakes of blue in her hand. Understand flowers gently in his eyes, and he reaches out and touches her arm, and she forgot the world could manifest in ways other than hurtful.

“You OK there, Sash?” Tim asks.

“I don’t know,” she replies. “I don’t… I just… When did it all go so wrong?”

“I dunno,” Tim repeats, and he doesn’t move away and she doesn’t want him to. “God, I – I don’t know, Sash.”

Jon’s clothes are dirt-clotted, ripped up by the grind of rock, and holding him tarnishes Tim’s feathers grey, smudges the pattern on his t-shirt into obscurity. His teeth are chattering, goosebumps bobbling up his arms and making the dark hairs up his arms stand on end. Tim suspects it’s more shock than cold.

Sasha brought him a glass of water, holding her palm under it because Jon’s long-fingered grip is so shaky it’s sloshing the water up the sides.

“Told you the rib was a shit idea, huh?” Tim says. Played as a joke and deliberately shorn of any accusation. He breathes in-and-out and Jon follows the rise and fall, and it benefits both of them. Tim’s getting better at control. He’s had to. His anger grows in like pinfeathers but so does his grief these days, a full plumage of emotions he is learning to deal with.

Jon coughs up something that could be agreement, but is mostly dirt and grave soil over Tim’s shirt.

You should have waited for us, Tim thinks but does not say because there would be too much teeth in it, and Jon’s skin is already whittling down to skeletal. We asked you not to go, we wanted a better plan, why didn’t you wait.

You could have died, down there in the dark, and we wouldn’t have even had a body to mourn, he does not say.

We love you, you idiot. We love you and even that wasn’t enough to stop you leaving, he does not say.

We’re already losing Martin, he does not say.

A room full of looping, chattering, overlapping tape recorders. Neither Tim nor Sasha stacked them, and Jon would not have thought to.

It should be a reassurance, that Martin’s been here.

God, Tim hopes he knows what he’s doing.

Sasha rubs at Jon’s back, helps him sip another small trickle. Tim’s wings, voluminous and unwieldy, knock over recorders in a clattering collapse as he scoops them around to shield them both. Against the balmy heat Tim’s throwing out, Jon’s shivers gradually subside.

“Daisy?” Jon murmurs. His teeth are grimy with soil.

“She’s with Basira,” Tim replies.

Sasha’s picked up the rib that’s dropped out of Jon’s clenched palm. Wiping the grime off it and staring at it without clear expression.

“Why, Jon?” she asks.

“I wanted to help,” Jon says. His words small, like he’s embarrassed that he even thought of it. “Even if it was one person. I wanted to be able to do something good for a change.”

“You could have died,” Tim says.

Jon’s horrible flat chuckle scrapes over his lips.

“I’m not sure I can anymore.”

“Yeah…” Tim replies subdued. He glances at the red daggers of his feathers and thinks he understands that.

“I wonder what it would take,” Jon says idly, slurring with exhaustion, and Tim grips him closer and hopes he never finds out.

Martin doesn’t react when Sasha sits down near him. The breeze, a vicious snagging chill tussles his hair, some wisps twisting into nothingness like smoke from an extinguished candle. She is still getting used to this Martin, or perhaps the Martin he never let others see. The toned-down stillness of him, the undisturbed waters of his expression. His skin not quite solid, the patches that have returned pale, sickly-pallored in the softening dim of moonlight. The rest of him is a coalition of fog, a hazy motion to his image like he’s wave-rocked, smoked out.

Long minutes pass. Sasha sits down cross-legged. The waves ripple up the stones that make up the strip of beach surrounding the loch, and they’re hard and uncomfortable under her.

“I can’t swim, you know,” Martin says finally. The sea is louder than he is, and he can make himself so quiet these days.

“No?”

Sasha keeps her tone light, inquisitive without intensity. Martin shakes his head, and his image lags, skipping disjointed, like his connection is poor.

More silence. Sasha doesn’t know what she should say, where Martin’s thoughts are at. She scratches behind the base of her gills, rubs at the dorsal fins sitting mostly flat under her sleep shirt.

“I didn’t live too far from the sea,” Martin continues. Looking at the wavering mirage of his hands without comment. She doesn’t even know if he recognises her presence. “We had Liverpool about an hour away. Even Blackpool, I guess. My primary school had a swimming club, where they’d pack them off to the big leisure centre on a coach afterschool. Kids’d get these little medals for managing like five metres, or ten, fifteen. But there was a small fee, and Mum said…” He snorts out a dismissive breath and his face twists, and neither of these actions suit him. “Doesn’t matter. I never went, and I never learnt, and that was that.”

“You could always come swimming with me?” Sasha proposes slowly. Lost in the swell of this conversation, why Martin’s talking about the sea, what this has to do with anything. She wishes he’d look at her.

Martin doesn’t answer immediately. He might not have even heard her.

“I told Peter, and he said that made it even better. That it was a such a – ” he says the word with a sneer, the words sharp-toothed in his mouth “ – gift, that I’d never even had the opportunity to know what I would miss, not even a memory to embellish or to sour. That there was so much that could root in absence. He said I should be grateful.”

“Peter Lukas said a lot of shit,” Sasha says.

She shuffles closer to him. Puts her hand on his knee.

“Whatever he told you was bollocks, you know that right?”

Martin blinks. After a moment, his hand joins over hers. His image grows denser, less likely to be stolen by the midnight air.

His eyes, fixed out on a horizon point in the slick dark of the loch, are still distant.

“I just wish I understood why she did it,” Martin murmurs.

“Who?”

“I did some research. After Elias… after I found out. I couldn’t have been the only person, and it’s rare enough but there are – help groups… you know, therapists that specialise in that kind of stuff. But I didn’t… I couldn’t face going to one. I thought that… knowing what was so wrong with me would make it easier, but it didn’t. All my life, I…. I was stupid enough to think it might be something I could fix. If – if I changed myself enough, if I said the right things, loved the right people, then I might… that someone could fix me. But it can't be fixed. That’s what all the leaflets said. That it was best to think of it like a permanent injury. Like having a stroke, or some sort of brain damage or something like that. Something irreparable.”

“Martin, sweetheart…” Sasha starts. She doesn’t understand. The flotsam of Martin’s speech grows erratic and he’s started shivering, and it’s no wonder, dressed in a t-shirt, pyjama trousers and some thick socks.

“Do you know much about selkies, Sash?” Martin powers on. Chattering teeth and goosebumps and it’s like he’s drawing something out of himself, some infection long done its damage. “Not many of them left, and they don’t usually venture landward like some of the other deepwater species. They mate for life apparently. Staunchly social communities, and some of them can’t… can’t cope, if they lose their group, or their partner. They take off their pelt, and just swim off to drown. A-and those help groups and therapists, those people who had theirs stolen, or destroyed… they’re, god, they’re all terminal. They last six months, maximum. Because it kills them, losing it. They waste away and they die. And here’s me…” Martin’s face twists again, and it’s bitter and angry and despairing all at once, “and I just get to keep going.”

“Selkies…?” Sasha says. “Why are you….”

She trails off in a gradually dawning horror.

“Martin?”

“She burnt it,” Martin says, his tone stringing higher now, distress sweeping in like a squall to break up the unnatural apathy in his voice. “I don’t think she knew what it would… I mean, I don’t know, maybe she did, maybe she wanted me gone just like dad, I don’t know, and I’ll never know because I can’t ask her why. I didn’t even… it was so long ago. I was sick and then I got worse and it was awful and I didn’t understand why I was so ill, why everything hurt just so much… and after, when I was better, Mum said it was appendicitis. I believed her. Course I did, why wouldn’t I. I didn’t know… not until Elias, and I’ll never know what I’ve lost, or why it didn’t kill me, maybe it was because I was so young, or because it’s only from one side of the family, I don’t – I don’t know! I’ll never know! It’s a whole part of me that she just… she just took a-a-and…”

Martin’s back bows like whalebone. He takes long shuddering breaths like his words are keelhauling across his lungs.

Sasha’s never heard of a selkie with only half their soul. She can’t imagine, what it would do to someone.

She moves in front of Martin and he moves forward against her like a wave crash. He’s taller and heavier than her, and the impact pushes her back momentarily before her arms catch him.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” she says, “You can do it, breathe.” She holds him so surely, and she always will. And he starts crying then, the first time since Jon was in hospital, and he won’t or can’t stop shivering, and it is horrible to hear every emotion inside him claw itself back from the brink.

She keeps telling him to breathe, and he keeps following that instruction through sniffling and sobbing and broken-voiced confusion, and she counts it as a small victory nonetheless.

Jon’s mouth cannot scream.

Tim’s in the next room, the kitchen, drying plates and bowls and cutlery, within shouting distance, and he’d be here in a moment – he’d help if only Jon could speak a word other than his unbidden, unwanted recitation.

Jon’s mouth doles out its terrible missive, and he doesn’t not feel like a person as Elias rolls out the triumphant red carpet of his plotting and scheming, the self-satisfied weave of his grand finale. And no, he’s not a person, not for a long time now; he’s a catalogue, a testimony, an archive, and he would never have chosen this.

His hands scrabble at his throat, and his eyes are blurred with tears, his vision obscured, but it does not seem to matter, for his skin ripples and sloshes like an inkwell and a hundred eyes swell and pop and inflate again like bubbles against his skin.

Someone else screams. And the multitude of Jon’s eyes are newborn, fractal-imaged, gummed up with a feast of far-reaching horror all witnessed by him, overseen and devoured in his sight, and it is hard to translate what his original set of open, weeping eyes see. There is motion. Commotion. There are apologies being spoken in his ears, fervent, petitionary, but he is hearing the rising insistent thrum of the summoning and it is as sickening as it is beautiful. Someone is holding a hand hard over his mouth, the grip painful and punishing but even then the words burble out through the cracks. Another hand clamps over his eyes, and he shrieks and thrashes as his words gather to a crescendo.

A hand tears the paper from his grip. There is an acrid whoosh of smoke. Jon drops like the rigging of a ship being torn down. The hands at his mouth and eyes lower quickly to loop around his waist, catch him and hold him up.

Jon sees Tim, wide-eyed and shimmering with terror even as his skin burns gold and his feathers shine and there are only sooty flakes left of Jonah’s statement, scattering down from his palms.

He thinks it’s Martin behind him. Jon folds further, all his weight pitching forward and Martin’s forced to come down with him as he retches the leftover words in his mouth; king of a ruined world, he vomits up with bile and ink, and it splashes with a disgusting slop over the living room floor.

Sasha’s partially webbed hands are holding back his hair as he hacks and gags, his lips stained black, his stomach heaving as he chokes on everything that comes up, his stomach roiling with an overwhelming nausea. Conduit of fear, he brings up, dribbling from his lips like paper pulp.

After a long while, it’s over. Sasha carries him to the bathroom, and helps him clean up, although Jon has little memory of it.

He wakes, feeling like a shipwreck, and Tim is there. Sat nearby, his head in his hands. His fingertips stained with ink and soot. He can hear Martin and Sasha talking in low tones nearby.

They're still here. Even now, he’s surprised that they haven’t left him.

And Jon has no words remaining, so his body betrays him with airless, silent tears, at all he could have wrought upon this world, at all the suffering he could have brought to their door to still be granted forgiveness for.

It is not the end. It is an interlude, a reprieve. In some ways a kindness, and in others, waiting is its own cruelty.

They’ve bought blankets to the beach in order to cushion the hardness of the stones rounded by tide and time. It’s the first time they’ve gotten Jon to come outside for more than a few minutes. The scratches up the column of his throat healing. His voice still damaged, scratchy and scraped from misuse.

They’ll have to be moving on soon. To make plans for whatever future they need to avoid.

She sits up, and stretches out from where she’s been lying against Tim’s thigh. Glances at Jon, barely four metres away on a separate towel. Grey-haired and tired-eyed. Martin’s holding his hand, the left one crinkled by burns, as they talk about something treasured for its meaningless. Despite everything, Jon’s face practises relearning its smiles, even as he touches tentative at the marks around his neck, the bruising at the edges of his mouth.

The tension has not faded from Tim’s shoulders. His plumage sharp and strange even now. Her own scales patchy and bare, whole sections that have not grown back.

She considers her battered but striving shoal, and wants to show them that their past is not all there will ever be. That there will be an after-this, whatever that looks like. She wishes they spoke her tongue, so she could gift them names, new names, for the things they have become, this things that they have survived, and all that has survived them.

“Martin!” she shouts over, a sudden inspiration seizing her. “Want to come in the water with me?”

Martin’s expression barrels through at least three iterations before it hovers between wary and uncomfortable.

“I – er… I might just be better off here, actually.”

“No pressure,” she tells him, and she means it, for all she remembers that he has never had the chance to know the sea as she has, to feel his whole weight held up by the water. “But I am a pretty spectacular swimming teacher. I promise I won’t let go.”

Martin, to his credit, thinks about it. Gnaws on his lip, stares away from her and at his knees. Next to her, she can feel Tim bite back an enthusiastic declaration of encouragement for fear of spooking him.

Martin stands gingerly, and she is so proud of him.

“I haven’t got a costume,” he says.

“Your boxers will be fine.”

“We want something pretty to look at, show us those legs, Martin!” Tim says. He times the tone playful, the perfect balance of joking and complementing, and it works, with Martin’s blushing and ‘shut it Tim’ distracting him from the enormity of his decision as he neatly folds up his jeans, and takes off his shoes and socks. Sasha peels off her long skirt, rolls down her tights. She dislikes shoes on principle, and rarely wears them.

The rocks dig into the soles of Martin’s feet as they waddle down to the shore, slow going and interspersed with wincing.

She takes his hand as they stop, stand a foot from the border between land and sea.

“We’ll just go a little way out,” she promises. “The water’s fairly calm but for your first time…”

“I don’t think I can do this,” Martin whispers. He hesitates, and she waits for his decision. And then, he creeps forward, and she follows. He swears vehement as the water hits his toes, and he almost balks to feel the frigid temperature, but he pushes forward, his swearing getting more and more creative the further he walks out against the tide.

From the headland, someone cheers, likely Tim.

“Don’t look at them,” Sasha says. “Come on, this is all you, ok?”

Her legs unfuse into her tail, and she shivers out a feeling like cramp, luxuriating in the sensation against her skin.

Martin tentatively wades out. He’s tall, but there’s a point where he stops, knowing to move forward means his feet won’t touch the ground.

“A little further, yeah?” Sasha encourages, and he nods jerkily, a frantic up-and-down, his expression petrified. “You can do this. Don’t look at the water. Look at me.”

Keeping her eyes fixed on his, she pulls him slowly into deeper waters. His fingers are pressing rounded marks into her forearms. His leg gestures are sloppy, thrashing, and at one point he dips below the surface with the disturbance he’s making, and he splutters as he resurfaces, surging up, eyes bulging in a betrayed panic. She continues to reassure him and doesn’t let go as they stop and simply float, the shoreline easily in sight.

“How does it feel?” she asks.

“Wet,” he grumbles. Clearly concentrating, he treads, kicking out in a motion that gradually finds rhythm.

For a long while, it is them and the sea. The waves rub up against the bare patches in her scales, but the reminder is not painful.

Martin’s breathing calms. His terror recedes, and he looks down at the obscured water under them.

“Can we go out a bit further?”

She’s not doing as much pulling now. She shows him how to use his arms to push himself through water, and stopping and starting, correcting his gestures and posture and breathing as they go, they drift further out before stopping again, hanging suspended above the depths.

Martin smiles at his own unexpected success. He lets out a long, satisfied sound like something’s loosened in him for the first time.

His eyes, completely black, reflect the dour and overcast midday sun.

“Martin, your eyes.”

“What’s wrong with them?” Martin says, but no – he doesn’t say, he barks, and then gasps, and then barks again, stunned, unsettled. He doesn’t look upset. He’s bitten his lip with his too-sharp teeth that now line his gums, and he touches the sharp pain it has caused with incredulity, his still human fingers marking out the sensation of the new.

“What’s happening?” he asks and Sasha grins, and says “I don’t know, Martin, I don’t know” and he’s splashing, a seal without skin, something entirely himself, shivering minutely in the cold shock even as his smile shows off his pointed teeth. He barks again, the sound almost jolted out of him as he figures out how it works, and she trills in delight, and it sets him off grinning and kicking. And for the moment, for this moment, the Lonely is banished entirely landbound, and there is only them treading water, surrounded by the endless sea and trusting they will not drown.

They have to go back to land eventually. The waves around them start to wash choppy, the sky colours grey with the surety of rain. They swim back, and sometimes Sasha lets go, bobbing near his elbow as he swims slowly but steadily on his own.

Martin’s teeth flatten when they crawl onto the shore, panting and burbling out the dregs of their laughter. Tim and Jon have come over to greet them, Jon holding the towels and garments like an overladen clothes tree. Tim chucks Sasha a towel to fold around herself into a makeshift skirt before her tail bisects back into legs.

“Tim, Tim, Tim!” Sasha says excitedly, waving her hands and gesticulating. “Did you see, did you see?”

“See what…?” Tim starts, but he glances at Martin, whose eyes are slow to fade from black to blue, and Tim might not realise what exactly has happened, but he senses the tenor of the mood because he’s barrelling in, knocking into Martin, wrapping him in a hug and nearly smothering him with his wings. Once released, Jon approaches slowly, putting his burdens down. Martin glances up at him, almost anxious now that the initial buzz is wearing down, but Jon goes softly to his knees, and his smile spreads across his face like paint in water.

The grey of the sky feels far off as they allow themselves the momentarily uncomplicated gift of being happy.

#the magnus archives #tma #cw emotional manipulation #cw ableism #cw potential suicidal ideation #cw emetophobia #cw being sick #ask to tag #jonmartin #sasha james #tim stoker #jonathan sims #martin blackwood

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