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dalgonachan · 3 years

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Latibule

pairing: Seungkwan x reader, ft. 95z as a troublesome trio genre: high school au, angst, fluff warnings: none prompt: every day is a new beginning, but today just seems to be too tough to face count: 3632 a/n: i feel like my new writing pattern is updating on the members’ birthdays. this one has been sitting in my drafts for like a year and i was having second thoughts about posting it but alas here it is. happy birthday to best boi boo seungkwan 🥳🎈

Standing in a shower cubicle, as you feel your hair and body dripping wet, definitely counts as one of the most awkward moments in your entire life. Most especially when you’re waiting for everyone to leave the locker room. Forgetting to bring your towel with you was a completely dumb move because you just ran in and took a shower without even thinking of the consequences of being unprepared. Although, first come first serve basis has become a tradition during gym class and you don't want to run out of stalls and wait. Even worse, having to share with someone too generous would be an unpleasant experience. So here you were waiting for everyone to leave so that you can dash out of the cubicle and grab your towel from the lockers.

Maybe I could just wear my swimsuit, go out, and take my towel—no. You thought to yourself, quickly dismissing the thought with a shake of your head. That is just disgusting.

There are around four or five more people left. Silently, you whisper to the air about how much you wish for them to leave so you can be alone right now. Not long after, you hear the locker room door close, followed by a sudden stillness. You carefully open your stall's door, hoping it doesn't creak, and peek outside to check if there's still anyone left.

Nobody's here. But me. Good.

Without hesitation, you immediately exit the stall and manage not to slip while running. You slam the locker door open as soon as you’re inches away from it, then grab your towel and start drying off. You’re not even close to dry when you change back into your uniform and shoes, but for now, you really don't care. You’re running late for math class thanks to your stupidity.

Your footsteps and ragged breathing echo in the empty hallway. You slow down and start searching for your locker. Upon instantly catching sight of it, you sprint for it and nearly slam against it. You twist the knob to put in the code, however, it doesn't open and you try again. A few more attempts to open it are made, but none succeed.

"Come on! Work!" You plead, twisting the knob one last time.

Finally, you give up and kick your busted locker in anger. Being awfully late for math class is as bad as lacking the needed requirements, but together they're simply distressing.

You turn around and walk down the hall, dragging your feet lethargically. Your backpack seems to weigh heavier than it is... or was gravity also conspiring against you, trying to get your body to drop to the floor? As usual, you shrug it off and try your best to go on.

I'll just get to class and hope that this day doesn't completely go downhill.

Eventually, you reach your destination. Hesitantly, your hand reaches for the door knob, but getting caught standing outside any longer could give you a formal warning. You decide to walk in as casually as possible. For certain, you’ve failed to act normally because your movements become stiff with everyone's eyes on you. Barely reaching your chair, the teacher calls you out.

"(L/n)! You're late," her harsh tone is startling and you freeze.

"My apologies, Miss Kang," you timidly respond.

"I hope you have your materials with you." She taps the attendance chart on her desk. "Don't forget to register."

The attendance chart is where students write in, of course, their attendance. However, that isn't all. Listed above their names is a row of all the requirements needed in class. If they have the specified material, a check mark is put below it, beside their name. Lucky for you, you have none so the space beside your name is left blank.

Miss Kang checks the chart and gives you a look after reading your entry. With her eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed, and hands on her hips, it's obvious that she's cross. You lower your head in shame as you feel everybody staring in silence, watching the scene before them unfold.

This must be so interesting for them. Spitefulness drips off your thoughts like venom. (Y/n) (L/n), the pupil who came to class tardy and incomplete, is sent to detention by the math teacher.

You take off the embarrassingly enormous detention tag hanging around your neck and place it in the plastic basket right next to Miss Joo's desk. She doesn't even look up from her computer as she points to your seat—fifth to the right, third to the back. Making your way to the chair, you take a gander at all the other students in the detention room. Some were familiar faces, some others you didn't know at all. Yoon Jeonghan, Choi Seungcheol, and Hong Jisoo, a group of known troublemakers in your school, huddled at the back while palavering about what most likely is their next evil scheme. You get into your seat, pull out a pad paper and pen, then carelessly drop your bag onto the floor.

Miss Kang sent you to detention to write a two thousand word essay about why one should always be prepared and early for class. Could there possibly be a punishment much worse than this? Honestly, it doesn't take long to fill up half of the paper since you were simply stating all the corrections to the mistakes you've recently committed. Just as you’re about to move on to the next page, something slobbery hits your nape followed by an eruption of laughter. You don't even have to turn your head to know who shot that spitball, but still do it to send a death glare their way. Jeonghan shrugs as if he knows nothing, meanwhile the other two are too busy laughing their heads off. If only.

Returning your attention to the paper, you force yourself to ignore them. The pen glides smoothly across the sheet as your thoughts fluidly flow out... but not for long. Another spitball comes your way, but this time it lands on the paper. You can tell they used so much saliva on this one because it created one hell of an ugly blotch on the essay that it actually ruined the ink. So much for effort.

This time, there is no room for mercy. Obviously, Miss Joo doesn't care, so you push your chair out of the desk, letting it screech across the floor, and stomp over to the three boys. The other students in the room watch closely, anticipating the drama about to happen. With arms crossed and eyebrows arched, you shoot them with the most painful glare you can make.

"I'm sorry, but what is your problem?!" You could almost yell at them, but you don't want to get into any more trouble. You’re going up until only this far.

"Nothing. We were just messing around," Jeonghan smugly replies.

You fight the temptation to rip his mouth off his face, but the urge to do so can still be heard in the way you speak.

"Nothing? Oh, sure! I totally believe you, as if you three..." You point an accusing finger at each of them, "...weren't spewing spitballs in my direction!"

The whole room is filled with silence and old Miss Joo is still as deaf as ever.

"We weren't aiming at you," Jisoo defends, leaning forward.

"We were trying to get it to the trash can over there!" Seungcheol points with his thumb, but you don't turn around to look.

"I'm not falling for that and you idiots should know that. Oh, but I guess idiots like you don't really understand anything at all." You feel the tone in your voice getting angrier by the second.

"Fine, fine. We're sorry, okay?" Jeonghan says, but the smirk on his face is still evident.

You squint your eyes and tap your foot impatiently on the floor.

"Right, guys?" Jeonghan glances over at his accomplices.

"Sure," Seungcheol says.

"Sorry," Jisoo mumbles.

"You better be. Just quit bothering me." Turn on your heel, you walk away.

Thankfully, you get to reprimand the three of them for their stupidity. Even so, you can hear them whispering behind your back. Returning to your chair, the tension is thick as you feel everyone's eyes on you. Once you sit down, their gazes divert elsewhere because Miss Joo announces it's time for lunch.

The high school cafeteria is filled with boisterous students, making it almost impossible to move around. You carefully weave through the winding crowd, in search of Seungkwan, your boyfriend, while tightly clutching the lunch tray close to your body. Your eyes sharpen upon nearing each table, trying to identify the people seated down.

The crowd begins to thin when you catch sight of him. He's by himself at the table, staring straight at you with a faint smile on his visage, then you notice he hasn't touched his food yet. Obviously, someone's been waiting. You grin widely, approaching the table he reserved for. Fortunately, lunch time is the most forgiving part of a school day. It's also a good thing because you get to spend time together.

"Took you long enough," Seungkwan comments as you arrive.

"I got stuck in the crowd and I had a hard time searching for you because of that," You respond, still standing in front of the table.

"I noticed," he says with a smirk.

"You could've called me!" I grumble.

"It was fun watching you get lost," he says with a chuckle. "Now sit down already! I want to eat!"

"Alright, alright," You say, placing the tray down and settling into the chair.

In the blink of an eye, a football crash lands on the table, knocking out your lunch and hitting you in the face. Food splatters you from head to toe in less than a second before the whole tray falls on your lap. You lose hearing for a while, your ears ringing. The pain on your face throbs mercilessly.

You look up, vision blurry, still dazed from the hit. Your eyes make out the empty space in front and before you can assume he's left, you feel him tugging you out of your seat. The other students simply look at what all the commotion is about. Turning to the direction where the football came from, your vision clears to see Jeonghan, Jisoo, and Seungcheol with guilt-stricken faces. Unsurprising.

"I should've expected those jerks to have done it again," You mutter.

Grabbing your bag, you stand up from the table and burst out of the cafeteria doors in frustration. This day has been pushing your buttons and you've had just about enough. Perhaps, even, too much. And those three just had to add up with the disasters of today.

"(Y/n)! Wait!" You hear Seungkwan yell.

Not wanting him to catch up, you quicken pace. Hot tears streak down your cheeks as you continue to run away. His constant pleas for you to stop being rendered useless by ignorance, however, he still manages to catch up with you. His hand seizes your wrist, but you yank it from his clutch and push him away.

"(Y/n)!" He calls again, stopping in his tracks.

You don't look back and proceed further on through the corridors, not knowing where to take yourself.

History class helps tone down your emotions, distracting you from the reminder that this day is cursed. The quiz temporarily brings your thoughts to concentrate on the task at hand except for the irritatingly scratchy uniform the clinic let you borrow. Just as how your luck ran out today, so does the ink of your pen. Not to mention, writing an essay to a question which isn't even second to the last of the whole paper. Fingers scrambling through the contents of your pencil case, you realise that this is the last pen.

"Hey," you whisper, attempting to get your seatmate's attention.

No response.

"Hey," you say a little bit louder, worried that she didn't hear you at first.

Her head merely turns to the side, sending a glare your way. Before you can ask, she goes back to answering the paper.

"I need to borrow a pen," you persist.

She leans her head to the other side, letting her hair fall over her face to block you from view.

"Please, I'm still not done," you beg, glancing at the clock. Just a few more minutes and the quiz was going to end.

"I really need to bo—"

"(L/n)!" Mr. Ho's voice booms from behind and you flinch.

He snatches the paper from beneath your arm and shoots an angry look. All you could do was sink into the chair in humiliation since you had no idea how to defend yourself. To him and everyone else in this room, it did look like you were trying to cheat. Therefore, you’re sent to detention for the second time this day.

Mr. Ho's class was the last, so technically dismissal comes next. Right now, as you sit in the same seat during the previous detention session, the bell is all you have to wait for. At least the trio didn't get into any trouble this time or you'd be spending the last period with them. Sleep gets the best of you and you’re consciously aware that you were snoozing off, although decide to let it come. You are really exhausted after all you've experienced.

A crackle of thunder jolts you awake from a dream. Your eyes snap open and see the lack of people in the detention room... which means you're alone.

Wait, what time is it? You lean over to check the clock and it's FIFTEEN MINUTES PAST DISMISSAL TIME?! WHY DIDN'T ANYBODY BOTHER TO WAKE ME UP? Hoisting the bag onto your shoulders, you hurry out of the room and scurry the hallways. Only a few students are left, but they have varsity training or cheerleading practice, anything to keep them busy and give them an excuse to stay late in school.

The rain pounds on you when you exit the doors of the school. From head to toe, you are once again sullied. Well, this has officially ruined the whole day. Unstoppable tears, you've been holding in all this time, flow out of your eyes.

Without re-evaluating your thoughts, you run away from the school and hurry home. The cold wind stings your skin and the reoccurring flashes of lightning blind your vision. Hurried steps splash large puddles on the pavement, drenching yourself even more. You really didn't care about anything anymore, so enduring the bad weather didn't matter at all.

Sooner than you could have expected, you reach the bus stop. You don't take long to go sit under the shed because you’re just absolutely done. Panting and soaking wet, you lean against the cold glass pane. You don’t even notice Seungkwan, who seems to be in shock at your condition, come in.

"You're soaking wet! Why didn’t you wait for me?" He asks sitting beside you.

"I'm just having the most terrible day of my life and I don't want to talk about it!" You didn't expect to yell and you bet Seungkwan didn't too because his eyes widened flabbergastingly.

A fresh set of tears begins to pour down again. By then you knew you've made another error you'd immediately regret. Seungkwan’s face is rewritten all over with worry as he reaches for you, but you push his hand and scoot away, then wrap your arms around yourself. He decides to leave it alone for the time being, allowing you to sit with your emotions. Soon, the bus arrived and he stood up, hand outstretched to you.

“Let’s get home.”

You shut the door and click the locks in place. Slamming your back against it, you slide down to the floor, hugging your knees to your chest and sobbing. Hopefully, after you give vent to all this exasperation, you'll eventually tire out and go to sleep. The saltiness of your tears blends with sweat, hair sticking to your face.

"(Y/n)?" Seungkwan’s voice is muffled behind the door.

You suck in a breath and stay quiet. He still hasn’t left after dropping you off at your house out of concern.

"Open the door, please?" He gently knocks. "I just want to talk for a little bit. Maybe it will make you feel better."

"Go home, Seungkwan. I'm fine." I know I can lie better than this, but why didn't I?

"No, let me in and we'll talk about it. You can't carry all your problems alone," he says causing you to stiffen.

Reluctantly, you sigh and get up from the ground. Your eyes meet Seungkwan’s lush brown irises the second the door opens. He comes in and engulfs you into a delicate embrace, rubbing your back and kissing your cheek. That's when you let it all out completely.

You cry onto his shoulder uncontrollably, but he tightens his hold on you. Now that you think of it, you feel like a bunch of lumber being chained together to keep from falling apart.

"(Y/n), what's wrong? Did they do something to you again?" He pulls away, his eyes scanning your face worriedly.

You tug him back, shaking your head. As much as it's embarrassing to know that you've already stained his shirt with tears, the crying doesn't stop. For a while, you're standing in the middle of the room, cradled in each other's arms and not letting go. Soon, the sadness turns into sniffles and you’ve calmed down a bit.

"Are you ready to talk about it now?" The tone of his voice by your ear is so timid, his breath barely grazing the skin.

"I don't know how to say it without making a racket," you reply.

"Just say what you have to." He smiles at you lovingly, taking your hand and intertwining your fingers together.

You inhale deeply then sigh.

"Today has been very... horrible. First, I forgot to bring my towel to my shower stall, so I had to wait for everyone to leave. Second, my locker got jammed. Not only was I late, but I also didn't have the materials for math class. Third, I got sent to detention for that and then Jeonghan, Seungcheol, and Jisoo had to ruin the essay I was writing. FYI, that was a punishment from Miss Kang!" You pause to catch your breath before continuing again.

"Because of that, I got mad at them. Oh! And because they shot a spitball at me, too! Fast forward to lunch, they take their petty revenge on me and thanks to them, I had to borrow an itchy uniform from the infirmary! Then here comes History where my last pen died while I was taking a quiz! And I thought it was such a good idea to borrow a pen from my seatmate, but instead, I get myself caught. Mr. Ho sends me to detention again and I fall asleep, then wake up fifteen minutes after dismissal time. Guess what? We aren't even at the best part yet!" You throw your hands up in the air in utter frustration.

"That does sound like a rough day," Seungkwan opines.

"Oh, believe me, it is," You say, rolling your eyes.

"So, what's the best part?" He shuffles closer.

"I forgot to wait for you, so I ran back in the pouring rain." You finish, shutting down the whole story.

Seungkwan stands up, and with your hand in his, you do too. He moves his palms to cup your cheeks and tilts your head to meet his eyes. The warmth of his touch makes you close your eyes and hum in content, further calming down. Before you could open your eyes again, his lips meet yours and you kiss back. When he pulls away, you grab him by the collar of his shirt and kiss him more passionately than a while ago. If this is the only good you can get from this extremely horrible day, you’re taking every single bit of it while it lasts.

"Whoa," He gasps just as you part.

"I'm sorry, I kinda got carried away," you shyly apologise, sheepishly scratching the back of your head.

"It's alright," he says before reading the time on the clock. "You know what, after all, you've been through today, I think you deserve some rest."

You haven't had the chance to say otherwise when suddenly he’s dragging you by the arm and you let out a squeal.

"Kwannie! I still need to do my science homework!"

"For science? Nice try, but you don't have science tomorrow," he chuckles.

You puff your cheeks and glare at him.

"You look adorable when you do that, not terrifying. Now go to sleep."

"But Seung—"

"Sleep."

"Kwan—"

"You need to sleep."

You groan in defeat.

"Fine, but only if you sleep with me." You point a finger at him. Seungkwan thinks for a while before he nods in agreement.

"Hooray!" You move over and let him lay down beside you.

"What made me do this?" He asks while getting in.

"Your love for me, duh. Now, goodnight, darling," you say, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

"Goodnight to you, too. I love you," He says, pecking your nose.

You tuck into your blankets then close your eyes.

"I love you, too. And thank you for comforting me earlier,"

"You're welcome. You needed it," He replies, standing up to turn off the lights.

When he comes back to the bed, he wraps you in yet another tender embrace. You snuggle into him and bury your face into his chest, to which he responds to with a giggle.

If this is how my day ends, then I'm positively sure tomorrow is going to be a new day.

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abeautifuldayfortea · 3 years

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A Perfect Spring Day

Summary: Slice of life of the Fellowship members enjoying the peace directly after the War of the Ring and following Aragorn’s coronation. Boromir lives in the Halls of Mandos. Requested by @warriorbookworm

Just the fellowship(boromir lives, ofc) having fun after the war? Have fun, add fluff, and maybe fellowship reunion? In gondor?

A/N: This was a fun gapfiller to write, Boromir lives far west of Arda. By the book canon, the Fellowship never meet up again together as eight members after reuniting in Gondor at the end of the War of the Ring. My personal headcanon is that Merry and Ioreth would be best friends (and that she is the one who inspires him to write the Herblore of the Shire book).

Words: 1555

The warm touch of spring came to Faramir as a blessing upon all blessings. The dark winter brewing in the east had at last relinquished its terror and there was little need now to turn toward the great mountain ranges of Mordor, if only for a little while. A time of peace and celebration. It came to him then that he had never known such a peace in his life, for he had been born in the unhappy years at the waning of Gondor’s power and in all his waking memory the grim forboding of Mordor’s black shadow had hung. Now the fair house of Minas Tirith set to his heart a bloom brighter than any flower of Ithilien and none as beautiful as the golden dawn that sat upon the brow of Éowyn in the morning’s waking hour. Upon the tempered gardens in the Houses of Healing they had walked together and now they had returned, hand in hand. Merry, clad in the green and white livery of Rohan was with them, sat upon the grass beside his lord and lady.

Between his hands, calloused and hardened from the labours of his journey, he absentmindedly turned a young leaf, still green and wet from the night’s frost and plucked prematurely from the fields beyond the walls of Minas Tirith where it grew with wild abandon. He looked with wonder as he beheld the fresh leaf of pipeweed or westmansweed or galena as it was known there and he was silent, as though the many sprinting thoughts and imaginings of his mind were turned elsewhere, placated and seeking some far-fetched place that was beyond Faramir.

The halflings were a hardy and curious folk, Faramir thought to himself. Merry had been loth to leave Theoden-king and it had only been the stout insistence that only kings and stewards had leave to enter Rath Dínen that stopped him from following him to his tomb. In the days thereafter that he spent dwelling in the pensive idleness within the Houses of Healing, he had become fast friends with Ioreth who treated with him as doting siblings are wont to do, and they delighted each other with the ever more exaggerated stories of home in a futile attempt to outdo the other. They found within each other a great kinship, for they were both light of heart and quick tongued and their merry speech filled the halls with the small but resplendent ripples of nostalgia.

“You see, young master Periain, these gardens are only well kempt. I tell you, when I spent my youth in Imloth Melui, the three of us, meaning my sisters and I of course, went tramping around inside the rose bushes. Inside, I tell you! I say, folk will talk, saying you haven’t seen a proper garden at all if word ever gets out of the way you talk about the gardens here! Plain, I call them.” she snorted.

“You must be much mistaken, Lady Ioreth! We halflings live among our gardens and I say that they are both well kempt and beautiful! Our gardens are our pride and joy, and I will say that no garden is fairer than that which has its roots dug deep in Shire earth. It is a shameful waste though, that the westmansweed crop is left without harvest, our folk cultivate it carefully and tend to it like a bairn. It grows everywhere here and to think they are tended only by the grace of the Valar. Perhaps it is the cold air that blows form Lochnarch. Farmers from the Southfarthing would surely weep with joy if they laid eyes on this!” He tutted.

And so Merry’s restful days after the war was lived mostly beside Ioreth in the Houses of Healing, learning from her the arts of herblore and healing when he could not seek for Sam and his cousins. But Ioreth was elsewhere that morning, receiving a fellow kinswoman from Imloth Melui he was told. Pippin was standing guard by the citadel or with Beregond and the Third Company, spinning yarns of his own, green with the enthusiasm of newfound confidence like a fledgling ready to fly the nest. Frodo and Sam were exhausted, spending their days and nights together always, finding comfort in each other from the waking terror that they escaped from in the calmness of sleep whilst Gandalf watched over them.

There was an undeniable change in Frodo, he noted, in the short moments in between the celebration and hearty tales exchanged between the Company. In the blink of an eye, he was himself, his merry cousin whom he had grown to love as a brother and yet sometimes he was a stranger to him, grave, a gaunt gaze, disconnected, living in a world apart from his reality. His burden had been heavy. In those miniscule moments, the distance between them yawned, and in this strange new territory, Merry could understand why but he could not help his cousin, for he did could never know the living nightmare that Frodo had traversed.

Gimli and Legolas had excused themselves earlier to explore the lower circles of the city, giving their assistance to the Men of Gondor in the long labour of repairing the White City. Far below, caught by the wind and carried to their ears, the small party on the lawn could hear the sound of Legolas singing in the strange Elvish tongue.

The rest of the fellowship saw little of Aragorn in the days after his coronation, for though he delayed the breaking of the Fellowship, he himself was caught up in matters of office and negotiations with many of the peoples of Middle Earth. Gandalf was found in unlikely places at unlikely times and came and went from the fair house in which they resided and that day his white robes and soft footfalls were brought to the Houses of Healing.

“Mithrandir!” “Hullo Gandalf!” Faramir rose and the Merry went with him, gladdened by the appearance of their old friend. They were greeted by his laughter, bright and ringing as though the weight of his labours was lifted and they saw the strange glint of ethereal youth in his eyes, eyes whose light beheld the raising of Arda, the birth of mountains and the delving of the great basin that would become the sea.

“A happy day looks upon the White City, my friends! I see you’re enjoying the music from down below, Faramir”. The man towering over the wizard before him looked away, bashful as a child.

“He is much talented, it is the voice I heard long ago in a dream, though I knew not then who it was. The tune is different and here it sings of celebration, yet I heard a song wearied and lonely upon a blistering night breeze”.

“It is lovely,” he hummed “and if it came to you in a vision then it is fairer still. Music has always had your heart, though I think yours has grown fond of much more than that now. Though, I see something else in you which you withhold from me”. His eyes searched and beheld Faramir’s face in a deep thoughtfulness.

A great sadness came washing over Faramir then, as though he had been swept straight into the path of dark waves. Faramir smiled, although his heart grieved. “Alas, for the parting of the one I loved best! I dream often of my brother, both in waking and in troubled sleep he oft appears to me and at times he speaks to me of fair halls and beautiful citadels that he claims I have yet to see. He laughs with a joy that I have not heard from him since we were both children. I saw him, at the coronation of Aragorn standing from afar, and he cheered for him, as he would when he returned from a battle hard won, but no company echoed him. He lives still, though he dwells where I cannot seek him.”

The wind shifted uneasily. Gandalf’s ancient eyes filled with pity and love for his young student.

“You are a wise man, Faramir, and indeed Boromir lives on and his spirit even now is fostered in the West, awaiting the Second Music, and when the time comes, you will be returned to his side and you too will see for yourself the grand halls he speaks of. It is but another pathway which we must all journey through and when you emerge, you will find the veil lifted and a beauty beyond any earthly treasure.”

“But come! Let us speak no more on these dark thoughts, we must enjoy the peace while it lasts, even as Boromir does so now in the Halls of Mandos. The breeze is fair and the sun is warm and,” he eyed Merry playfully, “I think I might just be willing to share some of my pipeweed”.

Leaning his back against the soft moss-covered wall, Gandalf took out his pipe and smoked in amiable silence alongside Merry as he basked under the midmorning sun, listening to the song of Legolas lulling him into a wakeful tranquillity. As the sun rose, Merry dozed and dreamed of home, the fresh westmansweed leaf began to wilt in his hand. Gandalf smiled, blissfully content with his work, a perfect spring day.

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autumnslance · 4 years

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FFXIV Write 2020 #29: Paternal

Alberic entered the tavern, the room only a little warmer than the blustery snowy night outside. Patrons glanced up, most going back to their cups when recognizing the dragoon. A few let their gazes linger, trying to catch his eye.

They didn’t need to; he was already looking for, and had found, the man that had so many in the camp out of sorts.

“You’re an easy fellow to pick out of a crowd,” Alberic said as he approached the miqo’te’s table. The stranger was alone in a corner, the few other patrons and even the serving staff giving him a wide berth.

The red-clad man looked up with an easy smile. Despite the ostentatious nature of his outfit, there was a steady calm to the middle-aged Seeker, the eyes under his craggy brow friendly. “I’m not the type to try and hide,” he answered. “Care to join me for a drink?” He gestured to the empty chair across the table.

Alberic’s eyes narrowed as he sat. “Why do I feel as if I were expected?”

“You’re Alberic Bale, former Azure Dragoon of Ishgard, aren’t you?” The Seeker said, casually pouring a second glass of wine--top shelf, not that that meant much here outside the city--and passing it over.

“I am, though I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, ser.”

The Seeker grinned and made a gesture as if tipping the fancy hat that currently hung on the back of a third chair at the table. “X’rhun Tia,” he replied. "Crimson Duelist, Ala Mhigan patriot, mentor to new red mages--including one Aeryn Striker.”

Alberic smiled and took up the wine glass. “Ah, the one that turned my pupil from the lance to the rapier,” he said, only half-joking.

X’rhun shrugged. “I would say I’m sorry, but you deserve better than a lie. She’s an excellent student.”

“I know it,” Alberic answered. “She’s also not currently in Coerthas, last I knew.” If anything, the last Alberic had heard still seemed far too fantastical and confusing. Such was the life of a Warrior of Light, he supposed, offering a quiet prayer to Halone for his errant pupil in the meantime.

“No, she is off on whatever adventure fate has drawn her into now,” X’rhun replied, his tone laced with the same worry Alberic felt. “But it is on her behalf that I come to speak with you.”

“She doesn’t usually send messengers.”

X’rhun shook his head. “She doesn’t know I’m here, or what I’ve found--yet. I thought it best to get the perspective of someone with more knowledge before I presented my possible findings to her.”

“Findings?”

X’rhun slowly swirled his wine. “I’ve been aiding some of the Lord Speaker’s efforts to make peace with those you and yours have called heretics. They generally respond to overtures from outsiders a tad easier than Ishgardian knights, funny story.”

Alberic huffed, taking another sip of the wine. He rarely indulged in this manner, and wasn’t going to look a gift chocobo in the mouth regardless of his sudden discomfort. “It will be a long road I fear,” he said. “Many are slow to forget and slower to forgive, no matter the attempts of young Lord Francel and his experiments in the Firmament.”

“Indeed. But the attempt must be made, if this nation is to heal. Believe me; we have our own troubles with that in Ala Mhigo with Garlean collaborators, though our occupation was not as long as the Dragonsong War.”

“I trust there is a point?” Alberic asked abruptly.

X’rhun smiled. “Of course.” The smile remained, if faded. “In the course of my aid to those considering responding to Ishgard’s overtures, I was lucky enough to stumble upon a rather old cache of information, memorials to those who had suffered and died for the sake of their scaly allies in the long years of the war. One name...stood out, in the hidden records I was made privy to.”

An icy chill ran down Alberic’s spine. He forced himself to stop squeezing the glass in his hand. “Dead heretics,” he said, when he could trust his voice again. “Are not a concern of the Holy See. Reclaiming the living is the current goal.”

“Seems to me that acknowledging the past, and absolving those sins, would be just as important,” X’rhun said. His eyes were sharp now, watching Alberic.

“It should be, yes,” Alberic agreed. “But we’ve long learned to live by putting off certain luxuries in favor of the greater need.” He swirled his own glass now, slowly, eyes on the red liquid rather than the man across from him.

Were it a bit thicker, it would nearly resemble blood. Alberic recalled why he stuck to ale.

X’rhun’s tail lashed, though he did not respond right away. More patrons left, the cold wind rattling the room whenever the door opened. It was soon only the two of them and the barkeep, who glanced at their table and then found an excuse to step into the kitchen.

“I must confess that though we’ve traveled together quite a bit, there are many details of Aeryn’s life that I do not yet know,” X’rhun said in a low voice despite their solitude. “Not surprising, as she’s a quiet woman. But my understanding is she was quite young when she first left this land.”

Alberic closed his eyes, trying not to remember those days. The rage and grief had dulled over the years--more so since Nidhogg’s final death. The guilt remained the same. The memory of a little dark haired girl with big grey eyes, half-hidden behind her mother’s skirt, filled his mind’s eye. The sound of Emelia Striker’s sobs echoed in his ears. “Aeryn was no more than five winters,” Alberic said hoarsely. “Her mother gathered what little she could and left, and I cannot blame her. She was never terribly welcome, being a foreigner. Without her husband to tie her here, she sought a better life for her children elsewhere.”

“Lucky for us, I suppose, given how those children turned out,” X’rhun mused. He paused for a long moment. “What was Aeryn’s father’s name?” He finally asked.

Alberic drank the rest of the wine in his glass. “I don’t remember,” he lied as he stood. X’rhun deserved better, he thought, but it couldn’t be helped.

X’rhun’s eyes narrowed. “Was it—”

“You care about our girl?” Alberic interrupted.

X’rhun leaned on the table, gloved hands clasped lightly, gaze unwavering. “Of course.”

“Then leave it,” Alberic said, firmly. He glowered down at the miqo’te. “There’s naught to gain.”

“I’m not sure I can--burying the past was what led to Ishgard’s troubles after all. And this will nag at me unless I understand why I should not pursue this truth.”

Alberic drummed his fingers on the tabletop in thought, still standing, trying not to sway as memories, sharpened by the wine, crowded at him. “As much as I wish she were just another student, she isn’t,” he eventually said. “She’s the Warrior of Light. She ended the Dragonsong War. She is a symbol, much as I hate that she can’t just be Aeryn.” He let out a deep breath. “And too many are too slow to forget or forgive.” He looked at X’rthun again. “For all there are in Ishgard that love her, she’s made more than a few enemies who’d like nothing more than a reason.”

X’rhun frowned as he considered that. Alberic turned to leave.

“Ser Alberic,” X’rhun’s quiet voice halted him. “Aren’t you afraid her extraordinary gifts will someday reveal what you know regardless?”

Alberic laughed bitterly. “Every time she visits,” he replied. “She already knows I’m an old fool who doesn’t enjoy divulging painful truths--so I suppose we shall cross that chasm when we must, and I shall pray she is still as understanding and forgiving as she has always been thus far.” He half-turned back to X’rhun. “If those were old records...well, many family names and lines overlapped, but were then wiped out in the Calamity. I wouldn’t pay them much mind.”

“You think this is better for her?” X’rhun asked, tail bristling and ears nearly flattened against his head.

“Here and now, I do,” Alberic said. “You’re free to disagree, but I know the situation in Ishgard. Were we in Ala Mhigo, I’d defer to you. For her sake.”

X’rhun ground his teeth. “Very well,” he finally acceded. “But!” He continued, holding up a finger before Alberic could attempt to relax. “This isn’t the end of the conversation,” X’rhun said. He gave Alberic a tight smile. “Not if we’re to keep her safe from political machinations.”

Alberic harrumphed and nodded in response, then tromped out. He had the distinct impression he was, in fact, going to see more of X’rhun Tia, like it or not. Such was the price, when they both felt a responsibility for the young woman who was the realm’s champion.

He did not return to his quarters in the small camp barracks. He walked out along the wall, found a spot clear of outbuildings or trees, and Jumped.

Alberic landed on the top of the Observation Tower, a bit of the old thrill racing in his heart even as his knees protested; since the end of the War and his old enemy’s death, he’d been practicing now and again, but it wasn’t so easy anymore these days as it had been in the years when he wore the Azure mantle. He stood on the crenelations and let the wind sting his face.

Twenty-odd years ago, he had hunted down a suspected heretic feeding intelligence to the Horde, aiding them in finding targets for their rage. Corran Striker had been alone when Alberic had found him, the man’s wife and children out on a day trip by the grace of Halone. Corran had been no slouch with a sword, but not a match for the Azure Dragoon. The Striker house, and two of their neighbors’ homes, had been destroyed when Corran transformed and his allied aevis arrived.

Alberic had done what he had to; there was no time to waste, when Nidogg was on the way to Ferndale already. There was no reasoning with a heretic who had gone so far, endangered too many people.

The Inquisition said that the immediate family members of heretics were as culpable as the sinners themselves. But with the arrival of the other aevis, no one in the village realized the truth of what had happened. Emelia and her children were innocents ignorant of Corran’s crimes, who didn’t deserve further punishment--not when all Emelia wanted was to take her children and leave for her own homeland.

So Alberic had lied. For their own sakes, he had lied to them and to the village and to the Inquisition. He was the Azure Dragoon, after all; his word was a steel-woven bond.

He counted it a miracle Aeryn’s gift hadn’t shown her the truth yet. Perhaps the Crystal took pity on him. Perhaps She wished to protect the girl, too. He didn’t know much about gods who lived at the heart of the world and chose quiet young women to be Their Champion.

What he did know was he owed Aeryn more than he dared say, and he would do all in his power to pay that debt and watch over her, in place of the father he had taken.

#FFXIVWrite2020 #Final Fantasy XIV #Lyn Writing #Alberic Bale #X'rhun Tia #backstory #Corran Striker #Aeryn Striker

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vulturhythm · 4 years

Text

heave her up and away we go

people across the globe have heard of the wolf of the sea. they’ve heard tales of a captain with hair as pale as the moon and eyes as yellow as the gold he seeks, of a brute of a man whose conquests are vicious and leave no survivors.

(no one ever points out that, if there were no survivors, there would be no tales.)

nearly all the coastal cities claim to have been visited by the wolf and his horrific vessel, the mohren. “he took our mayor’s daughter” or “we watched him slay all our finest soldiers...” all stories of bloodshed, of unspeakable acts the likes of which only a true pirate could achieve.

(no one ever points out that no one actually describes having seen the wolf in the wake of such assaults.)

the wolf has earned himself an awful name upon the seven seas, and it is said that he fears no other captain - not one who sails beneath the crown, nor one who hoists the skull and bones high. it is said, in fact, that even blackbeard cowers at his very name.

(no one ever points out that blackbeard has been many years dead and gone.)

and yet...

well.

for such a horrendous reputation, the wolf of the seas is, in fact, little more than a puppy in the shallows.

and who am i to tell you this?

none other than the wolf’s favorite companion, his most trusted friend, his private performer, his lover on the best of days.

i was born julian, but following my recruitment into the pack of the wolf, as it were, i have taken up a multitude of names - jaskier, dandelion, even songbird at times.

(more cruel names, such as bastard, wretch and ship’s rat, at other times. it all depends upon the side of bed upon which the wolf awakens.)

when geralt found me, i was playing for farthings - pence or shillings, on a good day - at a little pub in an even littler port city. some of you may know it, but it is likelier that the rest do not, so i won’t name it. it had been a rough day for tips, and yet still i sang. by the time a great, hulking man with hair as white as snow and eyes as bright as the sun walked inside, my voice was nearly gone, and so i pounced upon the chance to down a drink or ten with a mostly-willing partner.

(geralt is standing above me as i write this, and he says he was less than willing, but i question his memory at times.)

i don’t recall how long we talked that evening before the location of our discussion moved from the pub to the exterior wall, and then, eventually, to the loft of a stable, the owner of which i knew would be drinking until dawn. i caution against taking a man to bed amongst a pile of straw, for a multitude of reasons, but i have no regrets.

well, anyway.

dawn came, and i found myself loath to leave geralt entirely. he mentioned that he had a ship, the night before, and it was this that i repeated to him upon sunrise. “surely,” said i, “my prospects for money would be better in a new town with new ears,” and geralt sighed at me, acting so incredibly put-upon.

“to the next port,” he said, and that was that.

“but, jaskier,” you cry, “you set foot upon the mohren and did not immediately turn tail? such bravery!”

waste not your praise, fair reader, for, i must admit, i had yet to piece together the image of this powerful man with that of the infamous wolf of the sea. it was with foolish joy and a light heart that i strode up the gangway and onto the great black ship. first to strike me was the fact that the only visible crew consisted of a young girl, watching from the crow’s nest.

next was that this was most certainly not of the british crown, nor was it your average fishing vessel.

no, it was a large and sleek thing, meant for speed and endurance.

it was, in short, a pirate vessel, something which i confirmed for myself when i cast my eyes upward to see a black flag overhead.

a black flag that held not the jolly roger, but a massive white wolf skull, vicious teeth bared.

i assure you, dear reader, my heart was in my throat when i whirled to geralt, who had already begun to pull the wooden gangway back onboard.

“you’re the - “

“the wolf of the seas,” he said, and he sounded entirely unaffected, as though this was a daily conversation. “i have no plans to hurt you. like i said, to the next port, and no further.”

it was as i stood there, lute in hands and jaw upon the deck, that geralt stepped toward me, and i take pride in the fact that i didn’t flinch. “you have the song of a lifetime in the making, right here before you, but if you want to go back ashore, i won’t stop you. i’m merely offering transport.”

as i recall it, i was entirely robbed of the ability to speak for those first few seconds, so i was capable of little more than a nod. on the one hand, if i was killed, i could rest assured it would be painless, considering the strength and power geralt had made evident the night before. on the other hand, geralt was entirely correct - if i were to survive, i would have the makings of the finest song known to man.

i would live in luxury!

geralt took to the wheel shortly thereafter, and i followed along, standing near his side to observe.

the wolf of the seas, i can tell you all, is not a fan of idle conversation, so the bulk of our discussions for the next four days consisted of my eloquent monologues, halfhearted grunts, and, well, various other noises.

it was the evening of the second day before i managed to coax anything akin to an explanation from the incredibly silent man, and, once i had begun the process of extracting his story, i found it far more prudent to remain aboard than leave his company at the next port. geralt protested initially, but three years later, he has not yet rid himself of me entirely.

now, i wish to preface this - and all subsequent information - with the following:

all that i am about to relay has been pieced together over many a year of traveling with the wolf of the seas, and the writings in this journal are little more than a traveling musician’s attempts to chronicle the life of one of the kindest men to ever sail the world.

with that out of the way, let us begin.

the circumstances of geralt’s birth and early childhood remain a mystery, as any attempt to discuss these things results in a complete and undeniable refusal, so alas, i cannot tell you where the wolf was spawned. i can, however, tell you that his introduction to the sea came about as follows:

as a youth, he trained under a crew of shipwrights, one that built the finest of crafts for the crown - a crew that has, from what i’ve gathered, long since met their ends due to natural causes. geralt’s affinity with the craft paved a natural way for him to join the british royal navy as soon as he was of age.

(watching geralt, it is easy to imagine him upon a warship, and yet, i cannot fathom him in anything but a position of command. he is a leader, through and through.)

he saw few true battles, as my understanding goes, but it seems his frustration with the crown merely grew with each passing day, as he and his crew were sent to dispatch all pirate vessels. in moments of vulnerability, he has shared with me stories of horrific acts committed by the men said to be on the side of the law, of innocent folk harmed in the path of good, of men whose only crime was seeking a living upon the seas slaughtered like beasts for the altar.

to date, geralt hasn’t told me of the final straw.

i know better than to ask.

according to him, it isn’t that difficult to steal a ship from the navy when one is among the most trusted sailors.

i have my doubts.

geralt’s brand of piracy is a unique one, to be sure. i doubt the man is capable of a legitimate attack on another vessel, at least not on one that isn’t telegraphing clear intent to harm. a stark contrast to the brutal portrait painted by civilized society, geralt spends his days patrolling the seas with intent to help, not to harm.

in my time spent at his side, i have witnessed the horrible wolf of the seas escort smaller craft to port, dispatch empty slave vessels and let them sink in splinters, defend others flying beneath the jolly roger from the crown... perhaps most important, however, i have seen him offer men and women alike safe passage or a spot on the crew in exchange for their promise to spread the worst of rumors to those on land.

why?

well, according to geralt, the why should be obvious - no british officer is going to fear a pirate whose reputation is one of kindness.

—

the wolf of the seas travels with a motley crew, to be sure. in all honesty, his crew isn’t much of one to speak of, as the majority of those who travel with him regularly are kept on for... sentiment, as it were. in terms of combatants, he employs those whose luck has failed them elsewhere.

the young lady i’d spotted in the crow’s nest that first day goes by the name of ciri, and she was taken in when the crown left her town decimated in search of a presumed criminal. geralt thinks of her as a daughter, something i determined very quickly. she’s a bright child, although perhaps a tad too perceptive for her own good.

there’s a grown woman aboard, too - a lady with bright red hair and a sharp wit, known as triss. geralt’s interactions with her lead me to believe they were once rather fond of eachother. i bear her no ill will. she’s an interesting sort.

eskel and lambert - two rather formidable men, both of whom i tend to avoid, for little reason apart from their enjoyment of tormenting me. i’ve rescued my beloved instruments from their mischievous hands many times before.

there are others, too, of course, different people of different creeds, all taken aboard to be given a second chance, all useful in some way. i know none of them particularly well, but we live on friendly terms.

geralt makes a point of dropping in on certain towns regularly, to visit old friends - vesemir, yennefer... i never interact with them terribly much, but i have seen the fondness in geralt’s eyes when he returns from his much-needed retreats.

one thing for which i can vouch is that the wolf of the seas has never turned on one of his own. he treats each and every one of us well, and truly, we want for nothing. i, for what it’s worth, have a warm bed and a warmer body to enjoy each and every night, in exchange for little more than song.

i live what is far from a conventional life, to be sure, but i wouldn’t trade it for all the riches and status in the world.

well, the moon rises high, and geralt is calling me to bed. i must set my quill aside for the time being, but rest assured, my tales are far from complete.

until the morrow,

jaskier

—

you have no clue how nervous I am right now - I really, really hope you like this!

to the rest of you, don’t worry, merman!au is nearly done!

@xdandelionxbloomx

#geraskier #gerlion #geralt x jaskier #geralt x dandelion #wolf of the seas au #pirate au #my fics

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madamspeaker · 4 years

Text

It’s not a “gate” - The hair/salon thing

I’ve addressed the salon thing in a couple of asks, but I wanted to take a moment to just go through the whole thing separate of those because what this saga has highlighted is a complete failure of journalists to do their work, and the undercurrent of misogyny that perpetuates both journalistic discourse, and how women must present themselves, especially if a public figure.

(This is long, so to spare your dashboards it’s under a cut)

Let’s start with the facts. Nancy’s usual stylist wasn’t available for Monday, so she/he recommended someone else. Nancy’s office contacted him last weekend (Nancy only returned to SF some time on Friday), and asked if it was possible to do her hair. The thing to note at this moment is that the rules governing salons in California started to change from last Friday. The governor had announced limited indoor openings, but to confuse matters some localities were still imposing tighter restrictions. Nancy’s office checked with the stylist, who told them that the rules permitted one person in at a time. He then asked the salon owner who he rented a chair from if he could go into the premises and do the appointment on Monday. The owner agreed to his request on the Saturday. Fast forward to Monday afternoon - Nancy gets her hair done before doing a television interview on MSNBC, and then on Tuesday the owner cries “outrage!!!” to Fox News, bringing along with her a seconds long bit of footage that shows Nancy with her mask around her neck. Naturally the whole thing explodes on Twitter and then across other media (several versions of the story made the top ten shared links on Facebook).

What followed was a failure of journalism to ask follow up questions about the clearly odd parts of the salon owner’s account as relayed by Fox News (a red flag in of itself). In her interview with Fox she admitted she had known about the appointment in advance, but no one thought to ask why she let the appointment go ahead if it so offended and outraged her - she did own the place afterall, it’s not like Nancy had keys or barged in. Likewise, no one thought to ask where the rest of the salon footage was. Why only release seconds worth which rather conveniently showed Nancy with her mask down, and partially hidden under her chin? Could it be that she had worn the mask the rest of the time. No one in the media thought to ask this. It seemed fairly clear to most sensible people on Tuesday night that something with off with the salon owner’s tale of outrage, but the media pretty much took the Fox News version of events at verbatim. Only USA Today raised the points I just did, but alas, they buried them in their write up.

Wednesday saw Nancy fight back, acknowledging that she took responsibilty for trusting the salon (when perhaps she should have had someone else verify what they had been told), but ask yourselves this, would you have verified it elsewhere? She had been to this salon before with a stylist, they were local, she trusted them, and in a situation in which the law was changing, it makes perfect and reasonable sense to ask the professionals in that industry what their status is. On this point there have been plenty of indignant people and bots on Twitter up in arms that Nancy didn’t apparently know the regulations in SF, but a) she didn’t make those regulations (as some seem to think), b) she spends just as much if not more time in D.C., and c) she has about 100 other things on her plate in any given hour, that salon regulations in SF are probably somewhere near 120 on her list after deal with Covid-19, Trump, win the election, save the USPS, try to get a stimulus bill, deal with the federal budget which will need a CR to prevent a shutdown (minutes after I hit publish on this it was announced she had reached a deal with Mnuchin to avoid a shutdown), restore in-person inteligence briefings, file an appeal in the McGahn case (again), Bill sodding Barr,, Russian bounties on US soldiers and so on. She has an insanely stressful job at the moment, her staff too, and it seems more than reasonable for staff/her to ask a professional in the industry about the regulations on salons, when such regulations were pretty confusing to most people last weekend anyway. Nancy’s only apparent “crime” in this instance was to trust the word of the industry pro.

Then of course we have the “she’s not wearing a mask” portion of this debacle. Not one journalist has asked where the rest of the footage is. We see Nancy walk from the bowl to another room, wet hair, phone in hand, and the mask around her neck (slightly hidden by her chin), but we never got the footage of her walking to the bowl, or any other footage from what was definitely more than a 4 second long appointment. Could it possibly be that she had indeed been wearing a mask the rest of the time - that she wasn’t just wearing it around her neck as some sort of foulard meets choker fashion statement. People have asked, “Why did she pull it down?”, and to that I will say, probably any one of three or four reasons. She uses a clip at the back of her neck to secure her masks rather than the ear loops. Maybe it was in the way and the stylist asked her to pull it down. Maybe she had trouble breathing with her face covered and head back. Maybe she didn’t want to get it wet. The point here is that it was around her neck, suggesting that she had been compliant until that fateful video captured moment. The media again though have run with the Fox News narrative that she had no mask. For one, it’s actually visible in the footage, and two, they are blatantly disregarding what they themselves know to be true - that Nancy has been wearing a mask for the last five months. We have the footage and photographs to prove it, not to mention the press also know that she takes down her mask to talk at her pressers etc. The press are playing stupid on this point to satisfy some both sides need in an election that so far has Joe Biden with a good lead. Their wilful obtusity is purely to inject some drama into things on the Dem side for clicks because nothing at present is sticking to Biden. All this leads to me to the misogyny.

I caught part of a radio interview yesterday in which two male hosts had to have it explained to them as to why a woman in the public eye might need a hair stylist more than once a week. One of the men had been perplexed as to why if Nancy needed her hair done she hadn’t just got it taken care of in D.C. were salons are open. It never entered his brain that no amount of hair spray is going to keep a hairstyle in place for at least 3 days (when Nancy was last in D.C.), or that she might need to lie down to sleep, or that hair does actually need washed. Likewise, it never occured to either of them that Nancy turning up to an television interview with anything other than styled hair would be a news story in itself, because here’s the rub, women are damned for makeup and hairstyling and thought vain and shallow, and they’re damned if they don’t put makeup on and get their hair done, especially for television (we all remember the “omg” reactions when Hillary turned up to an event days after the election in 2016 with a bare face). The last couple of days have been full of this crap, with men (looking at you Don Lemon and the SF Chronicle editorial board) especially saying Nancy should apologise for the salon episode. Why should she? She did what any reasonable person would do and asked about the rules. Her error was to take the salon at their word, but by today’s logic the salon’s lie is Nancy’s fault. I have seen more than one man on Twitter admit the facts of the case and still say “she should take the hit”. Would they say this of a man who had been lied to, framed, and the footage sold to a hostile media company? I think not.

And then of course there is the salon owner herself. The stylist released a statement last night backing Nancy’s side of events up. He also revealed that the owner, so “outraged” by Nancy’s appointment, had in fact been opening up illegally since April, had been forgoing masks, and been forcing stylists to work. What also emerged is that the owner had let her licence lapse on the premises back in May (so Nancy had not ended her business as she claimed), and was in the middle of relocating to Fresno -- something the press have gilbly ignored as they report how she has been hounded out of town because of Nancy, and forced to move. Let me say this, not even the IRA at the peak of The Troubles could get people to move that quick, and they had guns. And then there’s the gofundme - which popped up less than 24hrs after she handed the tape to Fox. Naturally the blurb is a sorry tale of woe, of a supposedly single mother forced to move because of the evil Speaker of the House. No mention that she owns three salons, that she’d let the licence lapse on one anyway, is opening one in Fresno, loves her guns (and those ain’t cheap) and took a PPP loan of $12,000 wihilst operating illegally. By the way, at the time of writing this, the gofundme has raised over $80k for her -- which shows you how Trumpers will buy into any bullshit, and how Nancy is a fundraising powerhouse regardless of your party affliation lol.

I appreciate this has been a rather long read, and if you made it this far, thanks! Nancy didn’t do anything wrong other than take the word of a salon in good faith. Should she have known the regulations herself? Maybe, but she has the kind of crazy and stressful life most of us can’t even begin to imagine, and unlike the Presidency, the Office of Speaker doesn’t come with personal maid services thrown in, or a whole West Wing of staff. End of the day, once out of that office, Nancy has to do all that normal life stuff that the rest of us do - shop, go to the post office, buy clothes etc., and now in the Covid era get ready for tv interviews herself rather than a studio stylist do it. Her mistake was to trust someone who has it turns out saw a chance to have a moment of fame, stick one to the woman she ignorantly blamed for the lockdown, and make some money from gullible Trumpers. I don’t know how this story will play out in the coming days. Ice cream lasted a week, spurred on by the far-left and then the far-right. This may have more staying power as Trump desperately seeks some kind of mud to stick to Dems, and with nothing sticking to Biden at present, his 2016 playbook (and the even older GOP one) of blame a woman (in this case Nancy) has been deployed. The problem of course is that Trump isn’t running against Nancy -- but as the press have so depressingly showed, that fact hasn’t stopped them from elevating one trip to a salon above 180k+ dead, Melania using a prvate email server (!!!, I mean come the fuck onnnnnnn, this after 2016!!!?!?!?), or Trump telling people to committ a felony and vote twice.

#nancy pelosi #madam speaker #long reads

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thranduilland · 4 years

Text

I’ve tripped back into the Barduil fandom, so...

(Whoops, I did a thing.)

Bard isn’t human, least not fully. He’s not fully anything. He’s not mortal either. There had been a time, in his youth, where his parents thought that perhaps he would be mortal in the way that his mother and grandfather weren’t, but he reached his majority and didn’t grow a single day older and they knew.

When his beard had started to grow in, he’d been surprised, had assumed that he wouldn’t grow one, like his grandfather. But he’d been pleased when it had grown, without it he looked too young, too other-worldly and he didn’t want that. Especially not after learning the reason for the Master’s hatred of him. He does wish his mother could have let Grandfather murder the idiot, but alas, that was too much to ask for.

He’s twenty when his father dies, illness had caught him in the winter and he never recovered. He watched his mother wither away in the months that followed and begged her to stay, but he already knew that she would be leaving him. At twenty, he loses his mother and father and begins working as the bargeman for the Woodland Realm.

At twenty-five he meets Florrie; he knows within moments of meeting her that she is like him. Stuck halfway between belonging anywhere and, therefore, belonging nowhere. They spend the majority of their courting days chasing each other through the trees at the edge of the wood at night, giggling like little children and pretending that they are elves of the wood and the moon and the stars. All the while, they know that when morning comes, they’ll be forced to return to their lives among mortal men, where they do not fit in. They know already that they do not fit in under the trees, either, but it’s fun to pretend.

His grandmother dies suddenly when he is thirty-three and he already knows without his grandfather needing to say a word, that he will lose him, too. The morning after his grandfather passes, he clutches Florrie close to him and they promise each other that they will not fade, no matter what happens, because one of them must always be there for the life that grows in Florrie’s womb even then.

His wife dies when he is forty-one, sickness and age could not claim her, but the birthing bed did. She leaves him three beautiful children and he promises that he will raise his children right, that he will love them always and ensure they know their mother and where she came from.

He is fifty when a dragon burns his town to ashes. Fifty when he does what countless others have failed to do. Fifty when he slays a dragon and becomes a king.

He is seventy-five when he has to sit his lover down and point out the fact that they’ve known each other for fifty-five years and he hasn’t aged a day. This is when he realizes that time truly means nothing for his grandfather’s people.

Ever since Bard abdicated his throne to Bain, citing old age, and disappeared into the Woodland Realm to be with his lover, he notices the way his lover has changed. Where once his lover made as much time as possible to be with him, now he pulls away, avoids him, and does what he can to be elsewhere, which is made easier by the fact they’re still sneaking about like they did in those early days. For all the affection they used to show in public, their relationship is one that has never been out in the open and now it seems to be slipping away. If Bard didn’t know better, he’d assume he’s made a mistake, that what he thought was love between them was only affection, but knows he isn’t wrong.

He has more patience than most, but even his patience is not infinite.

“Why are you avoiding me?” his voice comes out harsher than he intends, but he cannot ignore this situation any longer. If he had wanted to engage in a charade, he would have stayed in Dale. His lover is silent, looking at him from across the room, his lover’s eyes flickering to the doorway that Bard is now blocking. “Thranduil, answer the question.”

“I’m not avoiding you.” Thranduil finally answers, sighing and crossing the room to pour himself a glass of wine, as ever.

“I haven’t seen you in a week.” Bard points out, crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes tracking Thranduil’s every movement.

“I have responsibilities and-“

“Don’t.” Bard says, cutting him off and shaking his head. “Don’t lie to me. I’ll accept whatever you have to say, as long as it’s the truth. You’ve never purposely lied to me before, don’t start now.” Thranduil is silent and still, a goblet of wine clutched tight in his hand as he looks down into the liquid depths. “If you don’t love me anymore, just say it and I will leave, you’ll never have to see me again.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Thranduil says, the words leaving him in a rush.

“What?”

“That you’ll leave and I’ll never see you again.” The elf answers, slowly putting the glass of wine down and looking across to Bard, his eyes shining with tears Bard has never seen him shed. “I thought I knew what I was doing when I let myself love you, Bard. But you’re mortal and I’m not and I can’t-“ Thranduil chokes on his words, swallowing thickly and looking away. Bard stares at him in stunned disbelief, before he let’s out an amused laugh, that he just can’t hold in.

“I’m not mortal, I never have been.” Bard says, watching as Thranduil’s eyes snap back to him.

“What?”

��My mother was half-elven, so was my grandfather.” Bard answers, cocking his head to the side and frowning at his lover. “I thought you would have figured it out by now, love.”

“How?” Thranduil exclaims, even as something like hope lights in his eyes.

“Love. We’ve known each other for fifty-five years! Do I look any older than I did the day we met? When you decided you just had to meet your new bargeman and decide his worth for yourself?” Bard demands, looking intently at Thranduil’s face, watching the confusion and disbelief that forms there.

“It can’t have been that long, surely.” Thranduil denies, but Bard can see him doing the maths in his head.

“Love, it’s been fifty-five years, trust me.” Bard promises, sees the moment Thranduil has counted the years in his head and realized the truth.

“I’m so stupid.” Thranduil whispers, burying his head in his hands and groaning. “I’ve been breaking both our hearts for nothing.”

“Yes.” Bard answers, laughing softly and shaking his head. “Honestly, Thran, I thought you’d figured it out!”

“Who?” Thranduil asks, looking at him suddenly, Bard just frowns and shakes his head in confusion. “Your elven ancestor?”

“Oh. Well that’s kind of hard to say, most of them were half-elves.” Bard explains, then he hums. “I guess Lindis but… look, I’ll just draw the family tree.” He mutters, crossing to the writing desk and sinking down into the chair, pulling blank parchment from the drawer, and starting to write. From a young age, his grandfather had ensured he could recite his family tree without prompting or hesitation.

“You are born of noble blood, Bard. No matter where life takes you, you must never forget the blood that runs through your veins is the blood of kings.”

His grandfather had just laughed and ruffled his hair when Bard had pointed out that Girion had only been Lord of Dale, not a King.

He starts the tree from the bottom, the way he had learned it in the first place. So lost in his writing is he, that he doesn’t notice when Thranduil appears at his shoulder, he doesn’t notice when Thranduil grips the back of the chair to steady himself, and he doesn’t notice the hard look that has formed on Thranduil’s face.

He draws the link between his great, great, great grandfather and great, great, great, great grandfather, marking them as brothers and the family is complete. He carefully puts the quill in its stand and blows across the parchment, drying the ink.

“There we are. The family tree of one King Bard of Dale.” He announces, leaning back and looking up at Thranduil, he frowns when he sees the far away look in Thranduil’s eyes, notes the way his lover’s hands are gripped so tightly to the back of the chair, his skin has gone white. “Love?”

“It always comes back to Doriath.” Thranduil whispers, his voice shaking as tears slip from his eyes.

“Thranduil?” Bard asks, nervously biting his lip. Thranduil gives a quiet little laugh and leans down to pick up the quill, dipping it in the ink pot and beginning to amend the family tree.

Bard watches in surprise at the names Thranduil adds, they’re not new on the family tree, they’re just alternate names. Names that Bard knows, names that everyone knows, if they know anything of Doriath, as Bard’s grandfather and great-uncle taught him.

“That’s not possible.” Bard whispers, but he remembers his grandfather’s words, remembers the argument his grandfather and his great-uncle had when they all learned he wasn’t mortal.

“He will not be recognized! They will not accept him!” Uncle Elurin grumbles, glaring at Bard from across the room, Bard doesn’t know what he’s done to upset his great-uncle, who has always enjoyed telling him stories and teaching him of his grandfather’s culture. “He is too different.”

“He is the heir.” Grandfather answers, his voice brooking no argument. “If the day comes that he must step into his own, he will claim his birth right and they will accept him. They have no right to do otherwise!” his grandfather snaps, then the brother’s devolve into a heated argument at a volume so quiet not even Bard can hear what they are saying. So, instead of trying to hear more, he turns away and gets ready to start his shift.

He’d assumed they were arguing over Dale, though why they thought he’d want to claim a ruin had been beyond him at the time. Now, he understands and he doesn’t want to.

When he looks up at his lover, he finds Thranduil watching his face intently, searching for something, his lover doesn’t speak, just keeps looking at him. Bard sighs and looks away.

“My grandfather always told me I was born of kings, that I was born to be a king.” He admits, rubbing his eyes, feeling suddenly like crying. “I always just assumed they were talking about Dale. He was talking about Doriath.”

“No.” Thranduil answers, sucking in a breath and letting it out slowly. “No, he wasn’t, Bard. Elu Thingol wasn’t just the King of Doriath. He was considered to be the King of All Sindar.”

“Fuck, no.” Bard exclaims, shaking his head. “No, no, nope, no. Dale is… was more than enough for me!” there’s a moment, of silence before Bard remembers what his great-uncle had said and he laughs, the sound quickly turning to sobs. “Fuck, that’s what Uncle Elurin was talking about.” He says, through hitched breaths.

“Bard.” He looks to Thranduil, even though his chest aches and he can’t seem to bring enough air into his lungs. “Bard, listen to me. There is no need for you to do anything, now or in the future regarding this. Alright?” Thranduil says, his voice pitched low and so soothing it seems to reach right into Bard’s mind and quiet all his fears. “No one is going to expect anything from you unless you want to give it, I promise. If the day comes, where we need another High King, there are others who it could be.”

“I know.” Bard says, sucking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly as he gets control of himself. “Like… like Elrond… and my cousins.” He whispers, rubbing the tears from his eyes.

“Cousins?” Thranduil asks, looking back at the family tree. Bard sniffs and reaches for the quill, to add them in. Three cousins that he has never met but has heard stories of from his uncle.

“Oh. Hmm, that’s quite interesting.” Thranduil mutters, reading the names with a little laugh. “I wonder if they know.”

“I don’t … I don’t think so.” Bard answers, resting the quill back in its stand.

“You ready for another surprise?” Thranduil asks, an amused glint in his eyes, Bard breathes deeply and scowls at him.

“Do I have a choice?”

“No. But it’s a good surprise, I think.” Thranduil answers, leaning over to pick up the quill, but he hesitates before putting quill to parchment. “This… changes nothing between us. I love you.”

“I still love you, too.” Bard replies, brow furrowing as he watches as Thranduil starts writing.

His breath catches in his throat and slowly he lifts his eyes from the parchment to stare at his lover, who also, apparently, is a cousin. “Did you elves ever figure out that inbreeding is really bad?”

“Don’t judge us! The First and Second ages were wild times. There was a lot happening.” Thranduil argues, though there is laughter in his voice. “But if you must know, yes, we did figure that out, thank you.”

“Clearly not, if we’re an indication.” Bard replies, looking down at the family tree once more. “Do you want another surprise?” Bard asks, smirking at Thranduil who groans.

“What now? Isn’t this enough of a revelation for a single evening? For both of us?”

“Hmm.” Is Bard’s only reply as he reaches for the quill, a laugh bubbling in his throat.

“It’s always bloody Doriath!” Thranduil grumbles, Bard just laughs and then sighs.

“So, Daeron is from Doriath, too?”

“Yes! He was Thingol’s bloody scribe! We thought him long dead! But we thought the same of Elured and Elurin as well.” Thranduil rubs at his eyes and groans. “You don’t have to claim anything, there’s nothing really to claim at this point, but… we should tell people. I’m sure Celeborn would be happy to learn he has more relatives still living, and Elrond, at least, would probably like to know that he has cousins. Valar, he probably would like to know that he has a living uncle.”

“I don’t know if he is still living.” Bard points out, frowning at the tree. “I haven’t seen him since my grandfather passed, long before Smaug came.”

“Well, either way, I think this is something that should be shared, Bard. Finally learning what happened to Elurin and Elured is… incredible.” Here Thranduil pauses and looks at Bard who stares back and simply raises an eyebrow. “I’ve been wanting to ask since I found you after the Battle of Five Armies, but you were mortal and I...” Thranduil pauses, shaking his head as he breathes in deep and lets it out slowly. “Will you marry me?”

“I’m pretty sure we’re already married in the elvish custom, but… if it’ll make you stop hiding me in the shadows, yes, I’ll marry you.” Bard agrees, sees the smile that lights up Thranduil’s face, only to dim a few moments later, Bard frowns.

“I didn’t… I never meant for you to feel like something I was hiding or that I was ashamed of, I just… I didn’t think I’d be able to keep you so, I wanted everything that we had to be just… ours and no one else’s.” Thranduil admits, sighing. “I was foolish.”

“It’s alright. We both… we made assumptions and those assumptions were wrong. We’ll do better in future.”

“Yes, we will.” Thranduil agrees, gently pulling Bard up from the chair. “Let’s go to bed, tomorrow we can scandalize my kingdom with the news of our affair.”

“Technically, we’re already married.”

“Yes, but also technically, we are each still married to our wives, so we’re having an affair...” Thranduil points out, Bard laughs, a full belly laugh, leaning into Thranduil for support, unable to stop laughing as he lets Thranduil all but drag him to bed.

Bard is seventy-five when he learns he is the heir of Elu Thingol.

It changes nothing, but it also changes everything, as is the way of such secrets when they come to light.

He was always the heir of Elu Thingol, even if he never knew it.

He was always the heir of Girion, even if he never wanted it.

He was born of kings and a King he became, just as his Grandfather foretold.

#the family tree took forever #and I made several spelling mistakes that I refused to fix #because ugh #Barduil #Thranduil #Bard #Lord of the Rings #the Hobbit #is this fandom dead yet?#I did a thing #fic writing #Elured #Elurin #Tumblr keeps making the family tree all blurry #why tumblr #why

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flightfoot · 5 years

Text

Useful Tyrant’s Tombs quotes

So I know I’m gonna be writing analyses on this book in the future, so I decided to go ahead and pull potentially useful quotations now so I don’t have to hunt for them and type them up later. I figure others might get some good use out of them too though, so I wanted to share them! (I’ll admit though, some of the quotations aren’t ones I think I might use, a few I just put because I really like them)

This song really wasn’t about me at all. (I know. I could hardly believe it, either.) It was “The Fall of Jason Grace”. In the last verses, I sang of Jason’s dream for Temple Hill, his plan to add shrines until ever god and goddess, no matter how obscure, was properly honored. (46)

I realized they weren’t just grieving for Jason. The song had unleashed their collective sorrow about the recent battle, their losses, which - given the sparseness of the crowd - must have been extreme. Jason’s song became their song. By honoring him, we honored all the fallen. (47)

I shuddered. “A caffeinated Meg. Just what I need. How long have I been out?”

“Day and a half.”

“What?!”

“You needed sleep. Also, you’re less annoying unconscious.” (55)

Her expression closed up like a hurricane shutter. “Nightmares. I woke up screaming a couple of times. You slept through it, but...” She picked a clod of dirt off her trowel. “This place reminds me of... you know”

I regretted I hadn’t thought about that sooner. After Meg’s experience growing up in Nero’s Imperial Household, surrounded by Latin-speaking servants and guards in Roman armor, purple banners, all the regalia of the old empire - of course Camp Jupiter must have triggered unwelcome memories. (56)

“Meg and I have been talking, the last day or so, while you were passed out - I mean, recovering - sleeping, you know. It’s fine. You needed sleep. Hope you feel better.”

Despite how terrible I felt, I couldn’t help but smile. “You’ve been very kind to us, Praetor Zhang. Thank you.” (58)

Frank must have read my pained expression.

“It would’ve been much worse if it hadn’t been for you,” he said, which only made me feel guiltier. “If you hadn’t sent Leo here to warn us. One day, out of nowhere, he just flew right in.”

“That must have been quite a shock,” I said. “Since you thought Leo was dead.”

Frank’s dark eyes glittered like they still belonged to a raven. “Yeah. We were so mad at him for making us worry, we lined up and took turns hitting him.”

“We did that at Camp Half-Blood too,” I said. “Greek minds think alike.” (63)

Frank took my arm gently. “One foot in front of the other. That’s the only way to do it.”

I had come here to support the Romans. Instead this Roman was supporting me. (71)

Millennia ago, I’d killed four of my father’s favorites because they had made the lightning bolt that killed my son Asclepius. (And because I couldn’t kill the actual murderer who was, ahem, Zeus). (73)

I had never been a fan of felines. They were self-centered, smug, and thought they owned the world. In other words... All right, I’ll say it. I didn’t like the competition. (76)

No. Of course. The legion had no high priest, no pontifex maximus. Their former auger, my descendant Octavian, had died in the battle against Gaia. (Which I had a hard time feeling sad about, but that’s another story.) Jason would’ve been the logical next choice to officiate, but he was our guest of honor. That meant that I, as a former god, was the ranking spiritual authority. I would be expected to lead the funeral rites. (87)

The golden eagle of the Twelfth loomed over my shoulder, charging the air with ozone. I imagined Jupiter speaking through its crackle and hum, like a voice over shortwave radio: YOUR FAULT. YOUR PUNISHMENT.

Back in January, when I’d fallen to earth, those words had seemed horribly unfair. Now, as I led Jason Grace to his final resting place, I believed them. So much of what had happened was my fault. So much of it could never be made right.

I meant to keep that promise, if I survived long enough. But in the meantime, there were more pressing ways I needed to honor Jason: by protecting Camp Jupiter, defeating the Triumvirate, and, according to Ella, descending into the tomb of an undead king. (88)

I began to speak, the Latin ritual verses pouring out of me. I chanted from instinct, barely aware of the words’ meanings. I had already praised Jason with my song. That had been deeply personal. This was just a necessary formality.

In some corner of my mind, I wondered if this was how mortal felt when they used to pray to me. Perhaps their devotions had been noting but muscle memory, reciting by rote while their minds drifted elsewhere, uninterested in my glory. I found the idea strangely... understandable. Now that I was mortal, why should I not practice nonviolent resistance against the gods, too? (91-92)

In the center, behind a marble altar, rose a massive golden statue of Dad himself: Jupiter Optimus Maximus, draped in a purple silk toga big enough to be a ship’s sail. He looked stern, wise, and paternal, though he was only one of those in real life.

Seeing him tower above me, lightning bolt raised, I had to fight the urge to cower and plead. I knew it was only a statue, but if you’ve ever been traumatized by someone, you’ll understand. It doesn’t take much to trigger those old fears: a look, a sound, a familiar situation. Or a fifty-foot-tall golden statue of your abuser - that does the trick. (94-95)

“My time,” I said. “For what, exactly?”

She nipped the air in annoyance. To be Apollo. The pack needs you.

I wanted to scream I’ve been trying to be Apollo. It’s not that easy! (95)

I stared up at Large Golden Dad.

Zeus had thrown me into the middle of all this trouble. He’d stripped me of my power, then kicked me to the Earth to free the Oracles, defeat the Emperors, and - Oh wait! I got a bonus undead king and a silent god, too! I hoped the soot from the funeral pyre was really annoying Jupiter. I wanted to climb up his legs and finger-write across his chest WASH ME! (98)

Lupa’s message seemed too good to be true. I could contact my fellow Olympians, despite Zeus’s standing orders that they shun me while I was human. I might even be able to invoke their aid to save Camp Jupiter. (98)

I studied the old prophecies set in the floor mosaic. I had lost friends to the Triumvirate. I had suffered. But I realized that Lupa suffered, too. Her Roman children had been decimated. She carried the pain of all their deaths. Yet she had to act strong, even as her pack faced possible extinction.

You couldn’t lie in Wolf. But you could bluff. Sometimes you had to bluff to keep a grieving pack together. What do mortals say? Fake it till you make it? That is a very wolfish philosophy. (99)

Seeing her again, my heart twisted. She had once been a lovely young woman - bright, strong-willed, passionate about her prophetic work. She had wanted to change the world. Then things between us soured... and I had changed her instead.

Her appearance was only the beginning of the curse I had set on her. It would get much, much worse as the centuries progressed. How had I put this out of my mind? How could I have been so cruel? The guilt for what I’d done burned worse than any ghoul scratch. (105)

“Put on your sheet.” Meg threw a toga in my face, which was not the nicest way to be woken up.

I blinked, still groggy, to the smell of smoke, moldy straw, and sweaty Romans lingering in my nostrils. “A toga? But I’m not a senator.”

“You’re honorary, because you used to be a god or whatever.” Meg pouted. “I don’t get to wear a sheet.” (108)

I got dressed, trying to remember how to fold a toga, and mulled over the things I’d learned from my dream. Number one: I was a terrible person who ruined lives. Number two: There was not a single bad thing I’d done in the last four thousand years that was not going to come back and bite me in the clunis, and I was beginning to think I deserved it.

The Cumaen Sibyl. Oh Apollo, what had you been thinking?

Alas, I knew what I’d been thinking - that she was a pretty young woman I wanted to get with, despite the fact that she was my Sibyl. Then she’d outsmarted me, and being the bad loser that I was, I had cursed her.

No wonder I was now paying the price: tracking down the evil Roman king to whom she’d once sold her Sibylline Books. If Tarquin was still clinging to some horrible undead existence, could the Cumaean Sibyl be alive as well? I shuddered to think what she might be like after all these centuries, and how much her hatred for me would have grown. (109)

No one laughed or called me crazy. Gods didn’t intervene in demigod affairs often, but it did happen on rare occasions. The idea wasn’t completely unbelievable. On the other hand, no one looked terribly assured that I could pull it off.

A different senator raised his hand. “Uh, Senator Larry here, Third Cohort, Son of Mercury. So when you say help, do you mean like... battalions of gods charging down in their chariots, or more like the gods just giving their blessing, like, Hey, good luck with that, legion!?”

My old defensiveness kicked in. I wanted to argue that we gods would never leave our desperate followers hanging on like that. But, of course, we did. All the time. (119)

Frank looked crestfallen, which made me feel bad. I hadn’t meant to take out my frustrations on one of the few people who still called me Apollo unironically. (121)

I had loved everything about her - the way her hair had caught the sunlight, the mischievous gleam in her eyes, the easy way she smiled. She didn’t seem to care that I was a god, despite having given up everything to be my Oracle: her family, her future, even her name. Once she pledged to me, she was known simply as the Sibyl, the voice of Apollo.

But that wasn’t enough for me. I was smitten. I convinced myself it was love - the one true romance that would wash away all my past missteps. I wanted the Sibyl to be my partner throughout eternity. As the afternoon went on, I coaxed and pleaded.

“You could be so much more than my priestess,” I urged her. “Marry me!”

She laughed. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am! Ask for anything in return, and it’s yours.”

She twisted a strand of her auburn locks. “All I’ve ever wanted is to be the Sibyl, to guide the people of this land to a better future. You’ve already given me that. So, ha-ha, joke’s on you.”

“But - but you’ve only got one lifetime!” I said. “If you were immortal, you could guide humans to a better future forever, at my side!”

She looked at me askance. “Apollo, please. You’d be tired of me by the end of the week.”

“Never!”

“So, you’re saying” - she scooped up two heaping handfuls of sand - “if I wished for as many years of life as there are grains of this sand, you would grant me that.”

“It is done!” I pronounced. Instantly, I felt a portion of my own power flowing into her life force. “And now, my love-”

“Whoa, whoa!” She scattered the sand, clambering to her feet and backing away as if I were suddenly radioactive. “That was a hypothetical, lover boy! I didn’t agree- “

“What’s done is done!” I rose. “A wish cannot be taken back. Now you must honor your side of the bargain.”

Her eyes danced with panic. “I-I can’t. I won’t!”

I laughed, thinking she was merely nervous. I spread my arms. “Don’t be afraid.”

“Of course I’m afraid!” She backed away farther. “Nothing good ever happens to your lovers! I just wanted to be your Sibyl, and now you’ve made things weird!”

My smile crumbled. I felt my ardor cooling, turning stormy. “Don’t anger me, Sibyl. I am offering you the universe. I’ve given you near-immortal life. You cannot refuse payment.”

“Payment?” She balled her hands into fists. “You dare think of me as a transaction?”

I frowned. This afternoon really wasn’t going the way I’d planned. “I didn’t mean- Obviously, I wasn’t-”

“Well, Lord Apollo,” she growled, “if this is a transaction, then I defer payment until your side of the bargain is complete. You said it yourself: near-immortal life. I’ll live until the grains of sand run out, yes? Come back to me at the end of that time. Then, if you still want me, I’m yours.”

I dropped my arms. Suddenly, all the things I’d loved about the Sibyl became things I hated: her headstrong attitude, her lack of awe, her infuriating, unattainable beauty. Especially her beauty.

“Very well.” My voice turned colder than any sun god’s should be. “You want to argue over the fine print of our contract? I promised you life, not youth. You can have your centuries of existence. You will remain my Sibyl.I cannot take those things away, once given. But you will grow old. You will wither. You will not be able to die.”

“I would prefer that!” Her words were defiant, but her voice trembled with fear.

“Fine!” I snapped.

“Fine!” she yelled back.

I vanished in a column of flame, having succeeded in making things very weird indeed.

Over the centuries, the Sibyl had withered, just as I’d threatened. Her physical form lasted longer than any ordinary mortal’s, but the pain I had caused her, the lingering agony... Even if I’d had regrets about my hasty curse, I couldn’t have taken it back any more than she could take back her wish. Finally, around the end of the Roman Empire, I’d heard rumors that the Sibyl’s body had crumbled away entirely, yet she still could not die. Her attendants kept her life force, the faintest whisper of her voice, in a glass jar.

I assumed that her jar had been lost sometime after that. That the Sibyl’s grains of sand had finally run out. But what if I was wrong? If she were still alive, I doubted she was using her faint whisper of a voice to be a pro-Apollo social media influencer.

I deserved her hatred. I saw that now.

Oh, Jason Grace... I promised you I would remember what it was to be human. But why did human shame have to hurt so much? Why wasn’t there an off button? (131-134)

I had ruined every one of my relationships, brought nothing but destruction and misery to the young men and women I’d loved. (135)

“I appreciate a good boon as much as the next person. But if I’m going to contribute to this quest and not just cower in the corner, I need to know how” - my voice cracked “how to be me again.”

The vibration of the arrow felt almost like a cat purring, trying to sooth an ill human. ART THOU SURE THAT IS THY WISH?

“What do you mean?” I demanded. “That’s the whole point! Everything I’m doing is so-” (138)

I was tired of others keeping me safe. The whole point of consulting the arrow had been to figure out how I could get back to the business of keeping others safe. That used to be so easy with my godlike powers.

Was it, though? another part of my brain asked. Did you keep the Sibyl safe? Or Hyacinthus and Daphne? Or your own son Asclepius? Should I go on?

Shut up, me, I thought back. (140-141)

He laughed. “Just take care of yourself, okay? I don’t think I could handle a world with no Apollo in it.”

His tone was so genuine it made me tear up. I’d started to accept that no one wanted Apollo back - not my fellow gods, not the demigods, perhaps not even my talking arrow. Yet Frank Zhang still believed in me.

Before I could do anything embarrassing - like hug him, or cry, or start believing I was a worthwhile individual - I spotted my three quest partners trudging toward us. (142)

As we passed a silver lake nestled between the hills, I couldn’t help thinking i as just the sort of place my sister would love. Oh, how I wished she would appear with her Hunters!

Despite our differences, Artemis understood me. Well, okay, she tolerated me. I longed to see her beautiful, annoying face again. That’s how lonely and pathetic I had become. (146-147)

What sort of parents would let their children ride such nightmarish creatures? Maybe Zeus, I thought. (150)

I now understood the lines from the Burning Maze: I would face death in Tarquin’s tomb, or a fate worse than death. But I would not allow my friends to perish too. (166)

Then I wondered if Lavinia simply felt more at home in the wild than she did at camp. She and my sister would get along fine (169)

Also, the way she was looking at me, I got the feeling that her grumpy facade might collapse into tears faster than Tarquin’s ceiling had crumbled. (169)

I saw and heard nothing, but I took Hazel’s word for it. “Go. You’ll move faster without me.”

“Not happening,” Meg said. (170)

Home. Such a wonderful word.

I had no idea what it meant, but it sounded nice.

[...]

I dreamed of homes. Had I ever really had one?

Delos was my birthplace, but only because my pregnant mother, Leto, took refuge there to escape Hera’s wrath. The island served as an emergency sanctuary for my sister and me, too, but it never felt like home anymore than the backseat of a taxi would fell like home to a child born on the way to a hospital.

Mount Olympus? I had a palace there. I visited for the holidays. But it always felt more like the place my dad lived with my stepmom.

The Palace of the Sun? That was Helios’s old crib. I’d just redecorated.

Even Delphi, home of my greatest Oracles, had originally been the lair of Python. Try as you might, you can never get the smell of old snakeskin out of a volcanic cavern.

Sad to say, in my four-thousand-plus years, the times I’d felt most at home had all happened during the past few months: at Camp Half-Blood, sharing a cabin with my demigod children; at the Waystation with Emma, Jo, Georgina, Leo, and Calypso, all of us sitting around the dinner table chopping vegetables from the garden for dinner; at the Cistern in Palm Springs with Meg, Grover, Mellie, Coach Hedge, and a prickly assortment of cactus dryads; and now at Camp Jupiter, where the anxious, grief-stricken Romans, despite their many problems, despite the fact that I brought misery and disaster wherever I went, had welcomed me with respect, a room above their coffee shop, and some lovely bed linens to wear.

These places were homes. Whether I deserved to be a part of them or not - that was a different question. (171-172)

Meg huffed, “It’s still light outside. You slept all day.”

“Not turning into a zombie is hard work.”

“I know!” she snapped. “I’m sorry!”

[...]

Just a few minutes ago, Meg had been happily insulting me and gorging on jelly beans. Now... was she crying?

“Meg.” I sat up, trying not to wince. “Meg, you’re not responsible for me getting hurt.

She twisted the ring on her right hand, then the one on her left, as if they’d become too small for her fingers. “I just thought... if I could kill him...” She wiped her nose. “Like in some stories. You kill the master, and you can free the people he’s turned.”

It took a moment for her words to sink in. I was pretty sure the dynamic she was describing applied to vampires, not zombies, but I understood what she meant.

“You’re talking about Tarquin,” I said. “You jumped into the throne room because... you wanted to save me?”

“Duh,” she muttered, without any heat.

I put my hand over my bandaged abdomen. I’d been so angry with Meg for her recklessness in the tomb. I’d assumed she was just being impulsive, reacting to Tarquin’s plans to let the Bay Area burn. But she’d leaped into battle for me - with the hope that she could kill Tarquin erase my curse. That was even before I’d realized how bad my condition was. Meg must have been more worried, or more intuitive, than she’d let on.

Which took all the fun out of criticizing her.

“Oh, Meg,” I shook my head. “That was a crazy, senseless stunt, and I love you for it. But don’t beat yourself up. Pranjal’s medicine bought me some extra time. And you did too, of course, with your cheese-grating skills and your magical chickweed. You’ve done everything you could. When we summon godly help, I can ask for complete healing. I’m sure I’ll be as good as new. Or at least, as good as a Lester can be.”

Meg tilted her head, making her crooked glasses just about horizontal.”How can you know? Is this god going to give us three wishes or something?”

I considered that. When my followers called, had I ever shown up and granted them three wishes? LOL, nope. Maybe one wish, if that wish was something I wanted to happen anyway.

[...]

“I don’t know, Meg,” I confessed. “You’re right. I can’t be sure everything will be okay. But I can promise you I’m not giving up. We’ve come this far. I’m not going to let a belly scratch stop us from defeating the Triumvirate.”

She had so much mucus dripping from her nostrils, she would’ve made Buster the unicorn proud. She sniffled, wiping her upper lip with her knuckle. “I don’t want to lose somebody else.”

My mental gears weren’t turning at full speed. I had trouble wrapping my mind around the fact that by “somebody else,” Meg meant me.

[...]

Now, aside from all the bad memories the Roman trappings of Camp Jupiter might have triggered for her, she was faced with the prospect of losing me. In a moment of shock, like a unicorn staring me right in the face, I realized that despite all the grief Meg gave me, and the way she ordered me around, she cared for me. For the past three months, I had been her one constant friend, just as she had been mine.

[...]

What a horribly insufficient friend I had been.

“Come here.” I held out my arms. “Please?”

Meg hesitated. Still sniffling, she rose from her cot and trudged toward me. She fell into my hug like I was a comfy mattress. I grunted, surprised by how solid and heavy she was. She smelled of apple peels and mud, but I didn’t mind. I didn’t even mind the mucus and tears soaking my shoulder.

I’d always wondered what it would be like to have a younger sibling. Sometimes I’d treated Artemis as my baby sister, since I’d been born a few minutes earlier, but that had been mostly to annoy her. With Meg, I felt as if it was actually true. I had someone who depended on me, who needed me around no matter how much we irritated each other. I thought about Hazel and Frank and the washing away of curses. I supposed that kind of love could come from many different types of relationships. (188-192)

Some of the pandai were young enough to have pure white fur, which made my head hurt, reminding me of my brief friendship with Crest, the youthful aspiring musician who’s lost his life in the Burning Maze. (193)

No matter what happened over the next twenty-four hours, I would not add to Meg’s worries. I would tough it out until the moment I keeled over.

Wow. Who even was I? (195)

she hesitated, then generously decided not to add except for Apollo, who slept through it all (199)

A third group sledded down a dirt hill on their shields.

Hazel sighed. “That would be my group of delinquents. If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to teach them how to slay ghouls.” (203)

I cleared my throat. I’d faced much bigger audience. Why was I so nervous? Oh, right. Because I was a horribly incompetent sixteen-year-old. (205)

I shot at the nearest target - then at the target next farthest out, then at the next - firing again and again in a kind of trance.

Only after my twentieth shot did I realize I’d landed all bull’s-eyes, two in each target, the farthest about two hundred yards away. Child’s play for Apollo. For Lester, quite impossible.

The legionnaires stared at me, their mouths hanging open. We’re supposed to do that?” Dakota demanded.

Lavinia punched my forearm. “See, you guys? I told you Apollo doesn’t suck that much!”

I had to agree with her. I felt oddly not suckish.

The display of marksmanship hadn’t drained my energy. Nor did it feel like the temporary bursts of godly power I’d experienced before. I was tempted to ask for another quiver to see if I could keep shooting at the same skill level, but I was afraid to press my luck. (205-206)

I’d spent a lot of time worrying about the fate of New Rome and Camp Jupiter, the Oracles, my friends, and myself. But these hackberries and crabgrasses deserved to live just as much. They, too, were facing death. They were terrified. If the emperors launched their weapons, they stood no chance. The homeless mortals with their shopping carts in People’s Park would also burn, right along with the legionnaires. Their lives were worth no less. (215)

Honestly, I didn’t know much about dryad life cycles, or how they protected themselves from climate disasters. Perhaps if I’d spent more time over the centuries talking to them and less time chasing them...

Wow. I really didn’t even know myself anymore. (216)

“Why does a strong friendship always have to progress to romance?” (228)

Whether I died today, or turned into a zombie, or somehow managed to live, I would rather face my fate with my conscience clear and no secrets. For one thing, I should tell Meg about my encounter with Peaches. I should also tell her I didn’t hate her. In fact, I liked her pretty well. All right, I loved her. She was the bratty little sister I’d never had. (232)

I crossed my arms. “Well, I’m glad we had this talk, so I could unburden myself of all the things you already knew. I was also going to say that you’re important to me and I might even love you like a sister, but-”

“I already know that, too.” She gave me a crooked grin, offering proof that Nero really should have taken her to the orthodontist when she was younger. “S’okay. You’ve gotten less annoying, too.” (243)

“Lester, I need intel,” she said. “Tell me how we defeat these things.”

“I don’t know!” I wailed. “Look, back in the old days, ravens used to be gentle and while, like doves, okay? But they were terrible gossips. One time I was dating this girl, Koronis. The ravens found out she was cheating on me, and they told me about it. I was so angry, I got Artemis to kill Koronis for me. Then I punished the ravens for being tattle-tales by turning them black.”

Reyna stared at me like she was contemplating another kick to my nose. “That story is messed up on so many level.”

“Just wrong,” Meg agreed. “You had your sister kill a girl who was cheating on you?”

“Well, I-”

“Then you punished the birds that told you about it,” Reyna added, “by turning them black, as if black was bad and white was good?”

“When you put it that way, it doesn’t sound right,” I protested. “It’s just what happened when my curse scorched them. It also made them nasty-tempered flesh-eaters.”

“Oh, that’s much better,” Reyna snarled.

“If we let the birds eat you,” Meg asked, “will they leave Reyna and me alone?”

“I- What?” I worried that Meg might not be kidding. Her facial expression did not say kidding. It said serious about the birds eating you. “Listen, I was angry! Yes, I took it out on the birds, but after a few centuries I cooled down. I apologized. By then, they kind of liked being nasty-tempered flesh-eaters. As for Koronis- I mean, at least I saved the child she was pregnant with when Artemis killed her. He became Asclepius, god of medicine!”

“Your girlfriend was pregnant when you had her killed?” Reyna launched another kick at my face. I managed to dodge it, since I’d had a lot of practice cowering, but it hurt to know that this time she hadn’t been aiming at an incoming raven. Oh, no. She wanted to knock my teeth in.

“You suck,” Meg agreed.

“Can we talk about this later?” I pleaded. “Or perhaps never? I was a god then! I didn’t know what I was doing!”

A few months ago, a statement like that would have made no sense to me. Now, it seemed true. I felt as if Meg had given me her thick-lensed rhinestone-studded glasses, and to my horror, they corrected my eyesight. I didn’t like how small and tawdry and petty everythin looked, rendered in perfect ugly clarity through the magic of Meg-O-Vision. Most of all, I didn’t like the way I looked - not just present-day Lester, but the god formerly known as Apollo. (252-253)

“But you’re the- you used to be the god of music, right? If you can charm a crowd, you should be able to repulse one. Pick a song those birds will hate!”

Great. Not only had Reyna laughed in my face and busted my nose, now I was her go-to guy for repulsiveness.

Still... I was struck by the way she said I used to be a god. She didn’t seem to mean it as an insult. She said it almost like a concession - like she knew what a horrible deity I had been, but held out hope that I might be capable of being someone better, more helpful, maybe even worthy of forgiveness. (255)

I wanted to sing for Reyna, to prove that I had indeed changed. I was no longer the god who’d had Koronis killed and created ravens, or cursed the Cumaean Sibyl, or done any of the other selfish things that had once given me no more pause than choosing what dessert toppings I wanted on my ambrosia.

It was time to be helpful. I needed to be repulsive for my friends! (256)

I sighed. “You two are horrible influences on each other.”

Without taking their eyes off me, Reyna and Meg gave each other a silent high five. (265)

THOU HAST FOUND THY GROOVE. AT LEAST THE BEGINNINGS OF THY GROOVE. I SUSPECTED THIS WOULD BE SO, GIVEN TIME. CONGRATULATIONS ARE MERITED. (266)

“What did you do to him?” Meg asked.

I tried to look offended. “Nothing! I may have teased him a bit, but he was a very minor god. Rather silly-looking. I may have made some jokes at his expense in front of the other Olympians.”

Reyna knit her eyebrows. “So you bullied him.”

“No! I mean... I did write zap me in glowing letters on the back of his toga. And I suppose I might have been a bit harsh when I tied him up and locked him in the stalls with my fiery horses overnight-”

“OH MY GODS!” Meg said. “You’re awful!”

I fought down the urge to defend myself. I wanted to shout, Well at least I didn’t kill him like I did my pregnant girlfriend Koronis! But that wasn’t much of a gotcha.

Looking back on my encounters with Harpocrates, I realized I had been awful. I somebody had treated me, Lester, the way I had treated that puny Ptolemaic god, I would want to crawl in a hole and die. And if I were honest, even back when I was a god, I had been bullied - only the bully had been my father. I should have known better than to share the pain.

I hadn’t thought about Harpocrates in eons. Teasing him had seemed like no big deal. I suppose that’s what made it even worse. I had shrugged off our encounters. I doubted he had.

Koronis’s ravens... Harpocrates...

It was no coincidence they were both haunting me today like the Ghosts of Saturnalias Past. Tarquin had orchestrated this with me in mind. He was forcing me to confront some of my greatest hits of dreadfulness. Even if I survived the challenges, my friends would see exactly what kind of a dirtbag I was. The shame would weigh me down and make me ineffective - the same way Tarquin used to add rocks to a cage around his enemy’s head, until eventually, the burden was too much. The prisoner would collapse and drown in a shallow pool, and Tarquin could claim, I didn’t kill him. He just wasn’t strong enough. (269-270)

The emperors would’ve considered Harpocrates just another dangerous, amusing plaything, like their trained monsters and humanoid lackeys.

And why not let King Tarquin be his custodian? The emperors could ally themselves with the undead tyrant, at least temporarily, to make their of Camp Jupiter a little easier. They could let Tarquin arrange his cruelest trap for me. Whether I killed Harpocrates or he killed me, what did it matter to the Triumvirate in the end? Ether way, they would find it entertaining - one more gladiator match to break the monotony of their immortal lives. (273)

“Would that count?” Meg asked. “I mean, if Reyna doesn’t open the door herself, isn’t that cheating the prophecy?”

Reyna shrugged. “Prophecies never mean what you think, right? If Apollo is able to open the door thanks to my help, I’m still responsible, wouldn’t you say?” (274)

If Harpocrates was indeed waiting inside this shipping contained, I would make sure the full force of his anger fell on me, not Reyna or Meg. (276)

The god glared at me. He forced painful images into my mind: me stuffing his head into a toilet on Mount Olympus; me howling with amusement as I tied his wrists and ankles and shut him in the stables with my fire-breathing horses. Dozens of other encounters I’d completely forgotten about, and in all of them I was as golden, handsome, powerful, and powerful as any Triumvirate emperor - and just as cruel. (279)

Just because we both hated the Triumvirate did not make us friends. Harpocrates had never forgotten my cruelty. (280)

She sent Harpocrates her life story, captured in a few painful snapshots. She knew about monsters. She had been raised by the Beast. No matter how much Harpocrates hated me - and Meg agreed that I could be pretty stupid sometimes - we had to work together to stop the Triumvirate.

Harpocrates shredded her thoughts with rage. How dare she presume to understand his misery? (281)

Harpocrates was unmoved. He bent his will toward me, burying me in his hatred.

All right! I pleaded. Kill me if you must. But I am sorry! I have changed!

I sent him a flurry of the most horrible, embarrassing failures I’d suffered since becoming mortal: grieving over the body of Heloise the griffin at the Waystation, holding the dying pandos Crest in my arms in the Burning Maze, and, of course, watching helplessly as Caligula murdered Jason Grace.

Just for a moment, Harpocrates wrath wavered.

At the very least, I had managed to surprise him. He had not been expecting regret or shame from me. Those weren’t my trademark emotions. (282)

For the emperors, the potential loss of their fasces apparently didn’t outweigh the potential benefit of having me destroyed... or the entertainment value of knowing I’d done it to myself. (283)

They had left me the starkest of choices: run away, let the Triumvirate win, and watch my mortal friends be destroyed, or free two bitter enemies and face the same fate as Jason Grace.

It was an easy decision.

I turned to Reyna and Meg and thought as clearly as I could: Destroy the faces. Cut him free. (283-284)

Harpocrates rage pressed down on me, making my knees buckle. The air pressure increased, as if I’d plummeted a thousand feet. I almost blacked out, but I guessed Harpocrates wouldn’t let that happen. He wanted me conscious, able to suffer.

He flooded me with bitterness and hate. My joints began to unknit, my vocal cords dissolving. Harpocrates might have been ready to die, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t kill me first. That would bring him great satisfaction.

I bowed my head, gritting my teeth against the inevitable.

Fine, I thought. I deserve it. Just spare my friends. Please.

The pressure eased.

I glanced up through a haze of pain.

In front of me, Reyna and Meg stood shoulder to shoulder, facing down the god.

They sent him their own flurry of images. Reyna pictured me singing “The Fall of Jason Grace” to the legion, officiating at Jason’s funeral pyre with tears in my eyes, then looking goofy and awkward and clueless as I offered to be her boyfriend, giving her the best, most cleansing laugh she’d had in years (Thanks, Reyna.)

Meg pictured the way I’d saved her in the myrmekes lair at Camp Half-Blood, singing about my romantic failures with such honesty it rendered giant ants catatonic with depression. She envisioned my kindness to Livia the elephant, to Crest, and especially to her, when I’d given her a hug in our room at the cafe and told her I would never give up trying.

In all their memories, I looked so human... but in the best possible ways. Without words, my friends asked Harpocrates if I was still the person he hated so much. (288-289)

“Good-bye, Apollo,” said the Sibyl’s voice, clearer now. “I forgive you. Not because you deserve it. Not for your sake at all. But because I will not go into oblivion carrying hate when I can carry love.”

Even if I could’ve spoken, I wouldn’t have known what to say. I was in shock. Her tone asked for no reply, no apology. She didn’t need or want anything from me. It was almost as if I was the one being erased. (291)

Anger swelled in me. I decided I was done with the ravens’ bitterness. Plenty of folks had valid reasons to hate me: Harpocrates, the Sibyl, Koronis, Daphne... maybe a few dozen others. Okay, maybe a few hundred others. But the ravens? They were thriving! They’d grown gigantic! They loved their new jobs as flesh-eating killers. Enough with the blame. (295)

Reyna must have noticed my worried expression.

“You did good back there,” she said. “You stepped up.”

Reyna sounded sincere. But her praise just made me feel more ashamed.

“I’m holding the last breath of a god I bullied,” I said miserably, “in the jar of a Sibyl I cursed, who was protected by birds I turned into killing machines after they tattled about my cheating girlfriend, who I subsequently had assassinated.”

“All true,” Reyna said. “But the thing is, you recognize it now.”

“It feels horrible.”

She gave me a thin smile. “That’s kind of the point. You do something evil, you feel bad about it, you do better. That’s a sign you might be developing a conscience.”

I tried to remember which of the gods had created the human conscience. Had we created it, or had humans just developed it on their own? Giving mortals a sense of decency didn’t seem like the sort of thing a god would brag about on their profile page.

“I- I appreciate what you’re saying,” I managed. “But my past mistakes almost got you and Meg killed. If Harpocrates had destroyed you when you were trying to protect me...”

The idea was too awful to contemplate. My shiny new conscience would have blown up inside me like a grenade.

Reyna gave me a brief pat on the shoulder. “All we did was show Harpocrates how much you’ve changed. He recognized it. Have you completely made up for all the bad things you’ve done? No. But you keep adding to the ‘good things’ column. That’s all any of us can do.”

Adding to the “good things” column. Reyna spoke of this superpower as if it were one I could actually possess.

“Thank you,” I said. (299-300)

“We’re going to make it,” I said, like a fool.

Once again, I had broken the First Law of Percy Jackson: Never say something is going to work out, because as soon as you do, it won’t. (306)

When had I last felt “whole”? I wanted to believe it was back when I was a god, but that wasn’t true. I hadn’t been completely myself for centuries. Maybe millennia.

At the moment, I felt more like a hole - a void in the cosmos through which Harpocrates, the Sibyl, and a lot of people I cared about had vanished. (316)

I laughed - actually laughed - with satisfaction. It felt so good to be a decent archer again, and to watch Meg at her swordplay. What a team we made! (322)

This was how it ended, I thought bitterly. Not fighting threats from the outside, but fighting against the ugliest side of our own history. (323)

There had only ever been one choice. Deep down, I’d always known which god I had to call.

“Follow me,” I told Ella and Tyson.

I ran for the temple of Diana.

Now I’ll admit I’ve never been a huge fan of Artemis’s Roman persona. As I’ve said before, I never felt like I personally changed that much during Roman times. I just stayed Apollo. Artemis, though...

You know how it is when your sister goes through her moody teenage years? She changes her name to Diana, cuts her hair, hangs out with a different, more hostile set of maiden hunters, starts associating with Hecate and the moon, and basically acts weird? When we first relocated to Rome, the two of us were worshipped together like in the old days - twin gods with our own temple - but soon Diana went off and did her own thing. We just didn’t talk like we used to when we were young and Greek, you know?

I was apprehensive about summoning her Roman incarnation, but I needed help, and Artemis - Sorry, Diana - was the most likely to respond, even if she would never let me hear the end of it afterward. Besides, I missed her terribly. Yes, I said it. If I was going to die tonight, which seemed increasingly likely, first I wanted to see my sister one last time. (332)

Ella rummaged in her supply pouches, pulling out herbs, spices, and vials of oils, which made me realize how long it had been since I’d eaten. Why wasn’t my stomach growling? (333)

The emperors obviously wanted to send a message: they intended to dominate the world at any cost. They would stop at nothing. They would mutilate and maim. They would waste and destroy. Nothing was sacred except their own power.

I rose unsteadily. My hopelessness turned into boiling anger. I howled, “NO!” (340)

A few months ago, I would have been happy to let Frank take this hopeless fight on his own while I sat back, ate chilled grapes, and checked my messages. Not now, not after Jason Grace. I glanced at the poor maimed pegasi chained to the emperors’ chariot, and I decided I couldn’t live in a world where cruelty like that went unchallenged.

“Sorry, Frank,” I said. “You won’t face this alone.” I looked at Caligula. “Well, Baby Booties? Your colleague emperor has already agreed. Are you in, or do we terrify you too much?”

Caligula’s nostrils flared. “We have lived for thousands of years,” he said, as if explaining a simple fact to a slow student. “We are gods.”

“And I’m the son of Mars,” Frank countered. “praetor of the Twelfth Legion Fulminata. I’m not afraid to die. Are you?” (345)

Commodus punched me square in the chest. I staggered backward and collapsed on my butt, my lungs on fire, my sternum throbbing. A hit like that should have killed me. (348)

My first punch left a fist-size crater in the emperor’s gold breastplate. Oh, I thought in some distant corner of my mind. Hello, godly strength! (352)

Commodus fought, but his fists were like paper. I let loose a guttural roar - a song with only one note: pure rage, and only one volume: maximum.

Under the onslaught of sound, Commodus crumbled to ash.

My voice faltered. I stared at my empty palms. I stood and backed away, horrified. The charred outline of the emperor’s body remained on the asphalt. I could still feel the pulse of his carotid arteries under my fingers. What had I done? In my thousands of years of life, I’d never destroyed someone with my voice. When I sang, people would often say I “killed it”, but never meant that literally. (360)

I cobbled together the last shreds of my courage. I channeled my old sense of arrogance, from back in the days when I loved to take credit for things I didn’t do (as long as they were good and impressive). I gave Gregorix and his army a cruel, emperor-like smile.

“BOO!” I shouted.

The troops broke and ran. (362-363)

I grinned at the newcomer. “Hey, sis.”

Then I keeled over sideways. The world turned fluffy, bleached of all color. Nothing hurt anymore.

I was dimly aware of Diana’s face hovering over me, Meg and Hazel peering over the goddess’s shoulders.

“He’s almost gone,” Diana said.

Then I was gone. My slipped into a pool of cold, slimy darkness.

“Oh no, you don’t,” my sister’s voice woke me rudely.

I’d been so comfortable, so nonexistent.

Life surged back into me - cold, sharp, and unfairly painful. Diana’s face came into focus. She looked annoyed, which seemed on-brand for her.

As for me, I felt surprisingly good. The pain in my gut was gone. My muscles didn’t burn. I could breathe without difficulty. I must have slept for decades.

“H-how long was I out?” I croaked.

“Roughly three seconds,” she said. “Now, get up, drama queen.”

[...]

I beamed at my sister. It was so good to see her disapproving I-can’t-believe-you’re-my-brother frown again. “I love you,” I said, my voice hoarse with emotion.

She blinked, clearly unsure what to do with this information. “You really have changed.”

“I missed you!”

“Y-yes, well. I’m here now. Even Dad couldn’t argue with a Sibylline invocation from Temple Hill.”

[...]

I checked my stomach, which was easy, since my shirt was in tatters. The bandage had vanished, along with the festering would. Only a thin white scare remained. “So... I’m healed?” My flab told me she hadn’t restored me to my godly self. Nah, that would have been too much to expect.

Diana raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’m not the goddess of healing, but I’m still a goddess. I think I can take care of my little brother’s boo-boos.”

“Little brother?”

She smirked, then turned to Hazel. (382-384)

I suppose I’d been too focused on Thalia, wondering whether or not she was going to kill me and whether or not I deserved it. (388)

“You also saved me,” I said. “You’re here. You’re actually here.”

She took my hand and squeezed it. Her flesh felt warm and human. I couldn’t remember the last time my sister had shown me such open affection. (389)

“It’s just a guess,” I admitted. “Frank went into that tunnel knowing he might die. He willingly sacrificed himself for a noble cause. In doing so, he broke free of his fate. By burning his own tinder, he kind of... I don’t know, started a new fire with it. He’s in charge of his own destiny now. Well, as much as any of us are. The only other explanation I can think of is that Juno somehow released him from the Fates’ decree.” (393)

“How did you survive the fire?” Hazel asked.

“I don’t know. I remember Caligula burning up. I passed out, thought I was dead. Then I woke up on Arion’s back. And now I’m here.” (395)

“Hey, Apollo, you- you know the difference between a faun and a satyr...?”

[...]

A moment later, his body collapsed with a noise like a relieved sigh, crumbling into fresh loam. In the spot where his heart had been, a tiny sapling emerged from the soil. I immediately recognized the shape of those miniature leaves. Not a hemlock. A laurel - the tree I had created from poor Daphne, and whose leaves I had decided to make into wreaths. The laurel, the tree of victory.

One of the dryads glanced at me. “Did you do that...?”

I shook my head. I swallowed the bitter taste from my mouth.

“The only difference between a satyr and a faun,” I said, “is what we see in them. And what they see in themselves. Plant this tree somewhere special.: I looked up at the dryads. “Tend it and make it grow healthy and tall. This was Don the faun, a hero.” (398-399)

She folded her arms and stared at the fire. “I don’t blame you, Apollo. My brother...” She hesitated, steadying her breath. “Jason made his own choices. Heroes have to do that.” (402)

“It seems so cruel,” she continued. “We lose someone and finally get them back, only to lose them again.”

I wondered why she used the word we. She seemed to be saying that she and I shared this experience - the loss of an only sibling. But she had suffered so much worse. My sister couldn’t die. I couldn’t lose her permanently.

Then, after a moment of disorientation, like I’d been flipped upside-down, I realized she wasn’t talking about me losing someone. She was talking about Artemis - Diana.

Was she suggesting that my sister missed me, even grieved for me as Thalia grieved for Jason?

Thalia must have read my expression. “The goddess has been beside herself,” she said. “I mean that literally. Sometimes she gets so worried she splits into two forms, Roman and Greek, right in front of me. She’ll probably get mad at me for telling you this, but she loves you more than anyone else in the world.”

A marble seemed to have lodged in my throat. I couldn’t speak, so I just nodded.

“Diana didn’t want to leave camp so suddenly like that,” Thalia continued. “But you know how it is. Gods can’t stick around. Once the danger to New Rome had passed, she couldn’t risk overstaying her summons. Jupiter... Dad wouldn’t approve.”

I shivered. How easy it was to forget that this young woman was also my sister. And Jason was my brother. At one time, I would have discounted that connection. They’re just demigods, I would have said. Not really family.

Now I found the idea hard to accept for a different reason. I didn’t feel worthy of that family. Or Thalia’s forgiveness. (403-404)

“My whole life, I’ve been living with other people’s expectations of what I’m supposed to be. Be this. Be that. You know?”

[...]

“But you showed me. When you proposed dating...” She took a deep breath, her body shaking with silent giggles. “Oh, gods. I saw how ridiculous I’d been. How ridiculous the whole situation was. That’s what healed my heart - being able to laugh at myself again, at my stupid ideas about destiny. That allowed me to break free - just like Frank broke free of his firewood. I don’t need another person to heal my heart. I don’t need a partner... at least, not until and unless I’m ready on my own terms. I don’t need to be force-shipped with anyone or wear anybody else’s label. For the first time in a long time, I feel like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. So thank you.” (405-406)

As we stood to accept the legion’s thanks, I felt strangely uncomfortable. Now that I finally had a friendly crowd cheering for me, I just wanted to sit down and cover my head with a toga. I had done so little compared to Hazel or Reyna or Frank, not to mention all those who had died: Jason, Dakota, Don, Jacob, the Sibyl, Harpocrates... dozens more. (413).

Usually I was against re-gifting, but in this case, I was overwhelmed with gratitude. I couldn’t remember when or why I’d given the legion this bow - for centuries, I’d passed them out like party favors - but I was certainly glad to have it back. I drew the string with no trouble at all. Either my strength was godlier than I realized, or the bow recognized me as its rightful owner. Oh, yes. I could do some damage with this beauty. (415)

We’d have to trust the gods for some good luck. (Insert HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA here.) (422)

#ttt spoilers #for future reference #the trials of apollo #trials of apollo #the tyrant's tomb #toa #toa spoilers

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schroedingersk8 · 4 years

Note

First of all I want to thank you for this beautiful and interesting blog you have. I can imagine you have many requests for dating you. How do you know which one is sincere with you and worthy?

Answering as Miss K8 Morgan, of K8Morgan.com

Hello, and thank you very much for reading and enjoying this interesting blog of mine! :) And my Twitter, too! And thank you for giving me this opportunity to #dommesplain a few things to my kind followers and readers…

But back to your question, out of the many requests for dating that I get, how do I know which one is sincere with me and worthy?

Well, it is a good question, but I would expand the categories in it further. How do I know those requests are

sincere,

realistic,

acceptable, and

worthy.

For better understanding of the selection process, let’s take a closer look at each category individually, and examine them in detail, shall we?

1. Sincerity

I have this saying, “no one is more sincere than a man firm in his delusions.” This is ever-so-applicable to each and every stranger from the Internet who has ever written to me with an inquiry to date me… And even to some guys making such inquiries after meeting me a few times, here and there. What can I say, I believe that all of them are most sincere in their desires to date me, or someone like me, or the “me” they imagine – and even more sincere in using their offer to date me as a means to avoid paying my session or social fees. Sincerity is not a problem here, Delusion – or lack of realism – is!

2. Realism

So how do I know when somebody is being realistic? I suppose in the same way you, or anyone else would know. It just requires some common sense. For example, no realistic message has ever started with, or included, the following:

“Hello, Mistress, I am a real no-limits slave. I will do anything you want [except booking a session and actually paying me for my time] but I think pro dommes only do things for money, but I am looking for someone to dominate me for free as part of a FemaleLed relationship” To this particular kind of drivel you can also add things like “…but I am still a virgin”, “…but I am still married” “…but I have never seen a Mistress before” and a plethora of similar verbal identifiers.

“… I have an excellent life, career and social circle here in the [insert any US city] and am able to provide you with a life in which you wouldn’t have to work.” This particular statement is more common than you think, and is ALWAYS US-based. Somehow they seem to believe that we, here in Europe, suffer greatly from our free health care, non-GM, locally grown wholesome food, the quaint culture and history of our countries, the public transport and rights to privacy protection. And it implies that because the author of it is so “overwhelmingly generous” – with his words – I am going to drop everything: my job, my family, my life, my friends, sell my cats to the Circus, and move to the US, to be his…mail-order pet-bride??? Someone with no job, no independence, no voting rights and with a precarious immigration status. To be bored to injuries, until death do us part? NO THANKS!

“…I am not rich and do not have a fancy car, a palace for a house and travelling for me more often includes a backpack and a tent – I appreciate simple things in life…” Say no more, bro! I, myself, appreciate finer things in life, the finer the better, and the only way you would see me with a backpack in a national park is if some psycho has killed me, stuffed me into that backpack and is carrying me to bury me in a shallow grave there. I like fancy cars, I like rare timepieces, I enjoy luxury travel, fine dining, fine wine, fine arts… As a matter of fact, I unapologetically love all things fanciful and complicated, and am not looking to change that any time soon.

“…and I probably do not make enough to have you as a GF, but I thought I’d try anyway.” Mate, I wish you didn’t. I hear your pain, I myself do not have enough to buy me a Lamborghini Aventador S. Not even a stinky Murcielago… And every morning I wake up, and I come to terms with this harsh, cruel, unfair reality. But never once have I written to a dealership to try to get one anyway! Luckily, you can still book a session to enjoy me for a limited amount of time, and I can still go to the dealership and stare to my heart’s delight…

“…I do not believe in having to pay to date…” What are you doing writing to me, then??? You might as well try and tell me that you believe Jesus loves me, and that Earth is flat… Keep your beliefs to yourself, mate, no one here has asked to hear them – or I swear to Jesus that loves me I will bring out my pie chart again!

These are some of the most common examples of my dating wannabes, but that list is truly endless and ever-growing. But what would, then, a realistic approach entail? I would say a situational self-evaluation study: what you do, where you live, how much free time and disposable income you have, how much of it are you willing to spend on dating, if we live in different cities how often can you travel, and how often you’d need me to travel, what you’d ideally like to achieve with this relationship, when you’d like it to start, and whether you prefer it as a permanent or a fixed term contract. There, no rocket science, is it?

3. Acceptability

But what, then, would be the acceptable terms for me to favorably consider an offer? I think the main factors would have to be:

geographical compatibility,

time strain, and

relationship goals.

It is not a secret that I am in my mid-30es, so I am old, lazy, and by now I have visited most places I had an interest in. I no longer get excited about having to take a trans-Atlantic flight to see someone for a date because “we are going to see DisneyWorld!!!!!”. I stopped being excited about it some…20 years ago.

There are only two places in the US I am interested in, one is New England – in autumn or in winter, and another is Portland, OR in spring/summer. Part of my education took place in New England (I do not specify where for privacy reasons, so do not ask), and I have spent some time in Oregon in later years, too, both those are two places very dear to my heart. The rest of the US: seen, done, not much interest to revisit. And very little interest to return to live in the US at this point in my life.

Same goes for SE Asia and Middle East. Would consider visiting, would not consider moving. Would not consider having to take 4 connecting flights to reach the final destination. Would not consider getting stoned to death for being your house guest.

If frequent travel is required on my part, then it will have to be somewhere within a 3hr flight radius from Paris. I do have my pet peeve places, i.e. London. If you are someone who has tried to get me to come to London for a tour before, you’d be familiar with my “not enough money in the world to make me suffer through that indignity!” rant. I have lived there for too long, as one can tell, and I only visit when I absolutely must, as in, for legal obligations, deaths or weddings. I am somewhat more ok with Edinburgh.

I do have my “preferred” list, too! This year it features Stockholm (love that northern gem and the Swedish boys!), Zurich, Frankfurt, Vienna, Salzburg, Paris and most of France (once the strikes are over!), and I would love to discover Tunisia, Morocco and Israel (as I have heard very good things), but I am open to suggestions as long as there are direct flights.

As for time restraints, then really anything above cumulative 2 weeks per month is unreasonable. I want my space, and I want my time. You should want yours! If you want to have an overly-attached live-in GF – look elsewhere. I am all for fun and intense time together inter-twinned with time dedicated solely to work. A “weekend relationship” would work very well for me, for example.

And when it comes to relationship goals, I understand that these change with time. And I think a relationship with me would be good for someone single, successful and busy with his own professional life, who wants to enjoy some time with kinky stimulating company without having to buy into societal pre-sets. However, if the end goal is to get married and have 3 kids – once again, I am not the Droid you are looking for.

I would say I am an ideal life companion for a social renegade and adventurer whose end goal is the same as his intermediate aspirations – joy, stimulating fun and absolution from boredom and trivia. I will be wasted on others…

4. Worthiness of the Offer.

And how, then, do I decide if the offer is worth it? Well, this subject is reminiscent of my earlier post, 15. Let Me Draw You A Pie Chart, and the arising Mathematical solutions. As with any relationship, I expect to be better off with it than without it. The offer will have to consider the amount of travel necessary, the cost of it, and the cost of my time. But overall, I would say, for a successful candidate with an interesting offer, the cost of weekend-dating me, per month, for 3 weekends, one of them long, would more or less be the cost of booking a long weekend Private Tour with me at my work rate. Which may seem like a steal and it is certainly a bargain in relative terms, but it is an eye-watering amount of money, for most people, and it is definitely not available to just anyone.

As the matters stand, tomorrow will be the first time in a year that I have agreed to hear out an offer from an existing client, and I do not know whether or not we will be able to reach a consensus on terms. Alas, such is #DommeLife

No one, under the penalty of the EU copyright laws, is allowed to use or reproduce my blog or individual posts, or even passages, in any way, shape or form, be it for Netflix series, Amazon books, or anything of the kind, regardless of the credit given. If you have any questions, you may contact me via K8Morgan.com

#dommesplaining #dommelife

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crystalsexarch · 5 years

Text

orogenesis

It happened that her return to the Source came ten nights and eleven days later. Eager as she was to spend more time with her new lover, she could not abandon certain responsibilities to wither away one lustful evening at a time.

Last chapter of What We Already Know, but can be read as Heavensward angst, which I know we never get tired of around these parts...post-Shadowbringers.

A Warrior once betrothed to a certain knight returns to Ishgard in search of closure.

More writing here.

She did not stop at the Rising Stones, nor Camp Dragonhead. When she came upon Ishgard proper, the hour was late, but still she traveled past the Forgotten Knight, past the Brume, and into the Pillars anyway.

By that time, stars had blinked into the sky. Each one reminded her of someone she had avoided on her trek to the Last Vigil - Tataru, Emmanellain, others. But she made her way towards one she had avoided far longer. Far too long.

When she could see her destination, she slowed her pace and tried to control her breathing. Sweat pooled beneath her mail, sweat that cooled her a bit too much now that she was going slower. The streets were nigh empty. A few guards meandered from point to point of interest, and one in particular stood where he always had, waiting for her and hers.

She wasn’t trying to catch his attention - quite the opposite - but his head darted to her nonetheless. Even from beneath his helmet, she could see his eyes grow wide with recognition and shock. He couldn’t see her face, but there was only one of that stature and build who donned a Drachen armet like hers.

Her horns also hinted at her identity.

“M-milady!” He stumbled forward, caught between a bow and a salute. He nearly ended up with a kneel.

She waved him down and grimaced, knowing she would enter the manor wet with sweat after all, unannounced and her lungs burning from the cold.

“Ishgard’s savior, and the world’s besides,” the guard said. “Are you come to see - “

“The old lord, if he’s yet awake.”

The guard cocked his head. “You speak of Lord Edmont?”

“Aye.”

He nodded slowly at first, but faster as his lips opened. “Tis like he yet lingers in his study. I can...have you escorted.”

She clicked her helmet off and exhaled, watching her breath dance from her mouth into the atmosphere. “I can find my own way.”

Often she had left her helmet in the sitting room, but it didn’t feel right under her current circumstances. An empty spot in the parlor beckoned her sense of nostalgia - you can just set it here, it isn’t a bother - but she hadn’t just returned from the Aery or the Vault or Azys Lla. She would rest her head elsewhere. Sweat on other sheets. Cry into another pillow, if it came to that.

The warmth of the house was the only thing that kept its halls from looking, from feeling empty. Somewhere a fire burned, its buzz suggesting a lord sipping tea and flipping to the next page of a grand old tale. The Warrior swallowed and stepped deeper into the half-lit manor, like she was exploring a liminal space.

The door to Edmont’s study was open. He appeared before her sudden and grand, dark brows framing blue eyes set upon his book. Though she made no effort to conceal herself - indeed, she thought her nerves would have rendered a more silent approach nigh impossible - he never broke his concentration. Whatever he was reading made him smile. She thought it likely he mistook her approaching footsteps for those of a manservant or maid working into the evening.

Once she reached his door, he realized no maid clinks as loud as she.

The smile stayed painted on his face even as he raised his head to see what manner of knight trudged about the Manor Fortemps. The Warrior’s lips shook when surprise forced his mouth open. With the fireplace at his back, a new light colored him, a colder one, but the twinkle in his eye remained.

He spoke her name like it alone could light the manor.

“Lord Edmont,” she said, her cheeks full with a wide-brimmed smile, one she knew the right combination of words could shatter like glass. “I pray you forgive my coming unannounced.”

The Count rose from his seat, arms wide. She nearly expected to embrace him, but soon he raised his hands in a gesture not unlike one she’d seen his late son make many times. Palms upward, face beaming; it was perhaps the most like Haurchefant she had ever seen him. “The Warrior of Light is welcome in my house at any and all hours. That shall ever be as true as night and day.”

She had no desire to tell him how she’d come to know those concepts as a bit less set in stone than he presumed. “I should...come more often.”

“Sit,” he said, gesturing to a second chair not far from the fireplace.

She stepped into the room, but shook her head. “I...I don’t mean to trouble you long.”

“You are no trouble.”

“I know, but - “

Firm hand on her shoulder. “You are no trouble. Sit.”

She pursed her lips and nodded. Finding the chair, she set her helm at her feet and clasped her hands over her knees. Despite Edmont’s warmth and declarations of praise, she had never quite grown close to him, felt comfortable speaking as an equal in his presence. Unlike Emmanellain and even Artoirel, Edmont had an air of deep lineage about him. He was perhaps the only noble whose nobility she had no choice but to respect.

He sat and set his elbows on the armrests, fingers together. “I hear you have made a name for yourself as a liberator.”

She smiled and looked to the flames.

“Doma, Ala Mhigo...but not before you freed Ishgard from a legacy of bloodshed and deceit.”

“None of that would have transpired were it not for your hospitality.”

He chuckled. “Opening our hearts and home to adventurers of your ilk was no difficult task, child.”

Of course, it would have been harder without a certain knight’s endorsement.

The Warrior sat on that thought, listening to the fire. Edmont shifted and tapped a finger at his lips.

“I am no fool,” he said after a while. “You wear a grim countenance beneath your smile. Had sorrow not befallen us, I’d be less surprised to see you come to Ishgard more often.”

Her shoulders drooped. “I love this city well,” she said, halfway hypnotized by the dancing flames. “This house and this family. That is why I…”

A log broke. A flurry of sparks puffed from the fireplace and faded into gray. The Warrior turned to Edmont, lips yet searching for the proper explanation.

“You need make no excuse,” he said, shaking his head. “There are days I question whether I would leave, had I the option. Or at least the proper walking shoes.”

She smiled and wiped her eyes out of habit, though she had yet to shed a single tear.

“I am glad you have come.” He turned to the fire and held his hands together once more. “It does me well to spend time with one whom I know loved my son as much as I.”

The Warrior clenched her eyes shut and bent forward, hoping he couldn’t see her, hoping her pain hadn’t sent a ripple through the aether itself. “There is...something I must tell you. Something he...Haurchefant wanted to tell you...yet I…”

He didn’t respond for a while, but she kept her eyes closed. She wanted to rub her hands together, to curl her legs to her chest, but she couldn’t rely on ticks to get her through this conversation.

So much silence passed - she had no choice but to speak. A gasp broke her eyes open.

“I can’t find the words,” she said. “Words will not do him justice, I...I can only show you what he showed me.”

Edmont’s eyes were heavy. Ready. “Show me, child.”

She held her lips tight to keep them from trembling and reached into her bag. Finding the tiny wooden box was easy. For weeks it had been slipping into her hands when she sought other things. But it remained with her nonetheless. Once she had it, she held it in one palm and set the other at its lid, turning to Edmont before prying it open.

As he saw the ring, she knew it was one he recognized. A familial piece. Perhaps something he’d given Haurchefant upon knighthood and searched his effects for after his passing. That ring, he may have wondered. Had he given it to someone after all? The expression he wore was one of agonized acceptance, not at the choice his son had made, but at the choice on which his son had been unable to follow through.

“I am sorry,” the Warrior said through tears. “I kept this from you. He had wanted to tell you himself, and since he didn’t get - I just kept it to myself, thinking it would - I never thought to - “

“I would have no other,” he started, deep voice bearing the role of his heritage, “wear this ring.”

“I should have returned it, or informed you otherwise.”

“It is yours to keep. And to wear.”

Her arms grew weak. “How can I?”

“My dear child.” His voice betrayed the sorrow he had tried to wield without breaking. “Grief does not diminish best when hidden away in a wooden box. Nay, it grows stronger.”

“Edmont, I - “

He stood and took the box. The flames cast half his towering body in orange. “Your gauntlet.”

She sniffled and worked the metal from her left hand as best she could, feeling like a child. Edmont knelt before her, so close she could see his tears even in shadow. Armor in her lap, he steadied her wrist with his free hand. The ring hugged her calloused finger, but not so much that it hurt.

As soon as the Count had completed the task, they both stared at the bejeweled silver piece on her finger. Instead of questioning whether it looked or felt right, she wondered what Edmont thought of it? If he regretted insisting she put it on? One pain that kept her from Ishgard was the pain that forced her to fear disappointing this man - the one who could have been her father by law.

At the same time, she and Edmont looked up, eyes locked and all water. And then, laughing through tears like fools, they embraced until they could once again wear smiles worthy of Haurchefant’s final words.

#haurchefant #ffxiv fanfic #ff14 fanfic #did you guys order more haurchefant pain??? no??? why does this keep getting delivered then #i'm calling customer service #mywriting

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dragonologist-phd · 5 years

Text

this weekend is the first free time I’ve had to write in like a month and I wasn’t able to finish the chapter I’m working on but I still want to share some of it... so take this little excerpt of Darvis/Morrigan bonding

The heavy bag of coin Darvis left the Chantry with disappears quickly as he pulls items from the cart. He tries to stick to the essentials, but he doesn’t know what the essentials are at this point. The road to Redcliffe will be long and full of darkspawn- how much medicine will they need? Should they invest in spare weapons?

He looks up to ask Morrigan her opinion, but her attention is elsewhere. She’s bent over one of the merchant’s other items- a necklace, golden and slender, made of interweaving threads.

“That’s nice,” he says, and Morrigan starts and nearly drops the necklace on the ground.

With a huff, she regains her composure and returns the trinket to its proper place. “’Tis merely a bauble.” She moves to examine other wares, her gaze darting away a touch too quickly. Darvis takes a moment to study the necklace. It’s no jewel for nobility, to be certain- just a simple chain, although he judges the gold to be real enough. He wonders what about it has Morrigan acting so flustered.

“A pretty bauble,” he comments with a shrug. “Shame we don’t have coin to spare at the moment.”

Morrigan scowls. “Pretty has no use to us. Even if we had coin to spare, ‘twould be wasteful to spend it on trinkets.” Her tone is dismissive, but Darvis doesn’t miss the way her eyes drift back to ‘useless trinket’. The moment is short, however; Morrigan swiftly and suddenly turns away from the cart altogether.

“Let’s be off, I believe we’ve picked this place clean of anything with value.” She sets off at a quick pace, leaving Darvis to hastily pay for their items before jogging to her side.

“And here I thought everyone liked jewelry,” he replies, keeping his voice light and nonchalant. “Could be a dwarven thing, I guess. The people of Orzammar love to decorate themselves with all kinds of jewels- those who can afford to, at least. I always wanted to nick one, but it’s risky lifting something like that. Especially when it’s hanging around someone’s neck.”

A reluctant smile pulls on Morrigan’s lips, and she nods. “That is one thing that is much the same amongst the people here. We did not indulge in such frivolities in the Wilds, but noble men and women will flaunt the most extravagant pieces. And as for stealing them…”

Her eyes turn mischievous as she trails off, and Darvis raises an eyebrow. “Wait. Really?”

Morrigan waves her hands in a dismissive motion. “I was young, and reckless. I ventured beyond our home in the Wilds and happened upon a noblewoman by her carriage. She was adorned in sparkling garments the likes of which I had never seen and I was…dazzled.” She looks away for a moment, seemingly embarrassed. “As I said, I was young. To my mind, the scene before me was the epitome of wealth of beauty. I snuck up behind her and stole a hand mirror from the carriage. I remember it well, even now- ‘twas encrusted in gold and gemstones.”

Darvis lets out a low whistle. “Sounds like something worth a good pile of coin.”

“’Twould have been wise of me to sell the thing,” Morrigan says, her tone darkening as her smile fades. “Instead I raced back to the Wilds with my prize. When Flemeth saw it, she was furious that I would risk discovery for something so foolish.”

The stories Morrigan previously told of Flemeth return to Darvis’s memory, and he winces. If those stories contain even a pebble of truth, an angry Flemeth is not something to be faced lightly. “That must have been a difficult argument.”

“Indeed. To teach me a lesson, she took the mirror and smashed it upon the ground.” The words are delivered in a matter-of-fact manner. “I was heartbroken.”

“Shit.” Now Darvis is reminded of his own mother, who was prone to her own fits of shouting and smashing things. He looks down, fidgeting with the edges of his cloak. “Seems a bit harsh. You were just a kid.”

“A foolish one,” Morrigan replies forcefully. “Flemeth was right to break me of my fascination with such frivolity. Beauty has no meaning in the world. Survival has meaning. Power has meaning. These are more important than little golden mirrors covered in crystals.”

Survival has meaning. Darvis finds he can’t exactly argue with that. And yet he wants to do something to ease the tense defensiveness Morrigan has wrapped herself in. “I guess that’s true. Still, I don’t see why something can’t be powerful and beautiful.”

To Darvis’s pleasant surprise, his words have the desired effect. Morrigan tilts her head, a small smirk appearing on her face. “If only we lived in a perfect world, where everything was as we wished it,” she says with a dramatic sigh. “But alas, we are in Ferelden, and the darkspawn draw nearer each hour. I will take power, and be satisfied.”

The conversation drifts to other things, until they return to the rest of their group. Darvis adds the supplies they bought to their stockpile, counting and sorting what they’ve acquired and still, in the back of his mind, remembering the way Morrigan looked at that necklace. She can say whatever she wants about power and the uselessness of beauty- Darvis knows the expression of a person who sees something they want.

He doesn’t feel guilty when he sneaks back into town that night and makes for the unguarded merchant’s cart. This man is not one of the bereft, displaced refugees. Marja even called the man a war profiteer. Perhaps a stolen trinket is the universe delivering a bit of justice for once.

Despite his confidence that she did indeed want the necklace, Darvis doesn’t give it to Morrigan directly. He considers it, looping the golden chain through his fingers and watching her from the corner of his eye. But in the end he’s too wary of accidentally offending her; he’s seen her mood shift too often to be certain of her reaction. So instead he waits until her attention is elsewhere and simply leaves it with her things at the foot of her tent.

Morrigan makes no mention of the necklace’s sudden appearance. But that night, as their group shares dinner around a campfire, she shoots Darvis a subtle smile whenever the gold around her neck glints in the firelight.

#dragon age #fanfic #da fanfic #of diamonds and dust #darvis brosca #morrigan #fic: darvis #darvis x morrigan #warden x morrigan #brosca #my writing

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asteraegis · 5 years

Text

that evandra fic lmao

So it’s set in a sort of “kingdom au”, which is basically the same rules of modern day where everyone is alive but it’s a fantasy medieval period. It isn’t as smutty as my edawale and fryeway fics because evie has class unlike edward but there is sex in it eventually. 3604 words

Tags are: wlw, mention of animal death, a fuckton of kissing, cunnilingus, metaphors like that one lesbian sea shanty in odyssey (it’s a dyke/hozier thing), evie crushing big motherfuckin time, kassandra being kassandra

The view outside my modest stained-glass window taunted me as I sat nearly consumed by my studies. Ink I swiped over while writing painted my right hand’s palm and little finger indigo, smudging my forehead as I tried to soothe a fierce headache.

I stood and opened the window, leaning out against its ledge, feeling the breeze play with my loose hair. The crisp air blowing in from the alpines and lush forest gave me a welcomed shiver, a nice change in comparison to the stuffy room I had been holed up in all morning.

“I have got to get out of here,” I muttered, stepping away from the sights and wiping my hands and face clean with a handkerchief.

Abandoning my satin sleepwear, I slipped into a cornflower blue linen gown, tugging the most comfortable sandals in my possession on and descending down stairs of marble, my small travel purse in hand. A walk would do me justice afore I went mad in these walls.

Coming toward the palace mess hall, I decided to grab myself a canteen and loaf of bread seasoned with rosemary, setting these items in my bag next to my leather back journal and dirk. As I left the room and began to make my way toward the doors, my brother that thinks himself to be a jester with the rights of a noble cut in my path.

“Well, well, well! What’s this? The kingdom’s recluse of a princess is leaving her chamber?” Jacob chaffed. “Did the books tell you to give them some space, Evie?”

I rolled my eyes. He really never would understand that with nobility comes more than swordfights and feasts.

“I just want to go for a stroll, Jacob,” I replied, ‘course my reply came out like a hiss as I pushed pass him.

“Like, out in the garden?”

“No, a bit farther, down by the stream.”

“Oooh, an adventure you’re set on! Hope your books can protect you from bears and wolves,” he sneered.

I swallowed as to keep my temper, knowing he just wanted to get a rouse out of me. Turning around with a forced smile, I said to him, “I have a dagger with me, Jacob. How about you see if Arno needs pestering, hm?”

“Hmph, if you’re that desperate to be alone, enjoy your stroll, sweet sister!”

Jacob left and as did I, at last escaping the palace’s walls. I exchanged brief ‘hellos’ with the other noblewomen, Aveline, Elise, and her majesty Amunet, who were having a spot of tea and gossip under a grand willow tree. I strode toward the ivy strangled gate, then went forth venturing down the old river-stone path. Small finches and doves made songs overhead while egrets scouted for salamanders in the bank’s reeds. Squirrels darted in front of me as I headed for my long-time favorite hideaway, a tiny spring hidden by willows, oaks, and looming boulders. I could hear the faint call of its humble waterfall, teasing my skin that longed to stand under the gentle flow. A scenic cove, just for me and plenty to sketch while I lay in a bed of clovers, or, better yet, I could wade in the calm waters naked and let nature shoo my stress away.

But alas my daydreaming was interrupted by a frantic young buck knocking into me as it dashed across the stream elsewhere. I glared at the deer from my spot on the ground, rising to my feet quickly when I laid my eyes on what he had been chased by. A lean, taupe-coated wolf stalked out of the shrubs toward me, seeming to decide I would make and easier meal than the deer. My hand whipped my dirk in front of me and I stood my ground, clutching the blade in my sweaty palms and doing my best not to appear afraid, my heart beating wildly. The wolf went to lunge and I stabbed my knife into its fur, missing a puncture on the animal as I found myself more focused on avoiding its claws. The beast came at me again, pouncing on top of me. I held it back away from my face with my forearms, its teeth biting inches from my nose. The wolf had swatted my measly blade out of my hand from its last attack and from this angle I was beginning to wonder if maybe I should have spent more time sparring with Jacob rather than cooped up at my desk or in the library.

Just as things began to appear bleak, the wolf yelped and fell over, staggering to its feet with a fresh arrow lodged in its neck. Another arrow pierced its chest, giving me time to grab my dirk and finish the mad dog off, panting while my eyes scanned the vicinity for who had helped me.

A tall, muscular woman with scarred olive skin appeared from the bushes, adorned with garments crafted from animal hide I’m sure she fashioned herself. She replaced her bow back behind her, drawing near me with an out stretched hand.

“Are you all right, milady?” she asked, standing over me.

I took her hand and she pulled me effortlessly upright. “I’m, uh, I’m fine, thank you,” I stammered out, taking a step back from her as I felt my cheeks flush from admiration, thankfulness, and her closeness.

“That’s good to hear. Judging by your gold circlet and dress’ dye, you’re one of the princesses from the palace over yonder, no?” she inquired as she picked my satchel from the ground.

“Yes, I was bored and wanted to visit the spring a little north of here,” I said, taking the purse and setting my blade away.

“Might I accompany you, then? To ensure your safety, your highness?”

My heart fluttered at the mere thought of spending time with this heaven-sent Amazonian-esque woman. “Yes! Yes, of course! Oh, and please, ‘your highness’ is sweet, but just call me Evie.”

She smiled warmly, her honey eyes ensnaring my gaze. “Thank you, miss Evie. My name is Kassandra, should you be curious to know.”

“Then many thanks to you, Kassandra.”

We got to the spring in no time. Really, I would have likely been fine alone, but it was nice sharing the path with her while she explained that she was a mercenary, paid by a tanner to collect fox pelts. She was searching this area for the little vulpine creatures when she heard the wolf growling. At the hideaway, the ethereal beauty felt even more fantastical with Kassandra’s presence. She stared in awe of the surrounding area while I shamelessly watched her skin become dotted by the mist’s droplets coming from the falls.

She turned to me with that same charming smile but with childlike wonder in her gaze. “I’m sorry, your high—Evie, do you mind if I stay with you for a bit longer? Please, this place is one of the loveliest views I’ve ever seen.”

“Oh, not at all, Kassandra, I wouldn’t mind your presence. In fact, I have a rosemary loaf, should you be hungry and want to split it with me. It’s the least I can offer for your saving of my life,” I told her, doing my best not to appear desperate for her to stay.

“Really, Evie?” she was beaming from my answer. “I would love to share a meal with you!”

I couldn’t help but grin the entire time we ate together, her telling me that she came from the naval kingdom to the west and answering all the questions I asked about sea travel between bites.

“I’d love to go sailing someday,” I sighed finishing my half as she swallowed hers.

“Well, should your kingdom’s queen allow it, I would gladly petition to take you out,” she said, then hastily continuing with, “um, sailing, take you out sailing.”

It’s a wonder a woman could have such stunning charm, vast natural knowledge, and a kindhearted soul and still appear human by slipping up on her words. I leaned against the oak behind where we sat, giggling at her embarrassed expression. “I’m sure lady Amunet wouldn’t mind.”

Kassandra seemed glad to hear that, standing and facing the spring. “Um, would it be too awkward if I soaked in the water, miss Evie?”

Of course, I wouldn’t mind you being naked, I thought, Who would? “No, it’s fine if you do, Kassandra, please, go right on ahead.”

She thanked me, though it’s not like I own the spring and can dictate who is allowed to use it. I took my journal out of my bag to sketch the dragonflies dancing across lily pads and the rippling surface, but mainly to give Kassandra some privacy while she disrobed. Half way through drawing the body of the insect, my eyes wandered away from the paper and in her direction. She flipped her fur shawl off and unclasped her undershirt, revealing her back. Her skin was visibly sweaty, she must have been exploring for a while before coming across me. Next, she stepped out of her boots and pants, laying her clothes on a stone by the spring. Kassandra waded slowly into the water, moving her arms out to feel the cool, clear liquid swirl around her fingers. I couldn’t look away despite wanting to give her space, after all I had just met her. I found myself flipping to a blank page and sketch her figure as she wiped her hands over her body. I knew it was wrong to draw her nude without her consent, but I wanted to keep her image forever in my mind when I inevitably had to return to the palace and my dusty books. She unbraided her hair and dipped her head under the water. She flung her head back, her hair slinging sprinkles of beads across the surface.

I felt my cheeks warm. It was like watching a nymph play in a river, and I felt her aura pulling me toward her. I set the journal away and took off my sandals, Kassandra turning when she heard me rustling, the sunlight glistening off her wet chest and drenched locks. I gave a friendly smile to make myself feel less of a creep. “I think I might join you, Kassandra, it is terribly humid out and the spring is taunting me.”

It’s true I was being taunted, but it wasn’t by the spring. No, this woman’s body was like a siren’s call, awakening lust with its silent song only your soul could hear.

“It does feel quite refreshing, Evie.”

I lifted my gown up and over my shoulders, pulling down my panties and folding them next to my shoes and purse. Kassandra moved to help me into the spring so I wouldn’t slip, though her standing so near with my hand in hers made me feel light headed, her image clouding my mind. Her chivalry is nice and all, but this might get dangerous if she keeps it up.

The water embraced me, though I ached for the hand I was holding to clutch me instead. My thoughts flooded my common sense as I developed a dazed look in my eyes, staring down her wet frame. To rest my head against her neck, to feel her lips trail down my bosom, to press myself against her, to become one in this secret place. It was immoral of me to think of this as I had been betrothed to another who I loved, but he could never compare to her grace. She just held herself with an air of confidence, like she’s had eras of practice with women of all backgrounds, like she was a mythical creature that comes out whenever a woman heaves a melancholy sigh. I wish a gorgon would come and petrify us in this state so I could stand locked in Kassandra’s eyes with her for the next century. Better yet, to be a stone Kassandra carves so I could feel her press into my body day in day out and smooth me over and over until she’s done with me and I can stare at her without her notice.

“Uh, milady Evie, your hand.”

Her voice startled me and I flicked my eyes down, realizing I was still holding onto her. I released, blushing and staring into the water away from her. “Oh, oh my, I’m sorry about that.”

God, I’m such a dunce sometimes.

She chuckled. “It’s quite all right, dear, I don’t mind you staring.”

My eyes widened. She knows I’ve been staring at her this entire time, I thought, a hot feeling settling in my arms. Of course, she knows, I hadn’t managed to keep my eyes off her for long since she saved me. I’m such a harlot, I haven’t known her for longer than an hour, what am I doing?

“Kassandra, I’m sorry I’ve been lost on you for so long. I know I’m being rude, after everything you’ve done for me in this short time, I really shouldn’t be acting so stricken right now,” I was chagrinned, my desire for her drowning my senses.

She placed her palm to my shoulder, reaching around with her other hand to tilt my chin towards her, snagging my eyes in hers yet again. “Evie, I swear to you whatever you have been daydreaming about is nothing compared to what I yearn to do for you. You’re stunning, you’re intelligent, you’re sweet to me despite our class differences and short time being together, and you being ashamed of yourself for your mind makes you appear restrained. Let me help you release your tenseness; I promise to give you the attention you need.”

I was shocked, to say the least. That this, goddess, would want to treat me so. “Kassandra, I—”

She took both my wrists in her fingers and pulled me near. “Evie, I would build a shrine for you, I would sacrifice myself if it meant to stay with you forever in the afterlife, I want to worship you as the nobility you refuse to accept yourself as. Please, allow me to do this for you.”

This has to be a lucid dream, there is no way this woman is real, she can’t be serious right now, I thought. “Kassandra, you’re lying, you can’t actually want to—”

She leaned in and kissed me on my lips, holding me still for a moment before pulling back. “Did that feel like a lie, miss Evie?”

I’ll be honest, it didn’t. It felt like I had just passed away in my bed and cherubs were leading me to heaven. I closed my eyes for a moment then looked up at her. “Do that again. Everywhere.”

She shown a grateful smile and leaned into me again, our lips fitting together as she undid my hair and tossed my circlet to my things. Kassandra and I made out, our tongues touching at first on accident but then just because neither of us cared. We backed toward the small waterfall, it cascading down us as Kassandra ran her fingers through my hair. Losing a battle with my self-control, I found my arms wrapping around her neck and tugging her against me while I leaned against the wet stone. True, the shower and rocks were freezing, but her touch warmed me so, I could barely notice. She led me away, our lips not once parting, and laid me across a large horizontal stone that stuck out of the spring.

She pulled back for us to get proper breaths and Kassandra held my face in her left hand. “Evie, may I touch here?” she asked, gesturing toward my pelvis.

I nodded. “I did say everywhere.”

“Yes, of course, you’re right.” She lowered her face toward my neck, her breath tickling me. “Everywhere.”

She smelt like petrichor, so close to me, and I knew that today she’d ensure that, every time it rained, she would come to my memories. Her hands held my hips as she trailed her lips down my body like I had desired them to earlier. Kassandra licked at the water that clung to my breasts but didn’t stay fixated on them for too long like a man would, she knew exactly where she needed to be.

Her mouth continued down to my naval and then she spread my legs, a firm grip on both of my thighs. I moaned softly from her teasing kiss she left on my clitoris, her hot breath exciting me. Kassandra’s tongue started at the base of my vagina, coming slowly back up to where she had kissed. She circled it with the underside of her tongue, never lingering too long on one side. Her right thumb came down below her chin and rubbed my perineum, pushing down on it as she closed her lips around my clit. I felt my hips twitch; it had been so long since someone else did this for me. My hands reached down and clutched the back of her head, pulling her closer. I heard her chuckle, muffled against me. She knows that she has me now under the control of her mouth, flicking her tongue up and down like she was flipping a switch.

I felt a sense of hiraeth at her mercy. She had me biting my bottom lip, she could easily make me come quickly but she wanted to make sure she made this feeling last as long as possible. Never has anyone ate me slowly to savor their meal, it’s usually because they’re unsure what to do. I tangled my fingers in her chestnut hair, tilting my head back to moan, her sucking making me gasp.

“Oh, fuck,” I whispered under my breath and she decided it was time to finish me off.

I gasped, my pelvis tingling, my finger tips feeling like they had been burnt, they felt numb but not in a painful way. My toes curled, my clitoris trembling as she kept licking at me, not letting it come up for air. Arching my back from the stone, I wrapped my legs around her shoulders like I had before with my arms. I released her from my thighs’ hold after I steadied my breath and she came to kiss me again, her body over mine. I swung my arms and legs over her, pulling Kassandra down against my skin. She set herself so her thigh would rub against me again, taking one of my hands down to feel her. Kassandra was wet too, from more than the spring, I could feel her pulsing in my palm. I rubbed her clitoris between my fingers, her moaning into my mouth and her hand that get her propped up over me nearly slipping. It made me happy to know I was making her feel as I did earlier. She kept my hand steady on her, guiding my fingers to tell them exactly what she wanted. She backed off from kissing me as she came from my hand, her voice sounding so delicate doused in pleasure. Kassandra pressed her body against mine and kissed me again, this time I could tell it was to make up for her mouth not being able to say “thank you” at the moment.

She stood slowly and I sat up on the stone. She laughed, pointing toward the buck from earlier standing at the spring’s edge, sniffing at us from afar. “It appears we have a peeping tom.”

I giggled, moving to my feet, feeling that Kassandra had stolen part of my heart. The cool water around my pelvis made me shiver again, just not because it was cold. We waded hand in hand back to our belongings, the deer running off from us approaching. Kassandra and I got dressed and she kissed the top of my head.

“Would you mind if I walked you back to the palace’s gate, my princess?” she cooed in my ear.

“Of course not,” I entwined my fingers in hers. “And if you stay in the area, I’ll see about having you knighted in this kingdom, too. You deserve it after proving your ‘worthiness’ today.”

She snorted from her laughter which made me laugh too, leaning against her as she led me back down the path. The poor wolf from earlier was being scavenged by an eagle, which chirped at Kassandra as we passed it. I moved off of her when we neared the queen’s demesne as to not appear to any onlookers that I had been having a little affair while my fiancé was away. Luckily for us, the only person that saw us was the visiting Auditore prince, and he has plenty of scandals of his own to deal with.

I hugged her goodbye, Kassandra assuring me that this wouldn’t be the last time I see her, especially after I pointed out which window was mine with a wink. She kept her eyes on me until I had entered the palace and from outside my window, I could see her petting the eagle. She waved goodbye and walked off into the forest she came from. That night as I laid with my face in my pillow, I thought of her and decided to flip through my rough sketches of her. In my bag I discovered she had left a glove in my bag alongside one of the bird’s speckled feathers. I held them close to my chest, knowing that this night’s memory would last a lifetime, if not longer, then set them next to me in my bed, dreaming of Kassandra and all the things she did for me.

#i write #evandra #evie #kassandra #assassins creed #ac syndicate #ac odyssey #acod #acs #i talk #this is so gay oh my god i need to calm down #my lesbian is showing yall #evie frye #i might reblog my edward smuts so that they can be properly tagged too #since they are gone in my notes #lol anyway have fun with this sorry i used so many metaphors this reads like a hozier song #its 5:37pm #theres literally only one cuss word in this whole fic lol #this is what i do when i have essays due for class

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chrysalispen · 5 years

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prompt: ‘your character, age [X]’

an irl friend’s prompt. I was given age 9, so here she is, nine years old lmao

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His rap on the door went unanswered for some few minutes before he heard the tumbler turn and the creak of moving hinges. A petite, handsome Miqo'te woman with auburn hair stood before him wearing a long apron over a simple day dress, her expression haggard and somewhat annoyed.

"Ah, good day, madame," he said, clearing his throat and hastily digging out the paperwork he'd handed to the guard earlier. "Are you, erm, Lee... ah... L'haiya.... Eyahri? I'm sorry, this writing is blasted illegible."

That vague irritation cleared almost immediately, and he understood that whatever vexed her, it was nothing to do with his arrival.

"L'haiya bas Eyahri," she said, wiping her hands on the apron covering her long skirts. "I presume you have come for the assignment?"

"Yes, madame. I am Genault Dunenard."

"I've refreshments waiting in the parlor; you look as though you could use something cold." She gestured to someone or something behind him. "The stablemaster will see to your chocobo and your things. Come in."

The house was not ostentatious, but the furnishings and decorations were still more fine than he would have expected of anyone on a mid-ranking officer’s salary. She led him into a modest parlor area where sandwiches and various other finger foods were artfully arranged on a silver tray, along with a pitcher of lemonade filled with ice crystals.

"Please, sit," the woman said, gesturing to a chair covered in a lightly faded gobelin fabric. "What were you told of this position?"

"Not much, madame. We were given to understand through the viceroy's messenger that the request came from a family dwelling in Ala Mhigo. I suppose it was assumed they might be Ala Mhigan aristocrats who threw in their lot with the Empire."

"No. I shall be brief, then." She poured the yellow liquid into a glass and handed it to him, the ice crystals chiming pleasantly. Once he took it, she sat down in the plush chair on the other side of the table. "As they have spread their numbers south and elsewhere, some few noble families have elected to colonize provinces rather than remain in the capitol. The young mistress of the house is one of those children. Her mother has recently passed away, and her father's work keeps him ensconced in the viceroy’s palace when he is not visiting installations across the province, so she is left nearly without parents at all."

He tilted his glass this way and that, glancing out a nearby window. A small cadre of men in imperial uniform passed down the thoroughfare past the iron gate, talking and laughing, and the ancient shade tree that partially blocked them from view waved idly in the hot summer breeze. "Would it not have been more practical to send her to a boarding school in Garlemald? Surely the Empire does not lack such institutions."

“The family wished to do precisely that, but her father refused. Said he wanted the girl in her home as long as it was feasible.” She offered a polite smile. "They have the funds to spare."

"So you are her caretaker?"

"Her governess, yes."

As if to punctuate her words he heard the shouts of children from without the house. That irritated expression returned and she let out a sigh, setting the glass down untouched.

"Speaking of your charge, I suppose I must needs fetch her. Your task, Master Genault, is to mold her into a suitable candidate for formal education. The family fully expects to send her off to a school of their choice the moment her circumstances allow, but in the meantime I'm afraid you will have your work cut out for you."

"How so?"

"It is my opinion that the young should be allowed their youth. I've tried to let her have as much of a childhood as I can, but her noble relations would be utterly scandalized if they knew she spends half her days rolling about in the dirt with the locals-"

The source of the shouts burst through the back door, followed by the loud stomping of multiple footsteps not unlike like a herd of gazelles stampeding across the plains. Or perhaps two miniature, very irate whirlwinds.

"-when she's not halfway up every tree she can find," L'haiya sighed.

"Sazh! Get back here, that's mine! Papa gave it to me for my nameday!"

"You already said I could borrow it!"

"Not all day! All you're going to do is watch boring old field exercises aga- Elle!!"

The parlor door was flung open at last, causing both its occupants to startle at the tall, spindly child who barreled into the room shouting at the top of her lungs in heavily accented Common. Her honey-blonde curls were tangled and littered with dirt and tree twigs and her pinafore was covered in more of the same. She was out of breath and her little face was twisted in a fierce scowl.

"Elle, tell Sazh to give me back my spy glass!" she demanded, stamping her foot. "I told him he could borrow it, not keep it!"

"You had it for ages, Aurelia! It's my turn!" came the angry, protesting cry of another child from the doorway.

Aurelia’s eyes narrowed, then she braced her hands on her hips and shot back:

"You get what turn I say you get because it's my swiving house!"

L'haiya's jaw dropped. She drew herself to her full height (which if Genault were honest wasn't that impressive, seeing as the urchin before her was easily as tall as she was) and slammed her glass down on the table hard enough to make its contents splash and rattle. "Aurelia Laskaris! I ought to have Cook wash that filthy mouth out with her dishrag!"

To his surprise, it worked. The Garlean girl cringed, shoulders shrinking as she visibly wilted beneath L'haiya's fury.

"Sorry, Elle," she mumbled. She blinked in Genault's direction, seeming to belatedly realize her bedraggled state, and tried to wipe her cheeks with the sleeve of her dress. It mostly just moved the dirt around rather than removing it; her third eye stood out as the single clean spot on her entire face.

He bit back his laughter with some difficulty.

"What have you been doing all this time?” the woman was scolding. “I told you to draw a bath and prepare to receive your guest two bells past!"

"I was outside studying!" she said defensively.

"Studying what? Botany?" L'haiya reached out and plucked a leafy twig from the child’s hair, with no attempt to be careful. "You look like you've been living in the jungle with the birdmen. And where did you pick up that kind of talk? I know it isn’t Sazh. Was it Bertwald and Terzie again?"

"There was a decurion going past with one of the patrols and he said-"

"What's that to do with you, girl? That sort of talk has got no place in a lady's mouth. Now go upstairs and wash yourself before you embarrass yourself further. And you'd best come back down here ready to apologize to your guest, understood?"

"Yes'm. Sorry," Aurelia repeated. She turned to look at him and managed a wobbly curtsy with the most pathetic attempt at salvaging her personal dignity he had ever seen, tilting up the corners of her filthy pinafore. Then she beat a hasty retreat through the parlor door, a flush creeping up her pale cheeks.

At least, he thought, she wasn’t in earshot when he started laughing.

#just clearing out some more wips #ffxiv writing #aurelia laskaris #ages prompt #now that i think about it 'pathetic attempt at salvaging her personal dignity' is just this character in a nutshell #she wants so badly to be calm and dignified but i think internally she's just a socially anxious dork

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baka-tsumibito · 5 years

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VKC/VME SECRET SANTA FIC 2018 [REPOST]

Couldn’t find it in the tags, so reposting! Let me know if you see it orz

Gift recipient: @foliefolio

This is for the wonderful Folie!! (Whose writing sustained me almost single-handedly since the end of the anime 😭) I can’t put into words how nerve-wracking writing this was, especially since I’ve had a ton of fic planned out that have gone unpublished for like...3-4 years?? Anyway, I guess this is finally my foray into ‘posting’ for VKC....and what better way to do it than to write for my idol ✨ !! I love you so much Folie, and I hope this suits your tastes. (And feel free to say if it doesn’t!!! I had a bunch of other ideas, and have another idea draft written out 😂) You’ve been such a big inspiration to me for the past ~16 months ❤️ I hope I can keep reading your writing for a long time to come!!! (Especially Vatican fics ehehe) And above all, I hope your holidays went wonderfully!!✨

(and if you didn’t see this yesterday, I’m sorry it’s late!!!!!!!)

The prompt was pretty open, and suggested some seasonal touches such as Christmas in Rome, night, gold, bells, cold, etc. I think I used most of them to be honest! There is quite a bit of ahem, non-2019-tumbr-appropriate content, so be warned (I was rather careful with the vocabulary though *shrugs*). Actually, 3/4 of it is priests doing the do, with lots of gratuitous Hiraga family mentions (JIN IS CANNON AND I LOVE HIM). [I guess I’ve never really posted publicly above my love for VKC, but I am a die-hard HiraRobe (esp. bottom Roberto) lover. Roberto will eventually cry (before/during/after or all 3) when they consummate their relationship 100%. I don’t think I did my thoughts of them justice here, and if I ever manage to publish again, there will definitely be more angst ; __ ; (There also needs to be more weirdness/religion too.) My current biggest thing is Vatican politics, and the logistics of priests in relationships despite their vows, how they make moral justifications and types of penance etc.etc. which I did not go into almost at ALL, so yeah...] Tumblr formatting is not ideal, so this will probably go up on AO3 once I get a chance to edit. I have a ton of miscellaneous commentary too, so that’ll probably be there as well. Sorry for the long preface, onto the actual gift! [Couldn’t find the read more button, I’m sorry :’) ] *** The winter wind is cold and brisk, blowing across the balcony and permeating the thin blanket draped around Roberto’s shoulders, useless against the frigid air. He cannot hold back a shiver, then another, and he desperately wishes for some form of heat. The door slides open and shut behind him with a click, bringing no respite from the chill. Hiraga, then? Both his brother and his father are asleep in the room behind him. Roberto had been nodding off on the sofa himself, but despite the late hour, it’s time for him to go and give the family some privacy.

Hiraga would be against that; luckily, Roberto can try to convince him out here, in the relative privacy of the balcony. Only God will be their witness – and perhaps, the smoker in the hotel across the way if he stays out much longer. “Roberto,” Hiraga murmurs at his back, arms wrapping around his middle and firmly anchoring themselves around his torso.

Oh.

Perhaps it is not time for this particular discussion then. Maybe, Roberto can allow himself to indulge for a few minutes. But alas, nothing with Hiraga ever seems to go according to plan. For Hiraga’s hands are already beginning to wander, and with them Roberto’s composure is already starting to break. “Hiraga,” Roberto begins, train of thought nearly derailing when a fingertip purposefully flicks against a hardened nub. He supresses a sigh. “Isn’t this a little…” Tasteless? Improper? Ryouta is on the other side of the balcony door, in their room; so is Hiraga Jin –

(kind, wonderful Hiraga Jin who had spoken with him about opera for hours at length, only pausing for a second when Roberto shuddered, expression falling, at the mention of Puccini who had followed Rossini, Verdi and before that,Weber, Wagner and Wetz and Jin had been delighted to find Roberto knew even obscure German composers “Ah, I suppose no Tosca for you then, Roberto-kun,”and when Roberto smiled back weakly, almost in apology,

“That’s alright,” he murmured consolingly. “I can’t say I’m very fond of Madama Butterfly myself.”)

– Jin who has shown nothing but tremendous kindness to Roberto from the moment they met in the train terminal. Jin, who Roberto has only known personally for less than twenty hours and is desperately trying impress, and keep face in front of him at the very minimum. (Jin, who had smiled at Roberto with as much kindness as either of his sons after a single conversation; who had welcomed him into the family – immediately, as Roberto would find out from the paperwork he would receive a few weeks later – Jin, who had insisted Roberto call him by his given name, insisting that any other title would be too stuffy and that one “Hiraga” was more than enough.) (And Hiraga, his lovely partner Hiraga, had made an undecipherable expression upon realizing he was now the only one being referred to by surname.) Ryouta and Jin are only separated from them by a glass door; Hiraga’s delicate hands are currently worming their way through the layers of blanket and underclothes to Roberto’s skin and he can’t— “Hiraga…!”

We can’t, Roberto needs to tell him, not here. No matter how much his body desires, blood thrumming through his veins at the proximity he has barely had enough days to get used to, if at all– since Hiraga kissed him on the stroke of midnight as the crowds on the television in front of them began screaming in celebration, soft mouth pressing against Roberto’s frozen smile, still with surprise and fear, buried underneath the building euphoria – since Hiraga took his bare hand a day later, telling him “My family is coming to Italy to celebrate with us; won’t you join me?” And Roberto hadn’t known what to do with the burst of adrenaline that sent his heart pounding loud enough to drown out Hiraga’s soft explanations of travel plans and cheap hotel rooms post-holiday season – since Hiraga had shown up at his door at 5:50 in the morning, dressed casually but smartly as he usually did on their days off together, taken one look at the circles under Roberto’s eyes and dragged him back to bed (where they had laid together and Roberto hadn’t managed much rest at all when they were forced to rise or be late to Rome) – since touching Hiraga to his heart’s desire became allowed, and now Roberto feels the precarious grip on his self-control he has clung to all this time begin to slip. “Roberto…” comes Hiraga’s voice, cutting quietly through the night air. Rome is much more crowded than the Vatican. Booking a room on an upper floor has its advantages, Roberto muses in an attempt to distract himself from the warmth and pressure at his back. The night view is rather enchanting, what with the colorful array of lights spreading out in the distance. “Roberto..!” Hiraga calls more insistently this time, startling Roberto out of his reverie. He is not accustomed to being ignored, and Roberto must apologize. A kiss to his spine signals that he is forgiven. Roberto lets out a sigh in response. “Bend down please,” Hiraga murmurs at his back, and Roberto reflexively complies. As he slowly hunches over the railing, Hiraga’s lips find the back of his neck. Roberto shivers, not out of cold alone. Each kiss leaves a trail of ice in its wake, as Hiraga makes his way down the slope of one shoulder, then the other. His fingers are occupied with Roberto’s buttons, and as they slowly come undone, more and more skin is revealed to the biting wind, immediately covered by Hiraga’s eager mouth. After some time, Hiraga begins to tire of this, and slips both arms under Roberto’s shirt. He cannot supress a whimper. Thus spurred on, Hiraga’s hands come to rest on his bare chest, caressing him lightly. Still, there is intent behind each stroke, and as one hand flits over his hardened nipple, the other slips lower, stroking the curves of Roberto’s torso and muscles as it descends down his stomach. “…ah… Hiraga, w-wait…” Roberto stifles a gasp as a fingertip brushes the skin along his waistband. Don’t stop, he contradicts himself internally. Please don’t let go of me. He wonders if Hiraga can hear him anyway, intuiting his desires, but reluctantly, Hiraga’s hands do come to a halt before pulling away entirely. “Nnn…!” Roberto lets out unintentionally. The movement of Hiraga’s arms has caused the blanket to shift, leaving his upper body uncovered, bare from the shoulders where Hiraga had worried at the skin with his lips. They are only apart for a few moments, though it is enough for a sudden draft to send him shivering. Hiraga struggles with something behind him. “It’s alright,” Hiraga soothes, “It’s alright. Roberto.” He returns with the blanket, fumbling to wrap it snuggly around the two of them together. Roberto begins to find this struggle endearing as his bare skin is covered once more, although Hiraga’s comfort takes priority. He twists around slightly intending to take over, but Hiraga’s palms come to rest on his shoulder blades, stopping him halfway. “Let me please,” he chastens. Who is Roberto to say no? “Alright,” he allows. He strains to keep still, as his instincts urge him to turn around, to take Hiraga into his arms and keep him there indefinitely. If only, if only… Hiraga’s fussing continues on, and Roberto’s left hand is captured by both of Hiraga’s during the struggle, right hand bracing them both against the railing. Their entwined limbs are somehow even colder – an uncomfortable cold Roberto cannot shake off when Hiraga’s fingers glide away to continue tucking the sheet elsewhere. He struggles to shake his hand free – an attempt to bring it up to his lips and warm it with his breath – but when his hand emerges from the tangle, Roberto’s eyes immediately zero in on the metal band settled snugly around his finger. Behind him, Hiraga has stilled; finished fiddling with the blanket then, or waiting for Roberto’s reaction? A quick glance tells him that the sheet is stretched taut around his chest, already beginning to slide down and bringing his unbuttoned shirt with it. Hiraga is a priest; he has, then, undoubtedly attended the same classes Roberto has, and Roberto aches, aches, to believe that not even Hiraga would mistake the significance of putting a ring. on someone’s. left.

(ring finger) He desperately wants to see what expression Hiraga is wearing at the moment, but his partner’s face is currently buried between Roberto’s shoulder blades, showing no signs of emerging. His own face must look something scary, for Roberto can feel himself start to tear up, wind attacking him mercilessly and deepening the ache. Roberto struggles to rotate his upper body, disturbing Hiraga’s careful wrapping and unsettling his hiding spot. With this new angle, his hip is digging into the metal bars of the railing. Roberto pays it no mind, cupping Hiraga’s cheeks and bringing their gazes level. Hiraga is flushed, eyes darting left and right before slowly looking up at Roberto through his long lashes. His chin is lowered, and he is biting his lip. Goodness, how many times must he be told not to, Roberto thinks with a level of fondness. He reaches out to free Hiraga’s poor lip with his left arm, and both of their eyes are drawn to the shining ring. Hiraga lets out a deep breath. “I,” Hiraga falters, looks away. “Is it… alright now? That is, to…” His voice is soft from embarrassment, but hope shines through in his gaze, drilling holes into Roberto’s breastbone. Roberto cannot tear his eyes away. He gently calls for Hiraga’s attention, and Hiraga jerks his head up, making eye contact. Roberto can spot the moment Hiraga begins to panic, eyes dilating in alarm – after all, Hiraga has always been weak to crying, and Roberto has felt the urge to bawl building since that precious celebratory kiss. “Yes,” Roberto breathes, somewhat tearfully. “I could never say no to you.” Hiraga makes to wipe Roberto’s eyes, but pauses halfway. Roberto can only hold still, anticipation rising with each passing second…… until Hiraga raises himself on his toes to kiss the corner of his mouth, fisting the fabric pooled at Roberto’s waist. *** Hiraga’s lips flutter around the shell of Roberto’s ear, and he whines, softly. He can feel Hiraga, pressing into his hip unashamedly. He craves it, has been craving it maybe since they began their partnership, when Roberto began to feel like the hole in his chest could possibly be filled by the presence of this wonderful man. But right now, they’re outside and clearly visible to anyone who might happen to be watching. The alternative is a room containing the two people he wishes to impress the most, Hiraga’s family. There is no escape. And what about preparation? He hasn’t, oh heavens, hasn’t cleaned, has nothing to ease the slide of Hiraga inside of him, and what if it chafes? Hiraga would hurt, and they’d never attempt it again out of fear, and maybe regret – And what of their respective positions? Caught up by the mood, Roberto has forgotten – or purposefully put aside, as he can never truly forget – what of their vows? Hiraga has told him, the moment reality and dread set in after the midnight kiss, that the Church and God are separate; that God will forgive them this, will grant them this much, that love is beautiful in all forms. He’d quoted scripture and philosophies en masse and while Roberto had been struggling to wrap his aching head and heart around them, daring to hope, he’d forgotten to consider why Hiraga had done so much research. Now, it was all coming back to bite him. Not yet, his heart whimpers. We can’t, not until – until what? Will discussing his deepest fears quell the clamour in his heart, the noise that has refused to subside through time and effort? Hiraga bites down, drawing Roberto out of his spiralling thoughts. His ear stings pleasantly, Hiraga soothing the bite with tiny licks. Not wanting his dismay to be noticed, Roberto turns fully away, grasping the rail with a quiet click from the ring. If Hiraga has noticed anything, he stays quiet, only pressing even closer, throbbing length nudging the backs of Roberto’s legs. Ah. What if he took me like this?

And Roberto imagines Hiraga, slick between his thighs, hidden from any prying eyes by the folds of the sheet carefully draped around their waists. He visualizes the slide, smooth and warm, and aches in empathy. He’d have to cover his face, hide his expression, his tears borne from enjoyment and desire. He keens softly, and Hiraga’s arms tighten around his torso. “Roberto,” Hiraga pants, breathing rather heavily. “Let me see your face please.” And Roberto’s plans go out the figurative window .“…Alright,” he swallows, grasping the blanket and desperately trying to compose his expression while Hiraga manoeuvres him eagerly until they are face-to-face. He ducks his head, and Hiraga takes the opportunity, pushing forward until their lips meet tenderly in their first proper kiss of the night. It does not last nearly long enough. Roberto is left to savour the taste of Hiraga on his lips as Hiraga’s mouth wanders, destination clearly in mind. Roberto’s body takes this moment to remind him that a certain areahas been lacking attention; with a cry, his lower body jerks forward when Hiraga’s teeth brush the spot where jaw meets neck. His front, bulging prominently, hits something – Hiraga’s leg? – and he rushes to apologize. “Ah..Hiraga! I’m sorry—ahh!” Unbothered, Hiraga continues to move lower, shifting his stance until they are touching, chest to groin to thigh. Roberto can’t help but moan at the pressure, their hardness aligned as much as possible with their differences in height. Hiraga rolls his hips forward, lips buried in the crook of Roberto’s neck. Roberto presses his face to Hiraga’s hair. He cannot stifle the outpouring of groans and embarrassing noises he is producing in the face of such intense pleasure. “Ngh, aah… Hiraga, Hiraga, Hiraga…” Hiraga’s name is a litany of pleas on Roberto’s lips. Hiraga shudders in euphoria, rubbing their hips together. Calling his name in return. “Roberto...!” Hiraga pulls away, and the feeling of loss on Roberto’s neck is palpable, but then Hiraga presses their foreheads together and the pang is instantly soothed. Hiraga’s hand scrabbles with the too-tight front of Roberto’s pants. “May I? Please, I, oh, please allow me this…” he pleads, and Roberto has hardly breathed his assent before Hiraga is reaching into his undergarments and pulling him out rather hastily. But it’s enough, more than, even. “….Ah!” Roberto exclaims, head falling back. It’s been a very, very long time since he has touched himself this way; as little faith as he held in his own lifestyle, something about living up to Hiraga’s ideals (or so he imagined) had prevented him from indulging in this particular pleasure, at least in his conscious moments. In his sleep, he might be graced with Hiraga’s warmth only to regret his weakness in the morning, then spend days repenting. Or, he would find himself absently wondering about the stretch of his jaw when contemplating food, imagining the sensation of something inside him when cleaning the bidet (or using it). He’d promptly banish these thoughts, face flushed and guilt building, but. It was impossible to repress his sinful desires for long before they would surface, often at the most inconvenient of times. However, now he is keenly feeling the aftermath of abstaining. The pleasure is all-consuming. His body is ready to give in, limbs wound up tense, focus narrowed in on the tightness and particular sensation of Hiraga’s fist. But he cannot give in, not without giving something in return, not without seeing the rapture he is experiencing reflected in Hiraga’s own self. “Let me,” he rasps, fumbling towards Hiraga’s own straining erection. Hiraga sighs in response, pushing up into Roberto’s palm the moment he is freed. His free arm searches out Roberto’s, and Roberto starts as Hiraga winds their fingers together, jostling the cool metal around his ring finger already warming up in response to Hiraga’s touch. Hands clasped, they tug on each other frantically, racing to completion yet not awaiting the finish. “Roberto…” Hiraga exhales, smiling up at him. The city lights aren’t bright enough for Roberto to make out his eyes with their usual clarity, but they shine nonetheless. Hiraga is beautiful no matter where he is, Roberto reflects, and he leans in to capture that beauty for a fleeting moment. Hiraga kisses enthusiastically, all lips and tongue, and Roberto is content to let himself be kissed, thoroughly. Were this the private fantasy of his dreams, or the corner of his mind he dares not allow his mind to wander, he would take Hiraga’s jaw in hand and show him delicacy. Gentle, slow, yet warm… except, crouching on this freezing balcony, Hiraga is his only source of warmth, and Roberto desires his heat from his toes to his mouth to the depths of his core.

It is, he considers with what little sanity that remains, all too much. Hiraga has barely had his hands and lips on him, and Roberto is already at his limit, approaching climax at an alarming rate; he cannot spare anymore thoughts for the eyes that might be on them, whether it be the smoker from the hotel across the way, or even innocent Ryouta, who would surely come to resent him should he catch the two of them in such a compromising position. Roberto defiling his precious older brother – The sudden glare that blinds him even through his half-closed lids is regrettably not due to their climaxes. Roberto pulls away, however reluctantly, from Hiraga’s demanding kisses, letting go of Hiraga (to their mutual dismay) in order to lift the blanket even higher. He squeezes their entwined hands in apology; thankfully Hiraga does not respond by tightening his hand where it rests around Roberto.

The least he can do is shield Hiraga’s body from sight, as he scrambles for a way to do damage control, although the situation is not promising. Against him, Hiraga is pliant but confused as he tries to figure out where Roberto’s attention has gone. It takes a few, loaded moments before his attention is directed to the room behind him. By fault of pleasure or exhaustion, Roberto is not sure, his eyes take what feels like minutes to adjust. What had seemed blinding a few moments before is only a small lamp, mounted next to an empty armchair where Ryouta had curled up for the evening despite the inviting bed beside him. Jin takes up half of said bed now, spread out on top of the sheets and still in his day clothes. He doesn’t seem to have moved from where Roberto had last seen him before heading outside, unsure if pulling the blankets up around him would be too much, or. Well. All the more he should leave them be, before he intruded too much, Roberto had reasoned, then promptly fled to the balcony. Roberto stiffens as he spots Ryouta exit the bathroom, rubbing his eyes blearily and looking very much half-asleep. More or less relaxed, Hiraga leans against his chest, exuding more calm than Roberto feels as Ryouta climbs onto the bed and settles in next to his father. They observe silently for a little longer, perhaps bound by some mutual understanding built after years of partnership, watching him slip deeper into sleep. The lamp is left forgotten. Hiraga is the first to break the silence, laughing softly. He turns back to Roberto, looking pleased. “Roberto,” he begins. “Shall we head inside? So you don’t fall ill.”

How he is so unruffled when they were nearly caught in the act, Roberto cannot fathom. Still, he would hate to ruin the moment, to burst the bubble with whys and what ifs. Steeling himself, he leans in to rest their heads together. Moving their coupling into the room where Hiraga’s family is sleeping is unthinkable, and the inevitable end to their encounter if they do go inside hurts just as much. Hiraga’s hand is hot and fidgeting around him, and a distant part of Roberto is ashamed that his erection has not flagged in the slightest. Not yet. I don’t want this to end yet. “Hiraga,” Roberto tells him. “Please…don’t stop.” And with that, Roberto gently grabs Hiraga’s length, bringing them together; the heat of them combined is electric. He can hardly keep his eyes open wide enough to take in the details of Hiraga’s beautiful face: eyelids fluttering, mouth gasping, bangs sticking to his face with what must be a cold sweat. “Roberto…hnngh…” Hiraga groans, letting go and allowing Roberto to take care of bringing them over the edge. Roberto is infinitely grateful that Hiraga, intentionally or not, takes the blanket in hand briefly before allowing his free hand to roam around Roberto’s bare chest once more. It’s much warmer without the slick from their pre-cum freezing in the breeze. Hiraga’s hand wanders up to Roberto’s right cheek, pulling him back in for another kiss. He licks into Roberto’s mouth, tongue wandering up and down teeth, along the roof of his mouth, and twining their tongues together. The intensity of it all brings Roberto right back to the precipice he had been teetering on the edge of not long before. It’s all he can do to keep stroking them, although admittedly Hiraga thrusting against him is doing much more than the periodic buckling of his own hips. “Hiraga, Hiraga…” he whispers into the kiss, and Hiraga sucks Roberto’s tongue into his mouth. “Nnn…” When Hiraga pulls away, Roberto follows. The next words he speaks are against Roberto’s lips. “Roberto,” Hiraga forces out. “Please.” His voice takes on a deeper timbre, lower than Roberto has ever hear from him. It’s incredibly attractive, just as much as the near-growl that comes out next. “Please,” “call my name.” Roberto’s heart lurches. (And oh, if this hasn’t been building all day, since he’d caught Hiraga staring at them wistfully) (“Here, Roberto-nii-san!” “Thank you Ryouta-kun.”) ( “Has Kou been giving you much trouble, Roberto-kun?” “Not too much, Jin-san. It’s nothing I can’t handle. Right, Hiraga?”) ( “Onii-san, your expression is scary…”) A swell of affection rises in him, and Roberto presses his lips to Hiraga’s ear before he whispers, “Kou.” The effect is instantaneous; Hiraga cries out, jerks his hips into Roberto’s hand, and squeezes Roberto’s other palm. The ring digs into his skin, and the reminder that Hiraga had gotten him a ring paired with the sudden, aggressive crash of lips on his is enough to knock enough awareness into him. Oh, Roberto thinks, feeling somewhat removed. This isn’t a dream.

He’s embracing (making love to?) Hiraga for the first time; the thought consumes him, sends his eyes watering, and his body chooses that moment to give in. *** Roberto is vaguely conscious of Hiraga calling his name during his release. When Hiraga captures his lips once more, softly this time, he feels himself returning to the present. Hiraga pulls away gradually. “Have you come back to me yet?” he murmurs, and the words are endearing enough that Roberto kisses him again, and again, until his cooling body interrupts, and he must pull away to stifle a sneeze. “Oh, Roberto,” Hiraga says dreamily. Roberto stares at him. “You were so beautiful when you came.” Roberto cannot help the flush that rises to his cheeks, his ears, and quite possibly his neck too. The tears he has been holding in all night decide to overflow, much to his embarrassment. “Aah, uuuu…” Roberto turns his head to the side, extricating his left hand from Hiraga’s grasp to cover his face. Surprisingly, Hiraga lets him, and does not startle at the sight of his tears. Instead, he wraps both arms around Roberto’s waist and holds him close.

It’s warm. What is also warm – and somehow still not deflating – is Hiraga’s member, still grasped in Roberto’s grip with his own, softening and growing oversensitive, length. Hiraga has not come yet. Staring at the crown of Hiraga’s head, Roberto’s muddled mind reaches this conclusion much too slowly. Mustn’t it be painful? Why hadn’t he said – this is Hiraga, selfless to a fault. Of course he hadn’t said anything. Roberto must take care of him. It’s partially a selfish desire: what face would Hiraga make, trembling in the arms of ecstasy? How would his limbs tense, back arch, expression contort? Would he come with Roberto’s name on his lips, begging for a kiss, or for release? Roberto needs to find out. “Hiraga,” he says, letting go of them at last. Hiraga whimpers, face still hidden in Roberto’s chest. “Hiraga,” he tries again, this time moving to release Hiraga’s tight grip around his back. Hiraga does not give. “Yes yes,” he wants to laugh, but settles for pressing a kiss to Hiraga’s hair part, then suddenly drops to his knees. Hiraga’s hands, now left grasping at empty air, immediately find purchase in Roberto’s curls. Roberto takes a second to look up at him, framed by several lights from surrounding buildings and the clear night sky. Hiraga has always looked lovely, but this view of him, hair and clothing disheveled, zip opened and framing his aching hardness, staring down at Roberto with eyes filled with something he desperately wishes is love, this view of him is nothing short of angelic. He commits the view to memory as he leans forward to nuzzle Hiraga’s shaft. “Roberto…” Hiraga sounds dazed. Roberto’s tongue darts out to lick along a protruding vein, and Hiraga’s hips buck forward. “Roberto!” But Roberto gives him no time to apologize. He takes the head – that had only nudged his cheek – into his mouth, and sucks. Hiraga hisses, fingers tightening in his hair. “R-Roberto…it’s aaah… so w-warm…” Hiraga stutters, hips moving erratically. Roberto’s hands reach up from where they grip Hiraga’s thighs to trace his protruding hipbones. Remembering himself, Roberto’s dominant hand dips down to cup, then gently tug on Hiraga’s balls. Hiraga sighs. They are already wound close to his body; is he close? More than likely, Roberto assumes. While Hiraga has been surprising him left and right recently, the idea of Hiraga getting himself off frequently enough to build up a decent amount of stamina is still improbable, at best. Roberto mulls this over while taking Hiraga further into his mouth, redirecting his line of sight low enough to ensure his lips stayed folded over his teeth. Hiraga is part of the science division, and Roberto would not be surprised at this point if their personal doctrine concerning abstinence is less strict than what is expected by the Church. For ah, health reasons, perhaps. After all, the human body is designed for periodic release and tension does build up. But Hiraga is not good at taking care of his own needs, Roberto muses as he bobs his head. Hiraga cries out his name above him. Occasionally perchance, but Hiraga touching himself with any degree of frequency is about as unbelievable as Hiraga having a wedding night… and Roberto’s pace falters as the band on his finger grows unbelievably heavy. Hiraga strokes through Roberto’s hair, and it serves as a reminder to concentrate on his task. Thoughts of how Hiraga gets himself off, and what Hiraga’s intentions are should be saved for later, in the privacy of his home. Or, ah, bed. Roberto makes a questioning sound, almost as if to say does it feel good? and Hiraga groans before telling him yes, of course--oh!.. yes, very much so--ahhh... If only he could take him all the way down, Roberto despairs, but his jaw is already nearing its limits. He swallows in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure – but this must feel incredibly good, as Hiraga’s hands clench in a vice grip. His hips pick up the pace and Roberto keeps himself still as to let Hiraga take his pleasure. Roberto, Roberto, Roberto….. Hiraga calls out his name over and over, and Roberto wishes for this to last just a little longer. Hiraga’s hips stutter, and Roberto takes over as best he can, until he can taste Hiraga’s release pouring down his throat. He comes rather silently, Roberto notices, staring up at the long line of Hiraga’s throat. His expression is hidden by his chin and his hair, Roberto observes regretfully. Either way, he is still the most beautiful sight Roberto has ever laid eyes upon. He keeps his lips fastened around Hiraga until he has emptied himself. Roberto gently licks him clean before pulling off and swallowing the load. He stays on his knees, staring up at Hiraga and gently stroking his legs until Hiraga comes back to himself, looks down at Roberto in awe and tugs on him lightly until Roberto gets to his feet. Hiraga leans against him as Roberto wipes first his hand, then Hiraga’s softening shaft with the dirtied blanket. Hiraga’s warmth is akin to a fire, and Roberto basks in it (being outside shirtless in January means it is most likely his sense of temperature that is off). He won’t regret anything if he gets sick, although maybe if either of them had had more presence of mind, they would have made better use of the now-sticky blanket. Hiraga takes hold of a corner to wipe up the small smear he made under Roberto’s eye. Roberto tries to tidy them up as best he can, tucking them carefully inside their underwear, closing buttons and zippers and hiding skin once more. And combing through hair (or at least Hiraga’s; with the way Hiraga had been tugging on his own, he’s not sure he can face the damage without a mirror or two). He leaves his shirt half-buttoned, only for the way Hiraga’s gaze lingers (dare he say, appreciatively). Thus groomed, Hiraga leans in to kiss him. Roberto quickly reaches up to place three fingers on Hiraga’s lips. “Nn?” Hiraga looks up at him in surprise, thrown off. “I, I just…” Roberto does not know how to put this into words without embarrassing himself even further. He settles for pointing at his throat. “Swallowed..” Expression determined, Hiraga reaches up with unexpected strength, pulling Roberto’s fingers away and sticking his tongue inside Roberto’s mouth. He licks him more thoroughly than before, and Roberto is helpless to stop him, mind blank. “It’s alright,” Hiraga tells him as he pulls away, wiping a suspicious wetness off his bottom lip with his thumb. (Roberto doesn’t want to know.) “Of course I don’t mind that. I love you.” In the silence, neither of them expect the second deluge of tears of the night. Ashamed, Roberto prays for the earth to swallow him up. Maybe then, he can spend eternity contemplating Hiraga’s revelation, or giving thanks for this encounter. And then plead for a second. Hiraga leads Roberto, sobbing silently, inside. If the constantly-changing temperatures don’t make him sick, maybe dehydration will. He decides to turn a blind-eye to the blanket dumped on the floor between the empty bed and the wall – he does not have the energy to deal with it now. It is only when Hiraga pulls Roberto into his lap on the unoccupied bed that Roberto remembers his resolve to leave the family their privacy. It quickly crumbles faced with the stream of uninterrupted tears. Roberto is quick to hide his face in Hiraga’s arms. Hiraga strokes his head for as long as it takes Roberto to reign himself in. When his shoulders cease their trembling, at last Hiraga speaks: “Roberto? Did I do something wrong?... Have you, come to hate me?” Roberto’s head snaps up immediately. “No!” He takes a deep breath, and reminds himself to speak quietly as to not wake up the rest of the room. Hiraga’s face is already showing signs of relief.

“Of course not,” he continues in a whisper. “How could you think that? I,” and here Roberto pauses. This is not the ideal place to confess. Hiraga deserves much, much more than a sobbing mess and a soiled sheet on a cold balcony in an unfamiliar room, but. But.

Hiraga has given him so much today. (A confession, a ring, an experience of family. A hand, a mouth, and pleasure Roberto could never put into words.) It’s not fair to keep him waiting still.

“I love you more than anything,” Roberto confesses to him quietly. “I will never, ever come to hate you. I promise.” Hiraga smiles up at him, eyes glittering. “I know!” That throws Roberto off. “Eh?” Hiraga’s grin is infectious. “You told me earlier, when you, ah…” Hiraga’s eyes dart over to where his brother and father lie sleeping. He meets Roberto’s eyes, blushing slightly but with a playful smile. Roberto cannot believe his ears.

“I did?” Hiraga nods happily. “Ah. I see. How unfortunate,” Roberto continues. “I had hoped to remember at least that much.”

Hiraga nestles up to him, seemingly unphased. “It’s alright. I’d be happy to hear it again.”

And with that, every unsettled feeling in Roberto’s heart is swept away.

(I love you, he whispers, and will continue to all night, face hidden in Hiraga’s hair.)

Hiraga wipes away the wet streaks that adorn his face. They take a blanket from their own bed to cover Jin and Ryouta, lost in slumber. The lamp is switched off. The used blanket is adequately hidden, and Roberto washes his face while Hiraga dries his hands. Roberto runs his fingers through his hair, though it is likely a lost cause.

Once they’re done, Roberto allows Hiraga to tug him into their own bed with no complaints. He embraces him tightly.

“Hey,” Roberto whispers to him. “Let’s go buy your ring soon, alright?”

“Make,” Hiraga corrects sleepily, and Roberto is once again sent reeling. He holds Hiraga as he falls asleep, whispering promises of love, and tries to pray, to offer what thanks he can to God for this blessing. (The next day is truly just as exciting: Jin and Ryouta wake up disoriented but happy when they see the couple embracing in their sleep, Roberto discovers that his ring is gold – he won’t find the inscription within until they get home – and Hiraga gets flustered when Roberto calls him “Kou” in front of everyone. Hiraga gets teased about his new, form-fitting wardrobe much to Roberto’s delight, Jin tries to teach them all about adoption processes and family registries in Japan – to everyone but Hiraga’s confusion – and Roberto nearly damages something when he finds several red marks covering his nape, in plain view despite his shirt collar.)

#foliefolio #Vatican Kiseki Chousakan #Vatican Miracle Examiner #Hiraga Josef Kou #Roberto Nicolas #平ロベ #fanfiction #平賀ヨゼフ庚 #ロベルト・ニコラス

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