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beta-adjacent · 1 year

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U have oc's? Can we hear about them? 👀

-pin3-vin3

MWAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA YOU FELL INTO MY TRAP!!!!!!! YES ABSOLUTELY YOU CAN HEAR ABOUT THEM OKOKOKOKOKP

So!!!!!!! Y’all need context. Game Grumps. Y’all know of them, remember them? It doesn’t matter if you actually do, all that does matter is that you know I’ve loved them since I was a kid. I mean, I don’t watch their shit a lot nowadays but if there’s one series I almost Always try to keep up with its their horse girl games. The genre of horse girl games are Fascinating to me. I’ve never seen a play through that actually made it to the end of one, because the end is Never the point of a horse girl game. The point is making your dream horse, riding through open maps, grooming your dream horse, completing useless side quests, bonding with your dream horse!!!!! And Game Grumps is especially great at recognizing that because improv just tends to go off the rails in those games. And everytime I watch a horse girl game they play, and listen to the silly voices they do, I think about my own fictional horse girl universe.

So, introducing!!!!!!!!!

Camila

Lemme break down the character.

At this phase, Camila is ≈12 years old, a prime time of the horse girl phase

In fact, she’s the main protag of a horse girl game (assuming I ever made this into a playable game lol)!!!

What’s the catch? She actually had her horse phase a Wayyyyyyyyyyy long time ago. Horses are for babies. Now she’s knee-deep in her emo emo phase. Gerard Way is her boyfriend and you can’t tell her otherwise. She writes bad FanFiction.net fanfics instead of doing her homework (A/N: n her 30 followurz LUV it!! >w<) . She even dyed her “scene kid” hair with Koolaid in secret…. Until it didn’t wash off in the sink 30 minutes later. It wasn’t so secret then.

All of this “rebellion” leads Camila’s mom to enroll her in a summer camp for horse riders. Does the mom actually enroll her because she doesn’t know how to connect to her kid and her new interests? Was this actually a camp the family saved up for years for Camila to go to, and aren’t going to let the money go to waste? Is the mom just looking for a way to get rid of her kid for the summer? …I have no clue yet.

But yes, as you’d imagine, Camila goes to this horse rider’s camp for the summer and meets generic friends and she kind of hates them all at first but slowly grows to realize they’re ok. And she does end up still loving her horse and having a lot of knowledge on them (even though it turns out she’s Really bad at riding them). And there’s a Nancy Drew-ass, save-the-animals plot that happens along the way because it’s a fucking horse girl game godammit!!!!

Point is that Camila is my humorous take of a horse girl game protag that I’d actually want to play as (because I hate self-inserts, sorry). She’s a fucking snot because she’s a 12 year old who thinks she knows how the world works.

Fashion note: she tries to have the emo fashion but she fails spectacularly. Honestly she shouldn’t even have the Paramore shirt, but the pink not-matching-at-all hoodie is accurate. Maybe she got the one band tee for Christmas from her cool aunt, and it's become a bit of a comfort item

So, my horse girl game takes place in 2006, ironically the summer right before the Wii launches (which is where a lot of these games are born). Camila has, and frequently uses, AOL (before it dies in late 2008ish). And there's one, single, archaic computer at the local library outside of the horse camp that she visits every week for her free hours.

So every week she talks to her online BFF…..

Journee

Yes folks, that is indeed “Journey” with two ‘e’s. I think the name is cringe too, but I've kept it ever since I made them back in 2017, which is an extremely rare case for me, and I treasure that. Journee's actually part of an independent story from Camila (who was made in 2022). The intention with Journee has always been an emo who couldn’t actually look emo because their parents would kill them if they did.

But that gimmick is what makes Journee's inclusion in the horse girl game the crossover of a lifetime. Because Camila and Journee both need a friend who was also into emo shit, to fuel each other's obsession with it. Journee especially needs it because they canonically grow up to fulfill their emo fantasies (I haven't decided if Camila does the same). So the two work great for each other's individual stories.

Here’s how Journee's adapted into the Horse Girl Game AU:

In the original story, Journey is a whopping 14.5 years old, a freshman in high school. In this story, they're ≈12 years old. Older than Camila but honestly not by much, maybe 4 months!

A BIG fan of emo shit but their parents (obviously) won’t let them do anything. They think, "Camila’s lucky; at least Camila’s dad actually buys her Koolaid". Journee doesn't know Camila's dad actually bought it for her younger brother, and she stole it. But still, it's the principle! All Journee has is this gross tea their mom always makes to “promote more collagen” or whatever

Speaking of, Journee is one of those kids who got acne immediately as puberty started, and is absolutely going to gain acne scars as they grow up because they keep scratching at it.

Camila and Journee are online friends exclusively for an extremely long time; they met through a fanfic site a few months before the events of the horse girl game. Years later, they realize they actually lived embarrassingly close the whole time. They hang out a lot in-person in late high school, and then become mostly online friends again as they enter the adult world.

Note on the pronouns: I use they/them exclusively for Journee because Journee has always been one when I've written them. We're at a tricky spot in Journee's timeline because they are 12, nearly three years before their gender crisis-- meaning, they wouldn't be using they/them pronouns at this age. But I don't know what Journee's agab is; all I know is that when Camila befriends them, they pretend to be the opposite gender for a while. Just, tl;dr-- If I were ever to make the game, Journee's name wouldn't be Journee and they wouldn't be using they/them yet, but it absolutely still is Journee.

And in case you were interested, here's a rough idea of what they look like grown up (around 20s?). Camila I'm still questioning what route I wanna take with her, but I have a Very specific design for Journee and this piccrew does NOT do it justice. But I still need you to understand their dynamic is exactly the fucking same as it was when they were twelve and it's Hilarious.

These are not my first OCs by far but they're the ones I've cared about most recently (this crossover idea only happened maybe... a month ago? So the hype is still fresh). If you're interested in them, their stories, or any other characters I've made, lemme know! None of my characters/stories are particularly deep or insightful, but I still love them.

And here's the piccrews I used because I hate when people don't include links for that shit.

The solos

The group

#OCs #chai rl #FUCK YEAAAAAAAAAaaA #Journee-OC #Camila-OC #anon #ask

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bloomingonionbitch · 1 year

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if you're frustrated with our public education system AND Canvas as a platform overall, i highly suggest getting stoned and writing your 7th graders individual notes of encouragement because sometimes there's not much you can do about classroom behaviors and "management" because these kids are shushed and scolded so often that they're meaningless tactics (understandably so) and moving seating charts around mean nothing in an incredibly small classroom and not to be all "Freedom Writers 'n' Shit" but i really think post-COVID all they hear are how behind + bad they are compared to previous classes of students that didn't experience a collective trauma and learning disruption that's the thing too!!! we noticed what was clogged and constrictive in the education system and instead of releasing what wasn't working (or plainly archaic approaches) we clung tighter to them as institutions and whose "efficacy" is an long-standing indication of normalcy/status quo it makes me gnaw my lip to a pulp that all we've shifted in education is "accelerated learning" (the updated term for tutoring) and making folks who create "SEL" programs wealthier so it's semi-equal parts the allure of opportunity or security and i want to be clear that i do not mean "academic opportunity" (that's the goal!) but rather the organizations who develop curriculum, standards, testing, and materials are taking advantage of the shifting situation

#you don't have to read all that #i know the lack of punctuation is a poor rhetorical choice but it feels so good #7th graders are hurting yall #they're truly a strange bunch but they are told that they are bad so often that it breaks my heart #like yeah #it's annoying when they tape all their pencils together to make a chain snake thing #but they're not BAD #they're testing limits and each other and identities of course they're going to fuck around with supplies #but i think it's important to decide whether to take the pencils and keep on trucking or stop everything in order to address a few kids #you end up losing the attention of 25 when you are speaking broadly to a few #i mean academic adventure attention not the OH SHIT THEY'RE GETTING YELLED AT chismoso kind of attention #woof #essay in the tags

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jammyjum · 3 years

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so you’re not gonna fucking believe this, but, guess how the Christian republicans are rationalizing the increasingly destructive weather phenomena with their climate change denial. I was eating dinner with my grandparents, inhaling brussels sprouts with unholy fervor, dead eyes fixed on an interchangeably looney Christian program. When I hear:

"What do you expect to happen when we as a country scorn god’s will, and condone legally, immoral activities between men, and the ongoing genocide of America’s children?"

first of all, always with the never even speaking of lesbians, second of all:

L̷̨͈̹͗͐Ẻ̴͔G̷̡̥͋͝À̵̩͠͝L̸̩̞̋́I̴̳͚̅Z̷̛̘̺̑͛Î̶̘̤̐͆͜N̶͈͙̥̓́G̶̨̓ ̸̥̉̓Ģ̶͎̃Á̸͔̭̟Ỳ̷͈̹̱ ̶̠̟̉̈̌Ṃ̵̬̪͝Ą̸̳̖̕R̸̨͐͘͝R̸͔͔̽͘͜Ḭ̴́̈Ǎ̴̝G̴̛̠͓̚͝Ȩ̸̈́ ̸͓̮̂̊͝ͅA̶̯̭̬͛N̶̺̿̄̓Ḋ̸͚̝͈ ̸̨̃A̶͓̾̌B̷̺͚̆O̵̩̿R̴̢̙̪̃T̷̻͇͈̑̄I̸̛̹̥O̶̙̬͝N̶̝̦͗͜ ̴̡̈́̽C̴̨̬̳̔̓A̸̡̠̒̏̉ͅU̶͉͌͜Ṣ̸̣̎ͅE̸̡̤͉͌D̶̨͕̓͝ ̴̫̬̮͌͆͠C̶̢̕L̷̮̀͘Ḭ̶̢̛̊͜M̴̤̝͙̉Ả̸̮̯̺̎T̵̮͑Ȅ̶͉͗ ̷̟͎̈́̇C̶͚͑̀̒H̴͔̩͠A̵͕̹̍N̶̗̔͝G̶̫͋E̶̞͠ͅ

and if God exists, in the sense of some nebulous creator being, why the FUCK would they care about the pen and paper that we govern each other with rather than be like

"Pretty wack of you guys to restrict yourselves like that. U could have figured out how to contact me by now if u guys weren’t just endlessly murdering each other and the planet I gave you. Like my phone number is literally on one of those rocks you had but one of your rich assholes has it sealed away in a private collection since most of you guys don’t even know how to share yet. Wack."

#I mean how archaic can we GET folks #I don’t have a TikTok so I just write out my text posts *withfeeling*#blathering buttercup #religion #Christianity #atheism #witchblr #witchy #lgbt #abortion #pro abortion #pro choice #climate change #global warming #climate strike #enviromental #republicans

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be11atrixthestrange · 2 years

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The Law

I started this fic for the Romione Trope Fest, and then life got in the way and I wasn't able to finish it on time. Better late than never! Enjoy my indulgent, silly little attempt at Marriage Law, and please don't think too hard about the world-building. ;)

---------------------------

The Law

Even though The Daily Prophet is as light as a feather, Ron feels like he's holding a brick. He scowls at today's headline.

Marriage Law enacted with a unanimous vote. Unless previously engaged, all pure-blood magical folks must marry within two months.

Fuck.

Luckily, Hermione is at work and isn't around to see him crumple up the newspaper and toss it into a nearby bin. But that doesn't mean she won't become aware of the news at her job. They've already faced so much marriage pressure from his mother, and they don't need it from the Ministry too.

"Something wrong?" asks Harry.

Ron's best friend stands at the kitchen counter pouring himself a glass of orange juice. Like Ron, Harry's still wearing his pajamas, but instead of blazing orange and studded with Chudley Cannons emblems, they're dark green with a repeating pattern of gold talons. If Grimmauld Place wasn't already full of Holyhead Harpies gear, Ron would think Harry had chosen to represent Slytherin.

It would have been a safe fashion choice, given the state of the Ministry.

"Oh you know," says Ron. "More propaganda." Ron clears his throat and puts on his best impression of Lucius Malfoy, assistant to the Minister of Magic. "One of the biggest issues facing the modern magical world is the slow dilution of magical blood. We must use all of our resources to combat this."

Harry snorts. "You know they're all talk."

To a certain extent, it's true. Ever since Voldemort 'won the war,' he's proven that his preference for winning is stronger than his penchant for ruling. Since his rise to power, disorganization within the Ministry has prevented any new bills from being passed into law. He's packed his speeches with empty promises to ensure the safety of all pure-blooded citizens by restricting the rights of half-bloods and muggle-borns, yet won't respond to the media's accusations of his own questionable blood status. His attempts to squash rumors of senility don't hold a lot of weight when he can't remember small details of the war, like where the battle took place, who he had been trying to kill, or the fact that he never actually won in the first place.

As it turns out, the best way to remove the threat of a dictatorship is to make them believe they'd succeeded. That way, no Death Eaters are running about hungry for revenge, and the magical world can see what a joke a Voldemort-run Ministry really is.

Harry reaches into the bin and smoothes out the article. "Oh darn. You have to get married. How sad for you."

"Shut up," says Ron, only to get hit in the face by a crumpled-up news article.

"It's not real," states Harry. "I mean... it is. To him. Not to The Order."

"But Harry, it was a 'unanimous vote'," says Ron, using air quotes.

"Who voted?"

"I dunno. Voldemort himself, maybe."

Harry takes a seat at the dining table and opens his laptop. He clacks away at the keyboard, most likely crafting an email to Kingsley about how the order would deal with this new "law." Ron's still impressed at Harry's familiarity with the keyboard — it was quite the learning curve for Ron when The Order transitioned to muggle technology. But he was willing to learn it, as it was the best way to remain undetected by the Ministry. Why would Voldemort bother with archaic means of communication when he could enact something fresh and modern, like a Marriage Law?

"Notice how it doesn't specify we need to marry other pure-bloods?" asks Ron. "Reckon that's an oversight?"

Harry laughs. "Either that or he'd have to make marrying your cousin legal first."

"Good point," says Ron with a chuckle.

Ron's laptop dings, indicating a new message. He's pleased to see that Kingsley has copied Ron into his response.

Harry - we've heard of the new law, yes. We'll have an Order meeting tonight to discuss the best way to handle it. Stay tuned for time and location.

"You probably won't have to get married," jokes Harry. Since you two are too cool for that."

Ron smiles at his friend, who's fiddling with the gold band on his left ring finger. Little does Harry know, it isn't the only ring in the house. Tucked away in Ron's bedside drawer is a blue sapphire on a gold band, safely protected by a velvet ring box and a disillusionment charm. One of the benefits of learning how to use a computer was the discovery of Hermione's Pinterest page, a blatant contradiction to her assurances that 'marriage is overrated anyway' and she 'doesn't need a fancy ring'. Discovering her account had felt like finding a clear, static-free radio station that hadn't existed before, full of fresh explanations to previously indecipherable mysteries.

"Thank Merlin for that," says Ron, breathing a sigh of relief that he can only hope is convincing. As the news sets in, Ron's palms begin to sweat and his jaw clenches and everything begins to feel less like a joke.

Of course, to The Order, this is a non-issue. Voldemort's laws don't hold any weight with 99% of the magical world — pretty much everyone looks to The Order for real news along with guidance on how to convince the Ministry they still have power. Within the next two weeks, there'll likely be a slew of fake engagements and falsified marriage documents followed by very real parties and celebrations, because why not? In general, the magical community loves how The Order strings the Ministry along like a hopeful suitor. It's childish, sure, but the war has stolen a generation's innocence, and this is their way of reclaiming it. Plus, tricking the dark side requires collaboration and unity. What better way to heal from the war's attempt to isolate and divide?

But Ron doesn't want a fake marriage. He wants a real one, one that isn't overshadowed by hoaxes or inspired by an archaic law. His heart sinks as he thinks back to the ring hiding in his bedside drawer. The thought of having to postpone his proposal or convince Hermione that he's serious makes Ron wonder if they'd truly succeeded in stripping Voldemort of his power.

"You okay?" asked Harry as he glances at Ron from the corner of his eye.

"Yeah. I'm fine." Ron's ears burn with heat and he knows Harry can see right through his response. He stands up from the dining table and pushes his chair back. "I'll be upstairs if you need me," he says as he brushes past Harry.

"Whatever you say," his best friend mutters before Ron proceeds to his bedroom to regroup.

------------------------------

Ron hadn't meant to fall asleep, and he nearly panics when he wakes up to see what time it is. Harry had confirmed the Order meeting at Grimmauld Place, and they will be over any minute, so he reluctantly rolls out of bed with a groan and hobbles to his bathroom to make sure he looks somewhat presentable.

When he deems his appearance professional enough, Ron leaves his bathroom and heads down the stairs, where he nearly collides with Hermione.

"Hermione, hi. What… what are you doing home so early?"

Hermione beams and flings her arms around Ron's neck. "Just wanted to see you."

Ron smiles back and tightens his grip around Hermione's waist. "I have an Order meeting, unfortunately."

"Oh, when?"

"Tonight," he murmurs into her bushy hair. "We're meeting here."

"What's the meeting about?" she presses. Her embrace strengthens, and Ron basks in the warmth of her body against his. Maybe he can miss the Auror meeting… Harry can fill him in later, right?

But he hesitates to tell her what it's about. It would change things

"I guess I'll find out soon," he says.

Hermione pulls away, her hands sliding to meet his. "Well, if you're meeting here, then it makes sense why the drawing-room looks the way it does."

"Huh?"

"Yeah. I didn't realize you decorated for Order meetings."

"Uh…we don't." As far as he's concerned, they've never done that. Ron peers over Hermione's shoulder to see a dimly-lit room. The light that emanates is a warm glow. Are those… candles?

"Weird, right?" chirps Hermione.

Why would the Aurors set up candles? Unless they really wanted to make a joke of the whole Marriage Law announcement.

Or…maybe…

"Hermione." Ron's voice cracks as though he's a teenager entering puberty. "What is this?"

"She meets his gaze and flashes a smile. "Something I should have done yesterday," she says as the tugs his arms toward the drawing-room.

Does she know about the law? Did Harry say something? "Hermione—"

Hermione clears her throat, and says in the most demanding, Hermione-like tone, "Ron, listen. Let me do this right."

When they enter the drawing-room, Ron is instantly reminded of their first date after the war. The first time they'd dressed up for a night out Ron had taken her to a candlelight muggle restaurant, a place where no one would recognize them. Complete privacy. With a flick of her wand, the drawing-room doors shut, closing them off to the rest of the world and its drama, conflict, and outdated laws. "What are you doing—"

"Ron,"

"What about the Order meeting?"

"RONALD."

When the tone Hermione usually reserves for sparking an argument surfaces, Ron quiets down. Hermione's mischievous smile confirms at least one thing, that there's no Order meeting here tonight.

Harry's such a git.

Hermione clears her throat and continues in a trembling voice, "I've been meaning to do this for ages. I mean, I've had the ring for months. But I kept talking myself out of it because I didn't want you to feel pressured, or I didn't want it to sound like an ultimatum, but with the today's news I didn't want you to think I felt pressured either, and Harry suggested—"

Git.

"Yes," he interrupts, his heart racing, his hair standing on end. There's a part of Ron that's annoyed, frankly, that Hermione beat him to the punch. Maybe his traditional upbringing had given him the idea that men were supposed to decide when to move things forward. But it had never been that way with Hermione. He recalls how she slammed into him and kissed him for the first time, her timid, yet confident tone when she asked him to Slughorn's party, and the way she called him out for not taking her to the Yule Ball. She'd always been the one pushing him further down the road while he hesitated, not because he wasn't ready, but because he didn't feel worthy.

Plus, that prickle of annoyance felt like the first time he met her. 'You've got dirt on your nose.' It made his palms sweat and his heart beat faster, like a young boy who doesn't realize he has a crush.

"Yes," he reiterates.

"Ron, let me finish."

The prickle returns, accompanied by an overwhelming desire to squeeze his girlfriend and bury his face in her hair, run his teeth along her skin, tracing the fine tightrope between anger and lust. It had always been like that with Hermione. "Okay, but the answer's yes."

Hermione beams as she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a ring box from her pocket. "Ronald Weasley," she continues in a cracking voice, "Will you marry me?"

She pops open the ring box to reveal a black band with a subtle orange stripe down the middle. Chudley Cannon's colors — just like the ring on his Pinterest board, the gallery he had made for himself when he found Hermione's.

"You saw my board?" he asks, knowing full well that his ears are glowing red.

"Yeah. You're such a dork," she says with a laugh. "So it's still a yes?"

"Yes. A thousand times yes," he says, rushing forward to embrace her and bury his head into the pillow of his hair. He thinks of the ring nestled in his top drawer, and is torn between running to retrieve it or living in her embrace forever, refraining from stealing her thunder. "I wanted to be the one to propose to you."

Hermione chuckles, then in a voice muffled by Ron's jumper, "You shouldn't have taken so long, then."

Normally, it pains him to admit that she's right, but once in a blue moon, she says something he simply can't argue with, and this is one of those times. He pulls her closer. "You're right. I shouldn't have taken so long."

#marriage law #romione trope fest #romione fics #hpromione #romione fanfic #ron x hermione #ron and hermione #hermionegranger #ronweasley #romione fanfiction #hp fanfic #voldemort wins #sort of

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gemsofgreece · 2 years

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Greece was concured by Turks for 400 years but Crete for only 200 years. In that time period (bc back then it was the Renaissance Era) how different it was there compared to the mainland greece in terms of lifestyle, fashion, architecture).

Before getting to the question, let's clarify that nearly all islands suffered significantly shorter Turkish occupation than the mainland. The most notable example was the Heptanese islands, which were never conquered, but plenty other islands had occupations that lasted for very short periods, like, 6 - 100 years.

Anyway, regarding your question, Crete was occupied for 400 years by the Republic of Venice since the second crusade (1204 AD) until the mids of the 17th century when Turks defeated the Venetians and took over. At this era, Crete was known as Kingdom of Candia. Initially, Cretans resisted the Venetians and attempted numerous revolts. Eventually though, the island prospered and was influenced by the Italian Renaissance.

Western Crete, especially, has cities with Venetian architecture and there are several Venetian monuments such as Frangokastello.

The Venetian harbour of Chania, a Venetian fountain in Rethymno and Frangocastello.

Art flourished in Crete where the Cretan School of Painting was founded. The most influential Greek artist of the time was the Cretan Domenikos Theotokopoulos, who became known in Europe as "El Greco", meaning "The Greek".

Christ Cleansing the Temple - El Greco, 1569, now in the National Gallery of Art, Washington, USA

Unsurprisingly, the greatest Greek literature and poetry of the era and modern pre-Independence times in general is also Cretan, with Erotokritos by Vitsentzos Kornaros (1600) and Erophile by Georgios Hortatsis (1637), being two of the most notable works.

The original cover of Erophile (1637).

In Erotokritos, for example, we can see the influence of Western European culture on Crete. Kornaros creates a universe with diverse elements; the story supposedly takes place in Ancient Athens, yet there are elements that are Byzantine Greek or folk and other customs and ways inspired by western Europe, such as jousting.

An illustration of "jousting" in an "Erotokritos" manuscript from 1710, completed in the Heptanese islands, the other region of Greece with major west European influence. The manuscipt is now in the British Museum.

Many of the few (whatever that means) Greek philosophers of the era were from Crete.

As for fashion, according to the following source Cretans were reluctant to follow the new fashion trends Venetians brought with them and as a result their attires were archaic, still following Ancient and Byzantine trends. I believe that because the traditional clothing of Crete doesn't look more western or too distant from the various local fashions of other Greek regions. So at the time Cretans would wear the Greek tunica or short cloaks for the winter and boots. They also carried old-fashioned bows and arrows, as well as knifes, and it was a great shame for a man to have no beard. Some of these elements have been preserved to the traditional Cretan attires, such as the war knifes, the boots and the definite preference for a bearded face or at least a mustache.

Here is another illustration of fashion in the Kingdom of Candia though:

Women from Heraklion, Crete - Claude Aubriet, 1665-1742.

There must have been some western influence in the fashion of the era, apparently though most of these elements were not preserved by the local population after the departure of the Venetians.

#greece #history #republic of venice #renaissance #art #el greco #crete #historical fashion #europe #greek islands #greek history #greek culture #anon #ask #rethymni #chania

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ckneal · 3 years

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There’s a midam AU idea that’s been living in the back of my mind for months now, but it’s been slow going. Mainly because I suspect that doing the idea justice is going to mean doing more research than I’m used to, and maybe even rewatching the series proper to help me fill in some of the weak spots, and I have so many other story ideas that are frankly just easier to work on, two of which are already slated to be multi-chapter works. . . But I’m in the mood to type up something longwinded, so here we go. Keep reading if you’d like to see a rough outline of the first few chapters of this story I really hope to write out properly sometime.

(Warning, this is a long one.)

So, this story is loosely based on the Hundred Years War that took place between England and France from 1337-1453. But it’s only very loosely inspired. Very, very loosely. As in, I was reading a book, I read about one thing that happened, it germinated in my head, and then suddenly I had a plot developing that featured my current favorite ship. Additional sources of inspiration include one of my favorite fantasy series, and a personally beloved trashy romance novel. Because it’s fanfiction, folks. There are no rules here.

Of course, in this AU, the entire world is going to be made up, with neither side of the war distinctly being assigned the role of England or France—or Flanders or Burgundy, for that matter. I barrowed an inciting incident, and few smaller details from history to help things along here and there, but with no regard for keeping all the French things assigned to one group and the English ones to another.

That said, the inciting incident took its inspiration from the Battle of Poiters, a conflict during which England not only won against the French, but also took their king hostage. King Jean II was later ransomed back to his people, but at a sum that was so high, France could not afford to pay it all at once. England still returned France’s king, but new hostages were provided to serve as collateral during the interim, including the King’s son.

So. . .crown Prince Michael Shurley completely decimates King John Winchester on the battlefield, and sends his demands to John’s queen, Mary Winchester. The two kingdoms have been locked in a territory dispute for several decades, and this is one of the more humiliating events to befall the smaller kingdom yet, especially since they are unable to meet all of Michael’s demands. When the Winchesters begrudgingly admit this to the Shurley representatives, they’re caught off guard when they’re offered a trade: John Winchester will be returned, so long Dean Winchester takes his place as collateral.

Things are less than stable in the Winchester kingdom however, with more than a few factions quietly scheming for power. John and Mary were an arranged marriage that was originally held up like a fairytale when the two seemingly fell madly in love during their mandated courtship, but the years afterward had changed them. Civil unrest sparked by the war had brought out a lot of disagreements between the Winchesters and the Campbells and their approaches to governing.

John’s supporters are the ones to step forward with a plan, and convince Mary that it’s vitally important the people are not alarmed by their king’s capture. Mary initially finds it distasteful, but it’s talked around and adjusted and reframed, as John’s people ferret out more and more information about the vital party involved, until she finally agrees.

Because John Winchester just happened to have a bastard son. The resemblance to Dean might not be particularly remarkable, but no one at the Shurley court has ever seen the Winchester heir before. Plus, Adam Milligan has spent the entirety of his teen years studying to become a physician, of all things. He’s perfect for their purposes.

Ten years prior, the Shurley court had had to deal with its own bout of civil unrest, when King Chuck Shurley’s second eldest son had attempted to overthrow him with the support of several nobles from one the kingdom’s richest providences. Lucifer had allegedly been driven into exile following his defeat, and Chuck had been said to have contracted some sort of mysterious illness. According to rumors, the king had shut himself up in his private chambers and refused to admit anyone apart from his remaining children. Even servants were barred from tending him directly.

They snatch Adam away from his studies and force him into compliance by dusting off an archaic law left over from before the start of the war, when the kingdom relied on a conscription military force rather than a standing army full of career military professionals—this law empowering the crown to call on any of its citizens for a minimum forty days of military service per year. They tell Adam that his mission seems more dangerous than it is—really, all he has to do is pretend to be Dean, and use his medical knowledge to figure out exactly what mysterious illness has bedridden the enemy monarch.

Sam and Dean—the proverbial heir and spare of the kingdom—are not at court to meet their younger brother, when he’s hastily fitted for a royal wardrobe and put through a crash course on court etiquette. Sam is very publicly put on display at a holiday festival in another part of the kingdom, while Dean is sent orders to quietly stay behind at a country estate while his valet, Kevin Tran, is sent on to court. Neither of the princes is told about the plan until after Adam has already been shipped out, with Kevin in toe to help Adam along with the impersonation.

No one involved is in anyway comfortable with the mission. But it was only supposed to be for forty days. Adam was assured that the necessary funds to pay off the ransom would either be raised by the end of the minimum mandated service, or they would make contact to extract him. The Campbells and the Winchesters both allegedly had spies in the Shurley court, and they would make themselves known when the time was right.

Adam is given the impression that the latter had been told to him with the intention of making him feel safer. It did not work.

He’s terrified when he arrives—almost would have preferred being promptly thrown into a dungeon upon arrival, instead of a room full of foreign nobility who one and all give off the impression that if cut they’d bleed straight silver, and look at “Dean,” the hostage prince and purported military genius from the tiny, vicious country across the channel, as a curiosity to be studied. He’s assigned two guards (who I decided will be Anael and Samandriel, based entirely on the tags I threw together at then end of this post, during which I decided that I love these three together), who follow him around relentlessly, but beyond that, he’s. . .pretty much treated like a guest. If a stiflingly monitored one. There are limitations on where he can go and what he can do, but for the most part he’s just sort of. . .there.

Most unnerving of all, however, is the small package that Adam finds in his room when he first settles in. Kevin swears he has no idea who left it. It has the Campbell’s insignia clearly worked into the pattern of the paper it’s wrapped in, and inside he finds a knife small enough to conceal on his person, and a number of different herbs and powders that he recognizes from his studies—though of course, he’s more familiar with remedies to counteract their effects.

In other words, he finds an assassin’s-first-kill-job kit, and instructions on how and when to use it, if opportunity arises. This had not been part of the deal when Adam reluctantly signed on.

Unbeknownst to Adam however—though suspected by some parties in the Winchester court—Adam cannot assassinate Chuck Shurley, because Chuck is not there. Shortly after Lucifer’s insurrection, Chuck had quietly disappeared. Michael had only been a teenager at the time. He invented the story about Chuck being ill on impulse, certain that Chuck would be back sooner than later, and Raphael had gone along with it because, being twelve years old, Raphael was not yet old enough to question Michael’s judgement. It is now an awkward point between them.

Adam soon becomes another.

Michael regularly checks in to see how Adam’s getting on, in a way that Kevin assures Adam is entirely appropriate, since Michael is under the impression that Adam is going to be a fellow monarch someday, and is likely trying to be courteous. Adam inherently feels somewhat flustered around Michael though, which is not helped by the fact that Michael is somehow always present whenever Adam puts his foot in his mouth socially. On more than one occasion, he’s thankful that almost no one has actually been to his homeland, allowing Adam to blame an astonishing number of fuck ups on cultural differences.

Michael and Adam’s early one on one interaction are intensely awkward. Adam will forget to wear gloves, and then Michael will comment that Adam’s hands are oddly devoid of callouses for someone who’d practically been raised with a sword in his hand, leaving Adam to scramble for some flimsy excuse about hand cream. Adam will inquisitively ask questions about what sort of illness would be severe enough to leave someone bedridden for a decade but not kill them in that time (Kevin frantically motioning over Michael’s shoulder to convey that that is NOT the right way to fish for details on such a sensitive subject), and Michael will struggle to find an excuse around the quietly bubbling panic, because he hasn’t had to try to explain anything about his father since that first year, and he is not a particularly gifted liar.

And then there’s Raphael.

Unlike Michael, Raphael is suspicious of “Dean” right from the start, pulling Michael aside to point out things that don’t seem quite right according to what their informants have told them about Dean Winchester.

“Doesn’t he look a bit young?”

“Some people look younger than they are, Raphael.”

“I was told Dean Winchester had dark hair.”

“Dark blond is dark.”

“Aren’t his eyes supposed to be green?”

“They’re obviously blue.”

“That’s exactly my point.”

The forty days come and go with Adam and Kevin nervously waiting for some sort of sign from home. Roughly two weeks later, a messenger arrives with unexpected news for Michael’s court: the Campbells have officially broken ties with the Winchesters in a violent bid for power that has left the kingdom at war with itself.

According to Kevin, the civil war has probably slowed things down a bit, if it’s as bad as the rumors say. . .

Adam and Kevin are stranded.

“Don’t worry though—I know Dean, and he knows our necks are on the line. He’ll keep out of sight until they manage to get us out of here.”

Adam finds it difficult to put faith in the virtues of a brother he’s never met, but doesn’t have it in him to question Kevin’s faith. He worries about his mother, who might have been safe in the countryside, but also might have made the trek to the capitol when it came out that Adam had been abducted for the sake of persevering the royal family's throne. He can’t be sure.

And to top it off, Michael takes to stopping by Adam’s room every couple of days to privately talk about the movements of the various factions—who has been sighted where and in what condition, where they’re rumored to be headed. Adam interprets it as an attempt to shake out inside information. One day, Adam finally tries to set him straight by saying it doesn’t matter how many ugly details Michael throws at him, Adam can’t help him because he doesn’t know anything—and is promptly put to shame when Michael looks at him in surprise and says, “You misunderstand. I assumed that you would want to know these things, because they are your family.”

Michael leaves, and Adam’s guards exchange a look. When asked, Samandriel awkwardly tells Adam that the royal family used to have a fourth child. Gabriel. He was lost during Lucifer’s insurrection. Pirates overtook his ship. They’d never received a ransom. Michael had purportedly offered a standing reward for any news of Gabriel, and put an unwise amount of resources into searching for him until it threatened the war effort.

Adam and Michael start talking more frequently from there, starting with an apology on Adam’s part. It’s tricky at first, because Michael starts out asking questions about Dean Winchester's military exploits—it is the most likely common ground between them, after all—and Adam has to hastily change the subject every time. By the two month mark, they’re talking affably, and rumors start to circulate through the courts as Michael's routine check ins on Adam start getting less formal and more frequent.

On the four month mark, rumors get even worse. Raphael finally sits Michael down and really gets into all of the things about “Dean” that don’t add up, item by item. If he’s trying to pretend he doesn’t know anything about his country’s military exploits, he’s far too convincing given his reported record, and Raphael has it on good authority that more than half of those “cultural differences” in etiquette that keep cropping up are completely unfounded—and look here, three different informants have sent lists of Dean Winchester’s physical characteristics, and the foreign prince DOES NOT MATCH.

“Michael, something is not right here.”

“Fine, I’ll talk to him about it now.”

And Michael storms off to address “Dean,” while Raphael calls after him that he should wait until morning. Because it is the middle of the night.

Adam just happens to be up reading. Michael’s familiar with the book. Michael gets distracted, and they talk all night. The sun’s coming up when Michael finally leaves, and a servant happens to see him slipping out of Adam’s room. Suggestive conjectures promptly follow, and Raphael exasperatedly admits they only have themself to blame.

And this only gets worse, because now Adam and Michael have transitioned into being friends. No more guarded conversations where one is convinced the other is about to catch them in some sort of lie. When Raphael mentions that some of the lesser nobles are starting to think Michael and Adam are courting, Michael’s fidgeting is not at all lost on them, as Michael assures them that of course that isn't the case. He and Dean are merely establishing friendly relations that will serve them well down the road politically—

“After the war is over?”

“Of course, after the war is over.”

Adam’s been stranded in the Shurley court for almost a year by the time that he finally slips into his room and sees a sealed message set out on his bed. Adam doesn’t recognize the insignia as belonging to either the Winchesters or the Campbells, but it’s signed with the initials “SW” at the bottom. It mostly contains a lot of vague phrases that make Adam wonder if he was supposed to be versed in some sort of code. As far as he’s concerned, the only important information comes at the end: Kate Milligan has been safely relocated for the duration of the civil war.

Relieved, Adam goes down to dinner, where some sort of seasonal holiday is being celebrated, and has a bit more wine than he normally would. The Shurley court is one of those stuffy courts where seating is stiffly dictated by tradition. As a foreign prince, Adam’s assigned seat is at the same table as Michael, although, according to Kevin, his placement's much further down due to his being a hostage. After a few drinks, and after most of the nobles have cleared off from the table to talk and celebrate elsewhere in the hall, Adam sees no reason not to get up and relocate down the line of chairs to sit closer to Michael. It was against the rules, but Adam was aware enough not to sit in Raphael’s empty seat, and he’d been seen with Michael so often that Anael and Samandriel barely even blinked, because Adam obviously wasn’t about to attack their prince or anything.

However, it is worth noting that while talking to Adam, Michael consumes a decent amount more wine than he would normally have as well.

Later that night, Michael’s walking Adam back to his room, and he starts to comment that Adam seems happier than usual. But even when sober, Michael would struggle to say something like that—if he’d even attempt it while sober—and Adam winds up biting his lip as he watches Michael’s mounting embarrassment, as a simple compliment inexplicably morphs—words seemingly forcing their way out as Michael tries and utterly fails to stop them—into a compliment about how Adam is beautiful—that is, he’s always beautiful—that is, Michael can’t help noticing Adam most days—that is. . .

. . .Michael is adorable. And in a moment of pure, thoughtless impulse, Adam leans in and kisses Michael right there in the corridor.

Michael is profoundly shocked, and his reaction delayed. Adam had only gone in intending to briefly press his lips against Michael’s, but as he’s pulling away Michael abruptly leans in and reseals the kiss, and Adam in turn takes that as an invitation to pull Michael closer. And a few minutes later, Raphael happens to walk down the hallway and find the two of them enthusiastically kissing against the wall.

And Raphael promptly turns around and goes back the way they came, only stopping at one point to flag down a servant and order them not to let anyone else walk down that particular corridor for at least an hour, hoping that Michael and Adam’s “friendly relations” wouldn’t result in anything too inappropriate.

As it happens, nothing particularly inappropriate happens. Nonetheless, Michael still wakes up the next morning, fully clothed in his own bed, in panic because the first thought to distinctly make its way through the ungodly pain in his head is that he’d taken liberties with a guest the night before. The heir to a foreign power at that, a peer, a hostage! Michael never thought he was capable of something so dishonorable--he’d had Dean pressed up against the wall as if they were a couple of ill-bred urchins, and how does one even go about apologizing for something like that?

(Of course, if Michael were thinking clearly, he might have remembered that Adam had actually been the one to back himself up against the wall, with Michael obligingly following along, quite malleable to whatever positioning Adam wanted so long as Adam kept kissing him.)

Michael’s behavior was beyond unacceptable. If his father hadn’t already abandoned them, he’d likely disown Michael out of pure shame. There was no telling what kind of damage he’d done to the relationship between their kingdoms. At best, Michael’s uncouth actions would be a dirty secret between them in the years to come, after Dean married, and Michael was left barely able to look Dean’s spouse in the eye. If Michael were a lesser noble, his parents might demand he married Dean outright.

And suddenly Michael sat up in bed, realizing he could marry Dean. His mind begins racing, because of course he could marry Dean! It made perfect sense. They enjoyed each other’s company, and with both of them being heir to their respective kingdoms, their union would effectively end the war. It might be complicated—especially given some of the odd customs Dean had introduced to Michael’s court—but marriages had been used to cemented alliances often enough, and the thought of marrying Dean elicited a curiously hot feeling in Michael’s stomach, remembering the way Adam had pulled him close the night before.

(Fun fact, England and France actually did try to do this with the Treaty of Troyes in 1420; it did not go as planned.)

Michael goes through the rest of his day in an uncharacteristically upbeat mindset, because now it all seems to just be a matter of organizing things, and he is good at organizing. He would have to write to either John or Mary Winchester as soon as the situation in their kingdom settled, and formally ask for Dean’s hand, and he and Dean should have a chaperone present at all times moving forward to avoid scandal--though there would be no way to sidestep scandal altogether, of course. Adam was still technically Michael’s prisoner.

More than likely, the Winchesters or Campbells would demand Michael relinquish his claim to at least half of the territories that they’d spent the last few decades fighting over, but that would be fine. It’s traditional in Michael’s country to give gifts to one’s in-laws, and Dean is a future monarch. Anything too little would be insulting, and all would be consolidated eventually when Dean and Michael assumed their respective thrones. . .

Michael is still walking around delightfully living in his own head when Raphael pulls him into an empty room to discuss what they witnessed the night before. While not the most shocking scenario they could have imagined, they were not expecting to hear their brother announce that he and Dean Winchester would be getting married.

“And how are we to explain away our father’s absence during the proceedings, Michael?”

Michael’s good mood promptly withers. Because of course Chuck would be expected to play some part in arranging his son’s wedding. Ill or not, at the very least, he would be expected to make an appearance at the wedding. To have no part in it at all would be suspicious, not to mention rude.

While Raphael intended to snap Michael back to his senses, they had not meant to shake Michael into an immediate depression. They try for a gentler tone.

“You know, Michael. Our father has been gone for over a decade. He left no formal plans, he's sent no word. By any standard, he's abdicated. Perhaps this isn’t the right time to introduce a political marriage. Perhaps we should consider your assuming the kingship, and then come back around to formalizing your relationship with Dean—”

Michael, of course, is against this. Because their father is alive, and he will come back, and it will not be to find that another one of his sons had greedily tried to usurp the throne.

Seeing Michael about to fall back onto a familiar tangent, Raphael chooses the lesser of two evils and takes the conversation back to “Dean.” They ask which out of the two of them proposed to the other.

Michael abruptly realizes that he's forgotten something.

Meanwhile, Adam starts his morning on a much happier note. His headache is less punishing than Michael’s, and while feeling the normal amount of embarrassment that comes with drinking a little too much, the feeling does not extend to kissing Michael. His mother’s safe, he’s nailing his Dean impression, and Michael apparently likes him. Things could not be better. Until Adam remembers how the latter two items on that list are linked.

Michael is not like a classmate back home, who he could chat up, get a drink with, and maybe start seeing regularly if all things went well. Michael is, in fact, the acting ruler of one of the most powerful countries in the world, which just so happens to be at war with Adam’s, and under the explicit impression that Adam is similarly situated in the world.

Adam promptly begins freaking out.

And then Michael finds him.

Adam’s in the library at the time. Michael walks in and quietly dismisses Adam’s guards, and Kevin, leaving the two of them completely alone. Adam doesn’t realize what Michael’s doing right away, though he’s spent enough time with Michael to recognize how nervous he is as he starts talking about a proposal to end the war—selling the idea, as if Michael wouldn’t be enough on his own—and then sheepishly tapering into the idea that both he and Adam seem to have feelings for one another. And if Adam were able to go back in time and strangle his tipsy past self, he would, because then he wouldn’t have to see the look on Michael’s face when he says no.

And no, Michael does not understand.

Adam can hear years of living in the public eye at work in Michael voice, as he just manages to keep his voice level in asking, “Even if it would mean peace?”

"I'm sorry, I just—I can't."

". . .I see."

Michael excuses himself, and Adam collapses onto a couch, assuring himself that no was the only right answer, and he shouldn’t feel terrible—which, of course, since Adam’s spent the last couple of months flirting with Michael while posing as someone else, is not an easy idea to buy into.

Michael and Adam avoid eye contact at dinner, even as Raphael—who has zero doubts as to who initiated what the night before—practically burns holes into Adam’s skin with the looks they shoot down the table.

And then a messenger comes in. One of the wealthiest duchies in the kingdom (the same one that had once supported Lucifer, and of course would be populated with demon characters in the narrative) has declared its independence, having formed an alliance with the Campbells, and has launched an attack not far from the castle. Several villages have already been attacked along the way. Michael accompanies the armed forces he sends out to quash the uprising.

Raphael is left behind to fortify the castle and take in the refugees, who the messenger assured them are not far behind. Unlike Michael, Raphael rarely saw combat. Officially, it was because Raphael had adamantly insisted on training as a healer rather than a warrior, which was true enough. Unofficially though, Michael and Raphael are both fully aware that if anything happened to Michael, Raphael is the only one left to inherent the crown.

Samandirel and Anael escort Adam back to his room. Samandriel assures Adam that no one thinks he had anything to do with the duchy double crossing them, but it would probably just be safer for Adam to stay out of sight until things calm down. Anael is more closed-lipped about the situation.

From his window, Adam watches the first of the villagers come trickling in, and even from his vantage point he can make out burn wounds, makeshift bandages and hastily thrown together tourniquets, and he’s in hell, because it seems the only two options in front of him are to worry about Michael, or feel absolutely sick with guilt because he’s a trained physician and he should be down there helping.

Finally he pokes his head out into the corridor and asks if someone can find Kevin for him. Anael raises an eyebrow that “Dean,” who’s usually inordinately self-suffice for a prince, is suddenly insisting that he needs to see his manservant, but Samandriel is already helpfully heading down the hall. A few minutes later, Kevin is in Adam’s room, confused, as Adam asks him to take off his clothes.

“You can have mine, just switch with me, okay?”

“Uuh. . . Don’t you think mine will be a little tight on you—”

“Less talk! Strip!”

Michael had probably errored in assigning the same two guards to watch over Adam. After a year, the three of them had gotten to be on fairly familiar terms. Adam waited until Samandriel started to get chatty, and slipped quietly out of his room when Anael was distracted—neither of them having had any reason to think Adam would try to escape, because he had been nothing but compliant since the day he arrived.

From there, he goes straight to the infirmary.

Raphael had set up tents in the courtyard to accommodate the high number of people in need of care. Adam was a year out of practice, but the atmosphere was still familiar to him, and he slipped into the chaos unnoticed. Raphael doesn’t notice him until they are well into the thick of things, and Adam’s as covered in grime and gore as anyone else present. Adam had just gone for more bandages and the two of them nearly ran into each other, and for a split second Adam thinks Raphael just might not recognize him until hand closes around his arm like a vice.

“What exactly are YOU doing here?”

Then Raphael notices the stitches Adam had just finished putting in for his latest patient—and Adam’s stitchwork is immaculate, not the clumsy, half-hazard work of a solider who picked up the mechanics of it over the course of their career.

"YOU did that?"

Adam starts to fumble out an answer, but they are interrupted because then Michael is being brought in. The fighting is over. Raphael and Adam promptly drop everything.

Michael has a concussion. He’s also been lightly stabbed. You know, just lightly. Needs stitches though. Raphael is adamant that Adam leave immediately, but Michael, who is delirious, sees Adam and absolutely refuses to let Raphael send him away. Raphael winds up patching Michael together while Adam—annoyingly, to Raphael—is sat next to him, holding Michael’s hand. Adam winds up sitting next to Michael all night, because it’s the only way to keep Michael from getting up and tearing his stitches like a feverish moron.

Initially, Raphael refuses to leave too, not trusting their brother’s suspiciously competent love interest, whose family was purportedly allied with the traitors who’d just attacked their people. There are still more wounded to tend to, however, and Raphael begrudgingly has to step away—making sure to leave orders that a guard be present in the room the entire time that Raphael is gone.

Little does Raphael know, Adam would have lowkey given a limb to have Raphael stay. Michael’s demeanor is a lot less closed off when he’s feverish and concussed. Shortly after Raphael leaves, Michael starts apologizing for proposing earlier, and Adam feels like he’s been stabbed in the gut. And as he’s lying there, looking at Adam’s hand in his, Michael starts saying things he would not normally blurt out—like that ending the war was not the main reason he wanted to marry Adam, because the last year has been the best he can remember, and it is entirely due to spending time with Adam—even if Adam was only there by obligation—and he would do anything to make Adam happy, even if they weren’t together—and Adam is just stuck there, highkey dying on the inside.

Then Michael sees his face.

"I apologize, you’ve already said you do not want to marry me, I should not have brought this up—”

Michael starts to get out of bed completely unconcerned about his stab wounds, and as Adam’s pushing him back down, the words “That’s not true!” just sort of. . .fly out.

Then Michael’s suddenly looking at Adam, and his face is suddenly very sober, and Adam can feel his own face turning red.

"That is, I. . ." Adam realizes, suddenly, that he’s fucked. Telling Michael the truth is somehow both the right and wrong thing to do at the same time, and Michael is definitely in no condition to hear it either way. “How about, if you still want to marry me when all this is over, then I’ll say yes?”

The next morning is a string of stressful events for Adam. Raphael shooed him out of Michael room at dawn, and Adam went straight back to his own. Kevin, Samandriel, and Anael had all been reprimanded for Adam’s escape, with the latter two being replaced as Adam’s guard under Raphael’s orders. His first interaction with Ishim and Maribel does not bode well for them becoming friends.

When Adam tells Kevin that he’s thinking about coming clean to Michael, Kevin panics. News from the Winchesters had dried up weeks ago, even for Michael and Raphael’s sources. Kevin argues that they’d be better off attempting to escape on their own if the charade was getting to be too much for Adam, especially after last night—but even then, they should wait awhile longer. Why take any chances right now? And Adam doesn’t know how to go about explaining the why. . .

And it gets taken out of his hands anyway, when they step out of the room and find that it’s somehow leaked that Adam and Michael—who had completely misunderstood what Adam meant by “when all this is over”—are engaged.

Kevin doesn’t get another moment alone with Adam to discuss how stupidly dangerous this whole situation is, and Adam, no matter how hard he tries—can’t seem to get a moment alone with his fiancé to try to explain that the situation is not what he thinks it is. Everyone had vastly underestimated how far the rumors about Michael and Adam secretly courting had gone, and Adam can barely take three steps without a noble or courtier or someone pulling him aside to offer their congratulations, and as Adam gets closer to Michael’s chambers, there’s Raphael, circling like a shark and Adam does not want to make his confession to Raphael before he sees Michael.

Come dinner time, Adam finds that his seat had been reassigned. He now sits directly to Michael’s left. He keeps trying to convince Michael to step out into the hall with him for a second, while Raphael, seated in their normal place to Michael’s right, continuously circumvents him, firmly believing that Adam has done more than enough in private.

Then there’s a scream. A servant comes running out into the dining hall, carrying a bloody knife. They run up to Michael—up until the guards step forward to stop her, but she’s not attacking. Instead she hands over the knife and says that she found in the corridor outside the king’s chambers. She had been worried, so she broke protocol and went in. The king’s bed was drenched in blood.

Adam looks over and feels a chill when he recognizes the same knife that had been included in the murder kit he found in his room on day one.

If Raphael had looked up, Adam had no doubt that Raphael would have read something in his face, but they didn’t get the chance to. Michael and Raphael are busy staring at each, the only ones in the room who know beyond any doubt that the implication could not be true, because there had not been anyone in that bed to assassinate in over ten years. Neither of them is given the chance to try to spin the knife’s implications in any direction, however. While the court is still reeling in shocked silence, a guard walks in—completely oblivious—and announces that a messenger has arrived with urgent news.

Adam looks up, and finds he has room to panic more, when he sees Anna Milton walk in, a serving maid in the Winchester court, and as she drops a curtsey to Michael, she identifies herself as one of Raphael’s spies. She had held her place in the Winchester court for as long as she could, but when her real identity had been uncovered she’d had no choice but to flee, and she’s come with monumental news. The civil war across the channel has ended, the Campbells having been forced to seek asylum with their allies outside the kingdom, John Winchester deposed, and Dean Winchester installed on the throne in his place. She had witnessed his coronation herself the very day they identified her.

And Adam feels very cold, as if his blood had actually managed to turn into ice, which would have explained why he couldn’t seem to move, as every eye in the room immediately turns to him.

And that would be the end of part one.

#midam #adam milligan #supernatural michael #samandriel #supernatural raphael #anael #kevin tran #my thougths #i'm very tempted to throw jack in a joan-of-arc-inspired role

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slashingdisneypasta · 3 years

Text

Harper Alexader x Fem!Reader || Oneshot

Title: The Fake Love Of My Life

Notes:

I want this to only be part 1 in a series because a. Fake dating. b. Harper needs more content on this site, and c. I actually have some ideas.

Motivation is the problem, haha. But hopefully I'll figure it out.

Plot: I’ve! Always! Wanted! To Write! A Fake Dating Scenario!! So here we go. After 2 centuries of judgy looks from the older folk in town and getting questioned about why you’re not married, you and Harper have decided to pretend to be together to finally make people stop it.

Warnings: I think its fine? Discussion about sex, but not outright said and there are no ya know... intricate details haha XD

“Oh, Y/N I can’t tell you how pleased I was to hear about you and Harper Alexander! Gosh, we all thought you’d be alone forever!”

“You’re such a pretty couple.”

“It took you long enough to find a man!”

“And my, what I catch, girl. You’re one lucky gal!”

“You’ll have to bring him over Wednesday for dinner with Ted and I!”

All. Week; This is all I’ve heard. I mean, it was expected (In fact, it was the intention) for people to be relieved and get off my back about finding a damn man, but good grief. You’d think the whole thing would’ve cooled off, by now. I’m exhausted from acting pleased about this and their words.

I mean, god, since I hit 16 I’ve gotten this gip about finding a guy, and right from the get-go (Actually, since I was younger, I’ve felt this way) I’ve been against it. Even before I died and everything normal here, everything we knew, became obsolete- The idea that just because I was born with tits, I need to legally tie myself to a big strong penis in order to survive made me feel... incomplete, rather then enthusiastic.

Other girls, my friends, dreamt about their perfect men and the way that he would kiss them; How the world would shatter, in supposedly a good way, when he finally found them. And I did want to be right there, dreaming with them! I so did. Because they just looked so happy... And it was so easy for them to be so, as well. But... I just... couldnt. It seemed ridiculous to me, so I just supposed that I was made... wrong. I could never see the sense in it. I still can’t, and I can’t imagine a time I will. I’m me, whether I’m dragging along the dead weight of a husband, or not. Thats enough for me; Why cant it be enough for the people that love me? Why on earth do I need the extra unnecessary baggage weighing me down?

... But still, after a century and a half of it… admittedly, a girl breaks down a bit. A little bit.

I mean, not entirely, of course, seeing as Harper’s and my ‘relationship’ is nothing but a farce to benefit us both and not in fact a real effort. Effort enough to suffer through the town’s seemingly endless congratulations at least, yes. But effort enough to find a real relationship? No.

But god- the effort I am putting in, is a lot. The way they're talking to me; It makes me sick. They speak like I'm finally whole- like I wasnt so, before. Its archaic and obnoxious.

Its so bad, that sometimes - more and more often these days, - I have to break away. Escape. And, ironically enough… there’s only one place I can go to in order to get that, aside from spending all my time alone.

Sneaking up behind that place, or person, I lay a hand on his shoulder, feeling him jump slightly under my surprise touch, which makes me grin as I sit down beside him. “Hey,” I greet Harper, the only person I can go to for any kind of peace now, wierdly enough. He flashes me an annoyed eyeroll, not quite as much the charmer with me then as with modern folk that come traipsing into town and our eager clutches. He quickly returns to whatever he’s whittling; Quite focused. Taking a deep breath of fresh, non-stuffy air, I close my eyes for a moment. Ahhhh, the quiet…

Usually, I can find Harper here, on the outskirts of town. Or he finds me here, depending on which of us ran out of patience with the others, first. Today I survived longer, which is uncommen as Harper has an extraordinarily strong poker face, but either way; We’re finding ourselves alone together here more and more often these days. Which was weird at first, and actually still is a little bit strange still, but I'm sure it'll become more natural soon enough. I mean, we will be married after all, sooner rather then later.

Despite knowing Harper our whole lives, going to school together and ending up in similar circles, we were never really... good, friends, I guess you could say. He was never at the forefront of my mind, like he was a fair few of the other girls in our year- my girl friends included. We did get thrown together quite a bit as our groups tended to run together (Husband-Hunting… ), and then at various weddings and such, too, as my friends managed to share their chosen victims. This does mean that when we announced our 'engagement', no one was magnificently surprised even though we hadnt openly dated (Or dated at all), though, so there you go.

'Fate'.

But Harper and I never actually sought each other out, until now. Until he had the ‘fake marriage’ idea. Neither of us wanted to find someone, really, so it only seemed... sensible. This way, we can keep living the way we have been; Just, you know, in the same house. And occasionally we'll have to attend events together- which is not out of the ordinary, anyway!

Exhaling, fingers on either side of my lap digging gently into the decaying wood of the bench we're on, I open my eyes slowly again. I'm recharging already.

"So... " I turn to Harper, who doesn't look back this time. He just continues to focus on the wood and the knife in his hands, a look of indifference with a tone of annoyance, on that handsome face. But then again, what's new? When he's not seducing poor, bewitched women to eat he isnt actually all that sweet! After the Jubilee, he drops the act as soon as he can. In fact the act starts to fizzle away as soon as his job is done.

He wasnt always this way. I mean, he's always had bite but he genuinly was the golden boy when we were in school, and even through to our adult lives; But being stuck here after the earth discarded us, has taken its toll. Everyone grew darker, and continues to do so as we're stuck here longer. Miss Peaches, the Mayor, Granny, and I certainly wasnt except, either- so I dont blame him for the change. Its the only natural part of what happened.

A soft look on my face, I raise my brows in query. "How are you today?"

A disaffected sigh comes out of him, and he shrugs his shoulders in that derisive way that people do when they don't particularly want to talk about it. "Same as every day, I s'pose... Yourself?"

"Very similar."

Sniffing, he forces his blade down the block of wood- sending a particularly thick shaving to snap off the end. "Figures."

"Yeah... " Figuring myself that Harper is really not in the mood to talk right now, I take the hint and look away from him; Close my mouth, and my eyes. If he doesnt want to talk, then I can really relax. Here, I'm safe from the way people look at me - now us, -, and I can just stew. Be me. Think about me things. Like the books I've been reading, and the food I'm interested in learning how to cook, and the garden! That's just fine with me.

A few minutes later though, when I'm totally lost somewhere in my own head between fantasy lane and sounds-of-the-forest avenue, Harper decides to speak up again- and it shocks me out of my own head so hard I nearly damn well fall forward off of the bench.

"So Y/N- "

"Christ- "

Luckily, the grip I had on the bench saves me from what I think its safe to say would have been a humiliating, and painful, fall. Unfortunately though, it doesn't save me from the 'Why are you so ridiculous' look from Mr Darcy, here. Nevertheless, with the effort of an awkward smile on my part, he looks back to his widdling and continues.

"I've been thinking, about our impending marriage." Right, right. "And I'm wonderin'- What's gonna happen on the weddin' night?"

"... " My eyes flicker over Harper like he just grew a third arm. What- where did this come fro- Harper- Why!? "What!?"

"Well, my mother used to say that people could tell when a couple hadn't consummated the marriage." He shrugs, still under my disbelieving, bug-eyed gaze and entirely oblivious of it. Or at least seeming to be. Perhaps he's ignoring me. "She said it took Granny and the Mayor weeks, and everyone could tell."

"Yeah," I scoff, sarcasm dripping off the tip of my tongue as I continue to look at him deeply incredulously. I never planned to sleep in the same bed as him, much less perform that particular marital 'duty'! "And do you also still believe in Santa Claus? They absolutely cannot tell that kind of thing! Its a fairytale!" ... right?

Harper actually sets his work down now, and looks at me, and it is the most shocking experience... "You sound mighty sure of that, Y/N. But I'm not, and I don't want to risk the, uh, 'integrity' of our scheme. This is just as much servin' me as it is you and I'll be damned if it's put in peril- for any, reason."

"Integrity!?" I mimic, dubious and horrified.

"Yes, integrity. Look, I'm not too delighted about the idea, neither." WELL- insulting, much? He catches the insulted look on my face and smirks at me, and all I can think about for a flash is what a smug prick I'm marrying. "But I also don't want our cover blown. So I'm just thinkin' we give it a thought. We might have to."

"I've never even seen a man, uh, in any state of undress!" My cheeks are heating up hotter and hotter by the second. Its such an embarrassing thing to admit!- And definetly not what I expected by coming out here. I'm Pleasant Valley's resident sacrifice-safe virgin, and I've never even thought, seriously, about doing... anything... like that. I never thought, really, that I would need to! With sex comes a relationship, and with a relationship comes people looking at you all happy- oblivious and ignorant to the fact that I eas perfectly content before.

"That's your problem? That it'll be your first time and not... that it'd be with me, of all people?" Harper asks, putting words in my mouth and laughing about it. Ugh. Rolling my eyes, I just avert my eyes in annoyance. Because to be quite honest - to myself. Not him, - , due to our shared history and out of all the possibilities, it doesn't feel totally out of left field at all for it to be him. For him to be the one, that I...

But I cant say that, because that would ruin our entire plan because then he will think, misguidedly, I have feelings for the bastard, and that certainly isn't true. "Hey, if it makes you feel any better, I ain't never gone all the way with a lady neither."

Sighing, I refuse to look at him still. Despite the slightly less obnoxious way that he said that. "You still have more experience then me. And that's not fair." And god, now I sound like petulant child. That's just great. I need only pout to complete the look.

"Hold on there, Y/N. Before I lose you to your lil tantrum- " His hand falls on mine, on the bench, but I don't really notice because I'm tuning around to snap at him.

"I'm not being dramatic- "

"'Course not." See, he says that, but the eyeroll that follows sure doesn't emote faith. Quickly though he continues on. Well, quickly enough- "Maybe we should put in some practise? I mean, we'll have to kiss in front of people at least at the wedding." My mouth falls open in shock, as he ignores it and scrunches up his face in scepticism. "Have you even kissed anyone, before?"

"Harper, you're being ridiculous." I feel like crossing my arms, but realise his hand is holding mine down on the bench between us and decide not to move. "And of course I've been kissed." But as I think back on it, a flicker of awkwardness flickers over my face, a frown spreading across my mouth. "Once... "

To my future husbands credit -because I must credit his name with nice things. Otherwise he's just as an ass and I really cant bare the thought of marrying an ass if I'm going to do it at all, -, he does try to steal himself from sniggering this time, at least, but I can still tell what he's thinking when he rolls his eyes, and says so sarcastically; "Well consider me proven wrong." Scowling at him may give me frown lines, but it also makes him continue, which is a mercy I consider worth it. "Here I was thinkin' you were some spring chicken here- " Nevermind.

"Fine!" Swivelling in my seat, I turn to face him with a determined look on my face because of which the laughter in his eyes disappears, and I raise a brow at him, quite expectantly. Like well?? "You want to kiss me, Harper? Go ahead. I'm not kidding, lets do this. If what you say is true, then its a small price to pay for romantic security." I shrug. "And you're right- we will have to do it in front of people at the ceremony, at least, so we might as well get the awkwardness over with now. I don't know about them being able to tell whether we've consummated, but I do give that people could tell if we hadn't kissed, before."

For a few moments, Harper just stares at me. Like he doesn't quite know what to make of me right now, or... I don't know. I really don't know what he's thinking. His face is just blank, so I roll my eyes and sigh. "Are we doing this, or not, Harp- "

Suddenly he has moved forward, killing the distance between the two of us on the bench and cupping one side of my face in his hand with which he was so oddly holding onto mine, before. And the look on his face is so intense now that something in me that doesnt understand the principal of the thing, wants me to back down- but instead I force that little voice to pipe down and look stonily back at him, slightly craning my neck in order to do so. "Fine, Y/N." He says, slowly. At a normal volume but darkly. Deeply. "If you want to."

"It was your idea, Harper." I remind him carefully, seeing as he seems to have forgotten that fact. It was his idea, to practise. This wasn't for me. I dont... I dont want this! My voice comes out steady, but the erratic beating of my heart right now is anything but. And voice is also quiet, unlike his. Because he's so close, of course!- Thats why I needn't raise my voice. Thats the reason. He hasnt affected me, at all.

Harper's handsome but I've known him too long for him to be able to render me dumb like any of those travellers. Surely.

He nods to me, an almost scary look in his face. I'm suddenly reminded, for some reason, of the terrible things this pretty boy is capable of. "Okay."

"Okay." I say as well, because I've done some terrible things, too.

And then he leans down- and we're kissing. No further warning, just his lips against mine and a lovely glittery feeling in my tummy. My eyes flutter shut because this far better then that uncomfortable kiss I had with Harvey McGreevy when we were 14; In fact I almost forget to focus on this. Because this practise- like when you recite a poem a million and 1 times in order to be able to recite it easily thr next day in class. But I remember just in time before I accidentally lose myself, and tilt my head so our noses can be more comfortable, and apply a little bit of pressure into it like I've been told you're supposed to. Am I doing it right????!

Harper, of course, has no trouble with it. His pressure is perfect and he rubs his nose against mine, which is weird but nice at the same time. Its sort of affectionate, which is the weird part because we aren't a real couple and this is only purely for logical reasons... a fact that I myself have trouble remembering in the moment. Especially when he flicks his tongue against my bottom lip, a far cry from the way Harvey had smooshed his slimy wet tongue against the crease between my lips, asking for access that I don't even consider before allowing him. One of his hands, the one that isn't tucking wild hair back behind my ear, finds my waist and holds me there, and the grip is comforting.

As I let my hands fall on his shoulders, gripping him as I just enjoy the kiss, I tilt my head a bit to the side -Which side? I dont know which side. Does it matter? I'm forgetting where I am... - in order to allow him better access and actually moan, mortifyingly, at the feeling of a mans tongue in my mouth, which really shouldn't be as wonderful as it is, but is. He starts to kiss me more fiercely as soon as that comes out of me, and I'm just thinking about running my hand up through perfect hair, when-

"Wo-ho! Lookie here! Two young lovebirds getting a little bit amorous in the safety of the woods, huh?" A yelp escapes me when the sound of the Mayors loud teasing enters my ears and I immediately snap away from Harper like he stung me. Gaze flashing to him as my cheeks heat up once again in embarrassment, I catch a scowly look of irritation cross his face before he manages to pull himself together for Mayor Buckman; Who's setting his hands on his hips like he's telling off a pair of wily teenagers. "Lucky I happened upon ya, huh? Wouldn't want either of you to jump the gun- not before the weddin', yes?"

My lips are pink, I'm sure, and they feel tingly from the intensity of that kiss. God, I had no idea that he'd... do it like that... I run a thumb over the bottom one, thinking to myself and wondering what the hell happened there, how it got out of hand so quickly like that, as Harper focuses on Buckman. That was... weird.

Lets... just go... with 'weird'. Yep. Thats all. Just... wierd. And surprising. Definetly, surprising.

A forced rone of relief slips into Harpers voice. "Um, 'course, Mayor. Yeah, thank you." Harper hops up quickly off the bench, and away from me, smiling brightly. My eyes snap up to him when he moves, to see what he's doing- like I'm not done with him, or something, which I definitely, most certainly, absolutely am!! Thats enough 'practise' for the day Y/N!! I have to tell myself and the fireplace built in an odd place, in the pit of my stomach. Harper glances back at me momentarily and I just get hotter. "Just cant keep my hands of a' her, sometimes, hah hah... "

My stomach flutters at his, fake, words for the first time since we started this. and I hop up off the bench myself, and promptly reach the Mayor in .2 seconds in order to get away from Harper. Chewing nervously on the inside of my cheek, I offer just an awkward look to the older man before redirecting my gaze to the ground. Yep, nothing to see here, sir... Despite my inflamed reaction to the words, I play my part well. Rolling my eyes and blushing. "Oh Harper- don't say things like that!"

"Oh that's fine, don't bicker on my part, I'm just headin' off again." The Mayor himself sounds a little awkward, as he clasps his hands together behind his back, rolling on the balls of his feet. A glance up at his face reveals that he's looking around and struggling not to laugh. "Far be it me to leave my two-cense where it don't belong, anyway!"

"Yes, uh, see you later at the bar, sir!" Harper salutes, a definite sense of discomfort to the gesture for once as the fact occurs to us both, that as soon as Buckman leaves us we'll be alone, together, again.

Promptly, I turn to the Mayor before he can make an escape.

"Actually I'll come with you, Mayor!" The words slip out of me far faster then necessary. I don't know why I'm acting like this but the feeling of Harper watching me now is too much, too suddenly, and out of nowhere, so I'm forcing myself to focus on the Mayor - who looks deeply amused at the whole situation, thinking its just two young lovers acting squirrelly around each other, - and paste a polite smile to my face. "Headin' back to town? I have to get back before too long anyway, as well. It'll be getting dark. soon. Accompany me, wont you?"

"Uh, a'course, but wouldn't you rather your beau here walk you back?- "

Out of the corner of my eye I catch Harper moving, as if about to play his own part and indeed walk me home but I just shake my head. "Nope! Uhhhhm, we're finished, anyway-" I close my mouth, stopping myself before I say anything else that will make it even harder for the Mayor not to burst out laughing. "Right, so... so lets go!" Then I'm grabbing the mayor by the arm, and dragging him off back to town.

My heart refuses to slow down its manic beating until I'm sure, that Harper isn't watching anymore.

Its a couple of hours later when I see Harper again. I'm just getting ready for bed, when the front door clicks unlocked and creaks open, and only one other person in town has the key to my house- so instead of grabbing a weapon, I just pull on another layer and head down stairs. Harper's waiting in the front door, the screen door closed behind him and that familiar half annoyed/half disinterested look about him; On his face.

I cross my arms after pulling the extra layer of cotton tighter around myself and my sleep gown, feeling awkward standing near Harper; Under his subjective gaze. "So... hi?"

"I thought we should talk about that kiss. I wanna make sure that everything's okay, between us, after that. I mean... wouldn't wanna hurt your delicate sensibilities."

Eyes flashing, I curl my fingers over my arms tighter, a glare flaring at him and his smart mouth, and the smirk on his lips. "Theirs nothing delicate about me, Harper."

"Really? You seemed pretty spooked, to me. Took off like a broodmare just after the whip comes out. And I don't think it had anything to do with the mayor." Harper continues on, and I scrunch up my nose as him in response.

"Maybe I was just sick of your face, twiggy."

For a moment the boy just continues to smirk at me, seeing something entirely too amusing in my standing up for myself for my taste and only making my frown crease deeper; Like I taste something bad. "... Well alright then," The silence finally breaks. "If you say so, then I guess its so. I mean, you did run off pretty quick though... "

"Yeah. Well." Slowly, a mischievous smirk of my own rises. "I was afraid maybe you enjoyed that kiss a little too much."

"Oh I wouldn't be afraid of that, sweetheart."

"No?" I perk a brow, knowing that that's bullshit. "I guess it shouldn't happen again, then, right?" Maybe its my imagination, but Harper looks a tiny bit unhappy about that, but he nods in agreement. Then for another few seconds we just look at eachother, silent as a new phase in our... weird, now... relationship, settles over us. Taking in a deep breath, I shake my head, looking down. "So, um. Anyway." Something may have changed between us under the skin level but we still have a job to do. That hasn't changed. "The, uh, dinner party later this week. You'll pick me up at 7?"

"Always do." Harper shrugs, finally letting me off the hook from his penetrative gaze and folding his hands into his pockets, settling carefully into the new tone I've set.

"Well... good. So that's all set." Running my bottom lip through my teeth, my eyes flicker from the floor to Harper. "See you tomorrow?"

"Probably." He agrees, nodding his head. But doesn't move to leave. I open my mouth to ask him what he's just standing around like a goon for instead of leaving my home so that I may sleep, but he beats me too it- suddenly walking over, closing the lovely distance between us and guiding me closer by the arm; And presses his lips gently to mine.

Immediately a surprised gasp escapes me but my eyes flutter closed anyway and I kiss back on an impulse before he pulls back again. I raise a brow. "And what was that for?... "

"Appearances. Y'know- anyone could be watchin' us. With the door open like that and all," My eyes flicker past his face and to the open front door, the screen not offering much privacy. But also- there is no one there??? Everyone's going to bed at this time. This is Pleasant Valley, not goddamn Washington. "I'm just conscious of our arrangement, is all." He shrugs. "Wouldn't want us gettin' called out for not actin' enough like a couple or nothing."

"No... " No, you wouldn't want that. "Okay, well, if this kissing thing is going to be a thing we do now- then you gotta give me some kinda warnin- "

Another kiss is pressed to my lips, warning-less. When he pulls back this time, I deadpan at him. A laughing smile slips across his face, a great change from his usual brooding self. A little closer to what he's like with the victim girls, and it shocks me for a moment.

Then Harper opens his mouth, and a cheeky grin slip across my lips. "Hey, I make no promis- "Before he can finish what he was saying this time, I give him a kiss of my own- feeling him realise what I've done to him this time and then return it.

I am really surprised, at how nice kissing him is.

When its over, though, I point wordlessly to the door over his shoulder and raise my eyebrows. He looks, turns back to me, and fakes a put-out expression. "What? Sick of me now? Gotta get rid a' me so your other fake fiancé can come visit?"

"I'm tired." I say pointedly, pulling out of his arms and closer to the stairs, even as theirs a little grin on my face. "So get out."

"Well damn," A grin full of superficial southern charm on his face, Harper goes back to the screen door, and opens it. I pull my shawl closer around myself once again, and cross my arms back over my chest. "And here I was just startin' to feel welcome." He steps out of my house, onto the porch, then turns back; His normal visage back. "So, I'll see you tomorrow sometime?"

"Probably!"

#Harper Alexander x Reader #2001 Maniacs x Reader #Horror Villains x Reader #Harper Alexander #Harper Alexander x Reader Oneshot

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eqt-95 · 3 years

Text

One Night in Gotham

Summary | On the eve of taking over as the CEO of L-Corp, Lena Luthor makes a trip across the bay to Gotham to see an old friend.

-----

"Now what is a delicate flower like you doing all alone at the bar?"

Lena stifled a sigh of annoyance at the brazenness of strangers. This kind of thing wouldn't happen in Metropolis.

"Can I buy you a drink?"

Lena silently lifted her glass, indicating none was required.

Her eyes flitted up toward the bartender distracted by another patron, and she wondered for a moment how this man had been allowed into the private hotel bar. This was interrupted by the sound of the high-back chair next to her scraping against the marble flooring followed by the creak of the stranger posting up next to her. He reeked of booze and sounded winded by the exertion of the simple gesture.

"Well then perhaps I'll just buy myself a drink and enjoy the view," he smiled, exposing yellow-stained teeth behind the grizzly shag that covered his cheeks and chin.

No, this kind of thing would never happen in Metropolis.

"I'd rather you didn't."

"Free country, honey," he chuckled into a cough that echoed with the wetness of two packs a day.

Lena was used to all kinds of people. Although few and far between some were genuinely kind. Some were naive fools who could be talked out of house and home. Others were snake-oil salesmen, hiding behind earnestness. And then there were those who lacked any sort of self-awareness, boldly trying to claim what wasn't theirs in the process. These were the kind of people she'd spent the last few weeks battling, and she was exhausted from it.

She opened her mouth to articulate how unwelcome his presence was when a warm hand landed on her shoulder.

"Hey babe," came a voice behind her, and Lena smirked.

"Darling, you made it," Lena replied, turning in her seat toward the tall figure clad in leather with a helmet dangling from one hand.

"Sorry I'm late," came an apology.

Before Lena could play it off, she was caught by the feel of lips were pressed against her own. She peripherally heard the clatter of the helmet land on the bar before two warm hands slid up, cupping her face and turning the quick kiss into something more entirely. Initial surprise faded into confusion which then faded into the warm, flush lips on hers and the tongue greedily fighting for something more. She gave in on instinct, and was rewarded with the slight nip against her bottom lip and the unfamiliar taste of Kate Kane.

Whether time had suspended or continued to tick away, Lena wasn't certain, but when Kate finally pulled back and their eyes met she felt an unexpected warmth at the mischief glowing back at her.

"Can I help you?" Kate asked, finally breaking from Lena and turning to the stranger.

His face had frozen, stuck in a contorted look of envy and disgust. "N-no."

"No? Great," Kate continued smoothly. "Do you mind though? Because you're in my seat."

Lena glanced back at her half-empty drink trying to contain the smile that threatened to break at the man's discomfort. A few begrudging seconds passed before the figure folded and heaved himself out of the chair, sauntering off toward the far, empty end of the bar.

The long fingers that had just sent Lena's cheeks flush slid around her glass, lifting it to her nose before smirking and tossing the rest back.

"You have good taste," Kate remarked, setting the empty glass back down and waving over the bartender.

"Do you normally use that much tongue?"

"I was trying to make a point."

"I think a hug would have sufficed plenty."

"This is Gotham. We're more animalistic here; nothing like your fancy Metropolis folk," Kate smirked, ordering another pair of Scotches. "You can't mince words otherwise you leave them with deranged hope."

"That's not my problem."

"It isn't until you're leaving at the end of the night and get yanked into a dark alley because he's been lingering for hours taking that last remaining thread of hope and weaving it into some deep-seeded, confounding belief that you were meant for him."

"Speaking from experience?"

Kate shrugged.

"So instead you go for a full make-out session in the middle of a very public hotel bar."

"You're a quick study, Luthor."

Lena hummed impatiently.

"Besides, now I've got something to strike off my bucket list."

"What's that?"

"Lena Kieran Luthor kissed me."

"I'd hardly say that. I believe you instigated, and I was struck in a moment of surprise."

"I think the word you're looking for is 'wooed'. I wooed you."

A stoic look with a hint of skepticism stared back at Kate.

"How long have we known each other?"

"I think that depends on what you mean by 'known'."

"And in all those years," Kate continued, ignoring Lena's analytical response, "how many times have you been floored by my charm?"

"Never once. Not even in the slightest," Lena deadpanned.

Kate scoffed in exaggerated disbelief. "You have, you're just too uptight to have any fun. What about that time I punched Lex?"

"I was eight."

"Your point?"

"Mostly I was mortified."

"I bet that's even the word you used to describe it. Did you walk out of the womb a genius?"

"You joke, but Mother was outraged. To this day she practically spits whenever she hears the Kane name."

"Is she still alive?" Kate smirked into her glass. "It's not my fault she raised such an egotistical snob. Beth told him 'no' a dozen times. If he couldn't hear words, I figured he could hear a fist crushing his nose."

"That's not how he tells it."

"Because he can point to so much precedent for honesty," Kate replied dryly. Lena felt herself flinch, and Kate's demeanor softened. "Sorry."

"He wasn't always an ass."

"Sometimes people just… spiral."

"Speaking of, are you back for good?"

Kate shook her head. "Just passing through."

"Special occasion?"

"A wedding," she answered, quickly draining the rest of her drink.

"Was it nice?"

"Don't know." The empty glass was lifted toward the bartender. "Just leave the bottle."

This was the part of Kate that Lena loved and hated. They were both raised in over-sized homes with curated lifestyles and a litany of archaic topics they could talk endlessly about, but the concept of speaking about their personal lives was a loss to both of them. It was a familiar feeling that echoed deep into Lena's core, and she took no offense to Kate's aloofness - she was cut from the same cloth.

"Where to next?"

"France," she answered.

"Sounds romantic."

"Sure," Kate chuckled at some unspoken joke.

"Does anyone else actually know you're in town?"

Kate shook her head again.

"You've been away for a while."

"Miss me?" Kate smirked, and Lena saw the telltale signs of deflection through humor. Yes, they were practically carbon copies of each other. Different around the edges, but traces of the same upbringing formed matching foundations.

"Haven't had the time."

It was honesty that would seem cryptic to anyone else, but Kate nodded in understanding.

They sat in silence for a moment, Kate shuffling the glass across the smooth, lacquered finish of the bar.

"When do you-"

"Next week," Lena interrupted with a practiced tone.

"Nervous?"

"I am excited about the potential of-" Lena began before catching Kate's unamused expression. It was enough to silence the curated response she'd spouted for weeks to reporters, board members, and potential funders. "Yes."

It was a single word, but it was an admission she'd kept contained in a tiny box under the mountain of to-dos that guided her days and late nights. She glanced down at the dwindling drink in front of her, suddenly appreciative Kate had the foresight to keep the bottle.

"Good," Kate replied, now swirling the glass between her fingers.

"Good?"

"I'd be worried if you weren't."

"That's not how some would see it."

"Lillian doesn't really get a say."

"Mother isn't the only resistance. God knows I've stopped trying to prove anything to her, but it's more than just her now. It's board members. It's the public. It's the very people employed by the company. I am… I am not ready for this."

Lena didn't know where the admission was coming from, but now it felt like a spigot had been pulled open, and every reservation she had about becoming the youngest CEO of a Fortune 500 company.

"I'm 22," she said, and it felt like a confession - like no one had uncovered this hidden truth about Lena, and she was one big headline away from the rug being pulled from under her.

"You know what I was doing when I was 22?" Kate asked, preemptively refilling Lena's drink. "I was getting kicked out of school and spending my nights bouncing from one dive bar to another."

"I'm not sure what your point is, but I think it serves my argument better than yours," Lena scowled. "22 year-olds shouldn't be in charge of anything."

"My point is, you're not normal," Kate clarified. "If I was asked to run a company at 22, I'd be an idiot not to run in the opposite direction. But that's because I was a normal 22 year-old. One hundred percent of the world was a normal 22 year-old."

"Again, I'm not sure your argument is-"

"The reason it's one hundred percent is because I'm rounding. I'd need to rattle off, like, a hundred nines to make my point. You're the one in seven billion meant to do this."

"Seven."

"What?"

"Seven nines. After the decimal."

Kate stared dumbly for a moment before breaking in laughter. "You really are a freak. And you've just made my point for me."

"Mental math isn't a reason."

"No, but your persistence is."

"Haven't you heard? I'm a Luthor; can't be trusted."

Kate sighed, and Lena watched her mentally struggle to find the words to say. It was different than other times Lena had met Kate. Granted, they weren't close. After Lex's nose was bloodied and Lillian's disdain made known, the Kanes and Luthors rarely interacted. From that point on, the majority of their interactions were limited to formal galas and parties of similarly rich families, bouncing from one side of the bay to the other in their efforts to impress the extents of their wealth onto others. Kate always had a knack for slipping out and getting into some sort of trouble while Lena was petrified at the thought of disappointing Lillian.

When Kate's sister and mother died, Lena 'had the audacity' to ask if they would attend the funerals. Lillian refused, but Lex persuaded her otherwise, suggesting that it would be politically good to show sympathy for the Kane family. It was perverse but worked, and Lena was eternally grateful. It was that dark day that struck up an uncanny relationship between the Kane and the Luthor.

It had been nearly three years since their paths had crossed - the longest stretch of time since Kate was thirteen and Lena ten. Lena knew Kate's absence was due to world-traveling, but the details were sparse. Whispers at the latest galas spoke of general disappointment for the Kane daughter. Like Lena, Kate was the black sheep. Unlike Lena, Kate didn't seem to care.

"You're a Luthor, yes," Kate began. "You're honestly from a pretty shitty family. I have first-hand experience, and even without that the headlines have done a damn good job at making the average person aware of it. The company is in shatters, Lex is going to prison, and Lillian isn't human. I mean, she's really truly terrible. Like… is she human? Because when we were kids, I half wondered."

"That's not really-"

"Hang on, I'm getting off topic," Kate waved away. "Yes, you're a Luthor. Yes, the world is against you. Yes, it'll be hard; I won't even pretend to know how you'll do it, but you will. I also know I'm not saying anything you can't deduce on your own. I won't waste our time with talk of your talent, your genius, your raw determination, or the sacrifices you're making to turn Lex's sins into something good. Those reassurances mean nothing to you because you aren't ready to see it yet, and I'm not the person who can help you hear it."

"That's not even remotely close to advice, not to mention helpful advice."

"I didn't say it would be advice or helpful. If it was, I'd charge you for it."

"Are you offering?"

"Are you paying?"

"Depends on the advice."

"Clever. We'll make a decent CEO out of you yet."

Conversation flowed more easily from there. The edges were softened and the curated exteriors peeled back as the bottle slowly dwindled into nothing. The void of years spent apart was slowly filled in with stories of failures, happy accidents, lovers, and reminiscing.

There was an easy comfort with Kate that always took hold; she wasn't trying to pretend to be anything special and there were never any expectations. It made for a breath of fresh air when Lena's world revolved around accuracy, planning ahead, and keeping face. Kate lived life like a game of casual checkers. Lena lived her's for the chess match it was. But for one night, on the eve of her formally stepping into her new life, she played checkers.

Lena should have known better than to assume the interaction would end after a single drink, and she was only slightly surprised when the bartender came by with the bill. She looked around realizing the bar had emptied; for how long it had been just the two of them she didn't know. She also didn't care.

They paid the tab but lingered a while longer, fighting off the real world for a few precious moments until finally, the staff politely advised that, while they didn't have to go home, they couldn't stay here.

"You aren't driving, right?" Lena asked, gesturing at the helmet left forgotten on the bar.

"No, 'here' is home tonight," Kate replied lightly, albeit with a slight slur.

"I'm sure your dad would like to see you."

"Jacob would like a lot of things."

Lena nodded, recognizing the window had closed.

"Any chance I can woo you again, Ms. Luthor?" Kate asked with a cheesy smirk. "I've got a fancy suite with a bed and stuff."

Yes, the light-heartedness was still there but it fell into their respective roles.

"That's your pick-up line? I expected more from you."

Kate pondered for a moment. "Ok, how about this: I wasn't sure if you were a beautiful angel or a sexy devil, but now that I'm close, I see heaven in your eyes."

"Does that actually work?"

"Fifty-fifty? A guy used it on me once."

"And?"

"Well, obviously it didn't work with him, but I tried it a few nights later… and, yea," Kate smirked, "it worked."

"Years at Military school, and you didn't lose an ounce of confidence," Lena sighed, tossing back the rest of her own drink and grabbing her jacket.

The entrance came far too quickly, and the door swung open to reveal the murkiness of the city night beyond.

"Huh, it's raining," Kate said, gesturing for Lena to exit ahead of her.

"It's pouring."

"It's Gotham."

"It never rains this much in Metropolis." Lena mumbled it in frustration, trying to excuse her lack of preparedness to the foreignness of her surroundings.

The sound of a soft click and thwoop came, followed by an invisible shield deflecting the incoming rain drops. Lena glanced up and saw the city was blocked out by a stretch of black fabric.

"How are you getting back?" Kate asked, holding the handle of the umbrella suspended over them.

"My driver should be here in a minute."

Kate whistled softly, muted by the avalanche of raining falling around them. "Fancy CEO privileges."

Lena forced a smile, feeling the familiar pull of stress and weight of worry return to her shoulders. She glanced back at the hotel lobby; the warm light, the soft chairs, the comforting sting of alcohol, and the laughter. For a moment she had forgotten, and in this moment she wanted to forget again.

"You'll be great. And I hope one day you'll find someone who can get you to see who you are Lena. You're a Luthor, yes, but you're so much more than a name."

Lena's eyes were pulled back to the voice next to her, and she found herself staring into Kate's piercing green eyes. Even through the haze of alcohol they were focused and confident. Focused was something Lena was very familiar with; confidence though? Hardly. Years of Lillian's cutting words had stripped her of that. But in depriving her of it, she'd acquired something better: persistence.

Kate's gaze didn't waver. Instead something else appeared, and it took all of Lena's brain to comprehend what it was: it was admiration. It was unfamiliar, and if it weren't for years of being trained as a Luthor, she'd have averted her eyes to the nearest distraction.

"If you're ever in National City, give me a ring."

"And if you're ever back in Gotham-"

"Unlikely."

"-immediately turn around and leave," Kate finished, and Lena felt her lips fight against her facade to curl into a smile at the deprecating humor. "Besides, I won't be around so who is there to see?"

"I'm sure any one of the millions of Gothamites would be a suitable substitute for Kate Kane."

"At least you didn't include the entire world."

"Only because you didn't offer," Lena shot back, and for a moment the masks fell back off, and they let laughter be swallowed into the city around them.

It settled when a black car slowed to a stop in front of them, and Lena felt the tug of life return.

"As usual, you've gotten me tipsier than I'd planned, Kate Kane."

"It was my pleasure Lena Luthor," Kate smiled, reaching for the car door and swinging it open.

Lena hesitated, feeling the wash of new car smell and air conditioning waft from the car and mix with the city and humidity. Her fingers gripped the edge of the door, feeling the drips of water mix with the dirt that had accumulated.

She didn't know the words to say to express her appreciation. Kindness wasn't something she'd been exposed to and so never quite knew how to articulate the swirling, changing web of emotions that fought to be seen. A life of compartmentalizing had cast these feelings off into the tiniest of boxes in the shadow of her mind, and she knew that a week from now the warmth and friendship she felt tonight would be a distant memory. It wasn't enough to change her, but it was enough to remind her that she could.

"Thank you," she said before stretching up on her toes to close the gap between her lips and Kate's cheek, leaving a soft kiss and silencing Kate before she could cast back a signature sarcastic response. "Now you can strike it off your bucket list."

- eqt_95 on ao3

#Batwoman #supergirl #kate kane #lena luthor #kate & lena #fanfic #oneshot #crossover

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grimoireoffolkloreandfairytales · 3 years

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Balkan Bestiary: Zduhac

This creature is exceedingly popular in Balkans, and stories of it ( in various forms and spellings) can be found all across Montenegro, Albania, Serbia, Croatia, Macedonia, Bulgaria and Bosnia and Herzegovina.

Their defining characteristic is that zduhac is a human being whose soul has ability to leave their body and ascend in sky, where they either fight malicious spirits causing storms and elemental catastrophes, or they themselves go out to combat and harm their rivals and neighbours. The soul is usually invisible, but it can assume form of some bug- such as moth- or even dragon.

They usually look like ordinary people, though some traditions attribute them ‘’tells’’ that can vary from being little more hairy, over having superhuman strength, to going through life in dreamy and mournful fashion. When zduhac notices trouble approaching, either by gathering of dark clouds or sensing other spirits, they will go away somewhere, or barricade themselves in their home, and not come out until storm is over and winner is decided.

There are many, many names for this creature/ type of magical ability, as it is extremely widespread, and in some cases names vary from region to region. While this can apply to many creatures, in this case it is very prominent, whether due to lore being prevalent and popular among populace, or interest of folklorists.

Zmajevit: This term means ‘’dragonlike’’ and refers to spiritual and sometimes blood conenction these people have with dragons. Aside from this, there is general use of term as epithet to describe great, courageous and strong heroes.

Alovit: This term means ‘’ala-like’’ and it’s origins are covered in this post about creatures in question.

Zduhać: The root of this word is ‘’duh’’, which is word meaning spirit.

Stihija: This word can mean unfortunate situation or calamity, but it’s original meaning seems to have been a great storm or weather catastrophe. It may be derived from Greek stihio or Albanian stuha, and above mentioned zduhac may have been derived from it.

Vjedogonja: Is bit archaic, but I believe that it means something like ‘’dhrouded in air’’ or ‘’one who pursues winds’’

Vjetrovnjak: A folk term that means something along lines of ,,the windling.’’

Oblačar: Could be translated as ‘’the cloudy one.’’

Gradobranitelj: Means quite simply ‘’defender (from) hail.’’

Vremenjak: Could probably be translated as ‘’weatherling’.’

Vilovit: While this term in general use is archaic dialectic way of calling somebody mad, in this context it means ‘’fairylike, fey-touched’’. Those two are connected, as vilas ( fairies) sometimes have ugly habit of driving people mad.

When zduhac’s soul exits their body, it does so through trance. The body will lay down, and be still, as if zduhac is in deep sleep or nearly dead, but it will still twitch, and every wound earned in battle shall be transferred to it. Some traditions claim that if body is interfered with in any way, even something minor like turning it over, soul won’t be able to return. Some descriptions of trance resemble epilepsy seizure, and indeed legends may have been based upon it.

Zduhac’s ability to astrally project themselves, their sometimes attributed abilities of healing, prophecy and cursing cattle and crop, alongside with fact that they often fulfilled same function as folk healers and magicians ( to use english term that’s very popular, cunning folk) has led some anthropologists to believe belief in zduhaci is remnant of prechristian shamanistic traditions, and compare them to similar people in other cultures, such as say, Italian benandenti. While this theory holds water, it is important to note that there isn’t much concrete evidence for it, and that European anthropologists are sometimes very quick to use word shamanistic improperly ( not all of them, of course, especially ones who come from cultures and regions where such living spiritual traditions still thrive, and often gets misinterpreted).

Anybody could be zduhac ( according to some claims, even animals!) but generally it is a strong man, in peak of his prowess, or a respected elder. Fact that zduhac’s enemy is traditionally feminine ala, and that they are sometimes contrasted with witches ( who traditionally attack their own closest kin and friends first), leads to some interesting ponderings.

Historically, we have many, many records of named and famous zduhaci across various regions. This is result s combination of dedicated research by folklorists, people generally knowing who is who three villages over and keeping that alive in folk memory, and fact that in certain places and times it was more or less social function of village. Some famous and beloved rulers were said to be zduhaci, but I feel safe saying this is unlikely, and probably propaganda, especially as those claims generally arose after their deaths, and were way of honouring leaders people found important and heroic.

How they are accepted by community is pretty interesting thing to me. Generally, zduhac is respected and honoured, as they fulfill extremely important function, and are guardians of their community and adore it whole heartedly. However, they can be described as strange, eccentric and uncanny, which may be partially due to fear of retaliation if one offends zduhac, but also because they can sometimes be sort of tolerated social outcasts; hermits, men who never married, thoughtful and private people, people too smart or opinionated for their close community, people with epilepsy...

Zduhac is primarily positive figure, however that too depends on your relation with them, like with people. If you anger zduhac it may retaliate, either by letting hail take down your vineyard, or sending pox upon your livestock. Also, traditionally zduhac attacks and threatens surrounding villages, particularly ones that have fed with their own, to point that some legends claim that all storms are result of rival zduhaci wrestling for dominance.

How person becomes zduhac depends on several sources:

It may be a sort of trade, the magical knowledge and practice that is passed from one to another, with several tales depicting elderly zduhac seeking out replacement, usually a close relative like brother’s son or such. This fits with historical and folkloric records of how folk magicians and healers operated.

In certain traditions, zduhac is connected to angels and saints, and may even be counted among them, and their ability can be seen as divine blessing. Connection with sky, is of course, obvious.

In others, zduhac gains their abilities through mystical initiation performed by the Devil. It’s important to remember that this isn’t Satan of megachurch evangelism, but rural, folkloric Devil. So while powers are sinister and zduhaci can be capricious, they do serve good purpose.

It can be a natural, inborn gift. There are several explanations for how to detect newborn that will grow up to be zduhac, from birth at particular day to other notions, but most famous one and common one is baby being born with whole placenta, which is either red or white. During life zduhac will keep placenta as talisman, and needs to hide it from enemies and prying eyes.

Famously, zduhaci can be children of humans ( usually women) and dragons, which is where name zmajeviti comes from. Dragons are fond of sleeping with human women, especially royal ones, and thus their children grow up to be great heroes, brave and fierce in battle, handsome and strong, skilled warriors ( this belief of extraordinary heritage of nobility can probably be seen as distant cousin to legends of demigod descent and divine right of kings). Sometimes these men may be recognized by feathery winds they keep hidden underneath armpits.

Another connection with supernatural comes from ala, which i previously covered, and which is why they are called aloviti. Ala is traditionally enemy of zduhac, as spirit which causes storms and hail, but sometimes it is source of their powers. Ala may have been parent of zduhac ( usually fathering them), they or their parents may have been it’s victims ( encountered it in flesh and survived, or been possesed), or all zduhaci and alas are same beings, and whether they are evil or good depends on which village you hail from.

Zduhac may also derive their powers from the fairies, who are sometimes known to protect, associate with, or mentor humans, usually in healing arts, but they also may bless them in more spiritual manner, and zduhac’s power over natural forces may come from vila, who embody them. Zduhac in those stories may have vila for foster-mother or godmother ( or, like with dragonlike heroes, she breastfed them at young age), may be her oath sworn blood brother, done her favour or attracted her intrigue enough to make him her student. Sometimes they are said to be men who were loved by vilas- seemingly consensually, without traditional ‘’steal her veil and force her to be my spirit bride’’ story, implying that zduhac is one who had affair with vila of her own choosing, and was blessed and abandoned once she tired of her mortal lover.

#balkan folklore #slavic folklore #balkan bestiary

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jelenedra · 3 years

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Additional notes and ephemera for Restoration. Read with caution! There are spoilers at the end of this post.

Fun fact: the fic as posted to AO3 is 84,709. The amount of fic I actually wrote is 122,284. That means there’s 37,575 words of material on the cutting room floor. Oof.

Pinyin place names:

Fumodong : Demon Slaughtering Cave

Luanzang Gang : the Burial Mounds

Bujing Shi : the Unclean Realm

Yunshen Buzhichu : Cloud Recesses

Lianhua Wu : Lotus Pier/Lotus Cove

Buyetian Cheng : Nightless City/Nevernight

Jinlin Tai : Carp Tower/Koi Tower

Pinyin titles:

Huadan Shou : Core-Melting Hand/Core Crusher

Zi Zhizhu : Violet Spider

I believe all the other pinyin terms used are commonly used in fandom or are sufficiently contextualised to be understood, but let me know if there are any that need clarification!

Spoilers ahead! Gonna list the minor/background pairings.

Some of these are fairly textual, but with the exception of occasional flirtation/references in characters’ inner monologues, almost all actual romance occurs completely off-screen.

Meng Yao/Nie Mingjue (nieyao)

Jiang Yanli/Nie Huaisang (sangli)

(implied) Lan Xichen/Xue Yang (xiyang)

(implied) Jin Zixuan/Wen Ning (ningxuan)

Wang Lingjiao/Wen Qing (lingqing)

I did not intend for there to be Song Lan/Su She/Xiao Xingchen (songsuxiao), but I’m told some people saw it in there, so. Have at.

Here are some notes about names of people, for those who don’t get names in canon. I was ably assisted by merakily and invitan in choosing these and am told they’re not wildly inappropriate! There are some spoilers in the details given.

Starting off with the nicknames for the babies, so if you’re not sure if you want to spoil yourself further you have two paragraphs to back out or continue. ��

Xiaodou (小豆, Adzuki) or Xiaodou Yeye (小豆爷爷, Grandpa Adzuki) is a nickname given to baby Mo Xuanyu. Adzuki are a type of bean, also called red mung beans, and they’re commonly boiled with sugar to make an extremely delicious paste called anko. In Chinese cuisine it’s commonly used as filling for pastry dishes like mooncakes and tangyuan. The story of how he got that nickname is in chapter 12; in short, he was red and wrinkly, as many babies are, and the nickname stuck. The more common term for adzuki seems to be hongdou (红豆) but xiaodou, chidou (赤豆), chixiaodou, hongxiaodou, etc. are used fairly interchangably as far as I can tell, and I think the version that approximates to “little bean” is the cutest version to refer to a baby with.

Luobo Zhongzi is a nickname given to baby Wen Yuan. I used the characters for the words translated as “radish seeds” in chapter 74. In that chapter, Wen Qing scolds Wei Wuxian because she told him to go buy radish seeds and instead he fought Jiang Cheng. In my head, this is how that nickname came to be:

“Wei Ying,” Meng Yao says, with the fragile calm of someone an inch away from completely losing his shit, “I thought I told you to buy radish seeds.”

“Are you blind, Meng-shidi? Look at this handsome radish seed I have right here!” Wei Ying bounces the baby on his hip. “We’ll plant him and he’ll sprout right up, you’ll see.”

Meanwhile, Xue Yang sidles up to Wen Zhuliu and gives him his biggest, toothiest smile. “Gege, teach me how to punch someone in the soul?”

Some birth and courtesy names:

Fu Xiang (富祥); the fu here is still a relatively common character used as a Chinese surname today, and can also mean “wealthy” or “abundant” - a good name for a mercantile sect, especially one that wants to curry favour with Lanling Jin. The xiang means “auspicious” - also a fairly common name, in this case given by parents who hoped their daughter would tie them to one of the larger sects one day.

Mo Xing (莫惺). The character 惺 is commonly understood as “tranquil”, although it has an older literary meaning of “wise” or “intelligent”, as Mo Lang tells Mo Yu. However, Mo Yu is not particularly literate at the time she chooses it, and doesn’t realise that Mo Lang is rather unkindly choosing a name that’s homophonous with 猩, which means “ape”, and 腥, which means “fishy smell”.

Mo Lang (莫角); in modern usage, lang means “jade-like stone”, “clean and white”, or “the tinkling of pendants” but it also has an archaic meaning as “white jade” i.e. the most valuable jade.

Mo Yu (莫玉); yu also means “jade”, but in this case, just regular jade, not fancy white jade.

Mo Lihua (莫莉花). Li, “jasmine”, and hua, “flower”. The character used for her surname is the same as all other members of the Mo family, meaning “no one” or “do not”, but sometimes Mo Lihua likes to troll people by writing her name as 茉莉花, which is the full name for a jasmine flower (the literal translation would be “jasmine jasmine flower”.) Mo Lihua is a reference to the popular folk song Mo Li Hua, which definitely post-dates the CQL timeframe, but I already disclaimed my ahistoricity so we are all just going to deal with that. It’s very popular - Celine Dion and Song Zuying performed it at the Beijing Olympics - and I thought it was particularly appropriate because of a translation singeli showed me:

Oh beautiful jasmine flower / Oh beautiful jasmine flower / Sweet-smelling, beautiful, stems full of buds / Fragrant and white, everyone praises / Let me pluck you down to give to someone else / Jasmine flower, jasmine flower

LET ME PLUCK YOU DOWN TO GIVE TO SOMEONE ELSE

ahem

Meng Jingqiu (孟经秋); the jing comes from the Shijing, the Book of Songs, which really does use the same character as Meng Shi’s birth name (诗). The qiu comes from the Chunqiu, the Spring and Autumn Annals. These are two of the Five Classics of Confucianism.

Meng Fuqiu (孟府秋); the fu comes from yuefu (乐府), which is a genre of classical poetry intended to mimic folk songs (class issues, anyone...?), and also means governance - something Meng Yao excels at. The qiu, again, comes from Chunqiu and links his courtesy name with Meng Jingqiu. I thought it was nicer than linking him to Jin Guangshitbag.

Wen Guijiao (温圭角); this is a little complex. A gui was a long jade tablet or scepter, often shaped like a sword (here’s a plain one) (here’s one with poetry on it) (and one with animal masks) (and a very fancy one with dragons) held by imperial rulers for certain ceremonies. The pointed tip is called the guijiao (literally “corner of the jade tablet” but more usefully “tip of the scepter”, I believe). So literally the guijiao is the most delicate piece of an incredibly delicate and ornate piece of jade, but figuratively it means “talents displayed”, as in the chengyu bulu-guijiao (不露圭角) which is literally “do not reveal the tip of the scepter” and means to remain inconspicuous by hiding your talents. And I thought that was nice, for Our Lady of Hidden Badassery.

(here are some more examples of cool gui)

Update: can’t believe I forgot the comically long list of Wen sect heirs in chapter 11!

Wen Qing = as per canon, “tenderness”

Wen Xu = as per canon, my best guess is approximately “warmth of the rising sun”

Wen Chao = as per canon, approximately “warmth of the dawn”

Wen Liang (温良) = “warm and kind”

Wen Budun (温布顿) = Wimbledon, as in the tennis event

Wen Rou (温柔) = “gentle and soft”

Wen Nuan (温暖) = “warm” (as in, temperature)

Wen Hepai (温和派) = unusual variant of the word for “dove” but more commonly “moderate faction”

Wen Shu (温淑) = “a gentle and kind woman”

Wen Gehua (温哥华) = Vancouver, as in the Canadian city