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yearning-for-autumn · 3 months

Note

So, here is my humble request 👀:

Reader is afab Illyrian, got her wings clipped (because we hate this tradition that’s why and because I am too much into enemies to lovers) and the Bat Boys consider her something close to a little sister.

When Eris was making a deal with the NC to get their help to kill Beron and that shit, his bond snapped with reader.

Obviously problematic for him because he has been insulting Illyrians since his mom popped him out about 500+ years ago.

So…bonus points for: smut obvs.- go as filthy as you like, Lucien absolutely mocking Eris for FUMBLING desperately to get his charm going, reader being oblivious.

I hope this sparks some ideas and creativity 🥰🤞🏻

Would That I -- Part 1

A/n: This was too good not to make into a multi-part fic, so expect more soon. Smut will be coming!

Pairing: Eris X Illyrian!Reader

Warnings: Allusions to smut, pining, mentions of mental health

Word Count: 3,638

Summary: You hate him. You hate the very thought of him. And yet he's your mate. The Mother has a cruel sense of humour.

Part 2 Part 3

Fury rippled through your body like a forest fire. You were livid. And Cassian had the nerve to laugh at you. Well, stifle a laugh. Rhysand was watching him with a worried look as he tried to give him a silent warning to stop. This progressed to warning him mind to mind when you got up from the sofa, flinging a pillow so far it almost landed into the fireplace. Azriel flinched.

“Him!?” You seethed, finally breaking the silence you had kept since your return from that damned High Lord meeting. Cassian snorted softly and you rounded on him with a deathly calm. Rhys made a small noise in the back of his throat.

“Is this funny to you, brother? I’m shackled to that evil, pompous, ginger-haired freak and you’re laughing?” His smile had dropped and a look of fear was quickly overcoming his rugged features. You stepped closer to him, your finger in his face. “Don’t sleep too deeply tonight.”

Rhysand cleared his throat.

“Look, this doesn’t have to be the end of the world. You don’t have to accept the bond. We can make sure you never see him again.” The bond snarled through you at that and you growled.

“Sure Rhys, because you were so calm when you found out Feyre was your mate.”

His brow furrowed.

“So you want to be with Eris?” The name seemed to physically disgust him. Azriel scoffed, abruptly rising from the sofa and marching out of the room. Cassian eyed the doorway in his wake. You turned to Rhys.

“No!” You groaned in frustration, pacing up and down on the carpet like a caged animal. Cassian’s eyes darted between Rhys and you. Finally deciding to break things up he manhandled you into a hug. You fought it for a few moments, before giving up and collapsing into your brothers embrace, hot angry sobs wrenching through you. Rhys took this as his cue to leave, and winnowed—probably to his office—out of the room. Cassian rubbed soothing circles on your back, careful to avoid your wings that were ever more sensitive after the clipping.

You were clipped at thirteen, which is how you had come to live with the three brothers. In Windhaven, they clipped your wings the day you started your cycle. Once grounded there was no escaping your duties, nor any chance to leave the camp. Unless, of course, you had grown close with the High Lord’s son, who had a mother with a habit of collecting strays.

You were there through all of it, the highs, the lows, and Morrigan’s tumultuous relationship with one Eris Vanserra. The male you were now mated to.

---

In the Forest House, Eris was pacing. His throat was still sore from the memory of Azriel’s scarred hand, and his cheek burned from the slap that had earned him from his father. But all of that had been overshadowed. He knew as soon as he saw you. His heart had lurched in his chest so hard he had thought he might throw up. You were the most beautiful female he had ever laid his eyes on. And of course, you were from the Night Court. The Mother truly did have a cruel sense of humour.

You had walked in, looking as arrogant as the rest of them, sharing a secret smile with the shadowsinger before sitting down next to the High Lord. Eris, next to his mother, couldn’t rip his eyes from you. Your doe eyes, sharp and intelligent captured his attention first. He wanted nothing more than to get lost in them, to find out everything about you: What you liked to read, your favourite food, how best to pleasure you and have you screaming his name. He was pulled from his fantasies by your wings. Cauldron, your magnificent wings. Their beauty stole breath from his lungs as they unfurled, getting comfortable on the chair. You had smiled at Feyre, warm and supportive, and Eris knew he was utterly lost.

He finally stopped his pacing, locked inside his room, and sat down on the edge of his bed. He sat there, holding his head in his hands until he heard the scratch of claws at the door. Getting up with a weary sigh, he opened it only to be knocked to the ground by his oldest and most loyal smokehound.

“Cheddar.” He chided as she licked his face excitedly. “Cheddar Biscuit.” He said, sternly, and she leapt off of him, waiting by the door expectantly.

“Yes alright, I suppose it’s time for a walk.” Cheddars tail thumped faster against the door frame and Eris couldn’t help the smile that grew. “Go and fetch your brothers and sisters then.” He said, grabbing the leashes off the wall. A walk was one way to clear his mind.

---

As you had predicted, Rhys was holed up in his office when you went looking for him. He barely looked up at you as you entered.

Rhysand’s office was always meticulously organised, but as you came up behind his chair you noticed how messy his desk had become. Letters and notes were piled on every inch of space, his childhood stuffed bat sitting atop one pile as a makeshift paperweight.

He loosed a breath.

“We are going to war, Y/n.” He said quietly, and any thoughts of Eris Vanserra eddied from your mind. Rhys looked up at you with bloodshot eyes. Guilt coursed through you for ever caring about something as trivial as a mating bond when you and your brothers were set for battle. You had only just got Rhys back from under the mountain, only to potentially lose him again.

“Is it certain?” You asked, leaning down to rest your head on his shoulder.

“Yes.”

“Is Cass--?”

“Leaving for Windhaven by first light.” He answered.

“Ok.”

Rhys turned, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. He knew what you were thinking, though you wished you weren’t.

“Eris is an awful male, Y/n. You know I could never support the bond between you. Azriel is...well, I’m sure you already know.”

You did. The moment he had stormed out of the room you had known this was the beginning of a negative spiral for Az. Not to mention the upcoming war. You stood up straight.

“That being said.” Rhys continued. “Eris is ensuring Autumn allies with us against Hybern. There is a certain political advantage to the match.”

You scoff.

“Like there was with Mor?” Rhys turned green. “What did Eris bargain for in return for Autumn’s support? What did you trade away, Rhys?”

Rhysand looked every bit five centuries old when he turned to you.

“Our support in his bid for the throne. Whenever that may be.”

Hatred for the male burst anew in your gut, fiercer still now that you were mated to him.

“That power hungry bastard.” You spat.

Rhysand sighed.

“He could never deserve you, starlight. I will make sure that he never sees you again. I will not lose another sister.”

---

It wasn’t until midnight that you saw Azriel. The last of your brothers to approach you. He let himself into your room, waking you, tattered blanket draped around his shoulders. Rhys’ mother had sewn it for him years ago, before you had come to live with them. It had helped him through many hard nights. So much so that it was threadbare and faded. Rhys had enchanted it not to break further as a solstice gift one year.

You sat up worried.

“Az? Are you ok? You didn’t—”

“No,” He assured, and you relaxed against the pillows, “I’m ok.”

You shuffled over in your bed to make space for him, and he laid next to you, blanket over the both of you.

“I hate him.” He said into the darkness. “I hate what he did to Mor. I hate everything he stands for. I will not let him have you.” He declared.

You snuggled up to your eldest brother.

“I don’t know why you all seem convinced I’m going to somehow fall for this prick.” You said, and he snorted. “I hate him as much as you do.”

Azriel tucked you under his arm.

“I know.” You smiled tiredly, somehow understanding the words Azriel left unsaid. The words Rhys had been able to express. Azriel’s shadows settled over your heart, confirming, and the two of you fell asleep.

---

Months later, Eris sat in a tent, head between his legs to stop from throwing up. Thousands were dead. Thousands more were surely destined to die. Two of his brothers, and his mate, fought on the battlefield.

He only had a moments warning before he was violently sick into a bucket.

Asher, his youngest brother before Lucien, chose this moment to enter his tent unannounced, scowling at the sight of Eris hunched over and retching.

“Can’t handle the bloodshed, brother?” He teased, though he sat next to Eris and put a warm hand on his shoulder. The gaping wound on his neck was healing quickly, as it should with the High Lords power coursing through his veins, but the sight of it set Eris off again. He heaved into the bucket, choosing to ignore the gagging sound Asher made.

“Eris you need to pull yourself together. Father is only a tent over.”

Eris rolled his eyes.

“Just show me your plans, Ash.”

“I don’t know, maybe I’m better off keeping them to myself, seeing as you’re battlesick.” Asher grimaced when Eris finally sat up and pushed the bucket away from him.

“Asher.” Eris’ voice held all the command of General, and eldest brother. Asher groaned petulantly as he handed over the plans.

In Eris’ opinion, not that Beron took any heed, Asher should never have taken on as much responsibility in this war. After Ceres had died, Ash had taken over as Eris’ right hand. Ceres had been more naturally suited to the role, Beron’s bloodlust had run as deep as his bones, and he had a sharp mind for strategy. Eris still mourned the boy he had raised—a quick witted, chess loving, boisterous child—but he had to accept, he had lost Ceres long before he had died. And Eris wasn’t keen on losing anyone else. Asher wasn’t comfortable with a sword, the gash in his neck clear evidence, and he had a wife and child that weakened his resolve. This is what Eris had to work with. And he had a job to do.

He let Asher discuss his plans, though he was unable to rip his mind from providing a hundred different ways that he could die, that Ash or Lucien could die, that you could die.

It took every ounce of training ingrained in him not to falter in his attack the moment he had caught sight of you, fighting your way through the onslaught, Mor by your side. Cauldron, you were ethereal. Your silken wings were spread as if they could carry you into the air, though he had long since guessed that they could not. You cut through your enemies with a frightening ease. Catching his eye, you hesitated just a second, then your face had turned to rage and the next Hybern soldier to cross your path had been beheaded so brutally that even he had to avert his gaze.

When he had looked back up, you were gone, lost in the chaos.

Asher sighed,

“You’re not listening.” He said, and Eris had the decency to feel bad. He looked at Ash wearily.

“Come back in the morning. I’ll be more attentive.” Ash just peered at him over his notes.

“It’s her isn’t it. It’s Y/n.”

“Yes.” Eris said, lacking the energy to lie.

“She’s Night Court. She’s not one of us. One day you’ll find a nice Autumn girl to marry and when you’re High Lord she can pop out a few Autumn court babies.”

“She is my mate.” Eris growled.

“Mate’s aren’t always meant to be Eris. It’s only a biological match, not a political one. When you find an Autumn Court lady you’ll wonder why you ever spent time worrying over some Night Court harlot.” Eris snarled, despite himself. His brothers words were wrenched straight from Beron’s throat and he wouldn’t stand for it. Not from Asher. Not from his kind, loving Ash.

“Get out.” He said. Asher looked surprised, and—Eris was pleased to see—ashamed. He made no moves to leave, so Eris repeated himself, sharper this time.

“Get out.” He snapped, “Come back in the morning with more sense.”

Asher, chastised, fled from the tent, and Eris buried his head in his hands. What use was there protecting you from his brothers when it was certain your own said the same about him. There was no denying the cruel twist of fate the Mother had pulled on the both of you, destined to crash and burn. He imagined you in your own tent, laughing at the thought of him speared on another males sword. Mor sat next to you whispering all the terrible things he had done that day, terrible things to twist your mind and poison the very notion of him. He was too late, he was nothing but soot in the deep pit of your heart, choking the both of you.

He felt blindly for the bond, and found it, rotten.

---

The war was over, but the scars it had left were red raw and bleeding. Rhys had died. Your brother. The one who had sheltered you, loved you, given you a home and a family for a few agonising minutes had been gone. Gone. And yet that Cauldron damned bond had been chafing in the back of your mind. You sat in your bedroom riddled with guilt as it plagued your mind. Eris. Eris. Eris. He infested your mind, your senses, you were consumed by the very thought of him.

Walking through the streets of Velaris had started to feel claustrophobic, being around anyone beginning to suffocate you. You felt safer on your own. Recently you had taken to sheltering in your room, only emerging to eat. Your brothers eyed you with poorly concealed worry every time you walked, ghostlike, through the house, shuffling to the kitchen to fix a plate of leftovers then retreat hastily to your safe space.

Nesta was struggling too, after the war. It had left its scars in all of you. You could feel Cassian’s heart breaking the day Rhys sent her away with him, but all you could think about was whether your brother would do that to you. You thought you knew the looks he gave you.

Disgust.

What use was a flightless Illyrian female, who couldn’t train, couldn’t talk, couldn’t think. He was dead. Rhys was dead. And then he wasn’t. Why were Seren and your mother not afforded the same luxury. You grieved, and cried, and screamed. It truly was a sick thing, to use to the miracle of Rhys’ living to guilt yourself into believing there was hope for them. But then, everything in your mind had twisted of late.

Nesta began training. Nesta began healing. And you were stuck in your room.

Every morning without fail, Azriel came to check on you. He stroked your hair until you woke up, then retreated when you once again rejected his invitations to join them. The Valkyries, they were calling themselves. You would have been proud of Nesta if you could feel anything anymore.

Occasionally, you could feel a light tug on the bond, on the shackles that kept you bound to Eris. The first few times you had thrown up. Now it was little more than an annoyance. You were his dog, disobediently pulling your leash as you fell further and further into nothingness. His face in your mind was as cold as it had been on the battlefield as he yanked you back, choking you. You spluttered. Standing weakly, you made your way down to the kitchen, setting water on the stove to boil.

“Sister.” Cassian’s voice rang out behind you and you flinched, dropping your teaspoon. He bent to pick it up and set it down on the counter. “Azriel says you’ve been ignoring him. You’ve been ignoring all of us.”

You shrugged, the familiar pang of guilt squeezing your chest, making it difficult to breath. You braced both hands on the counter top, taking a ragged breath. Cassian was beside you in a heartbeat, holding you in his arms.

“Y/n, I’m worried about you. We all are.” He squeezed you closer to him, closer than you had allowed anyone in months. “Come and stay with Nes and I. Az is a terrible chaperone, and I need to see you. You could be wasting away down here and I wouldn’t know until it was too late.”

You shook your head, though you no longer knew why you resisted him. Your body melted against him, muscle memory taking over as he enveloped you in his wings. You swore you heard him sniffling as you hugged him back.

“Please, y/n.” He said, voice shaking. It didn’t take much more convincing.

A few days later, Rhys was helping you unpack your bags in your new room in the House of Wind. You took the room next to Azriel, who—Cassian had explained—was falling into bad habits again: Not eating, not sleeping, waking up in a cold sweat when he did finally drop off. Cassian wasn’t doing as well as he wanted you to believe, either. Twice in the following week you woke up to find him taking things from your room. And once, when you had floated downstairs in a miserable haze, you found him throwing up in the kitchen sink, an empty plate that had once held a batch of Elain’s cookies sitting on the table.

Nesta had dragged you to Valkyrie training a few times, and whilst you were beyond their current skill level, it had taken your mind off of things. Cassian’s eyes gleamed with pride everytime Nesta mastered an attack or a block. He touched her affectionately, he teased her, he lingered as she passed to breath in her scent. Watching them together was as painful as it was sweet. How simple love could be.

Would that you could be half as lucky.

Slowly you were emerging from your shell. You could smile again. Nesta invited you to read with her and the Valkyries, and in the silence you found firm friendship. Emerie was a gift from the Mother herself. You bonded instantly, both of you clipped, grounded, but neither broken. Many late nights were spent talking, about books, your brothers, or about Eris. Nesta, Emerie and Gwyn knew little of the Autumn prince, but you appreciated their outside perspective on the bond. It was still a bitter taste in your mouth, but it was becoming more bearable with each passing week.

---

There was a ball approaching in the Hewn City and Rhys had asked Nesta to attend. Not long after, she asked you to join her.

“I can’t do this alone, Y/n, please.” She said one night, sitting at the end of your bed. You bit your lip, unsure.

“Eris will be there.” You said.

“I’ll be the one dancing with him. Rhys wants him falling madly in love with me. He won’t look your way, I promise.” Nesta said. You knew she meant well by that. You had never wanted him anywhere near you before. But something about her oath left a sting. You frowned, which she took to mean you were still unconvinced.

“Please, Y/n. My sisters will be there, Rhys will be there. I’m not ready to face them all on my own, not yet.”

And so you found yourself stood atop the stairs the following week, draped in a black dress with a slit so high up one side your whole leg was practically exposed. The back scooped so low the dimples at the bottom of your spine peeked over top. You were devastating. Death in midnight silk. Rhys’ smile was that of pure brotherly pride as you walked down the steps, your hair pinned in braids and curls.

Nesta stole your breath away as she appeared in the hallway, but it wasn’t your gaze she sought out. You looked towards Cassian and could have sworn he was drooling. Eris would be blind-sided by her, of that you had no doubt.

In the Hewn City, they danced like lovers. Nesta as dangerous in the ballroom as she had become on the training grounds. Every move was calculated, every parting of her lips a dance of the mind, designed to ensnare Eris in her dastardly web. Eris was caught. And you burned.

Standing next to Azriel, heat rolled off you in waves. He took a step towards you, perhaps to offer you a drink, but found something in your eyes to make him change his mind. You hadn’t taken your eyes off of Eris all night. He was sinful. A courtier and a Prince. His hair pooled over his shoulders, one strand to the front neatly braided. You reminded yourself that this was the male that left your cousin for dead at his Court border. Biting your lip, your mind wandered to see yourself lying prone beneath him as he stood, smile widening, cock hardening in his—

“Get me a drink.” You ordered Az. He raised an eyebrow.

“What’s the magic word.”

“Azriel.” You growled, and he turned on his heel. Your eyes stayed pinned on Eris as he led Nesta across the dancefloor in a tantalizing waltz. His gaze finally met yours, and you saw a fraction of surprise before his emerald eyes darkened. He licked his lips, eyes locked with yours as he leaned down, and pressed a kiss to Nesta’s neck.

A/N: I have to thank @fandomsmultiverse for talking to me and giving me about 100 ideas to flesh this story out, I really hope you like it! There will be a part 2 coming soon! I wouldn't just leave you on a cliffhanger like that. We will see more of Eris and Reader interacting, and maybe.....some smut...

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mediumgayitalian · 2 months

Text

“Hide me hide me hide me hide me hide me.”

Nico blinks, watching blankly as Will ducks under his arm, situating himself behind the door and peeking around it. When Nico doesn’t move, he cranes his neck to look at him, face urgent, and says, “Close it, dude, hurry up!

“Solace!”

“Fuck,” Will curses.

Nico blinks again. He squints across the common, trying to suss out what Will’s staring at. It doesn’t take long. She’s hard to miss, especially in full armour.

“Are you…hiding from Clarisse?”

“Am I hiding from —” He scoffs. “No, I’m just behind this door for fun. Fucking obviously I’m hiding from Clarisse, Nico, now get with the program and close the damn —”

“Solace!”

Both of them jump. When Nico looks, Clarisse is already way closer than she should be. Before he can process enough to slam the door, and heedless of Will’s increasingly-harried oh my gods oh my gods oh my gods fuck fuck fuck fuck, Clarisse is closer, and closer, and then suddenly she’s barging inside, pushing Nico aside like it’s not his damn cabin.

Will groans. “Aw, come on, Clarisse!”

She doesn’t bother to humour him with words, choosing instead to grab him by the collar and drag him bodily out. Will does not make it easy, going completely limp and getting his clothes grass-stained beyond belief, because Clarisse tugs him along like a sled behind her, bouncing over every stone. Nico follows, on the grounds that it’s not being nosy if Will dragged him into it technically.

“You have siblings! You have a boyfriend!”

“And yet I’m choosing you,” Clarisse says easily. “I’ve already told Chiron. It’s a done deal, weatherboy. You’re chariot racing with me.”

Will groans, trying in vain to squirm out of Clarisse’s grip. “There is no reason for me to be your partner in the stupid chariot race, I am a healer, I am at camp to heal —”

She shakes him a little to shut him up. “All the more reason. You focus too much on one thing, brat. All you do is heal and study like a big nerd. You need to get out of your comfort zone.”

“Um, no way. I’m very comfortable in it. That’s why it’s called a comfort zone.”

“You could use some training,” Nico pipes up, and the betrayed look Will gives him would be more effective at making him feel bad if it wasn’t so funny. “Last time I tried to teach you how to use a sword you almost sliced off your own face, so.”

Clarisse looks at him with appraisal. “Maybe you do have some sense in you, di Angelo.”

Nico chooses to take that as the compliment it is.

“Ugh,” Will says dramatically, and finally manages to wrench out of Clarisse’s grip in order to embed the appropriate level of drama in his face-down flop to the floor.

Clarisse kicks him. “You’re pathetic.”

“Ugh.”

Notably, he stops protesting. She kicks him again, affectionately this time, and stomps away.

———

“If I work myself into another coma, I don’t have to chariot race,” Will says gleefully, shoving the bottles of nectar Nico hands him onto a shelf. He’s been buzzing around the infirmary all day, healing things he is meant to be healing with a band-aid and a stop being a clumsy dumbass, dumbass with hymns and salves. “I’m gonna try to cure cancer again.”

Kayla, walking by, reaches out and smacks him. “Try it and I’m crack your country CDs in half.”

Will turns to her, opening his mouth —

“Every single one of them,” she stresses, green eyes narrowed.

— and closes it again, huffing.

“I’ll find a way,” he says glumly.

Nico pats him delicately on the back. “There, there.” A pause. “I mean, personally, I can’t wait to watch you fall out of a chariot.”

The look Will shoots him is nothing short of wounded. “You think I’m so uncoordinated I’m gonna fall out of the chariot?”

“Gracefully!” assures Austin from across the infirmary, smiling supportively. He grins brightly when they turn to look, nose scrunching with the force of his smile. “I’m sure!”

Will’s scowl twitches in the face of his brother’s blind enthusiasm. (It is impossible not to be endeared by Austin. He is genuinely the sweetest kid in the entire universe. Nico even gets, to his horror, the occasional urge to squish him. Gently.) He sighs.

“Thanks, Austin.”

“Of course! Love you Will!”

The twitching scowl melts into a full smile. “Love you too, kiddo.”

———

Watching chariot race practices, very quickly, becomes Nico’s favourite pastime.

He sees, now, why Achilles would bring them up, unprompted, wistful look in his eye, every time Nico visited. There’s a beauty in the rawness of it; the whipping winds, wild horses. Squealing wheels and bending axels, open-backed and inches from death at all time. Dangerous, exhilarating. Humanity, at it’s most thrilling and old — some of the first tools, the first domestic animals, the first machines, all at once. It’s pure, raw excitement.

Also, Will falls out of the chariot, like, eight whole times. And there’s nothing funnier than watching him lose his shit at a splintered pile of wood that was once a carriage, helmet thrown to the ground in a fit of rage, accent so thick he’s literally incomprehensible. Nico never gets to see him like this. His stomach actually hurts from laughter on several occasions.

Slowly, though, he starts to get the hang of it. He’s smart — incredibly so — and when he stops spending half his time complaining, and the other half pouting, he actually gets pretty decent. He’s fast, after all, and quick to observe, to respond; the other teams struggle to land hits on him, in practice runs, and sabotage is difficult when your opponent seems to have an almost prophetic gift to see things coming.

He can’t, however, steel himself to hit back.

And therein lies the trouble.

“For fuck’s sake, Will, I’m not asking you to kill anybody,” Clarrise snaps. “You need to get your head in the game!”

Will’s shoulders curl defensively. “I know! I’m trying! It’s just —” He kicks at their broken wheel, in two clean pieces on the ground. “Do no harm.”

“Do some harm. Or I’m gonna kick your ass.”

Will brightens. “And then ask somebody else to be your partner?”

“No, and then make you my partner forever.”

“Oh.”

Will’s sullen face is hard to look at. He’s got those big, puppy dog eyes, round and sad and pouty. Not even Clarisse is immune. (And certainly not Nico, who finds himself halfway off the spectator’s stands and jogging to the tracks before he wonders what exactly, the fresh fuck, he is doing, and sprints right back.)

“Shit, Solace, don’t look like I killed your goddamn mother.” She cuffs him on the shoulder, sending him sprawling with a muffled oof. “We’ll figure it out. Let’s go again.”

Accepting the spare chariot someone wheels towards her, she pulls herself up, making space for Will to do the same. He doesn’t get on immediately, still looking miserable, but concedes eventually.

His forearms look kind of nice when he grips onto the rails for dear life, Nico notices. From a totally objective perspective.

The four practicing teams guide their horses to the starting line, running a few last minute checks. To avoid spilling any secrets or strategies, everyone uses the same practice-issue wooden chariot and wears the same armour, but it’s still obvious who’s who.

The Hephaestus team’s chariot, despite being standard issue, gleams like it’s brand-new. The wood is polished and looks to be altered, barely; a carved groove here, a sharper wing there. Nothing that could really be considered an upgrade, but definitely making the whole thing look smoother. The spears they hold promise a plethora of untold ability hidden within.

The Hermes chariot looks deceptively beat up. There’s a chunk missing from the top of the left side, and one of the wheels appears to be just slightly out of alignment. Upon careful inspection, though, Nico can see clear, hollow tubing attached along the rails and open to the back — definitely a quick rig of some sort. Base (not acid, Cecil had happily lectured him on the benefits of using a base rather than an acid when dissolving anything from steel to human flesh), if Nico has to guess, or maybe Greek fire.

The Aphrodite-Iris chariot doesn’t have to do much to look great. The whole thing seems to coast gracefully to the beginner line, and neither charioteer looks particularly bothered or preoccupied with the competition — if Nico recalls correctly, and he does, their goal is to win through “gay audacity”, which Nico does not understand but supports wholeheartedly.

Will and Clarisse’s chariot, by comparison, is pretty run-of-the-mill. They haven’t done much training with the Ares horses or the Apollo flying chariot, because Clarisse is primarily concerned with training Will — she knows the equipment is fine.

Lacy, standing at the edge of the track, puts a sparkly pink whistle to her lips and blows loudly. It’s not nearly as loud as one of Will’s sonic whistles, but it does the trick, and the teams are off in a blur of movement; Will and Clarisse in the lead, Hephaestus behind them, Aphrodite-Iris in third, and Hermes lagging slightly behind.

As they turn their first corner, positions largely unchanging, Nico hears footsteps from his left — Lou Ellen smiles at him as she climbs the stand, settling into the space he makes next to him.

“What’d I miss?” she asks, brushing dust off her hands.

He shrugs. “Not much. They were in the lead the last practice round, too, but on the last lap Hermes caught up.” He gestures to the heap that was once their practice chariot. “Julia had her sword at their wheels. They were on the inner ring, nowhere to move; the only way to get rid of them would have been to knock her arm, probably dislocate her shoulder. Will couldn’t do it.”

Lou Ellen winces. “Ah.”

There’s a ripping sound, followed by cackling — the Hermes chariot has finally made use of their hasty rigging, setting off an explosion behind them that rockets them forward. It has the added bonus of shaking the ground, slightly, unsettling the other drivers for just barely long enough for them to pull into third place. Far ahead, still in first, Nico can see Clarisse yelling instructions at Will, although he can’t hear what they are. His grip on the rail has tightened.

“Why,” starts Nico carefully, and based on Lou Ellen’s pinched face she knows exactly where he’s going, “does she make him — well, you know.”

Lou Ellen is silent for a good long while, watching the practice chariot race with eyes that aren’t paying attention. Hermes is gaining, but Hephaestus is gaining faster.

“Clarisse has always liked Will,” she says eventually. She meets Nico’s incredulous expression, snorting. “Well, as much as Clarisse can like people. I got here way after he did, so I don’t have any more details there than you do, but he’s never been afraid of her, and she likes that. He’s never been mean to her, either. I mean, I know she can be a bully, but people aren’t exactly light on her, to be fair.”

The Aphrodite-Iris chariot turns out to have some tricks up its sleeve — it starts to glow; barely at first, but quickly blinding. At its crux, everyone has to look away, allowing them to pull into first.

Well, except that Will doesn’t seem nearly as staggered as everyone else. In fact, he doesn’t look bothered at all — for the first time that Nico has seen, there’s something like competition pulling a crooked smile on his face. He stares straight at the still-too-bright chariot, reigns wrapped around his arms as he yanks them forward.

“Is that why she drags him away sometimes?” Nico asks. “To train?”

“Something like that. Most of his training was with —” she falters. “Well, you know who. Medicine and some archery.”

They’re both quiet for a while. Neither of them ever knew Lee or Michael well, if at all, but over time Nico has found himself almost clamming up at the mere thought of them, the way one might tiptoe around an authority figure when they have something to hide. Forbidden subjects, where before Nico simply didn’t think of them often.

“You can’t just not train, though,” Lou Ellen murmurs, eyes trained on the chariots. Hephaestus throws one of their spears, lodging it in the spokes of the Aphrodite-Iris chariot. They come to a very abrupt and very screechy halt, knocking them out of the race in any real capacity. “Not at Camp Half-Blood. She taught him hand-to-hand because she was the only one strong enough to physically drag him to the arena. Everyone else gave up after the first few tantrums — I think she was kind of amused by the challenge. Or something.”

“Or something,” Nico agrees. Privately, he thinks that there is something about Will Solace that makes you want to protect him. Not frailty — he is not by any means incapable — but something about his smile, his genuineness. The stubborn belief that people are good and kind and worthy of everything he has to give. A naivety, except someone who’s been through what he has (what they all have) cannot be naive — his hope in the world is hard-earned and well-won. It makes people want to protect his hold on it, by any means necessary.

Even, Nico reasons, ornery old fuckers like Clarisse LaRue.

The three remaining chariots start the last leg of the race — Apollo-Ares, barely squeezing out in front; then Hephaestus, quickly gaining; and finally Hermes, lagging slightly but not to be discarded. As they round the bend, Nico watches as Clarisse cuffs Will briefly on the arm, clearly proud. This is the farthest they’ve made in first so far, after two weeks of training. Will, reigns safely transferred back to Clarisse, beams at her — bright enough that Nico can see it from dozens of yards away.

With sudden, calculated speed, the Hephaestus chariot surges forward.

As if coordinated, Nico and Lou Ellen inhale sharply, leaning forward. He sees the scattered few other campers so the same in his peripherals, watching with single minded focus as the chariot levels exactly with Will and Clarisse. Nico eyes the spear nervously — of all weapons, they’re the easiest for Will to dodge, to fight off. More impersonal.

But the sons of the smartest god around would know that.

For at least a hundred feet, nothing happens. Ares-Apollo and Hephaestus stay neck in neck, every urge forward matched, every pesky road-blocking stone avoided. The finish line is dangerously close, but no one pulls ahead, nothing changes. Four shoulders remain tense, four helmets stare resolutely forward.

Then, in a quick movement, the taller Hephaestus charioteer hands the spear off to the shorter, swiftly taking the reigns, and the shorter lunges — aiming right for Will’s shoulder. Will’s quick, though, and has his own spear poised to parry in an instant. There’s a barely perceptible nudge from Clarisse, and then Will’s eyes harden, and he lifts his spear to jab right back, needle-thin tip gleaming in the late afternoon sun, right for the chink in the charioteer’s armour and then —

The charioteer rips their helmet off, dropping it at their feet.

It’s Harley.

Hephaestus’ darling; hell, the camp’s darling. One of their youngest and brightest, with big, mischievous brown eyes, contagious smiles, endless enthusiasm. Cute, clumsy Harley, the only one of Hephaestus’ children Will doesn’t have to nag to get treated, who walks dutifully over the infirmary every time he gets so much as a second-degree burn and treats each one of Will’s overcautious instructions with utmost seriousness. Who Will sends away each time with an affectionate kiss on the forehead and a prized purple sucker — who Will, frankly, favours. Who Will would never, in a million years, even consider hurting.

A dirty trick by the Hephaestus cabin.

But an effective one.

Immediately, Will flinches back, spear dropping from his hand and splintering under thundering hooves and spinning wheels. Without a second of hesitation, Harley launches his spear in the same move as before — sticking it in the wheel’s spokes, inertia sending the charioteer’s sprawling, knocking them out of the race.

Except, maybe it’s different when the chariots are so close. Or maybe the chariot was faulty to begin with. Because as soon as the spear gets wedged, the fragile floor of the chariot seems to implode — sending Will and Clarisse under the still-moving machine, instead of flying over. The horses, disoriented from the sudden change, rip free of their harness, adding more force to the already precarious tumble.

There’s a sharp, sickening crack, so loud Nico can hear it as if it’s next to him. In the brief nanosecond immediately afterwords, he closes his eyes, sending a prayer to his father: please be the axle. Please be the axle. Please be the axle.

As the Hephaestus and Hermes chariots rocket past the finish line, Clarisse lets out a shrill, blood-curdling scream.

———

Nico’s off the bench and halfway towards the crashed chariot before he can blink. He’s not the only one — he processes, barely, everyone else’s quick convergence, including the remaining charioteers — but he’s there first, diving into the wreckage seconds before anyone else is close enough.

There’s not a lot of actual debris, chariots being as small as they are, but the dust cloud from the track is so huge and the pieces of wood are so splintered that it feels like there is. As the dust settles, and he kicks some debris out of the way, he starts to see the shape of Will, kneeling, in front of a prone Clarisse and an ever-growing pool of blood.

There’s a bone sticking straight out of her thigh.

As the rest of the campers converge upon them, Will looks up and meets Nico’s eyes. His own blue eyes are dark, steely — determined, but afraid.

“I don’t have time,” is the only thing out of his mouth before he braces both hands on Clarisse’s leg, immediately starting to sing urgent hymns.

Nico understands.

“Lou, Julia, Chiara,” he barks, taking charge in absence of Will’s voice. The three girls snap forward to him immediately. “Sprint the the infirmary and tell them what happened. Austin’s on duty — make sure he doesn’t come with you, we need him to prep a surgical suite. Send everyone else and send them fast. Bring a stretcher.”

He turns to the Hephaestus kids. “Jake, Harley, start clearing the debris to make space. Damien, join them; move the big stuff first, small stuff is secondary. We need a space for Will to work and a space to lay the stretcher. Jen, Butch, Lacy —”

He barks off a list of orders, doing his best to channel the commands he’s watched Will give dozens and dozens of times. In minutes, he has the track cleared, Will’s medical bag dragged over from the stands, and everyone who is not helping stabilize out to the infirmary to help as needed.

As soon as there’s an opening, he rushes over to Will and Clarisse, kneeling by her head.

“Help is coming,” he promises, watching the glow dim and flicker in time with the rhythm of Will’s chanting. The bleeding has slowed, marginally, but he can tell from the volume of blood alone that this was an arterial hit. It’s going to take more than Will’s raw healing power, although there is a lot of it, to keep Clarisse alive and keep her leg functioning in recovery. He needs tools, he needs nectar and ambrosia; he needs the surgery suite. He needs time.

“Is it helpful for me to knock her out?”

Clarisse, of course, is still conscious. Barely — and in so much pain Nico will be surprised if she’s processing anything at all — but enough that every few seconds she lets out an agonised shout of pain, writhing and flinching so hard Will has to focus on steadying her as much as healing her.

Without breaking his song, eyes still trained on the injury, Will nods. Nico breathes, squaring his shoulders, then shuffled forward to rest Clarisse’s head gently in his lap, fingers pressed to her temples. He presses, hard enough to feel the beat of her heart — weak — through his fingertips, and squeezes his eyes shut.

He’s no son of Hypnos, but dreams are the Underworld’s domain. Are his domain, as heir and prince of the Underworld, in every way that matters, that can be counted.

He lets himself sink into careful limbo; body in physical space, mind and soul elsewhere. Not too much — he’s no use if he falls unconscious — but enough to slip into Clarisse’s mindscape, step into her subconscious.

The whole place bleeds white, hot anguish.

Nico stumbles when he first walks in, nauseous despite being nothing but his own mind. It’s been a while since he’s experienced this kind of pain, his own or not, and he has to consciously beat back memories of brimstone and rot; liquid fire, endless red, red, red.

“Clarisse?” he calls, softly as he dares.

She doesn’t respond. He’s not sure she knows how to respond, even if she could. Cautious of the memory and emotion swirling around him, he steps forward. If he focuses, her anguish is pointed — is central. She will be at the centre of it.

He has volunteered, but he’s not sure he wants to follow.

Steeling himself, he shoulders through swirling masses of pain, of hurt, of fear. It’s blisteringly hot, and feels not unlike the sandstorm he was once stranded within, in the middle of the New Mexico desert four years ago. His face prickles; he’s blinded.

He trudges forward.

“Clarisse? Clarisse! Can you hear me? It’s Nico!”

Desperately and uselessly, he wishes he had more practice. Will has offered, the few times he’s needed to anaesthetize someone, but for the most time Nico has foolishly declined. Why on Earth he would pass up a much easier mindscape to navigate through in preparation for something like this is a mystery to him. Fuck.

“Clarisse! Try to — focus on me, can you hear me?”

He forces himself forward, a few more — well, there’s no distance in a mindscape, nothing measurable, anyway. He forces himself to look up, braving the assault to his face, and try to scan his surroundings. The swirling mass is more centralized, now, almost hurricane-like and conal. He’s closer than he was before, but if he can only find…

He looks up, and almost cries in relief: weak against the roaring storm, but still present, is a flickering, golden light. A very familiar light. Nico squeezes his eyes shut, thrusting out his own energy in an uncoordinated mass — boy, is that going to be uncomfortable to extract later — and flails wildly until he finally feels the warmth of Will’s energy entangling with his own, grounding him. He opens his eyes, and suddenly everything is clearer.

Clarisse kneels in the centre of her mindscape, hands pressed tightly to her ears, eyes screwed shut, mouth open in a silent scream.

“Hey,” Nico murmurs, kneeling in front of her. It takes a few seconds, and a few moments of gentle coaxing, before she looks up.

“It hurts,” she croaks.

She’s more vulnerable than he’s ever seen her — eyes brown and big and wet, pained, face twisted and chin trembling and achingly, unbelievably young. She is nineteen years old, but in that moment she appears almost childlike. The years of warrior’s hardness has abandoned her; she is armourless.

Nico swallows the lump in his throat. “I know.”

“Help me. Please.”

“Come here, Clarisse.” He reaches out and wraps a gentle hand around hers, tugging her close. The knee jerk discomfort at close contact is barely a flicker — he is so entwined in her right now that her fear has started to bleed into his; her rawness. He needs this comfort almost as much as she does. Right now she is a person, in agony, and so is he, and it is unbearable.

He holds her until the pain slowly stops.

———

Will is in the surgical suite for seven straight hours.

“Bed,” Nico says softly, rising up to meet him as he exits. It says something about how exhausted he is that he doesn’t even protest, letting Nico place a hand on the small of his back and guide him past the on-call room, past the patient cots, past the Big House living room couches, past Cabin 7. He leads him across the common and right into Cabin 13, with its double beds and blackout curtains, with its insulated, soundproof walls. With Nico.

He helps him out of his bloodstained scrubs, peeling them off his skin and tossing them directly into a trash can. He’d guide him to the shower, usually, but there’s a — glassiness, to his eyes, that there usually isn’t after surgery. Nico chooses instead to skip it, guiding him into the sweatpants he left behind the last time he was here and an oversized The Doors t-shirt of Nico’s, and then to the spare bed he always uses, across from Nico’s. He peels the covers back for him like he’s a child, tucking him in, brushing the hair out of his eyes. He’s asleep in minutes, curled tightly around a pillow, furrowed crease not leaving the space between his eyebrows, even in sleep. Nico smooths it away with his thumb.

“Goodnight, Will,” he murmurs, brushing the backs of his knuckles across his forehead.

He watches him sleep far past what is normal, and then slips back out of the cabin.

———

“On the bright side,” Will says, squeezing the hand that has left to leave Clarisse’s arm, “you’re free from your chariot race obligation! As am I!”

Predictably, she only glowers.

“Not a chance, Solace,” she rasps.

Will helpfully gets her a glass of water, fussing over her blankets while she drinks until she bats him away. Chris watches the whole thing with great amusement, shoulders brushing Nico’s.

“He’s a mother hen, isn’t he,” he comments, tilting his head in Will’s direction, who narrowly avoids having his fingers bitten off trying to feed her a square of ambrosia.

Nico snorts. “Yeah.” He watches the fussing for a few more seconds, making note of Will’s shaking hands, his shakier smile. “He’s guilty.”

“He didn’t do anything. She doesn’t blame him.”

Nico meets his dark look, mouth twisted in understanding. They both know this logic is futile.

“Yeah, well, someone tell him that.”

“Will — stop it.” In a startlingly quick move for someone on as much morphine as she is, Clarisse darts out and clutches Will’s fluttering hands. He hesitates, wondering if it’s worth it to pull out of her hold and possibly jostle her leg. “I’m fine. And you’re still charioting.”

“You’re not fine,” Will frowns, conveniently ignoring the part of the sentence he doesn’t want to deal with. “Your femur snapped in half and tore through your femoral artery on its way out of your leg. You’re going to be on bedrest for a week at least, and it’ll be tender for a good long while besides. That’s what we in the medical business call a Big Fucking Deal.”

She tightens her hold, staring at him until he finally meets her eyes.

“Will.” She narrows her eyes. “You are still participating in the chariot race. I’m not asking.”

“It’ll have to wait until you’re better,” he says lightly. “Besides, we’re focusing on you right now.”

Nico can see in her face when she decides to switch strategies.

“Okay,” she says, stubborn glean in her eye, “then I’m asking you, as a personal request, to stay in the race. Or else I’ll drag myself onto a goddamn horse myself, killing myself in the process, and that will be on your head.”

The tactic works.

Will scowls. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

Clarisse doesn’t bother repeating herself, letting go of his wrists and readjusting her blankets.

“I am done talking now. I believe it’s time for morphine-induced unconsciousness. Please remember that I took down a drakon with my own bare hands; it is well within my abilities to drag myself out of heroin-haze and onto a chariot with no legs, let alone one. Good talk.”

As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she leans back on her pillows and passes out. Genuinely, actually passes out — not closes her eyes, not behind to fall asleep; she is unconscious. Snores ring through the air.

“Well,” Chris says carefully, unfolding his arms. “It might be time to let Clarisse rest for a while.”

Will, healer that he is, cannot exactly argue with that. Will, drama queen that he is, decides to make his fury known by stomping out of the room, a feat in flip-flips possible by him alone.

“She is so infuriating!” he shouts the second they’re in the main room, startling several people. He either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “I put effort in! I failed! She can’t even — it’s not even about spending time together, obviously, since I still have to do it! What does she want from me?!”

Chris, like Nico, has wisely decided to let the hypothetical questions remain hypothetical and stay silent, lest his fury be turned onto them. Ten minutes into Will’s rant, Chris excuses himself to go sit by Clarisse. Nico waves him off.

“Will,” Nico suggests the next time he takes a breath, “let’s maybe go for a walk.” He glances at the group of wide-eyed patients. “I think you’re scaring people.”

Deflating, Will nods, following Nico out the door. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s go for a walk.”

The fresh air probably doesn’t fix things, per se, but as they lap around the cabins, Will seems to droop further and further, curling in on himself. The anger recedes from his features.

“I feel really shitty,” he admits softly. “Just, like, generally.”

Nico softens like a goddamn slab of ice cream on hot pavement. For the second time in three days, he opens his arms in offering, although this time it’s significantly less difficult.

“Come here.”

Without even a beat of hesitation, Will collapses into him, arms around his waist, head tucked under his chin. Nico fights the urge to wince — Will, usually, takes quite a bit of pride in his height. He likes to be the one to wrap around people, not the other way around. Nico has been indoctrinated into Will-affection, in the time since the Giant War, and if Will is the one curling into him, seeking comfort, than he is struggling.

Nico hates it when Will struggles. He always feels out of his depth.

“There, there,” he hedges, feeling a good bit like an NPC. “It’ll be okay.”

Will makes a small, wounded noise. “You don’t know that.”

“Um, yes I do, I know everything forever. I’ve never been wrong even one time in my life.”

His awkward attempt at lightening the mood is rewarded by Will’s laugh. It’s slight, and nowhere near the brightness it usually is, but it’s there and it’s genuine and that’s all Nico wanted, really.

“You good?” Nico asks softly, squeezing his arms.

Will nods. “Yes.” He hesitates. “Can I stay here a little longer?”

Nico wraps his arms impossibly tighter, aching at the quiet vulnerability in his voice.

“As long as you need.”

———

The last practice before the chariot race is nowhere near as fun to watch as the others. In fact, it’s not fun at all.

Clarisse, casted and upright, appoints her brother Sherman to race in her place, much to both his and Will’s very vocal complaints. Will’s, because he still doesn’t want to race at all and especially not now that Clarisse is out of the running, and Sherman’s because, well, when isn’t Sherman complaining about having to breathe the same air as someone or whatever.

Clarisse silences both of them with a glare. “Do it,” she orders.

They comply, stomping over to their practice chariot.

The practice race is awful. Nico is surprised, frankly, that they managed to finish at all, as badly behind as they managed. He could practically hear their squabbling all the way from the stands. For as much as Will is generally easy to get along with, he’s impossible when he’s stubborn, and worse when he’s petulant. He takes every command from Sherman like it’s a personal offence, and Sherman, being who he is, does too. Every shout to veer right or deflect an attack somehow sounds like a jab at Will’s speed, or a remark about his general intelligence. When they stomp off the track, helmets thrown in a heap with the rickety chariot, Nico is almost relieved.

“We’re going to lose, tomorrow, and I can’t wait,” hisses Will darkly, fists curled at his sides.

Nico watches him warily. “You’re not even going to try?”

“What, so he can remind me that even when I’m trying I’m a useless idiot? Not a chance.”

Nico has to almost jog to keep up with him, striding as powerfully as he is. He’s not even sure where he’s going — he seems to be, mostly, going away from the track and from Sherman, wherever that may be.

“You’re not a useless idiot,” Nico offers, when some of the stormcloud has lessened its hold on Will’s usually sunny face. “Nobody thinks you’re a useless idiot.”

Will closes his eyes, sighing. “I know.”

“And Sherman is just a generally grouchy person.”

“I know.”

“It feels very, very weird to be the optimistic and comforting one, right now.”

Will snorts, finally meeting his eyes. “I know.” He flops onto the ground, cheek resting in his knees, and pats the space next to him. Nico sits much more delicately. “I’m sorry I’ve been such an asshole lately.”

“You’ve been stressed,” Nico points out. “A little assholery is warranted.”

“I’m still sorry.”

Nico knocks their shoulders together. “I forgive you, then.”

Will smiles. “Thank you.”

For a while they sit in comfortable silence, watching the hustle and bustle of camp. Will’s presence is a comforting one, even though Nico can feel the turmoil leeching off of him. Strangely because of that, actually — sometimes Nico feels like he’s the only one who struggles out of the two of them. Will spends so much of his time smiling and joking and lecturing, hands on his hips, that Nico had almost forgotten that he doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing, either. He’s just good at faking it.

“I’ll be watching, tomorrow.” He bites his lip. “And I won’t, like, bring pom-poms, or anything, but I’ll be cheering you on.”

Will grins tiredly. “Silently and in your head?”

“Uh-huh.”

His smile softens considerably, melting into something almost shy, before he turns back to face forward.

“Well, then, damn. I guess I’ll have to try.”

———

On the morning of the chariot race, Will acts like Nico is escorting him to his goddamn execution.

“It is a race that will last a maximum of twenty minutes,” Nico says with no small amount of exasperation, “including prep time.”

Will looks no less grim. “A twenty minutes that will never be returned to me.”

Nico rolls his eyes and decides to stop humouring him.

He drops him off at his chariot with a quick pat on the shoulder, jogging back to the stands. They’re full, today, as expected, with every camper and countless others cramped into the minimal space. Nico looks at the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd, and is about to consider breaking his promise and fleeing back to his cabin before he sees a doodled-on hand stick in the air, waving wildly. He exhales in relief and heads over to sit in the spot Kayla and Austin have cleared between them.

“How miserable is he?” Kayla asks brightly, tapping her purple shoes. “He left before we woke up this morning. Assumedly to sprint around camp a few times like a feral cat.”

“Pretty miserable,” Nico answers. He reaches over to pat Austin’s head when he rests on his shoulder, knowing he’s nervous even if he tries not to show it. “A lot of it is self-induced, though. Like, yeah, Sherman is going to be a dick and it’s going to be stressful, but I feel like, in the grand scheme of things, this is among the least stressful things he’s ever been forced to deal with.”

“There was that one time he had to remove a brain tumour in the middle of the forest,” Austin muses. “I think that was probably pretty stressful for him.”

Nico opens his mouth. He closes it again.

“Demigod life is a nightmare,” he settles on eventually.

“Hear, hear,” both siblings mutter.

They lapse into silence as they turn back to the racetrack, evaluating the turnout.

Competition will be hefty.

Sherman has finally arrived, Ares horses in tow. The garish things look almost wrong next to the brightness off the flying Apollo chariot, but that may just be the tension between the team’s charioteers that’s so potent it seems to warp the air around them. Nico is vaguely surprised that they’re managing to stand so civilly next to each other, even if they could not be more visibly uncomfortable. Will, at least, tries for a smile, which drops immediately when Sherman mutters something too quiet to be picked up this far.

Nico sighs. This is going to be hard to watch.

There are about twenty other chariots lines up. Hermes, Hephaestus, and Aphrodite-Iris, like at practice, but Athena is competing too, as well as Nike, as per usual, and Tyche. In fact Nico, and by extension Hades, is one of the few cabins not participating — everyone else seems primed and ready for a chance of laurels and extra dessert. And, of course, settling personal rivalries via bloodshed, et cetera, et cetera.

The biggest competition, if Nico had to quantify it, will be Hephaestus, tricky as they were during practice; Athena, for obvious reasons; and Will and Sherman themselves will be their own worst enemy. He can’t tell if it would be better for them to fail out early to avoid racketing tension up further, or last close to the end to keep things at a healthy simmer.

In the end, it doesn’t matter. The second warning whistle goes off, and the chariots rush to the starting line — Will and Sherman at third position, Demeter to their left, Dionysus-Hypnos to their right. The stands go silent, the charioteers get in position, and with a sharp, shrill whistle, they’re off.

The first few seconds, as always, are chaotic.

In the ground with the settling dust are three separate chariots, including, surprisingly, Hermes, whose rigging backfired and sent their entire chariot up in smoke. They are luckily unharmed due to their unusually well-prepared fireproof armour, but neither Julia nor Connor seem too pleased about being out so soon.

The rest of the race continues on without them. Athena has a decent stretch of first place, but Nike is following fast. Behind them, barely a hair’s breadth of distance, is Will and Sherman, rocketing forward smoothly. Unlike Clarisse, Sherman does not care for giving Will any learning opportunities — despite the horses being Ares’, Will is on the reigns. Sherman is armed with his sword and his spear, slashing and jabbing at anyone who gets too close. Neither Ares or Apollo is big on tricks, not like some of the craftier cabins, but together they’re fast and strong and make a formidable opponent.

Or, well, they would. If they were working together, rather than two people simply being in the same chariot.

They cross into the second lap, Will guiding them across the innermost ring to move them up past Nike. They’re gaining on Athena, now, but that won’t be an easy task — challenging the camp’s wisest never is.

Kayla hisses through her teeth. “Shit.” She purses her lip at the trailing Nike chariot — they’re gaining, and they’re seething. Damien — at least Nico thinks it’s Damien, it’s hard to tell with the helmets — has an arsenal of throwing knives poised in his left hand, and as his teammate steers them steady, he takes aim. Nico has to resist the urge to shout a warning.

As the short knife sails towards the reigns wrapped around Will’s hands, though, aim ringing true, Will’s spine goes ramrod straight. Almost as if he can feel it. With an eighth of a second to spare, he shifts and jerks his hands out of the way, avoiding the knife and managing, somehow, to stay on track.

With a skill and ferocity that has Nico’s jaw brushing his toes, Will dodges all eight of the knives lobbed in his direction. In one memorable manoeuvre, he rips his left hand from the reigns, holding them in his teeth, and uses it to shove Sherman down behind the wall of the chariot right before a knife would have lodged itself in his uncovered cheek. Out of weapons, he steers their chariot right next to Nike, allowing Sherman to sever their reigns and send them rolling to a sad, victory-less stop.

Without pausing to look behind them, they race on.

Athena’s chariot has a lead, but their chariot is built for stability, not speed. They’ve accounted for every possible sabotage and built accordingly. They have not accounted for, however, stubbornness and sheer force of Will. The Ares-Apollo chariot gains on them, helmets glinting, skeletal horses gaining faster, faster, faster. Both Sherman and Malcom, Nico believes, have their spears drawn, ready, as the space between them gets smaller and smaller, to fight barbarically for first — for honour.

Nico doubts even Rachel, powers of prophecy fully restored, could predict what happens next.

Either too furious to accept a loss or simply deciding to throw the game, one of the Nike charioteers crawls out from their carriage, darting onto the live track. They scan the ground, looking for something. When they stand in the dead centre of the track, body perfectly tense, gripping something glinting in their hand, Nico gets it.

Austin gasps, nails digging into Nico’s arm. “Oh, no.”

Before anyone can say anything, they take aim. They measure once, twice, and then let the knife loose with deadly precision, knife cutting through the air with ease and hurdling with impossible power towards to two finalists chariots.

If the knife hits the Athena chariot, it will slice clean through the axle. Architectural wonder it may be, the chariot cannot withstand Celestial bronze at terminal velocity, and it will give, and the chariot will crumple. In an effort to lesson the chariot’s load, the Athena charioteers have largely forgone armour. Their fall will be painful and disastrous; as deadly as Clarisse’s, if not moreso. A hit to the Ares-Apollo chariot will be similarly as race-ending, but both Will and Sherman are in full armour. It will be bruising, but not deadly. They will lose, but they will survive.

All they need to do to win is shift, just slightly, so that the knife hits the Athena chariot.

Will, like with all the others before it, seems to feel this knife coming. Unlike the others, he glances backwards, looking at the knife, looking back at the Athena chariot. Sherman follows his gaze, and seems to realize what Will has calculated a split second after he does. He shouts something — presumably an order to move, to shift, to sabotage.

Will hesitates.

The knife hits the Ares-Apollo chariot, slicing through the left wheel.

It careens around, unbalanced, dragged into a heap by untethered horses.

The Athena chariot pulls forward to victory, the remaining functioning chariots quickly following.

The Ares-Apollo canon is left broken and humiliated only a few feet from victory, the almost-first-place.

———

As soon as they come off the track, things get messy. Both Will and Sherman are covered in dirt and grime, striped with grease from the broken wheels, bleeding sluggishly from various scraps. Sherman has his non-flailing hand clamped to an oozing wound on the side of his neck, and Will is limping.

“—and I cannot fucking believe you, Solace! All I asked for was effort!”

“Oh, forgive me,” Will says sarcastically, finally close enough to hear. “In the hustle and bustle of being shot at, I made a couple errors.”

“That gonna be your attitude in battle? ‘Oh, sorry, there was a monster chasing me so I lost all focus —’”

“Battles are not usually fought on a chariot going a hundred fucking miles per hour!”

“That’s no excuse! You need to be —”

“What, Sherman, fucking what? What indisputable flaw do I have, oh great one, that needs to be so desperately remedied?”

It’s startling when Will’s composure cracks. When he goes from bitey and sarcastic, eye-rolling from his usual distance, to right in Sherman’s face. It’s eerie to see him at his full height, no slouching, reminding anyone watching that yeah, actually, their laidback medic is six-two, strong, capable, in more ways than what they’re used to.

Sherman, in usual Ares kid fashion, doesn’t even flinch.

“Your reflexes, for starters,” he says coolly. “No matter what you do, Solace, you’re always one second too fucking late.”

A collective gasp ricochets through the gathered campers. The tension rackets up so rapidly that Nico coughs, lungs suddenly constricted. Will rears back so violently Nico is half-convinced Sherman actual punched him.

Sherman, for his part, seems to realise he’s crossed some kind of line. The cold look on his face twists into a scowl, uncomfortable and apologetic at once. “Look, Will, I just mean —”

“You don’t get to say that to me.”

Will’s quiet voice seems to echo through the entirety of the valley, cutting through laboured breathing of charioteers, pegasus neighing, even the crashing of the waves in the distant shore — everything goes silent.

Nico likes to think he knows Will pretty well. He knows what he sounds like when he’s giggly, watching his siblings argue about nothing; when he’s excitable, rambling about his newest obsession; when he can’t choose between amused and stern at whatever dumb thing Nico has gotten himself into. He knows what he sounds like when he’s exhausted, too, overworked and done with everything; when he’s annoyed, when he’s hurt and sad.

But he’s never heard Will sound so dangerous.

“Of all people.” His words are articulated, deliberate. The usual warmth of his eyes is gone. He’s completely still in a way he never is outside of surgery — no shaking in his perpetually trembling hands, no bounce to his curls, none of the constant energy that seems to constantly exude off him. Still, cold. Icy. “You do not get to talk to me about being one second too late.”

Sherman looks stricken. Guilt is written across each of his features, and for a second he steps back — as if afraid.

“Will, I —”

The son of Apollo turns without another word, striding over to the distant tree line and disappearing into the woods. No one chases after him.

No one even moves.

———

Predictably, the silence does not last long.

“You fucking idiot!” Clarisse explodes, the second Will is out of eyesight. She bats Chris’s hand away from her, and he, surprisingly, lets her go easily — his usually understanding face has hardened. She hobbles towards her brother, remarkably quick with her clunky cast, and starts truly tearing into him. “I asked you to do one fucking thing! One!”

Sherman quickly gets defensive under the scrutiny. “Well, you didn’t make it fucking easy! Just because he’s your protege doesn’t mean he’s my fucking problem —”

Nico doesn’t stick around to listen to their argument. He searches around the gathered crowd until he meets Kayla’s eyes, flicking his head towards the woods. She nods frantically. Knowing he’ll make sure they have privacy, he takes off, aiming for the same place Will went, barely slowing down once he enters the forest.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Will?” he calls, well aware he’s not going to get an answer. “Where are you?”

While there’s definitely no response from Will, he damn near jumps out of his skin when a dryad melts from her tree, shuffling towards him.

“Blond boy?” she asks, leaning close so he can hear her whisper. “Tall? Crying?”

Nico swallows. Fuck. “Yeah.”

“Headed down southeast, ways past Zeus’ fist.“

“Thank you,” he says, hoping she understands how much he means it.

She nods, then disappears back into her tree.

Following her directions, Nico jogs down beaten paths, heading in the direction that he is vaguely sure is southeast and mostly praying that he’ll find Will eventually. He shouldn’t have that much of a head start, since Nico left maybe five minutes after he did, but who knows. Will’s fast, and sometimes this forest seems bigger than it really is. It’s easy to get lost.

He searches for what feels like hours, and might actually be hours; sky darkening as the sun disappears into the lake. The temperature drops significantly. Nico is hoping that he won’t be spending the night sleeping in the dirt when he hears sniffling.

Heart pounding, he freezes, focusing on the sound. It’s muffled, sobs choked-off and sound hidden behind cupped hands. The echo sounds strange, too; it’s close, that much is obvious, but Nico almost can’t tell if it’s coming from the left or the right. Truthfully, it doesn’t sound like either.

On impulse, he looks up. Almost invisible in the branches of a large oak tree is Will, stained clothes blending in with the scratchy bark, leaves covering the rest of him.

Except, perhaps fittingly, his bright, golden hair.

Worried that calling out to him might startle him right off the tree, Nico begins to climb. He’s not great at climbing — he doesn’t have a natural sense of what is and isn’t a good foothold — but oak trees are easy. Every half-step has a branch, and this tree is old enough that the branches are thick, sturdy. He’s twenty feet up before he even realizes, barely breaking a sweat.

He pauses a few feet shy of his target, straightening until he’s standing on an almost flat branch, arm looped tightly around the trunk.

“Will.”

Will startles. He looks around frantically, struggling in the dark, until his bloodshot eyes finally land on Nico. He bursts into more tears, shoulders shaking as he sobs.

Alarmed, Nico crawls all the way up.

“Woah, Will, breathe, vita, breathe —”

He’s not sure what tree-sobbing etiquette is, but regular sobbing etiquette often involves some kind of comforting physical touch, so he goes with that. And Will, he knows, likes to be crowded, likes to be almost suffocated with the sights and touch and smells of other people, to remind him he’s not alone, even if he feels it. So Nico scoots as closely as he dares, legs wrapped around the branch, and slides one arm around Will’s back, one against his chest, and tugs him closely.

Will comes easily.

With a bit of manoeuvring, he’s tucked under Nico’s chin, shoulders hunched and shaking, enveloped entirely in Nico’s arms. He can feel a wet spot growing on his left sleeve, and honestly he should be at least a little bit disgusted, but he barely even notices. He’s too busy fighting the lump in his own throat, blinking back his own tears.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to Will’s curls. “Let it out, Will. You’re allowed.”

Will wails, a deep, choking, broken sound, and Nico loses the battle with his own tears. He’s never heard Will like this. He’s never heard anyone like this, except himself, in the echo of this same forest, years ago. It hurts like biting ice.

“It hurts, they’re gone, they’re gone, and I hate them, I hate them so much —” he heaves, dragging in breath like it cost him to say it, like part of his soul was dragged out of his vocal chords — “and I hate myself for hating them, I hate, they’re gone, I’m never —”

He dissolves into sobs, again, words breaking into nothing understandable, crying around the same repetitions over and over again. Nico hides his crumpling face in Will’s hair, wincing at every broken cry, every hitched breath, every moaned word. His heart feels like it’s breaking into a million fractals. He’s never felt so out of depth in his life.

“Let it out,” he whispers again, for a lack of anything else to say. “Let it out, sweetheart, let it out.”

For a long time, Nico had no one to hold him.

When he lost Bianca, he was by himself. And when he thought he had someone to guide him, someone to fix him, he was wrong — he was vulnerable and easy to manipulate. He had no one to hold him until he was too bitter and too closed off to let himself fall apart, anyway, and losing Bianca stayed somewhere rotten inside him, a bruise that never, ever stopped aching.

Until Will.

Last December he had cracked like an egg. He hadn’t meant to — it wasn’t even in the back of his mind — but he’d opened the door to Will’s smiling face on the morning, cold and sad as it was, and just started bawling. Some part of him, some deep, buried part, stomped it’s way from the prison Nico had kept it in and took the hell over, yanking open the floodgates, forcing him to expel every last drop of shadowy, strangling pain that had stayed inside him so long. He thought he was going to die. His entire body shook and jerked like a rowboat in a deep ocean storm, and it had been Will’s lighthouse, his endless, light eyes, his warm hands, his firm hold that had held him steady until he’d dragged himself out to the other side. It was and is the most painful thing he’d ever done in his life. And the most important.

He doesn’t think Will has had anyone to hold him, before, either. Not ‘til right this moment. Not Chiron, not his mother, and certainly not an older sibling. Will has been running on empty for as long as Nico has known him. Longer.

“Let it out,” Nico whispers again, and holds him tighter.

———

By the time either of them move again, it’s pale, early morning, and they’re damp from the dew and Will’s tears. Nico is as stiff as the tree he’s sitting on, but doesn’t dare say a word about it.

“I don’t want to go back,” Will croaks, the first either of them have spoken in hours.

Nico tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, resting a gentle hand on his cheek. “Okay.”

“We can’t stay here forever.”

“We can stay a while.” Nico pulls away slightly, just enough so that he can cradle Will’s face in both hands, tilting his chin up to meet his gaze. “I mean it, Will. As long as you need.”

“What if I’ll never have enough time?”

“Then I’ll stay with you until time runs out.” He presses a tentative, careful kiss to the centre of his freckled forehead; staying when Will shudders, leaning into it. Against his skin, he murmurs, “But you’ll have enough time, vita. You’re the strongest person I know.”

“I don’t want to be strong.”

“So don’t, I gotcha.” He presses another kiss slightly above the first, and another, resting again at the crown of his head. “But you can be.”

They stay like that until Nico’s face starts to go numb, and even then he doesn’t go far, shifting so his cheek lays on the top of Will’s skull. He ignores the slight tickle of his curls against his nose, focusing instead on the brand of his hands on his waist, the shakey but constant inhales, holds, exhales, again, again, again.

“Clarisse is my friend,” Will starts. “She was as important to me as — as Cass, before the war.”

Nico hums. “But she betrayed you.”

“All of us.”

“And you resent her for it, a little.”

Will nods. “It’s disgusting.”

“It’s human, Will, Christ.” He moves them around so they’re both sitting facing each other, Nico’s eyes firmly meeting Will’s. “I will never fully forgive Percy for letting Bianca die. Never. It’s not fair to him, and I love him anyway, and I am choosing to move past it. But I will carry that burden. Am I disgusting for that?”

Will glances away. “No.”

“Will, you — look at me.”

He does.

“Clarisse actively chose her pride over her people. So did the rest of her cabin. She’s not fully responsible for that choice, and the blame, as always, lands on Kronos’ shoulders, but —” Nico laughs, a bitter, defeated sound. “Out of all of us, you lost the most. No one lost as many as Apollo. No one burned as many shrouds. You’re allowed to be hurt, allowed to be angry.”

“I forgave them,” Will admits. “I did it publicly and called off the stupid rivalry right after the war. It was the first thing I did as head counsellor.”

“Trying to do what Michael would have done?”

“Are you kidding me, he —” Will scoffs, swiping at the tears trickling down the corners of his eyes. “If Michael were alive, and he found out I forgave them after what happened to Lee, too Diana — he would have been furious. He would stop speaking to me. If I was trying to be like Michael, I might’ve refused them treatment.”

Nico tries to imagine that for a second — Will refusing anyone treatment. It makes something sour uncurl in his stomach, something unsettling.

“You would never refuse someone treatment. I didn’t even — I didn’t think you guys were allowed.”

Will shrugs. “There are no rules to our practice. I just never made refusal an option, and the kids are too young to know any different.”

‘The kids’ — as if Kayla and Austin aren’t as old or older than Will was when he was in charge, when he held the bashed pieces of his brother’s brain as it oozed out of his skull. As he sat, exhausted, hands shaking, next to Nico, and embroidered twelve shrouds. As if Yan and Gracie are his, rather than Apollo’s.

“You forgave them so your siblings wouldn’t grow up bitter,” Nico realises. “Oh, gods, Will.”

He shrugs again, picking at his nails. “For me too. Grudges aren’t healthy.” He tries for a teasing smile. “You’d know.”

“I would.” Nico tries to smile back. It’s easier than he thought it would be, although it fades back into something serious quickly. He reaches out, linking his hands with Will’s to stop him picking before he bleeds. “You can be selfish sometimes, you know.”

“Not in front of anyone.”

“You’re admitting it in front of me,” Nico points out.

Will hesitates. “That’s — different.”

“How?”

“You get it.” He looks down, voice quiet. “You get me. I can —” He meets Nico’s eyes again, a kind of helpless smile on his face. “I dunno. You’re safe. You’re okay with me, even when I’m ugly.”

“Even then,” Nico echoes quietly. He reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind Will’s ear again, even though none were loose. His fingertips linger, and the skin under his touch warms. “Especially then.”

“You can, too, you know, I lo —”

“I know.”

Will exhales in relief. “Good.”

He slumps forward until his forehead rests on the swell of Nico’s shoulder, breaths warming the air between them. Nico tries to match his rhythm — in, out, in, out. Hold. Out, in.

“Can we — hide here, for a little bit? Just a little longer.”

“Of course,” Nico murmurs, squeezing his wrists. “I’ll hide you as long as you need.”

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229zmi · 2 months

Text

BLIND DATE

Kuroo Tetsurō/Reader | 1.1k words, fluff, reader is a little clueless at first, based off of this tiktok

“I’m sorry, what? Could you— sorry, could you repeat that?”

At the sound of Kuroo’s cackles echoing throughout the study room (that you had booked for yourself, and then he decided to invade it after spotting you through the window), you shake your head, feeling the regret creep up your neck like smoke rising from flames. Still, he continues to offer half-assed apologies in between abrupt laughs, as if that’ll soothe your embarrassment in any way.

“You heard me the first time.” You scowl when he opens his mouth to deny it, feigning cluelessness with a dumbfounded look on his face. “And your sense of humour sucks by the way. It wasn’t that funny.”

“But it is. You really want me, out of all the people, to set you up with someone?” He grins, twirling a pen around his fingers. Inwardly, you wish for the pen to suddenly fly out of control, for him to finally have a moment of failure that will eventually spiral into his downfall in the hopefully near future (a few seconds from now), but it never happens.

“Just one date,” you say, with venom preemptively hanging from the tip of your tongue in case you need to further defend yourself.

However, he surprises you when all he does is lean back in his chair instead of bursting into a fit of laughter again. His eyebrows furrow in thought, and the pen stills in his hand; he sets it down atop his notebook.

“I know someone who has a small crush on you,” he tells you after a beat. You straighten at the newfound information, suddenly interested.

“Really? Are they a friend of yours? Who is it?”

Kuroo — that bastard — shakes his head, now sporting a smug smile as he crosses his arms. “That’s classified information, I’m afraid.”

You groan. “You can’t just say that and not tell me who it is! C’mon, can you at least give me a hint?”

“Sure. What kind of hint?”

Your question hurtles toward him at lightning speed, only half-joking. “Are they rich?”

Waving his finger disapprovingly, he reprimands you, “Such a shallow question. I’m disappointed in you.”

“Yeah, well, are they?”

“Can’t say he is. He’s a college student, same university and year as us,” he says, and you act devastated over the news, slapping a dramatic hand over your chest. It’s too bad your dreams of becoming someone’s sugar baby have been crushed so tragically like this, though you suppose there are other important factors to consider as well.

“Is he—?”

“Hey, you said a hint, not multiple hints.”

“Oh, shut it. Is he hot?”

“Very,” he confirms, so quickly that it’s almost suspicious. You eye him warily, to which he shrugs. “What? Birds of a feather flock together, or something like that.”

“Yeah, okay. So he’s butt-ugly, then, by association with you.” At that, Kuroo kicks your knee as you snicker to yourself.

“You know that by saying that, you’re also calling yourself butt-ugly. Plus, I’m doing you a grand favour, and this is what I get in return?” A long sigh escapes him. “Absolutely nothing but insults. Unbelievable.”

“You’re such a baby.”

“Nothing but insults,” he repeats.

You roll your eyes. There’s no winning with him. “Fine, then. I’ll lend you my old statistics textbook. You’re taking Intro to Stats next semester, right?”

“Yup.” He smiles, and you know you’ve got yourself a deal. “I’ll text you the location and time as soon as possible.”

Disappointingly enough, your date is late.

Kuroo, however, is right on time.

You narrow your eyes at him, glancing at the outfit he’s got on. You’re used to him wearing sweatpants and hoodies with holes in the sleeves every time you see him, but today, he’s put something unusually nice on, although you’re not entirely sure why. You’re also not sure why he’s here, outside of the café and at the exact time he told you your date had agreed to meet you.

“Where’s my date?” you ask before looking around for the umpteenth time to check if he’s arrived yet. However, your movement is stopped when Kuroo gently places a hand under your chin, guiding your focus back to him.

A sly grin reveals itself; his hazel eyes twinkle beneath the glow of the café’s hanging fairy lights.

“Right here. I’m your date.”

You frown, still puzzled. “What? But you said a few days ago, you were gonna set me up with someone who—“

Wait a minute.

Oh, you realise.

Then, you shut your eyes tightly, turning away from him.

“What are you doing?” There’s a slight chuckle in his voice that he doesn’t even attempt to hide, obviously entertained by your actions. He steps to the side to see your face, but you turn away again. “Hey, is my hair really that ugly? I tried combing it down like a gazillion times this morning, I swear.”

“No, just—” You stick your arm out, and Kuroo holds onto it awkwardly, both concerned for you and unsure of what he’s supposed to do. “Pinch me, please. I think I’m dreaming.”

“Oh. You’re not dreaming,” he assures you, opting to instead rest his hands on your shoulders, yet it’s pointless in getting you to look at him. Stubborn as always, he thinks fondly.

“That’s exactly what someone in my dreams would say.”

“Ah, I see. So, I’m the man of your dreams?”

Bingo. Picturing himself doing a victory dance in his head, Kuroo watches you open your eyes to glare at him for his remark. His celebration is short-lived, though, because in a matter of seconds, you’re quick to point out, “You’re blushing.”

Rubbing a hand over his cheek as if to erase the pinkish hue, he denies the observation. “I’m not.”

“You are.” You feel all giddy inside, with your heart feeling like it’s about to leap out of your chest, walk inside the café, and buy a cup of coffee. You’re worried a gooey mess of feelings is what’s going to spill onto the pavement if you so much as speak too quickly, so your question comes out tentative, like a butterfly’s wings fluttering in the wind, “And… you like me?”

That, he cannot deny. But there’s a poor attempt at it anyway. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. I said a small crush.”

“Really?”

“Really.” A pause. Then, he adds sheepishly, “Well, maybe it’s a little more than that.”

Your expression breaks into a grin at the confession, but before you can tease him any more for the blush that has now spread to the back of his neck, he pulls the door to the café open and uses his free hand to gesture towards the interior, bowing his head slightly.

“For my lovely date,” he says, looking up just to wink at you. Whether this is actually to charm you or just to distract you from his embarrassment, you can’t tell.

Nevertheless, as cheesy as it is, you decide to play along, intertwining your fingers through his and extending your gratitude to him for his chivalrous act before pulling him along as you head inside.

notes: another kuroo fic 4 the Kuroo kissers ♥︎ tumblr user @kyoghurts i hope u like it teehee

#kuroo x reader #kuroo x you #kuroo fluff #kuroo tetsuro x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x gender neutral reader #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu x you #229ZMI

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s3thwrit3sstuff · 4 months

Text

❝ YOU ALREADY HAVE A PIECE OF MY HEART (WHICH I HAVE NEVER GIVEN TO YOU) ❞

warnings: burn scars, battle scars, grief, derealization, trauma (so much trauma), major character deaths (Satoru, Suguru, Tsumiki, Nanako, Mimiko, Principal Yaga, (Y/N)'s mom), Fushiguro Megumi angst, Junpei mentioned (surprisingly without angst), Itadori Yuji angst (minor), NSFW content for Sukuna's section, implied cannibalism

masterlist; part 1; part 2; part 3; alternate ending; playlist; au's and what if's

authors note: NOT PROOFREAD AT ALL! The formatting is a bit all over the place but these are straight-up taken from Discord chats I had with Elias, pls. I hope they're not too hard to understand. These are all basically "what ifs" and alternate universes + one section for Heian Period Ryomen Sukuna with a (L/N)'s ancestor! " " = means straight-up copy-pasted so I guess they kinda act as a foreword for each drabble

starting off with some HCs of (Y/N)’s high school years!

(Y/N) thinks Satoru must understand the pain of being the next head of the clan, get trained vigorously, and deal with aching bones and sores. Nope! Satoru’s never dealt with that much less dealt with (Y/N)’s father.

Shoko has a dark sense of humour so she laughs at his dark jokes but (Y/N) does notice the three of them end up pampering him more often.

Satoru buys him food most of the time. Drinks and snacks and ice cream, if (Y/N) gazes at something too long Satoru just tosses it into his cart.

Suguru tends to help him stretch or massage him. He’d even fix (Y/N)’s hair, almost motherly in his actions. He makes sure (Y/N) is presentable, makes sure he doesn’t have to worry because; “Su-Su will fix it~”.

Shoko makes sure (Y/N) is always wound-free. From buying antiseptics to burn relief gels (they all have a travel-sized bottle on their person to be fair). She buys him cigarettes when he needs them and always pokes him in his sides or the back of his head, she made it a habit to use RCT on him just in case he’s in pain but can’t feel it.

"You'd come back to me"

"What if Nanami Kento and (Y/N) survived the Shibuya arc?"

Kento stroked your bangs away and then pressed kisses with every compliment he gave. Your chuckles give him this feeling that if you ever told him "please" he'd give up everything just to hear it again. Kento lightly pushes you away but slips a hand underneath you, tugging his (Y/N) closer. “Kennnnnny."

Usually, Kento doesn’t enjoy nicknames but every time you say it, the world seems bright and sweet. So he noses at your jaw and relishes in the giggles.

“You’re beautiful,” he says with so much sincerity.

“You’re not too bad yourself.” Kento grins and presses a searing kiss to your lips.

You are both covered in scars. Nanami’s still pinkish and healing even with the help of socerery and yours still aching and bruised. But nothing about you could be wrong. Because that wasn’t possible. The ring on your hand is cool on his neck as you tilt his head to deepen the kiss. Kento turns and chuckles as you yelp, straddling him now.

“Kento!”

“Yes, my (Y/N)?”

Your eyes soften, and he kisses you again.

"The beach will be more cloudy. We can sit on the porch and I'll make you that milky tea again." He thinks it's a shame the two of you are stuck inside the house. It cannot be helped; his skin was far too sensitive for Malaysia's unapologetic sunny rays and dry heat and although you comfort him by saying your scars are still healing too, he wants nothing more than to pick you up and wash away all the remnants of Shibuya in seawater. "I can make it," he says. "Kento," you press your finger onto his lips, tracing it until you're cupping his face and stroking over his cheekbones. "Let me take care of you." Kento frowns and places his hand over yours, tracing the shape of your healing knuckles and raised scars. "Only if you'll let me do the same, my (Y/N)."

Kento who survived the Shibuya arc is left with a very sensitive wound all over the left side of his body. His hearing is unbalanced and his depth perception is fucked but (Y/N) helps him through all the transitions he goes through.

(Y/N) feels guilty for using his curse technique when it’d been fire that hurt Kento. Who doesn’t use it around Kento or if he does use it, he makes sure the smell is gone and washes his hands, and makes sure Kento can hold him without fear. But Kento doesn’t fear him! Kento figured it out and he just tells (Y/N); “My love, you never need to hide yourself from me…”

Yuji helps Kento with physical therapy. Kento grunts but allows Yuji to hug him when he regains consciousness. Kento who asks Yuji if he’d like to be his ringbearer during their wedding.

(Y/N) who is so nervous to meet Kento’s parents. He knows non-sorcerers and sorcerers don’t have many differences in their daily lives outside of exorcising curses but worries nonetheless. Kento’s mom is bright and jovial, and his father is even more so! (Y/N) is honestly taken aback by how soft-hearted they are and how they thank him for saving Kento. He finds himself loving them so much because they remind him of his mother and how gentle and kind she was.

When he asks for their blessing? He bows but is surprised when Kento’s father blocks his forehead from meeting the floor, blinking away tears when his mother holds his face.

“We’ll gladly take you in as your son, (Y/N),” and they all start crying because (Y/N) is crying, LMAO.

Kento tells (Y/N) he asked for his parent's blessing and he's confused because Kento should never do that - he doesn’t need to ask his father for his blessing but Kento simply says:

“I visited your mom’s grave. I asked for her blessing. I talked to her about how much I love you.”

At their wedding, there are empty seats in the crowd. Seats for their fallen comrades, their loved ones, seats for Tsumiki, Principal Yaga, Yū, Satoru, Suguru, (Y/N)'s mom… (blame Elias for this one)

In regards to (Y/N) seeing Geto Suguru's "body" as he descended into madness: Kento who spots him muttering to himself or staring into space. (Y/N), who after surviving the Shibuya arc, still sees Suguru and now Satoru as well. At times, he even sees Yū, Kento, Megumi, Tsumiki, Yuji, Nobara, Maki, or -His brain constantly makes it hard for him to decipher reality or fiction.

A HC based on Katniss and Peeta: (Y/N) asking Kento, “Real or not real?” when he can't tell reality from fiction.

“You’re alive, real or not real?” “Real.”

“Megumi is still breathing. Real or not real?” “Real, my love. He’s just healing. He’ll wake up soon.”

"...You love me, real or not real?" "Real, my love."

When Fushiguro Megumi wakes up:

When Megumi recovers he cries. Openly cries, sobs, and wails as he begs for forgiveness from everyone around him. (Y/N) literally rushed into the room which made Megumi flinch, yelling at him to stay away because he killed his father (Satoru), his sister, and everyone else Ryomen Sukuna had killed. But (Y/N) just holds him and holds him and holds him. Megumi finds it hard to piece his brain together after what Sukuna has done so Yuji helps. Yuji asks Kento for advice because Megumi and (Y/N) are lowkey in the same boat-ish.

Megumi who begs for forgiveness because Sukuna had done unspeakable things to (Y/N) just to make him his concubine and (Y/N) just comforts his son.

When Megumi is strong enough they go to Suguru and Satoru’s graves. There are no bodies but they buried the things that they treasured. Their wedding ring rests where Satoru would have along with Megumi and Tsumiki’s childhood drawings, pictures, and Suguru’s hairband and button. The flip phone was full of memories and high school photographs - his wedding picture too. He rests beside Geto Suguru, whose grave is filled with his daughter's belongings and the flip phone he kept too, the creased photograph of himself with Satoru, (Y/N) and Shoko. Tsumiki, Nanko and Mimiko are next to their fathers. Megumi cries as his knees give out, his only family left, his dad; (Y/N), just comforts him as much as he can. His precious boy, his beautiful son... They visit as often as they can, telling tales of their days, their weeks, and their months. Soon enough, it will be less painful for them to visit that hill. It'll be scenic and they'll no longer curse at the heavens for all this loss. They'll hate that they're no longer the same person their loved ones had seen, hate the wrinkles and the greying hair and the way they couldn't grow old together. Hate that they've been alive longer than them when they feel like they don't deserve to be. But one day it'll stop and they'll take it as a blessing to grow this old, knowing they'll see their family soon enough with so many stories to tell.

"And isn't it just so pretty to think? All along there was some invisible string, tying to you me?"

"You know - in every universe, Satoru falls in love with Suguru and (Y/N). In a few universes, their love is not tragic. In this special few, Satoru does not use (Y/N) for honor. Suguru comes back after his betrayal,l and (Y/N) and Kento defend his rights as a human. Satoru has (Y/N) help him with Suguru’s rehabilitation, and Kento helps Suguru with his clashing ideology. In the special few, Megumi is still beloved by YN but he doesn’t fear betrayal, and love just needs love to be perfect. Uncle (Y/N) cherishes Tsumiki and Megumi and Uncle Kento who teaches them how to be kind and responsible. Mimiko and Nanako learn how to befriend Tsumiki and Megumi!”

(Y/N) would've become a teacher like Satoru! Kento sends him to and from. He pouted so much when Kento knew Yuji was alive but forgave him. (Y/N) invited Yuji to eat homemade lunch and dinners in their home, and Yuji pretended not to feel himself tremble; a homemade meal was eaten around a dining table.

Yuji, who never had such an experience before; and who craves familial bonds; can’t stop shoveling food in his mouth because he keeps grinning too hard -

And when Junpei is brought back alive? (Y/N) takes to him like a moth to a flame. He volunteers to help Junpei, to house him, and bares his teeth at the higher-ups who dare take the boy from him.

Junpei wakes up to Kento cooking breakfast and (Y/N) who makes tea. Junpei gasps as (Y/N) opens up a movie and invites him to watch with him. Junpei relishes Kento’s words of advice for his newfound curse technique.

Junpei cries into the pillows and gets surprised when (Y/N) comforts him, telling him he misses his mother too, and lets (Y/N) hug him.

Junpei stares at himself in the mirror when Shoko heals his cigarette scars, brushing back his bangs confidently for the first time.

Junpei who bonds with Megumi about having shikigamis! Who Nobara (affectionately) bullies and toughens up! Maki is reminded of Yuta every time, and Inumaki chuckles at her face. Panda just loves being his senpai but keeps pushing Junpei away from him when Junpei tries to touch his fur -

Satoru and Suguru come over with Mimiko, Nanako, Tsumiki, and Megumi to their home. Yuji and Junpei picked out the movie (it’s obviously Human Earthworm - all 4 movies). The Gojo-Geto’s brought snacks and drinks, and the Nanami’s made their home so cozy and warm.

"Tell me you belong to me"

Heian Era Sukuna and the ancestor of the (L/N) clan, his only male concubine which he adored so much it caused his unending.

As a foreword (just a fan theory I adored not canon at all): "The theory that Sukuna keeps CTs within his Malovent Shrine (hence, in my fic, it’s why the (L/N) clan never flourished. Sukuna took their innate technique and left them with a CT so strong none of them had enough will-power to master). It’s not confirmed but in the Jogo fight, he says “open” and all of a sudden he can use a flame CT???" "This is basically an AU of (Y/N)'s ancestor, lmao."

They sacrificed (Y/N) to Ryomen Sukuna and gave him their prince who came to him with a sharp glare and dirtied with bruises and cuts.

“You wrap my gift so carelessly?” Sukuna drawls out.

(Y/N) is bound and gagged. His hair must have been in an impressed top knot, now a mess that spills from his shoulders.

Uruame shifts next to him and they grip (Y/N)'s cheeks to inspect him.

What a beautiful man, they think with mild surprise, it was no wonder he was chosen as a sacrifice.

But, Sukuna wants him. So, he adds his first male concubine to his harem. (Y/N) is scrubbed clean, dressed to the nines, and made to look like a doll. His face was painted, his hair brushed, his nails trimmed, and his skin moisturized.

Ryomen Sukuna is a monster with a picky tongue. Despite his greed, he only eats refined meats and fights the strongest sorcerers.

Sukuna doesn’t “love” his concubine but he favors him. That much, (Y/N) can tell. When he plays the biwa or recites sutras and haikus, Sukuna is ever so attentive. When (Y/N) bows and sits next to Lord Sukuna to feed him his meals, he finds those big hands holding him in one way or another.

When he takes (Y/N) as a “woman”, he is not gentle. Uruame is the one to prepare him. They provided him with oils and aromatic smoke to ease him, not out of the kindness of their hearts but for their Lord’s pleasure. (Y/N) swears he nearly rips taking his size but Sukuna spreads his legs and pushes in deeper and (Y/N) gasps, his tears like diamonds as he pleads for his Lord to grant him mercy.

Sukuna does. It surprises himself. But he does.

Maybe Sukuna will never understand the word love because he tells himself he’s never loved. Or maybe, he confuses it with ownership and cruelty - because it’s obvious he loves (Y/N).

He’s unfair to all but him.

He is still the King of Curses, a cruel tyrant, but (Y/N) is someone who calms his wrath with ease.

When they made that Binding Vow for (Y/N)'s curse technique to be given to Sukuna in exchange for Sukuna not being able to kill off his clan. He had thought to give YN another curse technique. But then, after (Y/N) learns Sukuna murdered a huge chunk of his clan, (Y/N) plans for his betrayal.

(Y/N) seeing the shock on Sukuna’s face as he gets sealed away, feeling the God's disdain weigh on his bones as he breaks the Binding Vow - he weeps for Sukuna despite knowing how horrible he is.

(Y/N) marries and his bloodline continues on, but there’s this terrible desire to be loved. It persists in every one of them. This ache that the King of Curses had left. This magnetism that power holds over the (L/N) clan.

In another universe, where (Y/N) finds no love in Satoru nor Kento, but Sukuna?

How delighted would the King of Curses be to see his concubine so willing for him? The King of Curses would have a harem of women. But the one man? Oh, he’s beloved. His room is closest to Sukuna’s, his appetite always filled and his bookshelves overflowing. Uruame enjoys his presence, tending to him personally and making him food as well.

(Y/N) who takes a liking to human flesh. Who finds himself ignoring the screams of tortured men and women, and only curls his nose in distaste when Sukuna wants to consume “soft” flesh.

Who grins so serenely in his King’s lap, who can’t decide which mouth he prefers on him or which hand is his favourite. Sukuna loves to be fed by (Y/N) and does the same to him.

Who learns how to please Sukuna’s cocks all by himself. Who has servants prep him open only to be killed right after - but what a privilege they had, to have Sukuna’s concubine mewl around their fingers.

Sukuna loves watching him ride, loves seeing the bulge in his stomach, the twinge of pain on his face. He loves sticking his tongue out (the one on his stomach) to lick at (Y/N)’s cock and (Y/N) yelps every time.

At times, you’ll find his precious concubine so stunning after a night of pleasure you’d stare. Each time, Uruame is there to gauge their eyes out.

Their master's toy is his alone after all.

"What must it be like to grow up that beautiful? With your hair falling into place like dominoes"

polycule of satosugu x yn!

Satoru thinks he’s selfish. He knows that marrying (Y/N) fulfills duty and honour but in doing so it would be cruel for the boy. On the other hand, marrying Suguru was completely out of the realm of possibilities no matter how hard he insists.

His personal feelings about them both confuse him too.

Satoru loves Suguru. Satoru loves (Y/N).

You could imagine the relief 16-year-old Gojo Satoru felt when (Y/N) blushed at Suguru’s soft-spoken voice or when Suguru caught himself staring at (Y/N)’s lips for too long in a conversation.

In this AU - Satoru never dated Suguru, he instead gathered the two of you and just announced his feelings.

It was choppy waters to navigate through, among the political aspects of a marriage and teenage emotions and deadly missions.

But the three of you made it work. This relationship was among three men who fulfilled honour, duty, and love. Who only needed each other to feel filled.

A polyamorous marriage wasn’t taboo, it was just outdated, still with Gojo Satoru and Gojo (Y/N) both insisting that Geto Suguru would be their husband after Satoru became the head of the Gojo clan. It wasn’t as though they could be refused now.

In this AU, Suguru would not betray his husbands though not without thinking of it. He simply tightened his hold on the rings before he brought the twins back home and his heart softened as he saw them tend to the girls.

What a rowdy household. The children are so loved that they cannot fathom love doesn’t exist.

Satoru who will sigh and embrace his husbands out of the blue.

“You’re beautiful,” he’ll tell (Y/N) as he cups his face while the poor man is simply reading some document at the dining table. “Our husband is beautiful, Suguru!”

Suguru immediately gets drowsy whenever your fingers thread through his hair, and chuckles when you trace his features as he’s about to wake.

Gods, seeing you and Satoru hold onto your children’s hands as all of you walk together in a park makes thoughts of those dark summers dissipate into nothing.

Satoru sleeps in the center of your California king-sized bed. He simply refuses any other spot.

The Tokyo School has its hands full of the Gojo’s. From the husbands to their 3 children with rambunctious abilities.

When Tsumiki got cursed...it was an emotional day for everyone. Suguru swore he’d do anything to break it while Nanako and Mimiko yelled and yelled, Megumi just sobbing into your chest.

The girls visit her often, talking to her as they fix her hair and ensure she’s comfortable. Megumi appreciates their care as he silently stares from the corner.

Oh, breakfasts are always bustling.

The children are spoiled just as much as Satoru’s husbands are.

What a terrifying trio you are - abilities powerful beyond the curve!

Shoko always takes a few shots before heading over to celebrate holiday dinners, lmao.

She understands that you three enjoy asking about her love life though all three of you were made to kneel in apology as she glared after Satoru and you “accidentally” found the woman she’d been seeing.

Suguru rolls his eyes every time Satoru and you stroke the dragon spirit's snout or compliment the spear-wielding spirit.

While they bring burn-relief medication for you, Satoru and you ensure to bring snacks to wash away the foul taste of curses for Suguru and Suguru and you always have extra blindfolds and painkillers for Satoru.

Yuta grew flustered as he found out the three of you were together. He had honestly thought Suguru was cheating on Satoru with you but Maki’s scoff of “disgust” and her brief explanation made his face bloom into fifty shades of red.

Yuji would honestly not care - he’d be surprised at first but bounce back rather quickly (although Ryomen Sukuna would certainly have his comments).

ANGST TIME!

The Shibuya arc would be very different of course, though wouldn’t it just be delightful if Kenjaku managed to grab (Y/N) and force his husband to see Ryomen Sukuna not only take over their son’s body but see their husband get claimed by another?

Delicious angst, me thinks.

"But I just wanna stop right next to you, if I could my dream? I just wanna stop right next to you."

polygamous marriage (?) of Satosugu and kentoYN!

In this AU, (Y/N) and Satoru would feel so guilty for letting their eyes wander to their significant future husbands.

It’s not as though they don’t love each other but there’s this societal norm of monogamy and despite never getting physical with Suguru/Kento the emotional aspect still makes them feel like they’re doing something dirty.

It wasn’t fair to anyone.

Shoko dryly mumbling about polygamy had Satoru and you instantly perking up.

You loved Suguru and Satoru liked Kento - but neither of them wanted to be in a relationship with each other. So this arrangement of Satoru’s boyfriend and (Y/N)’s boyfriend honestly worked. It was confusing at first but it worked.

When Satoru married Suguru and you married Kento, it was a joyous event. A double wedding!

A rowdy household once again, Satoru insisted on living on the same land just with multiple “sections”. Even if this was a polycule, I’d imagine solitude from one another is still appreciated after all. The house was built from the ground up and it was a labour of love to ensure all four of you (and your kids) would have their own slice of heaven.

Kento adores you, the rings on your fingers, and the home you share.

Satoru adores you as well, never once making you feel as though this is a competition.

Both Satoru and you are fair to each other and your respective husbands. Never favouring the other or anything that would make them feel like a “glorified side chick.”

The kids aren’t confused at all.

Although they did have to adjust to call which father what.

They settled with Dad (you), Papa (Suguru), Pa (Kento), and Father (Satoru - only to annoy him.) Sometimes the four of you will have to play it by ear since they just use “daddd!” interchangeably.

Shoko still takes shots before she heads over to go to holiday dinners.

The students are also not confused. Yuta got a bit flustered but Suguru just informed him about it and Yuta felt less anxious - he genuinely thought Satoru was cheating on (Y/N) when he walked in on Satoru and Suguru making out in an empty classroom.

You’d honestly just giggle at Yuta’s face when he told you this which made him more confused while Suguru gave him the mercy to pat his head.

Yuji would think it’d be so cool that such a dynamic worked.

Nanako and Mimiko as Tokyo High students make my heart soar - Megumi has his older sisters tease him relentlessly whenever their schedules overlap (they always do).

#s3thwrit3sstuff #gojo satoru x male reader #geto suguru x male reader #nanami kento x male reader #ryomen sukuna x male reader #jjk x you #jjk x yn #jjk x reader #jjk x male reader #reader insert #male reader #male reader insert #gay reader #male!reader

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serpentarius · 4 months

Text

been trying to wrap my head around the cancellation of "Our Flag Means Death" and why it hurts so fucking much. lots of folks who are much more eloquent than I have summed it up perfectly, but I still think it’s important I add my voice to the matter.

It really, really sucks that the hurt is being compounded on us every time another queer/minority-led show gets prematurely cancelled. and for a long while, we also had to deal with the many shows that deliberately queerbaited us, which was a shitty and traumatic experience unto its own. And even though we’ve largely surpassed that early-‘00s-flavoured brand of queerbait now, mainstream queer media is still predominantly white-led. With the cancellation of OFMD, we've lost one of the very few intersectional queer shows in the mainstream. Shouldn’t we be beyond asking for crumbs at this point? Shouldn’t we get unabashedly intersectional shows helmed by and starring queer, BIPOC, and trans folks without them being axed for no rhyme or reason?

It’s exhausting at this point, honestly. OFMD has done so well in terms of viewership and engagement and fan response—almost entirely due to word of mouth and little thanks to the Max marketing team, mind you—and even still the show got cancelled? Can they make it make sense????

For me, the thing most akin to this OFMD situation was when Sense8 got cancelled. And yes, the fandom fought, and we eventually DID get a movie that wrapped things up years later! That gives me hope for OFMD, that maybe another network will pick it up, or maybe they’ll be able to make a movie someday. But what makes me sad about cases like Sense8 is knowing that the creators still had to force the narrative around the amount of time they were given. That the corporate overlords who only care about numbers and profit dictated how much time they had to wrap up their story.

And it fucking kills me that DJ only wanted one more season. One more season to complete the vision.

I'm just so mad that queer people are constantly being jerked around and used for profit and then left high and dry. And then we're given excuses like "oh there's no budget" or "oh there's not enough viewership, that's all it is". like, sure, maybe those are contributing factors, but then I look at all the useless garbage shows that have little viewership and high budgets that keep going forever and then I think "hmmmm, the math ain't mathing." It's fucking transparent; the corporations can spew all they want with their rainbow capitalism and talks about diversity, but the evidence is clear, and they can't convince me homophobia/racism/transphobia/etc. is not a factor in these decisions.

Anyways, back to OFMD. OFMD made me fall in love with fandom again. I drifted away from fandom for a while in my 20s, and while OFMD wasn't the first fandom that drew me back into the madness, it's certainly the largest. The sheer amount of creativity both within the show and outside of it has blown me away; I've read some of the best fics, seen some of the best art, and witnessed some of the most incredible creativity from people in this fandom.

And let's not forget the role of the show's creators and how they've interacted with us fans. They made us feel seen. And made us feel loved and valid, even when we were being weird and loud and horny. It's so fucking rare to see that. But they understood; understood that the show they made was for us, for any of us who've been marginalized or made to feel Othered or different or stuck in life or unsure of our identities. And they gave us so much love for it.

The story... man. The unique combination of quirky humour and bright visuals and dark, introspective moments, the gorgeous costumes and soft, lovely, unabashed queerness, and veteran actors and new actors all getting to shine, brilliant comedic actors getting to show off their dramatic chops and vice versa. For me, seeing Rhys Darby - an actor I've loved for a long time, but who I never thought I'd see in a leading role - getting to be the romantic lead in a queer role? And seeing acclaimed director/producer/screenwriter/actor Taika Waititi play opposite Rhys, as an indigenous Blackbeard? Fucking incredible. OFMD Edward Teach you will always be famous to me.

Anyways... despite my long ramblings here, I still don’t think I've been able to get to the root of WHY exactly this show has inched its way under my skin and stayed with me in the way it has. Maybe I'll spend years trying to understand it. But I DO know that it's in part to do with seeing both older queers AND a diverse range of queerness onscreen, in a way that I've never seen in media before. I DO know that OFMD has forced me to look inwardly, and allowed me to realize some important things about myself. About my own queerness, my own identity, things I'm still figuring out. I've cherished being able to see myself in Stede, in Ed, and each of the crew members. In Roach’s love for cooking, in Oluwande’s ability to mediate; in Jim’s quick temper, in the way Izzy builds walls to guard his heart. In Buttons’ quirkiness, in Wee John’s sass, in Frenchie’s ability to turn pain into humour; in The Swede’s silliness, in Lucius’ bluntness, in Pete’s soft heart beneath the skepticism. Lastly, OFMD has inspired me. To create, to write, to draw, to devour other peoples' works and worlds while I sit in sheer, overflowing joyousness at their talent.

so yeah. the news of this cancellation is upsetting and hurtful and disappointing. And it's making us cry, and it's making us grieve, and may make us hollow and numb at times because we've lost yet another thing we love so deeply before it was meant to go. It's so much more than "just a TV show". It means more to us than any passive mindless idiotic mind-numbing bullshit - because even though there's a time and a place and a purpose for that type of media, it's the thought-provoking work, the work that creators pour their entire hearts and souls into, that hit us deep in our own souls. The work that changes our lives. The work that has the ability to save lives, as I know OFMD has done for so many.

please know I'm sending immense amounts of love and strength to those of you who are also hurting. we'll get through this, one way or another, and I'll keep up with the hope that we'll get more someday; but in the meantime, I'm holding you tight. ❤️️🫂

#our flag means death #ofmd #my thoughts #ofmd thoughts #sorry for the long rambles I just needed to scream into the void #I feel helpless right now but I also wanna fight #sending love ❤️

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writeslikeanaria · 9 months

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i’ve seen the devil in every face

ominis gaunt x reader (technically sebastian sallow x reader)

summary: your boyfriend lives with the demons of never being able to see what you look like. that's when he figures out a way to finally be able to look at you; by wearing the face of his best friend.

word count: 5k+

warnings: SMUT, consent is tricky but i'll just stick with dubious, immoral use of the polyjuice potion, angst, confused reader, m!oral, p in v, opportunity for an incredibly angst filled part two

Potions class seemed to be longer than normal. Having finished your potion earlier than everyone else, your only task now was to finish theory book work, a task that genuinely pained you to complete. Books strewn open, you rested your head against the desk, eyes closed, trying to find will within you to actually dip your quill in the ink that rested next to you.

With your vision gone, you used your imagination to picture the chaos happening around you. A cracking pop sounded off in the room, followed by a stench of rotten fish. Fizzing arose in the room, making your skin prick up from the feeling of electricity. From behind your eyes, you could see a bright white light flash, and a groan from your upset classmate followed suit.

For a moment, you realised that this was reality for your blind boyfriend, Ominis, only able to use his other senses to imagine the world. A brief sadness crept over you, leaving a whimper to come out of your mouth, something that was noticed by your potions partner next to you, Sebastian.

“You alright?” He glanced over at you, cocking an eyebrow, quill hovering in the air.

You opened one eye, adjusting to the bright overhead candle that filled your vision in a flood of white. Sebastian looked down at you, some sort of concern on his face, chewing on the end of his quill. You groaned. “Just peachy…” You paused. “Just thinking.”

Sebastian scoffed. “Anything you want to share with the class?”

Lifting your head slightly, you look across the potion classroom, until your eyes land on the innocent target, blissfully unaware of your stalking eyes. Ominis, busy hunched over a potions book, was reading some words out to his partner, Leander. He seemed frustrated though, eyebrows furrowed deeply, as he kept rubbing his milky white eyes out of pure exhaustion.

From just what you could witness, you knew how annoyed your boyfriend was getting by the ginger’s antics. You had heard many times about how “utterly useless and incorrigible” Leander was, through Ominis’ midnight rantings. Laying in bed, head on his heaving chest, you listened to his stream of consciousness. You pouted at the sight of his anger.

“Ominis doesn’t look happy today.”

Rolling his eyes, Sebastian turned back to his book. “When is he ever when he's in potions class? Poor thing has to deal with Leander for two hours twice a week, I’m surprised he hasn’t ripped all his hair out of head. Pure misery, that’s him.” Sebastian bit his lip, a thought entering his head. “And it doesn’t help that he’s been unusually stroppy the last couple of days.”

You peered at Sebastian, narrowing your eyes, confused. You had barely had time to see your boyfriend in the past couple of days, so you hadn’t noticed any foul behaviour. “What do you me–”

Unfortunately, your question remained unanswered, as the shrill voice of Professor Sharp rang off across the classroom, scolding none other than Garreth Weasley. His face was so close to Garreth’s that they were almost touching. “How dare you not follow my instructions? Detention all next week. Now, clean this up and complete your actual task for homework.”

You snickered, burying your head in your arms, unable to hide away the humour in the situation. Making eye contact with the boy in trouble, he shrugged his shoulders at you. Although Professor Sharp had just told him to discard his potion, you watched as Garreth blatantly discarded those instructions, instead pouring the potion he was working on into a separate flask, before collecting his books back up.

The bell rang, signalling the end of class, but you stayed rooted to your seat as you watched Garreth with intrigue, suddenly fascinated with what he was up to. As everyone filed out of class, you opted to corner your ginger friend, closing in on his defeated stature. His face was sallow, but he still kept a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Backing away your bag, you vaguely registered Sebastian trying to talk to you, but you brushed him off, flaying your hand in the air, dismissively. As much as you loved your best friend, you currently didn’t have time for his questions.

Sliding on over to Garreth’s station, you pick up one of his scrawled notebooks, cheekily. “A little birdie told me you got told off again.”

Garreth jumped slightly at your appearance. “Well, then someone should do something about that gossip of a bird.” He lunged towards the book you were holding. “And we give that back!”

There was no point keeping it anyway, unable to read what covered the pages anyway. Garreth’s handwriting was like chicken scratch. Handing him back his book, you laughed at him, before eyeing the suspicious potion peeking out of his satchel bag. “What’s that?”

“Nothing interesting.” Garreth closed the lid on his bag, keeping the mystery out of sight. You frowned, not usually having to deal with Garreth’s secrecy. Normally, he lets you into his devious plans.

Sighing, you began slowly walking away. “Oh, but it would be such a shame if Professor Sharp found out that you kept some of the potion he told you to discard–”

“Alright!” Garreth stopped you. “It really isn’t anything interesting, I promise, but if you’re still curious, meet me in the abandoned potions classroom on the second floor at midnight. Don’t be late.”

You grinned. You weren’t planning on it.

•┈୨♡୧┈•

When midnight finally came, you were more than excited for your nighttime escape. Cladded in a woollen jumper and tough shoes, you quietly crept down the staircases into the darkness of your common room. As you were about to slink through the door, a voice stopped you in your tracks, calling your name.

“Is that you?”

You immediately recognised the confused tone in your boyfriend’s voice, and a soft chuckle slipped from your mouth. Embarrassed, you covered your reddening face. “Hello darling, I didn’t see you sitting in the dark.”

Ominis pouted. “I didn’t realise a lamp wasn’t on. I was just doing some reading. Have you come to join me?”

“I would love to, truly, but I had other plans for tonight.” You bit your lip in thought. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

A loud groan escaped from Ominis, as he landed his heavy head in his lap. “Can’t sleep, too busy… thinking.”

You moved towards your troubled boyfriend, placing your hand around his. “A penny for your thoughts? I’ve noticed you’ve been… antsy recently, and I can’t help but feel like I'm doing anything for you.” You placed a gentle kiss on his temple. “What’s going on?”

Ominis cringed. “I don’t know how to speak about this; it’s too difficult to even word. And I don’t want to think you did anything wrong–”

“Wait, what?”

“–You’ve been nothing but amazing with everything. You’ve been doting, and kind, and thoughtful, and the time I spend with you, just you, is more cherishable than any worldly possession.”

“Then what’s wrong?” You pressed.

“I–” Ominis sighed. “Everytime we are intimate, I get sad.”

That definitely wasn’t what you were expecting Ominis to say. You retracted your hands for him, unsure if it was out of shock or mild disgust towards what he had said. Never in a million years had you expected your boyfriend, your loving, passionate boyfriend, to admit that love making with you had a melancholic effect on his psyche. Your face contorted with defiance, but you didn’t know how to fight this battle.

You pursed your lips. “Do I disgust you?”

In a flash of seconds, you could see every stage of grief flash over Ominis’ milky eyes, as he reached back towards your hands with comfort. You always relished in the warmth he would give you.

“That’s not what I meant at all.” Ominis started. “I just meant that I feel as though my loss of sight is hindering my experience. Obviously, it’s not, but I can’t help but feel like I’m missing out on seeing you, my beauty, my radiance, the light of my life. Sometimes I wonder how I can feel whole if I can’t even see my other half. Every single time I hear someone compliment your appearance, I just wish I could see you. Everytime you’re under me, I just wish I could see you. Do you understand?”

You didn’t know if you did, but you nodded carefully, stroking small circles on the backs of Ominis’ mole-covered hands, in an attempt to find comfort for him. What you did understand was how difficult this must’ve been to tell you, and you couldn’t be happier that he was actually communicating with you. Leaning into him, you smiled. “Would you like to talk more about this in the morning?”

Ominis smiled. “Sure.”

“Would you like to accompany me to the abandoned potions classroom on the second floor?”

Ominis screwed his face up in confusion. “Why on earth would you want to go to that musty place at this time of night?”

You giggled. “Garreth seems to be working on a secret potion, and I’m curious to see what he’s up to.”

It didn’t take long to convince your stubborn boyfriend, as in a matter of minutes, you were slinking hand in hand, under a disillusionment spell, across the deserted halls of Hogwarts at night. It was a peaceful adventure, one that really helped calm you both down after the intensity of your previous conversation.

Unfortunately, the words Ominis had spoken still lingered in your mind like cigarette smoke. You couldn’t help but ponder what he had said, as if you were the problem. You knew that Ominis would never place blame on you, but you wish you had noticed sooner.

Every time you crawled into bed together, a mess of teeth and tongue, flesh and slick, you should’ve noticed the abundance of tension seeping out of his muscles, or the way he would hold back from touching you, from being close to you. There were so many signs that you were embarrassed that you hadn’t caught on to any of them. Were you a bad person?

Those thoughts were soon pushed out of your conscious mind when you arrived at your discreet destination. Creeping open the door, you were welcomed by the most vile stench you had every smell, bile rising in your throat as you coughed violently.

“What the hell are you making in here?” You spluttered, unable to think properly from the fumes. Luckily you had your boyfriend holding you arms, stopping you from falling over.

Garreth’s lifted his head up as he noticed you walk in, a giant grin stretched across his cheeks. “Ah, you finally came, and you brought a guest. The more the merrier, they say.” He welcomed you in, clapping his hands against your back. “You’re just in time for the main event.”

You could still hardly breathe from the vileness secreting into your sinuses. “Please make this worth it. I cannot begin to describe how putrid this room smells. I wouldn’t be surprised if I end up in the hospital room because of this.”

“You’ve got it easy.” Garreth laughed. “I have to drink this.” With fascination plastered on your face, you watched as the ginger placed the last ingredient into a small volume of the potion, and swirled it around his flask. You watched as the liquid changed colours very slightly.

Finally, Ominous asked the million dollar question. “What actually is that?”

With one gulp, Garreth drank the entire flask, pouring it down his throat with ease, but reacting to the taste like hot lava. After every last drop was swallowed, he finally gave an answer to the question. “Polyjuice potion. Tastes disgusting, but the results are fascinating. That last ingredient I added in? Those were human hairs, belonging to Professor Sharp. In just a few moments you’ll see what I mean by fascinating results, because the polyjuice potions changes your appearance to make you look like someone else.”

He wasn’t lying. Within short moments, Garreth had grown several inches, became thinner, more wrinklier, with his usual flaming locks transforming into dark brown hair. It was exhilarating to watch your best friend become a whole different person.

You spoke first. “Garreth?”

Your friend rubbed his eyes, no longer focussing on you two. Instead, he squinted in frustration. “Ugh, Professor Sharp’s eyesight sucks; It’s so blurry. This man cannot see shit.”

Laughing at those comments, you dismissed them right away, but your boyfriend seemed intrigued by what Garreth was saying, still rubbing his eyes out of annoyance. “What do you mean? Are you trying to tell me that you’ve adopted the same eyesight as Sharp?”

“Yeah, and it’s awful.” Garreth laughed. Walking over to a deserted closet in the classroom, Garreth grabbed out a bunch of clothes that bore a striking resemblance to the ones that Professor Sharp would normally wear, but you took no interest in Garreth’s immature plans. You believed fully that Garreth’s next plans would include terrorising a bunch of year two’s who were still awake at this time of night. What interested you the most was the quizzical look on Ominis’ face.

“What are you thinking?”

Ominous grunted. “Be quiet, I have a plan.”

For the next few minutes, you made careless conversation with your friend, who explained to you the extent of his plan for the next hour, which included, but was not limited to, sneaking into the teacher’s quarters, stealing all their sweets, and trying his luck at the restricted section. With adrenaline, Garreth’s bumbling attitude had him out the door within minutes, leaving you and Ominis alone in the classroom. Alone with the remnants of the polyjuice potion.

Your boyfriend struck first, heading towards the still full potion. You tried to stop him, but with no luck. “Ominis, what do you think you’re doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing? I found a solution to our problems. One mouthful of that disgusting potion and I’ll be able to see your beautiful face, in all your glory. I have no care to worry about the temporary, but I’ll be able to finally see my shining star, my angel. You don’t realise how hard it is to go about my life, wishing I could see your eyes, and your smile, and your hair, and your beautiful lips. I need to do this.”

“And then what?” You questioned his frantic plan. “We share intimacy? You may be sharing intimacy with me, but I’ll have to stare at the face of someone who isn’t mine. I’ll have to live with the guilt of knowing another man who isn’t you.”

“But it is me!” Ominis raised his voice at you. “I am me, emotionally, spiritually, consciously. All you will have to know is the physicalities of another man.” His voice settled, calming down a bit. “I understand your point of you, and all I have to counter it is, for me? I know I cannot force you, but I know I can plead with you, even if you shut me down before I can even present my case.”

You bit your lip in anguish. “How sure are you? I need to know you are completely comfortable with this. This would be the strangest thing we’ve ever shared between us, and I need to know that this is exactly what you want.”

“I want this.” Ominis sighed, cupping your face with his hands. “Finally, I want to know you with all my senses.” He placed a kiss against your lips. “I need to know what love at first sight feels like to a man.”

You returned the kiss with fervour. “I will. I will for you. I love you Ominis.” Resting your head on his shoulder, another question popped into your mind.”

“Ominis.” He hummed in response. “Who are you going to choose to, you know, turn into?”

“Don’t worry. I have someone in mind.”

•┈୨♡୧┈•

Sebastian looked like he was about to doze off at the breakfast table, eye bags dark, head lost between the pages of some tatted book that he probably found illegally in the library. His brown locks were a mess atop his head and he had taken no notice of you and Ominis standing in the entrance of the hall, watching him from a distance.

“Sebastian.” You asked incredulously. “Really?”

Ominis scoffed, brushing you off. “He’s the only choice really. He’s the only person I trust you to know physically, since he is my best friend. I’ve also heard that he’s quite handsome, so I don’t know why you’re objecting.”

“I- It’s Sebastian! He would never agree to that.”

“He wouldn’t have to know.” Ominis smirked. “Now be a good girl and help me distract him so we can get a few hairs off of the top of his head, okay?”

And that’s how you found yourself sitting abnormally close to Sebastian, basically breathing down his neck, trying to get him to lean down just a bit more, but it proved to be a more difficult task than you initially thought.

“No, I don’t see the runes at the bottom of the page.” Sebastian squinted once more at the page in front of him, but refused to move his head downwards like you needed him to. You were about to give up when an idea struck, noticing a strange fold in the page. Just as Sebastian moved the book slightly, you pointed downwards.

“Did something just fall out of the book?”

Sebastian ducked immediately. “Where?” His voice went gruff as he finally looked closely at the bottom of the book, giving Ominis an ample opportunity to gently pluck a few hairs off of the top of Sebastian’s head, without the poor boy even noticing. When Ominis gave a nod, you knew that he had gotten what he needed.

You tutted. “Nevermind, it’s just a fold in the page.” You rested your head in your hand and sighed dramatically. “I thought I saw something.”

“It’s alright.” Sebastian muttered. “It’s no use anyway. I’m so tired, I just want to go to bed right now.”

“Early night?” You joked, but then saw Ominis shaking his head at you. Right, you guys would need the dorm room tonight, for activities. “You could– uh, sleep in the undercroft! Surely sleeping in a room without Ominis’ incessant snoring is exactly what you need tonight.

“What I need is a beater’s club to my head,” Sebastian smirked. “But a night alone sounds great as well.”

•┈୨♡୧┈•

It was almost time. Saying goodbye to Sebastian and sending him on his way was easy enough. With enough encouragement, he was gone before the sun had even fallen asleep beneath the hills, leaving the entire dormitory to you and your boyfriend, whose eyes had not stopped glinting with mischief all day.

The entire day had been a mixture of teasing touches, and whispers of dirty promises. You could still feel the feeling of Ominis’ hands creeping up your skirt in class, tracing your delicate thighs with the traction of a feather. The hot breath of his words still melted against your ears like an ice cold glass of water, and you were so thirsty.

But first, Ominis had to drink the potion.

“I really hope it’s not as awful as Garreth said it was.” You said, eying the murky brown liquid. “But by the smell of the classroom last night, I don’t think it’s going to taste like liquid gold either. Promise you’ll drink some water afterwards?”

Ominis sniffed the flask suspiciously. “It may taste, and smell, differently after adding the hairs, but I doubt so, unfortunately. I wonder if my taste buds will even survive this torture.”

“Well, for my sake,” You pointed downwards, towards your woman region,“and for my girl’s sake, I hope your taste buds come out the other side of this stronger than ever.”

The innuendo was not lost on your boyfriend, who now eagerly added the final remaining ingredient to the flask. Like last time, the colour faded slightly, into more of a mellow mud colour. Bringing the potion up to his nose, Ominous took a sniff, but didn’t recoil.

“Well?”

Ominis hummed. “Isn’t as bad as I expected. Almost woodsy. Like tree bark, or forest leaves. Doesn’t carry the same putridness as the one from last night. I’d even say this one is somewhat pleasant.” He dipped his finger in the potion. “It feels warm. Like a cup of tea. It’s odd.”

You egged him on. “Are you gonna drink it?”

“Patience.” Ominis laughed, but he followed through with your queries, throwing his head back and swallowing the potion in one.

The effects started showing immediately. The white blouse that Ominis was wearing became too small for his torso, looking like it was about to burst at the seams, as his muscles filled out, and his shoulders broadened like the parting of a sea. Shrinking only half an inch, he now sat at Sebastian’s height, now growing into those features. Gone were those chiselled cheeks, replaced with the smattering of freckles across his face. Hair turned from gold to bronze, and eyes from the ocean to the earth.

“How do I look?” Sebastian– Ominis asked, voice now replaced with the slightly Scottish tenor of his best mate’s, turning towards you.

It was all so confusing. There stood your best friend, but with the mannerisms and posture of your boyfriends. Your body was conflicted too, as you couldn’t help but look at the physicality of your best friend in a new light.

Ominis seemed to be going through his own internal conflict. When he first took the potion he really had no idea if he was going to notice any change with his sight, but when it became bright, too bright, he knew that his hypothesis had been true. It was strange at first, adjusting to a whole new sense. His brain was confused, angry almost, trying to force him back down into a headache, but he persisted.

The world seemed strange. Finally, he knew what it meant to see colour, to see light, and to see beauty. He thought the bed was beautiful. He thought the floor was beautiful. He thought the walls around him were beautiful, but most importantly, the woman in front of him was more than beautiful.

Like an iridescent angel fallen from the heavens above, she was perfect to him. Beautiful didn’t even cover the beginning of what he thought about his girlfriend. Unable to articulate verbally, he stood motionless, as the angel before him tried to capture his attention away from his admiration.

“Ominis, are you okay? Did it work?” You asked cautiously, worried about what emotions he could possibly be feeling if the answer was no, but the way he was actually facing you, actually looking at you, you were sure that you knew the answer.

Ominis took a breath. “I understand what beautiful is.” He took one step towards you, reaching outwards, but your body didn’t naturally move towards him, still hesitant about yearning for Sebastian’s face and Sebastian’s physique. It wasn’t quite right.

It didn’t feel quite right as his lips touched yours, moving naturally, but feeling like a stranger. You melted like you normally did, but it was with effort, still getting used to the scent of Sebastian wafting into your veins. Reciprocating Ominis’ love filled kiss was more difficult than you would’ve ever thought. You hated how you felt.

“I need you.” Ominis muttered, his voice silky like Sebastian’s. “I need to see what you look like when you’re pleased. I need to know what pleasure looks like dressed on you. I need to see you contort yourself like a good girl. I need you.”

How could you deny such pleads? Nodding along to the words he spoke, you started on the buttons of your blouse, but were soon swatted from your task, your hands quickly replaced by Sebas– Ominis’ hand. It didn’t feel right watching Sebastian undress you, so you closed your eyes, resting against the unusually broad chest in front of you.

If Ominis noticed your internal conflict, he didn’t mention it, having the time of his life running his hands down the curves of your soft body, melting at the images he now didn’t have to visualise himself. Reaching down, he placed open mouthed kisses against your throat, eliciting moans from your throat.

He was marking you, you knew that. The mouth of your best friend was claiming you as a lover, and you enjoyed it, finding pleasure in the heat of the moment, pooling in your panties shamefully. Something about what Ominis was capable of made you fall from your grace and become nothing but a dog in heat. Wrapping your arms around his frame, you pulled him in closer, under you could hear his voice against the shell of your ear. “Get on your knees.”

You knew it was your Ominis, but you hesitated at Sebastian's voice. Obeying anyway, suck downwards, opening up for what was expected. Except, it wasn’t the familiar cock of your boyfriend. It was different from usual, slightly thicker, shorter, with unfamiliar veins running up the length.

“Suck it.” Ominis’ domineering personality crept out, and you obeyed. It was odd at first, but you got used to this new weight. At first, you placed a gentle kiss at the tip of his cock, watching the precum leak out in generous blobs. Your tongue darted out, lapping greedily at what you were given. Even the taste was different, slightly saltier, slightly muskier. Slicking up the entirety of his cock, you coated it generously, before opening your mouth wider to take more.

With enthusiasm, you took him all, pumping what was remaining with your left hand, and leaving your right hand to rest against his thigh, that twitched with every harsh sucked. His skin, covered in goosebumps, was on fire, the electricity of the moment throbbing in his cock. Ominis wasn’t going to last long, and you knew it.

Still, you threw your head forward, swallowing the tip, feeling him stutter with your movements. Hands threaded in your hair, tugging on your roots, getting a good grip on your head. Ominis had obviously had enough of your teasing, and decided to use you as he needed. It wasn’t long before until you felt his breathing change and his voice falter.

“I’m gonna–”

Cum. It splurted down your throats, in thick ropes you had never experienced before. It was all too much as you lurched away from the cock, more cum landing across your cheeks and necks. Looking up through glazed eyes and thick eyelashes, you watched Sebastian above you, peering down at you curious.

Nimble fingers stroked your face, moving around the sticky liquid, making even more of a mess as his face lit up in delight. You hated the way your body clenched at the thought of Sebastian taking you, needing that spent cock inside of you as soon as possible. You whimpered.

“Please…”

“Please what?” Ominis asked, tugging on his spent cock, slowly hardening again in the palm of his hand. You ducked your head embarrassed.

“Please fuck me.”

You were surprised he didn’t make you beg, as he lifted you up with an ease he’d never experience. Manhandling you onto the nearest bed, he pressed your chest down on the mattress, and flipped up your skirt. You didn’t even have any time to voice your confusion before the thick cock slid into your slick folds, forcing a moan out of you immediately.

Reaching for the blankets to have something, anything, to ground yourself with, you took the hammering like a champion. The immediate pace was frenzied, with no warming up on your part at all. You felt more alive than ever, alert as his deft hands curled around your wrists, holding them together as leverage to get a better angle.

You were drooling on the blankets. The angle was perfectly hitting your g-spot with every rough thrust, the material of the duvet rubbing against your swollen, patient clit, in desperate need of some attention. Every nerve on your body was screaming in pleasure and pain, completely conflicted with every emotion that struck your heart. At least you didn’t have to look into the eyes of your best friend.

Finally, Ominis let go of one of your hands, snaking around your front so he could begin his assault on your clit. His voice was gruff in your ear. “I need you to come for me baby.”

You nodded pathetically, eyes rolling back as every thrust inside of you became more agitated than the last. Tears were free falling from your face now. In the midst of your pleasure, you didn’t even notice the door to the dormitories open, until you heard the voice of…

“What?!”

Turning your head, you couldn’t help let a pained sob out of your throat as you laid eyes with another Sebastian, the Sebastian. In an instance, there was no longer a body pressing down on you, letting you sink down onto the ground. You barely registered that sound of an angry spell being cast across the dorm room, followed by the patting of footsteps both across the dorm, towards the door, and towards you.

You knew it was the real Sebastian still left in the room as you felt a blanket cover your half naked form, keeping your modesty. You knew it was the real Sebastian as when you fell into his shoulder, unable to keep in the tears, he hesitated before placing a comforting hand against your bare shoulder. You knew it was the real Sebastian as he asked you repeatedly what was going on.

You knew he saw himself, fucking you like it was a matter of life and death, a reflection of a reality that his brain couldn’t comprehend.

You, on the other hand, had no thoughts left, falling unconscious on the shoulder of your best friend, with your boyfriend having run away in shame.

“i've seen the devil,

down sunset,

in every place,

in every face.”

–––

ouch angst. owie.

taglist: @slootmagix, @pretendthisusernameisgoodd, @froggyinaspen, @bxrabbito, @1800-madisonnn

#ominis gaunt smut #ominis gaunt #ominis gaunt x reader #sebastian sallow x reader #sebastian sallow smut #hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow x you #fanfic #ominis x mc #ominis gaunt x you #angst

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megabuild · 5 months

Text

"Is Etho's Lab Autistic?" - the greatest thread in the history of MCYTblr, locked by a moderator after 12,239 pages of heated debate,

NOT INTENDED to be a diagnostic resource or an "accusation/truthing" of Etho being autistic, but rather comparing autistic criterion as printed in the DSM-5 with various clips and common autistic experiences, since he has many autistic fans who relate to him. Also because it's a little funny and it's always fun to see more Etho clips. Some of these clips may overlap categories.

A: Persistent deficits in social communication and social interaction.

Unaware of social conventions or context; makes socially inappropriate comments (especially to strangers)

Bdubs: "One of the first things he said to me... Bdubs, you are always sick. I never get sick."

"I was at the DMV, for like, fifteen minutes."

(Gem: "Sometimes the things that come out of your mouth are... unexpected.") "That's how you get laughs, Gem."

Lack of theory of mind (difficulty or inability to recognise cognitive differences- assumes everyone thinks similarly and will understand any references or explanations made, no matter how particular)

"PLETHORA!"

"It's the same noise tigers make when they chuff."

"Feel free to boo if you wish." ("Boo!")

B: Restricted, repetitive patterns of behaviour, interests or activities.

Idiosyncratic or metaphorical language (language that has meaning only to those familiar with the individual's communication style) (also extends to a very particular or idiosyncratic sense of humour that appeals only to themselves)

"The Office is a good show..."

"Objectify them! Objectify them real good!"

"What's the deal with bathroom... peanuts...?"

"This is probably the greatest story you will ever hear in your lifetime."

"And he's like, Etho, don't go in there."

Echolalia (immediate or delayed repetition of sounds, words or phrases)

"Meow!"

"Deh-deh-deh!"

"We got go get wool!" (More mature jargoning than echolalia, but still)

Rigid thinking (difficulty or inability to understand humour, irony, or implied meanings)

"That's Not What That Is."

"I don't have social skills, Grian.."

Particular interests, often on unorthodox things or with uncommon levels of intensity

Sourcing exact clips for this one is tricky, but being a Minecraft YouTuber is one of the most autistic things a person can do imo.

Specifically, a redstone Minecraft YouTuber. Who invents stuff like the Nexus.

(On fireworks, something he's made frequent references to and also tried to make as a kid) "I'm like a kid in a candy store right now!"

Anxiety around change/transitional periods

"Whenever I'm recording a new series with a bunch of new people, the stress... I start to feel it in my stomach." (Gem: "Aw, that's anxiety!")

C: Other things I felt were relevant but couldn't decide on a category for

"I used to go out after rainstorms and pick (worms) up..." (Guude: "Would you let them go ever, or-") "No, I usually forgot about 'em... found 'em later all dried up..."

Cleo: "To be fair, Etho never claims he's a grown up, he just sort of.. giggles and runs away."

"Guys? GUYS?!"

Hiding in the bathroom at MCC

Vaxxed?

Mannerisms such as his "sleepy" or monotone voice from earlier years, or "whisper-shouting" rather than actually yelling.

Thanks

#mine #there is Def more but im sick of this just sitting in my drafts im getting like anxious over it. its driving me crazy.#everyone be so normal and nice to me i just think its funny.#ethotism

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lunarlianna · 11 months

Text

Planets in the 5th house

Hello guys, I haven't posted in a while, had to finish my thesis T.T but now I'm back and will be posting again regularly, I'll be answering comments and questions these days as well.

Until than, here is my latest post on 5th house planets in astrology.

Hope you enjoy it <3

5th house represents romance, children and inner child, hobbies and creative pursuits, it’s also the house that represent gambling and winning from gambling. We usually find the sign that rules over our 5th house to be the sign that we use in the begging of the relationships and also our flirting style. The house it’s ruled by Leo and the Sun making her a succedent house.

The sun – positively aspect, this placement can indicate a person that express themselves truly, it’s very creative and can cheer others up with their attitude. In case you have negative aspects, your self-expression it’s blocked. It can make you attention seeker and extremally needy for the approval of others.

The moon- in positive aspects you can be very creative, be very good with children. You can be very fertile as well, usually you look much younger than your age. You may enjoy giving hugs and need warmth in relationships. In negative aspect you may be a bit dramatic, can be easily influenced by others and have hard times being in a relationship.

Mercury- in positive state you have a great sense of humour and you can be a great performer. You can have as a hobby reading and writing. You may need a partner that it’s at the same level as you are intellectually. In negative state you can be a pretty good liar, can be quite critical and opinionated.

Venus- In positive aspects you are very artistic, charming and seductive. You may pass to your children the love of beauty in all its forms and share your artistic talents with them, you may be very good in art dealing. In negative state you can be manipulative, need to be the centre of attention and can be a bit to dramatic in love.

Mars- in positive state you are very passionate and have a balance when it comes to competition. You can be very strong physically and have high stamina. You can be very attractive as well if there are positive aspects. In negative state you can be extremely competitive, be bossy and quite demanding and selfish with your love partners.

Jupiter- in positive aspects this planet can bring you a lot of optimism, joy, fertility and luck in winning prices in general. You can be very sexual and open about your sexuality. In negative state you can be greedy, can get addictive to gambling, be a serial cheater and be lazy with your physical activity.

Saturn- this is one of the harsher placements to have Saturn in my opinion, here this planet restricts your ability to enjoy having fun, you can have a deep fear of being judged or criticized by others about your hobbies and the way you entertain yourself. This placement may indulge in alcohol in order to don’t feel guilty when enjoying themselves. Your self-expression is very career orientated.

Uranus- in positive aspects you may have unusual relationship and hobbies. You may enjoy having fun in your own unique way and different from the norm. You are a freedom-loving and you share that with everyone. In negative state can make you enter relationship to fast, can make you emotionally detached and you may have a provocative behaviour.

Neptune- in positive aspects, this planet can give you talents when it comes to arts, you can be a very talented musician or actor. You can be very gentle in your romantic life and you can also be very good with children. In negative aspects you can have trouble seeing your partners for whom they really are, you can have secrets love affairs, you can have tendencies of escapism as well.

Pluto- in positive state you can take your hobbies and passions very seriously and be very good at them. You tend to be very passionate and intense in your romantic life. In negative state you can be jealous and possessive over you partners or children. You may feel guilt when it comes to sex you may get trapped in unhealthy relationships.

Chiron – in a healed version this asteroid can very creative and enjoy being around children, you can easily lift people up and you acknowledge your purpose in life. The wounded version need’s others people validation, can be very frustrated over their artistic talents, you can easily get love addicted and lack self-confidence.

Do not copy my posts or you will be sued for copyright infringement. All it takes is copying me a few times and it is considered illegal due to the copyright claim written at the bottom of my posts

Do not rewrite/copy my observations and post them to your Tiktok, Tumblr, Instagram

#astro observations #astro community #astro placements #astrology #all signs #astro notes #for you #zodiac placements #astrologer #5th house

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writeyouin · 11 months

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I had an idea for the new transformers movie, and like

Imagine being taken by Mirage with Noah, maybe they'd agreed to help him with the job, maybe they had experience, or some other reason, not the point

But as soon as they're both out the car, and Mirage is transformed, what do they do?

While Noah is waving around with a pipe, they're just staring at Mirage

When he finally turns his attention to them it's just

Mirage: Hey! Ya ain't screaming, ain't that nice? Hey man why can't you be more like them?

Y/N, in an obviously flirty tone: Hey~

Mirage: Oh! Oh it's like that ;) why hello you awfully adorable alien

Noah: What- what are you doing?

Y/N: Shut up I'm trying to get a man

Mirage X Reader – Flirtatious Meeting Part 1 of 2

A/N - I should technically be getting to other, older requests, but hey, when inspiration bites you in the ass, you don't question it. So, thanks for this great request, it was a lot of fun. I'm obsessed with Mirage now.

Warnings - None.

Rating - T

You gasped as you were thrown from the Porsche that you had accidentally stolen with Noah. Honestly, you weren’t sure how you had gotten into the situation with him, only that you were trying to stop him from making a stupid mistake, and instead you had gotten taken on a joy-ride by a self-driving car.

At this point you were pretty sure the vehicle belonged to some kind of insane billionaire who had driven it via remote control and that you and Noah were going to some secret, privately owned prison wherein the billionaire in question would have the last laugh.

“Oh my God,” You panted, rolling onto your side.

Behind you, you heard a whoop of delight, followed by a comment about how fun that joyride was. You pushed yourself up, ready to yell at whatever jerk had hijacked the car that you had admittedly been part of hijacking yourself.

“(Y/N),” Noah stuttered your name as he tapped your shoulder trying to get you to turn around.

From your peripheral you saw him bend down to pick up a busted pipe and you spun quickly to face your assailant, gasping again when you saw a giant robot.

You could have described him by his height, or his demeanour, or by the fact that you had no idea where he had come from, or who, if anyone had built him, but instead all you could think was that he was… kind of cute. No. That wasn’t it. He was straight up hot, and he seemed to have a sense of humour, which complimented his arrogant nature well.

“Noah,” You hissed. “Put down the pipe.”

“Yeah, Noah,” Mirage mocked, having revealed his own name in his self-serving speech. “Put down the pipe.”

When Noah refused, Mirage’s hand transformed into a cannon of some sort, pointing straight at Noah.

You didn’t dare speak in case things got any worse, but as it happened, Mirage was just toying with Noah, testing his bravery.

“Hmm, tough guy. I like that. I like it a lot.” Mirage mocked playfully, before turning his gaze on you. “And what about you? I mean, you ain’t screaming, that makes a nice change from the movies.”

Mirage looked back to Noah, “You see that man? Your friend ain’t taking a swing at me. You could learn a thing or two from them, so, what’s your deal cutie?”

You didn’t say much past a bright smile and a small flick of your fingers in a half wave, “Hey~”

“Oh! Oh, it’s like that, yeah,” Mirage winked at you. “Well, you ain’t so bad yourself, even if you are an alien.”

“Wait!” Noah demanded, holding out his hands to stop whatever weird flirtation was going on. “You’re an alien?”

“Well, I mean, to me, you’re the aliens,” Mirage countered.

“This is our planet. That makes you the alien.”

You slapped Noah’s arm, “Be nice.”

“Be nice? We just got kidnapped, and you want me to be nice?”

“Hey, we stole him, remember?”

“And he stole us right back! What are you doing anyway?”

You smiled awkwardly at Mirage, “Hey, can you give up a second, please?”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Mirage nodded casually, then began whistling, looking away to pretend that he couldn’t hear you.

You grabbed Noah’s shirt and pulled him close to you, “Look man, I was just trying to stop you from making the worst mistake of your life tonight. The least you can do is let me have this, okay?”

“Let you have what?” Noah asked desperately.

“Hey, that alien up there is cute, funny, and I don’t have to ask if he has a vehicle, because he is one. Do you know how many men there are like that? None. So, you can freak out all you want, but I’m trying to score myself a date, okay?”

Noah didn’t get a chance to respond as Mirage interrupted your not-so-secret conversation, “Hey not to bother you but the big guy’s coming now, so you might wanna chill and you know, not threaten him with a pipe or he might squish ya.”

“I’m sorry, someone’s going to squish us?!” Noah demanded incredulously.

“You, maybe, your friend though, (Y/N) was it?”

You nodded, smiling brightly.

“Yeah, (Y/N) not-so-much. See, (Y/N) seems more chill than you Noah, oh and if all goes well, I know a little drive-in cinema we can visit.”

“We’re not going to a drive-in,” Noah deadpanned.

“Ew, no of course not bro. I meant me and (Y/N) there. You’re not gonna be third-wheeling.”

“Consider it a date,” You grinned.

Mirage nodded along happily, and then you, he and Noah were faced with the other Autobots currently residing on Earth.

#transformers #mirage #mirage x reader #noah diaz #transformers rise of the beasts #maccadam #tf #fanfiction #fanfic #reader insert #reader #mirage x you #flirtatious meeting

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spidervee · 1 year

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a little blurb in which tangerine nearly kills you…on accident! tangerine x fem!reader; cursing, tan being a bit of an ass, but also liking when reader is mean to him; some lewd dialogue and dark humour, almost car accident

When you’d left your flat to go for a jog that morning, the last thing you expected was to nearly be flattened by a sleek black Ferrari driven by a man who clearly spent too much time caring for the pornographic moustache over perpetually smirking lips.

Expected or not, however, it’s exactly where you find yourself as you turn a sharp corner and move into the intersection.

It’s early, and the streets are near-empty, so perhaps you’d let your guard down a bit. Or perhaps that barmy fucker behind the wheel was on some six a.m. joyride. Either way, the car skids to a halt, all screeching brakes and blaring horn and you’re frozen for a moment in the fluorescent glow of headlights before you realize just how close you were to being a fucking statistic.

And then, from through the windshield, you meet the driver’s eye and he has the gall to look annoyed rather than apologetic.

“You fuckin’ wanker! Watch where you’re going!”

Inside the car, Tangerine is gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles are white. But the shock of the moment passes and he’s pleased as pudding he was able to stop on time. Civilian casualties are one thing while he and Lemon are working, but there’s no clean-up crew, no protections, no payoff should he accidentally off a cute jogger.

Your fists coming down on the hood of the car jolt Tangerine from his stupor and though he wants to rage at you, he can hardly find it in himself to be angry—a shocking realization that he’ll have to keep quiet from Lemon, lest his brother try to psychoanalyze him with some Thomas the Tank Engine bullshit.

Tangerine doesn’t think as he swings open the car door and slips out to indirect the hood. Your fists are comparatively small and he doubts someone of your stature could do any real damage. And, of course, the Monza is stolen so who the fuck actually cares what happens to it?

He registers that the jogger is cussing him out and he can’t help the patronizing look that etches itself onto his face, the arched eyebrow and smirking curve of his lip. With an air of impatience he tuts at you, interrupting the flow of curses you’re levelling in his direction, a stream of consciousness enough to rival James fucking Joyce, rat paddy bastard and his fucking make-no-sense shitehead Leopold Bloom.

“Best be careful, love,” Tangerine chastises, “Didn’t mummy and daddy teach you to look both fuckin’ ways? And don’t fuckin’ touch my fuckin’ car. Y’know how many pricks you’d have to suck off to pay for what those little hands might fuckin’ do?”

You blink at him, shocked into silence, and for a moment Tangerine savours the sweet sensation of victory. But then, he watches as you pull a wad of bright pink bubblegum from between your clenched teeth and stick it right on the hood ornament of the Monza. Tangerine is certain his eyes bug out of his fucking skull because where the fuck do you get off?

“You little bitch,” he hisses, forgetting the few manners he has for a moment. He takes a lurching step forward, anger finally surging through him at the sheer gall of your action because you’re either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid or incredibly reckless and it doesn’t matter which one because, whatever character flaw it is, it’s going to get you into deep shite one day and Tangerine decides in that moment he wants to be there to get you out of said shit.

And, when he sees the self-satisfied smirk on your face, the perverse glee you’re getting from witnessing his reaction, the deal is sealed. He laughs, a genuine laugh from deep in his belly. He almost slaps his fucking knee like some nob but the sound of your laughter now mixing with his distracts him enough from that embarrassing almost-action.

“You’re a fuckin’ psycho.” Tangerine catches his breath and fixes you with an amused glare. You cross your arms over your chest and he knows, instantly, that you’re trying to distract him with your fabulous chest. It’s almost working, so he quirks an eyebrow and refocuses on your face which is somehow even more distracting.

Well, fuck him sideways, right?

#tangerine fic #bullet train tangerine #tangerine imagine #tangerine x you #tangerine x reader #tangerine bullet train #tangerine x fem!reader

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thesirencult · 6 months

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PAC READING: YOUR DIVINE FEMININE'S AURA

Discussing your feminine's general aura and characteristics. Friendly for both men and girls/theys who like girls. You can also pick it to see how your aura is as a feminine ❤️

Book your reading by sending me a private message xoxo S.

Pile 1

7 of pentacles, 8 of pentacles, 10 of swords

Your DF has the aura of a sweet herbal witch. She lives in her little cabin in the woods and like a fairy she works on perfecting her craft. Greens and purples look great on her.

This is a slow and steady energy. This is someone who loves taking their time. She loves learning and implementing her skills. Making coffee becomes a daily ritual and same goes as washing the dishes.

Her attention to detail is immaculate and that can drive you crazy sometimes but you know that with all that good comes some bad. Very well presented, you can take her anywhere and all eyes will be on her. Very earthy, stable and focused on building a foundation for all things practical before she jumps onto commitment.

Her steady "working on myself" attitude stems from getting backstabbed one too many times. She knows that she has to build herself up and after that all her dreams will manifest. She is into self development and may love going through that tag on Tumblr. She may even be a blogger herself.

She is investing in herself and doesn't shy away from learning about accounting or law. Nothing will stand on her way to that cute fairy cottage *aggressive cute walk* 😉.

Pile 2

9 of pentacles, queen of swords, the magician

Whoever has this DF as a counterpart or has that aura, WOW. Miss Independent. A handful. We love seeing that *sprinkle, sprinkle* here. CEO. That's C-Suite energy!

This woman is someone powerful and dominant. Like a race horse you will always bet on because you KNOW, it will always come first 😉 (pun intended). She works very very hard for what she wants and similar to pile 1 she can be in accounting, finance and law. Good with numbers and her hands. I bet she has a dirty sense of humour.

From the first moment you see her you will know she is the real deal. Others blend in the background while she power walks in the room. Penetrating stare and red bottom high heels, her allure is different. She doesn't have to show dominance, others feel that she is the boss. Mami energy. Ferocious when someone comes for her loved ones. She could even be in law enforcement.

Red and brown. Symbolising high energy that's still grounded and serious. Do not cross her.

Pile 3

King Of Swords, Knight Of Wands, Ace Of Swords

Now, this one? A handful ! Try to tie her down. You just can't. A brat.

This person is very fluid. They don't care about terms and conditions. They are highly intelligent and her mind walks a thin line between spirituality and logic. The most unconventional, they will find a solution no one sees yet it's right in front of them. Highly intellectual and well versed in philosophy and math.

This reminds of a movie with James Franco where he played a start up founder who was into spirituality. A crazy genius. A party is a party and they will be there.

Partying in Ibiza? They've done that. Phuket for a Muay Thai Camp? That did that last year! Eiffel tower to try a croissant with pistachio filling? They just got back yesterday and guess what? They hate pistachios.

This person is the type to run a start up company focused on clean energy and when shit hits the fun they will call an astrologer and ask for recommendations. They respect everyone. They will listen to your mom and dad when they talk about their days and take mental notes of great ideas. They know great ideas come from the most unconventional places and fields.

Pile 4

Page Of Cups, Page Of Swords, The Fool (5 Of Swords + 8 Of Swords + 5 Of Pentacles flew out)

This can be my age difference pile. They will run you to the ground lol.

This is someone with lots of mental capacity. You ask them about World War II and they will tell you how Nazis and Churchill used astrology and why the war happened and after 5 hours you will be listening to them about Ancient Mesopotamia. "How did we get here?" You will think.

Well, it doesn't matter cause you love listening to their voice and their warm heartfelt laugh. They look innocent and pure and even if they try to intimidate you you will let them think they can but in reality they look like a cinnamon roll and they are a cinnamon roll. Their life was not the best and they have lots of trust issues. They may look innocent but their eyes hide a painful past. Like a kitten thrown out and left out in the cold they feel lost and unappreciated.

You listening to them means the world and you will be shocked at how appreciative they are and how loving with you. They are very romantic and they may have great expectations and daydreams about their love life.

I get that you might start off as friends and meet in a very random way on a daily run or while getting groceries or a tire changed. You will immediately fall in love with them and they will seem like they don't suspect a thing. Let me tell you, they know, they are just too scared to show their feelings and until you grab them and kiss em you won't know how much passion is brewing underneath this innocent and clever facade. They might turn into pile number 2 in a few years lol.

Ready for everything, you will always be a warm embrace and their home when they come back from exploration. You will love how they yawn while reading a book and how they stretch when they wake up showing revealing their tummy. They are cute to you, even if everyone else sees them differently, that's how you view them. They might be a black mysterious cat but you think of them as a tired little kitten waiting for a safe home that will accept them as they are.

#astrology #tarot reading #tarot #pick a card #pick a pile #pac reading #pick a photo #pick a picture #soulmate #future spouse

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graceshouldwrite · 10 months

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4 Ways to Get Back Into Your WIP

You know when you might have taken a long break, worked on other projects, talked to other people about it, and basically did EVERYTHING to get yourself back into it, but it’s not working?

Even though you still want to LIKE your WIP and work on it?

These tips are based on my own experience dealing with that feeling. I went through something like that for around a year, but now, I’m getting past it and returning to my main WIP more excited than I’ve been for a long time!

1. List out WHAT you don’t like and fix it

COMMON CORE ISSUES:

Plot + Subplots?

They might seem too (among other things):

lackluster

complex

unnecessary

confusing

You might not know how to:

develop the plots

make them believable

add the scenes you want without giving the book 800+ pages

choose scenes to cut to fit the word count goal...

Characters?

A BIG ONE: some writers try to force themselves to like X character for whatever reason (e.g. based them on a specific aesthetic, felt forced to add specific rep, etc), but they just DON’T.

Or, maybe:

you don’t know how to develop your characters

their group dynamic is too difficult to write/doesn’t make a lot of sense

your character voices, personalities, or appearances might not be distinct enough

Prose?

You might:

want to add more humour (prose is too depressing and atmospherically dark)

want to add more gravity (prose is too comedic and romantic)

want to shift from past to present tense, want to tell story from another POV, etc.

Organization?

OFTEN, the book’s just TOO COMPLEX with all the characters, subplots, etc. and it’s too intimidating to try to sort out all the mess that’s your WIP

SO…

The lists I gave you are most of the big, common issues. Once they’re sorted into SPECIFIC types of problems, don’t they get less intimidating to look at?

I know you might think, gee, Grace, these problems will take [insert comically large time frame] to solve.

Well, if you genuinely want to like your project again and work on it, DO IT.

Slowing down your WIP finish date is worth it if it helps you get back into it. If you never get back into the project, you’ll NEVER FINISH IT. Late > never.

Heck, you might not even be too late—you might find yourself back in the passionate fever you were when you started it, and be in the headspace to write furiously :)

I think you know how to solve these broken-down problems. Some require more sheer line-editing, while others require big executive decisions (e.g. getting rid of a character or rewriting an entire subplot/the plot). But, it will be worth it when you start to love your project again.

2. Remember why you started it

Before each project, write a STATEMENT OF PURPOSE at the beginning of your doc to remind you why you’re writing this story in the first place. If you didn’t do this, it’s not too late to start one now!

It could be something as close to heart as “I want to express how unrequited love feels,” or something as grand as like “I want to write a tragic allegory of the political and economic state of the world that explores human nature” (I am projecting in both of these examples, but you get it).

Something SPECIFIC is a lot better for this than things like: “I told X this story idea and they liked it,” or “I promised to write this for X,” or “I want to tell this story just cuz.” These latter examples probably won’t fill you with passion.

3. Listen BEYOND your WIP playlists. Look at images BEYOND your WIP aesthetics

Many people think revisiting your old playlists / boards help, but that often contributes to the staleness!!!!

Instead, by purposefully expanding your scope of consumed media, you open yourself up to more inspiration and ideas of where you want to take your project. New images and new songs will give you new ideas on atmosphere, mood, scenes, and so much more.

4. Compare your WIP to a similar book you like

You know THAT BOOK that comes to mind whenever someone asks you which book is your favourite/impacted you deeply? Think of how your book will impact readers in the same way. All the emotional turmoil and mental enlightenment That Book gave you is what YOU will give to the readers who resonate with YOUR book one day!

The author of the book you’re thinking about went through drafts, edits, and maybe even wanted to give up at some point, (LIKE YOU!) but pushed through it. Now, their book is on the bestseller list/on a bookshelf/a classic (whatever appeals to you)! Don’t stop before YOUR book is there, too.

∘₊✧────── ☾☼☽ ──────✧₊∘

instagram: @ grace_should_write

A LOT of this comes from personal experience; I had this mental tussle with my main WIP a while back, so I hope this helps anyone else dealing with the same problem :)

Hope this was helpful, and let me know if you have any questions by commenting, re-blogging, or DMing me on IG. Any and all engagement is appreciated <3333

Happy writing, and have a great day!

- grace <3

#writers on tumblr #writing #writing tips #booktok #writer #writeblr #novel #writerslife #writergram #wattpad #creating characters #wip #ya fantasy #plot holes #characters #writing ideas #writing a book

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thestalwartheart · 3 months

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I'm writing the saddest Bond fic in the world, and because it'll probably never get finished, I'm going to bullet point it here because I need people to cry with. It's 5000 words at the moment. I think I need it to be about 30,000.

After the events of NTTD, Q is grieving Bond. Privately, he is also grieving that Bond being the one who got away, or at least the one who would not stay. They slept together once, in the aftermath of Skyfall death, and as Q says in the fic, it was "the pinnacle of my years-long journey into vastly unrequited love."

After snapping at Mallory during a meeting, Mallory schedules Q some psychology appointments. There are snippets of these appointments throughout the fic.

Q throws out all his plants. Replaces them with sculptural bits and pieces from around the lab.

Over a year on from Bond's death, MI6 recruits a new 004. His name is Edward Jones. He's tall and lithe, with auburn hair, an excellent sense of humour, and no outwardly visible baggage. He takes an interest in Q.

But Q refuses -- categorically refuses -- to ever get involved with an agent again. That was an unspoken rule before Bond died, and now it's non-negotiable.

Except Q is no good at sticking to the rules. He's just as bad as Bond was, really. Edward is charming, and though he asks Q to dinner, he doesn't press after Q refuses him. Instead, perhaps having talked to Nomi or Moneypenny, he is simply there. All the time. He becomes a shoulder to lean on and a friend, despite all Q's attempts to distance himself.

But then...Mallory asks Q to help on a project that will reverse the effects of Heracles, and Q snaps. Already feeling a colossal amount of guilt for telling Bond it couldn't be fixed, Q cannot deal with the thought of coming up with a cure when he cannot administer it to the one person who deserved to be cured.

Distraught, stressed and full of fury at everything, he sleeps with Edward that night. And -- shock horror! -- sex works as an excellent temporary coping mechanism, so Q keeps sleeping with him. Against all his rules, he's given into his heart again.

“Who was he?” asks Edward, one day, as Q is making breakfast. / “Who was who?”/ “Whoever you’re trying to forget when you’re with me.”

“You’re a bastard,” snaps Q, another day, when Edward pushes too hard. / “Is that me you’re talking to, or him?”

After the above fight/angry sex/make up sex combo, Edward goes away on a mission and gets shot.

Q, reeling, doesn't visit him in hospital. Though he wants to, he thinks it's smarter to stay away. Best not get too attached (Oh, Q! we're crying, you're already attached!!!)

Edward, unsurprisingly does not take this well. “Enjoy living with your ghosts, Quartermaster,” he says, before going home to heal and get very drunk.

And maybe it's the getting shot bit, or maybe it's that they're making progress on a cure for Heracles, or maybe it's Moneypenny finally shaking Q until something comes loose, but Q cannot sleep. He feels sick about Edward. He feels awful. What kind of Quartermaster doesn't visit an injured agent? What kind of friend doesn't? What kind of lover, casual or not?

Plagued with guilt and realising he feels more for Edward than he ever intended to, Q turns up at arse-o-clock in the morning, in the rain to Edward's flat. Amongst other things, he says:

“He was an agent. Another Double-0." and

"I'm so sorry." and

“I spent nearly a decade of my life hiding that I loved him, from myself, him, and anyone else who might have wanted to hear. It’s the biggest regret I have. I don’t want to make the same mistakes again.”

Hot, passionate, intense, slow make up sex.

After a few more missions, Edward tells Q, "I'm finished. I enjoyed the job, but I only loved it because it led me to you."

They take a visit to Skyfall, where Q runs into Kincade and talks to Bond's grave where he says, among other things:

"Hello, James. I hope you’re getting some well-earned rest." and

“I love him. Eve told me you would want to hear that. I’m not so sure. You always were a bit of a possessive prick about the other agents having what was yours.” and

“I still love you. I think I will until the end of my days. It’ll be a privilege to carry you with me. Whatever small part of you I had.”

Q is in a daze most of that night. In the morning, he apologises to Edward for all the tears, and Edward replies:

“Never — and I do mean never — apologise for loving someone, especially not as well as you loved him."

Cue the I love yous and sex.

They return to London, where the Heracles cure has hit a roadblock. Q tells Mallory he wants nothing to do with the project anymore. However it turns out, it wasn't his burden to carry in the first place. He wants to be free of it.

The story ends in a quintessential English garden: Kendal in the spring. It's years later, and Edward brings Q a cup of tea in the garden, where Q is trying to read Les Misérables and failing. Instead, he's taking notes in the margins on hummingbirds.

They look up to see a red kite soaring through the air. Q things wistfully of Bond. It's a dull hurt, now, not the scraping raw thing that it was when he met Edward. Bond would probably enjoy Q remembering him in the wings of a bird of prey; always free.

Q still loves London, but he thinks he can imagine another life, a few years away yet, watching the birds in the Lake District and working in his shed, with Edward reading a book at his side.

FIN.

#00q #q/omc #james bond #my fic

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themotherofblood · 4 months

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chapter 4 | river of fire | d.t x reader x r.t

series masterlist | main masterlist | previously

a/n: so a major fuck up on my end, I had updated a chapter on ao3 but didn’t on tumblr so I wrote two chapter fives, that has been corrected to the time line. So sorry!

synopsis: the matter of visery’s marriage looms in the air when Daemon swoops in to cause more chaos and steals his late nephew’s egg

“The lanterns in the sky were beautiful, just two but against the dark sky they were everything. Rhaenyra will find peace, I pray she does, no matter how many burning hot baths and curt words she throws my way. She is there, angry and afraid. She is me at seven, I could hold her and tell her everything will be better I cannot. I can merely tell her that I shall love her always, I will be with her always.”

After many quarrels on Rhaenyra’s part, she had finally earned a seat on the Small Council and you have been tasked with a new job. The King’s Cupbearer. Most of the time you tried not to break into a fit of ill-concealed giggles if you met Nyra’s eyes. It was insightful for sure, you made Rhaenyra do your bidding once or twice, men for a clothing donation run and a few sanctions for diverse agricultural trades. You wanted jasmine seeds without spending nearly half of your pin money to do so.

Rhaenyra had been aloof for most of it, growing more defiant— it was adorable and yet concerning; she was dealing with her grief as best she could, for it had only been just more than half a year since Aemma passed. Though Daemon being dismissed from the court might have had a role in catalysing her loneliness, sure you were there, her love that she would kiss goodnight and unabashedly embrace at all hours of the day but perhaps only a dragon could understand a dragon.

“Why did you have to say it! Why!” Rhaenyra scolded Daemon. “You will be gone now too.”

“ The Heir for A Day. ” You oddly understood the humour behind it. You believed not that he had ill intentions when saying it so, but perhaps your admiration for him was so thick you couldn’t see past it.

Even Syrax grew petulant, refusing to hunt for herself, she grew fluffy around the edges but adorable nonetheless, she doesn’t waft her nostrils at you anymore. You would like to think the yellow dragon is friends with you now, however, you do not wish to stick your hand in its mouth to test out the theory.

The latest rumble, however, one only spoken without your or Rhaenyra’s presence was the matter of Viserys finding a new queen for himself. Barely half a year and attempts of forever shrouding Aemma already had set afoot, it is expected of him even with Rhaenyra as his heir, the prospect of a son would forever loom over the high towers of the Red Keep. The lords would like to believe that the lot of you were stupid enough to not realise but Nyra had already scoffed about the prospect of having a stepmother, she’d support her father but such warmth might never extend to her new mother.

“ What ?” You and Rhaenyra exclaim in unison, brows pulled as you drop your current activities to question your aunt, a sense of vile premonition crawled onto your skin as your eyes blew wide.

Oberya had been summoned by the Small Council along with Princess Rhaenys and Lord Corlys, all the women at court and they found it appropriate to paw around the home, though she suggested that the notion of marriage was brought upon by Lord Corlys to present his daughter’s hand in marriage to Viserys– poor Laena, but your name was dragged to the battlefield by Lord Lyonel to contest Otto Hightower’s complains of Laena’s age. Offering you, an auspicious and elder match, elder match by a year and un-flowered. You are but fresh thirteen, he is at least two decades older if not more. Another horrid chill shrivels down your back.

Beyond all that was said, you could feel Rhaenyra’s gaze bore holes in your face, she knew this day would come but not you, the thought so wildly macabre that the possibility hadn’t even graced her nightmares in the past five moons.

“And?” Rhaenyra asked, her voice sounding far more curt than she intended. You turned to her, widening your eyes at her tone towards your aunt, she shook her head still replying to an answer.

“The decision is up to you, they have written to Qoren but I doubt he’d say any differently.”

“No! I’m not marrying Viserys.” You say mildly repulsed, Hands flailing as you push your needlepoint patch away, a shrill shiver running down your spine.

“Then that’s that.” Rhaenyra sharply nodded, coming to sit next to you. Yanking your face towards her and pecking your lips, it wasn’t an affectionate gesture but one to seal your decision for good.

Oberya coughed, eyebrows raised “Still here, darlings.”

You smiled at her apologetically, “You are sure Qoren wouldn’t write otherwise?”

“Oh-“ she rolls her eyes “have some faith in your brother will you?” She scolds, finding your mistrust in him still unbecoming.

“And write to him, will you. It’s been months dærya,” she points out before turning to leave, shaking her head once again at Rhaenyra who was clinging to you like a milk-hungry babe.

You shook Rhaenyra off you, it was far too warm to have her clung to your back. Now all you could think of was Laena , Rhaenys would have thoroughly prepared her for this, you were trying to find some bright light within such a prospect but you couldn’t. Viserys was a wise king and a wonderful warden to you, but he was nothing like the knights in the books you and Laena shared, not by a far shot.

“How could they do this? To Laena.” You shook your head, sinking further into the chaise and resting your palms on your belly.

Such marriages weren’t unheard of but you had believed Lord Corlys to be more of the progressive sort. He never found differences between Laenor and Laena and raised them alike but to now thrust Laena up for the position to marry Viserys all for…power? Title?

“It is for Rhaenys,” Rhaenyra mumbles, “if not his wife then his blood.” She sounded bitter.

You frowned at her, sitting up to clasp her shoulder with the fire of heavy disagreement burning in your heart.

“You are his heir, you. Not some child he currently does not have. He wouldn’t choose another.”

“How it could be, duck.”

“Nyra?” You frown, this time climbing on top of her to make her look at you. “You are his heir.”

“He barely talks to me, you think I’m his heir?” She snaps, pushing you off her. She grunts. “Not once has my input held any weight in his court, you’re young, it isn’t your place. I am his heir as a stowaway. The day one of those wh— women birth him a son. I’d be nothing again.”

Therein lay the truth, the subject that had her irked so, you saw it in the folds of her frown but never understood it fully. Septa Marlow had hushed Rhaenyra thrice on the topic but couldn’t punish as she saw fit because Rhaenyra was now the heir. There never had been such strife about successions when it came to you, your brother inherited the seat while you were a pawn for political alliances, it made perfect sense but this, to be the only child in many dead.

“Have you spoken to him about this?” You calmly said, trying to ease her turmoil as you reach for her pacing frame.

“I would sooner die.”

You would have opened your mouth to say something incongruous, something that you were sure would do nothing to fix the situation but what were you to do. Sit here and let Rhaenyra drown in whatever turmoil was boiling within her? You were three and ten but many days you couldn’t see beyond the frivolities of court, the games— what games ? Beyond the simpering ladies, and the brooding knights, what games were there to play beyond blindly chasing each other in the courtyard.

Sona interrupted your line of thought as she approached with a tray of tea for the lot of you and a stash of letters in her hands, Enora too followed suit, eyeing Rhaenyra's sour look as she presented her with her letters.

“Would you know where Lady Laena is?” You asked Sona as she poured you tea, she looked to Enora and then stood straight.

“Promenading, princess.” She replied.

You perked up, looking at Rhaenyra with a performative smile “We could use one too, couldn’t we Nyra, pick some flowers— perhaps visit Syrax?”

“I— she is with the King, princess,” Enora added, making Rhaenyra turn to her and sharply place her stash of letters on the chaise.

“Leave us!” She barks, pacing even harder now.

You looked at them apologetically as you took the teapot from Sona’s hands. “Stay close please.” You whispered.

“What fortune, even if I wanted to hate her I cannot.” Rhaenyra rants, picking at her sleeves. “He will always be the king won’t he, always the king before my father.”

You sorrowfully nodded. “I’m here with you, I’ll always be your lady before anything.” You sheepishly smile.

Rhaenyra’s curt resolution cracks for a moment as her lips curl upwards, and she yet again flops down next to you.

“I love you,” she mumbles, words like honey, you blush, nodding before kissing her cheek. She sighs even harder before resting her head on your shoulder.

The matter of Viserys nuptials was still in the air, every time you’d make rounds filling cups of the men in his court, somebody would bring it up, it went on for an entire moon and you could see it weighing down on the King’s shoulders. He was so beyond the need to talk about it, he barely spoke when Nyra and you would take meals with him. You saw it as his vice but Nyra, it wedged a further divide between her and her father. Even Alicent believed otherwise when she would accompany you in the gardens or to the markets.

Somehow, perhaps that Alicent was older, she had far wiser words, once laced in her faith as she consoled Rhaenyra. Every word with meaning and understanding she was stitching the gashes within Rhaenyra, you were thankful for it— Nyra wasn’t so pouty anymore. Though sometimes you missed Alicent, you were sure with her growing up her father would have thrust more ladylike duties in her lap, she couldn’t join your expeditions in finding shiny bugs or artisan rocks anymore.

“Go on, say it.” Rhaenyra shakes you by the shoulders.

“She won’t listen.” You rebut, shaking your head and cowering behind Rhaenyra, still small enough to hide behind her shoulders, you peek through looking at Syrax eyeing the sheep.

“Oh come on, roll your tongue on the ‘r’ and command her.” She insists.

“ Dr — Rhaenyra I can’t.” You whine, looking at the poor sheep, it wasn’t even shaved. Does Syrax eat the wool too? That doesn’t sound appetising.

She turns to you, squishing your cheeks within her palms and boring her purple eyes into your soul. “She is hungry, now you say it. Or I will make you ride on her.”

“There is a dragon in you, uncle said it and I believe him.”

“Rhaenyra, I wasn’t even given an egg and my mother wanted nothing to do with them.” You huffed, reiterating again.

“But look how well you do around them!” Rhaenyra whines.

“Say it or we go riding— and I sleep alone tonight!”

Your eyes widen, horrified you turn to Syrax “ Dracarys .” You say quickly and meekly.

Syrax turns her giant head to her rider, unused to taking orders from anything small that wasn’t Rhaenyra, she nods to her mount. The yellow beast wastes no time and blasts dragon fire onto the sheep, the poor thing doesn’t even get a moment to bleat its end before it gets cooked, you pout at where the fluffy animal stood. Rest well, sheep.

Rhaenyra watched Syrax feast on her supper as you looked around the dark stone cave.

“Nyra?” You pull on her arm, “can I go see the baby dragons?”

She bothers not to look at you and nods, knowing you'll be safe in the hands of the Dragonkeepers. She looks to Oalth, a newly appointed, young dragon keeper and orders him to take you to the nursery.

You pad along behind him, following his glowing silhouette from the fire torch in his hand as he leads you to the nursery.

“Watch your step princess,” he cautions, holding your hand as you climb up the steep stone-carved steps.

The nursery is well lit, mostly for the comfort of the Dragonkeepers but also to not have any of the little hellions wiggle away from this part of the cave, a giant hearth is lit with many dragon eggs laying around its edges, eggs of gold, purple, red and blues. Some small and some big, all waiting to hatch one day in the cradle of their riders or perhaps in the glowing embers of the hearth, their magic swirling within the membranes of the egg, forever keeping them alive and warm.

This summer there had been eight dragons that hatched, without riders they almost never survive, and if they do they never stay here, choosing to live their lives as wild dragons at Dragonstone, or perhaps wherever their hearts pleased.

“Here they are,” Oalth huffs as he moves out of your way.

Four little dragons looked much like lizards curled against one another. Little rocks used as cushioning to rest their heavy tails upon. They looked frail, breakable to touch. Oalth broke into a smile, bending down to let a finger trace down the orange dragon’s tail, they roused flopping over to him, expecting food most likely.

“I thought there were six?” You pulled your skirts up to stop one from trotting itself under you.

He looked to you apologetically, the answer being only one. They didn’t survive .

“Who’s eggs?”

“Dreamfyre, her eggs hatch but rarely live past the year.”

You tut, letting the orange little guy climb up your arm, smiling at the little thing. Orange body with bright red membranes, you could see it in the green of its eyes, it was strong.

“She is a fighter,” Oalth muses, smiling at the dragon finding adventure in climbing your skirts.

“She? How can you tell?”

“Intuition, we won’t know until she is grown but she has the fury of a she-dragon.” He says, minding the other little dragons.

“Quba konīr iksis,” a dragon keeper pokes his head through the entrance, hissing at Oalth in Valyrian, a foreign song to your ears. Oalth’s shoulders immediately stiffen.

“Stay here, princess.” He cautions as he grabs his dragon glass spear, rushing behind the other keeper.

You frown at him leaving but return your attention to the little creature now sniffing your ear. You gently pick her up by pinching together her wings and dropping her onto your palm.

“You’re a girl huh? Of course, you are, look at you.” You whisper, watching her walk in circles in your palms and plop down. “No boy dragon is this pretty.”

Oalth was right, even in her frailty there was something about her, a will to fly, a twinkle of mischief in her eyes. Just like the one Rhaenyra has when she finds some way to bother Septa Marlow.

“You will live.” You tell her “Grow ginormous and el— elegant, eat sheep and fly as high as you want.”

“ Dracarys .” You smile at her, already envisioning her pale orange body to be a beacon of the Sun goddess once she is grown, whatever rider would claim her would surely be an eccentric embodiment of her.

A swift shuffle however tears you from your gaze for adoration, you flinch, turning your head over your shoulder and looking around the nursery to find the intruder.

And found you did.

There stood Daemon, a shabby cloak pulled down, his glowing silver hair much longer and his charming smirk greeting you.

“Playing with fire, are you, little viper?” He asks with a smug grin on his lips.

“Daemon?” You chide, looking around the room once more before turning to him.

There was a small burst of joy in your chest, you missed him dearly, however, he shouldn’t have been here. He was banished from King’s Landing, if anyone knew he would be in so so much trouble.

“You shouldn't be here!” You hiss, placing the baby dragon back by its sibling.

“Pretty one you’ve picked, princess” he deflects, pushing himself away from the wall he leaned against.

You turn to the orange dragon, “She won’t make it they say.” You lament, so quickly forgetting how dangerous Daemon's little visit is.

He hums, approaching you to set his eyes on the dragon. “Name it.”

“I cannot do that?” You look up at him, eyes wide and shaking your head.

“Can you not speak?” His sarcasm doesn’t miss your ears as you tut.

“I'm a Martell.” You state the obvious, wondering if in the eight moons he had spent away from home, he had returned without his sanity.

He faux gasps “What would Daenerys say?”

A pang of guilt hit your chest, you looked nothing like your mother, so accustomed to your dark features you often forgot that there was dragon blood within you.

“I— she won’t make it anyways.” You shake your head, still looking at the dragon napping away.

“Name, princess.”

“Agni…?” You look up at him but flinch once more when this time Oalth comes back to receive you.

Daemon swiftly ducks behind the wall again, as you look at the young dragonkeeper.

“Your wheelhouse is here, the princess calls for you.”

You couldn’t shake off meeting Daemon again, how were you to keep such a secret in your stomach? He was here, he broke the king’s rules — not surprising at all but still, you were a part of whatever his plot was now. Your skin prickled in goosebumps as you made the rounds filling half-empty cups around the Small Council table. Lord Corlys as usual, stopped you from filling his, you would have insisted on just skipping him over but Septa Marlow said it wasn’t proper.

It was the day after and you still rose with such tussled movement within you, did he hurt someone, burn something, do people know you saw him but said nothing— bad girl? You nervously finished your rounds and set down the jug on the table before turning towards the meeting.

The doors opened to the Elder Dragonkeeper using his cane to bow and enter the council room, bile coated the insides of your mouth. You were in so much trouble.

You turned the other way, hearing the Elder speaking in Valyrian, damn you, you patiently listened for anything that might sound like your name, the syllables or the word dārilaros .

“Dārilaros,”

Mother Rhyone, don’t let it be me.

“Daemon sikio sīdas, eglivivys aōhys.” The Elder declared.

The room grew silent, as you turned around, mayhaps you weren’t in trouble at all. He didn’t take your name. You appeared confused at why Rhaenyra appeared angry, you thought she’d be happy to hear the return of her favourite uncle.

“Skorior drōmon Daemon laēttas?” Rhaenyra’s words sounded like a question.

“Dārilaros Baelon iderēptā se Drōmon Ēdrurzo iles rūs.”

Your head turns to Viserys and back to Rhaenyra to try and understand what has happened, but Viserys stands abruptly. Storming out of the rooms with Otto heavy on his heels along with Ser Westerling and the Kingsgaurd. Rhaenyra follows suit in the other direction, running up to her rooms.

The other lords shuffled up, Lord Beesbury and Lord Lyonel left the rooms next, leaving Lord Corlys to sigh and look at your rigid but confused form.

“You ought to return to the gardens girl,” he called out, breaking you out of your bewildered trance. “The jasmine, have they grown?”

“What has happened?” You blurted out. Looking at him this time.

“Prince Daemon has happened, an egg and a hatchling missing.” He shook his head.

You rushed out of the Small Council this tip, taking two steps as you rushed up Maegor’s Holdfast to your apartments. Daemon had once again shot an arrow straight at an already gaping open wound, you only worried about what Rhaenyra might do this time for she couldn’t just beat her fists on Daemon’s chest this time.

When you burst through her chambers she was already gone, the yellow gown she was wearing earlier discarded on her bed and her gloves and dagger gone. You groaned, falling onto her bed, wondering what trouble Rhaenyra was going to find herself this time, instead, you found a small rolled-up parchment along with her clothes.

“ I’ll return soon.”

You could cry from how frustrated and scared you were, why is it that these two always seemed to drag you into impermissible situations, where you must lie for them. You would again be in such trouble.

You paced back and forth at least a hundred times, your feet could have walked to Winterfell and back from how hard and how long you had been pacing, looking out to the setting sun and waiting for Rhaenyra to return home.

Every time a crow or pigeon flew by, you wondered if it was her. Come back, come back you insolent lover of mine.

“Princess?” Sona stood in your receiving chambers with an evening gown in hand, “it is time for supper soon.”

Supper with the king, my death.

Even dressed for supper in a longer gown, you began pacing once more, your boots thudding against the stone floor. Coming up with possible excuses you could give on Rhaenyra’s behalf, feverish, loss of appetite, poor absolutions— uh mayhap not.

When the sun just touched the horizon you began walking towards Viserys’s chambers, mumbling reasoning under your breath as Ser Darklyn followed behind you, he had been fed the story of Rhaenyra being tired, now you needed an elaboration. A sticky narrative with no questions, Ser Darklyn knocked on your behalf and then you were let in.

“Your grace.” You curtsied, waiting for him to receive you.

“Ah, come— come.” Viserys looked up from his pumice stone city.

“You’ve added another layer?” You ask the work was truly beautiful, with more cravings of dragons around the edges of the main wall.

“The Ānōgron, which is?” He quizzed.

“The blood mages workshops?”

He smiled, nodding at you.

“It is beautiful, my king.” You complimented, gently tracing your finger along its edge.

“Where is Rhaenyra?” He muses, still craving away with his dagger.

“She is feeling unwell, she had her supper early and chose to rest for a while.” You say quickly, toying with your fingers.

“Unwell? Pah, I didn’t think the matter with the egg would bother her so deeply.” he shook his head, wiping the tip of his dagger on a cloth. “Has Mellos looked at her?”

“I wouldn’t know, your grace. I spent the evening in the gardens.” Another lie. You twist the rings on your fingers even harder.

You awkwardly begin to walk towards the already set table for three, the aromas of deliciousness filling your nostrils, beyond everything today, you were starving for sure. Just as you settled yourself in, waiting for Viserys to join. The doors to his room opened once more with an attendant stepping in.

“The Princess has returned from Dragonstone.”

Viserys turns to you, eyes squint as he questioningly takes your name once more, your shoulders slumping in defeat and you glaring holes into the back of the attendant walking away.

You sat slowly eating your supper as echoes of arguing bustled from the antechamber, first, you would hear Viserys scold Rhaenyra, and then she would scream back in a rebuttal. It went on for several minutes, you finished your goose by then. Flinching every now and then whenever their voices would boom from the other chamber.

Eventually, everything went quiet, you wondered if this is what those two needed to finally have a proper conversation, one not laced with court propriety but one of a father and his daughter. You could still hear him speaking, and then her speaking. Softly, a fight grew to an endearing conversation by the time you began feasting on the lemon cakes. You slouched against the chair, this time sipping on— or trying to sip on some strong wine, which by all means tasted vile.

The doors then opened, and you abruptly sat straight, wiping the corners of your mouth and sheepishly looking at Rhaenyra. Both of them looked gleeful as they walked toward you.

“You alright sweetheart, you look ill,” Rhaenyra took a seat next to you.

You frowned this time, whisper hissing at her as you smack her thigh, hard. “I lied to the king for you, the king !”

Viserys then called for you. “Usually my court would have liars gelded, but I seem to have hordes of parchment to get through. Up before the Hour of the Rabbit, a King’s Cupbearer must not be late.”

#daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen x reader x rhaenyra targaryen #daemon targaryen x rhaenyra targaryen #daemon headcanon #daemon targaryen fanfic #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon edit #houseofthedragon #house of the dragon fandom #house of the dragon smut #river of fire series

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newtonsheffield · 3 months

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Absolutely loving the bodyguard au snippet we are getting. If you do spicy Sunday I would love to see them for it. possibly the first time after Anthony gets shot, I feel like it would be interesting to see how Anthony deals with wanting to be with Kate but also having to deal with his arm not back to 100% (if that makes sense 😂)

Oh boy, I think his arm is probably something Anthony feels super self conscious about. He’s now in a very public relationship with the country’s most eligible woman. Anyone would love to be in his position. Not just because one day Kate’s going to be the queen but because he literally can’t imagine a better person than her. She’s so beautiful he catches himself staring slack-jawed at her as she does the most mundane things like drink her smoothie in the morning. She’s also smart, and kind, and compassionate and she has a pretty wicked sense of humour and even at Anthony’s best it would have been a huge swing to introduce them publicly as a couple, Anthony thinks. Now that one of his arms hangs by his side unmoving, and will for the rest of his life it seems even more ridiculous.

(This isn’t going to be too sad or that spicy honestly)

Some days Anthony wasn’t sure why he’d agreed to come here. Well. That wasn’t true entirely. Kate had strong armed him into it. He’d sighed, his left arm in its sling as he ruffled his hair with his right.

“Babe, I can’t do that.”

Kate blinked at him, “Why not? Everyone knows about us, I don’t think it’s going to scandalise anyone to imagine we’re sleeping in the same room.”

“Ben can stop by and look after me.”

Kate had looked disappointed, and Anthony hated to see that. “I want to look after you, that’s what partners do.”

“I don’t want to be a burden to you.”

It was guilt that was driving Kate he was sure. The bullets that had been meant for her and burned through him instead after he’d pushed her back into the arms of the other protection officers and he knew she felt guilty. She felt as though it should be her, how could she not?

Kate rolled her eyes, “I love you, you aren’t a burden. We can do this one of two ways: you move in to the small palace with me-”

“I think Edwina would have something to say about it.” He clutched at that as his lifeline.

“Edwina understands that I want to look after my boyfriend who nearly died.” Kate tutted, “If you won’t go there: I’m coming to yours.”

Anthony’s heart stuttered, “You can’t! You don’t have enough security there!”

Kate clicked her tongue, “Then I guess we’re back to my original plan.”

“Ben would actually prefer you to be where Edwina’s beautiful secretary is.” Ben said from the sofa giving Kate a furtive High Five.

“Settled then.”

Anthony deflated, “Am I ever going to win another argument?”

Kate kissed his forehead, “No, but you’re very handsome.”

So he’d come to stay with Kate, he’d let her fuss over him, let her take him to his follow up appointments even though he hated how useless he felt. It was the first time in his adult life that he’d been idle, Anthony had realised. He’d graduated school and gone into officer training, then he’d been in the army and when he’d left the army he’d become Kate’s head of security. He’d never been without a job since he was 16 working in a Newsagent’s and now all he had were long days sat on the sofa with an arm that would never move again.

It wasn’t the most romantic start to their life together, it wasn’t the way Anthony had imagined when he’d let himself get carried away and imagined a life where he and Kate could actually spend their lives together. He hadn’t imagined Ben having to put his arm in a plastic bag to prevent the surgical wounds from getting wet and more importantly, preventing Kate from seeing them. He hadn’t imagined her faced with a life of having to cut his food for him and part of him hated being stuck in this weak body. He hated sitting with Kate’s fingers intertwined with his, their hands resting on her lap as a doctor looked over the results of the tests he’d done.

“Well, everything looks great, Anthony.”

Kate kissed his temple, “I told you.”

Anthony tried to smile at her, “So… my sling?”

The doctor smiled, “You can wear the sling if you like, and I’d like you to attend so more rehabilitation but I don’t think it will make much of a difference now. You’re cleared for physical activity now.”

“Ooo exciting.” Kate chuckled, “Looking forward to it.”

Anthony squeezed her hand, nodding at the doctor, “Great. That’s… that’s great.”

He was still staying at the palace, settled into the routine of showering early, while Kate was out for a jog so she wouldn’t see the puckered pink lines of the scars that marred his shoulder ad the upper part of his chest now. When she came home with her cheeks flushed and her skin smelling like sweat and kissed the top of his head he tried not to notice how disappointed she seemed.

“You showered already?”

“Yeah. Sorry.” Anthony cleared his throat. “I felt a bit gross.”

“Wanna shower with me again?”

“No I’m um… I thought I’d call my Mum.”

She kissed the top of his head again, “Okay. Love you.”

“Yeah I… love you too.”

He wasn’t giving her what she wanted. Likely what she needed either. Kate was so affectionate, her fingers were always in his hair or intertwined with his and he loved that about her. He loved how physically affectionate she was especially given how touch starved he’d felt when they’d first fallen into bed together. And now he was terrified that if he let himself be close to her she wouldn’t like who he was now, because he barely recognised himself. But Kate never pushed it and somehow that made him feel worse.

They sat together, just like they did every night, Kate tucked under his arm on the sofa as they watched something on the TV, Her thighs were bare against his legs in his pyjama shorts and she sat in one of his shirts. Anthony swallowed the heat that rose in his chest at the feel of her skin against his the way it always did. Kate’s breath was warm against his neck and her arms were tight around his waist, her legs slung over his and his chest ached to reach out and kiss her. He wanted nothing more than to slide her onto his lap and let their hips rock together but he didn’t want to have to see the look in her eyes if he did.

“You okay?”

Anthony cleared his throat, trying to adjust his hips, “Ah, yeah. I’m fine.”

Kate chuckled, her eyes dancing in that way he loved, “Yeah I can feel how fine you are.”

She reached up, her fingernails scratching his chin as she tilted it down until their lips met.

Anthony moaned at the feel of her lips on his. They’d kissed since he’d been injured, of course they had, even if they hadn’t been having sex, they’d kissed but it felt so long since it had been something that felt as though it would build to something more. Kate’s tongue swept over his and when she drew him closer his arm slipped to around her waist, holding her tighter. Kate shifted against him, her legs widening until she straddled his hips. Anthony could feel heat creeping through his body, his heart pounding in his chest. And then her fingers caught the edge if his Tshirt.

Anthony pulled back shaking his head, “Sorry, Um. I don’t want to. I… I need to go to bed.”

Kate’s face fell, “I’m sorry. Did I do something wrong?”

anthony couldn’t even look her in the eyes, “No I just… I can’t.”

Kate swallowed and her arms were wrapped around her chest now but she didn’t move away from him. “Do you not want to do this anymore?”

Anthony froze, his eyes shooting to hers. “What?”

“Do you not want to be together anymore? I… don’t care if you need more time, or you’re tired. I don’t care, I don’t need to have sex as long as you’re here but if you don’t want to be together anymore then I just want you to be honest with me.”

That was what broke him.

“I don’t want you to see my arm.”

She blinked at him, looking down at his left arm in surprise. “Your arm?”

“Not my arm.” He let out a frustrated groan, “My shoulder. The scars, they’re ugly and I don’t want you to see them. I just feel fucking useless, Kate. I used to protect you, and now I sit on your sofa, and you have to cut my chicken for me.”

Her fingers twisted in the front of his shirt, “I’m happy to do it. I love getting to be there for you.”

“I don’t feel good about myself and I hate that and I hate that I’m disappointing you.”

She shook her head, “You’re not disappointing me. And I get that this is… probably really scary for you right now but I promise: there’s nothing that could happen that would make me fall out of love with you.”

Anthony nodded, staring down at her hands in his shirt, “It’s ugly.”

She smiled at him, “You could never be that.”

There was a question in her eyes and Anthony nodded slowly, apprehension curling in the pit of his stomach. Kate moved slowly, giving him plenty of time to stop her as she pulled his shirt over his head.

He couldn’t look at her, as she guided his paralyzed arm from the arm of his Tshirt but he felt her eyes burning into his skin. Her fingers ghosted over the puckered lines, following them across his skin and her lips curved in a smile as she leaned forward and kissed them gently.

“I was right. Still beautiful.”

His breath shuddered from his chest as he leaned down and captured her lips with his. It was still a gentle kiss, really, even with the heat simmering between them but Anthony could already feel his heart pounding in his chest. Kate gasped against his lips and her hand tugged his left arm to wrap around her waist as well, holding them together.

Her hips started to rock slowly against his and heat roared to life in his stomach at the slip of her skin against his, even through the thin cotton of his shorts. Kate swallowed his gasps and moans with a smile on her lips and her forehead pressed against his.

“Yeah?”

Anthony nodded as her fingers curled in the waistband of his shorts, “Yeah, yes. Fuck, yes, Kate.”

She smiled against his lips as she kissed him again and the clothing between them seemed to melt away. Anthony could barely breathe at the feel of her soft skin and her arm wrapped around his neck, her bare chest pressed against his.

“Oh god.”

Everything fell away but Kate. There was nothing but the feel of her hips moving over his and the beat of her heart against his. He couldn’t feel Anthony but her lips pressed against the skin of his shoulder and her fingernails cutting into his skin. Anthony’s forehead fell against her shoulder, desperate to be as close to her as he could after weeks of denying them both this intimacy. Kate’s breathing was ragged and every move she made left him feeling closer and closer to her, closer to the end he wanted them to find together.

Heat curled in the pit of his stomach and he could feel Kate’s thighs starting to shake as they climbed higher and higher, their eyes locked together. Anthony could feel his skin burning and his chest heaved as his jaw clenched.

“I love you.”

Anthony fell apart at the same time Kate did with her words whispered in his ear and his arm crushed her against his chest as their movements slowed to nothing.

“I’m sorry.” He wasn’t sure why he said it. Not now.

Kate hummed against his skin, “When I said I loved you I meant it. Forever.”

Anthony felt his eyes fluttered closed, “I love you too.”

Kate sighed, her fingers twining in his hair, “Does this mean we can actually shower together again? Because I miss getting to wash your hair for you.”

anthony chuckled, “My hair?”

“Yeah it’s cute. And the rest of the view’s nice too.”

Anthony groaned, standing and crushing Kate awkwardly against his chest with one arm, for the first time unbothered that the other hung at his side. “Come on then. My cute hair needs a wash.”

#bodyguard au #spicy sunday🌶️#kathony #anthony x kate #kate sharma #kate sheffield #anthony bridgerton #molly’s asks and answers

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