#so responses shall be sparse i apologize

[roslynwrites]

Just typing up a quick post that I can link to as a little FAQ for some asks so that I don't type out the same thing several times :)

-- The Incendiverse is currently in the anonymous collection and until I know more about proceeding / when I shall proceed it will stay there. It's nice to have it separate from my profile at the moment.

-- Yes, I disabled comments. I was having massive, terrible anxiety every time I saw a number pop up in my inbox specifically because of that fic and I was like....you know, I simply don't have to do this anymore! This was my self-indulgent fic that broke containment and now I'm miserable, why am I doing this to myself for a hobby?? TBD about enabling them again. For now, fandom has gotta stay fun if I am going to spend any time on it and if that means I just archive that work without commentary, then archive without commentary I must!

-- re: plans to continue, I wish I could give more info, I really do. I know fandom moves ultra fast nowadays but fics can and do go years sometimes without updating (life is crazy, capitalism hates and drains us all, etc etc) and generally speaking I find it best to go by the motto 'don't consider it abandoned unless the author explicitly says so'. And I am not considering it abandoned :) I'd call it an extended hiatus.

#i am alive just thoroughly disillusioned from social media! lol #and have had no time to write #so responses shall be sparse i apologize #fic: incendiary

[vivemonroi]

Ok, it’s just a draft of a translation of the first part of my Charlastor fic (English is my second language). But I think to post it in English, I wrote it like 4 years ago, when the pilot came out. If you notice any mistakes dm me please :3

“The suburb of 'Pentagram-City' could hardly be called serene, rather sparsely inhabited, as most of its denizens preferred to spend their days of indefinite punishment in the city where they could hire a prostitute, grab a drink, or die a gruesome death—anything seemed better than watching the pitiful imitation of local stars. Yet, by a strange twist of fate, right here and now, one could find the daughter of the ruler of the Underworld and one of the most powerful beings of Hell engaged in precisely this mundane activity.

— How did you die?

The question came out awkwardly, unpleasantly slicing through the tranquility of the quiet evening. Charlie shivered, instantly regretting daring to open her mouth and voice it aloud. But Alastor did not flinch, still gazing into the bloody sky of Hell, his lips stretched in a serene smile. Perhaps the demon hadn't heard her? No, considering how meticulously he listened to every word she spoke, that seemed very unlikely.

— You don't have to answer; I understand it's personal…

— I was shot.

His response was brief and to the point, a sharpness uncharacteristic of Alastor that puzzled Charlie even more, but curiosity quickly overcame tact.

— Was it police or…

— Hunters.

— Oh, I see. Sorry.

Coming out of his trance, Alastor looked at her in surprise.

— Why apologize, ma chérie? My demise isn't your fault, and let's be honest, it's not as if I didn't deserve it, though I must admit, I never thought I would die like this. The electric chair, yes, but a bullet? Pathétique! Such a banal method, I would even say barbaric, one shot and that’s it, what about the feelings? Personally, I preferred knives, ah, those emotions: fear, pain, the realization of the end of one's pathetic life…

Toward the end of his sentence, the pleasant French jazz from his inner radio was replaced by crackling and static. Noticing the princess’s slightly frightened look, the demon made a gesture very much like tuning into a radio station, and the melody returned.

— As much as I enjoy discussing my favorite pastime, I see you're uncomfortable. So, let me propose a counter-question, shall we engage in a little ‘quid pro quo’, ma chérie? Why did you ask?'

Charlie hesitated.

— No reason.

Alastor theatrically, almost paternally shook his head in disappointment.

— And this demoness dares teach us redemption! Yet she's not averse to the sin of deceit herself. And after so many sermons! I expected better from you, dear, you wound me deeply.

— It's silly, Al, I don't think you'd understand.

— Ah, but it's up to me to understand you or not, you know. I could have chosen not to answer your question. Asking a sinner how he died? Quelle vulgarité! And coming from the Princess of Hell herself, I think I'll broadcast this; my listeners will be shocked to learn that…

— Alright, alright! I'll tell you, but.. just don't laugh, okay?

— Can’t promise anything.

Charlie sighed; expecting such from him was indeed too much.

— Okay.

She paused for almost a dramatic effect and timidly began:

— You see, I was born here, in Hell, but you... you were born there, in the mortal world. Your main life was there, but... I know nothing but Hell.

She fell silent again for a few seconds, as if bracing herself to utter the next phrase.

She continued:

— I want to see trees, Al, the Sun, the Earth's Sun, animals, the sea with its beaches. I want to dance in the rain, shiver from the cold, languish in the heat! I wish to care for flowers, walk through the city for groceries, help the homeless. Smile at passersby and have them smile back! Greet neighbors, ask for some salt, and share pie recipes. But most of all... most of all, I want to see a rainbow. A real one, after a strong summer storm, when animals and people emerge from their shelters just happy to be alive. I.. I want to live!

On her last words, Charlie's uncertain whisper turned into a shout, and realizing this, she quickly covered her mouth with her hands, blushing with embarrassment. From the city, the drunken songs of bar regulars carried over, occasionally interrupted by the agonized scream of some unfortunate soul, but it seemed no one heard her, or if they did, they frankly didn't care. The audience from the receiver applauded approvingly, Alastor's eyes narrowed slyly.

— Sorry, as I said, it's very silly…

— Not at all, mon trésor, the desire to explore the unknown is perfectly natural for such a curious creature as you. But you're overlooking the fine print: diseases, poverty, wars, miseries, murders, hunger, and I'm not just talking about the physical sensation, lust, debauchery... shall I go on?

Charlie sighed.

— I know, Al, damn it, I grew up in a literal Hell, my whole life is that fine print.

She turned onto her stomach and shyly bit her lip.

— Just... sometimes I feel like I don't belong here...

Alastor laughed, Charlie thought his laughter sounded like radio interference mixed with distorted off-air laughter, but Husk and the other residents of the Hotel disagreed with such a comparison. "It's like dragging a rusty saw across your balls," he would say. Angel, and surprisingly, Vaggie, nodded significantly in agreement. Niffty usually kept quiet, though she admitted her boss's laughter gave her chills.

— Ding-ding-ding, bingo! We have a winner: the charming Princess of Hell who has finally realized the obvious. Honestly, dear, I'm surprised you only realized this now!

— Laugh all you want, Alastor. I shouldn't have started talking about it...

She began to rise from the ground, but Alastor easily grabbed her hand, stopping her.

— Wait, I didn't mean to offend you, at least not this time, really, hold on, no need to create drama out of nothing, please, go on.

Charlie looked at him skeptically, sighed in resignation, and lay back down.

— Don't get me wrong, I know my home is here, my family, my friends... but sometimes, just for a moment, I imagine what it would be like if I were born into a regular family, there. We would live on a farm, raise cows, shear sheep, sow wheat, pick apples. Dad would teach me how to ride a horse, and mom how to sew clothes. I would have a little brother or sister, and a dog! In the evenings, we'd all gather together and listen to music, and on Sundays, go to church...

— Church? I doubt your father would be let in, unless you're talking about the church, ha-ha! Si tu vois ce que je veux dire!

The radio listeners obediently laughed, Charlie shot him a warning glance.

— Oh, you should understand me, my dear, I'm a radio demon, notice 'radio' comes first. It's hard for me not to comment on such a wonderful monologue, especially when you speak with such passion.

A treacherous blush spread over her already red cheeks. She averted her gaze, embarrassed.

— Anyway... you get the idea, but it's just dreams, all I can do is help others reform, to leave this place, even if I never will.

Charlie felt uncomfortable; she hadn't even told Vaggie about this, why did she suddenly decide he would understand? When her heartfelt confessions were not met with an explosion of applause or the demon's own laughter, Charlie finally dared to look his way. To her shock, his face was frighteningly serious, though his eternal smile still lingered on his lips.

— I don't often say this, and it means a lot, but you, Charlie, more than anyone else, deserve a chance to get out of here.

The radio static that usually accompanied Alastor's voice quieted to such an extent that she could hear his soft baritone almost without interference.

Charlie still didn't dare look him in the eyes, the darn blush spreading to her neck, but an uncertain smile appeared on her lips.

— Do you really think so?

Alastor propped himself up on his elbows and looked at her with feigned bewilderment:

— Well, of course! After all, the essence of Hell is to punish sinners. First, you need to have at least a chance to wreak some havoc. If you had ended up here on your own, it would be a different story, but as it is, it's just bo-o-oring.

Even though his words touched that string of her heart, her feelings, which she dared not speak of, even to herself, seeing him almost shyly look away, she decided to leave that topic alone.

They simply lay there for a while, listening to the sensual performance of some early 20th-century French song whose name Charlie didn't know. Each was lost in their thoughts until Alastor sprang to his feet as if scalded.

— Well, I can't promise a rainbow... Get up, Your Majesty!

— Alastor, what are you...

He impatiently extended his hand.

— Hurry up, I might change my mind.

"Here goes nothing," Charlie thought, taking Alastor by the glove. In an instant, they were somewhere else.”

Hate it? Love it? Tell me!

#charlastor #charlie x alastor #radiobelle #alastor x charlie #hazbin hotel 2024 #hazbin charlie #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel #fanfic #hazbin fanfic #alastor #charlie morningstar

[tommyspeakycap]

Your writing is my favourite 🥀 Anymore John Stones fics please?

ask, and you shall receive kind anon

here to help

this has been on my mind since i wrote our girl so here’s how john and reader met for that little fic

From the moment you woke up - or rather were woken up this morning - you’d been having one of those days. One of those ‘i really hope no one sits next to me on the train’ days. One of those everything makes you want to cry days. Just one of those days.

Maybe it was the sleep deprivation, the late nights and early mornings or the fact that no minute of the day was your own. You were exhausted, drained and in dire need of a long sleep and some food that didn’t come out of a microwave and taste awful.

Probably wouldn’t happen anytime soon.

Except today wouldn’t be one of those ones where someone sits next to you on the train when you would have preferred they didn’t, because when you got on the train that evening after another long day with dark circles under your eyes and an empty stomach because you’d been too busy to take lunch and were run off your feet, there wasn’t a single fucking seat on that train.

Well, one empty seat taken up by a man’s briefcase and umbrella. It was abundantly clear that he had done that so no one would sit next to him and you barely even had the energy to be annoyed. You had made eye contact a short while after getting on and he simply shook his head at you with a scowl. Whether he was saving the seat for someone or he just didn’t want anyone next to him didn’t matter to you, you felt like your legs were going to buckle beneath you and the weight of the two bags you had to carry over one shoulder while your other arm supported the weight of your world while you hold onto the sticky yellow pole with your other hand so you don’t go flying when the train screeches to a stop.

You approached the guy in the suit, eyes pleading. “Look, is there any way that i could-” He cuts you off by pointing the earphones he was wearing and shrugging his shoulder before looking out the window on his left. You might’ve fought, argued with him and gotten yourself a seat, but you just didn’t have that kind of fight in you today and would rather just let him be obnoxious than cause an embarrassing scene on the train.

More embarrassing that you already had at least, trying to wrangle a screaming baby.

There was one man who’s eyes you had felt on you on and off for pretty much the entire time he had been on the train. You were assuming he was judging something about you; be that the exhaustion present in your body and in your face or the way you struggle to hold everything at once. You honestly could’ve cried, everything just felt like it was so, so much. You felt like you were in survival mode, existing only to exist and nobody cared. People looked in and nobody cared.

Until he did.

The tall guy with long legs and fluffy, almost curly, brown hair steps past you, brushing past your shoulder where you stand again in the space near the train doors holding onto the pole. He stands in front of the man you had tried to confront three minutes ago and anger bubbles up under the surface at the thought of him getting that seat.

“Come on mate.” He says, his voice much louder than yours was and more commanding than yours ever would be. The man in the suit takes out his earphone with furrowed eyebrows and a remaining frown. “That’s a spare seat,” he points at the brief case and umbrella sitting, “And that woman just asked you for it.” People start to cast their eyes to him with many sporting subtle grins at this man hogging a seat being put in his place.

“So?” he snarks.

“So?” The tall one echos incredulously, “She’s got a baby with her mate, it’s not safe to be standing there. Just move your shit.” He scoffs, his voice feeling to an irritated grumble. The other guy shakes his head firmly. “Don’t want to be sitting next to a whining baby, do i?”

“It’s alright,” you insist with a sigh and flushed cheeks, “I’ll be fine, honest-“

“No,” he holds up a hand as he turns to offer you a soft smile, his eyes determined as he turns back to the other man. “Move yourself then,” he growls, leaning himself down to get closer so he can speak more hushed as he tightens his muscles and clenches his jaw, “Or I’ll fucking move you myself.”

The guy huffs, grabs his crap and stands up, pushing past the tall man and glaring at you as he passed. You would never have fought it like that, but your aching legs are thankful and someone did. He gives you a smile, helping you into the inside seat before moving to walk away when he hears your voice. “You can sit there, if you like?”

You fully expect him to reject. Not many would want to sit next to ragged looking woman with. slobbery teething baby who keeps making sounds as though she’s going to start wailing at any moment. But his lips just stretch back into that smile as he turns and takes the seat next to you happily. “Thank you for that,” you mutter quietly, cheeks still flushed. He shrugs his shoulders, turning his eyes to your little girl in your lap. “Don’t mention it,” he smiles, waving his large at the eight month old. “I’m John.”

You shake his hand, “(y/n).” You greet in response.

“(y/n),” he repeats, eyes sparking. “And who’s this little lady eh? She’s adorable.” He coos at your daughter chewing on her fingers. You while her chin with the bib she’s wearing carefully to catch her teething dribbles, “This is Poppy, she’s teething. Sorry.” You grimace, referencing to her unhappy gurgles and constant wriggling.

“Don’t be silly,” he insists, “There are far worse passengers to sit next to, isn’t that right little miss Poppy?”

You almost feel your eyes getting a little wet at his kindness to you and to her. It seems as though you don’t get it that much these days. You’d thought that single mother had a bit more respect these days, but it seemed as though it wasn’t much better than you’d thought it would be at it’s worst. But John was kind, he was sweet and funny, cooing at the little girl until she giggled back at him, patting his face with John just laughing off your apology.

“Here,” John begins as the train pulls into the station that he knew was his stop and appeared to also be yours, “let me get those.”

Before you can even protest he lifts up the well stocked baby bag, slinging it over his shoulder as he picks up your own bag and and helps you out if your seat.

He talks and you laugh at his jokes for the entire walk to your car. You wouldn’t usually humour many people, very least men but he was funny and kind and your heart has already warmed up to him so quickly. The way he puts your bags in the boot and hands Poppy her little teething key ring as you clip her into her car seat. She gurgles happily at him with a big gummy smile and god your heart sings at the sight of him getting on so well with your little girl who’s dad left a week and a half after she was born much to your heartache.

“Sorry if this too forward,” he clears his throat, shuffling nervously between his feet. “But i’d love to see you again…both of you.”

Your heart lights up, your cheeks flushing a soft red as you smile up at him, nodding. “That would be nice.” You reply, pulling your phone out your back pocket to pull up your number from him to put into his phone. “I’ll call you tonight.” He promised.

And call you he did, shortly after 7 and talked to you for two hours while you fed and put the baby to bed and before you knew it, you had a close friend offering to take Poppy for the night so you could go to dinner with John. Then Poppy got sick and you had to cancel, thinking you’d completely scuppered any chance at this relationship until John showed up on the doorstep with a food in a bag and some candles. He cooked, you bathed the baby and he took pictures of you both giggling hysterically with her penguin towel wrapped around her with the little hood over her sparse hair. He’d never smiled so much in all of his life.

You ate John’s meal at the kitchen table when she went to bed he stayed the night when you both fell asleep on the couch.

From that day forward, this was John’s family.

His perfect little family.

#john stones #john stones blurb #john stones imagine #john stones imagines #john stones x reader #england national team imagine #manchester city imagine #football #football fic #footie fics #footballer fics

[drwcn]

《 Without Envy 》 storyboard 9 - concubine/sleeper agent!wwx & prince!lwj [Master List], you should also have read [6] [6.2]

Lan Qiren coming to visit Hanguang-fu effectively put an end to Wei Wuxian's time as Lan Wangji's servant. He wanted to send Wei Wuxian back to Jiang-fu, but luckily, Jiang Yanli interfered.

Jiang Yanli has been slowly recovering since her drug-induced miscarriage, and while Wei Wuxian had slowed her progress with sedatives, he's been careful to keep an eye on her intake to make sure Jin Ziyan hasn't been messing with her again. As well, with Wei Wuxian occupying Lan Wangji's time and keeping the Jiang family in his good graces, Jiang Yanli had the time she needed to recover fully without needing to push herself to entertain Lan Wangji for favour.

“妾身见过太师，给太师请安。” “阿离啊，听说你小产后一直身体不好，这下着雨，你怎么来了。起身吧, 孩子。” “承蒙太师与陛下惦记，殿下垂怜，阿离的身子已经大好了。阿羡本是妾身院里的，是妾身的陪嫁，一直都安分守己，对王府对殿下忠心不二。是妾身无用，身子一直不见好才让阿羡到王爷身边侍奉。刚见阿羡被太师训斥，相比是阿离平日里管教无方，无心顶撞了太师。有什么过错，都是妾身的错，还请太师责罚。” ~translate~ Jiang Yanli dipped into a proper curtsey, kneeling before Lan Qiren, "This humble concubine greets Taishi. I pray that you've been well." "A-Li, I've heard that you've not been well since your miscarriage. It's raining today, what troubled you to come? Rise, child." Lan Qiren's stance softened upon seeing Jiang Yanli. His late sister-in-law had no daughters, and so often summoned the daughters of nobles into court to dote on and mentor as her own. Jiang Yanli, gentle and proper, has long been known to be a favorite of the late empress. She may not be the greatest beauty in her generation, but was second to none when it came to etiquette and grace. "Thanks be to His Majesty and taishi for remembering, and thanks to dianxia's for his care, my health is much improved now. A-Xian was once a member of my court, my peijia. I've always known him to be obedient and conscious of his place, and loyal to wangye and this princely manor. It is only on account of my poor health that he's been summoned to serve at wangye's side. Earlier, I heard Taishi chastising him; surely it must be A-Li's fault for failing to teaching him propriety and thus causing his unintended offence. The fault is with A-Li, and so I humbly submit myself to your discipline, taishi." Lan Qiren sighed. He did not wish to stir up trouble over a servant. If Jiang Yanli was willing to stand up for this Wei Wuxian, then he must have his uses. At the very least, he'll be a confidant for Jiang Yanli against Jin Ziyan. Lan Qiren so hoped that one day Wangji would choose the Jiang girl as his legal spouse and secure his marriage once and for all. If sparing one lowly servant was the price then so be it. "Very well, A-Li. Since the servant is yours, then his training and discipline shall be your responsible. He is unsuited to serve at the prince's side. It is good that you have recovered; Wangji should not be without a caring partner."

And so, Wei Wuxian returned to Jiang Yanli's side as a servant. Lan Wangji had to watch him go and could not interfere. The next several days was depressing for both of them on multiple fronts.

Xue Yang was very unimpressed:

"So you're tell me that you got to spend quality time with Lan Wangji for months and then... didn't get anywhere?" "I was getting there okay? How was I supposed to know his stupid uncle was gonna barge in like some nosey busybody and ruin everything!? I haven't seen Lan Zhan in days..." I miss him. How horrifyingly embarrassing. He probably forgot me already. "Don't tell me you actually miss him??? That you - barf - fell for him? Whatever happened to standards??!" "You watch your mouth, Xue Chengmei! I'm still your shixiong! And I have standards; Lan Zhan is...very good." Xue Yang: ( ˘︹˘ ) whatever.

Lan Wangji, the sulky boy that he is, brooded for days until Lan Xichen finally sought him out for some good ol' brotherly heart to heart.

"I hear Uncle took away your shiny new toy." "Wei Ying is not a toy." "Wei Ying is it?" Lan Xichen wiggled his eyebrows. "Ah, didi, you have to think a little more creatively. So your Wei Ying has gone back to his mistress, but is his mistress not your concubine? Jiang-furen is still unpregnant, I might add. Visit her. Then surely you'll get to see him." Lan Wangji grimaced. The thought has occurred to him, but the idea of bedding anyone not Wei Ying is intolerable. "Yes, Yanli is lovely, but I'd rather not...you know..." His brother was too polite to roll his eyes. "You've done it before, Wangji." "I would not have had to, if xiongzhang simply did his duty." Lan Wangji bit back icily, and instantly regretted it. Lan Xichen's eyes widened, his cheerful-teasing expression stuttering and crumbling in seconds. "Yes...yes that's true." "My sincerest apologies, huangxiong - no - bixia." Lan Wangji rose to his feet and then bowed down deeply. "I forgot my place. I accept any punishment." Lan Xichen sighed and extended a forgiving hand to pardon him. "Not necessary, Wangji. You're right. I haven't done my duty for Gusu." He pulled the younger man to sit beside him again. "You are doing this in my stead, stepping up where I have let the country down. I should not make light of your sacrifice. The matter of a harem is inevitably complicated, which is why I never cared for one. Neither did Father. His harem had always been sparse, and his first empress was not one of his choosing. When she died in childbirth and our unborn sibling along with her, he elevated our mother's rank to Empress and visited no one else henceforth." "Mother was never popular with the ministers for that reason." "Yes. They suspected that she had something to do with...well, in any case I imagine they were quite relieved when she passed." Lan Xichen shook his head. "The harem is not a happy place, Wangji. You were born after Mother was already Empress, you would not have remembered a time when she was consort. But I do. Like you, your concubines did not get to choose their fate. The fault, ultimately, lies with me." "Huangxiong -" "It's true, Wangji. The fault is mine." Lan Xichen patted him on the arm placatingly. "You cannot love them, and clever as they are, I don't think your concubines would expect you to. However, you can ensure their happiness in other ways. Jiang-furen seems the kind to very much want a child of her own. It will make the rest of her life in your harem more bearable."

After some deliberation, Lan Wangji went back to his routine of visiting different concubines regularly, but never more than just sharing a bed-space. With the exception of Jiang Yanli. Lan Wangji could see it in her eyes; she knew who he really wanted, but those words never needed to be said aloud. Jiang Yanli was kind to him, and he was kind to her in return. All things considered, it wasn't awful being with someone who wasn't your preferred, but who knew you for yourself and shared your struggles.

"Dianxia, you must've heard, that before I married into your wangfu, I was betrothed to Jin Zixuan." She mentioned one evening over a game of weiqi. Of all his concubines (which he has 4) and friends (which he has few), Jiang Yanli's skill on the weiqi board was unparalleled. Lan Wangji half wondered how the Marquis and Marchioness of Yunmeng could have buried this talented daughter of theirs under the shadow of their son for so many years. "Yes I am aware." "I loved him." "...." For a minute Lan Wangji did not know how to reply. He stared at the chessboard. Jiang Yanli's black pieces had surrounded his white ones and forced them into a corner. "Why are you telling me this?" "Your court, my clan: we are their creatures." Jiang Yanli 's smile was knowing. "I am not A-Xian; I can see what he cannot." "Which is?" "You've fallen for each other. Completely. He denies it, heaven knows why." Jiang Yanli took a delicate sip of tea. Fleetingly, Lan Wangji imagined that if he could not have Wei Ying, if he were forced to take a legal wife to make empress, that she would make a magnificent one. "Father loved Mother. Loved her as a wife even when she was only a consort -" "And his love spurred the hate of the royal court." "They blamed her for his loving a woman more than his country, as though she should have persuaded him to love her less. I do not want the same to happen to Wei Ying." "Nor I." "Huangshu says I would need a legal spouse one day, someone virtuous and from a strong pureblood family." "Is that what dianxia wants?" "I want it to be Wei Ying, though I know it to be impossible. Barring that, I'd want to keep him safe in the harem, the size of which will only grow after I succeed the throne." "For that, dianxia will need a spouse who will reign over the harem as you rule over the country." Lan Wangji contemplated his choices and the options available to him. After some time, he placed the white piece he fiddled between his fingers back into the bamboo bowl, conceding that he'd lost this round. Jiang Yanli waited patiently for him to come to terms with the offer she already knew he would make. He wondered how long ago she had foreseen this moment, whilst simultaneously realizing that if his uncle had any idea just how intelligent she truly was, he would not be so quick to suggest her as a candidate for princess consort. A weak emperor and a strong empress never boded well for the stability of the realm. This was dangerous waters Lan Wangji was wading into, but he knew beyond doubt that the only way to survive was to keep straight ahead. He had no other path to take, none which maximally balanced what he wanted with what he needed. Jiang Yanli was his only solution, his only ally. "Huangxiong suggested that we have a child together." He finally said, staring her squarely in the eyes. "You and I can agree that the son of Gusu Lan and Yunmeng Jiang would certainly be a strong contender amongst his brothers." "She could be a daughter." "Then I'd cherish her more. A child and a crown - would they make you happy, Yanli?" "If I said yes?" "Then they're yours." Jiang Yanli smiled.

Two months after Wei Wuxian was dismissed from Lan Wangji's service and the prince began visiting Jiang Yanli, good new was delivered to Jiang Fengmian and Yu Ziyuan. The message was this: Hanguang-wang's Jiang-furen was with child yet again.

#cql #the untamed #wangxian #cql ficlet #corie fics #without envy #i said i'd do this for yall #and so i did

[starlightsearches]

why is it always hux doesn’t treat his wife right so kylo falls for her and never kylo doesn’t treat his wife right so hux falls for her😔💔

Anon, you are so right. Here’s a little blurb for you, my friend 💖

Armitage Hux x GN Reader (no pronouns but I did add that the reader was wearing a dress because I’m a slut for ball gowns)

Warnings for: language, infidelity, mentions of possible spousal abuse, angst. Let me know what you think!

The night air is warm here. It sticks faintly to your skin, sometimes brushed away by the slight breeze that passes through the trees every few minutes, smelling faintly of salt and some kind of flower that you can’t quite place.

This is good for you: the peace that can be found in simple things. If you couldn’t have satisfaction, at least you could have fresh air on your skin. If you couldn’t have happiness, you’d make up for it in still, summer nights.

The garden exists in a kind of half-darkness—not a true night but different enough from the Supremacy, where the light never waxes or wanes. Nine moons orbit the planet, but you can only see three from where you stand, the others hidden from sight by the surrounding trees, or else set to rise at a later time.

Nine moons. It had been the general who told you that—a passing comment as you boarded the transport before your husband had arrived. You could hardly remember the planet’s name, let alone it’s most popular export, the importance it had to the Order, or any of the hundred other things Ren had told you in the weeks before your arrival here—but you remembered the moons.

You brush the idea away. It’s best not to give weight to thoughts like that; Ren’s pride could not take it, and if he caught you thinking about another man in any capacity . . .

You don’t think he would hurt you. He hadn’t so far, in almost a year of marriage, but you could not ignore the hint of roughness in how he handled you. As if he were only showing the barest kind of restraint as a message—not a threat that violence would happen, but that it could, if he deemed it necessary.

No such courtesy—if you could call it that—would be extended to the general for your indiscretions. Ren would kill him.

The possibility of that feels far away on a night like tonight, so you let yourself think about it for a little longer.

The breeze plays with the edge of your gown as the curve of the fourth moon peers over the tips of the trees. You should really be getting back to the party.

Heaving a sigh, you lift the hem of your dress, padding through the sparse grass of the garden floor, weaving in between the bushes and ducking under low branches; the only sound beside your footsteps is your own breathing. There’s no sign of life anywhere, now that you think of it, no glimpse of the candle-lit veranda or the gilt ballroom beyond flickering through the leaves.

You come to a halt in a copse of trees. It’s a dead end.

You could have sworn that you came this way. Although, you didn’t have to pay much attention to direction of your travels when the only destination in mind was away from here.

A trickle of fear slips down your spine, turning the warm night cooler. You had already spent too much time out here, and it’s not hard to guess how Ren might react if he was forced to come find you.

You turn on your heels, your sense of urgency heightened at the thought, but urgency gives way to panic when you collide with something in your path.

You look up with startled eyes, relaxing slightly when you realize that it’s only the general. He’s caught you by the shoulders, holding you steady with a hand on each arm—whether to make sure you don’t fall over or to keep you from knocking him to the ground, you’re not sure.

He looks stunning—a face made for the moonlight, carved from stone. It takes the air out of your lungs.

A faint blush dusts his cheeks, vague but visible, and he slides his hands off of you with some hesitation, the leather of his gloves dragging over your skin reluctantly and raising goosebumps in their wake.

“Your Highness, my apologies,” he offers you a stiff bow, stepping back slightly, and you wither. Even in total seclusion, he is nothing but a gentleman. Your thoughts from earlier resurface to mock you, but do your best to conceal the hurt.

“No need for that, general. You actually arrived just in time; I got lost on my way back to the party,” he makes no attempt to respond, so you gesture weakly to the sky, trying to fill the silence, “I was admiring the moons.”

He turns just as you do—four moons now solidly visible between the over-reaching branches of the trees. The back of his hand brushes against yours before he pulls away.

He clears his throat, stepping back towards the entrance to the path, offering you his arm, “shall we return to the party?”

You take his arm with a polite smile, wrapping your fingers around the sleeve of his suit jacket, walking in silence for a moment as he leads the way back through garden—on the correct path, this time.

“Did Ren send you to find me?” You interrupt the silence of your journey, curious how the general had known where to come looking for you.

“No,” he offers simply, “the Supreme Leader was . . . otherwise engaged.”

“Oh,” you sit with the odd feeling his answer produces, trying to find it’s source. Were you disappointed that Ren had not noticed your absence? Or thrilled that the general had? “I only ask because I can typically slip from these kinds of events, at least for a little while, without any notice. I was worried that I might have lost my touch.”

He hums noncommittally in response, but you suspect that there’s more would like to say. You can see the magnificent house, and the party within, between the gaps in the trees, your journey almost coming to an end. The general makes no attempt to carry on the conversation, and you worry your lip between your teeth. Maybe you’ve offended him.

“I won’t take it to heart, general; you notice everything,” you say with a lighthearted tone, hoping to assuage whatever wound you’ve created.

His pace stutters slightly, as if he might like to stop for a moment, but the movement is so infinitesimal you’re sure you wouldn’t have noticed it if you didn’t have him by the arm. His response is quiet compared to the sound of your footsteps, the hints of music weaving its way from the open doors and windows out over the garden.

“I notice you.”

The air punches from your lungs. Your lips part, body begging for new air, but you can’t get it back. He tenses against you, and you’re sure you have not misinterpreted his meaning.

“General, I-” you try to speak but the words fail, you’ve lost sight of everything but him, and your lack of focus leaves you vulnerable, your shoe catching on the uneven ground. Your body reacts before your mind can comprehend, your free arm reaching out in front of you, anticipating the inevitable fall.

It never comes—the general has caught you by the waist, pulling you close—your hand meets the collar of his suit jacket instead of the unforgiving ground. When you’re eyes find his, the words die on your lips. His grip doesn’t loosen.

You can see everything when you’re this close, every minuscule detail: the slight glimmer of his pale lashes as they brush against his cheeks, the soft smattering of grey in the green of his eyes, a freckle—darker than the others—just below the corner of his mouth. Your eyes linger there for a moment longer than the rest; what happens next feels like a natural progression.

You slide your arm up, over his shoulder, all the way around his neck before pulling him closer, pressing one kiss to his soft, pink lips, then another. And another.

Then he kisses you back.

His arms solid around your waist, bunching the fabric of your dress under his fingers, your heart plummets from your chest when he deepens the kiss with more intensity than you ever thought him capable. The general’s stoic exterior has come undone under your touch.

He kisses you, harder, deeper, your bodies connected at every point, every line. There will never be enough of him, enough of this. You’ll starve of it, once you go back to-

Shit. Back to Ren. Oh gods, what have you done?

The thought must hit the general at the same time—he tears himself away from you, breathing hard.

“We shouldn’t— I never knew—” He’s stumbling back before he can even get the words out, his expression pure agony, his voice harsh as he says, “this can never happen again.”

You’ve barely regained feeling in your limbs before he leaves you, walking swiftly towards the lights and the music and the chatter, away from you and the kiss that you might have mistaken for a dream had it not left you so empty. 

He disappears from view before you can cry out for him, and you are alone in the light of the moons.

#armitage hux/reader #armitage hux x reader #armitage hux x you #armitage hux fanfiction #armitage hux oneshot #armitage hux drabble #armitage hux/you #general hux x you #general hux x reader #general hux oneshot #general hux drabble #general hux/you #general hux/reader #my writing #requests #anons

[protect-him]

prompt: "shy kiss" for fenders?

A bit late, and this got a bit long, but I had ideas and I had a lovely time writing them. I hope you enjoy!

For @dadrunkwriting

Twelve, thirteen, fourteen.

The elevator stopped on floor fifteen to let off one of its three passengers.

“Uh, how high are we going?” Anders asked, as the elevator doors slid shut and they began to climb again.

“Not much further,” Fenris said, putting a hand up to push back the loose hair that hung over the side of Anders’ face. His expression was clinical as he examined the bloody scrape on Anders’ temple.

“It’s fine,” Anders assured him, once again. He let Fenris hold his face without further protest, only pulling away reluctantly when Fenris’ warm fingers slipped away.

The elevator stopped on floor twenty-three, the top floor.

“Where are we going, the roof?” Anders joked mildly, following Fenris out of the elevator and trying not to stare at the luxurious carpet that padded the foyer. Three doors led off of the landing, each numbered.

“Fuck, this is a penthouse, isn’t it?” Anders muttered. “And my boots are muddy.”

“It’s no matter,” Fenris said, turning the key in the lock and pushing open the door.

Anders trailed after him, bending to pull off his boots just inside, despite Fenris’ insistence that he needn’t bother.

The entryway was dimly lit by a small light that Fenris had flicked on, but from what Anders could see, everything in the spacious apartment was luxurious and elegant, if somewhat sparse. Fenris stood watching him, lit by the overhead light and framed by a wall of floor to ceiling windows looking over the blinking city.

Anders straightened, eyes widening as he walked towards the windows to look out. The room containing them was a large bedroom with a plush king-sized bed. The floor was smooth wood, and Anders’ feet drifted onto a plush rug, where he stopped and stood staring out the window.

“I am fond of the view,” Fenris murmured, coming to stand beside him.

“I’ve never seen Kirkwall like this,” Anders said. From behind the glass, the city was only a distant hum.

Fenris turned and vanished from Anders’ periphery. A light flicked on and Anders finally tore his eyes away to look. The light came from a doorway that led into a blindingly white bathroom. A large mirror on the opposite wall reflected Fenris, bending to open a drawer.

Knowing that he needed to treat the scrape on his temple and his split knuckles, Anders left the window and joined Fenris.

“Find anything?” He asked.

“There are some first aid items here,” Fenris said, pulling out a small bottle of antibiotic cream and a box of bandages.

“I can take care of it,” Anders said.

“That won’t be necessary,” Fenris said. He pulled Anders towards the porcelain toilet and sat him down on the lid. He pushed aside the wet hair to look at the injury. He silently dabbed antibiotic cream onto a cotton ball and smoothed it across Anders’ temple. “There,” he pressed the bandage to the wound. Anders picked up the cotton ball and rubbed it across his bloody knuckles.

“There is a second bedroom,” Fenris offered. “It would be best if you spent the night. It is too late for you to walk home.”

“Ah-alright,” Anders said.

“I apologize that it is a small space,” Fenris said, glancing towards the ground. “It was formerly my room.”

Anders kept his expression neutral, but his mind started racing. He could only imagine what Fenris had been like when he lived here with his abusive step-father.

“If you prefer, you can sleep in the master bedroom,” Fenris offered.

“Oh, no, the other will be great!” Anders said, smiling. “I appreciate the offer.”

“If you insist,” Fenris said, always obliging. He disappeared into the bedroom as Anders leaned in to look in the mirror, tugging at the bandage on his head. It had hurt, but it was more than worth it taking a punch when the cause was standing up to someone trying to insult Fenris. And Anders had given back just as good, as his split knuckles were proof. He grinned in the mirror, damp hair hanging around his face. More than worth it.

“I found some things that may fit you,” Fenris said, placing a couple neatly folded clothing articles on the counter top. “So you can change out of your wet clothes.”

“Thanks.”

Fenris withdrew, closing the door so Anders could change. The warm sweats and loose tee shirt fit better than Anders had expected—most likely they had belonged to someone other than Fenris. He opened the door and yawned, his eyes once again drawn to the large windows.

“I feel guilty to rob you of the view,” Fenris said apologetically. He had changed as well, into plaid bottoms and a black tee.

“I’ll sleep better without the sun coming in on me when I wake up,” Anders said, waving his hand.

“If you say so,” Fenris said, moving to show Anders the door leading into the spare bedroom. The room was hardly larger than the bathroom had been, a long bed with a worn grey cover crammed against one wall. Fenris flicked on a lamp that sat on the shelf that was a part of the headboard above the bed.

“If you are uncomfortable here, please let me know,” he said, eyeing Anders’ height nervously, trying to measure him against the length of the bed.

“Don’t worry,” Anders said. “I’ll sleep like a baby.” He sat down on the bed and smoothed the sheet.

“I shall simply be in the next room, then,” Fenris said. “Good night, Anders.”

Anders looked up and caught Fenris’ gaze. Anders, he called me Anders. Fenris’ teeth caught at his lip, but he held Anders’ gaze deliberately.

“Good night, Fenris,” Anders said. And the elf turned out the light and slipped into the darkness of the master bedroom.

Anders turned to examine his accommodations. It was a barren room, the furnishings minimal and significantly less fine than those in the rest of the penthouse apartment. The headboard was odd, it seemed thick, as if there was a cavity in it, but when Anders felt the paneling, it didn’t seem to move. A moment of magic, and he found a spell sealing it, which was old and easily broken. He hesitated. What if there was something inside this space that he shouldn’t see?

Anders’ curiosity got the best of him. The panel slid to the side to reveal a small open space. It was nearly empty, there was only a small plush animal, a thick and stubby pencil, and an old, worn notebook. Anders touched the plush. It was smooth, the fabric worn thin in several places. He didn’t want to pry, but Anders had to peek inside the notebook. Just the first page, to see if he could confirm who it belonged to.

The first page was smudged in places, and adorned with small childish drawings. The subject matter appeared to be birds. And scattered across the page, in shaky handwriting, was the capital letter ‘L,’ repeated over and over. It made little sense to Anders, so he replaced the notebook and closed the cabinet, turning out the light, and soon falling asleep.

He slept peacefully, and woke confused. He was in a small room, curled up on a narrow but comfortable bed. His jaw ached, and Anders remembered the fight, and Fenris walking him to his place, and everything else. He gingerly touched a finger to the bandage on his head. All of that had happened. He had as good as said that he liked Fenris, and perhaps even beyond friendship, which was itself only a tentative thing between them. A wonder that Fenris hadn’t rejected the declaration outright, probably finding it too ridiculous.

Anders wasn’t allowed much time to think. Soon, he could smell the fragrance of food cooking. Following his nose, he found Fenris in the apartment’s kitchen. Despite being a bit small, the kitchen felt much larger. There was a moment when they regarded each other, unsure where they stood today.

“Sleep well?” Fenris finally asked.

“Mm,” Anders hummed, coming to stand next to the elf and look at what he was making. Eggs, with cheese and bits of meat. “Smells good,” he said.

Now it was Fenris’ turn to hum.

“I hope you like it,” he said.

“Fenris…” Fenris looked at him, thoughtful.

“I know this is a bit sudden and ridiculous,” Anders said, “but would you want to start seeing each other?”

Fenris didn’t look disgusted, nor throw him out immediately, so Anders counted his question as successful. He didn’t expect Fenris’ response, which came much quicker than Anders would have supposed.

“I think I should like that,” Fenris’ voice was hardly above a whisper, and his ears flushed a sweet, soft pink.

“Wait, really?”

“I suppose you had not noticed any of the hints I tried to drop,” Fenris said, smiling ruefully.

“I’m afraid not,” Anders said.

“Then I shall have to speak more plainly,” Fenris said. He was suddenly facing Anders, tugging him down, closer to those wide, green eyes.

Fenris paused for a moment to give Anders agency to decide whether to stay or to pull away. Anders stayed, and leaned in. Fenris met him, soft lips only brushing his gently, like a feather, before Fenris pulled back again. The rosy blush had rapidly spread from his ears across his cheeks. He looked quickly back at the food, scraping at the eggs in the pan.

“Fenris?”

Fenris hummed, but didn’t dare look at Anders.

“That was really sweet. Perhaps we should try it again sometime?” The smile that lit up Fenris’ face, though it was small, made Anders’ heart do an unexpected flip. With the view of the city behind him, and Fenris blushing in front of him, Anders could hardly remember any morning nearly so wondrous as this one.

#fenders #dadwc fills #dadwc tag #fanfiction #protecc writes #my writing

[squirrelcrow-po3]

Into the Wild Rewrite: Prologue

← Allegiances | Chapter 1 →

Tufted ears pricked at the sound of scurrying across the yellowing, dead grass below. A dark brown form nearly pounced from the brush, but a darker figure had already claimed the rodent, clenching fur in their jaws. “Good job, Ravenpaw,” a voice called, slithering beside Tigerclaw and stepping from the sparse bush. “I see Spottedleaf is teaching you well.” The small black cat gave an enthusiastic nod. “Of course, Redtail! You know your sister is the smartest in the Clan,” the apprentice replied. The tortoiseshell gave a stifled laugh in response. “Yes, she never fails to remind me.”

Tigerclaw finally left the covering of the dead greenery to meet the other two cats. “This is a patrol - not time to chat,” he said with a grunt. Suddenly, a smaller molly leapt down from the tree branches above. “Oh calm down,” she said to the older warrior with a flick of her tail. “Ravenpaw already caught something, so we can relax.” Redtail stiffened slightly. “A mouse doesn’t feed our whole clan, Mousefur. You know this,” he sighed. The molly nodded gravely. The deputy turned to walk off, motioning with his tail for the others to follow. “Now, keep quiet. We’re approaching RiverClan territory.”

Ravenpaw padded after his mentor’s brother, trying to hide the scent of fear beginning to emanate from him. He had never been to the Sunning Rocks before, let alone so close to RiverClan. The group of cats stalked from the safety of the trees towards the river. The small black cat’s eyes lit up with the moonlight glittering off the rocks under his paws. It was like nothing he had ever seen before. His gaze was ripped upwards once the cats had spotted a plump vole by the riverbank. Tigerclaw’s posture quickly lowered into a crouch, preparing to spring onto the rodent. But again, a flash of fur swooped in and snatched the prey before he could strike. A frustrated growl bubbled in his throat, expecting one of his clanmates to celebrate their catch, before he realized who had caught the vole. “RiverClan!” he hissed, lunging forward at the foreign warrior. 

The tortoiseshell snapped up. “Tigerclaw, no!” he screamed. The brown tabby lifted his head in confusion and whipped his head towards the water to see several cats snaking from the bank. He should have known more RiverClan warriors were lying in wait. “Ravenpaw! Get out of here!” the deputy shouted at the apprentice, who quickly scampered off into the bushes. He refused to let any apprentice, especially the medicine cat’s, to be injured in a border scuffle. Quickly, another tom tackled Tigerclaw off his clanmate. Most of the RiverClan warriors were unrecognizable to the ThunderClan cat, but he knew this one. How could he not? “Oakheart,” he hissed, “how dare you allow your Clan to hunt here? The Sunning Rocks belong to us.” The ruddy tom stifled a laugh. “After tonight, not anymore,” Oakheart said lowly. He raised up a paw to claw at him, but the larger ThunderClan cat kicked his legs into the other tom’s belly, pushing him off.

“ThunderClan, retreat!” Redtail announced, realizing that they were fighting a losing battle. Three warriors winning against a majority of RiverClan was not possible, no matter how much Redtail hated to admit defeat. The sound of yowling cats made Tigerclaw’s ears fall, but he wasn’t going to give up so easily. “Mousefur, help me!” he said, defying Redtail and running back towards the water and incoming RiverClan warriors. The molly glanced between her two clanmates before begrudgingly following after Tigerclaw. The deputy grumbled to himself before chasing them down the hill. 

Tigerclaw had gone back after Oakheart, while Mousefur was fighting off two RiverClan warriors much larger than himself. Redtail saw that she was obviously losing, but stayed back for a moment. When one of the cats bit down on the dusty molly’s neck, he rushed in and shoved him off her. “Mousefur! Listen to me! Get out of here, now!” he screamed in her face. Her ears pinned against her head as she rushed off towards the treeline with her tail between her legs. The tortoiseshell then grabbed Tigerclaw by the scruff and tore the larger tom away from Oakheart. He didn’t need to say anything, just ran away from the river. The tabby glanced back to Oakheart with narrowed eyes before running after his clanmates. “RiverClan will never be defeated!” he heard a voice cry as he ducked into the shrubbery.

---

Bluestar’s paws were tense against the short grass as she gazed up at the sky. Another molly padded from her den and sat down beside her with a small, reassuring smile. “How is she?” the leader asked her. “Mousefur will heal in time. There is no need to worry, Bluestar,” the medicine cat responded, placing her tail on the other molly’s lower back to calm her.

“Thank you, Spottedleaf,” Bluestar said. “I just worry about Redtail and Tigerclaw… They haven’t returned with Ravenpaw.” She shook her head, her brows knitted together. “I knew they shouldn’t have gone but Tigerclaw insisted. ThunderClan hasn’t been beaten since I became leader.” Spottedleaf tried not to show that she was worried for her apprentice as well. “The first defeat after many victories is always the sourest,” she said, following Bluestar’s gaze up to the sky, “StarClan has been silent for the past moons.” The leader next to her sighed in defeat. Beyond that, silence rang between the two mollies.

Suddenly, light flooded the dark night sky, making Spottedleaf’s eyes go wide and fur stand on end. Visions of blazing storms ravaging the forest filled the mollies head; a small, starry cat was standing in the center of the destruction. The cat stepped forward, placing their paw in the center of the medicine cat’s chest. Their touch seemed gentle, but she felt like she was suffocating, the heat of the fire beating against her pelt and filled her chest. Words came from her trembling mouth as her sight was restored, returning her to ThunderClan’s camp. “Fire…” the tortoiseshell muttered, “fire alone will save our Clan.” 

The leader gave her a quizzical look. “Fire?” she gawked, “fire only brings destruction to the forest… It would ruin our Clans!” Spottedleaf’s troubled expression only grew as she winced in pain. “I’m not sure what it means, Bluestar. But that is what StarClan wished for us to know.” The blue cat nodded solemnly, brushing her fur against the medicine cat’s to ease her. “Then it shall be. Fire will save our Clan.”

---

Tigerclaw didn’t dare say a word as he walked behind Redtail towards camp. Suddenly, the other tom stopped and turned his head. “I don’t think I have to say this, but I hope you realize the mistake you made tonight.” The brown tabby’s eyes glared down at the smaller cat. 

“RiverClan was hunting on our territory, how could you allow that?” Tigerclaw snapped. “Our cats must be fed. Goldenflower and my kits must be fed.” He thought of his mate and kits back in camp. Redtail barely flinched at his clanmate’s harsh words. “And now they might not be because of you.” He flicked his tail dismissively. “Now get back to camp and apologize to Mousefur for almost getting her killed. You’ll be cleaning the elder’s den for this.” The idea of them going hungry pained him more than he could explain.

Tigerclaw couldn’t hold back a hiss. “I’m not a tiny apprentice you can boss around,” he spat, pushing past Redtail to pad into camp. The deputy didn’t take a moment to think before blurting out: “well you’re acting like one.” The brown tom growled, whipping his whole body towards Redtail. He had barely heard the rustling of tiny paws moving through the bushes as anger clouded his vision...

#warrior cats #warrior cats rewrite #into the wild

[phykios]

the marble king, part 8 [read on ao3] [rated M for adult situations]

Percy wakes to the feeling of a blonde curl in his mouth, and though the taste is unpleasant, he still smiles.

Spitting it out of his mouth, he turns on his side to better face his wife, and grasps at her, but not before pausing to rub at her glowing belly. "Good morning, my love," he says, voice still rough with sleep.

Softly, serenely, she flutters her eyes open, revealing the stunning stormcloud which he so adores. "Good morning, my husband," Annabeth replies, her returning smile, while small, still bright enough to light up the entire North on its own, the Bifrost distilled in her joy.

Though he has just woken up, he feels a bit restless, but the threat of the freezing air outside of the warm blankets stops him from rising from his bed. Additionally, Annabeth has slung her arm around his side and pulled him close, and he cannot bear to be parted from her. Oh, how he loves the feeling of his wife laying next to him.

The blankets securely wrapped around him, he turns further into her, leaning over and kissing her, long and hard and deep as possible.

"Darling," she murmurs against his lips, "you know I am already with child, yes? You cannot make me pregnant again at the moment."

"Oh, I am aware," he says, caressing the swell of her stomach. "I can imagine a hundred reasons to kiss you," he kisses her lips, "to touch you," he traces the bones of her clavicle, enjoying as she shivers in response, "to make love to you, that have nothing to do with making children."

She giggles, a sweet, chiming bell, a sound which puts him in mind of the carefree girl she was never able to be, but one that he dreamed they have created together.

Out of the warmth, he reaches up his hand, brushing her hair out of her face. Normally covered, as is appropriate of a woman wed, her hair lies wild against her pillow. He strokes the soft locks and imagines their child, their little girl, all blonde curls and brilliance.

"What is on your mind, phykios ?" Anja asks.

"You," he says. "Our child. Our life. How happy I am, and how much I love you, how much I love this."

"Even in the frozen wasteland of Svealand?" she teases, her lips curling.

"Even here," he promises. "Anywhere you are, that is where I wish to be."

However, rather than reward him with another kiss, as is her wont, she frowns. "Do you smell that?"

"It is merely the fire," he comments, though when he casts a glance towards the hearth, he sees that it is cold and empty. How strange; typically one of the servants will come in and make it up each morning before they awake.

He strains his ears, attempting to catch the subtle sounds of the house as it wakes up around them. The floor creaks, the walls shift, and everything feels foggy, as though their bed has somehow sailed out into the morning sea. It all seems so close, closer than it should be, closed off in his own world with Anja.

And what is that blasted scratching?

He awoke with a start, sitting up just in time to see the blaze of the fire going up.

The maid, a woman a few years younger than him with bright, bright hair, jumped as he moved, startled.

She murmured something that he did not quite understand, but recognized as an apology. "It is alright," he said as best he could manage, the syllables of Swedish not fitting so well inside of his mouth. Alejandra had laughed at his accent the other day, but at least she was kind enough to attempt to teach him some of this strange northern tongue so he could not be so abominably rude. Annabeth--Ana Zab--Anja Elisab--whoever--had either been unable or unwilling to spare the time to assist him, and nor had her father. Alejandra was then the only other person in the manor with whom he shared a language.

He had thought it to be a trio of Latin speakers; himself, Lord Magnus' wife Doña Alejandra, and her brother, the similarly named Don Alejandro, who had both studied Latin as youths, and if their Latin failed them, Spanish itself was not so different from Italian that the two could not understand each other when spoken slowly. Percy had been terribly embarrassed that it had taken him near on six weeks in the household to put together the fact that Alejandra and Alejandro were, in fact, the same person, a Norse demigod with shapeshifting powers that could rival even Franko's. As she had explained it to him, at times she lived as a woman, and at others he lived as a man, but still remained the same person within, and Magnus not only knew, but considered it no significant difficulty. For Percy, who had seen a cow with the tail of a fish, this was not so strange.

The maid scurried away, leaving the fire to try its best to warm the frigid room.

It was freezing. It was always freezing here.

Percy, a man of the warm middle sea, was decidedly not pleased by this constant chill.

His room was well appointed, the best guest room in the manor--a Swedish monarch, Kristoffer av Bayern , himself had once slept here, as Fredrik had told him. A servant came in to tend the fire, another came in to clean. It was, short of a god's palace, perhaps the most luxurious place he had ever rested his head. Fredrik and Magnus graciously provided him with warm clothing, finer than anything he'd left behind in Constantinople. Despite the winter, food was plentiful, and he joined the noble family for every meal.

One would argue that, as an honored guest in a noble household, his every comfort seen to, surely that would have made for a happier time than trekking through the Labyrinth, or facing a Cyclops, or holding the sky, no? And yet, he was not sure if he'd ever been more miserable in his life.

He was cold and lonely and cold. He dressed as warmly as he could, in several more layers than anyone else, and still he shivered. Fredrik spoke Greek, but he had much to attend to around the manor, and spent the bulk of his free time reacquainting his daughter with the goings-on and politics of the North.

At least Annabeth was settling in well. It was hard to deny how well she fit the bitter climate. She looked beautiful against the snow and the dark wood, wrapped in fine furs. Her cheeks flushed in the cold, her blonde curls sneaking out below caps and shawls, her pale skin glowing in the warm firelight, all lovely.

She no longer resembled the legendary Theotokos, but she seemed happier than she had been in months.  

Dressed in lovely garments, rich fabrics of green and red and blue, she walked through the halls of her family with her head held high, as though it were her very own palace. She was a noble lady, come home after a long, torturous absence. A princess.

It suited her.

Annabeth would have made a wonderful lady of the house--shoring up the family and all that. The marital politics of aristocrats somewhat escaped him, but it seemed the sort of thing that they would do, marrying your beautiful, intelligent cousin in order to keep your lands and titles more firmly within the family.

He knew that Magnus loved his wife, and that marrying a foreign woman had caused some local controversy, even without the general knowledge of Alejandra's alternate days as Alejandro. She had told him herself, too, that just as Percy and Annabeth had gone on a great many adventures together, so had Magnus and his partner, along that rainbow bridge that Percy could only barely see. But when he saw the cousins together, so alike in their appearance, so clearly happy to be reunited, Percy could not help but wonder if Magnus regretted his marriage at all.

Percy almost felt guilty to think of it, and not only because Alejandra was his only true friend he had here. He would never dream of disrupting their marriage. But he did not know how anyone, presented with the missed opportunity of Annabeth, could not regret his choices.

Lukas had died for that regret.

He wondered what his own regret would be, once he left this place, once he left Annabeth.

Shivering as he left his very comfortable bed, he decided to take one of the rugs with him, keeping it wrapped around him as he got dressed for the day as he did each day, feeling foolish with every layer he added. His daily routines were sparse, spending his days puttering round the manor, alternately avoiding and being avoided by the denizens of the house. He could not even go down to the lake and sit by the water, as it was simply far too cold. At the very least, none of the family had made a move to have him removed; on the contrary, he'd been informed that, in the winter, such a trip could prove to be fatal. But one day Spring would return, and he would not stay in the best guest bedroom of Annabeth's cousin's house forever.

He shuddered again as he stepped into the hall. Malaka , but he hated it here. But Annabeth was here, and he found he did not wish to be anywhere else.

It had been well over two months by now, and Percy at least knew his way to the dining hall, where the mid-day meal was served each day. As he set off, he tried to time his shivers to only when he was alone, when no other member of the household, born and bred in this bitter, bitter cold, could judge the strange foreign man who had, perhaps, outstayed his welcome.

Annabeth and Magnus were already seated at the table when he arrived, and she cast him a smile as he entered and sat down beside her. He nodded, smiling in return, feeling warm from the inside out.

Then the cousins resumed their conversation, which was quite beyond his comprehension.

Frowning, Percy took some salted fish onto his plate, and ate in silence, as he had no other option.

Alejandro arrived a few minutes after Percy, a man today, judging by his clothing and his own statement. At the very least, he had the good manners to speak to Percy over his bread.

"You are of the Eastern rites, yes?" he was saying. "Soon you shall experience a proper Catholic Christmas."

"It is much too early for Christmas, is it not?" Percy asked, frowning. Had he missed the turning of the year already? He had not thought he was so unaware of the passage of time that he had missed December entirely.

Annabeth and Magnus both frowned at them as though they spoke in secret code, as Annabeth's Latin was less than passable, and Magnus' nonexistent. Given that everyone around Percy was constantly speaking a tongue he could not understand, he did not find himself with much sympathy to spare.

"St. Lucy's feast is but three days away," Alejandra said, "and then the Christmas month shall begin."

At Percy's confused expression, he laughed; it was not exactly kind, but Percy had come to learn that the relentless teasing was how Alejandro demonstrated friendship.

He turned to Magnus, perhaps translating for his husband, and Annabeth responded in Swedish, her face contemplative. Then Alejandro said something presumably quite amusing, for they all burst into peals of laughter. Annabeth's laugh was musical, as always, bright and sparkling as a bell.

He wished he knew what the joke had been.

Shoving a slice of bread in his mouth, he prayed that it would hide the disappointment on his face from being cut out again.

"Anja," Alejandro explained, "had mentioned that the last time she had been present for St. Lucy's day, she had dressed up as the saint herself--I then volunteered to assume the role of a small, blonde girl, if no other one could be located in time."

Percy smiled, partly in thanks, but it was not the same. He had no idea what St. Lucy's day was supposed to involve, nor why Annabeth had costumed herself so, nor how it was somehow already time for Christmas--and he was not about to ask his present company.

After the meal, he and Alejandro went down to the manor's stables, as they often did. "You know," he said, as they walked across the frozen ground, "I have a half-brother who is a horse."

"I as well," Percy replied. "Two, actually, I believe."

Small talk for demigods was always something of a unique experience, and this cross-pantheon relation-building was particularly interesting. Loki could also cause earthquakes, as Percy discovered. He was glad he had found a kindred spirit, even all the way up here.

The horses were quite nice, but Percy was distracted somewhat by a group of young stablehands who simultaneously politely ignored them, while hanging on their every word and gesture from around the corners.

"What game do you think they are playing?" asked Percy absently, though whether to the horses or to Alejandro, he was not sure.

"They are watching you, my friend," Alejandro said. "They are all desperate for a glimpse, for a juicy slice of gossip to share with their friends."

Percy made a face. "Whatever for? I am not that interesting."

Laughing, Alejandro clapped him on the shoulder. "Oh, you've arrived from far away, and that is plenty interesting on its own. When I arrived with Magnus, I was stared at and gawked over for months, and no one believed I was the heir to a fallen empire."

It took Percy several moments to fully understand the extent of Alejandro's implication.

"Do people truly believe that I have some claim to the throne of Constantinople?" Such a fantasy was--laughable, at very best. "Everyone thinks so?"

"No, not everyone," Alejandro grinned. "I know perfectly well that, son of a god or not, the heir apparent of an empire could not have escaped half as well as you did." Then he paused, looking Percy up and down in a manner that felt not entirely unlike an appraisal. "But merely a minor prince, well..." Alejandro trailed off, raising an eyebrow in question.

Ruthlessly he quashed the bubbling, hysterical laughter that threatened its way up from his stomach. Someone as cunning and well-traveled as Alejandro, someone who'd spent so much time with him, thought him to be a porphyrogenitus? "That's ridiculous," he said, for it was one of the silliest things he had ever heard.

Alejandro's face fell. "No, do not say such things," he complained. "I so wanted to be right. Magnus had insisted you were merely a boring old nobleman, and I would hate to lose the bet."

Percy swallowed, suddenly overcome with anxiety over what Annabeth may have told her family about him. They knew he was a demigod of the Hellenes, of course, but perhaps she had obscured certain facts about his mortal life.

No, not perhaps. Anja Elisabet Fredriksdotter, whose family had played host to the king of Sweden in their ancient manor, she could not imply that her traveling companion was only a fisherman turned foot soldier in a failed army. What might that say about her, or her reputation?

"Well, I would hate to cause marital strife by proving anyone correct," he said with a painful smile, holding his tongue. Surely, if Annabeth had chosen not to share such information, she had had a reason, and he would not make her out to be a liar, not to her own family.

Eventually, he was able to get a straight answer regarding the Christmas season. The western Christians celebrated the birth of their god much, much earlier than those in the East, and in the cold, dark winters of Svealand, they had an additional holiday, that of the festival of light, held on December 13th, the Feast of St. Lucy that had been discussed earlier.

Alejandra stood next to her husband, smiling wistfully at the stream of little girls who walked past, garlands and candles on their heads. Percy could imagine, in his mind's eye, a little Annabeth leading the procession, blonde curls and steel eyes, so smart, so determined to seek the life that she wanted for herself. One day, perhaps sooner rather than later, her own daughter might join in the parade--another little blonde girl. A perfect child.

And Percy wanted...

No. No, he would not think on that. Already he was a shameful secret of his hostess. What would she think of him, if she knew that he dreamt of fathering her children? He could not risk her ire; should she order him to leave, he had nowhere else to go.

The lights streamed on past him, and Percy wished desperately for spring.

Christmas proved to be unremarkable, though the illicit Yule, celebrated in highest secrecy by Annabeth's family, was far more intimate. This holiday honored Odin, a godly king of the same rank and power and a little of the same personality as Zeus, but who apparently got on considerably better with Magnus and Alejandra than the lord of Olympus had with any of his mortal nieces and nephews.

He spent very little time with Annabeth these days, save for a few hours on the solstice, where they had sat together in an alcove, out of the way of the rest of the house, and did not discuss the winter council of the gods.

Neither did Percy have much taste for a Saturnalia, after the war.

Then the Epiphany was upon them, and the year had turned anew.

Percy began to spend some serious thought to what he might do when the spring came, as it inevitably would, when he could leave this place without fear of freezing from too long spent out of doors. He hoped by then, he would have learned how to cope with the knowledge that, once he departed, he would never again see Annabeth.

He had never broached the subject of payment for his services to her--he did not wish for a reward, as every moment by her side a gift. Keeping her safe had been an honor, not a chore. Yet he would need at least a little money to book passage on a ship, or to purchase a horse and some supplies. Perhaps he could speed up his departure by performing some manual labor for a local townsperson.

Percy had just begun to muster the courage to bring it up to Alejandra, hoping that she would be able to provide him some direction, when he received a summons, not from Lord Magnus, but from his uncle.

Sir Fredrik had called him to his study to discuss something that evening, and Percy prayed that he did not look too nervous. Perhaps the rumors of his birth had reached the lord of the household, and they wished to discuss the business of transferring a power which Percy did not possess. Or perhaps the truth of the circumstances of his station had finally come out, and Lord Magnus had chosen to send him away from their home. He was not certain which he would have preferred.

“Ah, Percy, come in!” said Fredrik, ushering him into the room. “Do sit down. Something to drink?”

“Oh,” he said, sliding into the chair which had been positioned in front of Fredrik’s desk. “No, thank you.” But the man had already sent along orders with a servant. What bizarre concoction would it be this time, Percy wondered. The soup made from rose flowers? The thin, foul-smelling ale which tasted of rotten bread?

While Percy waited at Fredrik’s leisure, the man in question continued to putter about his office, shuffling papers and muttering to himself in Swedish. He waited for so long, he began to wonder if Fredrik had forgotten him entirely, until a manservant reentered with two steaming mugs of… something. Percy attempted to thank the man as he handed him his drink, only to receive a rather condescending look from the corner of the man’s eye.

Cowed, he sipped his drink, preparing himself for the worst.

Yet--oh, what a pleasant surprise! The drink was hot, but sweet, with a splash of spices and a softness which hid the bitterness of the alcohol that ran through it. The sharp smell reminded him of the trees which surrounded the manor, fruit on a cold winter’s morning.

“Pardon me,” he said, “but what is this beverage?”

“That, my boy, is a cider,” Fredrik replied, settling down at his desk. “I take it you prefer this to ale, yes?”

Indeed. Rather than answer, he took another deep, deep drink, letting it warm him all the way to the tips of his toes.

“Now, then,” said Fredrik. “There are several things I wish to discuss with you.”

Percy straightened. “Yes, sir.”

Tapping his fingers against his desk, he peered at Percy over the rim of his glasses. “Over the past few months I have had the opportunity to observe you and your character, and you seem to me to be a good, upstanding young man. Now, I must be truthful; I recognize that we have perhaps, ahem, sped things up quite a bit more than one usually would in situations such as these, but as time is of the essence, I shall be brief, and speak plainly: would you, Perseus, be amenable,” he asked, “to marrying my daughter?”

Uh.

Oh.

Well.

“I… beg your pardon?”

Nonplussed, Fredrik rearranged several papers. “I have previously discussed it with her, and she has agreed to the proposition. She was quite insistent that we consulted you before any decision was made, of course.”

It seemed that the cold had frozen all of his mental faculties, bringing his thoughts to a grinding, stuttering halt.

Percy had come up against a wide, wide range of peculiar situations in his short life. He had been stared down by gods, monsters, and all manner of supernatural entities, most of which wished him fatal injury. He had been accused of, among other things, stealing the most powerful weapon in history, then a mere four years later, had been offered the gods’ rarest, most precious gift. He had witnessed, firsthand, the passing of an age and the end of the greatest empire known to man.

Absolutely none of it had prepared him for this moment.

“I…” He did not even know where to begin with such a request. “I… think, sir, there may be some confusion.”

“Nonsense,” Fredrik scoffed, reminding Percy eerily of his daughter. “What confusion could there be?”

What confusion? What of the fact that Percy was entirely unfit to be anyone’s husband, let alone Annabeth’s? “I am aware,” he said, slowly, “that some people have… perhaps loftier impressions of myself and my station than what may be accurate. Whatever you may have heard, unfortunately, I carry no blood claim to the Palaiologoi .”

Fredrik blinked, taken aback. “I had not heard such a rumor,” he said. “I do apologize if anyone has treated you strangely due to such misinformation.”

“I carry no claim to any sort of titles at all, truly,” Percy said, pressing the truth of the matter. “I am no prince nor royal bastard, no lord nor duke, but merely a fisherman and a foot soldier of the allagion .”

“And a son of Poseidon,” Fredrik added. “Lords and dukes can only dream of a peerage such as yours, my boy.”

As flattering as that was, Percy felt it was somewhat beyond the point. “What I mean to say, sir, is that there is not much I could offer your daughter by way of marriage.” Naught but his heart, a devotion and passion equal to the power of a thousand suns, but such things were immaterial, and not usually considered in terms of a marriage contract. “I have no titles nor lands, no family--I haven’t even a lira to my name.”

“You need not concern yourself with the finances,” Fredrik said. “Anja herself possesses a considerable dowry--one or two tracts of land granted to her by my late brother which can be cultivated or exchanged as the two of you see fit.”

“I--be that as it may,” he stammered, floundering for some sort of purchase in this odd dream into which he had entered, “it was my understanding that Annabeth did not, precisely, wish to be married.” He kept the “ to me ” quiet, unsaid.

Not only had she certainly not been the greatest devotee of Hera, patroness of marriage, but the only time she had ever brought the topic up in conversation had been in reference to making herself Empress. Why on Earth would she agree to such a contract with Percy?

Fredrik sighed, removing his glasses and placing them on his desk. “How much has Anja spoken of our relationship?”

“Only the broadest strokes,” he said, a trifle embarrassed. He did not wish to divulge the deepest secrets of her unhappy childhood to the man responsible for much of it.

“Tell me, Perseus,” said Fredrik. “Do you have any children yourself?”

“No, sir,” Percy said, unsure of the direction of this conversation. “Not to my knowledge.”

Frowning, thoughtful, Fredrik held Percy in place with his keen eyes, so like his daughter’s. “While I love my sons, I would be remiss if I did not confess my numerous sins regarding the health and well-being of my first child. When the lady Athena gifted me with Anja, I had just returned from my stay at an English monastery, where I had been consulting with several of the monks there. I was a young man, not so much older than yourself, and in a similar financial predicament. My brother did not approve of my scholastic desires, and so provided me with little assistance. My union with Mary was, in part, an attempt to provide Anja with certain things she had never known before: namely, a mother, someone to whom she could turn whilst I was otherwise occupied. Unfortunately, as you well know, that is not how she saw it. And so, in my negligence and ignorance, what I thought was the right choice for her was merely the impetus she finally required in order to make an attempt for freedom.”

Somehow, Percy could not imagine Fredrik as a young man, so weighed down by years and years of regret and sorrow.

“I never imagined I would see her again; my Anja. I had presumed that she was lost to me forever, and then, once word of the defeat of Constantinople had reached us… Well, I had resigned myself to the fact of her death. It was a near inevitability. And then, you presented me with a miracle: Anja returned to me, and with forgiveness in her heart.” Then he smiled, and the years seemed to fade from his face. “I love my daughter, and I swore I would never do anything to lose her goodwill ever again. Unfortunately, as you and I well know, though she certainly would be able to live well and peacefully on her own, it can be rather difficult for an unmarried woman to make a name for herself. It can be done, and it has, but the presence of a husband can grease certain wheels, give her access to social circles in which I know she shall thrive. And there are other things to consider as well.” Shuffling the papers on his desk, he pulled one forth, squinting at it. “My wife has informed me that several young men in Uppsala have expressed their interest in marriage with Anja. The politics are long and tedious, so I shall not bore you with them, but you and I can both agree that she deserves to be more than a bargaining chip in a bloody conflict.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, for what else could he say? Percy would give her the world, if she but asked him to.

“I intend to remove her from the conflict entirely,” Fredrik went on. “And for that, we have agreed, there is no one better suited to the position than you: a friend and ally, and someone who will not press her to do anything which she does not want for herself.”

Even seated, his hackles rose at the thought.

As he fought valiantly to keep hold of his father’s legendary temper, Fredrik must have mistaken his silence for reluctance. “This arrangement is not agreeable to you?” he asked, concerned.

“Oh--no, sir, not at all--it is very agreeable, yes,” he rushed to assure him. How could he possibly explain that the man had just offered him his wildest, most precious dream, wrapped sweetly in a perfect little package? Every inch of him screamed to accept it. “I merely… do not know what to say.”

He wanted to say yes. Oh, how he wanted . He wished to wake up to her hair in his mouth, to her blinding smile in his bed, to take her in his arms and demonstrate the extent of his affection and passion for her. He wished for her every waking moment, every hour and minute of her presence, even if just to bask in the simple fact that he shared it with her. A lifetime with Annabeth, spent in the frozen North of Svealand--a better reward than anything any god had ever offered him.

“I…”

Yet, he faltered.

“If… if possible, sir, I should like to speak to Annabeth before any arrangements are finalized.”

Frowning lightly, Fredrik nodded. “I understand, though I do urge you not to linger too long on this decision. There are more things here at stake than perhaps you or I realize.”

If he had not spent so much of his adolescence as a demigod, he thought, such a vaguely ominous warning would have caused some concern. But it could not bother him now.

“I will speak with her today or tomorrow, sir.” Percy promised, though it was all he could do not to accept his offer right at this moment, to run from this room, find her, and kiss her. “As soon as possible. I merely wish to discuss with her directly regarding her expectations.”

At that, Fredrik grinned a little, humor peeking out from behind his stern exterior. “Good man,” he said. “With that attitude, I am certain you will go far as a husband.”

In something of a daze, Percy wandered his way back to his sleeping quarters, his thoughts racing faster than Apollo’s chariot, turning every word of his conversation with Fredrik over in his mind, digging for any possible double-meanings. And yet, the meaning seemed perfectly clear: Annabeth and her father had discussed her prospects, and had come to the conclusion that marrying Percy was the proper course of action.

In his experience, such a boon never came without a price. It was something Annabeth herself had told him, once upon a time: there was no such offer so duplicitous as a free meal.

When he entered his room, he found the subject of his contemplations waiting on him there. “So,” Annabeth said, keen eyes piercing straight through to the heart of him, “I take it my father spoke with you?”

Wonderful; he did not need to catch her up to the situation at hand. “I did,” he said, an inexplicable irritation surging through him. “Though perhaps ‘ambushed’ may be a better term for it.”

She pursed her lips, but said nothing.

He knew, in his soul, that he should not speak to her like this, that he was more than capable of carrying out such a conversation with logic and reason--but month after month of freezing weather, strange food, and being stared at like an animal cage had taken its toll, and he found his patience had worn a bit thin. “Had I realized you were so keen on marriage,” he said, “I would have endeavored to bring you home sooner. Your father tells me there are several gentlemen all vying for your hand.”

“My step-mother’s doing, no doubt,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “Were it my decision, I would not be in this predicament, I assure you.”

As he had suspected. “Well, then I suppose I should be grateful that, if you ever deigned to marry, I would be amongst the preferred candidates.”

Her mouth twisted, no doubt a clever retort just about to trip off the tongue, but, clenching her jaw, she wrangled it in. “I know it is in our nature to quarrel with each other,” she said, “but I would have your cooperation in this. If you agree, we shall be married; if you do not, we shall not. Surely it is within our power to make it so simple?”

There were many, many things he wished to say to her, beginning with how he did not appreciate being put on the spot in that manner, and ending with how marrying her would be the greatest achievement of his lifetime, but, curse of the demigods, his mind raced far ahead of his mouth, and all that came out was a statement only tangentially related. “I am not a farmer,” he blurted.

She raised her brows. “Beg pardon?”

“I--” he rubbed a hand over his face, attempting to pluck the words from the typhoon of his thoughts and feelings, “you know that I am only a foot soldier, yes? A foot soldier and a fisherman. Yes, I can claim the mantle of a hero, but what good does that do beyond the confines of the agoge ? What could I possibly bring to the table? I do not know how to work the land, or manage assets, or--or be a husband.” And therein lay the truth, that he could not be the type of husband she would deserve. He could be a friend, an ally, and a traveling companion, and there their paths would branch off, leading them down two very different destinies.

No matter how fervently he desired otherwise.

Annabeth let out a breath. There was raw, naked pity on her face, as though she had not considered he could feel this way. “You will not have to do any farming yourself,” she said, slowly. “There are people we could hire, help that we could bring in to manage all the things that we have no knowledge of. We could sell the land and use the money for something else entirely. And as for being a husband,” she bit her lip, shaking her head minutely, “you have been the most stalwart, steadfast friend a person could ever have. I imagine that a husband would require much the same qualities.”

That much was true, yes. Percy had experienced for himself two very different kinds of husbands, the ill-tempered and devoted, the creature of harsh words and the man of warmth and comfort, the monster of Percy’s childhood and his mother’s second husband. He thought of Paul, his easy understanding and his willingness to believe the wild yarn his wife had spun for him. To be a man like that, Percy felt that was a task he could manage, yet there were other things Paul had provided his wife… things that Percy did not know if Annabeth wanted from him.

Swallowing, she tilted her chin up. Her eyes were glassy, shining in the candlelight. “I know this must not be what you had envisioned,” she said, speaking slowly as though she were choosing every word after much deliberation, “but there is… of the options provided, there is no one else to whom I would rather be married. I know you would treat me kindly, would be my friend and confidante; what more could any wife wish for?”

Ah. Now he understood.

“Very well.” Percy held out his hand to her. “I formally accept your proposal.”

Percy was her tether to freedom. Presented with the inevitability of marriage, Annabeth had chosen the least undesirable path, a man who would, at the very least, not forcibly tie her to the hearth and home.

Well, if that was the only service he was to provide for her, then provide it he could.

With only a moment’s hesitation, she took his hand, and they shook on it.

***

Several weeks later, they were married.

Percy had volunteered his services as best man to several of his fellow soldiers in Constantinople; it felt very strange to be on the other side of the festivities. Still, the ceremony itself was quite similar to the ones he had witnessed before. Considerably less icons, however. Given how the Eastern Romans had fought tooth and nail for their icons, to be married without them felt nearly like a betrayal, even though he put no stock in such things.

Notice of their wedding had been posted on the church door of the little town nearby, in order to give people time enough to find reasons to object, should there be any. “Sometimes,” Alejandra had explained, “a man or a woman will have a number of wedded partners in a number of different towns; this gives a jilted lover the chance to come forward and name the philanderer publicly. Usually, though, it is to confirm that the two who are to be wedded are not so close in blood.”

Percy cast a thought to his convoluted family tree, and decided not to think on it further.

He had nearly laughed, though, when the priest had asked him if there were any sins he wished to confess before he was wed. His sins against the church were varied and extensive, as were Annabeth’s; in all ways, save the most obvious, one could say that the two of them lived in sin together. He could not truly tell, but he thought he may have seen her suppress a smile out of the corner of his eye.

She looked lovely that day--as she did all on days--but on her wedding day, she had arrived in a royal blue dress that made his heart pound and his palms sweat, nearly the same darkness as the shawl he had gifted her, dark against her pale skin. Her hair had grown much longer since her ill-fated cut, and had been cleaned and maintained by her maid, looking even softer and more golden than it usually did, falling down over her shoulders, a garland placed on her head.

There, in front of the gathered assembly, he vowed to honor, obey, have and hold until death, and slid a ring onto her finger. The priest conferred unto him a kiss of peace, and bade him to do the same to his wife. To Percy’s credit, he restrained himself from pulling her into his arms, and merely placed the absolute chastest of kisses on her lips. After the appropriate amount of time, Annabeth pulled back, her face a pristine mask, and Percy prayed that he had the same amount of composure.

The celebratory feast, unfortunately, would prove to be much more difficult.

Alejandro, merry on spiced wine and in his volunteer function as best man, had corralled the guests into a little wedding game which came from Anglia. The cooks had made enough buns and spice cakes to feed a small army, and, in a fit of insanity, the assembled party decided to stack them on top of each other, creating a sizable tower of buns, nearly as tall as Annabeth. “There we are, lovebirds!” he crowed in Spanish, as he was too inebriated for Latin, slinging his arm around Percy’s neck. “Here are the rules: you must kiss one another over the tower, and if it does not fall, your union will certainly be blessed!”

The crowd, having finished their construction, took up the call, cheering them on, Alejandro physically dragging Percy up out of his seat, and pushing him towards the tower. Magnus was doing much the same to Annabeth, steering her to the other side.

“Alejandro, I--I cannot--”

But whatever excuse he tried to invent was lost over the approving jeers and cheers of their audience. Though he could not understand their words, he knew precisely what was required of him here.

Across the tower, Annabeth was flushed, with drink or embarrassment or cold, he could not tell, but she looked on him with expectant eyes, and he knew she was smart enough to have come to the same conclusion. To refuse to take part in this little game would be foolhardy, at best.

Up close, the tower of baked goods was not nearly so tall as it had seemed, and it was easy for him to lean down without disturbing the construction of food. On her side, Annabeth had closed her eyes, her lips parted, waiting for his to fall on her.

By his count, this was now their third kiss. Perhaps it was to be their last. He would savor it then, he told himself, commit to memory the softness of her lips and the redness of her cheeks, her long, golden eyelashes resting against her skin.

A great, raucous cheer went up from the crowd, and they pulled apart, greeting their audience with bashful smiles.

Percy turned, ready to apologize to Annabeth for all of this. But he held his tongue when he saw the bright smile on her face. He knew her fake and forced smiles, this was not it. She was happy. And he could pretend, at least for a moment, that it was because of him, and not because of the clever situation she’s managed to get herself into.

Eventually, the celebration ended, and they had to retire to bed. Percy had started down the hallway to retire to the guest quarters, until Annabeth had looked at him oddly, and he was suddenly reminded--of course, they were now married. They would be sharing a bed from now on.

The very thought sent a shiver down his spine.

They had shared beds before, hundreds of times. On this journey alone, they had shared the bed of many an inn, simply to save money. For some reason, this time felt different.

Annabeth’s room was not so different to his own; a little larger, perhaps. Fredrik, Magnus, and Alejandro saw them off, Fredrik embracing his daughter and kissing her forehead. He whispered something to her in Swedish, and she nodded into his chest, sweetly. Then he looked at Percy, gave him a solemn nod, and departed.

Now they were alone.

The fire in the hearth had already been lit--and had been for a while, judging by the size and heat of the flame. That must have been why Percy suddenly felt hot beneath all his clothing.

“Well,” he said, wandering to the other side of the bed. The room had no echo; it made it feel smaller, somehow. “I imagine that was not how you had envisioned your wedding, yes?”

She did not respond.

The heat of the room was bordering on suffocating. How odd, since he had only ever known the climate to be perpetually frozen. To alleviate this, he removed the outermost layer of his clothing. “Certainly it is not what I thought mine would be. In truth,” Percy said, filling the silence with his babble, “I had not thought that I would ever marry. Not because I detested the very idea, mind you,” he rushed to confirm, “but, you know how few of us reach the marriageable age in our line of work. It always felt like some sort of far-off dream to me. Yet, here we are! How amusing, yes?”

Still nothing.

He turned to her, then yelped. “Oh, forgive me! I had not realized--”

“It is fine, Percy,” she said, lowly. “We are married now; it is no sin to look at me undressed.”

While he was not looking, she had shed her clothes as well, folding her dress neatly for someone to claim later. Her underclothes were white, made of thick, sturdy material, perfect for cold, winter days.

“Still,” he said. “I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You have not.” From behind, he watched her shoulders rise and fall as she sighed. “When I thought of my wedding,” she said, after a moment’s silence, “I did not think it would have so many Catholics.”

Percy laughed, a sound startled right out of his chest. “I as well!”

She chortled, too, causing the fabric of her dress to ripple. “If you must know,” then she turned to him, her hands deftly winding her hair into a braid, “I used to dream about being married in the ways of the shieldmaidens.”

Sense memory, he remembered the feel of her stiff, bloody hair in his hands, gently twisting it this way and that. His fingers twitched. “What,” he coughed, “what did the ways of the shieldmaidens entail?”

He wondered for a moment, given the story she had told him of Katya and Clarice, if that was what she had meant by the ways of shieldmaidens, and if she had dreamed of that, when she had not dreamed of Lukas instead.

“Sacrifices, ritual baths--what one might expect from a wedding.” She tied the end of her hair off with a length of leather cord, the braid coming to rest over her shoulder, the tip of it tickling the neckline of her dress. “When the bride and the groom met in ceremony, they would exchange their weapons with one another.”

He nearly laughed, it seemed so in line with all that he had learned about the northern raiders. "Quite befitting a warrior’s culture," he mused.

Nodding, she stepped closer towards the bed, though she made no move to lie down upon it, instead leaning against a bedpost. “The groom would present the sword of his ancestors which he had unearthed from the family tomb; in turn, the bride would gift him a weapon as well.” Weakly, she attempted a smile, though it looked to be more of a grimace to Percy’s eyes. “My father once told me that he had gifted my mother a weapon such as this. Unfortunately, she was not so familiar with the custom, and so would not accept it.”

Her lips turned downwards, her whole posture sagging with a muted sorrow.

Oh, why not. “We both have our own ancestral weapons,” he said. “If you are amenable, we could exchange them now.”

She flicked her eyes up to him.

“It is no trouble for me.” If it would make her smile, he would take Anaklusmos and toss it into the hearth itself. Lending her his sword for a while was nothing.

She studied him, her lips thin as they pressed against each other. “You truly would not mind?” she asked. “I know it is a silly tradition.”

Rather than answer, he pulled his sword from his belt. The magical item, when not in use, took the form of a key, for ease of portability. Whispering its name, a powerful summons, it grew into the long, leaf-bladed xiphos his father had gifted him, and he held it out to her, hilt-first.

“Anja Elisabet Fredriksdotter,” he said, these strange syllables finally at home on his tongue, “I offer you my sword.” He did not know if the words were correct, but he prayed that they would suffice.

Across the bed, her large, grey eyes shone in the firelight. Her mouth quivered with furiously checked emotion, and she had to turn to hide her face, snatching something out of the bundle of clothing she had discarded. When she turned back, she had not regained her composure--not one bit. “Perseus thalassinos ,” she murmured, holding out her knife towards him, hilt-first, just as she had so many months ago, in the middle of nowhere with dead men at their feet, the highest act of trust she could muster. “I offer you my sword.”

Over the bed, they exchanged their weapons.

Taking the bronze knife in his hand, he felt different, somehow. He felt as though he had passed through a door of some kind, had crossed over into a newer, stranger world, and yet, he felt no danger, for he had a partner at his side, one who would see him through all senses of conflict.

Brandishing his weapon, Annabeth took one look at it, then promptly burst into tears.

Percy dropped the knife. It clattered against the cold stones, forgotten. “Annabeth,” he asked, rushing to her side, “Annabeth, what is wrong?”

Drawing in a shuddering breath, she shook her head, her whole body trembling as a tree caught in a mighty storm. Fearful that she would accidentally hurt herself, he plucked the sword from her grasp, tossing it carelessly aside, and gently wrapped his hands around her upper arms.

“Annabeth, what is it?”

She grasped him in return. Her grip was always strong, and now her fingers dug into his muscles, squeezing him tight. “I--” she sobbed, “I--” Her chest was seized with hysterical breaths, her eyes shut tightly. “This is--I--it was not supposed to be like this,” she gasped. Tears flowed freely from beneath her eyelids, glittering like crystals in the firelight.

“I know,” he breathed. “I know, and I am sorry.” Sorry that she was stuck with the likes of him. She could have had her pick of the world--lords and emperors and whoever else--and somehow, she had the misfortune of being tied to him.

“No, it is not--” she wept. “Silena, we had al-always spoken of--and you have been so kind and--and understanding, but I--we--and I dragged you halfw-way across the world, but I know you h-hate it here--”

“I do not hate it here,” he protested, even though it was true.

“I had thought m-my wedding would be held at the camp.” Were he not listening so intently, he would not have heard her words, warbled and warped as they were by her heaving sobs. “On the b-beaches of Troia , and my m-mother would be there, but she is gone , and camp is gone, and--I--I just--”

“I am here,” he murmured, squeezing her shoulders. “Oh, Annabeth, I am here.”

She opened her eyes, grey storm clouds glinting with lightning.

“It is alright,” he told her. He understood her feelings well; not a day had gone by without a thought to the whereabouts of their friends, of their family. But here they were, together, and that was all that mattered. “You are not alone,” he swore . “I will stick by you, I promise.”

With a trembling sigh, she threw her arms around him. He pressed her close, his arms coming up to circle her torso, holding her to his chest. “I am sorry,” she gasped, “I am so sorry.”

“It is alright,” he said, a hand coming up to the bottom of her neck to better support her. “You do yourself no disservice.”

“N-no, it is not--” she shuddered, a localized earthquake within his arms. “The marriage,” she said, “it is not--not legal unless we--we--”

He knew precisely what she was going to say, and though his heart surged at the idea--and he was certain she could feel it, pressed so close to him as she was--his mind, thankfully, was in control for the time being. “Absolutely not,” he said. “Not tonight.”

That seemed to shock her out of her panic. She stilled in his arms, her wails subsiding.

Poor thing, she must have been so worried that whoever she married would attempt to force her to fulfill the marriage contract. Once again, he cursed the whole damnable institution; he knew so often that women had so little say in matters of the flesh. Well, Percy was not like other men, and he would not take something which she was not prepared to give. He would not do that to any woman, let alone one whom he loved so deeply.

She pulled back. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. “It is our wedding night,” she said, dumbly.

“Yes,” Percy agreed, “but we do not have to do anything that you do not want to do.”

“But it is our wedding night,” she insisted.

“I know.”

“Our marriage is not legal if we do not.”

“I understand.”

“But…” she blinked, casting about for her words. “But…”

“We can claim that the festivities left us too exhausted to do naught but sleep,” Percy said. “Or we can claim that we consummated the marriage anyway. Surely your father will not check your sheets for blood.”

Dumbfounded, she gaped at him, her mouth opening and closing around nothing. Percy had grown to rather enjoy rendering her speechless, though this time around, it left something of a bad taste in his mouth.

“I do not think we should do anything tonight,” he said. “To take advantage of you… of anyone this way, would be a most unforgivable sin.”

He had thought she would agree. Surely he had assuaged her worries.

Instead, her eyes narrowed. “On the contrary,” she said, her voice still thick with tears. “I believe we should consummate the marriage tonight.”

“Annabeth--”

“You think I am too weak to fulfill the marital contract.”

“Of course not,” he scoffed.

“Then there is no reason to delay,” she said. “And, moreover, I…”

Trailing off, her cheeks filled with blood. Percy’s heart throbbed in his chest, deafening.

“I… I want it,” she said, a whisper on a breeze.

Helpless, he could only watch as her tongue darted out to wet her lips.

“Do you… do you not?”

Beneath his vision, he could just barely see her bosom as it moved in time with her breathing. Oh, Anja, he wanted nothing more in the world than you at this moment!

She shuttered her eyes closed again, as though she were in pain. “I am sorry,” she repeated--for what, though, he could not imagine. “But I am afraid that… that if we do not… then some would see our union as--as invalid.”

The bubble of fantasy burst, and reality set in.

Of course. Politics and power-broking. To save herself, she would give herself to him. To protect her, he had to let this happen.

It was the easiest choice he ever made.

Bending his neck, he leaned down, and he kissed her.

As a flower in the dawn, she opened herself to him.

Her mouth was warm against his, her lips soft. Through the fabric of her dress, he could feel every muscle as she pressed up against him, could feel her breath hitch as he laid her down on the bed, as his hands pushed the hemline of her nightclothes up her thighs.

It felt as though every choice he had ever made, every path he had ever taken and every one he had ever shunned, had led to this moment, to Annabeth, panting and hot beneath him. Percy had been lucky enough to be the paramour of goddesses, disciple and student both, and now he had a chance to demonstrate what he had learned. If she were to be tied to him in this way, if this were his only chance to show her how he truly felt, then tonight, he vowed, he would make it worth her while.

She tasted just as sweet as he had dreamt she would. Her cries of passion, more beautiful than any music he had ever known.

And when he entered her, her scrunched face and wrinkled nose relaxing into slack pleasure, he held himself still, gazing on it, committing every single detail to his deepest, most sacred memory.

They moved together. Over and over again, they moved together, her legs slowly traveling up the backs of his thighs, ticklish and feathery. “Percy,” she gasped, one of his hands coming up to cup her breast, the other hard at work at the apex of her thighs. “Percy!”

“Anja,” he murmured into her neck. “Anja.”

With a wail, she tossed her head back, her braid loose and messy against the pillows, her legs tightening about his waist.

He could not stop himself even if he wanted to. And he did not want to.

Close behind, he followed her over the edge, hissing through his teeth as they took the plunge together.

It could have been days until Percy came back to his senses, days spent in the Elysium of Annabeth’s embrace. Her heartbeat was as ragged as his, and they beat in twain, a call and an answer.

Then she shifted beneath him. “Percy.”

“Oh.” He untangled himself from her, his limbs suddenly so awkward and gangly, pulling himself out and away, then lay down next to her, his hot, sweaty skin suddenly freezing in the cold air.

And there it was. Something of a lifelong dream, fulfilled.

Now if only he could discover why he felt so empty.

After a while, Annabeth threw back the sheets, and got out of bed. Percy tried not to linger too much on her bare form, even as he marveled how she was able to withstand the cold without so much as a protective shift. Then she bent over, picking something up from the floor, and Percy, only a mortal man, he could not resist.

Gods above, she was truly the most stunning creature ever to walk this earth. Every inch of her seemed to be perfectly crafted to send him into a frenzy of passion. So intent was he on taking in the whole beautiful picture that he nearly missed the trickle of something down the inside of her legs, belatedly realizing what it was.

He had to physically tear himself away, flopping himself back down on the sheets, to put that thought to bed. Demonic harpies , he chanted to himself. Stymphalian birdsong. Lord Dionysus in a pankration . Anything which would stop his baser instincts from manifesting themselves.

So focused on his own body was he, he did not notice what Annabeth was doing until it was much too late. “Annabeth,” he gasped, “what--”

But she had already used her knife to cut her hand, letting dark blood drip onto the white sheets. “There,” she said. “Now no one will have cause for doubt.”

He moved to leave the bed himself. “Let me see your hand--”

“It is fine,” she stopped him, already wrapping it up in a length of cloth she had ripped from her underclothes. “It shall cease to bleed by morning.”

“I am sorry,” he said, though he was not certain which sin required her forgiveness. “I did not mean to…” To what? Break her heart? Plant his seed? Fall in love? He had not meant to do any of these things, yet still, they had been done, and could not be undone. But, there was one thing for which he could apologize. “I am sorry that you must bear this burden,” he said. “It is not fair to you.”

“As I said,” Annabeth replied, slipping back beneath the covers, turning away from him. “It is fine. Good night, Perseus.”

Then silence reigned in the bedroom.

Percy could not fall asleep for a long, long time.

#my fic #the marble king #percabeth #pjo #the rivalry ends here #darkmagyk #another doozy

[paxohana]

Menagerie, Pt. 1

The evening was chilly for late spring, leaving him wishing he had worn a heavier jacket or better yet remained at home.  He was expected to be there, however.  It was the ball of the season, the event of the elite in the city.  While he didn’t consider himself in the upper crust of society, his family name carried notable weight.

He felt confident in his appearance, wearing the latest fashion from Paris.  The coattails were something that took some getting used to but paired along with pinstripe trousers he felt dapper. His crimson cravat felt as if it were choking him and the highly polished shoes pinched his feet, but such was the bane of aristocracy.  He just prayed he’d get through all the pomp and circumstance of the occasion.

“Viktor,” his date began, “I’m thirsty.  When we get inside, would you be a darling and get me something to drink?”

“Of course, my dear,” Viktor said, lifting her gloved hand and kissing it.

They walked through the archway leading to the grand room, only pausing to be introduced.  The scattered applause didn’t bode well with Viktor, but he knew it was because of his date.  Her family prayed Viktor took a liking to her and wedded her, but Viktor knew it was hopeless on their part.  He invited her to the ball as a favor to his father since her family’s clout was deteriorating. 

After excusing himself, Viktor headed toward the refreshment table and perused the offerings.  Every delicacy befitting a ball of this magnitude was present.  Scrutinizing the appetizers, Viktor was pleased when he saw a towering platter of finger sandwiches.  He grabbed a plate and stacked several on it along with a few petit fours.  Deciding he had enough to last most of the evening, Viktor returned to his date.

“I think you forgot something,” she said, frowning when he looked at her cluelessly, “My drink.  I swear, Viktor, you are so scatterbrained for someone your age!”

“I apologize,” he said, handing her his plate, “I’ll be back in a moment.”

Heading to the table once more, Viktor waited until the server assisted those ahead of him.  The band had struck up a tune and several couples headed for the dance floor.  He turned around and watched the dancers waltz around in the open.  His eyes darted from pair to pair, and he recognized a few before his gaze stopped.

That’s when he saw him.

The young man appeared to be an angel descended from the heavens.  His tan plaid jacket complimented his jet black hair perfectly, the golden wire-framed glasses giving him a glowing appearance.  Viktor admired his slender figure and the way his vest hugged his upper body.  His hands seemed delicate under the white gloves he wore, but the way he held his date in his arms suggested admirable strength.  

Viktor was instantly smitten.

He watched the graceful flow of the man’s body as he twirled his dance partner around the floor.  His movements denoted one skilled in the art, and Viktor thoroughly enjoyed being privy to see it.  He could tell the man was carrying on a conversation with his date, and when his eyes crinkled when he smiled, Viktor thought his heart would cease beating.  His smile was brighter than any star imaginable and the joy on his face ethereal.  Viktor wanted nothing more than to swoon over the man, wished it was him being held in his arms, spinning around the hardwood floor with him.

Shaking the impossible thoughts from his mind, Viktor ordered a drink for his date and returned to her.  His gaze remained fixed on the man, however. Viktor was intrigued by him, and he thought he must introduce himself.  Trying to think of a way to strike up a conversation with him, Viktor was jolted from his reverie when applause broke out among the guests.

“Viktor?”

“Yes, dear?” he responded with a question of his own.

“I’ve been talking to you for the past five minutes.  I would like to dance now,” she declared, taking his hand and dragging him to the floor.

The band switched to a slower tune and Viktor held his date closer, but his eyes never left the young man.  He barely heard the words his companion was speaking, nodding every so often or giving a hum of approval.  His mind wasn’t on the woman in his arms, but of the man mere feet away from him.

The song seemed to drone on forever.  He wanted to break away from the crowd, find the man that caught his fancy and chat until the small hours of the morning.  He wanted to know everything about him, wanted to hear his laughter and see that broad smile directed at him.

Bowing to his date, Viktor excused himself and scanned the people surrounding him, but became dismayed when he couldn’t locate the one that fascinated him.  Deciding to get a breath of fresh air, Viktor headed for the balcony but froze when he saw someone leaning against the railing. 

It was him, the one that took his breath away.  

Viktor couldn’t believe his luck and wondered if the heavens were smiling down upon him.  Clearing his throat as not to frighten the young man, Viktor ambled up to the railing and stood next to him.

“Good evening, sir,” Viktor said, trying to steady his voice to contain his growing excitement.

“Good evening,” the man said, smiling softly at him.

“Quite the party, isn’t it?” Viktor asked, grinning when the other man chuckled.

“I hate these soirees,” he replied, “Too many expectations and secrets.”

“I agree wholeheartedly,” Viktor said, holding out his hand, “Viktor Nikiforov.”

“Yuuri Katsuki,” the young man said, shaking Viktor’s hand with a strength he found enchanting, “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“The pleasure is all mine.  What brings you to the Kelly’s tonight?”

“My father is their investor,” Yuuri said, “I’m representing my family.  I almost wish they had sent my sister.”

“I completely understand,” Viktor lamented, “My father is a steel magnate.  We’re expected to attend events such as this.”

“Wait, Nikiforov Metals?” Yuuri inquired.

“That’s us.”

“My father was just asked to take over as their financier,” Yuuri said in astonishment, “and here I am running into the scion of my father’s newest client.”

“I suppose it is a small world,” Viktor replied, chuckling slightly, “Maybe the stars have aligned or whatnot.”

“Perhaps.”

Viktor watched Yuuri as he stared out at the inky darkness sparsely sprinkled with gas lamps.  He wanted to know what was going through his head but thought it impolite to comment on it.  Leaning against the railing, Viktor looked at Yuuri when he sighed.

“I wish we didn’t have such social responsibilities,” Yuuri began, “I want to feel free and alive, not stifled under others’ expectations.”

“I agree wholeheartedly.  I’m expected to marry and carry on the family business,” Viktor said.

“What would you rather do?” Yuuri inquired.

“Travel the world, help the less fortunate,” Viktor elaborated, “I see the underprivileged in our city and it tugs at my heart.”

“That’s quite admirable of you,” Yuuri said, giving a smile that made Viktor’s heart skip a beat.

“What would be in your future if you had a choice?” Viktor questioned.

“I’d like to go to school for medicine,” Yuuri explained.

“A doctor is a highly respectable career choice,” he said.

“Alas, I feel my life will be dedicated to taking over for my father’s position once he retires,” Yuuri said, sadness mingling in his voice.

“As will mine.  Such are the burdens of an only child,” Viktor said, sighing deeply.

Yuuri nodded in sympathy.  While he wasn’t in the same situation as Viktor, he was the only male heir and was expected to carry on his father’s legacy.  He felt trapped in his circumstances and wasn’t ready to resign himself to his destiny.

“Perhaps in the next lifetime,” Yuuri mused, desperately hoping it were true.

“Mayhap,” he agreed, “but enough about melancholic subjects.  What does Yuuri Katsuki do to pass his time throughout the day?”

“Typically follow my father around and learn from him,” Yuuri revealed, “Other times I spend time in the park reading or playing croquet.  I’m the family champion.”

“Impressive,” Viktor said, grinning when Yuuri smiled, “Have you ever tried your hand at polo?”

“I can’t say that I have,” he said.

“Would you like to join me this week?  There is a spot open on our team since Harold will be out of town.  I’d love for you to experience such a grand occasion,” Viktor invited, sincerely hoping Yuuri would agree.

“Alright,” Yuuri said, “It sounds like fun.  As long as it doesn’t interfere with my schedule, I’d be delighted to tag along.”

“We generally meet up in the square at ten o’clock on Wednesday mornings.  Is that agreeable?” Viktor inquired.

“Quite so.  See you then?”

After exchanging information in case one needed to cancel, they parted for the night to return to their dates.  Viktor kept scouring the crowd for Yuuri much to his date’s chagrin.  The last time Viktor spotted him, he knew he had gone too far.

“You could be couth enough to hide your fancy for other women, Viktor,” she complained, gathering her clutch, “I’m ready to leave now.”

Grimacing as his date angrily shrugged into her shawl, Viktor played scenarios through his head to appease her.  He knew if word got back to his father that he avoided her most of the evening, the man would be most displeased.

“I apologize, my dear,” Viktor said when they reached the stoop of her house, “My wits were not about me tonight.  I promise I shall make it up to you.”

“Don’t bother,” she grumbled, “Good night, Viktor.”

He leaned in to kiss her cheek but was spurned when she spun on her heel and opened the door, slamming it seconds later.  He knew he should have felt horrible at the manner he treated the woman, but he couldn’t help feeling relieved.  Not only would the limelight of her family’s expectations dim, but he wouldn’t be pressed into future engagements involving the woman.

Which left him more time with Yuuri Katsuki.

Grinning to himself, Viktor whistled as he wound his way through the darkened streets toward his own home.

Just something @princessmimoza​ and I thought up in 2018 and finally decided to get going on this project lol.  This ficlet will be updated on the first and sixteenth of every month.  We hope you like it!

#princessmimoza #menagerie pt 1 #viktuuri ficlet

[spicedrobot]

More Than Enough

Fandom: Hollow Knight Pairing: Lemm/Quirrel Warnings: slight angst, handjobs, frotting, blowjobs, Quirrel has two dicks my dudes Notes: This is just horny...again...this fic is for SOME PERSON who i REFUSE TO NAME who CURSED MY DICK!!

-

They’ve been dancing around this for the better part of a year. Glances caught, ghosting hands, conversations that waver on their tongues, attuned, distracted. 

Their first kiss had been on the docks of Blue Lake, the catch of lips swallowed by the ambience of water whispering against ancient wood. Gripped by a gently shaking hand, he had led Quirrel back into the endless rain, the dreariness of the forsaken city lessened by another’s hand bleeding warmth into his own.

They talked so little at first. The fog that had enveloped Quirrel lingered for weeks, ghosts that would not free him so easily. He would not eat, would not sleep, his dreams plagued by an old life and an ancient master. Lemm would not dine without him, spoke mindlessly when he himself preferred the quiet, anything to enliven the lightless eyes of the one who he had come to hold dear. Lemm passed those early, fearful days by showing Quirrel his collection, rattling off the ages of the artifacts, the builds, the precision of the artisan’s tools, anything he could remember. Quietly he thrilled at Quirrel’s sparse replies, addenda, augmentations of an relic’s use, of where he had seen it before, in deeper, darker places that Lemm dared not tread. And Lemm would nod along, etch Quirrel’s words onto stone. 

Day by day, piece by piece, Quirrel began to return to him. 

He set Quirrel to run the storefront while Lemm painstakingly labored over one of the little ghost’s arcane eggs. They supped together. They slept together. At first, at the edges of the mattress, shared out of necessity rather than any harbored affections. The kiss had been desperation, and Lemm reminds himself of this each night, chilled and yearning for the heat at his back. 

So very much later, years it had seemed, the warmth he had dreamed about came to him. An arm curling around his hip, snuggling closer, easy, sleep-soft breath against his carapace. Lemm hadn’t slept a wink that night. Nor the next time it occurred. 

Lemm is not like the impenetrable stone parapets of the city. Each time Quirrel burrowed against him, his harsh edges whittled away into loveworn grooves. Smooth lines that lead to a place that makes his heart shudder in his chest. Then the moment when Quirrel’s voice says into the silence of their sleeping quarters:

“That day at the lake...you kissed me.”

Lemm goes stock still. He can’t do much else, not with Quirrel tucked against his back, his arm across his waist. And it was true, he had kissed him, but what did Quirrel want? An apology, a reason? 

So quietly, Lemm barely hears the words whispered into his neck.

“Why haven’t you done it since?” 

Lemm should think this through, be gentle, patient. Didn’t he have that in droves? The relic seeker who could spend a lifetime restoring forgotten things with little more than a frustrated sigh? Lemm turns over quickly, but Quirrel does not move back. Faces inches from one another, wide eyes, a gently slackened mouth.

Annoyance is so easy here. Safe like a well-worn glove.

“What do you want from me?” Lemm grumbles, sputters as Quirrel’s eyes dip momentarily to his mouth. “I did not...want you to think that you owed me anything for staying here—”

The kiss is different than their first. Tentative for a moment as lips meet, strangely soft, addictive, responsive like they weren’t before. Hot like they weren’t before as Quirrel surges close, Lemm’s gasp claimed and pursued by the slip of his tongue. Quirrel’s hand at his cheek and neck, anchoring him, trapping him, stealing his hesitation.

Lemm doesn’t know if he’s ever been kissed like this, even when the city was a vibrant thing, when his carapace had shined, fresh and new. Now, in this forgotten place, two remnants of history learn one another with the eagerness of life.

He should be tentative, more careful, but Quirrel is not a delicate artifact or precious trinket, he moves, breathes, moans into his mouth, the sound burning through him, awakening him, cobwebs swept away, dust lifted. Lips slide, become messy, wet, hands upon shoulders, throats, like there is nothing else. They come alive, gentle, needful throbs, thighs clenched, shifting close, the tentative first drag, afraid, maybe, of what it could mean.

“D-do you want me to?” Lemm manages between lips and teeth, hands slipping down Quirrel’s back, feeling the grooves of his carapace, smooth against roughened fingers. 

Like a strike, the response comes faster than he can believe.

“Yes—”

Oh, he should be careful, where is that practiced restraint? Filthy old man, palming greedily down Quirrel’s front, eyes trained on his face, watching each moan, the faint, growing violet coloring his cheeks. 

“B-but you should know that, o-oh, uhm, ahh—!” 

He grasps Quirrel’s cock, half-emerged, flushing madly when it twitches against his palm, freezing when he feels something else brush his knuckles. Lemm blinks rapidly, drops his gaze to confirm what his mind fails to acknowledge.

Another cock, a twin to the first, tinged purple and beaded at the tip, leaving a line of pre along the back of Lemm’s hand. 

“Two…”

Quirrel covers his face, groaning.

“I’m sorry...”

“Sorry?” Lemm’s answer is a growl. He pushes Quirrel’s hand from his face, kisses him hard and quick while his free hand slips between them. “Ridiculous. Though you would make an old man work hard like this…”

Quirrel half-laughs, half-moans, clapping a hand over his mouth as Lemm strokes him, each pump gently off kilter from the other. His touch glides easily as Quirrel leaks, body quaking, cocks plump and needy in his grip. Gods, he can’t believe he’s doing this, could never even have dreamed of it, having Quirrel open to him, twisting and moaning beneath his touch.

It makes him greedy, mad for it, makes him mad for his madness.

“How shall I do it, wanderer?” He breathes, his own words shocking even himself. “One at a time? One in my mouth...the other waiting for its turn?”

“Lemm—!” Quirrel squeaks, his lower body throbbing, copious pumps of pre dribbling over his speeding fingers. 

“Do they spill in tandem? Or does one throb and finish while the other suffers?” 

The eyes set upon him staggers his words, bright and needful. For all that Quirrel blushes and stutters, his hands find him, resolute, even as they tremble against Lemm’s cock, the forgotten thing dripping and aching against his stomach. His touch is sloppy but eager, and Lemm hisses into it, dizzied by the pleasure that scores through him. 

“Not just me, my friend…” Quirrel whispers.

Lemm’s motions slow as Quirrel’s hands press upon his own. His cocks align, flushed and glistening in the light from the window. For a moment, Lemm simply stares, mouth dry, heart thundering. Then the notion clicks into place. Lemm shifts his hips, his own tapered cock catching against Quirrels’, butting into the seam between them. 

The shuddering moan that follows steals his own breath, his body feeling like a stranger, alien, alive. He presses harder, cock slickening, slipping, sinking into the space between with a swear on his breath. It’s tight, and warm, a near perfect clutch when Quirrel whimpers and shakes. It must be little more than a tease for him, but his eyes are glazed, locked on Lemm’s, lips shined and half-parted, gasping freely as Lemm ruts.

It should not be fair, how close it brings him so soon, when Lemm has one and Quirrel two, but with each thrust, liquid heat between his cocks, the tip of his own kissing Lemm’s stomach, dragging along its segments, ribbed and teasing, Quirrel’s hands an unforgiving weight upon his own, keeping each thrust hard and tight, all he can do is bury deep against him, stomach to stomach, mouth to mouth, Quirrel kissing him as he spills over his stomach, groaning weakly into his body.

Lemm catches his breath, embarrassingly labored, against Quirrel’s throat. The weight lifted, Quirrel’s hands displacing his own, his love’s breath picking up, touching himself, lips caught between his teeth.

Lemm huffs, the idea of watching Quirrel take himself apart quickly overcome by his own tired annoyance.

“You think so lowly of me?”

Quirrel’s eyes widen so prettily as Lemm shifts down the bed, capturing Quirrel's hands and pinning them to the mattress. The wanderer flat on his back, his cocks against his stomach, glossy with Lemm’s seed and his own pre.

“I’ll not leave you like this.”

Again, his name from Quirrel’s lips like a prayer. Damn him, how crazy he makes Lemm. His tender, wistful smiles and words that sound like they come from someone whose lived so many lives and seen so many things.

He takes Quirrel with his mouth, led by his soft, shaking cries, pinned hands twisted into the sheets, his stilted rocking, begging for more. His other cock brushes by his cheek, granted a gentle kiss and lick when it seems Quirrel draws close to his end, teasing him until his own cock thickens once more. 

“Please, Lemm...I want to touch you…”

Lemm only hushes him, draws him deeper, holds him down as he takes him apart at his leisure. A high-pitched warning, a moment too late, Quirrel coating his tongue and lips, near tasteless, gently sweet. Lemm tsks, voice roughened and wavering. He stares up the sloping curve of Quirrel’s body and into his darkened face, the drop of drool at the edge of his lips, the glaze of his eyes arresting, a piece he would never tire of.

“Seems I was right…” Lemm whispers, lips brushing against Quirrel’s untouched cock, which jerks at the attention. “Such a pain.” But his words are listless, heat-laced as his swollen mouth descends once more.

All bluster, and they both know it.

#lemmquirrel #quirrelemm #lemon #fics #hk

[hookedontaronfics]

First Contact series - Part 5

Title: First Contact - Part 5 Read the previous installments here: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 Rating: M Pairing: Taron x OC Warnings: Some mild cursing, brief sexual mention A/N: Jess and Taron have a perfect summer day together, but will her insecurities get in the way? I hope you love reading the fifth installment of the First Contact series as much I have loved writing it. The series will eventually involve more mature themes as it develops, so be warned! Enjoy! x

The day had dawned hot and steamy, and transitioned full on into boiling by the time my boss cut work short for everyone. Our office didn’t have air conditioning, and everyone was starting to feel ill from the sticky air in our high rise. No amount of fans could seem to relieve it, and most of the men had loosed their ties and collars. I could feel the heat from the baked concrete of the sidewalk burning through the soles of my shoes as I walked quickly toward the tube station, hoping there would be some relief underground.

The cafe tables on the sidewalks that were usually so full for lunch hour were completely empty, and the few people scurrying about were sticking to the shadows cast by shop awnings. I’d felt temperatures like this in my hometown in America almost every summer, but air conditioning was everywhere across the pond. The heat felt much different when you couldn’t get away from it.

I texted my flatmates to see how they were surviving the heat. Jules complained it was brutal and then said she and Mary were just planning on heading to Hampstead Heath; there really was no other way to deal then to wade neck-up into the bathing pool.

<Oh God, that sounds perfect. We closed shop early and I’m heading back. Wait for me!> I quickly texted back. I caught the train and was soon back at the flat. My friends were already clad in bikinis under their summer clothes, waiting impatiently on me to arrive. Even Tim looked uncomfortable in the stuffy flat, and I felt bad for him.

I quickly changed into the floral high-waisted bikini my friends had convinced me to buy. I was a bit self-conscious about my love handles and stomach, but they swore up and down it highlighted my curves in all the right places. Still, next to my willowy friends, I sometimes felt like a bit of a lard. But today was too hot to care about how I looked, so I pulled on a pair of shorts and a tee over the swimsuit and stuffed the essentials like sunscreen and a hat into my beach bag.

“Alright?” I said, as Jules gave me a once-over and tsk’d slightly. She walked over to me and grabbed the hem and material of my baggy shirt, quickly doing a knot in it and tucking it under so it was not only a lot more form fitting, but also showed my midriff slightly.

“Now we’re ready,” she smiled, waving her finger in my face when I tried to protest. “You’ve got a figure all the guys would die to be with.”

“Jules!” I groaned slightly. 

“Oh we know,” Mary said with a smirk. “There’s only one person you want to be with right now, and so far that hasn’t happened yet. You just need to get laid!” she added with a squeal.

“We are not having this conversation right now!” I yelled, yanking open the door as my roommates just cackled and followed along. 

As we walked back toward the tube entrance, my mind shifted to Taron, whom I hadn’t seen for the past week or so since I’d been sick. We’d been texting most days, and even tried to make plans, but he’d had to cancel and apologized profusely for not being available to see me. I understood being a busy adult; I’d had my own share of things to get done. I found that I missed him, though, and I was surprised by the yearning to see him smile at me again.

Almost as if my thoughts had summoned him, my phone pinged with a text. <I think I’m melting. It’s bloody hot. Hope you’re getting on okay.>

<Just heading to Hampstead now with the girls. Our flat was suffocating.>

<Likely the only thing to do today> he responded.

In some strange dash of courage, I decided to suggest he join us. <Bring your mates> I added hopefully. <It’ll be fun.>

“Who are you texting?” Mary asked, making me jump slightly. I hadn’t realized I’d totally zoned out of the conversation with my friends.

“Just Taron,” I replied, my heart stupidly starting to race as I waited for his response.

“So when’s he going to take you out again?” Jules asked, poking me in the side. “Or is he one of those slow-burn types?”

“He’s busy! He’s got plenty more important things to deal with then me,” I defended. “Besides, I’m sure if it got out that he was dating a nobody the internet would shit itself. He’s probably been coached on this a great deal.”

“You’re not a nobody, Jess,” Mary said, sympathetically. “You’re really brilliant and if he doesn’t see that then he’s blind.” 

“Yeah, fuck what the internet thinks,” Jules added, an older lady huffing disprovingly at the language. “You’re an absolute catch.” I truly had the best roommates a girl could ask for.

Just then, my phone screen lit up again with Taron’s response. <I’ve got something later today but I don’t see why I can’t drop by for a bit. See you soon.> The thrill that ran through me was undeniable.

We grabbed another train and no one seemed remotely bothered by our decided lack of clothing, as everyone was too hot to care. We rumbled our way to Hampstead, knowing it would be crazy busy with everyone else having the same idea. There were only a couple of sparse clouds in the sky as we paid our fare, and I suggested we go to the mixed pool this time instead of the ladies only. My friends both gave me looks, and I had to admit that Taron was supposed to be bringing a few friends along to join us.

“Oh my god, when were you going to tell us!” Jules squealed at me.

“I don’t know! I didn’t want you both to give me shit!” I laughed, as Mary joined in on the excited squealing.

“You’re going to see Taron shirtless ... in person,” Jules said wickedly. “Maybe he’ll even ask you to rub sunscreen on his back, eh?” she said, digging her elbow into my side.

“Ow!” I laughed, grabbing my side and being reminded of how not-skinny I was. “Or he’ll take one look at me in my suit and run screaming the other way.”

“Oh please,” Jules said, as Mary sighed. “You’re totally hot.”

“Yeah, I am hot, sweltering really, and it’s about time we got in this bloody pool,” I laughed, trying to ignore my insecurities about my body as we found a place to dump our stuff, tore off our outer clothes, and ran straight into the water, probably amusing everyone around us as we shrieked about how cold it was.

“That’s one way to cool off,” Mary laughed, her teeth chattering a bit.

“You’ll get used to it soon enough,” Jules grinned as we bobbed there in the water like everyone else. Just a bunch of heads floating about, I giggled at the stupidity of that thought. We chatted for a bit and grew accustomed to the water, and I tried not to stare at the shoreline too much in anticipation. I didn’t exactly want to come across as desperate. We eventually clambered out of the water to try and soak up some sun, spraying on sunscreen and laying out on our towels.

I was just about to think Taron would stand us up when I heard his laugh floating across the grounds to us. I sat up and instantly wrapped my towel around myself. “Hey hey hey ladies!” he grinned, holding out his arms wide as he strolled up, a cap pulled low and his sunnies giving him a bit of a chance to not be immediately recognized. He had two friends with him who were both quite fit themselves, but I only had eyes for Taron as the three of them settled in on the ground with us. Jules and Mary were quite beside themselves. “Well look at that, we match up. These are my mates, Jack and Gavin,” he said with a grin.

We introduced ourselves as well, though I was pretty sure somewhere in a hazy memory of the karaoke bar we’d all met Jack before, but Gavin was new, and Jules had instantly started chatting him up.

“I’m glad you made it,” I smiled at Taron, admiring him just a bit in the tanktop and swim shorts he was wearing. Boy if I didn’t just burn up right then and there, I thought.

“I’m glad I did too,” he grinned back. “I’ve been missing you.”

“You have?” I asked, biting my lip a bit shyly.

“Of course. It’s not been my choice to be so busy, but I’ll figure this out.”

“Yeah?” I couldn’t help but smile. “What’s this thing you’ve got going on later?”

“Oh! Yeah that. Just some old mates from school invited me out to Streatham Common for a bonfire night,” he grinned.

“A bit hot for that, isn’t it?” I asked, raising my eyebrows.

“Perhaps, but it’s the best place to see the stars in the middle of London. Would you like to see it for yourself?” he asked cutely. “That is, of course, if you haven’t got plans already.”

“No, no plans. I’d love too,” I grinned back.

“Good, now that that’s settled, shall we get out in that water before we all melt?” he asked, standing up and pulling his tanktop off. I felt my breath catch in my chest, and I was glad my shades were dark because oh, was I staring. He was a bit sweaty and the way it glistened on his chest gave me thoughts I should not have been thinking.

“Come on then,” he said to me, offering his hand as Jules, Mary, Gavin and Jack had already headed for the water. He helped me stand up, but I was still clutching the towel around me with one hand and there was a hint of understanding in Taron’s eyes.

“You needn’t be shy around me. You’re gorgeous,” he said softly, reaching over and gently taking the edges of the towel from me and pushing it off my shoulders, letting it drop to the ground. “That’s better,” he said, looking me over and smiling sweetly. “Alright?” he asked me, and I nodded. He took my hand and we made our way to the water, finally joining up with our friends.

We talked and laughed a bit, and with the rest of my body under the water, where no one had to see it, I could forget about my insecurity there. That is, of course, until Taron suggested we play chicken fight. Jules was instantly for it, Mary seemed confused as to what that meant, and I wanted to sink to the bottom of the pool. There was no way I was getting up on Taron’s shoulders for the world to see.

“Come on, love, it’s fine!” Taron grinned at me, excited about his fantastic idea.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” I said under my breath while Jack explained the basic premise to Mary.

“That’s nonsense. Hurt me?” Taron laughed, taking a deep breath of air and ducking under the surface. I nearly fell over when I felt his hands on my legs, pushing them apart enough to get his head between them and standing up, boosting me up out of the water as I shrieked loudly. I clutched at his head to keep from falling over as he just laughed his ass off. “Not so bad, is it?” he smirked, holding onto my legs as I tried to not hyperventilate.

“Holy fuck, Taron, warn a girl next time,” I said, Jules already up on Gavin’s shoulders too. Mary was struggling a bit to get on Jack’s, making everyone laugh, but finally she was up too.

“Let the games commence!” Taron grinned, as Jules and I were the first two to face off. We were quite evenly matched, and it took a fair bit of wrestling, but eventually I prevailed, knocking a shrieking Jules over into the water.

“Yes! We did it!” I squealed happily to Taron.

“Yeaah!” he said, patting my thigh happily and making me feel something strange in my chest as I realized that his fingers were against my bare skin.

Next it was Mary and I, and she royally kicked my butt, managing to push both me and Taron over backward into the water, both of us coming back up for air, sputtering and laughing.

Taron pulled me in close to him, making sure I could breathe and running his fingers along the exposed skin of my waist under the water. “T...Taron?” I stuttered slightly.

“Hmmm?” he said, grinning at me, the sunlight bouncing off the water and making his hazel eyes sparkle.

“Your eyes look rather blue at the moment,” I smiled, running my hands through his wet curls. “I always thought that color-changing eyes were the prettiest. I’ve just got boring brown ones.”

“Boring? Have you gone mad?” he asked, his gaze holding my own. “You just haven’t seen them the way I have. When the sun shines down on them, they turn straight to amber. And there are these little gold flecks that always make them look like they’re dancing.” No one had ever said anything so lovely to me in my life, and I quite forgot how to speak.

“Rematch!” Jules yelled, interrupting our moment, which was fine because I had no idea how much longer we were going to stand there staring at each other if she hadn’t. We even got a few other people involved in the game until we had all worn ourselves out, returning to our towels and letting the sun bake us dry again. The boys had brought snacks and even a Bluetooth speaker to play some tunes, and we spent an incredibly enjoyable afternoon together.

Eventually we decided to head on home, the sun making us all feel a bit knackered, but before we parted ways Taron grabbed my hand in his and placed a sweet kiss on the back of it. “Be ready at 8, yeah?” he smiled, and I nodded, feeling giddy inside.

We made it back to our flat, where Jules and Mary both decided to take naps. I felt the need to freshen up so I ran the water in the bath, still mulling over the image of Taron in my mind, the sun on his shoulders and happiness in his eyes. I slipped beneath the surface of the bath, sighing as the warmth enveloped me. I closed my eyes and could still see him smiling at me, focusing on the muscles of his bare chest that I had wanted to run my hands over so badly, the way his wet swim shorts had clung to his thighs.

“Shit,” I breathed, feeling turned on and letting my hand drift down between my legs, gasping slightly as I imagined what it might feel like if it were Taron’s fingers. I rubbed myself a bit, my breathing coming in short gasps, trying not to moan in case Mary or Jules overheard me. But it was no use; I’d not been able to get off in quite a while. I had no idea what was wrong with me.

“Damnit,” I said, splashing water onto the floor in my frustration as I knocked the back of my head against the edge of the tub. I sighed and sat there for a moment, tearing up slightly and then quickly wiping them away. “Right, get over it,” I told myself. I quickly finished bathing and focused on getting myself ready, which didn’t consist of much. I figured I didn’t need to be made up for a bonfire.

Once Jules and Mary were up from their naps, we ordered some takeout on delivery and sat eating and chatting in front of the telly. Taron arrived promptly and I waved goodbye to the girls. I wasn’t exactly sure who we’d be hanging out with, so Taron filled me in as he drove us out to the nature preserve. It was still warm out, so I’d just dressed in shorts, a tee and sneaks. Taron parked us and we made the bit of a hike toward the woods, Taron holding my hand the whole way there.

He was warmly greeted by his friends once we arrived, and cutely introduced me to everyone. They were all so sweet and welcoming to me, and we were both handed beers. We took a seat on a log, but it was still too warm to have lit the fire. Everyone was hoping that it would cool off once the sun went down. We laughed and talked and drank, and Taron kept his arm draped around my shoulders. It felt amazing to be included in this way, and I started thinking that maybe we really were “together.” But he’d never actually said it out loud, and one thing still worried my mind.

The temperature cooled off as the sun sank toward the horizon, deepening the shadows. After the fire was lit, and most of Taron’s friends were too, Taron grinned over at me and cutely flicked the tip of my nose with this finger. “I told you I’d show you the stars. Come on,” he said with a wink, grabbing two fresh beers and taking my hand again. 

“Where are we going?” I laughed, following along dutifully. “Won’t they miss us?”

“Trust me, you won’t want to go missing in these woods, it’d likely be til Sunday before anyone knows you’re gone,” he smirked.

We trekked through the trees a bit on a well-worn path, giggling when we stumbled over roots until we’d gotten to a small clearing. In the middle was a pickup truck, older but not rusted out. It looked like someone had been taking care of it, though how it’d ended up in the middle of the trees was beyond me. Taron pulled back the cover and then let down the tailgate, helping me climb up. I was shocked at what I found; the bed of the truck had been completely covered with cushions and blankets and pillows. It was rather soft and I felt like I was sinking into it as Taron clambered in after me.

I grinned as he settled in next to me, and we both leaned back and stared up at the twilight sky. We were quiet for a few minutes as I watched the stars slowly blink into existence, one by one. “This is really gorgeous,” I whispered, feeling Taron’s fingers playing at the hem of my shirt. All the beer I’d drunk was making me feel rather heady, and when his fingers connected with my skin, I could barely breathe. “Not nearly as beautiful as you,” he said, before taking a swig of his beer, almost as if he was trying to gather his courage.

I wanted him to kiss me so badly, but I was also afraid for it. What if, from that single kiss, he could detect my entire history? What if he could taste the brokenness on my tongue?

He turned over onto his side slightly, and I did the same. We were so close in the darkness, sharing the same air, and I could feel the tension vibrating between us. “Taron,” I breathed his name, as we slowly drifted closer, our noses touching and then finally our lips. That first kiss was so gentle, but the power of it blew me away. It wasn’t demanding, or selfish, or greedy, or any of the other things I knew a kiss to be. “Jessica,” he said against my lips, his arm sliding around my back and drawing me in for more.

When we broke apart I was breathless, speechless, unable to form a single thought, and I imagined Taron felt the same. There was nothing of the world but this singular moment, Taron and me, the sounds of the woods surrounding us.

“I...uh…” Taron laughed awkwardly, running a hand through his hair. “That was good, right?” he asked.

“Just shut up,” I laughed, burying my face against his chest. He wrapped his arms around me, and we laid like that for a space. I was warm and fuzzy inside and everything felt perfect - until I opened my big mouth.

“T, can I ask you a question?” I said against his chest, and he hummed slightly.

“Yeah, anything,” he replied, running his fingers through my hair.

“You don’t already have a girlfriend, do you?” I asked, his fingers going still. He didn’t say anything at first, and I wondered if he’d even heard me, but then he sat up, pushing me off him.

“Why would you say something like that to me?” he asked, the darkness masking the pain in his eyes. “Why would you insinuate I was being unfaithful to someone else? I’d never do that, Jess!” he said, anger lacing through the hurt in his voice.

“What? That’s not… what I meant. I just didn’t know!” I tried to explain, but nothing seemed to be coming out right.

“Do you bloody think I’m an animal? I wouldn’t have been pursuing you if I had a girlfriend, for Chrissake,” he said. “All of this wasn’t just to get into your pants. You’re not just a good fuck for me, you know!” he said, grabbing his half-empty beer bottle and lobbing it angrily into the woods. I heard it smash somewhere against a tree. “Fuck,” he said. “You know what, find your own way home,” he said, hopping out of the truck and fleeing the way we’d come.

I sat there in stunned silence, not even sure what the hell had just happened. “Taron?” I asked, and nothing but silence answered back. I jumped down to the ground, pushing the tailgate and cover back into place before using my phone’s flashlight to make it back down the path. I could see the glow of the bonfire through the trees; we hadn’t been that far away, so I wasn’t feeling scared that I was lost. But I was hurt, and confused. It’d been an honest question and I didn’t understand Taron’s flash of anger. In my haste to return, I tripped over something and crashed to the ground, scraping the palms of my hands and my knees, but I barely noticed.

I pushed myself back up to my feet and retrieved my phone before finally making it back to the circle. I frantically tried to find Taron, but was told he had already left. I tried not to cry then, feeling the sense of abandonment sweep through me. I hated that I felt that way; he didn’t owe me anything, after all. I was just a fan, and he the famous actor. He could go back to his life like none of this had ever happened, but I felt irreparably changed somehow.

I managed to bum a ride from one of his friends, thankful they weren’t much for chatting. I’m not sure I could have kept it together well enough to pretend my night hadn’t gone totally to shit. The flat was completely dark when we arrived, and I was thankful Jules and Mary were already in bed. “Cheers,” I said to the driver before jogging up the walk and letting myself in. I headed straight for the bathroom and shut myself inside, my hands shaking as I tried to doctor my bloodied palms and knees. I left my dirty smoke-scented clothes on the bathroom floor and crawled into bed in my unders. I hugged my pillow to myself tightly and finally allowed myself to cry. I checked my phone again; Taron hadn’t texted. I wanted to let him know I’d gotten home safely, but I didn’t think he’d care.

I eventually cried myself out, and felt Tim jump up on my bed. He settled down in the crook of my legs and purred. “At least you still like me. No one else gives a toss,” I sniffed, feeling sorry for myself. I set my phone on the nightstand and sighed deeply. My chest hurt, my palms were stinging, and everything felt out of place. The only thing to do for it was sleep, so I left myself crash, afraid of the hard truths I was going to have to face in the morning.

Can Jess mend her relationship with Taron in time? Find out in Part 6.

#taron imagine #taron egerton #taron x reader #taron egerton imagine #taron egerton fanfiction

[thegizka]

Growing Into It (fic)

Shikamaru experiments with facial hair, but not everyone is a fan.

Written for Shikamaru Week 2019 Day 2:  Growth

Read it on Ao3.

“Whoa.”  Ino stopped in the doorway, pure surprise on her face.  “What’s with your face?”

Typical Ino.  She didn’t pull any punches.

“What do you mean, what’s with my face?  It’s the same as it always is.”

“You’re saying you usually look like the wrong end of a raccoon?”

“Ha ha,” he laughed without mirth.

“I think he looks fine,” Chouji said, pushing past their startled teammate.

“No offense Chouji, but you’re not exactly what I’d call a fashion icon.”

“You said my goatee looks great!”

“A little bit of facial hair goes a long way.  Besides, you have the right face shape for it.  Shikamaru’s is too thin for a beard.”

“You’re just overreacting because it took you by surprise,” Shikamaru grumbled.  He really didn’t care whether Ino approved of his beard or not, but he knew she was determined to voice her opinion whether he cared or not.

“It’s weird,” she returned matter-of-factly.  “Temari, you agree, right?”

Shikamaru’s fiancée had just entered the room, drawn by the sound of their friends arriving.

“Are we talking about his face?  Yeah, it’s weird.”  She shot Shikamaru a devious smirk.  She knew she was only adding fuel to Ino’s fire, but she was always ready to see him get roasted.  He just rolled his eyes in return.

“See?  Temari agrees with me.  It’s ugly.”

“Just because something’s weird doesn’t mean it’s ugly.  I mean, look at Sai.”

“Hey!”  She bristled.  “At least Sai has the common sense not to grow dumb facial hair!”

“Be nice,” Temari chided, smacking the back of his head.

“Wait, why am I being yelled at?  I was saying Sai’s not ugly.”

“But you did say he was weird.”  Ino was glaring at him with the full force of her fury, which seemed incredibly unfair considering she had called her husband weird on several occasions.

“Come on, Ino.  You know Shikamaru didn’t mean anything mean by it.”  Chouji smiled at her appeasingly, always ready to try and smooth over an uncomfortable situation.  It was a shame he had such stubborn teammates whose conversations usually included an argument of some sort.

“He does have a habit of saying dumb things,” Temari added, giving her fiancé a pointed look.  He wasn’t getting out of this situation unscathed.  Why were the women in his life so troublesome?

“I’m sorry,” he said, barely sincere enough to not sound rude.  “I like Sai.  He’s a great guy.  And he’s not as weird as he used to be.”

She continued glaring at him.  Was it a half-hearted apology?  Perhaps, but it was truthful.  They had spent years complaining at each other and working on the same team, so much so that they knew exactly how each other thought.  Of course Ino understood that he didn’t really mean to throw shade at her husband, and he knew she wasn’t actually that offended.  Arguing was simply a habit, the language of two siblings who simultaneously drove each other crazy and were fiercely protective of each other.

Eventually she rolled her eyes and let it go.  “Temari, since you’re the sensible one in this relationship, shall we get to work planning your wedding, since that’s what I was invited over here to do?”

“Sounds wonderful.  Where do you want to start?”

Shikamaru gave Chouji a helpless glance as they took seats around the table, Ino dumping binders and folders of papers and ideas in front of them.  Having recently gotten married herself, she was full of suggestions and insights to help them arrange their big day.  When Shikamaru and Temari had finally decided to get married, neither had been particularly interested in all of the details of the ceremony and reception, but as the reality of their decision and commitment to each other set in, Temari had gotten really invested.  Ino was eager to help her work out the details, which was a relief to both of them as Shikamaru rarely had any strong opinions on the matter.  He liked to invite Chouji to these planning meetings to help provide some relief from the women’s intensity.

As usually happened, the men stuck around for the first half hour or so, contributing a few opinions or simply their token approval before finding a reason to drift away and let the women work out the particulars.  Today they ended up out on the porch, sprawled across the steps sharing some of Chouji’s snacks.

“So the beard,” Shikamaru began.  “It’s not that bad, is it?”

“I think it looks fine.  Maybe a little sparse in parts, but you just started growing it, right?  I’m sure it’ll fill out in a few more weeks.”

He grunted, absentmindedly scratching his cheek.  It was kind of weird to find hair where he had once shaved, but he didn’t mind not having to get out his razor in the mornings.  It meant more time he could spend lying in bed mentally preparing for the day.

“Are you growing a beard because Asuma had one?”

Chouji’s question was a little unexpected while at the same time exactly what he had expected.  Sometimes his best friend could see right to the root of things faster than he could think through them.  Shikamaru shrugged, letting out a long breath and leaning back on his elbows.  They sat in silence for a moment, letting the weight of their sensei’s memory sit with them.

“That might be part of it.  But I guess I also wanted to feel...older?  I dunno.  All of our friends are getting married, and now so am I, but sometimes it feels like we only just graduated from the academy.  I know I still have a lot to learn and figure out, but there are also people looking to me to teach them and offer advice.  It’s just weird.”

“I think it’s always going to be like that, though.”  Chouji munched on a potato chip before offering his friend the bag.  “I mean, there will always be things that we’ll have to learn, right?  And really, we are still pretty young.  But that just means we still have people we can ask for advice, and then pass that on to the people who ask us.  It’s the Will of Fire, right?”

“Yeah.”  Shikamaru let the silence stretch again.  Logically he understood exactly what Chouji was saying, but he still felt strangely stuck between youth and maturity.  Was he really old enough to get married?  Of course he was committed to Temari and determined to spend the rest of his life with her, but some days it felt like he could barely take care of himself.  Was he ready to be responsible for her happiness, too?

“Your dad had a goatee, too.”

He glanced at Chouji, but his friend seemed focused on the clouds and his snacks.  They had never said much about Shikaku’s death.  The war hadn’t offered much of a chance to process the loss, leaving Shikamaru hollow and aching as he found himself navigating his daily routine without the familiar presence of his father.  Suddenly he was the head of his clan, responsible for their medical research, the forest with its deer, and the general well-being of his extended family, to say nothing of his duties in the Hokage’s office.  He hadn’t realized the extent of his father’s responsibilities until they crashed down upon his shoulders.  There was an emptiness where Shikaku had once been, and somehow he was supposed to fill it.  It was another thing making him feel too young and too old at the same time.

“I bet you’d look alright with one,” Chouji continued, gently pulling Shikamaru up from the depths of his thoughts.  “Plus we’d kind of match!”

“It’s an idea.  Pass me another chip, will you?”

“Look at them, out here stuffing their faces while we’ve been working hard.  Weddings don’t plan themselves, you know!”

He dropped his head back, giving him an upside down view of Ino and Temari standing in the doorway pretending to be annoyed.

“You could have called us if you needed us.”

“Well we’re done for today, so I’m heading home.”  Ino brushed her long hair back over her shoulder in a semi-dismissive gesture.

“I suppose I’d better get home, too.”  Chouji stood, and with a sigh, the final member of Team Ten followed suit.  “See you later, Shikamaru.  Bye, Temari.”

They exchanged goodbyes, Ino throwing in a last pointed comment at her friend’s beard as she went.  He couldn’t stop a smile from quirking his lips after he closed the door behind her.  They hadn’t outgrown their bickering, and at this point, he wasn’t sure they ever would.

“So, what did you decide today?” he asked Temari, settling onto the couch beside her.

“Well, we mostly talked about flowers-”

“Didn’t you talk about flowers last time?”

She shot him a you’re-absolutely-clueless look with her sharp teal eyes.  “Those were flowers for the ceremony.  Today we discussed flowers for the reception.”

“We need more flowers?  Are you sure this isn’t just a plot for Ino to generate more business?”

“Do you want to hear what we decided or not?” she demanded.  He held up his hands in surrender and allowed her to proceed unhindered.  He cared less about what she actually said than how she looked recounting the plans.  She tried to hide it, but she was actually really excited about their wedding, and he loved watching her joy shining through her usually controlled expressions.  It was so genuine that his heart swelled with love, and he couldn’t help but lean in to kiss her cheek.

“Oh!” she jerked away from him with a surprised gasp.

“What?” he asked, suddenly on alert.  But the next moment she was laughing.

“I’m sorry,” she giggled.  “It’s your beard!  I’m not used to it yet.  It caught me by surprise.”  She cupped his face and kissed him through a few residual giggles.  When she pulled away, she had a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“It is a little weird,” she stressed, giggling again.  He rolled his eyes before pulling her back to him.

The next time Ino stopped by to discuss the wedding, several weeks had passed.  Shikamaru’s beard had started filling out, but after staring longer than he’d like to admit in the mirror, he saw what she had meant about it looking weird.  He also remembered Chouji’s subtle suggestion of the goatee.

When Ino saw him, she froze in the doorway, but she couldn’t summon any words to ridicule him this time.  He knew what she was thinking.  He had been struck by the similarity, too.  He definitely looked younger and didn’t bear the same battle scars, but he was undoubtedly Shikaku’s son.  He had nearly shaved the goatee because of it, feeling the weight of his father’s legacy, but he also was that legacy.  He was carrying Shikaku’s lessons and responsibilities forward while making them his own.

He saw these thoughts pass through Ino’s mind.  She knew what it meant to carry a father��s legacy.  She met his eyes and smiled.  “Much better.”

“Whatever.”

#shikamaruweek2019 #gizka #my words #nara shikamaru #temari #shikatema #yamanaka ino #akimichi chouji #team ten #team asuma #inoshikacho #look at that I'm late and it's only the second day #go figure =P

[mythicamagic]

Phantom Limb: An Azuyui Fanfic Commission

They’ve both known horror. It’s left it’s scars, for better or worse. The cold reveals more than it should.

Rated T

Azusa x Yui - Diabolik Lovers - Takes place after Azusa loses his arm in MB end

1000ish words. Slight horror/drama/romance

Thank you so much @ghostflora for commissioning me! I’ll post details soon if anyone else would like to commission me. (Apologies in advance for mentioning Christmas, I just couldn’t get the image of a lonely Azusa finding shelter on the holidays out of my head, sue my muse)

Unfamiliar. Cold.

Sights, sounds and smells that Yui could never grow accustomed to assault her senses as she grips a pale hand tight. A bite lay in the air. Unfortunately what with Christmas coming up, Azusa had insisted on looking around the Demon World stores, and had lead the way into a shadow-drenched one.

Crooked trinkets hung inside it's windows, catching the dim light and reflecting it.

The store owner gives them a once over as they browse, lips grimacing at the empty sleeve of Azusa's left arm. Yui's eyes turn a little hard in response, and quickly distracts Azusa with senseless babble.

"This necklace is nice. Oh!- And maybe Kou would like this bracelet."

Azusa pauses, before pulling her closer, wrapping his arm around her shoulders with a soft look in his eyes, inhaling her scent. He hears her heart flutter inside her chest, and a sad smile graces his lips. Eve was too kind…no, Yui was too kind.

'To a useless wretch like you.'

Azusa stops and stares at a dust touched Snow Globe. A small plastic church lay inside, looking strangely familiar. Yui catches his line of sight and blinks, reaching for it.

"Wait, Yui-san-!" Azusa's scarred hand snaps out, only to miss her own as it swipes straight through.

The Snow Globe rattles on the shelf, a flurry of snow disturbed within the glass and floating down onto the church.

Unfamiliar. Cold.

Yui looks around frantically, vision obstructed by the raging white that blurs into her eyes.

"Azusa-kun!" She shouts for the fifth time, voice hoarse.

Her breath comes hard and fast, visible in the air. She turns on her heel, and finds herself looking up at faded grey stone. The church looms high.

Seeing no other shelter, Yui steels herself and pushes inside, despite the heavy beat of – intruder, intruder! Resounding in her mind.

She who lay with a vampire, she who bled all over her broken vows... now sought comfort in the house of God.

The church aisle was silent and empty. Holly hung on the sparse décor. Yui shivers violently as she shuts the door behind her, rubbing her arms.

"Hello?" She calls out.

Her eyes were drawn to a calendar on the wall. December 25th.

But it's not Christmas for three weeks yet.

Something skitters out of view to her left, and Yui starts, hand on her rapid heart. Breathing out, she ventures closer, looking at the dark shape huddled at the foot of one of the wooden benches.

A pair of tiny feet peep out from under the cloak, and this sets her fears aside. Crouching down, she sets her hand on the small back that flinches under her touch.

"It's alright," she says quietly. "I got a little turned around. Could you tell me where I am? Are you alone too?" The child nods slowly, and without hesitation, Yui shifts closer. A small bandaged hand was drawn tight to their chest.

"It looks like it's Christmas here. It's a sad thing…to be alone on the holidays. My Father was sometimes busy so," Yui stops herself. It's not as if she'd been on the streets like this child clearly was, judging by his appearance.

The hood obscuring their face falls back, and familiar violet gazes up at her, framed by rumpled dark locks curling at his cheeks. "So…you know how it feels," he hums quietly.

"Azusa-kun…"

The boy who so closely resembled her love rubs his scarred cheek. "Miss…it hurts, but it's not pleasurable. I wonder why. My friends...they're gone." He murmurs, and Yui notes his red nose, the blue tinge of his fingers. "There's no one…to laugh at my pain anymore. If they don't laugh, then how...do I know I'm alive?"

"Don't talk that way. There's your brothers who care for you. And besides, I'm...here," she insists, gathering him close to her, cradling him on her lap.

"You don't want to do that," a voice calls out.

Yui looks up, gaze locking with a Nun who stared down at them. Something nostalgic burns Yui's eyes.

"Let go of the demon, my child. He corrupts you so. Or has his kind face fooled you? Shall I reveal what their kind truly look like under the glamour?" The sister raises her lit torch, shining an orange hue on Azusa's soft wisps of hair.

The shape under Yui's hands changes, the cloak bleeding away onto the floor as something cold takes it's place. Damp skin stretches too thin over bone. Something sharp stabs into her neck, and Yui chokes on a gasp. Fangs. The creature in her arms pants hot sticky breath, and she can feel it's weight pressing down on her- a grotesque quality to it's leathery, scarred skin.

The Nun's eyes narrow. "See what the twisted evil does to you, my sweet girl? Cast him out into the cold at once. You've suffered so long, stay here where it's warm."

Phantom aches of past bite marks littering her body flare to life. One on her thigh from Laito...another on her wrist from Reiji, or was it Shuu's? Another from Kanato. Too numerous to count anymore. Her skin is a worn patchwork quilt. Dry and full of paper cuts. Her fingers shift over the thing in her arms, sliding over it's left shoulder, fear climbing up her throat like mud. Too much pain. She was going to be devoured-

Her hand meets a stump abruptly. She feels for a left arm, but finds nothing. The boy in her arms gives a muffled noise, like a terrible wail.

Even as she feels her blood be drained, swallowed by greedy mouthfuls, her arms tighten. She swallows, gasping in agony as she clutches him to her.

"Yes, I have," the girl murmurs, looking up slowly with tired eyes. "But, Azusa has too. We're the same…so if he's twisted in your eyes, so am I."

The Nun's lips thin, peeling back to revealing gritted, spittle coated teeth. Saliva drips down her chin.

"You're a blind fool!" She hisses, lunging for the two.

A knife plunges deep into her chest, body jolting harshly. Azusa stares into the demon's eyes, his own half lidded.

"..Don't interfere… with my paradise."

Yui hears a shriek, and quickly presses a hand to her eyes as white blinds her.

She sways, disorientated as though she'd missed a step on the stairs, before she catches herself standing in the store again.

Azusa stands next to her, breathing heavily, eyes a touch wide.

Yui launches herself into his chest. He holds her twice as tight to make up for the missing limb. His wonderful imperfection makes her breathe out in relief.

Familiar. Warm.

Safe.

#diabolik lovers #diabolik lovers fanfiction #azusa mukami #yui komori #azuyui #azusa x yui #diahell #dialovers

[explodepunch-blog]

so, this is going to be a real bummer for all of you and honestly, you can think about it what you want and i do not condone to catfishing because... lol i never really did. all i did was keeping my information classified, going under a different alias and trying to have fun at indie rp again without having people trying to kick me out.

if those hints were not enough for you, because i am sure aware that some of you already KNEW, because some people know how i write, how i act and how i portray my muse, it's time to drop the bomb and say: hi, it's me, dyne.

first of all, i do not seek any harm nor do i want to cause any. i do not want to guilt trip any of you into doing anything. 

i didn't want to at first, but i was tired of screencaps being shared around and so i decided to tell everything, i'll apologize for my actions and clarify some stuff.

also it was not my intention to be "fake" or anything, i tried to find my way back on tumblr under a different alias and to move on, and yes that was wrong of me not telling anyone that it's me. but i was scared that people would see me as dyne. i didn't want to fool anyone that i'm a different person. i was trying to move on and start anew.

“teddy” is not an alter, “teddy” is me and i’m “teddy”. i have not fooled anyone nor was it my intention to. i gave everyone a chance to show that i have changed within the months when i left tumblr for a few months. i apologize if you thought of me as a different person, but i don’t want anyone of you to think back about the thing that happened in february.

anyways, i really don't want to write a novel about this case but i think it is really time for the statement i am owing to you.

you are aware of the things i have done in the past and hey, i am, too. i know that what i have said and done was not really my intention and i take responsibility of ALL of my actions. i could just say that what i said on twitter the other day was just a mood swing but... that would just come off as an excuse. but it was the truth. i am PRONE to mood swings, they happen once in a day and sometimes i have several mood swings in one day. it's a common thing that people have mood swings, nobody does not have them and if you are someone who's not prone to them, then you are very lucky. anyways, i don't wanna use my mental issues as a shield because it makes me look a bit manipulative on the first side.

after i got called out i left the internet for a few days and relied on my new twitter account, staying active over there for a short time. then i decided to go to a mental health clinic. just so you know: it's a place where i go to therapy sessions, a place that helps me socialize and focus on real life a bit more. i would go there every morning and come back in the evening and then return the next day, five days a week. as for my case, i REALLY needed that.

the clinic changed me for good. it made me realize that what i did was not okay and i had to own up for my things. but i was not ready to come back as dyne, because i was scared and because that was my past and wanted to start anew.

on top of that, chanda and i broke up for those who didn't know. why we broke up doesn't have to be your business but the only thing i say is that we broke up on good terms. surprisingly i took it very well. a few months later i met someone else. anyways: i don't know where chanda left at, so please don't ask me about her because i don't know.

anyways, i will keep chanda out of this statement, most likely because it is on her to apologize (if she ever did or ever will, that is). i no longer have any business with her anymore; we started living apart from one another ever since we broke up and we haven't talked in WEEKS. we both moved on with our lives and i do think that i, sadly, no longer seek any business with her anymore for my own good and for some good reasons i'd rather not disclose either. even if you ask me privately, i will not talk about it.

and to keep this thing going: i have been talking too much and for that i apologize. i think if you really knew me, you know i am not the angry adult who hates anyone involved in this. i knew that i have kinda just overstepped the boundary of not only myself but also everyone who was affected from it. i had realized it way too late, after tabris officially replied to my post and people started distancing themselves from me.

i do not blame them and it's their decision, i am not going to complain about it either. i have realized that i should look foreward and don't take these kinds of situations with a grain of salt. i am quite delighted with the small crowd that stayed and supported me, and i am grateful for them doing so as well.

just so you know: i am VERY bad at excuses, not because i am an inexcusable prick, but mostly because i have this issue with the wording. it shall not be an excuse to keep my shit vague, for the love of god, but i could have asked anyone about how to file my apology and when i asked, the answer was "it's mostly on you. write what you feel and how you feel about the situation", and so i did.

i don't want things to be all love, peace and harmony amongst everyone who was involved and affected by my actions, but i don't want them to witch hunt me either. it is up to them what they think, i have said my part and that's it.

i am not certain what kind of apology or what else you want to hear from me. i am not certain if what i said is enough to please or delight you. i am not even certain if i pleased or delighted you with my apology.

in fact, i owed this to everyone. this is not me asking for peace or a truce, it is me finally filing in what had been due for months now. i ran away from it and now after those months, it is time to clear things up.

i am not certain how things will be going. my activity on tumblr is very sparse to begin with, as i only rely on forum rps (which was not a lie either) and my real life a bit more.

you have reached the end of this long post and i want to apologize and yet thank you for reading this through. it means a lot to me. now it's on you and how you see MY side of the story. i know i came up with a lot of irrelevant topics but that's just me, i digress A LOT. besides, some topics actually were important for this statement. i have kept things about my real life really vague to avoid getting exposed.

i may have brought up a topic that should have been died down, and i want it to die down too, no matter what consequences it might take.

i would want to add one or two things though: i am not looking for redemption, if you have a grudge on me then that's up to you. yet i do not really like being labeled as the one who dated an alleged "pedophilia apologist". i know, even now that we are no longer dating, it probably won't change the fact. however, in my sole opinion (and actually some other ones who stayed with me after the whole ordeal), what i have done was not okay, sure, but i would want to say that everyone makes mistakes and mine were unintentional and not even harmless. you may see it from another point of view and say "stop talking bullshit, dyne" but i did not do that for the sake of starting drama or wanting to start drama. i think if you knew me well you know that i am not a bad person and never was.

aside from that, i have lost but found many friends and i am happy with the way it is right now. i may or may not seek reconciliation, if you want to be friends with me again it is honestly your choice, and i don't force anyone.

i have yet to go and apologize to a few individuals myself. now that i have settled this down, there are still a few things i have to do. this one has been a big step, and now it's the time to take another few steps.

thank you so much for your understanding and reading through this. sincerely, dyne/teddy.

#drama // #it's about time #i owe you guys the truth #and here it is

[wingedfabray]

Merry Go ‘Round || Self-Para

Tagging: Quinn Fabray with mentions of others When: September-October 2017 Where: New York, Connecticut, Italy, Switzerland, & Poland What: In which Quinn finds her number. Warnings: None.

She was sitting at her desk, when the package arrived. The soft knock on her door was enough to make her jump. Her focus was far away, drifing over campus, drifting up. Too much had happened, since Harper had slipped a note into her hand and walked away. There was too much to do, too much chaos, too much noise. The note had been slipped into a bedside drawer, and she had settled into casual research. But the knock at the door brought everything right back.

The package was obviously a book, wrapped in brown paper and tied with pale string. Her grandmother's looped handwriting was scrawled in one corner, "This should be everything you need." She opened it slowly, carefully, peeling each corner back with shaking hands. It was an old journal, the edges soft and worn. Her hands shook as she layed it upon her desk. This was important. This was something from her grandmother's past, something that she'd held close for so long. Quinn could tell. It was in the way the leather gave easily when she opened it, how the pages were bent and frayed at the edges. It was important, she felt like she was holding history.

Quinn hadn't expected much, when she'd asked for help. She'd expected silence, a nod, or perhaps another string of numbers that would take her months to decode. That would take Sam Evans giving her a nudge in the right direction. This was so much more than a nudge. This was so much more than a nod, or silence. Her grandmother had handed her a journal. She was almost afraid to turn the first page. What if it was empty? What if it was just another mystery?

Finally pushing past the initial hesitation, Quinn turned the first page. It was full. Her eyes widened as they trailed over the looped handwriting, the first entry was signed and dated Harper Fabray, but the second entry caught her eye. It wasn't her grandmother's handwriting at all. It was dated and signed Regina Isolde Anderson, the handwriting sharper, more succinct. It wasn't just a journal. It was a correspondence.

She had her own. It was bound in black leather, with the imprint of two angel wings imprinted in the bottom right corner. Harper had given it to her when she was very little, just after her Godfather had left, when things seemed to hurt the most, and there was no way up. Their interactions were sparse, but years had filled the ledger almost to the end. Quinn was familiar with how the worked, with the magic soaked into the pages. While she’d never heard it, Quinn felt like her grandmother’s voice was hidden in the looped scrawl of her ledgers.

Quickly flipping through, she found that some sections were blurred out, as though the writing was there, but hidden behind a filter. The pages felt warm, hinting at worse if she tried to lift whatever spell kept them from her sight. Resolving herself against knowing all of Harper Fabray’s secrets, Quinn turned to the beginning once more. A small flame of excitement flickered to life somewhere in her chest, and a grin spread across her face. Jenna’s tail twitched in interest, paws shifting against the carpets in response to Quinn’s mood.

September 23rd, 2017

“October 3rd, 1967: Yale is a storybook in Autumn. The leaves have turned contrasting shades of orange, yellow, and red. Sidewalks are adorned in bright colors, shiny with rain. I wish I could take you, my dear Russell. I do hope you’re doing well with your uncle. They’ve taken quite an interest in you. They’ll have you running numbers from dusk ‘til dawn, but my son, do not forget the sun, your swing set and the little wooden sword you made from birch, do not forget me. I’ll bring you a book back from Yale: something 'with pictures’ you said, yes?”

Yale wasn’t quite the way her grandmother had described it. The leaves were just beginning to turn, but they had not yet fallen, and a bright sun beat cool light onto dry sidewalks. Quinn wonders if her grandmother had walked those paths. If she’d taken the same route to the library, cutting through old brick buildings, past well-manicured lawns, dodging students absorbed in their texts. It was so long ago, she wonders how much it had changed.

The library itself was grand, sweeping views leading the eye down floors and floors of books. Somewhere deep inside the rare books section was buried, and Quinn barely paused as she made her way through, a pass clenched tightly in her hands. Her grandmothers decimal number was burning a hole through the pocket in her sundress, and she wondered why she’d even brought it. The number was emblazoned in her mind, she’d likely never forget it again, even long after she’d discovered exactly what it meant. Her footsteps only faltered through the literature section, her eyes catching on ‘Austen.’

Everything smelled like old books, dusty paper, and ink. Beinecke was quiet and still, her footsteps echoing off of the protective glass. It was clean, techs handling books and manuscripts with gloves, holding them out as though they were bombs, ready to burst with a simple draft. A tech shook his head gently, when Quinn asked about outdated listing systems. “Manuscripts are brought in and transferred out all the time. Sorry, can’t help ya there. Is there anything else you need?”

October 4th, 2017

“December 12th, 1968: Dearest Regina Isolde Anderson, I have finally arrived in Venice. It’s colder here, and the cobblestone is dusted in frost. St. Mark’s has proven to be an excellent suggestion, but I expected no less of someone as savvy as you. I’ll be spending a few days here, the corner cafes are exceptional, and I’d rather I never had to leave. I’ll be brief, as I’ve said this many a time in the past year, but thank you for your support. In light of recent events, this trip has been something of a necessity for me, one that has been made possible through the care and support of friends and family. I shall be back before too long, do keep me up to date on the happenings with the UMC.”

It looked like a church. Quinn’s heels click clicked against the stone floors, and her wide eyes caught on every arch, every contrast in the stone, every globe, railing, and leather bound book. Light filtered in through windowed walls, and she had to resist the urge to run her hands along the spines of each book as she walked by. If Quinn had ever dreamt of traveling, if she’d ever sat down and thought about where she would go, what she would do, this library would feature every single time.

Too many days were spent in Venice, even after she’d rifled through every possible answer it had to offer. She wore her hair in curled up-dos, gloved hands wrapping silken scarves around her neck, sunglasses shading out the bright but cool sunlight. Days were spent in corner cafes, just as Harper had done so many years before. When she left, she was no closer to an answer, but she felt lighter, and closer to her grandmother than she ever had before.

October 12th, 2017

“June 26th, 1974: Daniel Fabray, I’ve found myself lost. Please, do not be alarmed. There’s no need to send for me, it is in..

I am in St. Galen, Switzerland. It’s so different here, than it is in New York. It’s different in ways that feel more like home than New York ever has. You see, Daniel, I’m lost of mind. I’ve found myself surrounded by books, so full on information that I should be content. But there’s no way for me to voice it. What good is knowing what I know, if I can’t use it? You know better than anyone, dearest brother. You know what this means. We’re capable of so much, you and I. What we can do is beautiful, grand. I remember how it felt, how wonderful and quiet and peaceful it could be. Now I’ve seen so much more, inked into ancient pages. The words sound so beautiful in my  head, Daniel. But I’ll never know what they feel like, will I?

My apologies, I’m simply missing home.”

There was something darker about the cobblestone streets of St. Galen. The ground was uneven beneath her feet, stones wet from a recent rain were painted in the golden light of the streetlights. It was just cold enough to warrant a coat, which was drawn close against her chin, a scarf covering her mouth and nose. Most people passed by her with their heads turned down, unconcerned with another lost tourist.

She’d spent hours in St. Galen, most of which running over Harper’s words over and again. It hurt, somehow, even years later. She wondered if her grandmother had ever learned what those words felt like. There was a difference, she knew, between reading a spell, and saying it. Enochian felt different. It wasn’t just conveying a point, it wasn’t just another way to say ‘hello.’ She knew that, even before Harper’s cryptic note, even before her journey around the world.

She knew that, when she stood outside St. Patricks, asking the doors to open and feeling empty instead.

There was a book, tucked away in Abbey Library of St. Gall. It was old, the pages dusty. It wasn’t it, Quinn knew, but it was more than she’d had before she began her journey. She’d pulled out an empty notebook, whispering a quiet << Transfer >> and stepping back. The words inked themselves into the empty pages, her circle hovering above them, spinning slowly.

She’d tucked the book back where she found it with a sigh, fingers lingering over the spine.

“June 27th, 1974: Dearest Sister, Please come home.

I’ll be back soon; I’ve only one more stop. Please give Russell my love.”

October 25th, 2017

“September 19th, 1974: Daniel Fabray, I have found it! Daniel, I do believe Father was expecting me. I asked for their records, and he simply smiled. This text is beautiful, but it is old. You wouldn’t believe the kind of magic it proposes. It’s everything that I’ve ever wanted. It’s what I would have made of myself, had I still...

There is no use dwelling. I will record what I can, and return home as soon as I’ve had my fill of Poland. Father has expressed interest in visiting New York, perhaps I’ll bring a visitor. I’ll see you before too long, dear brother.”

Quinn traced the words over and again. Poland. She couldn’t help but wonder what she was truly looking for, when she stepped through an obscure portal in Kraków. There was still a number in her pocket, but...Quinn knew who her grandmother was talking about, she was sure of it. She knew he had bushy grey eyebrows, and a kind smile. His accent was strong, but his voice was gentle. He spoke with a slow patience that settled her, even when all she wanted to do was scream and cry. She could still hear his quiet “You are loved, Lucy.”

When she walked through the doors of the Parish of St. John, she was looking for him.

But the pastor was young, and he spoke very little english. Quinn quelled her disappointment with a sharp breath, fists clenched at her side. She offered a smile and inquired about their records. He smiled, as though he’d been waiting for her.

They made their way down a set of stone steps, leaving the grand architecture behind, replaced by plain cement walls. The air was dry, and it smelled of paper. Flickering lights illuminated rows of books, each with a number written in crooked ink at the bottom of the spine.

When she found hers, it had two angel wings imprinted into the bottom right corner.

#paras #p: merry go round

[devhak22]

The World Inside

By Robert Silverberg

This story is much unlike any I have read previously. A couple of centuries in the future the vast majority of humans have isolated themselves within buildings three kilometres high, remaining in their own building for their entire life, with extremely rare exceptions. Those outside the urban monads, as they are called, work the fields to supply food for the larger population. It is also indicated that in this time they are a space-faring species having adapted Venus to support colonies of humans, although the details of said colonies are sparse.

Presented are many cultural norms that are different from those which we currently encounter, especially regarding sexuality and privacy. In this literary explorarion sexual openness is expected of all members of the community upon maturation. In the enclosed society everything, from sleeping, to sexual activities, to toilet breaks, is done in the open and without restraint. Although human interaction and openness is encouraged, there are some oppressive measures within this society that cause stress on some members, especially those whom become curious about the world outside and wish to fulfil their wanderlust.

Although the situation and culture are vastly different from that within which we live, and even more different from that of the time of its publication in 1971, the characters show a depth which intimately connects the reader with their experience.

Even the characters in the novel discuss the evolution and adaptations humans would have required to have occur to accept and thrive within such a community, so vastly different of that of a few generations prior.

This book has drawn me in from the first page, being immersed into a collection of lives, struggles, perseverance, wonder, and self-reconciliation. It is not for those readers whom are disturbed by some sexual and dark imagery, but it is a great story for those who are intrigued about one of many possibly futures our species may create.

A few favourite quotations from the novel:

'In the morning, at his office, he begins his newest line of inquiry, summoning up the data on the sexual mores of ancient times. As usual, he concentrates on the twentieth century, which he regards as the climax of the ancient era, and therefore most significant, revealing as it does the entire cluster of attitudes and responses that had accumulated in the pre-urbmon industrial era. The twenty-first century is less useful for his purposes, being, like all transitional periods, essentially chaotic and unschematic, and the twenty-second century brings him into modern times with the beginning of the urbmon age. So the twentieth is his favorite area of study. Seeds of the collapse, portents of doom running through it like bad-trip threads in a psychedelic tapestry.' ~narrator, regarding Jason Quevedo, p. 78.

'He tries to keep this silly sense of embarassment a secret. He knows that it doesn't fit with the image of himself that everyone else sees.'

...

'If they only knew. Underneath it all was a vulnerable boy. Underneath it a shy, insecure Siegmund. Worried that he's climbing too fast. Apologizing to himself for his success. Siegmund the humble. Siegmund the uncertain.'

~narrator, regarding Siegmund Kluver, p. 95.

"Very often, we project onto other people our own secret, repressed attitudes. If 'we' think, deep down, that something is trivial or worthless, we indignantly accuse other people of thinking so. If we wonder privately if we're as conscientious and devoted to duty as we say we are, we complain that others are slackers."

~Rhea Freehouse, p. 103.

"You absolutely don't understand. Should we turn our commune into and urbmon? You have your way of life; we have ours. Ours requires us to be few in number and live in the midst of fertile fields. Why should we become like you? We pride ourselves on 'not' being like you. So if we expand, we must expand horizontally, right? Which would in time cover the surface of the world with a dead crust of paved streets and roads, as in the former days. No. We are beyond such things. We impose limits on ourselves, and live in the proper rhythm of our way, and we are happy. And so it shall be forever with us." ~Artha, p. 143.

"It's all here, isn't it? The story of the collapse of civilization. And how we rebuilt it again. Vertical as the central philosophical thrust of human congruence patterns." ~Siegmund speaking to Jason, p. 180.